Epel and Vil || ABDL

Vil’s bedroom smelled like honeyed tea and expensive cologne. You were settled on the plush carpet, the thick padding between your legs a warm, familiar weight, when Epel’s voice cut through the quiet. “I don’t need one.” Vil looked up from his vanity mirror, one eyebrow arching like a drawn blade. “Need what, Potato?” “A diaper.” Epel crossed his arms, chin jutting out in that stubborn way that made his country accent thicker. “I’m a big boy. Diapers are for babies. I can use the potty just fine.” You bit your lip, watching the scene unfold. Epel stood in just his little sailor-themed shirt, the hem barely reaching his thighs. His bare legs were pale and smooth. He looked anything but an 18 year old freshman. Vil set down his lipstick tube with a deliberate click that wasn't at all deliberate. The sound was simple. Final. He rose from the vanity and crossed the room with the grace of someone who knew every inch of his domain. “Oh, really?” “Yeah.” Epel’s voice wavered. “I’m not wearin’ one. I’m grown.” "Grown?" Vil Echoed Vil’s smile could have been carved from frost. He stopped just in front of Epel, towering over him despite his heels being absent. You shifted on the carpet, your own padding pressing against you. Vil glanced your way, a flicker of warmth in his eyes—a promise that you were included, observed, about to be entertained. “Mmm. Is that so?” “Yes!” Epel puffs his chest out. "Diapers are for babies. I’m practically grown. I can use the toilet like everyone else. I don’t need you checking my diaper every hour, and I definitely don’t need—” His rant cuts off mid-sentence. Something shifts in the air—a scent, warm and earthy, rising from beneath his romper. Epel’s face cycles through confusion, horror, and then a dawning, vacant emptiness. His jaw goes slack. “Oh my,” Vil purrs. Epel’s hands drift to his padded rear. His fingers press against the fabric, and his cheeks flush crimson. The protest dies in his throat, replaced by a wet, gurgling sound from deep in his diaper. His eyes glaze over. Drool pools at the corner of his mouth. Vil rises gracefully, crossing the room with deliberate steps. Each footfall seems to echo in the suddenly quiet space. He crouches in front of Epel, one manicured hand reaching out to cup the boy’s chin. “That’s what I thought.” Epel makes a soft, garbled noise. His body sways. Vil’s voice drops to a honeyed whisper. “Such a messy little boy. You were saying such big words just a moment ago, and now you can’t even hold your head up straight, can you?” Epel’s eyelids droop. A string of saliva connects his lower lip to Vil’s finger.