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.


Chapter Four: An Ultimatum

“She saw how lonely my father looked."--Mirai Trunks to Son Goku, episode 122

Bulma, sitting in her lab chair, wondered where Vegeta was.

The training bots were all smashed yet again, and the last security scan of Capsule 3 showed that Vegeta wasn’t there.

He never went anywhere beyond the confines of Capsule Corporation, let alone West City. Once, shortly after the space capsule explosion, before repairs to his precious gravity chamber, he had flown to the area “nine kilometers from the Southern continent,” where the boy from the Future had said the androids would appear. Yamcha had trailed him--apparently with Vegeta’s full knowledge but obvious disregard for the Earth warrior. Yamcha reported that Vegeta scoped the area for hours then flew back to the CC pool where the Saiyan prince swam a few hundred thousand laps before crawling out, late at night, to nap on the lawn.

Of all the oceans on Earth, he chose to swim in my family pool.

Why? Papa told a joke too often that went “Where does a dinosaur sit? Anywhere it wants!” Vegeta could go anywhere in the galaxy, let alone the planet, so why did he hang around here even when the gravity machine was down? Sometimes Bulma couldn’t help but imagine that she herself willed him here with the strength of her own obsession. The answer to his strange sticking around behavior seemed to be in his eyes--in a glance she always just missed because he always turned his face before she caught it.

He wanted her. Maybe he didn’t know it, and maybe he thought he wanted something else, like power and pure physical strength, more. But he was a man, and a strung-tight one at that. Bulma knew that his body had a natural purpose beyond beating up opponents and no amount of high-pressure from the gravity machine was going to squash that yearning out of him.

“Babe? You OK?”

Bulma turned from the window to Yamcha’s deep brown eyes. She smiled at him, and the troubled look on his face melted as he smiled back. “Just spacing out again,” Bulma said. She hesitated before speaking her next sentence: “Trying not to worry about killer androids.”

“Aw, it’ll be ok. You have to believe that, Bulma. Goku’s going to be fighting with us. Have you ever known anything not to turn out alright with Goku around?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Bulma rubbed her eyes. She needed to get the prototype for the new default system built by morning. Yamcha’s keeping her company was only annoying her. “Yamcha, you know I love Son-kun, but I’m still trying not to blame him for this whole android business. If only he’d killed Dr. Gero and brought down the Red Ribbon Army when he had the chance.”

“Bulma! You don’t mean that. You know we all do the best we can when we can.”

Yamcha’s earnest goodness made Bulma feel only more irritated. But she didn’t want to argue. “You’re right. No use thinking about the past. Gotta concentrate on the future and how to whip these android bastards.” She made a grim face and couldn’t resist an afterthought. “Of course someone in the future was thinking of the past when he built that time machine to warn us about the androids. There’s nothing wrong with backtracking and trying to undo mistakes.”

Yamcha laughed. “You’re losing me here, Babe.” He stood up and flexed his shoulders, stretched his arms. “I’m calling it a night. I guess you’re working until dawn again, huh?”

Bulma looked out the window again. It was pitch-black midnight with very few stars visible. “Yeah. I’ll be here in the lab as long as I have to be.”

As Yamcha left the room, she returned her attention to the printouts of cybernetic codes on the desk. The bots were not as challenging as Vegeta. Did the Saiyan warrior know what a kiss was? Had he ever felt a hand on his body that wasn’t shaped into a fist? What was the sum of his sexual experience?

And worse, why did she care?

Was it the challenge? Did she want Vegeta’s super control to break before her beauty? Wasn’t it enough that she had every other man on Earth lusting after her, did she now have to start adding extraterrestrials to her dance card?

All of planet Earth thought Bulma was gorgeous; she was used to sexual attention, and the truth is that she encouraged it from attractive men. She also knew who her competition was on Earth--there was no other woman who matched her combination of smarts and looks. The very idea of Vegeta having been with someone else--some intergalactic wunderkind? A supergenius nymphette?--seized her with an unsettling sense of rivalry.

What kind of person am I? Yamcha’s back. He’s not a murdering extraterrestrial.

And then the blueprints before her tired eyes seemed to melt into a pool of images. Vegeta in her arms after the capsule explosion. That unguarded look in his eyes. Skin that was inhuman in its smoothness. So smooth and so hot….


The Earth fighter, the one who could manipulate ki no better than one of Frieza’s lowliest foot soldiers, the one who had been bested by a single Saibaman--this absurd weakling slept in the same bed with the beautiful scientist woman. Not always (and maybe not even one single time since the fool had returned from his desert excursion?), but when Vegeta first came to stay at Capsule Corporation, the prince had sometimes reached out with his senses for any threat, for any significant warrior ki, and felt him there, wrapped in the woman’s arms.

The woman’s ki was insignificant, except that Vegeta had taken to listening for nighttime spikes in it. Climax after climax of white-hot emotion that was--surprisingly!--not anger or terror, but pure sexual joy. Interesting that human females had this capacity…. Interesting that the Earth warrior didn’t have to be nearby for the blue-haired one to display such…excitement?

Now, Vegeta had never much paid attention to social infrastructures that didn’t have to do with a planet’s military potential, but he knew enough to appreciate the fact that Bulma Briefs and the Yamcha creature were bound together in some way. Perhaps they were scheduled to breed and produce offspring? They did not appear to be natural companions or even friends (they were constantly bickering! And the woman’s intelligence overshadowed the Earth fighter’s like a total eclipse!)

And yet she allowed the creature intimacies. She allowed them. Vegeta’s ki searches had never detected a struggle. The intimacies were of the sort enjoyed by amenable, mated lovers all over the galaxy. The kind Frieza’s purgers would stumble upon as they cleared civilian cities in the dead of night, blasting apart nest after nest of huddled, dozing lovers. Such relationships existed on Frieza’s ship but they were rare--sex was mostly an instrument of power there, with no obligation towards breeding offspring or consolidating family ties. The strong fucked the less-strong, the less-strong fucked the weak, and the weak were often fucked to death. That was army life. Nappa raped anything Saiyan-sized and warm-blooded with the same abandon he leveled military citadels, whereas Raditz (with what Nappa called “eccentric Southern Hemisphere Saiyan ways”) made a game of “seducing” the terrified but more talkative post-purge females. Sometimes planets had sentients worthy of slave trade, and Frieza’s ship got first dibs….

Weak, ugly, foul whores. Vegeta had preferred his own hand to the vast majority of them.

And here he was, lying in a clean bed wide enough to entertain an orgy, with those ridiculous velvety bed-coverings and pillows the humans provided, alone, capable of taking whatever pleasure he wanted from his own full-sized arousal but….

It wouldn’t be enough.

Images of so many, many whores flashed through his mind in a disjointed but erotic sequence. Even while distributing sex presents to the crew, Frieza’s lieutenants found ways to humiliate the soldiers. Once (had Vegeta been eighteen standard? Nineteen?), the prince had fancied a bipedal, nearly Saiyan-like female. Reddish-gold hair, long unblemished legs, very large breasts scarcely contained by some glittery netted blouse, and best of all--a fine, proud, unafraid face.

“This one, Vegeta? But she’s clearly insane. The little prince finally wants one, and it’s a bitch as mean as himself.”

“Take your hand off me, you big pink shit. Don’t your kind know how to introduce a lady? We have this phenomenon on my planet--it’s called civilization.”

The young prince thought she deserved it then, and the older prince, in the luxurious Capsule Corporation bed, thought that as well: There’s bravery and then there’s stupidity. Vegeta himself had learned the difference under the lizard lord’s sadistic hand. The golden haired whore was insane; any whore who valued her life should’ve anticipated what came next. She deserved it, the decrepit creature.

Frieza’s second lieutenant threw his hand under the female’s tunic and apparently punctured her between the legs before releasing the blast. The unafraid face melted into anguish, and then the body fell apart into smoldering chunks on the metal floor.

“She’s all yours now, Vegeta.”

Nothing like the memory of Dodoria’s fat nubby face to sink an erection.

Vegeta turned his face to the window. The big yellow domes of Capsule Corporation blocked most of his view of a black nighttime sky.

His senses told him that Bulma was sleeping alone again.


What was that sound?

Bulma started awake, found herself face down on a stack of blueprints on the lab table. She was still sitting in her chair.

She had been dreaming of metal crashing, of a fist punching through rubble and then the clawed hand grabbing the air, looking for someone to strangle.

Odd thing--Bulma herself had been the enraged beast in the dream. She had been trapped in some sort of living tomb, under the earth, after some sort of land-shaking catastrophe, and with sheer will and fury, she had broken her fist through her prison.

The last thing Bulma remembered from her dream was that she was looking for someone to kill, someone to blame--someone had to pay for all this misery. And then came crashing noises, explosions, a strange hollow metallic clanging--

Bulma scanned her surroundings. The lab was quiet, bathed in early morning light. “I so need to get a grip,” she said aloud. She and her father were working on making the next bot line as noiseless as possible; no wonder she’d had nightmares about apocalyptic noise!

She walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, splashed her face. As she reached for a hand towel, she saw Vegeta.

“Oh Great Kami!”

He was leaning at the door, arms crossed, perfectly still--who knows how long he’d been there?

“How did you get in here, Vegeta? You don’t have the access code!”

“Foolish woman, I can blast my way into any room if I want. But if you must know, one of your careless companions left the door cracked open. I don’t see how you people expect to defeat your attackers in three years if you are so ridiculously trusting.”

He had been swimming again. He wore nothing but wet training shorts, spikes of his hair were still beaded with water, and he smelled vaguely of chlorine.

“Trusting? So we’re trusting? Can’t you come up with a better insult than that? Tell me what we’ve done wrong here? Obviously we’ve trusted you, and you haven’t blown up anyone to smithereens yet… except yourself.”

He winced at the mention of the capsule explosion. Bulma saw it--a muscle under his left eye quivered ever so slightly. Then she saw his gaze drop, and she was aware that the face she hadn’t toweled off was dripping wetness down her neck. She felt the wetness between her breasts, and that’s right where Vegeta was looking.

She turned away, grabbed the towel and began patting down her face, neck, and chest. “What do you want? Wait, don’t tell me. Where are my training bots? Where’s the old man?”

He was oblivious to her mocking tone. “Well? You said they would be ready by morning.”

“I said the prototype would be ready by morning.” She cocked her head towards the work table where a small round skeleton of circuitry sat, punctured all over by tiny screwdrivers like enemy darts. “Papa gets that today, and he has to configure it to his findings and--oh, forget it. The short story is that you’re not getting your bots anytime soon. And we’re human, Vegeta. We have to sleep sometime.”

His eyes were cold. “There is no time for such inefficiency. True warriors stretch themselves beyond their limits when preparing for war.” His fists were beginning to clench. “Do you want to die in three years?”

That had been his line of late. Maybe it was a notch more empathetic and persuasive than “I am the Saiyan Prince” when he was yelling for repairs to be made, right now, at his demand, but Bulma wasn’t in the mood to give Vegeta any debate points.

“At the rate you’re going, Vegeta, you’re the one who’s going to die before the androids get here. Your training schedule is crazy, even for a Saiyan. And all your little fits with the training bots are wearing me and Papa out. It’s one thing to drive yourself into an early grave but--”

She couldn’t believe it. He was staring at her chest again.

“What the HELL are you looking at, Vegeta?” She was exhausted. She was annoyed. “Will you stop staring at my breasts? I’m trying to save the planet from annihilation by androids here!”

He seemed completely taken aback, as if he had no clue what she was talking about. There was no other expression on his face but profound puzzlement.

Wait a minute. Maybe he hadn’t been giving her looks all these months? Bulma Briefs, what sort of conceited idiot have you been?

Nearly a whole year of sexual tension since Bulma had invited him to stay at Capsule Corporation, and had she imagined it all? The day when all those killed by Frieza were wished to Earth--that day, among the Nameks, hadn’t he fought not to look at her? All those furtive glances before he stole the Capsule 3 and blasted into space to find Son? The day he returned and put on the clothes she had laid out for him during his shower--he hadn’t been interested in her at all?

She felt her face burn with shame.

He was staring at her face with blatant curiosity. “Why does it bother you?” It was a measured question. Bulma didn’t know what to make of his deadly even tone.

“I--I don’t like it because….” Of course boobs don’t have the same significance for aliens--even very humanoid-looking aliens! “On this planet you don’t--a man doesn’t--” Her voice was escalating in pitch. “It’s disrespectful to look at certain parts of a woman when--”

“And yet you display these parts.” The bastard loved the fact that he’d flustered her, and now one side of his mouth was rising slightly. He was going to do it. He was going to smirk at her. “Are you telling me that you dislike having your body appreciated?”

“Appreciated?” Now her face was really afire. Had Vegeta actually said something intended to flatter her?

A veil had been torn away, a boundary had been crossed, the words had been spoken. He stood there nearly naked, and she was standing before him, sweaty, disoriented, her hair all mussed from sleeping on blueprints--

And then he threw up the barrier again.

“You and the old man will have the training bots ready for me by nightfall. You’ve repaired these machines before. I will not tolerate your weaknesses. Upgrade the bots to keep up with my training, or die. You will die now from this exhaustion you’re complaining about or you will die when the androids arrive because we’re unprepared for them. Do you understand?”

She saw the exhaustion in his own eyes. He was just spouting authoritarian nonsense. Bulma felt her already hot face flush again, and then it was as if lava was foaming through her teeth.

“You SNOTTY PRICK! You can’t just keep on making these demands of me! I’m human, human, human! And you’re a FREAK of an egomaniacal extraterrestrial!” The hand-towel whipped through the air. Bulma hadn’t noticed that she was still holding it. She raised her arm, lashed the little cotton cloth around like a scourge a few more times, then dropped it.

Vegeta looked at the towel on the floor. Then his eyes rose to meet hers.

Oh Great Kami, he looked like he was being entertained!

“And stop looking at me like that! You’re creepy! I can’t tell if you want to kill me or fuck me!”

He blinked. His black eyes were shining. “Fuck?”

“That’s right.” She looked him square in the face. She didn’t care anymore. “I’m tired, Vegeta. Either kill me or fuck me or do whatever you want, because I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to go to bed. But forget about your training bots. Just forget about them.”

And with that, she walked past him, out the door, and towards the elevator to the family compound. She hadn't even bothered to code-lock the lab. She really just didn’t care anymore.

And when she was alone in the elevator, she could hear her own pounding heart, felt how wildly blood was pulsing in her ears. She braced herself against the handrail. He wasn’t going to kill her, was he? She was too valuable insofar as upkeep on the gravity machine was concerned. He wasn’t going to--?

Somehow she knew that he wasn’t going to follow her and ravish her in her own shower. She wasn’t that important. She wasn’t that interesting. He just appreciated the entertainment.


After a shower and a few hours of being unable to sleep, Bulma found herself throwing on some clothes and walking back to the lab.

The door was open. Nothing was disturbed. And of course Vegeta was gone.

Bulma felt as if she was watching her own body through a camera lens. She felt detached, obsessed. She sat at her computer and began to scroll through security images in search of the Saiyan prince. Capsule 3. Not there. Olympic pool. Not there. There were no cameras in his private room but a quick scan of the hallway told her that he hadn’t bypassed the area in the past hour.

Bulma watched random images from the security cameras for a long while. There was Yamcha, in his bright orange gi, doing perfunctory katas on the green south veranda. There was Mama, watering the roses. Bulma felt like she was moving through a dream, floating like a ghost through all of CC’s empty corridors. There was nothing else on her mind but locating Vegeta.

And then she saw him.

He was sitting, alone, in a place designed for loners. A grassy clearing in the east dinosaur sanctuary. Bulma’s father had overseen the landscaping himself, plotted ancient ferns and exotic flowers there with the intent of creating not only a viable min-ecosystem but a pleasant place to go have lunch.

So how did Vegeta get in there? Papa must have left the door open. Bulma smiled and told herself she would deal with this security issue later, much later.

Vegeta was sitting there appreciating the peacefulness of the place? Somehow Bulma was sure of it. The compassion that rose in her chest surprised her. He looked…he looked so… lonely.

And the next thing Bulma knew she was going to him. She was going to settle this crazy longing inside herself once and for all.

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