#piccolo x read insert | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tobiasdrake · 23 days ago

Note

I have a lot of qualms with the anime's handling of things. It's a lot of people's first exposure to Dragon Ball and forms the basis of how many in the fandom think of the characters and concepts. But there's... issues.

As everyone knows, the anime is not a 100% faithful adaptation like, say, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood is for the FMA manga. They were adapting the manga as it was being written, usually having to fit 1-2 chapters of manga into twenty minutes of television. So they had to improvise a lot.

This is where the padding and filler comes from. Filler episodes give the manga time to get ahead so they don't have to try and squeeze 1 chapter into a full episode. And fights are padded as hell with long sequences of characters charging up or spectators gawking at them because when you only have 1-2 chapters to adapt and most of it's fighting, those panels burn up a lot faster than 1-2 chapters of plot and dialogue.

This is the commonly discussed issue with the Dragon Ball anime, especially with Dragon Ball Z. For which Dragon Ball Kai was created to try and correct for.

But the issues with the anime run deeper than "There is filler" and "Fights are padded".

First, to the problem of the filler. We often use "filler" these days to mean episodic character-driven parts of a show. But I need to stress that I mean filler in the original sense of the word. These are scenes and whole episodes that do not exist in the source material and have been created just to extend runtime and delay the speed of material consumption in the adaptation process.

The issue with the anime's filler is fairly intuitive. These are scenes and episodes being inserted into a story that were not created by its author. Like you're reading Lord of the Rings and then suddenly someone's Legolas x Aragorn slash fic abruptly appears between two chapters, and then Lord of the Rings continues afterward like that didn't happen and it's never acknowledged again.

That doesn't have to be a problem if it's a really good slash fic. But the other problem with the filler is that the people they were made by are not the dedicated Dragon Ball fandom. It's not the Dragon Ball nerds who've memorized the lore and prepared an extensive essay on why Yamcha and Piccolo are secretly lovers.

They're made by animators and writers whose job is to produce twenty minutes of entertaining television for children. That's it. That's all they're here for. These animators and writers didn't have a very strong grasp on the characters, the concepts, or the mythology of the world they were writing these extra episodic character-driven moments and stories for.

It's not your local Dragon Ball nerd writing the fic; It's the nerd's brother who was looking at his phone while the nerd infodumped, who suddenly looks up and goes, "Wait, why doesn't Frieza just break out of Hell with his awesome powers? He's super strong, right? Hell couldn't hold him." Not realizing that there is actually an established answer to that question.

Consequently, the filler episodes play fast and loose with continuity and often have an adverse effect on the audience's perception of the characters and ideas therein.

Yamcha and Bulma's relationship is miserable, but the filler gives them lots of moments together to show that they really do love each other and we should be rooting for these crazy kids to work it out.

Yamcha himself is supposed to be a womanizer who eventually cheats on Bulma, but the filler plays him as a put-upon henpecked boyfriend who is chaste, virtuous, and loyal to Bulma despite her constant abuse. This has informed much of the fandom's perception of Bulma and Yamcha's relationship, as well as the backlash against their eventual and well-warranted breakup.

(Which is not to say that Bulma's a saint in the manga either. Far from it. The point is that they were miserable together, and the best thing for both of them was to split. Which you might not realize from the way the anime depicts them.)

Yamcha actually gets a lot of this because the creatives at Toei liked him and greatly embellished his presence and role within the story. Anime Yamcha is the guy who has his shit together. He's the leader of the Dragon Team, practically the deuteragonist of the show, with Krillin falling into a dipshit little brother role and being relegated to comic relief. He's Tenshinhan's rival and bro, and they push each other to greater heights through their iron bond of mutual respect.

All of this is fanfiction, and it plays a heavy role in the ultimate disappointment when Yamcha ultimately fell from a spotlight he was never supposed to be in to begin with. If you add a bunch of extra chapters to Fellowship detailing in extensive detail what a great hero Boromir was and his many adventures and his nobility and heroism... Then you're going to get an upset fandom when he dies at the end of the book and the plot moves on without him. Don't do that.

Gohan also got hit really hard by the "Toei writing checks Toriyama won't cash" brick. In filler, Toei liked to characterize Gohan as, basically, Goku Jr. He had an independent drive and desire for adventure and martial arts. He's constantly sneaking out under Chi-Chi's nose to go thrill-seeking and work on his training.

This, again, is fanfiction that creates the wrong impression of the character. Gohan is a sweet and sensitive boy who enjoys academia and aspires to be a scholar, but who is willing to get involved and fight when there are people he loves whose lives are on the line. He has a massive potential but no drive to pursue it outside of spending time with his loved ones who do it as a hobby. If he could, he would never throw another punch again outside of sparring matches with Dad and friends.

One very notable filler episode has Gohan escape Piccolo's training and return home. But then, just when he has the chance to be free, he steels himself and decides to return to the training. He's going to fight the Saiyans for himself, because he wants this, and he finds his resolve. But then manga canon comes back and Gohan comes apart emotionally during the fight with the Saiyans and can't bring himself to act, because he doesn't have the resolve and is only here under duress.

Krillin also suffers in the opposite way of Yamcha. They can't reduce his prominence in the anime, but he does suddenly turn into a hapless loser and cowardly buffoon whenever Toei gets their turn at writing him. It's even a running joke in the movies that Krillin always gets a chance to try to fight the villains and gets comically punked out of the action; He starts commenting on it in later films.

There's a point in the Cell arc where Goku and Chi-Chi make a deal to back off on the academia and let Gohan train for the Androids. The anime elects to ignore it and continues doing Tiger Mom bits throughout the rest of the arc, despite manga Chi-Chi holding to her end of the agreement.

Bulma, like Krillin, is often characterized as much softer and sweeter than she is in the manga. Except when they're drumming up sympathy for Yamcha, she's a lot more gentle and traditionally feminine. There are also a ton of filler scenes of Bulma just sitting around fretting about Goku, even when she has no idea what he's up to. They just have her, wherever she is, doing the "I can feel that he's in danger in my heart, my heart aches from the pain he must be in," bit usually reserved for couples in anime.

It's not just the characters, though. Dragon Ball filler is rife with absurd inconsistencies. There's an episode where Goku travels back in time to learn from Mutaito, the master who trained Kame-sennin and Tsuru-sennin. This episode features Mutaito teaching Goku about ki manipulation for the very first time... Despite it being between Piccolo-Daimao and the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai, when Goku's been shooting Kamehamehas for years.

Like Goku and Chi-Chi's bargain, the anime elects to ignore the fact that Senzu leaves you full and satisfied for seven days. That gets in the way of doing comedic "Goku eating a truck full of food" bits, which they love to animate and add into the show a lot. So that established metaphysic doesn't exist anymore in their version.

As aforementioned, the rules of how the afterlife works get in the way of having the dead villains cause trouble, so those are gone too. Toei loves having the dead villains break out of Hell. They did it in the Anoyoichi Budokai filler arc, in the Fusion Reborn film, and again in the Super 17 arc of GT.

In the manga, when you die, you become a powerless soul. On rare occasions, a god may permit you to keep your body, allowing you to retain your strength and cultivated ki while all other souls do not. Then you enter into the karmic cycle, with evil souls spending an amount of time in Jigoku until their negative karma is purged and they are able to reincarnate.

In the anime, all souls keep their bodies, always. If your ki is really strong, then I guess Hell just won't be able to contain you. Death is just, like, involuntarily being moved to a different physical location, but is otherwise no different from being alive.

They did actually nail this in the Ginyu Force filler arc, where Kaio explicitly states that he restored the Ginyus' bodies so they could be used as a training exercise for the Earthlings. But no explanation is ever offered for why all the other villains get to keep their bodies too.

A really funny thing the anime does, not really an inconsistency so much as just an entertaining bit of guesswork, is that they clearly wanted Goku to have a love interest. There are lots of filler bits throughout the first anime shipping Goku with Chi-Chi and Bulma... and also Snow from Jingle Village.

Snow. The redhead girl from the Muscle Tower arc. They bring her back in the Piccolo-Daimao arc and it is so wild. But after Chi-Chi is canonized as Goku's love interest, we basically never hear from her again. I think she appears in the Majin Buu Spirit Bomb "Lend me your energy" bit and that's it.

Just. Hedging the fuck out of their bets so that when Toriyama finally gives Goku a romance, they'll have foreshadowed it.

Which ultimately still ended up working against the story's integrity. Because when Chi-Chi does show up to the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai, it's supposed to be a huge shock. We haven't seen this girl since fucking Fire Mountain. You probably forgot she existed. Goku did.

But in the anime, we've been watching Goku pop by and hang out with her multiple times in filler just in case she's going to be revealed to be his offscreen girlfriend or something. So it completely ruins the surprise. They put in extra effort to try and foreshadow whoever Goku's ultimate ship would be, and in the process ruined a shocking reveal that was meant to go unforeshadowed.

Krillin also gets two filler shippables, Mint and Maron. And Gohan gets one named Lime. None of these characters are ever spoken of again after manga canon reasserts itself, but they don't hurt the story by existing. I'm still salty that Maron never got to meet God after winning the Nyoi-bo/Power Pole from Karin in strip poker, though. I demand my "Maron in God's Temple" scene.

There's an entire filler arc of Gohan being Great Saiyaman under Videl's nose while constantly dodging her attempts to unmask him. Which ruins the Gotcha moment where Videl nails his identity in one day because she's observant and open-minded while he's bad at faking normal. Videl's intelligence doesn't shine through in the anime, and she instead comes across as a hapless damsel for Gohan to rescue from her own self-destructive foolishness over and over.

Anime Frieza has an infinite supply of minions for the entire duration of the Namek arc when he's supposed to be down to just himself, Zarbon and Dodoria, and Appule - with those three gradually diminishing. But because they don't actually exist in manga canon, they are forbidden from influencing the plot and just hang out in his ship doing nothing. They're just there so he and Captain Ginyu can kill them in filler sequences to show off how wicked they are.

Oh, except for one episode where they get in a fight with Bulma and lose.

And that's not to mention the Garlic Jr. arc, which is a direct sequel to a non-canon film somehow happening within the anime's canon. Fuck you, that's how. Toei legitimately does not care. They don't care who the characters are, they don't care what the rules are, and nearly everything they write ceases to be canon the second the manga canon returns to the screen. They aren't really writing Legolas x Aragorn slash fic. They're writing an episode of The Simpsons and inserting it between Lord of the Rings pages.

But that's only problem 1. The other issue is the padding. And again, people say "padding" and they think of. Like. Goku screaming for ten straight minutes as he transforms. Charging up a beam attack for six minutes before firing it. Reaction shots of each individual character, some of whom aren't even present. That sort of thing.

And that certainly is present in the anime. To be sure. The manga's action is far more fast-paced than the anime. Sometimes this is, admittedly, to the manga's detriment. Goku's first Super Saiyan transformation takes like one page. It's over and done with. Vegeta throws like one or two punches at Final Form Frieza before giving up and accepting defeat.

There are moments of action in the manga that feel like this could have been longer. I will give them that.

The problem with the padding is really just more problems with filler, but in an action context. There's a lot of extra fighting inserted between panels being adapted. On paper, that makes sense as the kind of thing you might add to an episode when fleshing it out, but it has... problems in practice.

Characters will spend between 30 seconds to a full episode going through original fight choreography that the same people writing those filler episodes came up with. The problem with that is twofold.

One, this is all action happening between panels. That means that, at the end of this piece of choreography, the fight must return to the same place it was at the beginning of it. Frieza smashes Vegeta into a rock but then Vegeta suddenly gets up and they start fighting again. Nobody takes damage, nobody does anything significant, and at the end of it Frieza smashes Vegeta into the rock a second time so he can be where the manga needs him to be.

This makes a lot of the action feel weightless, because there are extended sequences of fighting where both characters are effectively invulnerable. It would ruin the story if anything changed before we get back to the manga, after all.

This filler action is where a lot of iconic Dragon Ball animation shots comes from. You shoot a ton of ki blasts into your enemy and they explode into a smoke cloud. You breathe a sigh of relief knowing you got him. But then he slowly emerges unscathed. WHAT!?

Is it because he's SO POWERFUL? Uh. No. Hitting a really powerful guy over and over usually still does some damage. It's because this part of the fight isn't really happening so he has Filler Invincibility turned on.

Goku's body is destroyed by the Kaioken but suddenly he gets a second wind and is able to jump around and throw punches like he's full of energy! Is Goku back in the fight? No. At the end of it he'll be right back where he started. It's just that this part of the fight isn't really happening so he has Filler Infinite Stamina turned on.

This is most noticeable in the Super Saiyan Goku vs. Frieza fight, which has like ten straight episodes of Filler Action. At one point Gohan's Filler Battle Lust snaps on and he comes back to fight 1v1 with 100% Full Power Frieza. He doesn't get his shit completely rocked, though, because he has Filler Invincibility turned on; he has to survive and return to the ship once the manga's ready to start up again.

This kind of stuff completely destroys the pacing of a fight. It's not a problem when the Filler Action is good. But that's where the second problem, the "Toei doesn't really care" problem comes in. The same people writing those Simpsons episodes are also choreographing these extra bits of fighting.

Filler Action is rarely innovative, rarely does anything new or interesting. For the most part, it's derivative. They lean heavily on referencing cool shots and cool scenes, and on reusing cool attacks from past arcs regardless of whether it actually makes sense.

The Shishin no Ken/Multiform technique appears one time in the Dragon Ball manga. Tenshinhan created it for use against Goku in the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai. However, it was critically flawed. Goku was able to pick apart the flaw and overwhelm Tenshinhan, delivering a crushing defeat. No one ever attempted the technique again. Because it's bad.

The anime makes it a staple of a completely different character whatsoever. Piccolo whips out Shishin no Ken all the time. He trains with it. He uses it against enemies. At certain points, Krillin and even Cell also use the technique? Everybody loves Shishin no Ken even though it's a bad technique that lost its only fight.

Zanzoken/Afterimage was a really strong technique at the beginning of the manga. But as the characters advanced in their study of martial arts, it became obsolete. Once ki sensing entered the picture and nobody needed to track a foe with their eyes, leaving a Zanzoken in your place as you move became pointless. You made five shadow clones. Cool. I can sense which one is real, so there is no value in doing that.

The anime continues using Zanzoken for Filler Action all the way through the end of its run. What about ki sensing, you ask? That's fine. Nobody can sense ki in Filler Action. The anime just forgets that's a thing when ever Toei is in the writing seat.

Characters who can sense ki are constantly losing track of their opponents in Filler Action. Kick up a cloud of dust in the air and you can get the drop on Goku. He has no way of telling where the next attack will come from if he can't see you with his eyes!

This is often used in tandem with... Looney Tunes tunneling? I don't know why that's a thing in Filler Action but Toei likes having characters go subterranean and then suddenly erupt from the ground to grab their opponent's feet. It always makes for a surprising ambush since the characters can't sense ki anymore.

Oh, and Bukujutsu. Characters in Filler Action sometimes forget that they can fly. There are so many Toei-written scenes where characters plummet uncontrollably through the air for tension or are surrounded/confronted by an obstacle that could be easily solved by going airborne, especially in the Baby arc of GT.

Piccolo breaks out the one-handed Makankosappo/Special Beam Cannon a lot. In the manga, he was doing it with one hand because he'd lost the other one. He demonstrates the two-handed Makankosappo in the fight with Nappa, and then never uses it again in either form. But it was an iconic moment when he did the one-handed one against Raditz, so one-handed Makankosappo divorced from context became a staple of his Filler Action moveset.

In the manga, characters are constantly innovating. Constantly evolving their styles, creating new and better ways of using their techniques while inventing new ones. But Filler Action is stagnant, with characters simply deploying existing attacks and referencing Cool Moments like playing cards from a deck. Genuinely innovative and interesting things, like using the sun to create a Solar Genki-Dama and obliterate Namekian Dracula, do happen but are few and far between.

Once Super Saiyan enters the picture, the anime uses it like Kaioken. Characters will try to fight without it and fail only to suddenly reveal that they can transform at the eleventh hour, long past the point where it actually would have made sense to do it. I have complained at length about this so I'll keep that part brief but suffice it to say that Filler Action characters often let themselves get beaten up really badly while coasting on their Filler Invincibility even when they have the ability to stop losing at any moment.

Power levels basically cease to exist in Filler Action. See above, re: Gohan surviving throwing hands with Full Power Frieza. But also in other ways, like an episode of Dragon Ball Super that features Goten and Trunks being menaced by a random jungle snake, and needing to turn Super Saiyan to escape from it. At one point in GT, Trunks has to turn Super Saiyan to lift a pallet full of bricks?

Toei has a general idea of "This character is to some extent stronger than that character". Except when they don't, like characterizing Yamcha as a worthy opponent and rival to Tenshinhan or suggesting that Chiaotzu would be a match for a member of the Ginyu Force.

For every "Goten and Trunks menaced by snake" moment, you also get stuff like "Pre-Namek Vegeta can destroy an entire planet in seconds with a casual shot fired from his fingers." They have no idea how powerful these characters are supposed to be at any given time, or what their abilities actually are, or how those abilities actually work. And so they make a lot of errors in both directions.

And it makes for hollow fight choreography where the moves being made are derivative and overly referential, none of the moves make sense as things these characters would be doing or would be capable of doing, and it doesn't mean anything anyway because it's happening between panels so it's all going to reset to 0 at the end of it. Except in the movies and GT and stuff where only two of those things are true.

Even the DBS: Broly movie, which I love to death, has a lot of shitty Toei-style fight choreography baked into it. Stepping through stages of Super Saiyan for no reason? Check. Characters letting themselves get shitstomped for no reason but it's fine because they're invincible? Check. Over-reliance on referencing iconic manga moments even when it makes no sense and breaks the integrity of the scene? Just once I'd like to see a Fusion Dance that doesn't Play the Hits of the two characters turning into Fat Gotenks. You know they have to wait an hour or so to try again, right? Because the movie doesn't.

So, all in all, the anime gives me a lot of grief. The manga wasn't this exceptionally crafted masterpiece. Akira Toriyama did a lot of improvising. He was writing by the seat of his pants. But he at least tried to present a consistent universe with consistent characters and rules.

So, for me, watching the various Dragon Ball animes is like being pricked by a thousand tiny needles. That's not how that works. That's not how that works. He wouldn't say that. She wouldn't react like that. Nobody uses that attack anymore. Why can't he sense his opponent? That's not how that works. He wasn't there for that scene. Why is Uranai Baba here?

weird question. how do you feel about toriyama's art, and the use of his art style?

Artistically, if people take anything away from Toriyama's work, I want it to be his talent for conveying action through still panels.

I've read plenty of comics and manga where the action is honestly pretty hard to make sense of. Like taking still images of one of those jumpy thousand-cuts-per-minute modern Hollywood action scenes where the images are taken like fifteen seconds apart and there's no real sense of how anyone got to anywhere or where that punch is supposed to land.

By contrast, reading Dragon Ball is like watching an actual martial arts film. Toriyama's panel work was a big part of what made him such a great mangaka. It's very easy to follow Toriyama's action from panel to panel; To read the visual language of the fight.

Look how smooth that is. People don't think of Dragon Ball fights as clear, concise affairs where every punch has weight and every move counts. But that's exactly what the manga is. This was Toriyama's greatest asset as an artist.

Look at how the panels follow Frieza's right leg. He's stepping forward with his right leg. His right leg is in front of Goku's face. His right leg kicks Goku into the air. Then he sweeps with his right leg. And then the right leg connects.

That whole sequence follows Frieza's leg. It's what is going to be used to hit Goku and so the action tracks it from panel to panel. You always know where Frieza's right leg is.

And it's why the whole "Characters designed by Toriyama" thing never really meant as much as it was hyped to be. It doesn't matter if he drew a guy's hair Goku-style. What matters is this. When the fists start flying, is it going to be his action?

Or is it going to be something like this?

Did Goku push Vegeta? Did he shoot him? Because he was like ten feet away from the fighting when that maneuver was completed. And then he definitely took that hit to the back of the neck but I guess he was just playing pretend?

Did Son Goku just fake a knockout so he could land a cheap-shot sucker-punch on an adversary?

(This same fight also had Goku defeat Granolah's knack for targeting someone's vitals by suddenly being able to reposition all of his organs somehow, incidentally.)

11 pages of pure action just to convey that Goku and Moro are equally matched. By the end of this, the fight hasn't actually moved in any way.

Goku and Moro chitchat with each other across a beam struggle?

Just so Goku can brag that Toyotaro knows what the Zanzoken/Afterimage is.

By contrast, Toriyama's Beam Struggles look like this.

Intense, strenuous affairs which are clearly and visibly taking a toll on both participants, in which one party ultimately and significantly prevails over the other.

In Goku and Moro's struggle, neither of them really seems to be trying very hard. Goku and Moro are able to water-cooler chat across the beam somehow and then they both just stop caring and leave. It was a Continuity Moment so Goku could call out the Zanzoken but ultimately Goku's Kamehameha achieves nothing and the fight just carries on like it never happened.

Also there's a point where Moro telekinetically yanks Goku down out of the air and then, on the next page, Moro telekinetically yanks Goku down out of the air again. What's that about?

The double-punch panel to show that they're evenly matched is... I have no idea where Moro got the strength to suddenly do that when last we saw was him recoiling from being hit over and over? Moro suddenly gains Super Armor between pages so he can be back in control of a situation where they were not evenly matched and he was clearly on the back foot.

The art is really good and, visually, Toyotaro has a good bead on what these characters should look like. But not what they should move like. It's not Toriyama's action, and you can feel that difference.

#dragon ball #oh and also chi-chi's spaceship #which is another great encapsulation of the problem of anime filler #but i forgot to mention it

208 notes · View notes

rocksinmuffin · 6 years ago

Text

Answering questions under the read more, as one does.

Whom?

Lol i think sometimes you guys forget how old I am and that I did not necessarily grow up watching the same cartoons as you guys because I have literally never heard of this before in my life.

No, not yet. I think I got an OK KO request in my inbox right now but I haven’t written anything for it as of this moment.

Anon I’ll never be straight lmao. But I’ll be real with ya, I never watched the show long enough to form an opinion on him. I know of him but I don’t think I ever saw an episode with that villain, sorry. :/ but out of principle you gotta fuck the lizard. You gotta.

Is this Latin? Anon did you just curse me? Have I been hexed????? My knowledge of Neopets is limited to the time McDonalds had them as happy meal toys.

Hell yeah!!!!! I’ve gone out of my way to not keep up with the news because I want to experience it firsthand but I’m very hype. I always pick the starter based on which final evolution I like best so my opinion might change, but right now I’m looking at grookey 🐵🌱

I’m assuming you’re asking if I write for canon x canon and not just self-insert? I already have a couple times and I address this in my FAQ but I don’t really like writing it as much as reader-insert because I’m a self-indulgent bitch and I want to kiss the robots.

They’re still around; Tumblr search is just garbage and broken and won’t pull any results that are potentially nsfw. You have to get around it by using a browser to go directly to the URL for the tag you want. I go into more detail about this in my FAQ.

But, for convenience’s sake, this link should work for you even if you’re on mobile: https://rocksinmuffin.tumblr.com/tagged/codename-kids-next-door

I haven’t. I tried playing Bloodborne but I gave up real quick because I am Bad At Video Games™️.

I like a lot of different types of video games but bonus points if you can make a customizable character and overall I’m more drawn towards plot-driven games because I like a good story. Say what you want about Bioware as a whole, but to this day the Mass Effect trilogy is my favorite game series of all time and I even enjoyed Andromeda in spite of its many flaws. I like Dragon Age and unpopular opinion but Dragon Age II was my favorite of the series.

Right now I’m playing through Borderlands 2 because I never finished it and I’m having a pretty good time. Other honorable mentions are Titanfall II, the Pokemon series (including the Mystery Dungeon spin-offs), Stardew Valley, Shovel Knight, Transformers: Fall of Cybertron, Dragonball Xenoverse, some of the Fire Emblem games, Smash Bros, Undertale, OFF, Fable, Far Cry 5 and probably many more.

I thought I was pretty clear about it in the post you’re referencing and I even made a note of it in my FAQ, but yes, you’re correct. I will no longer take nsfw requests for Dib or other characters who are minors in their respective series who never appear as adults anywhere in canon. For example, Dib is 12 throughout the entirety of the series and never canonically grows up, so I will no longer write nsfw for him. Whereas I’ll still write for characters from Homestuck or, like, Teenage Mutant Turtles because there are instances of canon and universes where they are adults.

Keep in mind, you can still make requests for Dib, I just don’t want to write anything nsfw for him. Writing about innocent schoolyard crushes where reader is a child or aging him up for general romance headcanons is fine.

I used to write these kinds of things without a second thought and I’m not necessarily condemning people who do it because I genuinely believe the people who make these requests grew up with the characters and just imagine them growing up with them (if I thought otherwise this would be a different conversation entirely) but the older I get, the more it makes me personally uncomfortable to do. And that’s that!

You fool, Piccolo always sexy.

#ask #anon #rantsinmuffin #long post

31 notes · View notes

robertbjonesus80 · 8 years ago

Text

Buyer’s Guide: Best Trumpet Brands Review in 2017

Whatever your sonic intentions, when it comes to playing the trumpet, you need a solid instrument between your lips if you can ever hope to climb the lofty peak of excellence in performing or recording. If you’re looking to get yourself the best trumpet, you better arm yourself with some knowledge before wading into the jungle of contemporary music retail. This article is here to review five of the best trumpet brands around today. Before we get there, we’re going to talk a little shop and inform you about what to look for in a trumpet, some terminology you’ll need to know, the different styles available, and some of the materials and production techniques involved horn manufacturing.

Things You Need To Know

Trumpet variations:

Trumpets are most commonly tuned at the pitch of Bb. This means that, when you buzz into them without depressing any of the valves, the note that comes out is a Bb. For most, however, this is not what you learn at first. Most band teachers will tell you that you’re playing a C instead.

The Bb trumpet is different from many other instruments, such as the flute, trombone, piano, and the whole strings section because it does not play at concert pitch. This is the term we use for an instrument that reads a C on the sheet and plays a C as a note. While playing a Bb trumpet, when you read sheet music to play with a symphony band, your music will be transposed three half-steps lower.

Instrument makers and trumpet players select the Bb trumpet for its sound. A concert pitch C trumpet has a lighter, airier, more silvery tone that wanders from the sound we have come to expect from a trumpet. It is simply not as articulate an instrument. Scott Sakurai writes that the popularity of the Bb trumpet is in part due to its use in the military. “Despite [the various advances in trumpets] the military preferred their valveless signaling bugles in Bb, presumably because the sound carries better, and it is those bugles that had valves added to them to become modern cornets. It made sense to build trumpets in the same key for the sake of the performers who could then switch readily between them.”

What separates a Bb from a C, piccolo trumpet, or even D trumpet? The answer is size. Think about the strings family. A violin is small and plays high notes, while a double bass is very large and plays very low notes. As you make a trumpet bigger, the natural sound it produces goes lower as well.

Your follow up question will likely be ‘if Bb trumpets are so popular, why don’t we just write the notes you actually play instead of transposing them for each arrangement?’ The answer: if each part for differently sized trumpets was written at concert pitch, trumpet players would learn different fingerings for the same notes played on different trumpets. Especially with beginner trumpet blowers, it’s much easier for a composer to simply transpose his or her score to fit the trumpet he or she calls for.

Bell taper, size, and shape:

The bell of a trumpet is largely responsible for the timbre and quality of tone in a trumpet. As you might guess, not all bells are created equally. They range widely in size and shape. A bell that has a mellow, gradual curve to it will generally create a softer, warmer sound. Bells with brief, abrupt curves tend to the edgier, brassier side of things. In terms of size, just like the bore, a larger horn will produce a larger, more enriched noise, but will be more difficult to play re: lung capacity. A smaller bell will make it easy to sustain a note, but it will be a more diminished, smaller sound.

Tuning Bell vs. Valve Slides:

While researching your next trumpet, you will doubtlessly strike upon the distinction between a regular, or valve-slide-tuning trumpet and a trumpet equipped with a tuning bell. Here’s the difference: when normally tuning a trumpet, you will adjust one, two, or three of the valve slides to get your horn sounding right. The tuning bell offers an additional slide component that lies between the valve cluster and the junction of the bell. Getting your trumpet in tune is generally easier with a tuning bell compared to the valve slides because you only have to adjust one component compared to three. There is not a significant difference in sound.

What’s it made out of?

Almost all brass instruments are made out of, well, brass, the product of copper and zinc. Some rare or ornamental trumpets may be made of gold or silver, but these are uncommon.

Variation occurs regarding the different compositions of the brass. Yellow brass is the most typical. It derives from 70% copper and 30% zinc. Gold brass doesn’t have any gold, it’s 80% copper, 20% zinc. As you may guess, silver brass has no silver, but instead some nickel.

Almost the entire instrument is made of brass to maintain a consistent, ringing tone. Screws may be steel, and the spit valve usually has a cork on the end of it to keep interference down to a minimum.

Some manufacturers will incorporate a small amount of tin into the bell of the trumpet to give it a more sonorous, ringing tone, and others still will include gold or silver plating to play around with sound even more.

Trumpet vs. Cornet

While these instruments are often of the same pitch and employ the same fingering patterns, subtle differences make them sound differently.

One of the main differences between trumpet and coronet is the shape of the bore. On a trumpet, it’s cylindrical, and on a cornet, it assumes the shape of a gradually increasing cone (from mouthpiece to bell). The trumpet, as a result, will have a more piercing, direct sound, while the cornet is softer and warmer.

If you’re just starting out, we recommend starting on a trumpet. Once you build up enough lip strength to get a good even sound, try out the cornet and see which you like better.

Now that you know a little about the horn, it’s time to find out which brands are best.

Five Best Trumpet Brands

Shilke

Shilke trumpets can be customized in just about any way you can imagine. They offer six different 'lines’ of trumpet: the Traditional B & X Series Designs, the HD Series, the Handcraft series, the 'Faddis Model,’ the Shilke i32 Bb, and Tuning Bell models.

Shilke was founded in 1956 by the renowned trumpeter and band leader Renold O. Shilke. Most of the company’s instruments are still Renold’s own design. Based in, and manufacturing from Melrose Park, Illinois, they are one of the most popular brass instrument companies in the world. Their mouthpieces are especially sought after.

The traditional B series are great for students and even advancing intermediates. These trumpets have remained roughly the same since they were first introduced over sixty years ago. Each is made of yellow brass, has a variety of bell tapers, and bores ranging between .45" and .463.“

The Faddis Model was built for jazz artist, conductor, composer, and general legend John Faddis. The biggest modification lies in the valve section, which is heavier at the center than most horns. All valve slides are smooth and free of nibs (the small buttons that help you pull out a poorly greased slide). With an adjustable sound post, this is a hefty horn meant for swinging.

The handcraft series is not for the faint of heart. With a bore of .468” and an extra large bell, you’ll want to hit the elliptical three times a week for a financial quarter before you test this one out. Its tone has an incredible, full body with a downright ambrosial timbre.

Any of the horns can, of course be customized for the right price. Popular customizations include a beryllium bell, which incorporates very lightweight copper into the brass for a more “direct, compact projection.” Sterling silver bells are also available. They’re slightly thicker than the brass and create some seriously rich tones. The other primary customizations are bore and bell size and shape.

Pros

More customizations available than you can dream of

Solid vision for different trumpets, matching them with style of play

Unconventional bell materials

Cons

Not the best for student trumpets

Expensive

You’re going to have to know what you want before buying

Yamaha

Possibly the most popular name in symphonic and concert instruments, Yamaha offers trumpets of the Bb, C, Eb, E/Eb, F/G, Piccolo, and Rotary varieties. Within most categories, they offer several models, and to go over each one deserves a separate article. For now, we’ll touch on the company and a few highlights.

Torakusu Yamaha built his first reed organ in 1887. The company that he started produced pianos for decades before sub-dividing into motorcycles and sporting equipment. They were one of the earliest producers of electric keyboards, creating their first model in 1959. Production of wind instruments did not start until 1965. That’s still 50 years of experience in the field. Especially when it comes to trumpets and other brass instruments, Yamaha is one of the foremost producers worldwide.

The Xeno Artist Model “New York” (Bb and C) is one of their premiere horns. Developed with the help of David Bilger, who has played 1st trumpet for the Philadelphia Orchestra since 1995, this trumpet has everything a performing trumpeter could want. The bell shape has a gradual enlargement from the mouthpiece end of the horn that opens into abrupt mid-sized opening allowing for excellent articulation. They’ve beefed up the leadpipe (the piece into which the mouthpiece is inserted), while thinning down the valve casings for a better tone as well. When the spirit takes you, the slide stoppers will keep your valve slides from falling off. All in all, this is a real Cadillac of a trumpet.

On the student end, the YTR 2330 is a fantastic instrument to learn on. The bell is made of two pieces (a tuning bell) and it is intended to sound good, but also promote endurance in playing. It is not strictly as easy to play as other Yamaha horns. The pistons within the valves are made of monel alloy, a highly durable composite that helps sustain your instrument even if you don’t treat it with the utmost tlc. This trumpet will help promote good playing techniques and train you for a better horn in the future.

Pros

Huge selection of horns

Great models for every level of player

Some of the highest quality in a trumpet available

Cons

Customization is limited

Selection is so large you might get lost in the woods – we recommend consulting an expert before buying a Yamaha

The Yamaha company has grown distant from its musical origins and has become increasingly commercial

B & S

The Buffet Crampon Deutschland Gmbh originated (and still exists today) in the Vogtland, the music capitol of Germany. In 1994, they constructed one of the most state of the art instrument plants and workshops in all of Europe. These guys deal almost exclusively in performance and professional-level instruments. By specializing in high end brass, they can ensure the best quality.

The MBX3 Heritage, their most basic Bb trumpet, was created with the help of Christian Martinez, a celebrated French trumpet player. It is a generally great sounding trumpet that suits any kind of trumpet playing, from ska to Wagner. They have developed the bore to keep totally consistent between the mouthpiece and the valve to ensure the instrument is easier to tune, and stays in tune longer. The third valve slide has a stop in it so you won’t pop it out when playing your low D. This trumpet is made out of lightweight gold brass, giving it a bright, defining sound.

With their Challenger models, you can choose your own preference regarding leadpipe thickness and style, and bell shape and size. Its large .459" bore gives you a magnificent, full sound. For the finish, the choice is yours: either clear lacquer or silver plate.

Pros

Excellent quality

Great trumpets for advancing students to experts

High resale value

Cons

Not as much diversity as other brands

Bore sizes are limited

Not great for beginner students

Bach Brass

No, it’s Johan, or his kid either. Vincent Shrotenbach was born in Vienna in 1890. He cut his teeth on the violin, but after switching to trumpet (the same journey that the author of this article took), he heard the sound and the fury of his true calling. After a stint touring under the name of Vincent Bach and fleeing to New York to escape World War I, he started making mouthpieces and in 1924, began producing his own trumpets.

Bach’s trumpets are known as the Stradivari of brass instruments. One trumpet even bears that name officially. You can find any kind of trumpet you could imagine from Bach, from student right on down to professional concert level and several specialty models.

The TR300, Bach’s primary student model, has some interesting features that help in anyone’s development on the horn. For one, it uses a .459" bore—that’s really cheeky. These trumpets will be tough to blow at first, but once you’ve gotten past that volume, you’ll be ready for just about anything. It also happens to sound amazing.

The AB190 also parades under the name of Bach Stradivarius. The trumpet features a one piece, hand hammered yellow brass bell. The valves are totally old school: nickel balusters and brass casings house monel pistons. You can also experiment with either of the two sets of plastic and brass valve guides and change the button response to your preference. Just like the TR300, the bore on this horn is .459.“ That displays a philosophy and vision not seen in any other brass instrument company so far: start the kids on the same size that the pros play.

Pros

Llong history and tradition in trumpet making

Awesome philosophy in a beginner trumpet

High resale value

Cons

Limited customization

Not a huge selection of horns

More on the expensive end

Cecilio Music

If you're running on a tighter budget and don't want anything fancy out of your horn, Cecilio trumpets are a great choice. They offer only Bb trumpets for student to intermediate levels.

Pros

Great beginner trumpets

Trumpets will condition you for higher end models

Good for budgets

Cons

Inferior quality

Lack of mid to top range horns

Low resale value

Conclusion

When it comes right down to it, four of the five brands mentioned above are better than amazing trumpet brands. Horn players of the past are rolling in their graves, slavering their ghost slaver at the choices we are blessed with today. You won't go wrong with B & S, Yamaha, or Bach, but for the best trumpet brand of 2017, we're going to have to go with Shilke horns. No other company lets you customize your trumpet exactly the way you want it, although with the other three, you'd be hard pressed to find a trumpet they offer that doesn't have exactly what you want. Bach also scored big points in their philosophy regarding student trumpets, but no one quite stands up to Shilke when it comes to such a huge variety of options. Play on, trumpeteers.

The post Buyer’s Guide: Best Trumpet Brands Review in 2017 appeared first on Music Advisor.

from Music Advisor https://musicadvisor.com/2017/03/12/best-trumpet-brands/

0 notes

lilyswrittenworks · 3 months ago

Text

XVIII | Breaking Point

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

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

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

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

The way Piccolo's demeanor toward you had changed.

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

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

Replaced by something cold.

Sharp.

Hostile.

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

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

You didn't understand.

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

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

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

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

That had cut deep.

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

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

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

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

Regret.

And something else—something unreadable.

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

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

The regret on Piccolo's face vanished instantly.

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

But before he could reach you—

"No."

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

Piccolo halted.

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

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

For a brief moment, you saw guilt.

But you didn't care.

Not anymore.

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

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

There was only so much your heart could take.

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

You trailed off, your throat tightening.

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

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

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

A hand.

Warm. Solid. Him.

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

For a split second, you almost gave in.

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

You wanted to.

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

His voice came softly. "(Y/n)—"

You didn't let him finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that, you turned your back on him.

You didn't look at him again.

Couldn't.

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

Piccolo didn't move.

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

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

Your muffled sobs.

His chest ached at the sound.

Because he knew.

He knew he was the reason you were crying.

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

A part of him wanted to go to you.

To hold you.

To tell you the truth.

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

—but because he cared too much.

But then came the other part of him.

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

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

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He couldn't allow himself to love you.

And yet...

He already did.

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

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

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

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

Now he wasn't.

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

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You needed to talk to Piccolo. Now.

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

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

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

Then—movement.

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

Your heart leapt into your throat.

It couldn't be... could it?

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

It was him.

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

"Piccolo.."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart ached at the regret lacing his words.

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

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

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

His silence was answer enough.

Your heart twisted painfully.

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

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

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

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

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

You froze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You felt your heart twist painfully.

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

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

His breath caught.

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

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

It was tearing him apart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But underneath all of that...

There was love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart shattered.

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

"You already do," you whispered.

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

For a long moment, he didn't move.

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

Your breath caught.

He was letting you in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes snapped open, wide and vulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the first time in his life...

He let himself believe you.

(4,167 words)

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

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

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

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XVII

You are currently reading Part XVIII

Part XIX

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

62 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 2 months ago

Text

XXI | Getting Properly Acquainted

Warning(s): Cursing, blood, alcohol consumption, humor, and sensitive topics (it's only mentioned once!)

Word Count: 11.3K

Synopsis: It had been three months since you and Piccolo had become an item. You had experienced nothing but pure love and tenderness. Then one day you get a text message.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

“Heey, girl! In celebration of your speedy recovery, I thought it was time to gather up our friends and hang out for old time’s sake. Meet us at Way Out Bar at 7PM this Saturday!”

It had been over an hour since you’d gotten Jenny’s message, and you were still riding the high of excitement it brought. You lay sprawled on your bed, the phone still open in your hand, the message burning bright on the screen like a warm little beacon of joy.

This would be your first time seeing all of them outside the sterile white walls of the hospital. No wires. No beeping monitors. No faint scent of antiseptic in the air. Just you, your friends, and a night that promised to feel like living again. The last time you saw them, you were weak, barely able to sit up straight. They’d come in shifts with flowers, chocolates, gossip, and laughter—but it never felt right. You were smiling through the pain. Numb with fatigue. And now?

Thanks to Dende's healing, you were whole again. And it was time to live.

Your closet doors were already flung open, and the bed behind you looked like a fashion tornado had ripped through it. Jumpers, jeans, crop tops, rompers, even that one weird sequin top Jenny got you as a gag gift—it was all strewn about in the chaos of indecision.

“A dress?” you muttered to yourself, holding one up in front of the mirror before shaking your head. “Too fancy. Too ‘wedding guest.’” You tossed it aside. “Romper. Yeah. Romper is fun. Playful. Breezy. Easy to pee in…”

You snorted to yourself and held two up side by side: one black with delicate gold thread running through it, and another with a warm burgundy floral print that hugged your curves just right.

And then, it hit you—an idea that completely derailed your train of thought.

What if Piccolo came with you?

Your hands slowly lowered, the rompers falling forgotten onto the bed as your arms crossed over your chest, the spark of curiosity giving way to a gentle flutter in your chest.

Would he go?

You could already imagine their reactions. Jenny would 100% scream. Amelia would probably drop her drink. Henry might start interrogating him like an overprotective big brother. Elias would be welcoming without judgment. Luka will be cautious around new people. But deep down, you wanted your friends to meet him—to see what you saw. You weren’t just dating someone… you were in love with someone utterly unique. Quiet, mysterious, incredibly powerful, and yet… gentle with you in a way few got to witness.

But then, doubt slipped in like a cold draft.

Piccolo wasn’t a social person. You knew that. You respected that. He barely spoke during your classes unless prompted, and even then it was usually concise, pointed advice that made your students straighten up like soldiers under a general’s command. He tolerated public settings. Barely. And even then, only because he wanted to support you.

What if he didn’t want to come? What if he thought this was too much?

You let out a soft groan, burying your face in your hands for a second before slapping your cheeks lightly and straightening up. “Alright. No more overthinking. Just ask him. What’s the worst that could happen? He says no? I can live with that.”

Even if his brand of ‘no’ was usually a vague, broody grunt followed by meditative silence.

Fueled by that little ember of determination, you padded barefoot down the stairs, the wood creaking slightly under your feet. You caught the faint sound of the wind rustling through the trees outside, mingling with the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway. As you turned the corner and entered the living room, your voice called out casually:

“Hey, Piccolo, I was wondering if—”

You froze.

There he was, sitting cross-legged in the center of the room. Turban and cape nowhere in sight. Eyes closed in a serene expression. And… shirtless.

Your words caught in your throat like a fishhook. Your eyes, despite your best intentions, shamelessly took in the details—the broad expanse of his chest, the sharp cut of his abdominal muscles, the intricate, dark-lined streaks running across his arms and lower abdomen. The pink, fleshy patches on his arms glowed subtly under the soft afternoon light bleeding through the windows, framed by those bold red edges that almost dared your eyes to keep tracing along them.

Goddamn, you thought, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might punch a hole in your ribcage.

The thought of just running your hands down his muscles caused your heart to flutter. You swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly—and that’s when you felt it.

A warm trickle.

You slapped a hand to your face. Oh no.

Yep. Nosebleed. Of course your body would betray you at a time like this.

“Uhh, w-why are you shirtless??” you managed, your voice breaking slightly like you were a teenager catching her crush in the locker room.

Piccolo’s eyes opened slowly, calm and unbothered, and they immediately locked onto yours. There was the tiniest flicker of amusement there, almost hidden—like a single ripple on an otherwise still lake.

“You told me to give it to you,” he said plainly. “You noticed the stain and insisted on washing it.”

Oh. Right.

You did say that. He’d tried to argue, something about materializing a clean one instantly, but you’d been adamant. You said it was about principle, that he should let you take care of him in small ways like that.

And he’d let you. No further protest. Just that quiet, reluctant acceptance he always offered when he couldn’t argue with your heart.

Still, standing there with a tissue now clamped to your nose and your face hotter than the sun, all you could do was laugh awkwardly.

“Right. I, uh… forgot.”

Piccolo raised a brow slightly, still watching you with quiet curiosity. “You okay?”

“Yep. Totally. Fine. Just… overheating. From the heater.” You gestured vaguely to nothing. “Which is off. But still.”

He made a soft, skeptical sound in the back of his throat, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer—serious, yet gentle.

You rubbed at the back of your neck awkwardly, but the fluttering in your chest hadn’t gone away.

“Anyway, uh… I was actually coming down to ask if you wanted to go somewhere. With me. On Saturday night.”

Piccolo blinked, his head tilting slightly, his antenna's swaying gently by the movement. “Where?”

You smiled, stepping a little closer, the butterflies multiplying. “It’s just a casual get-together. My friends and I are meeting at this bar we always go to. I thought… maybe you'd like to come? Meet them? I mean—you don't have to. I know crowds aren't really your thing, but—”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched you. Thoughtful. Quiet.

And then, he spoke.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Which, in Piccolo-speak, was about as close to a “maybe” as you were going to get.

You beamed. “Okay. That’s fair.”

He nodded once, his expression unreadable—but there was a softness behind his eyes that didn’t go unnoticed.

And just like that, the thought of Saturday night got a whole lot more exciting.

Even if you’d need to keep a fresh tissue box nearby. Just in case.

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

It was finally Saturday.

The sky outside your window had just begun to soften into gold, the sun dipping low on the horizon like it, too, was getting dressed for a night out. The faint hum of life was beginning to pick up in the surrounding forest area of your home—crickets began to sing, the chirping of foxes emanated somewhere deep within the treeline. But all of that faded into background noise as you glanced at the clock:

6:01 PM.

Only one hour until you were meeting your friends at the Way Out Bar. You couldn’t sit still.

You were practically buzzing as you made the final touches to your look in the mirror mounted on the living room wall. The beige floral jumpsuit hugged your figure just right—cute but comfy—and your hair, twisted into a half-up braid, framed your face in a way that made you feel genuinely beautiful. Confident. Alive.

But the real surprise of the evening wasn’t your outfit or even the gathering itself.

It was the seven-foot-five Namekian standing behind you—who, for the first time since you’d known him, was visibly anxious.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, his posture stiff, arms at his sides, and a furrow etched deep between his brows as he focused on the conjured outfit slowly materializing over his usual gi. The transformation was fascinating to watch—energy rippling over his body as purple fabric gave way to crisp white.

You turned to face him fully.

Gone was the worn, battle-weathered gi. In its place: a neatly pressed white button-down shirt, a dark blue tie perfectly knotted at his neck, slim-fitting purple slacks, and polished dress shoes that looked almost too clean—like he’d never worn a pair in his life. He stood in the center of your living room, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves with all the grace of someone performing open-heart surgery.

Your lips curled into a smile, warm and amused.

“Piccolo,” you said gently, stepping closer, “relax. You don’t have to dress up to look presentable. Your regular attire is fine. Well, okay, maybe leave the weighted turban and cape at home—unless you plan on knocking over coat racks everywhere we go.”

He paused, slowly glancing at you, eyes narrowed in thought. “I want to make a good impression,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “These are people important to you. I should look… appropriate.”

There it was—that unexpected vulnerability that made your heart squeeze every time you saw it peek through his normally unshakable exterior. You could see it in the way his antennae twitched faintly, the way his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt as though unsure whether to tuck or untuck it.

You softened. “Hey.” You moved to stand directly in front of him, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “You look very appropriate, trust me. Although…”

You stepped closer, fingers lifting to the knot of his tie. “This?” You tugged it gently, sliding it loose from his collar and tossing it over your shoulder. “This is a little too formal. We’re going to a bar, not a business conference.”

He didn’t protest, just watched you with those intense dark eyes, unreadable except for the faintest hint of tension in his brow.

You reached for the top buttons of his shirt next, undoing two with a soft, confident smile. “There,” you murmured, “much better.” Your fingertips brushed his collarbone, and you felt the way he tensed slightly beneath your touch—subtle, but telling.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you added, stepping back to admire the results. “Just roll your sleeves up to the elbows, and you’re golden.”

Piccolo didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, staring at you.

Not with his usual blank stoicism.

There was something in his expression now… quiet awe. The kind of gaze someone gives when they realize, all at once, that they’re standing in the presence of someone they deeply cherish. Someone who saw through all the layers of who they were and loved them not in spite of it, but because of it.

It nearly knocked the breath out of you.

Wordlessly, he began to roll his sleeves up, his movements slower now, more deliberate. He wasn’t just adjusting his look anymore—he was adjusting to the idea of being seen by the people in your life. Letting them glimpse a side of him he rarely, if ever, revealed.

A side that belonged only to you.

“You really think this is okay?” he asked, a rare thread of uncertainty woven into his voice.

You stepped closer again, smoothing your hands over the front of his shirt with a small smile. “More than okay,” you said, looking up into his eyes. “You look great. And… I’m really happy you’re doing this.”

His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, he just breathed. Then, finally, he nodded.

“…Alright,” he said. “Let’s go meet your friends.”

You nodded eagerly, practically bouncing on your heels as you spun on your toes, the fabric of your jumpsuit swishing gently with the motion. You made your way toward the kitchen, grabbing your black quilted purse from the counter and slipping the strap over your shoulder in one smooth movement. Your hand followed next to the set of car keys sitting beside a stack of unopened mail.

With a gleam in your eye, you turned back toward Piccolo, holding the keys aloft like a prized treasure. “Come on!”

You made your way over to him, your fingers intertwining with his large hand, the coolness of his skin a comforting contrast to the heat building in your palm. Without a second thought, you tugged him toward the front door, and he followed wordlessly, allowing himself to be led like a tall, silent shadow behind you. The warmth of your hand in his said more than any words could.

Once outside on the porch, the soft creaking of the steps beneath your feet echoed in the calm of early evening. The sun had dipped lower, casting golden slants of light across the front yard. Crickets hummed with life across the grass. You let go of Piccolo’s hand just long enough to jog down the steps and disappear beneath the porch with Piccolo following close behind. Under the porch was a makeshift garage, small judging by the looks of it but not too cramped either. You approached something large and mysterious that lay beneath a gray tarp.

Piccolo watched you, arms crossed, one brow lifting in curiosity as he tilted his head.

You grabbed the tarp with both hands, bracing your feet against the gravel beneath you, and with a grunt of effort, yanked it off in a dramatic flourish. The tarp fluttered down behind you in a heap, revealing the beauty beneath.

A red and black striped muscle car gleamed proudly in the late afternoon light—its polished surface glinting like it had just rolled off the showroom floor. Chrome accents caught the sunlight, and the tires looked freshly scrubbed. It looked powerful. Fast. Immaculate.

You practically glowed, a wide grin on your face as you pressed your palms against the smooth, warm surface of the hood, practically buzzing with excitement. “I haven’t driven this car in ages!”

Piccolo approached slowly, his sharp eyes studying the vehicle like it was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to see in your possession.

“This is yours?” he asked, blinking slowly as he raised a brow, clearly impressed but trying not to show it too much.

“Yep!” you said proudly, patting the hood. “Graduation gift from my adoptive mom. She surprised me with it right after the ceremony. Told me I deserved something bold.” You laughed softly at the memory. “I’ve kept it in pristine condition ever since—tuned it, cleaned it, waxed it. The works.”

A little nostalgic pride swelled in your chest as you turned back toward him, holding the keys between your fingers. “I’ll be driving us to Nicky Town tonight.”

Piccolo’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “We could get there much faster if we just flew.”

You stopped mid-stride, your expression flattening as you stared at him. “Piccolo…”

He blinked at your unimpressed tone, a visible sweatdrop appearing at his temple ;as he tilted his head slightly in confusion. “What?”

You sighed, crossing your arms with a dramatic huff that was more amused than annoyed. “I love you,” you said, stepping toward him, “but you seriously know how to kill a vibe sometimes.”

That made him visibly flinch. His posture straightened, and his mouth opened as if to reply, but you lifted a hand before he could get a word out.

“Look, I get it. Flying is faster. More efficient. But I’m not a pro at it like you are, remember? I’ve only just gotten used to hovering without looking like I’m dangling from an invisible string.”

Piccolo exhaled softly through his nose, his eyes lowering a fraction as guilt quietly slipped into his features.

“And yes,” you added, your voice softening as you stepped closer, “I know you’ve carried me before—many times, actually. And I never minded it. In fact, I always felt safe when you did.” You offered a small, fond smile, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.

“But just for tonight… I wanna do something normal and least conspicuous. Something a little fun. Take the long way. Play some music. Roll the windows down. And most importantly, to have a good time.”

You looked up at him, eyes hopeful. “Please? Just tonight? If you hate it, we’ll fly next time.”

Piccolo stared at you for a long moment, his features unreadable—but his eyes softened, just a touch. Enough for you to know he heard you. Really heard you.

Then, finally, a small sigh escaped him. “Alright,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. “We’ll drive.”

A grin broke across your face as you turned back toward the car, unlocking it with a click and opening the driver’s side door with a triumphant swing.

“You’re gonna love it,” you called out over your shoulder as you slid into the seat. “This baby purrs.”

Piccolo looked at the car again, then at you, and for the briefest moment—before rounding the car to the passenger side—he allowed himself the faintest of smiles.

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

The city lights blurred past like streaks of stardust, reflections dancing across the windshield in vibrant golds and electric blues. The streets of Nicky Town were alive, but unusually tame tonight—no gridlock, no honking horns—just the soft hum of your muscle car purring under your fingertips as you guided it gracefully through the open roads.

The wind rushed in from the rolled-down windows, warm and fragrant with the scent of nearby food stalls. It danced through your hair, pushing loose strands around your face as you exhaled a small, contented sigh. The radio was playing something soft—low bass, gentle synths, a mellow tune that hummed beneath your skin.

You slowed to a gentle stop at a red light, a slow deep rumble of the engine idling while you waited. Fingers tapping in rhythm on the gear stick, a faint smile playing on your lips as your eyes wandered briefly to Piccolo in the passenger seat.

He looked peaceful, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes closed, the sharp lines of his jaw relaxed under the soft interior lights. There was a quiet serenity to him when he wasn’t sparring with you. His presence alone, even in silence, had a grounding effect on you.

That is, until a piercing, obnoxious whistle shattered the moment like glass hitting concrete.

“Hey sweetheart!”

Your smile instantly dropped. The shift in your mood was swift—brows flattening, your shoulders stiffening as your gaze flicked sharply to the left.

There, beside your door, sat a young man on a loud motorcycle, revving his engine like he was the star of some cheap action movie. His grin was wide, smug, and completely lacking in shame. His eyes—hidden behind tinted glasses—raked over you with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

Your face remained stone cold. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

He chuckled, hand on the throttle. “Aww, c’mon. Don’t be like that. Hop on, yeah? We’ll have ourselves a real good time.”

The nerve. Your brow twitched, irritation climbing your spine like a venomous insect. “No thanks.”

But he didn’t get the message.

Instead, he leaned in further—too close. His arm braced against the car’s frame, body language dripping with arrogance. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Someone like you—fine as hell—deserves someone who can really show her a good—”

Wham!

The crack of your fist meeting his face rang louder than the engine ever could. His head snapped back with a choked yelp, his motorcycle wobbling as he gripped his face in agony, blood already spilling between his fingers.

You sat there, your fist still warm from the contact, settling your hand calmly back on the steering wheel like nothing had happened.

“Would you look at that?” you said coolly, voice lined with venom and amusement. “Crying over a punch… from a girl.”

“You broke my nose!” he wailed, nasally and pathetic.

You gave him a scathing look. “You invaded my space. And when a woman says no, she means no. It's not an invitation to harass or pressure her. So why don’t you do us both a favor—” the light turned green. “—and go fuck yourself.”

Without another glance, your foot pressed against the gas and the car surged forward, tires gripping the road like claws. The roar of the engine was satisfying, almost therapeutic. You gripped the gear stick tightly, fingers stiff and white-knuckled from the adrenaline and anger still coursing through you.

“(Y/n),” Piccolo’s tone was low, measured, but laced with concern. “Are you alright?”

You blinked, the road ahead coming back into focus. His voice had always had this strange effect on you—like it could cut through even the worst storm in your chest. You sighed, jaw still tense. “Yeah… I just got pissed off. The audacity of that guy…”

Piccolo was quiet for a moment, arms unfolding slowly as he straightened in his seat. “Does this… happen often?”

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip as your heart gave a tight squeeze.

“…Not like before,” you admitted, your voice a little softer, a little bitter.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him sit up straighter, more alert—his energy subtly shifting from stillness to sharp attention.

“(Y/n),” he said more firmly, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean by that?”

The seriousness in his tone made your hands tremble ever so slightly on the wheel. The streetlights overhead blurred as you entered the parking garage, darkness creeping over the car as you ascended to the upper levels. The interior lighting cast a glow on your face—revealing the way your jaw clenched, the tension in your brow.

You didn’t look at him.

“…Remember when I told you I was homeless? Before the dojo, before I built my home?” you murmured, voice tight. “Back then, stuff like that happened a lot. More than I like to admit.”

The tires thudded softly as you turned up to the third level.

“I was fourteen,” you continued, eyes locked on the parking space ahead. “Couldn’t fight, couldn’t run very fast, and sure as hell couldn’t afford to scream for help. Men—grown men—thought I was easy prey. I learned pretty quick that being polite only made them worse.”

The car eased into the parking space, and you shifted it into park with a small click. The engine purred for a moment longer before going quiet, leaving only the hum of city life in the distance and the soft hiss of your breath.

You rolled up the windows. Just in case.

Then, silence.

Piccolo didn’t speak right away. You felt his gaze on you like a weight pressing against your side, his body completely still. When he did speak, his voice was low. Careful.

“…Did they ever—” He stopped himself. The question caught in his throat, too heavy, too dark to finish. His hands clenched tightly, and a shudder moved through him—subtle but unmistakable.

You shook your head immediately.

“No. They never did.” You looked over at him then, your voice firmer than before. “I never let them.”

He exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from his posture, but not all of it. His eyes were still dark with something dangerous—something protective.

“You should’ve never had to go through that,” he said. “Not then. Not now.”

You offered him a small, sad smile. “Yeah. But I survived.”

Piccolo’s gaze lingered on you, and then, in a surprisingly gentle motion, he reached out. His hand rested over yours where it gripped the gear stick—large, calloused, and warm. The contact made your breath hitch. His thumb brushed against your knuckles once, twice—slow, grounding.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he said. “You never will be again.”

And in the quiet warmth of the car, tucked away from the world in that shadowed parking garage, those words sank deep into your soul—firm and comforting like roots in the earth.

Eventually, you and Piccolo stepped out of the car and into the moonlight, the glow of the moon illuminating the city. The air was thick with the scents of street food, car exhaust, and pansies as the two of you ascended the spiral ramp of the multi-level parking garage. The sounds of city life greeted you—distant laughter, muffled music, and the steady hum of traffic below. With each step, your anticipation mounted like a heartbeat in your throat.

The two of you merged onto the bustling sidewalk, weaving past people walking in pairs, in groups, or alone with their heads down in their phones. You guided Piccolo with quiet ease, your hand gently looping through the crook of his forearm. The warmth of his exposed forearm brushed against your skin every time he adjusted his stride to match yours—something he did often now, unconsciously. His presence beside you felt solid, grounding, like you could lean your entire weight on him and he wouldn’t budge an inch.

You rounded the corner of a narrow brick antique store that smelled faintly of dust and sandalwood—and there it was.

The sign: The Way Out Bar. Elegant cursive letters spelled out the name in soft neon, glowing in the encroaching twilight. Something about seeing it made your heart flutter. It was just up ahead. Your friends were just beyond that door.

Your grip around Piccolo’s forearm tightened as you beamed, pulling him a little closer. You didn’t notice the way he glanced down at you then, his expression unreadable to anyone but you. There was fondness in his gaze, laced with quiet amusement, and a hint of nerves buried beneath his usual stoicism.

The inside of the bar was a soft contrast to the world outside. Warm, amber-hued lights hung in scattered clusters like little fireflies, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. A small jazz trio played on a raised stage to the left, their mellow notes wrapping the room in a cocoon of easy rhythm. The bar to the right buzzed with activity—glasses clinking, bartenders sliding drinks down the polished mahogany counter. The air was a blend of expensive perfume, whiskey, and warm food.

You scanned the crowd—faces blurred together until you spotted them.

Tucked in a corner booth, exactly where you hoped they’d be, sat your small, beloved chaos of a friend group. Jenny was deep in animated conversation with Henry and Elias, her faux locs bobbing every time she gestured dramatically. Elias, ever the picture of chill, leaned back with his usual amused smirk, while Henry animatedly waved a chicken wing mid-debate. Luka sat sandwiched between them, quietly listening, his arms folded and eyes sharp as ever. And then there was Amelia—red-haired, radiant Amelia—nursing the last sip of a martini, her attention elsewhere as her eyes scanned the room.

You gave Piccolo a quick look and an upward tilt of your chin—a silent follow me—before slipping through the small maze of tables and people. He followed closely, careful not to bump into anyone despite his size. His presence alone was enough to part the crowd a little, though he didn’t seem to notice the glances, the whispered curiosity.

Amelia spotted you first. Her face lit up like fireworks.

“(Y/n)!! Over here!!” she called out, waving her arm high above her head.

The rest of the table turned as you approached, just in time for Amelia to practically launch herself out of her seat. She flung her arms around you with an excited squeal, wrapping you in a warm, familiar hug.

“Oh my god, it’s so good to see you! We’ve all missed you so much.” Her voice trembled slightly, her arms squeezing tight. Her eyes shimmered when she pulled back, but she didn’t let a single tear fall.

You cupped her arms, giving a reassuring squeeze. “It’s good to see you too, Amelia. You have no idea.”

“Hey! What about us, huh?!” Henry hollered from the table, arms outstretched in dramatic protest. “The guys deserve a little love too, ya know?”

You rolled your eyes with a smirk. “Didn’t you tell me that hugging was for sissies?”

Henry tilted his head, faux locs bouncing as he scoffed. “Yeah, well—that was before you got fuckin’ shot, okay?”

With a laugh, you walked over and looped an arm around his neck, yanking him into a headlock before giving him a good, affectionate noogie.

“FUCKIN’—WHY?!”

He flailed helplessly, drawing laughter from the rest of the group as you released him, his hands flying up to shield his poor scalp.

“Because I can, you ass,” you said sweetly, folding your arms and towering over him in mock authority.

You turned to Elias and Luka next, offering them both a warm smile.

“It’s good to see you’re doing well, (Y/n),” Luka said, offering a rare but sincere smile.

“Glad you could join us,” Elias chimed in, brushing a strand of his maroon hair behind his ear. “Recovery treating you alright?”

“Definitely,” you replied with a nod. “I’m finally teaching again. The doctors really did their magic.”

You left out the real miracle—the moment Dende’s hand hovered over your chest, and that tiny, jagged piece of death was pulled from your heart. Some things you weren’t ready to explain.

“Hey, (Y/n)?” Jenny’s voice cut in, soft but direct.

You turned to her, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

She leaned in slightly, one elbow resting on the table, her other hand casually pointing to the side with a thumb. “So… who’s the big guy?”

Your gaze followed her gesture to Piccolo—who stood a few feet away from the booth, arms folded tightly, eyes lowered and expression carefully unreadable. He kept a respectable distance, but his alertness was palpable. Like a sentinel standing guard.

Despite his carefully conjured outfit—purple slacks, a tailored button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his green complexion as well as the pink patches in his arm—he stood out. Tall. Alien. Still. You could feel the weight of glances from nearby tables, the murmurs and curious stares prickling along your skin like static.

Hot anger bloomed in your chest. You wanted to shout Stop staring! You wanted to defend him, shield him—but you knew better. This wasn’t the time. Not tonight.

You inhaled, slow and steady. Let it go.

“Oh! Right!” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I totally forgot—”

You stepped over to him, placing your hand gently against his abdomen. He glanced down at your touch, then back at your friends, wordlessly awaiting your lead.

“Everyone, this is Piccolo.” You turned toward your friends again, smiling brightly. “Piccolo, these are my friends. This is Amelia—”

Amelia waved enthusiastically, her red hair swishing. “Hi! You’re taller than I imagined, and I imagined tall.”

“This is Jenny,” you continued.

Jenny nodded slowly, her gaze sharpening, evaluating him from head to toe. “Huh. Okay.”

“And these three are Henry, Luka, and Elias.”

Henry gave a casual wave. “Yo.” But his eyes were sharp, the wheels already turning behind them.

Luka didn’t say a word—just stared, jaw tense, brow furrowed. He didn’t like mysteries he couldn’t solve.

Elias, ever gracious, smiled brightly. “It’s always nice to welcome someone new.”

Then Jenny, voice cautious, turned her full attention back to you. “Sooo… is he, like, a friend? Or, what—an acquaintance of your master’s?”

You smiled, your hand tightening slightly on Piccolo’s shirt, feeling the subtle warmth beneath it. A blush crept up your cheeks, blooming fast.

“Actually,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet Piccolo’s gaze.

His eyes met yours, gentle and unguarded. That alone made your friends fall silent. They weren’t used to seeing someone look at you like that.

“Piccolo isn’t a friend or an acquaintance of my master,” you said. “He’s… my boyfriend.”

The table went dead silent.

Jenny’s mouth fell open. Amelia’s hand flew up to cover her gasp. Henry’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. Elias blinked in disbelief, and Luka just… stared.

And then, without hesitation, Piccolo’s arms uncrossed and he reached out—resting a large, warm hand against your back, fingers pressing gently between your shoulder blades. Protective. Affectionate.

Amelia squealed, both hands covering over her mouth to muffle the sound.

Jenny stuttered, eyes wide, mouth working like her brain couldn’t form actual words.

“You… you…” she gasped, clutching the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands.

You looked up at Piccolo with a warning smile. “Brace yourself. Jenny’s gonna scream—”

“WHAAT?!” Jenny exploded, shooting up from her seat and slamming both hands onto the table. “YOU’VE BEEN HIDING THIS FROM ME THIS ENTIRE TIME?!”

You giggled, leaning subtly into Piccolo as his hand pulled you a little closer. “Hehehe… yeah. You might wanna sit down, Jenny. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

You glanced at Amelia and gave her a playful nudge. “Mind scooting over? We’ve got a story to tell.”

Amelia quickly scooted over with a grin so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. She practically bounced in her seat, dragging you down beside her with eager hands while patting the empty spot next to you. “C'mon, big guy! No standing on the sidelines now.”

Piccolo hesitated, his eyes flicking from you to the seat, then to the curious faces watching him. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might decline—but then your fingers found his, a gentle squeeze of silent encouragement. With a sigh barely audible over the jazz music, he obliged, sitting down beside you. The booth creaked slightly beneath his weight, drawing a few chuckles from Henry and Elias.

“Damn,” Henry muttered with a smirk. “What’s he benching, like, a small building?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Please don’t challenge him, Henry. He might actually show you.”

Piccolo shot you a side glance. “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”

Henry snorted, eyes lighting up at the dry humor. “Okay, I like him.”

Jenny, still trying to mentally reboot, leaned forward and jabbed her finger in your direction. “Start from the beginning. I want dates, times, how this happened. This is—this is massive! I mean, seriously?! How long have you been keeping him from us?!”

You laughed, running a hand through your hair being mindful not to disturb the half-up braid. “Okay, okay, I’ll explain. Just… don’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out!” she half-shouted, arms thrown up. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to set you up with boring-ass grad students?”

“And do you see why that never worked?” you teased.

Jenny groaned into her hands while Amelia leaned in, eyes wide with wonder. “So… how did you two meet? Like, officially?”

You glanced at Piccolo again, silently asking if he was okay with you telling the story. He gave a small nod, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. His hand, which was resting on his lap, subtly shifted until his fingers brushed against yours under the table.

“Well…” you began, launching into the condensed version of everything—your training, how you first met him in the forest, how he became your security guard for your school, the injuries, the long hours of recovery, and how he’d been there. How he’d stayed.

In the midst of your storytelling, a waitress quietly approached the table, setting down a glass of water in front of both you and Piccolo without a word, then slipped away just as silently.

“Hold the fuck up.”

Jenny’s voice sliced through the lingering background chatter like a whipcrack. She froze mid-reach for her drink, arms folding with dramatic flair as she leaned forward over the table—nearly knocking her glass of wine clean off the edge. Amelia, seated just beside her, casually reached out and steadied it without looking.

“You’re telling me,” she continued, brows shooting into her hairline, “that you’ve known Piccolo—this giant green intergalactic muscle mountain—for three years?”

You nodded slowly, already bracing yourself. You even pre-wrinkled your nose in anticipation.

Jenny stared. Blinked. Then exploded.

“THREE. FUCKING. YEARS.”

She threw her hands into her faux locs with a dramatic groan, dragging them down her face like she was physically in pain. “I’ve been to your house! I’ve seen your couch! I’ve watched Netflix in your bathrobe while drunk off Moscato! How the hell did I never see this seven-foot tower of stoic green daddy energy lurking around?!”

You winced, a sheepish laugh tumbling out as you rubbed the back of your neck. A cartoonish little sweatdrop might as well have formed on your cheek.

“To be fair…” you started, shooting a glance at Piccolo—who sat still as a statue, but whose eyebrow had very slightly twitched at the phrase "daddy energy"—“Piccolo isn’t exactly the type to, uh, crash dinner parties or pop in for brunch.”

Jenny squinted at him suspiciously. “So what—you just kept him in your garden like some kind of secret boyfriend bonsai?”

“I’m not a plant,” Piccolo muttered dryly.

You stifled a snort, then turned your attention back to Jenny. “He’s… a recluse. He likes peace and quiet. Doesn’t really do the whole socializing thing unless he has to. And I respected that. Always did.”

Your voice softened as you looked up at Piccolo for a moment, the tiniest smile tugging at your lips. “So yeah… imagine my surprise when he actually said yes to coming here tonight. Voluntarily.”

Jenny’s jaw hung open. “You mean to tell me this introverted Namekian hermit just chose to step out of his weird meditation void and waltz into a bar full of strangers—for you?”

You gave a sheepish shrug. “Apparently, yeah.”

Jenny was quiet for all of three seconds. Then she pointed an accusing finger at Piccolo, wide-eyed and borderline scandalized. “Sir. You simp. And I say that with the highest respect.”

Piccolo, without missing a beat, took a slow sip of his drink. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh my god, I love him,” Jenny said, slumping back in her chair with a stunned laugh. “I’m gonna need to write this full timeline on a PowerPoint. Maybe a live reenactment too.”

Henry raised his glass. “I got dibs on playing Piccolo.”

“You’re not tall enough,” Amelia chirped.

“I’ll stand on a fucking chair!”

You snorted, shaking your head with a grin, disbelief written all over your face. “What—No. No one is reenacting anyone, got it? That’s weird as hell and kinda creepy.” You jabbed your index finger at Jenny and Henry, who were already giggling like a pair of kids who’d just gotten away with something. The finger-point was part warning, part exasperated big-sibling energy, but they clearly didn’t take it seriously.

As your laughter died down, you suddenly felt it—Piccolo’s hand shifting ever so slightly where it rested beneath the table, until it came to settle gently on your thigh. His fingers curled softly, giving you a deliberate, grounding squeeze. It wasn’t possessive. It was quiet, affirming. A silent thank you.

Your heart gave a small flutter, betraying how something so subtle could still shake you to your core.

But not everyone was laughing.

Luka had yet to speak. He sat leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gaze, sharp and contemplative, flicked between you and Piccolo without saying a word. His brows were furrowed in that familiar way that meant his brain was working overtime, analyzing every little detail. You’d seen that expression before—when he was worried, when he was watching out for you.

He wasn’t being hostile. Luka didn’t do drama. But he was wary. And considering the kind of shit you all had been through over the years, it wasn’t surprising. Luka had learned to read people like open books, and he wasn’t the kind to trust someone just because you did.

Then finally, he spoke.

“Do you love her?”

The entire table fell silent. Drinks hovered halfway to mouths. Amelia’s eyebrows shot up. Jenny blinked. Henry stopped chewing. Elias couldn’t contain a smirk from forming.

Even the jazz music in the background felt like it dimmed a little.

Luka’s voice hadn’t been accusatory—just steady, calm, but dead serious. Like he was asking the question everyone else was too afraid to say out loud.

You turned your head slowly toward Piccolo, already feeling the change in his body language. The hand on your thigh had stilled, but there was a new tension there now—a readiness. You glanced up at him, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. A blank mask of calm. But then you saw it. The smallest crinkle at the corner of his eye. That subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

He wasn’t offended.

He was preparing to answer.

And you already knew what he was going to say.

Piccolo stared at Luka, held his gaze without flinching, not out of defiance but from a place of grounded clarity—like someone who understood the weight behind the question and wasn’t afraid to carry it.

Then, slowly, his head turned. His hand, still resting on your thigh, shifted again—his thumb moving in a gentle arc, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into your jumpsuit.

And he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

The rest of the world faded. The buzz of the bar, the muffled clatter of glasses and laughter, even your friends sitting just inches away—all of it fell into a soft hush.

“I do,” he said finally, voice low, gravelly but steady. “More than I thought I ever could.”

His eyes never left yours.

“You have no idea how many walls I built just to keep people out,” he continued, his voice quieter now, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “Then you came along. And… you didn’t try to tear them down. You waited. You saw me. All of me. And you never once asked me to change.”

You felt something rise in your chest—warm, fragile, powerful. Like something blooming wide and wild in your ribs.

“I love her,” Piccolo said again, this time turning his attention briefly to Luka, though his hand never left your thigh. “Not because she saved me. Not because she put up with me. But because she made me want to be known. And that’s not something I ever thought I’d say in a room like this.”

Luka stared at him for a beat longer. The tension in his jaw softened just slightly, his arms loosening from the tight fold across his chest. No words. Just a small, thoughtful nod—the kind that said: That’s enough.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until you let it out.

Then Jenny broke the silence with a dramatic sniff. “Oh my god, I need a fuckin’ tissue. Who let this be a rom-com all of a sudden?!” She fumbled into her bag for a napkin while Henry, red in the face, reached to his right to swat her arm.

“Shut the hell up, Jen. I almost got misty-eyed and now you ruined it.”

Elias raised his glass. “To love making unexpected house calls.”

Amelia, already mid-sip, let out a delighted little squeal. “I knew it. You two are so disgustingly cute it should be illegal.”

You turned to Piccolo, heart thudding, cheeks warm. He raised an eyebrow slightly—his version of a soft smile—and leaned closer, his voice just for you.

“You okay?”

You nodded, smiling up at him, your hand moving to rest on top of his. “Better than okay.”

Amelia was already halfway through her second drink when she leaned across the table and grinned at you. “Okay, but seriously—how did you bag someone like him? Like, no offense, babe, but Piccolo looks like he could crush a tank with his pinky and then lecture it about self-discipline.”

Henry snorted into his drink. “For real. Man’s got the ‘I meditate in volcanoes’ energy.”

You were about to respond when Elias leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back like he was settling in for a show. That lazy, mischievous grin spread across his face like a goddamn wildfire.

“Oh, we’re going there?” he asked, raising a brow. “Because I have questions.”

You already felt your stomach drop. That was never a good sign.

“Elias,” you warned, narrowing your eyes. “Be normal.”

“Oh, I am. Totally normal.” He winked. “I just wanna know how anyone survives a make-out session with someone whose biceps are literally the size of my head. Like, what happens if he gets too into it? Do you end up in another zip code?”

You felt your entire face ignite like someone had lit a match behind your ears. “ELIAS.”

Jenny doubled over laughing. “Oh my god—ZIP CODE?!”

“I’m just saying!” Elias continued, shameless. “Man’s got that ‘destroyer of worlds, gentle lover’ vibe. I bet he’s the type who kisses you like he’s apologizing for every time he’s ever blown up a moon.”

Henry almost choked on his beer. “Brooo.”

Amelia wheezed, gripping Jenny’s arm as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Stop—STOP—my stomach can’t take this!”

Piccolo, bless his stoic soul, had been silently enduring the assault on his dignity. But you felt the moment his composure cracked—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, his grip tightening slightly on your thigh under the table. And when you risked a glance up at him…

He was blushing. His ears were blushing.

And you? Your face was molten lava.

“Elias,” you groaned, burying your burning face in your hands. “You can’t just say shit like that in public.”

Elias grinned, unapologetic. “Oh, come on. You know I’m right. Look at him. That’s not a boyfriend. That’s a six-foot-seven war god who probably calls you ‘beloved’ in the middle of a sparring match.”

You heard a low, amused rumble from beside you.

And when you turned your head, Piccolo—still blushing—leaned just slightly toward Elias with a dry, unamused stare.

“…You think I don’t know how to aim an energy blast?”

Elias paused.

Laughed nervously.

“I—uh—respectfully withdraw the question.”

Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “Smart.”

The whole table lost it.

You were still hiding your face in your hands, shoulders shaking from the kind of laughter that left your whole body buzzing. You peeked up at Piccolo, who looked straight ahead—composed again.

Jenny wiped tears from her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Elias. I swear, you live to traumatize people.”

“I live to educate people,” Elias shot back, raising his glass. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah? Well next time, educate yourself on when to shut the hell up,” Henry deadpanned, reaching over to flick Elias in the forehead.

Piccolo leaned in slightly, just enough that only you could hear him. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or… concerned.”

You snorted, grinning like an idiot. “A little of both.”

After the chaos of Elias’s “zip code” comment started to die down—barely—you were still clinging to what little dignity you had left. Piccolo hadn’t moved his hand from your thigh, but you could feel the tension in his fingers, like he was bracing for whatever hell came next.

And he was right.

“So,” Jenny began, her voice laced with mischief as she leaned in, her elbows resting on the table and her chin perched atop steepled fingers. Her eyes sparkled like a gremlin with a matchbook. “Now that we’re done with introductions and listening to some good storytelling, there’s only one thing left to do.”

Piccolo blinked slowly. “…What.”

His voice was low, cautious—like a man who had just heard the first note of an incoming disaster siren.

Henry didn’t say a word, but the wicked curve of his grin spoke volumes as he sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair, content to let Jenny wreak whatever chaos she was planning.

“A good ol’ drinking game, of course!” Jenny announced, waving her hand dramatically like she was hosting a variety show. She flagged down a passing waitress without missing a beat. “Vodka. The big bottle, and seven shot glasses.”

You blinked. “Jenny—”

”Seven,” she repeated firmly, holding up her fingers like she was blessing the waitress with divine instruction.

The server didn’t even blink—just nodded and disappeared, probably used to this kind of behavior from your table by now.

You leaned toward Jenny, having to invade Amelia’s space but the red-head didn’t mind, your voice hushed but sharp. “Are you trying to get us all alcohol poisoning?”

Jenny shrugged, already buzzing with excitement. “Oh, please, you and your man have been drinking water this entire time. It’s time to spice things up a little. If we die, we die drunk and full of secrets.”

Before you could argue further, the waitress returned—like the harbinger of doom—with an ominously large bottle of vodka and seven perfectly clinking shot glasses balanced on a tray. She set them down with the efficiency of someone who wanted np part of what was about to transpire.

Jenny clapped once. “Excellent. The blood sacrifice has been made.”

You shifted in your seat, a pit forming in your stomach as you eyed the bottle. It glinted under the soft bar light like it knew it was about to ruin someone’s night. And probably someone’s life if they weren’t careful.

Jenny began filling the glasses like she was anointing each one with a cursed blessing. Then the smell of alcohol wafted up, sharp and unforgiving.

You gave her a deadpan look. “…I’m hesitant to even ask, but I’m asking anyway. What kind of drinking game are we playing?”

Jenny beamed. That shit-eating, chaos-fueled grin that could only mean trouble.

“Never Have I Ever, duh. Classic. Timeless. A sure fire way to emotionally scar each other with no survivors.”

Your soul left your body. “Fuck.”

Beside you, Piccolo raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you. His gaze softened with concern as he caught the tension rolling through your body. His hand hidden under the table had squeezed gently on your thigh. A silent question, a wordless tether: You okay?

You turned your head, meeting his gaze. The worry in your eyes must’ve been obvious because he tilted his head slightly, his antennae moving gently, his voice low enough only for you to hear.

“Is the game that terrible?”

There was something oddly innocent in the way he asked it. Curious. As if he didn’t fully understand what he was walking into but trusted you to guide him.

Before you could answer, Jenny managed to overhear what Piccolo said, cut in, far too delighted to explain.

“Oh, it’s amazing,” she said, spinning one of the shot glasses like a villain in a Bond movie. “Here’s how it works: someone says something they’ve never done. If you have done it, you take a shot. If not, you don’t drink. Simple right? But the real fun happens when the truth bombs start flying. Embarrassing stories. Secrets. Confessions. Shame. Regret. You name it.”

She paused dramatically, raising her full glass toward the center of the table. “It’s a beautifully messy human experience.”

Piccolo listened intently, nodding slowly, though his brow began to furrow.

And when Jenny delivered the part about “revealing embarrassing secrets,” you watched a rare sight unfold—Piccolo’s eyes widened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice if you didn’t know him. But you did.

He immediately tried to neutralize his expression, smoothing it back into unreadable calm.

Only to fail.

Miserably.

You stifled a laugh, squeezing his hand beneath the table.

He leaned close and whispered, barely audible. “This sounds… dangerous.”

”Oh, it is,” you replied with a dry grin. “But let’s just hope we don’t have to reveal anything too personal.”

Jenny raised her glass. “Let the games begin!”

Elias, of course, immediately belted out the first prompt with a wicked grin: “Never have I ever—kissed someone over six-foot-five and built like a Greek statue.”

You blinked once, then tilted your head with the most innocent smile you could muster. “Joke’s on you, Elias. Me and Piccolo haven’t even kissed yet. Unless you count, like… a kiss on the cheek.”

A record-scratch silence hit the table.

“WAIT—” Jenny practically shot out of her seat, hands slamming onto the table as her eyes bounced between you and Piccolo like she was watching a scandalous tennis match. “You two haven’t even kissed yet?! Are you serious?!”

You and Piccolo shared a look, like a secret radio frequency crackling to life between you—one that said here it comes.

As you both turned to face your very stunned friends, a cartoonish sweatdrop might as well have formed on the side of both your heads. The entire group was staring at you like you’d confessed to never having used the internet.

“Uhh… no?” you said slowly, your tone calm but defensive, like you were explaining quantum physics to a table full of gossip gremlins. “We’ve only been together for, what, three months? That’s not nothing, but still early days.”

Piccolo glanced down at you, and when your eyes met his, there was nothing but quiet warmth. His expression softened, and a small, barely-there smile curved his lips—like the sun peeking out behind a distant mountain range. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The look said it all: he was okay with this. With you. With the pace of things.

You leaned into it slightly, speaking more to your friends now. “We’re taking things slow. I don’t mind the limited PDA. Eventually, yeah, we’ll get there. But not until we’re both comfortable. No pressure. No rush.”

Jenny looked like her entire worldview had been challenged. “That’s so wholesome I actually feel like I’m having an allergic reaction.”

Henry coughed, trying not to laugh. Amelia blinked rapidly like she’d just walked into an indie romance film.

Luka, of course, simply nodded in quiet approval like a dad who just watched his kid turn down a bad idea.

You turned your attention back to Elias, who was still stuck on the previous prompt. “So, sorry to disappoint you, Elias,” you teased, raising your glass with a playful smirk. “But your little trap? Kinda backfired.”

Elias let out an exaggerated groan, dragging his hands down his face dramatically. “Goddammit. I knew it was a risk. I knew it. I was hoping to catch you in a juicy moment but instead, I got feelings.”

He reached for his shot glass, filled to the brim with what now looked like the bitter taste of defeat. “Well, fuck it. I’m drinking anyway. Out of pure disappointment and maybe just a little spite.”

He downed it in one go, eyes squeezed shut as the vodka burned its way down.

“Hellfire,” he wheezed, placing the now-empty glass on the table with a careful thud. “Why is vodka always such a betrayal?”

“You brought that on yourself,” Amelia said, sipping her now third martini glass.

And Jenny, despite herself, grinned too. “Alright, alright,” she said, waving her hand. “I’ll allow it. It’s disgustingly sweet. But I’ll allow it.”

Before anyone could get too sentimental, Jenny clapped her hands together like an over-caffeinated game show host. “Alright, lovebirds, enough of the Nicholas Sparks shit—back to the chaos.”

She spun dramatically toward Henry, pointing a freshly-poured shot glass at him like she was accusing him of murder. “Henry, your turn. Impress us. Traumatize us. Give us something feral.”

Henry leaned back in his seat, one arm thrown over the back of the booth like he owned the place. “Aight, you want chaos?” He cracked his neck with a smug grin. “I am chaos.”

“Oh god,” Elias muttered, already reaching for his glass in defeat.

Henry rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then he leaned forward, grinning like the devil about to sign a soul contract.

“Never have I ever…” He paused for dramatic effect, eyes scanning the group. “…accidentally sexted my mom.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” You gasped, nearly knocking your shot glass over as you stared at him in abject horror.

Amelia choked on her spit and wheezed like a dying kettle.

“DUDE,” Jenny cried, laughing so hard she was crying, “THAT’S YOUR OWN PROMPT???”

Henry shrugged, shameless. “I never said it was a proud moment. But hey, I learned from it.”

Elias groaned. “That’s not learning. That’s becoming a cautionary tale.”

You shook your head in disbelief, a laugh escaping despite your horror. “Please tell me your mom doesn’t still have the screenshots.”

“She does,” Henry said flatly. “She brings it up every Thanksgiving. I get PTSD from cranberry sauce now.”

Piccolo, who had been trying to follow along with increasing confusion, leaned close to you and whispered with deep, solemn concern, “…What is sexting?”

You nearly spat your water back into the glass. Face now beet red, you turned slowly to him and whispered back, “I’ll explain later. Privately.”

He nodded gravely.

Jenny slammed her hand on the table. “Alright, fess up! Anyone gonna drink to that horrific confession?”

Elias raised his hand timidly. “I mean, not my mom, but my aunt once, so… same trauma, different packaging.”

“Oh my god, Elias.” Amelia buried her face in her hands.

Luka, miraculously, took a sip of his drink too, and the entire table turned to him in stunned silence.

“…Luka?” you asked, blinking.

He sighed, deadpan as ever. “It was a long time ago. Group chat mishap. I no longer text after 9PM.”

There was a beat of silence. Then you burst out laughing. Even Piccolo, confused as he was, gave a quiet chuckle—low and soft—but it was enough to make your heart flip.

Jenny’s jaw dropped. “Did… did he just laugh?!”

“I think he did,” you said, eyes wide.

Henry pointed accusingly. “Bro’s evolving. He’s learning the power of degeneracy.”

Piccolo shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “No, I’m just trying to understand how any of you survived this long without spontaneously combusting from sheer embarrassment.”

Jenny snorted. “That’s fair. But the game’s not over yet! Who’s next?”

Amelia reached for her shot glass with a cool, almost suspicious calm.

“I think it’s my turn now,” she said, tucking a loose curl of red hair behind her ear. Her maroon eyes sparkled with something dangerous. “And I’m about to separate the saints from the sinners.”

“Oh shit,” Elias muttered, clutching his chest like he was about to be read for filth.

Amelia smirked. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her legs like a movie villain about to deliver the final blow. “Never have I ever… taken a pole dancing class.”

The entire table went still.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your hand moved on instinct—like a damn traitor—and you took a sip from your drink before you could stop yourself.

Silence.

Then—

“EXCUSE ME?!” Jenny screamed, nearly flipping the table as her eyes bulged out of her skull.

Henry choked on his drink. “YO WHAT?!”

Elias dropped his shot glass. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard—WHY DIDN’T I KNOW THIS?!”

Luka just blinked slowly, eyebrows raised. “…Huh.”

All eyes were on you now as you froze mid-sip, your face glowing red like someone had switched on a heat lamp directly over your soul. You set your glass down very carefully, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

“I—okay, listen.” You cleared your throat, flustered beyond belief. “This was before I even became an instructor. I wasn’t trying to be sexy or whatever—it was just a class I took on a whim.”

Jenny looked personally betrayed. “A whim?! A whim?! Girl, pole dancing is a lifestyle. You gotta commit!”

Henry slammed his palms on the table. “I need to know: was it one of those classes with heels and music or like… a fitness thing?”

“I’m not answering that,” you said, covering your face with both hands. “Some of us are trying to hold on to our last thread of dignity.”

Elias leaned in, completely ignoring that request. “You still remember the moves though, right? Just for research purposes. Scientific curiosity.”

“ELIAS,” you hissed, kicking him lightly under the table.

While the chaos unfolded, Piccolo looked utterly baffled. He turned to you, blinking slowly.

“…What is pole dancing?”

Your soul left your body.

Jenny leaned across the table, grinning like a gremlin granted its one malicious wish. “Oh, Piccolo, my sweet green man. It’s like… interpretive dance but vertical. In heels. Sometimes upside-down. Often involves dollar bills.”

Piccolo’s face went completely still, but you swore you saw the tips of his ears—and, if you could believe it—his antennas turned a shade darker. His eyes widened slightly as he turned to you again.

“You did… that?”

You let out a strangled groan. “ONE class! And it was a fitness class, thank you very much!”

“But did you enjoy it?” Luka asked innocently, his tone deceptively neutral.

You threw a napkin at him. “That’s not the point!”

Piccolo cleared his throat, looking forward with the most rigid posture you’d seen all night. “I… I suppose it’s a form of strength training?”

You sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”

“…But also dancing. On a pole.” he added, still clearly trying to compute it.

“Piccolo,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands again. “Please stop.”

Amelia raised her shot glass with a grin, clinking it gently against yours. “No judgment here. I’m just glad someone finally drank to one of mine.”

Jenny cackled like a madwoman. “This night keeps getting better. I swear, if someone admits to joining a cult next, I’m gonna die happy.”

Henry raised a hand. “Do MLMs count?”

Everyone groaned.

Piccolo, still stunned, quietly muttered under his breath, “I’m going to need to meditate for a week after this night.”

You rubbed your fingers in a slow circular motion against your temple, staring down at the table, your face still red as you whispered. “I think… I might join you on that offer.”

Jenny was riding high on the drama of the pole-dancing revelation, spinning her empty shot glass between her fingers like a villain monologuing in the third act.

“All right,” she said, cracking her neck like she was about to commit a felony. “Time to stir the pot again.”

“Oh no,” Henry mumbled.

“Oh yes,” Jenny grinned. “Never have I ever… tried to kill my friend as a joke.”

“Jesus Christ, Jenny,” Amelia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Elias let out a bark of laughter. “What kind of Looney Tunes-ass prompt is that?!”

Luka rolled his eyes but reached for his drink anyway, muttering something about “That one time with the bear trap.”

But then—Piccolo took a sip.

Everyone froze.

The table collectively snapped their heads toward him so fast it was a miracle no one sprained anything.

Piccolo sat still, jaw slightly clenched, his body tense in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The subtle squeeze of his hand on your thigh was the only giveaway that he wasn’t just casually sipping out of misunderstanding.

You didn’t react—you already knew. He’d told you those stories, the ones from long before he ever imagined himself sitting at a bar surrounded by chaos gremlins playing drinking games. You knew his past, and how much he’d changed.

But your friends? They were losing it.

Jenny blinked. “Wait. Wait. You—YOU?! You took a drink?!”

Henry leaned forward, eyes wide. “Holy shit, was that real? That wasn’t, like… metaphorical?”

Amelia’s eyebrows shot up, and even Elias had gone quiet for once.

Piccolo let out a slow exhale and looked down at the table, his shot glass spinning slightly in his hand.

“It… wasn’t a joke,” he said after a long moment, voice low. “And it wasn’t a game.”

Luka tilted his head. “But you did try to kill a friend?”

Piccolo nodded slowly. “A long time ago. Before I changed.”

Elias, ever the tactless menace, raised both hands. “Bro, that’s metal as fuck. Who was it? Are they okay? Did they… like, get better?”

You shot Elias a look. “Elias.”

Piccolo, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just pressed his lips together, still avoiding everyone’s gaze. “Let’s just say… there was a time I wanted power more than anything else. And there was someone who stood in my way. He became a rival. An enemy. But… also a friend.”

The table went dead silent.

“And now?” Amelia asked, her voice quieter, more curious than judgmental.

Piccolo finally looked up. “Now, he’s one of the few people I trust.”

Jenny blinked a few times, slowly lowering her drink. “Well shit. That got real.”

Henry coughed into his fist. “Can we go back to pole dancing?”

Elias raised his shot glass like he was toasting to Piccolo’s character arc. “To redemption arcs and not murdering your friends!”

Piccolo snorted softly, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to melt as he glanced sideways at you. “This game is ridiculous.”

You nudged him gently with your elbow, smiling. “Told you.”

“Still,” Jenny said, pouring another shot, “that was the wildest round yet. Top tier. Ten outta ten. Can’t wait to traumatize the next person.”

Piccolo gave you a side glance, then leaned in just close enough for you to hear him over the noise.

“…Are there more games like this?”

You smiled around the rim of your shot glass, the alcohol warming your throat as you took a slow sip. “Oh, sweetie,” you said, tone light and teasing, “we haven’t even gotten to Truth or Dare: Unhinged Edition yet.”

There was a twinkle in your eye, but you tilted your head, glancing toward your friends—Henry in particular, whose cheeks were beginning to turn bright red, eyes glassy with the unmistakable sheen of a man about to go past tipsy. Amelia was slouched over the table, hiccuping through a giggle, while Jenny was mumbling something about shot glass pyramids.

“I don’t think we’ll get the chance to play it tonight,” you murmured with a knowing grin, setting your glass down. “At this rate, we’ll all be wasted before the vodka’s halfway gone.”

You didn’t notice the way Piccolo’s posture stiffened slightly beside you, how his eyes widened—just a fraction. But the damage was done.

That single word—sweetie—lodged itself in his chest like a live wire. His expression didn’t change dramatically, but the softest, most unmistakable purple tint bloomed across his cheeks. His fingers twitched ever so slightly against your leg. A warmth he hadn’t anticipated spread low in his abdomen, an unfamiliar mix of affection and longing stirring in a quiet, dizzying swirl.

You still weren’t looking at him.

Which, somehow, made it worse.

He glanced down, lips pressed into a thin line, as though trying to smother the involuntary smile threatening to betray him. His gaze flicked back to you once more—so at ease, so effortlessly disarming—and that strange, fluttering heat pulsed again.

He would never admit it out loud, not yet, but that one little word had knocked the wind clean out of him.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

We finally met (Y/n)'s friends!!

Ngl, this chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wanted to keep going BUT I knew I had to end it off with something disguistingly sweet. 😉

Also—

PICCOLO IN A BUTTONED UP SHIRT AND SLACKS.

OOf 🥵

I was drooling just imagining him walking around dressed up like that. So scandalous, haha. 🥹

Also, also,

Our MC drives a mustang. Hehee. c;

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XX

You are currently reading Part XXI

Part XXII

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

54 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 3 months ago

Text

XIX| Baby Steps

Warning(s): Pure fluff only

Word count: 3.6k

Synopsis: The whole concept of love was still foreign, and Piccolo didn’t know where to begin without screwing it up. Luckily for him, you are more than willing to show him how.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Instead of waking up in the familiar comfort of your bedroom, you found yourself curled up on the couch, a thick blanket draped over your small frame. The fabric was thicker, heavier than anything you owned, cocooning you in a quiet sense of security. Your brow furrowed as confusion crept in, but then you saw him—sitting at the foot of the couch, his back to you.

Piccolo.

His posture was stiff, his arms folded tightly over his chest as if he was deep in thought—or perhaps trying not to think at all. The dim morning light filtered through the curtains, casting shadows along the sharp angles of his form.

And then, like a gust of wind ripping through the stillness, the memories of last night came rushing back.

The weight of his words.

The rawness in his voice.

The way he had blurted out his love for you—not in some grand, poetic confession, but in a way that was so Piccolo. Unfiltered. Honest. Terrified.

And you, standing there, heart pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs. Not out of fear. Not out of uncertainty. But because you knew.

You had always known but you were in denial for so long, pushing that possibility to the back of your mind—until now.

So, you told him. Told him how much you loved him, how deeply, how entirely. How he deserved to be loved, despite the doubts he carried, despite the walls he had spent years building around himself.

And then, suddenly, you were in his arms.

He had pulled you so close, so desperately, as if afraid you would disappear the second he let go. Because of the sheer size difference between you, he had to hunch over slightly, pressing his chin against the top of your head. You had buried your face into his abdomen, gripping the fabric of his gi as though it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

And for the first time in what felt like forever since his absence, you had felt whole again.

Relief had washed over you like a tidal wave, overwhelming in its intensity, spilling out in the form of quiet, trembling sobs against his chest. He didn’t shush you, didn’t tell you to suck it up—because he knew you had to let out all those tears. He simply held you, letting you feel everything without shame.

The first one to pull away had been you—just enough to tilt your head back and meet his gaze.

For someone as unreadable as Piccolo, his eyes had never looked so open, so bare. The sharp intensity was still there, but beneath it, beneath all the layers of discipline and restraint, there was something else.

Love.

Not the kind that was fleeting or uncertain, but something deep. Something he had spent a year pushing down, denying himself. And now that it was there, now that it had surfaced—he was afraid.

Not because he regretted it.

But because he had spent his entire existence believing he didn’t deserve it.

Your heart clenched at the sight, at the weight he still carried despite everything. You lifted a trembling hand, hesitating for only a second before cupping his cheek.

The roughness of his skin was warm beneath your palm, solid and real. Your thumb brushed lightly against his cheekbone, a silent reassurance, a wordless I’m here.

You half-expected him to flinch at the touch, to retreat into himself the way he always did when things became too much.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned into your hand, just barely, as though testing the waters. As though savoring something he never thought he could have.

Your chest ached in the best way possible.

Before you could say anything, before you could even begin to process what had happened between you two, Piccolo moved.

In one fluid motion, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms.

You barely had time to react before you found yourself cradled against his chest, held as if you weighed nothing at all. But there was no forcefulness, no urgency. It was careful. Deliberate.

And for once, you didn’t argue.

You couldn’t.

You had no strength left to walk all the way back, no energy left to fight him on this. And deep down, some part of you didn’t want to.

So, slowly, tentatively, you wrapped your arms around his neck. Your body molded against him, seeking warmth, seeking him. Eventually, you allowed yourself to rest your head against the crook of his neck, exhaling softly against his skin.

He held you a little tighter after that.

As he carried you through the forest, the moonlight peeked through the trees, illuminating him in fleeting glimpses. His expression was unreadable once more, but the way he held you—the way his grip remained firm yet impossibly gentle—said everything that words could not.

Neither of you spoke.

But there was no need.

The silence between you was not empty. It was not suffocating.

It simply was.

You could vaguely recall it—briefly drifting into sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of Piccolo’s movements and the way his energy wrapped around you like an unspoken lullaby. The cool night air whispered against your skin, but you never felt cold. Not when his warmth was there, steady and unwavering.

Then, suddenly, the shift.

You were being lowered—carefully, cautiously—as though he was afraid you might shatter if he wasn’t gentle enough. The plushness of the couch welcomed you, a stark contrast to the solidness of the arms that had held you just moments before.

The absence of that warmth was immediate.

Somewhere between consciousness and dreams, your heavy eyelids fluttered open just in time to see him pulling away. The weight of a thick blanket settled over you—something he had seemingly conjured from thin air—but it wasn’t enough.

Your hand moved before you could think, fingers weak but insistent as they wrapped around his wrist.

Piccolo froze.

His breath hitched ever so slightly—not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did. His eyes, usually so unreadable, widened in unmistakable surprise as he stared down at your hand, then at you. He hadn’t expected you to be awake, hadn’t expected your touch.

Fighting through the fog of sleep, you managed to murmur, “…Please stay.”

There was silence.

A heartbeat.

Then another.

His dark eyes softened, just barely. It was subtle—so subtle that had you not been so attuned to him, you might’ve missed it. Something deep and unspoken flickered behind his gaze, something fragile yet unyielding.

When he spoke, it was quiet, almost hesitant, as if the words were meant for you and you alone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice rough yet impossibly gentle. “I promise.”

And that was enough.

Your grip on his wrist slackened, your body surrendering to the pull of sleep once more. As your head sank back into the couch, you could still feel his presence—solid, unwavering, there.

As you blinked back into the present. Now, lying on the couch, you exhaled softly, your eyes lingering on his broad back. Without his weighted turban and cape, he seemed… different. Lighter, somehow, yet the tension in his frame told another story. His shoulders were rigid, muscles taut beneath his gi, as if his body was a coiled spring, ready to snap at a moment’s notice.

Your fingers twitched slightly before you decided to act, tentatively reaching out. The warmth of his skin, even through the fabric, was steady and grounding as your hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.

The reaction was instant.

His head perked up, his posture straightening almost immediately as if your touch had jolted him back to full alertness. He turned slightly, his sharp gaze meeting yours over his shoulder.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

You could see it—the way his dark eyes softened just slightly upon seeing you awake, the way his expression shifted from guarded to something just a bit more… open.

You offered him a small, tired smile.

“Thank you for staying.”

A quiet rumble resonated deep within his chest—acknowledgment, maybe even something close to relief. He gave you a curt nod before turning his head away again, resuming his usual stance. Arms still crossed, body still tense.

But you weren’t finished.

Your hand remained on his shoulder, fingers unconsciously pressing into the fabric as you slowly pushed yourself upright. Moving carefully, you shifted closer until you were right behind him, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from his body. Then, with quiet hesitance, your arms wrapped around him in a loose but firm embrace from behind.

Piccolo didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t tense up further—he just stayed. Perfectly still, arms still folded tightly over his chest as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

His body was solid beneath your touch, strong yet familiar in a way that made your heart swell. You could feel the way his breathing subtly changed, just slightly deeper than before. He was allowing this, allowing you, and that alone spoke louder than any words he could’ve said.

The silence stretched between you both, comfortable yet charged with something unspoken. You let it settle before finally whispering against his back, voice barely more than a breath.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, hm?”

Another beat of silence. Until—

“I’m… not used to this,” Piccolo blurted out. His voice, usually so firm and unwavering, held something different—uncertainty, maybe even hesitation.

It took a moment for you to piece together what he meant.

“You mean the touch? The affection? All of this?”

You shifted slightly, lifting your head away from his back so you could rest your chin against his shoulder. From this angle, you could see his profile—the sharp lines of his face, the way his brows were furrowed, as if he were grappling with something he couldn’t quite put into words.

He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little—barely noticeable, but you noticed.

“I—yeah, that.”

His gaze remained fixed ahead, deliberately avoiding yours.

For someone as strong as him, as composed as him, this was unfamiliar territory. Not battle, not strategy, not the weight of responsibility that he so often carried on his own—this. Being held. Being cared for. Being loved.

You let the silence settle between you both, giving him time. You didn’t want to push, didn’t want to force anything he wasn’t ready for.

Instead, you offered what you could—warmth, patience. Understanding.

Your arms, still loosely wrapped around him, gave a reassuring squeeze, your fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of his gi.

“That’s okay,” you murmured, your voice gentle but certain. “You don’t have to be used to it.”

His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his arms, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement.

You smiled against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the layer of cloth.

“I won’t force you, unless you allow me to, ok?”

There was another pause, longer this time. Then—

A quiet, nearly imperceptible hum of acknowledgment rumbled through his chest.

Not quite an acceptance.

But not a rejection, either.

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

It started off slow.

You and Piccolo found your rhythm again, slipping back into the unspoken understanding that had always existed between you. He remained steadfast by your side, offering his quiet but unwavering support. But this time, things were different between you two.

This time, he was different.

Even though the pain had subsided and the wounds on your chest had fully healed, Piccolo hadn’t stopped looking after you. But now, there was an added tenderness to his actions, a deliberateness that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t just tending to your needs—he was caring for you in a way that went beyond simple duty.

You noticed it in the smallest details.

The way he would subtly position himself near you whenever you stood up, his arm ready for you to hold onto if you felt weak. The way his sharp gaze would flicker toward you every so often, wordlessly checking in even when you didn’t say a thing.

The way he made sure the house was always clean—flawlessly so.

At first, you’d laughed when you realized what he was doing, teasing him for having such an impeccable sense of order. But when you caught sight of the faintest tinge of color darkening his cheeks—you understood.

This was his way of taking care of you.

And your heart melted at the effort he was putting into this—into you.

Piccolo still struggled with words, still found it difficult to voice what was in his heart. But he didn’t need to speak for you to understand him.

Instead, you felt it in his touch.

At first, he had been so unsure, so hesitant. His hands—strong, steady, capable of unimaginable power—had been wary when it came to you. Afraid of overstepping, afraid of doing it wrong. But you were patient with him, endlessly so. You let him take his time. You showed him, in every gentle touch and reassuring smile, that he was safe here.

And little by little, his touch changed.

It became confident.

Sincere.

You felt it in the way his palm would rest on your lower back when he passed by, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

In the way his hand would brush through your hair when he thought you were asleep, his fingers ghosting over your temple with an almost reverent softness.

In the way he no longer kept his distance, no longer put up barriers.

He began to lean into your presence—sitting closer to you, standing near without pulling away, allowing himself to simply be with you.

And then, there was the biggest sign of all.

One night, while sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, you were sorting through the mail, flipping through envelopes with a pen in hand. It was quiet, the only sounds filling the space were the occasional rustle of paper and the distant hum of the evening wind outside.

You had been so absorbed in what you were doing that you hadn’t noticed Piccolo moving behind you.

Not until it happened.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

Your breath hitched.

Your entire body tensed, a sharp jolt of surprise running through you at the unexpected embrace. Your back pressed against the firm expanse of his chest, his body heat radiating into yours. You could feel the solid weight of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Your heart pounded.

You swallowed hard, feeling your face burn as you tilted your head back slightly, resting it lightly against his chest.

It was so unlike him. Piccolo had never done something like this before—never initiated something so openly affectionate.

Slowly, your eyes flickered upward, meeting his gaze.

He had been staring straight ahead, rigid at first, as if bracing himself for some kind of reaction. But when your head pressed against him, he glanced down, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

His expression was unreadable, but his hold on you didn’t loosen. If anything, his grip tightened—just a fraction, just enough for you to feel the quiet intent behind it.

It wasn’t just an embrace.

It was a statement.

You smiled softly, your hand reaching up to rest atop his forearm. Your fingers gently traced the contours of his skin, feeling the warmth beneath your touch.

Piccolo didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

Instead, he simply held you.

The two of you shared a comforting silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words. The pen that had once been in your hand now lay abandoned on top of the scattered mail, forgotten in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

You let yourself sink deeper into Piccolo’s embrace, allowing his warmth to envelop you completely. His arms were firm yet careful around your waist, as if he still wasn’t entirely sure how much pressure was too much, but you could feel the quiet intent behind his touch. He wanted to hold you, and that alone was enough to make your heart swell.

Your head tilted back slightly, resting lightly against his chest as you closed your eyes, savoring this rare moment of closeness. His presence was grounding, steady, something you had come to rely on in ways you never expected. And yet, when you opened your eyes again, you found that he had never once looked away from you.

His gaze was unwavering, dark eyes studying you with an unreadable expression. It wasn’t piercing or intimidating like it could sometimes be—it was soft. Curious. As if he was trying to commit every second of this moment to memory.

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile, feeling warmth creep up your cheeks at what you were about to do.

“Hey,” you murmured, tilting your head just a little. “Can you lean down a bit, please?”

Piccolo blinked but didn’t question it. He had learned by now that you always had your reasons, so he simply complied. Slowly, he lowered himself to eye level, his massive frame folding just enough so that his cheek hovered close to yours.

His breath was steady, warm against your skin, and before he could ask why, you closed the distance.

Your lips pressed gently against his cheek, warm and featherlight.

His entire body tensed for a split second, his arms instinctively tightening around your waist before freezing altogether.

The sensation was… foreign. Unexpected.

Piccolo had seen this kind of affection before, always referring to it as ‘mushy stuff’. He had watched Chichi praise Goku with quick pecks on the cheek when he actually remembered to do something responsible. He had witnessed Bulma sneak in affectionate kisses on Vegeta—only for the Saiyan prince to act as if he’d been struck by lightning, recoiling dramatically like the gesture had physically wounded him.

But this—this was different.

He never imagined it would feel so… good.

The warmth of your lips against his cheek left behind something unshakable, a feeling that settled deep in his chest and fluttered there.

It was soft. It was comforting.

But most importantly, it was you.

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, a gentle tether grounding him back to reality.

“Piccolo?” You tilted your head, peering up at him with an amused curiosity. “You haven’t said anything… are you—wait, are you blushing?”

He was.

It wasn’t just a faint tint of warmth on his cheeks—it had spread to the tips of his ears as well, a deep violet hue standing out against his usual green. And for once, Piccolo, the ever-composed warrior, was avoiding your gaze.

Your amusement quickly gave way to uncertainty.

Had you overstepped? Had you pushed too far too soon?

You hadn't even considered the possibility that Piccolo might not be used to something as simple and natural to you as a kiss. What if it had made him uncomfortable? What if—

“Uhh, shoot,” you blurted out, your voice slightly rushed, your mind scrambling to backtrack. “I’m sorry. You probably aren’t used to being kissed. I should’ve asked—”

But before you could finish, Piccolo interrupted, his voice steady, low, and sure.

“It’s fine.”

His words held no hesitation, no uncertainty. And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His dark eyes met yours with something unspoken but unmistakably real. There was no guarded expression, no careful avoidance—just sincerity. And then, right there, in the quiet glow of the kitchen, something you never expected happened.

He smiled.

Not a smirk, not the rare flicker of amusement you’d caught glimpses of before.

A real smile. One that softened the usually sharp edges of his face, that made his features, so often set in stone, warm.

Your heart leapt in your chest, a giddy, weightless feeling spreading through you.

Seeing him smile like that—so openly, so comfortably, around you—was something you never knew you needed to see.

“So… does that mean you liked the kiss?”

The moment the words left your mouth, you mentally cringed.

Dumbass. Of course he did! you scolded yourself. He literally just smiled at you for the first time like that. Why else would he—

Before you could spiral any further, a deep, warm chuckle rumbled from his chest. And because he was still pressed up against you—his strong arms wrapped securely around your waist—you felt it. The vibrations, low and rich, sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

But what truly caught you off guard was what he did next.

Without warning, Piccolo leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, before pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body tensed, your breath caught in your throat, and your face—oh god, your face—burned with an intensity hotter than any energy blast you’d ever witnessed.

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you properly. The amusement in his gaze was clear, and there was a grin—an actual grin—tugging at his lips.

“Does that answer your question?”

His voice was teasing, warm, edged with an undeniable confidence that sent your heart into an absolute frenzy.

You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again—only for nothing to come out.

Piccolo had never been one to play around. He was straightforward, blunt even. And yet, here he was, not only reciprocating your affection but teasing you for being flustered about it.

Your only response was to bury your face into your hands and with a strangled groan.

He chuckled again, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly.

Yeah. That definitely answered your question.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

So.

Much.

FLUFF!!

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XVIII

You are currently reading Part XIX

Part XX

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

39 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 2 months ago

Text

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.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(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. 🤭

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Previously: Part XXI

You are currently reading Part XXII

Part XXIII Coming soon...

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

46 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 3 months ago

Text

XX| Close Call

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

Word count: 4.1k

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

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

This couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

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

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

You were talking again.

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

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

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

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

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

It had been so normal. So safe.

Until it wasn’t.

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

Because in the next moment—

You coughed.

It was sharp, sudden. Violent.

Piccolo looked up immediately, brows furrowing.

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

Dark red splattered the wooden floor beneath you.

Blood.

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

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

Piccolo moved before he could think.

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

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

But your head lolled back.

Your eyes didn’t open.

A cold, suffocating fear gripped him—

No. No, no, no—

This couldn’t be happening.

It couldn’t.

Not to you.

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

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

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

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

Dende. Popo. Someone. Anyone.

They had to fix this.

They had to save you.

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

Until a sonic gust of wind nearly knocked him over.

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

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

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

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

For a moment, he could’ve sworn—

He saw Piccolo clutching someone in his arms.

Someone limp.

And that person’s energy was barely hanging on.

Korin’s ears flattened.

“…Oh my.”

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

But there was no peace in Piccolo's heart.

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

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

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

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

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

His breath caught.

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

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

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

Piccolo looked broken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He couldn’t lose that.

He couldn’t lose you.

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

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

He had never felt so powerless.

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

You had to live.

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

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

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

But then… your face twisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Piccolo’s breath caught in his throat.

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

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

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

And then—

You stirred.

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

But…

There was nothing.

Just the steady rise and fall of your breath.

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

“Wha… what the hell…?” you murmured.

“You’re okay now.”

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

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

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

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

Piccolo…

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

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

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

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

You didn’t even think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were alive.

And he wasn’t going to let you go.

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

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

You were drowning in him.

Until someone cleared their throat.

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

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

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

That was all you needed.

Trusting him came easier than breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows drew together. “Obstruction?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Dende’s expression suddenly brightened.

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

You blinked and looked up. “Huh?”

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

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

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

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

Like your body had finally caught up to your spirit.

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

Piccolo gave you a look.

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

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

There was a beat.

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

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

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

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

Thud.

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

“You’re dating?!” Dende blurted.

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

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

Damn it.

It was happening. The acknowledgement. The intermingling.

They knew now.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Piccolo…”

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

You squinted. “Define ‘overwhelming.’”

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

You blinked. “...Wow.”

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

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

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

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

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

For your sake.

And maybe—just maybe—his own sanity.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

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

And the gang has been mentioned!

Hehehe 🤭

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

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XIX

You are currently reading Part XX

Part XXI Coming soon...

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

@thatsbunnysmind

52 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 5 months ago

Text

IX| Growing Souls

Warning: Cursing, Surprise Fluff!

Synopsis: (Y/n) is overwhelmed by Piccolo’s ruthless training. Giving up wasn’t an option and admitting defeat would be a slap in the face to your pride. (Y/n) was going to prove herself, even though she's going to get wiped again.

“You’re alright? You’re not hurt?”

“No, no, no, I’m fine! Totally fine, no, no, I’m fine.” You wheezed, hands gripping your knees as you struggled to catch your breath. Sweat trickled down your face and neck, dampening the fabric of your clothes.

When, in fact, you were not fine.

Your muscles screamed in protest, your lungs burned, and your vision was beginning to swim at the edges. Fuck. You weren’t expecting him to take your words so literally and actually unleash on you today.

It had been a long time since you first experienced Piccolo’s full strength, but every time you faced him, it was like reliving that moment all over again. It was a brutal reminder of the vast difference in power between you. No matter how much you trained, how fast you moved, how well you anticipated his attacks—you simply weren’t built for raw strength. Evasion, redirection, and endurance were your game, but even that had its limits when facing someone like him.

How in the actual fuck am I supposed to compete with this?

“Really?” Piccolo’s deadpan voice cut through your thoughts. “Because you’re repeating yourself, you’re pale, and you look like you’re about to pass out.”

You blinked up at him, taking in his usual unimpressed stare. Without his weighted turban and cape, he seemed even more intimidating, standing there in his simple gi and moccasins—completely unaffected by the intensity of the sparring session. Meanwhile, you were dying.

“Yeah, you might wanna catch me.”

The second the words left your mouth, your knees buckled. Darkness tinged your vision for a split second before you felt strong arms catch you with ease. Piccolo’s hold was firm, steady, as if your weight was nothing to him. You found yourself slumped against his chest, the fabric of his gi warm against your cheek as you sucked in slow, deliberate breaths, trying to ease the ache in your lungs.

“Fuck— I’m sorry.” Your voice was muffled against him, and you barely had the energy to move.

“Don’t push yourself.” His tone was firm but not harsh. There was something softer in it, an underlying concern. “There’s only so much the human body can handle, and my training isn’t exactly meant for the faint of heart.”

You let out a breathless, exhausted laugh, your head still pressed lightly against him. No kidding. But just as you were about to make a joke, you felt it—

A subtle shift in his posture.

Piccolo tensed. Just for a moment. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it was there. The way your breath hit his abdomen, the closeness between you—something about it affected him. You didn’t understand why, but if you weren’t so damn exhausted, you might’ve called him out on it.

Instead, you pushed yourself off of him, standing on shaky legs. You avoided his gaze, a sad smile forming on your lips.

“I knew what I was getting into,” you admitted quietly. “It’s my fault for thinking I could stand a chance against you.” You let out a self-deprecating chuckle, shrugging. “Guess that’s just one of the downsides of being human.”

Piccolo frowned. Deeply.

Something about the way you said that bothered him.

Your humanity was not a weakness. He had seen your strength firsthand, witnessed your skill, your intelligence, your resilience. You were far more capable than you gave yourself credit for.

From the moment you first threw Piccolo to the ground with alarming ease, he had convinced himself it was nothing but a fluke. A mistake. An error on his part for underestimating you—a human of all things.

But then the two of you sparred.

And everything he thought he knew about you unraveled in an instant.

At first, Piccolo was frustrated. Rightfully so.

Your combat skills weren’t just impressive; they were on par with his own. Whether you were humiliating him on purpose or not, the fact remained—his pride took a hit. Every counter, every movement, every effortless evasion of his attacks only confirmed what he refused to admit.

And then it happened.

A subtle shift in energy. His body froze.

His eyes locked onto yours, and something clicked.

He could see it now.

Your ki.

It wrapped around you like a barely visible veil, a natural extension of yourself, flowing with an effortless grace he hadn’t noticed before. Every strike, every well-timed counter—it all made sense now. The energy concentrated at your fingertips, acting as an unseen force that bound his limbs in place.

That explained why the moment your fingers had brushed against his arm, it had gone numb—why his body had betrayed him, allowing you to gain the upper hand so easily.

Piccolo’s sharp gaze lingered on you.

Maybe… you weren’t just an ordinary human after all.

“You’re wrong.”

Your brows knitted together at his sudden remark, uncertainty flashing in your eyes.

Piccolo folded his arms. “I have a friend who’s human. And he’s one of the strongest, most skilled fighters I’ve ever met… even if he’s a scaredy-cat when it comes to danger.”

He grumbled out the last part under his breath, but you still caught it.

A surprised laugh bubbled from your lips.

“The point is,” Piccolo continued, ignoring the way his chest warmed at the sound of your laughter, “humans can become strong. But it requires proper training.”

To emphasize his words, he lifted a hand, conjuring a small sphere of glowing energy in his palm. The orb pulsed gently, illuminating the sharp contours of his face with an ethereal glow.

Your breath hitched.

You had never seen anything like it before.

Cautiously, you stepped forward, leaning in just enough to examine it without risking contact. It was beautiful—like a miniature star resting in his hand, radiating warmth and raw power.

Piccolo watched you silently, noting the fascination in your gaze.

For a moment, something in his chest tightened.

He had seen warriors react to ki before. With admiration. With fear. With greed.

But never with wonder.

“This,” he said, voice quieter now, “is just a small taste of what can be achieved.”

You blinked, pulling your gaze away from the orb to meet his eyes. “It can? So, it’s not something only people born with strength can use?”

Piccolo let the energy dissipate with a flick of his wrist. “It works both ways. Some are born with talent but still need to train. Others start weak but can grow stronger through discipline. The key is learning how to control your own ki.” His expression darkened slightly. “It’s not easy. If you aren’t naturally attuned to it, the process can take years.”

He paused.

“But you’re lucky.”

Your head tilted slightly in curiosity. “Lucky?”

Piccolo studied you, his lips quirking into something just short of a smirk. “I saw you use it in our fight.”

Your brows shot up.

“You might not have realized it, but you were manipulating ki the entire time. Whether it was instinct or something buried in your training, you’re already exceptional at it.”

Your mind reeled at the revelation.

You could use ki? Effortlessly? But… you hadn’t felt anything different.

Your gaze drifted past him, unfocused, too lost in thought to respond.

“(Y/n),” Piccolo’s voice grounded you, snapping you back to the present.

You blinked rapidly, heat creeping onto your cheeks. “Sorry! I was just… trying to process all of this.” You rubbed the back of your neck sheepishly. “So, you’re saying I’ve been using ki this whole time? Without realizing it?”

Piccolo gave a single nod.

You exhaled, staring down at your hands. You clenched and unclenched your fists, trying to feel it—the energy he spoke of, the force that had unknowingly guided your movements.

Nothing.

No warmth. No shift. No spark.

Still, something within you stirred—determination.

Lifting your head, you met Piccolo’s sharp gaze, a small smile pulling at your lips.

“Then,” you started, voice filled with newfound resolve, “do you mind if ki training is added to my lessons from now on?”

Piccolo scoffed, arms still folded. But the small grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth was all the answer you needed.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

“Again.”

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky with exertion. Wiping away the sweat gathering at your brow, you resisted the urge to collapse backward onto the grass. It hadn’t even been a full hour, and yet, your body already ached from the relentless training.

Piccolo’s ki training was far beyond anything you’d ever experienced. Martial arts required discipline, strength, and technique, but ki control? That demanded patience, precision, and an awareness of yourself so deep it bordered on maddening. You clenched your fists, staring down at your empty palms in frustration. No matter how many times you followed his instructions, no matter how much you tried to reach for that flicker of energy inside you—nothing. No spark, no light, not even a damn wisp of power.

“How the fuck…” You panted between words, head tilting up to glare at him. “Can you do this without feeling exhausted?”

Piccolo stood over you, towering as always, arms at his sides. Without his usual weighted cape and turban, his broad frame seemed even more imposing. “A lot of endurance and stamina training,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s hell at first, but over time, it becomes second nature.”

You shook your head with a tired chuckle, a mix of admiration and disbelief bubbling up despite yourself. “Geez, no wonder you’re so ripped. And insanely fucking fast. You never stop training. Do you even take a break?” You leaned back slightly to get a better look at him, only now realizing just how much your neck had to crane to meet his gaze.

He huffed. “Hmp. And risk slacking off? No.”

You rolled your eyes. “Really? Then how come you meditate so often?”

“It’s another form of training.”

“Of course it is.” You snorted before raising a brow. “Which is?”

“Ki focus training.”

You let out a slow breath, shifting your attention back to your hands. There was something there—a faint tingling at your fingertips, a pulse just beneath your skin. It was your ki. Your energy. It was there. It had always been there. You just couldn’t seem to grasp it the way Piccolo could.

Sensing the change in your expression, Piccolo knelt down in front of you, lowering himself to eye level. His presence was grounding, his gaze sharp yet unreadable. You were so caught up in your own thoughts that you barely registered how close he was, nor did you notice the way his usual hard stare softened ever so slightly.

“…You’re overthinking it.” His voice was quieter this time, lacking the usual blunt edge.

You blinked, caught off guard, before huffing a tired laugh. “Yeah? Tell that to my brain.”

Piccolo exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Tch. That’s the problem.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could retort, his large hand reached out. You froze as he gently placed two fingers against your forehead, the contact unexpected. His skin was warmer than you thought it’d be.

“Stop forcing it. Ki flows naturally,” he said, voice steady. “If you keep trying to control it like a muscle, you’ll keep burning yourself out. Let it come to you.”

You swallowed, your heart beating a little faster—not from exhaustion, but from something else entirely. Whether it was his proximity, the way his voice dropped slightly, or the sudden realization of just how much trust he was putting in you, you weren’t sure.

But as you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, you found yourself listening.

Focusing on the steady rhythm of your breathing. You sat straighter, just as Piccolo instructed, allowing the tension in your body to melt away.

Then, you turned your focus inward.

At first, there was only silence. A vast, empty space within your mind. But then—just behind your eyes—you felt it. A faint buzz, like static at the edge of your awareness. It started at your fingertips, a tingling sensation, before spreading into the center of your palms.

The current…

You remembered Piccolo’s words—energy, like water, flowing at the center of your body. You visualized it, a deep reservoir of warmth sitting just beneath your ribcage. It pulsed faintly, like the rhythmic ebb and flow of the tide.

Slowly, you willed the energy to move.

It was sluggish at first, like trying to push against an invisible force, but the more you focused, the easier it became. The warmth traveled upward, swirling from your core into your arms, and finally—

A faint glimmer of light flickered between your hands.

Your eyes snapped open, breath catching in your throat. A dim, shifting glow hovered in your palm, barely the size of a pebble. It was weak, unstable, flickering as if it might disappear at any moment.

But it was there.

Excitement surged through you, but you quickly tamped it down, remembering Piccolo’s warning about maintaining control. Taking another breath, you steadied your mind, focusing on keeping the energy contained.

The tiny sphere of light pulsed in response, solidifying just a bit more.

“That’s it,” Piccolo’s voice cut through the silence. You looked up to see him observing you with sharp, yet approving eyes. “You can feel it now, can’t you?”

You nodded, gripping onto the sensation before it slipped away.

Your lips curled up into a smile. You did it. You actually made a Ki sphere! Small, flickering, and unstable—but real. It wasn’t just some distant concept anymore; it was something you had drawn out from within.

Laughter bubbled up in your throat, giddy and breathless, as you looked up at Piccolo, eyes bright with excitement. He was saying something—probably giving more instructions or a warning—but the sheer joy coursing through you drowned out his words.

Without thinking, you moved.

Throwing your arms around his neck, you pulled him into a spontaneous hug, the action as natural as breathing.

For a moment, Piccolo didn’t react. His entire body went rigid, eyes widening in surprise. You were close. The warmth of your smaller frame pressed against him sent a jolt through his system. His hand hovered just above your waist, unsure if he should push you away or remain completely still.

Then, your voice—soft and sincere—reached his ears.

"Thank you for being patient with me, Piccolo."

His breath hitched.

Something in his chest fluttered, an unfamiliar warmth unfurling deep within him. The tension in his shoulders melted ever so slightly, and before he could fully process it, his instincts took over.

His large hand settled on the small of your back, hesitant yet deliberate. He hadn’t intended to pull you closer, but the second he did, something about the embrace felt… grounding.

Comfortable.

For someone who had spent most of his life avoiding unnecessary contact, it was strange how right this felt.

“Hmph,” he finally grunted, the corner of his lips twitching ever so slightly. “Just don’t get ahead of yourself. You still have a long way to go.”

But even as he said that, he didn’t pull away.

(2,537 words)

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n)

The long awaited chapter has finally come! (after being on hiatus for months on this story ;-;)

After some set backs and other hyperfixations, I finally managed to write this entire chapter after sitting in my pc for hours (it's like… almost 3 a.m over here lol).

I've been juggling between many scenarios on where this story might take off. There's a rough idea in my head that I need to write down on paper before I forget (again). Thank you for those who have waited (too long) for this chapter. For those that stuck around waiting anxiously, I apologize and thank you for your love and engagement. It really motivates me to keep on writing and to have fun with this story.

If you stuck around to read this silly note, thank you for reading!

Until next time, readers. xoxo

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part VIII

You are currently reading Part IX

Part X

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

46 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 4 months ago

Text

XIV | Hurt

Warning(s): Angst (so much angst), Guilt, Self-loathing

Synopsis: Piccolo finally returns from his training and the first thing he does is to pay you a visit.

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Piccolo’s return was supposed to be simple.

After days of training alone in the freezing northern glaciers, he expected to stop by your place, maybe exchange a few words, and then disappear back into the mountains. But when he arrived, the place was empty.

Your energy was nowhere to be found.

That alone was unusual. Normally, even when you were out, he could at least sense you in the distance. Frowning, he assumed you were at the school and wasted no time flying over, only to find it just as empty. No students. No sign of you.

The unease started creeping in.

Where the hell were you?

His search took him to the nearest city. He walked along the crowded sidewalks, scanning the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of you—maybe hear your voice amidst the city noise. But nothing.

Then he heard your name, vaguely.

He almost didn’t register it at first, but something in his gut told him to listen. He stopped mid-step, glancing at a row of televisions in a store display. They were broadcasting the latest news, and a reporter stood on screen, speaking with grim urgency.

“—the incident that took place just days ago at a festival in East City, where a suspect opened fire, injuring a woman who courageously intervened—”

He nearly turned away. It had nothing to do with him. Nothing to do with you.

Then your picture appeared in the top right corner of the screen.

Piccolo froze.

His blood turned to ice as the reporter continued.

“—identified as the martial arts instructor, (Y/n), seen here in her signature gi. Witnesses say she stepped in when the suspect attempted to target a young girl—one of her students—before sustaining multiple gunshot wounds to the chest. The suspect is now in custody, while (Y/n) remains in critical condition at Nicky Town Hospital Center—”

He didn’t hear the rest.

In a heartbeat, he was airborne, the city shrinking beneath him as he shot toward the hospital like a meteor.

Your energy was faint—dangerously faint—but it was there. The moment he locked onto it, he pushed harder, his speed ripping through the sky, the air roaring in his ears.

By the time he landed outside the hospital, his patience was already hanging by a thread.

The moment he stepped through the doors, he headed straight for the reception desk.

“I need to see (Y/n).” His voice was sharp, unwavering.

The receptionist blinked up at him, startled by his sudden presence. “I—uh—are you a family member or—?”

“I’m her friend,” he snapped.

Her hesitant expression made his patience snap.

“I’m sorry, but visiting hours—”

His fist slammed against the counter. The wood cracked under the force, the entire desk shaking violently. The receptionist flinched, eyes wide with fear as the room fell silent.

“Tell me where she is,” he demanded, voice low and seething.

Trembling, the woman quickly typed on her computer. “R-Room C28, 10th floor,” she stammered.

That was all he needed. Without another word, he turned and stormed toward the stairwell.

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

The climb up 10 floors took mere seconds.

The halls were eerily quiet, save for the distant hum of machines behind closed doors. Piccolo’s footsteps barely made a sound as he moved, his heart pounding loud in his ears.

And then, he found it.

Room C28.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Your energy was there. Weak, but there.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He should walk in. He should go inside and see for himself.

But for the first time in a long, long time… Piccolo hesitated.

He felt the damage before he even looked. He knew, deep down, that whatever condition you were in—it was bad. Too bad. And it made something twist deep in his chest, something cold and unbearable.

Still, he forced himself forward.

Peering through the glass window, his breath hitched.

There you were.

Lying motionless in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines, tubes hooked up to your nose and mouth. Your chest barely rose with each slow, mechanical breath, your body looking far too still, far too fragile.

Piccolo’s fists clenched.

There was no way to describe what he felt. Anger? Guilt? Something worse?

He had been gone for only a few days. A few days. And in his absence, you had nearly died.

His feet felt heavy as he stepped inside. The sterile scent of the hospital filled his nose, but all he could focus on was you. Seeing you like this—so weak, so lifeless—tore something inside him.

This wasn’t right.

You weren’t supposed to be the one lying here, barely clinging to life. You were strong, stubborn, full of life and fire. Not this.

Slowly, Piccolo stepped around the opposite end of the bed, his moccasins' making barely a sound against the sterile tile floor. His breath was steady, but each step forward felt like dragging a boulder, his body weighed down by an unbearable pressure. He never took his eyes off of you.

The severity of your injuries—something he had tried to brace himself for—hit him all at once.

The moment he reached your bedside, his legs gave out.

With a dull thud, Piccolo dropped to his knees, his arms resting on the edge of the bed. He exhaled shakily before hesitantly reaching out, his large fingers gently wrapping around your hand. The familiar warmth he had grown used to—the warmth that had so often greeted him in training, in conversation, in all those quiet moments you had shared—was gone.

Your hand was cold. Too cold.

His breath hitched in his throat.

He swallowed hard, but the lump in his chest only grew. His grip on your hand tightened, his free hand clenching into a fist against the sheets.

If he hadn’t left…

If he had been there…

If he had protected you…

A choked noise escaped him before he could suppress it.

The weight in his chest—what had been building ever since he heard your name on that damned news report—finally broke him.

Piccolo’s head bowed forward, his forehead pressing against the mattress as his shoulders trembled. He bit down hard, willing himself to keep control, but the burning sting in his eyes wouldn’t stop.

Then, the first tear fell.

Followed by another.

And another.

His body convulsed as quiet, guttural sobs ripped from his chest, the sound muffled against the sheets. He didn’t care. Not if anyone saw. Not if the whole damn hospital could hear him.

Nothing outside this room mattered.

Only you.

“(Y/n)…” His voice cracked, barely a whisper.

He clenched his teeth, screwing his eyes shut, but the flood didn’t stop. A gut-wrenching sob wracked his body as he clutched your limp hand.

“...Please…” His breath stuttered, his grip tightening as if it could somehow tether you back to him. “I—I can’t lose you…”

For what felt like an eternity, Piccolo stayed there—shattered, breaking apart at the seams.

Eventually, exhaustion took its toll. His body, so used to enduring battle after battle, had finally reached its limit. His breathing slowed, and his sobs quieted until they were nothing more than sharp, uneven breaths.

Still, even as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he never let go of your hand.

A sliver of light peeked through the curtains, casting over his slumped form. His face, stained with silent tears, remained turned toward you as if he feared you’d vanish if he looked away.

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

Hours later, Piccolo stirred.

His body ached—not from battle, not from training, but from the unbearable heaviness in his chest. The reminder of why he was here settled in instantly, sending a fresh wave of agony through him.

He considered staying where he was, allowing himself a few more moments of reprieve, but a thought struck him.

A solution.

His stomach twisted at the realization.

He had to leave.

His fingers twitched as he hesitated—one last look. Then, with considerable effort, he forced himself up and turned away from your still form.

He had to go to Korin’s Tower.

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

The journey was swift, fueled by desperation.

Piccolo didn’t waste a second as he descended onto Korin’s Tower, his moccasins slamming into the tiled platform. His chest rose and fell heavily from the flight, but he ignored the exhaustion clawing at him. There was no time for it.

“Korin,” he barked, his voice firm yet edged with something uncharacteristically frantic. “I need a senzu bean.”

The white feline turned, staff in hand, his usual calm expression unreadable. “Hate to say it, but you’re out of luck, Piccolo.”

The words barely registered.

“…What?”

Korin let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “Not a single one left. We ran out.”

Piccolo’s breath hitched. His jaw tightened, and his fingers twitched at his sides. His mind refused to accept what he had just heard. He needed one. You needed one. His shoulders rose and fell as he bit the inside of his cheek, desperately keeping himself composed.

Korin, ever perceptive, narrowed his eyes. Piccolo wasn’t one to openly display his emotions, but the subtle shift in his usually hardened features didn’t go unnoticed. The slight furrow of his brow, the tense set of his jaw, and—most telling of all—the shadow of something pained flickering in his onyx eyes.

He was worried.

The realization caught Korin off guard, and he had to resist the urge to flick his tail in surprise.

“Why do you need a senzu bean?” the cat asked, his voice laced with curiosity. “It’s not like we’re dealing with something worse than Majin Buu, ya know?”

“Yeah,” another voice chimed in, coming from the staircase below. “You actin’ like the world’s ending or somethin’.”

Yajirobe.

The overweight, unkempt swordsman strolled onto the platform, arms crossed, his expression full of lazy disinterest. “No offense, but last I checked, you don’t just show up demanding senzu beans without a damn good reason.”

That did it.

Piccolo’s eyes snapped to Yajirobe, his fangs bared in a sharp snarl. His voice dropped into a low, dangerous growl.

“That is none of your damn business,” he spat through clenched teeth. “I don’t need to explain myself—only that I need a senzu bean.”

Yajirobe blinked, then feigned a bored yawn, though the way his body stiffened gave away his nerves. “Sheesh, touchy much? What, is someone dying or something?”

The words struck like a knife to the gut.

Piccolo’s breath hitched as an image flashed through his mind—you, lying motionless in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, barely holding on. The steady beep of the monitor. The shallow rise and fall of your chest.

His hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Damn it.

Korin immediately took notice, ears twitching as he caught the abnormal hostility rolling off the Namekian in waves. He turned sharply toward Yajirobe, voice firm.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he warned. “If you know what’s good for you, Yajirobe, you’ll shut your mouth before Piccolo blasts you off this tower.”

Yajirobe’s mouth opened—then snapped shut.

Korin sighed, his feline features softening as he looked back at Piccolo. “I wish I could help, Piccolo, I do. But like I said, we’re fresh out.” His tail flicked before he added, “However, a new batch is growin’ as we speak. They’ll be ready in about five months. As soon as they’re good to go, I’ll let you know.”

Piccolo said nothing at first. His breathing was still shallow, his muscles taut, but he forced himself to exhale through his nose, regaining some semblance of control.

Finally, he gave a stiff nod.

Without another word, he turned back toward the sky, his cape billowing in the wind.

His only thought was getting back to you.

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

Days passed.

Then a week.

Piccolo refused to leave your side.

The hospital staff tried to convince him otherwise, but his resolve was unwavering. Eventually, they gave up.

The second week came, and with it, a shift.

A nurse and a surgeon arrived to remove you from life support. Piccolo stood rigid, hands clenched, watching their every movement with unwavering intensity.

They worked in silence, carefully removing the tubes keeping you breathing. His stomach coiled into knots as he waited—prayed—for something, anything.

Then, a breath.

Your chest rose and fell on its own.

The nurse monitored you closely, ensuring your body adjusted. Piccolo remained as still as stone, watching with sharp eyes, waiting for any sign of distress.

But none came.

Relief washed over the room like a silent wave.

Still, Piccolo didn’t allow himself to breathe until twenty-four hours had passed with no complications.

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

The early morning hours were quiet.

Piccolo sat on the floor, arms folded, head bowed. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t truly asleep—merely allowing himself to drift in and out of thought, the constant hum of the ventilation shaft above filling the silence.

No one bothered him anymore.

Except for her.

Michiko.

A nurse he had come to tolerate, perhaps even appreciate. She had been the one to allow him to stay when others would have sent him away. She never forced conversation, never made him feel like an outsider.

She simply existed in the space, like he did.

Michiko always checked on you first, never rushing. Then, wordlessly, she would set down a bottle of water for him before leaving.

He never acknowledged it, but he noticed.

A quiet show of kindness he wasn’t used to.

But all his thoughts scattered in an instant when—

“...Ngh…”

Piccolo’s eyes snapped open.

His body moved before his mind could catch up, rising to his feet in a flash and stepping toward your bedside.

His heart pounded.

His breath caught.

His hands clenched at his sides as he waited.

Anticipation twisted in his chest like a vice.

And then—

Your fingers twitched.

A soft, rhythmic beeping.

That was the first thing you registered as your mind swam through a thick, disorienting haze.

Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and sluggish. The ceiling above you was stark white, unfamiliar, and sterile. A faint antiseptic scent lingered in the air, mingling with something softer—something warm.

Your vision wavered, struggling to focus. As you attempted to move, a dull ache spread through your body, dragging you down like an anchor. Your breaths came slow and uneven, each inhale rattling in your chest.

Confusion clouded your thoughts. Where…?

Your eyes darted across the room, searching for any clue, but the details blurred together—until you heard it.

A voice.

“(Y/n)?”

Low. Strained.

Familiar.

You turned your head with effort, your neck protesting the movement. A shadowed figure stood to your right, the light from the monitor casting a faint glow over their form. Your vision wavered again, the world sluggishly coming into focus.

It wasn’t until the figure leaned closer that recognition settled in.

“P…Picc-olo…”

It took everything in you to say his name. The word left your lips in a breathy whisper, but it was enough.

Something flickered in his dark eyes—something raw, unreadable. Pain? Relief? Both?

A single tear traced down his cheek, glistening under the dim light.

His expression remained still, calm even, but the way his hands curled into fists—the way his breath came just a little too sharp—told another story.

You felt the warmth of his hand near yours, his knuckles barely brushing against your fingers. With what little strength you had, you reached out, pressing your palm against his.

He flinched.

His breath caught as his eyes widened, staring at you as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked.

“…W…why… are you… crying…?”

Piccolo’s body stiffened.

Whatever composure he had been clinging to—whatever walls he had built—shattered.

His head dropped, shoulders shaking as he released a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a ragged breath. More tears spilled, trailing down his cheeks in silent devastation.

“Why?” His voice broke, raw with emotion. “Because you could’ve died, that’s why!”

His hands clenched into the sheets, his breathing uneven.

“If I hadn’t left—if I had stayed—this wouldn’t have happened!” He gritted his teeth, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. “I could’ve protected you. I should’ve protected you! I—”

“Not…your…fault…”

The words came in a whisper, weak but firm.

Piccolo’s breath hitched. His eyes snapped to yours, searching, desperate.

You inhaled deeply, summoning what little strength you had left.

“Not… your… fa-a-ault.”

Something inside him crumbled.

He exhaled sharply, almost shakily, before slowly—hesitantly—lifting a hand. His fingers trembled, betraying the emotions he tried so hard to suppress.

Then, with infinite gentleness, he cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, steady. His thumb brushed over your skin in slow, deliberate strokes, as if grounding himself in the moment.

And then—you leaned into him.

His breath hitched, his entire body going rigid at the feeling of your warmth pressing into his palm.

His stomach twisted, flipping over itself in an unfamiliar sensation that sent a tremor through his very core.

It was unsettling. Addicting.

A foolish, intoxicating feeling—one that he couldn’t understand, yet craved all the same.

And maybe—just maybe—he was a fool for feeling this way.

But if being a fool meant keeping you by his side…

Then he was the luckiest fool alive.

(2,916 words)

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

(a/n) To be completely honest with you guys,

this chapter has been written for over a year now, and I knew that this specific event had to happen. Because I love a good angsty chapter in my stories~

I did cry when I had to write out Piccolo's emotional turmoil.

I love him to bits but like having to write him slowly breaking at the seams is something that I never usually see in some fics. Maybe it's because he has a tough guy/stoic mask to hide how he's truly feeling. Maybe I wanted it to hurt. Maybe even cry a little? (ok but that crying scene of him thoo? broke me when I was writing it 😭)

I hope you lovely readers enjoyed this chapter as much as I did (what am I saying? I wrote it, of course I would enjoy it lol)

Until next time~ 💚

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XIII

You are currently reading Part XIV

Part XV

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

@dovah-bee

33 notes · View notes

lilyswrittenworks · 4 months ago

Text

XII | It’s Only Temporary

Warning(s): Cursing

Synopsis: Piccolo suddenly visits you out of the blue one day, wanting to tell you something important.

The sun hung low in the cloudless morning sky, casting warm streaks of gold through the tall windows of the dojo. Even at this hour, the summer heat lingered in the air, making the wooden floors faintly warm beneath your bare feet. The only sounds were the rhythmic creaks of the ceiling fan overhead and the distant rustling of leaves outside.

Saturdays were your favorite kind of mornings—quiet, peaceful, and completely yours.

With your students having their well-deserved rest days on weekends, the dojo was always empty. It gave you the perfect chance to clean the mats, reorganize equipment, or—more often than not—get some solo training in. The solitude had always been something you enjoyed—just you, your own steady breathing, and the echo of your movements filling the empty space.

Then, the gentle creak of the door sliding made your head snap toward the entrance, breaking you from your warm-up stretches. For a brief second, you thought maybe one of your students had forgotten their rest day—but the towering figure standing in the doorway was the last person you expected to see.

His presence was so unexpected that for a split second, all you could do was blink at him in surprise. His name left your lips in a breathless murmur.

"Piccolo?"

He stood there in the threshold, arms crossed as usual—his broad frame framed perfectly by the warm morning light spilling in behind him. His heavy white cape billowed faintly from the breeze outside before settling against his back. His dark, onyx eyes swept across the empty dojo, lingering on the mats and the small training equipment scattered around.

For a moment, he didn't say anything. He simply stood there, as if silently contemplating whether he had made the right decision coming here in the first place.

Your initial surprise quickly melted into a warm smile, tilting your head slightly.

"Hey... what in the world brings you here?"

Piccolo's sharp gaze flicked toward you, meeting your eyes—always so intense, yet never harsh. He didn't answer right away, his arms still firmly crossed over his chest. You swore you caught the faintest twitch in his brow—like he was still trying to figure out why he had come in the first place.

You waited, patient as always.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low—gravelly as ever, but with an edge of something... uncertain beneath the usual stoicism.

"...You said you trained early on Saturdays."

Your lips parted slightly in surprise. It was such a small, offhand comment—something you barely even remembered mentioning to him weeks ago. You hadn't expected him to actually remember that, let alone seek you out because of it.

A small warmth flickered in your chest, softening your smile.

"I did, didn't I?"

You straightened up, brushing your hands against your thighs as you took a step closer to him.

"Still... that doesn't explain why you're here." You tilted your head, a playful glint in your eyes. "Unless you suddenly decided to pick up cleaning duty?"

Piccolo's brow twitched slightly—just enough to let you know he was biting back a retort.

"Tch... Don't push your luck."

You chuckled softly under your breath, shaking your head. Piccolo wasn't the type to seek out company without a reason. He was always so self-sufficient, content with solitude or his own rigorous training in the wilderness.

Yet here he was—standing in your dojo.

You studied him for a moment longer, trying to piece together his reasoning. His arms were still crossed, his posture a little too rigid—like he was standing guard rather than simply visiting.

There was something... different about him today.

You were tempted to ask what was on his mind but you decided not to press him—not yet.

"...So?" You broke the silence again, your tone light but curious. "Are you just here to watch, or did you come to join in?"

Piccolo's gaze flicked away, his brow furrowing—like he was debating whether or not to answer honestly.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose—almost like he was annoyed at himself for what he was about to say.

"I want to spar."

You blinked, caught completely off guard. Of all the reasons you could have expected, that was not one of them.

"Spar...?" You repeated slowly, as if you needed to make sure you heard him right.

Piccolo's expression didn't change—stern and unwavering as always—but there was a subtle tension in his jaw, like he was waiting for you to laugh or brush him off.

But you didn't.

Instead, a slow smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

"Well... color me surprised." You folded your arms, mirroring his stance in playful challenge. "Didn't think you'd ever voluntarily ask for that."

Piccolo's brow twitched again, his gaze narrowing slightly. "I wouldn't have come if I wasn't serious."

There was no hint of teasing or condescension in his voice—just pure, blunt honesty.

He meant it.

Your smile softened at that, the warmth flickering a little brighter in your chest. It wasn't just the request itself that caught you off guard—it was the fact that he had come here entirely on his own.

Piccolo had always been your silent observer—always watching from the sidelines during your classes, never interfering unless absolutely necessary. He had seen you train your students countless times. He had even helped sharpen your techniques once or twice when you asked—but those moments had always been brief, more instructional than anything else.

But this...?

This felt different somehow.

You glanced toward the mats, then back at him—your smile turning playful again.

"Well... if you're offering, who am I to say no? It has been a while since we last sparred properly. Curious to see if my technique has improved since then?"

Piccolo's eyes flicked back toward you, the faintest glimmer of amusement hidden deep beneath the stoic mask.

"Don't expect me to hold back."

Your heart gave a small flutter—not out of intimidation, but excitement.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Without another word, you turned on your heel, padding barefoot toward the center of the mat. The soft creak of wood filled the quiet air as Piccolo's footsteps followed behind you.

The heat of the morning pressed against your skin, the distant hum of cicadas filling the stillness.

You stole a glance back at him as you stepped into position, your pulse quickening ever so slightly.

He had sought you out.

And whether he realized it or not, the fact that he was here—asking for this—meant more than either of you were ready to admit.

A small smile played at your lips as you dropped into your stance.

"Alright then... let's see what you've got."

Your smile lingered as you watched Piccolo reach for the shoulder pads of his weighted cape, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The fabric billowed slightly before he shrugged it off completely, letting it fall to the mat with a muffled thud. His turban followed soon after, landing beside it with just as much weight. The floor beneath your feet vibrated faintly from the sheer density of the discarded garments—a reminder of just how much Piccolo constantly carried with him, both in a physical and metaphorical sense.

Your eyes flickered back to his now-unburdened form, noting the way his posture seemed just a fraction lighter without the additional weight. His arms were now hung at his side as he regarded you with that ever-serious expression, but there was something else there—something that lingered in the way his smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, subtle yet unmistakable.

"You're awfully confident about yourself," Piccolo remarked, his gravelly voice carrying just the faintest edge of amusement.

You grinned, rolling one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Of course! This is purely skill-based combat. Look, I know I can't beat you at your full potential—I'd eat shit the moment you disappear from my view."

For a split second, there was nothing but silence. And then—

You could've sworn you heard it.

A chuckle.

It was faint, barely more than a breath, but it was there.

The sound sent a small jolt through your chest, your heart swelling at the rare display. Piccolo's expressions were always so carefully controlled, his reactions so measured, that hearing something as simple as a quiet laugh felt like an unexpected victory.

Your grin widened. "Wait, was that a chuckle? Did I just—did I just make the Piccolo laugh?"

He shot you a flat look, but there was no real bite behind it. "You're hearing things."

"Oh no, I definitely heard it." You tapped a finger against your temple, feigning deep contemplation. "A genuine laugh, too. Not one of those sarcastic, 'I'm-amused-but-won't-admit-it' snorts."

Piccolo exhaled sharply through his nose—whether out of irritation or mild amusement, you couldn't tell. "Are we going to spar, or are you just going to waste time patting yourself on the back?"

"Both," you quipped, rolling your wrists as you loosened up your stance. "I mean, come on—this is a momentous occasion. Should I start keeping track of every time I get you to laugh? I could make a chart."

Piccolo gave you a look that said I will end you.

You laughed, bouncing on the balls of your feet as you settled into your fighting stance. "Alright, alright—I'll drop it." Your grin softened just slightly as you met his gaze. "But... for the record, I like hearing it."

Piccolo blinked, something unreadable flickering across his features. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. And then—so subtly you almost missed it—he exhaled, shaking his head as if to brush off whatever thought had passed through his mind.

"Tch... don't expect it to happen again."

You smirked, feeling the familiar rush of excitement coil in your gut as you steadied your breath. "We'll see about that."

Then, without another word, you lunged.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Your chest rose and fell in heavy, labored breaths as you bent forward, hands braced against your knees for support. Every inch of your body burned from exertion, muscles screaming in protest, but despite the exhaustion weighing down on you, there was a triumphant glint in your eyes.

"Fuck—you're still stronger than me." You panted, wiping at your brow with the back of your hand before straightening up slightly. "I still don't understand how I beat you that one time!"

Piccolo, who seemed far less winded than you (because of course he was), merely crossed his arms over his chest, his usual impassive expression in place. Without a word, he reached out and offered you a towel—small, clean, and neatly folded.

You blinked at the gesture, surprised by the simple but thoughtful act before quickly taking it. "Oh, thanks." With a relieved sigh, you patted the sweat off your face, savoring the brief moment of respite.

"You beat me?" Piccolo echoed dryly, brow arching slightly. "You were using your energy back then."

You paused mid-wipe, eyes narrowing as you pulled the towel away to give him a skeptical look. "Uh-huh... and?"

Piccolo remained as unreadable as ever, his stance unwavering. "You didn't know how to control it back then."

There was a beat of silence as his words sank in. Then—

Your eyes widened. "Wait... are you implying I cheated?!"

"I never said that," Piccolo responded smoothly, his voice as calm and steady as ever.

You gasped, pointing an accusing finger at him. "But you aren't denying it either!"

His expression remained neutral, but you could see the telltale flicker of amusement buried somewhere deep in those dark eyes of his.

Your jaw dropped, scandalized. "Wow. Wow. You're just gonna sit there all smug and act like I didn't earn that win fair and square?"

Piccolo gave a slight shrug, his arms still crossed. "I'm just stating the facts."

"You're implying the facts," you shot back, wiping the last of the sweat from your face before dramatically tossing the towel over your shoulder. "Let's be real—if you really thought I 'cheated,' you would've said something back then."

Piccolo exhaled sharply through his nose—a noise that might've been a scoff, but with him, it was hard to tell.

"I let it slide."

"Ohhh, you let it slide?" You placed a hand over your chest, feigning offense. "How gracious of you, oh mighty Piccolo. I should count my blessings that you allowed me that one moment of glory."

He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly—almost a smirk. "Are you done?"

You narrowed your eyes up at him, a defiant glint flickering behind them before you let out a small huff, crossing your arms in front of your chest with a reluctant pout.

"...For now."

You turned away with a stubborn tilt of your chin, still stewing over your supposed victory in that long-ago match. The memory played on repeat in your mind—every detail, every move, every second of triumph that you were absolutely sure had been earned fairly. You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts that you didn't notice the way Piccolo was watching you.

His gaze lingered longer than usual, studying your expression in a way that seemed almost... thoughtful. The sharp, assessing glint that usually dominated his dark eyes had softened, just slightly, as if something about you in this moment struck him differently.

And then—he remembered.

The real reason why he had come here today.

"(Y/n)."

His deep, steady voice cut through the silence, pulling you abruptly out of your thoughts.

You blinked, head tilting slightly as you turned to meet his gaze, the teasing defiance from earlier slipping into curiosity.

"Sparring wasn't the only reason I came here today."

There was something different in his tone this time—something uncertain. It was subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it. That slight hesitation, the way his voice faltered for just a fraction of a second.

That had your full attention.

Your brows furrowed as you studied his expression. Piccolo was never one to struggle with words; he was always direct, always composed. But now, his jaw tightened and loosened, his gaze shifting ever so slightly. The faintest creases formed at the corners of his eyes—not from frustration, but from... hesitation?

That alone was enough to make your chest tighten.

Something was wrong.

The silence stretched between you like an invisible weight pressing against your ribs, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, finally—after what felt like an eternity—he spoke.

"I'm... leaving."

Everything inside you froze.

Your body, your thoughts—everything came to a screeching halt, as if his words had knocked the breath right out of you.

Your mind raced in a million different directions at once. Leaving? What did he mean by that? Where? For how long? The possibility of permanence loomed over you like a storm cloud, and you had to physically force yourself to push it back.

No.

You could not freak out. Not now.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry as you barely managed to stammer out, "Y-you're... leaving? Like... permanently?"

The moment the words left your mouth, Piccolo visibly stiffened, caught off guard. His normally unreadable expression wavered for a brief second, his eyes widening just slightly. A sweatdrop formed on his cheek as he hurried to clarify, his voice firm but laced with the smallest trace of exasperation.

"What? No, that's not—"

Before he could finish, the tension in your chest snapped, and a wave of overwhelming relief crashed over you.

"Fucking hell, Piccolo!" you blurted out, pressing a hand against your forehead as your shoulders sagged. "You had me worried! I thought you were leaving for good!"

Piccolo's brow twitched. A very distinct look of irritation crossed his face as he let out a slow exhale through his nose.

"...You didn't let me finish," he muttered, voice laced with mild annoyance.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to calm down as guilt crept in. Maybe you had jumped to conclusions too quickly.

"...Sorry," you mumbled, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly.

Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment before exhaling again, this time as if regaining his composure. When he opened them, his gaze met yours again, steadier now.

"I'll be heading north to train for a few days," he finally explained. "There's a high chance I won't be around to help."

His words settled in, and this time, you actually processed them properly.

Not permanent. Not forever. Just a short trip.

But still...

Your relief didn't fully ease the lingering feeling in your chest.

"So, you train up north?" you asked, tilting your head slightly. "Wouldn't you be freezing while you train there?"

Piccolo merely folded his arms across his chest, his usual stoic expression unchanging. "My skin is thick enough to withstand the low temperatures unaffected," he stated matter-of-factly. "Unlike humans that require proper protection from the elements."

You blinked, considering that for a moment. "Huh." You leaned back slightly, nodding in mild admiration. "That's actually pretty cool."

Piccolo arched a brow at your choice of words.

"Cool," you repeated, smirking at your unintentional pun. "See what I did there?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly unimpressed, but you could've sworn you caught the faintest twitch of his lip.

Shaking off your amusement, you turned your attention back to the more important question lingering in your mind. "Okay, so you can withstand the cold. Cool." You grinned when you saw the faintest hint of an eye roll. "But, um... how many days will you be gone exactly?"

Piccolo closed his eyes, his expression contemplative. "Hard to say. It could take five days... maybe a week. Depends on the type of training."

When he opened his eyes again, his gaze immediately zeroed in on you.

The playful glint in your eyes had faded, replaced with something more distant—far away, as if your thoughts had drifted elsewhere. And deeper beneath that, he caught something else. Something subtle.

Sadness.

It was brief, barely noticeable, but he felt it.

His chest tightened.

Why?

Why were you sad?

It was only for a few days—nothing unusual for him. He had done this countless times before, retreating into solitude to train, pushing his limits further and further. This was nothing out of the ordinary. So why... why did seeing that expression on your face suddenly make him feel so—

He parted his lips, intending to speak, but before he could, you beat him to it.

"Just don't push yourself too hard during your training, alright?"

Your voice was soft, filled with that same warmth you always carried. And just like that—just as quickly as it had appeared—the sadness in your eyes was gone, replaced by a gentle, reassuring glow.

Piccolo blinked.

For a moment, he almost doubted what he had seen. Had it been his imagination? A trick of the light? Or had you really looked that sad just seconds ago?

His gaze lingered on your face, searching for any remaining trace of that fleeting sorrow, but there was nothing now—only your usual, unwavering kindness staring back at him.

It was... unsettling.

Not because of the shift itself, but because of how effortlessly you had masked it.

And that realization stuck with him.

Piccolo considered pressing the issue—asking you outright about that momentary flicker of sadness he had seen—but ultimately decided against it. If you had brushed it aside so quickly, maybe you didn't want to talk about it. Maybe you weren't ready to.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shifting his weight slightly. "Hmph. You don't have to worry about me," he said, his tone firm, yet lacking its usual edge. "I've dealt with harsher training before."

You let out a small chuckle, placing your hands on your hips in mock exasperation. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're a big, strong Namekian who can survive anything and handle his own in a fight." You waved a hand, as if to dismiss his typical warrior bravado. But then your voice softened, the teasing fading into something more sincere.

"But still..."

Your gaze met his, and he immediately noticed the shift. Gone was the playful lightheartedness. Instead, there was something else—something warm, something real.

"I worry, Piccolo," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Because you're my friend. And I don't want anything bad to happen to you, okay?"

Piccolo didn't move, didn't say a word.

He only stared.

It was strange, how those simple words seemed to settle so deeply inside him. He wasn't unfamiliar with concern—Gohan had always been that way, ever since he was a kid. But hearing it from you...

It was different.

Maybe because, unlike Gohan, you weren't someone he had taken under his wing. You weren't looking at him as a student to a teacher, or even a warrior to a comrade. No, you were looking at him as something else entirely.

As a friend.

The word shouldn't have felt as foreign as it did.

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Just promise me you'll take it easy and not push yourself, okay?"

Your eyes shined with unwavering sincerity, and for a brief moment, Piccolo found himself... at a loss.

Not because he didn't have an answer.

But because, despite all the years he had spent in solitude—despite the battles, the meditation, the relentless pursuit of strength—he wasn't used to people saying things like that to him.

Finally, after a beat of silence, he spoke.

"...I promise."

His voice was quieter than before, but steady, holding a rare softness that only you would notice.

Your lips curled into a smile, satisfied with his response.

Piccolo wasn't sure why, but seeing that smile—knowing that such a small assurance from him was enough to ease your worries—made something settle in his chest.

And for the first time in a long while, he found that he didn't mind it.

(3,679 words)

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Part XI

You are currently reading part XII

Part XIII

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

It Turned into Love Masterlist

━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━━─┉┈★┈┉─━

Tag list:

@utakamo

@nerdy-girl-named-pumpkin

32 notes · View notes