debbiechan fanfiction

Always A First Time

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: I can make no claim to owning DBZ, yet I have a masochistic compulsion to tell this damn story.

A/N: Egads, your lovely feedback is making me post chapters earlier than I wanted and work hard on my notes for this story! * Smiles broadly * This chappie should hold you for a week or more because I’m busy with the Passover holiday. I’m so obsessive that I dreaded writing a continuation for fear I’d never finish, but the story in my head is clamoring to tell itself.

LisaB is my beta and writing buddy. She makes fandom insanity worthwhile.

Chapter Ten: What Lovers Do

“He always had his pride but sometimes he was gentle. He never showed that side to people. Oh, but I knew."--Mirai Bulma, episode 132

Vegeta was dreaming that he was drowning. He dreamed that frequently, although he could never figure out why. He had never been on any waterlogged planet for long. On Vegetasei, his palace bedroom window had faced the shallow bay, but the prince rarely went surf-boating with the other Elites; he preferred desert excursions with Nappa or hunting exotic game on other worlds with his father the king.

Zarbon had beaten up Vegeta thoroughly on Namek and left the prince to die in a lake there, but even before that particular humiliation, Vegeta had dreamed of drowning. His Namek near-death experience had been like reliving the dream: a seductively gentle falling down, down, down…his view darkening from blue to black…small bubbles escaping his mouth…a slow warm suffocating in softness…wave after wave of blackness pushing him further down….

Vegeta awoke with a start. Something was pressing against half his face. He realized it was a pillow, but he batted it away as if it were the sheet metal covering his body after the Capsule 3 explosion--or the mud smothering his face after Kakkarot buried him on Namek.

The pillow flew across the room and hit the wall with a solid thwack.

The sound woke the woman up. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

Her wide blue eyes looked intoxicated with happiness. She was lying a good distance, maybe an arm’s length away, on the bed. Neither had been asleep for long, and it was still pitch black night--the room darker than when Vegeta had first entered it, because at some point Bulma had kicked the nightstand lamp over and shattered the bulb.

Had she noticed that he was sleeping? He regretted the weakness. Falling asleep!

The sex had been less frantic this time around. He had brought her to climax against the wall with only his hands. Could he even remember what it was he’d done? He wanted to do it again. Her hand had guided him somewhere, pushed his fingers into rubbing little circles there. There had been touching, so much touching, her amazing little hands gliding across the slick surfaces of his back and arms. And as his body temperature rose, there had been literally steam--the rainy wind around them feathering into smoke.

“Wow, Vegeta,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. After the fingering against the wall, she had led him to the bed and screamed there while he pounded her. “That was simply the best ever. The way you--the way you move.”

No one had ever said such a thing to him. Not ever. Her eyes were glazed over with rapturous appreciation, and it was because of something he’d done.

What had he done? Explored her with his hands and mouth, all the while trying not to injure her. He had fucked her with deliberation, for a long time, until she climaxed again and again and again.

It had exhausted him (perhaps emotionally more than physically because the touching thing was so new), and he had rolled off her and into a brief sleep.

“You--” His voice sounded strange. It was too loud compared to hers. The room was quiet, and the raining outside had long ago stopped. “You like this sort of activity very much?” He was aware that the question exposed his feeble understanding of Earth females. He didn’t care.

She smiled. “I guess I do.” Her shoulder shifted against the mattress, and her arm stretched toward him, but her fingers were a hair’s breadth short of touching his face. “Stay here. I want to do it again.”

“I have to train,” he lied. He wanted to stay. He didn’t want to train, not now anyway.

“The new bots?” Her fingers were still extending, not quite touching him. “The new bots can’t do what I do.”

He leaned forward, just enough for her palm to cup his cheek. “I destroyed the new bots.”

“Already?” Her thumb was grazing his lip. Soft stroking motions.

“They were too loud.” He parted his lips, and she deftly inserted the thumb in his mouth. Why was the simple taste of her weak little finger so maddening? He sucked on it for a moment and then let it fall out. “The bots were almost as loud as you are.”

“I can’t help it. You make me crazy, Vegeta. It’s a crazy feeling.”

He sat up on one elbow and looked at her for a moment. Craziness. No, it wasn’t craziness. It was pure sensual delight. He deserved it. The way he deserved a good meal or a long satisfying shower or the most comfortable clothes. The cleverest, sexiest Earth woman was lying nude next to him, and he was going to take full advantage of that. He was the Prince of Saiyans.

He rolled towards her, put a hand over each of her white soft breasts. “Does it hurt you?”

“I thought it would,” she said. “But you’re trying to not hurt me, right?”

“I can move faster.”

“Um, I think I can take it.” She sounded certain.

“You can do it again?”


“You will fix the bots in the morning?”

“Well--” Her breathing had already started to deepen. “I’ll do what I can. I’ll probably need to catch up on my--” Her hands covered his as his fingers began kneading. “Sleep. I have to sleep sometime. Do you ever sleep? Do Saiyans ever sleep?”

“I was a soldier,” he said. “I slept when I could.” That little bit of personal information was out before he could stop it. Her eyes snapped out of their lust and looked at him, ecstatic with an interest beyond what he was doing with his hands. “I slept when I could,” he said softly. “Sometimes we went for many days without food or sleep. It made me strong. It made me--”

He didn’t like looking into her bright eyes. He lowered his face to her neck and began to kiss her the way she had kissed him in the atrium. Long sweeping kisses across her clavicle.

“What?” she said. “It made you what?”

But he didn’t answer her. He took the pink turgid tissue of one nipple into his mouth, pinched it without using his teeth. She liked it. She was arching her back.


It made him hard--just hearing her say his name like that. His hands began to slide down her ribcage and over her hips. He couldn’t get enough of her.


The following morning found Dr. and Mrs. Briefs on the southern veranda for breakfast. Dozens of Sweet Briars had bloomed overnight, and instead of clipping a vaseful for the table, Mrs. Briefs had declared, “They’re for enjoying on the vine!” She had insisted that her husband put sausages on the barbecue.

The smell brought out Puar, and Yamcha, in a fresh orange gi, followed close behind his friend.

“Don’t bother them!” Yamcha was shouting, but Puar was already hovering over the browning meat.

“Would you like one plain or in a biscuit, dear?” asked Mrs. Briefs.

“Plain, please,” mewed Puar.

“C’mon girl,” Yamcha complained. “We’ve already had breakfast. Maybe the Briefs want to have a special morning with just each other or something.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Briefs. “Look at all my Sweet Briars, aren’t they gorgeous?”

“Lovely, Mrs. B.”

“Why don’t we eat sausages, Yamcha?” Puar said. “I need protein. A shapeshifter does not live on granola alone.” She drifted onto the back of a chair and perched there, chewing a link. “Aren’t you going to tell the doctor about what you found on the lawn?”

Dr. Briefs was forking sausages off the grill and onto a large platter. He didn’t like the look on Yamcha’s face. It looked grieved. “What’s the matter, son?”

“Nothing really, Doc, nothing at all.” He shook his head no in rejection of the food the doctor was offering him. “There’s a big burned patch in the grass over there near Capsule 3. Shreds of metal everywhere. Looks like Vegeta fried another bot.”

“That’s odd. He didn’t tell me about it.”

“Vegeta-chan is such a mystery! At least have some orange juice, dear.” Mrs. Briefs held a glass out to Yamcha. “Oh our Vegeta-chan! I figured the gravity chamber was broken last night. Wasn’t he doing all those martial arts exercises right there on the lawn? Without his pants?”

“That’s right,” answered Dr. Briefs. “No pants.”

The distress on Yamcha’s face seemed to deepen. “He’s not in the space capsule this morning. That’s not like him at all. He’s always up and training way before I am.”

“Oh everyone needs a break from all that training, training, training! Maybe he’s sleeping in for once.” Mrs. Briefs fed another link to Puar. “How about you, Yamcha? Did you and Bulma have a nice time at the restaurant yesterday? It was a good change of pace, wasn’t it? You looked so handsome in your blue suit.”

Yamcha set his glass of juice untouched on the patio table. “Where’s Bulma?”

“I buzzed her a little while ago to see if she wanted join us for breakfast alfresco, but she didn’t answer. If you see her, will you tell her the Sweet Briars bloomed? It must have been that little thunderstorm that coaxed them out. The azaleas are budding too--she has to see them!”

Yamcha seemed lost in thought.

“Come now, Yamcha. Show me what’s left of that training bot.” Dr. Briefs started walking away from the table. He was still holding a meat fork. “Maybe we should take a look at the capsule too, see if Vegeta has done any more damage.”


He couldn’t get enough of her. He could move faster inside her without ripping her in half. It was possible. He could control his body temperature so that he didn't burn her, but his excitement in her arms was such that he felt the energy crackling in his ears. Ki didn’t surface in the shape of a fireball in his palm; instead it grew deep in his loins, seemed to sear parts of himself on the inside. It felt like being destroyed; it felt like being cleansed. It was an addictive feeling, like battlelust.

When she finally fell asleep, he lay there and watched her, wanting to fuck her awake. He searched her arms and thighs for bruises, for red marks, for any sign that he was hurting her. He knew now that he didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to give her pleasure over and over, to make her say his name.

When she woke up and said she had to “go pee,” he followed her into the bathroom because he didn’t know what she was talking about. She seemed embarrassed at first (after all they had done!) to have him stand there, listening to her body expel its stream of fluid. She didn’t have time to wipe herself before he lifted her off the toilet with an urgency approaching obvious desperation and carried her back to the bed. He kissed her and kissed her, pushed his fingers deep inside her where it was so wet and so soft.

She tried to mount him once, but he flipped her over. She said she needed a shower, that she felt “sticky”, and so they showered together. She ended up on her knees there, sucking him with her hungry mouth while the needles of water hammered them. The water ran cold--she did it that long. And he tried not to cry out--he really tried. But he shivered, knocked a pane out of the shower door with his palm, and let out a series of cries.

They continued to clutch at one another on the wet bathroom floor. She said her back was hurting, so he picked her up and carried her as far as the carpet in the bedroom. He made her scream in payback for what she had done to him in the shower. She was very loud. He didn’t care if the whole house heard her. Her room was so far from the rest of the family area, but the balcony doors were still open--weren’t they?

They weren’t. She had shut them at some point during the night.

He enjoyed covering her mouth with his when she screamed--the wild reverberations in his throat and skull.

Later, when she claimed exhaustion and climbed back into the bed, he sat cross-legged on the floor and felt the reality of his surroundings begin to dawn on him. He had been in this one room with this one woman, fucking for hours and hours.

“I need food and drink,” he said.

“Get me something too,” she said. “Mama always has fresh bagels in a basket somewhere in the kitchen. Bring up the whole basket.”

“I’m not your servant.” Vegeta glanced around the room. It was smaller than he’d expected it to be, smaller than the interior of Capsule 3.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not yours.”

He would go back to the room the Briefs had assigned him? He would find something to wear. He would find the yellow-haired woman and demand food. He would find the old man and demand new bots.

Actually….” Bulma’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not that hungry. Come here.”

“You’re joking.”

“No! I don’t want you for that. Come here and stay with me a little longer. It’s what lovers do--sleep together afterwards. I’ll call downstairs for a servant bot to bring us some food. I don’t want my parents to know.” She looked concerned for a moment then brightened. “They won’t know. They’ll think I’m busy researching some project and that you’re busy training.” She patted the mattress. “Come here.”

So he was her lover now? “I thought the Earth warrior, Yamcha, was your….” The word was distasteful. It reeked of human connotations. “I thought Yamcha was your lover.”

Bulma looked like she hadn’t thought of the Earth warrior in decades. His very name seemed to startle her. “Oh! I--I settled that with him yesterday. Gosh, was it yesterday? He’s not my lover anymore.”

Vegeta crossed his arms. He was trying to grasp some dignity now--a futile endeavor, given that he was naked, sitting on the Earth woman’s bedroom carpet. “And so I am your lover now?” He rejected the concept. His mind disliked the word.

She laughed. “No Vegeta, you’re my hair stylist. We’re lovers--there’s no getting around it. Come here and sleep in my bed. You’ve got to be tired, right?”

He was tired. He would think about the definition of lover later. He didn’t know what a hair stylist was. Maybe she would let him know later.

He got up and walked toward the bed. She made no gesture towards him. She simply turned her face to one side, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and closed her eyes.

He got into the bed and lay next to her without touching her. He was so tired. Food, water, training: he would think about things later.

I slept when I could. Vegeta would not think about those times, about any times. It’s what lovers do—sleep together afterwards. On Frieza’s ship, Vegeta had thrown whores out of his room by the hair after he was done with them. On Frieza’s ship…? A memory arose of Dodoria carrying the child-aged Vegeta out of Frieza’s chambers. It was the first time Vegeta had ever experienced broken bones; there was no pain, just a blank wonder over why he could not lift his arms to swat at the big pink lieutenant….

Then there was no time but the present, and all that was here was his tiredness, the astounding softness of the bed, still wet with rain and sweat and smelling like sex.

He closed his eyes, and soon, he was dreaming again that he was drowning.

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