Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Yellow Roses ❯ Soft Blushes ( Chapter 1 )
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
[Dylan Thomas; ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night’]
She threw her head back as her climax approached, working her core with long, impatient fingers, selfishly pursuing her own gratification. She was so close she could taste it, so she chased it egoistically, a hand relentlessly caressing one of her full, ripe breasts as the other one kept greedily stroking her heated, glistening center.
So damn close…
When her eyes shut and her curved hips started bucking on their own accord, she knew her unrelenting pursuit had finally yielded its fruit, and her deprived lips parted softly, hissing and moaning in pleasure as her orgasm hit her like an unbridled shockwave.
She rolled on her side, her small hand firmly trapped between pale, clammy thighs, now drenched in her own slick juices, and she panted heavily, clutching the coarse, tattered bedsheets in a tiny fist and riding the pleasurable wave that had just smashed her mercilessly, washing away her countless sorrows, if only for a sweet, sweet instant...
Once she became too over sensitized to her own touch, her hand reluctantly abandoned her body, lazily reaching out for the torn, grey blanket now lying on a rumpled pile at her feet. She covered up her still slightly trembling figure, feeling temporarily sated as she curled up in a tiny ball, pressing her knees to her damp, bare chest, in a vain attempt at finding solace in the cold, miserable joke her life had become.
The woman remained in that position for a few minutes, her turquoise blue eyes still firmly closed in a futile act of rebellion; she dozed lightly, on and off, her breathing gradually slowing down, dreading the way the honeyed rush of solitary pleasure was sluggishly fading away like a betraying fugitive, fleeing and abandoning her, once more, to her own luck.
Her slumber was irritatingly interrupted by the annoying, taunting beeping of the electronic alarm clock, forcing a groan of frustration out of her exhausted body as she hit the off button way harder than she should. It didn’t matter. By now, she’d lost count of how many times she’d broken and fixed that infernal machine. She hid her pale arms and hands underneath the warm covers for a few more minutes, shrinking from the time when she’d finally have to find the strength to open her tired, swollen eyes and face the cruel reality.
Bulma Briefs was alone.
It’d been six months ever since her home planet had been destroyed by a deadly crew of bizarre alien warriors who worked for that Icejin bastard, Frieza, or at least, those were her approximate calculations so far. Truth be told, she’d slowly but surely started to lose count of how much time had really passed since those few infernal days of pain, chaos and destruction had taken place; those rotten times when she’d been obligated to witness, in horror and shameful impotence, how her beloved friends and family members cruelly perished, one by one. Not even Son Goku, who’d been both like a little brother to her and the strongest man she’d ever known, had been able to defeat the Emperor’s now infamous ‘Ginyu Force’ who, right after annihilating the majority of Earth’s population, had taken a ship full of slaves as mere spoils of war, with Bulma being one of the ‘lucky’ ones to join their twisted collection of exotic trophies.
Unsurprisingly, most of the prisoners had consisted on a wide variety of beautiful females, and the earthling had spent the majority of the long, arduous journey locked up in a tight, claustrophobic space, surrounded by terrified human women, incessantly sobbing and screaming uncontrollably in sheer panic. Her only rock throughout that dreadful experience had turned out to be one of Goku’s oldest friends, a peculiar woman named Launch. She was blonde, downright scary and tough as nails, something she’d been secretly grateful for. Bulma Briefs was no coward, and she certainly hadn’t spilled as many tears as most of the other females had, but she’d been severely afflicted with short-lived but intense spells of melancholy here and there, and having a strong companion by her side had been a blessing in the end.
When they’d finally been allowed to exit the foul ship, it’d been on some undisclosed location in the middle of space she could barely recall; her mind so dizzy and confused by the countless, sleepless nights during their trip that her memories were blurry and entirely unclear. All she knew was that Launch and she had somehow managed to sneak in inside a second ship which, unlike the one they’d been destined for at first, was filled with far less attractive women, children and very few men.
Bulma sighed wearily, laying on her back and dully covering her drowsy eyes with her forearm, prolonging her scarce time in bed as much as she could.
Not a single day went by when she didn’t acknowledge just how damn lucky both women had been to have escaped the sickening fate the other gorgeous females on that first ship had been dragged into. She’d heard stories, everywhere, of how fairly common pleasure slaves were across this shadowy, ghastly Universe which still remained relatively mysterious to her. All she knew for sure was that those women didn’t live long, especially those belonging to physically weaker species such as her own, and her brains, and Launch’s impulsive temper, had saved them both from despicable, horrifying acts that would have taken them into an early grave far too soon.
In the end, she’d landed a job at one of Frieza’s numerous space stations scattered across his vast Empire. Her job was mechanical and fairly simple, at least, for a technological genius such as herself. If she was capable of tasks way more complex than repairing malfunctioning scouters, torn armors and remote controls for those impressive space pods she still hadn’t been able to get her curious hands on, her superiors wouldn’t know, given how cleverly Bulma had hidden most of her scientific knowledge, sharing just enough of her skills to survive in a dull, hostile environment filled with daily, menial tasks.
It wasn’t that her ambitions had been forgotten, quite on the contrary, she’d simply chosen to remain discreet, learning as much as she could about her current social station before she’d choose to attempt to rise onto the next. Bulma knew that minimal wage workers, almost slaves, like her, could only be promoted to bigger and better jobs in time, and after they’d proven themselves to be trustworthy enough in order to be offered greater and more sensitive responsibilities. Thus, the little genius did her job and did it well; she was quick, efficient and above all, silent, spending more time listening than talking and generally minding her own business as much as possible.
Launch, on the other side, well…
The blonde hellcat was trouble, that was for sure. Her obvious beauty would have surely turned her into a high prized courtesan, but a furious, violent temper and the unashamed tongue of a sailor meant that she’d been labeled too wild to tame. Bulma’s boss, impressed by her technical skills, had pretty much accepted that both women always came together, and Launch had basically been assigned the unimportant task of handling the numerous warriors that daily visited their facilities in what was essentially a behind the desk job. Though she wasn’t the most professional of employees, the unstable female had somehow managed to survive in spite of her unusual disposition, even though Bulma lived with the sad certainty that someday, somehow, things wouldn’t end well for her intrepid friend.
Bulma sat tiredly on her small bed, still clutching her jagged bedsheets against her naked form with one arm as she stretched languidly with the other. For a woman raised amongst infinite luxury like her, the hard, ancient mattress was hell on her delicate body, and her back audibly popped as she turned to the side and checked up on the bed beside hers, already expecting it to be empty and perfectly made, as always, meaning that her best friend hadn’t even gotten any sleep tonight.
She wasn’t entirely sure as to what that blonde tsunami of a woman did almost nightly; all she knew was that Launch seemed to enjoy living her life to the fullest, keenly burning her candle at both ends as she drank and partied into oblivion almost every single night. If her daily, lunch-break stories were true, and Bulma surely had no reason to doubt their veracity, the bold woman also had a thing for bedding many of the warriors frequenting the planet, having already built quite an impressive collection of ex-lovers and displaying absolutely zero shame when it came to relating, in close detail, her plentiful, and apparently remarkably passionate, sexual escapades, leaving her gawking and completely speechless most of the time.
Bulma was no virtuous virgin herself; after all, she’d dated Yamcha, a man she’d met at the tender age of sixteen, throughout the greatest part of ten years, so she’d surely experienced the pleasures of sex and the warm intimacy commonly attached to it. It was only that, well, most of those experiences had taken place with the same man, after all.
Soft, sweet, innocent Yamcha…
When they’d first run into each other, during a recklessly surreal quest for a secretive set of magical Dragon Balls, her ex-lover had appeared to be everything she’d ever dreamt of in a man and beyond. He was tall, strong, handsome and, ironically, deadly afraid of women, which only contributed to his almost boyish, naïve charm. Despite having a bit of a dark, enigmatic past, he’d always been kind and respectful towards her, to the point of waiting almost an entire year before finally sleeping together and taking their relationship to the next level, at last.
Their romance had been quite pleasant and satisfactory for the most part, although she had to admit that things hadn’t been the same towards the end, ever since the scarred faced man had become a baseball player, acquiring a morsel of fame and money in the process. That first taste of popularity had also come attached to a considerable number of women suddenly feeling an irresistible attraction towards him, willing to do everything and anything so they could brag about having bedded some hunky, professional sportsman.
Naturally, the temptation had been far too great to resist, and Yamcha had, more than occasionally, indulged in a little affair here and there. In retrospect, that was the beginning of the end; the first of his many infidelities had also been the origin of their countless, aching breakups and, eventually, their relationship morphed into a repetitive, vicious cycle consisting on furious fights and inevitable separations, followed by an endless tirade of sappy tears, excessively tacky bouquets of flowers, half-hearted apologies and passionate make up sex.
Logically, her ex-boyfriend hadn’t been the only one curious enough to go out there and try to find out what else he’d been missing on. During the usually brief periods of time when she’d been officially single, Bulma had sampled the odd man here and there, mainly consisting on a couple of drunken one-night stands she could barely remember, and a resoundingly failed attempt at dating the heir of a rival company. The last one, strongly encouraged by her nosy mother, had concluded in less than two months, once the former heiress discovered his boring personality, the lousy way in which the idiot treated his employees and how low in his list of priorities she really was, way below his beloved luxury car collection and sleep-inducing golfing sessions.
All in all, Bulma had never pictured a life beyond Yamcha, and despite the on and off status of their relationship, she’d always chosen to believe that his indiscretions were nothing more than a guy trying to get all of those years of sexual repression out of his system and that, in the end, he’d be faithful and loyal to her once they finally tied the knot and settled down.
She’d never, in a million years, anticipated the miserable Hell her life would become…
Her last memory of him was that of him dying in an arid, bloody battlefield by the hand of enemies, countless times stronger than him. Out of all her friends, Yamcha had been the first one to pass away, for what he lacked in physical strength, he more than made up for in courage and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, such qualities hadn’t been enough in the end, and Bulma could have sworn that her name on his broken, bloodied lips was the last word the defeated warrior ever pronounced before his last, dying breath.
She’d witnessed most of the fight through the magical crystal ball of a cryptic, greedy fortune teller, a choice she’d grown to regret and resent. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her at the time, but now she knew that the blood-stained, terrifying images of her dearest friends perishing, one by one, would forever remain imprinted in her mind, no matter how much time went by and how much effort she invested in trying to forget. The brutal, filthy murder of her first and only love had killed something inside of her, numbing her heart and soul and locking them up within some foreign, secret part of herself she didn’t fully comprehend or even try to access anymore.
Love, desire and opulence had coldly given place to silent rage, survival and austerity and, for a long time, she’d grown to believe that such frivolities would never again be a part of this unfriendly, hostile existence of tedious hard labor and incessant danger.
Day… After day… After day…
But, as soon as they’d begun to adapt to their harsh circumstances, her new best friend had become living proof that it was actually possible to combine this precarious, severe reality with a tad of fun, here and there. In fact, based on Launch’s tales of drunken depravity, it was way more than just a little bit of harmless entertainment; the main issue was whether Bulma would ever be interested in imitating the blonde’s actions.
Loneliness had undoubtedly been creeping in, slowly, very slowly, like an icy, dreary blanket malignly enveloping her desolate soul. But, regardless of how temptingly exciting her friend’s stories could be, it simply wasn’t in Bulma’s nature to get blind drunk and fuck every single soldier she bumped into on an almost daily basis. And it wasn’t as if she was waiting for a marriage proposal either. Gone were the days of girlie, childish dreams of the charming Prince riding a white horse, killing the Princess’ tormentors and rescuing her from her reclusively high, lonesome tower. But she also knew that she wasn’t the kind of woman to embark on some sleazy affair with one of the many killers that frequented the sordid space station that had grudgingly become her new ‘home’. She didn’t judge Launch for her careless actions, if anything, a small, forbidden part of her, envied her thoughtless, carefree attitude towards life, and she wouldn’t blame anyone for trying to seek whatever consolation or comfort they could get while being forced to live a life such as this one.
In the end, Bulma had resorted to taking matters, literally, into her own hands; indulging in her own forlorn touch in order to put down the heated fire burning between her thighs. What started as an isolated incident slowly grew into an almost daily routine, a sad ritual of selfish caresses and blurry illusions. Conjuring her dead lover’s face, or the countless, tender moments they’d ever shared together was so extremely painful that she completely blocked him, forever banishing him from her mind and choosing to evoke a myriad of hyper-sexual, filthy fantasies instead. A limitless series of erotic imagery picturing herself utterly ravished, fucked senseless in the most dangerous, outrageous situations by a wide variety of dark, impersonal men, mercilessly dominating and possessing her as her body quivered in need and desire and her mouth went dry in thirst, in that voracious quest for pleasure she avidly chased with unfulfilled success.
Every single time, the end result would, unhappily, be the same. Once she’d ridden and prolonged that wave of gratifying release for as long as she could, the heavy weight of her ruthless reality would fall over her frail shoulders, crushing her with its open cruelty.
A single, disobedient tear fell down her still slightly flushed cheek, and she quickly wiped it off with the back of her hand, as if it’d never existed, taking a deep, shaky breath as she wondered if she should take a shower and go to work, or just stay in bed, hiding underneath the false protection of the cozy blankets.
Today was one of those days, she could feel it…
One of those days, which were unfortunately becoming more and more common, where she had to push herself to make a choice: the choice of whether she wished to live or die. In all honesty, she didn’t know for sure if she’d ever make it too far into the future, but she could keep fighting until the very end or sit down and die. She could lose all hope for a better life, or hang on to her own little ball of hatred, that tiny, poisonous spark of revenge stubbornly floating inside her chest, constantly reminding her of who she truly was, of her unique talents and intelligence and of how far that intelligence could someday take her if she remained patient and played her cards right.
As a young girl, Bulma Briefs had been full of life and vitality, and she’d embarked on the most dangerous and extreme adventures; voyages which had always paid off, in one way or another, in the end. She’d even witnessed magic, miraculous objects capable of bringing people back from the dead with their supernatural power.
So, with the profound belief that her minuscule, at times neglected, spark of hope would always stay alive for as long as there was air inside her lungs and warm blood pumping through her veins, the courageous earthling made her choice, hopping off the bed and jumping right into the shower.
Bulma removed her safety goggles, softly massaging the bridge of her nose as she closed her eyes, giving them a much-needed rest after several hours of non-stop work. Her entire morning had been mostly spent disassembling an immense pile of tattered armor, separating the parts which could be re-used from the ones that couldn’t. Even though it wasn’t an intellectually challenging task, handling the extremely resilient material was physically exhausting for someone with as little strength as her, so she finally decided to sit down a bit and take a break, sipping on a small bottle of cold water as she rubbed her stiff neck resignedly.
“Look, buddy! I said no!” A loud voice yelled, back at the end of the corridor.
It looked like Launch was having one of those days…
A strong, masculine voice spoke something unintelligible, to which the crazy blonde responded even louder.
“What part of no don’t you fucking understand?! You stupid asshole?!”
Just when Bulma was about to roll her eyes at her friend’s colorful use of language, an unusually loud bang got her attention, instantly making the hairs on her neck stand up. Getting a really bad feeling about whatever it was that was taking place outside her lab, she hurriedly got off the chair, running across the corridor only to find Launch standing on top of her desk, pointing at some huge guy menacingly with her ki inhibitor.
The man was lying on the ground, shaking his head in confusion. Even though he wasn’t standing, Bulma could tell that he was tall, extremely large and surprisingly human-looking. He was completely bald, maybe in his late forties and, from the unbelievably quick way in which he was recovering from Launch’s ki blast, he was seriously, dangerously strong.
He stood up precariously, running his massive hands across his sweaty face and looking at the blonde woman with the creepiest murdering look either one of them had ever seen. Even a normally unafraid woman like Launch seemed to be hesitating as to what to do next as her unsteady hands kept pointing the weapon Bulma had fabricated for her at the violent warrior.
“You…! Little bitch!” The brute roared, aggressively cracking his knuckles, approaching the woman with the obvious intention of attacking her.
Unwilling to give in to intimidation, Launch kept threatening the fighter, getting ready to shoot at him again. “Back off, fucker!”
The gigantic man smirked evilly, quickly catching on on the woman’s noticeable bluff as he kept walking in her direction, now fully recovered from the physical shock she’d previously subjected him to.
“I will teach you to insult a Saiyan warrior, you little cunt…”
Bulma’s blood went ice cold and she stood still as a marbled statue, absolutely petrified in horror; anxious flashbacks of the lethal battle from Earth quickly flashed through her dizzy mind as she got mentally prepared to lose the only friend she still had left by her side.
Getting closer and closer to his feebly defenseless pray…
“Nappa!” A commanding voice boomed in the air, instantly making the terrifying man freeze in the spot.
Both women looked, in absolute astonishment, in the direction of the sound capable of stopping the deadly warrior with such ease. To their total surprise, it belonged to a much smaller, younger male. He was quite short, barely taller than Bulma, with a muscular but compact body and a distinctively original mane of black, flame-shaped hair, matched by a pair of severe, ebony eyes framed by a chillingly fierce scowl.
The smaller man threw a quick glance at the two weak females with clear disinterest, turning his sights on the giant brute who was now facing him, sheepishly awaiting his Master’s orders.
“So…” he declared, raising an eyebrow menacingly with a remarkably arrogant air of superiority. “I see we’re killing women now, for no reason…”
“Ve-Vegeta… It was… It was for good reason…” The older warrior stuttered as the two earthlings witnessed the scene in sheer shock. “Sh-She questioned me, and disobeyed my orders…”
“You seem to forget that you are not the one giving orders around here,” he carried on with aloof calm. “I am.”
The bald man assented self-consciously, slowly stepping away from Launch as Bulma gave her a helping hand, assisting her so she could safely get down from the desk. Her heart was still rabbiting furiously inside her chest, but she kept reminding herself that the worst was probably over by now, and that the shorter man clearly had no intention of hurting them, at least, she hoped so with all her might.
“Get out of here. Now.” He instructed, never losing his cool temper as he waited patiently for Nappa to leave the place before turning around and taking a good look at the still slightly frightened women. “Who is in charge of this station?” He asked with odd civility.
Launch opened her big mouth to speak, but Bulma, already fearing a new disturbing incident, quickly interrupted her. “I am. How may I help you?” She enquired with equal politeness, unable to suppress an unfamiliar tinge of curiosity towards their mysterious visitor.
“I require new armor and some repairs on my scouter,” he demanded firmly, looking her right in the eye with rare intensity, a flawless combination of power and indifference that made a peculiar, agitated feeling pool in the pit of her stomach.
“That’s fairly easy,” Bulma answered, intrigued as to what all the previous fuss was all about. The request seemed uncomplicated enough, so she offered the man a simple solution to his troubles. “I can get a new scouter and a set of armor for you in no time.”
“No. I did not ask for a new scouter, I asked for repairs on my own.”
“I already told the other asshole that we never do that…” Launch interjected, finally feeling confident enough to join the conversation. “And then he got mad at me when I told him, and the idiot just kept asking…”
“That’s true, though,” Bulma cut her off, stopping her open insults before things got dangerously heated again. “We don’t usually make repairs on old scouters, most of the time, it’s easier simply to replace them…”
“No,” his firm voice erupted, leaving room for no further discussion on the matter. “I will have my own scouter repaired.”
Bulma exhaled in frustration, internally counting to ten before losing her legendary temper. She knew it. She knew today would be just one of those days when it would have been better to just stay in bed but, of course, it wasn’t as if she could afford such a luxury these days, so she decided to just play along with the stubborn prick that kept piercing her with those dark, bottomless eyes.
“Fine,” she simply replied, already extending her hand in silent request. “Just give it to me and I’ll see what can be done…”
“No. You will take me to the head of your department and I’ll oversee the reparations myself,” his low, virile voice inflexibly retorted.
“Fair enough,” she shrugged, already turning around and stepping into the long corridor. “Follow me,” she requested without even looking at him, glad to feel his presence walking right behind her, leaving Launch alone at the reception desk.
Bulma entered the white, almost clinical laboratory which had become like a second home to her by now, and she sat resignedly on the tall chair, switching on a potent reading light, and holding her magnifying glasses with one hand as she patiently stretched the other one to her enigmatic guest.
“Alright,” she requested quietly. “Give it to me.”
“Woman,” he asked sternly, his arms firmly crossed across his powerful chest. “I asked for the head of your department.”
“I am the head of the science department in this installation,” her voice replied with cool self-assurance, wholly unaffected by his apparent surprise and holding his fierce gaze with newfound confidence. “Now give it to me,” she repeated, wiggling her fingers slowly as she kept unwearyingly extending her hand to him.
He raised one eyebrow in interest, and she could have sworn that the ghost of a smirk had crossed his lips when he finally surrendered and approached her, reluctantly handing over the scouter to her.
The scientist put her glasses on and initiated the meticulous task of opening the small but technologically complex device and trying to detect what exactly was wrong with it. She could feel the warrior’s potent presence, standing right beside her as he kept supervising her work, and she rapidly guessed that a fighter like him most certainly had no clue as to what she was doing, and he was simply employing some kind of intimidation technique in order to make her do her job more efficiently.
“There’s a chair to your left, you may sit there if you like,” she finally spoke, her focused eyes never abandoning the broken apparatus. “And it’s Bulma, by the way…”
“What is?” He asked, squinting imperceptibly, flabbergasted by the woman’s sudden impertinence.
“My name,” she explained, raising her wide, observant eyes and looking at him. “You called me ‘woman’, and my name is Bulma. Bulma Briefs.”
She turned her sights back to the task at hand, noticing just how shocked the man had been by her confident behavior, and she finally relaxed a little, realizing that, whoever this austere, intimidating warrior truly was, he most likely had no interest in killing a small, insignificant woman such as herself.
After a few unnerving seconds, the man swallowed his pride and sat on the chair unenthusiastically, standing straight and holding his protective stance at all times as he scrutinized the most outlandish, bewitching little creature he’d ever encountered.
She was very petite, probably around his same height, with large blue eyes and shimmery long hair tied up into a messy bun of curls atop her head. It was hard to tell exactly what her body, infuriatingly hidden underneath those heavy overalls, looked like, but he could tell that her built was delicate, and infinitely more feminine than that of the female warriors he was used to dealing with. Her highly unusual coloring, combined with those pale, tiny hands and thin, skillful fingers working diligently on his scouter, and an exquisitely refined face, frowned in careful concentration, turned her into a charming sight indeed.
“Bulma Briefs from…?” He finally asked, breaking the awkward silence and trying to find some stupid, pitiful excuse to keep the woman talking. He usually loathed small talk, but an out of the ordinary curiosity was starting to get the best of him.
“Bulma Briefs from Earth,” she replied with manifest detachment in an almost monotone voice.
“In what quadrant is your planet located?” He enquired, already guessing what her answer would be.
“I don’t know,” she confessed, inadvertently biting on her lower lip, and visibly dreading this particular topic of conversation. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Was it destroyed?” He prodded against his better judgement. The woman was trying to conceal her agitated emotions, but clearly doing a very poor job at it.
“How long ago?”
Bulma took a deep, angry breath, exhaling sharply through her nose as she clutched her screwdriver a little harder than she should. “About six months.”
That explained it…
“That loud female outside…”
“Her name is Launch,” Bulma corrected, bitterly grasping that the nosy son of a bitch wouldn’t let the matter rest easy. “And she’s my friend…”
“I assume she’s from the same planet you originate from?”
“That is correct…”
“Well…” He cautioned, wondering how the peculiar little female would react to his following warning. “Your friend is going to get herself killed very soon if she keeps acting this way.”
The earthling raised her gaze deliberately, taking off her glasses and fixing those dreamy blue eyes, brimming with scorching rage, right on him. She then lifted her chin up in a gesture of pure defiance, spitting out her unpredictable, fearless reply.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
The most unsettling of silences floated heavily in the air while she patiently waited for him to either come up with some nasty, witty reply or blast her right on the spot.
He did neither, rendered positively speechless by the diabolically beautiful woman. Once it became evident that neither one of them was going to break the discomforting impasse, Bulma stood from her chair, reaching for a large toolbox filled with loose pieces and rummaging through it in concentration.
“Your scouter seems to be fine,” she finally informed. “A couple of chips got burnt, I assume during a fight. I can replace them, but honestly, this is a very old model and the new ones are far more efficient and resilient. Perhaps it’s time for you to consider replacing your…”
“I will not,” he cut her off sharply, making Bulma momentarily cease her search and look back at him. He was the proudest, most exasperatingly obstinate man she’d ever stumbled upon, and she had to bite her tongue like never before so as to not keep pushing her luck with him.
“Suit yourself…” She concluded, shrugging in disregard as she sat down once more, ready to replace the missing pieces on the warrior’s ancient relic.
The Saiyan smirked knowingly, unbeknownst to Bulma, who kept her clever eyes focused on the repairs, working skillfully with deft hands and trying to finish the job fast so she could get rid of him as soon as possible.
There was more to the woman than met the eye. Something in her rebellious insolence told him that her cool, collected demeanor was nothing more than an elaborated farce, a rampant fire finely laced in excruciating pain that he knew, oh too well, struggling to be released behind those deceitfully icy, turquoise eyes. After all, he’d suffered through the grief of loss when he was only a child himself, and the obliteration of her home planet and race was far too recent for the woman not to still feel afflicted by it.
Her ethereal, almost otherworldly beauty, could have turned her into one of Frieza’s favorite pet whores in no time, and yet, here she was, in some shithole station in the middle of space doing a kind of technological work that should have been far too advanced for a woman like her, which meant that she was intelligent, perhaps too much for her own good, or for the good of the Galaxy anyway.
He had to admit that the blonde nutjob out there was also a fairly attractive creature, but she was too crass, too unrefined and out of control, and she’d soon pay the unescapable price for it.
He knew it.
And Bulma Briefs, from Earth, knew it too…
“Here,” she said, abruptly interrupting his train of thought and catching him by surprise when he found her standing far too close to him, without him even realizing it. She was holding the patched-up scouter on the open palm of her hand, waiting expectantly for him to finally pick it up. He grabbed it, incapable of repressing an annoyed frown at having allowed himself to let his guard down around her so easily.
The warrior put his scouter on, switching it on and testing its different functions, calibrating the efficiency of its performance and pleased to see that the unique woman had seemingly done a pretty good job on it. He pointed it out in her direction, intrigued about what the female’s power level truly was.
Zero point five units.
It was a goddamned miracle that the puny woman was still alive…
“So?” Bulma asked with a meaningful smile, crossing her arms cockily and knowing full well just how flawless the quality of her work always was.
“Acceptable,” he replied neutrally, unwilling to inflate the woman’s already overblown ego even more. “Armor,” the Saiyan requested with rude frankness, making her roll her eyes in irritation, unsurprised by the warrior’s lack of praise; after all, it wasn’t as if she’d actually expected him to thank or commend her in any way.
Bulma walked outside the lab and in the direction of the storage facilities, not even bothering to ask the conceited fighter what size of armor he required.
The scientist was fuming by now, grouchily mumbling an angry tirade of nasty curses under her breath as she kept delving through the wide variety of armor samples available, trying to find something that would satisfy the smug asshole waiting for her in the near room. And to think that she’d found him attractive, if only for a hot minute, back when she’d first laid eyes on him.
Perhaps it was the first sign that she was, finally, going utterly insane…
She eventually decided on a design extremely similar to the one her visitor was wearing, having already guessed, after the scouter incident, that she was dealing with a frustratingly irksome creature of habit. Carrying the new, full set of armor in her arms she impatiently marched back into the room, absolutely thunderstruck by the unexpected vision awaiting her.
The majority of the warrior’s clothing, his armor, gloves and boots, laid stack up on a messy pile on the ground as he stood in front of the laboratory’s small sink, clad only in the tight pants of his combat suit.
He was washing his face, giving her his back, and his well-built, naked torso was a sight to behold; an unusual spectacle of hard carved muscles wrapped in caramel skin and a wildly intriguing road map of multiple sized scars engraved all over it. The whiteish tone of most of them gave away their old age, with very few still displaying a more recent, pink color. Some were large and deep, others followed a sadly familiar pattern, as if they were the ruthless consequence of a brutal whipping.
Bulma shivered, both in horror and in an exhilarated mixture of anticipation and rapture. By Earth’s standards, scars were usually something to hide, a shameful imperfection most people struggled to conceal; but this arrogant and powerful alien warrior, now standing right in front of her with rivulets of glossy droplets running across his face and bare chest, seemed to wear them proudly, like dignified batches of honor it’d taken him an entire lifetime to earn.
The Saiyan kept staring at her with that perpetual, puzzling scowl, those boundless black eyes pinning her to the spot without touching her, even as he wiped the moisture off his bronzed skin with a small cloth. Her arms tightened anxiously around the robust armor she still held firmly in her possession as she waited for him the make his next move, which he did, carelessly throwing away the damp rag and stretching his hand to her in silent demand for his new attire. It took Bulma a few interminable seconds to muster the strength to get her legs in motion again, moving towards him as cautiously as a tiny mouse would a sleeping cat.
“There’s…” She muttered, her mouth embarrassingly dry and her tongue clumsy, strangely hypnotized by the man’s domineering presence as she pointed right behind him with a trembling finger. “There’s a… A changing room over th…”
At the speed of light, the Saiyan forcefully grasped her arm, clutching it tightly and making her drop his new armor at once in alarm. Bulma’s eyes widened in fright when he yanked her, obligating her to hold onto his naked shoulder for balance. He held her delicate wrist mere millimeters away from his mouth with a rare, starved look in his gaze, and then…
The Gods helped her…
He approached his nose to the inner side of her wrist and buried it into her velvety flesh, inhaling sharply, deeply, like a famished man about to devour his first appetizing meal in months. The scientist’s fingers instinctively curled into a fist, her short nails anxiously digging into her palm as she stood still, absolutely paralyzed.
‘What the Hell was he doing?’
She didn’t know…
She was blissfully unaware of how awaken the alien warrior had just become to her most guarded, intimate secret with the little help of his hyper-sensitive Saiyan senses. The minute the woman had raised her arm to point him in the direction of the changing rooms, a sweet, creamy scent had suddenly pervaded his nostrils and he’d felt the unexplainable need to further explore it to his blackened heart’s content.
It was made up of a mouthwatering, syrupy rich smoothness, and he instantly recognized the unmistakable hint of arousal, giving away that the stunning creature had enjoyed the sight of his semi-nude body way more than she’d probably like to admit. His most delicious discovery, however, were the older, succulent traces of the potent, distinctive aroma of sexual release.
As it turned out, the lovely, wicked female had recently experienced the throes of an enticing, heavenly climax. The fact that he could discern absolutely no sign of any male pheromones lingering on her fair skin filled him with an atypical sense of satisfaction, and told him that there was only one way in which the woman could have pursued such a blissful sensation.
The warrior finally raised his head, looming over her as an irresistibly lazy smirk drew itself on his lips, making Bulma’s heart thump painfully in return. Not only was she entirely oblivious to the impish thoughts crossing his treacherous mind, but that hungry, playful glint in his eye, as chilling as it was bewildering, made her want to run away from this dangerous assassin as fast as she humanly could.
He was depraved to the core…
And the worst part was that he was evoking foreign, forbidden sensations inside of her that she had neither the courage, nor the strength to battle right now. So, she chose to follow her first, most primitive instinct by slowly, very slowly, pulling away from his fiercely possessive touch, relieved when he released her arm without offering any further resistance to her defiant act of insurrection.
“I… I’ll wait outside…” Bulma mumbled breathlessly, swallowing a hard, thick lump in her throat that nearly prevented the shaky words from coming out of her parched mouth.
Surprised by the absolute immobility of the awfully handsome Saiyan warrior, who remained perfectly still except for that roguish, irresistible smirk on his face; she massaged her sore wrist soothingly, walking a few nervous steps backwards until she found herself at a distance she deemed safe enough to finally turn around and briskly leave the laboratory, in a futile attempt to escape from his disconcerting presence.
By the time she reached the reception, Launch was already sited on the office chair behind the large desk and, judging by the relaxed way in which she was nursing a small bottle of liquor, she had seemingly calmed down from the previous, hair-rising incident. Bulma stood by the table, supporting her light weight with one trembling arm while anxiously rubbing her forehead, now thinly covered in cold sweat, with the other.
“Everything alright?” The blonde asked, taken aback by the scientist’s manifest nervousness. She knew Bulma wasn’t quite as brazen as she was, but it was unusual to see her friend in such an agitated state.
“Uh?” She asked at once, looking at her with a disoriented look on her face. “Uh… Yeah, yeah… I just…”
“The guy’s an asshole, isn’t he?” Launch questioned perceptively. “Those fucking Saiyans, I swear…” She mumbled angrily, taking a large swig from her palliative beverage. “Just look at the bastard,” she suggested, subtly pointing in front of her with her head, forcing Bulma to look in that same direction.
Through the entrance’s large glass doors, she discerned that grotesque, giant beast, Nappa, leaning on the dirty wall of the building across the street, probably waiting patiently for his superior to finish. He kept staring at Launch with a bitterly ferocious look on his rugged face, the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to murder the vulgar, impertinent earthling but knew he couldn’t afford to, not unless his Master gave him his blessings.
“Man…” Bulma whispered, sitting tiredly on the desk, so incredibly exhausted from the day’s events that her legs could barely support her anymore. “He’s still out there, uh?”
“Oh, yeah…” Launch snickered half-drunkenly. “Waiting for his mighty little Prince like a poor, scolded puppy…”
Those final words definitely caught Bulma’s interest. “Prince?”
“Yup…” Her gutsy friend replied, leaning back on the large chair and idly resting her legs on the table. “That scouter guy you’ve been dealing with… He gives everyone that ‘I’m Vegeta, Prince of All Saiyans’ bullshit speech…” She revealed sardonically, her tone deeper and lower in a crude, mocking imitation of the Prince’s voice.
“Wait,” Bulma questioned, blinking rapidly several times in confusion. “You already knew those guys?”
Launch laughed a husky, malicious laugh. “Know? Yeah… I guess you could say that… I used to fuck one of them. He was a lot of fun, let me tell you…”
“Which one?” The woman asked is awe.
The idea of her crazy, unpredictable friend fucking Nappa was utterly revolting, and the image of her doing it with Vegeta was equally disgusting, but for entirely different reasons, of course. As preposterous as it obviously was, a sharp pang of jealousy kicked her right in the gut, an ugly, inconceivable feeling she quickly struggled to swallow up.
“Another one. Some guy named Raditz… Man… It’s too bad he’s gone, he was pretty good in the sack, you know? Big dick, and he knew how to use it. Just my type…”
“So, you knew these two through that Raditz guy?” Bulma concluded, attempting to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Kind of… I used to see the three of them at the tavern sometimes. Some shithole on the other side of the station…” Launch stopped talking for a moment, looking so remarkably lost in thought that, if the blue haired woman hadn’t known any better, she could have detected a hint of melancholy hidden in there, somewhere, as if this Raditz had actually meant something more to her other than just a good fuck.
“Anyway… Yeah…” The blonde carried on, languidly licking a few spilled drops off the neck of her bottle. “I used to drink with Raditz sometimes, you know… A few drinks before we left together… The other two guys were usually with him, and that Nappa guy is a total asshole, dumb as a box of rocks…”
Launch shrugged with palpable indifference. “I don’t know… I could never read that guy, I guess. All I knew is that he always looked so goddamn stuck-up…”
“In what way?” Bulma kept asking, incapable of controlling the odd curiosity rising towards this dark, inscrutable Prince.
“Like, he barely ever drank. One or two drinks and he’d disappear… And trust me,” she emphasized, looking at her friend with slightly raised eyebrows. “Those guys can hold their liquor… But he just, I don’t know… He was different. Raditz used to say he was very disciplined, just really obsessed with training and fighting…”
“A warrior obsessed with fighting? How shocking…” Bulma joked, chuckling softly as she shook her head.
“I know, Blue… But it was more than that, apparently. Like… It wasn’t even to fight in the name of Frieza or anything like that. It was for himself...”
There was a brief pause as Launch polished off the bottle and dropped it carelessly into the bin. She then stood from her chair, kneeling in front of their mini-fridge in search of her fourth drink for the day, making Bulma inwardly cringe a little at her dangerous recklessness.
“Something about a legend…” Launch continued, sitting on the chair again and opening the bottle, generously offering Bulma its first taste. The scientist immediately declined, not only because she’d never been much of a drinker to begin with but, also, because she hadn’t even had any breakfast yet, and the last thing she needed was putting both of them at risk by getting blind drunk while she was supposed to be doing her job.
“What…? What kind of a legend?” Bulma asked shyly, desperate to keep learning as much as she could about this intriguing Prince Vegeta.
Launch shrugged again, drinking half the contents of her mini-bottle in one large gulp while her friend awaited her reply expectantly.
“I don’t know… Some legend… The Legendary something…”
The blonde groaned drunkenly, running her hand drowsily across her face under Bulma’s watchful eye. At moments like this she was reminded that, behind her tough exterior, it was very possible that Launch was suffering too, and she’d simply chosen to handle the inexorable agony of loss in her own disturbing way.
“Anyway… Who gives a shit? He’s gone now…”
“Where did he go?”
“He’s dead,” Launch finally confessed in a much lower voice, subtly, but unmistakably, wrapped up in bitter pain.
Both women shared an arduous, awkward silence, only interrupted a few moments later by the sound of firm, vigorous steps walking steadily across the long hallway separating them from the lab, announcing that the Prince was finally about to join them.
Which he did, setting foot into the small reception and walking around as if he owned the place. He was impeccably dressed in his brand-new armor, his scouter firmly attached to his ear as he adjusted his pair of spotless white gloves, clenching and unclenching his fists several times in order to make sure they fit him to perfection. And just like that, with no more goodbyes other than a quick, arrogant glance and a sharp nod, he left the place.
Vegeta crossed the crowded street with titanic confidence and, as soon as his gargantuan underling stood straight in his presence as a sign of utmost respect, he viciously sank his fist into the giant beast’s stomach, bringing him down on his knees without a hitch.
“Damn…” Launch happily roared with laughter. “That was a good one!”
Bulma’s eyes widened in wonder, amazed by the incredible display of sheer physical strength of the sphinxlike Saiyan Prince and his smooth, agile movements, flowing effortlessly like those of a sexy, lethal panther. And her face didn’t change a bit when he riveted his onyx eyes on her one last time, silently devouring her with that maddening, mystifying gaze, before walking away from her forevermore.
“I think my little Bulma is blushing…” A tipsy voice whispered good-humoredly in her ear.
The scientist looked at Launch in shock and embarrassment, feeling her softly flushed cheeks burn even more furiously, if that was even possible, but crossing her arms petulantly in denial nonetheless. “Who? Me? I am not!”
“You like him, don’t you?”
“For your information, I tend to dislike arrogant, stubborn, conceited assholes who have a tendency to kill people for a living, you know?” She replied in an extremely offended tone.
Perhaps too offended…
“Well… What can I say? Most guys around here with a functioning cock kill people for a living, you know?” Launch answered easily, as if it were just the most natural thing in the world, and no big deal at all.
“Ugh! You are insane, did you know that?”
“Maybe…” The blonde spitfire confessed, completely unperturbed by her friend’s outraged words.
Launch wrapped her arm amicably around Bulma’s shoulders and, taking advantage of her newfound liquid courage, she decided to give her beautiful, flustered friend a little push, sharing an essential piece of wisdom the scientist seemed to have already forgotten, far too long ago.
“Seriously, Blue… If you like His Royal Shortness so much, I suggest you fuck his brains out the next time you see him. Life’s too fucking short…”