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The Moaning	By : MutantPoptart Category: Dragon Ball Z > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 4969 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball Z, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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The Moaning

The moaning was nightly. It had been going on since Trunks and his father first arrived in the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, but it only started bothering the younger Saiyan about two months into what would be a year-long stay.
The single bedchamber in the little temple was not large and the beds were not far apart. He heard everything that went on in the other bed and if he made a sound, Vegeta would undoubtedly hear it too. At least he would, if he didn't fall asleep first, and he always did. And soon, Trunks stayed up intentionally so he could try and make out what his slumbering father would mumble in his nightly stirrings.
After long days of what Trunks could only assume was arduous training in the void (the younger Saiyan had never actually seen his father’s training because the man always went off on his own), Vegeta’s sleep was restful and apparently full of dreams.
It always started out as soft murmurs, whispers and growls like the disciplined Saiyan’s mind was still off training, picking up the slack of his resting body. Trunks, lying in his own bed across the room, was usually too preoccupied trying to get some rest of his own to pay any serious attention to the dreamy slurs. Occasionally Trunks made out a curse or a grumbled, “Kakarot,” but there wasn’t really anything to concern him.
It wasn’t until the night Trunks' ears perked up to another name, a strange yet familiar name, that he started paying closer attention. It was spoken clearly and in such a way that Trunks doubted that it came from the sleeping Saiyan on the other side of the room at all. He listened again for it but it didn’t happen. Instead what followed was a series of groans and high–pitched wheezing sounds that almost made Trunks leap out of his bed to see if his father was alright. The sounds were so startling and uncharacteristic of the reserved older Saiyan that Trunks would risk waking him and pissing him off just to be sure he wasn’t suffering from the profound physical pain his moaning suggested.
The awful sounds died down however and eventually Trunks did fall asleep. The next day, he didn’t ask his father about it when he caught him in the dining area. The man seemed just as haughty and disinterested as ever so Trunks took it as a sign of good health.
That was the first time it happened.

It was another few nights later when Trunks was kept awake in his bed again by the rising sounds coming from the adjacent canopy. He’d been easing back into a regular routine of irritable sleep when he heard the name again. It was sudden and strange and just like the first time.
Trunks laid perfectly still in his bed as he waited and listened. He didn’t wanted to miss it this time. He needed to be sure.
Since the first occurrence, Trunks had only given it a little thought. He knew the name was familiar to him but it was a while before it finally dawned on him why. His former master and mentor, Gohan, had not been very close with Vegeta in his youth but he told Trunks everything he knew because he knew it meant a lot to the young half-Saiyan. He’d told Trunks that before Vegeta joined their side he’d worked for a powerful conqueror who destroyed the Saiyan planet and threatened the universe. Gohan said that Vegeta turned against the conqueror when he joined them and that was all he knew of their relationship. Trunks had gathered from Gohan’s clipped descriptions of Vegeta that his father was not the most good-natured man, not a Goku-type by any stretch. As a result of this vagueness, the description of the man's turning on this tyrant who’d taken him in as a boy was as much an indication of the conqueror's evilness as it was of Vegeta’s treacherous nature, and Trunks found he liked his father less the more he learned of him.
The powerful conqueror in the story had a name and Gohan had said it before, Trunks was sure. But he hadn’t been able to place it until just then, as his father gasped it again in the next bed. Frieza. The sounds did not quell and die down quickly afterward as they had the first time. They kept going. Trunks heard not only groaning and retching breathing coming from the other canopy but what sounded like pleas. Trunks held his breath as his ears clung to the lilting sound of what he could only describe as begging.
The words, “stop,” and “no,” and, “please!” were becoming ever prevalent in the cacophony of calls. The bed across the room creaked and trembled and Trunks could only imagine from the sound of it that his father was jerking and twisting and thrashing all over the mattress, his sheets in an unsalvageable tangle.
Finally, the room went still. Trunks had been so stunned by what he was hearing he hadn't been tracking how long it went on. It seemed to last forever. When it ended, there were only soft grumbles and the whisper of flattened down as Vegeta turned dreamily on the comforter.
The next morning, Vegeta looked like he had slept the night through. As usual, he didn't look at Trunks as he ate at the table with him, though the lavender haired Saiyan snuck furtive glances often and enduringly at his father.
After breakfast it had become their ritual to split up and venture out into the void to pursue their separate training. Trunks always tried to lag behind his silent father but it was Vegeta's custom to either tell him to get lost or dash off in a blast. Trunks eventually stopped trying, though he never stopped watching after the fleeting, blue-clad figure.
He shouldn't go out that far, he thought to himself one day as he squinted into the vague direction in which his father had bolted off. He turned away from the unassuming whiteness, opting instead to focus on his own training.
As Trunks built up blast after blast and cast them off into the nothing, he though on the enigmatic Saiyan who didn't exist in Trunks' future and wondered how much the man would be able to put out after such a restless night.
But the nights didn't seem to get to Vegeta, not as much as they got to Trunks anyway. Every night the pure-blooded Saiyan rolled and toiled in his bed and Trunks sat in his own, both concerned and curious in equal measure until the noises subsided and they both settled into a still sleep. And in the mornings, Trunks trained his eyes to the cold man, whose demeanor and sparse conversation revealed nothing.
After weeks of this unrelenting routine, Trunks asserted that he could no longer lie there listening to the haunting sounds echoing from the other bed. He rose out of the thick, down covers and strode to the opposite side of the room. It was an odd progression that the steps that started out purposeful and assured soon slowed and shrank to a furtive creep.
Trunks didn’t need to move the curtain aside to see the canopy's only occupant through the mesh material. Vegeta was lying on his back, the blankets only covered him in theory. The frail sheets did not stand a chance against the twisting and jerking Saiyan in their hold. Corners trailed over naked limbs here and wrapped futilely around an errant ankle there but overall failed to contain the mostly bare and lively body in their midst.
So as Trunks slowly came upon the canopy and looked in, he got the full view of damp chest and twitching muscles, the flipping head and arching back. The body turned suddenly bearing to Trunks the view of a contoured back, beaded with moisture, and the sweat-dampened roots of dark hair on the nape of a strained neck. Trunks could see it all, but what was more, he could also hear it all, and it was even clearer now that he wasn't hearing it from the other side of the room.
The deep moans, the quaking breaths, the shuddering sighs.
“No. N—not this,” came the hoarse voice nearly muffled by scattered pillows.
It was the pleading again. Trunks found it was only ever pleading on the nights when he said the name, when he said Frieza.
Trunks watched the rolling, twitching body and how it arched and peaked. His eyes fell to the only parcel of clothing that covered the otherwise naked physique. It was a form-fitting pair of black briefs and while they may have effectively concealed the tone and shape of any other body, in this room and with the way Vegeta’s hips rose and cocked, Trunks could hardly look anywhere else.
“No, No.” Vegeta’s head burrowed deeper into the pillows.
Trunks pulled his eyes away. All this time, the way Vegeta had shouted and pleaded, the younger Saiyan had expected his father to be clenched up and doubled over in some imagined agony. But here, as the protests fell from his mouth and wore his throat dry and ragged, Vegeta’s body sang a completely unexpected tune.
His thighs parted as another wheezing gasp came out and his hips clenched and opened. The movements looked rhythmic, almost inviting to Trunks. He had never imagined seeing his father this way, not when he'd heard the stories of him in his own time and certainly not after having met him in this one. It was so odd and foreign. The man seemed to make a business of pushing Trunk away since they'd first met, and even after Vegeta had found out who he was (perhaps even more so after that). All the while, all Trunks had wanted was to see him and to be near him the way a son and father are near each other. When Trunks first traveled back and knew he would finally meet his father, he'd hoped beyond anything to embrace the man, to look into his eyes to hear that he was loved and appreciated and that the fabled prince of Trunks’ childhood was proud of him. Now, after having met him, Trunks would be ecstatic to receive a pat on the back. An acknowledgment. He longed for it beyond reason. He wanted Vegeta to want him there with him to care for him and need him the way Trunks needed and cared for him. And he was brushed off time and again. Over the months of their relationship, Trunks had all but given up hope that his father would ever open up to him.
And now here he was, more open and needing and unguarded than Trunks had ever seen him. He was bare in every sense. He was vocal and literally calling out. It was laughable and impossible and wonderful. And yet, Trunks was afraid. He was afraid he would never see his father this way again and he didn’t want to lose this chance.
Trunks felt himself reaching out a trembling hand to the over-heated skin.
He would be there for him. Trunks would be there for his father the way Vegeta was never there for him.
Perhaps Vegeta really did want to be this close with Trunks but was too proud to say it aloud, Trunks reasoned to himself as he drew nearer. Perhaps in his sleep, Vegeta was released from his imprisoning pride and free to express himself more honestly.
Trunks’ hands hovered over Vegeta’s glistening back for a while before he took the plunge. Biting down on his lip, Trunks waited for his father to wake and scream at him.
It didn’t happen.
There was a light tremor in the man’s shoulders and his moans quelled for a moment but he did not wake. The guttural wailing, the gyrating of his body, it all went on, undeterred by Trunks’ presence.
The younger Saiyan felt emboldened then and placed his other hand down next to the first. He slid them down his father’s back, skipped over the scant undergarments and trailed down the thighs. He noticed that Vegeta’s movements seemed to follow his touch. His body rolled and rocked as if trying not to break the contact. He was like a cat, arching up to follow his tickling fingers. It dawned on Trunks that his father enjoyed the attention.
The lucid Saiyan couldn’t help feeling relieved and happy. He was finally able to give his father pleasure. He was making him feel good. It was a new and pleasant feeling for Trunks, who usually felt like little more than an inconvenience to his father.
He wondered, as his fingers teased up and down the sleeping man’s thighs and grazed over his calves if he could try something else. The gentle ministrations didn’t seem to rouse the man from his sleep but still seemed to register in his mind, based on the way he reacted openly to the touch. Trunks opened his mouth, still uncertain, and said the only thing he could think of, “does that feel good?”
He waited.
If Vegeta understood it, he didn’t give more than a heaving grunt. He didn’t wake up either though, so Trunks tried again.
“Do you like how I’m touching you?” he said and his hands slid up the backsides of Vegeta’s thighs, making the muscles jump beneath the perspiring skin.
“Stop,” Vegeta said and it sounded like it was through gritted teeth.
Trunks froze, unsure if the man was still dreaming or if he really was addressing him. He said it sternly enough but Trunks looked at the body beneath him, that still keened and pressed against his hand needily, and decided to persist.
Leaning on the bed, the younger Saiyan began kneading the muscled thighs, braver now and determined, “but it looks like you like it. Are you sure you want me to stop?”
He got to a spot on his upper inner thighs that made Vegeta groan long and breathily. Trunks bore his thumbs in harder in a wicked interest.
Was this the secret to his father then? Pretending to be uninterested in the very thing he wanted. If that was the case then the next time Vegeta tried to brush him off to train on his own, Trunks was going to blast right off after him.
Vegeta’s head had slid out of the pillows at some point and Trunks could now hear his moans unmuffled as well as see the profile of the sleeping Saiyan’s facial expressions.
Hovering over his father’s down–turned body, Trunks paused. He would not have expected it but Vegeta’s expression eluded as much to the turmoil of his mind as his body did. In that, it looked completely lax and almost wanton as if he were truly enjoying it. Trunks could see the slightest gleam of his eyes through tiny slits in his eyelids. He was still sleeping but he looked like he could have also been awake and in a trace, a pleasure-induced trance. That was it, Trunks realized, the man looked deeply in pleasure. Whatever he was dreaming, it was no torture scene or failed battle like his grunts and protests would suggest.
So, the begging-- the "pleas" had to be false. His father had to be enjoying this but even in his sleep, did not allow himself the vulnerability. It was clear that Trunks had to continue.
The Half-Saiyan leaned over his father’s writhing form, watching him, sliding his hands over him and adding more pressure where the sleeping man seemed to react the most.
The areas of Vegeta’s body he had skimmed over had begun tensing and rising to make contact with him as if pining for attention. The sleeping Saiyan’s hips were high, and his round ass butted and twitched against Trunks where he knelt between his thighs.
Trunks realized all at once that Vegeta wanted to be touched there. He was too proud to beg. It was intimate and unknown to Trunks but he wanted to do it. His father needed it. Vegeta was writhing and yipping and brimming with tension and he needed Trunks to ease that tension. And Trunks badly wanted to give him what he needed. He felt himself grinding against the man’s thinly clothed backside. He did it slowly and evenly and he watched Vegeta’s twitching facial expressions all the while.
“No, no. D--Don’t,” Vegeta urged, even as his thighs parted.
“It’s alright,” Trunks soothed and his own breath was getting harder with the excitement. “You don’t need to pretend with me. I know what you want and I want to give it to you, father.”
Vegeta protested more feebly and Trunks leaned down to nuzzle his neck.
He felt his father’s firm mounds rocking back into him in time with his own thrusts and he felt closer to his father than ever before. It was intoxicating. The slighter man was bending and grunting and clutching the tortured sheets desperately and suddenly there was a high, broken howl and his body clenched and braced and went very still.
Trunks looked up into Vegeta’s face and saw there was a line of tears brimming in his sleep-drunk eyes. They beaded in his lashes for a moment and from there streamed downward to be absorbed in the sheets.
Trunks was taken aback and his hips froze.
“Father,” he said.
He waited for his father to open his eyes then, to turn to Trunks scowling and see what he’d done. His eyes would be filled with all the hate and detachment that Trunks feared most from the man. And Trunks would feel ashamed and realize the horror of what he’d done and never have a hope of being accepted by his father again.
But Vegeta's eyes stayed closed. From deep in his throat cam a long deflating sound like the release of a breath he’d been holding for long time. His brow eased and every muscle in his body seemed to relax.
The man appeared to be solidly sleeping and Trunks, who wasn’t breathing himself, was confused.
He didn't know what pulled him to do it but slowly, the lavender-haired Saiyan moved his hand down to slide between the mattress and Vegeta’s hips. Trunks’ grazed the elastic fabric of the man’s briefs and felt the slickness coat his fingers.
His father had an orgasm.

The next morning Trunks didn't look at Vegeta but stared down at his food. He couldn’t tell if his father was behaving strangely and he was afraid to find out. He finished quicker than normal and for the first time left for training before the older Saiyan did.
For the first time, Trunks was fleeing from his father.
He didn’t think Vegeta knew what happened but Trunks knew it was written all over his face and Vegeta needed only to look at him to see it. For once, he was glad that his father barely acknowledged him.
Trunks stayed away most of the day and returned to the temple much later than normal. When he arrived back, Vegeta had already eaten and was in the shower. Trunks carefully avoided him and crept to his bed without a word.

The next few nights, Trunks tried desperately to go to sleep before the moaning started but his anxiety only kept him more alert. He didn’t get up again and go to his father’s bed but instead stayed in his own and endured the sounds. He tried to focus on his own breathing, he tried to cover his head with pillows but the guttural grunts only seemed to grow louder as the hour grew later. The worst thing was the imagery the sounds conjured up without him even wanting it.
After seeing the way his father contorted and spread himself, Trunks couldn’t forget the explicit vision. And When Vegeta started moaning again, Trunks needed only to close his eyes and there it was like a movie playing in his head.
His haunted nights were followed by unforgiving days of training, in which he always lamented the lost sleep.
Vegeta would find his son resting on the patio some days and frown.
“Done so soon?”
“I, uh, guess I didn’t sleep so well last night. I’m feeling kind of tired.”
Vegeta’s mouth twitched and he didn’t attempt to hide his disgust before flying off.
Every day Trunks regretted ever having gotten out of his bed to investigate the moaning that night. He should have ignored it like all the other nights. He hadn’t been able to look at his father the same ever since.
One day, Trunks woke before Vegeta because he couldn’t deal with the disapproving look from his father every time he overslept. But as the sleep-deprived Saiyan slipped silently off of his mattress, he heard the familiar sounds coming from the other side of the room.
Trunks moved closer to the source.
It was unusual for the dreams to drag on to morning and Trunks wondered if it was the same one with Frieza.
As he peaked into the thin canopy veil, he saw the curling of a bare back and deep grinding of muscled hips down into the mattress. Suddenly, the hips clenched and a breath caught and the body went still.
Shortly after, Vegeta slowly awoke. When he rolled over to get out of bed, he saw Trunks standing in the middle of the room staring at him.
“What is it, boy?”
At that moment, Trunks realized simultaneously that he’d been watching Vegeta sleep again and also that Vegeta was now awake and had found him staring at him.
The startled Half-Saiyan shook his head and opened his mouth to say something hurriedly but then his eyes trailed down the bare body rising from the bed and onto the newly uncovered sheets.
There, on the ruffled cotton, was a faint but undeniable damp circle where Vegeta had been laying. It was just below where his hips had been. Vegeta had cum again.
“Nothing,” Trunks said. He gave his father a blank stare and Vegeta cocked a brow.
The day went on normally after that. They ate silently and trained separately. Trunks didn’t pry his father for conversation at the table and didn’t try to train with him. His mind was occupied.
Along with the damp spot on the bed sheets, Trunks had also noticed the defined mound in Vegeta’s tight briefs.
It had dawned on Trunks that Vegeta didn’t behave strangely after the night Trunks had gone to his bed because nothing strange had happened as far as the pure-blooded Saiyan was concerned. He not only had the dreams regularly, but he also ejaculated from them regularly as well. So waking up to shorts soiled with his own semen was effectively not a strange occurrence.

Trunks did not dread the following night the way he’d dreaded every other night since first listening in on his father’s dreams. Instead, he saw it as an opportunity.
Once the moaning started an hour or so after the two sole occupants of the time chamber retired to their separate beds, Trunks, having been laying patiently listening for the right time, rose from his bed and crossed the room.
He found his father tumbling in the sheets, half-naked and deep in his dreams. Trunks didn't hesitate this time but moved the curtain aside and climbed smoothly into the bed.
He took his time, stroking his father's warm skin and soothing him. He even spoke occasionally and thought Vegeta responded to him. It was unfortunate that he kept saying “Frieza,” though. Trunks had hoped he might reach him through his dream and Vegeta would somehow recognize his presence and respond to him directly. Trunks would settle for now, and maybe with time Vegeta would begin to know his presence.
When Vegeta came, it was as sudden and unexpected as the first time. Trunks had not been trying to stimulate him that way and wasn’t even touching him there, but his body suddenly cunvulsed and clung to him and in an instant his shorts were damp.
He came in Trunks' arms and the young Saiyan knew as he watched the shuddering eyelashes and felt the needily pawing hands, that he would come back the next night.
And he did. He crept into his father’s bed and rubbed him until he came. The night after that, he did the same.
It became a new routine.
By day, Vegeta scowled and ignored him but by night, he was putty in Trunks’ hands, spilling his milky seed all over himself and crying out with unsuppressed need.
“Have I got something on my face, boy?”
Trunks shook his head. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring. He went back to untying his boots, only looking up again once Vegeta had turned away. The older Saiyan tied his towel more securely around his waist and Trunks stole a slanted glance at the flashes of exposed skin that would unfurl and warm for him later.
It was a double life.
In the night, Trunks would crawl into his father’s bed and find the dozing Saiyan in the throes of his vivid dreams. He kneaded and plied him until he was rocking back and begging unconvincingly for him to stop.
The younger Saiyan held Vegeta against his chest and let his hands roam over the smaller frame. His eager hands dove between Vegeta’s open thighs and found him already hard and needy. Trunks didn’t keep his father waiting.
“Please,” Vegeta would say.
“Please what?” said Trunks.
His voice trailed off into inaudible murmurs and gasps.
“Tell me you want it,” Trunks urged in his ear, “I know you do.”
“No.”
“Let me give it to you.”
Vegeta gasped and choked. Trunks let him collapse on the mattress as he broke into orgasmic tremors. In these moments when Vegeta was more open and honest than Trunks had ever seen him, he was beautiful. It was almost worth the long days of mocking jabs and disgusted glances and cold neglect. In these fleeting moments, Vegeta was all his own and Trunks could be near him and touch him and make him feel good and he wouldn’t push Trunks away. It gave the young Saiyan another idea.
“Was that good?” He asked as the Saiyan prince rode the calming post-orgasmic waves and settled dozily into the sheets.
Vegeta lay face down and unresponsive save for a slight residual rolling in his lower half. Trunks nudged him a little more with his hips, coaxing more responses from the pliant body.
Trunks untied his own pants, then slid Vegeta’s briefs down below his muscled gluts. The recovering Saiyan began shifting uneasily.
“Oh don’t fight me now,” Trunks soothed. “Not me.”
He surprised himself with how hard he was and how much he ached for this. He wanted to plunge straight into the man who was his father in a different life and fill him up. He steadied himself and slid his fingers inside the tight, tense opening. It was something he never thought he would do in this dimension or any other, but he did it as smoothly and naturally as sheathing his sword.
Small staccato grunts came from Vegeta then as the fingers worked in and out of him. He was drunk from his fresh orgasm and pliant to the touch. There was still resistance in his words though. There always would be. He just would not confess that he wanted Trunks, needed Trunks to do this to him, needed Trunks to release him from the binds of his pride.
Trunks would do it for him anyway, without waiting for Vegeta to ask. He would do it even knowing Vegeta wouldn’t thank him for it or even acknowledge it later. The one thing that gave Trunks pause was when the dozing man spoke again.
“Fr—Frieza!”
Trunks’ fingers slowed in their prying.
It was not even him in Vegeta’s dreams. As he gave Vegeta this freeing pleasure that he wouldn’t be remembered for later, Trunks was hit with the harsh truth that he wouldn’t be credited for it in Vegeta’s dreams either.
Trunks made the decision that if it wasn’t going to mean anything later that he would make it count right now. He would make it count for himself.
With a punishing thrust, he pressed inside his father, his father who shunned him and scolded him and dreamt of some long-dead tyrant in place of him.
It should have woken the unsuspecting Saiyan. Instead he only gaped as if a moan was caught in his throat-- or a scream.
Trunks didn’t stop though. He hadn’t even waited to see if Vegeta had woken, he was fully invested in his task now. He would take his father and maybe this time he would remember it in the morning. He would remember that it was Trunks who did it for him, took him off his burdensome pedestal and brought him down hard.
He fucked him like he didn’t care if he woke and part of him actually wanted him to. Part of him wanted Vegeta’s eyes to open and see that it was really Trunks doing this, taking him and giving him what he needed, not this Freiza whose name was always on his quivering lips. Then he wouldn’t scowl at Trunks anymore, he wouldn’t push him away, he wouldn’t be disappointed. Then he would know that it was Trunks who made him into this spasmodic heap of open need that he was now. He would have to see Trunks then.
Trunks put all of his regret and resentment behind his punishing thrusts. It was rough and feral and he didn’t even suppress his own impassioned grunts. Vegeta was propped up on his knees and his head and arms were tangled in the sheets. He was completely at Trunks’ ruthless disposal. He could only cry out hoarsely as his son fucked him with abandon.

The next morning, Trunks watched his father rise from bed. He wasn’t discrete, but stared openly as the older Saiyan pulled himself to his feet.
There was a slight pause as Vegeta moved to straighten himself, and Trunks could see the twinge of discomfort in his features. Then Vegeta caught his son’s eyes on him and asked the younger Saiyan what he was staring at.
His hugging shorts were damp in the crotch again and trunks guessed by the new and subtle stiffness in the man’s walk that he had some internal pain as well, but as usual nothing was spoken about it.

Trunks wondered as they sat across from each other with their breakfasts, what his father thought happened last night. Did he think he was just sore from some obscure pulled muscle in yesterday’s training?
Trunks watched his father’s every shift and twitch, loving each one, knowing that he was the one who caused it.
At the same time, he had a bitter realization. Once again, Trunks had gone unnoticed. He had given his father another night of reprieve from his condemning pride, and yet here they were again in detached silence, his father as cold and uncaring as if Trunks had done nothing at all.
Trunks fucked Vegeta again that night. It was as rough as the first night and probably rougher. Now that he knew what his father could take, he was exhilarated by the possibilities. He tried more things.
He kissed his father—everywhere. His tongue tasted every plane he could reach, relishing in the soft, huffing moans his invasions evoked.
He pushed Vegeta’s thick thighs up to his chest and licked between his thick mounds. He even dove inside the exposed opening, wrenching a sharp, broken gasp from his father's hoarse throat.
He hoped Vegeta would feel the slickness of his saliva deep inside him tomorrow. And when he fucked him after that, he hoped his semen would drip out of Vegeta’s asshole as he trained. He would love to know how his father justified that to himself. Or was that something he would just ignore as well, along with his wet shorts and the dreams. Would it just be accepted as another part of life, another residual side effect of whatever happened all those years ago?
Gods, what horrendous acts could have occurred beneath the tyrant, Frieza, that they haunted his father nightly to this day? What Trunks would give to see in his father’s head.
His every muscle trembled and twitched and his eyes rolled revealing his obvious pleasure at what was happening in and outside of his dreams, but he still resisted with his pleas and curses. It was an anomaly.
In the end it didn’t really matter what it all meant, Trunks thought as he ground his hips into the upturned ass beneath him. His father would never tell him anyway. It was best not to wonder. He held his cock deep inside the quivering orifice until he could see Vegeta’s eyes twitch and roll beneath the lids, then he reinvigorating his pitiless pace.
The nights Trunks visited his father had become less of a cherished bonding experience and more of a lumbering pastime through which to take out the frustrations of his day. It was not a happy coincidence that the center of the activity was also the very source of his frustrations.
He fucked him bitterly and more and more to see the pained expressions twist his sleeping face. He no longer took solace in giving his father pleasure. Instead, he needed to give him pain, make him feel in his body what Trunks felt in his heart.
And in the mornings when Trunks caught the subtle tremor in his father’s walk and the wince when he sat, he had to suppress a smile.
He hated his father. Hated him for not loving him, for taking all the love Trunks had to give and giving none in return.
It made Trunks numb.

One day, nearly eight months into their year-long stay in the chamber, he stopped going to his father’s bed.
Instead he laid in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, tuning out the deep gasping moans coming from across the room until he fell asleep.
If his father noticed that Trunks stopped going to his bed, he showed it as much as when Trunks had started the nightly visits. In that, he carried on as usual. And Trunks, who didn’t think it was possible, felt even more depressed about what little impression he’d apparently made. After what was months of sharing a bed and embrace with his son, Vegeta didn’t seem to notice Trunks’ sudden absence at all.
Trunks hated him even more.
One day, he found his father out in the void.
To be continued.
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The Moaning