Welcome to Boxer & Rice

//Kami…the heat…it’s almost unbearable….//

He ran a slick hand through humidity-heavy hair, ruffling the sleeping sweat in a vain imitation of relief. Huffing in annoyance of the pioneering perspiration gradually conquering the once white tee, bleeding it to a translucent grey with its all too eager minions, he started his muttered rant once more, tracing the words with his highlighter as he read.

“He checked his watch, surprised to realize his day was almost over; he faithfully kept the hours he set for himself from the start: 5 am until midnight. He cracked his knuckles and reached for another cigarette…” glancing quickly to the bed stand, he let his eyes linger on the diminutive white and green box setting on the small table. Blinking the distraction away, he turned back to his antiqued text.

“As he pulled it from the pack on the dashboard, he glanced toward the ashtray….” Trailing off, he set the slim paperback down, looking to the petite glass dish not far from that little packet of nicotine still taunting the stalwart student. Wiping the glistening beads from his brow, he looked nervously to the clock across the room. Surely, he could hold out, surely he could wait until the man came home.

Half an hour isn’t eternity after all, ne?

Licking lips long gone dry with the heat and frustration of too much work and not enough play, he stretched along the width of the mattress he sat upon, bridging across forgotten notes and dog-eared manuscripts in order to snitch the teasing temptation and its companion crystal, setting them to rest between his thighs.

//Just one. He won’t mind if I take just one….//

Removing a cigarette from the tattered pack, he summoned a small bit of ki, lighting the stick with the very tip of his finger. Dropping his head against the wall behind him, he closed his eyes, breathing deep the scent he longed to smell all day.

“Trunks…”

Shifting slightly, he placed the emblazoned switch of tobacco and tar gingerly into the ashtray, moving it to sit at his side as he slid down, lying flat on the disheveled comforter. Turning his nose to the slowly rising smoke, he breath deep once more, savoring the sweet spice and bitter call of the minty fragrance; the reminder of his lover curling its fingers in response to the rhythm of his steady chest-falls in the stuffy room.

Allowing the coiling tendrils their reign, he relaxed. For the first time since he had started working that week, he finally…relaxed. Trunks had gone off training–or rather, to kick the ass of his stunted father. He smiled at the image, recalling the complete and utter surprise he didn’t bother hiding when he saw the pale prince carrying his unconscious counterpart into the kitchen of Capsule Corporation, muttering something about lessons learned and bones broken, before passing out himself.

Trunks had bested Vegeta and when the little man came to he was furious.

He wanted a re-match.

And now he was getting it.

Five days of it.

He sighed heavily, forcing leaded lids to rise against their will, idly focusing on the pirouetting smolder of paper and leaves nestled protectively amongst the fossilized remains of its brethren. Kami, when he got home tonight…

The man blushed lightly at the sudden shower of dirty images that had…shower? “Kami, save me,” he chuckled lightly, finding it easier and easier to handle his hentai self as their relationship had progressed. Once, he would have locked himself in the bathroom, trying desperately to handle his…there it goes again. He graced the darkened doorway with a sly smile, remembering the last night before his prince had left. An early dinner, a little shower, a light…snack…another shower….

The smile curled to a smirk, and he stretched, extending and flexing the last few hours of diligent studying out of his reading-weary muscles. Falling back against the mattress with a hearty sigh, the bed bounced lightly, disturbing the paint-strokes of white and powdered-grey quietly coating the room, enveloping the stifling warmth of a mid-summer’s night.

Lolling his head to the side, he looked toward the small pile of clothes he’d been meaning to wash. Blinking a slight blush down, he reached above him, sliding his searching fingers beneath the untidy covering to where his pillows hid.

Heh. Good thing he remembered to do this. Who knows what would happen if he’d forgotten.

Pulling the black tank into view, he dropped the cloth onto his chest, staring as it rose and fell in time to his steady breaths. Trunks hadn’t been able to see him all week but just because his lover was away didn’t mean he had to sleep alone.

Well, maybe that’s only partially true. Alone, yes. Unsatisfied? Not at all.

Fisting the familiar cotton, he brought it to his face, reveling in the heady, musky scent of his fair-haired half. Kami…how he loved his smell. After a good spar, right from the shower, when he woke first thing…

…during sex….

Sex that invariably ended in collapse…sex that stressed them both to their limits and beyond every time…sex that seemed to flawlessly call forth powers and stamina and desires and words neither had ever the pleasure of experiencing before they had professed their mutual craving for one another.

Sex that left him feeling complete, sated, sorer than hell the next day…heh. He could only imagine what the prince felt like when he got to be uke…

This Son pulled no punches.

Punches. Fighting. Trunks. Sex.

Closing dozing eyes, he let the material cover his face, hiding from the heat and the work that had been plaguing him all week. What’s a little break, ne…? He deserved one, after all.

All fun and no play makes Jack a dull boy….

He chuckled. “Too bad for Jack…” he let the whisper trail off as he stretched again, letting his arms collapse, to rest inert above his head.

Just like the other night.

“Kami-sama…”

He knew the pale prince was a kinky son of a bitch but bondage…? A ghostly tingle of leather twined too tight pulsed down his forearms. Let it not be said his Ouji was not…creative…with his chosen past time…. The touches…the bites…the slaps and resulting bruises…the thrill of dominance and submission-winning and losing…just like fighting.

And people wonder why Saiyans can deal with pain, why they fight all the time. It’s not that the warrior within needs release, so much as the necessity for the drug.

The addiction to pain…

Pain caused by fighting, by loving.

“Trunks….”

The phantasm of sweet agony ran tingling through his fingers as he simply reveled in the demonic caress of vivid memory. Curse his photographic abilities…and their wonderfully erotic snap shots…. Nudity, tenderness, love, heat, passion, aggression…sex….

He took a deep breath, removing that superbly suffocating reminder from his visage, allowing a fresh rush to cool his heated cheeks. Letting his fist meander, the ebony cotton pooling like spilled ink over his abdomen, the black standing against the pallor of his own thin shielding like a dollop upon white paper…an accident brought about in haste…

…haste equating to passion…

…passion for his lover…

…passion for his prince….

His brow curled upward slightly, dirty thoughts and sufficiently filthy images knitting and locking into a latticework of lust and arousal attacking his prostrate frame with its-his enthusiasm.

Succumbing to the desires and frustration long built-up, he slid his empty hand beneath the band of his loose pants, fumbling fingers working their way beneath the elastic of his boxers, ignoring the ardent pull of the coarse, short hairs meaning to stop his descent with their puny protests, no distractions this time. If he didn’t do this now…he just…he needed this.

Discharging the hold he’d forgotten he’d held on the balled clothing, determined digits strode dutifully past the missing button to clasp at the zipper. Once down, he released his heart-hardened member to the asphyxiating atmosphere, all previous thoughts on humidity and aridity replaced by the goal he set forth.

“Kami, Trunks…” the vocalization died before even asserted as he let the throbbing of his heightened pulse set the rhythm for his strokes.

Gritting his teeth at the lovely friction, he paused, moving a thumb across his head, capturing the small, eager beads of carnality to aid his desperation. Unsatisfied with the out come, as it were, he released his stiff arousal in favor of the shirt-the touch of his love, bringing it down to wrap himself in the soft, rich fabric.

Both hands on either side of his hidden need, his began to push the weave gently along the length of his desire, curling his fingers around the soft sheathing, increasing the pressure ever so slightly…

He released the breath he’d forgotten he held, drawing in short, jerky pants as he quickened his pace. Kami-sama…how he loved the feel of his breath on his neck in the middle of the night…

The quiet little keening that rises occasionally from the depths of that beautifully tensed throat when he touches his prince just so…

The licks and piercing nips along his lobe and jaw that eventually trail back to the small, crescent scar on the crook of his shoulder, the tissue still unbelievably sensitive when caressed…

Or the clipped, trim nails that dig into his back, rake across his chest…knead into the muscle of his ass when he starts fighting back…

“…yesssss….”

The force of his grip increased slowly, gait hastening in response to the lurid torrent of past embraces and titillating touches fueling his resolve. He needed this, needed this solitary, secular act more than studying, more than passing, more than even fighting.

Damn it! He needed to cum!

And so help him, he needed to cum for Trunks!

“Do it, Gohan.”

Coal met sky in a moment of profound terror at the revelation leaning against the door frame to the room. Pausing in his quest, red emphasized his act as the heat burned his cheeks a brilliant crimson.

“Tr…runks….” Kami had it out for him, he was sure of it.

The well-built figure stood, choosing to travel languidly toward the bed. “Do it, Gohan,” the small duffel he had slung over his shoulder fell to the floor with a gentle thud, “you said so yourself. You needed to cum for me,” he casually slid his hands into the pockets of his pants, “and I want you to do it.”

Staring wide-eyed at his princely companion, he quietly began again.

Curse that damn bond! Of all the things to have…neither of them could ever get away with saying they couldn’t read minds. The most perfect of all excuses gone out the window before either had even realized it.

Grimacing slightly, he worked the shirt over his straining sex. He was determined before but now…it was a challenge.

He had to please his prince after all, ne?

Locking eyes with the standing form, he smirked. “So after…all…that hard work…this…this is what you want…?”

Turning his head to the side in mute contemplation, Trunks brought a thumb to his lips, brushing it back and forth in silent meditation.

Kami…you always look so good when you do the slightest things…

Arching a brow at the calmly directed remark, the lavender Ouji turned inquisitive eyes toward his…studious counterpart. Hand retreating to it’s designated pocket, he turned his placid expression to the desperate figure lying before him.

“Yes.”

Newly invigorated, Gohan quickened his pace. Closing his eyes, he let the images from earlier guide him to completion, ignoring the presence of the man beside him in favor of his haunting manipulations.

His hands on his hips while taking him on all fours.

That tongue tickling his tail spot.

Those fingers curled around his wrist, driving deeper into his ass.

His voice spinning a web of erotic sounds throughout his head.

That hard, tight seat calling his cock forward, begging for more.

…those soft, satiny lips curving around him in the heat of it all, that mouth intent to suck him dry, sate him into submission…

He bit his lip to stifle the cry of release as he exiled his passion in that blessed moment of climax, forcing every last ounce of lust into that abused bit of cotton he wore around his slowly sated member.

Sluggishly relinquishing his grip, he allowed one brow to arch, announcing the presence of that single shard of ebony to the statuesque observer beside him. Panting in the throes of self indulgence, Gohan closed his eye, raising his chin as he settled his head into the pillow.

“Have I pleased you, my prince?” he regulated each word, willing a bit of dead-pan into the statement.

Smirking down at his spent familiar, Trunks moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Well, if this is what promises to greet me,” Gohan lifted one lid, lips pursed in curiosity, “I might have to go away more often.”

Leaning forward, the young Ouji captured those pert lips in a gentle kiss, teasing the silken skin with tongue and tooth before entering to engage his love with equal enthusiasm. Moaning softly into that sweet bon known only to him, Trunks slowed, lulling his half-frenzied counterpart into a state of tranquil relaxation in lieu of his fevered performance.

Pulling back somewhat hesitant, a soft smile graced him with it’s presence as he watched the dazed Son lick his lips, eyes closed, brows cambered.

Finding his voice, the young Son spoke: “So long…as you come home in one piece, we’ll see.” He couldn’t help the blush as Trunks poked at the shirt his lover lie beneath. There goes his secret.

“I knew I wasn’t dirtying that many of these…” he lifted the shirt, tossing it into the pile of clothes in the corner. “You keep this up, Gohan and I might have to go back home to buy more,” he arched a brow with a smile.

“So long as you’re sure you can make it back to this timeline, koi. I don’t want to miss you like the last time you tried to do that…” he offered a sly smile to accompany his tease. “I don’t ever want to end up fucking Sugi no Trunks by accident.”

Moving back with a forced start, the elder demi-Saiyan raised his hands defensively. “Oi, that wasn’t my fault. You can’t predict the flow of ions and accelerated particles in relation to the-”

Wrapping one hand around the pale prince’s neck, Gohan pulled him down, locking his maunder mouth in another deep kiss.

Talk shop later, koibito…you’ve got work to do….