Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Tears, Idle Tears ❯ Prologue ( Prologue )

Tears, Idle Tears

By: Cinaed, Born of Fire

Rated: R

Pairings: You'll see…

Warnings: Shonen ai, yaoi, angst, rape, suicide, demon possession, murder

Prologue

Running. He was running. Sprinting desperately through the desolate darkness that reached out with invisible fingers to tug at his clothing and slow him down. Shrugging the phantom hands away for brief second of liberation, he continued to bolt through the endless night, seeking sanctuary of any sort.

Then... agony. Pain so sudden and intense that he doubled over like someone had punched him in the stomach. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything but the agony that began in his chest to send fire through his veins and the insubstantial fingers that persistently dragged him backwards.

No! He fought the pain, bucking like a frenzied bronco lashing out against a cowboy that had attempted to mount him. He would not be taken back there without a fight! Tossing his head like a wild beast, he thrashed against the hands that prepared to convey him back to their master.

Eyes turned up to the back of his head as the pain intensified. Instead of his lungs he had bonfires, burning their way up his throat as he struggled to breathe, knees buckling underneath him. The agony gradually grew until he was simply fighting to take in air and keep living, scarcely noticing the invisible hands as their barely felt fingers wrapped around his trembling limbs.

The phantasm hands seemed to sense this and hauled him roughly back. Back through the darkness, ignoring the defenseless form wheezing and whimpering and writhing in their grasp, only intent on returning their mortal burden back to their master.

He was aware of being released, and collapsed onto the unseen floor, curling in a shaking ball and trying to catch his breath as the agony slowly but surely subsided to a dull faint ache. Sweat trickled down his face and stung his eyes as he simply lay there, breathing hard.

Above him, someone spoke, speaking words foreign to him. Blinking rapidly, he ignored the speaker. A few seconds passed, then an ice cold hand made of flesh and blood this time gently came to rest on his damp brow. Instantly he went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. The voice spoke once more, low and placid. This time he understood the words being vocalized.

"I wish you hadn't made me do that, love. I don't want to hurt you." Coughing weakly, he replied, somewhat surprised at how hoarse his own assertion was.

"Bullshit…" His captor laughed loudly, the hand idly caressing his sweaty flesh.

"I've always loved your sense of humor, love. Always."

"Don't… call me… that!" The hand halted briefly, thumb frozen on the area between both eyes. The silence was deathly still, broken only an involuntary tremble from his body as he awaited the pain that was more than likely to come and convulse his form.

"I can call you whatever I like, love." This time the voice was quiet and insensitive, almost detached. "You are mine." Fierce possessiveness colored the tone now, and the hand resumed its activity, fingers stroking locks, which were covered with sweat, away from his face.

"I am not!" he protested roughly, attempting to jerk his head away from the invading hand. Once again the momentary silence and pause, then two human hands grabbed him painfully by the shoulders and jerked him to a kneeling position.

He struggled to wrench himself from the other's grasp, but all his worn-out body managed was a feeble struggle that ended with him gasping for breath and sagging into those powerful hands. His eyelids opening to slits against his will at the iciness radiating from the flesh that now pinned him in place, he turned his chin to his left, refusing to look at his captor. He could at least resist that much.

"You are mine, love. All mine and no one else's. I've made sure of that." The words barely reached his numbed brain before chilled silky lips pressed to his flushed right cheek. Instinctively flinching, he jerked his cheek away from the other's mouth, shuddering as the freezing hands tightened on his shoulders in anger. "You will not defy me!" The voice was no longer distant; instead it was thunderous and incensed.

"Yes… I will…" The words were gritted out from his clenched teeth as he opened his heavy eyelids wide enough to stare into the darkness.

"No, you won't," seethed the voice, and then the human hands were dragging him forward to slump helplessly onto a muscled torso, cold radiating from the uncovered flesh. Unable to stop himself, he turned his head towards the other in bewilderment and panic at the intensity in those formidable hands. Devastatingly recognizable eyes met his, darkness and possessiveness coloring the other's irises. His arms instinctively rose, trembling with effort to push his captor away. The face, ethereally sallow and so unlike the normal color of the person he had known before that he scarcely recognized the other except for the eyes and the hair, was carved in marble, only a small smirk on those lips to betray the captor's true feelings.

"Y-yes, I-" His words were cut off as the achingly familiar person leaned forward and captured his lips with his own. Gently those silken lips roamed his, and then pressed down harder, revealing the person's inner passion. His hands falling numbly to his sides, all he could do was freeze as the arms wrapped around him overpoweringly, bringing their bodies closer together. The lips finally drew back to let him catch his breath. For a moment he simply gasped, completely drained. Then, forcing oxygen back into his lungs, he weakly protested the invasion of the hands, which molested his frame even as he spoke. "S-stop it…"

"Stop what?" The tone was innocent as a perfect eyebrow rose. "You've always enjoyed it before…" Once again, he recoiled.

"T-that was before you k-killed everyone. Everyone!" His subjugator chuckled quietly, the chest sending him up and down slightly.

"They weren't important. After all, they tried to take you away from me." He stared in shock and disbelief at the person he had once known, loved, and trusted.

"You're not him…" His whisper was soft and low, filled with turmoil and sorrow. His captor's smirk vanished, replaced by a dark scowl.

"What do you mean?" The voice was sharp enough to cut through glass.

"You may have my lover's face, but you're not him." His voice steadily grew stronger as he continued. "You're not him! You can't be him! You'll never be him-"

Pain halted him once more, and he collapsed completely against his captor's frame, tears of torture and misery trickling from the corners of his eyes as the agony racked his body again and again for what seemed to be infinity and beyond. When it finally ceased, he continued to weep in despair into the other's arctic flesh.

"Poor, poor love," murmured the other, cradling him with deceptive compassion. "I wish you wouldn't make me do that." He didn't reply but continued to sob gut-wrenching groans of anguish, fallen hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The other's hands rested briefly around his shoulder blades, then stealthily made their way down the shuddering frame. Finding their object of desire, fingers tugged and slid underneath ripped cloth to caress his muscled back. At once, the tears halted and he struggled against his captor. Too late. The hands stroked up and down the area where his spinal cord was located, making him quiver.

"Stop it!" His voice was a rasping shout, but his caresser ignored him. His voice rose, and his weak arms flailed desperately at the other, who merely looked amused. "Stop it! Stop it!"

"I'm not going to, dearest. You belong to me. Admit it, love. You've forever worshiped me. Ever since we were children." Tears fell unheeded onto his captor's bare shoulders.

"Not you," he whimpered, voice fragile once more. "You're not him. You're not my lover, and you never will be." The other was still, thinking. When the voice spoke, it sounded almost amused.

"Well, you may not love me, the voice that you're speaking to, but you love this body. Your body craves this flesh. Pure lust. With this frame, I can make your body respond even when you don't want to." The voice paused, then sounded thoughtful. "No, you'll never love me, but you'll love this body forever. And that's enough for me. This body will permanently be me, and never again him."

"N-no…" Then his shirt was being ripped from his frame, the strands fleetingly protesting before shredding in the other's grasp.

"Yes." The hands were all over him, groping and feeling his frame despite his attempts of getting away. Next came the lips, soft and pliable against the base of his throat. As the cold lips greedily bore down on the smooth flesh, they slowly gained warmth until the temperature of their silky kisses felt as if they were burning his very flesh. He groaned in a mixture of torment and desire as the hands descended to the ragged edges of his torn dusty jeans, lips dipping to travel along the lines of his muscles. Regardless of his struggles, he felt himself reacting to the sensual touch of his captor.

"See? You like this…" Soft words murmured against where his rib cage ended, the other's fingers skillfully beginning to slide his pants from him. At that, his senses returned and he thrashed, catching the other by surprise. The hands fell away and he stumbled backwards, tripping from the half-off jeans around his knees. He fell down, sprawling helplessly on his back before his tormenter.

"Not funny, love. Not funny at all." The voice was trembling with rage now, dark and filled with frenzied fury. Hands made of steel shoved him onto his stomach with enough force to knock the breath from him in a single gasp of surprise. The jeans that had floored him were torn from his legs. Now all he was wearing were his solitary boxers.

Then his captor was straddling him, arousal evident in the bulge that pressed against his lower back. Panic seized him, and he floundered underneath the other, a terrified whimper escaping his lips as even his boxers were ripped from him.

"Relax, love. This'll be fun, just like it always was." A ragged grunt answered the voice as everything became a bright unbearable crimson that slowly faded to a thankful painless gray.

. . .

"Now, didn't you enjoy that?" He remained where the other had left him, unmoving and mute. "I know you did, love…" At that, he managed to speak, words even more hoarse than before from screaming.

"You're not him… You'll never be him…"

"I told you, I'll always be him," disputed the voice, sounding affable. "Always." He coughed hard, struggling to sit up and face his oppressor. Perspiration dripped down his ashen face while he managed to get on his knees, swaying from even that brief movement. His eyes had long since shed all the tears they could, but they almost seemed to scream his resolve in what he was about to do.

"No," he said, no longer gasping for breath and simply staring at him, trying to ignore the black dots swimming in his vision. "You aren't. You are not, and never will be, Trunks." The young man who was Trunks and yet not him leisurely sneered, looking very entertained.

"Really, Goten? Is that what you think?" Trunks Briefs replied.

And then Son Goten fainted.

(To be continued…)