Krillin laid out flower petals and chocolate lightly onto the bed, sprinkled on the comforter by the fluffed pillows. Message oil waited on the bedside table. The stem of the rose tasted like dirt when he held it in his teeth, no matter how many times he had washed it off. Already, he could hear the jokes if someone saw this scene.
But they didn’t know! Because they wouldn’t have believed the truth.
For the fifth time, he consciously avoided staring at the window or any time piece.
When she came in (and he presumed that she would tonight) he could only hope it wasn’t with a set schedule. Looking at the clock she didn’t need, ‘you have five minutes of foreplay.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Two minutes.’
There might not even be kissing, and this was the worst part. She dangled that out there like a confusing carrot as he tugged at the cart strapped to him, ignoring the alarm beeping and his roommates getting pissed that he’d set it wrong. By then, she would be searching for her pants.
She just wanted it fast. No conception of waiting or delayed gratification and Krillin could only hold himself apart for so long. She might not even come inside, occasionally. Like ruining the flower beds he’d carefully just watered that morning. Seedy bathrooms in semi-public places. Once they’d even found themselves on the roof, three-quarters dressed and trying not to break the gutters. Or she would just show up and push him downwards.
Eighteen treated him like a sex ATM.
Sometimes she even literally gave him money. ‘You were acceptable.’
‘What?’
‘Go on; by yourself something pretty for me.’
But she hadn’t really cared much about his silk boxers the next time she showed up.
Well, Krillin wouldn’t have it anymore!
There were candles and a red shirt to be thrown over the light. Romantic music would be played. Master Roshi and Oolong were long gone, physically thrown out and mystified as to why. He had even taken notes the last time he’d gone to Capsule Corp on wooing the unaffectionate. Eighteen wouldn’t be moved if he started crying into a carton ice cream (not that he would…), but maybe if he pouted and rejected her advances, she would realize her mistake.
Then leave. And never come back.
Lines could form of people that would do exactly as she ordered. People glad to be her sex ATM. What had he been thinking, pushing his luck? Remember his last date? Remember all the long nights alone, all but crying into a pillow and wishing for someone, anyone, to comfort him? Remember eating ice cream and watching romantic movies (and crying) and trying desperately not to think about Eighteen? So what if she was a little cold, often late, and a little brusque? Relationships were all about compromise. That’s what the movies had promised anyway. Deep down, surely Eighteen cared, and what was self-respect worth really, and had he ever had any of that anyway?
Remember Maron? Remember Mint, remember Lunch? Oh, oh, this is fun, remember Bulma? All the pretty girls that looked right through him, and if noticing him at all, would just laugh? And there was that alien woman with that flood of orange hair…remember Eighteen and that first little mocking kiss. Her mouth, her laughter, those smug blue eyes and that endearing habit of pushing that perfect sunlit hair out of her face. Everything to him in that moment, then and forever.
Overwhelmed 1/?
But they didn’t know! Because they wouldn’t have believed the truth.
For the fifth time, he consciously avoided staring at the window or any time piece.
When she came in (and he presumed that she would tonight) he could only hope it wasn’t with a set schedule. Looking at the clock she didn’t need, ‘you have five minutes of foreplay.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘Two minutes.’
There might not even be kissing, and this was the worst part. She dangled that out there like a confusing carrot as he tugged at the cart strapped to him, ignoring the alarm beeping and his roommates getting pissed that he’d set it wrong. By then, she would be searching for her pants.
She just wanted it fast. No conception of waiting or delayed gratification and Krillin could only hold himself apart for so long. She might not even come inside, occasionally. Like ruining the flower beds he’d carefully just watered that morning. Seedy bathrooms in semi-public places. Once they’d even found themselves on the roof, three-quarters dressed and trying not to break the gutters. Or she would just show up and push him downwards.
Eighteen treated him like a sex ATM.
Sometimes she even literally gave him money. ‘You were acceptable.’
‘What?’
‘Go on; by yourself something pretty for me.’
But she hadn’t really cared much about his silk boxers the next time she showed up.
Well, Krillin wouldn’t have it anymore!
There were candles and a red shirt to be thrown over the light. Romantic music would be played. Master Roshi and Oolong were long gone, physically thrown out and mystified as to why. He had even taken notes the last time he’d gone to Capsule Corp on wooing the unaffectionate. Eighteen wouldn’t be moved if he started crying into a carton ice cream (not that he would…), but maybe if he pouted and rejected her advances, she would realize her mistake.
Then leave. And never come back.
Lines could form of people that would do exactly as she ordered. People glad to be her sex ATM. What had he been thinking, pushing his luck? Remember his last date? Remember all the long nights alone, all but crying into a pillow and wishing for someone, anyone, to comfort him? Remember eating ice cream and watching romantic movies (and crying) and trying desperately not to think about Eighteen?
So what if she was a little cold, often late, and a little brusque? Relationships were all about compromise. That’s what the movies had promised anyway. Deep down, surely Eighteen cared, and what was self-respect worth really, and had he ever had any of that anyway?
Remember Maron? Remember Mint, remember Lunch? Oh, oh, this is fun, remember Bulma? All the pretty girls that looked right through him, and if noticing him at all, would just laugh? And there was that alien woman with that flood of orange hair…remember Eighteen and that first little mocking kiss. Her mouth, her laughter, those smug blue eyes and that endearing habit of pushing that perfect sunlit hair out of her face. Everything to him in that moment, then and forever.
Krillin languished and waiting.