#something wet and grey and with soft white light and a lot of loneliness and quiet

[boycannibal]

i need to move somewhere far away

[twstdaydreamer]

“tears of time”

Fandom : twisted wonderland

Word Count: 878

Pairings : malleus draconia x fem reader

Genre : angst

TW : implied character death

ahoy, matey! This is the second blow for the angst train from Sora~

Ah, how could that woman tear his heart apart and put it back together at the same time?

It was raining, but he doesn't feel even the slightest of cold. 

Yet, he felt a hollow loneliness scorching deep in his heart.

Tiny droplets of rain fell softly on his beautiful face, his green eyes devoid life as he stared blankly on the wet cobblestones. It had been a cold morning, one that he had found to accustomed himself to. 

The noise of the falling rain cannot drown the aching silence in his mind, and the emptiness he felt in his beating heart. Today is the day, the same day once a year where he felt engulfed by the binding darkness, despite how many seasons had changed, despite how many years had passed. 

How surprising. It was as if the heavens itself was crying over the tragedy that had befall upon him. He always knew that life was unfair to everyone, that fate loves pulling tricks and, despite being one of the powerful magicians this world had seen, cannot defy his own destiny. 

However, Malleus cannot fathom why he gained a new happiness in exchange for the love he always protected.

Slowly, he raised his head, feeling the rain soaked his skin as he let himself get drenched. Droplets of rain tangled into his silky black locks before spilling onto his pale cheeks, marking his face with heaven’s tears, the tears of his beloved--or so he wanted to believe. 

He tried to bury the past to stop the haunting memories that tried to drown him alive. But, never to the point of forgetting her face. No, he won’t ever try to banish a single thing about her from his mind. Malleus just wanted to forget all the pain her disappearance had inflicted on him, how devastated he felt when she closed her eyes to sleep forever, and how wreck he was just the thought of her gone filled his heart with darkness that threatens to consume his entire being.

Oh, how tempting it was to succumb to it.

Just as he expected, a bright laughter rang loudly in his ears, making his chest clenched painfully, but he didn’t mind. The very sound brought a different sense of comfort to him than any healing spell or medicine could provide. 

She was a lot brighter than light iself. His shining beacon that led her out of the confines of his own mind.

“Come on, now, Malleus. I swear it won’t hurt if you touch it.”

“As you said, but I wanted you to rest.”

“Aww. You’re too stiff.”

She held his hand tightly with hers, the same hand that could kill in just a snap of his finger. But she trusted him. She loves him. And with so much reluctance, her soft fingertips guided him to her swollen belly, her free hand softly caressing his cheek with a bright smile on her face. 

Days like those were so precious to him, and Malleus treasured each and every moment of it. Unforgettable, as though they would last forever.

Ah, he would never have suspected that that day would be their last morning together.

If only he knew this would happen so soon...he should’ve…

Malleus absentmindedly wrapped his arms around himself, as if to imitate her stolen warmth from years ago. He wanted to cast himself in an illusion that she was still there, fitting perfectly in his arms. 

During his darkest nights, he blamed himself for what had happened. Oh, how easy would it be if only she had never met him. How easy would it be if he was left alone, as always. How easy it was to just...

Under normal circumstances, Malleus probably would, despite knowing that he was a king himself and he has subjects and a kingdom to lead to. But there was something more important...far more important that was pulling him away from the edge of madness. 

It was something that he had gained the moment he lost her.

Ah, how could that woman tear his heart apart and put it back together at the same time?

Malleus was standing under the rain for quite some time now. The roar of an overhead drop of rain made his eyelids open as he sensed someone closing to him. The dark grey sky, streaked with a single line of white, reflected in his orbs of green.

“Dad!”

Malleus instantly wiped the traces of tears in his eyes before turning around, just in time to see a young child run towards him, a little umbrella in hand. She was smiling brightly at him–and it brought gentle warmth in his chest just seeing her. The incomparable joy her very existence brings in his life is something Malleus himself cannot believe.

“What are you doing here? Where’s Lilia?” He crouched down as the toddler dove in his embrace. 

“I was looking for you!” She cheerfully said, bringing the umbrella above their heads. “Lilia told me you’re probably here. I want to play with you more, Dad!”

Malleus broke down a small smile, hoisting the child up in his arms. His tears finally dried away as he hugged the girl close to his chest and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. 

Ah, yes, it was raining, but he wasn’t cold.

And yet, he wasn’t alone anymore.

[agentrouka-blog]

When Jon think about wanting winterfell and it's Lord he felt hunger which he later connect with ghost's hunger. Do you think that passage is implying something?

Hi anon!

I think the passage has many layers when it comes to symbolism and foreshadowing.

ASOS, Jon XII is a fun chapter. Jon’s been through a lot. His trip North of the wall left him traumatized and disillusioned in a way that’s hard to sum up. Anything he had hoped to be proud of in life was obliterated, he suffered serious injury, has been separated from ghost, learned that all his family are dead or missing, fought a viciously cruel battle, feels responsible for the death of his stockholm-syndromy abuser, was stripped of all respect and honor by his superiors, and he got to see a woman die in childbirth. Now Stannis and Mel are squatting at Castle Black, and the threat to the North keeps looming.

Life sucks. 

We’d been introduced to some options that were denied to him in life:

His lord father had once talked about raising new lords and settling them in the abandoned holdfasts as a shield against wildlings. The plan would have required the Watch to yield back a large part of the Gift, but his uncle Benjen believed the Lord Commander could be won around, so long as the new lordlings paid taxes to Castle Black rather than Winterfell. "It is a dream for spring, though," Lord Eddard had said. "Even the promise of land will not lure men north with a winter coming on."

If winter had come and gone more quickly and spring had followed in its turn, I might have been chosen to hold one of these towers in my father's name. Lord Eddard was dead, however, his brother Benjen lost; the shield they dreamt together would never be forged. (ASOS, Jon V)

or

“If the boy shows any skill with sword or lance, he should have a place with your father’s household guard at the least,” Jon said. “It’s not unknown for bastards to be trained as squires and raised to knighthood. But you’d best be sure Gilly can play this game convincingly. From what you’ve told me of Lord Randyll, I doubt he would take kindly to being deceived.” (ASOS, Samwell IV)

One fails because of the seasons, the other was prevented by Catelyn. The Watch has been a soul-destroying nightmare, Ygritte’s offer of taking over a Tower “after” is not even worth a moment’s consideration to him. Every hope he ever had about his life has been disappointed. 

Jon’s just about sixteen and is completely done. Sam notes how much time Jon spends in the training yard, even though he’s injured and off-duty for the title of turncloak. He does not bother voting in the Lord Commander election. A maligned outcast again. Forever. 

The warg, I’ve heard them call me. How can I be a warg without a wolf, I ask you?” His mouth twisted. “I don’t even dream of Ghost anymore. All my dreams are of the crypts, of the stone kings on their thrones. Sometimes I hear Robb’s voice, and my father’s, as if they were at a feast. But there’s a wall between us, and I know that no place has been set for me.” (ASOS, Samwell IV

He is lonely. Even Ghost is gone, his one proof that he belongs to something.

Stannis alienates Jon by talking ill of Robb, but he offers Jon recognition for the things he did right, a rare thing, and then he offers him legitimization. Basically, “You proved your worth and you have the Right blood. All you ever wanted can be yours. For the small price of breaking your oaths for real and of your own volition and forsaking your gods.” Downright mephistophelian.

Jon is torn, can’t sleep, fights. For the first time he has a real choice. He remembers the traumatic incident where his bastardy became a true concept to him.

That morning he called it first. “I’m Lord of Winterfell!” he cried, as he had a hundred times before. Only this time, this time, Robb had answered, “You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be the Lord of Winterfell.”

I thought I had forgotten that. Jon could taste blood in his mouth, from the blow he’d taken. (ASOS, Jon XII)

And Jon’s response is a near black-out rage against his sparring partner. All his suppressed feelings of grief and anger and longing and loneliness are just broiling inside him.

Why am I so angry? he asked himself, but it was a stupid question. Lord of Winterfell. I could be the Lord of Winterfell. My father’s heir.

Jon soaks in the hot tub and thinks of Winterfell, mulls restoring it versus not belonging and destroying its soul in the process

When Jon closed his eyes he saw the heart tree, with its pale limbs, red leaves, and solemn face. The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said … but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman’s hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods

The tree is almost described like a person. A person with Tully coloring, like all his siblings save Arya. Like Sansa. The hot springs in Winterfell have a potential link to his decision to join the Watch, or at the very least to his siblings in general. The castle of Winterfell is juxtaposed with the heart, with the purpose and point of it all. Save a structure by destroying what made it a meaningful place? Betray his family in his heart, the person whose castle is truly is, betray all his values and his gods?

He takes a walk past sites of all his recent experiences and North the Wall over the recent battle field and just sits to think. 

Ygritte wanted me to be a wildling. Stannis wants me to be the Lord of Winterfell. But what do I want? The sun crept down the sky to dip behind the Wall where it curved through the western hills. Jon watched as that towering expanse of ice took on the reds and pinks of sunset. 

There’s an essay I could write about walls, Tyrion, Jon and Sansa (the sun to Arya’s moon) and how they all interact in the books, but let’s say just like this word play, the fact that Jon answers his own question is not an accident:

"Close your beak, crow. Spin yourself around, might be you'd find who you're looking for."

Jon turned.

The singer rose to his feet. (ASOS, Jon I)

The singer rose. Lyanna, his mother, the riddle. But also Sansa, who unwittingly took up her mantle. One unlocks his path to the other and everything that follows in his imagination:

I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister’s son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly’s boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We’d find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance’s son and Craster’s would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb.

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger … he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought.

Jon paints a picture of recreating his own childhood with his wolf pack at Winterfell, only this time there are no outcasts, and he is the Father. He gets to be Ned. The Lord of Winterfell with a lady’s love. And a son, something he had, apparently, dreamed of until he stoppped. 

He has always wanted this thing that he has no right to and it filled him with a guilt strong enough to concern the gods. But he admits it to himself, lets himself truly feel it. The feeling flows through him the same way the rage did earlier. powerful and all encompassing. 

Like a dragonglass blade. There we have some lovely foreshadowing for a) potentiall the origin of the Others, b) Jon’s paternity, and c) his own death when his desire to abandon his vows and head to Winterfell is met with, you know, some blades. Not to mention d) his desire to have these things.

Each of these is answered by his primal hunger response. Which is of course, his connection to Ghost. The wolf he has so woefully said goodbye to, that he missed deeply and bitterly, chooses this moment to reappear. This moment where Jon returns to his own feelings, his true self.

a) the answer to the Others are the direwolves, the Starks, their magical connection to Winterfell and what happened way back when.

b) the answer to Jon’s paternity is a violent embrace of his mother’s side.

c) the answer to his own stabbing will be warging into Ghost and biding his time in there, becoming more wolf than he ever anticipated.

d) the answer to his heart’s desire...

It was a long moment before he understood what was happening. When he did, he bolted to his feet. “Ghost?” He turned toward the wood, and there he came, padding silently out of the green dusk, the breath coming warm and white from his open jaws. “Ghost!” he shouted, and the direwolf broke into a run. He was leaner than he had been, but bigger as well, and the only sound he made was the soft crunch of dead leaves beneath his paws. When he reached Jon he leapt, and they wrestled amidst brown grass and long shadows as the stars came out above them. “Gods, wolf, where have you been?” Jon said when Ghost stopped worrying at his forearm. “I thought you’d died on me, like Robb and Ygritte and all the rest. I’ve had no sense of you, not since I climbed the Wall, not even in dreams.” The direwolf had no answer, but he licked Jon’s face with a tongue like a wet rasp, and his eyes caught the last light and shone like two great red suns.

Red suns. Arya’s wolf has golden coins (haggling for death, faceless men coins, spinning fates), Grey Wind has molten gold (like a crown that kills you). 

Jon’s wolf has red suns. Like the colors that the sun painted on the Wall. The direwolf in heart tree colors, inverted bastard colors of house Stark, Tully colors, Sansa colors. 

Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one. And he alone of all the direwolves was white. Six pups they’d found in the late summer snows, him and Robb; five that were grey and black and brown, for the five Starks, and one white, as white as Snow.

He had his answer then.

Not the red gods, not fire. The old gods. the heart tree, the wolves. He may be a Snow, but the old gods gave him Ghost. His own wolf. His white wolf. His place was made by their will. 

There is honor in that choice. No matter what anyone else says, Jon knows who he is and he has that power: to reject betraying his heart. 

How does this choice led by Ghost fit the layers?

a) The answer to the Others: don’t steal, don’t trick. Be honest. Accept what was painful. Not the Wall matters, the answer is in the heart tree.

b) The Dragon father does not Need to guide his decisions. He can let that go. He is a Snow.

c) Being in Ghost will lead him back to himself. Not fire, not Melisandre. The old gods.

d) Well... What does Jon want? What IS his answer?

Jon is filled with sudden energy. He strides back, rejects Val in his mind, stalks dramatically into the dining hall and is suddenly voted Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. We close on this:

So Jon Snow took the wineskin from his hand and had a swallow. But only one. The Wall was his, the night was dark, and he had a king to face.

Jon’s answer? We never hear it in this chapter. 

We hear it in ADWD, Jon I:

"By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa." 

And ADWD, Jon IV:

Jon said, "Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa." 

The chapter is followed by? Sansa. Rebuilding Winterfell out of snow. 

When Jon lets go of pretense, honestly asks himself what he wants, shame or not, his wolf takes over and helps him find the answer and the path. The answer is not in taking the Castle and creating a mimicry of what it was, it is in honoring what it truly was and truly means. The heart over the structure. 

And in giving supremacy to the heart, to the red-white heart, he unknowingly paves the way for his own place: Winterfell built of Snow. He doesn’t have to steal the castle, he will be invited to belong.

That’s my own humble interpretation, anyway.

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

The Gift

(I’m giving some January weather ❄️ to the characters in my July ☀️. This prompt is incredibly sweet, and I realize it didn’t include a request for *coconuts*. That said, sexual content slipped into this fic regardless because ...Hayffie 🔥. Anyway, I hope the ending feels sweet enough to offset other intensities.)

***

After years of hiking up her skirts and unzipping bodices, loosening corsets and slipping them down just enough, unbuckling garters and sliding thongs to the side, they were playing now with nakedness.

Total nakedness.

It had happened a few times, and Effie was still adjusting to the sensations. The vulnerability of her skin fully against his was one thing. Her heart open to him was another.

Their first time face-to-face, unencumbered by clothing was intense. They started kissing and didn’t stop until they came, moaning into each other’s mouths. It was almost too much. The eroticism, the intimacy, the deliciousness all broke down her boundaries. Effie was definitely on board with nakedness DURING sex.

The textures AFTER still felt awkward to her. His body became a furnace, drenching her in sweat, especially when he’d been on top. And she loved having him on top. With her legs wrapped around him, she could take subtle control of the pace, the depth, their closeness.

Complete nakedness was freeing; it was also messy and overwhelming. Having sex with Haymitch had always been contending with chaos, but now...

Now.

“I need to breathe,” she gasped as the pulsing slowed inside her.

He thrust once more, milking the last drops of pleasure, then rolling off of her.

“Fuck. That was...”

“I know. ...God.”

Catching his breath, he slid his hand along her sternum, down to her waist where he curled his fingers around her side.

“Honey, don’t touch me right now. Your hands are sopping fire.”

He let go, still panting. “You’re hot too, sweetheart.”

An anxiety she didn’t understand crept over her. “EVERYTHING is wet. I need to take a shower. We need to change the sheets.”

He chuckled, “I’d say loosen your corset, but I already took it off.”

“Haymitch, don’t tease. You know this is new for me.”

He did know. “It’s kind of like taking your virginity.” He grinned. “Can’t help wanting you wet, and can’t help wanting to touch you when you’re like this.”

Effie scoffed at the notion of herself as a virgin. “That ship sailed over 20 years ago.” Lying apart, she’d cooled enough to reach for his hand and interlace their fingers. “But the sentiment is charming.”

He pulled her knuckles to his lips. “I’ve been a lot of things, but *charming* isn’t one.”

Effie shivered as the moisture evaporated from her skin. She went from hot to cold in body and emotions faster than he could flip a coin. He’d stopped trying to figure her out long ago.

“I’m going to go take a shower. Will you turn up the heater?”

“About that...” Haymitch hesitated, knowing she’d be pissed. “The heater wouldn’t turn on this morning.”

Effie sat straight up, dropped his hand and glared. He tried to stay focused on her eyes rather than the beads of sweat dripping between her breasts. His attention was divided.

“It’s January! There’s snow on the ground, and your heater is broken?! Couldn’t you have mentioned that detail BEFORE I got on the train? You could have come to my apartment instead, then we’d be warm right now!”

“We warmed up real good on our own, honey. ...Besides, the train was already halfway here by the time I woke up today.”

“So he says — an hour before we die from hypothermia!”

Haymitch reached for her waist again. His hand was still warm, and this time she welcomed the touch.

“Let’s take a shower and talk about all the things we can do tonight to prevent hypothermia.”

“You think this is amusing!”

“We have a fireplace, wood in the shed, a forest next door, and a town full of coal. This is 12. We can manage a weekend without a furnace.” He spoke gently, tracing circles on her hip.

Her anxiousness lessened, but she was still vexed at him for not waking up before noon and for not knowing how to repair a furnace. Though in all these years, annoyance had never stopped her from wanting more of him.

“The water better be warm.” She reached for his hand and pulled him up with her.

***

Effie’s teeth chattered later as she rummaged through her bag with towels wrapped around her body and her hair.

“I brought nothing warm to wear!”

Haymitch lazed on the edge of the bed, avoiding the spots where the sheets were still damp. “What about the 5 layers of clothes I took off when you walked through the door?”

“That’s outside attire.” Effie was miffed by his unyielding ignorance regarding even the most basic matters of fashion. A pair of leggings was the best she could find. “I wasn’t exactly planning on wearing much inside.”

“Sorry the furnace fucked up such a fine plan.” He was enjoying the view of her wearing nothing but towels, but he didn’t want her shaking, at least not from cold. “Let’s get you warm. Look through my drawers and wear anything you want. I’ll go make coffee and build a fire.”

Effie looked wary. She was all too familiar with the limits of his wardrobe. Though she did slip on his shirts when he left them at her place. They smelled like him and felt like him and, though she wouldn’t admit it, they helped ease the loneliness she always experienced after he’d gone.

He caressed her ass through the towel. “...Or you can just wear this all evening. You choose.”

She turned her head and kissed him as he passed her on his way out. She just got here, and she hated the loneliness she was already anticipating at the thought of leaving tomorrow. She refused to waste this time together fuming about a broken heater.

She closed each drawer quickly after opening it. “All your clothes are grey!” she hollered downstairs, “Grey is not even a color!”

He muttered under his breath, “Grey is too a goddamn color.” Then he hollered back up to her. “Feel free to stay in the towel!”

She opened the drawers again and dug deeper, determined to find something she hadn’t seen at first glance. A white sleeve poked out from between layers of grey. Effie pulled out the shirt and recognized it immediately, though she hadn’t seen it in years. He’d worn it the night before the third Quarter Quell — the first time he kissed her, as she was falling apart.

She slipped it on now over bare breasts and snuggled up in the memory and the scent of him. The shirt was soft and thin. She needed another layer, a sweater maybe. She kept digging.

In the back of the bottom drawer she felt something velvet and silky. A blazer perhaps? Reaping Day attire? Why would Haymitch of all people hold on to something like that? As she pulled it out, she realized it wasn’t a jacket but a shawl — a red velvet shawl, embroidered with swirls of golden thread and trimmed with silk. The fabric was old, smooth and beautiful. It smelled like cedar laid over memories.

Effie felt a degree of reverence as she slipped the shawl over her shoulders, hoping it wouldn’t fall apart. The construction proved to be sturdy, clearly hand-sewn by a talented seamster.

What meaning did this have for Haymitch to keep in a dresser in his bedroom? “Look through my drawers and wear anything you want,” he’d said. Could he possibly have meant this glorious piece of art? Effie intended to find out.

A pair of his thick woolen socks completed the ensemble with her leggings, his shirt, and the shawl. Effie blow dried her hair, and applied light layers of mascara and lipstick. Then she followed the fragrance of coffee downstairs.

The house was already warming up from the fire burning in the hearth. Haymitch was mixing their coffee with shots of bourbon and spoonfuls of honey and cream. With his back to her he asked, “Did you find some color?”

“That depends... Is this okay?”

***

He turned around and saw her.

He flashed back to winter mornings in the Seam when coal burned in the stove of his childhood. As the house grew warm, his mother would take off her shawl and drape it across the back of the rocking chair. His little brother would toddle out in footed pajamas, climb up in the chair and wrap up in the shawl.

“Careful, dear, that’s precious to Mama,” she’d say, “But not as precious as my boys.” She’d kiss Haymitch on his forehead as he brought eggs in from the goose house. “Wipe that snow off your boots before stepping off the mat. This house may not be much, but we don’t need to be entirely uncivilized. Then she’d sit with his brother in her lap and rock him a few times until the griddle was hot enough to fry the eggs.

When these kinds of memories showed up, they usually kicked him in the teeth, but Effie looking all beautiful softened the blow. A swallow of bourbon helped too.

“I wasn’t sure...” Seeing the pain now in his expression, she felt she’d made a mistake. “I can go change...”

He crossed the kitchen in three steps, kissed her forehead, then buried his face in her hair. He held her tight, and she returned the pressure of his embrace, feeling how much he needed this connection. She held him in silence, asking no questions.

“This is precious,” he said, not letting go of her.

“The shawl?”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, and nodded. “...But not as precious as my girl.”

My girl?... My girl... The words echoed in her chest. She felt them pushing and drawing out something new. “...Me?”

“Nobody else, sweetheart.”

For once in her life, Effie was speechless.

“No expectations,” Haymitch clarified, “I just don’t wanna feel this shit and pretend like I don’t.”

She’d loved him from her earliest memories, all the while pretending with other words and fucking other men who didn’t matter.

“I don’t want to pretend either.” She tasted the whiskey on his tongue. There was nothing simple about this. “I don’t want to be naked with anyone else. I don’t want anybody else inside me.”

He wanted to be inside her again, right now, on the sofa in front of the fire, but there was more to consider. “Are you warm enough? Did you eat on the train or are you hungry? Peeta brought over some fancy things.”

“Come here,” she said, easing away from him and moving toward the counter. She added a few items to the platter of Peeta’s croissants: butter, a knife, and the jar of honey. “Bring the drinks and follow me.”

Haymitch put the bottle of bourbon in the crook of his elbow and held the mugs of coffee in his hands.

She led them to the sofa. Mind reader, he thought.

She pulled an end table between them and the fireplace and laid down the platter. Before he could set the drinks beside it, she chastised him. “Coasters!”

“Coasters?” Fuck. She always did know how to delay a mood. “Not sure where they are.”

Effie went back to the kitchen and searched the cabinets for saucers. Those would substitute in a pinch. “We might be without central heating, but we don’t need to be entirely uncivilized.”

The coffee was still too hot to drink, so she curled up next to him on the sofa. He traced the golden swirls down her arm, caressing her through the velvet. “This shawl was my mother’s.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I wondered.”

“She sewed all of our clothes.”

“She was an incredible seamstress. This stitching is remarkable.”

“Nobody’s worn that in 30 years. ...I wrapped up in it once, after they were killed. But the memories were too painful, so I put it away. Never took it out again.”

“Haymitch...” She covered his hand with hers. “If I’d known, I never would have... Should I put it back?”

“No, honey. Such a pretty thing shouldn’t be in a drawer. You’re giving it life again.”

“Life has these ways of sleeping, you know? Sometimes I think there’s nothing left, and then suddenly it’s filling me up again.”

I feel it when you’re here, he didn’t say.

I don’t want to leave tomorrow, she didn’t say either.

They weren’t pretending, and they weren’t being entirely open either. Nakedness takes time to reach its full expression.

***

The next day Effie folded the shawl and laid it at the foot of the bed. She dressed in her layers of *outside attire* and took the train back to her heated apartment and her sleeping life.

She unzipped her bag and found inside a brown paper sack, haphazardly crumpled shut. On the outside, Haymitch had written, “Stay warm.”

Effie opened the sack more carefully than it had been closed. She pulled out a piece of notepaper folded in half. On the front he’d written, “For my girl.” She flipped the paper open, and the note within read, “It’s yours. Thanks for making me feel alive. — H”

She knew what she’d find at the bottom of the sack. Red velvet swirling with gold. She could barely see it through her tears. It held fragrances now of coffee and whiskey, croissants with honey, and Haymitch’s hands on her. She slipped the shawl over her shoulders. It was almost too much.

It was perfect.

[lallemcnt]

go ahead and watch my heart burn (part two)

“If that blue could stay for ever…if this moment could stay for ever–“

— Virginia Woolf

-

“Fuck, I’m freezing.”

Teeth chattering, limbs shaking and cold drops of ice water dripping down their necks, Lucas and Eliott hobble towards Eliott’s apartment door. Lucas’ teeth are chattering as he watches Eliott, painstakingly, trying to fit the key in the lock with shaking hands.

As soon as they’re inside, they’re both stripping off their jackets, shoes and socks. Eliott disappears and returns with a towel for Lucas whose clothes have become a second skin. Eliott’s shirt is halfway off his shoulders revealing a smooth chest and a small tattoo indiscernible in the dark.

“Why are you standing in the dark?” Eliott is laughing.

“Uh.” Lucas is laughing too. It’s infectious, Eliott’s laughter. All airy and earnest, like a fresh drop of winter snow on a blank canvas. It creates and funnels light, emboldening Lucas.

All Lucas can think about is Eliott’s chest and...the skin of his legs being rubbed raw by the wet of his rain-soaked jeans. So when Eliott offers him a pair of sweatpants Lucas is desperately relieved, made all the more sweeter by imagining the next few hours sitting down in squeaky denim. The sweatpants are a little long so he rolls the bottoms up a few times, drying his hair with a towel before drifting towards what he assumes to be the living room.

Homes are interesting places. They can be safe havens for some and dreaded sites of loneliness and fear for others. Lucas has had it both ways. Eliott’s is all wooden floors, white curtains and bookshelves filled with vinyl, non-fiction books, graphic novels and candles. The light grey-blue walls are relatively sparse, interrupted by a painting, a black and white photograph of the moon and an A4 piece of paper stuck to the wall with cello tape, depicting a...raccoon. The same one, Lucas deducts, as the one on the napkin. The napkin.

Dashing back to their pile of clothes on the kitchen floor, he digs through his pockets for the drawing, heart dropping in his stomach, colouring him wholly disheartened when he feels it’s threadbare material. He lets out a curse, catching the attention of Eliott.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Lucas responds quickly, shoving the napkin back into his pocket. “It’s nothing. Should we watch this film you’ve been raving about?” He tiptoes towards the other boy, trying to miss the little drops of water decorating the tiles.

He’s embarrassed at how upset he feels about the ruined drawing. In theory, he could ask Eliott for another, from what he can gage from Eliott’s behaviour and attitude towards him, he’s sure he would do it, be happy too even, but Lucas doesn’t want to test that just yet.

They end up on the sofa, wrapped up in a stripy, wool blanket that feels like paradise, a shelter against goose bumps and chilly toes. A barrier between cold skin, and hopeful touches.

He feels shitty about it, he really does, he knows under different circumstances he would be enraptured by this film. Thirty minutes in and the colours alone are breath-taking. He wants to hug Little, the main character, up in the warmest hug. But Lucas is completely enthralled by Eliott, and he can’t be consumed by two things at once. It’s all or nothing for him. He doesn’t know whether it’s exhaustion finally setting into his bones and slowing his thoughts down, but with every shift on the sofa beside him, every out breath, he’s glancing over and gazing for seconds on end, before he realises he should be watching the film. This is what he came here to see after all: not him watching Eliott watching the tv.

-

“Shirley Jackson. Toni Morrison. Hannah Arendt. Shakespeare. Angela Davis. Oscar Wilde.” Lucas reads the names off the spines one by one, some he recognises from school, others from evenings on buses with his mother: she always sat there, an arm slung around his shoulder and a paperback folded in half in the other.

A push of a button. Silence. Light foot-steps, hands shoved into pockets. “A penny for your thoughts?”

Lucas shrugs his shoulders. “You read. A lot.”

“Yeah. And you?”

A shake of his head, he looks at Eliott briefly before returning to inspect the rows of vinyl. “No, but my mother did. Does. She loves Shirley Jackson. I can remember coming home from school and seeing her tucked up in her a chair by the window, dressed in an oversized jumper and joggers, reading away.” He smiles a little at the memory, consumed by his love for his mother for a split second. It’s all a bit much, too private, sharing this with someone he’s only known a few hours. Someone he wants to know.

“Weren’t enjoying the film?”

“Sorry, I’m just-” Lucas sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I was enjoying it, but, I guess I’m not in the mood.”

Lucas drifts to the opposite wall. The raccoon sketch. He’s beyond curious so he asks. It’s that simple really. “What does the raccoon mean?”

“It’s me.”

Lucas frowns for a second, Eliott is still standing in front of his bookshelves, hands in pockets, a rueful smile on his face. It’s safe to say Lucas is thoroughly confused.

“You? As in the raccoon?”

“Yes.”

“So, the drawing you did for me. On the napkin. The raccoon was you? And the hedgehog was?”

“You.” A sheepish smile, and rounded shoulders, a light colouring of red on his smooth cheeks.

“Huh. I’m a hedgehog,” Lucas walks towards Eliott, slowly, with a shy smile on his face. “How do you figure that?”

“Well,” he gives Lucas a considering look, sweeping his body from head to toe with his eyes, and Lucas feels it all over like lava in veins, music in his eyes and a shiver down his spine.

“Well...?” He’s a foot away now.

Not looking too keen to spill the beans, Eliott intones, “Come here, you have something in your hair.” Lucas is willing to let it go, Eliott doesn’t owe him anything, but he promises himself he’ll find out, one day.

Lucas is practically in Eliott’s space already, so he leans forward slightly, curious and nervous and heart pounding, excited. A soft brush of fingers in his hair, a slight pull and Eliott holds a piece of fluff in front of Lucas.

“There.” His gaze shifts down to Lucas’ face. Eye contact held on bated breath.

-

The midnight-blue sky weakens in colour, letting in dregs of light as the sun prepares to rise once more. Wisps of pink stain the sky, and the dead silence of the night is replaced by a slow trickle of noise that grows rapidly into the sound of wheels against concrete and beeping horns of hurried commuters.

Sitting there, listening to the city waken and begin a new day, with legs thrown over legs, dark circles glistening under blue eyes that yearn to shut, to sleep, to rest. Lucas has become quite familiar and fond of the stripy woollen blanket, wrapping it around his feet and pulling it up to his shoulders, he leans against the side of the sofa listening to Eliott’s voice, hoarse from talking for hours on end, about everything and nothing: the life-cycle of a star, how he broke his ankle when he was eight falling off a skateboard, about an exhibition launching in a couple months that his work is in. Lucas has learned many things about Eliott, that the intensity of his eyes holds no matter the conversation topic, that Lucas feels them most acutely when he’s answering questions about himself: his friends, his mother, his degree and his love for the piano. He learns that Eliott hates anything with mint in, his favourite ice cream flavour is pistachio and that he pours the milk in his bowl before the cereal — Lucas mocks him to no end.

“Stay here,” Eliott whispers, “don’t go yet.” Lucas traces his hand, the tendons and the knuckles and the smooth skin between each bump of bone. He lightly taps against green and blue veins, aligning his own hand flat against Eliott’s, his fingers a cm or so smaller, Eliott curls the tips of his over Lucas’ and then they slip together, intertwine, Lucas rests his cheek against them. “Ok,” he whispers.

The intimacy of being in someone else’s bed, the bed of someone you like, the intimacy of sharing yourself with someone: your aches, pains and hopes. Every few minutes they’re laughing and Lucas feels the breathy air of Eliott’s laugh on his face that has gradually lost its sound throughout the early morning. He’s taken in this room and cannot help but compare it to his own. No cracked ceiling or second hand furniture in sight. Where Lucas’ room is minimalist, the only indication that it belongs to him being the photos of him and his friends taped up above the headboard of his bed, Eliott’s is a manifestation of his passion: a mural covers the walls, his collection of shirts hangs on a rail by the door, photos from magazines, ticket stubs and photographs decorate the area around his mirror in a collage of his greatest hits.

Sprawled on blue sheets, lying on their sides, faces close and resting on palms, whispered breaths and uncontrollable laughs. Quiet smiles, lingering touches, and sighs of contentment. A new world has been created, here in these cerulean sheets. A world forged of a compulsion to know the other, inside and outside.

The desire to kiss Eliott has grown like daisies in summer since he saw him standing in the door of that bathroom at McDonald’s, and now that they are positioned in such a way that if Lucas were to just tilt his head forward slightly, their lips would brush. He’s drunk on the tantalising idea.

That’s how they get there. Eliott, is running long fingers through Lucas’ hair, even more wild and unkempt than it was at one a.m. His hand stops, reaching around to grip the back of Lucas’ head, and Lucas takes the moment because he’s desperate, he’s buzzing with nerves, but, oh, he wants to. He closes that space between them, it’s nothing really, a whispered breath of air, and a press of his lips against Eliott’s for a few seconds, and just as he begins to retreat, Eliott reciprocates, his grip on Lucas’ head holding him in place. There’s a candle burning in Lucas’ gut, it was shimmering early and now it’s positively burning. As their lips move against each other, Lucas open his mouth and Eliott deeps the kiss. It’s slow and sensual, a new dance, bursting into existence.

Brushing his thumb against Lucas’ lower lip, pressing one, two, three quick kisses to his mouth, Eliott pulls back, and smiles, and Lucas’ heart is afire. He whispers, “Whoa.”

Lucas is hit by a tide of overwhelming need, he can’t look at Eliott for a second. He drags his eyes away and turning over, reaches for his phone on the nightstand to distract himself.

(57) new messages from Le Gang

(2) new messages from Manon

“In trouble?” Eliott asks.

“Oh, just my friends wondering why I went home with a weirdo.”

Lucas feels fingers pinching his sides and he’s gasping for breath, gasping into a kiss.

Feet brush and tangle. Sleep comes for them both, the white curtains trying in vein to block out the sunlight, though their job is easy made easy by these two boys high on desire for each other and utterly exhausted. Eyelids shut, breaths even out, tucked in a pocket of their own making, the boys sleep.

And sleep.

And,

Sleep.

-

It’s as though the body refuses to reenergise unless you sleep at night, making it so that when Lucas wakes he wishes he could be asleep once more. He closes his eyes against the afternoon sun but a nagging pain tugs at his consciousness, he rolls onto his side, relieving his dead arm, the tinkling of blood filling his limb. Huffing out a breath, rubbing his eyes, and yawning, Lucas flops onto his back and stairs at a smooth white ceiling, no cracks or brown stain. He’s not home. He reaches under the duvet wrapped around his body, and he’s also dressed.

There’s a faint sound filtering through the closed door, and like a bee to honey, he trails its path to a sleepy boy, coffee in hand, listening to the radio. A window is latched open, letting in humid air, a rigorous contrast to the icy rain of the night before. Looking at Eliott, remembering last night, his heart falls to his stomach. Should be stay? Or should he leave? How do you navigate this kind of situation? They talked for hours, kissed, but only met fifteen hours ago...does he sit down at the table, smile and hold Eliott’s hand? Or does he sneak out, as quiet as a mouse, and never speak to him again? It would be so easy, they don’t have each other’s numbers, after all.

Lucas takes a step forward, hesitates and turns away, betrayed by a creaky wooden floor board he steps on. Because of course he does.

“Sorry, I was-“

“Hey!” Eliott’s chair scraps against the floor as he stands up, winding around the table to meet Lucas, giving him a quick peck and a winning smile. Lucas is stunned, he thought...he imagined that maybe it was all in his head. That he was clouded by desire, by his own feelings. “I have cereal and yeah, that’s about it. Sorry.”

“I should go.”

“You can stay for breakfast.”

He’s feeling awkward, like he doesn’t belong. He just wants out of the situation as quickly as possible. “No, I should really get back. Check in with my mum...”

“Alright.”

Not knowing what else to say, a sharp contrast to their late night/early morning ramblings, Lucas disappears into Eliott’s bedroom — meticulously clean and tidy — to get dressed. Pulling on his jacket, he checks to make sure he has everything and heads towards the door.

“Can I have your number?” Eliott just in boxers leans against the kitchen door frame, arms folded across his chest like barriers to potential rejection. Lucas’ rejection. He doesn’t like that power. He would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see him see again. But he’s unsure if he’ll ever use the number because, firstly, look at Eliott. He’s been carved by Aphrodite herself; beautiful, sleepy, green-grey eyes like water mottled green by the harbour, deep brown hair that defies gravity, and a keen interest in people: their likes and dislikes, their passions. Lucas cannot compare in any sense of the word. He’s just...lesser. But he’s weak and he caves because he can still feel Eliott’s lips on his.

Eliott slips Lucas’ phone back into his jacket pocket, squeezes his hand and steps back. “Until next time.”

“See you.” The words taste like bile in his throat. He wonders if Eliott can sense the deceit.

And Lucas is out the door, stumbling down the stairs and onto the early evening streets of rush hour. He’s pulled along by streams of work-weary people desperate to get home, to have dinner, to see their children and lovers. In this sea of anonymity, Lucas lets his mind float, float towards that circus of dreams he was lucky enough to experience, letting himself be consumed by that feeling of being cared for in a way entirely different from familial love, love from a stranger, someone who doesn’t know the flaws of his person, the openness of being touched with care, his thorns soothed down for the night, no shields in place, because while he pretends to be sharp, he’s a fool for kindness, for love.

Not that he believes it’s love with him and Eliott, yet. It’s definitely too soon, he thinks. Though it would be the biggest lie he ever did tell if he didn’t acknowledge that there was something there. He can’t describe it, he can’t explain it, because the words haven’t been invented in his language yet. It is more than lust, a string below love, and this is what is on his mind when he finally reaches home.

The Lallemant’s may not be wealthy, not have the income to be able to kill the environment with their private jets, but they get by and they are strong, because you have to be in a world that does not care about you. Since his father left, there have been times when it has been a struggle to put food on the table, but his world has been a world peace since that man left. Since he was forced to leave. The strain in his mother’s shoulder is no longer there, and her step is lighter, her smile is a constant ray of light, and seeing this eases some of the anxiety in his stomach.

Slipping off his shoes, Lucas practically bolts to the bathroom, hopping into the warm spray of the shower. As he washes his body, he can’t help but think he’s washing away Eliott’s touch and he stops for a second to process this.

When the water turns off he hears the unmistakeable sound of pots and Celine Dion coming from the kitchen and the smile that overtakes his face cannot be stopped. He rushes to dress, combing hands through his hair as he strolls towards the kitchen, resting his elbows on the work surface as he grins at his mother. Her blonde hair wrapped up in a scarf with her fringe peering out of the fabric and a spatula in one hand, Ms Lallemant exclaims: “Honey! How is my little boy doing?”

Lucas rolls his eyes as she leans forward to kiss his cheeks, though he’s secretly loving it, and his mother knows this. “I’m good, maman. And you? How was work?”

She sighs, “The usual. You okay to have spaghetti, tonight?”

“Spaghetti is good.”

“How is our little Manon doing? Did you have a good time at hers?”

Manon. Thinking back on the texts he received but hasn’t replied to. She must have covered for him and thank the heavens for this intelligent girl, Lucas thinks, always saving him, since before he can remember. Manon has always had her head screwed on straight, logical to Lucas’ chaos. They balance each other out.

“She’s doing good, her brother has a new boyfriend, and her dad just retired,” Lucas replies, feeling shitty for lying about his whereabouts, but also not wanting to share Eliott with his mum because that would make it a thing, which it isn’t. “We didn’t do much though, maxed out from the party.” He concludes.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.”

They eat their spaghetti at their two-seater table, sharing anecdotes from their restrictive days, made-up in areas on Lucas’ part, teasing and mocking each other, because that’s how they work. Their dynamic established even while living with their father became more pronounced and carefree when he was gone. Freeing them up to be as loud and ridiculous as they can.

In the confines of his room, Lucas opens up his group chat with le gang and rolls his eyes, it is now sixty-three messages of asking for details, cheering him on for “finally getting some action” and asking where he is. Lucas clicks off that chat and onto Manon’s.

Today 14:25

Manon: Told your mum you’re at mine

Manon: Assumed you would forget

Today 18:45

lucas: you are an absolute Blessing  

lucas: thank you ❤️  

Manon: ❤️

He slumps onto his bed, starfish-ed across the sheets and stares at the ceiling. The brown stain. The cracked paint. His phone beeps. He sighs. He picks it up.

(1) new message from eliott

Today 20:41

eliott: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0jmgLaNL-Y/

“Lips meet teeth and tongue, my heart skips eight beats at once If we were meant to be, we would have been by now See what you wanna see, but all I see is him right now”

But all I see is him

Right

Now.

The song is bittersweet, but the melody hypnotises Lucas until it worms its way into his head and he’s humming along.

Today 20:41

eliott: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0jmgLaNL-Y/

lucas: cute

lucas: you're cute

The feeling that comes with those words. Is there really anything better than that? Being thought of in connection with something random. Being thought of period.

eliott: Can I call you?

lucas: if it so pleases you  

Incoming call: eliott

There’s rustling on Eliott’s end and then his voice, a bit hoarse, saying: “Hey, Lucas.”

The sound of his name in Eliott’s voice sends a buzz through him. “Hey, you. Missing me already?”

“Like you don’t wanna know,” a chuckle, a breath. “Is that weird?”

Lucas shakes his head, feeling weirdly emotional, like he could cry. “No…” He coughs to clear his throat.

Putting his phone on loud-speaker, Lucas places it beside his head and closes his eyes, counting the staggered beats between his out breath and Eliott’s until they’re almost sinked up. A faint trickle of music filters through the phone, a bass and an acoustic guitar echoes in the periphery.

“Would it be weird if I asked to see you again?”

“We did eat each other’s faces off this morning.”

“You really have a way with words,” a few seconds silence. “but you didn’t answer my question.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’ll see you. Under one condition. Wear one of your lesbian shirts.”

A snort, followed by hysterical laughing. Lucas can picture Eliott’s face at this: crinkle-eyed, full-toothed smile, a hand reaching up to cover his face, to shut off his happiness from the world.

“What?” Lucas is laughing too.

They stay on the phone for a while, Eliott playing songs to Lucas, and Lucas voicing whether he likes them or not. He’s almost shocked out how open Eliott is with sharing his music, Lucas thinks it would take a few months to crack that from him.

“I asked Imane about you.”

“Oh no.”

“You’re on the same course, right? Biology, right? So you’re really fucking smart.”

“Um. It depends who you ask, some would tell you I’m an impulsive idiot who may be book smart, but I’m lacking in other areas. Anyway, Imane is ten times smarter than me. Let’s just say I get by…with her help. How did you meet Idriss?”

“Same high school. We joined the same film club and that’s where we met Sof. Kinda been attached to each other ever since.”

“How have I never met you till…this morning, then?”

“The universe works in mysterious ways. And, you know, Imane said you were smarter than her.”

Huh. “Really?”

“Really. So, when can I see you again?”

“Tuesday?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

One Night in Thanalan (2/?)

AO3 Version | Chapter Tag Here

Relationship: Samilen Jawantal (OC)/X’rhun Tia

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Samilen Jawantal, the Warrior of Light, has recently taken on the duty of learning the dying art of red magic. Between the wonderful teaching of X'rhun Tia and the passing on of his Soul Stone, Samilen has learned a lot even in a short period of time, but there's something wrong. The Soul Stone is passing on more than mere techniques and knowledge--emotions, memories, all of them intertwined as one, bringing Samilen closer and closer to the man who had entrusted him with it.

Samilen finally seeks out X'rhun for help in combating these feelings, but what will happen to the Warrior of Light when he is caught in a balancing act of not red magic, but love and lust?

Note: This is an ongoing adaptation/formatted version of an RP I have been writing with my fiance (@blood--hunter​) putting together my Keeper Miqo'te WOL (@samilenjawantal​) and X'rhun Tia, the red mage teacher. Let me know if you spot any formatting errors!

X'rhun does not like aetherytes. They give him a sense of vertigo and make his stomach do flips. But he had been in a rush and the rush had taken him all the way to Gridania. Samilen had given him a call, just an hour before. The poor boy. Had something happened? His voice had been tense, sad and X'rhun begins to consider if Samilen was simply unused to be relaxed, taking it easy, if only for a day. Gridania is a beautiful city, but he has not been here in years. He looks around, trying to find the grey skin and white hair that marked Samilen's presence.

All things considered, Samilen is grateful that his voice did not break in the call. What had started as a peaceful day had quickly turned cold, his hands on the handle of an axe feeling so unfamiliar as though they were not his own, as if the trees around him that he knew so well were alien to him--an activity he had once found to be his source of peace had quickly reared its head to reveal nothing but emptiness and agony. 

He could barely bring himself into the Black Shroud, could hardly pull his axe into the air--only for it to come down weakly upon the trunk of a tree, his eyes welling with tears that he could scarcely understand the source of.

He couldn't just pretend that things were normal.

The silent air that was once peaceful now leaves him anxious, the lack of people around him bring forth the fear of an enemy hiding in the shadows, the loneliness that he had once found familiar is now cold and frightening. The emotions hit Samilen like a wave, worse than even when he had faced Leviathan itself, and left it hard to breathe; he felt like he was dying, scrambling for any sense of self or meaning when the whole world felt like it was crashing down around him.

So he called X'rhun. The first person that had sprung to Samilen’s mind who would help him, be there for him. X’rhun Tia. 

He summoned the man with all the stability he could force into his voice, constantly holding back a sob in the back of his throat in how his mind, body and spirit yearned nothing short of the man; even as he stood without the gear of a red mage on his body, Samilen could feel the stone burning against his chest, as if right next to his heart. Everything in his very soul wanted nothing more than to see the seeker, to hear his voice and feel his warmth if only to remind Samilen that he wasn't alone.

And so he sat next to the aetheryte like some sullen child waiting for their parent, his eyes still burning with the tears he'd long wiped away. His heart still hammered and his breathing felt too quick, but he had enough experience in muffling his emotions around people in his younger years that he could at least look slightly composed.

X'rhun is able to find him quickly enough but he does not like what he sees. He is disheveled as if a storm had blown him to the side. He moves to Samilen, X'rhun is on his knees before him eyes worried and hands on his shoulder. 

"Samilen! Samilen look at me- what happened? Did someone hurt you?" 

Had his actions in the tavern brought him to this state? Had something happened in Gridania? A death? The Seeker feels panic and worry bubble up in his chest, trying to get answers from the man. The balance he had so wanted Samilen to find was completely gone from him, in its place was this deep sadness that even X'rhun could feel. What had happened? And when?

It's almost as if Samilen feels the older seeker's presence in the aetheryte square before he finally touches down in physical manifestation. It's not a secret that teleporting takes effort and focus, drains even a man with the constitution of a mountain--and still, the moment that X'rhun is physically there, his eyes seek out and turn to Samilen almost instantaneously. The keeper thinks that he should feel some sort of comfort in that, the fact that X'rhun seeks him out as if a dear friend--are they friends, can he call them that yet?

"Nobody hurt me," Samilen says quickly, his voice too soft and his hands twitching nervously in his lap, aching for something to touch, to feel, and eventually he relents enough that one of them reaches up to start pulling through his own loose hair. "I just--I tried to do what you advised, I tried to relax and be alone and I just--I couldn't, I couldn't do it X'rhun I just-" He feels his breathing quicken, his heart hammering against his ribs.

X'rhun looks around. There were too many people here. Samilen couldn't express himself among these other adventurers so he stands him up, tugging him away from the crowd and into some deserted back alley. 

As soon as he is sure they are out of sight of any prying eyes he places his hands on Samilen's shoulders, focusing on him. 

"Tell me exactly what happened." 

No one had hurt him, Samilen had said, and yet he stood before X’rhun hurt and confused all the same, eyes wet and face hot with an expression the elder Miqo’te could so easily see as shame and misery.

Samilen continues to tug at his hair with one, then both of his hands, combing them through soft silvery locks until they almost start to pull in what might seem painful--the pain anchors the Keeper somewhat, pain always seems to pull the thoughts down when they threaten to overwhelm him to the edge of sanity, but he hasn't been in any battles that left injury or bruises or scratches upon his body in several days and he can't keep control of his hands and just--

"I tried doing what I used to do," he whispers, fearing that his voice is too soft for X'rhun to understand. "Before the Scions I was just--I was a botanist and carpenter. I....kept to myself. Alone. I tried doing that again and I..." 

He tugs harder at his hair, unsure if it's the pain of yanking at it or the refresh of emotions that sift through his heart that brings the tears welling in his vision.

"I can't be alone again. It's--it's not the same. Nothing is the same--it's all wrong."

X’rhun’s voice is gentle as he murmurs to him, "It's alright Samilen. I'm here now. You don't have to be alone." He murmurs, taking his hands into his if only so he would stop hurting himself. "You do not want to be alone? Then you won't. I will stay here as long as I am able." He squeezes his hands gently, "I will help you find balance. Find peace within yourself. And then you can learn more and make your own oaths to keep. But you must first make an oath to yourself."

Samilen grips the older man's hands hard, as if trying to will out all the pain simmering in his chest through the pressure alone. Tears continue to well in his vision until they begin to fall, rolling down his cheeks and without a free hand to wipe them away--Samilen feared to remove his hands from X'rhuns at that point, they were shaking, fidgeting, beyond what he was used to when stress got the better of him and he fell back into mute handspeak.

"There's no peace in me," The keeper whispers, voice tense and distraught, as if he is just now realizing the fact. "There hasn't been any for years, not since-" His words choke up as the memories flood him--the Calamity, the suffering, the pain and loss of so many he held dear. The anxiety of being called a warrior, the warrior of light, forced into a role when all he wanted to do was curl up in the woods and die so the nightmares would stop. "-I think I'm broken."

"You are not broken," X’rhun says, worrying over the man and pulling him forwards, if only slightly. "You are not broken, I promise that to you. You are simply hurt. You are hurting and you have been for a long time--all you need is to heal." 

X’rhun can feel the worry tugging at his mind. What could he do for Samilen? What could be done?  He fixes the other man with a stalwart gaze. "I'll help you. This I swear. This is my oath."

Samilen takes the words to heart as best he can in his state, hands shaking in X'rhun's grip. It's hard to think and harder still to speak, so he offers but a nod in reply--there's little trust that the words wouldn't fail him in the moment, as emotions continue to rise and twist in the center of his stomach. 

He stays like that for several moments, his eyes looking down and cheeks still wet with tears, trying to come up with words that encapsulate what he's feeling: he just doesn't want to let X'rhun go.

In the end, words don't come. Instead it's action, a spur of the moment impulsiveness that makes Samilen tear his hands from the others grip and throw himself forward, wrapping his arms instead around the seeker's neck and pressing his face into the others chest.

"I'm sorry," the muffled words sound heavy with guilt. "I need you."

X'rhun feels his heart twist in kind. Had he known... Had he known that Samilen was in so much pain we would have never sent him off alone. He was his mentor, and he had left his student to suffer on his own. Never again. 

"There is no guilt in this," He says, petting down his back before wrapping him in his own hug, "There is only the understanding that we must heal these wounds. No matter how deep." 

X'rhun had wounds of his own, wounds that he would like healed. But Samilen's were not the kind that could be fixed with retribution for those lost. No. It could only be fixed gently. Slowly. And that's what he would do.

For someone who knows next-to-nothing about the ills that plague Samilen's mind, X'rhun is kind and warm in ways the keeper never expected to feel from someone, much less someone he scarcely knows for longer than a few moons. It's...a nice feeling, to rely on someone else instead of being the one relied upon constantly. There's a kinship in it, in feeling the older miqo'te's hands on Samilen's back, arms tight and comforting in the way only physical pressure can offer.

"I don't want to be alone anymore," Samilen says, speaking as much to the present moment as to his life in general regard--the one thing he thought he loved most, solitude, is but his abusive lover. "I can't be alone anymore. It....scares me." He knows no other words to describe the feelings that clutch his heart, and he hopes desperately that X'rhun understands. "Stay...with me? Or I'll go back to Thanalan with you--we can start training again, anything but this, I'm so sorry."

The seeker blinks down at Samilen, drawing away from him enough to stare down at the other man. "We will go where you wish. For now, we needn't worry, we must simply take care of your most basic needs, such as food and a bath?" He asks, giving him a small smile. "Not to say that you smell, but I believe that one would help clear your senses. And am I correct in guessing that you have not eaten as you should?" If he was hungry and dehydrated then that was probably affecting his current mood, exacerbating already-problematic levels of stress.

For a moment Samilen merely stared at the other man, words leaving him as he figured if it was more appropriate to shake or nod his head. When he seemed to come up with no proper answer, the younger man merely huffed and pressed his face back into X'rhun's chest, thoughts finally settling into something that vaguely feels like calm--calmer than before, at least. Calm enough to realize that he should feel embarrassed and ashamed, but not calm enough that it stops him from enjoying the warmth of another body.

"Hungry," Samilen mutters into the softness of the seeker's red jacket. "And thirsty."

X'rhun nods, combing a hand through his hair. "We'll get you to the inn." He says, "I'll get you food. You'll eat. You'll bathe. Then you'll rest." He murmurs. He wraps an arm around his waist, beginning to slowly lead Samilen towards the inn. He would buy a room and stay with him tonight. 

Gods, if he'd have known. He would never have sent him here. Alone. Trapped. Gods damn him for not thinking beyond surface lust and his own problems, when Samilen had more than his own share and still did his best to learn red magic ontop of it.

There's neither argument nor resistance from Samilen as he merely allows X'rhun to guide him forward, one step after another. The of them gather only a handful of stares, though it could have been more due to the seeker's bright attire than anything else--and luckily, there was nobody that Samilen was at all familiar with, just anonymous faces and eyes of people he'd never see again.

He didn't say anything at all until they entered the adventurer's guild, X'rhun gently in-step with Samilen as the two made their way to the inn counter. The younger man kept his eyes down through the ensuing conversation, if only so he could focus instead on the warmth of X'rhun's body and the pressure of his arm wrapped tight around his waist.

The inn room is a simple procurement and X'rhun is quick to escort the both of them to it. It is better than some of the back alley beds he has laid himself in. He helps the younger miqo'te into the bed, wrapping him with blankets. Food is also quick to arrive, served by a staff member who barely gets a word out before he is shutting the door in her face. It’s not that the seeker means to be rude, but more that his thoughts are almost obsessively upon the well-being of the other man in the room with him.

Samilen.

Piled on the plate is a hearty meal for even a Roe, and with it a stout glass of sweet juice that he hopes the younger Miqo’te will like. X’rhun moves to him, sitting the goods down beside him before he himself takes a seat on the edge of the bed. 

"How long has it been since you took a meal?"

Distantly, Samilen is aware of the fact that he hadn't been treated like this in a long time--though he could recall being tucked into bed by his mothers and father, those memories were many years old and hazy within the keeper's mind. The warmth of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders is a comfort, one that he selfishly enjoys while X'rhun steps around the room doing things that Samilen should have been capable of doing himself.

Should have, but yet he isn’t.

"I don't know," the man finally answers, honest as he thinks back to the last time he had eaten a full meal and not merely subsisted on what he could hold in one hand and eat. "A few days? I've eaten rations since, it's just been...." he pauses and takes a breath, the smell of a warm, fresh-cooked meal lingering on his nose. "...busy."

He eyes the plate with some manner of interest, debating if it was worth it to leave the comfort of the blanket even if it meant to eat--it was comfortable and plush, a stark difference from the thin layers of cloth he typically was used to having with him in missions outside the city.

X'rhun's brow creases in worry but he nods. That wasn't good. But at least Samilen still had some interest in eating, if his reaction was anything to go by. He was worried what 'busy' meant. Was busy having a mental break down? Or was busy doing more work for the Scions? He didn't know for sure and that was probably a bad sign. X'rhun takes up the plate, sitting it on his own lap as he picks up the fork, shoving it into a sliced popoto and bringing the still steaming root to Samilen's mouth. "Don't worry," He says, voice gentle, "I'll help you eat."

Samilen lets out a sigh as he pulls the blanket tighter around himself. He's several seconds from relinquishing the warmth in favor of filling his stomach, but X'rhun seems to beat him to it--there's a piece of popoto hovering a few ilms from his lips and, for a moment, Samilen's golden eyes flick from the food to the face of the man holding it for him. 

He's not quite sure how to feel about it. Though Samilen certainly feels no disgust or anger welling in his stomach at the notion of being so intimately cared for--like a child--a blooming of heat still rolls across his cheeks. He silently looks on at the food for a few moments longer before, slowly, he parts his lips and takes the food into his mouth, chewing slowly and savoring the warmth against his tongue.

Watching Samilen eat eases nerves more than X'rhun would like to admit. Samilen is at least still able to eat and enjoy food. He had not refused it. So the seeker picks up another morsel with the fork, offering it to him as soon as he's swallowed down the last bite. 

Slowly his chest is unbinding from the worry. Good food, a bath, and some rest would do Samilen well, and then perhaps they could speak about how he felt and how they could find his balance again. Having a negative mental state would not help him learn Red Magic, would not help him save the world like it seemed he was destined to do.

There's a lot of things that Samilen doesn't quite understand in the moment; most of all, he hardly understands why X'rhun seems to care as much as he does, why he's gone to such lengths to make sure that Samilen is comfortable and fed--the notion seems reserved but for best friends and lovers, parents and family, so he can't understand why the older miqo’te would take so much time from his own life to sit there and fork-feed someone who should have been more than capable of feeding himself.

Still, Samilen doesn't complain. 

Though he knows that he should, though he knows he should feel ashamed, he continues to eat every bite offered to him with eyes shy and looking only at the offered food than at the other's face. He knows the feeling would just get worse if he did look anyway.

It doesn't take too long before most of the plate of food is empty and Samilen, for once in weeks, feeling pleasantly full. It had grown to be a treat in recent weeks to have the time, money and attention needed to enjoy an actual meal.

"...Thank you," he says, finally unwinding the blanket around himself--now that he could think, he could also begin to feel awkward, nearly disgusted at himself, so realize that he shouldn't keep X'rhun doing things as if he needed to. "You don't have to stay here--I mean, doing this, it's....I should be able to take care of the other things myself."

"It's not a question of if you should do it, it's a question of if you need help," X'rhun says, putting a steadying hand on Samilen's shoulder. "You can ask for help." 

He can feel the concern starting to bristle again within his chest. The other man was going to work himself to the bone if he didn't take a break. No. X'rhun would not let that happen. He would take care of Samilen until he could care for himself once more and then they could work together to make Eorzea a better place once more.

"I'm a grown man," Samilen says, though he hates how his voice breaks as he says it, as if the universe itself has conspired to shame him for some ill he's committed. "I should be ashamed of needing help for basic stuff like this, you shouldn't have to feel obligated to help me."

His body shakes for a moment, though it's the pressure of X'rhun's hand that quells anything worse, thoughts and emotions muted somehow in the other man's presence. Distantly, he can feel the warmth of something familiar against his brain--something small and crystalline, something that burns through the pouch around his hips even though he's not currently using it.

Despite himself, Samilen feels a bond between he and X'rhun, a pulsing sense of closeness that has found a way to wind around his soul, unyielding--he's not even wearing the soulgem and yet it's presence, it's influence is there, forming words that he otherwise couldn't say.

"I...I've....never had anyone to help me. I don't know how to ask."

"I don't feel an obligation, I want to help, Samilen." X'rhun murmurs, squeezing his shoulder lightly. "I will do anything to make you feel better. All you simply need to do is say the word." Though he knew it wouldn't be as simple as that. Samilen didn't know how to ask and thus he didn't know what he needed. X'rhun would have to make the choice for him, if only for now. "But at the moment I believe you should bathe and then rest, it might do you some good." 

He makes a gentle motion towards the door that led to the bath that was just off the suite they currently resided in.

Samilen huffed, more out of lingering embarrassment than any actual sort of distress or annoyance. For all that he sputtered about in his own self-pity, the keeper was more than aware that there was no option other than to simply listen to X'rhun's advice, if only so that he could face the next morning with some amount of his personal dignity still intact and, perhaps, the hope that the older seeker could look at him the same way. 

For all of the gentleness in his words, Samilen knew that there had to be some measure of doubt or aggravation, for what kind of man would have to rely so assuredly upon another, much less a man who had known him for just a handful of moons?

There's no reason for X'rhun to feel the need to help as he does, but Samilen is aware enough that he is grateful for it all the same--the only blessing he can recognize in his hazy self-loathing.

"I won't be long then," he says at last, dropping the blanket on the bed and, after a moment, steps over to the bathroom with the full intention of at least being able to wash himself without aid--he was not that far gone into a spiral of emotional turmoil, at least.

X'rhun nods, watching him leave before he lets out a long sigh. He takes off his hat, placing it on the best as he rubs a hand down his face. He shouldn't be doing this, no, but he was. Samilen was becoming attached and X'rhun didn't know what that meant. Was it the Soul Stone? Was Samilen doing this of his own volition or was it because the stone had told him to? He didn't know. All he knew was that he wanted to help the other miqo'te. He wanted to help him get better and then teach him the magic that he so wanted to learn. To have some sort of lineage after his inevitable demise. 

He is drawn out of his thoughts as suddenly as they come. The link pearl on the nightstand chirps. An incoming message. When had Samilen even taken it off? X'rhun hesitates, only picking it up when it chirps again. It could be important, and since Samilen was preoccupied at the moment he could at least take the message.

No sooner than X'rhun puts the device in his ear he is berated by a voice, obviously young, asking Samilen where he has been and why he hasn't answered his messages. 

The miqo'te isn't even able to interrupt the young man as he goes on a long tangent about responsibility, using words so utterly smugishly needless in their length that X’rhun’s mind almost shuts off completely.

But it does make his jaw tighten, his fingers twist into the bed sheet before he finally snaps, "Listen here you little-!"

"Who in the realm IS this?" Alphinaud says, cutting off X'rhun seemingly without breath from his former tangent. He doesn't recognize the voice on the other end of the linkpearl and he knows for certain that he reached out to Samilen. He's not sure if the words or the fact that it's not the keeper is more alarming, but it suffices to ruffle his feathers regardless. "Whoever you are, this linkpearl doesn't belong to you--where is Samilen? Samilen Jawantal? The Warrior of Light? I demand to know what you've done to him."

X'rhun growls. "I would ask who you are first!" He says, standing from the bed in his anger. "Who are you to be demanding of him such things? And to give him an earful about responsibility! You sound as if you are barely five summers old! Let alone old enough to be telling the Warrior of Light what to do!" His tail fluffs in anger, looking more like a feather duster now. His ears press flat against his head and he growls low in his chest. "I will not be telling you where he is or what he is doing! He needs a break from you and yours and I will be supporting him as such!"

"Mind your tongue, sir, for you are speaking with Alphinaud Leveilleur, a respected ally and sponsor of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn-" the young elezen can feel fire burning at the back of his tongue as he speaks, mind already a whirl for whatever reason that this man picked up Samilen's linkpearl--it only strengthened the wonder and worry he already held for the man, if only to know what things he's gotten up to in the days he's not been at the Rising Stones. "-and I will speak to Samilen Jawantal. It is imperative that he return to the Rising Stones with haste, and while I shan't reveal privy information to one I can only assume is but a hired guard of some sort, his task is important to the protection of Eorzea and her people."

Alphinaud. The name was familiar and it makes his stomach lurch as he is reminded of Alisaie. She had a brother of the same age as her, he remembered as much. So this was the Alphinaud she'd spoken of. 

"Well, young sir," X'rhun says, drawing unnecessarily up to his full height. "If you must know. Samilen is taking a break. From all things. You included. As his teacher I have prescribed him to find his balance and, dare I say it, you are very much an unnecessary part of his life right now. Until he is in a better condition he is under orders not to speak to you." 

Of course it wasn't true. X'rhun had not ordered him to do anything, but he very much disagreed with this boy bossing him about. If Samilen chose to speak with him then X'rhun would surely let him--but not until then and only then.

"Under order not to speak to-" the young voice starts, sounding incredulous and, if anything, with a loss for words at such a response. Alphinaud sputters for a few moments as he tries to catch himself, jumping from one thought to the next that only seems to leave him even more flustered than before. After at least three separate thoughts that all seem to go nowhere, he finally finds himself. "I don't know who you are, but if I hear naught from Samilen soon then the Scions will be sending someone to look for him. I have no idea what sorts of people he's grouped himself with, but it should not come before the needs of Eorzea."

And that makes the seeker see red.

"His needs may not come before the needs of Eorzea, no, but they do come before yours." With that he takes the pearl off, very nearly throwing it against the wall, pauses in the motion in the final moment to sigh and place it in the bedstand's drawer. 

X'rhun knew he should warn Samilen, tell him that a small child would be banging on his door any moment now. If he knew anything about Alisaie, it was that she could be stubborn. If Alphinaud took after his sister by even an onz then he would be much the same. 

The man approaches the bathroom, gloved fingers tapping against the wood. When he gets no reply he frowns, pushing the door open slowly. He did not want to peek on the man, no, but he was afraid that Samilen might do something to himself in his current mental state.

-

Samilen shuffles into the washroom and sheds his clothes slowly, one layer after another as if they are heavy lead weights. Though he makes little effort to fold them, the keeper knows that he will need to wear them after washing off, so instead he simply tucks them into the corner of the room in a vaguely organized pile on the floor. It's better than nothing at least, leaving Samilen to glance over the tub with a curiosity--it has rather intricate piping, giving the option of a bath or a standing shower, which is more than he could say about some inns farther out from the main cities.

Opting to stand in a spray of hot water, the man begins to turn over the faucets, enjoying slightly the white-noise of water as it begins to splash down into the tub.

He steps into the warm spray of water with a sigh. He can't remember the last time he got to take a shower, much less a warm one, so he counts the blessings in that X'rhun had the mind to take him to stay at the inn, and into a room well-equipped with luxuries he would never spend the extra gil on if it was his own decision alone.

After allowing himself to settle in the hot shower of water, Samilen brings his hands up to wipe at his face, if only to wash away the tears that had long-dried over his cheeks, to soothe the ache of his eyes. Even as his mind tries to empty itself it feels heavy with vision and memory, of the seeker's warm hands and gentle voice, of how he so earnestly offered his attentions to as simple an action as feeding Samilen but a few minutes prior. Samilen thinks on how it felt to be cared for in even the smallest of ways, with actions he should have been able to do himself.

He feels a gentle twist to his belly, a reaction he's long grown used to at the thought of X'rhun, and curses the soul crystal that sits in the pouch among his gear--he hardly knows if the gem is to blame anymore for how such thoughts of the older miqo'te plague Samilen's mind, but it's a convenient object to direct his annoyance at all the same. Ever since that evening at the Coffer and Coffin Samilen has found something different in his bond to X'rhun, something deep and unexplainable--his thoughts to the man are fonder than they should be, edging on something perverse and inappropriate. He was a trainer, a man beyond Samilen's reach and many years older--it is cause enough for shame that he had to come rescue Samilen from his own emotions like a frightened child.

So why does his stomach twist and his heart leap at the mere thought of X'rhun?

The ache only grows harder to ignore as Samilen stands beneath the spray of water, feeling it roll down his skin. An ache for something he's yet able to describe, something distant and fuzzy around the edges--like a memory long forgotten. He wraps his arms around himself as he breathes, letting the motion itself comfort him, the simple act of breathing in a slow, even form. Though it calms his thoughts, Samilen is surprised that it does nothing to soothe the ache in his belly. Every thought of X'rhun only seems to make it worse, make him yearn for the older seeker as if a parched man may want for water.

It's not until he realizes that the ache is much lower than his stomach that it becomes clear what the feeling is that evades Samilen so. Golden eyes glance down to find himself hard, cock throbbing, wanting for an experienced hand, a calloused hand from years of swordplay. It doesn't take a genius to realize whose touch Samilen longs for, and so he merely groans, rubbing his hands over his face as he realizes but the ache he feels in his chest.

Whether it be the fault of the soul crystal or not, Samilen can't ignore any longer the genuine lust and longing he feels for X'rhun. 

So when X'rhun opens the door of the washroom, it's to find Samilen leaning forward with one hand on the wall in front of him and the other pulling feverishly over his cock. Wet, silvery-white hair sticks to his neck and shoulders and flushed face, his jaw dropped and lips parted to let out one soft moan after another. The water has lost most of its heat by this point, gone lukewarm at best, but Samilen can barely conjure up a single thought as he tries to find completion.

"X'rhun..." the keeper murmurs, voice taught and breaking with the name, as if the very sound itself is cause for his aroused distress. "Please...please....f-...uck..."

All he can think of is the touch of the other man. The assuredness of each caress, the power in every grip, everything between the way he once had his arm around Samilen's waist to the tight grip of his hand around the young miqo'te's throbbing dick just outside the Coffer and Coffin. He's stopped trying to understand the emotions that fill his mind, stopped trying to lay logic over them--right now, all his body wants is release, attention, the beautiful chaos of climax--though his own hand pales in comparison to what he craves more.

Sky-blue eyes widen at first. X'rhun hadn't been prepared for such a .. lecherous display. He had only meant to warn him of the boy on the link pearl, but it seems that Samilen had taken his physical needs into his own hands. 

Gods. There’s no denying the sudden twist of arousal in the seeker’s stomach as he watches Samilen stroke himself over with the shape of his name on soft lips.

X'rhun presses forwards, first shedding his coat and then his boots. His shirt is next, then his pants. The gloves are last and they fall to the floor in line with his other clothes. His fingers are quick to over take Samilen's pumping them in a slower rhythm now. He feels dirty, walking in and taking over like this, but his cock has already sprung to life at Samilen's sweet words.

Samilen himself is near sobbing, hand tight around his cock but bringing him little to no relief; if anything, the attempt only makes it worse, the fire coiling around his belly like a vice grip that seems to show no mercy. He's about to let out a thick sob of aggravation when he suddenly feels the pressure and warmth of another body up against him and--

"X'rhun!?" the younger man all but gasps, feeling the seeker replace his grip and stroke him in earnest. The surprise leaves him reeling, gasping as shock and pleasure seem to coil around one another in compliments. "I thought--ahhh--I'm sor--rry."

Samilen's eyes shut tight and he brings a hand to his lips, biting down on his knuckle with the hopes only to muffle out all the sounds, the foolish apology and the foolish words that might otherwise tumble from his lips.

"No apologies," X'rhun says, allowing his hand to pump Samilen. "You needed this? You said you didn't know how to ask, now I am giving. Is this alright?" He would stop, walk away, if it wasn't. But he had an idea that it was welcome. "We'll start with this for now. If it continues we'll move to something more ... intimate." That was a better way of putting it than saying he would fuck Samilen raw in the shower. He would fuck him up against the wall, hot and his breath on his neck. "This is not a burden, simply something we can do together. A project to work on." Maybe that would help to settle Samilen's mind. Something to work on. Yes.

Or maybe it was to settle his own mind more.

Samilen nodded his head fervently but wordlessly, fairly certain the answer was to one specific question but deciding that it applied well to the rest of the man's words. He could hear them, could feel the other's breath against the back of his neck, but it was hard to understand most of it when X'rhun's calloused fingers were wrapped so perfectly around his dick, pumping hard and fast and leaving stars flickering behind Samilen's eyes.

"Very alright," the man finally had sense to say, his hips pressing back and finding a welcome, hard shape jutting against his ass; it only seemed to make the fire burn hotter in his belly, if only to know that the action wasn't one-sided . "So very alright."

He keened as X'rhun's fingers found a pace that pushed him closer, so close to the edge that he felt almost feverish, but Samilen felt nothing short of wondrous and hot and perfect in being under the mercy of the other's hand, the control of his pleasure left to the yearning of someone he yearned so lewdly for.

X'rhun purrs, nipping at the shell of Samilen's ear. He continues his breakneck pace, feeling the urge to kiss or bit at Samilen's neck but that would be too... familiar and he wasn't exactly sure how the other miqo'te felt about this yet. This ... relationship? Between them. All he knows is that when he grinds his cock against the other man's ass it causes him to groan, letting out a swear as he tries to gather himself, for Samilen's sake. 

"Do you want more of this, baby?" He manages to murmur, hiding his face against Samilen's shoulder, "Do you want me to fuck you more?"

"Fuck," is all Samilen has to say at first, his mind practically reeling at the petname as it lingers in the hot, humid air. It's the second time he's heard it and the second time still his body reacts like lightning, cock throbbing so hard that he wants to sob and can almost feel tears of delicious frustration gathering in the corners of his eyes. It's all X'rhun's fault, all the crystal's fault--all his own fault--but it's delicious and wonderful and Samilen doesn't want it to stop for even a moment, turning his head so he can even catch a glimpse of the man behind him, his sopping-wet tail trying uselessly to twist and wrap around the other's waist as if to tug him closer.

"Please," he finally whines. "Fuck me more fuck me more--I want to cum with your cock inside me-!"

X'rhun groans at that, bucking his hips up, grinding his cock against Samilen's thigh as he nods.

"Then you will.”

Slowly he removes his hand from Samilen's cock, letting the rock hard appendage bob in the air as he teases a finger at his hole. The water would have to suffice, since they were already both so wet that lube would not properly function. Besides, he wasn't about to leave Samilen's side to go fetch it.

Samilen hisses for only a moment at the relinquishing of pressure from around his cock. Though his ass presses back into the delicious, teasing pleasure of X'rhun's fingertip wetly pressing against his entrance, Samilen wants for more. His tail lashes again, loosened from it's grip and now wiggling uselessly around the other's arm.

When it's obvious that X'rhun has no immediate intention of returning his hand back to the keeper's throbbing dick, Samilen decides to take matters literally in his own hands, if only to sate the biting heat in his belly, to stave off the taut need that only gets tauter the more he feels that blunt, calloused digit rubbing at his hole. He reaches his free hand down between his thighs, fingers wrapping around his cock tight enough that it almost hurts, and he is quick to resume stroking himself in earnest.

X'rhun hums, smacking Samilen's hand away from his cock, nipping at his ear. 

"You will only get satisfaction from me," He didn't exactly know where this was coming from, but perhaps it was the heat of the moment making him possessive. He presses his finger in, slowly as to not hurt Samilen, curling it. His cock is hard against Samilen's back, and he works hard not to thrust himself to completion against him.

There's a feeling that fills Samilen's chest, a feeling that he can scarcely describe when he feels his hand get smacked away from his own cock though it begs desperately for attention. He is certain that if it was anyone else behind him, anyone else pressed naked against his form, Samilen would have ignored their command with little hesitation (assuming he'd even be in this sort of situation with them in the first place). But for X'rhun, Samilen merely mewled through his teeth and listened, both of his hands moving to press up against the wall in front of him, leaning forward and taking the press of the other man's finger deeper within his body.

"F-...uck..." he hisses, toes almost curling when the curl of X'rhun's finger finds something that makes his body flicker with heat and delight. "R-right th-there, ahhh y-yesssss~"

The seeker can't keep the self satisfied smile off his lips. He presses another finger into Samilen’s ass, thrusting and twisting them both in earnest against the other’s tight rim. He was a large man, and Samilen himself was quite small. X'rhun certainly didn't want to hurt the man, this was supposed to be his release from ... whatever he was feeling. He leans into him, pressing kisses against the length of his neck. 

"You won't cum until I tell you to cum." He murmurs, blue eyes hooded and dark with lust.

The words flood Samilen like lava, burning him down to the very core so much that it feels almost hard to breathe for a few seconds. They spark something in his mind like a whirlwind, turning his actions into instinct and his words into reaction with no filter. 

"Yes sir," he moans, almost sobs as X'rhun's curled fingers find that perfect spot within him again. "Only wh-when y-ou...tell....meee~" Calloused fingertips rub over what feels like some patch of nerves that send pleasurable lightning up Samilen's spine--his tail all but curls around the other man's arm, thrashing uselessly otherwise.  Heat blooms over his face and chest as his legs spread almost upon instinct, as if his body knew to prepare itself to be taken--and it couldn't happen quickly enough for the lust coursing through the keeper's veins.

X'rhun grunts, removing his fingers slowly, trying to ignore the way his dick twitches at the sound that very movement makes. He presses close, breath catching across Samilen's neck as he position's himself at the smaller Miqo'te's entrance. "Tell me if it hurts," He warns, teasing his head against the tight hole that threatens to engulf him even now, even as a hand goes to grip firmly onto Samilen's bicep.

Samilen tries to consider words, but eventually just nods his head and hopes that the man can see his acknowledgement. He feels X'rhun's body press against him, feels the hot, thick shape of his cock nudging inside. It's a lot to take at once, but the Seeker is slow and gentle--slower than what Samilen might have tried to greedily take for himself if given half a moment of control between them. 

It's good though, so good, and he has to try desperately to remember to breathe as the head of X'rhun's cock finally presses past the tight muscles of his entrance--it's enough for him to shiver and shake, claws scratching uselessly against the cold, smooth walls that supported most of his body weight.

X'rhun maintains his threads of control, no matter how frail they have become with Samilen's wanton moans. He presses in closer, letting his chest rest against Samilen's back as he, slowly but surely, sheathes himself within the smaller man. He pants, brows creasing as he shuts his eyes against the stimulation. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't move, it was a desperate attempt not to hurt Samilen and he'd rather die than commit such an act against his ... pupil? Student? What were they now?

Thoughts and emotions drip through Samilen's mind like sand through barely-cupped  hands. It's no use to try and make sense of any of them--all he can do is briefly catch each little snippet as it passes by in a whirlwind of heat and pleasure, to be better and deeper-considered far later into the evening. 

Instead of logic or consideration or even the caution of shame to still his hands or mute his words, Samilen moans into the thick press of X'rhun's cock. It slides inside him with only the mildest of discomfort, though slow enough that impatience starts to trickle down through the haze of pleasure. He presses his hips back, hoping with all the desperation of a pleasure-driven man if only to hurry the Seeker's pace, to fill himself fully and sheath that beautiful cock within his needy body.

"X'rhun-" Samilen's voice breaks on the syllable of the man's name. "Want--...all of you. 'm not gonna---gonna break..."

With how perfectly such a heat fills him, Samilen already feels shattered, his mind warped around need and his chest aching for the intimacy of X'rhun's hot body pressed against his own for however long the sweet high of sex will have them.

X'rhun hisses against the sweet embrace of Samilen's body. He was warmth and heat around him, against him, pressed firmly against his chest and his cock. He was smaller, warmer, and every part of him shouted to just plow into him. To blow his load deep within the boy in front of him and be done with it. It's what a Nuhn would do. He swallows against the thoughts, closing his eyes firmly against the smells and sensations, against the incessant instincts that well up deep within his chest. 

He fits his hands firmly against Samilen's hips, pressing his thumbs against the divots of his hips. X'rhun presses forwards with a grunt, the pleasure shivering through his nerves like lightning. And he should really know a thing or two about lightening. A sharp tooth peeks from betwixt his teeth, biting down on his bottom lip in some sort of vain attempt to stop himself from saying anything else ridiculous.

A gasp slips from Samilen's lips, one he can't hide fast enough. His lips part, his jaw drops and his brows knight tight above his tightly-shut eyes as the sudden feeling of spreading muscles and intrusion pass over him. There's a burn in X'rhun's girth, one that though the young Keeper had prepared for, it was still far from smooth and painless. 

Though it brought a shiver down his spine and a stiffening to his body, Samilen couldn't much deny it was a delicious mixture of pleasure and pain, something carnal or perhaps even primal, a flicker of heedless abandon giving him the gift of not having to think at all about what he wants or how he wants it. Shame has little place in the baser activities of a creature.

"Oh gods, yessss!" Samilen all but hisses, his toes and tail curling as the man presses deeper and deeper still, pulling his hips against him in a possessive and powerful motion of command that in itself was arousing. He wants to mewl, to yowl, to hiss and spit--whether it's instincts going haywire in a response to pleasure or to some pheromone Samilen is yet to recognize, he can hardly know. All that his body knows is that he's being taken, being fucked, being split open on a cock so thick that there's no second-guess that X'rhun could have taken place as a Nuhn if he had decided to stay in his tribe.

X'rhun lets his nose slip against Samilen's hair, taking in his scent like that of a Nuhn in rut. He had to admit that the noises Samilen let loose between his lips were more than inviting. Some part of him wants to imagine a future with the other male. To call him mate. To keep him. But he knows that part is selfish. Too selfish. Too horny to even take the thoughts seriously, and yet...

"Do you like this," He murmurs into his ear, eyes closed as he begins to move in earnest now. The rotation of his hips are slow but they promise more, the night was still young and as long as Samilen still mewled and moaned beneath him he wouldn't stop. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how it feels." He presses his fingers harder against Samilen's hips, promising bruises. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

The entirety of a moment felt like a wave of heat over Samilen's body, threatening not just to send his thoughts swirling but to sweep them entirely out into the sea. The slow pace of the Seeker's hips felt maddening and deliberate, which only made the pleasure all the more tantalizing and raw and real. It carried with it the air of their time under the eaves of the bar in Thanalan--the heat and yearning and desperation--but this was more intimate and slow and tender. This was so much and, at first, Samilen merely mewled in unfiltered pleasure when X'rhun's cockhead rubbed perfectly up against the inside of his body, brushing over sensitive nerves.

"It feels so good--you're so fucking b-big--" Samilen breathes, his chest barely able to get in enough air to speak before his hammering heart needs more. "I want-....I...want...."

He takes in a breath, gulps it down like it's water and he's been without for weeks. Thoughts are useless, shame is useless--the young Keeper can barely register anything beyond the pleasure and heat and air thick with steam and pheromones of lust.

"Marks," he finally says, a desperate whisper. "Mark me up. Make me yours. Please. I--I want to feel it all in the morning. Want to ache and remember---remember this."

He lets out a breath through his nose. A part of X'rhun basks in the attention. He wants marks. He wants a mate. He wants X'rhun as his Nuhn and he would gladly give it to him. Instead he presses it back, stomps it down. He doesn't know what Samilen wants, not exactly, but he knows what he can give him. 

To take right now ... it would be against his very teachings. Samilen isn't balanced enough to give, isn't balanced enough for X'rhun to ask something of him. A growl sounds from him as he presses forward, giving the Keeper a particularly hard thrust as he fights with himself. Not too much, but not too little either. 

"I'll give you anything you want." He finally says, nipping at Samilens ear before his hands are moving down, pressing over his thighs and leaving scratches over the soft, sensitive skin. "Anything." He whispers, practically engulfing Samilen as he works himself into him.

 Guilty. Selfish. Daring the young keeper to say the words.

Anything, he says, and the word echoes through Samilen's head. It's a whisper, a promise, and it's all the younger of the two men can do to clutch it against his chest and try to surmise an answer more than what he already forced from his moan-wrecked throat. It's confusing for a moment, unsure why X'rhun would have Samilen repeat himself, or--or was he saying it to himself? Was he babbling, lost in pleasure and barely knowing what he's saying? Though the questions slip into Samilen's thoughts, they too are quickly swept away by the rapturous pleasure eeking through his body, swallowing him up deeper with every slow but powerful thrust of the other man's hips. Every press of his cock, every reminder of how deep he's able to go that it makes Samilen gasp each time.

"Bite me," Samilen finally hisses, head tilting to the side in open invitation of his neck, where his aching body is naturally wanting to be claimed, to feel the sink of teeth of a dominant lover into his flesh. "I want it--want all of it--just give it to me, Rhun."

X'ruhn's jaw sets. There was a mewling, sex-wrecked man beneath him. His ever instinct was to claim to pump Samilen full of his seed and make him his. To bite down on his neck and make sure that every Nuhn that ever met him knew that he had been fucked and filled by another. That he was his and here he was begging for it. Did Samilen even know that that meant? To Seekers? To Nuhns? He tries to shake it off. No. He didn't understand and he didn't know what that meant. But he finds himself leaning, kissing and licking at his pulse, breathing in his scent even as his hips continue to work, continue to fuck the man beneath him. 

This would be taking. It would be taking too much. Samilen didn't have this much to give. 

"Samilen..." He murmurs, eyes glassy, cock deep within him.

Hesitation. Unsure. Caution. This Samilen could sense, could feel and taste it on the vapor-filled air. It wasn't for fear or genuine unwillingness, no--though addled with pleasure and seeking the euphoria that his body craved, the Keeper was still a man with senses enough to feel how X'rhun stiffened, how his voice was tense, how his breathing was strained and labored even with the slow and careful motions of his hips. 

The water of the shower was starting to run cool, water dripping down hot flesh like a fresh rain, offering but the slightest shake of lustful haze from the younger man's thoughts so that he could speak with some confidence in his voice.

He had to weigh his words carefully--not in that he was afraid of indulging and having and wanting, but to make sure the message was clear, that he didn't addle X'rhun with the guilt of making a decision he assumed Samilen wouldn't want.

But he wants. He yearns. The feelings have been burning in Samilen's belly and chest since the moment he took the soulstone in hand--perhaps they had even been within him since he had first met X'rhun himself, made only unbearable by the intimate memories that drove such genuine but shameful feelings to the forefront of the Keepers mind.

"Make me yours," Samilen finally says, his tone biting and his body almost shaking with pleasure, muscles tight around the other's throbbing, wondrous, perfect cock. "If you want me, take me--make me yours." Shame was nowhere to be found in his mind in that moment, shaken clean by lust and want and pheromones enough to be drunk on. "Be my Nuhn."

X'rhun liked to think he'd journeyed and done much. He'd been wizened by years on the road and, before that, years in the resistance. He'd thought he'd seen everything. Evil kings, rebellions, the massacre of his friends, the rise of the Garlean Empire. But he had never done this. Never been brave enough, or stupid enough, to claim his most trusted of lovers. Even when they had begged him for it, he had not done it. He'd made it sound like a selfless choice, to not bind his lovers to a man who would, inevitably, wander too far. But even then he had known, as he does now in this moment, that it had been selfish. X'rhun hadn't been ready. He'd never been ready for it. He knew what the responsibilities would be and it had all seemed too much at the time. But now...

Now he had a mewling and withering warrior of light beneath him. None before him had known, had understood what his pain had been like. Samilen had slayed primals. Had slayed gods. All in the name of a greater good. And in doing so had lost much. Perhaps too much. Too much of himself. Too many friends. Finally someone could understand the pain and the triumph he had went through and maybe ... maybe someone finally understood Samilen.

It's almost beautiful, the way he presses himself against Samilen, the way he seats himself deep inside his lover, his mate. And the way that he opens his mouth wide against his pulse, breathing a hot breath there before he allows himself to bite down, to draw blood as he cums deep inside the younger man, groaning as his vision goes white and his world goes still. The cold water on his back doesn't matter. His code, the one he had lived by for so long, doesn't matter. All that matters is Samilen and only Samilen. 

His mate.

His.

The world practically snaps, like a bowstring pulled too-taught by inexperienced hands over the ends of a bow. Pleasure and pain mix together into pure euphoria, an amalgamation of sensations that not only bring Samilen to the edge of climax, it outright shoves him off the cliff. The feeling is rough and hard and intense despite the slow lovemaking, the careful press of a cock inside his pliant, willing body, ridges constantly catching at the rim of Samilen's entrance and then--suddenly--it's all so much. Not too much, never too much, because Samilen knows that he could drink down this sensation for the rest of his life if he had the choice.

The pain of teeth sinking into the flesh of his neck is wondrous, dazzling behind his eyes and sending tremors of pleasure down to the tips of his fingers and toes. When X'rhun presses against him one last time, seating his cock to the base with hips flush against the Keeper's ass, Samilen can't help but let out a mewl. The intensity of feeling someone release inside of him, the heat of cum dripping down the inside of his thighs, of making him feel marked and used and protected in the most carnal ways--it's soothing, it's satisfying. He feels the way thumbs dig into his hips, knows that there will be marks across his skin and a heat within his belly for days to come--and Samilen smiles for it. He feels heat fill his cheeks and his lips quirk when another moan works its way from his throat, high and keening, a sound as welcoming as his body as orgasm milks the man's cock for all it offers, as if to coax out every little drop of his hot seed.

With every breath is X'rhun's name, a mantra on Samilen's lips.

X'rhun shudders, once, twice. He keeps his teeth sunken deep into his mate's skin. It will scar, like it is meant to, and those who know what it means will understand. Only after the blood begins to seep down his chin does he pull away. He chest heaves with each breath and he can feel his eyes slowly contract into small pinpricks of what they once were. His dick is still firmly planted in Samilen and he can feel it as his body wrings every last drop out of him. It's not unpleasant and he leans back into the, now cold, water as it rains down on both of them his hips spasming in a vague attempt at a thrust.

He swallows, coming back to himself. A conversation would need to be had. How much of this had Samilen truly wanted? And how much of this had been hazy lust? 

The red mage tries to recall what his father taught him, going through his memories like an encyclopedia, or a manual. It was a hard bond to break, but it could be broken. Mating marks were the best way to ensure a proper mating, but it could be achieved in other ways. Usually cubs were spawned from marking but X'rhun highly doubted that such a thing would happen with this case ... He frowns, he knew a lot less about this than he wanted to and here Samilen was bearing his mark and his seed. 

He slides a hand under the other man's chest, bringing him up to stand before pulling himself from him slowly. In one fluid movement the shower is off and in the next, Samilen is bridal style in his arms.

Samilen himself couldn't help but purr in satisfied delight as calloused fingertips brush against his almost too-sensitive skin, the rumble coming from deep within his chest. He felt so full, could feel the blossoming of heat in the pit of his belly. It was as if something deeply primal within his mind had been sated. Some fierce need, some unknown desire--it finally felt calmed by the warmth, the pressure, the pleasure and oh, yes, the slight pain with every shift of Samilen's shoulders and head, a reminder of the fresh mark bitten deep into his skin. He knew that there was significance in it, and deep down he knew exactly what he had asked for--but there was a strange fear that he had pressed to hard and pushed X'rhun into something he didn't want.

Luckily the afterglow was strong enough to stifle down most of the worries, keeping Samilen calm and placid as X'rhun lifted him into his arms and Samilen, instinctively, wrapped an arm around the back of the Seeker's neck. He lets out a soft hiss, a shiver working down his spine at the jostling of his body, the reminder of future bruises and the messy drip of seed finally working it's way out of his body without a cock to keep it inside. 

But he doesn't say anything. Not yet. He is hard-pressed to find the words to start the conversation now-hanging between them. Though the last time could have been chalked up to a rendezvous of hormones, this is far more serious--something that can't be alluded to or assumed, can't be hidden or swept out of the air. Samilen hoped, dreadfully, that he didn't force his mentor to do something he didn't wish for.

X'rhun carries him into the bedroom. Both of them are dripping wet but he can't find it in him to care. He lays Samilen down on the bed, making sure he is comfortable before he goes back into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, taking a deep breath before grabbing his trousers and slipping them on. Only because he wanted to save face, that's what he tells himself. Not because his cock was already stirring again. Certainly not. He puts on his shirt too, for good measure. Maybe it would make Samilen feel better. Maybe. He grabs several towels as well, moving back to the bed with them in tow. His Ma-student. His student looks pliant and soft against the downy sheets and he can't help but purr at the sight. He kneels at his beside, beginning to massage the wet out of his hair with gentle circles. 

It is only after he has dried Samilen's hair that he dares to look at the mark. It is bright red against his gray skin and some deep part of him is proud. Proud that he was able to mate such a magnificent- X'rhun shakes his head. No. He shouldn't be thinking like that and yet-

He moves, his own teacher would have been proud at how agile he was, moves over Samilen's body and to the other side of the bed so that he might have easier access to it. To his marking. He approaches it like a nervous animal. Tentative. Gentle. Skittish. And then, when he believes that nothing will harm him. He begins laving over it with his tongue. The taste of blood is still there, but he can't help the purr that leaves his chest as he licks it, again and again. Goading it to heal. Breath hot on Samilen's neck.

Samilen can't remember the last time he felt...blissful. He can't remember a time where he had the freedom to simply not think about much of anything, to simply lay on the bed with his mind still swimming with pleasure and body humming with satisfaction. He can't remember but a single time where he had found himself in this position but able to owe the blood and marks and ache to something other than a hard-fought battle against a primal or an army or....or anything else. He can't remember a time where he didn't feel the weight of the world on his shoulders or the burn of the Scions' gazes upon his back--because he wasn't allowed to fail. To relax. To want something for himself. To want someone else to save the world--to take care of him for once in his time as the 'Warrior of Light'.

He's nervous when X'rhun returns, only because he returns with clothes on; it makes the keeper suddenly feel ashamed, or at least as if what they did was stupid or silly, to be forgotten as quick as their last heated exchange under the starry sky of Thanalan. He worries about that, because he cannot forget it--Samilen can't forget how happy he felt when X'rhun's hands lay on his hips, their lips together, or even the silly, stupid but beloved sensation of the man pressed against his body, orgasm passed but drinking up the mere intimacy of still being connected to one another.

So Samilen doesn't meet the other's gaze, his throat tight and his heartbeat skipping. He suddenly feels like a child, in a way, as if he's made a mistake to be chastised about once he too is in a proper state of dress.

But when X'rhun shifts, moves to the other side of the bed--when he leans down and presses his face into Samilen's neck, his tongue over the still-aching mark, he can't help but let out a noise. It's something soft, a mere whisper of a mewl, something he tries to muffle even as his body shakes and one of his hands shoot out to grab a fistful of the other man's shirt, as if making sure he couldn't pull away.

"Please," Is all Samilen can say.

X'rhun closes his eyes. His lips a thin line. His ears pressing back against his skull. He had to admit it. Admit it to himself. He'd been trying to teach Samilen, yes, but he'd also wanted ... this. He hadn't wanted to be alone anymore. He'd tried to teach Alisaie (mind you he had never thought of her romantically or sexually as she was just a child) but she had run off as soon as she'd had a firm grasp of her training. But then Samilen ... Samilen had been different. Maybe that's why he'd allowed him to have the soul stone. Maybe that's why he'd let him have the piece of himself. Maybe that was why he was letting him so close. Maybe ... Maybe...

He licks the mark one more time before he moves, moves to claim Samilen's mouth with his own, moves to press close against him. He fits his mouth against his, the click of teeth, the swirling of tongues. X'rhun sighs and it feels like he's letting out decades of stress. Of holding back. Of not allowing himself to have this. It had always been something. The revolution. The death of his comrades. Ala Mhigo's occupation. He'd always been chasing it. Always been trying to fix something but now..

Now he loses himself in the kiss, loses himself in the smell, feel, taste of Samilen Jawantal.

A shiver of delight spills down Samilen's spine as X'rhun all but climbs atop him, their lips pressed hard and tongues pressing harder against one another. Fingers grip hard into the soft fabric of the Seeker's shirt, joined by a second hand as they grasp at his chest needily, stupidly, the confusion back once more for why X'rhun thought it necessary to clothe himself in the first place. Though he may feel shame of it later, when his mind not so clogged with emotions, but Samilen was needy and desperate to keep the other man close, to feel his warmth, to enjoy the fleeting time with him for as long as he and fate would allow it--because she wasn't often kind to Samilen.

"Why did you get dressed?" The younger man finally forces himself to ask, if only to still his hands from trying to remove the offending undershirt. If there was a reason that he did so, and a reason that Samilen had to respect. "Do you--do you need to leave?"

He hates how the words spill from his lips, the whisper almost fearful against X'rhun's mouth, eyes afraid to open and meet his gaze.

X'rhun closes his eyes, only lifting up enough to stare down at Samilen's face. It was open, wild with want. X'rhun could paint a million pictures of it and still never get it right. He shivers, feels his cock stir once more. He clears his throat, eyes dancing away. 

"It was to ... hold myself back. In case I take you again before your mind is yours once more." it was the truth. X'rhun wanted to speak with Samilen before they began to fuck like they were in heat. Which he was liable too, with the way that Samilen looked at him and they way his mark sat on his neck. He swallows. "I wish to ... I wish to make sure that this-" He nods to the red welt on the other man's neck, "-is what you want. What you truly want. Outside of being sex addled." 

He presses a gentle hand through still damp white hair, "And ... I want you to rest. Truly rest. I do not know how long it has been since you've done so and I ..." He presses his forehead against Samilen's unable to stop the small source of affection. "...I worry for you Samilen."

The words are sobering. Samilen tenses for a moment, feeling it work into his jaw as teeth clench tight and anxiety wells in the back of his head. Though his eyes open he cannot stare into X'rhun's own for very long--perhaps just a breath of time, though the touch of X'rhun's forehead against his own offers some mild comfort. Though he knows his own feelings, the way that the other man speaks, the way he words his thoughts--Samilen is unsure if he should feel ashamed or not for feeling the way he did--the way he still does. He nods after a moment, knowing that no words that come from his lips would be seen as honest until X'rhun was satisfied with the air between them--but it still frustrated Samilen. 

"You would be the first," he says at last, eyes drifting off to the side. "Or at least the first to offer more than empty words."

Samilen takes a moment to take a breath, and then finally lets it out, speaking once more before he can allow the morbid weight of his words to sink too deeply into the air.

"If you want to put space between us until you are satisfied to know I'm telling the truth, then so be it. My answer will be the same as it was when you came upon me in the bathroom."

X'rhun nods. He wants to be sure ... to know that what Samilen says is what his heart of heart wants. But even these words give him hope. Make his heart catch and beat faster. He can't hide it from himself now. If Samilen will allow it, X'rhun wants to be in love with him. Wants to keep this mating. Wants ... everything from him. He closes his eyes, tries to focus against the tightness in his chest. "I believe you." he says, letting his fingers card through the other man's hair, focusing his eyes on the movement of his own fingers. "But this ... conversation. About what we both want ... it will wait until sunrise. Until we are both well rested and ready for what that entails." He lets blue meet yellow again. "Samilen I ..." He lets out a breath through his nose, swallowing thickly. "... Have much to say about the matter."

He moves, pressing a gentle kiss to the mark on his neck, before he is pressing close to Samilen, maneuvering them both until chest meets back and an arm is slung over the other's waist. "But I will not say them. Not now." He murmurs. "Not until we are both rested."

Deep down, Samilen is comforted by the seriousness of X'rhun's tone of voice. He is comforted by the care and concern as much as he is frightened by it. It would be too easy for someone to take advantage of lust-addled emotions and euphoria-induced infatuation, especially for someone as broken as Samilen is under the weight of anything that doesn't pertain to slaying primals or saving lives--things that need no extra thought needed to understand them. For as much as he feels anxious about words to be held in the morning, he is comforted deeply by it--that X'rhun sees his emotions as something worthy of caution, emotions worthy of thought and attention and....respect.

It is more than he can say of many people even when emotions of infatuation weren't caught up in the mix. He swallows down a stone in his throat and takes in a breath, merely letting his body press back against X'rhun's own as they lay together in bed. He appreciates the weight of the Seeker's arm over his body. It makes his chest tighten and his stomach flip a little.

"Okay," The man finally says with a nod, letting out a breath. His eyes start to shut and his mind slow down at last to the yearning for sleep that overtakes him.

X'rhun relaxes at that, lets his guard down. Samilen was not going to be angry with him. Would not scorn and shun him. At least, not this night. Not right now. He lets his nose press against white hair, he lets his eyes close, and most importantly he lets himself go to sleep.

[blinkybarnes]

Connected (Bucky x Reader) Pt.8

gif not mine

requested: okay so I was wondering if you’d be able to write something where girl!reader and Bucky have always had some sort of weird bond ever since she joined the team and one day they’re out on a mission and she gets taken by hydra and turned into a winter soldier/assassin to kill the avengers. there would be a bunch of winter soldier parallels like “who the hell is y/n” and then once they get her back she is totally broken and Bucky fluff and maybe a kiss?? idk ! love your writing btw it’s the best !!!

warnings: mentions of nightmares, loneliness

word count: 1,507

tags: @fandomlover03 @paprika0437 @hellaoppa @evolutionofkatep @mell-bell @hazelbluegold @colie87 @bowties-and-wallflowers @imaginecrushes

a/n: ahhh I’m so sorry for being away for so long and I want to thank you all for waiting so patiently. Here is the last part of connected, thank you for reading it, everyone has been so lovely and given me a lot of support, it means a lot to me. I hope you enjoy it! :)

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

- - - -

White light shines through your eyelids, disturbing you from your sleep. You roll over onto your side and pull the thick covers over your head. But there’s no point in trying to block the light out, you’re awake now. Sighing, you throw the sheets off of you and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a light hanging from it with a dingy yellow lampshade wrapped around it. Square daylight stretches over half of the ceiling. You sit up, feeling groggy and squint at the sudden brightness. 

Beige walls surround you in the shadows. To your right, thin curtains are drawn across a square window, fresh daylight creeps in through the material and casts odd shapes across the room. The thing that draws your attention the most though is the large mirror hanging on the wall directly in front of you. It sits above a wooden dresser, a matching wooden frame travelling around the edges. You stare at yourself, your eyes still struggling to open properly. You look a mess. Messy hair, limp limbs, sagging features and crumples bed sheets. You let out a groan and flop back down onto the bed. You feel like you’ve been sleeping for hours but somehow all the energy in your body has gone. You lie there for awhile, taking in the room and it’s decor. On a bedside table, next to the side of the bed left empty, a photo frame stares at you. In the frame is a picture of yourself shying away from the camera but smiling. Curiosity makes you sit up and reach for the frame, but before your fingertips can touch it the door behind you opens and you snap your head around to see Bucky creeping in. 

“Oh, you’re awake.” He says, sounding surprised. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt which looks like it’s struggling to stretch over his muscular body. His hair brushes his shoulders, hanging limp and wet. 

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed by your feet. His soft eyes look tired.

“I think so.” You say. “Is this your room?” Your eyes scan the room, already having noticed the large boots infront of the wardrobe and male hygiene products scattered across the dresser you guessed this was Bucky’s room.

“Yeah.” He says, looking round too as if to say ‘it isn’t much’. 

“Did you sleep here too last night?” You can’t actually remember ever falling asleep last night, or where. 

“Yeah, I did.” Bucky says. You must have been in a really deep sleep to not realise someone was sleeping next to you. 

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright, keep watch over you incase you had any nightmares.” Bucky looks at you with sheepish eyes, as if he’s embarrassed to admit he spent most of the night watching you sleep. 

“Did you have any nightmares?” He quickly asks, unsure whether he’d jumped to conclusions and thought your undisturbed sleep was what it looked like. 

“No, I didn’t.” You smile. This has been the first night in months that you’ve had a good night’s sleep. No images of hydra or memories of torture crept into your mind last night, it was all just bliss relaxation, something you haven’t had in a while. 

Bucky smiles, his head tilting down. It had been his idea to let you out of the glass box. He could see how unnerving it was for you and knew it was no help in getting you back to normal. Every night in that box you lay awake, too scared to close your eyes and even though Bucky visited you everyday, loneliness was starting to take over you. Only he knew what horrors raced through your mind and being cooped up in a prison like container wasn’t going to get rid of them any time soon. The others were quite reluctant to let you roam around free when no one was really sure how stable you were, but Bucky was right. A night in a proper, comfortable bed in a homely environment was what you needed. It isn’t to say that the evil thoughts are gone, but it’s a start. 

“Are you hungry? I can make you some breakfast.” Bucky questions. He seems frantic, like he needs to make sure your perfectly okay before he can relax. 

“Starving.” You chuckle and a small laugh escapes Bucky too. A realisation washes over you. You haven’t felt something this real in a long time, you can’t remember the last time you felt properly hungry or freshly awake. The hydra days seem like a blur now, just a mixture of pain and darkness. 

“I’ll go make you something then, any preferences?” Bucky asks and you shake your head. He stands up and you quickly grab his arm.

“Wait.” You say. Panic flashes over Bucky’s face and he turns to face you.

“I just want to thank you for helping me.” You mumble, avoiding looking at him. Bucky sinks back down onto the bed, relief rushing out of him.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He says. “You did the same for me.” 

You look at him and your eyes meet. His are light and welcoming, a warmth radiating off of them. 

“But I tried to kill you...and the others.” You look away again, feeling ashamed. 

“Yeah and I tried to kill Steve but that didn’t stop him, or you.” He chuckles slightly, hoping you’ll look at him again. He wants you to see how genuine he’s being, but it’s hard when he can see self doubt is taking over you.

Bucky sighs. “I’d do anything for you...you mean the world to me and that day you got taken by Hydra...everything fell apart. I should have kept you safe, like you did for me, but I fail you...” He voice trails off and his gaze drops to the creases in the sheets. 

“We’re connected, you and I. I’ve never felt love for someone like this, it’s overwhelming.” His voice is quiet, soothing to the ear. He reaches across the bed and rests his hand on top of yours. It takes you by surprise at first but the warmth of his flesh on yours is calming. 

“(y/n) I love you...and not just like a sister or a best friend because I know we’ve said that before...I love you like a soul mate, because that’s what you are. When you weren’t here it was like a huge chunk had been ripped from me.”

His words cut like a knife, you don’t deserve this. Or rather, you’re not used to this. The thought of someone ever loving you has seemed hopeless for months, who would ever love a monster like you? And all this time Bucky had loved you. Even when you were trying to kill him, kill his friends, his love for you never changed. 

Silents salty tears trickle down your cheeks. They’re warm and unstoppable. Then suddenly you can’t contain your emotions and violent sobs shake your body. Bucky instantly reaches for you, wrapping his strong arms around your body and pulling to close to his chest. 

“I’m so sorry.” You cry, covering your face with your hands. Months of feeling so alone, so helpless are washed away in this single moment, from those single words. I love you. 

You let yourself relax into his arms, your hands grabbing at his shirt as you cry. It feels good to let everything out. Bucky smooths down your hair and presses his lips to the top of your head, he holds them there, hugging you tighter.

The tears subsiding, you pull away from Bucky and sit up. Still holding onto him, you look at Bucky with puffy eyes. He smiles at you as if you’re the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. Absentmindedly, your hands travel across his chest and up to his face where his stubbly cheeks graze your palms. As you stare at him you think about how no one has ever cared for you this much and how you’ve never cared for anyone as much as you do for Bucky. You can’t imagine caring for someone as much as you did when you met Bucky. It was an instant connection. Like he said...soul mates. 

You slowly pull yourself closer to him, closing the gap between you. Your lips brush his, unsure of your actions. You can feel his hot breath touching your skin, waiting. Then he kisses you hard, meaningfully and eagerly. Your lips are wet with tears but they wash away in the kiss, like all the weight and worry that once sat on your shoulders. He’s passionate, never wanting to let you go. All the love he has for you is shown through his kiss and you can’t resist it. You love him too, you realise always have. Maybe that’s why his face haunted your thoughts during those tortuous nights with Hyrda. That’s why you never manage to fulfill your mission. You are his and he is yours. You are one, you are connected. 

[omg-imatotalmess]

Waiting For Him

Hey guys! Listen, I’m in a really weird mood after a few things have happened recently and this is what’s coming out of it. I’ll try to get going on requests. I know that I’m taking 45 years on them. I’m not really sure what this is, but I hope you enjoy. 

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader 

Requested: Nope

Warnings: Swearing, angst(?) ((Idk what else to call this))

You laid in bed, moonlight bathing you in a soft silver glow that you couldn’t bring yourself to enjoy. Not anymore. Ever since Draco had left you to go with his parents, you found that you didn’t enjoy much. It also came to your attention that you spent most of your waking hours alone. Not always alone in the sense that there was no one around you, but alone in the sense that no one understood what you felt. Isolation. Being alone wasn’t really what bothered you though; it was the emptiness that you carried in your chest. 

Watching the night sky, you heaved a long sigh. Sometimes you were envious of the stars. They couldn’t feel empty or alone for they were simply stars. You rolled away from your open window, staring intently at the empty space next to you. Draco should be there, mumbling about how ‘his father would hear about this’ in his sleep. 

“I miss you,” You said. The open air took your words, devouring them so quickly that you weren’t entirely sure you’d said anything at all. 

“I hate you.” Again the words vanished. 

You rose from your bed, wondering vaguely what time it was. Probably late. Not that it mattered. You lived by yourself because you had some absurd notion that he would walk through your front door one day and slip into bed with you, just like he had back at Hogwarts. You padded into your living room and sat on the couch, listening calmly to the deafening silence. Nothing existed to fill that void for you. You looked around the room as though you didn’t see it everyday. 

It was plain, like no one really lived in it. The walls were a dusty grey, illuminated by the light of two white lamps sat on either side of a blocky, grey couch. No pillows rested on said couch. There were no pictures on the walls. There were no books on the little wooden coffee table, not even a magazine. The cool wood of the floor didn’t even have an area rug. Not even the windows had a speck of life. They were covered by blinds rather than curtains. It all looked so impersonal. For a reason only you seemed to understand, the room held all the warmth and comfort of a hospital waiting room. 

“You’re never coming back.” Hearing the words aloud stung. It made them real. 

Shaking your head, you laid back on the couch. The weight in your chest gave way to the usual emptiness. It throbbed in it’s usual dull ache somewhere in the very center. At first you’d thought someone had hollowed out your chest but, as usual, you realized it was only you curling loneliness. With that, you fell into a dreamless sleep. 

The next morning, you woke with a crick in your neck and a soft throb from the hole in your chest. You stretched. You wondered again what time it was, though you had no real way of knowing. You didn’t have a clock in your house. At some point, you’d stopped caring to know what time it was for the simple thought of it consumed you. 

“What am I waiting for?” It was a good question; one you’d been asking for years. 

That waiting was what gave you the emptiness in your chest, what hollowed out your insides, what make you get rid of your clocks. You knew the answer to the question, but you had no interest in answering it. 

A knock echoed through your home. Odd. Everyone you knew just walked in. You stared at the door as though it would open all on it’s own. It didn’t. Finally, you pulled yourself off the couch and opened it. There stood a tall blond with grey eyes and a haunted face. In front of you, stood Draco Malfoy. You blinked, wondering if you’d finally gone batty or if you were dreaming. 

“Hello,” He said. 

“Hi,” You responded. 

Draco watched you with tired eyes and you knew he was wondering how you would react. You just stared, stepping aside to let him in. He seemed startled by the way your place looked. 

“It’s been a long time,” He said as you took a seat on the couch. 

“It has.” Draco stood in the middle of the room like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. 

“How are you, (Y/N)?” He asked. 

“Surviving, I suppose,” You sighed. He gave you a concerned look as he looked around the room. Your living room had a surprising effect on people, like a Dementor, it sucked happiness away. Life itself. 

“How long have you lived here?” You thought for a moment. 

“Since just after the battle,” You said.

“Oh.” His pale face creased in concern. You wondered if it was real. 

“You came back,” You noted emotionlessly. Finally, he sat next to you, clasping his hands in front of him and resting his elbows on his knees. 

“I have,” He said. You watched him. He looked just as beaten down and tired at sixteen as he did now. That was worrisome to you. You always hoped that he’d been better even if you hadn’t been. 

It was odd. Sometimes you told the air that you hated him and sometimes you told it that you loved him, but seeing him brought a certain kind of numbness that you’d only felt in dreams. It was pleasant. For once, you chest didn’t ache from the constant emptiness. The hole there seemed to have drawn itself nearly closed. Nearly. 

“Why?” With a nervous glance, he ran a hand through his hair. You noted that he didn’t keep it slicked back anymore. 

“I can’t exactly describe it,” He said. 

“Try.” 

“I can’t!” He snapped, glaring at you fiercely. You didn’t even flinch. You’d known him long enough to know that his bark was much worse than his bite. 

“Are you empty too?” You asked. Somewhere in the back of your mind you thought you sounded like Luna. Grey eyes snapped up to meet yours with a look of surprise. They looked wet. 

“Yes,” He said, relieved. It must have taken up a lot of his time thinking about what he felt. 

“I’ve been empty for a long time. It was like you took a piece of me with you the day you left,” You said, unsure of why you were telling him that. For a moment, he looked guilty. 

“I’m back,” He said, quietly. You turned to look at him fully, anger that you hadn’t felt for a long time flared. 

“Are you gonna take some more? Hollow me out a little more?” You hissed. He flinched and, as quickly as it came, you anger fled. You sighed, running a hand through your hair. There wasn’t any point in being angry. Or sad. There wasn’t much point in feeling at all. You shook your head. 

“I’m sorry,” Both of you said at once. 

A silence fell over the two of you. Not the deafening silence that you usually experienced, a nice one. You could hear his ragged breathing, like he was trying his best not to cry. No tears came to your eyes despite the feeling of your heart splitting in two for the second time in your life. Reaching out, you placed the very tips of your fingers against his cheek. Then you both broke down. Both of you began to sob as you fell into each other. You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat and cried, but he pressed you so tight to his chest you wondered if you’d just become one person. It seemed okay at that point. 

You looked up into his face. Draco was oddly beautiful when he cried. His eyes turned to a muted grey, the color one would see just before a storm over the ocean. You wondered what yours looked like. The paleness of his face seemed to have had life breathed into it, redness lingering in his cheeks. Tears glistened, making shiney paths down his face until they dripped off his clenched jaw. 

“I missed you,” You whispered. He pressed a cheek to the top of your head. 

“Merlin, (Y/N), I can’t even begin to explain how much I missed you,” He said. You buried your head in his chest, letting out a soft sob. 

“I hate you,” You said. He held you impossibly closer and nodded. 

“I do too,” He whimpered. You gripped the back of his shirt so hard you feared you’d rip it. You hated that he sounded that way. Pulling back, you looked up at him again. His eyes were brimming with tears again. 

“You were never coming back,” You said. A wave of pain washed over his face and he cradled your cheek. 

“Of course I was. I’m here, aren’t I?” He said, softly. You breathed a somewhat hysterical laugh. 

“I don’t know.” He stared at you. 

“Pardon?” You laughed again. 

“I don’t know. I’ve had this dream so many times and it was so real everytime, but I always wake up,” You said. He pulled you against his chest again and you offered little resistance. 

“I’m so sorry, love, merlin, I’m so sorry,” He mumbled into your hair. Your cheeks laid against his chest, feeling the warmth radiating through his shirt. 

“You’ve never said that before.” He stiffened, slightly. “This isn’t a dream. You’ve never been sorry before.” You knew he was staring straight ahead, trying to convince himself not to cry. 

“I’ve been sorry since I chose them over you,” He said. You placed a hand on his chest. It felt solid, just like always. 

“You can cry, you know,” You said, calmly. He pulled in a shaky breath. 

He didn’t say anything else, but you knew that he was crying again. Somehow, you felt satisfied. Not because he was crying, but because he was close to you again. You could smell his cologne. It was awful. Something about it make your lips hitch up into a little smirk. 

“You never changed your cologne. Still smells terrible,” You said, a hint of a laugh in your voice. 

“Only you would think to say something like that in a situation like this, darling,” He said. You detected a hint of a laugh behind his tears as well. You sat up fully, wiping his tears away with the pad of your thumb. He leaned into your hand almost as though he’d forgotten how your touch felt. Then again, you’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be held by him (or anyone else). 

“Are you gonna stay?” You asked. He turned his head, kissing the palm of your hand. 

“If you’ll have me,” He replied, his voice holding a nervous undertone.

“I didn’t wait this long just to kick you out.” He chuckled, the soft vibration moved across your skin. 

Slowly, you removed yourself from the couch and pulled him towards the bedroom. It was the only room in your place that looked like anyone had lived there. The walls were the same soft grey of the living room, but covered in pictures and the bed was a mess of (F/C) tossed around sheets. Draco smiled at it though, so you did too. 

“I’ve been staring at an empty bed for so long it’ll feel weird having someone next to me for once,” You said, slipping into it. 

“I know the feeling.” He got in next to you, turning so you both could look out the window. The sky was just beginning to darken. You’d spent a whole day crying with Draco. You took comfort in the fact that it was with him not over him. 

“What time is it?” He asked, warping an arm around you. 

“No clue. I don’t own a clock,” You said, relishing in the warmth of the body behind you. 

“What?” You smiled softly as you turned to face him. 

“I spent so much time staring at them that I just got rid of them,” You said. He sighed, but smiled. 

“Alright then, I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway.” You snuggled into him, placing your head just under his chin and listening to the gentle beating of his heart. 

After that, there was nothing more to be said. If this was a dream, you vowed that you wouldn’t wake up. If this was real, then you could bring yourself back into your usual swing. Either way, you just wanted to enjoy the feeling of being whole for the first time in a long time. 

[doyouwannatalkaboutthe80s-blog]

CHB Cabin Headcanons (Pt. 1)

requested by the lovely @percyjacky123. hope you enjoy!

Cabin 1: Zeus

Zeus’ cabin is the largest, as well as the tallest. It’s also one of the cabins with the most impressive architecture.

The whole of the exterior is made of white marble, which is ingrained with gold.

There is only one level, but the roof and ceiling are raised, and held up by thick pillars. Each pillar is inlaid with deep, golden veins, which are nearly impossible to see unless they catch the light just right, which makes them flicker like bolts of lightning.

Inside, the impressive marble gives way to an equally impressive oak wood lining, which resembles a thick grouping of tree trunks. The interior is much more warm and homey than its hard exterior suggests. The wood is thicker in some places and morphed in others, and it’s cracked and split all around, with periodic small branches that are either broken or bent. It’s not uncommon to develop scrapes and scratches from the rough bark. Dark foliage grows in random, small clumps near the ceiling.

The ceiling itself is a thunderstorm – the reason it’s raised – with dark clouds rippling across its surface. The severity of the storm is a reflection of the state of the cabin’s inhabitants: angry, and the thunder is loud and booming, mixed with bright flashes of lightning, and the clouds are nearly black; pacified, and it offers nothing more than a simple, cloudy day.

At night, you can hear the soft pattering of rain, depending on preference. Some might hear drops against a window, or falling on the tops of trees. Others might hear nothing at all (usually if they have a fear of storms, or if it will interfere with rest).

It’s one of the more sparsely furnished rooms due to its lack of occupants, but furnishings are provided automatically when they’re needed, often personalized to the individual.

Cabin 2: Hera

Hera’s cabin is slightly smaller than Zeus’ – though not by much – and the exterior is very similar is design. The white marble is a purer color, and the inlaid gold is more visible and arranged in organized patterns and thin borders.

The interior is just as magnificent as the exterior, with the marble continuing where Zeus’ ends. Where the interior of Cabin 1 draws its warmth from its design, Cabin 2 draws its own from its furnishing.

Although Hera has no demigod children, and her cabin is merely for honorary purposes, she is the goddess of marriage and birth, important aspects of family. The space of her cabin is therefore decorated with various offerings of family mementos and reminders that the campers bring to her, which line the walls. The purpose for these offerings is to offer a kind of blessing and protection for the families that they had to leave behind.

A large fire pit rests at the center of the space. The fire that burns within it requires no maintenance to stay alight. Placed around the stony circle of the pit are crumpled, folded, and faded photos of family members and loved ones, as well as family heirlooms that were passed down.

Marriage and birth tend to bring feelings of happiness, and so the cabin offers that vibe, which makes it an ideal place to go when feelings of loneliness and sadness hit.

The cabin has an open entrance instead of a closed one, like most of the other cabins, and no windows. This offers the campers an obvious invitation, but privacy once they are inside. Depending on the state of the visitor, others may become lost when seeking to enter, to give the current occupant time to settle themselves.

This is typically the case with homesick and emotional individuals.

A number of the campers tend to gravitate to it when they are experiencing homesickness. Visitors to the cabin are expected to bring an offering with them to throw into the fire, to maintain the honor and peace of its patron.

Despite her inherent dislike of Zeus’ children, they are usually only met with minimal interference, since they only come when they really need to. They have also learned that the bigger and more generous the offering, the better.

Cabin 3: Poseidon

Poseidon’s is one of the smaller cabins, and it’s relatively plain in its appearance.

It is made entirely of teak wood, which is strong and hardy and laced with small, random specklings of sea glass.

(Teak is also a very good wood to build boats of, due to its resilience.)

Its layout is long and narrow, with a low roof and entrances at either end, which are closed with heavy screen doors. It also has a number of large, square windows that are set low to the ground and covered with screens.

There’s a distinctly salty smell to it, wet and humid with an undertow of wet wood. There’s always a gentle breeze.

In the center of the space there’s a small pond-like structure, which produces a blue, rippling glow on the rest of the interior. It has a surplus of rare, brightly colored saltwater fish.

The beds are hammock-bunks, stacked in pairs. Drawers and storage spaces are built into the walls.

Most of the decoration is fishing gear and oceanic knick-knacks.

Fishing nets hang off the walls in tangled masses. The small bedside tables all include some kind of large, impressive shell or piece of coral, or both. The occupants exchange these with each other every few days, as each offer some kind of aid; helping sleep if insomnia is a problem, peaceful thoughts for anxious individuals, and so on. Fishing poles and tackle boxes are leaned and pushed against the walls.

It’s cluttered, but in an organized way; you can find everything relatively easily, but you have to spend a short time looking through everything first.

There are horseshoes above each of the entrances, and it’s a tradition of the occupants to touch them as they enter and exit.

At night, when it’s quiet, you can hear waves crashing and the distant cry of seabirds.

The windows are the occupants’ favorite aspect of the cabin. Because Poseidon’s children are usually drawn to water, when an individual looks out the window with a specific view formed perfectly in mind, the windows with recreate the view. Multiple campers could be looking out the same window, and each one would see a different beach or lake.

It’s basically a boat house

but it’s a badass boat house.

Cabin 4: Demeter

Demeter’s cabin is earthy in its entirety.

It has a simple but still regal architecture which is built of clay and a wide variety of differing smooth sedimentary rock.

Plants grow up and around the pillars at the front, and, like Zeus’ ceiling, these plants reflect the mood of the cabin, wilting and flourishing accordingly.

There is one ladder that rests against each of the walls, which lead up to a grass roof. More plants and smaller crops grow up here, and the goddess’ children tend to them daily.

(Many of the campers also sneak up to the roof in order to pick the best flowers as gifts to their friends and the objects of their affections. The Demeter kids are forever salty about it.)

There’s a wooden porch at the entrance, which has plants growing out of it through the gaps between the wood. It’s a popular reading and gathering area.

Instead of pillars, the roof is supported by a thick tree trunk that rests at the center of the cabin. Cubbies are carved into the trunk, and most of these are inhabited by potted aloe plants and gardening books.

The floor is made of soft grass, and most of the campers tend to have perpetually dirty feet from walking barefoot over it constantly. They also tend to plant their favorite flowers at the foot of each wooden bed.

It has a naturally calming atmosphere.

The Demeter kids are known for bringing distressed friends to the cabin, where they tend to just sit together in peaceful and companionable silence until they’ve calmed down.

It’s also the most harmonious cabin. The occupants always seem to get along, and even strained relationships tend to lose some of their tension in the atmosphere.

Nighttime comes with the arrival of crickets, so the cabin is filled with the sound of chirping.

The exterior is always prettiest in the mornings, when the morning glories open up. The artistic kids always get up early to sketch them as long as they can.(They’re a little irritated by the invasive noise of the Apollo kids, already wide away and shrieking by the time the sun starts to come up.)

Popularly known as the Hippie Headquarters, but only silently.

Cabin 5: Ares

Oh boy, how do I start.

It’s the most edgy and angsty cabin, despite the fact that the Hades cabin exists.

It’s also the loudest.

It’s crudely built, with sharp and broken corners, and it looks on the brink of falling apart. It’s hard, grey stone, held up by cracked and crumbling pillars.

It looks as though the campers tried to take the time to paint it, but then got bored or found something better to do. (The popular and most exciting opinion is that they all got into a mass brawl because so-and-so was painting in the wrong direction even though they all were obviously painting in fifteen different directions.)

Constant rock music. Constant loud rock music. Everyone wants to die. The Ares kids probably know this, and that’s why they do it.

“It’s called strategy.”

The cabin isn’t cluttered inside, but it’s a mess. There are burned dressers, broken beds, and a large littering of dirty clothing.

The only real personal items are the weapons. Anything else is usually small enough to store in drawers or under mattresses, and the occupants use that advantage mercilessly.

The beds are a mix of army cots or mattresses, arranged against the walls. Each one has a single pillow and a few blankets.

It has a very angry vibe. There’s a lot of tension between the occupants because of their inherited, violent personalities, and any other unfortunate camper who spends time inside is inevitably drawn into that mood.

There’s a poorly built railing that goes around the roof, which is wrapped with an unholy amount of barbed wire. There’s also a jagged hole in the center of the roof, and a thick length of rope dropping down into it.

Everyone thinks this is so that the Ares kids can go upstairs and plot.

It’s really so the Ares kids can go upstairs and watch stars at night, and get some peace during the day.

It’s also the only cabin with a basement, and the basement is where they get some extra training it when it’s dark outside.

Cabin 6: Athena

The Athena cabin, despite the stereotypically first thought – where it is scarily clean and organized – is the picture of organized chaos.

The outside is built of granite, with elegant pillars positioned at evenly spaced intervals at the front. Each pillar has silver designs on it, relaying the stories of Ancient Greek heroes. It has a number of windows, also equally spaced along the entirety and bordered by elegantly looping designs. There’s a golden owl perched above the entrance, under which is carved the words, “Wisdom is Power” in Ancient Greek.

The architecture of the interior is equally organized, with white curtains on the windows and bookshelves and worktables lining the walls.

The bookshelves hold books on tactics and strategy, as well as books on the stories of the Greeks and philosophy. A few shelves are dedicated to maps and handwritten plans. They don’t always keep the shelves organized any on way.

The worktables are littered with papers and maps and open books in the process of being read.

It’s a cluttered mess. There’s a variety of personal projects going on, in addition to whatever planning is needed for the camp as a whole, so the materials being used are always varied in their subjects and they tend to stack up on top of each other due to a lack of sufficient room on the tables. Despite all this, the Athena kids are able to grab any book, map, or writing on command and under ten seconds. They know where everything is at any given time, and who happens to be using it.

Between every pair of beds hangs a silver shield. These, in addition to basic purposes, protect the occupants’ minds, keeping them clear from intrusive thoughts when they need to remain completely focused on their tasks.

The cabin is also completely soundproof. No sound from the outside gets in, and the pages of books and paper make no noise. It’s a thought-inducing environment, and the lack of distracting pen clicking and paper rustling helps to keep brains on track.

There are no light bulbs or lamps, but the cabin has a lit interior whenever it’s needed. Often the Athena kids will stay up well into the night researching and studying, and so, when this happens, there’s always a soft, yellow glow. It’s never harsh, so it’s easy on the eyes and eliminates the threat of headaches.

It’s a very reserved cabin. Not a lot of outside campers have been inside, and when work is in progress, it is nearly impossible for anyone without a direct and necessary purpose to get inside.

Cabin 7: Apollo

Apollo’s cabin is a direct rival to Zeus’ and Hera’s in its impressive appearance.

It is built of a deep orange sunstone and white marble. The marble makes up the four walls, and the sunstone forms the roof and flooring.

There are no actual windows, but the sunstone of the roof is thin enough that it is nearly transparent, and with the sun shining through it, it bathes the entire interior in golden light with dancing sunspots along the walls.

There’s a surplus of instruments, and the Apollo kids can play nearly every single one to some degree. At night, they play themselves softly to lull the campers to sleep.

Despite the social nature of Apollo kids, there’s a secluded nook in the back that leads to a small log room. This room is furnished with soft couches and chairs, and there’s a fireplace at the end, bracketed by bookshelves lined with poetry volumes and fiction novels. Sometimes being outgoing gets tiring, so the more introverted kids have a place to escape to.

There’s a makeshift first aid corner, with a cabinet packed with supplies overtop a ceramic sink. It’s used frequently, and by members of every cabin, for things ranging from a significantly deep papercut (usually the Athena kids) to particularly bad burns belong to individuals too proud or, usually more likely, embarrassed to go to the clinic (usually the Hephaestus kids).

The atmosphere is incredibly welcoming and calming, but not in the same way as the Demeter cabin. Where the Demeter cabin is relaxing and soothing, the Apollo cabin gives off the vibe of enthusiasm and excitement, most likely due to the helpful and upbeat personalities of the campers inside.

It has that natural feeling of being a safe place. It’s impossible to be in it and not feel protected. If you’re having a bad day, there’s an Apollo comedian there specifically to make you laugh. If you’re sad, there’s a group hug waiting. If you’re stressed, there’s always someone to talk to and rant with. If you’re hurting, there’s a shoulder to cry on and an onslaught of emotional and literal band-aids. If you’re happy, there’s instruments and at least eleven people willing to scream upbeat pop songs until throats get sore.

There is at least one dramatic monologue each day, given while standing in the center of the room. It’s usually a reference to some poem or play, most commonly Shakespearian. They all do it, but they also all absolutely hate when one of them does it. It winds up being either a continuous and loud round of booing, or a competition to see who can make it sound the most poetic and Extra.

Every morning, the rest of the camp is woken up at sunrise to a loud and disorganized rendition of Here Comes the Sun reverberating from the inside of Cabin 7, complete with offensively offkey “doodoodoodoos”.

The Apollo kids can barely make it through the whole thing because they’re too busy snickering at the insults coming out of the Ares and Aphrodite cabins and the vaguely terrifying threats coming from the Athena nerds. They lose it when the occupants of Cabin 3 and 4 join in.

It’s empty a majority of the time. The Apollo kids like to be out and about in the sunshine, or in the clinic doing what they do, or just generally having fun. When it’s full, though, it’s full, except at night. The Apollo kids love people, so they often are accompanied by friends and partners.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Infinity of Stars (Reader x Rocket Raccoon) PROLOGUE

When taken from her home planet, Terra from a young age, Y/N L/N, also known as Iris, is taught to survive and becomes one of the galaxies' well-known bounty hunters.

But what happens when rumor spreads that she knows the locations of the rare and dangerous infinity gauntlet; a highly powerful weapon that could destroy all?

She is the only human to know of its whereabouts, something which the Guardians of the Galaxy  need to find, before its too late.

But...

Who will get to the weapon of mass destruction first?

Prologue

Terra, 1993

It was late this one night, later than usual, the mist that appeared fogged up the majority of the land and fields for miles on end, and all depictions of distinguishing things from afar was far right impossible.

There, in the middle of the fields and countryside, sat a lone house, small enough to look like a cottage, its outside exterior looking small and cramped, but it held the warmth of a fire that kept those living there nice and snug.

Sitting by the fire and close to the window, was a middle aged man. From his grey whispers of hair messy on his head and appearing lightly on his beard, he looked like to be in his late 40s, but was only in his late 30s. The man, wearing a large black and red flannel and dark jeans, was reading a small book with a hard back cover, The Metamorphosis it read, displaying underneath the hideous depiction of a large insect. The man looked to be engrossed in his book, as his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose looked to be almost falling off.

“Daddy?” The man looked up from his literature, looking over towards the door, to see a little girl, no older than 4, was standing, clutching her favourite tattered brown stuffed toy, its old and worn out red ribbon around its neck. The little girl had long H/C hair with little ringlets that framed her face, S/C and a pair of soft E/C, innocent and large to look like a pair of deer eyes staring back.

The man sighed, “Why you still up pumpkin?” He asked in a tired tone, setting his book to the side as the little girl wondered further into the cosy living room, “Couldn't sleep again?” He asked, watching her head nod in an embarrassed way.

The man sighed again, yet a small smile graced his slightly wrinkled face, “Alright, I take you back to bed-” Before he stood, his daughter stepped out almost suddenly, “W-Wait!” He paused, “I... thought you could... read to me again.” she suggested, and she suddenly took out a large book from behind her back.

The World Outside Ours it read in big, bold, large capital letters, with the image of the sun being surrounded by other planets. “You want me to read that to you again pumpkin?” as his daughter’s reaction changed to mere excitement. “C’here.” He made space for her to sit on his lap, handing the book over to him, she giggled sweetly as she listened to her father read and talk about the many different planets, suns, stars, comets, galaxies and many more that were just beyond of our own world.

“What’s that one Daddy?” The girl pointed at the image of a cluster of large particles together, colours of light and dark blues, whites, yellows and purples filled this cluster, as the man smiled. “That’s Iris Nebula. It’s a patch of gases and dust that appeared in the constellation Cepheus.” The girl looked down once again at the page, “What’s Ce-fph-eus?” The man chuckled again.

“It’s Cepheus, but you were very close. The constellation was named after a Greek king.” The girl’s eyes widened in awe and curiosity, before she looked back to the window, staring up into the dark sky, clusters of small stars filled the night sky.

“When I’m older, I want to go see Iris.” The man chuckled at his daughter’s imagination and dreams, “I’m afraid it would be quite the trip pumpkin, Iris is very far away from here.”

“How long would it take? A year?”

“More than that pumpkin. Maybe more than all of your life.”

The girl nodded her head slowly in understanding, staring back from the window to inside, “I could take you with me, so I wasn’t bored. We could g-go on an adventure into outer space!”

The man nodded, “Would you take anyone else with you?” The girl shook her head, “Only you and Mr Snuggles!” She clutched her teddy bear in her hands, smiling brightly, “Daddy?”

“Yes sweetie?”

“Do you think... mummy's out there?”

The man paused, rarely did the girl talk about her mother, only until now, “Yes sweetie. I know she is. How about one day, when you’re much older, I’ll take you to visit outer space, and to see mummy again.”

The little girl squealed with delight, wrapping her small arms around her father’s neck, “You promise?” She held up her small pinkie. The man nodded, grinning from ear to ear, and holding out his pinkie too.

“I promise Y/N.”

Two years later...

His illness got worse and worse during those two years. From a minor cough, to headaches, bleeding from his nose and mouth, to fainting, vomiting up blood and day and night time visits to the hospital. No-one would expect him to also catch the disease, the same as his wife, or anyone in his family. The disease was rare genetic problem, and it didn’t often happen for someone else to get it.

But after a few months of lots of treatments, at the stroke of midnight, he left this world to go into the next.

There was nothing left that Y/N had left to love; she was alone, her parents now dead, and the only close relatives she had left was her aunt on her father's side.

From what the social workers thought, they believed  Y/N's aunt was nice, bubbly and sweet, but deep down, they didn't know was she was a cruel, harsh and mean woman, who abused and treated Y/N poorly from a young age.

"What are you doing?" Her aunt screeched at the 6 year old, making the girl jump and turn quickly to her aunt. "Nothing a-auntie, you told me to stack the dishes." She whimpered softly. "Did I tell you to stack up my precious China?" Her aunt barked, making the girl whimper and back away until her back hit the counter.

"Come here you stupid girl." She growled, grabbing her niece with what Y/N thought were claws instead of nails, her talons gripping the flesh of the girl, making her scream in pain. "You never learn." Y/N tried to pull her arm back, as her aunt gripped her H/C hair. Tears begun slipping down her cheeks, "You never will learn you stupid, stupid girl."

"Stop!" Y/N cried, moving backwards to get out the her aunt's grip, before slipping, her aunt's grip loosening as Y/N's head moved forward to the counter, until a dull pain surrounded her head, and before she realised, the echoing of plates shattering around her brought her to the realisation that she had fallen and brought the plates to crash onto the tiled floor.

Groggily sitting up, she didn't hear the screams from her aunt, the echoes and blurred noises only made her hear her own swallowed breathing and her heartbeat thumping against her chest.

She looked down, the warm wet substance dripping down her cheek. Moving a hand, she pressed it to her cheek, looking at the red substance that stained her palm.

The pain suddenly hit her, as she stood up, stumbling as quickly as she could and running out of the kitchen. The screams and shouts from her aunt spurring her to run faster. She only remembered the things in her make-shift bedroom downstairs, she grabbed her teddy bear and a necklace that was the only memory that her mother had given to her when she was just a baby.

Once she had her things, she rushed out into the hallway, opening the door, and running outside as fast as she could. The rushing of adrenaline and pain washed over her cold small body as she ran as quickly into the woods. The darkness surrounded her as breathed the cold air.

She paused, looking around her surroundings, her head pounding as the cold nipped at her skin. She shivered, clutching her thin clothing to her small body to attempt to keep her warm.

She sniffed, deciding to sit down beside a large tree, looking up at the tall, wide, structure that surrounded her, causing her to shake from both the fear and mild climate. She clutched Mr Snuggles closer to her chest more, breathing the familiar scent of vanilla after she remembered her father accidentally spilling vanilla extract onto her stuffed bear. The smell made her fell safe, and calm in ways of her making her forget where she was.

It was only until the emotions that were pent up inside her finally surfaced; the death of her parents, her abusive aunt and the wound on her head, caused the girl to sob uncontrollably into her stuffed toy.

This sobbing went on for a while, around 10 minutes of wailing, shudders and runny blood-shot red eyes. Her beautiful E/C eyes, which used to hold such youth and innocence- were shattered and all that was left in this six year old, was pain, loneliness and sadness.

Her tears were brought to a halt, an overhead noise brought her to look up, a deep rumble heard just above her head. She begun to panic, thinking it was her aunt, who had called the police, and it was a helicopter that was flying above her to retrieve her back. 'No, I'm not going back there.' She panicked, picking herself up and her teddy, and running deeper into the darkness of the forest.

The rumbling sounded like it was getting louder, her eyes pounding as she ran for her life, tripping and falling on large rocks and twigs, before picking herself up again and wobbling to find a way out.

She managed, running out into a wide clearing field, running through the tall grass, she stopped to hide, hoping that the 'helicopter' wasn't able to see her. She used this time of hiding to catch her breath, her legs and arms stinging from her cuts and bruises, as she left shaky breaths out, the cold seeming to warm her up.

It was only until the rumbling had suddenly paused that she thought she was safe, standing to her small feet, she felt a large shadow loom above her. She stopped, craning her head back to see the sight above her.

Never did she think extraterrestrial life existed- her aunt make sure she didn't believe in it anyway. But she never expected a large spacecraft to loom above her. She was sure scared, shaking in her own shoes, she screamed, tears falling as a bright light shone down. Suddenly, she wasn't able to move, her limbs were being forced not to let her run away, and it was only until she felt her feet leave the ground, that she begun to frantically scream louder and squirm, her body being pulled higher and higher above her ground, until there was an overlarge amount of darkness surrounding her, and there were voices surrounding her that sounded all to unfamiliar.

From a young age, Y/N was ripped from her home planet, her family and her own possibility of being that young cheerful girl again... was gone.

Hope you enjoyed this prologue!

[doingthingsishard-blog]

Polychromers Part 1 - Leo

So, a while ago @agenderemrys posted this post about soulmate AUs where they can’t see colour until they meet their soulmate. 

Well here’s the first bit of a few little stories I want to write set in a world just like that. Original characters and story, just a bit of fun, really. 

Leo was ready to see colour. At 27 years old, he was done with listening to his patients go on and on about how beautiful life was now that they had found their soulmates. Until recently, he hadn’t really minded. There hadn’t been time in his career to be chasing after love, but nowadays… he was lonely. Midwifery had taken up so much of his life that Leo’d only recently started to wonder if he’d ever meet with someone he’d wanna raise a kid with.

So that’s what had brought him here. To an art class. With clay. One of the nurses from the ward had recommended it to him, apparently it was where she had met her husband, and was just full of interesting single people. So Leo walked into the classroom and took a seat among the other students as the teacher took her place.

“Welcome!” The teacher began with a flourish, and launched into an explanation about clay and pottery and spirituality… and Leo’s attention wandered.

“Hey..” The guy sat next to Leo had leaned closer to whisper. “First time? I’m Oliver.”

Leo nodded, “Leo.” He didn’t want to talk over the instructor, but other people were. It seemed like a pretty relaxed class. “You been here before?” He faced the younger man, who’s long, light-coloured hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.

“Yeah, she’s my wife.” Oliver gestured at the instructor. “So I’m here a lot of the time. I do colour consultancy for Monochromer potters.”

Ah. Right. So Oliver was one of those people. Who had fallen in love and discovered colour and now was all righteous about helping those who weren’t fortunate enough to see the full rainbow. “Cool…” he glanced around, was he falling into the desperate stereotype of the Monochromers? Coming to evening classes in one last attempt to find love and colour?

“What do you do?” Oliver handed Leo a lump of clay, and threw his own onto his wheel.

Clumsily doing the same, Leo replied. “I’m a midwife.” he said, trying to copy the other man as he started to work the clay. “You?”

Oliver looked impressed for a moment, then answered. “Interior designer. I was a journalist when I was younger, but once I met Mel… well, it’s that age old story. Fall in love, find colour, be inspired… and I wanted to help people who couldn’t see it yet.”

“So you tell people they have bad taste even though they can’t see it?” Honestly? Leo regretted that as soon as he said it. He hadn’t meant to be judgemental and mean, but he was feeling… defensive. And sort of vulnerable. Apparently it was easy to tell when someone only saw in grey, and there was something about falling into the Monochromer stereotype that really sent chills down his spine. Because it meant more than just being colourblind. It meant loneliness.

Oliver laughed though, and shook his head. “Not at all. I get to know the people I work for, find out about them, and try to help them design something that fits their personality. So that if they do unexpectedly discover love some day, they’re pleased with the house they come home to.”

“Oh, right. So you like… hang out with people? But how do you know what colours they’ll like?” Leo had read extensively about the colour phenomenon when he was younger, and he knew that different people preferred different ones, but how could they know which before they’d even experienced them?

“Well, we mostly use neutral colours, and ones that we believe reflect the person. It’s difficult to explain, but colours have a sort of… feeling to them.” Oliver wiped a hand on his apron and reached into his pocket, handing Leo a business card. “I also teach Colour Classes to new Polychromers. You should come, when you need to.”

Leo turned the card over in his hand, getting a bit of clay on it… “Well… if I need to.” He stowed the card in his pocket. “Not looking likely at the moment.”

“You never know. Love could be just around the corner.” Oliver winked at Leo, then started up his wheel again.

As if I’m that lucky. Leo thought to himself, looking back at his clay. Nope. Still a misshapen lump. Nothing like a bowl. “How d’you…” He gestured at Oliver’s wheel, where his lump had somehow grown sides and was starting to look smooth.

“You need to use more water.” He wet his own hands. “And then you just… push it upwards, sort of.” Oliver demonstrated, and then looked up. “Now you try.”

Leo nodded, and dipped his fingers into the water. He wasn’t entirely sure this was for him, but there was no point giving up now. After trying, and failing, to copy what Oliver was doing, he sighed in defeat.

“Use less pressure, you just want to encourage it to become a bowl.” Oliver crossed to sit opposite Leo, and guided his hands. “Like this.”

His hands were incredibly soft. Leo kept his eyes on the ‘bowl’, as the other man gently showed him how to tease the clay into shape… Maybe it was because they were enacting some sort of romance movie cliche, or maybe it was the buzz that he had felt as soon as their hands had touched, but he had felt his cheeks go warm.

“See? That’s better.” The sides of the bowl were starting to take shape, and Oliver was smiling widely at Leo as he glanced up from his work. “Are you alright?”

Leo realised he had frozen, his eyes fixed on Oliver’s. “Oh… yeah… thanks.” He quickly looked away, but his heart was racing. There was something different about the way things looked. Oliver’s eyes… they were… well… different. Leo had no other way to describe it. They seemed to have more depth to them… they were a shade he’d never seen before.

As he avoided Oliver’s gaze, he started to notice other changes. Just a few. The bowl full of water was suddenly a a different hue…

Wait. Was this colour? No… Leo looked at his hands, then at Oliver, then at the instructor…

Oliver’s Wife.

So it couldn’t be colour. It couldn’t be. Not because of him anyway. Oliver already had his soulmate.

Besides… this was nothing like people had described. His sister had said her entire world had lit up… but this was just a few things. And Leo didn’t even know that they were all that different. Maybe there was something wrong with him.

Suddenly feeling very anxious, Leo wiped his hands on a towel and stood up. “I’m uh… not feeling well.” he said, making his excuses to the instructor, but Oliver caught him up on his way out of the door.

“You’ll come back next week, right?” he said, resting a hand on Leo’s shoulder. Leo just nodded, trying to ignore the fluttering in his insides, and then scarpered out of the door.

As he made it outside, he stopped for a second to let his heart return to it’s normal speed. This… had to be a weird coincidence, right? Arrhythmia or something. He should go home, and lie down. He fished his car keys out of his pocket, and checked the sky for rainclouds…

And found himself unable to tear his eyes away… The sky had never been so beautiful. Grey and white clouds were drifting in the distance, but most of it was… well… Leo didn’t have a word for it. It had to be a colour. It had to. He’d never seen anything quite like it in his entire life.

But why was everything else still the normal shades of grey?

What was happening?

[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

[readbookywooks]

DEEPER MAGIC FROM BEFORE THE DAWN OF TIME

WHILE the two girls still crouched in the bushes with their hands over their faces, they heard the voice of the Witch calling out, "Now! Follow me all and we will set about what remains of this war! It will not take us long to crush the human vermin and the traitors now that the great Fool, the great Cat, lies dead." At this moment the children were for a few seconds in very great danger. For with wild cries and a noise of skirling pipes and shrill horns blowing, the whole of that vile rabble came sweeping off the hill-top and down the slope right past their hiding-place. They felt the Spectres go by them like a cold wind and they felt the ground shake beneath them under the galloping feet of the Minotaurs; and overhead there went a flurry of foul wings and a blackness of vultures and giant bats. At any other time they would have trembled with fear; but now the sadness and shame and horror of Aslan's death so filled their minds that they hardly thought of it. As soon as the wood was silent again Susan and Lucy crept out onto the open hill-top. The moon was getting low and thin clouds were passing across her, but still they could see the shape of the Lion lying dead in his bonds. And down they both knelt in the wet grass and kissed his cold face and stroked his beautiful fur - what was left of it - and cried till they could cry no more. And then they looked at each other and held each other's hands for mere loneliness and cried again; and then again were silent. At last Lucy said, "I can't bear to look at that horrible muzzle. I wonder could we take if off?" So they tried. And after a lot of working at it (for their fingers were cold and it was now the darkest part of the night) they succeeded. And when they saw his face without it they burst out crying again and kissed it and fondled it and wiped away the blood and the foam as well as they could. And it was all more lonely and hopeless and horrid than I know how to describe. "I wonder could we untie him as well?" said Susan presently. But the enemies, out of pure spitefulness, had drawn the cords so tight that the girls could make nothing of the knots. I hope no one who reads this book has been quite as miserable as Susan and Lucy were that night; but if you have been - if you've been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing was ever going to happen again. At any rate that was how it felt to these two. Hours and hours seemed to go by in this dead calm, and they hardly noticed that they were getting colder and colder. But at last Lucy noticed two other things. One was that the sky on the east side of the hill was a little less dark than it had been an hour ago. The other was some tiny movement going on in the grass at her feet. At first she took no interest in this. What did it matter? Nothing mattered now! But at last she saw that whatever-it-was had begun to move up the upright stones of the Stone Table. And now whatever-they-were were moving about on Aslan's body. She peered closer. They were little grey things. "Ugh!" said Susan from the other side of the Table. "How beastly! There are horrid little mice crawling over him. Go away, you little beasts." And she raised her hand to frighten them away. "Wait!" said Lucy, who had been looking at them more closely still. "Can you see what they're doing?" Both girls bent down and stared. "I do believe - " said Susan. "But how queer! They're nibbling away at the cords!" "That's what I thought," said Lucy. "I think they're friendly mice. Poor little things - they don't realize he's dead. They think it'll do some good untying him." It was quite definitely lighter by now. Each of the girls noticed for the first time the white face of the other. They could see the mice nibbling away; dozens and dozens, even hundreds, of little field mice. And at last, one by one, the ropes were all gnawed through. The sky in the east was whitish by now and the stars were getting fainter - all except one very big one low down on the eastern horizon. They felt colder than they had been all night. The mice crept away again. The girls cleared away the remains of the gnawed ropes. Aslan looked more like himself without them. Every moment his dead face looked nobler, as the light grew and they could see it better. In the wood behind them a bird gave a chuckling sound. It had been so still for hours and hours that it startled them. Then another bird answered it. Soon there were birds singing all over the place. It was quite definitely early morning now, not late night. "I'm so cold," said Lucy. "So am I," said Susan. "Let's walk about a bit." They walked to the eastern edge of the hill and looked down. The one big star had almost disappeared. The country all looked dark grey, but beyond, at the very end of the world, the sea showed pale. The sky began to turn red. They walked to ands fro more times than they could count between the dead Aslan and the eastern ridge, trying to keep warm; and oh, how tired their legs felt. Then at last, as they stood for a moment looking out towards they sea and Cair Paravel (which they could now just make out) the red turned to gold along the line where the sea and the sky met and very slowly up came the edge of the sun. At that moment they heard from behind them a loud noise - a great cracking, deafening noise as if a giant had broken a giant's plate. "What's that?" said Lucy, clutching Susan's arm. "I - I feel afraid to turn round," said Susan; "something awful is happening." "They're doing something worse to Him," said Lucy. "Come on!" And she turned, pulling Susan round with her. The rising of the sun had made everything look so different - all colours and shadows were changed that for a moment they didn't see the important thing. Then they did. The Stone Table was broken into two pieces by a great crack that ran down it from end to end; and there was no Aslan. "Oh, oh, oh!" cried the two girls, rushing back to the Table. "Oh, it's too bad," sobbed Lucy; "they might have left the body alone." "Who's done it?" cried Susan. "What does it mean? Is it magic?" "Yes!" said a great voice behind their backs. "It is more magic." They looked round. There, shining in the sunrise, larger than they had seen him before, shaking his mane (for it had apparently grown again) stood Aslan himself. "Oh, Aslan!" cried both the children, staring up at him, almost as much frightened as they were glad. "Aren't you dead then, dear Aslan?" said Lucy. "Not now," said Aslan. "You're not - not a - ?" asked Susan in a shaky voice. She couldn't bring herself to say the word ghost. Aslan stooped his golden head and licked her forehead. The warmth of his breath and a rich sort of smell that seemed to hang about his hair came all over her. "Do I look it?" he said. "Oh, you're real, you're real! Oh, Aslan!" cried Lucy, and both girls flung themselves upon him and covered him with kisses. "But what does it all mean?" asked Susan when they were somewhat calmer. "It means," said Aslan, "that though the Witch knew the Deep Magic, there is a magic deeper still which she did not know: Her knowledge goes back only to the dawn of time. But if she could have looked a little further back, into the stillness and the darkness before Time dawned, she would have read there a different incantation. She would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor's stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backwards. And now - " "Oh yes. Now?" said Lucy, jumping up and clapping her hands. "Oh, children," said the Lion, "I feel my strength coming back to me. Oh, children, catch me if you can!" He stood for a second, his eyes very bright, his limbs quivering, lashing himself with his tail. Then he made a leap high over their heads and landed on the other side of the Table. Laughing, though she didn't know why, Lucy scrambled over it to reach him. Aslan leaped again. A mad chase began. Round and round the hill-top he led them, now hopelessly out of their reach, now letting them almost catch his tail, now diving between them, now tossing them in the air with his huge and beautifully velveted paws and catching them again, and now stopping unexpectedly so that all three of them rolled over together in a happy laughing heap of fur and arms and legs. It was such a romp as no one has ever had except in Narnia; and whether it was more like playing with a thunderstorm or playing with a kitten Lucy could never make up her mind. And the funny thing was that when all three finally lay together panting in the sun the girls no longer felt in the least tired or hungry or thirsty. "And now," said Aslan presently, "to business. I feel I am going to roar. You had better put your fingers in your ears." And they did. And Aslan stood up and when he opened his mouth to roar his face became so terrible that they did not dare to look at it. And they saw all the trees in front of him bend before the blast of his roaring as grass bends in a meadow before the wind. Then he said, "We have a long journey to go. You must ride on me." And he crouched down and the children climbed on to his warm, golden back, and Susan sat first, holding on tightly to his mane and Lucy sat behind holding on tightly to Susan. And with a great heave he rose underneath them and then shot off, faster than any horse could go, down hill and into the thick of the forest. That ride was perhaps the most wonderful thing that happened to them in Narnia. Have you ever had a gallop on a horse? Think of that; and then take away the heavy noise of the hoofs and the jingle of the bits and imagine instead the almost noiseless padding of the great paws. Then imagine instead of the black or grey or chestnut back of the horse the soft roughness of golden fur, and the mane flying back in the wind. And then imagine you are going about twice as fast as the fastest racehorse. But this is a mount that doesn't need to be guided and never grows tired. He rushes on and on, never missing his footing, never hesitating, threading his way with perfect skill between tree trunks, jumping over bush and briar and the smaller streams, wading the larger, swimming the largest of all. And you are riding not on a road nor in a park nor even on the downs, but right across Narnia, in spring, down solemn avenues of beech and across sunny glades of oak, through wild orchards of snow-white cherry trees, past roaring waterfalls and mossy rocks and echoing caverns, up windy slopes alight with gorse bushes, and across the shoulders of heathery mountains and along giddy ridges and down, down, down again into wild valleys and out into acres of blue flowers. It was nearly midday when they found themselves looking down a steep hillside at a castle - a little toy castle it looked from where they stood - which seemed to be all pointed towers. But the Lion was rushing down at such a speed that it grew larger every moment and before they had time even to ask themselves what it was they were already on a level with it. And now it no longer looked like a toy castle but rose frowning in front of them. No face looked over the battlements and the gates were fast shut. And Aslan, not at all slacking his pace, rushed straight as a bullet towards it. "The Witch's home!" he cried. "Now, children, hold tight." Next moment the whole world seemed to turn upside down, and the children felt as if they had left their insides behind them; for the Lion had gathered himself together for a greater leap than any he had yet made and jumped - or you may call it flying rather than jumping - right over the castle wall. The two girls, breathless but unhurt, found themselves tumbling off his back in the middle of a wide stone courtyard full of statues.