Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Reciprocity ❯ Gemini Ascendent ( Chapter 9 )

Disclaimer: What would I do if I owned it? Crack my whip and get them writing in more Vegeta and Bulma, of course.

_Gemini Ascendent

Bulma twisted her dress in her hands as she fought to remain awake. The sharp afternoon sun, filtered through the coarse basket weave curtains, fell across Vegeta's sleeping form. His chest lifted and fell with a slow, deep rhythm. He hadn't moved an inch since the young man she paid dumped his body onto the bed. Although she was wary letting on to how helpless they were, and as paranoid that someone may recognize them and try to recapture them as she was, she just couldn't move Vegeta's dead weight herself. She had barred the doors and shoved the room's only chair under the knob, electing to sit beside the mattress on the ashy floorboards as if in vigil.

Upon reaching the city, she had led the Saiyeth through the maze of shops to the befuddlement of the early morning traders. There was a cluster of young boys huddled outside a deli whom she called out to for directions to the nearest hotel. Vegeta hadn't budged, and they still needed food. As the young boy led her through draped alleys, her Saiyeth's girth barely squeezing through, he had asked her if she were looking to get rid of the creature. Although she was reluctant to give up their only mode of transportation, she was even more opposed to being spotted. Riding a Saiyeth through the city, unaccompanied by an Eeyuris, was beyond unusual. Although Eeyuris didn't typically enter Tent City, she was still loathe to cross one and be questioned, should she make the trip across the desert to the ship on one of their Saiyeths. And who knew if Zarbon or any of his lackeys were still on planet. So, with some hesitance, Bulma sold the creature for a few thousand olemi, the cash equivalent of crystarium. With it, she paid for a room and forked over a few bills to the man who lugged Vegeta into their room, nearly buckling under his weight and scurrying away once pocketing her cash. Since then, Bulma has simply sat and observed Vegeta, concerned at any moment he may just quit breathing. He was too quiet, a haunting deja vu of the gravity room accident.

Bulma fought tired, heavy eyes. That night--hell, the last two weeks--an agonizing restlessness had controlled her. Hyper vigilant and high strung until she had closed the door against the world, she was now coming down from her distress, her body threatening to crash, and soon.

Just as her eyes drooped and she pondered the play of light behind her eyelids, there was a rustle from the bed, and her eyes snapped open. Vegeta was struggling to sit up, stifling a moan. Bulma moved quickly to help him, suddenly wide awake.

Vegeta sucked in air and rolled his shoulders, working out underused muscles. His eyes flicked over the room, assessing. One open window, a curtain hanging limply, blocking the desert heat. One door, a rickety chair propped underneath the knob. If whoever restraining him thought that would hold him, they were in for a deliciously rude awakening, Vegeta thought. A sweet rage swelled inside him. His fists clenched as he sneered. Zarbon and the nomads would pay. They would all be subject to his refined taste for revenge.

A soft hand settled in his palm. “Vegeta?” A soft, worn feminine voice beckoned, cajoled him. The beast inside him turned its grizzly maw toward the sound. Who dared put a hand on him? They would rue the day they crossed the Prince of Saiyans.

The woman's dirty, concerned face was marred by a mottled bruise at her temple and an angry red blush across one cheek. Her cracked fingers, nails black and torn, curled in his palm. She gazed at him in concern. Bulma.

“Where are we?” He asked hoarsely.

“Tent City. In an inn on the east side.”

He frowned, running his hand over his face and through his hair. “What...happened?”

She glimpsed the confusion in his eyes, heard the uncertainty in his tone. “How much do you remember?”

Sand grating against his cheek as he was dragged through the Eeyuris camp. Boots laying into his side, hacking laughter as Eeyuris spittle clung to his cheek. Candlelight flickering on teal as Bulma's pale face turned from grief to anger and she we walked out on him. His body trembling, hollowed out, as fiery energy rushed to fill him up before the starry sky became obscured by blackness.

His eyes slid to the floor and he grit his teeth. “Enough. Not much.”

“Those cuffs are deplorable,” she muttered.

“Of course they are. They suppress ki, a warrior's life force. They were one of Frieza's pet projects after he discovered there was someone unwilling to brownnose him.”

Bulma stared at him quietly. “Zarbon sold us to the Eeyuris,” she explained, redirecting his anger delicately, “who paid good money for us just to sacrifice us to their god. We were captive in their camp about two weeks. They held you in their...church. With the help of some Eeyuris women, we were able to escape.”

He scrutinized her. He sensed there was a lot more she wasn't telling him. He noticed she still wore the Eeyuris covering, and his eyes narrowed. It was stiff with dried blood.

“What happened to you, Onna?”

Bulma's eyes became haunted and she glanced to the side. “I did what I had to do,” she replied thinly.

His siren had undergone a sea change. Who was this pensive, dirty angel kneeling beside him?

All the rage he had suffered in the last year--his long withheld, incendiary hatred for Frieza; his malice, muddled by grudging admiration, towards Kakarot; his irritation directed at this whole, stinking planet, never mind Earth--yearned to crush the Eeyuris' heads under his boots and punch a hole straight through Zarbon's pretty face. And for some reason, Bulma's appearance kindled his appetite for destruction. He was tired of being one upped. He was DONE with suffering humiliation at the hands of inferiors. He hadn't escaped Frieza's claws just to suffer in someone else's. A low growl was undulating through the room, and an answering call howled in his blood.

“You saved me,” he snapped at Bulma. Her eyes widened fractionally. “You had no right.”

“What? Are you serious?” She asked in disbelief, her eyes narrowing into slits and her jaw squaring. “You were completely debilitated by the ki cuffs. You were hardly conscious the entire two weeks.” Her voice rose. “When I got them off you, you passed out! Was I just supposed to leave you there?”

He had so many emotions tugging at him. He felt all this hatred for anyone or anything that challenged him, including the woman. She occupied the same foolish, soft hearted territory Kakarot did. Like Kakarot, she just couldn't let him live or die like a warrior. On the other hand, he felt a surge of pride for this woman who, despite all odds, evaded and possibly even took down the Eeyuris while protecting him. At her cross expression, he leashed his indignation. She deserved his protection. At the heart of this frenzied, curdled storm of outrage was his humiliation at not being able to fight for this woman. He was nearly uncontrollably livid, but the tactician in him calmed him, reminding him that if he just bided his time, his opportunity to release the Prince of all Saiyans in all of his bloody glory would be realized.

He looked down almost apologetically. “We will get what need here, and then I will destroy this mud ball.”

“No!”

He looked up at her angrily. “What?! I'm trying to avenge you, woman!”

“There are women on this planet who deserve to live the rest of their lives in peace. The Eeyuris women revolted after we escaped, Vegeta. Let them have their own justice.”

He growled, and then folded his arms petulantly. “You're a softy. You have no concept of pride.”

“My pride was just as injured as yours, Vegeta,” she snarled. “The difference is I don't cut those down who blink twice at me. I roll with the punches, because that shows even more power and self control.”

They glared at each other until Bulma stood, the tension palpable.

“We need food, a bath, and clothes. Do you need a doctor? I didn't dare call for one,” she asked him tonelessly, obviously ticked off.

He shook his head roughly and then glowered up at her. Her eyes flashed over him as she turned away and walked to the bathroom, piercing azure fire. The beast in him again roared deafeningly to the surface, a drum beat thumping through his skull. She couldn't hurt him, but she would never back down from a challenge by him, wielding her mouth and courage with a natural grace many warriors would envy. There wasn't another woman--or man--like her in the universe. He rested his arms on his knees and scrutinized the floor in confusion. The beast in him wanted to lock her in a cage and taunt her just to observe her in all her furious glory. He wanted to kill men for her. He wanted to sink his teeth into her flesh and fill her up to the hilt. He wanted her teeth on his neck, too. But a part of him, the rotten, icy, malformed psychotic in him, wanted to put her in her place because she dared to provoke him. Instead of celebrating her and protecting her, it wanted to destroy her in a wave of violence that obliterated anyone who challenged him or observed his weakness. His twisted pride couldn't stand her dismissal of it.

He let out a gruff growl and stood, surprising himself as he swayed. He felt achy, hollow. He couldn't remember the last time he ate. He caught a whiff of urine and grimaced, stripping off his clothes swiftly. Pulling out his crystarium card and tossing it on the bed, he thrust his clothes away and incinerated them with a small blast of ki. He made his way to the bathroom, a tiny room with only a toilet and sink. To the left inside the room was a room barely larger than the size of a closet with a small window, and as he emptied his bladder, his body struggling to remember the practice, he glanced in. His breath stopped.

Bulma straightened from pumping water into the tub, her soft muscles rippling under her white skin. In the center of her back was a broad, mottled bruise. As she turned her head to see him, he saw the flaky blood painting her flat belly a rusty red, the side of her face purpled. Her hair lay limp and frizzy between her shoulder blades, and he could see blood crusted at the back of her head. Stripped of all her clothes, he could see her hands, face, and feet were a gritty brown, as though dipped in sand. She was magnificent.

He felt his cock jump at the swell of her buttocks, the lean angles of her back. She looked into his eyes and he could only stand naked before her. He realized with some trepidation that he didn't want her to see him as a warrior, or even a Saiyan. He just wanted her to view him as a man. In her gaze, he wanted to be something new. Not different, just whole. She deserved a whole man. That ruled Scarface out, but it ruled him out, too. A sour feeling settled in his gut.

The beast roared at the man, urging him to make her his. He could prove to her he was worthy. He could tie up his loose ends and then claim her in the Saiyan way.

His mesmerization broke when she stepped delicately into the bath, sinking into the water with a sigh. Dipping her head back, she ran her fingers through lank tresses. She grabbed the thin bar of soap on the edge of the tub, lathered her hands, and scrubbed at her face. She felt Vegeta's eyes on her, but for once, she was unconcerned. Let him watch. She had nothing to prove. The only person she owed anything at the moment was herself.

She felt the soap plucked from her hands and she opened her eyes, blinking in confusion. A few seconds later, she felt Vegeta's fingers descend into her hair, kneading her scalp with the soap. Her eyelids lowered blissfully, with only a little reluctance, and she relaxed into his touch. When he was done rubbing soap through her hair, he worked his way down. Fingertips a caress behind her ears, massaging the webbing between her fingers, rubbing the stiffness carefully out of her back. He cooly soaped her chest, hands cooly grazing her nipples before moving onto her ribs. She cocked her knees, resting her ankles on the rim of the tub in repose, and he rubbed his thumbs into her sore feet, running his thumbs up her shins and scrubbing at her knees. He kneaded soap into her thighs, and although totally relaxed, she tensed as she realized where he could only be headed. She glanced up at him then. He sat on his haunches, waiting patiently for permission. She leaned her head against his shoulder slowly in agreement. He lathered up his hands and quickly, deftly, washed her lower belly and core. He angled her chin up and kissed her lightly, then sat the soap down and rinsed his hands in the dirty water. As she sunk back into the bath, splashing water into her splayed, soapy hair, he grabbed the towel and handed it to her. She stepped out of the bath, quietly drying off, as he drained the bath, refilled it, and climbed in.

Wrapping the towel around her, she finally spoke, her voice smooth and restful. “What are we going to do about clothing?”

Vegeta dunked his head in and then flung it back, spraying water as his hair whipped behind them. “We'll just have to get it the old fashioned way.”

“I have money.”

“Where did you get money?”

“I sold a Saiyeth.”

Vegeta cocked an eyebrow but didn't ask, scrubbing at his smooth chest instead. He didn't want to talk anymore about the last two weeks, and he got the feeling she didn't, either.

Suddenly, her eyes brightened. “I know how!”

To the dismay of his pride, worry bolted through him.

“I'll be right back!”

She tucked the towel loosely around her chest and worked to open the front door. As she expected, a few young men congregated across the street, smoking.

“Hey fellas!” She called, waving. “Who'd like to help me and my friend get dressed?”

When they scampered back to the inn, piles of clothes in their arms, the only thing that dissuaded them from watching her put them on was the hulking, wet Saiyan glaring at them in the doorway.

Bulma had been asleep over eighteen hours. He wondered drily when she was planning on waking up. Upon reaching the ship, she had tossed the capsules onto the kitchen counter and fallen into bed, snuggling into the covers and informing him thickly that she was “toasted. Will you please man the ship for awhile?” Which wasn't hard to do. He set the controls on auto pilot and turned the gravity up to punishing levels. He hadn't trained for weeks, and his muscle loss was apparent to him. But most of all, he needed to burn away the memory of the Eeyuris camp and Bulma's face, twisted in grief and bathed in candlelight. It was eating at him, and the more he tried escaping it, bowing at the altar of masochism, the more it pursued him.

As the days wore on and he submerged himself in the familiar, training under intense levels of gravity, he couldn't help but notice Bulma's inquisitive glances when he descended the stairs to partake in his custom, very large meal. As he flicked tuna onto a slice of bread with a spoon, he did a double take. Bulma sat at the kitchen table, legs crossed as she spread tuna onto crackers. Sketches and small metal pieces cluttered the table, and in the center of it was a device that looked like a misshapen radio. It wasn't the object that held his interest. It was the way she sat, submerged in thought, self assuredly uncrossing and crossing her legs, scribbling down notes and frowning briefly in thought before again setting her frenzied pen to paper. A storm surge of desire and possessiveness claimed him, and he gnashed his teeth and clenched his fists, painting his knuckles white. His breathing quickened and became shallow, and his vision flooded red, redder than the gravity chamber, as red as the blood of life. He was looming over her before he could blink, chest heaving. Sensing his shadow, Bulma slowly looked up at him, dimly registering his weird behavior. Her mouth parted like she was going to say something, then clamped shut. Blood rushed through him, pounding out a rhythm in his head. He felt his energy gather, a second skin, vaguely tingling as it answered his summons. Not his. His other half. The beast inside him scented prey. Before he had a chance to analyze his actions, ki flared resplendently around him, washing the lower chambers in blue. He drank it in like ambrosia. It all seemed so perfect, so fitting--the red of conquered blood, the blue of Saiyan royalty. The power tasted as sweet as any nectar, as sweet as the junction at her thighs. His cock stiffened as he recalled tasting her. His energy pulsed around him threateningly. He felt deadly, he felt omnipotent, and that's when the beast inside him spoke to him.

This is power, it whispered. This is who you are. This is what the Prince of Siayns feels like. His eyes slowly grazed Bulma's slack face, her hand patting his cheek. He hardly noticed. This is yours, the beast rumbled. Take what you deserve. And you deserve it all, it hissed. His erection throbbed, his energy spiking. You are a born conquerer. Bulma's plump lips were asking him something, but he didn't hear. His senses narrowed onto their shape, his mouth descending on hers, which instinctually parted. He plundered her mouth with his tongue, tasting the sweet tang of her. He wanted to fall into her mouth. He wanted to feel her silky skin under her shirt, her soft hair trailing on his naked skin. He wanted to rut her in the bloody jumble of body parts. Something inside him recoiled. He wanted to make love to her all day, swallowing her kisses fervently while they lost chunks of time in delicious, wet heat. No, he thought. That's not right. Something's not right. He numbly registered her lips moving again as he stood there, immobile, ki undulating around him.

Suddenly he felt a shock of water against his face, drenching his shirt. He blinked in a stupor and shuddered. “What the hell?” He shouted to himself. Bulma stood a few feet from him behind a chair, a tense purposefulness dominating her body language.

“Vegeta?” She asked warily.

Vegeta stripped off his shirt and wiped off his face, eyes wide with shock.

“Vegeta?” She asked again experimentally.

“What?” He barked, unsettled.

Her face crumpled into a scowl. “I think those ki cuffs might have messed with your physiology. Your ki was all over the place. Had you powered up any higher, you would have blown us to smithereens!” Her hands drew together, and she stood wringing them, perplexed.

He frowned down into his cupped palms, urging the answer from them.

The woman didn't need to worry about him anymore.

Vegeta pinned her with a commanding look that just came off harrowed. “It was nothing,” he grunted.

He took the stairs two at a time and slammed the door, engaging the gravity to its maximum.

The answer was in the supplication of his body to greater forces--pride and gravity--just like it had always been. He was sure of it. After all, training was an exercise most of all in control. The beast would not one up him again. He'd make sure no one would.

Next time, the pair is intercepted by another space ship, manned by a person more powerful, and more vile, than Vegeta. Can Vegeta defend them even while battling his demons tears him into two? Expect the next chapter soon!

Also, fellow authors--is there a forum or a site any of you frequent to discuss BxV fan fiction? If there's a community I'm missing out on, please let me know! I would love to hash out DBZ with other authors, if only I were in the know! :/