Welcome to DBZ Love Garden
~ Where Saiyan Hearts Thrive ~
All Good Things
by Gutterball
More by this Writer
Vegeta finally does something even Goku can't prevent or reconcile. Can Goku forgive him? Can Vegeta forgive himself? And how will the rest of the Z gang take the changes in their beloved hero?
Dark themes, bad humor, some good-natured violence, rape, angst, language, yaoi lemon.
Solid R rating. VxG
I do not own DBZ or any of the characters therein. No profit is intended from this fic.
Art Source: Sky Upside Down (site no longer around)
Dark themes, bad humor, some good-natured violence, rape, angst, language, yaoi lemon.
Solid R rating. VxG
I do not own DBZ or any of the characters therein. No profit is intended from this fic.
Art Source: Sky Upside Down (site no longer around)
Graphic Violence
Rape
01 All Good Things
"Useless, Kakarot! You're useless!"Vegeta spun with the kick, putting all of his momentum-aided strength into the air-borne attack. His foot and shin connected in his rival's stomach, bending Kakarot's body around his lower leg before the "equal and opposite reaction" half of physics kicked in and flung the younger Saiyan across the valley. The impact leveled a mountain and sent up an eruption of dust and debris that blanketed the area for a good mile around.
Smirking, his arms crossed over his chest, the Prince of all Saiyans waited for his third-class rival to rocket back into the fray. He wasn't disappointed. Kakarot broke free of the rubble with a hoarse shout, powering up and blasting into the air. Wasting no time, he streaked straight for Vegeta, who crouched into his favorite stance and tensed in anticipation. God, he loved this!
"Vegeta!" Kakarot roared, sharp Saiyan teeth bared in a manic grin.
Vegeta was sure his smirk was just as manic, just as vicious and full of wicked joy as Kakarot's, but he didn't care. He lived for this--the throbbing tempo of fists on flesh, the siren song of pain and power, the very push and pull of physical muscle and mental prowess as he and his all-time rival duked it out. It seduced him, dragged him out of his habitual scowling shell. It freed him, released him in a way nothing else could.
The thrill of beating the shit out of each other never faded for either Saiyan.
Neither held back--though Kakarot refused to ascend to his third level, which Vegeta had yet to reach. Both warriors fought with all their might to find nonexistant weaknesses in the others' defenses, sticking and jabbing, kicking and even biting if the opportunity arose, inflicting countless wounds and generally having the best time either would admit to. It was beautiful.
And all too soon, it was over. After five straight hours of grueling battle as ascended Super Saiyans, a breach was finally discovered and exploited to its very fullest. Kakarot went down hard and stayed there.
Remaining airborne by will alone, Vegeta gasped for breath, exhausted. His muscles still twitched with adrenaline, his body refusing to believe the fight was over just yet. He waited for Kakarot to regain his feet, but the black speck sprawled on the ground so far below didn't move. Scowling, he figured the spar was over for the day and allowed himself to drift downward, absently rubbing his aching biceps and wincing one eye shut at a twinge from at least one broken rib.
He touched down a little harder than he'd like, but Kakarot was obviously too worn out to notice. In fact, Kakarot seemed too worn out to even move. Vegeta scowled harder, wondering if this was some new ploy to catch him off guard. Kakarot rarely fought dirty, but his few tricks were nearly legendary for their effectiveness.
Not today, Kakarot.
Smirking, the Prince inched closer and nudged the face-down body with the toe of his boot. Nothing. The nudge became more of a kick, and Kakarot still didn't move. Vegeta's smirk faded. Kakarot surely couldn't remain still this long without giving himself away. The idiot wasn't capable of sitting still for two minutes, let alone playing dead for this long.
"Kakarot?"
A needle of concern twinged the Prince's conscience, and he crouched reluctantly at his rival's side, pressing two fingers to the exposed neck. He breathed a sigh of relief to find a pulse, slow though it was, then shook his head at his own stupidity. The man was practically indestructible--a fact with which Vegeta was uncomfortably familiar--and a little spar would hardly kill him. He pulled away and squatted back on his heels, again certain that Kakarot was having him on.
His suspicions renewed, he studied his silent rival, looking for anything to give the game away. Kakarot's gi hung off his back and legs in charred shreds, as did Vegeta's own training gear, but that was hardly a rare sight. The Saiyans rarely made it out of a fight fully clothed and never left each other without at least a bloody nose.
But Kakarot still hadn't moved, and Vegeta was almost positive the man was incapable of playing possum for this long without breaking into that irritating giggle of his.
"Kakarot, stop fooling around. Get your sorry, worthless, third class ass up, now!"
Still nothing. Hn. Usually the old insult did the trick, though both warriors knew it didn't mean anything anymore. But Kakarot remained eerily still, and the needle of concern turned into a full-fledged icicle of worry.
He reached out and tugged on the younger Saiyan's shoulder, grunting with the effort of turning him over. Kakarot was solid muscle, and his dead weight proved it. Vegeta was strong, but he was also tired, and the idiot lent no help whatsoever.
"Kakarot?"
He winced as the big lug finally thumped bonelessly onto his back. Kakarot was out cold, one eye swollen shut, his face sliced from his fall into the rocks. His body bled from dozens of splits and cuts, one arm jutting out crookedly at the elbow. But again, these were hardly unusual wounds. Vegeta had much the same damage himself, and, while tired and sore, he was as far from unconsciousness as he'd ever been.
Apparently, the real injury was a jagged, copiously bleeding gash across the younger Saiyan's forehead and temple. A lovely purplish-black bruise already unfurled its wings over Kakarot's pale brow, and Vegeta had no doubt he had found the cause of his rival's unconsciousness.
"Idiot. Hn. I hate force-feeding senzu beans."
Grunting in frustration, he realized he'd complained too soon. Most of the front of Kakarot's gi was burned away, and most of the rest was ripped to ribbons, including the sash where Kakarot usually stored his emergency senzu.
Vegeta couldn't hide a slight blush when he realized his rival apparently didn't believe in the virtues of underwear. Turning from what he shouldn't be looking at--no matter how strong the basic urge to compare sizes--the Prince dug into his glove for his own senzu, only to realize his secret pocket had suffered the same fate as Kakarot's sash.
"Of all the--" He forcibly halted his rant to grunt in disgust. "How the hell did we manage to lose two senzu in one day?"
Kakarot still hadn't moved, and Vegeta's reluctant concern grew. Any warrior knew head wounds were messy, but that much blood loss couldn't be healthy. And even Kakarot wasn't usually that pale.
Debating his course of action, Vegeta felt a scowl furrow his forehead. He didn't dare leave his rival alone and defenseless out here. The smell of so much spilled blood would surely attract predators out here in the wilderness. While nearly indestructible when awake, Kakarot was as vulnerable as the next man with his defenses down. Then again, he couldn't do anything here but stop the bleeding, and even that wasn't a sure bet without bandages and stitches.
Unthinking of the motion, Vegeta ran his fingers along the gash, slicking through the heavy crimson flow, the heady, metallic scent of so much spilled blood jangling his acute Saiyan senses. He shook his head, irritated at his own distraction, then pressed his palm over as much of the wound as he could, leaning down hard to staunch the flow. Exhausted or no, if pressure didn't work, Vegeta would simply pick the big idiot up, drag him back to Capsule Corp. for the woman to heal, and torment him ruthlessly when he woke up for being a such a useless weakling.
The thought of so many future taunts brought a relieved smirk.
After several quiet moments, Vegeta pulled his hand away and studied the wound. It still bled, but the flow was sluggish, the blood starting to coagulate. Satisfied, he clamped his hand back over the gash and pressed again, wincing at the thought of the headache his rival would have upon awakening. He didn't envy Kakarot. He'd even be considerate and try to keep his gloating to a minimum until the idiot felt better.
Vegeta blinked in surprise. In his concern for his fallen comrade, he'd forgotten the most important fact of the day: he had defeated Kakarot! Soundly defeated, at that! How could he forget?
A huge, slightly mad grin split his lips, and the Prince was hard put to refrain from jumping up and doing an undignified little dance.
Oh, sure, he'd beaten Kakarot before, but he'd never just thrashed the other Saiyan so soundly. Most of their spars ended like their first actual battle--not quite even, but with neither fighter healthy enough to claim a clear victory, either. Sometimes Kakarot came out ahead, sometimes Vegeta. But this time....
Oh, this time, the Prince had beaten the ever-loving shit out of his last subject, was the last man standing, and was even forced to play nursemaid his badly injured rival! Did life get any better?
Nearly stunned with his victory, Vegeta lifted his hand from Kakarot's forehead, bringing his bloody fingers to his lips in the traditional Saiyan tribute to a fallen rival. No Saiyan in history had ever had such a powerful, long-standing rivalry as this! It made both the victory and the gesture so much sweeter.
Distantly musing, the Prince slipped his fingers into his mouth, savoring the blood in honest tribute to Kakarot's defeat. He was distantly glad Kakarot was out cold; he doubted the Earth-raised Saiyan would understand the honor and respect the Prince bestowed upon him with his actions, and there was simply no way to explain such a thing if it wasn't already understood.
The sweet, coppery taste sank slowly into his senses, and his eyelids fluttered closed. Saiyan blood. How long had it been? He absently continued licking his fingers as he savored, craving more of the treat.
Saiyan blood. Kakarot's blood.
He groaned and reached for more, not opening his eyes as he again swiped his fingers through the crimson flow still oozing from his rival's forehead. So very rich. So sinfully sweet and thick. So Saiyan.
Before he quite knew what he was doing, he leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of his rival's head, and licked across Kakarot's forehead, shuddering at the richer taste of fresh blood. His stomach warmed like he'd gulped a fifth of whiskey, and he probed the wound with his tongue, even sucking at it when the blood didn't flow fast enough. Some part of him knew this wasn't part of the traditional tribute, but the rest of him didn't care. God, had any victory ever literally tasted so sweet?
When the wound's flow dried up, Vegeta didn't miss a beat. He lapped at his rival's face, removing every trace of blood and cleaning every laceration, even dipping into Kakarot's ear at one point to trace a rivulet. Working his way back across the slack face, the Prince paused to suck at a trickle of blood from his rival's split, swollen lower lip. God, Kakarot's mouth tasted even better than his blood! His mind totally hazed, Vegeta plunged his tongue inside, feeling himself growing hard.
Sanity dawned, and he pulled back with a curse, eyes wide as he stared down at his third-class rival. He'd been ridiculously thorough in his cleaning. Kakarot's pale face practically sparkled, despite the many bruises and cuts. Vegeta's cheeks heated, but he couldn't resist licking his lips, the younger Saiyan's taste still flooding his mouth.
Had he really all but kissed Kakarot? Blushing deeper, he shifted uncomfortably. Was he really turned on by that very fact?
"Kakarot...."
He stared at the other warrior, seeing him as if for the first time--the ridiculously messy spikes of black hair, the sweep of dark lashes, the handsome face as peaceful in repose as it was fierce in battle. He could still feel the satin glide of Kakarot's skin under his tongue, and his arousal gave an insistent twitch.
Did the rest of that muscled, chiseled body taste and feel as irresistible as the face and mouth?
Sluggish blood welled up in the gash on Kakarot's forehead, and Vegeta gazed at it with all the desperation of a drowning man. What had he started? He licked his lips and all but moaned as the blood formed into a glistening, pregnant drop at the furthest edge. It seemed to mock him, trembling as it grew plump with tasty promise, then dribbling over the torn skin, leaving a gleaming red trail as it slid into the black spikes of hair.
With a tormented sound suspiciously close to a whimper, the Prince abandoned his moment of sanity and lunged forward, his tongue catching the drop before it sank too deeply into Kakarot's spikes, lapping it up all the way back to its origin.
That single drop may well have been the beginning of the end.
