Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Lab Monkey ❯ Gift of Blood ( Chapter 24 )

Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ

 

WARNING: Lemon! Please turn back if you are easily offended. No Barb, that doesn't mean you.

 

Thanks to Barb for lending her beta skills to me.

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gift of Blood

 

I have been defeated.

Frieza stared at himself in the full-length oval mirror. The chrome-metal plate in his head shone brightly under the stark white lighting in his room. He curled his toes, but couldn't feel the pushness of the carpet, only the tactile sensation of something being there.

 

His eyes were drawn to the reflection of his legs, but all he could see was the shine of metal with the groves and nuts of machinery. The chrome crawled up his legs, swallowed half his chest and devoured most of his head. Only his face remained untouched. Crimson on white, evil overlapping innocence, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't him.

 

“Lights off.”

 

Even in the dimness of the room, Frieza could still see the darkness of steel instead of the usual fish belly white of his skin. It disgusted him, made him sick. His senses were dulled, but his emotions were razor sharp, cutting into the soft tissues of his brain.

 

He had lost. He had lost to a dirty, filthy monkey. To a bastard of the same race he had annihilated nearly twenty years ago for this very reason. Because he was afraid of being defeated by a Saiyan that would grow too powerful to bow to his rule. And the worst of it was that he lost to an orphan who had no idea the value of what he was fighting for.

 

Frieza staggered back from the mirror, barely able to comprehend the weight of his thoughts much less his emotions.

 

He, the Shining Lord of the Universe, had lost a fight to a more powerful foe. An enemy who was righteous and good, the epitome of what he was not. A warrior for the people, a solider of good, a son of the light. An undefeatable enemy lurked in the recesses of space, and no one knew but him. Not his father, his brother, not even his elite guards that had accompanied him to Namek. No one knew the truth.

 

Everyone assumed that he had won. That there had been a brilliant, planet-shattering battle, which he had survived, and that he had been victorious. No other conclusion was feasible, no other answer thinkable. No one dared to think that he had failed, and he dared not whisper a word of it lest his men fall on him like ravenous wolves, and his family disavow him as a weakling.

 

He didn't even know if he had enough strength in his fabricated body to defend his throne. He had lost more than a simple fight. He had lost his confidence, his superiority, his very being.

 

And now he had to step outside his door, free himself of his self-imposed exile and attend his victory party. A victory that wasn't even his. To live a lie that wasn't his creation.

 

 

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Vegeta was waiting for Bulma as she returned to their quarters. He leaned casually against the doorframe that led to the bedroom as he watched her struggle to get all of her packages inside.

 

“That's it?” he questioned.

 

He had watched as she shopped---the raw anticipation of spending money on beautiful things, the slight cooling of her blood as she passed the expensive shops, the frown between her eyes as she looked down at his cred chip. He had never seen a war between greed and integrity before. Always, everyone acted in their own interests. They never questioned the outcome of their actions, and how it would hurt others. Only his innocent angel knew the meaning of integrity. Her boast of spending his money had quickly melted away under the heat of her conscious, and instead she had bought only the essentials.

 

Vegeta eyed the plethora of bags and boxes that surrounded her in the living area, sprouting up like fresh shoots of grass on a spring day. Of course, the essentials for his beautiful angel happened to be quite a bit more than he was used to.

 

Bulma's head shot up at his words, her eyes narrowing.

 

“Look. You didn't tell me what to get so I just got the basics. A girl needs more than two pairs of pants, you know,” she huffed, certain that he was going to chastise her for spending too much of his money. For the first time in her life she had been concerned about the amount of money she was spending. She really didn't know what shape Vegeta's finances were in. For all she knew he could have been boasting out of some misplaced sense of male ego. She had decided not to test her luck, and settled on the things that she really needed. But since she had come into space empty-handed, she needed quite a bit.

 

Vegeta rolled his eyes, certain that he was living with a dimwit.

 

“You better have gotten something for the party.”

 

Bulma beamed up at him from her packages, satisfaction dripping from her perfectly curved lips.

 

“Of course I did. It's beautiful. The seamstress assured me that it's one of a kind. A Bojorie… whatever that is. Why just look…”

 

Vegeta cut her off before she could finish. The last thing he needed was a designer fashion lesson.

 

“Why? I didn't say you were going to the party,” he snapped.

 

Bulma's jaw fell open, confusion written in her dark blue eyes. “But you just said...”

 

“Whatever. Hurry up and get dressed. You have twenty minutes.”

 

Bulma's jaw snapped closed with an audible click of her teeth. “You do things like that to piss me off don't you,” she hissed.

 

Vegeta narrowed his eyes, leaning forward menacingly. “Twenty minutes.”

 

I can't possibly get ready in twenty minutes, Vegeta. You can't polish a diamond in so little time.” Bulma swiped up her packages, stomping towards the bathroom. There was an awkward moment when she realized that he was blocking the entrance to the bedroom where the bathroom was.

 

He moved aside, leaning down to whisper in her ear as she passed. “Not so long, I should think, to polish something that already shines.”

 

Shivers danced down her spine, tingling her senses. She paused to look back over her shoulder, but he had already disappeared into the living area. She made her way to the bathroom, giddy happiness lightening her steps.

 

As she disappeared behind the bathroom door, Vegeta rubbed his face with his palm, confusion and sorrow drawn into the set of his shoulders.

 

What was becoming of him? He never in his life behaved in such a way. He was actually flirting with her. She was supposed to be the woman that he was to tear apart and kill. She had been his captor, his torturer --- the one who had stolen all his dreams of revenge, turning them against him, until he was dizzy with confusion. His intentions had always been to fuck her, kill her, and leave her, but here she was, preparing for a party in his bathroom. She had become a part of him, a part that he was willing to cheat, lie and kill for. For the first time in his life he held something precious, and he wasn't going to let it go without a fight.

 

He made his way into the bedroom, stopping before a tall armoire that held three drawers in the bottom. He bent down, opening the bottom drawer, unearthing a pile of clothing until he reached the bottom. There, neatly folded, a dark blue tunic sat, his only Saiyan formal wear. Frieza disallowed his men to wear armor, even their dress armor to his galas. It made him nervous to see so many warriors in one place dressed for war; so he had decreed that they all come dressed in stylish evening wear.

 

In the past, Vegeta had always disregarded the order, instead appearing at the parties in his training suits or military uniforms. Always his disobedience had earned him punishment, but this time he couldn't allow that to happen. No matter what, he could not allow himself to be drawn from Bulma's side and leave her open to attack. And more importantly he wouldn't disgrace her by escorting her to the gala in one of his dirty training gis.

 

He pulled out the princely garb, something he hadn't worn since before his father had been murdered. When he had reached his maturity, Raditz had taken the outfit and had it re-sewn to fit the adult-sized prince, but the design and colors were still the same. By walking into Frieza's party, he would be declaring without a doubt that he was taking his rightful place as the Saiyan Prince. No words could say it louder than the mere action of dressing like the prince he was.

 

Twenty minutes later, Bulma walked out of the bathroom, freshly shined and polished. She didn't expect Vegeta to compliment her with words, but his eyes said enough. She was dressed in a crimson gown that sparkled in the light like a sheath of rubies. The heart shaped bodice, curved over her breasts before dipping down under her arms to the middle of her slender back. The skirt belled out modestly, and was frothed with diaphanous netting that was decorated with beads and jewels. Long red gloves ended at her elbows, disguising the fact that she wore no jewelry except for a single red ribbon that spanned her throat.

 

Bulma looked to Vegeta for a silent compliment, but she became distracted as she caught site of his garb. He wore soft-soled, black leather boots that wound themselves up his muscular calves. He wore butter-soft black braes that hugged his thighs like a second skin, and looked comfortable enough for dancing or battle. Over that he wore a sleeveless dark blue tunic the color of twilight that belted low over his hips, the black embroidered hem coming to mid-thigh. His bronze arms were left bare, and encircling each thick bicep were heavily decorated gold and platinum bands at least two inches wide. In the center, the intricately knotted designs came together to form an eye. One band held a ruby in the center, the other a sapphire.

 

“Oh, wow, Vegeta. You look…” Bulma couldn't finish, and she had to swallow before her throat dried up. Vegeta shrugged, and Bulma's eyes were drawn to the center of his chest. The belted tunic gapped down the front, leaving a trail of bare skin that nearly reached his belly button. In the center of his chest there was a medallion of gold and platinum, depicting the rise of three suns, the size of her fist resting on his heavily bronze skin. Each sun was a different jewel, one topaz, one ruby and the last one was a brilliantly orange gem she had never seen before.

 

Their eyes met, and Bulma instantly felt beautiful. There was a heat in Vegeta's eyes that could only be explained by need and desire. It darkened the already black color of his eyes until they shimmered like obsidian fire. Her spine tingled with anticipation and her nipples hardened beneath her gown. She felt lost in time as Vegeta glided over to her, his steps soundless, his presence godlike in intensity. His eyes never left her, but her body felt on fire as if he was already caressing her in the secret places that made her flame.

 

He stopped before her, his body a heart beat away, tantalizing her with his nearness, but torturing her without his touch. His powerful aura was already surrounding her, cradling her, cherishing her. He raised his hand, extending a single finger to trace the length of crimson ribbon at her throat. His eyes darkened until it seemed as though his pupils disappeared into the ring of black.

 

“You were no jewelry.” His voice was like velvet---soft and beckoning, but threatening to suffocate her if she heaped too much of it on.

 

She had stopped several times to look in at the store fronts that sold dazzling jewels and glittering diamonds, but she had always stopped herself from buying. For some reason the giving and receiving of jewelry had become something personal between them. She had used his money to buy expensive gowns, silk camisoles, and the most satiny, intimate of things that caressed her bare skin, but she could not bring herself to buy a single ring or necklace. For some unknown reason, it had seemed wrong.

 

“Sometimes understated elegance speaks more loudly than garish adornment.”

 

His lips twisted in a wry smile, clearly amused by her innocent statement, but unwilling to show it.

 

“Simplicity will win you no favor in Frieza's court, my angel.”

 

Embarrassed at his slip of endearment, he turned away, pulling the ruby circlet from around his thick bicep. Without a word he slipped it around her slender neck, arranging it so the ruby sat in the center of her throat. The band was so wide that it nearly covered her entire neck, from the underside of her chin to her collarbone.

 

He stepped back to admire the flash of fire at her throat that matched the burning in her eyes. She was so beautiful that it took his breath away, but it did him no good to reveal that to her. He turned away, his eyes seeking out anything in the room that would distract him.

 

Sensing his retreat, Bulma reached for him, her hand brushing against the other armband. Looking for anything to bring him back to her, she asked the first thing that came to her mind.

 

“Why do they not match?”

 

Vegeta turned towards her, his eyes still hidden under the thick curtain of his lashes.

 

“They match. In their own way.”

 

“This one,” he lifted his hand to the ruby at her neck, his fingers trailing across the bands of gold and platinum, only to slide away to the softness of her skin along her shoulders, “is the symbol of blood for my people.”

 

Bulma's eyes darkened in sad understanding, and Vegeta's lips curled into a slight smile.

 

“Not just for the blood spilled in battle, which my people reverently worship, but that of family.”

 

Bulma stood stark still under his intensity. The air in the room become heavy with hidden meaning, and her lungs labored under the weight. Slowly she brought her long, pale fingers up to caress the jewel at her throat, the Saiyan symbol for family. Vegeta's family.

 

Vegeta looked away, just as uncomfortable with heaviness in the air as she.

 

“Long ago it was said that once the Saiyans stopped cherishing their family that we would fall. Time passed, and our babies were created in artificial wombs, fathers barely knew sons, and women no longer carried babes at their breast. Not long after that, Frieza came.”

 

Bulma's heart constricted at Vegeta's last whispered words. She knew that Vegeta was not a superstitious man, but he recited the words as if he believed that a curse had been leveled at his race that had destroyed them all. Perhaps, she could see the allure of it. Deny your family and lose your existence. It was very cut and dried, understandable almost. Easier to understand than a tyrant destroying your world for no other reason than vindictiveness.

 

Her stomach heaved as she suddenly remembering something important, something horrifying. While she had been down on the purged world she had learned something of Frieza. That he turned worlds to dust, while telling the children that it had been destroyed by a meteor shower. Did Vegeta know? Had anyone ever told him that Frieza had destroyed all that he held dear?

 

“Vegeta…” She reached for him, but he turned away. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, his tone aching just like his soul, silencing her words with its pain.

 

“The sapphire represents the Saiyan royal line. Blue is the color of my house, of my birth. So I wear them together, to represent what I am. A royal Saiyan warrior of the house of Vegeta-sai.”

 

Bulma circled around, planting herself as an unmovable object in Vegeta's path.

 

“And this?” she questioned, lifting her hand to palm the medallion in the center of his chest. He looked down at her, his eyes resting on the pile of blue hair on her bent head. His large hand covered hers, and her startled eyes darted to his.

 

“It is the three suns of Vegeta-sai. Even though the planet is no longer there, the suns remain, standing guard over the graveyard of my people.”

 

Bulma couldn't stop the tears the filled her sapphire eyes, pooling at the corners, threatening to spill over her cheeks. Vegeta couldn't look away from the angelic vision that she was. She placed a soft palm on his cheek, rising up onto her tiptoes to press her lips against his. His eyes squeezed closed, his brow furrowing as if in pain. Always she did this to sooth him. Press soft kisses to his lips, without lust or desire, without want or need. Simple little kisses meant to convey her love to him. An unspoken love that neither of them admitted too. And always, he let her. He received her kisses, welcoming both the pain of heartbreak that they brought, and the soothing tranquility that stifled the flames of anger in his heart.

 

And always, after he could stand no more of her innocence, he turned those kisses into something he could understand, something that he could fathom and control. He deepened her kiss, turning her love into lust, taking her comfort and binding it away in a part of his soul that he refused to open up. He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring her muffled protest, hauling her body against his, reveling in the sensation of holding an angel turned bitchess.

 

Eventually Bulma forgot about ruining her dress, and lived only to feel the heat of Vegeta's mouth on hers. He kissed her with a desperate passion that always burned her up from the inside out. She could feel him, seeking something inside her, probing for an unconscious need. She opened herself to him, mind and body, allowing him to search her from the inside out.

 

Vegeta lifted her feet scant inches from the ground, just enough to move her to where he wanted her to be. He never stopped kissing her, drowning himself willingly in her taste and smell. He wanted her so badly that it hurt his body, and caused an ache in his soul. He was desperate and dying. She was the only one who could save him; she was the only one who could rescue him from the hell that he lived in.

 

The backs of Bulma's legs hit the edge of the bed, and he threw her down, pushing the froth of her crimson skirt up to bare her beautiful legs. He pulled her underwear away, mindless if he tore them or not. He fell on her, careful even in his frenzy, not to hurt her. Bulma welcomed him with open arms and legs. She arched her head back, her fingers driving into his hair, clamping down to ride the storm that Vegeta ensued in them both.

 

He covered her with kisses, down her mouth and jaw; he tongued the band around her throat, nuzzling behind her ear. His powerful tail wrapped around her upper thigh position her hips to meet his. He braced himself on one arm, licking his way down to the treasures covered by his bodice, while snaking another hand between them to undo his laced braes. He broke free from his leathers, his cock red and throbbing with a need he had never felt before.

 

He had the overwhelming fear that if he didn't take her now, he would never have her again. That she would disappear in a flash of light and a shimmer of feathers. An angel couldn't fall forever, eventually she would be swept back into heaven were she belonged, leaving those left behind feeling bereft of her presence.

 

He pulled her bodice down and her white, cherry-topped breasts popped free. He instantly devoured them, sucking and licking while Bulma's insistent mewling and kneading at his skull curved his spine with pleasure. With his tail and hand he spread her already open white thighs wider, until her knees bent and her back bowed off the bed. She was swollen, and glistening with readiness, begging him to join with her, to feel their pleasure together.

 

He lowered himself onto her, his body pressing against every curve of hers. He growled in anger at the barrier of their clothes, but he didn't dare try to hold himself back long enough to tear them from their bodies. In one smooth, powerful thrust he entered her, seeking to cool his red and throbbing flesh, but finding only more delicious heat in her folds. Bulma threw her head back, keening in the back of her throat, her face twisted in blissful agony.

 

She fell beneath him, like a virgin beneath a bloody dagger, a sacrifice to his demon appetites. He wanted to stop, to hold back, but he couldn't. He pounded into her, sinking to the oblivion of her body, relishing every thrust and grunt of pleasure. Bulma tightened around him, her delicate hips meeting his powerful ones in a rush of ecstasy. She met him head on, taking him inside of her, and swallowing his raw need for acceptance and forgiveness, transforming his weaknesses into power.

 

When he came it was as if the mortal realm was ripped away, and for a moment he saw heaven. A frothing of white clouds, a shining beacon of light, and the mighty thunder of God's voice. It roared until it shattered his skull and darkened his sight, plunging him headlong into nothingness. Beside him he heard the shriek of Bulma's voice, an awareness of agony and ecstasy, mingling together in a bath of oblivion. He reached for her, curling his fingers in hers as they fell back to reality.

 

Vegeta fought against darkness of unconsciousness, he forced his eyes open, ignoring the stabbing pain of light, and the burn of his lungs as he breathed. Beneath him he felt the struggling rise and fall of Bulma's chest, and the harsh pant of her breath from her lips. His eyes focused on her face beneath him. Her lips were red and swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her perfectly coifed hair was undone and streaming around her.

 

He was still inside her; the burning heat of her body was both scorching and irresistible. He wanted to ride her again, to feel the flow of her innocent life beneath him again, to reach out and touch heaven one more time. He moved against her, and her startled eyes shot open. Her sapphire eyes were the bluest he had ever seen them, almost electric neon with her orgasmic passion. Deep beneath the passion in her eyes, he also saw the dark bruise of overuse. He wanted her again, and he would have her, but first she needed to recover. He had used her harshly, and she had loved every moment of it, but to do so again would be cruel.

 

Slowly he withdrew from her, his eyes screwing tight in pain, his lower back aching. He slipped free, and he couldn't stop the pained intake of breath from the cold night air on his penis caused him. Echoing his pained grunt was Bulma's agonizing whimper. She may not be able to take him one more minute, but it hurt her to have him go.

 

He stepped back from the edge of the bed, tucking himself inside of his pants while quickly make his way to the bathroom. He returned with a damp cloth, resting one knee on the bed, as he leaned over to press it to Bulma's center. She sighed in instant relief, her eyes opening once again to meet his dark gaze. Her kiss-swollen lips lifted at the corner, blissful satisfaction radiating off her. Her eyes drifted closed again, and Vegeta felt a heavy weight being lifted from him. For a terrifying moment, he thought he had been too rough with her, that he had hurt her. The last thing he wanted was for her to look on him with fear, but instead she smiled, sighing with female satisfaction that sent his heart racing.

 

He quickly cleaned her up, soothing her well-used flesh, and pulling the gown down around her legs. He quickly scanned the expensive dress, deciding that it had been well worth the money spent on it. Aside from being a little wrinkled it was unharmed, having survived its rough handling during their lovemaking. Without remorse or warning, Vegeta reached down, banding his strong fingers around Bulma's wrist, dragging her from the bed.

 

“What the f… Vegeta. What are you doing?” she hissed in very real displeasure. She had been ready to fall asleep in a cocoon of soothing relaxation that always overtook her after lovemaking.

 

“We are late. Try to make yourself presentable, woman. We have a party to get to,” he growled, his heavily lidded eyes betraying that he would rather be back in bed with her, than ordering her to get ready.

 

Knowing he was right, and unable to protest, Bulma stomped back to the bathroom to see if she could repair her hair and make-up. Five minutes later, Vegeta was pounding on the door, demanding that they leave that instant. She swept out of the bathroom, talking his proffered arm without a word, as they walked from their rooms. A single curl of blue hair straggled down the center of Bulma's back, the only evidence that the simple French twist she now wore, wasn't nearly as sophisticated as her earlier coif had been.