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: Thanks to LisaB for beta-ing. This chapter is dedicated to Ember because I got the idea for it over a year ago when her doujinshi page left me unable to think of anything but Vegeta… for a few stunned days…. ^^ dchan, 4.20.05

Chapter Nine: A Night that Doesn’t Quit

“My heart is quiet. My heart is calm and pure. But make no mistake--it is pure evil."--Vegeta, episode 129

For the first few thousand laps across the pool, Vegeta was convinced that killing someone would be necessary before the night was over.

The tentative, unspoken deal with the Briefs family (not to do any damage to the planet while he trained at Capsule Corporation) was about to be ripped into shreds.

How could it not be? He had fucked the old man’s daughter.

Even if Bulma Briefs had initiated the whole thing herself, Vegeta knew he had breached an implicit understanding. He would be found out (these things are always found out), and there would be so much mess and cultural confusion that Vegeta would be forced to blow up the planet rather than deal with it all.

Fine. Maybe it was his destiny to fight the androids after he destroyed this planet and all the frustrating fools that inhabited it.

And he so felt like killing too. He wanted to kill, kill, kill.

Vegeta’s fingertips touched the wall of the pool. With a precision that was second nature to him, he somersaulted underwater--two, three, four spins--and began swimming again in the opposite direction. He had been swimming for hours. Regular, meditative laps. Not straining for speed or agility--merely marking time with the cadence of his muscles.

Then the obvious announced itself to him, although it had been swimming in his consciousness the whole time: Kakkarot was here and Super Saiyan. If Vegeta killed anyone, the confrontation between the prince and that third-class abomination would be forced before its time.

Vegeta was not ready to face Kakkarot yet. In one, two, three years? The Prince of Saiyans would be Super Saiyan one day, and then he would defeat Kakkarot.

Vegeta pushed his face out of the water for his first breath in twenty laps. He continued to rise until he was out of the water completely. Higher, higher, arms at his sides and perpendicular to the pool. He hovered in the air for a moment--aware of the cold weight of wet hair sticking against his shoulders--then dove back into the pool with a soundless splash.

He would not stop swimming yet. The compulsive laps were helping him think.

Or were they helping him to not think?

He sensed when the Yamcha creature’s air car arrived at the compound. He sensed that Bulma Briefs stepped out, but that the Yamcha creature stayed put. The creature is not going to challenge me. Perhaps I can kill him regardless. What is he to Kakkarot anyway? As Vegeta flew out of the water again, his sensitive ears--full of water and oppressed by wet hair--managed to catch the Yamcha creature saying something about “meeting the guys at the club.”

Something was different. Something was wrong. Bulma’s voice sounded… sad? “Now I don’t want you to be alone, but take it easy, alright? You aren’t going to drown your sorrows in beer, are you?”

“Bulma, you know me better than that? I’m training.”

Laughter. Hushed, intimate laughter. And a kiss. Not like the ones Vegeta had gotten from her in the atrium. Not hungry and wet. Bulma’s lips touched the Yamcha creature’s lightly.

And then the air car was off.

Nothing was status quo. Everything was off. Try as he might to remember the routine (wake up the family, complain about the training bots, repeat and repeat mundane physical exercises), his body was straining to break the pattern. His body? What did his body want? He had done nothing on Earth but indulge its wants! So many years denied the life of royal privilege, so many years spent running tedious missions for Frieza and stagnating in pods! His body demanded to be fed, bathed, trained! It was the body of the Prince of Saiyans!

And now it wanted to smear itself against the Earth woman and to empty all its rage and passion into her.

Is this weakness? Vegeta didn’t care anymore. He flew out of the pool at top speed. A silent missile into the black sky.


Bulma was grateful that her parents were not in the living area. It was early yet, and they would’ve asked why the special evening had been cut short.

She kicked off her heels, plopped on the sofa, picked up the remote.

Before combing the channels for any mind-numbing entertainment, though, she pressed a button that skimmed her through recent security images of the compound. One couldn’t be too careful these days. Vegeta was right about the Briefs being “too trusting.”

Her lab and her father’s were shut down and double-secured. Domestics and lawn-workers had all checked off the premises hours ago. Capsule 3 was not occupied. Vegeta wasn’t in the house, soooo…. Bulma absently fast-fowarded through images and checked the family pool. Yes, there were his clothes. The athletic shoes, socks, black shorts and tank top that made up Vegeta’s training uniform were in a neat pile on a deck chair.

But Vegeta wasn’t in the pool.

Great, there’s a naked Saiyan wandering somewhere around Capsule Corporation. That really makes me feel so snuggly safe and at ease….

The science stations were running their usual late evening pabulum about wild baby lions and whatnot, and Bulma didn’t dare linger on a chick flick station. The last thing she wanted to see was a romantic drama.

Or a naked Saiyan.


“You were right,” Dr. Briefs said to his wife as he leaned over their bedroom balcony railing. “Yamcha dropped her off and sped away into the night. I could’ve sworn the boy was up to something.”

“Use the ashtray, dear. You’re dropping cinders on my roses.”

“Oh sorry.” Dr. Briefs took the small crystal tray his wife held out and smashed the butt of his cigarette into it. “They’ve been dating for what? A decade? I figured that the boy was about to make his move.”

“Oh, you’re so funny!” Mrs. Briefs closed the front of her robe against the night air and took her husband’s arm. “If those two were going to settle down, they would’ve done it a long time ago. And you know our daughter. She doesn’t make settling down easy for any man.”

“Ah yes. Bulma’s always the unknown variable in any equation, isn’t she?”

“I think you’re leaving out another… um, whatchamacallit in the equation. I’ll give you a hint. His name starts with V.”

“Goodness, you’re inscrutable tonight, my love.”

“Silly! You know I mean Vegeta.”

Dr. Briefs pushed his glasses up his nose and looked puzzled. “Ah yes. Bulma’s quite taken with him, isn’t she? Are you implying that she has more than a scientific curiosity in our alien houseguest?”

At that moment a streak of white light flashed across the black sky, followed by a booming noise. The Briefs both looked skywards in anticipation of a summer thunderstorm and then downwards towards the lawn and a soft thumping sound. There, pale security lights showed Vegeta doing methodical, measured back flips.

“Oh my,” said Mrs. Briefs. “He’s not wearing any pants.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Briefs said. “I think I may be starting to understand some things.”

Vegeta paused, one-handed, upside down on the lawn. He effortlessly stretched to support himself on the tip of one forefinger and stood that way--perfectly perpendicular to the ground, his taut body in a balletic defiance of gravity, his face grimacing with an exertion not evident in the rest of him. Then his body curled over and tumbled across the dark grass like a runaway ball.

He was out of sight, beyond the security lights.

“Why do you suppose,” wondered Mrs. Briefs, “that he’s not doing his exercises in the gravity chamber? Do you think it’s broken again, and he just didn’t want to bother you again at this hour?”

“I doubt that.” Dr. Briefs leaned over the railing and squinted into the shadows. “But it is very strange for him to be bounding around like this in the dead of night.” He absently emptied the ashtray of its contents over the balcony. “I suppose I’ll leave the psychological assessments of our Saiyan here to Bulma. Vegeta’s been doing some harmless wandering around the premises lately--making himself at home no doubt--but Bulma says it wouldn’t hurt to keep tabs on his whereabouts. I noticed that the other day she copied some videos out of the security system. The east atrium, I think.”

“Oh my, not the dinosaur sanctuary!”

“What’s the matter, my dear?”

“Oh I just had the strangest thought!” Mrs. Briefs covered her mouth with her hand and laughed at herself. “I am constantly being amazed by the Saiyan appetite, you know, and it occurred to me that… well, Goku once asked me if we were ever going to serve up the sanctuary dinosaurs for dinner. You don’t think Vegeta has his eye on eating our friends, do you?”

Dr. Briefs chuckled softly. “Oh no, no, no. He wouldn’t do that.”

“I have to restock his space capsule fridge every three days! What a ravenous appetite that young man has….” Mrs. Briefs looked heavenwards. “Is that lightning or is Vegeta tearing around up there in the sky again?”

“I do hope it’s a storm,” said Dr. Briefs. “There’s something very refreshing about negatively charged ions floating about the garden this time of year.”


Halfway through a History Channel interview with an expert in bathroom décor throughout the ages, Bulma remembered the video she really wanted to see.

Had she really forgotten all about it until this moment?

Two days ago she had made a thorough sweep of security recordings and erased all traces of anything cameras captured in the east atrium that particular morning with Vegeta, but….

She had a burned a copy of the security recording for herself.

Bulma clicked the television off and sat alone in the silence and darkness with that fact for a few minutes.

She had put the disc in her toolbag, hadn’t she? The toolbag was upstairs, in her bedroom. She hadn’t watched the footage. At first she had figured that there wouldn’t be much to see--all that ferny foliage in the atrium was constantly growing over camera lenses--but then she had remembered that when she first spied Vegeta there, he had been sitting in a clearing, and that one particular camera had spotlighted him plain as day, so maybe….

What sort of a pervert keeps such a thing for herself? Was I actually thinking about looking at that?

At some point, she had spied Yamcha’s cologne-marinated note taped to her computer monitor, and it had all been a blur after that.

It’s beddy bye time, Bulma. It’s been a long weird day. I need some good long dreamless sleep.

And so she stretched her arms, picked up her shoes, dragged herself up the stairs…went directly to her toolbag upon entering her bedroom, pulled out the tiny disc and stuck it into her palm computer.

Oh Great Kami, you could even hear everything!

There they were--two miniature images in living color, humping away like maniacs in on the bright green sun-drenched grass. Bulma saw, with some horror, that her socks and boots were still on--two big clunky feet on either side of Vegeta’s thrusting hips. It was so… so porno!

And then, somehow it wasn’t. The huffing noises, the gliding motions of her small hands up and down Vegeta’s back and shoulders. There was a primal, simple inevitability about it. Maybe it was the grass and trees--it looked so natural?

Bulma held the palm computer in one hand and felt the other hand rise in slow motion, land against the thin jersey fabric at the cleft of her bosom. Her hand slipped under the dress neckline and unsnapped the front clasp of her bra.

This is rich! I couldn’t have gotten a better view of that tight rear of his if I’d staged the cinematography myself!

A loud thunderclap at the window snapped Bulma out of her erotic reverie. There was an ensuing rush of raining sounds, and wet wind sprayed her from the open balcony doors. “Oh yes indeed,” she said aloud as she walked towards the doors to close them. “Like I really needed to be hosed down just now!”

And there he was--Vegeta at the threshold! Naked in the rain. Dark hair drenched and hanging past his shoulders.

Bulma screamed. She couldn’t help it. She took one step back and the palm computer dropped out of her hand. The strapless underwire bra she had unsnapped earlier slipped to her waist and felt like it was stabbing her.

The raining sound was a soft, steady whirring. Louder than the rain were the sounds coming from the palm computer. Groans and heavy breathing.

Vegeta looked from Bulma’s face to the device she had dropped on the floor.

“Vegeta?” There was no explaining it. The tiny figures on the tiny screen were going at it like mad--and from what Bulma could hear of their breathing--they were accelerating the deed towards climax number one.

Vegeta met her eyes again. Why was it so hard to tell what he was thinking? Such black eyes.

“I--I should’ve known something like this was going to happen,” Bulma complained to no one in particular. She then noticed Vegeta’s prominent arousal. Rivulets of water were streaming in the creases of his thighs. All his muscles glistened with wetness. “This night just isn’t going to quit, is it?” Bulma was whispering now. “Why is this happening to me?”

Vegeta took one measured step towards Bulma. And then another. Why was he moving so slowly--as if against his own will? Another step and he was inside the room. Light from the nightstand lamp cast a warm glow over his figure, and Bulma could see him better.

He wasn’t human. He was nothing like an ordinary man.

With his hair hanging down, he was no taller than she was. Bulma could see the wide shape of his skull, the deep indentations in his forehead and cheekbones. There was a terrible symmetry to his musculature, and he stood there looking like a supernatural phenomenon--stranger and more powerful than wind or rain.

Bulma felt a swell of terror in her chest, but then Vegeta spoke: “You have told no one?” They were human words coming out of an inhuman face, and they comforted her a little. “No one?” His voice was low and sonorous.

“What do you mean, Vegeta?”

Vegeta glanced at the device on the floor. The little Bulma in it was gasping and shuddering in the throes of a big one. “Why are you watching that?”

“I erased it from the security system so no one would know. I wanted to make sure no one saw it. I--”

Vegeta,” sighed the Bulma in the video. “Vegeta, I want more….

In a flash, he caught her by the shoulders. Bulma tried to scream again but no sound came out. Her knees buckled, and Vegeta shoved her against the wall to keep her standing.

He wasn’t acting like an ordinary man. His weight on her body felt like he didn’t really know what he wanted to do next. There was no pressure, no grinding, no overt sexual advance. Bulma waited for it. It didn’t happen. Gusts of moist air were still blowing from the open balcony doors. Vegeta was just holding her against the wall.

She met his eyes.

And she saw his uncertainty.

“I should kill you,” he said. A soft, raspy voice without a trace of antagonism. He sounded defeated. “I should burn you to ashes and let the rain wash you away.”

Bulma felt the full surge of her own power then. Was he really that helpless before her?

She leaned forward and lay her cheek against his, the way she had that morning in the atrium. “Yes,” she said. “You really should.” She nuzzled her lips against his ear, and his head shot back--eyes closed, jaw clenched. The sight melted her.

And so she opened her mouth and found his. And then his hold on her relaxed, and he kissed her back.

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