In Process ~ DBZ Fanfiction

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warning: Dark,YAOI, implied Incest

Trunks's eyes were riveted to the gathering mass of spittle at the corner of Vegeta's lips, far more interesting than the hand tightening on his throat. Amazing, Vegeta was actually mad enough to be foaming at the mouth. He'd done well this time. Trunks had to fight the pleased grin that wanted to spread across his blood stained face.

He wasn't worried about the threat of death that gleamed from teal eyes. Vegeta wouldn't kill him, not this time. Trunks knew exactly where his father's limit lay, how to dance along its edge without falling over. It was a game, his favorite. Vegeta could ignore his accomplishment, turn a blind eye to his desperate affections, but he would never miss any indication of disrespect.

Powerful fingers squeezed closer and Trunks' entire body contoured into a tortured curl as he tried to pull air into his lungs, weakly kicking at his father in self-defense. He wasn't strong enough to beat Vegeta. Not like this. Not that he wanted too. It was too perfect to end, this blissful moment at the center of his father's attention. The source of his rage. How easy it was for Trunks to push Vegeta's buttons. Only he knew all of them; even his mother---even Goku!---couldn't send Vegeta into a fury like he could. Such power!

Now Vegeta was snarling insults, spitting verbal poison into wounds so old and deep that there was nothing left to corrupt. The bruising grip loosened, enough let to him breathe while prolonging his torture.

Trunks couldn't help it; he let out a sound like a giggle and released Vegeta's wrist to brush his fingers through the mound of saliva, spreading white froth over a bronzed cheek. A widening of blazing eyes was his only warning before a blow to the stomach buried him several inches into the floor. The hands and restraining weight left, allowing him to turn to the side and vomit blood and bile onto scarred tile. Trunks looked up.

Encased in gold, seething in impotent rage---his father was glorious. Desire coiled through his gut, tightening in his groin. Sick, wrong, sweet as overripe fruit. He would punish himself for it tonight, dig his fingers into the tender insides of his thighs until flesh parted and bled. But would he give into the need first? Sit on cold porcelain and jerk off to the memory of Vegeta trembling in blood lust? Maybe, maybe not. That was part of the game too.

They both stood on the edge---the edge of homicide, the edge of suicide. Trunks knew; a few more words, just the right ones, and Vegeta's control would snap like over stressed metal. He could say them. It would be easy. Harsh breathing filled the enclosed space.

Then, gold bled into black, hate fell before cold scorn. The moment was gone. Vegeta left. Left Trunks with his pain and blood and sick passions. Left him to live.

Maybe next time, thought Trunks, maybe next time.


	In Process Dragon Ball Z Fanfiction / All Fanfiction
	Play warning: Dark,YAOI, implied Incest Trunks's eyes were riveted to the gathering mass of spittle at the corner of Vegeta's lips, far more interesting than the hand tightening on his throat. Amazing, Vegeta was actually mad enough to be foaming at the mouth. He'd done well this time. Trunks had to fight the pleased grin that wanted to spread across his blood stained face. He wasn't worried about the threat of death that gleamed from teal eyes. Vegeta wouldn't kill him, not this time. Trunks knew exactly where his father's limit lay, how to dance along its edge without falling over. It was a game, his favorite. Vegeta could ignore his accomplishment, turn a blind eye to his desperate affections, but he would never miss any indication of disrespect. Powerful fingers squeezed closer and Trunks' entire body contoured into a tortured curl as he tried to pull air into his lungs, weakly kicking at his father in self-defense. He wasn't strong enough to beat Vegeta. Not like this. Not that he wanted too. It was too perfect to end, this blissful moment at the center of his father's attention. The source of his rage. How easy it was for Trunks to push Vegeta's buttons. Only he knew all of them; even his mother---even Goku!---couldn't send Vegeta into a fury like he could. Such power! Now Vegeta was snarling insults, spitting verbal poison into wounds so old and deep that there was nothing left to corrupt. The bruising grip loosened, enough let to him breathe while prolonging his torture. Trunks couldn't help it; he let out a sound like a giggle and released Vegeta's wrist to brush his fingers through the mound of saliva, spreading white froth over a bronzed cheek. A widening of blazing eyes was his only warning before a blow to the stomach buried him several inches into the floor. The hands and restraining weight left, allowing him to turn to the side and vomit blood and bile onto scarred tile. Trunks looked up. Encased in gold, seething in impotent rage---his father was glorious. Desire coiled through his gut, tightening in his groin. Sick, wrong, sweet as overripe fruit. He would punish himself for it tonight, dig his fingers into the tender insides of his thighs until flesh parted and bled. But would he give into the need first? Sit on cold porcelain and jerk off to the memory of Vegeta trembling in blood lust? Maybe, maybe not. That was part of the game too. They both stood on the edge---the edge of homicide, the edge of suicide. Trunks knew; a few more words, just the right ones, and Vegeta's control would snap like over stressed metal. He could say them. It would be easy. Harsh breathing filled the enclosed space. Then, gold bled into black, hate fell before cold scorn. The moment was gone. Vegeta left. Left Trunks with his pain and blood and sick passions. Left him to live. Maybe next time, thought Trunks, maybe next time.