She is resplendent, splayed out before him like a battlefield and wearing his bruises upon her hips like a badge of honor, a triumphant grin stretched across her face even as he presses his cock deeper, forces himself further inside her.
When they first started this, he touched her with an uncharacteristic gentleness born of fear—her bones could break so easily, her skin would split if he weren't careful. It would take no effort at all to tear her apart. She should have quaked before him like she had on Namek, her tongue wrangled by terror at the hunger in his eyes when he looked at her. She should have run when he reached out for her with a hand that had felled entire worlds, but when she reached back for him, there had been no tremble in the delicate lines of her wrist, and the fingers that touched him were sure and strong. It hadn't been until she slammed her fist against his shoulder and snarled, For fuck's sake, you bastard, put your back into it! that he stopped looking at her like a forbidden idol and started treating her like an opponent.
"Hey."
There's a flash of movement and she scores her nails across his cheek, and he retaliates with a thrust that forces that bitten-red mouth to open around a shriek. She hisses, grinning, "Be here with me."
As if he could ever be anywhere else.
"Do that again and I'll—"
"And you'll what," she dares, and he gives her another punishing thrust for her smart mouth, her demands, for refusing to bow to his power the way anyone else would.
But then, she isn't like anyone else. Like no one he's ever met. He could spend lifetimes searching for someone made of as many paradoxes as this human and never be satisfied. It shouldn't be possible for him to have found her in all the universe.
He drags a hand down her sternum, the flutter of her heart like a war drum beneath his palm as he goes, and presses, low, as if he could feel the push of himself through her belly. She groans under the pressure and clenches down around him, the clutch of her almost painful, and he grunts and bows over her, catching himself on an arm even as she wraps her own around his neck to pull him down. She's said on more than one occasion that she likes the weight, the inescapable press of him that makes breathing a struggle, a challenge. Everything he pulls from her is a battle.
He presses a laugh into her mouth and she drinks it up, squealing as he rolls his legs underneath him and sits back with his legs under him, forcing her to ride him.
"Oh god, you're so deep," she whines, her head dropping back on a laugh so guttural that his lower back shudders with the reply of a phantom tail that wants to wrap around her neck and feel the vibration of her lower register. He stares at her throat and thinks about how it would bulge if he stuffed her mouth full of cock, fed her every inch until she was lazy-eyed with satiation. Her gaze is hot, knowing. And because she's a tease, her tongue darts out to worry at the swollen edges of her mouth as if she can already taste him.
Her thighs part on a wide yawn, and every thrust draws him in until he ruts up against the smooth muscle of her cervix, her body begging for him to pour himself into her and forge something new—he has seen her make incredible things, breathe life and purpose into machines and alchemy, but it hadn't occurred to him how much of her was primed to create. She bore him a warrior who ascended a legend before his tenth birthday. Sometimes he thinks about being that reckless again just to see if they could strike gold twice.
She arches her back and clenches around him again, her nails scratching new scars into his shoulders, and he buries his nose behind her ear, inhaling sweat and the faint scent of old shampoo. The way she takes her pleasure is breathtaking, and he lowers his head to fit his mouth around the peak of her breast, suckles at her until her nipples are hard and swollen. The royal crest would look perfect between them. He drags his teeth down the skin of her sternum where the medallion would hang.
At the thought of her dressed in saiyan finery and riding his cock so shamelessly, his orgasm curls around the base of his spine, throbbing and hot with warning. His thrusts grow shallow and brutal, and his fingers press purples and greens into her skin—she takes it all ecstatically.
His thumb slips between them, delving into the warmth of her, pressing against the stretched rim of her cunt where he burns. She shudders, her fingers digging into his back, and she bows her head to his shoulder.
"No," she whimpers, shivering at the implication. "I can't. You're already too—"
Big. She's perhaps the most accommodating person he's ever met, but even that might be too much. He latches his mouth to the place where her shoulder and neck meet and bites down hard enough to feel the half-panicked throb of her pulse against his teeth. She groans in confused pleasure at the pain.
He moves his hand, drags his thumb up to the swollen bud of her clit, and rubs at the side where he knows she prefers to be touched. Too sensitive for direct contact, too easily tipped into hypersensitivity if he isn't careful. Even with his cock stoppering most of it, she's so slick, practically soaked; their thighs are smeared with it. His thumb swirls hard circles against her clit, as rough as she craves, and her mouth drops open on a stuttering moan, voice breaking.
"Fuck, I'm so close," she grits out, her muscles growing tenser with every turn of his thumb, her cunt clutching fitfully at his cock as he pounds his claim into her. His vision is starting to cloud and he can feel the build of his orgasm threatening to spill over, but he won't give her the satisfaction of coming before she does.
So he slides the fingers of his other hand through the sheen of sweat on her back, over each ridge of her vertebrae, before dipping between the cheeks of her ass. She makes a high, fretful sound as he drags the pad of his middle finger over the furl of muscle there, pressing inward.
Her body jolts hard, like she's taken a hit, and she comes with a scream that's trapped by the clench of her teeth. He draws back like a gun cocking, and there's a rush of hot fluid that gushes out of her, before he slides back in and fucks her through it. Everything is too slick and cloying, the smell of her soaked slit making him lightheaded with the need to spill inside her. The exhausted clutch of her body is so damn inviting, and she makes a deliciously wounded sound when he grinds in as far as he can go. He could make a home in her forever.
But then her hand is in his hair, fingers curling around everything they can grab and pulling back hard, baring his throat to the sting of her teeth.
"Now," she snarls.
His orgasm punches out of him and he seethes through the crest of it, emptying into her in a hot, endless rush. Her eyes meet his, pupils so wide that they're only limned in blue, and it's the thought of seeing her like this—sweaty, exhausted, triumphant—with a crown atop her head that whites everything out as the pleasure overwhelms him.
With a shuddering exhale, he lowers himself back down gingerly before giving up and falling the rest of the way to the sheets. She pulls off of him with a wince, then rolls out of bed entirely to limp toward the bathroom. He watches her go, the pale expanse of her back dotted with bruises that he knows would fit the pads of his fingers if he fit them there. Her arms pull over her head and she stretches languidly, grunting, and something audibly pops. She relaxes with a sigh and disappears into the bathroom.
Vegeta struggles to catch his breath, hands sliding down to pull and tie off the condom. He casts around for the trash barrel and, unable to find it without sitting up, decides he doesn't care enough. He tosses the condom over the side of the bed and closes his eyes, exhaling long and low.
The bathroom door opens and Bulma comes back in, utterly unselfconscious, her body naked and still flushed, nipples hard from both his mouth and the sweat drying on her skin. She slides into bed, onto her back at his side, and breathes.
It would be easy to roll over and fit himself against her, breathe in the sweetness of drying sweat from her hair, but he holds himself still. If she thinks that he's going to make the first move in the hush after this, then she's—
Something soft slides over the top of his hand, and he startles to feel her fingers slide between his and curl over his palm. He turns his head to look at her.
Bulma sighs and smiles a little, bringing their joined hands up to brush a kiss over his fingers. "Do me a favor? Don't ever stop."
He blinks. "Stop what?"
"Touching me like I'm the greatest challenge you've ever faced."
Her body is smudged with the evidence of his need for her and she wears it proudly, bears his mark as if it were a golden crest for the world to see. She's resplendent like this, splayed out like a battlefield.
"You have an astoundingly inflated sense of your importance in my life," he lies, tugging on their joined hands until she's comfortably draped over him, her cheek pressed over his heart.
She should have run when he reached out for her with a hand that had felled entire worlds, but she holds it now as if she never means to let go.
"Oh please. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you."
He's never been one to question his good fortune. He's not about to start now.
Originally written on tumblr (rcmclachlan).