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[dentaltreedentalclinic-1]

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[berberriescorner]

“Loud and Wrong”

Characters: Kevin Atwater x Black!Reader.

Summary: Kevin and wifey have a minor disagreement.

Warnings: Fluff and a dash of spicy talk.

Word Count: 2,000+.

A/N: Well, lovelies. I've been having sleepless nights lately. Dealing with some ish. Life be life-inggg and it's keepin' my ass up at night *le sigh*. Tired of my mind racing. So to cut off intrusive thoughts I gave it a go and worked on some of my WIPS. My head quieted down enough for me to finish one. I've got some other things I've been working on as well. Fingers crossed I can finish some other works🤞🏾. This isn't heavily edited, but I hope you still enjoy it my loves🫶🏾. Here's to hoping I haven't lost my spark as a writer 😩😆🤷🏾‍♀️.

“The disrespect in this household is at an all-time high. Just going to sit there and eat in my face like that.”

Your husband called you earlier as he was leaving the precinct. He informed you that Halstead, Ruzek, and Voight wanted to watch the game tonight. Kevin called to see if it’d be okay for them to watch it at the house. Once he had confirmation that it was cool with you, he mentioned they’d be stopping for food. He offered to pick you up something as well, but you declined. You weren’t feeling well, so you didn’t have a taste for anything. Kevin asked if you were sure. After confirming, the call ended with “I love you.” Going against his better judgment, he found himself in the hot seat.

“What are you talking about, baby? How did I disrespect you?” Kevin’s senses prickled, and he braced himself for a lecture.

“So, you didn’t bring me any food? Give me some of your wings, babe,” you plead.

Not thinking it through, he let his temper get the best of him. Kevin fussed, “Did you, or did you not say you weren’t hungry? No, baby, you do this every time. You should’ve told me to get you some food. Why do you do that?”

Your eyebrows raised, “Am I not allowed to change my mind?”

“Don’t answer that,” Adam fake coughed, “loaded question.”

Ignoring his best friend, you smirked as Voight’s hand met the back of Ruzek’s head, and he whispered an apology.

“I’m not even that hungry. I just want a couple of wings and some fries.”

“Which means you want all my flats and the crispy fries. That’s the best part of the meal. If you changed your mind, there was plenty of time to call me back and ask for something. Why not do that? Am I right, or am I missing something here,” he directed the last question at the guys. They had been sitting in uncomfortable silence, trying to remain neutral. Neither Ruzek nor Halstead wanted any part of the exchange.

“Kev, give that beautiful woman some food. Always keep your wife happy,” Voight replied.

“I’m not in it, Bro,” Jay replied, while Adam held his hands up, wanting no part of the conversation.

“You should listen to Voight. Besides, I did text you.”

“No, you didn't. I had my phone on me the entire time, love.”

“Oh, so now I’m a liar? Okay, bet,” you responded, tone clipped. You sat beside Kevin with your arms crossed, giving him the silent treatment.

It had only been a few minutes when it started driving him crazy. “Here, ma. Just take some. I guess I can order some more food.”

“I’m good. Liars don’t get rewarded. Right?”

“Man, whatever,” he responded, kissing his teeth as he shook his head. “I’ll gladly enjoy my food.”

His phone signaled a text from Halstead. The men made eye contact as Jay’s facial expression signaled for Kevin to read it.

“Bro, are you crazy? Don’t argue with a pregnant woman. She’s growing your child. The least you could do is just go with it, even if she’s acting a little dramatic. It’s not her, it’s the hormones, brother 😏.”

Kevin sighed, knowing Jay was right. Not even bothering to respond, he backed out of the message. His movements halted as he noticed an unread message. Turns out you had texted him an order.

Feeling like a jerk, he locked his phone, sliding it back into his pocket. Not saying a word, he grabbed his to-go box, gently placing it in yours. His lips left a juicy kiss on your cheek, trailing up to the left temple before he spoke, “You're right, baby. I should’ve ordered extra food, just in case. Eat this, and I’ll just order some more.”

“Mm, am I right? Or did you finally see my text message? Jackass.”

He couldn’t even be mad because you were right. The doorbell sounded, leaving a confused look on your husband's face. Dumping the box back onto his lap, you turned to Voight.

“Could you help me up? Please,” you asked, voice soft and angelic.

Kevin quickly placed his food on the coffee table. “Stop playing, mama. I can get the door.” You rolled your eyes, “I’ll get it,” you snapped. Kevin stood there tilting his head to the side, burning with attitude. Voight inserted himself, “You two play nice and put this to rest. I’ll get the door.”

“Nonsense, you’re our guest,” you responded, but Voight was already up, halfway to the door.

Hank was only gone a few minutes. He returned to the family room, smiling and chuckling to himself. “Mrs. Atwater. I never want to be on your bad side. Kevin–Bro. I don't know how you'll pull yourself out of this one.”

Kevin looked at Voight quizzically. He watched as his boss laid a fatherly kiss on his wife's temple. It fully registered for him as he witnessed the man hand her an Uber Eats bag. The same logo they had all gotten their dinner from was written in big, bold letters on the receipt attached. The two of you glared at one another as you dug in and devoured a handful of fries.

The room erupted in laughter as Kevin rolled his eyes. Unlike the other men in the room, he found nothing funny.

“When did you order food?”

“The minute you called me a liar.”

Kevin pinched the bridge of his nose.

I love the hell out of this woman, but she gon’ drive me crazy.

“You cannot be serious. Let's not pretend you didn't know I’d give in and share my food. Why must you be so damn petty, woman?”

“Just hush. It’s over. Sit down, eat your food, and enjoy the game. I know I will,” you responded with a devious smirk.

Kevin groaned in irritation as he reclaimed the spot next to you. You felt his pillowy, soft lips press against your cheek, moving to that spot behind your ear. He smiled at the shiver his actions pulled from you. Fighting back a grin, you playfully rolled your eyes. With a mouthful of chicken, you responded, “Still not forgiven. You'll have to do more groveling than that, boo.”

He leaned close, whispering in your ear, “That's cute. Trust me, love. I have my ways. Daddy knows how to make it up to you. Wait until I get you alone.”

“Bro! We can hear you,” Adam complained.

“I’m beginning to wonder how this isn’t your second or third baby, Kev,” Voight teased.

Hank joked as the other two sat there, blushing like crazy. Covering your face, you awkwardly laughed with embarrassment.

“I’d get up and leave you to fend for yourself, but I can’t exactly make a run for it these days,” you ribbed Kevin.

As you were about to shrink into yourself sheepishly, the doorbell went off, and you left Kevin to deal with taunts and teases from his work family. With a firm grasp of his forearm and shoulder, you lifted off the couch. Looks of admiration rained upon you as each man watched the cute waddle you made toward the entrance.

Damn near breathless from the short distance, you took a moment to catch your breath. “Baby? Are you good?” You waved him off, telling him to calm down, and pulled open the door. Burgess and Upton’s eyes shone with excitement as they started to make a fuss over your growing baby bump. You chuckled as they questioned why you’d been the one to answer. The minute the three of you entered the living room, Burgess crossed the room, bopping Adam and Kevin upside the head as Upton chastised Halstead and Voight.

“Ladies, please. Don’t be too hard on the fellas. They all offered, but I refused,” you waved your hands. “You guys know I’m stubborn.

“As hell,” Kevin interjected.

“You want static with me so bad,” you sassed.

Kevin threw his hands up in surrender and bit his lip, slightly turned on by your attitude. Behind that sexy smirk was playfulness and something else you couldn’t quite figure out. Adam cleared his throat, “Ladies, not to be disrespectful, but can you stop giving us a hard time? We promise to behave if you just let us watch the game.”

Kim rolled her eyes, mumbling, “You’re making it very hard to like you right now. The couch is calling your name.”

Before Adam could dig himself into a deeper hole, you directed the women toward the kitchen where your peace and sanctuary awaited you.

“I’ll take this,” you said, snatching your wings from Kevin’s grasp. “I’m not sharing either,” you mocked. He nodded his head, sucking his bottom lip in. “Alright, ma. Keep it up. I’m keeping a tally.” You chuckled, turning to head further into the kitchen. You had to have the last word.

“When will you stop with these hollow, empty threats, dear sweet husband?”

Kevin’s head pushed back into the couch cushion behind him as he watched you walk away. He groaned to himself, or so he thought.

“Leave that poor woman alone, bro,” Adam joked.

“I can’t help it. That woman knows how to keep me on my toes, and I live for it.”

Every man in the living room had been hyper-focused on the game except for the man of the house. The sassiness you had given him earlier had heat simmering inside him. Your attitude always sparked a desire in him. His hands vibrated with a need to grab a handful of you. Kevin wanted nothing more than to have a moment alone with you.

Pulling himself from his lustful thoughts, he cleared his throat, “I’m going to go grab another beer. Anybody want one?”

The crew nodded “yes” in unison, eyes still fixated on the television screen. Kevin leaned against the kitchen archway, listening to the animated conversation among the women. You could feel his eyes on you, and a smile pulled at the corners of your lips.

“Is there something that you need, Mr. Atwater,” you questioned with a playful edge.

Your eyes connected with his before slowly trailing down to his bottom lip, tucked between his teeth. Hidden behind the lip bite was a sinful smirk that screamed trouble. Kim and Hailey’s stares bounced between the two of you. Clearing her throat, Kim stuttered, “You know think I hear Adam calling? Hailey, you want to join me? We’ll meet you two in the living room, yeah,” she questioned, both women not giving you time to respond.

“Traitorous heifers,” you mumbled under your breath.

You stood behind the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching Kevin make slow, calculated strides toward you. He stepped behind you, gently grabbing your waist and turning you to face him. The giant man towered over you, licking his soft, plump lips. The action alone caused you to bite back a moan. He bent lower as his mouth ghosted over your own.

“You still mad at me, baby?”

“Mad? No. Irritated, yes,” you finished, neck rolling a bit.

Kevin chuckled lightly, and in a flash, he grasped your hips, lifting you and depositing you onto the counter. Standing between your parted thighs, he leaned in and trailed his lips from your chest to the side of your neck. It slipped your mind that the house wasn’t empty, and a moan escaped your lips.

“Shhh, mamas. Don’t forget we have company.”

“Then let me down,” you gasped as his lips gently suckled your flesh.

“Not a chance in hell. Got you right where I want you now.”

“K-Kevin, seriously. You're getting me all wound up. The baby finally settled and stopped kicking me every five minutes. Don't get her started up again. Down. I want too get down,” you whined like a toddler.

“Tell me you're no longer irritated. I don't want to beef with you anymore, love. If you promise we’re good, I'll let you down,” he smirked.

“You're so irritating,” you responded playfully, rolling your eyes. “Fine, we're good!”

His hand cupped your chin as he pecked your lips continuously. It sent you into a fit of giggles. Your hand daringly wrapped around his throat to the best of its ability. Kevin groaned, pulling his plump lip between his teeth.

“I know that look. What you tryna do with a house full of guests, Mr. Atwater?”

Before your husband could reply, Voight’s voice boomed from the living room, “You two aren't as discreet as you believe yourselves to be. Atwater, halftime is over. Leave that sweet woman alone.”

“Yes sir!”

His lips landed a kiss on your forehead as he promised, “I'm taking your fine ass on a date tomorrow night.”

Kevin swept you off the counter, helping you find your footing as your swollen feet met the hardwood floors. He leaned in giving you one last sensual kiss, promising to ravish you once the two of you were alone.

Hope you all enjoyed it! Feel free to love, reblog, and leave a comment, lovelies🩵.

Tagging:

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[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 28 Chapter 28 | the victor's crown⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

"Then let the final trial... begin!"

The moment the words left the announcer's lips, Telemachus and Sthenelos began circling one another.

Their eyes locked, reading each other in silence. Sthenelos' lips curled into a smirk, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. His thick arms flexed, his broad chest rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.

He radiated certainty, the kind that came from years of fighting—real fighting, the kind that left bruises that never fully faded, the kind that made men like him sure they would win.

Telemachus, on the other hand, remained steady, his face unreadable. He offered no smirk, no taunt—just a firm, slow nod. His stance was relaxed, but his muscles were coiled, ready. He wasn't naive enough to think brute force would win this.

If he was going to take down a man like Sthenelos, he had to outthink him.

Sthenelos, watching him carefully, let out a rough chuckle. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and hoarse—gravelly with an edge of aggression, far different from the relaxed or refined tones of Callias or Andreia.

"Ithacans are thinkers, not warriors." His smirk widened as he rolled his shoulders back, cracking his knuckles. "You'd do better in a library than in this ring, pretty boy."

Telemachus didn't flinch, though the words ignited something deep within him. It was always the same, wasn't it? Ithaca's strength was always underestimated. Because they were clever. Because they relied on more than sheer muscle. Because they valued skill over reckless violence.

Let him think that.

Let him think Telemachus was just another prince, an Athena-blessed scholar with no real bite.

It would make his fall all the more satisfying.

Before Telemachus could even fully exhale, Sthenelos lunged.

It was like being hit by a charging bull.

The sheer force of the Brontean's body colliding with his sent Telemachus stumbling back, his feet skidding against the dirt. He barely had time to brace before a fist came swinging toward his ribs. Instinct took over—he twisted, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the hit, though he still felt the wind from it rush past his skin.

Sthenelos didn't slow. He pressed forward relentlessly, throwing heavy, deliberate strikes meant to batter and exhaust. Telemachus ducked, dodged, twisting his body just out of reach each time. His agility was his best weapon—he couldn't meet brute strength with brute strength, not against this kind of opponent.

Still, it wasn't perfect.

A solid fist rammed into his shoulder, forcing him back another step. Another caught him near the ribs, a sharp pain blooming under his skin. His mind barely had time to register it before a third strike clipped his jaw—not a full-force hit, but enough to rattle him.

Telemachus grit his teeth, breath hissing through them as he forced his body to stay loose, to stay moving.

He's bigger. He's stronger. But he's slower.

Sthenelos, confident as ever, smirked as he advanced. "Not much room to think in here, is there, Prince?" he sneered, rolling his shoulders. "Where's all that Ithacan cleverness now?"

Telemachus exhaled through his nose.

Let him talk.

Let him believe he was already winning.

Because Telemachus wasn't done yet. Not even close.

Sthenelos came at him again, fists raised, aiming to end this quickly.

Telemachus didn't meet him head-on. That would be stupid.

Instead, he weaved, staying just outside the Brontean's reach, forcing him to chase.

Every time Sthenelos threw a punch, Telemachus let it miss by inches, making his opponent commit fully to every strike before slipping just out of range. The bigger man's footwork was powerful but heavy—each step a thunderous impact compared to Telemachus' lighter, calculated movements.

A swing to the ribs—Telemachus pivoted.

A fist aimed at his jaw—he ducked low.

A full-bodied charge—he sidestepped at the last second, watching as Sthenelos' momentum carried him a step too far.

He was making him work.

Sthenelos grunted, irritation flickering behind his eyes as he adjusted, trying to keep pace. He wasn't used to an opponent that didn't crumble after a few good hits. He fought like a war hammer, built for destruction, for breaking through obstacles with raw power.

But Telemachus wasn't an obstacle.

He was a strategist.

And this was a game of endurance.

The crowd was catching on now. Murmurs rippled through the stands as Telemachus continued his relentless evasion, forcing Sthenelos to overextend, to waste energy in fruitless attacks. The Brontean was still dangerous—every blow he landed had force behind it—but they were growing sloppier, less controlled.

Sthenelos realized it, too.

With a snarl, he changed tactics, throwing a feint before lunging in with both arms. Telemachus barely had time to react before iron-like arms wrapped around his torso in a brutal grapple.

The breath left his lungs all at once.

Sthenelos had him.

The grip was crushing, his opponent's brute strength on full display as he twisted, trying to force Telemachus down. The pressure built, Telemachus' ribs straining, the edges of his vision blurring for a split second.

But then—he remembered.

A move Odysseus had described once, sitting by the hearth late at night.

"When you're outmatched in strength, use their own force against them. They'll never see it coming."

Sthenelos had him tight—too tight. He was betting on Telemachus panicking, struggling wildly, wasting what little breath he had left.

Instead, Telemachus went still.

For a fraction of a second, he gave into the hold, letting his body go limp. And in that instant of loosened tension, when Sthenelos instinctively adjusted his grip—

Telemachus moved.

A sharp twist of his body, a sudden shift in weight—and he slammed his knee into Sthenelos' inner thigh, striking the pressure point just above the knee joint.

The larger man jerked in surprise, his stance faltering.

That was all Telemachus needed.

He planted his foot, shoved forward with his shoulder, and broke free just as Sthenelos' balance wavered.

The crowd gasped.

Sthenelos staggered back, blinking in disbelief, and Telemachus exhaled sharply, lungs burning but victorious.

He wasn't just surviving anymore.

He was fighting back.

And the Brontean knew it.

Sthenelos bared his teeth, fury flashing across his face as he shook off the last remnants of Telemachus' counter. His breath came fast and uneven, his broad chest rising and falling, but his stance remained firm.

Telemachus knew that look. The Brontean wasn't just trying to win anymore; he was out for blood.

With a sudden burst of speed, Sthenelos lunged, aiming low this time, trying to use his sheer size to overpower Telemachus once and for all. Telemachus barely dodged, twisting just out of reach, but Sthenelos adjusted mid-charge, hooking an arm around Telemachus' waist and heaving him off his feet.

The world spun.

For a heart-stopping moment, Telemachus was weightless, his body flung over Sthenelos' shoulder like a sack of grain. The Brontean roared, his grip unyielding as he prepared to slam Telemachus into the ground.

No.

Desperation and instinct kicked in. Telemachus twisted sharply mid-air, using his entire body weight to shift the momentum. His arm snapped around Sthenelos' throat in a vice grip, locking in a chokehold even as they crashed onto the dirt together in a chaotic heap.

The impact sent pain ricocheting up Telemachus' spine, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to let go. He clung to Sthenelos, tightening the choke just enough to make the Brontean thrash wildly beneath him.

Sthenelos snarled, straining against the hold. With sheer brute strength, he pried Telemachus off, throwing him to the side. Telemachus rolled, barely managing to scramble to his feet before Sthenelos was on him again.

"Doesn't matter if you stand," Sthenelos spat, voice rough and livid. He punched his chest twice in a brutish display. "Bronte's rules don't say an opponent needs to walk."

The implication was clear.

Telemachus barely had time to brace before Sthenelos lunged again, his fist shooting toward Telemachus' throat—a killing move. Gasps rippled through the crowd. This wasn't about victory anymore.

He means to cripple me.

But Telemachus anticipated it.

At the last second, he ducked, catching Sthenelos' wrist in an iron grip. Using the Brontean's own force against him, Telemachus twisted the arm outward, hard, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his opponent's shoulder.

Sthenelos stumbled.

Telemachus struck.

A vicious elbow to the solar plexus sent Sthenelos doubling over, gasping for breath. Wasting no time, Telemachus shifted his weight low, hooked the back of Sthenelos' knee, and toppled him.

The Brontean hit the dirt.

Furious, he roared and began pushing himself up—but Telemachus was already moving. Sthenelos' fingers twitched, readying for another brutal counter—but Telemachus wasn't giving him the chance.

In one fluid motion, Telemachus gripped the Brontean's shoulder, forcing him back down, and delivered a final, decisive strike to the side of the neck—the carotid artery.

A pressure point.

Sthenelos jerked violently—then went completely still.

For a long, stretched-out second, silence blanketed the arena.

Then, the Brontean's body slumped.

Out. Cold.

Telemachus stumbled back, his own breath ragged, his arms still raised in defense as if expecting another attack. But Sthenelos didn't move.

The fight was over.

And then—

Roars.

Ithaca erupted.

The deafening roar of Ithaca's people washed over Telemachus, but it barely registered. His chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath still thick with the taste of adrenaline, his muscles vibrating with the aftershock of battle. He could feel the bruises forming beneath his skin, the dull sting of where Sthenelos had landed his hits, but the pain was distant, secondary.

He had won.

Through the ringing in his ears, the distant echoes of clashing cheers and groans, he barely noticed when something soft and weightless was placed upon his head. He flinched slightly, blinking, only to realize a woven crown now adorned him—one crafted with intricate care. Intertwined within its delicate weave were flowers of both Ithaca and Bronte, their colors blending seamlessly, threaded through with gold and silver strands. A symbol of unity. A symbol of victory.

His breath caught slightly at the sight of it, but before he could fully process its presence, the crowd's roar shifted to something else—an awed murmur rolling like waves across the stands.

A magnificent white stallion was led into the arena.

The beast was a creature of pure strength and nobility, its coat glistening under the sunlight like polished marble. Draped around its neck was a wreath woven from the same flowers that now sat upon Telemachus' head, its colors standing bold against the pristine white of its fur. The horse tossed its head, powerful yet patient, waiting for its rider.

The announcer stepped forward, voice booming across the field.

"Ithaca and Bronte!" he declared. "Witness the conclusion of the first inaugural Cultural Exchange Festival's Grand Tournament! The victor of both Trial of Two Disciplines—Prince Telemachus of Ithaca!"

A fresh wave of cheers rang through the stadium, Ithacans chanting his name, Bronteans either murmuring in begrudging approval or grumbling in disappointment. Sthenelos, still slumped unconscious in the dirt, was carefully being lifted away by his countrymen.

Telemachus exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, forcing his sore body to comply, he made his way to the stallion. His fingers gripped the saddle, and with one last surge of energy, he pulled himself up onto the horse's back. The animal remained still beneath him, as if sensing the weight of the moment.

The announcer's voice rang out again.

"And now! The Favor Ceremony!"

Telemachus' breath hitched.

He had nearly forgotten.

In both Ithacan and Brontean tradition, the victor of a grand tournament was granted a choice—a moment of acknowledgment, where they dedicated their victory to someone. A warrior, a noble, a lover—whoever they deemed worthy of receiving their favor. It was a show of admiration, of respect, sometimes even devotion.

Telemachus swallowed hard. He knew what came next.

Who would the prince choose?

He didn't have to think.

His eyes lifted—straight to the royal box.

There was no question.

.☆.      .✩.          .☆.

Once again, Penelope was cheering for her son, her voice hoarse from the endless praise she had showered upon him throughout the tournament. Tears streamed down her face, her emotions overflowing as she clutched onto Odysseus' arm. "That's my baby!" she nearly sobbed, laughing through her crying as she leaned against her husband, her entire body trembling with pride.

Odysseus, merely smiled, resting a hand over hers as he nodded. "He did well," he murmured, voice filled with something softer than usual. "More than well."

You barely registered their conversation, too caught up in the sight before you.

The Favor Ceremony.

You hadn't been thinking about it—not until you saw Telemachus leading his stallion toward the royal box.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The murmur of voices in the stands swelled around you, whispers overlapping in a rush of speculation.

"Of course, it will be the Brontean princess—" "It should be expected. A strategic move—strengthening ties between their kingdoms—" "They've been seen together often, haven't they? It makes sense—" "Oh, but didn't you see the way he looked at her? It must be her—"

Your fingers tightened around the folds of your skirt.

Across from you, just a few seats away, Andreia sat poised, her posture immaculate. Where Penelope was all warmth and unfiltered emotion, Andreia was the picture of restraint. Composed. Expectant.

Her long lashes fluttered as she dipped her chin just slightly, her lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. At her side, one of her handmaidens, barely able to contain her excitement, whispered breathlessly, "He's coming for you, Princess."

Andreia's fingers flexed subtly over the armrest of her chair, her emerald-green eyes locked onto Telemachus as he approached.

The perfect, political choice.

Your stomach twisted.

I can't watch.

You turned your gaze downward, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs, bracing yourself for the inevitable.

A hush fell over the royal box, the weight of the moment pressing down like the thick summer air. You kept your head lowered, breath shallow, pulse pounding so fiercely in your ears that you barely registered the soft rustling of fabric beside you—Andreia bowing, her hands delicately positioned, waiting.

Waiting to accept what was rightfully hers.

Then—your name was called.

Your stomach dropped.

You barely had time to process it before you felt an excited shake on your right, Penelope's eager hands grabbing onto your arm. "Look, look!" she whispered, giddy and breathless, practically bouncing in her seat as she pointed in front of you. "Oh, look, my dear!"

Blinking, dazed, you lifted your head.

Telemachus was looking at you.

Your breath hitched.

There he sat atop the white stallion, golden flower crown in hand, his expression exhausted yet alight with something unmistakable—a quiet, certain joy. His lips curled into a crooked grin, though the effort of it looked like it pained him slightly, dried blood cracking along his cheek. His body bore the marks of the battle—a tapestry of bruises blooming along his ribs, his tanned skin smeared with dirt and sweat, remnants of fine oil still glistening over his chest.

And yet, even battered, even barely standing, he was still so devastatingly Telemachus.

His eyes locked onto yours, unwavering.

Then, in front of the entire festival, he spoke.

"Will you accept my favor?" His voice was rough, hoarse from exertion, but there was nothing uncertain in it. His grip tightened around the flower crown. "My admiration?"

The world around you seemed to crash all at once.

A wave of gasps echoed through the stands, sharp and unrestrained. The shock was palpable, whispered voices rising in fragmented disbelief. You caught movement out of the corner of your eye—Andreia's two attendants stiffening in place, one of them inhaling sharply, the other's eyes widening as though they'd just witnessed something impossible.

Because this? This was impossible.

And yet... here he was.

The weight of his words, of his choice, pressed into your chest like a hand gripping your heart. The world blurred at the edges—faint murmurs, the shifting of bodies, the gasps of stunned spectators—but none of it mattered. Not when he was there, looking up at you with unwavering certainty, waiting.

Your fingers moved before your mind could catch up, reaching up to the golden laurel crown resting atop your head. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. You lifted it carefully, the cool metal warmed by the heat of your skin, and cradled it in your hands for a brief moment.

Then, with deliberate steps, you moved forward.

The festival grounds seemed to hush under your movement. You barely registered Penelope's delighted hum beside you, nor the way Odysseus quietly straightened in his seat, watching with an expression you couldn't quite place. You didn't allow yourself to glance at Andreia, though you could feel the weight of her stare burning into the side of your head.

None of it mattered.

You reached the balcony's edge, standing directly above Telemachus. His stallion stirred slightly beneath him, but the prince himself remained perfectly still, his bruised and battered frame seemingly locked in place as he watched you approach.

Slowly, carefully, you leaned forward.

Telemachus lifted the flower crown.

The moment stretched, suspended in time.

He raised it toward you, his fingers brushing over the woven petals with reverence, before gently placing it upon your head. His movements were careful, almost hesitant, as if ensuring not a single bloom was disturbed.

Your breath stilled.

His hands lingered for just a second longer than necessary, his fingertips grazing the side of your temple as he adjusted the wreath into place. The touch sent an unbidden shiver down your spine.

When you finally pulled back, he didn't move.

He was still looking at you.

His lips parted slightly, his breath slow, controlled, as if he was memorizing this moment, memorizing you. His gaze—warm, steady, something more—held you in place, pulling you into a quiet world where only the two of you existed.

Then, with a slight furrow in his brow, Telemachus reached up again.

A stray petal had caught in your hair, tangled amongst the strands. He removed it with gentle precision, his fingers just barely ghosting against your skin.

The cheers from the Ithacan crowd finally broke through, deafening, all-consuming, but his eyes never left yours.

And in that moment, as his fingertips brushed the petal away, you wondered if he could hear the way your heart was pounding.

A sudden swell of applause and the announcer's booming voice shattered the fragile moment between you and Telemachus.

"The victor of the Trial of Two Disciplines has chosen his favor!" The words echoed across the tournament grounds, rippling through the stunned crowd. "Prince Telemachus of Ithaca has dedicated his victory to none other than the kingdom's newly inducted Divine Liaison!"

A second wave of cheers erupted, drowning out your thoughts. You barely registered the continued announcement as the herald declared the tournament's official closing, informing the festival-goers that celebrations would continue until the grand feast later that night. The words passed over you in a blur, distant and hazy.

Because your heart was still hammering.

Because when your gaze met Telemachus' again—just for a fraction of a second—you could see it there, plain as day. The unspoken weight behind his choice. The certainty in his eyes.

And the realization that he had meant it.

Your breath shuddered slightly as you finally forced yourself to step back, retreating to your seat. The moment you sank down, Penelope shot forward, taking your place at the edge of the balcony in an explosion of pure maternal joy.

"My darling boy!" she cried, practically throwing herself over the railing.

You watched, half in shock, as she reached for Telemachus so suddenly that for a brief, horrifying second, you thought she might actually drag him off the horse and into the royal box. The prince barely had time to brace himself before his mother wrapped her arms around his head, squeezing him like a child who had returned from war.

Telemachus let out a strangled sound, caught between a laugh and a gasp as he struggled to remain upright. "Mother—!"

Penelope paid no mind to his protests. "You were brilliant! Flawless! I have never been prouder in my life!" Her voice wavered as she peppered his dirt-smudged face with adoring kisses, her hands cupping his cheeks as if to ensure he was truly there. "My strong, clever son—did you see him, Odysseus? Did you see how he outmatched that brute?!"

Odysseus was already moving behind her, his expression torn between amusement and exasperation. "Penelope," he said, chuckling as he reached to steady her, his broad hands settling on her waist. "You'll kill the boy before he can even enjoy his victory."

Penelope huffed, but finally—reluctantly—loosened her grip, giving Telemachus room to breathe.

Odysseus exhaled, his smirk fading slightly as he regarded his son with an appraising look. For a moment, the clamor of the festival faded into the background. Something unreadable flickered across the king's features—pride, certainly, but something deeper as well.

Then, as he reached forward to clasp Telemachus' shoulder, he spoke.

"Athena would have been proud," he murmured, his voice quieter than before, yet weighty. Knowing. "You've done her wisdom justice today, my son."

Telemachus blinked, his breath catching slightly at the words. Unsure if it was because of the rare depth of his father's praise—or because, for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had, in fact, heard her voice guiding him.

Either way, he only nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

Before the moment could settle, a familiar voice broke through the space between you all, shattering whatever spell had been woven in the aftermath of victory once again.

"An impressive display, Prince Telemachus."

Andreia.

Her voice was smooth, composed, effortlessly slipping into the moment as if she had always belonged there. She stepped forward, her eyes sharp with something unreadable as she regarded Telemachus with a soft, polite smile.

"To best Sthenelos in a match of strength is no small feat," she continued, folding her hands in front of her as she tilted her head. "He is our strongest fighter back home, undefeated among our warriors. A true Brontean through and through."

You couldn't help but notice how she phrased it—our strongest. Our warriors. A reminder, perhaps, that this was still a game of politics, that this was still Bronte's loss as much as it was Ithaca's victory.

For his part, Telemachus met her gaze steadily, inclining his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Lady Andreia," he said, his voice even. There was no arrogance in his tone, no gloating—only measured respect. "He was a formidable opponent."

And yet, as he shifted slightly in the saddle, his body betrayed him.

A small wince. Barely there, but noticeable enough.

Penelope's sharp inhale was immediate. "Oh, my love, you're hurt!"

Before Telemachus could so much as take another breath, the queen was already reaching for him again, hands fluttering uselessly as she examined him from every angle, her panic bubbling to the surface. "Is it your ribs? Your arm? Gods, is he dying?!"

"I forget how animated you get when you drink, my love," Odysseus whisepred under his breath, letting out a long-suffering sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Penelope, he is not dying."

She turned on him, her eyes wide. "But what if he is? What if he's holding it in, just like you always do?" She spun back toward Telemachus, gripping his arm as if she could physically keep him upright through sheer force of will. "Telemachus, sweetheart, tell mommy the truth, are you dying?"

The prince, to his credit, didn't laugh. His lips twitched slightly, but his tone remained as placating as ever. "I'm fine, Mother," he assured her, though the lingering ache in his ribs suggested otherwise. "Just a few bruises."

"You bled," she countered, horrified. "You—"

Odysseus placed a steady hand on her shoulder, guiding her back with the patience of a man who had lived through this many times before. "He won," he reminded her. "Which means he's not broken. And he has time to recover before the feast." His gaze then lingered on Telemachus for a moment, unreadable yet sharp, like he was weighing something in his mind before making a decision.

Then, with a slow nod, he spoke, his voice carrying the authority of a man who had seen enough battles to recognize when someone needed tending.

"Go to the physicians, and get patched up," he instructed his son, the words leaving no room for argument.

Telemachus opened his mouth, perhaps to insist that he was fine, that he could walk it off, but before he could utter a word, his father's gaze flickered away from him—landing squarely on you.

"Or," Odysseus mused, his tone shifting into something more considering, "you can let her heal you instead."

You blinked. "M-Me?"

"Of course you," Penelope huffed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She turned to you with wide, pleading eyes, her grip tightening around Odysseus' arm. "You're the Divine Liaison! And Apollo has clearly blessed you! Please look after my son!"

Your stomach twisted, caught between shock and something resembling nerves. Sure, you had healed minor wounds before—scratches, bruises, maybe a deeper cut here and there—but this? This was Telemachus, and whatever had just transpired in the ring had left his body marked with more than just surface wounds. His lip was split, his ribs likely bruised, and there was no telling if anything deeper had been injured.

Odysseus, ever the tactician, nodded along to his wife's request, agreeing without hesitation. "While you do that," he said, adjusting his hold on Penelope, "I'll take her to the physicians in hopes of sobering her up a little before the feast."

"I am sober," Penelope protested, though her words were punctuated by a hiccup.

Odysseus smirked, clearly unconvinced. "Of course, my love. I meant even more sober."

At his words, Penelope cheered, clapping her hands together with a bright, tipsy sort of delight. "Oh, wonderful! That way, I'll be fully ready for tonight's festivities," she beamed, swaying slightly before gripping Odysseus' arm for balance.

Then, as if remembering something vitally important, she turned back to you, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Speaking of tonight! You will be playing, won't you, dear?"

You nodded, still a little dazed from the whirlwind of everything that had just happened. "Yes, my queen," you confirmed. "I was already planning on performing, but..." You hesitated briefly, then continued, a small smile pulling at your lips. "I'll also be debuting a new instrument tonight. It was a gift."

Penelope gasped, her fan snapping open in delight. "A gift?" she echoed, as if this was the most scandalously wonderful news she had heard all day. "How exciting! I simply cannot wait to hear it."

Before you could react, she leaned forward suddenly and pressed a soft, motherly kiss to your forehead. The unexpected warmth of the gesture left you stunned, frozen in place as she pulled back with a knowing smile. "Be sure to drink plenty of water before you play," she instructed, patting your cheek gently. "And don't forget to stretch. Very important."

You blinked. Stretch?

Penelope, evidently pleased with her words of wisdom, turned back to her husband, content with whatever chaotic motherly duty she had just fulfilled.

From the side, Telemachus let out a low chuckle. "I'll let Eurythia know to get her a bath ready," he mused, shaking his head fondly at his mother's antics.

You let out a quiet breath, still reeling from the sudden affection, and got to your feet as well, knowing it was time for you to leave. As you straightened your dress, Telemachus cast you one last glance, something unreadable flickering behind his tired but amused gaze.

Then, with a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he turned, lightly pulling at his horse's reins and steering it away toward the lower levels of the stadium.

Odysseus, ever the patient husband, simply sighed and tightened his grip around Penelope's waist to steady her as he began leading her toward the exit. "Come along, my love."

Just as you were halfway down from the royal box, carefully following behind them, Penelope called over her shoulder.

"Ah! My fan, dear—would you mind?" she asked, her voice airy but affectionate. She was leaning into Odysseus' side, her weight resting against him as he effortlessly supported her. The scene almost looked natural, as if he were merely holding her as lovers did rather than keeping her upright.

You paused on the steps, nodding. "Of course, my queen," you replied without hesitation, already turning back.

As you ascended the few steps back into the emptying box, your eyes immediately landed on her fan, resting on the cushioned seat she had occupied earlier. You walked over, fingers lightly brushing over the delicate embroidery—gold-threaded olive branches twisting around its frame. Just as you grasped it, the quiet sound of footsteps made you freeze.

Turning slightly, you found yourself face-to-face with her.

Andreia.

She stood at the entrance of the royal box, her green eyes sharp as they swept over you, taking in the sight before her. For a moment, she said nothing, but the silence spoke—it weighed heavy in the air between you. Her gaze flickered across your face before landing, unerringly, on the flower crown resting atop your head.

Her expression barely shifted, but something in her posture stiffened—just for a breath, just for a second.

Then she smiled.

A slow, calculated thing.

The kind of smile that wasn't meant to comfort but to disarm.

"I must admit," she finally said, tilting her head slightly as if studying you like one might a chessboard, "I hadn't expected this outcome."

You held your ground, fingers tightening slightly around the fan, but you refused to look away. "The prince made his choice," you replied simply.

Andreia let out a quiet hum, stepping further into the box, letting her fingers trail idly over the railing as she peered down at the lingering crowds. "Yes... he did." Her voice was light, almost amused. "But we both know that choices made in the heat of the moment are often... impulsive" Her gaze flickered back to you. "And impulsive choices rarely last."

The implication sat between you, heavy and unspoken.

You swallowed, keeping your face carefully neutral, but she wasn't finished.

"Power is not won by fleeting gestures," she continued, voice soft but pointed. "Not by sentiment or spectacle." Her fingers, adorned with gold rings, tapped idly against the railing. "True power is won through patience. Through cunning. Through the long game."

Your eyes narrowed slightly, but Andreia was already turning away, her attention shifting as one of her handmaidens approached hesitantly, head bowed.

She spared you one last glance, her smile as composed as ever. "Enjoy your moment, Divine Liaison," she murmured, brushing past you gracefully. As she passed, you barely caught the hushed words she directed toward the servant at her side.

"Let them celebrate," she said, voice a whisper of silk. "The board is only just being set."

Then, with a final glance over her shoulder, Andreia disappeared down the corridor, her handmaidens following wordlessly behind her.

You stood there for a moment, unmoving, Penelope's fan clutched in your grasp. The air in the box suddenly felt cooler, sharper, as if her presence had left something behind—a warning, a promise, a calculation yet to be fully revealed.

It wasn't until the distant sound of a trumpet signaling the next event rang through the festival that you finally exhaled, pushing away the unease curling at the edge of your mind.

Then, with your head held high, you turned and left the box.

A/N: i'm sorry, tipsy penelope?? a damn vibe. and lowkey why cant andreia get the hint nobody want her there?? like bitch everyone went quiet TWICE when you came through... the sign aint go get much bigger than that fr 😩 also, lets talk about the action scene cuz i really ate that up fr

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog

[alluringlight]

Sunday x (Gender Neutral) Reader

Warnings: nothing really, ig maybe a little bit of angst but more hurt/comfort, you are the Astral Express medic, you're supposed to be a fallen angel but that's not really necessary to understand this and will p much only become relevant if I ever follow up this one-shot w the same reader x Sunday (which I might bc I love this idea of fallen angel x Sunday), also this is not intended to be canon to Sunday's true form or anything since it's unconfirmed if Halovians have multiple sets of wings or not

Word Count: 1726

As the de facto medic of the Astral Express, since you were the only trained doctor, you made it your top priority to always know how every one of the passengers was doing, physically and mentally. Currently, your most challenging case sat before you; Sunday, former head of the Oak Family and newest passenger aboard the train. 

He sat stiffly, spine straight and hands crossed together neatly in his lap as he sat on your examination table. His head was facing straight but instead of looking at you, his gaze was on his hands. You’d always felt a kinship with the Halovian, whether it be due to your own (miserable) past, or the fact that you both shared avian features. Your own wings twitched, feathers fluffing slightly as you tried to puzzle out the best way to help him. Getting him to even admit he needed help was akin to pulling teeth, but you were determined to be patient. 

“Sunday, I just need to look them over, okay? I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” you said, your voice soft as you tried your best to coax him. 

He squeezed his hands tighter together, his voice barely audible as he spoke, “I know. I-” He cut himself off, pressing his lips closed as he refused to say anything else. Instead, he uncrossed his hands, and began disrobing his top half, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding the material off until his torso was bare. 

His wings, a dark purple akin the nightingales you’d seen on Penacony, were on his lower back, further down than your own black wings which sat between your shoulder blades. His sat around his waist, and they were very obviously neglected. They were tightly wrapped around his torso, and the feathers were dull and in disarray, it was clear they needed to be preened. Most alarmingly, his flight feathers were clipped on his left side. It made you wonder if the piercings on his upper wings weren’t of his own volition, if they were perhaps a reminder that he was a flightless bird. 

You made your way behind him so you could observe the wings fully. Sunday himself was exceedingly skinny, and you made a mental note to talk to him about that another day; when he wasn’t so shaken up. The connecting muscles to his wings were underdeveloped, making it apparent that even if his wing wasn’t clipped he still would be unable to fly. 

“Is it okay if I touch them?” you asked. Sunday gave you a shaky nod. Instead of immediately beginning a more thorough examination you spoke, “I’m going to try to stretch them out, okay? I’ll be gentle, but it’ll probably be painful or uncomfortable. Please let me know if I need to stop.” 

A rush of breath left him, before he nodded again, his hands gripping onto the edge of the examination table to brace himself. You started with his left wing; it would be the most troublesome to deal with. 

You took it slow, gently prying his wing away from his torso, stopping whenever he’d hiss in pain. It probably took the better part of a half hour to get the wing fully stretched out, but once it was, Sunday heaved a sigh of relief. 

You examined the wing more thoroughly, trying to give him a break before you worked on his other one. His flight feathers were in worse shape than you first thought; many of the primaries had been clipped, including the ones used in landing. It was quite barbaric. You briefly wondered how many times the feathers had been clipped, how long it took Halovians to grow them back in, how many times had he endured such treatment? 

The muscles in the wing were atrophied, and you knew you’d have to help Sunday set up a strict physical therapy regimen if he had any hope of ever flying again. You massaged the joints, helping to relieve the tension from being so cramped. 

You gave him another moment’s reprieve, gently kneading the area where the wing met his back, before you began working on the other wing. This one didn’t take as much time to straighten out, and you gave it just as much care as the other one, rubbing away the aches and pains that lanced through him. 

Hearing a bang, your wings shot out, wrapping around Sunday’s form before you turned to the door. “Hey- oh! Sorry, sorry.” March said, scratching at her head as she realized she was interrupting something. You could feel Sunday tuck into himself, his wings twitching as you felt him barely stop himself from wrapping them around himself. Thankfully, your wingspan was larger than his, mostly covering him from March’s view. “Um, I was just going to ask if you’d seen Dan Heng, but I’m guessing not, so I’ll leave.” she said, giving an awkward laugh. 

“See you later March,” you said as she ducked out the door, giving it a firm shove shut. You could hear her voice carry through the door, speaking to the Trailblazer, before the two wandered off, presumably to find the elusive archivist. 

Your wings settled back into place, tucking them against your back as you sighed. “Sorry, Sunday. Are you okay?” 

His breath was shaky as you peered down at him, his face flushed from embarrassment. You weren’t sure if he was embarrassed at the thought of March seeing him in such a vulnerable state, or if it was because you’d wrapped him in your wings. After a long moment, he responded, “Yes, I am…fine. You may continue.” 

You hummed in acknowledgement before giving his wings another once over before you pulled away. “I won’t lie to you, they’re in rough shape.” You moved back to the otherside of the table so you could look at him as you spoke. “You need to stop constricting them immediately. The blood flow is severely damaged, and your joints are in less than ideal shape from the abuse. The bones themselves are doing well, but the muscles are atrophied.” You took a deep breath before continuing, “It’s going to take a lot of work to get them healthy again, but after strengthening them, and once your flight feathers grow back in, it could be possible to fly again.” 

His face seemed to crumple at your words. This…was not an expression you’d ever seen on him before, especially considering he’d tried his best to appear perfect, hiding away any perceived flaw away from prying eyes. You had to stop yourself from reaching out, uncertain if he’d be appreciative of any physical contact, even if all you wanted to do right now was comfort him. All at once his expression dropped, his eyes downcast and gaze dead as he spoke, the whisper so low you weren’t sure he meant for you to hear, “Do I even deserve…?” 

You sighed. “Forget whether you deserve it or not, do you want it?”

Sunday raised his head, looking you in the eyes, though his gaze remained far away as his lips parted. “I don’t know.” His expression turned pained as he licked his lips, nervous, as he finally seemed to see you again. “Can you help me fix them?” 

You smiled, nodding. “I have some general ideas on what needs to be done, but I’ll do a bit more research on Halovians specifically to help, just give me a day or two to figure out a plan. For now though, we’ll need to get you some better fitting clothes, and the feathers need to be preened. If you’d like, I can do that, or I can leave you to your own devices.” 

His cheeks slowly flushed again, the wings by his ears fluttering nervously, and you had to suppress the desire to cup his face in your hands. He was so pretty it was unfair, but you wanted to help him, and it wouldn’t do to admit any budding feelings you had for the Halovian. It was obvious he needed a friend, and you didn’t want to jeopardize the fragile trust built between the two of you. 

Sunday cleared his throat. “If you truly would not mind, your help would be appreciated.” 

“Do you want tea or anything? This may take a little bit of time,” you said. 

He shook his head, “That is unnecessary.” 

The two of you situated on the examination table, you had your own legs crossed together as you found the most comfortable position. You began your work; gently opening pin feathers and brushing out old feathers that were stuck, all the while carefully avoiding any blood feathers, lest you injure him. 

As you worked, tension seemed to seep out of Sunday, and every once in a while he breathed a sigh of relief. You wondered when he’d last been preened by anyone else; his smaller wings by his wings were taken well care of, his own handiwork you presumed, and the way he shuddered at each gentle touch of yours, each delicate caress as you dutifully worked through the plumage, was telling enough. 

It took over an hour to completely finish, and your hands and fingers ached, but it was well worth the effort. You stretched your hands, your joints popping as you did. “Alright, you’re good to go,” you said, sliding off the examination table to once again stand in front of him. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

“Of course.” You smiled at him. “Just ask if you want me to preen them again, okay?” He nodded at your words, giving you a small smile in return. “Plus, if you’d like, you’re welcome to return the favor one of these days.” 

His eyes widened at your offer. “You would trust me to preen your wings?” 

Your brows furrowed as a slight frown made its way onto your face. “Yeah. It’s not that surprising is it? I trust you, Sunday. We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, and I’m not going to condemn you for yours. The Express is about starting over, about not letting your past weigh you down. Instead, blaze the trail, see the stars, do what you want.” 

A soft smile seeped back onto your face as you spoke once more, “Trust, and be trusted in turn, by your fellow passengers. There’s a whole universe waiting for you, Sunday.”

[lilyswrittenworks]

XVIII | Breaking Point

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

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

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

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

The way Piccolo's demeanor toward you had changed.

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

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

Replaced by something cold.

Sharp.

Hostile.

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

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

You didn't understand.

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

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

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

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

That had cut deep.

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

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

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

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

Regret.

And something else—something unreadable.

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

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

The regret on Piccolo's face vanished instantly.

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

But before he could reach you—

"No."

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

Piccolo halted.

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

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

For a brief moment, you saw guilt.

But you didn't care.

Not anymore.

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

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

There was only so much your heart could take.

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

You trailed off, your throat tightening.

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

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

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

A hand.

Warm. Solid. Him.

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

For a split second, you almost gave in.

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

You wanted to.

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

His voice came softly. "(Y/n)—"

You didn't let him finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, you turned your back on him.

You didn't look at him again.

Couldn't.

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

Piccolo didn't move.

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

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

Your muffled sobs.

His chest ached at the sound.

Because he knew.

He knew he was the reason you were crying.

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

A part of him wanted to go to you.

To hold you.

To tell you the truth.

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

—but because he cared too much.

But then came the other part of him.

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

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

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn't allow himself to love you.

And yet...

He already did.

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

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

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

Now he wasn't.

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

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You needed to talk to Piccolo. Now.

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

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

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

Then—movement.

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

Your heart leapt into your throat.

It couldn't be... could it?

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

It was him.

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

"Piccolo.."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart ached at the regret lacing his words.

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

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

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

His silence was answer enough.

Your heart twisted painfully.

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt your heart twist painfully.

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

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

His breath caught.

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

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

It was tearing him apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But underneath all of that...

There was love.

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

Your heart skipped a beat, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

"You really don't get it, do you?" you whispered shakily. "You say you're afraid of losing me... but don't you realize? You've already got me. You had me from the very beginning."

Piccolo's breath caught—his eyes flicking between yours like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"You love me..." you said softly, testing the words on your tongue.

His gaze dropped to the ground, his sharp cheekbones tinged with that faint purple hue once again.

"I don't know how to..." he trailed off, his voice breaking. "...I don't know how to love someone the way you deserve."

Your heart shattered.

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out—your fingertips brushing tentatively against the back of his clenched fist.

"You already do," you whispered.

Piccolo's shoulders trembled beneath his weighted shoulder-pads.

For a long moment, he didn't move.

But then—so slowly it made your heart ache—his fingers unfurled beneath yours, rough calloused skin brushing against your palm.

Your breath caught.

He was letting you in.

Finally—after all this time—he was letting himself be vulnerable.

You squeezed his hand gently, grounding him to the present.

"I'm not afraid of you, Piccolo," you whispered. "I'm afraid of losing you... of you walking away from something that's right in front of you because you don't think you're worthy of it."

His breath hitched, his eyes squeezing shut like your words physically hurt him.

"I don't deserve you..." he muttered brokenly.

"But you do," you insisted, your voice trembling. "You're so much more than what you think you are... and I love you for every part of it."

His eyes snapped open, wide and vulnerable.

You could see the exact moment his resolve crumbled—the way his chest caved slightly, his breath hitching in a ragged, broken exhale.

Without warning, Piccolo suddenly pulled you into his arms—his massive hands trembling as they gripped your body tightly, like he was terrified you'd disappear if he let go.

Your heart ached at how gentle he was—despite his strength, despite everything he'd tried to convince himself he was.

You buried your face against his abdomen, your tears soaking into the fabric of his gi.

"I'm right here," you whispered against him, your voice breaking. "I'm not going anywhere."

Piccolo's arms tightened around you, his chin pressing against the top of your head, slightly hunched over to keep you as close as he could.

For the first time in his life...

He let himself believe you.

(4,167 words)

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(a/n)

FINALLY. The moment we've all been waiting is hereee!

I was going to submit this post early as a surprise for you lovely reader but uh... the power grid on the entire island went out. 😭 I was so sad because of the timing lol

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Part XVII

You are currently reading Part XVIII

Part XIX

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

[insomniamamma]

We Go Again: Ezra X F!reader

A/N: so this is written for @romanarose 's Disability Visibility event. This takes place within the Prickle'verse, some time after they establish their homestead, but as always can be read as a standalone. Established, loving relationship. Roughly 1k.

Warnings: Phantom limb pain, some angst, a bit of miscommunication.

“Why’d you yank the mirror, down, Prickle? Call Skaathrand’s name three too many times while brushing your teeth?” “Fuck you, Ezra,” you say, but there’s real no bite to it, not after all this time, been off world long enough that the superstitions of your youth have mostly dissipated. “At least I don’t believe in the Grass Boys.”

“Now that’s not fair,” Ezra dimples, “My brother popped out of that Kevva-forsaken swamp in a gilly suit for the sole purpose scaring the ever-loving shit out of me! I told everyone who’d listen about how I saw one of the Grass Boys. That rat bastard let me tell the tale for years before admitting to it. Even after he fessed up I still wasn’t sure about what I saw that day.“ “Cee didn’t believe you,” you say, remembering the heat and swampy funk of Ezra’s home world. No family left at the home place except his grandmother who called him by his brother’s name and patted his hair with an arthritis gnarled hand, and told him to pull the spiker-traps from the water. Ezra wasn’t even sure of her exact age, records tend to be spotty in the Fringe. “Cee believes in nothing she can’t fix her two eyes upon,” says Ezra, “Suppose she’s wise in that regard. So what’s with the mirror? We got the points, we could get a better one if this doesn’t suit you, got points enough to gut out the bathroom to your liking—“ “I know it hurts you. Especially the time of year.” Ezra stiffens and that old fear crawls in, fear that you’ve spoken above your station, fear rooted in the early days of you and him, newly hired crew when he’d ripped into you for offering help with his suit checks, and later apologized shamefaced, didn’t mean to snap at you, but it’s best I do these things for myself. If I need your help I will ask, clear? Clear. “What do you know about it?” His voice has that brittle edge, been around him long enough to know that his words may cut, been around him long enough to know that the doubts and scars run deep, been around him long enough to know that even if he lashes out he’ll say sorry later. “I’ve noticed, that’s all. The weather changes and you hold yourself different. You flinch if I come up on that side. M’not stupid, Ez.” Ezra’s eyes narrow and then relax, dips his head. “Never thought you were,” he says, “And yeah, it hurts when the weather turns. It seems a foolish thing, after all this time.” “It’s not foolish, it’s pretty normal, I mean, I’m sure you know all that-“ “Tell me about the mirror, Prickle.” “I was poking around on the drop net and I found this thing called mirror therapy. Where you set up the mirror kinda between your legs? So you can see your reflection, it tricks your brain-“ “Woo-woo drop net bullshit most likely,” “Most likely,” you echo, “But we could still try? You won’t be any worse off if it doesn’t work—“ “We’ll give it a go. What could it hurt?”

“Okay, I’m gonna hold it steady, just look at your reflection, okay?” You brace the mirror against your body. “What’s you’re right hand doing?”

“My right hand is rotting somewhere on that wretched moon,” he says.

“Ez.”

“Making a fist. If I’d known how this was gonna turn out I would’ve clipped my nails before I let Cee do her gruesome business. They dig.”

“Make a fist with both hands and hold em out, like you’re reaching out—“

“Prickle-“

“Don’t look at me, just stay focused on the mirror. You gotta make make your left hand do the same thing as your right hand. Dig your nails in. It’s gotta feel the same.”

“I think I see what you’re getting at but my tattoo is not bilateral.”

“Fuck. Forgot all about it.” His reflection tilts away as you lift the mirror and lean it against the wall. Ezra looks at his hand, concentric circles between his thumb and forefinger. Orbits for him and Owen and Gabe, but now it’s just him. Remembers this buzz of the cobbled together tattoo gun, vibrating through the hand that isn’t there, his own set of orbits not so neat as his brothers, had a good couple shots of station swill in him before he turned the contraption on himself. He’d dug in a bit too deep and the rings hand scarred slightly, nervous habit of passing his thumb over the raised skin. Open your hand, he thinks, I can still feel you, you fucker so just open up, but he knows this almost never works. Those nails are going to dig for the rest of his days, price of survival he thinks. Hears you rattling around in the bathroom, and almost calls for you to forget it, let’s just go to bed, Prickle, tomorrow will be better.

“Here. Gimme your hand.”

“Which one?”

“Smart ass.” You dab a bit of Cee’s long abandoned concealer over Ezra’s tattoo, hold his hand in yours and blow on his skin to make it dry faster, and his heart twists a little, mix of melancholy and love. You’re good to us, he’d told you once, rinsing out your clothes in a stream on Syrinx-7, your hand in his, just as rough, neither of you accustomed to softness.

“Okay, let’s try this again,” you say, “Keep focused on the mirror. I’ll hold it steady.”

The next morning you find him in the kitchen, peering out the window, haloed in grey light, winter coming on, relentless rain that will turn to snow soon, rubbing at his stump.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

“I think it worked a little,” says Ezra, “I slept better than I have in some time. Maybe we can go again?”

[popodoki]

Hey, teacher! Part 8 (Catwin motorcycle au)

Thomas to the rescue x

"My God… is that your friend, Edwin?" Esther sneers, horrified.   

"Oh yes," he acts casual. Like this isn't completely bizarre. "It appears he was able to make it after all." Edwin politely excuses himself, pointedly doesn't walk away at full speed like a man escaping a death sentence.   

By the time he reaches Thomas on the street, at least 7 children have gathered around the shiny novelty of his bike, some of them are actually touching it. One child is gripping the handle bars and making 'vroom' noises. Thomas stands by, looking amused, answering their overlapping questions as best he can. When he notices Edwin, he smiles broadly, winking mischievously.   

Edwin comes to a stop, lifts one eyebrow at him.  

"I've come to rescue you, ghostie." Thomas announces, like its an obvious answer to a question Edwin didn’t pose. "This is real shit, isn't it? There isn't even any music. What kinda picnic is this?" Some of the children giggle at the curse word. "Also, babe, you’ve been here less than an hour and already you look fuckin' miserable." Edwin visibly deflates. He had been under the impression that he'd done a faily good job of hiding it. "Don't curse in front of the children." Is all he can think of. Right after, the realization that Thomas just called him babe comes barrelling through, and that is now all he can think of. 

"Well, come on then." Thomas throws his leg over, sits back on the motorcycle, pats the seat behind him.   

Edwin stares. 

Thomas stares back. 

Edwin’s mouth opens but it takes a second try to form the "What." 

"Come on, we're going home. There’s wine in the kitchen, and I’m pretty sure I saw a real nice vintage record player in the living room." 

"Thomas, I." Edwin shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. "I can't just leave. And definitely not on that." 

"Course you can leave. Come on, say goodbye to- oops, here she comes." Thomas, vagrant that he is, can't even bother to hide the absolute glee spreading over his face. 

Heart in his throat, Edwin whirls around, sees Esther breezing towards them, a look of murder in her eyes. He braces himself, then deflates like a punctured balloon animal, with a slight wheeze he can’t quite smother behind a hand, when Thomas beats him to the punch, loudly. "Good afternoon! I remember you, tittering about yesterday, yeah? Never quite got your name, mine’s Thomas, Thomas King.”   

"Charmed." Esther clips out, curt, glancing at Thomas’ outstretched hand with disdain. 

"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am." Thomas quips, smoothly pulling his hand back, turning the motion into a tip of a hat that's not there, leans forward. "Say, you had a good look at her yesterday, I got her all cleaned up just earlier,” Thomas pats the bike’s seat, smiles wide, on the edge of too much so, "can I interest you in a ride around the block?" He pats the seat again, tilting his head just a bit to the side, towards her, making sure that Esther catches the challenge, the confidence in the invitation. 

Esther almost reels, recoiling with disgust. "That's a very emphatic NO from me, Mr. King. Edwin, dear boy, do come back when you're,” she waves her hand in the air, gesturing in the vague direction of where Thomas is practically preening, perched on his shining bike, arms crossed, “done, with all this." Her message is clear. Get rid of him.  She stalks away, every muscle in her body so tense, Edwin is surprised she can walk at all. When he turns back to Thomas, he sees him offer a cheeky fingerwave at her retreating back. 

When Edwin gives in to the urge to swat his arm, Thomas laughs and laughs, giggles like a child that's just pulled off a particularly dirty prank, looks just as faux-ashamed only when he fully refocuses on Edwin, and his wide-eyed stare at him. "You do realize, I'll pay for that later?" Edwin whispers from behind his clenched teeth. 

"Ghostie. What's she gonna do? Come on, now's your chance. Hop on." He scoots forward, making room. 

"I told you, I can't. I, I just-" 

"Edwin." Thomas looks him right in the eye, expression serious. "Don't worry. It's just a picnic. It'll go on without you. Who cares about what Esther says anyway? Who cares about the people who would care about what an absolute witch like Esther says?"   

The sound of his name coming out of Thomas's mouth is what calms him. Yet at the same time, his heart rate triples, he feels a surge of adrenaline. "I won't fall off?" He eyes the thin strip of seat behind the other man. It doesn't look at all secure. "Not if you hold on." Thomas starts the engine with a wink, and the nearby hovering cloud of children all exclaim in wonder at the noise, laughing, covering their ears. Some of their parents look decidedly displeased. Edwin takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty palms on his overcoat, forces himself to throw a leg over the motorcycle, tucking up close to Thomas, an arm around his torso. "Sorry." he apologizes over the din of the engine, though he's not sure for what exactly. For touching him? 

"S'alright, babe. Hold on, we're going to be making a quick exit. The wicked witch is decidedly not happy." Thomas pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, the motorcycle jerks forward, scaring Edwin half to death. He reflexively clings harder, pretending he didn't make a high-pitched yelp out of fear. He doesn't dare look back, to see people's reactions as the motorcycle roars away. He doesn't even want to entertain the thought of how Esther Finch is going to handle him running off without saying goodbye.   

They've gone through two corners, when Edwin realizes he's still clinging to Thomas, perhaps a little too hard. He tries to loosen his grip, he really does, but every time the motorcycle makes the slightest motion underneath his legs, he's worried that their equilibrium will be shattered and he'll go spiraling to the pavement. Also, it's an easy excuse to hold him without any guilt. This was Thomas's idea, after all. Edwin is blameless for clinging. He presses the side of his face against the leather-clad back in front of him. The smell of leather is divine, and he can feel Thomas's ribcage expanding with each breath. It's nice. It's very nice. Edwin almost wishes he lived further away. 

Thomas pulls to a stop, neatly, in the middle of the driveway. He cuts the engine, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. "See? World didn't end." Edwin releases his squid-like grip on that leather jacket, rather unsteadily dismounts the bike, trying to calm his quaking knees. "Actually, there were a few turns back there that almost proved you wrong." A bucket is placed against the garage door, probably used by Thomas when he cleaned his bike. Thomas laughs good naturedly when Edwin gives it a calculating stare, just for effect. Edwin can’t help but smile, a touch wry, marvelling just a bit inside, how easy he now falls into this, this kind of banter, teasing, with someone he didn’t even know 3 days ago.  

He looks at the bike once more, and it occurs to him, again, that he has just ditched Esther at the church picnic, in front of essentially the entire town. Not only that, but he did it clinging to the back of a man on a motorcycle. Edwin needs a good, big glass of wine, and he needs it now. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright, let's have a drink, before I spend any more time thinking about what I've just done." 

Thomas slaps him on the shoulder with a smile, letting his hand drift to the small of Edwin’s back, and leads them both inside the house. 

[buzzyb33]

Sleeping.

Prompt: After staying up later to finish an edit, chip tries to get into bed without waking up his girlfriend, not to his knowledge she wakes up as he mumbles his wholesome thoughts to her.

Warnings: short, FLUFF, mentions of y/n,

Stretching his arms above his head, he edits the recordings of all the boys splicing the sidemen among us into one perspective of the video, it was already two in the morning, he was just doing the final round then it was time for bed.

Running his hand through his already messy hair, he adjusts his headphones, fixing his posture.

“Just a minute..” he mumbles to himself, splicing the clips and colour coordinating the clips fine.

Chip smiles as he does a run through seeing if there’s any mistakes, adding his own little inside jokes to the wallet part of the admin card swipe, no shame in giggling to himself as he adds a photo of Baldski on KSI’s part and Ethan when fat on his.

Even giggling when he adds an old photo of ChrisMD in his braces and stupidly big ears.

He adds his own little effects and finally decides to finish the cut down in the morning.

Heading to the bathroom he brushes his teeth, shutting his eyes as he accidentally obnoxiously stumbles next to his girlfriend, the mattress groaning under his weight as he wraps his arms around me.

“Love you..”

He says quietly, tightening his grip on her waist.

Getting frustrated with the fact he now can’t sleep even after struggling to keep his eyes open why not talk himself to sleep.

I shift slightly, mumbling out a quick: “Joshua..”

He clearly doesn’t hear me from all of his shuffling around.

After some silence I hear his voice again.

“You’re the best.. thing that’s even happened to me.. sometimes the boys call me names but- I don’t care.. I love you.”

He nuzzled into my neck as I keep my breath soft, he thinks I’m fast asleep.

“Struggle to show it sometimes.. we’re both busy..” he hums.

He holds me tighter as his breaths grow deeper.

The next morning, I wake up first and feel soft.

I wasn’t really used to such praise but as I look at his sleeping face I feel even more In love.

I climb out of bed and make two cups of coffee, mine with cream and one sugar and his with two sugars and more cream, his more frothy.

I smile as I hear heavy footsteps and soon strong arms around my waist.

“Sleep okay?” He asks, leaving over to kiss my jaw and then taking his coffee, looking down at me with tired eyes.

“Yeah.. I did.. you?” I say softly, looking up at him, feeling fuzzy.

He nods.

“Somewhat..”

I get on my tiptoes and kiss his lips.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me..” I say with a small smile and my hands finding in his shoulders.

He smiles and scratches his neck.

“You.. too..” he clears his throat and kisses my forehead.

“You should be more quiet, josh..” I smile and his eyes flick to confusion to shock to embarrassment.

A/n:

I wanted to do a fluffy fluff you know? Anyway.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

Masterlist!

[violetmuses]

Wicked - A. Aretas 🖤

Title: Wicked - A. Aretas 🖤

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Female Reader

Main Storyline: Following the events of “Ride or Die,” criminal Armando Aretas returns to Miami and confronts his unknown future.

Tag List: @nelo0wesker @yassbishimvintage @nobodygetsza @peaxhygirl @superstar-t20 @adoresmiles @klssngss @deja-r @hyper-trash-panda 🏷

=====

2024

The large-scale space of this crowded airport helped criminal and fugitive Armando Aretas gain coverage during his prolonged return to Florida.

Armando could stop hiding around the world. By this point in time, moving over and over again would've depleted countless resources.

When Aretas looks up, Detective Mike Lowrey grinned while choosing famous sunglasses.

After facing terrible secrets or holding various questions, Mike would take responsibility here and now stood as Armando's biological father.

“What's up? I'm parked outside.” Kind for obvious reasons, Mike pointed outdoors and led his son near Miami's warmth.

______

As Mike took his Porsche, silence greeted this ride home. Lowrey wouldn't even play music out loud while Armando joined that passenger seat.

“You good?” Mike handed that brief yet genuine question after reaching the driveway.

“Tired.” Armando clipped through slightly accented English.

“I get it. C'mon.” Mike completely understands Armando's point before entering the house.

Inside, Mike's wife Christine smiles.

“I'm glad you're here and we've already organized our guest room upstairs.” Christine gestured near the staircase of this beautiful home. “Take your time.”

“Thank you.” Armando nodded to Christine and rolled his small luggage, able to sleep without disruptions.

*****

Sunlight returned when Armando Aretas woke up the next morning. Both soft blankets and gentle pillows welcomed his exhaustion this time around.

Pulling himself together, Aretas then straightened up the guest bedroom and headed downstairs, joining Mike and Christine for breakfast.

“Good morning.” Christine and Mike greeted Armando by the kitchen table.

“Hey.” Aretas nearly sounds coy when sitting down for this meal.

Peace brightened at last.

_______

“Ready to go?” Mike stepped near the driveway once more.

“That's why I'm here, right?” Armando shrugged while joining this passenger seat again.

“Not always.” Mike cleared his throat before air conditioning started up and this Porsche left.

_______

When parking near the Miami Police Department, Mike looked toward his estranged son.

“Ripping off that band-aid.” Lowrey wouldn't offer jokes and revealed this truth instead.

“Yeah, let's go in.” Aretas braced the inevitable moment because there's no other choice.

Entering this well-known precinct, Armando trailed his steps behind Lowrey just in case people started to ask questions.

Detectives and other staff members welcomed Lowrey without realizing the presence of his “guest” until both men reached that briefing.

“Mike! Why didn't you tell me that Armando was here?” Mike's longtime partner and best friend Marcus Burnett displays theatrics while leaving his seat.

“Marcus, don't start crying. C'mon!” Mike nearly rolled both while everyone else chuckled around the room.

Even AMMO weapons expert Kelly and tech genius Dorn smiled for a moment.

But when Captain Rita Secada joined the podium this morning, everyone silenced.

No more foolishness.

******

This upcoming case involved neon paths of South Beach.

“Monsters keep running around.” Driving with Marcus and Armando, Mike takes out his Porsche by nightfall. “Let's knock these fools out. Deal?”

“Armando better not act up tonight.” Marcus grumbled warnings over Aretas.

“Shut up, Marcus!” Mike gritted his teeth while pulling to the club. “We should blend here anyway.”

“It's just your sly way of getting Armando out of the house.” Marcus just kept ranting as all three men passed this bouncer.

On the other hand, Mike stepped back and watched Armando “network.”

When Aretas joined the party, this woman smiled and Armando whispered in her ear, nearly flirtatious.

Bingo! Still watching everything, Lowrey then realized Armando's plan and headed to that VIP section once Aretas left one of those barstools.

_____

“Sup?” Mike caught Armando without hesitation en route.

“There's a drop tonight, but that leader keeps hiding.” Armando explained. Drugs would funnel around.

“Who was at the bar?” Mike snuck his personal question.

“I don't really know who she is yet. We just met each other.” Armando held back thoughts of you.

“Have fun, but don't be stupid.” Mike offered quick advice to Armando before Marcus showed up again.

“No chance. He's dead.” Marcus revealed unexpected news.

“What?” Mike and Armando scrambled down this hallway as tension grounded the night.

******

Red and blue overcasts immediately brightened the skyline this evening as neon lights still painted canvases. Law enforcement swarmed all corners.

Huddled among terrified patrons, you listened while several officers questioned everyone.

One dangerous man snuck with plans to bring garbage near the city. Drugs would have ruined everything.

Just when authorities cleared this scene and you would head home, one seemingly familiar voice called you name across the street.

You learned his own name tonight: Armando Aretas.

The handsome stranger stood in black while this gold chain shined around his neck. Deep brown eyes glanced toward you with absolute concern.

“Are you all right?” Running down this block in your favorite shoes, you throw caution to the wind and check on Armando regardless.

“Yeah, I'm good. You?” His slightly accented English broke your heart this time.

“Scared.” You still kept telling him the truth at this point.

“I know, but we'll figure this out, okay?” Aretas wanted to settle your nerves. “Call if you hear anything else.”

“Okay.” You nodded, finding a ride shortly afterwards.

Who knows what could happen next?

******

“Reaching the morgue to identify this body. It's a rough case.” Returning to the precinct with Aretas, Mike set their next plan sooner than later.

“Aw, hell no!” Marcus turned away. “Leave dead bodies with the experts, man. I'm staying right here.”

“You found the body first, Marcus.” Mike seemed fed up. “Let's go.”

_____

“Be really careful when working through places like this, man.” Mike detailed protocol for Armando. “We should never contaminate anything.”

“Got it.” Aretas nodded toward Mike and locked down concentration. There was no other option.

“How are y'all so calm?” Marcus felt dramatic as usual. “I'm getting sick already.”

“Don't you dare start with that bullshit!” Mike warned his best friend.

“Detectives?” One expert acknowledged Lowrey, Burnett, and Aretas.

Here we go. Mike thought.

______

“Excuse Burnett. He's very squeamish.” Mike informed the team over Marcus.

“The man's body was found much later than expected. Not even embalmed yet.” One professional spoke up.

“Can we at least identify this man now? Our intel claimed his work as a drug dealer.” Lowrey tried once more.

“Verification will take more time, Detective. I'm sorry.” The professional declined further scope.

“Fuck.” Mike then clenched his teeth upon realization.

Progress almost moved ten steps back with the case.

Just when everyone bid farewell and reached that Porsche, Marcus finally vomited outside!

“I can't stand your ass!” Mike drove home for the evening.

“You know damn-well that I hate dead bodies, Mike!” Marcus shouted back to defend himself.

No breakfast tomorrow. Aretas casted both eyes toward the ceiling.

_______

Back home in the guest bedroom tonight, Armando took this much-needed shower and charged his cell phone before texting you.

Armando: Hey. 🚔

You: Hi. 😴

Armando: Did I wake you up? 🚔

You: Yeah. 😴

Armando: My bad. Check again soon? 🚔

You: Of course. Good night. 😴

Armando: Good night. 🚔

*******

Only taking coffee at the precinct, Armando watched virtual screens as tech genius Dorn highlighted updates.

“Our suspect ran this massive operation until we reached that nightclub.” Dorn explained.

“Anything like James McGarth?” Mike remembered the last case with Armando.

“Nothing like McGarth, but the culprit still made a name for himself.” Dorn shook his head.

“Names?” Mike continued offering his important questions.

“Still no confirmation from the morgue.” Dorn kept refusing.

“Aight. Let's go, man.” Mike gathered his belongings and pointed toward Aretas instead, leaving.

“Hey, where y'all going?” Marcus stood from his chair, puzzled.

Ignoring Marcus, Mike grabbed keys to the classic Porsche and rolled out with Armando.

______

“Take a break.” Mike parked in front of the house this time. “I'll pull more strings and we'll reconvene soon.”

“You sure?” Armando wanted to clarify the plan just in case.

“Yeah. We pushed a lot, regardless of taking dead ends.” Mike nodded. “Get some rest. We got this.”

“Fair enough.” Armando left the car, exhausted.

_______

While settled, Armando noticed your text message first:

You: Feel better? 🫂

Armando: Can't explain everything, but I'm taking a break. ❤️‍🩹

You: That's good. 😁

Armando: When this case ends, could we hang out sometime? 👀

You: Sure. 🫂

Grinning, Armando Aretas slept while thinking of you once more.

******

“Somebody has a girlfriend.” Marcus Burnett whispered to Mike Lowrey, joking.

When Armando sees you up close again, the case ends for good, as promised.

Warm daylight greeted one public park. AMMO joined this cookout with the Miami Police Department.

No more danger. Armando refused to see you worry again.

Standing at the grill, Mike looked over his shoulder to see you chatting up a storm with Armando. Even Dorn and Kelly joined your table.

Sighing with relief, Mike knew that the future wouldn't cloud anymore.

[sanjoongie]

Blood and Sand

ღMy Forth contribution to the tipsy drabbles~

ღPairing: Gladiator! Jeong Yunho x Gladiator! Reader (f)

ღGenre: suggestive, action

ღAu: gladiator, historical

ღTrope: best friends to lovers, comrades in arms

ღRating: 18+, MDNI

ღWarnings: violence, blood, suggestive mention of just how big yunho is in the downstairs department 😳

ღWord Count: 1,121

ღSummary: In a Battle Royale gladiator contest, the final two whittle down to you and Yunho. You win, but at the cost of Yunho’s pride as a gladiator.

ღMy Tipsy Drabbles mini master list | Isa's | Dae's | Flurry's

The sun shone from high in the sky as you braced yourselves on the blood-drenched sands of the arena. The crowd shouted obscenities and praise but you droned them out, to focus on only one man: Jeong Yunho.

Today was a battle royale. Fifty gladiators were fighting for the grand title of today's winner: God of the Sun. Whichever gladiator won today’s battle would be treated with the utmost respect and spoiled with riches until the following year when another God would win.

The only person in your way was your best friend.

You and Yunho had trained to be gladiators since you were both sold and bought by the training house you belonged to. Yunho was given a spear for his long reach and you were given a club for your bloodthirst. Both of you excelled with your weapons but never had you ever had to fight each other on the sands.

“Well.” Yunho hefted his spear to rest on his shoulder. “I thought you would have gone out earlier.”

You grinned, blood staining your teeth from when you bit into someone else’s arm to get out of a messy headlock. “And let you have all the fun and the glory?”

Yunho stared off into the crowd. You bounced on the balls of your feet. You didn’t have any patience to wait for Yunho to shift and reveal which way he was going to lunge. You may be Yunho’s best friend but he was beyond competitive; he wouldn’t give up just for you.

“Come on,” You prompted him. “Come at me, Stick Boy.”

Yunho’s spear whipped downwards and you dodged its descending arc. You placed your sandaled foot on the tip to keep it lodged in the sand. “Do you really want to dance with me?” Yunho asked.

“Do you expect me to throw myself on your spear?” You countered.

“No but--” Yunho made a noise of frustration.

You tossed your club from one hand to the other. “I don’t need your pity, Yunho. I don’t want to hear some bullshit excuse of how you don’t want to hurt me. That’s insulting. I am a warrior. We learned both our trades side by side. Fight me. Let’s measure our worth.”

When Yunho didn’t say anything, or even look at you, you let out a blood-curdling yell and slammed your club down on Yunho’s spear. It moved out of the way just before your clubhead could split it in two.

“Fine,” Yunho said tightly.

And so began the fight between the Bullmoose of the North and the Mantis of the East. You charged and grunted and Yunho jabbed and dodged. The two of you were never meant to be opponents, for who would invest in fighters only to have them fight each other? But alas, the tournament was mandatory for all the gladiator houses to fight in. If you wanted to be someone recognized that year, of course.

The sun was so high in the sky now that both of you were sweating and breathing hard. The crowd was getting rowdy too, impatient for a victor now that they had their show.

“Listen,” Yunho said, attempting to bargain. “If you feign to the left, I can graze your ribs and when I’m victor, I’ll--”

You took your chance at his distraction and swung your club, clipping him just under the jaw. Yunho’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed onto the sand. You raised your club above your head and roared at the crowd in victory.

You were gifted with the laurels of the God of the Sun and were lifted onto a palanquin, carted away to enjoy your spoils. Yunho was dragged off the sands, in the complete opposite of care.

That night, after all the drinking, and celebrations, you made your way to the downstairs where the medicaus took care of his charges. You found Yunho awake, sitting up, with a glorious bruise on his jawline.

“And so the sleeping princess awakens,” You grinned, sloshing the wine in your cup.

Yunho sought to pin you with a dark glare. “I can’t believe you did that.”

You shrugged. “That’s what you get for letting your guard down.”

Yunho ripped his gaze from yours, opting to look down at his lap, where his hands were clenched into his loin clothe. “You know how much I wanted this,” he grumbled.

“And I didn’t?” You shook your head. “Oh, Princess, I wasn’t about to just give it to you.”

“Stop calling me that,” Yunho said through clenched teeth.

“It’s apt, no?” You snickered. “The sleeping princess they’ll call you. And I, the--”

You never did get to finish the new title you were about to bequeath yourself with, because Yunho bursted up from his place in his cot, and pinned you under him. Your cup clattered to the floor, spilling your undrunk wine.

You bucked and thrashed but Yunho easily held your arms above your head with one hand.

“Is this how you treat the God of the Sun?” You snarled, snapping your teeth without actually managing to bite anything but air.

Yunho looked down at you, amused now. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

You let out a loud noise of frustration. “Or what, Yunho? If you had won, would I have given you the respect you had earned? Is it because I’m a woman? Are you one of those men now?”

“I am a man and you would do good to remember that.”

Apparently Yunho had taken it personally that you called him princess. Because at that moment, Yunho’s eyes became even darker, raking over your form under him.

“Because I sure do remember that you’re a woman.”

“Yunho,” You growled in warning.

You grew even more desperate to get out of Yunho’s hold. You twisted your wrists, managing to free them but Yunho simply pressed his entire weight against you, pinning your body with his own.

“We are friends, are we not? Do not do this!”

“Do what?”

You felt his lower half grind into yours. With a yell, you wrapped your legs around his waist and threw your weight with all your might. Yunho landed on the ground with an oof, arms around his head to protect his new head injury.

“You’re crazy,” Yunho grunted.

“It would do you good to remember that,” You threw his words back at him.

Yunho threw a rueful look up at you. “I don’t think I’m going to forget it now.”

And you had a feeling you weren’t going to forget that your best friend was a man either. Not after feeling how… blessed by the god’s he truly was.

[dentaltreedentalclinic-1]

Daily Life with Invisalign: Tips and Best Practices Living with Invisalign aligners can be a transformative journey toward achieving a perfect smile. While the process is convenient and less noticeable than traditional braces, integrating Invisalign into your daily routine requires some adjustments. Here, we'll explore tips and experiences to help you make the most of your Invisalign treatment.

Morning Routine Starting your day with Invisalign is straightforward. Upon waking, remove your aligners and give them a thorough rinse. Brush your teeth and clean the aligners before putting them back in. This habit ensures oral hygiene and helps in maintaining the clarity of your aligners.

For those in Pune, the Best Dental Tree Dental Care in Aundh Pune provides excellent guidance on maintaining Invisalign. Their expertise ensures your treatment progresses smoothly with minimal disruptions.

Throughout the Day Wearing Invisalign means committing to keeping the aligners in your mouth for about 20-22 hours a day. This allows them to effectively move your teeth. However, this also means removing them every time you eat or drink anything other than water.

Always carry a small dental care kit with you, including a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a case for your aligners. This way, you can brush your teeth and clean your aligners after meals, preventing food particles from being trapped and causing dental issues.

For those looking for the best dental implants treatment near me, it's crucial to maintain oral hygiene, especially when undergoing simultaneous treatments like Invisalign and implants. Consult with professionals like Dr. Ganesh, an esteemed implantologist in Aundh, for tailored advice.

Evening Care Before bed, remove your aligners and follow a thorough cleaning routine. Soak them in a recommended cleaning solution or use Invisalign cleaning crystals to ensure they remain clear and free of bacteria. Brush and floss your teeth meticulously to avoid any plaque buildup that could lead to cavities or other dental issues.

Patients often search for wisdom teeth removal near me while undergoing Invisalign treatment. Combining such procedures can be beneficial and is often recommended by the best dental clinics in Aundh. Proper planning with your dentist can streamline the process and enhance your overall dental health.

Common Experiences Many Invisalign users report initial discomfort, similar to the feeling after a tightening session with traditional braces. This discomfort typically subsides after a few days. Staying hydrated can help ease any soreness, and over-the-counter pain relief can be taken if necessary.

Adjusting to speaking with aligners in your mouth might take a little time. Practice speaking at home, and soon you'll find that your speech returns to normal. For those concerned about aesthetic aspects during treatment, the best teeth braces and clips alternatives offered by Best Dental Tree Dental Care in Aundh Pune ensure minimal visibility and maximum comfort.

Regular Check-Ups Regular visits to your dentist are crucial for monitoring the progress of your Invisalign treatment. Your dentist will provide new sets of aligners and make any necessary adjustments to your treatment plan.

For those in Aundh, finding a reliable dentist near me or dental clinic near me is essential for maintaining the efficacy of your Invisalign treatment. The Best Dentist in Aundh will ensure your aligners are working effectively and address any concerns you might have.

Conclusion Invisalign offers a convenient and aesthetically pleasing way to straighten your teeth. By integrating proper dental hygiene practices and adhering to the recommended wear time, you can enjoy a smooth journey to a perfect smile. Whether you need the best dental fillings, best teeth whitening treatment, or are seeking wisdom teeth removal near me, the comprehensive services provided by dental experts like Dr. Ganesh in Aundh will support your overall dental health throughout your Invisalign journey.

Remember, maintaining a consistent routine and seeking professional advice when needed are key to achieving the best results with Invisalign. Enjoy your path to a beautiful smile with confidence and ease!

Dental Tree Dental Clinic

Address: Rikesh Apartment, 1st Floor, Flat 3, DP Rd, opp. Deepak Sweets, near parihar chowk, Sanghvi Nagar, Aundh, Pune, Maharashtra 411007

Phone: 086695 89999

Website: https://www.dentaltree.in/

[ducksbellorum]

2. Homecoming

whumpuary 2025 day 5 prompts: chills, "do you trust me?"

tw: pet whump (gen), mild self harm, cold

Mistress' house was small, compared to its old Master's estate. It was quieter, too; the impressions filling it limited to the experiences of only three or four people that Legion could sense. The sensations were still loud and pressing on its mind, but it felt like it could breathe easier here.

“-a bath for you.”

Mistress' casual words grabbed its attention with a jolt of fear. Legion flinched back, trying to make itself smaller. “Th-there's n-n-no-” Its panic resonated off its gift, becoming steadily larger and louder. It knocked its head against the wall, trying to let the bright spot of pain keep it tethered.

“You'll feel better with the dirt off you.” It knew she was right. Legion was a mess; blood and sweat covering its skin. It hung its head self-consciously. “Hey.” She was right in front of it now, dipping her head to catch its eyes. “Shower first,” Mistress said, “and then we'll see about dinner.”

Legion bit its tongue against a whine. That was the deal then. No food until the bath. Legion's stomach felt like an open wound under its ribs. It couldn't remember the last time there had been real food. Not since Master was alive. “Y-yes Mistress.”

“You don't have to be scared.” Her words were soft and almost lost in the chaos of Legion's perception. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Do you trust me?” Mistress held out one hand, still covered in her black gloves. Legion hesitated, then placed its hand in hers. It didn't, but it had no choice.

Mistress led Legion down the hallway to a bathroom decorated with happy yellow ducks. “Shower's there, I'll grab you a towel and something else to wear. We can try to save your clothes but uh...” She tactfully didn't mention the rust-brown stain of Master's blood marring Legion's torn shirt.

Legion hurried to undress. It held on to the shirt for a minute, focusing on the sense memories present in the last gift Master had given it. Already they were fading, crowded over by the shades of its new Mistress, its new life. Legion sank to its knees, the shirt clutched forgotten in one hand.

Mistress returned, already speaking as she opened the door. “-thinking that you could fit my sister's old-” Mistress cut herself off with a yelp when she saw Legion kneeling naked on the bathroom tile. “Oh my god, okay, that's happening I guess.” She looked away.

Legion understood her alarm. It never had been a pretty Pet and it definitely wasn't attractive now; dirty and marked with attempts at correcting its ever wandering attention. It dug a fingernail into an old scratch on its ankle, dragging its focus back to the present. “This- this- this one is ready, Mistress.”

“I see that,” she muttered. “Can you... Can I leave you to it or do I...” Mistress huffed a laugh. “I've never had a Pet before.”

That much was clear even to a damaged Pet like Legion. The nervousness came off her in waves, clipping in and out of past and present in Legion's eyes. It opened its senses, dipping into the impressions of this house and this woman to guess what it should do next.

“Legion?”

Legion abruptly realized that it had drifted off again. Mistress was looking at it curiously, obviously expecting an answer. Legion made an educated guess. “This-this one c-can manage, Mistress.”

The relief from her was almost a physical thing. “Great good excellent, love that. Okay, have fun, I'm going now.” Mistress nearly slammed the door closed in her eagerness to leave.

Legion unfolded from the floor and climbed into the shower. The first touch of the water was bracing, freezing and sharp against its skin. Its teeth started chattering almost at once. For one instant it was tempted to spin the knob towards warmth, but couldn't manage to follow through. If it lost focus and wasted Mistress' water and heat, she would be angry. It had to be quick and it had to be thorough.

Legion did its best to hurry but cleansing away the grime of the past days took longer than expected. The icy water made it easy to stay focused but harder to move. By the time the water ran clear, Legion could barely feel its fingers. It took two clumsy tries to even turn off the shower when it was done.

The clothes that Mistress left were too big, but Legion welcomed the warmth of the extra fabric swimming around it. The cold shower felt like it had penetrated into its bones. It wanted to bury itself in the too-large sweater and curl into a ball until the shaking stopped. Instead, it went to find its Mistress.

Legion found its Mistress in the kitchen, humming over a pot on the stove. When she turned, smiling, Legion knelt at her feet. It wasn't graceful, with chills still rattling its body, but it hoped that she wouldn't notice.

Mistress' smile faded. “Hey, you're shaking, what's up?” She touched Legion's hair gently, then pushed her gloved fingers deeper into the damp tangle. “Your hair is freezing, did-” Mistress crouched and looked Legion in the face. “Did you even turn on the hot water?”

Legion could barely see her. The echoes were loudest in this part of the house, blurring the knowledge of now and then. It caught her last question on sheer luck and gave a headshake turned too violent by a hard shiver. “N-not allowed, Mis-stress. This-s one behaves.”

“Oh for fucks sake.” She nudged Legion until it was kneeling directly over the heat vent in the floor. “Sit on that for a while and see if it helps. God.” Mistress went back to her cooking and left Legion to huddle over the heat. The shakes eased as the warmth seeped into its bones.

By the time Mistress turned back with two bowls of soup, Legion had fallen asleep curled up on her kitchen floor.

Previous Masterpost Next

[daisychainsandbowties]

For Ava, piracy is Robin Hooding. Distributing ill-gotten gains is the best part.

For Beatrice, piracy is an escape. Being chased by the authorities has made her free.

For Suzanne, piracy is how she protects her girls. A means to an end.

For Shannon, piracy is a duty. Needs must.

For Mary, piracy is a job. A job with a built in soulmate.

For Camila, piracy is the family business. It is all about family.

For Lilith, piracy is the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to familial expectations. Found family is infinitely better.

god yeah i really do love the idea of ava, fresh-sprung from an orphanage and anointed with unholy power, fleeing through a maze of port city streets and running headlong into beatrice.

she’s got a pistol at her hip and a stack of books in her arms, smells faintly of magesmoke and blood, but she pulls ava into an alley, casts a simple ward and holds her there in the damp dark, alley cats wending around her boots.

one hand over ava’s mouth, the other trapping her arm against the splintery wooden wall until the guards (ava hopes that she thinks they’re guards) have moved on. then beatrice stepping back, appraising, going to collect her books from a neat pocket dimension she sketched into the air.

telling ava, because she follows, moth to a flame, “sorry about the rough handling. my name is beatrice, ship’s mage on the Cat's Cradle.”

she’s got the tattoos to prove it, almost consuming the skin of both arms as she tugs the cuffs up past her elbows; not down to hide them, but up, to reveal what she is.

at ava’s puzzled look she says, “it’s better, around here, to be seen as a mage rather than a woman.”

ava barely bites back on some loathsome quip, nods at her, then flinches at the sound of distant shouts.

beatrice casts a sidelong glance at her in her stained shirt, trousers cut at the knees. she's barefoot and bruised, staring like she's never seen buildings, or the sky, or a woman before.

she doesn’t even have a knife tucked into her trousers, or the slightest chance of making it through a night alone in this city.

there's a sigh trapped behind her teeth, but beatrice finds herself turning back. voice clipped, almost emotionless, “you look a little bit out of your depth.”

“no shit.”

but ava says it with a shaky laugh. she’s still more than a little preoccupied with how beatrice’s mage tattoos shift and slither in the interrupted light.

beatrice shrugs, “you know if you're interested, our surgeon needs an assistant.” her eyes travel hastily down ava’s body and then back up, “she says that small hands are helpful.”

“small hands?”

“to, ah, move around hers and to make stitches. i can’t say i really understand it, but, well-”

“magic doesn’t heal.” ava says this with bleak familiarity, like she knows the words by heart but would rather she didn’t.

she looks at her hands, tries not to think of what they can do, of the promise she made while half-asleep, to something that should not even be real.

“don’t you think that’s weird? you can do anything, but you can’t close a wound or... or fix broken bones?”

beatrice looks at her, shrugs uneasily. it’s just ink sitting under her skin, but the tattoos seem to shift and glisten wetly as she crosses her arms. “it’s not strange,” she says. “it’s the bargain we made.”

mages are oh-so-fond of trotting out that line. ava tries not to grimace at it. she is, after all, alone and penniless. she is being hunted.

“i’ve never done surgery or anything like that before,” she admits, looking down, braced for dismissal. her eyes stall on the books in beatrice’s arms. gods below i’m fucked. so fucked. i can’t even read, how am i supposed to-

“do you learn quickly?”

beatrice is looking at her calmly when ava rocks back on her heels and dares to meet her eyes. “you… what?”

“our surgeon can teach you, if you learn quickly.” beatrice pursed her lips, “if not, you could be one of the rigging boys, or… well, i’ll figure something out.”

ava stares at her, astonished. “but... why are you helping me?”

a raised eyebrow, muscles working under ink as beatrice clutches her books tightly. she looks odd and out of place in the dingy alley, with her tailored trousers and little silver buckles winking on her boots, through the dark.

“you look like you’re running from something.” ava clenches her fists at her sides, begging her abilities to stay under her skin.

beatrice seems preoccupied with her own thoughts, “someone helped me that way once, when i was… lost. you’ll meet her, i suppose. she’s my captain.”

“are you pirates?” ava blurts the question before she can stop herself, and beatrice’s gaze sharpens.

ava holds up her hands, “it’s just… two officers who are women and now your captain too. it occurred to me, is all.”

beatrice gives her a hard look, but she finds nothing in ava’s expression, beyond a measure of panic. maybe some fear, which is all for the better. "i suppose you'll find out." she's closed-off again, but not hostile.

yet, ava thinks. not yet.

“if you want, you can follow me. if not…”

beatrice frowns. already the sun is setting, dragging light back down along western shore, down into the ocean.

she turns away, starts walking, does not make a relieved sound when she hears ava start to follow. convinces herself that she doesn’t wish to make any relieved sound, at all.

one girl cannot be important, not in the scope of things.

“i’m ava, by the way.”

she speaks to the firm slope of beatrice’s shoulders. the day was too warm for a jacket, so it’s in her cabin, half-draped across the desk to hide her papers.

a half-turn, a nod of the head.

“pleasure.”

[lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit]

Okay so can i get a oneshot of mordecai, nico, and serafine with a reader who gets kidnapped by them? you know how in the comic mitzi says they once kidnapped a tailor yeah like what if mordecai, nico and serafina had to do that with a gn reader who is also tailor. But the moment all 3 of them look away the reader manages to straight up yeet themselves out of the car, shakes the ropes off and is already running by the time they notice. like the readers already gone by the time they get out of the car. then the next time they kidnap the reader one of them is like "how did you do that?" and the readers like "i'm not telling you and if you really want my services you can walk into my store yourself like a normal person instead of kidnapping me!" and yeets themselves out again and runs. like this bitch can't be kidnapped and will only help someone if they go to the readers shop and pay for it like a normal person.

i'm sorry if that was long i just think i'd be a funny concept. thank you

So Rocky had a buddy in the circus. (Well–not quite a buddy, but he wasn’t the only escape artist.) Y/N was trained almost from kittenhood to get out of the tightest spots and the most convoluted things. They knew how to pick locks with only their claws, they knew how to break free from ropes, they knew how to contort just right to get chains to slide off them like they were made of oil.

They also knew how to sew and mend things. And after being repeatedly told that they were the best cat at it, they eventually decided to ditch the circus and make tailoring their calling instead. And they did pretty well for themselves, all things considered. Well enough to draw the attention of Asa Sweet. And for one reason or another, he decided that doing business with them would be in his best interest. You don’t say no to Asa Sweet.

Y/N did.

Which they presume is why they were now blindfolded and gagged in the back of a car beside a dour tomcat and two twins in front snickering and mocking the latter.

“Why does he even want me that bad?” Y/N tried to ask again through their gag. “All I do is make clothing, it’s not that big of a deal, I’m sure!”

“You are not helping your case,” the cat beside them spoke up. “I suggest you stay quiet until we are an acceptable distance away.”

Y/N pinned their ears back, but reluctantly obeyed. Where they were going, they didn’t want to know–but being blindfolded, gagged and ted up could only mean one thing. They weren’t a good swimmer at the best of times.

They started to wriggle. Carefully and slowly, trying to keep a cool head as they drew on past circus know-how. The ropes around their wrists started to slip free.

They paused for a moment, listening to the sounds around them. They had no way of knowing if their fellow passenger had seen what they were doing until he spoke to the twins, warning them about watching the road; which means he wasn’t looking at Y/N. ‘My first stroke of luck today.’

They ground their canines against their bottom lip as the wriggling continued. They had an escape plan in mind, they just had to hope that the twins wouldn’t shoot on sight and that they could move fast enough to free everything before they got pounced on.

Their paws shifted free. They were surprisingly steady as they ripped the blindfold off and lunged for their passenger’s opened window.

The car skid to a halt as they rolled on the asphalt, rushed to their feet and bolted off to the side. Running along the side of the road was a death sentence, so they could either climb a tree or try to fight off three armed cats with nothing on them but their claws and teeth. Tree-climbing was not their forte, but–

A bullet whizzed by their ear. Another clipped their arm and almost made them stumble. Climbing a tree it is!

Y/N scaled the first one they saw, digging their claws into the wet wood and praying to whatever god existed that the branch they chose to brace on didn’t break. One of the cats chasing after them swore and turned to the tallest and bulkiest of the lot. “We lost ‘em.”

The bulky cat chrugged. “C'est la vie.”

”This is no shrugging matter,” a black cat snapped. “If it wasn’t for–”

“If it weren’t for you leavin’ your window open, cher, we wouldn’t be in dis mess.” The female of the group shouldered what looked like a rifle. “How’d dey get away so quick?”

“Must’ve climbed a tree.”

Y/N’s blood ran cold as the bulkier cat looked up the tree they were in. They swore their heart stopped when his eyes landed on them, but the foliage must have camouflaged them because he shrugged and turned away.

“We will find them again later, I am sure.” The black cat looked conflicted even from Y/N’s distance. “Let’s go.”

“If we ransack their shop, do you tink we’ll find it den?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Their talking grew muffled as they left. Y/N sagged against their perch in relief. They were safe, for however long.

Though the queen cat’s question confused them. Find what? What did Y/N have that was worth killing them over?

Maaaaybe it’s time to move out of Saint Louis. Now how do they get down from this tree?

[yuzuwakano]

Kurona Ranze isn't much taller, around 5’3. She has a bob and bangs that she cuts herself and two long strands on each side of her face that she ties into braids when she's bored of whatever you're saying. She has shark teeth and braces with blue rubber bands to fix her overbite. She has a collection of cat and slogan t-shirts and fun colored thigh high socks that get covered up by the same dark blue shark sweatshirt and pair of brown boots every day. She carries around the same plastic water bottle every day and goes on rants about overconsumption killing the ocean. She paints her nails with sharpies and pens and doesn't know how to use makeup but still carries around a bag of dollar store eyeshadow and clearance aisle lipstick. Her favorite movie is one that aired on television 9 years ago and her favorite song is one she heard in a grocery store one time. She doesn't understand poetry that doesn't rhyme but likes stories of women falling in love with someone that might be a man. She imagines that it's not. 

Kurona Ranze likes a girl. 

Kiyora Jin was a solid 5 foot tall. Her hair comes down to her mid back and she pins it back with too many hair clips. She treats her wine lipstick as blush and eyeshadow and her mascara as eyeliner. Her skirts all come down past her knees and she's been wearing the same pair of converse since her first year of highschool. Her bag is tearing at the seams and her oversized shirts are all hand me downs from her sisters. She has a red pen that she uses to draw up and down her arms, doodles of stars and swirls and intricate patterns she’ll never be able to recreate. She carries around the same poetry book everywhere, it's tattered at its corners and no one is sure where she got it but Kurona knows. She likes statues of dead people and her interpretive dance class. She's the most interesting person Kurona has ever met. 

She doesn't talk but if she did Kurona would listen to her all day. Kurona knows her favorite colors and the difference between her favorite songs even though they all kind of sound the same. Kurona Ranze has memorized Kiyora Jin the way Kiyora Jin memorizes poetry. She sees Jin when she closes her eyes and holds her hand when they cross the street even though Ranze was about 80 percent sure Jin doesn't like girls. Was. 

“I like you.” 

“I like you too, Jinnie. You're my best friend.” 

They were at the library again, it was the only place in 100 miles that they could get away from the howling jocks and laughing hyenas that called themselves their classmates. They were half whispering even though they were the only people on the floor. Jin was reading the same poetry book that she had last week and Ranze had found a new shark book on the kids floor. 

“No.” Jin's eyebrows were furrowed as she tried to find the words that she was looking for. Her brain thought in the form of the poetry she memorized and songs she vaguely knew the names of. It's hard to make your own sentence when all of the puzzle pieces are too big. She was searching her catalog of death themed rhymes and cryptic rhythms for romance, a genre that she never ventured into. 

“Like Romeo and Juliet.”

“I don't want to be Romeo and Juliet.” 

Jin whipped her head around, confessing was risky but the rainbow bracelets and pink and orange pins on Ranzes backpack made her feel safe. It was on a whim but she had been confident that she was right. Had she miscalculated? Or was the problem not that she was a girl but that she was her. 

“I want to be Virgina Wolf. You can be Vita Sackville-West. She was a poet like you.” 

“You almost killed me.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” They were laughing now, and though she didn't like poetry Ranze could write a million pages about the way Jin looks and sounds and feels in her hand when she laughs. 

“I like-like you too.”

“Like-like,” Jin mirrored back. 

“It's one way to say it, it's clunky, clunky. They don't use it in poems.” but she said it again. “Like-like.” She was memorizing it. Memorizing Ranze like a synth wave song and Edgar Allen Poe. 

“We should get married.” 

“I have dance class later.” 

“Not now.” Ranze laughed again, for as literate as she was she could be a little air-headed, she had her head in books and that's where it stayed when she closed the pages. “Just in general, like later in life, later.”

“Oh.” Jin thought about it, she imagined a wedding in a cemetery and shark themed cupcakes. In her head she started a new poem about white tulle covered in mud and frayed at the end by sea creatures made of bones and love. 

“I'll get us a dog, we can name it after a food.” 

“Oreo.” 

“Bagel.”

“I like bagels.”

“I know.” 

[twistafr]

Double On The Door

TedxSchlatt smut fic, pretty short thingy i made

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 1,012 Summary: "Holy shit, Ted," Schlatt whispers between a sound so high-pitched and drunk with giddiness that it could qualify for a giggle. He braces a hand against the wooden door he's leaning against, and flings his other arm over Ted's shoulder. "And I thought you were only into the chicks."

The party kinda sucked anyways.

It's not the best guest etiquette, but neither of them care. One of them has downed too many drinks and the other's smoked too much to care, after all.

And, well, maybe even without all of that Ted and Schlatt would still have locked the door of the bathroom with booming laughter that still wasn't louder than the generic music playing throughout the house.

They both suppose, sure, yeah, somebody might hold a house party and still not want people to get all handsy in their own bathroom. But they'd like to propose the fact that at least it's not somebody's bed, since the bathroom would be less gross and devastating to hear than two strangers going at it in the bed one wakes up in most of the time.

So it's the bathroom Schlatt and Ted are in, where Ted has a hand down Schlatt's shorts, making the other puff out hot air into his ear. Ted wraps his hand around his dick, and the headache Schlatt previously had formed due to the annoying laughter of anyone not named Ted suddenly wipes off from his head.

"Holy shit, Ted," Schlatt whispers between a sound so high-pitched and drunk with giddiness that it could qualify for a giggle. He braces a hand against the wooden door he's leaning against, and flings his other arm over Ted's shoulder. "And I thought you were only into the chicks."

Ted laughs with him. Or at him. Nobody really knows. He just smiles, and it's this genuine thing that makes Schlatt's head tilt back with a well endowed stroke from Ted's hand, palm warm and engulfing Schlatt who gasps slightly, then attempts to whack Ted.

"I could say the same," Ted says, huffing as he glances down, eyes hazed over with a whirl of desire and carelessness as he presses his lips to Schlatt's neck with absolutely no aim. Schlatt doesn't stop him, just glances at him in confusion, heavily judging the other as he parts his mouth against the bare skin.

"The hell are you-" But then Ted dares to bare his teeth, just opening his mouth lazily and tempting Schlatt's neck with a new possible design, canines tapping at the door. Schlatt scoffs, almost in disbelief, and feels a wave of arousal and disgust wash over him at the same time. This leaves him to swat Ted's face away, groaning with annoyance as he does. "Biting me? Get outta here, dude."

Ted chuckles, a slow and casual thing, but he can't seem to keep it there and bursts out into gradual fits of laughter as he shrugs, then sighs heavily. "My bad, bro."

With that Ted squeezes his hold, like a total weirdo, Schlatt can confirm, as his dick pusles and he reels in on himself, bumping his head against Ted's as the other's thumb swipes over the head.

"Well fuck you too, then," Schlatt tries to tell him, but his voice cuts off, sounding terribly weathered. All clipped and breathy, like just maybe the way Ted runs his finger across a vein is actually doing something to Schlatt as he gives a brief moan at the sensation purely provided by Ted's fngerpads.

"Oo, what's that you said?" Ted asks teasingly, an absolute jerk full of corny lines that can make anybody anywhere cringe. But he's good with what he's doing, so they both don't quit, and Ted hums as Schlatt lifts his hips, wordlessly trying to somehow upgrade his handjob intensity or whatever he's attempting, Ted doesn't pay attention as he grins all smug. "Did you say something that implies me fucking you? Cus it's a yes, one-hundo."

"You're so fucking annoying," Schlatt complains, but it's timed with efficient work from Ted's hand, and his cock twitches in his hold, and he bucks up into it. So his words of frustration simply end up sounding like a breathless lil moan from a voice of endearment. Not what Schlatt meant. But it doesn't matter when there's bundles of heat exploding with pleasure all throughout as Ted shifts his hand. "I-" He pauses, breath hitching as Ted uses his free hand to push Schlatt closer, hips angled upward. "Damn- look, you're not fucking me."

Ted frowns dramatically, heart stabbed by an event he knew was coming. "Right, you'll never be fucked by a dude-"

Schlatt leans up, craning his neck forward, and grasping to cuff Ted's face. "In a damn shitty bathroom, Ted."

Ted's spine straightens up for a second at the explanation, heart spiking with possibility as he flicks his wrist, causing Schlatt's eyelashes to flutter nearly. "Then the hell are we still doing in here? We gotta go to where you would let that happen, Schlatt. Dude, come on-"

Schlatt clutches onto him with both hands all of a sudden, and knocks Ted's calf with his heel. "Not tonight, pal."

Right before Ted can ask why somebody knocks on the door, so instead Ted is stuck yelling something about being occupied. Only after he gets back to work, big fingers wrapping around Schlatt who groans, the noise dragged out with satisfaction, punched out straight from his lungs, maybe even his soul as Ted moves.

 Ted inches forward, sucking in a deep breath as Schlatt moans once more, noises becoming more and more likely as he progresses into a more reactive person.

"This is so-" Schlatt pants for a second, bowing his head. He remembers to disregard this, of course, and rolls his eyes as he laboriously breathes. "This is unfair."

And well, Schlatt said it, even if either of them mean it because to be completely frank, Schlatt doesn't actually consider a handjob from his own Ted, his best friend, to be an unfair thing that happened to him.

It does, in fact, make him finish, leaving him to mumble out Ted's name and a bunch of half-assed insults as Ted soaks everything from him- Before he sinisterly takes out his phone and snaps a photo of Schlatt from chest up.

Schlatt tries to delete it, of course.