Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ VeNdEtTa Of ThE hEaRt ❯ Chapter 4 ( Chapter 4 )

Passion's Lecherous Ways...

Shortly after the 7th gift had been opened, Yamcha had simply backed away, letting his wife expose the gifts herself. At times like these, she acted so juvenile...like such a child. Though her actions only made him smile, seemingly enjoying the moment of her presence, but his eyes were realistically reveling in the display. Her breasts, straining against the small tank top, of which she had changed into earlier, were enticing. She was enthusiastic about her current job, furthermore creating a spectacle of herself. If Bulma wasn't so thrilled with the different things she discovered underneath the wrappings, the decorated bags, or the sophisticated envelopes filled with offerings of her wedding day, she would have reprimanded Yamcha for his audacity.

Bulma had tears in her eyes; overjoyed with the different items her closest of friends thought suited her. It was a sentimental connection felt for the offerings that made her smile, emotions radiating from her being. She suppressed only one of the emotions that wished to be revealed, as it laced her thoughts with its imperious presence. It conquered her within, but she'd be damned if her composure was shattered from such a petty feeling.

She had been right, `he' did haunt her thoughts, never ceasing to penetrate her barriers. He had provoked her into entering a maze of desires- one that never could be solved, never won. She was lost. Searching frantically for a way out, but left with no choice except to reach out for him, to seek his touch...his very passion. Lights flickered within the distance, but she was blinded, not able to see what lay beyond the doors she never knew existed. Touch is what led her...and everything relating to the sense always led her to him. He had become an unattainable desire, always so far, yet so close.

Such contradictions were all that filled her mind.

Nothing would ever fit into proper place; eternally outcast by the narrow path his passion had set her onto. Vegeta. The name persisted to echo in her mind, chiming past her attempts to free herself. She was trapped by her own desire, by the flames of passion that surrounded her. To retreat would mean her ruin, for a life without the ardor he had introduced her to, was merely not worth living. The sensations that had encompassed her body from his touch had raised her expectations, the pinnacle ever rising.

He had tainted her.

But she was not defiled from his sensual flame, only molded to fit it. She was a changed woman, whether she would like to admit it or not. Perhaps she was weaker, or even stronger, but it meant so little now that he was gone. Bulma still had her affectionate heart, her compassionate soul, her articulate mind, and her witty temperament...but all her desires were lost to him, and his mesmerizing passion. He truly was fire. The silly phrase `never to play with fire' had never meant so much. She was drawn to him, yet warded off by the lecherous heat he emitted. There was a great possibility she could be burnt, but when he held her, all logical thought was as distant as the stars that littered the expanse of the heavens.

Perhaps she should get a hobby. She pondered the thought, for everything else that crossed her mind's eye was all so bizarre. Reminiscing on things that were out of reach was not her idea of true sanity. With resentment towards her own self, Bulma ceased all thoughts, successfully ending the berating of her weary mind.

As she glanced mildly interested at the remaining gifts, she realized she had left his gift untouched. It was an unconscious action, but she couldn't help but scold herself for it. She was being inconceivably foolish! Quickly dismissing Vegeta from her thoughts thoroughly, Bulma reached for the intricate envelope. Holding it lightly, she opened it gently, careful not to rupture the exquisite designs that decorated the paper. It struck her as slightly odd that the thing had a seal to clamp it closed, and even more peculiar at the fact it was made of wax, just as people had done so in times before the current day and age. It was dark ebony, along with some emblem shaping the small circle, but Bulma didn't bother to examine the thing. It wasn't the gift after all. Making haste removal of what lay inside, she discovered herself grasping a wad of money.

The bills were perfectly straight, as if they had just come out of the press, and were layered on top one another with not even one crease. Bulma was stunned, and then significantly angered at the fact they were one-dollar bills. Her mouth was agape as she removed the bill on the top of the stack, oddly finding herself looking at thousand dollar bills. Before he even met her, he had planned to taunt her! The impetuous man was deranged! After making quick inspection, she came to conclude he had given over twenty thousand to her and Yamcha. The `over' was the two dollars he had placed so wickedly at both the top and bottom of the stack, deviously playing a cruel joke on the newly weds. But, even despite his conniving little act, it was still overwhelming that he had offered so much, and without even being asked. Let alone invited.

`Great, another reason to think about that damn man,' Bulma raged within, even though she was genuinely appreciative of his generous gift. There was potential that he was kinder than first thought, but...

That was HIGHLY unlikely.

On second thought, it was impossible, literally. Vegeta must have been the haughtiest, most despicable person ever to grace the earth. Bulma was sure of this! He was a nuisance, a complete menace...especially to her. Growling indignantly, Bulma transferred her gaze and thoughts to Yamcha. He was eyeing her in a curious manner, or rather her body, her chest to be precise.

"Yamcha!"

"Oh- wha- huh?" he stammered, his head jerking up to her face, finally.

"I may be your wife, but I'm not a damn piece of meat," Bulma asserted incredulously.

"No," he assured, "more like candy. My candy."

Bulma was offended, to say the least. She tried to be scrupulous about choosing her retort,

"I'm not something to be owned," Bulma clarified roughly, "I'm a woman, and with that I bare integrity. Dare you ever compare me to some sexual piece of ass, I will be quick to prove you otherwise," with a threatening glare she added, " `Cause come to think of it, I've never heard of candy kicking some ass."

Yep, still a woman of youth. That evident enough with her ending threat; go figure what happened about being scrupulous...

"I didn't mean it like that," Yamcha whimpered, wincing at the narrow slits that responded his plea.

"You can redeem yourself by showing me some respect," she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I can think of several ways," he purred, eyebrows rising suggestively.

The abrupt snarl a response enough, as well as the accommodating pillow shoved into his face, making quick restraint from any protests that were sure to come from Yamcha. Moments after, a loud bang sounded in his ears, informing him not only that Bulma was infuriated with him, but he would also be sleeping on the couch on his wedding night. Bulma detested not being taken seriously and Yamcha had tested that notion clearly on this night, resulting in Bulma's departure into their bedroom. The light click signaling that she locked the door immediately made him abandon any attempts to ease his way into her good graces, or for the night, at least. His apology would have to wait until morning, and honestly, they were both content with that fact. Yamcha because he knew nothing would occur within the bedroom, even if he were inside it, and Bulma because she simply did not wish to speak to him. The small quarrel was nothing serious, just a side effect of sore feet, and tired limbs. Not to mention headaches in Bulma's case. Something seemed to forever cloud her mind...or perhaps, someone?

After some time simply fondling with his fingers, Yamcha lifted the envelope Bulma had discarded earlier. His heart thundered in his chest as he saw the insignia that had sealed the seemingly insignificant piece. The thick, black wax was molded perfectly into a spades.

It was the black of spades.

He had feared such a threat was present. Vegeta was a man skilled at arts far exceeding menial things such as dance. Yamcha started to tremble, his throat slowly constricting with the mounting apprehension, his entire body threatening to collapse under the new weight of morbid fear. Yamcha knew exactly what the ostensibly meaningless symbol signified.

The black of spades always meant death, and was only sent with that precise intent. Consequently, in this case, it represented a reaper of deadly consequence. It had been Vegeta's personal emblem from the first day Yamcha had met his ambiguous cousin. Apparently, the wedding gift had came with an expense...

His life.

Meanwhile, In The Bedroom...

As Bulma rest her head on her feathered pillow, she let out a sigh of relief. She was looking forward to the vast darkness of sleep, and the escape it's eternal void granted, where thoughts could not torment her any longer. Her body ached with dull, sore sensations, but her soul ached with desire. She hadn't escaped yet. Vegeta remained in her thoughts, even as drifted off to the realms of peaceful sleep...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bulma's head jerked up, her movements ruffling the sheets that still covered her body. She had heard a sound, almost like the faint breath of another being. An intruder. Her heart began to pound, her blood racing with the anxiety at discovering what remain in her bedchambers. It was still dark, notifying her that she hadn't slept long at all, but it did not comfort her. Whether or not she would be able to escape was of slim chance. She only wished that she hadn't locked the door earlier, if not as an easier means of escape, to let Yamcha rescue her. Damn!

"Who's there," she demanded, refraining from showing the fear that gripped at her.

"My Angel, do not fear me," a timber voice coaxed, as if reading her thoughts.

That voice, it was him. It was Vegeta, but how? Bulma simply couldn't understand how he had gotten here, in her room no less. Though what tormented her more was why?

"I'd be damned if I did," Bulma hissed, reluctant to show the desperate desire that enflamed her.

"Then perhaps," Vegeta implored, "You damn me as well."

"Wha- what do you mean," Bulma inquired, she was caught off guard by his confession.

"But then, who's to say desire would condemn my soul," he pondered, his eyes finding her own, penetrating the depths and barriers of her being.

"Would you forsake yourself to find out," Bulma murmured, her voice as soft as the deep breaths that expanded her chest rhythmically with the beat of her heart. She couldn't believe she had just said that!

"Yes," he admitted, "But would you?" his voice a soft whisper.

The question was simple, yet the answer to such an inquiry would be by far complex. Was she willing to rebel against the vows of eternal bondage? Could she? Consequences stretched past understanding, but compensation was evident within his onyx orbs. Could she renounce her love for another, if for only this one night? Bulma knew better, it was wrong, a complete blasphemy to her virtues, yet as the opportunity unveiled itself before her, she had a deep yearning to surrender to its will...To render her being to her deepest desire.

Was passion so strong?

As she gazed pensively into his dark depths, Bulma knew it was. With her gaze she reached out to him, willing herself to touch him, just as she knew he would return the caresses she offered him. To vocalize her acceptance was probably the most difficult thing Bulma ever had to accomplish, but she did,

"Yes," she answered, as her heart started pounding at the sound of her own voice.

He made no reply; the only notification that he had heard her was the steps he took towards her. Vegeta approached slowly, as if rushing would make her turn away. To regret the words she had just spoken. His whole body tensed, muscles straining against his velvety flesh, his dark eyes never leaving her gaze. Once at the foot of the bed, his hand reached out to her, stroking Bulma's face with his slender digits. At the very first skin contact, her eyes veiled themselves, simply reveling in his touch, digesting every sensation he provoked...every blissful feeling. With tenderness that could only be justified as a lover's caress, he stroked her lips, lulling her to whisper her approval. Her sapphire eyes danced with the passion that enflamed her soul, all evoked from the simple touch he offered. Light shivers began to stroke her spine, the pleasure of his touch piercing her flesh like thorns of the most exotic rose. Bulma's vision hazed with the overwhelming sensations that rocked her body, but she dare not close her eyes. Dare not risk his departure. Taking his hand within her own, she led him down to her, bringing him to lie by her side.

Submitting to the desire to stroke his face as he did hers, Bulma reached out her delicate hand, gently letting her dainty fingers trace the lines of his jaw, continuing to his full lips. His flesh felt like satin beneath the soft brushes of her fingers. A low purr vibrated within his chest, sending delightful chills about her body. He lay on his side, facing her as she continued her ministrations, granting her a devilish smirk as erotic reprisal.

Bulma didn't understand what willed her to make such drastic decisions, or what made her invite him to her bed. She felt as if she had no real control over herself, and that frightened her. All logical thoughts were crushed as his lips captured hers, slowly persuading her with the light pressure of the smooth flesh to grant him entrance. His tongue eased into her agape mouth like liquid sensuality, intimately tasting her. Lightly sucking on her bottom lip, he lured her to taste of him, to savor the sweet trace his being held.

Unlike so many other kisses she had shared with others, Bulma could not classify the manipulation of his tongue to be distasteful or uncertain. Everything he did was done with confidence and accuracy...an intimacy she had never experienced before. He progressed to lure her into the moment, invitingly suckling on her swollen lips, as well as caressing her tongue with his own, giving spectacular precision to tap into her desires.

Meanwhile, In The Living Room...

Yamcha shot up from the couch, his temples throbbing with his agitated pulse. His blood rushed through his veins, all the more making him wheeze with the overbearing agony. How had he missed it before? He wasn't sure, but it no longer mattered. Not even his most horrifying nightmares could compare to the morbid reality he now lived in. If only he misinterpreted the intentions of his nemesis...but despite his incessant hope, he knew Vegeta never made mistakes. He was a man of perfection, though Yamcha hated to admit it, and in the case of the present, he knew there was no escape.

Vegeta had never failed a mission, and there was little doubt he wouldn't hold that position. Yamcha just simply couldn't understand why he had waited this long. Why wait until he was happy? He knew the answer to that, the malicious bastard had the mind to cause him the most suffering possible, and how accurate Vegeta was, for Yamcha was sure he couldn't live without Bulma, knowing that he had been the cause for her untimely demise.

Gulping down the vile rising in his throat, he sighed deeply. Petty wishes that Vegeta had given him the gift filled his mind, yet he knew it was useless.

By giving Bulma the envelope, Vegeta clearly intended to take her life. Not Yamcha's.

Though Yamcha was sure that was set at a later date. A silent tear fled from his swollen eyes, cascading down his pale flesh like a shard of ice. Depression enveloped his being, swallowing his thoughts, letting him drown within the hate and sorrow that boiled within his heart. His eyes were clouded, granting him the distance he desired from reality. But his being was not allowed the peace he yearned for, as he heard a muffled noise coming from his bedroom. Yamcha's eyes shot open, immediately becoming alert with the concern that sobered his thoughts. Rushing to the door, he twisted at the knob, but consequently found himself still locked out. Screaming out, he pounded on the door, hoping that perhaps Bulma would respond.

No such luck.

Everything turned silent, the batter of his fists the only disturbance in the early hours of the morning. His heartbeat leaped with each second, praying that she was unharmed, but he had a distinct feeling something was amiss.

The small `eep' he had heard before was one of agony, he was sure, yet there were no more. Like a swift wave had crushed any remaining sounds, silence had ensued, leaving him in the darkness of uncertainty.

For he knew not, if breath still entered her lungs, or if she lay motionless at loss of life...

Vegeta always got the job done.