#super human reader

[specsthesecond]

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The only thing you register is the murky darkness beneath you and the ice above your head. It's calm for a long moment before you feel the twinge in your lungs and your body lurches with a suffocating need. You pound on the ice ceiling, acheiving nothing but bruised palms as the air bubbles leaving your mouth accumulate on the ice.

Then suddenly a sallow hand reaches up from the depths and grabs your leg. The knight’s dead eyes scrutinise you from below, as if offended that you would struggle against this well-deserved fate. Your scream is drowned by the water as you're pulled down, further and further into the icy abyss.

You jolt awake, breathing harsh and eyes frantic. You look around the room, brown curtains shut out the light of the moon, high in the sky. Thick sheets cover you, yet you're still cold, ever aware of the vacant spot next to you that wasn’t when you went to bed. Your heart aches, with longing or exhaustion, you're not sure.

Light emits from the ajar bedroom door. You climb out of the large bed, shuffling away heavy sheets and fixing your thick winter nightgown. You tiptoe down the short hallway, cold stone ground chilling your nerves through your socks until you reach the thick carpet that covers most of the living room.

Your orc sits in the middle of the room, hunched over the dining room table. A candle on the table casts a warm glow, you can hear graphite against paper, the movements slow and deliberate. He only notices your presence when you touch his shoulder. The orc looks up at you from his seat, and your eyes must have been red or puffy because he immediately knows something is wrong. He pushes out his chair so that he’s facing you and gives you a worried look.

You shake your head, trying to ease his concerns but knowing it won't work. He plays with the sleeve of the loose tunic he must have slipped on when he woke up and then reaches out to softly wrap thick fingers around your wrist, sliding them down until he holds your hand in his. It’s warm and grounding, his thumb slides over your knuckles, questioning but never demanding. You sigh and say,

“I had a nightmare.”

You place your hands together and rest your head on them, closing your eyes, trying to convey the action of sleeping and then you shoot your head upright, trying to convey shock. His face lights up in recognition and even though the hasty gestures are a little embarrassing, you still feel…proud when he understands you.

He says a string of orcish and you only catch the words, “I’m sorry.”  He then gestures to himself and nods sadly.

He had a nightmare as well?

You feel foolish for not considering that, extremely foolish for feeling disappointed when you noticed he wasn’t in bed with you, as if he isn’t dealing with his own troubles, as if you’re the only one who’s looked death in the face. Your eyes flick to his chest. How long has it been since you’ve cleaned his wound? Are you really so selfish you can’t remember to clean the fresh wound of the one you call your lover? You look from where his wound should be then back to his eyes, silently asking for permission to touch. He nods and you lift his tunic up his chest until you reach the wound, a wound covered by fresh, clean, white bandages. You scrunch your eyebrows and look back up at him, he looks back with a proud smile, almost smug, you’d say.

You scoff, drop his tunic back down and look away, irritation flowing from you. You’re glad that he knows how to clean his own wounds, you never doubted he couldn’t but you're responsible for that lifelong scar and you feel an obligation to help take care of it. You just want to make up for the pain you’ve caused, why isn’t he letting you? Not only have you not thanked him nearly enough for saving your life, but you've only made his life worse by being in it.

Your lover notices your mood and reaches for your hands again, leading your eyes to meet his, when you do, you can’t help but let the pain flow freely onto your face. The self-loathing finally too much to try and hide it from him with a tight smile. He sighs and brings your hands to his shoulders, pulling you gently until you’re sitting on his lap, head placed right next to his beating heart. He whispers something in orcish, rubbing your back. You know he doesn't see it the way you do, he doesn't see you as a burden but that doesn't negate the fact that you are burdening him. And yet, despite knowing this, you cling to him so tightly, wholly unwilling to let go. When did you become so selfish?

You look away from him and notice the loose pages on the table. There are loose pages with scribbled orcish and human common, some messily scratched out while others are crumpled into tight balls. You reach for one of the loose pages unthinkingly, but your lover reaches them first and pushes them further away. You're slightly startled by the action and look up to see him turned away, cheeks dark and eyebrows scrunched. He's angry or maybe embarrassed? Maybe he's angry because he’s embarrassed? You reach for his cheek to make him look at you and when he does, you lightly nod your head, trying to convey that you won’t peek at what he’s writing if he doesn’t want you to. You think he understands as his shoulders ease up and his hand comes back to your waist. You rest your head against his chest and let out a tired breath, closing your eyes. His fingers comb gently along your scalp as he eases back against the chair, with you nestled comfortably in his arms. You didn't intend to fall asleep but sleep comes anyway, it always seems to come so easy when you're close to him like this.

When you’re nudged awake, you can see out the window that some time has elapsed since you fell asleep, but not enough that the sun has come up yet. You rub your eyes and look up at the lovely orc who woke you. He looks down at you apologetically and nods his head towards the paper on the table. You reposition yourself and reach for the page, straightening up when you realise just how much is written on it, more than either of you have written before. You thoroughly rub your eyes clean of sleep and with one more glance towards his nervous face, you begin reading.

“My name is Շɿoþƚɿiǫ.

Please tell me your name.

I can’t might not be able to pronounce it but I want to try.

In my mind I have been calling you Ꮦлαᗩ, I think it will mean “My Love" in Human.

I’m sorry it is this way. Sorry you have to leave home. Sorry you had to kill that man those men. Sorry that you lose sleep. Sorry your life has changed so much. I want to I will make it better for you.

When you said you love me, do you mean it in the way I mean it?

Orc courting are different from humans, so I will explain.

I think of you when you are not here, I want to touch you when you are close, I want to make you smile and laugh. I want to make my home feel like your home.

Orcs don’t have marriage but we do have courting. This is what I want with you and I deeply wish that you feel the same.

If this is not what you meant then I'm sorry for misunderstanding.

I still love you.”

You read the letter once, wipe your tears and then read it again. He only looks back down at you when he hears your wet sniffle. His hand massaging your thigh stops moving, he looks at you with worry. You don’t know what else to do, so you nod your head and cry, pulling him into a hug. You hold him close, not knowing at all how else to respond besides burying your head in his neck and nodding, a poor attempt at an affirmation. He rubs his hand down your back, hugging you back, clearly hesitant but it seems like a weight has been lifted from him.

It takes you a few minutes to calm down. You thought you were good at hiding your emotions and being stoic but it may just be that you’d never actually felt such strong emotions in the first place, and now that you do, you have no idea how to hide or even manage them, it’s incredibly embarrassing.

Even more so when he is so patient with you, letting you melt into him, letting you wet his shoulder and hiccup into his chest. You curse yourself, he must be so nervous, anxiously waiting for a clear response to his carefully crafted words but all you can do is cry and nod.

You pull away, wipe your raw eyes and hiccup one more time before turning around and grabbing the thick graphite pencil. You sit on his lap and begin paging through the dictionary. He sits patiently, arms around your waist, resting his head on the back of your shoulders, giving you the same privacy you gave him to write your thoughts out. You struggle immensely with choosing the right words, there’s so much you want to say but it doesn’t need to be a poetic love letter, it needs to be clear and understandable. Even though he deserves all the most beautiful poetry the world could craft.

You are, unfortunately, not a world-renowned poet. You feel so exposed and it's ridiculous, honestly, trying to channel your most intense emotions into graphite lines on a page. You're not even sure any medium, language or alphabet could truly express these feelings but you have to try for him. You write until dawn is approaching, looking down at the orcish words your own hands have written, you sigh to yourself wearily.

You nudge the orc behind you and he simply hugs your form tighter. The man fell asleep around halfway through your painful writing process, back against the chair with his arms never leaving your waist. He breathes in deeply, sleep melting away slowly as he comes to.

You gently unwrap his heavy arms from around you and stand up, placing your letter in front of him on the table before he can argue about the loss of contact. He rubs his eyes and stares down at the page, you try not to stare at him while fidgeting to the side. He glances at you for a second and then pulls his chair in a little, picking up the small page.

“My name is ______

I would love to hear you say it.

This is difficult so I will be direct.

Please don’t be sorry for me. I killed for you because I love you and I don’t regret it.

That is what I mean when I say I love you. It means I want to protect you, clean your wounds, make food with you, help you when you can't sleep.

These are things I have never felt before you.

I don't know why you saved me from the ice, but I will live my life trying to thank you for it. Even if you say I already have.

I have never dreamt of marriage but I dream of you. I want to live with you next to me, I want you to be my home. We can call it courting or marriage, as long as I get to love you and feel your love in return.

I think you understand me perfectly, My Lover”

At least that's what you hope it says. Taking into account punctuation, tense and grammer issues, it probabaly reads very differently.

Your stomach churns when you remember all the sincerity that went into those penciled words, and still it isn't half as thoughtful as his. His was so beautiful and concise, while yours feels not nearly as put together. He deserves better. What if you translated it so badly that he doesn’t understand? You realise that he must have been feeling this exact same way when you were reading his letter but that thought only quells your anxiety a little.

You feel like hours go by in just those few minutes. You can't decide if you want to watch him read it or avert your gaze, so you do both, glancing back at him every few seconds while trying to give him the patience and privacy to read in his own time. You can’t help but watch how he rubs his eyes and sniffs quietly, you want so badly to console him but you just stand there and wait.

He wipes his eyes once more and stands up from his chair, moving closer to you, reaching out his hand for you to take. You do and he brings you into his hold. You hug tightly as he bends down to fully engulf you. He whispers something into your shoulder and gives the skin a little kiss over the material of your nightgown. You try to separate to ask him what he’s trying to say but he squeezes you close, nuzzling into your neck. He mutters in orcish and kisses your neck, repeating the process all the way up your neck until he reaches your lips. He looks into your eyes and it seems that whatever he was looking for in them was found when he leans his head onto yours.

You lean forward just a bit to kiss him, the same as your kisses have been before, slow and deliberate, meant to convey as much as possible. When you can’t convey something with words you have to convey it with actions. You separate from the kiss and he breathes out a soft word in orcish which you can now identify as “My love” and he blesses you with another searing kiss. You kiss back, feeling his tusks on your cheeks as the kiss deepens.

His hands smooth down to your thighs, where he picks you up slightly and places you on the dining table so he doesn’t have to bend down so far, you assume. He still kisses you so lovingly, whispering soft orcish. You try to decipher his words but your thoughts are quickly led astray by his lips on yours and his hand gently intertwined with your hair, holding you as close as possible while leaving room to move away if you please. You don’t.

As you kiss, you wrap your legs around as much of his waist as you can, just trying to get as close as possible, your chest presses against his and you're grateful for the scant layers between you. You can feel the fabric of his tunic dampen with sweat, the downsides of running so hot, you suppose. Though it doesn’t feel like such a downside to him as he feels your hand trail up under the tunic, feeling the thick fat and dense muscle of his stomach, he shivers at your touch but the cold doesn’t stop him from reaching back and yanking his tunic off, tossing it aside as if it offended him.

You stare at your lover, now able to appreciate his physique with all your attention, nothing to distract you from following his chest hair down to the trail that disappears into his sleep pants. His chest moves up and down with every breath as your gaze lingers, you bite back a grin when you think you can see him flexing his arms. You like that he can feel your eyes on him.

Your gaze meanders back up to his face, framed by messy strands of black hair contrasting strongly with his cream-white tusks. You want to feel those pretty tusks on your neck again, grazing against the soft skin there. He can clearly see you staring at them and he bends down to your height, resting his hands on the table on either side of your thighs. His face is inches away from you, his amused grin mirroring your slightly more nervous one. You lean forward and kiss him flat on the lips, then kiss both his tusks, your way of letting him know you accept him as he is, in the same way you know he does. A way of saying you love him, not despite the fact that he’s an orc or because he’s an orc but that you love him as whatever he may be. You hold his face in place while you attack him with loving kisses and pull him into your neck, not so subtly encouraging him to lay his own kisses on the recently discovered, very sensitive area. Your hands travel down his broad shoulders, feeling up the large expanse of muscle and skin.

He finally moves his hands to cup both of your thighs, touch burning hot, you let him trail his hands up your thighs until he’s massaging the fat around your hips. Your thighs squeeze around him as you shiver, the fabric pooling at your hips. You can see his eyes linger where your nightgown pools at your hips as your legs wrap around his waist. After debating a bit in your head, you make the decision to shift and shuffle your nightgown up and off your body, the action making you feel much more vulnerable than you expected, even in the heat of the moment. He stares unabashedly, trailing his hands up and down your waist. You can’t help but cover your breasts from him, it’s not that you’re shy, that’s not the word for it, though you’re clearly overwhelmed and a little out of your depth.

Luckily, it seems he understands. He places a kiss on your lips and then trails a few down your neck, making sure to nudge his tusks against the skin, it looks like he's figuring out exactly what you like. He then places kisses all over your neck and shoulders, he kisses as if he's blessed to even get to offer his affections at all. You breathe deep and let yourself feel his warmth, slowly taking your arm away from your chest and sliding the hand behind his head. You lead him down and he follows, trailing kisses down your chest until his hot tongue makes contact with your nipple, and you downright moan.

He moans back in return, suckling so sweet and gentle. He brings a hand up to your other breast to feel the weight of it in his hand. He pulls your hips closer to his, at the edge of the table, he has to bend down a considerable amount to reach your tits and have your hips meet his, but it’s clearly worth it for him.

You can feel how big he is through his sleep pants, and you know he can feel your heat through your underwear. You press even closer, wanting to feel more of him, and you grind your clothed cunt against him. Just that little friction has his grip tightening and his breath hitching. At the very least, you can be assured that your lover is probably as experienced as you are and will probably last just as long as you if you both keep getting so worked up so easily. You grind forward again, pushing his head into your breast, scraping his blunt tusks against your plush chest as he laps and sucks the soft skin. He suddenly grabs your hips with both hands and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist tighter and holding you close with one hand on your back. You look each other in the eyes, you're getting really good at assessing each other's feelings through body language. You don’t need to tell him you want him, and vice versa, you can convey that with your bodies.

He places a hand on your ass and you pull him into a searing kiss as he grinds his hips forward, making both of you moan. He leans on the back of the couch next to the living room table for support. Clearly very sensitive himself, he slowly sinks to the ground, with you in his arms, still keeping you as close to him as possible. Now that he’s sitting on the floor, back against the back of the couch, you have more freedom to move how you want, now actively grinding into each other, searching for the incoming climax.

It feels so good, even through the layers. You can't help but murmur praises at him and he seems to like this very much despite the fact that he can't understand most of it. When you stop your praises to suck in a breath or moan, he whines softly and looks at you with a pleading expression that only melts into pleasure once you start talking again.

It just feels right, not too much too fast and yet the most pleasure you’ve ever felt. You can see him getting closer, hands clutching you tighter, moving you against his bucking hips. When you can feel yourself getting closer, you pull him into a passionate kiss. Your lips fit together so well, and so do your bodies, pressed as close as possible, save for two layers of cloth. You release the kiss only to rasp out his name and the words "I love you" in his mother tongue as you reach your peak. He groans out what you're pretty sure is a swear word of some kind before kissing you so deep you feel your lips might bruise. He kisses you through his shuddering climax, and you stay connected like that well into the come down.

You rest on top of your lover, feeling his heart beat alongside yours. Any attempt to move your lower half sends pain towards your most sensitive parts, having been rubbed raw against your soaking wet underwear. You shift a little and he sucks in a breath, the hand rubbing your back moves to still your hips. As if you needed any more evidence of his enjoyment, his thin sleep pants are absolutely soaked, you're not sure where his wetness ends and yours begins, but you find the sight oddly endearing. You look up at him and grin, he grins back and you both snicker at yourselves. It must be a funny sight, two star-crossed lovers, former lonely wood dwellers, cumming in their pants the first time they get even slightly intimate with each other.

Your lover only releases you from his embrace when you shiver from the cold night air, though not without a few more kisses and whispered endearments. You slowly lift yourself up, stretching and grabbing your nightgown before walking, only wobbling a little, to the kitchen to make you both some well-deserved tea. You can hear your lover trail into the bathroom, probably to get a fresh pair of pants and you know you'll have to do the same when you feel the wetness slowly cooling uncomfortably between your thighs. The stupid grin on your face stays there the entire day, only matched by the equally stupid grin worn by your lover.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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[macabrebatz]

ZEKHAN from WORLD OF WARCRAFT

Y’all thought I just liked orcs? WRONG. I want the trolls just as bad.

[imagine-darksiders]

Would you like to draw Bowser and y/n?

I love the way you draw him!

Oh absolutely :)

[bones4thecats]

Goku's Child! Reader w/ Three Admirers

Characters: Zamasu, Goku Black, and Trunks Requester/Idea-Starter: @lelewright1234 A/N: You can tell which was my favorite to write for, lol. But, I do hope you guys like this! Credit to the linked above for coming up with this prompt! ⚠️ Spoilers/Trigger Warnings for: Mentions of death, fighting, obsessive behavior - borderline yandere, unwanted physical touch, and war(??) ⚠️

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Zamasu ═══════════════════════════════╝

🍵 When you first met Zamasu with your father, the Supreme Kai was surprised to see how polite you were. Unlike your father, you were more of a quiet and reserved being, but that didn't mean you were weak

🍵 You watched with Gowasu as the two fought, and Zamasu was surprised when you jumped in after your father and began to spar against him. Much like Goku, you had a very powerful aura, and this guy was having a difficult time keeping up without using almost his whole power

🍵 It was only when your match ended that you laughed and helped him up that Zamasu realized that you were Goku's middle-child, specifically his only daughter. You looked a lot like him, your matching hair (despite it being in a different style - like your uncle Raditz's), your build - though you were smaller because you inherited your mother's shortness, and your eyes. But, you were different by how you acted

🍵 Zamasu began to question mortals and their values not that long ago, but seeing how delicate you acted around the other deities, he began to ask himself one question; why were you so different from the others in his eyes?

🍵 But more importantly... why did he seem to feel his stomach and heart flutter whenever you would look at him and smile?

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Goku Black ═════════════════════════════╝

🔥 You hated this guy with a burning passion. Not only did he wreck your entire home, but he literally killed so many of the people you cared for! If someone asked for you view on him, you would snap in rage before yelling your hatred for him

🔥 But, despite the fact that you so obviously despised him, Goku Black was head-over-heels for you. The way you fought against him just made his cold-heart beat run faster than any amount of adrenaline could make it

🔥 Black enjoys fighting against you, but he does hold his punches, as he, as the 'other mortals' say, "tangled in the gaze of your beautiful eyes on him". And I mean that. He'll see you look into his eyes and he'll grab your hand, attempting to get you in a waltz-like dance in the sky

🔥 Every time he touched you, he would feel his skin tingle in joy. You were so soft despite the long time of fighting, while his own hands were rough and slightly calloused from using so many attacks and tearing the surrounding world apart

🔥 The others were shocked when he would pick you up and hold you by the waist in the air, telling you how much he adored you and tried kissing you. You were stuck in horror, his guy looked exactly like your father! Hell, your Aunt Bulma called him 'Goku Black' for a reason! You just screamed and the past Goku had come up and kicked him away, carrying you down to the others gently, meanwhile Black glare at you and the others in rage. You were going to regret refusing a divine being...

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Trunks ═══════════════════════════════╝

⚔️ You two grew up together, and your fathers trained with one another. It only took this connection to bring you guys together in a lovely relationship as you grew up

⚔️ That happy life was unfortunately interrupted with Goku Black came down to attack, and it only made it worse that your father died from the Heart Virus while your own adversary looked exactly like your now-deceased father

⚔️ Trunks was pissed whenever Black tried touching you, and you knew this. The half-Saiyan would lung and cause the other male to fly back, crashing into a nearby building while he checked you over for any wounds possibly delivered by the enemy

⚔️ When you both went into the past, you held your sword in shock. You never expected to see your father in so long, and honestly? It was amazing to hear his voice and get to hug the same man that you lost to such a painful illness

⚔️ Trunks liked seeing you actually happy and comfortable, ever since Black came around, you had hardened and became more like a warrior than anyone else. So, just watching you let that go made his love for you grow larger and larger

⚔️ As you two fought for the final time against Goku Black, Trunks merged his attack with you, which made Merged-Zamasu scream and begin melting even more in agony. And when it finally ended with Future Zeno erasing your home away, you finally got to put your weapons down and live a happy life with your beloved

⚔️ Before you left, you looked back at the young you and Trunks. They asked what you guys were in the future - like asking if you were still friends -, and you just smiled before your Trunks wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed your cheek, making the young two of you gag with a hint of flush on their faces. You just chuckled and kneeled down to look at the two of them, leaving everyone with one final message from the future you

"Don't ever take one another for granted. You never know when another danger could come through and tear you guys apart. And don't ever, and I mean ever, allow Dad to use his Spirit Bomb on the garden. He did that when I was young and it almost blew up the entire yard..."

[bloodbrown]

I need to see Ps attraction to seeing through lies in extensive detail that was an incredible take, and I need it

P's existence is to lie. From the moment he woke up, he was told: you are a special puppet. You must lie.

As a puppet, P's true feelings are hidden deep within him as it is. His lies serve as a function to further conceal his already-buried emotions, but also to soothe others, and sometimes just to trick people, simply for the fun of it.

Everyone fell for P's lies. He knew this, and felt a sort of pride over his skill-- he could use his lies to make people feel better and they'd never suspect a thing. He could tell anybody anything he wanted and they'd believe it. If he really wanted to, he could use his lies to shirk his responsibilities or keep secrets. P didn't want to use his lies maliciously, but he knew he could nonetheless. He was just that good.

You scoffed at the idea that the puppet was a "good liar." It was obvious when he was spinning some lie, which he often did. His left eyelid would twitch, and he'd inevitably reach to adjust some strand of hair or a fold in his clothes after he made something up. It was so obvious that it nearly hurt. You saw through the puppet boy completely. Everything about him, you studied and understood.

"Save the bullshit for someone who's going to believe it," you'd tell him, annoyed with his pointless white lies- like that time he claimed he'd never met Alidoro before he arrived at the hotel.

Then there was that time he claimed he'd taken care of that guard puppet prowling the grounds around the hotel, but you still heard it clunking outside your window at night. "Liar." You jabbed your index finger at him, prompting a stiff, pointed frown and an annoyed squint from the typically stoic puppet. "That thing's still alive. You didn't kill it, Geppetto's Puppet!"

P didn't like the way you saw through him. But... no, he did. Your words made his p-organ clench up and his face hot. That, in turn, made the ergo in his heart whisper and tremble. You made him feel embarrassed. Everyone else took the puppet at face value, but you pierced through his unaffected exterior. He didn't like that he liked that.

Eventually, P found himself yearning for it, that burning bubble of human feelings he felt shifting deep in his p-organ. The feelings that only you could tease out with your honest words. Maybe he even started lying more to get you to correct him. He'd find himself drawn to you, too, looking for you to dig deeper into him. Your words, your gaze, everything about you made the ergo in his veins burn up, and he wanted more of it...

[gaynax]

Really into anders zorn’s etchings lately :) and vampire au fics? 🩸(Also this is cropped)

[dragqueenstarscream]

headcanon time!

you know how some birds like mockingbirds, lyrebirds, and parrots will mimic other sounds they hear so that they can incorporate them into their courtship songs?

imagine tfp starscream doing that for you. the longer he hangs around you, the more he picks up on the music you like, and eventually, he starts singing around you to try and flirt with you. sometimes it's more casual, him humming along to a tune he heard earlier. other times, he's full on serenading you, lifting you up in his servo as he sings his heart out. he loves the sight of you smiling up at him as he croons your favorite love songs to you in that raspy, yet charming voice of his.

[imababblekat]

Medic reader who’s part of a small team sent in with others to clear out a compound so the more specialized forces can go in and do their classified work, except in the heat of everything medic reader gets separated and ends up on their own. They accidentally find their way into a secret lab and are attacked by a scientist that had been hiding, having something injected in them before taking the enemy out. Suddenly they feel very sick and dizzy, but just before passing out a small team of four come rushing in, sounding aggravated when they radio back to whoever that their target, presumably the now dead scientist, has been neutralized so they wouldn’t be able to take them prisoner. Medic reader tries to get their attention but can only groan in ill pain, their vision blurring in and out as one of the men order two to guard the door while he and another come rushing over to confirm they’ve got an alive friendly. One of the men is checking them over for injuries while the one closest to them, with a firm voice, is ordering them to hang on and stay with them, but just as medic reader is about to pass out, the last thing they note as they’re being lifted up by strong arms, is the TF 141 patch on their saviors uniform.

[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.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

“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

[karinadele]

Hydromorphone

Ratchet x Reader pt: 1

pt: 2 Tumblr

A/N: I started this some time ago and am STRUGGLING to work on it. But I know someone out there would want to read what there is so far- as messy as it is.

Warnings: Fully revolves around pregnancy! Nothing nsfw here but it was meant to sob. Surrogacy, small mention of past termination, 4th wall breaking lmao

The wave of Nausea, the unsettling need to consistently soothe your chest, –morning sickness.

You know it too well. Having been pregnant when you were young, you've learned to pick up the signs early on.

But this time, it's a welcomed one. A child. One that will be loved by two fathers. Deep down you knew this was going to happen. You've seen the two of them meet, fall in love and be married. Being almost a weird 3rd wheel to them, you've accepted that at some point they probably would have asked you to be a surrogate.

Not that you mind, you love your friends to death, and to be able to give them the joy of a life, is a heartwarming feeling inside you. Best part? Your eggs weren't even used. He ended up using his sister's eggs and his husband's sperm. You were just the chosen surrogate as you've gone through pregnancy before. (Although terminated) The most important part was they trusted you.

Carrying a child is no small feat, and while you can't get paid to be pregnant, it is legal for them to pay for expenses during that time. And honestly? That's enough for you. Feed me, I'll suffer a little bit and give you a bundle of joy. Fuck it. Why not?

What your friends didn't know was that you're friends with a doctor who had no idea– and definitely did not agree with this idea.

Ratchet.

The Cybertronian medic ambulance you've come to know. Fluke of a meeting and next thing you know, you were signing NDAs.

You hadn't told him anything, after all, why would you? It's your body and well. For a lack of better term, quite literally none of his business. It's human business.

Honestly you have no idea how Cybertronian reproduction works either, and highly doubt Ratchet knows human’s version either. Maybe a little if he researched it? But he's been so busy on Team Prime that he's hardly even had anytime to even recharge.

Yet oddly enough, this bot has quickly become the closest to you out of all of the team. Something about both of you loving life, or the fact that the two of you have a desperate need to help. Even when it costs yourself.

In the beginning, physical changes weren’t very noticeable. Yes, there were minor changes, but Ratchet was so deep in his own work he barely paid any attention. 

Or did he?

Tapping away on his console, he may seem focused, –and he is, but also always keeping an audial out for anything on base. After the scraplet incident, he’s learned to be more aware of anything in his vicinity. The taps of your foot as you strolled in, your ever so light exasperated sighs. Even when you shifted on the ragged old couch, and your grunts when the game you’re playing isn’t working out right.

He’s found you compelling. One of the few adults that know of their existence, and you’re the only one that stops by regularly. He knows he gets along well with June as both of their professions align, but it’s something about you that’s more than that. Perhaps it was because you get along so well with the children, always knowing how to pacify them, or more often bailing them out of trouble. Or maybe it was that you had a serene calming presence to him. 

However, lately, he hasn’t been able to feel that aura around you. Day after day he finds himself becoming more agitated and reverting to his old state. Finding your behaviour and movements being out of the ordinary. Yet he can’t put a digit on why it is. You come by the base less and less often, opting to stay home, you’ve often become more lethargic, and he’s found you resting more than you usually do.

For month’s he’s pushed all his thoughts and emotions to the back of his processor, overriding it with more important tasks at hand. But it still nags him. It wasn’t until the other day as you waddled in base that he finally took a good look at you. You’ve gained weight. Oddly it wasn’t evenly distributed, completely all centered around your abdomen. Frowning his optics as he decided he’s had enough.

That afternoon, when he’s finally heard you call for a groundbridge, Ratchet nearly jumped you as soon as you stepped through. It’s been days since you’ve contacted anyone on the base, and weeks since you stopped by. He was going to get to the bottom of this.

Relentingly, you tell him you’re pregnant. Optics widened as he took a step back. “Y-You mean to tell me you’re carrying a sparkling?!” He clambered out. 

You figured this conversation was going to happen at some point, but being forced to explain it right here next to the groundbridge was not part of the plan. Is it even safe to travel by groundbridges?! Telling Ratchet to chill out as you waddle over to the couch to flop on it.

Ratchet’s processors were firing overtime. It was like an overcooked oven on its last legs trying to roast turkey for Thanksgiving last minute. What do you mean you’re about to be a carrier?!  And why is the sparkling around your torso? Wait, does that mean you have a conjunx?! And how does he not know about this?! 

Oh the poor bot’s face. You thought as you sat there looking at him. He's so stunned as if he was Jetfire stuck on ice. “Okay. You probably have a million questions.” You state, waving your hands off.

“Come here Ratchet.” You call out to him.

Holding his servo with both of your hands, you gently guide him to your belly. Placing it on the bump on your stomach as you draw a breath. Both to steady yourself and the baby.

“Do you feel him?” You shakily asked, not even sure if a metal servo would be able to sense delicate touches from the inside of you.

Thankfully, neither of you needed to answer that, as your little gremlin inside you decided this was a perfect moment to do a somersault. Feeling the kick as Ratchet almost instantly pulled away. With your hands still latched onto his, he wasn’t able to get far. You know he won’t harm you or the child, so instead of letting him go, you gripped on and held on steady. As if to tell him you want to share this moment with him. To show him a part of you, and for him to experience it with you.

Part of him wants to pull back, feeling something move inside you from the outside is too foreign. Cybertronian frames don’t move like this, this feels… almost too intimate.

Next

[fandomnerd9602]

Y/N walks out to see Jamie, Homelander, dressed for their date…

Y/N: wow you look-

Jamie: I know I look like I’m from the 50s. Blame the scientists for raising me on this kind of crap.

Y/N: I was going to say you look beautiful

Jamie just blushes…

Jamie: ready to go sock hopping?

Y/N: huh?

Jamie; never mind. Let’s go.

Jamie grabs y/n and flies off into the night…

For @kingofthelizardpeople

[imagine-darksiders]

How would Bowser react if the reader (y/n) would often cry and get scared because the reader did not want to be kidnapped by anyone at all:p

It isn't right that you're afraid of him. Something very deep and instinctive in the King's biology tells him that your fear of him means he's not doing a very good job of being a partner. Partners aren't meant to be afraid of their partners, and if they are, then it's a clear sign that something is very wrong.

The reason for your terror being that he'd kidnapped you flies completely over the Koopa's head.

He'll try damn-near anything to get you to stop crying at the sight of him.

He gives you your own room, a large and luxurious suite opposite his, with a door that locks from your side. Though in hind-sight, he supposes the lock wouldn't ease your mind any when it's more than clear that he can simply smash through the door without any real effort to get to you.

In another effort to earn your affection, not your abhorrence, Bowser constantly tries to adorn you with an array of shiny, sparkly things that only seem to give you something else to avoid in your room. You avoid the bed he gave you, along with the silken sheets and extravagant canopy. You avoid everything in that bedroom, even the new dresses he had made especially for you. Stars-forbid he ever tries to drape a new necklace around your throat, you'll nearly cut yourself on the stone in your haste to rip it off and toss it across the room, quivering anxiously like a leaf in a hurricane.

He just can't understand. Everything he's doing is supposed to be 'the right thing.'

Gifts. Finery. Space. Copious affirmations of adoration. He writes you songs, extending a clawed hand in your direction to invite you to sit beside him at the piano as he sings, yet you only flinch from him as though you expect his fingers to snap shut around your wrist like a padlock and chain.

Nothing he does works.

The only time you ever looked at him with any semblance of positivity was when he told you he'd be leaving the castle for the day and wouldn't be back until late.

It... hurt, he supposed, to realise his absence made you happier than his presence. He only later learned why you were so excited that he was leaving. You made an escape attempt that very day - attempt being the optimum word - and ended up injuring yourself in the process.

His koopa guards locked you in your room, and when their King returned and was informed of your little escapade, he lost his temper entirely. Not with you, but with those responsible for not keeping a closer eye on you. You hid yourself away in the ensuite bathroom whilst he raged and threw his weight about through the whole castle.

It took Junior nearly three hours to coax you out of your hiding place...

After that, Bowser makes a real, conscious effort to gentle himself around you.

He's big, strong and loud. It's just his nature, he can't help that. But when he enters a room, he no longer throws the doors open to announce his presence if he knows you're in there. He's started knocking. Something utterly incomprehensible to his subjects, who have only known him to go where he pleases without a qualm.

He stops rushing over to try and dry your tears whenever he catches you letting them slip, having at last learned his rapid approach only seems to make you cry harder.

He stops trying to decorate you, realising you're happier in your own clothes and your own, modest jewellery.

He just... wants you to be happy here. This is your home now, you shouldn't be afraid in your own home.

[bones4thecats]

Hey how are you doing I been thinking and wanted to ask if you could do a frieza x female human s/o reader x frost , the reader is frieza’s partner who went with him to the tournament of power to cheer him on, but upon arriving she sees frost from afar and accidentally confuse him with frieza, and kisses him, which causes jealousy in frieza and lovestruck in frost?

❥· Accidental Kiss, Frieza × F! S/O × Frost

Characters: Frieza (🏔️) and Frost (❄️) A/N: Final request until I open them next time. I hope you guys like this! ✎ Summary: After being accepted alongside your husband, Frieza, for the Tournament of Power, you fought viciously. But, in a daze after using to much energy, you mistake the Universe 6 version of your husband for your real husband.

P.S.: I added the Reader as a fighter on Universe 7's team, so, let's just say that each team gets eleven fighters for the sake of this story.

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🏔️ When you were allowed to participate in the Tournament of Power, you were ecstatic. You loved watching and helping your husband, the fearsome Emperor Frieza of the Seventh Universe, fight against anyone dumb enough to do so. This meant you did see how much power the Saiyans held, both on Namek and on Earth.

🏔️ So, seeing how impressive the other fighters were from the other seven universes chosen for the fights, made you happy. You had never fought someone so strong since your time ruling with Frieza.

🏔️You two had separated, off to handle your own personal opponents. Your husband had gone to fight against a member of Universe 10, while you went against a member of Universe 11. Eventually, you knocked them off, letting you go find your husband within the massive amount of fights.

🏔️❄️ As you looked around, you knocked a couple more fighters off the floating rink. You used quite a bit of your power, so, when you looked up and saw a figure shaped like Frieza, you ran towards him and opened your arms for a hug.

❄️ The figure froze, but, you figured Frieza was just taken off guard by your sudden affections. So, in order to remind him that you were there, you spun him around and kissed his lips. You hummed and pulled away, opening your eyes to get a closer look at the man you loved.

❄️ All of a sudden, you understood why this man froze; because he wasn't your husband. He looked a lot like him, but he wasn't him.

❄️ "Uh, hi there?" You nervously said.

❄️ The Frieza look-alike just stared into your eyes with a flush on his cheeks. The contrast of the pink on his blue skin distracted you until you heard a blast just past your heads.

🏔️❄️ Turning around, you saw Frieza there. Your true husband this time. He glared at Frost as his eye twitched. "How dare you." He said lowly. Veins began to pop on his head as Frost smirked and wrapped his black tail around your waist, pulling you closer.

🏔️ "You let my spouse go, or else I'll make your elimination in this tournament slow and painful." He warned.

❄️ "Aw, but I'd be having to give up such a cute little thing. Who would want to hand over something as sweet as this human?" Frost responded.

🏔️❄️ Anger flared in Frieza's aura. It became very dark, causing a bunch of fighters to look up at the sky. There, floating all above, aimed at Frost in particular, were dozens of energy balls. Aim to kill was one of Frieza's most known traits, and that was coming out like the color white on black right now.

🏔️❄️ You jumped up to Frieza, who was on a mountain-like structure. He continued to glare at Frost, who was smirking in return. "Frieza, Dearest. Please, calm down."

❄️ "Yes, calm down, Dearest."

🏔️❄️ Teeth bared, Frieza readied to blast Frost to who knows where. But, thankfully for the member of Universe 6, you grabbed his hand, interlocking your fingers and staring into his eyes.

🏔️ They were practically glowing red with anger, meanwhile yours were almost glowing white with purity. "It was my fault, don't be upset with him." Frieza looked at you, his eyes softening just slightly when meeting yours. "He took the affection of yours that is mine and mine alone. That alone is a crime worthy of death."

🏔️ "And you can pay him with that later on, when the fate of our Universe isn't hanging in the balance. Remember, we're doing this for him."

🏔️ Frieza's eyes widened slightly at your words. You were right. The only reason you joined the Tournament of Power was for the sake of your son, though he was truthfully only Frieza's through DNA.

🏔️ "For Kuriza. Don't throw this chance away just because of a mistake." You said.

🏔️❄️ Powering down his charges and merely blasting Frost back a bit, Frieza grabbed you by the wrist and your chin. He pulled your face to look at him and he smirked, closing his eyes to give you a kiss of affection. One that, only you could tell, shined with love. But, to the others, shined with possessiveness and the wish to claim you in front of everyone.

🏔️ You were the Emperor's spouse, from the day you married, till the day you both get your souls exterminated from existence.

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[ameliathornromance]

“You’re okay,” you reassured. “We’ll be okay, I promise.”

Leaning over the edge of the boat, your Orc Boyfriend said in a gruff voice, “Orcs were not made for water travel.”

All you could do was rub his back. “We haven’t even set off yet…” you mumbled just low enough that your partner couldn’t hear.

The two of you had decided to go and explore the wider world. It was a tough and scary decision for you both to make. You both had never ventured beyond your homeland, and your Orc had never faced the prospect of being separated from his caravan.

When he had first announced his intent to travel with you, the whole Caravan had erupted with disapproval. He had silenced them all with barks of reassurance... Although you weren’t exactly sure how he did it, given the yelling and shouting.

Eventually, the Caravan warmed up to the idea. They even offered to escort you both to the docs, but you both declined.

A whole encampment of Orcs suddenly appearing at the docs? People would assume they were trying to plunder a ship and then everything would go to Hell.

If it were only you and your Orc, people would stare yes, but there wouldn’t be as nearly as much panic. And you would let them stare.

What business was it of other people what you and your Orc did together? You were not being forced to go along with him.

The boat eventually unanchored... And you both were off.

Your Orc Boyfriend effortlessly bounced back from his sickness, insisting it was because of his diet, but you saw through his deception. The two of you watched as the land got further and further away from the boat.

As the land turned into a mere strip of green from the horizon, your Orc wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. He placed his head on top of your own.

A heavy sigh escaped him, causing you to look up. Placing your hands on top of his muscular forearms. “And there it goes,” he said, a note of finality rang through his tone.

You give his arm a squeeze. “And there it goes.” You echoed.

The both of you were due to begin a whole new adventure in the wider world... Who knew what excitement was waiting for you out there?

Patreon

[spiderrmax]

raccoon & friends x sidekick reader

synopsis: headcanons about how i imagine the raccoon & friends would react to having a sidekick! author's note: freedom pals will eventually get their own post :) also, like all my other works this isn't proof read if you see any mistakes no you didn't.

The Raccoon

The way you become his sidekick is probably out of your hands. Since he sees himself as the leader and you as the new kid (which, to be fair, you are), he feels like he has to take you under his wing.

He acts as if it’s a chore, but it is mostly a front. He’s excited to train you, and he genuinely cares about your powers.

Following the events of the game, The Raccoon shows an obvious soft spot for the new kid, and this amplifies when he is “forced” to protect you

The Raccoon doesn’t go on a lot of solo missions that require fighting, he is mostly looking for intel. You are mostly left on guard duty while he steals whatever he was looking for.

He doesn’t like telling you things, but he always caves and tells you anyway. He feels like you listen to him more than the other members, and it’s very obvious he likes you the most. (Similar to how the New Kid gets new classes in the game.)

When, however, the two of you are in battle, he is extremely overprotective. It’s not like you can’t hold your own, he just hates watching you take a punch, which is inevitable. 

You know how in the games characters can be enraged by certain attacks? The Raccoon will hyper focus on the enemy who leaves you bleeding. He doesn’t stop until the enemy is down, so when making battle plans you have to count for his rage.

After battle he will complain about you getting hurt, (“Jeez, if you’re going to stay my sidekick, you need to get better in battle.”) but he won’t let you leave his base without him bandaging you or at least giving you some sort of healing item

Gets jealous if you have to go on a mission without him. Always puts up a fight, that you shouldn’t be without him. Will threaten the superhero you are pairing with for the mission, making them promise to keep a good watch on you. Then will make sure your next mission is with him

Human Kite

Unlike The Raccoon, Human Kite doesn’t even propose the idea of having a sidekick. It’s you who proposes the idea, admitting you think you two make a pretty good team as he is a range fighter where you tend to fight close up.

He’s so flustered that he says yes and then flies off. (He’s so used to people mocking his power/superhero identity that you admitting to admiring him was surprising.)

When Cartman finds out that you asked specifically for Human Kite he tries to persuade you to join him instead; you decline, and Human Kite can’t help but smile at your dedication to being with him.

He takes the role of mentor so seriously. When on missions, you are always in Human Kite’s field of sight. He is always prepared to fly off if the fight is too large for the both of you, but you are too stubborn and will fight anyone who plans to attack.

Constantly is having to heal you on the field. He knows that you aren’t going to die from a few hits, but the guilt of your injuries is heavier now that you are under his protection.

Although, he does agree you two make a good team. You do most of the damage due to the close combat, which allows for Kyle to keep you standing with his healing powers.

He isn’t as dramatic about attacking the enemies that hit you as Cartman is, but will shoot his laser eyes at them at the next opportunity. 

Human Kite is also great for morale. He constantly is motivating you on the battlefield, supporting you as you attack, with small words of encouragement. 

Doesn’t mind if you have to go on missions without him, with your guys’ different skill set and all, but worries so much. Will meet you outside the base to check for any major injuries when you return, scolding you for being so reckless as he wasn’t there to take care of you. 

The Flash

The Flash, similar to Human Kite, has never really desired a sidekick. He always works alone, due to others tending to slow him down. He only really asks for help when it’s dire.

Presuming you are a speedster class hero, he is down to have you on his team! His missions are gaining intel, similar to Cartman’s, and he appreciates sending you on smaller quests that he knows you can tackle due to your similar powers.

Not to say, he wouldn’t accept you if you had selected another class, but there are some downfalls for his main missions. The two of you are a killer duo on the field though, balancing each other's strength and weaknesses 

The Flash always double checks areas before you go in because he knows he can go undetected

After you guys have been working together, anytime he goes on a solo mission he is very aware of how lonely it is. Will go and crack a joke, and only then remembers you aren't there. He gets solo missions done faster, but that doesn't mean he enjoys them

Will race you around for fun! Loves showing off his speed (especially if you aren't a speedster). 

When you're injured and he's forced to carry you back, he speeds up; adrenaline rushing. He hates seeing you injured, and he most likely doesn't carry healing items due to them slowing him down. 

The biggest perk of being his side kick is you are not bound by the limits of the Fastpass. He will take you anywhere (if he isn't busy). The Raccoon complained about this once, but The Flash did not care enough to stop the special treatment. 

Super Craig

Considering he is a brutalist, he'd benefit most from a sidekick who isn't in that class.

However! He did not want a sidekick at first. Unlike Human Kite and The Flash, he saw it as a waste of time. He despised working with people, and would flip the Raccoon off when he tried partnering him up. (Of course, he works with the other heroes. It is also begrudgingly)

So, the first time you ask, he says no. He’s blunt, and doesn’t try to humor you. He has no reason to think you following him around would benefit him in the slightest.

It’s not until he’s in true battle with you – not a small squabble with criminals easily defeated – does he realize how beneficial it is to have you. Where he is often unprepared, you carry items that change the course of the battle, and you willingly share them with him too! You shoot from afar while he’s close-up, and it’s the first time he was thankful someone was there in battle with him.

He has to suck up his pride to reapproach you with the offer, but luckily for him, you don’t torment him with how his backtracking on what he previous said.

He is very silent when you are working together. If you come up with a plan he will follow it, and may even help modify it so it works more efficiently, but he is very quiet on missions. This helps them run smoother; however, after, he is willing to entertain any questions or small talk you have. It may be short responses, but he does enjoy how you fill the once empty night.

Super Craig carried healing items before, due to his close combat nature. However, with working with you, he carries even more. Or, he’ll give you some before you leave on missions so he isn’t weighed down by them. Either way, your health comes before his, and he would not hesitate to give you aid even if he also requires bandaging. 

The Raccoon hates how he has a sidekick. Believes that Craig is the lamest superhero due to his lack of care in concealing his identity. Craig just flips him off anytime he complains, saying that it’s not his fault you didn’t want to work with him.

Mosquito

Mosquito, like the Raccoon, approaches you about it first!

The two of you have been in battle before – especially due to his kryptonite. Despite being charmed and fighting poorly, he can recognize your strength. You have nothing to lose when you are approached with this offer, so luckily for his pride, you say yes.

Despite how he is meant to be making most of the decisions, as comes with the Superhero title, he is always looking for your guidance.

He never makes a choice unless he has thought it out with you. A plan will not be enacted unless he has run it by you and you have done all of the changes you think are necessary.

He also gets extremely nervous when you become injured. He isn’t the strongest hero, and often feels like your sidekick, so seeing you bleeding or limping creates a lot of panic for him.

Mosquito is prone to emotional outbursts – if a mission becomes too stressful, he’s hurt, you’re hurt, it’s late, anything can set him off, really. He needs you to be level-headed, and he would work best with someone who isn’t quick to react emotionally. New Kid in game is often practical, and a similar personality would mesh well for Mosquito.

The Raccoon often sends Mosquito on simpler missions (due to knowing how Mosquito cracks under pressure) but will send you on more complex missions. Mosquito cries so much when you are gone, nervous about what you are doing, if you’re okay. When you return home – after being gone no longer than a day, at the most – he is blubbering in your shoulder that he missed you. He’s very dramatic.

Captain Diabetes

Following along with the game, you are paired up with Captain Diabetes after he is assigned a complex mission.

This isn’t to say he is disappointed! Captain Diabetes is so excited to have you on his team, and takes pride in guiding you along the way.

He is so protective – even if you are technically stronger than he is. He won’t let you into a room without him entering it first and scouting the area out.

Is also really prepared, in comparison to the heroes who had to shift their behavior to count for you. He has snacks and drinks due to his diabetes, and has no problem sharing his extras with you if a mission drags on longer.

Tends to take control on missions, but is willing to listen if the situation isn’t dire. He respects you as his side kick, but he is mostly used to doing things alone. Your input is respected, he just often forgets to ask for it.

Similar to Craig, he would work best, for balance, with a blaster or speedster (or anyone with range.) He takes a lot of the hits, so strong damage from afar helps shift the course of battles.

Panics the first time you are injured and ends up forgetting to hand you a potion until you reach up to grab it from him. He gets really flustered after that, not used to being so frazzled in a mission.

Captain Diabetes is one of the better superheroes to sidekick with! He is a good balance of strong and capable but also respectful.

When your mission is done, and you aren’t technically assigned to him anymore, he approaches you and asks if you two can still work together anyways. He stutters a bit, and blushes when you nod your head ecstatically. 

Bonus! Call Girl

Call Girl isn’t seen as a superhero by most, so you have even less respect as her “sidekick”

Realistically, Call Girl doesn’t let you or others call you by that. She finds it a bit demeaning, and doesn’t keep you as her equal. You two are partners in her eyes.

The two of you don’t often do missions together either. Call Girl prefers to stay behind the scenes to pull the strings. It’s you who is often fighting when it is necessary.

However, you aren’t alone on the streets. Call Girl has you carry a phone she can track at all times, and she occasionally (when not extremely busy) will check the traffic cameras near your location.

Since she can’t always be there with you, she constantly is reminding you to take food, medicine, and water since she can’t carry extras.

Will scold you if you return to her injured, but will never not be the one to bandage your wounds. She is delicate as she covers them, and although her words might come off as mean, her eyes tell a whole different story.

When she begins gaining credibility, and is in fights with you more often, she is always there to protect you. Similar to Cartman, she gets angry with those who attack you, but it doesn’t cloud her judgement (she just hits harder, or leaks more embarrassing information.)

She has the best strategies! Always makes them with your strengths and weaknesses in mind. Occasionally, she forgets to ask for your input, mostly due to being excited or deeply invested in what she is planning. She won’t be upset if you interject with what you think, especially if it is something she may not have thought of.

If she sees you in danger on the cameras, or she is with you and a small battle becomes much larger, she will always jump in. Although she always tries to have a plan, she cannot account for anything and will be there whenever you call her.

[luckyartdrawer]

One Shot-itis - New Dawn (Human Pirate AU)

AO3 LINK HEREEEEE!

Summary:

This is a request given to me by Akarin_Batteries to make! I hope you like it, I loved writing these sillies so much that I character built too hard and wrote 7131 words of pure pirate caretakers adorableness. Sorry it took so long, but hopefully the long word count makes up for it! <3

The young princess was the nations sign, a hope for a bright future. One that has suddenly been stolen away overnight. The missing child was replaced with a ransom note.

Tags for this one-shot!:

Platonic, Fluff, Found Family, Whoa you get 2 extra dads???, She/Her y/n (The Princess), y/n is probably around the age of 7-10, The word y/n is not used, Multiple POVs, Human AU, Pirate AU, But they still got that DCA charm!!!, Soft Moon, Soft Sun, Words written wrong to imply an accent/speech pattern, Tried to avoid cursing but Moon says "Bast'rd" twice, Pirates am I right? SMH, Kidnapping, but nothing terrible beyond that happens, Mentioned/implied past abuse (Not towards y/n)