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.