Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Girl Next Door ❯ 999 (Epilogue) Identity Crisis ( Epilogue )

Dooms gave me puppy eyes and hinted I write more fanfic…. And I cannot deny her anything, goddamnit. No, no, it's fine, my other projects be damned. Wrapped around her goddamn little finger, so here, take it, TAKE IT, ALONG WITH MY SOUL WHICH YOU ALREADY OWN.

Based on what happens after the “Girl Next Door” comic by stupidoomdoodles, from a fanart/blurb she made on her batreon account (just replace that `b' with a `p'). Check out her work on twitter, tumblr or smackjeeves or better yet, the place that rhymes with schmatreon. (Yes, FFnet won't let me type the company name without censoring me, lol).

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Girl Next Door - (Epilogue) - Identity Crisis

Vegeta stared up at the perfectly blue sky, his brow marred by a frown. There weren't even any clouds he could watch drift by, just an endless, endless, perfect as you please, magically blue fucking sky.

He should be happy. He knew that, logically, he didn't have a damn care in the world and he should be fucking happy, but all he felt was an uneasy weight in the pit of his belly, gnawing at him, clawing its way out, infecting him from the inside, growing like a cancer and filling him with something he hadn't felt in a long time.

Doubt.

Insecurity.

Purposeless.

The gentle lapping of the water as it kissed the edges of the nearby pool only highlighted how perfectly serene and calm everything was, should be, everything except his goddamn head, his mind a-whir, tumbling over itself with bitter psychoanalysis that only led him deeper and deeper down a rabbit hole he didn't want to be in. The sun baked his skin, a heavy, warm weight that sapped the energy from his limbs, aggravating, chaffing, mocking him because it stole his strength, fed on it, knowing he had no use for it.

Because he had nothing to do. For the love of god, there was nothing for him to do.

When was the last time he'd ever experienced that? Had he ever experienced that? There was always something going on, always another hit, another task, even if that task was simply `stay out of trouble' or `lay low' or `wait for orders'. That was still something. That was the job. Waiting for the next job was a job, it meant training and eating and resting to be in peak condition for the next assignment, it meant gathering information or cleaning up lose ends or running errands until the time came when he could wrap his fingers around a man's throat and watch the sucker's life leave his eyes…

…Instead of wrapping his fingers around a disinterested long neck. Vegeta stared numbly down at the bottle of chilled imported beer that he'd been sipping out of obligation. That's what people of leisure did, right, drink beer by the pool? He really had no idea.

How did one go from a dangerous gang member with a headcount in the hundreds to a multibillionaire's toy boy with nothing to fucking do?

Well, she'd certainly had an idea about what he could do. After days of him skulking about the place, growing more and more restless, she'd finally approached him that morning, stretching out a ridiculously tiny piece of fabric between her fingers.

“The hell is that?” he asked her. That, he reflected now, had been his first big mistake of the day. He should have known that mischievous look in her eyes was a signal for him to run to the gym and not come out until dinner time, but he'd already broken half the equipment already from too much vigorous use and despite her billions, Bulma seemed in no hurry to get the damn machines fixed.

She smirked at him and handed the fabric over. When he was finally able to deduce what it was, he felt his face grow hot and his eyes go wide in horror. “You've got to be kidding me!”

Her smirk grew darker, wicked.

He felt dread wash over him. “You're fucking not, are you?”

She titled her head to the side, endearingly and shook it without sympathy (traitorous bitch). “It'll do you good. Go outside. Relax. You've earned it.”

“Relax? In these?” He held up the swimwear in disgust.

She shrugged. “What, I can't get something out of it too? It's the least you could do for living here rent free.”

And dear god he must have been desperate, desperate for anything to do, any order to follow, because here he was, lying by the pool in a goddamn g-string like some fucking cabana boy who should want for nothing and he was hating every minute of it.

He was going to go insane. He was going to go fucking insane living here. Maybe, maybe he already was, always had been, but the constant movement and work and killing things and equally insane companionship had never made him realize it until now. That… that would make a whole lot of sense actually. Explain a lot of fucking things. Oh god, he was insane. Vegeta, you're batshit insane, how did you not realize that before?

Oh my fucking god, I'm even talking to myself. Right. Fucking. Now.

He heard someone laugh. He frowned and narrowed his eyes against the sun and saw her, standing at the other end of the pool in her work clothes, looking more beautiful than the day around them, clearly overdressed, or at least she appeared so next to him, and he struggled between humiliation and an odd feeling of relief that she'd come to save him from himself.

Again.

It was becoming a nasty habit of hers.

“I've never seen anyone look so miserable trying to relax,” she teased, clearly amused, taking in his scowl and rigidity. She'd more than likely been watching him for longer than he felt comfortable with, a blush creeping up his neck but he hoped his sun ruddied skin kept it hidden.

He feigned indifference. “Are you happy? This is what you wanted, isn't it?” he asked, his tone more caustic than he'd meant as he indicated his predicament.

She dragged her eyes over him without any reservation, causing his gut to clench and his palms to sweat. He sat up as she approached, suddenly alert. She sat by his side and took the beer from his hand, taking a swig. Her nose scrunched.

“It's warm,” she complained.

He'd been nursing it too long.

“And this isn't what I wanted,” she added, putting the beer aside and turning her sharp blue gaze on him. “Well… the attire perhaps. But this,” she waved her hand at his chair, the pool. “I thought you could try to unwind, you know, for once. Take it easy. Do you even know what that means?”

He looked at her dumbly. He saw the smile on her face, watched it die when she realized that actually, no, he didn't fucking know what that meant, and he was so hopelessly lost by the idea that he was starting to convince himself that he needed to be committed to a padded white cel.

His throat bobbed and he looked away, sweating now and not from the sun. It always felt like she was giving him the third degree, even when she simply looked at him. She had a way of looking inside him, prying out parts of him he wasn't even aware existed, and that was always unsettling. He wanted to snatch them back and crush them to pieces before she had a chance to realize just how thoroughly broken he was.

“Hey, Vegeta,” she said, her voice taking on that soft, concerned tone that made him flinch because it sounded awfully too close to pity for his liking. “This isn't supposed to be difficult. This is suppose to be fun, you dunce.”

“Oh, it is. I'm having a real fucking riot out here with Me, Myself and I,” he drawled.

She sighed, exasperated. “Then go do something else!” she said, throwing up her hands. “It was just a suggestion. I mean, it's got to be better than getting beaten up or killing someone, right?”

He didn't answer her, his silence condemning.

“…Right?” she repeated, her voice less sure now.

He looked at her, his expression pained. “… At least I was good at that,” he admitted, the goddamn heat or beer having addled his brain enough to let the words fall out before he could stop them. Or maybe his insanity made him do it.

Right, blame it on that, is that going to be your latest crutch, you coward?

He saw her face fall and he fisted his hands, looking away, heavy with self loathing. It's not that he liked killing, per se, it's just that he very definitely didn't dislike it, which for Vegeta, was saying a lot, because he disliked almost everything. And he was good at it, dealing death and mayhem. Like, really, fucking good at it. And he'd come to take a pride in that, because fuck, what else in his miserable life could he say that about? Morally he knew it was wrong, but morality hadn't ever been there for him, it hadn't been there when Frieza had killed his father, hadn't been there every time someone else had fucked up and pinned it on Vegeta, the new kid, hadn't been there to save him from pain, or starvation, or countless scenarios where it was just him or some other guy, and Vegeta had chosen himself. Every. Goddamn. Time. That had been the key to survival after all. And so, over time, Vegeta had come to relish his skills, enjoy the chaos, exalt in his ability to lose himself in other's blood and pain, because it lessened his own, was a consuming, burning panacea to the numbing apathy that swallowed his soul.

And now, what was he fucking good at? What was he fucking good for?

Bulma's face was struggling between being appalled and furious and something else. Something worse.

Pity.

“Look, Vegeta,” she said, her voice more matter-of-fact, not looking at him as she spoke. Her bangs fell in her eyes and his fingers twitched, wanting to push them back. “I realize this is hard on you, that there's going to be an adjustment period. It sounds to me like you need a goal, and moping around isn't going to help. So you're just going to have to suck it up and deal with it, and try not to be such a twat to everyone in the meantime.”

He scowled at her, and she looked up at him with a small, impish smile.

He huffed and looked away.

Bulma shifted, and to his surprise she was straddling him a moment later, her soft thighs over his hard ones, looking up the length of his body with eyes that ate up his every bulge and plane. She then sprawled on top of him, pooling over him with her body, her cool clothes rubbing against his burning, naked flesh, and instinctively his hands rose to grab her about the waist. She made a contented sound as she curled on top of him, and he lay helpless beneath her, unable to move for fear that she might feel his rising attraction, or worse, leave.

“What do you want to do?” she asked him candidly, her cheek on his chest, and without her eyes boring into his, he felt much less exposed, although still just as awkward talking about his wants and desires.

Mostly because he didn't really have any.

What did he want?

All his life he'd just wanted to survive. To survive in order to be the best, to usurp everyone else, to inflict the pain he himself felt inwardly onto others, to both live up to and destroy the expectations Frieza had set on him, to crush Frieza's face under his boot and laugh while he did so, even while knowing that dream would probably never come to pass. Ultimately, what it came down to, is he'd wanted freedom.

And yet, now, Frieza had been defeated, and he did have freedom, and Vegeta had absolutely no idea what the fuck to do with it. He'd wanted freedom for freedom's sake, he'd never really considered what he'd do with it, or the implications much beyond that, because, deep down, he'd always known that fate had something far less glamorous in store for him, something far crueler that ended with him dead and disposed of in a dumpster somewhere.

Not lying in a g-string under the smartest and most beautiful girl he'd ever had the greatest, dumbest fucking luck of his life to have met.

He'd been quiet too long. Suddenly something smacked him in the face. Her hand.

“Less brooding, more talking, big guy,” she insisted.

He grumbled something and peeled her hand off him. “I don't know!” he finally admitted, frustrated.

She propped her chin up on her hand, and blew at her bangs to try and dislodge them. It didn't work. “Don't know what?”

He looked down his nose at her, and with a scowl of impatience, brushed her hair from her face. She smiled at him adoringly for it. He looked away, flustered. “What I want to do,” he said, gruffly.

“Vegeta, you can do anything, anything at all. And you have all the time in the world to figure it out.”

He gripped her small waist tighter, the implications of having infinite possibilities open to him terrifying. Choice? He had choice? What fucking novelty was that?

She wiggled against him, watching the subtle war of expressions on his face, her blue eyes dancing with an emotion he couldn't quite put his finger on, something warm and sickeningly doting. It made his jaw clench. “What?” he barked at her testily.

She grinned. “You're thinking too hard about it. C'mon, use your gut. Let's practice. Something small. What do you want right now?” she asked. “A cold beer? A steak? Some body lotion? My vote is on that last one. I'll even help you put it on, because I'm generous like that.”

He gave her a condescending look that only seemed to ignite her amusement. She was beautiful when she smiled. Hell, she was always beautiful, but especially when she looked at him in this way, the corners of her eyes crinkling, her eyes twinkling, her face split with a smile, soft and genuine, that he'd only seen her use for him. Just for him.

Something unfurled in his chest, opening up and wrapping long vines about his heart, sinking thorns in to the beating muscle with a deadly grip that didn't let go, but Vegeta was accustomed to pain. What he wasn't accustomed to was this feeling. This possession. This hopeless, desperate dependence.

He pulled her up the length of his body so that they were face to face, and he felt a stab of smugness when her breath caught in her throat and her cheeks pinkened prettily.

Mine, something growled in his mind, and he had to agree with it, sanity be damned.

“You,” he said, his voice coming out deeper and huskier than before, and he felt her shiver in response. Her fingers curled against his chest, and he tightened his own, feeling her soft flesh give under his grip. “I want you.”

Bulma's breath came out shaky, and she put her hands on his cheeks, searching his eyes for something he feared she'd find lacking. But she smiled, the curl of her mouth lilting, playful. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

He felt his eyes narrow, a pleased, prideful little smile tug on his mouth. He brought his hands up to sift through her hair, her short blue tresses so unbearably soft, like feathers. She leaned in and kissed him and he kissed her back, drawing his knees up to cradle her against him, shielding her against the outside world as best he could, keeping her all for himself.

Greedy.

“I love you,” she murmured against his mouth.

He tensed. Fuck, fuck did he hate when she did that, the sentiment still novel enough to make him fucking blush, the words like nails on a chalkboard because it mystified him beyond reason how someone like her could ever love someone like him.

She giggled seeing his discomfort. “You're blushing like a school girl.”

“Shut it, Blue.”

“Oooh, you must be embarrassed to be using that old nickname,” she teased wickedly, pressing herself against his crotch.

In retaliation he put his hands on her ass and squeezed, a little too hard, and watched her tremble, dropping her head in pleasure. He was getting a handle on what her buttons were, taking great pleasure in getting to shut her up in interesting ways.

“I want you,” she breathed, all the joking gone from her now, leaving only desire in her eyes, and his body responded.

And that's when it hit him. He wanted her too, not just now, but always. And he was pretty fucking good with her. She certainly had no room for complaint in that department, or none that she'd voiced yet, and she'd certainly voiced a lot of things as he'd thrust into her, his ego swelling along with his cock, watching her arch against him in helpless abandon, screaming his name and begging for more, begging for all of him, and he'd obliged, giving her everything he had, every last, broken, miserable piece of himself and watched in awe as she'd cherished each piece.

He didn't dislike it. In fact, he liked it. Liked her, a lot.

Loved her. A lot.

And it should have been terrifying, wholly earth-shatteringly horrifying, but oddly, Vegeta felt a peace and tranquility settle over him that he hadn't felt in days, or perhaps ever. He wanted her, loved her, as much as someone like him could, and it was enough for now. Perhaps, in time, everything else would fall into place around that.

He scooped her up and she yelped in surprise, clinging to him. He smirked down at her, the thorns in his heart digging in deeper as she blushed up at him.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breathless with excitement.

“To change,” he growled. “We're overdressed.”

Her eyes slipped over his nakedness, and her kittenish smile was a lightening bolt to his cock. “I can see that.” She wrapped her arms about his neck and nuzzled him as he carried her inside. “You're okay?” she dared to ask.

He held her tighter, walking with confidence. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I'm okay.”

Thanks to you.

~~ox0xo~~

AN: Well shit, that got sappy.

Okay Dooms, I'm throwing down the glove: Vegeta in a gstring. MAKE IT HAPPEN. DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING ACCEPT? >:)

I had to research `men in g-strings' for this. Yeah, -had- to. For, uh, RESEARCH. … shuddup.

Please review? And send love to stupidoomdoodle as well, this AU is possible because of her.

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle's idea. I'm just playing in their sandboxes.