#how to weight loss being lazy

[wendichester]

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ home is where you are,

summary. you make sam want to settle down.

pairing. sam winchester x reader genre. pure fluff

wordcount. 588

notes / warnings. forehead kisses, tender confessions, and a man realizing he doesn't want to fight monsters anymore

It happens on a Tuesday. The kind of Tuesday where rain patters against the windows and time feels syrupy, like the world’s moving just a little slower so you can catch your breath.

You’re in the kitchen, humming to some old song on the radio, barefoot in one of Sam’s flannel shirts—because, let’s be honest, you’ve slowly kidnapped half his wardrobe. You’re stirring something in a pot that smells like childhood and comfort and “please stay a little longer.”

And behind you, Sam just watches.

He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing sweatpants and one of those rare, easy smiles that aren’t shadowed by blood or loss or guilt. There’s something soft in his eyes—so soft it almost scares you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, without turning, but your grin gives you away.

He walks over slowly, wraps his arms around your waist from behind, and presses a kiss to the crook of your neck. “Just thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “It is. Thinking about something pretty reckless, actually.”

You pause, still holding the wooden spoon, feeling the weight of his body melt into yours. “Reckless how?”

His fingers trace lazy circles on your hips, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter—like a secret he’s scared to say too loud. “Thinking about... quitting.”

You blink. “Quitting what?”

“The life.” His breath fans warm against your skin. “Hunting. Running. Living out of motel rooms and praying we don’t die tomorrow.”

Your heart stutters. You turn slowly in his arms, and his face is wide open, no armor, no shields. Just Sam, and a kind of raw hope you’ve never seen on him before.

“You serious?” you whisper.

He nods. “I didn’t think I was. Not at first. But being here with you, waking up without a gun under my pillow, eating food that isn’t wrapped in greasy paper... It makes me wonder if maybe—maybe—I could want something more.”

You reach up and cup his face, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “You could have that, Sam. You deserve that.”

His throat works, like the words get stuck on the way out. “I didn’t think I did. For a long time, I thought this was all I was ever going to be. Just one more body in the fight. But then you showed up and... you make it quiet.”

Your chest aches, full in a way that feels almost unbearable.

“You think I wouldn’t want that with you?” you say, eyes misty. “I’ve wanted that since the second you fixed my busted heater and then looked offended when I offered to pay you in lasagna.”

He chuckles, rubbing at his eyes like the emotion is too much. “That lasagna was really good.”

“Then let me keep making it.” You press your forehead to his. “Let me be the reason you stop running.”

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you, standing there in the hum of the kitchen—his arms around your waist, your hands on his chest, the smell of dinner and rain, and the future hanging in the air like a promise.

“You ever think about it?” he asks softly. “A house. With a porch. Maybe a garden. A dog.”

You smile. “Yeah. And you in it. Sitting with me on the porch after dinner, your hand in mine, not a damn demon in sight.”

He kisses you like that future’s already started.

Like maybe, finally, it has.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[jaggedamethyst]

nsfw frank castle head canons

completely and utterly self-indulgent bc i love long-haired frank more than any man to ever exist (lmk if y'all want sfw ones bc I'd love to do that)

18+ minors dni, not proofread bc im going to bed asap

especially after born again, its clear that when frank's away for a while he'd let his hair grow and immediately straighten up when he gets home...that was until he noticed how feral you were for it when you see him. he keeps it longer now, nestling his head in your shoulder when he's fucking you. he encourages the hair pulling, even letting the scruff of his facial hair mark all over you. he appreciates the tender feeling on your inner thighs when he's done there too. he'll happily keep his hair this length from now on.

despite being known as the punisher, he's the sweetest man you've ever met. he's protective and soft with you, adamant about sitting inside you at any opportunity he has. its slow, almost lazy, how he pushes and pulls his way in and out of you. he makes sure you're enjoying every minute, whispering to you that he'd only ever love you and nobody else ever again. he wipes your tears, understanding the weight of such an admission after the loss he's experienced.

frank's away a lot. its the worst time for you and he absolutely knows that. regardless, he finds ways to let you know he's watching over you. you never ask him how he does it, who he asks to stop by your place...you even consider that he does it himself...but your flowers never go dead. just as they start to wilt, a fresh bouquet finds its way to your place. it will continue like that until it stops...the flowers uncharacteristically starting to droop. that's until frank himself shows up with a bouquet for you. he's on you just after he makes fresh water, slightly more aggressive with you after the time away. he knows you need it, though...his rough hands all over you and his fingers curling to hit that one spot that leaves you huffing in his ear. he'd stay away longer for this moment if he could, but he could never stand being away from you.

he'd try his best to not ruin your look when its time for you to go out. he does his best to not completely rip your clothes off so he settles on kissing and rubbing on any free skin he sees. he even inches his way toward revealing more, sliding a hand in your pants to rub you but never quite sliding a finger in...not even when you beg. he'd fix your clothes and send you about your way with a reassuring tap. it'd take everything to not take you where you are, make you come until you can't stand...especially with the pout on your face now. but its so much more worth it for him to wait for you, legs spread on the couch, and let you take what you need when you finally get back home to him.

part two

[favefandomimagines]

Tied Together With A Smile (f.l)

Summary: Y/N had done her best to never show Frank the messiest parts of her; until now.

AN: we got an angsty af one over

TW: drug use, abuse, really shitty parents

The soft hum of the city filtered through the open window, sunlight creeping across the tangled sheets. Y/N stirred before she opened her eyes, the weight of an arm draped lazily over her waist anchoring her in place.

A small smile curled at her lips as she turned her head, taking in the sight of Frank Langdon still half-asleep beside her.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. His hand skimmed up her back, his touch lazy and warm.

Y/N traced absent patterns on his bare shoulder, savoring the rare moment of quiet between them. “Morning,” she whispered back.

Frank shifted, eyes cracking open to look at her properly. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“About what?”

You. Us. How much I like you. How much I don't want to mess this up.

“Just today’s shift,” she answered instead, forcing a lightness into her tone. “It’s always something.”

Frank sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple before rolling onto his back. “Yeah. Always something.”

He didn’t push for more, and Y/N was grateful for that. Frank was good at giving space, and maybe that was why she hadn’t told him about the anxiety that had followed her for as long as she could remember.

Or about her parents. Or about the fact that she was scared—scared that once he saw all the messy, broken pieces of her, he’d decide it was too much.

He’d already been through one messy relationship. She didn’t want to be another.

Instead of voicing any of that, Y/N threw the covers off and sat up. “Come on, Dr. Langdon. Time to get up.”

Frank groaned dramatically but followed her out of bed.

||

Y/N had seen chaos in the ER before. It was an everyday occurrence—a steady rhythm of trauma and urgency, where life and death hung in the balance of quick decisions. But this…this was different.

The moment she saw the stretcher being wheeled in, her body froze.

Her father.

She hadn't seen him in over a decade, not since she packed her bags for college and cut ties with him and her mother. But time hadn’t changed him.

His face was still lined with wear, his body still thin and frail from years of substance abuse. The only difference was that now he looked even worse—pale, sweating, his breath ragged and uneven.

“Severe dehydration, possible acute kidney failure,” the paramedic rattled off. “Found unresponsive at home, wife called 911. Track marks on both arms. Looks like a mix of heroin and Benzos, but toxicology is still pending.”

Y/N forced her legs to move, her instincts as a doctor kicking in even as her personal instincts screamed at her to run. She grabbed a pair of gloves and moved toward the stretcher.

Frank was already there, taking the lead. “Let’s get a full tox screen and start fluids,” he ordered. His voice was calm, professional, as always.

Y/N swallowed hard. “I’ve got his vitals,” she said, forcing her tone to match his.

Frank glanced at her briefly, as if something in her voice had caught his attention, but he didn’t question her. Instead, he nodded, trusting her to do her job.

Y/N stepped up to the stretcher, her hands trembling as she reached for the blood pressure cuff.

That’s when her father’s eyes snapped open.

At first, they were glassy, unfocused. Then they landed on her, and a slow, twisted smile spread across his face.

Frank had seen a lot during his years in emergency medicine—grief, loss, anger, even hatred—but nothing hit quite like watching the color drain from Y/N’s face as the man on the stretcher looked up at her and laughed.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he slurred. His voice was hoarse, wrecked by years of abuse. “Look who finally came home.”

Her stomach clenched, but she didn’t respond. She tightened the cuff around his arm and pressed two fingers to his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

His smile widened. “Didn’t think I’d see you again, sweetheart.”

Her grip on his wrist tightened. “Don’t talk.”

“Oh, but I’ve got so much to say,” he crooned, his voice thick with mockery. “Look at you. All fancy in your doctor clothes. Think you’re better than me now?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, focusing on the numbers, the numbers, the numbers.

“I asked you a question, girl.” His voice turned sharp. “Or did all that schooling make you too good to talk to your own father?”

Frank's brows knit together as he paused beside the vitals monitor, the words landing wrong in his ears. He looked at Y/N—her jaw tight, her hands shaking slightly as she reached for the blood pressure cuff. He was about to ask if she was okay when the patient spoke again.

Frank then glanced over at Mel on the other side of the gurney, who looked just as confused. Mel raised an eyebrow at Frank, silently asking if he knew what the hell was going on. Frank shook his head.

“You always were a disappointment,” the man said next, his tone now dripping with venom. “Selfish. Ungrateful. You ran off, thought you were better than us.”

Frank froze.

Not just because of what was said—but because of who it was said to.

Us.

Your mother.

Frank's eyes flicked toward Y/N’s face, and suddenly everything clicked into place. The tremble in her fingers. The way she refused to meet anyone’s gaze. The rawness in her silence.

The patient on the gurney wasn’t just another John Doe. This was her father.

Y/N didn’t look at him. She didn’t say a word. But the blood pressure cuff slipped from her fingers, and Frank caught it before it hit the floor.

Frank tried to get Y/N to look at him, to give her a silent a urge that it was going to be okay, as he handed the cuff back to her. But she grabbed it quickly, avoiding his gaze.

Across the room, Santos could sense that the atmosphere had changed. Everyone could feel it.

Y/N clenched her jaw as she tried to get the blood pressure cuff back around her father's arm. But the sound of her father's abuse made her hands shake.

“Sir, please stay still,” she said, her tone clipped, professional.

But he didn’t. He laughed—loud and bitter—and then his face twisted into something cruel.

Her pulse skyrocketed, but she didn’t let go of his wrist.

“You think this makes you special?” he continued, his words slurring together. “You think some fancy doctor job makes up for the fact that you abandoned your family?”

Y/N forced herself to keep counting his pulse. But her hands were shaking.

Y/N's mother was standing almost on top of her, trying to get her daughter to look at her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” her mother said softly. “Please, he doesn’t mean it.”

Y/N barely turned her head, but she caught the sight of her mother standing so close to her, her hands wringing together. She looked just the same as Y/N remembered—frail, meek, apologetic. Always apologizing.

“He’s just confused,” her mother continued. “It’s the drugs talking.”

Y/N’s hands balled into fists at her sides.

It was always the drugs. It was never his fault.

“Mom,” she said, her voice razor-thin, “don’t apologize for him.”

Her mother flinched, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came.

Frank blinked, stunned, along with the rest of the trauma team.

Mel stepped back, clearly uncomfortable. Santos looked like she wanted to disappear. Even the mother seemed startled, shrinking back toward the wall.

Frank watched Y/N, the way her shoulders rose and fell, her breathing uneven now. He saw the flash of something in her eyes—humiliation. Anger. Pain.

Dr. Robby walked in just then, taking in the frozen room, the pale woman by the door, the disheveled man on the gurney, and the tension radiating off Y/N like a thunderstorm.

“Dr. Y/L/N,” he said gently but firmly. “You need to step out.”

Y/N finally looked up, her expression unreadable.

“You can’t treat family,” Robby said, softer this time. “Dr. King will take over.”

Y/N nodded, slowly. She turned away from the gurney, pulled off her gloves, removed her gown with methodical precision. Frank could see her hands shaking.

He wanted to reach for her. Say something. Do something.

But she was already walking out.

The trauma bay door swung shut behind her, and the room exhaled all at once.

Frank stood there for a beat too long. Then, without a word, he passed the chart to Mel and handed off the rest of the case.

||

The second Y/N stepped outside into the ambulance bay, the cold air hit her like a slap. She hadn’t realized how suffocating the trauma bay had been until now, until she was away from the lights and the beeping monitors and—

Her father’s voice.

You always were a disappointment.

The words echoed in her skull, looping over and over, growing louder until it was all she could hear. She pressed her back against the cool brick wall of the hospital, but it did nothing to ground her. Her hands were shaking, her breaths coming too fast, too shallow.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

She tried to focus, tried to force her lungs to work properly, but no matter how many times she counted, the oxygen never seemed to reach her.

Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred at the edges.

Her mind, traitorous and cruel, dragged her backward through time.

She was ten years old, standing in the kitchen of their cramped apartment, watching her father rip open a bottle of pills like a rabid animal.

She was fourteen, clutching her mother’s wrist, begging her to leave, only for her to say, He needs us, sweetheart. We can’t just go.

She was eighteen, throwing a duffel bag into the back of a taxi, her mother crying on the porch, her father nowhere to be found.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head, as if she could physically dislodge the memories.

Not now. Not here.

But her body had other plans.

Her hands trembled violently, her legs felt unsteady, her breaths became nothing more than panicked gasps.

She had handled panic attacks before. But this? This was worse. This was every nightmare, every buried fear, every wound she had tried so hard to keep stitched together—splitting open all at once.

Time stretched. The seconds felt like hours.

And then—

Warmth.

A hand on the small of her back.

She flinched at first, the touch being unwanted at first. But then she heard his voice.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Frank said softly.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, willing her body to stop shaking, but it was useless.

“I can’t—I can’t breathe,” she choked out.

Frank didn’t hesitate. He stepped in front of her, his presence solid and unwavering, and without another word, he pulled her against him.

She stiffened for half a second before melting into his embrace.

His arms wrapped around her, his grip firm, grounding. He didn’t say anything at first—he just held her. His heartbeat was steady against her ear, his warmth enveloping her completely.

“Breathe with me,” he murmured, his lips close to her temple. “In through your nose.”

Y/N inhaled shakily, trying to match his rhythm.

“Out through your mouth.”

She followed his lead.

“In again.”

Another breath.

“Good. Keep going.”

Slowly, achingly slowly, the world started to settle.

The hospital lights weren’t so blinding. The cold air wasn’t so suffocating. The walls weren’t closing in anymore.

Y/N’s hands, which had been gripping the front of Frank’s scrub top like a lifeline, slowly loosened. But she didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

For a long moment, they just stood there.

Then, in a voice so small it barely felt like her own, she whispered, “I never wanted to tell you about them.”

Frank’s arms tightened slightly. “Tell me now.”

She swallowed, her throat dry. “My dad’s an addict. My mom—she enables him. I left home at eighteen and never looked back.” Her voice cracked, but she pushed through.

“For as long as I can remember he's always chose his next high over me and my mom. One time, it was so bad he threw a vodka bottle at my head. Five stitches in my cheek and we told the doctor I got into a fight at school. I've never even been in a fight. My life was a mess and I never wanted you to find out."

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. Frank caught it with his lips, pressing the softest kiss to her skin.

Y/N never thought she’d break down like this—not here, not now, and definitely not in front of Frank. She had spent years mastering the art of control, carefully compartmentalizing every wound, every scar, every painful memory.

But now, standing in the ambulance bay with Frank’s arms wrapped securely around her, all of that control had shattered.

And Frank was still here.

His arms didn’t loosen, his grip didn’t waver. He just held her, his warmth pressing into her skin, his heartbeat steady against her own.

He smelled like hospital antiseptic and something familiar—something that reminded her of safety, of home, of a future she had never let herself imagine.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her fingers curling slightly against his scrubs. "You should go back inside," she murmured, though her voice lacked any real conviction. "You're still on shift."

"So are you," Frank countered, his voice low but firm. "And I’m not leaving you like this."

She swallowed, staring at the ground. The bricks of the hospital wall felt rough against her back, grounding her in reality, but Frank was what really kept her tethered.

For years, she had convinced herself that being alone was easier. That not letting anyone in meant she couldn't be hurt again.

But now, standing here with Frank, she realized how much she had been lying to herself.

"How long have you had panic attacks?" he asked gently.

Y/N hesitated. "Since I was a kid."

Frank exhaled slowly, his thumb rubbing soft, absentminded circles on her lower back. "And you never told me."

She bit her lip. "I didn’t want to scare you off."

His brows furrowed, and she could see the hurt flicker across his face. "Scare me off?"

Y/N forced herself to look at him, really look at him. His blue eyes were searching, his expression open. And for once, she didn’t see judgment. She didn’t see pity.

She just saw him.

She took a shaky breath. "You just got divorced. You were finally starting over, and I didn’t want to be another problem for you to deal with. I wanted to be the person you looked forward to seeing, not the person who dragged you down with all my baggage."

Frank’s jaw tightened, and he cupped her face, tilting her chin up so she couldn’t look away. "Y/N, you are not a problem. And you sure as hell don’t drag me down."

Tears burned behind her eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from fear or anxiety.

"I know this isn’t easy for you," he continued, his voice softer now. "Letting someone in. But I want you to know—I’m here. I don’t care how messy it gets. I don’t care what kind of baggage you come with. I want you—all of you."

The sincerity in his voice undid her completely.

Y/N sucked in a sharp breath, her hands fisting in the fabric of his scrubs as she let herself lean into him. For once, she didn’t try to push the emotions away.

She let herself feel it all—the relief, the exhaustion, the overwhelming warmth of knowing that, for the first time in her life, someone stayed.

Frank pressed his lips to the top of her head, lingering there for a moment. "You okay?" he murmured.

She nodded against his chest. "I think so."

"Good," he said. "Because I’m not going anywhere."

And somehow, for the first time in a long time, Y/N believed him.

[vultursvolans]

— ☆ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: although it wasn’t in the way that he planned, zhongli finally proposes to you ♡

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Zhongli x F!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.7k | masterlist | byf/dni

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: fluff, toothrotting fluff, established relationship, he calls you ‘my love’, ‘dearest’, you’re aware of him being the former archon, set at that floating island in the sky, you guys are so so in love lalalala

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

this piece is part of a flufftober event by spookuna ♡

For a moment, Zhongli couldn’t believe the words that left his lips. It had slipped out so naturally, so casually, as if he were merely asking about the weather. The question always lingered within him, much like the ring that waited patiently in his pocket whenever he decided the time wasn’t quite right.

Zhongli, a man of tradition, had always envisioned asking you at an appointed hour, at an appointed place, where the occasion would be nothing short of extraordinary.

Yet, here it was, out in the open, spoken with such casualness that betrayed its significance.

A gentle breeze swept across the landscape, nudging the summer clouds into a lazy drift. It was a cozy day for Liyue and as the sun made its descent below the horizon, the sky transformed into a fiery shade of orange.

High above Teyvat, hidden amidst the clouds, two pairs of legs dangled over a small floating island. They belonged to you and the former Archon, who often sought refuge in this corner of Liyue. Your fingers were intertwined with his as you gazed over the endless expanse. Finally free of prying eyes and the demands of everyday life, you sighed.

“Isn’t Liyue extra beautiful today, Zhongli?”

“It is, indeed,” he hummed, yet his eyes were not on the fading day. His gaze was fixed solely on you who sat beside him so calm and content, that he almost felt a pang of loss when you let go of his hand to rest your chin in your palm.

A small smile formed at the corners of your lips when his response reached your ears but your attention remained at the world below.

“I think you would appreciate its beauty more if you actually looked, you fool,” you replied, chuckling as you turned his face toward the dotted treetops and silhouettes of tiny homes.

Zhongli feigned a tired sigh, “No, I’m very aware of Liyue’s grace. I just prefer what’s in front of me, my love.”

You nudged him playfully, your legs swinging carelessly in the air. If there was a part of you that was afraid of heights, it vanished entirely in his presence.

“I’m serious,” He said, sliding an arm around your waist as a subtle invitation for you to relax your head on his shoulders.

He was serious though.

Being immortal— he had learned— was both a gift and a curse. It granted him both solitude and loneliness. He watched Liyue grow through centuries as if it were his very child and only two years ago, you had marched into his life like a reminder that love had not forgotten him. Beyond even the gift of immortality, you gave him a reason to cherish the present. So yes, he was utterly serious about choosing you above all else.

Unaware of his contemplation, you decided to tease him. “So you’re telling me you’re growing tired of Liyue?” You knew he wasn’t but what was the point of being tough and impenetrable if you couldn’t poke a bit of fun?

“How could I?” he shook his head. “Liyue is forever new and beautiful. You, however, are just a terrible distraction.”

You both laughed but there was weight to his words. Selfishly, he was thankful for not being the Archon anymore because, by Celestia above, you would have distracted him more than he dared to admit from his duties.

Then you remembered something.

“Oh, right!” You sat up and a soft smile played on your lips when you began taking out a book from your travel bag. The stiff cover and imperfect stitching suggested to him that you had made it yourself.

“I have something to show you.” You opened to the first page and there was a photo of you two from one of your travels. “Remember this?”

He chuckled, the memory still vivid in his head, “Do you know who you’re speaking to?” Zhongli took the book from you, studying it before flipping to the next page and then the next.

“I can see that you’ve put the photos in order… How thoughtful.”

You nodded.

Then he stopped at a certain picture, “Ah, our first Lantern Rite together— that was a pleasant night. You were so enchanted by those noodles from that vendor, that you insisted on having them for dinner all week.”

“And for some reason, my hunger has not yet been quelled, Zhongli,” you teased with another nudge.

“Soon, soon. I promise,” he replied with a sly grin only reserved for you.

“You know,” you began, “I’d like to travel beyond Liyue someday.”

“Where would you go?” he raised a brow at the sudden statement.

You hummed, thinking for a moment and then you pointed at the patch of emerald forestry barely visible through the billowing clouds, “Sumeru— the jungles there are supposed to be incredible. Or perhaps Inazuma. The cherry blossoms there are breathtaking,” turning more to the south as you said the latter.

As always, Zhongli listened while you rambled on about your future adventures.

“...We could go anywhere, do anything,” You suggested at the end of your little spiel.

“We can plan something,” he agreed.

“Oh, it’d be magical,” your heart swelled at the idea, “Maybe we could even reach Fontaine and have a picnic by their waters.”

You nearly gasped at how remarkable your idea was, “Oh my, Zhongli. Can you imagine sitting under the sun? With a book? My bones are getting all relaxed just thinking about—”

“Dearest?” Zhongli gently interrupted.

“Yes?” You replied, slightly worried about talking too much.

“Do you suppose we could keep doing this?”

“This?” You looked around the floating island, admittedly a little bewildered, “As in, coming here? Why would we ever stop?”

“No, no. I’m referring to us, just being together wherever we go. It doesn’t matter to me where we are.”

“Zhongli…”

“Do you think we could continue this… journey together?”

The question hung in the air, simple yet profound.

At this point, you turned fully to him, gaze softening as you met his amber eyes. They were wise and longing and wonderfully human.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Any form of hesitation died in his throat as he fiddled with his pocket and presented a ring to you. The world faded into a soft blur as he did.

“Then do you suppose you could marry me?”

Nothing but your breath escaped your lips. You were momentarily speechless. Sure, Zhongli had been oddly quiet but today was meant to be just another day. Now, your reality as you knew it became a distant memory.

He swallowed hard as he held the ring. It looked ancient but well-preserved, like a piece of fine craftsmanship. The gold band had delicate carvings unfamiliar to you and the stone was cut in such a way that it caught and refracted the last rays of sunlight as if it were alive. Maybe it was the remnants of divinity residing in him, but it radiated a soothing warmth in his hand. How would anyone believe that a humble consultant at the Wangsheng funeral parlour proposed to you with this?

Your chest began to bubble with emotion and you wanted to scream.

“Y-You want to marry me?” Your voice caught in your throat.

You could feel yourself getting hot, the reality of him wanting to be with you forever slowly crept up on you.

“Yes, I simply want to enjoy life with you. But if it takes a contract to call you my wife then of all the contracts I’ve ever woven, this one will remain my final and most sacred.”

He looked at you with a reverent smile.

“So what do you say?”

You pulled him into a tight embrace, feeling his words settle over you. In front of you wasn’t just the God of Contracts; he was the man who captured your heart. For every lingering kiss, every fulfilled promise, every time he opened you up to a new world of knowledge even when you thought you saw it all, and for every time he lent an ear and believed in your dreams— you knew what your answer would be.

“Yes. Yes!” The second time sounded louder than the last. Your voice was full of so much tenderness and conviction. You couldn’t stop saying it. “Yes, a thousand times, yes.” If you told the version of yourself from many years ago that you would be this important to someone, you would laugh.

“Thank you,” he said in the most sincere voice you’ve ever heard. “You have made me the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.”

Zhongli slid the ring onto your finger before cupping your face. You could feel the trail of kisses he was leaving on your forehead, then down your cheeks, and finally they found home between the plush of your lips— his kisses were so warm and gentle that it was hard to believe this was the same God people described as having a heart of stone.

Everything around you seemed to pause. The sun had almost fully set and the sky was now painted with the first hint of evening stars. With you in his arms, he wondered if this sense of peace came from being on this island or from the fact that he could now soon call you his wife.

Wife… he repeated in his head. His wife… it sounded just right.

A crisp breeze had settled between the two of you, perhaps for the better, to calm your burning hearts. After finally breaking away from him, you were the first to speak.

“So, what do we do now?”

Zhongli chuckled, pressing a kiss to your hair, “We continue, just as we always have… However, I hope you don’t mind me being a little more permanent to you now.”

“Permanent, huh?” You smiled, feeling a warmth coursing through you that had nothing to do with the summer air. “I like the sound of that.”

Eventually, Zhongli rose, helping you to your feet. He offered you his arm with a familiar gentlemanly gesture, “It’s getting a little dark. Shall we head back, my love”

“Mmm,” You slipped into his grasp, “Let’s go home.”

Home. The meaning was always tied to Liyue, by the earth and stone he had shaped for thousands of years. But now that's changed.

No matter where the world took him, as long as he faced it side-by-side with you, he knew that home would be wherever you were. Seeing you was like returning to a place he never truly left. Lost in thought, his thumb brushed gently over the ring he had just placed on your finger.

Home.

Zhongli liked the sound of that.

For the first time in his long life, the word felt complete.

a/n: i actually wrote this for an oc a while back, but i’m so glad i get to share this with people because i was so smitten at the time of writing it and reading this brings back all those feelings

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

all dividers are from @/chachachannah

[woso-story]

The Weight Of Love And Loss- Part Five

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Part One Two Three Four Six Seven Eight Last Part

The apartment felt unbearable. Alexia had barely lasted two days after your conversation in the café before she packed a small bag and left for Mapi and Ingrid’s. The weight of the emptiness, the silence, and the memories crushed her. Every corner of the space carried a piece of you: your favorite blanket draped over the couch, the little succulent you insisted on keeping in the kitchen, the faint smell of your perfume lingering in the hallway.

But what hurt the most was the bedroom. The space that had once been filled with whispered laughter and quiet intimacy now felt cold and sterile. She hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed after you left, curling up instead on the couch, hoping exhaustion would eventually overtake her.

It never did.

“I can’t do it,” Alexia had admitted to Mapi when she arrived at their doorstep. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and her eyes were rimmed red from days of crying. “I can’t stay there.”

Mapi had simply pulled her into a hug, murmuring, “You don’t have to. Stay as long as you need.”

Ingrid prepared the guest room for her, making it as comfortable as possible. Alexia spent her first night at their place sitting by the window, staring out into the city lights, wondering how things had spiraled so far out of control.

---

The first few days at Mapi and Ingrid’s were a blur. Alexia felt like a shadow of herself, existing but not living. Mapi tried her best to cheer her up, dragging her to brunches with teammates or movie nights in the living room. But no matter how much Alexia tried to participate, the ache in her chest never went away.

One evening, Alexia was scrolling through her phone when she stumbled upon an old photo of the two of you. It was from a lazy Sunday morning, your hair tousled from sleep as you grinned at the camera, Alexia’s arm wrapped around you. The caption read: My favorite mornings.

Her chest tightened as tears welled in her eyes. She quickly put the phone down and buried her face in her hands.

Mapi found her like that, sitting at the dining table with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You have to stop torturing yourself, Ale,” Mapi said softly, sitting beside her.

“I can’t help it,” Alexia whispered. “I miss her. And it’s my fault she’s gone.”

“You can’t change the past,” Mapi replied. “But you can work on the future. You’ve already taken the first step by recognizing what went wrong. Now you have to keep going.

It was easier said than done.

---

At Mapi’s insistence, Alexia made an appointment with a psychologist. It wasn’t an easy decision—Alexia had always prided herself on being strong, someone who could handle anything life threw at her. Admitting that she needed help felt like admitting defeat.

Her first session was stiff and uncomfortable. She answered the psychologist’s questions with short, guarded responses, unwilling to let her walls down. But something shifted in the second session.

“I lost her,” Alexia found herself saying, her voice breaking. “Because I couldn’t see what I was doing. I thought I was protecting her by not letting her in, but I was just pushing her away.”

For the first time, she spoke openly about the pressure she’d felt after her injury—the fear of being forgotten, of losing her place on the team, of failing to live up to everyone’s expectations. And slowly, session by session, she began to unravel the tangle of emotions she’d been carrying for months.

---

Alexia threw herself into her recovery, but this time, she approached it differently. Instead of overtraining to the point of exhaustion, she followed her physio’s advice to the letter, focusing on both her physical and mental well-being.

Her days became a balance of rehab sessions, therapy, and spending time with her teammates. She started journaling, pouring her thoughts and feelings onto paper. She even picked up a new hobby—painting—which helped her quiet her restless mind.

Mapi and Ingrid noticed the change almost immediately.

“She’s getting better,” Ingrid remarked one evening as she and Mapi watched Alexia paint in the living room.

“Yeah,” Mapi agreed. “But she still misses her.”

They weren’t wrong. Even as Alexia started to find her footing again, there was a part of her that still ached for you. She often wondered what you were doing, whether you were as okay as you seemed during that last conversation.

There were nights when she wanted to call you, to tell you about her progress and promise that things could be different. But she held back. She knew you needed time, and so did she.

---

While Alexia was rebuilding herself, you were rediscovering who you were.

Your new apartment became a haven, a space that was entirely yours. The freedom to decorate it however you wanted, to come and go as you pleased, felt liberating. You spent your weekends exploring the park nearby, taking long walks by the lake and watching the world go by.

Work became your escape, and your dedication didn’t go unnoticed. The promotion you’d been working toward for years finally became a reality, and it felt like validation for all your hard work.

But it wasn’t just your career that flourished. You started reconnecting with friends, saying yes to dinner invites and weekend trips. On a whim, you adopted a small Maltese puppy named Mylo, who quickly became your constant companion.

For the first time in a long time, you felt like yourself again.

---

One evening, you were scrolling through TikTok when a familiar face appeared on your screen. It was Alexia, walking onto the pitch, the caption reading: La Reina is back.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Without thinking, you opened Instagram and went straight to Alexia’s account. There it was—a photo of her being subbed on, her face glowing with a smile that looked real, not forced.

You couldn’t stop yourself from double-tapping the photo and leaving a comment: Proud of you.

It was a simple gesture, but you meant it with all your heart. No matter how things had ended between you, you couldn’t deny how much you admired her strength and determination.

---

On the other side of the city, Alexia sat in bed scrolling through her phone. Normally, she didn’t read the comments under her posts, but something compelled her to that night.

And then she saw it.

Proud of you.

Her breath hitched, her fingers hovering over the screen. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything. After all the mistakes she’d made, after all the pain she’d caused, you were still proud of her.

She set her phone down and lay back, a small smile spreading across her face. For the first time in months, she felt a glimmer of hope.

If she kept working on herself, if she continued to heal, maybe—just maybe—there was still a chance for the two of you.

But for now, she would focus on the present, knowing that if it was meant to be, your paths would cross again.

---

And so, while you curled up on your couch with Mylo by your side, and Alexia drifted off to sleep with a rare sense of peace, the future remained unwritten. Both of you were healing, slowly but surely, and perhaps that was the most important step of all.

[pandapetals]

I have a request if you’re interested

Logan and Reader get into a really bad car accident and Reader ends up in the hospital with their injuries. Reader has temporary memory loss and Logan struggles with how long it could take for their memories to come back. I love the angsty stories 👀

Hi, I love angsty stories as well. When I read this I immediately thought of the movie The Vow. So, this is inspired by what I vaguely remember from it. Also, it’s longer than i thought it would be but i couldn’t help it. 

logan howlett x fem!reader - married couple, angst, car accident, inspired by the vow, no y/n used, slight reader description, logan POV, memory loss, self-loathing logan, guilt, past relationship, jealousy, ex-boyfriend, slight fluff at the end, not proofread—got lazy

Logan sat in the cold, sterile chair beside your hospital bed, his elbows digging into his thighs, hands tangled in his hair. His eyes, rimmed red from sleepless nights, stayed fixed on your face—pale and still against the stark white of the pillow. The steady hum and occasional beeps of the machines filled the room, a cruel symphony that reminded him how fragile your life had become.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the back of your hand. It felt wrong—too cold, too lifeless. You had always been so warm, so vibrant. The weight of the wedding ring on your finger, still there like a promise, made his throat tighten. He wanted to tell you he was sorry, but the words stayed trapped in the hollow silence between you.

He stared down at your hand as if by holding it tightly enough he could pull you back to him, back to the mornings when you'd steal the blanket and laugh at his protests. Back to the afternoons spent dancing in the kitchen to songs neither of you knew the lyrics to, back to before.

The argument played in his head on a loop, though the details were blurred now—just fragments of harsh words and raised voices. What had he even said to you? Something cruel, something stupid. Something about how he felt like he was being shut out lately. But wasn’t that the irony? He had shut you out first, hadn’t he? 

The look on your face, the way your shoulders had slumped, defeated, haunted him now. You’d grabbed your keys and your coat. Your voice was low and trembling as you said, “I just need some space, Logan.”

And he had let you go.

Why didn’t he follow you? Why didn’t he stop you? If he’d just swallowed his pride for one second, he could’ve called after you. Could’ve told you he didn’t mean it. Could’ve held you until the anger melted away. But he didn’t. You had walked out into the night, into the rain-slicked streets where headlights blurred like ghosts.

Now, you were here, unmoving, silent. A deep gash marred your temple, angry and red against your skin, and your arm was in a cast, bruises blooming dark along your collarbone. The doctors had said the words he never thought he’d hear: brain trauma, coma, uncertain recovery. They had said it calmly, clinically, as if they weren’t shattering his entire world.

Logan let out a shaky breath, leaning forward until his forehead rested on your hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he wished he could undo. “I’m so sorry. I was stupid and angry, and I—” His words choked off into a sob he couldn’t hold back any longer.

The memory of seeing your car crushed on the side of the road burned in his mind. The twisted metal. The shattered windshield. The red and blue lights flashed as he ran toward the wreckage, screaming your name. He had gotten there too late to stop it. Just like he had gotten there too late to stop you from leaving.

Every moment since then had been a waking nightmare, the guilt eating away at him like acid. He stayed by your side day and night, afraid to leave in case something changed—afraid you might wake up and he wouldn’t be there. Or worse, afraid you might not wake up at all.

His fingers tightened around yours, desperate, as if holding on to you could tether you to this world. He thought about the vows you had exchanged on your wedding day. How you had promised to stand by each other, for better or for worse. But this…this was a kind of worse he had never imagined.

“I need you to come back to me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll fix it. Whatever I broke, I’ll fix it. Just…please.” His tears fell onto your skin, and he cursed himself for being so weak. For being the reason you weren’t awake to hear him.

The nurses came and went, adjusting the machines, checking your vitals, murmuring polite words he barely registered. To them, this was routine. To Logan, it was agony.

The night stretched on, each hour slower than the last. Logan stayed right there, clinging to hope and your hand. The moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor. He thought about the life you had been building together—the plans, the dreams. He thought about how he had ruined it all with his anger, and his carelessness.

“I love you,” he said softly, leaning down to press his lips against your knuckles. His voice cracked as he added, “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The stillness in the room was broken. Your fingers twitched—just the faintest movement, but enough to make Logan’s heart leap into his throat. He froze, staring at your hand as if he’d imagined it. Then it happened again, your fingers weakly curling around his.

When your eyelids fluttered open, his heart clenched. He straightened immediately, leaning forward, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat.

Your gaze darted around the hospital room, wide and unfocused, like a bird trapped in unfamiliar skies. The fluorescent light painted your features in muted tones, and when your eyes finally landed on him, Logan froze. This was the moment he had prayed for, clung to in the stillness of endless nights. But the furrow of your brows, the faint confusion etched across your face, made the air in the room feel impossibly thin.

“Oh,” you murmured, your voice hoarse, as if trying it out for the first time. You glanced down at your hand, still encased in his, and a flicker of discomfort crossed your features. You gently, almost absently, tried to pull away.

Logan’s fingers tightened around yours instinctively, though he quickly released you, his hands retreating into his lap as if burned. “Hey,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile onto his face despite the warning bells going off in his chest. “You’re awake. That’s…that’s all that matters.”

You gave a polite, almost apologetic smile, the kind you’d offer a stranger holding the door open for you. “Are you…one of the doctors?” you asked, your voice lilting with curiosity. Then, with a faint chuckle, you added, “You don’t look like a doctor, though. Too handsome for that.”

The words hit Logan like a punch to the gut. His smile faltered, his throat tightening as he stared at you. He would have laughed—maybe even teased you back—if not for the hollow look in your eyes. The look that told him you weren’t joking, that you meant it.

His hand twitched in his lap, aching to reach for yours again, to anchor himself, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he forced out a soft laugh, though it sounded brittle, strained. “Not a doctor,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s me, Logan.”

You blinked, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if trying to piece together a puzzle that refused to fit. “Logan…” you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. “I—I don’t…” Your voice trailed off, confusion deepening in your eyes as you glanced around the room again. “I don’t understand. Where am I? What happened?”

The tight band around Logan’s chest grew unbearable, threatening to crush him from the inside out. He wanted to reach out, to hold you, to tell you everything would be okay—but how could he, when the person he loved most in the world looked at him like he was a stranger?

“You’re in the hospital,” he said gently, his words measured like stepping across thin ice. “You…you had an accident. A bad one. But you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

You nodded slowly, but your expression remained clouded. “An accident…” you murmured as if trying to grasp the edges of a memory just out of reach. Then your gaze flicked back to him, hesitant. “I’m sorry, but…I don’t know you.”

The words hit harder than he thought possible. Logan’s shoulders sagged under the weight of them, his hands clenching into fists in his lap as he forced himself to stay calm. He had prepared for this—doctors had warned him it might happen. But nothing could have braced him for the reality of hearing you say it.

“You don’t…” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, blinking rapidly to push back the sting of tears. “That’s okay,” he said quickly, though the words felt like shards of glass in his mouth. “You’ve been through a lot. It—it might take some time for everything to come back.”

You gave him another polite, uncertain smile, and the distance in it gutted him. “I guess so,” you said lightly, though your tone carried an edge of unease. “But…um, if you’re not a doctor, who are you?”

Logan’s jaw worked silently for a moment, his fingers curling tightly around the fabric of his jeans. How was he supposed to answer that? How could he possibly sum up everything you had been to each other—every laugh, every fight, every kiss—when you couldn’t even remember his name?

“I’m your husband,” he said finally, his voice quiet, trembling under the weight of the admission.

The room seemed to go still. Your eyes widened slightly, your expression shifting to something unreadable—shock, disbelief, maybe even fear. “My…husband?” you repeated, the word foreign and heavy on your tongue.

Logan nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We’ve been married for two years.”

You shook your head slowly, a small, nervous laugh escaping your lips. “I—I think you’ve got the wrong person,” you said, your voice tinged with apology. “I’m not married. I mean, the last thing I remember…I had just broken up with Henry…I don’t even…” You trailed off, looking down at your hands as if searching for answers in the lines of your palms.

Logan’s heart shattered into pieces, each word cutting deeper than the last. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the overwhelming ache in his chest. This was worse than any nightmare he’d ever had, worse than the accident, worse than waiting in that hospital room, hoping you’d wake up.

“You don’t remember me,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, and the genuine regret in your voice almost destroyed him.

Logan leaned back in the chair, his hands covering his face as he tried to collect himself. He couldn’t fall apart, not now. Not in front of you. You needed him to be strong. But how could he be strong when the love of his life didn’t even know who he was?

When he finally looked up, your gaze was still on him, uncertain and wary. He forced a small, fragile smile, his voice breaking as he said, “It’s okay.”

You turned your head, your gaze drifting past Logan to the window, where the sunlight filtered through sterile white blinds. The light painted soft patterns on the hospital wall, but your expression remained distant, blank. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, tentative, as if testing the waters of your own thoughts.

“Are my parents here?” you asked, still not looking at him. “Do they know?”

Logan’s lips parted to answer, but then you added, almost absently, “What about Henry?”

The name hit Logan like a cold slap to the face. He felt his stomach drop, the ache blooming deep in his chest as if something vital had just been ripped out of him. Henry. Of course, you’d remember him. The name twisted in his mind, sharp and jagged. He forced himself to stay still, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the chair.

“Your parents know,” he said, his voice calm, betraying none of the storm raging inside him. “I’ll call them and let them know you’re awake.”

You nodded slightly, still gazing out the window, your profile softened by the daylight. You didn’t ask about Logan again. Didn’t even look at him. Just Henry. Henry, the man you had loved before him.

Logan pushed to his feet, the motion deliberate and slow as if moving too quickly might shatter the fragile calm he was trying to maintain. He had to get out of the room—just for a moment, long enough to breathe through the tightness in his chest.

“I’ll go get the doctor, too,” he said, his voice tight but even. “They’ll want to check on you.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, finally glancing at him, but it wasn’t the kind of look he was used to. It wasn’t filled with love or recognition. It was polite. Detached. The look you might give a kind stranger.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully, but he nodded and left the room. He made it halfway down the hall before his knees threatened to give out. Pressing a hand to the wall, he closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. She doesn’t remember you. She doesn’t remember you, but she remembers him.

It shouldn’t matter. The doctors had warned him this could happen—that memory loss could be selective, and inconsistent. It didn’t mean you loved Henry now. It didn’t mean you wouldn’t remember Logan someday. But the thought of you holding onto someone else while Logan had to start over? It tore him apart.

𓂃

You sat propped up in the hospital bed, the pillows arranged carefully by one of the nurses. Your parents were on either side of you, their voices gentle as they spoke to you, relief etched into their faces. The doctor stood near the end of the bed, clipboard in hand, explaining something in medical terms that felt both simple and complicated.

Logan lingered just outside the room. He didn’t want to intrude. But he also couldn’t leave—couldn’t bring himself to step away when every part of him screamed to be near you.

He could hear your mother’s voice rising and falling, warm and comforting. You were laughing now, though it was light and hesitant as if you weren’t sure how to feel. Logan closed his eyes, leaning his head against the doorframe. He wanted to be there with you, to tell your parents how long he had waited for you to wake up, to reassure them that he hadn’t left your side. But when he finally stepped inside, you looked up, your expression unreadable.

“Logan,” you said, and his name sounded unfamiliar on your lips. He held his breath, waiting for something—anything—but instead, you hesitated. “Um…would you mind giving us a little privacy? I just…I want to talk to my parents for a bit.”

His chest tightened. The words shouldn’t have hurt as much as they did, but they knocked the air out of him anyway. He glanced at your parents, who exchanged awkward, apologetic looks. Then his eyes flicked back to you, searching your face for some sign that you didn’t really mean it. But you were waiting, patiently as though asking him to leave was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Of course,” Logan said quickly, swallowing down the lump in his throat. His voice was steady, but he couldn’t stop his hand from curling into a fist at his side. “Take your time.”

He turned and walked out before the cracks in his facade could show. Each step away from you felt heavier like it was sinking him deeper into quicksand. Once he was out of earshot, he leaned against the wall in the hallway, his head hanging low, his hands bracing his knees.

Logan had spent days, weeks, clinging to hope that you would wake up. But this? This was a new kind of agony. You were awake, alive, breathing—and yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already lost you.

Eventually, your parents emerged from your hospital room, their relief evident in the softening of their faces. Your mother spotted Logan first, her lips pressing into a trembling smile as she hurried toward him. She wrapped him in a tight embrace before he could even react, her arms warm but shaking slightly.

“Logan,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Her words carried the weight of a shared grief, a mother’s heartbreak that mirrored his own.

Logan’s throat tightened, but he managed a small nod, his arms briefly returning the hug before she pulled back, dabbing at her glassy eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

Your father approached next, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. A man of few words, he wasn’t the type to display emotion often, but there was something raw in the way he looked at Logan. His jaw worked as if wrestling with what to say, and finally, he reached out, patting Logan on the shoulder.

“She’ll remember you, son,” he said quietly, the gruffness in his voice doing little to hide the uncertainty beneath it.

Logan nodded again, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “I hope so,” he replied softly, though the words felt hollow in his chest. He didn’t know if he believed them.

Your parents lingered for a moment longer, your mother touching his arm gently before they walked down the hallway, their figures disappearing around the corner. Logan stood there for a beat, staring at the door to your room. He could hear faint sounds—your voice, movement, the subtle hum of machines.

His heart pounded. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face you again, not after the way you had asked for privacy, not after hearing you ask about Henry. But he couldn’t stay away. 

Inside the room, you were sitting up slightly, your hair mussed against the pillows, your expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and curiosity as you fiddled with the edge of the hospital blanket. When Logan stepped inside, you looked up, your lips parting slightly in recognition—not quite familiarity, but something softer than before.

“Hi,” you said, tilting your head.

“Hi,” Logan replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he closed the door behind him. He stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure if he should approach, but when you didn’t tell him to leave, he slowly crossed to the chair by your bedside.

“You don’t have to sit so far away,” you said, surprising him. There was a faint hint of amusement in your tone, a flicker of the warmth he had spent years falling in love with.

Logan’s breath hitched, but he smiled, moving closer, pulling the chair right next to your bed. “Better?” he asked lightly, his heart skipping at the way you almost—almost—smiled back.

“Better,” you murmured. You studied him for a moment, your brows furrowing as if you were trying to solve a puzzle. “So…you’re Logan?”

He nodded, his throat tightening again. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“And we’re married?” you asked, tilting your head. There was no edge to your voice, just genuine curiosity as if you were asking about someone else’s life.

“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning forward slightly, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. “For two years now.”

You let out a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s so crazy. I mean, I don’t feel married.” You glanced down at your hand, frowning at the simple wedding band that still adorned your finger. “It’s weird…I don’t even remember the wedding.”

Logan’s chest ached, but he forced a small, hopeful smile. “It was beautiful,” he said. “You picked this little garden venue. Said you wanted it to feel like something out of a fairy tale.”

Your lips quirked upward slightly, and for the first time, you looked at him like you might want to believe him. “That does sound like me,” you admitted, your voice lightening.

He chuckled softly, daring to hope, just a little. “It was the happiest day of my life,” he added quietly, his gaze dropping to your hand.

You hesitated, glancing back at him. “So…what’s the story with us?” you asked, curiosity shining in your eyes now. “How did we even meet?”

Logan’s heart lifted at the question, the smallest spark of hope igniting in his chest. He launched into the story, telling you about the coffee shop where he had spilled an entire latte on your laptop and offered to pay for the repairs. How you had laughed, waved him off, and then somehow ended up sitting with him for hours, talking about books and movies until the shop closed.

You listened intently, your head tilting, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. Logan felt like he wasn’t completely invisible to you. Like maybe he could remind you of what they had.

But then the door creaked open behind him, and Logan’s voice faltered. He turned, his stomach dropping as he saw him.

“Henry,” you said, your entire face lighting up in a way that made Logan feel like the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Hey,” Henry replied, stepping into the room with a boyish grin, far too casual for Logan’s liking.

You beamed, sitting up straighter, your eyes sparkling with recognition. “You’re here!”

Logan watched as Henry strode over to your bedside, his confidence unshaken, his presence commanding. You laughed at something he said—light and free, like it came effortlessly. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he watched you smile at Henry in a way you hadn’t smiled at him once since you woke up. It wasn’t fair—Logan knew that. It wasn’t your fault. But watching you joke with Henry, watching you light up for someone who wasn’t him? It hurt more than he thought was possible.

He shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling like an intruder in a space that should have been his.

“I…I’ll give you two some time,” Logan mumbled, standing abruptly.

You glanced at him, a flicker of guilt crossing your features, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “Oh, okay,” you said, your tone polite but distracted as your gaze returned to Henry.

Logan didn’t say another word. He slipped out of the room, his heart heavy, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop them from shaking. Once the door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the floor as your laughter drifted faintly through the cracks.

He had thought there was hope. For a fleeting moment, he had believed he could reach you. But now, as the laughter continued, all he could feel was the growing weight of doubt pressing down on him, threatening to crush what little hope he had left.

𓂃

Henry had finally left, his departure marked by the faint echo of his footsteps down the hallway. The air in the hospital felt quieter now, the tension that had lingered in Logan’s chest slightly eased but was not gone. Night had begun to creep in, soft shadows stretching across the halls, but Logan couldn’t bring himself to leave.

He sat slumped in one of the chairs by the wall outside your room, his head in his hands, exhaustion pulling at his body like weights. He knew he should go home—sleep, shower, eat something that wasn’t from a vending machine—but the idea of leaving you even for a little while felt impossible.

Just as he was steeling himself to push through the door and check on you, it opened. He froze, his breath catching as you stepped out. You were still in your hospital gown, though you’d tucked it neatly into a pair of oversized gray sweats. Your casted arm hung awkwardly at your side, and your steps were unsteady, the hospital socks slipping slightly against the tile.

Logan shot to his feet without thinking, reaching you in three strides. “Whoa, easy,” he said, his hands gently gripping your uninjured arm to steady you.

You let out a soft laugh, a sound so warm and unexpected that it made something flutter in his chest. “I’m fine,” you said, though you didn’t pull away. In fact, you leaned into his touch, just slightly, the way you might lean into a doorway for balance.

��Fine?” Logan’s brows rose in disbelief as he adjusted his grip, his fingers steadying you at your waist. “You’re wobbling like a baby deer.”

“I’m starving,” you shot back, ignoring his concern and offering a playful roll of your eyes. “And no one’s feeding me in there, so what was I supposed to do? Waste away?”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head but unable to stop the grin that tugged at the corner of his lips. “You should’ve buzzed the nurse.”

“I did. She brought me some mystery soup that smelled like feet. Hard pass.”

Logan snorted, his laugh slipping out before he could stop it.

You glanced up at him, the corner of your mouth twitching into a grin. “Anyway, I asked Henry if he’d go to the cafeteria for me.”

Logan stiffened at the name, his heart sinking slightly. “And?” he asked cautiously, trying to keep his tone neutral.

Your grin faded, letting out a low scoff, shaking your head in exasperation. “And the fucking asshole said, and I quote, ‘Are you sure you want to gain weight from that trash?’”

Logan blinked, his brows pulling together. “What?”

You rolled your eyes again, more dramatically this time, but there was humor in it. “Yeah, I know, right? What a prince.”

Logan couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that surged through him: relief, amusement, and a flicker of hope he hadn’t dared to feel since the accident. “That doesn’t sound very…supportive,” he said carefully, though his lips twitched with the effort not to smirk.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you replied dryly, then tilted your head slightly, studying him with a faint smirk. “You, though? You seem like the kind of guy who’d smuggle me in a cheeseburger if I asked nicely.”

The teasing glint in your eyes caught him completely off guard, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe. The playfulness in your tone, the familiarity in the way you looked at him—it was the closest you’d come to being you again.

“Cheeseburger, fries, milkshake,” Logan listed, trying to match your energy, his grin breaking free despite himself. “Name it, and I’ll make it happen.”

“Careful,” you warned with a mock-serious expression, though your lips curved into a smile. “I might actually hold you to that.”

“Good,” Logan said softly, his voice dropping just enough that you blinked up at him, something unreadable flickering in your expression. For a moment, the space between you felt smaller, the weight of your shared history—your love, your life together—lingering in the air even if you couldn’t remember it.

Then you broke the moment with a small laugh, glancing past him down the hallway. “Okay, so…where’s the cafeteria?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Logan said firmly, his hands still steadying you. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

Your lips parted, surprised, but then you smiled again—this time softer, more genuine. “Fine. Surprise me.”

He smiled back, his chest feeling lighter than it had in days. For the first time since the accident, there was something else besides fear, guilt, and heartbreak. There was a spark—a tiny ember of hope.

When Logan returned with a tray of food, you were back in bed, the blanket pulled up over your legs as you flipped through the channels on the TV remote. The sight of you looking so at ease, so normal, made his throat tighten.

“Delivery service,” he joked, setting the tray on the table beside you.

You eyed the burger and fries with mock suspicion. “Okay, points for presentation. But does it taste as good as it looks?”

“Only one way to find out,” he quipped, handing you the burger.

You took a bite of the burger, your eyes widening slightly as the flavors hit your tongue. “Okay,” you murmured, groaning softly in approval. “That’s better than I expected.”

Logan sat in the chair beside your bed, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he watched you eat. He didn’t say anything letting the sound of your quiet satisfaction fill the room. You looked comfortable, at ease—more yourself.

You glanced at him, catching the way he was looking at you, and tilted your head. “What?” you asked, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips.

He shook his head, his smile growing slightly. “Nothing. Just glad to see you’re enjoying it.”

You eyed him for a moment, then plucked a fry from the tray and held it out toward him. “You want some?”

Logan blinked, caught off guard. “I’m good,” he started to say, but you waved the fry in his direction, insisting.

“Come on,” you said, your tone light but with a faint edge of concern. “My mom told me you haven’t left. You should probably eat something before you pass out.”

He hesitated, the simple gesture tugging at something deep inside him. You didn’t know who he was—not fully, not yet—but there was something familiar in the way you looked at him just then. It wasn’t quite recognition, but it wasn’t indifference, either.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?” Logan said with a soft chuckle, leaning forward to take the fry from your fingers.

“So I’ve been told,” you replied playfully.

The moment felt light and ordinary, but something struck Logan as extraordinary. The way you’d handed him the fry, the way you spoke to him—it reminded him of the quiet intimacy you used to share in your everyday moments. It wasn’t everything, but it was something.

As Logan chewed the fry, you leaned back against the pillows, watching him curiously. “So, did you really not leave?” you asked, your tone quieter now.

He swallowed, glancing down at his hands. “I just…wanted to be here,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “In case you woke up.”

You studied him for a moment, your expression unreadable. “That’s really…sweet,” you said finally, your lips curving into a small, almost shy smile. “I mean, you’re my husband but…thank you.”

Logan looked up at you then, his chest tightening at the vulnerability in your voice. He wanted to tell you everything—to remind you of the life you’d built together, to make you remember how much he loved you. But he didn’t. Instead, he smiled softly and said, “You don’t have to thank me. I’d do it a hundred times over.”

You blinked, something flickering in your expression—something that made Logan’s breath catch. It was brief, fleeting, but for a moment, it almost seemed like you were seeing him.

“Did we know each other a long time before we got married?” you asked suddenly, your gaze searching his face.

The question caught him off guard, but he nodded. “Yeah. We knew each other for a while.”

You frowned slightly as if trying to piece together a memory that stayed just out of reach. “You feel…familiar,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, almost to yourself. “It’s weird because I don’t remember you, but…being around you doesn’t feel wrong. It’s…nice.”

Logan’s heart ached at your words, the mix of hope and longing almost too much to bear. He wanted to hold on to the tiny glimmer of connection you were offering, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

“It’s nice for me, too,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the lump in his throat.

You smiled at that—small and tentative, but genuine. Logan felt a flicker of hope. Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you didn’t remember the life you’d built together, the love you’d shared. But something was still there, beneath the surface, waiting to be rediscovered.

You handed him another fry without a word, and this time, he took it without hesitation.

[nylqnder]

BURDEN QUINN HUGHES

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!coach!reader

summary: you and quinn, both dealing with your individual struggles, are able to find solace in one another.

warnings: coach!reader, platonic (but like maybe the start of something more?), very much inspired by what people say about our queen jessica campbell so sexism + misogyny, quinn dealing with feelings of not being good enough, probably more that i'm missing but that's the general vibe

wc: 2.37k

The arena was almost eerily silent after morning skate. Most of the team had already showered and left, their laughter and chatter fading into the distance. The echoes of their skates had long since disappeared from the ice, leaving only the soft hum of the arena lights and the rattling of the air conditioner.

You sat alone in the video room, the glow of the monitor illuminating your focused expression. Game footage flickered on the screen — defensive breakdowns, missed passes, and a handful of lackluster power plays that made you grit your teeth.

The weight of the Canucks' struggles pressed down on your chest like a concrete block. Frame by frame, the footage laid bare every mistake — blown coverage, lazy backchecks, and forwards stranded without support. It wasn't just a bad stretch; it was a pattern, a slow unraveling of confidence and cohesion.

You leaned forward, pausing the playback at a brutal turnover that led to yet another odd-man rush. Your jaw clenched as the opposing winger effortlessly deked past your defence and buried the puck top shelf. The players' body language told its own grim story: slumped shoulders, frustrated glances, and hollow stares at the bench. The swagger that once defined the team had been replaced by hesitation and doubt.

A slow sigh escaped your lips as you scribbled notes on a crumpled sheet. Tighten defensive gaps. Better transition reads. Revamp special teams. The list was growing longer than you'd care to admit. But it wasn’t just tactics — it was heart. How do you coach belief back into a team that’s forgotten how to win?

The nagging whispers of self-doubt were now becoming shouts as the losses piled up. Being the second female coach in NHL history was a weight you carried with both pride and exhaustion. Every misstep wasn’t just seen as a tactical error—it was treated like evidence. Evidence that maybe you didn’t belong, evidence that the old-school skeptics were right. 

When the Canucks were winning, the narrative was a feel-good headline: Trailblazing Coach Proves Gender Barrier No Match for Hockey Savvy. But when the losses piled up, the tone shifted. Experiment Failing? Pressure Mounts for Second Female Coach. 

The whispers lingered even when the arena was empty. Analysts questioned your systems, fans dissected your bench demeanor, and anonymous accounts on social media spewed their venom without consequence. They didn’t just criticize strategy — they questioned your very right to stand where you stood.

You clenched your pen, the tip scratching harsh lines into the paper. The criticism was constant and insidious, seeping into every corner of your thoughts if you let it. So you forced it out. You learned to compartmentalize, shoving doubts and insecurities into a mental lockbox and focusing on the task at hand. You kept your head down, analyzing film, strategizing drills, and blocking out the noise.

You'd never been one to walk away from a fight, and hockey was no different. You reminded yourself why you'd taken this job in the first place — not just for yourself, but for every girl who grew up loving the game and wondering if there was a place for them in it. There was. You were proof of that, whether the world wanted to accept it or not.

Out on the ice, Quinn Hughes lingered, skating slow, deliberate laps. He was always the last one off the ice, pushing himself long after everyone else had called it a day. You’d spent countless hours working with him — he was the Canucks’ captain and a gifted defenseman, and you related to him deeply, having been a defenseman yourself during your playing days. You’d seen firsthand the weight of the season beginning to settle heavily on his shoulders. 

The physical toll was obvious. His left hand, heavily taped beneath his glove, clenched his stick with a tension that spoke of discomfort. You'd caught him flexing his fingers during breaks in practice, a grimace flickering across his face before he masked it with stoic determination. The medical staff had recommended rest, but Quinn had brushed off their concerns, insisting that the team needed him. He was stubborn like that — a trait you both shared, for better or worse.

But it wasn’t just the hand injury eating away at him. There was a weariness in his eyes that tape and ice baths couldn't fix. The weight of leadership pressed on his shoulders, compounded by the growing friction in the locker room. Pettersson and Miller, two of the team's brightest stars, were locked in a silent feud that was becoming harder to ignore.

You'd seen the glances exchanged during line changes, the curt nods instead of fist bumps after goals, and the palpable tension during meetings. They weren't shouting matches — at least not yet — but the simmering resentment was affecting everyone. Players tried not to choose sides, instead desperately trying to keep the locker room from ripping at the seams. 

Quinn had tried to mediate, his voice low and measured as he pulled them aside after practice. But neither Elias nor J.T. seemed willing to budge. Their competitive drive, which usually fueled the team’s success, had become a wedge driving them apart. And Quinn, caught in the middle, was paying the price.

You restarted the clip of yet another failed powerplay, trying to identify what needed to change in order to see some results. Do you change the personnel? Do you change their positioning? Try a different zone entry? The seemingly endless options bounced around in your head, causing yet another pounding headache to develop. 

Then it came: the sudden, jarring clatter of sticks clashing against hard surfaces. The sharp bang of a door slamming open reverberated through the empty arena corridors. You flinched, the sound cutting through the quiet like a slap. Something heavy crashed inside the locker room, followed by a burst of shouting and cursing.

You rose from your chair, the glow of the monitor fading behind you as you walked down the hallway toward the locker room. Stepping inside, hesitantly while holding your breath, you took in the sight before you.

Quinn sat hunched over in his stall, his posture crumpled under an invisible weight. His skates, helmet, stick, and gloves were scattered across the room like the aftermath of a storm. The helmet lay upside down near the far wall, and one glove was still spinning slightly on the floor, evidence of its recent violent trajectory.

His chest heaved, and a sheen of sweat clung to his brow despite having left the ice some time ago. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white against the dark fabric of his practice gear. The air was thick with the acrid scent of frustration and the faint, putrid scent of sweat that you could never fully get accustomed to.

You hesitated at the threshold, your instincts warring between giving him space and stepping in. But Quinn Hughes wasn’t someone who had outbursts — not like this. Seeing him unravel was unsettling, a stark contrast to the composed leader you’d come to know.

Silently, you crossed the room and sat in Garland’s stall directly across from him. Quinn didn’t look up, his shoulders still rising and falling with uneven breaths. The echoes of his outburst lingered in the space, settling into a weighty silence that clung to the walls. You crossed the room and sat down in Garland's stall across from him, folding your hands between your knees.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hum of the arena lights filled the void, punctuated only by the distant hiss of the ventilation system. You let the quiet stretch, knowing that sometimes the best thing you could offer was simply presence — no forced pep talks, no immediate fixes, just being there.

Quinn's fists slowly relaxed, his breathing evening out. He stared at the floor, the sheen of sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his expression was a war between anger and defeat. You knew that look well — it was the face of a leader trying to hold everything together when the cracks were becoming too wide to ignore.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice steady but gentle.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “What do you think?”

Fair enough. “Looks like you had a... spirited moment.”

His lips quirked faintly at your attempt to lighten the mood, but it quickly faded. “I just—” He broke off, struggling to find the words. “I can’t keep doing this. I’m supposed to be the one holding it together, and I can’t even hold myself together right now.”

You nodded, allowing the weight of his confession to hang between you. “Leadership’s a hell of a burden, isn’t it?”

He scoffed, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I knew it was going to be tough, but this? Watching the team fall apart? Petey and J.T. at each other's throats, the power play tanking, the media breathing down our necks? Feels like everything's slipping through my fingers, and I can’t stop it.”

“You’re not failing them,” you said firmly. “You care. That’s why this is eating you up inside. And that’s what makes you the right guy to wear that ‘C.’ The team doesn’t need a perfect captain, Quinn. They need one who shows up, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

He shook his head, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “It’s not enough. I’ve tried talking to Petey and J.T., but it’s like talking to a wall. And the guys... they can feel it. The tension. I see it in the way they skate, the way they sit in the room after games. It’s like we’re all waiting for something to snap.”

You leaned forward, your voice low but resolute. “Then don’t wait. Set the tone. You don’t have to fix everything overnight, but you can start by showing them what it looks like to keep fighting. Lead by example — on the ice, in the room, wherever they need you. And as for Petey and J.T.? If they won’t listen to reason, maybe it’s time for a little tough love.”

Quinn exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Feels like I’m failing them,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “The team, the fans — everyone. And I can’t even play at my best with this damn hand.” His voice cracked as he looked down at his fingers, flexing them with a grimace.

“You’re not in this alone,” you said, your voice steady but tinged with understanding. “And you’re not the only one under a microscope. Trust me — I get it.”

Quinn frowned, curiosity flickering through the storm behind his eyes. “What do you mean?”

You shifted slightly, trying to organize thoughts that had been gnawing at the edges of your mind for weeks. “Look, being a coach in the NHL is tough for anyone. But being a woman? It adds a whole extra layer. When we win, I’m a novelty story. When we lose, I’m a failed experiment. And they don’t hold back either — I hear the whispers, read the headlines I shouldn’t be reading.” You exhaled shakily. “The criticism goes beyond X’s and O’s. They don’t just question my strategy; they question whether I should even be here in the first place.”

Quinn's expression hardened. “That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, bitterness tinging your voice. “But it’s reality. And I can’t let it break me, because the minute I do, they win. So I compartmentalize, push through the noise, and keep fighting. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me sometimes.”

Quinn was quiet for a long beat, his brows furrowed in thought. “It’s like no matter how hard you work or how much you care, it’s never enough, is it?”

“Exactly.” You gave a humorless laugh. “And God forbid you show any cracks, because then you’re weak. And weak doesn’t fly in this world.”

The weight of unspoken truths lingered between you, heavy but oddly comforting in its shared understanding. For once, you didn’t feel like you had to keep the walls up, and judging by the tension easing from Quinn’s shoulders, neither did he.

“I guess that’s what leadership is,” you added quietly. “Taking the hits so the people around you don’t have to. Even when it feels like it’s breaking you.”

Quinn's eyes met yours, something raw and unguarded flickering there. “You ever wonder if it’s worth it?”

You hesitated, the question hitting deeper than you expected. “Honestly? Sometimes. But then I think about why I started all of this in the first place. I love this game, and I want to prove that people like me — people who don’t fit the mould — can belong in it too. That keeps me going.”

He nodded slowly, as if turning your words over in his mind. “Guess I need to figure out what keeps me going.”

“You will,” you assured him, voice steady. “And when you do, hold onto it like hell. It’ll be what gets you through the worst of it.”

Quinn’s shoulders eased, some of the tension leaving his frame. “Thanks. I mean it. I didn’t realize you had so much to deal with too.”

“Welcome to the club of people pretending they're fine when they're not,” you said wryly. “The dues are pretty steep, though.”

A faint chuckle escaped him. “Guess that makes us both members, huh?”

You grinned. “Looks like it.”

For a moment, the weight in the room lifted, replaced by a tentative but undeniable sense of connection. You weren't just coach and captain anymore; you were two people who understood what it was like to carry heavy expectations and try not to buckle under them.

Quinn met your gaze, his expression earnest. “If you ever need someone to talk to, you know... I'm around.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and warmth bloomed in your chest. “Same goes for you, Captain.”

For a moment, the tension lifted, replaced by a tentative but undeniable sense of connection. You weren’t just coach and captain anymore; you were two people who understood what it meant to carry heavy expectations and keep fighting anyway.

[wardenparker]

The Unbearable Weight of Perfection, ch 1

Javi Gutierrez x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When an accident of fate throws Javi G into the path of his soulmate, his instinct is to dive in head first. Adjusting to life as the fated partner of someone you barely know is going to be harder than either of you suspect, but anything worth having is worth working for. Isn't it?

(This story is heavily inspired by the lovely house museums that I work in every day and the fantastic few months that HBO was using our houses to film a TV show in fall! I spent each day on that set in wonder and I can't wait to share the experience with all of you through this story.)

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 7.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this story include: Cursing, alcohol, food, references to abusive family members -- i.e. Lucas.* Fluff, sweetness, flirting, crushes, reader's meddling bestie. Summary: Waking up beside your soulmate the morning after your wedding, you reflect on the meetings that brought you here. Notes: Welcome to a new story, friends! We're using date stamps as we tell this story, as scenes may appear out of chronological order. Enjoy!

Saturday, April 5, 2025

Normally waking up is hard for Javi. Too used to having his own schedule, late nights and lazy mornings. Things have changed over the past few years, the loss of his family fortune and business. Not that he minded no longer being the face of an arms dealer family, even if he wasn’t the one selling the weapons. That was his now incarcerated cousin, Lucas’s doing.

No, now waking up meant an alarm instead of the fragrant smell coffee being brought by a servant, he had to get up and make it himself if he wants.

This morning, this morning his eyes are open before the sun even thinks about peeking over the horizon. The early morning lighting up gradually as he watches your face, so peaceful in sleep. His soulmate. His wife.

Sunrise isn't normally your wakeup call. The mornings are always an early start for you because you like to get as much out of your day as you possibly can. It's been so many years of it now that you even wake up early on the weekends – but not today.

A rare morning of sleeping in means that the bright sun streaming through the windows penetrates your sleep to warm your dreams and drift you closer to reality. Although really, the thing that wakes you is the shifting of the mattress. The last time you shared a bed with anyone before last night was...a year ago? More?

But when you open your eyes, knowing it's your soulmate next to you is so exhilarating.

“Good morning.” Javi’s smile is bright, radiant like the sun as he reaches out and caresses your cheek. “How did you sleep? I think I only slept for two hours but it was the best two hours of my life.”

"Good morning." Like a magnet, you slide towards him on the mattress to tuck yourself into his side. "It's a whole new day. What did you want to do with it?" Neither of you have to work, so it's just...going to be beautiful all on its own.

“I should treat you today, no?” He asks with a grin. “It is technically our honeymoon?” The ring on your finger is just barely ten hours old, the excitement of that fact still humming through his system and coming off as nervous energy.

"We've got a whole weekend to do whatever we want." Honeymoon. It's your honeymoon. The last twenty-four hours have been a complete whirlwind. This time yesterday you were already at work. "I feel silly asking but...what do you like to do for fun?"

“Watching movies.” Javi admits shamelessly, although he no longer has the movie theatre he once did. “What is your favorite movie?”

"Oh gosh, that's such a hard question." Shamelessly happy that you can do so, you lay a kiss on his shoulder and gaze up at him.

Your soulmate is so fucking handsome. How did you get so lucky?

"Maybe..." You laugh at how ridiculously hard it is to choose. "I think I have more like a top three. And they rotate depending on what kind of mood I'm in. But one of the top three is always The Princess Bride."

“That is a good one.” He grins, happy that you seem to light up and have a hard time choosing. “I always liked Wesley.” He admits shamelessly and winks at you. “As you wish.”

"Hush." Even though you nudge him a little, your warm cheeks have nothing to do with the morning sun. It's all mixed in with the dreamy expression on your face as you talk with him. Your husband. Your soulmate. "What's your favourite movie?"

“You must promise not to laugh.” He tells you seriously, although there is humor twinkling in the depths of his dark eyes as he gazes into your hauntingly beautiful ones. “Paddington 2.” He admits, his tone flat and honest.

“Why would I laugh? That’s such a sweet movie!” Daring to reach up to brush a curl out of his eyes, you end up smiling all over again. “I…actually really love watching kids’ movies. They’re great for comfort and cheering me up when I don’t feel too good.”

“They teach us lessons we could all use.” He agrees, capturing your hand and kissing the back of it. “We can watch them together. Snuggled up.”

“That sounds perfect.” Practically everything he suggests sounds perfect, and it’s not just the gorgeous purr of his accent. “It can be a sweet way of unwinding at night.”

“You would not mind?” He asks, brows raised and a hopefully look on his face. “I wish I had my old movie theatre, but we can turn the second bedroom into a viewing room?”

"You..." Confusion makes your eyebrows draw in. "Used to have your own movie theater?"

He tilts his head. “Of course.” He nods. “I will have to build one again. It will not be as big as the one in Spain, but the house will be much smaller too.” He sighs softly, feeling a little bit like a failure for not being able to give you the things he once had. Before he ever knew you carried his marks. “But maybe one day, no?”

"If it will make you happy, then we will absolutely do that." There are plenty of things that you don't know about each other yet, but you have every confidence that you'll be able to settle into things together well. You're soulmates, after all. You're meant to be together. "I just...I've never known anyone who had their own movie theater before. That sounds so fancy."

“It was a large house.” He admits, frowning slightly. He loved the house, hated the bad memories of some of the things that happened there. Although it was never all bad. “You know, Nic Cage came to my birthday party there?” He asks. “It’s how we met.”

"Is it really?" He had told you that they were friends -- hell, the Cages had come to your wedding last night -- but it was still something that you were wrapping your head around.

“Yes.” He chuckles. “I paid him one million dollars to come to my birthday, and somehow, we became friends.”

Your eyes widen, catching on a breath of disbelief. "So that's how you get a movie star to come to your birthday? Color me impressed."

He hums. “Back then, yes.” He admits, leaning in and kissing your shoulder gently. “Now, they are starting to want to come on their own. Not because I pay them.” He doesn’t have the money to do that anymore.

"You're an amazing writer. I'm sure you're just at the start of something really grand." The two movies he has had made so far have both been fantastic. You went home and watched them back-to-back after the first time he told you he was a screenwriter. "I consider myself very lucky that I'll get to be beside you during all of it."

“Really?” His eyes widen, as if he had never really considered that you would be happy to have him as your soulmate. “You want to be beside me?”

It almost makes you laugh, but the wonder on his face is so genuinely sweet that it sort of comes out as a sound of disbelief. "Of course," you promise him, and take his hand to hold both his and your left hands in his view. The hands bearing your brand new wedding rings. "That's what this means."

“Married.” The word is whispered, almost reverently, as if he is still in disbelief that it was ever possible. For him, it had started to look that way. He had loved Gabriella and had been determined to be a good partner no matter if they had not shared marks, but she had left him. He had floundered slightly, bemoaning love and at the encouragement of Nic to start working on his next screen play, he had stumbled upon the soulmate he had always yearned for.

******

Tuesday, February 14, 2023 Valentine's Day

The slowest pay of the week for the museum seems punctuated with particularly melancholy moments today. There was a private tour this morning with a proposal, and the squealing bride-and-groom-to-be had been allowed to take photos together on the grand staircase before regular visitors began arriving for the day. Their family and friends had been hiding in the house, waiting for the moment, all ready to burst out and shout with joy after the question was asked and answered. It had left you with a migraine.

Another lover had popped their question to her beloved out in the gardens while you were trying to get some fresh air on your short morning break. You'd fled back to the breakroom and hung your head in your hands for the rest of your fifteen minutes of quiet.

Now, in the middle of the afternoon, there are so many couples on dates strolling through the halls of Hazelwood House that it felt like an intentional taunt. Being fresh off a breakup at Valentine's Day is no one's idea of a good time. So you just pace your area, walking through the three rooms of the house museum that are under your care for this hour, and hope that the floor just opens up to swallow you whole.

Which is how you accidentally walked straight into a guest.

"Oh! Excuse me! I'm so sorry, that was entirely my fault."

Javi Gutierrez manages to keep himself from stumbling but immediately reaches out to steady you. “No, no, I was wandering around.” He shakes his head, ready to take the blame himself as his eyes meet yours and he swears that his heart skips a beat. He straightens slightly, still holding your arms. “Are you okay?” He asks softly, as if you had been injured by the minor collision.

"I'm totally fine." Shaken, sure, but only because of your own clumsiness and the fact that you just had to bump into the hottest guy you've ever seen in your entire life. "I—I'm sorry." Come on, get it together. "I was distracted." Lie, for fuck's sake. "I just noticed a little detail in the flooring that I had never seen before."

“The floor?” Javi frowns as he looks down at the intricate tiles beneath both of your feet. “What about the floor?” He asks curiously, wondering if it is something special.

"Well..." It's nerdy. It's so nerdy. But there actually is something special about the mosaic tile in this particular room of the house. "The billiard room is covered in mosaic, but I've never paid much attention to the grain of the marble before." An utter lie, you stare at it every day. "Do you see the swirls of blue and gray here? It's the same marble as the fireplace."

Instead of looking at you like you are crazy, Javi squats down and brushes his fingers over the glazed tiles, staring at the colorful patterns for a long moment, memorizing them. Then he lifts his head to stare at the fireplace. “So they tiled the mosaic with marble instead of regular tiles?” He asks, trying to follow.

"It looks like it." He gets excited easily, this incredibly handsome man, and it relaxes you a little. Guests who get excited about little details are one of the things you love most about working in a museum. "Now I'm thinking about taking a photo of the different colors and comparing them to the other fireplaces in the house."

“Can you backtrack through the house?” He looks around worried for a moment and then back at you. “The guides won’t get mad?”

"You're only a few rooms in, I can walk you back to the first fireplace if you'd like?" That would be the breakfast room, which is an easy stroll backward from where you are now and you point it out to him on the map that is printed on the packet of information in his hand. It seems he opted not to download the audio tour as so many do.

He tilts his head, contemplating it seriously. “Then we should do it, no?” He asks. “See if it matches? It should, or no? Maybe it depends on the style of the room?”

"Let's find out, if you're curious. We can check the three fireplaces in this section of the house and you can compare the pictures you take here to the others as you keep moving through the house." You would walk with him, guide him yourself, because it's just so nice to stumble upon someone nice and not on a date today...but abandoning your area of the house would get you in a hell of a lot of trouble.

“Okay.” He smiles at you and wonders if you are waiting for your partner to arrive. It’s Valentine’s Day after all and he had thought to distract himself with work. “The house is very, um, nice.” He says as you start to steer him back towards the other rooms. Small talk can be awkward and he’s not as good as it as he would like at times. Nervous about making a negative impression.

"The whole place is gorgeous." The grounds are a popular tourist attraction, with plenty of weddings and other parties happening on the grounds in addition to the mansion being a museum. "Have you ever visited Hazelwood Park before?"

“This is my first time.” Javi confesses. “I have heard of it, but woke up this morning and decided today was the day.” He had honestly figured there wouldn’t be a lot of couples here. He had been wrong.

"Well, welcome." Back in the breakfast room, you turn to face the soft green marble fireplace. "This does look like the same green of the turtle in the mosaic," you admit. The shades are remarkably similar.

“So they matched the edging of this floor to the fireplace.” The entire floor isn’t a mosaic, but the banding around the edges is. “This fireplace is larger.” He tilts his head. “Perhaps they did not have enough of the leftovers to use, hm?”

"If they only used the pieces that were considered scrap during the carving of the fireplaces, then it would make sense that they wouldn’t have any large pieces." The thin tile line around the otherwise parquet flooring has always charmed you unexpectedly. You had never seen anything like it before.

“It is a good way to use up all the materials.” He agrees. “Because I’m assuming the marble was imported?” It’s nothing he’s ever considered before but your enthusiasm for the details excites him.

"Oh yes, absolutely." In fact, you had had to memorize where all of it came from as part of your knowledge test to be a full-fledged docent. "This particular stone comes from Italy."

“You know a lot about this.” He smiles. “Is the house a favorite place to visit for you?”

"Oh!" You break out into a nervous laugh and realize that this entire time, the nametag and lapel pin that you wear on your cardigan marking you as an employee haven't been visible. "No, I--I work here. I've been here about a year now."

“Oh…oh I am sorry.” He bites his lip as he tries to hide the embarrassed grin. “I didn’t realize. I thought you were just an enthusiast.”

"Being an enthusiast is sort of how I got the job," you admit. Shrugging your shoulders, you straighten out your cardigan again and do up one button to make sure both pins stay visible. "It turns out that I really love it. Beyond just thinking the place is beautiful."

“That explains your comment about this section of the house.” He chuckles, wiping his hands on his pants and shoving them in his pockets. “I had assumed you were waiting on someone. Now I know that’s it’s other tour groups.

"Have to stay in my section." A light, awkward laugh travels between you but even that little sound from him sounds angelic. "But if you like these first few rooms, then you'll love the rest of the house."

“Which is your favorite room?” He asks, looking down at his map.

"Today?" You laugh a little, emboldened by the way he seems to smile with his whole face. Like he really doesn't mind talking to you. Like he might even enjoy it. "I love them all, but I think the library might be the best part of the whole house."

“Do you like to read?” He asks, charmed by your laugh and the way you seem to light up at the question. As if you aren’t normally asked a personal question. “The library was always where I was chided, but then it was also where I could escape into different worlds when I couldn’t do other things.”

"That's the beauty of books." Something you believe unabashedly. Stories are an escape -- whether that is books or movies or plays, or whatever else. "Being able to run away into a different world is powerful. It's freeing." Warmth creeps up your neck and into your cheeks and you nearly feel embarrassed for getting so excited about it except that he's still smiling. "The library in this house? I would curl up in front of that fireplace with a stack of books beside me on the chaise lounge and one of those little table all covered in the blue China from the butler's pantry and a whole plate of scones. I would just stay there all day and night."

“That sounds perfect.” He hums. “With the fire built up?”

“Oh, of course.” The scenario has played out in your head a thousand times, and one day you might just have to go antiquing for your own chaise so you can fulfill it. Of course…you’ll also need a home legitimate enough to have a fireplace. Not your shitty little studio apartment.

“Storm beating against the windows?” It would be a miracle in California, but he could imagine it in the setting of his latest screenplay. “Or snow?”

"Oh, it's been years since I saw a good snowstorm. I used to hate them, but I sort of miss it."

“I have not ever lived somewhere where there was snow.” He admits with a small shrug. “It is beautiful in pictures but I do not think it would be fun to have every day.”

"Oh, it's definitely not." Not even a little, and your immediate answer elicits laughs from both of you. "My favorite was when I was going to college in Boston and the college dug out our sidewalks for us. All the beauty of snow with none of the work."

“That is probably the best way to have the snow.” He admits with a laugh.

"Well..." Realizing you've probably monopolized enough of this extremely handsome, extremely charming man's time, you offer him a smile and try to smother the butterflies accumulating in the pit of your stomach. He has the most beautiful, soulful eyes you've ever seen. "Enjoy the rest of the museum. Take an extra look at the library when you pass through the south wing and you'll see what I mean about it being comfy."

He’s entirely disappointed to realize that he’s being dismissed. Enjoying the way you banter with him, he wishes he could ask you to give him the tour of the entire house so he could continue talking. Feeling more at ease with you than he has with anyone ever. “Thank you.” He hums softly. “I hope you have a wonderful day, full of beauty.”

"You too." You flounder for a few seconds, but you know you'll get in trouble if your supervisor sees you on the surveillance cameras talking to the same guest for too long, so you gently extract yourself to stroll as casually as possible back into the corner of the great hall that is included in your area of the house right now.

Javi watches you walk off and he sighs before he looks down at the map and pulls out his phone to take pictures of the rooms. Your attention to detail will have to be included in the film.

******

Saturday, December 23, 2023

It's the Christmas season the next time you see him, when the house is all done up in twinkling lights and wreaths with trimmed trees in almost every room. Bowls of chestnuts and pine cones and cherries replace the usual decorative hazelnuts and oranges. Pine boughs and poinsettias instead of big, beautiful flower arrangements. It's a nice change of pace, honestly, and on the weekends guests can buy tickets to the after-hours light display on the grounds. Out in the garden there are even refreshments and music plays from the trees that drip with even more lights.

Javier tucks into his light jacket. It’s not completely necessary, but it helps the spirit of the season. The lights are beautiful and he’s heard that the decorations are truly a sight to see.

The music outside just reminds you of the years that you worked in retail -- repetitive and sickly sweet Christmas songs pouring through speakers, but you dole out cups of cocoa and coffee at one of the refreshment tables outside with good enough spirits. There's bits of broken cookie to sneak every now and then, and the little gingerbread men are tasty morsels when you and the other docent working at the table can grab them.

“You were right about the library.” He hadn’t been looking for you. At least that’s what he tells himself, although he lights up for some reason when he recognizes you. “It’s perfect for a cozy day reading.”

"You..." It takes all you've got not to grab your friend's hand beside you, as the specter of the random guest you've had a crush on for almost a year materializes in front of you. "You remembered?" The full sentence is 'You remembered me?' but you don't say that.

He grins bashfully as he steps up to the table and looks down at the cookies and paper cups, trying to keep from staring at how pretty you are. Javi’s been around gorgeous women, but there’s something about the naked honest in your eyes that makes him feel almost feverish. “Of course I did.” He chuckles. “I went back through to find you that day, but you must have already gone home.”

“We move around the house every hour. To keep on our toes and so we don’t stare at the same set of walls the whole day.” Did he get even more attractive since last time? That would be so unfair. Criminally unfair, actually. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Enough to come back, even.”

“I had to see it during Christmas.” It also got him out of the tiny cottage he lives in. Around other people. Hopefully to distract from the loneliness of the holiday. “I don’t know if this might not be the best look for this place. Although I see it with candles lit all around.”

“It’s perfect in spring,” you tell him all too quickly, and end up flustering yourself so you have to tear your eyes away from his to look down at the grounds gather your damn wits back. “I mean…in early spring is when all the orange and hazelnut trees blossom. That’s how the property got its name. Hazelwood Park.”

“Is that so? I will have to check it out.” He looks suitably impressed and then motions to the table. “So, um, how much for a cookie and a cup of coffee?” He asks, not sure what else to say, but wanting to continue the conversation.

"Oh, they're free for guests. Help yourself." Your coworker offers helpfully, seeing you fluster and thoroughly enjoying the level of teasing that is going to happen after work tonight. "Why don't you take your break while we have a lull?" She suggests, practically batting her eyelashes with glee over the suggestion.

"Thanks, Moira," you hum with a tone that suggests you're going to kill her later. Then again? She has a point. These days that there are special events at work can be long. You've been on your feet for hours.

Javi is disappointed, sure that you will disappear on him since you have a chance to get off your feet and possibly get something to eat or drink yourself. “Oh, um, okay.” He takes a cup of be coffee and a cookie. “Thanks.”

"Make sure to show him your bench!" Moira suggests, far too loudly and excitedly to not be obvious, as she thrusts a cup of cocoa and a gingerbread man into your hands.

“Your bench?” He could kiss your friend for giving him something to grasp on to in order to keep the conversation going. “What is your bench?”

"It's...it's over on the west side of the property." You gesture to the left of were you're both standing and try to suppress the giddy and awkward shivers running up and down your spine. "Do you...would you want to walk?"

“Are you sure you want to?” He asks seriously, happy about spending time with you but it’s your break. “You don’t want to rest?”

"Benches are made for resting." Now that the chance has presented itself, you would actually be pretty bummed to miss out on the chance to chat with him again. And, in all honesty, you're pretty sure it's not your break at all. Moira just threw you out of the nest like a mama bird.

“Okay.” He agree to that easily and shifts to move the cookie into the same hand as his coffee to offer you his arm. “Lead the way.”

The chivalrous gesture damn near makes your knees buckle, and you follow suit. Shifting your snack into one hand lets you take his arm to lead him toward the ocean. "It's just...where I like to come sit." Of course it is. You groan at yourself internally. What else would you do at a bench but sit? "I take my lunch out here sometimes and things like that."

“So it’s your special place.” He likes the sound of that. Showing him something that you might not show every guest.

"I suppose you could say that." It's only a touch chilly tonight and the breeze coming off the ocean is welcoming. "It's a nice place to sit and think. To just watch the ocean and...dream."

“Hopefully the dreams are nice ones.” He offers, wondering what you might dream about. “Having a quiet place to think is always a good thing. I used to sit out at the cliffs and dream, plot, plan.”

"Cliffs?" Hazelwood Park is more or less on a cliffside, and you motion out toward the ocean again. "Like this one?"

“A little larger than this one.” He smiles as he thinks back to jumping off the cliff with Nic. “Mallorca has cliffs that go hundreds of meters in the air.” He tells you. “Some so steep you would be terrified to slip off the edge.”

“Mallorca?” Spanish. Damn. They really do make hotter men in Europe. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there. You…traded one beautiful place to live for another?”

He shrugs slightly. “Hard to write movies anywhere else but Hollywood, no?”

“Hard, but not impossible.”

So there it is. Even the screenwriters in Hollywood are sexy. Maybe you should be grateful to live so close by, then? Southern California does have some fun things that back home didn’t. Rather than fawn over him — that’s never been your style — you just smile. “So you like libraries and you’re a writer. Stories run through your veins.”

“I would live in them if I could.” He admits wistfully. The little bench is drawing closer and he can see from the view from this point why you would like it. It’s a stunning place to look out over the water. The wind just a touch brisk as it ruffles his hair. The smell of the saltwater taking over.

“Me too.” And for reasons you can’t quite discern, you just keep talking. “That’s why I like history so much. It’s all just stories. Especially in big houses like this. Somebody’s whole life — their whole story — is wrapped up in that house.”

“And do you sometimes pretend you are the lady of the house?” He asks, imagining you in the skirts from that time.

"It would be sort of a shame to dream about the place and not dream the grand, elegant things. Wouldn't it?" When you reach the bench together, he seems to set you down first, letting you settle, and then sits beside you. "I think it's romantic. Curtis Hollingsworth built the place as a birthday gift for his wife. They were outgrowing their home because they were pregnant again, and he'd made millions helping to turn Santa Barbara into a spa town." The soft smile on your face is whimsical, but you can't help it. "Apparently, she loved oranges and hazelnuts. Which is why the trees are everywhere."

“He brought those to her.” He looks out over the water and takes a sip of the rich coffee. At least they had served a strong brew instead of something heartbreakingly weak. “To build a house for someone you love is a perfect way to show it.” He frowns slightly, remembering that he has a building site that was halted before the foundation was ever poured.

“It’s certainly a grand gesture.” Something in his tone and manner makes you hesitate, but you don’t know this man nearly well enough to ask a single personal question so you try to just press past it. “Of course, grand gestures aren’t the only way of showing love. Not by any means. But they do make wonderful stories.”

“Sometimes it’s just listening.” He agrees, thinking about how things between him and Gabriella had turned after moving to L.A. two years ago. She had been uninterested in the future he envisions and started working towards. Stopped talking to him about anything that wasn’t part of her own interests. He had tried to course correct, but it had ultimately not meant to be.

“I couldn’t agree more.” This time you do chance to look at him — sharp jaw and soft cheeks outlined against the night sky like a fully grown cherub, golden brown curls neatly and artfully tousled and waving in the breeze. He looks like a Romantic painting. “Lots of people talk about communication but not enough realize listening is included in that.”

His eyes find yours again, seeing the softness and understanding swimming in their depths and he feels like bearing his soul to you. “Is it probably the most important part.” He admits. “The world would be better if people understood that.”

“Again…” you swallow hard, feeling your mouth has run dry and chest fairly ripped open with the feeling of familiarity. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The silence falls between you. It’s not unpleasant, it’s almost hesitant. As if both of you are afraid of disturbing the uncluttered beauty of the moment as the waves crash against the coast at the wind batters playfully against your cheeks. Javi breaks off a piece of the cookie and dips it onto the coffee.

“You chose a beautiful night to come visit.” It’s clear and typically warm despite the ocean breeze, and even in the end of December, Southern California is a beautiful place to be. He could have gone to any of a thousand places but he chose to come here, and a small voice in the back of your head wonders — hopes — that maybe you had a part in making this place happy for him.

“I was compelled to come back.” He admits softly, looking over at you for a moment before breaking off the gaze to look out at the sea again.

“The house is like that.” When he looks away, you do too. “It draws people in.”

It’s not the house, but it would sound crazy to say that he wanted to see you again. Instead he hums. “I don’t think it’s just the house.”

“Well…” If you wanted to take that to heart, you feel like you could. It wouldn’t be difficult to give yourself that little bit of hope. But despite being easy, it would probably be very foolish. “I hope it helps you miss home a little less to sit on these cliffs, instead.”

“I think it does.” He takes the bite of the cookie and groans happily. “These are good.”

“Gingerbread is highly underrated,” you agree, and take a bite of your own after dipping it into your cup of cocoa. “I get why they’re seasonal but I wish I could find them so easily all year long.”

“Yes.” He agrees. “They would be good anytime.”

“What’s your favourite kind of cookie?” The question is innocuous enough, but you find yourself curious anyway. Curious to know about anything he feels like telling you.

He chuckles and lifts a shoulder innocently. “A good chocolate chip cookie is always a comfort.” He admits. “Sometimes the simple things are the best.” He twists his head and looks over to you. “What is yours?”

“Have you ever heard of a hermit cookie?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, and grinning in amusement when he looks confused. “It’s a soft, spice cookie. Like gingerbread. Sometimes with raisins and nuts in it. They’re a bit old fashioned, but wonderful with coffee.”

“They sound like I should try some.” He would try anything you recommend right now, a fact that should scare him but it doesn’t. “How old are the cookies?” He asks, thinking about his screenplay.

“They’re from the 1880s or 90s, I think?” It does not escape your amusement or notice that this is the same time that the house you work in was built. “I don’t know if they’ve ever been popular outside of New England, but we do love them there.”

He hums and takes note of that. Deciding he will research it. “Hermit cookies.” He repeats. “Are there recipes for this? Online?”

"Probably." His entire attention has now focused in on this just because you said it was your favorite cookie and that makes you smile in a way you can't quite explain.

“Then I will have to look it up.” He smiles as he takes another sip of his coffee. “I like researching things. It is very interesting. Like your marble mosaic tiles.”

"You researched the tiles?" It's the sort of thing that you would only think of you or your coworkers doing, but hearing that he has enjoyed his time in the house -- and possibly with you -- so much warms your heart.

“It was interesting to learn how they chose the marbles.” He nods. “I never imagined a trip to Europe to pick out building materials.”

"It's a heck of a reason for a vacation," you agree, laughing slightly at the opulence of it all.

“Yes. And trips would take months.” He chuckles.

"I can't even imagine." To take a vacation at all would be a miracle. But one that was months long? It sounds positively absurd to your ear.

“Do you think they ever got bored?” He asks curiously. “Or tired of being away from home?”

"I have to imagine that they did." It's a question you've thought on more than you want to admit, but the stories in your head are always about everyday things. Wondering what the mundane things were like. "If I had a home like this I can't imagine ever wanting to be away from it. But I suppose the right person can make anything worthwhile."

“Were they soulmates?” He asks softly, having avoided the personal backgrounds of the homeowners when taking the tour. He had tried to keep his own characters in mind.

“They were. And when they left the house to their daughter, she married her soulmate here. And then her daughter married her soulmate here, as well. The house has a history of lifelong loves.”

“That is nice.” His tone is wistful. “I don’t know if I will ever meet my soulmate.” Javi confides, normally keeping that information to himself but he blurts it out. “I worry about it sometimes.”

“I don’t know a single person who hasn’t worried about it at some point.” Even your sister, who said she didn’t mind not marrying her soulmate as long as the woman she found was a loving partner, had been thoroughly overjoyed when she had found her now wife on Mate Marks. Everyone thinks about it — worries about it — even if they don’t want to admit it. “I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.” You offer him a smile, knowing you’ve gone over your fifteen minutes for your break and not wanting to be caught flirting with a guest on company time. “Whoever you do find is going to be very lucky to have you.”

He smiles again. “Have you found yours?” He figures you probably have, you are beautiful and captivating.

"Not yet." Even though you'd rather not, you stand from the bench. "I don't know if I ever will. Only time will tell."

“I know you have to go back to work.” Javi leaps off the bench and shuffles, wishing he could ask you to stay. “Thank you for showing me this place.” He bites his lip. “Uh, can I walk you back?”

The warmth rushes back to your cheeks, and you practically squirm with delight. "Thank you. I'd like that."

He offers his arm again, taking your empty hot cocoa cup from you to hold with his own trash. “Imagine the parties they used to hold here.” He breathes out as the two of you turn back towards the house.

"We're setting up an exhibit with some of the gowns. It's meant to open in about six weeks." You light up with that fact, excited to see all the swishing gowns and glimmering jewels for yourself. "Descendents of the family donated a large collection of clothing, shoes, and jewelry to the museum this part year."

“Wow.” He chuckles, thinking about the parties he would throw when he was pretending to be an olive oil exporter. He’s much happier being a screen writer, even if he can’t afford those parties and bought friends anymore. “That was generous of them.”

"They say the most spectacular pieces are still privately owned by the family, but the things I've seen so far have been absolutely gorgeous." If you're a little dreamy-eyed at the prospect, he doesn't seem to mind.

“It sounds like you would have loved to live during that time.” He smiles, knowing that he will have to insist the movie be filmed here.

"I'm probably overly romanticizing it," you admit. But the tent is in view already and you hate the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach that wonders if he'll ever come back again. "I hope—" Biting back what you really hope, you go for a polite encouragement instead, "That the things you've found in your research have given you plenty to think about. And maybe romanticized it for you, too."

“It has.” Even if you have no interest in him, you’ve given him a focal point for his movie. “Thank you. This is a magical place.”

"Then I hope you'll come back again." At least in that you can be honest. There is nothing you would like more than to see him again.

“Really?” He’s surprised by your comment. Unless you are just being polite.

"Really." You promise him, but at the edge of the refreshments tent, you have to let his arm go.

He’s disappointed by the loss of your fingers on his jacket. “Well. I hope the rest of your night is magical.” He offers, bowing slightly and smiling at you.

"I can all but guarantee it now." One more smile. One more lingering, dopey smile, and you know you have to tear yourself away. "Have a good night..." Oh no. Have you really gone and sat and flirted with this man for your whole break and not even learned his name?

He nods and turns away, sure that it would be rude to try to extend the conversation. He will just have to go home and write about this, working it into the plot of his movie somehow.

******

Monday, June 10, 2024

The email went out before opening time, when only your bosses were up in the offices and the docent core hadn’t gotten to work yet. You’d nearly crashed your car in excitement while CarPlay read the email out to you on the highway.

A movie. An actual Hollywood movie is coming to film at the museum!

The second you clocked in and sprinted to the break room to put your things away, you almost clobbered Moira with squealed, giddy glee.

“Did you hear?? Did you see Leslie’s email?!”

“Oh my god, yesssss.” She lights up and nods quickly. “It’s a movie by that guy who did the Nic Cage movie a couple of years ago.” She informs you. “The one that won an Oscar and restarted that man’s career?” After a long slump of bad movies, the older actor had exploded back on the scene, apparently full of new life and motivation for his trade.

“I can’t wait until we find out more!” Being able to hug your friend and squeal together is such a rush. The two of you have become joined-at-the-hip work friends to the point where the friendship has bled into everyday life. “A name, a plot, any of the stars?”

“Actors.” She sighs dreamily. “Imagine if your soulmate or mine, is an actor who comes to film?” She loves the glitz and glam of Hollywood and always secretly imagined being an actress herself, although she’s realistic enough to understand that it would be impossible to have happen.

“Maybe yours will be.” You laugh, hugging her again before you have to break away to pull your radio headset out of your bag. There is still work to do today, desire the excitement. “You’ll have to make sure you always wear your hair up so your tattoo is visible.” The little raven behind her ear would be a hell of a lot easier to show off than the tarot card on her though, anyway. Moira’s tattoos are gorgeous and just unique enough that you would bet there was no duplicate in the works besides her soulmate.

“Oh I’m planning on it.” She licks her lips and waggles her brows suggestively. “What about you? Yours aren’t so visible.” She knows how much you secretly want to meet your soulmate and be with them. It was a drunken girl’s night confession but she had never teased you over it.

“There’s no reason to go around showing everyone my marks.” You shrug a little and busy yourself with plugging into a walkie-talkie and adjusting your headset in your ear. “A lot of people have ankle scars, don’t they? And I can’t exactly show off my butterfly.” Exposing that much skin is definitely against dress code.

“Is it your scar or his?” You had never mentioned that, just that you had a scar.

“It’s theirs.” However your soulmate is, you’ve tried very hard not to make assumptions about them. The person you hope for might not be the person you get, and that wouldn’t be fair to them. “I was nine when it appeared, so my best guess has always been they fell out of a tree or play sports.”

“And the tattoo is yours?” She knows, she’s just chatting because it’s better than actually getting ready to work right now.

“Twenty-first birthday.” You nod, knowing that she knows but that Moira likes a slower start to her day than you usually do. “I did the opposite of most people. I got the tattoo and then went out to get drunk.”

“Which is a very valid and smart thing to do.” She praises. “That way you don’t bleed too much and it’s a nice way to numb the pain after.” Her own walkie comes out to begrudgingly clip to her waist. “But this movie, it has to be a period piece, right? No way a modern millionaire would live in a house like this.”

“It has to be. There’s no point in renting out a historical house museum for four entire months unless you’re going to use it all.” Not that you know too much about the filming process, but it just makes logical sense. “And besides, they’re here in spring and summer, which is usually our busy season. So I’m sure Leslie charged them a fortune. But HBO can afford it, I guess.”

“What if they let us be extras?” Her eyes widen at the sudden thought. “Oh god, we could wear our work!” She giggles happily at the thought.

“I assume there will have to be extras somehow.” Truthfully, you’d let your Hollywood dreams die out a long time ago. Moira’s were much more present. It would be amazing to see her to be able to fulfill them with even just a morsel like being an extra. “I guess we’ll just have to find out, won’t we?”

“When it gets closer you will be just as excited as I am.” She predicts with a knowing grin.

“I’m plenty excited,” you promise, happily hugging her to your side as the two of you head out into the house together. “I just think you belong in front of a camera much more than I do.”

“You’ll change your mind.” She teases. “When you see what gorgeous actors and actresses they bring, you will be begging to flirt with them. On and off camera.”

“Maybe.” Her confidence is catching, and you laugh again at the thought of it. Hollywood has come knocking on your door and it’s already making work a hell of a lot more fun.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

[girlkisser13]

being married to shoko ieiri would include

• shoko is not a morning person at all, so if you’re an early bird, you’ll usually be the one making breakfast while she groggily leans against the counter, sipping coffee with half-lidded eyes.

• if you’re a night owl like her, expect lazy mornings where neither of you want to get out of bed.

• if she’s had a particularly long night, you like to bring her coffee in bed, and as a thank you, she presses lazy kisses against your collarbone.

• she has a bad habit of overworking herself, often staying at the morgue or tending to injuries for far too long. you’re the only person who can convince her to take a break, dragging her away for food or a nap when she’s been running on fumes.

• shoko is the most unorganized person you know. she leaves little messes everywhere— discarded cigarette packs, half-read books, scattered notes from medical cases.

• if you’re more organized, you’ll likely be the one tidying up after her, while she shrugs and calls it "controlled chaos."

• she likes to rest her feet in your lap whenever you’re sitting on the couch together. it’s her way of claiming your space without making a big deal out of it.

• physical affection with shoko is subtle but constant. she’s not big on grand romantic gestures, but she’s always leaning against you, nudging your knee with hers, or resting her chin on your shoulder when she’s standing behind you.

• when she’s drunk, she gets extra clingy, slumping against you and murmuring how much she loves you, her usual deadpan demeanor slipping into something much softer.

• she’s got a dry, teasing humor, and half her declarations of love sound sarcastic— "ugh, i guess i love you or whatever"— but there’s always real warmth behind her words.

• when she’s feeling affectionate, she’ll run her fingers through your hair absentmindedly, especially when she’s sleepy or lost in thought.

• she has a bad habit of stealing your clothes, especially oversized hoodies and shirts, because they smell like you and they’re comfortable. if you try to call her out on it, she just smirks and acts like she has no idea what you’re talking about.

• late-night conversations in bed are a must. shoko rarely opens up, but with you, she shares the weight of her responsibilities, the things she’s seen, the losses she carries.

• shoko is fiercely independent and needs her own space sometimes, but she also loves knowing you’re there. you don’t have to entertain her or constantly talk; just being in the same room, existing together, is enough.

• she doesn’t make a huge deal out of the idea of marriage itself, but when she commits, she commits. you don’t have to worry about her heart straying— when she’s yours, she’s yours.

• she can be a little emotionally distant at times— not because she doesn’t care, but because she’s used to handling things alone. being married to her means slowly breaking down those walls and showing her that she doesn’t have to carry everything by herself.

• if you get married in a more traditional sense, don’t expect her to care too much about the planning. "as long as there’s alcohol, i’m good," she says.

• you’ll probably have to be the one making most of the decisions while she just shows up, looking unfairly gorgeous in whatever outfit she throws together last minute.

• she never makes a big deal out of anniversaries, but she always remembers them. instead of grand gifts, she surprises you with something meaningful— a book you mentioned once, a rare night off where she takes you out for drinks, or just a quiet evening where she lets herself be fully present with you.

• shoko doesn’t like unnecessary drama, so fights with her are usually brief. if she’s upset, she’ll let you know in her usual blunt way, but she’s not one to yell or hold grudges.

• if you’re the one who’s mad, she’ll give you space at first, but if you stay quiet for too long, she’ll nudge you with a sarcastic, "still mad? should i start writing my will?"

• she apologizes in her own way— maybe by bringing home your favorite drink, running her fingers through your hair when she thinks you’re asleep, or pulling you into a loose hug and murmuring, "don’t be mad. you know i love you, right?"

• shoko loves slow, sleepy kisses in the morning, the kind where neither of you are really awake yet and everything feels warm and hazy.

• she has a habit of tracing random patterns on your skin absentmindedly, whether it’s on your arm, your back, or your thigh.

• if you’re stressed, she’ll plop down beside you, pull you into her lap, and run her fingers through your hair until you relax.

• she’s the type to initiate a make-out session lazily, pulling you in by your collar and murmuring, "come here," before kissing you slow and deep.

• when you’re lying in bed together, half-awake or just enjoying a moment of quiet, you find yourself lightly tracing over her beauty mark with your fingertip. she pretends not to notice, but if you stop, she’ll shift closer, subtly inviting you to keep going.

• you’ve made a habit of pressing a gentle kiss just beneath it, especially when you’re feeling affectionate. the first time you did it, shoko rolled her eyes but didn’t move away. now, she’s completely used to it— maybe even expects it.

• if you ever want to reassure her or just remind her how much you love her, you simply brush your thumb over it. it’s a small, intimate gesture that doesn’t need words, but shoko always understands.

• if she ever gets ready in the morning and absentmindedly covers it with makeup, you dramatically gasp and act betrayed. "how dare you hide my favorite thing?" she laughs and flicks your forehead before wiping it off just to humor you.

• if you’re sick or injured, she switches into full doctor mode— cool, efficient, but also quietly concerned. she’ll check your temperature, bring you medicine, and stay by your side, though she’ll act like it’s no big deal.

• on the flip side, if she is sick, she’s the worst patient ever. complains the whole time, insists she’s fine, and grumbles if you try to take care of her. but if you insist, she’ll eventually give in and rest her head in your lap with a muttered, "you win."

• shoko isn’t the best cook, so meals are either takeout or something you make. if you force her to help, she’ll dramatically sigh about how you’re torturing her.

• she’s incredibly low-maintenance but appreciates it when you do small things for her, like making sure she eats properly or reminding her to take breaks from work.

• she pretends to be annoyed, but deep down, she secretly likes that someone cares enough to nag her about it. <33

[honeyslibrary]

Game Tape ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); None I believe. Established relationship, fluff + a teeny tiny bit of angst?

Summary; A lil domestic moment, chatting on the sofa late night. Quinn is stressed. (Terrible summary I apologize)

Word Count; 1.8k

Author's note; This is kind of boring? I don't know. I wanted to write something gave a glimpse into the sort of stress that being a professional athlete can have on the player, as well as their partner? Fem!Reader's relationship with Quinn is complex, and she's his anchor, in the way that if he's flying to close to the sun, she'll be there. I don't know. Would love to know your thoughts if you have any! I hope you like it. -Honey

It’s a cold early December evening, one of Quinn’s rare days off. Snow has finally began to blanket the sidewalks, and the sharp bite of the wind carries the unmistakable promise of Christmastime. The two of you have spent the entire day tucked indoors, savoring the kind of lazy comfort only winter seems to invite. Breakfast was a cozy affair in bed, dinner a warm, aromatic soup you cooked together. Now, you’ve settled onto the sofa together in the living room. Quinn is slouched against you, his arm draped lazily over your shoulder as his eyes flicker across the glowing screen, his brows furrowed as he processes his latest game tape, another tough loss for his Canucks. You're comfortably absorbed in your book, your legs casually draped across his lap as you flip through the pages.

"How many times are you planning to watch that play?" You ask, your tone teasing but gentle, eyes never leaving Wuthering Heights.

Quinn lets out an exasperated huff, pausing the tape mid-play. The room falls silent except for the soft hum of the furnace. He rolls his eyes, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and chagrin. "The more I watch, the more stuff I catch," he says, moving slightly to let his head fall back against the couch, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his fingers drum absently at your thigh. "I don’t know... something just feels off."

"Something's off with the team?"

Quinn’s eye twitches—a subtle sign of annoyance at the fact that you weren't really listening to him. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly before responding. "I meant me," he says, his voice edged with frustration, though not directed at you. "Something is off with my game. I'm not playing as well as I normally do, and everyone is noticing."

"Well, you’re playing, what, over thirty minutes a night? You’ve got a heavy workload. That’s bound to lead to a mistake or two," you say, your tone matter-of-fact as you casually flip to the next page of your book.

He rolls his eyes. He knows you're right, but refuses to admit it. A muscle in his jaw tightens as his gaze returns to the paused frame on the TV screen. He exhales a deep, weary breath, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his own expectations, and he's leaned back into your side where he was before, his head resting on your shoulder again. "That’s not it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "I know it’s not. It’s... mental. Like, I’m overthinking everything out there. I see the play happening, but I'm a second behind. Just can’t figure out what the hell’s wrong with me."

"Well, I'm sure torturing yourself by watching the same play over and over again will fix it."

He lets out another laugh, a genuine one this time. "It may not be helping, I'll give you that. But I don't exactly have another solution right now, and you're too absorbed in your book to even care."

A soft laugh escapes your lips as you let your book fall closed in your lap. Shifting slightly, you turn to properly face him just as he lifts his head from your shoulder. The movement lets you take him in fully—the dark circles under his eyes seem even more pronounced now, a testament to weeks of exhaustion, and the faint red mark on his forehead, left behind by hours of wearing his helmet, looks irritated despite his insistence that it doesn’t bother him. Still, even with the wear and tear etched into his features, he’s as handsome as ever to you—perhaps even more so. Your hand reaches up almost instinctively, your fingers weaving gently through the overgrown waves of his brunette hair, the strands soft and free from sweat. "I do care, dummy."

Quinn sighs, leaning into your touch just a little, as if your hand in his hair is the only thing grounding him. "I know, I know," he murmurs, his voice low. "I’m just... frustrated, is all."

Your lips twist into a frown. "I'm sorry."

He shakes his head, letting out a huff. "Don't apologize, idiot. It's not your fault I'm stressed out."

You hum softly, a sound that seems to settle the air around you. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you reach for one of his hands, cradling it in yours. Your thumbs move gently over the skin of his palm, slow and deliberate, tracing circles that feel almost meditative.

Quinn exhales, this time a genuine sigh of contentment, the kind that feels like a weight lifting off his chest. A rare sense of peace begins to creep in, softening the tension he’s been carrying. For once, he allows himself to let go, his mind surrendering to the comfort of the moment.

His breathing slows, each inhale deeper than the last as his eyes flutter shut. The usual storm of thoughts in his head grows quiet, replaced by the grounding simplicity of your presence. He focuses on the warmth of your touch, the way your fingers intertwine so naturally with his, as though they were meant to fit together. The subtle notes of your perfume—sweet strawberry and vanilla—linger in the air, soothing him further.

For the first time that evening, the relentless noise from hockey fades into the background. In its place is you: your closeness, your touch, your quiet companionship. And in that fleeting moment, Quinn lets himself just be—no plays to analyze, no mistakes to overthink, just the steady comfort of being next to you.

A few quiet minutes pass before you break the silence. "Can we be done with this?" you ask, gesturing toward the paused game tape on the TV. Your tone is soft but insistent. "Let’s call it a night early and go cuddle in bed."

Quinn’s lips twitch into a smile as he glances down at you, a mischievous glint in his tired eyes. He raises a brow, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. "Cuddling? That’s it?"

You meet his gaze with an amused expression, tilting your head slightly. "As opposed to what, mister?"

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and shakes his head, his grin widening. There’s a lightness to him now, a stark contrast to the earlier frustration. "Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, dummy," he says, his voice mock-accusatory.

His laughter lingers in the air, and you roll your eyes in response, though a smile creeps onto your face despite your best efforts.

"Just wanted to get a laugh outta you."

Quinn’s smile widens, the corners of his lips quirking up in that effortless way that makes your heart flutter. Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch and, without a word, wraps his hands around your waist. In one fluid motion, he pulls you into his lap, his movements casual but firm.

His arms encircle you securely, drawing you closer until there’s no space left between you. He rests his head on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. The scent of him—clean and familiar, with a faint trace of cologne—fills your senses. He takes a deep breath, letting out a contented hum that vibrates softly against your collarbone.

Your fingers instinctively find their way to his hair again, threading gently through the dark strands. The repetitive motion seems to soothe him, and you feel the tension in his shoulders start to melt away.

"I’m serious," you murmur, your voice softer now. "I don’t want you making yourself crazy over hockey."

"I’m not making myself crazy," he murmurs, his voice low and resolute. "I just want to win."

You exhale deeply, the sound heavy with both concern and understanding. You pause, choosing your words carefully, not wanting to push too hard but unable to stay silent. "I want you to win, too," you say gently, your fingers still gently combing through his hair. "But not at the expense of your mental health."

Quinn lets out another hum, the sound more thoughtful than dismissive. He knows you’re right—of course, you’re right—but that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. Winning isn’t just a goal for him; it’s a necessity, a part of who he is. He’s never been the kind of person to give anything less than everything he has, even when it takes a toll. He leans back slightly, his gaze distant as if he’s searching for answers somewhere in the room. The drive to be the best gnaws at him relentlessly, and the belief that he can be, that he should be, is a constant weight on his shoulders.

"I’m not letting it affect my mental health, alright?" he says, glancing at you with a small, reassuring smile that reaches his eyes, giving you peace of mind in the moment. "I’m fine. Just... need to get my head straight, that’s all."

You study him, your eyes searching his face with a intensity that only deepens the slight furrow of your brow. His words linger in the air, and as you take them in, you know without a doubt he’s being honest. You’ve always been able to tell when Quinn is trying to bluff his way through something, and this isn’t one of those times.

His hazel eyes hold yours, unwavering and filled with a quiet vulnerability that he rarely lets show. Slowly, he raises a hand, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch so tender it sends warmth radiating through you. "Promise me something?" He asks.

You nod, leaning ever so slightly into his palm. "Yeah, angel," you reply, the nickname slipping out naturally. "What is it?"

He lets out a small, almost exasperated huff at the sound of that nickname—a stupid nickname, he’d call it if you asked—but the corners of his lips twitch upward, betraying how much he secretly adores it. As much as he hates to admit it, the way you say angel makes his heart skip every damn time. "Kick my ass every once in a while for overworking myself?"

You let out a snort, shaking your head as a laugh bubbles up from your chest. "So, what, I should kick your ass right now?" you tease, your eyes gleaming with amusement.

Quinn lets out a scoff, followed by an exaggerated eye roll, his expression caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. "I meant in the future, smartass," He quips.

Another laugh escapes you, this one louder, brighter, filling the space between you. "Alright, deal," you say, your grin mirroring his.

He leans in closer, the warmth of his presence pulling you in, and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. The gesture is tender, almost childlike in its sweetness, but the grin that follows is anything but. "Good." He murmurs, "Now, can we go upstairs like you were saying? Think I have a better idea than cuddling."

[true-lavender]

The beauty of Zhongven is that they've been married for centuries and when you have someone for so long you have your time periods of being so incredibly close and time periods of when you need some space from each other so I interpret their relationship as one of the open type.

Time to time they both go to other people but they always come drifting back to each other. Mortal lives are fleeting and should be cherished while they last. They, on the other hand, will have each other for all eternity.

Like, fuck bro, they introduce their partners to each other time to time and when they speak about each other they can't even mask the deep-rooted fondness of centuries so their partners sometimes have to do a double take and question whether they're witnessing a friendship or some irl soulmate bullshit. They're bad at hiding affection for each other so they have to evaluate which partners they're willing to take the risk of introducing.

Sometimes it leads to occasional threesomes or more... Gods ought to have some fun, you know And they value all their partners greatly too, even if at the end of it all they'll always find each other in a familiar embrace of one another.

Like, they didn't like each other at first. Or more accurately, Morax didn't like Barbatos because to him Barbatos was an enigma. Even while being surrounded with gods like Guizhong who had their fair share of unorthodox ways of rulership, Barbatos was completely and utterly different. He claimed he had given his nation freedom but to Morax it seemed like nothing more nor less than abandonment of a cowardly or lazy God.

So when he showed up in Liyue Harbour purely to invite Morax for a drink, he was flabbergasted and kept searching for Barbatos' true intentions. Which turned to be futile because for some reason, this weak and irresponsible God had been telling the truth and kept fleeting around Liyue purely for entertainment and morax' company. And no matter how much he denied it, he couldn't help the feeling of fondness whenever the wind tides in Liyue turned and Mondstadt's god of freedom descended to his abode with another drinking invitation. Or simply a request to walk among the humans, just them in the crowd of strangers. Of 'his children' as Barbatos has cheerfully proclaimed them to be with deep fondness straight from his hearth. Morax' children. And he thinks faintly that somehow, even if Barbatos officially has nothing to do with Liyue, they are his children too. He had never before thought of his people like that. But it fits. Painfully so.

So how could one not grow terribly fond of a god who manages to bring out the best in everything he frets around?

As time passes they both face losses, in from of friends, acquaintances, fellow archons, their people, their children, and Morax terribly dreads the day he'll find himself alone, when the wind of his mental stability will cease playfully spinning around him and be laid down to rest, replaced by some other soul who, no matter how much it'll strive to do so, will never be able to reach even close to the warmth of Barbatos' words and actions, whose winds will bring nothing but pain accompanying memories.

The cataclysm is the first time in all of the long years of companionship that he clearly sees Barbatos break down. He can't blame him, he has a feeling that much like he himself, Barbatos is weighted down by the same worries. They're just pawns to celesties, now the last remaining archons of the original seven. Two lonesome souls left alone in this world.

He knows he wouldn't be able to bear losing Barbatos too and he suspects Barbatos is much the same.

They find solace in each other's company, much like always, but there's something different to it. They're the last two. The only remaining ones. And Morax knows he'll hold onto Barbatos not only for how long the Celestia will allow him to, but beyond that. They're complete with each other, no matter how much time it'll pass before they see one another again, no matter who gets to warm their way to their hearts in the meantime, they'll always end up in an embrace of soothing winds and stable rocks, support to many and to each other.

And if anyone intends to take the blessing that is Barbatos away from this world, they'll have to suffer Morax' wrath first.

[mauromance]

A case for Kastle | A way forward (my fan theory)

In the comics, Karen Page’s brutal death at the hands of Bullseye shattered Matt Murdock. But the MCU has a rare opportunity to subvert that fate: what if Karen doesn’t die… but fakes her death?

Instead of a corpse, she leaves behind a carefully orchestrated lie. A final, irreversible act to protect herself and the people she loves. A way to take control of a life that has been defined, over and over again, by other people’s violence.

Karen has been teetering on the edge of darkness since Daredevil Season 1, when she shot James Wesley. As more of her past is revealed—marked by guilt, grief, and survival—we see a woman constantly forced into life-or-death decisions. That history, and her relentless pursuit of truth and justice also makes her a permanent target for Wilson Fisk. To remain Karen Page is to remain vulnerable. And after Born Again opened with the devastating loss of Foggy Nelson, to kill off Karen too would feel like another lazy gut-punch. Just more pain to fuel Matt’s torment. 

But a faked death? That’s not trauma for shock value. That’s character evolution. A conscious choice that preserves Karen’s autonomy, lets her reclaim the narrative and grants her a rare gift in genre storytelling: the chance to walk away from trauma on her own terms.

Karen’s reinvention

After losing Foggy and distancing herself from Matt, Karen relocates to San Francisco, trying to rebuild a life out of the wreckage. But we know, she can’t stay away.

We’ve watched her grow: from a small-town girl with a tragic past, to a murder suspect, to Nelson & Murdock’s moral anchor, to a fearless investigative journalist at the Bulletin. Karen has reinvented herself before. But this would be her boldest reinvention yet. A total reclamation. Killing “Karen Page” allows the woman underneath to finally live.

MCU continuity

The MCU has already built the scaffolding for a story like this. Faked deaths. S.H.I.E.L.D. coverups. Clean slates. If Frank Castle can be given a second life, why not Karen? This opens the door for powerful storytelling while honouring the existing gritty, grounded, and emotionally complex tone of Daredevil and The Punisher. 

It also offers other character threads to be woven: Dinah Madani, David Leiberman, and more. A storyline where Karen fakes her death could organically pull some of those characters back in for final, meaningful resolutions without stretching plausibility.

Matt’s path forward

Karen’s "death" would devastate Matt, but it would also liberate him. It carries the emotional weight of her comic death, but with a quieter, more tragic finality. She’s not taken from him. She chooses to go. And in many ways, that choice might be even harder to bear.

But narratively, Daredevil is designed to endure. In the comics, he has loved and lost many times, and within the current state of the MCU has several romantic avenues to explore (Elektra, Kirsten McDuffie, She-Hulk, the list goes on). His romantic arc can evolve without being forced to erase or overwrite what he had with Karen.

And let’s be honest—the MCU rarely lets its heroes keep their great loves. From Star-Lord to Doctor Strange to Peter Parker, romance is often sacrificed on the altar of serialized storytelling. If Daredevil is here to stay (which it appears he is), a respectful, mature close to Matt and Karen’s chapter, one where she gets to decide when it ends, feels like the right choice.

How this ties into the Kastle ship

Frank Castle is nearing the end of his war. His body is breaking down—Born Again hints at his dependence on painkillers. His mission is losing meaning—everyone involved in the murder of his family is already dead. His grief has calcified into something quieter, heavier, more remorseful. “Look what it got me,” he tells Matt. One thread remains unresolved: his feelings for Karen.

Bullseye’s return forces a reckoning. And this time, Frank isn’t choosing between revenge and survival. He’s choosing between vengeance… and love.

In Born Again, Frank only springs into action when Karen calls on him—an unmistakable sign of his feelings for her. After their subtextually loaded moment together, their connection is further confirmed in a quiet conversation between Matt and Karen. Later, Frank is shown listening to radio chatter, monitoring the Punisher copycats. But he’s not tracking them for sport or ego. He’s listening for mentions of her. And when he hears them mention “the blonde”, and “hunting”, he moves. Because this isn't about his legacy. He couldn’t care less about that. What he cares about is protecting Karen. 

If Karen were to fake her death, it would become a natural out for Frank as well. He could finally walk away from the Punisher—not in defeat, but in purpose. He becomes her shadow. Her shield. Because let’s be honest: Karen Page, even under a new name in a new place, will still be chasing truth. Still investigating. Still lighting fires. And when things get too close, she’ll need someone who can keep her safe. Frank can give her that. And she’ll give him what he needs, too. Connection. Stability. Family.

It’s the most fitting conclusion to the slowest burn in MCU history. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, earned escape.

Why Kastle works

The Kastle dynamic fits perfectly because it’s not about saving each other. It’s about understanding each other. Reflecting each other. Becoming something whole, together.

Frank facing mortality: Karen represents his last chance at something more than violence.

Karen choosing agency: Faking her death isn’t surrender, it’s a declaration of autonomy.

A poetic reversal: Frank lost his family to violence. Karen refuses to be lost in the same way.

And unlike Matt, whose romantic arc resets and reboots, Frank’s emotional world is singular. Monastic. If Karen is the only person who ever made him believe peace might be possible after the tragedy of his family’s murder, then her survival becomes the final thread anchoring him to life.

A fitting farewell

This twist respects the comics’ emotional beats but refuses to fridge Karen Page. Her “death” marks the end of a chapter, not a life. It allows Matt to grieve, Frank to grow, and Karen to finally, fully reclaim herself.

And most importantly, it understands a hard truth: in the MCU, happy endings are rarely loud. Sometimes, they’re quiet. Fragile. Earned. For Karen and Frank, that ending doesn’t lie in a grave. It’s somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away from Hell’s Kitchen. 

A sunrise. A new name. A chance to be born again. 

--

Want to dive deeper? 

Coffee in the MCU

Why Karen and Frank are end game

Kastle scene breakdowns: The subtext you missed [WIP]

--

Published: April 23, 2025

Last edited: April 23, 2025

[jay-ce01]

“A new chapter”

Natasha x Fem!Reader

Warning : Pregnancy ?

Words : 2k

The early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of their bedroom, casting a soft, golden hue over the room. Natasha Romanoff lay sprawled beneath the sheets, her red hair spilling over the pillow like a fiery halo. Beside her, you stirred gently, feeling the warmth of the sunlight kissing your skin. Instinctively, your hand drifted to the small bump on your stomach, a tiny life that had grown inside you over the past five months.

Natasha, who was never much of a morning person unless it involved a mission, shifted slightly and wrapped her arm around your waist. “You’re awake,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“Mmm,” you responded softly, resting your hand over hers. “So are you.”

A lazy smile tugged at Natasha’s lips as she blinked her eyes open, catching sight of you, her wife, the love of her life, and now the soon-to-be mother of her child. It was a sight she would never tire of. “How are you feeling today?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Better,” you replied, leaning into her touch. “Not as queasy as yesterday. I think the worst of the morning sickness is finally behind me.”

Natasha’s green eyes softened with relief. Though she was known for her cool, composed demeanor in the field, you had seen a different side of her throughout this pregnancy. She had been attentive, caring, and fiercely protective, never missing a beat when it came to making sure you were comfortable and healthy.

“Good,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “I’m glad.”

You turned to face her, cupping her cheek in your hand. “You’re going to make a great mom, you know.”

Natasha laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I hope so,” she said. “I’m still learning how to do this.”

“You don’t have to know everything right away,” you reassured her. “We’ll figure it out together.”

She nodded, though you could tell she still carried the weight of her insecurities. Natasha’s past had been riddled with pain and loss, her childhood stolen away by the Red Room, where she had been trained to be a weapon rather than a person. The idea of being a mother—of nurturing and caring for another human being—was new and terrifying to her. But she was trying, for you, for your family.

“Come on,” you said, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

Natasha groaned, reluctantly letting go of you as you stood. She stretched her arms above her head, her muscles rippling beneath her skin. Even in her most relaxed moments, there was an edge to Natasha, a constant readiness that came from years of espionage and survival.

As you made your way to the kitchen, you couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of it all. Your life with Natasha had been filled with ups and downs, from the chaos of her missions with the Avengers to the quiet moments like these. But it was the quiet moments you cherished most—the times when it was just the two of you, no world to save, no battles to fight, just love and each other.

In the kitchen, you busied yourself preparing breakfast. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, and you reached for the pancake mix, suddenly craving something sweet.

Natasha appeared behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. “You’re making pancakes?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Yep,” you replied, grinning. “Pancakes for me and the baby.”

Natasha chuckled softly, placing a gentle kiss on your neck. “I’ll never understand how your cravings work.”

“Neither will I,” you admitted, laughing. “But I’m going with it.”

As you cooked, Natasha helped where she could, setting the table and making sure everything was just right. It was moments like these that reminded you how far you had come together. Years ago, when you had first met, Natasha had been guarded, distant even. She had built walls around herself to protect her heart, but somehow, you had broken through.

It hadn’t been easy. Your relationship had faced its fair share of challenges, from Natasha’s past to the unpredictable nature of her work. But through it all, you had loved each other fiercely, and that love had grown into something beautiful. Now, with a child on the way, your bond felt stronger than ever.

Over breakfast, you and Natasha talked about everything and nothing—the baby’s nursery, possible names, and how much your lives were about to change. Natasha still had that familiar look in her eyes, that subtle mix of excitement and fear.

As you cleared the table, Natasha caught your wrist gently, her touch feather-light. "Y/N..." she began, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "What if I... what if I don't know how to be a mother?"

You paused, setting the dishes down and turning to face her fully. This was a conversation you knew was coming, but it still made your heart ache to see the vulnerability in her expression. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, rarely let her guard down, and when she did, it was only with you.

You took her hands in yours, squeezing them softly. "Tasha, you are going to be a wonderful mother."

She shook her head slightly, her eyes downcast. "I wasn't raised with love or warmth. I don’t know what a normal family looks like."

Your heart broke for her. You knew Natasha's past haunted her, the trauma of the Red Room, the years spent as a spy, the lives she had taken. But you also knew the woman she had become—the woman who had fought so hard to make amends, who had chosen love over isolation, who had made a life with you.

"You’re not defined by your past," you said softly, lifting her chin so her eyes met yours. "You’re kind, caring, and protective. You’ve already shown me what kind of mother you’ll be, just by how you love me. You don’t have to know everything right away. We’ll learn together. We’ll make mistakes, sure. But we’ll figure it out. Together."

Natasha's lips quirked into a small, uncertain smile. "Together," she repeated, her voice soft.

You leaned in, kissing her gently, your hands resting against her chest. “Besides,” you whispered against her lips, “I have complete faith in you. You're one of the strongest people I know, and if anyone can do this, it's you."

Natasha’s arms wrapped around you, holding you close as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. Her breath was warm against your skin, and you felt her relax, the tension easing from her body.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll always be here for you, Tasha. Always.”

---

As the weeks passed, your pregnancy progressed steadily, and Natasha became more and more involved in preparing for the baby’s arrival. She threw herself into the task with the same dedication she had for her missions, researching parenting techniques, attending every doctor’s appointment with you, and even reading baby books at night.

Despite her initial reservations, Natasha had embraced the idea of becoming a mother with a quiet determination. You watched with pride as she grew more confident, though there were still moments of doubt. Whenever those moments arose, you were there to remind her that you were in this together.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you and Natasha sat on the couch, the soft glow of the TV illuminating the room as an old movie played in the background. Your head rested on her lap, and she absentmindedly ran her fingers through your hair. You felt peaceful, content, and safe.

“I can’t believe we’re going to be parents soon,” you mused, your hand resting on your growing belly.

Natasha smiled down at you, her eyes soft with affection. “It’s still surreal to me too,” she admitted. “But in a good way.”

You chuckled. “I hope our kid has your determination. And your sense of justice.”

“And your kindness,” Natasha added. “Your warmth. They’ll need that.”

Your heart swelled at her words, and you turned slightly to meet her gaze. “They’re going to be lucky to have you as a mom, Natasha.”

Natasha brushed a strand of hair from your face, her touch tender. “And they’ll be lucky to have you too, Y/N.”

---

The months flew by, and soon, you were in your final trimester. The nursery was finished, the tiny clothes neatly folded, and the crib assembled. Natasha had even painted the room herself, a soft shade of lavender that filled the space with a sense of calm and tranquility.

One night, as you lay in bed together, you felt a sudden, sharp kick from the baby. You gasped softly, your hand flying to your stomach.

Natasha immediately sat up, her eyes wide with concern. “What? What is it? Are you okay?”

You smiled, taking her hand and placing it on your belly. “Feel that.”

Natasha’s eyes widened as she felt the movement beneath her palm. Her face lit up with wonder and awe as she felt another kick. “Wow…” she breathed, her voice filled with emotion.

“She’s strong,” you whispered, grinning.

Natasha’s lips curved into a soft smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She leaned down, pressing her cheek against your belly. “Hey, little one,” she whispered. “It’s your mama. I can’t wait to meet you.”

Tears welled up in your eyes at the sight of Natasha speaking to your child, her voice filled with so much love and tenderness. This was the side of her that only you saw—the side of Natasha that was vulnerable, open, and full of love.

As the days passed and the due date drew closer, the anticipation built. You and Natasha continued to support each other through the final stages of the pregnancy, and with each passing day, the reality of becoming parents became more and more tangible.

---

The night your water broke, it was raining outside, a heavy downpour that soaked the streets. Natasha had been pacing the living room, her nerves getting the best of her, when you suddenly gasped, clutching your stomach.

“Tasha,” you breathed, “it’s time.”

Natasha’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she froze. Then, in typical Natasha fashion, she sprang into action, grabbing your hospital bag and helping you to the car.

The drive to the hospital was a blur, but Natasha never left your side. She held your hand through every contraction, whispered words of encouragement, and reassured you when the pain became overwhelming.

Hours passed, but Natasha remained steadfast, her love and support unwavering. And when the baby was finally born, when the tiny cry filled the room, both of you were overcome with emotion.

Tears streamed down Natasha’s face as the nurse placed your daughter in her arms. She looked down at the tiny, perfect face, her eyes wide with wonder. You watched as Natasha’s tough exterior crumbled, replaced by a softness you had never seen before.

“She’s beautiful,” Natasha whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Just like you.”

You smiled through your own tears, your heart overflowing with love. “We did it, Tasha.”

Natasha looked at you, her eyes filled with so much love it took your breath away. “We did,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss you gently. “And I couldn’t have done it without you.”

As you gazed down at your daughter, now resting peacefully in Natasha’s arms, you knew that this was the beginning of a new chapter. A chapter filled with love, laughter, and the beautiful chaos of parenthood.

And no matter what challenges lay ahead, you knew that you and Natasha would face them together, as a family.

[tgirl-communist-number-infinity]

I feel compelled by some recent realizations to share the story of my lifetime experience with weight, weight loss, fatphobia, and self acceptance.

I weighed 180 lbs for a lot of my early childhood, and got bullied constantly for it. It was comorbid with severe, impairing asthma that limited my ability to use my body at any pace faster than a brisk, if I was lucky, walk. Nobody ever blamed the asthma, they just called me out of shape, lazy - all the usual insults. I got kicked out of high school gym class in both grades it was a required course because I couldn't run fifteen laps of the gym. I never signed up for it again.

I was the school whipping boy wherever I went. (I moved schools a lot, because I'd lash out violently about this happening to me) One time in elementary school a group of boys hid behind me because they were being bothered by some girls, and knew they wouldn't get within ten feet of me outside the classroom where they were forced to. The first guy I ever hooked up with negged me to lose weight and join him at the gym if I wanted to do anything more serious with him.

Then a growth spurt combined with a two week vacation where I only ate ramen twice a day in high school shaved literally a third of that off. 120 lbs. My parents and I considered it a miracle. Suddenly I really liked how I'd come to look. I went from a frumpy, comely child to a heroin chic rockstar like David Bowie, and all the other imitators that chased after him, and I wasn't even trying!

I was skin stretched over bones. If I lifted my arms up every single rib from the collarbone to the stomach was pronounced, with gaps you could run your fingers along. This was before I realized I was trans, so I was mostly putting myself into the world as a twink (femboy hadn't really come into parlance yet, I'd probably have used it if so). People started treating me well for the first time in my life, I was popular. My romantic advances were reciprocated instead of pushed away in disgust for the first time in my life, I went on dates, I had a couple short lived girlfriends.

Some time in my twenties, I realized I was lactose intolerant. To both truncate and avoid needless disgust; once I took steps to mitigate that my weight rebounded back up from the 160 it had ended up settling at as my metabolism evened out, to 216. So I tortured myself with the most bland, boring diet in the world: plain oat cheerios, cashews, barely seasoned salads and coleslaw, microwaved chicken wiener sandwiches. It sloughed off the pounds, at first.

I hit a hitch around 180. I had originally wanted to go back down to 160, with the height I'd gained since high school that would put me in about the same ballpark range as how I looked then, and it's what the BMI scale says is healthy for my body proportions. But I simply could not go under 180.

Even a single cheat day a week, the recommended amount for any diet, would make my body snap back up by two pounds the next day, which took me the entire rest of the week just to get back to where I started. It was truly miserable, checking the scale every single morning and beating myself up over every single time my family took me out to eat or brought me leftovers.

So I stopped. I said fuck it, let my body sit at 185. Now? I can eat pretty much anything I want and it barely makes a dent in the long run. Recently checked in after three nights of stacked turkey dinner plates for the holidays, with eggnog and ice cream and a whole bag of christmas candy sitting on my desk next to me that I take occasional nibbles from. 184.8, exactly where I want it to be. The BMI scale says this is the borderline of overweight for my height.

An acquaintance who had known me while I was in that emaciated point in my life recently reconvened with me, and said that I looked a lot healthier. It was genuinely the first time anyone in the world had made a positive comment about my body outside of that short lived stint of emaciation. It was a genuine shock, because I hadn't up to that point considered for a second that I could possibly have looked bad to anyone at that point.

An article I doubt I could find with how bad google is nowadays once said that around 97% (I might even be lowballing it) of diets fail, because the body will slash your metabolism by 30% if you drop even 5% from where it wants to sit. I guess all I have to say is: listen to your body.

If maintaining your slim figure is a hobby all unto itself: with a meticulously crafted diet and double digit hour exercise regimen that you lock yourself in by checking the scale every morning? It's not worth it, holy shit. Maybe you'll end up with an extended illness that keeps you from working out for a week or two. Maybe your willpower will just finally give out, and you'll spend a week catching up on all the pleasure you'd denied yourself while you were dieting. But I know, from experience, that one day you'll just end up where your body wants you to be, whether you're comfortable with it or not.

I promise you that the freedom of accepting the weight your body wants to be at and being able to treat yourself guilt free will bring you so much more joy than having a thigh gap does.

[ll7esxs]

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

Relationship Alphabet series with Cod ghosts!

Logan walker

✧ Pairing: Romantic. ✧ Genre: Fluff.

✧ Warnings: Light NSFW, and mention of NSFW content MDNI

A – Affection

Logan isn’t the most outwardly affectionate person, but when he loves, he loves hard. His touches are subtle but deeply meaningful—hand on your lower back as you walk, fingers grazing yours before he holds your hand, a quick squeeze on your thigh when you sit next to him.

His favorite form of affection? Forehead touches. It’s his way of grounding himself, closing his eyes for a second, and just feeling you there. After a long mission, expect him to just press his forehead to yours and sigh, finally allowing himself to relax.

Light NSFW: Logan’s brand of affection can turn intense fast. It starts with lazy kisses, slow and teasing, before his hands move—gripping your waist, pulling you closer, letting you feel just how much he missed you. He loves dragging his lips down your jaw, murmuring "Mine." against your skin.

B – Boundaries

Logan has firm boundaries, but it’s mostly because of his lifestyle. He’s trained himself to keep emotions in check during missions, and he doesn’t always talk about the things he’s been through.

However, he respects boundaries just as much as he sets them. If you need space, he gives it without question. He might not always know the right words to comfort you, but he’s always there. Sitting beside you in silence, a steady presence.

Light NSFW: While Logan is pretty private, he does have one rule—when he’s in the moment, it’s just the two of you. He hates distractions, hates anything pulling his focus away from you. If you try to tease him with a playful comment while he’s all over you? His grip tightens. "Eyes on me, sweetheart."

C – Communication

Logan isn’t a talker, but he listens better than anyone. He picks up on your emotions before you even say a word, adjusting himself accordingly—if you’re stressed, he’s pulling you into his arms; if you’re mad, he’s giving you space before asking "Wanna talk about it?"

That being said, getting Logan to talk about his own feelings is like pulling teeth. He’d rather show you than say it. When he does open up, it’s usually at night, in the dark, when it’s just the two of you and there’s no pressure.

Light NSFW: Logan doesn’t talk much during intimate moments, but when he does? It’s deep, raspy, and straight to the point. He’s all about action, letting his hands and lips speak for him—but every once in a while, you’ll get a low, "You feel so damn good, baby." whispered against your skin.

D – Devotion

Logan is unshakably devoted. Once you have him, you have him. There’s no half-measures—he’s all in, fiercely protective, always looking out for you even when you don’t realize it.

If you ever doubt his feelings, just look at his actions. He’s the guy who remembers the little things—how you like your coffee, your favorite songs, the exact way you like to be held when you’re upset.

Light NSFW: His devotion carries over into the bedroom. Logan isn’t selfish—he’s focused on you, taking his time, memorizing every reaction. He takes pride in knowing exactly what makes you shudder under his touch, whispering, "Let me take care of you."

E – Empathy

Logan might be quiet, but he feels things deeply. He understands pain, loss, and the weight of things left unsaid. It’s why he’s so gentle with you, even if he’s rough with the rest of the world.

He can tell when you’re holding back emotions, and while he won’t push, he’ll make sure you know he’s there. If you’re upset, he won’t flood you with questions—he’ll just sit beside you, wrap an arm around you, and let you lean into him.

Light NSFW: Logan is in tune with your body. He’s perceptive, catching every little hitch in your breath, every tremble. He watches, listens, adjusts—making sure you’re enjoying every second. And if you’re feeling particularly vulnerable? He’ll slow down, pressing his forehead to yours and murmuring, "I got you, baby."

F – Forgiveness

Logan doesn’t hold grudges, but he doesn’t forget either. If you hurt him, he needs time. He won’t lash out, but he’ll go quiet, processing everything internally.

That being said, he doesn’t stay mad forever. He knows nobody’s perfect, and as long as you’re honest with him, he’ll always work things out. He’s not the type to bring up old arguments—once he forgives, it’s done.

Light NSFW: If you’ve had an argument but made up, Logan’s version of making up is intense. He doesn’t say much—he just pulls you in, kisses you like he’s making up for lost time, and reminds you exactly how much you mean to him without a single word.

G – Growth

Logan isn’t the same man he was before he met you. He’s spent so much of his life as a soldier—his purpose was always about the mission, never about himself. But with you? He’s learned how to live, not just survive.

It takes him a while to open up, to let himself be vulnerable, but he does it because of you. You push him in all the right ways, and he silently thanks you for it every day.

Light NSFW: Logan used to think intimacy was just about physical connection, but he’s learned there’s so much more to it. He grows with you—learning what you like, adjusting, making sure that every time feels better than the last. "Tell me what you need, baby." he murmurs, fingers tracing slow patterns on your skin.

H – Honesty

Logan is a terrible liar. He doesn’t sugarcoat things, doesn’t play games—if he says something, he means it. If he doesn’t like something, he won’t pretend otherwise.

But when it comes to emotions? That’s different. He struggles to express them, to admit when he’s feeling off. He’s still learning that it’s okay to talk about the things weighing on his mind—but with you, he’s trying.

Light NSFW: Logan is honest about what he wants. He’s not one for flowery words or elaborate speeches, but when he looks at you with half gazed eyes and says, "Need you right now." you know he means it.

I – Intimacy

For Logan, intimacy isn’t just about physical closeness—it’s about trust. He shows his love in quiet ways: resting his head in your lap after a long day, tracing slow circles on your skin as you lay beside him, whispering your name in the dead of night.

There’s something sacred about being close to you, something grounding. It’s the only time he can truly let his guard down.

Light NSFW: Logan doesn’t rush intimacy. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every whispered breath. He watches you more than anything, memorizing the way your body moves under his touch. Intimacy with Logan isn’t just physical—it’s a promise.

J – Joy

Happiness sneaks up on Logan when he’s with you. It’s in the little things—the way you laugh at his deadpan jokes, the way you reach for his hand absentmindedly, the way your presence makes the world feel a little less heavy.

His joy is quiet but deep. It’s in the rare moments where he smiles, where he presses a kiss to your forehead and mutters, "Didn’t think I could have this."

Light NSFW: Logan’s joy in intimacy comes from you—watching your reactions, feeling your body relax under him, knowing that he’s the reason for your pleasure. He finds an almost smug satisfaction in pulling soft gasps from your lips, murmuring, "That’s it, baby. Let go."

K – Kindness

Logan isn’t overly affectionate, but his kindness speaks through his actions. He doesn’t always say "I love you," but you can see it in the way he makes sure you eat, the way he tucks a blanket around you when you fall asleep, the way he holds your hand just a little tighter when he feels like something’s wrong.

He’s gentle with you in a way he isn’t with anyone else. The world has hardened him, but with you? He softens—just a little.

Light NSFW: Even when he’s rough, there’s a tenderness in the way Logan touches you. He never takes more than you’re willing to give, never pushes too far. His kindness carries into every intimate moment—checking in, making sure you feel safe, whispering reassurance between kisses.

L – Love

Logan loves deeply, completely, permanently. He doesn’t fall easily, but when he does, it’s all or nothing.

His love is loyalty—standing by your side through everything. His love is trust—letting you see parts of him no one else gets to. His love is forever—even if he doesn’t always say the words, you know.

Light NSFW: Love with Logan is slow, deliberate, consuming. He doesn’t just want you—he wants every part of you, every sigh, every whispered moan, every ounce of trust. "Be mine, please..." he murmurs against your lips, not as a demand, but as a promise.

M – Memories

Logan holds onto memories like old photographs—silent, but deeply treasured. He’s not the type to talk much about the past, but he remembers everything.

The first time you made him laugh so hard he had to look away. The way your eyes lit up when he gave you something small but meaningful. The moment he realized he was in love with you, staring at you when you weren’t looking, thinking, God, I’m in trouble.

Light NSFW: Some of his favorite memories? The way you whispered his name in the dark, breathless and wanting. The look in your eyes when he had you pinned beneath him. The way you fell asleep tangled in him, completely trusting. Those memories replay in his mind more than he’d ever admit.

N – Nurturing

Logan might not be overly affectionate, but he takes care of you in ways you don’t always notice. He makes sure you eat, gets you water without you asking, pulls you against him when he feels you shiver.

If you’re sick or hurt, he’s silently hovering—doesn’t fuss, doesn’t baby you, but he’s right there. Holding your hand, rubbing slow circles into your back, making sure you feel safe.

Light NSFW: Nurturing carries over into intimacy—Logan takes his time, always attuned to what you need. If you’re stressed, he makes it slow and comforting. If you’re aching for him, he meets you where you are. He reads you like a book, and he’s always willing to give.

O – Openness

It takes Logan a long time to open up. Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he’s spent his whole life keeping things locked away.

But the more he loves you, the more he tries. He won’t always have the words, but he’ll show you in the way he grips your hand just a little tighter, in the way he pulls you close at night, in the way he whispers a quiet "Don’t go anywhere, okay?" when he’s half-asleep.

Light NSFW: Openness is harder for him here—he's used to staying in control. But when he lets go, when he trusts you completely? It’s different. He tells you what he wants, tells you how good you make him feel. And if you ever whisper something soft and intimate in return, he’ll never forget it.

P – Patience

Logan is patient, but in a quiet way. He doesn’t rush things, doesn’t push—you take your time with him, and he lets you.

If you’re upset, he doesn’t demand answers. He waits. If you’re struggling, he doesn’t offer empty words—he shows you he’s there, steady and unwavering.

Light NSFW: His patience extends into intimacy—he takes his time, savoring every little reaction, every sound you make. He’s in no hurry. He’ll tease, pull back, make you beg if he wants to—because Logan knows that waiting makes everything that much better.

Q – Quality time

Logan isn’t big on grand gestures—his love is in the small moments. Sitting on the couch in silence, driving in comfortable quiet, watching you sleep just because he likes the way you breathe next to him.

He prefers one-on-one time over anything else. No distractions, just you and him. That’s when he feels most at peace.

Light NSFW: Logan likes to take his time. Quality time in intimacy means making every second count—pulling you onto his lap, tracing slow patterns on your back, watching you with darkened eyes. He’s not the type to rush—he wants to enjoy every single second of you.

R – Respect

Logan respects everything about you—your choices, your independence, your emotions. He might be protective, but he never tries to control you. If you say no to something, he listens.

If someone else disrespects you? That’s a different story. Logan doesn’t yell, doesn’t make a scene—but there’s something dangerous in the way his jaw tightens, in the way he stands just a little taller.

Light NSFW: Respect carries over into the bedroom. He doesn’t assume, doesn’t take—he asks, listens, watches. Your pleasure matters just as much as his, and he never crosses a line. "Tell me if you want me to stop." he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin.

S – Support

Logan isn’t great with words, but his support is unwavering. If you have a goal, he’s right there—helping, encouraging, believing in you more than you believe in yourself.

If you ever break down, he doesn’t panic—he just holds you. No forced words, no pressure—just quiet, solid support.

Light NSFW: Support, for him, is about giving. He’s focused on you, making sure you feel wanted, cherished, taken care of. He watches your every reaction, adjusting, always making sure you’re taken care of first.

T – Trust

Logan doesn’t trust easily—but when he does, it’s forever. He doesn’t just let anyone in, doesn’t just rely on people, but with you? He does. He trusts you with his fears, his love, his life. He might not say it out loud, but he proves it every single day. Light NSFW: Trust in intimacy means complete surrender. Letting you see every inch of him, letting you touch him in ways no one else has. And if he ever whispers, "I trust you." in the middle of everything—you know just how much it means.

U – Understanding

Logan might be quiet, but he’s deeply observant. He picks up on the little things—your moods, your small habits, the things you don’t say out loud.

He understands when you need space, when you need comfort, when you just need to sit in silence together. If you’re struggling, he won’t push—but he’ll be there.

If you ever argue, he doesn’t get defensive or angry—he listens. He might not be the best with words, but he’ll try to see things from your side. "I get it," he’ll say, voice low but sincere. "I’ll do better." And he means it.

Light NSFW: Logan understands your needs without you having to say much. He watches, he listens, he feels. He knows when to take things slow, when to be rough, when to hold back. If something doesn’t feel right, he stops immediately—because at the end of the day, your comfort matters most.

V – Vulnerability

Logan doesn’t let people in easily. He’s spent too long keeping things bottled up, carrying burdens on his own.

But with you? It’s different.

You see the parts of him no one else does—the quiet fears, the sleepless nights, the weight he carries. He won’t cry in front of most people, but with you, he might. And if he does, he trusts you enough to let it happen.

"I don’t… talk about this stuff," he mutters one night, staring at the ceiling, your fingers tracing slow circles on his chest. "But I want you to know."

Light NSFW: Vulnerability in intimacy means trusting you completely. Letting his guard down, letting you see him undone. He’s used to being in control, but when he trusts you enough to surrender—to let you take the lead, to let himself be soft—that’s when you know how deep his love runs.

W – Warmth

Logan isn’t openly affectionate in public, but when it’s just the two of you? God, he’s warm.

He’s a silent protector—pulling you against him without a word, tucking you beneath his chin, resting a hand on your back whenever he walks past. He’s not one for grand romantic gestures, but the way he holds you, the way he breathes a little easier when you’re close—that’s love.

If you ever shiver, he’s already pulling you into his jacket. If you’re sad, he presses a slow kiss to the top of your head, lingering, silent, but solid.

Light NSFW: His warmth in intimacy is overwhelming. He’s all-consuming, pressing into you, heat radiating from his skin. Even after everything, he doesn’t let you go right away—he stays close, fingers lazily tracing your back, murmuring soft, unspoken affections against your skin.

X – XO (hugs & kisses)

Logan’s kisses are slow, deep, meaningful. He doesn’t rush them, doesn’t take them for granted. If he kisses you, he means it.

He loves forehead kisses—a silent I’m here. He kisses your knuckles without thinking, absentminded and affectionate. He pulls you close by your waist, pressing his lips against your temple after a long day.

Hugs? He holds you like he’ll never let go. Strong arms wrapped around you, solid and steady. He buries his face in your neck sometimes, just breathing you in. And if he’s been away for too long? He’ll pull you into him, grip tight, heartbeat steadying against yours.

Light NSFW: His kisses become desperate when he’s craving you. Rough, deep, needy. He kisses like he’s starving for you, like he can’t get close enough. And when he finally pulls away, lips slightly swollen, eyes dark? God help you.

Y – Yearning

Logan isn’t dramatic about his feelings, but God, does he miss you when you’re not around.

He won’t say it outright, but it’s in the way he keeps checking his phone, the way his fingers twitch when you’re not there to hold them. The way he breathes just a little deeper when he finally sees you again.

He doesn’t send long texts, but he’ll send things like: "You okay?" "Miss you." "Be home soon."

And when he finally is home? The first thing he does is find you.

Light NSFW: The longer he’s away, the more desperate he is when he returns. He doesn’t even bother with words—he just grabs you, pulls you in, takes what he’s been missing. There’s a hunger in him, a need that only you can satisfy.

Z – Zeal

Logan’s love isn’t loud or flashy—but it’s fierce.

He loves fully, deeply, endlessly. When he’s with you, there’s no hesitation—he’s all in. He shows his love in every little action, in every glance, in every quiet, steady presence.

If someone ever tries to hurt you? God help them. Logan doesn’t lose his temper often, but when it comes to you? He doesn’t hold back.

And when he tells you he loves you? It’s forever.

Light NSFW: His passion in intimacy is undeniable. He wants you, adores you, worships you. He doesn’t just go through the motions—he’s dedicated to you, body and soul. Every touch, every kiss, every breath—it’s all for you.

Because Logan Walker? He doesn’t love halfway.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶

[writingwithcolor]

Any advice for handling race in reincarnation situations?

@swamp-spirit asked:

I'm writing a story that includes characters being reincarnated with completely different appearances. It's a fantasy world, and most of the characters are being reborn in the same region, but I still want a range of skin tones and features in the main cast (this is a comic). I have weird feelings about a character being 'reborn' with notably lighter or darker skin, but it also feels implausible and lazy for people to Just Happen to have a similar appearance when the theology of the story doesn't support it. Characters being reborn, and taking out things specific to real life groups, what are the major things you'd want an author to read up on or take into account? (Note: there is not a 'white' looking ethnic group in this story)

I don’t think it’s a problem as long as the skin tones don’t have any correlation to the circumstances that they’re reincarnated into.

- SK

It’s an interesting question, because in most religions where reincarnation/ transmigration of the soul is a feature of “what happens after death”, remembering one’s past life is not really part of the package deal. From what you’ve written, it’s not clear to me where the “memory” of these characters’ lives are held. Is there a 3rd person omniscient narrator telling the audience who each person is in their next life or do the characters themselves retain memory of past lives?

Assuming this is your typical reincarnation scenario where characters retain no memory of previous lives, it doesn’t much matter. The next life is the next life. Who a person was in their previous life and that identity, in theory, means nothing to them. This also means whatever personality, values, experiences and so on they had in their previous life no longer has meaning. They are, in effect, another person. However, you say you feel awkward about the above which makes me wonder if characters are remembering past lives, in which case…

If you study pretty much any major Asian religion where reincarnation is a part of the belief system, having no memory of the previous life is par for the course. In present-day religions like Jainism, Sikhism, Hinduism and Buddhism, only “special” (I’m using the term very casually here) entities like bodhisattvas, guru, arihant, buddhas, etc. usually get to keep their memories, while the rest of us (literal) mere mortals are supposed to lose our memories between lives as a part of Samsara. In Hinduism, even the gods often forget their previous lives, unless their reincarnation had a targeted purpose (Like being born to defeat an evil entity). 

For most people, it is only through prayer, devotion, meditation and accumulated virtuous/ good/ compassionate deeds that humans are thought to deepen their understanding of the nature of the universe, and thus have the capacity to remember past lives (I’m, again, paraphrasing very loosely here from several years worth of university history+religion courses).  

This is why the isekai genre in Japan is largely regarded as a “cheat”/ parody genre of fantasy. The protagonist, according to common Japanese cultural beliefs, which are quite heavily grounded in Buddhism, is definitively “cheating.” Not to get too ironically biblical, the character’s success often comes from the forbidden knowledge borne of their previous life. 

Thus, there are two ways I look at your characters’ predicaments: 

It’s not technically reincarnation - not by the way most major world religions define reincarnation, anyway. You have people who died now inhabiting other bodies, but that’s not the same as the transmigration of the soul. Also, you want to delve into the weirdness (and maybe heaviness) of “Wow, I went to sleep with one face and woke up with another.” There are certainly stories about people who have had dramatic cosmetic plastic surgery, weight loss surgery, HRT, etc. and then experienced the difference in the “before” versus “after” of how their altered physical appearance makes them feel, as well as how other people treat them. Even if the community your characters are born into now differs from their previous community (Which I guess would make this more a “I traveled between dimensions, and my appearance altered in the process” sci-fi adjacent affair), their new life will still have social environments with differing attitudes towards human physical appearance that will affect your characters’ emotional states. 

Isekai it up and play with the ridiculous contradiction of having past lives and differing memories of one’s appearance. Isekai manga, manhwa and webtoons all make use of this trope heavily, especially with protagonists who experience a “glow-up” (Ex. Going from a Plain Jane OL to beautiful fantasy heroine) or, by contrast, protagonists who end up in very different forms from their original lives (Tensura, I’m a Spider, So What?). I’d be creative and go even more granular. Being able to tan after a lifetime of getting sunburns or no longer needing glasses might be nice, but what if the new body lacks the enzymes to process dairy or alcohol? What about dealing with differences in hair texture? Skincare routines? What about living life as a very tall person after being quite short or vice versa? What if you bumped into an acquaintance from your previous life, and one of you clearly got a more “coveted” reincarnation?  See how far of an extreme you can take this idea until it feels too uncomfortable or ridiculous. 

Marika.