#afab reader implied

[fateisfiction]

Okay, ok, I write little original fiction/no character mentioned, reader-insert blurbs too. I swear I saw a prompt on my dash that inspired this yesterday, but now I can't find it. If I do, I'll link it (or if you know what I'm talking about, please drop a link for me).

Angsty with a bit of fluff. You broke up 6 months ago but he keeps finding reasons to drop by.

~2100 words

You broke up six months ago, but every week, like clockwork, he stops by your apartment on date night. First it was his phone charger. He spent at least an hour going through your bedroom trying to find it, but in the end, he came up empty handed.

He apologized and offered to order takeout for bothering you. When it arrives, you're both sitting on the couch engrossed in whatever was on TV. You don't even look at him when he hands you your usual, chopsticks already in the container for you to eat and settles back down on the far side of the couch.

When he's done, he leans in to give you a kiss on the forehead before heading for the door and letting himself out. You don't think anything of it at first. Just old habits.

Then he comes back the following week looking for his watch. He needs it for some work event. Normally he would have asked you to be his date, but you broke up. He's a little heartbroken when you don't even ask who he's going with. He's going alone, of course, but he expected you to at least ask.

Another week passes and he's at your door again. This time he brought you dinner from your favorite restaurant. "Habits," he insists. You really don't mind. He watches you sit down on the couch to eat, all wrapped up in a blanket. Now that he thinks about it, it's kind of cold in here, isn't it? He checks the thermostat and it's definitely colder than it should be.

"Heat broken or something?"

"Yeah. Called the landlord yesterday and he hasn't fixed it yet."

"I'll stop by tomorrow morning with my tools."

As promised, there he is, bright and early with a bag of tools over his shoulder and a couple of hot coffees and pastries from the cafe on the corner that you used to beg him to take you to. He takes a look and a few hours later, your heat's back on. Only he forgot to grab the hoodie he left you with the night before to keep you warm.

This time you have to reach out to him. He just fixed your heat, didn't he? You're standing in front of his apartment door, deciding whether to knock or just leave his hoodie and head home. Before you decide, he opens the door. His shock quickly turns into a smile and he invites you in, even though he's clearly heading out. He tells you to make yourself at home, taking off his jacket and making you a cup of tea.

"Heat still works?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Let me know if it happens again. You still have my number, right?"

He teases you, leading you over to the couch where the two of you have spent many nights entwined in one another's warm embrace. Talking about your plans for the future; dreams a little house of your own someday, publishing your first book, and then your second, getting a dog or a couple of cats. The memories come flowing back and you can't do this. It hurts too much. He's not entirely surprised when you run for the door, just a little sad. He cancels his plans and ends up staying in that night, holding his hoodie, the hoodie that now smells like you.

He figures you need a little time after that, so he doesn't stop by the following week. Instead he sends you a text to check outside your door, and you find a little box of cupcakes. You look for him, but he's nowhere to be found. You almost miss his weekly visits, but then you remember you broke up. It's over. That this isn't normal for him. This only started after you broke up with him. You start stewing, left alone with your thoughts. Do you really miss him? Or do you just like how he's treating you now?

The next week when he stops by for a forgotten baseball glove, he catches you on your way out the door. He has to stop himself from staring. Where are you going? A date? You look nice, all dolled up in that little black dress and kitten heels he couldn't wait to get you out of that time you wore it to your friend's engagement party. You leave him there without a second glance, telling him to lock up when he's done getting whatever it is.

When you return a few hours later, more than a little tipsy, with a guy from the bar, he's waiting there for you. The guy's hands are all over you, inching your dress up as the two of you barely manage to make it in the door. The guy you took home is confused, slurring out a “Who the fuck is he?”

“Her boyfriend.”

“Shit, dollface. Thought you said you were single.”

“I am. He’s my ex.”

You give your ex a pointed look, eager to get back to what you were doing. He’s having none of it though. He kicks the guy out helping you get undressed, showered and ready for bed.

“Damn it, babe. You should know better than to take trash like that home with you.”

“I'm not your ‘babe’ anymore,” you mumble, beginning to doze off.

He spends the night. You wake up the next morning in his arms, both fully clothed with a small bit of drool on his chest where you were resting. It doesn't dawn on you until a few minutes later that this isn't the man you took home, but instead your ex and you promptly wake him up and kick him out.

“Yeah, yeah. I'm going.”

He’s at your door once again the following week looking for something yet again, this time carrying an oversized duffel.

“What's that for?”

“Camping.”

He's still hurt from you rushing him out the week before. You didn't even let him make breakfast.

“With who?”

He pauses. Are you jealous?

“Friends.”

You watch him this time. For having broken up with him a couple of months ago now, he sure did seem to leave a lot of stuff behind. He asks you to check the closet by the door while he sneakily scatters a few more reasons to come back around your room.

The next week when he comes by, you’ve already ordered pizza. Interrupted from the movie just starting, you joke that he probably should have just kept his key since he spends so much time here. There's a bit of a bite in your words, because he knows you don't mean it.

He takes his place on the couch, chatting with you through the movie as the two of you eat.

By the time the credits roll, you're asleep, curled up beside him. He contemplates carrying you to your bedroom, but decides against it. It didn't go over well the last time he spent the night, and he knew that if he sets for in your room, he’s not going to be able to leave. He misses waking up beside you, and his insomnia has been acting up lately. Sleeping next to you was the only cure he ever found for it.

You open your eyes as the door clicks shut and you realize that maybe you do miss him.

The next week, you expect him again, but he doesn't show. You have half a mind to text him to see where he is, and you have to remind yourself that he's not your boyfriend anymore. Scrolling through social media to keep your mind off of him, you see a mutual friend posting pics of a night out and you see your ex there with him.

Your ex is in the background, drink in hand and that flirty smile on his face that convinced you to go home with him that first night. Three photos later, you find that same smile directed at a girl and you have to put your phone down. This was not how you saw tonight going. Cold takeout on the table, you end up throwing out his usual order. You can't believe you were actually considering giving him another chance.

He pops by the next morning with coffee and pastries and you don't even answer the door.

“Go away.”

“Was just bringing you coffee. What's wrong, hun? That time of the month?”

You could kill him. Stomping away to your bedroom, you slam the door behind you. He knows he fucked up. Forehead pressed to the door of your apartment in resignation, he leaves the coffee for you and sends a text in apology.

Coffee’s outside. Let me know if you need anything else.

God he was infuriating sometimes.

There's flowers and chocolates on your doorstep the next day. He didn't even knock. Just a text.

Got u smthn.

The next week he brings you dinner again. A new place you had told your friend you wanted to try. You couldn't be sure she didn't tell him, but he did get your order right at least. And he brought wine.

This time he asks if you want him to stay and you reluctantly let him in the door. He picks the movie while you grab glasses and silverware.

By the time you finish, the movie is still going strong, not even halfway through. You're well into your second bottle of wine and he's joking around. He always gets a little touchy when he's tipsy.

You stop him when his hand rests a little too comfortably on your thigh.

“Did you take her home?”

He has no clue what you're talking about.

“Last week. The girl at the bar giving you ‘fuck me’ eyes.”

He visibly pales. Of course he didn't take her home. He spent most of the night trying to turn her down. But how did you know?

“What, were you there or something?”

He chuckles uncomfortably, trying to pass it off as a joke. Wrong choice. You're clearly upset.

“What, so when I bring someone home it's a problem, but it's totally fine when you do? For fucks sake, we broke up.”

“Woah, there. What are you-”

“I brought a guy home and you were here waiting to scare him off when I got home!”

You're yelling. He’s trying to calm you down but you're not having any of it. You're on some rant about having needs of your own, and he’s such a hypocrite, and maybe he should just and he stops you with a kiss.

“Of course I didn't bring anyone home. I spent half the night turning her down and the other half wrangling our drunk friends. Just ask, I was the designated driver.”

“But you were drinking in the photos!”

“Virgin daiquiri. You're the one who made me try them, remember?”

You're far from calm, but at least you're not kicking him out. And now he knows why you were so upset the week before.

“You should go.”

And he does, but not before making sure everything is okay between the two of you.

The pattern continues, week after week. He stops by with an excuse, takeout is ordered, movie is watched, he leaves. It’s been six months and you feel, for the first time in your entire relationship, that you’re actually dating. The only problem is that this is your ex.

Ever since the incident where you tried bringing someone home from the bar and he waited to scare him off make sure you got home safe, you haven’t been tempted to seek out a companion for the evening. And ever since you called him a hypocrite, he’s started enforcing his own little policy of only going out with friends if you’re going to be there. Maybe there were a few murmurings within your friend group about how neither of you were ever going to move on if things continued. Maybe neither of you really cared.

And all that led to tonight.

Dinner still in the bag, cold on the counter. You under him. Chests heaving.

He sits up, pulling you forward to fall into his chest, holding you close as you catch your breath.

“So.” You draw out the word, letting it hang in the room before finishing your thought. “What was it this time?”

His brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”

“Your excuse. Every week it’s something new. What did you forget this time?”

You feel more than see the soft smile spreading across his face. He leans back into the couch, arms holding you a little closer to him. “You.”

[wildflower-ramblings]

MDNI - 18+

Warnings in the tags - warnings contain spoilers.

Read at your own risk.

Simon Riley x reader

I have no explanation for this.

Simon knows everything about you.

He knows your favourite songs, your favourite movies. How you take your tea. How you sing in the shower and apologise to inanimate objects when you bump into them. The way your eyes light up when you laugh; the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed or frustrated. Knows every twitch of your mouth and flicker of your eyes, and what emotion they mean. He knows the best way to make you giggle in amusement, or to make you flush in embarrassment. Knows what little things annoy you, or upset you; and more importantly, what makes you happy.

He knows the street you grew up on, and the crack on the side walk that made you fall off your bike and scrape your knee. He knows the exact shape the scar is in now, decades later. He knows the name of your first pet, a goldfish you swore once changed colour ever so slightly and definitely had more than a three second memory. He knows the name of your best friend in kindergarten, and how you wanted to become astronauts together and be the first to land on Saturn. He knows the names of all of your cousins, even the ones you only saw at weddings and funerals. Remembers all of their birthdays, too, and remembers when and where you last saw them.

He knows each and every one of your exes, from the first boy in high school who kissed you then broke your heart, to the thankfully short relationship you’d had in university, who refused to let you meet their friends or go over to their place. About the last relationship you had, the one you thought you were going to marry, and how much it broke you when they told you they couldn’t do it any more. He knows how long it took you to pick yourself up after that, and how much strength it took to shut them down when they tried to tearfully apologise months later.

He knows every single on of your friends, very way they’ve hurt you, which friends seem to flake at the first sign of trouble, which ones will cancel plans at the last minute and leave you on your own. Which ones will stick with you through anything, who will point out the red flags you can’t see, but still be there for you even when they don’t agree with your choices.

He knows everything about your job; your favourite and least favourite coworkers, which ones will chat about your weekend with you and which ones have talked about you behind your back. How much you dread each Monday, and how much you wish you could tell your manager where to shove it. He knows how tired you look every Friday night, collapsing onto the couch with a glass of wine as soon as you can, some mindless show on TV that you swear you’re not really into, but can name every character from.

He knows your entire bed time routine, from the hot drink you make yourself to wind down to the way you dance around whilst brushing yourself. How terrible you are at remembering to take your tablets and the systems you’ve tried (and failed) to keep track of them. All your little tricks to get yourself to sleep when your mind refuses to shut down.

He knows how you are first thing in the morning, all droopy eyes and soft sighs, the sheets tangled around your body. He knows how soft you look in the golden morning light, the way you curl into your pillow when your alarm goes off, and how softly your eyelids flutter open. How you always swear you’ll get up on the first alarm, but end up sleeping an extra five or ten minutes, lulled back in by the warmth of the bed.

He knows that you sleep in nothing but an extra large t-shirt, grumbling about how uncomfortable any extra fabric makes you. How your shirt always rides up and gives him the perfect view of your body. How enticing you are, all spread out for him. How soft your skin is, and how it gives when he grabs at it, his too large hands creating dimples and leaving faint traces – his mark on you.

He knows how pretty you look when you come, your sweat-slicked skin glistening in the glow of the lamp. How breathy you sound when you’re close, the way you try – and fail – to keep your moans in so the neighbours won’t hear. How loud you can get when you truly let yourself go.

He knows exactly how you like to touch yourself and be touched, and just how quickly he can make you cum in every possible way. He knows how you feel on his fingers, how you clench around them when he finds that perfect spot inside you. How pretty you look stretched out on his cock, the slight furrow of your brow when he first pushes into you, and how it quickly morphs into soft gasps of pleasure. The way his come looks dripping out of you, and the whimpers you make when he pushes it back into your sensitive walls. How you come even harder when he cleans you up with his mouth, and how sweet you taste on his tongue.

It’s a shame you have no idea he exists.

He knows how to fix that.

I have literally never written dark content I have no idea what I'm doing

I just got the last two sentences in my head and it just unravelled from there

[delopsia]

stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away. 

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright. 

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet. 

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble.  "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there. 

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof. 

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room. 

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you. 

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open. 

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal. 

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away. 

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more. 

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent. 

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts. 

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem." 

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid. 

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear. 

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?" 

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath. 

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around. 

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek. 

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside. 

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear. 

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly. 

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light. 

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..." 

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward. 

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch. 

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again. 

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire. 

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below. 

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck." 

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward. 

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock. 

Weak, his hips begin to move. 

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them. 

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard." 

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it." 

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them. 

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut. 

He's trying. 

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please." 

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum." 

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently. 

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him. 

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once. 

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot. 

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with. 

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do. 

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something. 

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans. 

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind. 

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes. 

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot. 

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though." 

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another. 

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same. 

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again. 

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place. 

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh. 

"I can be," Rhett winks. 

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick." 

You can't get to the sink quickly enough. 

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly. 

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear. 

Sure wonder where that came from.

[lilyswrittenworks]

XXI | Getting Properly Acquainted

Warning(s): Cursing, blood, alcohol consumption, humor, and sensitive topics (it's only mentioned once!)

Word Count: 11.3K

Synopsis: It had been three months since you and Piccolo had become an item. You had experienced nothing but pure love and tenderness. Then one day you get a text message.

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“Heey, girl! In celebration of your speedy recovery, I thought it was time to gather up our friends and hang out for old time’s sake. Meet us at Way Out Bar at 7PM this Saturday!”

It had been over an hour since you’d gotten Jenny’s message, and you were still riding the high of excitement it brought. You lay sprawled on your bed, the phone still open in your hand, the message burning bright on the screen like a warm little beacon of joy.

This would be your first time seeing all of them outside the sterile white walls of the hospital. No wires. No beeping monitors. No faint scent of antiseptic in the air. Just you, your friends, and a night that promised to feel like living again. The last time you saw them, you were weak, barely able to sit up straight. They’d come in shifts with flowers, chocolates, gossip, and laughter—but it never felt right. You were smiling through the pain. Numb with fatigue. And now?

Thanks to Dende's healing, you were whole again. And it was time to live.

Your closet doors were already flung open, and the bed behind you looked like a fashion tornado had ripped through it. Jumpers, jeans, crop tops, rompers, even that one weird sequin top Jenny got you as a gag gift—it was all strewn about in the chaos of indecision.

“A dress?” you muttered to yourself, holding one up in front of the mirror before shaking your head. “Too fancy. Too ‘wedding guest.’” You tossed it aside. “Romper. Yeah. Romper is fun. Playful. Breezy. Easy to pee in…”

You snorted to yourself and held two up side by side: one black with delicate gold thread running through it, and another with a warm burgundy floral print that hugged your curves just right.

And then, it hit you—an idea that completely derailed your train of thought.

What if Piccolo came with you?

Your hands slowly lowered, the rompers falling forgotten onto the bed as your arms crossed over your chest, the spark of curiosity giving way to a gentle flutter in your chest.

Would he go?

You could already imagine their reactions. Jenny would 100% scream. Amelia would probably drop her drink. Henry might start interrogating him like an overprotective big brother. Elias would be welcoming without judgment. Luka will be cautious around new people. But deep down, you wanted your friends to meet him—to see what you saw. You weren’t just dating someone… you were in love with someone utterly unique. Quiet, mysterious, incredibly powerful, and yet… gentle with you in a way few got to witness.

But then, doubt slipped in like a cold draft.

Piccolo wasn’t a social person. You knew that. You respected that. He barely spoke during your classes unless prompted, and even then it was usually concise, pointed advice that made your students straighten up like soldiers under a general’s command. He tolerated public settings. Barely. And even then, only because he wanted to support you.

What if he didn’t want to come? What if he thought this was too much?

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before slapping your cheeks lightly and straightening up. “Alright. No more overthinking. Just ask him. What’s the worst that could happen? He says no? I can live with that.”

Even if his brand of ‘no’ was usually a vague, broody grunt followed by meditative silence.

Fueled by that little ember of determination, you padded barefoot down the stairs, the wood creaking slightly under your feet. You caught the faint sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside, mingling with the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. As you turned the corner and entered the living room, your voice called out casually:

“Hey, Piccolo, I was wondering if—”

You froze.

There he was, sitting cross-legged in the center of the room. Turban and cape nowhere in sight. Eyes closed in a serene expression. And… shirtless.

Your words caught in your throat like a fishhook. Your eyes, despite your best intentions, shamelessly took in the details—the broad expanse of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdominal muscles, the intricate, dark-lined streaks running across his arms and lower abdomen. The pink, fleshy patches on his arms glowed subtly under the soft afternoon light bleeding through the windows, framed by those bold red edges that almost dared your eyes to keep tracing along them.

Goddamn, you thought, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might punch a hole in your ribcage. 

The thought of just running your hands down his muscles caused your heart to flutter. You swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly—and that’s when you felt it.

A warm trickle.

You slapped a hand to your face. Oh no.

Yep. Nosebleed. Of course your body would betray you at a time like this.

“Uhh, w-why are you shirtless??” you managed, your voice breaking slightly like you were a teenager catching her crush in the locker room.

Piccolo’s eyes opened slowly, calm and unbothered, and they immediately locked onto yours. There was the tiniest flicker of amusement there, almost hidden—like a single ripple on an otherwise still lake.

“You told me to give it to you,” he said plainly. “You noticed the stain and insisted on washing it.”

Oh. Right.

You did say that. He’d tried to argue, something about materializing a clean one instantly, but you’d been adamant. You said it was about principle, that he should let you take care of him in small ways like that.

And he’d let you. No further protest. Just that quiet, reluctant acceptance he always offered when he couldn’t argue with your heart.

Still, standing there with a tissue now clamped to your nose and your face hotter than the sun, all you could do was laugh awkwardly.

“Right. I, uh… forgot.”

Piccolo raised a brow slightly, still watching you with quiet curiosity. “You okay?”

“Yep. Totally. Fine. Just… overheating. From the heater.” You gestured vaguely to nothing. “Which is off. But still.”

He made a soft, skeptical sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer—serious, yet gentle.

You rubbed at the back of your neck awkwardly, but the fluttering in your chest hadn’t gone away.

“Anyway, uh… I was actually coming down to ask if you wanted to go somewhere. With me. On Saturday night.”

Piccolo blinked, his head tilting slightly, his antenna's swaying gently by the movement. “Where?”

You smiled, stepping a little closer, the butterflies multiplying. “It’s just a casual get-together. My friends and I are meeting at this bar we always go to. I thought… maybe you'd like to come? Meet them? I mean—you don't have to. I know crowds aren't really your thing, but—”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. Thoughtful. Quiet.

And then, he spoke.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Which, in Piccolo-speak, was about as close to a “maybe” as you were going to get.

You beamed. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He nodded once, his expression unreadable—but there was a softness behind his eyes that didn’t go unnoticed.

And just like that, the thought of Saturday night got a whole lot more exciting.

Even if you’d need to keep a fresh tissue box nearby. Just in case.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘

It was finally Saturday.

The sky outside your window had just begun to soften into gold, the sun dipping low on the horizon like it, too, was getting dressed for a night out. The faint hum of life was beginning to pick up in the surrounding forest area of your home—crickets began to sing, the chirping of foxes emanated somewhere deep within the treeline. But all of that faded into background noise as you glanced at the clock:

6:01 PM.

Only one hour until you were meeting your friends at the Way Out Bar. You couldn’t sit still.

You were practically buzzing as you made the final touches to your look in the mirror mounted on the living room wall. The beige floral jumpsuit hugged your figure just right—cute but comfy—and your hair, twisted into a half-up braid, framed your face in a way that made you feel genuinely beautiful. Confident. Alive.

But the real surprise of the evening wasn’t your outfit or even the gathering itself.

It was the seven-foot-five Namekian standing behind you—who, for the first time since you’d known him, was visibly anxious.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, his posture stiff, arms at his sides, and a furrow etched deep between his brows as he focused on the conjured outfit slowly materializing over his usual gi. The transformation was fascinating to watch—energy rippling over his body as purple fabric gave way to crisp white.

You turned to face him fully.

Gone was the worn, battle-weathered gi. In its place: a neatly pressed white button-down shirt, a dark blue tie perfectly knotted at his neck, slim-fitting purple slacks, and polished dress shoes that looked almost too clean—like he’d never worn a pair in his life. He stood in the center of your living room, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with all the grace of someone performing open-heart surgery.

Your lips curled into a smile, warm and amused. 

“Piccolo,” you said gently, stepping closer, “relax. You don’t have to dress up to look presentable. Your regular attire is fine. Well, okay, maybe leave the weighted turban and cape at home—unless you plan on knocking over coat racks everywhere we go.”

He paused, slowly glancing at you, eyes narrowed in thought. “I want to make a good impression,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “These are people important to you. I should look… appropriate.”

There it was—that unexpected vulnerability that made your heart squeeze every time you saw it peek through his normally unshakable exterior. You could see it in the way his antennae twitched faintly, the way his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as though unsure whether to tuck or untuck it.

You softened. “Hey.” You moved to stand directly in front of him, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “You look very appropriate, trust me. Although…”

You stepped closer, fingers lifting to the knot of his tie. “This?” You tugged it gently, sliding it loose from his collar and tossing it over your shoulder. “This is a little too formal. We’re going to a bar, not a business conference.”

He didn’t protest, just watched you with those intense dark eyes, unreadable except for the faintest hint of tension in his brow.

You reached for the top buttons of his shirt next, undoing two with a soft, confident smile. “There,” you murmured, “much better.” Your fingertips brushed his collarbone, and you felt the way he tensed slightly beneath your touch—subtle, but telling.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you added, stepping back to admire the results. “Just roll your sleeves up to the elbows, and you’re golden.”

Piccolo didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, staring at you.

Not with his usual blank stoicism.

There was something in his expression now… quiet awe. The kind of gaze someone gives when they realize, all at once, that they’re standing in the presence of someone they deeply cherish. Someone who saw through all the layers of who they were and loved them not in spite of it, but because of it.

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

Wordlessly, he began to roll his sleeves up, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He wasn’t just adjusting his look anymore—he was adjusting to the idea of being seen by the people in your life. Letting them glimpse a side of him he rarely, if ever, revealed.

A side that belonged only to you.

“You really think this is okay?” he asked, a rare thread of uncertainty woven into his voice.

You stepped closer again, smoothing your hands over the front of his shirt with a small smile. “More than okay,” you said, looking up into his eyes. “You look great. And… I’m really happy you’re doing this.”

His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, he just breathed. Then, finally, he nodded.

“…Alright,” he said. “Let’s go meet your friends.”

You nodded eagerly, practically bouncing on your heels as you spun on your toes, the fabric of your jumpsuit swishing gently with the motion. You made your way toward the kitchen, grabbing your black quilted purse from the counter and slipping the strap over your shoulder in one smooth movement. Your hand followed next to the set of car keys sitting beside a stack of unopened mail.

With a gleam in your eye, you turned back toward Piccolo, holding the keys aloft like a prized treasure. “Come on!”

You made your way over to him, your fingers intertwining with his large hand, the coolness of his skin a comforting contrast to the heat building in your palm. Without a second thought, you tugged him toward the front door, and he followed wordlessly, allowing himself to be led like a tall, silent shadow behind you. The warmth of your hand in his said more than any words could.

Once outside on the porch, the soft creaking of the steps beneath your feet echoed in the calm of early evening. The sun had dipped lower, casting golden slants of light across the front yard. Crickets hummed with life across the grass. You let go of Piccolo’s hand just long enough to jog down the steps and disappear beneath the porch with Piccolo following close behind. Under the porch was a makeshift garage, small judging by the looks of it but not too cramped either. You approached something large and mysterious that lay beneath a gray tarp.

Piccolo watched you, arms crossed, one brow lifting in curiosity as he tilted his head.

You grabbed the tarp with both hands, bracing your feet against the gravel beneath you, and with a grunt of effort, yanked it off in a dramatic flourish. The tarp fluttered down behind you in a heap, revealing the beauty beneath.

A red and black striped muscle car gleamed proudly in the late afternoon light—its polished surface glinting like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. Chrome accents caught the sunlight, and the tires looked freshly scrubbed. It looked powerful. Fast. Immaculate.

You practically glowed, a wide grin on your face as you pressed your palms against the smooth, warm surface of the hood, practically buzzing with excitement. “I haven’t driven this car in ages!”

Piccolo approached slowly, his sharp eyes studying the vehicle like it was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to see in your possession.

“This is yours?” he asked, blinking slowly as he raised a brow, clearly impressed but trying not to show it too much.

“Yep!” you said proudly, patting the hood. “Graduation gift from my adoptive mom. She surprised me with it right after the ceremony. Told me I deserved something bold.” You laughed softly at the memory. “I’ve kept it in pristine condition ever since—tuned it, cleaned it, waxed it. The works.”

A little nostalgic pride swelled in your chest as you turned back toward him, holding the keys between your fingers. “I’ll be driving us to Nicky Town tonight.”

Piccolo’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “We could get there much faster if we just flew.”

You stopped mid-stride, your expression flattening as you stared at him. “Piccolo…”

He blinked at your unimpressed tone, a visible sweatdrop appearing at his temple ;as he tilted his head slightly in confusion. “What?”

You sighed, crossing your arms with a dramatic huff that was more amused than annoyed. “I love you,” you said, stepping toward him, “but you seriously know how to kill a vibe sometimes.”

That made him visibly flinch. His posture straightened, and his mouth opened as if to reply, but you lifted a hand before he could get a word out.

“Look, I get it. Flying is faster. More efficient. But I’m not a pro at it like you are, remember? I’ve only just gotten used to hovering without looking like I’m dangling from an invisible string.”

Piccolo exhaled softly through his nose, his eyes lowering a fraction as guilt quietly slipped into his features.

“And yes,” you added, your voice softening as you stepped closer, “I know you’ve carried me before—many times, actually. And I never minded it. In fact, I always felt safe when you did.” You offered a small, fond smile, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.

“But just for tonight… I wanna do something normal and least conspicuous. Something a little fun. Take the long way. Play some music. Roll the windows down. And most importantly, to have a good time.”

You looked up at him, eyes hopeful. “Please? Just tonight? If you hate it, we’ll fly next time.”

Piccolo stared at you for a long moment, his features unreadable—but his eyes softened, just a touch. Enough for you to know he heard you. Really heard you.

Then, finally, a small sigh escaped him. “Alright,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “We’ll drive.”

A grin broke across your face as you turned back toward the car, unlocking it with a click and opening the driver’s side door with a triumphant swing.

“You’re gonna love it,” you called out over your shoulder as you slid into the seat. “This baby purrs.”

Piccolo looked at the car again, then at you, and for the briefest moment—before rounding the car to the passenger side—he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘

The city lights blurred past like streaks of stardust, reflections dancing across the windshield in vibrant golds and electric blues. The streets of Nicky Town were alive, but unusually tame tonight—no gridlock, no honking horns—just the soft hum of your muscle car purring under your fingertips as you guided it gracefully through the open roads.

The wind rushed in from the rolled-down windows, warm and fragrant with the scent of nearby food stalls. It danced through your hair, pushing loose strands around your face as you exhaled a small, contented sigh. The radio was playing something soft—low bass, gentle synths, a mellow tune that hummed beneath your skin.

You slowed to a gentle stop at a red light, a slow deep rumble of the engine idling while you waited. Fingers tapping in rhythm on the gear stick, a faint smile playing on your lips as your eyes wandered briefly to Piccolo in the passenger seat.

He looked peaceful, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, the sharp lines of his jaw relaxed under the soft interior lights. There was a quiet serenity to him when he wasn’t sparring with you. His presence alone, even in silence, had a grounding effect on you.

That is, until a piercing, obnoxious whistle shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete.

“Hey sweetheart!”

Your smile instantly dropped. The shift in your mood was swift—brows flattening, your shoulders stiffening as your gaze flicked sharply to the left.

There, beside your door, sat a young man on a loud motorcycle, revving his engine like he was the star of some cheap action movie. His grin was wide, smug, and completely lacking in shame. His eyes—hidden behind tinted glasses—raked over you with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

Your face remained stone cold. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

He chuckled, hand on the throttle. “Aww, c’mon. Don’t be like that. Hop on, yeah? We’ll have ourselves a real good time.”

The nerve. Your brow twitched, irritation climbing your spine like a venomous insect. “No thanks.”

But he didn’t get the message.

Instead, he leaned in further—too close. His arm braced against the car’s frame, body language dripping with arrogance. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Someone like you—fine as hell—deserves someone who can really show her a good—”

Wham!

The crack of your fist meeting his face rang louder than the engine ever could. His head snapped back with a choked yelp, his motorcycle wobbling as he gripped his face in agony, blood already spilling between his fingers.

You sat there, your fist still warm from the contact, settling your hand calmly back on the steering wheel like nothing had happened.

“Would you look at that?” you said coolly, voice lined with venom and amusement. “Crying over a punch… from a girl.”

“You broke my nose!” he wailed, nasally and pathetic.

You gave him a scathing look. “You invaded my space. And when a woman says no, she means no. It's not an invitation to harass or pressure her. So why don’t you do us both a favor—” the light turned green. “—and go fuck yourself.”

Without another glance, your foot pressed against the gas and the car surged forward, tires gripping the road like claws. The roar of the engine was satisfying, almost therapeutic. You gripped the gear stick tightly, fingers stiff and white-knuckled from the adrenaline and anger still coursing through you.

“(Y/n),” Piccolo’s tone was low, measured, but laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

You blinked, the road ahead coming back into focus. His voice had always had this strange effect on you—like it could cut through even the worst storm in your chest. You sighed, jaw still tense. “Yeah… I just got pissed off. The audacity of that guy…”

Piccolo was quiet for a moment, arms unfolding slowly as he straightened in his seat. “Does this… happen often?”

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip as your heart gave a tight squeeze.

“…Not like before,” you admitted, your voice a little softer, a little bitter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him sit up straighter, more alert—his energy subtly shifting from stillness to sharp attention.

“(Y/n),” he said more firmly, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

The seriousness in his tone made your hands tremble ever so slightly on the wheel. The streetlights overhead blurred as you entered the parking garage, darkness creeping over the car as you ascended to the upper levels. The interior lighting cast a glow on your face—revealing the way your jaw clenched, the tension in your brow.

You didn’t look at him.

“…Remember when I told you I was homeless? Before the dojo, before I built my home?” you murmured, voice tight. “Back then, stuff like that happened a lot. More than I like to admit.”

The tires thudded softly as you turned up to the third level.

“I was fourteen,” you continued, eyes locked on the parking space ahead. “Couldn’t fight, couldn’t run very fast, and sure as hell couldn’t afford to scream for help. Men—grown men—thought I was easy prey. I learned pretty quick that being polite only made them worse.”

The car eased into the parking space, and you shifted it into park with a small click. The engine purred for a moment longer before going quiet, leaving only the hum of city life in the distance and the soft hiss of your breath.

You rolled up the windows. Just in case.

Then, silence.

Piccolo didn’t speak right away. You felt his gaze on you like a weight pressing against your side, his body completely still. When he did speak, his voice was low. Careful.

“…Did they ever—” He stopped himself. The question caught in his throat, too heavy, too dark to finish. His hands clenched tightly, and a shudder moved through him—subtle but unmistakable.

You shook your head immediately.

“No. They never did.” You looked over at him then, your voice firmer than before. “I never let them.”

He exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from his posture, but not all of it. His eyes were still dark with something dangerous—something protective.

“You should’ve never had to go through that,” he said. “Not then. Not now.”

You offered him a small, sad smile. “Yeah. But I survived.”

Piccolo’s gaze lingered on you, and then, in a surprisingly gentle motion, he reached out. His hand rested over yours where it gripped the gear stick—large, calloused, and warm. The contact made your breath hitch. His thumb brushed against your knuckles once, twice—slow, grounding.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said. “You never will be again.”

And in the quiet warmth of the car, tucked away from the world in that shadowed parking garage, those words sank deep into your soul—firm and comforting like roots in the earth.

Eventually, you and Piccolo stepped out of the car and into the moonlight, the glow of the moon illuminating the city. The air was thick with the scents of street food, car exhaust, and pansies as the two of you ascended the spiral ramp of the multi-level parking garage. The sounds of city life greeted you—distant laughter, muffled music, and the steady hum of traffic below. With each step, your anticipation mounted like a heartbeat in your throat.

The two of you merged onto the bustling sidewalk, weaving past people walking in pairs, in groups, or alone with their heads down in their phones. You guided Piccolo with quiet ease, your hand gently looping through the crook of his forearm. The warmth of his exposed forearm brushed against your skin every time he adjusted his stride to match yours—something he did often now, unconsciously. His presence beside you felt solid, grounding, like you could lean your entire weight on him and he wouldn’t budge an inch.

You rounded the corner of a narrow brick antique store that smelled faintly of dust and sandalwood—and there it was.

The sign: The Way Out Bar. Elegant cursive letters spelled out the name in soft neon, glowing in the encroaching twilight. Something about seeing it made your heart flutter. It was just up ahead. Your friends were just beyond that door.

Your grip around Piccolo’s forearm tightened as you beamed, pulling him a little closer. You didn’t notice the way he glanced down at you then, his expression unreadable to anyone but you. There was fondness in his gaze, laced with quiet amusement, and a hint of nerves buried beneath his usual stoicism.

The inside of the bar was a soft contrast to the world outside. Warm, amber-hued lights hung in scattered clusters like little fireflies, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. A small jazz trio played on a raised stage to the left, their mellow notes wrapping the room in a cocoon of easy rhythm. The bar to the right buzzed with activity—glasses clinking, bartenders sliding drinks down the polished mahogany counter. The air was a blend of expensive perfume, whiskey, and warm food.

You scanned the crowd—faces blurred together until you spotted them.

Tucked in a corner booth, exactly where you hoped they’d be, sat your small, beloved chaos of a friend group. Jenny was deep in animated conversation with Henry and Elias, her faux locs bobbing every time she gestured dramatically. Elias, ever the picture of chill, leaned back with his usual amused smirk, while Henry animatedly waved a chicken wing mid-debate. Luka sat sandwiched between them, quietly listening, his arms folded and eyes sharp as ever. And then there was Amelia—red-haired, radiant Amelia—nursing the last sip of a martini, her attention elsewhere as her eyes scanned the room.

You gave Piccolo a quick look and an upward tilt of your chin—a silent follow me—before slipping through the small maze of tables and people. He followed closely, careful not to bump into anyone despite his size. His presence alone was enough to part the crowd a little, though he didn’t seem to notice the glances, the whispered curiosity.

Amelia spotted you first. Her face lit up like fireworks.

“(Y/n)!! Over here!!” she called out, waving her arm high above her head.

The rest of the table turned as you approached, just in time for Amelia to practically launch herself out of her seat. She flung her arms around you with an excited squeal, wrapping you in a warm, familiar hug.

“Oh my god, it’s so good to see you! We’ve all missed you so much.” Her voice trembled slightly, her arms squeezing tight. Her eyes shimmered when she pulled back, but she didn’t let a single tear fall. 

You cupped her arms, giving a reassuring squeeze. “It’s good to see you too, Amelia. You have no idea.”

“Hey! What about us, huh?!” Henry hollered from the table, arms outstretched in dramatic protest. “The guys deserve a little love too, ya know?”

You rolled your eyes with a smirk. “Didn’t you tell me that hugging was for sissies?”

Henry tilted his head, faux locs bouncing as he scoffed. “Yeah, well—that was before you got fuckin’ shot, okay?”

With a laugh, you walked over and looped an arm around his neck, yanking him into a headlock before giving him a good, affectionate noogie.

“FUCKIN’—WHY?!”

He flailed helplessly, drawing laughter from the rest of the group as you released him, his hands flying up to shield his poor scalp.

“Because I can, you ass,” you said sweetly, folding your arms and towering over him in mock authority.

You turned to Elias and Luka next, offering them both a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you’re doing well, (Y/n),” Luka said, offering a rare but sincere smile.

“Glad you could join us,” Elias chimed in, brushing a strand of his maroon hair behind his ear. “Recovery treating you alright?”

“Definitely,” you replied with a nod. “I’m finally teaching again. The doctors really did their magic.”

You left out the real miracle—the moment Dende’s hand hovered over your chest, and that tiny, jagged piece of death was pulled from your heart. Some things you weren’t ready to explain. 

“Hey, (Y/n)?” Jenny’s voice cut in, soft but direct.

You turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

She leaned in slightly, one elbow resting on the table, her other hand casually pointing to the side with a thumb. “So… who’s the big guy?”

Your gaze followed her gesture to Piccolo—who stood a few feet away from the booth, arms folded tightly, eyes lowered and expression carefully unreadable. He kept a respectable distance, but his alertness was palpable. Like a sentinel standing guard.

Despite his carefully conjured outfit—purple slacks, a tailored button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his green complexion as well as the pink patches in his arm—he stood out. Tall. Alien. Still. You could feel the weight of glances from nearby tables, the murmurs and curious stares prickling along your skin like static.

Hot anger bloomed in your chest. You wanted to shout Stop staring! You wanted to defend him, shield him—but you knew better. This wasn’t the time. Not tonight.

You inhaled, slow and steady. Let it go.

“Oh! Right!” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I totally forgot—”

You stepped over to him, placing your hand gently against his abdomen. He glanced down at your touch, then back at your friends, wordlessly awaiting your lead.

“Everyone, this is Piccolo.” You turned toward your friends again, smiling brightly. “Piccolo, these are my friends. This is Amelia—”

Amelia waved enthusiastically, her red hair swishing. “Hi! You’re taller than I imagined, and I imagined tall.”

“This is Jenny,” you continued.

Jenny nodded slowly, her gaze sharpening, evaluating him from head to toe. “Huh. Okay.”

“And these three are Henry, Luka, and Elias.”

Henry gave a casual wave. “Yo.” But his eyes were sharp, the wheels already turning behind them.

Luka didn’t say a word—just stared, jaw tense, brow furrowed. He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve.

Elias, ever gracious, smiled brightly. “It’s always nice to welcome someone new.”

Then Jenny, voice cautious, turned her full attention back to you. “Sooo… is he, like, a friend? Or, what—an acquaintance of your master’s?”

You smiled, your hand tightening slightly on Piccolo’s shirt, feeling the subtle warmth beneath it. A blush crept up your cheeks, blooming fast.

“Actually,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet Piccolo’s gaze.

His eyes met yours, gentle and unguarded. That alone made your friends fall silent. They weren’t used to seeing someone look at you like that.

“Piccolo isn’t a friend or an acquaintance of my master,” you said. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

The table went dead silent.

Jenny’s mouth fell open. Amelia’s hand flew up to cover her gasp. Henry’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. Elias blinked in disbelief, and Luka just… stared.

And then, without hesitation, Piccolo’s arms uncrossed and he reached out—resting a large, warm hand against your back, fingers pressing gently between your shoulder blades. Protective. Affectionate.

Amelia squealed, both hands covering over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Jenny stuttered, eyes wide, mouth working like her brain couldn’t form actual words.

“You… you…” she gasped, clutching the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

You looked up at Piccolo with a warning smile. “Brace yourself. Jenny’s gonna scream—”

“WHAAT?!” Jenny exploded, shooting up from her seat and slamming both hands onto the table. “YOU’VE BEEN HIDING THIS FROM ME THIS ENTIRE TIME?!”

You giggled, leaning subtly into Piccolo as his hand pulled you a little closer. “Hehehe… yeah. You might wanna sit down, Jenny. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

You glanced at Amelia and gave her a playful nudge. “Mind scooting over? We’ve got a story to tell.”

Amelia quickly scooted over with a grin so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. She practically bounced in her seat, dragging you down beside her with eager hands while patting the empty spot next to you. “C'mon, big guy! No standing on the sidelines now.”

Piccolo hesitated, his eyes flicking from you to the seat, then to the curious faces watching him. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might decline—but then your fingers found his, a gentle squeeze of silent encouragement. With a sigh barely audible over the jazz music, he obliged, sitting down beside you. The booth creaked slightly beneath his weight, drawing a few chuckles from Henry and Elias.

“Damn,” Henry muttered with a smirk. “What’s he benching, like, a small building?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Please don’t challenge him, Henry. He might actually show you.”

Piccolo shot you a side glance. “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

Henry snorted, eyes lighting up at the dry humor. “Okay, I like him.”

Jenny, still trying to mentally reboot, leaned forward and jabbed her finger in your direction. “Start from the beginning. I want dates, times, how this happened. This is—this is massive! I mean, seriously?! How long have you been keeping him from us?!”

You laughed, running a hand through your hair being mindful not to disturb the half-up braid. “Okay, okay, I’ll explain. Just… don’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out!” she half-shouted, arms thrown up. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to set you up with boring-ass grad students?”

“And do you see why that never worked?” you teased.

Jenny groaned into her hands while Amelia leaned in, eyes wide with wonder. “So… how did you two meet? Like, officially?”

You glanced at Piccolo again, silently asking if he was okay with you telling the story. He gave a small nod, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. His hand, which was resting on his lap, subtly shifted until his fingers brushed against yours under the table.

“Well…” you began, launching into the condensed version of everything—your training, how you first met him in the forest, how he became your security guard for your school, the injuries, the long hours of recovery, and how he’d been there. How he’d stayed. 

In the midst of your storytelling, a waitress quietly approached the table, setting down a glass of water in front of both you and Piccolo without a word, then slipped away just as silently. 

“Hold the fuck up.”

Jenny’s voice sliced through the lingering background chatter like a whipcrack. She froze mid-reach for her drink, arms folding with dramatic flair as she leaned forward over the table—nearly knocking her glass of wine clean off the edge. Amelia, seated just beside her, casually reached out and steadied it without looking.

“You’re telling me,” she continued, brows shooting into her hairline, “that you’ve known Piccolo—this giant green intergalactic muscle mountain—for three years?”

You nodded slowly, already bracing yourself. You even pre-wrinkled your nose in anticipation.

Jenny stared. Blinked. Then exploded.

“THREE. FUCKING. YEARS.”

She threw her hands into her faux locs with a dramatic groan, dragging them down her face like she was physically in pain. “I’ve been to your house! I’ve seen your couch! I’ve watched Netflix in your bathrobe while drunk off Moscato! How the hell did I never see this seven-foot tower of stoic green daddy energy lurking around?!”

You winced, a sheepish laugh tumbling out as you rubbed the back of your neck. A cartoonish little sweatdrop might as well have formed on your cheek.

“To be fair…” you started, shooting a glance at Piccolo—who sat still as a statue, but whose eyebrow had very slightly twitched at the phrase "daddy energy"—“Piccolo isn’t exactly the type to, uh, crash dinner parties or pop in for brunch.”

Jenny squinted at him suspiciously. “So what—you just kept him in your garden like some kind of secret boyfriend bonsai?”

“I’m not a plant,” Piccolo muttered dryly.

You stifled a snort, then turned your attention back to Jenny. “He’s… a recluse. He likes peace and quiet. Doesn’t really do the whole socializing thing unless he has to. And I respected that. Always did.”

Your voice softened as you looked up at Piccolo for a moment, the tiniest smile tugging at your lips. “So yeah… imagine my surprise when he actually said yes to coming here tonight. Voluntarily.”

Jenny’s jaw hung open. “You mean to tell me this introverted Namekian hermit just chose to step out of his weird meditation void and waltz into a bar full of strangers—for you?”

You gave a sheepish shrug. “Apparently, yeah.”

Jenny was quiet for all of three seconds. Then she pointed an accusing finger at Piccolo, wide-eyed and borderline scandalized. “Sir. You simp. And I say that with the highest respect.”

Piccolo, without missing a beat, took a slow sip of his drink. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh my god, I love him,” Jenny said, slumping back in her chair with a stunned laugh. “I’m gonna need to write this full timeline on a PowerPoint. Maybe a live reenactment too.”

Henry raised his glass. “I got dibs on playing Piccolo.”

“You’re not tall enough,” Amelia chirped.

“I’ll stand on a fucking chair!”

You snorted, shaking your head with a grin, disbelief written all over your face. “What—No. No one is reenacting anyone, got it? That’s weird as hell and kinda creepy.” You jabbed your index finger at Jenny and Henry, who were already giggling like a pair of kids who’d just gotten away with something. The finger-point was part warning, part exasperated big-sibling energy, but they clearly didn’t take it seriously.

As your laughter died down, you suddenly felt it—Piccolo’s hand shifting ever so slightly where it rested beneath the table, until it came to settle gently on your thigh. His fingers curled softly, giving you a deliberate, grounding squeeze. It wasn’t possessive. It was quiet, affirming. A silent thank you. 

Your heart gave a small flutter, betraying how something so subtle could still shake you to your core.

But not everyone was laughing.

Luka had yet to speak. He sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze, sharp and contemplative, flicked between you and Piccolo without saying a word. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way that meant his brain was working overtime, analyzing every little detail. You’d seen that expression before—when he was worried, when he was watching out for you.

He wasn’t being hostile. Luka didn’t do drama. But he was wary. And considering the kind of shit you all had been through over the years, it wasn’t surprising. Luka had learned to read people like open books, and he wasn’t the kind to trust someone just because you did.

Then finally, he spoke.

“Do you love her?”

The entire table fell silent. Drinks hovered halfway to mouths. Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. Jenny blinked. Henry stopped chewing. Elias couldn’t contain a smirk from forming.

Even the jazz music in the background felt like it dimmed a little.

Luka’s voice hadn’t been accusatory—just steady, calm, but dead serious. Like he was asking the question everyone else was too afraid to say out loud.

You turned your head slowly toward Piccolo, already feeling the change in his body language. The hand on your thigh had stilled, but there was a new tension there now—a readiness. You glanced up at him, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. A blank mask of calm. But then you saw it. The smallest crinkle at the corner of his eye. That subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

He wasn’t offended.

He was preparing to answer.

And you already knew what he was going to say. 

Piccolo stared at Luka, held his gaze without flinching, not out of defiance but from a place of grounded clarity—like someone who understood the weight behind the question and wasn’t afraid to carry it.

Then, slowly, his head turned. His hand, still resting on your thigh, shifted again—his thumb moving in a gentle arc, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into your jumpsuit.

And he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

The rest of the world faded. The buzz of the bar, the muffled clatter of glasses and laughter, even your friends sitting just inches away—all of it fell into a soft hush.

“I do,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly but steady. “More than I thought I ever could.”

His eyes never left yours.

“You have no idea how many walls I built just to keep people out,” he continued, his voice quieter now, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “Then you came along. And… you didn’t try to tear them down. You waited. You saw me. All of me. And you never once asked me to change.”

You felt something rise in your chest—warm, fragile, powerful. Like something blooming wide and wild in your ribs.

“I love her,” Piccolo said again, this time turning his attention briefly to Luka, though his hand never left your thigh. “Not because she saved me. Not because she put up with me. But because she made me want to be known. And that’s not something I ever thought I’d say in a room like this.”

Luka stared at him for a beat longer. The tension in his jaw softened just slightly, his arms loosening from the tight fold across his chest. No words. Just a small, thoughtful nod—the kind that said: That’s enough.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you let it out.

Then Jenny broke the silence with a dramatic sniff. “Oh my god, I need a fuckin’ tissue. Who let this be a rom-com all of a sudden?!” She fumbled into her bag for a napkin while Henry, red in the face, reached to his right to swat her arm.

“Shut the hell up, Jen. I almost got misty-eyed and now you ruined it.”

Elias raised his glass. “To love making unexpected house calls.”

Amelia, already mid-sip, let out a delighted little squeal. “I knew it. You two are so disgustingly cute it should be illegal.”

You turned to Piccolo, heart thudding, cheeks warm. He raised an eyebrow slightly—his version of a soft smile—and leaned closer, his voice just for you.

“You okay?”

You nodded, smiling up at him, your hand moving to rest on top of his. “Better than okay.”

Amelia was already halfway through her second drink when she leaned across the table and grinned at you. “Okay, but seriously—how did you bag someone like him? Like, no offense, babe, but Piccolo looks like he could crush a tank with his pinky and then lecture it about self-discipline.”

Henry snorted into his drink. “For real. Man’s got the ‘I meditate in volcanoes’ energy.”

You were about to respond when Elias leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he was settling in for a show. That lazy, mischievous grin spread across his face like a goddamn wildfire.

“Oh, we’re going there?” he asked, raising a brow. “Because I have questions.”

You already felt your stomach drop. That was never a good sign.

“Elias,” you warned, narrowing your eyes. “Be normal.”

“Oh, I am. Totally normal.” He winked. “I just wanna know how anyone survives a make-out session with someone whose biceps are literally the size of my head. Like, what happens if he gets too into it? Do you end up in another zip code?”

You felt your entire face ignite like someone had lit a match behind your ears. “ELIAS.”

Jenny doubled over laughing. “Oh my god—ZIP CODE?!”

“I’m just saying!” Elias continued, shameless. “Man’s got that ‘destroyer of worlds, gentle lover’ vibe. I bet he’s the type who kisses you like he’s apologizing for every time he’s ever blown up a moon.”

Henry almost choked on his beer. “Brooo.”

Amelia wheezed, gripping Jenny’s arm as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Stop—STOP—my stomach can’t take this!”

Piccolo, bless his stoic soul, had been silently enduring the assault on his dignity. But you felt the moment his composure cracked—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh under the table. And when you risked a glance up at him…

He was blushing. His ears were blushing.

And you? Your face was molten lava.

“Elias,” you groaned, burying your burning face in your hands. “You can’t just say shit like that in public.”

Elias grinned, unapologetic. “Oh, come on. You know I’m right. Look at him. That’s not a boyfriend. That’s a six-foot-seven war god who probably calls you ‘beloved’ in the middle of a sparring match.”

You heard a low, amused rumble from beside you.

And when you turned your head, Piccolo—still blushing—leaned just slightly toward Elias with a dry, unamused stare.

“…You think I don’t know how to aim an energy blast?”

Elias paused.

Laughed nervously.

“I—uh—respectfully withdraw the question.”

Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “Smart.”

The whole table lost it.

You were still hiding your face in your hands, shoulders shaking from the kind of laughter that left your whole body buzzing. You peeked up at Piccolo, who looked straight ahead—composed again.

Jenny wiped tears from her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Elias. I swear, you live to traumatize people.”

“I live to educate people,” Elias shot back, raising his glass. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah? Well next time, educate yourself on when to shut the hell up,” Henry deadpanned, reaching over to flick Elias in the forehead.

Piccolo leaned in slightly, just enough that only you could hear him. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or… concerned.”

You snorted, grinning like an idiot. “A little of both.”

After the chaos of Elias’s “zip code” comment started to die down—barely—you were still clinging to what little dignity you had left. Piccolo hadn’t moved his hand from your thigh, but you could feel the tension in his fingers, like he was bracing for whatever hell came next.

And he was right.

“So,” Jenny began, her voice laced with mischief as she leaned in, her elbows resting on the table and her chin perched atop steepled fingers. Her eyes sparkled like a gremlin with a matchbook. “Now that we’re done with introductions and listening to some good storytelling, there’s only one thing left to do.”

Piccolo blinked slowly. “…What.”

His voice was low, cautious—like a man who had just heard the first note of an incoming disaster siren.

Henry didn’t say a word, but the wicked curve of his grin spoke volumes as he sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair, content to let Jenny wreak whatever chaos she was planning.

“A good ol’ drinking game, of course!” Jenny announced, waving her hand dramatically like she was hosting a variety show. She flagged down a passing waitress without missing a beat. “Vodka. The big bottle, and seven shot glasses.”

You blinked. “Jenny—”

”Seven,” she repeated firmly, holding up her fingers like she was blessing the waitress with divine instruction.

The server didn’t even blink—just nodded and disappeared, probably used to this kind of behavior from your table by now.

You leaned toward Jenny, having to invade Amelia’s space but the red-head didn’t mind, your voice hushed but sharp. “Are you trying to get us all alcohol poisoning?”

Jenny shrugged, already buzzing with excitement. “Oh, please, you and your man have been drinking water this entire time. It’s time to spice things up a little. If we die, we die drunk and full of secrets.”

Before you could argue further, the waitress returned—like the harbinger of doom—with an ominously large bottle of vodka and seven perfectly clinking shot glasses balanced on a tray. She set them down with the efficiency of someone who wanted np part of what was about to transpire.

Jenny clapped once. “Excellent. The blood sacrifice has been made.”

You shifted in your seat, a pit forming in your stomach as you eyed the bottle. It glinted under the soft bar light like it knew it was about to ruin someone’s night. And probably someone’s life if they weren’t careful.

Jenny began filling the glasses like she was anointing each one with a cursed blessing. Then the smell of alcohol wafted up, sharp and unforgiving.

You gave her a deadpan look. “…I’m hesitant to even ask, but I’m asking anyway. What kind of drinking game are we playing?”

Jenny beamed. That shit-eating, chaos-fueled grin that could only mean trouble.

“Never Have I Ever, duh. Classic. Timeless. A sure fire way to emotionally scar each other with no survivors.”

Your soul left your body. “Fuck.”

Beside you, Piccolo raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you. His gaze softened with concern as he caught the tension rolling through your body. His hand hidden under the table had squeezed gently on your thigh. A silent question, a wordless tether: You okay?

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. The worry in your eyes must’ve been obvious because he tilted his head slightly, his antennae moving gently, his voice low enough only for you to hear.

“Is the game that terrible?”

There was something oddly innocent in the way he asked it. Curious. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was walking into but trusted you to guide him.

Before you could answer, Jenny managed to overhear what Piccolo said, cut in, far too delighted to explain.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” she said, spinning one of the shot glasses like a villain in a Bond movie. “Here’s how it works: someone says something they’ve never done. If you have done it, you take a shot. If not, you don’t drink. Simple right? But the real fun happens when the truth bombs start flying. Embarrassing stories. Secrets. Confessions. Shame. Regret. You name it.”

She paused dramatically, raising her full glass toward the center of the table. “It’s a beautifully messy human experience.” 

Piccolo listened intently, nodding slowly, though his brow began to furrow.

And when Jenny delivered the part about “revealing embarrassing secrets,” you watched a rare sight unfold—Piccolo’s eyes widened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice if you didn’t know him. But you did.

He immediately tried to neutralize his expression, smoothing it back into unreadable calm.

Only to fail.

Miserably.

You stifled a laugh, squeezing his hand beneath the table.

He leaned close and whispered, barely audible. “This sounds… dangerous.”

”Oh, it is,” you replied with a dry grin. “But let’s just hope we don’t have to reveal anything too personal.”

Jenny raised her glass. “Let the games begin!”

Elias, of course, immediately belted out the first prompt with a wicked grin: “Never have I ever—kissed someone over six-foot-five and built like a Greek statue.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head with the most innocent smile you could muster. “Joke’s on you, Elias. Me and Piccolo haven’t even kissed yet. Unless you count, like… a kiss on the cheek.”

A record-scratch silence hit the table.

“WAIT—” Jenny practically shot out of her seat, hands slamming onto the table as her eyes bounced between you and Piccolo like she was watching a scandalous tennis match. “You two haven’t even kissed yet?! Are you serious?!”

You and Piccolo shared a look, like a secret radio frequency crackling to life between you—one that said here it comes.

As you both turned to face your very stunned friends, a cartoonish sweatdrop might as well have formed on the side of both your heads. The entire group was staring at you like you’d confessed to never having used the internet.

“Uhh… no?” you said slowly, your tone calm but defensive, like you were explaining quantum physics to a table full of gossip gremlins. “We’ve only been together for, what, three months? That’s not nothing, but still early days.”

Piccolo glanced down at you, and when your eyes met his, there was nothing but quiet warmth. His expression softened, and a small, barely-there smile curved his lips—like the sun peeking out behind a distant mountain range. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The look said it all: he was okay with this. With you. With the pace of things.

You leaned into it slightly, speaking more to your friends now. “We’re taking things slow. I don’t mind the limited PDA. Eventually, yeah, we’ll get there. But not until we’re both comfortable. No pressure. No rush.”

Jenny looked like her entire worldview had been challenged. “That’s so wholesome I actually feel like I’m having an allergic reaction.”

Henry coughed, trying not to laugh. Amelia blinked rapidly like she’d just walked into an indie romance film.

Luka, of course, simply nodded in quiet approval like a dad who just watched his kid turn down a bad idea.

You turned your attention back to Elias, who was still stuck on the previous prompt. “So, sorry to disappoint you, Elias,” you teased, raising your glass with a playful smirk. “But your little trap? Kinda backfired.”

Elias let out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “Goddammit. I knew it was a risk. I knew it. I was hoping to catch you in a juicy moment but instead, I got feelings.”

He reached for his shot glass, filled to the brim with what now looked like the bitter taste of defeat. “Well, fuck it. I’m drinking anyway. Out of pure disappointment and maybe just a little spite.”

He downed it in one go, eyes squeezed shut as the vodka burned its way down.

“Hellfire,” he wheezed, placing the now-empty glass on the table with a careful thud. “Why is vodka always such a betrayal?”

“You brought that on yourself,” Amelia said, sipping her now third martini glass.

And Jenny, despite herself, grinned too. “Alright, alright,” she said, waving her hand. “I’ll allow it. It’s disgustingly sweet. But I’ll allow it.” 

Before anyone could get too sentimental, Jenny clapped her hands together like an over-caffeinated game show host. “Alright, lovebirds, enough of the Nicholas Sparks shit—back to the chaos.”

She spun dramatically toward Henry, pointing a freshly-poured shot glass at him like she was accusing him of murder. “Henry, your turn. Impress us. Traumatize us. Give us something feral.”

Henry leaned back in his seat, one arm thrown over the back of the booth like he owned the place. “Aight, you want chaos?” He cracked his neck with a smug grin. “I am chaos.”

“Oh god,” Elias muttered, already reaching for his glass in defeat.

Henry rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then he leaned forward, grinning like the devil about to sign a soul contract.

“Never have I ever…” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes scanning the group. “…accidentally sexted my mom.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You gasped, nearly knocking your shot glass over as you stared at him in abject horror.

Amelia choked on her spit and wheezed like a dying kettle.

“DUDE,” Jenny cried, laughing so hard she was crying, “THAT’S YOUR OWN PROMPT???”

Henry shrugged, shameless. “I never said it was a proud moment. But hey, I learned from it.”

Elias groaned. “That’s not learning. That’s becoming a cautionary tale.”

You shook your head in disbelief, a laugh escaping despite your horror. “Please tell me your mom doesn’t still have the screenshots.”

“She does,” Henry said flatly. “She brings it up every Thanksgiving. I get PTSD from cranberry sauce now.”

Piccolo, who had been trying to follow along with increasing confusion, leaned close to you and whispered with deep, solemn concern, “…What is sexting?”

You nearly spat your water back into the glass. Face now beet red, you turned slowly to him and whispered back, “I’ll explain later. Privately.”

He nodded gravely.

Jenny slammed her hand on the table. “Alright, fess up! Anyone gonna drink to that horrific confession?”

Elias raised his hand timidly. “I mean, not my mom, but my aunt once, so… same trauma, different packaging.”

“Oh my god, Elias.” Amelia buried her face in her hands.

Luka, miraculously, took a sip of his drink too, and the entire table turned to him in stunned silence.

“…Luka?” you asked, blinking.

He sighed, deadpan as ever. “It was a long time ago. Group chat mishap. I no longer text after 9PM.”

There was a beat of silence. Then you burst out laughing. Even Piccolo, confused as he was, gave a quiet chuckle—low and soft—but it was enough to make your heart flip.

Jenny’s jaw dropped. “Did… did he just laugh?!”

“I think he did,” you said, eyes wide.

Henry pointed accusingly. “Bro’s evolving. He’s learning the power of degeneracy.”

Piccolo shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “No, I’m just trying to understand how any of you survived this long without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment.”

Jenny snorted. “That’s fair. But the game’s not over yet! Who’s next?”

Amelia reached for her shot glass with a cool, almost suspicious calm.

“I think it’s my turn now,” she said, tucking a loose curl of red hair behind her ear. Her maroon eyes sparkled with something dangerous. “And I’m about to separate the saints from the sinners.”

“Oh shit,” Elias muttered, clutching his chest like he was about to be read for filth.

Amelia smirked. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs like a movie villain about to deliver the final blow. “Never have I ever… taken a pole dancing class.”

The entire table went still.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your hand moved on instinct—like a damn traitor—and you took a sip from your drink before you could stop yourself.

Silence.

Then—

“EXCUSE ME?!” Jenny screamed, nearly flipping the table as her eyes bulged out of her skull.

Henry choked on his drink. “YO WHAT?!”

Elias dropped his shot glass. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard—WHY DIDN’T I KNOW THIS?!”

Luka just blinked slowly, eyebrows raised. “…Huh.”

All eyes were on you now as you froze mid-sip, your face glowing red like someone had switched on a heat lamp directly over your soul. You set your glass down very carefully, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

“I—okay, listen.” You cleared your throat, flustered beyond belief. “This was before I even became an instructor. I wasn’t trying to be sexy or whatever—it was just a class I took on a whim.”

Jenny looked personally betrayed. “A whim?! A whim?! Girl, pole dancing is a lifestyle. You gotta commit!”

Henry slammed his palms on the table. “I need to know: was it one of those classes with heels and music or like… a fitness thing?”

“I’m not answering that,” you said, covering your face with both hands. “Some of us are trying to hold on to our last thread of dignity.”

Elias leaned in, completely ignoring that request. “You still remember the moves though, right? Just for research purposes. Scientific curiosity.”

“ELIAS,” you hissed, kicking him lightly under the table.

While the chaos unfolded, Piccolo looked utterly baffled. He turned to you, blinking slowly.

“…What is pole dancing?”

Your soul left your body.

Jenny leaned across the table, grinning like a gremlin granted its one malicious wish. “Oh, Piccolo, my sweet green man. It’s like… interpretive dance but vertical. In heels. Sometimes upside-down. Often involves dollar bills.”

Piccolo’s face went completely still, but you swore you saw the tips of his ears—and, if you could believe it—his antennas turned a shade darker. His eyes widened slightly as he turned to you again.

“You did… that?”

You let out a strangled groan. “ONE class! And it was a fitness class, thank you very much!”

“But did you enjoy it?” Luka asked innocently, his tone deceptively neutral.

You threw a napkin at him. “That’s not the point!”

Piccolo cleared his throat, looking forward with the most rigid posture you’d seen all night. “I… I suppose it’s a form of strength training?”

You sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“…But also dancing. On a pole.” he added, still clearly trying to compute it.

“Piccolo,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands again. “Please stop.”

Amelia raised her shot glass with a grin, clinking it gently against yours. “No judgment here. I’m just glad someone finally drank to one of mine.”

Jenny cackled like a madwoman. “This night keeps getting better. I swear, if someone admits to joining a cult next, I’m gonna die happy.”

Henry raised a hand. “Do MLMs count?”

Everyone groaned.

Piccolo, still stunned, quietly muttered under his breath, “I’m going to need to meditate for a week after this night.”

You rubbed your fingers in a slow circular motion against your temple, staring down at the table, your face still red as you whispered. “I think… I might join you on that offer.”

Jenny was riding high on the drama of the pole-dancing revelation, spinning her empty shot glass between her fingers like a villain monologuing in the third act.

“All right,” she said, cracking her neck like she was about to commit a felony. “Time to stir the pot again.”

“Oh no,” Henry mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Jenny grinned. “Never have I ever… tried to kill my friend as a joke.”

“Jesus Christ, Jenny,” Amelia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Elias let out a bark of laughter. “What kind of Looney Tunes-ass prompt is that?!”

Luka rolled his eyes but reached for his drink anyway, muttering something about “That one time with the bear trap.”

But then—Piccolo took a sip.

Everyone froze.

The table collectively snapped their heads toward him so fast it was a miracle no one sprained anything.

Piccolo sat still, jaw slightly clenched, his body tense in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The subtle squeeze of his hand on your thigh was the only giveaway that he wasn’t just casually sipping out of misunderstanding.

You didn’t react—you already knew. He’d told you those stories, the ones from long before he ever imagined himself sitting at a bar surrounded by chaos gremlins playing drinking games. You knew his past, and how much he’d changed.

But your friends? They were losing it.

Jenny blinked. “Wait. Wait. You—YOU?! You took a drink?!”

Henry leaned forward, eyes wide. “Holy shit, was that real? That wasn’t, like… metaphorical?”

Amelia’s eyebrows shot up, and even Elias had gone quiet for once.

Piccolo let out a slow exhale and looked down at the table, his shot glass spinning slightly in his hand.

“It… wasn’t a joke,” he said after a long moment, voice low. “And it wasn’t a game.”

Luka tilted his head. “But you did try to kill a friend?”

Piccolo nodded slowly. “A long time ago. Before I changed.”

Elias, ever the tactless menace, raised both hands. “Bro, that’s metal as fuck. Who was it? Are they okay? Did they… like, get better?”

You shot Elias a look. “Elias.”

Piccolo, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just pressed his lips together, still avoiding everyone’s gaze. “Let’s just say… there was a time I wanted power more than anything else. And there was someone who stood in my way. He became a rival. An enemy. But… also a friend.”

The table went dead silent.

“And now?” Amelia asked, her voice quieter, more curious than judgmental.

Piccolo finally looked up. “Now, he’s one of the few people I trust.”

Jenny blinked a few times, slowly lowering her drink. “Well shit. That got real.”

Henry coughed into his fist. “Can we go back to pole dancing?”

Elias raised his shot glass like he was toasting to Piccolo’s character arc. “To redemption arcs and not murdering your friends!”

Piccolo snorted softly, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to melt as he glanced sideways at you. “This game is ridiculous.”

You nudged him gently with your elbow, smiling. “Told you.”

“Still,” Jenny said, pouring another shot, “that was the wildest round yet. Top tier. Ten outta ten. Can’t wait to traumatize the next person.”

Piccolo gave you a side glance, then leaned in just close enough for you to hear him over the noise.

“…Are there more games like this?”

You smiled around the rim of your shot glass, the alcohol warming your throat as you took a slow sip. “Oh, sweetie,” you said, tone light and teasing, “we haven’t even gotten to Truth or Dare: Unhinged Edition yet.”

There was a twinkle in your eye, but you tilted your head, glancing toward your friends—Henry in particular, whose cheeks were beginning to turn bright red, eyes glassy with the unmistakable sheen of a man about to go past tipsy. Amelia was slouched over the table, hiccuping through a giggle, while Jenny was mumbling something about shot glass pyramids.

“I don’t think we’ll get the chance to play it tonight,” you murmured with a knowing grin, setting your glass down. “At this rate, we’ll all be wasted before the vodka’s halfway gone.”

You didn’t notice the way Piccolo’s posture stiffened slightly beside you, how his eyes widened—just a fraction. But the damage was done.

That single word—sweetie—lodged itself in his chest like a live wire. His expression didn’t change dramatically, but the softest, most unmistakable purple tint bloomed across his cheeks. His fingers twitched ever so slightly against your leg. A warmth he hadn’t anticipated spread low in his abdomen, an unfamiliar mix of affection and longing stirring in a quiet, dizzying swirl.

You still weren’t looking at him.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

He glanced down, lips pressed into a thin line, as though trying to smother the involuntary smile threatening to betray him. His gaze flicked back to you once more—so at ease, so effortlessly disarming—and that strange, fluttering heat pulsed again.

He would never admit it out loud, not yet, but that one little word had knocked the wind clean out of him.

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(a/n)

We finally met (Y/n)'s friends!!

Ngl, this chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wanted to keep going BUT I knew I had to end it off with something disguistingly sweet. 😉

Also—

PICCOLO IN A BUTTONED UP SHIRT AND SLACKS.

OOf 🥵

I was drooling just imagining him walking around dressed up like that. So scandalous, haha. 🥹

Also, also,

Our MC drives a mustang. Hehee. c;

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Part XX

You are currently reading Part XXI

Part XXII

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

[angelyuji]

OKAY this is a follow-up to the anomaly!reader ask, but I was hit by the sudden realization of how perfect of a situation it is for a little somno 🤭 the first time you had to be unconscious for a test was def legitimate.. and he just really couldn't help his curiosity. Besides, no harm done, right? you wouldn't even remember him doing it and he was very polite about it, only touching you. and of course recording every detail about it in his journal. You're perhaps getting a little suspicious when it's the fourth time over the course of a month or so that a test requires you to be unconscious... But hey, Ford is trustworthy... Right?

tw // implied noncon, somno, implied pregnancy

ABSOLTELY!!! like ford convinces you that it's just a small check-up (since you're not allowed to go to the doctor anymore) and you end up falling asleep (he drugged you) and when you wake up, you feel weird and different. this happens constantly until you wake up nauseous and sore. this time ford keeps you awake to show you that you should NOT have trusted him to keep his hands off you

[teeth-eater-666]

Help, I'm still struggling to use Tumblr and accidentally deleted this-

Anyways omg hi, woah. I wasn't expecting anyone to actually read let alone want more from my stuff. That was the first smut fic/drabble I've ever written.

I submitted this as an idea/thirst to another account but I think I'll expand on that here now-

(I mean with every fiber of my being when I say, he is a switch.)

The thing is, this man can dish it out but can't take it back. Being a relentless tease, it's one of the things that really connects him and Josh as friends.

When you're prepared for a calm night together of him taking the lead, soft whispers of teasing in your ear. He fully believes he's got this down pat, even feeling the slightest bit smug.

Content to make actual love to you, with soft caresses and warm kisses. Connected at the hips, pelvis pressed against your clit in all the right ways. Tangled together in a dance just for the two of you.

So when you beg him to absolutely "wreck my pussy." He freezes like a deer in headlights. Only in his wildest dreams have you spoken to him like this.

He was so flushed the moment those words left your mouth. The tips of his ears were flaming with heat and continued to be spread all the way to his chest.

He was completely stiff as a board. You could see all of him physically tensing, every muscle in his stomach felt taunt against you. Though his face showed no sign of what he was thinking.

It almost started to worry you, the question on the tip of your tongue. Until his hips snapped back, and began a rabbit pace that stole all breath from your lungs.

"You can't just say things like that when I'm inside you!" The whine in his voice was so unexpected, but so very welcome.

It takes him awhile to truly build up confidence, that's just the kind of person he is. Clearly his confidence has gone through the roof with a little dirty talk.

He was gonna drive you crazy with how absolutely fast he was going. Despite being the typical nerd, you knew he had the body to lift you off the ground and more.

He leaned down to kiss at your neck, " Say it again."

Confusing etched into your face momentarily until you understood the message. "Say it again, I'm gonna wreck this pussy." He was practically moaning and mewling like an animal in heat at this point.

Hooking your ankles under his ass to pull him impossibly deeper just prompted you to beg more of him.

"C'mon, I know you can do it. Wreck this pussy." Practically out of breath, you still said it again and again, and again. "Wreck my pussy please."

Sliding a hand between you seemed impossible, but with the way he was grinding into your clit with each thrust it wasn't needed.

Impossibly close to tipping over the edge, you swallowed each other's moans all the way to the finish line.

Pulling out slowly was as antagonizing as it was pleasurable. "God, I think you might have actually wrecked my pussy."

He looked panicked for a second, not quite being all there yet, even muttering a quiet "What-"

"I'm not serious honey, get your head out of the clouds." He slumped next to you, resting his head on top of yours.

"I didn't expect you to get so worked up." His blush was back, "Neither did I." The clear embarrassment shining in his features once more.

"But um, I liked it. The dirty talk you did- we did."

You went to bed content that night, learning something new about you and your partner.

[sashiavi]

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𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝙰𝚟𝚒'𝚜 𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙺𝚃𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚁 2023

#9•𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐•#9

𝙺𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚑 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 ʷᵒʳᵈ ᶜᵒᵘⁿᵗ ¹.¹ᵏ

Poor Kaveh was such a busy man, always nose deep in an excessively monumental blueprint, surely unfit for just one person to design. The moment he finishes up with one client, the next comes bounding over, immediately sending him back to his scattered desk. The cycle is indefinite. He refuses any aid, opting to coop himself up alone for days on end, barely leaving to eat and bathe - He wasn't going to go unwashed, he especially had a high standard for his appearance.

You knock a short rhythm on his door, entering when you get permission - A sleepy '..c'mon in' from the tired man. You see him bent over his desk, back craned and eyes droopy as he scrawls across his page with a pencil in each hand. You set a cup of hot coffee at the top of his desk, up and out of the way of his papers. Kaveh beams up at you - as best he can anyways - giving you a soft smile, sleepy eyes crinkled and bleary.

"How is everything going?" You ask, resting your palm on his shoulder. Kaveh leans into your touch, embracing your hand with his cheek, pressing it into his skin.

"..It's… going, I suppose.. Clients bein' difficult.." He mumbles, voice muffled by his cheeks squishing together, pursing his pretty lips. You give a sympathetic frown and kiss his head, squeezing his shoulder tenderly.

"Surely I can help.. A massage perhaps?" You tease him, wrapping your fingers over his shoulders, digging your thumbs into his sore muscles. Kaveh tilts his head back with a soft moan, stretching his creaky joints as you rub into his back. A short break couldn't hurt, he had been at this all day (and night.. and morning). You grin and kiss his forehead in short little bursts, eliciting a few breathy huffs and giggles from the man below, his downturned smile aims up at you. Your hands wander to his fluffy hair, massaging behind his ears, he hums airily, rolling his neck with a crack.

"Thank you, Love.." His smile is soft. "..I must get back to this." He's quick to frown gesturing towards his messy desk, reaching for his coffee and taking a deep sip.

"May I sit with you?" You ask, caressing your palm over his shoulder blades. Kaveh purses his lips for a moment and nods, giving a small 'sure'. Wordlessly, you slip to your knees, crawling your way under the shade of his table top. You sit pliant under his desk between his legs, massaging his tender thighs, digging your fingers deliciously into his achey quad muscles. Kaveh sighs airily, flexing his thighs under your touch. Oh, so that's what's happening.

Your hands tease and cup at his clothed cock, now straining in the seams of his pants. You kiss wetly over his hardening cock, leaving a noticeable wet patch over his crotch. His hand comes down to pet you softly on the head, just as quick as it comes, it goes right back to his paper blueprints. You nose and kiss at his swelling cock, grinning when his knee accidentally jolts, bumping the table from underneath. Your fingers play with his waistband, toying with the shiny button that clasps his pants together. You unbutton him, pulling his pants down just enough, revealing his thick cock. He sighs airily as you kiss wetly at his pretty, pink cockhead. You lick and mouth at him, watching his length flex and his flushed tip dribble milky pre.

Your tongue laps thickly at the underside of his head before you take him deep into your mouth. Your lips kiss at his base, his cock nestles sweetly down your throat. Your eyes flutter shut and you manage a soft sigh, nose nuzzling into his navel. Kaveh breathes shakily, legs relaxing in his seat, melting him like butter. You sit like this for ages, gently swallowing around his fat tip, breath soft on his groin, warming his thick cock in your sweet little mouth. Kaveh curls your hair behind your ear in appreciation, his fingers dance gently on your cheek every few minutes. The soft scratching of pencil to paper nearly lulls you into a light sleep, if it weren't for the feeling of your jaw aching so good on his sweet, pretty cock.

You sigh a soft whine, swallowing thickly on his cockhead, barely tasting his dribbling, salty pre on your tongue. The heavy weight of his length on your tongue makes you dizzy. Your brain numbs, dumb on his cock and he hadn't even done anything. Gods he was insatiable, he smelled nice, tasted so, so yummy on your tongue, his pretty eyes glossed over yours, locking momentarily. His fingers chin gently at your chin, slowly lifting you off of his cock. You pout and whine, kissing his sticky flushed head before he pulls away.

"Up, up~ Miss you.." He coos, patting his knees.

This was much, much better. You sit snugly in Kaveh's lap as he draws out his intricate civil structures. Your thighs hug at his own, sitting prettily on his leaking cock. Your pussy sucks him in, drooling hot creamy slick all over his lap, dripping down his balls. His thick cock nestles deeply in your pretty little cunt, pulsing sweetly every few minutes. One of his hands finds the small of your back, rubbing tenderly, hugging your body into his own. His lips kiss at your shoulder as he cranes his hips into yours, pressing his thick tip into your cervix, leaving the most delicious pressure in your cunny. You wriggle your hips and whine softly into his ear, your warm cunt squeezes over his thick length.

You could stay like this for hours, warming his pretty cock in your little, milky pussy. Rewarding him for putting so much effort into his passion. You take a turn to kiss at his neck, hugging his shoulders softly, grinding your cunt on his achey cock. He nearly drops his pencil, his breath hot in your ear. He huffs a short, airy laugh, fucking a few short thrusts into you before pressing you firming in his lap. You giggle with him, nipping at his neck and cuddling into his frame.

You hear a short rap on the door before the handle jiggles, your pussy clenches and squeezes at Kaveh's warm length. The door opens, revealing none other than Alhaitham, clad in pyjamas holding two cups of coffee in his hands. He blinks once, twice, and huffs a short downturned smile.

"Having fun?" He quips, placing the mugs on the table next to Kaveh's previous cup. Alhaitham places a palm on each of their backs, kissing their foreheads warm and tenderly. He rubs his hands over their forms, squeezing them affectionately.

Maybe Kaveh should take a break.

You knOwwwww I can't separate them </3

Kavehaitham x Reader is my Canon you can't take them away from eathother they lOve eachOthereere gahhHh

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Thank You For Reading! Comments Are Always Appreciated! I Love Hearing Your Thoughts ♡♡

♡KinkTober Taglist♡

@heath-sama @yejiswifex @hunnibunnix @bleh09 @madsw9 @py-schi @wizzardcatwithastick @shiningpaint-marbleheart @cherrytomato2 @i-am-silver @your-tears-taste-sweeter @kqzutcra @themusingsofmany @kaijubxnny @tericula

*I apologise if the tag does not work!*

•· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·····.•🍑•.····· ֪٘ ︶ ͝ ٘⏝𖹭⏝ ͝ ٘︶٘ ֪·•

[circusinthewalls]

SFW Ghost Ramblings - 18+ MDNI, AGELESS BLOGS DNI

(CW: References to Past Sexual Assault, Implied Suicidal Ideation | Therapy Dog Hybrid! Reader) [Masterlist]

Ghost is no stranger to the heft of a handgun, the way his 9mm weighs against his palm. The snap of the recoil pulsing up to his shoulder is utterly familiar.

Yet tonight it feels so different. This magazine can hold seventeen rounds, but thanks to his expert aim by the end of this all it'll only be missing one.

So easy. Just like that. Instant. Simple, but-

"Simon."

Shit. Right. He's supposed to be having a conversation with you.

"He's still alive," he replies gruffly, attempting to continue wherever he'd left off.

Out of his peripheral he can see you shift in the folding chair across from him, but he doesn't look up. You contemplate your response, tail beating against the seat only once.

"It's possible." A brief pause, then you continue. "Does the prospect bother you?"

Yes.

More than anything.

But he doesn't say that. His grip tightens on the pistol instead. That's an answer clear enough for you.

"C'mon," you mutter, rising from your seat and gesturing for him to do the same. He does look up then, eyeing you while he tries to ignore the hands he can feel crawling up his back.

Reluctant, but willing to indulge you if only for a little while, he follows suit.

Writing not permitted for reposting, transcription, translation or to use with AI technologies.

---------------------------------------------------

[Part Two.]

Sorry to hurt y'all with angst as soon as I come back, but part two to this will be up sometime later today or tomorrow. Enjoy! o7

[starshinewritesalot]

Vincent Bishop X Reader - [Wedding Guest Blues]

Summary: NB!Reader goes dress shopping for an event with family and ends up feeling self-conscious about the dress they liked most. Vincent helps them feel better.

CWs: Implied dysphoria, sexism, weight shaming, the typical afab experience, toxic family, depression mention, Vincent's typical perving, SFW with suggestive ending

Addendum: Reader is nonbinary, implied AFAB

WC: 1.2k

Dividers

You came home to your shared apartment, exhausted both physically and emotionally from your trip to the mall. With your long white plastic bag in tow, you dragged your miserable self past Vincent--who was on the couch-- to your room and chucked it onto the bed.

"Uh oh," He lowered the volume on the TV, already knowing something was up just by your expression and posture. He got up and entered your room as soon as you flopped down face first onto the bed, hovering in the doorway for a brief moment as he decided what to do. Being the ass he was, he decided it was only fair for him to lay on top of you as well, curling his fingers into the the gaps between yours from behind. "What's wrong sweetheart?" He murmured into your ear, taking a deep whiff of you like he always did when you got back home from an unfamiliar place.

"Nothing... Just dress shopping..." You sighed, partly out of exasperation and partly due to the weight of him on your back.

He hummed in response, in that kind of "ah, I see" tone. He had an idea of what you were getting at, but he still wanted you to talk with him a little more.

"I'm guessing it wasn't all that grand, if your current state is anything to go by... Let me guess, your family didn't let you pick anything you liked and had a comment for everything you tried on?"

"Yep... Pretty much."

"Oh, you poor thing," He nuzzled his head against yours, shedding purple strands all over you to find later. "Well, do you at least like the dress you settled on?"

You shrugged half-heartedly.

"It's fine, I mean I-I like it but it's not... It doesn't really matter what I think," Your fingers sprawled, body desperate to gesture around like you normally would but unable to due to the purple rat man keeping you pinned down. "Honestly a suit is less than half the trouble, even though they'd never let me wear one... But there was this one dress," You began, smiling slightly.

"It was so beautiful... It was the perfect cut, color, everything... But when I stepped out of the dressing room..."

You trailed off, slowly closing your eyes as you recalled the expression of your family members. Disgusted, horrified, judging.

"It'd be good if we had something to suck that stomach in!"

"Just don't eat before the party, okay?"

"That dress doesn't flatter you at all, makes you look so old!"

"Well... Uh... What do you like about it?"

When your breaths began to grow shaky Vincent sat up, looking down at you sympathetically. "Hey, hey, hey," He rubbed your back gently, giving you room to readjust if you wanted to. "I'm sure you looked gorgeous in it... Hell, you look gorgeous five days into your depression outfit, I kinda like it when you're a lil' stinky--"

"Vincent!"

He chuckled, shaking his head, "Sorry, sorry... But seriously, I mean it. I don't know what they said or did to you, but I can assure you that none of it's true. In fact..." He got up, an idea suddenly entering his mind. You rolled over to look at him while he picked up a pair of your pants accidentally(?), shimmying into them while he spoke. "Where did you say that mall was again?"

"Aw hell Vinny, that dress was damn near 200 dollars! It wasn't worth it anyway, I'm fine with the one I got--"

"Ah, ah! But it's not your dress though. It's the dress you agreed to, but not yours. Let's go find your dress again, I at least want to see my darling in it." He walked out of the room in your ill-fitted pants to go fetch his keys. You groaned, not really wanting to return to the scene of the crime (the crime in question being the absolute MURDER of your self esteem) but you knew Vincent wasn't gonna let up otherwise so you conceded and got back up anyway.

You actually got to enjoy the mall this time around, he parked near the front and got you a little treat from one of the cafes inside, then took you back to the store you were in. Treat first, hard stuff second, he had you practically conditioned, and sometimes you'd even get a treat after too.

Part of you hoped that the dress you liked wasn't there anymore just so that you could give everything up and call it a day, but ironically enough it was on a nearly empty rack all by its lonesome, like it was awaiting your return. You approach it hesitantly, pinching the fabric between your thumb and knuckle to rub the soft material. It was comfortable too...

You thought Vincent had wandered off for a second but it turns out he was right behind you, just hovering. He had a tendency of sneaking up on people like that despite how tall and unique in appearance he was. "This the one?" He asked, reaching past your shoulder so that he could touch it as well. "Hmm... It's soft," He murmured, trying to visualize you in it. He gulped back a bit of drool, being the pervert that he was. Suit or dress, he liked seeing you in both but liked ripping them off of you even more...

You snatched it off the rack, rolling your eyes as you already knew what kind of lewd thoughts were racing through his mind. You speed walked to the dressing room, knowing that he was behind you as he'd never miss a chance to see you try on some clothes. As you shimmied into it once again and zipped it up, you tried to recall the burst of confidence you felt when you first put it on. You swished the skirt around and did a little twirl, but even so you still felt the sting of the words exchanged hours earlier. Maybe they were right, maybe you were just crazy and the dress really was that ugly on you. "I guess it's just okay," You felt yourself almost relinquishing your adamance on the subject, but when you slowly opened the door to the dressing room and stepped out Vincent was taken aback.

Seeing his shock made you want to slam the door shut again, but this was a different kind of surprised, the good kind. Vincent Bishop had been a natural performer all his life, but you could tell when he was faking things. This was not one of those times.

"Oh, darling..."

He clutched a dark hand over his heart, crumpling up the fabric of his shirt. "You... You look..."

"Ghastly?"

"No! You look... Perfect..."

He stood right where he was for a little while, just to marvel and croon over you like the obsessive boyfriend he was, but soon enough he was up to no good again. He glanced around for any of the shop attendants, and when he noticed they were absent he began to creep closer. "What's say I help you out of that pretty little dress of yours, hmm?~"

"Vincent," You warned, slowly backing into the dressing room anyway. "You break it, you buy it y'know."

"Who said I wasn't going to get it for you, cara mia?"

"Oi, don't you cara mia me!"

Alas, before you could back-sass him any further it was already too late. The door was closed behind him and he was determined to add white accents to that beautiful, perfect dress.

[yoshinoritoshi]

I'm not good at sending these so pray with me... Joker (Weeping Clown) reacting to Reader confessing they want to start a family with him?

Yoshi had to do a bit of research for this, but I found something super cute...

The 'it' he's talking about here is ice cream; he wants to give ice cream to the kids so they'll like him... That's so cute that I started bawling my eyes out. He wants the approval of children!

So then, how would he react to you saying you want a family with him? Why, pure fear of course! Genuinely terrified, but also so excited that he can't stand, he has to lay down and curl up and cry to himself while you sit down and pull his head to your lap. He's going to need comfort, because he's so very happy, but also so anxious and stressed already that he's going to hyperventilate soon.

Joker never once thought in his entire life that he'd get to a point where he can even dream about a family, a child of his own, but his imagination goes so wild that he nearly passes out anytime he thinks about standing at your side with a kid that looks just like you in your arms... He hopes none of them look like him, just like you and you only! Of course, he won't hate them if they look like him, but he feels guilty that they inherited his cursed feature... And he'll vow that they never have to grow up like he did, their faces won't be used for entertainment...

Because of that, he's very secretive about his children, downright refusing to let anyone see them except you. All for their protection... He's going to cheer to the roof tops and yell to the stars though about how utterly filled with joy he is that sooner rather than later, you and him will create new laughter that's never existed before.

[thisisxli]

𝐌𝐇𝐀 𝟒𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 - 𝐕𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐆𝐍!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫(𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛/𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐛)

Rs: Various x GN!Reader(afab/amab)

Warnings: alcohol, beer, adult things

Tags: slightly rushed, everyone is having a good time, Reader is high drunk off their ass, Kirishima x Mina implied, kissing, fluff, spin the bottle, fireworks, 4th of July, happy stuff, Tokoyami is a drinker, Sero's breath stinks, fun, fun, and fun, no angst, aged-up characters(in their late 20s to early 30s)

Summary: Reader and her old classmates from UA catch up for good old times and celebrate the 4th of July, perhaps and preferably getting drunk in the process.

wc: 1.0k

a/n: I wrote this in like 10 mins?? So it's rushed, very sloppy. But I did try my best so I hope you enjoy it. And I know they all live in Japan, not America so they don't celebrate the 4th of July. Buttt, I'm doing this because I want to and because why not. I thought it was a really good idea yk? :) why not? Js pretend they're in America.?? 😅

The group laughs and cheer on a glass of champagne.

"Shit- shit- shit! Go, go," Denki laughs, nearly tripping on his feet when he starts to run, Sero trailing not too far behind him who lit up the upcoming firework. Midoriya and Iida exchange a few words before heading over to the rest of their old class.

"You guys havin' fun?" Midoriya suggests, smiling wider when you all agree with one another. Suddenly, bursts of laughter are heard from Denki and Mina, laughing at the image of Bakugou with a party hat that was forced onto his head. "Fuckin' bastards!" Small explosions spark from his palms, the other two collectively chittering to themselves. "More drinks, anyone?"

You turn to the sound of Uraraka's voice, floating bottles of beers heading over to the group. You all cheer, clinking tips before taking large sips. "Pretty, right?" You take a sip of your beer, smirking, "hell yeah. I don't know who bought these fireworks but we might just get arrested for it." Kirishima chuckles at that, clinking his bottle of beer with yours. "It was Denki and Todoroki who bought it," he states, nearly spitting out your beer. "What? Todoroki?- No, seriously?"

"I'm serious!" He laughs, gulping down his bottle. Mina suddenly appears, tugging at Kirishima's sleeve, "c'mon, let's light the red firework! And I'll see you later on tonight when the party ends, (Y/N)," Mina exclaims, winking at you before dragging off helpless Kirishima. You smile, turning to see Sero and Tokoyami. You snort, cocking a brow at the bird headed man, "didn't take you to be such a drinker, Toko." He grumbles, finishing whatever 4th bottle that night. Sero laughs, a little hazy. "I only drank two! This man is still low-key sobEr," he burps, making you physically recoil and burst out in a cackle. He follows along just as you get dragged into the group Midoriya and Bakugou was in.

You all watch in amazement as fireworks go off, red beautiful ones splattering across the sky and ones that looked like stars or flowers loomed over your faces.

"Let's play Spin The Bottle!" You surprisingly hear Iida suggest with a robotic voice. You share a look with Jirou, 'he is so obviously doing it for Momo,' you both think.

Fireworks nearly deafen your ears as others blow up in the distance, a bottle of beer set in the center of the circle of your old classmates formed in. "Les'gooo," Midoriya burps, "is that alcohol?" You exclaim, laughing when a fat glass bottle of red fireball appears in Hagakure's hands. Starting with Todoroki, of course, he spins the bottle and it lands on... Sero? You make a 'pfft' sound.

They take a shot of the fireball and hug each other like the men they are, Kirishima nodding his head in approval. Now it was Midoriya's turn... who landed on Uraraka. The girls chitter and blush when they see the two flustered and nervous. They shared a quick peck, nonetheless. Now it was Bakugou's, that landed between you and.. Kirishima. "Hey- no! It's-" you cut off with a laugh, "it's leaning towards you, see?!" "No, you!! I don't wanna share a kiss with a man, you go!"

"Alright, shut your trap! One of you just come over here, you damn idiots!" Bakugou raises his voice in annoyance, tapping his foot. He was sort of nervous. You sighed in defeat before crawling your way over to Bakugou, alcohol and beer intoxicating the air and your breaths. You hear a bunch of 'oooo's when you spread apart his connected knees. You lean in agonizingly slow as a joke, of course; you really didn't expect Bakugou to grab your head and roughly smash his lips against yours. Sure, it sort of turned you on but you had to be real, it's Bakugou for gods sake. No way.

You both disconnect with a loud smooch, falling on your butt as he glares down at you with a small smirk. "Shit, whatever," you mutter, crawling back to your place next to cheerful Kirishima.

It was now your turn to light up the fireworks... but you had a hard time trying to switch the lighter on. "Fuck (Y/N)!" Oijiro explains, Sato immediately running away when he thinks you've switched it on. "Fuuck- okay, somebody hand me a shot of fireball!" You shout to the group of adults, biting your tongue down in concentration as you try your best to emit flames from the mechanical object. Immediately, Koda comes carefully rushing to your side with a shot, immediately downing it and setting the glass shot in his hands. He immediately runs away just as you light it up.

"Go, go, go!" You rush Oijiro who's already dashing until you fall on your own two feet. You couldn't get up. Not when you were drunk and delirious, too far in the alcohol invested in your brain as you lay on the floor. "(Y/N)! You dumbass, MOVE!!" Mina jumps up and down as her anxiety spikes. Midoriya immediately rushes to you and carries you on his back, sighing in relief when the firework explode and emits into a beautiful scenery.

"Oops," you burp, earning a shaking head of disapproval from Midoriya. "Fuckin' dumbass," Denki laughs with Oijiro. You bark back at him, punching at the air and squirm on Midoriya's back.

"M-Midoriya," Iida calls out with a drink of alcohol in his hand, his arm wrapped around drunk Momo. "Why aren't you drinking anything? Aren't you h-having fffun?" He slurs, taking another sip from his plastic red cup. Midoriya chuckles, only just a tad bit tipsy. "Well somebody's gotta drive you people home, right?' Iida laughs, blushing into a deeper shade of red when Momo starts to kiss him on his pulse. "Yes! Of- of course! Now if you'll excuse me-" Iida drags Momo off to who knows where, earning an eye roll from Midoriya.

You roll your eyes back as your head polls to the side, resting your head on whoever's shoulder that was next to you. "I love you guys," you say, loud enough for your old classmates to hear.

"Aww! I love you too, (Y/N)!"

"That's sweet, we love you too!"

"I agree."

"Je t'aime!"

"We... love you too..!"

"Aww, shucks..."

You hear someone click their tongue beside you, leaning their head onto yours, "sure, idiot." Well. You hear more fireworks go off, bright colors illuminating your faces. You'll accept that for now. But now, you were just so happy. You were glad you were with the people you loved and cared about.

a/n: I was going to post this in the morning yesterday... But my phone got locked in a trunk of my car along with the keys... but I got it out! But um.. late post.. And back onto hiatus!

[harveybwabbit92]

[Zero is confused when he wakes up and finds his old friend R/n in his family's kitchen and she awkwardly confesses something to him..]

Zero, after his friend R/n told him she accidentally slept with his dad: I....Accidentally?

R/n: ....Yes.

Zero: I don't....I-I don't understand, wha-...Did you trip over something?

R/n: Er..No, we ran into each other at a bar and started talking and then one thing lead to another; next thing I knew, he invited me back here and I accidentally said yes.

Zero: How do you accidentally say yes?!

[Before She could answer Seven comes into the kitchen.]

Seven: Morning Zero! *Purrs at R/n* And a very good morning to you.~

R/n: *giggles nervously*

Zero: *Gags*

[lilyswrittenworks]

XVIII | Breaking Point

Warning(s): Lots of cursing, heavy angst, tension, and crying

Synopsis: Piccolo is struggling to accept his developing feelings towards you and so he does what he knows best; he becomes distant. Hoping that his absence and lack of engagement would deter you. But there is one fatal flaw from this decision: you were a very stubborn person who just wanted to know the truth.

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It had been two weeks since you first noticed it—the shift.

The way Piccolo's demeanor toward you had changed.

At first, you chalked it up to your own overthinking. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe something else was weighing on his mind. But as the days stretched on, it became impossible to ignore.

The warmth he had once shown you—the quiet patience, the silent but steadfast presence by your side—was gone.

Replaced by something cold.

Sharp.

Hostile.

It had started subtly, in the way he avoided looking at you for too long, the way he kept his distance. Then came the clipped responses, the indifference in his tone, and worst of all, the way he spoke to you as if you were nothing more than an obligation.

That realization hit you harder than any physical wound ever could.

You didn't understand.

You had spent three months recovering, leaning on his strength, comforted by the knowledge that he cared. But now? Now it felt like he couldn't get far enough away from you.

You had confronted him again and again, desperate to understand what you had done wrong. Each time, you were met with the same cold dismissal.

But tonight it all came to a boiling point, you were standing in the kitchen, confronting Piccolo once again about why he was acting out of character.

"Don't read into things," he had said. "I was only helping because you were reckless. That's all. Now that you're better, you don't need me."

That had cut deep.

Like a knife twisting in your chest, reopening wounds that had nothing to do with your injuries.

The words slipped out before you could stop them—an angry, wounded snarl as you shouted at him, defending your choices.

"If I hadn't done what I did, my student would've died! You know that!"

For the first time, you saw something flicker across Piccolo's face.

Regret.

And something else—something unreadable.

But you were too hurt to dwell on it. Too furious to try.

A sharp pain shot through your chest, yanking you back to reality. A strangled gasp tore from your lips as your knees nearly buckled. Your hand flew to your chest, pressing against the source of the pain as you braced yourself against the kitchen counter, breathing ragged.

The regret on Piccolo's face vanished instantly.

His entire body went rigid as his eyes locked onto you, widening in alarm. Without hesitation, he stepped toward you.

But before he could reach you—

"No."

Your voice came out in a shaky breath, but there was no mistaking the venom laced in it.

Piccolo halted.

"Don't you dare," you hissed through gritted teeth, lifting your gaze to meet his.

The strands of your hair had fallen over your eyes, but even through them, you could see the way his expression shifted. The way his hands clenched at his sides.

For a brief moment, you saw guilt.

But you didn't care.

Not anymore.

"Don't you dare act like you care all of a sudden."

Your voice was hoarse, laced with exhaustion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. You exhaled sharply through your nose, trying to push past the pain that gripped your chest, but it was becoming impossible. Your heart was hammering—too fast, too erratic—and deep down, you knew this wasn't good. You were still recovering from the operation from three months ago.

There was only so much your heart could take.

"I've been patient with you, Piccolo," you continued, your breaths coming in shorter bursts. "Trying to see past your cold indifference lately, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but..."

You trailed off, your throat tightening.

Seeing him look at you with such detachment, feeling the weight of his cold indifference toward you when all you had ever done was care for him—it was too much.

Another sharp wave of pain lanced through your chest. A pained gasp escaped your lips, and before you knew it, your body hunched over, forehead pressing against the cool surface of the kitchen counter.

You barely registered the movement beside you before you felt it.

A hand.

Warm. Solid. Him.

Piccolo's hand rested gently against your back, his touch impossibly careful, as if afraid you might shatter beneath his fingers.

For a split second, you almost gave in.

You almost turned to him, almost let yourself collapse into his arms where you knew you would find comfort.

You wanted to.

But just as quickly as the thought formed, you shoved it down—deep, deep into the pit of your stomach where all your unspoken words already rotted.

His voice came softly. "(Y/n)—"

You didn't let him finish.

With a sharp inhale, you pulled away from his touch like it had burned you, your expression twisted with pain—both physical and emotional. Without another glance, you turned toward the stairs.

"Whatever half-assed apology you have in mind—forget it. I don't want to hear it."

You reached the bottom step, then hesitated. For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Then, slowly, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

"If you really feel sorry," you whispered, voice trembling, "then you'll tell me why you've been acting like a total jackass. But you won't. You never do."

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed down the emotions threatening to claw their way out.

"So... stay here. Watch over me. Then Leave." Your grip on the railing tightened, nails digging into the wood. "I don't care anymore."

With that, you turned your back on him.

You didn't look at him again.

Couldn't.

The weight of sadness crashed into you like a tidal wave, pressing down on your chest until it felt like you might break. Your hand curled into the fabric of your shirt, gripping tightly over your heart as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You sucked in a slow, shaky breath before forcing your legs to move, each step up the stairs feeling heavier than the last.

Piccolo didn't move.

He simply stood there, watching as you disappeared at the top of the stairwell. A few moments later, he heard it—the faint click of your door closing.

And then the sound that nearly brought him to his knees.

Your muffled sobs.

His chest ached at the sound.

Because he knew.

He knew he was the reason you were crying.

His fists clenched at his sides, his sharp nails biting into his palms until the skin broke. A shadow cast over his eyes, his jaw locked so tightly it felt like it might snap.

A part of him wanted to go to you.

To hold you.

To tell you the truth.

That he was scared. That he felt something for you so strong it terrified him. That he had been pushing you away not because he didn't care—

—but because he cared too much.

But then came the other part of him.

The one that whispered bitterly in the back of his mind, reminding him of what he was.

A monster. A warrior originally born for world domination and destruction. Someone undeserving of the warmth you offered so freely.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn't allow himself to love you.

And yet...

He already did.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘✧──────✧₊∘

You let out a quiet sigh, resting your chin in your palm as you stared down at your half-eaten meal. The food, once warm and comforting, had gone cold, much like the atmosphere of your home since Piccolo stopped visiting. It was strange—how quickly you had grown accustomed to his presence, how easily his absence could make your house feel... hollow.

The TV droned on in the background, some late-night talk show playing, but you weren't really paying attention. Your mind kept replaying that moment—the way your voice had risen, frustration bubbling over, the sharp look in Piccolo's eyes before everything went south.

Four days. Four long, quiet days. Piccolo had never gone this long without at least stopping by—checking in on you like he always did. Even when he'd get on your nerves with his blunt remarks or silent observations, he was always there.

Now he wasn't.

You missed him and every time your mind circled back to him, the ache in your chest deepened. The weight of your own harsh words from four days ago hung heavy in the air. You clenched your fist, fingers curling into your palm as if trying to physically hold back the regret gnawing away inside you.

You had been so angry—so hurt—that day. The bitterness of his criticism had felt like betrayal, especially when all you had wanted was to protect your student. You knew Piccolo had only been trying to keep you safe, but his delivery... his coldness... it had cut you deeper than any bullet ever could.

But now?

Now all you could think about was how he had tried to reach out to you afterward. How his hand—so large, so warm—had rested on your back, grounding you for a moment. How his deep voice had softened as he murmured your name, his rare tenderness breaking through the walls he usually kept so firmly in place. And you had shoved him away.

You closed your eyes, setting down your fork before rubbing your temples.

You desperately wanted to hear his voice again, to have him by your side again. You cared for him, a lot more than you expected and the longer you sat there, the more unbearable the silence became. The realization of what he meant to you—what he had always meant to you—was crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and exposed.

You stared down at your half-eaten, untouched food with wide eyes.

"Oh my god," you rubbed your hands on your face. "Oh my god..."

You quickly rose from your stool and made your way toward the glass door. Your chest felt tight, your heart beating faster with every second. The weight of everything—your regret, your longing, your sudden realization—pressed against your ribs until it was almost hard to breathe.

You needed to talk to Piccolo. Now.

But where were you going to find him? Fuck. If only you knew how to fly properly you could've found him with ease, but sadly Piccolo only taught you how to hover to try and cover the basics in flying.

You folded your arms, staring through the glass sliding door onto the wooden porch, trying to come up with something. Piccolo didn't own a phone, so you couldn't even call him to begin with. Fucking hell, you couldn't even feel out his energy signature, because, wouldn't you know it? You haven't even mastered it. You felt frustrated by the limited options you had at your disposal.

Your fingers curled into the sleeves of your hoodie, the chill from the glass seeping into your skin. You stepped closer to the door, your breath fogging up the glass slightly as you squinted into the night. The backyard stretched out into the dark horizon, the faint outlines of trees swaying gently under the moonlight.

Then—movement.

At first, you thought you imagined it. But there it was again. A flicker of white through the shadows, disappearing behind the trees.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

It couldn't be... could it?

You pressed your hand against the glass, your eyes locked onto the spot where you'd seen it. The shape shifted again—a familiar billowing cape catching the faint breeze before vanishing behind the thick foliage.

It was him.

You threw open the sliding door, the night air rushing in and biting at your skin. Barefoot, you stepped onto the porch, the wood cold beneath your soles. Your pulse pounded in your ears, your voice catching in your throat as you whispered his name.

"Piccolo.."

Without a second thought, you rushed across the porch, your bare feet hit the wooden steps with a soft thud as you rushed down toward the yard, the grass tickling your ankles as you sprinted towards the tree line. The further you ran, the harder it became to see, the darkness pressing in on you, but you didn't care. You could feel him. You didn't need to know how to sense energies to know that he was here. He was close, you knew it, and nothing would stop you now.

Your breath hitched, and your legs burned from the sudden sprint. But you couldn't stop, not when you were this close.

There, just beyond the moonlight, was his silhouette—tall, unmistakable, and standing still. His back was turned, his arms folded as he looked out toward the horizon, lost in thought. He hadn't even noticed that you were standing just a few feet away from him.

"Piccolo?" You panted, stepping closer, barely aware of the sweat dotting your forehead.

At the sound of your voice, his body stiffened, but he didn't turn. A long, pregnant silence hung between you. He didn't move or speak, and it made the air around you feel heavy—like you were waiting for permission to be heard.

You swallowed, your throat dry, but you wouldn't back down. "I need to talk to you. I... I'm sorry for how I acted. I shouldn't have pushed you away like that."

Still, he remained silent. His broad back was a solid wall in the moonlight. The tightness in your chest threatened to suffocate you, and yet you couldn't stop yourself from taking another step forward. "But I need to know why," you took in a shaky breath, voice trembling with vulnerability. "Why have you been acting so differently? Was it something I said? What did I do?"

You waited, your heart pounding painfully against your ribcage as the silence stretched between you both, dragging on for what felt like an eternity.

He exhaled softly, breaking the stillness, but still didn't face you. There was a long pause before he finally spoke in that low, controlled voice of his.

"None of this is your fault. It never was."

"Then what is the issue, Piccolo? That doesn't excuse how cold and rude you were to me! Do you even care how you made me feel?!"

Piccolo whipped around, his cape billowing dramatically behind him as he faced you, his dark eyes furrowed deeply. The moonlight illuminated the hard lines of his face, casting shadows over the anguish etched into his features. "Do you think I liked hurting you? That was the last thing I wanted to do. All those horrible things I said... it's inexcusable. I regret it. All of it." Piccolo shut his eyes tightly, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides.

Your heart ached at the regret lacing his words.

"Do you even understand why I left?" he asked quietly, his tone distant. You remained silent, giving him the chance to explain himself. "I had to step back, to give you space, and to give myself time to think things through." He opened his eyes once again to meet yours. You looked so vulnerable under the pale moonlight—your shoulder-length hair unkempt, dark circles under your eyes betraying how little sleep you had gotten. Seeing you like this—because of him—broke something deep inside of him.

"You deserve better, (Y/n)." There was a heaviness in his words, like they had been weighing on him just as much as they had been weighing on you. "You don't need someone like me in your life anymore." He muttered, his voice barely above a breath. "I... I acted harsh on purpose to push you away. To protect you from—"

"From what?" you cut him off, your voice trembling. "From you?"

His silence was answer enough.

Your heart twisted painfully.

"That's not true," you whispered, clutching your trembling hands against your chest. "Please... tell me that isn't true."

Piccolo squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenching tightly. Your heart dropped, fighting back tears that were building up at the corners of your eyes. "No, you can't. I—I need you in my life, Piccolo! You mean a lot to me... can't you see that? Don't leave me—please, please...."

His guarded features faltered, his brow furrowing deeply. The sound of your voice breaking—begging for him to stay—shattered whatever resolve he had been clinging onto. His eyes shot open as he blurted out, "Stop that, damn it! You're making this much harder than it needs to be."

"Then why... why can't you stay? What are you so afraid of, Piccolo? Why can't you just fucking tell me for once in you goddamn life?!"

He growled lowly, dragging his hand down his face in frustration. "I'm afraid of losing you!"

You froze.

He continued, voice breaking. "You are everything that I never knew I could have. How can I give you the life you deserve when just being affiliated with me is a bigger danger than you could possibly imagine?"

His mind flashed back to all the battles he had fought—the lives lost, the constant threats lurking in the shadows. Even before he met you, the nightmares of Majin Buu's rampage still haunted him—the fact that you were among the countless victims he'd failed to protect sent him over the edge. The threat was gone now, but there would always be another waiting just beyond the horizon. He couldn't drag you into that... not when your life meant more to him than his own.

You didn't deserve to be caught in his mess—all because of his own selfish desire to keep you close.

"Fuck—do you have any idea how terrified I am to know that I'm in love with you?!"

The weight of his confession hung thick in the air, suffocating the space between you both.

You couldn't breathe—wouldn't—as if any sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile moment you had stumbled into. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, your mind reeling from the admission you never thought you'd hear from him—Piccolo, the stoic, guarded warrior... in love with you?

Piccolo's sharp features were twisted in conflict, his jaw clenched tightly as if he'd already regretted letting those vulnerable words slip from his lips. His arms hung stiff at his sides, fingers twitching in small, nervous motions. Even with his back partially turned to you, you could see how tense his entire body was—like he was preparing for you to reject him... or worse, pity him.

But how could he not see what he meant to you?

"Piccolo..." you whispered, barely finding your voice. Your heart ached at how hard he was trying to suppress his own emotions—as if believing they were something to be ashamed of.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name on your lips, his breathing shallow and uneven. He looked like he was fighting himself—fighting every instinct screaming at him to retreat.

"I never wanted you to know..." he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud made him feel even smaller. "It would've been easier if I never—" His voice cracked, forcing him to stop mid-sentence. He dragged his hand down his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "You deserve someone who isn't... me. Someone who can give you a normal life—a safe life."

You felt your heart twist painfully.

God, he didn't even realize what he was doing to you.

"Don't you get it?" Your voice trembled, the frustration and heartbreak bubbling to the surface. "I don't want a normal life... not if it means you're not in it!"

His breath caught.

"I don't care if you're a Namekian... or a warrior... or if the whole damn universe thinks you're dangerous." Your voice broke, tears welling at the corners of your eyes. "All I care about is you. The man who always puts everyone else first. The man who's been silently protecting me from the moment we met without ever asking for anything in return."

Piccolo's eyes finally flicked toward you—sharp dark irises glinting beneath the pale moonlight. His chest rose and fell a little faster now, as if your words were chipping away at the walls he'd built around himself.

"You think you're dangerous to me?" You took a cautious step closer, clutching your trembling hands against your chest. "The only thing you've ever done is make me feel safe."

He froze.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and disbelieving—like no one had ever dared to say something like that to him before.

"You don't understand," he muttered hoarsely, his voice breaking under the weight of his own self-loathing. "I could hurt you. Just by being around me... you could get killed. Do you know what that would do to me? Do you have any idea how many nights I've stayed awake... picturing what would happen if you got caught in the crossfire just because you were close to me?"

You could see the haunted memories flickering behind his eyes—the countless battles he'd fought, the lives he'd seen ripped away in an instant.

It was tearing him apart.

"You think you're protecting me by leaving?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "All you're doing is breaking my heart."

A pained growl rumbled in the back of his throat, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He looked like he wanted to argue—needed to—but the words wouldn't come out.

Instead, his chest heaved with every unsteady breath—his entire body trembling under the weight of emotions he'd spent years trying to suppress.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and took another step closer—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his towering frame.

"You're not a monster, Piccolo," you whispered, your voice breaking. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

His entire body flinched—like your words physically hurt him.

For a long, agonizing moment, he couldn't even look at you—his sharp jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack.

But then... slowly, his head turned just enough to meet your gaze.

His dark eyes burned with so many emotions at once—fear, anguish, longing.

But underneath all of that...

There was love.

Raw, unfiltered love—so painfully obvious now that he couldn't hide it anymore.

Your heart skipped a beat, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

"You really don't get it, do you?" you whispered shakily. "You say you're afraid of losing me... but don't you realize? You've already got me. You had me from the very beginning."

Piccolo's breath caught—his eyes flicking between yours like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"You love me..." you said softly, testing the words on your tongue.

His gaze dropped to the ground, his sharp cheekbones tinged with that faint purple hue once again.

"I don't know how to..." he trailed off, his voice breaking. "...I don't know how to love someone the way you deserve."

Your heart shattered.

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out—your fingertips brushing tentatively against the back of his clenched fist.

"You already do," you whispered.

Piccolo's shoulders trembled beneath his weighted shoulder-pads.

For a long moment, he didn't move.

But then—so slowly it made your heart ache—his fingers unfurled beneath yours, rough calloused skin brushing against your palm.

Your breath caught.

He was letting you in.

Finally—after all this time—he was letting himself be vulnerable.

You squeezed his hand gently, grounding him to the present.

"I'm not afraid of you, Piccolo," you whispered. "I'm afraid of losing you... of you walking away from something that's right in front of you because you don't think you're worthy of it."

His breath hitched, his eyes squeezing shut like your words physically hurt him.

"I don't deserve you..." he muttered brokenly.

"But you do," you insisted, your voice trembling. "You're so much more than what you think you are... and I love you for every part of it."

His eyes snapped open, wide and vulnerable.

You could see the exact moment his resolve crumbled—the way his chest caved slightly, his breath hitching in a ragged, broken exhale.

Without warning, Piccolo suddenly pulled you into his arms—his massive hands trembling as they gripped your body tightly, like he was terrified you'd disappear if he let go.

Your heart ached at how gentle he was—despite his strength, despite everything he'd tried to convince himself he was.

You buried your face against his abdomen, your tears soaking into the fabric of his gi.

"I'm right here," you whispered against him, your voice breaking. "I'm not going anywhere."

Piccolo's arms tightened around you, his chin pressing against the top of your head, slightly hunched over to keep you as close as he could.

For the first time in his life...

He let himself believe you.

(4,167 words)

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(a/n)

FINALLY. The moment we've all been waiting is hereee!

I was going to submit this post early as a surprise for you lovely reader but uh... the power grid on the entire island went out. 😭 I was so sad because of the timing lol

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Part XVII

You are currently reading Part XVIII

Part XIX

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

[aeyumicore]

between the blades of grass

when sylus, the strongest warrior of the grasslands, chooses you as his mate, you're forced to consummate your union in front of the entire clan.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: sylus x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with very little plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.4k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, public sex, voyeurism, outdoor sex, people watching you have sex, missionary, cumming inside, medieval bedding ceremony vibes, NOT continuation off grassland romance (though inspired by it), NOT based off any real world clan, completely made up clan & traditions, implied virgin mc, implied first time sex, use of y/n, dom!sylus, dirty talking sylus, talks of marriage, mating, and some political play.

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | twitter inspo 1 | twitter inspo 2

━ ✧.˖ A/N: hello! short fic since i was so heavily inspired by the new sylus memory. this is NOT a continuation of ‘grassland romance’ though it is heavily inspired by the overall theme of the memory. i began furiously writing this when they released the trailer oof i was so hooked. inspired by @/yuchanpaws_ quote tweet linked above!

please note that the clan and traditions mentioned in this fic are completely fictional. however the tradition is based loosely off of the “bedding ceremony” that medieval europe used to partake in!

i will NOT be writing fics for the new xavier or raf memories! i may write for zayne but that is up in the air. i only wrote for this one because i was super inspired by the memory and the fan discourse about it on twitter and tumblr <3

this was actually so fun to write. i might find myself writing more bite sized fics like this, that inspire me rather than feel like me forcing myself to finish them :’) unfortunately that probably means less xavier and raf from now on and only zayne & sylus…

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

“Don’t look at them. Look at me.”

You can hardly hear Sylus through the deafening chants and cheers of the people around you. Never in a million years did you think you’d be caught in this situation. The Mating Rite.

Actually, it was customary for the most esteemed members of your clan to partake in the Mating Rite, those of the Elder Tribunal, the high ranking commanders of the various military societies, really any of the most respected members of the community had to participate in the Rite. To prove their bond with their chosen to the rest of the clan, committing themselves not only to each other, but to the clan. 

But you didn’t fall into any of those criteria. While you were under the strict and often suffocating protection of the clan’s most skilled warriors, for reasons they’d refused to share with you, you weren’t someone of the necessary stature needed to be required to partake in the Rite. 

But Sylus was.

The youngest warrior to be sworn into the clan’s most elite and ruthless military society. The youngest to be considered for a commanding position in the militia, a position he turned down many times. He was the most formidable and respected gladiator of your entire clan, and even that of the opposing clans of the Grasslands. 

There wasn’t a soul in all the Grasslands that didn’t know his name. You either envied him, feared him, or wanted to share a bed with him. Maybe all of the above.

You knew the day would come when Sylus would have to choose a suitable partner, and the thought of it inexplicably sent painful pangs down your very soul. The fear of losing him, when you didn’t even have him, was so utterly heartbreaking, you didn’t know how you’d bear it when the time came.

And yet…Sylus wanted you. He chose you.

You’d never forget the way he sought you out after returning from a mission he told you little of, under the massive acacia you’d often lain under, with the silver haired man in question holding you dearly. How you’d flown into his arms upon seeing his distinct form approaching you, his strong hands gripping your waist as he spun you around, whispering into your ear about how he’d missed you in his time away. 

Or when he threw you over his shoulder, his fingers gripping the underside of your rear, a clear mission in his mind as he traversed the Grasslands to the Elder Tribunal’s square. 

“I need to show them I already have a lover.”

The Elder Tribunal had been pushing Sylus’s hand for years now, wanting to see their most esteemed warrior mated, securing his future progeny to that of the clan. He’d been able to hold them off for as long as possible, his responsibility as a warrior and as your key protector keeping him far too busy to find a suitable mate. 

You weren’t exactly sure what changed, what exactly had caused Sylus’s hand to be forced. What had caused him to finally give in, choosing a partner to share the rest of his life with. 

In any case, you found yourself under Sylus’s very naked body, his thick erection nestled firmly inside your quivering walls. He was naked from the waist down, but still wore the traditional garb of the warrior ensemble’s chest harness, the bone embellishments rattling against the coarse leather. There were countless eyes around you, watching the way Sylus slid in and out of you, his eyes never leaving yours. 

Sylus did his best to use his much larger body to shield yours from the hungry stares surrounding you, wanting to take away even the tiniest bit of your obvious discomfort. You were entirely naked, as was required of women partaking in the Rite, bare and vulnerable before the many spectators. And while the thought of showing off your magnificent naked body off to others excited Sylus, as he knew that it was a sight others could behold but never have like he could, he wanted to make you as comfortable as possible. 

The warm air breezed against your naked body, only a canvas ceiling protecting you from the elements. It was a tent of sorts, without any walls, to give the crowd the best view of the Mating Rite. Of you and Sylus. 

Even though the air is warm, the, almost muggy, Grassland breeze against your bare skin makes you shiver.

“I’m sorry,” he grits, his jaw slack as you sucked him in so tightly, trying to focus on comforting you and not the way you nearly choked the orgasm out of him, “I’m sorry. I never wanted our first time…to be like this.”

His words make your mind sober up, your eyes focusing on his and not those around you. He used his thick thumb to rub the tears out of the corner of your eyes.

“It’s’okay Sylus,” you gasp, the pain of his thick cock making it difficult to speak, “I-I’m’okay.”

Sylus grimaces, hearing the choke of discomfort in your soft voice. The way your cunt felt around him was so completely and wholly blissful, and he’d be damned if he didn’t make you feel as good as you made him feel.

“Just focus on me, alright my dove?” he murmurs, his voice gruff with desire. As he continues to rock into you, unbearably gently and loving, he leans down until his lips are a mere inch from yours. 

“Let me take the pain away, hm?”

He presses his lips to yours, inhaling your gasp as he kisses you for the first time. You’d daydreamed about the way his lips would feel on yours, when you watched him train with his fellow warriors, when you’d wash fresh fruit in the brook by the clearing, when he’d watch over you, protecting you from a danger that everyone refused to tell you the truth of.

But your silly little daydreams paled in comparison to the real thing. Nothing could have prepared you for how warm and commanding his lips would be when they took yours. How his tongue, gentle yet insistent as they traced the opening of your mouth, would slip into your mouth, exploring you like he owned you. 

You never could have imagined the way he’d literally take your breath away, kissing you like he’d been waiting just as long to taste you, to have you.

It’s so wonderfully dizzying that you don’t even notice the pain of his member inside you ebbing into a burning pleasure. You don’t notice the way people holler when Sylus kisses you, the way they cheer at the scene unfolding before them. 

You squeak, a mix of a moan and a squeal when Sylus pushes so deeply into you that you briefly see warm white stars clouding your vision. Sylus groans, ripping his lips from yours to breathe out a throaty moan of pained pleasure.

“Not so tight,” he all but seethes at you. You wince at his harsh tone, doing your best to relax your squirming muscles and obey his words. Sylus instantly softens at your reaction, his hand coming up to caress your cheek.

“You’re so tight down here, sweetheart,” he grits, fingers coming down to press on your bare tummy, “It’s making it difficult for me to…control myself.”

“I-Is that…” you whimper, confused by the way he’s making your body burn with an unfamiliar pleasure, “Ngh – bad?”

Sylus chuckles, despite the tortured plea that shines in his carmine eyes, “Bad? Far from it…You feel unbelievable.”

Your heart clenches at his praises, cheeks heating at the sounds his body makes against yours. Flushed at the way people are watching Sylus claim every inch of you, your virtue. 

He continues, stroking your cheek gently, pleadingly, “But it would be embarrassing if you made me…end the Rite so quickly. In front of all these people.”

The implications of his words dawn on you and your eyes widen in a mix of surprise and disbelief. He doesn’t stop his movements even as he explains himself to you, your nails digging into his thick biceps that cage you, blocking your modesty from the spectators.

“I have an image to uphold, after all,” he smirks only half-joking, a well deserved arrogant confidence playing behind his beautiful features, “Only you would make it so difficult for me, little bird.”

“M’not trying to Sy –” you choke out, looking down and trying to focus on the way his impossible girth splits you open, and not the jeering of the crowd. You’re briefly hypnotized by the shiny ring of something filthy that encircles his base, the way his abdomen clenches with every movement he makes. 

You’re snapped out of your trance at the distinct and familiar voices, some distance behind your head. You’re acutely reminded of just how exposed you are, your thighs trying to clench shut on instinct. But Sylus’s body holds them open, his fingers gripping your chin to bring your face back to his.

“Don’t worry about them.”

“I-I just –” you whine, not even knowing what you want to say, unable to stop your eyes from darting around. You squirm when you make eye contact with the hungry eyes around you, recoiling into yourself.

“I can tell you exactly what each and every one of them are thinking,” Sylus purrs into your ear as he leans down to press his weight deliciously onto you, which only earns more hooping and hollering from the crowd, “They’re thinking about what it would be like…to be in my place.”

Sylus smirks when you shiver at his lewd words, his filthy whisperings making you inexplicably and embarrassingly excited. His voice is impossibly heated, a dangerous ferality behind them, “Thinking about what it would be like to be the one inside of you right now.”

You whine at his words, hitting his shoulder weakly, “Sylus d-don’t say that. I only want to think about you.”

Sylus groans, a beautifully deep and erotic moan of satisfaction, “Damn right. You are mine.”

He continues on, so lost in the feeling of your tight wet walls that he begins to ramble uncharacteristically, “I’m sorry, my love. I will make it up to you.”

Before you can even ask for what, Sylus is driving right back into your deepest parts, making your toes curl as you squeal unabashedly, not even registering how people cheer at the way you he fucks you.

He whispers, not paying any mind to the way people applaud the way Sylus makes your body keen, encouraging him to take you harder, “After this, little bird, I’ll show you just how good I can make you feel. Just you and me. I promise.”

As inexperienced as you were, you knew the way Sylus fucked you was otherwordly. His thrusts, both dominating and tender, his hands gentle as they squeeze your breasts, his lips as they caress yours. The way he so quickly blurred the pain to a blinding pleasure, you knew Sylus knew exactly how to use his body. 

Beyond that, you knew Sylus was well acquainted with the female body. The way he fucked you was unreal, quite literally making magic with your joined bodies. The pain had faded away, replaced with an ecstasy that nearly blocked everything else out.

Nearly.

As the whooping gets louder, Sylus only fucks you harder, trying to distract you from the crowd around you, “It’s just you and me, sweeheart.”

Despite Sylus’s comforting words, he himself was still profoundly aware of the eyes on your joined bodies. But it only served to excite him, make him harder. The way all eyes were on you, the beautiful woman he’d chosen for himself, his mate. Something they could stare at but never indulge in. It drove him insane. 

You nod, losing yourself as Sylus’s rhythmic pounding makes your nerves burn with pleasure, in a way that makes you confused and alarmed. You felt lightheaded, the pressure in your stomach overwhelming. It felt like you were losing control of your body, like you might have an accident all over him. 

“Sy-Sylus, I think something’s – nghn – happening!” you wail, “I think maybe we should – ahngh – stop.”

Sylus groans, acutely aware, even if you aren’t, that you’re nearing your very first orgasm. You squeeze him so tightly that he can’t help but meet you at the peak of that blinding pleasure.

“Let it happen, Y/N,” he soothes, trying to mask the fact that he’s about to lose his own mind from how perfectly you’re clamping down on his cock, “You’re close aren’t you?”

Your eyes widen at the realization of what this sensation is, having heard stories from the other women in the clan, almost scared of how explosive you know it’s going to be. Your fingers furiously grapple at the thick ropes of muscles on his back, scratching deep red welts into him. 

“Cum for me in front of all these people, my dove,” he coos, almost condescendingly, “Let’s show them exactly who you belong to now, hm?”

His words drip with absolute filth and it only makes the tension grow tauter, almost like a balloon being stretched to its limits before it pops. You don’t even notice when Sylus’s large hands find  the area where your bodies meet. 

Your eyes, screwed shut at the new sensations of mind and bodily bliss, fly open when he touches your most sensitive parts, rubbing furiously at the crest of your lips. The feeling is so overwhelming your back arches off the thick mat of straw and blankets that you rest on, chasing the sharp pleasure that his fingers bring onto your intimate regions.

“So responsive,” Sylus murmurs gruffly, “Just like that, my heart. Let yourself feel it, hm? For me.”

You’re honestly at a loss at how Sylus can speak to you coherently right now, if he feels even a fraction of the ecstasy he’s bestowing upon your body. 

As your eyes roll back, your mouth parted in a symphony of the most beautiful moans and whimpers, Sylus feels himself being pushed to release. The sharp claps of applause are muted as his ears ring with the overwhelming pressure of how badly his cock wants to release inside you.

For the first time, Sylus stutters, “I-I need to cum inside you. I’m sorry, my love.”

The Mating Rite required the participating parties to unify in the most intimate ways possible, and that included the sharing of essences. And the idea of that…as new as you were to the pleasures of skinship, drove you to madness.

The thought of him filling you so deeply with him, all of him. You couldn’t explain it but you wanted it more than anything you’d ever wished for.

You can’t stop yourself from begging pathetically, “I-I want it. I want you Sy. Please.”

Your voice is practically drowned out by the intensifying cheers of the crowd, but Sylus hears your pleas loud and clear. In fact it’s the only thing he can hear, his brain drowning out anything that wasn’t you.

“Do you?” Sylus smirks, trying to maintain control despite how royally fucked your words rendered him, “So filthy for such an innocent little bird.”

“Then you’d better take it all, my love.”

With frenzied fingers, Sylus sends you careening down the unfamiliar ledge of orgasmic bliss. His thrusts grow increasingly frantic, your cunt convulsing so violently that Sylus nearly wants to black out. You were so unbearably tight that his climax was forced out of him, the warm splash of milky hot seed coating every centimeter of your perfect little hole. 

As he spews into you, he feverishly takes your lips into his, desperate to taste you as his body gave you every ounce of himself. His tongue furiously finds yours, a fierce gnashing of teeth, flesh, and raw unadulterated passion. Your entire body vibrates as he moans into you, his body rocking both of you through a transcendent euphoria that will undoubtedly change your life forever. 

Neither of you can even hear the screams or the toast of applause that erupts all around you, clan members quite literally celebrating at the union of their most prized warrior. 

Sylus doesn’t still, biting the inside of his mouth as he ruts himself into a painful overstimulation. Yet, he can’t get enough of you, not wanting to pull out and be without your warmth, without you.

“The rite has been completed!”

As your body begins to come down from its dizzying heights, your senses start to return, your consciousness becoming vaguely aware of people crowding closer. 

One of the clan elders saunters over, wanting to congratulate Sylus, parade him around like a prize the clan had secured for themselves. Sylus’s body blocks his as he approaches, his head snapping back forcefully when he feels an unwanted presence encroaching on your space, intruding on his brief moment of bliss with you. 

“Sy?” you murmur wearily, your body drained of every last drop of energy, replacing your body with a heavy contentment that weighed you down. 

Sylus doesn’t respond, snapping something at the clan elder, and the other important clan members that had begun to slowly approach. Though you couldn’t hear what he said, you can make out his snarky and forceful tone, a tone you’d never heard him take, especially not with you. It was filled with an authority that would normally never be taken with those of the Elder Tribunal. 

But of course, he was Sylus.

Just like that, everyone is clearing out of the small meadow in which the Rite had taken place, heading back to the central square of the Grassland. The serenity left behind blankets you and Sylus, as he returns his attention back to you.

His manhood is still snug inside you, thick and throbbing again despite the copious amounts of slick dripping from where he still plugs you. Your legs are lazily clung to his sides, his thick body slotted between your shaking thighs. 

“Hey…” he murmurs, brushing your sweaty hair out of your face. 

Your eyes flutter open, twinkling when they catch the way Sylus drinks you in. His lips are quirked in a smirk, a classic display of Sylus-esque arrogance, but his crimson eyes are so tender, the sharp lines of his face softened. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your clammy forehead, wrapping his arms behind your back and cradling you in his arms. He hoists you onto his lap, your legs coming to wrap around his waist, his erection still nestled into your sore walls. 

“For what?” you whisper, resting your head on his chest, trying to control the shivers that rack your body involuntarily.

“For doing this. For me.”

You glance up at him, unsure of what to say. You hardly felt like you did him a favor, between the indescribable pleasure he’d just given you and the feelings for him you’d buried deep down. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more exposed than ever, even though the two of you finally had some privacy. 

Sylus doesn’t speak, holding you dearly as he gazes off into the flat plains of the Grassland, a few large acacia trees littered in the open fields. 

“It was…incredible,” you admit, “You’re incredible.”

Sylus looks down at you, the usual cockiness and arrogance faded, letting you really see into the soft and warm soul of the Grassland’s most revered warrior.

He bends down to kiss you, his lips impossibly soft and patient as opposed to the violent way he’d kissed you earlier. Every touch is a caress, every second precious and fleeting. 

Sylus bites back his groan as he feels himself stirring back to life inside you. He tries to focus instead on how it feels to hold you, to have you. 

He fully intended to make good on his earlier promise, showing you just how thoroughly he could love you. But for now, he just wanted to feel your lips on his, your skin against his. The way he’d always wanted. The way he’d always intended. 

A warm gust of wind sweeps through the meadow, making the foliage dance lazily. For over two decades, you’d lived between these very same blades of grass. Yet as you kissed Sylus, the Grassland had never felt quite so alive.

© aeyumicore 2024.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

[buckyseternaldoll]

He Still Smelled Like Home

Pairing: exhusband!Avengers!Bucky x civilian!afab!reader

Summary: A missed anniversary. A quiet goodbye. And then a metal arm shielding you from death. You were always his. Even when you weren’t.

Warning: 18+ (mdni!), heavy angst, emotional abandonment references, hinted depression, marriage separation, unresolved tension, emotional breakdown, longing, heartbreak, near-death-experience (implied), emotionally intense smut, marking/claiming kink, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, timeline is loosely based on somewhere in between TFATWS and Thunderbolts*

Word count: 4,110 *finalized. No one's reading 29k words

You stared at the emptiness of your home.

The house that was supposed to echo with laughter, with midnight kisses in the hallway, with the low, raspy way Bucky used to call you baby when he walked in after a long day.

Instead, it echoed with silence.

Furniture untouched. Coffee gone cold on the counter. Your shared blanket on the couch still crumpled the way you left it, not him. It had been days. Maybe weeks. Time had begun to blur together in his absence.

This house — your home — used to carry his presence like a scent. Leather and spice, coffee and cedarwood. His cologne used to linger in the doorways. His boots used to thud softly on hardwood, his hums used to carry from the shower. But lately, the only things left were your own tired footsteps and the buzz of the refrigerator.

You sank onto the edge of the bed, stared at the closet that still held his clothes. Neatly arranged, untouched. They used to smell like him, like nights curled into his chest, like mornings when he wouldn’t let you leave without kissing your shoulder first.

Now they just smelled like dust.

Bucky had been swallowed whole by his work.

Some days, he was a reluctant public figure — shaking hands, attending briefings, forced into suits and speeches about reform and redemption. Most days, he was a weapon again. Deployed into fights with little notice, returning with bloodied knuckles and bruises beneath his eyes. When you touched him, he’d flinch just slightly — not from fear, but like he couldn’t believe it was real.

You understood. God, you tried.

You knew who he was. You loved who he was.

You promised yourself — again and again — that you could handle it.

The nights alone. The uncertainty. The ache of missing him.

Because you loved him too deeply to walk away.

Because you thought being Mrs. Barnes meant being strong enough for both of you.

But love had started to feel like an echo — something you screamed into the void and never got back.

What you felt now was loneliness.

A hollow ache, wide as winter, clawing at your insides every time another message came from Val instead of him. Another mission. Another country. Another time zone you didn’t belong to.

He’d always kiss you goodbye. Sometimes on the forehead. Sometimes just your hand. And sometimes… not at all. Just a silent glance before the door shut behind him, as if his guilt outweighed his ability to say goodbye.

And when he did come back, it was like he left part of himself behind.

His blue eyes — once bright, full of mischief and love and that impossible, boyish affection only you got to see — now looked dimmer. They didn’t rest on you with the same softness. They scanned you, checked you, but didn’t linger. As if he didn’t trust himself to look too long, in case it broke him.

When he held you at night, he trembled in his sleep.

When you kissed him in the morning, he didn’t kiss back right away.

He whispered I love you like it was a habit, not a promise.

So you reached for the wedding photo album. The one you kept high on the shelf, tucked behind cookbooks and board games you never played anymore.

You slid down to the floor with it. Cross-legged, as if you were still that giddy woman in love, waiting for him to walk in and steal a kiss.

The photos were intimate. Small wedding, barely two dozen people. Just the closest ones — Sam, Joaquin, and your parents’ photo in your bouquet. The two of you had danced barefoot in the grass beneath string lights, his vest long discarded, your shoes kicked off somewhere near the firepit.

In the pictures, you looked radiant.

So did he.

That little smile — crooked, cocky, only for you. His nose slightly sunburned, his metal hand resting over yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You chuckled, but it came out hollow. A dry sound that hurt more than it comforted.

Your fingers traced the edges of one photo — the one where he kissed your temple, and you closed your eyes with a smile so wide your cheeks dimpled.

And suddenly, you remembered how you met.

───

Flashback:

The entire building blacked out, trapping you in a dim elevator lit only by the red emergency light. This happened often enough that you knew the bell button was useless; you’d have to wait for maintenance.

It was nearly 2 a.m., and you’d just finished a late-night grocery run. You were stuck with a stranger — a man tall and broad, standing opposite you. His faded henley clung to his muscles even in the eerie red glow. His hair was short and neat, his stubble freshly trimmed. His sharp gaze pierced you but felt strangely warm.

“Want some grapes?” you offered, holding out a bag. He looked confused.

“I swear they taste like cotton candy,” you added, nudging the bag closer. Slowly, his guarded stare softened and he reached out with his gloved metal fingers.

“Oh,” he rumbled, voice low and rough. “They do taste like cotton candy.”

His guard dropped completely then. You talked about everything — your dog Percy who had just crossed the rainbow bridge, your chaotic job, your ex who’d burned through your savings on booze. You didn’t hold back; you were a talker, a sharer. And he listened, amused and content. For once, he wasn’t a hero or a soldier. Just Bucky.

Two hours later, when the elevator finally hummed to life, you walked toward your doors together. Nervous, you asked, “What should I call you?”

“Bucky,” he sneered softly. “I’m Bucky.”

───

You practically moved into his life. Your clothes filled his wardrobe. Your toothbrush hung beside his. You wore his oversized shirts, loved the way they draped over your curves. You cooked for him, greeted him after missions. You met Sam Wilson, who teased Bucky for smiling so much on FaceTime with you. Sam thanked you for lighting Bucky up again.

Your sex life with Bucky was electric — both with high drives, perfectly matched. When he asked you to marry him, you screamed “Yes” with joy.

───

You glanced at your phone. 3:50 a.m.

Ten minutes to four.

The dinner you made lay cold on the table. Roasted turkey with plum glaze. Mashed potatoes. His favorite black cherry pie.

You’d even worn the silk robe he once said drove him insane — the burgundy one that hugged your curves like a second skin. You had curled your hair, lit the candles, set the table for two.

It was your seventh wedding anniversary.

He had promised. Swore on your vows, on his mother’s grave. “No missions, no excuses, I’ll be home.”

But he wasn’t.

Not at 4 a.m.

Not at 7.

Not at noon.

It wasn’t until eighteen hours later that the front door finally creaked open. You were curled on the couch, still in the same robe, your makeup smudged and mascara dried into the pillow. The candles had melted down to nubs. The food had crusted over with cold.

You heard the boots first — heavy, limping, dragging.

And then you saw him.

James Buchanan Barnes, your husband. Bloodied. Bruised. One eye already purpling, a cut on his lip, blood trickling down from his temple. His vibranium arm was scorched in places. He looked like he’d been through hell and back and then some.

But he still smiled — weakly, brokenly, with his entire heart bleeding behind it.

“Baby…” he rasped, voice like gravel. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked. Slowly. Like the words couldn’t land. You sat upright and moved toward him on instinct — your heart betraying your numbness. He was hurt. And that muscle memory in your bones still knew how to care for him.

You didn’t speak as you led him to the kitchen. Just fetched the medical kit. The antiseptic. The gauze.

He sat on the stool, watching you with tired eyes, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for something worse than shrapnel.

You cleaned his wounds in silence.

Your hands moved gently, methodically. But your eyes stayed distant. Detached. As if you were treating a stranger. As if you’d already started grieving the version of him that used to come home smiling, on time, with flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

When your fingers brushed his jaw to dab ointment onto the cut beneath his cheekbone, he leaned into your touch — starved for it. Your hand hesitated, barely a second, before you pulled it away.

“Love…” he whispered.

But you shook your head. Stepped back. Your robe had come undone slightly, but you didn’t bother fixing it. You just looked at him — really looked — and realized you were tired. So deeply tired.

He tried. God, he tried.

He came back the next day with a cake you didn’t touch. Flowers that wilted in the kitchen sink. A note scribbled on hotel stationery that said I’m sorry a dozen times.

But you were already drifting. Already far from him. Not out of hatred — no, it was worse than that. It was hollowness. That gray space where love used to live, now dusted in disappointment and absence.

That night, he crawled into bed beside you.

He didn’t take your nightgown off. Didn’t try to seduce or ignite anything. He just pulled you close from behind — spooned you like he used to when nightmares came — and pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, your nape, your arm.

They weren’t seductive. They were desperate.

Whispers without words. Promises buried in breath.

His arms locked around you like he was trying to fuse you back to him — as if, if he held you hard enough, long enough, you might forget all the times he didn’t come back at all.

His lips paused at the inside of your elbow. Pressed one final kiss there.

Then, without a sound, he exhaled — and let sleep take him.

You stayed awake.

Wrapped in his arms.

Drowning in silence.

───

Morning came with the scent of mushroom soup and toasted garlic baguette. You stirred awake to the distant clatter of dishes, the quiet hum of the stove, and the absence of his warmth beside you.

You’d fallen asleep curled in his arms — your face tucked beneath his jaw, legs tangled under the sheets. But now, the space was cold.

You found him in the kitchen, already dressed in soft joggers and a black t-shirt, hair damp. He was plating the soup with clinical precision, like it gave him something to focus on. Something other than the ache written plainly in his eyes when he saw you.

“Morning, doll,” he said softly, like the word itself might crack under the weight between you.

You nodded. Sat down at the small table.

And then the silence began.

You both moved through breakfast like strangers — chewing in syncopated rhythm, passing the butter with hesitant fingers, eyes never quite meeting. He stirred his soup without tasting it. You sipped your coffee like it was the only thing anchoring you.

The air was thick with unsaid things. Words sat like iron behind your ribs — but neither of you moved to break the dam.

Until the very end.

You were wiping your mouth, standing to rinse your plate, when Bucky finally found his voice.

“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked on the pet name. He paused — swallowing hard, like he needed to force the rest out. “I think… we need some time. Some space. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

You froze with the plate in your hand.

He reached across the table for your fingers — hesitant, trembling — but you pulled away before he could touch you.

A hollow laugh escaped you, bitter and breathless.

“If you say so, Bucky,” you said, voice flat and cold. “Maybe I wasn’t really made for you.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the pain flickering behind those steel-blue eyes — the kind that didn’t bleed, just quietly bruised.

But he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t follow.

You packed your things with mechanical efficiency — toothbrush, spare clothes, the book you left on his nightstand. You left his hoodie folded on the bed and the ring in the drawer, tucked between receipts and mission notes. You took most of your pieces with you, but something in you stayed behind — still curled in that bed, still holding onto the man you loved.

And when you shut the door behind you, he stayed on the other side.

Silent.

Shattered.

Still too much Bucky to stop you, and not enough to ask you to stay.

───

Eight months later —

No calls.

No texts.

Not even a whisper through mutual friends. Not even from Sam.

You tried to move on.

You went out with friends. Swiped left and right. Let a stranger kiss you once at a bar — his lips were too wet and his hands too eager. You let another walk you home and never answered when he called again.

But none of them touched you like he did.

None of them held you like you were fragile and fire at once.

No one smelled like warm amber, cedar, and that faint, addictive trace of danger.

Your bed was too big. Too cold.

You cried yourself to sleep more nights than you could count, face buried in a pillow that still carried a ghost of his scent. Even the apartment felt wrong — full of your things but missing your home.

So you walked.

Miles and miles through the city, trying to chase your own shadow.

That morning was no different. Clouds hung low. Wind sharp.

You had your hands in your coat pockets, earbuds in, but no music playing. You just needed to be anywhere but inside your head.

Until—

The chaos hit.

Sirens.

Screams.

The city cracked open with noise — the grinding roar of steel collapsing, the screech of tires, the whoosh of fire somewhere not far from you. But it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like someone had dunked your head under water.

Your legs froze.

People screamed around you, bolting in every direction. Something exploded behind you. And before you could even process the danger—

You looked up.

A van — crushed and burning — was flipping in your direction.

Your body didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You just stood there.

You closed your eyes.

And for a moment, you welcomed it.

The pain. The impact. The silence that would follow.

Maybe this was how it ended. Maybe it would finally stop hurting.

But instead—

The world cracked open with a clang so loud it split the sky.

Metal slammed against metal, the sound so sharp it vibrated down your spine.

You opened your eyes.

And there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Your ex-husband.

Your ghost.

Your gravity.

Your everything that once was and never stopped being.

He stood between you and the van, his vibranium arm braced against the smoking wreckage, stopping it mid-roll. His boots skidded across the concrete, muscles taut beneath his tactical gear. The plates of his arm groaned under the weight, but he held steady — held for you.

His chest heaved. Jaw clenched. His hair was a mess, stubble thick along his jaw, blood streaked on his temple, and still — still — the second your eyes met, you forgot how to breathe.

His scent hit you next.

Smoke. Leather. Salt.

And underneath it, that impossible, familiar sweetness — like vanilla left too close to a bonfire.

Then he was on you.

Hands gripping your arms, scanning every inch of your face, your body, like he didn’t trust you were real. Like you’d vanish if he blinked. His touch wasn’t gentle. It was urgent — trembling, firm, searching.

His voice came out strangled. “Don’t you fucking dare die before me.”

Your knees buckled, but he caught you.

His arms wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you against him — like he could absorb you into his skin. Like the world had come undone and only your heartbeat could put it back together.

You clung to him. You didn’t think, didn’t speak — just held.

His vibranium fingers slid into your hair. His human hand pressed to your lower back, clutching like he could keep you from fading. His forehead touched yours, both of you panting, trembling, suspended between collapse and salvation.

He whispered your name like it was a prayer.

Then — just like that — he pulled back. Gave you a look.

“Wait here,” he rasped.

His tone was low but commanding, that voice you used to hear in bed when he’d make you come with nothing but words. And like always, even now, even after everything, your body obeyed before your brain caught up.

You nodded. “‘Kay.”

He turned and ran back into the fray.

You barely noticed the minutes passing — only that he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he couldn’t risk not checking. Like he needed to see you to breathe.

The fight ended quickly.

Some coordinated terrorist hit gone wrong. Bucky and the team had moved like a soldier possessed, taking down the last of them with clinical precision. When Valentina clapped him on the back, rattling off some smug line about his team's New Avengers status, he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

Locked.

He broke from the team without a word.

Crossed the rubble. Climbed over twisted steel and ash.

Until his hand reached for yours.

And you didn’t hesitate.

Fingers threaded. Palms locked.

He led you — fast but careful — through the remnants of the battleground. He didn’t speak, didn’t explain. Just kept walking until he found what he needed: a shattered doorway tucked beneath a battered brick building. The inside was dusty, quiet. Safe.

He pressed you inside. His chest nearly heaving.

The second the door creaked shut behind you—

The dam burst.

He lunged.

His mouth crashed onto yours like a breaking wave.

All teeth and tongue and need.

Your back hit the wall. His hands pinned you there, lips devouring like he was starving. Like every second of those eight months had built to this very moment.

Your hands tore at his jacket. Fisted into his shirt. Your mouth opened for him — let him take what he needed, because it was yours too. The ache, the hunger, the ache, the ache—

He groaned into your kiss. The sound wrecked you.

His vibranium hand slid to your throat — not choking, just holding — like he needed to feel your pulse. Needed to prove you were alive. His other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek as his mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re fucking real.”

Your tears answered before your voice could.

He leaned his forehead into yours again. Chest heaving. Breaths shallow. Every inch of him radiating tension, heartbreak, and sheer unfiltered love.

Then came the words. Quiet. Ragged.

“Come home.”

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

You just held tighter.

And followed.

───

The apartment door slammed shut behind you both, and the moment it did, something primal broke loose.

Bucky didn’t speak — he lunged. Hands everywhere, mouths crashing, teeth clashing like it hurt to be apart this long. His fingers tugged at your shirt so hard it ripped at the seams. You yanked his jacket down his arms, let it crumple to the floor, then pushed his dark shirt up and over his head — revealing the body that haunted your dreams for months.

“God, baby,” he breathed against your mouth, voice thick and broken. “Eight months. I was going insane.”

“Then show me,” you growled. “Fucking prove it.”

And he did.

───

He pressed you up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. The first thrust was sharp and deep — a punch of heat that knocked the air from your lungs. He didn’t start slow. There was no space for slow. Not now.

You gasped as he slammed into you, his metal hand gripping under your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. Your back arched against the plaster as he took you hard and fast, his mouth on your neck, biting down like he needed to mark you again. He whispered, “Mine,” over and over, like a vow.

You came quickly, clenching around him as he growled into your skin — hips stuttering, muscles tight as he spilled deep inside you, still panting your name.

But neither of you moved.

He stayed buried in you, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to yours.

“I missed you,” you gasped, breath trembling. “So fucking much, Bucky.”

His hand caressed your face. “I never stopped being yours.”

───

Moments later, he was dragging you to the bedroom.

He flipped you onto your stomach, kissing down your spine, tongue tracing the dip of your back. His voice was low, dangerous. “Gonna remind you how you sound when you scream for me.”

You felt the cool slide of his metal hand between your thighs, spreading you open, and then he was inside you again — slower this time, but deeper. He drove into you with devastating control, groaning every time you clenched around him.

“Fucking hell,” he hissed. “No one else gets you like this. No one else can.”

You could only moan his name, clutching the sheets as he wrecked you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward, breath caught on every hard snap of his hips.

Your second orgasm hit like a freight train — you shattered beneath him with a broken sob, and he followed, grunting your name as he came again, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark.

───

You barely had time to recover before he turned you onto your back and kissed you breathless.

“Still not done,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse. “I haven’t had you in eight goddamn months, sweetheart. I’m taking my time now.”

He used his shirt to tie your wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate. His vibranium hand gripped your thigh and spread you wide, while the flesh one traced the curve of your belly and up to your chest. “So beautiful,” he whispered. “All mine.”

This time he entered you with a slow, torturous roll of his hips. He built you up until you were sobbing for him, body arching under his rhythm. He kept his forehead pressed to yours, whispering things he never got to say:

“I dreamt of you every night…”

“Couldn’t even sleep on my side of the bed…”

He kissed away your tears as he brought you over the edge, holding you through the tremble. He didn’t stop until he was coming again, voice raw and quiet. “No one touches you like I do. No one ever will.”

───

You made it to the bathroom — barely — stripping along the way. Bucky turned on the water, but before you could even step in, he spun you around and kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t fury. It was need.

You were both soaked by the spray when he lifted your leg, pressing your back to the cold tile, and slid into you once more. Slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours. You held his face, ran your fingers through his soaked hair, watched his expression as he moved inside you like he never wanted to leave your body again.

It was messy and quiet. Wet skin slapping. Fingers clutching. Moans swallowed into kisses.

When he came this time, it wasn’t explosive — it was devastatingly intimate. He buried his face in your neck and whimpered your name, his whole body shaking.

You both stood under the water for minutes, breathing each other in.

───

He finally scooped you into his arms and gently lowered you into the already-drawn bathtub — the lavender oil you’d left behind still sitting by the edge.

You curled into his lap, the warm water surrounding you both like a cocoon. His arms wrapped around you from behind, lips brushing your shoulder. He massaged your thighs under the water, fingers tracing every mark he’d left.

“You okay, doll?” he whispered softly. “I didn’t mean to be that rough…”

“I needed it,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss his jaw. “Needed you.”

You leaned back into his chest, both of you quiet for a while, the sound of the water lapping gently around you.

“You're not leaving again,” he finally said. “Whatever it takes. You’re it for me.”

You nodded slowly, hand finding his under the surface.

“I know,” you whispered. “We’ll figure it out. Together this time.”

And he kissed your temple, the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything.

The kind that said: Home. Ours. Always.

[atxchiphxbix]

YOUR LIPS, MY LIPS

synopsis: It’s Sylus’s first birthday with you. As a gift, you decide to give him your first (and his too)

Content. mdni afab + f! reader, established relationship, virgin! sylus, virgin! reader, mutual virginity loss (but honestly only reader’s is noticeable) oral (f! receiving) fingering, vaginal penetration, sylus finishes inside, no protection, praise, pet names (sweetie, kitten, good girl) reader wears lingerie, implied that reader and sylus have both touched themselves before, this is honestly really soft idk

a/n: can we pretend that this isn’t late… I forgot to save half my draft, spent the next day crashing out over it, but at least i got it done. Also my first time writing Sylus.

Staring at yourself in the mirror, you’re suddenly feeling nervous. Clammy hands, quick breaths, and shaky hands. Your heart thumps rapidly against the bones of your caged ribs, hard and fast and only increasing with the dwindling time that Sylus spends in the shower, he should be out any minute now.

Tonight’s the night, you tell yourself. Tonight’s the night that you allow yourself to be lost to Sylus. To be his completely and celebrate the first birthday you’ve spent with him.

Your eyes rove over the red-laced clad form of your body, hands adjusting the straps that cling tight to you. A crimson lace set that hugs your curves like a second skin. The stockings clench around the middle of your thighs so the plush flesh spills just over the edge. The set is perfect enough to accentuate your figure, eye-catching and elegant—like Sylus.

And despite your repeated words to calm yourself, you still can’t help but feel nervous. You’ve never done this before, dressed up, given yourself up, especially to the leader of Onychinus. To the most powerful man in the N109 zone. But you aren’t giving yourself up to that man — you’re giving yourself to Sylus, just Sylus. To your lover who has done nothing but make you feel loved and cared for, to the man who has proved his love over and over again in countless ways.

He’s never pushed you whatsoever, never overstepped boundaries, or tried to persuade you to do anything you were uncomfortable with. Even in moments during his vampiric schedule when you two found time to sneak away to share messy kisses full of teeth and tongue, he’s never escalated it to anything, always stopping (to which you find yourself disappointed) and excusing himself with a sweet kiss to your cheeks. Charming, as always. So this time, you should be the one to initiate, to show him that you’re ready.

That thought is enough to encourage you to slip into your shared bed, pulling the silky covers up to your laced chest. You still in that position, shifting slightly in different positions while you listen intently to the sound of the shower. The rush of water extends to your ears and the brief image of your lover under the wet rivulets of water immediately causes your cheeks to heat with familiar warmth and a pool of heat to bubble in you.

A flush rises to your cheeks, burying your face into the inky sheets at the scene your mind has just conjured up. You can vividly imagine water droplets cascading down his toned body, streams of liquid running down his length, and even the way he looks under the lights that most certainly illuminate the sheen of water on his skin. The thought is intoxicating, as are the many other thoughts you’ve had of Sylus.

Amidst your flushed cheeks and wild images blaring through your creative mind, you fail to notice Sylus exit the bathroom. His toned torso is on full display, comfortable in your presence, and a little too comfortable with the way his skin is open, offering you a clear sight of the dipping V-line as his towel hangs dangerously low. His crimson eyes are quick to notice you on his bed, covered with his blanket and face buried into the sheets. It’s clear that you’re not sleeping, and from the tint of rose painting your ears, he easily deduces that you’re blushing. Yet, from what?

His lips quirk into a soft smirk, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat that finally draws your attention to him. “You’re blushing, sweetie.”

Upon hearing his gravelly chuckle, a familiar one that never fails to send waves of shivers down your spine, your head snaps up to him. And if your cheeks weren’t burning red before, seeing him in his half-nude state certainly has caused your cheeks to be coated in the prettiest shade of red — a perfect reflection of his eyes.

“Sylus! Uh…” A quiet laugh (if you could even call it that) escapes your lips, suddenly feeling exactly like a bundle of nerves once again. “I’m not, I was just…” Your words trail off, brain blanking out on what to say. What does one say in this scenario?

“Hm?” He hums amusedly, that smug smile tugging at the edges of his pink lips (and your heart) his eyes crinkling in mirth as he observes you intently. “Were you hiding instead? I’m sure I can find you much faster than when you were looking for that brooch.”

His teasing tone immediately causes you to scowl, narrowing your eyes at him. If Sylus had any say, he would compare you to a kitten with its ears flattened back, claws out, and ready to swat at him.

“I’m not hiding!” You defend yourself indignantly, yet unsure of how to approach the situation. Of course, you could be upright and just tell him that you want him to fuck you and mark you up like he does in all your fantasies. Tell him that you have obscene thoughts about him in your mind, ideas that plague your dreams, all about him. “I just… have another gift for you.”

“Oh?” The soft words that leave your lips cause him to raise a smooth brow, stepping a stride closer to the bed. Closer to where your tantalizing body is hidden beneath his covers. Closer to your pulsing heart and warm body. Closer to the place where you long to have him. “Give it here then.”

He gestures with an open hand, two fingers beckoning you towards him in a silent urge to offer your gift.

“We-well…” You stammer softly, eyes zeroing in on a bead of water that breaks free from the trap of his silvery strands of hair, sliding down the length of his body, disappearing into the waistband of the towel wrapped snug around his waist. Even the simple, most natural action of a glob of water has your throat going dry, fingers itching under the sheets to fling them off of you.

And you do, slowly.

Inch by inch, you tug the blanket down to reveal the expanse of your body, laced in crimson, to the gaze of Sylus who stands a mere few feet away. His room is chilly but with the flush of embarrassment sitting heavy in your cheeks and warmth surging through your body, you’ve never felt hotter.

Once finally bare to his eyes, you will yourself to look at him. He’s suddenly closer than before, eyes dark as he stares down at you. His large hands are clenched tight and from the close distance, you can see the way his chest heaves, a difference in his normal breaths.

A beat passes. One. Two. Three. Before you hesitantly open your mouth, concerned if you’ve miscalculated the moment. “Sy-”

“Is this your gift to me, sweetie?” The man steps closer, hands almost reaching out to ghost over you but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his clenched fists down at his sides.

With a small nod, you finally sit up on your knees. Your hands reach out, easily clasping his and pulling him closer. You move closer, bringing his large hand to rest on your cheek, nuzzling into the warm palm of his hand that seamlessly encases your face. Turning your head, a small kiss is pressed to his inner wrist, reverent in its creation.

“Only if… only if you want to.” A soft whisper. A plea for his approval. An acceptance of your gift and trust you’ve placed into his hands. It’s okay if he isn’t ready but you want him to know that you’re ready. You’re ready to be his completely and wholeheartedly, in every way, his.

From your close proximity, you can see the way his Adam’s apple throbs, saliva sliding down his throat, mouth watering at the delicious sight of you. Clad in a shade that mirrors his eyes, batting your pretty eyes up at him like a kitten — it’s all he’s ever wanted.

Sylus is a gentleman. Never overstepping his boundaries, never asking for too much, always allowing you to take the relationship at a pace that suited you. But this? A special gift for his birthday, to lose himself to you completely, to devote himself to you more than he already has declared? It's his declaration to the world, to show everyone that he finally belongs to you and you to him.

So, with a reverent sigh, he allows his thumb to brush along the familiar skin of your cheeks, smooth and soft. The touch is familiar, so gentle and divine. But with the air charged with unspoken tension and his heated gaze, it's more intimate than a simple touch on your cheeks. His vermillion eyes smolder as he roves over your kneeling form. Your heart picks up pace, thumping faster than it's meant to against the curved bones of your ribs that hide your heart — bared open for him.

An amused chuckle falls from his lips, gravelly and grisly. He leans in closer, watching as your lashes flutter shut in anticipation of a kiss. The sight only makes his mouth curl into a satisfied smile, body heating up in a flush when he hears your words. You want to if he wants to? He’s been wanting for a long time, no, he’s needed you for an eternity. He’s desired every part you’ve bared to him longer than he can remember.

“I want you, if you’ll have me.” His sweet words are punctuated with the sweetest kiss to your hot cheeks. A stark contrast to the hardening length hidden by the towel. It’s so easy for you to get him worked up, and you aren’t even aware of it. Not aware of the effect you have on him, not aware of what your proximity does, or how many nights he’s spent bucking his sticky cock into his wet hands while he thinks about how gorgeous you are.

“I want you.” You reaffirm gently, cupping his warm cheeks. He pulls you in by your hips, leaning in ever so slightly so that his warm breath brushes across your lips. “I want this with you, Sylus.”

He groans softly at your keening words, tilting his head, finally pressing his lips to yours in a kiss. He takes his time kissing you, slow and steady, and so very like him. Sylus is a man who enjoys the finer things in life, savoring the mulled taste of wine or lavish silks. And what could possibly be more exquisite than his beautiful lover dressed up on his special day? This closeness of your first time together, an experience you both haven’t had, shaping and exploring the contours and creases of your love.

So, he kisses you slow, savoring the intimacy of your lips locked together.

“Gorgeous. You’re gorgeous in this, sweetie.” The words come as a groan from Sylus who moves on top of you, towel slipping dangerously to expose the prominent lines of his Apollo’s belt. “So perfect, for me, no?”

You fall easily onto your back, feeling exposed with the absence of the blanket, but Sylus quickly comes to replace that weight. Your hands find purchase on his broad shoulders, pulling him closer towards you as soft lips continue to gently press along yours in smooth undulations, soft swipes of tongue and teeth.

“Sylus, I- let me,” Broken murmurs escape your lips through his worshipful kisses, pushing him away so he sits up.

The soft towel finally falls from his hips, pooling onto his black sheets. Of course, the towel isn’t what catches your attention — rather, what it was hiding. Your gaze drops to the main prize, standing big and hard against his torso. You’ve imagined him plenty of times, large and girthy, but not like… this. It’s pretty, like the rest of him, perfectly proportioned to his 6’2 frame, almost elegant in the way the pink head dribbles pearls of pre down the throbbing veins that dance along the underside.

And perhaps it was because you’re breath caught in your throat, cheeks hot and mouth dry, eyes trained onto the way it throbs with ache that he finally speaks up, a low grin heard in his syllables.

“You’re staring, kitten.” The words ring true, you are staring, quite unabashedly. But he too, doesn’t seem to care, rather, he doesn’t act shy or nervous. Even in moments like these, even if it’s your first, Sylus will be Sylus.

“It’s just… so pretty.” Your whisper, hands coming up to run along the smooth crevices of his collarbones, fingers dancing down to the creases of his chest and abs. Your actions earn a low groan and shiver out of your lover, white hair falling to his eyes as his head falls forward, crimson eyes fluttering shut. “Can I touch you, Sylus? Can I make you feel good, my love?”

The honeyed words and praises that fall from your lips almost has him folding, almost. If he were anyone else, perhaps he’d have given in, but his desire for you overpowers his want for pleasure. After all, who would he be if he didn’t take care of you first, especially since this is your shared firsts.

“Not yet, sweetie. Let me take care of you.” He rebukes you gently, veiny hands rising to wrap around your wrist. He pulls you away, raising your chin for a kiss to soothe your adorable pout.

“No, Sylus. Let me take care of you! It’s your birthday.” You pull away, pressing light kisses down the smooth column of his neck, lingering along scars and every perfect imperfection that makes him — him.

The only response from Sylus is a light chuckle before your world is tilted on its axis and you’ve fallen under him once again. Smoldering crimson eyes meet yours, filled with mirth and amusement while he pins you down underneath his broad body. His lithe fingers find yours, lacing your hands together in a sweet embrace and he hushes your protests with a flurry of kisses.

“This is my gift, no? I should unravel you properly, won’t you indulge the birthday boy?” Each of his teasing words are punctuated with a trail of kisses down your body that has your breath hitching. Before you even try to argue that it’s his birthday, and you should be lavishing him in your attention and care, he’s claimed the final word, lightly kissing down the length of your hot torso. “Besides, this is my first time too. Let me learn you, sweetie.”

Instantly, you melt at his words.

You've imagined this countless of times in the quiet of your room, filled with the sound of your sticky fingers pistoning into the messy channel of your squelching cunt. Countless of times you've imagined how he would kiss down your neck like he currently does, sucking his gentle claim into your flesh. You've imagined his lithe fingers deftly unhooking your lacy bra, trailing hot kisses down the valley of your breast. You've always imagined the experience of being utterly loved by him.

The next feeling you receive from him is the wetness of his warm mouth, wrapping gently around a single nipple, suckling softly on the sensitive tit. His vermillion eyes look up to meet your gaze, the great leader of Onychinus, alternating his attention on your heaving breasts. His silky hair is ruffled with your fingers buried in the silver strands. But the sensations are muted with the unfamiliar length that presses insistently against your sopping clothed core, a reminder that he desires you just as much as you do him in this moment.

"Sylus," you plea his name softly. Instantaneously, he looks up, pulling his mouth away from your chest. A part of you wishes he didn't do so. The action leaves a salacious strand of his warm saliva connected to the tip of your nipple, hardening with the onslaught of the cold air in his room.

"Hm?" He replies quietly, continuing to mark your skin. His hands slide down your sides reverently, admiring every crevice of you. Unwrapping you like a dutiful devotee. With every article of lace that slips from your body, he explores the new expanse of flesh, memorizing every mark, every scar, every millimeter shown. "Do you want me to stop, kitten?"

Instantly, you shake your head, a light whimper slipping from your lips.

Pleased, he finally kisses down to the supple flesh of your inner thighs, mouthing at the skin that exposes itself from the crimson lace. Your needy pleas and whines fill his ears, waves of pleased hums course through him, vibrating against your thighs. His experience is few and far between (zero) but he knows you and that’s already enough for him to understand you inside out.

“Patience, kitten.” He chuckles softly at your pleas, eager whines filling him with an unfathomable amount of pleasure. Large hands knead the flesh of your thigh. Your lacy red underwear outlined your sopping core, drenched in your arousal that he’s so close to. His warm breath ghosts over your damp cunt, shivering in excitement and slight embarrassment. No one has ever gotten this close, this intimate with you, only him. It will continue to be only him. And though he crooned to you to be patient, he could feel his own patience disintegrate when faced with you, all spread out and eager for him. “I want to take my time savoring you, unwrapping you.”

It pleased him that could leave as many marks as he wished; no one else got to see you like this. He could dance his lips across your skin, planting seeds that would blossom later, bloom into hues of ruby and violet, reminders for the next time undresses you. No one else would see them except you and him. A secret buried deep inside when the two of you would soon connect. You would be reminded of the sparks shivering through your body where his lips sucked, and he would remember the pleasure that rushed through him as he marked you for himself.

"Can I take these off?" He speaks low and soft, nuzzling his pink lips against the wet lace, clinging pitifully to your pussy.

At your eager nod, he mouths at your cunt. A low groan cuts through him at the taste of you, leaking through the article of lace. Leaking because of him. It pleases him to see that he has this effect on you, having you spread open with legs hooked over his shoulders and flushed so prettily.

Innately, your hands bury into the strands of his hair, tugging and whining for his touch. He grants it to you through the fabric, tongue flattening against the lace, dragging slowly up until he suckles on your throbbing clit. A sharp gasp is elicited from your kiss-bitten lips, mouth falling open in a silent moan.

"All this for me, sweetie? How kind, a sweet cunt for a sweet girl." Sylus chuckles slowly, the sound vibrating through his lips and through your cunt, an action that sends shocks of sharp pleasure shooting through you.

“Mhm… for you, Sy. All for you.” You pant, hips bucking impatiently into his mouth.

A veined hand runs up the garter that decorates your thighs, raising just higher to hook over the waistband of your red-laced panties, tugging down to reveal his present.

"So pretty, kitten. You smell so good, so sweet.” With your legs thrown over his shoulders, cunt glistening in the low light, he admires you quietly, almost divinely in your presence. Your pussy on full display, sensitive bud throbbing and hole clenching around nothing. Drool builds up in his mouth at the delicious sight, unable to tear his eyes away. Embarrassment flushes through you, crawling up your spine to settle on your already-flushed cheeks.

His large hands raise, thumbs parting your slick folds, opening you up to feast on you with his heavy gaze. Your lover leans in, mouth open, coming closer until his nose bumps your clit, tongue dragging through your silky folds, and relishing in the gasp and moans that fall heavenly from your lips. Hands tug at his hair, whines and sweet sounds come from above him, raising higher in pitch when his thumbs swipes at your sensitive clit, rubbing in tight circles. Infinitely better than any of the times you’ve ever touched yourself.

“Sy- fuck!” You throw your head back, thighs threatening to close around his head. He could die happy like this, drunk off of your taste and love. He would give you the world on a diamond platter, each bite filled with nothing but love and security, it’s the least he could possibly give you after you’ve allowed him to take a sacred part of you.

The way you moan and quiver around him is a gift in itself, a gift to him that he takes readily without hesitation. Anything from you is a gift. And anything from you, is more sacred than his life in whole.

For someone who has never been in bed with someone, it feels like Sylus knows your body like the back of his hand. Maybe it’s his close observation skills. His vermillion irises carefully watch each and every twitch your body makes in creation to his touch. From a certain way you shiver when his tongue swipes at your clit, to the moan that tumbles when he dips his wet muscle into your tight heat. He notices it all.

His tongue expertly slides along your folds, scooping copious amount of your sweet slick onto his tongue while savoring your pitchy moans. Your lover laps you up like a man starved, tongue slipping along your damped folds, no difference between your sweet taste nor his drool. He relishes everything you offer him. From the way, your fingers tug almost painfully at his scalp to the unbridled noises that resonate through his room.

“Sy-Sylus, ha… please, I wanna make you feel g-good too.” Through your messy haze of pleasure shooting through your spine, you manage to find words that aren’t the broken syllables of his moaning name.

“You are, sweetie. You're making me feel so good, letting me have you so nicely like this. So kind, so sweet, aren’t you? My sweet girl?” His praises are spoken through milliseconds away from your soft cunt, diving back in like a dragon greedily guarding its most precious gems. After all, what gem is more precious than the one he has in his grasp right now?

You don't find it in you to argue, mind succumbed to the pleasure he so readily offers you. Your plush thighs, decorated with lacy vermillion garters, clench around his head, threatening to shut with the quick rise of your impending orgasm. It climbs rapidly, settling into the pit of your stomach, bubbling into hot sparks.

"Can I put a finger in, kitten?" He murmurs softly. His thumb swipes at your sensitive bud, looking up at your pleading expression. He clearly doesn't need your words, actions and your lovestruck expression etched onto your face is enough, but he wants to hear you. He needs to hear your confirmation, to hear that this moment isn’t one of his many dreams he has of you. Another when he gets to hear the melody of your heavenly mewls and the feel of your thighs against both sides of his head. He needs to hear that you need him just as much as he needs to in this moment.

“Yes, please, please. Sy, I want you, I wanna be yours.” With eager hands, your fingers wrap around his wrist that squeezes at the plush of your thighs, bringing it closer to your achy hole. Not only does he need you in this moment, you need him. It’s an act of reassurance, love, and trust that you’ve so generously given to him.

“You do, hm?” His smile returns, lovestruck and full of adoration. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll make you mine.”

With that, he slides a calloused finger through your folds, slick with his saliva and your own arousal. He takes his time, savoring your flesh and the feel of being the first man down here, with you. Your face contorts into one of mild discomfit as he slides a finger in, easing it into your virgin walls. His eyes never leave your face though, watching every twitch of your muscles and flutter of your lashes as your mouth etched to create the syllables of his name in a whine.

“Do you want to stop, sweetie?” He murmurs against your aching clit, in hopes of alleviating the discomfort of his digit.

And it pleases him. The way you immediately shake your head, quickly protesting that idea. “No! I can take it, Sy. I wanna take it for you.”

So he continues to give you what you want. With your slick arousal coating his hands, he pumps his finger gently along your gummy walls, lewd sounds of your squelching pussy reverberating throughout his room. He continues suckling on your sensitive bud, flattening his tongue against the wetness, slurping you up. It’s obscene, the sounds behind the closed doors. His groans, lewd squelches, and your moans — it sends all the blood in his body rushing south, to his already aching cock.

Your hips sloppily humped against his mouth, a physical beg to have his fingers stroke deeper into you. You already felt so full with a single finger, insistently prodding at your gummy walls until your back arches beautifully for him. Your fingers pull at his silky hair, toes curling, and your head falls back into the black pillows as your stomach grows taut and rivulets of ecstasy shoot through every nerve.

“Fuckfuckfuck, ‘s so good—”

You cum so suddenly it feels blinding. It feels like fireworks ignite behind your shut lids as you ground down onto Sylus’ face to chase the aftershocks of the high. His finger stills but your hips don’t, grinding onto his finger to catch the remaining effects of the hot sparks in your stomach.

"That's it, good girl. So good for me, sweetie, you came so beautifully." His praises are spoken through your quivering cunt, twitching at his smooth praise. "Good girl, it's okay, kitten."

He finally pulls away from your pussy, webs of his saliva stuck to your sweaty body. Sylus sits up on his heels, hand coming to wrap around the hard length of his cock, giving himself reprieve of slow pumps. Your eyes drop down to his shaft, angry and dribbling more pre from the turgid tip with every drag of his large hand. It looks heavier than earlier, even more delicious bucking in his fist.

His soft groans, twitching of his hips has a new wave of heat coursing through your body. You feel an indescribable urge to relieve him of the ache, to have him fill you up, and to love each other thoroughly once more. But before you can pull him on top of you, he speaks.

“We can stop he—”

“No.” Your response is quick, pulling him over you in a swift motion. You don’t want to stop. Rather, you want him inside you. You want to make him yours and you, his.

Your hand trails down his torso, fingers finding his hard cock that bobs eagerly when you gently brush along it. It’s hot and thick, sending waves of anticipating shivers down your spine at the prospect of having this part of him inside you.

But for now, you enjoy the way the leader of Onychinus shivers from your touch. His Adam’s apple bobs with the gulp of his saliva, low groans escaping him as you trail kisses along his neck. Your hands slide smoothly from his turgid crown and down to the base, giving him light squeezes that has his eyes fluttering shut and head lolling into the sweaty crook of your neck.

“Fuck, kitten. You feel so good…” His words escape as a breathy sigh, dwindling into low groans. He allows you this, just as he allows you into many things; his heart, mind, body, and soul. Whatever you wish for, he allows it.

“Yeah? I wanna make you feel good, Sy. Just wanna make you feel good.” Your response is whispered out, leaning up to lock your lips with his in a gentle kiss.

His hands, resting on your hips, drop down to your thighs to hook it over the curve of his waist. He sighs into the kiss, breaking gently with a long string of saliva connecting the two of you.

“Can I put it in then, kitten?” His hands capture your wrist, lacing your fingers gently together in an intimate embrace. The silvery strands of his hair fall onto your forehead as he leans down, pressing his temple to yours.

Your response is a nod, arms tightening around his neck when he lines himself to your quivering hole, already feeling himself shiver at the contact of your hot folds sliding along the length of his dick. You can feel the blood throbbing through the veins that run along the underside of his cock, warm and bobbing against you.

Gently, he finally pushes the tip in.

A sharp gasp is elicited from both of you. Your eyes instantly flutter shut, features contorting into a grimace at the large intrusion, pressing into the deepest parts of you. Sensing your pain, Sylus peppers kisses along your neck, fingers tightening on yours in a soothing hold, his free hand weaves between your flushed bodies to rub tight circles to your clit, alleviating your pain.

“Good girl, it’s okay. You’re doing so well, just breathe, just breathe.” His praises fall reverently, kissing away the pearls of tears that pool at the edges of your eyes, gentle and loving.

His praises continue as he finally bottoms out, filling your walls completely full of him. He pants against your lips, watching your expression form from one of discomfort to one of pleasure and love. He moves his lips down your body, sucking on your neglected tits to coax soft moans from you.

“Sylus… you can move, please.” Your soft plea has him folding immediately. Gentle, hoarse voice and a body that takes him in perfectly. You truly were made for him.

The first roll of his hips is meticulously steady in its movement, like he’s holding himself back, caging himself in. He barely pulls out, cool air meeting the slicked skin of his cock before he slides back in with a punctual sway. The simple movement makes you dizzy and numbed, oxygen flying from you, escaping in a soft blissed sigh, and mewls falling from your kiss-bitten lips. It feels euphoric to be split open by him and feel inches of his cock drag along your spongy walls, filled up by him. It’s like you’re ambling in a haze of heat, wandering through the fog of hot shocks of pleasure with his body securely locking you flush to him, and nothing but him in this moment, a satisfying overwhelming indulgence of his scent and touch.

“Oh,” you keen instantly when the tip of his dick delicately, repeatedly nudges that soft, spongy part of your walls. It has you raking your nails down his back, relishing in the presence of him, senses filled with nothing but him. “I love you, Sylus. I love you, s-so much.”

His swift thrust has your words getting caught in your throat, air knocked from your lungs from his punctual movements.

“Yeah? I love you too, I love you, I love you. Fuck— I love you. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made for me to love and cherish, made for me to have you like this?” The words are whispered out, barely heard over the obscene sound of flesh on flesh, wet and intimate.

You can only respond in babbles, murmuring mewls in a symphony of his name. Arms wrapped tightly around his neck and whimpering out your devotion. Heat simmers between your flushed bodies, the only space separating you two is the repetitive cadence of his rolling hips.

The two of you render speechless, allowing the harmony of bodies and reverberation of your shared noises to speak for itself. He pants softly into your ears, groaning sweet nothings at the feeling of your perfect walls hugging tight around his cock. It’s almost painful for him to pull out, instantly missing your sweet heat and that has him diving back in again and again and again, until he feels the aching knot bubbling in his stomach. A familiar and unwelcome feeling that has his cock twitching and pulsing. He doesn’t want to come yet, not without you. Not until you do first.

And as if sensing his dilemma, cock twitching inside your sensitive walls, your hands come up to cup his cheeks. Your lips raise, meeting his in a kiss full of tongue and teeth, messy in all its glory. He isn’t the only one close. Your nerves feel shot, ignited on every expanse of your glistening skin. You want him to cum, you want to come with him.

“Sylus,” you pant against his lips, “Can you— nngh come? I wanna feel you, Sy. Please come, I wanna fe-feel you.”

“Yeah?” He breathlessly chuckles through blissful, broken sighs of your name. “I’ll give it to you. Sh-shit, I’ll give it to you, kitten. I love you, fuck, I love you.”

Your words coax the knot in his stomach to unravel. And with a moan of your name on his lips, he buries himself deep inside you, spilling his warm seed into your fluttering walls. Your fingers card through his hair, gentle pressure guiding him to hide into the crook of your neck, which he eagerly does.

With his head buried in the crook of your neck, fingers rubbing light circles on your clit, and his hip rutting sloppily into your spent pussy, you quickly follow his lead. Your back arches into him, cumming with the sweetest cry of his name on your swollen lips.

Sylus doesn't stop.

Your lover continues to messily thrust up into you, hands gripping the soft flesh of your ass to keep you impossibly closer to his thumping heart. Even with your nails digging into his shoulders, even with your legs trembling around his waist, or the rapid pulsing walls that greedily milk his hot cum into your welcoming womb. Filled, and fucked back into you, over and over and over. He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re sniffling his name and clinging onto him like it’s your life’s mission. Only then does he slow his pace, peppering kisses up your sweaty sternum until laying one to rest on your sweet lips.

Sylus stops to admire you, an act he performs every day with the utmost importance. His beautiful lover, dressed up for him, flushed the prettiest shade of red because of him, leaking his cum because of their passionate coupling.

“Sylus,” you whisper, the first to break the silence but not the touch.

“Hm?” His answer is soft, taking pleasure in your smell and flesh. The two of you are sweaty but it doesn’t bother him, never if it’s you.

“Happy birthday.” The words are spoken softly, mumbled against his flesh.

His response comes in the form of a soft ‘thank you, my love.’ Words that have your heart warming and cheeks flushing more than they already are. You press your palm to his cheek, cupping his face to pull him into a kiss that devotes your being to him.

He nuzzles into the crevices of your neck, panting softly in the intimate ambiance of his room, soothed by the beating of your heart — a remembrance that you’re here, with him.

It’s no secret that Sylus loves you. No secret that you’re his and he is yours. But in moments like these, just you and him, it feels so much more real, more intimate than anything he could have ever fathomed. Tonight is his day of birth, the first that he’s ever spent with anyone (not just anyone — you) It’s almost terrifying how quickly you’ve assimilated into his life, slotting yourself in because you belong with him — made for him in every way.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way, ruin him if you wish. It’s okay if it’s you.

This year, next year, and many lifetimes to come — he wants it all with you.

HAPPY (late) BIRTHDAY TO SYLUS