Disclaimers: Dragon Ball Z and its respective characters belong to Akira Toriyama.
Warnings: Rape and violence. If either upsets you, please turn away.
Author's Notes: Thanks to a conversation I had with Nintendocat over at the Blue and Black writing community on LJ (community[dot]livejournal[dot]com/bulmavegeta) I ended up writing this rather dark drabble-fic. Chapters will be very short but updates will be relatively regular. I like comments and reviews.
Title: Real
Prompt: Whisper
Word Count: 500
A silent alarm alerted Bulma that someone was inside the mansion. But the monitors insisted there was no one on the premises besides the heiress. With her parents away on vacation and the Saiyan Prince still training off world she would have agreed with the security system.
But she couldn't bring herself to believe it was just a glitch. Not since those dreams -nightmares she had these past few months.
"He's not real," she murmured beneath her breath, pulling her robe closed over her silk nightgown.
A menacing chuckle came from behind her.
Her breath caught in her throat, slowly turning to face him, barely able to utter, "Vegeta."
Except he wasn't her Vegeta, though he looked exactly the same were it not for the tail wrapped around his waist and the manner of armor he wore. He was some sort of shade, some fiendish phantasm wrought from her collective nightmares of when he still served under Frieza.
He was upon her before she could even scream.
He pushed her onto the console, roughly silencing her shrieks of anger as his mouth descended on hers. He tore at her clothes as his tail caught both her wrists. He was eager to continue where he had left off since their last encounter over a month ago, with her struggling beneath him, naked and vulnerable and helpless.
Bulma was caged in, the metal console beneath her, powerful arms on either side of her, the doppelganger above her and –oh Kami, he was inside her! She screamed in time to his brutal thrusts, cursing and clawing and biting, never once surrendering to him. But it only turned him on even more and made his strokes harsher.
Through sheer force of will, Bulma managed to remind herself that this was just a nightmare, that this wasn't happening.
"You're not real," she rasped, throat raw.
At this, he began to fade.
"No!" he snarled, his grip tightening on the console, fingers digging into the surface as if it was made of dough not metal. "I am real," he hissed, keeping his dark, malice-filled eyes locked on Bulma's tear-streaked face.
For a brief moment he seemed to solidify.
She leveled a hateful glare at him, repeated: "You're not real!"
Slowly he disappeared, became less tangible, less there. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the suffocating pressure of his presence lift from her naked body. He growled low in her ear and she brushed him aside. Opening her eyes she expected to find herself in her room, undoubtedly drenched in sweat. But rather than pink-and-purple wallpaper greeting her, it was impersonal steel that she saw.
She shivered; her skin was prickled with goosebumps. She glanced down, gasping at the torn shreds of her robe and nightgown lying at her feet. Dread filled her at the sight of deep furrows on the console where his fingers had gripped.
And as doubt began to form in her mind, she heard him whisper.
"I'll be back."