Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Reciprocity ❯ Lost At Sea ( Chapter 11 )

__Lost at Sea

“In your eyes I see the eyes of somebody

I knew before, long ago

But I'm still trying to make my mind up

Am I free or am I tied up?

In your eyes I see the eyes of somebody

That could be strong...

And now I'm pulling your disguise up

Are you free or are you tied up?

I change shapes just to hide in this place

But I'm still, I'm still an animal...”

“My man, my moon...

It's the dirtiest clean I know”

_________________________________

He hadn't let her go since she had kissed him.

In the thick of the whistles, applause, and hooting and hollering of the hundreds of action-starved, interplanetary soldiers on the Nova, he had stood still as her lips mashed against his in desperation. Her fingertips curled into the coarse hair at the back of his neck, and she slowly unscrewed her eyes to peer up at him, searching his face for any hint of the former Vegeta.

Her heart sank as his chilling red eyes pinned her to the spot, the sharp, noble planes of his face framed by a viscous, black aura as she pulled away.

But then, for just a split second, the regal angles seemed softened, out of focus.

Somewhere, in there, he loitered.

His gloved hands closed around her upper arm as he led her through the fray, the soldiers parting like a sea, catcalls extinguished as each soldier dropped subserviently to their knees as Vegeta neared. Vegeta, for all she could tell, didn't even know they were there.

She was too stunned to protest or ask where they were going, her mind wheeling with the events of the last few hours. Distantly, Bulma watched workers and soldiers aboard the ship bow deeply to them as they passed, trying to match Vegeta's ground eating stride. Should she nod or thank them? But at Vegeta's pace, she barely had time to consider it. She floated through the ship's white hallways with unease, though whether for fear of a warship full of extraterrestrials or Vegeta, she couldn't say.

Before she knew it, he had pulled her into the cabin of the ship, a wide view of the silent black space backdropping the crew as they jumped out of their seats in surprise and saluted.

“Welcome back aboard, your Lordshi--”

“Take me to Zarbon,” Vegeta grated, dropping his hold on her arm and taking a step forward. “I have a blood bath to mete out. Send someone to confer with me on the Empire at the hour.”

The crew scrambled to salute and chirped nervously. “Yes, sir!”

He grunted and swept out of the room, and Bulma turned on her heel to scamper after him.

He stalked down the hall, already far in front of her, his thick mane matted and his gloves coated in darkening blood, his posture stiff and threatening. Bulma watched him with worried absorption.

Vegeta was lost in there somewhere....Or was he?

Maybe he had been recovered, like a relic, a tomb opened, after a year and a half of being buried under Earthling custom, his aggression kept at bay by the lust to best Goku. And `best' was being polite; right now, he'd take enormous pleasure in punishing Kakarot for each and every slight he'd had to endure since he and Nappa landed on Bulma's mud ball.

Bulma gazed at his back, wishing she could decipher him. Even after all this time, he was still a riddle at best. So what if she could more accurately gauge whether or not a certain muscle tic foreshadowed a withering insult or certain death than others? He was a puzzle that, once eventually coming together to form a picture she almost recognized, the pieces would suddenly become all inside out and she'd have to start putting him together all over again.

That was a major difference between her...relationship...with Vegeta, versus the one between her and Yamcha. She and Yamcha would have a good few months followed by a nuclear blow out and she could take that to the bank. Vegeta was a code she couldn't crack, a lock she could almost, just almost, but just couldn't figure out how to pick. Whereas she was once able to count off Yamcha's imperfections all day, bemoaning the real lack of companionship and understanding in her love life for years (`How on Earth did it last that long?'), Vegeta was chock full of faults, and she was only drawn closer and closer, like a moth to a flame. Although they were just two men, it was like comparing apples to oranges, leaving her with little knowledge of how to handle an already withdrawn, unavailable, and volatile extraterrestrial houseguest.

It didn't help that, despite all of his hard work to discourage her from even speaking to him, she had developed feelings for him. At first, it was just curiosity about the standoffish alien; then an overwhelming desire to show him up and impress him, enflamed by his sharp tongue and high expectations; then inspiration and compassion, as he let her into his world without even noticing; and then lust -a sneaky, overpowering desire that overlaid every one of their interactions...and now what? She had admitted that she loved him (`gulp...had she really?') as she cried over his decimated body in the Eeyuris camp, but she found it very likely he didn't recall a thing, and, at this moment, that was fine by her. He had been feverish and in and out of consciousness, and more telling, he hadn't retreated from her once they had escaped. In fact, he seemed anything but scared off.

She remembered packing groceries away into the cupboards of the small kitchen on the ship, after she had woken up from a long sleep once they were back on the ship. Throwing her wet hair over her shoulder as she stretched her body on her tip toes as tall as she could go and fumbling to shove the box into the cabinets, she felt her hair stand on end and instinctually glanced towards the stairs, and saw him: stopping her heart with an intense, heated once over as he stepped silently from the last stair, his eyes dragging down and then oh so slowly up her body, before smirking and walking past her cooly, brushing against her shoulder on his way towards the refrigerator...and once she lowered back onto her heels, eyes widening with misgivings (`What the hell has gotten into him lately?'), her brows pinching together as she questioned his sanity, she suddenly stiffened as she felt something predatory right behind her...and turning her head slowly to look over her shoulder... her world narrowed down to his lips, just a few inches away, pulled upward at the corners with blackhearted intent, his hot breath hitting her face...and she felt him drag a fingertip up her bare lower back...and his body was suddenly pressing up against her, pinning her between him and the counters...and he rested his hand on her hip as he leaned forward and plucked the box from where she had so painstakingly deposited it, and grinned as he rumbled, “I'm hungry,” his lips sounding out his amusement so softly against her cheek. And just like that, he turned and made his way casually to the table stuffing his face with dry cereal, his damned calves and ass tightening with each step. She had stuffed the rest of the groceries into the cabinets hastily and then made a break for the bathroom, ignoring his self satisfied smile. That was what was dangerous to them: his own feelings for her. She, despite her hard headed nature, would have given up the long fight once he knocked her on her ass outside the GR. Instead, he had pulled her back in, however tentatively. He wanted her. And now it was all complicated by the animal just under his skin.

That aura, those eyes...it was absolutely bestial. She couldn't remember seeing him like this on Namek. Cunning, selfish, charged up and trailing an electric blue aura with fearless belligerency, sure. But this was more like...her stomach dropped. Like Oozaru. The ruby eyes, the thirst for domination and violence.

But...but how could he become Oozaru without his tail? Was this some sort of attempt by his Saiyan physiology to become Oozaru by other means? If this was Oozaru, then he should have control over himself, right? Unlike Goku, he had learned to ignore the pain in his sensitive tail and think rationally while transformed. But was he in control now, or wasn't he?

He had always been single minded as far as she knew him, but if given the choice to sacrifice his humanity for power and revenge...would he?

Where did Oozaru end and Vegeta begin?

Vegeta halted in front of a door in the middle of the hall. Briskly entering a pin on a pad fitted against the doorjamb, Vegeta's gloves left dark smudges on the illegible alien numerals. The door slid open with a hiss. Fluorescent lights blinked to life, and Bulma followed him warily in.

It was just a meager white room. In the far corner was a cot and a night stand. Perforated holes decorated the metal walls, some blackened at the edges, an Impressionist display of streaks of carbon and scorch marks that climbed up the walls like electrified vines. The tile in the middle of the floor blushed a dull copper, as though it had once been a stubborn stain, frequently scrubbed.

Vegeta's hands begin to glow as a wind of energy suddenly whipped at her.

Her eyes widened.

“This was your room,” she whispered.

Vegeta turned slightly and cut her a sidelong look, his eyes exquisitely enraged.

“Vegeta, what happened in here?”

Without warning, Vegeta let our a tormented roar and hurled the swirling ki ball at the bed, which exploded upon impact. The room was far too tiny for the blast however, and Bulma threw her hands in front of her face protectively as the hot black energy whorled towards her.

The blast never hit, though, and when she peeked between her fingers, Vegeta's shadowy aura had extended over her...protectively.

Vegeta began powering up violently, the energy emitting a piercing whine and harmonizing with his growing, frustrated yowl. Despite the hair on her body standing alertly on end, her hand instinctively dove into the ki and clasped his arm.

“Vegeta! You'll blow up the ship!”

“But the opportunity to is just so irresistible.” His voice was garbled and ripe with a promise for brutality.

She shivered.

“It's not worth dying over!” She hollered over the crash of the nightstand against the wall, near enough that she cringed, the bed in her periphery spitting with flames, its frame mangled in a tumulted V shape. “Do you have a death wish? Or would you like to live another day as emperor of this Kami-forsaken empire?!”

She threw her hands up in the air at the confusion, a gesture that seemed so like the old Bulma that it caused the animal in him to take a step back in consideration.

Vegeta's ki had widened and taken over the entire room, lighting the room in a stark noir. His eyes glowed their intense ruby once again, creating a macabre picture. She recalled desire and blue ki licking the GR walls, except this time, the memory left her regretful. How had things spiraled so quickly out of control once Puar -poor, misguided, loyal Puar- hit a small red button?

To her complete surprise, although nothing about him appeared changed, she watched as Vegeta conceded.

“You're right. It would be foolish to throw it all away now. That is why we chose you.” His red eyes stared blankly at her before regarding the mess, his face settling again into his almost normal, guarded mask.

Bulma's eyes widened with anxious confusion.

“Um, is there...is there somewhere else we can stay?” She asked it...him...delicately.

He nodded so very slightly, his aura vanishing with a rush of air, his eyes losing their intense vermillion. He strode out of the room, leaving it in darkened disrepair, the bed flaming nosily in the corner.

As she stepped back out into the bright hallway, a few crew members stood outside, mouths slack.

Bulma giggled nervously. Spotting a fire extinguisher and thanking Kami that aliens took fire safety seriously, too, she opened the door and handed it to the closest soldier. “Here ya go.” She smiled broadly and tittered out a “thank you” before racing up the hall to catch up with Vegeta.

As she pulled up next to him, he reached out and clutched her arm, drawing her closer to his side while staring ahead hostilely.

Bulma stared at his hand with wide eyes, and then glanced back and forth between his grip on her and his menacing profile. Was he showing her affection!? Or was he just being possessive? Maybe he was just trying to hurry her up, Bulma thought skeptically, like when he picked her up at the Capsule Corp headquarters. She remembered that Vegeta with sad fondness. He seemed almost human, then. In nice black trousers and a long sleeved black crew neck, glancing at her with mirth, he looked way too handsome, way too human. Albeit stubborn on an impossibly and inhuman scale. Well, maybe she was, too. After all, they wouldn't have been estranged then if not for her refusal to respect his feelings that night in her lab. He had accused her of trying to tame him that night, and yet, with hindsight, he had begun the slow transition already.

Since falling back to Earth after chasing Goku around the galaxy, she suspected he had grown in the habit of redirecting his frustrations with his whole Earth-problem from his usual cathartic slaughter to challenging her. She could take it. Unlike the other idiots buzzing around Kakarot, she boldly stepped up to the plate. Even when sorely insulted, stomping out the door and calling him a dozen choice names, she couldn't help but come back for more. And instead of getting her under thumb, which he usually quite excelled at doing, he quickly began to look forward to how far he could push her next time without hurting her feelings irreparably and ruining the game. It...she...became his past time, his small obsession between the fridge and the GR. He slowly opened up to her in pursuit of the dead end that should have shown up any time now between their wits. And, every day, he was surprised to find the road seemed to just stretch out endlessly into the horizon.

No one had understood why Goku had spared Vegeta. They put their trust in their dear eclectic friend, whose intuition was notoriously uncanny, and tried to stay out of Vegeta's way. She was the only one out of all of Earth's best fighters who didn't shrink back in fear or contempt, reminding him of his crimes before he could get a word in edge wise. He had always been flattened out by other's expectations of him -Frieza's, his father's, the ghosts of his dead race, the other Planet Trade Organization soldiers. His name always preceded a shiver or a curse, and he learned to wield the identity like a weapon. It was no wonder that he had learned to thrive in the role of master of mayhem and so effortlessly bear the burden of a galaxy's worth of loathing. He had never been given a chance to be otherwise, unless you want to count the few years he spent toddling around the Palace on Vegeta-sei.

Except to Bulma. His identity, his past, his obligations, his humiliations, were momentarily shelved, just so that they could quarrel...about who could claim the last piece of cake, about whether or not the bots in the GR were totally useless or only fractionally. For just a moment, the challenge of living as a shamed, isolated Saiyan could be ignored for the challenge of putting a mouthy blue haired woman in her place. No one could understand how Bulma could just disregard his past atrocities in preference of a wild argument with him. They assumed it was, essentially, because she was a woman, whose romanticizing or naturally teeter tottering emotions took priority over logic. They underestimated her; they underestimated him. And, for whatever misunderstood reason, she was committed to keeping him afloat, whether by hospitality or sarcasm, even if that meant offering him her life jacket and treading water.

The only one who understood her attraction to him was himself. Although he ignored it, detested it, and denied it, he understood her fearless, compassionate curiosity, the same intense scrutiny she gave her inventions, momentarily turned inward while caterwauling over Scarface, then turned their full strength on him. And instead of scoffing at it, and to his disgust, he didn't mind the attention. When had anyone so innocent, so vibrant, give him orders, and in the same breath, a compliment? He rarely left the compound, instead opting to spend most of his time in a grueling workout; the only adjusting to a new (temporary) way of life on Earth that he had to do was directly through Bulma and her hospitality. Before Bulma, no one had talked to him like that without getting a painful lesson in rank and respect.

And that adjustment to her had changed him.

But now, his new, unlikely humanity had been stripped, and he was operating off of animal impulses; his id had defrocked his consciousness, just as he had usurped Cooler. He was transformed in a myriad of ways, each with their own riddle to be solved. And, if all this bowing was indicative of anything, the man also had new obligations. How could they find balance again? She was still determined to get him home so that they could go on their first date, like normal people! Forlornly, Bulma watched ship members bow deeply to them as they passed.

She had deep, dark thought. Was this...was this her fault? She was the one who shot him full of liquid energy when Cooler stood to execute him. She was the one who seemed to provoke him at every instance and drive him into a froth that would have otherwise been absent in his frigid, single minded mission....

Had her serum sent him over the edge? Were her beloved inventions, then, full of holes? Was she...was she not docile enough for him? Without her stressing him out, would he still be in one piece? The thought made her seriously squirm. If so, then she was simply guilty of being herself, and there was nothing she could do to fix it.

They approached a double door guarded on either side by two colossal beings whose muscles strained against black spandex. Their bulky, crested gold helmets had only three thin slits at the mouthpiece, disguising their faces. She wondered how they could guard anything without sight. Standing to attention, they propped open the door and then sank to their knee, fisting their right hand over their hearts.

“Am'in nol mad'huhr, su'spek Ayin-Vegeta.” Their deep voices a litany in tandem.

A very self satisfied grin began curling across Vegeta's face. The long black lashes that gave him an almost boyish appearance close up, along with the wicked pleasure crossing his face, reminded Bulma of a young bully who'd gotten away with something very naughty.

Vegeta's head rocked backward on his shoulders smugly, and he leveled his gratified smirk back down at the guards. “Ehl no'mins vay'komenshur, friends. It is good to hear my native language again. Noch-oloh pu'lahshur amit aylin.”

Vegeta led Bulma through the threshold of the opened double doors. They entered a vast domed hall, a set of scarlet double doors growing in the distance. How could an expanse of this magnitude fit into a ship, with no function? There was nothing but the sound of their footfalls in silence, until, overwhelmed by the new events, Bulma spoke.

“What did they say to you?”

“They welcomed me back and congratulated me on fulfilling the prophecy of Planet Vegeta.”

She glanced sidelong at his bemused, and yet ruthless expression. “And what did you say to them?”

“I told them I told you so, and that I hadn't forgotten about the time they beat me to an inch of my life in the mess hall.” He leered down at her with ruby eyes.

After staring at each other for a moment, she snorted and turned away. “Aren't you charming.”

He snorted in what she took as agreement and quickened his pace toward the doors.

Once in front of them, Vegeta paused, and then gripped the old knocker knobs and pulled the heavy doors open impatiently. Light began to glow from within, and Vegeta stepped forward to enter first.

Bulma, her breath unconsciously held, released in a hiss of surprise. The room was sprawling, luxurious, and beautiful. Shaped in a V with the front door at its central point, each V `arm' stretched into darkness and was covered in lush white carpet. Each `arm' seemed to serve a different purpose. To the left, the interior was designed like a sitting room, albeit more suited to a harem, and a wintry one at that. Body pillows and chaises dripping in furs and pelts and a massive fireplace suddenly snapping to attention gave the room an indulgent air. The room beyond that, veiled by thin parchment dividers, seemed to be a study of some sort, although she couldn't tell with the low lighting.

The most notable thing about the `arm' on the opposite side was the massive four poster bed in the center of it, white draperies shrouding the bedcovers from their sight, but not the ceiling, where a large mirror with an ornate frame overlooked, its craftsmanship abolishing any lewdness about its purpose. The path to the bed was littered in several kinds of luscious furs, some short haired and spotted, others a white shag. Further inside was a wide, free standing glass shower, positioned so that anyone who entered or lounged on the bed could observe. Pressed up behind it was a mess of a jungle of exotic flowers and vining plants, and just beyond that, darkness. Somewhere, she heard running water.

“What is this?” She asked hesitantly.

“A room fit for an Emperor.” With brisk precision, he pulled his gloves off finger by finger and chuckled, taking the room in. His chuckle grew to a fit of laughter as he threw his gloves carelessly in a corner, crossing his arms as his laughter became wild and raking, his head thrown back by the force of his glee.

Bulma's brows knitted with worry, and she sighed. She stepped forward into the room cautiously. There was something about the space that seemed insidious, but she couldn't put her finger on it. The young girl inside of her was jumping up in down in a flurry of excitement at the bed, the fireside, the carpets, the shower. The woman born in the Eeyuris camp looked on with wary vigilance. Everything comes with a price, it reminded her.

She sidled up next to him and ran her hand down his hard back, grime catching against her palm. His laughter dried out like a smothered flame and he stiffened.

“Why don't we wash up?” She offered and set her gaze toward the shower, advancing slowly toward it, when she spotted something behind it. Glancing over the intricate tile work as her boots left carpet, she preceded toward the sound of running water just beyond the flora. Just around the bend of the bell jar -like shower was a large bath, cradled partially by the flourishing plant life and partly by beautifully pebbled rock rising all the way to the ceiling, surely quarried from the finest enslaved planets. From the direction of the shower, a stream of water ran down smooth slabs of rock, creating a waterfall that tumbled into the tub. As she peered into the burbling water, hundreds of bright blue pinpricks, like a mass of fireflies, lit from within the tub, and she inhaled sharply.

The hair on the back of her neck rose in response to some invisible predator, and she instinctively looked up at Vegeta.

He stood against the darkness with one side of his mouth crooked in a barbed smirk.

Bulma froze like an animal caught in the beams of a headlight.

He seeped menace and impulsive viciousness; but instead of her heart pitter pattering in fear, a heavy warmth descended over her and feathered down her belly and through her core. It was an insane way to feel, insane to love a predator, a villain of her home world.

She tried to turn away from him with all the strength she could muster, for both their sakes.

But her body scrapped her judgment and rejected her friends' caution. To her shock, desiring him even felt quite safe.

Her body, in fact, seemed roiling in anticipation of the promise of sexual vehemence that his body was suddenly whispering to her own.

She had lost control of the situation the minute Vegeta had stepped into her life, first taunting her friends fearlessly, then using them as collateral on Namek in a raucous gamble to one-up the tyrant who had made him a pawn.

On Earth, as he sought to acclimate to an entirely different way of living and thinking and feeling and fighting, his resentment toward Goku and Earth became gradually annexed by the battle of wits between him and a blue haired wench. A sneaky tug of war between passions had crept up on the two headstrong fighters.

Neither of them had signed up for this, and yet, here they were. First chasing after one another on Earth, then on the trade planet, and now, having slain an intergalactic ruler and acquired his ship, his army, his empire...what were they to do now?

She supposed this was one way to hitch a ride back to Earth in style. But there was something really wrong with Vegeta that needed attention now. She could tolerate his aggression -but his aura, those eyes, that voice...

“Take off your suit,” it said to her, his lips curling upwards with dark gluttony.

It was then that Bulma's mind left her. After all it's work to stay in one piece, there was no convincing it of resisting the sexual savagery seeping out of him.

Spellbound, Bulma shucked off her white boots and, bare feet on the cool tile, twisted her arm back to begin slowly unzipping her suit under Vegeta's hard gaze.

Time stood still as the zipper made its way to the end of the line, and she tugged lightly at her sleeves, letting the top fall to her waist. Although he hadn't moved, Vegeta watched as if on edge. Gaze turning down passively, she shimmied out from the waist of her suit and kicked it free once it fell to a pile at her feet.

As she turned to step up into the bath, Vegeta's rough voice halted her.

“No.” His jet gaze seemed manic, his fists clenched at his sides as if to control himself from lashing out. “No...take mine off, too.”

Bulma barely recognized the change in his eye color from ruby to black as she was pulled like a puppet on a string. She felt as though she were floating. In the blink of an eye, she was resting her cheek against his, breathing him in. What was it about his smell? The comfort of a man who knows what he wants. She was vaguely aware of Cooler's blood slicking her breasts and belly. What was it about his neck that caused her lips to hover over it, her teeth worrying on her bottom lip as one hand delved into his hair, the other sliding over his shoulder to make its way single-mindedly to his zipper? Her fingers pulled it down as her lips drifted up his neck and settled over his own, licking them hungrily as the zipper reached its zenith and her hands pushed it off his broad shoulders. Just as she tugged it off his arms, she sunk her teeth lightly, playfully into his lower lip before sinking to her knees. Slipping her fingers under the loose fabric at his waist, she looked upwards, past his narrow, muscle-packed waist and scarred chest to watch him watching her, red glinting in his cold black stare.

She rested her lips gently against his taut lower belly as she slowly inched his suit down, his body heat flaring against her face. As the suit made its descent over his hips, her hot breath on the V of his hairless stomach, his member sprang free from the suit to hang heavily next to her cheek.

“Vegeta,” she called out huskily to no one in particular.

One moment she was staring down his pulsing manhood with mouthwatering preoccupation, the next she had been scooped up in his arms, her ass skimming across warm water, and pressed against the rough rock wall in the bath. He slicked her hair out of her face, his cock identifiably hot against her inner thigh.

“Join with me, Bulma,” he rasped in her ear before resting his nose against hers. His face, ever set in ruthless indifference, was alive with rapt need. She hadn't seen him this impassioned since Namek.

“Yes,” she panted, pushing his head into the crook of her neck with abandon. “I want you,” she gasped in his ear. The dark truth came tumbling out of her. “I've always wanted you. From the moment I saw you on the television, from the moment you stole my dragon ball, from the moment you stepped foot in my house...”

“Fuckkk,” he hissed, as he positioned himself at her hot entrance.

“Please, Vegeta, I need you--”

He plunged inside her smoothly, her fingernails clawing his shoulders as her head hit rock, but not with enough force to knock her away from desire.

He began bucking against her feverishly, his foot resting on the lip of the tub, her leg thrown over his thick thigh as he surged inside her. His hands slicked over her hips and moved to clutch her short hair with strong hands. She struggled to rock against the force of his thrusts, crying out.

“Did Scarface ever please you as much as I do?” He asked her, voice scraping.

“Never,” she moaned, “Never!” Her tight grip on his shoulders drew blood, and her eyes swelled with tears. “Vegeta!” She cried out in desperation, biting her lip against the small gasps of air escaping her after every excruciatingly delicious thrust.

Vegeta began laughing crazily, and her eyes, clenched in pleasure, opened to view his own black ones staring down at her fondly.

“Mine,” he demanded harshly, his gaze warm but immovable.

“Yours,” she keened hoarsely, before he whipped them around and lay her against the flat rock slabs, her head resting in the stream of water, rushing around her ears.

He loomed over, smirking as he pulled ever so slowly out of her. She tensed and looked up at him in cloudy panic. Just as she opened her mouth to complain, he rammed into her, smiling toothily.

Once again, he inched out of her, and she gripped the rock waterfall under her side, scraping her palms.

“I want to hear you beg, Onna,” he crooned.

“Please, Vegeta,” she panted with anguish.

“That's not good enough, Onna.” The slick head of his penis slipped out of her and rested patiently against her lips. He grabbed it and tapped it against her, `tsk'ing disapprovingly, and she jerked, gasping. She pulled roughly at his shoulders, and he allowed himself to fall on top of her, catching himself with his left hand but keeping his right steadily on his dick, brushing his knuckles against her sensitive clit with every stroke.

“I'm going to put it in you,” he promised silkily, “but only if you beg me. Beg me, Bulma.”

She moaned in anguish and wrapped her arms and legs around him, rubbing them against his back and hips. She clenched at her hair but released it, tufts sticking out haphazardly, and slipped her palms down his shoulders to rest at his thick hips.

“Kiss me,” she pled.

“Beg me,” he demanded.

He ran his other hand from her calf up her thigh, sneaking between her legs to tease her as he continued to rub his thick tip and knuckles against her.

Bulma let out a sob.

Straightening using only the strength of his core, Vegeta's other hand raked up her side and curled around her breast, brushing his palm lightly against her hardened nipple, and then squeezing it roughly.

Bulma's core clenched excitedly around him, and she felt him throb in response.

He lowered his face to hers as she squirmed in his hands, grinning fiendishly in her face.

“Do it. Beg me. Let me hear you beg me to fuck you, Onna.” His tongue slipped out and flicked teasingly at her pebbled nipple.

She choked. “Please.” She gulped. “Please, Vegeta. I need you...I need you...to fuck me.”

“And what if I don't?” His grin was foreboding.

“Please, Vegeta, I'll do anything, anything...”

“That's what I wanted to hear, Onna,” he reassured her darkly, and slowly slipped inside her, and then, oh so carefully, began rocking back and forth inside her, arching himself towards her sweet spot.

She cried out brokenly and bucked against him as his precise, angled thrusts began whipping up a storm inside her. She pulled him down on top of her, their chests, slick with sweat, rubbing enticingly against each other. She panted into his ear and at the back of his neck, and he drove into her faster, grinding his hips against her. The rushing water under her head faded away as momentum built up inside them and her pants turned into rolling moans. Her stomach tightened and she fisted his hair in her hand as she pulled him deeper inside her as she felt herself about to come.

Just then, someone near them cleared their throat.

Bulma looked dreamily to the side from under Vegeta, only slowing their pace slightly.

There kneeled a very pale crew member, his cap shaking between his hands, his eyes glued to the floor.

Vegeta stilled and peered slowly up at him, and the man dropped his cap and dropped his head to the carpet.

“I am so, so sorry to interrupt, sir, but I was instructed to brief you on the Empire within the hour, Your Lor--”

Vegeta released a savage growl and his aura erupted around them, forming a billowing sheath around them. Crouching over Bulma protectively, Vegeta bared his teeth and cradled her head in his palms, blocking the man's view of her and caging her in a thick wall of chest and arms.

“MINE,” he growled harshly.

She smelled sweat and the tang of their sex, and without thinking, she ran her tongue slowly up his neck.

He looked back down at her with a hunter's eyes, glowing ruby once again. “Mine,” he said again, although less jarringly, as though trying to convince her.

“Yours,” she agreed softly, caressing his face. She cupped her hands around his face and pulled him toward her own, kissing him softly, their mouths melding together. She felt him twitch inside her and she rocked against him slowly in primal response, eyes rolling back in her head. She felt a rumble from his chest and he quickly gripped her wrists and pinned them above her head, taking advantage by sucking on one creamy breast at a time and releasing it with a sucking pop to let it bounce satisfyingly. She let out a breathless whine and arched her back.

His vision narrowed and blacked at the edges, his already primitive logic fraying. All Vegeta saw was her throat, her belly up submissively. He saw the soldier, still on his knees in obeisance, avoiding looking at them, trapped between the conviction that he would be slain for interrupting him and the mixture of disturbed lust he felt watching them. Vegeta's aura, which had thinned momentarily, flared, humming, and with an unfamiliar emotion building up in his chest, Vegeta began pooling all his energy into powering up.

Bulma's eyes flew open. Vegeta was still inside her. He was feverishly hot inside her, his fiery ki energy drying their sweat as it created it.

Bulma began to feel lightheaded, and when his aura started flickering, Bulma's hand rose weakly to his face to get his attention, her mouth parting with unspoken fear.

Vegeta turned his gaze from the prostrated, terrified soldier to her, pinning her with cutting passion. With each flicker of his discordant aura, Vegeta's eyes flashed, red to black, like someone flicking a light switch.

“Vege--” she croaked, before Vegeta sank his teeth into Bulma's neck.

Bulma felt herself fall back into darkness.