#it's just. your prompt word is too fitting

[ay0nha]

When the Music’s Over | Dr. Jack Abbot

SUMMARY: Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something heavy, but the words caught in his throat and never came. Instead, he gave a short, quiet nod, like he was tucking whatever that was into his chest for later.

Creative Event: A Doctor A Day 27, Prompt: "Even though the road to get here was long, at last I am home." (I reworded it to fit a little better sorry x) Color: Green

PAIRING: Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader (physician assistant)

WORD COUNT: 7.6K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled confessions, veteran affairs (I have OPINIONS on the care of veterans and today's political climate/military industrial complex BUT held back from making this political but fuck the government), group meeting/therapy, allusions to PTSD and what comes with being a combat veteran, prothesis/amuptation conversations, religious jokes-ish, smoking, mainly just all angst to fluff, NOT proofread so be kind, movie magic plot, etc.

A/N: This was so much fun to be a part of! This was really cathartic to write as it hits home some, so I hope you all enjoy. Thank you to @fuckoffbard for listening and helping. Thank you for creating this @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs!

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED! THEY FUEL ME!

The clinic lights always tried to mimic the morning light, but it was always too sterile, too awake. There was no natural gradient to welcome you into a new day. Instead, it was the kind of light that made you feel like you hadn’t slept enough, and never would, even if you had.  

You were the first to arrive. It was hard to lose the habit, but it gave you time to review the backlog of missed calls. The quiet preparation was the only time you had to decompress before the day, but the rusted bell rang, knowing you never truly got reprieve. 

Not many came in this early. Certainly not without appointments. Most regulars were punctual, others late, flustered, avoiding eye contact like the entire hallway and staff were some kind of moral jury. 

Yet, this man was already looking at you. You turned, and there he was. 

You were met with an already long day’s worth of stubble, a jacket zipped halfway, and a UPMC badge dangling low like a relic from a night shift not long ended. His shoulders filled the doorway like he hadn’t quite committed to being inside yet. 

However, you recognized him immediately. Abbot, Jack. Early 50s. Transtibial amputation of rthe ight leg. Two canceled appointments in March. One in April. No follow-up scheduled. 

His chart was one of those you flagged mentally; he was the kind of patient who only walked through the door once a year, just long enough to keep his services active before disappearing for another twelve-month stretch. 

Jack cleared his throat, low. “You take walk-ins?”

You blinked. Technically…no. Not this early. Not without calling ahead. Not when it was a physical rather than an urgent medical concern. Yet, your mouth moved before policy could catch up. 

“Give me a moment to get you checked in.” You nodded, words automatic and practiced.  “First and last name?”

He looked like he might leave right there. But then he exhaled—just enough air to say: Okay. I’ll stay.

“Jack. Abbot. Had an appointment a while back…” He spoke like his confession would make up for wasted time and resources. “...couldn’t make it.”

You hummed, tapping the keyboard, pretending to scroll through the records you already knew by heart. 

“Well,” You stared, standing. “Third time’s a charm.”

Guiding him through the narrow hallway, your shoes hit softly on the tile, linoleum too thin to hide the grout lines from the floor beneath. The overhead lights buzzed in that tired, mechanical way fluorescent bulbs always do after too many years and too few replacements. You moved past mismatched wall sconces and half-peeling placards that still bore the faint imprint of a previous tenant’s brass plates.

This place used to be a law office.

You could see it in the layout; the corner turns that led to nowhere, the heavy wooden doors that didn’t quite fit the newer hinges. Even the break room still had a long strip of polished wood where the receptionist’s counter once stood. Someone had slapped a rack of patient forms on it. A forced transformation.

Rented-out facility. Government-issued furniture. Nothing quite fit. Everything was too small, too sterile, or too hollow. And somehow, that made it perfect for a VA satellite clinic. A place repurposed by necessity. Like most things touched by war.

Jack didn’t make small talk, and you didn’t push. Glancing back, you could see the way he moved, shoulders slightly hunched, but still alert. He walked like someone used to being in charge of emergencies, but bone-tired from them, too. Like the ground might shake, but if it did, he’d know what to do. He just didn’t want to anymore.

Exam Room One. 

You gestured him in, and he stepped through without hesitation. The room was small, cold in the way all clinics are. Pale blue walls, a single high window smudged with old tape residue, and an exam table that creaked when he sat on it, the paper crackling beneath him. 

You picked up the prepared clipboard. 

“Before we get started, any changes in your health since your last visit?”

Jack’s mouth twitched like he might say something sardonic, but it passed. He shook his head.

“Still breathing.” He gave a slight nod. No argument. No complaint. Just a quiet readiness, like someone used to being told what to do in a language he didn’t bother translating anymore.

“Good place to start.”

You ran through the intake questions like you always did, but you kept your tone light, measured. You knew better than to fill silence with something unworthy. Especially not with veterans like Jack; men who’d learned how to hear the things people didn’t say.

You moved slowly, on purpose. You’d learned, over time, that fast hands spooked the ones who carried invisible wounds. As you stepped closer to take his vitals, you noted the small details: the subtle shift of his leg as he adjusted, the way he sat still, like movement required permission now, but his gaze tracked you steadily. Quiet. Present. 

Different than most.

Most avoided eye contact when you got close. Looked at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Or the floor that looked like it had been washed a thousand times but never once looked clean. Jack didn’t. His eyes followed your hands, your shoulders, your breath. Not intrusively. Just like someone trained to read a room for danger. Or maybe reassurance.

You wrapped the cuff around his arm, checking the alignment. The Velcro hissed softly. He didn’t flinch.

“BP’s holding steady. Good.” You murmured more to yourself to note. Then, you glanced up at him with a touch of dry levity, “I’ll let you keep your driver’s license.”

That got a small exhale of amusement.

Encouraged by the break in tension, however slight, you reached for the stethoscope slung around your neck. The room was cool, and the metal already had that unforgiving chill to it. Out of habit, you rubbed your hands together briskly, trying to warm your fingers before touching him. The stethoscope, however, was another story. 

You curled the diaphragm in your palm to try and bring it to room temperature, but you knew from experience it would still be cold against skin. Jack didn’t comment, just pulled the thin cotton of his shirt up without being asked.

You stepped closer, moving to his left side, and placed the warmed back of your hand against his ribs first as a courtesy, a warning. 

“This’ll be cold.” You commented apologetically as you pressed the stethoscope against him. 

Jack gave a small grunt in acknowledgment, but didn’t pull away.

The chill made his skin prick instantly. You saw its trail along the slope of his side, pale against old scars and the faded outline of a long-healed abrasion near his flank. 

“Deep breath in.” You instructed gently. He inhaled. You listened. “Again.” 

The sound of his lungs filled the bell, steady, hollow, the faint pull of old tension sitting low in his chest. You knew what clear lungs were supposed to sound like, and Jack’s weren’t far from it, but there was something shallow in the way he exhaled. Something practiced. Measured, like he was holding back.

“Again.”

He breathed in deeper this time, like he wanted to prove something. You moved the stethoscope slightly, trailing it across the muscle between his ribs.

You were close enough to feel the shift in his posture, how still he went once your hand touched him. Not rigid. Just very aware. Another breath. Another exhale.

“Any shortness?” You asked, moving to his back, your hand brushing the curve of his shoulder blade.

“No.” He breathed out. “Just tired.”

You let out a small hum in acknowledgment, pressing the stethoscope to the space between his spine and scapula. The hush of his breathing filled your ears again.

He inhaled. You listened. Something shallow in the left lobe, but not worrying. Just tension. The kind that never really leaves the body once it learned the shape of impact. You noted the way his shoulders resisted it, like his ribs had forgotten how to fully trust their own expansion.

You placed the stethoscope lightly to the left of his sternum first, where the apex beat lived beneath the ribs and years. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath under your palm as you steadied yourself. The silence narrowed around you.

His heartbeat thudded into your ears: slow, firm, echoing.

“Heart sounds good.” 

Normal S1 and S2 heart sounds. No murmurs, gallops, or rubs auscultated. You knew he knew this. 

You pulled the stethoscope away gently, but your hand lingered, resting for just a second longer over the center of his chest. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe you just wanted to feel it. Really feel it.

That was the thing about hearts. You could listen all day, but you never really knew what they were holding until they trembled under your palm.

You scanned his chart again, thumb grazing the line that made you pause the first time. Chronic low back pain. No follow-up. Recommend monitoring posture w/ prosthetic use.

Still unresolved. You moved behind him, palm resting lightly between his shoulders.

“Your last visit flagged some lower back strain.” Your tone was neutral, leaving space for more. “Flares up when you’re on your feet too long?”

Jack gave a faint grunt. “Sounds like something they’d put in just to make me come back.”

“Well—” You applied gentle pressure down his spine. “—if that was the plan, it worked.”

He didn’t respond, just sat steady as your fingers pressed lower, feeling through the tension under his shirt. When you neared the curve, you slowed, palpating carefully on either side of the spine. You knew where to look, especially with someone bearing the uneven weight.

“It’s important to check for overcompensation.” You continued quietly. “If the alignment’s off, you’ll feel it in the back long before the leg.”

“I’m fine.” Jack huffed, low. 

You looked up at him. “Do you ever rest the site? Or let it breathe?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

Which meant rarely. You marked that silently.

“The hospital isn’t exactly known for scheduled rest periods.” He spoke, and you could hear the smirk in his voice even if he didn’t turn. “If I sit, it’s to chart. If I stand, it’s to fix something.”

You pressed your thumb a little deeper, just left of his spine, right above the sacrum. He flinched, just a little. The smallest involuntary grunt, like a breath caught the wrong way. You let your hand settle there for a moment. Not scolding. Just noting.

“Right.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt the faint shift in his posture. Not defensive. Not defeated. 

You made the mental note and stepped to the cabinet without a word, retrieving the otoscope. The instrument clicked softly in your hand as you turned on the light. It cast a warm glow between you in the still room, humming faintly as if to fill the space your fingers had just left behind.

“Ears, then eyes.” You spoke gently. 

Jack turned slightly, letting you tip his head the way you needed. Your fingers were light under his chin, at the hinge of his jaw. The otoscope glinted softly as you angled it toward his ear.

But while you worked, Jack watched you. You could feel it, his gaze not just drifting but reading. Like he was still deciding what kind of person you were. Still trying to place you.

“You new here?” Jack finally asked. “You don’t seem like the city type.”

“Bold assumption to make so early in the morning.” You teased, pulling the light back and moving to the other side.

“Just an observation.”

“I was born here, actually…” You answered the question you always got casually. “...left for a long time. Transferred back this year.”

“VA brought you back?” Jack tilted his head slightly. You checked his pupils next, flicking the light across his eyes as they adjusted, one at a time. He didn’t squint or shy away. Just let you look.

“God, no—” You cursed. And then, to cover what threatened to leak out around the edges: “—I just sleep better here. Can’t fall asleep without the noise.”

That made the corner of his mouth twitch. “Most people say the city keeps them up.”

“I like knowing something’s still moving out there,” You laughed lightly through a huff. “Ambulances, garbage trucks, people yelling outside bars. Need to fall asleep to a world still spinning…”

Jack adjusted his scrub top absentmindedly, the material wrinkled from a long shift and a longer week. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, clinical, unforgiving, same as the ones he worked under most nights. But here, in this quiet exam room with your back against the counter and your arms folded, something about the hum felt less surgical. 

“Silence gets loud, y’know?” He’d said it like a joke, but you could tell it wasn’t one.

You tilted your head, watching him—not with pity, but with that quiet, observational calm some people wore like armor. He recognized it. Carried the same kind of thing into trauma bays.

You nodded, but said nothing. You knew better than to fill the pause.

He gave a faint, humorless huff. “Anyway, that’s why I stopped in. Better here than my apartment, staring at the ceiling with my ears ringing.”

“So this is a drive-by enrollment renewal?” You smiled softly. 

“Don’t act like that’s the worst thing you’ve seen in here.”

“It’s definitely in the top ten.” You replied dryly.  “Right between the guy who thought 'disability claim' meant show-and-tell, and the Marine who cried when I told him to hydrate.”

Jack didn’t laugh, not really, but something in his posture eased, like he was letting himself rest against the moment for the first time all day. Maybe all week. His hand brushed over his knee, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm, restless in that way only people wired for emergency ever were.

He watched you write like he wasn’t used to being on the other side of the clipboard. The subject instead of the observer. It wasn’t shameful. It was something quieter than that…displacement, maybe.

“You okay over there?” You asked, teasing just a little.

“Yeah. Just...weird.” He blinked like you’d pulled him out of a thought. 

“What is?”

“Being the one getting charted.” He nodded toward your pen.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. I get that.”

He raised a brow. “Do you?”

“Honestly?” You thought for a moment, tapping the pen against your thigh.  “I can’t remember the last time I went to the doctor.”

That got a real look out of him. Not disbelief, just confirmation. That quiet, private awareness: Of course. You too.

“It’s hard…” You admitted. “When you’re used to being the one who knows the systems. Knows what they’ll say before they say it. Harder when you can’t picture someone on the other side knowing what to do with you.”

You watched him for another beat, then let your gaze drift to the clock. Not rushed, just reminded. You were still working. 

The rhythm of the clinic moved on, woke up, even when the air between you had stilled. Somewhere down the hall, a printer coughed. A phone rang and went unanswered. Staff clocked in.

You cleared your throat. “Regardless, everything looks good— I’ll send the go-ahead so your enrollment stays active.”

Jack gave a short nod, business-like again. Like a door had been pulled mostly shut, though not all the way.

You stepped away from the counter, your hand brushing the edge of the sink as you crossed the room. He rose at the same time, out of courtesy and instinct. 

“I’ll walk you out.” You held the door open for him.

The hallway outside was waking up,  the liminal space between morning chaos and whatever came next. Jack walked beside you, not hurried, not tense. You both moved like people who’d learned how to conserve energy in sterile places.

You waited until you reached the corner near the exit, the spot where patients usually asked about paperwork or turned around to remember they’d forgotten something.

Instead, you spoke up, “We run a group. Off the books.”

Jack glanced sideways at you.

“Thursday nights—” You went on, like you were reciting a neutral fact. “—across the street, at the church. It’s in the community room. It's unofficial. No sign-in, no rank, no talking if you don’t want to. Just people who prefer the noise.”

Jack said nothing, but you didn’t mistake silence for disinterest. He tilted his head slightly, as if trying to figure out the angle. But there wasn’t one.

You didn’t fill in the rest. Didn’t say for people like you. Didn’t have to.

He nodded slowly. Like he didn’t know what to do with the information, but he understood it wasn’t being handed out lightly.

“I know you work nights. It probably doesn’t fit your schedule.” You couldn’t help but encourage, continue. “But in case it ever, you’re always welcome.”

Then, you pushed the front door open, holding it just long enough for him to pass through. The morning was bright out there, harsher than the lighting inside. He squinted against it.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He answered finally, voice quiet but deliberate.

As he stepped out, you said, without ceremony, “You already did the hard part.”

He turned halfway, brow raised. “Which part was that?”

“Walking in.” You made it sound so simple. Maybe it was.  “Letting someone see you before you’re bleeding.”

Jack stood there for a breath longer, the door propped open between you. You were close enough to see the small shift of his jaw, the ghost of tension at the corners of his eyes, like something flickered through him and caught behind his teeth.

He nodded, then he left.

—

The room smelled like burnt coffee and whatever detergent the janitorial staff bought in bulk. One of the folding chairs was broken, so you’d leaned it in the corner, hoping no one would try to use it. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, indifferent. Outside the windows, dusk hovered like it wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

You were halfway through introductions when the door opened.

Late. Not by much—seven minutes, maybe—but still, you glanced up instinctively, ready to gently redirect whoever came in. And then you saw him.

Jack Abbot.

He was still in scrubs, jacket thrown over the top, collar slightly wrinkled like he’d wrestled with whether or not to come and only won five minutes ago. His hair was a little longer than the last time you saw him, older somehow, even if it had only been a few weeks.

He hovered in the doorway, one boot inside, the other not. Caught between the hall and the possibility of something uncomfortable.

You felt the shift in the room. The group noticed him how he carried himself. It wasn’t just his build. It was the posture. That straight-backed, high-alert bearing you only ever saw in two kinds of people: soldiers and people trying very hard not to fall apart.

You stood slowly. Smiled like you weren’t surprised to see him, even if a small part of you was.

“Hey.” You were warm.  “Come on in.”

Something in Jack’s shoulders eased, just slightly. You turned to the rest of the group, your voice calm, unforced.

“This is Jack. He’s joining us tonight.” No last name. No backstory. Just the gesture of arrival. That was enough.

A few nods, murmured hellos. One guy said, “Welcome,” like it was a rule. Jack gave a chin-dip in return.

A man, Martin, shared first,  talking about how his daughter stopped calling in March. Two others chimed in with variations of the same wound. The room did what it always did: it stretched itself to hold whatever pain it was given, without fixing it.

Jack didn’t speak. He didn’t fidget either. He sat still, eyes forward, but not glassy. Listening. Taking inventory. And you watched him. Subtly, out of the corner of your eye, like you weren’t waiting for the moment he’d stand and say he didn’t belong here because you could feel it.

He looked like he was scanning every word, every crack in the ceiling tile, trying to make it make sense. His eyes occasionally drifted to the door. His hands stayed in his lap, steady, but his foot tapped once—twice—before stilling again.

He wasn’t unsettled because it was a group. He was unsettled because, for the first time in a long time, no one needed him. No one was coding. No alarms were beeping. No one called Doctor Abbot.

He was just Jack.  And that didn’t feel like enough.

So, he didn’t speak for the first thirty minutes. Instead, Jack sat like he was made of poured concrete: solid, unswayed, unmoved. But the stillness wasn’t ease. It was maintenance. A posture that said: Don’t look too long or you’ll see the cracks.

The others took turns with practiced vulnerability. Another veteran, Lisa, talked about the baby next door who cried at night and how it sometimes made her want to knock on the wall and scream. 

Someone else recited their weekly mantra about how small talk at the gas station kept them tethered to the world. Every voice added weight and oxygen to the room in that strange way group therapy worked: no one fixing, no one solved, but everyone surviving, together.

You didn’t push Jack, but when the lull came, when the air went quiet in that half-second of unclaimed silence, you turned to him. Not a spotlight, not pressure, just an open door.

He shifted, as if preparing to run, though he didn’t. His fingers rubbed the side of his leg, slowly. You saw the muscle clench in his jaw before he spoke. “I traded my shift to make it here.”

It came out simple, but the effort behind the words was unmistakable. He paused after that,  long enough for it to seem like he might leave it there.

Yet, he exhaled, glanced toward the window, and you could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, searching for a safer way to say what he meant. Something polite. Digestible. 

And then he gave up on that,  letting his tone drop into something flatter. Colder. Not harsh—just clinical, like he was delivering bad news to a patient’s family through a closed curtain.

“This isn’t a waste of time.” He started defensively, scared to offend your effort. “But sitting… idle like this for something I can’t even name… feels wrong.”

A few people looked up. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes now. He kept speaking, as if he didn’t let the silence in, he wouldn’t be so measured.

“I don’t talk about things unless they have names. Symptoms. Patterns. Diagnoses. That’s the trade. You name it, we treat it. That’s how I work. That’s how I stay upright. But this…”

Jack trailed off again. Then shrugged, a short, tired motion.

“...this doesn’t bleed the same way.” He finished. 

The words didn’t land like a dramatic revelation. There was no gasp, no cinematic hush—just the steady hum of a room that knew the texture of what he meant.

Jack’s fingers stilled against the side of his leg. He looked down at his hands like he half-expected them to be covered in something—blood, maybe. Or purpose. But they were clean. Still. Useless.

“I spent my whole career knowing what to reach for,” he said. “Chest compressions. Epi. Clamp and cut. Even when it was bad, even when it was too late, at least I could do something.”

He leaned back slightly in the folding chair, the metal legs creaking faintly beneath him. The gesture made his prosthesis shift under his pant leg, and he winced, not in pain, but in awareness.

“But this?” His voice dropped, vulnerable now. “This is like watching a code slow down in real time and realizing you’re not the one running it. You’re just watching the monitor. And the line’s not flat yet, but it’s close.”

He didn’t say what he was thinking, but you could feel it hanging in the air: I traded a shift. I changed my whole night. I said yes to something I barely believe in. And this—this silence, this seat, this half-truth I just spoke—is all I have to show for it.

So, the quiet held. 

Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present. The way it got in that room—when someone finally said something so honest it didn’t need embellishment.

No one jumped in to reassure him. No one offered clichés. That wasn’t what this space was for.

You didn’t speak yet, either. You just sat with it. With him. The same way he’d done for the last thirty minutes. Like the room itself was trained to carry the weight for a while. He stayed, and that was what mattered.

Finally, Martin, the same man who had spoken first, shifted forward in his seat.

“I get it.” He agreed. “Post service, I became a firefighter…After I retired, I couldn’t go to the grocery store without looking for exits, looking for a problem.  Couldn’t sit in my living room without wondering what the hell I was doing just sitting there.”

Jack didn’t nod, but he didn’t flinch either. He just stayed where he was, breathing evenly, like the effort of being in the room was more taxing than a double shift.

Lisa spoke next.

“It took me a year to figure out I wasn’t broken. Just… not useful in the way I was trained to be. No one ever tells you how to exist when there’s no task in front of you.”

Jack swallowed, his throat working hard against nothing. He blinked slowly, then glanced your way, but only for a beat.

The group kept moving, circling. No one tried to fix him. They just laid their pieces down beside his. You waited until the conversation had stretched on, shifted. Until someone made a dry joke about how the snacks were always good, and the weight in the air lightened just enough to carry again.

Only then did you speak—quietly, but clearly to everyone in the room.

“Remember, it’s now always about coming here to feel better.” You didn’t pose the sentiment to be questioned. “You can always come to not feel alone while it’s bad.”

The rest of the session moved on. The others began to speak again, and Jack stayed silent for the rest of it. Not because he didn’t want to be part of it, but because that was his part. The kind of sharing that left your bones hollowed out afterward. Like saying anything else would cheapen the breath it took to get that out.

Even after the session, when the folding chairs had scraped back across the linoleum and the regulars had filtered out with their usual half-smiles and murmured thanks, Jack lingered. Not awkwardly. Just unhurried, like his body hadn’t yet caught up to the fact that the talking was over.

Lisa was the first to approach him. Extended her hand, firm and sure, and told him where she served. Jack didn’t flinch, just nodded and returned the shake.

Someone else, Curtis, Navy, chimed in with a timeline, a base. The names passed like currency. The kind of shared vocabulary that didn’t need to be explained.

You were still inside, tossing coffee cups into the trash, wiping down tabletops that had already been clean.

By the time you stepped out into the night, the group was gone. The lot was nearly empty except for your car and one old truck idling at the far end. 

The sharp chill of early spring hit your neck, and you hunched your shoulders as you reached into your coat pocket. Keys. Lighter. Cigarettes. A ritual, half-forgotten.

You moved toward the concrete steps at the front of the church, letting yourself exhale for the first time all night. You sat, letting the cold seep through your pants.

It was a habit, really—staying much longer than needed. No one around to clock you. No rules left to follow.

You tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slid it between your lips. Lit it with a tired flick of the thumb.

“Now that’s one hell of a sight.”

You startled. Jack’s voice came from the shadows, dry as whiskey left out overnight.

You turned to see him leaning against the stone railing, just out of reach of the yellow glow from the overhead bulb.

Then, you let out a soft huff. “It’s medicinal.”

“Oh yeah?” He nodded toward the cigarette. “What’s that treat?”

“Empathy fatigue.” You deadpanned. “And low-grade moral despair.”

Jack laughed, really laughed. Not loud. Not long. Real.

You glanced at him, surprised to see he was still here. Even more surprised by what his presence was doing to your posture, you weren’t standing straight anymore. You weren’t leading anything. You were just here.

You gestured to the space beside you on the steps.

“Come on then. You’ve already seen me sin. Might as well sit through the confession.”

Jack hesitated, then climbed the two steps and lowered himself beside you. He sat with the same precision you’d seen in the exam room, like even resting was something to be executed properly.

You flicked ash to the concrete. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“Didn’t want to go back yet.” He admitted.

You both looked out across the street, quiet for a moment. He didn’t seem rushed now. He was just untethered. 

“You know, this is the first time in five years I haven’t done a night shift.”

You turned to him. He wasn’t looking at you, his eyes were still on the street, jaw set like he’d said too much.

“It’s killing me—” Jack added. “—sitting still. Watching the hours pass without something bleeding or burning or breaking.”

You didn’t interrupt. You let the weight of the admission settle.

“You could’ve gone home.” You said eventually.

“I wouldn’t have stayed.” He looked at you then. And you saw it, clear in the way his green-hazel eyes softened; this wasn’t just a delay tactic,  it was survival. “Don’t know what to do with the quiet.”

You offered the cigarette pack, not pushing, just holding it out in case. He didn’t take one, but he didn’t recoil, either.

Jack scratched his head in thought, looking sideways at you. “I don’t mean to unload on you, I know you already—I’m just—

“Don’t worry, I stayed for the same reason.” You cut him off, unwilling to entertain something so wrong. “Company makes it better.” 

You looked at him in the glow of the streetlight, noticing how different he seemed outside the exam room, outside the group. How strange it was, seeing someone become real right in front of you.

His eyes flicked to yours, then, briefly, but steadily. A flicker of something like recognition passed between you.

“You’re different out here, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips quirking around the filter. “Different how?”

“No clipboard. No script.”

You huffed a little, dragged the cigarette again before flicking ash to the side. “You say that like I’ve been reading off cue cards.”

“I don’t mean it as a bad thing. Just—” Jack leaned back slightly on his elbows, letting the stone of the step press cold against his back.  “You’re quieter. Less… contained—wasn’t expecting it.”

“What were you expecting?” You gave him a sidelong glance.

“Not someone who needs to stay behind.”

That, more than anything, made something ache behind your chest. You looked away. Let the ember of your cigarette burn a little too long.

“Well…” You were gentle with the thought. “Not all of us know how to leave.”

You don’t continue  right away. Just let the silence sit between you, a low hum of nothing but the wind moving along the street, the overhead lamp buzzing faintly like a broken thought. Yet, Jack knew the thought wasn’t through.

“...out here, I don’t have to keep anyone upright” You’d never said it aloud, afraid the guilt it would bring, but it was so relieving to admit.  “...I don’t have to hold my own spine so straight either.”

Jack nodded slowly, gazing forward again. “That sounds nice.”

“It’s not.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, but sometimes honesty read that way. “It’s just true.”

Another car rolled past, headlights stalking across the sidewalk and over Jack’s boots. The beam caught the tired set of his jaw, the way his eyes had sunk slightly into their sockets from too many nights that didn’t end the way they should have. 

Still, Jack looked better in this light. He looked less sharp, less made of stone.

“You ever try to quit?”  He turned his head slightly, demeanor ticking in quiet acknowledgment of your cigarette.

“Ever the doctor.” You gave a dry laugh, slow and low. “Every other week I think about quitting, and then someone tells me they still remember the weight of the body they had to leave behind, and suddenly I’m outside again with a lighter.”

“Guess I should thank you for staying out here long enough for me to loiter.”

“Loiter?” You echoed, glancing sideways. “You’re giving yourself a lot of credit.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”

The lull between you had settled into something companionable.  A mutual endurance, like you were both learning how to be still in the same moment.

Jack shifted, like he had something else on the tip of his tongue but wasn’t sure how to give it shape. His gaze dipped to the cigarette now crushed out beside your shoe. Then, to your hands, your sleeves pulled down over your wrists like instinct.

“Gimme your wrist.” He cleared his throat.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He held out a hand, patient and palm-up. “Your wrist. I’m being serious.”

A smile pulled at your mouth before you could stop it. “Jack, you trying to hold my hand outside a church?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’m offering you a free exam. Since you admitted it’s been years.”

You laughed, not quite believing him, even as your heart gave the smallest thud of something unexpected. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do.” There was a new wave of confidence as he spoke. “A licensed PA, going around telling people to take care of themselves, but too stubborn to schedule a check-up? That stuck with me.”

He flexed his fingers slightly, still holding them out. You let out a long, amused sigh—but gave him your wrist.

Jack took it carefully, cradling it like it was something breakable. His fingers were warm, steady. He glanced at his watch, brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

“You’re stalling.” You teased.

“I’m being thorough—

He kept counting. His mouth twitched like he was holding back a smirk, but when he finally looked up, his eyes caught yours and something shifted in the air between you. It was heavy and new.

—If I’m doing your first physical in however many years.” He clicked his teeth. “No way, I’m cutting corners.”

The line landed harder than he meant it to. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second too long. Neither did he. Then, without fanfare, Jack released your wrist, like he was afraid of making it mean more than it already did.

Jack’s eyes skimmed your face, thoughtful, quiet. Not searching for a reaction, just weighing something. Whatever hesitation had held him off earlier was gone now, replaced by a kind of gentle stubbornness that to you felt more him. 

Jack lifted his hand again, slower this time, and brought his fingers to your jaw. He said nothing, just let the touch land carefully, fingertips warm beneath the edge of your cheekbone.

His thumb shifted slightly, pressing beneath the hinge of your jaw, then slid up toward the curve beneath your ear.

You didn’t move, not because you couldn’t, but because you didn’t want to. There was nothing performative in the gesture, nothing flirtatious. It wasn’t about romance or pretense or asking for more.

It was just Jack, still trying to be useful.

You tilted your head without thinking, letting him trace the side of your neck. His thumb swept slowly beneath your jawline, feeling for your lymph nodes.

His movements were sure, practiced. Not clinical in the cold sense, but precise. Tactile. Like each step in the exam was tethered to something older than routine.

“You had to do all this in the field?”

Jack nodded, his touch moving to the base of your neck. “Every day. No machines. Just hands and instincts.”

You heard something shift in his voice with a quiet flick of gravity. That subtle weight people carried when they weren’t talking about the past so much as living in it again.

“Vitals were all manual. Pulse checks. Respiratory counts by ear. Skin temp by touch. No monitors, no steady beeping to tell you who was slipping.”

Jack’s thumb passed gently along the tendon at the side of your neck, and for a moment, you forgot what the street sounded like. You were suddenly aware of the shape of your body in space, of the parts of you he could feel ticking beneath his fingers.

“At night we worked in blackout conditions.” He murmured, continuing a ritual he’d never forget. “No headlamps. No lanterns. Just stars, if we were lucky. Used the North Star to orient when GPS failed. Checked pupils by moonlight. You’d learn to tell cyanosis from normal by feel, not sight.”

You swallowed, but didn’t pull away. His hand was still there, anchored lightly against your throat. Not gripping, not holding. Just witnessing.

“And you trusted yourself to get it right?” You asked, not doubting him, but wondering what it had cost.

“You didn’t have a choice.” Jack’s gaze met yours again. And this time, something flickered in it, something bigger than both of you.  “When someone’s slipping under your hands, you either learn the difference or you lose them.”

You swallowed again—and he felt that, too.

Jack moved to your collarbone, pressing lightly, checking along the line where lymph nodes would swell. Your eyes flicked up to him at that, but his gaze was steady on your shoulder, his hand still carefully mapping the shape of your body like it was a page he needed to memorize. 

“You’re tense.” His fingers paused at the base of your neck.

You let out a breath. “Occupational hazard.”

Jack pulled back slightly, eyes finally meeting yours.

“Could say the same.” He said. 

There was a stillness between you then full of something else. A thread tied between memory and presence. Between what he’d once done to save lives, and what he was doing now to feel human again.

You shifted, giving him a small, crooked smile. “This what you pictured for a night off?”

Jack didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on yours, thoughtful, like he was weighing how honest to be.

“Not exactly.” He confessed. His hand dropped from your collarbone then, the air between you still carrying the weight of his touch.  “But it’s the best one I’ve had in a long time.”

“My health that riveting?” 

Then, with a faint smirk, Jack returned to himself.  “You’ve got a hell of a resting heart rate.”

You pealed with laughter. The grin tugging at the corner of Jack’s mouth softened everything in him.

“That’s your fault.”

He shrugged.

You sat back a little, feeling your own body again; your neck still tingling faintly where his fingers had been. He hadn’t lingered to touch you, not really. He’d touched you because that’s how he knew people. That’s how he made sense of the living.

And tonight, for once, he wasn’t too late.

The streetlight above flickered once, then steadied. The night still buzzed faintly with the sound of spring creeping in, but the world, for a moment, had gone small; just the church steps, the two of you, and the unspoken admission that this, whatever it was, had been needed.

And maybe, you thought, that was what healing sometimes looked like. Not talking.  Not explaining.  Just letting someone check for signs of life and finding them.

There was a kind of reverence in that. And you hadn’t expected reverence tonight.

You rubbed your fingers slowly along the fabric of your pants, grounding yourself with the texture. The quiet stretched again, but softer this time. Less like the end of a conversation and more like the lull before the next thing.

Eventually, you straightened, reluctantly peeling yourself away from the cold stone steps. Jack’s movement followed yours like a reflex;he stood, not with purpose, but with you, shadowing your motion, the way people do when they’ve been through long shifts together. When the silence between them means something understood.

Neither of you said Let’s go. But you both started walking.

Down the worn church steps, your shoes thudding softly on old cement. Gravel cracked beneath your weight as you crossed the narrow lot. It had gone almost fully quiet, just the low hum of the power lines, the wind slipping through the trees like a passing thought.

Your car sat waiting beneath a crooked lamp, light flickering as if undecided. Jack’s truck was parked a few spaces down, dust settling on the hood like it always did when someone stopped moving long enough.

You stopped at your door, keys already out but untouched in your hand. You didn’t unlock it. Jack didn’t walk past. He hovered there instead, just close enough to share the moment, just far enough to leave you room if you wanted to step away.

He rocked once on his heels, then cleared his throat. It wasn’t a nervous sound—just a nudge. Something that bridged the quiet without breaking it.

“You think that group’s got space next week?” He asked, his voice shier now, like he didn’t want to spook the stillness you’d both earned.

“We don’t do headcounts.” You smiled.  “Just chairs. If one’s open, it’s yours.”

Jack considered that. Nodded once, brows drawing slightly inward with the thought. Then, a faint smile, tired around the edges, but real in the center.

“Alright.”  He murmured, agreeable. “Might do that.”

You leaned your weight gently against the side of your car, letting yourself rest into the shape of the night for a breath longer.

“You know, Jack—” You started confidently. “—you don’t have to wait for Thursdays to talk to me.”

His brows twitched in the faintest flicker of surprise and confusion. The kind he tried to swallow but couldn’t quite manage, the suspense too enticing. 

“I mean, if something comes up.”  You smiled subtly.  “Or if you need anything. Or just… if it’s late, and things are too quiet again….”

You trailed off and held out your hand, palm open. He blinked once, the weight of your words landing slowly.

 “Your phone. So I can give you my number.” You kept your tone light. Gentle. “I’ll type it in for you. Easier than calling the front desk and pretending it’s about a referral.”

Jack hesitated, just for a second, but reached for it. His phone was warm from his pocket. The screen was still open. You clicked into his contacts, typed in your name, and entered your number without comment. No title, no clinic.

Just you.

Before handing it back, you paused with your thumb hovering over the message field, but you didn’t text yourself. Didn’t give him that easy opening. You locked the screen and gave it back.

“There.” You said, brushing your fingers against his as the phone changed hands. “If you want to reach out, you can. If not… no pressure.”

Jack looked down at the phone in his hand like it might bite back. The contact glowed softly on the screen—your name, simple and unadorned.

“You’re giving me an out.”

“Or an invitation.” You shrugged. “Depends on what you do with it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just thumbed the edge of the screen, eyes distant for a moment. Processing. Weighing.

“You don’t give this to just anybody.” He realized quietly. It wasn’t a question.

You tilted your head. “Neither do you.”

Something flickered across his face and spread through his body. The road to something like this was never clean, and it sure as hell wasn’t straight, but this? This felt like rest. Or more like something unfolding, slow and tentative, in the center of his chest. A warmth he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

Jack’s mouth opened like he might say something else—something honest, something bold, but the words caught in his throat and never came.

Instead, he just held your gaze for a beat too long to be casual. Like he was still cataloging something he hadn’t named yet.

Not attraction exactly—but something adjacent. Something measured. Careful. Like he hadn’t let himself think about hope in a long time, and didn’t want to touch it too directly now in case it vanished.

You didn’t break the moment either.

Eventually, he stepped back, nodding once—not goodbye, just a shift in posture. A soft signal that he’d give you your space.

You watched him walk back to his truck. His gait was slower now, less formal than before. Shoulders slightly hunched, but looser. Like he’d left something behind on those steps and wasn’t sure yet if that was a loss or a relief.

You stood still until he opened his door.

He didn’t look back. But he didn’t rush, either.

And when the engine turned over and the headlights swept across the lot, you didn’t flinch from the brightness. You let it pass through you.

There wasn’t anything to say. Not tonight.

But the air had shifted.

Like something in the dark had turned to face the light again. And maybe next Thursday, you thought, when the chairs were pulled out again and the coffee burned a little on the bottom, maybe there’d be two people left sitting under the sky.

Still not talking. Still not explaining. But quietly, unmistakably—staying.

[z0mi3]

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through your tiny kitchen.

“Who the hell installs copper pipes and plastic joints?” Kyle muttered, his voice halfway swallowed by the cabinet. “Feels like sabotage.”

You sat cross-legged on the cool floor just beside him, your shoulder brushing the wooden cupboard as condensation dripped from your popsicle onto your thigh. His toolbox lay open nearby, screws and fittings scattered like candy.

“I told you it was leaking like crazy,” you said between licks, sticky sugar cooling your tongue.

“Didn’t know it was gonna be a whole plumbing mystery.”

You grinned. “Well, lucky me. I got Kyle ‘Fix-It-All’ Garrick on speed dial.”

That earned you a low laugh. “Don’t gas me. I’m sweatin’ bullets under here.”

And he was.

The summer air pressed in thick through the open windows, the faint hum of a fan doing nothing but pushing hot air in circles. The sticky heat of summer had your curls clinging to your cheeks, and your AC, bless its dying heart, had long since given up. The only breeze came from your screen door, and it smelled like heat and cut grass.

Your shirt stuck to your back, his shirt, technically, from a night he didn’t plan on staying over but ended up passed out on your couch anyway. You never gave it back.

Kyle glanced at you when you shifted your weight, the movement pulling the shirt higher on your thighs. You caught the flicker of his gaze, quick, instinctive. Then he dipped his head again, back under the sink.

“I heard you had words with someone in your class?” he prompted, as if trying to distract himself.

You let out a groan. “Don’t even get me started. Group project from hell. This guy literally ghosted me the day of the presentation. Left me to do the whole thing by myself.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s mad.”

“I swear, if I ever see him again—”

“You’ll hit him with your PowerPoint clicker?”

You scoff out a laugh. “Damn right I will.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Dickhead move.”

“Right? Like—”

But your voice started to trail off. Not because you’d run out of rage. But because something else caught your attention.

He dove back under the sink, but you weren’t watching the pipes anymore.

His shirt clung to him with sweat, riding up slightly to expose his waist. The muscle. The curve of his spine. The soft trail of hair disappearing into the band of his jeans. Your eyes lingered longer than they should’ve. Your heart did a little skip when your gaze drifted lower, his fly straining slightly against the curve of him, his thighs tense as he adjusted position.

You swallowed.

Maybe the heat was getting to you.

Kyle’s voice snapped you out of it. “Almost got it,” he said, his tone rough from the exertion. He twisted something beneath the sink, biceps flexing as he leaned further in.

You looked away, heart thudding too loudly in your chest.

“I should be paying you for this,” you muttered, suddenly shy, biting at the tip of your popsicle.

He huffed. “You? Never.”

“Still… you didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “You called.”

The words were simple. Steady. And they rooted into you.

You peeked over at him again. He’d pulled back a bit to rest on his haunches, wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt. It lifted just enough to show more skin, more temptation.

And he saw you looking.

His eyes lingered on your bare legs, your parted lips, the popsicle you were gripping like it was suddenly fragile.

“Y’alright?” he asked, quieter now.

“Hot,” you said, meaning more than just the weather.

He nodded, like he understood.

“I’ll be done soon,” he said, voice low and thick.

You nodded too, unsure if you wanted him to hurry or never finish at all.

The silence stretched comfortable and electric.

Then he added, with a crooked half-smile, “Don’t suppose I’ll be gettin’ that shirt back anytime soon, yeah?”

You looked down at yourself, then up at him again. “Nope.”

His gaze softened. Something unspoken passed between you.

“Good,” he said.

And then he turned back toward the sink, leaving you dizzy and burning with all the things neither of you had yet to say.

dividers by @saradika-graphics !!

[camficdiner]

hi i just came across your account recently and have loved all your work i’ve read so far!! this is also my first time requesting anything from anyone on here lol

could i pls have 1.1, 2.12, 3.6, 4.2

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 031

🍒 thank you for ordering, angel!

You said this was your first time ever sending in a request — and I’m so honored it landed here at the counter of Cam’s Fic Diner 💌 The way you trusted me with your idea, the vibe, the style, the slow obsession? Holy. And the fact that you said you just came across my account and already read all my stuff?? You’re the reason I write. Truly.

This fic was for you — and you made it magic. I hope it gave you butterflies, slow burns, and a forever-Jack Hughes to keep under your skin. Come back any time. Your seat’s always saved 🍷

Enjoy your meal love, its served with fresh cherry jab and honey glaze

thank you again, if you want, the ip jar is at the end of the counter ko-fi.com/camsficdiner

thank you again

-your favorite server

💬 “From Golden Boy to Mine”

✨ description and prompts:

character: Jack Hughes

prompt: you meet him as a composed fan on the street — one picture, one perfect touch, and suddenly he’s obsessed.

word count: ~2.5k

type: soft obsession, slow burn, smut, forever ending

🛼🍒✨🧁

You spotted them on a quiet street in Hoboken. Jack and Luke Hughes, walking like they weren’t two of the most recognizable faces in New Jersey. Ball caps low. Lululemon hoodies. Coffee in hand.

You hesitated.

You weren’t the type to interrupt.

You weren’t wearing merch. No Devils jersey, no player number, no camera strap around your neck.

Your dress was soft ivory, fitted through the waist, hem brushing your ankles in the breeze.

Kitten heels — pointed toe, buttery cream leather.

A single ring. Small gold hoops. Glossed lips, slicked hair.

Effortless. Classic. Untouchable.

You looked more like a gallery girl than a hockey fan.

But you crossed the street anyway.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice calm, even. “Sorry to interrupt.”

They both turned.

Luke smiled. “Hey.”

Jack just blinked. His eyes did a quick scan — head to toe and back again.

“I don’t want to bother you,” you continued, eyes only on Jack. “I just wanted to ask for a picture. And maybe an autograph?”

He stared at you for a second too long before clearing his throat.

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You handed him a pen and a small cream notebook — no lines, no cover art, just soft paper and quiet design. He opened it carefully, wrote his name slow.

He handed it back like it was something delicate.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “Would it be alright if I… touched your shoulder? For the picture?”

Luke raised an eyebrow. Jack tilted his head.

You clarified, “Just so I can turn slightly toward you. I won’t really face the camera.”

Jack swallowed. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

You moved into position. One hand gently, respectfully on his shoulder. You angled your body away from the lens, three-quarter turn, chin tilted — back partially to the camera, gaze somewhere near his jaw.

And then you felt it.

His hand — slow, careful — settling at your waist.

Not tight. Not intrusive.

Just… there.

The shutter clicked.

The photo came out like a candid.

You weren’t smiling, not really. He was. Not in that fan-picture way. His smile was small, mouth tilted like he wasn’t sure why he was smiling at all.

It didn’t look like a fan picture.

It looked like something else.

“Thank you,” you said again, pulling away. Your fingers lingered on the sleeve of his hoodie. “I really appreciate it.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

—

You didn’t even plan to post the picture.

It sat in your camera roll for two days — cropped, filtered, quietly perfect — before you gave in.

Caption:

met the golden boy in Hoboken today 🤍

Tag: @ jackhughes

You had no expectations. No real hope he’d see it. He had over 600,000 followers. You were just another account with a curated grid and clean highlight covers and barely 2,000 people watching.

But still… you tagged him.

And six hours later, you got a notification.

@ jackhughes replied to your story.

You stared at it for a full minute before opening it.

Jack Hughes:

Pleasure was mine.

That was it. No emoji. No follow. No punctuation.

You answered without overthinking.

You:

Didn’t expect you to see that.

You probably get tagged in five hundred a day.

He replied five minutes later.

Jack Hughes:

I don’t open most of them.

Yours looked different.

—

It started with that.

You moved to DMs.

He asked what you did. You told him — design work, mostly digital, lots of travel. You lived in Europe most of the year.

He asked where.

You answered: Copenhagen. Sometimes Milan.

He sent a voice note the next morning — groggy, low, rough with sleep.

“You have an accent when you type. I mean, not literally, but… I can tell you’re not from here. That’s not a bad thing.”

You listened to it three times.

You sent one back.

And from there, it never stopped.

—

You didn’t flirt. Not really. You talked.

About architecture and favorite airports. About how you hate LAX and he hates LaGuardia. About why he reads every time he’s on a plane, and how you can’t read unless it’s raining.

He never called you beautiful.

He just told you your mind was dangerous.

One night, two weeks in, you sent a photo of your bedside table. Books stacked. A lip gloss. A framed Polaroid of you and your sister. The notebook he’d autographed.

He replied with:

Jack Hughes:

You’re still in my head from that picture.

I don’t know why.

Maybe I do.

You didn’t answer for a while.

You didn’t know how.

—

A few days later, you woke up to this:

Jack Hughes:

It’s off-season.

We’re at the lake house in Michigan — me, Quinn, Luke.

I know it’s insane, but…

Come here.

Just for a week. Just to see.

—

You stared at the message for a long time.

The window was open. The Copenhagen breeze touched your shoulder. Your tea had gone cold.

You didn’t know why you said yes.

You didn’t know what part of you thought this was safe.

But you booked the flight anyway.

And when you texted him your arrival time, he didn’t even type back.

He sent a selfie — hoodie up, backwards cap, grin lopsided — with a caption that just read:

jack. airport. 5pm.

And somehow, that was enough.

—

He wasn’t nervous.

Jack Hughes didn’t do nervous.

Except… apparently he did now.

He stood just outside arrivals, hoodie sleeves pushed up, cap pulled low, pacing by the pickup loop like someone’s dad. The kind of guy who definitely hadn’t DM’d you one impulsive invite at midnight and then watched his phone for three days straight like it was holding a live grenade.

He almost missed you when you walked out.

Not because you blended in — but because you didn’t. Not even a little.

You wore ivory linen: a perfectly tailored, longline suit with the jacket unbuttoned and the pants sitting high and fluid on your waist. A soft tank underneath, barely tucked. An expensive watch glinting on your wrist.

Stilettos. At the airport.

And a matching carry-on — creamy off-white with gold hardware — gliding behind you like it had its own stylist.

Your hair was up, not a strand out of place. Your sunglasses covered half your face — designer, clearly — and your rings were chunky, colorful, but not loud. Everything about you was… composed.

Jack blinked like sunlight hit him directly in the chest.

You spotted him instantly.

Pulled down your sunglasses a touch.

Smiled — just barely.

He stepped forward. “Hey.”

You stopped a few feet away, dragging the trolley into place beside you. “Hi.”

“Long flight?”

You nodded. “eight hours, almost nine.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You look like you just stepped out of a magazine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You look like you just rolled out of practice.”

He looked down at himself — grey hoodie, shorts, sneakers — and let out a small laugh. “Fair.”

You followed him to the car. Quiet, easy. No tension. Just… observation.

Like you were still figuring out what the hell this was.

Like he was too.

—

The lake house was everything you’d expect from three brothers with money and absolutely no design taste — wood floors, big windows, someone’s forgotten duffel on the stairs.

Quinn greeted you first.

He looked you up and down with a kind of squint that said he couldn’t decide if you were real or the ghost of someone he’d forgotten.

Luke grinned and offered to grab your bag.

You said you had it. Of course you did.

The first night passed slow. Drinks on the back deck. Talk about nothing. Quinn grilled. Luke swam. You listened, laughed, learned just enough about them to stay polite — but not too involved.

Jack watched you the whole time.

Not obviously.

But constantly.

You didn’t do anything loud. You didn’t flirt. You just… were.

Until the second day — when you stepped out in a bikini.

Black. Simple. High-cut. Your sunglasses back on.

Your hair up again. Neck long. Shoulders bare.

And tattoos.

Small ones. Sharp, clean ink. One under your rib. One on your wrist. A script you didn’t explain across the back of your arm.

Jack nearly dropped the drink in his hand.

Quinn leaned over and said, “You really invited a fan to the lake house?”

Jack didn’t look at him. “She’s not a fan.”

Quinn scoffed. “Dude, she literally posted a photo with you and captioned it golden boy.”

“She’s not a fan,” Jack said again, this time quieter. “She’s just… different.”

Quinn didn’t respond.

But Jack didn’t care.

Because you were sitting there, sunglasses on, elbow on the arm of your chair, bare leg folded over the other — and you laughed at something Luke said, and Jack swore he’d never heard a sound better timed in his life.

He didn’t know what you were.

But he knew, for the first time in a while, he wanted to find out.

But by the third night, it wasn’t just the brothers.

Trevor Zegras showed up. So did Cole Caufield.

They brought beer, snacks, and the kind of chaos only best friends could pull off. Luke disappeared into a round of lake pong. Cole and Trevor asked about your flight. Someone lit the firepit.

Jack passed you a blanket.

And when the circle around the flames grew quiet, Cole turned to you — curious, not mean.

“So what do you do?” he asked, eyes squinting slightly like you were a puzzle they were all still trying to figure out.

“I’m a designer,” you said. “Mostly digital. Some product. Some branding. Depends on the month.”

Trevor leaned in, elbow on his knee. “So you’re not, like… a hockey girl?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, no offense,” he said, gesturing to you vaguely — the long dress you’d changed into for the evening, your layered necklaces, the claw clip in your hair, the glass of wine held delicately between two ringed fingers. “You’re not… what we’re used to.”

You didn’t laugh. You just tilted your head. “I like hockey,” you said softly. “I didn’t grow up around it, but… my dad loved it. He used to put on games in the background while working late. He died when I was sixteen.”

The words landed like embers.

You didn’t rush to fill the silence.

You just sipped your wine. “So now I watch. I read up on players. I keep track of the stats. It doesn’t feel like a sport. It feels like… something I still get to share with him.”

Across the fire, Jack looked at you like you’d said something holy.

Not dramatic. Not performative.

Just true.

He didn’t even notice when Quinn turned toward him. He didn’t notice the way Trevor’s gaze flicked between you and Jack with that knowing smirk.

Jack just kept watching you, blanket around your shoulders, firelight painting soft shadows across your cheekbones.

He didn’t know what he was feeling.

But he was absolutely feeling it.

—

You were out the door at 6:00 a.m. sharp.

The house was still asleep — curtains drawn, blankets messy, air thick with the hush of early summer.

Your running suit was black, fitted, no logos in sight. High collar zipped to your chin. Hair braided down your back. Your sneakers were sleek and impossibly light — carbon-plated, clearly, the kind usually reserved for people who knew exactly what they were doing.

You didn’t expect to see anyone.

But Quinn was already on the back deck.

Coffee in hand. Hoodie loose. He didn’t look surprised to see you — just tired.

You nodded as you passed.

“Morning,” he said.

You pulled out one earbud. “Morning.”

“You run?”

“When I travel,” you said. “Helps me stay grounded.”

Quinn took a sip of his coffee. Paused. “He’s not used to girls like you.”

You looked at him.

He didn’t elaborate.

You tilted your head slightly, waiting.

“Polished. Sharp. Gorgeous, obviously.” His eyes flicked to your ringed fingers, the glint of your watch, the soft swing of your ponytail. “You walk into a room like you own it. You wear stilettos to the airport. He doesn’t know what to do with that.”

You exhaled — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

“I didn’t come here to be anyone’s problem,” you said.

“No?” Quinn asked.

You looked at him — eyes steady, voice quiet. “I came because he asked.”

Quinn held your gaze for a second too long.

Then nodded.

You didn’t say anything else.

You slid the earbud back in, adjusted your sleeve, and ran.

Quinn watched until you disappeared past the trees — sleek and silent, like you’d always been part of the place.

And when Jack came downstairs an hour later, sleepy-eyed and hoodie-draped, Quinn didn’t say much. Just:

“She’s gonna break you.”

—

You got back just as the sun tipped over the trees.

Your cheeks were flushed. Braid messy. Breath slow, even.

The lake air was cool against your skin.

Jack was on the dock, hoodie sleeves pushed up, bare feet dangling just above the water. He turned when he heard your steps on the boards.

You didn’t speak right away.

You sat beside him. Close — not touching.

Your shoulder barely brushed his.

He didn’t move away.

“I didn’t sleep,” he said, finally.

You glanced at him.

He was looking down at the lake, like the surface might spell out something for him. “Kept thinking about you,” he added. “Out here. With my brothers. With my friends. Just… being here.”

You waited.

“I know we don’t really know each other,” he said, quiet. “And I know this was supposed to be, like… light. Fun. Just a visit.”

You turned your head.

His voice dipped lower. “But I want you here.”

Your breath caught.

Jack swallowed. “I want you around. I want to see you in the morning when you run. At night when you curl up with a book on the deck. I wanna hear you talk with Quinn about stupid documentaries. I wanna watch you swim.”

You didn’t say anything. You just looked at him.

“I don’t care about the distance,” he said. “I don’t care that this doesn’t make sense yet. I just…” He exhaled. “I want you close.”

You blinked — slow. Steady.

Then nodded. Once.

And you both sat there, in silence, while the lake shimmered soft gold around you.

—

Jack kissed like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

His hands stayed steady as you peeled off your shirt, as he traced the skin just below your ribs, reverent. When he undressed you, it wasn’t rushed — it was quiet, paced. He looked at you like he didn’t want to miss a single inch.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice low. “You know that, right?”

You smiled, thumb brushing his jaw. “Say it again.”

He did. Against your neck. Against your chest. Against every place his lips touched as he kissed down your body, slow and warm and aching.

By the time he sank into you, the room felt like it belonged to something only you two understood.

No teasing. No games.

Just soft gasps. Deep thrusts. His forehead against yours. Hands interlaced.

“You feel like everything,” he whispered when you tightened around him.

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissed the hollow of his throat, and let him fall apart inside you — all warmth and breath and finally.

When it was over, he didn’t move. Just held you. One arm under your shoulders. The other across your waist. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked too long.

You were the one who broke the silence.

“So what now?”

Jack shifted, pulled you closer.

“You stay.”

You blinked. “Here?”

He nodded, lips at your hairline. “Not just here. Jersey. The season. Come to my games. Come back with me.”

You hesitated — not out of doubt, but because it sounded so much like a dream you hadn’t let yourself have.

“I don’t care about the distance,” he said softly. “We’ll make it work. I just want you close. Whatever it takes.”

You looked up. Met his eyes.

And said, simply: “Okay.”

—

Fast forward.

A photo goes up on Jack Hughes’ Instagram six months later.

@ jackhughes _

first time we took a picture together, she asked if she could touch my shoulder.

now she just never lets go.

[whitefoxfiction]

SmutFest day 3: Drabble Challenge!

Drabbles really are a challenge for me, but I enjoyed writing these, and I hope you enjoy reading them! I did something a bit unusual for my prompts. I made numbered lists of things to include in my drabble. For these NSFW drabbles, it was a location, position, and a "type" of sex or kink (e.g. rough, sleepy, public). Then, I drew numbers to come up with the combinations! I have 4 for the event, but more planned for the future! cw: nothing too heavy, a boob smack and semi-public locations, and hints of overstimulation if you squint really hard.

@bleachsmutfest day 3 prompt: rough sex in a mating press at the gym Modern AU: fitness coach Renji (100 words)

You’d planned on training flexibility today, but you did NOT think being folded into a mating press on a yoga mat was how that was going to happen. Your fitness coach, Renji, was mercilessly pounding your sopping cunt, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the empty gym with each bruising thrust as he made you take every inch. His tip bullied your cervix with every snap of his hips, and he wrenched a ragged moan from your throat when his hand came down hard on your bouncing tits. Renji grinned. “That’s it babe. No pain, no gain.”

prompt: a standing "mile high" grudge fuck Modern AU: office coworker Grimmjow (100 words)

Your breath came in sharp gasps, partly from the airplane lavatory doorknob being jammed into your ribs, and partly because your obnoxious coworker, Grimmjow, was currently giving you the dicking down of a lifetime. You couldn’t remember who’d started the petty office sabotage first, but that hardly mattered when you were standing tiptoe ballerina style while he stretched you around the biggest cock you’d ever had in your needy hole, all while putting mind numbing friction on your clit with his glorious body. If this is what stealing his stapler got you, maybe you’d try stealing his coffee cup next.

prompt: desk sex in the captain's office, standing doggy style Captain Rose DOUBLE DRABBLE (200 words)

Reports and manuscript papers littered the floor of Rose’s office, more drifting down each time your thighs bumped the edge of his desk. The wood quivered beneath you while you gripped the edge, knuckles turning white as your captain fucked you senseless from behind. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips for purchase as your pussy greedily swallowed his cock, your moans in time with the percussive slap of his hips meeting your ass cheeks. One of Rose’s hands strayed from your hips, dexterous digits brushing your belly before slipping between your slick folds to circle your clit. His other hand caressed the length of your spine until long fingers were tangled in your hair, tugging your head back firmly and making your back arch in a way that pulled a stuttering groan from his lips. Yet ever patient, his hips rocked steadily, like a metronome needle, no matter how much you squirmed, slowly building your pleasure until you were clenching around him with a full body shudder, moaning his name like a beautiful melody. “You always sing so beautifully for me, Darling,” Rose whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Catch your breath quickly. The show must go on.”

prompt: playful shower sex, up against the wall Modern AU: Long-haired boyfriend Shinji TRIPLE DRABBLE (300 words)

“Hey, Doll… Come ‘ere and help me wash my hair, would ya?” Your boyfriend’s voice floated out of the bath on a cloud of steam. “Shinji, why don’t you just come out and say you wanna bend me over in the shower?” you retorted dryly. “Aww, come on, Doll. No bendin’ ya over this time. I promise.” Shinji said, appearing in the doorway, stark naked and completely shameless. You rolled your eyes but got up anyway, grinning at his lovable idiocy.

As you stood behind Shinji rinsing his hair, you had to admit that getting your fingers in those long, silky strands worked almost as good as foreplay. Predictably, his hands were all over you as soon as the soap was out. Oh, you weren’t complaining, but you did sigh dramatically just to needle him a bit before bending towards the wall. “Oi! I said no bendin’ ya over, remember?” “Wait!” You whipped around to face him. Was he really going to leave you hanging over your earlier jibe?

Without warning, Shinji scooped you up under the thighs and pinned your back to the tile wall.

“Better hang on, Doll,” he whispered, nipping your earlobe before before sinking his cock into your slick heat in one smooth motion. He bounced you up the wall with each hard thrust, the slight curve of his cock letting him hit that spot that made you see stars on repeat. It wasn’t long before your nails were digging into his shoulder as you clamped down on his length with a ragged moan, walls pulsing with your intense release. After letting you catch your breath, he gently sat you on your feet, giving you an obnoxiously loud kiss. Then, he spun you around and put your palms flat on the wall. “Sorry, Doll. I lied.”

[solarstranger]

to the anon who requested a kirishima drabble for my ask game.... apologies in advance.... it's turning into angst atm

[dafpork]

repeating myself here, but for good reason: the Silliness of the dafpork dynamic, however you determine the definition of Silliness, is really so integral to me and i think a big part of what makes them so special and personal. and i think that's a big reason why i was so afraid to post even the most innocuous stuff on main--even if they're not being clingy or cute together in a drawing, even in the comics where they're bickering like children or just being Themselves, there's this undercurrent of love beneath it that feels so comparatively intimate. they can have their moments of Unabashed Earnest, and they stand out much more and feel more special when you have them being dumb together to contrast it with... it's hard to pin down and they're hard to pin down, and that's why i love 'em, y'know? the variations on their dynamic is boundless, and so is their love, and so is their hijinks. they're not easily squeezed into an identifiable little box, and while i think that can trip some people up, i think it works to such a great strength with them. it's why i have trouble doing ask memes or drawing prompts with them (though i should try more!), because Dafpork Is Dafpork--they have minds and emotions and dispositions of their own and this blog functions to just sit back and observe what that all is, rather than force it. and that's how you get such a broad spectrum of Stuff, too; them being cute together, or being obnoxious, whether at each other or with each other, or they're not quite anything at all because the only one who knows what they are is each other. there's just truly so much and i really don't think it can be condensed into a bite sized trope or sweeping label.. and considering Daffy's anarchy and Porky's stubbornness, that feels very fitting. maybe it's a reason as to why it's difficult for some people to get on board with them, but i feel like it's such a great strength, and it's a great motivator to spread their gospel all the more, too! to try and get people to understand! so thank you for reading this, because if you're here then it shows you're curious and want to uncover more about them. me too!

[skyward-floored]

Apathy

“C’mon Legend, up and at ‘em,” Hyrule said, giving Legend a nudge where he was sitting rather apathetically on his bed in the inn, “you’ve been laying around long enough, you need some sunshine.”

“It’s raining,” Legend muttered, expression shadowed and eyes dull as he looked up at Hyrule.

“Well fresh air is still good for you, even if it’s wet, c’mon,” Hyrule encouraged, and Legend sighed, and got to his feet as Hyrule tugged at him.

[theflyingfeeling]

fanfic rambling in the tags, nothing interesting really, just me talking to myself lol, okay to ignore or read as you please ✨

[cursedcola]

Prompt: YOU ARE LIKE PAPA!!!! Aka. I'm seeing a trend. The boys are all literal carbon copies of their mommas (or one parent) at this point - so how do they feel having a child that’s THEIR spitting image? In which your genes didn’t even try. Physically...and personality. Masterlist: LinkedUP Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: House-Wardens Format: Headcannons+ imagine (Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be doing bullets anymore...but one more? It's mixed. Can't just cold turkey a gal) A/N: Do I want to make this a series?...I do not know. Maybe? It's really hard to write without the kids having names - and I'm just here like...can I use the names I want? I already made them up in a past post. Would that ruin the experience for people? I mean - it's my stuff and I can do what I want but hmmm.... Warning(?): For this to be, MC's the one who popped the kid out and has reproductive ability to house spawn. Kiddos are biological. Talk of pregnancy and general child-rearing. Use of mother and she/her pronouns to make my life a bit easier.

Riddle couldn't care if his child looked like him down to the last freckle on is butt. What mattered most in that delivery room was that the child came out healthy with no complications. He's the father that doesn't shy away from asking the doctor + midwives questions - perhaps too many, since you nearly toss him out of the delivery room for causing unneeded distress.

In all honesty? Had he studied medicine like his mother pushed - Riddle would've been the one delivering his own child. He copes with stress through control - so imagine THAT scenario.

After birth, he cares much more for the child's skills and manners rather than their appearance. Do they wash their hands before every meal? Say their please and thank you? Do they trust him enough to state their opinions - respectfully, not a potty mouth.

Riddle can and will make them lick a bar of soap if they utter a curse word before the age of 15.

How's their academic drive? Are they social? It's very important that they get along well with others from an early age. He wants them to have many friends.

He's so focused on their personality - aiming to raise a happy, confident, healthy child - that Riddle takes compliments on their physical attributes with a grain of salt until his hard work all those years child-rearing amass into... well, a second less intense version of himself.

He's adamant to ensure the child's homelife is better than what he had growing up. In a way, he misses much while worrying about other things. 10/10 an anxious father, but very doting despite being strict.

"Must I paint a heart on my cheek every day? Why not a crown, or something more fitting us? Like a rose?" his daughter huffed, yet went to paint a large red heart over her cheekbone regardless.

Just like her father, she'd received her invitation to Night Raven. The girl was expecting it, her certainty fueled by perfect grades and a strong aptitude for magic. She did not lack confidence.

Just like her father, she was assured to land in Heartslabyul. Already prepping her cheek-mark before the mirror made any verdict.

Just like her father, she aimed for the position of Housewarden before setting a single foot on campus.

Yet unlike her father, she held no issues in speaking her grievances. She bemoaned about packing, groveled at her mother's feet for her favorite biscuits before living off cafeteria meals, and surely had no reservations stealing Riddle's best fountain pen for her studies.

She keenly resembled a certain ginger that still calls the Rosehearts' household every day despite getting blue-screened by the answering machine.

That’s the last time Riddle allows you to chose the godfather of his child. Ace is an insufferable influence without that power to toss around.

Riddle sighed, plucking the brush from her fingers and pinning her V-shaped bangs back to examine her uniform. He flattens her lapels and redoes her necktie.

His necktie. Gods he’s raised a little thief.

For a moment, as he loops the tie-knot, he's a young boy calling the girl's mother over each morning to straighten her uniform. It's nostalgic, especially with how his daughter squirms under his appraisal.

Definetly her mother’s daughter, he thinks.

It is then that Riddle sees himself through her wide eyes - they're the same greyish blue that were hardened on his first day. His daughter's are much kinder, he notes. She'll easily find companions to eat her meals with.

Her cheeks are full with sweetness- his were too, but by genetic design rather than an extra treat here and there. To this day his baby-face lingers.

Her cheeks were 100% rounded with uncle Trey's spoiling. Not that Riddle could deny her when he'd eat just as much sweets while toiling over papers in his office. He remembers the familiar patter of feet slipping in, tiny hands pushing a cookie on his desk and coating it with crumbs.

He'd scold her to bring a plate next time, but take a break from work to enjoy the moment. Strict yet not domineering. A child that shares should be encouraged, at least that's what one of his many parenting manuals said.

She shared his button nose and tiny stature. Except she loved wearing matching Mary-Janes with her mother, while he wouldn't be caught without a heel at that age. She inherited his height but not his insecurity. Thank goodness.

Perhaps all those comments about his genetics weren't solely in regard to her magical prowess or ambitions. "....Father? Hellloooo?" she side-stepped to grab her bags, just as he reached to flatten her hair for the fifth time. His heart mellowed enough to not scold her impropriety.

"Ah - " Riddle coughed into his fist, " - apologies, little rose. I just never realized how much you look like -"

"You?” She cut in, “Yeah, psssssh. Mother says it at least once a day. About time you listened."

Riddle snorted, pinching between his brows. Yes, of course it was said. Although only now was he beginning to believe it.

"In appearances, yes. Yet your manners are as deplorable as ever."

Leona hopes his children are nothing like him. Which is impossible, since beastmen carry dominant traits when pitted against humans. He's not surprised in the slightest when his child has two little cub-ears atop their head, or that tiny chord barely passing as a tail. A ready snack he threatens to bite off when they misbehave.

At the very least, he hoped for your eyes. His piercing citrine was attractive, no doubt about that. He's not displeased to have them peer up at him from a bassinette each morning. Yet it is your eyes that carry a softness that this palace needs for him to get through his day.

Hey. At least there's no question of paternity. The joke falls flat with the midwives though. 'course it does.

Multiple times, by the way. For someone who claims to dislike loud children, Leona's genes are intent to sire three spitting images of himself.

In every which way - from their squeaky yawns after a mid-day siesta, to the magic flowing in their veins.

"Papa! Look what I learned how to do!"

Leona barely had time to look up from his endless pile of paperwork. The damn thing was near endless, and he'd missed three scheduled siestas just trying to get through the civil dispute filings. His brother spared no mercy in delegating the less 'enthusing' tasks to his 'smart, wise, people-smart' - pah - little brother.

He hated the sea of menial administrative filings.

His eldest daughter was well aware - she hated her homework just as much.

"A stampede's on it's way! Better freeze up before it's too late!"

Which is why she chose that moment to turn her beloved papa's woes to stone. Literally.

The moment her little fingers touched papyrus, the entire stack turned into solid rock. As did the blood in Leona's veins. Sparkly citrine eyes looked at him expectantly. Somewhere in the palace the lioness' tutor was undoubtly scouring to find her, take her back to magic theory, maybe try to cover this up from the other servants.

"You - OI! I needed those - urk, what else have you turned to stone?" he drops the pen in his hand and tries to move the now frozen stack into a drawer.

"Dammit Ki'faji...Where are your tutors? This is exactly why I told your mom combined lessons with Cheka would be a hassle," Leona grumbles and kicks from his desk, quick to check the hall outside. The kid was a bad influence - rambunctious as a twerp and even more riled up as a preteen.

Upon seeing no servants, guards, or even Cheka running up after his cousin - Leona's both relieved and angered.

Angered that his daughter was left alone. She probably escaped to avoid classwork, which he did too at that age but she deserved better. A proper education outside of solitude. One where she could hopefully grow up optimistic about this country and the people inside of it.

Relieved that no servant witnessed her Unique magic. They wouldn't understand. He can't bear the thought of them speaking of her like they did him.

Except it would be inevitable.

Then angered again, because in his hurry her little tail tucked between her legs. She hugged the side of his work desk with her hands fisted at the hem of her tunic. Her lips set in a scared pout, looking up at him past that untamed mane in her eyes. Worried.

"Papa...did I do something wrong?"

He wonders if this is what his father felt like. Being confronted with your own child, knowing that by cruel fate they'd have to face hardships and hatred for something out of their control.

Suffocating. His own throat felt full of sand. The leather on his hands too tight. She looked so much like him. Acted like him. That much Leona never once contested. Ki-Faji bemoaned to the skies that it was like time never passed, and he was stuck in a loop teaching the same unruly child.

It was funny, until it wasn't. "Nah, kiddo. Nothin' like that," he tried to keep his usual drawl. Unclench his fists. Forget about when he first slipped gloves on, "ya gotta warn me before a shock like that. So you finally got your magic tamed down, huh? Good job."

He shut the door and it set closed with a load thud. Leona might have an idea of what his father felt, but right now? She came first.

Ensuring she felt wanted, strong, and damn right accomplished - came first. Everything else later.

So with just a few strides, he swept her up over his shoulder and out from under that desk. She giggled and squawked about turning 'him' to stone if he made her go back to classes.

And Leona made no promises, but set her on the edge of his desk with 'threats' of turning her sweets to sand if she didn't at least try.

"With Unique Magic like that, you'll out-class your cousin before he even catches wind," and a bit of rivalry never hurt to keep the bloodline strong too.

Which judging by his daughter's immediate squirming to go and turn the first-prince to stone? She inherited Leona's competitive streak as well.

Unions between Merfolk and Humans are rare. Roughly 1/100 and that is giving benefit of the doubt. There were too many boundaries and complications. Prejudice born from history, the need for transfiguration, differing lifespans and culture.

One strong deterrent, perhaps the most impactful, is childrearing. The genetic output - while not impossible - is exceedingly unpredictable. Each species of merfolk reproduces differently, and their genetic dominance when put against a human's gene (especially if the mother is human) can cause complications. Capricious complications.

And as we all know - Azul is not fond of chance. Were his child to be born on land, yet have gills? Their lungs are so small, so new, they wouldn't make it to water in time. The same could be if they were born underwater and needed air.

One thing he is certain of, is that Octopi carry strong genetics. Literally. Should the child inherit his strength its kicks could do much more to your stomach than be a tickle to fawn over.

His mother wanted grandchildren, as did his great-grandmother did great grandchildren. Truth be told he wouldn't be opposed to raise one to leave his legacy to. Yet the Ashengrotto genes were strong with each descendent, so much that when he discovered you were with child? He couldn't be happy. Not truly - because too much was at risk and out of his control.

He prayed, which is not something Azul ever does, that the child would take after you. At each stage of development you were monitored down to the last detail, looking for any complications. Even the slightest hint of a tentacle or incompatibility.

Luckily, the child formed feet. Its first kick scared the hell out of him, but at most left you sore. Yet he wasn't able to relax. Not until you were taken care of in the best hospital on land, with a literal aquarium set up next to the bed just in case.

A medical marvel. That's what this child was.

Not a miracle. Not a blessing.

A medical marvel, and the most beautifully unpredictable thing that has ever happened to Azul in his entire life.

There was no clear picture of how his son might look at birth. He waited with bated breath, mentally running through every text he could find on mer-human unions. Banking on all the preparations He arranged and trying not to bite through his nails from the anxiety. The success rate was too low, but you insisted.

And he was most fortunate, because had you not then he wouldn't be holding the most cherished prize of his life.

The baby didn't cry, yet neither did he according to his mother. He was pale, no gills in sight but the wispy swirls of light gray on his head showed Azul's genes wouldn't rescind everything.

It was hidden from view for now, but there were signs of mixed blood on his son's skin. Plentiful black dots spotted his entire body, too dark to be freckles yet too light to be like Azul's outer skin in his mer-form. Time would only tell if Azul's genes really did overtake all, and if his son would look at the world with wet purple eyes.

Yet what struck Azul the most wasn't these obvious traits, ones he predicted at the very start of your pregnancy after endless nights of research.

It was that right below his son's lip, in the same spot as his father, was a small mole. That truly was by chance with no genetic influence.

He thumbed the little speck, marveling at something so small yet he didn't realize he wanted until it was there.

"You weren't lying, huh? Those are some strong genetics you carry."

Azul balked, just barely stopping himself from whipping around too quick. He turned to scold you for not sleeping, worry ebbing at him all over again.

Yet you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed into his ruffled button down to sink against him. His heart still spun like it did as a teenager.

"Look at his little head of hair," you laughed, and he mutely did just that, "if he gets glasses, then I think my bloodline's finished. Might as well say you did mitosis"

That got him to scoff.

"Hardly," he said dismissively, but his lips pulled to smile regardless, "I don't recall giving him feet. That's all your doing."

"Well excuse me for not having eight legs."

"You are excused," he snickered, "Truly, he would be so much more productive with them."

Azul didn't mean that. Well, partially. Yes his son would get much more done with four sets of arms but with other costs.

You hadn't pressed, and he was grateful.

Kalim wants a large family. Not only because it is expected of him as the eldest Asim, but also because he is a family man. He adores his siblings and does his absolute best to give them all attention despite their large quantity.

He's the most doting husband, and is even more attentive as a parent. One thing he will do differently from his father is keeping his family 'small'. Four children minimum, six children maximum. Monogamous as well. As much as he loves all his siblings, the unspoken tensions are too much to endure. Kalim's also a one-spouse kind of guy, and the thought of sharing - while normal for someone of his status - is not for him. No amount of suggestion or pressure will change that. It is bad enough that his children will be subject to worries about their uncles, aunties, and cousins possibly harboring ill-will. Kalim is set on ensuring that they are part of a true family, one without such tensions, and that he can give them all the love they deserve.

Perhaps he feels guilt as the eldest. He received the most attention from his father as the heir, but he has siblings who barely know anything about their father aside from how he looks. He has step-mothers he has met only in formality, and as time went on there were strains between his siblings that he couldn't ignore. Not after taking his official seat.

Kalim will not be the same as his father. Regardless for his respect and love for the man - No matter what the future does to him, no matter if he lives a long life or one cut short. Kalim will make sure his spouse and children are cared for. He loves them more than anything on the planet.

Should he have a family, and the situation demand it? He'd give up his spot as heir in a heartbeat and move far out into the dunes with nothing but the clothes on his back. All for them to be happy and safe. That's the kind of dad he is.

"Baba?"

Kalim resisted the urge to giggle. His eldest son hated when Kalim acted too childlike, and he was already pushing the boy's patience. He was just past thirteen, his fourteenth birthday already planned for a week-long celebration in just a half-month. It would be the biggest banquet the Scaldings Sands had see since Kalim's wedding. His son would soon start officially training as the next head Asim, just like Kalim did at that age.

Yet it was never too early to celebrate one of the best days of Kalim's life. Which is exactly why Kalim hovered outside the boy's window at an hour long past their family's 'bedtime'. The carpet under his feet familiar as ever, as was his son's exhausted disapproval (we wonder which attendant he inherited 'that' look from).

"Come on! Let's go for a carpet ride. Just you and me tonight," Kalim gently pat the space next to him, his smile adamant, "we don't even have to tell your mother."

His son deadpanned. Even Kalim grimaced at that one.

"Okay! If we get caught, I'll take the hit for both of us. Please? It's such a lovely night out. Perfect for a flight~"

Normally it would be the son begging his father to sneak out, not the other way around. Yet Kalim's eldest was much more mature than he was at that age. Despite being his physical copy, those ruby reds never sparkled with excitement like his father's. They were aways fully concentrated - be it on his studies, his charity, or whomever captured his attention. There came a point when a rumor surfaced that he couldn't possibly be Kalims, yet they didn't reach far thanks to the physical resemblance.

The 'only' resemblance. Since the kid hadn't cracked a laugh since he was in diapers.

Something Kalim learned to accept, but never gave up trying.

His son observed from his bed, the boy's nose wrinkled with thought. No doubt wondering if he should tattle to his mom. He was a doting momma's boy, at least he had that in common with his father.

"Fine," he sighed heavily, and rolled out of bed like it was torture.

Kalim waited, holding the curtain open eagerly until his boy hopped the ledge and sat cross-legged on the carpet's far edge.

Then they were off. High above the city where no one would see. Kalim bobbed his head happily, pointing out buildings as if his son hadn't memorized the entire map of their homeland at the ripe age of five.

"Oh! And there's the restaurant I took your mother on our first date. She loves their Kanafeh -"

"Baba, I know. We have it for breakfast twice every week."

Kalim guided the carpet towards lower ground without a response - keeping air, sassy teenagers, and his messy turban from whacking him in the face.

Only two of those three succeeded.

"Why are we even out here? Shouldn't you worry more about your responsibilities? What if mother wakes to an empty bed, did you consider the consequences? Her worries?"

There came those older thoughts out of such a young mouth. Kalim couldn't help but slump inwards, although his smile still hung on. "You're turning fourteen soon," life will change, "Don't you want to enjoy life a bit more before starting your studies? Baba will understand, you know." he said, and perhaps that was not what his son expected to hear. The boy puffed up. His tanned skin rouging with lost composure.

"I'm not like you. Being al Asim means something to me. Maybe you'd understand if you were a proper sultan who took his job and family seriously! Rather than sneaking off in the night for merry rides on a flying carpet!"

Under the moonlight, his son's perfectly primmed white hair bounced in the wind. Even in sleep he managed to keep his appearance tidy. There were times it was like Kailm was looking in warped a mirror. Those rare moments when he caught the boy lapse, usually with his younger siblings or cousins. When he looked softer, his garnet eyes full of kindness rather than the contempt held in them right now.

Except in these moments too - he still saw a mirror. Just one he wished to avoid.

He too disliked his father's way of doing things, to a certain extent. That his own son felt similar wasn't a surprise. It did not lessen the sting regardless.

"Tifli..." Kalim started, and his son faltered at the endearment, "think what you want, but there is nothing that means more to me than our family."

And even if his son wouldn't admit to it - Kalim knew he saw the mirror too. Just because Kalim disliked his father's choices, didn't mean he did not love him.

He reached for his son without a second thought, pulling the boy down to roughly rub his cheek over his head.

and just like that, Kalim was back to being happy and his son back to groaning complaints - albeit less agitated, to Kalim's delight - and pretending he was much more mature than he was deep down. Kalim's opposite yet perfect little replica.

"Ahahaha!!! Look at you! Just wait until the council has to fight against that fire! I can't wait to bring you with me! "

"AGH LET ME GO!!! WHY DID I EVEN AGREE TO THIS?!"

Papa Vil - now that's one unexpected title to tack onto his Resume. Contrary to what everyone might believe of a superstar leading a life on the go, Vil is proud to be a father. His own raised him while juggling his goals, why should Vil's career deny him the joys of fatherhood?

No. When Vil's daughter is born, he is more than prepared to balance family and work. He locked in when taking a spouse, and is never one to be unprepared.

When you were pregnant, he announced a hiatus in his career just as you entered the third trimester. He can afford it. The public loves a family man. He has money money, and wasn't going to risk missing the birth of his first child while travelling.

Also. Supportive husband to the maximum. Considering you were carrying his child, the bare minimum he could do was be readily available as you go through the roughest stage. That baby had a college fund made and filled before she was even born.

Not that he'd just let her mooch - no child of his would grow up without ambition and practiced life skills. He was not 'aiming' to create a replica or enforce his standards...but she wouldn't lack drive. No Schoenheit - not even you - is going to go through life quietly.

His hiatus was meant to extend until she turned one. Old enough to enjoy life on the road, for you to recover, and give 3-5 years for him to work until she started school. Unlike him at that age, she wouldn't be chartered around as much for his work. Nope.

He already had it planned. She'd be enrolled in a private academy, you'd work as you liked in a good neighborhood, and he wouldn't take any contracts outside of the Shaftlands until she was a teenager. Balance. She would have every opportunity, proper support, and hopefully independence to grow outside of his shadow.

The last thing Vil wanted was for her to be influenced by his career - well, other than admiring his films and being that perfect little face to single out int the audience while at a talk-show or photoshoot.

Speaking of Schoenheit genetics and their blossoming careers - heavens above, he fell in love the moment she first opened her eyes. There were few curly blond ringlets that grew out at super speed as the months past, and she inherited his lavender eyes. Although on a baby they were more rounded, doe-like, and would most definitely take his sharp edge as she grew. Every time he booped her little nose, the little giggle that came was almost melodic.

Such a well behaved baby made a cameo in one of his largest projects to date. He took the role of an unruly ostracized duke, where the special effects makeup made him both enchanting yet horribly frightening to young children. His character gained his redemption through raising an orphan, and Vil's little girl was the only baby they could find who wouldn't cry when seeing her father act so heinous.

"Vil, everyone here is itching to know, is it true that the baby we see in 'Redemption of our Finest ' is your own daughter? There are rumors and speculations from those on set yet we'd love confirmation."

Vil shifts in his chair. The many cameras at all angles did little to deter his focus from the interview in progress. It was one of many, and the talk-host across from him looked very eager to get the first scoop on his latest hit success. He smiled to the camera with his eyes, pretending to be in thought for a moment. The questions were all pre-approved, after all.

"Your assumption and the rumors are all correct," he started, crossing his legs and folding his hands together in them, "unfortunately we struggled to find a child that would not cry when faced with my appearance. Poor little things - it is a struggle to rear child actors. Especially babies."

The reporter blinked, somehow still shocked despite knowing the already.

"And you're saying that your daughter is a cut above the rest?" they asked, and he tutted inwardly. The phrasing was poor, as always with these reporters.

"Yes," he gave them a moment's victory, "and no."

He didn't wait for further inquiry.

"My daughter is remarkable - she is my greatest production, a work of perfection alongside my beloved spouse. Yet this film is rated PG-13, and includes scenes not fit for young eyes. Babies act on instincts alone, and for the majority of this film my appearance was...ah, I so rarely say this, but I was unsightly."

His tone carried warning for them not to twist his words, and the message was received as they gestured for those behind the scenes to alter the backdrop.

"We could even argue your acting ability is that good! To make such a beautiful face and poised demeanor come off as cold." they said, and with the click of a button the screen behind them changed.

On it came a picture of an old, tattered bassinette left on the front stoop of a castle. The picture flicked to show inside, and in it was Vil's precious little girl. Special effects added some dirt on her cheeks, and they wrapped her in a tattered blanket for the scene. Yet despite their efforts to make the child look abandoned, Schoenheit genetics demanded the world see such an adorable baby for all she is.

The audience awed at the picture, even without a cue card. Vil himself took on a genuine lift to his practiced smile when seeing her.

"And just look at her folks! Such an adorable little baby! Can you really expect anything less from THE Vil Schoenheit and Eric Venue's heritage. An actor before she can even count! Your wife's genes didn't even try here, did they Vil?"

The crowd appears insatiable as the host scrolls through a series of photos. Some taken from the film, others from photoshoots and the occasional candid photo snuck by paparazzi. He knew better than to try and hide his family, but said nothing as they all made assumptions.

After all - he was beautiful, and his daughter was undoubtedly the most beloved baby in all of Twisted Wonderland. It was only natural and who was he to turn his nose when faced with one of the few facts these reporters have gotten right.

Although, he wasn't entirely content He laughed into his palm, unable to resist the chance and made direct eye-contact with one of the cameras. Knowing full well that you were watching somewhere back stage, lips likely puckered from being disrespected and just waiting for him to come sneak your family out before the public was dismissed.

"I'm afraid there is nothing to argue there. My genes are perfection, not to mention competitive," he smirked seductively at the camera, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, "but I'm not opposed if my wife would like a rematch for a chance to win the next battle."

And with that - he simultaneously spiked his popularity rating and soft-launched what would likely be a second replica coming to life soon.

Maybe.

If you didn't kill him for that stunt first.

Prodigies spawn prodigies. At least in this case.

Idia never pictured himself as a family man. Hells he never thought anyone would even look at him with anything other than disgust (minus that one ghost lady. He doesn’t like to talk about it) let alone marry him. Needless to say that he cannot decide if you are an idiot or if he has plot armor - because those are the only two reasons you could possibly ever agree to give up your entire life and move to STYX just to be with him.

**see Marriage series for settling THAT can of worms

Yet you do, and now he’s got not only his little brother but a whole ass spouse. He’s on cloud nine. Life cannot be letting him have such good luck. The RNG is rigged

Until he learns that you’re with child - and it all goes boom. Literally. Since not only does his daughter inherit his curse, his fiery flames that never tame themselves, and his spiked teeth that nip his lips way too many times for comfort -

She inherits his genius.

Raising a child in a contained base is a living nightmare.

Raising a child with a need to infiltrate the laboratories and experiment is hell. At least he kept to his room when tinkering as a kid. Idia’s daughter has his brains and your craftiness for going around undetected…and your habit of initiating dramatic events. Needless to say that she does NOT keep to your family’s apartment, does NOT submit to any security (he regrets teaching her how to decode the base padlocks), and very much enjoys making STYX ‘lively’….haha…yeah

No one has ever met such a happy Shroud. Excluding Ortho. He was a sweet type of happy. You spawned a menace.

But let’s not derail. Even if he didn’t want her per-say - Idia loves his daughter. His gut twisted seeing the Shroud curse start taking hold over such a tiny body. She was just a toddler and already burning through enough blot to tie her to this place. He knew the feeling of those youthful amber eyes looking at him for guidance. She looked so much like Ortho as a toddler, and as a child began to resemble him more with longer flames.

It was a constant battle every day. Balancing his work while also trying to do better - because his attitude sucked. He knew his attitude sucked. You warned him about using self-deprecative language and for the most part he did learn to reign it in.

Except old habits die hard, and deep down he still struggles to like himself. Seeing his daughter follow in his footsteps burns brutally, since she has all this potential and just like him she’ end up working for the family business without a choice. All because of these stupid flames and these stupid teeth and these stupid genetics and this STUPID curse -

“MAMAAAAAAAA!!!! DADDY’S BEING A BIG MEANIE AGAIN!!!”

Her shrill high-pitched cry carried throughout the apartment. Idia had just enough time to swipe the alarm system off before it processed. He wishes he could regret putting a system to detect and alert if she was distressed when alone here - but couldn’t. Even now. Since this was totally 100% his fault.

Dammit this kid has lungs of steel.

“Nonononononono - No Mama! No! Shhh shh shh shh!” He grapppled at her little shoulders with clammy hands, “Look! Look I’m not sad, see??? We have pretty hair! Super cool hair! Please please please stop crying -“

And then she did.

The tonal whiplash. The way this tiny manipulator just ceased all her tears, mouth clamping shut with an audible click. A literal child pulling out a handkerchief from her pocket to pat her eyes dry - like some twisted 60yr old swindler at a poker game who’s been training for this moment for decades.

He should have known.

Honestly. Idia can’t even bring himself to be mad. The amount of gaslighting it took to get this kid off his Ninswendo last week already put his best tricks to use.

He is the one who created this monster.

Just like her dad - his little girl was hyper aware of people. Including him, and picked up all his weaknesses. She knew damn well that he genuinely had reason to fear only two people - her momma and her grandmother. Both of which lecture him about being a good model. She knew that system was put in place, and to be good when no one was around to watch her. Not that she ever stayed quiet in their home with S.T.Y.X labs to infiltrate.

He just never thought the day would come, when her demon like tendencies would be used for something like this.

“Your her father, not her friend” his mother said.

“It’s bad enough you turned me into a living photocopier - don’t you dare get lenient with her at this age” you warned.

“That child scares me” he thought, and you agreed. Awful. Awful parents. You both mean it in the most loving way possible.

“Hwee hee hee! I’m glad you think so, daddy,” she grinned up at him all sweet-like, with those pointy little chompers ready to stake their claim. She snapped her teeth at him like a piranha, “hehe~ Mommy says our teeth are cool too. The pointies make eating steak easier - oh! Oh! Can we please have steak for dinner tonight? Please?? Pleaseeeeee?”

Something told him that should he say no, those distress detectors would be set off before he could catch them.

“U-uh…yeah, kiddo. Sure thing. Just go play and I’ll put an order in.”

He tried desperately to hide the quiver in his voice, but knew he failed. She skipped off to her bedroom much too happily - even if father’s were supposed to want their kids to be happy, that was too much - and whatever work remained for the evening didn’t seem important

As Idia slid up to one of the house control panels to check for instant-card delivery, he wondered how this became his life, and if this is how his parents felt having a prodigal spawn of the under-hells for a son.

No. He wasn’t that bad….was he? Did he even want to know at this point?

Boom

“DADDY!!! MY EXPERIMENT BLEW UP AND IS LEAKING RED GUNK!”

No. No. He really did not want to know. For the sake of whatever relationship he had with his parents.

He wants as many children as possible. The definition of that one clip of of the kid who wanted 100 children, so that they'd all have to be his friend. Not that Malleus would force his children to be his friends - well, it would be a plus surely - but he does want a large family to live his life beside.

He finds comfort in solitude, but comfort's close companion is loneliness. He wishes to never be partnered with that feeling. There was opposition. Union between the Briar Prince and a human? Unheard of. Not to mention the life-span difference. Not just between himself and you, but also for his children. Half-fae live long, but not as long as full-blooded fae. In time he will still come out alone, but he hopes to have many memories. Much love and warmth to take with him.

Yet this isn't meant to be sad - no, let us focus on the absolute joy he felt when his first child was born. A boy, his magic exceedingly strong despite his lineage. Even the elders were surprised at the magical prowess this child held. It was almost as if Malleus' nightly wishes for his child to be well, to be loved, to be healthy - taking every precaution to ensure you were well cared for during pregnancy, speaking blessings to your stomach in the dead of night - it all just manifested and out came the world's most perfect child.

A Draconia who would grow up with both parents. He'd be protected, nurtured, loved, and never ever alone. Some might call the King overbearing, making sure his spouse had a desk in his office and attending his meetings with a bright yellow baby sling over his chest. It definitely stood out against his royal attire but Malleus didn't mind.

In magic - there was also physical appearance. Being half-human, the child physically aged quicker than Malleus did in his youth. Yet he still retained the Draconia genes, with two curled scaly horns poking out above his forehead. He had no tail at birth, but around puberty many little scales began to poke their way through at his temple, back, wrists, and neck. No one predicted this since the Draconias have never reproduced with humans, but you tried to calm him with poorly convoluted jokes about ' fancy dragon acne'.

Yet according to Lilia, the boy looked like a near carbon-copy of Malleus once he sprouted up. His hair may have been kept shorter, slicked back, and he may carry himself entirely different from his father. Yet the look in his slitted-emerald eyes was exactly the same. His aura was the same.

And Malleus hadn't any idea how to handle that observation. Surely it was meant as a compliment. In the moment, he laughed and took it as one. Who wouldn't be prideful to see themselves in their child? Especially one so accomplished, growing into his scales with pride and eagerly stepping into his role as prince.

Except Malleus wouldn't, because the thought of his child sharing the feelings he had at that age? It unsettled him greatly. Perhaps one of his worst nightmares as a doting father.

“Father?”

Three sharp knocks echoed in Malleus’ study. He needn’t look up from his book, since the door opened with a thud without waiting for his approval.

Not that he minded - no, quite the contrary. He felt excitement building up at the first knock after all. There was only one person who it could be.

No one would dare impose on the Briar King during his downtime.

None had permission for such rudeness.

No one except his dear family, of course. Although as much as he wished for them to cling to his side and be a welcome reprise from his duties - Malleus was rarely afforded such a gift. His eldest son in particular conducted himself more as a knight or distant consultant than a loving son. Perhaps that came from leaving him in Sebek’s care - as much as his knight was ecstatic to become the first prince’s personal guard, his constant reverence to the elder briar ways likely left an impact on an impressionable child. Instead of bedtime stories, the little Draconia likely fell asleep to Sebek's long-winded lectures on the daily.

Back when he was a starry-eyed toddler, of course. Now the boy wouldn't dare let his guard down enough to sleep, even if his safety was guaranteed. Somehow despite Malleus taking every last precaution to rear a tranquil child, he raised a stickler instead.

“Hm? You look troubled, my son” Malleus met his eldest’s rare lack of decorum with amusement. He didn’t bother to hide a fanged smirk from him.

His son, who seemed to bristle in the doorway when under Malleus’ eye, clearly struggled to contain himself into the proper prince he was trying to be.

“Because I am troubled, father” he grit out, hands flexing at his sides. Sharp black fingernails pricking at his palms.

“Oh? And what seems to be the problem? You so rarely come to me with such matters” - to anyone who didn’t know the king, the sentence read as a bitter slight.

Yet it was merely a father sulking for his son’s attention, in his own prideful way.

“That’s precisely the issue,” his son huffed, “with all held respect, you cannot just drop in on my classes whenever you feel like it! It’s disruptive!”

Malleus merely turned the page in his book, “and whose fault is it that I had to resort to such measures?”

His question met a guilty conscience, and so he continued.

“What else am I to do? My child no longer behaves as my blood. He writes home giving stale reports as if he is one of my soldiers and bids his precious family far too few visits,” Malleus looks up from his ‘reading,’ and gestures to the uniform his son wears, “What else am I to do to see my precious son, other than visit his school? I was a student there once. Your headmaster wouldn’t dare to deny my entry.”

“Father - I understand your anger with my negligence but that is not an excuse for disrupting my classmates -“

“They looked quite please with my presence. I even supplemented material for your lecture -“

“They were scared beyond their wits! - And what of mother?! Surely she was against doing something so drastic! Think of our image! The King of Briar Valley cannot just casually drop his responsibilities whenever he so pleases.”

The boy’s composure finally cracked - and even for a half-blood, his power easily contorted the world around them if left unteathered.

Crackles of electricity buzzed across the study, flickering through a lit desk-lamp. As did the temperature lessen some degrees. Rather than be miffed by his son’s explosion, Malleus laughed in the face of it.

So this is how he must have looked during his moments of impulsivity. Hah.

“You’d be foolish to assume she didn’t try and come along. I thought to spare you her ire, as a mercy.”

At that, the lamp ceased it’s flickering to beam a steady light once again. The teen’s cheeks flushed a shameful color, so rare for one who prides himself more than any of his siblings.

"That was not necessary," he softened almost instantly. Even if she nearly committed the same 'crime' as Malleus, it seems favorites were at play.

"You know with certainty that it was."

A Draconia through and through. What was the term Lilia used? “Momma’s boy”? Considering that none disrespect the Queen - the King included - as her ire could strike the most sore spots of their family after all.

The boy pulled at his collar, out of arguments and simmered to displeasure rather than anger. He muttered an apology for losing his temper, and Malleus found himself wishing for the argument to continue just a bit longer.

After all, these were the times he felt most like a father, a husband, part of a family - rather than a king. He misses the early days when he was only the first three, before the council and other influences pushed his children to focus on responsibilities and their lineage.

“I’m sorry for not writing home…or visiting…I hadn’t thought it would trouble you. I simply - I thought it best to place distance between us.”

“Distance?” Malleus balked, “Distance from your family?”

He couldn’t understand why his child would want distance.

How could the boy he worked so hard to instill belonging within, whom he raised from egg to man, whom he would give up everything for - possibly say such a harrowing thing.

His own blood. His heart and soul. To spew such things in the face of ancestors who were bound to loneliness.

Whatever explanation for his manners didn’t matter so long as he was happy, but to intentionally want to be away from all Malleus thought worthwhile in life?

Never-mind. Malleus wanted the argument to cease. Indefinitely. And to tie himself to this desk for a decade or more.

“Yes, Father. Otherwise it is too difficult-“ he hesitated to continue, but one look at his father- whatever expression he might hold that couldn’t be contained despite his efforts - seemed to be the last push, “- being away. From my family. Leaving. I do not like it, but it is my duty. Coming home, hearing from you, mother, even the care packages I receive from grandfather! I can’t eat them but somehow just smelling the burnt food makes me falter! How can you expect me to preform up to our family’s standards, if I am homesick all the time!?”

It was the first time since he was a boy, clinging to Malleus’ legs, begging his parents not to leave him with his babysitters, that his son cried so openly. Malleus nearly gave in each time it happened too.

The pressure of royal duties, of perfection, on his shoulders was the same as those who came before him. Yet Malleus found himself more relieved than anything, even if his child might never recover his pride.

It was also the first time in many years that Malleus hugged his son, careful to avoid his growing blunted horns, and wasn’t pushed away.

“You are already doing more than enough. Loving your family is nothing to be ashamed of, and it is one of my greatest regrets that you thought otherwise for a single moment.”

[mephisto-reporting]

Husband?

About: How does he react when you accidentally call him your 'husband'? Pairing: Reader x Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus (Seperate) Note: Reader and the men are in a relationship. My inbox is open for prompts and requests :)

RAFAYEL

The evening was going smoother than expected, considering Rafayel had dragged you along to one of his many gallery showings. He had made a big deal about how you should be the one showing off his work to the public, claiming he didn’t want to deal with the “art-snobs." Yet, the second you both arrived, he quickly preoccupied himself on his phone, leaving you to handle most of the small talk.

One of the visitors, a curious older woman, was admiring a painting of his, a chaotic burst of color with soft hints of golden light. You were discussing Rafayel’s "creative process" (whatever that was—he hadn't told you much before retreating to his phone), when she asked how long you’d been working with him.

“Oh, it’s been a while now. It’s honestly amazing seeing him grow like this—my husb—” You froze mid-sentence, realizing the slip just as it left your mouth.

"Husband?"

The word hung in the air for barely a second before you felt Rafayel’s presence shift. His head shot up like a bolt of lightning, his playful, cunning eyes locking onto yours. You could practically feel his grin before you even dared to glance over. You didn’t even need to turn around to feel his gaze burning into you, practically shouting, Oh? Husband, you say?

“Husband, huh?” Rafayel drawled, pocketing his phone and sauntering toward you with that signature smirk of his. “I didn’t realize we were making things official tonight. If I’d known, I’d have worn something even more dazzling.”

You flushed, attempting to stammer out a correction, but he was far too pleased to let you off the hook that easily. He leaned casually against the gallery wall, one arm crossing his chest as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart.

He gently took your hand in his, his dramatic flair dialed up to maximum as he pressed an exaggerated kiss to your knuckles, clearly relishing the moment. "I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. Who wouldn’t want to marry someone as charming as me?"

The visitor chuckled awkwardly, clearly not sure whether to stay or go, but Rafayel was already having way too much fun. “Of course, as your loving husband,” he continued, drawing out the word in a singsong voice, “it’s only fitting that I’m showered with even more attention now, isn’t it? I expect lots of praise, darling. I mean, just look at me." He struck a faux thought-provoking pose, tilting his head and flipping a lock of his perfectly tousled hair.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but at the same time, his antics made you laugh. “I didn’t mean to—"

"Oh no, no,” he interrupted, wagging his finger playfully. “You can’t take it back now. The word’s out, Miss Bodyguard. You’ve called me your husband. That means you’re stuck with me. Forever.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “Does this mean I get to cheat at board games forever too?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as you playfully swatted at his shoulder. “As if you needed a reason to cheat more!”

Rafayel laughed, that familiar bratty grin plastered across his face. “Well, if I’m your husband now, I think it’s only fair I get first dibs on everything. Cards, claw machines—oh, and don’t forget, I demand the comfiest seat when we binge-watch our shows.”

Despite his teasing, the warmth in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. You could see the genuine delight he took in your slip-up, how pleased he was at the thought, even if he’d never admit it outright.

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, playing along. “But don’t expect me to let you win at everything, ‘husband.’”

Rafayel beamed, and for a moment, that bratty, carefree mask of his slipped, just a little. He tugged you closer, his voice softening as he murmured, “Deal.” Then, just as quickly, he switched back to his usual, cheeky self. “Now, let’s go, wife. You’re required to be by my side while I survive this boring night. ”

Shaking your head, you laughed, unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “You’re impossible.”

The woman, watching the scene unfold with a warm smile, laughed. “You two make quite the pair.”

“Oh, we do, don’t we?” Rafayel quipped before lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve really outdone yourself, calling me that in front of witnesses. Now they’ll all expect a wedding invitation.”

Your face burned as you tried to shush him, but he was loving every second of it. He tilted his head, his hair catching the light as his smile softened into something more genuine, the bratty exterior fading just a bit. “Still… I can’t say I hate the sound of it,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under your chin before pulling back with a playful wink. “I might just get used to hearing it.”

You could only manage a huff of exasperation, but deep down, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter at the way his teasing had just a hint of sincerity behind it.

Rafayel, always dramatic, and yet somehow, just when you least expected it, a little bit sweet.

ZAYNE

You and Zayne were in the middle of your usual weekly grocery run, efficiently dividing and conquering your list to save time. He’d taken off towards the produce section while you headed for the rice aisle. As you browsed the different varieties, a middle-aged man beside you struggled with lifting a heavy bag of rice.

"Need a hand?" you asked, stepping in to help. The man smiled gratefully as you hoisted the bag into his cart with ease.

"Thank you, young lady," he said, rubbing his wrist. "My arthritis is flaring up today. Getting old’s no fun."

You offered him a sympathetic smile. “No problem at all. My husband’s a doctor, actually. I’m sure he’d tell you to take it easy on that wrist."

The man nodded in agreement, offering you one last thanks before heading off. You turned back to your cart, completely unaware of the word you had just let slip—husband—or the fact that Zayne had returned in time to hear it.

You felt him step up behind you, his presence calm yet undeniably magnetic. When you finally glanced over, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, a small, amused smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Husband, hmm?" he said softly, his tone more curious than teasing. "That's... new."

You froze for a second, eyes widening as you realized what you’d said.  You opened your mouth, the words tripping over each other in a rush. “I didn’t— I mean, it just—slipped out. We’re not actually—I mean, obviously, we’re not—” You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, and no amount of backpedaling was helping.

Zayne didn’t seem in a rush to let you off the hook. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with an ease that made your heart stutter. “You know,” he said, voice as calm as ever, “if this is your way of bringing it up, there are smoother ways to do it.” His teasing was subtle, barely perceptible if you didn’t know him well, but it was there in the gentle tug of his smile.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Zayne, I didn’t mean to—”

But Zayne, ever level-headed, merely took your hand in his, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Relax,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not like I mind the idea.”

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you looked up at him in surprise. There was a softness in his usually stoic gaze, the kind that made your stomach flip. He continued, his voice measured but affectionate, “Seems like the next logical step, doesn’t it? My parents have been asking me when I’m going to take that step with you for a while now.”

His calm tone made the statement feel both casual and monumental at the same time. “Wait, your parents…?” you started, blinking as your brain processed this new information.

“Mhm,” Zayne replied, still holding your hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ve been pretty vocal about it, actually. But I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

The right moment. Those words hung in the air, and you could feel the weight of what he was saying. He was serious—calm and casual, as always, but serious. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fade into the background. It was just you and Zayne in that grocery aisle, hands linked, talking about a future you hadn’t even realized you both wanted.

“Only if you wanted to, of course,” he added, his thumb still tracing soft circles on your hand. “I wouldn’t do anything unless we both agreed.”

You stared at him, a smile slowly spreading across your face despite the initial shock. “You’re really suggesting this now? In the middle of a grocery store?”

Zayne smirked, his usual pragmatic self. “Well, we’re already talking about it. Might as well make use of the time.” He glanced down at your joined hands, his tone softening again. “Besides, I think it’s worth discussing what our future looks like, don’t you?”

Your heart swelled at his words, and the warmth of his hand in yours was enough to make you feel grounded, no matter how your emotions were spinning. “Yeah,” you said, smiling as you squeezed his hand gently. “I think it’s definitely worth talking about.”

Zayne leaned in closer, his lips brushing your temple in a rare public display of affection. “Good,” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet kind of affection that made your chest tighten. “We’ll talk more later.”

He pulled away just as smoothly, picking up the cart with a practiced ease, as though he hadn’t just suggested the two of you start planning your future together. His eyes twinkled, a subtle tease hiding behind that usual calm exterior of his.

“And for the record,” he added, as the two of you moved on to the next aisle, “I wouldn’t mind hearing you call me ‘husband’ again.”

Your cheeks heated again, but this time, you didn’t bother trying to hide your smile. “Guess you’ll have to earn it first, doctor.”

Zayne chuckled softly, that familiar, grounded confidence in his voice. “I’ll be sure to work on that.”

SYLUS

The desert sun was relentless, and you could feel its heat pressing down on you as you stood beside Sylus, waiting to be seated inside the restaurant. He had dragged you out of Linkon on one of his mysterious ventures—no explanation, no warning, just the two of you thrust into the desert with little more than his cryptic directions. And while Sylus might have thrived in the N109 Zone's shadowy world, he was decidedly out of place here in the glaring sunlight,already starting to show hints of discomfort.

You glanced over at him, squinting slightly under the bright light. His expression was carefully controlled as always, but you noticed how his hand twitched subtly as if annoyed by the heat. The two of you had been waiting to be seated inside for a while now, and you decided it was time to speed things up.

Catching the attention of a passing waitress, you waved her over, putting on your best expression of concern. “Excuse me, my husband and I were hoping to be seated inside. I’m feeling a little faint under the harsh sun,” you said smoothly, the lie of you feeling faint rolling off your tongue with ease.

The word husband had slipped out so naturally, you didn’t even realize your mistake until the waitress nodded sympathetically and promised to get you a table indoors right away. As she walked off, you felt a cold gaze slide over you, and you turned to see Sylus staring down at you, one brow raised, a slow, dangerous smile creeping across his face.

“Husband?” His voice was smooth, but there was a teasing lilt beneath it. “Did I miss a wedding, wife?”

Your breath caught in your throat. "Wait—no, I didn't mean—" You started to stammer, heat rising to your cheeks, but before you could backtrack any further, Sylus’ arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer to his side. His grip was firm, possessive, and you could feel the smug amusement radiating off of him.

“I like the sound of that,” he murmured, leaning in just close enough for you to catch the scent of the desert air still clinging to his clothes. His lips ghosted near your ear, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe this is a sign I should make it official.”

You swallowed hard, heart racing as you tried to keep your composure. “Official?” you echoed, your voice coming out a little more breathless than you intended. “What—what are you talking about?”

Sylus’ smirk widened, his amber eyes gleaming in the sun. “Oh? Cat got your tongue, Sweetie?” he teased, his tone dripping with amusement as he let his fingers trace a light circle on your hip. “You seemed so sure a moment ago, wife. But now? Speechless.”

You blinked, trying to gather your wits, but the sheer cockiness in his tone was making it hard to think straight. “I…I was just…helping us get a table,” you protested weakly, trying to pull away from his grip, but his hold only tightened.

“Oh, I’m sure you were,” he drawled, clearly reveling in your flustered state. “But now that you’ve set the bar so high, don’t tell me you’re going to back out on me. After all, you made quite the declaration back there.”

“I wasn’t—” You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him as you regained a sliver of your usual confidence. “You know it was a slip-up, Sylus. Don’t start getting ideas.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Ideas? Sweetie, I live for ideas.” His grip loosened just enough to let you step back, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of this one easily. “But let’s be honest, you didn’t hate it. Calling me your husband.”

Your face flushed again, but this time, you managed to meet his gaze without faltering. “I didn’t hate it,” you admitted, folding your arms, “but don’t go thinking you’ve won. I’m not about to sign any papers just because you liked hearing it.”

Sylus tilted his head, the playful smile never leaving his lips. “We’ll see about that, kitten” he said, the threat—or promise—hanging in the air between you as the waitress returned to guide you inside.

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. “Please, Sylus. You couldn’t handle being married to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning in with that infuriating smirk. “Oh, I think I could handle you just fine, sweetheart. You’re the one who might need to keep up.”

You shot back, “Keep up? I’d be carrying you the whole way.”

“Careful, Sweetie. That sounds an awful lot like a challenge.” He chuckled, his hand brushing against yours again. “Now that’s a tempting thought.”

“Tempting? Try exhausting,” you quipped.

As you walked beside him, you felt his arm brush against yours, and the sensation lingered far longer than it should have. Sylus, of course, said nothing, though the smug expression never quite left his face.

This was clearly far from over. And judging by the glint in his eye, Sylus was going to make sure you never forgot your little slip-up.

XAVIER

The café was quiet, filled with the soft murmur of patrons and the comforting smell of fresh pastries. You and Xavier had settled in for a peaceful afternoon, your table already adorned with a delightful array of treats. He had requested a simple drink—no whipped cream. The barista returned, placing his drink in front of him with an impressive mountain of whipped cream on top. Xavier, as calm and indifferent as ever, simply blinked at it, showing no signs of complaint. He wasn’t going to say a word about it, but that didn’t mean you were going to let it slide.

Excusing yourself, you raised a hand and called over a passing staff member. “Excuse me,” you began, with a polite smile. “My husband asked for no whipped cream on his drink, but it looks like there’s some here by mistake. Would it be alright for us to get it changed?”

The words tumbled out so smoothly that you didn’t even realize your slip-up until the staff member nodded apologetically and hurried back to fix the order. It was only when you turned back around that you saw Xavier sitting there, looking unusually... stunned.

He was blinking slowly at you, his expression softened by a hint of confusion and—was that amusement? “Husband?” he repeated, his soft voice barely more than a murmur.

Your face flushed as you fumbled for an explanation. “Oh, no, wait—! I didn’t mean—” You stammered, desperately trying to backtrack. “That just slipped out! I meant to say…uh my boyfriend? Partner? Date? Not—well, not husband, obviously…”

Xavier continued to blink, his face now showing just a little more expression than usual. The faintest curl of a smile played on his lips, and he tilted his head, considering your words. “I must’ve missed that chapter in the 'Guide to a Healthy Relationship,'” he said in that calm, unruffled way of his. “I didn’t know we’d moved on to the husband-and-wife stage.”

You groaned inwardly, burying your face in your hands. “I swear, it was an accident. Just ignore what I said.”

But Xavier was clearly in no mood to let it go. “So, dear wife,” he continued, completely unfazed by your protests, “do you think we’ll have matching mugs in our future? Maybe get a nice house, with a small garden and a picket fence?”

You shot him a playful glare, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to stay annoyed. “Very funny,” you muttered, though your lips were twitching at the corners, betraying your amusement.

“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Xavier said, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying this far more than you expected. “I wonder how long it would take for people in the association to start sending us wedding gifts. Or perhaps they'd just send weapons... you know, as a gesture of goodwill.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think wedding gifts are really their style, Xavier.”

“Hmm, you’re probably right,” he said thoughtfully, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But you did call me your husband in public. Shouldn’t we at least play the part now?”

Your cheeks were burning, but you couldn’t resist playing along with his ridiculousness. “Fine,” you said, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “But just so you know, dear husband, you’ll be the one doing the dishes.”

Xavier chuckled softly, the sound rare and surprisingly warm. “As long as you take care of meals. A fair trade.”

You were about to retort when the waitress returned with Xavier’s newly corrected drink—this time, free of whipped cream. She set it down with a smile, glancing between the two of you as if she’d picked up on the playful atmosphere. “Here you go,” she said. “No whipped cream this time, sir.”

Xavier’s eyes glinted as he thanked her with a nod, and after she left, he looked back at you with a satisfied expression. “See? Husband perks,” he teased, taking a sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the smile spreading across your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he said, the teasing lilt in his voice gentler now. He took your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “But... thank you,” he added after a beat, his voice softer and more sincere. “For speaking up for me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off by the gratitude in his tone. “Of course,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “That’s what wives do, right?”

Xavier let out a soft laugh. “I suppose so,” he murmured, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

In that moment, with his hand in yours and the gentle teasing in the air, it was easy to forget the world outside the café. Just the two of you, playing pretend—but maybe, just maybe, something more.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

[berrryparfait]

❝ i don't look good in this dress... ❞ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

♥︎ featuring: sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader | prompt

— ༉‧₊ᐟ premise: you don't think this dress looks good on you... he begs to differ. 「i really don't see what you're seeing, babe.」

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: fluff, shopping date, reader tries on a dress that hugs her curves and doesn't like how it looks, mentions of weight loss, insecurity, reassurance, he's whipped and worships the ground you walk on

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: lipstick – charlie puth

✧ a/n: requested work that i rushed to complete because i wanted all of u to know that u are GORGEOUS. do us all a favor and wear that dress girl ♡(>ᴗ•)

Nothing makes you happier than a shopping date with the love of your life. The way he’d been so eager to plan this day—to put a smile on your pretty face as if your happiness were his own… Well, it is.

You’d made preparations of your own, too. You had a rough idea of what you wanted to try on, and you’re determined not to leave empty-handed today. All that’s left is to slip into the dresses you’ve picked.

But when you finally zip this one up, it’s… not what you’d hoped for. And deep down, part of you knows—it’s not the dress’s fault.

“Babe, I don’t look good in this dress…”

Sylus lounges on the fitting room couch, one arm stretched out on top of the backrest. He’s been sitting here this whole time, thoroughly enjoying the view each time you emerge from behind the curtains.

He’s cleared out the store today for you to shop “in peace,” so it’s just you, him, and two store assistants in the room.

He frowns at your words, raking his piercing eyes up and down the length of your body once more. A disbelieving smirk curls his lips as he drawls, “Don’t be ridiculous, sweetie. You look ravishing in this dress—in fact, I’ll have them ring it up for us right now—”

“I-I don’t think I want this one, babe…” You sigh as you gaze at your reflection in the mirror, the dress cinching your body in all the wrong places. It just looks…unflattering.

Sylus waves the assistants away and studies your expression once more, realization dawning. He’s always thought you pulled off everything you’ve ever worn—to him, this dress is no different. But he knows about your insecurities…

“…I’ve made my opinion clear, Kitten, but you can’t seem to get it in that head of yours that you are unreasonably beautiful.”

You smile at his words, though it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. You’ve heard him compliment your looks a thousand times now, but insecurities aren’t so easily vanquished. They start and end with… well, you. No one else can touch them.

“I love you for that, Sy—but it’s not that simple. I’ve lived with these thoughts my whole life.”

His arrogant stance softens, and though the sureness in his voice remains. To him, your beauty is fact—an indisputable one.

“I don’t mean to undermine what you’ve been through. I only mean to highlight my perspective.” He stands up and twirls you around like you’re dandelions waltzing through a ballroom of wind, his hands memorizing every curve, every dip of your body. “If you could only see yourself the way I do… I’d squander the world for just another glimpse.”

Zayne leans against a wall, your leather purse in hand. He waits patiently while you try on each piece of clothing, occasionally pulling out his phone to skim through articles on cardiothoracic surgery training in Japan.

You step out of the fitting room wearing a form-fitting black dress, unsure what to think of it. It feels a little tight around your hips, and though you’ve been eager to try it on for days, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You glance at your reflection in the mirror and fight the urge to retreat into the fitting room before anyone else sees you.

Zayne catches the panic in your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s just… This dress makes me look chubbier, don’t you think?”

He tilts his head and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It accentuates your curves, which is hardly something to be upset about. You look beautiful—as always.”

His words warm you, but the tightness in your chest remains, your insecurities gripping your ribcage like a clawed hand. “I should lose some weight…” you mutter.

His brows knit together as he steps closer, concern softening his features. “Don’t sacrifice your health and wellbeing for the sake of meeting society’s so-called 'beauty standards. They’re unrealistic, fabricated, and frankly, unattainable. Your natural body is perfect just the way it is, and I mean that." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "This dress is gorgeous because you’re wearing it.”

He cups your cheek in his palm, and you smile up at him. Sensitive, adoring Zayne. While it’ll take more than an ultra-romantic speech to quiet the voice inside your head, his reassurance soothes the ache you’ve carried for years.

What once was a scar is now a patch of healing tissue—thanks in part to Zayne’s unwavering affirmations, and in part to your own efforts to love and accept yourself.

A group of girls are parading their outfits a few booths down from yours, giggling and squealing as they pose for photos. They’re stunning—slim and toned in all the right places, with flawless skin and sculpted jawlines.

You glance down at the dress you’re wearing, and it feels like a punch to the gut. How can you ever compete with girls like that? How do you look next to them? A nauseating wave of envy and self-doubt crashes over you, and your eyes instinctively seek out Rafayel for reassurance.

He’s staring at you with wide, hazy eyes, lips slightly parted as his gaze roams over your body. You blush, self-conscious, crossing your arms over your torso.

He jolts back to reality, the misty look on his face evaporating. “What was that for? I was enjoying the view.”

“You don’t have to lie, you know. This dress isn’t for me…”

He shakes his head, clearly baffled, and closes the distance between you in two strides. A half-smirk pulls at his lips as he says, “You’re kidding me, right? You look fuckin’ hot.” His hands trail down your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. “Can we get this one? Please?” he murmurs into your ear.

You gently push him away. “...Nah. It’s unflattering on me.”

Rafayel scoffs, but there’s a surprising tenderness in his eyes when he says, “Listen, babe, you’re the most drop-dead gorgeous woman on earth, and the fact that you can’t see that? It genuinely breaks my heart. Tragic, really—”

You smack his arm and chuckle, the heaviness in your chest already starting to lift. Bless Rafayel and his ability to pull you from the depths of your own mind. Turning back to the mirror, you glance at your reflection again and think… It does make your ass look amazing. “…Maybe I will get it.”

“That’s my girl.” His grin turns wicked. “I can’t wait to take it off you…”

Xavier is dozing off on the couch, his head drooping and his eyelids fluttering. It’s an adorable sight—one that nearly distracts you from the reflection in the dressing room mirror.

Your hands smooth over the fabric of the blue cocktail dress, its fit on your body…disappointing. This isn’t how it looked on the mannequin, you think, heat blooming in your cheeks. All at once, your insecurities come crashing down, suffocating you with reminders that you’re “less than”, that you’ll never feel truly comfortable in your own skin—

“I like that dress. You look good.”

You spin around to see Xavier now sitting upright, his gaze fixed on your back. “You think so?”

He nods, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. But then again, everything looks good on you. It’s you.”

You bite your lip, hesitant to turn around. “You don’t think it makes me look… I don’t know…bigger?”

“Uhh…?” He frowns, confused. “What do you mean? Turn around. I want to see it.”

Slowly, you turn to face him, baring the gentle curve of your breasts and the mound of your tummy. You avert your gaze, fidgeting under the weight of his stare.

“Oh.”

“You don’t like it?” your voice wavers, your heart freezing as the blood drains from your face.

He shakes his head rapidly and shifts in his seat. “N-No, it’s not that… I just— I—” He quickly folds his arms over his lap, and you understand immediately.

A laugh escapes your lips.

He glares at you. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry! You’ve just really boosted my confidence today, that’s all,” you say between giggles. Suddenly, the mirror doesn’t seem so cruel. If this turns him on just by looking at it…

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hot. We get it…” he mutters, still throwing you dirty looks on the car ride home.

You spin around in the yellow sundress, the fabric hugging your curves and accentuating your hips. It looked different when the model wore it online…

Caleb is gawking at you from outside the fitting booth, arms crossed over his chest. “That dress looks so sexy on you, Pips. Let me get it for you—”

“Wait! I, uh… I don’t know how I feel about it…” You try not to betray your emotions, shoving the knot of insecurity down your throat. You’ve always struggled with body image, but you don’t want to worry Caleb by bringing it up.

Or worse—put those ideas into his head.

He steps forward, placing his hands gently on your waist as he takes in the way the fabric cascades down your legs, how it emphasizes your soft curves and full breasts. The very sight of you in it steals the breath from his lungs.

“Is this about your body?” he asks carefully, clearly afraid of striking a nerve.

You look down at your feet and shift uneasily, the nagging feeling intensifying beneath the weight of his gaze.

Caleb leans in and tilts your face up to meet his. “...Hey. I’ve traveled the world, and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on, okay?” His thumbs stroke your cheeks with the softness of a summer breeze. “Why else would I be dating you—your personality?”

You glare at him, fighting to suppress a smile.

He wraps you in his arms before you can argue, and you melt into his embrace, allowing yourself—for once—to believe him.

You’re strong, funny, determined, and kind; and let’s not forget the fact that you pulled Caleb, the hottest pilot in any airport and the only man who sees you for exactly who you are.

“You’re the eighth wonder of the world, babe. Inside and out.”

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[ratherchili]

𖹭 cw: suggestive, edgy, mdni

part one | two | three | four | five ‹soon›

You are in the kitchen fussing over a curry when your big brother's friend sukuna returns the very next day. Alone. Toji had the decency to warn you, so when sukuna sneaks up behind you, you manage not to jump out of your skin. You do however, shoot a glare at him over your shoulder when he powers off your Bluetooth speaker and gives your ponytail a hard tug. "Hey brat," he says, sniffing over your shoulder. "Miss me?"

"Smells good," he says, when you don't dignify his question with a response.

"It's not for you," you huff.

"Not talking about that slop," he says, close enough that you feel his breath against your neck.

"Back off," you round on him, brandishing your curry-stained spoon.

"Scary," he says, before he leans in and licks the utensil with the broad flat of his tattooed tongue, much to your dismay and his subsequent amusement.

You groan as you turn away to rinse the spoon in the sink. Why Toji thought it would be a good idea for his overgrown lackey to stay here until his return, you just can't understand. Doesn't help that he refuses to explain it to you. "Just tell me if he leaves," he had rasped at you before abruptly hanging up. You question what gods you have angered to put you in this situation as you watch the suds circle the drain.

"Toji says you have to stay so-"

"I don't give a fuck what Toji says," he interjects.

"So you're leaving?" You ask hopefully as you dry your hands.

"No."

"Then we should set some ground rul-" you trail off as you turn to see him tugging his shirt off over his head with his lower pair of arms. His chest and abdomen are tattooed in a similar linear pattern as his jaw line, you notice. Bold black marks like nature might bestow on some highly poisonous insect as a warning. Fitting for him, then.

"You were saying?" He prompts with a smirk as you realize you are staring instead of speaking.

"Can't you do that somewhere else?" You snap, rapidly losing what little patience you had to begin with.

"Do what?" He asks, as if he doesn't know. He crosses both sets of his stupidly muscular arms over his stupidly muscular chest, making every striation and vein stand out. On purpose. He does it on purpose. Why does he have to look like that? It's so annoying. You hate him. Hate him.

To your horror, you feel heat creeping up your neck all the way to the tops of your ears. The flush must be visible, judging by the amused expression on his face, which makes you even angrier.

"I don't know," you begin, gesturing wildly at him, "Exist? Could you just go exist somewhere fucking else?" You realize distantly that you are shouting. He is smiling and inching closer. "And if that's too much trouble, maybe you could - I don't know - do the world a favor and fucking kill yourself, huh? How about that?"

You continue on screaming at him, expelling at top volume and long last, your extensive list of grievances. You don't even realize that you have been backing away from him until your ass connects with the counter. By then, it is too late because his upper hands are cupping your chin, squishing your cheeks so that your words come out slurred just before he silences you completely with his mouth. You can taste the curry as your lips part for his tongue, out of pure shock, of course.

Your lips remain parted even after he breaks the kiss, panting as he grins at you. Before you can collect your scattered thoughts, movement drags your eyes down his abdomen, which, to your horror, splits open just below his navel. At first, you think he's injured, but when a large, wet tongue lolls out of the opening, you realize that it is just another anatomical anomaly. Stomach mouth. Why not? You scream all the way to your bedroom. His laughter echoes after you even after you've slammed the door shut.

A vague desire to not burn your brother's house down - at least not with yourself still in it - finally pulls you from your hiding place. The monster is nowhere in sight and, it would seem, he turned off the stovetop for you. The curry is salvageable, although a bit of the sauce is burned to the bottom of the pan. Your pride, on the other hand, well, that remains to be seen.

part one | two | three | four | five ‹soon›

taglist ‹ age in your bio to be added ›

@orikixx ; @scorpiosugar ; @just-lilita ; @shesabeeler ; @maybe-a-bi-witch ; @cairo-morningstar ; @rawwrrgal ; @sukubusss ; @raedollsstuff ; @expiredbred ; @ieathairs ; @frieddelusionparadise ; @hishearttohave ; @vellichor01 ; @mimiluvzu2 ; @lem-hhn ; @msrr-ws ; @paradisestarfishh ; @yuj111tadori ; @iminlovewqr0w ; @linaaeatsfamilies ; @samisfunky ; @noyaskneepad ; @shxyxyxxxx ; @00frenchfries00 ; @chubbyblckgirl ; @mysticranger575 ; @waterfal-ling ; @chiizuyu ; @contaminatedcupcake ; @littlesnoopy ; @dizzydotjpeg ; @sugufushi ; @missbunnybunny ; @go-go-gadget-autism ; @grapelover2000 ; @mmeerraa ; @tsukikoxo ; @slqttttt ; @akumazwrld ; @christiannugget ; @zlimeyzenin

[camficdiner]

I am loving your writing! Can I please order: [1.2] [2.7 and 2.4] [3.6] [4.2] with an age gap older woman x younger man (6ish years). Like they meet rando with coffee and they hit it off and she just invites him to a wedding so she has a plus one?

☕️ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 052

🍒 Thank you for order, angel. This one’s bold, elegant, a little older, and a lot unexpected.

💬 “You’re cute. Want to come to a wedding?”

✨ Description and prompts:

character: Quinn Hughes

prompt: Age gap (you’re 35+), coffee spill meet-cute, fake dating for your sister’s wedding

word count: ~1.9k

type: fluff,smut.

tropes: fake dating, accidental meet-cute, age gap, classy lawyer x young hockey player, bold woman energy

📦 Tips keep the diner open: ko-fi.com/camficdiner

—

You’re in heels too sharp for how fast you’re walking and running five minutes late for a client call when the universe, in all its chaotic glory, slams Quinn Hughes directly into your path.

Well, more accurately — you slam into him.

Coffee. Everywhere.

On his hoodie. Down the sleeve. On his jeans.

“Oh god,” you gasp, already grabbing napkins, reaching for his chest. “I am so sorry—shit, this is hot. Are you okay?”

He stares at you like you’ve just knocked him off balance — which, to be fair, you kind of did.

“I—yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he says. Voice a little too soft for someone covered in oat milk latte.

You don’t clock who he is. Not yet.

All you see is a tall, broad, very pretty boy in a Canucks hoodie, blinking like you’ve short-circuited him.

He’s young. Definitely younger than you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps looking at you, lips parted, coffee cooling down on his chest.

“I’ll buy you another,” you say quickly. “And probably a dry-cleaning voucher.”

He finally huffs a breath of a laugh. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It should be.”

—

You buy him another coffee. He offers to pay. You ignore him.

You find a table by the window while your phones buzz in your pockets — both of you avoiding the world for just a second.

“So,” he says, after his second sip. “Do you usually tackle strangers with caffeine, or am I just lucky?”

You smile. “Depends who you ask.”

He laughs. “What do you do?”

You sip your drink. “Lawyer. Defense.”

He nods slowly, like he didn’t expect that. “You look like one.”

You tilt your head. “That a compliment?”

He blushes. “Yeah. I mean. You’re dressed really nice. Expensive. Confident. I don’t know.”

You let the silence sit for a beat, then glance at your phone.

“My sister’s wedding is next week.”

His brows lift. “Okay.”

“I need a plus one.”

A pause.

“…Okay?”

You meet his eyes. “You’re cute. Can you be my plus one?”

He freezes — stunned, unsure if you’re joking.

“Wait, seriously?”

You nod. “Why not?”

He stares at you, cheeks pink. “You don’t even know me.”

“You drink oat milk. You didn’t yell when I ruined your hoodie. You laughed at my jokes. That’s more than most men manage.”

His mouth twitches.

You shrug. “Just pretend to be my date for the day. I’ll feed you. And you get to wear a suit.”

He grins now. “You really just ask strangers to weddings?”

“No. Just you.”

—

 It starts when he shows up to your apartment, on time, in a suit that fits way too well for someone you met via spilled latte.

“You clean up nice,” you say, half teasing, half staring.

He adjusts his tie with a nervous smile. “You don’t look like you needed a date. You look like the bride.”

You roll your eyes. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

⸻

The car ride to the wedding is oddly calm. Quinn doesn’t speak much — just watches the road, nods along to your rants about the seating chart disaster and your cousin’s TikTok obsession.

When you arrive, he opens the door for you.

Carries the gift box.

Touches the small of your back when you walk through the hall.

Your mom’s the first to clock him.

“Oh. You brought someone.”

You smile, steady. “Mom, this is Quinn. Quinn, this is my mother, the scariest cross-examiner I know.”

Quinn offers his hand. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”

Your mom raises an eyebrow — and you see her eyes linger.

Quinn is young. It’s obvious. But he carries himself with such awkward grace that it softens the blow.

You mingle. You sip Prosecco. He leans in close to comment about the appetizers and smiles when you laugh too loud.

And then—

“Wait a minute.” Your sister, in full glam, stares. “Since when do you date hockey players?”

You choke. Quinn doesn’t even blink.

You turn slowly. “What?”

She waves her champagne flute. “Quinn Hughes. Captain of the Canucks? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

You glance at Quinn.

He offers a small shrug and a smirk, clearly unbothered.

Your sister steps closer. “You know he’s, like, what, ten years younger?”

“six,” you correct on instinct.

Her eyes widen.

You clear your throat. “He’s my date.”

She hums. “And is this just… fake dating?”

You hesitate.

Quinn answers. “I’m her boyfriend.”

You whip around. He gives you a soft look — almost daring you to contradict him.

“Yeah,” you say. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

Your sister raises both brows but smiles. “Well. You always did have taste.”

⸻

The rest of the night is a blur.

People talk.

Some whisper.

Your aunt calls him your boy toy under her breath.

But Quinn never flinches. Never steps back.

He dances with you.

He holds your hand when no one’s looking.

He grabs your waist when they are.

At one point, while you’re refilling your glass at the bar, he leans in, mouth near your ear.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Are you?”

He shrugs. “I like pretending.”

You glance at him. “Pretending what?”

“That I’m yours.”

You stare.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Just waits for your response like it means something.

You feel your throat go tight.

“Quinn—”

He brushes your hand with his. “Let’s go back in. Your mom wants a picture.”

You nod.

But something shifts in your chest.

Because you’re starting to forget it’s fake.

And maybe… he is too.

-----

It’s after the cake. After the cousin’s drunk speech.

After Quinn’s hand brushed yours for the fiftieth time like he didn’t mean it — and you pretended not to feel it each time.

You close the door behind you in your hotel suite, drop your clutch on the armchair, and kick off your heels. You’re about to unzip your dress when—

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

You turn. Quinn’s there, right behind you.

You exhale. “You don’t have to keep pretending, Hughes. Wedding’s over.”

“I’m not pretending.”

You hold his stare. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t back down.

“You don’t have to mean it,” you say softer, more unsure. “I know this wasn’t real.”

“It was for me.”

Silence.

Then, a breathy laugh escapes you. “You’re twenty-seven.”

“So?” He steps closer.

“I’m thirty-three, Quinn.”

“Not when I look at you.”

Your back hits the wall.

He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t have to.

“You think this is just because of the wedding?” he asks, voice low, mouth inches from yours. “Because I was in a suit?”

You don’t answer.

“You think I haven’t noticed you watching me? Every time I touched your back, your hand, your hip.”

You close your eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m not just a boy.”

“You are,” you whisper. “You’re just a kid with a pretty face—”

His mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not a kiss — it’s possession. It’s all the slow burn and tight-lipped restraint from weeks of pretending, now torn apart.

And when he does touch you — hands sliding over your waist, up your sides, down your thighs — you forget every rule you ever set.

You moan into his mouth, and that’s when he pulls back just enough to smirk.

“Still think I’m a kid?”

You swallow. “You tell me.”

He drops to his knees.

⸻

Your dress is around your waist. Your thighs are spread on the bed. He’s between them, devouring you like he’s starving — like he’s been waiting months for this.

His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles, alternating with firm pressure and maddening flicks. And then? One long, deliberate suck on your clit.

“Quinn—” you gasp, head falling back. “F—fuck, where did you learn—”

He hums against you, sending vibrations through your core.

And then you feel it — the pressure building. The kind you haven’t felt in years.

“Wait—Quinn— I’m gonna—”

He holds you down.

You cry out as the release hits — hard, overwhelming, and soaking.

You blink in disbelief, staring at the wet patch under you.

“Did I—?”

He looks up, mouth glistening, eyes shining.

“Yeah,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “You did.”

You’re breathless. “I haven’t—no one’s ever—”

He crawls up over you, slow and confident.

“Guess I’m not just a boy after all.”

⸻

When he’s inside you, it’s slow. Purposeful.

He’s deep — impossibly deep. His hands are on your hips, holding you in place while he thrusts with gentle strength, a rhythm that builds with every second.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your neck. “You were made for this.”

You bite your lip, overwhelmed.

He notices.

“Say it.”

You shake your head.

He thrusts deeper. “Say it.”

“You’re not just a boy,” you whisper, wrecked.

He kisses you — slow, sensual, tongue dragging against yours.

“Say you’re mine.”

You nod. “I’m yours.”

You wake up sore, satisfied, and tangled in bedsheets that still smell like him.

He’s behind you, bare chest warm against your back, arm slung low over your hips, hand lazily stroking your thigh like he’s trying to memorize the shape.

“You awake?” he murmurs, voice scratchy, low.

You hum. “Barely.”

Silence stretches. He kisses your shoulder.

“I don’t want to go back to pretending,” he says, quietly. “Not after this.”

You turn in his arms, searching his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

You smile. “Then it’s real.”

A pause. Then, with a sleepy smirk—

“…Still want me to come to your sister’s wedding brunch?”

You laugh into his chest. “Only if you wear that suit again.”

He grins. “Only if you wear nothing under your dress.”

[marvelstoriesepic]

Five days, Five bouquets

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?"

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: talk of a fake marriage for the sake of a mission; fluffff

Author’s Note: This is written for the writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I wasn’t planning on writing something so soon because I’ve still got a project going on right now, but your prompts and everything were just so alluring, I couldn’t help myself. I hope you enjoy this, my dearest. And I am almost entirely certain that this won’t be my only entry to your writing challenge, because I've got some more ideas lol. Here is a small continuation to this story: A Home for Now

Divider by @saradika-graphics ♡

Masterlist

“Again, Bucky?”

You don’t even try to mask your breathless laughter, the warmth of it slipping through as you rise from your seat.

The front door clicks shut behind Bucky and he scuffs off his boots half-heartedly on the door mat. There is a bouquet of flowers in his hand. And an even larger grin on his face.

The table before you is still cluttered with the remnants of your cover - documents, notes, a meticulously crafted facade of a life together.

A life that isn’t real, except for moments like these, when the borders become smudged just enough to make you wonder.

“‘Course, sweetheart,” he says, still smiling so wide, but his tone does not hold a trace of irony. “What kinda guy d’you think I am? Four days in a row and I just stop?” He scoffs as if the mere thought offends him. His voice is honeyed.

He stalks over to you standing at the table and holds the bouquet out for you. It is an understatedly beautiful arrangement of dusky pink roses, fluffy ruffled carnations, ivory lilies with petals curling slightly at the edges. Wisps of silvery foliage peek through, adding a breath of frost to the warmth. And then there are the deep inky leaves interwoven among the blooms, like something divine pulled from the shadows.

You take them with fingers that begin to tremble just slightly. His hand brushes over yours. A blush makes its way up your face just like every time.

You have been undercover for five days, posing as a married couple by orders from Nick Fury. And every day, even though it’s not at all necessary for you both to keep your cover, Bucky brings you a bouquet when he gets ‘home’ from his fake job.

He is embedded in a high-profile consulting firm, shadowing a suspect deeply tangled in covert operations, while you take a closer look at his wife. She’s not at all innocent. She manages high-stakes charity galas, the kind that funnel money into places they shouldn’t be. You play the devoted wife, hosting brunches, attending yoga classes she goes to, letting cautious friendships lead you to the information you need.

Five days. Five bouquets.

Each one different, but all of them hold some unspoken thing. Something that makes you shiver.

The choking in your throat is disguised with a roll of your eyes. “You do know we’re supposed to be laying low, right? Kinda hard when you’re single-handedly funding the local florist,” you tease rather lightly.

Bucky chuckles, low but bright, and you swear you feel the sound more than you hear it. “Oh c’mon, doll. Long as we’re playin’ house, I gotta keep my wife happy.”

This is a joke. It is all a joke. But your pulse is not laughing, only speeding up, tripping at the way he puts emphasis on wife. As if the word fits too well in his mouth, as if he could get used to it.

Bucky has always been a gentleman to you. Even outside of missions. But since you started this one, moving into the same house on the outskirts of town for the sake of your cover, the grumpiness and stoicism that usually surround his aura at the compound are completely lost here with you. You’ve never seen him smile as much as you have in the last five days.

You clutch the bouquet a little tighter, take a closer look, and take in the many appealing colors and scents. “Thank you, Bucky. I love those,” you say warmly.

His expression falters just a fraction like it does every time, not quite knowing what to do with genuine gratitude when it’s meant for him. Although you show it to him all the time. A flicker of something unguarded passes over his features before he covers it with a scoff that only makes it out halfway. He looks off to the side, shifting his weight. “Well, can’t have my wife thinkin’ I'm slipping already now, can I?” he laughs a little awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, the tips of his ears just the slightest bit of pink.

You turn with a huffed laugh and perform the task of putting away the flowers. Shaking your head, you start to get highly aware of the wedding band around your finger, a piece of fiction Tony gave you to wear. It looks so real, yet it is a lie. And you hate it.

“Do I need to remind you that we’re not actually married?” The words fall with amusement but they sit heavier in the air than they should.

The ring fits perfectly, Tony made sure of that. But it still somehow presses against your skin. As if to remind you that Bucky is not truly yours.

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. You see him tilting his head from your peripherals as you reach for a vase. His smile is softened. “Don’t matter, sweetheart. Might as well treat you like my wife.” His voice is quieter now, less teasing. But sure.

The kitchen and living room are already brimming with the past four days of his affections.

One arrangement graces the coffee table, another stands by the window, and two more are carefully nestled between books on the shelf at the wall to your left. A home suffused with color, with life, with something neither of you dares to call by name.

You feel the warmth of his gaze on you. He doesn’t say anything, standing there relaxed, still with that proud and fond smile on his face, watching you as if he is engraving in his memory the way you fuss over where to place this latest offering.

And maybe you take just a little longer than necessary because if you turn too soon, you’ll have to meet his eyes.

And you don’t know if you can right now.

You’re not sure if you’d be able to look away.

But you know you should. Because this is not real.

But maybe - and this is the hope speaking - it could be someday.

“Imagine someone thinking of you and buying you flowers.”

- sleepyurl

[moonstruckme]

One of my favorite little details about your poly!marauders works is how fit and strong James is, especially with how often, and how easily, he picks up or carries around y/n. Could I request a fic with the four of them but he gives the same treatment to his boys as well for whatever reason? Both sounding so exasperated but secretly loving every second of it because they love their sweet strong boy so much and love being babied as well? 🥺

Ahhh yes I can't believe I haven't done this more! It will definitely have to become more common in the poly marauders drabbles, thanks angel <3

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 670 words

By the time the credits roll, you’re all drifting off. Sirius’ eyelids are drooping where his head rests on your chest; Remus is snoring softly on James’ shoulder. You and James share a fond look as you turn off the telly. 

You sit in silence for a few moments, your sitting room dark but for the orange glow of streetlights coming in through the window. Unwilling to end the peaceful night. 

“Alright,” James sighs after a moment, worming his arms underneath Remus’ legs and torso. Remus begins to rouse as he does, but he’s in the air before he catches onto what’s happening, hoisted up against James’ chest. 

He makes a sleepy, demurring sound. 

“You’re alright,” James reassures him in a soft voice. Your heart thumps, smitten. “We’re only going to bed.” 

Remus mumbles something like, “You don’t have to…” 

James shushes him. Remus is easily mollified, letting his head settle in the crook of James’ neck as he’s carried down the hall. You watch them go with a warm, goopy feeling in your chest and a tickle of amusement at your own fascination with the way James’ arm looks hooked under your boyfriend’s knees. 

You coil a piece of Sirius’ hair around your finger absently. “That was rather fit,” you murmur to him, “wasn’t it?” 

You could swear Sirius’ breathing evens out only just then. His head weighs heavier on your chest. 

You give a soft laugh. “Fraud,” you whisper. 

Sirius begins to snore. 

You sigh. “James,” you call quietly. 

No answer. 

“James.”  

Heavy but considerate footsteps sound in the hall. “Hm?” he asks as he peers around the corner. His expression softens when he sees Sirius. “Oh.” 

“I’m trapped,” you say. 

“I can see that. Never fear, I’ll rescue you.” James stoops, lifting Sirius as he had Remus. Sirius puts on a very good show of acting groggy, nuzzling James’ shirt a little as he turns into his chest. 

James smiles. You see his thumb sweep over Sirius’ shoulder. “I’ve got you, love,” he promises. 

You snort, and he gives you a funny look, but you know you see Sirius’ lips twitch before he’s taken down the hall. 

You consider feigning sleep yourself for a handful of moments. It probably wouldn’t be very convincing, but you think James would likely play along anyway. In the end, he comes back to the sitting room without prompting, giving you a puzzled look. 

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” he asks. 

You wet your lips, shy but unable to contain your smile. “I am,” you admit. “I just don’t know if I have the energy to walk there all by myself.” 

James, for the indignant air he tries to put on, is unable to hide his smile either. “You want a lift too, do you?” 

“Please?” you ask sweetly. “Everyone else got one.” 

Your boyfriend—your sweetheart—doesn’t even feign reluctance. He kisses the top of your head as he bends to get his arms under you, and you twine yours around his neck happily. His chest is warm and reassuringly solid. If you weren’t already home, you would be now. 

“Are we tiring you out?” you ask, somewhat contritely, as he lifts you from the sofa. 

James makes a quiet pffting sound. “You lot? Angel, I bench two hundred.” 

“You know I don’t know what that means.” 

“It means that I could lift the three of you together, and it wouldn’t be as much as I lifted at the gym yesterday.” 

“Doesn’t that mean you’re already sore, though?” 

“Not so sore,” James kisses your hair, sounding amused, “that I can’t help my loves to bed. Alright? Don’t worry about me, lovie.” 

He places you in an empty spot at the end of the bed, rounding it to lie in his spot by the nightstand where he leaves his glasses each night. As you roll over, getting comfortable with your head on the pillow, you hear a murmur so quiet it might only be air. 

“You were right,” says Sirius. “That was very fit.”

[indecisivemuch]

Apples

Pairing: Luke Castellan x Reader

Summary: You tossed an apple to Luke without knowing the meaning of it in Greek Mythology (fluff, friends to lovers, happy ending)

Note: Just wanted to write something lighthearted and funny. Since I saw somewhere that apparently throwing an apple at someone means something in Greek Mythology, thought I should use it as a prompt.

Word count: 3.1k

You have been at Camp Half-Blood for a year. Within that time, you’ve been claimed by your Godly parent, learned so many things about Greek mythology, and, best of all, made friends who understood exactly what you were going through and all whom you loved dearly. 

One of them was Luke Castellan. You two were relatively close friends, though you swore he treated you differently than he would with others at camp. But you didn’t want to be foolish and assumed it was something. That didn’t mean you don’t treat him differently than you would with other campers though. You have always had a soft spot for Luke in your heart. You weren’t exactly sure when it happened, but you found yourself thinking about him too often.

“Anyway, Percy. Don’t worry too much, honestly. We all have been through what you’re currently going through. You’ll fit right in, yeah?” the younger boy offered you a lope-sided smile as you patted his back and stood up. 

“Alright, boys, I have to go now, but I’ll see you later,” you said before grabbing your plate, which would have been empty if it wasn’t for the apple you hadn’t eaten. The rest of the table - which included Chris, Luke, and Percy - said their goodbyes before chattering again as you walked away. However, you halted as you changed your mind about wasting the apple.

You turned back to look at the group before calling out, “Hey, Castellan.” However, you were slightly caught off guard to see Luke already having his eyes on you.

Luke swore that you have always had him mesmerized. If he even heard a whisper of your voice, his head would immediately try to locate you. To make matters worse, Chris even started calling Luke a “lost puppy” when he realized how your departure would always leave Luke like one. 

“Catch,” you tossed your apple at Luke. 

Multiple heads turned in your direction as the red apple hurled through the air before landing neatly in Luke’s hands. The Hermes cabin counselor had his eyes glued onto the fruit that was in his palms. You almost halted in your steps from his and other camper’s reactions. Some started whispering to their friends, pointing at you. You even heard one gasp. But you ignored them, finding it strange that people cared so much about such a small interaction.

“You can have it. I don’t think I’ll have time to eat it,” with that, you vanished from the scene, leaving at least half of the camp agape, including Luke and your friends. 

Then, the strangest of things happened for the next few days. It started with Luke already stationed outside when you exited your cabin the morning after. He cheekily presented you with one singular flower in his hand, and you took it with playful words, “Ooh, what did I do to deserve this special treatment today?”

“Nothing, just thought I should show how much I appreciate you,” Luke put his arm over your shoulder as the two of you made your way to the dining pavilion. You could feel your cheeks flushing at his action. He has never done this before. With his arms around you, the sides of your bodies brushed as the two of you walked. You noticed almost immediately how every other person would have their eyes on the two of you. But you ignored the attention and focused on Luke instead.

The sweet actions didn’t stop at flowers or more physical touches. For the next three days, Luke was stuck to your hip. So it was quite strange that you have not spotted the Hermes cabin counselor in the last two hours. Hence why you were spending some time with Clarisse, another close friend of yours. However, you felt an arm swinging around your shoulders, and you instantly recognized who it was from the familiar touch.

“Hey, Clarisse, can I borrow Y/N real quick?” Luke asked, quickly muttering a “thank you” when your friend nodded. “So, I have something to give you…” your face must have shown how surprised you were because he chuckled at your reaction. However, when the boy pulled his gift out from his cargo pocket, your mouth fell slightly agape at the reveal. 

Luke must have misinterpreted your reaction because he started nervously rambling, his voice a few octaves higher, “It’s not much, but honestly, this is all I can do with my arts and crafts skills. I’m just not really good with that y-”

“It’s perfect, Luke. Thank you so much!” you gave him a brief hug, but it was enough to stun him for a second. Luke felt this urgent sense of craving from how your bodies fit for a second. It’s as if he was made to hold you. He almost pulled you back into another hug but had to force himself to regain composure. Nevertheless, that didn’t last long because his eyes softened again at the sight of you trying on the bracelet he made. The beads in your favorite color, crafted with care, wrapped around your wrist perfectly, and you wonder how he knew just the right size to make it.

The truth was Luke had to ask Clarisse to steal one of your bracelets just so he could make a bracelet of the correct size. But you didn't need to know that, though - according to him.

The next night, there was a social gathering near the campfire. Luke reapproached the location with a hoodie in hand. Earlier, Luke excused himself to fetch the clothing item that was now in his hand that was meant for you. However, his brows scrunched as he spotted another figure next to you, sitting in the spot that he previously occupied. You were laughing at something they said. The way your laugh echoed in his head usually sounded like a lullaby or the enchanting voice of a siren. But right now, the idea that someone else elicited the same laugh made him want to hurl behind the bush he was standing next to.

Little did he know you were zoning out from whatever the other boy was speaking about, thus the fake laugh to not blow your cover. You were distracted just thinking about Luke and everything he has done so far - offering his portion of dessert to you because he knew it was your favorite; him winning Capture the Flag and ignoring everybody else to go hug you first, then having his eyes on you and only you afterwards; sneaking out of camp to go buy the items you mentioned once that you wish you had at camp and so on. 

Your mind quickly reminded you that the boy sitting next to you was still talking to you. However, when you snapped out of your thoughts again, you realized now he was looking at you expectantly and you scrambled your mind for a reply.

Thank Gods Luke plopped down on your other side, saving you from having to admit to the other boy that you were not listening to him. “Hey, you’re back,” you commented. Luke’s arm automatically threw itself around your shoulder and tugged you to him slightly. Your body leaned on the Hermes cabin counselor ever so naturally at this before you turned to him. Luke quickly set his clothing on your lap, and you stared at it questioningly.

“You’re cold, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” your cheeks flushed again at how he knew without you telling him. You shivered maybe once or twice earlier due to the night air lowering the temperature, but it was so brief you were sure nobody had noticed. As you put on the hoodie, Luke averted his gaze from you to the guy on your other side. 

The Hermes cabin counselor arched one of his eyebrows in a challenging manner. Almost immediately, his ‘opponent’ slightly raised both of his hands. Luke internally snickered at the quick motion of surrender. 

“My bad, man,” you heard the other boy say as you managed to put your head through the clothing item and pull it down. Luke was physically preening at the other boy’s words and departure. Meanwhile, you were distracted by how you were engulfed by the smell of Luke from his hoodie. Your height difference also meant you were swimming in it, but it felt so comfortable.

“What was that?” you asked once the other boy was gone. 

“Nothing…” even the most oblivious person could see that Luke was lying. But, once again, you did not question his actions and carried on with the gathering. You could also feel other campers staring at the two of you, but you ignored that as well. 

That night - like every other night since four days ago - he walked you back to your cabin. You were honestly completely smitten by the attention he has given you, not that you would admit that to him. You were still not sure what caused the change, but you were still elated about it. Maybe he did return your feelings? Either way, everything felt perfect lately, and you went to sleep that night feeling like the stars aligned for you.

“I guess congratulations are in order?” Percy spoke up as you lined up for food the following day. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, taking the plate of food. Today’s meal consisted of mac n’ cheese, steak, and an apple. 

“You’re engaged?” you almost dropped your plate at that and gave the son of Poseidon a questioning look. “You proposed to Luke like a week ago?”

“What? When?”

“When you threw him the apple? That is considered a marriage proposal.”

“Since when?”

“Uh, in Ancient Greek culture, it’s considered a marriage proposal if a man throws an apple at a lady. But, I mean, it’s the 21st century, so I guess it can work both ways.” Percy finally took a plate of food for himself. “And if the recipient catches it, it’s considered an acceptance.”

“You saw this and knew this whole time without telling me?!?” 

“I thought you knew! And you two seem so smitten already, so I thought you did it on purpose.”

“Percy, no! Is this a well-known thing? Do you think other people who saw it too thought I proposed to Luke as well?” Seeing Percy’s look and how he was fumbling with his words, you quickly requested, “Actually, no, don’t answer that.” 

The two of you walked over to Luke and Chris with plates in hand. You picked up the apple on your plate and placed it on the table. 

“Luke, we need to talk,” You deliberately placed the fruit there, hoping the boy would get a hint about the topic you wanted to discuss. Luke’s eyes flicked from the fruit to you. Though the hint of amusement in his eyes and a sheepish grin made you realize he knew all along. Luke stood up and followed you out of sight and hearing distance from other campers whose eyes were trailing after the two of you.

“You knew what it meant, and you didn’t tell me?” You broke the silence as soon as you two were far away enough. 

“Listen, I appreciate your proposal. But, it’s a little bit fast, don’t you think?” Luke teased, and you instantly hit his arm at that, causing the boy to flinch slightly, but the smile on his face told you he was anything but mad at your action.

“But you caught it. So, technically, you said yes,” you rebutted, sighing as you rubbed your face, “My Gods, does everybody at camp think we’re engaged? Wait, is this a substitute for an engagement ring? Did you give this to me because of that?” you pointed to the bracelet Luke gave you, your mind now understanding Clarisse’s teasing and her implications. You could see the way Luke was stifling a laugh. He settled with saying something else when he saw the pure panic on your face.

“Sweetheart, calm down.” the nickname successfully silenced you. You hated how it made you feel, but you would not mind hearing that daily. “No, it’s not an engagement ring.”

“Oh, so were you doing all of these romantic gestures and gifts on purpose to make fun of me and the situation?” you asked, though it was more with a lighthearted tone than one of temper. However, something shifted because the expression on Luke’s face changed from one of humor to earnestness.

“No, I didn’t do all this to make fun of the situation or you…” Luke’s voice fell off as tried to find the right words to say next. In that split second, Luke took a deep breath, and you could see how nervous he suddenly became, though he still kept a light tone. “I did it because I took it as a chance to maybe…win you over, and it also gives me an advantage because it fended off many other guys.” 

Undoubtedly, you were frozen in place, unable to register the words he was saying and the implications they bear. Neither did the boy in front of you act like the Luke you usually know - somebody who was usually confident, outgoing, always having his way with words. No, the person in front of you could not even hold eye contact, the pink hue on his cheeks now spreading to the tip of his ears as he shifted left and right. Luke broke the silence first, giving away the nerves that were gnawing him away from your lack of response.

“How about this? I’ll say ‘no’ to your mind-blowing marriage proposal for now,” you lightheartedly hit him again, rolling your eyes playfully. Seeing a positive reaction from you, Luke let out a small breath of relief, but the nerves quickly overtook again as he mustered up all the courage to utter his counter proposal: “But maybe we could start with something slower like going on a date? — Or I’ll even settle with you allowing me to try and ‘woo’ you.” Luke added the last bit as insurance, in case you didn’t want to take up on the date. Part of his mind wanted to scowl at himself for seeming so desperate - but Gods, he has always been a desperate man when it comes to you. 

“You’re such a dork.”

“Yet you still proposed to me.”

“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?” Luke only shook his head in response. Once again, you haven’t responded to his offer. Luke could see that you were in deep thought, the cogs turning in your head as you digested what he just said.

“You mean it? That you wanna go on a date? That you wanna ��woo” me and sweep me off my feet?” you questioned. Despite the humor in your voice, there was also a hint of vulnerability and cautiousness. “Does this mean what you’ve been doing for the past few days…they are all genuine?”

“Is it that hard to believe that I like you? I don’t think you even fully understand the feelings I have for you. I’ve had my eyes on you for a year now, which is the entire time I know you, and I’m afraid I can’t see that changing any time soon.” Luke had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying more because he was sure he would never stop talking about you if he could. Maybe those unspoken words ought to be things Luke would disclose in the future. If you give him the chance, he will ensure you hear everything he adored about you.

“Well, that’s good then, ‘cause I happen to like you too,” your words made Luke’s eyes snap to yours, almost in disbelief. 

Luke felt as if his heart was blocking his airway by the way it was thumping so hard in his chest to the point he could feel the vibration in his neck. He held his breath over your confession and the way you were looking at him. Oh, Luke was convinced he was utterly doomed because how could he be so affected by one single look. He was suddenly unsure whether he would be able to handle your affections or ever live without it if it was taken from him. He’d spend the rest of eternity like a deprived man.

“Aw, look who is nervous now,” you teased, deciding to somewhat torture him and get him back for teasing you earlier. “I did not think I had this kind of effect on you, Castellan,” you approached him slowly, keeping eye contact with his now dilated pupils. 

“I mean…all I did was say a couple of words and you’re all tongue tied. What would happen to you if I do this?” you swiftly grabbed Luke’s camp beads and pulled him down, eliminating a significant amount of space between your faces, though not completely. To steady himself during your action, Luke’s hands steadied on your hips and stumbled slightly, though you did not mind the touch.

You never knew it was possible for his face to flush even more, but it did. Luke gulped and your eyes casted down on the way his Adam’s apple moved when he did so. The way he reacted to you only intoxicated you with power even more. You glanced upwards a bit, eyes observing his lips for a split second before looking back up at his eyes. You smirked when you caught his eyes flickering back to yours from your lips as well. 

Just as you were about to close the distance, Luke pulled back just a bit, finally able to speak, though his words were heavy warnings, “If this happens—” Luke stopped, unsure he should let you know. Luke shook his head lightly as his eyes traced over your features before continuing, “If we kiss, there is no going back for me. I don’t think I could just…forget about it. So, please, just be sure before you do it.” Your eyes softened at his words.

“I promise, Luke. I am sure,” you muttered, though Luke knew you meant the words by heart from the way you were looking at him. 

You finally pulled the boy down again using his camp necklace. 

As your lips touched Luke’s, he let out a content sigh. His hands clung onto your hips, pulling you flush against his own body while you caressed both sides of his face in your hands. Luke felt like the world was swallowing him whole. The boy now knew what your lips tasted like, and it felt like an addiction. He could feel his heart waving white flags at that moment, completely surrendering to you. He was right before. There was no going back from this. 

But oh, if Luke knew an apple was all it took, he would have tossed one to you himself.

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