Main Entry: em·pa·thy
Pronunciation: 'em-p&-thE
Function: noun
Etymology: Greek empatheia, literally, passion, from empathEs emotional, from em- + pathos feelings, emotion -- more at PATHOS
Date: 1904
1 : the imaginative projection of a subjective state into an object so that the object appears to be infused with it
2 : the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner; also : the capacity for this


Narrative Style

Gohan approached the bed carefully. 

Vegeta's eyes questioned him, grilled him, but he didn't answer.  Not even out of fear.  He still didn't meet his eyes, but crawled up, of his own will to hurriedly press his mouth to the one under him, his eyes closed. 

There was no response, but then he hadn't been expecting one.  Hoping perhaps, but not expecting. 

He moved his lips softly, lightly, gripping the lips beneath him with his own and pulling them until they slipped out, never using his teeth or his tongue in the play. 

Never opening his eyes.  Neither said anything. 

He moved his way down slowly, guiding himself with memory and touch, never looking, never speeding up. 

He left a careless track down the solid neck, missing the mark completely, finally using his tongue to carelessly re-map the collarbone, the amusing himself with the left nipple.  He traced the crossing byways of the abdomen, nibbling gently with his teeth where he could find purchase.

His blood hummed sluggishly in his head and fingers, calling and twitching half-heartedly.  His temperature was a little high.  Not much, but still a little high.

He nudged his nose against the stomach, rubbed his cheek against the skin, and glided his lips like an African breeze, a sirocco, along the hemline of his jeans.  He lifted his head, but not his face. 


//your turn.  move or pass.  make your choice.//

There was no movement.  No encouragement, but no resistance either. 

From a man who always told the world what crap he thought it was…and there was nothing he said to him.  Not to go on or to go away—absolutely nothing. 

Gohan unbuttoned the pants, unzipped them, pulled them off and got to work.

He knew what to do.  Vegeta had taught him how, had forced him later on although he hadn't had to force Gohan very hard before the smell had taken him in and over, and he had done it because it was what he did.  He knew what to do.  Vegeta had done it to him himself in the first few new hours that they were together, on the 7th day. 

And he had enjoyed too; had been marvelously, incredibly ashamed and embarrassed but he had enjoyed it. 

He hadn't wanted to, just as he could tell from the light, punishing scores of Vegeta's teeth against his sensitized skin that Vegeta hadn't much wanted him to enjoy it either. 

It was a thing that people like Vegeta did during sex.  That was it.  Just a thing people did.

He spit the ejaculation out onto the bed sheets, coughing slightly then spitting out more, sitting back his heels.

He didn't know why he was doing this.  He was terrified.  But he was tired too.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and slowly sat up on his heels. 

When Vegeta came around he saw the crouched bangs, the patience emanating from his respectful and nonchalant posture. 

//…that's not for you.  …for me.  i'm still … … adapt... …  yeah, right.  like a million … ago.  think i've adapted pretty goddamned well.  still won't … a sound, but he's a bastard anyway.//

Vegeta doubted he was meant to hear that. 

It pissed him off, not that Gohan was angry because he knew that already, but that he was angry and that he was trying to hide it.  It was so fucking human.  Sure wasn't Saiyan.  But he was too tired to really make an issue of it now. 

//damn it.  fuck…this isn't right…//

Apparently his bitch still had trouble accepting that he was male too and that he was Vegeta.  Vaguely typical.  Typical.  And not likely to change soon, so…move on with it.  Right? 

Gohan put one hand to the side of Vegeta's torso, leant his weight on it, shifted position so that he was balanced on his knees, and began moving up towards him.

Apparently the boy's and his own mental structures and been worn away like sandpaper by so much time together and their own failing mental walls.  They had spent so much energy into erecting boundaries between them, that they didn't have enough energy to maintain them. 

Everything was falling apart.

//… shouldn't have to do this.//

Gohan moved toward him slowly on his hands and knees, his face and eyes still shadowed, his breathing quiet if a little erratic.  Gohan put his hand next to Vegeta's shoulder, brought the other one up to rest on bed next to his other arm.  He still avoided touching him. 

//… sorry.  i'm so …  i don't want it to be this way.  not…like this--//

Vegeta's eyes opened a little wider.  Gohan's head dipped down to kiss him.  Again without looking at him. 

Vegeta's hand pushed his shoulder down, enough to keep their lips from moving.  Gohan paused for a second, before moving to lower his head down to Vegeta's chest.  Again, Vegeta held him, and this time pulled Gohan's head up by his hair, trying not to hurt him, but equally allowing no chance for leeway. 

He waited until he could see his eyes.  Feelings tumbled out and around in his mind.

Old anger.  Fatigue.  Shame.  Defeat.  Frustration.  Desire. 

//why him?  why, of all people, him?// 

||Do you really find me that repulsive?||

Gohan inhaled sharply like he'd been hit.

//no!  no…how--//

||Then why do you hate me so?||

Gohan's chest heaved.  They could talk through their minds.  They could actually talk through their minds.


Vegeta actually looked--


Vegeta blinked.

//i want you.  you won't let me.  you don't…//

Gohan glared, dark, roiling anger coating his thoughts with scorn. 

//you don't want me.//

Vegeta said nothing.  Vegeta did nothing.  Gohan could lightly hear him turning the sentiment over in his mind. 


The hand pulling his hair relaxed, brushing through the strands to cup the skull.  Pulling him closer and this time Gohan resisted.  Deep baritone like lead falling to the bottom of the ocean echoed through his mind.

||Eyes open.  Not instinct, not anger, not grief.  Eyes open.  See what you're getting into.  See who you're with.  See what you are, and see what I am.||

Gohan didn't move. 

||Make your choice.||

Gohan blinked.  Choice?  What choice had he had in this?  What-real decision, clear open decision totally uninfluenced and conscious, had there been? 

||There's always choice stupid.  Not the one you want.  Not the one you need.  But there's always a choice.  Eyes open.||

A mouth ghosted over his.

||I've… chosen.||

His temperature shot up in accordance to Vegeta's touch automatically, unavoidably and he opened his mouth even while Vegeta pulled away to lay his head back down.  What choice did he have?  What real choice was there? 

//he said he'd stay with me.//

If Gohan said no, then it would be back to the drugs and crappy life he had before.  If he said yes, then what would be different from how he was whoring himself to his instincts now, and dragging Vegeta further along with him? 

//he marked me.//

Why would Vegeta help?  How much longer before he cut off interest completely?  What would Gohan do then?  The hell with choosing, Vegeta had already said he didn't ever want him close.  What was there to choose? 

Fingers shifted (flinched?) in the hair at the nape of his neck.

//he wants me//

Gohan closed his eyes, relaxed, and opened his mind. 


He studied the eyes stared up at him calmly, even nonchalant.  He could feel the tumult in Vegeta's mind through the half-opened bond, could feel it, but couldn't see or hear it.  He blinked suddenly; the thrice-damned genetic honesty laving his face thoroughly-licked his lips suddenly and ducked his head half-way to Vegeta's before stopping in a rush, blinking rapidly--

//was that too fast?  too fast too eager he'll think i'm lying//

//imean why's he doing this?  why now?  i mean he never…//

//…but…i's nice…so nice…want you…//

--breathing deep suddenly while Vegeta just stared up at him. 

The man who had tried to kill him so many times.  The man who had tried to kill his father so many times.  That man that had sneered that Gohan was only good for cleaning his boots, that was why he had saved him, while he intentionally patted his head in that irritating and demeaning manner like he was some damn pet

The man who wasn't always the strongest, rarely the hero, and didn't give a fuck about anything much.  The man who was the exact opposite of everything he wanted to be.  The man with eyes like the depths of space and pain.  Alone.  In pain.  Strong. 

The man who was completely, wholly, free.  The man who had paid the price for that freedom. 

The man that wasn't afraid of anything. 

Vegeta's fingers were curled so tightly in his hair with fear that he was beginning to pull the strands out. 

Gohan swallowed hard, opened his mouth nervously, worked it around, and then closed it.  He leaned himself slowly, eyes never leaving Vegeta's except once or twice to glance at his lips and make sure he was going in the right direction, his cheeks twitching with the sheer amount of nerves he was feeling.

//too slow too hesitant too eager too afraid too superficial too meaningful//

He licked his very dry lips and forgot to breathe, because his whole mind was trying to remember how to kiss well.  And was, regrettably, coming up empty.  For the life of him, Gohan couldn't remember how to kiss well.

//the smallest wrong move.  bam.  end game.  elow then.//

Their lips touched, Gohan's bottom lips snapping feebly at Vegeta's, Vegeta's lips still and quiet yet yielding and trembling slightly, keeping Gohan's eyes with only minimally more control than Gohan was. 

Kissing with open eyes.  Big taboo, very rude, far too intimate and suspicious.  No tongue, no teeth.  Working with the bare essentials, the test to see if one was skilled by taking the flair away. 

Fear stronger in the room than ever, gassing it and killing it, because it was completely fueled and interwoven with open desire.


It wouldn't sever the bond, but it might kill them.  Lying wouldn't fix anything; up until now they had both been lying and looking away. 

Gohan pulled away slightly and cupped Vegeta's head and neck in his hands.  Black into black.  Darkness introverted and turned in on itself; looking into a mirror to see what he saw when he looked at you. 

It was Vegeta that the mirror surprised.

He had been expecting anger.  He had been expecting fear.  He found admiration in abundance.  He found thin, hard loyalty.  He found dense, convoluted and twisted quiet jealously and envy and irrational dislike.  In other words, he found hopeless desire. 

Gohan blinked. 




Still holding Vegeta's gaze, he lowered down to kiss his lips tenderly, openly, pressing deeper though not harder when Vegeta's lips opened slowly to him.  Vegeta blinked quickly, finding it harder to hold the gaze, his hands roaming in spurts along Gohan's back.

His entire body was throbbing, even his toenails swelling and deflating with his pulse in magenta and black flashes, his bond mark and erection in particular, every place where Gohan touched him exploding in brilliant and burning amber flashes. 

Fuck.  He was so damned fucked. 

He moved his lips carefully against Gohan's, turning his head a bit to get a better angle, fighting with everything the impulse to just grab him and swallow him whole until he choked.

They could feel the touches burn, could smell the arousal genuine in the air, could mentally tell how much they were affected by everything.  It would have been so damn easy to break eye-contact, and it was so damn weird to hold it.  But they did; for reasons neither understood, they did, while fingers warily roamed and touched and muscles slowly relaxed against each other.

Gohan's fingers trailed down to his thighs and lower, and Vegeta moved his mouth and bent one knee to the side, his hands pressing down on Gohan's back.  Gohan tilted his head to deepen the kiss, find a new angle, his eyes still burning into Vegeta's, fingers probing at his entrance. 

Vegeta arched his neck on invasion, his eyes screwing shut and his head tilted to the side. 

||Oh god no.||

||Shit!  Shit!  …damn it all!|| 

Even as a second finger was inserted, Gohan was pulling his face to meet his and to open his eyes. 

Vegeta reacted first with panic, one hand automatically coming to wrap around the younger's neck infused with ki.  He was going to die.  He was going to be hurt.  He was going to stop being him.

//eyes open//

He waited until Vegeta opened his eyes and could look at him lucidly.  Waited until Vegeta understood what was going on, even if his body was boiling and throbbing and the sounds of Vegeta's gasps of panic was nearly enough to make him scream.  This was too important to be ignored or short-changed or fabricated even in the least. 

Air made hiffhh sounds as it shuffled up and down Vegeta's windpipe, moving in short, watchful intervals, ready at any moment to scream or kill.  Vegeta's hands dug into Gohan's shoulders, and his eyes were burning.  He didn't wiggle or squirm.  If he wanted to get out, he would do so. 

Gohan kept his gaze.  He was still very nervous, hormones still ramming through his nerves, and he was shaking.  His lips kept tingling with Vegeta's words running through his mind.

Any minute now…

He touched his hips gently, looking for the slightest indication that he shouldn't, and moved Vegeta's legs up and to the side slowly.  Vegeta was smaller than him; Vegeta was so much smaller than him.  Not weaker, but still…he was so much more smaller.  It inspired some grudging dangerous tenderness, that small stature.

He kissed Vegeta's lips lightly, got ready, then pushed in.

Vegeta's hand was still wrapped around his neck when he entered him, warningly, threatening his life, surveying Gohan's ki to make sure it never went too high, beyond what he could control. 

Vegeta hissed between his teeth and arched his neck, even while his hand shifted to crush Gohan's shoulder instead of his neck. 

Fingers drove into his arms like iron nails, and Gohan watched the small shivers escape the iron smelted control, watched the pulse jump in his neck and his breathing suffer.  Besides the small hisses and rugged breathing, Vegeta didn't make a sound.  Vegeta didn't make a sound and he didn't break eye-contact, though he did blink twice.

Gohan pulled out half-way achingly slow, his cock brushing against every fiber and cilia in that part of Vegeta's body, before swallowingly pushing back in. 

Whatever mask of confidence and calm Vegeta had been using was gone, and the intensity of vulnerability and fear in his face was nicely complemented by the bruised and bleeding marks under his fingers on Gohan's shoulder and arm, the rigid tension his innards were in. 

He was completely defenseless, not only physically where he had been broken and crushed before, but at the core.  A single word, a single, small gesture or flippant thought and he was over.  He was gone.  Without his pride he was nothing.  And now, that could be taken.  He had allowed it so. 


So Gohan moved slowly. 

He didn't bother to offer comfort or assurance, knowing that sympathy would be pity and pity would be the deathblow.  He gave him time.  He couldn't offer comfort.  He couldn't encourage trust.  So he just gave him time.  Time, and freedom. 

Vegeta would see to the rest, Gohan trusted.

He went slow, and shallow. 

By degrees, Vegeta relaxed, the fear and suspicion not completely gone but no longer in control.  Gohan did not speed up, but did deepen the thrusts, his breaths coming a little faster, his hands sweating on Vegeta's hip and shoulder, minute tremors going through him, and his mouth slightly open and trembling.  The slow, shallow thrusts were having the same effect on Vegeta's throbbing body now that he had relaxed and decided he was more or less safe for the moment.  Gingerly, he blinked rapidly, took a breath, and wrapped his thighs around Gohan's waist and knees over his back just as he was withdrawing and yanked him back hard.

Gohan gasped and opened his eyes wide, just as Vegeta arched his neck and screamed. 

And then Gohan lost control. 

He pounded Vegeta into the mattress, his ki gathered around him in blankets, grunts and growls coming from him even as Vegeta's fingers clawed the skin from his back and grunted and groaned, clinging to his back desperately, but still moving in rhythm to the thrusts as well as his body could. 

Perhaps in the heat of the moment, Gohan's mouth covered his, tongue rubbing roughly against Vegeta's.  Vegeta's hand gripped his hair to yank him away to press his mouth against his neck.  Press his teeth against the mark.  Latching on to it with teeth and tongue made Vegeta scream like a dying light, like a supernova, and made him buck his hips so hard against Gohan's that he lost beat for a second before finding it again. 

Pleasure at the feel of Vegeta and Vegeta's voice and Vegeta's scent everywhere and Vegeta's enthusiasm and there was Vegeta's blood right under his teeth.

The bite-mark, the reclaiming bite-mark, was shallow because of a jerk in motion that had changed the angle, Vegeta's voiceless scream of empty lungs and splurging orgasm and head-on deep bite was what caused Gohan's own orgasm. 

He froze, shuddered, and cried gently before rocking his body a little more, Vegeta's thighs absently caressing his hips, his hands slowly rubbing Gohan's back, stained with blood.  His breathing still came out shaky, but it was longer, and a little deeper. 

Gohan settled down in small, gentle jerks on top of him, his face buried next to Vegeta's neck.  Over the sound of his own breath and blood, Vegeta could hear Gohan's own breath, and could hear him crying softly. 

Hungry little kisses rained down his neck, and Vegeta brought his hand up to caress his hair, heard something choke, and felt Gohan move up to kiss his lips hungrily, tenderly, carefully trying not to hurt him anymore.  A tongue ventured into his mouth, petting gently, stroking everywhere, rubbing reassuringly against his lips.

Through the haze of his own mind, Vegeta tried to focus on kissing back, failing.  Gohan's tongue started kissing under his jaw, swearing, asking for forgiveness, asking for pardon, and yet still demanding more as his mouth went further down to the joint of his jaw and licking up to his eyes and forehead, licking up every drop of sweat he could find.

Gohan's body relaxed and melted down into his own, small shy tendrils of his mind stumbling through the bond requesting information of Vegeta's health, his state of mind, his emotions, yet never stumbling in too far or getting the information themselves, respecting Vegeta's privacy.

Yet even his finger tips, the small sounds of his breathing, and especially the small mental messengers he was sending all said the same thing: Elation.  Elation all through him. 

Gohan returned to kiss Vegeta's lips into life, into action,


I'm sorry I'm so sorry I never meant to hurt you I didn't I was trying not to and--




…Vegeta you're bleeding. 

I know.  Do it again. 

…Are you sure?

Yes.  Again.

…All right.


Slow, this time.  Gentle.  Just starting with light little kisses along the edge of his jaw, licking and kissing apologetically at the bloodied spot on his neck, going softer when Vegeta gasped and dug his fingers into his back, arching his body up towards Gohan and inclining his head to give him more access. 


It felt like reroasting burnt cinders, little jolts of electricity impaling and stabbing his limp and weary nerves straight through the meaty core.

||Not bad boy.  Not bad at all…||


Gohan Breathes:

He woke with a start only once that night, scratchy black fear flapping in his head. 

There was a weight on his chest, and an arm clutched his abdomen. 

He breathed out again. 

Wincing, his face twisting into a grimace, he lifted his head enough to move his arm out from under it, twisting the bloodless and deoxygenated muscles into bringing the limb to cover the weight on his chest. 

Before he drifted off to sleep again, he felt the arm lift from his stomach, lay across his own, and squeezed gently.  His own hand squeezed the shoulder it cupped weakly.  The hand returned to grip his stomach again. 

He drifted back to sleep.

Vegeta Breathes:

He woke up later curled on top of his mate, his eyes, able to see clearly even through the darkness. 

He lifted himself up to his elbows, watching his mate's face fade into a frown, fingers digging weakly into his back.  Slight hints of a frown flitted over his face, and he didn't lower himself back down to the bed.  Cuddling wasn't his style.

And yet--he hadn't felt this… calm, in a very long time.  A very long time. 

There came a point in time when…fighting was just too much of a pain in the neck to really pursue.  When it just wasn't worth it.  He had a hard time admitting that, but he wasn't stupid.  When it wasn't worth fighting for, when it would be too painful to win and impossible to lose, it was better just to stop.  So he did.  Vegeta had always been intelligent and stubborn; a strange combination.

He leaned down the distance, and nibbled the lips that were full and chubby like a human's, and hid animal teeth. 

His tongue pried the teeth apart with effort, lazily imprinting the roof of the mouth with the flat of his tongue, idly tracing the molars before impatiently pushing the muscle slumbering at the bottom to life.  He lifted his head, staring into the blinking half-opened eyes, before getting off the bed and walking around it; vaguely surprised to see his mate was already hurrying to follow him. 

Jerking, urgent, and weak movements saw feet to the floor, and the rest of him would have crashed on to it if his hands hadn't caught shoulders. 

Breathing was ragged and heavy, head hanging into his chest.  He was completely beaten up, ugly purple marks and fingertips coating his wrists and arms and hips, blood crusted on his neck and dribbled down on his chest, multiple angry fingernail and bite marks on his shoulders.  He had done that, had inflicted those wounds.

Yet he was still trying to follow, weakly. 

Foolish, foolish loyalty.  So stupid, yet rather endearing in it's own way. 

His own body had also been beaten up, but to a much lesser degree, and healed faster.

His hands pushed the shoulders back, his head ducking to languidly kiss his lips and take his mouth that still tasted of sweat and blood and seed. 

The body under his hands relaxed and splashed back onto the bed, fingertips nearly tickling his sides, a wave of relief and that constant elation washing through his mind.  He lifted his head, staring into eyes that hid nothing, were tired and worn yet infinitely relieved. 


A needle of fear prickled his cerebellum. 

Absolute adoration.  Absolute loyalty.

He lightly kissed the brow, got up, felt a shower of panic and sent his own blanket of comfort and assurances along the bond.  He didn't need to turn around to know that eyes were glued to his back, and as he walked down the hall to the shower, didn't need to open the bond to know that ears and ki were locked onto his every movement.

He took his time in the shower, rubbing the blood and sweat and other bodily fluids off with hot water and soap, doing some areas twice depending on the damage to them.  He scrubbed his hair, scrubbed his scalp, and had tried to let the water rinse out all the cuts that covered his back and shoulders were he couldn't reach them with his hands.

After he was completely cleaned, he turned off the water and dried himself off with a slow controlled waves of his ki, then powered down and walked out of the room, across the room, and got a pair of sweat pants out of the closet there.

He went back to the bathroom, and collected some items. 

He went back to the bedroom, and was unsurprised that the body lying on the bed hadn't moved, and eyes hadn't closed.

He was watched blearily as he opened the towel on the floor, and laid the bowl of warm water and alcohol next to it.

Soft purring flopped around in his ears as he picked up the body around the shoulders and under his knees, and laid him on top of the towel.

"Let's get you cleaned up before you catch something."


It was one of the things that stood the boy out from other lovers he had known.  The woman had been fascinating, blatant with her flattery (which he had eaten up), and absently caring and cheerful.  And remarkably unbending. 

He still enjoyed her, after her fashion.  But she never worshipped him.  She had her pride too; her ideas that this was his role, to worship her, not the other way around.  Some human custom, apparently.  He hadn't felt her worth it. 

He had never conceived that he needed it. 

That sort of absolute honesty was new to him, though he knew it was birthright as the prince of the species.  But…it wasn't his birthright that was the cause of that admiration, that loyalty.  It was just him.  It was…

Mildly disturbing.  But it was a nice-disturbing feeling, after it's fashion.

It felt better not to fight.


Callused, gentle hands ironed and kneaded the muscles in Vegeta's shoulders and neck by number, each one meticulously learned, massaged, relaxed, and then allowed to rest.  The spaces between his vertebrae pressed and explored, the base of his skull gently, nearly teasingly rubbed. 

Slowly, strong, slightly chilled hands made their way down the sensitive area between his shoulder blades, tickled the muscles and bones that had been numbed and nulled out of existence. 

Old scars, healed muscles and bones that still ached along the break on very cold days were touched, briefly warmed, and soothed.   It was certainly the most sensual, non-sexual act he had ever been in.  The pressure and warmth along his vertebrae, tail scar, buttocks almost always gave him half an arousal. 

And his mate's touch still burned, still stimulated, though, it was now tempered with time and something else. 


Of the few times he'd been massaged by the boy, he'd fallen asleep twice and hadn't woken up until late morning.  The last time he'd fought against sleeping and had to settle for drifting in and out of dozing and lethargy, determined not to fall asleep until it was over.  He didn't like relinquishing control, but it was still a frustrating pain to fight against.

The sessions always made him terribly defenseless and excruciatingly open.  He fell asleep completely, into a sleep so deep and absolute that he didn't dream, didn't listen for footsteps or even track his mate. 

He was gone. 

He was just completely gone. 

And it wasn't like the exhaustion, the closest synonym he could find, that followed intense fighting or sex.  He wasn't tired.  He was just gone.  He hated being that open, that defenseless.  He hated it with a passion.

There wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.  He had tried to fight, tried to resist the hands could suck the strength from his body with just a simple touch the same way that they could make him burn and writhe and scream.  Nothing seductive or divine about it, just the simple and honest touch of his mate.  Crude.  He fell under them every time. 

Resistance only made him anticipate which made him think and remember which made him yearn. 

He kept on trying harder to fight and falling easier each time.  His ass, his chest, and his cock had always been given due consideration by lovers before, but his…elbows?  His toes?  The small of his back? 

…Worshipped.  He was absolutely worshipped and conquered.  He had tried swearing at the boy.  He had tried resisting.  He had tried staring, as he had learned long ago that the boy was as sensitive to his eyes as he was to the boy's touch, and all he accomplished was a lasting blush and a longer, more timid session.  And he always fell asleep without knowing where his mate was or what he was doing. 

Completely defenseless. 

He needn't have had worried. 

The last time he had stayed up to watch his mate, he'd simply lain down beside him and started reading some novel until he fell asleep. 

On the whole Vegeta preferred sex, because there was something so differently intimate about falling asleep, in giving one's total welfare and care into the hands of someone else that was new in a way that disturbed him.  It was dangerous, risky, and far too cozy and soft in a way that didn't suit him in the least. 

He couldn't stop.

And this time, he didn't want to.


He awoke some time later, the muscles in his arms and waist limp and drowsy, to find Gohan sitting up awake next to him reading some novel. 

He sniffed the air, and was unsurprised when there wasn't a high amount of hormones or adrenaline in the air.  The thrumming in his blood wasn't even background static.  No influences. 

This was Gohan: not the demon hunter, not the gormless geek, not the slow and careful foreman…

This was Gohan: Thorough, unyielding, considerate, humble…caring…

Gohan licked his thumb and turned the page.  Vegeta concentrated on the muscles in his arm until the limb moved and curled around his mate's waist and gripped his shirt.

"Oh, you're awake.  Sorry, didn't think the light was that bright."

This was Gohan: manipulative, controlling, self-righteous, very angry, and a little distant. 

Not so very different from himself at times.


It could be worse.


Gohan Dreams:

I dreamed I was laying on a big granite altar, the old Celtic or Aztec kind. 

I wasn't chained or bound, and I was completely stripped of clothes. 

Blue moonlight was shining on me, just lying there. 

I turned my head, and saw him standing there, in between the moonlight and shadow.  I could see his eyes, and we looked at each other. 

He had a big butcher knife, but now I'm not sure why. 

He wouldn't need it to kill me.  He despised weapons, preferring to use his hands and hard-earned skills to hunt and kill.  He thought weapons were weak. 

I wasn't afraid.  I was on an altar, the moon at it's zenith, and he had a very big knife. 

I'm half-human.  Saiyans wouldn't do it like this.  I wasn't afraid.  He wasn't going to cut me.  He was supposed to, but he wasn't going to. 

We just looked at each other.  I don't know when I've felt so peaceful, not doing or thinking anything.  Home was a volcano covered with smiles and custom.  We just looked at each other.

Later, maybe in the same dream, maybe not, I dreamed my eyes were closing because he was kissing me again.


Lemony Style


That's how you would describe it. 

Wet and hot so hot it toasts the back of your tongue, so salty it makes your eyes water. 

You lick the sweat off the neck you've fallen in love with, the skin you adore, and the blood you cherish so passionately it scares you. 

You've given him so much. 

You didn't keep too much for yourself, you wonder if you kept anything at all.  You don't care much. 

You forget as fingers clutch your back, grip your shoulders, muffled moans and gratifying needy whimpers caress your ears like warm water. 

You rub your face against coarse clean vertical hair that smells like summer rain and has an addictive quality to it that makes it hard to think. 

Thighs squeeze and crush and pull you in, begging with a high-pitched scream that whimpers and pleads your name.


Your name. 


Not some faceless god or forgotten prince or bastard killer. 

Your name. 


He calls for you; he begs from you, he exalts you. 

High, breathless whimpers dissolve into something like a giggle melting into something like a scream washing into something like pain. 

He smiles wider and his elation crashes through your mind in bracing cold torrents of ocean waves, bubbles of hope and dirty joy frothing at the crest.

He desire for you goes deeper than blood. 

He desire for you goes through his soul and mind and essence and you wonder briefly as you bang him especially hard and then just caress his insides gently to feel him arch and writhe: Was he made for you?  Or were you made for him?

It's an inconsequential inquiry that opens a little pocket in the wide rapids of your lust and pleasure. 

Warm wet suction surrounds and kisses you, right where you need it, muscles contracting like an earthworm, trapping and teasing you to make you clench and jerk and push harder. 

He pants hard into your ear, speaking, spitting, sweating, the humidity creating a small rainforest in your hair.  He rubs his chest against you, the muscles rasping and burning so slicked with sweat they move like a well-oiled machine.

The space monster and the country scholar. 

The lost king and the promised savior. 

Both too late to do anything worth doing.  The idiot saw to that.  

He shrieks new steel into your ear and swallows you into him hard pushing back against you, and you bite his neck, damp and dripping with sweat and saliva already and now wetter and warmer with tangy metallic flooding your nose and mouth…: You both let out a heartfelt bone deep moan and throb once, twice, so hard, so sharp with desire that it hurts. 

He whimpers hard and sharp and begs incoherently as you work towards the moment that you love and hate with a passion like you love and hate anything. 

You work towards getting off with rhythm and pressure.

more…please…yes!  yes, just like that…fu-ucck yeesss…vegeta…vegeta…

You work to get off.

oh thank you thank you thank you…

You hate this moment because the moments over, because you can't keep the screams he gives you in a box somewhere; you can only caress them now.  You can't put his elation in a photo.  You can barely lock inside you mind.

You hate and love it because this is the best part, where he surrenders and touches you like you've always wanted but never needed, the very best part where you surrender and worship him like you've always needed to and never could. 

This is the best part where you and he are both so weak and helpless with his and your very cores out in the open between you two while he fights to keep your gaze, drowning in each other's eyes, the light reflecting off his eyes mimicking stars, his skin lubricated in a thin layer of fluid, his mouth, his perfect delectable flexible mouth open and gasping and screaming; eyes closed when he can't hold it back anymore. 

This is the moment you love.  Because, at this moment, this one second, he is completely, totally, down to his soul and blood and instinct…yours. 

All yours. 

Not his father's, not his mother's, not the Earth's, not his dream's and not his nightmare's boy. 

He is yours. 

All yours.

And you are his.

He is you.

And you are him.



It's over now.


A/N: I have had this thing rolling around in my computer for so long…it's over now.  Much thanks to the Blue Seeress for early beta-reading, to Android 71 for encouragement and interest when it really counted and not forgetting about me, and Angelus for making me strive to improvement with wonderful compliments and to GW-Imp for reminding me this thing existed, and sporking me until I finished it.  I loved writing it; I think it's one of my finer works, even with it's fractured structure and non-clarity, but I'm really proud of it.  It's over now.