Well, I have been writing fics for a long time now, but this is my first time writing in English. I want to translate some of them, hopefully I'll do it ok. But, if you have suggestions for me, I will happily receive them and make the necessary corrections!
Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ.
Woman.
Woman, yes.
"It's enough, Vegeta." She says, barely a whisper. The guests just left and the living room is empty, excluding the dirty plates and cups resting on the table.
"Now what, woman?" He asks, arms crossed over his chest in a clear sign that he's not in the mood. The dress shirt is killing him, literally - too tight, asphyxiating. All night having to withstand that bunch of inepts for now the woman starts annoying him, minutes before go to bed.
"You can't behave even in my friends' presence." She says, picking up some plates with scraps scattered on their surfaces (chocolate cake, have to say).- I'm just tired.- And she sighs, making her point clear, even though he can't understand yet the matter of the discussion.
"You'd help me if you explain yourself, woman."
"See? That's what I'm talking about." She says, forgetting the chaos left in Goku's place. She walks a few steps, without looking directly at him. "Bulma, my name is Bulma." Says, before turning away completely (showing her hips, wrapped in black) and walking towards the stairs. "I'd like you remember that every once in a while."
And she leaves. She climbs the stairs slowly, without worrying about whether her words reached her interlocutor or not. She walks, leaving behind herself the champagne odor and the last perfume of her favorite brand. That exotic mix makes his gaze follow her, intensely.
So, his arms fall while he murmurs something, incomprehensible, very low, and then the man finishes her already started work. He picks up the plates and places them in the sink, tomorrow the robots will clean them. He closes the curtains and allows himself to admire the starry sky one moment. He thinks. Thinks about the position he put himself right now, completely tied to an earthling, a human, and not just anybody, tied to her. To her and her black dress, and her demoniac walking. He thinks so much that he starts to wonder how far is she really human.
Darn, it will be a long night. And the headache threats with increase. So, he closes the curtain a little violent, mentally blaming the woman. He makes her company during all the dinner (without yell, without anger... that much) and yet she treats him in that way. Recriminations, although he could contain himself and did not say anything improper to the stupid of Kakaroto or the good for nothing of Yamcha (a shameless that appear like nothing in his house). He contains, for her, for the woman. The woman. His woman.
He make his way to the second floor, after five or ten minutes, taking off the absurd shirt that starts asphyxiating him and throwing it in half of the stairs. The night is cold, but he doesn't feel it, being accustomed. He loosens the belt and mentally counts his steps until he reaches the door. Seven. Twelve. Fifteen. Without even knocking, he enters in the shadows, looking at her, half naked, brushing the hair in front of the mirror. The dress is on the floor, right next to the shoes, while the body is wearing only a bra and a really, really, tinny (and black) thongs; that makes him stop breathing for a second, cursing low at himself for showing always the same vulnerability.
But, darn, is custom now. He step in and starts kissing her neck, slowly but steadily. So, she puts the brush in the boudoir and stands up, staring at him with a mixture of blame and frustration.
"Not today, Vegeta" She slurred the words, but there's something, something, and doesn't allow her to give it away.
"Woman..."
"Bulma" She corrects him, while puts on a white nightie, delicate and semitransparent. Then she reaches the bed, willing to get warm.
Those are her plans, before she feels the way he captures her against the mattress, without time to react. He has that gaze, of hungry, of lust, of other thing that she hasn't identified yet. That gaze of moon, full moon and blood. Blood, thirst and that. (That, yes). And he smiles, only like he knows, looking the breast up and down in quickly movements.
"Not yet, woman. Is early." He kisses, he drowns her, he tightens her.
"Bulma." She says, before being shut up with an angry kiss. He rips her moans mixing up with desperation, while he bites and marks. He grasps her hands with the right, the left starts to make its way down the nightie.
"Woman." He whisper, in her ear, just before biting the lobe and downing by the neck. Kakaroto's absurd impertinence doesn't matter anymore, like human stupidity also. Doesn't matter having to listen nonsense conversations trough almost four or five hours. Doesn't matter, if he can now claim his prize. His. She belongs to him.
She doesn't talk anymore, lost in the wide back that covers her, touching every single scar that runs across it. Long, cold fingers. Tense muscles. Vulnerable gaze when the hand tours the breast line until rips off the little clothes that cover the human frame.
"Woman." Says now, in a soft voice. "Woman." Whisper, kissing the tummy where his first son is protected (the first, not the only). "Woman." Says, making his way down the right leg, delineating the shape with his lips. (And he lost himself, lower).
And each time sound different, leaving behind the cold tone. Now she could almost swear that he spell it with devotion. Maybe something more... so she shuts her mouth, her hands caressing the strong jaw, so she can kiss him briefly, allowing him to continue his path.
"Woman." He whispers, before making her vibrate, while she cambers her back on the mattress.
Woman, yes.
But mine.
My woman.
o.O.o.O.o.O.o
So, that's all.
I hope you enjoyed it!
If that's the case (or not) you can leave a review.
Thanks for reading.