Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Garrulous and Gritless ❯ I, 27: Bulma ( Chapter 27 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: ShiningMoon 
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Adventure / Action / Comedy / Drama / Psychological / Romance | Type: Divergence | Uploaded On: 05.23.2011 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.3K | Visits: 216 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Adventure / Action / Comedy / Drama / Psychological / Romance | Type: Divergence | Uploaded On: 05.23.2011 | Pages: 2 | Words: 2.3K | Visits: 216 | Status: Completed
NOTE: Soooo sorry for the delay. Please forgive me. Just wondering—is anyone actually reading this story on this site? It would be awesome if you could do me a favor and leave even a tiny little “I’m reading it!” comment!
…
The day was good. After finishing the ship, I’d moved on to fancying it up. I finally let my father put that godforsaken coffee machine—sorry, espresso machine—in the ship. I got it painted up. It’s perfect. I ran some more tests. Perfect. I’d wager my life on this thing being spaceworthy, which is good, because I might just have to. Really, really don’t like thinking about the reason I’ve been in such a hurry to get it done anyway…about the Saiyans, and the possible destruction of the Earth, and…
But back to my perfect ship. It has a nice paint job. I got the best beds. (Though I had to revise my order to bunk beds—when I realized that if we use it to escape the Saiyans, it might be more than just a pleasant cruise for two. Damn.) Hell, I even commissioned some nice art for the interior. If I have to flee the Earth, I will do so in comfort and style.
I’m humming to myself as I think about how much profit I could make on these if we do live—think of the wealthy families going on vacation! Think of the honeymooners!—when somebody has the balls to bust through my ceiling a ways down the hall. I’m about to shriek SON! as that will cover both of the most likely culprits (Gohan visits more, but Son is way more likely to bust through the ceiling; the kid knows better).
But no—as the dust clears, it’s the man himself, Raditz. I’m grinning and trying to decide on the appropriate punishment when he beats me to it (but, damn, I’ve got an excuse, right? Him being a space alien with superpowers, and so on). He crushes me against the wall and looks equal parts panicked and horny (which, given the suddenness of his appearance, and our position, is probably about how I’m looking). He digs his nails into my arms and for a second the scratchiness of his chin (did he ever shave before? I don’t remember seeing him do it, but, he must have) completely distracts me from the fact that he’s kissing me. “Shit,” he’s muttering through both his and my lips, “shit, shit, shit. Bulma.”
I try to make a mouthy comment about is it the end of the world or something? But my mouth is fairly occupied and I’m kind of busy plotting out the area in my head to figure out the nearest private room and how I can goad him in there. Not that it would probably take much.
He’s breathing against my neck like he’s going to die and I suddenly realize that I didn’t even look, when he burst in, to see if he was injured—from what I can see out of the corner of my eye, he does look pretty awful. “Are you okay?” I manage. I swear on Kami’s ever-shortening lifespan, if the man dies while macking my face…
“No,” is all he says, hoisting me up closer to his level by my thighs, his hands and forearms forming something of a seat, the wall its back.
“Then maybe you should—” I start to say, admittedly a bit halfheartedly. If he’s feeling well enough to press his hips up like…
“No,” he cuts me off before I could think of finishing the sentence.
So instead I switch to a cheeky, “—Find a bed.”
To this he growls and lifts one arm from my thigh to hold me against him as he flies us up through the hole he made in the ceiling. I guess at least it got used more than once. We’re on the same floor as my room and he practically shoves me in once we get there. I’m about to lecture him on how I’m slightly more fragile than somebody with at least an inch of muscles padding any given part of my body (and that I am slightly less thickheaded than he is) but when our eyes lock, I see he looks…different. He didn’t eat well, I decide, at this place he was at, at Namek—and maybe that’s part of it, maybe his face is a little gaunter. But that’s not the whole of it…his eyes look desperate. Desperate for what, I don’t know—I don’t know how the hell he got here (because he does have his tail back, and I know it couldn’t have grown back) or why he’s so beat up, bruises all over his face and his half-exposed chest, crusted blood—some areas still dripping. His eyes shiver in his sockets, not unlike what I’ve seen in Lunch when she tries to keep from sneezing, but—well, perhaps he’s just tired. Sleep-deprived, beaten by…I don’t know. Somebody he ran across. Did he—did he run into the other Saiyans on his way back? Surely not…surely…
But either way, he looks desperate. His eyes pin me on the spot, the only fix to whatever has got him in this state. “Look, I,” I start to say, trying to think of something to remind him I’m human, and he can’t try to pull those crazy Saiyan things on me just yet. I’ve been working out but there’s a difference between well-toned and might accidentally rip your arm off.
“Give me this,” he says, and his eyes stop twitching. “Just…” He’s very quickly right in front of me, his scruffy face rubbing into my collarbone as he kisses my neck.
I try to get a good look at his face. “Explain,” is all I say. I’d be happy if he explains anything at all—why he’s so flustered, maybe (I mean, I know I’m hot, but this is different than how he was before), or even what the hell he means by “give me this.”
“I don’t want to die,” he says, or maybe whimpers, into the crook of my neck. He mutters something else—voices?—and I’m afraid to ask him to repeat himself. He seems…not in control. And not in a way that makes me think he’ll throw me across the room; more like he’ll crumple to the ground if he can’t find his comfy spot on my bed. He grabs my shoulders and bends me back toward the bed, crawling onto me and kissing me with the ragged breaths with which only desperate men kiss.
“Raditz,” I say, and he likes this. He gives me plenty of excuses to continue.
…
“Okay,” I say once our breathing has returned to normal rates. “So, welcome back, and what the hell was that all about?”
He grins a little bit—I take it I managed to lift his spirits with a few of those maneuvers—but it fades quickly. “We’re basically fucked,” he says.
“I noticed,” I try to sort out the more rebellious clumps of my hair for emphasis. (And somehow, even his hair has managed to be messier.)
“Not like that,” he insists before conceding, “well, like that too, but I mean it.”
“Does this have anything to do with why you look like you were only recently somebody’s punching bag?” I ask, nudging at one of his scabbing wounds.
His eyes flash through a few emotions, but he seems to decide to keep it light. “Oh, trust me, Kakarrot looks every bit as bad as I do.”
“You fought Son? When did you get back? Damn it, Raditz, how did you get back?” I give him my best you’ve got some explaining to do glare, which, compared to whatever seems to be freaking him out so much, seems to make him laugh.
“Namek’s dragonballs had three wishes,” he says first. “So I used one to get back. I fought Kakarrot because he’s a stupid bastard who doesn’t realize what he’s up against. And we’re fucked because it turns out it ain’t the Saiyans that’re gonna be causing the death the Namekian foresees. That basically cover it?”
I’m a little to speechless to answer. Okay, time to process through that real quick. Three wishes…that’s how he got his tail, too. What did he do with the other wish? Maybe that’s how he knows this other thing is coming. All right, Son taking a swing at him soon as he arrives—I can maybe see that. Maybe. As for the threat not being the Saiyans… “Who is it, then? Who’s coming?”
“Freeza,” he speaks through gritted teeth. I think he gathers from my blank look that this means nothing to me, aside from sounding vaguely familiar. He breathes deeply and explains. “You know how I left to get stronger in case me and your friends and the whelp Gohan combined ain’t enough to take on Vegeta?” I nod. “Well he’d never admit to it, but Vegeta—and mind you, he’s fuller of himself than you are—” I open my mouth in protest (something like “so basically as full of himself as you are?”), but he continues, “he shakes in his tiny little boots over the thought of fighting Freeza.”
I think he’s expecting me to turn an unhealthy pale, but he’s probably forgotten that I, as a normal human being, have absolutely no concept of what that could possibly mean. “Yikes?” I say.
“Look,” he growls, “now your planet’s only about a thousand times more likely to get blown up, is all.”
“So we should get out of here,” I suggest. “I’ve got one ship, maybe we could—I don’t know—get back to Namek and wait to reuse those dragonballs—”
“If Vegeta and Nappa don’t kill everybody there,” he interjects. “Still…ain’t a bad idea…run off and just get away…” he pauses and looks like he might start convulsing. He closes his eyes tightly, nostrils flaring, and he makes like he’s trying to shake something off. When he opens his eyes again, he’s got this resigned expression. “Then again, maybe they’ll kill me if I do.”
“Who? Freeza’s men?” Whatever happened to Raditz, it makes him seem a whole lot crazier than he used to be, which is saying something.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Shit, you…don’t remember what I said, do you? About the voices?”
“Hm,” I glance at the ceiling, “was that before or after you had me pinned against the bed?” And then I turn to him and really look at him—his sort of half-starved state, all beaten up, now even sweatier (and smelling just about as bad as he looks)—and I get the feeling that I can’t spend too much longer pretending that something serious didn’t happen.
“Long story short,” he sighs, “some weird fat Namekian made me more powerful. But ever since then, I got these—now don’t start looking at me like that—these voices in my head.”
“Anyone in particular?” Scientist mode. “An alternate personality, or is this like an internal ‘good versus evil’ battle, or someone from your past, or…”
He just shrugs at me. “Like a bunch of half-drunk bastards egging me on, sometimes,” he pauses, “or else when I do something they don’t like, it’s like, some…mass a’…rage…like…some guys on a crazy rampage with somethin’ to prove.” He looks like there’s something he’s not saying, and I’m really tempted to press it, but I won’t—for now. I just raise my eyebrows. Honestly, both of those descriptions don’t sound too different from something he’d do, but what do I know?
A crowd, though? Strange. I don’t know much about psychological…problems…but this sounds…troublesome.
At least it makes sense now, that look of his. Suddenly he’s much less prepared to fight whatever’s coming to Earth (though come to think of it—he has his tail—why did he come back? Oh, I know why, of course—I just wonder if he does). Suddenly he has people in his head, apparently telling him what to do. Talk about getting the rug yanked from under you.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.
“I have to fight Freeza,” he mutters.
“Don’t be stupid,” I say. “We’ll leave. I’ll find out how to cloak us. This Freeza will never find us.”
He opens his mouth to argue with me, but a soft rap at the door replaces the pause and he shifts his focus to it, snapping his mouth shut.
“Um, Raditz? Bulma?” It’s unmistakably Gohan. “Can I come in?”
Converting /tmp/phpojs5Nv to /dev/stdout
…
The day was good. After finishing the ship, I’d moved on to fancying it up. I finally let my father put that godforsaken coffee machine—sorry, espresso machine—in the ship. I got it painted up. It’s perfect. I ran some more tests. Perfect. I’d wager my life on this thing being spaceworthy, which is good, because I might just have to. Really, really don’t like thinking about the reason I’ve been in such a hurry to get it done anyway…about the Saiyans, and the possible destruction of the Earth, and…
But back to my perfect ship. It has a nice paint job. I got the best beds. (Though I had to revise my order to bunk beds—when I realized that if we use it to escape the Saiyans, it might be more than just a pleasant cruise for two. Damn.) Hell, I even commissioned some nice art for the interior. If I have to flee the Earth, I will do so in comfort and style.
I’m humming to myself as I think about how much profit I could make on these if we do live—think of the wealthy families going on vacation! Think of the honeymooners!—when somebody has the balls to bust through my ceiling a ways down the hall. I’m about to shriek SON! as that will cover both of the most likely culprits (Gohan visits more, but Son is way more likely to bust through the ceiling; the kid knows better).
But no—as the dust clears, it’s the man himself, Raditz. I’m grinning and trying to decide on the appropriate punishment when he beats me to it (but, damn, I’ve got an excuse, right? Him being a space alien with superpowers, and so on). He crushes me against the wall and looks equal parts panicked and horny (which, given the suddenness of his appearance, and our position, is probably about how I’m looking). He digs his nails into my arms and for a second the scratchiness of his chin (did he ever shave before? I don’t remember seeing him do it, but, he must have) completely distracts me from the fact that he’s kissing me. “Shit,” he’s muttering through both his and my lips, “shit, shit, shit. Bulma.”
I try to make a mouthy comment about is it the end of the world or something? But my mouth is fairly occupied and I’m kind of busy plotting out the area in my head to figure out the nearest private room and how I can goad him in there. Not that it would probably take much.
He’s breathing against my neck like he’s going to die and I suddenly realize that I didn’t even look, when he burst in, to see if he was injured—from what I can see out of the corner of my eye, he does look pretty awful. “Are you okay?” I manage. I swear on Kami’s ever-shortening lifespan, if the man dies while macking my face…
“No,” is all he says, hoisting me up closer to his level by my thighs, his hands and forearms forming something of a seat, the wall its back.
“Then maybe you should—” I start to say, admittedly a bit halfheartedly. If he’s feeling well enough to press his hips up like…
“No,” he cuts me off before I could think of finishing the sentence.
So instead I switch to a cheeky, “—Find a bed.”
To this he growls and lifts one arm from my thigh to hold me against him as he flies us up through the hole he made in the ceiling. I guess at least it got used more than once. We’re on the same floor as my room and he practically shoves me in once we get there. I’m about to lecture him on how I’m slightly more fragile than somebody with at least an inch of muscles padding any given part of my body (and that I am slightly less thickheaded than he is) but when our eyes lock, I see he looks…different. He didn’t eat well, I decide, at this place he was at, at Namek—and maybe that’s part of it, maybe his face is a little gaunter. But that’s not the whole of it…his eyes look desperate. Desperate for what, I don’t know—I don’t know how the hell he got here (because he does have his tail back, and I know it couldn’t have grown back) or why he’s so beat up, bruises all over his face and his half-exposed chest, crusted blood—some areas still dripping. His eyes shiver in his sockets, not unlike what I’ve seen in Lunch when she tries to keep from sneezing, but—well, perhaps he’s just tired. Sleep-deprived, beaten by…I don’t know. Somebody he ran across. Did he—did he run into the other Saiyans on his way back? Surely not…surely…
But either way, he looks desperate. His eyes pin me on the spot, the only fix to whatever has got him in this state. “Look, I,” I start to say, trying to think of something to remind him I’m human, and he can’t try to pull those crazy Saiyan things on me just yet. I’ve been working out but there’s a difference between well-toned and might accidentally rip your arm off.
“Give me this,” he says, and his eyes stop twitching. “Just…” He’s very quickly right in front of me, his scruffy face rubbing into my collarbone as he kisses my neck.
I try to get a good look at his face. “Explain,” is all I say. I’d be happy if he explains anything at all—why he’s so flustered, maybe (I mean, I know I’m hot, but this is different than how he was before), or even what the hell he means by “give me this.”
“I don’t want to die,” he says, or maybe whimpers, into the crook of my neck. He mutters something else—voices?—and I’m afraid to ask him to repeat himself. He seems…not in control. And not in a way that makes me think he’ll throw me across the room; more like he’ll crumple to the ground if he can’t find his comfy spot on my bed. He grabs my shoulders and bends me back toward the bed, crawling onto me and kissing me with the ragged breaths with which only desperate men kiss.
“Raditz,” I say, and he likes this. He gives me plenty of excuses to continue.
…
“Okay,” I say once our breathing has returned to normal rates. “So, welcome back, and what the hell was that all about?”
He grins a little bit—I take it I managed to lift his spirits with a few of those maneuvers—but it fades quickly. “We’re basically fucked,” he says.
“I noticed,” I try to sort out the more rebellious clumps of my hair for emphasis. (And somehow, even his hair has managed to be messier.)
“Not like that,” he insists before conceding, “well, like that too, but I mean it.”
“Does this have anything to do with why you look like you were only recently somebody’s punching bag?” I ask, nudging at one of his scabbing wounds.
His eyes flash through a few emotions, but he seems to decide to keep it light. “Oh, trust me, Kakarrot looks every bit as bad as I do.”
“You fought Son? When did you get back? Damn it, Raditz, how did you get back?” I give him my best you’ve got some explaining to do glare, which, compared to whatever seems to be freaking him out so much, seems to make him laugh.
“Namek’s dragonballs had three wishes,” he says first. “So I used one to get back. I fought Kakarrot because he’s a stupid bastard who doesn’t realize what he’s up against. And we’re fucked because it turns out it ain’t the Saiyans that’re gonna be causing the death the Namekian foresees. That basically cover it?”
I’m a little to speechless to answer. Okay, time to process through that real quick. Three wishes…that’s how he got his tail, too. What did he do with the other wish? Maybe that’s how he knows this other thing is coming. All right, Son taking a swing at him soon as he arrives—I can maybe see that. Maybe. As for the threat not being the Saiyans… “Who is it, then? Who’s coming?”
“Freeza,” he speaks through gritted teeth. I think he gathers from my blank look that this means nothing to me, aside from sounding vaguely familiar. He breathes deeply and explains. “You know how I left to get stronger in case me and your friends and the whelp Gohan combined ain’t enough to take on Vegeta?” I nod. “Well he’d never admit to it, but Vegeta—and mind you, he’s fuller of himself than you are—” I open my mouth in protest (something like “so basically as full of himself as you are?”), but he continues, “he shakes in his tiny little boots over the thought of fighting Freeza.”
I think he’s expecting me to turn an unhealthy pale, but he’s probably forgotten that I, as a normal human being, have absolutely no concept of what that could possibly mean. “Yikes?” I say.
“Look,” he growls, “now your planet’s only about a thousand times more likely to get blown up, is all.”
“So we should get out of here,” I suggest. “I’ve got one ship, maybe we could—I don’t know—get back to Namek and wait to reuse those dragonballs—”
“If Vegeta and Nappa don’t kill everybody there,” he interjects. “Still…ain’t a bad idea…run off and just get away…” he pauses and looks like he might start convulsing. He closes his eyes tightly, nostrils flaring, and he makes like he’s trying to shake something off. When he opens his eyes again, he’s got this resigned expression. “Then again, maybe they’ll kill me if I do.”
“Who? Freeza’s men?” Whatever happened to Raditz, it makes him seem a whole lot crazier than he used to be, which is saying something.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Shit, you…don’t remember what I said, do you? About the voices?”
“Hm,” I glance at the ceiling, “was that before or after you had me pinned against the bed?” And then I turn to him and really look at him—his sort of half-starved state, all beaten up, now even sweatier (and smelling just about as bad as he looks)—and I get the feeling that I can’t spend too much longer pretending that something serious didn’t happen.
“Long story short,” he sighs, “some weird fat Namekian made me more powerful. But ever since then, I got these—now don’t start looking at me like that—these voices in my head.”
“Anyone in particular?” Scientist mode. “An alternate personality, or is this like an internal ‘good versus evil’ battle, or someone from your past, or…”
He just shrugs at me. “Like a bunch of half-drunk bastards egging me on, sometimes,” he pauses, “or else when I do something they don’t like, it’s like, some…mass a’…rage…like…some guys on a crazy rampage with somethin’ to prove.” He looks like there’s something he’s not saying, and I’m really tempted to press it, but I won’t—for now. I just raise my eyebrows. Honestly, both of those descriptions don’t sound too different from something he’d do, but what do I know?
A crowd, though? Strange. I don’t know much about psychological…problems…but this sounds…troublesome.
At least it makes sense now, that look of his. Suddenly he’s much less prepared to fight whatever’s coming to Earth (though come to think of it—he has his tail—why did he come back? Oh, I know why, of course—I just wonder if he does). Suddenly he has people in his head, apparently telling him what to do. Talk about getting the rug yanked from under you.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell him.
“I have to fight Freeza,” he mutters.
“Don’t be stupid,” I say. “We’ll leave. I’ll find out how to cloak us. This Freeza will never find us.”
He opens his mouth to argue with me, but a soft rap at the door replaces the pause and he shifts his focus to it, snapping his mouth shut.
“Um, Raditz? Bulma?” It’s unmistakably Gohan. “Can I come in?”
Converting /tmp/phpojs5Nv to /dev/stdout