Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ How to Make Love to a Saiyan ❯ Melting Need ( Chapter 15 )

How to Make Love to a Saiyan

 

Chapter 15

Step 16 - Melting Need

 

 

 

Seven days, Capsule four. My pillow looks suspiciously scrumptious, like a big fat glossy turkey with dressing on the side. If I am not careful he will catch me gnawing on it, looking the vivid depiction of abject misery and have a good laugh on his way to the sink. Well, excuse me if my appetite is much more selective than that of a Saiyan. I realize you can't truly capsulate homemade meals and retain their proper flavor, but couldn't he think of loading more than just tuna? And why did mamma take it to heart to spoil the brat by buying him practically a warehouse of that crap when he first moved in? Tuna, tuna, tuna. The word has lost all meaning. He plows through dozens of cans like a big cat, licking his fangs with a languorous air that's sophisticated yet animalistic. Well, hello Vegeta… a girl needs more than just… I can't say the word again or I'll end up hurling. I complained, and all he did is lift an eyebrow in my direction, looking extensively bored with my dissatisfaction.

 

Is the pillow calling to me? Perhaps it's the heat messing with my mind. I'm not a guest, much less his paramour, and he makes sure that's clearly stated with every nuance of his body, with his coldness and detachment, but worse of all, with his silence. It's as if he's in a permanent state of passive aggression, or perhaps that's how royalty truly treats their underlings. An underling. Have I really sunk that low? Turns out I am not even worthy of sleeping in the same room with him anymore. No, he wouldn't soil his blue blood and mar his decorous name by lying next to a commoner in this narrow pallet fixed to the wall by metal clamps. He did say he wouldn't touch me unless I give myself to him like some sort of offering to the gods, a living sacrifice to his evil appetite. So he's made it markedly evident, the floor's a better mistress, up there in the steel concavity of the main floor.

 

I am better of without his attention. I don't need him, nor do I need his permanent sneer reminding me of his callous contempt and my ridiculous troubles. He can spend all his time training and eating and ignoring me for all I care. I am now used to my somber soliloquies and my one way conversations with this grid paper notebook , the most loyal companion I've had for the past few days. It turns out keeping it under the control panel of the main computer for my rutinary revisions of the devil's lair paid off. The main purveyor of my sanity… the retainer of my thoughts.

 

45 steps. That's the length to navigate from one wall to the other in this prison that is now my home. 836 tiles. 50 bolts lined up in rows every two and a half meters from the floor to the ceiling, fastening chrome sheets together in millimetric precision. I memorized every aspect of the Spartan accommodations until my mind got weary and my eyes wandered to the porthole windows, seeking a change in earnest, yet the view was equally un-engaging. Black is black. As black now as it is forever.

 

I can't help but meander in the insipid truth of outer-space. If Namek ended up turning into one huge snafu, it stands like rollicking times compared to the mind-blowing discomfort of this horrid jaunt. He wouldn't even allow me a quick trip to my room before lift-off to gather the simple toiletries needed for a girl to look half-decent. So I've sat around, feeling every bit as horrible as I probably look, in my bedraggled excuse for clothes, not just writing but also drawing mean-spirited little oekaki depictions of my raptor. They make me laugh, a rare luxury this days, the half-cracked cries of a person who's tethering in near madness.

 

But that's only part of this torpid story. During the first couple of days in my permanent job committing the worse sin of all, kill time, I managed to listen to strange audio recordings from around Alpha Centauri and remarkably enough, a top 40 music station still receivable from Chikyuu thanks to the stereo system pappa installed. That sometimes took my mind off the penance I live, forced to survive in inhuman conditions on jungle-like weather with a predatorial alien. It glossed over the knowledge that I am this little thing he likes playing dangerous games with, that my curse is this murderous man who has entrapped me against my will. Yes, the music was soothing, until he complained about the racket I was allegedly making and blasted the receiver. And there I thought my rendition of Mike Polo's “Gypsy Woman” was particularly good.

 

40 degrees. It's not just the churning in my stomach or the coldness of his demeanor, or the fact his highness had requested all kitchen facilities to be removed to make space for a more powerful engine, meaning I don't get the luxury of a fridge or a pan to fry an egg on, it's this blasted god-forsaken heat. The threadbare remains of my dress, turned into translucent leafs of organza, constantly cling to my sweaty skin, and even now, laying here belly down and inert, moisture gathers between my breasts.

 

I suppose, I shouldn't complain about the climate conditions inside this hell hole, or the bitch-slapping he's refraining from. He really is a master of control to have spared my life after my little accident and I must admit perhaps I wouldn't have been so merciful myself. There I was, day one, sitting in a corner of the living area, sulking, cursing and grating my teeth until sleep swept me away to a land of sweet oblivion. The next thing I knew, I was waking up to the sight of combat boots that turned into powerful legs and tapered to a narrow rock hard waist. The last my eyes rested on was his glower, his sharp command making me twitch. He stated it was time to eat, perhaps pretty much the same way he did with his battalions back in the day. It was either that or ending up fresh meat for the space scavengers. Kami knows who those are, but truth be told, I'd rather stay clear.

 

My expletive didn't faze him, nor did my shrill complaint about the gelid weather, and damn was it freezing. I couldn't remember space being that cold during my first incursion, but then again, I was far better prepared, not half-naked courtesy of “The Prince of all Saiyans”, who seems to believe the universe should… no, let me rephrase that, who believes the world INDEED revolves around his arrogant ass. But back to that shivering sensation I woke up to. I remember covering my chest so he couldn't confirm what icy weather does to my nipples. I stood up on wobbly legs and stormed in the direction of the heating system, flinging the cabinet doors open, slamming the code into the keypad and turning the dial all the way up, and then some more, and then it clicked and danced loosely between my fingers. I remember the sudden lump tightening my throat and the pang of fear shooting straight through my bowels.

 

And so it all began, his penetrating glare of pure ire, the cursing that followed, both by him and me and my girly “I am sorry”. That must have sounded positively pathetic to his dictatorial self. I suppose it was quiet a poetic way to shoot myself in the foot, condemning me to watch him walk around in this indolent weather, pissed-off , shirtless and sweaty, both from the bone-breaking workouts and the humidity. Believe me notebook, it's a huge task keeping these clothes on. It takes all the will I posses to not just lie on the cool polished floor nude, letting an inkling of space coldness seep through it and slide against my body. It's especially difficult after the incident deprived us from the ability to shower as we had to dump nearly two thirds of the water he capsulated into the engine radiators as coolant to keep the ship operational. We barely have enough left to drink and do scarcely more.

 

Did I mention I feel icky? My hair is a tangled mass, tendrils sticking to my forehead and the sides of my face, forcing me to push them constantly behind my ear. If I rip off one more layer of organza I will end up naked, and that's the last thing I want right now. What does my mind wander to when having endless minutes to live through? The Podkletnov force beam. My sketches, consisting of not just oekaki but also images of angels and demons doing decadent things with their voluptuous bodies. Gravitational theory. Me naked, him naked, the heat… the past and the present all melting like a Dali painting. It all undulates in my mind, in the see-saw way the ocean moves when the weather is kind.

 

Mr. I-am-too-good-to-even-talk-to-you up there sure knows how to spend his days. One, two, three, they mean nothing to him. In fact, they must seem like a short vacation in comparison to years spent traveling in sleep stasis on those over-sized ping pong balls. How many more times am I going to have to tell him I am not Saiyan, or demand he disclose when the hell we are landing? In fact I am getting more worked up as I write. He dedicates enormous amounts of time to chiseling every muscle on that body, every…. single…. muscle…. thankfully avoiding any gravity as he knows he needs me alive, but still, he'd rather perform and expand the repertoire of his kata than throw me a bone. It must be the military regime he lived in all his life, with the testosterone and the rules and the austerity. And all I want is a cupcake or two. The physical need is killing me, isn't it killing him?

 

In the parlance of a cranky teenage girl… this sucks. Space sucks. I should have known that from Namek. The pillow is going to start dancing any minute, morph into a cartoon character and break into song. I will end up institutionalized, talking about space travels, alien monkeys and the likes, while the nurses throw pitiful condescending eyes my way. Then they will sedate me and pat me on the head. Sure… interstellar lovers, poor thing.

 

I can't stand this anymore. He can keep ignoring me but I sure can't ignore the hunger pains or the sweltering heat. I am so irate with his princely self I couldn't care less what he does to me. I may just… God… I need a break.

 

[End of page]…

 

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Bulma slammed the notebook shut and bit the cap of her pen with strenuous need. Days of malnourishment had turned her head into a mush of erratic thoughts directly bound to her physiological deprivation, a sort of generalized hunger reversing her into a dangerous woman. She would have delighted in that notion, except the primal need to let her frustration out on the next male on the vicinity was chipping away at her sanity and it was surely anything but fun.

 

She turned around on the bed, the rudimentary portable radio receiver she'd fashioned from the badly broken stereo system Vegeta had nearly obliterated, laying on her belly. She'd managed to produce a decent pair of headphones she now pressed against her ears, catching the distant waves miraculously stretching all the way from Chikyuu. Perhaps if she cooled her mind she'd manage to get through another day in this dismal situation. Perhaps it would quell the beast inside, that hirsute creature threatening to burst out of her belly and devour everything in its wake, like the gruesome scene of an old tacky sci-fi movie.

 

“And now...” static “…by request on West Hill Radio…” static. She covered her eyes with her forearm and turned her head to the side, trying to cast herself into the merciful arms of thoughtlessness.

 

…You're standing at the door
I'm falling to the floor
You look even better than you did before
I'm staring at my feet
Wondering if I can do this
It's been a while but I couldn't forget you

Just a little look has got me feeling things
Just a little taste has got me seeing things
Just a little touch has got me off the chains
Doing things that I don't want to

Do it like you do it to me (I'm burning up)
Do it like you do it to me (it's not enough)
Do it like you do it to me, just open up
Don't you know how much I want you…¹

 

 

Her eyes sprang open. Okay, that was enough. The only radio station she was able to pick up wasn't helping her achieve mental stability. The cheesy pop croons pushed her to yank the headphones away in a fit of fury and nearly fall to the floor. Her pupils lit into flames of scorching determination and she flew up the narrow staircase, breathing through her teeth and holding fiercely unto the railing as she ascended to the first level. It was good she was grabbing the metal balustrade so securely or she would have tumbled down when she slipped on the last step in her haste. She squeaked like a mouse but suffocated the sound, hanging on the metal bar and swinging awkwardly until she steadied herself.

 

Half her body was above floor level so she immediately latched her gaze unto her shipmate. He was hanging upside down, his ankles tied with thick braided chords to the ceiling as he bent upwards and performed the most painful abdominal crunches she'd ever seen. The wealth of poisonous darts she had been gearing to deliver slowly pulverized under the mindboggling sight. It was impossible for any sane, or half-sane, human being of her gender to not stop and do a double-take, what with so many skillfully sculpted muscles rippling in those bare arms and that flat stomach. And they tightened, and stretched, tightened and stretched with a lulling rhythm, the damp tawny skin splendorous even under the dim fluorescent lights.

 

Whoa, he could touch the tip of his boots with his fingertips, she thought, as he intensified the workout, the rock-hard flesh of his thighs tensing to the fullest under the fabric of his training pants, but his expression remained composed, stern and in total concentration. That amount of control exerted under pressure was incomprehensible to someone that'd lived her days in the plush interior of a comfortable world. The determination, the otherworldly elegance, they were evidently more than wrought in the battlefield. They were in his blood. Such a driven blood…

 

“How long are you going to stand there like you're brain-dead.” He questioned drily, his voice perfectly even through the strenuous workout. Bulma widened her eyes and her scowl returned. She crawled to a standing position and approached him with steady steps that belied her flusteration. “I am hot.” She spat. “I am hungry and I am bored.”

 

He un-flexed his torso and hung freely, looking at her upside down. “Be sure to tell me when it becomes my problem.” He sent her a bone-chilling gaze before resuming his movements.

 

“Oh, I am telling you now.” There was real anger seeping through her words, her arms akimbo.

 

“Well, that still doesn't make it my problem.” He said with remarkable cynicism.

 

“It does if you don't tell me when we're landing, Vegeta. Don't you understand I am not a big bad guy like you?” Her irritation spiraled to flaming heights. “I'm like… like a delicate flower that can wither and die and that can't live under this conditions, you ass. I have a job and a family you took me away from just to satisfy your stupid egotistical demands.” She said, her tone acquiring a more nervous edge and a sharper pitch. “You really are going to kill me aren't you? Slowly and little by little until you snuff the last spark of my life in your dirty hands. You will burn in hell for all eternity for making me go through this, you hear me? I can't take it anymore. Turn back now, take me home.”

 

Vegeta's face darkened at her angry reprieves. He gracefully reached up to free his ankles, working the knots and carefully landing before her. “Poor little princess, snatched from her comfort zone and thrown into the heart of darkness with a horrible monster. Did no one ever tell you life isn't always the perfect cozy little world you're used to? Do you think your petty problems account as some sort of epic tragedy?” He said waspishly, the contours of his face twisting into that deadly mask that always made her shiver. He lifted a towel off the back of the main seat and glided it smoothly around his neck, not once taking his eyes off her. “Talk to me when you've seen one shred of the callousness, depravity and poverty found in space. Talk to me when you know what true misfortune is.”

 

She balled her fists, breath quickening under the roiling current of her temper. “I couldn't care less, you heartless bastard!” Bulma bent down and grabbed one of her delicate high-heels to throw it at him with what force she could muster. “I hate you. I didn't think it was possible but I hate you more with each passing minute I spend locked up in this hideous, unpalatable place with you. Why didn't you decide to leave earth when Frieza died?”

 

Vegeta's eyes widened infinitesimally at her explosion of fury, but he dodged the sharp stiletto shoe aimed at his face with utmost agility. “Yes, why didn't I, you damn priss. First good question you've uttered since I met you. Now be thankful you are hot, hungry and bored and not just plain dead. If you're good and I feel like it, I might deliver you to that low-class simpleton when I am done with you.” The planes of his face hardened with flagrant scorn. “That's what you want isn't it? You are still fuming over me ruining your night with him. Slut, he'll have his turn only once and if I decide he should.”

 

Bulma gaped at him, unable to muster a fitting reply, and from that insurmountable frustration burst forth the ominous beast she'd harbored inside. She unsheathed her other foot from the pretty prison and hurled the Blahnik at him with colossal violence, surrendering to the legendary temper of the Briefs and snatching a wrench from the back of the gravity control panel. She banged it against the buttons repeatedly. Her choleric cries tore from the depth of her chest, the circuitry echoing her cries with it electrical crackling. She barely registered the moment she lost the metal tool and resorted to pounding her fists against the hard jagged edges of the console, rasping unintelligible laments of sheer desperation.

Gravitational science seemed like the most despicable enemy she'd ever faced, the technical toy of his preference her biggest foe.

 

Then his voice rose above hers, commanding her to stop and his strong arms circled her waist, pressing her to him to steady her. Still she kicked and squirmed, her back against his chest and her feeble hands pulling at his forearms in an angry desire to be released.

 

“What the devil is the matter with you.” He hissed in her ear, moving away from the gravity isle and backing into the ample seat before the enormous port view window.

 

“Let me go.” She wailed miserably, struggling in his iron hold like a butterfly batting its fragile wings. She repeated her words, half pleads and half-demands but they were no contender for the raw power of his arms as they enfolded her completely. Her furious convulsions ceased under the tacit incantation of his body heat and his musky smell, the whiff of hard-working male heady to her heightened senses.

He sat her on his lap, still tightly bound by his steely muscles, nothing separating the bodies that nearly melded together. Vegeta nuzzled his nose against her humid neck, nearly tasting the sweet nectar of her blood under the pearly skin. “Listen to me girl. You'd better get it in your mind for once and for all. You are no longer in Chikyuu.” His words were a heated breath, a dangerous threat and a luscious promise all wrapped together. “I don't give a damn who you think you are. I am your only way to survive out here, and you'd better believe it. No one will hear your cries.”

 

She could feel herself swallow hard, her head lolling back and her breath still uneven. It suddenly occurred to her how perfectly well she fit in the cradle of his sleek body, how her pelvic muscles tensed in remembrance as she sat there, thighs splayed over his own. “Vegeta… when are we landing?” She whispered with a strange amalgam of despair and shivering desire.

 

He seemed more interested in examining her bruised hands, badly damaged from her blowout, the cuts still bleeding loud red pearls that slid leisurely over her skin. He stretched over to reach under the main board of the ship and retrieve one of the two last clean towels he had left to dry the sweat from his training. Bulma sat like an expectant doll, perched on his lap firmly even now that his hold had slacked. Her lids fell over her eyes when she felt the soft friction of the fabric swiping her hands, the unnatural sensation of his thumbs rubbing her without truly touching her nearly sending her over the edge. “I am not bound to answer your questions, but you're bound to listen. You don't have the right to inflict any sort of punishment over what I have branded as mine. That includes the last hair on your scalp and the last inch of your body.”

 

He smoothed the woolly fabric over her slender fingers, delving between them to brush the sensitive webbed areas with tingling pressure. His motions ceased and he merely squeezed her frail hands, making them close into small fists. She allowed her shoulders to lax, her cheek pressing against his and her mind threatening to shut down from lack of sustenance.

 

It was then that her stomach twisted and belted a loud groan, proclaiming its need to its audience. His deep chuckle rumbled through her chest and spread throughout her limbs in a tantalizing purr. It was a bit amusing but certainly preoccupying to know how weak she'd become. She really was hungry, the protest of her gut surely painful. There wasn't much he had been able to load in terms of food before departure, mainly what he knew he needed before being able to land on any planet with a breathable atmosphere and edible plant or animal life. Upon the last minute change in plans he still believed the stash of canned meats would abound for two until landing in Ixia, the ultimate destination, but he'd forgotten just how high maintenance human females were. Even after suffering the early whiplash of hypoglycemia, she'd been reticent to eat more than a few mouthfuls a day.

 

He felt the delicate body sitting with feather lightness on him, and it was suddenly evident she was not just aggravated. She was wilting, like a white rose loosing its petals to the claws of inclement weather.

 

Vegeta applied pressure to her hands once more before discarding the cloth and stretching his arms ahead to tap a few keystrokes on the control panel. If he wasn't too far off in his calculations, made with the honed skill of a space traveler, they should be about to glide into quadrant 99, a recondite area peppered with inhospitable worlds and no known forms of life to the untrained eye. It had never represented an interest to the Ice-jin Empire and yet he knew the coordinates to this exact location by heart, the way it was required for such a secretive place.

 

Bulma remain languid between his arms, watching the fingers move nimbly over the keys. She was gathering the energy to voice another question when his deep dark voice resounded. “What do you know? In a few minutes we should be within range.”

 

She crinkled her nose, her body now completely slumped against his powerful pectorals like a child subjected to her master. “Range? Range of what.”

 

“Within range to access the right frequency and tap my private key code into the ship's transmitter.”

 

Bulma frowned and shifted slightly. Her eyes wandered over the charcoal net of diamond stars visible through the crystal panel, unable to catch sight of a single landmass. In fact, the light flickering in the board indicated the absence of the tell-tale gravitational pull that would signal the presence of a proper planet. Nothing he said was making sense to her worn out self. “Vegeta, are you sure you set the right coordinates? The ship can't recognize a single world in a perimeter equitable to two days travel. The ship can't hold for much longer with circuitry that has sustained substantial damage due to unnatural climate conditions, not to mention the overheating of the engine…”

 

His lips curved but he never lifted his eyes of the panel, sight glued to the tiny green light flickering at a steady rate. She pursed her lips and stared at him. “Didn't you hear what I…”

 

“Woman.” Came his stern interruption. Bulma's eyes narrowed in puzzlement but followed his gaze towards the board. And then, after a minute in silence and for the barest fraction of a second, the light wavered.

 

The glitch illuminated his features and Bulma looked at his profile in bewilderment. Her lips were nearly touching his, their sweat slicked bodies sticking together due to the high humidity of the place.

 

Then the mysterious appearance of unrecognizable characters, now flashing on a screen, drew her attention away from the way her body was melting over his powerful frame. “Geta?” Her eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “What does that mean?”

 

He tapped a long string of numbers and symbols on the panel before a strange geometric figure morphed into a single green arrow and bleeped to black. He then leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk, grabbing the arms of the seat and stretching his legs with leisure. “That means in three hours you will be witness to something only select individuals are privy to. In fact, you will be given a privilege not even someone with the power and influence of Frieza enjoyed.”

 

Bulma tilted her chin down and sent him a confused glare. “What? Are you telling me this place we are heading to is so exclusive not even the high and mighty Emperor of a dozen quadrants was allowed in it?”

 

He angled his head and let his eyes roam over her flushed ruddy cheeks, an oddly relaxed expression softening his usual sternness. “Not so much that he was not allowed in it, more like he didn't even know it existed.”

 

“How did you find out about it then when not even Lord Frieza, with all his military intelligence, of which you were part of, ever did?” Her voice half-cracked towards the end when she realized she had somehow answered her own question. Vegeta was skillful at the art of subterfuge, a creature that had the unnatural ability to blend in the shadows of darkness with the perfection of a night prowler. He must have surely learned about the place in a setting she didn't even want to imagine.

 

The smug expression in his face only intensified, the onyx of his pupils glinting. For a moment he looked like he was about to touch her, almost, yet his hands remained inert over the hard surface of the seat. “Infiltration is not an option Chikyuu-jin. Ixia is shielded with security not even I could break. You must be granted permission… you must be invited, much in the same way I am inviting you now.”

 

Bulma was rendered mute by the sudden acknowledgement of a simple truth: he was indeed inviting her into a part of his world. Perhaps with selfish intentions, but still, something fluttered and buzzed in her stomach at the notion, the female inside her preening with pleasure.

 

“Have you ever invited anyone else before me, any other girl?” She asked in a little voice, her eyebrows tilting upwards and making her look younger and more naive.

 

She noticed a rare twitch in his smooth cheek, the sign that her question had caught him off-guard. Vegeta merely looked at her in silence for a couple of seconds before averting his eyes. “If you are to get through the security protocols alive, you should know something woman, you must do as I say at all times. This is no place or time for your lack of obedience. People know who I am but you… you won't like what you are to them.”

 

Her mouth curled in a semblance of defiance. “And just what is that.'”

 

Vegeta's finely carved lips stretched in a cruel fashion, an expression worthy of the fierce beauty of his face. “Nothing.”

 

 

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AN: I know! It took me forever to get this out. (My apologies to ruthlessculprit, I swear I tried to type faster but life got in the way). It's considerably shorter than my average chapter but hey… I am sure you don't mind, I think I like it this length. Before you diss poor Bulma for throwing a tantrum, just imagine a fraction of her frustration (laughs maniacally) I am so evil.

 

 

¹Lyrics:“Do It” © Nelly Furtado