#I will write Nappa saying 'But Vegeta' 10000x because of tfs

[emmaekay]

Keiyaku III for TPTH Vegebul Smutfest

AN: It’s gettin’ fuckin’ seeeeeeeerious now. All my @tpthvegebulsmutfest fans, please enjoy this exposition heavy chapter! I promise there’s still some nice smut.

Day 3 – Tornado

 “And so, Nappa, that is my plan.” Vegeta summarized for his subordinate, with a self-satisfied smile as he leaned back into the plush couch in his sitting room.

“But Vegeta,” Nappa began, “What if they call your bluff? And why is your father so insistent on this happening now? He has never indicated illness, weakness or abdication, not to me. You still have many moon cycles before your 30th sun cycle, and many royals don’t even begin the selection process until their last moon.”

Vegeta glowered darkly. Nappa had known his father longer, and had fought with him in many campaigns during the Cold War. He had hoped that the older man would be able to tell him why his father was threatening him into a fasting. “If they call my bluff, I guess she dies.”

“You guess?”

“I guess.”

Nappa studied the prince, still in his estimation quite a young Saiyan. A young Saiyan who Nappa had watched battle his way across the galaxy in tournaments and death matches, and in great battles as a general in his father’s army. Vegeta had lived his life like a true Saiyan – fighting for honor and riches and the sheer exhilaration of it. He had often killed and twice nearly died, yet never had Nappa seen his face twist up into such a grimace as it did when Vegeta said I guess she dies.

“Vegeta, are you attached to this woman already?”

The grimace left Vegeta’s face, immediately replaced by a look of utter contempt and shock, his brows high into the widow’s peak of his hair and mouth agape. “Shut up, Nappa.”

 ***

 Bulma emerged from her second shower of the day to find a tall, well-muscled woman waiting for her, with lengths of fabric in her arms and various gold and silver trinkets laid out on the bench that just a while ago held her own, and Vegeta’s , naked body.

“His Highness the Prince Vegeta bade me come and teach you the appropriate manner of dress before your meeting with the King and Queen,” the woman said, handing Bulma a fluffy cloth that she assumed was, and she used as, a towel.

“Oh,” Bulma said. “Well, thanks, I guess?”

“The Prince said you were unable to arrange your kulthan so that it would remain on your body properly.”

Bulma couldn’t help but laugh at that. Sure, she thought, blame the kul-thingy. “Well, I appreciate the opportunity to learn. Thank you.” Bulma walked a few steps toward the woman, the fabrics and the trinkets. The woman held out the fabrics for Bulma to see and feel, so she could choose whatever she liked best. Bulma selected a liquid smooth gold fabric that was very like silk – maybe it was silk, who knows.

The dressing woman nodded her head with a slight smile. “I would have chosen that for you. Your taste is appropriate. Your coloring is … rare.”  “Is it? Are there no women here with bright hair or eyes?” Bulma wondered aloud. It was true – the dressing woman’s coloring was like Vegeta’s. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin several shades darker than her own. Her hair was thick, like Vegeta’s, and stuck out in spikes.

“No, all Saiyans have black hair and eyes.”

“Saiyans? Is that what you call yourselves?” “Yes. As a people, we are Saiyans. As a person, I am Beri.”

“Beri, that’s a lovely name. I’m Bulma!” Bulma smiled at the dressing woman, at Beri, and felt herself breathe a little easier. At least she had a friend. “What planet are we on?”

Beri’s eyebrows drew up, but she didn’t vocalize her surprise. She had helped many of Asket’s strange visitors, and Vegeta’s were always the strangest. His penchant for intergalactic travel far and wide often lead to him bringing odd men and women back to the royal residence, which she then needed to make decent before turning them loose on the royal court, or official feasts, or even just in town. “We’re on Vegetasei.”

“Vegetasei,” Bulma repeated. “As in Vegeta.”  “Yes. The firstborn son of the royal house is always called Vegeta. The Prince Vegeta was named after his father, the King Vegeta, who is the 112th King in the line of Kings.”

“Guess that keeps the monuments accurate!” Bulma quipped, holding a green fabric up to her chest. No, the gold, I think. She placed the green fabric back on the pile, and Beri nodded imperceptibly, but approvingly. 

“Shall I teach you how to wear it?”

 ***

Beri had finally answered the question of underwear, and the answer was – not really. The Saiyans wore form fitting suits to train or to battle, and the suits were outfitted with protective… accoutrements in tender areas. For all other modes of dress, the Saiyans either wore tiny form fitting shorts under their clothes, or nothing at all. Bulma didn’t like the shorts and she really didn’t want to walk around going commando.

“Beri, is there a small length of fabric I might be permitted to cut and fashion into something for myself?” Bulma asked. If I can make Capsules, I can make panties.

“I think that would be permissible. Here, use this.” Beri handed her a short length of black fabric, the same liquidy silk. “This is intended as a hair wrap, but I hope it will suit your purposes. Do you require tools?”

“Scissors, needle and thread.”

“What are those?”

Bulma pursed her lips. This was something that had actually been bothering her even more than the lack of underwear. “How can you understand me? Don’t we speak different languages?”

“The 110th King Vegeta was a man of science and of intergalactic trade. He traded a powerful protection relic to a scientist from the planet Ecilps in exchange for an alteration to the atmosphere of Vegetasei – a chemical is present in our atmosphere and in what we breathe that allows for the free understanding of all language. The 110th King felt this would prevent spies from landing here, and would help decrypt enemy code.

“Interesting!” Bulma exclaimed. She already felt a lot more at home – on a planet that appreciated science, the scientist could serve a purpose.  “So… why don’t you know what scissors are?” Beri smiled indulgently, “Some things, we don’t have an exact word for. You’ll have to describe it.”

Bulma quickly described what she needed and Beri, being the royal dressing woman, had all three. Bulma set herself to work and quickly fashioned a pair of comfortable panties from the black silk. Cute, too! I’ll have to think about a bra, later. Maybe.

“Those are,” Beri peered at Bulma as the blue haired woman did a twirl and angled her hips prettily, “strangely arousing.”

Bulma grinned at Beri. “Want me to make you a pair? Bet your husband goes wild!”

Beri flushed. “Perhaps another time, I should begin your dressing instruction now.”

****

After at least an hour of fold this here and never tuck this there and always finish with this end, Bulma was sheathed in gold. The fabric had been arranged full over her hips and with a tulip opening whose shortest point was at her knees and longest edges kissed the floor. Wound tight around the waist, but barely draped over her breasts, leaving a deep V of chest visable. The remaining length trailed behind her shoulders, like a caplet of liquid gold. Her hair was left down, long over her shoulders and straight.

Bulma wasn’t sure she could ever replicate the process, but she looked as good as she ever had. Maybe better.

Beri chose a gold bracelet with white stones inlaid and a matching necklace – a simple gold chain with another white stone, large and teardrop shaped.

Vegeta opened the door to the bathing chamber and stepped inside. Beri took two steps backward, away from Bulma, and greeted him.  “Prince Vegeta. I believe she is ready.”

“Hm. She looks very … appropriate. Almost too appropriate,” he said, raking his gaze over her animally. “Shall I unmake you?” The flowing gold fabric hid nothing of her curves – her magnificent hips, the swell of her round bottom, two twin handfuls of her breasts just peeking out of the sides of the fabric that barely contained her chest – and suddenly, everything he wore felt too tight.

Bulma couldn’t help but crack a smile, as Beri’s hand rose to her mouth. “Uh, p-p-prince Vegeta, she only now finished and – “

“Calm down. I will leave her intact,” he smirked, devilish grin spreading, “for now.” As Beri breathed a possibly-too-audiable sigh of relief, Vegeta crooked his arm. “Come, woman or spy or dragon-sent temptress – let’s go trick a King.”

***

Vegeta’s royal housing was separate from, but on the same estate as, the King and Queen’s. Whereas his home was grand, comfortable and opulent – but still “home-sized,” the ruling family lived in an honest to goodness castle. Stone walls and high battlements surrounded an inner courtyard, and indoors – black marble inlaid with silver and plush velvet accents in jewel tones. Vegeta lead her by the arm through the massive gate and through the foyer – directly into the throne room.

King Vegeta sat on a high backed throne atop the dais. The throne was black marble and looked – well, uncomfortable, despite the seat draped with furs and cushions. Queen… Hey! What’s the queen’s name? Bulma thought. The queen, whatever she was called, sat in an equally high backed throne at her husband’s side, but hers was gilt totally in gold with jewels inlaid. A fluffy cushioned seat and back rest made the queen’s throne look much more comfortable, in Bulma’s estimation.

“King Vegeta, father,” the prince at Bulma’s side began, “and Queen Pea, mother. I have been instructed to choose a woman for the fasting, and I have done so. I choose Bulma Briefs of the Planet Earth. Please set the date of the antefasting battle immediately.”

King Vegeta flushed with rage, fists curling into tight sledgehammers. The man looked like Vegeta, but had time, height, breadth and strength beyond his son’s. Vegeta looked dangerous, sure, but the King looked positively murderous now. Bulma resisted the urge to run. She forced steel into her spine. She forced herself to remain still, not to quail, not to quake. She was Bulma Briefs – and Bulma Briefs is no coward.

“This is NOT,” the King boomed, “a GAME, Vegeta! You cannot seriously be presenting this weakling as your choice – she will die immediately in the battle for your fasting! Probably before that – any host of Saiyan women, real Saiyan women with power to match you – will kill her the moment they hear of this farce!”

Bring it, bitches. Bulma thought. Wait, aren’t I supposed to be happy about this rejection? It means I get to go back to Earth and Vegeta gets to go gallivanting off in the universe for another few years.

“I should have you JAILED!” The King continued his tirade, “I will have chains brought and you will sit in STOCKS for your disobedience, your disresp-“

The Queen placed her hand on the King’s forearm as he made to stand up. “Enough.” Queen Pea’s voice was calm, and smooth, and warm like caramel and carried through the throne room easily without blustering. “Enough.”

The King sat down on his throne, visibly calming and the ready-to-brawl tension leaving him at her touch. “Vegeta, my son. My firstborn Prince,” Pea spoke. “Is this your choice? Are you sure this woman is your choice.” Vegeta straightened his back and looked his mother in the eye. “Yes… mother.”

“Vegeta.” Pea began to step from the dais and walk directly toward her son. Her skin was the same sunkissed tone as Vegeta’s and her black hair fell in a smooth waterfall to her hips. She was well muscled, but lithe instead of bulky and more feminine than Beri. She walked lightly, like a sprite or a spirit and she was beautiful. Her voice now carried a dangerous tone – like a mother who is giving her child one last opportunity to stop his fit before a punishment is carried out. The air around Vegeta began to crackle – Bulma could feel the electricity through their still linked arms. She watched as Vegeta continued to make eye-contact with the Queen, but also noticed a single bead of sweat begin to drip down his forehead. She squeezed his arm with her hand – to reassure him, to remind him that she was still here – and very breakable, she thought.

Vegeta gave Bulma a sideways glance and the barest hint of his cocky grin.

Queen Pea stopped, two steps in front of her son and Bulma. She stared at Bulma, analyzing her and with a haughty sniff, looking away and at Vegeta. She walked back to her throne on the dais, and arranged herself leisurely into a comfortable sitting position. She took her time, arranging this fold of her gown, fluffing that pillow, rearranging her jewels. The tension slowly melted out of the room, but no one spoke.

Finally, after the queen had settled on her throne, and placed her hand again on the King’s arm, she broke the silence. “I approve.”

Mouths dropped open, beginning with the King’s and ending with Bulma’s own. She what now?

“Mm.” The queen nodded happily. “I approve. This woman will have the right to battle for fasting to my son, the Prince Vegeta. I will announce the terms and date of the battle after consulting with the King in private. You are dismissed.”

Vegeta spun on his heels, wheeling Bulma around with him and made quickly for the exit, fury steaming from him in waves. He didn’t speak a word, not as they left the castle, not on the walk back to his quarters. It was night, sudden night, as whatever sun illuminated this world seemed to cower from the prince’s rage.

“Vegeta.” Bulma wrenched her arm away from his, but he gave no acknowledgement. “Vegeta!” The man continued forward, stomping back into his home. “VE-GE-TA!”

Wild eyed, he turned to face her in the doorway. “You’re going to die.” He turned away and went inside, slamming the door to his bedroom behind him.

Motherfucker! Bulma raced after him, banging the door open. “Don’t you walk away from me! Don’t you slam doors on me! Who the fuck do you think you are!”

Vegeta was standing at a small table below his window, glaring up at the castle through the dark of the night. “Who,” he growled, “the fuck do you think YOU are? I am the Prince of all Saiyans! I have killed, and battled, and fought for honor and glory all my life! What have you ever grappled with – a jar lid? A gown? You’ll be murdered, vivisected before my whole RACE because of me!” He snatched a crystal decanter from the table and smashed it against the wall, snarling in rage.

Bulma’s eyes were wide with anger, and fear, and shock as Vegeta tipped up the table, smashing everything on it and kicking the table into the wall, where it was obliterated into splinters. His tantrum continued unabated – walls, furniture, floor, nothing was safe as he radiated furious light and the waves of power coming from him peeled paint from walls and whirled papers and folders full of fasting candidates around him. He screamed, deep from a primal place within him, and Bulma could only stand – stuck to the spot – and watch.

Some object caught up in his furious whirlwind swung wide and struck Bulma in the forehead, hard. She fell backward onto the bed, and the bluster stopped.

“Bulma?” Vegeta’s voice was hoarse from the screaming, and quiet now from shame. “Bulma?”

“You. Fucker.” Bulma pushed herself up on one elbow to glare at him. “You son of a bitch. You fucker! This hurts!” Tears began to prick her eyes, from pain and from rage. “Prince of all Saiyans, big fucking deal. You throw tantrums like a baby!” Blood trickled down her face.

Vegeta crossed the room to the bed and sat next to her. “You bleed so easily,” he muttered softly, reaching down to wipe the blood away from her eye. “I do not…”

Bulma turned her eyes up to his, and was shocked to find sadness etched painfully into his features. She felt her rage begin to melt away, as he tucked her wild hair behind an ear and deftly wiped the blood from her face with a corner of the bedspread. His mouth was drawn into a hard line and he was scowling, but his touch was delicate – gentle and so, so careful.

“I did not intend for you to become injured. Not by my wrath, and not by the trick I thought I was playing. I do not wish to watch you die. I do not… wish for any harm to come to you.” He kissed her wound gingerly, then her nose, then her lips. “You are rare and beautiful, and such things should not die.” He kissed her again, gently, agonizingly slowly. “I will not ask you to forgive me.”

“Good,” Bulma breathed. “Because I don’t forgive you. And I’m not about to die.” She pulled him on to her, his weight delicious against her, and snaked one hand up into his hair. She kissed him again, his tongue surprisingly cool and light against hers. He ran his hands over the liquid smooth softness of her dress, fondling her breasts and tweaking her nipples as they peaked underneath it. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, as she felt the pressure of his hardness against her. He kissed her throat, down and down into the exposed V of skin that her dress left on display. He pressed his lips and his tongue to the flat of her breastbone, as if he could infuse her with some of his strength.

As if he could save her.

Bulma sighed and panted, arching her back against him as he wrapped one strong arm underneath her, clutching her tightly to his chest and running his tongue over her breast as he slipped the loose fabric away from her body. He picked her up from the bed and pushed the bodice and skirt of the dress away, and Bulma reached up to run her hands against his chest underneath the shirt of his suit. “Take this off.”

In a flash, Vegeta’s suit was on the floor, and Bulma was lying nearly naked in a pool of golden silk that used to be her dress. Only her silky black panties remained. Vegeta was on her in the next instant, running his hands over her and under her and down the length of her body, stroking her sensitive spot through the silken underwear, the sensation of softness on top of softness filling Vegeta’s erection with a powerful hunger. Slipping first inside her panties, he slid inside her. One, two strong fingers rocking in and out of her as his palm slicked against her nub, thrilling her until she squirmed and cried out, throwing one leg over his hips to thrust his hand deeper into her.

Vegeta pulled off her panties, then pulled her closer still, up onto one of his thighs so that they were pinned together – by each other’s bodies and each other’s need. He buried his face between her breasts, swiveled his hips and thrust himself inside her. Bulma wrapped her arms around his neck and he began moving inside her, more deeply and yet more slowly, savoring every smooth thrust into her wetness. Bulma pressed against him, moaning low and lustily. “Vegeta… more.”

He twisted his hips and thrust again, again. Twisting and grinding against her, lips and mouth upon her, tasting every inch he could reach and relishing in the way she tightened and tightened around him – the wet walls of her, lingering on and clinging to him in need and desire. She breathed and moaned and every sound he drew out of her pierced him moreso than the nails she drove into his back as she clung to him and cried.

The sweetest vice around him throbbed and shuddered while Bulma cried out and drove her teeth into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms underneath her, crushing her to him as he growled and moaned out his own release inside her.

He bent his elbows, hovering low over her, and kissed her again as he drew himself out of her, laying her gently on the litter of gold that gleamed now with their sweat and their scent. He cradled Bulma in his arms as she began to drift off to sleep, soothed in the afterglow of something that felt like more than sex.

“You will leave this planet tomorrow.”