lilyswrittenworks

[lilyswrittenworks]

How to use Em Dash (—) and Semi Colon ( ; )

Since the ai accusations are still being thrown around, here's how i personally like to use these GASP ai telltales. 🦄✨

Em Dashes (—)

To emphasize a shift / action / thought.

They're accusing us—actually accusing us—of using AI.

To add drama.

They dismissed our skills as AI—didn't even think twice, the dimwits—and believed they were onto something.

To insert a sudden thought. Surely they wouldn't do that to us—would they?

To interrupt someone's speech. "Hey, please don't say that. I honed my craft through years of blood and tears—" "Shut up, prompter."

To interrupt someone's thoughts / insert a sudden event.

We're going to get those kudos. We're going to get those reblogs—

A chronically online Steve commented, “it sounds like ai, idk.”

Semi Colons ( ; )

To join two closely related independent sentences / connect ideas.

Not only ChatGPT is capable of correct punctuation; who do you think it learned from in the first place?

Ultimate pro tip: use them whenever the fuck you want. You don't owe anyone your creative process. 🌈

[lilyswrittenworks]

[lilyswrittenworks]

[lilyswrittenworks]

When a Character is Falling in Love but Doesn’t Trust It

Love is terrifying. Especially for characters who’ve been hurt, shut down, or raised to believe vulnerability is weakness. So when they start falling? It doesn’t look like a Disney montage. It looks like panic in slow motion.

✧ They start noticing everything and it unsettles them. The way their voice cracks when they laugh. The way their fingers tap when they’re thinking. These little details burrow in and refuse to leave. And that awareness makes the character feel exposed.

✧ They become hyperaware of their own body. Where their hands are. How close they’re standing. If they’re blushing. It’s like being inside a body that’s betraying them constantly.

✧ They act a little mean. Not because they are mean. But because being cold is safer than being real. Sarcasm, distance, teasing, they use it like armor.

✧ They hate how much they want to share things. They’ll see a funny meme and instinctively want to send it. Then stop. No. Don’t get attached. They want to tell them about a childhood memory, then bite it back. Too personal.

✧ They become inconsistent. Warm one moment, distant the next. Showing up, then pulling away. They’re testing how much of themselves they can reveal before it feels like too much.

✧ They assume the worst. They know it won’t last. That this person will leave. That they’re misreading everything. Love doesn’t feel safe, it feels like a countdown to pain.

✧ They self-sabotage. Pick fights. Flake on plans. Pull away emotionally just to “protect themselves” before it goes wrong. It’s tragic and messy and real.

✧ They notice silence more. What wasn’t said. A delayed reply. A joke that didn’t land. Everything becomes a sign that maybe this love thing was a mistake.

✧ They want to run, but never do. The desire to bolt is constant. But they don’t. Because something about this person is pulling them back, despite every warning bell going off in their head.

✧ They don’t trust the feeling, but they keep falling anyway. And that’s what makes it beautiful. And heartbreaking. Because they don’t want to fall. But they do. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing they’ve ever done.

[lilyswrittenworks]

[lilyswrittenworks]

My average writing experience:

"Alright I think I'm almost done actually-"

*Google doc grows second health bar and a choir starts singing in latin*

[lilyswrittenworks]

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[lilyswrittenworks]

Hii, me again

Could you make some cyberpunk dividers? Maybe in those usual blue, purple, pink and orange colors, but any colors you feel like doing are fine

But take your time, there's no rush, and do it only if you feel like doing it. Take care and have a nice day/night ❤️

hello! I did a variety of cyber/techy ones here - please let me know if these colors are okay! 💖 I tried to do combos where I could!

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[lilyswrittenworks]

XXII | Forever Starts Here

Warning(s): Cursing, Humor, fluff, Explicit content~

THIS CHAPTER IS RATED 18+—PLEASE, READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

Word Count: 12.7k

Synopsis: Seven beautiful months have passed and before you knew it—it was summer again. You, Piccolo and your lovely group of chaos gremlins pitched in the spontaneous idea of going to the skating rink. Surrounded by those you love you thought: “What else could be more special than this?”

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

The roller skating rink was alive with energy. Pop music blared from the speakers tucked into the high corners of the massive, cavernous building, the heavy bass thudding against your chest. Above the center of the rink, a spinning disco ball hung from the ceiling, scattering beams of rainbow light across the glossy wooden floor, the walls, even brushing the faces of the people packed along the edges.

A long wall separated the rink from the spectators and those waiting for their turn. Groups clustered behind it, watching the skaters glide—or stumble—across the rink. Laughter and the occasional yelp filled the air, blending with the music. The timer overhead ticked down the hour for the current round, while everyone else lingered, their excitement growing more and more palpable.

Your own group of friends had staked out a spot by the wall, each of them bustling with energy in their own way. Amelia, however, was practically vibrating where she stood.

“GOSH! I haven’t roller-skated since I was in middle school. Aren’t you all excited?!” she squealed, spinning around to face all of you. Her eyes sparkled with glee, her vibrant red hair tied into two messy buns atop her head. The loose bangs bouncing against her forehead only added to her infectious energy.

“You mean excited to eat shit on the rink? Yeah, sureee.” Henry drawled, already halfway through tying the laces on his roller skates. His sarcastic tone didn’t fool anyone.

Elias chuckled under his breath, nudging Henry with his shoulder. “Come on, don’t act so miserable. Sure, most of us haven’t touched a pair of skates in our life, but hey—at least we’ll all eat shit together.”

Henry grumbled something unintelligible under his breath just as Milo strolled over, his skates already on, a playful glint in his blue eyes. His short, slicked-back hair and undercut made him look effortlessly cool, even in the cheesy fluorescent lighting of the rink.

“Lighten up!” Milo said brightly. “Both of us can catch you if you’re about to wipe out, Henry.”

Henry deadpanned at him with the blankest stare you had ever seen. “No thanks, Milo. I can catch myself.”

Milo snorted, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, tough guy.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the exchange, lacing your own roller skates a little tighter before tugging the loops into double knots.

It was a shame Luka couldn’t make it tonight—he would’ve loved witnessing the absolute train wreck unfolding at the skating rink. Especially with Henry flailing around like a fish out of water, desperately trying to stay upright.

You chuckled to yourself, excitement thrummed in your chest. You couldn’t remember the last time you had tried something so carefree and fun with all your friends together like this. Even Jenny and Kaytlin were practically glowing, curled up together off to the side, arms lazily slung around each other as they whispered and laughed in their own little world.

It didn’t go unnoticed that everyone in the group had someone by their side—except Henry and Amelia.

Amelia didn’t seem bothered at all; she thrived on friendship and shared experiences, whether there was romance involved or not. Henry, though—you could see the slight slump in his shoulders, the way he glanced sideways every now and then. He tried to hide his frustration, but you knew him too well. His natural charm and easy smiles had often earned him admirers, but finding someone genuine… that had proven harder. You felt a small pang of sympathy for him.

And then—your gaze drifted to the tall figure standing in front of you, a silent sentinel next to the group.

Piccolo was a sight to behold in the riot of neon lights and chaos. A dark purple button-up clung to his broad frame, the sleeves rolled up neatly to reveal his green skin and the distinct pink patches along his forearms. Dark blue slacks paired with his worn moccasins somehow made him look both out of place and untouchably composed. And then there was the black silk bandanna tied securely around his head, its loose ends fluttering slightly with each shift of his body.

You remembered the quiet moment before you even entered the building, when he asked you—rather awkwardly—to help him tie the bandanna. You hadn’t questioned it at the time, but when you tilted your head curiously, he admitted in a gruff voice that it might “draw attention he didn’t want.”

Carefully, you had wrapped the soft fabric around his head, adjusting it to rest comfortably without being too tight. And before pulling away, you had pressed a soft kiss against his cheek, whispering with quiet sincerity that you loved the way his antennas looked—that they made him uniquely beautiful.

The way his skin had flushed a deep purple under your lips, the way he had stiffened then relaxed with a low, rumbling sound in his chest—you hadn’t forgotten it. The memory still lingered sweetly in your mind.

Now, watching him stand with arms crossed, gaze calmly surveying the chaos, you smiled to yourself. There was a subtle protectiveness in his stance, a quiet promise that he would keep you and your friends safe if anything went wrong—even if it was just a skating rink.

Despite the loud music, the buzzing crowd, and the colorful beams of light spinning overhead, your world seemed to narrow in on him for just a second.

And in that second, you were so deeply, undeniably grateful that he was here with you. 

Amelia’s excited squeal cut through the music like a siren. “Ten more minutes, guys!! Almost our turn!”

Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm, red hair bouncing wildly in her double buns as she held up both hands with all ten fingers spread. Her whole body practically radiated anticipation.

You couldn’t help but smile at her. That kind of unfiltered joy was contagious.

Still lacing up your skates on the bench, your gaze drifted to Piccolo, standing just slightly apart from the group. He was a tall, commanding presence even in a crowd like this—stoic, silent, almost statuesque with his arms crossed over his chest, taking everything in with that sharp, observant gaze.

You tilted your head slightly, called softly over the music. “Piccolo?”

Even over the thumping bass, the chatter, and the screech of wheels on wood, he heard you—of course he did. His ears, always attuned, perked toward the sound of your voice before he slowly turned his head, meeting your eyes.

“Hey,” you said with a hopeful smile, “are you sure you don’t wanna join us? Maybe ask one of the employees if they carry... I dunno, size giant?”

You clapped your hands together when an idea hit you, your eyes lighting up. “Wait! I know. Why don’t you just conjure up a pair? Like you did with that outfit. Instant skates. No fuss.”

You leaned in toward him, one hand raised to the side of your lips in mock secrecy, not wanting your friends to overhear. “C’mon... just imagine it. Piccolo on wheels.”

His eyes narrowed slightly as he grunted, “No.”

You blinked, leaning back with an exaggerated pout. “Ehhh, why not? It could be fun!”

His expression softened—just a fraction—but you caught it. Even though you were clearly teasing, something about your disappointment, no matter how small, struck a nerve whenever he couldn’t please you. He uncrossed his arms, stepping toward you, and then to your surprise, bent at the knees until he was eye-level.

You stared into those dark, unreadable eyes, watching the way his brows furrowed slightly, his voice lowering into something gentler than usual. “In the nicest way possible... I don’t feel comfortable putting myself out there. Especially not in a rink full of morons who can’t skate.”

You tried—really tried—not to laugh, but you could already see the whole thing unfold in your head: Piccolo gliding stoically across the rink, some poor fool losing control and colliding with him like they’d hit a boulder. The thunk. The yelp. The absolute terror in their eyes as they looked up and up... and up at him. He’d glare. And he would make them regret ever stepping foot on the rink.

A snort escaped your nose, followed by a soft, delighted laugh. You closed your eyes for a beat, then opened them again, meeting his gaze with warmth. “Okay, okay. I won’t force you to do something you’re not ready for.” Your smile curled slyly. “Even if it would be hilarious to see people wipe out and veer off course just to avoid you.”

Piccolo gave a low chuckle, rich and brief. “It would be funny,” he admitted, standing back up to his full height. “But I’d rather not ruin your fun by scaring half the rink off.”

“FIVE MINUTES!!” Amelia cried again, now carefully skating along the wall’s edge, bouncing on her toes with excitement like she’d been powered by soda and candy.

Piccolo turned his head, eyes tracking her movement with slight bemusement before returning to you. Then, unexpectedly, he extended a hand toward you—large, calloused, steady.

Wordlessly, you placed your smaller hand in his palm. He curled his fingers gently around yours, his touch warm and grounding as he helped you up from the bench with careful ease.

“Thanks,” you murmured, your thumb grazing his knuckle for just a second before you stepped beside him.

He guided you to the rink’s edge where Amelia waited, practically vibrating with anticipation. Behind you, your group began to gather, skates clicking and scraping on the concrete floor as the last few minutes counted down.

The overhead screen flashed: 00:00. The gate hissed open.

Amelia was gone in a blur of grace and confidence, gliding out like she never stopped skating since middle school. Henry followed, wobbling immediately. Then Elias and his husband Milo, and finally Kaytlin, who blew a kiss toward Jenny before darting after them.

You squeezed Piccolo’s hand once more, a silent wish me luck, before slowly releasing it as you stepped into the rink. The polished wood welcomed your wheels with a soft hiss as you coasted in, careful, feeling out your balance as you aimed to catch up to Amelia’s ever-twirling figure.

Piccolo remained behind the wall, watching you. You turned and waved at him once before being swept up into the swirl of music and movement. He gave you a simple, respectful nod in return.

Jenny was just about to skate in when a large green hand lightly stopped her.

“Huh?” she blinked, turning to find herself face-to-chest with Piccolo. She looked up, curiosity rising in her gaze. “Everything okay?”

Piccolo hesitated—really hesitated. His throat worked like he was swallowing back nerves, which alone made Jenny’s brows raise. He was never like this.

“Can I...” he glanced around quickly, then leaned in, keeping his voice low. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Jenny carefully shuffled back from the entrance, mindful not to trip in her skates as she followed him away from the others.

Once they were out of earshot near the wall, she crossed her arms loosely, head tilted. “Okay, you’re acting weird, even for you. What’s up?”

Piccolo looked away, pressing his lips together. His hands flexed at his sides, his jaw tight with unspoken words. Jenny waited, patient but visibly confused.

“I... need your help with something.”

There was a pause. She tilted her head a bit more.

“Come on, Henry! You gotta believe in yourself!” Amelia called out, her voice bright and full of giddy energy as she effortlessly glided around him in smooth, graceful circles.

She looked like she hadn’t missed a beat since middle school—her roller skates slicing through the air like they were made for her, red hair bouncing in sync with her momentum, those double buns perched like little antennas of joy. Her laughter carried over the upbeat pop music blaring through the roller rink’s speakers.

Henry, on the other hand, looked like a deer on ice.

“Easy for you to say,” he growled, his arms flailing like he was trying to summon a spirit to balance him. “You’re a fucking master at this! If I move from this spot, I’m guaranteed to faceplant and eat the floor with my front teeth!”

The moment he dared to inch one foot forward, his knees buckled, and a panicked yelp flew out of him. He flailed wildly—until your hands shot out and caught him by the wrists just in time.

“Whoa there,” you said, a small grin tugging at your lips as you slowly steadied him. “Take it easy, Henry. It’s not about being a pro,” you added as you gently began rolling backward on your skates, pulling him with you. His face twisted in comical dread, but he didn’t resist. “It’s about the learning curve. What you can do to improve with each try. I should know—I’m a martial arts instructor.”

Henry whimpered in protest, not really listening, but the ridiculous noise he made only made you laugh. His muttered string of curses was barely audible over the music, his brows knitted in full-blown concentration like he was attempting open-heart surgery on himself.

Your eyes skimmed across the rink, surveying the scene around you. Skaters of all skill levels weaved through the space—some stiff as boards, gripping the walls for dear life, others sliding along with ease, weaving between slower folks like fish through water. Every now and then someone wiped out spectacularly on the slick, polished wood, followed by groans, laughter, and the occasional high-five for effort.

You spotted your group—Milo had just nearly bit the dust trying to show off before Elias caught him by the waist, his bright laugh echoing across the rink. Instead of seeing Kaytlin and Jenny skating together, arms around each other in that cute, relaxed way they always were. You only saw Kaytlin, happily gliding past Elias and Milo, saying something to them before merging herself into the crowd of skaters

Jenny was nowhere to be seen.

Your brows knit slightly. Where’d she go?

A quick scan of the rink’s inner area revealed her near the gate—talking to Piccolo.

You let go of Henry’s wrists—prompting an immediate, dramatic wail of “Don’t leave meee!”—but your attention was already elsewhere as you began skating toward them, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

“Jenny!” you called out.

Jenny visibly jolted at the sound of your voice. It was a subtle flinch, but noticeable. She turned around quickly, trying to arrange her face into something neutral, but there was a flicker of something—nervousness? excitement?—you couldn’t quite read. It passed too quickly, and you were already smiling.

“Why aren’t you skating with the rest of us?” you asked, gesturing with your thumb over your shoulder.

In the background, Henry slipped again and hit the floor with a loud thud, followed by Amelia’s howling laughter and Elias pointing dramatically from across the rink.

Jenny laughed a little too forcefully. “Shit, my bad, (Y/n)! I was just teasing Piccolo for being a party pooper and not skating with us, ha ha…”

Piccolo stood beside her, arms crossed, an expression that hovered somewhere between mild amusement and stoic detachment. A single bead of sweat slid down the side of his temple.

“Feh,” he scoffed. “What a shame. You won’t be catching me wearing those ridiculous things anytime soon.”

You snorted, skating up beside them. “Oh come on, don’t tempt him, Jenny,” you teased, elbowing her gently. “He might get annoyed enough to shoot lasers out of his eyes.”

Jenny blinked. “Wait—he can actually do that??”

You couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped you. “Yup. He’s done it a couple of times. Especially when someone’s tried to take pictures of us without asking.”

The memory rushed back with perfect clarity.

New Year’s Eve. Downtown Nicky Town. You’d been walking together toward the plaza where you planned to meet everyone—your arm looped tightly around Piccolo’s forearm, your breath puffing in the cold air, and some conversation, long forgotten now, was dancing between you two.

Then he stopped suddenly.

The distinct sound of something sizzling followed by a loud pop! had you blinking. You peeked around his broad frame and saw it: a man stumbling backward, shouting as the remnants of his phone clattered to the pavement. Shattered. Smoking.

You looked up at Piccolo. His jaw was clenched, sharp fangs peeking past his lips, and his dark eyes were glowing a dim, furious red. The glow vanished quickly, but the anger remained.

“Piccolo?” you had asked, softly, gently. Your voice had wrapped around him like a balm, drawing his gaze back to you.

His expression shifted, slowly, the hard lines on his face softening. But you could still see it there—the ember of rage.

You leaned in close and whispered, “Did you just… shoot laser beams at that guy’s phone?”

His lip curled in disgust. “He was making lewd comments. Taking photos without consent.” His eyes narrowed. “The dumbass had it coming.”

You remembered how your heart fluttered—not in fear, but in overwhelming appreciation. How protective he was, how instinctively he stepped in to protect you from the creep in taking an unsolicited picture of you. 

Now, in the present, you nudged him playfully. “Still one of the most badass things I’ve ever seen.”

Piccolo huffed through his nose, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly.

Jenny just shook her head in disbelief, still laughing as she said, “Jesus Christ. You two are built different.”

You reached out and grabbed Jenny’s wrist with a playful tug, your grin bright and mischievous. “Yeah, yeah—come on, slacker! Let’s get moving before I have to start dragging you like I did with Henry.”

Jenny let out a dramatic sigh, though her lips curled into a smile. “Alright, alright, I’m going! Don’t get your skates in a twist.” She leaned slightly into your pull, her faux locs bouncing as she began to follow your momentum.

The two of you started gliding across the polished wooden floor, wheels clicking gently beneath you. Jenny wobbled just a bit at first, but quickly found her rhythm—her usual swagger bleeding into every push of her skates. You laughed softly, matching her pace as you weaved around a couple awkward skaters near the edge of the rink.

Just before the two of you fully melded into the flow of the crowd, you turned your head over your shoulder to glance back at Piccolo.

He was still standing by the entrance, arms crossed, watching you with that calm, unwavering stare of his—the kind that always made your chest flutter just a little. You threw him a playful wave, your voice ringing out cheerfully above the music and laughter.

“See you in an hour, Piccolo!”

For a second, something flickered behind his expression. Not quite a smile, but close—his eyes softened, and he gave you the smallest nod, one that only you would know meant stay safe, have fun, I’ll be right here when you’re done.

Jenny bumped her shoulder against yours with a smirk. “God, the way he looks at you? I’d kill a man for that kind of devotion.”

You snorted, nudging her back. “Please, you’ve already got Kaytlin wrapped around your finger.”

“And yet, somehow,” Jenny said as she gestured ahead dramatically, “you’re the one pulling me around like I’m the helpless one.”

“Shut up and skate.”

With laughter bubbling between the two of you, you both rolled deeper into the rink—your silhouettes disappearing into the whirl of colorful lights, thumping music, and the chaotic joy of the night.

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

Night had fallen gracefully over Nicky Town, the skyline bathed in a soft, velvety darkness pierced by the glimmer of city lights below. Skyscrapers sparkled like constellations in their own right, windows lit with stories and movement. The hum of the town drifted faintly upward—distant music, laughter, the soft whoosh of traffic—reminding everyone that life never truly stopped down there.

But up on the high cliffside that overlooked it all, it was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of place where the world felt paused, if only for a little while.

Your group had gathered here without much of a plan—just a spontaneous idea after skating, a need to wind down and escape the noise. Jenny and Kaytlin had come prepared for the change in scenery, unfolding their collapsible camping chairs with practiced ease. The two sat shoulder to shoulder, Kaytlin gently resting her head against Jenny’s as they murmured softly to one another between occasional chuckles.

Elias and Milo had claimed a patch of grass close by, completely unbothered by the idea of dirt smudges or dew-stained pants. Elias had his arms lazily thrown around Milo’s shoulders, his cheek resting on top of Milo’s head as they both swayed in rhythm with the breeze, clearly lost in their own bubble of calm.

Amelia, always one to plan just a little bit, had tossed out a soft plaid picnic blanket, her legs crossed neatly beneath her as she absently scrolled through her phone—though her pretty pink outfit remained spotless thanks to her careful positioning. A cool wind tugged gently at the loose strands of hair by her ears, which bounced with every excited turn of her head when she chimed into the conversation.

You, meanwhile, had taken up a spot atop the hood of your muscle car, its red and black surface warmed from the day’s sun but cooling steadily beneath you. You were reclined back with your arms folded behind your head, eyes tilted toward the night sky—watching stars wink into place like they were being lit just for you.

Piccolo remained close, never far from your side. He leaned casually against the driver’s side door, arms folded tightly over his broad chest. The moonlight caught on the curve of his jaw, illuminating the pink patches on his forearms as he observed the group with a quiet kind of fondness. Occasionally, his eyes drifted to you, watching the way your gaze followed the stars, how your chest rose and fell with ease in the silence. It made something tender bloom in his chest.

Then, of course, the tranquility shattered—because it wouldn’t be your group without Henry.

“Fuck you guys,” Henry barked, thrusting a dramatically accusatory finger in the general direction of everyone, his face flushed bright red—half from leftover exertion, half from pure embarrassment. “How could you all just leave me in that rink like that?! I must’ve eaten shit like ten times! Ten!!”

You barely managed to stifle a snort, quickly raising a hand over your mouth as your shoulders shook with laughter. The rest of the group didn’t even try to hold back—Jenny was already cackling, her feet kicking in the air, while Elias looked like he might fall over from how hard he was leaning into Milo, laughing so hard he wheezed.

“Aww, you poor thing,” Jenny cooed with faux sympathy, one hand pressed against her heart as if deeply moved by his plight.

Henry shot her a withering glare, pointing at her next. “You, especially—you promised to help me if I fell!”

“I did!” Jenny insisted between snorts. “I helped by laughing so hard it distracted everyone else from looking at you! You’re welcome.”

“You’re all assholes,” Henry muttered, dragging a hand down his face as the laughter swelled around him.

Amelia giggled into her palm. “I have a compilation on my phone, by the way. Want me to send it to you?”

“I swear to God—”

“Send it to me too,” Elias cut in.

“You people are demons,” Henry groaned, sitting back down with a dramatic flop on the grass.

From the hood of your car, you let out a soft chuckle, your gaze drifting momentarily from the stars to glance at Piccolo. He hadn’t laughed, but the corners of his mouth had curved up just enough—his version of full-blown amusement. You caught the slight glint in his dark eyes before he turned his head toward the city again, and the sight of it warmed you.

It was in moments like these—shared laughter, good company, and soft night air—that everything felt right. No chaos. No noise. Just peace, and the people you loved.

Just as you were about to resume stargazing, lying comfortably on the hood of your car beneath the sprawl of constellations above, you heard the low, gravel-toned voice that never failed to stir something warm in your chest.

“(Y/n)?”

You turned your head lazily toward the sound, noticing that he had discarded the bandana once they all left the skating rink, a gentle hum leaving your lips in response. “Hm?”

Piccolo inclined his head slightly, his antennas swaying with the subtle motion. “Care to walk with me?”

The invitation was simple—yet his voice carried something deeper. Thoughtful. Intentional.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but your lips quickly curved into a smile. Wordlessly, you nodded and sat up from the hood. Piccolo stepped forward and extended a hand toward you—rough, calloused, but surprisingly gentle in its offering. You slid your hand into his without hesitation, the warmth of his touch grounding you as he helped you ease down from the car.

With his fingers still wrapped securely around yours, he guided you away from the rest of your friends, who remained oblivious—laughing at whatever poor joke Henry had thrown out this time. The voices became faint, swallowed by distance and the night air, until it was just you and him again—alone, beneath the moon’s soft silver glow.

He led you toward a quieter part of the cliffside where the lights of Nicky Town shimmered in the distance like fireflies scattered across a sea of darkness. The wind picked up, tousling your hair, brushing cool against the skin of your arms. You breathed it in with a quiet sigh, letting the serenity settle in your chest.

“It’s so peaceful up here…” you murmured, eyes fixed on the view below—how alive the world looked from above, yet so far removed from this moment.

Piccolo cast a sideways glance down at you, a quiet smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Now you understand why I prefer solitude. The mountains. The stillness. No noise. No eyes.”

You scoffed and nudged his hand with yours before finally slipping free from his grasp. Stepping closer to the edge, you lifted your arms slightly, letting the breeze flow past you. “Oh, please. You’ve spent more time with me and my friends than I think even you realize.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, a teasing grin on your face. “Don’t try to deny it, oh mighty and stoic Piccolo. You’re starting to like being around people.”

He crossed his arms, as if shielding himself from the accusation. “I tolerate them.”

But the small, barely-there smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

You laughed softly, and he watched you with careful eyes as you stood near the cliff’s edge, silhouetted by moonlight, the wind teasing your dark baggy pants and hair.

Then something shifted.

His amusement gave way to concern. His brow furrowed.

“You’re standing too close to the edge.”

You tilted your head toward him, unbothered. “You’re here, aren’t you? If I fall, I know you’ll catch me.”

Then your lips quirked. “Besides… I can fly now. Or did you forget?”

He didn’t respond right away. But the memory came rushing back.

You, falling again and again during those early lessons, panting from exertion, muscles shaking, refusing to give up. You’d scraped your knees, bruised your ribs, even passed out once mid-hover—scaring the hell out of him, though he’d never admit it aloud. But you kept coming back. Persistent. Resilient. Eager.

And then—finally—you flew.

He remembered watching you glide past the tree line, weightless, your laughter spilling into the wind like music. You looked so free. So alive. And he couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through his chest at that moment.

He blinked himself back to the present. You were still standing there, gazing at the sky.

He slowly unfolded his arms and took a step closer. His hand slipped into his pocket, fidgeting with something small—but he said nothing. Instead, he gently pressed his palm to the small of your back, grounding himself in the contact. You looked up at him, surprised by the tenderness.

He kept his gaze on the horizon, voice quieter now. Measured. Almost… hesitant.

“It still amazes me,” he began, the gravel in his voice softened by emotion, “how easily you trust me.”

You studied him carefully, the way the light caught the sharp edges of his face, the quiet storm in his eyes.

“You took the time to understand me. To see me. To… love me.”

His voice was quiet, yet every word carried a weight that settled in your chest like a stone dropping into still water.

He looks down to meet your gaze. His eyes—half-lidded and dark as night—held a softness that was reserved only for you to see. Something warm. Something vulnerable. Something that made your heart stutter in your chest and your stomach twist in a flurry of butterflies.

“I never understood the concept of love,” he continued, his tone almost rueful. “Never cared to, honestly. I was too proud. Too convinced I didn’t need anyone.”

A small snort escaped you before you could stop it. The corner of his mouth twitched into a faint, knowing smirk, and he exhaled through his nose in something like amusement—or maybe surrender.

“I deserved that,” he muttered, voice low. But even as he shook his head, his composure never truly broke… except for the subtle twitch in his jaw and the way his chest rose a little too sharply, betraying the rapid beat of his heart.

Then his gaze locked with yours again.

“But you… you changed that. You showed me what love actually is. What it feels like. And for the first time, I realized—” he hesitated, searching your face as if the truth would land softer there, “—that you're the one thing in this life that’s worth everything.”

Your breath hitched.

The sincerity in his voice—the rawness—cut through every defense you had. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you instinctively tried to lighten the moment with a joke, your lips parting to say something teasing, something to ease the way your heart felt like it was about to burst. But the words never left.

Because somewhere in that moment, you had missed the way his hand slipped from the small of your back… only to take your hand in his, gently but firmly. And you were far too lost in the storm of your own emotions to notice the small object he drew from the depths of his pocket.

It wasn’t until he sank down on one knee in front of you that time seemed to screech to a halt.

You froze.

The world narrowed until it was just him—kneeling, steady, serious, unwavering—and the way he was looking up at you as though you were the very moonlight bathing his face in silver. The soft wind that brushed your hair, the faraway murmur of your friends laughing in the distance… it all disappeared.

And in his voice, there was no hesitation.

“There’s no way to say this without it sounding painfully sentimental,” he said, his tone gruff but grounded by sincerity, “but I’m not interested in pretending anymore.”

He turned his hand over, slowly opening his palm to reveal what he’d been holding.

A ring.

Silver. Simple, but unmistakably elegant in its design. It gleamed softly in the moonlight, as if made just for this moment.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said, conviction pouring from every word. “No pretense. No walls. Just us. (Y/n), will you marry me?”

You could only stare, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. Emotion surged so fast, so strong, you felt breathless. Your vision blurred with tears, and a sudden, disbelieving laugh bubbled in your throat as you clutched his hand tighter.

“Yes—yes,” you choked out, smiling so hard it hurt. “A thousand times, yes.”

Before you could even process the rush of feelings overtaking you, you dropped to your knees with him and threw your arms around his neck. Piccolo caught you instantly, one powerful arm curling around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

You held onto each other like the earth might crumble beneath your feet.

Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at him—tears slipping freely down your cheeks, your lips trembling with joy. And he looked back at you like you were something sacred.

His walls were down. Completely.

And in the space between heartbeats, you leaned in.

Your lips brushed his. Gently at first. Hesitant. Testing the waters of a moment too delicate to rush.

Piccolo's eyes widened at the contact. His breath caught, his entire body tensing as heat swept up his spine. He felt it—the sharp, barely restrained surge of something deeper, primal, pulsing beneath his skin.

And then he melted.

His eyes fluttered shut, and his mouth moved with yours. He tasted you cautiously, reverently. The kiss deepened slowly, and you could feel him start to tremble—just faintly. His grip on you tightened, anchoring himself to this one perfect moment, to you.

Everything else ceased to exist.

For a warrior born of division and solitude, this was uncharted ground… and yet, nothing had ever felt more right.

His kiss grew bolder, drawn by the quiet desperation building inside him. Not rushed, but yearning—as if he'd waited lifetimes to show you just how much you meant to him. 

The kiss lingered, soft and deep, until your lungs burned for air. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathless, his hand still cradling the back of your head, your fingers tangled in the fabric of his buttoned-up shirt as if afraid he might vanish.  

Piccolo exhaled slowly, his breath ghosting across your lips—warm, steady, grounding. His hand was still holding the small of your back, firm and unwavering, but his eyes… they betrayed the vulnerability behind his words.

“I… I know this probably feels rushed,” he murmured, voice low and ragged, each word weighed down by the enormity of what he was saying. “We’ve been together for less than a year. But I knew, deep down, from the moment I let you in… I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”

There was no bravado in his tone. No posturing. Just raw sincerity.

Your chest tightened, and a quiet laugh slipped past your lips—soft, affectionate, touched with awe. Your forehead rested against his, and you let your fingers rise to cradle the sides of his face, your thumbs gently tracing the sharp contours of his jaw. He leaned into your touch like it was second nature now.

“Piccolo,” you whispered, your voice tender. “I’ve seen people get married way earlier than that. Some get engaged after a few weeks. Trust me—if your heart is sure, if you know what this is… then you’re not rushing anything.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze fully, your smile growing warmer with a glimmer of playful mischief dancing in your eyes.

“Besides,” you added, lifting a brow as your tone shifted into teasing, “am I going to be called Miss Junior now? Or Mrs. Piccolo?”

His expression shifted—his eyes narrowing slightly in mock exasperation as he let out a quiet scoff. You caught the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, the telltale sign of the smirk he was desperately trying not to give in to. His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension breaking just a little, as if your humor had steadied him more than you realized.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slowly. But the softness in his eyes, the flicker of amusement that reached all the way into his chest, betrayed how deeply he adored you for it.

He shifts his hand from your back to grab ahold of your hand as he gently brings it up between you, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. “Whatever name you choose, it won’t change what you mean to me.”

And there it was again—that subtle but overwhelming swell of emotion that made your heart flutter. The air between you thick with affection, with understanding, with a future that neither of you had ever envisioned before you found each other.

He gently pulled his hand away from the back of your head, reaching down to retrieve the ring that had fallen onto the grass when he embraced you. With your hand still cradled in his, he picked up the silver band and, with a quiet breath, carefully slid it onto your ring finger.

You watched with bated breath, your entire world narrowing to the simple, quiet moment of Piccolo’s hand gently holding yours. His touch was careful as he slid the silver ring onto your finger. It glided on smoothly, fitting so perfectly it was as if it had been made just for you.

Your breath hitched.

It was such a small object, but it felt impossibly heavy in your chest. A symbol. A promise. A future. You stared at it, letting the weight of it settle in, letting the word wife echo in your mind over and over again.

Not girlfriend.

Not partner.

Wife.

Piccolo’s wife.

A wave of emotion swelled so quickly it made your throat tighten. Your vision blurred with tears threatening to spill over again. Damn it, you thought, pressing your lips together to stop your chin from quivering. You hadn’t expected to cry this much, and yet the joy—the overwhelming rightness of it all—was too much to contain.

Your hand trembled slightly as you looked up at him. Piccolo’s eyes searched your face with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing every detail of your expression, every flicker of emotion written there. His own mouth was parted, as if he wanted to say something more—but didn’t need to.

You opened your mouth, a laugh and a sob nearly bubbling up at once, but then—

“OH MY GOD!!”

The sudden high-pitched squeal made both you and Piccolo flinch in surprise, heads snapping toward the source. His hand instinctively shifted, subtly placing himself between you and the noise before realizing who it was.

From across the cliff side, barely fifty feet away, your group of friends had clearly abandoned all attempts at subtlety.

Amelia was the first to be seen—practically vibrating with excitement as she jumped up and down, her hands flapping at her sides like she physically couldn’t contain the joy exploding out of her. Her squeals echoed across the cliffs, loud and uninhibited.

Henry’s mouth was agape, his hand clutching the side of his head in wide-eyed disbelief, while Milo covered his mouth in slow-motion awe.

Elias stood with his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, looking smug and unreasonably proud. He leaned slightly toward Kaytlin, who stood beside him smiling with her hands clasped near her chest, her eyes glassy with tears of joy that she wasn’t even trying to hide.

And then there was Jenny.

She stood a little apart from the group, her arms folded neatly in front of her, the soft glow of moonlight catching the corners of her knowing smile. Her eyes met yours across the space, and something unspoken passed between you—warmth, pride, a knowing look that said I knew all along glimmering in her gaze.

Your face went hot with embarrassment, but your heart swelled again with affection. You hadn’t even realized they were watching.

Piccolo muttered something under his breath—not quite annoyed, but definitely flustered—before sighing quietly and turning his gaze back to you. The way he looked at you now, with moonlight carving gentle highlights across his face, with so much unspoken softness in his eyes... it was enough to melt you all over again.

“They saw everything, didn’t they?” he asked dryly, a hint of amusement betraying the gruff edge in his voice.

You wiped under your eyes with your free hand, laughing as you nodded, voice thick with tears and laughter. “Every second.”

“I suppose that’s fitting,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “They’ve been part of your world for a long time.”

“And now they’re part of yours,” you whispered, leaning in closer to him, your heart still pounding. “We both are.”

He didn’t respond with words—he didn’t have to. His gaze said it all. That promise you’d heard in his voice earlier echoed louder now in the silence between you.

Then from the sidelines, Amelia’s voice cut through the night again like a firework.

“CAN WE COME OVER THERE NOW OR DO WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR ROUND TWO?!”

You groaned and buried your face in Piccolo’s chest as he huffed a laugh, his arms encircling you protectively.

“...I’ll take that as a yes!” Henry called out, his footsteps already crunching on the grass as the group began to make their way toward you.

You didn’t even try to stop smiling.

Because now, with the ring on your finger, your friends swarming towards the cliff side, and Piccolo's arms wrapped firmly around you—you felt like the luckiest person in the world.

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

“Piccolo, is there a reason why you made me wait outside?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“Then why on earth are you covering my eyes and guiding me inside my own house?”

“You’ll see.”

All you could do was silently pout while he guided you.

Piccolos’ hand was warm against your face, his massive frame moving with surprising care as he guided you up the familiar wooden steps of your porch and into the house. Even now, with your eyes covered, you could tell he was taking slow, precise steps—like he’d mapped out every part of this, making sure you didn’t so much as stub a toe on the threshold.

It had been barely an hour since he’d proposed to you, and yet your heart was still fluttering wildly in your chest. The ring on your finger felt like it pulsed with its own heartbeat. Even without sight, you felt the thrill thick in the air—like something unspoken had begun the moment you said yes.

After going up the stairs, you heard the sound of a door creaking open. Then, the warm brush of his breath close to your ear. “Step forward slowly.”

You obeyed, the floor beneath your feet suddenly softer—plush. Carpeted. Your mind clicked. The guest room. Or, rather, Piccolo’s room now.

A quiet click of the door behind you echoed in the stillness, followed by the soft shift of weight as he stepped inside. Then, finally, he lifted his hand from your eyes.

It took a moment for your vision to adjust to the soft golden flicker of candlelight. Your breath caught.

The room had transformed.

You weren’t expecting something this romantic. And certainly not from Piccolo.

The soft, golden flicker of candles danced against the walls, casting long, slow-moving shadows across the guest room that had quietly become his space. Rose petals, scattered with thoughtful precision, left a trail of crimson and velvet across the floor and the neatly made bed. The scent of lavender, warm wax, and something earthy that reminded you of him lingered in the air.

For a moment, you just stood there—quiet, overwhelmed, breath catching gently in your throat.

Your feet slowly carried you across the room, each step light, careful, as if you didn’t want to disturb the fragile magic of the scene. Your gaze moved across every detail, taking in the gentle care that went into it all. The candles weren’t just lit; they were placed—each one sitting at a safe distance from anything flammable, as if he’d considered every risk and planned around it. The petals weren’t thrown haphazardly—they were arranged, not in perfect lines, but in an intentional, gentle spread.

This wasn’t a display born from instinct. It was effort. It was love—his version of it. Quiet. Measured. Meaningful.

You stopped at the foot of the bed and reached out, brushing your fingers over a single rose petal resting on the comforter. It was soft, delicate, its cool silkiness a contrast to the warmth blooming steadily in your chest.

“Piccolo… what’s with all of this?” Your voice came out quieter than you expected. You turned slightly, looking over your shoulder.

He stood just inside the doorway, his massive frame partially shadowed, arms resting awkwardly at his sides. For a fleeting moment, his gaze met yours. It was brief—intense, but fleeting—before he looked away, as if the vulnerability and bashfulness of the moment was too much for him to hold eye contact through.

It was so out of character for him. Piccolo wasn’t the kind of man to orchestrate romance—not the kind you read about in books or saw in movies. He didn’t do flowers or candlelight. If he ever did something romantic, it was always indirect, often accidental. Unspoken. Natural.

Like that time…

You felt a smile tug at your lips as the memory washed over you. That day he’d taken you up north—one of his favorite secluded spots to meditate, nestled high among snow-dusted cliffs and ancient pines. The air had been frigid, crisp, biting against your skin. You hadn’t packed warmly enough, stubbornly insisting you’d be fine. But the truth was, after sitting in stillness beside him, you’d started to shiver.

Without thinking, you had gotten up and boldly sat right onto him, settling in the space between his legs where the warmth of his body radiated like a furnace. You’d nestled against him, practically curled into his chest. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed a word.

When you finally realized what you’d done, embarrassment had flushed hot up your neck. You’d started to stammer an apology, shifting to pull away, but before you could—

“Stay.”

His voice had been gravel-deep, quiet, and impossibly gentle. His arm had moved around your waist, firm and protective, anchoring you in place. “You’re not invading my space,” he’d murmured, his lips near your ear. “I should’ve been more considerate about the climate.”

He didn’t meditate that day. Not a single breath of it. Instead, he held you there, unmoving, for as long as you needed to warm up—his massive body curved protectively around your small frame, heart steady beneath your ear.

You didn’t say anything then. You didn’t need to.

He had shown you love in the way he always did—quietly, completely, and without needing a single word of recognition.

And now, here he was, doing it again.

You turned toward him more fully, still holding the petal between your fingers, your heart aching with how tenderly he had prepared all of this.

“Piccolo…?” the glow of the candlelight catching on the silver ring on your hand.

Your eyes remained fixated on Piccolo where he stood by the closed door—uncharacteristically tense, as if he didn’t know whether to move or stay rooted in place.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering away from yours. “I… read in a textbook that there were ways to show your partner how much they mean to you. That creating a specific atmosphere could… help you express affection.”

You blinked at him, mouth parting slightly. “A textbook?”

“Yes.” He stepped forward now, slow and deliberate. “It said something about... ‘setting the mood.’ That it’s a way to show your partner that you want to be... close.”

You stared at him. The tall, composed, battle-hardened Namekian warrior you loved was blushing—blushing—and very clearly not used with the terminology, but still standing here, doing his best to be open and vulnerable for you.

“Piccolo… are you telling me you planned all of this because you read it somewhere?” you said with an incredulous smile. “The candles, the petals, the timing…? You’ve been reading about it this entire time?”

He cleared his throat but didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room until he stood directly in front of you, the space between you thick with emotion—and something far more primal.

“It also said,” he murmured, voice low and almost heated, “that when two people… care about each other deeply, this kind of closeness can be more than physical. That it can be… a way of showing love.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a blanket—thick, warm, overwhelming.

He wasn’t just hinting. He wasn’t dancing around it. Piccolo was asking to take a step that neither of you had ever crossed. A spark ignited deep in your core, something raw and instinctive that coiled tight inside your chest, then unraveled with dizzying heat. The sudden need to be close to him—to touch him, to feel him against you—overrode every other thought. And yet, nerves twisted with that desire, grounding you.

Excitement. Anxiety. Disbelief. They swirled through you all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to speak. “Y-you mean… sex? Like, us? Having sex?” The words stumbled out in a tangle of flustered syllables. “Are you sure? This isn’t—this isn’t just something else you read in that textbook, right?”

For a moment, the air was silent… and then a low, rich chuckle rumbled from his chest. It was deep and warm, resonating through your bones like a quiet earthquake. A small, amused smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, and you noticed—really noticed—how his cheeks had flushed a deep, rich violet.

“I’ve always been honest in what I say to you, (Y/n),” he replied, voice low and smooth, like honey poured over stone.

Without thinking, you fired back, “Except when you were in denial about falling in love with me.”

He blinked. The smirk vanished. His face deadpanned instantly, a heavy silence stretching between you as a single, invisible sweatdrop seemed to form over his temple.

You bit your lip to hide a smile.

Piccolo exhaled a small grunt—half exasperation, half surrender—before gently taking your hand in his. His thumb moved slowly over your silver engagement ring, the motion grounding you in the moment. Then his other hand rose, resting with care against the side of your neck, the heat of his palm soothing, protective.

When his eyes met yours, you saw something there you rarely got to witness—softness. His stern, commanding gaze was half-lidded now, almost tender, like he was stripping himself down to nothing in front of you.

“(Y/n),” he murmured, his voice nearly a whisper. “I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t serious. If you’re not ready, if you’re unsure—”

“NO!” you blurted, voice a sharp cry that echoed louder than intended.

His eyes widened, startled.

And so did you.

You winced, flushed with heat, your voice softer now—gentler, more certain. “No… I-I want this. I want you. I just…” Your eyes lowered briefly, then found his again. “Are you sure we’re even… compatible for this?”

He held your hand a little tighter, just enough to anchor you to the ground. “Yes,” he said firmly, confidently.

Just that one word—simple, raw, and full of certainty—made something low in your belly clench.

But it wasn’t just the answer. It was the way he said it. That subtle rasp in his voice, the gravel underneath each syllable, barely concealing something deeper. A hunger. A restraint that was visibly unraveling at the seams. His eyes darkened with that need—something primal and quiet and aching—and it took everything in him not to act on it until you said yes with your whole soul.

Your heart swelled with emotion so vast it made your chest ache. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the firm muscle beneath his shirt, right over his abdomen. His whole body tensed under your touch. Not out of discomfort, but anticipation—like he was standing at the edge of something he’d long kept at bay.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your voice soft but steady.

“Then show me.”

He didn’t wait.

He couldn’t.

Piccolo’s lips crashed into yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t delicate. It was desperate and deep, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long and finally—finally—let the dam break.

And gods, you shattered under him.

Your whole body trembled from the shock of his kiss—fierce and insatiable, like his mouth had forgotten what it was like to be separate from yours. Your hands moved instinctively, roaming over the breadth of his chest, feeling the impossible strength and warmth that radiated from him. You pressed yourself closer, feeling him respond with a low, guttural growl deep in his throat—a sound that sent a ripple of heat straight through you.

He kissed you like a starving man, and you melted in his arms like you’d been waiting your whole life to be devoured.

There was no fear now. No hesitation. Just two people standing in the quiet, candlelit glow of something deeply sacred, giving themselves to one another—fully, without apology, without barriers.

And for the first time, you weren’t just his partner. You were his home. His haven. His equal.

And tonight, he would show you exactly what that meant.

Piccolo’s mouth moved against yours with a kind of practiced stillness, like every movement was a decision, not instinct. But there was fire behind it, a heat that spread through your veins and lit every nerve under your skin.

His large hands—calloused, rough from years of discipline and battle—cupped your face first. Gentle. Tentative. Like he was still afraid you might pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, your hands clutched at the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tightly as if that might tether you more firmly to him. Your body arched toward his without meaning to, driven by the hunger curling in your gut.

When you gasped softly into his mouth, Piccolo broke the kiss—just barely. His breath brushed hot against your lips. You opened your eyes and saw it: the uncertainty flickering behind his usually unreadable gaze. A war playing out in his expression. He wanted this—desperately—but a thin layer of restraint held him back.

He was scared.

Scared of hurting you. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared that he wasn’t built for this kind of closeness, even with you. Especially with you.

You reached up, cupping his cheek with one hand, grounding him the way he’d done for you so many times before. “It’s okay,” you whispered, “I want you. All of you.”

That’s when something changed in him. A slow, steady breath left his lungs, and his eyes—still so full of emotion—narrowed slightly with resolve.

And then he moved.

His lips found your neck, a low growl vibrating through his chest as he trailed kisses down your skin. His hands slid to your sides, gliding over your form with almost reverent caution, but there was power in the way he touched you—like he was memorizing every inch of you.

When his fingers finally dipped under the hem of your black crop top, you felt your breath catch.

He didn’t rip it off, didn’t rush.

No—he took his time. Agonizingly slow, like each second of dragging fabric up your body was sacred. While he did so, he watched you unbutton your pants, allowing them to effortlessly fall before he lifted the black crop top over your head, his eyes dragging along your curves like they were something holy. When you shivered under his gaze, you heard that low growl again, but he kept his movements measured.

It was torture. The kind that had your legs weak, your skin humming with anticipation.

He studied your form in the flickering candlelight like he was drinking you in for the first time. His fingers grazed the bare skin of your stomach, moving with maddening patience, up your ribs, finally reaching the clasp of your bra. He hesitated there—just for a breath.

For most of his life, Piccolo never gave nudity a second thought. It was just a matter of practicality—unremarkable, unimportant. Watching Gohan or Goku change clothes around him never stirred anything. But that was before you. Before he learned what it meant to feel. To want. To love.

And now, standing before you, his breath caught where his hand hovered over the clasp of your bra. This was different—you were different. Every motion carried weight, a quiet urgency simmering beneath his calm exterior. As he undressed you, slowly, purposefully, his eyes drank in every inch of newly exposed skin. His normally composed demeanor cracked, his body warming under the gravity of the moment, anticipation thrumming through every nerve.

He’d never cared before. But now? Now he was desperate—aching—to see you completely, vulnerably bare before him. And it wasn’t just desire. It was the overwhelming need to cherish, to connect, to worship.

Then, with quiet confidence, he undid it.

The straps slid off your shoulders like a whisper. His hands followed their path, fingertips ghosting over your arms in a way that left you trembling.

“Piccolo…” you breathed, already aching for him to do something, touch you, take you—but he just smirked slightly, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Boldness was starting to win over his fear.

He pressed his lips to your collarbone, then lower, dragging his mouth along your skin like every kiss was a vow. His hands explored with care but firmness, mapping your body like it was made just for him. And in his mind, it was. He never said it—but you felt it.

You reached for his shirt, fingers fumbling with the buttons. “Off,” you murmured, your voice breathy, desperate.

He obeyed.

But not quickly.

Piccolo slid each button free with maddening slowness, watching your face the whole time, as if gauging your every reaction. The moment his shirt slipped off his shoulders and onto the floor, you finally got to see all of him.

The tension in his body. The strength carved into every line of muscle. His unique physique had always caught your eye, his abdomen in particular—it had that distinct pink hue with a red line tracing the outline outside of his six pack. You touched them without question, letting your hands explore, and when you looked back at him, your expression made his breath stutter in his throat.

He'd never been looked at like this before. Like he was beautiful.

And that undid him.

He kissed you again—harder, more intense, less restrained now. His body pressed against yours, lifting you effortlessly as he guided you back onto the bed. The rose petals crumpled beneath you, but neither of you cared. His weight above you was grounding, his arms bracketing your body without suffocating it. Always holding. Never trapping.

You felt everything—his warmth, the heat of his skin against yours, the powerful rhythm of his heart pounding in sync with your own. Every inch of him was strength wrapped in desire.

He kissed you like you were air. Like he had been starving for you for far too long.

You could feel him trembling slightly, even now. That lingering fear. That voice in the back of his mind saying don’t mess this up.

But he didn’t.

Every movement, every touch, was filled with intention. Every moment he gave you space to stop him. To breathe. To change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not once.

His hand roamed slowly, worshipfully, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. He watched your reactions, listened to your breathing, every little sound you made etched into his memory. You were beautiful beneath him, flushed in the warm candlelight, lips parted and swollen, and your eyes hazy with love and desire.

It wasn’t until he dematerialized his slacks that you felt it—something hard pressed up against your inner thigh. Your whole body was tingling and overcomed with need, you pulled him closer, your nose brushing against his. The warmth of his breath sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Piccolo…” his name came out like a prayer, not trying to hide the desperation in your voice. “I want you… please…”

His lips parted, but whatever words he was about to say died just as quickly. He shifted wordlessly, his hand traveling down to your hip before slipping inside your thighs. Piccolo guided himself to your entrance, his brows furrowed at the nervousness gnawing at his insides. 

As he pressed his tip closer, easing himself into the supple space between you, a shaky moan escaped your lips. Your legs instinctively parted wider, trembling beneath the weight of a rising sensitive sensation. Your hands reached up, clutching at his broad back, fingers curling and nails dragging lightly across his skin.

Piccolo let out a low groan, the warmth of your heat enveloping him making his breath hitch. The sting of your nails against his back only heightened the storm stirring inside him.

Before he could even ask if you were alright—to check up on you—you had beaten him to it.

“I’m ok… I’m ok… just—please, please, keep going, Piccolo.” You breathed out in a needy whisper which was enough to send a jolt deep inside his abdomen.

Piccolo buried his face into the crook of your neck as he entered deep inside you, your body tensing while your fingers dragged across his shoulder blades, causing him to groan out huskily. The hilt of his length nestled inside you, pulling back just enough before thrusting himself back inside you. 

A wave of pleasure coursed through you and Piccolo, making you both cry out in unison. 

Your bodies naturally entwined, your skins flushed up against each other. The closeness of each other—Piccolo sliding his throbbing length with meaningful intent—whilst you arched your back to feel more of him, inadvertently grinding into him. Your sultry movements didn’t go unnoticed, however. 

Piccolo huffs out loudly before he pulls up away from your neck, only to smash his lips hungrily into yours. He continued with his thrusts as you moaned into his mouth, growling deep inside his chest at the sounds you were making.

To feel you writhe desperately under him, your body reacting to his every thrusts, and the way your nails dragged onto his hardened skin drove him insane. He couldn't help but feel the way you fit so perfectly around his length, and the way you squeezed around him sent him into such a state of arousal that he could barely keep his composure. 

He didn't want to lose himself—didn't want to hurt you because he couldn't keep his strength in check.

He broke the kiss, allowing you to gasp out for air just as he buried himself against your neck once more. As he allowed himself to moan for the first time.

It sounded so passionate and filled with raw, unspoken feelings that you buried your face into his neck. Instinctively arching your back, craving to feel more of him as his hardened length stretches your core exquisitely, making you whimper. 

“Fuck—Piccolo… Piccolo…!” You mumbled out his name into his ear between gasps as his thrusts gained rhythm.

You felt yourself becoming lighter, as if the very air around you was growing thinner, charged with something electric and wild. Your skin, flushed and sensitive, pressed urgently against his—every muscle beneath his form solid and unyielding, like carved stone wrapped in fire. You could feel every inch of him, the way he moved with care and intensity, like he was memorizing you from the inside out.

That fire in your core—slow to kindle at first—was now an uncontrollable blaze. It licked up your spine, settled into your chest, and sparked behind your eyes until your breaths came in ragged gasps. Your nails scraped across his back, not out of aggression, but desperation—silent pleas etched into his skin as your body arched and trembled beneath him. Your legs wrapped around his waist, anchoring him closer, deeper.

You wanted more. Needed more.

You didn’t say it out loud. You couldn’t—your voice had been stolen by the rising wave of emotion and sensation crashing through you. But in your mind, you were screaming for him to move faster, harder—to lose himself with you. 

Please… please… more.

Piccolo stilled, just for a breath—his body hovering above yours, trembling with restraint. 

You didn’t know he’d heard you. You hadn’t realized that, in this moment of total vulnerability—his defenses down, your minds so open and tangled—that your thoughts had brushed up against his. Not intentionally. He rarely used his telepathy on anyone, unless the situation called for it. Not once had he used it to peer into your own mind out of courtesy. Because he respected you. Because he cared. Because he loved you.

And gods… what he felt when he heard it.

A swell of pride ignited in his chest, stronger than any he'd known in battle. The sound of your inner voice—so breathless, so open—shattered whatever uncertainty still lingered in him. You wanted him, not just physically, but entirely. You trusted him. With your body, your mind, your heart.

That pride flooded into his bones like liquid heat, giving him the courage to let go of the last thread of hesitation.

With a low, guttural sound, he leaned in close—his breath hot against your neck, one hand anchoring against your thigh, the other propped just above your head. His mouth brushed your ear, his voice deep and rough, tinged with that same fire now burning in both of you.

“I heard you,” he whispered, and the confession alone made your breath hitch.

Piccolo paused in his movements, and you barely had time to register the ache of anticipation before you felt him shift above you. A sharp breath caught in your throat as his calloused hand slid up to the small of your back, pressing there with a deliberate tenderness that made your heart stutter.

Then—he moved again, filling you with his length in one fluid motion.

Your breath hitched as his rhythm resumed, rougher now, less restrained. There was something almost primal in the way he moved—urgent, erratic, yet still careful not to lose you. His powerful frame curled around yours, his hips moving with an intensity that stole the thoughts from your mind, one by one.

You clung to him, your body instinctively rising to meet every thrust, every deep motion that sent you further and further from the world. Your hands curled into his back, holding on as if he were the only thing tethering you to the earth.

Your cries were soft, helpless things—mewls caught between pleasure and disbelief at how utterly he unraveled you.

And when the rising wave inside you finally crested—when it became too much, too fast, too good—you shattered beneath him, the tension snapping like a tightly pulled wire. A rush of elation tore through you, body and soul, and all you could do was cling to him through it, breathless and overwhelmed. 

Piccolo felt the moment you fell apart beneath him—the way your body trembled, how you clung to him with desperation and need. The warmth of your supple heat surrounding his throbbing length sent a rush of emotion straight through his chest, so powerful and consuming that he could barely breathe.

For a being so often in control, it was overwhelming.

Your voice, those soft, breathless cries of his name—he heard every one of them. Even with his sharpened senses, they weren’t too much. They were perfect. A symphony that called to him, coaxed him, shook something loose inside of him. Something hungry, something raw.

His breath hitched as he buried his face into the curve of your neck, clinging to you like a lifeline as he bucked his hips in time with the rhythm of your bodies, each motion more urgent than the last. You were everywhere—your scent, your voice, your heartbeat thudding wildly beneath your skin. You wanted him. You needed him. And he... he was losing himself in you.

“(Y/n)... I…” he choked, his voice thick and trembling, “I don’t want to hurt you…”

His grip tightened on the sheets, his shoulders tense, his entire form trembling from the effort of holding himself back. Sweat clung to his emerald skin, beading across his brow as he fought a rising tide of pleasure and panic.

But then your arms circled around his neck. You pressed a kiss to his temple, grounding him.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” you whispered against his skin. “It’s okay… Let go. I want you to let go—for me.”

His breath caught in his throat. He lifted his head, meeting your gaze—and what he saw there undid him. Pure love. Unwavering. You smiled at him through the haze, and with such conviction, you said it:

“I love you, Piccolo Jr. I love you… I love you!”

The last thread of resistance inside him snapped.

He closed the distance between your lips and his, kissing you with everything he had—with all the love, fear, desire, and awe crashing through him like a storm. His movements grew more intense, driven by that singular truth you had given him: that you were his, and he was yours.

He buried his face into the curve of your neck again, his body shuddering, breath hot against your skin as his fangs grazed your skin lightly. You whispered his name as he finally surrendered, holding you as tightly as if letting go would break him in two.

A deep, unfiltered groan escaped him as he came undone, filling you completely to the brim. His body tensed and then melted into yours, his arms wrapped around you in a fierce embrace as he rode out the overwhelming wave of his orgasm.

You held each other through the quiet that followed, your fingers stroking the nape of his neck as his breathing slowed. Neither of you spoke. There was no need. Everything had already been said—in touch, in breath, in the unshakable closeness between you now.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the candles flickering in their glass holders, casting a warm, golden light across the bed.

Piccolo lay atop you, his weight heavy but comforting, like a shield against the world. His forehead rested against your shoulder, and you could feel the way his chest rose and fell—uneven at first, then gradually slowing. The tremors in his limbs had faded, leaving behind a stillness that felt sacred.

Your fingers carded gently through his damp skin at the back of his neck, brushing along his scalp with soothing strokes. Neither of you spoke. There was no need. Everything that needed to be said had already been poured into the way he’d held you, the way you’d clung to him, the way your souls had reached for one another like they were made to fit.

His arms shifted, wrapping around your waist more securely, as if grounding himself in your warmth. You felt the soft exhale against your collarbone, followed by the faintest murmur—barely audible.

“…I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

His voice was hoarse, and underneath the question, you heard the raw, almost childlike fear he rarely let surface.

You shook your head slowly, pressing a kiss to the side of his face. “No. You didn’t hurt me, Piccolo… you’ve never made me feel safer.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his body relaxing further into yours. You could feel how much he’d been holding back, not just physically, but emotionally—how this moment had cracked something open in him.

You turned your head slightly to meet his eyes. They were half-lidded, softer than you’d ever seen them, the usual guarded edges dulled by a raw vulnerability. There was awe in the way he looked at you. Like he didn’t know how this had happened—how someone like him could be loved like this, held like this.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered, “that it could feel like that… with someone.”

You smiled, your thumb brushing a slow path across his cheekbone. “It’s not just the act, Piccolo. It’s because it’s you. Because it’s us.”

His hand rose to cradle the side of your face, his thumb trailing your jawline so delicately it made your heart ache. “You always say things like that… like you see something good in me I’ve never found on my own.”

“I do,” you said softly. “Every day.”

For a while, you simply laid there in silence, your limbs tangled, skin to skin, hearts still echoing the rhythm you’d created together. The world outside might have kept spinning, but in that moment, all that existed was the steady thrum of your connection.

Eventually, he shifted, carefully rolling to the side so he didn’t crush you. You turned with him, curling into his side, your head tucked under his chin, your arm draped across his chest. His hand came to rest over yours, fingers interlocking, holding on like he never wanted to let go.

“…I love you,” Piccolo murmured—soft, quiet, and tender. The words slipped from his lips like a secret not meant for the world to hear. Rare and precious. You didn’t hear them often—not because he didn’t feel them, but because he always chose to show you instead. In the way he held you, shielded you, watched you with quiet intensity. But tonight… he said it. And it landed like a warm weight in your chest, grounding and lifting you all at once.

Your heart swelled, the corners of your lips curling into a smile. You tilted your head and pressed a tender kiss to his collarbone, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath your lips. “You should say it more often,” you whispered, voice barely above the hush of wind outside.

A low, thoughtful hum rumbled from deep within his chest. “Only when we’re alone,” he said after a moment. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold—I can’t have people thinking I’ve gone soft.”

You snorted softly against his shoulder, the grin spreading across your face. “Fair enough. I’ll take what I can get.”

He glanced down at you, the faintest curve at the edge of his lips betraying the affection he tried to temper. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves in slow waves. Inside, time slowed. The warmth between your bodies, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the way your hands remained intertwined—everything had quieted into something sacred. Something safe.

The air carried a weightless stillness, as if the universe itself had exhaled around you.

Piccolo’s arm curled more snugly around you, anchoring you against him. You felt his body begin to relax, not just in the physical sense, but in the rare emotional surrender he allowed in your presence. He buried his face in your hair, the tension in his frame dissipating little by little.

For once, he let the world fall away. Let the worries, the responsibilities, the masks—all of it—drift into the background.

And with you in his arms, he allowed himself to sleep. Deeply. Fully. Trusting you to be there when he opened his eyes again.

In that quiet space between heartbeats and dreams, you both drifted into slumber—two souls tethered together not by necessity, but by choice.

By love.

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(a/n)

After almost three long, agonizing weeks—the long awaited chapter is finally here.

I have delivered what has been festering in all of our hungry minds. (myself included, hehee) We've all got to see Piccolo in action and he does, in fact, have a d*ck~

And boyyyyyy it was SPICY. 🥵

Canonically, (Y/n) wears nothing underneath. 🤭

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Previously: Part XXI

You are currently reading Part XXII

Part XXIII Coming soon...

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It Turned into Love Masterlist

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Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

[lilyswrittenworks]

[lilyswrittenworks]

It Turned Into Love: Writing Update #5

Currently working on the upcoming chapter and I wanted to share a little snippet of it with you all~

(I’m still working on it, however, I am at the ending scene of it—I’m certain that you will all thank me later, hehehe) 🤭

[lilyswrittenworks]

hey! could i possibly request these in the colours #0b5ffd and #e00285, no worries if not!

https://www.tumblr.com/saradika-graphics/776485095171342336/minimalist-retro-dividers-free-masterlist

hi, I can do that! please let me know if I got the right colors 💖

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[lilyswrittenworks]

Art Dump (2/?) Crash Bandicoot Edition

Crash Bandicoot will always have a special place in my heart. I remember playing Warped for the first time with my dad and my brother when I was really young and it brings back so many happy memories with it.

The first drawing was like my second attempt at Drawing Crash Bandicoot. Not terrible, was still trying to learn and fix any inconsistency.

Then there was Aku-aku, which I am really proud of. Love the voice actor, Mel Wrinkler, who voice him. I will cherish him more than anything (May he rest well ❤️)

ALRIGHT

All the drawings below revolve around my un-published/secrete little novel I wrote in its entirety and have been hyperfixating about for like... almost four years now lol.

I dunno... I don't feel like it'll be worth publishing it anywhere.

The Novel (Fanfic *cough* *cough*) is called Interdimensional Collision.

Here's like a brief synopsis for those who are curious:

When a world has been dead for over 700 years and humanity has been thriving beneath the surface. An inventor desperately sought out to leave through a portal—a different dimension, for a better life with his daughter. Only for the portal to malfunction mid operation and implode on itself. But not without bringing something back in the process.

It sounds like an interesting start for a Sci-fi novel, right?

Cause it is. I basically created the world it's set in.

My brain did that—all of it.

It even has political shit, wooow. (I might've been influenced by Dune and To Sleep in a Sea of Stars, hehee)

Also, the girl's name is Jade.

The last drawing was drawn to the exact pose on the right. It was purely to practice the pose and play around with the red shading. Plus, the reference lady looks freakin' awesome. I'm not sure who it is, but like, full credit goes to whomever took the photo.

So, yeah...

I hope you enjoyed the snippet of what could have been a good story or maybe a good start of an OG Novel if I tried hard enough. Ngl, I don't think this fanfic would fly because uhh... people aren't as obsessed with Crash as I am lol.

[lilyswrittenworks]

There are SO many WIPs in my google docs just... sitting there.

That will never see the light of day. I think...

I'm a spontaneous writer when I watch something that genuinely influences me—my hyperfixations' are inevitable lol.

I've made some about:

Dragon Ball Z (A Goku short story about his wife, Chi-Chi, divorced him) I really need to finish that cause it's actually interesting.

Demon Slayer (two chapters written already)

Somali and the Forest Spirit (with 4 chapters already written)

Mystery Skulls (a VERY long short story)

Poppy Playtime (A LONG first chapter)

Crash Bandicoot (Collision; it's written already in its entirety. It's a full blown novel. A very rough first draft)

Transformers EarthSpark (It's not even finished lol)

SpiderMan: Beyond the Spider-Verse (Miguel O'Hara, cause the guy is built like a fucking brick 🤭)

Bendy and the Ink Machine (I'm a bit freaky for an inky demon)

Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Donatello based)

The Ancient Magus' Bride (A self insert)

FNAF 3 (loool)

Miraculous Ladybug (Luka Couffaine short story)

There's ALOT of WIPs from different genre's and it makes me sad that they will remain untouched.

[lilyswrittenworks]

It sure feels that way after two weeks.

man.

It’s not even funny how relatable this is.

[lilyswrittenworks]

Art Dump (1/?) Hollow Knight Edition

Wanted to share some random art from a couple years ago. ~

I'm a massive Hollow Knight fan (still am), and yes--I have replayed the game multiple times c:

This is a scene from a really cool Hollow Knight fanfic in ao3 ~

>> Hoops, Strings, and Other Placebos << archiveofourown.org/works/25481752

GOSH, I still remember waiting for the author to update back then, omg.

✨Nostalgia✨

[lilyswrittenworks]

Here's week 03 of Inktober!

With this all my inktober updates over here are up to date hehe! (if you want to see them daily as I make them I recommend going to my Insta, I upload them daily on my story!)

This week's line up ended up being;

°Day 15 - Ichi - Ichi the witch

°Day 16 - Ash - banana fish

°Day 17 - Alma - Gokurakugai

°Day 18 - Saitama - One punch man

°Day 19 - Kaneki - Tokyo Ghoul

°Day 20 - Piccolo - DBZ

°Day 21 - Rin - Blue exorcist