Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Reciprocity ❯ Kiss Me In The Shadow Of A Doubt ( Chapter 12 )

I know. I KNOW! It's been sooo long since you last read a chapter to Reciprocity. You probably don't even remember what happened last. Maybe you even thought I quit writing, or fell into a coma or something. But what can I say; some of us can't churn `em out like clockwork. I had to sit on this one long before I knew exactly what kinds of mean things I wanted to do to our favorite couple. It's taken so long that most of my notes and scribbles for this chapter have been covered in grocery lists and dog hair. So here's a long chapter to pacify you. And please, please review. I may not write primarily for the approval of other people, but I damn sure feel like writing more when you drop by and say hello.

A special thanks to some terrific and talented authors and fics, specifically `Broken Down Universe' and `The Dark Duke' and their respective authors. Hopefully being so absorbed in their fics that my husband yells at me to for god sakes fix dinner and my kids whine pleeease mommy my head is itchy can i get in the bath while I just keep hollering “JUST ONE MORE MINUTE THIS IS A GOOD PART” has improved the quality of my writing somewhat.

______

___Kiss Me In The Shadow Of A Doubt

“One night to be confused

One night to speed up truth

We had a promise made

Four hands and then away

The colors red and blue

And you, you knew the hands of the devil

And you, kept us awake with wolf teeth...”

“My moon my man

Is a changeable land

It's the dirtiest clean I know,

Shed some light on things

My moon, my man”

______

The back of Bulma's hand dragged slowly across her forehead as she emerged from a thick black sleep, her ears buzzing from the unusual wooly quiet disturbed only by the rustle of the sheets as she stretched her legs stiffly. Cracking her heavy eyelids fractionally, she blinked through the fog of sleep, and came face to face with a stranger.

Her eyelids popped open and she choked down terror.

Above her writhed a wraith-like nymph, a fleshy libertine gazing at her from an exquisitely detailed marble framed mirror above her. Its pink lips were parted in surprise, plump with sleep and rough kisses, its little square teeth grit behind them. The rest of her features bent the alluring into something rougher, rawer. The soft, shorn hair stood in a mane of churlish cowlicks, and the aquamarine hair and wide appealing eyes juxtaposed against the creamy alabaster skin and snow white sheets was only outdone by a crimson slash of blood that divided her head from torso cleanly.

It took her a long moment to understand that this was her, why she wasn't late to work, what had happened to her hair, why she lay prone alone in a massive bed on brilliantly white sheets under a bawdy mirror like a cracked porcelain doll under glass.

Her heart chirruped in her chest, her stomach tumbling, and she stared into smoky sapphire eyes that held a grit she just couldn't remember collecting.

Swiftly, she sat up in bed. The linens fell to her waist, wrinkling around her thighs, and she gripped them as she surveyed her surroundings frantically. Piece by piece, the nights events pressed their bulk onto her chest, squeezing. She took short, panting breaths. The silk caught softly at her hips and she looked down, down past her blood speckled chest and her flat, soft stomach, down to the juncture of her thighs, which responded automatically to her scrutiny by rubbing together, sliding against each other easily, damp and pale in the low light of this timeless suite of a King of Worlds.

“Vegeta?” Her normally strong, fluid voice caught on her jagged desire, sounding husky and hesitant, absorbed by the massive silence.

She scooted her way out of bed and steadied herself on wobbly legs as she lurched forward, like a sailor growing accustomed to the sea, looking for something, anything to throw on to search the suite for an understanding of what was going on.

The pool of blue at the edge of the tub put color in her cheeks, and she tiptoed over to inspect it, noticing Vegeta's own outfit still lying discarded near her feet. Dimly, she was reminded of the black t-shirt she had stuffed in her bedside drawer months ago, annexed from her lab table the night Vegeta had left her, naked and disconcerted, in a righteous fury, determined to hold on to his severe definition of pride in every aspect of his life, even the one realm of life he should learn to let go.

She approached the shower on wandering feet, her body struggling to catch up with her whirling thoughts, waywardly opening the glass shower door and running her fingers over the smooth, rocky protrusions, searching for a knob or button to turn it on.

Where had the Saiyan gone? She felt a mass of feelings roiling around in her stomach at the thought of him: lust, concern, chagrin...possessiveness. What had happened last night...seemed a long time coming. They had only waltzed and stumbled around the other over the last year since the Prince had made his violent debut back onto her home soil, both the Earth and some unacknowledged seed of fascination inside her quaking at his arrival. At times, the dance moved them like pawns, to touch, before tumbling them away from one another, and as they sought to regain their pride, they only ended up with entangled feet, orbiting back around one another. They were dual stars, both magnetized by the other and forced backward by virtue of their equal gravities, and only managing to further impact one another and embroil themselves in the other's nuclear heat.

Despite all their...interest...in the other, they just had different trajectories. And now...well, now he was a true caesar, which ought to cool his blue blood, and she was simply small fry. She had declared herself a professional after their estrangement, setting her eyes on a future which shimmered with a foreign luster in front of her. It was normalcy, it was routine, it was eventually arriving at `real' womanhood with children and a husband and a high profile career to give it all meaning. It was not jumping up to search for the dragon balls or running from moonlight-maddened giant apes or piloting alien spaceships plundered from the tundra to a lush green alien world to assist her friends in grappling against the universe's most powerful forces for magical balls the color of orangesicles.

If she had just been any girl, these things wouldn't be her prerogative--they wouldn't even be on her radar! And while she loved a good hair day and the perfect shade of red nail polish as much as anyone else, they were not the things that made her tick. Instead, it was excitement, adventure, the puzzle inside already magnificent physics. It was people whose own gravitational force drew her in, and with the stars in their eyes, pursued the impossible as if it were entirely possible. The mad ones, as the earmarked page read: `mad to live, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time and who burned, burned, burned like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...' She had made a family out of some amazing characters without any effort at all, and instead of collecting them like a priceless menagerie without ever taking them out of the box, she put her fingerprints all over them, following them into danger, seeking to see them set on fire.

And fire there was in Vegeta--an ill contained, vicious, deadly black fire that flared and spit out anything that came its way. And yet, since he had settled in the Capsule Corp seat, instead of lashing out and and hurting her, the fire had tried her and found her somehow...tolerable. And somehow that unacknowledged acceptance consumed her with intense feeling. Desire to shelter it, desire to kindle it, desire to put her name on it, and watch it grow and rescind as it tested parts of life it had never thought it would experience. She wanted to feed it, watch it grow, let it crackle with pleasure as it devoured something other than it for once. She wanted...she wanted more than just one night to experience him! Her hand shook as she fumbled with the shower knobs, and jumped when the spray hit her between her shoulder blades. The familiar muffled din of the spray, water pummeling and smacking the stone floor, calmed her nerves somewhat. She ran her shaking digits through her chopped hair, over her still youthful body (well, maybe not age 18 youthful, she grumbled) marred singularly by an ugly, thumb sized tear at her neck, yawning above the hollow of her collar bone. She ran her fingers over it, breaking up the dried blood so the water could wash it away.

Last night, she had experienced everything on such a high level of intensity it had been like floating above her body, and yet still singularly feeling through it, and when he had bitten her as she rode out her insane desires against his hips, it had taken her deep into herself, deep into darkness. Yet, she wasn't scared. She wasn't horrified, or ashamed, offended or confused. The part of her that had responded to him instinctually last night just accepted it, was not worried by the man's behavior, increasingly erratic as it was becoming. That part of her scared her, because it wanted more. Revealing her vulnerability to one of the most cruel men she knew was not what she had in mind of a good time.

Her muscles felt both tight and heavy with wantonness, and she worked the soap roughly into her skin in an effort to knead out her uncertainties.

What had she said to Yamcha that day he figured out her attraction to the temperamental Saiyan with questionable ethics before even she had? To her mother as she repented at the kitchen table, brooding into her tea? She loved a mad man, a murderer. Not recently incriminated, besides the pulling Frieza's brother's head off stuff. Yamcha had every right to be offended by her acceptance of Vegeta and want answers. The dissolution of their relationship was a long time coming, but it had the taken great events to finally set them on their separate paths. Though she may be able to accuse him of being emotionally unfaithful, of not being totally committed, of not participating in their relationship as he searched for himself after his untimely death, she had been becoming magnetized by a certain Saiyan. Her body didn't recoil or question his shady past or his unearthly temper. Her body, energetic as ever, responded to the challenge, and eventually she had...grown respect for him. Admiration for his perseverance, warmth at his barbed humor, appreciation of his temperance and understanding when he was impulsive, and she realized that he mirrored a part of her that Goku, Krillin, or Yamcha's innocent good natures simply couldn't.

At sixteen, she had, with all the stubborn, high emotions of a teenager, jumped onto Kinto-un and fell through its wispy yellow mass as Goku laughed at her expense sunnily. It wasn't because she was a pervert, although, as most teenage girls, she had often imagined her first kiss, how it would be love at first sight, how they would understand each other profoundly better than anyone else, how they would remain at each other's side unfailingly, with unwavering passion and adoration. It wasn't necessarily that she was greedy, mischievous, sometimes quarrelsome or opportunistic, although she had those fair share of traits when she was young. She was untested then, bright, overconfident, brimming over with the need to prove herself, an unquestionably fitting companion to Goku's own quest for an unending slew of challenges before he settled down with Chi-Chi and used his extraordinary martial arts skills for defend and not pleasure.

It wasn't any of those things necessarily that made Kinto-un judge her too impure to ride. It was a...dark awareness, a thirst for adventures of all kinds, both the fun..and the dirty. It was a gaping hole, the puckered lips of dark desires that she was shocked emerged with Vegeta's arrival. He incited these odd, dark impulses inside her that, for all their unfamiliarity, didn't feel wrong. He met her demands with black humor and unbreachable personal strength, serving to draw her in like a bug to the light. It wasn't until Yamcha was yelling at her for being a traitor and watching her relationship crumble irreparably that she had come face to face with a deep understanding and recognition of herself: that there was a dark hole inside her that Vegeta filled, and which somehow brought out the best in her.

But when she went to seek the Prince out, the curtains snapping in the breeze, his near death bed emptied, she hadn't had time to give her tangled emotions any thought, strung tight with muddled awakening as she was. She had, rather, stormed into Capsule 4 and demanded...what? He reciprocate her feelings? He fall into a heap and beg her forgiveness, profess his undying love? She had been outmatched, outplayed, outgunned by someone simply unfeeling, and he had slammed the door with familiar precision on his emotions and her and continued toward what he thought mattered most.

And, partly in revenge and partly because she didn't know who she was supposed to be anymore, she, too, had marched down another path. One that led far away from the Saiyan Prince, from martial arts and armageddon prophecies. Let the men who didn't even think to check in on her handle it! Instead, she had settled into a banal routine, protected by flimsy cubicle walls and surrounded by the blank faces of co-workers who wouldn't think to demand more drying cloths in pompous dismissal of her busy schedule. Men who would growl at her while she was bent over the gravity console--that wretched gravity console!--to hurry up and who she could respond in turn by throwing the wrench at their big head. With slow, predatory rapture, he had set her in his crosshairs and plucked her each and every string--as her mother called it, Vegeta liked to “stir the pot”--until steam poured from her ears and she uncontrollably lambasted the Saiyan for every possible personal failing, all weapons drawn. It was all out war; it was a never ending barrage of low blows, military crawls towards sabotage and subterfuge of the other's schedules, a blitzkreig of wills that left the players only more interested in the refusal to submit of the other than their surrender.

She was thinking that maybe that was what she wanted.

With him, she felt her blood boil, but it was the very thing that kept her interested, and she suspected he felt the same. She wasn't chasing after some man who could never reciprocate her feelings, no--she was chasing after a man, she realized last night, who was as passionate and hot blooded as that shadow man that haunted her teenage fantasies. That part of her deep inside who responded automatically to his drowning desire with only her own desire to stuff her pockets full of stones.

She ran her fingers through her hair, massaging the conditioner out of the flattened tufts and frowning in thought as the droplets cascaded over her furrowed blue brows.

Yamcha, like most first loves, had taught her how to love, the ways a relationship worked, what was wrong and what was right to expect and need, when to stand firm and how compromise (albeit, the two seemed to butt heads more than compromise). Yamcha had unintentionally given her a gift, a gift of self knowledge as they learned about each other through each other before eventually understanding they weren't fully happy with the other. The tools for love later, love making. But, like most first loves, they had out grown each other. They had learned things about themselves with the arrival of the Saiyans that was, once between them and admitted, simply ended them. She owed Yamcha an apology and a thanks when she finally got to dragging her surly Saiyan's sassy ass back to Earth.

But she owed herself the truth even more.

And the truth was, she was head over heels, desperately in love with Vegeta.

But how did he feel? Her gut clenched in tamped down fear. He had had her last night, would he be bored with her this night? She wasn't ashamed that she liked how he had taken her roughly, uninhibited against the wall. She didn't even feel a smattering of mortification at the realization that they had been watched, that he had ravaged her neck, drawing blood. It was much rougher than it had ever been with Yamcha, but it was also freer. She hadn't been so worried about what she looked like, how she sounded, when it would be over...as she was about coming before she could slake her thirst. Her body accepted this calmly. In fact, as her sleepy mind ran over the night's events, the last year, and all the feelings that their coming together finally provoked--too much to process, frankly, without any coffee--her mind settled on a relaxed insistence that she scour the enormous ship to find Vegeta so she feel his body against hers again. There was never a time she felt more herself than when she was with him. He was where her feet had been leading her all these years. And a wish wouldn't take him to her. Only her own insistence could win the surly Prince over.

A crisp white towel the size of a blanket was draped over some sort of twisted rack of antlers spread out against the wall that served as a towel rack, and she hoisted it up and rubbed it through what was left of her hair, sneaking a peak at herself once more in the mirror.

Well, if this look was new and unrecognizable, it was fitting. She was about to do something completely revolutionary. She looked into the quietly confident eyes in the mirror, and gave her after image a small nod of support. With the strength of the Eeyuris women behind her, with the friendship of Goku and Yamcha bolstering her, with the finally unfractured pride that she was nerdy, sensitive, maybe too round, maybe too loud, but perfectly alright-the-way-she-was Bulma fucking Briefs--

She was going to tell Vegeta she loved him.

Bulma peeked her head out from behind the bedroom threshold. Only vast silence greeted her, the dome of the atrium impossibly high and eerily blank. Did it say something that Frieza's most used warship, the ship both he and Vegeta were on so often it could be called `home,' was so clinically functional, even in Frieza's private quarters? There existed no lingering cultural relics, nothing revealing the indigenous, nothing that was really alien or seemed native to a particular place and time...except for the cold utility of a person who had grown so distant from culture or common, time and space, that the only thing that mattered was strength, force, and cool acquisition. What filled up the spaces between was just vacant space; and she got the feeling, evident in this hall that no one but Frieza and a rare few would see, that even vacant space would be used to display power.

She stepped out from the doorway, which swished shut once she cleared the threshold, and she jumped and cursed automated doors. Automated doors, automated showers, even the people were automatons here. No room for personality, no room for fun. How had Vegeta survived all this time? “No wonder he's such a psycho,” she mumbled to herself. “The only fun he probably got was in combat.”

Pulling at the hem of her skin hugging blue suit nervously, she clenched her fists and made her way forward. There was just something really creepy about the hall, and what was impressive and imposing when striding next to one of the most powerful people in the universe was aggressively, disturbingly vacuous without him.

One foot in front of the other took her nearer to the red double doors that signaled human life beyond this cold, grave-like cavern, and she had a few moments to appreciate the grandeur. Had the Colds been old money, or new royalty? Was their native landscape as cold and lifeless as the ship?

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the doors in front of her swung outwards, and with momentary horror, she saw the heavy metaled duo stood outside awaiting her.

“Thank you,” she stuttered, and cleared her throat. She approached them. “Could you please tell me where to go to find Vegeta?”

“His Highness did not leave us with a message to depart to you.” The man's sonorous voice--which iron golem was it even coming from?--came out the thin slits of his helm as ragged and deep as a chainsaw.

Their girth was amazing. They easily took up several feet of space every which way, the ornamental axes that lurched heavily at their belts --the blades gleamed in the fluorescent light, and she was no longer sure they were just for decoration-- were easily as large as she was, and definitely, definitely heavier. Vegeta's crony Nappa might have been the largest man she'd ever seen, and these behemoths made Nappa look like a half pint.

“Oh.” She looked back and forth between them. She really wasn't sure where to find Vegeta, let alone where these halls would take her. Just as her mouth opened to form another tentative question, one of the golems interrupted.

“If I may suggest,” sawed the voice of one of the sentinels, “I see his Highness has Marked you, which means you may be trusted.”

“If we had to guess, he is with his council in the State Room.”

“Because you are Marked, you will be permitted in, and you have the authority to know his Highness's location.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

The iron golems stood rigidly except for an almost imperceptible, simultaneous nod of gratitude. Their rare politness filled her with confidence.

“If you don't mind me asking,” she folded her arms in front of her, “what's `Marked?'”

The men...creatures...shared a look that she couldn't decipher, only the blank and blind faces of their mask and the very rare twinge of their massive, corded muscles revealing any emotion. And then she swore to Kami one of them cleared their throats nervously.

“The Mark at your neck is a part of a sacred Saiyan tradition that indicates a Saiyan Royal has claimed you as theirs.”

“We thought it was fantasy, same as the Saiyan legacy of the Super Saiyan.”

“It is told around campfires, but many believe the legendarily ruthless Saiyans had created the myth to silence dissenting voices with fear.”

“I would have thought the same thing had I not seen a Super Saiyan in the flesh,” she commented, her mouth drawing upwards.

For a moment, it was like they all shared a knowing smile.

“It hasn't been heard of for hundreds or even thousands of years,” one continued.

“Yes, from before the Tuffles and the Colds, when Saiyans were still dangerous nomads,” the other answered.

“And still had spiritual leaders to guide them through the ritual.”

Bulma frowned. “Why would they need a guide? It's just a bite.”

There was a thick momentary silence.

“No, my lady,” they answered consanguineously.

“It's a bond. A link to each and every Vegeta, from Vegetasei to Old Vejetasei, and connects those bonded to the deepest mysteries and powers of the universe. Or so it's told.”

“I would have asked the Saiyan Prince if he had ever not been looking for a fight,” the other complained.

“I see,” she replied through a suddenly dry throat. How could he drag her into something like this without informing her first?

And their sexual exploits for all the ship to see!

Maybe sensing her hesitance, one of the golems spoke up. “It's a bloodshed ritual, m'lady. Ye must share blood to be bonded.”

“And then he is as much yours as you are his right now.”

“His?” She squeaked.

“Yes. So long as there be a witness.”

“Aye. And you don't have to worry about that, m'lady.”

Her stomach dropped. Now, now she was truly mortified.

“Ohhhkay,” she said strangely. “Well, thank you gentleman. Well then. I'll be on my way.”

Bulma suppressed the urge to hide her face in her hand and skulk away and walked off with as much dignity as she could muster. When she rounded one of the many corners on her way towards...wherever V was...she brushed the mark at her neck with her fingertips, now an angry pink seam at the edge of her top. Just what the hell had he done to her?

“I swear to Kami,” she grit as she began striding down the hall, “if that overconfident pompous aline made me his slave I'm going to wring his neck.”

By the time she had made her way to more high traffic areas of the ship, barely registering the crew who were giving her a wide berth as she stormed down the hall, a small, humpbacked woman appeared seemingly out of nowhere at Bulma's side, hidden in deep purple robes, face obscured, head bobbing at Bulma's waist.

“Looking for the Emperor, my dear?”

“Indeed,” Bulma replied through her teeth.

The woman merely crooked her finger and darted out in front of her with surprising speed, and Bulma allowed her to lead her to a hall with a solitary steel door at its end. The little old woman pushed the door open with unusual strength, and Bulma paid her little attention as the door opened in on a long table lined with dignitaries, all of them men, although of varying races. She had less than a second to take them in before her eyes found Vegeta's, whose mad black eyes were already locked on her at the far end of the table.

She waited for him to rise out of his chair, stalk forward, tear at her clothes and savage her lips in front of his council.

Instead, a low, reverberating growl filled the room, causing their hair to stand on end. He stared up at her, his fists on the table, and he was undressing her in front of these men, peeling her skin from lean muscle, shucking muscle off ivory bones, unwrapping the coils of her brain like onion peel, her synapses blazing wish sweet surrender even as he took her heart.

And then, with another little shock, the men rose from their seats to bow at her, their noses nearly touching their knees as she stood, baffled. It wasn't until the little crone led her towards Vegeta and pulled out a chair for her that the men unhinged at the hips, and before Bulma could regain her bearings to sit down, Vegeta pulled the chair to sit behind his between him and the wall, the chair scraping against the floor in protest, before fixing his mad eyes on her in a clear order to sit.

She sat slowly, at first frustrated that he wouldn't let her sit next to him as an equal, but then understanding, as he fixed his maelstrom glare on the men in the room, who were managing to look as innocuous as possible. He wasn't disrespecting her, he was protecting her. Was there something to fear from these men? Her eyes flicked over them, each obviously trying with difficulty not to look at her. Were women rare on the ship or something? They were clearly men of power, not brawn--the cogs behind this operation, then. Was she not supposed to be here? A surge of irritation steeled her. She didn't care what she was supposed to do at this point. She owed Frieza's henchmen nothing, and more importantly, Vegeta had no one else to watch over him but her. He certainly couldn't take care of himself; the man had an unacknowledged death wish. He was obviously more in control of himself than yesterday, when he had ripped Cooler's head right off his body and bawled at the ceiling like an ape. Except, he lost his claim on civility around her, it seemed. Was this...was this confirmation she'd been wanting that he had feelings he wanted reciprocated, too? Or was he just making sure she stayed alive so he could get her back to Earth and leave?

“Well, sir, as we were saying, the quadrants 4 and 2 have only begun the first stages of rebellion and may still be subdued with some strategic purging missions of each planet's most powerful and difficult demographics.”

Bulma's eyes widened.

“Quadrants 3, 6 and 11 in the South are as quiet as ever, and continue to the Empire's primary mining exporters and resource stronghold. Quadrants 22 and 15 subsequently, in the north, enjoy some advantages of the Empire that other quadrants do not, namely a degree of social and economic freedom due to their planetary resources or old allegiance to the Colds, who, as you know, are a long lived species and have enjoyed 596 years of rule, specifically the northern quadrant of the galaxy. Because of their mass, their neutrality, their wealth and magnanimity, I think it's safe to say Zarbon will be headed in that direction, particularly, planets Xior or Intuulin'meng . He was last spotted off Planet Frieza 2991, which is on the flight path of Xior, and with constant surveillance, we may be able to pinpoint his landing on Xior by the end of the week.”

There was a tense silence as everyone hoped that would be accepted by Vegeta, who was known previously for his ill temper and his disregard of policy, and was now known as one terrifying, fucked up individual with far too much power for anyone to be comfortable with.

“So the question is, should we purge Xior, Your Highness?”

Bulma answered “no” as Vegeta answered “yes.” He cut her a deadly look and she frowned back at him.

“No extravagant military tactics with that one. I want their total annihilation so that fancy green fuck harbors no confusion about what his fate is. I want to surprise him myself. Then I'm going to skin him alive, a piece of flesh for every year I had to endure under that sadistic overbearing shit and then I'm going to wear his adored green braid as a belt and his pretty green skin into slippers.”

“Sir, are you sure that's wise? Zarbon last had a power level of nearly 35,000 in his transformed state--”

Suddenly the room was frigid, and Bulma's head felt heavy, her arm hair standing on end as she realized Vegeta was powering up for a psychic thunderstorm, his darkening, thickening black aura flecked with thin, whipping red bolts of electricity that found purchase across the ceiling and over papers as they were sent floating upwards in a flurry, tossed between different currents of energy.

The demonic red eyes once again stared out of Vegeta, who sat seemingly peacably in his chair as everyone, including her, jumped out of their chair's in alarm. Before she had time to react, he had sunk his fist into the man's gut and it clenched from out the other side, and in one swift, precise movement, obviously well practiced and as efficient as possible, incinerated the man beside him with a flattened palm. Bulma gagged in horror, the other men's eyes wide and terrified as they fought not to flee, some losing the battle with themselves.

With growing horror, she watched Vegeta's face relax as he smiled a crooked, pleased grin, and he turned toward the others, his flattened palm held out to them with the magnanimous gravity of a reaper.

“I am not the same man who left this cruddy spaceship. I'm a Vegeta no longer restrained, and I would advise you to refrain from scrutinizing my power level, because I assure you,” he grinned demonically, “it's big enough.”

Just as the swarthy black power burbled in his palm, seconds away from making its speedy path toward the fear crippled dignitaries, Bulma threw her arms over his own and pulled down.

“Stop!” She cried out. His face snapped to confront hers with suspended rage, a mask of cruelty written on his features. Instead of fear, she felt growing indignity.

“All of you.” She whipped her head around in the other's direction, fighting the energy storm that buffeted her. “STOP this senseless violence! You are practically begging for perpetual military takeovers and a high turnover for your positions. This is your fault for enabling the Colds! Take your cue from the slain bodies of each of the Cold's and try a different way of managing conflict. There is NO PLACE for the power hungry ANYMORE!” She practically sobbed, her voice bouncing off the walls and carried by the currents of Vegeta's indignant energy.

How could he even entertain the idea of killing someone--millions--again? How could he enable the same people who repressed and exterminated his heritage to do the same to someone else's? There were peaceful, intelligent people living out their lives all over the universe who didn't deserve this removed war mongering by emotionally stunted men.

This ends here! If Goku can't be here to do it, well, by Kami, she would do it in his honor. A surge of powerful almost tangible confidence overtook her.

“This ends here and now,” she ordered. “No more killing. No more purging. No subjugating defenseless people. Your might is for defending innocent people only.” A righteous strength filled her, burbled out of her. “You are dismissed!”

They filed out of the room as brusquely as possible, until only Vegeta and Bulma remained, staring at one another.

His eyes were on her, but unfocused, his nostrils flaring as though he were trying to smell out a difference in her. “You have just steamrolled my authority in front of my men,” he castigated her, and yet his features were soft, the only light in the room coming from his red red eyes, having knocked out the power in the room as he powered up. A glow from behind her lit his long eyeteeth, making it apparent she wasn't dealing with any normal human.

“You are headed back to the Dark Ages,” she retorted. The last thing you need is more enemies, and the last thing they need is another tyrant.”

“You are erroneously presuming that I am fair.”

The backs of his knuckles brushed her cheek.

“You are lucky that I am too busy to bend you over this table and show you just what the Dark Ages was really like,” he purred in her ear, drawing closer to her. She shivered with want. “You are lucky I don't bury my tongue in your pussy until you can't stand, and you are even more lucky that I am feeling forgiving because I want nothing more than to take you back to our room and chain you up to the bedpost,” he breathed against her ear, and Bulma's eyes rolled upwards, “and never, ever let you see the light of day again, my little hintu'lok enna.”

“It means beloved,” said the little crone from the corner of the room.

“If you dared,” Bulma breathed against his neck, leaning into his energy, neither of them touching, “I would kill you.”

“And the second step of the mating ritual has been initiated,” intoned the crone.

“I would like to see you try.” And he sounded as if he really regretted that he couldn't.

“I want to tie you up to the bed post,” she heard herself say distantly, and yet she was thrumming with conviction, “and show you just what I can do.”

“Careful with the power, little one,” warned the crone.

“Oh yeah,” he crooned, running two fingers down the round planes of her face, down her slender neck, shooting sparks like a welding flame, effectively parting a small portion of her top, which yawned open around her clavicle. “Well I could make that happen.”

“How touching,” and by this time she didn't even know who was talking. Was it her or him? The voice was feminine, and yet separate from her and sepulcherous.

“Give in and you'll be lost,” came the sibilant caution from the corner, and it seemed laced with amusement. “Not even a Super Saiyan can fight it and win.” This time its insistence was sadder, firmer.

Vegeta's head snapped up. “Do you hear something?”

“What?” She asked, as if he were a long ways up, and all she knew is she was down, down, down, and things were getting darker.

Vegeta bolted from her side, throwing the door open, the light from the hallway spilling in as the door crashed against the outside wall.

She watched, mouth slack, as his head whipped around, his nostrils flaring as his head tilted back on his powerful neck and he searched the air for scents.

And in a blur, he was gone.

She squinted at the light, her brows knitting as she tried to untangle herself from the fog of her mind. Glancing around, she found charred paper, scattered about, chairs toppled over, a pile of dust sitting in the seat of one of them and a body with a good sized hole in its gut in an undignified pile on the floor.

She recoiled, and clutched her throat.

He had touched her affectionately with the same hand that put that hole through him.

Heaving in big gasps of air through her nose, she ran her hands over her face, gasping into her palms.

And that's when she saw it: a thin glittering skin of aquamarine ki.

“What on Kami's green earth is going on?!” She cried out, gaping at her hands in the dark.

She looked up, toward the hallway that Vegeta had rushed off into, and then towards the corner. “You--”

But there was nobody there.

She stared into her palms, then clenched them into fists, and watched the energy thin out until it was just an after image.

Naturally, she grew childishly frustrated.

“Vegeta!” She bellowed. She fell back into his chair with a thud and put her chin in her hands, scowling at the empty doorway.

“I'll find you, you sneaky Saiyan.” She glared into the empty space, needing to expend her anger.

She needed to know more about Saiyans, about mating, about Saiyan courtship rituals and Frieza's military legacy so that she could unravel this knot that all began and ended with this bite on her neck. She needed to know all this while sorting out Vegeta's ki and getting him back to tolerable levels. She feared the longer he went on like this the more disconnected from the human part of himself he'd become. She wished she had someone to sort this out with! She let out a pathetic whimper.

Suddenly, she bolted upright.

Where was their labs?

-----

She kept glancing over her shoulder and scanning every intersecting hallway on her way to the labs, but there was no sign of Vegeta. She half expected there to be some kind of slug trail of dourness she could track him by. The nerve of that man!

She grumbled all the way to the lab, griping only getting louder each time she lost her way and had to ask for directions from some cowering, confused crew member. Once she finally found the lab doors, the sign above glowing with alien letters, surely spelling out “Space Labs” or something, she barely had time to feel relief before she was stopped by a squat, fleshy man in a lab coat who had yet to look up at her from his clip board. “Name, unit and objective,” he sighed nasally.

“Bulma.” She watched him frown a little as he scrawled across a document.

“Objective? I don't have you down for lab use today.”

“I'm not on the roster,” she snapped. Her patience was wearing thin and she was taking it out on this unfortunate guy. “The names Bulma Briefs,” she tried more civilly, “and I'm just here to fiddle. Is that alright?” She tried for a winning smile.

“No, it most certainly is NOT,” he snapped before looking up at her distastefully. “Proper forms and permissions or no access to the lab.”

“Look here, you wart, I'm not in the mood to be dissed by some overgrown beach ball! The last time I was here I was allowed access, and I want access now!” She hissed. She felt inches away from accosting the ugly dwarf. She almost hoped he'd continue being stubborn...then she would.

She shook the thought off. Well, aren't I certainly acting like Vegeta's woman, she chided herself. Her nerves were just fraying. It seemed like it was just yesterday Vegeta had admitted, only after they had been forced into space with one another, that he was leaving her for good. Then they had been captured and enslaved in the Eeyuris camp, and then Vegeta was recovering poorly from ki disablers only to lose his mind as Cooler was seconds away from ending his life. Everything had escalated so quickly, they hadn't had any time to cool their brakes. The last few weeks...few months now?...she had been struggling to find purchase on an increasingly crumbly cliff edge. Just when she had, at the last possible moment, found a quick solution to their problem, the universe would throw them into another set of hopes. She was starting to get massively frustrated with the universe!

And also with herself. She really couldn't afford to admit it...but she was starting to seriously doubt her talents. First, the suit and gravity chamber malfunctioning, although had a certain stubborn, selfish Saiyan allowed her to supervise him it may have been prevented. And the ki serum was a bargain with the devil, wasn't it? Vegeta's life for his sanity? She had helped him slay a tyrant and a dark legacy, but she had injected him with the universe's most powerful steroid, throwing him even deeper into this...Oozaru dead ringer.

She had to fix this. She was the only one who could, she thought desolately. If only Goku were here! He never lost, and he always knew what to do. But it was just and her Vegeta out in space, and one of the two of them was a maniac.

“Look,” she grit out, “I have something very important to us all to get done. I'm no spring chicken in the lab. I won't bother your technicians, I just need--”

“Do I need to call security? What don't you understand?” The unpleasant little man threatened.

She shoved the man up against the wall behind him forcefully and, with his stupid little collar in his fists, she shoved her face into his and grinned fiercely as his eyes grew wide with alarm. “I will make you mince pie if you do not let me use your labs, and i swear to all that is holy it's the LEAST of what Vegeta's going to do to you, once he finds out I've had such a hard time accessing his labs.”

“Who are you?” He stuttered thinly, and she saw that her hands had moved to squeeze his throat so that he could not yell for help. She blinked twice, trying to clear the blue haze from her vision. Instead, it remained, a fog around her, growing thicker.

A Cheshire grin grew on her face, and her eyes widened with anticipation, leaning in to touch noses with the man. “I'm Vegeta's wife,” she confided wildly.

The man's eyes drifted back into his head and he slumped in her grip.

She slowly let him go, straightening, and then burst into a string of giggles.

She began trembling like a leaf.

“I'm gonna hurl,” she groaned, wrapping her arm around her stomach, and she leaned her clammy forehead against the cool steel wall.

She breathed deeply, slowly, trying to take up a distracting rhythm. Once she had slid from the upper levels of panic, ignoring the body that slumped awkwardly against the wall, of course, she straightened up and steadied herself. Until she caught sight of her reflection in the lab windows and backpedalled until she leaned her weight against the wall to steady her weak knees.

There in the wide windows that displayed the vacant library of the labs, Bulma's reflection stared back at her, swathed in blue light

with red, red eyes.

“What is happening to me?” She sobbed through a thick throat.

“I've got to get this done, quickly,” she uttered aloud. “Or we're going to be royally fucked.”

She didn't allow herself any more time to think on it. She steeled her spine and exhaled with a cleansing huff, forcing herself through the second doors and through the labs as if nothing strange was going on.

This area of the labs was mostly tall bookshelves, and as she walked deeper into it, she saw a few lab techs here and there, for the most part absorbed at their desks. She tried not to look suspicious, meandering through in her blue military spandex, as she glanced past the rows of bookshelves lined with data used for the Empire's presumably dastardly plans. She scowled. As quickly as she wanted to get her and Vegeta out of here, she had to admit it was appealing to try to leave some things in better condition than she found them. Although, given her track record, the future was looking pretty dismal.

She found a row of tables with single computers far back in the lab near a window that were empty. She slid into the seat, eyeing the endless expanse of space outside the thick window, all the dark matter and smattering of stars yawning wide, a vacuum threatening to lull her in. She forced herself to look away and focus on the computer in front of her.

She needed to search their inventory, and she needed materials quick.

But before that...

Slowly, Bulma ransacked the system, checking coordinates and networks with disbelief that she would even follow through. It was easy to jump past all the restrictions and blocks, cutting through them as easy as a knife through butter and she only momentarily considered how the lack of security should alarm her before, with her heart galloping, she initiated the call.

From the small speaker on the monitor, a phone started ringing.

She was really doing this. She glanced around, but no one was near, and no one could see the screen of her monitor.

Before she knew it, her father's mustachioed face filled her vision, Scratch's furry black face peeking over his shoulder.

“Well, hello daughter,” he father greeted her as if he were just wishing her a good morning as if just walking past her in the hall.

“Dad! I'm so glad to see you.” Bulma dashed tears from her eyes. She hadn't realized how stressed out she'd been, but she couldn't afford to cry. Not yet.

“I heard you got yourself in a bit of a pickle with Vegeta out in space. How's the fuel looking?”

“The ship's in good shape, Dad. We're full of fuel.” She smiled sadly. Wish that was their worst problem. “Dad, is...is everything okay there?”

Please just let something be going right somewhere.

“Why, of course, honey.” His eyes widened a bit in surprise. “Puar and Yamcha are visiting with your Mother in the kitchen. Would you like me to go get them so you can say hello?”

Somewhere in the Universe things were normal.

“Yes please.” She stifled a desperate chuckle. She certainly had not inherited either of her parent's calm demeanor, that was becoming clear.

Her parent's had had no intention of having children, falling for each other while her father struggled in those days to get his business off the ground once out of college. Bunny was nearly a decade younger than him, but she had latched onto him immediately and poured herself into making him happy with pleasure as if it were her life's calling. Her mother's bright, carefree personality had been exactly what her father needed as he spent most of his time, day after day, year after year in his labs. He needed someone to dote on him without holding his absent mindedness against him, and Bunny, against all odds, fit the bill.

Capsule Corporation had been their singular priority, as their relationship required almost no work at all, coming so naturally to them. They were totally content with the shape their lives had taken. Bunny was, Kami bless her, just happy to be with this man who was as merry and moony as she was, and they continued like this as Capsule Corporation finally took off. And the Briefs were happy.

It wasn't until, as her father headed into his late 40's and her mother had given up long ago on increasing the size of their family, that they had been surprised with the news that Mrs. Briefs was pregnant. Overjoyed to enhance their family size, they had consequently spoiled their only child rotten. However, life continued as it was before Bulma was born: Dr. Briefs continued spending most of his time innovating, puffing on his cigarette downstairs in his labs, although by this time he had a team to help redirect the business side of things onto--something Dr. Briefs had no patience for. And Mrs. Briefs, having taken care of her wayward husband for so long, had continued being a liberal, doting caretaker, enjoying sharing the world with her small daughter but unaccustomed to having to set any boundaries. Because of this, Bulma grew up with her father's natural urge for exploration without any other rules to guide her other than the laws of physics, and Mrs. Briefs had only been happy to see her thrive. Perhaps that's what had cultivated Bulma's sense of entitlement and impatience that had only been whittled down to acceptable levels as she entered adulthood. But her temperament remained the same. She was always after more mountains to climb, mountains beyond mountains out of reach, while her parents, especially as they aged, were content with their familiar routine. Bulma swiftly grew independent, and as they found her more and more absent in her engrossed, unlimited exploration of the world, her parents were content, the only evidence that they missed taking care of their small daughter in their growing menagerie of animals.

She hadn't been fully appreciative of them as she grew up, and at this moment, staring at the wall of her father's lab waiting for her mother and Yamcha to arrive, she profoundly appreciated how stable they were. It was a stark contrast to her own life, and she was surprised to find herself envious of it.

Finally, Yamcha's tan face appeared on the screen, and Puar's round blue one, hovering cautiously above his left shoulder, wringing her hands. Her mother tiptoed on her heels beside them, her hands flitting around as she beamed at Bulma.

“Hi honey!” She called.

“Bulma!” Yamcha exclaimed. “Where are you?!”

“Where is that handsome man of yours?” Tittered her mother, and Yamcha threw her an irritated look.

“Well, actually...I'm on one of Frieza's warships.”

Yamcha's and Puar's faces tightened with alarm. Even her mother's fell a little.

“It's okay, I'm alright.”

“Is Vegeta with you?” Yamcha asked tensely.

“Yes, he's here,” she confirmed, but with uncertainly. “Not right here, right now, but he's here. No harm will come to me while he's here.” I hope.

“Honey, what happened to your hair?” Bunny exclaimed, her wide blue eyes regarding Bulma with real concern.

“Oh!” Bulma giggled nervously. “Oh, yeah! Well, I kind of had to get it cut. To-infiltrate-and-sabotage-Cooler-and-Vegeta's-fight,” she finished lamely.

“What?!” Yelled Yamcha.

“Um, Mom? Puar? Can I speak to Yamcha alone for a minute?”

“Sure, honey,” her mother's sweet, hospitable voice assured her. “Bye, Bulma,” Puar called sadly, and Bulma wondered if Puar had been wallowing in guilt since she had believed she'd sent Bulma to her death.

“Bye Mom. Bye, Puar,” she called wistfully.

“They're gone,” Yamcha informed her softly, his gaze turning back to her firmly. “Bulma, what's going on. Honestly.”

“Wellllll,” she sighed, “We are out in the middle of space on a warship of Frieza's. The Nova or something. I think this might have been Vegeta's home station before Earth.”

Yamcha snorted. “A man like that never settles down and has a home, Bulma.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Can it, Yamcha.” She really didn't want to get angry in front of Yamcha.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized roughly, but sincerely. “I'm just defensive of you,” he answered smally.

She sighed.

“I know, Yamcha. And that makes you a good friend.” She smiled sadly. “I want to be your friend, Yamch. I don't want any animosity between us. I miss you.” His expression warmed. “But before I can continue, we need to lay some ground rules. Vegeta...Vegeta and I are kind of a thing now.”

Yamcha snorted and crossed his arms. “Kind of? Figures a man like that can't commit to anything but violence.”

“Listen here you idiot!” She snapped. “I love that jerk, and I won't deal with you bad talking him, do you hear me?” Yamcha stared at her in surprise. “I love him,” she continued softly, blowing air out her lips. “He's a world class asshole, but he's different around me. I think he might...need me too. Well, he definitely needs me. Yamcha, that's partly why I called. We were intercepted by Zarbon of all people on our way to get fuel and food, and to make a long story short, he captured us and sold us into slavery and the ki cuffs he used on Vegeta to make him docile really messed Vegeta up. His ki is all sorts of wonky now, and it's messing with his head. He's even more violent than usual, even more impatient with other people. I'm trying desperately to find what it takes to get him back to normal, but I'm afraid I can't get the resources here.”

“He's not violent toward you, is he?” Yamcha asked her dangerously, trying to keep his voice in civil octaves.

She shook her head fiercely. “No. Never towards me. Just more...passionate, heh heh,” she admitted awkwardly, and as Yamcha blanched, she quickly continued. “It just kind of happens to be he's the Emperor of the Universe right now. Everyone thinks he killed Frieza, and he killed Frieza's brother yesterday, effectively making him King of Every Poor Sap In The Universe. Life as some people know it may end in his quest to find Zarbon, and he doesn't care who or what gets in his way.”

“Man.” Yamcha whistled, his hands raking through his thick black hair. He looked perplexed, concerned, and helpless, age lines finally making their appearance around his eyes and mouth, although they didn't diminish his boyish handsomeness. “Isn't one competition to the death enough for this guy?”

Bulma burst out laughing. “Vegeta is never satisfied unless is throughly rolled thin.”

They both laughed lightly, tapering out into less tense silence.

“Bulma? What is that mark on your neck?”

Her hand snapped over the mark self consciously. “Does it really look that bad?”

“Please don't tell me it's a hickey,” Yamcha moaned.

“Well, what other kind of hickey would you expect from the Prince of All Saiyans,” she boasted, then laughed at the disgust on Yamcha's face. Her laughter quickly petered out, and she stared at him, finally expressing the emotion she had been forced to contain for months. “I think it means we're married.”

“What? The hickey?” He asked baffled.

She nodded. “Everyone keeps telling me about it, referring to it like it's some sort of holy relic of Saiyan `mating,' and talking like it gives me some elevated status, power even.” She didn't go into depth about the power.

“Like animals mate?” His face screwed a little as he fought the visual. “Like, like monkeys mate?”

“No, you jerk! It's much more special than that!” She flushed. “It's just, I'm stuck out here in outer space surrounded by aliens with one particular alien marking me as his or whatever without even my consent or some pillow talk afterward and he might be going crazy and it might be my fault and I've got to help him!”

“Alright. Alright, calm down, we'll figure something out,” he assured her. “B, you'll get it take care of. You always do.”

“But what if it's my fault he's crazy in the first place?” Her voice trembled.

Yamcha chuckled. “Bulma, no matter what you say, that Saiyan has been crazy from the get go. You'll find a way. You're often the only one who can. You're the Goku of problem solving, B. And you sure pack a wallop that feels as bad as his do.”

She sniffled. “Thanks, Yahmmy.”

Yamcha felt a pang in his heart at the old endearment. He knew, in that moment, that as much as he loved Bulma, he was ready to let her go. For all her trouble and worries right now, she seemed happier taking care of the Prince of All Simians. She knew that lightning quick mind needed something as stimulating as possible to not grow bored, and boy, he suspected she definitely found it in Vegeta.

“It was good, the pep talk.” She smiled at him. “I've got some work to do though.”

“Keep in contact, B,” he ordered, his smile growing warmer. “I'll let Goku know what's going on. Maybe he can keep tabs on you guys somehow, through King Kai or something, and come if you need help.”

“Thank you. Talk to you soon.”

“Over and out.” He saluted her with a brief wave.

“Over and out.”

Bulma sat staring at the black screen for longer than necessary.

--------

When Vegeta finally walked into the bedroom, he found Bulma, ass wagging in the air as she bent over a small engine covered in grease on the pale, priceless white rug.

“Just what are you doing?” He snapped, eyes flecked with mirth. She missed it, instead digging deeper into the engine.

“Just what you know you want me to do,” he heard her say, voice muffled within metal.

He strode over and picked her up easily by her small waist, turning her over in his arms to face him before sitting her on her feet.

“And just what is it you think I want?”

Her frustrated growl faltered a moment, and Vegeta had only a second to reflect on the flash of uncertainty that marked her face before she smiled at him broadly. “A way to train. Am I right?”

His brows dipped in consideration and she dazzled him with a knowing smile. “Am I right?” She crooned.

“A gravity simulator?”

“Yes. Kind of. Except without all the bells and whistles. I was checking out the lab earlier--”

“--So I heard.”

“--And I found some tech and was able to throw this thing together.”

Vegeta eyed it warily. “What is it?”

“It's a travel sized GR. It puts out a gravity field within a certain radius, and doesn't require a room or heavy metals to contain it.”

They stared at one another, until she grew fidgety.

“You're wrong.” He finally said.

“What?” She frowned in consternated confusion.

“I said you're wrong. That's not what I want.”

“But--” Bulma paled, then blushed. “Then what is?” She asked, clearing her throat.

You, you, you, the animal inside him chanted. But was it the animal, or was it the man?

He placed his lips lightly at the corner of her own, and she stood rigidly under him. Didn't matter. He could still smell her desire, thick, clean, potent. He wanted to drink it down like it were nectar. He would. As she relaxed into him, he nipped her bottom lip with his incisor, and as she jerked back, a droplet of rosy blood pooling on her confused face, he grabbed her wrists. “Bite me,” he ordered huskily.

“Bite you?” She asked incredulously.

He quickly grew impatient and drew her close, prying open her parted mouth with his tongue and plundering it, running it along her teeth, over her lips, over the roof of that sweet little mouth until she was growling with desire. “That's right, just like that,” he moaned.

With an excited little purr, she ran her teeth along his tongue and lip, before sinking her teeth into his full, flat bottom lip. Vegeta let out a shocked grunt, eyes widening, and she pulled away as she realized her error.

“No,” he whispered. He sank to his knees, dragging her with him. Her eyes were cloudy, and she was looking at him for clarity, with trust. His heart gave a little leap at the look, and he quickly wrapped her legs around his hips trapping her lips in his own.

“Lick me.” “Lick you?” But this time, she understood. “Like this?” She asked tremulously. Her pink tongue darted out from her wet lips and delicately lapped at the ribbon of red blood streaking down his strong chin. She dared a glance at him, and with pride, he met her heated blue gaze. He dragged his hand through her blue tufts and drew her forward in one swift movement. His tongue traced a path up his face, and he grabbed her chin and licked away the heavy droplet at the corner of her wantoness mouth.

she pried his hands away from his face and placed them on her hips and kissed him hard on the lips, a kiss of dedication, causing him to lean against the engine. He gripped her hips and ground her lips into his hard manhood, wanting her to acknowledge it, appreciate it, as she sucked at the apple's curve of his thick neck.

“Do you want me?” She asked him roughly, and his eyes popped open, red as blood, red hot as desire.

A thin blue aura sat on her like a second skin, and with a wave of desire, his own ki ignited around him with an answering call to press against her own.

“I want you against this infernal machine,” he grit, control rough as broken glass. “I want you in Frieza's bed. I want you on that council table in front of everyone.”

Bulma moaned as jerked her top over her breasts, freeing them and sucking them into his mouth, one by one.

“Do you want all of me?” She asked him, and the animal inside him leapt and roared “Yes!” Inside, somewhere, the soldier who still loitered around his rib cage shook his head frantically, its lips working “nonononono,” but the beast shoved his caution away cruelly. “I want all of you in my mouth” the beast ground out, as it smashed her breasts together and gnawed and licked at them greedily. “I want all of you around me,” it said as she ground against him, panting, before standing shakily and peeling off her top and leggings with unusually precise, swift grace. The Woman looked wild, wicked. “I like your hair short,” the beast admitted.

“Do you?” She wondered out loud, before pulling his top over his head and yanking his pants over his thick ropy hips as he arched to help her. His thick member sprang free, pointed at her like a compass to the North Star, glistening, and with roughness, Bulma grabbed Vegeta's thick spikes, tilting his head back. Murderous red eyes stared upwards at her, bared fangs.

“Do you want me, Vegeta no Ouji? Because I want you,” she confessed. “All of you,” her voice scraped on emotion, and his dick jumped against her heat as she settled over him.

“Do you even want the beast, little Onna?” He responded, and for a moment, he regarded her with a look of understanding as he expected her rejection.

She was on fire, her synapses ablaze, her core throbbing, and she rubbed against the head of his penis with a hard, strangled groan. “Yes. I want all of you, if you'll give it to me.” He shoved her down on his cock and fireworks exploded under their eyelids, but he held her there, still. “You're mine.” Pure monstrous demand, raked over gravel.

“Your heart. I want your heart. And I'll be yours. Is that what that means?” She whispered, her body out of her control, her back arching, her muscles heavy with desire, something in her gut growing with starvation. “That you'll never leave me?”

“You've lost,” intoned the crone from the corner.

She pressed her cheek to his and then drew back to peer up at him with far away hunger, their breaths commingling. He looked up into her eyes, the deep sapphire of her irises bleeding red, her thick lashes under blue hair, standing on end.

NEVERNEVERNEVER

“I killed them, Onna, I killed them all for you--” he struggled to say past his fangs, “the small one from the lab, all the generals--”

and with deep satisfaction, she replied “good,” before digging her hands into the machine head behind him and getting up on her toes to work the pulsing head of his cock under a fog of red and heat and mouths and skin and wet and blue and hands and red and “fuckkkk” drawled in her ear----

-----

Bulma spared a glance behind her and swallowed, before shutting the door and walking swiftly through the atrium. With Frieza's hard drive in one hand, and a capsule in the other, she broke out into a full sprint towards the doors at the end of the atrium, glittering ominously in the stark, white silence.

As she neared they opened slowly, and heart thundering in her chest and in her ears strong enough to knock her forward, through the threshold she spared a glance back, and swore she saw the faraway door to the bedroom begin to gape open--

She sprinted, stumbling down the corridor after breaching the door and ran at full blast to the docks, where the map she'd found in the lab informed her ships came and left. People blurred by with speed, malforming them as she streaked forward, racing against time.

She stumbled as she passed the docks primary door, and backtracked in a panic to burst through the doors and down the hall, ignoring the crew members alarmed shouts.

She could swear she heard her name thundering behind her--

She threw the capsule and it sailed over the balcony and exploded at the edge of the docks, revealing Capsule 4--

this time she definitely heard “WOMAN” blasting and bouncing back and forth through the cavernous docks, and with a terrified yelp, she jumped into the ship and fell into the cabin, punching the power button and mashing the coordinates, the engine powering to life with unhurried force.

“C'mon, c'mon,” she pleaded, and as the familiar ship began to shudder with force as it began to lift off, she grit her eyes closed so that she didn't see what was happening through the windshield after the initial black blast wave shook the hangar, and it wasn't until she was hurling through space freely that she broke down into hysterical sobs, sending selfish prayers to the deaf emptiness of space that Vegeta would forgive her for not holding up her end of the bargain,

Kami please let this be an adequate I love you.

---