#i yearn to be loved in any shape or form but ive been such a horrible person that i feel like im unlovable and unredeemable

[eddie-3xists]

mental health so bad im fighting real demons not to start mentally ill posting like i did in 2021 so far they are winning

[transfemrecusant]

okay so not to be a huge nerd but ive been getting a lot of rbs on my siphonophore post talking about how it resembles the elden beast from elden ring - and it does!! but this is also where i reveal that im a huge nerd and have considered the design of the elden beast a lot in my runs platinuming the game and my recent attempts to 100% in seamless co-op with my girlfriend :3

so, while the elden beast being a siphonophore does make thematic and design sense (especially with the idea of the law of regression in mind- all things yearn to become one, as a siphonophore is many things that are also one!) but my main theory is that the elden beast is actually a nudibranch sea slug!!

so first im just going to show a couple of photos that i think show off the design aspects particularly well :3

this one, i feel, shows off the basic shape and how it translates into the elden beast veryyyy well. additionally, the gills are taking on a very tree-like shape- a design we see in the elden beast though this species lacks numerous ceras

here we see a nudibranch with a ton of cerata- the little tentacle things on this guys body :3 though the elden beast doesn't have this many, they seem to very much line up in appearance.

this one's a stretch- but it's appearance when it flies during the elden ring attack always reminded me of these guys 🥰

my last one to show off- the hooded nudibranch. the tree like texture in the ceras and the gold nerves running through lines up exactly with the elden beast :3

So, what does this mean?

i highly, highly doubt that the design being based off of a sea slug is just a, "that looks cool" thing. so how does this line up thematically?

firstly, i find it important to mention that nudibranches are pretty much parasitic. to eat something they latch onto it and begin eating, though keeping the stinging cells of it's prey to defend itself. to this extent, this lines up with the Golden Order's takeover of the lands between - the Erdtree parasitically latching onto the Greattree, taking those who once fought for it for their own. it's important to note here that the Crucible Knights served under Godfrey while he was Elden Lord- not before, and the misbegotten (specifically the leonine ones) seem to bear connection to Radagon, insofar as one bearing the Golden Order Greatsword and knowing incantations of the Golden Order. The Erdtree ate away at it's prey, while keeping it's stingers for itself.

Secondly, the reproduction aspect. Nudibranches are simultaneously male and female- an idea that is translated into the earthly form the elden ring was stored into, the dual beings Marika and Radagon.

Additionally, nudibranches are known very well for not possessing shells, though this isn't quite true for it's larval state- many nudibranches possess shells up until adulthood- perhaps emblematic of the beast shedding the form of Marika/Radagon to fight you.

Of course like always there's probably more to this idea that I'm not picking up on, and if anyone has any further theories I'd love to hear them :3 this is just my autism brain rambling after rotating it in my head all day.

[beejangle]

TATTOOS - Ode to Lovebug

July of 2024 my life changed forever. After a sequence of other life changing events leading up to this change - I decided not to pursue college and instead become a tattoo artist. Tattooing had managed to save my soul from the depths of hell, and I took to it as fish to water. I had been talented and taken advantage of, it was eating me alive. I prayed to god for a change and everything began to change.

Incredibly fast. I was thrown into an incredibly toxic relationship, then spit back out a shell of myself. I bonded with one of the most traumatized individuals I could have possibly met, and I loved them with all my heart. It couldn’t save them, just like it couldn’t save anyone else - so when I spoke up for myself they abandoned me without hesitation. The one person I had trusted most. Then I lost my job at my toxic workplace, and in that same day I had 2 new jobs lined up. That weekend I had a friend visiting from Portland. He brought his friends: we all saw Car Seat Headrest. It was one of the most incredible nights of my life. I had everything torn away from me in a day - and the very next felt the most love I had ever felt. My prayers had been heard. I tattooed my friends, they went on their way. That summer transformed me. I felt as if I had been reborn with the summer solstice - and the full moon above my head. It was the brightest and biggest I had ever seen. And I made a deal with the angels that I would become all they ever wanted - because I wanted to embody this beauty they had let me see with my own eyes. I felt it in my heart, and I was put here to make things worth while.

So Ive worked hard. On my tattoos. On my technique, and my art style. It evolves as I do, and grows as I do - and I find myself proud of the work I produce. Some weeks had been unbearable, sometimes I worked myself sick. But as I have taken the time to master this craft, and create this life for myself, I have found my own soul intertwined with the lives of others in a way I could have never imagined.

Tattoos are sacred. They are an ancient art form. As old as the body itself, as old as the soul. Scars stay with us our entire lives. They shape us. They’re symbolic of who we are - and who we may become. They are in all senses - SERIOUSLY magic. It’s an exchange of energy, it’s intimate, it’s personal, it’s incredibly powerful. It is the mind - body- soul connection. In the purest form of human experience and expression. Art.

People trust that I have good judgment over their bodies, they allow me to inflict pain, and allow me to permanently mark their skin. As I work, we have conversations - these conversations can be incredibly personal. Pleasant or otherwise - that energy becomes attached to the tattoo. So I take it incredibly serious that this process be done with kindness, and honesty, and the best interests of my clients in mind. If I am mistreated, or feeling ill, or feeling tired I do not work. Because I do not want to inflict that energy onto my clients. It’s so important to create from a full cup. So my clients may carry that energy with them.

Tattoos are genuinely healing. Through learning to tattoo, and learning about myself, and learning about others - I have discovered something incredibly powerful within myself! This divine feminine energy that creates, and yearns to create from a place of love, and abundance, and peace. It’s truly life changing to be that source of healing for people. It’s a divine power that I don’t see a lot of people tapping into - it’s SO important to tap into! Those who create are favored by the divine. Those who love are favored by the divine.

This goes for any sort of creation. This divine feminine energy is all about instinct, and truth, and connection, and creation, and it’s extremely primordial. It’s intuitive! Through imagination you can extend this energy - but it gets VERY powerful when you can harness it in a physical way. When you act with intention, you are evoking this divine energy. It’s magic. Any type of art or act of creativity - tattoos, music, dance, theatre, costume, architecture, gardening, writing, sculpture. Even more animalistic aspects such as sex, or intimacy. This co-creating and interaction becomes a conduit of focused and divine energy. It makes a magnet of you, for good and beautiful things. You learn to love more, and reach out to experience. Your life becomes a dance, and when you begin to dance the world dances with you.

Tattooing had taught me to dance. It’s taught me about the divine. It’s taught me about truth. And what it means to really open your heart, and begin to dream. Once I started to ask questions, I began to find answers. It’s made me confident in myself, and intuitive to a scary degree. Im always seeking, always curious, always growing. It’s magical, as I’ve said.

So Ive adorned myself with tattoos that resonated with me on a soul level. All things I love. A tarantula, a rainbow trout, animals long extinct, fossils that remind me of the desert. The Last Unicorn. A dissected rat. Thistles from my hometown. Some covered up stick and pokes from high school. Plenty of stories that could be told. Symbols of my being. I’ve become a reliquary to all that I love. In all aspects - I embody my own love. Because that is what I know I am meant to do. I find beauty and magic in everything, and my heart screams for me to share that. Let this love be mirrored, let that light be reflected back to remind me who I have become.

[daaziscoolbesties]

i yearn for one(1) thing only, and that is to have a nice, simplistic, cartoonish artstyle. an artstyle that doesnt rely on anatomy, but the "movement" of the drawing, if you get what i mean.

i dont want realistic proportions and traditional colors and basic poses and gradient shading, i want funky lil dudes in funky poses with funky styles littering my sketchbook :( but alas i havent figured out how to develop that kind of style yet, my brain wants anatomy to look nice but also i dont want to draw eyes. i dont want to take time out of my day to learn how to draw lips i want to draw a line that extends past the characters face. i dont want all my characters to have pointy chins with curved cheeks i want their heads to be round and friend-like or full of sharp edges depending on their personalities and styles. i want to give them all not-quite human ears, blob feet, simple faces, but at the same time i want enough detail to convey the story or emotion im trying to tell.

ive spent so much time recently agonizing over how to use 3d model websites, using real-life references and tracing over them for practice, color-picking from real images to try and do realism and failing miserably, but you know whats easier than that? funky little dudes. little dudes who do not care if their legs are too long or their hair is too bouncy. i dont want my characters to look human.

ive spent enough time on the artfight website to realize that most people who classify their characters as "human" have the most basic ass designs (no offense to people who like basic human designs its just not my thing) or its like dnd-medieval style outfits which i cant draw for the life of me (ive tried). again no offense to people who actively enjoy and draw characters like that. i just need my dudes to have that certain,,, off-ness to them. tails are cool. wings are swag (especially if they arent even like,, fully attached,, ), elf ears are so wonderful to me no matter how much theyre overused, horns are so much fun to draw, and colors!! i have no knowledge in the color theory department so this works great for me!! the only thing i really know is dont shade with black, other than that i just colorpick from references usually but i dont want to do that!! i want the colors to hurt people's eyes but in a satisfying way. like the character's design is so nice to look at that you dont mind your eyes hurting a bit. like how im enjoying writing this post even though its 2 am and the brightness on my computer wont go any lower.

and then another thing ive noticed from being on the artfight website is that a lot of people classify their characters that are anthro/have anthro features under humanoids/monsters. like i made a google form to find some people to attack and someone sent me in a character with some sort of animal (wolf? idk) arms and legs. like dude!! peak character design i love her. but me personally? i cant draw that shit, its so hard for me. i tried a while back and its just Not my thing. nothing against furries i just. cant. and i dont want to either.

and i got another submission that i accidentally deleted that was like full anthro/wolf-like like my comrade,,, i cannot draw animals what makes you think i can draw an animal who acts like a human lmao. i can do like. very basic tails, and also animal ears but i cant do the arms and legs and such i just dont know the anatomy, and i know i was talking about how i dont want to care about anatomy but i feel like for anthros you really do need to know at least basic animal anatomy so you know how the limbs look and shit and i dont have that knowledge and dont feel like gaining it.

and then there were some submissions that i absolutely adored. there was one that like, was vaguely human shaped but definitely was not a human. they had a dark-ish lavender colored skin and horns and tusks and like goat ears and a sorta fluffy tail with spikes on it and they had wings and such and they were such a pleasure to draw i love them. and they had a fairly simple outfit too, nothing too complicated. and then i also enjoy object head characters, theyre so neato to me. i got one of those and i really wish i had the motivation to work on it cause it looks so fun.

i want to make funky characters but id have nothing to do with them because the only book i ever tried writing (key word tried - never got past planning it out) had strictly human characters in it, and most of the books i read are humans/humans with powers in situations specific to them so id have no idea what lore to make with the dudes. assuming i have the motivation to make lore and backstory because honestly i just really enjoy character designing its super duper fun.

(side note a song about trucks doing the deed came on just now and its interrupted my flow, apologies).

i only have three actual characters right now. one is an original roleplay oc whos design is literally athletic shorts, an oversized long sleeved grey sweatshirt, long purple hair, and demon horns. the second one is my persona whos design some sorta medival knight outfit kinda thing? but not ugly it looks really cool (idk one of my friends designed it bc i won some contest from him but the drawing was on a super small scale so idrk the details,,,) with a plague doctor mask and crown, and shoulder length wavy brown hair, dyed bright pink at the end. and then my last one im not too comfortable using other places because theyre a character my friend is using in the story hes writing, and thats really the only place theyve been used. but theyre easily my favorite and im already writing a ton so ill talk about them too.

they're a sorta elf species thing from another planet, with pale green skin and pointed ears. they also have a tail, its like,, super thin, but with a feathery bit at the end. probably not the texture of a feather but i dont know how else to describe it. they have short, curly, almost-draco-malfoy-blonde hair that when it gets too long they can put in a man bun. their eyesight is kinda shitty so when they got to earth, they were exploring some supply closets around the airship. drop off area. thing. like airport but for rocketships and also fancier. yeah. they were exploring that area and found a nice big pair of round glasses with grey frames. and they also found a cowboy-style hat and a sharpie so they wrote their name on the underside of the brim of the hat and stole the hat and glasses (but left the sharpie in the supply closet).

yeah theyre my favorite, my absolute beloved, my child, so cool. i want more characters like them but with maybe a bit more snazzier designs. theyre super cool and all but they could have more pizzazz if they werent in a story where its too late to give them more pizzazz. i just want to be able to give my characters thigh-high boots with a bunch of buckles and fluffy hair with tons of accessories crammed in and abnormally large and long ears that can harbor many piercings and horns that can hold rings on them and special little details on their outfits like who knows what but i dont have any characters to do that too, so i have to make them from scratch, which is always hard especially when you have artblock.

and i also have like 17 characters i need to fully draw, line, and maybe color for artfight before august 1st. so i dont know. i have many things to do and plenty of time to do it but instead i spend my time halfway watching repetitive youtube videos that get boring or sleeping all damn day because i stay up too late doing things like this or i just do nothing at all and its tiring and frustrating but i also feel nothing about it like theres no consequence if i dont do it besides you know. not doing it, not gaining that experience, not making something i enjoy.

so i should do it but i dont for whatever reason, i think its called executive dysfunction but im not sure. this post started out very differently than it ended and i said somewhere up there that i was writing this at 2 am but now its almost 3. this is so many words why couldnt i have put this energy into something productive

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Any more As Yet Unread or HRH?

Here is the next part of HRH, anon.  

Kudos to @claryclark, @smashing-teacups, and @notevenjokingfic for not letting me quit on this thing, and for helping me find a voice with it again.

;nsfw under the cut

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XVII: Stables

Folded against the warmth of Fraser’s leather jacket with her legs on either side of his hips, it was easy for Claire to pretend.  That they were not going home (to the Queen’s summer residence), that they were just out for another ride. That the rest of the world just existed as transient wax figures, melting and insignificant.  That their world existed solely in the cabin and that it waited for them just around the bend (the bed, the kitchen, the spot for two in front of the fireplace, the shower with the slightly mildewed curtain, the soft planks of the small deck off the rear of the structure).

They were a couple meant not to be seen, not to be heard, but just to exist together as one.  Claire indulged the fantasy as she closed her eyes, felt his fingers wind through hers when her grip slackened around his waist.

“Ye alright?” he asked, grip pulsing as he slowed to let another vehicle pass on the narrow road.  She turned her hand so they were palm to palm.  She pressed the very tip of her index finger to the thin, throbbing skin of his wrist.

“Better than just fine,” she said, attempting to sound strong, reassured, confident (and failing in actually being any of those things).

He lifted her hand, kissed the place where a fortune teller’s thumbs would divine a destiny for her if she were the kind of woman to frequent such a place, and then carefully situated it over his stomach.  “No’ much further.”

She closed her eyes, drawing herself to Fraser’s back as tightly as possible.  The nearness of home was precisely what she feared most.

Claire’s first glimpse of the palace’s exterior alone was as effective as a bucket of ice water sluicing down her spine.  The sensation jarred her out of the two and a half days of their cabin tryst and back to reality.  She tucked herself further into the warmth of his jacket as they came around a bend and through a grove of trees, trying not to count their remaining minutes of anonymity.

The motorcycle ground to a stop, kicking up an opaque earth-flavored plume of beige dust around them.  It was like the world knew they needed obscurity just a few moments longer.

With her cheek against his back, Claire concentrated on the indistinct perimeter of gravel and unkempt clover (it had overtaken the grass in a whimsical, fairytale kind of way).  After a series of heartbeats, long enough that Jamie wondered if he had imagined the whole thing (the weekend – their trip to the market, a car ride, cooking side by side, excavating the shape of her body from beneath bedsheets), Claire moved.

He reached for her waist to steady her as she threw one leg over the motorcycle. His hand fit there just as it had over and over again that weekend.  The pleasure and warmth of the touch, though, made her heart flutter and then morph into the ghost it would be until she could see him again.

“Tomorrow?” she inquired hopefully, letting a finger catch a curl just above his collar as her eyes darted around the stables.  All it would take was the attention of some well-meaning employee who had become a weekend straggler for the plume of dust to settle, for things to change. She was fully aware of this fact when she touched him (hand hesitating only momentarily), but Fraser could sense the conflict in her.  It dwelled in the oaky bite of her amber eyes, between the arches of her well-manicured eyebrows, in the tremor in her fingers as she touched his nape.  To be caught would mean there was no need to skulk around with one another, to make plans under the cover of a dusky dinner time after everyone had left for the evening.  Being caught would be freedom itself.

But no one was there to catch them, to disrupt her pre-packaged life and his mundane post-war subsistence.

Claire’s other hand curled around Fraser’s shoulder. She longed to feel his heartbeat under her cheek as she slept, to wake to his hulking form over her as he kissed the delicate, almost-avian swoop of her neck.

‘Come find us,’ she thought somewhat ruefully, able to picture completely the face of someone on her staff seeing her like this. ‘See us.  Have the bravery to open your bloody mouth. Tell everyone the queen’s shagging the Crown Equerry.’

“Tomorrow we can ride,” she supplied.  “Find a quiet corner of the grounds.”

A pause to ready him for a confession.

“I want to be with you more than just in secret, but we…”

Fraser’s affirmative sound was low, gravely in his throat before he turned to excavate her handbag from the depths of the motorcycle’s saddle bag.  Suddenly having no choice but to acknowledge the impending loss bubbling a quiet brew in her belly, Claire tightened her grip on him.  

‘Stay, stay, stay with me,’ she yearned to plea.  ‘Just come up there with me.  To my room, those halls.  They can’t say ‘no’ to me.  They won’t say ‘no’ to me.  You aren’t ready, and I know that.  You never will be ready, the people of this country will never be ready, so let’s do it.  Now.  Why wait?’

“This weekend,” Fraser began as he pushed an errant curl from the center of her forehead, “has been sae perfect, Claire.”

“I…”  

Her voice trailed, fading into the narrow plume of exhaust that was slithering out of the motorcycle’s tailpipe.  Words felt just as toxic, and she choked not on tears, but the thought of that world back there that they had only just started to construct.  

Jamie could not look at her just then, could not face her.  His eyes did not dart around the perimeter as hers had, but instead they found a spot alongside the building where the clover was growing wild.  He fixed his eyes there as his hand fell away.

“This was the best weekend of my life,” she whispered as a bookend to make her feelings clear (they could not be any clearer). She bent to touch his stubbled cheek with her lips one final time.

He made a sound, low and indistinct (certain, reciprocal).

‘Again with that noise,’ she thought. It was a white-hot tone originating from somewhere ancient, surely not from him. (But he didn’t need to say anything at all.)

His vocal cords were paralyzed, useless appendages for a beat, until he croaked, “Me too.”

The sun had begun its descent, the bottom curve just barely tucked beneath the line of the horizon.  The weekend was at its end, the summer-bloated sun finally giving way to the chill of nightfall.

It was time to go (to return to a place she did not belong, never belonged, but she would somehow remake in time – remake it to create a space shaped for him, shaped for her), so she bade him farewell in the only way she knew how.  It was the only way that would stop her from clearing the lump in her throat and asking him to take her upstairs.  She kissed him (hard, firm, fully).  The shape of his mouth, the taste of it, the responsiveness of it from that first night that felt like an occurrence centuries old just then were all memories.  She knew it (that mouth, his breath, what it did to her, what it did to him), but she wanted the memory to be fresh.  A breathless, aching, swollen reminder of it to carry with her on the short walk back to her cage. So he urged his lips apart, though but he did not kiss her back (could not kiss her back). His lips had died a slow death as they crossed the city limits, the realization dawning in him that this right here (born in the stables, tended on horseback, blooming in the cabin) was sacrosanct, cloistered, and perfect.  

And it would change.

Finally, he confirmed their plans with only the barest, whispered “tomorrow.”

Like a gymnast fallen off her apparatus (the tight line of a balance beam to walk, the unforgiving plane of the vault that threatened her, the uneven bars with a backwards and blind approach), she attempted her maneuver again.

A kiss to draw from Fraser the shine of the man that had pressed her against the wall of a cabin shower just ninety minutes earlier.

The man who looked up at her under a torrent of water, and declared with a blind authoritativeness, “You’re mine. I’m yours.”

The man who made her whimper until she wept with need.  

The man who took the mundane parts of a world it was easy for her to forget even existed (the unity in a simple pre-work chore of making a bed scented like their lovemaking, in shopping with a squeaky trolly for produce and tinned fruits, in filling of the tank on a vehicle as she dabbed a fresh coat of lipstick in the rearview mirror with the preternatural tingle of anticipation that in short order he would suck it clean off her mouth) and made it a technicolor dreamworld.

This time, his lips animated and molded to hers.  

He kissed her back.  

Long and hard; searing, but in no way final.

It ceased to be an exchange between lovers and instead became self preservation.  

Breathless, Claire was the one to pull away, lips heavy and bright with a swelling rush of blood. (A good victory, they both concluded.)

“Tomorrow,” he parroted, his voice firmer.  

Claire wiped her mouth with her sleeve, the glistening evidence of his kiss melting into a secret known only to the exceptionally discrete fibers of her blouse.

“I love you, Fraser.”

His hand fell from her hip to the curve of her bottom.  He smiled, tilting his head.  “And I love you.”

And with that, he watched her walk. Her smart trousers were a little worse for wear (creased, dusty) and her hair whipped free in the light breeze as she unbound it from her scarf. Though she was heading back towards the mottled brick and arched entryways of the castle that she had often described as her cage, she looked lighter somehow.  Like it was not a burden, but instead a challenge.

“Claire,” he called, not bothering to examine his surroundings yet again for company.

For only a second, she peeked at him over her shoulder and ruffled her hair with a roving hand.  She smiled, waved, blew him a kiss.  

Okay.  A look.  It was all he needed.  Yes, okay.

He nodded and watched her turn again.

As she neared the palace, he realized for the first time that while he had her Friday night through Sunday evening, he would be well and truly alone on Sunday night.  It gave him a sudden, sinking appreciation for the things that she had said she would never be able to give him.  

A Sunday dinner, a quiet discussion in bed about what the week ahead would hold.

Doing dishes side by side (he was an egalitarian sort, afterall, being raised by a father who did not mind “women’s work” and was the brother of a woman fiercely invested in equal sharing of a household’s day-to-day maintenance).

The radio would be turned low to a station that did not quite come in.  

To the crackling song, they would hum or sing, sway in time to a familiar rhythm.

Early in the evening, he would make love to her with his hands revealing all the hills and valleys and quiet lochs of her, the sounds that he could elicit with a touch, a caress, a kiss, a lick.  

The news would come on the radio.  

They would listen half-heartedly, playing naked with a deck of cards so fresh that they snapped and cracked when shuffled.

He would tell her everything.

(That he loved her.  That he was damaged, and how he came to be that way.  That something about her made him not see the world through a pinhole for the first time in a very long time.  That he was so glad that he could tell the world about them, about her - a woman so insightful and funny without meaning to be that it stole his breath.)

He would tell her everything.  

And without him asking (he never would), she would take it from him, bear it for not more than a moment on her narrow shoulders, and then let it go for the both of them.

And then he would make the paintbrush of her hips move in arcs across their shared bed linens again.  To create a piece of abstract art that only they could know. He would take her at his leisure, sinking his fingertips into the modeling clay of her hips and arse and covering the softest parts of her with his mouth again and again, just as he had that first time.

When it was time for them to grow their family, he would measure her belly with his hands and lips.  Rub her feet after a long afternoon.  He would perhaps take a second job.  He would insist on being in the room when she went into labor, to hold her hand and brush the curls from her forehead, to catch her eye and promise that it would be okay.

She was almost to the door of the palace in her wretched, wrecked pants.

He blinked.  

A searing burn and then an ache: They would not have those things.

He did not begrudge her it.  (Her life. Her birthright.)  He could not because he had known the weight of her title the moment he saw her turn around in the stables that night. He knew that it was unfair to resent a status that she could neither dispose of easily or help. But the depth with which the realization struck him – fast, hot, like a poker.  

Clearing his throat, he drove away well before he could see her cross the threshold of her cage.

In bed that night, simultaneously too hot and too cold (sweating, shivering), he tried to ignore the things that took him over.

The hollowness in his chest.

Their first night together when Claire mumbled in her sleep and fussed with the covers, a sheet slipping free from her form to expose the soft peak of a breast.  

The ridiculous amount of butter and jam she smeared on her toast, and the way she turned a spoon about her tea cup three times counterclockwise and once clockwise.  

The splitting apart of her face as he commented on the jam, the corners of her eyes wrinkling as one small hand offered him a bite.

The hardening of his cock, unbidden, at the thought of her whispering to him in the night about the ways that he made her ache, the confession that she had touched herself thinking of him before their weekend together.

The way she had marveled at the market over the mundanity of things like tinned peaches and stale, pre-packaged biscuits.

When he woke it was as though he had not slept at all.

He was living with a secret so broad, growing at all times, that it made him wonder if his body had seams.  A zip along his spine and at the back of his calves.  A line of snaps along the curve of his skull that he could open at his leisure to relieve the pressure.

By Monday morning, a cold shower and aspirin were not enough to staunch the bulbous ache growing in his head.  

He spent the day doing paperwork and waiting for someone to declare knowledge of his weekend activities.  

When finally asked (“what did ye get up to this weekend, boss?”), he made bland comments about some time at a family cabin.  

He wondered, tearing into a ham sandwich and apple at lunch, whether he felt somewhat like what a robber feels.  The knowledge of a heist, clandestine and forbidden, becoming a persistent niggling begging to break free. Wiping crumbs from the front of his shirt, he saw her.  

Mrs. Fitz.

With her watery eyes and toddling steps.  

He knew (just knew) what was in the note clutched in her pale fingers before he opened it.

Her writing.  The Queen’s writing.  Not Claire’s writing.

Been detained for now.  

Tuesday?

It is supposed to be a nice night.  

Perhaps a good night for a ride?

& always,

C.

He ran a finger along the clean line where the note had been folded.  Where her fingers had pressed down.  

Was she hesitating to meet? Had regret consumed her such that she had drifted?

Jamie cursed under his breath, closing the note again and nodding to Mrs. Fitz.  Meeting her swimming, faded denim eyes was surprisingly easy, though she did not have the glass face of her Queen. He could not tell what was clicking away behind her inscrutable, lined face.  He nodded.  She took back the note, an act that sent his heart teetering over the edge.

“Did she say when?”  His voice was coarse, somehow disembodied as he acknowledged the truth of their relationship to someone outside of it for the first time.

“Tuesday,” she said evenly, tucking the note into the hip pocket of her smartly-tailored and unseasonably thick wool jacket.

“Aye,” he ground out. “Tuesday.”

But Tuesday brought another visit from Mrs. Fitz.

A second note.  

This one signed much the same, though with an apology (“Duty calls and I am so very sorry, Fraser”).

And then her promise of Wednesday.

And when Wednesday came, she came with company.

An ambassador from a Canadian province or mayor of a Canadian city, he was not sure which, because the sound of his teeth grinding together transformed the introduction into  mere white noise.  He looked at her, shaking the man’s hand.  She was detached but for a flicker, a nod, the press of her palm against back just above the beltline as they inspected the Queen’s stables.

And then, she was proper as a nation could expect of its Queen.

“Colonel Fraser,” she started primly, flicking a stray bit of hay from the elbow of her riding jacket.  “I trust that we have a horse to accommodate our guest?”

“Aye, we do, ma’am.”

As he helped her into the saddle, his hand sculpted itself to the shape of her calf.  He smirked at the sharp intake of her breath, the quick dart of her eyes.  

“It’s no’ verra queenly to touch yer stable lad’s arse.”

“It was not your arse,” she hissed, wrestling the reins from his hand and fighting the urge to slap his hand away as it traveled over the back of her boot to her ankle.

“Ye’ve got a good fit for a saddle here, ma’am,” Fraser called a little too loudly, his eyes sparkling a little too brightly.

“James Fraser–”

“I’d take ye right here if we werena wi’ an uninvited guest.”  He reveled in the way her cheeks pinked a glorious, embarrassed rose color.

“Fraser.” She was only halfway annoyed, and he was sustained by the fact that he could recognize as much from her face, from the way she shifted slightly in the saddle.

The steed upon which the Queen’s guest was mounted came ambling over.

Giving a weak, two-fingered salute, Fraser bade her a pleasant ride, and retreated to his office.

It wasn’t until Thursday that she made good on the promise to visit.  It was late.  Well after the sinking of the sun and the warming up of a veritable orchestra of summertime insects, and long after any reasonable employee of the Crown had departed for the day.

It was the kind of visit that they had planned when they parted.  Alone and untethered to any sort of duty. At a distance, Claire paused to watch Fraser work. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and a bead of sweat was coursing down his temple.  He looked roguish in a movie star way, a little too intense in his work and maybe a bit dangerous.

“You have not shaved this week, have you?” she finally asked, leaning against the gate of an empty stall.  “I thought as much when I saw you last night.”  

Jamie did not look to her, but his shoulders squared at the soft, conciliatory lilt of her attempt at banter.  

“Are you cross with me, Fraser?  Will you look at me so I can tell?”  She paused (one one thousand, two one thousand, three–), and his head fell as he rested the pitchfork against the wall. “I know I said Monday, and it’s Thursday. So I could not blame you if–”

“Ye verra well could, though,” he interrupted as he pulled shut the feed room door and turned to her.   “Blame me that is.  It’s no’ like I didna ken that ye have duties when I took up wi’ ye.”

“You ‘took up’ with me?” she asked, incredulity sneaking into her voice like a teenager out past curfew.  

“Ye ken what I mean.”

“Are you very cross with me?”

“No, no’ cross wi’ ye, Claire.” It was only half of a lie, for ‘cross’ was different than ‘frustrated with all of this need for you that lives in my guts and makes it hard to breathe.’ Unabashed, he looked her up and down once, twice, three times.  His tongue darted out, inhabited with a mind not entirely its own, and he wet his lips. “More cross wi’ the world, yer majesty, for endeavorin’ to keep us parted.”

He bowed with an exaggerated depth. The gesture drew mad, barking laughter from the pit of her stomach and and she strode towards him.  She was up and into his arms before she could realize that he was closing the distance between them more quickly than her legs could carry her.  With a ragged breath, Fraser consumed anything else she could have wanted to say.  Wound tight around him (arms, legs), she first tasted the salt at the corner of his mouth.

“I wasna kiddin’ when I said it–”

“Here?” she breathed into his mouth as he backed them through one of the open gates into an empty stall.  

“Aye,” he confirmed, dropping to his knees and easing her onto her back. She was magnetic, undeniable and perfect.     Opening her mouth to lodge some mannerly protest that she did not truly mean, Fraser worked his fingers between fabric and flesh, over the plane of her stomach, and between her legs.  

“I want ye right here.”

She made a sound and fisted his shirt in her hands.

“And from the feel of ye, ye want me to take ye here just fine.”

The space between her brows melted.  In its place was a quiet, determined crease as she ground down against his fingers.  

“I have been wanting this…”  She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, sank her teeth into it only for a moment before continuing as a breathy, but somehow full-formed version of herself.  “Since Sunday night.”

He took it all in, because their three days apart seemed something like a premonition of a longer separation.  

His shirt went taut against his back as she gathered fistfuls of fabric and pulled him closer.

“I’ve wanted ye right here in the stables since ye came clambering in wi’ yer tight pants and pert wee arse.  Where I’ve wanted to have ye since I first saw ye that night.”  Shaking her head as if to say “talk less,” Claire whimpered and let his shirt free so she could reach for his belt.  Just as her fingers slipped the leather free from the buckle, he whispered, “Ye’re mine, ye ken that, aye?”

“And you are mine,” she managed, a bit breathless as his thick, sure ring finger sank into her.  

“Mine.  Mine alone, now and forever,” he continued, one hand going for the waistband of her riding pants and rolling them down.  After a breath and rather indelicate removal of her pants, he looked at her like she was sunlight and summertime itself. With a careful flick of her wrist, she finally freed him of his pants and took him in hand. It didn’t strike her to marvel at the fact that he had somehow toed off his shoes and only had to arch and kick to free his legs from his work pants.  All that mattered was the promised stretch of completion, the weight of him over her, a coarse whisper in her ear to make her moan and writhe.

The Lord’s name tumbled in vain from his lips as he looked down between them where they had both been bared.  Her hand moved again and he shook his head, taking her wrist and firmly holding it over her head, pressing it down into the straw “I mean to use ye hard, my Sassenach.”

“Do it,” she goaded him, smirking and curling her fingers around the thumb he had pressed into the palm of her hand. “Do it now, and don’t be gentle.”

Saying it twice was unnecessary, for he reached between them then and guided himself into her an easy, unyielding thrust. The sense memory of each time they had made love flooded back to her, and when he moved again she choked on her own breath and arched up into him.  

Without her needing to ask him to make good on his promise to use her hard, he did.  Thighs falling further open, she took in his frustration and gave him her own.  When he took her mouth, she sank her teeth into his lower lip and carved half-moons into his shoulder with her fingernails.

He possessed her then, body and soul.  He could see it in her eyes, the way her mouth started to form requests he was already well on his way to fulfill (harder, faster, more), but melted into the sound of her moan as he did the very things she was primed to beg him to do.

When he pulled out suddenly, the wet length of his cock against her thigh as he released her wrist, she started to ask what he was doing, but was interrupted by two firm fingers inside of her.  

“Come for me,” he implored roughly, his fingers searching and stroking her with no small amount of skill.  She was just about to unleash something more coarse than anything she had ever said (“then keep fucking me properly”) when Fraser stroked up, the pads of his fingertips beckoning her to rise (up, up, up).  Her eyes blistered with hot tears as she slapped her hands uselessly down into the straw alongside her thighs.  

Arching up towards him (into the sensation, accepting it with a clenched belly and slackened jaw), she wondered absently if they would always be like this.  As his thumb moved in an arc over her, his assault became twofold, and she concluded that fate had surely mapped out an entire eternity of this for them. He leaned into kiss her gasping, agape mouth, and felt the first tremoring promise of an orgasm ripple down her spine and into his hand.

“Claire,” he whispered, stricken at the sight of her only half-naked yet entirely undone and lovely as she could be. He drew everything she gave from her, and she gave it all. “I’ve missed ye so.”

Her insides had given way to contradiction.  A primal urge to beg him to stop.  A contradictory need to let him know he could never stop.  A desire to touch the planes of his shoulders as he coaxed her trembling body to completion.  A premonition that touching him would sear her hand, sending her into an abyss from which she surely could never return.

All she managed was a wilting plea: “please.”

He slid into her just as purposefully as he had at their first joining, but more gently, reverent somehow.  His thumb did not lose pace or rhythm, but she looked up at him almost desperately as he pressed forward, slid back, and started again.  

More.  Never stop.  I love you.

It was the work of four thrusts to finally finish her, and she felt him everywhere.  

(Rushing out of the pads of her fingers.  Swelling in her belly.  Shimmering up her spine.  Clouding her mind.  Burning behind her eyeballs and blinding her.  Pulsating between her legs. Simmering on her tongue.)

She clutched him, dragged him down, and sank her teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.  In the basest part of himself, he wanted her screams to bound off the walls and make his eardrums ache.  He wanted her nails to trace furrows into his already-scarred back.  

Mine.  Yours.  Together.

He spilled into her just as her high ebbed into delirious, taffy-thick stupor.  For her part, Claire cupped the back of his head as he finished and her forehead became the home for his as he bowed his head.  Shifting just enough so that he would not crush her, he fell onto her and heaved a contented sigh.  

“Job well done,” she mumbled after a not insignificant time time had passed with the melding of breath and slowing of hearts.  She kissed his temple, tasting salt and letting her eyes close.

“I work hard in yer stables, yer majesty.”

She chuckled, carding her fingers into his damp curls and not bothering to wonder how exactly she would make her way back up to the palace without looking like she had just been rogered six ways to Sunday in a pile of straw.

It could have been years that they laid there, skin drying and arousal fading, but it was closer to half an hour.  

“It is not entirely uncomfortable, this,” she mumbled, head indicating the pile of straw where they were sprawled out together.  

“It’s no’ just good for soakin’ up horse piss, though I suspect ye’ll be pickin’ bits out of your arse for a week.”  She laughed, deciding that she loved him even when he was unbridled of any sense of propriety and allowed himself to be crass.  Reaching between them, he groaned, “Insatiable.”

She hummed, shrugging noncommittally as she took him into her hand.

One could reasonably anticipate that this would be how HM Queen Claire would be caught with the Crown Equerry.  With their pants in a pile on the floor of the stables and the stable boy buried to the hilt inside of the Queen, there would be little for them to do other than deny what was plainly true.  But they would not be caught making love on the stable floor, nor would they be caught cleaning up and kissing before the Queen walked back to the palace for the night.  No one heard the Queen moan or beg, scream, or cry out.  No one heard the Crown Equerry staking his claim to the woman he loved, giving in to a second, lazy, fatigued round as HM Queen Claire wrapped her mouth around him.

No.  This would not be it – this moment, their reconnection, their bodies’ work to release the frustration of separation wrought by nothing more than circumstance.

But as James Fraser curled his fingers into his beloved’s curls, mumbled her name, and let all worldly thoughts fade, neither knew that they had precious few hours of privacy remaining.

Because their cover was about to be spectacularly blown.

[paramounticebound]

Send me a symbol for five times… ||  ☁  five times my muse has thought about yours, and the one time they do something about it. || @fasciinating​ || accepting.

i.     He thinks that he might die between the pages of an ancient tome, covered in dust mites that eat away at him until he is nothing left but bones and faded conquest. This time, the secrets of fallen deities whisper to him, lead him further astray, though his physical form is rooted graciously in the quiet library. Yes, he’ll prefer to die here instead of in ruins. That seems more graceful, if not melancholic and entirely unrealistic. This is a gift, he knows, a privilege in the infinite rule of the digital era. A one-time opportunity. He wonders, briefly, what Spock would think of him, wasting away in a tomb of paper and ink instead of preparing for the upcoming rescue mission. Not logical, he answers his own question with the slight upturn of his lips– it’s gone as soon as he realizes it. Strange days, and strange thoughts, for a strange mission.

ii.     Loneliness is frigid.

How mistaken he was, as a boy, to believe it nothing beyond a sense of emptiness and lacking. That is untrue: to be alone is to be frozen twice, drowning in a Russian winter; at the mercy of the self, and at the mercy of the world. Banshees, these are, that scream when it’s silent and there’s nothing left to guard the sense of self. Khan realizes his foolishness as often as it arises: just enough to sting.

It’s when he stares out of small viewport, watching the stars pass by like snow, languidly splayed on his uncomfortable cot, that he defeats selfishness.

Is it comparable to his first officer? How the other man steers away from contact, from warmth; is it loneliness? Or is Spock simply better adept to the cold jaunt between worlds? Is it within the captain’s rights to lament his own trembling fingers and the pressure that wells?

Maybe it’s best not to think about it at all.

iii.     The piano is an escape, and one that he will never admit to. Here in the privacy of his room– such a loose term, it disgusts him– is where he deigns to forget and pretend and sacrifice self-destructive tendencies in favour of classical composition. Or rather it’s the love of expression, for even Khan believes in more than building empires and exacting revenge. Wagner’s Sonata in A Flat lazily floats through the room, clings to the ceiling, crawls up his spine until it’s not quite so rigid. He wonders, briefly and perhaps three minutes, fifteen seconds in, if someone might find his devotion to the key impressive.

Perish the thought. It’s irrelevant.

iv.     His fingers grasp at one of Khan’s fists until he opens it, the warmth of his body and the warmth of his blood uniting with the other’s. Something slithers down his spine, something that gnaws on each vertebrae until the captain is certain the jagged bones might break through his skin.

The warmth is like electricity, flowing from Spock’s touch to the pit of his stomach, lower, lower. Recalling this need, this after-battle release is toxic, it’s heavy. The weight threatens to sink him into the ground, where he might fall to his knees just to have it, just to taste–

A fire licks at him, teases until he suppresses it. This is the fourth time that he nearly loses control, and it always coincides with the stardate, and it’s because he’s damaged.

Khan is sure that his pupils are reptilian, animalistic, when his mouth refuses to betray him. Another bodily betrayal is all that he does not need right now– not even for his first officer.

His throat is a desert while he pulls his hand from Spock’s, conscious to disconnect the wires that shape his savage, primal nature. The captain, he can’t, not right now, not knowing that this is a gesture of comfort when he mourns and he can wash away the tarnish that he brings. He can’t and it makes him ache.

Khan leaves first, with something like a thank you on his lips, he’s too quick to vanish, leaving Spock confused– curious.. Only when he is in the safe haven of his quarters, out of sight from the curious gaze of his crew, does he remember to breathe. In the darkness of his room, haunting and empty, does he allow himself to burn.

v.     It’s sometime between the death of Rand and the way that McCoy looks at him, like he’ll flay him apart, as if his madness is tangible. Perhaps it is and everyone can see it. Pulling apart at the seams that still hold him together., fraying, splintering. Khan is burning, slowly, feels his flesh singe after every agonizing second, each day, each week that passes and they are doomed to survive near this catastrophe of a ship.

He’s trying to eat. It isn’t because he’s hungry, his body hasn’t been signalling to his brain correctly in days, but he knows that three– five?– days is too long. It’s not much, just a small portion of the dwindling rations, and it sticks to his throat, refusing to sink to his stomach. Nausea is the first thing he feels in a long while, something aside from sadness and the longing for the dead; it bests him.

Fingers interlocked in hair, pulling, tugging, anything to feel something else, eyes pressed shut so tightly that he can see the explosion of veins, stars against the darkness. There’s a tapping near him, knuckles against glass, and he knows better than to look. Even Spock, with his infinite restraint, hasn’t been able to hide the concern. Failing, falling apart; a failure. Loss is as infinite as the darkness between the stars. The captain is a cacophony of the things that don’t let him sleep, or eat, or think. For the first time in his life, his stone heart is weighing more than Khan down; he longs for the cold logic in interlocked fingers. His atoms yearn for it.

There’s a handprint on the glass, and he knows it’s not on the inside. His food has gone cold.

vi.     He’ll be a tidal wave, crashing into everything until everything is as ravaged as he is, an ugly thunder, the ash of a volcano invading lungs. Sometimes his darkness is not confined to the solitary hell within him, sometimes the fire that lives in the marrow of his bones cannot be contained. Sometimes Khan Noonien Singh is weak. At the mercy of his own vices, only enough liquor to paint his lips– he knows what he’s doing. He isn’t any braver for it, only more likely to shed his skin just enough for his secrets to seep out, into his eyes, onto his tongue.

The captain pores over his own misgivings first over the cold steel of his desk. Duties are proving difficult, paperwork forgotten (and who is there to chide him in the depths of space?) – like an itch, near his skin, just over it. He feels hot. It’s a stark contrast to the constant threat of chill over his bones.

Maybe– no one will notice. It’s too late, and no one else is adverse to sleep.

As Khan strides through the corridor, the work on his desk forgotten for now and likely for a long while, he drags the tips of his fingers along the wall. The uneven surface reminds him to rejoice over jagged sensations, the cut of glass, shrapnel six clicks away from what should have been home. He’s haunted, and likewise a phantom, but the whiskey should have cured that.

Sometimes alternate cures are better than hypos, sometimes he knows what he’s thinking. It’s the fury in the pit of his belly, at the base of his spine. Knocking on Spock’s door impatiently, the dim light of his quarters just enough to reveal a mildly perplexed raise of the eyebrow.

Captain–

The word sinks between them as the captain captures the other man’s mouth with his, pushing him back into his room, fingers interlocking. He practically hisses his need against a jawline, against the hollow of a throat. Teeth and tongue and a wayward hand pushing up the fabric of a shirt. He doesn’t listen to the door close behind them.

Sometimes, Khan is not in control of the situation.

[ghulehgurl]

The Ghost Project was high on adrenaline after one of the best rituals of their tour. For some of them, it had been the best ritual of their career. After two years of touring, Cardinal Copia, the leader of The Project, had been anointed to Papa Emeritus IV. The whole event had gone off without a hitch -  the band was on fire, the crowd was on fire, and the stage crew even felt it behind the scenes.

After the ritual, everyone ran to the bus to dump their belongings and change clothes. They all planned to go out on the town to celebrate their new Papa. The ghouls chatted as they used glamour spells to conceal their horns, tails, and other ghoulish attributes. When they were first summoned from Hell, the ghouls were given the chance to choose the human attributes they would display while under their glamour spell. While their heights and weights stayed the same as their demon forms, each Ghoul got to choose the hair, eyes, and face shape they would display in their human forms. They made sure the glamour they chose was very good looking by human standards.

The aroma of strong cologne and minty toothpaste filled the air on the bus as everyone rushed to get ready. After cleaning himself up, the new Papa emerged from his bedroom at the back of the bus and rejoined his band. He had washed the skull paint from his face, but kept his tight black suit on. They cheered and clapped for their leader and he took a bow, hamming it up. "Let's go, my ghouls!" he said with a grin.

While everyone was getting ready, the bus had moved to a location away from the fans. The group made their way off the bus and wandered down the street to find a bar. They came across a decent-looking place with live music, so the group made their way inside. Papa led them to a dark booth in the corner. Many of them winked at the curious women and men as they passed; it was no secret that they each were hoping to hook up with someone by the end of the night.

Dew played lead guitar in the band, so naturally, he was used to a lot of attention. Although he was the smallest of the ghouls, his size didn’t seem to deter anyone. It wasn’t long before he was receiving wet kisses and experiencing roaming hands from several of the bar-goers.

Rain’s usual spot was in the back of center stage, playing his black and white bass. Aether, the rhythm guitarist, and Dew stayed up front, situated on opposite sides of the stage. During the rituals, they all had their individual parts to play, but the trio would occasionally come together at center stage and play next to each other. Dew would often sidle up to the bassist and nuzzle his neck.

Rain was no stranger to Dew’s affections on stage, but as he sat in the bar, he couldn’t help but wonder if tonight had been different. Each time the guitarist had approached Rain on stage, he locked his menacing eyes on the bassist. The sultry looks caused heat to shoot straight to Rain’s cock.

The bassist was a very sweet ghoul and tended to be on the shy side. He normally stayed in the back and interacted with the crowd as little as possible. As far as personalities went, he was the complete opposite of Dew.

The guitarist had earned the nickname Gremlin due to his aggressive behavior. He was known to violently throw guitar picks at the crowd and at Aether. He would often seductively lick his hands, picks, and guitar just to get a rise out of the crowd. Dew stomped around the stage as if he owned it. He was pure sex appeal.

Tonight, Dew had been on a rampage. He wanted Rain - badly. The guitarist was especially friendly, following Rain around the stage, trying to touch and snuggle him as often as possible. Sometimes he just stood next to the slight ghoul, hoping Rain would catch on, but the evening was now almost over and Dew still hadn’t received any reciprocation from the bassist.

The noise coming from the group got louder and louder as the amount of alcohol they consumed increased. Several humans had joined them at the table, squeezing themselves between the ghouls. There were grabby hands and messy kisses all around.

Papa had a very lovely woman sitting in his lap. Dew could see him speaking seductively into her ear while running his knuckles across her cheek - the signature move of the lead singer. Dew knew that one by one, following Papa’s lead, everyone would eventually start leaving the bar to scurry off with their chosen playmate for the evening.

Dew hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the beautiful ghoul sitting across from him all night. Rain was slight in size, but still larger than the guitarist. During the ritual, Dew hadn’t been able to keep his distance from the bassist. It pained him to be so far apart from him now.

The small ghoul had been very obviously distracted most of the evening. By the end of the night, Dew’s adoring humans had given up vying for his attention and migrated to the other ghouls in hopes of going home with one of them instead.

Rain kept glancing across the table at Dew, absent-mindedly spinning his beer bottle. The guitarist's eyes were on him, never wavering. Rain tried to insert himself into the others’ conversations, but he couldn’t seem to distract himself from the gremlin's stare. By the end of the night, their gazes had locked on each other.

Dew stared at the cute blush on Rain’s cheeks and the way he nervously fiddled with whatever was in front of him. Fuck, that ghoul is endearing, Dew thought. He couldn’t wait to taste his mouth - if the bassist would let him. Dew hadn’t gotten that far yet.

Aether, who had been watching the exchange between the two ghouls, finally said, “Would you guys stop eye fucking and get a room already?!” The rest of the table burst into laughter at Rain and Dew’s expense. The guitarist noticed the bassist’s shoulders drop and thought to himself that this was his moment.

“Fuck you guys!” Dew spat, sliding out of the booth and holding his hand out to Rain. “C’mon Rainy, let’s leave these assholes here and find something else to do.” The bassist slowly took Dew’s calloused hand and stood up.

Swiss, the backup guitarist, started cat calling the smaller ghouls as they left the table. The others joined in the harassment, whistling and clapping their hands loudly. Dew rolled his eyes and gave his bandmates the finger as they walked out. He didn’t know why they were making such a big deal out of things; most everyone in the band hadn’t already fucked each other at some point.

Once outside, Dew looked over at Rain, who was staring down at his own feet. The guitarist stopped and pulled the bassist to the side, putting his finger under the slight ghoul’s chin and lifting it to meet his gaze. “Hey, don’t let them bother you,” he said. “They're just jealous that they aren’t getting attention from a beautiful ghoul like you.”

Rain looked shocked. “You think I’m beautiful? Fuck, Dew.” He stared at the guitarist for a moment, unsure of what else to say.

Dew reached up and rubbed his thumb across the bassist's pouty bottom lip. “I always have, Rain,” he said quietly. “I’ve just been too nervous to tell you about it.” A couple years worth of yearning for the ghoul had finally culminated in this moment. Dew suddenly realized how mushy he sounded, so he coughed and patted the other ghoul’s shoulder in an attempt to keep his focus.

The two started walking down the street without a specific destination in mind. Dew looked at his watch and realized how late it had become. At this hour, there probably wasn't much else they could go do. Hearing some commotion behind them, the duo look back to see the rest of their bandmates leaving with someone, headed off in several different directions.

The smaller ghoul nudged Rain. "Looks like they won't be making it back anytime soon. Do you wanna go watch a movie on the bus?" The bassist nodded in approval. The pair headed back toward the bus, making a quick stop at a gas station to get some snacks to share.

As soon as the ghouls reboard the bus, they drop their glamour spells. The ghouls stretch their tails and scratch their horns as they change into their pajamas. Rain watches as Dew lets down his long hair, thinking about running his hands through the blonde locks. The small ghoul gives the bassist a lopsided grin. Rain looks away quickly and focuses on putting his dirty clothes into his bag.

The bus’s common area isn't very big. It contains a small TV tucked under a kitchenette cupboard with a shitty DVD player that only works some of the time. A bench style couch sits beneath a window opposite from the television. The seat is a tight fit for two average-sized adults, so it's usually only occupied by one person at a time. Rain and Dew, being smaller than average, both fit comfortably in the small space.

Dew grabbed a random movie from the small collection they kept on the bus and put it in the DVD player. He gave the machine a smack to get it to register the disc before joining Rain on the couch. Rain pressed play on the remote and the introduction music started. The sound that came from the tiny speakers was terrible; even at full volume, you had to really concentrate to make out the dialogue. Dew looked at the other ghoul and asked, "Can you hear it okay, Rainy?"

The bassist grinned. "You know I can't." They both chuckled and dug into their snacks.

Dew tried to tear into a bag of Twizzlers, but the wrapper wasn't cooperating. "Fucking. Thing. Won't. Open!" Suddenly the bag ripped apart and red candies went flying. They watched as the licorice fell onto the floor and into their laps. The guitarist got an idea and reached for a candy in the other ghoul’s lap. He grazed his knuckles across the crotch in Rain's loose pajama bottoms, teasing his cock beneath. The small ghoul gave his friend a wicked grin. "Oopsie..."

The bassist felt his cock twitch just a little from the light touch. Rain looked wide-eyed at Dew and thought to himself, He IS a little gremlin. The slight ghoul couldn't say he was too surprised that the other was hitting on him. After all, they were pretty much eye-fucking back at the bar. Rain blushed at the thought. Fucking Dew, he has no shame.

Dew watched the blush creep across Rain's face, and before he could stop himself, he put his hand on the bassist's cheek. "You're so fucking cute," he whispered. The slight ghoul's face deepened in color as he leaned into Dew’s touch, mumbling, "...thanks."

The guitarist didn't miss the silent cues Rain was giving. The small ghoul leaned toward the bassist, staring at his lips. Dew stopped mid way, silently begging him to meet in the middle. He needed to be sure Rain was into him. Into this. The last thing he wanted to do was make assumptions and scare the other ghoul away.

The bassist hesitated for a moment. He knew what Dew wanted, but was this what he wanted? Rain felt an internal conflict in the pit of his stomach, but finally decided to throw his reservations out the window. The slight ghoul leaned forward and pressed his lips against Dew’s. The smaller ghoul let out a quiet moan as he deepened their kiss. They slowly explored each other’s mouths for a while, their tongues dancing as they got a feel for each other.

His excitement building, Dew took the lead, pulling Rain into his lap so the bassist could straddle his thighs. Rain wrapped his arms around the gremlin's neck and Dew grasped the slight ghoul's hips, holding him close.

Dew pulled back and removed Rain's shirt, tossing it into the darkness of the common area. The guitarist hummed in approval as he ran his hands up and down the bassist's naked sides. The small ghoul moved to Rain's chest to lightly pinch a nipple, causing the bassist to let out a not-so-quiet moan.

"Oohh, so we like our nipples played with, do we?" Dew growled into Rain's ear as he pinched the other side. The bassist made a beautiful sound that confirmed the gremlin's suspicion.

The guitarist pulled his own shirt off and tossed it aside with the other. Dew took that moment to admire the bassist's bare skin. He had a small patch of hair in the middle of his chest, but the rest of his torso was bare. The small ghoul wanted to taste every inch of skin in front of him.

Rain realized the other had let go of him. Suddenly becoming self conscious, he covered himself with his arms. Dew looked into the bassist's eyes and murmured, “None of that. I was just thinking how sexy you look in my lap. There are so many things I've dreamt of doing to you. Will you let me do them?”

The bassist crashed his lips into Dew's, giving him a hard kiss. He wanted his lips more than anything else at this moment. Rain sat back onto the small ghoul's knees to admire the rings Dew had through his nipples. In a flash of bravery, the slight ghoul bent down to pull a ring into his mouth, tugging and flicking with his tongue. As he did, the guitarist sucked air in through his teeth and let his head fall back. "Fuuuuck yesss," he hissed.

Dew's reaction boosted Rain’s confidence, so he splayed his hands over the guitarist's chest, pinching both nipples. He leaned in and placed gentle kisses along the small ghoul's collar bones up to his neck. The bassist stopped to nibble Dew's skin, leaving a trail of small pink marks as he made his way back to the ghoul’s red swollen lips.

Dew dragged his nails down the bassist’s back leaving red lines and goosebumps from his short claws. "Yesss, Rainy,” he moaned. “You're such a good boy.” Dew started rocking his hips up into the bassist's, causing their hard cocks to rub against each other. The friction felt good against the slight ghoul's dick, and a wet spot formed on his grey sweatpants.

Moans and the echoes of loud kisses began to fill the bus. They started to become more aggressive with each other, pulling hair, scratching skin, and grinding into each other violently. Soon Dew realized their position was restricting the contact he craved. “Switch places with me, baby,” he said, “but first get those pants off.”

Rain quickly complied, practically tearing his sweats off. "I like your eagerness, sweet boy," Dew cooed. The bassist moaned at his words as he sat down on the bench. The guitarist calling him a sweet boy had made him rock hard and he slowly thumbed over the drops of precum that had formed at the tip of his cock.

The guitarist removed his own pants, giving his cock a few tugs. The slight ghoul's attention was back on the gremlin as he fell to his knees and rubbed his hands up and down Rain's thighs. "You're my good boy,” Dew praised him. “I want to suck my good boy's cock. Can I do that, Rainy?" The bassist let out a breathy moan. "I need to hear you say it, sweetheart,” Dew continued. “Tell me what you want." Dew cooed as he nuzzled the bassist’s cock, rubbing his nose and cheek along the shaft.

Rain watched the gremlin for a moment as he moved before squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure. "Yes Dew, pleassee," he whined, softly thrusting his hips up to get more friction.

"Good boy." Dew moved Rain's hand away from the leaking, pulsing head and licked the precum that had gathered there.

"Oh fffuck, Dew. Please, more. I need more." Rain’s voice was filled with urgency. The bassist reached his hands to the back of Dew's head, claws pressing into his scalp. He wound the long locks into his fists, yanking lightly. Rain couldn't keep his eyes off the gremlin as he watched his cock disappear into his mouth.

The wet heat was both too much and not enough at the same time. It took almost everything he had not to thrust into the guitarist's mouth. Dew lifted off Rain’s dick with a pop, drool running down his chin "Sweet boy, if you want to fuck my face, just ask." he flashed a devilish smile at Rain, enjoying how flustered he was getting.

Rain whimpered, wanting to fuck Dew's throat so badly. He could imagine looking down at the gremlin's tear stained eyes and watching as he choked on his dick. "Fuck yes, please Daddy." Rain stilled at his own words, panic strewn across his face.

The gremlin grinned, thinking fuck, he's gonna make me cum right here and now. "Mmm, sweet boy,” he said, “come fuck daddy's face - and don't be gentle." Rain could barely get to his feet after hearing Dew's words, but he managed. He briefly worried that his dick was too thick to be rough. His fear vanished as he watched Dew take his whole cock into his mouth in one swift movement.

"Fuuuuck yessss!" Rain thrusted slowly at first, his patch of curls brushing against the other's nose. Dew looked straight up into the bassist’s eyes and pulled on Rain's hips to spur him on.

Dew's tongue was soft on the underside of Rain's shaft. He let his jaw go slack, preparing himself for the hammering he was about to receive. As soon as Rain increased the speed of his thrusts, the guitarist's cheeks hollowed, his sucks keeping in time with the other's movements.

The gremlin could feel his own cock slapping against his stomach, leaving a string of precum behind. He grabbed onto Rain's ass cheeks and dug his nails into the flesh, leaving tiny bruises. Rain didn't seem to care as he sputtered out obscenities and loud moans.

The bassist's cock was harder than it had ever been. He could feel it throbbing each time his dick hit Dew's throat. "Yesss daddy, please,” he begged. “Your mouth feels soooo good. Ohmyfuccckk..." Rain's shy demeanor had been completely erased in the ecstasy of it all.

Rain was amazed at the guitarist's lack of gag reflex. He watched as his cock disappeared repeatedly into the other ghoul's throat. Dew’s eyes watered and drool ran down his chin onto the bassist's balls, but he still managed to growl from the back of his throat each time he heard a 'yes, daddy' or 'please, daddy'.

Deciding he needed to be buried to the hilt in Rain's tight hole, Dew tapped the bassist’s thigh. Rain came back to earth and stopped thrusting. "Fuck, did I hurt you?" he asked.

Dew slowly removed the ghoul’s cock from his mouth. "No, sweet boy,” he said, “I just want you to cum while my dick's buried in your ass." He stared up at Rain, not breaking eye contact as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The bassist moaned and helped the small ghoul to his feet. The guitarist pulled Rain into a ravenous kiss, wanting Rain to taste himself on his mouth. "See how sweet you taste? Daddy loves his good boy's cock in his mouth."

Dew grabbed Rain by the wrist and pulled him into the guitarist's bottom bunk. The bassist tilted his head, trying to find a comfortable position. "I don't think there's enough room in here," he said as he craned his neck. The small ghoul grinned and looked over his shoulder at Papa's private room at the back of the bus.

"I don't know, Dew. Papa would freak if we fucked in his room." It pained him to shoot the idea down; at this point, Rain's dick was so hard and throbbing he would probably let Dew fuck him on the roof of the bus if he asked.

"All the more reason to do it,” Dew cooed. “C'mon sweet boy - let’s live dangerously." He took Rain’s hand and dragged him to the back of the bus, shutting the privacy screen behind them.

Rain wasted no time and pushed Dew against the weak plywood wall, causing it to groan. The bassist covered the small ghoul's lips, face, and neck with hard, sloppy kisses. The guitarist pressed his hips against Rain's, waiting to feel the friction against his cock. Both ghouls breathed heavily and moaned loudly. The air reeked with the smell of sex. If anyone boarded the bus right then, they would be well aware of what was going on behind the closed door.

Rain pulled back for air and Dew took charge, shoving the bassist onto his back on Papa's bed. The gremlin crawled up Rain's body and straddled his chest. “Do you think you can take daddy's cock, sweet boy?” Dew asked. “Can you be a good boy and suck me off?" Dew stroked himself slowly, playing with the precum that had formed on the tip.

The bassist let out a deep, throaty moan. "Please, daddy,” he begged, “I want your cock in my mouth."

Dew reached down and gently stroked Rain's cheek "Such a good boy," he cooed. “Now open wide.” The gremlin scooted closer to the bassist's mouth and straddled his head. Using the wall in front of him as support, he nudged Rain's lips with his dripping cock. Rain parted his lips and happily accepted the guitarist into his mouth.

Unsure of what the other ghoul could handle, Dew started moving his hips in shallow thrusts. He used his free hand to run his fingers through Rain's hair. "You're such a good boy,” he praised, “taking my cock so well. Can you handle more, sweetheart?" Dew pulled his dick out so Rain could answer.

"Yes, daddy,” Rain moaned. “Please fuck my throat. I need your cock."

The gremlin almost came just from hearing the bassist’s words. "Mmmm, thank you sweet boy," he moaned, thrusting into Rain’s mouth hard and fast. "Fuuuuckkk, you're such a good boy.” he groaned as he moved his hips once again. “Oohh, fuck yes, baby…”

Dew nearly exploded as he felt Rain swallow, squeezing the head of his cock with his throat. The guitarist looked down and watched as his cock slammed into the bassist’s mouth. The slight ghoul's cheeks were sucked in and tears had started to form in the corners of his eyes. The small ghoul slowed his place slightly so he could wipe the tears from Rain’s face.

When the urge to cum became too intense, the gremlin pulled out of Rain's mouth with a pop. Dew slid back down the bassist's body so that they were eye to eye once again. The bassist's chin was covered in his own saliva and he was trying to catch his breath. "You did such a good job swallowing daddy's cock, my sweet boy," Dew praised him. Rain whimpered and pulled Dew close, planting a messy kiss on his face.

The guitarist pulled away to search Papa's bedside drawer for lube. "Bingo!" he said as he pulled out a bottle and flipped the cap open. "Rainy, are you ready?" Dew pushed the bassist's legs wide open and settled between them on his knees, sitting back on his heels. He began to stroke Rain's painfully hard and dripping cock.

"Please, daddy,” Rain whimpered. “I need to feel you inside me. Please..." Dew leaned forward, bracing himself with one arm while he kissed the bassist, attempting to distract him from the lubed finger pressing against his tight hole.

"Fuuuck, baby,” Dew moaned against Rain’s mouth as he pushed a finger inside him. “You're so tight. You're gonna feel so good wrapped around my dick." Dew sat back and slowly stroked Rain's cock. He pushed a second finger into the hole, scissoring to loosen the muscles. The bassist started whimpering and begging for more.

"You make the most beautiful sounds for daddy,” Dew purred. “You're almost ready for me to fill you up with my cock, sweet boy." Dew inserted a third finger, slowly thrusting it in and out. When Rain started bucking his hips to match the rhythm, the guitarist knew he was ready.

Dew slicked up his own cock with the lube. He held the bassist's leg in place with his left hand and guided his cock to Rain’s hole with his right. As soon as he pushed his head in, Rain let out a long moan. "Fuuucking hell, daddy! Please fill me up!"

The guitarist wanted nothing more than to thrust into the handsome ghoul laying before him, but instead he took his time, afraid of hurting his lover. "Soon, baby, I promise. I want this, too. I want to slam my cock into your ass until I fill it with my cum." The slight ghoul was babbling and begging for more.

As he felt the bassist’s muscles start to relax, Dew pushed himself in about halfway, stroking Rain's cock to ease him through the pain. "Baby, you're doing so good,” he praised. “Sweet Lucifer, you're so fucking tight!" The bassist relaxed more and the gremlin pushed his shaft all the way to the hilt.

They both let out a long moan, pausing for a moment to allow Rain to adjust to being filled.

Dew’s body may have been small, but his dick was not lacking in size. "Okay, sweet boy, are you ready?" he finally asked.

"Ohhh yes, daddy,” Rain breathed. “Please... I need you.."

Dew slowly pulled his cock almost all the way out, pausing for a moment before he pushed his full length back in. The guitarist threw his head back and moaned, repeating the action a few times until he found a comfortable rhythm. Rain babbled out a string of profanities, begging for Dew to pick up speed. The gremlin leaned over his lover and used Rain's shoulders as leverage to pound into him as hard as he could.

The slight ghoul let out a whimper, begging for his dick to be touched. "Okay, sweet boy,” Dew said. “I'll let you cum since you beg so pretty." With a flick of his hand, the guitarist started jerking the bassist’s cock in time with his own thrusts. "Cum, baby... Cum for daddy..."

Rain let out a strangled cry as he climaxed, releasing ropes of cum all over his chest and the small ghoul’s hand. Dew didn't stop, working his lover through his orgasm until the bassist went limp under him, panting hard.

Dew swiped a finger across one of the pools of cum and shoved it into Rain's mouth. "Fuck, Rainy,” he moaned. “Such a good boy. Taste daddy's fingers." The guitarist's thrusts began to falter as he approached his own orgasm. The bassist bit down on Dew's fingers and the pain pushed him over the edge.

I wrote my first fic!

[jacquehealyrinehart]

Virtual Sketchbook 3

In this oil painting on canvas that is approximately 5’x 8’ painted by Guercino (Giovanni Fracesco Barbier) called Fra Bonaventura Bisi also known as Il Pittorino shows a variation of color and forms. In the forefront you will note the human form of a Franscican Monk who is holding a picture of a profile of another human form. He points downward to the papers that are on the table at the side of him to draw the eye to the different types of paper and the uses they may have a position for from writing to drawing. In the background there is a library of books that again shows the wisdom that the Franscican monk is persuading. The truth of the matter is that this is just not a typical Fransican Monk but instead an heir to the d’Medici family of Italy. It never appeared in any of the journals from Guercino so suspicion gave way that this perhaps was instead a painting that was to be given as a gift to perhaps the Francesco;s son and successor Alfonso IV.

The monk is showing as a smiling individuals with an exhuberance of the warm and sensitivity that the muse reflects and with a slight tin of a smile shows the indiviudal in sync with mutual esteem for the purpose of the tools that surrounds him but also with the artist.

The painting is off balanced with the human form centered and the angles in which the book fill up the left side of the oil painting leaving the right space to dark walnut brush strokes. The focal point of the monk is pushed more the center right of the painting and while it does draw the eye immediately to the human form the second pass shows the books and papers. Not until you are completely drawn into the picture can you determine the color pallette as overall dark with frays, burdundy, blues, walnut brown, white and peach only leaving the flesh tone to appear directly on the human form. All of these colors are of a darker hue except for the portrait that the monk is holding and this is where you finally can see the pointing of the finger to the papers that are all different in shape and color that lie below the secondary portrait. This portrait in a portrait draws one to conclude that you can just feel the monk pulling the portrait from the piles of paper and is enthralled with looking at this while he is aware that much of the money he makes on the side is by selling different mediums to those who seek more knowledge.

With the artist known for painting portraits in miniatures, the presence of such a large painting that was never entered into his journal made him an unpredictable artisan. I believe this is why John Ringling sought out this artist because he could not purchase his first painting called Annunciation and when this came onto the auction block, he felt that he wanted something that was large enough to fill a wall as the focal point in Ca’d’zan but also accompanied with smaller Baroque paintings that could be hung to show the focus on the Monk.

There is unity in the message that the art world and reading and writing was becoming a modern way of communicating while the variety reflects from books to portraits to papers, all different in their source but aligned with the futuristic means of the time that indiviuals were learning how to communicate which would continue into the future.

The work made me feel first on a religious backing but instead after viewing it from different angles I became more drawn into the fact that the medium of communications varied and that the smiling Monk was engaged in knowing about the new mediums but also that his portrait was to become a famous work of art that would one day hang in an Italian home such as that of the Medici family or even in some great monastery, unaware that it would instead become part of a massive art collection owned by John and Mabel Ringling. When I think about the travels that the Ringlings undertook to seek out just this particular painting had more meaning than many of the other Baroque or Renaissance paintings that they collected. It is apparent in walking through the Ringling museum that the taste of the Ringlings were varied and ecclectic but that the art was purchased for no other reason than they loved a particular piece of artwork. So to seek out and pay an undisclosed price for this piece at an auction, shows instead that John Ringling had a love for the artist and the iconic paintings he created.

I believe that the artist who painted this particular painting may have been stating that in the past only those in high places within the church were able to read and write but here the artist is showing that this no longer will continue to be the business as usual but instead the reformation caused the church to cease their ideals of secular knowledge and that the people were yearning and eager for knowledge and thus the church could play a role in the future of the public while still maintaining some control as to what was written or communicated. Because the painting was never listed in the artists journals of the items he painted and then sold, this was perceived to instead be a gift and it first may have been placed in Pope Gregory XV and then eventually found its way into the d’Medici family first, it may have just been for them or for one of the many homes or government places they resided within. Eventually it was placed up for auction and through several buyers over the generations, it finally was purchased by John Ringling fro the Earl of Yarborough through Christie’s in London on July 12, 1929.

[reedsmeer-blog]

♔  →  westeros  presents  MEERA  REED,  the  LADY  in  GREYWATER  WATCH.  a  raven  sent  word  that  she  bear(s)  the  resemblance  to  JESSICA  BROWN  FINDLAY.  the  TWENTY  EIGHT  year  old  CIS  FEMALE  was  ALERT  &  AFFECTIONATE  before  the  dawn  of  war,  but  have  now  become  INTRANSIGENT  &  STOIC.  when  songs  are  sung,  their  verses  speak  of  THE HAND STRETCHING THE WIRE, ALL CALLOUSES, ALL BLOOD; DARK HAIR DAMP WITH SNOW AND SWEAT, STICKING TO EVERY BIT OF SKIN; THE ELATION OF DISCOVERY IN THE FORM OF A GRIN, EXHAUSTED BUT BEYOND SATISFIED.  whispers  throughout  the  seven  kingdoms  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  HOUSE  STARK,  but  fealty  means  little  when  you  play  the  game  of  thrones.  (  cams,  19,  gmt,  she/her.  )

i. meera's first years were filled with stories, some she knew to be true, others simply legend, but some were a mystery she's yet to uncover. those words filled her head with folklore and tales of the past, which she carried with her like the chains of a maester - meera was known as the storyteller, retelling those tales to younger children with all of her theatricals, whispering sad songs of long gone knights and other characters of the outside world, telling her little brother jojen all the things father had taught them, just so the boy could say if she made the stories justice. perhaps she'd write it all down in a book, like those her mother kept, bound in old wrinkly leather. or perhaps she never would, respecting the ages old tradition of the crannogmen and hiding every whisper beneath the water, where no outsider could come and then leave.

ii. her father taught her how to yield her very first weapon, a frog spear. from him, she got that, and the scale armor, all in bronze, which her father had made specifically for her. once he let that fester, meera broke off on her own, pursuing whichever skills she deemed fit for an heiress, for a hunter, for a survivor. with the help of many amongst her people, she could climb trees in near silence, become a whisper in the leaves, a swimmer so subtle she gave no sign on life in the still green waters. she knew of places outside of their small bubble, where some girls would spend the same time preparing for dances and embroidering handkerchiefs, and sometimes meera would wonder what that must have felt like, but the surrounding fields of the neck were all she had ever seen, and that life remained the object of stories and songs, nothing else.

iii. lord stark was dead, long live the wolf king. the reeds knew nothing but loyalty, serving their lord well, but that was more than getting caught in the middle of a war - she'd grown up with the tales of the wolf pack, who her father loved so dearly. the she-wolf, who meera so wanted to have met. the wild wolf, a legend forgotten. the young pup - she wondered what had become of him. and the quiet wolf, a righteous man whose letters always made father so happy. a just lord who hadn't asked for the burden of the title. not long after, the two reed siblings were on their way to a mission explained only by the gifts that the two reed men had. of course, who was meera to question them? her spear was guided by their visions, their dreams, their curses. if they pointed out the way, meera would carve it for them.

iv. this isn't my war. sometimes the terrible thought got stuck in her gut, vile sickness threatening to pour out almost immediately. jojen and brandon were blessed with mystical abilities she could only observe and follow, lost inside their own heads or souls, driving them from place to place, even when she insisted on other paths. it was robb's war. it was jojen's pursuit. it was bran's destiny. she pushed the thought away every time, devoting more and more of herself to their goals, even if it killed her - it went beyond loyalty or political alignments, they were her family. all of them, including hodor, summer, shaggydog, little rickon, even osha. the world was wide and they were only small but huddled together, the group made up a mighty force. and so she stayed, even when she wasn't heard, even when she couldn't understand, and every farewell broke her heart in bits. the softness in her that the northern cold couldn't harden made the journey a much more personal one. what would come after was a much harder question she did not dare ask.

v. the neck needed her. saying goodbye to bran, no matter how temporary, broke every shard she believed to have left, and the girl who waved goodbye to her home was not the same who returned. more aware than ever of the incoming threat, meera knew her duty was with the reeds, which she needed to help protect - greywater watch is the final stronghold on the north, and in troubling times such as these, no southern threats can pass, and no long nights can either. more than ever, she is determined to carve out a path for herself, earning a role that's active in the war that is here and the wars to come. her training has been relentless, she followed her mother and father to every call from their folk, and her stories are more tragic, filled with tales of dying northerners, burnt down villages and blue-eyed creatures.

vi. howard reed was a stepping stone. unlike his predecessors, he yearned for something he could only find outside of the neck and he fought for it, venturing into the great world that was so hostile to him, fighting amongst others, visiting great castles and seeing things he'd only heard of in songs. meera shares that adventurer's heart, but amplified. his stories were the beginning of a wish she can no longer contain, not after she's seen so many glimpses of the world from her journey with the stark princes. from great mountains to the shore and the sea, to the very top of the great wall, meera had a wisful smile stuck to her lips even in some dire situations, and it was not enough. she felt so inspired by what she saw and all the potential of what she could yet see that there is no other way but into the great outside world, to explore and visit all corners she can, to see the small shops and the big landscapes and the terrible battles and the tallest castles. everything they have to teach her is out there for the taking, and meera knows it will not only make her a better person, a better fighter and a better reed, but also more fulfilled than she ever could be, should she only be stuck in greywater watch.

vii. the loyalty of the reeds is something eternal, and meera very much caries that torch too. while she is no tactical commander or mighty fighter, her weapons are the wolf king's and she has expressed her willingness to use them for his war.

BITS AND PIECES

howland stark was picked up from the ground by the starks, armored, sheltered, cared for. he followed ned to the ends of westeros, fought for him, and in the very end committed treason for him, keeping to himself the terrible secrets of the tower of joy. he !! pulled ned away from lyanna's dead body and you can't tell me he didn't take it upon himself to deal with the brunt of the logistics to get lyanna back to winterfell just so ned didn't have to suffer through that too. house reed is not just the geographical line of defense for the north, they are the stark shield - not only did meera grow up hearing stories of this great family they pay vassalage to, she got the exact same faith. she would have gone to the end of the world and back for bran and rickon, and honestly same thing applies for any other stark because she believes so damn much in their core values and their honor !! don't talk to me about the endless loyalty the reeds have for the starks, i'm so upset.

the reeds are faithful, and for long so was she. be it to the old gods or to some ancient powers that went far beyond her comprehension, they guided her towards some higher purpose and blessed jojen for a reason. before falling asleep, she'd often whisper to herself, sometimes the names of nearly forgotten gods or promises and questions to those she did not have a name to call by. however, she got very few answers. if anything, it doesn't seem like the gods have been cruel towards her, it seems as if they've abandoned the girl, or never been there at all. the stories that have for so long guided her seem ever more hollow and her personal prayers more pointless. there's quiet anger building up within meera that only gets amplified after every tragedy and she doesn't know for how much longer she can pretend it is not there. damn the green dreams, the wolves in bran's eyes, the prayers and the smiling trees and the rituals - they keep leading her to the same place of loss and confusion, and the only significant piece of the impossible puzzle is human action, defiant or in spite of the gods, doing whatever the hell they deem to be the way.

after her return home, she got some leather-bound bits of parchment where she's been drawing and writing down stuff about the things she's seen, much like an adventures journal. whenever she leaves greywater watch, she brings a couple along, even if only to jolt down the name of small towns.

her loyalty does not equal compliance. meera respects the starks and her family, and does listen to them most of the time, but she is defiant to any reasonings she cannot agree with and stubborn to a very obvious fault. she WILL be heard, even if that means harsher words, or shouts that pierce through what's usually a gentle amused demeanor.

while she doesn't have the mythical aspect of many in her family, the woman has a profound connection to nature. growing up, she'd play in the shallower ponds and the branches of mossy trees - walking barefoot along slippery stones, ancient fossils, near the jaws of predators; meera is at her most centered when she's in direct contact with the life that she shares the world with.

even though greywater watch did not have a maester, there were many skilled people all around her who shaped her knowledge, aided by the extensive personal library her mother kept. herbology was always a particularly interesting topic, although always bested by the hidden arts and folklore. she can often be found collecting plants that catch her eye, saving them for future use should they be of help.

she would fight every being in the world for her little brother. and she trusts him and his wisdom so so deeply, even if sometimes she just wants to get rid of all the mythicisms and inject some pragmatism into situations. do not touch jojen.

her moral compass sometimes isn't the greatest. her pragmatism gets in the way of righteousness, and she has and will consider things like theft and murder should that make the most sense for the problem at hand. however, those around her, especially jojen, can always easily bring her back to her good values.

meera is NICE. i think the stereotype of the 'not a lady, had weapons, isn't in a dress' often leads to hardening the character, but meera really is not that. there's an inherent softness in her, which she often demonstrates in physical touch, by squeezing people's hands, gently caressing shoulders, placing kisses on the top of their heads. she is kind and gentle and cheerful, and often has a smile on her lips, unwilling to let herself sulk in her own pity and tragedy (at most, she'll leave that for quiet moments with herself, get it done with and return to being a light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how flickering).

check her STATS & PINTEREST !

[mingyoozi]

Wonwoo: Blood for Blood, Bloom for Bloom (pt. 4)

photo cred ©

[table of contents] I. II. III. IV.

Summary: honestly it’s just a lot of Tension™ and exposition. there isn’t much showing is mostly telling.

“Jieun,” You cry out. She’s nowhere to be seen, but you can hear her whimpering somewhere in the distance.

“Jieun,” You try again. “Please. I’m scared.”

It’s dark out, the only light radiating dimly from the torches posted on the castle walls. You don’t know how you made it this far beyond the gates without someone finding you and dragging you back, and nightfall had caught you off guard.

You hear a snarl and Jieun’s whimpers get louder. You whip your head around, catching a flash of white in the corner of your eye. The stench of decaying flesh and rotting blood beings to surround you, so you run. Somewhere along the way, you catch Jieun’s wrist in your hand, dragging her behind you. Jieun is usually the one doing the saving, but this time is different.

Your heart is racing and adrenaline is pumping through your veins by the time you reach the castle walls. There’s a small door to the side of the gate, barely big enough for a small child. Luckily, you and Jieun are both young children and smaller than average. You throw the door open and push Jieun into the darkness. It swings closed behind you and you latch it quickly, hearing scratches and hissing not even a second later.

“Vampires,” Jieun stutters. You nod your head.

The adrenaline leaves your body in the form of fat tears, and Jieun pulls you into her arms to comfort you.

“Thank you for saving me.”

-

It’s impossible to tell if it’s the bounce of the carriage over a bump in the crossroads, or the presence looming above you and shaking your shoulder that finally wakes you. Your eyes snap open as you sit up properly, as opposed to leaning on the wall of the car. You can feel a wetness on your cheek and you wipe it away, hoping that Wonwoo hadn’t already seen it.

“Are you alright?” He asks, pulling back to give you as much space as he can in the small carriage. Your legs are still touching.

You nod. “Quite.” You say. You adjust your skirt in your lap, spreading it a bit more evenly to keep your legs from getting too warm. It’s nearing the warm season and the sun’s gaze is becoming harder to tolerate, especially from a poorly ventilated wood carriage. “Where are we?”

Wonwoo’s brows furrow together in concern, but he doesn’t question you. “Less than an hour to Yingan, last I checked. Did you need to make a stop?”

You shake your head. You would love to stop for even a minute, just to stretch your legs, but the yearn to see Yingan again is stronger. You hope that your old room is still being cared for, and that the summer robes you left behind still fit you. Tears start to well in your eyes as your heart fills with longing. Jieun should be here with you.

“Y/N,” Wonwoo starts, sliding his hand across the carriage seat to encapsulate yours. “Please tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I just miss it.” You explain, the tightness in your chest building as you fight against your instinct to start sobbing. “I— I don’t think I can do this alone. Not without Jieun.”

“You have me. I won’t leave your side. Jieun is being taken care of by the best healers that Yingan and Hwangyeon have to offer.” He squeezes your hand and you nod. “Thank you for accompanying me. I know how painful it was for you to leave her side.”

You shut your eyes, trying to block out the mental images of Jieun’s body laying lifeless in her bed, with barely any colour in her cheeks. Wonwoo keeps a steady rhythm of squeezing your head and running a thumb over the back of your palm.

“You know,” You start, keeping your eyes closed. “Before we were sent to Hwangyeon, Jieun and I never saw eye to eye. She was so proper and I was her wily, untamed kid sister. But we always kept each other safe. I’d give anything to go back to that.”

Wonwoo nods, giving your hand one last squeeze as the carriage comes to a stop. The door opens on Wonwoo’s side.

“Your highness, we have arrived.”

-

Seungcheol, the oldest of your three triplet brothers, meets you with teary eyes and open arms. You hoist your skirt up to your knees and run towards him, leaving Wonwoo and the rest of your entourage at the doors.

“Graceful as always.” Seungcheol teases, holding you tight to his chest. He smells like the pine trees that surround the palace, like he always has. Like everything in Yingan does.

You let a watery giggle escape from your lips, letting down the guard that you didn’t know you’d been keeping in place since you left. Yingan was your childhood, full of memories and time that you would never get back. You relished in the feeling.

“My room? My silk robes?” You ask, your heart racing with excitement.

Seungcheol grins. “Everything is as you left it, duckling.” He says.

You dig an elbow into his gut as he lets you go. “I would imagine that all those years in Hwangyeon have transformed me into the beautiful swan.” You tease, and Seungcheol’s eyes twinkle with fondness and something close to sadness, but not quite.

“You’ll always be our little ugly duckling.” You hear from behind you.

You turn to find Jeonghan and Jisoo standing there, staring at you. They pull you into a hug, burying their faces into your hair. Jisoo pulls you towards your old room, leaving Seungcheol alone to greet his foreign guests. You sit in your room for a minute, ignoring Jeonghan’s instructions to change quickly, just letting yourself be alone with your memories.

Your books lay strewn across your desk, untouched. Seungcheol wasn’t lying when he said everything was as you left it; some of the books are still laying open to a dogeared page. You strip down to nothing but your dirtied shift, throwing the heavier overdress onto your bed. There’s a linen shift hanging off a cast iron hook beside your door that you assume is clean, given the fact that it smells better than the one you’re wearing currently.

On most days, before you left Yingan, you’d have a maid or two to help you dress in the morning. Now, staring at an armoire full of silk and cotton robes, your mind draws a blank. It’s too hot for an intricate, layered evening dress — similar to the one you’d been wearing before — so you settle for an embroidered silk robe that you’re just barely able to lace up by yourself.

“Fuck.” You mutter once you see yourself in a mirror. The light blue silk that had once draped loosely over your body as a young girl now sits as close to your skin as your shift does. It was the cold season when you’d left Yingan, and with your rapidly changing body nothing from the warm season fit properly when it was time to pack up your things.

“Y/N?” Wonwoo calls from the other side of the door with a knock. “May I come in?”

He doesn’t wait for a proper answer before he enters, taking your unamused grunt as more than enough permission. There isn’t a point in even attempting to hide the poorly fit robe from him.

“I don’t know what to wear.” You state, turning away from your mirror and back towards your armoire.

He closes the door behind him and takes a seat on your bed. He doesn’t answer, instead taking in your childhood bedroom with wide eyes. It’s different from your room in Hwangyeon. This room has personality, everything was made custom for you and every corner is full of your belongings.

“That robe is fine. It’s just me and your brothers. The advisors won’t even be—“ He starts to say, but he chokes on his words when you turn around.

You’ve laced the robe as tight as you possibly can, but the ends don’t come together, showing off the shadowing between your breasts and the sheerness of your undergarments. You’d need a second chemise to preserve your decency, but the heat won’t allow for it.

“This robe is scandalous. I look like I’m trying to attract the likes of Mingyu Kim. I’d rather wear my hunting clothes.” You say.

Wonwoo chuckles at the mention of Mingyu Kim and his loose morals, and the fact that Mingyu is already attracted to you regardless. He takes his own turn rifling through your armoire as you unlace your robe.

“Here,” He offers, pulling a light silk dress out for you.

You hesitate. “Wonwoo, this doesn’t lace in the front. You’ll have to help me.”

His cheeks turn pink, but he nods anyway. You decide that modesty would be useless at the moment, you’ve already been gone for too long. Without waiting for Wonwoo to turn away you shrug the robe off your shoulders. He helps you pull the dress over your head, blushing the entire time.

“A king that helps a lady get dressed is unheard of.” You mutter as he begins to lace up the back of your dress.

He smiles. “What kind of a king leaves a damsel in distress?” He says. Being addressed as a damsel in distress would usually offend you, but the way that Wonwoo says it so teasingly leaves your heart fluttering. He continues in complete silence, concentrating on weaving the ties properly.

“There you are,” He says when he’s finished tying the final knot. He uses his hold on you to turn you towards the mirror.

The dress sits awkwardly over your shift, wrinkling in areas where you should have more undergarments to shape your silhouette, but the allowance for extra undergarments is what leaves it fitting comfortably. His hands drag over your waist, smoothing out the fabric, but they linger.

“Is that alright?” He says, quietly in your ear. You spot the darkening of his eyes in the mirror and your breath catches in your throat.

“Yes, thank you.” You say, pulling away from him and hoping that he doesn’t notice how breathless you are. He is married, after all.

prev.     next.

[rexusloka]

from Goat Songs Chuya Nakahara Song of Upbringing

from Goat Songs

Chuya Nakahara

Song of Upbringing

I

       infancy

the snow which fell on me

was like floss silk

       childhood

the snow which fell on me

was like sleet

       seventeen to nineteen

the snow which fell on me

dropped like hail

       twenty to twenty-two

the snow which fell on me

seemed like balls of ice

       twenty-three

the snow which fell on me

looked like a blizzard

       twenty-four

the snow which fell on me

became so mournful

II

the snow which falls on me

falls like petals

when the burning firewood makes a noise

and the frozen sky darkens

the snow which fell on me

so delicate and lovely

fell reaching out a hand

the snow which fell on me

was like tears

that sink into a burning forehead

to the snow which fell on me

I offered heartfelt thanks and prayed to God

that I would live a long life

the snow which fell on me

was so chaste

Sorrow Already Spoiled

today again a little snow falls

on sorrow already spoiled

today again even the wind blows

through sorrow already spoiled

sorrow already spoiled

is for example a fox's hide

on sorrow already spoiled

a little snow falls and it shrinks

sorrow already spoiled

never hopes nor wishes anything

sorrow already spoiled

in languor dreams of death

pitifully I fear

sorrow already spoiled

dusk and there's nothing I can do

against sorrow already spoiled . . .

Exhaustion

For all men, there comes a time of languishing.

                   —Proverb

First, one must have a thirst.

                   —Catherine de Medicis

I didn't awaken with a sense of purpose anymore.

I awoke and a sad, everyday scene

I'd bitterly dreamed of ...

(I could neither settle in

nor escape that place)

Then evening came, and I thought

this world is like an ocean.

I imagined a watery expanse at dusk,

where a haggard boatman rows

with unsteady hands.

Looking to see if there are any fish or not,

he passes by staring at the surface.

II

once I believed

love poems were foolish

now I read love poems

just for the sake of it

and yet perhaps I want

to reach a higher state of poetry

I don't know if that's right or wrong

but such a feeling persists anyway

and sometimes irritates me

provoking outrageous desires

once I believed

love poems were foolish

yet now I do nothing

but dream about love

III

how am I to know if this

is my degradation or not

this arm-dangling indolence

the sun still shines today  blue sky

perhaps this idleness is all I have

ever been able to manage

or perhaps I only yearned

for honest desires because I was idle

ah  even so even so

I have never thought to be a man who only dreams!

IV

nevertheless the good and evil of this world

are not easily understood by humanity

countless reasons which we cannot fathom

govern every little thing

yet if I am patient and quiet like spring water

in mountain shade  it can be fun

I believe all that is visible from the train

mountains  grass  the sky  river  everything

will soon melt into complete harmony

and rise into the blue to form a rainbow

V

now  how to turn a profit

how to avoid losing face

I mean  you people who spend all your time

on such things  making demands of others

I used to think your attitude was reasonable

and eagerly went right along with you

but today I will come to my senses again

like a rubber band snapping back

thus  within this window of idleness

I spread my fingers in the shape of a fan

and inhale the sky  drink time

floating   a frog on the water

night sees the stars as night

ah  back of the sky  back of the sky

VI

But this condition persists:

although I believe I must behave as others do,

I feel myself small,

am even shocked by a department store delivery boy.

And although the reason is always clear—

trash, trash, trash of disbelief at the bottom of my heart.

However absurd it seems, these two

no doubt consist in me eternally, can never fall away.

Drawn to the sound of music,

I feel revived a little,

but the moment those two die within me—

ah, songs of sky and ocean,

I think I know the very essence of beauty,

and yet how hard it is to have no way of shaking off my idleness!

translated from the Japanese by Christian Nagle

[atomkrp-blog]

WELCOME TO XAVIER’S, HWANG MINO !

… loading statistics. currently aged twenty-three, entering first semester of xavier’s in seoul, south korea. decrypting files… mutant has the following records: strength +5, durability +4, agility +7, dexterity +4, intelligence +5. currently, he is classified under tier omega.

BACKGROUND.

           O.

the cartography of his veins spread before his eyes: here, where he bruised in metronomes — here, where he fractured his vertebra — here, where he dissected his laments.

against the riverbed where stories run in rivulets of red, in the stream of incongruence, lies the corpse of a manmade construct. called it death. named it fear. at the end of the day, its soot is ripe and ruined in his fisted palm, leaving inked teeth marks in shades of dying black.

the night sky thinks about a carnage that dreams: in this story, the sequence wears a reverse order.

sometimes, he is a motel with a crooked figured chalked on the creaky floor. all those streaks of blood that they scrub so hard but the wallflowers still remember what they witnessed. all the wallflowers that wilted, when murder sprayed their dormant status with sins. also the bed where he thrashed, all simulated forms of unspoken words transferred into acidic non-verbal. and that bed sheet wearing new colors, the hue melting like waxwork with flames that attracted these fallen, falling moths.

he is also the thump. victim now on the plane; bloodshed is beautiful when you are made of this chaotic smoke, imprisoned by your glass ribcage. quite a vision, quite a beauty.

the wooden boards, the outline. and everything in-between.

                        ( glass of half-full / empty water; tv playing static like sorrow. )

rest with me: i am an aftermath of this death, but i’m not in the coffin.                                                                                   ( i am the coffin. )

             I.

out of soft violence he bloomed: marigold and cinnamon, seeping through the interstices of mama’s cusps. she sighed, milkflower petals of her skin dripping in vigilant white as she shared the space of a husband’s with someone else. he was three, he remembers vividly. other colors of the spectrum spoke on the concave and convex of her features; she splintered in ways that he never understood between the grips of a man that was not his father.

membranes of his unfinished bedtime spillage carved memories like no other. he was supposed to be fast asleep, lost in the depth of cocooned safety in his crib. a watchful, taciturn witness to the event that unfolded before him, he always pretended that this was not the guilt that marred her face years later — that this was not the shame that spun the partiture of her elegies. against the gossamer edge of time, she would always be reminisced, another sway of chandelier against the stark ceiling of their mansion. this was the first beauty that painted the inglenooks of his memories.

first and foremost, insanity is hereditary, and so is sadness.

            II.

the child of threnody did not grow away from his mother; instead, he planted more seeds of lachrymose within the particles of his being, enveloped like chrysalis. the soothsayer across the street on an autumn day whispered to him little pieces of how to build a temple with his body, column per column, until he reached the sky shaped out of weary cultures and faded nebulas. spinal pillars stood against the horizon; he became acquainted with the after dark lullabies that ate away at his father’s core.

the difference was that his father was rotten with penumbra, while he soaked himself up in the act of liminal drowning. the similarity was that they both were too lost to be salvaged, feet tangled around the anchors.

he learned to love his mother in ways that she haunted his bones.

            III.

the incisors: to love was to hurt. he had teeth marks inked on his skin, with his aching marrows to prove his dedication. wrought in a burial was his flesh burning with forgotten maggots, rigor mortis veneering his architecture. this was the universe’s design; this fruit of deathless christening, this flower of seared capillaries.

the boyhood museum inevitably let him rest in this catacomb where mourning became the norms. here, he fell in the charm of death, its brutal hands wrapped around his neck with the weight of affection. it claimed him; it claimed his mother, then it claimed him. he learned to love it, too, in ways that he loved his mother.

he, however, had always known how to love the anatomy, the bones — he had always known the blueprint of humane edifices by heart. from the gentlest to the harshest, pound by pound, it called for his name. and he held their ideas inside him for the longest time, until they were no longer the same. until they, too, clattered into the rush of dissonance.

open battlefields were ribbons of suffocation, wisps inside his knots of an esophagus. but violent streaks ran nowhere but in his bloodstreams, rhyming the overture of sleepless hours spent on the longing.

            IV.

the revenants of revolution never skipped a heartbeat: there was always a lub-dub of life shivering underground. found himself stranded there before he, too, learned to love. and he loved, again and again and again, until he loved too much.

on the night three days before his eighteenth birthday, the moon hung itself like his mother did. stabbed and left for dead, their hatred mirrored his love — too much, too much, too much. he made a deal with the death for another paradox, promising that this time, he would learn to love better.

( in the end, he does not love better. death carved him into stalactites instead. )

            V.

the turpentine of twilight lures the deaths back to its morgue, sometimes in ashes, sometimes in commas – sometimes a period of crawling with smokes in-between. tattered teeth with keyholes and keywords, all rattling keys and sentences caught between the fangs, chewed up and spat out on the concrete. the start is always silent, the voices contained. in a room for two: housed between the flimsy walls would be him, bare to the skin to the flesh to the bones to the marrows. he drinks the quiet and lets it soak his blood vessels, veins and arteries creating a map like corrupted city streets.

nights are craters of the moonless dreams, deep enough to be called canyons. against the core of the bases would be arrhythmia waiting to happen. clasped to the soil would be footprints of indulgence – this is an elegy to addictions. every cursive of a movement creates a dynamic that he yearns so much, too much. every victory in the battlefield fractures the wasteland where he usually closes his eyes. wear and tear of the muscles and sinews, but here comes the marching sound of tomorrow; almost furtive, almost invisible. he doesn’t die tonight.

MUTATION.

darkness or shadow manipulation enables him to perform various tricks as long as there is the provided source of said element, which would be aplenty during the day and night. he’s able to mimic the darkness itself, using it as a means of transportation by opening portals through shadows, as well as producing offensive and defensive measures by solidifying the element, mostly by constructing weapons and shields. he can only use what’s available and enlarge it instead of creating it from full-fledged light.

STRENGTHS.

teleportation through shadows is what he primarily relies on, although this means that the shadows must not be too far apart — at four to five meters at the maximum in the distance, degree varying to his current stamina and energy. at this point in tier omega, he has yet to be able to merge himself fully in the darkness, so the transport is done via creating portals that he can dissolve into.

he can see in the dark due to enhanced vision, and this can be applied as seeing during the day. his sight is almost as perfect as it is in the light, although it could use some more honing. when new levels are unlocked, it’s possible for him to eventually see better in the dark than light. also, this application doesn’t require any adaptation.

umbrakinetic property construction via solidification of the element, and this includes weaponry to attack and protect himself with. solidified shadows work in the light as if it’s a solid matter as long as it’s been created to perfection by him prior to launch. this can also be used to trap people into their places by producing tendrils around the said people’s ankles, immobilizing his opponents.

WEAKNESSES.

up until this point he cannot create darkness out of nothing; there has to be sources, as small as they might be, to aid him during the expansion of darkness. he can make a small, condensed shadow into something bigger, but in the rare chances there isn’t any darkness at all, it will render his powers void.

distance of travel is limited, as teleportation through portals deplete his energy. it’s just faster than running, but it also consumes his energy as much as running would, just slightly less. when he’s exhausted, he won’t be able to perform this correctly, and there’s a possibility for him to be trapped within the portal for a few seconds.

moving shadows also prove to be troublesome towards his ability since it means that he might have to follow the shadows’ direction than his own. his teleportation also relies heavily on creating portal to portal from motioned shadows, causing this to be a hassle when it comes to reaching his destination.

he might be on par with light manipulators, depending on the opponent’s expertise. might find difficulties in adjusting his powers if all the shadows are erased via the light manipulation, which ends where he cannot perform his abilities at all.

while maintaining the solid features of the well-constructed items might not be a big problem, processing the dark energy to solid mass has proven to be a trouble for him, and it can take from below a minute for small projectiles like bullets, to up to five minutes to bigger weapons.

in the vein of inability to create darkness, while he can combine shadows to merge them into a bigger mass, but passing one shadow to the other via well-lit plane might exert more energy than necessary unless the shadows have been modified to be more solid.

[grecoisms]

title: so eden sank to grief [1/2]

fandom: xiaolin showdown

summary: 

“Chase Young was once training to be a Dragon of Fire. Kimiko tries to make amends.”

Come slowly—Eden Lips unused to thee Bashful—sip thy jasmines As the fainting bee.

i.

She is not yet nine when her father makes her sit down before - no, not next to - him, and not quite daring to meet her eyes, says:

"Kimiko, your mother has died."

As most children do not, she understands the definition of death - it is a sort of passing. And as most girls do, she is the cruelest to herself.

Thus she crosses her small arms and forces herself to be brave. Her voice is a tad bit louder than the usual;

"How?"

Tohomiko Toshiro looks at this strange child whom he does not feel being his own at all. She is tactless and wants to have everything.

Too much wildfire, is what this girl is - an emotional bomb, ticking to explode. Already burning herself up.

"My dear" the father says. For a moment, he cannot recall her name. "She killed herself."

Kimiko orders herself not to cry.

ii.

It is a relief, a redemption to leave the paternal house at the age of thirteen. Tokyo is suffocating - her father distant; her private school a prison. The fire in her soul hums low, starving - striving for a real family.

And this is what Kimiko finds;

The bond is not based on blood, but loyalty. It is but formed on one house and one greater purpose, heroic and ironic by any other name. She finds joy and she finds family, and these two somehow connect - cause and consequence - and Kimiko laughs and cries and feels more than she has since forever. She shapes herself and loves her siblings that are not of blood.

Clay, the ever-tower, firm and calm and her constant.

Raimundo, the light-hearted rebel; her first sweetheart.

Omi, the one who asks and answers his questions and others' too, always searching for parts of himself in the sharpest of shards. Even when very young, he is conscious of his place as a chosen oddity.

They all have their faults - and she loves them for these, truly.

iii.

Again, this is an old tale - perhaps the oldest there is -, but the girl falls for a boy. The daughter of fire thinks she loves the son of air, Raimundo with his tanned face and light eyes and his treacherous, endless heart. And when Rai leaves with and for Wuya, the witch from an older time, an evil time - only and only then, Kimiko does weep. Mostly without shame.

Raimundo arrives home in the first day of autumn, when the leaves are turning yellow and nature is turning towards rest. Although only a year older than Clay, he looks weary and somehow ragged and much, much older than his fifteen years.

When he reaches the gates of the temple, he holds his hands up high; a sign of surrender. His fingers are coated with blood, flashing brown under the sinking sun. His hands are empty. So are his hopes.

"Please" he pleads.

Clay wastes no time to hug him while Omi bows and accepts. But Rai is looking to catch her eyes, both desperate and daring, and she should love him as in the tales, yet she turns her face away.

Betrayal for a betrayal. Measure for measure.

Kimiko, under all that makeup, is still a child.

iv.

Omi turns fifteen in the summer Kimiko celebrates her sixteenth birthday. But unlike her clumsy attempts, Omi has territfying strength. And like her, he has a pride to match it.

The seas and the rivers and most people they meet along their travels adorn and bow before his every step. The rest of them, the three other monks, are well aware just how minuscule their roles are compared to the youngest among them. Yes, people respect him. Think him a legend.

But they are the ones who protect and tend for him, careful and watchful and loving.

It is such a long fall, Rai confesses to her one day, that dreamlike summer Omi turns fifteen. He is somber, a rarity. An easy fall. Easiest there is. Here I am, struggling to become an Apprentice while you are already on the way to becoming actual dragons, all because I was too cheap to resist temptation. And now I am here, always falling behind.

Behind them, Clay is teaching Omi the basics of playing the guitar. Dojo is there too, to argue, and be bossy. The air is light and the smell of the sun blinds the shadows on the ground.

Kimiko will remember Rai's words for a long time.

v.

Indeed, she will remember, for from the myriad of people they encounter, one man - half-beast, half-human - stands out, dark as the promise of death. His name is Chase Young.

And Kimiko can almost taste the longing in his eyes; not for Omi himself, but rather, the potential he represents. Chase Young is infinitely proud and endlessly jealous, a reflection of Omi by a thread.

"He used to be a monk too. A pure soul." chides Master Fung. Omi and Clay nod.

But Rai and Kim know way too much about temptation to put a good face on. To let this slide. They are well aware just how much pride cost and how heavy the price for ambition. They can see right through Chase Young, straight into his old and black heart. Dry as shriveled leaves.

Rai knows this. He lived and fought and paid the prices, thrice, for his mistakes.

And Kimiko has long learned this lesson, this lesson of pride, simply through experiencing these falls through the other eyes and skins of the other monks.

Fire, after all, feeds on and from the other three elements.

vi.

Upon realizing Omi would never join the Heylin, Chase - this thing wearing the mask of a young man - simply vanishes.

And thus, the four of them grow in strength and beauty, and the years pass like seconds. Courage in their hands, hope in their hearts.

Fools, all of them.

Shaolin apprenticeship requires purity in the form of celibacy and so they deny themselves the means of physical love. It is an abstract, a passive way of life, something Kimiko would scorn were it not for the fact that the boys she is living with are siblings to her, and it is enough. It is everything.

Still, still. She catches Rai's eyes sometimes, in the early mornings when they can't quite control where their eyes shift. His expression is shy and open at once, all yearning.

Kimiko has forgiven him a thousand times and back again.

Still. She pretends she does not notice.

vii.

Not long after turning eighteen, on the brink of winter, Master Monk Guan requests their presence at the Northern Shaolin Monastery, to allegedly aid the residents fix the bell tower. Omi and Rai are very excited - they had not seen Guan for years now, and idealism still runs strong in both their veins. It makes Clay chuckle and Kim roll her eyes fondly. Some things do not change, even with time.

Dojo takes more time than usual. Even dragons grow old and Dojo is Dashi's age, older than Guan himself. So when they begin to ascend with a speed like none before, the monks know it is not accident or Dojo's will that pushes them to fall into the thick depth of the Lulang forest.

Scrambling to their feet is not easy while having a moutful and handful of dirt - Omi is the first to manage, but Clay is the one who begins speaking.

"Was that good old Jack?"

Then a voice, low and polite and more of a hiss, behind her, but in front of the boys.

"Please, do not jest."

Of course.

Omi is dumbstruck and Rai's scowl is a surly sight. Kimiko doesn't have to turn around to know who is behind her.

"I only wish to talk with one of my long lost apprentice here." How it resembles a soft symphony, this voice. Like a reassurance.

She only dares to turn around slowly, as if calculated.

Although he is stroking Dojo's head gently, the dragon goes rigid - the terror is apparent in their eyes. Kimiko knows well that Chase wants them to witness this mock-gesture. For him, their dragon owes up to a three-course meal and a nicely-shaped dessert. How many years has it been since that? Thousand and five-hundred?

"I am not your apprentice." snaps Omi with a great deal of condescension.

"Get away from our dragon, Mister" Clay's voice is polite, but his hands on his lasso on his side.

The closest standing to the warlord is Kimiko. Chase is standing but five feet away from her, but she is strangely void of fear. A challenge, a revolt. He is somehow greater than her, much taller and wider, all the armor and the ambition feeding him since centuries. His face is proud, vanity clear on the sharp angles near his mouth and she could not remember his hair being this long, this shining. It falls down like a regal mantle on his shoulders, till his narrow waist and sturdy hips.

He is truly beautiful. Deadly, with a terrible, black heart.

She has a terrible feeling, one that fumbles in her throat and struggles to pries open her mouth. With great difficulty, she resists the urge to lick her lips - to lick his, a voice whispers but she shuts it out. Instead, Kimiko bites her tongue. Blood oozes in and it tastes morbid and metallic. Good. This will sober her up.

Meanwhile, Chase's gaze grazes the boys - her boys, her blood - who all turned strong and stately yet remained stubborn. He even bows a bit towards Omi, as if submitting. But this is a lie. Young bows to no one.

Then, if it is possible, Rai grimace is worsening by each minute they spend here. Chase smiles his predatory and his bitter smile, sudden and pearl-white and harsh. The hole where her heart is grows narrow and all too small as this mythical nobody (he, after all, changes his names as his skin) looks directly ahead and drinks in the sight of her. 

She is next and she knows herself. Knows him as well, how she might look through his eyes.

Small but strong, Kimiko has grown proportionately, her eyes the ocean, her lips the hue of blood. She has grown out her hair and dyed it not and put on no wigs to cover. Facade-free, Kimiko beams internally for she is exactly aware just how beauty born and bred she is, knows this from the faded photos of her parents that are ill-bound as of today.

It has been more than five years since they met. And she is a child no more. She is not afraid.

Yet when he looks (really, truly, genuinely stares into her eyes), she trembles.

His face is taken aback in his own manner. There is a certain softness passing over his expression now, the reptilian pupils grow dark and unfocused. And Kimiko's insides jump and there is something ancient and primal pooling down her stomach and through the vertebrae of her spine too. It makes her head spin and her breath hitch and she is getting lost and surely, if she would step anywhere now, she would stumble and fall. And oh. He trembles too, slightly, solemnly, subtly. Not of fear, and matching her tremors.

Oh.

It is such a long, long fall.

So this is what desire is.

Dissecting yourself alive.

viii.

"I have an urgent matter to discuss with Guan." As if hours or days passed between the previous sentence uttered. "It would be a verbal spar exclusively, I assure you."

Chase is acting nonchalant again by wearing the mask of total impassivity. Kimiko has never resented him more.

"Come with us to the temple then" her temper flares, wanting none of his bullshit. Fire is impatient and does not bear deferment easily.

Then she looks at the others, her boys. All of them are gaping at her.

"What?"

"Kim!"

"Helloooo" waves Rai. "He is E-N-E-M-Y. Gonna throw us off our own dragon at the first possible chance."

"I can wait for him here, palermo" Chase's laugh is silent. "Lest you die from fright."

Kimiko tears herself away from the sight of his mouth

Which turns out to be a grave mistake. Not even a second passes and the warlord is already heading towards Omi.

Immediately, Kimiko spins around and blocks his way. Behind her, Rai unsheathes his sword. The sound it makes is flat like a caress. They have long learned to fight as if making love.

"No" she prides on her voice to be strong and unwavering. "You cannot talk to him. At all."

Chase has to lean forward to be able to properly face her. He smells of smoke and blood and something utterly cold; the bronze tint of his shielding plate hurts her eyes, but she wills herself not to blink. Ultimately, this is a survey of power, a battle of discipline.

"Tohomiko" he murmurs. There is a clear crack in his mask now which can be clearly heard in his voice. "Your licence is not needed."

It is the exact moment Clay chooses. With an unnaturally blunt force, he reaches them, slamming himself into Chase who seemingly begins to roll, but is actually drawing the Dragon of Earth with him. Then, the nauseating sound of a bone or two breaking.

Clay bellows.

ix.

"Enough" screams both Omi and Kimiko. A great gust of wind mutes them - Rai has called his element for help and the trees crack under the boy's effort.

Not wasting any time, the tibetan monk launches himself to grab Chase by his hair, but he throws him over effortlessly, right onto Raimundo's face who swears something in Portuguese.

Kimiko jumps over both of them, at the collar of the armour, the other near Chase's face. The fabric of the cuirass starts to smoke at once. This is no threat, but direct action. It could easily melt too. The Star of Hanabi twinkles around her neck, pulses like a second heart and makes her hands too hot to touch.

"Enough" she repeats. She has become softer too, somehow more tender. Chase has a shadow of a smile playing around his lips, feral and full of scorn. 

"Come to the temple, if you only wish to talk."

He shrugs his shoulders, an action much too light juxtaposing his expression. There are infinite depths to him. Then. He places his hands on hers but does not clutch. It is far from a violent move; it is just sudden. Lovely. Intimate. An alarm, shrill and shrewd, goes off in her head. But she doesn't let go.

Even through his gloves he is tangibly cold.

"If I go to Guan's temple, I will die." his eyes are shockingly yellow and not humane at all. This should scare her.

"Don't be dramatic" Rai sounds astounded as he helps Omi up. He adds, "Asshole."

"Yes. Guan would not hurt you" adds Omi. "Not a single skin on your hair."

"Hair on your head" this is from Clay, a muffled grunt behind the boy duo.

Chase stares at their group, all dirty from wallowing on the ground and hoarse from screaming. And he begins to laugh. It is more of a snarl - his canines are way too sharp. And he still hasn't moved his hands away.

This is a dream, decides Kimiko, I have eaten too much strawberries before dinner and now I have kamikazecrazy delusions in my bed. And: Omiwill wake me up soon.

Instead, the dragonlord cuts her narrative. Back to reality.

"The place itself is too cold for me." he explains, slow and languid. There is a lightness at the edges. He finds this - them - amusing. "It is far too high, above the valleys. Unlike your temple."

"Pneumonia?" guesses Omi.

"Acrophobia?" suggests Clay.

"Your heart" Kimiko whispers, dawning on her. "Your heart would stop. You are half-reptile."

Chase catches her gaze.

"Dragon."

She snorts.

"Whatever."

x.

While Omi and Clay go to find and bring Monk Guan with them dragonbound, it is Rai's and Kim's responsibility to guard Chase Young. It feels ridiculous.

They are eyeing each other silently, all peril, if it comes to that.

Or rather.

The boy watches the girl, the girl watches the creature. The man.

"I don't like this at all, Kim." Rai stands very close to her and his voice is low and careful. "We both know that even if he came with peace now, it is all part of a bigger and definitely bad plan."

Yes, reckons Kimiko, observing this pale face, and dark hair. She reaches for Rai's hand, squeezes it as if to collect courage. Despite Master Fung's and Omi's optimism, this fair face hides impure intentions.

It pains her that she needs to remind herself.

[lenfaz]

Time Upon Once, ch. 14 (14/?)

Summary:  Killian Jones is a bailbonds man, living in Boston and doing his own thing. But on his 29th birthday, a kid knocks on his door and claims to be his son. What happens when Killian is forced to face his past along with a mystery prophecy about his own purpose in life?

Rating: M (eventually)

A huge thank you to @tnlph @businesscasualprincess and @blessed-but-distressed  for beta duties and @shady-swan-jones jones for the banner!

Tagging a few people that showed interest in this story:@lk0622 @nowforruin @sambethe @xemmaloveskillianx  @l-e-x-a-xd  @profoundlyfadedprincess @once-uponacaptain @icecubelotr44  @poetic-justice-96 @allietumbles @el-kelpo @jennjenn615 @leiandcharles @midnightswans  (want to be tagged? let me know and I’ll do it)

on Tumblr: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII

ao3 ff.net

Chapter XIV

The night had grown bitterly cold, even inside the Station. Killian left David sitting by his desk in his office and quickly boiled some water, pouring himself and the other man a cup of tea.

David seemed lost in his own thoughts when Killian handed him the mug. “Thank you,” he said, his eyes meeting Killian’s gaze dead on, like a man with nothing to hide. “I hope Kathryn’s somewhere warm, not out in this cold.”

Killian wanted to believe David’s good intentions were sincere. He wanted to believe the man in front of him had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance. That he was genuinely concerned about her whereabouts. That he wasn’t simply putting on an act for Killian’s benefit. But he’d chased enough skips and scumbags in the last decade to know that evil came in all shapes and forms.

“Mate, I think you need to start thinking about your situation here. Your wife is missing. You’re allegedly in love with another woman.” Killian reached for the phone record sheet. “And then there’s this phone call you can’t seem to explain.”

“I know, I know,” David sighed, his eyes scanning the sheet of paper again. “I can’t explain why it says that.” He looked at Killian with a troubled expression. “I swear, I didn’t do anything to Kathryn.”

Killian studied him for a long moment, trying not to show his internal struggle. He had proof, in black and white, that the man had lied to him - at least about the phone call. And yet, his internal lie detector, the one thing he’d relied on his entire life - other than Emma’s keen instincts about pretty much everything - was screaming against it. David seemed sincere in his statement and so troubled about the entire situation that even despite everything he knew about human nature, he couldn’t bring himself to hold the man. He knew that in cases like this, he couldn’t make a false move and compromise the entire investigation.

“I’ve been around a lot of liars and they usually have better material,” Killian took a sip from his mug. He stood to open the door of his office. “Now go home.”

“I can go?” David asked warily, clearly confused by this.

“I don’t even know if there is a crime yet, mate.” Killian leaned on the door. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“Thank you.” David placed the mug back down on the desk and stood up to leave. He’d crossed the threshold before Killian spoke again. “David?” he called, waiting until the other man turned back to him. “Perhaps you should consider hiring a lawyer.”

David looked crestfallen as he nodded and left the station.

/-/

Killian chose to walk the few blocks home, letting the chill seep into his bones in the hopes it might numb his mind a little and put a stop to his raging thoughts. His peace of mind was short lived, however, as Mary Margaret appeared on the sidewalk before him, reaching out for him, a hint of frantic fear in her voice.

“Is he okay? David?”

It seemed she still cared, even after all of David’s deceptions. Killian sighed, giving her a small smile as he slowed down and let her fall into step beside to him. “Aye, he’s shaken up but on his way home.”

“Any news from Kathryn? Did you check with Boston?”

Killian shook his head in defeat. “She’s not there, Mary Margaret.”

“What happened to her?” There was something in her voice that seemed not being able to grasp the magnitude of what was to come, and Killian felt an overwhelming need to protect her, to make her realize what she was about to face.

If she thought ten volunteers dropping out of her bloody festival was bad, she wasn’t going to survive what came next.

“All we know is that Kathryn found out about you two, treated you to a well-deserved slap and has now has vanished, her car found abandoned by the side of the road.”

Mary Margaret had stopped walking, her expression wounded and stricken. His words had made a dent in her, he could see it.

“Well deserved? Is that what you think?” The obvious hurt in her voice tugged at Killian’s better nature. But best she hear it from him.

He took a slow step towards her, his hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder.

“No, not at all, darling. But that’s what they will. I’m just trying to prepare you for how bad things are going to get if Kathryn isn’t found soon.”

“They wouldn’t think that David-” Mary Margaret started but Killian cut her off.

“They already do. And he’s not doing himself any favors by following you around with yearning looks and doey eyes the same day his wife goes missing.” Killian swallowed, his eyes meeting hers. “So if you know something, if there is anything about yesterday that you haven’t told me….”

“I don’t know anything” Mary Margaret attested. “I wasn’t with him. I haven't even talked to him today.”

Killian knew she was telling him the truth. “Aye.” He nodded and prodded her to start walking again. “Let’s go home, it’s bloody freezing out here.”

They hadn’t even made it ten steps in the direction of the loft when they both spotted Ruby standing by the bus stop. She was carrying a suitcase in one hand and seemed to be in the middle of fending off the insistent attentions of one Dr. Whale. From Killian’s vantage point, it didn’t look as though Whale’s advances were welcome.

“No, I really don’t need a ride.” Ruby’s words were firm, even with that creeping edge of annoyance. Her meaning was impossible to misinterpret.

And yet, Whale persisted with all the ignorance of a man that didn’t know when to stop. “It’s awfully cold. Let me carry your bag.”

The second step that Ruby took back spurred both Killian and Mary Margaret into action.

“Dr. Whale,” Mary Margaret called in a sharp tone.

Whale turned around, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Mary Margaret,” he said as his eyes traveled over her figure. Gods, Killian hated the idiot. To think that just today, he’d been encouraging Mary Margaret to perhaps give him another chance.

Killian’s contempt must have been visible on his face because Whale cleared his throat. “Sheriff, I was just, um, I-” He pointed towards the street. “Maybe I should-”

“Get lost, mate,” Killian didn’t have enough energy left in him to be polite at this point.

Whale nodded in acquiesce and simply walked away while Mary Margaret checked on Ruby.  “Was he bothering you?”

Ruby shook her head with a wry smile. “The day I can’t handle a leech is the day I leave town.” She turned around and Killian could see her breath coming out in puffs. “Which this is, I guess.”

The suitcase should have been a dead giveaway, if Killian weren’t already bone tired. “You’re leaving?”

“I had a fight with Granny. Quit my job,” Ruby declared with only a hint of a smile.

“You quit? Where’re you going?” Mary Margaret’s frantic voice made Killian’s senses wake up a little.

“I don’t know. Away.” Ruby shrugged, a hint of apprehension coming to her eyes as she eyed the bus stop sign.

“Buses out of town don’t really happen.” Killian hated to burst the woman’s bubble, but he hadn’t seen any buses in the time he’d been here. Before now he hadn’t paid it much mind. He hadn’t wanted to think of the implications, what with Henry’s theories about cursed towns. “Also, you might want a destination first. Figure out what you want to do?”

He knew a thing or two about running away from places and he didn’t think Ruby would make it without thinking a little about it first. Killian? For him it was a second nature to simply pack one bag, get in his car and drive away… but he’d had a lifetime of moving from one place to another, whereas Ruby, to his knowledge, had never left Storybrooke.

“Hey,” Mary Margaret started in that tone that Killian knew well. He’d been on the receiving end of it on a different chilly night. “If you need a place to figure things out, you could always come home with us.”

Oh for the love of… just what he needed after the day he’d had. Not to mention the days he’d have ahead if Kathryn didn’t turn up.

Mary Margaret turned to look at him, her concern palpable, and he could feel his resolve crumbling. She was right, it wasn’t good form to leave a girl stranded in the street on such a cold night. He was a gentleman - or so his mother used to say.

“Yes, lass, you can have my room.” He moved around to pick up Ruby’s suitcase. “I’ll take the couch.” He gave Mary Margaret a pointed look. If people weren’t already talking before, the fact that he was now an unattached man living with not just one but two single ladies, was going to be the talk of the town.

Mary Margaret seemed to read all his thoughts and soon her lips were turning up into a smile. “Nonsense Killian, you’re a big boy and you need to be upstairs… You wouldn’t fit on the couch anyway.” She linked her arm with Ruby’s and gave him her best impression of a kinky smile. “Ruby and I can share my bed.”

He tilted his head and cocked a salacious eyebrow. “Hang on, let me go get Whale… he might want to hear that.  Maybe even beg you to let him watch.”

/-/

Killian didn’t stay on the ground floor long enough to find out about the sleeping arrangements for the night. After safely depositing Ruby’s suitcase in a corner of the room, by the couch, he tilted his head in a farewell bid and escaped upstairs. He barely had time to change into his sleeping clothes before he collapsed into the bed and let the exhaustion of the day drag him down into a deep slumber.

He woke up the next morning slightly disoriented - he’d been dreaming about Emma again. The details had been fuzzy, but there he could feel a desperation in her dream version that made his throat close in despair as he fought the dread in the pit of his stomach. Running a hand through this hair, he picked up a change of clothes and headed downstairs, ready to start the day.

The ground floor of the loft was deserted, a note left on the counter - next to a covered plate - informed him that both Ruby and Mary Margaret had taken off for the day. He smiled at the fact that they were thoughtful enough to leave him coffee and breakfast ready and he quickly jumped into the shower. After dispatching the pancakes and two mugs of coffee, rinsing the dishes and tidying up a bit, he was ready to start patrolling the town for any clues he might have missed before heading into the station later.

/-/

Killian walked into the station, the muscles on his back already aching from the time spent pounding the pavement trying to find some clues, when a feminine voice surprised him.

“Sheriff’s station. Hey, Miss Ginger. Uh, no, that’s not a prowler. That’s Archie’s dog – Pongo. Throw him a vanilla wafer. He’ll quiet down. Did you still want to talk to Killian? Great. Glad I could help.” Killian took a few steps into the room, marveling at the site of Ruby  - looking like, well, Ruby - manning the phone efficiently as she dispatched the call, Henry sitting right next to her. Her little smile warmed his heart. She seemed to be in a better mood than the night before.

“How are you?” He asked as the threw the keys over his desk and discarded his leather jacket.

“Great!” Ruby said sarcastically, her smile now fading into a pout. “Except that I can’t do anything.”

There was something in her voice that tugged at Killian’s heart. He remembered that feeling of inadequacy very well. It had been imprinted on him - and Emma - time after time from foster family after foster family. It’d only been the memories of his parents and brother’s loving words what had prevented him believing the worst of what they said about him. It seemed like Ruby needed a little of that encouragement these days.

“I’m sure that is not true, lass. I’ve just seen you attending to that call very efficiently.”

“That?” The disbelief in her voice was heartbreaking. “That was nothing.”

Killian clenched his jaw, ready to contradict her but stopping himself short as a new idea formed in his head. From the files he’d been pouring over after Graham’s death, he knew there was budget enough in the station to cover for a deputy and an assistant/secretary at the station. The positions had simply never been filled - at least not until Graham had offered him the deputy job. He could use someone like Ruby to help him out. She knew how to manage the phones, was cordial enough and had the town knowledge to stop the more petty matters from ever reaching his desk. Besides, he’d set up a hotline in hopes that someone had seen anything related to Kathryn’s disappearance. He could use Ruby’s help to sort out the pranksters from the legitimate tips. And quite honestly, he could use someone around in the office to distract him from the silence that had filled the place since it’d been only him on the job.

“No, it isn’t nothing.” He made his tone firm but gentle at the same time as his eyes focused on her. “I have some the wiggle room in the budget, and I could use someone like you to help out around here if you’re willing.”

Ruby’s eyes lit with cheer and her smile widened as she quickly stood up from the chair and faced him. “Yes! Killian, thank you so much! I could answer the phone and help out. What else do you need? I can organize files, clean up. Please, I want to be useful.”

Her bubbly energy and eagerness to help made Killian smile softly. “I tell you what. I’m currently focused on the Kathryn Nolan case and I’d be grateful if you’d be so kind as to grab us some lunch. I am in desperate need of a burger and fries.”

“Done.” She smirked as she grabbed her jacket and bag, turning to Henry. “Do you want anything?”

“Two chocolate chips, and apple pie and a hot dog.”

Killian chuckled as he reached for his wallet and handed Ruby some money. “He’s at that growing age it seems.”

He was heading to his office when he heard Ruby speak again. “Mary Margaret! I’m getting lunch for everyone, do you want some?”

Killian turned in time to see Mary Margaret shake her head before her eyes found his. She looked concerned and slightly frightened.

“It’s David,” she said as she stood next to Killian, her voice filled with worry. “He’s in the woods and there’s something wrong with him.” Her eyes were begging for Killian’s help. “He looked right through me as he didn’t know me… as if he was a different person.”

/-/

Killian took a few moments to shrug on his leather jacket and review the paperwork spread around his desk while Henry carefully locked his storybook in one of the drawers in the deputy desk.

“Lad, I’m sorry to cut your visit short, but I need to investigate this situation with David.”

“It’s okay,” Henry lift one of his shoulders in an understanding way. “I’m supposed to meet my mom anyway.” He handed Killian the keys of the drawer and gave him a quizzical look, that look he’d come to associate with all Operation Cobra’s affairs. “You know, you can let Ruby do more.”

“Is that so?” Killian’s lips curve into a smile, still marveled at his son’s imagination to find a fairytale character match for every person in the town. “And who might Ruby be?”

“Little Red Riding Hood.”

Killian almost snorted as he tried to connect Ruby’s alluring image with the one he had in his mind from the childhood tale. “Really? With the innocent smile and the little basket? I really don't see it, Henry.”

“She’s a badass. She just doesn’t remember how cool she is or what she’s capable of. But it’s true.” Henry’s unwavering faith in people never ceased to amaze Killian. He gave his son a small smile and a quick nod of his head as the child left the station and Ruby walked in, her shoulders slumped and sad smile on her face.

“Here’s your lunch,” she announced as she placed the brown bag and the sodas on the desk. “One thing I know I can do right after all.”

Henry had a point about her lack of confidence and Killian ached for her. He never thought Ruby as anything but a confident person from the way she’d engaged with customers and everyone in town. But the way she carried herself - almost crass at times - seemed to be just a facade to hide her real feelings. Killian could relate to that, as he’d resorted to hiding his true feelings underneath a tough exterior a few times as well.

“I tell you what, lass.” He grabbed the paper bag and the sodas. “Let’s pack this up and we can eat in the car. I need to head into the woods and I could use your help with the search.”

Ruby seemed uncertain. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to screw it up. I mean I’ll do it with flair, but-” she shrugged her shoulders in a self-deprecating way that Killian knew so well.

“Flair is a requisite for the job, darling.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Besides, you can’t possibly be worse at tracking in the woods than me. I promise, you’ll be fine.”

/-/

The ride towards the edge of town was silent while Killian devoured his burger quickly, mulling over the past few days, not being able to control some of the thoughts invading his mind. He’d already had enough with the gossip surrounding Mary Margaret and him living together - and her dalliance with David - to add any more tattles regarding Ruby. And he didn’t want to give any impression to the woman that he might be interested in anything other than having her lend a helping hand around the station. He pulled over the side at the beginning of the trail that went into the woods.

“Ruby,” he started, clearing his throat, warmth blushing his cheeks. “You know I'm not taking you into the woods to try anything, aye?  I mean, you know that me offering you the job is not-” he stuttered over his words while Ruby quirked an eyebrow at him. “When we first met, I might have made a few remarks but I-”

Her lips curved into a smile and she pressed a hand over his arm to stop his idiotic babbling. “Relax, hotshot. It’s clear to all of us that you’re still hung up on Henry’s mother. A decade later.” She looked at him from top to bottom, assessing him. “She must have been one hell of a girl.”

His mind filled with images of Emma: from her quirky smiles to her fiercest looks and everything in between. Everything that made him miss her day in and out.

“That she was,” he admitted softly as they got out of the car and headed to the woods.

A few months living here in Maine, but Killian still had little to no idea on what he was doing while tracking in the woods. He tried to scout the terrain and pay attention to footprints on the ground, but his attempts were feeble at best. After all, he thought those looked like fresh boot prints but being actually sure was a different matter altogether.

“This place is massive. How are we supposed to find one guy?” Ruby was having a hard time finding some of the confidence she seemed to flaunt around the diner.

“Perhaps we can hear him?” Killian offered but he didn’t sound sure even to his own ears.

“Massive, Killian.” She threw her hands in frustration.

“Look, I think those boot prints might be fresh. Let’s follow those and see what turns out.”

Ruby looked at him with despair. “I shouldn’t be here… I’m probably going to ruin this for you.”

Before Killian was able to refute her words, Ruby had stopped dead in her feet, her head tilting to the side, her features changing completely. “Wait. I hear him.”

“You what?” he asked confused.

She tilted her head to the side and turned towards a path that went deep into the woods- “I can hear him, or something like him. Don't you?”

All he could hear was the sound of the wind brushing on the leaves, birds chirping and perhaps something that could be running water. A man? Not really. Ruby didn’t wait for his reply before she darted deeper into the woods and Killian had no other choice but to follow, putting extra care to watch where he was stepping.

“Over here!” he heard Ruby call for him and when he turned his head to where the sound was, he found Ruby standing over a pair of feet covered in men's boots. He took two quick strides and the sight in front of him revealed a bleeding and unconscious David. It was very much like the last time they’d found him in the woods, only that this time he was fully clothed instead that wearing only a hospital gown.

“David!” Killian called as he leaned over and shook the man, trying to wake him up. After a few shakes, David opened his eyes, looking confused and disoriented.

“Killian? Ruby?” He struggled to focus as Killian slowly helped him seat.

“Mate, do you remember anything?”

“No, I - what is going on? I was in your office and now… why am I here?”

Killian’s breath caught in his throat. “You don’t remember anything since last night?”

David shook his head and Killian felt his blood run cold.

This was bad.

/-/

Killian sent Ruby back to the station on the patrol car while he rode the ambulance with David towards the hospital. He sat on a chair nearby as Whale ran some tests on David and approached them both as the doctor gave David a diagnostic.

“Bruised, scratched up, a little dehydrated. Nothing out of the ordinary in cases like this.”

“What about the cut on his head?” Killian asked, as if to see if there might be something else going on there, like it being a defensive wound.

Whale seemed to read the intent of his question but had the tact not to verbalize Killian’s line of thinking out loud - almost unbelievable considering how tactless the wretched doctor was when it came to the female population of the town. “The cut is superficial, it could have been easily done when he fell down in the woods. I can refer him to Hopper for a full psychological evaluation but in my professional opinion, whatever caused the original blackout when he came out of his coma is the same issue we’re dealing with here.” He tilted his head as he pointed out David’s actions. “Disappearing, acting out, having no recollection of it later.”

Killian saw David flinching at Whale’s words and while the man still wasn’t his favorite person in town, he had a job to do as Sheriff. “We will get to the bottom of this, David.” He turned to face Whale again. “He talked to someone while in this trance… is that a common occurrence?”

“There have been cases of people doing all sorts of things in similar situations-” Whale started with the intention of expanding, but David cut him off, his eyes focused on Killian.

“You want to know if it’s possible I made that call.” Killian tried to keep his face blank, to not give away what he was thinking but it seemed David wasn’t fooled easily. The other man’s eyes widened. “More than that? If I could have taken her? Killed her?”

The last of his words came out in almost a hysterical shriek and Whale was quick to rush to David’s side. “Take it easy, Mr. Nolan, this cannot be good for you.”

But David’s eyes were fixated on Killian and he couldn’t avoid the other man’s pleading stare. “I’m just trying to piece it all together, that’s all. I’m trying to get to the bottom of this and find your missing wife.”

Maybe his words were harsh, but Killian needed to be strong in his determination to get to the truth in this case. He’d already been fooled once with the phone records and while he didn’t want to bring external examples to this, the man in front of him had quite dexterously fooled both his wife and his mistress. He might seem like a good bloke, but Killian wasn’t that sure.

David’s retort died on his lips as Regina’s commanding voice pierced the room. “Stop talking, David.” Killian turned to see her storming the room in all her majestic glory, her eyes poised to him with furious glee. “Why are you here? Why doesn’t this man have a lawyer present? Have you even read him his rights?”

Killian clenched his jaw and almost spitted the words out, his hand fisting at the side. “I’m here because I found him passed out on the woods and I’m trying to piece this together. I haven’t read him his rights because he’s not under arrest or even under questioning.” He took two steps and towered over Regina, who didn’t even move a muscle. “I’m here because, whether you like it or not, I’m the bloody Sheriff of this town and I’m doing my bloody job. Now why are you here, Miss Mills?” Regina’s eyes darkened as Killian decided to forego her town mayor status and he relished on that. “It seems to me that you might be interfering with an ongoing police investigation.”

At those words, Regina took one step closer to him and gave him a triumphant glare. “I’m his emergency contact.”

What the bloody hell? Had David been playing the field with Regina too? How many women were connected to this bloody idiot?

Without uttering a word, Killian turned his head and cocked an eyebrow at David, urging him to explain this strange situation. David looked confused. “I thought it got changed to Kathryn…”

Killian almost bought it, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe anything from the man at this point. He turned to Regina for her to explain.

She cleared her throat. “Kathryn is currently unavailable. Some people haven’t found her yet.”

Right, of course she’d turn the blame on him. Killian contemplated a sarcastic retort back to Regina, but it was futile at this point. He had better things to do with his time. He could leave the mayor to fuss over poor David while he focused on finding Kathryn and getting to the bottom of this.

“You’re right, Miss Mills. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go back to my duties.”

He didn’t even wait for a reply as he turned and left the room. He was going to canvass all of Maine if needed, but he was going to figure this out. And he had an idea on where to start… but he needed help.

/-/

Ruby had answered the phone in a friendly tone and it had taken a few tries for Killian to convince her to head back out into the woods and search near the Toll Bridge in his stead. Part of him - that part that always sounded eerily like Liam in his head - was telling him that one certainly shouldn’t leave a lass to fend for herself in the woods, especially with a possible kidnapper on the loose. But there was another part of him that had seen Ruby in her element tracking down David. When she’d let go of her fears, she’d been a much accomplished tracker in all of fifteen minutes that he’d ever been in his entire life.

Besides, he couldn’t leave the hospital yet. David was about to be released and Killian was planning to go back to his old bailsbond days and follow the man’s steps thoroughly, albeit stealthily. If David was lying, his mask would have to slip at some point. And Killian wanted to make sure he was there when it happened.

Ruby called him the moment she was into the woods and Killian did his best to soothe her frantic fears as he encouraged her to keep on going.

“Look for anything that seems out of place. Something that is there but shouldn’t be,” he tried to explain, frustrated for not being able to articulate himself better. But how can someone explain a hunch? It had no reason or logic, it was simply a deep-rooted belief that she’d be able to find something he most certainly could not.

There were sounds of steps and rustling on the other side and Killian held his breath, his eyes still darting towards the front of the animal shelter from time to time to ensure David was still there. Finally Ruby spoke again, her voice sounding slightly far away, as if she’d placed the phone on the ground.

“Any other clues?”

“I don’t know, something of Kathryn’s would be a good start.” He took a deep breath. “You can do this, lass. I have faith in you.”

Blasted hell, he was starting to sound like Henry.

The piercing sound of a scream on the other side of the line made Killian jump and he fought not to swerve the car, his heart beating frantically in his chest. “

“Ruby!” the fear was palpable in his raised voice, as he held onto his phone. “Lass! Lass!”

/-/

Killian didn’t know how long it took him to get to where Ruby was. When she’d finally stopped screaming and started blurting words frantically in between fits of hysterical sobs, the only words that Killian could make sense of there were ‘box’ and ‘blood’. He put on the siren and broke all speed limits, not really caring about anything but making his way towards the poor girl that he’d sent on the woods on a wild chase. His guilt was eating at his guts as he took one look at Ruby’s tear-stained face and without giving a blasted thought to propriety or gossip, he took her into his arms in a comforting embrace.

“I’m so sorry… I never should have asked you to come here on your own,” he blurted as she sniffed into his chest.

She took a deep calming breath. “It’s okay, I’m the one who wanted to try new things. I guess I got what I wished for.”

/-/

Killian couldn't quite recall the details of the ride back to the station. His heart was beating frantically in his chest and his fingers were holding the wheel with such force that his knuckles were turning white. He’d been a reckless fool in letting Ruby go out on her own. What had he been thinking?

Luckily, Ruby had quickly pulled herself together and she seemed almost like her old self by the time there were both standing in his office, the wooden jewelry box she’d found placed on his desk.

“It’s what I think it is, isn’t it?” Ruby asked softly, her eyes fixed on the box. Killian reached out to open it once again, almost wishing that it had all been a trick on both of their minds the first three times they looked.

Unfortunately, it was not the case. It was still a bloody heart sitting in there. Ruby let out a loud exhale and turned around.

“I can’t look anymore.”

“Ruby, I am so sorry,” he started, guilt tripping inside his chest.

She turned around and gave him a sheepishly smile. “You were just trying to help, Killian. You couldn’t have known I was going to find this hidden in the woods. It’s all my fault for trying to do something different.”

“Your fault?” He choked on the words. How could she possibly think that any of this was her fault? “Ruby look at me.” He waited until she met his eyes and gave her his most encouraging smile. “You were great in this Ruby. You found David - and then this-  with little to no direction at all while I was still trying to figure out which way was north in that blasted forest. I’ll still be trapped there looking for a clue if it weren’t for you.” He pointed to the box. “As awful as this is, it’s a good start for me to figure out things. I’m impressed with you, Ruby.”

He could tell she was fighting to accept the compliment. “I was scared out of my mind, Killian.”

“And you did it anyway. All the more reason to be impressed, Miss Lucas.”

She squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Sheriff Jones. But if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to see if Granny wants to give me my old job back. I don’t know what I want to do yet, but I know this is not it.”

He chuckled and nodded his head. “Fair enough.”

/-/

Killian took his time pulling the toolkit and dusting the box for finger prints, collecting them and running them through the system. He carefully executed each step, paying attention to ensure there were no mistakes that might later be ground for nullifying the findings. If the system came back with a match - and he was quite sure it would and they’d probably be David’s - he didn’t want Regina or any bloody lawyer in this town questioning the evidence.

His fingers tapped on the desk nearby the computer as the system run, his eyes darting from the screen to the wooden box, his mind already plotting how he would bring the man in for more questioning.

But then the system beeped and a name appeared on the screen. Killian had to blink twice to ensure he was reading properly.

Mary Margaret Blanchard.

He could feel the blood leaving his face as his heart stopped. Bloody Hell.

/-/

Killian punched his hand against the steering wheel in frustration, letting out a long exhale. He refused to believe it, but all signs pointed that he’d been played as a fool. He’d left the Station in a haze of thoughts, determined to find Mary Margaret and sort this out with her in the best possible way. But once he’d been able to track her down - she wasn’t at the loft, or Granny’s, or at the school - it was the last place he’d expected to see her.

He got out of his car and stole another glance at the animal shelter, witnessing her petite frame sitting on the edge of the couch as she talked to David. She was there. Not a day had gone by and she’d rushed to David’s side like a lovesick puppy, not caring about anyone or anything else.

Did she?

He knew evidence didn’t lie, that the fingerprints match name burning a hole in his retina was the truth he needed to abide. Had Mary Margaret lied to him all this time? Was she really the sweet school teacher that had fallen for the wrong man and had been tarnished in the process as he wanted to believe? Or was she a jealous woman, who was willing to do anything to secure the love of the man she wanted?

Killian had wanted to believe the first so badly, had wanted to believe that someone was as good as she’d seemed. He’d wanted to believe that after a decade, someone had come to genuinely care for him again.

And yet, the sole sight of Mary Margaret next to David in that animal shelter made his blood boil. She’d played him. She’d played them all and he’d been a fool for believing in it.

He took a deep breath, cracking his neck to the side as he buried the pain and anger inside of him and made his way towards the shelter. He closed his eyes for a moment before he pulled the door open and entered.

David was the first one to see him. His eyes were glazy, as if he’d been holding back tears of desperation. “What is it?” he asked, his voice as thin as a threat, the fear and ache palpable in it. “Did you find her?”

Mary Margaret turned to face Killian, her eyes filled with concern and he knew in that very moment that everything he’d been telling himself for the past ten minutes had been nonsensical. He knew it could not have been her.

He knew her.

But he still had a job to do. As much as his heart ached and he refused to believe it.

“We found a box in the woods.” Killian wasn’t even sure how his voice sounded so confident and collected when he felt anything but. “There was a human heart inside it.”

If someone’s world could fall apart in a moment, then David Nolan was the perfect image for it. He almost collapsed as his knees gave away and it was only Mary Margaret’s rushing through his side to support him.

“I’m going to send it for more testing, but there isn’t anyone else missing.” He wasn’t sure why he kept talking, other than he felt that if he’d stop, he was going to fall apart. David’s sobs were heartbreaking and a part of Killian wished to simply banish himself from this town forever. Mary Margaret turned to face him, her face nothing but sadness and concern.

“Maybe you should go.”

Killian tilted his head as he felt his own eyes filling in with tears he wasn’t willing to shed. “There were fingerprints inside the lid, Mary Margaret. I ran them through the records in town and there was a match.”

His voice was breaking and he had to take a step back to compose himself.

“Arrest me!” David’s word cut through the same between them like a blade.

“David, no!” Mary Margaret sobbed, her hand trying to reach him but failing.

“Mate,” Killian started, not even sure how he was going to continue speaking. “They weren’t yours.”

There was shock in both set of eyes. Killian didn’t want to, but he forced himself to meet her eyes.  “They were Mary Margaret’s.”

If a heart could break again and again, he was damn sure Mary Margaret’s was as her eyes widened in realization and she turned to David only to find the man looking at her in disbelief.

[kyoune]

recurring

fandom: mystic messenger word count: as yoosung would say.... “around 600 2000?” notes: saeran “ray” / mc, persephone & hades reincarnation au, takes place on v’s route, beware of spoilers! 

in your dreams, instead of an elixir, you see pomegranate seeds. 

The newly opened florist attracts a mean crowd.

Ivy vines crawl among the cracks of the tattered brick, framing the building’s GRAND OPENING banner, slung carelessly across the center sign. Though the initial front of the store looks worse for wear, it’s lively - filled to the brim with customers, they swarm among the doors, buzzing

The breeze that tickles you feels familiar, brings back memories of wildflowers and spring days. the fields of Nysa are in full bloom. They’re so pretty this time of the year, hm? A maternal voice hums in your ear, from a figure whose slender fingers (like yours, strangely) glide through your hair.  

You don’t know why or how you can recall that specific place; it’s a place you’ve never been, yet the nostalgia is so strong.

When you open your eyes again, you are in the middle of the streets of Seoul, a bumbling young woman thrown to and fro by the rambunctious afternoon crowd. Ah, right. There’s somewhere you need to be, and your stomach is growling and -

-- there’s an unknown app on your phone.

Why do characters in horror movies act so stupidly? you used to ask. A handful of popcorn in one lazy hand, you’d binge watch the latest productions on your TV screen, shrouded in the dark and shaking your head, cringing at the thoughtless acts of “bravery” the protagonists would perform. How foolish, you had thought.

Little did you know, your own mockery would soon turn sour in your mouth.

It’s incredulous how a few taps and a phone call later, you’d gotten yourself into an unknown car, let yourself be blindfolded and taken away. It was stupid, yes, stupid, you admit, but there was something in that voice you couldn’t let go, a melancholy immune to time.

The car slows to a halt, graceful and soundless. Must be an expensive car, you think, as the nauseating lurch of gravity gently guides you forwards, putting more bubbles of anxiety in your stomach.

When the blindfold comes off, it is not the light that hits you hardest; it’s white hair, and a magenta heart, eyes the shade of a blue so shockingly otherworldly.

You’ve seen those eyes before.

“Ah, there you are.”

Decked in purple and black and greys, from head to toe, Hades, god of the underworld --

“Ray.”

“I don’t know what your tastes are, but I hope you like it.”

You do. It’s pink, and posh and god is it your dream room. Perhaps he simply has the same tastes, or perhaps he’s been stalking you - either way, it perturbs you that you almost don’t mind.

In a way, he feels less like a captor, and moreso a protector. Hell, with all these preparations done and his anxiety apparent, he appears like an admirer.

You wonder if this “Stockholm Syndrome” thing is getting to you, but then lunch comes, and food erases any debate of it from your mind.

(While you lift a forkful of eggs to your lips, a scenario pops out of nowhere: A tall man, robed in darkness strides towards your general direction. When your eyes meet, his face is kind, and lonely, and looks a little too close to someone else you know.)

As night befalls the residence, the screams and cries (of happiness! or so Ray claims...) die down. In their place, footsteps and shaky whispers brush along outside your floor, and the building turns into a haunting likeness of Hell. It’s a bizarre place, and it makes you uneasy, but for some reason, you don’t feel like much of a stranger. In fact, call yourself crazy, but you feel secure.

The underworld is intriguing. Outside is the river of Styx, of inverted nature. Souls and hands of the lost yearn to latch onto you, but Ray promises he will protect you, he swears.

“I shall be no unfitting husband for you…”

When you sit up and rub your eyes, however, he’s nowhere near you at all, and you wonder why your dreams are someone else’s memories.

“How do I pursue you, Ray?” you had joked, your smile reaching up to your eyes, and he’d been speechless, breathless. You are so lovely, so unlike him. Your voice lilts up the air and fills it with an energy he didn’t he was lacking, and perhaps, just perhaps this is what people mean when they say they’ve found their missing half.

Speechless and out of breath, he fumbles against embarrassment, fingers idly thumbing his tie. Dismissing the idea with a casual laugh, Ray flashes you a smile, sincere and twice shy, and tells you that unfortunately, those AIs are the only options.

You shoot him a pout at this, to which his smile widens. Before he figures you can do any more damage to his poor, lonely heart, he leaves, but not without parting words.

“I’m so happy you’re here, Persephone.”

An hour after he has taken his leave, you muse over that statement.

...your name isn’t Persephone.

“If you drink this elixir, you can be with me forever…”

Persephone is smarter, this time. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

But you have no shame, you remember pomegranate seeds and your first exposure to a real “contact”. You recall the beginning of no returns, and of periods where the Earth grew barren in grief over your disappearance.

Now, V’s face is the sad, mourning Earth, stripped of Mother Nature’s gifts. In his urging shouts, and alarmed “Run! It’s dangerous here, go!” you see Helios, the Sun. Go back, he pleads, your mother wishes for your return.

Hurried footsteps of hooded believers clash against the monotone droning of the computers behind you, and the mixture of V and Ray’s screams confuses you. Where do I go? Where can I run?

Caught between the chaos of the present and memories of someone else’s past, you blink, and see pomegranate seeds rolling on the floor, all red, red, red, and it makes you forget about the teal-haired hero and the sound of shattering glass.

“You…..”

As a new chaos unfolds before you, you wonder who you really are.

These are not AIs. You’ve known this from the start, because you are no fool.

How you know it best, however, is when the RFA members yearn for you, attracted like sunflowers to the sun. V and 707, red and blue, drone on and on about “research”, and a peculiar desperation in their searching rings a bell somewhere within.

But you’ve never known these people. Never in your life have you seen these faces, or heard their names (well, Jumin is an exception, probably, but it doesn’t strike much of a memory), and yet they are your family.

Maybe it’s the power of friendship? you tease, fitting in the group with ease. Their replies, as always, are hilarious: Jumin muses about the scientific validity of such a force, all while ordering Jaehee to compose another report. You can practically hear her sigh through the texts, joined by 707 playing along, Yoosung’s shocked stickers, and Zen being Zen.

This everyday banter is what you fall asleep to.

And you can feel it now, your lids heavy with the weight of sleep and stress. As if on cue, a total darkness consumes your vision, and a high-pitched shriek begins to ring in your ears.

( Demeter, your poor mother - her wretched wails can be heard from underneath the surface of the Earth. Like a banshee, she cries and cries, walking the Earth and demanding for you. I want my daughter back, give her back… )

An all-too familiar pop! tears you away from the vision, and you sit up again, gasping. Reflected off your phone screen is a message from V: “..those are the coordinates of my current location.”

You really should stop dozing off...

(Or you’ll get captured by Hades again.)

“Please stay with me… please don’t leave me... “

It’s a curse, you swear; you’ve seen this before. On his knees, Ray begs, pleading with the same desperation you thought you saw from the RFA. Voice cracking and soaked with tears, his fear of abandonment tears deep into your heart, a double-edged blade that cuts both you and him. One side needs you, the other wishes to save you, and the two worlds unknowingly engage in a game of tug-of-war with you.

But all you are is just a girl.

You are Persephone, you are the maiden of spring, and you are leaving.

“I will return to you.”

You lace your fingers into Ray’s, a soothing hand ruffling his hair, and seal your promise with a kiss. Head held high, a blank face betraying any hesitation you might feel, you beckon for 707 to hurry, before the Savior can catch up. Your lips move without you knowing.

“Come along, Hermes.”

707 slows, just for a bit, and shoots you perplexion.

“Who’s Hermes?”

The months fly by, and the calendar dates start to feel off. When did time start to hurry so much?

“Mint Eye’s headquarters have been detonated.” Someone, maybe 707, maybe V tells you, one day. “Rika went to one of our parties.” is told to you on another. You don’t really recall whose voice it was, because you’re lost in fuzzy daydreams of Hades and Persephone, and the possibility that Saeran is still alive.

Then, a phone call arrives one day, and your hands begin to tremble when the name “Saeran Choi” is uttered from the other line.

-

The hospital is a pallid white, too industrial, too formal. You wonder if this is also some alternate form of the underworld, because it makes you uncomfortable, makes you feel sick (ironically). But it has that same feeling, that certain security you’d feel nowhere else…

Or maybe you just feel that way because you see him, Ray, Saeran….

Embalmed in tangled sheets and IV drips, he’s barely even a person; as soon as you dare step in his direction, the nurses sense your intent and rein you in, their voices weary and their grip on your arms a touch too forceful. Substance abuse and mental neglect had shaped him into a violent, unstable man, and they all fear for your safety, but it’s alright, it’s alright, because he was once a god too.

So you raise at them the eyes of a God’s wife, silently imploring for their understanding. They’re the eyes you’ve used in your dreams, and it comes natural to you now. Though you don’t expect them to work, they do, and when Saeran rises, they fully back off.

Your eyes meet blue again, the otherworldly blue you love so, so much, and the maiden of spring intertwines her fingers with the god of the underworld.

“I missed you.”

author’s notes: god playing v’s route i thought of two things: 1) this kind of feels like persephone and hades with regards to ray/mc’s relationship and 2) please tell me ray gets a happy ending (and im heartbroken to learn he doesn’t...) so! this fic is a little kind of self-indulgence, a reincarnated hades/persephone! ray/mc thing with the added bonus of them having a happy ending :)

i havent written fanfic in a year & kind of rushed this + moved around some parts of the timeline so sorry if the events are kind of out of place... 

more saeran fluff is on the way… and i do want to try my hand at zen or vanderwood fluff soon.

[chickpow]

Caught in the Act

Chickpow here: I found an old disc/floppy disc in my attic containing a lot of very old fanfiction from authors and websites that are either gone or taken down. I am not the author but I would like to share what I’ve found. if you find the author please let me know so I can credit them properly. Thank you and enjoy

2nd note from Chickpow: This is the one story where I really wish there was a sequal, if anyone wants to try it, let me know. I also wish there was more stories about this pairing.

Caught in the Act

by Angelus

 Act One: The Cast

  scene i

Goten was silently grateful for the navy blue blazer that shielded his broad frame against the early Autumn wind. His foot kicked idly at the brilliant crimson and gold product of the season, never breaking his stride, and sent the leaves scattering in several different directions, only to be caught and tossed by the very breeze he walked against. Hitching the padded strap of his book bag further up one shoulder, the young demi-Saiyan strode purposefully down the shaded asphalt lane, broken with diluted rays of afternoon sunlight that sliced through the patchwork frame of trees above him, casting soft grey shadows on the edges of his vision. Sure, he could have flown, but the day was too beautiful to take for granted, and so the youngest Son found himself virtually skipping down the road to Capsule Corporation.

It felt like absolute ages since he'd seen Trunks, and the prospect of meeting with the older boy had his stomach in an intricate knot work of uneasiness. They still spoke occasionally over the phone, though those precious moments had dwindled down to almost nothing since both had started school about two weeks ago. A scowl graced his youthful features as the thought flit across his wandering mind. Ever since his mother had placed him unwillingly into a private school.

Following the nature curve of the road, Goten disregarded the dark thought and found himself smiling widely as the first glint of sunlit white shone off the domed roof of his destination. Absently jerking the bag more firmly onto his shoulder, Goten quickened his step, relishing the comfortable sound of crunching leaves beneath his feet and the gentle wind in his ebony hair.

scene ii

"Damn piece of shit..." Vegeta swore quietly, leaning farther over the mechanical contraption and putting forth a valiant effort to fit the tiny silver screw into the even smaller hole that was designed to hold it. For the thousandth time since he had sat down in his task, he cursed the absent mother of his children. Holding his lower lip tightly beneath his teeth, the Saiyan prince ceased all breathing and movement, focusing intently on the matter at hand. The driver in his hand turned obediently with the careful flicks of his wrist, fastening the plastic cover back into place. With a satisfied smirk, the man straightened his posture, the hands still curled around the various tools of his labour moving to rest on his hips. Nodding once, he bent again to examine the row of grey buttons that compiled the top of the machine. Furrowing his brow in concentration, one finger lifted to jab at the largest triangular shaped object containing the depressed indent of a small square.

Immediately his ears where assaulted with the loud, booming bass of one of his daughter's wretched CDs, still lodged within the closed compartment. Baring his teeth, the prince moved to turn down the volume, though only succeeded in worsening his predicament as a woman's husky voice broke through the pulsating beat-

Oh baby, baby...how was I supposed to know that something wasn't right...

Pausing above the button he knew would silence the debilitating noise, Vegeta stole a glance around the deserted kitchen. The woman was out, his son and daughter still at school...Unconsciously, his left foot began to tap in time to the horrendous beat.

Show me how you want it to be. Tell me, baby, cause I need to know now! Because, my loneliness, is killing me. And I must confess I still believe (Still believe!) When I'm not with you I lose my mind- Give me a sign! Hit me baby, one more time!

scene iii

The youngest Son bit the inside of his lip, brow drawn in a moment of indecision. He'd pressed the little round circle twice already, listening intently for any response to the resounding ding of the doorbell. Music beating a soft cadence from within was the only indication that someone was at home. Moving closer to the wooden frame, he could almost make out the words of the song. Must be Bra, he mused, picking out the heavy tempo and chipmunk voice of the pop star the little girl loved so much. Shaking his head, Goten reached for the handle-no one would mind if he simply walked through the door. He'd had an open invitation to do so from the moment he and Trunks had been brought home from Kindergarten, scuffed and bloody after unsuccessfully trying to spar on the playground. Both families had realized the ultimate futility of attempting to keep the demi-Saiyans apart. Even Vegeta had overcome his irritation enough to allow his son to interact with "Kakarott's brat".

Stepping over the threshold, Goten was at once awash with the scent he had unconsciously been yearning for. This is home, he thought, rotating slightly to shut the door behind him, kicking out the mischievous leaves that danced inside, coaxed by the light rush of air his entrance created. This was were he had spent countless hours-hours that had bled into years of his youth. Here was a home that had a mother that didn't yell or constantly complain, and a father...

Inhaling deeply the interwoven aroma of Bulma's perfume and the ammonia based cleaner her robots used when picking up the house, Goten faintly recognized the undertone of something muskier that he had instinctually craved...Ever since Gohan finally told mom to go to hell and walked out the door...

The scent of another Saiyan. Three to be exact, one of which he was currently sensing from the direction of the kitchen.

Hiking the bag higher on his shoulder, Goten moved from the doorway and toward the source of both the sound and the smell that played a game of remembrance with his senses.

...There's nothing that I wouldn't do...

"Oh, Dende-sama..." his whisper was more of an enraptured exhale of shock. The concept of time was an alien thought in the boy's muddled mind as he watched the man he could almost call father dance to his daughter's favourite song.

Show me how you want it to be. Tell me baby, cause I need to know now!

Vegeta's slender hips had captured the rhythm perfectly, the tail that had grown back over a decade ago complimenting the erotic movement with long, sensuous sweeps of the air behind him. Those sculpted arms were pulled tightly to his body, and his hands...Goten finally found the muscle strength to swallow, saliva wetting a path down an uncomfortably dry mouth. The Saiyan prince was running his hands over his own figure in the most sexual fashion the demi-Saiyan had ever witnessed. Even when he and Trunks had managed to wire up the Spice channel in the Cable to his room upstairs, the young man had never seen such an arousing sight. No woman he had ever laid eyes upon had ever danced like this...It was like the prince was worshipping his body with his own hands, caressing the smooth, flawless skin in fluid motions of pure, animal grace.

...When I'm not with you I lose my mind-Give me a sign! Hit me, baby, one more time!

Goten's first sensation, when his brain finally began to respond to his silent, insistent screams of embarrassment, was of heat. The foreign fire that sparked in his loins, that, until this moment, had been reserved for the son of the man he now found himself unable to stop drooling over, and the rush of blood that surged to his face left him light-headed and breathless. With a violent shake of his head, the boy forced his gawking mouth to close. Dende, this man was like a father to him! Although...bless their Saiyan heritage; Vegeta looked barely half his fifty years.

Oh baby, baby...I shouldn't have let you go...

The music suddenly slowed considerably, dropping in volume. The revolution of the Saiyan's hips matched the pace, his incredibly built arms sliding up his body...

I must confess-my loneliness, is killing me now!

Entwining above his head to lock seductively behind his neck...

Don't you know I still believe!

Only to slide down his chest, over his denim-clad thighs...

That you will be here and give me a sign...

Continuing downward, his nimble body bending in half, giving the Son an excellent view of his rear...

That's it, Vegeta, Goten found himself thinking as his dark head bent with the beautiful figure before him, famished eyes devouring every single movement. Just a little further...

scene iv

Although Vegeta had admittedly loosened up over his years of living on the miserable little planet he reluctantly dubbed home, he had never allowed himself to become so utterly relaxed. The thick, upbeat vibration that flowed from the little black box on the table surrounded his form, enticing his hips to move, his hands to follow, until all that remained still and unmoving were his feet on the floor. Even his tail was caressed by the infectious notes, snapping and waving in time to the cadence. He lost himself in the melody, dark eyes closing, the hard lines fading from his severe features as his body responded to the music.

scene v

Hit me baby, one more time!

The song was winding down, the pulsating tempo receding to a dull thumping rhythm. Goten has ceased all coherent thought, his adolescent hormones ravaging his poor mind until all he acknowledged was the sight of the man before him, though part of him absently wondered what Vegeta would do if he took the song's advice and slapped him on the ass... The fingers gripping his canvas bag grew slack; it slid, forgotten, off his shoulder and landed on the hard wood floor with an audible thud.

Instantly, Vegeta's body snapped into an upright position, brown tail coiling around his waist, deadly black eyes seeking the origin of the sound and the person that dared to interrupt him.

Goten froze, a rabbit pinned beneath the iron gaze of the wolf. He had no breath to draw, no heart to beat, as though remaining impeccably motionless could somehow throw the other man off his trail. With a final series of notes, the song ended, the player leaving them in deathly silence. Before another could begin, the prince reached over with a measure of practiced control and pressed the stop button, the CD winding down with a flurry of soft sound.

Shifting his feet uncertainly, the boy cast his wide eyes swiftly down, immediately discarding his irrational desire in favour of stark embarrassment.

scene vi

Damn the boy's weak ki! Vegeta mentally swore, berating himself for letting his guard down completely enough for the demi-Saiyan to walk in entirely undetected. If Goten had been his father, this never would have happened. I could feel Kakarott from a mile away...But the boy wasn't his nemesis, and Vegeta had gotten used to his presence over the years-the quiet, willing figure that had tagged along in the shadow of his own son. He had the most insane urge to throw the offending machine against the far wall. Sighing, he released the young man's gaze. Then he'd have to fix the damn thing again. It wasn't worth it...

scene vii

"What do you want?" Goten's eyes focused trailed up hesitantly from their blank stare on the floor. Bringing them to rest on those of the Saiyan prince, the young Son noticed exactly how difficult this was for the other man as well. He silently admired that Vegeta had the voice to speak after being caught in such a...compromising and uncharacteristic act. Black orbs widened ever so slightly as a fiery scarlet splashed the prince's well-defined cheekbones. Goten had never seen the man blush before. It was...awkward. Swallowing thickly, he fleetingly remembered the time he and an eight-year-old Trunks had accidentally walked in on the conception of his best friend's sister. Vegeta hadn't even bothered to pause in the act, let alone blushed, only thrown a pillow at the two slack-jawed boys and growled something unintelligible that one didn't have to be a genius to understand.

The beginnings of a smile dashed across his handsome Son features as the crimson stain intensified in the heavy silence, washing over his face and creeping down the prince's elegant throat. He couldn't help but think the man was kind of cute when he blushed...

scene viii

Crossing his arms, Vegeta eyed the boy he had raised along side his own son, heartily attempting to quench the fire in his face. His natural scowl deepened as the boy regarded him with a look that the prince was hard pressed to identify. Before he could ponder it, the glance was gone, replaced by that infuriating Son smile that had become the bane of his royal existence.

"Well?" He snapped, irritated and at the end of his insufferably short rope. He was finished with feeling like he was on display for the boy's amusement.

scene ix

"I-I..."

The front door slammed, jarring the uncomfortable silence and causing tense muscles to jerk, his thumping heart to skip an unneeded beat. It was rapidly followed by an enthusiastic, girlish cry.

"Papa!" Vegeta's dark fathomless eyes blessedly left his own, sliding down to the little blue-haired streak that ran past him. With more speed than his eyes could follow, Bra was in her father's powerful arms, small white stockinged legs wrapped around his waist.

"Did you fix it?" Her feminine voice was pitched higher than he remembered. The little girl that had once been nothing more than a bundle in those thick arms was still small, but growing like a weed. No, make that a flower. She had inherited her mother's delicate frame, but artistically granted her father's devilish eyes. Both children had been graced with the blood chilling Saiyan glare.

Nodding, the prince hefted his daughter as if she were weightless, resting her against his hip and turning her toward the table. Greedy hands reached out to collect the cherished CD player, cradling the large object against her chest. With a genuine smile of affection, the girl planted a sloppy kiss on her father's cheek before squirming out of his arms and running to the door, burden held awkwardly in her small arms.

Skidding to a halt, Bra regarded the other demi-Saiyan with narrow, searching eyes. Goten couldn't help but notice the resemblance she held toward the elder Saiyan in the room and released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding as she broke into a broad grin.

"Goten-kun!" One arm was automatically thrown haphazardly around his waist, the machine balanced precariously between their bodies. With a laugh, Goten embraced the younger demi-Saiyan, squeezing her back with as much force as she had mustered in her tiny little frame. Struggling with the breath that was knocked carelessly from his body, the boy reflected that she even if she looked deceptively like her mother, Bra was definitely just like her father.

And then she was gone as fast as she had arrived, black shoes clacking in a patter of running steps all the way up the stairs to her room and mingling with the echo that lingered after her energy-filled form had disappeared. "Arigato, Papa!"

Silence descended like a black velvet curtain between the two men.

Clearing his dry throat, Goten gathered his courage and opened his mouth to speak.

"You fixed that? I thought Bulma did that kind of thing..." Vegeta seemed to physically relax as the boy spoke. Well, as relaxed as one could appear with an arms crossed stance and stern, piercing glare. He's probably just glad I didn't bring it up...though I'd love to compliment him on it. Nah. He'd probably beat me into the ground. Giving the young Son his back, the prince turned his attention to the kitchen table, occupying himself with cleaning the resulting mess of his labour.

"Woman's not here." Reaching down with one hand to grasp at the strap of his book bag, Goten let it dangle at his side as he made his way into the room.

"Did she have to work late again?" Vegeta's obvious snort of amusement snagged the wandering strand of his attention and he settled his black eyes on the smirking face of his best friend's father. A smile quirked at the edges of his lips as he set down his bag beside the leg of the table, pulling out a chair and seating himself comfortably within it's metal frame.

"What?" The prince's only response to his inquiry was to chuckle harder, hands skillfully collecting the small screwdrivers needed to repair such an intricately made piece of equipment. With a long, sweeping gesture, Vegeta scooped the half dozen meandering screws into his opposite hand. Glancing up at him over the raven ridge of his brow, the man gave him a conspiratorial grin.

"Yeah, working. I guess fucking your customers is like work, ne, boy?" Goten's jaw dropped, his mouth fumbling with nonexistent words. Leaning forward on his elbows, the Son couldn't help but whisper, as though seeking to hide the information from...who? Her husband apparently already knew her whereabouts.

"You're kidding! Bulma-san's having an affair?" The man nodded his affirmation, dumping his handful of small grey objects into the trash, a tiny shower of glittering silver. Goten really had been gone too long..."Well--well how do you know?"

Vegeta grinned ferally, hands braced against the slick surface of the table; the prince leaned forward until he was no more than a foot away from the demi-Saiyan's wide obsidian eyes.

"I can smell it on her."

Swallowing sharply, Goten sat back abruptly, hitting the chair with enough force to leave vertical, bar-shaped indents in the soft flesh of his back. Those eyes...it was all too easy to get lost in their inky depths. And that savage glint that lit the darkness within them was disturbing. Maybe because of its animal nature, though the boy knew subconsciously that it was because of the pure Saiyan quality that it held. A Saiyan virtue whose absence had been tearing at the filmy walls of his suffering humanity.

With another grunt and a lingering glance, the prince stood, dusting his hands off on the faded denim of his blue jeans. "Why are you here?"

scene x

Hn. Stupid Kakarott. If he had been around more and trained him properly, the damn kid wouldn't be so jumpy. Vegeta watched the friend of his eldest offspring with an interested air. He'd gotten a certain amount of satisfaction in shocking the boy-though that was one of his most coveted past times. It kept people on their toes and gave the prince a tactical advantage.

"I came by to see Trunks." The demi-Saiyan bent to retrieve something from the blue bag at his feet, ripping open the zipper. His dark head bobbed along the edge of the table as his hands sorted through the mess of his schoolwork. The rustle of papers and the sharp smack of books hitting the floor greeting the ears of the Saiyan prince. "I know it's in here somewhere..."

"He's not here." The boy's head rose slowly over the horizon of the table's edge, dark eyes filled with intense disappointment.

"Oh..." Long fingers gripped thoughtlessly at a paperback book in his hands, nervously flicking the tattered corners. "But he said..."

Vegeta's eyes narrowed. If his boy had broken another commitment, he was going to be pissed.

"What?"

scene xi

Goten forced the lump in his throat to dissolve enough to allow him speech, mistaking the warning tone in the prince's voice to be directed at himself.

"It's no big deal. He just said that he'd meet me after school today, to help me on a project..." The Son forced himself to shrug nonchalantly. "S'ok. He must have gotten the days confused, is all."

Vegeta's annoyed growl caused him to drop the book he was holding; it lay on the surface between them, the only thing besides the table itself that separated them. Goten may have grown up around the unpredictable Saiyan prince, but he had had his moments of abject terror in his youth when it came to the other man's actions. His mind engaged in a swift rundown of all the ways he could escape the building, should it come between fight or flight.

xii

The prince swore fluently, fists curling in agitation. When would the boy start acting like the prince he was? It was dishonourable for royalty to break their word unless survival was at stake. And looking at the boy across from him, the man knew that he was no match for his heir. No, Trunks had not forgotten his meeting with Goten. He had simply chosen not to mind it.

Vowing to have a...talk with his son when he came home, the Saiyan prince carefully regarded the boy in front of him. He was trying so hard to hold the pretense of indifference. With a father like his, one could hardly blame him. Vegeta was sure that Goten had been given plenty of practice when it came to shouldering his disappointment.

"What do you need him for?" Shimmering ebony eyes blinked back an unwanted watery intrusion. Silently commending his effort to be strong in the face of obvious disenchantment, the prince awaited his response with something akin to paternal concern.

scene xiii

Goten wiped the back of his sleeve across the burning redness of his eyes. He wasn't about to break down in front of the man he admired most in the world and cry like a baby. Stifling a sniff, the young Son slowly pushed out of his chair. There was no reason to stay now...his stomach ignited in a panicking blaze of nervous agony. He really didn't want to go home. It was so...dark, and lonely, a complete and utter contrast to the brightly lit room he stood in. Hell, even if Vegeta and Bulma weren't on the best of terms, at least Trunks' father hadn't taken the ready excuse and left...

The Saiyan's question finally processed in his brain, and Goten turned in the course of stuffing his bag. Reaching for the book that lay discarded on the table, the demi-Saiyan replied, "I have to memorize part of a play for my acting class. He was going to help me with it."

"Hn." Sighing heavily, the demi-Saiyan fingered the little red paperback, hoisting his bag back over one shoulder. Funny, it felt even heavier now...

"What play?"

"Huh?" Goten looked up in confusion. Vegeta really wasn't acting himself today-dancing, repairing, and now asking the boy personal questions that didn't concern his father...He fleetingly wondered what kind of pills the man had been taking...

"Here." The prince eyed the offered copy as though somewhat wary of his intent before accepting it. "You can...read, can't you, Vegeta-san?" Black eyes snapped up at the comment and Goten was quick to put his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I only meant-I know this isn't your native language. Vegeta-sama."

scene xiv

The boy's good, the prince thought, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from allowing the smile to spread beyond a smirk. Looking down at the battered copy in his hands that bore the library code for the private school on the binding, Vegeta answered idly, flipping through the pages of a play by someone called Shakespeare.

"Of course I can read, boy. I make it a point to know the language of the culture I'm about to destroy. I need to know when I'm being insulted." He knew the boy was trying to hide his grin-after all, he was part human. He probably thought it morally wrong to find humor in his words.

The dank, musty smell of the old book was remarkably pleasant to his senses as he opened the cover. The first page bore the title in a cheap imitation of quality calligraphy:

Twelfth Night: A play in five acts by William Shakespeare.

scene xv

Occupied with the ever-present dread of going home, Goten tried his damndest not to allow the ball of lead in his stomach to weigh him down. There was no use in regret-the way he and Trunks were steadily growing apart, he doubted if, a year hence, he'd be able to think of Capsule Corp. as home.

"I'll do it." The boy's gaze locked onto the obsidian eyes that stared at him from across the kitchen. His brow knit in immediate confusion. Wha...?

"What?" Vegeta leaned forward, dropping the book back down onto the table before resting against the counter, arms folding easily over his muscled chest.

"I said I'll do it. I'll read with you." Was this heaven or hell? Goten's raven eyes widened, brow drawn high in astonishment. But there was no mocking in Vegeta's somber eyes. He was really being serious...

"What? Why?"

The natural scowl that adorned his face deepened as he snarled, "Dammit, boy, do you want my help or not? I do have better things to do with my time then waste them on you."

Shaking his head furiously, Goten promptly decided that looking a gift prince in the mouth was not the most brilliant thing he'd ever done. "No, Vegeta-san! I'd love it if you'd help me...you just...surprised me is all."

"You have another one of those?" The prince indicated the book on the table with a sharp movement of his head.

"H-hai!" Grabbing a pen from the small compartment of his bag, Goten snatched the book off the table, flipping through the pages until he came upon the scene he was searching for. "Here," he drew a fine line under the words Scene IV. "This is the scene I need memorized. I have to be Viola, which means-"

"Isn't that a girl's name?" Goten paused in his task, dark eyes raising hesitantly to peer through thick lashes.

"Hai...but she's pretending to be a boy. Cesario..." He shrugged; he'd thought it stupid when it had been assigned to him too. "And it's an all boy's school anyway..."As if that explained it all. The demi-Saiyan glared down at the insignia on his jacket with bitter disgust. Damn his mother...

A moment of awkward silence ensued before Goten was able to regain the strain of his previous thought.

scene xvi

"Anyway, that makes you the Duke." The prince gave a satisfied nod. At least the title was royalty, even if it wasn't the one he was used to. "We still need one more person..."

"The girl will do it." The Son boy glanced over in surprise.

"You mean Bra?" Vegeta gave a curt nod, dismissing all contrary opposition with a well-directed glower. Of course his daughter would do it. She wasn't nearly as irritating as his insolent son.

scene xvii

Goten had the strangest feeling that if he were to look behind him, there would be white, feathery wings sprouting from his shoulder blades. He was soaring high and unfettered on cloud nine-he had no conceivable idea as to why Vegeta was offering to aid him, but if it meant spending more time with him, then who was he to find fault with it? Outlining the remaining scene, the young man capped his pen and closed the paperback.

"That should do it..." He wanted to hug the stoic man before him, though two things kept him from making a fool of himself and doing so: the simple fact that it was Vegeta, the prince of all Saiyans, including himself...and the mental image of his earlier dancing that randomly rose within the span of their dialogue to plague his thoughts. Even now the heat in his face threatened to reveal the subject of his musings. Swallowing and standing quickly, Goten shuffled his feet, distributing the weight of his pack to rest more easily on his shoulders.

The prince had not chosen to respond to his last comment, and Goten was in agony on how to end the conversation. He'd never really been around the man alone-Trunks had always been with him in the past, a living shield that separated him just enough to feel safe.

While his shoes were infinitely interesting, he wished he'd had the gumption to meet the other's intense stare. It was unnerving how long the man could go without speaking...

"Same time tomorrow?" He finally managed to mumble, having lost his steam in the horrid prospect of having to return home.

"Whatever." The prince shrugged, having apparently lost interest in their interaction. Goten took that motion as a dismissal, and gratefully fled the room as casually as he could.

scene xviii

Head cocked to one side, Vegeta watched the boy leave. He was a strange one, that was for damn sure. Kakarott's youngest seemed to both fear him, and yet appeared somewhat infatuated with the prince. The Saiyan had noticed all the times the demi-Saiyan had fixed his stare upon him and he had yet to determine if that was a compliment, or a sign of an impending problem. Vegeta snorted, pulling out the metal chair with a twisted flick of his foot. It more than likely had to do with the boy's immature father. Kakarott was not exactly what one would call the ideal parent.

Huh, neither am I, but at least my brats know what to call me. He could still picture the stark panic on Goten's face the first time he had met his father-when he had come running to the prince in dire need of a very simple answer-"What do I call him, Vegeta-san? Father? Papa? Goku? Kakarott? How can one person have so many names?"

Easing gracefully into the chair, the Saiyan prince crossed his legs beneath him and retrieved the fallen book. It wasn't his problem to sort through the Son's dirty laundry. Vegeta hadn't helped the young Son for any other reason than this--Saiyans needed to stick together.

Caught in the Act

by Angelus

 Act Two: The Setting

  scene i

The September sun had set behind the thick leafy backdrop of the forest near his home when Goten finally arrived. Damn days are getting shorter, he swore, stuffing his hands into his pockets and landing with a soft click on the doorstep. He could only imagine what his mother would have to say in regards to him being late. That damn woman just couldn't leave the boy alone. You think she would have learned after Gohan left, Goten thought wistfully, gently turning the handle of the door in a half-hearted wish that maybe he would go undiscovered.

Alas, poor Goten, such was not to be.

"Goten, is that you?" As though it would be anyone else. He vainly regretted not having the childhood of his older sibling-his mother may have been hard on his brother, but she was always easier to manage when Goku was around. The demi-Saiyan refused to call him father. Fathers helped to raise their children. They didn't pass up a wish to live in favour of the afterlife.

Bracing himself against the wall, the young man clumsily succeeded in removing his shoes before the woman walking in from the kitchen could complain about it. Again.

"Yeah, mom. Sorry I'm late..." The glare he received from behind the stray tendrils of black hair that defied the severe confinement of her bun was enough to swallow any other words he may have thought to say.

"Son Goten," Oh, shit, here it comes... "Where have you been?"

The demi-Saiyan swallowed hard; choosing excuses for his mother was a matter to be dealt with by a professional jeweler. Only someone skilled in such an intricate art could possibly maneuver around her venomous viper's tongue.

"I told you, mom," he sighed, depositing his blue canvas bag on the chair by the door. "I was going to go to see Trunks after school today-"

"Young man, that is not where that goes," the woman snapped, snatching up the offending bag and shoving it into his chest. He caught it with a painful huff, the air fleeing his lungs in sadistic glee. Everyone else seemed to tragically forget that his mother was probably the strongest woman in the world while he was reminded on a daily basis. Biting back the instinctual growl that rose unbidden to his lips, the demi-Saiyan gripped the top of the bag in one hand and turned to walk down the hall to his room.

"And don't you give that look, Goten! You know better." The boy rolled his onyx eyes heavenward as he kicked open his bedroom door, tossing the article into the void of shadowy darkness and hearing his mattress creak as it landed.

"Yes, mother," he mumbled, shutting the wooden door and moving to traverse the hall back toward the lighted kitchen.

Chichi stood with her rigid back to the entryway, stirring what promised to be another meal of rice and vegetables. Dende, after raising a demi-Saiyan and living with another, one would have thought that the woman had learned that the race needed more sustenance than the leafy green concoction she seemed to conjure in abundance. Hell, Bulma-san may have been a despicable cook, but at least it was eatable...and even if it wasn't, Vegeta-san rarely allowed himself or his offspring to starve. There was always something to eat at Capsule Corp...

"Goten, stand up straight." His dark eyes fluttered up from their observation of the floor and the demi-Saiyan sighed heavily as he pushed off the doorframe with his shoulder, standing upright. Shuffling to the table, the young Son pulled out one of the rickety old chairs that surrounded the square surface and seated himself, drawing up his leg to rest his chin on one bent knee.

"Now Goten, I thought we had discussed your relationship with Trunks." Oh, fuck, not this AGAIN.

Closing his eyes briefly and praying for patience, the son calmed his weary anger enough to reply. "Mother, I told you before. That was just a rumor some stupid kids at school started."

The sharp clatter of pots on the stove was enough to inform the boy that his answer was not enough to satisfy his raving mother.

"I know, Goten, but I already told you that I think it would be best if you stayed away from him. He's a bad influence on you, anyway." Her thin shoulders slumped as she sighed. "Just like his father."

"I'd rather be like his father than mine..." The demi-Saiyan mumbled, silently reflecting on all of the times Vegeta had been there when he and Trunks had managed to dig themselves into another dangerous corner. Digging at a tiny dent in the wood of the table with his thumbnail, Goten was entirely unprepared to look up into the angry raven stones of his mother's eyes.

"What did you say?"

"I-I'm sorry I lost track of the time...mother." Dark eyes narrowed suspiciously and for an agonizing moment, Goten was sure that she hadn't bought it. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and his muscles were painfully tense against the back of the chair. Dende, please, just leave me alone...

"Hmph." Spinning again to the steaming stove, Chichi used the metal spoon in her hand for more than intimidation, vigorously stirring the boiling pot on the front burner. "How was school?" Cringing, Goten ran a fatigued hand through the unruly hair he had inherited from his absent father. He abhorred these questions-always questions! Especially about school. She wanted him to say that he loved it, to thank her for taking him out of his old school, away from his friends, away from the teachers that loved him, away from being Gohan's little brother, away from Trunks...

"It sucked." Oh, shit, did he say that out loud? What the hell was wrong with him today? He almost couldn't bring himself to look up-that ditch in the table was looking pretty damn interesting...

"Goten!" The shiny metal utensil was brought down hard on the surface before him, jerking out of his isolated musings, the flat sound ringing harshly in his ears. "You know I don't allow that kind of language in my home! I swear, no matter what I do for you, you never appreciate me." Oh, Dende, not this guilt train. She'd recited it so often, she had nearly run the bastard off the track.

But wishing it away did nothing for Goten's unsympathetic reality. He winced inwardly as he watched the inevitable take place yet again before his exhausted eyes.

"I just don't know what to do with you! I've tried so hard..." Goten waited impatiently for the cue that would thicken her voice with a sob. "I'm so afraid you're going to turn out like your brother..." Hn. There it was. Good old predictable Chichi. But we've run this number a couple times, haven't we mother? Think we got down the act?

He was too empty to feel the classic guilt of the situation as he watched his mother wipe a wrinkled hand across her forehead and slump into the chair diagonal to his own. "If only your father were here..." Goten's wide, caring eyes hardened into twinkling onyx stars that burned hotly in Chichi's direction. His chest grew tight with the effort of holding back his rage. The simple act of breathing became a laboured task as he listened to his mother cast delusions of how the world would automatically fall into place with the magical presence of Son Goku. He just couldn't take it anymore...

"Well he's not here, is he!?" The chair flew backward to crash noisily against the cabinets as he lurched to his feet. "And he's not coming back! So stop pretending that the whole fucking world would be better just because he's in it! He's not!" The demi-Saiyan had only a moment for the shock to sink in as he felt an abnormal heat searing against his cheek. Raising a stunned hand, the boy looked to his now standing mother with wide, wounded eyes.

"You slapped me." It wasn't an accusation, only a fact, like commenting on the weather...he could have easily have said that it was raining. The impenetrable shield of her inflexible obsidian eyes never wavered as she lowered her palm down to join its companion on the table.

"Son Goten, go to your room!"

Wordlessly, the young man stalked down the hallway, ripping open the door to his room with furious momentum. Half way through the action, he lost his grip on the adrenaline singing off key through his system. The anger wasn't his to hold, it never had been. He had been raised too well under the influence of his older brother to lash out unhindered. Though just once I'd love to be like Vegeta-san and throw a real world-be-damned temper tantrum. Maybe then they'd take me seriously.

The door shut with a quiet click and he leaned back against it as his body gave out and he slid down the vertical surface to land in a pile of quivering tears on the floor. Five trembling fingertips stroked the stinging flesh of his cheek as he squeezed out the burning product of his rage.

His mother had slapped him, really slapped him. She wasn't a Saiyan; there was no way the small woman could possibly cause him physical harm. But something deeper, more tender within him screamed out the agony that his throat would not voice. The miniature river of scalding tears only increased as he allowed his dam to break, the uncertain grip he had over his emotions slipping through an uncaring hand.

His mother had slapped him, Trunks wouldn't speak to him...school was a joke. The woman couldn't get it through her selfish mind that taking him away from Trunks was ensuring that he had no friends to speak of. Since he could walk and breathe, the lavender haired demi-Saiyan had been a constant in his life. Now he was alone...

Gripping the polished knob above his head, Goten managed to gain his footing, stumbling through the evening darkness toward his bed. He was so damn tired...it seemed that everything that could have gone wrong had. And he was left with nothing to show for his heartache and pain.

Collapsing onto the welcoming softness of his bed, he tried desperately to drown out the sound of his mother slamming the pots and pans in the kitchen on the other side of his wall. If only Trunks were here...But he wasn't and never would be. Once those rumors had started, Trunks had made his position on the matter all too clear.

His eyes adjusted gradually to the dimness, the soft, moonless night outlining the window with the natural illumination of the stars that sparked into being as he watched, bright, glittering pinpoints that eased the black void of the nighttime sky into quiet, shrouding velvet. Blinking away the stickiness of his drying eyes, Goten sighed, allowing his drowsy state to settle in. It is was easy, in this peaceful interlude between sleep and awake, to imagine strong arms enveloping him, that comfortable husky scent that he had grown up with...his consciousness drifted along the tranquil sea of his fantasies; his breathing evened, deepened, relaxed...

...Strong arms...beautiful, slender hands...those liquid obsidian eyes that fastened him to the spot...dark, course hair that he just yearned to run his fingers through...

The calming division between his reality and his dreams disintegrated as his ebony eyes shot open. His nightly fantasy of Trunks had somehow bled into Vegeta. Swallowing hard, he squeezed shut his eyes, appealing to his reason, over his raging adolescent hormones. He couldn't see Vegeta-san that way...it wasn't...right. Ok, so the man was sexy; he could admit to that. And catching him in the act of dancing earlier in the afternoon may have forced the young Son to see the prince in a way that had not previously occurred to him...

Groaning, Goten turned his flushed face into the pillow, pulling its plush mate over his head. Just thinking about it made his wicked mind replay the image of Vegeta, hips rocked by the upbeat pulse of that irritating song that he couldn't stand until he'd had a visual aid to persuade him. And those hands...Dende damn him, but he would have killed to have Vegeta caress his body like the prince had his own. Stop it! This isn't right...Vegeta-san is three times my age, for Dende's sake! And he's Trunks' father...No! It's Trunks that I love, not Vegeta. It was a nice sentiment, but Goten failed to inform his defiant body of his well meant decision.

Lying on his stomach, the demi-Saiyan fought with impressive will to ignore the insistent ache between his legs. His hips pressed reflexively into the bed, teeth clenched in a mighty battle between his body and his mind. Think of Trunks! He almost succeeded in his intention. The mischievous smile and dazzling blue eyes came readily to his mental projection. The feeling of panicked wrongness faded as he flipped himself over onto his back, one hand throwing the pillow away from his head to land on the floor beside the bed, his arm sliding up the comforter to rest above his head. As long as it was Trunks...and not Vegeta.

He didn't realize that he was panting, the thin September air gliding down his lungs, only to be shortened abruptly as he fumbled with the clasp on his uniform khaki pants. The demi-Saiyan had to relieve some of the mounting tension in his groin or he was going to either cry or kill someone. He was already partially aroused, whether from thoughts of Trunks, or Vegeta-no, it had to be Trunks. Goten had maintained a faithful crush on the older boy for years, he refused to acknowledge that his painful state had anything to do with the full-blooded Saiyan prince.

A trembling sigh exhaled lightly on the starlit darkness as his warm hand enveloped his throbbing need. Forcing the muscles in his throat to work, he swallowed, closing his eyes and willing himself to believe that it was his purple haired counterpart who stroked him with a firm grasp, coaxing his hips to rise with long, luxurious caresses to his sex. Oh, Dende, it felt good to lose himself in the carnal sensation of mindless pleasure, to forget, in that decadent instant, all the worries and problems that plagued him. His rhythm quickened, along with his heavy breath, as he drove himself mercilessly to the edge-of reason, of fulfillment...

Yes...Strong hands on his body, dark, glimmering eyes that seemed to know so much more about him than he did...That seductive, Saiyan scent that clung to his nose even after he had left his royal presence...

By the time Goten realized where his subconscious had abandoned him, he was too close to stop. Opening himself up to the passion that boiled in his belly, he snapped his head to the side, biting the soft inside of his arm to keep from alarming his mother with his frenzied moans. The metallic, sensuous taste of his own blood only drove him deeper...higher...submerging his senses in the forbidden lust that ravaged his teenage body.

It was with the Saiyan prince in mind that he found release, arching his back gracefully off the mattress, the warm, sticky result of his passionate act coating his hand as it milked his body for all it was worth.

After reaching such heights, there was only one way for Goten to go-he crashed down from the heavenly sensation, the bed creaking with the weight and power of his Saiyan build. Purring softly in the aftermath of his self-gratification, the demi-Saiyan closed his heavy lidded eyes to the logic that tripped along the edges of his consciousness. He didn't want to think about what he'd done-about what it meant. He wanted to bask in the divine glow of his release and succumb to the siren's call of sleep. Yawning, the young Son manipulated his body until he was able to tug the quilt over his weary frame. Sinking down gratefully into the fluffy pillow, Goten began his journey into dreams-one word breathed quietly into the darkness as the black night blanketed the slumbering demi-Saiyan. "Vegeta..."

scene ii

"Papa wants to talk to you, niichan." Trunks looked up over the top of the refrigerator door toward his sister who sat perched on the kitchen counter like a summer faerie-sprite, munching on a chocolate chip cookie that easily dwarfed her small hands. Grinning mischievously through a barrier of fudge and doughy crumbs, Bra reminded him strangely in that moment, of his father. He briefly wondered what Vegeta would look like if he ever took the time to relax and do something incredibly normal. Like eat a cookie. Snickering at the image of a chibi Vegeta, Trunks ducked his head back into the cool interior, snatching the glass container of strangely coloured liquid that would serve to satisfy his Saiyan thrust.

"Arigato, Butterfly," he replied, wiping the magenta mustache of moisture off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. Giggling at her nickname, the little sprite grabbed another cookie from the jar at her side and proceeded to nibble a circle around it. Pausing to chew, and then swallow, the little demi-Saiyan shook her blue, curly head.

"Don't thank me. I don't think he's very happy with you..." Trunks stopped, mid stride on his way into the living room, and looked over his shoulder, leaning against the doorframe with a thoughtful expression. Gnawing on his lower lip, the boy moved slowly back into the room.

"Hey, Butterfly, did Goten come by today?" Immediately, her pink complexion brightened, a cute, rosy blush of excitement tingeing her childish cheeks.

"Hai! He didn't stay long, though...but he talked to Papa for awhile. And he's coming back tomorrow!" Trunks drew down his lavender brow in confusion.

"He talked to Papa? About what?" Goten never had much to say around Vegeta before. Why he would start now was beyond the other demi-Saiyan. A scratchy knot began to form in the depths of his stomach as he thought of what his father could possibly have to say to the other boy.

All he got in response was a well-placed shrug amidst the mumbling of a mouth full of fresh baked cookie. Smiling despite the worry twisting mercilessly in his gut, Trunks chuckled at the humorous image of his sister.

"You shouldn't eat too many of those, you know, Butterfly," he remarked playfully, closing the distance between them and ruffling her aqua hair, reaching around into her treasure horde of cookies to retrieve one for himself.

Bra scoffed, managing to improve upon the image of her father, and scooted off the countertop, leaving messy streaks of chocolate as her gooey fingers pushed her forward. "Gram makes them everyday. It's my job to eat them." Her small feet hit the floor with a clackety smack. "Besides, it's not like Papa devours them. You know he hates chocolate." Trunks nodded absently as the other demi-Saiyan made her way across the kitchen, idly consuming the food in his hand. Gram really did make the best damn cookies...

"Hey, is mom home?" Blue, smirking eyes found his own as Bra glanced back before turning the corner. There was a secret in those eyes; he could swear she knew something he didn't...

"Nope. She had to work late again."

scene iii

Vegeta grunted in satisfaction as the muscles in his arms tore under the strain of the intensified gravity. The crimson light of the chamber bathed his bronze skin a bloody russet hue, his flame of onyx hair glittering with strands of brown and gold and red. Balancing himself on one hand on the upside of a pushup, the prince reached down and turned the yellowed, aging page of the book beneath him.

Ah, there was the boy's marking of the scene, distinct and written in a clear hand. Licking the salty sweat from his lip, the prince lowered his torso to about an inch off the floor before gritting his teeth to force his body weight back up. So far the play had him amused, though whoever wrote the damn thing was entirely too long winded for his own good. He never would have survived his father's court...The king had allowed such men to entertain him on Vegeta-sei, granted, more blood had been involved, and those who acted were never Saiyans...but such men had existed for particularly jovial occasions. Until Frieza had demanded that all such activities cease. Vegeta shook his head sharply, pumping out three consecutive push-ups to rid him of the thought. There was no use thinking on that...

Duke: Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is beloved...

The prince made a disapproving sound deep in his throat. Hn. Stupid Duke pining away after an idiot female...That's all the man seemed to do in the play-complain about the woman who spurned his wanton affections. He should go on and hunt her. Stop wasting his time trying to woo her. How humiliating. And he's a moron not to see that his servant is a woman...baka should be able to smell it. The Saiyan simply could not understand how one man could be so blind to the matter. And it's obvious as hell that she's in love with him...

Duke:...My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves: Hath it not, boy?

Viola/Cesario: A little, by your favour.

Duke: What kind of woman is't?

Viola/Cesario: Of your complexion.

Duke: She is not worth thee, then. What years, in faith?

Viola/Cesario: About your years, my lord...

It's you, baka! The Saiyan shook his head, irritated. Humans were so stupid sometimes. It was staring the pompous Duke right in the face. If he didn't watch out the bastard was going to find himself hunted and mated by the servant wench. Vegeta chuckled, immensely amused by the thought. Bonded to a low class soldier for life due to his own selfish wiles. Served him right.

"Papa?" The metal door was pushed open with a tentative inquiry, the dense gravity in the room dropping instantly with the intrusion and returning to normal. One more powerful movement of his arms, and Vegeta had his feet beneath him, the muscles in his thighs tensing as he stood to face the boy who remained resolutely in the entryway. Bending at the waist, the prince pocketed the soft paperback before ceasing all movement to regard his son.

As he crossed his arms leisurely over his slick, sweating chest, he allowed the silence to settle, watching the nervous habits of the demi-Saiyan surface-shaking fingers that raked through his human hair, tucking it behind one ear that perked through the lavender veil; an uncertain gaze that flickered toward his own before abandoning that challenge in favour of the harsh, sterile walls that bent inwardly, a claustrophobic's nightmare.

"Where have you been, boy?" His voice was pitched deliberately low, forcing the young man to move further into the room to determine the precise words. Trunks' shoes created a soft, shuffling echo as he fell into his father's trap, walking closer, but maintaining an obvious distance from the Saiyan prince.

"I was out with some friends, Papa...I thought I told you that." Vegeta silently scoffed at his eldest offspring as the boy not only lied to him, but made it very evident that he was attempting it. He was fidgeting more than a five-year-old and he couldn't hold the steady gaze of his father to save his wretched life.

"Kami, boy, if you're going to lie to me at least put forth a better effort than that. It's pathetic." Pale blue eyes shot up to meet his own before the colour drained from his strained face and he lost his resolve, averting his eyes.

"I'm not lying to you, Papa...I was out with friends." Well that was better. Trying to divert the falsehood by focusing on a truth. But, unfortunately for Trunks, his father was smarter than that.

"Where were you supposed to be?" The boy had been anticipating this conversation-Vegeta could smell the apprehension that radiated off his taught form. Which meant he had spoken to Bra, who had predictably told him what Vegeta had known she would. Good girl...That was the child who never disappointed him. She was the real heir to the throne of Vegeta-sei.

"Umm..." The demi-Saiyan coughed lightly into his curled fist, kicking at the tiled floor with the toe of his worn out sneaker.

"Here!" The demi-Saiyan's teenage body jerked to attention as though his limbs were attached to invisible strings held in the firm grip of his father.

"You made a promise and I don't care if he is the half-breed brat of a third class baka! You are a Saiyan prince!" The last word was cut off savagely with a muted growl, Vegeta's long, lustrous tail unfurling from his waist to whip dangerously at the air behind him. The boy looked as though the Saiyan had physically struck him, his wide, vibrant eyes pained and filled with untapped guilt.

"I-I'm..."

"It will not happen again, understand me? I will not have my royal blood tainted by your ungrateful hide! When you make an appointment, you keep it." Vegeta's body shivered with the passionate anger of his outburst and he waited expectantly for the boy to respond, to fight back, to...

"Hai, Papa," came the mumbled reply, dashing the Saiyan's futile optimism at the prospect of sparring with his son. Snarling in blatant dissatisfaction, the prince wound his tail back around his midsection, the appendage twitching with the intensity of his battlelust. Weak...he won't even stand up to me. Hn. Too human for his own damn good. Narrowing his hard, onyx eyes, the prince once again addressed his son.

"We will not have this talk again. The next time something like this is brought to my attention there will be no words." He would beat it into the brat, if that was how he wished it...though the stark fear that bled all colour from his offspring's features informed him that this would no longer be an issue.

Dismissing the boy from his presence by giving the demi-Saiyan his back and proceeding to resume his training, the prince silently wondered why the brat didn't flee the room. He was still there, staring blindly at the floor as though the interlocking tiles were runes that he had cast, enabling him to somehow see the bleakness of his future. Vegeta heard his mouth open and close a myriad of times before the courage was summoned and drawn, like the sword of his future self, slicing through the quiet.

"P-Papa...Bra said that Goten was coming back tomorrow. Does that mean that I..." Glaring at the boy over the gravity controls, Vegeta gave his head one, firm shake.

"No. I've already cleaned up your mess, boy." One could almost say that it was relief that seeped into his angular features and it's very presence caused the prince to knit his brow. Before it's existence could be pondered, the boy was gone, leaving nothing in the room save the echo of his mumbled apology and the heavy sound of the door shutting in his wake.

Turning his attention back to the red lettered panel before him, Vegeta again set the gravity to a level suitable for training. Drawing the tattered book from his rear pocket, made more so by being confined to the tightness of his pants, the prince bent back the worn cover, flipping through to the page covered in thin, black lettering. Now that the matter with his boy was taken care of and he was secure with the knowledge that the brat would never dishonour his status in that way again, he could return to focusing on matters that called for his immediate attention. He would never admit that the play had caught his fancy, or the fact that he was actually looking forward to his meeting with Kakarott's brat tomorrow afternoon. It was an ideal chance to hone his skills in a completely different arena, one that he had not even taken the time to consider, given his strict fighting heritage.

Positioning himself for another round of grueling push-ups, the Saiyan went back to his reading, parted lips forming whispered half words as it followed the text.

Then let thy love be younger than thyself, or thy affection cannot hold the bent...

Yes, tomorrow could prove to be very interesting...

Caught in the Act

by Angelus

 Act Three: The Plot

  scene i

"Goten!"

Tugging the cockeyed comforter more firmly about his slumbering figure, the demi-Saiyan did not seek release from his dreams to answer the incessant call-those fantasy arms that encased his weary form; that hot, seductive breath that warmed the coolness of his neck in the frigid morning hours; a soft, draping appendage that loosely claimed the territory of his muscled thigh...

"Goten! Get up!"

"Mmm...not now, Vegeta...five more minutes..." The young Son's dark brow ceased in momentary consternation, face finding comfort in the thick feather softness of his pillow, which he brought closer to his body with one clasping hand. The light, cloying scent of sex and Saiyan wrapped around his body like a shield from reality, driving him deeper into his subconscious awareness.

"Goten!" Snapping into an upright position, the warmth of the quilt fell away from his chest, exposing his build to the unforgiving Autumn air.

"Huh? Wha..." Raking a dazed hand through wild hair the colour of midnight, made more so by the night of sleep it had suffered, Goten looked around confused. The irritated voice proceeded to shrill again, earning a wince from the rumpled demi-Saiyan. No, that definitely was not Vegeta's voice that barked out orders from beyond the barricade of his door. Hand in hand with disappointment trailed embarrassment, the impact of last night's activities slugging him hard as he pushed aside the bundle of patchwork material that had conformed to the imprint of his resting figure to reveal his state of unfashionable disarray.

Oh, Dende...A violent rap that shook the feeble wooden frame of the door saved him from immediate distress by forcing the heart that had already begun to throb sporadically against his ribs to attempt the flying leap to his throat.

"I-I'm up, mother!" He forced the stubborn hemisphere in his brain that controlled speech to function, glancing with wide, focusing eyes on the alarm clock beside the bed. Angry scarlet letters mocked him from the nightstand, confirming his fear: 7:43. He was going to be late for school. Somehow it must have slipped his mind-his nightly habit of setting the alarm before he went to sleep had been...overlooked.

"K'so!" Jumping up from his bed, Goten left the welcoming warmth and lingering safety that had been granted to him through his dreams. He was still dressed-all he had to do was straighten up and run a brush through his hair...

Fumbling with the metal latch on his pants, Goten's wishful thoughts took a detour from his ideal reality. The fire that snaked a serpentine path to his cheeks only reminded him more strongly of the questions he had raised before he had drifted off into the beauty of escape that came with sleep. His slacks were in no condition to be worn in public...

Cursing in words and phrases that he could only have learned from growing up around Vegeta, Goten ripped the khaki coloured clothing off his body, tripping as he stepped toward his dresser and one obstinate foot clung to the leg of his pants. He wasn't going to make it-he was going to be late for school and the minute he walked out that door, she was going to tear into him like a famished beast. The demi-Saiyan groaned, swearing vocally at what he knew lay just beyond the wall.

Black eyes slowly turned to glance at the door behind him. His mother's grating calls had ceased immediately at his response. She was no doubt waiting in the kitchen, ready to pounce as he left the room, daring him to try to sneak past her out the front door. Dende, he really didn't want to have to deal with that this morning. The dumbfounding realization that he had experienced last night was enough for his bewildered mind to digest without her adding to the turbulence of his emotions.

A sly expression found its unlikely way to Goten's lips as he pulled loose a folded pair of his favourite blue jeans. He was already in trouble for last night's outburst...The smirk deepened as he thrust his legs through the cool, relaxed, easy fitting fabric. And he'd never skipped school before...the uncharacteristic prospect sent a wicked thrill through his muscular frame. Now he knew how Gohan felt-he was so disgusted with being unfalteringly good all the damn time and still having his irrational mother constantly on his case. Well, today he was going to do something he wanted to do, and to hell with anyone who sought to protest.

"Heh, why not go for broke," he muttered, unbuttoning the starched long sleeve shirt of his uniform, now crumpled and wrinkled with creases, stained by the product of his adolescent desire. Tossing it carelessly onto the bed, one hand dove into the depths of his dresser drawer, freeing a random black turtleneck which he promptly shoved his head through. Something within him had shattered last night, something human-he had never felt so alive, so on the verge of breaking free as he did looking back on the evening in retrospect. The kindling anger, the resulting performance...it brought forth within him untapped strength and fostering will that he had never known himself to possess. Goten was fairly certain that if he attempted the mundane act of going to school he was going to snap altogether.

With one leg balanced on the sill of his window, the demi-Saiyan worked to ease the latch without alerting his watchful mother of his impending jailbreak. The glass panel slid upward in hesitant jerks, eventually discarding its Autumn seal and opening without incident. Brisk, dawn air danced merrily into the room, teasing his unruly hair to tangle and heightening the boy's wild sensation.

"Double or nothing," the demi-Saiyan whispered in the direction of his door, and his mother, sucking his lower lip in through his teeth and pausing in fleeting uncertainty. But the promise of another lovely day was carried in on the breeze and it seemed a sin to spend it sitting in an overheated, constricting classroom, worrying about the lecture he received when he returned home late again.

Launching upward, using the sturdy frame to propel his weight, Goten took to the skies. Vegeta was always up at this early hour...and the prince had a promise to keep.

scene ii

Confidence sang like a drug through his veins as Goten landed on the Brief's doorstep, opting to simply walk through the entrance rather than perform the formal ritual of knocking. This was where he had grown up too, dammit, and no amount of the other demi-Saiyan's insistent distancing was going to change where he called home. His momentum was slightly tempered as the warm scent of ham and toasting breads assailed his nostrils, his stomach joining in the grumbling chorus that served to inform him of the fact that he hadn't eaten since lunch the previous day. Chichi had been cruel enough to see the demi-Saiyan in bed without his evening meal. Heh, like I could have choked it down anyway...

Listening to the door swing shut, a firm, palpable joining of wood to frame, Goten walked purposefully down the hallway to the kitchen.

"Goten!" The woman that addressed him was seated at the head of the empty table, befitting her station in the household and clothed in a vivid red business suit, her forgotten cup of coffee growing cold at her side. Trust Bulma's taste in attire to worsen with age, though the form she covered had done miraculously well. Capsule Corp's small line of age-defying products had increased with each birthday of its president.

"Sit! Have breakfast with us! Gosh, it's been so long...The kids are still getting ready, but they should be down soon." The woman's perky smile persuaded his own to lengthen and he slipped easily into the place he had often occupied at the table when he was younger.

"Arigato, Bulma-san..." Goten sported a classic Son smile as the woman just nodded, rising to fetch him the promised meal.

A plate heaped with quality cooking was set before his starved eyes and he hastily attacked the mass with lustrous abandon, swallowing the delectable morsels with renewed relish. Dende, it was good to be back! Damn Trunks for making him feel unwelcome! He should have done this months ago...He was actually starting to fully enjoy the lost feeling of comfort when Bulma-san began to speak.

"You're just like your father!" Goten stopped dead, the sharp end of a fork stuck securely in his mouth as he devoured the bit of ham that he had skewered. The food turned to ashes on his tongue as he focused on swallowing, his gag reflex responding double time to her affectionate words.

"I swear, you even look like him at that age..." A slim fingered hand ran with motherly fondness through his raven locks and he fought not to jerk from her touch. The young Son despised being compared to that man and he had thought, for just an instant, that he would be able to emerge from his shadow...

"Woman, would you leave the boy alone? He needs to eat, not listen to you rant about his deadbeat father." Dende, thank you, Vegeta-san...The demi-Saiyan's heart entertained his body with a rapid cadence as the Saiyan appeared silently out of the darkness of the doorway. Those same arms he had fantasized about last night were interlaced across his chest, beautiful hands braced against each opposite bicep. Fuck, if he didn't watch himself, he was going to swiftly lose control of his body...Heh, maybe that wasn't so bad...

"Vegeta, Goku is not a bad father!" Goten stared down at his plate, the feeling of freedom that had greeted him with the sun beginning a rapid descent to be replaced by something else...

"Hn. I'm not about to waste my time debating with you on the pathetic state of Kakarott's parenting. You almost ready, boy?" The demi-Saiyan's dark eyes flashed upward, the unexplored emotion that rippled just below the surface simmering down to merge with his normal passivity. Expansive pools of shimmering black crystal seemed to swallow him whole and Goten found that he couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't do more than lose himself in that fiery gaze that consumed him so violently, yet chilled him to the core. And yet he wanted to lose himself in so much more than his eyes...

"Goten?" Bulma's surprised inquiry bringing the world back into perspective for the demi-Saiyan. "I thought you were here to see Trunks..."

As if on cue, the house echoed with pounding footsteps that raced down the stairs, causing the very foundation of the house to groan in protest. Goten's entire body tensed as he anticipated the sight of the older demi-Saiyan, the awkwardness of such a meeting making him wish that he hadn't just eaten; Trunks rounded the corner with his characteristic grace. And stopped short as he spotted the young Son sitting at the table as though time had never passed and their relationship had never changed.

Of all the emotions that Goten was ready to acknowledge, somehow anger was not one he was familiar with. It briefly amused him that it seemed to be the only one, besides embarrassment that he had ready access to these days. What a variety.

"G-Goten..." The look that flit across the pale face of his lavender haired counterpart was almost priceless. Fear, guilt...Bet you thought I would just fade away after that little stunt you pulled at school, telling me in public that you didn't see me that way...just so no one else would think that you were gay after those rumours started. Brilliant move, Trunks. It worked. Though my mother pulling me out because of it never crossed your mind, did it? Selfish bastard.

"Hai, Vegeta. I'm ready," Goten spoke calmly, smoothly, pushing deliberately to his feet, holding the other's gaze with relentless conviction. Son Goten had had enough of catering to the whims of others-he was sick of feeling sick, betrayed, wondering when the other boy would come to his senses. In a moment of severe clarity, the dark haired demi-Saiyan knew he never would. Trunks would no longer be the image he brought to mind when seeking comfort.

Sparkling blue eyes that once held his heartsick soul enraptured only hardened his resolve as he straightened his back and squared his shoulders. It may have been his imagination, but he thought the other man shrunk slightly as he walked forward to join the Saiyan prince and the sweet taste it left in his mouth satisfied him like nothing else he had ever indulged in. Shifting his ebony eyes, like looking the other demi-Saiyan in the eye was beneath him, Goten settled on a picture much more pleasant to his abused senses.

The Saiyan prince had obviously absorbed every unspoken word-from Goten's unforgiving glance to the guilty expression that marred his son's elegant features. Grunting, Vegeta locked onto Goten's determined gaze and for the first time in his life, the boy did not buckle under the intensity. Arching one beautifully sculpted brow, the Saiyan returned his unwavering stare. A flicker of amusement though barely there, was enough to resume the tragic pulsing of Goten's newly focused heart. That single glance was like a bridge between them-on the other side lay Goten's salvation, his desire, his redemption. The ache Trunks had left in his chest was nothing compared to the throb he felt in the presence of his father. Vegeta had never spurned him, or cast him aside, and while the older man may not have carried the same affection that the young Son shouldered, the demi-Saiyan was certain that he could convince the prince otherwise. He was just feeling that lucky today.

scene iii

"Where are you going?" Dammit, onna, can't you ever just mind your own fucking business? Vegeta was mildly surprised when the usually timid and stuttering figure of Kakarott's youngest boy cast a glittering glare of triumph at his own son before it softened into the mockery of a smile for the woman that had addressed him.

"Vegeta-san was kind enough to help me with a school project," The voice was almost sickly sweet with leashed contempt. "Trunks was just too busy." Ebony eyes caught paling blue counterparts as he turned toward the prince.

"You're helping him, Papa?" The Saiyan scoffed quietly, scowling at his open mouthed offspring. Again, the Son beat him to the punch, prohibiting the defensive words that flickered over his lips from being uttered.

"Hai, Trunks. Vegeta was honourable enough to offer after you were...detained yesterday." Dende-sama, there was enough aggression surrounding the boy it made the prince wonder if Goten wasn't more Saiyan than he had initially suspected. He may have aided in his raising, but Vegeta had learned early on not to take anything about those damn Sons for granted. The tension hung heavy in the morning; the prince could almost taste it, thick and rich on his tongue. It stirred his blood, awakened his fighting instinct. Perhaps this was the challenge that he had been anticipating. He absently wondered what it would take to make the passive boy attack him...

"Mama! I can't find my other shoe!" The house moaned again in annoyance as footsteps pounded mercilessly on the carpet of the stairs, shattering the eventful silence into jagged patches of uncertainty. Vegeta watched amused as his daughter stalked into the room, glaring as though each individual in sight was the culprit and responsible for her lost accessory. Her features softened as they fell upon the youngest Son. The prince winced in pain as she squealed in excitement, throwing herself into the demi-Saiyan's embrace, one hand crazily grasping a shiny black shoe that thunked against the back of Goten's shoulder blade as she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck.

"How's my little Butterfly, eh?" The prince's eyes slid unnoticed to his eldest, who stood slumped against the door as though trying to fade into the tacky wallpaper. The darker demi-Saiyan was purely vindictive in his crusade, calling the girl by her brother's nickname, blatantly glaring at the lavender haired boy over her shoulder, gripping the child possessively. He could almost see the word mine written on his unsmiling lips. This kid is nothing like his father. Vegeta almost didn't catch his own grin as it snuck onto his regal features. Then again, both of Kakarott's boys had proven to be entertaining and surprising in the man's absence.

"You going to come help your father and me like you promised, Bra-chan?" Goten rewarded her with a genuine smile of affection as he set her back on her feet. "Maybe when you get back from school, ne?" The disappointment in her brilliant blue eyes evaporated as she smiled broadly in return.

"Hai, Go-kun! Right after school, I promise!" Vegeta shook his head thoughtfully. There was something here that he was missing...had his boy brushed off the Son's advances? Is that were this possessively uncharacteristic anger had spawned? Was his disgustingly human heir dallying with ningens instead of mating with the man that obviously wanted him?

As he turned back from his despicably cringing son, Goten's deep, glistening eyes boldly searched his own; the prince nodded once with a grunt of agreement before pivoting from his position and walking toward the side door. The boy would follow; he could hear him offer up a farewell to all in the room as he trailed after Vegeta.

This new development gave him cause to think. There was something about the darker demi-Saiyan's daring nature that made his tail want to twitch.

The morning sunlight was warm and softly inviting on the Saiyan's shoulders through the chillness of the air as he stepped onto the stretch of grass between the house and the gravity room, pausing, though he would never admit it, to relish in its soothing golden light. He felt the demi-Saiyan stop beside him, and he was grateful for his silence. Hn. Like his father indeed. The boy knows when to keep his mouth shut. Unlike that baka father of his.

Standing in the Autumn sunshine with Kakarott's brat was oddly soothing to the Saiyan prince. Perhaps it was the potential Goten had shown earlier for Saiyan instinct, the menacing, calculating gleam in his onyx eyes as he visually berated the lighter demi-Saiyan. For what, the prince could only speculate, though the taste of Goten's anger had been righteously delicious. And the fact that he wasn't apologizing for it-Vegeta would not be forced to listen to the boy mumble off an excuse for his behavior. Goten seemed to have no visible regrets regarding his actions. He had thought the boy would eventually take the initiative and hunt his heir-all the signs had pointed firmly in that direction. Perhaps someone else had already done it...A pity, he could have stood to have Goten as part of his clan; the boy, while not physically strong, had a clever head on his broad shoulders. Sturdy shoulders that were beautifully defined underneath the tight black knit that stretched enticingly over his muscular frame...

What the fuck?! The Saiyan whipped his stare away from the boy and began walking toward the gravity room at a brisk pace, kicking aside the scarlet and burgundy leaves that littered the ground. Snarling quietly in agitation his velvety tail uncoiled from his waist to snap angrily behind him, distancing himself from the demi-Saiyan in an instinctual gesture. What the hell kind of thought was that? Is the boy in season? Even then it was virtually impossible for the prince to be caught off guard; he had been trained since birth to overcome natural weaknesses such as the overpowering urges associated with Saiyan mating. I didn't think demi-brats went into season anyway...I would have smelled it on Trunks...

Stopping before the chamber door, the Saiyan jerked at the handle, thrusting the door open and into the chest of the man behind him. A satisfied grin graced his lips at the surprised sound of the other man catching the metal door, following him into the dimly lit room, and shutting it quietly in his wake. Dende, it's just been too long...that's all it is. That baka onna has never satisfied me. Damn, weak ningens...His dark eyes snapped sideways as he caught the scent of the boy, and the light hint of sex that clung to his hard, youthful body. Arching a brow, Vegeta faced him fully, arms entwining across his chest. The prince appraised him without shame; even if they were the last, the boy was still nothing but a commoner. But he had inherited his father's devilishly handsome features. Dende, how he hated to be reminded. Kakarott had physically turned him on in the most humiliating of ways. If the larger Saiyan hadn't been such a damned idiot, he would have mated the man long ago. Cursing softly in the Saiyan tongue, Vegeta calmed his disobedient thoughts. Goten was a boy, and hardly a match for his superior strength. Anyone he mated would have to prove themselves worthy before ever being granted the pleasure of his bed.

Shrugging off his sidetracking thoughts, the slighter man adopted his comfortable smirk, leaning backward against the control panel behind him.

"You ready, boy?"

Liquid eyes of deepest midnight rose to meet his own, and Vegeta all but jumped at the purely predatory glint that existed in those normally gentle depths.

"Hai, Vegeta..." An airy whisper, seductive and laden with unspoken innuendoes drove his tail to fluff out behind him as the words caressed his skin with its soft intensity. Could the boy really be...hunting him? The very possibility of the thought made him laugh and he shook it off with little more than a glance. The boy was just revved up for a fight after the confrontation with his son. Goten had never given him any previous indication that he wanted his attentions, the idea of it now was just humorous.

Although...pursing his lips, the prince studied the boy again. The idea was...intriguing...and if the demi-Saiyan was offering, it was his right as the boy's prince take him if he so desired. How their relationship had come to this point, the man honestly could not say-he had seen Goten as little more than a shadow of his son, albeit more base, more instinctual...And the prospect of finding pleasure in the lean, muscled figure of Kakarott's youngest did have its appeals...

scene iv

Goten licked his lips as he watched, pleasantly hypnotized with the sway of Vegeta's auburn appendage as he charged through the door, grunting when the metal was slammed against his chest, effectively breaking his tranced state as the warm air left his lungs. Oh, but he wasn't upset with the prince's actions, for the older man had just given him more reason to hope than anyone else on the planet was capable of doing. He nurtured that blooming flower with a dry, longing ache, biting his wet lip as Vegeta turned to face him, again impassive and stern, nothing like the look Goten had received a moment ago. That was desire in your eyes, Vegeta...you can't lie to me. Clouded eyes roamed freely over his taller figure and the demi-Saiyan posed with a quiet smile for the prince, ebony locks falling forward into his lowered eyes. That lovely tail was blessing his vision again with its spellbinding movement and Goten sighed softly as the Saiyan spoke.

His knowing expression increased as he closed his dark eyes, sooty lashes pressed lightly to his cheeks before opening them again to lock gazes with the prince. His heart raced roughly in his chest as Vegeta's ebony eyes widened slightly and his resolve strengthened at his disregarding laughter. You think that I'm playing with you, Vegeta? You think I don't know how to get what I want just because of my bastard sire? Clenching his fists tightly in the pockets of his pants, Goten chuckled lightly to himself. You raised me, Vegeta. You seem to have forgotten that...

scene v

Dende, that was desire locked deep with the younger man's eyes, invitation written clearly on his coy features. The swirling combination of wanting to be in control, and wanted to be controlled was apparent in the glassy look of yearning that defined his lovely eyes-dark and deep...

Vegeta purred quietly to himself as the plan formed in his mind. He faintly felt the receding ki signatures of his children as they left for school. They had time...if the little demi-brat wanted to play...This acting fiasco could be more fulfilling than he had originally planned...

scene vi

"Come hither, boy..." Goten started at the abrupt change in tone and language-the prince seemed to cast aside his mocking stance, relaxing ever so slightly, a hazy smile playing sensuously on his lips. The demi-Saiyan glanced downward as his feet carried his body of its own volition, the magnitude of Vegeta's words compelling the boy to walk steadily forward. "If ever though shalt love, in the sweet pangs of it, remember me..." His breath caught raggedly in his throat at the simple beauty those words held on the Saiyan's royal tongue. Dende, Shakespeare would have wept to hear the prince chanting his life's work in such a natural, heartfelt manner. As it was, Goten himself had to check the tears that congregated in his eager eyes as he strode silently forward, enraptured by the melodic timbre that stroked his sensitive ears with all the affection of a lover's caress.

"For such as I am, all true lovers are; unstaid and skittish in all motions else, save in the constant image of the creature that is beloved." Beloved...oh, Dende-sama, how I long to hear you say my name like that...Any aggression, any will or breath to make that man his own was both muted and encouraged by those truthful words. The younger man was mesmerized by the fluidity of the old English language-it was as if the prince had been born and raised alongside the poet and knew each and every letter's proper inflection, the emotion retained in every individual phrase. Dende-sama...

"How dost thou like this tune?" Huh? Oh, yeah...the play...Goten gave his head an awakening shake back into reality. Dammit, now he had to remember the lines...

They came to him haltingly, though with a moment's thought he was able to retrieve them from the recesses of his captivated mind.

"It gives a very echo to the seat where love is throned," He replied quietly, voice gaining volume with his confidence. The Saiyan sighed softly, leaning his head back and stared at the ceiling as though caught in the thrall of music only he could hear.

"Thou dost speak masterly." Endless eyes of ebony lowered to capture his own, forcing him to look away as he swallowed, blush crawling over his heated features. 'Arigato' was forming on his lips before he caught the natural inclination, Vegeta pausing for a moment longer and than continuing his masterpiece of dialogue.

"My life upon't, young though thou art," The demi-Saiyan shifted as he felt those eyes upon him like a physical presence, the shuffle of his shoes creating a whispering echo that served to remind him more fully of his actual circumstances. "Thine eye hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves." Biting his lip almost painfully hard, Goten avoided the other's intense gaze. Dende, how does he know? Am I that obvious? Baka! It's just the play...those are his lines...don't let it slip because you've got underdeveloped delusions of grandeur...

"Hath it not, boy?" Oh, kuso...hai...Licking lips that had gone dry in his nervousness, Goten nodded silently, trying with every fiber of his adolescent being to answer the man like the character and not like the quivering boy that he was. Dende damn his teacher! This scene struck too close to home for his comfort! Oh, Dende, and the way that Vegeta spoke each line as though born to play the Duke, that royal bearing that others found so damn infuriating only strengthening his role.

"A little...by your favour..." Stuffing his sweaty hands further into his pockets, the youngest Son dared a sideways glance at the object of his craving. Dende damn the play-it was making him admit what he never thought to speak aloud! This should have stayed safely tucked away in the blissful ecstasy of his dreams, not laid bare before the very subject of his desire. He couldn't do this, couldn't continue...not when he knew were the play was fast approaching...

"What kind of woman is't?" Oh, shimatta, there was amusement in those coal black eyes, a teasing lilt to the words that fell like perfect crystal snow from his full, sumptuous lips. Dende, he's forcing me to say it...somehow he knows...

"Of your complexion..." The flushed feeling in his face tripled at the confession and he cleared his throat lest that unreliable instrument betray him. The microscopic hairs on his skin bristled, ripping a shiver down his spine as the prince walked forward to stand achingly close to the boy. He fought not to back down, not to pull back...Vegeta's body burned with the same passionate intensity as his beautiful eyes and Goten could feel the natural heat he exuded encompassing his taller frame in such a close proximity. Dende, he couldn't breathe, the air hitching and stalling in his throat as the prince reached out with one elegant hand to brush aside a strand of wild black hair from his temple.

"She is not worth thee then..." Vegeta murmured seductively, those same graceful digits outlining the prominent ridge of his brow, traversing the planes of his face with a skilled and patient touch. "What years, in faith?"

Desire exploded like a vibrant golden flare in the darkness of a summer night, engaging each nerve in his body to respond to the older Saiyan's touch. I don't understand...Dende, Vegeta...how...The only answers in those sable, enigmatic voids were the reflections of lust scarcely tempered. Somehow, some god smiled upon his unearthly position and he found the voice to speak, hidden amongst the flaming need that singed his reason and awakened his blood.

"About your years...my prince..." Kuso, wasn't that supposed to be 'my lord'? His dark head of mussed raven hair jerked upward at the unexpected sensation of something incredibly soft and flexible wrapped around his wrist, pulling him forward. Shadowy, lidded eyes reminiscent of a starless sky welcomed him into their penetrating depths as Goten stepped forward to join the circle of Vegeta's powerful arms.

A quiet, mindless whimper of questioning formed in the back of his throat as the Saiyan prince stood proudly up on tiptoe to lick the younger demi-Saiyan's awaiting lips, hot breath exhaled on his panting mouth.

"That wasn't in the script..."

Caught in the Act

by Angelus

 Act Four: The Climax

  scene i

Hn. Saiyan indeed. One teasing promise of a kiss and the boy's whimpering like a pathetic female. The brat was probably as weak as he'd imagined, as pitiful as he'd always been-the prince merely yearned for physical Saiyan contact more than he'd realized. Maybe it had just been that long. Growling softly in mild frustration, the Saiyan's tail contracted around the trembling wrist of Kakarott's youngest. Shimatta! If I had only wanted sex, I could have seduced the boy's father, or even his brother...The thought taunted and mocked him: he had once been the heir apparent to an entire planet full of hot blooded Saiyans. And now the only ones left beside himself were sniveling human crossbreeds that wouldn't know true passion if it literally kicked them in the ass.

Vegeta had never coped well with warring factions of himself; one half of his traitorous mind told him to simply leave the boy, to laugh at his adolescent eagerness and send him stumbling home to his bitchy mother. But he hadn't moved since the last words he had spoken were lost in the soft echo of the room, hadn't sought to complete the action, nor lower himself from those lips that tasted like nothing earthbound. Lips, that with only a lick, had parted deliciously before his questing tongue.

Dende, it still baffled him! Why did the boy suddenly take an interest in him anyway? If Goten had been in heat, Trunks would have been his logical choice for mating, not his father! No, even if his son had done something incredibly stupid, which was not beyond his believing, the brat would still have gravitated toward the younger prince. Which meant...He wants me. The boy actually wants me...Hell, Bulma may have hunted the Saiyan prince with as much fevered intensity, but she had done it for the same reason Vegeta had resisted: the challenge of it. This...he couldn't help but feel that this was different. Fuck, he's just a boy! Shimatta, I wish I knew more about my own damn race...Vegeta may have been trained to deny Saiyan instinct, but that hardly did him justice, considering the fact that the only test to that ability were against the worst possible specimens of Saiyan culture-big, strong, and too fucking stupid for anybody's good. But this boy, the youngest son of his archrival was none of those things.

The scent from the taller form spoke of uncertainty, questioning, longing...Dende, it was hard to deny the excitement the prospect brought him. He had never tasted one of his own kind, never relished the strength and intensity he knew would lie in such a coupling. And here the boy was, unwittingly giving him perhaps the one chance he would ever have to know what it was like to feel complete and at ease. The prince's dark, thoughtful eyes slid downward from the elegant curvature of Goten's jaw to rest in the black, soothing folds of his tight sweater. Then why the hell was he hesitating?

scene ii

Oh, Dende-sama...Goten wasn't sure whether to thank or curse the god whose name he muttered over and over again in the confused haze of his mind. Vegeta had almost kissed him, was still pressed horribly close to his unbreathing form. And yet...it had been almost an entire agonizing minute since he had moved a muscle. The erratic thumping of his heart was deafening in his ears and he was certain the Saiyan could hear his indecision. What the hell was he going to do? Was Vegeta mocking him? Why had he stopped? Dende, he wanted...he needed...reason may have tried to plead its case, but the youngest Son was beyond listening as a wayward thought took hold in his frozen mind and he latched onto it with frenzied abandon. If the prince wasn't going to move, then he was.

Oh, Dende, if this doesn't work, they're going to have to peel me off the walls...

scene iii

"That wasn't in the script? Well, neither is this..." Vegeta looked upward at the firm, yet quiet words that were breathed into the stiff strands of his hair. Onyx eyes widened in utter chaotic shock as Goten's larger hands were suddenly fisting together the front of his red t-shirt, the cotton material bunching in his iron grip and forcing the prince forward onto his toes. His hands found balance on the flexing muscles of the younger man's biceps that rippled beneath his touch at the strength required to hold the older Saiyan's weight.

"Goten, wha-" Oh, Dende...The demi-Saiyan's lips were warm and sinfully soft against his own; it took all the control he possessed not to deepen the kiss, to show his acceptance of the bold move made by the youngest Son. But, Dende-sama...he tasted...he felt...something deep and instinctual within the slighter Saiyan prohibited him from shoving the other way, from kicking his sorry half-breed ass at having the nerve to even touch him. And then Goten's impatient tongue was coaxing a mouth half parted in shock to widen and allow him entrance into an opening that had been left virtually unexplored.

The boy was obviously inexperienced, though he was hardly one to judge; so was he. Fighting had been his love, his passion, his ardent reason to continue the backbreaking task that was merely surviving. Sex was...the heat prickled its way up the back of his neck, striking each and every hair on his skin to stand at attention. Dende, he was not blushing! Fuck, one kiss from an over eager bastard demi-brat and his body was reacting as though it had never broken through the despicable walls of Saiyan adolescence! The idle desire to kill himself was abruptly discarded as that lovely organ between his lips began to stroke and invite his own tongue to play. Any blatant signs of Goten's wanting knowledge were lost in the fervor of his delving lips. He cursed himself for the moan that slipped between the seal of their melding mouths, for the clenching of his fingers that moved the boy even closer to his heated body, for the disobedience of his tail that stroked the sensitive flesh at the inside of Goten's wrist. He wasn't doing this, he wasn't even considering the prospect...it may have held appeal earlier, but that was before...before...before he realized exactly how much he didn't know! Fuck!

scene iv

Thank Dende for that psychology course last semester...I knew Vegeta would fit into that mold... Goten tightened his impulsive grip on the older Saiyan's front, not giving the other time to think, or react to anything save his uncharacteristic aggression. His mind reeled at the unbelievable response he received as the prince jerked his body closer, fitting his compact frame more securely against his taller figure. Holy shit, it worked! I guess people who are in control all the damn time really do long to give it to someone else...

His conscious mind was blessedly lost among the gentle waves of sensation that cascaded over his skin as the kiss was mutually deepened. Dende, even in his fantasies, he had never thought that his first kiss would be this rewarding...Vegeta's mouth was pliant and responsive under his assault and he marveled at the almost submissive quality that the action held. Somehow the idea of the Saiyan prince submitting to him was highly arousing and he cultivated that pleasurable possibility as he plundered the delightful cavern of his mouth.

An upsurge of power swept through his lean figure as he caressed the prince's tongue with his own and with a low growl of yearning, he thrust the other man backward against the gravity controls, the metallic ring of flesh to steel sounding hollowly in the acoustics of the room. The prince, now bent backward over the panel grunted at the energy as his body was forced to contort under the strain of Goten's weight. Nipping lightly at his lower lip, the Son released those gloriously soft petals to look down at the Saiyan pinned temptingly beneath him.

Vegeta's beautiful black eyes were wide with unvoiced question, the hands that gripped his upper arms still tight and unyielding, as though the older Saiyan were reassuring his very presence by the magnitude of his grasp. Goten was mildly surprised when he wasn't blasted into the far wall, when the quick-witted insults that the prince was infamous for never fell from his lips. Dende, could it be that Vegeta wanted him to continue? He hadn't actually expected his theory to work, let alone leave the reticent Saiyan breathless...

scene v

The sharp jab of uncompromising metal against the muscles in his back ripped a disbelieving groan from his throat. Dende, the boy was acting as though possessed-was this what hormones did to Saiyan teenagers? He couldn't recall; he had had no one on which to focus his desire at that age, and by the time Kakarott had come into the picture, Vegeta had been old enough to control his cravings. The Saiyan had channeled all such energies into activities that had yielded more immediate benefits. Damn-screw Kakarott! Vegeta may have harboured the occasional fantasy when it came to the other Saiyan, a late night reprieve when the tension in his body proved too much for even fighting to contend with, but Goten was looking at him now in a way that his father had never done. There was reckless lust, tinged with the subtle glimmer of wanton ownership in those fascinating pools of liquid obsidian that regarded him so steadily from above. It was ironically unnerving. No one had ever looked at the heir to the Saiyan throne like a Saiyan.

Flicking the tip of his tongue over the moistness of his own lips, the prince was granted the renewed flavour of the demi-Saiyan's exquisite taste. It was threatening to unravel him-the singular feeling of the other man pressed so agonizingly close, his hips caught between the coolness of the metal behind him and the growing heat of the one before him contrasting in such a way as to leave him completely oblivious to the pride that generally handled these uncomfortable situations. Dammit, even his hellcat fury had been reduced to little more than a mewing kitten by the unlikely behavior of the lusting demi-brat. What's he doing to me? Why aren't I fighting this? He's just a boy-a teenage boy!

But he didn't stop the slow descent of Goten's dark raven head as he bent sensuous lips to his throat, couldn't prevent the persistent purr from striking an offbeat rhythm in his chest, betraying his bizarre appreciation for the other's sudden dominance.

"It burns, Vegeta..." The seductive voice was soft and alluring to ears that were currently echoing with the frantic pace of his own pulse. "Can you feel it?" Good Dende, but he could-that aching fire that rushed blood to each area that the demi-Saiyan touched, a torrid heat that incinerated his protests, prohibited complaint...had there even been one to begin with.

His hands bit deeper into the clothed flesh of the boy's arms as his willing lips were claimed again, the passionate craving that had been awakened in his blood engulfing his pride and encouraging the unthinkable with each taunting taste of Goten's fervent mouth. Vegeta's heavy lidded eyes snapped open with a growling gasp as he felt large hands that had previously been unoccupied settle on his waist, raising him up, a quick thrust of Goten's hips sending the smaller Saiyan to sit on the control panel that had held his leaning weight only moments before.

"Goten, dammit-" The prince snarled in harsh indignation. He wasn't a toy that the boy could just throw around whenever he damn well pleased!

"Shut up, Vegeta." His heart skipped a rapid beat at the ferocious Saiyan quality born by his words as the boy's hands wrapped around the hard muscle of his thighs, dragging them forward with a swift unforeseen movement and grinding his burning arousal into the welcoming warmth of Goten's own excitement. One palm remained stubbornly on his hip while the other pressed down onto the metal surface he reclined against, keeping the prince bound by the desirable body that leaned toward him again.

His slender fingers cramped at the sheer force of his grip and he knew that the demi-Saiyan would bare his mark tomorrow in varying shades of powder blue and purple. Dende, after this he'd be lucky if that was all he bore.

"Vegeta..." The Saiyan felt his face flush as that whispered word was breathed against the sensitive dip in his throat, the amazingly silky strands of Goten's untamed hair tickling his senses, the subtle musk that permeated the demi-Saiyan's being wafting up to seduce his nose with its animalistic appeal. "You want this, my prince..." Oh, Dende-sama, save me from this boy...I don't know how, but he knows just what to say to me to make me go completely fucking boneless... Quiet curses left his lips as broad, caressing hands massaged into the tense muscles of his thighs, head falling backward against his nape as that mouth, that glorious mouth, cleansed away all thought of objection with tender nips and succulent suckles.

Dende, this is it...I can stop this if I want to. I've ten times the power he has and he knows it! He fucking knows it! Then why...Vegeta's purr of silent rapture gained strength as Goten's kisses gained force, leaving brilliant flashes of vibrant red in their wake. It didn't make sense...but Dende dammit, it didn't have to. Growling in opulent fury, the prince drove long fingers into the boy's thick Saiyan mane, tugging sharply in an effort to raise his head. This was all that damn woman's fault! If she had been able to satisfy me, I wouldn't be turning to children! Disgusted with attempting to deceive himself, Vegeta shook his head. Bakayaro! You know very well that has nothing to do with this...if anything it's Frieza's fault for killing your race, demolishing your chances at having a normal Saiyan relationship, driving you into the bed of a half-breed brat...who worships you. Dammit...Fuck me...

Baring his teeth savagely, Vegeta crushed his lips to the demi-Saiyan's beautiful mouth. He wanted this, dammit! To deny it was to deny his nature, his race...Who was he to turn down one of the only living beings left with any considerable amount of Saiyan blood when Goten was practically worshipping the ground he walked on? Sure, the boy had taken control-because he had allowed it! And this was in no way geared toward his humiliation...he could see it clearly defined in those bottomless eyes of inviting black velvet. Goten was determined to please him...to pleasure them both in an act he had consciously been yearning for since the day he had realized what it meant to truly be Saiyan, when the first scent of freshly spilled blood had graced his fist. And somehow, whether through the subtle years of his indirect parenting, or the suppression of his Saiyan instincts due to his idiot parents, Goten was matching his desire flame for burning flame; it flickered in those dark depths, heated those lustrous lips...

The chorus of their panting breaths was suddenly interrupted by the melody of his growl. Fisting that lovely hair in his anxious hands, he brought the demi-Saiyan down for another bruising kiss.

"The bedroom. Downstairs."

scene vi

Goten's glittering ebony eyes slid into a lustful expression of urgent desire as the prince's husky words seduced his ears. Vegeta wanted it to happen, he wasn't fighting...but the demi-Saiyan knew that he'd have to keep control of the situation if he was to maintain Vegeta's determination. Gazing down into black mirrors of turbulent desire, Goten wrapped his arms around the tapered waist of the older Saiyan, drawing him up and off the control panel. A surprised moan greeted his lips as they were conquered by the fevered prince, powerful legs enclosing around his waist and crossing at his lower back as Goten hefted him bodily, Vegeta's slighter form requiring almost no strength at all to lift.

He wasn't sure exactly how they managed to stumble down the steps that led to the living chambers without permanently hurting themselves. Vegeta's arms were locked in a vice grip around his neck, those fingers that held him enraptured on sight, now pulling and playing mercilessly with his tangled windswept locks. That divine appendage had forsaken his wrist in favour of more attractive territory, lacing under the arms that held the prince and beneath his turtleneck, stroking with teasing caresses of fur to flesh that left the demi-Saiyan growling in the sanctum of their unending kiss.

He felt the prince's breath leave his compact body in a rush as he was deposited on the bed, the demi-Saiyan's larger frame forced to follow in the interweave of limbs that inevitably dragged him down.

"Vegeta..." he murmured quietly, as though reminding himself through vocalization that this was real and not another beautiful fantasy concocted by an adolescent desire he couldn't begin to control. But the man beneath him was answering him in soft growls and curses that included his name and it was then that the power of the situation hit him full force. He was kissing Vegeta! He was about to submit to the most basic of animal pleasures with Vegeta! Oh, Dende-sama...is this...is it...

"Goten..." So soft, Dende, it was so soft...the demi-Saiyan lost his breath as the impact of that one word exploded, disintegrating the flimsy human wall of his reason. Purring deeply in response, Goten braced his arms against the cushioned bed, raising himself enough to lick and nuzzle the prince's cheek. Elegant hands ran paths of sensation down his sculpted back and he arched into that touch, applying gentle pressure into Vegeta's receptive hips.

Supple and sensuous, Vegeta's tail snaked upward to curl against his jaw, the fluffy end uncoiling to tickle at his nose. Goten inhaled deeply of the prince's Saiyan scent, his obvious state of arousal hardening to an almost painful point. Dende...

His onyx eyes flashed open as the intensity of his passion swept over him, shaking him to the core of his Saiyan soul. Keeping his gaze locked firmly onto the ebony orbs of shimmering night, Goten turned his head gently to the side, capturing that flexible appendage in his teeth and licking with the lay of the downy fur. The Saiyan's reaction was instantaneous-Vegeta's guarded expression was immediately shattered into tiny, incomprehensible pieces. Goten's breath hissed painfully around the tail as the fingers in his hair tightened, drawing the sleek figure below upward. Beautiful lips parted, emitting a whimpering moan of need as eyes glazed by pinpricks of pleasure were closed, dark lashes pressed flat against the high curve of his cheekbones. Continuing his oral ministrations, Goten's hands moved down the hard chest and chiseled abdomen of the occupied man currently writhing in a mindless haze of feeling.

Dende, but he's beautiful...Goten couldn't help but admire his lover as the Saiyan twisted and panted with each flick of his tongue. The small button of the prince's pants slipped easily at his insistence and with a gentle nip and growl, he was able to disengage Vegeta's legs from around his waist, enabling him to pull the material off his exquisite frame. The prince sighed mournfully as his tail was released, helping the demi-Saiyan in his task by quickly removing his shirt and tossing it over the edge of the bed.

As the Saiyan lay back against the sheets, beautiful bronze and black complimented by the royal blue of the bed, Goten couldn't help but lose what little breath remained in his over stimulated body.

"Vegeta...you are so...beautiful..." The proud prince blushed furiously at the awed words, only serving to heighten his graceful splendor. Reaching crosswise across his chest, Goten lifted the turtleneck from his body, pulling it hard to free his head from the constricting fabric before having it follow the way of Vegeta's discarded clothing.

scene vii

Dende, he felt like he was in heat. Only in that irrational state had he ever felt a yearning this powerful, a need so great it made him submissive to the whim and impulse of the man above him. There was fire coursing through his blazing Saiyan blood, a mad craving that he could no longer battle-he didn't want to fight it anymore! Goten was hardly his choice for an ideal mate, but the boy had definite potential... and Vegeta had never felt so utterly passionate as he did in this moment; it was like the social divides that had kept his mind from even considering the boy had fallen prey to his unconscious desires. It was time to taste the intoxicating flavour of his kind, to lose himself in the animal ecstasy of another Saiyan.

The boy's strikingly eloquent fingers were fast disposing of his remaining attire. Sitting up quietly, Vegeta slipped his hands under the parted denim of the boy's pants. Purring in admiration of the satin curves that flexed beneath his palms, the prince pushed the material down the sloping plane of the demi-Saiyan's hips. His unsuspecting lips were ravaged as the Son maneuvered himself upward, kicking the offending jeans down his legs and off the bed behind him. The Saiyan was forcefully thrust back, bouncing lightly on the springs of the mattress as his slighter frame was covered in the descending shadow of the other man.

Goten seemed to pause above his body, panting with the effort it took not to simply sate himself in the enticing form below. Oh, no you don't, boy. Don't you dare stop now...Growling low in his throat, the impatient Saiyan wove his tail up the satin inside of the demi-Saiyan's thigh. The youngest Son jerked at his touch, wide, wondering eyes highlighted with the soft glow of lust never leaving his own. Licking his lips, Vegeta caressed soothingly up the corded muscles of the other's arms, entwining teasing fingers into the delightful silken texture of Goten's hair and bringing him down for another achingly sensual kiss. Arms interwoven behind the demi-Saiyan's neck, the prince walked his tail inward until the downy softness of his questing appendage wrapped around the thick shaft between the other's smooth thighs.

Goten's natural inclination was to jump backward, as the prince had foreseen, and thus prohibited, stroking his lips and sex with equally soft parts of his royal anatomy. The boy relaxed within moments, aiding the Saiyan's efforts with insistent bucks of his narrow hips. Vegeta licked and suckled at the mouth before him, those lovely lips bitten sporadically as the pleasure proven too much for his training, allowing the traitorous moans and purrs through before they were silenced. Dende, the prince would never admit it, but he reveled in each sound he coaxed from the taller man, responding in whispered noises of decedent pleasure as the demi-Saiyan ground his hips forward, his tongue lashing out to finally engage his own. Moaning softly with extreme need, Vegeta drew the younger man's body toward him with the adamant cajoling of his lustrous tail.

scene viii

Goten's breath caught painfully, his back arching against the barred resistance of Vegeta's powerful arms. It seemed the prince had had enough in the way of foreplay; he was easing his body closer with persuasive tugs of his taunting little tail. Groaning, the demi-Saiyan gave in to the Saiyan's persistence-he wasn't exactly sure how long he could last at this rate anyway. The fact that both he and his prince hadn't already embarrassed themselves was a sheer testament to Saiyan stamina. Gripping Vegeta's bronze thighs with both hands, Goten parted them wide to lie on either side of his kneeling body. The prince's luxurious eyes of unrivaled darkness flickered with yearning, that resonant purr beginning anew as the younger man positioned himself against the other's receptive body.

Vegeta's arms slid unnoticed down his biceps, coming to rest above his head, exquisitely sculpted limbs caressed by the black and red tendrils of his hair. Gazing with silent wonder at his lover, Goten could hardly believe that such a powerhouse of masculinity was allowing himself to be taken by someone hardly worthy to clean his shoes. He's a prince...and what am I? Nothing...half-human and the forgotten offspring of a third class baka. Dende...my prince...I hope I can give you what you want. Swallowing the fireflies of trepidation that flew in wretched circles in his stomach, Goten closed his ebony eyes and pushed forward with his hips.

Oh, Dende, he's so tight...The panting demi-Saiyan was forced to pause in his entrance, the searing heat and throbbing pressure that surrounded his sensitive member threatening to completely unmake everything they had built. The man beneath him was flushed a deep pink, his dark lashes fluttering against blushing cheeks as the young Son thrust deeper into his body. Goten silently marveled at the ease in which he entered the Saiyan; the passage was slick and nonresistant, as though lubricated with its own secretions. Hell, for all he knew that's exactly what it was-Vegeta was a Saiyan, not a human. All he knew was that it felt wickedly pleasant. Dende, there should be laws against feeling this good... Any thought to continue at his slow, steady pace was cast aside as that damndable appendage slipped over his hip, flicking and fondling the small scar at the base of his arched spine. With a low cry, he buried himself in that wondrous heat, head falling forward, sweaty locks of raven hair clinging to his furrowed brow.

"Vegeta!"

scene ix

Bending his knees and pushing his hips higher, Vegeta welcomed the frantic thrust that signified his fulfillment. Fingers clasped heatedly in pleasure against the fluffy softness of the pillow as the prince arched his back hard, gathering that beautiful body to his own with one well-placed slap of his tail. His whimpered purr was lost to the fevered sound of his name falling from the demi-Saiyan's lips and his body throbbed at the passion contained within that heartfelt exclamation. Gritting his teeth, he encouraged the brash young Saiyan to use his full strength with pointed manipulations of the half-breed's tail spot.

Moaning now, with no mind to cease, the prince met each pump and thrust with snarling vigor. Dende, yes, this is what he had wanted, needed, desired...this unique sensation of being filled and pleasured by one of his own, a joining of body and mutual gratification that had no equal. This was fighting and anger, pain, fury and rapture all reduced to the singular matchless feeling of ultimate completion. He was so close to satisfaction...closer than he should have been. But Dende! The boy was so fucking arousing to watch, those gentle eyes spellbound with the pleasure sent coursing through his blood with each gliding plunge into the prince's body. And that body...lean, muscled, powerful...not overly bulky like his father or brother, but streamlined... seductive... sexy...

Vegeta's tail relented the assault on Goten's spine, slipping over the dips and impressions of the boy's muscles, redefining his chest with soft, alluring caresses that increased the pitch of the demi-Saiyan's growling moans. Murmuring quietly to gods half forgotten from his youth, the prince inhaled deeply of the boy's rich scent-sweat, passion, and Saiyan. It was the scent that finally drove him to scream his pleasure to any who cared to listen, to lose himself in the delightful abyss of Saiyan carnality.

scene x

Oh, Vegeta-sama! Goten threw back his head and howled his blissful satisfaction to the world as his hips stilled, the prince's legs wrapping tightly around his waist and holding him securely to his body as they voiced their simultaneous appreciation for each other.

When his wits returned, responding to the persistent call of his consciousness, his face was pressed contentedly against the warmth of the Saiyan's chest, the heat that radiated from his compact physique shrouding him from thought and engulfing him in a lazy haze of comfort. The strong scent of the man's passion played with the euphoric state of his mind, and he found himself lapping the chest beneath him clean before settling his head against the other's shoulder. A gradually slowing heartbeat...and a deep melodic purr lulled him into a serene place of simplistic being.

Caught in the Act

by Angelus

 Intermission

  scene i

"You never did tell anyone how you got it back." The velvety softness of the prince's tail slipped through his fingers like a yard of silk to glide over the demi-Saiyan's cheek and down the prominent muscles of his side. Sighing quietly, he nuzzled backward into those wonderful fingers that raked shivering patterns of pleasure from the roots of his hair to the tips of toes that were currently lost among the dark blue sea of twisting sheets wrapped haphazardly around their horizontal forms.

"Hn. You think just because we had sex you get to know all my secrets?"

Goten's lazy lidded eyes snapped open, the idle fingertips that had been tracing those lovely dips and valleys of the Saiyan's chest stopping their adoring exploration. Swallowing hard, he willed himself not to allow the hot tears of disappointment that congregated in his eyes to fall. So it didn't mean anything...it was just sex to him. What was I expecting? Dende, I feel like a fool...

"I guess I'll just go then..." He couldn't meet those coal black orbs of welcoming darkness as he pushed himself to the side, rolling off the warm body reclining beneath him. He glanced upward through ebony locks of hair as his wrist was caught in the beautiful hand of his paramour, his body pulled gently back to rest rigidly against the other.

"Baka," the Saiyan swore softly, that devilish length of furry mischief flicking against Goten's exposed side. Laughing in spite of himself at the short, teasing strands of fur as they massacred his body, along with his melancholy mood, the younger man tried desperately to wiggle away from the evil appendage.

"Vegeta! Stop it!" The iron grip around his wrist only tightened at his futile efforts, the older Saiyan's amused chuckles reaching his ears through the high pitched tune of his own giggling. When the other man took pity and finally relented, Goten's lungs were pained with the force of his laughter and it was with a contented sigh that he resumed his previous position on the prince's chest.

"You are such a bastard, you know that?" Mmm...those soothing fingers in his hair, brushing and shifting the tangled mane with gentle tugs and scratches. The chiseled area of hard muscle that supported his head began to vibrate with the prince's silent mirth and Goten found himself smiling like an idiot. This was so nice, relaxed...and Vegeta was being positively playful. Strange, unsettling...and ever so comfortable.

"You always this brave after sex?" The demi-Saiyan felt his face flush and could only imagine the varying shades of scarlet he presented as he burrowed deeper into the silken concealment of the prince's torso. "I'll have to remember that next time we need to save the planet..." Shaking his head slightly, Goten began to purr as the softness of Vegeta's tail wound around the loose muscle of his thigh. Dende, if he never moved from this lethargic state of ultimate contentment it would be too damn soon. Yawning, an exhale of hot breath against the Saiyan's satin skin, the younger man allowed his onyx eyes to droop, his body blessedly limp and relaxed, limbs entwined and tucked within and around his prince.

"Fusion." Goten's heavy lidded eyes engaged in the laborious process of pushing open as he turned his head upward to stare questioningly at the Saiyan. One of Vegeta's powerful arms was pillowed under his head, the other still gracing the demi-Saiyan's shoulders while playful fingers massaged into his scalp when he raised his gaze to haunted raven eyes.

"Fusing with Kakarott proved to be...traumatic enough to entice its growth." The prince's glittering black eyes flickered downward once before refocusing on the ceiling as he had been. Goten brought his arm up against the man's chest, settling his chin on his forearm and staring silently at his lover.

"I remember...You really don't like him. Do you?" Dark eyes slid downward to capture his own, and he lost his breath again to those enigmatic black depths that just seemed to swallow his unresisting body whole.

"Neither do you." Goten gnawed the inside of his lip, the fingertips of his other hand dancing absently over the sensuous curves of the Saiyan's neck.

"I don't really know him..." Vegeta snorted disdainfully and the demi-Saiyan's eyes shot up to harden with resolution. Why was he making excuses?? No, he didn't like his father. Why should he? The man had never been there for him-his own son! Everyone he knew, with the valid exception of the man he lay on, idolized Son Goku, earth's hero. In need of help? No problem, just call Son Goku. What's that? Oh, right, you can't-he's dead!

"No...I hate him." He pronounced vehemently, holding those obsidian eyes with steadfast tenacity.

"Hn." Vegeta's encompassing eyes were unchallenging in the face of his epiphanous declaration, extravagant fingers of velveteen softness sliding through the rumpled mass of unkempt ebony. The hand in his hair suddenly tightened, drawing his willing lips forward with one slow, fluid motion. The kiss was as satisfying to him now as it had been the first time they had touched so intimately; Vegeta's seductive tongue commenced a full frontal assault on his senses, wringing a pleading groan from his throat. The prince was only too happy to comply with his silent request, pushing the youngest Son gently to the left, his smaller frame sliding out from under Goten's body to press deliciously against his side. The demi-Saiyan felt that cool sheet between them brushed aside, revealing heat and excitement to both parties present, encouraging the constant spark to ignite in a rush of aroused anticipation.

"He has nothing to do with this..." Goten arched his back hard as that damndable tail was sent to prove the Saiyan's softly murmured words, palms that exuded warmth and the promise of skillful pleasure caressing his legs apart. Closing his eyes with a shuttering moan, the demi-Saiyan abandoned all thoughts of his father. This was the only man in his life that mattered...not Goku, not Trunks...

"Vegeta..."

scene ii

"Mmmm..." Goten awoke with a quiet groan, licking lips to wet a mouth gone dry in sleep. "What time is it?" Glancing back over one shoulder, he was met with the bemused gaze of his lover.

"Probably after dark." Sighing softly, his mouth parting before the Saiyan's seeking lips, Goten didn't process the whispered response to his thoughtless inquiry until the kiss had ended. Opening his eyes wide, Goten stared in shock at the man who leaned so naturally above him, chin palmed in one hand.

"I slept for that long?" He couldn't believe that he'd been out for hours. Well...blushing hard he reached down to tug the crumpled sheet more firmly against his chest. Maybe he could understand how. The prince had not exactly been...merciful in his pursuit of the youngest Son.

"No..." Warm fingertips caressed the heat in his cheeks to intensify, narrowed eyes daring him to look away. "We were active for that long..." Swallowing hard, Goten's eyes dropped to the rich colours of the passion-stained bed sheets. Good Dende...

"I have to go," he mumbled regretfully, pushing aside the covers to swing his longer legs over the edge of the bed. He could only imagine what his mother was going to say-he'd skipped school, blatantly avoided the woman, and now he would be returning home late for the second time that week. Great...She's gonna kill me, I just know it. Maybe I should just find the dragonballs now and save everyone the trouble...

It was the first real chance he'd had to look at the room that had housed their sinful activities for the last day, and he took the scene in wordlessly as he sat up. Blinking hard he ran a weary hand through his wild, uncombed hair. The place actually looked lived in. Various articles of spandex made in variants of every colour imaginable were strewn over the sparse scattering of furniture that decorated the small room. Among them were his own clothes, wrinkled, inside out, and looking the worse for wear. But then he remembered how they came to be thus and it suddenly seemed the perfect garnish.

A gasp of pain hissed involuntarily through his teeth as he moved to stand. Blushing deeply, Goten ignored the sharp sensation as it gradually dulled to a throbbing ache. He'd have to remember to be exceedingly careful with his movements for the following days, even with mundane actions.

Like sitting down and standing up.

Bending slowly, the demi-Saiyan retrieved the pants he had hastily cast aside earlier, shaking them out with one good jerk of his arms.

"Pity..." Goten looked briefly over his shoulder as he struggled to pull the uncooperative material over his thighs. Losing the battle, the younger man sat down hard on the mattress behind him, gritting his teeth against the flash of pain that flared up his spine.

"What are you talking about?" His questioning words hitched in his throat, sending him through a bout of breath-depriving coughs as a certain russet tail seemed to spontaneously materialize, tantalizing the hyper sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. Dark eyes slipped closed as teasing licks were planted on the nape of his neck, that husky voice blessing his ears again.

"It's a pity that you have to put these back on." A rich caramel contrast to his pale skin, Vegeta's hand caressed suggestively over the muscle of his thigh. Oh, Dende...the temptation was strong, the appeal wickedly enticing. He could stay...his mother was already predictably pissed beyond reasonable comprehension. Why not finally become what she always feared, follow in his brother's delinquent footsteps? The tight, compact body behind him was warm against his back, that powerful limb wrapping around his torso, denying him the motion he sought to complete.

"You..." Goten moaned quietly as those soft lips uncovered the pearly teeth beneath, sharp, erotic nips adorning his neck with small scarlet circles. "...are relentless..." The hand on his thigh migrated upward to stroke the naked muscles of his chest.

"Heh, you started this, boy..."

scene iii

The chill severity of the evening slashed through his feeble black knit defenses as the door of the gravity room yawned to allow his release. Shivering despite the hours spent in heated winds of torrid passion, Goten walked through the entryway onto the jewel-encrusted lawn that shimmered with intricate droplets of newly placed dew, frosting to glistening white diamonds beneath his feet. Shoving fingers already tinged red with the offense of the autumn wind into his pockets, the demi-Saiyan chanced a longing glance over his shoulder. The windows of the capsule were dark, unrevealing, safely concealing the secret affair that had been forbiddenly explored in the brightest hours of the day. But now, in the comforting arms of cool velvet night, Goten could only stare in rapt wonder at the sanctuary that had enlightened him to the powerful sway of seductive darkness.

"Goten!" A sharp slap of the back door jerked the unsuspecting Son from his reverie, a moment only before the cause of the disruption flung small, pleading arms around his middle, warm, innocent hands slipping between the insulation of his forearms to clasp with steadfast resolution at his lower back.

"Goten..." The youngest Son looked down in stark dismay as that normal exuberance was replaced with a choking sob.

"What is it, Bra-chan?" Fraternal arms of instinctual protection laced around the lithe form at his waist, onyx brow surrendering to the confusion that wrung his insides with its cloying intensity.

"G-Go-k-kun..." Quivering, the warm body shuddering with the strength of her disillusionment and the sudden onslaught of artic autumn wind, Vegeta's youngest cast anguished eyes of electric blue upward. "You don't love me anymore?"

"Nani?!" Struggling to make sense of the little angel's enigmatic desperation, the youngest Son simply stared into those fervent cobalt orbs, trying vainly to decipher the source of her irrational fear. If this is Trunks' doing, I swear by Dende's staff I'll kill him...Kneeling before the miniature vision of distress, Goten gazed into the swollen red and crystal blue of her pained eyes. "Why would you think that, Butterfly?"

Resolving herself to speech, the girl lost small, frost bit fingers in the thick cotton depths of his sweater. "I saw you, Go-kun...you and Papa." His heart ceased the required flow of blood to his brain as his sex-hazened mind processed the impact of her words.

Oh...no...

"Bra..." Swallowing his uncertainty, the demi-Saiyan raked a shaking hand through matted sable strands, eyes flashing toward the building behind him in a primal gesture of possession. But then her periwinkle wonderment was still his to behold as he straightened, and he realized in that instant that it wasn't accusation in those innocent eyes, but fear...Aw, Butterfly...Quirking an infectious Son smile, Goten gathered her willowy figure close, securing her in his fevered warmth. "No, Butterfly, this doesn't mean I don't love you..." Hopeful and shimmering with the possibility of sincere reassurance, the sniffling sprite loosening the inhuman grip on his front to wipe at the stray watery remnants of her melancholia.

"You mean it?" Chuckling, the adolescent ran a ruffling hand affectionately through aqua faerie curls.

"Hai...it just means that I'm even more a part of the family than I was before." Something dark and sick twisted in the gloaming depths of his stomach at his own hasty words. What if I'm wrong? What if Vegeta doesn't even acknowledge my presence after tonight? Dende...I don't know if I can stand to be rejected again...

"Yatta!" His doubt was suddenly smothered in a cloud of aromatic blue as soft, trusting limbs wrapped around his neck. Wincing at the familiar contact, Goten's mind again took its time to understand the uncanny pain in his neck. And then the unchecked fire of embarrassment sparked, the blazing conflagration of crimson and ruby assimilated into the wind-burnt scarlet of his cheeks. The prince had seemed to enjoy the taste of his throat...and the delightful sounds of encouragement that each erotic nip had invoked.

"Butterfly..." The raven haired demi-Saiyan stiffened at the foreign summons, hands clenching in the corduroy raiment of his younger companion. Eyes of preternatural obsidian narrowed on the dark silhouette that intruded upon their interlude, the growl of hostility blown soundless by an icy gust. Trunks.

"Oniichan?" Blue tendrils were tossed backward against his cheek as the smaller figure responded with an answering turn of question.

"Gram wants you in the house, neechan. It's too cold for you to be out here in nothing but that." Speculative eyes of wandering blue roamed the terrain of her green jumper, fragile brow drawing downward in opposition to her brother's will. Licking his lips against the chilling dryness of nature's caress, Goten gave the girl a conclusive embrace.

"Go on in, Butterfly." He silenced her open mouthed objections with a tender bop to her button nose. "Maybe she's got more cookies for ya, ne?" Tears forgotten in the instant of assurance, already bright eyes lit with an inner excitement, pink lips parting in an expression of simplistic joy. Oh, to be that young again...

"Hai!" Slender arms squeezed him once more in departure, warm lips pursing against his night-numbed cheek, a gentle kiss of sensation to skin gone cold in wait. "And I promise not to tell anyone, Go-kun," her soft whisper flit against the winding of his ear, a butterfly breath of fluttering lashes against his cheek coaxed a smile, though his temperamental gaze lie transfixed on the statuesque figure in the doorway. "Besides," her leaning form straightened, reedy voice pitched intentionally low. "I've seen Mama too." Pale sapphire complimented awestruck onyx as his fingers slipped from her childish waist. "But I like you better than her friend." Smiling adoringly, the older demi-Saiyan rested a broad hand on her uplifted head, raising himself from his crouching position.

"Arigato, Butterfly," he called after her scampering shadow, a wink thrown obviously over one shoulder as she got to the door, ducking under her brother's arm and disappearing into the illuminating amber that bespoke of warmth and the promise of cookies...Love you, little sister. Sighing heavily, the boy turned his face windward, reveling in the sharp delight of icy shards that tousled his wild mane. Breathing deep, a heavy blanket of dead leaves and autumn air, Goten steeled himself in his destination. He still had to face his mother...and he could only imagine what she would say. For just one more instant, he wanted to linger in the euphoria of his actions, the perfume of sex and Saiyan that coiled around his body, permeated his clothing, and tossed his willing figure back into the ethereal abyss of remembrance...

But alas, there was still another scene before the next act.

"Goten..." Hardened by his memories, his resolve stole to the surface, burning in an unforgiving baptism of fire that shone like redemption in his ebony eyes. "We need to talk." The paler prince seemed to acknowledge his uncharacteristic mood, though his eyes never wavered.

Gritting his teeth, the youngest Son welcomed his impending anger. It was time to take this prince down a peg or three. We grew up together, damn you. I'm not going to take your condescending bullshit tonight, Trunks. I have a few words of my own to say to you.

"I'm listening." Electric blue that had once held his heart spellbound in its purity flashed like lightning as the older demi-Saiyan glanced backward into the kitchen, closing the door with a subtle click. Shadows and silence, the shattered amber sequence from the window glazing the jeweled grass in a patchwork of stars. Arms locked like a shield before his breast, the boy watched with heated narrow eyes as his enemy approached, the wretched scent of floral perfume tainting the air between them. So the rumours are true. Hn, didn't think you had it in you, Trunks. If only you could be more like your father in other ways...

"I know what you're doing, Goten." The piece of his heart still devoted to the amethyst Ouji screamed in pain as the menacing quality held like a rapier in his words sliced through his chest. "And it's not going to work." Condescendence shone baleful in brilliant blue as the older demi-Saiyan glared down at his tense counterpart, feet coming to rest uncomfortably close to the other boy.

"Oh?" He couldn't contain the sarcasm that saturated his response, the dismissive jerk of his shoulder, the impudent flip of his head. "And what is it that I'm doing, Trunks?" Teeth grit in anger, the pastel teen clenched his fists in opulent rage.

"Dammit, Goten! You're not that much like your father!" Lavender licked his cheeks as his counterpart descended and the resulting growl resounded through the leaf littered air as the constant breeze ripped impatient fingers against their clothes. "You know what you're doing and I'm telling you right now that turning my father against me isn't going to work!"

The snarl in his voice wasn't suppressed, nor was the mocking justification of his laughter. Turn Vegeta...? You think I'm trying to get you back?

"You think I'm trying to get you to love me?" He wasn't in the mood for this shit. He'd easily had the most eventful day in his youthful career and he wasn't about to let his ex-crush stand in the way of his momentary happiness. Especially when he had his mother to go home to. Icy eyes regarded him with disdain, that arrogance that suited his dark lover with regal tenacity, despicably ugly on the paler prince's tenuous countenance. But Trunks' silence answered his question and with a bark of sadistic mirth, the younger demi-Saiyan rounded on the other teen.

"You think me that stupid? You gave me your answer, Trunks. You made it perfectly clear that you had no interest in a relationship." Baring his teeth, the Son leaned closer, relishing the flicker of uncertainty that came with his unexpected anger. I'm done being your silent shadow, Trunks. "Remember?" Narrowed eyes of flaming obsidian reflected back the slight unease in his ocean eyes. "Remember the empty classroom? Remember almost kissing me, Trunks-kun?" Pale purple whipped in the ferocity of wind that seemed to mirror his mood, a tempest within tempest, wielding the violence of his righteous anger like an angelic sword. Staring up with unforgiving eyes, the youngest Son spat out the words as though foul on his lips. "Remember pushing me away?" His eerie voice hushed, eyes sparking past pain and hatred at his speechless counterpart. "Remember telling me you never thought of me that way just because someone walked in the room?" Gnashing his teeth, Goten brought one hand up to fist in the navy of Trunks' prissy Izod sweater. "Remember telling me you didn't want to see me anymore?" Hissing in the strength of his leashed fury, the younger teen brought his paling counterpart to eye level, fingers twisting the fabric with a sufficient flick of his wrist.

"And you think," their roles had reversed, and it was the darker demi-Saiyan that now held the other in contempt. "That I want you." Downward for an instant, obsidian shards flashed up through thick raven lashes. "Why would I want that when you can't even admit you're gay?"

Trunks blanched at the accusation, fingers clawing upward in an attempt to unclasp the hands that held him so firm in grasp. "I am not gay, Goten!"

Smirking, Saiyan blood pounded with venomous force through his system, the Son eyed the other with loathing. Sure...deny it, Trunks-kun. That's always what you've done best. When we were children, getting us into trouble and then denying it...so who did they blame? Oh, right...me!

"Sure you're not, Trunks-kun," eyes dark and midnight kissed swallowed the protesting teen as Goten brought the other nearer to him. Something bold and brash sprang forth in his mind, a kernel of vengeful satisfaction, the birth of which lie in satin and sleep in the capsule behind him. "Sure you're not..." he purred, the tip of his tongue flicking out to smooth over his own lips, centimeters from the open, floundering mouth of his breathless captive.

"G-Goten...d-don't..."

Methinks thou dost protest too much...It was exhilarating to see the boy that had held such a superior attitude since childhood weak and pathetic before him. It was a priceless image, this prince bound unbreathing in his grip, bright eyes heavy lidded with the aching desire compressed and denied within the gilded cage of his pretense. Longing that Goten would unlock, ignite, and give life... so Trunks could feel the same desperate emptiness that had haunted the darker teen for three agonizing years.

"You know...they talk about you, you whore." Moist softness against dry satin, Goten's words seduced the older boy's mouth, a murmuring that strained to be heard over the hitch of surprise expulsed from the lavender prince's lips. Tilting his head just slightly, the Son granted the most teasing of pressure to those begging petals, words reduced to the whispering of sensuous breath. "How many girls have you fucked and imagined were me, Trunks?" A hint of triumph accompanied the moaning whimper of yearning as Trunks' artistic digits dug almost painfully into his hand. What's a little more pain, ne, Trunks? You've already hurt me so much already...

"Go...ten..." The pliant mouth yielded to his hot exhale, his teasing manipulations that left the arrogant prince dazed, leaning downward with wanting.

"Ten...? Twenty...? You should hear what they say, Trunks..." A fleeting lick, a pause, allowing the questing mouth contact, only to wretch his lips away before their warmth could be granted.

"Goten." Fingers around his wrist jerked him forward against the lean body of his former crush. Brushing along the white scar that ran diagonal down his counterpart's sharp chin, a solemn reminder of the consequences involved in tampering with his mother's machines, the younger teen trailed leisurely with his lips.

"Demanding, aren't you. Slut." His degrading tone seemed only to fuel the other boy's aggression. Heh, Saiyan princes and their need to be pushed around...The adolescent intensity behind the older demi-Saiyan's kiss was amazing, electrifying...disappointing. If Trunks had kissed him like this a day ago...he would have melted like snow in new spring sunshine. But now...the probing tongue of his pretty boy comrade, the hands that bruised his forearms with their insolent command only amplified the disgust he held for the boy he had once viewed as his other half.

And he wasn't Vegeta.

"Fuck you, Trunks," he whispered against the panting insistence that hungered for his lips. Pushing the other half-breed backward, the youngest Son wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Meeting lust-lit eyes of blue eagerness, the darker of the duo sneered, spitting to the frozen ground beside him. "No...go fuck someone else. Again. Because I don't need you." Dismissing the obvious expression of betrayal and wanton desire, Goten turned, glancing back only once, a wicked gleam dancing deviant in sensuous sable. "It's good to know you're not gay, Trunks-kun. I wouldn't want others to make the same mistake I did."

scene iv

Adrenaline pulsed through his system like the liquid gold of a Super Saiyan. Chill and liberating, snatching wind tugged and rolled through his clothing, engaging his tangled tendrils in a frenzied dance of lightening freedom. He had done it. He had finally told Trunks exactly what he felt-shucked off the obsessive tendency that had ensured his silent status and told the older demi-Saiyan to piss off. And Vegeta...he had made love to Vegeta! The man that made him want to erase the demi before Saiyan and worship him like the prince he was. Dende-sama it felt...it feels...

"Wonderful!" Throwing his head back like a lion deranged, the Son roared his soulful ecstasy to the cloudless blanket of sparkling velvet above him. Spiraling, twisting, arms streamlining his body, Goten burst through thick foliage yet untouched by the dying season, ascending, climbing, fingers clasping, reaching for the glittering diamonds that lie strewn on their inky canvas. With a whooping cry the boy plummeted at his crest, closing his tearing eyes to the whistling wind and simply reveling in the feeling of intense enlightenment that blessed his adolescent form. To hell with his mother and her pestering, he was too enamored with life to contemplate the execution that surely awaited him.

And yet all too soon he approached a clearing between the dark jagged outlining of trees, the telltale flicker of insidious incandescence dampening his careless high. Anxiety burned in celebration's place, apprehension coiling around the core of his enchantment as he hovered in uneasy trepidation above the humble little place he hated to call home. Dende...dammit...

Touching down, greeted with the crunching welcome of crystallized dew, the Son shoved unfeeling fingers into the harsh denim of his pockets, striking a brisk pace toward the door. Better to get it over with...the sooner I listen to her banshee banter, the faster I can just go to sleep and forget about it.

A flash of silver danced in the perimeter of his peripheral vision, coaxing his dallying gaze to wander. Pausing, one foot on the pathway to hell, Goten turned from the entrance, squinting into the miasma of shadows and silhouettes in an attempt to discern the shape of the mercurial object. What the...a motorcycle...? Who in the hell...

Raven eyes ravished the machine in muted illumination from the curtained windows, securing the knowledge that his eyes were not deceiving him. Nope, that was his bike alright, the Harley he had purchased just to piss her off. Midnight black and moon-washed silver.

Gohan.

"Oniichan?" Goten's hopeful exclamation was accentuated by the excited slam of the door as it slipped through his back-thrusting fingers. Graceful, golden, an upsweeping shock of brazen sunlight, the older Son's head turned toward the sound, a brief flash of white as he smiled at his sibling before the scowl of neutrality settled in place once more and jaded eyes regained their focal point.

His fuming harlequin of a mother.

"Son Goten, I demand-"

"Hn, that always was your problem. And everyone wonders why 'tousan chose to remain dead for so long." The younger demi-Saiyan's lips twitched as the blue veins streaked in anger down his mother's temples. He was not going to laugh...he just wasn't...

"Gohan!" Merry emeralds embraced his own onyx orbs as their mother's fist abused the table.

"Ut, here it comes, Goten...you know this one, ne?" The darker Son leaned back against the door as his brother cocked a brow, pursed his lips, and threw out a hip in mocking imitation of their mother. He all but lost it as a slim nicotine stained finger wagged in a mimicking gesture of chastisement, voiced pitched deliberately high. "Now, Gohan, there's no reason for you to be such a rebel! Why can't you just behave? You used to be so good...if only you had studied more...sigh. I just don't know what to do with you." At least his snicker was blessedly lost to the cry of outrage that had his sensitive ears ringing. Taking a step forward, the boy blushed under the winking gaze of his older sibling, hand raking self-consciously through his windblown locks. It had been so long since he had seen his brother, too many years since the then teen had simply told his mother to go to hell, packed a bag, and walked out the door. So why now, Oniichan...? Why in hell would you choose to come home now?

Gohan's arms were locked across his muscled front, eyes glazed and obviously unimpressed with Chichi's current diatribe. Clearing his throat, obsidian eyes finding severe interest in the wooden planks of the floor, Goten entered the hemisphere of the irate woman's wrath.

He probably should have interjected, but there was little for him to say that would temper her fury-the feud between mother and son had been held diligent for years now. Everything Gohan did was like dousing her fervent fire with kerosene. Although, Goten did have to admit that his brother looked rather attractive as a permanent Super Saiyan. And it did serve its purpose...his mother had all but forbidden the youngest Son from indulging in that natural transformation. Her hatred was inexcusable.

Glaring upward through ashy lashes, Goten's jaw veritably ached with the strength required not to speak, not to lash out against the howling harpy that had destroyed all traces of his happiness. Gohan...Trunks...school...And now, screaming at his long-absent brother as though he were a child in need of discipline... "Goten." Searing sable relinquished their methodical memorization, flashing to engage reflective jade. "Come outside with me-"

"He's not going anywhere until he explains-" Finally, feral in its base purity, the elder Son allowed his anger to surface, effectively quieting the woman with a snapping motion of his wrist, a click of canines.

"Last I was told, I couldn't smoke inside." Jerking his jacket off the chair beside him, Gohan pivoted where he stood, pausing as he slid the worn leather over one arm to regard his sibling. "I need a smoke. Come outside with me, niichan."

Ebony met onyx in a clash of domination before the Son turned toward the receding back of his brother. You can have my head later, mother.

scene v

"So..." Concentrated ki complimented the sharp angles of Gohan's bent face as he drew deeply on the cigarette held loosely between his lips. Hunching his shoulders against a sudden gust, the younger demi-Saiyan kicked idly at the hardened ground, gaze centered questioningly on that of his lighter sibling. Green succumbed to the lingering inhale of sweet nicotine before releasing, eyes opening fully to stare outward into the unyielding depths of darkness beyond the pale light from the house behind. Dende, he loved that scent...leather, nicotine and Saiyan...his brother...

"How was he?" Blinking against the smoky image that rested against his bike, thumb tapping excess ash off his cigarette, Goten creased his brow in bewilderment.

"Nani? How is who?" Raven eyes searched the elder Son's angular profile. "I told you what happened between me and Trunks..."

"Not Trunks." Cool crystal green titled toward him, hand habitually flicking the end of his addiction. "Vegeta."

The world could have ended in that instant and he would have been oblivious. Widening eyes betrayed his secret acquiesce, open mouth invoking a dry chuckle from the other demi-Saiyan. Bringing the filter to his lips, the older man indulged in another puff, unoccupied hand slipping into the satin depths of his jacket.

"But-how-" The sadistic tango in his stomach ceased for a pivotal moment as the faulty reel of his memory rewound: "You're kidding! Bulma-san's having an affair? ...how do you know?" "I can smell it on her..." Dende-sama...I'm such an idiot...but Trunks didn't...Hn. Trunks already smelled like sex...he wouldn't've smelled it on me...shimatta...

"It's not like that, Go-kun," he mumbled, rubbing the side of his nose with a forefinger and toeing the stiff brittle blades of grass beneath his foot.

"What? You didn't fuck him?" Gohan's chilling stare narrowed to fine points of protective green fire. "Did he hurt you, Goten?" Paling beneath the sudden shift in his brother's apathetic attitude, the youngest Son shook his head vehemently.

"What? No! I'm the one-" Black blessedly obscured his vision as scarlet heat caused his eyes to seek the comfort of the ground. "I mean, I...well..." Licking his lips, teeth snagging the corner to chew in uneasy deliberation before blowing the curtain of hair out of his eyes, his obsidian eyes sought intense emerald counterparts. "I...wanted it..."

"Heh..." Cool digits banished the straggly bangs from his forehead, bringing the soothing scent of leather and tobacco before disappearing again inside the cracked leather. "Calm down, niichan."

"Gomen na, Go-kun...you're not mad?" Dende, his brother's opinion meant more to him than the air that ached in his lungs. If the older man were angry with him...

"Nah, it's quite a catch if you can keep it." Grey wisps curled in a lazy typhoon of fleeting mist before succumbing to the superior might of impending winter promise. "Besides, the man has a nice ass." A deep chuckle humoured the crimson confession on his cheeks. "But I guess you already knew that."

"Gohan...yamero..." That impressive profile was again his to behold as the elder Son's gaze fixed on a point beyond the mortal limitations of his own sight. "Gohan...?" The man was too quiet...too inanimate. It was unnerving how long the man could go without blinking, swallowing, all things considered human...kinda like Vegeta...

"Just be careful, Go-chan." His words were so quiet, so hesitant in their release, as though the man was uncertain about his own sentiment. Turning toward his distant sibling, Goten wrapped his arms around his chest to preserve his natural warmth, fingers drawing down the cuff of his turtleneck over numb hands. Damn, it was getting cold. Early winter this year...

"With Vegeta? Gohan, I don't think-"

"Not Vegeta." That magnificent jade, calculating in its brilliance, ensured his attention as the lighter Son sentenced his cigarette to the extinguishing cruelty of his boot. "Trunks."

"Trunks?" The perplexed demi-Saiyan was at a loss; he had never questioned his brother's instincts, and yet it seemed the man spoke without reason. Other than that incident in school, the Briefs boy hadn't really done anything to cause him concern.

"I ever tell you about Vegeta's other son, niichan?" The whole world had ceased its revolution and Goten was standing silent and gawking at the axis. In all his seventeen years his brother had not once volunteered information about the future version that graced a few hidden drawers and dusty mantles in Capsule Corp. He'd even asked...only to learn that wasn't a subject you broached with Gohan. Whatever had passed between the two boys seemed destined to remain that way. And now...

Shifting his stance, the darker Son hugged himself tightly, bowing his head to the icy will of the elements that caressed his skin.

"We weren't as close as you and Trunks...your Trunks were, but we were close." Gohan's thumb nail scratched idly at his lip before lowering, tall figure bracing against the glistening liquid of metal and machine support behind him. "Too close."

"You mean..." Goten had never thought of his brother in any manner of sexual relation-he was kinda like the Namek in the demi-Saiyan's mind. Uninterested, unavailable...when he was younger he'd secretly wondered if Piccolo had taught Gohan how to be asexual.

"Yeah." Long, muscled legs crossed absently as he reclined, golden strands wickedly pale against the fevered green of his eyes. "You know, holding hands, stealing kisses. Kid's stuff." It was fascinating to hear his sibling speak, the taciturn nature he had seemed to adopt shining through the clip words and phrases that were delivered with little garnish. And his words...the superimposed picture of Gohan and an older vision of Trunks walking hand in hand in his mind was, hands down, enough to complete the single most insane day of ever.

"Did you...you know..." Gohan's eyes held Goten's in quiet merriment for a moment as his cloth covered hand slid over his shoulder in a gesture of embarrassment, shrugging his wordless intention.

"Have sex?" The dry prompt brought the ruby to his face and he nodded shyly, snagging a rare smile from his somber niichan. "Kami, Go-chan, you reek of sex and you're too embarrassed to even say the word?" Affectionate fingers ruffled his hair, reminiscent of sunnier days and happier times. "You really are one of a kind, kid..."

"Arigato..." Dende, this felt right...having his brother here again. Brushing away the disturbed locks with the back of his hand, the youngest Son gave his older brother a soft smile. "Gomen nasai, Go-kun, you were saying...?" Darkness seemed to swallow his golden haze, lavish green dimming as he watched, the relaxed figure tensing almost noticeably beneath the kick ass leather exterior.

"No. We didn't have sex. I don't consider rape sex." Holy...fucking...

"What?" His wasn't sure that his lips even moved to speak the word; his body had ceased obedience down to the breath that lie stagnant in his lungs. "Gohan...?" It couldn't be-his big brother was the strongest person in the universe as far as anyone knew, composed, self-sufficient, ingenious, perfect...there was no way...

"You heard me. He raped me. Apparently the word 'no' just wasn't in his vocabulary." No one had ever told him this! What...how...

Sighing heavily the older man glanced at his dumbstruck sibling. "No one else knew, Goten. The only reason I'm telling you now is so you can watch yourself. It may not have been your Trunks, but it was still Trunks."

"Gohan, I..." Time was frozen on the winds of his disbelief, while it was with dazed onyx eyes he watched his brother turn, throwing one denim clad leg over the seat of his Harley. Body jerked upward as his foot slammed the kick-start, palms massaging a steady purr from the engine. Utterly mindless in the face of his brother's stunning proclamation, Goten could do nothing but stare as his eerily composed sibling tugged on the slick leather of his fingerless gloves, buttons clicking home with a crisp snap of sound.

"There's nothing to say, niichan." A smart zip of metal ripped through the windblown quiet as soft black covered the hard build of Gohan's chest. "Just be careful, ne?" A finger flip and white illumination shone like sunlight through the clearing. He just couldn't think, couldn't process...couldn't do more than stare at his older brother with a sickening mixture of respect and sympathy. Gohan had been...by Trunks...Dende-sama...

"But...oniichan..." The amber sunlight of his windswept locks was a stunning contrast to the clarity in his emerald eyes. He was right, there was nothing to say, no way to respond. He knew. Gohan always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking...it was as if his older sibling could see straight through him.

"Saaa, Go-chan. It's long done. Just don't make my mistake." Slender fingers of palest alabaster against renegade obsidian curled around polished silver, the engine roaring in response to his ostentatious ministrations. The maniacal grin that adorned his casually cool exterior was unexpected, and the youngest Son was coaxed to turn his breeze blown head back toward his house, following that mystic green. True to interfering form, the dark outline of his mother was palpable against the lazy lit doorway, hands fisted on her hips as she sought to initiate Gohan's departure with the mere power of her intimidating presence. Unfortunate for her, the elder Son was hardly impressed, skillfully manipulating another guttural growl from the tiger of a machine beneath him. "And if the ice queen gets to be too much for you, you know there's always a place for you at my apartment, ne, niichan?" As intended, the offhand remark served its devious purpose, distracting the Son from his lingering shock.

"Hai, Go-kun." A shadow of a smile made its debut across the shady stage of his face, hands sliding down to clasp at his elbows, fingers still tucked and toasty in the thick cuffs of his ebony sleeves. Inquisitive onyx rose through long, sooty lashes to engage their jade counterparts. "Mom still not know where you live, niichan?" A negative jerk of sunlit silk, the man pausing only remotely to snap up the kickstand with his booted heel.

"Nope. She still thinks that I've amounted to nothing." Clever intelligence flashed aqua in those semi-precious gems of glittering peridot.

"I still don't understand why you don't just tell her..." The sudden chill was biting to his fingertips as they brushed aside a stray lock of Saiyan inheritance.

"And show her that I actually learned something from all those years of book-bound torture? Nah..." Legs straddled and balancing, the elder demi-Saiyan thrust both hands into his pockets, eyes resting in dire distaste on the silhouette behind.

"But you're a damn nuclear physicist, niichan!" A dark chuckle of amusement lit on the outcry of his frustration. "I hate it when she talks about you as though you're nothing more than a disobedient child!" Powerful shoulders shrugged their indifference, verdant orbs slipping sideways with an affectionate tilt of gold.

"Arigato, chibi." Gohan's hands once again reclaimed their position on the rubber grips, another round of gravely music invoked for the utter enjoyment of his mother. "Just remember what I said, ne?" His sincerity sparked the reminder of their previous discussion, draining the younger man of all colour, leaving him pallid and stricken in the deepening darkness.

"Hai, oniichan. I'll remember." A characteristic nod of sharp comprehension as the Son prepared departure.

"Good...and don't let her get you down, Goten. Days like this are few and far. Enjoy it, ne?" Summoning a smile for his brother, the younger demi-Saiyan nodded, eyes flickering in sudden apprehension to his statuesque parent.

"I will." Unable to abide the nervous tendency to fidget, Goten shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets, head bending to the determination of the wind. Warm, like the fire in his eyes, Gohan's palm massaged his shoulder.

"You take care, little brother." A smile followed suit, sparking a mirroring response. "And say hello to Vegeta for me, ne? Tell him if he doesn't treat you right that I'll kick his ass." Biting his lip against the blazing blush that ignited classic Son embarrassment, the boy nodded, taking a step backward as the tires ripped a trail of dirt and gravel through their driveway, airborne grit causing his blinking eyes to water. Sighing heavily, the youngest Son stared outward into the encompassing darkness until the white of his brother's headlight had faded into ethereal black. Dende-sama...he hardly knew what to make of the day's events. And with what Gohan had just told him...Glaring with menacing conviction toward the impatient figure of his mother, Goten stole an invigorating breath of icy autumn air. He'd be damned if he was going to sit through another one of her tantrums...

"Let's do this..." Wind tickled the tiny tendrils at his nape as his head turned again, ears straining for the distant sound of rumbling comfort. "I may be joining you sooner than you think, niichan."

 Caught in the Act

by Angelus

 Act V: The Finale

  scene i

The tacky design on the wall of the kitchen hadn't altered its unerring pattern since the boy had blinked last. In fact, the imprint remained emblazoned on the dark inside of his lids each time the drying air became too much and he was forced to close them. It was beyond his capability to care--the world on which he stood, the tile beneath his feet, they could have cracked open and revealed the abysmal maw of hell, and he would have been forced to rent the episode on video.

Such was his preoccupation...

Goten had told him to fuck off.

His Goten.

Because I don't need you...

Palest violet tickled the end of his nose, but he lacked the inclination to move, to engage in the habitually characteristic gesture. Such normalcy was virtually nonexistent to a mind frozen, imprisoned in the solid conviction of those last words, tossed careless and fleeting over the darker demi-Saiyan's shoulder.

Goten knew. Goten knew his secrets...dammit, the boy had always known them! Age didn't change what was already ingrained in the very threads of their companionable tapestry. Whether they liked it or not, and these days the latter seemed more mutually accepted, the two teens shared a bond. He knows...of course he knows, bakayaro! It's not like you've been trying to hide the fact! It's a fucking miracle Papa hasn't found out yet...

Somehow the idea of the successive prince and heir apparent being a whore didn't sit well with Trunks. He held the firm belief that the reigning sovereign would only agree with his desperate sentiment. And if Goten got it in his head to enlighten the man...I don't know what the fuck you two did all day, but I'll be damned if I'm going to come out of this with Papa's foot up my ass.

The resounding crash of the carelessly released screen door jerked the leaning prince to attention, eyes of unmarred crystal flickering from their monotonous commitment to trace a stoic line downward as sapphire shards paused in their tedium to indulge the fragmented prisms of airy colour that danced in the sparkling silver of the dish-littered sink before him. A sharp scrape of shattering sound, an impish autumn gust blown renegade by the closing door sending the pensive prince the intrusive scent of his father. Silken strands caressed the gentle angle of his jaw, head dipping in descent as slender fingers curled over the wet and slickened perimeter in irritation. He didn't need this right now. Trunks could sense the impending chastisement, the almost breath of gathered annoyance that followed the elder Saiyan around like cheap perfume.

Gritting his teeth against the unflattering comments that traipsed along the acidic tip of his tongue, the demi-Saiyan huffed as he straightened; the cloying, aromatic fragrance of something foul and pervasive causing his hand to rise, back muffling the atrocious scent of Dende-only-knew-what. With his father, it was really anyone's guess. But tonight he wasn't in the mood for games of that infuriating caliber.

Goten...Trunks' stomach was knotted tighter than a wet shoelace and the reoccurring echo of the other boy's heavenly name that seemed to tread a ghostly step through the jumbled corridors of his mind only pulled at his increasing nausea. He never would have thought that anything could cause his counterpart to disown him so completely, let alone...He told me to fuck off. Good Dende-sama...

Parched lips pursed the fine bones of his hand, grimace deepening as the contrasting form behind shifted in his chair, a melodic chime of ceramic resonance coaxing his narrowed eyes to flutter in unwanted recognition of his father's movement. He could care less what the man did with his time. He spent the whole fucking day with Goten, that's what he did with his time.

Suppressing the inherent growl that tickled and teased his human half, the poised prince ignored the heated prickle of irritation on his skin invoked with each unnerving noise the elder sovereign emitted. Fingernails scraped his metallic support, employed hand falling to join its clenching compatriot as the distinct snap and crunch of every swallow reached his ears with obvious deliberation. He's fucking with me. He wants me to lose it, to rip his head off and give him an excuse to beat me senseless. Not tonight, Papa... Opalescent blue slowly slid closed as a deep, patient breath was summoned. He could deal...

But the man was just sitting there! Taunting him to speak! The demi-Saiyan's calming assurance hitched at the apex, lips revealing sparkled white that gnashed in open annoyance. Usually his father was in and out of his company in seconds, eager to be free of his pansy son's presence. What the fuck was the man eating that took him so damn long?!

One more grating sound and he was--

Another crunch.

Again the jingle of polished china.

The paler prince twitched with the dissonant discord of tinkling vibration, turning toward the incessant intrusion with a glaring gaze. The amethyst Ouji had tiptoed around his tyrant of a father for seventeen--

His justification died with his breath.

His father...the prince of all Saiyans...rightful ruler to an entire warrior race...

Was eating a chocolate chip cookie.

Surely his eyes deceived him; that simply could not be one of his grandmother's prize-winning chocolate chip and walnut cookies in the Saiyan no Ouji's hand. Those weren't cookie crumbs that littered the front of his navy sweater, cascading down the knit fabric to congregate in a cacophonous coven of doughy debris on the table at his elbow.

The lavender washed demi-Saiyan completed his revolution, fingers falling limply at his side as the shock of the entire display socked him in the gut, leaving him all but speechless. Trunks blinked. And the scene remained unchanged.

"Papa?" Obsidian eyes regarded his astounded visage with a dismissive air, teeth tearing another chocolate laden chunk from the cookie in his hand. An onyx brow had the courtesy to arch in acknowledgement as the darker prince's jaw ground the crumbling object to a manageable mass.

"I..." Trunks was forced to lean backward against the counter for support, hands curling around the jagged under-edge for physical reassurance. This was just too fucking weird...as if the day hadn't gone badly enough already his father just had to choose this moment to win the award for bastard bipolarity.

I give up...I don't know when I fell in the fucking rabbit hole, but I'm ready to wake up now...

scene ii

Keenly narrow eyes of purest obsidian swallowed the stuttering figure with distaste, pristine white making short work of the delicacy within his grip. Unmoving, save the mechanical motion of his munching mouth, the Saiyan no Ouji finished his delightfully soft snack; a flickering of supplement understanding was forced to agree with his daughter. These were pretty damn good.

"I..." Hn, the boy was still fumbling and grasping like a fool for some sort of speech--not that anything he said was worth the prince's time. Vegeta had relinquished his half-breed son several years earlier, when it had become painfully clear that he was nothing more than a masculine duplicate of his mother. And the gods knew he couldn't stand that bitch.

"I..." A composing cough, a feathery swish of denim against skin as his despicable excuse for an heir shoved useless hands into his pockets. "I thought you didn't like chocolate." Suppressing the instinctive need to snarl, the Ouji simply reached over the crumb covered surface and into the ceramic depths of a potbelly onna who's head had come off in his hand to reveal the sweet cache of his secret craving. Fucking weirdo ningens and their ability to create the most disturbing shit... Grunting past the unsettlingly sadistic image, the darker sovereign served himself another round of nutty goodness, choosing to ignore, for the moment, the blatant tone of disrespect his brat had adopted, the scent of the boy's possession striking through on the permeate breeze of his impulsive adolescent adrenaline, though it appeared his sorry senses had yet to identify the heady fragrance of his daily indulgence. Vegeta bared his teeth in a quietly taunting mockery of paternal affection. Fine, boy...you want to take on the throne...let's see how you handle this.

It was perfectly timed, an actor's cue of such accuracy an audience could not help but be impressed by the finesse in which the man's next line was executed.

"I thought you didn't like boys." The prince's tail snapped through the bars of the chair at his back, the velveteen richness bristling with his immediate thirst for the singular sense of bruising flesh beneath his fist. C'mon, boy...don't be a fucking disappointment...

Vegeta's hope died with the wide-eyed and lowered gaze of his offspring, the annoyingly human reaction of shaking hand through limp lavender, the audible th-thud of panic and distinguished scent of fearful resolution.

"G-Goten told you?" Scoffing at the pathetic display portrayed in agonizing detail before the sardonic sable of the Ouji's disenchantment, another cookie was sacrificed to the demanding leisure of the Saiyan's stomach.

"No." Glaring eyes refused to release the apprehensive orbs of sickening cerulean as he ground the doughy mass into nonexistence. Too fucking human...The rightful ruler paused in his confectionary massacre, absorbing the jerking nervous ticks and twitches that made him want to slap some Saiyan sense into the boy. A light growl suffused the tension-nipped atmosphere, acutely harmonized by the righteous zephyrus howl of indignation that left the shutters rattling in its wake. This...this...Vegeta's fingers tightened into fists as his ebony eyes were worshipped with darkness, breathing deep before he allowed the light to infiltrate again.

The Saiyan no Ouji would have been insulted if he hadn't known the reason for his boy's offense. It wasn't that the pansy-ass half-breed thought his father too stupid to notice the aromatic allegation that made him want to sniff kerosene--anything to rid him of the disgusting odor of his son's promiscuous escapades. It was the simple fact that the demi-Saiyan was as oblivious as he believed his sire. The boy couldn't smell shit on his shoes. Or sex on his father. An amused grin replaced the arrogant scowl of filial loathing. Well...that misconception needed a bit of clarification.

Flashing a primitive smile of predatory satisfaction, the Saiyan slid one sticky finger between his lips, bathing the dirtied digit in warm recesses that had tasted divine ambrosia only hours before. He almost purred at the quiet prompt in memory as he pistoned his pointer finger in and out of his mouth. It was such a pity the boy had left so early...there were still lessons he was willing to teach the brat...like how to scream in Saiyan...

"We didn't do a lot of talking..." The first was slowly withdrawn, teeth claiming the tip for good measure as the moistened flesh slipped across the parallel petals of his smirking lips. Indigo seared the air between them, pale eyes latched with unhindered intensity on the sleek simplicity of his father's obscene movements. Vegeta could see the denial like a phosphorescent spark in the unearthly blue of his son's gaze. Was he really too human to detect the obviousness of his discarded companion's situation? Or maybe it was just the idea of his father having sex at all...

"Y-you sparred?" Right, sparred. The boy was searching for assurance of an opposite nature. Reclining back against the uncomfortable metal, hissing in sexual sedation as the cat scratches of a writhing adolescent flared to life on his shoulder blades, the Saiyan no Ouji folded both muscled arms over his front. Well now, I'm so sorry to disappoint you...son. You should have taken him when you had the chance.

"Hn." Glorious pain enflamed his backside as the Saiyan pulled one leg up to his chest, barefoot braced on the table edge for support. Good Kami-sama, that boy had surely proved his merit as a member of his race. The stamina alone of the youngest Son had been praise worthy...why his purple-haired hanna had forsaken his royal right to bury himself in that creamy white ass...

"You could say that..." Black on black flashed upward with poignant sobriety, cruelty shimmering in the ebony abyss that encompassed the younger Saiyan as the man rose from his position, naked feet slapping on the tile like a trumpeter's herald until his diminutive form stood regally before his awestruck heir. The boy really didn't know what to say as Vegeta leaned forward, eyes ensnaring the disrespectful blue of his son. "But on Vegeta-sei," the Saiyan's whisper forced the brat closer, determined to whip his instincts into action. "We called it fucking."

scene iii

Goten's weary irritation was personified in the slam and click as his infuriated mother drove even the house to quake in the aftermath of her wrath, the abused door shaking the provincial little building to its uneasy foundations. Sighing, a rough and hurried rake shoved aside a spiky curtain of rumpled obsidian. The mess had hardly been attended since the episode yesterday afternoon and he could almost feel the matted tangles declaring his Saiyan ancestry to the silence of Vegeta's shattered star.

The demi-Saiyan grit his canines against the raging tempest of rebellion that ached with a ferocity born of feral, instinctual need. The clichéd image of a caged tiger settled in the recess of his chaotic mind. He needed to sort things through, find out how to deal...the incident tonight with his mother only accented the turmoil of their unhealthy relationship. Goten's throat still formed the inhuman growl at the simple thought of his mother and her ignorance. He didn't consider himself smart, by any means, but this...this blatant disregard for informative knowledge, this irrational blockade that staunched his lines of communication with the woman...

He couldn't take it any more.

Huffing his annoyance, the teen kicked aside the crinkled pile of his hasty morning disrobing, sneering in disdain at the glittering stitched insignia on the pocket of his starched blazer. Amber flared in righteous justification of his anger; Son Goten smirked as the warmth came readily to his palm. Hai, this is what he needed, deserved--to destroy the establishment that she created, dissolve the gilded gold of his imprisonment into nothing more than the smoldering black of molten 'good intentions'. Licking his lips at a sensation so akin to sexual satisfaction, the sunlit haze enveloped his reason, vanquishing his tolerance, his understanding, his selfless admissions to her every fucking whim...

Hai...Power flooded his subconscious desire to decimate the physical representation of his bondage. Every day that saw him in those clothes felt like another resounding descension into the academic abyss his mother seemed hell-bent to deliver him to. But his hereditary halo was brighter than the smothering darkness she invoked. And he'd be damned if he was going to lose himself in her ignorant dusk.

Extinguishing his blind recklessness with the clenching of his fist, the boy bent an ebony head, chin resting against the thin cotton of his chest. It wouldn't do to have these thoughts...to lose control...

Snorting his dissatisfaction, the restless demi-Saiyan paced away from the insight to his fury, halting his steps as he approached the door again. Piercing obsidian shards, reigned in with inbred practice resisted the demonic temptation to make matchsticks of the wooden barrier. Does she really believe that this, fingers tensed with teeth, and the force of his restraint summoned blood to the surface of the ham of his hand, will hold me here like a disobedient child? I could just as easily go out the window again, Goten glanced upward with a glaring intensity, which is still open...and she doesn't even know half of what I've done today.

Scoffing, the boy spun abruptly away from the entryway. His pacing resumed with a fierce gnash of teeth, the slap of feet still bare from his morning thoughtlessness marking each second that ticked away the ebbing tide of his rationale. The last thing he needed tonight was to do something incredibly stupid.

Unless, of course, he already had.

Ceasing the motion that was slowly smoothing a path through the planks of his floor, the boy leaned heavily against an obscenely cluttered bookcase, the sudden invasion of his weight knocking several stacks of old comics to join his battered clothing at ground level with a splash. Groaning in increasing agitation, the demi-Saiyan chose to ignore the displacement, resting his forehead against the reddened flat of his palm as idle fingers flipped the rectangular function from tape to radio on the player his brother had given him for his last birthday before leaving home.

Heady, base-beat music tempered his careless quality with slurred, garage-written lyrics that tapped into the metal of his mood and soothed the savage succubus that urged him to open that door and tell that ingratiating woman exactly where she could stick her wooden spoon.

But he couldn't...doing that would go against everything Gohan had taught him.

...wouldn't it...?

Blinking in quiet confusion, the coal-kissed teenager pushed off from his unsteady perch, meandering across the cacophony of his quarters to stand unseeing by the foot of his rumpled bed.

But Gohan did tell Okaasan off...Midnight drew a thick line of adolescent strain over his wandering eyes. He didn't know what to do...this was the first time he had ever attempted to do what he wanted.

And now that he was doing it...he didn't know what to believe.

Gohan taught him control, yet his older brother had bashed conformity to bits the last time their 'father' had left, choosing to voice his malcontent rather than lie suffering and silent in the ominous shadow of their overprotective mother.

Goten hadn't been that strong...not then...but now...

I could go live with Gohan, like he said...one more year and I'll be able to really do what I want...which lead him to wonder why he waited at all.

"What's the point in being a fucking Saiyan if my mother's mouth is stronger than I am?" The dark haired demi-Saiyan scuffed at the dilapidated coverlet with his toes, crossed arms tightening over his chest as he gnawed the fleshy plane of his lower lip. This was getting more complicated every time his lungs drew breath. From the moment sunny inspiration had struck him this morning with its gloriously deadly ray, Goten had hardly been granted the chance to partake of reason, let alone patience. For Kami's sake, only about an hour ago had he been able to retract himself from beneath the prince of Saiyans...

"Well..." The youngest Son sat heavily on the sagging edge of the aged mattress, fingers falling from their post to lie unmoving in his lap. The shock of two day's culmination of paling activities, things he never would have thought to happen to him--Son Goten. The most memorable event that had ever been bestowed upon him was the time he'd almost won the Tenka Ichi Boudokai.

Second place.

To Trunks.

Growling at the reminder, the tension-soothed demi-Saiyan slammed his fisted fingers against the faded denim of his thigh, wincing at the inevitability of a bruise that would only serve to strengthen the memories that plagued him like the incessant nip of summer mosquitoes. Blue and purple--the colours he learned to loathe. The hues that once had him enrapt with youthful longing, a bruising ache that guided his hands, dictated his actions, kept him the faithful lackey of a god...now...

Just an idol.

Just a bruise.

Forcing his hands to relax, the teen allowed his blissfully abused body to fall backward, bouncing lightly on a mattress soft from years of dreams, sleepovers, pillow fights... Closing midnight eyes against the starry gossamer of unwanted reminiscence, Goten sought the deep meditative placidity taught to him in this very room so many years before when the taunting enemy he strove to vanquish was his placement in the abysmal shadow of his unwanted doppelganger.

Father. Right. A dead man that maybe, once upon a time, had loved his mother, had done what fathers were supposed to do--teach their children their trade, play ball, eat dinner, help with homework...

But all the lines for his recitation...all the 'it's alright', and 'I'm so proud of you', every 'good boy', and 'just like me at your age' were abandoned, left on the stage for his understudy, someone to play his part until he returned, but never truly acted the role... After all, no one replaced Son Goku, renowned in all the world for his ability to be savior and soloist, a prima donna that swallowed his supporting subjects in the garish brilliance of his limelight.

Sighing, feeling the agitation drain from his cramped limbs, Goten raised his arms in a full body stretch, feet lifting off the floor as he reached for the fluff of his pillow and situated it behind his head, then willed his form to wilt against the contours of his bed. Relax...breathe...tense...relax...breathe... He could hear the quiet assurance of Gohan's direction, transported to the nights he had spent in his brother's tutelage, rich words wrapping around his tormented figure to create a cocoon of silken sensation that swept all else to the background, permitting that which calmed to inhabit the foreground--thick, weighted strands of metal music intertwining with the simple commands he murmured, a litany of leisure that enveloped and vaporized his troubles like the 'A' button on the video games he and Trunks used to play as children...

Dammit it all to Dende... Everything he had adored about the boy he once called love had been shamelessly sacrificed to stubborn adolescence. And now...

Rolling onto his stomach, the youngest Son gathered the plush square, stuffing it beneath his chin with a defeated exhale. "I've just had sex with my best friend's father." The confession coaxed an almost girlish giggle, a tainted tinge of barest scarlet traipsing across the bridge of his nose as he buried the flush of his admission in the forgiving froth of soft cotton. It was almost too much to handle...

"Almost? What the hell am I talking about?" bare feet kicked upward, riding on the rebound of the worn springs and conjuring shadows on the far wall inlayed with this morning's means of escape. Nuzzling his face in a shaking motion, Goten hid his apparent indulgence in the lumpy comfort of his pillow. "I am so not dealing..."

A sudden creak as the mattress strained had the sable saturated demi-Saiyan feeling like a cat in a cartoon, claws secure in the ceiling, and heart pounding like a cadence. Twisting his lithe body to the side, the Son overestimated the room with which he had to maneuver, completely overshooting his allowance and depositing himself on the floor with all the ease of a vaudevillian actor. Fuck me...

The scream begged freedom as the ass that had left the house virginal raised a voice to remind all present that yes, thank you, it had taken quite enough in the pounding department today, and could he please be more careful when it came to sitting and standing? Sniffing back an accompanying sob, Goten ground his teeth to stifle the cry that chortled in the back of his throat, swearing that he could feel the reduction of enamel on his molars as they clashed. When the stickiness of unsummoned tears were squeezed free from his clenched eyes, stricken obsidian followed the cock-eyed comforter up to the object of his recent heart failure. Cursing in foreign words he had heard the Ouji mutter countless times as a child, the boy pushed to his feet, irritation twinkling in passive black as one hand attempted to apologize to his mistreated backside.

"Trunks, what the fuck are you doing here?"

scene iv

Nothingness. Where anger should have reigned and reared the declarative fire of its ancient blade there was simply nothing...

The amethyst Ouji watched with narrowed azurite as his evening counterpart picked himself from amidst the monuments of their childhood. Comic books slid with a slick bend of binding along the barren floor as the boy righted himself with a repressed grimace that the older demi-Saiyan caught easily, like the baseballs they used to throw as children.

Goten was in pain. Trunks' insistent cerulean focused on the exaggerated movement, the strained wince, the placement of the younger teen's hand as he flattened his palm against the back pocket of his jeans as though it hurt to move...

You didn't get pain like that from sparring. Not unless you were kicked in the ass. And while his father may have been more than adept at doing just that on a daily, verbal basis, somehow the pale prince was convinced that they had been engaged in more than just a friendly fistfight. His Papa hadn't spent his entire day on anyone since Butterfly had asked him to go to parent's day at school. Eh, the region had needed a new preschool anyway...

The taller demi-Saiyan moved to stand as his irritated counterpart rose stiffly to face him, agony interlaced with avid annoyance.

"Why are you here, Trunks?" Goten arched his back, sighing as the tension smoothed through the fluidity of his action. The Briefs boy kept his face carefully passive, neutral...this wasn't what it looked like. The boy he had grown with, learned with, and eventually fell in love with had not spent the day fucking his father. What, you couldn't wait, Goten? It's not like you didn't know that I wanted you... Spiteful words today had proven that...

"How many girls have you fucked and imagined were me, Trunks?" I don't know how you knew... Trunks shook the lavender curtain from his piercing eyes as he turned to fully face his former friend. His guilt could wait. Son Goten had much to atone for...

"What did you do with my father, Goten?" It was difficult to hone in on the visual evidence of his question; the Son closed his mouth with a slight snarl, an upward toss of snagging ebony that was even more tangled than usual punctuated his immediate displeasure.

"That's none of your business, Trunks," the smaller half-breed brushed his hands down the length of his thigh in a habitual gesture. Mesmerized by the movement, Trunks could only watch as those fingers he longed to lick, suck, taste, worshipped the unworthy denim that clad the muscle he yearned to wrap his hand around, to raise above the other's obsidian head as he thrust into the sweetness between his companion's legs.

Growling softly, unnoticeably, a mere undertone of aggression added to the symphony of angsty sadism pulsing a liquid beat of barbarism from the battered stereo to his right, the too human hybrid trained a deadpan glare of disgust on his righteously indignant comrade. The lies end here, Goten.

"You fucked him. Didn't you." Incriminating crimson flashed cherry on his cheeks as the heated demi-Saiyan bowed to his Son heritage.

"I think you should leave, Trunks." A slim finger pointed to the darkened square that had been bribed to allow him entrance. He ignored it.

"You fucked him."

You were mine, Goten.

Possessive, ancient, instinctual aqua speared through the icy pools of his inquisition and he took a step toward the thin lipped object of his desire. Anger kindled golden and furious as he advanced, lowered lids slowly unveiling the turquoise taint of his intent. "You fucked my father.."

It should have been me

. Nurturing his animosity with an amber wick, the taller half-Saiyan leaned down with a flash of ivory. "You whore."

Mine...

scene v

Goten's onyx eyes flickered down with a hiccup of anxiety as he bumped backward against the bed, sitting down with enough force to extract another keening cry. Crinkling his sable brow against the other's sudden and unexpected aggression, the Son pushed backward with his forced seating, something primitive whispering caution in his ear. Get the fuck away from Trunks.

Pivoting smoothly, the demi-Saiyan threw his legs over the opposite edge, standing swiftly and placing careful distance between himself and his enraged counterpart. The intelligence of his brother was not his to inherit; everything smart told him to show his taller companion the exit. However, one does not spend the duration of an entire day in the folds of their prince's bed sheets without developing a Saiyan's sense of pride.

"I'm the whore?" Snorting his disregard, Goten posed pretty for his once promised paramour, worshipping his new icon with arms-crossed imitation. Making obvious his conversion, the obstinate onyx half-breed leaned back against the wall and adopted the smirk that was his to wear. He was changing religions.

Vegeta looked better in gold anyway.

Molten sunlight that bathed his flustered form, a baptism of growls and whimpers of deprivation filled, fought, and released...

His prince was beautiful when pleasured.

Tilting his head just slightly, the Son endorsed his father's smile--a mocking mutilation of mirth that was sure to piss Trunks off. "Did you have them call you Trunks-kun as they came?" Bringing one hand up to trail a finger casually over the lower portion of his lip, he clothed himself in concentration. "Or maybe you took them from behind to make the illusion easier..." You are not about to make me the harlot, Trunks. Not when what you did was so much worse...

"You know what's even better, Trunks-kun?" Finding more solace in the stoic black of the window's sable void, the younger teen turned, bracing both hands against the cool wood of the frame. "The fact that you thought you were being clever," a disapproving shake of Saiyan midnight, a glance of repugnance flipped over a cotton-clad shoulder, "that you thought no one else knew what you were doing." A sadistic chuckle. "I guess it was inevitable, you ending up like your mother, and all..." Adrenaline, heady and inebriating infused and lightened the drowsy conduit of his hostility. Obsidian hardened and wind-rushed black lowered as he continued. The bastard deserved every word--for those afternoons of heartbreak, the evenings of lonely desperation, for just one phone call...one ring that would signal the end of this childish tirade...

Apologies come too late, and accusations breed contempt, Trunks-kun.

"Goten." Narrowing of liquid sapphire slashed sable greeted the older hybrid-Saiyan's one word command to turn. Anger seared reason to wisps of weathered indecision. How dare that royal punk try to tell him what to do.

"I don't bow to you anymore, Trunks," the disillusioned demi-Saiyan murmured, an ebony eclipse as eyes closed against the icy chill that sought to infiltrate the anxious intensity of the over charged atmosphere. Once...I loved you...but you took my affections and taped them to the wall for slander. I hate you for that...

"You're not my prince." His reiteration loaned him strength, curled fingers tightening around the ridged sill. After all that had happened...everything he had endured. The name calling, the gay jokes, the rejection by one he had almost considered soul mate, the constant high-pitched allegation and wordless suspicions of his mother...

Son Goten was furious.

And payback was a bitch.

scene vi

Every word the younger spoke inched his resentment upward on the faulty meter of his tolerance. Lies...every single fucking word.

"Goten..." The growled warning, the clenching of his fists against the golden fury of his primitive possession, the solid steps he took toward the boy once claimed his, if only in name alone...

Lost to one man's solo quest for verbal vengeance, overlooked in the shadow of Goten's unaccustomed anger.

Another step over the cluttered reminisce of better times and softer words. Goten should have been his to mark, his to claim, his to love...

"You bastard..." He hadn't believed, not when his father had cursed him with those implicative words, not when the prince had turned to leave, muscled arms depriving his body of the flimsy shirt he wore, revealing the welts and reddened flesh that could only have come from the teeth of someone behind...

It was true, everything he had said, implied with gestures of mockery and royal expressions of disdain. Goten and his father had...

"You're not my prince." Trunks' dawning comprehension was apparent in the sky-kissed blue of his raising eyes; the younger boy's tone involving so much more than that simple phrase allowed. Thrilling, numbing in its delivery, autumn wind blew back the scent that he yearned to indulge--acrid aroma of decaying foliage, the sharp bite of winter's vow, the potent perfume of his companion, heady, intoxicating...containing that soft lilt of simple Son...

...and sex.

"Iie..." It wasn't true; despite all the horrific details his father had deposited at his feet, like bloody sacrifices at a pagan altar, the traumatized teen had somehow...even when the accusing words had left his lips, something within had denied that the boy he sought to love could have done that...to him...

But one could hardly forsake the evidence. Goten smelled of sex and Saiyan.

Royal Saiyan.

Royal Saiyan that wasn't him.

"You fucking whore," his conviction cut through the chorusing clash of guitars and drums; the youngest Son started at the unexpected venom in the voice behind, an uncertain glimmer of reckoning slipping over his shoulder.

And then it was gone, hardened into something entirely alien, something Trunks had never hoped to see in the pleasing pitch of his best friend's eyes.

Contempt.

"Fuck off, Trunks." The boy turned away from the window, one hand still residing along the edge. "Get the fuck out of my house, you low-class, half-breed pansy-ass poser. Get the hell out before I kick you out, Briefs." Obsidian narrowed dangerously. "Now." A growl carried deliberate on the breeze behind reverberated the ring of that one last nail in the coffin of his human resolution. "Now, ningen."

scene vii

The darker demi-Saiyan closed his eyes against the tears that fought for recognition, choosing to acknowledge the soothing touch of intrepid autumn as he braced the frame again, giving his back to a boy he now despised.

Yet love lingered like the light caress of colour against the consuming curtain of conscientious night. After sixteen years...I wish it were this easy to forget you...

"I want to hate you, Trunks-kun. I want so fucking much to be able to forget you..." Sniffing the aftermath of his nostalgia, the younger teen willed away the consternating creases that marred his porcelain brow. He wanted him to leave; it was hard enough to digest all that had been dropped into his lap. Was it too much to ask the world for one night of reprieve? One night without the reminders of his appearance, the need to please his merciless mother, the ache of unreturned love from the very one he had worshipped like a pious poor man at his lavender altar...

The fierce anger he harboured sank into the seasick depths of his uneasy stomach. This was the very last straw.

And his back was breaking.

"Onegai, Trunks," Goten murmured, embracing the rustling zephyr again. A whisper of whip lashed leaves was audible, but barely, above the music behind. Again the autumn temptress beckoned, and again he was inclined to follow. Leave...so easy...

"Just...go..." A brisk breeze played patsy with his over abused tresses. I wonder if this is what keeps Otousan from coming home.

And maybe that's what made him stay. The desire to be anything but like the man whose face he wore.

For once, his heredity would have served him well.

Tired of livin' like a blind man I'm sick of sight without a sense of feelin'

The night-washed demi-Saiyan jumped as the stereo was suddenly cranked to an unbelievable volume, pushing the anxiety that clasped clammy hands around his heart down to a more tolerable level and wincing as the hardcore lyrics assaulted his ears. What the--

The thought was assassinated as powerful hands wrapped around the upper muscle of his arms, locking his limbs against his body. Instinct knocked on his door too late; by the time the thought to fight was even conceived, Goten was halfway across the room, flung by the sheer Saiyan strength of his unforeseen opponent. His back slammed into the wooden frame of his bed with a sickening thud, a soundless cry wrenching itself from the fathomless nadir of his throat. Dende-sama...his spine, his tail spot...his ass...

It's not like you to say sorry I was waiting on a different story

"Shut the fuck up." Glaring up through a crystal veil of pain, the prone half-breed whimpered as the towering figure lowered the arm with which he had propelled his counterpart. "Just shut up!"

Almost frantic, forcing himself into rationale thinking, Goten pushed himself up with halting motions. The bright blue of his companion's eyes was too wide...dilated, unfocused.

And scaring the shit out of him.

"T-trunks--"

"Fuck you, Goten," the amethyst-anointed demi-Saiyan took an unwavering step forward, the hard tack of his brand new rubber soles crushing the littering remains of their childhood. "You were mine." Tilting the tip of his toe heavenward, Trunks ground his heel into the scattered stack of comic books they had poured over before Buu, before fusion, before fathers...

"You knew that." The Son's ass bumped the bed as he struggled to stand, scrambling backward along the mattress as the other approached, able to discern his words eerily clear through the blaring vocals.

It's not like you didn't know that I said I love you and I swear I still do

"Iie, Trunks..." The man was possessed--he had to be. Sharp shards of sapphire shone upward through trailing violet tendrils, a snap of canines as the older teen smirked, a sadistically gut twisted expression that made the other feel physically ill.

"I guess you forgot." The Briefs boy chuckled dangerously as Goten's eyes widened, flickered toward the door before staring in terror as Trunks reached purposefully for the hem of his own sweater, dragging it over his head in a flawless gesture of discard.

Oh, Dende-sama...Gohan's words, like prophecy, rang warning through his head too late.

"I ever tell you about Vegeta's other son, niichan?"

Oh...no... The shirt was left to join the graveyard of his forefathers, displaying the purple prince's exquisite physique in the dim light of his bedroom. "I guess I'll have to show you..."

"We weren't as close as you and Trunks...your Trunks were, but we were close."

"T-trunks...yamero...you-y-you're scaring me..." Backed up against the headboard, the Son swallowed hard as the natural reassurance yielded little comfort. "Don't..." Fear held his form in place, the soft shadow of adolescent adoration casting its dirty glow over instinctual reason.

"You know, holding hands, stealing kisses. Kid's stuff."

"You're making me do this, Goten." Delft fingers that once dominated his fantasies personified the nightmare before him, the snap of his jeans lost to the drowning words of the synthetic desperation.

This time I'm mistaken For handing you a heart worth breaking

A metallic glint of amber on silver as the zipper slipped and revealed the paling path of pure purple.

"No. We didn't have sex. I don't consider rape sex."

Goten froze.

Trunks ran a light hand over his obvious arousal and gained another foot toward the bed.

Tensing tightly, the younger boy abandoned thought and threw his body to the right.

The predatory prince lunged.

"IIE!" Goten's voice grated raw in his throat as a crushing grip latched onto his ankle, lashing out with the other in a futile attempt to get off the bed and to the door. Tears slid unheeded onto the faded coverlet as his body was ripped backward, fingers clawing for purchase in the dingy fabric.

"Stay still!" The words were hissed, hateful in his ear as his lithe form was pinned like a butterfly beneath the larger figure, invasive digits slapping aside his efforts to thwart. Twisting at the waist like a serpent, the Son sought to ram his assailant in the softness of his unprotected midsection.

His movement was anticipated, the bones in his forearm shattered for their effort.

Releasing the useless appendage to fall defeated to the side, the cursing cur above him continued with his quest to relieve his body of its hindering garments.

"Iie...Tor...unks..." Hot and sticky the droplets of his disbelief slid unnoticed to fall suicidal on the sheets. "Ya-ya...mer...o..."

"You heard me. He raped me. Apparently the word 'no' just wasn't in his vocabulary."

Hands that were nothing like velvet, nothing like the touch of his prince ravaged his clothes, tore at his shirt, jostled the devastated fragments in his arm that made him see patches of agonizing white.

"Goddamn whoring Son..." Spiteful fingers banished his turtleneck, a razing rip that echoed in his ears as the unyielding cotton parted at his back and jerked his broken limb. A shiver of disgust laced in the tearing aftermath as a hot, hungry tongue bathed his spine with torrid trails of unwanted heat.

"I'll make you remember who you belong to, Goten," dawn-dazzling lavender brushed across the salty field of his face, sticky strands refusing to release the sacred ground of his anguish. Hissing his passionate anger into the writing form beneath, Trunks slid eager fingertips under the loose waist of the younger boy's worn denim, growling his savage possession as the fabric protested the barraging onslaught.

"Trunks-k-kun...yamero..." The darker demi-Saiyan bucked upward with his hips, saline desperation driving him to thrust his older assailant from his back. "Get off!"

Tainted, maniac laughter cut a chilling path to his ears. "You so eager to have my cock in your ass, Goten?" A grinding, punishing force drove the boy's body back in its place, the intrusively hard erection a continued reminder that Trunks had always, and would always be...

"You know I've always been stronger, Goten." Burning, the coarse material was dragged further down his hips, catching as the zipper obstinately objected to being left closed rather than graced with the effort to undo, and therefore slip comfortably free from the restriction of his hips. "Pathetic..." Blood rushed to his head, an insectual humming filtering the words that struck him so much more deeply than the threat he imposed. "...weak..."

This is how you remind me Of what I really am

"...third class..." Long searching digits dug through his hair, pulling the snarling mass, a whimper defused as the pain exceeded conscious thought and his neck was bent at an unbelievable angle. "...mother fucking..." A jabbing knee in the back of his own saw his legs apart, a muscled thigh inserted and promptly forced upward, a stabbing lance as his sensitive area was crushed against his aggressor. Against...

"Tor...unksss..." Swallowing was almost impossible, an added pressure on his massacred forearm as irrational fingers sought to remove the last of his persistent clothing had his head swimming in the simple unreality. Trunks...his Trunks...

"It may not have been your Trunks, but it was still Trunks."

"...fucking material..."

This wasn't his Trunks.

His Trunks would never have broken his arm outside of a spar.

His Trunks wouldn't have him on his stomach like a street whore, prying his jeans off his body as though his life depended on the absence of his dress.

His Trunks...

This wasn't his Trunks...

"Fuck it," the growl, courted by the ki that lit fire at his back renewed his vigor to be free. Despite the pain in his arm, the agony between his legs, the controlled reign in his hair.

"That's it, Goten, fight like the goddamn weakling you are!"

Goten saw green as his hair blazed amber, a guttural gnash of teeth as he pushed up with both hands, arching his back to throw the bastard off--

And then black nothingness swallowed him whole as the hand glowing golden traced a ki-lit finger down the seam of his pants and over what was once his tail....

scene viii

The soft, supple delights of his counterpart's back were revealed with the dissolving fabric, the sensuous dip of his spine, the luscious curve of his ass as it disappeared beneath the singed blue below. Purring his utter appreciation, hardly aware that the younger boy's efforts had ceased completely, the violet Ouji raised himself regally, reaching for the swollen ache that he yearned to bury deep in the consensual form.

Groaning as his hand wrapped around the warm length of his cock, the older teen jerked himself, one hand braced on the shoulder blade of his infatuation. Licking his lips as the enticing site--the pale, flawless cream of his companion's skin that screamed to be tasted, flesh that taunted him at every turn...

"With your fucking loose jeans..." that displayed the suckable dip of hips he throbbed to grasp.

"And your goddamn lips..." that he licked and nipped...teased...

"And..." A grunt as a saliva-slickened hand took the other's place, "your fucking...scent..." Nothing like the perfume and artificial flowers that normally greeted his kiss...

"You...ahhh..." Broad hands spread the flesh before him; Trunks maneuvered both knees beneath him, shredding the last of the denim that attempted salvation as he positioned himself against his former friend.

"Fucking...beau--" Warm, tight...moist...absolutely nothing like the girls he had been with... "...tiful..."

Abruptly, unable to compete with the insatiability of his need, the youngest prince encased himself in that delicious warmth with a soft, moaning cry. Pushing himself up with erratic motions of haste, Trunks gripped the slack shoulders of his darker companion and set a decadent pace.

"Haiiii...Kami...sama..." Closing eyes of passion-glazed indigo, the Briefs boy bent his head reverently at the pleasurable experience, indulging the heightened, muscle-tensing sensation that had never occurred with a woman. He was close, so very fucking... "Hai...hai! Hai! Goten! Good Dende--"

"Goten!" Starstruck sapphire flashed upward with celestial savagery through violet tendrils heavy with perspiration's crystalline droplets. Shaking the lagging lavender from his eyes, Trunks bared glittering canines at the intrusive voice behind the door, glaring murderously as the knob jiggled and the blaring summons came again.

"Goten! Turn that music down! Right now!" Sweaty fingers fisted in the tattered remnants of his unresponsive plaything, the compromise of his position irritating his irrationality past the point of recognition. Gnashing his teeth with a primitive growl, the boy thrust his hips again, conquering cobalt rolling backward as the overwhelming rush overpowered him again, traveling up the needy knot in his stomach, through the locking of his limbs, prickling the fine hairs on his neck and the slick beads of sweat that cooled with every angry gust that blew aside the faded blue of Goten's bedroom curtains.

The insistent jingle of bossy brass tinkled through the berating bass that painted his immoral moans in thunderous tones and lightning lyrics. Slitting his azure eyes, Trunks never stopped his ravishing rhythm. Not when the harpy's commanding screech scraped sharp claws of provocation down the bent bow of his spine, not when the grating demands reached visceral heights of human vexation and the dull brass began to turn...

He had waited to partake of this for far too long to be stopped by that bitch.

Pale sunset purple succumbed to the dominance of its sun as the older teen called forth his ki, blue blazing infuriated emerald as his hands released their prize to proclaim his heritage to the outcry of disgusted disbelief as his best friend's mother forced open the door.

Her lifeless body had hardly crumbled to the floor before the lighter teen closed brilliant jade against the grotesque lay of her unblinking form and redoubled his pleasurable efforts toward completion.

"Hai, Gotennnn...mmmm, such a good fuck...just like I imagined..."

These five words in my head Scream 'Are we having fun yet?'

scene ix

Unimaginable excruciation. An ache unlike anything, even the sweet abduction of his virginity by Vegeta's Hadean hand hadn't been this torturous, this pure in its pain. Groaning, mere sounds against the cotton drenched and stiffened with the salt of his tears, Goten blinked open gummy eyes glued shut with the aftermath of his panic. Unfiltered agony stripped through the almost pleasant numbness that refused to acknowledge anything below his waist, the darker demi-Saiyan bit his tongue bloody as the weight at his back thrust his body forward again, the force dragging and tugging along his lower spine in a foreign sensation desperate to draw the black curtain over his conscious mind, to close a scene that never should have been written...

The incredible, tearing pain approached again as his counterpart receded, the praising moans and cursing purrs quieting as the taller teen leaned back before grinding his hips home again. Stunning in the simple phantasmagoric quality that had not faded as promised with the opening of the gravity chamber's steel door, Goten coughed dryly as the nauseating wave rose again to crash against his unmoving form. Sticky, unfocused ebony rose with a monumental effort, a throat sore from the thick coating of wet sorrowful suffering working to swallow, senses trying with admirable strain to drown out the periodic pumping of the boy at his back, the hand that wrapped around the protrusion of his hips, coercing his ass to allow the continued assault...

Strength was not his to sway, the golden aura that struggled to surface refusing its appearance and turning its back on the stage of its performance with an indifferent shrug. A dense throbbing in his ineffective arm smirkingly informed him that retaliation would only come with mercy. And it hardly seemed that Trunks was in the mood to approve of either. Trunks-kun...I loved you...

"I hate you..." his mouth molded the words with difficulty, spitting the venom of his betrayal to the viper behind him. "...bast..." The epithet gained volume as the scream left the vicinity of his lips, body tensing as laughter rasped like sand against his skin and his face was driven harder into the bed, ass lifted higher by Trunks' retaliatory purpose. Turning his veneer abruptly to the side with a breathless gasp of pain, Goten blinked.

And forgot to care to breathe.

Blood, whether from his uncooperative body, or the scarlet trail that ran from the meek, newly crushed flower of his mother's facedown form, for once quiet, raped his nose with a vengeance with the tilting of his face to avoid suffocation.

Too quiet.

"Okaasan...?" A plaintive mew, like a child. Soft, pleading. His mother couldn't be dead...no matter how many times he wished to leave...at least she was there...not like his father... Dende-sama...don't leave me, Okaasan...not you too...

Sniffing his denial, the half-breed curled his fingers around the loosening bedsheets, muscles flexing with the determination to drag himself from the stabbing attack that shot bullets of sharp, dizzying awareness with every movement.

"Okaa--aahhh!" Let go let go letgoletgoletgoletgoletgo!!!! What the fuck!? Trunks!!!! LET GO!

"What's the matter, Goten?" Sadistic, snarling, the boy he once would have gladly called brother licked a wet, unwanted path down the clammy flesh of his shoulder. "You don't like to have your tail pulled?" Another sharp jerk had him seeing a kaleidoscope of colours, the vision of his mother burning in a crimson outline brightest among them. Tail? I don't have a--

"Guess that's what happened to Papa, ne?" A soundless protest ripped free from Goten's throat, drowning in the gurgle of agony as his newly grown appendage was abused again.

"Yamero-o..." What in Enma-sama's?? Tail? He hadn't had one since he was...

"Fusing with Kakarott proved to be...traumatic enough to entice its growth."

Trauma. Like being raped by your best friend. Like finding your mother dead on the floor.

"Somebody put him in his place, and he was weak," another blinding lance as the furry length was wrapped around the older boy's palm. Breath tainted with the ambrosial inebriation of power washed across his pallid features. "Just." Harder, pulling his body backward from its scrambling destination. "Like." A whining scream as the dick in his ass was forced deeper, head bowing, flushed face burying in the crook of his working arm. "You." This wasn't happening...Dende-sama...onegai...

"Otousan..." Fat tears of hopelessness squeezed out from the corner of his eyes to fall worthless to the pillow beneath. "Gohan..." I need you, Gohan-tousan...you said if I ever needed you to call...his breath hitched and his nose itched with the sneeze that begged freedom, the odor of blood blown from its stagnancy by the breeze from the window filling him with its heady, overpowering, sickening scent.

"Gohan...onegai...help me..." After sixteen years of forsaking, the guardian of earth answered the demi-Saiyan's liberally laden prayers.

Amber illumination streaked through the blackness of his self-enclosure as the room ignited in furious golden light. The burden from his back was miraculously lifted as the Paladin of Dende delivered him from his mortal tormentor.

Slipping once more into the comfort of black nothingness, warm hands wrapped him like a baby in the swaddling sedation of his battered quilt, the welcome scent of Gohan, his brother, his father entrancing the shock of his system to calm enough to drop gracefully away into unconsciousness.

"Shhh, Goten...it's ok...Otousan's here..."

scene x

When his despicable half-breed had stormed from the house, the Saiyan had smirked in triumph. Putting the bastard boy from his thoughts, the Ouji had allowed for the soothing relief of a hot, relaxing shower, washing away his participation of this afternoon's activities with meditative regret. Reliving the devouring decadence of the youngest Son, Vegeta had relieved himself of the continued ache that plagued him in the brat's absence, leaning heavily against the porcelain wall as his weakness was washed and spun down the drain.

When Trunks' ki had erupted in a fury of passionate fire toward his darker counterpart, the father had dressed with nary a thought; Goten was capable of taking care of himself. Anything less was hardly worth the prince's time. He did not need a mate that required supervision like a mischievous pup. If he had wanted that, Kakarott would have sufficed.

But when Gohan's energy shot through the three known levels of Super Saiyan, the Saiyan no Ouji had silently cursed his inability to do the baka's simple tricks.

Instantaneous movement would have been more than a handy thing to have at that particular moment.

scene xi

The house stank of blood, sex, and incalculable fear. Spitting in disgust at the residual terror that left an acrid taste like bile in the back of his throat, the prince strode down the short halls of the Son residence, hands curled into ready, eager fists at his sides for easy defense should the need arise. Anything that made that leather clad pseudo-Saiyan brat summon more than his general allotment of power was enough to grab the Ouji's selective attention by the balls and jerk his curiosity around a bit.

He had done little more than silently quirk an interested brow when the boy had sworn off his chimerian mother and permanently adopted his metallic birthright. Vegeta was stoically proud to call the eldest demi-Saiyan part of his clan. More than his idiot father ever was. The knowledge that his younger brother was apt to follow suite was a satisfactory victory on the Saiyan's behalf. Leave them long enough, Kakarott, and they will revert to their blood calling. And with that comes me, you fucking joke. Fitting that your line should know my title though you forsake it.

Though exactly how Saiyan the boy had become in his father's deficiency had never been tested. Until now.

The house was quiet save the muted whines of someone being introduced to the exact definition of 'rigid with fear' babbling through the darkened corridors like soft forest echoes of a meandering stream. Even the soles of his shoes had the decency for silence, as though the very thought of sound were enough to quell their tendency for attention. And with the insane fluctuation of a Saiyan's ki warping like a wavelength in the room directly ahead, it was not a surprise that the Ouji proceeded with an instinctual tread of caution.

Toeing aside the ki-blasted corpse of a woman he had always considered a waste of clean air from the littered doorway, the man closed shadowed ebony to the sight before him, the scent alone enough to drive his carefully contained memory into frantic circles.

Burnt flesh and fresh blood. Conquering planets. Working under Frieza.

Blowing entire civilizations to smithereens with Nappa, Radditz, and Turles in obedient tow. The chorused echo that never failed to spur his instincts...

As you wish, my Ouji.

Both brows reached for the high definition of his hairline as Gohan growled, the low, vibrating warning rumbling through the barreled burnt magenta of his chest like a steam engine. Narrowing them to the awesome spectacle, Vegeta refused to be awed. So the boy could go monkey. Big fucking deal. A few more months of training, and he would have that attained as well...

"...Gohan...matte..." Whimpering, pitiful in its pleading, the familiar voice wove a sneer into the hard line of his lips. Vegeta glared at the pathetic site of his pale heir as he was grabbed by the collar, the crunching thud as the back of his head was brought with incredible force against the wall, a jagged crack running ragged along the wood at the contact. Furious at the dishonour his heir wore around his ankles, the prince could only curl his lip in contempt as the half-bred disappointment literally pissed himself in his fear, the acrid, putrid scent clawing at his nose with enough irritation to make him want to kill the boy himself. Which made him wonder what the little shit had possibly done to incite the wrath of Kakarott's calmest...

The eldest living Son made no sound as he wrapped his remaining hand around the boy's throat and squeezed, powdering the amethyst Ouji's terrified features a transparent Prussian blue. Snorting with a grunt, the prince crossed both arms over his chest. Let the boy have his fun before salvaging his brat's sorry existence...

A strained groan drew his bemused attention to the bed.

The Saiyan no Ouji would have thought himself beyond weak human emotions. But something sharp ripped through the fine hairs of his tail, eliciting a slashing motion as he took an instinctual step toward the carefully collective bundle. Goten...? Black glittery plastic crunched beneath his feet, the insides of the gutted machine familiar to him. He had spent more than two hours bent over its smaller sister just yesterday...

A snarl so base, so Saiyan as to make the prince feel like a child in his father's court again--when such savagery had existed, before Frieza, before their destined extinction actually made him pause in his motion, focused obsidian unflinching as the tall, righteous form turned fiery amber eyes from his victim. Instinct screamed at him to bow before the other, bested. Saiyan tradition demanded that he either obey unconditionally or fight for supremacy. This fucking pink monkey, the oldest offspring of the man he hated more than this obsequiously backwater planet had him by his Kami-damned--

"I won't hesitate to kill you, Vegeta-san." As if the brat had the ingenuity to even attempt his threat. But beyond the brick wall of his infallible pride, Gohan's voice held no mockery, no boasting of superiority. Simple Saiyan possession that struck him to the tail, heightening his awareness of the reality of his position: another step toward my brother, and your royal ass is mine.

The consideration for suicidal glory was within his grasp...but for perhaps the first time in his life, Vegeta chose not to press the self-destruct button.

 @saiyanb