Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Yellow Roses ❯ Soft Caresses ( Chapter 10 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Dylan Thomas; ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’]

 

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

 

Vegeta stirred sloppily in his sleep, waking up, without warning, by the familiar sounds of a tiny pair of impatient feet running frantically in his direction. He huffed deeply through his nose as he scrunched it, rubbing it with indolence, back and forth, into his soft pillow, before gathering the titanic resolve to roll around and lie on his back, ready to confront the mischievous intruder already throwing himself at him, his small head strategically landing right on his stomach.

“Urghmph!”

“PAPA!!!” The little boy chirped with glee, doing his best to straddle his father’s much-too-big torso with his short legs as he sat atop him, playfully punching his broad chest with one diminutive fist, eager to share his most exciting news with the man he admired the most. “Papa! Look!” He smacked him again in naïve exhilaration. “Loooooooook!!!”

The Prince groaned in good humor, unable to restrain the lethargic smirk etching itself on his lips while trying to make an educated guess about his son’s big surprise. He stretched his legs softly, his sight still blocked by a lazy forearm, erasing the sleep from his eyes by rubbing them gently with the back of his hand, before uncovering them at last, taking a good look at the child’s predictable treasure.

 

A tooth.

The brat had lost another goddamned tooth.

 

His strong hands reached down to the boy’s small midriff, carefully accommodating him away from his most painfully sensitive area, and secretly grateful for having remembered to put some sweatpants on in the earliest hours of dawn, back when his wife had reluctantly left their bed in order to get showered and ready for work.

Vegeta’s lids blinked slowly, heavy-eyed still, his pleased smirk never fading, amused both by the boy’s childish antics and by that rare sense of pride always enveloping his heart whenever he could guess, and even anticipate, anything having to do with the little brat’s intriguing behavior.

The first time his five-year-old son had shown up in their bed carrying a bloody tooth in his hand, the Saiyan’s first instinct had been to power up, turn Super Saiyan, and beat the living daylights out of the poor, clueless bastard who’d ever dared to lay a finger on his only child.

But a few years of life on Earth, and quite a few patient, yet highly entertaining explanations from his wife herself, had turned the warrior into a refined man of culture, well-versed in all kinds of ridiculously nonsensical human traditions, especially those regarding his son or woman getting to receive some sort of special gift or reward. And the Prince could now, not without great satisfaction, successfully guess just what kind of sophisticated protocol he was expected to follow in such a singular occasion.

“Alright…” Vegeta mumbled hoarsely, lightly clearing his throat while trying to refrain from smiling like a fool at the big grin beaming in his little boy’s face. “Give it to me,” he demanded softly, extending one slow hand to the tiny one still holding the minuscule tooth like the most valuable of trophies. “Your mother and I will speak to the Tooth Woman tonight.”

The bubbly child giggled in instant response to his father’s gruff words, the sound pure and luminous, so frighteningly similar to his Bulma’s radiant laughter that sometimes it hurt.

“It’s the Tooth Fairy, Papa!” The boy corrected him vivaciously, huge smile never fading, wholly unperturbed by Vegeta’s typical morning grouchiness.

“Right…” He retorted with nonchalance, his tone laced in that rare gentleness reserved for his son and wife alone. “We’ll speak to this Tooth Fairy Woman tonight then…” He promised, already taking hold of the small prize, stretching one arm to his nightstand and carefully placing the tiny tooth on its surface, with his son still casually seated on his abdomen.

“You’re funny, Papa!” The child cackled for a second time, highly entertained by Vegeta’s unintentionally comical antics, swinging those small legs energetically, ready to trap him in his most lethal attack. “You’re funnyyyyyyyyyy!!!” He squealed, using his father’s solid torso like a Saiyan mini-trampoline, and jumping on him once again, this time landing with his sneaky head right on his chest.

“Ooomph!” Vegeta huffed loudly, instinctively draping his arms around the boy’s lithe body, as soon as those minute arms and legs imprisoned him in the fiercest hug, even though the child’s limbs were still far too small for such an ambitious task.

There had been times, ever since the rambunctious brat’s visits to their king-sized bed had begun, when the Prince had wondered whether he should attempt to get the boy to moderate the intensity of his physical demonstrations of affection, particularly around Bulma, deadly afraid of his wife getting hurt by the boy’s childish frolic. As it turned out, there had been no need for it, and in spite of the bottomless pit of power burning brightly within his son’s light body, the child had always been extraordinarily mellow in his mother’s presence, as if he were profoundly in tune with the woman’s weaker ki, and only letting his full strength loose while playing and training with his father.

Vegeta’s hands lingered securely on his son’s narrow back, large, calloused palms fully splayed, rejoicing in the comforting sensation of the child’s heavy breathing slowing down as he nodded off on top of him, squeezing in a few more minutes of carefree sleep before breakfast time. He felt that chubby cheek comfortably pressed against his bare chest, locks of feathery, lavender hair happily tickling his chin, and two pairs of tiny arms and legs hanging without care on both sides of his burly torso, a reminder of how terribly at ease his little boy had always been in his company.            

    

These quiet morning times were mostly Bulma’s territory, everyday moments of lazy warmth in which the half-asleep brat would crawl inside their bed, usually bringing with him one of those colorful stuffed animals whose purpose still eluded the Saiyan Prince, but that his son seemed to be so inexplicably fond of, carrying them around wherever he went, at times, even to their increasingly longer training sessions.    

More often than not, the child would seek his mother’s coziness straightway, intuitively knowing that she was the most demonstrative of both parents, showering their son, at all times, with constant affection and infinite patience, even when her long work hours would take a toll on her, and her exhaustion would be as plain as day.

Vegeta would stare in silent fascination at the way the needy brat would snuggle with ease to his mother’s body, in a way no ordinary Saiyan child would ever have, reminding him that his boy was no regular kid, after all, and reawakening some of those cursed fears of incompetence that used to hit him back in the old times, those early days when the most fortuitous of romances blossomed between the woman who’d one day become his wife and himself. And, even though the warrior had, right from the start, happily embraced his new, unexpected role as father and husband, the sappy image of his son and mate blissfully cuddling in bed, like the most natural act in the world, made him feel inadequate still, never good enough to fulfill the emotional needs of his little family.        

But then his Bulma would be there for him, highlighting the importance that she truly believed him to bear in their lives, ever reassuring, needing nothing more than a drowsy smile, glowing in the break of day, to restore his faith in himself. Cold little feet impishly slinking through his legs, and a bold hand finding his own, inviting him, with a tender but firm pull, to get even closer to them, because he was worthy, fully deserving already of their unconditional love, and always would be. 

And so, he’d follow her, caving in to her every wish and abandoning himself to the profound serenity that such intimate moments conjured inside of him. Vegeta would shyly join them, his powerful body lying protectively next to the only two creatures he’d ever given a damn about in his entire life, a muscular figure pressed against the boy’s vulnerable back in a silent promise of safety, arms and legs zealously entangled with his wife’s, all three of them hidden in a peaceful cocoon of balmy cotton sheets, flamboyant children toys, and cool morning air, slowly but surely growing to feel just as comfortable around the little brat as he’d always been with his adored mate. 

 

One of the Prince’s hands stayed on the boy’s small back, letting the other one take advantage of his somnolent state by gingerly running his thick fingers through his downy tresses, so utterly different, both in color and texture, to a Saiyan’s hair, that such surprising softness would never cease to amaze him, and smiling with fond nostalgia as he evoked the first time he met his son.

Vegeta would never forget the day he first set his eyes on the child, and how excruciatingly worried he’d been for his woman’s life when she’d categorically refused to have the brat removed from her body long before her due date.

The Prince may not have very vivid recollections of his home planet and bygone culture, but he did specifically recall his own Father explaining to him, when he was no more than four or five years of age, that Saiyan children were detached from their mothers’ womb, and placed in artificial incubators, during the last stage of gestation.

This was done mainly for the protection of his race’s scarce, and highly valuable, female warriors, given the remarkably high power level of the infants, and how painfully common it had been for his people’s women to perish during childbirth. But, as always, his stubborn little mate had preferred to follow her own instincts, choosing to bring their son into this world in her own way which, much to Vegeta’s stupefaction, turned out to be one of the most horrifyingly surreal experiences in his life.

To this day, he could graphically remember all of those endless hours of excruciating labor, standing in shameful impotence by his woman’s side, and witnessing in a strange blend of terror and admiration, how the unpredictably strong mother fought for her life and that of their child.

He could still feel her hand, that usually delicate hand of hers, holding onto his for dear life, her grip so terrible, so brutal, that he could actually feel it, looking for her mate’s untiring support as she shrieked and hollered in pain, a heroic warrior fighting the greatest battle of her life, all of it while screaming an obscene litany of curses he’d never even imagined her rude little tongue to be even capable of pronouncing, including the furious promise of never, ever, letting him touch her ever again, a vicious vow that would quickly be forgotten, much to the Prince’s relief.

His woman’s strength and bravery would never fade from his memory, and neither would the way her flushed face fell in deep relief, bursting into tears of sheer joy when their son’s first cries boomed across the room, proudly announcing his splendid entrance into their lives.

Bulma’s features softened touchingly when her child’s body was finally laid in her exhausted but eager arms, ecstatic tears giving her no respite, absolutely enraptured with her beautiful baby boy. It wouldn’t be long before her eyes sought those of her bewildered Prince, her drained voice pleading her emotional parents, and the small medical team which had assisted her throughout the entire experience, to offer her a few moments of much-needed privacy with the man she loved.

“Vegeta…” She called for him in a breezy whisper, after making sure that no one else was in the room but the three of them. “Come and meet your son…”

His legs could barely carry him as he closed the short distance separating them still, having previously stepped back while the nurses had cleaned and cared for the two stunning creatures that he could now proudly call his family. And he walked towards them, his steps shaky and reserved, longing for the room to stop spinning around him as the full weight of the new responsibility bestowed upon him fell on his shoulders, the gratifying duty of caring for the flawless woman he loved already, and the boy who was about to steal whatever remained of his heart.

 

Trunks.

 

A wrinkly little cub with ten plump fingers and ten wriggly toes, a feathery tuft of lavender hair covering his fragile head, and no hint of a Saiyan tail. For a short-lived instant, the child’s unconventional coloring, and the lack of the furry appendage which had once held such significance to those belonging to his fallen race, threw Vegeta off slightly, but all it took was for him to emulate his woman’s actions, bringing a large finger near his son’s grasp, with a caution he’d never shown before, to know that he was done for.

He drowned in awe into the earthshattering sensation of those five minuscule fingers gripping one of his own, displaying a force that would have made the boy’s ancestors proud, a true testament to his race, falling deeper and deeper into a smitten spell when the child’s eyes opened at last, unveiling that dazzling shade of blue that had long ago become his favorite color.

His Bulma’s blue.

The Prince’s spellbound gaze fell on his mate’s, and in that bewitchingly tearful smile shining on her lips. “I love you…” Bulma murmured in his ear, leaning on him for support when he sat beside her, sheltering her weary shoulders with the help of one strong arm. “And he’s going to love you too…” She vowed, a tiny kiss caressing his jaw as she nuzzled him with indolence. “He’s going to love you so much… You’ll see…” Her voice, small but full of dogged confidence, promised once again, vanishing his rotten fears away as only she knew how.

 

Trunks fidgeted in his sleep, rubbing his cheek against his father’s naked chest while mumbling some unintelligibly infantile babble, and hugging him even closer, proving that, as always, his genius woman had been positively right in her prediction of their son’s future feelings for him.

Not only did Trunks not seem to mind that Vegeta wasn’t as emotionally effusive in public as other parents were but, for some unexplainable reason, the little brat had grown to find his father’s deceiving grumpiness absolutely hilarious, as if he implicitly understood the older warrior’s true nature, agreeing to keep his most embarrassing secrets away from everyone outside the privacy of their home, the surprising truth that, behind closed doors, the mere presence of the Prince’s family was enough to turn his hardened heart into mush.

“Mhmm…” The child hummed dozily, still in an apparent half-comatose state, but promptly making Vegeta take his hand away from his lilac hair, ready to embark in another one of those customary morning rituals. “Woah!” Trunks gasped in anticipation, eyes wide open, lifting his head from his father’s body at the speed of light, and shooting him his most devastatingly adorable grin.           

“You smell that, don’t you boy?” Vegeta asked, lips twisting into a lighthearted smirk at the sight of his boy’s nostrils flaring like those of a cute puppy, sniffing the mouthwatering aroma of the breakfast already awaiting them.

“Yup!” Trunks proudly confirmed, already resuming his earlier position by straddling his father’s midriff. “NANA!” He sang with cheerfulness, open palms eagerly smacking Vegeta’s flesh. “Go, Papa! Go!” He yelped again, reaching for the older man’s neck and hugging him in the most affectionate embrace, never letting go, not even when the Prince leisurely stood from the bed with some difficulty. “GOOOOOOOO!!!”

Vegeta gladly indulged his son, swathing one steady arm around him as they exited the room, not even bothering to put some shoes on as they followed the delicious trail of warm food tempting them relentlessly.

The boy was getting too old to be held like this, but the Prince had to admit to himself that he’d gotten far too used to these early mornings, carrying the little brat to the kitchen at the sounds of his playful twittering. Besides, with a second child on the way, Bulma had pleaded her husband to spend as much time with Trunks as he could, cherishing his last few months as an only child before the thrillingly new addition to the family would turn their already anarchic home into an even greater chaos.

“Nana!” The boy exclaimed when they finally arrived at the luxurious kitchen, reaching for the lovely woman responsible for the appetizing scent permeating the air with one arm, while stubbornly refusing to let go of his Papa’s neck with the other.

 

Nana.

 

Trunks’ nickname for his effervescent grandmother, also known as Panchy Briefs, the eternally sunny lady that Vegeta had first heard of through Bulma’s wistful stories about that superb rose garden that she adored tending to, and which was her greatest pride.

The woman was as shameless as they came, one of those bizarre creatures who gave the impression of going through life utterly unperturbed by whatever events transpired around her, choosing to face the music with a perennial smile on her surprisingly youthful face, and never losing that peculiar optimism that she was characterized by.

And, despite the fact that, at times, her natural flirtatiousness unnerved him still, whenever her frisky hands would linger on one of his brawny biceps for a tad too long, or her prying eyes would shamelessly feast on his shirtless form through one of the windows of his precious training room, the Prince had gradually grown accustomed to the woman’s antics. Against all odds, his wife’s mother had ended up becoming a comfortingly familiar presence in his everyday life, in fact, the closest to a maternal figure he’d ever gotten to enjoy, though he’d never in a million years dare to admit such a ludicrous truth.

“Well… Here are my two favorite boys!” Panchy heartily chirped, already leaning towards her energetic grandson to land a customary smooch on one of his round cheeks. “Good morning, Sweetie!”

“Moooooorniiiiiing!!!” Trunks happily replied, kissing his beloved Nana back, and managing to sneak one of his tiny hands into the plate the older woman was holding, snatching a warm pancake away and greedily munching on it before his father resumed his steps, walking them to the massive dining table and placing his boy on his habitual chair, comfortably taking a seat in his own spot himself.

“Did you sleep well, Sweetheart?” She enquired in a motherly tone, pouring her handsome son-in-law his first cup of coffee of the day while scrutinizing his sleepy face, satisfied when the Prince replied with a nod and a friendly hum, keenly wrapping his large hands around the hot cup. “Oh! Those are constructions workers,” she patiently explained, noticing Vegeta taking a sip of the uplifting beverage while peeking with interest at the small group of carpenters working outside. “They’re building the carpet for tomorrow’s Gala…”

“Right there?” The man asked with plain curiosity, eyes still fixed on the loud workmen annoyingly disturbing one of his most relaxing times of the day.

“Yes! Isn’t it great?” Panchy carried on dreamily, already serving an opulent breakfast fit for a troop of ravenous Saiyans, completely oblivious to the warrior’s subtle irritation. “They wanted to do it in the gardens,” she informed, placing a dish brimming with freshly-cooked pancakes right in front of him, together with a big bowl of fresh fruits. “But I told my husband to do it here, because there’s no way I’m letting those handsome boys ruin my garden, don’t you think?”

The matriarch winked a playful eye at him, her voice sweet as ever, but barely hiding a tempestuous warning behind such loveliness, the unspoken promise that, just like his Bulma, Panchy Briefs could be a force to be reckoned with if she didn’t get her way.    

Vegeta got to work on his first breakfast dish, savoring his rich share of delectable food while smirking shrewdly to himself, acknowledging, not for the first time, that despite their numerous differences, perhaps he wasn’t so different from his father-in-law, after all.

Dr. Briefs may have been a man of science, purely devoted to scientific experimentation, a life extremely disparate in appearance to that of a warrior’s, yet they were both quiet, lonesome men, married to a couple of females cleverly calling the shots in their lives regardless of their frail exterior and, what was even more extraordinary, neither one of them seemed to mind it much, quite the opposite, they both professed a secret and profound gratitude for the guidance and infinite support of such strongminded life partners.

“Have you seen her dress?” Panchy’s jolly voice asked anew, now preparing Trunks’ carrot juice, but powerless to miss out on the opportunity of teasing the Saiyan Prince, just as she always did in such occasions.

“No, I have not,” Vegeta politely answered, right after he was done polishing his second bottle of full-fat milk.

The woman’s face lit up at the memory of the mysterious garment. “Ah! Really? She looked so lovely in it!” She proclaimed in excitement, playfully ruffling her grandchild’s hair while setting another generous pile of food on the table. “She tried it on this morning,” Panchy confided, side-eyeing the young father with an unmistakable glint of mischief sparkling in her eye. “And it fits her like a glove!”

Vegeta leisurely wiped up his mouth with a napkin, thankful for having an empty mouth in that instant, for if he’d been chewing on something, the sound of that particular bit of information would have surely made him choke on his food, right there and then. He cleared up his throat, the sound awkward, painful, unsealing the lid of his third bottle of milk while struggling to ignore that bizarre sense of dread and anticipation beginning to build up inside of him, secretly trying to imagine just what kind of naughtiness would his little minx of a wife have in store for him this time.

By now, Vegeta had lost count of how many awards and endless accolades his Bulma had earned ever since she’d resumed her life on Earth. But, judging by the number of sumptuous galas and ceremonies that he’d been practically dragged into, there wasn’t a single science achievement that the outstanding genius hadn’t attained already. In fact, if memory served him right, his wife had confessed that she was about to be the very first recipient of the medal she’d be awarded with tomorrow night, almost as if the prize had been specifically designed to fit her otherworldly brilliance.  

And it wasn’t the attendance in itself that bothered him the most; after all, he’d always been willing to overlook his almost pathological disinterest in any kind of social or public event, just as long as he got to join his woman as she was celebrated for her outstanding accomplishments, and there was nothing in this world that he enjoyed more than being offered the privilege to witness, first hand, that glorious glow enveloping Bulma’s gorgeous face as she was righteously praised for her well-deserved tributes.

It was the torture that he dreaded, that cursed torture of having to walk and stand by the siren’s side while she was dressed to the nines in one of those ridiculously expensive dresses that clung to her sensual body in all the right places, having to endure what felt like the most excruciating eternity, waiting for the whole thing to be over to finally get the chance to rip the blasted garment to shreds and ravish her as if there was no tomorrow.

And worst of all was that she knew, that the sexy vixen knew of the effect that she had in him, driving him absolutely insane with need with little more than a sultry look, or the casual touch of a hand. Furtive glances across the table, long fingernails brushing the expensive cotton of his white dress shirt as she leaned over for a second glass of that intoxicating champagne that she was so fond of at such occasions, flashing him a hint of her perfect breasts, or one of those creamy thighs as it tried to escape through the indecent slit of her night dress, because, of course, every single one of those goddamned gowns featured one of those lewd cuts, reawakening his most primitive instincts, and making him want to throw his woman right over his shoulder to hide her from the debauched eyes of whatever loser wandering around her.

By the third glass of liquor, it wasn’t uncommon to feel one of her exposed legs mischievously entwining with his under the table. The real danger of an impossibly sharp high heel treacherously exploring his every muscle through the swank fabric of his pants, or, what was infinitely more agonizing, the distinctive sound of one of her pointy shoes touching the ground, followed by a bare foot sliding across a quivery thigh, and landing right on his crotch, mercilessly teasing him, his cock hard, twitching, all of it while she innocently discussed quantum physics with some oblivious septuagenarian sitting right beside her, another one of those blasted geniuses who’d just been awarded with one of those equally influential prizes.

The one and only thing that made those interminable evenings moderately tolerable, was the certainty that, once they were done with the darned event, he’d get to have his wife all to himself, taking her home, throwing her right on their lush bed, and making her pay for every single moment of desperate need she’d inflicted upon him that night, savoring the way the dirty little doll took her punishment with zest, over and over again, submitting to his wicked will to make up for the torturous night he’d just endured for her sake.

Vegeta inhaled a deep, relaxing breath, determined to cool down his heated blood, boiling from recalling such erotic memoirs, as he reveled in the soothing scent of freshly cut grass and warm food inundating the majestic kitchen. He took a long sip of his invigorating cup of coffee, savoring the addictive beverage and peeping at his little boy, who was now sporting a distinguished cocoa milk mustache while stuffing his face with a second serving of scrambled eggs, blissfully oblivious to his father’s agitated musings.           

Tomorrow would be a glad day indeed, the warrior thought nostalgically to himself, for not only would he take part in his wife’s much-anticipated celebrations but, in another one of those twists of Fate that had become such an intrinsic part of their lives, his Bulma had cleverly pointed out to him that the special date would also coincidentally take place in the day that marked the Sixth Anniversary of Frieza’s defeat by his own hand, back in that mystical planet where all of their fantastic dreams had come true somehow.

The Prince set his half-empty cup on the table, heavy hands cupping the warm mug, and eyes lost in thought, allowing his misty mind to reminisce on the formidable adventure that had so drastically changed their lives.   

 

After a surprisingly smooth journey, the intrepid couple landed on Namek precisely two weeks after their departure from Bulma’s temporary home, all in one piece, and without having the faintest clue as to what to expect from their mystical destination.

At first glance, the small planet gave the misleading impression of being a fairly simple, uninteresting spot, a humble mudball of bright green skies and the rarest blue grass, most certainly not a place where any sort of magic could possibly occur. However, when Vegeta finally explained to his new mate, in greater detail, the whimsical tales he’d first heard of back in the darkness that was Frieza’s ship, his woman’s expressive face brightened in a way he’d never seen before.

As it turned out, not only had the scientist already learnt of the existence of an elusive set of mystic Dragon Balls, seven magical objects that, when reunited, held the ability of summoning the presence of an almighty Dragon, a supernatural creature that would grant them whatever wish their heart desired. But she even confessed to having witnessed such spiritual power with her own two eyes already, back on her treasured planet Earth, which had also been blessed with the equivalent of such esoteric items.

It was on Namek where Bulma invited her Prince to sit beside her, by the quiet shore of a lake of jade waters, offering him one of her dainty hands, trembling like a leaf in sheer excitement at the boundless horizons broadening before their very eyes, and taking the time to calmly share her old stories with him.

She spoke enthusiastically of some of her youth adventures, the crazy tales of a courageously awkward young girl who’d embarked on her first odyssey at the tender age of sixteen, stealing a bright chuckle of pure amusement out of him after confessing that her most coveted wish, back in those long-gone days, had been the girlish dream of finding her perfect man, and mischievously turning her man’s mocking chuckle into the most adorable blush when she playfully admitted that she’d found her Prince Charming without the assistance of any magical creature, after all.

Fully aware of the danger they were both immersed in, and with the inherent knowledge that time was gold, Bulma hadn’t expanded for too long on her adolescent anecdotes, but her handful of candid stories, together with that astounding sparkle of jovial optimism beaming in her eyes, had been enough to turn Vegeta into a believer, feeling an unparalleled gratitude for having found the nerve to follow his instincts, and a woman who’d trusted him enough to walk such a perilous path by his side.

“So…” The earthling asked in a shy whisper, holding one of his hands between both of hers as she ventured to strip her mate from another secret. “What’s your wish?”

Vegeta would never forget the intricate expression drawn on that beautiful visage, pleading eyes sparkling with repressed tears, full of hope and faith, a faith that not long ago no one in their right mind would have ever held in him, the instinctive faith that he’d make the right choice, in behalf of her and their unborn son.

Because she knew, because they both knew that the man that he was before she changed his spirit would have abused such supreme power, wasting it on some pointless, egotistical aspiration such as immortality, or universal domination. But the man that he’d become, the man that her infinite love and fortitude had slowly but implacably contributed to shape, felt only shame and repulsion towards his old self, that selfish bastard who’d wrongly assumed that the bottomless void in his blackened heart could someday be filled by the exertion of absolute power above other living creatures, foolishly oblivious to the only emotion that could ever mend the pieces of a man’s shattered soul.

He freed his hand from her grasp with that rare gentleness that only she’d had the power to teach him, promptly taking her in his arms and sitting her on his lap, one arm firmly draped around her slim frame while the other sought her face, vast fingers spreading over her delicate jaw, in search of just the right words to convey that the one and only reason why he was now chasing such supernatural forces was so that he could happily place them in her hands.

“My wish is yours, Bulma,” Vegeta vowed with quiet solemnity, his stare honest, open, the eyes of a man who’d gratefully surrendered to his woman’s enchanting inspiration. “Anything you want,” he stressed humbly, shaky breath ghosting her lips as he gave her the freedom to decide on their Destiny’s final course. “Anything…”

“I… I j-just…” She implored through the heartrending tears now rolling freely down her face, deeply moved by his raw generosity, and by how surprisingly at ease he appeared to be with his selfless choice, fully able to discern good from evil without a single doubt troubling his mind anymore. “I just want to go home…”   

Her last word was but a sheepish whisper, scared still of daring to voice out loud the one wish she’d desired the most ever since the apocalyptic extermination of her planet had befallen. And, in the marked sound of Vegeta’s throat, bobbing with poorly concealed apprehension, and in those rugged fingertips twitching nervously against the velvety skin of her face, she saw a fear that mirrored her own.

Home.

Home had always been the Saiyan’s most forbidden of words, a chimeric illusion made out of faded memories and worthless legends, a non-existent place gravely and purely connected to the past, never to the future. But if a home was what would bring ultimate joy to his prized mate, then a home is what he’d create, just for her and their child.

“Then that will be our wish…” His simple reply came at last.

And Gods, oh Gods, that smile, that smile melting into his mouth as she threw her arms around his neck, making him fall on his back when she literally jumped in glee, squeaking like a little girl, made it all worth it, all the pain and crippling self-doubt of those past few months, and the abject terror of taking his woman away from the relative safety of her old home, dragging her into such an utopian quest with him.

Bulma kissed him deeply, passionately, lying with him on that meadow of alien blue grass as she wrestled the most exhilarating roller-coaster of emotions, her heart engulfed with relief, grateful for the man who was about to change it all, the man who’d chosen to betray, not only his heinous Master, but every one of his awfully ingrained beliefs, risking his own life if that meant providing a safe future for his new family.

Once he sensed his woman finally regaining her cool, the warrior secured her in the shelter of his embrace and slowly took to the air, ready to set in motion the new phase of their entirely improvised plan.

Without the possession of the brilliant radar that Bulma had built on Earth, and with no other means to detect the magical items, the Saiyan’s first strategy had been to seek the presence of one of those mysterious green-skinned aliens and pound the information out of him by sheer brutal force. Unsurprisingly, his woman had an alternative plan, a suggestion as simple as it was unexplored to a veteran fighter like him, agreeing with the Prince in his idea of finding a native inhabitant of Namek, but suggesting to simply talk to them instead, trusting in the innate kindness of a race that Frieza’s thorough investigations had ultimately categorized as a peaceful one.

Under different circumstances, Vegeta would have scoffed at such a naïve proposition, finding it virtually impossible to believe that someone, anyone, would ever display that kind of generosity towards two complete strangers, openly offering them a chance to make full use of their planet’s most valuable assets.

But, if there was one truth the Prince had learnt by now, was that his woman possessed a natural instinct to navigate through life. And, even if her point of view vastly differed from his own, and it was perhaps too sentimental at times, the alluring scientist had very rarely been wrong in her astute judgement of people, perceiving that which was hidden, secreted qualities that most wouldn’t even recognize in themselves.

As ever, Bulma’s strategy hit the mark, and the brave couple ended up having an unbelievable struck of luck right on the first village they run into, with Vegeta allowing his woman to take the lead and handle the situation with the shocked, but surprisingly kind natives. Not only did she succeed in easily earning the trust of the enigmatic residents, but she was lead, and introduced to, Namek’s oldest, most influential figure, the Grand Elder Guru, an ancient creature in possession of hermetical powers and immense bigheartedness, who agreed to assist the couple in their endeavors, freely offering them the opportunity to make use of his People’s most precious possession, without asking for anything in return.

In the sole company of two Namekian children, and three of the planet’s finest warriors, Bulma and Vegeta embarked expeditiously on their new mission, travelling village by village, and collecting every single one of the gigantic Dragon Balls, significantly larger than the ones found in the earthling’s old home, with startling ease.

However, Destiny still held one last, wicked card in its occult pocket, the greatest battle of them all. And, when the time came for the couple to retrieve the sixth out of the seven enchanted items, already giddy with excitement at the prospect of bringing Earth, and all of its fallen inhabitants, back into existence, a colossal ball of fire fell from the skies, a white sphere of sinful energy that the Saiyan, despite his still weakly developed skills to detect ki, could sadly discern with no trouble at all.

Frieza.

Vegeta’s first instinct was to fall apart, struck by that loathed anxiety always pouncing upon him whenever he was confronted by the inevitability of having to fight the Almighty Lizard, knowing, at heart, that he was not ready yet to proclaim himself victor. But things were different this time, this time his mate was by his side, and her revitalizing presence was enough to drum out his fears, rekindling his combative spirit, and that prodigious need for protection that only she could awaken within him, that unstoppable desire to fight for someone other than himself.

Paradoxically, convincing his Bulma to let go of him, and to hunt for the last Dragon Ball in the only company of the team of loyal Namekians faithfully willing to lend them a hand in their expedition, had been almost as arduous a struggle as fighting Frieza himself.

It was nearly impossible to get rid of those small hands nervously clinging to his combat suit, or to ignore that pair of eyes of sapphire, filled with tears of despair and worry, begging him to forget about the Emperor and fly away with her, despite knowing just as well as he did that, as long as that despicable Monster had air in his lungs, they’d never make it out of that planet alive.

“What’s the matter, Bulma?” Vegeta proudly challenged, turning to his legendary arrogance as a last resort to get his stubborn mate to do as he said, if only for once in her life. “Don’t you trust me to kill the bastard?” He asked in a gruff whisper, pulling her roughly towards him and kissing her within an inch of her life right in front of the gang of stunned Namekians, not even giving a damn anymore about someone, anyone, finding out that she was his.

Because he knew, because they both knew that he was bluffing, and his hopeless inability to master his Ascension meant that this may very well be the last time he’d ever get to taste her, or to hold her and their son in his arms.       

“I do, Vegeta…” She swore brokenly, a crushed sob betraying her treacherous insecurity, binding her arms around his neck to feel him one last time, just one, murmuring those secret words in his ear, that anxious plea so painfully familiar to the both of them, that it’d become an intimate prayer by now. “J-Just be careful, alright?”

To this day, the Prince could still recall the poignant way in which her heart beat furiously against his, the most terrified he’d ever seen her, hugging him in the fiercest embrace as she stood in the middle of the small crowd of alien outsiders, utterly unashamed of professing her feelings for him. Just like he’d never forget the tearful, cheeky smile he stole from her when he let her go, two fingers persuading her to tilt her chin up, wanting to remember her just like he’d first met her.

 

Strong and proud.

Just like him.

 

“Kicking and screaming, Bulma Briefs,” he prompted her, a private reminder of that Human ode to bravery that she’d narrated for him so many times that he could recite it himself by heart. “That’s how a warrior leaves this world.”

“Kicking and screaming…” Bulma muttered in mournful agreement, entwining the fingers of a tremulous hand with one of his and pressing it to her heart, smiling with solemnity through her tears when he set himself free, gifting her with one last, grave look, before gracefully lifting off and vanishing into a cloudy blur of green skies.

 

The quick succession of events unfolding, once he left his little mate behind, had now been reduced to a fragmented cluster of chaotic memories, gradually fading away from his mind until Bulma herself would, much later, fill in the numerous lapses of his distorted recollections. 

He could clearly remember the cold air hitting his face as he flew in Frieza’s direction, as fast as his feverish body would allow him to, cold sweat coating his tanned skin while his bellicose instincts slowly took over, crimson blood pumping furiously in his ears, and right behind his razor-sharp eyes, squinting in sheer disgust as soon as the Overlord’s ship materialized before him.

A single glance at the massive space vehicle was enough to confirm his most detested fear, that of his Master losing his trust in his own soldiers, for good this time, choosing to make a start on his Masterplan far sooner than expected, and completely ruining the couple’s hopeful plans on the way.

Without any kind of real strategy in mind, no tail to boost his Oozaru transformation, and still powerless to reach his treasured Ascension at will, Vegeta’s only goal became that of keeping the Icejin entertained for as long as his strength held out, buying enough time for his woman to gather the rest of the Dragon Balls, summon the mystical Dragon and escape that blasted planet in search of greener pastures, hopefully a place safe enough for her to birth and raise their child, even if that meant breaking his earnest vow not to ever leave her to care for the boy on her own.

By then, it came as no surprise that his reviled Master was already expecting him, as if he’d somehow been able to guess that the rebellious incident occurring at Base-055 meant that he’d forever lost the Prince’s loyalty from that moment on, and fully ready to make things as hellish as possible for his unruly subordinate. In consequence, before Vegeta even had the occasion to fight the Emperor, Frieza offered him the dubious honor of having to deal with his elite army, the so-called ‘Ginyu Force’, all on his own.

Much to everyone’s amazement, including Vegeta himself, getting rid of the small group of flamboyant lackeys turned out to be a great deal easier than it’d ever been, an ironic result of the almost-lethal beating inflicted by his Master the last time he’d confronted him, increasing his strength to astronomical levels once his Saiyan body had been given the opportunity to properly heal.

In fact, Frieza had been so wickedly pleased with Vegeta’s performance that, the moment the warrior added the last cadaver to the pile of dead bodies assembled in front of him, the Emperor chose to give him one last chance to return to his vile army, trying to tempt him, in vain, with a position of unmatched power as his very own right-hand man.

Back in the old days, his younger, and much more cunning self, would have gladly accepted his Master’s invitation, pleased with the priceless opportunity to get even closer to the detestable Icejin, simulating supreme loyalty to him while biding his time to get strong enough to betray and defeat him. But the man that he’d become in the few months prior to that day, thanks mostly to Bulma’s inspirational presence, found the mere thought of spending even a fleeting second in the bastard’s presence absolutely repulsive, and Vegeta certainly had no intention of wasting any more of his precious time and energy on putting on a mask in front of such a worthless beast.

And so, the Prince attacked Frieza with everything he had, engaging in the most brutal battle of his life, inflicting blow after blow on the deceptively small Lizard, and giving him not one minute of respite.

In the beginning, Vegeta managed to put himself in an unexpected position of advantage, almost fooling himself into believing that, even without his coveted Ascension, he might still possess enough power to destroy the Monster responsible for every atrocious nightmare.

But he sadly needn’t wait long for his delusion to morph into the most petrifying reality, and though the young warrior had proudly more than held his own throughout Frieza’s first three transformations, each one of them frighteningly stronger than the last, the wheels quickly turned against him once his Master’s secretive final form was eventually attained.

To this day, there were times when Vegeta would still wake in the middle of the night feeling that cold, slimy tail pitilessly wrapped around his neck, his invincible enemy lifting his compact body off the ground as he punched his battered spine again and again, cracking, piercing through his resilient armor as if it were made out of flimsy paper alone.

He could still hear his merciless words of mockery, that humiliating speech reverberating in his fragile mind as he took it all, a limp body, battered arms hanging lifelessly on both sides, forced to endure the disdainful insults that the repugnant Overlord had taunted him with for as long as he had memory, so long indeed, that Vegeta had somehow grown to believe such disgraceful fallacies to be true.

And then the most excruciating agony sliced his entire being as he was cruelly thrown into the ground, like nothing, like the worthless fool he’d always been, in truth, to the callous Monster who’d raised him in the depressing hopes of turning him into some filthy, distorted mirror of himself. 

The Lizard’s silhouette hovered above him, his absurdly diminutive figure looking larger than life as he got ready to drop the final curtain on the life of his tortured protégé. He pointed a single, lethal finger at him, gathering with deliberate slowness a tiny sphere of purple energy, aiming right to the Prince’s broken heart, bidding his vicious goodbyes, and trying to prolong the Prince’s suffering for as long as he could while he played with the remnants of his battered ego.

He spoke of ‘failures’ and ‘greatest disappointments’, blatantly lying about the infinite masses of power and riches that Vegeta could have achieved, if only he’d been a ‘more obedient Little Monkey’ during his humiliating years of slavery.

The appalling Monster even had the nerve to pronounce his Father’s name and title, accusing him of being just as much of a ‘coward weakling’ as the King himself had been, and laughing at all of those times when the younger Saiyan had invoked his race’s ‘worthless legends’, avowing to one day reach the elusive Super Saiyan status, surpassing him in strength and gloriously avenging his People, once and for all.

And yet, through it all, even as the hardhearted torturer stripped him from whatever dignity he may have once possessed, it wasn’t the loss of his revered Saiyan pride that hurt the most, or his undisputable failure in fulfilling the Golden Prophecy, thus revenging his Father’s honor and that of his fallen People.

In the end, as he thrashed and twisted pathetically on the ground, holding onto shaky clutches of that alien blue grass with beaten fists, clinging to Life itself, it was the overpowering realization of having failed her what eventually turned the vision of his murderer into a hazy shadow, blurred by scalding tears. Tears of shame and defeat that he’d been wise enough to bottle up ever since the tragic obliteration of his home planet had struck, only surrendering to such dishonorable weakness when he was but a lonely little cub weeping beneath one of his caretaker’s ragged blankets, tears that were now falling completely unrestrained, brought by the shameful guilt of having failed his mate and their child in such a spectacular manner.

“This is how it ends, Vegeta…” Frieza proclaimed with vile arrogance, the amethyst glow of the deadly beam awaiting at the tip of his finger, pointed straight to the aching flesh exposed through the cracks of his useless armor. “Say hello to your Father for me…” He purred sardonically, the syrupy laughter accompanying his glum prophecy stabbing Vegeta’s heart long before the Lizard’s weapon ever could. “I’m sure that you’ll both be very…”

The Prince would never learn of the disturbing, final wish that Frieza had in mind for him and the late King. Instead, his eyes were sole spectators, right through the mortifying tears glazing them, of his Master’s smug confidence vanishing into thin air when he turned his gaze to the blanket of darkness that Namek’s green skies had suddenly become.

Vegeta watched in powerless horror the range of expressions distorting the Icejin’s rubbery face, staring in utter bewilderment at the artificial night now enveloping them both; emotions running from initial shock to comical confusion, culminating in the most terrifying rage when he set his snake-like eyes on the titanic, mystical figure surrounded by golden flames while floating in a starless sky.

“Wha-What…? What is that?! What…?” Frieza stuttered to himself, eyes broadening as soon as his laughable turmoil began to gradually fade away. “N-No… No!” The Icejin thundered with a fury that shook the very foundations of the fragile planet. “NOOOOOOO!!!”

The last thing Vegeta saw, before an unforgiving blackout claimed him, was the maniacal shape of his enemy exploding into red-blooded blazes and taking off into the skies, hysterically roaring a vicious string of depraved curses as he flew in the clear direction of the woman he’d just abandoned to her own cursed luck.

 

The end.

 

That should have been the end of it all.

 

But, on that decisive day, as the Prince lay on the brink of Death amongst a bloody bed of wild grass, Fate made the unprecedented choice to give him one final chance for redemption. And, when Vegeta’s weary eyes found the rare strength to open one more time, it wasn’t Hell what they encountered, but a pair of small, green hands enclosing his torn body in an equally green bubble of curative light.

“P-Prince Vegeta…” The little Namekian spoke with fearful respect as he worked his alien magic on the warrior, healing every single fatal wound with astonishing ease. “My name is Dende, Prince Vegeta… Miss… M-Miss Bulma and I already made the first two wishes, but… But Frieza interrupted us when we were about t-to…”

“B-Bulma…” Vegeta rasped weakly, still lying helpless on the ground, a raw desperation lacing his voice at the thought of Frieza having set his sights on his vulnerable mate. “Where…? Where is she? What…?”

“The Namekian warriors are fighting him, my Prince,” the child quickly informed, appeasing the Saiyan’s greatest fears, if only for a short moment. “They… They were still fighting him when Miss Bulma asked me to come and find you,” Dende patiently explained while wiping off the sweat from his brow, already starting to really feel the fatigue derived from having to restore Vegeta’s colossal strength back to full health. “We’re… We’re almost done now…”

Vegeta’s tough fists clenched and unclenched several times as he carefully sat on the grass, assessing a newfound power shockingly greater than the one he possessed mere hours ago, thanks, once again, to a miraculous recovery after having endured another one of his Master’s almost-lethal poundings.

“Where…? Where’s the Dragon?!” The fighter asked with heated franticness, fearing the worst possible outcome at the sudden vision of the sky above them having fully returned to its natural green hues.

“We… We unsummoned Him, my Prince, He… He’ll wait for us t-to make our final wish…” The young boy further clarified, taking a few cautious steps back when he proudly finished his task, never taking his eyes off the imposing stranger now standing on wobbly feet, towering above him while staring, completely wide-eyed, at the open palms of his gloved hands in marveled disbelief, a part of him still wondering if that moment was real, or just some kind of wicked hallucination preceding his final breath before he abandoned this world.

But it was real, as real as the deep, determined lungful of cool air filling his lungs right before he burst into a white sphere of raging fire, powering up and wrapping a rough, shielding arm around the little Namekian, bringing him with him as he blasted off in search of his woman.

Vegeta flew the skies with panicky desperation, stomach sinking, blood throbbing hotly in his chest, as he implored, to whatever Saiyan Gods still willing to listen to his pathetic prayers, for one last miracle, just one, the unlikely miracle of his Bulma having survived being in the doomed presence of the Emperor for as long as she had.

 

It was at this point that the truth of such crucial events began to dissolve in his memory, his last, truly clear recollection being the sensation of his unsteady feet touching solid ground, just in time to witness the most horrifying scene a man should ever be forced to live through.

Before his gritty eyes, three Namekian bodies lay scattered across the shore of a small pond of emerald waters, the very same pond where he’d sat with his woman mere hours earlier, a place that had once marked Bulma’s optimistic joy, but which had now become a grisly battlefield.

And, right in the middle of such a bloody spectacle, standing above one of the rocks where his beautiful mate had once candidly shared her innocent tales of youth with him, stood Frieza himself, one creepy hand firmly wrapped around his woman’s graceful neck as she strangely succeeded in finding the courage to look the Monster straight in the eye, just like she’d once looked at him during their first encounter, back in her old laboratory, instantly earning his respect with the quiet dignity she’d displayed in spite of her hidden fears.         

“Well, well, Vegeta…” The Lizard’s sugary voice purred with devilish amusement, easily sensing the Saiyan’s presence, even with his back still turned to him, while choosing to keep his sights on the terrified earthling instead. “So, this is the real reason behind your betrayal… Isn’t it?”

“Let go of her,” Vegeta murmured menacingly, his speech low, unusually subdued, concealing to perfection the inner clash beginning to stir inside of him, a mystifying battle between the disgraceful horror that his Master’s presence never failed to awaken, and the savage electricity coursing every cell of his lethal body at the vision of one of the bastard’s claws daring to touch the sacred mark that he’d forever imprinted on his woman’s porcelain skin. “Now…”

His ominous threat would have been enough to freeze the heart of any of his numerous enemies, but not of someone with the power and insolent superiority of the mighty Overlord, who chose to burst into a degrading bout of syrupy laughter instead.

“You’ll never learn…” Frieza concluded with feigned disappointment, finally deigning to turn his face to him, revealing that wicked gleam sparkling in his lizardry eyes whenever a particularly immoral idea was concocting within the depths of his debauched mind. “Won’t you?” His head tilted to the side, flashing him the most malicious smirk in his collection before turning his eyes back to the woman standing oddly still under his omnipotent grasp.

“I mean it, Frieza…” Vegeta threatened once again, eyes seeing red, broad chest heaving as he struggled to handle the wild rush of otherworldly energy painfully repressed in the confines of his vibrating body. “Now…”         

The Emperor rubbed even more salt into the fighter’s wounded ego by continuing to arrogantly ignore his hostile commands, inducing a wave of repulsed nausea in both lovers at once with the way he kept stroking the distinctive scar firmly engraved near Bulma’s delicate collarbone.  

“You see, my Dear…” Frieza spoke to her, talking like one would to an old friend while happily pretending to ignore the clear disgust written on the woman’s flawless face. “Prince Vegeta is not allowed to keep anything, or anyone, for himself…” He explained with humiliating condescendence. “It’s a lesson I taught him a long…” His slimy claws tightened around the woman’s frail neck. “Long, long time ago...” His ruthless grip on her sore flesh loosened slightly, giving her a brief moment of respite as he brought himself even closer to his defenseless prey.

“Perhaps it’s time to teach him a new lesson… Don’t you think, my Dear?”

His breath, both cold and sickeningly alien, invaded her oversensitive senses, and never had Bulma felt more pity, more heartbreaking compassion towards the man standing behind her tormentor, looking as if he were about to murder every single living creature in the Universe, as she did in that instant, for she couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must have felt like to spend an entire lifetime subjected to the revulsive presence of such a hideous, heartless beast.

“Perhaps…” Frieza carried on, running the tip of his gelatinous tongue across his upper lip with devious libidinousness, fully basking in the obvious repugnance that such a meager gesture provoked in the Earth woman. “Perhaps I should take you for myself…” His sharp fingers inflicted even more pressure on her tender neck, a rush of unbearable agony hitting her as he pulled her roughly towards him, the move so sudden, so harsh, that she couldn’t even try to repress the sharp hiss of pain slipping through her clenched teeth. “Perhaps…” He smirked sadistically, visibly pleased to finally get a physical reaction out of his new little play toy.

“Perhaps I should make you mine…”

Bulma’s expressive blue eyes widened perceptively at the foul implications within the Monster’s insinuation, swallowing a tight knot with difficulty as she winced in pain, an excruciating, penetrating brand of pain that she’d never endured before, reminding her of how incredibly lucky she’d been to have lived a relatively safe existence during those past few months, even after she’d been deprived of her home and all of her loved ones.

If there was a time to surrender, to finally give up on the charade of confidence that she’d somehow perfected as her one and only means of survival, that should have been it. And, to that day, Vegeta knew that another woman, any other woman, would have inevitably fallen on her knees, curtsying before the Supreme Ruler of the Universe and begging for Mercy, using every charm and act of contrition in her feminine repertoire to fool the bastard into sparing her insignificant life.

But Bulma Briefs was no conventional woman, and all she had to do to proclaim such a feat was to raise her stare from the bloodied grass with slow determination, piercing her incredulous mate to the ground with the most intriguing look, that peculiar, familiar expression that always made him believe that she possessed the exceptional power to discern a Truth buried in his heart which he didn’t even know himself.

“Never,” she answered smoothly, her face but a mask of unreadable stone as she held the Emperor’s gaze with astounding ease.

“Oh?” Frieza instantly shot back, his honest surprise at the puny creature’s retort manifesting in the arching of an intrigued brow. “What was that, my Dear?” He asked, the false sweetness in his question contrasting with the intimidating claw now enfolding the chin that Bulma was lifting in infuriating defiance.

“I said never,” she repeated with even greater confidence, both hands insolently clutching the cold arm still keeping her prisoner in its ruthless grip. “I will never belong to someone like you…” She spat out, the most vicious of challenges entwined with the misleading quietness in her tone.      

“My, my…” The Monster snickered, highly amused by the defiance shot right at him, so utterly uncommon indeed, that he couldn’t help but admire the guts of such a worthless female. “You really got yourself a feisty little thing, didn’t you Vegeta?” Frieza concluded with glee, already contemplating the endless possibilities, the twisted games that someone like him could play with such a beautifully untamed creature. “That’s quite alright, my Dear…” He crooned, eyes squinting in anticipation as he lowered his voice, with the utmost certainty that the stunned Prince would still be able to hear every single word of his malevolent threat. “I prefer it this way…” He declared, staring at the distinctive Saiyan bite tattooed on his victim’s neck with obsessive fixation. “It will be a real pleasure to break the little pet of my favorite Monkey Prince…”

Vegeta’s boots remained firmly planted on the battlefield as he watched the surreal exchange in wordless stupefaction, his entire being wrecked by that foreign flood of primal energy, yet powerless to move, as if his bloodthirsty hands were still bound by a thin, invisible rope.

And, if he hadn’t already loved his woman to the point of stupidity, he would have fallen for her right there and then at the marvel that were those lips, curling into a smirk whose disdainful cockiness could only rival his own, opening that pretty mouth of hers and addressing Frieza in a way that no warrior, dead or alive, had ever dared to before.

“Oh, I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Lord Frieza…” She snapped, with a honeyed mockery identical to the one employed by the dumbfounded Icejin. “You see, Lord Frieza…” Bulma uttered again. “Today is the day you die…” She proclaimed with a suave smile, as if the aftermath of her bold announcement had already occurred. “And I will be the lucky little pet who’ll get to stand here and watch it happen, My Lord…”      

And then, the Gods had mercy on the Prince’s poor soul, then she hooked her eyes right back on him, completely oblivious to the Monster’s furious reaction to her daring statement, or to the new stream of pain brutally gushing through her as those black claws from Hell tightened even harder around her neck.

Instead, when her gaze found her lover’s, it wasn’t one of those girlish blushes what he encountered, or another one of those pleading, watery smiles that never failed to melt his sullen heart.

This time, her eyes were not the warm, compassionate eyes of his Bulma, but two cold gems of blue steel, the hard, inscrutable eyes of the Holy Goddess of War herself, using her mate’s fragile body as an earthly vessel, with the sole purpose of making sure that The Prophecy would, once and for all, be fulfilled.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR, VEGETA?!” Bulma roared unforgivingly, a full-blooded Saiyan Queen leading her troops to a barbarous battle, commanding them to die in her name if needed be. “Do it, Vegeta! KILL HIM!!!” She demanded with untamed fury.

 

“DO IT FOR US!!!”

 

Us.

Not for him or for her, not for the rotten memory of an absent Father he barely ever knew, the obscure memoirs of a fallen race that mattered no more, or the cursed Saiyan pride which was the one and only token preserved as a painful reminder of his identity.

But for them.

 

Her words were the spark that kindled the fire, a Northern Star guiding him through the darkest night, liberating him from that last imprisoning rope holding him back from ultimate revenge, and unleashing the Golden Demon that would free them both.

There it was, an explosion of energy so vast that his physical body could barely contain it, the same flame only ignited once before, back during that surreal fight in his disturbing mission with Zarbon. That clandestine combat was almost gone from his vague recollections, but as his wild blood coursed through him, filling every throbbing vein of his now pumped up muscles, and even with his own rationality still madly out of control, he knew, fully identifying the mystical transformation about to materialize, and savoring the masterful victory already held in his deadly hands.

Time twisted and warped as his body soared to his anticipated Super Saiyan status, standing amongst a proud cloud of golden flames under the watchful eye of the woman who’d made it possible, the frail little creature who kept standing with just as much pride, boastful smirk never fading from her lips, with the triumphant conviction that she’d been the Master instigator of it all, a Goddess claiming full ownership of her man’s Destiny.

In the blink of an eye, his elbow sank deep into the Demon’s stomach, the blow clean, effortless, bringing him to his knees as a flow of crimson blood burst from Frieza’s panting mouth. And, without giving him even a chance to recover, Vegeta feasted on the Monster’s unhinged jaw when he pushed him away from his woman, throwing him on the ground with a brutal kick to the ribs.

The Prince’s memory was unclear from now on, all he knew was the rare inner peace sweeping through him back then, a purity of spirit, undoubtedly connected to his love and desire of protection towards his treasured mate, which would eventually turn his glorious victory into an experience unlike anything he’d ever envisioned for himself, throughout those countless fantasies daydreamt while bearing the hardship of years of demeaning slavery.

Vegeta had always projected that fateful moment as a magnificent event, the day when he’d finally have the opportunity to avenge, not only his Race, but every single humiliation inflicted upon him by the Devil who’d made a living Hell out of his entire existence.

In the end, as he returned and perpetrated hit after hit with chilling ease, listening to the manipulative pleas and offers of the filthy creature stupidly refusing to accept his demise, there were no heroic speeches or arrogant bouts of maniacal laughter, nothing but a stone-cold face and an unnervingly calm sneer, as if Frieza didn’t even matter anymore, as if all of this were purely a tedious trial that he had to endure in order to share the rest of his life with those he loved the most, the only ones truly worthy of his time.

The sinful Icejin kicked and fussed, using every trick in his dirty book of lies to attempt to buy his way out of the bottomless abyss he was being buried into. He’d switch from insulting the Saiyan warrior, swearing that his Ascension was but a useless hoax, a chimeric illusion that would amount to nothing, to begging for clemency whenever Vegeta would effortlessly put him in his place, right on the mud, where he belonged, and even going as far as offering him a place by his side, sharing his godlike throne and never-ending riches with him if that meant getting to keep his miserable life in return.

Ultimately, after Vegeta’s superhuman strength made it redundantly clear that none of those worthless offers would ever become a real temptation, and that both he and his woman were far above such superficial ambitions, Frieza decided to swallow the leftovers of his pathetic pride, resorting to addressing Bulma instead, begging her to convince the Prince to spare his paltry life, in hopes that the softness of a feminine heart would show him the undeserving mercy that he was so desperately seeking.

“You will never speak to her again!” The Saiyan ferociously commanded, reinforcing his order with a vicious kick in the lizard’s battered back, making him lose his balance and drop pitifully on his bloodied knees. “YOU ARE NOT WORTHY!!!” He roared into the air, wrapping five hateful fingers around the nape of his victim’s neck, and pushing him savagely into the ground until he had him on all fours, ready to die by his unforgiving hand.

“Ve-Vegeta… D-Don’t… DON’T!!!” The bastard slurred in pure misery, broken tail thrashing wildly, mangled claws sinking into the blood-soaked ground, as if hanging onto Life itself.

“This is how it ends, Frieza…” Vegeta uttered with quiet somberness, surprising even himself, in spite of his delirious state of mind, with how calm, how utterly unperturbed he felt now that he literally held the dream of a lifetime in his vast hand.

There was no brash pride or scornful laughter, not even a trace of that black mass of poison incessantly spreading within his heart at the mere thought of his Master’s existence, just like he had no interest whatsoever in prolonging the torture that he’d always planned on inflicting upon the Emperor when this day would come. 

It was as if he’d finally understood that the wretched Demon didn’t even deserve a second more of his hatred or energy, realizing that he much preferred to get this over with as soon as possible, eager to dedicate his valuable time to the unique woman witnessing his triumph in absolute marvel, and to the life of happiness that he now knew was awaiting them.

His apathy was such that he didn’t even bat an eyelid when Frieza lowered himself to one last vindictive tactic, striving to cause his detested slave just as much pain as the one he was suffering through during his last minutes in this world.   

“N-Never! NEVERRRR!!!” The loser yelled in the most insufferable screech, like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum, purely because the time had come for him to stop having his way. “If… If I go…” He murmured maliciously, rivulets of the darkest blood dripping from his mouth. “I’ll t-take her with m-me…”

Before he even had the chance to point his fatal finger at the stunned earthling, Vegeta took a fierce hold of Frieza’s wrecked arm, ripping it off his body like that of a paper doll, and throwing it, without any scruples, right into the tranquil pond where the bastard had almost taken Bulma’s life mere minutes earlier.  

And just like that, with no desire to listen to the hopeless pleas of a breathing cadaver, the Prince of All Saiyans took unexpected mercy on the filthy creature responsible for every one of his childhood bad dreams, placing one hand at each side of the freak’s head, and putting an end to his life with the merciless twist of a wrist and the dry sound of a cracking bone.

 

That was all.

 

The rest of that auspicious day was an anarchy of ethereal images, the extraordinary sensation of the world, as he’d always known it, shifting radically beneath his feet as he bent down and picked up the lifeless carcass of the beast who’d once dared to call himself Ruler of the Universe.

Vegeta walked the short distance separating him from his mate with slow but purposeful steps, dragging the limp body across the mud-covered grass and laying it at Bulma’s feet, right where he’d promised himself to rest it when the time came for him to destroy his woman’s cutthroat enslaver.

His drained body followed soon after, falling on his worn-out knees while the golden flames that once enveloped his body gradually faded away, as if his physical form still weren’t sufficiently prepared to handle the stormy fountain of energy flowing through him. And he simply knelt meekly on the spot, arms drooping at his sides and head bowed down in submission, battling the disgraceful need to surrender to unconsciousness as he docilely awaited his mate’s command, not even fearing the certitude that he’d follow her wherever she asked to go next.

The last impression he could still evoke with a smidgen of clarity, before their alien surroundings would literally dissolve all around them, was the heartwarming pair of shaky hands encircling his face as she joined him on the ground.

His Bulma’s hands.

Her touch was gentle as ever, but firm enough to make him lift his weary head, so that he could see for himself the one emotion that he never, in a million years, imagined seeing in the eyes of another being.

Vegeta had already seen pure hatred in the stare of his innumerable enemies, and the unsettling fear of the defenseless creatures that had died by his own hand during his many dreadful assignments. Perhaps, the only positive emotions ever directed at him had lied in the eyes of his Father, or in those of Raditz and Nappa, as they’d admired his colossal strength during those early years of life spent as his People’s youngest prodigy.

But, if he was truthfully honest with himself, he had to admit that there’d been a cold selfishness in their admiration, the selfishness of those who’d perceived him not as a man but as an instrument, taking pride, not in the boy that he’d once been, but in the vast potential of the man that he could become, and in all of the infinite privileges that his future achievements would someday bring to the Saiyan race.

But not her, not this woman, not the one who’d anticipated his victory long before he ever could, loving and accepting him for who he was, and blindly believing in him, even when he had no will left to believe in himself.

“I knew you’d make it…” Bulma whispered with conviction, tears of euphoria running down her cheeks as she smiled with the fondest look of pride in her eyes.

Pride in him.

She erased the confused frown in his brow with her lips, still holding his face in her calm grasp as she kissed the tense little spot with excruciating tenderness, holding back a sob of relief when he let himself go at last, resting a jaded forehead on her shoulder and releasing the longest, most relieved breath of his life when she took him in her arms, gladly deciding his future for him.

“It’s time to go home, Vegeta…”

 

Home.

 

Home was a planet as blue as Bulma’s marvelous eyes, a lush sphere of green pastures, fresh air and crystalline waters, a place that made him understand her just a little better every day, finally grasping where most of her innate beauty originated from.

Home was warm milk and bedtime stories, no longer an errant life of futile purging missions, and that never-ending quest for pointless revenge and domination, always surrounded by immoral men and revolting tales of depravity, narrated by some bonfire ignited on a pile of rotting corpses, doing his best not to choke on the foul smoke emanating from it while chewing on whatever edible grub he could get his hands on.

Home were long dinners around the lavish kitchen table, listening quietly to his wife’s melodic voice while gorging on the most delicious foods he’d ever tasted, smiling proudly to himself as she discussed some brainy, groundbreaking idea with his equally brilliant father-in-law, and interrupted, every now and then, by Panchy Briefs and her charmingly frivolous chatter, sharing one of her dizzy discoverings, such as some new bakery shop that offered a particular type of sprinkled cupcakes that was ‘just darling’, all of it seasoned by his son’s childish questions and his bouts of bright laughter.

Home was trust, a life well-lived in the company of people he’d never expected to cross paths with, those who’d never use or betray him, and a pair of loving arms and lips always willing to scatter the decaying fragments of his old Demons away, scaring them silly with nothing but a girlish smooch and a loving hug, never failing to remind him that there was nothing left to fear anymore, and never would be.

 

Home was family.

 

“Mama!” Trunks crooned with enthusiasm, bringing his brooding father back from his nostalgic reverie, and making him set his puzzled eyes at once on the excited little boy.

By now, the Prince could read and detect the individual ki of every single creature on the planet without any kind of technological assistance, and he was particularly in tune with his wife’s life essence, distinguishing her location, and even her emotional aura, with astonishing effortlessness. It was precisely such a sharp connection what confused him so, given how, earlier in the morning, he’d clearly spotted Bulma’s distinctive energy firmly planted in the headquarters of Capsule Corporation, at the heart of West City’s hectic business district.

But, one look at the stiff finger that Trunks kept waving happily in the air, as he pointed right in front of him, told Vegeta that the little brat wasn’t talking directly to his adored Mama, but to a picturesque representation of her, in the shape of a colorful item carefully placed in the middle of the massive table by his Nana herself.

 

A large vase of yellow roses in full bloom.

 

“That’s right, Pumpkin! Those are your Mama’s favorite flowers!” Panchy applauded him, dotingly ruffling her grandson’s tousled hair while pouring him another glass of chocolate milk. “And what are they called?” She asked in encouragement, patiently testing the boy’s ever-growing vocabulary.

“Roooooseeeees!!!” Trunks sang with confidence, joyful as a little mockingbird as he chewed on a crunchy green apple.

“Very good!” The chirpy woman praised him, leisurely circling the table and resting a friendly hand on Vegeta’s shoulder. “I’ll hang it in your side of the closet, is that alright?” She questioned, a smile of understanding spreading in her mouth when her son-in-law frowned in subtle response to her words, realizing that, as usual, she must have lost the young man’s attention at some point during the morning. “Your tuxedo, darling,” she reiterated in her best maternal tone, cleverly reminding the Prince that, behind her airheaded exterior, the woman was far more perceptive than she looked. “I already have your tuxedo for tomorrow night. I’ll hang it in your closet for you.”

Vegeta’s reply was a light grunt and a nod, appreciating the woman’s naturally tolerant nature as he chomped on his crispy bacon, ogling in anticipation the hot tray of blueberry muffins that Panchy was now removing from the oven.

“By the way…” Panchy uttered distractedly, distributing the freshly baked goodies on a serving plate with meticulous precision. “I talked to Bulma this morning,” She informed. “And she asked if you could spend some time with Trunks away from home today. You know… Since the construction workers will be here all day…”

She winked another tongue-in-cheek eye at him, earning a tacit smirk from the Prince himself when she set the enjoyable treats on the table, promptly turning on her feet and walking right back towards the oven, ready to bake one last batch of them.

The warrior peeped at his son with pensive interest, taking a large bite of a mouthwatering pastry while pondering on his wife’s wise instructions. It was clear by now that Trunks’ heart was just as pure as his mother’s, but it’d also become more than evident that the little boy had inherited his parents’ hotheaded taste for adventure, getting into trouble far more frequently than he should; and such inborn intrepidness, together with the endless flood of Saiyan energy streaming through that small body of his, could make for a pretty lethal combination, especially if a group of poor, defenseless human workers was added to such an already dangerous mix.

It didn’t help matters that the child had been especially unhappy and clingy lately, no doubt due to dearly missing his mother, who hadn’t been around as often as usual during the past couple of weeks, obsessively focused on the exhaustive preparations of the first-class event that would be thrown in her honor. 

“Trunks,” Vegeta said after a few moments of introspection, gently seeking the child’s attention after having come up with the perfect plan to keep them both occupied for an entire day.

“Yah?” Trunks answered without delay, avidly munching on one of his Papa’s yummy muffins.         

“Finish your food, boy. We’re going out today…” He announced, smirking proudly at the bright grin suddenly illuminating the little Saiyan’s face.

 

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

 

The tip of her fountain pen caressed her mouth, expensive rose gold distractedly tapping her bottom lip as she rummaged through the chaotic contents of the wrinkly papers secured in her hand, trying to make some sense out of the anarchic assortment of ideas sloppily scribbled during the brief spare time of her lunch hours, before sighing in defeat and finally deciding to call it a day, too exhausted to finish such an important task at this hour of the night.

She lay her messy notes on her equally muddled desk, stretching her arms like a lazy kitten while letting out the loudest of yawns, taking off her shoes and resting her bare feet on the seat of her chair, ready to expose the familiar intruder who’d been spying on her, through the balcony’s flimsy curtains, for a good ten minutes.

“Hey Stranger…” Bulma purred in a playfully seductive tone, wrapping her arms around her bent legs as she pressed her cheek on one knee, smiling at the unmistakable silhouette of the man now taking a casual step forward, walking into their bedroom. “How long have you been snooping for?”      

“Hn!” He hmphed grouchily while leaning cross-armed on the balcony’s door frame, pretending to be far more annoyed than he actually was. “Ever since I went to pick up my wife from work, but she’d already left without telling me.”

“Aw, Sweetie… You did?” She asked back, her face clouding over in guilt. “I thought you wouldn’t pick me up today,” Bulma justified, secretly reveling in the way her husband’s attention quickly shifted, now that she was coolly untying her hair as she addressed him. “I called Mom during lunch break, and she said you’d taken Trunks out today.”

“I did,” Vegeta confirmed, impotent to stop the tip of his tongue from running across his thirsty lips at the sight of his wife’s disheveled hair.

Ever since they’d embarked on their new life on Earth, it hadn’t taken him long to discover that the heiress had a taste for changing her physical appearance at a surprisingly fast rate, bidding goodbye, long ago, to the wild curls he’d fallen in love with back in the early days of their romance, and giving way to a wide collection of hairstyles, culminating on the glossy, stylish bob which she was currently flaunting.

The Prince had never cared much for such nonsense, finding his woman just as beautiful every time, but there was something about seeing her freeing her hair at night, after a long day’s work, that always seemed to push him over the edge, and tonight was no exception.

“So?” Bulma asked casually, leaning back on the chair, and twirling a turquoise lock around her finger as she smiled at him like the cat that got the cream. “Did you two have fun today? Where did you go?”

“We trained in the mountains,” Vegeta replied with just as much coolness, already proceeding to take off his leather jacket and shoes, preparing to enjoy his absolute favorite part of the day in his wife’s company. “And then we flew to that beach the boy likes so much.”

“I see…” She muttered in agreement, her sneaky smile widening now that her initial suspicions were proven right. “The one in Tahiti?” She asked again, swallowing an amused chuckle when she noticed the clear blush tinting her husband’s naturally tanned cheeks as he nodded in assent.

“Yes,” he confirmed, clutching the back of his navy-blue sweater’s neck and pulling at once, taking it off in one smooth move, and revealing a flawless, naked torso that would put the Greek Gods themselves to shame.

“And did he shower before going to bed?” Bulma prodded, already knowing the answer to her devious question, given how she’d checked in on her little boy as soon as she’d gotten home.

Vegeta nodded again, his blush intensifying, staring at the cashmere sweater still held in his hands as if it’d suddenly become the most interesting item on Earth. “I bathed him myself,” he confessed, with that bashfulness that he used whenever he shared with her the things he’d done with their son, that painfully shy voice always revealing how insecure the Prince still felt about anything having to do with him caring for the child on his own.

‘That explained it…’ Bulma thought astutely to herself, her understanding smile never faltering as she evoked the short visit that she’d earlier made into Trunks’ room, just as she always did, in search of a goodnight kiss from her little boy.

Her child was already in bed when she’d sneaked in, hugging the heavy-eyed boy with one arm and running her nurturing fingers through his still damp hair with the other, bumping into a few grains of sand still lingering in his scalp while Trunks slurred sleepily in her ear, happily sharing with her all the things that he’d done with his dear Papa that day.

Vegeta’s child bathing skills may not have been perfected yet, but the mental image of her husband bathing their little boy was enough to make her heart both melt and swell with pride, proudly acknowledging just how far her man had come, both as a husband and as a father.

It was quite an achievement, especially considering how scarce his interactions had been with Trunks during his first months of life, not because he wasn’t willing to assist her in caring for their infant son, but because of how deep the dark self-doubt still plaguing him run, those poisonous beliefs of incompetence that made him fear even the simplest tasks, such as holding the baby in his arms, terrified of losing control of his immense physical power and causing their child some serious harm.

Those early days had been challenging indeed but, persistent as ever, Bulma had stubbornly refused to give up, never losing hope in her husband eventually coming out of his shell as a father, in the same way that he had on the day he found the courage to admit his romantic feelings for her, daring to make her his lifetime mate.

In the end, all of her passionate efforts had been worthy, and the earthling had the honor to proudly witness, first hand, a slow but steady development in her husband’s growing relationship with their son; from those adorably shy moments in which the Saiyan would take the child out of his crib when he thought that no one was watching, anxiously holding his breath while struggling to accommodate the helpless little cub in his arms, to those times when his confidence grew bolder and bolder, going as far as offering to change a diaper or two, or observing her as she bathed and bottle fed Trunks, timidly asking all sorts of insightful questions in aims of understanding the purpose of every one of her actions, so that he could later imitate them in return.

As expected, it was after Vegeta initiated their child’s training in the arts of battle, soon after the precocious boy took his first steps, when the initially frail ties between father and son began to truly solidify, strengthening and evolving into an infinitely deeper connection, a profound, almost primal, Saiyan bond of blood and trust that Bulma herself had keenly encouraged, inviting her husband to keep the fragile memory of his heritage alive by passing his vast knowledge to their unpredictably powerful little boy. 

In recent days, and even though their training sessions had increasingly grown in length and intensity, her husband had still succeeded in surprising her anew, braving to ask her and his father-in-law to teach him how to improve his reading and writing skills, skills which he had perfected with shocking speed, in hopes of being able to help Bulma now that Trunks was a bit older, and she had begun to seriously work on his academic education.

 

“Are you done with your speech?” Vegeta questioned, a hint of impatience lacing his voice as he examined attentively the heap of wrinkled papers scattered all over his wife’s disorganized desk.

“Uh?” Bulma asked back, so lost in her musings that she had to follow the Prince’s stare to remember just what it was that she’d been doing before her man had made his presence known. “Ah, no… Not yet, anyway…” She shrugged tiredly, the tiny yawn on her lips reminding her of her obvious fatigue. “I guess I should try to…”

“I’m sure you can finish it tomorrow,” the Prince cut her off at once, loathing the frown of determination on his woman’s face as she gave another look to the unfinished speech awaiting in front of her.

The word ‘workaholic’ seemed to have been specifically designed for his genius wife and, whilst Vegeta had always admired her fervent dedication towards her career, there were times when he found himself putting his foot down and forcing her to take a break, especially now, with Bulma juggling taking care of organizing such a prestigious event while dealing with the unpleasant symptoms of her early months of pregnancy.

“I guess you’re right,” she smiled at him, grateful for her husband’s protective concern, but still nudged by that tenacious little part of her overactive brain that always made her keep pushing herself beyond reason. “But maybe I could still…”

“Bulma,” he interrupted her again, his attitude leaving no room for argument. “Shower. Now.” He commanded, giving her no further chance to complain, and tempting her to follow right behind him by promptly disappearing into their room’s private bathroom, clad in nothing but that sexy pair of blue jeans that his wife loved so much on him.

Coming from any other person, such sternness would have exactly the opposite effect, making her disobey his orders, if only to prove that she could, and that no one would ever hold the power to tell Bulma Briefs what to do.

But, in her husband, she could always sense a heartfelt concern for her, the very same distress that she experienced when she had to resort to disconnecting his beloved Gravity Room, whenever his strenuous training sessions verged on self-punishment, hinting at just how frighteningly similar they both truly were, two stubborn peas in a pod, always saving each other from their own strongminded selves.

“Yes, Your Highness…” Bulma murmured petulantly, rolling her eyes and shaking her head to herself, summoning her most coquettish smile while lazily undressing herself, ready to shower her poor, neglected husband with some well-deserved affection.

By the time her bare feet touched the cold tiles of their luxurious bathroom, the air was heavily clouded with sizzling steam, and a very naked Saiyan Prince stood inside the marbled shower, giving her his back as he tried to relax under the soothing stream of hot water, releasing a long, heavy sigh of relief when his woman’s arms draped themselves around his perfectly sculpted abdomen, her mere presence enough to make his day complete.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetie…” Bulma candidly apologized, doing her best to vanish her man’s grumpy disappointment with the help of a couple of silky lips and ten very skillful little fingers, raining the softest kisses on the nape of his neck while her hands drew long, indolent circles all over his midriff’s smooth skin. “But thank you for trying… You know how much I like it when you pick me up from work…” She admitted, though, at times, she strongly suspected that her husband enjoyed visiting her in her Company’s central offices even more than she enjoyed those spontaneous visits herself.

She’d never really ventured to ask Vegeta why that was, knowing that her snoopy questions would do more harm than good, most surely embarrassing him instead. But, based on how much pride he always appeared to take in his wife’s professional accomplishments, Bulma had guessed long ago that it was very possible that the man of her life simply enjoyed seeing her work, and develop her groundbreaking discoveries, in her own element.

“And thank you for taking care of Trunks,” she whispered in his ear, rejoicing in his gentle grunt of acceptance, vibrating right through her as she pressed her enticingly nude body even closer to his. “He said you two had fun today,” she confessed, rubbing the tip of her nose on his shoulder and giggling vivaciously as she recalled Trunks’ special request, no doubt replicating his father’s exact words. “And he also asked me to remind you to talk to the Tooth Fairy Woman tonight…”

“Hmph!” Vegeta exclaimed in mocking outrage, still in disbelief at the peculiar qualities of his son’s physiology. “The brat keeps losing his teeth…”    

At that, Bulma had to seriously bite her lower lip, using everything in her power to stop herself from bursting into laughter at how cute her husband looked each and every time he discovered qualities in human culture which he’d never heard of in any other alien race, particularly those occurring in their own little boy.

“Aw, Honey…” Bulma cooed, reaching out for the bottle of her man’s favorite shampoo, and smiling to herself when he instinctively leaned his head back in response, completely accustomed by now to having a woman taking care of his needs for him. “I told you he’ll get some new ones soon…”

“Tsk! Pointless…” Vegeta mumbled through grouchy teeth, still incapable of understanding just what the point was in enduring the torture of an infant boy crying bloody murder while he grew his first set of teeth, only to lose them a few years later, apparently getting some new replacement in return. “No Saiyan kid would ever lose his goddamned teeth…” He murmured, finding it increasingly harder to maintain his typical level of grumpiness, not with those magical fingers of hers massaging his scalp with such delicacy, and feeling so unbelievably good.

“Well…” Bulma quietly explained, resorting to the same patient tone as the one she used during her son’s reading lessons. “Trunks is still half human, remember?”

“Hn… Don’t remind me…” He nagged sarcastically, following his woman’s kind instructions as she silently guided him underneath the stream of water again, running her fingers through his wild mane with great care as she proceeded to tenderly rinse off the copious soapy bubbles.

“Mhmm…” She hummed in good humor, already used to her husband’s harmless irony regarding the apparent weakness of her own race.

 

The couple had only really discussed Trunks’ hybrid nature once before, with Bulma being the one to bring up such a tricky subject herself. While the earthling would have never even given such an unimportant issue a second thought, it was through the supernatural bond binding her spirit to her husband’s that she learnt that the child’s unusually mixed blood was something that the Prince’s lost race would have strongly frowned upon.    

In effect, it was during those early days following her child’s arduous birth that Bulma had access to the alarming sequence of dark dreams incessantly plaguing her mate’s mind, disturbing hallucinations in which she had the dubious honor of being introduced to the sinister figure that would have been Trunks’ Grandfather, if only Destiny had reserved a different future for the Saiyan People.

She repeatedly heard the King’s ominous voice, the depressing echoes of a man who was clearly not even a real memory anymore, but a symbolic representation chasing and tormenting, with relentless cruelty, the shattered heart of the man she’d chosen to spend the rest of her life with.

The Monarch’s message would always be the same, a voice filled with reproach and bitter disapproval, striving to remind his son, the very same son cruelly abandoned to his own luck so many years ago, of the Ruler that he was still supposed to become, and what a foolish waste it was to live his life on some remote mudball, in the meaningless company of a weak woman and a half-breed child.

At first, Bulma had made the hard decision to ignore such hurtful visions, fearing that she might mortify her husband if she confessed to having had access to such painfully intimate imagery but, after waking up in abrupt shock one night, finding herself alone in the middle of an empty bed, she resolved to confront the troubled Prince, in desperate search of some much-needed peace of mind.   

“You saw Him?” Vegeta’s gloomy voice murmured into the night, his question dripping with sad resignation, addressing her as soon as he felt her joining him on the luxurious balcony, stepping behind him with light feet.

Bulma chose silence for a while, trying to heal his bleeding wounds by wrapping her arms around his bare torso, softly caressing his skin while leaning a cold cheek on one of his firm shoulders, struggling to ignore the excruciating soreness still debilitating her body, not yet recovered from the challenging trauma of childbirth.

“Does it bother you?” She inquired back, answering his question with another one, not even bothering to hide her raw vulnerability from him anymore, and how deeply terrifying it was to wonder if the father of her child would end up rejecting and abandoning them both, in search of a life that he deemed more deserving of a Royal warrior.

And it was in his woman’s poignant candor where he found his desired answer, an essential Truth that he’d known all along, but which he’d found impossible to properly give shape to, not until she’d needed him to do it in her name.

“He’s my son, Bulma,” he declared in the fiercest of whispers, turning to her and taking her weepy face in his hands, vanishing her daunting fears with the help of two words, two words simple in appearance, but carrying the meaning of a Lifetime at heart. “Our son…”  

“Then that’s all that matters,” she smiled through those unruly tears of gratitude, still shaken by her husband’s upsetting visions, but feeling a burdensome weight lifting off her shoulders when she sensed the immense pride that he took in fathering their child.

And, although Vegeta had been the one putting her at ease that night, Bulma couldn’t help but attempt to envelop him with her own reassurance too, stroking his flushed face with trembling fingertips as she set him free.

“This is your life, Vegeta,” Bulma whispered with blunt passion, avidly reminding him that he was now the sole holder of his hard-earned freedom. “You have the right to live it your way,” she promised, with such conviction that no man would have ever dared to question such a zealous declaration of independence. “You don’t owe him a thing…” She prompted him, challenging him to destroy the oppressive chains still tying his soul to the distorted memory of a dead man whose cowardly choices had brought him nothing but dishonor and pain. “You don’t owe anything to anyone…”

He stared at her with the most enigmatic look in his eye, awed by his woman’s inner strength as he invited her lips to join his into a long, desperate union, kissing her fondly, passionately, and taking her exhausted body in his arms when her legs began to falter, cursing himself for making his woman endure his own emotional demons while her body was still suffering the taxing consequences of bringing their son into the world.

Neither one of them uttered another word but, when the Prince settled her back into the comfort of their cozy bed, instinctively lying by her side and holding her carefully against him, Bulma knew that that night had perhaps been the most significant one in her mate’s existence, the beginning of a grueling, but unstoppable, journey towards freedom and recovery.

 

“I’m sure I can find a thing or two that you like about humans…” Bulma teased him, rubbing her voluptuous breasts against him kittenishly while running her thin fingers through his wet hair one last time, making sure that she’d gotten rid of all the aromatic bubbles.

She was proven right when Vegeta impulsively turned towards her, powerless to resist the temptation that was the alluring contact of his wife’s beautiful softness against his own masculine hardness.

“I suppose…” He murmured in his most irresistible bedroom voice, starved eyes roaming all over her, losing control of the calloused palms finding a home on her inviting hips. “Some humans are quite… Acceptable…”

One of Bulma’s eyebrows rose at the Prince’s insolent banter. “Oh?” She gasped in mocking affront. “Just acceptable?” She newly asked, her sweet breath feathering his mouth as she brought herself even closer, arms encircling his hard neck, fooling her more and more excited husband into believing that she was about to reward his cheekiness with a kiss, only to stretch her arms even further behind him, throwing a jar of cold water on his libertine expectations by grabbing a bar of soap instead. “That’s too bad, then…”

She lathered up the fragranced little item with practiced ease, chuckling in hilarity at Vegeta’s low groan of frustration, but taking enough pity on him to leave his needy hands right where they were as she continued to indulge him in what she knew was his favorite moment of the day.                     

Her palms smoothed musky soap suds all over his broad chest, taking her time as she massaged him in slow, languid circles, and finding it progressively harder to focus on her task when she had such a fine male specimen trembling in need beneath her hands, barely keeping his urges in check while he waited for her to be done with him, his dirty mind already fantasizing with the sensual way in which he’d ravish his wife tonight.

“I guess we’re in luck,” Bulma said, trying to change the subject with the mischievous intention of prolonging her naughty husband’s agony just a little longer.

“About?” Vegeta answered distractedly, a jolt of excitement making one of his biceps twitch uncontrollably now that her skillful touch was working on his beefy arm.

An impish smile erupted on her face, secretly basking in the power that only she held over the otherwise unbreakable warrior. “Well, as it turns out, the Tooth Fairy Woman made a new gi for Trunks a couple of days ago,” she patiently explained, switching to cleanse Vegeta’s neglected arm. “So now the Tooth Fairy Man can take the perfect gift into his room tonight…”    

“Hn…” He huffed crankily, ready to nitpick on his wife’s orders, even though in truth he didn’t mind them whatsoever. “And may I ask why the Tooth Fairy Woman can’t take the blasted present herself?”

“Because, my Darling…” Bulma purred, lightly tapping his shoulder in hushed encouragement for him to turn around and let her wash his back. “The Tooth Fairy Man can hide his ki, but every time the Tooth Fairy Woman visits Trunks’ room, he always wakes up.”

 

Her insightful explanation made Vegeta laugh for good this time, freely allowing the great pride that he took in his son’s skills show as he took advantage of his wife not being able to see his face right now.

Because she was right, of course, and it’d become evident to both of them by now that their son never failed to notice his mother’s distinctive ki whenever she was around. Vegeta wasn’t entirely sure if the reason behind it had to do with some kind of mystical bond formed between Bulma and the little brat, or if perhaps such an intimate connection was due to the ferociously protective instinct that Vegeta himself had instilled in the boy from their early days of hard training together.

Whatever the case, Trunks’ spirit was now so deeply in tune with his mother’s that it was virtually impossible for her to approach him, or to simply wander about in Capsule Corporation’s vicinities, without him noticing the uniqueness of her presence and, quite often, rushing to her side to check in on her safety, demanding a hug or two out of his treasured Mama on the way.

Out of all of his miraculous achievements, this was perhaps the one that fulfilled Vegeta the most, the absolute conviction that the little boy with the toothless grin and Batman pajamas would, one fine day, grow up to become a new breed of warrior. A fighter with his Mother’s kindness of heart and his Father’s incommensurable power and sharp battle skills, an honorable young man raised with a strongly inculcated belief which had taken his own ignorant father a lifetime to understand: that there was no greater, more noble use for a man’s physical power than its full devotion to the protection of those who mattered the most.

     

“Then maybe…” Vegeta suggested, leaning precariously against the shower’s marbled walls with wide open palms, trying to repress the dangerously stimulating effect that his wife’s hands were stirring inside of him as she knelt behind him, soaping up his well-built legs. “The Tooth Fairy Woman should finally learn how to hide her darned ki…”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Prince Vegeta,” Bulma retorted, making good use of that whispery, naïve tone that she resorted to whenever she was about to play her seductive games with her husband. “But the Tooth Fairy Woman thinks that there’s not a chance in Hell of that happening…”

A sexually tense silence surrounded them as her hands kept massaging his hardened flesh, travelling upwards, from his ankles to his knees, in a slow, erotic torture, making Bulma’s sharp teeth bite on her lip when Vegeta inhaled brusquely through his nose, his perfectly sculpted buttocks clenching in spontaneous reaction to the clever little fingers now reaching his sensitive thighs.

Her hands traced long, wide circles, kneading his solid muscles with slightly harder pressure at first as she worked on thoroughly cleansing his skin, only to gradually switch to softer, lighter caresses when her main job was completed, and her carnal body let him know that it was time to get dirty again.   

Feathery fingers explored his inner thighs, running up and down the sensitized flesh, and playfully raking those long fingernails across his skin while delighting in the way his toes were now curling and uncurling against the floor, his robust legs trembling in want and anticipation when her touch dared to take one step further, making its way up to his sexy bottom.

Bulma stood gracefully from the shower plate, her hands never ceasing those teasing ministrations as she fondled his juicy cheeks, drinking in his needy groan when she reached the elusive scar resting in the small of Vegeta’s back, right where his sneaky tail used to be.

Contrary to her husband’s old beliefs, the intriguing appendage never grew back and, though she sometimes still missed, almost as much as the Prince did, the sensuous things that he could do with it, the extremely sensitive mark left behind had turned out to be almost as much fun as the tail itself, a sexy little spot that could turn him on like a shot, a lustful weakness that Bulma loved to exploit any chance she got.     

“Mhmm…” She moaned into the damp skin of his shoulder, a wild shiver visibly rushing through his spine when her fingertips began a torturous exploration around the steamy spot, drawing idle circles all around it with unbearable slowness as she brought herself even closer, ripe tits pressed against his back. “You like this… Don’t you?”

“B-Bulma…” He mumbled throatily, hating and loving her for knowing just how to push his every button so damn easily.

A loud grunt burst in his throat when, just as he was about to turn on his feet, ready to face her and take full control of the situation, she draped one greedy arm around his abdomen, stopping him dead in his spot and reaching down with her other lascivious hand.

“Oh, yeah… Just look at you…” Bulma murmured seductively, wrapping her soapy fingers around his already stiff cock, her own arousal building up at the sound of her lover’s helpless sigh as he tilted his head back, closing his eyes and leaning on her shoulder as she provoked him relentlessly.

Her grip tightened on him, working him with long, powerful strokes, and smirking devilishly against his exposed jawline while nipping at it, rough and animalistic, just how he liked it.

“You just can’t help yourself… Can you?” She teased in a husky whisper, manicured nails digging harshly into those hard-rock abs as she kept tormenting him, running her impish fingers up and down, from its throbbing base to its tip. “You only get hard for your wife, don’t you?” She purred again, knowing how much Vegeta loved to refer to her as his ‘wife’.

“Wo-Woman…” He threatened hopelessly, hands almost cracking the shower tiles, and that familiar, coppery taste spreading through his mouth as he chewed hard on his inner cheek, his weak self-control slipping when her velvety fingertips found the thick tip of his cock, drawing lazy circles all over it, only to wrap a firm hand around him again, setting up a new, excruciating rhythm, jerking him faster, harder, making him lose all reason as only she knew how.

Her tiny teeth sank on his earlobe, savoring the desperate hiss caressing his tongue, ready to give him one final push, setting the wild beast free now that she had him right where she wanted him.

“You only get hard for me…” She husked cockily, the hand just holding him against her suddenly clutching a handful of his dripping wet hair, pulling as hard as she could, challenging him just like a fearless Saiyan female would.

That did it.

“Impudent little wench!” He roared savagely, forcing her to let go of him at once by turning around, splaying both hands around the creamy flesh of her sweet little ass and lifting her off the ground faster than Bulma’s thrilled eyes could see, trapping her defenselessly, her bare back right against the shower wall.

Bulma yelped in exhilaration, arms and legs fiercely holding onto his body as if he were the only thing she had, hooking her ankles around his waist as she threw her head back, eyes shut tight, waiting for her husband to ravish every inch of her incensed body. Her breasts heaved in repressed need, drowning in the sensuality of the hot water gliding over her hard nipples and the aching, inflamed flesh of her husband’s manhood fully erect, pressed against the soft curve of her belly.

She could feel his body responding to hers, his frantic need for her shamefully written in his erratic breath, and in those trembling fingers, digging roughly into her milky thighs as he held her, building her own desire to a fever pitch, incapable of waiting any longer for him to give her what she needed so badly.

“Hey…” Bulma whispered shakily, opening her eyes and looking at him through a questioning haze, noticing the frustrating hesitation in that black gaze. “What’s wrong?” She asked, trying, with little success, to keep under control the ragged breath betraying the burning fire consuming her.

“Are you…? Are you alright?” Vegeta rasped, heartbreaking guilt lacing his gruff voice as he battled his most primal desires.

“I’m fine, Vegeta,” she smiled fondly at him, realizing that her loud squeal had suddenly made him fear that he’d been too rough on her. “More than fine…” She reassured him, deeply moved by how incredibly protective he always acted towards her, especially during her pregnancies, even if she’d just barely crossed the second month mark of the current one. “Come here…” She whispered friskily, chuckling girlishly while pulling aside a roguish lock of hair hiding one of his eyes from her, erasing every one of his insecurities with the help of her mouth, erotically brushing his parted lips with the tip of her tongue before pressing her own mouth against his, rekindling the uncontrollable flame burning between them beyond any rational control.

One of her arms curved itself around his hard neck, her other hand boldly skimming over his shivery abdomen as she reached down to stroke him, smirking in smug satisfaction as she watched the absolute rapture on his face. Her legs imprisoned him possessively, smashing his self-control when she rubbed the sensitive scar in his back with one mischievous heel, crossing her ankles around his lean hips and pushing roughly, bringing him as close to her as she could.       

Her body flowed against him, sinuous hips swirling, rolling, moving with the same sensuality of the sweltering water raining above them as she tangled her own pleasure with his, sliding his pulsing hardness between her soft folds, using him for her own selfish gratification.

“Vegeta…” Bulma moaned wantonly, a sizzling spark burning between her legs, feeling herself about to lose at her own wicked game. “I… I want you inside me…” She pleaded, stealing another fiery growl out of him when she stroked him one last time before guiding him to her entrance, lowering herself onto him with agonizing leisureliness and gladly surrendering her power back to him. “Make love to me…”

The Prince shuddered in relief, groaning madly as he plunged slowly into her tight warmth, one hand keeping her firmly held against his waist while another protective hand nestled her head, kissing her in a frenzy. It was his turn now to make her his, and as his hips started to move on their own, he knew that he was ready to make the most of it.

The air was electrifying, hot steam impregnated with the overwhelming scent of fragranced soaps, salty sweat and the infuriating, saturated perfume of her arousal, the luring perfume of the woman whose sharp nails where now poking the nape of his neck, piercing hot needles reminding him of his wife’s irrational desire for him.  

“G-Gods! I’m… I’m so close…” She whimpered pitifully, their noses touching as she pressed her brow against his and squeezed her eyes shut, almost ashamed at how naturally she fell apart in her man’s arms.

And, if Vegeta’s mind hadn’t been already on the verge of splitting, he would have laughed at her helplessness, at how easy it was for him to bring the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen to ecstasy. But he couldn’t, not when he could feel his own reason slipping already, that unbearable pressure growing in his loins, and those cherry-colored toes curling and uncurling into his heated skin, awakening his most primitive instincts with the wicked way they kept brushing that goddamned tail spot.     

“Bulma… Tell me when…” He demanded fervidly, hips unyielding, grinding, pounding into her, hard and fast, while looking her straight in the eye with terrifying intensity. “I want us to cum together…” He begged, a dying man searching for one last, heavenly meal, emphasizing his anxious request with a thrust that made the most succulent cry melt in her pretty throat. “Tell me…”

She didn’t even know if she’d replied to his frenzied demand, all she knew was that no woman had been taken like this, fucked like this, ever. Not this deliciously, filling and completing her, merging his body with hers and making her feel that, if he kept this up, this maddening, domineering intensity, he’d break her apart and leave her still begging for more.

“Ve-Vegeta...” She mewled, shiny beads of water glistening in her lips as her mouth opened wide in abandon, her choked sounds stripping him from his inhibitions, ramming into her completely unrestrained when he felt her pulsating around him.

“Tell me!” He implored, grappling with a raving need to let go, to join her as she blissfully luxuriated in her own climax. 

“N-Now… Now… Now!” Her raspy voice gasped, carving fresh scars into his already marred skin when he bucked his hips against hers one last time, shooting his hot seed in her tight little pussy as she kept narrowing around his swollen cock, draining every drop of his thick essence as her ears embraced the animalistic roar of his sated release.

Bulma’s head dropped heavily on his shoulder, hiding her rosy face from the stream of hot water cascading above them, losing herself in the afterglow of their mind-blowing orgasm. She run both hands across her husband’s back, trembling legs hanging limply on both sides of him, smiling weakly into his musky skin when Vegeta’s strong arms tautened around her, a faithful reminder that he’d never let her fall, not even when he himself was overcome by his own faintness, never stopping that slow, sensual friction against her, basking in the intimate aftermath of their lovemaking.

In a moment such as this one, it was impossible not to evoke that remote, long-lost night, it seemed like centuries ago now, in which her Prince had first experienced the desire to comfort another being, and how the man holding her in such a passionate, yet natural embrace, was a far cry from the one she’d met in a different lifetime, that silent, distant warrior who’d once strived to ease her pain with the help of a fearful mouth and two hesitant hands, a man who’d never cared or been cared for, a man who’d not once loved or been loved in return.

Back in those days, those forgotten days of furtive encounters, alternated with the most lonesome of nights, Bulma had promised herself that, if only Destiny ever gifted her with a real shot at true happiness, she’d spend every minute of such a priceless opportunity healing the wounds of the man who’d one day, against all odds, become her husband.

Her new existence on Earth had been an unexpected gift indeed, and though Bulma had squeezed every precious drop of her second chance in life, and there were already far too many achievements and discoveries to her name to count, there was nothing that enthused more pride within her heart than having had the patience, and the emotional skills, to fulfill her vow of protection, opening the eyes of the man whose hands were now gently lathering up her satiated body as she leaned onto him for support.

Vegeta’s bleeding wounds run deep and she knew, far deeper than those of any other man she’d ever known but, tonight, the tender confidence of those hands told her that they’d made it, and that her Prince had long ago accepted kindness as something real, an authentic gesture that he was both worthy of giving and receiving.

His touch was no longer timid but quietly confident, unafraid of its inborn roughness causing any harm to the fragile creature he’d chosen as a lifetime companion, spreading those sumptuously perfumed bubbles all over her porcelain skin with the surprising self-assurance of a man who’d happily welcomed his new, unanticipated place in life, just a husband caring for his wife, with the innate security that she’d always care for him just as much.

“Thank you…” She murmured appreciatively against his still damp cheek as he assisted her in wrapping herself in her baby blue bathrobe, grateful for him, not only washing and rinsing her body and hair with great care, but for even going as far as running a small comb through her turquoise tresses for her, in the clumsiest, most adorable way she’d ever seen.

Her gratitude was rewarded with an embarrassed grunt, with Vegeta doing his best to put on his own robe while his wife’s puny arms attempted murder on him, cutting off his air supply by cuddling his neck to death, and showering his face and neck with the loudest, most sweetly annoying smooches, bursting into the very same luminous laughter that she shared with their son when he took her in his arms, carrying her back to the sanctuary of their private bedroom.

The Prince took a seat on one of the large armchairs awaiting them in their suite’s lounging area, just as he often did after their intimate showers together, securing her tiny figure on his lap as they both savored those last cozy moments of the night, before the plush warmth of their bed would tempt them to retreat into its lavish comfort.

“Thank you for taking care of things these past few weeks,” Bulma whispered, succumbing to the protective arms shielding her from the cool air of the night. “I know I haven’t been around as much, and I’m sorry…” She apologized, touching remorse gleaming in her tired blue eyes as she petted his cheekbones with devotion. “It’s just that… Tomorrow means a lot to me…”     

“I know, Bulma,” he answered without delay, hands comfortingly squeezing around her slender frame, trying to reassure her, to convey without words that there was no need for her to express regret for the consequences of her own success. “Although the boy has missed you,” Vegeta admitted, the sad longing in his voice revealing that Trunks hadn’t been the only one of her favorite boys who’d lately suffered the void of her absence.

“I know, Sweetie…” Bulma muttered in acceptance, bringing herself even closer, and instantly lifting his spirits with a dazzling smile. “But I promise I’ll make it up to him,” she assured him, sealing her hopeful promise with a long, deep kiss, one of those kisses that turned him into nothing but a love-struck idiot by the time she was done with him. “I’ll make it up to you both…”

His thumb lightly brushed the beauty that was her mouth. “Did you discuss matters with your father?” He asked expectantly, a glint of contentment beaming in his regal features when she hummed and nodded in quick agreement.

“I did,” she happily informed, bopping the tip of his nose with a playful finger. “My Dad will be taking my place in the company during the rest of my pregnancy,” she promised, feeling her husband’s pure relief washing through her as if it were her own. “And he’ll be working with my first assistant too.”

“Good,” Vegeta responded, obviously pleased to see his woman taking her delicate physical condition more seriously these days.

Carrying a Saiyan child was already a high enough risk for a human female and, while Bulma had always taken good care of her health during her pregnancy with Trunks, her reckless tendency to overstrain herself, and those addictively long hours locked up in her massive laboratory, had resulted in some minor complications the first time around.

Thankfully, those few health scares had come to nothing, but they’d been severe enough to bring her ridiculously worried husband to the brink of a heart-attack more than once, with the Prince solemnly promising himself that, if they ever decided to try for another child, he’d make damn sure that the careless woman took good care of herself the second time, taking matters into his own hands if necessary.

“You’ll be getting some rest this time,” Vegeta cautioned her, resorting to that serious tone that passed as a grave warning, but which actually hid a secret plea, the humble plea of a man married to a little firecracker of a woman that nothing, and no one, would ever fully tame. “Or I’ll tie you up to the bed, and I’ll keep you there until you birth the damned brat…”         

“Ummm…” Bulma squinted with joking seriousness. “Is that a threat?” She asked flirtatiously while wiggling her eyebrows at him, bringing a rush of scarlet to his cheeks when she made him realize that his statement could definitely be misinterpreted in a very different way. “Because that sounds kind of fun, actually…”   

“Tch!” He pouted, the tips of his ears burning like those of a shy adolescent. “Must you always be so vulgar?”

“Yeup!” She proudly exclaimed, not even a hint of shame hiding in her lively chuckle as she smiled coquettishly at him, her body quickly shifting in his hold with the limberness of a cat, now straddling his athletic thighs between her shapely ones. “So?” Bulma promptly asked, oceanic eyes shining in the dark with contagious excitement. “Did you check tonight?”

“Not yet,” Vegeta confessed, a smile of amusement twisting his lips, and those large hands already finding the inviting opening of her robe, sneaking underneath the fluffy fabric in the hunt for the still invisible curve of her smooth abdomen.

Bulma sought his strong shoulders for support, dainty fingers resting on the groove of his neck while she kept glancing down with curiosity, full lips gaping in naïve expectation, gasping tiny puffs of cool air at the ticklish sensation of her husband’s blue ki caressing her tummy in what had become a nightly ritual by now, the fascinating quest for their child’s elusive gender.

“I can’t…” The Prince frowned while slowly shaking his head, hardly suppressing the slight disappointment shared with his disillusioned wife every time he failed her.

“I see… I guess it’s still too early to tell…” Bulma whispered, almost as if talking to herself, her face dropping in disenchantment for merely a few seconds, only to quickly pick herself up, fearing that, if she brooded for too long, her poor husband might end up feeling inadequate for not being able to satisfy her wishes yet. “I think it will be a girl this time…” She boldly guessed, traces of a secretive smile illuminating her immaculate face when her eyes met his again.

“How come?” Vegeta rapidly asked back, genuinely intrigued by his woman’s mysterious prediction, especially considering that it was the very first time she’d ventured to take a guess at the sex of their unborn child.

Her radiant smile widened, cleverly picking up on the not-so-subtle tinge of terror sullying her husband’s masculine voice, suddenly hit by the realization that the Almighty Prince of All Saiyans’ greatest fear may end up taking the shape of a beautifully vulnerable baby girl.

“I don’t know,” she answered casually, shrugging with charming nonchalance while scrunching her pretty nose at him. “Just a hunch, I guess…” Came her honest reply, fluttering her airy eyelashes at him while nuzzling his cheek, laying the most alluring kiss on the corner of his captivated mouth. “A little girl who looks just like me…”  

‘The Gods help him…’

A little girl who looked just like Bulma would be the death of him, not only because Vegeta didn’t have the faintest idea as to how to raise a young daughter, or what to even do with her, but because a lovely girl with Saiyan blood and her mother’s gorgeous looks would have him wrapped around her little finger without a hitch.

It was hard enough for a man like him, a coldhearted warrior who once used to purge and destroy entire planets for a living, to admit to himself that the mere thought of his wife and son was enough to turn him into a big lump of fluffy marshmallow, but he knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that he wouldn’t survive a stunning little brat who looked just like a miniature version of the inimitable woman who’d stolen his heart.

His hands instinctively tightened around her, a brief pang of panic overwhelming him at the dreadful prospect of not being able to rise to the occasion, proving himself useless in assisting his wife to care for their second child, and letting down both her and their newborn, just like he’d done during Trunks’ earlier months of life.

But then his Bulma snuggled sleepily against him, her body’s heartening warmth curling up in his arms, as if some exotic Deity had specifically designed her for him alone. And, when he felt those slender arms longingly clinging to the safety of him, and those small, pale feet glowing under the moonlight while resting comfortably on his lap, he couldn’t stop his overactive imagination from running wild, trying to imagine what it would feel like if Fortune deemed it fair to bless him this time with an angelic girl who was just the spitting image of his woman, just like he couldn’t contain the serenity of the smile springing on the mouth now kissing his wife’s fragrant hair, a beautiful reminder that there were worse, way worse ways to die than dying of love.