Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Waiting (revised) ❯ Part 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ or any of the characters seen in the show, manga, movies, etc. But in the twisted world of my mind…well, that's a different story.

A/N: Alright guys, there are a few things you should know before you read this. First and foremost, THIS HAS LEMON! So if that is not your cup of tea, I suggest you turn back now. Second of all, this is a MAJOR alternate universe fic, and it's a one-shot, though I broke it up into parts. Just in case you all get a little confused, in this story, Yamcha is the ruler, king, whatever of a powerful desert planet, Vegeta is still a prince, and Frieza's a tyrant trying to war with Vegeta-sei. I know it's a little far-fetched, and some people might be slightly out of character, but please bear with me. This is the first lemon I've written, and although I was tempted to just write a scene and be done with it, I decided to put a little (actually, a huge) background story with it. Hope you like.

Acknoledgments: Thanks Ember for the support and motivation, and thank you Lady Kylandra for your wonderful beta-ing.

Waiting

In the quiet loneliness of the darkened room, she waited. He was late. She had expected a lot of things this night, but somehow in her muddled anxiety she had thought he would have made the effort to return to her as soon as possible. For her, the wait had been painfully uncomfortable. The anticipation of his coming had been great enough to keep her from doing much else other than pacing the room and trying to keep her wits about her as she awaited his return.

She had been edgy, almost snappish to the servant girls tending to her earlier this afternoon. They had been prudent as always, calmly standing aside as she tossed elegant dress after elegant dress over her shoulder, and reproachfully shaking their heads as she growled out her dissatisfaction at the large selection hanging compliantly before her. It was strange to think that at one time she would have gawked at the amount of clothing in front of her. There had once been a time when she would have thought her childhood dreams had been fulfilled, that she had become a princess in a grand palace. But now it didn't seem like enough.

As she rifled through her closets for a dress a bit more demure than the ones she usually wore, her frustration became overwhelming. It had annoyed her to no end that almost every dress in her wardrobe looked like that of a royal pleasure slave's. Of course she had been allowed to pick out her wardrobe, and had even helped design a few of her more daring dresses, but that had been before it mattered, when she'd felt like a pleasure slave. But now her closets seem to mock her. Didn't she have one dress that didn't blatantly remind her of what she was? Of course not. That was what she was anyway; a pleasure slave, born to serve and ignite the desires of her master and give him any and all sexual gratification he sought from her. But everything has changed, Bulma thought apprehensively to herself.

After a long deliberation, she had decided against the dress altogether. Now she sat facing the soft, silvery light of the half-moon, unconsciously tugging the thin cloth of her thigh-length robe closer as the chilled, nocturnal breeze from the open balcony fluttered the curtains into a riotous, shifting dance. The sheer, matching silk nightie beneath the robe did nothing to help warm her. It amazed her that she owned a nightgown at all; she was never allowed to get into bed unless she was completely disrobed. Whenever she tried, her clothing was usually damaged beyond repair, many times just ripped from her body in the heat of the moment. She didn't know why she had chosen a nightgown instead of one of the fitted, low-cut, beautiful dresses she had such an abundance of. Maybe it was because this night was different from the others. This night she was expected to throw off all pretenses and see things as they really were. And to her, the beautiful dresses she usually clothed her body in symbolized that which she had been. Before they were sufficient. Tonight they weren't.

It felt unusual, sitting here on her own like this in the dark, alone with her thoughts and reflections of the day. She had been able to do that more often as of late. It was a little disconcerting because it gave her more time to think on her predicament, and because she had begun to realize that her will was fighting a losing battle. She had once disliked being alone. She no longer had the constant distractions to keep her mind from wandering on the possibilities of her future. As strange as it was, she had never really been alone much during the past eight years. Yamcha had always kept her close by, and when he had not been around, the other girls of his desert palace had been engaging enough company. At night, she had been nestled within the crook of her former master's protective arm, occasionally coaxed out of sleep by a soft, panting breath and warm, searching hands.

It was hard to think of Yamcha right now. She had been his for so long, it had become difficult to distinguish her old life from her newly found freedom. She had been somewhat at ease in that life, whether she'd liked it or not, and it had been comfortingly predictable. And now…now her life was not as predictable. Now she had no way of knowing what her future held, and it was distressing, to say the very least, to think that she could change everything with a few simple decisions. She was no longer supposed to be a pleasure slave. She had been given a choice. But what did that mean? If she was no longer a slave, then what was she?

Bulma stood up, absently running a hand across the soft fabric of the overhanging canopy draped over the bed before stepping barefoot onto the cool, marble flooring of balcony. The air of Vegeta-sei was so different than what she was accustomed to. Not exactly uncomfortable, but much more humid than the dry air of the desert. She had gotten used to it by now; she had become fond of the gentle aroma from the strange, exotic flowers growing just below the window that the wind carried in at night. When it mingled with the light, piquant scent of the dark-haired Saiyan who now slept beside her, it lulled her to sleep when nothing else would.

Bulma closed her eyes against the moonlight and immediately opened them again at the image she saw behind her lowered lids. Vegeta. Her mind could not avoid him any longer. He was the reason she was up now, anxiously awaiting his return from battle. She had no doubt that he would come back triumphant. He had become stronger than he'd ever been, working furiously to achieve levels of power above and beyond what she had ever thought possible. And when he left, she had every confidence that he would return a champion to his people, an exactor of revenge for all of the slights Frieza had dealt his strong and powerful race. But he was also coming back for an answer. The night he had come to her to kiss her good-bye before leaving had been replaying mercilessly in her mind; his parting words had been what had spawned her anxiety.

When I return, woman, there will be no more games between us. We will put aside all that stands between us, and you will accept what has come to pass; I will no longer allow you to deny what you know in your heart.

She hadn't said anything then-he hadn't given her a chance to. He cut off her train of thought as soon as he kissed her. Then he was out the window and joining his troops before she could even begin to comprehend his words. But when the full weight of his meaning hit her, she had become almost desperate with despair. She knew what he wanted, but she knew she couldn't give it to him. Not to him. Not to the man who destroyed Chikyuu.

A strong gust of air met her as she leaned over the stone railing of the balcony, tossing her hair about her shoulders in a disorderly flurry of blue. Looking down on the lush, well-tended palace gardens that spread to the outermost reaches of the sizeable courtyard before her, she sighed and allowed her mind to wander back to a time when things hadn't been so complicated, when her circumstances hadn't seemed so dire and significant. When love hadn't been an issue.

**************************************************************** ********

Vegeta sagged against the side of the bathing pool, trying not to let his weariness interfere with his effort to get clean. It probably would have been much easier to rid himself of the dirt and blood that seemed to be impressed into his pores if he hadn't sent the bathing slaves away, but he was in no mood for company and he had never really been comfortable with them anyway. His day, though successful, had been grueling and strenuous. He had been exceedingly irritated at the unexpected amount of soldiers Frieza brought with him on the battlefield. His advisors had assured him that Frieza's overconfidence would eclipse his judgment for a reliable defense. But Frieza had surrounded himself with soldiers, all equipped with their new energy weapons, and each weapon fitted with powerful Taji crystals from the plentiful mines of Kuraji, to increase its power tenfold. Vegeta and his men had been forced to plow through the soldiers first in order to get to Frieza, and it had taken a lot out of them. It would have been a nearly impossible battle had he and his men not been contrarily equipped with the negative energy absorbers that they'd just recently acquired. Of course, Vegeta had been the one who had planned to face Frieza, and his men took on the brunt of Frieza's army to allow him to conserve his strength and energy; but still, it had not gone as quickly as he would have liked.

But in the end, it had been him and Frieza, face to hideous face in the middle of a raging battlefield, all else phasing out as he focused in on the bastard who had managed to control him for ten long years. It had been a hard battle, had exhausted him more than he'd thought possible, and it had been with his last ounce of energy that he'd blown the weakened bastard to bits with his most powerful ki attack. And then he had collapsed.

Vegeta nearly threw a ki blast into the corner of the bathing room when his com-link, buried beneath the grimy, dirt-encrusted mass of metal, leather, and Tantium plastic that had once been his armor, began to beep furiously. He grumbled audibly as he dragged himself from the warm, soothing pool of water and snatched it up after fumbling with the small pocket it had been enclosed in.

"What!?" he bellowed into it, eternally annoyed that he was forced to carry the device with him everywhere he went.

"Forgive me for the interruption, Saiyan no Ouji. It was not my intention to bother you further-"

"What the hell is it, Nappa?" He recognized the bald Saiyan's voice and his irksome inclination for brownnosing almost immediately, though Vegeta's sharp tone had put a quick end to that.

"We have captured the desert scum, your Highness. He is being interrogated as we speak."

"He's still alive? I was sure Frieza took care of him along with his worthless planet."

"Actually, we found him hiding in Frieza's headquarters, of all places. "

"This is an interesting development," Vegeta said with slow, calculated malice. "Keep him alive, Nappa. I want speak to him myself before I take his pathetic life." Vegeta allowed himself a cruel chuckle as he thought of the irrefutable fate of the pretty-boy desert king. The man would pay for all he had done in the name of jealousy.

"As you wish, your Highness. There is one more thing, Ouji-sama, that I'd-"

"Out with it, Nappa," Vegeta ground out.

"The king wishes to speak with you."

Vegeta snorted angrily before answering. "I already know what that's about, and I don't give a damn what he says about anything. You tell your king that I am through with following his orders. I have defeated Frieza, and what I plan to do with my life is my concern, and mine alone!" Vegeta yanked the com-link off of his ear before the befuddled Elite had a chance to answer and threw it vehemently on top of the dirty pile of clothing and armor. His father infuriated him! That the king still had the nerve to scold him on his choice of mate made his blood boil. Had he not just freed his people from Frieza's strangling oppression? Had he not just reached a power level beyond any previously obtained by his entire race? What did he have to do to prove that he was worthy enough to make his own decisions? And why, after the grave mistakes his father had made for his people, would he listen to anything the old man had to say?

Vegeta raked a negligent hand through his hair. He should go to her now. It had been because of her that he had even bothered to take a bath, instead of just collapsing onto his bed in exhaustion. But now, looking at the various cuts and bruises that covered his body, he knew that it would be a wiser choice to go to a regen tank first. Then he could rest and gather his thoughts for the dispute that was sure to come. But it wasn't as if he didn't know what he would say to the woman waiting for him in his rooms. He had made it clear to her before he left what he wanted. And now, all that remained was coaxing an answer out of her. And he would get an answer from her this time. He had grown weary of their game and now he wanted more than ever to have what she had given him only glimpses of; he wanted everything. It really shouldn't have been this way. He was the one who should have been repudiating what they had from the very start. But he couldn't, wouldn't, ever give her up if it was in his power to keep her, at least not without a fight. And tonight she would understand that.

He made his way to the med-bay quickly, ignoring the insistent throbbing in his right leg where Frieza had viciously kicked him before delivering him a bone-shattering blow to his ribcage. He hadn't really felt all of his injuries until now, and he was nearly wheezing by the time he made it to the medical wing. Immediately upon his arrival, a med-bay staff member rushed to his side and helped him over to a regen tank. Fortunately, he obtained use of an empty tank because one of his men had just been pulled out of one, groggily gesturing a salute in his direction as one of the med-aides led him to another room. Vegeta could have justly ordered a tank cleared for him, but his men had fought well for him, and they deserved any medical attention they required.

He let the aide strap an oxygen mask onto him and braced himself as the nearly scalding hot regenerative liquid surged in, causing a muscle in his cheek to twitch reflexively. Every other Saiyan warrior who had lived their whole lives on Vegeta-sei had become used to the unpleasant sensations associated with the regen tank, but while Vegeta had been in Frieza's custody, he had never been allowed to use one. No matter how severe his injuries had been, Frieza made him suffer them in silence to punish him for any insubordinate actions. Now, when he'd been advised to used the tanks as much as possible, he felt just a little reluctant to use them, simply because they seemed like such a waste of a couple of hours. He could be training in that time. But now, Vegeta considered thoughtfully, he had little to train diligently for anymore; he had defeated Frieza and his army, had secured his place among the vast empire that Frieza had left behind, and now he could focus on other things. Like Bulma.

**************************************************************** ********

Bulma gave in to the soft, downy comfort of the bed as she let her head sink into the pillows, mentally drained from dwelling so much on the possible outcomes of her upcoming evening with Vegeta. What exactly did he want from her? Was he seeking forgiveness for all that he had done to her? He had said he wished to put aside the games they played, the feigned indifference that they both sustained whenever they were in the same room together. The angry barbs and the piercing glares did well to cover the underlying passion that burned within them ever since the first day they met. But it was all Bulma had left. If she let go of her anger, then the guilt that she carried each time she gave herself to him, would consume her conscience until she could no longer bear it.

Things had been so much easier with Yamcha. With Yamcha, it had been her duty to be with him, to pretend devotion, and allow him use of her body no matter how she felt about it. She'd had no other choice, and at the time, that hadn't bothered her much because she had been grateful for Yamcha's aid. She didn't know what would have happened to her if Yamcha hadn't found her. It seemed so long ago since she'd first met the handsome, dark-haired desert king, and at that point in time, life with him had seemed like a refreshing and practical idea. Before then, she would have most likely starved to death with her family on the streets. Yamcha had come to her almost like a blessing from above.

Her life truly began when she caught the desert king's eye that momentous day in the marketplace nearly eight years ago. She hadn't known who he was the first time she had laid eyes on him. He had been dressed in normal enough clothing, a bit nomadic-looking and heavy compared to the light, conventional garments meant for the balmy weather of Chikyuu, but he blended into the crowd well enough that she hadn't really noticed him until he'd approached her. He had saved her from the heavy hand of the market clerk after being caught with her generous plunder of food and small, metal trinkets. Yamcha's charming smile had dazzled her to the point of speechlessness as he'd calmly tried to placate the incensed clerk and casually slipped him further reparation in the form of shiny, new gold coins. Needless to say, the clerk's eyes widen considerably at the sight of the pricey compensation and he was very quick to concede.

She had been so shocked by his generous actions that she hadn't even realized he was leading her away from the market place until they'd reached an inn, far away from the bustle of the crowded streets. It was there he'd asked for her name and enamored her with his roguish smile and smooth, charismatic voice. And somehow, though to this day she was still not completely sure how, he had convinced her to join him in his rooms and dine with him. She discovered then, by the expensive furnishings and exquisite meal that didn't seem to fit the ambiance of the drab inn in which they were located, that he was more than just a charming man who liked to rescue poor, hungry girls off of the street. He was Yamcha the Second, ruler of the powerful desert planet, Kuraji, in the Western galaxy, and he was trying to keep a low profile on Chikyuu until his departure back to his home planet.

Time seemed to blur after that. Someway or another, she had ended up in his arms, laying on the cool silk sheets of his bed as he stroked up a gentle fever within her, making her cling helplessly to him as he ravaged her trembling body. And a few days later, after making love to her intermittently throughout the afternoon, he had asked her if she'd like to join him on his return trip home. It hadn't taken her long to comply. With his teasing kisses and tender caresses, she had been loath to even leave his bed, let alone his presence. Her family would most likely be grateful to have one less mouth to feed and wouldn't be too heartbroken if she were to just up and disappear. With her thieving and swindling abilities, she felt like nothing more than a profitable asset to them. And so, with much less than a tearful good-bye to her poverty-stricken life on Chikyuu, she had gone back with Yamcha to Kuraji.

Things had changed drastically by the time they arrived on Kuraji. During most of the trip, she and Yamcha spent their time in his quarters, getting to know each other's minds and bodies almost desperately, as if somehow they would be separated the moment they arrived on the arid desert planet. And much to Bulma's surprise, that had been just the case. As soon as they reached the palace, Yamcha was immediately whisked away by a small crowd of advisors, harping and harrying at him about his prolonged absence from the throne. She had stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to explain whom she was and why she was there, until it suddenly dawned on her that she wasn't even sure of why she was there. She had been under the impression that Yamcha had developed semi-serious feelings for her; but could she really be sure? In the short time they had gotten to know each other, he had been caring and loving, always conscious of her needs and wants, and he had tried his best to give her every thing she'd desired. But now, standing there in the empty hallway of his grand palace, she realized that she was clueless as to what place in his life she would have. He was a king, and she was a pretty but poor street urchin who had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to do here on such a large and unfamiliar planet. Yamcha had told her a few things about Kuraji, but mainly facts about the geographical landscape and indigenous life. It annoyed her that she hadn't even thought to ask him anything about what her place would be in his kingdom on the trip there. Did she expect him, the king of an entire planet, to marry her? What had she gotten herself into?

She had wandered aimlessly about the palace, pondering these deep thoughts until a guard, stationed at the entrance of one of the large, open doorways, questioned her about her purposes in the palace. At first she hadn't known how to respond, but then after a moment's contemplation, she blurted out quickly that she was searching for Yamcha. She nearly cringed when the guard barked out a reprimand for not using the king's proper title, but then gruffly directed her to a large room with closed doors a few hallways down.

Her fears were not assuaged after she found the Kuraji king in what looked to be a large, humid bathing room draped with dark silk curtains and furnished with nothing more than satin-covered couches and beds scattered randomly about the room. And it had irritated her further when she saw Yamcha sprawled on one of these couches, surrounded by scantily clad females, all of whom were trying their damnedest to touch him in one way or another. She had practically stormed over to him, barely keeping herself in check as she remembered the importance of his status, and pushed her way none-to-gently through the flock of adoring women. And after a politely worded inquiry through clenched teeth, she had been thoroughly embarrassed to find out, as Yamcha coolly explained to her, that this was his royal harem and her new place of residence. She hadn't had known what to say then. Had she been the crying type, she would have burst into tears; but the hard truths of Chikyuu's alley-life had toughened her up, and she had been able to keep her dignity, instead quietly thundering out of the room.

It had taken a week for her to accept her new role as the king of Kuraji's concubine. After carefully weighing her options, and acknowledging Yamcha's strong determination to keep her, she had decided that this new life would be a definite step up from her underprivileged one back on Chikyuu. Here, she got to dine with a king, live in luxury, and make love to a man who she was considerably attracted to. It was almost everything a girl of her standing could ask for. Yet, even as she tried to acknowledge only the good in her situation, she couldn't help the empty feeling it left her with.

Time passed, and with it, her unease. Her life had actually become somewhat enjoyable. Yamcha had been a good master, and not overly demanding; at least, it hadn't bothered her much when he finally asked her to sleep in his bed at night permanently instead of in the harem. He had become increasingly fond of her, and tried to spend whatever time he had available taking her on long walks around the palace gardens, talking to her over evening meals, or even traveling outside of the palace to visit the country. He'd even let her indulge in a growing interest of hers: electronics. Bulma sensed that his feelings for her had amplified over time and although that should have pleased her, she found that she was not as content with that fact as she would have been long ago. She was still a slave, still unable to do anything that Yamcha forbade her to, and still incapable of leaving if she ever chose to do so. She was property, and if Yamcha wanted to be rid of her, he could be. And if Yamcha wanted to keep her forever, he could do that too.

But it was something Bulma had learned to deal with, and if living well meant that she had to live without certain freedoms, she was sure she could do it. So what if love and true happiness weren't in her future? She could handle that. So what if she would never be able to make choices for herself again? That just made things a whole lot easier. Or so she thought. But she hadn't known that she would be tested; she hadn't thought that she would actually catch a glimpse of genuine happiness and true passion. And that had been when her real problems, and pleasures, had begun.

**************************************************************** ********