Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Decoding the Saiyan ❯ Interlude: Decoding the Human ( Chapter 5 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.

AN: We're doing a POV switch today! And just be warned, there's some foul language and other M rated material because Vegeta is one pissed off (and horny) guy. The prompt for this chapter was 'lips', also from the Intimacy Challenge on the Black & Blue livejournal community.

Interlude: Decoding the Human

Vegeta had always fought with single-minded determination to be the best. Even before Frieza had given him added reason to train- for revenge, for vengeance- he had done so for his pride, and for his pure, unadulterated love of violence.

But now there was a distraction that messed with his training, and it came in the form of voluptuous curves, cherry-coated lips, and the most absurdly-coloured hair he had ever seen. To his detriment, it seemed that the more he tried not to think about the woman, the more thoughts of her crossed his mind.

Of course, he had always been aware of her physical beauty; he had eyes, did he not? She had an effect on every heterosexual male that crossed her path, and she knew it, too. Vegeta could see it in the way she walked, the way she held her head high and let her hips sway just so, making every woman sigh with jealousy and every man hard with the need to grab her hips, to push her up against the nearest wall and spread those long legs wide…

He hissed in pain as his body hit the floor hard, the weight of 450 times the Earth's gravity crushing down on him. He growled in frustration, the furious noise echoing through the room. It was shameful to be losing so much concentration, and over something as pathetic as a little Human female.

Start again from the beginning, he told himself, livid with the fact that he had been betrayed by his own mind. His muscles bulged as he counted, one, two, three, four, his entire frame shaking with the strain of one-armed push-ups in gravity that should had pulverised his bones. His fury kept him going, kept him steady through the first hundred. Time slipped away until there was nothing but his black anger, boiling in the pit of his stomach, and the constant sound of dripping sweat that ran from forehead to nose to pool on the floor.

He changed hands at the one thousand mark and started his count again, still angry, still furious, still filled with so much hatred and the need to crush something's skull or fuck some faceless woman senseless until his restlessness, his uneasy feeling, dissipated completely. It was not his fault, he fumed, that this planet lacked decent establishments, and that every streetwalker was sure to be infected with some venereal disease. It was not his fault that this mud ball that he was trapped on had him living like a monk for months and months on end, driving him crazy and leaving him with nothing but his hand to relieve himself. Even under Frieza he'd been in a better position, always able to find some whore that was clean enough to waste a few hours away with until those primal needs were out of his system. Given the circumstances he could hardly be blamed for thinking about the infuriating blue-haired bitch, for imagining her naked, for watching her out of the corner of his eye every time he passed her in the hall. No, he told himself, the black fury bubbling in his gut, it was her fault for being so damn distracting, her fault for smelling the way she did, for looking so damn fuckable every time she stole glances at him with those bright blue eyes. Oh, he saw those looks. She thought he didn't notice, but he was acutely aware of the way she watched him.

He had lost count once more. He cursed, screaming at the empty, humming room. In a fit of rage he jumped to his feet, stalking to the control panel with the driving need to hit something. He drove his fist through the machine's engine, the gravity dying as sparks hissed and metal screeched. Coming to his senses, he screamed once more, realising that in his fury he had destroyed the one thing he needed the most.

He stepped out into the humid night air, his entire body shaking as he fought to restrain his fury. Fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically, he stared up at the full moon, a growl rumbling and rising in his throat as the ghost of his tail, always lingering, lashed behind him. Vaguely he registered that it was the moon causing his dark mood, but all he could really think about was the fact that he needed to do something, because he was going mad, stagnating, not becoming a Super Saiyan, not training hard enough, not focusing as he always had before. Kakarot, that low-class clown, was laughing at him, and in his present state he could do nothing about it.

A sound drew his attention to one of the upper balconies, the wind carrying the scent of the woman to him before she even emerged on the small deck. He glared up at her as she gasped, noticing his presence for the first time.

She wore nothing but a sheer piece of cloth, the moonlight bathing her in an ethereal glow. He took in everything, his restless fury becoming dangerously more like arousal with every passing second. She was aroused too; he could smell it in the air, could see it in the way her chest rose and fell in panting breaths, her nipples pebbling underneath the garment that did nothing to hide her body. It would be so easy to take her now, out in the open and under the blasted moon. He would make her cry his name as he buried himself within her. He growled at the thought, his penis straining in his tight shorts.

"Vegeta," she sighed, almost too quiet for him to hear. The sound was forlorn, filled with longing and loneliness, and it shocked him to the core. He did not understand how this woman, so weak and fragile, could have some sort of power over him, and yet she did. Her every movement, every sigh, every smell captured him as if he were the prey and she the huntress, and it maddened him to no end.

He snarled, rising vertically until he floated level with her, hovering some ten meters away from her balcony. He saw the hopeful longing in her eyes, even greater than her physical need, and bared his fangs. He would not become this woman's plaything.

He blasted high into the air, welcoming the cold wind that rushed around him. He kept flying, faster and faster across land and sea until the world around him matched his mood, the dark ocean rolling below him as thunder boomed all around and lightening cracked above, rain pouring in hoards, soaking him, cooling him to the bone.

He floated there, in the midst of the raging storm, and screamed until his throat was raw, wondering how the fuck his life had turned out this way. He should have been the King of Saiyans, and yet here he was, playing second fiddle to a low-class clown, no achievements, no great battles to his name.

And that woman. He did not want her. He wanted nothing from her, and yet she registered in his mind, every little thing she did drawing his attention. He noticed her sighs and glances, her ki and her scent, her smooth skin and those plump lips. He noticed her.

And that was no good at all.