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: LisaB is my beta, and without her, I’d come across as a major dork. Thanks to mediaminer.org for making me spotlight author this month! Weeeeeeee! dchan 5.11.95

Chapter Fourteen: Hatred

“I’ve been used by the likes of you ever since I was a child, and it makes me very ANGRY.”--Vegeta to Dodoria, episode 49


The moment Puar heard Yamcha’s alarm clock go off, she knew he hadn’t slept all night: Yamcha’s hand didn’t slam on the snooze button, and instead the ringing went on and on….

She floated into the den and found him sitting, wearing yesterday’s clothes, on the couch. Locks of his hair were sticking up oddly--as if they had gotten wet and had dried that way before they could be combed into place.

His eyes looked… like he had been crying? But there was grim anger in his face.

“Lord Yamcha?” Puar had long ago given up that respectful title, but she slipped into addressing Yamcha in her girlhood way every now and then. She felt a little frightened and wanted to calm the Desert Bandit before he pulled out his sword and--

“You were right, Puar.” Yamcha’s face looked murderous. “You never trusted Bulma, not from the beginning. You said she didn’t care about me. You said she was going to chew me up and spit me out like a prickly pear.”

Something had happened. Puar knew that this wasn’t a delayed reaction to the engagement date. Yamcha looked too upset. “Wha--what happened?”

“She’s… she’s not even here…because Vegeta--” Yamcha wiped one eye with the heel of his palm. “I can’t usually sense her ki that well, but I could feel it when Vegeta took her away.”

“No! You have to go after them, Yamcha! You can’t let him hurt her! You can defeat that terrible alien! I know you can!”

“You don’t understand.” Yamcha turned to face Puar, but his eyes were looking past her. They had a focus and purpose Puar had never seen before in her old friend. “Bulma’s been sleeping with him. I don’t know how long it’s been going on. Maybe from the minute she asked him to stay here. But it’s going to stop now. ”

**

Vegeta had not slept. He knew that no dinosaur, no nuclear weapon--nothing short of Kakkarot--could threaten him on this planet, but after so many missions planetside with Raditz and Nappa, it was his habit to keep vigilant in the open air. Especially if one of his soldiers was asleep.

Bulma lay in Vegeta’s arms on a pontoon bridge over a low but rising tide.

It was not quite dawn. The woman still wore her little robe, completely dry now, but Vegeta’s shirt and shorts had been lost to the waves.

Vegeta had not flown far the previous night to find a water spot. There were many tourist beaches near West City; he had glided across a coastline dotted with bungalows and striped parasol umbrellas until he found a small fishing village with a long patch of unpopulated white sand.

Then the water sex had been a profound disappointment.

The woman couldn’t hold her breath for a fraction of the time Vegeta could. He had tried to surface often enough for her feeble lungs, but she sputtered and cursed each time. Attempts at holding her shoulders above water had been somewhat limiting. Finally, after much slipping and sliding about, Vegeta had taken her mid-air.

That had been quite liberating. Using so much of the ki he had fought to restrain in her tiny bedroom, he spun and darted just above the spraying waves. Bulma’s thighs so extra tight around his hips had exhilarated his pace, but then she had complained about “vertigo”. So most of the sex ended up taking place on the pontoon bridge--the soft bobbing of bridgeboards on the water lending a gentler-than-ever rhythm to their own bodies.

Why was it that time itself seemed to float away from him when he was moving inside Bulma’s body?

Last night he couldn’t tell if he was moving or being moved.

Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to lose himself that way so often.

Insinuations of sunrise cast pale light on Bulma’s bare legs. How flawless her skin was. Vegeta knew that as the sun came up, he would be able to see the tiny scars on his own upper arms, chest, inner thighs. On long missions, he had never gone without a long-pant and long-sleeve regulation uniform. Nappa and Raditz, who knew the thermodynamic capacity and supreme invulnerability of Saiyan skin, preferred as little uniform as possible… and never once mentioned Vegeta’s affinity for covering himself.

“Bulma!” He spoke sharply into her ear.

Her eyes flashed open. She looked frightened for a second then nudged closer into his warm body. “That was loud, Vegeta. What’s wrong with you?”

“Sun’s coming up.”

“Screw daylight. So what if a couple of hicks catch us?” She tossed her leg over his hip in a lazy gesture.

The woman was an exhibitionist? How unappealing. Vegeta pulled away the arm she had been using for a pillow--not too roughly, but her head thudded on the wood.

“Ow!”

“I’m usually training by this hour.”

Bulma sat up, rubbing the back of her head. “The gravity chamber is out of commission, remember? Papa has to install the surge detectors in the hull and in the bots, remember?”

Vegeta rose to his knees, looked around. The horizon line wasn’t smoking from a purge. The seabirds were making soft, whiny noises. So much peace and open-ness was… strange. He rose to his feet and stood with his legs apart, balancing against the wobbling of the pontoons.

“Get up. We’re going.”

She smiled and breathed in deeply. How was it that she managed to look more relaxed than any other sentient being he had ever encountered? “Vegeta, it’s so nice here. Let’s find a cabin. I can activate my credit from the phone. We can have clothes, food, everything delivered, and--”

“We’re going.”

“Wait! Don’t you want to--?”

Vegeta yanked her by the arm to a standing position. “Do you want to walk home?”

Bulma threw her other arm around his neck, and he scooped her up. “Don’t fly too fast,” she said. “I start to gray out when you fly too fast.”

He shot into the air. He didn’t fly too fast.

**

When Yamcha sensed Vegeta’s ki soaring into range over Capsule Corporation, he could not sense Bulma’s energy, and for one agonizing moment, he really did think that Vegeta might have killed her. The fear quieted his rage, but then he spotted the two figures flying in the gray dawn. At the sight of Bulma sitting so comfortably in the Saiyan’s arms--her bare legs even swinging a bit like a happy child’s!--Yamcha felt a surge of nausea. He slammed the window shutters and turned to Puar.

“They’re back,” he said.

Betrayal. There was no more bitter feeling in the world. Yamcha felt like he would choke on it.

“What did you see?” Puar’s voice was even tinier and more timid than usual.

Yamcha thought that he might be freaking his friend out, so he attempted to compose his own voice. “I really didn’t think they’d have the nerve to fly back here all naked in the daylight. They were low in the sky, right there over the palm trees and flying towards Bulma’s bedroom.”

“Oh no! Naked?”

Yamcha nodded grimly. Actually, Bulma had been wearing the blue satin robe and was decently covered (Yamcha ached at the memory of the robe by the pool), but Vegeta was….

Yamcha spun around, opened the shutters, and slammed them shut again. This time both fragile doors cracked, and a dozen pieces fell off the hinges. He kicked at the chunks of wood on the floor, grabbed his recliner back, and felt his fingernails tear into the leather.

“Lord Yamcha! Your favorite chair!”

Yamcha looked at white puffs of foam coming out of the slashes in the upholstery.
He had indeed ripped ten nice holes into the back of the chair. “Will you look at that?” His voice was low and sarcastic. “Next thing you know I’ll be blowing up space capsules and destroying training bots.”

“Stop it. You’re better than he is, Yamcha.”

Yamcha stared into his friend’s distressed furry face. “You’re right, Puar. I’m stronger, faster, better in bed.” Yamcha dug his fingers deeper into the chair’s fluffy innards and shut his eyes. Get a grip. You can’t talk to Bulma this way. No matter what she’s done to you, you can’t confront her like this, not now.

If whatever emotional resonance deep inside him was letting him sense ki better, he didn’t need to be around to detect any surge in Vegeta’s. The ki he had sensed by the pool was disturbing enough--all that raw longing for Bulma. God. Wasn’t Bulma afraid of that sort of power?

“I’m going,” Yamcha announced. “For a walk, to the movies, whatever. Don’t follow me, Puar. I just need to be away from here for a little bit.”

“You’re coming back?” Puar sounded uncertain.

Yamcha forced a weary smile. “Sure. I wouldn’t lie to you. I have to talk to Bulma eventually. There’s just so much injustice here, and if Goku taught me anything it’s that I can’t stand by and let bad things happen. Bulma and Vegeta together--that’s just wrong. I--I just have to calm down. I’ll be back.”

And with that, Yamcha released the back of the chair he had been clawing and headed out the door.

**

Vegeta’s plan had been to deposit the woman in her bed, find some clothes, harass the old man into hurrying the gravity machine upgrade, and then speed off somewhere to train. While attempting to fuck Bulma in the shallow water, it had occurred to him that perhaps deeper parts of the ocean could exert significant enough pressure on his battle maneuvers. Subterranean pressure and darkness might prove a reasonable challenge in the absence of clever sparring bots.

But when he dumped Bulma on the mattress, he noticed the bloodstained hem of her blue robe.

He lifted the fabric and took a thigh in each hand. There were some red slats across the flesh, mere indentations from the bridge boards, no cuts.

Bulma had already thrown her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes in anticipation of caresses. Vegeta dropped her thighs and covered them with the flaps of the robe.

“You’re bleeding. Is it your cycle again?”

Bulma rose to her elbows. “What? No, I shouldn’t be bleeding.” She fingered the small patches of bright red on the blue satin. “Holy--!”

Vegeta watched her face go from alarm to focused curiosity. It was like he could see her genius working. “I don’t know. Maybe I got irritated by the salt water.” She was frowning but seemed unconcerned about the blood. “I’m not bleeding now, I think.” She moved her hand beneath the robe and into herself with such swift confidence that Vegeta felt unsettled.

The grace and sureness she had with her own body was the sort he had never seen in a being who was not a warrior.

“No, I’m not bleeding now. Maybe the altitude and the speed when we were flying--” She met his eyes. She seemed more puzzled by what she saw there than by her own bleeding. “It doesn’t hurt. I might be a little sore but--”

He cut her off with a gesture of his hand. An urge to escape the room was growing.

“Your father has until this evening to finish the gravity machine upgrades.” Vegeta said. “I suggest that you go wake him and help him. You’ve slept enough already.”

Then he turned and began rifling through a drawer. Bulma had been stocking shirts and shorts for him there lately.

“You can’t go now. Don’t you want--? We always--? Damn it, Vegeta, it’s like you’ve got a vacation here. You don’t have to train this morning.” She opened her arms. “Come here.”

He had already slid his legs into training shorts. Vegeta was feeling some internal pressure building--a sense of being annoyed, of having to do something physical to escape it. He wanted the familiar and opposing strain of gravity against this internal pressure.

“I need to train.” This time he really meant it. The idea of sex was unappealing.

“I need to fuck.”

“No you don’t. You’re torn up inside.”

“What? It’s just a little bleeding. You didn’t do it.” She frowned. “Look, it doesn’t matter. Aren’t you supposed to be a big bad warrior? What’s a little blood?”

Vegeta made an irritated, growling noise at her and pulled on a t-shirt. She was insatiable, that was certain. But sometimes she acted like a mare in season on planet Manko. Raditz had described the antics of those disgusting females in elaborate detail. After the initial purge, Freeza had insisted the Saiyans stay to intimidate the new slaving crews. Vegeta had been--what, eight standard? The caterwauling of those females hurt his ears--he’d had to blast a few. Then he’d gotten into a scuffle with an overseer for destroying merchandise….

The sound of Bulma’s voice getting huskier brought him back to the present. “There’s so much we haven’t done yet, Vegeta.” She had rolled over. Blue shimmering fabric clung to her round rear, and she was slowly elevating this part of her body from the mattress at an odd angle. She peered over her shoulder and smiled. “This can be fun, I promise.” She smoothed her palm against that satin-covered globe, swept her index finger through the cleft. “I have other openings you haven’t tried.”

He stared at her face, trying to fathom her intent. Why was she so insistent on keeping him in the bedroom?

“What? Don’t look at me like that.” A corner of her mouth lifted, and she winked. It was always her playfulness that kept her from coming off like a total slut. “It doesn’t hurt, really. The muscles there are just as accommodating as the ones in the other place. The human body is so resilient.”

She had done that with the Yamcha creature? It occurred to him--for the first time--that Bulma and the creature had been intimate many times in positions he hadn’t yet discovered with her.

“Wait a minute.” She crawled to the nightstand table and pulled open a drawer. “I don’t mind it without the lube, but we might need it. I know I have some around here somewhere.”

He knew that “lube” was what she called the grease applied to mechanical parts to make them slide easier.

“Here!” Her hand emerged from the drawer. It was holding a tube of something that looked like the teeth polishing stuff in the bathroom. Humans! She had once mentioned that humans needed to clean their mouths daily or else the teeth would rot and fall out. Apparently the weak race used strange lotions for--

Something snapped. It was like a switch flipping in his brain.

“Tell your father I need the gravity machine by tonight.”

And Vegeta walked onto the balcony and leapt off.

**

It made no sense at all, but the very idea of her in that very bed with the Yamcha creature was igniting a fire behind his eyes. She and that human and their human intimacies. Sex is mindless. Sex is an indulgence, a weakness, a depraved and profitless past-time.

Vegeta’s bare feet were stomping though piles of soil drenched with early morning dew. The yellow-haired woman’s stupid gardening. The mounds of wet earth stank. A burgeoning memory of something without an image, a betrayal, a humiliation, burned in his nostrils. He kicked at a plant and sent it flying, black earth dropping from its stringy white roots.

And it landed on the concrete next to Yamcha’s feet.

The Yamcha creature stood, frozen, on the sidewalk. There was a distance the breadth of Freeza’s ship between him and Vegeta, but Vegeta could see the challenge in the human’s eyes.

He was a nuisance. The Yamcha creature wasn’t worth fighting, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worth killing.

The pressure that had been building in Vegeta’s body since the previous night, ever since he saw the Earth warrior paddling nude in the pool towards Bulma, started to strain for purchase. Energy converged in Vegeta’s palm then exploded, with a soft roar, into a ball of fire.

The Earth warrior swept his limbs into a fighting position at the sight of it.

Fool.

Vegeta launched the fireball in the direction of the miserable human.

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