I Know You
by Flipfloppandas     More by this Writer
I know you. That shouldn't be all that surprising, because obviously I know you. I am your best friend after all. But then again perhaps it should surprise you. Considering just how much I know about you. Believe me, I know a lot. I'd say I know you like the back of my hand... but I think that phrase is really stupid.

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I know you.

That shouldn't be all that surprising, because obviously I know you. I am your best friend after all.

But then again perhaps it should surprise you. Considering just how much I know about you. Believe me, I know a lot.

I'd say I know you like the back of my hand, but I don't, and I think that phrase is really stupid. I don't know every detail of my fucking hand, why the hell would I? Every time I look at it, I find new veins and bumps and scratches; I'm quite certain that if you put my hand next to another pale guy's hand, I would not know the difference. I mean, I don't just sit in my room studying the back of my hand in my free time. That would be weird. The phrase should be more like 'I know you like the head of my penis'; I definitely know what that looks like! Is that nasty? Yeah I figured it was. Okay well I should just say 'I know you like Trunks' face'... Or would that be 'I know you like your face'? I guess I could just say 'I know you like you like Trunks' penis'... wait; I'm running into the same problem... Okay I'm just confusing myself and getting off topic. You know what the hell in trying to say. I'm trying to say that I know you, because I really fucking do.

I know the basic things about you, simple best friend shit. Like that your favorite color is baby blue, and that your favorite food has always been yankiniku. I know that you loved flying sports air cars when we were younger, and that presently you love driving a real air car instead of one with wheels. I also know that you hate dogs, and have a mild fear of rats (you actually don't like animals much in general, all aside from your late grandfather's cat). I even know that you hate—fear is more accurate in my opinion—heights, aside from when you are flying, and can use your own Ki to keep yourself afloat (a few times when you were younger, you sat on your father's back as he flew, but that was only a few times, and I can't even imagine the amount of trust you put into him).

I know that you can sing—not magnificently, but good enough to make people want to listen, and my chest to swell—but you are too shy to do so publically—so shy that I distinctly remember a few years ago when you rudely refused to privately sing the national anthem (Kimi Ga Yo, not even that difficult of a song) to our choir teacher for almost twenty minutes, before she finally sent you down to the principal's office, where you got a stern lecture, and your class changed to orchestra, where you happily learned to play the violin (and then the viola, and are now currently mastering the cello)—which is quite strange, considering you're not necessarily a shy person. Scratch that, you're not shy per se; you just don't like having the attention on you (and yes, you made sure to emphasize that there is in fact, a difference).

I know that you are a great dancer, even though you don't dance often, because why would you? You don't dance at your mother's business gatherings (parties) because you don't want to make a fool of yourself—especially not in front of your father—and you rarely go to basic teenager parties without me forcing you to. You actually aren't much of a party-er in general you like to claim, but I know that's a lie, because once I finally drag you to some "hot-shindig" (modern-day lingo, of course), you seem as though you are having the time of your life! You dance—not that fist-pumping and jumping in place bullshit, but real, actual dancing. The type of dancing that makes you swivel your hips, and wrap your arms around my body or grind against me (at least if you're drunk enough). The kind of dancing that makes your feet move and your hair to bounce all over your face. The kind of dancing that you use your entire body for: your arms flying in rhythm with your legs, your hips spinning as your head rolls. It's the type of dancing that makes other people turn and look, but you seem not to notice and just keep smiling and laughing, because you are just having that good of a fucking time—and shout out song lyrics, and participate in stupid kissing games (well, not anymore, I'd probably kill you if you did...), but would never pick up any of the red plastic cups that held the beverages.

You don't particularly like to drink, because it makes you stop thinking clearly, and you hate not being put together—my theory is that you're also afraid that someone will slip you something, and try to have their way with your drugged-up body. I believe it could happen; you are in fact, too gorgeous for your own good—which is just the way your father taught you, and he'd probably kill you if he knew you had even considered picking up alcohol.

Despite those two negative scenarios, I kind of like it when you are drunk (at least when I am in a condition to keep an eye on you, and make sure potential "trouble-makers" keep their distance). You completely let yourself go. You laugh loudly and obnoxiously, and you smile so widely it looks like your face will split in half. Your cheeks and ears are adorably flushed, and your eyes are filled with drunken glee. You let me shove my tongue down your throat despite who is watching—most of the times it is you who starts it—and even try to unbutton my shirt as if we were alone (I used to let you, but you started yelling at me about it once you sobered up). You often straddle me when I am sitting—or give me something akin to a lap dance—or jump up and wrap your legs around my waist, and force me to carry you when I am standing. Then the next morning, you die of embarrassment from remembering your actions—or forgetting your actions—from the night before, and always make a vow to never drink again (you tend to make it about two or so months before I convince you to grab a cup of heavily spiked-juice, that always seems to magically turn into six more cups). Despite your hatred of your own drunkenness, I love it, because you're just so much fun to be around! Also... well... you are rather horny when you're drunk...

Perhaps knowing those details about you is not exactly astounding. We have after all, been best friends for a long time. But trust me; I know more about you than that. I even know things about you that you never told me. Things that not even you know.

I know there are some things you hate about your appearance. Not many things—even you know how gorgeous you are—but still enough for me to notice. For starters, you hate your forehead. When we were younger—before you grew into your handsomeness—other kids used to tease you about having a big forehead. To sort of lessen the blow of your massive forehead, you styled your hair the same way for years—parted down the middle, so it hid the sides, but kept the front exposed, so that your efforts weren't obvious—but that wasn't necessarily a bad move, because you didn't look stupid, and no one seemed to notice. I don't blame you for trying to hide your head, because it really is quite big (not as noticeable as when you were younger, but still), but then again, I do feel like you over-react a bit.

Two other things you hate are your hair color, and eye shape. When you were younger, the rectangular shape you inherited from your father looked natural on him; on you it just looked strange. I doubt it was because your eyes were blue instead of black, but rather that there was too much happiness in them. You didn't scowl like your father, never had your eyes drawn in irritation or intimidation. No, you were just a child, and your joyful youth shined in your eyes, which just made them look... well, wrong.

Not much to say about your hair. You just hate it because it could easily pass for pink. I probably made your resentment of your hair worse, because I once joked that from a distance you looked you were a girl.

You punched me in the face, and told me you were fixing my vision.

I was nine years old with a black eye, and I believed you.

All of these things mixed together really did make you a weird-looking child. That's not necessarily the case anymore, because as I said before, you really did grow into your looks, but even still, I always loved your big forehead—more to kiss—and your rectangular eye shape—it's so unique, and makes the blue of your eyes pop—and your pinkish hair—reminds me of cotton candy. Your imperfections make you less intimating, more approachable, which I guess is sort of a contradiction, because those distinct features were meant to be used for intimidation and fear.

Even more personally, I know about your family life. I know that you and your father get along better than you probably ever have. Maybe it's because you are an adult now—you are nineteen years old after all (I'm not sure why you get to be considered an adult and not me. So what if I'm only seventeen? I'll be eighteen in a few months. What's the difference?)—and you aren't so dependent on him now.

You and your mother? Not much to say, your relationship with her has never been rocky; you get along with her well enough. Well, you're arguing with her more and more nowadays, always over the same thing. Always about you stepping up to be the president of Capsule Corps, so your mother could retire. I can see why you wouldn't want that job. Who would? To sit in an office all day, signing papers and the like. Gosh, I really do feel sorry for you. Mainly because, I know you are going to give into her eventually, you always do. Why do I know that? I know that because I know you.

Now for my favorite: your relationship with the youngest member in your family. When were younger, you didn't like her too much. Understandable, she did kind of take the spotlight away from you. But then again, sometimes it was all in your head. True, she was a bit more important than you at the time—she was an infant, after all—but it was not like your family completely forgot about you either. They loved you far too much for that. You were just intimated by her, by the thought that anyone could take your place amongst your family (which must have been when you started bending to their orders to please them). Now that we are older, you realize how foolish you were as a child, and have more or less gotten over your jealousy. You adore her now, because how can you not? She's your sister, and that means something to you. You used to be so jealous of me and Gohan, because you were an only child, and had no one. But now you have her, that sweet bundle of a little sister, who looks up to you, and adores you just as much. Me? I'll never get to know what it feels like to have a younger sibling. Someone who looks up to me, and honestly thinks I am the greatest there is. Well, I guess I'm lying. Pan is close enough to a little sister for me.

Really, I could go on and on for hours about the personal things I know about you, but I'd much rather take this conversation elsewhere. To the more intimate things I know about you. And by intimate, I mean intimate. Is it strange that I know those details about you? Like the fact that you have a sweet spot, on your jaw, right below your ear? Is it not obvious from the way I'm sucking on it now, nibbling it between my lips that you enjoy it? Enjoy it so much that you're clutching my shoulders as I graze my teeth over it, tilting your head and wanting more? Well, there might be a different reason as to why you are clutching my shoulders so tightly, but I still know this sweet spot beneath your right ear, and just the right treatment I should give it. I don't think that it's strange I know these things. I have had quite some time to get to know your body inside and out.

I know that you like your nipples sucked. I did that already. I kissed my lips along your chest, before I connected with the already hard bud. I licked at your tender bud, and sucked it between my lips, rolling the other one between my fingertips. I switched sides, grazed at you with my teeth, and rode my face in sync with your quivering chest. What I love about sucking on your nipples is that and when I look back down at your chest; I can see them still hard, bruised red and glistening a bit from my saliva that hasn't yet dried.

Another thing I know is that you like to be kissed and licked on the insides of your upper thighs. I did that already, not twenty minutes ago. I kissed the tender, tan skin of your thigh, and dragged my tongue across it. Your legs quivered underneath my tongue—even more so when I formed my lips over it and sucked—and your other leg hooked over my shoulder, which I knew meant you wanted more. Don't worry, I gave you more. I dined from both of your smooth, muscled thighs—they are probably red as hell now—before I trailed my lips up higher and higher until...

Did you know that you like to be rimmed? I mean really like to be rimmed. You've never admitted to it (and you probably never will), but you don't have too. I already know.

I won't lie and say that I don't enjoy rimming you as well. How the hell could I not?! Gods you're just so... sexy!

If it's not obvious by now, I love too cause you pleasure. To watch you blush brightly with embarrassment, your chest panting and eyes lidded as I push your legs up and out of my way, to present myself with the prize nuzzled between them. To see you screw your eyes shut and bite your lip as I tease you. Then to see you writhe completely: your mouth open as soft moans fall out, your cheeks flushed darker, your fingers fisting the bed sheets, your legs strained and pointed up to the ceiling, and your muscles clenching down on my tongue as I pushed inside. I fucked you with my tongue as best as I could, letting you hold your own legs open, as I jacked off that beautiful prick of yours with one of my hands, and pushed a lube-covered finger inside of you with the other. Once I could taste the lube—not that it's inedible, but it does taste weird—I pulled my tongue out of you, and went back to sucking on your sensitive thighs as I pressed a second finger into you. Yeah, I definitely love to rim you—particularly I like to have you sit on my face, but whatever—to watch you writhe in pleasure under my touch. It might just be my biggest turn-on. Another one is the thought of you eating out me.

It was quite exciting when I got you to rim me that one time. You had no comments for it aside from an embarrassed flush, but I knew you liked it. I also know that despite your embarrassment, you'd probably do it again if I asked you.

I'm saving that for a special occasion.

I learned that you like it on your back. It's not your favorite position, but it's definitely up there. One reason is because you're more comfortable, and the other is oddly the simplicity of it. In your mind, it's the opposite of being on your hands and knees, and being on your hands and knees demeans you, in a way that I don't quite understand. You'll never admit it, but you don't really need too. I already know, because I know you.

Something I know that I think is quite interesting: your actual favorite position is straddling me, despite how sore your legs sometimes get. Whether I am sitting, or lying on my back, you just hop on me, and move those powerful legs up and down on top of me. It's one of my favorites as well. Gods, I love it, especially your ass; to just hold it in my hands as you ride me. Watching your hands press flat against my chest as you rock your body on top of mine, screwing yourself on my prick. Your eyes are lidded and burning with desire as you look down at me, your hair flopping all over your head as your body bounces. Your cheeks are flushed bright, your mouth falling open as you pant and moan... Hot as hell! We aren't doing that right now though.

I'm taking you on your back.

Not that I don't want to let you ride me, but you were just doing that. Often times we change up our positions (sometimes purposely, other times spontaneously). Not that long ago, you were straddling me like the sexy bastard you are, but I pushed you off, and made you fall back heavily on the bed, before I was on top of you again.

I got the sweet pleasure to push back into your tight heat again.

Without any bit of pain of course, because I know just how to prepare you, so you never have to experience anything negative in this. I don't want you to associate negative things with me.

I'm watching you now, your head flopping on the pillows in time with my thrusts. Short, gorgeous lavender hair splayed out across bed's pure pillows, as your sweat-dampened bangs bounce in time with your body. Your cheeks are burned red, your kiss-bruised lips wide open as you let out the sweetest moans. Your eyes are screwed shut, so I can't see your beautiful blues stained with the desire I know is there. It's alright though, because the image of them doused with such unrestrained desire is a sight that will never forget.

I hear your voice calling out through your panting. You're speaking rather softly, so I force my ears to pay attention. You're moaning out words to me, telling me to go harder. Desperately wanting for me to give you more.

I grab your wrists, and pull them up to wrap your strong arms around my neck. You hold on, as I drive my hips harder.

Sometimes I get you to beg me. Well, not necessarily beg, but you do urge me. 'Come on, Goten, do me already!' you might say, or sometimes I get you to chant 'Harder Goten Harder!' You never ask me to fuck you though. I know why, because you hate that word. In your mind, that word not only demeans you, but makes you feel like there is less intimacy, and is simply, just fucking. How do I know that? I can just tell by looking at you. Every time a friend of ours talks about 'fucking his girlfriend', or when you hear it used in that vulgar—yes I've been around you enough to be able to use that word in day-to-day conversations—manner on television, your eyebrows are drawn in the way they always are when you're irritated, and you frown, as if you're upset. I can also tell you're a bit embarrassed just by looking in your eyes, as if you were imagining being just fucked, which then upsets me, because I don't want to think about anyone doing just that to you. I don't mind your dislike of the word; I'm not too fond of it either.

You gasp as I thrust harder, your eyes flying open for a split second, before they are screwed shut again. Your headboard bangs harder against the wall—I'm so glad that your father is not home, and is off sparring with my father. Vegeta might literally kill me if he caught me doing this to you. He may tolerate my dating you, but us being sexually active is definitely a 'no-no'—and the delicious slapping of my balls against your skin surrounds us. I know that your toes are curling like they always do, as your beautiful cock rubs against the muscles of my abdomen. I can feel your fingers twisting in my hair as your other slightly calloused hand clutches my opposite shoulder. Your quivering legs are squeezing my sides, keeping me pinned with you. Your knees are actually pressing so tightly into my waist that it's a bit uncomfortable, and your fingers are twisted quite painfully in my hair. I don't stop you, because in a weird way, it's comforting. Perhaps it's because I know I'm the only one who can make you feel this way. I am the only person who knows your body this well, and can ever make you experience this much pleasure. To know that I am the only one allowed seeing you this way: completely, and utterly, coming undone.

I believe I am allowed to feel a bit proud of myself. I got myself one hell of a prize, and I know how to fucking use it.

I can hear my own self moaning as your legs wrap around my backside, and force me to move faster into you. Gods, the way you swallow me. The way you look so right tangled up in your sheets. You were made to fuck really, but I won't tell you that. I mean of course we do a bit of dirty talk (who doesn't?), but I'm not sure how you'd feel if I said something that extreme, and we've already established that you don't like to use the 'F' word, in that context. Also... well, I'd feel really awkward saying that to you. Some things really should just stay in my head.

"Goten," you breathe out, your hands clutching my shoulders as your eyes crack open to look up at me. "Fuck, I'm close."

I nod before saying, "me too."

I'm not lying, and I know you're not either. No matter how saiyan we are, we can't last forever. I'm gritting my teeth as the sweat of my forehead runs down my face—our sex is most always like this, good enough to make us sweat—trying desperately to make myself last longer. It doesn't matter; pleasure like this can't last forever.

I don't bother trying to thrust harder. One reason is that I simply don't need to, because this pace is quite satisfactory for us both. The other reason is because my muscles are tired, and won't be able to keep up this rhythm for much longer. It again doesn't matter; we can't keep up with this much longer either.

I think it's amazing that I can get you to cum without me even touching you, like I know you'll be doing. Again, something I won't say out loud. Gotta hate awkward dirty talk, huh?

Just as I've predicted, you're yelling out as your climax hits, your muscles clamping down just as I release inside of you. My name is falling from your lips, just as yours is falling from mine. We do lots of things in sync, and I like to pretend that it's not because we fused as children.

I'm gasping to fill my lungs with needed air, as I lower myself as gently as I can down onto yours. My lower body stings with pain, but it passes quickly, and leaves me with a numb soreness. A wonderful reminder of what I have just done to you.

I lift my hand to entwine it with yours. You thread your fingers through mine, and clutch tightly.

There is one thing that I can't say I know. What have I done to deserve you? What did I say to convince you to let me do these naughty things to you? What caused you to decide to let me claim you as mine, while you claimed me as yours? You're beautiful, Trunks inside and out (sure there are some annoying things about you, like your temper, but nothing to make you undesirable); you could have anyone you wanted to do this for you. Anyone your lovely heart desired. Why did you choice me?

Is it because I know you? That I know your favorite color and food, and that you hate animals, and like dancing, and hate being drunk, and love your family, and that you have a sweet spot under your ear, and that you like your nipples sucked, and your thighs kissed, and like to rim me and be rimmed, and love the riding position, and that you hate the idea of being fucked on your knees, and that I know your body like no one else?

But anyone could learn that, if you let them. It may take a while for them to get through your layers, but it's not impossible. Why don't you? There are so many better options. There are other people: better-looking, and smarter, and richer, and everything that I can never be for you. Those are people who you deserve, and deserve you. Why don't you go for them? Why is it that you keep coming back to me? Do you really think you won't be able to find someone better?

Or is it... that your heart truly desires me?

In a weird way, I can believe that, but perhaps I'll never know the answer as to why.

I guess it doesn't matter. I'm not complaining.

I feel your body squirming beneath me, but I have you pinned with mine. I don't know how long I've laid on you, until I hear your voice grunting by my ear.

"Get off of me. You know idiot weight is considerably heavy."

"Har, har, har." I roll my eyes, but lift off of you.

I look down at you for a moment. You're staring up at me, a content look on your face. Your hair is a mess, and your cheeks are still flushed. I know that they will be that way for a while. They always are after we have sex.

I pull myself out of you, and you grimace as the results of my climax leaks out of you.

"Dammit, Goten." Your hips wiggle uncomfortably, "how many times do I have to tell you to stop doing that? It's nasty."

I give you a knowing smile and arch my brow. "You love it."

Your cheeks redden, and I know it has nothing to do with your usual after-sex flush.

I lower myself onto you again, but only half of my body is on yours; my head resting against your shoulder, as I wrap my arm around the other one. Your chest is rising and falling more evenly now beneath me, and I kiss your shoulder. Smooth skin connects with my lips, and I can faintly smell the pleasant, yet deliciously masculine scent of your deodorant.

Your head tilts to connect with mine. "I love you."

I smile and embrace the little flutter in my chest as I snuggle closer to you. It's always so nice to hear you say it without me saying it first. Not that you have to. I can just feel it.

"I know." I do know.

You're content with my answer. You don't need to hear me say it all the time to know that I feel the same. Gods, do I feel the same.

We are quiet now, and I feel as though you might take a nap. I most certainly don't object to that.

I think I'm almost asleep, when you shift beneath me, and move away.

I glare you when my body connects with the cold spot you've left in your wake, as you step off of the bed. "Hey, get your ass back over here and be my pillow!"

You roll your eyes, and walk over to your dresser. "As tempting as that sounds, my father will be home soon, and I'd rather he not find me lying naked in a bed with you, and completely smelling like sex."

I groan, because I know you are right, but I really don't want to accept it. I don't even want to sleep anymore. Watching your sexy, white-sprinkled ass walk away from me, just calling my fucking name... well...

I give you my best innocent pouty-face, as you pull out fresh clothes.

"Stop doing that, it's not going to work." You say as you nudge the drawers shut, and keep your eyes from looking in my direction.

"Stop doing what?"

"Stop playing stupid, Goten. You're making that pitiful face so I'll come back over there and kiss you to make you feel better. Then you're going to throw me back on the bed, and play around with my body until I ultimately give into you, and let you have your way with me again. Really, as much as I wouldn't mind rolling around with you in the sheets again, we don't have the time."

I'm stunned, and I can't think of a clever comeback. That was... my exact plan. "How did you know that?"

You roll your eyes again, but grace me with a little smirk and a raised eyebrow—that looks so sexy paired with your after-sex blush—as you stop in the doorway of your connected bathroom.

"Because, Goten. I know you."

You step into the bathroom, and close the door behind you.

I blink, before reclining back onto your mattress. After a moment, I smile as I look up at your ceiling. That makes sense. That shouldn't be all that surprising, because obviously you know me. You are my best friend after all. Of course you know me, probably as well as I know you.

Perhaps that should surprise me. Considering just how much you probably know about me, compared to everything I know about you.

I can only guess you know a lot.

The End

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