Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Fixation ❯ Chapter Eleven ( Chapter 11 )

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from DBZ.

Fixation

Chapter Eleven

Bulma felt a light tugging on her scalp. Eyes closed she inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of freshly washed sheets mixed with virile maleness and hints of morning dew wafting in from the open balcony doors. If a moment could be frozen in perfect perfection this would be it. She stretched, sliding her body against the sculptured warmth of Vegeta. As the temperature dropped during the night she had crept her way across the bed to him, instinct to cleave to him beating at her even in her sleep.

She rubbed her cheek across his chest, slowly opening her eyes. Vegeta was watching her, twining her newly lengthened tresses around his fingers. He arched a black brow in question, tugging on her hair. As she smiled she could feel the unused muscles stretching in her cheeks, and she knew that she looked like the cat that got the cream.

“Extensions.”

Her voice was morning husky, and his dark eyes ignited at the sound. When all he did was stare at her, she decided an elaboration was in order.

“They're sown in.”

“To you skull?”

Bulma giggled at his appalled tone.

“No, silly. At the root. It will take about six weeks to grow out and by then my hair should be at a more manageable length.”

“I see.”

Bulma peered up at him.

“Do you like it?”

Vegeta shrugged, breaking away and looking out the balcony doors.

“Blue suits you better than black,” he replied blandly.

Bulma frowned. The color of her extension weren't exactly the same hue as her natural hair, but it was close, so she supposed he paid her a complement. She sighed, and struggled to sit up, but found that her very expensive, waist-length, one-hundred percent natural fake hair was pinned under a very heavy male, and the last thing she wanted was to accidently rip it out. Vegeta grinned at her smugly, unmoving as she levered herself up onto an elbow. Once she was poised precariously over him, he cupped his palm around the back of her slender neck and pulled her down into a kiss.

She returned it eagerly, her lips and tongue longing for the taste that they had indulged in so recently. She memorized the texture and feel of him, and craved another lesson in the decadence of his mouth. She leaned on his chest, trying meld into him. Vegeta deepened the kiss, rising up so he could press her back onto the bed. The world tipped over and she gripped his shoulder, her nails digging into the meat of his arm as the air disappeared from her desperate lungs.

She felt Vegeta's sudden tension beneath her palm. He shifted his weight and her hair was free, then with an expert flip she was straddling him, their kiss unbroken. The room lightened around her, and the loss of air had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the hungry way Vegeta was devouring her mouth. His hands slid down her back, and over the crest of her ass. Her breasts, kept in check by a tight tank, swelled and the heat of his body made her nipples harden. He gripped her tight and arched his hips into hers, sliding her along bone-hard length of him. He found the hollow of her body with natural ease and pressed into her, only the material of their underwear keeping them apart. She whimpered into his mouth, her body hot and cold, and all shivery with want. She widened her thighs, pressing her knees into the mattress as she slid him against her slit, arousing herself on his hardness.

She arched her back, coming up for air as he lavished kisses along her neck and beneath her ear. His fingers curled around the backs of her thighs, sneaking beneath the hem of her panties. Her breasts were poised on his naked chest, nearly spilling out from her pink tank, her blue hair cascading around them. Outside she could hear bluebirds singing and the morning light was still soft with touches of gold. She wanted to live in this moment forever.

“Fuck.”

Vegeta's growl was guttural and obscene in the bask of morning. He was rough as he pushed her away, abandoning her in the center of the ruffled bed. Vegeta was stalking towards the in-suite bathroom before she could right herself.

“Shower,” he snarled, before he slammed the door.

Bulma stared at the closed door for some minutes before her slack mouth formed into a Cheshire smile. She bounced off the bed, pausing to take a deep breath of morning air at the balcony doors before prancing off to find a robe and brew some coffee.

Vegeta was still in the shower, and the strong aroma of coffee was heavy in the air when there was a knock at the front door. Bulma frowned, feeling a tremor of trepidation down her spine. She walked up to the door, stopping a good foot away.

“Who is it?”

“It's me, Max.”

Bulma relaxed, but was sure to check the peep hole before undoing the numerous locks. When she opened the door the first thing she saw was the large rectangular package in his arms. She smiled and quirked a brow.

“For me?”

“From one of your numerous fans.”

She laughed and motioned him inside. He brushed past her, placing the package on the table as she reengaged the locks.

“Help yourself to some coffee.” She motioned to the pot as she eyed the package.

“Don't mind if I do.” He ambled into the kitchen, pulling a mug from the cupboard.

Bulma picked up the package and shook it lightly, frowning when she heard small pieces clank together.

“What is it?”

“Well, I know what it isn't,” Max replied while sipping his very black coffee. “It's not a bomb. It's been x-rayed, sniffed, and tested. The only thing it hasn't is been opened. Explain to me again why you have fans?”

Bulma flashed him a smile, while picking at the plain brown wrapper.

“Just because I'm not an entertainer doesn't mean I'm not famous. I'm rich and beautiful, that's all I need. I've often thought about capitalizing on my fame with a handbag line or maybe perfume, but I have more than enough money. What would I do with more?”

Max shook his head and shrugged.

“Sounds like sheer stupidity to me. Worshiping someone because they are the heiress to a hotel or whatever. Movie stars and musicians are bad enough, but that I can somewhat understand, but fawning over someone just `cause their rich? And buying their handbags just because they've stamped their name on it?”

“Well, I do have impeccable taste.” Bulma's reply was tart as she pulled off the rest of the paper.

“Speaking of which. Where's your latest fashion accessory?”

“If anything Vegeta is the ensemble and the rest of the universe is his accessory. And I would moderate your tone if I were you. He may be in the shower, but I'm sure he can hear you.”

She pulled the lid off the box and stared down at the lazuli shards nestled innocuously in flounces of silver tissue paper.

“Of course, Ms. Briefs.”

Bulma wavered on her feet. Max's voice was barely heard over the thunder in her ears. She staggered back, the box lid slipping from her numb fingers. Memories crashed painfully over her. A well-lit room. Delicate urns and vases in varying hues placed lovingly on their own shelves. A single empty pedestal in the center with its own spot light. His voice behind her, naming each vase. Telling her how much he loved every one of them, but how none of them were as special as her. Later, a dank basement, the only light at a rough hewn worktable. Him showing her the indigo glaze he would use on her death urn. On her bones.

Her memories faded, and her screams echoed in her ears. Her gaze sharpened with sudden attunement with the world around her. Vegeta was wet and naked, his strong hand wrapped around Max's throat as he pushed him to his knees. His back was to her, and she could see pale lines crisscrossing his flesh. The scars were old and barely visible, but in his rage they stood out starkly against his dark skin.

“Vegeta, stop.”

She could barely find her voice, but Vegeta heard her. He shifted his gaze to her, his grip never lessoning on Max who was beginning to bloat.

“Max didn't do anything.”

Vegeta dropped his hard stare to the box on the table. With a sneer of disgust, he threw Max away from him. Bulma watched as the battle-hard man bounced across the floor like discarded trash, before writhing to a stop in the corner.

Vegeta stalked over to the box, picking it up to examine it from all angles before deciding it was no threat. Bulma couldn't bear to watch him. Instead she focused on the spreading brown stain on the cream carpet where Max dropped his coffee. Vegeta was standing next to her, close but untouchable. He faced opposite of her, towards the bedroom. Already leaving her, before he had gone.

“It's my urn.” Vegeta didn't look at her, and she didn't look at him. “The one he said he was going to make from my bones after I was dead.”

Vegeta was quiet, and the only sound in the room was Max's recovering breaths. From her peripheral, she was aware of Vegeta shifting. Only her eyes moved as she glanced to the side. Vegeta was sneering at Max in a way that spoke of untold misery for the man who had failed to keep this inconvenience from his domain. Some security guard, his glare seemed to say, and the weight of his disdain was gunshot loud in the silent room.

Inconvenience. Is that what happened to her? An Inconvenience. Her kidnapping, her murder. Her inability to function like a human being. Was this who she was? Someone who was incapable of taking control? Was it possible for her to recover? To be strong? To stand up on her own, instead of laying down and dying. She shuddered, her crisscrossed arms barely keeping her insides in.

“I can do this.” She spoke more to herself than anyone else, but Vegeta heard her. His heavy glare lifted from the choking man and settled on her. Unlike Max, she didn't feel the threat in his gaze. She felt surety. From it she drew confidence. A heartbeat passed, then Vegeta nodded curtly and disappeared into the bedroom.

Bulma knelt down to pick up the box lid, sliding it back into place. She stared at it for long moments, the black ink from the postmark swirling on the brown wrapping paper. She heard shuffling in the corner, and she drew herself up, pretending to be strong, when she knew was not. How could she be strong when she had no more bones?

“Max, call the detectives. I have something to say.”