Chapter 2

Author's note: This chapter is dedicated to Amy Winehouse; I loved the song Fuck Me Pumps (I'll be alluding to this later in the fic. It was Amy's music that inspired me to.) Much love, sweet angel; RIP.

Also, thank you for the kind reviews! Don't hesitate to critique; I am in need of a good warm up because I've been neglecting my writing skills... not on purpose. I had depression issues. :P Chapter 2 was accidentally deleted when I was 1000 words in, but it's ok, part of life. I had a baked potato from the university cafe, and a tuna rice ball later on. It's all good. And if you do want me to write more often, please do review. It's essential to us writers, like how water is to a plant.

I talk about clothes in this, but trust me, it's nothing like My Immortal, I promise. It has a lot to do with gender and sexuality. So definite sex themes in this one; kids, why are you here? Go play elsewhere before I call the cyber police and have you back-traced! YOU DUN' GOOFED! (That's still funny, right?) I also talk about how the effects of abuse from one's partner can damage a person. I know this because I've lived it. 7 years on, I still experience sudden panic attacks. It's was that fucked up.

Also, if you can guess the pop culture reference (a paraphrase of lyrics to a song, namely Gaga songs, phrases heard on TV shows like ANTM or on film, and so on,) point it out. :D I wanna see how many of you little monsters are out there. Paws up, darlings!

Last night's sleep was plagued by dreams of inadequacy, of inferiority, of abuse; no, they weren't dreams, they were nightmares. Waking up to the sound of loud pounding at her door, she groaned and tossed in bed, wishing that she could just stay in for the day. Not if the angry alien had anything to say about it; "Woman, I need you to fix the gravity room again; your tardiness is costing me time that I don't have. Now get your ass into gear and fix the damned thing." His footsteps faded as he stormed away, probably headed towards the kitchen to fill his bottomless-pit of a stomach with the contents of the entire fridge.

Getting up, she stretched and headed towards the bathroom to wash her face. She turned on the tap water, made sure that it was nice and warm and splashed her face. She turned it off, squeezed a small amount of the organic geranium face wash into her hands and lathered, making sure to clean her problem spots, such as her nose and forehead, and hairline. As a little girl, though she grew up tomboy, her mother had coached her at an early age that it was never too early to start taking care of your skin; 'you'll appreciate it later, trust me,' her mother used to say. For once, she agreed with her; her skin looked flawless. She turned the water back on and rinsed, patter her face dry with a fresh face towel, and used unscented lotion on her face and on her body; because it was daytime, she used the face lotion that had SPF.

Yes, Bulma Briefs is a girly girl on the inside; she liked looking good because it made her feel good, and she refused to apologise to anyone who thought of her as a slave to the patriarchal scheme; no, being a woman isn't about being tough as men and shedding one's feminine identity, it was about embracing being female and being strong and willing to fight to be heard. She often laughed at the butch feminists who insisted that skirts were anti-woman, and that they only wear baggy pants because they didn't care for fashion. She knew that men paid attention of you dressed to flatter your body shape, and she loved that she could command their attention if she wore the right type of clothing to suit the mood; currently, she wore faded and torn jeans with a baggy boat neck top that hung off her shoulders. Her black bra straps showed, and she wasn't afraid of letting it show.

The bra she wore was lace, and she had on matching panties. She used to hate lace; it irritated her so much that for a while, she refused to wear any lace undergarment. Lately, however, she couldn't get enough of it. A few weeks ago, she spent a good $2000 at a lingerie boutique at the Everly Arcade (situated in the posh side of town) on black and red lace undergarments. She had fun picking them out; she imagined what it would be like to have a man kiss her through lace, thought of how she wanted so much to seduce a man, have him pay his undivided attention to her as she wore nothing but lace. She decided from that day onward that lace was a necessary feminine luxury. A lady in lace is a lady to be worshipped, and she wanted so desperately to be worshipped as a goddess, to awe a man with her curves and the swaying of her hips. Oh, to be someone's Venus; this particular Venus loved her lace. And leather; lace and leather together? Forget about it; she could watch herself in the mirror and touch herself all night long.

Casual was an easy and comfortable style that Bulma enjoyed; her workplace (except the corporate HQ) had a casual dress code. At HQ, she would wear pumps that screamed FUCK ME, paired with stylish work outfits that flattered her body shape and often looked very well tailored; she was often complimented on her excellent taste, and all the girls at work wanted to know where she purchased that cute jacket, or those to die for charcoal wool slacks. But since today was a day where she'll likely be dealing with messy hydraulics and sharp tools, casual was the way to go. She knew she had what it takes to pull off sexy casual; she was sure that she could have any man she wanted. Except for the prince that often visited her in her imagination; he was a cool and distant character, a man whose presence leaves a trail of enigma and mystery behind him.

One thing that she was certain about Vegeta was that he wasn't shallow like most men that she had dated, Yamcha included. Vegeta would probably find her just as attractive in jeans and a torn shirt as he would if she were wearing a dress. That was, if he found her attractive at all to begin with; that was one big 'if' that unsettled her. She was used to being the woman in charge; with a man, she just wanted to be held and taken care of. She couldn't remember the last time that she felt so excited because of a man; what she felt when she was around Vegeta was something magnetic and powerful, and she couldn't help but worry if he saw it, and if he thought any less of her for feeling the way she did. It took every inch of control to not squirm when he looks at her with his intense brown eyes. Speaking of inches, she couldn't help but wonder what he would feel and taste like in her mouth; would it make her gag? Would her jaw click if she took him in her mouth entirely? Would he make a sound, or would he be completely silent? Trying to conjure up an image in her head of the scenario left her feeling as though her thighs were caressed with silk, and she felt the familiar ache that longed to be soothed with every inch that he could fit into her; fuck, she was horny, and she was horny for a very unfriendly and grumpy alien.

Vegeta's quiet ways was often misconstrued as rudeness or arrogance, but Bulma knew better; he was just reserved. She could only guess the shell that he had to hide under to survive under Frieza's lordship; she knew what it was like to withdraw and to turn one's heart into stone so that pain does not come, but what she had gone through was hardly comparable to the things that he must have suffered through. Show no emotion, because emotions are a weak spot. It's manipulable, and Frieza was more than happy to use it against his underlings to keep them in line. Control is an emotional thing; to be controlled by someone is to respond to the emotions that they inflict upon you. That much she learned the hard way during her time with Yamcha; he made her cry because he could, and he was happy that he had her under his thumb while he was out gallivanting with his friends ad clubs, getting wasted on a nightly basis, spending her hard earned cash. She couldn't, no, didn't want to imagine what sick and twisted mental games Frieza must have played on Vegeta. A tyrant is more than just a mass murderer; a tyrant is cold and will make you do things against your will because he can. A tyrant feeds off of control; at the sign of emotion, the tyrant will use it to make you sorry you dared to have any feelings at all. All she knew was that Vegeta was taken by the Ice Jinn when he was still very young, and that now, he and Goku are the only pure-blooded of their kind.

The thought of how that must weigh upon his shoulder, being the Prince, a dying race... she couldn't help but mourn for his loss. Sure, he was irritating, demanding, drinks from the milk carton, and was warm and personable as a death ray machine; none of these disguised the fact that he was destined to be a king without a crown, without a queen, without a kingdom. His lineage stopped with him, and he was currently training himself to death trying to achieve his birthright; something that frustrated the prince greatly, considering how a low ranking soldier like Goku (goddamn Kakkarot!) was able to achieve the legendary ascension without trying. She may have retorted whenever he tried to get onto her nerves, but she knew it was just his way of interacting with people. It was apparent that that was how he and the others were treated under Frieza's command. She knew all about hiding; she's hidden behind one her entire life. During her time with Yamcha, she went to great lengths to hide any traces of abuse that she was suffering; she was sharp tongued, and she used her wit like a sword to keep people at arm's length. The wit and the cutting remarks were all just a mask; a cold, cruel mask. She knows this, because she sees it in him, and she sees it in herself. She couldn't help but wonder about what he really was like on the inside behind the shell. She wanted more than anything to see the real him, to flood his pain away with her love; but knowing Vegeta, it would probably be a cold day in hell before any of that happened.

Today, the gravity sensor wasn't working properly; it must have gotten damaged when Vegeta impacted upon the site during his vigorous training. He was there, and he was helpful, even; he handed her tools while she fixed some of the electronics that were under a floor panel; he knelt next to her while she crouched into the small space, fiddling with electro-whatevers, and working diligently with Vegeta's assistance. He wore nothing but training shorts that hung above his knees; as usual, they sagged pretty low off his hips, and Bulma was trying so hard not to stare at his bronze figure that was practically on a pedestal in her face at the moment. It was a well known fact that women have a better sense of smell than men. Right now, she could smell his musk in the air between them; his skin smelled like the morning dew and sun and raw masculinity. She ached, and she hoped to Kami that he didn't notice it.

When all repairs were done, she put all the devices back in place and place her tools on the floor before standing up to get out of the waist high floor space. To her surprise, Vegeta offered her his hands, and without a word, helped her get up and out. His hands were strong, alright; he lifted her out effortlessly, and when she was out, she stood before him, hand in hand; for a fleeting moment, she wished desperately to have those arms around her; before she let that thought continue any further, with a cold hand, she stuffed it back into her heart, into a small box on a shelf. Wanting someone desperately was bad enough; wanting someone who in all likelihood did not find her to be desirable was not only pathetic, it was tragic. Shakespeare would have jizzed his pants if he were to witness her life on stage.

She flashed him a grateful smile and turned to pack her tools; but he held her hands tightly, she couldn't shake him loose. Suddenly, she panicked. Yamcha was only beginning to use force on her when they had broken up; she remembered angry hands that hurt her wrist, hands that grabbed at her upper arms till they bruised. Adrenaline rush; heartbeat sounds louder in the ear, and her stomach feels like a million butterflies was set loose inside her. It was hot and cold at the same time. This was the price you pay for putting up with an abusive boyfriend; the mental damage that you experience trains you into subconsciously reacting to an action that often preludes an act that would hurt her, like some twisted form of Pavlovian conditioning. When Yamcha twisted and turned in bed, she would often panic because he sometimes hit and shoved at her in bed when he was angry with her. Panic caused her health to deteriorate to the point where she was on serious medication and would often have to smoke weed just to get the will power and determination to get through the day.

She stiffened; he noticed. He looked into her eyes and recognised panic. He sees that she is also hurting on the inside; he gently lets go of her hand and gently cradles her head in his strong hands; hands that have killed thousands of innocent, hands that have broken bones and ripped foes in two. Ever so gently, he brought her face closer to his; she held her breath and closed her eyes and waited for it. She felt his lips on her forehead, lips kissing her brow, her cheek, and then her lips. Lips that gently melded with hers; they were soft and warm and full; for those lips, she would gladly walk through hellfire in gasoline soaked pyjamas. Her heart leapt and soared, and she felt lightheaded. She was swooning. But she never swooned before!

Before she could respond to any of it, he abruptly pulled away and without a word, left the area, leaving her standing in the empty GR, dazed and excited. She packed her tools and left; there was no sign of him. She went back to her room to smoke more weed and listen to music; anything to distract her from her raging libido at the moment. She wasn't even sure if what had happened was real, or whether if it was a figment of her imagination. She closed her eyes, and tried to remember what she felt; heat from his face as he was close to her, lips that were warm and soft and so gentle, and musk. She blasted her music and danced her pent up energy out in her room, playing everything from Nine Inch Nails to The Killers. Things were getting interesting, and she felt excited, and was strangely looking forward to more of it; though under threat of death, she wouldn't admit it, not even to herself. She couldn't remember the last time she smiled the way she did.

End chapter 2

OK, thank you to the three people who wrote reviews to my fanfic. Muffin person, Infatuated person, and Jade person. THANK YOU! :D