Welcome to DBZ Love Garden

Screaming.
And laughter.

Cruel, maniacal expressions that spoke of underlying madness.

Shaking his fuzzy head-it felt like he had the hangover only a Saiyan could have survived-Trunks blinked his blue eyes hard, as though the simple strength behind the action could change the unbelievable sight before him.

But no. The image of himself raping his father was stubbornly persistent.

Oh, Dende, but all dreams of his father had never gone like this...never like this.

In his mind, Trunks was always on the receiving end of such pain, and the screams torn from his throat were intermingled with the pleasure that coursed through his system with each slap and thrust of his savage father…

He liked it, he lived for it, and he existed for the day when the man he knew only by the title of Papa would shed his patriarchal boundaries and fuck his son like the Saiyan bastard that he was.

His lavender brow drew together as he watched. Something wasn't right about this dream--the scent of blood was too heavy, permeating the very air that he breathed like musky aphoristic incense. It was so real...

Groaning, a hand reached up to massage at his neck, damn, but his body was sore...it was strange, watching himself. All of his previous dreams had been interactive...

"That's it, you cock-sucking mother fucker...you know you enjoy the pain, my prince. Hn, stupid commoner--weak!"

Mirai leaned forward, trailing the tip of his bitter tongue over the spattering of blood on his sire's arched back. "All it took was one little tiny pull," Vegeta's hoarse and damaged voice failed to form the shriek into more than a whine as his mangled tail was wrung around the strong hand of his demented son, "and you're complaining like one of Kakarotto's weakling whelps! How pathetically ningen! I should expect more from you, you shit-faced little bastard!"

Licking long, succulent paths of hot breath and lips toward the dark Saiyan's neck, Mirai suddenly fisted a hand into the matted tangle of ebony on the back of the man's scalp. Vejiita's eyes were clasp shut and sealed with unshed tears of ache as his head was jerked backward, the bones in his spine protesting the movement as he scrambled to put his trembling arms beneath himself and lesser the throbbing of that unyielding grip. Sharp Saiyan teeth embedded themselves in the tender intersection of his neck and shoulder, those tears he had so desperately held in check slipping past his dying pride.

/Dende-sama, I may not deserve your pity, but kill me...please.../

"Filthy little bitch," Mirai breathed with bloody lips against the wound on the prince's throat. Extracting his fist from the inactive body, the future Briefs pulled the elder Saiyan's head back even further, positioning himself between those beautiful thighs that streamed with drying blood.

His aroused state grew harder to bear as Vejiita whimpered softly at being bent in such an unforgiving manner and with his free hand, Mirai dipped his red fingers into the puddle of congealing crimson on his father's shoulder, wrapping his hand around his throbbing shaft and slicking it with blood. Bright blue eyes fluttered as his moan was released.

"Think you're wide enough for me now, old man? Think you can handle the honour of being fucked by your king without shaming your race with those disgusting tears?" He didn't wait for a response, the sensation of the warm, blood-covered palm on his cock drove him to act, lest his royal seed be spilt on the ground.

Thrusting once powerfully with his hips, he encased himself in the heat of the weaker male.

"Papa…" It was a breathless whimper, almost a whine, pulled from the youngest prince as he watched, mortified, while his mirror image yanked his father's tail.

And it was the total lack of protest from the elder Saiyan that actually frightened him.

His father had always been very protective of his tail, as it was the one true Saiyan handicap. The pit of his stomach, which had been so teasingly tormented by disgust and nausea, lurched as the teenager tried to stand, falling hard on his knees in response. "No, papa…" as if the words could halt the smell of fear and blood wafting lazily towards him; as if they could also stop the fact before his very eyes, the fact that he was ripping into his own father.

He was going to do it.

/…He's going to do it…./ "Papa…!"

His future self was tearing the man to shreds.

"Papa!" /…no…/

When he saw the unwanted tears forced from his sire's closed eyes, he knew that with them fell more than just pride and prejudice.

"…no…"

And as those teeth marred the tender flesh of his father's neck…

"PA-pa!"

…He knew his father-his pride-was gone--fallen to the blood-stained, tear-soaked ground unwelcome and unwanted by the lavender-haired boy who so resembled himself.

"PAPA!"

He forced himself up, watching as his golden-dipped doppelganger prepared to enter the broken prince. His previous feeling of disgust had fallen victim to a deep-seated rage that now coursed through him, pulling him to stand, moving him forward.

No one dishonors his father in that way. No one lives to defile the pride of the Royal House of Vegeta-sei. He had gone too far.

With a quiet calm he had never before felt, Trunks powered up, setting his reddening sights on the crazed future image he now aspired to never become as he charged, full-force at the man. Slamming a burning fist into his jaw, Trunks successfully knocked the misplaced mirai away from the inert form of their sire.

Standing protectively over the broken man a feral snarl escaped his curled lips as he bore his teeth in hatred and silent challenge to his felled future self.

Mirai smirked, wiping the trail of blood from his lower lip, eyes narrowed like knife blades at the boy. "Hn. And here I was under the impression I had managed to tire you out…how foolish…." He stood, running a cool hand through his hair, tucking pale locks behind one ear. "I guess your stamina is a little more than I expected...maybe you're not so weak after all…"

"Weakness is a product of the creator…" Trunks smirked, relaxing back just enough to raise his counterpart's eye as he folded his arms to his chest. "I am only as weak as my father," he stood tall, "whereas your father…well," he chuckled, dropping his eyes only briefly from the target, "your father was too weak to survive…."

The madman shrugged off the obvious rile with a leonine snarl, and he pulled his legs beneath him, a predatory pounce readying his anticipatory movements.

Sensing the imminent attack, Trunks' smirked lengthened, the echoes of his now defeated father's militant directions repeating forcefully though the man at his feet had barely the power to breathe without assistance. Taking the anger from that knowledge, the pain brought on by spilt blood and uncharacteristic emotion, taking that, feeding it with the humility of his own nakedness, the betrayal of his future self and the exposure of his hated fantasies--taking that, swallowing it, nurturing it into a golden haze of fury and irrationality, Trunks followed his elder's lead, held his breath and walked the black path of lunacy that had been predestined, presupposed, predetermined.

The younger Saiyan's lips curled into a macabre mockery of laughter as his hair ignited and his sky blues bled ocean green. Power filled him, furnished his desire to see himself bleed and shadows fled as the weakening glow across the plane was destroyed in a blaze of artificial sunlight.

"You speak of weakness as though you have the right," He roared over the pulsing gratification of his charged presence. "As though you're not…" The youngest prince of a proud race waved a crimson flag and he laughed again to see the fuming ferocity hardly contained in the crouched form before him.

"But," he bowed now, like the matador he suicidally fashioned himself, and straightened with a shit-eating grin. "If that were true, you wouldn't be here, ne?" Folding his arms, a blatant resemblance to the figure now brokenly spitting blood to his left, the boy cocked his head. "If you were stronger…your entire timeline wouldn't be worth little more than shit…" Perfect whites flashed briefly. "Right, Toranks?"

/You've got to be shitting me…/ Eyes as crazed as the rising waves of a tsunami widened at the gall-the sheer disrespect proffered him by this inbred, half-ling whelp! "How dare you…" his voice low, clenched teeth grinding away on his rage, his disgust that the boy should be so blatant in his mistreatment. "How dare you…" he rose, standing to his full, golden glory, pitch matching his stature. "After all I've done for you, after all I've given you--shelter! Companionship! Your hopes and dreams! How DARE you!" He strained his entire frame, "How DARE!!"

Overwhelming--the best word to describe the power, the awesome fanaticism of this flaxen future Briefs. Letting forth a roar befitting the king of all jungles, he raised balled fists to his sides--screaming his anger to the heavens, blinding even the sun with more fury than its surface had ever seen. Trees fell, the ground rumbled, and the old man at his feet tiredly opened one eye, thanking the gods, once more, for finally sending their chosen destroyer to erase the misdeeds and dishounor of his plight.

Squinting through the salt and dried muck, Vejiita would have sworn he was witnessing the rage of Furiza first hand--actually reliving that mass destruction of his home, but this time…by this golden-winged god, rather than that selfless lizard overcome by his own avarice.

But heaven sent was not what Vejiita's youngest son felt nor saw in the raging mirror across from him. He tasted the fear like rancid coffee on his tongue, a surrendering dread that emanated from the very source of his power.

He was strong because of his father.

He had the right to live and fight because of his prince.

Trunks' mouth twisted around the other man's false delusions. "How dare I? You have given me nothing!" A whirlwind of energy wrapped itself around him and electric blue sparked as it met the elder's supercharged supernova. "Dreams! Hopes!" Clenching his teeth he expelled the roar of frustration in a rumbling crescendo. "No!" He shook his golden head with the denied rage of a child. "NO! It was because of you!"

/You vied for his attentions! You made me look inferior! You took him away from me!/

"You're not real!" Trunks shrieked, hands ki-curled and drawn, an offensive begun before he had a mind to follow. "I hate you! I hate you!"

Once more with sub-human speed, Torunks flew forward, blast at the ready as he sent a volley of concentrated energy toward the ground just behind the short squire.

However, the boy did not flee as he had anticipated--running away would have been too easy an out. /He wants to play…/ Twisting in mid-air, the rampant prince brought his hands together above his head, gathering a deadly blast in the cannon of his palms. "Fucker! You want to hate? Fuck you!" he let the second cascade go, kicking up a cloud of debris and dirt that drew something of a smile to his curled lips.

Adrenaline, heady, inherited, permeated his stability and Trunks heard himself laughing. Blinking back the grit of his future self's initial assault, the boy rested the hastily cradled form of their---no, his!---father on the ravaged terrain. Black eyes, dulled with pain, sharpened, opening slowly, narrowed. "No, Papa…" the youngest crooned, wiping the wetness from his beloved father's face with tender fingertips, "I won't let him win, I promise." Turquoise shards hardened, tore away from the battered hate-filled visage. Whether indirect or no was hardly the point.

It was aimed at him.

His father hated him.

/No. He doesn't hate me. He hates you. You…You're not…me…/

The ground cracked beneath his toe as he launched himself upward; cold, evening air whistled abusively past his ear as his fist finally connected and he screamed his triumph as his knee sank satisfactorily into his adversary's midsection.

/Victory…/

He'd been expecting him to come out--he'd been waiting…"I know you're in there, brat…." It was soft spoken as he watched, waiting for the clouds to clear from his damaging attack. Quietly stroking himself, he rose higher, attempting to gain an edge over all-too-thorough assault on the clearing.

Then the cry caught his ear.

And the punch caught his jaw.

Not to mention the knee to his gut….

Reeling forward, the faint call of victory flitting through his head, he chuckled, eyes following the naked form of his assailant as he prepared his own attack, hands cupped, once more at the ready.

Drawing himself from his ball, eyes wild, the air sizzled just behind his head. Raising his chin, he pointed to it, smirk washing across his features. "You think you've got it in you, boy?" tone gruff and condescending, Torunks' fingers twitched, untamed desire whelling up once more as he sadistically admired the young form. "Heh," he lowered his gaze, eyes narrowing, "I bet you wish you did…"


Voices. Muffled, angry---for a fleeting, chilling instant, they were Saiyan voices and Vejiita was a child again.

Then the pain came in waves and he was horridly reminded of his actuality.

His humiliation.

At the hands of his half-breed future bastard. Not for the first time in his life, did the knowledge hurt more than the stabbing sensation of his shattered tail, throb more than the mangled area beneath.

And pride…a war cry for a dead people, lost amongst the amber rage of a second generation.

Though the Saiyan no Ouji could not be called strongest, fastest, or any other superlative in regards to his talent, neither could he be deemed the least intelligent.

Survival ran inherently through him as the madness apparently flowed through his offspring, and it was this that coaxed his arm to move, slowly and painfully, from his side. And this instinct that sought the remedy inside the bloody fabric of his right glove.

He was the Saiyan no Ouji. Today, before his usurping sons, he would reclaim his title again.

Wash away the stains of his indignity with the scarlet river of the blood he gave them.

/As I gave it, you sonofabith…/ the senzu was bitter and gritty, but he swallowed those jagged pieces with masochistic relish, felt his strength return threefold, his oldest forgetting an ancient Saiyan ace. Leave them half dead and they'll come back twice as strong. Reinvigorated, he turned his attention to the sky.

"So I'll take it back."


"Weak…still so weak…" he could feel the heat rise in the boy's cheeks as he lightly licked the edge of his ear. "And slow…tsk, tsk." Tightening his grip on the unstable 'second' born, Mirai brought the arms he held behind the child's back up higher--the muted whine refused passage from those precious, pert buds brought a smile to his own lips, and a chuckle to his throat. "How many times do we have to go through this routine, boy. How many times do I have to reprimand you for not--" a twist to the arm, "--paying--" a bite to the shoulder, "--attention."

Trunks merely stayed his silence.

"Hn. Guess we should pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted by that cock-sucking mongrel who thought he could take my place," he wrapped an arm around the boy's midsection, squeezing the air from his lungs, "thought he could take you from me." Dropping from the sky, the eldest Briefs dove to the ground, throwing his wayward underling rough to the ground. "You'll never leave me, ne, Trunks-kun…?" Walking toward the battered boy, the prince who would be king began to…reinvigorate…his latent hard-on. "You'd never turn your back on the only person who cares, ne Trunks…?" Lowering himself to one knee, Torunks grabbed the teen's ankle, wrenching it upward, preparing the child for his encore performance.

Vejiita's pre-existing anger heightened as his vision was privy to the misuse of his heir. Glittering obsidian glared at the audacity of his theatrical doppelganger, blood-stained fists strained against the once-white and his teeth flashed murder, a reflection of the intent in his unwavering stare.

He would not suffer the humility again. It was the presumptuous, blood-tainted half-breed's turn to scream.

The Saiyan no Ouji tied the obscene orange sash around his waist, gathered the loose, discarded material of his true son over his feet and stood experimentally.

And felt incredible. Growling deeply, gutturally, instinct spurring him toward the crouching golden figure that once would have made him praise his gods, Vejiita advanced.

It was the last ditch effort-survival of the fittest, ne? "Stop it!" fisting blonde and pulling as hard as he could, Trunks kicked, cursed, and punched his assailant-falling haphazardly from his ascended state, humiliated, beaten, and no more clam than he was when they'd started. He was not that weak, dammit! /Papa's not that weak…/ Gritting his teeth he pulled the lion's mane forward, ignoring the words-not hearing the thing that shouldn't exist. "You ran away." His voice was strained, his jaw was tight. "You ran away because he died and you came here to take him from me!" Lashing out, the beat up youth mustered one last attack, and sent his free foot straight for the bobbing manhood attempting re-entry.

Releasing the brat from his grasp, the Mirai ouji fell to backward to the ground. "You little shit!!" cupping his wounded pride, he struggled to one knee. "do you have fucking idea how long I've had this damn hard-on?!"

"Perhaps not," Vejiita's sardonic voice rasped icily into his ear; quick, lightning movements wrapped his well-muscled arm around the man's neck and pulled mercilessly, his simultaneously ascension searing the taunt skin in his grasp.

Head snapping to the side, Torunks narrowed his sea-sunken vision toward the source of the voice. "Nani?!" Feeling the limb slither across his flesh, he immediately reached for it, nails digging into the meat of what should have been broken flesh.

Vejiita's laughter contained no mirth and he allowed the futile struggle for three of the boy's panicked breaths.

And then he kicked and felt his foot connect solidly with the man's lower back.

Where, had he been of the same proud race, class, and manner, there would have existed a tail.

Tears pricked the corner of his eyes, the naked boy before him blending in with the upturned earth as the pain suddenly exploded right behind his eyes.

Releasing a primal yowl worthy of Oozaru at full moon rituals the bastard prince froze-unable even to blink, the sensation was so intense.

"So…" Vejiita drawled, tightening his hold and enjoying the sight of fading blonde and dulling blue. "You want to be me…" He flexed his bicep, effectively quitting the air supply, leaned downward. His voice became a hissing, meant only for the traitor in his grip. "I should have killed you in that damn room, when I had the chance." His own crystal blues flashed. "When you tried to pull this shit the first time."

He could feel his adam's apple working up and down against the tight knot blocking his breath. "Fah…thur…" twisting his head, searching for freedom, the insanity subsiding, Mirai no Briefs Torunks closed his eyes, falling head first into the memory of that night--the spar he'd won and the reward he had to reap…

And if he had done this then…there'd be no one to challenge his claims…

…no one to laugh at his faults…

…no one to take what was his…

…no one…to fuck with him.

Ignoring the agony, the pale princeling pressed back into the grip at his throat--pushing backward further and further, trying to unbalance his captor.

Trunks heard the words not meant for his ears, felt physically thrown by the implications. He was sick. The boy shook his head imperceptibly. They were sick. Twisted. Not right.

/We shouldn't exist. Not like this…/

But the logic of self-sacrifice vanished with his nausea. Late nights with Goten and shopping with Bra thrummed a deep memorial chord, and, like the proverbial man in those bad made for TV movies, he knew he had something to live for.

His eyes narrowed hatefully at his counterpart. The man restrained by his miraculously revived father. The man who, if given another chance, would fuck him over again and again. Like he had since Trunks was a child.

And a day of good sex couldn't change a lifetime.

He heard his father's words. He saw the madness crawl across the mirror of his eyes. He saw it return.

In slow motion, he saw his other half retaliate.

There was no moment's hesitation. He did it without thinking. As his future self threw himself backward, Trunks dove forward---

/Never again, you prick./

Grabbed the sonofabitch unforgivingly by the cock.

And mimicked his free-falling motion.

There was resistance, screaming, and the satisfying give before the blood splashed across his face and chest like a cheap horror film.

Bright and red and constant. Panting, Trunks released it, wiped the smearing blood from his face and matched his father's smirk, tooth for tooth.

"Not my father…Not my prince. Nothing but a fucking dog…" He chuckled. "Cunt."