Huh, well, this was... interesting. I'm not sure if it makes sense or not, but it is supposed
to sound a bit, ah, wild and out of control. Hey, it's the obsessive, extremely disturbed
musings of a Gohan I never thought could exist. o.0
Warning: Hints at consensual abuse, or rather, a relationship of the pleasure/pain variety.
Not for the weak-hearted, though there is nothing graphic.
~*~
I do not know when it all began.
No, that is not true. I could probably make a rather accurate conjecture, but I
simply do not find such menial facts important. My life before now, before the pain, the
hate, the love held no substantial meaning. I had a life before my Ouji, this I know, but it
no longer occupies any corner of my mind worthy of noticing. From the first tentative,
barely there kiss - a simple brushing of the lips, really - and the exquisite pain of a
vengeful, burning slap, everything except us and that which directly affected us faded
away, dissolving into a background hum of blurry images and fleeting voices like so
many pearly grains of salt disintegrating in a vat of crystal water, liquid and solid
becoming one unassuming mass of nothing.
Do not think that I did not hear them, my friends and family, but all their
warnings, their blazing yellow caution signs of what I was falling into, rolled over me
harmlessly, ineffectively. He had already wrapped his protective, impenetrable shield
about my young, na‹ve form; there was no turning back, even had I wished to, which of
course I did not. They told me he was dangerous, a twisted, malicious snake not to be
trusted so freely and devotedly. Even my own father begged me to reconsider my
decision. But then, how was he to know that it was not my decision to reconsider?
Vegita, my prince, my love, chose me, an actuality that stills my breath and sends
chills of icy lightning-fingers up and down my spine at the mere thought of it even after
all this time. I was and am intensely honoured at how he could lower himself from his
kingly pedestal and take me in, accept me, cherish me. And it is because of this that I
willingly take the abuse rained down upon me, the bitter words that cut deep, a million
knives in my tender skin, and the harsher actions, the physical hurt, that bites at my small
vessel. I am not worthy of his sentiment, yet still he holds me, caresses me, beats me.
And I am grateful of every second I have with him.
He has imprinted himself firmly into my self, burrowing deep into the marrow of
my bones and then further still until every pore leaks with his presence. Wherever I go,
he remains with me. I can feel his rough, heated touch raking across my back, fingers
delving deep enough to draw up rivers of crimson and soft, silky tongue lapping up the
spilled treasure as if it was water and he was a dying man in a torrid desert. And then
those same hands stained with my own, inferior blood, dull maroon that pales in the light
of his brilliant ruby, glide up my body with the lightest of touches to cradle my face with
care and affection not of this world.
Yes, he is a god among mortals on this earth. He is all I have, all I want, all I
need.
He provides the pleasure and pain, the comfort and anguish, the love and hatred.
And I, in return, bare my body and soul to his proud, critical gaze, those endless ebony
orbs that deem me, me, worthy to grace with their sweeping presence.
His eyes. Whoever spoke of eyes as the windows to the soul was right in so many
ways. I can loose myself always in those dark holes that promise both life and death,
forever swimming in the well of secret emotions he tires so hard to spirit way from view.
But I can see them, and they take my breath away. He need not say it, for I know, beyond
the slightest whisper of a doubt, I know that I am his forever. He has swallowed me up,
taken me into his womb, crushed and hidden me within himself where no one but he may
reach.
And, oh sweet ambrosia, when he does reach, when he wraps those authoritarian
arms about me, tearing at my skin and kissing softly, gently, like hundreds of delicate
butterflies alighting on my lips, my vision turns to fire and all I see, smell, feel, taste is
him. He is a raging inferno and I am the willing sacrifice to his divine directive.
to sound a bit, ah, wild and out of control. Hey, it's the obsessive, extremely disturbed
musings of a Gohan I never thought could exist. o.0
Warning: Hints at consensual abuse, or rather, a relationship of the pleasure/pain variety.
Not for the weak-hearted, though there is nothing graphic.
~*~
I do not know when it all began.
No, that is not true. I could probably make a rather accurate conjecture, but I
simply do not find such menial facts important. My life before now, before the pain, the
hate, the love held no substantial meaning. I had a life before my Ouji, this I know, but it
no longer occupies any corner of my mind worthy of noticing. From the first tentative,
barely there kiss - a simple brushing of the lips, really - and the exquisite pain of a
vengeful, burning slap, everything except us and that which directly affected us faded
away, dissolving into a background hum of blurry images and fleeting voices like so
many pearly grains of salt disintegrating in a vat of crystal water, liquid and solid
becoming one unassuming mass of nothing.
Do not think that I did not hear them, my friends and family, but all their
warnings, their blazing yellow caution signs of what I was falling into, rolled over me
harmlessly, ineffectively. He had already wrapped his protective, impenetrable shield
about my young, na‹ve form; there was no turning back, even had I wished to, which of
course I did not. They told me he was dangerous, a twisted, malicious snake not to be
trusted so freely and devotedly. Even my own father begged me to reconsider my
decision. But then, how was he to know that it was not my decision to reconsider?
Vegita, my prince, my love, chose me, an actuality that stills my breath and sends
chills of icy lightning-fingers up and down my spine at the mere thought of it even after
all this time. I was and am intensely honoured at how he could lower himself from his
kingly pedestal and take me in, accept me, cherish me. And it is because of this that I
willingly take the abuse rained down upon me, the bitter words that cut deep, a million
knives in my tender skin, and the harsher actions, the physical hurt, that bites at my small
vessel. I am not worthy of his sentiment, yet still he holds me, caresses me, beats me.
And I am grateful of every second I have with him.
He has imprinted himself firmly into my self, burrowing deep into the marrow of
my bones and then further still until every pore leaks with his presence. Wherever I go,
he remains with me. I can feel his rough, heated touch raking across my back, fingers
delving deep enough to draw up rivers of crimson and soft, silky tongue lapping up the
spilled treasure as if it was water and he was a dying man in a torrid desert. And then
those same hands stained with my own, inferior blood, dull maroon that pales in the light
of his brilliant ruby, glide up my body with the lightest of touches to cradle my face with
care and affection not of this world.
Yes, he is a god among mortals on this earth. He is all I have, all I want, all I
need.
He provides the pleasure and pain, the comfort and anguish, the love and hatred.
And I, in return, bare my body and soul to his proud, critical gaze, those endless ebony
orbs that deem me, me, worthy to grace with their sweeping presence.
His eyes. Whoever spoke of eyes as the windows to the soul was right in so many
ways. I can loose myself always in those dark holes that promise both life and death,
forever swimming in the well of secret emotions he tires so hard to spirit way from view.
But I can see them, and they take my breath away. He need not say it, for I know, beyond
the slightest whisper of a doubt, I know that I am his forever. He has swallowed me up,
taken me into his womb, crushed and hidden me within himself where no one but he may
reach.
And, oh sweet ambrosia, when he does reach, when he wraps those authoritarian
arms about me, tearing at my skin and kissing softly, gently, like hundreds of delicate
butterflies alighting on my lips, my vision turns to fire and all I see, smell, feel, taste is
him. He is a raging inferno and I am the willing sacrifice to his divine directive.