#Reader

[aventurineswife]

[briechyne]

Espresso-stained pages, whispered thoughts between hardcover spines, and mornings that begin with poetry and croissants. A soft life of books, cafés, and intentional stillness.

[thesefallenembers]

the problem with reading and writing leading to a strong vocabulary is that you tend to know the vibe of words instead of their meanings.

if I used this word in a sentence, would it make sense? absolutely. if you asked me what it meant, could I tell you? absolutely not.

[authorscurse]

Sylus watched as you applied different products onto your face. He finds it amusing how you turn into an artist with the way you paint your face as if it's a canvas.

He watches you with such a soft and endearing expression on his face that it almost makes you forget how ruthless and merciless your husband is as the leader of onychinus.

His gaze follows your form as you walk into your walk-in closet and retrieve your dress. It was a silk red off-shoulder dress with a sweetheart neckline and a slit that reached your mid thigh. It showed your dips and curves that complimented your body shape. You walk out the closet with your hand holding onto the front of the dress to keep it from falling.

Without a word, Sylus walks up to you and helps zip you up. You watch your husband through the mirror as he zips you up, his eyes never leaving he skin on your back. Once you were zipped up, Sylus leans down and places sof kisses on to your should and neck. Your hands fly up to his already styled hair and thread your fingers through the silver locks.

"So beautiful, kitten," Sylus whispers onto your ear as he meets your eyes through the mirror. Your eyes close, and your back leans back to Sylus's chest as he continues to lay kisses on your bare skin.

"We'll be late, Sy," you whisper to him, but he ignores your words and continues littering kisses on your skin. His hands fall on your hips and turn you around, and back you up to the floor length mirror. You gasp as your skin touches the cold mirror but your notes gets drown out when sylus connects your lips together.

"So, so beautiful," Sylus says between kisses. Your red lipstick stains his lips but he couldn't care less. "Sylus," you gasp and push him away gently to take in air that he had restricted you from. He grabs your wrists and lift them up your head and dive back to trap your lips into a kiss. One hand holds your wristwhole the other trails down your leg and lift it up onto his hip.

"Sy, we'll be late," you gasp as he turns his attention to your bare neck. "Don't leave marks," you whine as you feel him sucking on your skin, but you know he'll ignore you and leave marks anyway. Possessive bastard.

"Let's not go," Sylus murmurs onto your lips as he pants. You shake your head. You both have been wanting to go out and eat dinner together after so long and it's hard to place reservations at the new opened resteraunt down town.

"I'll adjust the reservation to tomorrow, how about that, kitten?" He asks, eyes swirling with so much desperation, lust, and yearning. You know you don't have a chance to say no when he looks at you like that so you sigh in response and you watch his smirk widening. He lifts you up properly this time, with both hands holding your legs and lips locked with yours as he carries you onto your shared bed.

"You better make sure we're eating out tomorrow, Sylus," you voice firmly and serious. "Wouldn't want to make the missus angry," Sylus smirks and captures your lips into a heated kiss.

Meanwhile...

"They aren't gonna eat out anymore, are they?" Kieran asks despite knowing the answer. Luke sighs and lifts up kyro up the floor. "Come on little boss, big boss and miss hunter are busy," Luke says as he carries you and Sylus's son into his room to block out the ungodly noises they'll be hearing the whole evening.

[knebellindemann]

[be-xkyy]

𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑆𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝐷𝑎𝑑𝑑𝑦

Warning: sexual content, age gap (23-35), delusional attitude, forced breeding, breeding kink, mention of marriage, mention of children, noncon, r4pe, conspiracy, physical abuse, abuse of power.

Tagging list: @kthehoeforfictionalmen ★ @dreamlessnight ★

Divider credits: @cafekitsune ★ @bernardsbendystraws ★

Masterlist

Yandere Sugar Daddy who is the CEO of a famous 6-star hotel chain that has been in his family for decades.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who always liked young and beautiful women, although he never settled down with any, he likes to pamper and adore his lovers by giving them everything they want.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who broke up with his Sugar Baby just a few days ago after she told him that she loved him and wanted to formalize her relationship with him, she was cute but boring and he didn't see himself spending his life with her, fuck no. So he left her.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who after that didn't waste any time in re-entering SugarLove.www a famous Sugar Daddy page where he found all his previous Sugar Babies.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who after a few long minutes searching for the right candidate for him, he finally found her, he found you. In your profile picture you looked divine, he looks at your profile from top to bottom looking at your photos and he was sure you were the one for him, so he sends you a message asking if you want to go to a restaurant to meet up... but you don't answer.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who gets impatient when the minutes go by and nothing happens. He decides to wait a little longer while he works in his office, when the hours go by he sees how the sun sets, he grabs his phone again and is disappointed when he doesn't find any answer, what's more, he doesn't even see the message.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who when he gets out of the shower the next morning checks his phone, a smile spreads on his lips when he sees a message from you, finally. "Hi, I'm sorry I didn't answer you before, but I was a little busy, I like the idea of ​​meeting you, how about tomorrow :)?" He doesn't hesitate to answer you sending the address of the restaurant and the time, you accept.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who arrives earlier at the restaurant, the waiter guides him to the best table that overlooks the night city, he asks the waiter to bring his best wine, he nods and leaves, the minutes pass when he sees you arrive, he smiles and stands up admiring your beauty, he doesn't hesitate to flatter you while he moves your chair so you can sit down before sitting in front of you.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who talks to you all night while you have dinner and drink wine, you tell him that you are studying a law degree which is an expensive career for you, a friend of yours entered the website and now lives stable and can even pay for the degree, that is the main reason why you entered SugarLove.www, he listens to you attentively, when you tell him that this is only for a while and that you are not looking for anything serious, he agrees and accepts.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who takes you to his hotel that same night where you end up having mind-blowing sex, the next day he pays two months of your tuition in advance, during the following months he and you spend intimate moments, he takes you on vacations, buys you luxurious things and you have sex all the time everywhere, by the time he realizes it he is already in love with you.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who starts taking you to business meetings and family gatherings presenting yourself as his girlfriend to your great discomfort, whenever you two go back to your apartment you scold him and he just shrugs his shoulders saying that by saying that he saves both of you the awkwardness of having to explain your relationship.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who tries to act like nothing is wrong but fails miserably. He gets tense when you're on your phone for too long. Are you talking to another guy? Are you cheating on him?! Unbeknownst to you, he ends up having your phone connected to his so he can see everything you do.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who gets jealous when he goes to pick you up from college and sees you at the door talking to a guy. His knuckles turn white around the steering wheel and when he parks he honks for a long moment getting your attention. You quickly say goodbye and approach him, getting in the car. You greet him and lean over to kiss his cheek but he grabs your jaw and kisses you hard on the lips.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who gets more heated during sex, calling you his wife and saying he'll give you his babies even though it makes you a little uncomfortable you take it as a fetish, that is until you feel something warm inside you and you realize he took off the condom, that's the straw that broke the camel's back, you walk away from him angrily grabbing your clothes yelling at him while you get dressed, saying he's crazy, you tell him it's all over between you before leaving.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who doesn't understand why you act like this, do you know all the women who would like to date him? All the women who would like to have his babies? He only took off the condom with you, only with you, you should feel honored but instead you get upset? He spoiled you. Yes he did. But now he'll show you why you shouldn't be an ungrateful brat.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who starts off simple by blocking your phone, then has an eviction notice sent to your fancy apartment (which he pays for by the way) and last but not least he pays for you to fail each and every one of your exams at university, which completely destabilizes you as you watch your life fall apart overnight.

Yandere Sugar Daddy who a few days later goes to your apartment, walks in with his key and sees you packing your bags with teary eyes, he tells you he forgives you for your attitude, in fact he wants you two to get married, who needs a degree after all? You insult him for making his life hell and he frowns, are you still an ungrateful brat? He's going to punish you.

He comes towards you in great strides so you startle trying to get away from him, but he grabs you hard by the hair making you let out a squeal of pain he pulls you closer to him and growls near your ear.

“Why can't you just take what I give you like a good girl? You always have to be so ungrateful, I'm starting to think you like making me angry.”

You shake your head but he pushes you face down on the bed, pulling down your pajama shorts along with your panties and you try to kick him off on your own so he grabs your waist with one hand keeping you still and with the other hand he spanks you hard leaving your soft skin burning and sore, you started to sob quickly and he stopped.

“Well, look at that are you crying? It was only 10 spanks girl, you're a cry baby huh? Weren't you planning on being a tough lawyer?”

He hears you sob louder and sighs rubbing the red flesh of your ass with his hands before unbuckling his belt pulling down his pants and boxers releasing his fat cock which stands up happily, he grabs your hips lifting your ass as you bury your head in the mattress, he pumps his cock once before guiding it into your pussy sliding inside your warm tight channel.

“Fuck— you feel so good girl, it seems like your little pussy missed my cock so much... poor thing, my little one was neglected for almost a week because of your bratty attitude.”

He hears you babble something he doesn't understand into the sheets but he ignores you, his hands squeeze your ass while he rams you hard from behind, the dirty sound of slapping mixed with the thick smell of sex fills the room accompanied by his grunts and your muffled sobs, he separates your ass cheeks and without stopping thrusting into you he uses one of his fingers to rub your wrinkled hole.

“Hey you never let me fuck you around here, tell me are you a virgin? Well never mind once we get married I'll make sure not to leave a single one of your holes unused, by the time I'm done they'll all be shaped like my cock.”

You shudder in fear at his words causing your pussy to tense around him, he lets out a low chuckle as he grabs your hips ramming into you with renewed vigor, you bite down on the sheets and dig your nails into the mattress, his cock slamming again and again against your bruised cervix causing your eyes to roll back in the back of your head from the overwhelming pleasure, he grabs you by the hair lifting you up and forcing you to lean your back against his chest, you lean your head back over his shoulder and he licks your ear the wet sensation making your juicy pussy clench even tighter.

“God I wish you could see the face you're wearing right now it's so fucking erotic, you look like a whore how can you expect me not to put a baby in your womb when you make faces like that?”

He kisses your ear and uses one of his hands to rub your clit in firm circles bringing you over the edge a few more thrusts and you end up cumming all over his cock you let out moans as you arch your back he lets out a grunt as he feels your pussy squeezing him like a vice and then he stops cumming deep inside you his seed paints your core he pushes your body down onto the mattress collapsing on your back without pulling his limp cock out of you he murmurs.

“Since you're not going to college anymore I thought it would be best to move into a house, a big one, before our kids are born, you know little ones are adorable but a big problem and I want to have you all to myself before they get here.”

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Gotta say I used to extensively comment on fics and not just a few words but did some fairly long detailed comments on what I liked but recently I started to get less and less replies on them despite authors (relatively popular ones) sometimes replying to others. And while I understand that author doesn’t owe me anything it did quite demotivate me from leaving as much comments. Why bother if nobody cares in the first place? I know its an unhelpful mindset but I can’t shake it. Any advices?

hi!

as an author who likes to comment on others' works but is notoriously bad at replying to comments I receive on my own works, I can guarantee that 99.99% of writers read the comments they receive and, even if they don't reply back, they love and appreciate your kind words more than you know. I know this may sound cliche and all, but I can wholeheartedly say this because it's true for me, as an author.

yes, I admit that I don't always reply to comments I receive, but it's not because I don't appreciate or care about them. I read them, mostly several times each, I screenshot them and save them in a special folder so I can always come back and read them again. there are just so many kind comments I receive that make me smile to myself for minutes even though I don't reply back. some of them actually make me shed a few tears of joy.

thing is when us authors don't reply to comments we receive, it's mostly because;

we don't know how best to respond that will let the commenters know how much we appreciate them. because if the comments are several paragraph long (we LOVE that!), and we only reply with "thank you so much", then it sounds too short for us. (I know this because I sometimes spend so long thinking about how best to respond that will let my commenters know how much I appreciate them that I sometimes end up don't respond back.)

sometimes we are overwhelmed by several comments from several readers, and responding to all of them are too overwhelming. but we read, love and appreciate each and every single one of them very dearly.

sometimes we reply to some comments and not the others, because maybe we have little free time where we can only reply to some people, or maybe there's something about some specific comments that makes us respond back. but this does not mean we don't care about comments we don't reply back.

sometimes we're simply exhausted from stuff in our lives and replying to comments take time and energy, depends on how long the comments are / how long we want our responses to be / how many comments we receive, etc

writing is hard, but sometimes finding the right words to reply back to comments can be even harder, especially when we want to write several paragraph responses back just to let them know how much we appreciate them. and unfortunately sometimes us writers just don't have enough energy left.

but rest assured that, even if we don't reply, we love and appreciate every kind comment we receive very, very much, and they help motivate us to keep writing.

when I comment on my fellow writers' works and don't get any response back, I know why (for the reasons listed above), and that's totally okay for me because I don't comment on their works just for them to thank me, I do it because I want them to know how I love and appreciate their works, and I believe they do know. and that's really all that matters for me.

so if your favorite authors don't reply to you, please don't think that it's because they "don't care" or that your comments "don't matter" to them.

I mean, of course, I can see why not getting a response back can be discouraging, especially when commenting on writers' works are so encouraged, but as a fellow commenter (yes, I'm an author and also a commenter of fics I love), I always think of it this way; fanfics are gifts we receive for free, we comment on writers' works as a way to thank them for giving us cool fics to read. we don't expect them to thank us back because they've already given us this lovely gift. we comment only because we want to let them know we love their fics. and they know.

your comments could now be saved in your favorite authors' folders and re-read by them over and over again, even if they didn't respond back. they could be smiling to themselves reading your thoughts on their works. who knows? their next 100k word fic could be motivated by you.

[pankowcrumbs]

Stylist X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

Request: Lando Norris x Reader: Reader is the Stylist for the them and it is love at first sight.

There’s a kind of chaos that exists in the world of Formula 1 that most people never really see. The roaring engines, the flashing cameras, the pit lane buzz all of that’s just surface noise. The real frenzy happens backstage fittings, last-minute wardrobe emergencies, PR shoots that turn into full-blown campaigns overnight.

And somewhere in the middle of it all: me.

I’ve been working as a personal stylist for about four years now. When McLaren offered me the chance to style both of their drivers Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri I said yes before the email had even finished loading. I'd worked with athletes before, but this? This was something else. These two weren’t just racers they were brands. And I was about to dress them like they owned every room they walked into.

The first time I met Lando was in a hotel suite in Monaco, three days before the Grand Prix. I was sorting through suits, hanging a few casual pieces near the wardrobe when I heard the door open behind me.

I turned and there he was.

Messy curls, warm hazel eyes, tan skin that made my breath catch. But it wasn’t just that. It was the way he looked at me. Like he’d forgotten what he came in for.

"Hi," he said, blinking like he was pulling himself back to earth. "You're… not what I expected."

I raised a brow. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno some guy named Trevor with measuring tape around his neck, I guess.”

I laughed, shaking his hand. “Y/N. I’m here to make sure you don’t end up wearing shoes two sizes too big in front of a billion people.”

He grinned. “Then thank God for you.”

That was it the spark. Instant. Unmistakable. It danced in the air between us, subtle but alive.

Oscar arrived minutes later and, thankfully, didn't seem to notice the way I kept stealing glances at Lando while adjusting their jackets. Or how he kept glancing at me through the mirror while I worked.

“You have a favourite?” Lando asked later, as I fussed with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Driver or suit?”

He smirked. “Both.”

I hummed like I was thinking hard. “Oscar’s very cooperative. Doesn’t argue about colour theory. And this navy double-breasted on him? Magic.”

Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Harsh.”

I tilted my head, pretending to assess him. “But you? You wear the hell out of anything I put you in. Even when you whinge about skinny trousers.”

He laughed, full and boyish. “Fair enough.”

We were flirting. Obviously. But nothing about it felt forced. It was… effortless. The kind of connection you don’t question because it just fits.

By the end of the weekend, I was gone for him.

And judging by the way he pulled me aside after the race, still flushed from adrenaline, I wasn’t alone.

“I know this is probably unprofessional,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “but I’d regret it forever if I didn’t ask”

“Yes,” I cut in.

He blinked. “I haven’t even said what I was asking.”

“You were going to ask me out, right?”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “Yeah. I was.”

“Then yes.”

He looked stunned for half a second, then laughed again. “Okay, wow. Great. I didn’t expect this to work.”

I grinned. “Neither did Trevor.”

We kept things quiet at first. The paddock is a rumour mill, and the last thing I wanted was to look like I’d slept my way into the job. But behind closed doors, it was magic.

Lando was everything I didn’t expect. Thoughtful, self-aware, hilarious. He’d text me photos of ridiculous fashion items

“This bucket hat. Yes or hell no?”

I’d show up to fittings with inside jokes written on the garment tags just to make him laugh.

We stole moments after media days, during travel days, in hotel corridors when no one was looking. And each one made it harder not to fall completely.

Then came Silverstone.

It was a massive weekend. His home race. Pressure everywhere.

I was backstage helping Oscar with his last-minute tie adjustment when Lando appeared in the doorway, already dressed, looking far too good in a sharp charcoal suit I’d custom selected just for him.

“Y/N,” he said, nodding toward the hallway. “Quick word?”

Oscar raised his brows but didn’t say anything.

Out in the hallway, Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low.

“Dangerous,” I teased.

He smirked, but the nerves were there. Real ones.

“I want to stop hiding it,” he said. “Us. I don’t want to act like you’re just my stylist anymore. You mean more than that.”

I swallowed hard. “Lando…”

“I know the timing’s crap and the world’s always watching, but I’m tired of pretending you’re not the first person I look for when I walk into a room.”

I blinked, heart thudding.

“I’m not asking you to post a picture or walk the grid holding my hand,” he added. “Just… let’s stop being afraid of it.”

I took a breath. The risk was real. The headlines would be brutal. But standing there, looking into those honest, earnest eyes I knew I couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” I whispered.

His smile could’ve powered the whole circuit.

We didn’t make a big announcement. Just started being a little more… obvious. Sitting closer during briefings. Sharing the odd touch. And yes, a few photos did slip through the cracks one of me laughing in the background while he beamed at me, one of us walking out of a restaurant late at night, hand in hand.

The media storm came fast, as expected.

“Lando Norris Dating McLaren Stylist?” “Love on the Grid: Fans Divided Over Norris’ Romance” “Should Teams Allow Relationships This Close to Home?”

We read them all, shared a bottle of wine, and decided to go on a proper date anyway.

Because for all the noise, the truth was this: we’d found something rare. And it was worth protecting, not hiding.

Eventually, the fuss died down. People got bored. And in its place came something warmer support, even. Fans commenting on how happy he looked. Journalists noting his improved focus. Some even calling me a “lucky charm.”

And maybe I was.

Because a year later, Lando stood at the Monaco GP in a tailored white linen shirt I’d helped pick out, sunglasses perched on his nose, and pulled me into a kiss in full view of half the paddock.

He smiled against my lips. “Still think Oscar’s your favourite?”

“Close second,” I teased, resting my forehead against his.

And just like that, the world faded again.

Because in a life full of chaos and engines and cameras, somehow I’d found peace in the one person who could never sit still.

Lando Norris.

Tailored perfectly to me.

[apollognese]

Jinx and Powder✌️✌️

[ashthesalamipiece]

can I request one where reader and katsuki are “best friends” until one day they have a argument and she ignores him and he gets clingy and jealous and finally confesses? please and thank you!

"Say You Won't Let Go"

You and Katsuki Bakugo had been best friends since your first year at U.A., a bond forged through sparring sessions, late-night studying, and silent support during your roughest days. People often mistook you for a couple, but you would always laugh it off — even if a tiny part of you wished it were true.

Katsuki was your person. Always had been. Always would be... or so you thought.

It started with something stupid.

He had been spending more time with Mina, Denki, and the others lately — and you noticed. It wasn't that you didn't want him to have other friends; it was just...you missed him. And when you finally worked up the courage to say something, it came out wrong.

"Maybe you should just go hang out with them then, if I'm so boring!"

Your voice cracked in the middle of it, and instead of seeing the hurt underneath, Katsuki bristled.

"Tch, don't be fuckin' stupid, (Y/N)."

"No, it's fine. I'm tired of being your backup plan, Bakugo."

You left before he could say anything else.

After that, you ignored him.

In the halls. At lunch. During training.

You weren’t cruel — you just... couldn't bear to pretend like nothing had changed.

---

At first, Katsuki thought you needed time to cool off.

Then a day passed. Then two.

By the end of the week, he was losing his mind.

It wasn’t just your absence — it was how easily you seemed to move on without him. Smiling at Kirishima, laughing with Sero, letting Todoroki carry your bag after a mission when you usually made Katsuki do it just to annoy him.

It made him angry.

It made him jealous.

It made him scared.

You had always been there. His constant. His anchor. And now? It felt like you were slipping right through his fingers.

---

He cornered you after training one afternoon, the setting sun painting the gymnasium in fiery colors.

"Oi," he barked, his voice harsh to mask the panic swelling in his chest.

You barely glanced at him. "I'm busy, Bakugo."

Hearing you say his last name so formally — like a stranger — was a punch to the gut.

"Don't fuckin' do that," he growled, stepping closer. "Don't act like I don't matter."

You bit your lip and looked away, crossing your arms defensively.

"What do you want from me, Katsuki?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He faltered. His fists clenched at his sides.

"I want you to stop actin' like you don't fuckin' care!"

You blinked, stung by the rawness of his voice. "You have everyone else now. Go bother them."

"I don't want them!" Katsuki exploded, making you flinch. His chest heaved. His heart felt like it was going to tear through his ribs. "I want you. It's always been you, dumbass."

Silence.

You stared at him, stunned.

He took a shuddering breath, stepping closer, lowering his voice like a secret meant for you alone.

"I'm a fuckin' idiot. I didn't know how to say it. But... you're not my backup plan, (Y/N). You're my everything."

Your eyes burned.

You wanted to stay mad — to throw his words back at him and protect your heart — but the way he looked at you, desperate and terrified, broke down every wall you'd built.

Slowly, you shook your head. "You should've told me sooner, Katsuki..."

He hesitated, then cupped your face with rough, calloused hands, as if he was scared you'd disappear.

"I'm tellin' you now. Don't make me fuckin' beg."

You laughed wetly through your tears, clutching the front of his shirt to steady yourself.

"Idiot," you whispered. "I was in love with you this whole time."

Katsuki kissed you like a man drowning — fierce, wild, full of all the things he never knew how to say. And you kissed him back just as desperately, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Because he was.

Because he always had been.

---

Later that night, as you sat together on the roof of the dorms, his arm slung over your shoulders, he muttered into your hair:

"Never ignoring me again, got it?"

You smiled softly against his chest.

"Only if you promise the same."

Katsuki squeezed you tighter.

"Deal."

And this time, you both knew you meant forever.

[lilyswrittenworks]

XX| Close Call

Warning(s): Blood, Angst, Cursing, Comfort

Word count: 4.1k

Synopsis: One more week until Piccolo had to pay Korin a visit to retrieve the senzu bean he had been promised. All was well... until it wasn't.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

This couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

Everything had been fine. It should’ve been fine.

It had been an ordinary evening. The two of you sat comfortably in your home, surrounded by the familiar clatter of steel and the faint scent of oil and sharpening stones. Piccolo sat on the living room floor, legs crossed, the flickering lamplight casting long shadows as he methodically ran a whetstone along the edge of one of your training swords, while you sat across from him, polishing another with practiced ease.

You were talking again.

Rambling, really—bubbling with excitement about returning to your dojo, as if the injuries that had nearly taken your life just four months ago were nothing more than a distant memory.

“I can’t wait to see their faces,” you had said with a bright smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I bet they’ve all slacked off without me there to whip them into shape.”

He had grunted in response, but you knew him well enough to recognize the soft amusement behind it.

Piccolo didn’t speak much—but he listened. Always listened. Your voice had become something familiar, something comforting to him, something that he came to love about you.

He liked the way you filled the silence. He liked the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about the people you cared for.

It had been so normal. So safe.

Until it wasn’t.

You had stood up, mid-sentence, pausing only to retrieve something from the kitchen. A cloth? A bottle of disinfectant? He couldn’t remember. 

Because in the next moment—

You coughed.

It was sharp, sudden. Violent.

Piccolo looked up immediately, brows furrowing.

You staggered, clutching your stomach. You coughed again—harder. And then, to his horror, you hurled.

Dark red splattered the wooden floor beneath you.

Blood.

You stared at your hands, trembling as you saw it coating your fingers, dripping from your lips. Then your wide, horrified eyes found his.

“P… Piccolo…” you barely managed to whisper before your knees buckled.

Piccolo moved before he could think.

His arms caught you before your body could hit the floor, cradling your unconscious form against him as panic exploded through his chest.

“Hey—hey! (Y/n), look at me!” Piccolo shook you gently, his voice louder than it had ever been. Desperate. Urgent.

But your head lolled back.

Your eyes didn’t open.

A cold, suffocating fear gripped him—

No. No, no, no—

This couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

Not to you.

Not to the one person who made him feel—alive.

His eyes focused back to the present—soaring through the night air, the wind howling in his ears as he tore through the sky with everything he had.

You were limp in his arms, a streak of blood trailing from the corner of your mouth. His cape whipped violently behind him, but all Piccolo could feel was the weight of your body, and the thunderous pounding of his own heart.

His only thought—his only destination—was the Lookout.

Dende. Popo. Someone. Anyone.

They had to fix this.

They had to save you.

Far below, Korin was enjoying the cool breeze atop his tower, his paws wrapped around his staff as he gazed at the stars. It was a rare, tranquil moment.

Until a sonic gust of wind nearly knocked him over.

“Wh-WHOA!” the old cat yelped, tumbling back onto his tail as something—someone—blurred past him in a streak of green and white.

Blinking in stunned confusion, Korin sat up, his fur on end.

“Was that… Piccolo? What the heck is he doing here?”

He squinted at the shrinking silhouette disappearing into the clouds above, heart skipping a beat.

For a moment, he could’ve sworn—

He saw Piccolo clutching someone in his arms.

Someone limp.

And that person’s energy was barely hanging on.

Korin’s ears flattened.

“…Oh my.”

Piccolo burst through the clouds, his cape snapping behind him like a banner in the wind. The dark sky parted, revealing the sacred platform above—the Lookout, floating in tranquil silence against the night.

But there was no peace in Piccolo's heart.

He pushed harder, a sonic hum trailing behind him, and in seconds he descended into the center of the courtyard with a thundering force. The moment his moccasins’ hit the tile, he didn’t waste a second.

“Dende! Mister Popo!” he shouted, his voice uncharacteristically strained—raw with panic. “I need your help—NOW!”

The tremble in his tone was impossible to miss. Piccolo never pleaded—never raised his voice out of anything but irritation or battle fury. But this? This was something else.

From the entrance to the temple, footsteps echoed, fast and urgent. Dende appeared first, his green face pale with concern, and beside him, Mister Popo’s usually composed expression was etched with worry.

“Piccolo? What are you—” Dende's words fell flat the moment his eyes landed on the unconscious figure in Piccolo’s arms.

His breath caught.

Your aura… it was flickering—thin and fading like a candle about to die out.

Without hesitation, Dende rushed forward. Piccolo dropped to his knees, cradling you close, allowing the young Guardian to kneel in front of him and begin his assessment. Dende’s hands hovered, glowing faintly as he checked your vital energy.

And then he looked up. His eyes met Piccolo’s—and what he saw there startled him more than anything else.

Piccolo looked broken.

There was anguish carved into the lines of his face. A deep, desperate pain—his usual mask of stoicism shattered.

“What happened to her, Piccolo?” Dende asked softly, but urgently.

Piccolo swallowed hard, his breath catching. He couldn’t look away from your face—not for long. His hands trembled slightly, holding you tighter, as if you’d vanish if he let go.

“I… I don’t know,” he choked out. “She started coughing, and then…” He closed his eyes tight, the image of the blood on the wooden floors, of your bloodied hand flashing behind his lids. “She passed out. Just like that.”

When his eyes opened again, they shimmered—dark with emotion, his onyx gaze barely holding back the tears swelling at the edges. But one escaped, tracing a silent path down his cheek.

“Dende,” he said, voice dropping low—almost a whisper, but heavy like the weight of a mountain. “You have to save her.”

He didn’t care how it looked. He didn’t care that he was showing weakness.

You were the only one who made the silence bearable. The only one who softened the edges of his guarded world. He had just started to understand what it meant to love—to truly care, not with duty, but with his soul.

He couldn’t lose that.

He couldn’t lose you.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the sheer weight of it. “Save her. I’m begging you.”

And as that lone tear fell, dark and silent against the pale tiles of the Lookout, Piccolo didn’t care who saw.  

He had never felt so powerless.  

And he had never wanted something more in his entire life.  

You had to live.

Dende nodded, his young face hardening with resolve. “Please lay her down.”

Piccolo obeyed without hesitation. He lowered you carefully onto the cold tiles, treating you like you were made of glass. Every movement was gentle, every breath he took shallow—as though he were afraid that even the sound of it might disturb you further.

Dende knelt beside you, his fingers spreading apart as a soft golden light began to pulse from his hands. He hovered them just above your abdomen, and soon that healing energy enveloped you in a shimmering cocoon of warmth. The blood staining your lips vanished first, absorbed into the light like it had never been there.  

But then… your face twisted.

Your brows furrowed. A small, broken whimper escaped your throat.

Piccolo’s head snapped toward you instantly, every cell in his body screaming to do something. Anything. His hands twitched, aching to hold you, to protect you from the invisible pain. But he wasn’t a healer—he didn’t know how to stop this. All he could do was watch as you suffered.

“Dende…” he growled, his voice tight with helplessness.

“Something’s not right,” Dende muttered, his brow beading with sweat. His left hand slowly moved, hovering over your chest, his expression shifting into one of intense focus. “There’s something… blocking her heart. It’s small—but it’s foreign. A solid object.”

Piccolo blinked in disbelief. “What?! What do you mean there’s something inside her heart?!”

“I can see it—a fragment, lodged deep. It’s lead, I think… a piece of shrapnel or maybe even a bullet. Whatever it is, it’s interfering with her heart's rhythm,” Dende explained, his voice trembling slightly, though he kept his hands steady. “I can get it out… but I have to be careful. One wrong move, and…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Piccolo’s breath caught in his throat.

Slowly, meticulously, Dende guided his healing energy deeper. He visualized the obstruction, wrapping it in a net of light, drawing it out inch by inch. It was a painstaking process, his hands glowing brighter as he pulled the object upward—until finally, a small piece of blackened lead floated into his open palm.

Piccolo stared at it, stunned by how something so small had nearly taken you away.

Dende didn’t stop. He kept his hands over you, sealing tissue, mending nerves, and purging every trace of impurity that had followed. When the golden glow began to fade, silence fell across the courtyard like a thick fog.

And then—

You stirred.

Your eyes slowly fluttered open, the color returning to your face as confusion painted your expression. A fog clung to your thoughts at first, but then the memories hit you like a crashing wave. The coughing. The blood. The pain. Your eyes widened in terror as you shot upright, your hand flying to your chest, expecting the same unbearable pressure to greet you.

But…

There was nothing.

Just the steady rise and fall of your breath.

You looked down at your hand in disbelief—searching for blood, for pain, for something to prove that what had happened was real. But all you saw was your skin, trembling slightly.

“Wha… what the hell…?” you murmured.

“You’re okay now.”

You turned toward the voice—young, calm, and kind. Beside you stood a small Namekian, no older than a teenager by human standards, a gentle smile stretching across his features.

“Thank goodness,” Dende said with a breath of relief. “You had us all worried for a moment there.”

Your gaze lingered on him, blinking. “You’re… you’re a Namekian, right?”

Dende beamed and nodded. “I am! I’m surprised you know that—most humans don’t, unless they’ve met one before. But I’m guessing Piccolo told you all about us, huh?”

Piccolo…

The moment his name echoed in your head, your heart seized again—but this time with a different kind of panic.

“Where is he—?” you asked, eyes darting around, voice cracking.

Before your anxiety could spiral further, you felt a warm, grounding pressure at your back—a large hand, familiar in every way, resting between your shoulder blades.

You turned quickly, your breath hitching as your gaze met his. Piccolo. He was on his knees beside you, his face shadowed but unmistakably there—right by your side, like he never left.

You didn’t even think.

You threw yourself into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, your body trembling as you collapsed into his embrace. And without hesitation, he caught you—his arms closing around you with a force that made it feel like nothing in the world could ever pull you away again.

A choked sob escaped you as the dam finally broke, your tears soaking into the thick fabric of his weighted shoulder pad. Your fingers gripped his cloak desperately.

“I was so scared…” you whispered through your tears, voice cracking. “I didn’t want to die—I didn’t want to leave you.”

Piccolo buried his face into the crook of your neck, eyes shut tight as the weight of your words shattered whatever composure he had left. His hold on you tightened.

He had never known fear like that. Never known such vulnerability until now—until you. And he never wanted to feel it again.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath. “I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, the rest of the world faded away.

You were alive.

And he wasn’t going to let you go.

The first one to pull away was you—just slightly, just enough to see him. Piccolo didn’t stop you, though a subtle reluctance lingered in his touch. Your eyes met his, and despite the deep relief etched into the usually stoic planes of his face, you could still see it—the anguish that hadn't yet left him. It clung to the edges of his expression like a shadow that refused to fade.  

Your hands reached up on instinct, fingertips brushing his jaw before gently cupping his face. The moment your palms rested against his cheeks, his eyes fluttered half-shut and he leaned into your touch, almost like he couldn’t help it. His skin was warm beneath your hands—rough in texture, but grounding. His eyes stayed locked on yours, so intense, so open, it made the breath catch in your throat. 

You were drowning in him.

Until someone cleared their throat.

The sound was polite but purposeful, and you flinched—just slightly—turning your head in surprise. Still in the safety of Piccolo’s arms, you shifted to glance at the two figures standing nearby: the young Namekian who had healed you, and a short man with dark skin, round eyes, and a distinct turban—his presence calm, yet commanding.

“I apologize for interrupting the moment,” the man spoke gently, folding his hands in front of him, “but we would like to ask a few questions, if that’s alright with you.”

You blinked, lips parting as your mind scrambled for a proper response. You turned back to Piccolo instead, wordlessly asking for guidance. Your hands were still cupping his face, and he hadn’t moved an inch. He met your gaze with that same steady intensity, then gave you a slow, reassuring nod.

That was all you needed.

Trusting him came easier than breathing.

You lowered your hands, placing them over his chest instead—your fingers splayed just above his heart—and he mourned the loss of your touch in silence, his eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before turning to the others.

You faced them fully now, still leaning back against Piccolo’s chest like it was your anchor. “Sure,” you said softly, offering a small, tired smile. “Ask away.”

The younger Namekian, still on his knees, bowed forward slightly and gestured to himself. “Allow me to introduce myself first. My name is Dende, and this is Mister Popo,” he said, motioning to a short, plump humanoid beside him.

You nodded. “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m (Y/n).” 

Dende returned your smile, though concern remained in his eyes. “You’re very lucky Piccolo brought you to me when he did. Any later, and… well—”

“You would’ve died,” Mister Popo finished calmly. “You were on the very brink. Fortunately, Dende’s healing abilities are exceptional. He was able to remove the obstruction that was slowly killing you.”

Your brows drew together. “Obstruction?”

Dende raised his hand and carefully uncurled his fingers, revealing something small—very small—resting in the center of his palm.

You leaned closer, squinting. “Wait… that? That little thing almost killed me?”

The object was no larger than a pebble—dark, metallic, and unassuming. You looked up at Dende again, and he nodded solemnly.

You let out a short breath, frowning. “God… I really can’t catch a break, can I? First I die for three minutes and now this?”

There was a beat of silence. Dende and Mister Popo shared a startled glance.

Then Dende blinked. “I’m sorry—did you just say you were dead for three minutes?”

Oh.

Shit.

A single sweatdrop slid down the side of your face as your body tensed awkwardly. You gave a stiff little laugh, eyes darting to the side. “Uhm…”

Before you could blurt out some kind of backpedal, you felt it—Piccolo’s arms tightening around you protectively. He drew you in closer against his chest, as if shielding you from the memory itself.

You glanced down at his hand resting against your side before continuing, more carefully this time. “Four months ago… I was shot. I threw myself to protect this little girl—my student—who was about to get shot by this random guy at a festival. I… I took the hit.”

You swallowed hard, gaze distant for a moment as you recalled the blur of panic, pain, and the darkness that had crept into your vision.

“I bled out—badly. So much that my heart stopped. For three minutes, I was gone,” you murmured. “The paramedics revived me… got me into surgery just in time.”

A small silence fell over the courtyard. Dende looked stunned. Mister Popo closed his eyes, his expression unreadable.

Piccolo didn’t say a word—but his grip around you spoke volumes. His hand was splayed over your ribs now, directly over where your heart beat steadily beneath the skin.

Dende was the one to finally cut through the heavy silence, his voice gentle but full of respect. “You did a courageous act in protecting that girl. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

You let out a dry chuckle, shaking your head with a tired, crooked smile. “Hell no. I was terrified. But I just… I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, you know?” Your gaze drifted downward, fingers brushing against the fabric of your sweater. “Ever since then, I haven’t felt the same. I can’t fight like I used to. I get winded just from standing too long. Standing. Can you believe that?” You gave a bitter laugh, more to yourself. “Guess it’s the price I pay for doing the right thing.”

Your voice trailed off, the smile on your lips now touched with quiet resignation.

But Dende’s expression suddenly brightened.

“Actually,” he said, sounding pleased, “you should be fully healed now.”

You blinked and looked up. “Huh?”

Dende shifted forward a little, his hands folded neatly in front of him. “I didn’t just heal your injuries. My ability lets me restore the body to its original condition, before trauma or illness. So you won’t have to worry about that weakness or fatigue anymore. Your strength—it’s back.”

You stared at him, stunned. “Wait… seriously?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “You’re as good as new.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You looked down at your hands in disbelief, turning them over, curling your fingers into loose fists. Now that he mentioned it… your limbs didn’t feel heavy anymore. Your breath was steady. Your muscles felt light and warm—rejuvenated.

Like your body had finally caught up to your spirit.

“…I feel strong,” you whispered. “Like I could punch a wall right now.”

Piccolo gave you a look.

“…I won’t,” you added quickly with a grin. “But still.”

You were still reeling from that revelation when Dende tilted his head slightly, clearly curious. “If you don’t mind me asking…” His eyes flicked from you to Piccolo, a subtle but knowing light in them. “You two seem awfully close. Are you… friends?”

There was a beat.

Then, like a switch flipped, both you and Piccolo flushed.

You smiled shyly, eyes darting off to the side as your hand came to rest lightly over Piccolo’s forearm. His arm, still loosely wrapped around your waist, tensed slightly—then relaxed, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Piccolo, on the other hand, averted his gaze so hard that it looked like he might burn a hole in the sky. His ears darkened with a hue of violet, and even his cheeks tinted with that unmistakable Namekian flush.

You answered, your voice soft and warm. “Actually… Piccolo and I are together. I’m his girlfriend.”

Thud.

Both Dende and Mister Popo collapsed dramatically, gasping in unison like it was the most scandalous thing they’d heard all week. They sprang upright a second later, gaping.

“You’re dating?!” Dende blurted.

“I did not see that coming,” Mister Popo said, hand to his chin, looking genuinely thrown.

You couldn’t help but burst into a breathless laugh, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. The expression on their faces was too good. Meanwhile, Piccolo was still looking away—not out of shame, but because he could already see the avalanche of consequences from letting this little secret out into the open.

Damn it.

It was happening. The acknowledgement. The intermingling.

They knew now.

And with them knowing, there was a chance everyone else could find out. Goku would definitely tease. Gohan would try to act mature about it but would give him that smug “I-knew-it” smile. Krillin would not shut up about it. And Roshi—

No.

No way in hell he was letting that old perv anywhere near you.

Piccolo’s jaw tightened subtly. As much as he hated the idea of keeping his life in compartments—one for you and one for the rest of the world—he would do it. If it meant protecting you from the chaos, the scrutiny, the unfiltered idiocy that came with his circle of allies?

He’d keep you in your own sacred place. Away from their nonsense.

Even if that meant hiding the best thing in his life.

Still, he found himself glancing down at you again—and even just looking at you, so alive, so close, so his… it softened the knot of tension in his chest.

“Um… is it that surprising that we’re together?” you asked, brows furrowed in genuine confusion.

Sure, Piccolo wasn’t exactly Mr. Social Butterfly. He had his moments—serious, intense, often too quiet for comfort. You still remember when he first started attending your martial arts classes, standing silently in the back with his arms crossed and that unreadable expression on his face. Students were terrified at first. He didn’t say a word unless absolutely necessary, and even then, it was always something sharp, observant, and usually enough to silence the entire room.

Still, he’d offered good advice—great advice, actually—and over time, the students came to appreciate his insight. Even if he still looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than in a room full of people.

But now?

Both Dende and Mister Popo nodded solemnly in unison, as if you’d just asked whether the sky was blue.

Dende glanced at Piccolo again, his expression caught somewhere between awe and amusement. “Well, Piccolo wasn’t always fond of people. At all. Not until Gohan. But even then, this… this is a pleasant surprise.”

Piccolo exhaled through his nose, his expression neutral but not annoyed. He finally looked over to meet their eyes, the faint violet still lingering on his cheeks. “Alright, that’s enough. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone else about my relationship with (Y/n).”

You tilted your head up from where it rested against his chest, eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait—what? Why would you keep me a secret?” There was no anger in your tone, but you were clearly hurt. “What’s so wrong about meeting your friends?”

Piccolo looked down at you, his frown deepening just a bit, but it wasn’t out of irritation. More like… concern. “Trust me. It’s safer if you don’t meet them under any circumstances.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Piccolo…”

He stared right back, visibly unmoved. “Look, all I can say is… they can be overwhelming.”

You squinted. “Define ‘overwhelming.’”

“Goku will invite himself to dinner and never leave. Krillin will ask too many questions. Tien will be polite but deeply suspicious. Yamcha will flirt with you—openly. And Master Roshi will…” He visibly grimaced. “...well. You don’t want to know.”

You blinked. “...Wow.”

He gave a slow, affirmative nod. “Exactly.”

Mister Popo looked like he wanted to say something but wisely kept it to himself. Dende just smiled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You let out a slow sigh, your hand finding its way over Piccolo’s. “Okay, fair enough. But just so you know… I can handle a little overwhelming.”

Piccolo’s gaze softened. He didn’t say it aloud, but you could tell he appreciated that. Still, he wasn’t convinced the others wouldn’t cause chaos the second they knew about you.

He'd just have to keep his two worlds separate for now.

For your sake.

And maybe—just maybe—his own sanity.

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(a/n)

I bet you didn't expected to have a surprise encounter with the guardian of earth and Mister Popo, eh? 😏

And the gang has been mentioned!

Hehehe 🤭

I hope ya'll are ready for next weeks chapter, cause it's like... the longest freakin' chapter I've ever written and so much will happen.~

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Part XIX

You are currently reading Part XX

Part XXI Coming soon...

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

[briechyne]

Cigarette smoke and old books. Faded sketches and rain-soaked streets. The poetry of solitude written in sepia tones.

[nesting-dreams]

such a massive green flag they caused the boys to go through early mid life crisis 😭They don’t know what to do! It’s sad and funny

hey so how do you think the bat boys would deal with a sweet yet fiesty crush? Your jealousy post got me thinking. How the boys deal with jealousy over a crush, but what they do with a crush who isn’t prone to jealousy? the boys ask if crush ever gets jealous over a crush and s/o is like “no. I don’t own him. I have no right to feel jealous over him since we’re friends. And if we date, I’ll just trust him. He’s not my property. If he does cheat on me, I’ll hunt him down and kick his ass cuz I imagine we’d agree about committing at some point”?

Dick:

You don’t get jealous. Huh. 

He slouches on the sofa, arms crossed and cheeks puffed out. No he’s not sulking, he’s just stumped. Your words make sense and give him another reason for him to like you. But what does that make him? Here he is, getting bothered by everyone close to him trying to show off how much closer they are to you while looking at him. Especially Wally, yes bros before hoes but he really needs to stop putting his arm around your shoulders whenever the three of you hang out. Not to mention the smug smirk the red head sends him knowing he won’t be able to do anything about it. “Oh, I’m just being friendly” his ass. 

He suddenly feels something tugging at his pants. Looking down, a tiny smile forms on his face as lifts Haley up to his eyes. 

“Haley, would you get jealous over your crush?” 

He heaves a heavy sigh when she tilts her head questionably. Figures. 

Plopping her on his face, Haley barks energetically most likely from him blowing raspberries into her tummy in attempts to vent out his frustration. He has it so bad for you… Why does life enjoy making things harder for him including his desire to simply ask you? 

Jason: 

Welp. That’s a problem. Don’t get him wrong, it’s great and a relief for him since it means you're a green-flag, pro-healthy relationship type of a person. Problem is that he likes you. And he’s trying to gauge if you like him back so he can know if he has a chance with you. Jealousy is one of the biggest indicators of figuring out if a person likes another person seen in books, TV shows, movies, real-life (he’s totally not talking from first-hand experience). 

But you don’t get jealous. He’s not a jerk to plan to purposely instigate you into jealousy but considering it’s one of the more obvious signs, he was hoping he can use it as a form of proof that the feeling was mutual. So much for that plan though. 

Feet propped up on his desk, he slumps deeper into his chair and takes grumpy chomps out of his chili dog. Seriously, what does a guy gotta do to figure out if he’s able to ask someone out around here? 

Apparently everything that annoys him when the chili slides off the hot dog and onto his white t-shirt. 

“Shit.” 

Mentally he flips a finger into the air as he makes his way to the sink. To whomever is sending back luck towards him, he sincerely expresses fuck them. 

Tim: 

He’s not bothered by it. It’s a perfect response that shows the positivity in being in a relationship with you. So, he’s not bothered by what you said whatsoever.  

That’s what he tells himself, approaching his third hour of searching up if it’s normal to not feel jealous when crushing on someone on top of all the other signs of having a crush. Aggressive mouse clicking and tapping of the keyboard filling the room as his eyes drill holes into the screen.

All the articles say that it’s fine and usually points towards a good sign. He’s thinking the people who wrote them have never been in a relationship before and don’t know what they’re talking about. 

Groaning, he leans back and spins himself in circles. It’s not them. Or you. It’s him. He’s the problem. He’s grasping straws, hoping his feelings aren’t one-sided. That he’s not being odd or -wait. Hold on. Is he being a red-flag???

His eyes shot wide open, he rolls himself back to his desk and fills the room again with clicking and tapping. Only for his phone to ring. 

“Hey, Tim! Do you want to-”

“Do you think I’m toxic?” 

By the end of the phone call, he’s offended. He was asking a genuine question; what did needing sleep have to do with this?

Duke:

He flips to one side. Then to the other. No matter what he does, counting sheep, listening to black out noise, he can’t fall asleep. 

One part of him falls for you even harder. Your response was so cool and mature. Like, that’s how he’s going to be treated when the two of you go out. Loyal, couple goal’s commitment from you to him and him to you. There won’t be any drama. No you did, he did, who’s that. A strong, wholesome relationship. Thinking about this part makes him want to start planning how he’d ask you out. Where, what time, flowers or food. 

But then there’s the fact that you may have someone you like. Who it is, he wouldn’t be able to know since you won’t express it. What he does know is that he might not have a chance with you. Even if he were to ask you out, you’d reject him. As he thinks about this,  he isn’t sure which is worse at the moment: him getting rejected or him not being able to confess from the start. 

Grabbing his phone next to him, he considers texting his Batsibs until he remembers: none of them were normal. Slowly he puts his phone back down. Maybe he’ll ask his friends at school. At least he’ll get a somewhat decent advice from them. 

Damian:

He thinks you’re lying. It’s part of human nature to feel jealous, especially for romantic reasons. But you don’t feel jealous? Bullcrap. 

He angrily scribbles his answers onto the paper, maintaining neat hand-writing as it would be unbecoming for it to look like chicken-scratch (full on shade to Jon everyone in his family other than Alfrend and his father by the way). There’s simply no way you would answer as such unless you truly have feelings for someone. And that fact he doesn’t even know who it might be from how tight lipped you’re being-!

Snap goes his pencil. He bites his lip, frustrated and agitated all over again. He won’t admit to anyone else other than to himself but he has a crush on you. But if you like someone, he doesn’t want to continue harboring them. He has no intentions of getting in your way of happiness or causing pain to you and himself. So why can’t you at least drop a hint or something? 

He goes back to working on his homework with the broken pencil until the lead breaks this time. He’s quiet for a second. Then slamming his pencil down, he heads to the Batcave to get ready early. Nothing gets better as he endures teasing during the whole mission. He’s not being broody and it’s not because of a crush!

[fel-09]

His headache

Fluff

Author's note: I didn't know what to write so sorry for the long absence

P.s. I love the pairing where lazy reader and Tommy

The gloom hung low over the streets of Birmingham, as always unmoving—suspended between the grey rooftops and the ashen sky, as if too weary to break into rain. The city seemed to know that Thomas Shelby was driving through its veins—and held its breath, the way everything does before a storm.

The car was strangely quiet. No crackling of the radio, no flick of a lighter, no lazy remarks from her side. Just the dull thud of tires against uneven cobblestones, and the soft tapping of her fingers on the armrest—somewhere between sleep and vague unrest. He glanced sideways—not often, but enough to notice her eyelids growing heavy. Familiar. Too familiar.

The silence between them wasn’t tense—it was tired, like an old blanket kept for comfort. Something had changed since Michael’s return from America—but not in her, not in Tommy. It was the silence that changed. Less sharp, more muted. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion pressing down on them both so evenly, it smoothed out all the edges.

He parked the car outside the house. Gravel groaned under the wheels, like a muttered complaint. He cut the engine and stepped out. As always, he rounded the bonnet to open her door—and, as nearly always, froze halfway. She wasn’t moving. Her head was tilted to one side, lips slightly parted, her breathing slow and even.

Tommy let out a sigh—tired, almost annoyed.

“Bloody hell. Again,” he muttered under his breath.

He should’ve known this would happen. Every time the drive lasted more than fifteen minutes. She’d said once, “It’s nice. Puts me to sleep.” Said it like he was her bloody chauffeur and not the head of a criminal empire. Like his time was just another soft cushion for her afternoon nap.

He opened the door wider, leaned down, and without hurry, lifted her—one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She folded into his arms like she belonged there. Her head fit perfectly against his shoulder, and there was nothing left for him to do but carry her—again—across the yard.

He remembered once, when she was sixteen, she’d fallen asleep on the underground. Back then she wasn’t part of his world—just drifted near it, like a lazy ghost with no plans and too much time. He’d had to carry her two whole kilometers through the noisy streets, bracelets clinking, a bag full of nothing but books and chocolate slung across her back. And when he finally got her home, she cracked one eye open and mumbled:

“I wasn’t asleep. Just didn’t feel like walking.”

That was it.

Since then, he should’ve known—it was her way. No fighting, no arguing—just letting things happen until the world shifted to fit her weight. She was passive, but not weak. Quiet, but never hollow.

And maybe that’s what pissed him off the most—how effortlessly she allowed herself to be helpless around him.

He carried her into the house unhurriedly. Arthur didn’t even need to look—he knew. It was her again. Usually, Tommy entered with a crash, never caring about creaking doors or heavy footsteps. But today, he closed the door so quietly that the house seemed to fall into a special kind of silence—the kind that spoke louder than any words: she was back.

John lounged by the fireplace, lazily swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. Finn sat nearby, eyes fixed on the flames, turning something small over between his fingers. Tommy didn’t bother to look. Didn’t matter.

Polly stepped out of the next room, saw him—and understood immediately. Without a word, she opened the door to Tommy’s bedroom, gave a short nod, and quietly closed it behind him, leaving him in the dim hush of the room.

He stopped in the center, still holding her in his arms. For a few seconds—maybe minutes—he stared at her, searching her face like he was trying to find something new. But… nothing. Just the same. The same damn girl.

That bloody dyed blonde.

"Still the same, you little devil," he muttered under his breath.

He felt her body shift slightly in his arms. Not really asleep. Not really offended. Just a familiar, theatrical flinch—as if to say, don’t call me that.

He didn’t even glance down. Just dropped her on the bed with careless ease and smacked her lightly on the head with a pillow.

"I know you're not sleeping. Stop pretending. That was attempt number seventy-eight—I’m not buying it anymore," he said, deadpan.

The pillow slid off her face as she lazily opened one eye, a smug grin curling at her lips, as if this was the most ordinary exchange in the world.

"And a good morning to you too."

[lady-arcane]

The Quiet Kind of Tired :

You meet Nanami Kento on a Tuesday,

which feels exactly right. Tuesdays are the most unremarkable days of the week. Nobody romanticizes a Tuesday. You don’t expect to fall in love on one.

You’re working overtime again, elbows deep in paperwork that means nothing, for people who care even less. He sits across from you in the break room. Neat suit. Tired eyes. He drinks his coffee black, like he’s punishing himself.

You say something cynical. He doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches. That’s how it starts.

No grand gestures.

Just a quiet understanding between two people too tired to pretend they’re okay.

-----

Dating Nanami is like walking into a room already cleaned.

Everything in its place. Emotion folded tightly into polite responses. He takes you out to dinner every Thursday. He walks you home. He buys you flowers—carnations, not roses. Clean, efficient, not too sentimental.

He doesn’t talk about his past. You don’t ask. You’re both adults. You both understand that talking about certain things doesn’t make them easier.

Still, some nights, when the city is too loud and you’ve had one glass of wine too many, you look at him and think—

I am loving a man who does not know what to do with softness.

And he looks back at you like you’re made of glass he’s trying not to break with his silence.

-----

You love him anyway. Not because it’s easy. But because he never lies to you. Not in words, at least.

He tells the truth in smaller ways. When he takes the side of the bed closest to the door. When he holds your wrist instead of your hand, like it’s easier to let go that way. When he texts, "I’m sorry, I’ll be late tonight,” and you don’t ask why.

Because you know the answer:

He is always late for himself.

---

You don’t realize how tired you’ve become until you stop recognizing your own voice. You speak less. Smile less. You don’t cry—you just compress.

Like your feelings are cargo in a suitcase too small.

Nanami doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and he thinks it’s something you need to handle alone. That’s the thing about him—he believes in self-reliance to a fault. As if needing people is something shameful. Something weak.

You once told him you wanted to take care of him.

He said, “That’s not necessary.”

You didn’t offer again.

-----

The silence grows slowly, like water under a door.

You tell your friends he’s “steady.” You tell yourself it’s enough.

But you start watching couples on the train. Not the loud, annoying kind. The quiet ones. The ones who lean their heads together. The ones who speak without speaking.

And you think—I want to be chosen without hesitation.

With Nanami, you are always chosen… responsibly.

-----

One night, you come home early from work. He’s already there, standing in the kitchen in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s slicing something—methodical, perfect. His tie is loosened. His hair slightly messy.

He looks tired. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just… tired in the way people look when they’ve been carrying everything alone for too long.

You drop your bag by the door and say, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

He pauses. Doesn’t turn around.

“I don’t want to burden you,” he says.

There’s no malice in it. No edge.

But God, does it hurt.

You say nothing. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door gently.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder when you started mistaking restraint for kindness.

-----

You dream of him leaving. Not out of cruelty. But out of quiet, inevitable decay.

You dream of growing old beside him and never once hearing him say, “I need you.”

You wake up gasping.

And when you roll over to look at him, he’s still asleep, face turned away from you, hands folded like he’s praying.

-----

You don’t break up. Of course not. That would require a climax, and your relationship is built entirely on anti-climax. You just… let it fray.

There’s no cheating. No screaming. Just unspoken questions hanging like fog in the room.

You start eating dinner separately. You stop saying I miss you because he never said it first.

And he—he grows even quieter. Like he knows you’re drifting, and he’s letting you go in the only way he knows how: respectfully.

You wonder if he thinks that’s love.

-----

One day, he comes home to find you sitting on the floor, reading a book you’ve read before.

He looks at you like he wants to say something. You wait. He doesn’t.

So you say it for him.

“I’m tired, Kento.”

You’re not crying. You’re not shouting.

You’re just stating a fact.

And for the first time, he looks… afraid.

-----

He sits down beside you. Not too close. But not far.

“I never wanted to make you feel alone,” he says.

His voice is low. Honest.

You nod. “I know. But you did.”

There’s a long silence.

Then—

“I didn’t know how else to be.”

And you believe him.

You love him.

But you also know that love is not enough when it has nowhere to land.

-----

You don’t leave that night. You fall asleep on the couch, your back to his.

But something shifts. Not fixed. Just acknowledged.

And sometimes, that’s the beginning of something. Sometimes, it’s the end.

-----

Later—weeks later, maybe months—you’ll walk past a bakery the two of you never went into. And you’ll think about how many moments you both passed up in the name of being sensible.

How many soft things you gave up because he didn’t know what to do with them.

You’ll still love him.

But you’ll also understand: some people were taught that needing is dangerous. That showing pain is failure. That asking for help is weak.

And it is not your job to rewrite that for them.

-----

In the end, you loved a man who refused to be held.

And that is the quietest kind of heartbreak.

The kind that doesn’t end with a scream.

Just a sigh.

-----