Thank you, thank you to Adli for having to witness this at its barest, and making it readable!
A/N - This is rated M for a reason, readers. If you don't like the M RATED content, JOG ON. Thank you. :)
Contending with Darkness
Chapter 14
Fly me to the moon. Let me play amongst the stars. Let me see what spring is like from Jupiter and Mars …
The murmuring melody tapped Vegeta back into consciousness, aptly pulling him out of a dreamless sleep and into a room of empty space. A splitting pain in his temple was harrowing, and he blindly felt around until his fingers swept across a slimy texture, it being his own coagulating blood.
In other words, hold my hand. In other words, baby, kiss me.
Where was that blasted, muffled voice coming from? He levered himself onto his elbows with a little more effort than he would have usually required, meaning it was either the drowsiness, or he was weaker than before. But the latter wouldn't be true, because, if anything, a Saiyan, after falling with any injury, regained strength again tenfold after a small period of rest.
The soft thrumming beat bounced through the dry plaster walls and into his ears, irritatingly comforting considering he hadn't a clue what it was. Now that he had looked around a bit, and smelled the foul, damp stench of neglect, he knew exactly where he had wound up … again. The air was dense, like a wall of carbon dioxide was descending from the ceiling, threatening to crush him into bits of chalk. He stumbled to his feet, blood rocketing to his head, momentarily veiling his eyes with a grey, impenetrable wall of mist. With a shaking hand, he mopped his forehead and allowed his mind to accumulate all his recent thoughts. Raditz—Dead. The raven-haired female—Dead. The Orling—A mystery still to be solved. And Bulma—
An ice cold shard of dread scratched its way down his spine, jolting him to attention. Where was she? He glanced at the anklet—the green flashing light.
Where were his boots? That could wait.
She was close. That was patent enough. But her energy was hard to trace for some bizarre reason. Nothing he couldn't handle, though. And he would handle it; just like he had with every other shitty deal in his cruel life.
In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.
The despicable gabble became incessantly clear as he threw the door open, nearly twisting it off its rusted hinges. That Orling had an abhorrent taste in music. The living room was pitch-black at first, which his eyes soon adjusted to indefinitely, revealing not much at all. It was emptier than last time; perhaps the Orling had relocated to somewhere out of sight, but that would mean this place was now common knowledge. There was no furniture, except for a wooden table accompanied by an old record player, where the drivelling voice was continuing to holler, the male singer declaring love to the empty space. Resolutely, he stuck his hand out and blew the record player to oblivion, watching with a steel stare as it went up in blue flames, petering into flickers.
There. Silence. Exactly the way he liked it.
His nose twitched. The view became boring, so he wandered—with a slight twinge in his left leg—outside, where, without being able to sense her energy with solid clarity, he followed where he assumed she would be—wallowing wherever she could. In this case, she was hunched outside, in the depths of the cave, leaning over the water's edge, her shoulders shuddering. A zap of urgency hindered him, thinking maybe she was doing something stupid, but when he narrowed his eyes, he could see she was doing nothing more than washing her grey hands in the salt water.
He instinctively approached her, the dwindling frame of her body growing more and more disturbing every time he saw it. He, on the other hand, had retained his body's natural appearance. Saiyan's could live for months without food; their metabolism could handle most things. But, she, the frail female human, was wasting away with every passing moment. He didn't like it. He knew that with very little effort, he could grind her bones into a heap of dust, no problem. But, he would like to do many things with that body before it came to that.
"I left her there … alone … in the cold. I have to go back. I left her there," she mumbled, aimlessly sloshing the water left and right, cupping it in each hand.
Her shoulder blades were protruding from her ragged clothing, almost popping holes in it. The sight was pathetic, making his blood boil, so he hauled her to her feet, where she lashed out, connecting her fist with his collar bone with agility he didn't know she possessed.
"Get away from me."
He grabbed onto her arm, just as she was about to stumble backwards into the water, and spun her into the other direction. Blue hair flew into her eyes and mouth as she twirled, almost gracefully, around him. She stopped, wobbled back on her feet and shivered, grabbing onto her shoulders, her eyes frosting over into a narrow, unnerving stare.
"This isn't over yet," he said, saying any old bullshit just to get her to snap out of it. Time wasn't to be wasted when it was so crucial.
But, she shook her head, blinked a couple of times, and scoffed. "No. It is over. I quit."
His laughter rumbled throughout the cave. "That's not how this works."
She turned away, giving him her back. "Just go away … please."
No one ever did that to him. Not if they were smart enough. And this woman claimed to be a genius? "Humans," he said. "You're all pathetic." He crossed his arms for fear that he might strangle her … again, though, if he did this time, he was sure he'd kill her. A few days ago she could have taken a bit of damage. Now, she would surely die. That thought registered unclear, like it wasn't a possibility. But of course it was a possibility. At the end of all this, she was going to die, because he was going to kill her. Her use to him will have depleted indefinitely, therefore, she wouldn't need to live. That was the deal. She knew that.
Bulma spun round, her eyes blood shot, her face slack, her arms pinned to her sides, looking like a woman of war. "What's wrong with you? You just killed my best friend … The only two people on our side, and you killed them," she wailed, blistering with a foul emotion he found difficult to comprehend.
"On our side? Are you so dim to think that, woman?" He guffawed, throwing his head back, stupidly forgetting about the pain in his temple.
"Why are you laughing? What is there to laugh about?" Her mouth hung open.
He composed himself, squaring his shoulders. "This entire game is fucking laughable."
She rushed over to him. "Don't laugh," and she punched him in the chest, receiving no response. Tears spilled from her watery eyes, leaving red pathways down her cheeks. "Stop." She punched him again, exerting herself while he, arms folded, watched her tire herself out. It wouldn't take long.
"Stop." Once more, she pounded his chest, then without touching him, caught him with her empty gaze. "My friend is dead because of you," she hissed.
He opened his parched mouth to speak, but the words were lodged in his throat. Eventually, tearing his eyes away, clearing his throat, he said, "She was dead anyway."
"How can you say that?" Her face was inches from his.
Didn't she know he could kill her in a split second? Didn't she know how bloodthirsty he could be? But that was the point: she did know, yet she chose to square up to him as if she were an equal. This woman was treading on the thinnest sheet of ice, ready to plunge into her demise.
"I could've helped her, you asshole. I could've kept her alive."
His eyes flicked back to hers, and he frowned gravely. What an idiot. How could anyone spout such utter bullshit? That other woman was dying. Even without the help of Raditz' imminent death, she would have been dragged by the wretched claws of the Fates anyway. Whatever had been in her system was irreversible. He was astonished that she had lasted as long as she had in the first place, despite how considerably weak the human race was.
She stepped back, wavering on the balls of her feet, and he regrettably jerked to stop her from cracking her head on the stone floor.
She put her hand up. "Don't," she said, a calm balance in her voice. For a few seconds, she closed her eyes, and he could see her eye balls twitching underneath their lids.
"You killed your team mate," she whispered, a hint of bewilderment in her accusation, as if the act couldn't possibly have happened.
"He wasn't my team mate. And she wasn't your friend … Not anymore." He took a step towards her again, now that she had her eyes shut.
She winced. "Yes, she was." A lone tear pressed its way out of her eye, ran down her cheek.
The need to scream was brewing in his chest hotter and more forceful than he could imagine, making him want to tear down walls and blast everything around the place, except for her. All so she could see the damage he could create without touching her, because that's what he'd had to do this entire time. But he wanted to touch her, show her how powerful he really was, let her realise how densely she was thinking. Nothing he was saying was ringing credible to her. Had she forgotten where she was? What this all was, and what they had to do? She wasn't on Earth, in her little dream world, fucking about amongst all the other weaklings that squalid planet inhabited.
"They were backstabbing cowards," he said, holding back the anger sparking in his fingertips.
She gulped, her throat bobbing up and down, provoking him to stare at it.
"No … Chichi—"
He dropped his arms to his sides. "Oh, wake the fuck up, will you? No one is your friend here. Not a single living soul. If you're foolish enough to have so-called friends on the battlefield, then you're foolish enough to die." Her eyes met his, but he didn't stop. "They were lying to you. Both of them. You were too pig-thick to notice." He sighed, pinching his brow, paced back and forth in a whirlwind of fury. "We still have a Dragon Ball to find."
The crackling, painful sound of her clearing her throat made him grimace.
"We don't have all seven?" she said, her voice so damn quiet he could barely hear it.
"No. They lied. They hadn't possessed a single Dragon Ball before we got there."
Her trembling back steps reverberated through the wide space, bouncing off the walls. She put a hand to her forehead, closing her eyes. "Why would she—" Eye lashes fluttered as she snapped her head towards him with distaste narrowing her eyes. "She just wanted to get her husband back … and you stole that from her." She shook her head, tossed her hand in the air. "I'm not doing this anymore," and she turned on her heel, and stormed towards house.
With immediacy, he followed. No, he stalked. What an incredibly stupid wench she was. How could such treachery be overruled so easily? Raditz would only have had to breathe betrayal and his head would have been booted off his shoulders. Yet, that other bitch had dragged this innocent woman into this hell for her own pitiful needs, and the innocent woman accepted it? Humans were an appalling race, one he would never understand.
He grabbed her wrist, wrenching her back towards him.
"Let go," she hissed, glaring at his fingers clasped around her. "Don't you get it?" she shouted. "I can't trust anyone anymore." She drew a sharp breath, twisting her wrist into uncomfortable positions, looking like the skin was about to tear. "Why? Why did you kill them?"
His eyes widened. Was she seriously asking him that question? Of all the stupid questions she had harked on at him about since starting this fucked up game, she chose to top it all off with this one? Oh, he wanted to laugh, and he wanted to shake her until her neck cracked and her head lolled between her shoulder blades. But, for the love of Vegeta-sei, his body wouldn't act accordingly; do the job he was most comfortable with. Instead, he grasped her shoulders, pressing his fingers into them, biting back the bile of dread creeping up his throat.
"Because I was trying to keep you alive," he yelled, his breathing heavy, as if he'd just fought an incredible battle, his face blisteringly hot.
He didn't think it was possible for her eyes to grow any wider, but they did, as her mouth snapped shut and she stared at him for what felt like an hour. Blood rushed through his body, scorching his skin, making that lump of bile crawl back up from the pit of his stomach.
She swatted him away, and, too stunned by his own reckless outburst, he allowed her to melt out of his grasp and disappear down the hallway, locking herself in a room, away from him.
Almost a week. Almost a week, and such a horrific lump of events had been crammed into it. Way too much for the human brain to register without needing to implode and turn said human into a vegetable. But, almost a week of all that, and Bulma, remarkably, was still alive, and, as far as she could tell, was still relatively functional. Though, her brain was definitely beginning to malfunction, because after listening to what Vegeta had said to her, for a single moment, she wavered towards him, falling back into that rut again. That rut of trust. How could she trust anyone anymore?
She collapsed onto the bed, covering her face with her hands, squashing her nose so she knew she was still able to feel pain. Everything else was numb. Even knowing that Chichi, her best friend, had died was not hitting her as hard as she anticipated. Now why was that? Had she been exposed to so much trauma already that Chichi dying was simply another nail in her ready-and-waiting coffin? Even crying, something she found too easy to do previously, was tiring. It was as if nothing less than her own demise could satisfy her now, because everything else was pointless beyond the horizon in her mind's eye. All she could see was 'day seven' of her week to live, hiding like a rising sun, lurking in big luminescent lights.
Chichi had said too many things before she died, one of which still rattled in Bulma's skull, patiently waiting for her to take notice of it, and really give it some time.
Goku was alive? Could that be possible? How? She saw him die.
Or did she?
A whimper escaped her mouth, and she rolled onto her back. It didn't matter anyway. There was nothing she could do. Chichi was stupid to reel that line off on her just before she died. Bulma hated to think negatively about her late friend, but she literally dumped her into this shit, so she didn't know how to think about her anymore. She didn't even know who that woman was back there. The only person she saw clearly, recognisably, in that graveyard was Vegeta. She hated that. A being she'd known for less than a week, who she knew to have killed thousands of people, seemed like the only real person amongst the other ghosts. Why was that?
The need to cry pressed into her temple, the pressure tempting a sinister migraine.
She closed her eyes, focused on the cold sweeping across her body. Maybe, looking deeper, she and Vegeta weren't so different. There may have been a definite reason why they'd been partnered up. Chichi and Raditz both had secrets. What did she and Vegeta have?
She sat up, opened her blistered hand and looked at it, frowning. There were still traces of blood, now a coppery colour, branching through the lines of her palm. Chichi's blood. Or Raditz' blood. Someone's blood. She had that much of it on her hands, she didn't care whose blood it was, she just wanted it gone. It was still nipping into her skin, like the blood had an acidic quality to it. When she had touched the anklet, it was as if a bolt of electricity had punctured through her fingers, the energy travelling right the way up her arm. Now, she was sure that it was the blood causing the discomfort.
The lolling of his head, pulling the muscles in the back of his neck, shocked him back upright, consequently banging his head on the bedroom door, where Bulma had hidden herself away. Wearily, he glanced around the living room, taking it all in once more. If she had asked that Orling to bring them here, then where was the coward? Why couldn't he show ugly fucking face now? That freak was definitely up to something. He could smell the stale smell of rat urine miles away, and the Orling was doused in it. Why would he take all of his belongings, if he wasn't running from something? That woman was foolish to put her faith in that thing. She had to stop throwing her worthless trust around, because she was getting splintered every time. He closed his eyes again, nudged his back up against the door, the coarse material of his clothing getting caught on loose flakes of wood, ripping. He didn't care. The silence was pleasant enough to him for him to care about anything else.
It was peaceful, not having to listen to Frieza hissing down his ear. Being so far underground meant the signal was blocked. He could relay messages to Frieza, if he needed to, but Frieza could not pass messages to him. He was, for the moment, free. And it was OK. Although, that sense of freedom had been in his system for too long now, and they needed to move on, because this was far from over. If they were to die, then he would want an honourable death during battle, not because of some damn metal contraption trapped around his ankle, like he was some feral creature.
Furrowing his brow, he attempted to sense Bulma's energy state, whether it was still erratic, meaning he would have to go in there and drag her out by her hair, if need be. Prising open another bout of nausea, he found that her state was placid, tranquil, but with an unusual quiver of nervousness. It meant nothing, of course. Or did it? He wasn't going to go in there, just for her to shriek at him again for killing her friend. Not that he did. If he wanted to have killed that woman, he would've done immediately. What made Bulma think he would hold back? There was no pride in picking off the weak. And no challenge.
An agitated flicker in her energy buzzed in his head. Her perturbing behaviour was beginning to irritate him. Uneasily, he slid his hands from beneath his crossed-arms position, and let them rest on the rough, damp carpet, patting them slightly to rid them of sweat. What the fuck was she doing in there? Why did he want to know? Regardless, he couldn't stop sensing her energy all of a sudden, even if he tried to blot it out. She was probably having another nightmare. Fucking Earthlings. To take his mind off it, he let his eyes wander the room again, not that there was anything of interest. But any clues as to why the Orling had changed his decorative habits would be worthwhile. Worthwhile because he could then rub it in her face that that freak was crooked, like everyone else in this life.
Next to the obliterated remnants of table, there was a straight line of used candles, all melted into strange shapes, like curved and broken fingers. Besides that, there was absolutely nothing. The Orling obviously knew what he was doing, but who knew for what reason. Like he, the Orling was the last of his race, so presumably their motives couldn't be that far apart. Nevertheless, he was a block in their path, and if he remained glued to this woman (especially now that he was in her head), Vegeta would have no choice but to eradicate him.
Her energy flicked again, sparking like flecks of white electricity, bouncing around the inside his skull.
God damn her. God damn her to hell.
A feeling, which he couldn't boil down to nausea, quivered in his gut at the thought that something was happening to her in there. And it tortured him that his paranoia sank deeper than merely knowing her dying would mean his imminent death, too. He shot to his feet, cumbered with a heavy hand of weakness planted on his shoulder, and he swung the door open, expecting to see her being strangled to death by the Orling, or some mutant, her eyes popping out her skull.
But no.
She flinched, sitting cross-legged, holding onto her feet, her brow going into a spasm of annoyance. He glowered, a raw heat creeping up his face, and he glanced around the room for anything out of context. There was nothing. Nothing except this infuriating woman, who was now just staring at him, like she was waiting for him to give an explanation. A chain of sweat ran across his hair line, begging to be mopped away. Had she manipulated her life force? How could she possibly know to do that? It wasn't even possible. Or … had his mind fabricated it?
"What are you doing?" he snapped, needing to know that she was in some kind of danger, just to prove to himself that he hadn't lost his mind.
She slowly uncrossed her legs, letting them hang over the bed. She shook her head, opening and closing her mouth, without uttering a single syllable.
He stood idle in the doorway, wanting to be swallowed whole by the darkness that branched out from behind him. God damn her. He pinched his brow, willing himself to remain calm, but the burrowing, scurrying feeling in his stomach was tormenting. Nothing had been as vexing as this. Nothing. His eye lids peeled open again, eyes locking onto hers, channelling pseudo venom towards her. How dare this woman land in his life, and demand so much from him. She was suffocating him, clawing at his skin, grasping at him constantly. It wasn't … normal for him to be placed in this position. In the beginning he wanted nothing more than to tear her limb from limb, but now the thought of that send a cold shiver down his spine. Just the thought of her bare limbs set his soul alight. And that same thought made him want to set her alight.
His eyes narrowed. That's all it was. It was an innate, carnal desire to fuck her. And after that, the control she had over him would wane. His gaze burned into hers, until she glanced to the side, grabbed her arms and shivered. He snarled, paced over to her and yanked her to her feet, grabbing onto her shoulders to stop her collapsing into a boneless mess. A faint, oily fragrance danced into his nose, weaving around his senses. He gripped her shoulders tighter, but she was still looking distantly to the side, looking more lugubrious than ever. The smell became stronger, and the faint familiarity of it glossed over his mind, back to when they previously spent time in this room; that solitary moment when everything shut down and was locked away from his consciousness. Everything except her.
Her eyes shifted irritably, her pupils shrinking and growing. A useless thought sidled into his mind: Why was it that the Orling could make a mental bond with this woman? Just, for a fraction, to see what was rattling around her brain would be somewhat insightful to Vegeta. And that Orling was probably sitting there now, listening, reading, grabbing every thought she owned and claiming it as his. No one should do that. The mind was the one place a being could really be alone. This woman should have had a choice whether she wanted that freak creeping into her brain. It was far too similar to his own situation it made him feel ill with rage. And this stupid woman thought it was a good thing? How pitiful she was.
He lowered his face to hers, where, startled, her eyes finally met his, widening. He didn't even know what he was doing, but he continued to move closer, until his breath fluttered daringly close to her cold neck. Her body was stricken, stock-still with veiled need. He grinned, the soft sound of his lips curling over his gums, making her tremble.
"I don't belong here," she whispered, taking him aback.
He reeled back, looked her in the eyes, taking a moment to digest the unimpeachable statement. And he sighed. "You don't."
She looked away again, clutching onto one limp arm, goose bumps popping out of her skin. "But you do."
The declaration hit him like a pile of mortar, crumbling in bits, making sure to connect with every inch of his body. The last time he made that statement, she replied with, 'No one should be in this mess.' Now what made her changed her mind so coolly? Even then, she knew he had killed, slaughtered, and tortured people and aliens alike. So, then, had killing her Earthling chum broken the barrier down? That subtle barrier between what she thought was immoral and what was acceptable?
A frown etched its way onto his skin, and instead of punishing her, he brushed the back of his hand down her arm, sidling it onto the woeful material of her t-shirt, twisting it in his fist. Silence instilled itself, as her wide eyes met his once again, daring him and fearing him all at once.
If her heart beat any louder, she was sure Vegeta would hear it, giving away her thin veil of bravado, pulling it back and revealing, ashamedly, her need for him to touch her. But, how, after everything he had done, could she still want that? Was she that shallow? Or had she become just as callous as he was? She didn't want to feel like she had been abandoned, though. Everyone around her was dying, or dead, and she didn't want to live her last day feeling utterly and completely alone. Was that selfish? Something about Vegeta called to her like a Siren waiting on a mountain-side. It drew her in regardless of her disdain for him. Because she knew, had he not been forced into the life he had, it could have been so different for him. He was royalty. He would have had anything he wanted, would have ruled over his race. But, like she, his world had been torn to pieces, and he had been handed a new one, thrown into the deep end, before having even learnt to swim. You either swam, or you drowned.
Her breath shook as she let out a lengthy, apprehensive sigh, while her obstinate statement still stood between them. Between his hands and her body. Expecting a vicious harangue about how such a low-class creature like herself could even dare to slather him with such a statement, Bulma let her arms hang to her sides, and she took a gracious step back, the back of her legs brushing the side of the mattress. Her world was ending. That much she knew. Whatever was to happen in the next twenty four hours, she didn't care for anymore. It couldn't get much worse from here.
By the yielding material of her top, Vegeta drew her back towards him, both hearing the 'click' of the t-shirt dying to rip. Her heart pounded, threatening to shoot up her throat and out of her mouth, as he looked at her, his frown fading, smoothing his features and leaving behind the unblemished mask of a prince. She wanted to reach out and touch it, but her arms were stuck to her sides, unable to move. The air between them was denser than ever, feeling like it was clogging in her dry throat, making it even harder to pronounce the word 'no', or 'stop'. It left her mute to his actions, his slow and subtle actions, making her blood pound into her ears.
He let her go, and for that moment, she wanted to explode into a fit of exasperation. But, firmly, he grasped her shoulders, spun her round, so instead of looking into his eyes, she was left to stare at a sodden, mouldy mattress.
Never, in all his time on Frieza's ship, had he fucked a female and allowed her to look at him. No female should be able to stare at him like she had just then. It sickened him. And it … No, it didn't. But why did she look at him like that? That glint in her eyes, the same look she had given that fucking Orling. Trust. She trusted him? She was simply throwing it away, wasn't she? And, after these abominable days spent with her, he was beginning to … Not respect, but tolerate her decisions. That was long gone now.
Desire and anger pooled together as he placed his palms flat on her back, manipulating her movement, pushing her forward onto the bed. She moved, hesitantly at first, before clicking into place, spreading her hands out on the mattress. He inhaled through his nose as his hands drifted over the narrow curves of her waist, gripping and pulling her centre into his. She didn't dare to hinder him words of lament or opposition, but merely pushed into him eagerly, her warmth seeping through her jeans, taunting, only beckoning his anger further to the surface.
With a rough twist, he grabbed her t-shirt and ragged it over bent frame, tearing it in half as it reached her neck. It was quickly discarded to the other side of the room, to land in a silent heap. His body tensed as his eyes raked the length of her white back, which was littered with fresh cuts and bruises. A momentary wave of despair washed through him, before casting it aside and placing his hands on her cool skin, running them to the waist band of her jeans.
With urgency, she fumbled to release them, before they slid down to her ankles, where she delicately padded out of them. She shot a quick, heated gaze at him from her peripheral, but her body racking from either the cold or anticipation was like someone constantly prodding him in the side, so he eased her onto the bed with sweating palms, pinning her to lie flat, and climbed onto his knees. He wanted to mould into her, let her know that she had no choice but to succumb to him, but her lack of indignant whimpering was erasing any notion of satisfaction he would get. Her own perfume drifted lazily over to him, forcing him to sit upright, his heels digging into his backside, as she lay before him with nothing but her undergarments on.
Her hair draped to the side of her, and her chest rose and fell slowly, calmly. There was an elusive atmosphere between them, not like he had imagined on several regrettable occasions—those very few dreams that managed to slip into his subconscious. But what did it matter how she was behaving? Right now, she was nothing more than an object, something to use for his own gratification, like he had done many times before. With that in mind, he yanked down her undergarments, and looked away from what he so desperately wanted to see, fixing his hardened stare on the blank, broken plaster walls. But the smell and heat was undeniable, ecstasy winding its way into his shrivelled soul. He hastily tore his own confinements off, peeling the elasticated armour off his chest, haphazardly chucking them to the side, and allowed the dense air to roll over his jutting, pulsating organ, sending a roll of shivers up and down his body.
A downtrodden hovel such as this, granted no more than a faceless fuck. If it were anywhere else, he wouldn't have even had the time to acknowledge the colour of the female's eyes, or the smell of her hair. But he knew those of Bulma. He knew that her eyes were enrapturing, hence a damn good reason why he chose not to look at her. But like a drunken moth to a blazing, orange flame, his eyes wandered over to her odd figure, glanced with denunciation as she lay there like a lifeless hag, waiting to be taken. There was no air of fear about her. She was riddled with open desire, or so her scent told him so, but if it wasn't for that, she looked as alive as a corpse.
The cuts and red blotches were dappled on her skin, one cluster resembling finger prints just above the delicate dimples of her lower back. His fingers twitched at the thought of whoever had done that to her. His hand landed gingerly on her back, his fingers spread apart, and he pushed the taught skin upward, catching all the lumps of uneven and scarred flesh on the rough of his palm. She sighed, and whether it was a sound of pleasure or discouragement, it did not stop his advancements. Dragging his hand back down to her lower back, he roamed over a dry, crusty texture—a patch of dried blood. The sight drew him back to his own injury on his forehead. How obscure this scenario was. A prince, about to engage in coitus with a battered and bruised Earthling. The scab on her back itched under his hot palm. He rolled his fingers, digging his nails beneath the blemish, and prised it from her, crushing the remnants of her DNA between his fingers and thumb.
She stilled, her back arching, but again, no sound evaded her mouth. The fresh, open cut wasn't deep, but it bled, oozing little globules of crimson down her back. A heaviness resided in his throat, as she settled back down without chastising him. She was beaten. Too much had happened to this desert flower. And she'd lost the energy to retort.
He swallowed.
She was covered in so much pain and suffering it brought a slight swelling in his chest, one he rarely ever felt. The majority of these marks would remain permanently. A constant reminder of what had happened here. She would never forget, as long as she survived. He set his jaw, and gripped his hands into tight fists, his short-lived desire dwindling to a wilted lump of flesh.
Damn this fucking woman.
The sudden smell of rotten plaster overruled the intoxicating fumes of this female Earthling, who had bared herself before him, allowing him to do as he pleased. She finally flipped onto her back, giving herself a very solid, very real, and very alluring identity again. Her full breasts were cushioned tight to her chest by the most hideous, dishevelled contraption. Her eyes flickered to his bare chest, before gluing back to his, with an elusive, concentrated glow behind them. With a faint air of confident determination, she sat up, crossing her legs, and gazed upon him freely, drinking in his image, sparking a new bout of warm need in his groin.
There were even more grazes on her front than her back. Her ribs protruded through her skin, dipping substantially to the deep swell of her stomach. What had she eaten since they arrived on this planet? Maybe half a decent meal? Not enough, evidently.
"What I said before," her rusty voice whispered, subjugating his hungry gaze, surprising him by the warmth her words emanated. She lifted her behind from the mattress, leaned in towards him, her hand landing carefully on his thigh while she brought her warm mouth to his, and pressed hard against him, the heel of her palm sinking into his leg muscle. A rusted crate of unfiltered emotion burst open, as her tongue slipped into his mouth, pushing for acceptance, which he gave. He wrapped his arms around her thin frame, lifted her onto his lap where she settled, their mouths never leaving one another, as that feeling of elevation collided with his soul.
Her body pulsed with a rush of blood, flooding her mind, clouding it until all she could only see, hear and smell was the Saiyan warrior before her. The backs of her thighs brushed against his as she tremulously kept her core away from his erection, a distant voice screaming for her to rethink what she was about to do. But his hands were running down her back, so light the hairs on her arms stood up. He grasped her buttocks, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, and it beckoned a slight whimper from her, only making his mouth roam more independently, lavishing her neck with, hot open-mouthed kisses. She sighed, sweat bundling in beads on her skin, as Vegeta peeled back the cup of her bra to seek out her hard nipple. She yelped as he nipped her, before soothing it with the circular motion of his tongue, settling her closer down onto his lap, her core weeping for his cock.
The overwhelming pressure mounted in her head at the prospect of what was happening. But she didn't care. To rid the doubt, she grabbed a fistful of his hair, to bring his face back to her. Slowly, his lazy, heated gaze met hers, their chests both rising and falling in sync, and she unclasped the latch of her bra. With a shaking hand, she dropped each strap from her shoulders, keeping eye contact, and let the flimsy material sink into her lap. His eyes never left hers, and she could see it—everything. The truth. The hurt. The lies. Everything they had been through had taken as much toll on Vegeta as it had on her. He just dealt with differently-by boxing it up and stowing it away in a corner. Only when faced with unfamiliarity, did he (possibly accidently) display a glimpse of his true self. There was a tiredness in his eyes—a grey sheath beneath the obsidian gleam. The strain of everything catching up with him. He was there with her. And she was with him. Right now.
Like he was reading into her thoughts, he placed his hands either side of her waist, and she lowered herself onto him, taking him inside her. He filled her to the hilt, his eyes closing for a long, idle moment, feeling the inside of her, while she watched in awe at the beauty of his pained face. An emotion she hadn't seen before. Her whole body relaxed onto him, and she gently rocked, back and forth, wrapping her arms around his neck, winding her fingers through his hair until he opened his eyes again, crashed his lips against hers hungrily; it was like he'd awakened from a lost dream.
Her skin tingled as he slid his hand between her legs, massaging her with his fingers. A moan crept up her throat despite her best efforts, and she ground harder against him, retaliating to his thrusts. Her body began to rack as warmth coursed through her veins, while he worked his fingers. But she was thrown onto her back, hitting the mattress hard, it creaking its loud protests. He loomed over her, his arms braced either side, the desperate anguish clear on her face as he stopped moving. He stared down her, making her shrink beneath him, like she was a spectacle or an old artefact, smothered in blemishes and left in a glass cabinet for all eyes to see. Suddenly she felt vulnerable, his warm, beating flesh still inside her, his eyes burning into hers. And then she calmed, her furrowed brow smoothing, as she thought back to the desert, when he had saved her from the mutant. He would have done that regardless of the anklet. She could see that now.
But what was he thinking?
She didn't want to know, so she reached for him, drew his face down to hers, where he eagerly accepted her again. He thrust hard and deep, running his left hand down to her breasts, cupping one, pinching the nipple, cajoling another gasp as she writhed beneath him, defenceless from the onslaught of pleasure. There was a low growl as he thrust harder, losing himself in her, and she felt everything, tipping her closer and closer. He ventured down her neck again, this time leaving harsh bites. She moaned, and turned her head to the side, grasping for the side of the mattress as she lost control. He grunted as she threw her head back, her centre tightening around his shaft, and she screamed, a raw and painful sound coming from the back of her throat. She rasped as her body stilled, her hips raised from the bed, her mind fogged, blinding her with ecstasy.
Before she could embrace the moment of bliss, Vegeta drove into her harder, nudging her up the bed, the rough, neglected surface rubbing against her defaced, naked skin. The clink of their anklets clacking together was the last thing she heard before Vegeta inhaled sharply and collapsed on top of her, making sure not to crush her by keeping propped on his elbows. Their damp bodies licked off each other as he stayed still, enclosing her in an accidental embrace; only their close breaths filling the silent room. Bulma blinked, unsure what to do with her hands, which were still spread either side of her, like a star fish. Her breath seeped onto his neck, cooling with moisture as the room transformed back to its usual damp, mouldy, lonely self.
Charily, she placed a hand on his sweat-slicked shoulder, making the muscles in his neck flex, before she decided against it, too wrapped up in a tide of serenity to destroy the moment of peace. As her breathing slowed, as did her blinking, until she was swept under into a warm, tender, dreamless sleep.
A sharp tickle in her throat catapulted her back into consciousness, throwing her forward so she could cough her guts up. She reached for her throat, to itch what was beneath the surface, when the tickle eventually subsided, leaving her coughs to peter into pathetic, soundless puffs of air. A heavy piece of navy material slipped from her chest, falling into her lap. Curiously, she picked it up and studied it. It was Vegeta's Saiyan clothing. Her sense became adrift as she recollected the events that had recently passed, and her body quivered in eager reminiscence. She glanced over her shoulder to see Vegeta, sprawled naked across the dirty mattress, his hand laying limp across his heavily muscled chest. She bit her lips as her body grew warm at the sight, until the reality of their situation settled into her bones. There was no warmth. In fact, it was freezing. People were still dead. She was still going to die.
Her shoulders sank and prickled in the cold, as she clutched onto Vegeta's clothes. Her eyes skittered over the room, the dark, empty space. That was a point. It was empty. Where had the furniture gone? Where had the Orling gone? Not that she would have wanted him around at this moment, but he couldn't have just vanished, again. And how long had she been asleep? It shouldn't have mattered how much time she had spent sleeping because she had nothing else to do, waiting for death to catch her in his bony claws.
But she did have something. It was a shot in the dark, but it was still something. Shaken with a new source of hope, she got to her feet and searched for her clothes, which were in a pile in the corner of the room. Tugging her pants over her hips, she took another glance at Vegeta. He was watching her, his eyes half open from drowsiness. Again, she felt very conscious of herself. Never had she felt that way with a man. It was they who should have felt self-conscious, not Bulma. She cleared her throat, retracted her gaze, and buttoned up her jeans, keeping her chin to her chest.
She didn't know where her bra was.
Where the hell was it?
She didn't want to look up again.
The bed creaked, signalling Vegeta's groggy movement, and she couldn't help but look over again, her face flushed with blood. He was sitting up, looking towards the doorway, leaning back on his palms. Braless, she threw her t-shirt over her, relaxing from the morsel of warmth it brought her. She took a deep breath, just as Vegeta stood up to get dressed, grabbing the same top she had had draped across her naked body only moments ago, and pulling it over his head.
She sniffed, getting a strange acrid smell in the air, as she watched him get changed. His perfect physique flexing under his clothing. She could feel her nipples hardening under the thin fabric of her t-shirt, aching again. She crossed her arms. Why was she acting like that all of a sudden? She wanted to scream in fury. She wasn't a teenager. She shook her head as her eyes travelled down to Vegeta's anklet, alighting what she had sorely digressed from earlier.
"I think I know how to remove the anklet," she said, her voice 'morning croaky', making her want to hack up whatever was latched to her chest.
Vegeta pulled his pants up, and cocked a slightly intrigued eyebrow at her, though he failed to show any real dedication of interest. It wasn't like he was going to jump up and down, clapping with anticipation, was it?
A weight settled on her shoulders, pressing hard, making her want to fold to her knees.
He stared, waiting.
The green glow of the anklet was captured in her periphery as the words reluctantly crept out her mouth. Never had she been more certain of a hunch. If that was possible. She rubbed her blistered fingers together, relishing the pain, and the conclusion the pain had brought.
"It's blood," she said, lifting her chin. "Your blood."