The Best Parts of Son Goku (according to Piccolo)
folder
Dragon Ball Z › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,291
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Dragon Ball Z › Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,291
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own DragonballZ, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Best Parts of Son Goku (according to Piccolo)
The Best Parts of Son Goku (according to Piccolo)
1. His hair.
Good for so many things. For catching the light, or drops of water that look like light, glowing like stars in the black tangle. For covering almost all of Son’s eyes, making him look ten years younger than he actually is every time he looks up at Piccolo and smiles. For threading his fingers through for no reason – just the silky feeling of it over his fingers, like touching willow leaves or corn tassels, soft and soothing. Good to catch, tighten his hand in. Good for making him arch his back, or hold his face tight against the mattress, or just gasp at him helplessly and clutch at his shirt as if he were on the edge of a cliff and scrambling for purchase. Even just good for touching, when they are waiting for the sun to come up in some dismal part of the planet – in those moments before Son wakes up, those moments when he’s all his and no one else’s, when Piccolo can rest the bridge of his nose in the middle of that dusky halo and inhale the scent of him through the soft strands.
2. His mouth.
A stupid thing to want, because he wanted to punch it sometimes. Like when Son would talk for no reason, or when he would tell him about things he didn’t want to hear.
But other times, it could be nice.
Like when he was caressing those lips with his own tongue, the way they would move in faint mumble-shapes and soften. Or the delicious feel of it on his skin, too soft to be really Saiyan, nipping and biting, but mostly kissing, licking, mouthing even, when he got too carried away. Or when it would make those shapes, after even Son’s voice had quit working – press into a line, open to pant.
And then there was the heat of it. The way it felt like a furnace in a full kiss, or lower down, around him – and see, there was another use for the hair. A good place for his fingers to tangle, to pull almost until it hurt, gripping his way through each bob, each perfect stroke with a tongue.
3. The way he turns up.
Never like he actually knows what’s going to happen. Never like he understands. Just there, suddenly, no announcement, hovering in front of Piccolo on his stupid little cloud as if there weren’t ever going to be any more problems in the world. As if he would single-handedly brush them all away with his magic cloud of whatever-the-Hell-it-was-the-magic-cloud-of.
Piccolo, of course, will never admit it, because he is Piccolo, Lord of the Unspoken, and it’s no one’s business. But there are times when even he wants to feel taken care of. As if someone really will scoot those problems somewhere else. As if the bad times really were over.
It always starts out so damn innocent. A spar, a quick hug, some kind of ridiculous training that makes no sense to anyone (Goku has never recovered from his stay with King Kai, Piccolo suspects, but again, he says nothing). But still. The routine of it. The way it happens so natural, like the tides used to come in when there had still been a moon. The way it always happened just when he started to doubt that it would – the flood of stupid, sentimental relief when he felt that loud, sunlight-tinted aura blunder its way into his blue-toned meditations.
Because Piccolo, even Piccolo, sometimes needed something he could count on. Even if it was just disruption.
4. The way he holds on.
Not just in the heat of it, even though he does it then, too. No, it’s all the way through – always touching, hands on his shoulders, his arms, winding his own arms around his neck. The legs, too – gods, the way they hook around his own legs, his hips, his waist, almost hard enough to crack ribs sometimes, but never quite doing it. As if he’s afraid that Piccolo’s suddenly going to disappear. Or as if he can’t quite get close enough, can’t get enough of their bodies together.
Piccolo wonders, sometimes, when their breathing lines up, if that’s actually going to be a problem. If it will be like it was with Nail, the pressure giving way to an electric fuzziness, then the falling into each other, the lines all forgetting themselves. If they really can be just one being, one person.
Several times now, he’s felt it. The blurring, falling sensation. And each time, he hopes.
5. The way he leaves.
Slowly. Not all at once.
It starts before dawn, well before dawn, the grass just beginning to dampen. Always, it starts with lips (that mouth again) on his forehead, the bridge of his nose, ghosting over his lips like a breath. Then, for a moment, holding on tighter, for a moment, the sensation of falling.
Then, too gently almost, “Piccolo, I have to.”
He never argues with him, of course. Never sinks his talons into him, rolls his weight onto him, never plays that card. Instead, he lifts his arm or his shoulder or whatever is holding him. Always so easy. Like it doesn’t mean anything.
Besides, there’s something – close about the way he sits up, shakes a hand through his hair to tumble stray leaves and pine needles. The way he (always) forgets and pulls on the boots first, then has to balance like a stork to get his pants on. The perfect shape of his back as he tries to figure out where his shirt landed, if it’s still in one piece.
Through this, Piccolo does not help him. He lies still, half on his side, usually a sprawl on his cape and waits, memorizing useless things like which knee he knees with, how many times he sweeps his bangs out of his face. What kind of line his backbone makes against the skin.
And then it will be time; Son tying his belt into its usual shape. But before he goes, he comes back to kneel beside him. He will lean down, and Piccolo will smirk at him like none of it matters. “I’ll be back soon,” he’ll say, and brush his lips over something too soft to be kissed – an eyelid, a brow, something that opens the falling part of him all over again, and then sears it shut.
“Hmph. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than wait for you,” Piccolo will say every time, or something just like it.
And Goku will smile at him sadly. It almost looks, for a moment, like he really does understand, like he’d change it if he could.
Then he will pick his feet up, wave with two fingers, and fly away, the orange uniform gradually blending in, becoming part of dawn as it bleeds its way into the sky.
Piccolo will watch him go until even he can’t see him anymore. Then, he will touch his nose to the soft folds of his cape. Taste the scent, a bit, a little bit, like a halo. And like that, he will close his eyes and go right back to thinking about his hair.
1. His hair.
Good for so many things. For catching the light, or drops of water that look like light, glowing like stars in the black tangle. For covering almost all of Son’s eyes, making him look ten years younger than he actually is every time he looks up at Piccolo and smiles. For threading his fingers through for no reason – just the silky feeling of it over his fingers, like touching willow leaves or corn tassels, soft and soothing. Good to catch, tighten his hand in. Good for making him arch his back, or hold his face tight against the mattress, or just gasp at him helplessly and clutch at his shirt as if he were on the edge of a cliff and scrambling for purchase. Even just good for touching, when they are waiting for the sun to come up in some dismal part of the planet – in those moments before Son wakes up, those moments when he’s all his and no one else’s, when Piccolo can rest the bridge of his nose in the middle of that dusky halo and inhale the scent of him through the soft strands.
2. His mouth.
A stupid thing to want, because he wanted to punch it sometimes. Like when Son would talk for no reason, or when he would tell him about things he didn’t want to hear.
But other times, it could be nice.
Like when he was caressing those lips with his own tongue, the way they would move in faint mumble-shapes and soften. Or the delicious feel of it on his skin, too soft to be really Saiyan, nipping and biting, but mostly kissing, licking, mouthing even, when he got too carried away. Or when it would make those shapes, after even Son’s voice had quit working – press into a line, open to pant.
And then there was the heat of it. The way it felt like a furnace in a full kiss, or lower down, around him – and see, there was another use for the hair. A good place for his fingers to tangle, to pull almost until it hurt, gripping his way through each bob, each perfect stroke with a tongue.
3. The way he turns up.
Never like he actually knows what’s going to happen. Never like he understands. Just there, suddenly, no announcement, hovering in front of Piccolo on his stupid little cloud as if there weren’t ever going to be any more problems in the world. As if he would single-handedly brush them all away with his magic cloud of whatever-the-Hell-it-was-the-magic-cloud-of.
Piccolo, of course, will never admit it, because he is Piccolo, Lord of the Unspoken, and it’s no one’s business. But there are times when even he wants to feel taken care of. As if someone really will scoot those problems somewhere else. As if the bad times really were over.
It always starts out so damn innocent. A spar, a quick hug, some kind of ridiculous training that makes no sense to anyone (Goku has never recovered from his stay with King Kai, Piccolo suspects, but again, he says nothing). But still. The routine of it. The way it happens so natural, like the tides used to come in when there had still been a moon. The way it always happened just when he started to doubt that it would – the flood of stupid, sentimental relief when he felt that loud, sunlight-tinted aura blunder its way into his blue-toned meditations.
Because Piccolo, even Piccolo, sometimes needed something he could count on. Even if it was just disruption.
4. The way he holds on.
Not just in the heat of it, even though he does it then, too. No, it’s all the way through – always touching, hands on his shoulders, his arms, winding his own arms around his neck. The legs, too – gods, the way they hook around his own legs, his hips, his waist, almost hard enough to crack ribs sometimes, but never quite doing it. As if he’s afraid that Piccolo’s suddenly going to disappear. Or as if he can’t quite get close enough, can’t get enough of their bodies together.
Piccolo wonders, sometimes, when their breathing lines up, if that’s actually going to be a problem. If it will be like it was with Nail, the pressure giving way to an electric fuzziness, then the falling into each other, the lines all forgetting themselves. If they really can be just one being, one person.
Several times now, he’s felt it. The blurring, falling sensation. And each time, he hopes.
5. The way he leaves.
Slowly. Not all at once.
It starts before dawn, well before dawn, the grass just beginning to dampen. Always, it starts with lips (that mouth again) on his forehead, the bridge of his nose, ghosting over his lips like a breath. Then, for a moment, holding on tighter, for a moment, the sensation of falling.
Then, too gently almost, “Piccolo, I have to.”
He never argues with him, of course. Never sinks his talons into him, rolls his weight onto him, never plays that card. Instead, he lifts his arm or his shoulder or whatever is holding him. Always so easy. Like it doesn’t mean anything.
Besides, there’s something – close about the way he sits up, shakes a hand through his hair to tumble stray leaves and pine needles. The way he (always) forgets and pulls on the boots first, then has to balance like a stork to get his pants on. The perfect shape of his back as he tries to figure out where his shirt landed, if it’s still in one piece.
Through this, Piccolo does not help him. He lies still, half on his side, usually a sprawl on his cape and waits, memorizing useless things like which knee he knees with, how many times he sweeps his bangs out of his face. What kind of line his backbone makes against the skin.
And then it will be time; Son tying his belt into its usual shape. But before he goes, he comes back to kneel beside him. He will lean down, and Piccolo will smirk at him like none of it matters. “I’ll be back soon,” he’ll say, and brush his lips over something too soft to be kissed – an eyelid, a brow, something that opens the falling part of him all over again, and then sears it shut.
“Hmph. Like I’ve got nothing better to do than wait for you,” Piccolo will say every time, or something just like it.
And Goku will smile at him sadly. It almost looks, for a moment, like he really does understand, like he’d change it if he could.
Then he will pick his feet up, wave with two fingers, and fly away, the orange uniform gradually blending in, becoming part of dawn as it bleeds its way into the sky.
Piccolo will watch him go until even he can’t see him anymore. Then, he will touch his nose to the soft folds of his cape. Taste the scent, a bit, a little bit, like a halo. And like that, he will close his eyes and go right back to thinking about his hair.