Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vigilantes ❯ Pt. 2 ( Chapter 2 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
I know I promised that this would be out in a week, and it is now months past. I'm so sorry. *prostrates herself in front of you* I'm not worthy. I had writers block. I have the plot outlined to the end for each of my stories and the motivation to write, but not the magic, if that makes sense. I have now picked back up all my stories, you'll (hopefully) be happy to know. And although I'm working on them each day, I just want to apologize one more time for the time it will inevitably take to get chapters out. I'm kind of old school about the way I write. I scrawl in a notebook with pen and then I type it up and then I edit and rewrite and edit...I can't just sit down at the computer and let loose. My writing process eats up time, and I'm sorry, but I am finally back in the game.
A word of caution to those sensitive to violence or sex, I do not shy away from it.
Remember, most parts, or `vignettes,' will be separated by varying chunks of time, although they will proceed forward in time, and not back. Only the very first vignette did.
And, as always, I don't own it.
Pt. II
“Fallen”
The bomb ticked a malevolent rhythm as Bulma recrossed her long legs and propped her chin on her fist.
“I wish you would just tell me what I want to know, Mr. Vanderbilt.”
The gangster broke out into a cold sweat and struggled against the ropes that bound him to his chair.
He wasn't going anywhere.
“I told you everything I know, Ms. Blue Menace! Gero made the guns. Red Ribbon stocks `em. That's all I know.”
A hulking figure emerged from behind her, an engraving against the inky darkness, striking a chord of terror through the goon.
“Strike two,” it said in a grating baritone.
“We really are being generous here, Mr. Vanderbilt,” Blue Menace commented drily, her soft voice chiming through the industrial storage room. “We know you have ties to both the Red Ribbon and the Osaku mob. We know you have made a name for yourself and climbed the ranks by killing your comrades and kidnapping and trafficking young girls. We also know that your the partner to a weapons specialist who is very close to Red Ribbon's heart--Dr. Cell. What I want you to tell me is whether or not Gero's most prized weapons are going to the 88's, and where we may find Cell to have a word with him. Is that too much to ask for sparing your life?”
“Are you crazy?” The thugs voice trembled, but he shook his head stubbornly. “I know how this works. I tell you, you kill me anyway. Oldest trick in the book.” He rolled his eyes. “I watch movies, too, ya know.”
The Blue Menace unfolded herself from the chair and stood lithely, taking slow steps toward the bound man as she stretched her arms lazily above her head. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Vanderbilt?”
His eyes widened, but he still managed a snort.
“Yeah, I know who you are. A pest. An annoyance to us guys who just work for a pretty penny off the records. You can kill a few of us at a time, but you can't touch Red Ribbon. You can't touch the Boss. He's got eighty eight crazy motherfuckers guarding him at every second of the day, and the two leaders are beyond badass. You don't stand a chance. Blow up our munitions plant, set fire to our weapons reserve. You still ain't getting anywhere, cuz you ain't reaching the Boss. He runs this city.”
The Blue Menace bent forward at the hips to gaze cooly at the gangster, giving Vegeta a full view of her derriere and curving, spread legs. He smirked, knowing the woman was just trying to goad him. She was giving him blue balls and she knew it, taking her time to get to know him while teasing and testing him. That was one thing he noticed right off the bat since they'd started dating--she was a walking contradiction. Day to day, whether teaching class or cooking dinner, she had no idea how beautiful she was. By night, at least on nights like these, she morphed into a saintly little vixen, strutting around in that too tight spandex and quite literally cutting men looks that could kill.
And it was all totally unintentional. Most of the women he had dated or slept with made a show of their beauty. It was an operation fastidiously executed. Bulma's beauty was an organic performance, a syncopated orchestra of giggles, spilled coffee, and tart shrewdness. When she was irritated with him, he wanted nothing more than to kiss the petulance right off her face. Other women were trite, their beauty identical and uninspired, their personalities dull, their conversation mind numbing, their upkeep tedious. He could bank on being quite bored with the woman before the date even began. His buddies ran a gamut of jokes about Vegeta's sexual preferences. They were in their 30's, and Vegeta made no indication of settling down. He was a top tier lawyer in a slick suit ordering high priced scotch and delivering only limited interest in women, and women were falling all over themselves to have at him. But Bulma inspired a totally different shade of feelings from him. Frankly, he was a little intimidated by it, but his impulsive passion towards her overrode it.
Bulma was an adventure; he never knew what would happen when they were together. Would she snort milk out her nose when they were having dinner and then laugh at his expense? Accidentally mistake his law documents for spare paper and cover them in lines and lines of chicken scratch algorithms on? Do the funky chicken in line for the bathroom at the bar, catching his eye and blushing scarlet until he swept over and pressed her up agains the wall, tasting her sweet mouth as she tried to explain herself and stopping her with a chuckle as he waved the line on? Bulma was genuine and he had never met another woman like her. And as she bent over the sweating thug, his pride swelled. When she suited up, she was terrifying and peerless. Kami's enigmatic magic was really something to behold. Sure, he had Piccolo Daimao's own juju on his side, but, in the way that Hell would always be undercut by Heaven, he had nothing on this Angel of Justice wagging her ass at him.
She was getting ballsy, this one. She always knew how to push his buttons in their everyday life and push him to the limit while they prowled the city. Driving his sports car recklessly during wild nights in the city, hang gliding and mountain climbing on weekend getaways, arguing and remaining impervious to coercion was his profession. All while inching closer to the end of his contract with Piccolo Daimao. They were all ways to test himself. And, yet, he was at a stalemate with her. Kami's prodigy was like the final piece to the puzzle.
“Let me tell you,” he overhead her murmur in the goon's ear, “exactly who I am, Mr. Vanderbilt. I am an Angel of Death sent to rid the world of the blight Red Ribbon has caused on peaceable folk and the scourge that they've funded. And when I say angel, I mean”--she--”sent by God himself.”
She picked up the thick cross and chain off his chest to observe it. “You are a Pharisaic, Mr Vanderbilt. You wear your cross by day and send mothers and daughters into prostitution, addiction, assault and death by night. Your mistress buys fur coats with the money gleaned from violently slain business owners. You have no concept of the sanctity of the spirit, Mr. Vanderbilt, and I was sent here to remind you and every agent of Red Ribbon that you are not the highest power. And unlike you, Dr. Cell, the 88's, or your boss...you were not endowed with the powers of God. And unlike my pal Black Vengeance here”--Vegeta snorted at the pet name and promised her a spanking later--”you weren't advocated by Hell, either. You are posers, Mr. Vanderbilt. And like God, the Devil doesn't trifle with amateurs. We are Justice and Vengeance, and you are a message. You have sixty seconds to escape the bombs we've strapped to the frame of this building. Tell Dr. Cell that we're truly unaggrieved over the loss of his weapons tonight, and we will speak about restitution later.”
Bulma's katana cut through his ropes with a clear note, and before the thug could blink, the two avengers were sprinting away.
A dim red light drew him from his reverie and he focused in on it. “I need my fucking glasses, man.”
00:48
“Oh, shit!” He bolted upwards, ropes falling around his feet as he stumbled away, thanking God for his life.
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Vegeta and Bulma sprinted at a dead run towards the far wall, flinging the heavy door open upon reaching it and dashing down the fluorescent lit, concrete hall. Grinning goofily, Bulma cut in front of him, sending him a flirty wink.
“Oh no you don't.” He grabbed her at the waist and threw her over his shoulders, slapping the ass that struggled next to his head playfully as he continued to shoot down the hall.
He pushed the last door open with hinge-ripping force and sat her down on the metal balcony. She didn't struggle as he pinned her up against the wall, gripping her wrists behind her back and tilting her head up towards his lips. Her mouth parted and her eyelids became heavy.
“I won,” he purred.
“Hardly!” She wiggled out from his grip and pulled two palm sized capsules from her belt. “It ain't over `til the fat lady sings.” Tossing them over the rail, they watched as they sailed down and then exploded upon impact. Through a cloud of dissipating smoke, two motorcycles appeared--one wide, black and chrome, the other sleek and blue.
Vegeta glared at her in alarm, a vein beginning to pulse on his forehead. “Is this what you've been working on? What is this voodoo?”
She laughed and tugged his hair teasingly, earning a silent glower. “Ouji Company made top of the line automobiles. Capsule Corp. advanced the science of technology. What, you think just because I can't make coffee in the morning without spilling it on myself that I can't invent previously inconceivable technologies?” She gave him a cheeky grin. “And, yes, I wasn't lying when I said I couldn't go out to dinner with you last week. Those,” she waved towards the bikes loosely, the capsules blasted into shrapnel, “were hard work. Also highly secret. Now come on!” She sailed over the railing gracefully and landed the 40 feet lightly on her feet.
As she seated herself on her motorcycle, she heard Vegeta's boots hit the the ground with the dry cackle of gravel and the zing of his withdrawing grappling hook.
“You know how I detest long falls,” he groused.
“What a poor sport. Get going, old man!” She revved her engine, leaving him with a smile and a cloud of dust.
“Hmph.” He watched her zig zag out of sight in disgruntlement before kicking the bike to life and peeling out, just as the building behind him exploded in to a wall of flames.
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Bulma was shaking her hair out, helmet gripped between two pale hands, when Vegeta idled into the parking lot of her apartment complex. He quickly shut off the bike, pulling the helmet off his head as he slid off the bike, his hair springing upwards in its defiance of gravity. Bulma hid a smile as he glared at her. She loved his one of a kind, grumpy brand of affection. Sure he was charming, and smart, and sexy as hell...but she got the idea he had no tolerance for things that couldn't personally advance him. From what she could work out of him, girlfriends included.
And yet, since their first date, they had just seemed to naturally intrude into each others life. Although Vegeta had his own place in a ritzier neighborhood a few blocks from his law firm, he ended up dropping by her place more often than not. She didn't mind, which surprised her as she thought on it, considering she had settled a little bit into the role of a foul bachelorette the past few years. She had been to his place once or twice anyway, and it sat, big and empty, like no one lived there. Which confused her. The guy was a lawyer with a sports car; he would regularly pick up an expensive brand of wine or scotch before coming over for dinner. And scotch wasn't cheap. Just what did the guy value? Why would he value her? She couldn't figure him out.
Why was someone so delectable, so successful, interested in someone as frumpy as her? She was a common sense challenged introvert. And that's where her suspicions snaked in. She hadn't forgotten who he worked for. To suspect an employee of Hell didn't have ulterior motives would be naive. And wanting to jump his bones didn't make her any more daft.
She was not only stupidly attracted to him--the evening she opened the door to find him soaked to the bone by the pouring rain, his hair flattened around his head, pressed against her doorway looking harried and adorably grumpy...she had just wanted to peel that white button up off his thick, bronze shoulders and pull him to her couch to fall on top of her...or the weekend they were staking out the west side of the city for Red Ribbon activity, and he, pressed up against the brick, poured in black latex with a slender black cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his eyebrow cocked in thought...she was finding it hard not to fall for him more each day. She felt comfortable around him, but what's more, she felt like he truly enjoyed the very idiosyncrasies of hers that always intimidated others. Their work loads were equivalent, and so there was no pressure to be filling up each others lives; and yet, they were. Like any girl, she was a sucker for dark, sexy men, except this one was a reality and not a fantasy. This one was one out of millions of single men that could empathize with both her work life and her secret life. Who understood what it was like to lose family and future and to harbor sickening, writhing resentment for the underworld that made it so. They were both ensnared in divine contracts that profited off of their encroaching hatred for Red Ribbon. And somehow, by seemingly utter coincidence, they had spilled out into each others laps, and then not only pooled resources, but found comfort from everyday life between each other. They, finally, had met their matches.
And although she should be wary of anyone who was aware of her half life, she felt nothing but safe with him. She didn't know that that was a legitimate excuse for fooling around with the Devil's mercenary, or that Kami would approve. She came with baggage and a huge burden--a request from God to take down a titan who had their hands in so many twisted and shady schemes that God had noticed its toll. God had demanded retribution with a purge--and what better help than Hell's right hand? It seemed that, this time, Hell and Heaven were in agreement...even if they didn't know it. Who was she to try and stop Vegeta, or reject the one person in this Kami-forsaken world who could help her? They worked so well together it hurt.
She only wished she had knew him sooner. After Red Ribbon murdered her parents, she had languished alone in the clutches of a slew of negligent foster parents and hardened educators. One afternoon, as she threw her book bag on the threadbare carpet of her small bedroom, the thump barely distinguishable over her foster parent's shrill argument, she had gravitated toward the window, peering through the cold, clouded glass at the gray sky, spitting flurries at the tops of other apartment buildings. Standing out against the dull cityscape was the Red Ribbon logo atop one of the tallest skyscrapers in the metro...and under it, her father's Capsule Corp. design and the Ouji Co. sickle insignia. And, like that, her simmering hatred had just boiled over.
The next day she hopped off the metro bus to march up the steps of the University. She had met with an advisor and insisted on an application, and to his increasing shock--and ignoring his insistence that she get back to high school before they declared her truant--easily aced the entrance exams. As the Chair of the Physics department shook her hand reverentially as they gossiped about the newest discoveries in particle science, she had felt something creep over her. Kami had turned his sleepy eye toward her.
Later that night, as she leaned over in bed to switch her lamp off, a wide, blank gaze shining from a dark face met hers from behind her window. Shrieking, Bulma grasped at her lamp, yanking it from the wall and heaving it at him just as a voice chimed through her skull, stilling her fear.
“Don't be afraid, child. Go with Mr. Popo and I will explain everything.”
The lamp shattered against the wall. “Wh-what?” She stammered.
Her window opened with a dry hiss. “Go with Mr. Popo, child. This is God, and I need to speak with you.”
And despite the violent pounding of her heart, the sheets slid to the floor around her feet, and she was moving toward the window, and looking out. The stout black creature moved closer toward her, hand out; the carpet he stood on fluttering beneath him. There was a good sixteen stories below to plummet to her death. Bulma grit her teeth and moved forward slowly, feeling it out. The carpet wiggled beneath her fingers. Gasping in surprise, her hold on the window ledge slipped. Her body wobbled precariously as she gripped the fringe on the carpet, her feet hooked on the window sill as her body slid forward, with nothing but air to support the rest of her. The wind tore at her shirt and numbed her belly. Her shins throbbed, scraped raw by the window sill. She craned her neck and looked at Mr. Popo in panic. His blank expression was unwavering. Slowly, he lowered his hand out to her.
“No! I'll fall!” She tried screaming at him.
Silently, unmoved, he offered his hand.
That was the second time her life changed.
She let go of the fringe and flung her arm out towards his, grasping it on the first try, the frigid wind drying her hands of their panicked clamminess. The force of her frenzied horror propelled her onto the carpet to kneel, sucking in burning wintry air at Mr. Popo's sandaled feet.
It seemed like just days ago that they had soared above the clouds to Kami's Lookout, that she had drank the Sacred Water at Korin's Tower and laid on her back in the grass as Popo murmured to the flowers while watering them, and Kami explained divine justice and the Heavenly Rule Book, preparing her for a carefully mapped, divinely legal justice. Kami had never mentioned that Hell was on the same path. Did he even know? She loved and trusted Kami dearly, but God's distraction was partly the reason Red Ribbon had surged out of control. The slow and infinite passing of time isolated him and dulled his senses. He would have to pass his title off on somebody, soon.
Was there more to Vegeta's mission than a job for Piccolo Daimao? Was there some sort of sick scheme he was tricking her into to score another point for Hell in the endless competition between Below and Above? Vegeta certainly had a way with her. What if he was faking his attraction; what if his allure was part of his sinister magic? What if he was here to take her and Heaven down?
Vegeta's hair promptly resettled and he strode towards her. Her smirk at his expense faded. She hadn't ever really even had a serious relationship. She had never found anyone she could relate to, and after her hard adolescence and her fostering with Kami, she was chock full of too much self assurance to just settle on someone. And here came Vegeta, this dark and sultry man with a mission from the divine and a family ripped away just like her. It was too good to be true. He'd been pursuing her for a few months now, and she couldn't think of a time when she had felt uncertain about his intentions toward her. He was enticingly frank, intolerant of bullshit while still being gracious towards others. He certainly didn't act like a minion. As the man in question stopped in front of her and growled lightly, she found herself searching his face for answers.
Noticing the thoughtful change in her expression, Vegeta resisted grumbling and stood still under her gaze.
“What are your intentions?” She blurted.
His eyes bulged. “What?”
“Why do you like me?” She reprised.
He scowled. “What's not to like about you?”
“Well,” she contested, placing one hand on her hip, “how do I know your motives are pure?”
Vegeta snorted and folded his arms across his chest, a mannerism of his when he was enduring something unpleasant. “I've told you before, I have a score to settle, and that's between the Demon King and Red Ribbon. The rest of my life is my own to control. There's never been any mention of you between us. I'm beginning to think you're searching for any excuse to get rid of me. Just tell me if you want to part ways and we'll be done!” He barked.
Bulma's brows dipped delicately into a frown. “Vegeta, this mission is very important to both Kami and me. My continued survival is key. Can you really fault me for being cautious?”
Vegeta let out a forceful huff of air and his gaze slid sideways. Bulma's heart jumped in her throat as she sense him retreating.
He had never felt so conflicted by a woman before. Here he was, the Vegeta Ouji, chasing after a girl that was so on again off again that he was beginning to doubt his sanity. “Just spit it out. Do you want this to just be business or will you relax so we can just enjoy life together?”
Bulma blinked. The night had settled into a contained hush. Only the distant sounds of traffic filling the silence between them in the cradle of the trees lining her parking lot.
“Do you mean, you want this to be something serious?” She asked softly.
To her total bewilderment, Vegeta blushed pink against the dark. His feet shifted on the pavement and he peered down at the darkness between them stiffly.
“For Kami's sake, woman,” he snapped, “how much clearer can I make it?”
Something warm blossomed inside Bulma as his statement reverberated inside her. An unfamiliar joy wrapped around her belly and she couldn't help but smile goofily in response. Vegeta just looked on uneasily.
“Vegeta Ouji,” Bulma intoned as she stepped against him and pressed her lips lightly against his own. “Will you stay with me tonight?”
His eyes flicked over her face and quickly relaxed, leveling a smirk at her that heated her through. Loosely gripping her chin between his finger and thumb, he leaned down and parted her lips with his tongue, generously and languorously sweeping her mouth until Bulma's knees went weak. He felt her hands grip his shoulders, and he rested his own on her waist, settling his forehead on her own. Scrutinizing ebony met ocean blue.
“Bulma Briefs,” he murmured, “I'd be beyond fucking delighted.”
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Bulma's back slammed up against brick as Vegeta pressed her against the outside wall of her apartment, their hands frantically exploring the other's body. His mouth was feverish and silky as his tongue plunged into her mouth as he worked her back zipper down. His rough hands met hot soft skin and he grunted happily into her mouth. Bulma couldn't stop touching him. She raked her fingers through his thick hair, lashing her tongue against his as her palms rounded his shoulders and skimmed over the ridges of his abs.
His hands brushed over her breast and she shivered, her nipples hardening under latex and heat pooling between her legs. He hooked his fingers in the neck of her suit and softly trailed it off her shoulders, and just as the chill night air hit her, Vegeta's tongue breached her mouth. He sucked down the tight white skin of her neck and dragged his tongue over her collar bone, nipping the dip between them with his teeth.
His thumbs flicked over her hardened nipples, and Bulma let out a breath as she unconsciously rubbed her thighs together. His hand trailed upward and clenched in her hair, softly yanking her head back as he forced his thigh between her legs. Bulma saw only the gutters, the shelter of the trees, and a full iridescent moon under lowered lids. His tongue explored the curvature of her ear, his hot breath making her painfully sensitive just as he rocked his thigh back and forth against her. He skimmed the fabric down further off her shoulders and her arms slid out of it with a sensuous hiss. Bulma's mouth parted in anticipation, and he stared at her predatorily before baring her breasts to the cool night world.
Cupping them in his thick hands, he stared at her as he slowly licked the tip of her pebbled nipple. Bulma let on an anguished little cry as she ground against his thigh, fisting his hair and pressing herself harder against him. She was wet, sloppily wet. She was so sensitive it hurt. Vegeta continued lightly flicking her nipples with his tongue, and Bulma wound her arms above her head, barely recognizing when Vegeta tugged her suit further down her body and around her hips. Just as his teeth closed around her nipple, Vegeta's finger surged into her hot slick entrance, and she cried out.
“You're so tight,” he breathed against her ear, and Bulma felt herself clench in response. He growled and lifted her up, hooking the back of her knee on his arm with more room for his finger to rub against the sweet spot inside her.
“Oh, Vegeta,” she moaned, thrusting her hips against his hand. “I want you.”
He squeezed her nipple, earning a sharp hiss as he introduced another finger inside her, stretching her. Bulma bit at her bottom lip and arched her back, clawing at his shoulders.
“You need to be naked. Now,” she demanded, feebly searching for the zipper to his own suit. Vegeta chuckled softly against her mouth and slowly, regretfully, pulled his fingers from her core. Bulma couldn't help but let out a whine of disappointment. He gently set her leg down and backed away, smirking all the while as she straightened, pressed up against the cold brick with her suit hanging from her hips. That's when her breath hitched, as Vegeta slowly tucked his fingers under the hem of his suit top and peeled it off with painstaking slowness. Her mouth went dry and she clenched her thighs together again. Just as the shirt revealed a set of mouth watering abs, it stopped, and he curled his arms behind his back and pulled up at his top, tight black spandex sliding off and revealing wide, smooth pectorals. As he tugged the suit off his arms, his arms bulged with the effort, thickly corded and popping with a weight lifters dedicated effort. Before he could toss the suit aside, she was pressed against him, winding her fingers between his slender waist and the waist of his spandex while nipping at his throat. Vegeta, already rock hard, thickened painfully at the feeling of her chest smashed against his own.
“Fuck me,” she hissed.
Before she knew it, he had grasped her under her thighs to straddle and hang from him as he fiddled with the door knob.
“What the fuck!” He hollered, stiffening.
Perplexed, Bulma stared at him as he looked down at his feet, balancing her easily against the door with one arm.
“What?” Bulma exclaimed.
“A cat!” He spat. Bulma glanced down and, indeed, a silky black kitten wove itself between Vegeta's legs as it purred approvingly.
Bulma giggled. “Did the kitten scare you, Mr. Vengeance?”
His head snapped up and he glared at her. “You have something claw at your legs with your pants half down and tell me you wouldn't be startled.” Regaining his composure as the kitten meowed below them, Vegeta's hands slid down to her ass and groped as he stared at her intently. “Now how the fuck do I get in your house.”
“Testy, aren't we?” She teased as she felt for the key on the inside of her boot. Vegeta growled, but she ground against his erection and took his earlobe between her teeth as she slid the key into the door knob behind her, and Vegeta quieted under her attention. He shifted so that his opposite arm pinned her to the door and roughly traced the cleft between her thighs with other. Bulma moaned and mindlessly turned the door knob, spilling them inside her kitchen. Yowling as it was tumbled between their stumbling legs, the kitten dove under the darkness of the kitchen table.
“Damn cat,” she heard Vegeta grumble as he yanked her suit the rest of the way off her while balancing her on his thigh. His hands quickly replaced latex as his fingers delved into her folds, quickly finding and teasing her clit.
“I've never seen that cat before,” she gasped as she squirmed in his arms, gripping his shoulders and rolling her head against the wall in absorbed pleasure.
He plunged a finger inside her as he hoisted her back up and made his way down the hall gracefully before spilling her out onto the bed.
Bulma looked up at him in a sultry sprawl, her legs relaxed and wide open. Vegeta suppressed a growl at the sight. Her curls spilling from her head, she licked her lower lip and slowly eased her fingers down the length of her body to rest against her nether lips.
“Vegeta,” she purred, “take off your clothes now.”
His member throbbed achingly. The little minx was moving her fingers in slow circles over her wet clit, its sweet pink readiness clear in the moonlight. He narrowed his eyes at her and inwardly promised her punishment, untying his boots while fixing her with a smoky, intimidating stare and then sliding the spandex over his thick, muscled hips and stepping out of it. His long, thick member sprang free and hung heavily, pointing upward between his legs. Bulma gaped prettily.
“Too much for you?” He said, gripping it at the base as he strode slowly to the bed and rested one knee heavily on her mattress. Bulma's belly fluttered and her core tightened with anticipation.
“Mr. Vengeance,” she breathed, “you could never be too much for me.”
He leaned over her as he nestled his hand beneath her head, his compact hips and chest and his spray of hair filling up her vision just as his member nudged her lips open, which warmly welcomed him in.
“Ms. Menace,” he purred as he folded his fingers between her own and mashed their hands into the pillow above her head, “you haven't seen nothing yet.” He smirked right as her lips opened in a repartee and plunged into her. She rewarded him with a gasp, her eyes rolling back as she accommodated his size. Vegeta slowly drew back, until Bulma whimpered, and then leaned forward, capturing her lips in his as he moved gently within her. He felt her silky legs wrap around his hips, her heels digging into his buttocks as he thrust into her, urging them on. He gently untangled his hand from hers and ran his hand down her side and up again to grip her breast. He took her nipple between his teeth lightly and flicked it with his tongue as he began drawing circles inside her, grinding against her with every thrust.
Something snapped inside Bulma and she began pumping against him wildly, sinking her fingers into his hair at the base of his neck.
“Vegeta,” she moaned.
He squeezed her nipples, cupping a breast in each hand, and she cried out and tightened around him. He felt her inner walls began to shudder and felt his own release coming. He leaned down again, resting his forehead against hers, cradling her face in his hand and kissing her deeply as she cried out into his mouth, bucking furiously against him. Her violent orgasm milked him, and he cried out her name as he spilled what felt like gallons of his seed inside her.
They gasped for breath, entangled in one another. As the world came back into focus and their hearts slowed their race, Bulma's eyes slowly met his own. Black met blue and waited.
“I'm sorry I came so fast,” she finally admitted. “It's been awhile.”
They breathed in each other's hot breath. Vegeta's body began to feel heavy on top her, and intuitively, he readjusted, setting his weight off her. Kissing her, they chuckled awkwardly into each others mouth.
Exploring her mouth languidly, he brushed her sides with the back of his hand, his knuckles rough against her quilt.
“Good thing I brought back up,” he said, as he ran his hands down her thighs, spreading her apart so that he could dip his head between them.
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IV. “The Toll That Pays Forward”
Bulma absently stirred the chicken fried rice in her wok as she listened to Vegeta grunt into his cell phone at her kitchen table. Reaching behind her and into the fridge, she carefully balanced the soy sauce, a handful of eggs, and a wooden spoon in one bent arm. While she set them carefully down on the counter, one egg haphazardly rolled off and splattered against her shoe. Grumbling, she shuffled over to the paper towels and swiped at the mess on her shoe as she overheard Vegeta ask, “It's a boy? Why in the hell would you name him that?” She could hear Radditz yelling at Vegeta through the receiver, and Vegeta grouse, “Yeah, sure, bring him over Saturday. Bulma's making sushi. See you then.”
Cursing as hot oil splattered onto her arm, she pushed the rice around in the pan before turning off the burner and scooping it onto plates. She sat them on the table just as Vegeta shuffled some papers and tucked them into his brief case, setting it on the floor none too gently and massaging his temples. He began shoveling food in his mouth with gusto and Bulma quickly attacked.
“So? So? What did they name the baby? How big is he? How was her labor? Is everyone doing okay?”
His eyes briefly met hers skeptically before they became absorbed once again in his food. Shoveling the last bit into his mouth, the chair scraped the hard wood as he stood up and made his way over to the stove for seconds. Bulma waited patiently. She was used to his reserved and smoothly cynical nature by now.
Vegeta snorted and returned to the table, unbuttoning and rolling up his shirt sleeves.
“Radditz Jr., of course. The self absorbed bastard. His poor girlfriend never stood a chance. I don't know, average weight, average everything. They're coming over Saturday.”
“Sushi. I heard.” She deadpanned. “Yay!” She squealed. “Does this mean we can play poker again?”
“No!” Vegeta's fist pounded on the table and he glared at her. “Never again.”
“Aw,” she whined. “Don't be butthurt. I let you guys keep your cash.”
“You have an uncanny knack for card games and I am not losing $400 to you again.”
Bulma looked deflated. He almost laughed, but he didn't want to piss her off.
“Fine,” she grumbled. “I'll just play with the baby then.”
He smirked, but kept his head lowered over his meal.
After a moment of finishing their meal in silence, she began scraping her remnants of rice into the trash can and rinsing off her plate, when he heard her mumble something.
“What?” He snapped, absently thinking of the paperwork he needed to file tomorrow.
“I said,” Bulma quipped, before clearing her throat. “I said, have you ever thought of having children?”
His last bite caught in his throat and he swallowed painfully, glancing up and meeting her nervous gaze.
“Why.” He asked flatly.
Her brow furrowed and she slammed the dishwasher door shut. “Never mind then.”
He frowned and rose, advancing toward her. “No. Why?”
“It's just a question. We're unmarried thirty somethings, it's natural to wonder about. I was just curious what your take was on them,” she explained in a defensive rush.
She averted her eyes but he commanded her gaze back with her chin.
They stared at each other in silence.
Was she hinting something to him? They had been together for a better part of a year now and were living together. In sin, he thought smugly. Never had sinning felt so good, not even when he sold his soul to Piccolo Daimao for revenge.
“There was never anyone I cared to think about children with until you,” he told her roughly, and her expression softened. He held her gaze and caressed her jaw with his thumb. It was his turn to look sidelong. “Not until after our mission,” he confided gruffly, before pulling away. “That is my first priority, and should be yours. No fun until we're free from our contracts.”
He turned and shrugged back into his jacket, grabbing up his briefcase. “Now, don't you have to leave for class?”
She cast a forlorn look at the clock on the oven and then back at him. “Yes,” she admitted weakly.
He made his way across the living room and opened the front door before he turned impassively toward her. “I'll be at Broadway finishing this case. I'll see you after class.” He turned and shut the door softly behind him.
Bulma stood frowning in the glaring light of the kitchen, wrapping her arms protectively around her.
“”Then what are we, if not `fun?'” She asked her empty apartment.
&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&
“Cell is dead,” Black Justice informed harshly. “Gero is dead. Hundreds of your minions are dead. Your weapons operations have been obliterated; your warehouses, leveled; your connections, severed; your stockholders, turn tail. What chance do you really think you have? This is the end of the line for you. You might as well tell me where the Boss is and take advantage of the chance to run. Otherwise,” the superhero freaks upwards curling smile bobbed in his blackening field of vision, “in a minute, you, too, are just dead.”
The goon struggled to hold to consciousness. He was leaking blood out all over and he wasn't gonna last much longer. That's what he got for trying to make a name for himself and operate this shitty weapons dealership. He had always heard it was curtains once these superhero freaks got a hold of you, except for the few battered, terrified messengers who wound up prostrated in front of the Boss before he ended them.
He wasn't sure if he was really gonna let him go, but if he could get out of this one, he was gonna damn well try. He didn't want to be in front of the Boss and he sure as hell didn't want to be around when Black Vengeance and Blue Menace dismantled the whole operation. He needed to get to a hospital, and then he needed to grab his girlfriend and hit the road. Eh, screw his girlfriend.
“Alright,” he said through a thick throat. “I'll talk. But you gotta stick to your word.”
“Of course.”
He spit a gob of blood on the floor beside him, and then straightened, shaking his oily hair out of his eyes. “Look, you ain't getting anywhere. It don't matter if you take everyone and everything out. You can't get past the 88's, and if you did, you AIN'T gettin' past 17 and 18. They're unbeatable. Trust me, you could drop a nuke on `em and they wouldn't blink. They guard the Boss. So the Boss ain't goin' nowhere. The Boss don't tell no one where he is except them. And so you got nowhere to go. But I'll tell ya what. If you let me go, on the honor of your spandex, or whatever. I know how you superhero types are about honor.”
“On my honor.”
All the goon could see from him was a stern mouth in a hard jaw and black, black eyes. The goon fought down dread and continued.
“The Boss masquerades as a Red Ribbon employee. He ain't a CEO or nothin'. That's how he keeps himself safe and outta the spotlight, ya know? You never know who you're talking to there at Red Ribbon, it could be him, it could be just a janitor. Now, it's said that he don't go nowhere without 17 and 18 following him, but you ain't gonna see them. He's smarter than that. But it's said he's got a good friend, a friend that ain't a part of Red Ribbon. He works on the outside, in the media, rumor has it. And he's the only other asshole who has as much power as the Boss. He controls the media, he pays off the cops...he's the arm of this whole operation. The Boss is just the brains.”
“Go on.”
“You could freeze all Red Ribbon's assets, you could wipe all us mafiosos out. But he's got this man on the inside, a real smart businessman masquerading as a playboy. Ain't nobody think anything of him, except who he's fucking. And this man knows about his cover, his army of 88`s, what he's got his hands on. That's all I know. Now you gonna let me go?”
He had to get someone to patch him up quick, then he'd hit the bank and beat the hell out of here.
That's when he saw Vengeance leisurely pull a sinister blade from his belt, a teethed scythe that glinted ominously, in tandem with his toothy grin, both glinting in the streetlight filtering in from the large industrial windows.
“But--but, you promised!”
The figure, just a shadow against the windows, put a slender cigarette to his mouth. The dry tick of a flint sparking sounded throughout the room, and the tip of the cigarette grew a fierce blue ember. Sweat dripped into the goon's eyes, and he began rocking back and forth, trying desperately to dislodge the ropes.
“You made the wrong assumption about me. You assumed I'm just some run of the mill vigilante in costume.” An ephemeral cloud of smoke lazed around him as he stood rakishly against the shadows. “You assumed I had honor.” His savage grin filled up the goon's vision. “But all Hell's got is pride.”
The scythe plunged into the goon with a thick force and overwhelming anguish bloomed in his side. It was quickly trumped by the blue fire licking around Black Vengeance and beginning its excruciating crawl up his feet, fiery pain tracing paisley patterns up his pants. Pain became all, he became pain...
“The Devil told me if I saw you, Baby, to give you a more personal welcoming into the Afterlife. See you in Hell,” the man in the mask said, the pinpoint of the cigarette blazing momentarily in the dark as he dragged on it, before the goon's screams racked the building.
&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&
Vegeta drew from the spiced cigarette with need and then flicked the butt to the gravel before squishing its tiny hellfire out with his boot. He was damned lucky Bulma was a genius and had considered concealment technology on their bikes, or else they would have been found out by now. All their equipment and suits were outfitted with sound and vision-proofed `bubbles', which was a gift, not only to their mission, but to their neighbors at this early hour. His damned motorcycle engine was still ringing in his ears.
He automatically glanced around cautiously before he opened the back door, peeling off his mask and running his fingers through his hair. He sighed as his belt opened with a click and he sat it on the counter. He lifted his Aldebaran over his head and sat it carefully on the counter when he was startled by the fridge closing. He glanced up.
Bulma stood in the doorway of the kitchen like a waif. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders and her oversized night shirt hung to her knees. She surveyed him quietly, a steaming mug clasped in her hands.
“Would you like some tea?” She asked softly.
After a moment, he nodded. She went to the cupboard and pulled out another mug, filling it quietly with water and dropping a ball of tea into it as he stepped out of his boots and capsulized it all. He jumped when he felt her cool thumb trail softly over the sharp curve of his cheek.
“You have blood spatter on you. Rough night?”
“Yes,” he admitted gruffly.
Her hand continued trailing down, over the planes of his chest and abs before settling into the dip between his hip and groin.
“Did you miss me?”
“I always miss you,” she smiled up at him warmly.
He jerked his head toward the bathroom. “Come with.”
She followed behind him and settled onto the ceramic toilet lid as he stripped off his boxer briefs and stepped into the shower before turning it on.
“So?” She asked him, as the scent of bar soap wafted around her.
He grunted, barely audible over the shower spray.
“How did it go?”
After a minute, the shower shut off and the curtain screeched open, unveiling a dripping hard body. Bulma suppressed the urge to lick the droplets cascading down his member, and met his eyes. He tossed the towel over his head and began rubbing furiously, but not before shooting her a knowing smirk. He carelessly toweled off the rest of his body and threw the towel into the hamper, feet slapping on the wood floor as he made his way to their bedroom.
“Cell is dead. He met his end at the end of my Aldebaran.”
He heard Bulma suck in air and then sigh in the dark before settling on the bed.
“And Baby?”
The dresser drawer clacked closed and she heard the wisp of fabric as he pulled on some boxer briefs and a cotton t shirt.
He sat beside her, the bed caving around his weight.
“He admitted to drug and weapons trafficking after a rough fist fight. Once I subdued him, he traded his life for information. He didn't leave with it though.”
“Providing weapons that kill innocents and drugs that wreak havoc on communities is the least of his crimes,” Bulma issued harshly. “How about child pornography and serially sexually assaulting and murdering women, for starters?” Bulma let out a forceful sigh. “So Cell is dead. I can't believe Baby talked. Did he have anything helpful to say?”
“All he could tell me was the Boss masquerades as some schmuck employee at Red Ribbon. He also has a friend, wouldn't you know. Some businessman playboy is his right hand. And evidently this guy knows all the grease.”
Bulma frowned. “That's intriguing.” She rested her head on her fist. “No matter how deep we get, no matter what top advisers we take out, no one ever gives up information on their operation. Can we trust him?”
“We've made huge strides in the last year. It's only time before we start planning our attack on the 88's. If we can't wiggle out any more details about the Boss or this co-conspirator, whether or not the information is reliable, then we'll just meet them head on. We've come this far with the powers of Kami and Piccolo at our backs. We might leave with a few scratches, but it's only time now.”
“You're being overconfident,” she argued. “The man hasn't built an empire of drug lords, media outlets, prostitution rings and child labor for 20 years without excelling at his defense. This is going to take some more consideration and strategy.”
Vegeta sighed in derision and ran his hands over his face before leaning over to pin her under his weight.
“Stop talking,” he murmured against her mouth as he sucked at her lower lip.
“We're going to have to be very, very careful, Vegeta, we can't just rush into this convinced we're undefeatable.”
He pulled her shirt up over her head and left it there, descending down her body as she huffed and wrestled to get it off her head. “Vegeta!” She scolded him with mirth.
He ran his fingernails lightly up the inside of her thighs, and she stilled. He leaned in and pulled the crotch of her pink panties to the side and sucked softly at the crown of her clit.
“I told you not to talk, woman.”
“I love it when you talk into it.” Bulma stifled a moan, writhing against the quilt.
“Well, that's too bad, `cuz I don't have too much to say,” he teased.
Bulma growled. “Get to work, sidekick.”
“I think,” he drawled, flipping her over with ease to straddle his thighs, “that I'm deserving of some work, myself, tonight.”
Bulma rolled her eyes, but with his help, tugged his underwear down his hips and lowered her slick core over him, rubbing a wet trail over his hardening cock.
“I want cinnamon bagels waiting for me in the morning, then.”
Vegeta softly growled and tugged her hair. “Just ride me, woman, and I'll see what I can do.”
Delicately, Bulma raised her hips and settled onto him, his cock helpfully braced in his fist. They both let out a sigh as she slowly slid down his length, and once he was all the way in, she dropped to rest on his chest, her soft hands clutching his clean scented t shirt.
“I love you,” she murmured, her breath a hot tickle against his neck.
The goons thoughts came back to him, the wishy washy, mission-oriented gift of telepathy that Piccolo had bestowed on him, like an old tv that had to be hit to work right. The insipid, beautiful woman the goon had shacked up with in a townhouse surrounded by palms, the embittered wife and son on the North side who he occasionally threw cash at to keep quiet.
As Bulma leisurely rocked against him, Vegeta thought back to his encounter with the goon. Why did Kami let these sick fucks live, breed, breathe? A wave of resolve curled around him. As Bulma began picking up the pace, soft little pants at harmony with his hips as he began to buck against her, he knew what he had to do. Destiny be damned.
&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&
Kitty sprawled sleepily in Bulma's lap as she scrawled one last comment on a stack of papers she was grading. The cat's tail flicked against Bulma's knee in irritation as Bulma sat the last paper on the end table and reached down to pick up the newspaper. Bulma distractedly petted her as she snapped the newspaper open, and the cat sunk into contentment with a light purr.
Bulma's eyes glanced up at the clock. “About fifteen more minutes and Vegeta will be home, Kitty.” The pleased vibrations intensified under Bulma's hand and she began scouring the newspaper again. Weather, mayor up for reelection, new construction going up downtown.
Bulma's eyes trailed disinterestedly over the op-ed pieces when she backed up, thoughts stalling.
In the last section, an opinion piece on the new spokesman for City Bank and a key investiture in Red Ribbon...
“A former minor league baseball player turned businessman, the city's newest eligible bachelor is swimming in connections and wealth....
`If the right lady appears, well then, I'll take notice. But for now I'm focusing on my partnership between the government and Red Ribbon Enterprises.'
Until then, ladies, unless your knee deep in the accounting firm of Red Ribbon, don't hold your breath for this eligible bachelor of West City.”
To the left was a black and white photo of a handsome plutocrat, his thick black hair in a crest over his charming smile. Not as handsome as Vegeta, she thought absently. There was just the hint of a scar that stretched over his left eye, like a well mended seam. It did nothing to detract from his good looks, except for the cunning glint in his eye as he shook hands with the top financier of Red Ribbon.
“Bingo,” Bulma breathed.
