A/N: ...Alright, I couldn't resist coming back to this story. DON'T JUDGE ME. I think everyone who's here knows the drill by now. Darkfic, non-con, foul language, don't read this if you don't like bad Goku; etc. Obviously this is the sequel to "A Walking Shadow"/"A Poor Player." I'm not sure if this will be the main story I write or "Violent Ends." I really like both of them and don't have much time on my hands. Anywho, this will chronicle Goku/Bulla's life together from now on, though it's gonna be far from picture perfect. Probably going to avoid pregnancy in this. This is loosely based around my favorite poem of all time.
Warnings: As aforementioned: darkfic, non-con, foul language.
Pairings: Goku/Bulla; otherwise all canon.
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball Z or anything affiliated with it.
This is the sequel to "A Walking Shadow." I highly suggest reading that first so you can understand the nature of Goku and Bulla's relationship and the circumstances surrounding it.
-MalRev
[The Woods Are Lovely]
1: Dying
"I FUCKING HATE YOU!"
The chair flew out of my hands toward Goku's head and he easily caught it in the air to place it back on the kitchen floor. I screamed furiously at how fast his reflexes were and scrambled to hurl more things at him. Maybe he'd slip up and I'd knock him out. My whole body was trembling and I struggled to ignore his desperate pleading; the sad tone that made me trust him in the first place.
It made my stomach curl. It hurt to know how utterly stupid I was. How did I fall for such blatant tricks when it was right under my nose the entire time? I ripped open a drawer, rummaging around until I found a knife and twisted fast on my heel to hurl it across the table at Goku.
There was a twang as he caught it neatly between his index and middle fingers, still watching me anxiously. He wasn't afraid of what I'd do to him. He was more concerned about what I'd do to myself. I lunged over the table, knocking both of us to the floor and straddled his hips to push the tip of the knife closer to Goku's nose. He didn't even look at it. He was staring at me. Worried.
Forget how I was trying to kill him. What if something happened to his precious Bulla? What if his carefully groomed pet was… hurt? I shoved all of my body weight to the knife and couldn't even bring it to the hairs on his nose. It was so goddamn frustrating being the weak one. I could overpower any human male and most of the time, I could fight my own brother. Goku was disgustingly strong.
In one swift movement, the knife was thrown across the floor and we were sitting up, with me between his legs. He held me close to his chest and kissed the top of my head. I burst into tears for the millionth time since he brought me home. It'd only been a week. I flickered between hating him and… and…
"Please don't swear," he whispered into my hair. "It isn't nice."
I screamed into his shirt, crying even harder. I'm trying to kill you and you're concerned about curse words. It was so twisted. He was twisted. Sometimes I was his daughter. Other days, I played the role of the hostage. But every horrible, gruesome night, I became a woman.
At least Gohan was aggressive and treated me like I deserved. I didn't know if Goku did it deliberately or was just so sick that he couldn't tell the difference, but he took his sweet time and was nauseatingly gentle. He'd talk to me like I was five: crooning and murmuring and touching my hair. Now he had all the time in the world to do whatever he wanted.
Goku rose to his feet and carried me from the room toward the stairs, humming the same song he always did when I had a mental breakdown. I knew I was headed for a full psychotic episode; I'd lose my ability to tell the difference between reality and the house of nightmares I lived in. It was coming.
Upstairs, he carefully laid me on the bed. He sat beside me and pulled a pillow off my face when I tried to smother myself with it. His black eyes studied me, inquisitive and innocent. I hiccupped and wiped the tears from my cheeks. What if I died? Was that still an option? If I could get Goku off my back for ten minutes I could cut my own throat.
Big, clumsy fingers brushed my hair back. "You have to go to school soon. I want you to be smart and I promised your parents I'd let you go. Don't worry; I'll be there to make sure nothing happens to you. You mean everything to me. I'll never let anyone hurt you."
"Stop saying that," I hissed, smacking his hand away. "You're so creepy. I can't believe you sat there and waited until I was old enough to rape. You're fucking—"
"I said, don't swear."
I cackled. That's the only way to describe it. I sounded like a witch.
"Bite me, Goku. Take the jewelry and the clothes and whatever stupid agreement you have with my parents and shove it up your FUCKING ASS."
Goku looked away from me, down at his hands, and started twiddling his thumbs. His eyes were tearing up and his lower lip quivered. Oh, Jesus Christ. If he started crying I was going the hell home to tell my father so he could take a few pictures to jerk off on whenever his pride was wounded.
"I'm being nice," Goku said. He was hunched over. Hiding. "I love you. Please be happy and please don't swear. Those words hurt my ears, especially when they come out of your pretty mouth. They're ugly."
"You and your son have made me into a grown woman so I think it's about time I start talking like one."
"I don't hurt you during sex. I'm always nice."
"That isn't the point." I sat up, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Are you really this dumb or are you just avoiding the obvious? I think I've made it pretty fucking clear that—"
"Don't swear."
I took a deep breath. "Fuck you, fuck your son, fuck my parents, fuck everyone!"
It didn't take much prodding to make Goku snap. He grabbed my hair and forced me to lie down across his lap, covering my mouth when I started shrieking. It'd only been a week and he knew exactly what I hated. He yanked my pants and underwear down and I gnawed desperately on his fingers. No, no, no; it hurt so much and it always stung for days after.
The only sound in the house was flesh hitting flesh, occasionally broken by my whimpering. Why did he have such big hands? I clenched his pants tightly in my sweating palms and grimaced every time he smacked me. I'd given up chewing my way through his fingers, leaving a layer of saliva on his skin that was uncomfortably sticky against my lips.
Sometimes I expected my father to come charging through the door. Last-minute rescues were sort of his trademark so it wouldn't surprise me. But he didn't. I was left alone to deal with Goku and all the insanity that came along with him. No one was willing to help.
Goku began pulling up my pants a while later but stopped halfway and decided to take them off. He'd really drive the point home on certain nights with equally agonizing sex. That usually got me to shut up and calm down for a few more days, mostly because I was too busy being afraid to worry about fighting back. It was emotional shock therapy.
He laid me on my stomach and I was face first in the pillow I tried to suffocate myself with. It smelled good, like strawberries and the sun. I always thought sunlight had a certain scent after it had heated something up for a while. It was warm. It reminded me of spring.
"Nice and quiet," Goku said, leaning across my back so he could hold the tops of my hands. "If I'm going to spend eternity with you, I don't want you to be loud. You'll be young and pretty forever."
Sharp pain distracted me from worrying about spending forever trapped with Goku. He was one with the Dragon Balls: not physically, but spiritually they were very much connected. Shenron would gladly listen to any wish he wanted because after all, he was the savior of the entire universe.
The only evil bone in his body willed him to subjugate and claim his childhood friend's only daughter, eerily grooming her in the process. But in the grand scheme of things, that had to be like pinky bone-sized evil. It didn't count. Goku was born a Saiyan man who was subjected to mortal desires.
Every time he pushed inside me, it hurt in a million different ways.