Rhythm?
The day had started out normal enough, the rising horizon accompanied by its vibrant orange and virgin flaxen streams of pure energy, casting luminance upon the solid ground, highlighting the canopies of dense forestation, blanketing all with its sickeningly bright aura. Or rather, whatever normalcy could possibly be founded on this horrific mud-ball.
The past eleven years had accustomed him to the strange ritualism the planet occupied every day, though the creations that inhibited the ghastly globe still thwarted his understanding. Namely, women, and specifically one woman, though he hardly saw it fit to waste thought on the alien. It was all to vexing to try and comprehend her motives and peculiar taste in lifestyle, and, generally, he preferred to avoid any strain on his genius. Only things of importance were worthy of his time, and one woman, an alien at that, was hardly of any importance.
But somehow it was to him.
He had tried to avoid the barrage of emotion, attempted quite forcibly to shun the maelstrom of feeling she evoked from him, drew from him- but in the end, she had won. Love had conquered. Yes, a petty word, a shameful endeavor to express, ultimately to define a dominating emotion. Of joy, tenderness, affection... of resentment, sorrow, and fierce adoration. It was contradicting, an illicit binding emotion that defied all nature, rebelled against every ounce of sanity.
And it was consuming.
His every conscious thought spurned its presence, cursed its innocence, even revolted the darker element his heart inspired in it. Oh, but how he loved her. Admired and worshiped her. The sound of her voice, when she silently cursed Kami for making her wrench disappear, or the times when she would bite her lip too hard and grumble at him for hours because "It was his fault". Since the blame is rarely suited to herself, rather cast upon whatever sorry creature that had the displeasure of being within close vicinity to her. She was always right, after all.
A thoughtful quirk tipped his lips, his pearl-white canine glinting in the fresh morning light. He was one prone to smirks, more often than not, and sported the challenging grin with sensuous expertise. Likely enough, demeaning as well, though at the moment his styled gesture was a reminiscent adoration only she could kindle.
Ah, yes, she was an obstinate creature. Headstrong, strong-willed, and supercilious- now combine that with the fierce passionate woman he had discovered beneath her layers of defense, and you found yourself with one quite literally impossible being.
Perfectly imperfect.
Unlike him, of course. Naturally, no living creature, from neither past nor present, could equate to his breathtakingly godly good looks. He was a Prince after all, the would-be ascending ruler of the greatest race that had ever graced the universe.
But she would do.
The windowpanes reflected his image, revealing to him what all others could see; the razor-edge definition of his face; the strong set of his jaw; the sensual, burgundy fullness of his lips; the sculpted point of his aristocratic nose; the high cheekbones of his tawny complexion; the dark, flustering of his eyebrows; the deep, ebony widow's peak of his forehead; the blackened flame of his upswept ebony mane; but none captured his true fierce spirit as did the obsidian orbs of burning life. Unlike the brightness that is associated with life, his eyes glowed with surreal fire, blackened pearls of incomparable wickedness, jaded coal gems that saw the world at an askew angle.
"Vegeta," her voice beseeched him softly from behind.
He need not turn, as he could hear, even feel her approach.
"Vegeta," she murmured into his ear, her arms locking about his waist, her body pressing firmly to him, the plush abundance of her cleavage tantalizing the bare skin of his back, her hips conforming about his muscled backside.
"Mmm," she breathed in a sigh, her head pressing into the contour of his neck, her eyelashes tickling the exposed flesh near the beginning of his hairline.
He stood unmoving, the tension customary to his muscles eased by her touch, his senses soothed by her presence. The pulse of his blood grew quick, thicker with the fervor that possessed his every pore, her touch a searing flame- a flame that branded him. His obsidian orbs smoldering with barely restrained passion, an ardor that had survived over a century, he turned to her, enflamed eyes of midnight steel piercing her with their unkempt desire.
Every time they were separated, he tried to convince himself that she wasn't perfect. That there was faults that marred her being. But, oh, how mistaken that proved to be. He adored her imperfections, the things that made her real. Her quick temper, her undisguised desires, her revealing expression of love that she bestowed upon him time and again. In the eyes of the beholder did lay the secret of love, and from two cruelly jaded eyes of the Saiyan no Ouji was the every perfection he found to be her- the only being that had ever captured his heart, the only woman he would ever love.
She was his.
Her arms still latched around him, she gazed at him through heavily lidded eyes, her barely revealed sapphire orbs hazed with the same passion. Her breathing was labored, her lungs eager to breathe the air that he encompassed. Pouted lips of cherry red, agape with longing, tempted him. Her lower lip trembled with the challenge to taste of her.
He was never one to disappoint.
His battle-calloused hands lifted to hold her face softly, his thumb affectionately stroking her cheek flushed with want. She licked her lips tentatively in response, awaiting the imminent meeting of their lips. His mouth twitched with amusement at the self-conscious action, despite the fact that he did the same.
"Foolish onna," he murmured hoarsely, his lips hovering over her own, mere broken moments from caressing each other.
Those broken moments, remained just so.
"M-o-m!"
Bra burst into the room in a flurry of skirts and cerulean tresses. Her cheeks were flushed just like her mother's, though resulting from very different circumstances. She immediately ran to her Father, gripping the leg of his pants, her large blue eyes looking up at him expectantly, just as Trunks barged into the room as well, repeating himself once more.
"Mom," he gasped, out of breath from only Kami knows what. "Mom, she's lying."
"Daddy," Bra chirped pleadingly, "I haven't even said anything."
Vegeta transfixed his stormy gaze on his son; were they incapable of knocking?! I mean, honestly now!
"Handle your children, woman," Vegeta huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, an impudent frown curving his swollen lips.
"Ho- they're MY children now, are they," she snorted, a challenging glint in her eyes.
"I thought we always were," Bra interjected with a thoughtful frown, clinging to her father's leg all the more.
"Sometimes she forgets," Vegeta added, ignoring Bulma's warning gestures.
The human hand gestures that the woman exposed him to were surely unnecessary, if not a little peculiar. Besides, it wasn't as if she could literally sever his head, though he couldn't comprehend the odd violence his mate seemed to possess. Vegeta dismissed it as a result from being his mate. After all, she was a part of him- as he a part of her.
Bulma sent Vegeta a scathing glare before assuaging her daughter's concerns.
"Now what of all this yapping," Bulma sighed with slight exasperation.
"I need the stereo system."
"Trunks keep's turning off the TV."
They replied in unison, both looking expectantly at their most gullible parent; Bra at her father, and Trunks to his mother. It worked, but on both sides.
"Well, Bra, you can watch TV in our room," Bulma suggested, referring to her husband's and her bedroom.
Vegeta nodded in automatic response, an unconscious gesture from the familiarity of simply letting Bulma handle it- but the moment her words sunk in, he rebelled fiercely.
"He doesn't need to use the stereo now!"
"Ye-" Trunks protested, only to be cut off by his father's warning glare.
"What's so important about it," Bra sighed in agitation, sending her brother a covert wink.
Vegeta was too adamant to discharge the situation; he didn't notice.
"Well, I-"
"It can wait," Vegeta ordered in finality, crossing his arms condescendingly.
"...need to learn how to dance."
"So does Goten. We both do. Both of us. Really- uh, ya," Trunks continued, nervously glancing to the floor.
"Please elaborate, I'm not sure that I catch on," Vegeta grated gruffly, his customary sarcasm exerted with royal cynicism.
"Count your father in that scale," Bulma mused, a self-pleased grin claiming her lips.
"Uncle Goku is gunna teach us," Trunks confessed, waiting for his father's reaction with abated breath.
"Because your father can't," Bulma voiced airily, waving a dismissive hand, "I can see your dilemma."
"Kakorrot!"
And that was that; the plan had succeeded. Vegeta was going to dance.
The day had started out normal enough, the rising horizon accompanied by its vibrant orange and virgin flaxen streams of pure energy, casting luminance upon the solid ground, highlighting the canopies of dense forestation, blanketing all with its sickeningly bright aura. Or rather, whatever normalcy could possibly be founded on this horrific mud-ball.
The past eleven years had accustomed him to the strange ritualism the planet occupied every day, though the creations that inhibited the ghastly globe still thwarted his understanding. Namely, women, and specifically one woman, though he hardly saw it fit to waste thought on the alien. It was all to vexing to try and comprehend her motives and peculiar taste in lifestyle, and, generally, he preferred to avoid any strain on his genius. Only things of importance were worthy of his time, and one woman, an alien at that, was hardly of any importance.
But somehow it was to him.
He had tried to avoid the barrage of emotion, attempted quite forcibly to shun the maelstrom of feeling she evoked from him, drew from him- but in the end, she had won. Love had conquered. Yes, a petty word, a shameful endeavor to express, ultimately to define a dominating emotion. Of joy, tenderness, affection... of resentment, sorrow, and fierce adoration. It was contradicting, an illicit binding emotion that defied all nature, rebelled against every ounce of sanity.
And it was consuming.
His every conscious thought spurned its presence, cursed its innocence, even revolted the darker element his heart inspired in it. Oh, but how he loved her. Admired and worshiped her. The sound of her voice, when she silently cursed Kami for making her wrench disappear, or the times when she would bite her lip too hard and grumble at him for hours because "It was his fault". Since the blame is rarely suited to herself, rather cast upon whatever sorry creature that had the displeasure of being within close vicinity to her. She was always right, after all.
A thoughtful quirk tipped his lips, his pearl-white canine glinting in the fresh morning light. He was one prone to smirks, more often than not, and sported the challenging grin with sensuous expertise. Likely enough, demeaning as well, though at the moment his styled gesture was a reminiscent adoration only she could kindle.
Ah, yes, she was an obstinate creature. Headstrong, strong-willed, and supercilious- now combine that with the fierce passionate woman he had discovered beneath her layers of defense, and you found yourself with one quite literally impossible being.
Perfectly imperfect.
Unlike him, of course. Naturally, no living creature, from neither past nor present, could equate to his breathtakingly godly good looks. He was a Prince after all, the would-be ascending ruler of the greatest race that had ever graced the universe.
But she would do.
The windowpanes reflected his image, revealing to him what all others could see; the razor-edge definition of his face; the strong set of his jaw; the sensual, burgundy fullness of his lips; the sculpted point of his aristocratic nose; the high cheekbones of his tawny complexion; the dark, flustering of his eyebrows; the deep, ebony widow's peak of his forehead; the blackened flame of his upswept ebony mane; but none captured his true fierce spirit as did the obsidian orbs of burning life. Unlike the brightness that is associated with life, his eyes glowed with surreal fire, blackened pearls of incomparable wickedness, jaded coal gems that saw the world at an askew angle.
"Vegeta," her voice beseeched him softly from behind.
He need not turn, as he could hear, even feel her approach.
"Vegeta," she murmured into his ear, her arms locking about his waist, her body pressing firmly to him, the plush abundance of her cleavage tantalizing the bare skin of his back, her hips conforming about his muscled backside.
"Mmm," she breathed in a sigh, her head pressing into the contour of his neck, her eyelashes tickling the exposed flesh near the beginning of his hairline.
He stood unmoving, the tension customary to his muscles eased by her touch, his senses soothed by her presence. The pulse of his blood grew quick, thicker with the fervor that possessed his every pore, her touch a searing flame- a flame that branded him. His obsidian orbs smoldering with barely restrained passion, an ardor that had survived over a century, he turned to her, enflamed eyes of midnight steel piercing her with their unkempt desire.
Every time they were separated, he tried to convince himself that she wasn't perfect. That there was faults that marred her being. But, oh, how mistaken that proved to be. He adored her imperfections, the things that made her real. Her quick temper, her undisguised desires, her revealing expression of love that she bestowed upon him time and again. In the eyes of the beholder did lay the secret of love, and from two cruelly jaded eyes of the Saiyan no Ouji was the every perfection he found to be her- the only being that had ever captured his heart, the only woman he would ever love.
She was his.
Her arms still latched around him, she gazed at him through heavily lidded eyes, her barely revealed sapphire orbs hazed with the same passion. Her breathing was labored, her lungs eager to breathe the air that he encompassed. Pouted lips of cherry red, agape with longing, tempted him. Her lower lip trembled with the challenge to taste of her.
He was never one to disappoint.
His battle-calloused hands lifted to hold her face softly, his thumb affectionately stroking her cheek flushed with want. She licked her lips tentatively in response, awaiting the imminent meeting of their lips. His mouth twitched with amusement at the self-conscious action, despite the fact that he did the same.
"Foolish onna," he murmured hoarsely, his lips hovering over her own, mere broken moments from caressing each other.
Those broken moments, remained just so.
"M-o-m!"
Bra burst into the room in a flurry of skirts and cerulean tresses. Her cheeks were flushed just like her mother's, though resulting from very different circumstances. She immediately ran to her Father, gripping the leg of his pants, her large blue eyes looking up at him expectantly, just as Trunks barged into the room as well, repeating himself once more.
"Mom," he gasped, out of breath from only Kami knows what. "Mom, she's lying."
"Daddy," Bra chirped pleadingly, "I haven't even said anything."
Vegeta transfixed his stormy gaze on his son; were they incapable of knocking?! I mean, honestly now!
"Handle your children, woman," Vegeta huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, an impudent frown curving his swollen lips.
"Ho- they're MY children now, are they," she snorted, a challenging glint in her eyes.
"I thought we always were," Bra interjected with a thoughtful frown, clinging to her father's leg all the more.
"Sometimes she forgets," Vegeta added, ignoring Bulma's warning gestures.
The human hand gestures that the woman exposed him to were surely unnecessary, if not a little peculiar. Besides, it wasn't as if she could literally sever his head, though he couldn't comprehend the odd violence his mate seemed to possess. Vegeta dismissed it as a result from being his mate. After all, she was a part of him- as he a part of her.
Bulma sent Vegeta a scathing glare before assuaging her daughter's concerns.
"Now what of all this yapping," Bulma sighed with slight exasperation.
"I need the stereo system."
"Trunks keep's turning off the TV."
They replied in unison, both looking expectantly at their most gullible parent; Bra at her father, and Trunks to his mother. It worked, but on both sides.
"Well, Bra, you can watch TV in our room," Bulma suggested, referring to her husband's and her bedroom.
Vegeta nodded in automatic response, an unconscious gesture from the familiarity of simply letting Bulma handle it- but the moment her words sunk in, he rebelled fiercely.
"He doesn't need to use the stereo now!"
"Ye-" Trunks protested, only to be cut off by his father's warning glare.
"What's so important about it," Bra sighed in agitation, sending her brother a covert wink.
Vegeta was too adamant to discharge the situation; he didn't notice.
"Well, I-"
"It can wait," Vegeta ordered in finality, crossing his arms condescendingly.
"...need to learn how to dance."
"So does Goten. We both do. Both of us. Really- uh, ya," Trunks continued, nervously glancing to the floor.
"Please elaborate, I'm not sure that I catch on," Vegeta grated gruffly, his customary sarcasm exerted with royal cynicism.
"Count your father in that scale," Bulma mused, a self-pleased grin claiming her lips.
"Uncle Goku is gunna teach us," Trunks confessed, waiting for his father's reaction with abated breath.
"Because your father can't," Bulma voiced airily, waving a dismissive hand, "I can see your dilemma."
"Kakorrot!"
And that was that; the plan had succeeded. Vegeta was going to dance.