Guest: Thank you so much! I'm glad you got to the third chapter lol!
Charismatic Beauty: lol yeah, Pan was confused too!
AnotherDamnMexican149: yeah, Trunks is a bit of a jerk lol. But thank you, here you go.
Disclaimer: All of the characters in this AU story are owned by Akira Toriyama.
WARNING lemon bellow
Trunks
"Yes! Oh, Trunks! I love you!"
The waves of pleasure keep increasing until I reach my climax. I see her bouncing on me, her black lace bra keeping her breasts strongly gathered. Her tan skin is literally glowing like gold with the thin layer of sweat that covers it, the piercing on her bellybutton making a jingle-like noise.
"Yes, baby!" she's quite loud—so are most of the people who stay in this cheap motel—, but Kami, she knows how to make someone happy. Marron is so darn good when it comes to sex.
"Daddy would be so mad." hypothetically speaking, of course. Otherwise I wouldn't be here, and she'd still be a virgin. He's dead, after all.
"Happy fifth anniversary." I say, panting.
"This is so wrong." She holds the quilt to her chest, panting back. Of course it is, just imagine celebrating one more year of not having a father with consolation sex. But God may forgive me, us. It feels great.
"So," she sits up, grabbing my suit shirt from the floor. And as she bends over, I see her backbones mark on the surface of her silky skin. Her tiny waist expands as it meets her butt. And it sort of bothers me that she keeps stealing my clothes, but the view is worth it. "Who is this Son Pan?"
And I just scoff, because it really isn't that hard to explain. It's actually not hard at all. "A sophomore."
"Yeah, I heard you took that sophomore on a date," and she stands up, the bathroom's light making my shirt translucent, "is that true?"
I can see the shadow of her curves.
"C'mon, babe. You know I'm nuts about you." Uh well, 'nuts' is a strong word. But yeah, I'd rather lying and keeping her, than not having her at all. So I find myself standing completely naked behind her, my arms managing to wrap under her crossed ones.
"And other stuff too." she continues, unlocking my hands with her own.
"Like what?"
"They saw you two sneaking into the janitor's closet."
"She's just a girl, Marron, a girl with a crush on me. Nothing happened."
"And you kissed her." she says, as I'm still facing her back.
"I was just playing."
And then everything becomes quiet. A thoughtful silence for her whilst an awkward one for me.
"Trunks," her voice is hoarse, and quiet, and perfectly fitting to her sexy-self in the middle of the night. I like this Marron. Perhaps the only reason I'm dating her is to witness this side of her, a side that only comes out to its surface around me (and sex, of course). Perhaps I'm in love. "What starts off as a game, might end up turning into something else. Be careful."
But then, almost instantly, I find myself thinking about Pan. About the bubbly laugh and the freckles and her paleness and the light bangs falling over her eyelashes. Ha. 'Something else'? 'Be careful'? Ridiculous.
"What's ridiculous?" she asks, and my eyes go large. Did I say that out loud?
"I just can't believe you actually think I'd choose her over you."
She turns around and stands on her tiptoes to tenderly kiss my lips, the cotton brushing me softly. "I love you." She whispers.
Yup. "Me too."
…
12 p.m.
"FUCK!"
I don't always swear. Far less I scream while swearing. But when I do, I must have a really good reason. (A) Or someone else ate my food, or (B) I lost a fight with dad, which turns that "not always" into, well, everyday.
"Your dodges are slag." He states, giving me a strong pat on my naked, wounded back. I shudder.
My body is soaked in a mix of my own blood and sweat, unlike dad's thin layer of what looks like oil.
He likes training me, a.k.a. "making me stronger". I think that's just an excuse to beat me up. Ever since I could remember, I'm forced to train. Nothing I can complain about, it's the only thing I can actually do well. Winning tournaments, getting scholarships. Besides, these muscles can't be formed on their own.
"No! Gohan, I told you a zillion times that…" For mom to yell at you like that through a phone call, you must be really stupid. And yeah, I can tell this Gohan is sort of clumsy. Mom spends most of her work-time nagging at this man. She even spends most of her dark scolds on him than on us, her children. I bet two 4%'s of mom's daily anger are wasted on Bulla and I, while the other 92% falls straight and automatically on her personal assistant's head.
"So where were you last night?" she asks, and I'm not sure if she's talking to me or to the small device hooked to her ear. But then I realize it's off, as she unhooks and puts it on the small kitchen island. "Why weren't you at the Chestnut's place?"
"I didn't know I had to be there."
I can see it in her eyes. Here comes that 4%.
"Eighteen"—Marron's mother, who's actual name is Margaret. But her volleyball player number and her boyfriends and the guys she got laid with explain why everyone called her by a number. Yeah, called, because mom doesn't seem to remember her real name—"seemed quite disappointed you left your girlfriend all alone in such a tragic day."
But I know she doesn't even care. And she looks at me, waiting for an answer. And I think might I know more about Mrs. Chestnut than I probably should. But then I find myself daydreaming, freckles and jingly laughs.
"What's that?" she asks, motioning her head towards me, trying to point out something. "Is that a hickey?"
Shit.
"Trunks Vegeta Briefs," Great, here comes the preaching. I mean it's rather boring. So I'm not sure when exactly I stopped listening, but then I catch up. "You're there only when you want to be, right?"
So I nod, yes mom, I mutter. But then my brain processes the last words she said, and I'm all messed up. What? No, no that's not right. Is it? And she scoffs, humorlessly.
"I love her, mom."
And she does that again, it's sort of annoying. "Dinner will be done in an hour."
…
The heat of the steaming water runs down my body, and even though it's supposed to burn, I'm practically numb. The unpleasant pain turned into a soothing massage over the years; almost like hot rocks on your back—if that's supposed to feel good.
"TRUNKS!" Bulla bangs loudly on her door.
Yeah, I'm taking a shower in her bathroom.
When I was a kid—back to the glorious days when Bulla didn't exist—I chose the biggest bedroom of the newly built mansion. Of course 3-year-olds don't take in account the size of their bathrooms or showers. But as the time went on and I went growing along, I realized that yeah, size did matter and not only for playrooms. And there was nothing I could do about it, because stupid Bulla was already born and installed.
So my bathroom turned out to be a small box with a small tub. The water coming from the shower hits straight on my chest, so when I want to wet my hair I have to squat and bent.
Not the best way to relax.
"C'mon Trunks!" Bang, bang, bang. Neither is this, but at least the water hits my head without me having to flex.
"Jesus, Bulla! Can't you just piss the fuck off?!" Also (C) When Bulla yells at me.
I wrap a towel around my waist without even getting myself dry. I fucking hate prom.
You probably think this chapter was pointless and irrelevant, but it's not. Thank you!
Disclaimer: I got the "squat in the shower" from a book, I bet you know which one.