#same for frieza but i actually debated between having him piccolo or vegeta on the list | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

msdoctorwho · 6 years

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Fire Meet Gasoline, Ch. 7

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461255/chapters/33648915

Bulma was an adventurous girl; she’d been chasing after the Dragon Balls half her life by now. She was no stranger to fear or death, dragons or space. But she’d never been so afraid as when she tore through the still-smoldering remains of her own contraption to find Vegeta.

If he died, she’d never forgive herself for building it.

When he struggled to his feet and insisted he was fine, she’d never so strongly felt two opposing emotions at the same time. Fury at him for almost killing himself, and relief that he hadn’t quite managed it. But he’d passed out before she could scream at him and she’d been too busy shouting orders at the groundskeeping bots and ripping her own clothes into field dressings to manage anything else.

Between herself, her father and the Medi-bots they got him stabilized, thanks to her foresight in hosting the only Saiyan/Namekian blood-bank on Earth in the basements of Capsule Corp. It was easy enough to synthesize a continuous supply once she’d gotten an initial sample, so she stocked enough for Goku, Gohan, Piccolo, and now Vegeta. As far as she could tell, the blood of the two full Saiyans was similar enough to each other to substitute in a pinch, but had type differences comparable to humans. Gohan...well, she wasn’t sure if Gohan would be able to take any combination of human and Saiyan blood, or only his own, so she stocked twice as much for him. She’d tried to get a sample from future kid, but he’d gotten so flustered when she asked that she’d guessed he was like Goku when it came to needles, and let it drop. She would just double her demi-Saiyan supply before the androids came.

After the last of the stitches and bandages were done, there was nothing left to do but watch over him as his healing factor kicked in. She could have gone back to her work and let the ever-vigilant bots do their jobs. She could have watched the live feed from her desk. She stayed.

His body temperature continued to rise as it fought infection and rebuilt itself from injuries that her mind still argued should have been fatal. People did not come back from wounds like that. Humans didn’t. She was struck anew with the realization that he was alien , he was different. However well she liked to think she’d begun to know him, there was still so much she didn’t know at all.

She didn’t usually believe in duplicating tech not of her own invention, but she'd have given anything that night to have a regeneration tank. Why hadn’t she spent some time trying to reverse-engineer that, instead of writing lewd Saiyan limericks?

As soon as he was better, she was going to fix that mistake. He had to get better.

He definitely had what would be considered a fever for a Saiyan, but she had no idea when high might cross over into dangerously-high.

She was back to being pissed off, at herself for her incomplete knowledge of Saiyan physiology, for making the machine that almost killed him, and at him for overriding the failsafes she’d programmed to protect him from himself.

His temperature stopped climbing, so she decided against an ice bath for the moment. He was just restless, and dreaming.

The fever dreams got worse as the night wore on; he progressed to what seemed more like full-blown hallucinations. Most of what he muttered was unintelligible to her, but a few things were repeated so much she’d never forget: ‘Frieza’, ‘demon-lizard’, ‘father’, and worst of all, ‘please’.

Vegeta never said ‘please’.

He grew so restless she considered additional sedatives or ki restraints, but his chemical responses to medication were so unpredictable she was reluctant to add anything new to the cocktail already swimming in his veins, and her heart broke at the thought of putting him in restraints after a night of eavesdropping on his dreams. She felt like an intruder into his most private space, but there was nothing to be done about it. Whether he knew she was there or not, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him alone when he’d come so close to dying.

He was floating now, pulling at the tubes and needles, eyes half-open, lucidity surfacing in words like ‘Kakarot’, ‘vengeance’, ‘birthright’, ‘ascend’, ‘legendary’, ‘mine’, ‘mine’, ‘mine…’

If she lost control of this situation she’d have to call Goku to get him back in bed, and nothing in the universe would keep Vegeta here after that.

Panicking, she climbed bodily onto the bed with him, trying to ground him with her body weight, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, bringing her lips to his ear, pouring out words that came to her on instinct: “You’re safe. Frieza is dead. You will ascend. I’m here.” The scent of burning things was in the air as his aura scorched the sheets, and her hair. It felt like holding the sun.

Finally, the gathered power fizzled out, and they sank down against the too-hot mattress, searing her unprotected shins like black leather in a hot car. Damn it, Vegeta.

He wasn’t thrashing around anymore, but his breathing was labored, every muscle tense, completely unaware of her presence. She was soaked in her own sweat from the heat radiating off of him, but he was dangerously dry. She grabbed the wet cloth from the side table to cool his face and neck. When she leaned away to wring it out and reapply, his arms came suddenly around her with iron force. The rag hit the floor with a wet smack and she made a little “eep” of surprise as he buried his face in her neck.

This was not quite the embrace she’d fantasized about, honestly. It was more like being trapped in a sauna. Still, it seemed to calm him, and she dared hope he had turned the corner.

But even as he seemed to sleep, he kept tensing as if to brace against blows. Her ribs creaked under his strength. Goku might have to rescue themboth.

And so, in desperation, she sang to him.

She was no great talent, but music had been just another science for young Bulma to master, with pitch and rhythm its rules and elements. She applied herself diligently to the only Saiyan song she knew.

Adrift on the black ocean of fever dreams, Vegeta had been lost in his own crimson hellscape of past demons and future fears, until she arrived. A sliver of blue light worming her way into the nightmares the way she inserted herself into everything else, she told Frieza he was dead, the child he was safe, the warrior he would ascend, and himself that she was there. As though that weren’t obvious. Annoying even in his nightmares, he tried to tell himself, but even the warrior scorned him for a liar.

The black things snarled and snapped at the edges of blue, but came no further, for now. The red eyes were a promise of pain for later, and he waited in dread. Until she sang.

All of it left, when she sang. Her voice was a shock of cold water to his world on fire. A silvery low register incongruent with her speaking voice, almost a caress. And a lullaby tone...to go along with one of of the bawdiest Saiyan drinking songs ever written. Somehow, she knew all twelve verses, each worse than the last, and by the end of it his ears were burning and she’d dragged him back to himself in horror and wonder. Too drained even to cringe at how she held him like a child.

“I must be in sorry shape if you’re caterwauling at me like that,” he rasped, trying for caustic and failing with a dry whisper.

She jerked, her throat closing in relief. “Vegeta,” was all she could manage, hating herself for the catch at the end.

He just sighed, slowly turning his face into her neck. “Your pronunciation is terrible.”

She didn’t move, daren’t breathe. “My source material was, ah, pretty drunk.”

He did not need to ask which of his warriors would have been accidentally recording himself via his own scouter while deep in his cups. He wondered at the pang he felt, thinking of Nappa. Is this guilt?

She had not let go of him. “It’s a pretty great song.”

He snorted. “It’s a drinking song.” He knew he should push her away, but he didn’t have the strength.

Liar. At least admit to yourself that you just don’t want to.

She brushed matted hair away from his forehead, a whisper of touch. “But also a war hymn, right?”

“All Saiyan songs are about war.”

“ Of course they are ,” not-quite under her breath. Tentatively resting her head against his.

She went on, “But this one is all about war and conquest and this one general who can’t be defeated in battle, but full of double entendres about how he can’t, erm, win with the ladies ?”

“Yes.” His face was on fire. Well, more on fire, since he was clearly already feverish.

“Until he finally loses a battle, and the opposing general turns out to be a woman who claims him as her mate? ” He could feel her grinning in delight.

“Yes.”

“I thought it was pretty epic.”

Of course she would. Are we just not going to talk about this whole embrace thing? You know what, actually, I am fine with that.

He explained, “It’s more or less the story of how the two largest feudal city-states of old Vegetasei united and conquered the rest to become an empire.”

She was delighted. “So the greatest conqueror of Vegetasei was a woman?”

His reply was stuffy, as though they had wandered into contested territory. “She was the first , anyway. Greatest is up for debate.”

“Anyway, I liked it,” she murmured.

“You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No Saiyan who wanted to stay alive would sing a vulgar song like that in the presence of royalty.”

“Pfffft. Like royals don’t know where babies come from.”

“Woman.” How could she even now still manage to shock him?

“You’re all no different behind closed doors.” She tightened her arms as though for emphasis. “Are you, Ve-ge-ta?” If her voice had been a caress before, this was a blatant grope.

“Woman.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Let me up.”

She shoved herself upright. “No. No! Are you kidding?” Her eyes were fire. “Maybe, maybe you can get out of that bed tomorrow. I literally just put you back together .”

He made a frustrated sound. “I have to--”

She smirked evilly at him. “Here.” She handed him a plastic object.

He started at it, not understanding. Then--

Gods, no.

“There is no way--”

“Listen, you ungrateful fuck, you are lucky I didn’t cath you--” she stopped, pinching the bridge of her nose, half-turning from him.

Whatever that was, it didn’t sound good, and he eyed her warily.

“I can call my dad, if you want,” she said in a neutral tone.

At his mulish expression, she continued waspishly, “or Goku ,” picking up steam, fueled by his predictable reaction to that , “but you should probably know that I shaved you bald and put about sixty stitches in your inner thigh to keep you from bleeding to death and get over yourself already!”

He convulsed in humiliated fury, but his open-mouthed snarl died at the tears on her face. He would have argued with her until he pissed himself, or relieved himself in defiance on her floor, but her tears wholly defeated him.

In all his life, had anyone ever cried at the thought he might die? What was wrong with her, that she did?

He turned away from her as much as he was able, until it was done. Shutting his eyes, shutting her out, he heard her walk to the bathroom, flush the toilet, turn the sink on and off.

Instead of leaving, she sat next to him again. He ignored her. Just go away already.

She didn’t move again for so long he thought she’d fallen asleep. He was drifting off in spite of himself, when her hand brushed his cheek, and he hated that her touch was a cool balm to his fevered skin. “Kami, Vegeta.” she said, softly. “Maybe remember this the next time you want to do something this stupid.” She lowered her voice. “If I blow myself up again, that woman will make me piss in a bottle,” she mock-growled.

His eyes flew open. As was so often the case, he didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss her or kill her. He wanted it so much he felt it in his teeth. But he was so tired, all he could do was glare.

Her other hand joined the first, cupping his face between them. It was a bit like holding an injured wild animal; she was not sure he would not bite her. She leaned closer; he stopped breathing.

Her kiss on his forehead was feather-light, as though it might hurt him, but lingering. When she pulled away, there were tears again.

He couldn’t break free from her eyes. “I care about you, you idiot,” she whispered.

He felt like he’d been shot through the chest. Again. What--

She forestalled any retort of his with her fingers on his lips. “I know you don’t want or need to hear that.”

She was so wrong, but he would never tell her, not when he couldn’t admit it to himself.

“Just sleep, okay?” she asked. A reply became impossible and unnecessary as he slipped under before she finished speaking.

Sometime during that endless night, she woke again to him grumbling about the plastic urinal.

He still refused to look at her while she dealt with it, but it was hard to stay embarrassed about what was clearly not a significant issue to her. This made him feel childish for being embarrassed, which pissed him off even more.

But then she smiled at him. “Thanks for not fighting me on this, Vegeta. I know how much you hate it.”

Just the acknowledgement of his struggle took the wind out of the sails of his fury.

It’s not like her smiles were rare. She was a disgustingly cheerful creature. But this one was his alone. Pure, no malice, no hint of mockery. Had he ever received such a gift?

She rolled her neck as she moved back toward the chair. It was no position to sleep in.

“You don’t have to play nursemaid anymore tonight,” he said.

“I know,” was all she said, yawning.

I gave you an out, woman. He snagged her wrist as she passed by, dragging her toward him, not roughly, but not giving her a choice, either.

She tried to tug it back, but even in this state he was so much stronger it was laughable. Her frown disappeared as she realized his intent.

The look on her face as she crawled over the rail was almost predatory. The animal in his blood roared a challenge, while the rest of him wondered if this might be his worst decision yet.

She loomed over him, until the scent of her skin overwhelmed him, his hands finding the back of her bare thighs.

She gasped, a breathless sound, twitching like a rabbit caught out of its den, hands digging into his shoulders.

Then she sighed and made a face at him. “Shove over. I swear, you have the shittiest timing.”

“What, have you suddenly grown a sense of decorum? You’ve been begging shamelessly for this for weeks,” his voice low, cutting. Stung by the unexpected rejection.

“Yeah, well, you had weeks to take advantage when you weren’t missing half your blood-volume. How much fun could that really be for me?” She crooked a limp finger at him, enjoying how much he hated her with his eyes for that.

“I will end you,” he responded, utterly calm. Eerily believable.

She waited for him to object as she nestled herself next to him, pillowing her head on his least-injured shoulder.

He didn’t, but he was back to furiously not looking at her again.

“Don’t freak out, Vegeta. I’m not saying ‘no,’ I’m just saying ‘how about maybe when you’re less almost-dead?’ Nothing says sexy like trying to orgasm while worrying your partner might stroke out.”

He grunted, but allowed her to lift his arm around her.

“I still have your blood in my hair ,” she groused.

He breathed her in, somewhat pleased at that.

“Ugh, only you would find that appealing.”

“Just shut up.”

“I hope you heal as fast as you claim you do, space man.”

He woke up well before her, and meant to let her sleep, but waking surrounded in the scent and feel of her was too much. His body was loudly making the case that it was fully recovered, thank you very much.

He kept trying to shift away from her lest it be obvious to her as well, but she clung to him like warship-grade adhesive.

“Stop moving so much, you’re still like 90% bandages,” she snapped without opening her eyes.

He didn’t know why, with her obvious want of him, it was such a problem for him that his body wanted her back.

Control, he supposed. He wanted total control over this rebellious facet of himself until he decided to unleash it, and not a second before.

Especially if she might say no, again.

“What is that?” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the barbaric fluids dripping into his arm, desperate for distraction.

“What is what, Vegeta?”

“Your primitive medicine still requires manual blood re-supply...that’s mine? It has my face on it.”

She made a noise of affirmation, too tired to speak.

“But those symbols aren’t my name.” He hadn’t put much effort into learning their rudimentary symbology yet, but he’d picked up enough to know that.

At this, she smiled without opening her eyes. “No, they are not.”

At his growl of irritation, she continued, “Humans have various blood types: Type A, B, AB, and O. Yours says ‘Type E’.”

She finally opened her eyes, smile broadening, to watch his reaction. “For ‘Elite’.”

His expression was just shy of murderous. “You mock me.”

She sighed, too tired to be less than honest. “A little bit yes, but mostly no. You are something else, Vegeta.”

He didn’t know what to think or say about that. “Of course I am,” he finally managed, but her light snores needled him in response.

“What does Kakarot’s say?” He couldn’t help asking.

“Hmm? Goku’s?” Her sleepy gaze met his again. “He’s ‘Type 3,’” she said, with a wink.

At that he laughed -- an honest, beautiful laugh. Its purity hurt her heart; she wondered if anyone else had ever heard it. She felt like she’d caught a star with her bare hands, and held it close in wonder.

What was this warmth blooming in his chest? Lingering fever? Or was this what it felt like, to have someone of your own? Oh, Nappa and Raditz had been loyal enough, but they’d been born into his service. It had never really been their choice, and he’d never really appreciated it, either.

She owed him no allegiance, no debt, and in fact had plenty of reason to hate him for the harm he’d caused when he first came to Earth. She owed him nothing, but offered him everything. Her loyalty. Her affection. Even a joke at her friend’s expense to please him.

The intensity of her eyes, when she moved over him again, was the blue of stars expiring, the last fierce gasp of life before the end. “I declare you fit for duty, soldier,” she breathed.

“-- modified duty,” she ground out at the flash in his eyes, “you’re not training today, jackass…”

She caught his retort with her lips. “You’re not going to have anything left for it, anyway,” she whispered into his mouth, and finally kissed him.

He was certain this was an Earthling thing, this meshing of mouths that sounded repulsive in the abstract but was amazingly intense in practice. The longer it went on the more desperate for her he felt, saved from feeling pathetic only by the needy whimpers she gave him in return.

She was careful with him, so careful. Each gentle touch was his undoing. He was completely unaccustomed to physical contact not meant to kill or cause pain. Every nerve ending was over-sensitized, almost painful, but she read his face like a map and knew when to touch and when to let him be.

She knew his hurts better than he did, having tended each one herself. She moved over him gingerly, but her weight was nothing to him.

Her touch was reverent, a feather-light stroke or kiss over every inch of skin not wrapped in gauze. She drew his hands to her, pragmatic as ever, unfazed by his uncertainty, and showed him exactly how his touch could please her.

He’d never felt anything as fine as her skin, or the silk of her hair, the heft of her breasts. In the end, she did not make him beg, but asked if he were certain, before taking him inside her as though this was a thing they had always done.

He’d thought he understood power -- what it was like to have it, and to have none at all. To cower before a monster that controlled your whole existence, or to watch planets die by your hand. He’d never felt anything like this, the power to cause such pleasure it looked like pain, to force his name from her lips, to watch her convulse and wail just for want of him and what his body could give her. He ached to be well enough to put her underneath him, to watch her writhe against vermillion silk, again and again, and he knew then he would never get enough of her.

Still jerky from her own release, she reached down to find a spot he hadn’t known existed, wrenching a cry from his throat as he shattered, lost control so completely that his aura reignited around them again. But this time, joined as they were, it knew her for its own. The blue tendrils of flame licked her skin as she laughed in delight and wonder. He forced it back into himself a breath later, shaken by how easily she'd broken him.

She collapsed onto him, and for long moments there was nothing but the sound of their harsh breathing in the dark. If his face was wet she said nothing of it, and freely gave her own tears as cover.

The next day, extricating himself from miles of gauze, he was stepping in the shower to rinse off before training when he noticed she had written on him, underneath the bandages.

No disgraceful poems this time, nothing so elegant, just the Saiyan word for “penis” in bold characters across his forearm. Her penmanship was improving, but the strokes were jagged, angry.

It would not wash off.

“Woman!” he bellowed, in such a rage that the barometric pressure shifted around the whole compound.

“Hey Vegeta, what’s up?” She asked with feigned nonchalance, as though he didn’t look one breath away from destroying the whole building.

“Remove this immediately!” He brandished his arm at her. Registering dim surprise that she didn’t flinch, that she truly had no fear of him anymore.

She was incoherent, and he realized she was crying and laughing at the same time.

“You’re unhinged!” he spat, uncomfortable with displays of any emotion, much less two that made no sense together.

She patted his wrist ineffectually. “I was so mad at you, Vegeta.”

She took a few breaths, calming down. “And myself, for underestimating your skill and stupidity.”

She wiped her eyes and stepped closer to him, the pain in her crystal blue gaze sucking his breath away. “Most of all, I didn’t know how to forgive myself if one of my inventions killed you, and I couldn’t think about that--”

My miserable life isn’t worth it, he wanted to tell her, though he never would.

She sighed. “I just remember thinking, you’d be so pissed off when you saw it that you might kill me, and how happy I’d be if you recovered enough to do it.”

“Lunatic,” he called her, without venom. Whatever this was between them, it terrified him, and for the first time he could see it was not healthy for her, either.

But then she stepped into his unwilling embrace, clothes and all, even though he was half-under the shower.

Closing the circuit between them was electric, the contact more than merely sexual. The exposed mutual vulnerability was terrifying, but for the first time since his last glimpse of Vegetasei through a shuttle window, he tasted a feeling like home.

#vegebul #vegebul fanfiction #vegeta #vegeta x bulma #bulma

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recentanimenews · 4 years

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FEATURE: Dragon Ball Super Proves That Dragon Ball Never Needs An Ending

The first episode of Dragon Ball Super sees Goku sittin' in a tractor, plowing a field with the kind of indifference you'd expect from a dude that's spent most of his life saving the world from various intergalactic warlords. But since we know Dragon Ball and what the franchise has to offer, we know his time as a farmer is limited. Inevitably, someone or something is gonna challenge Goku, forcing him to dust off his Gi and jump back into action. It's a pretty familiar storyline in fiction: the retired gunslinger, dissatisfied with his life and his purpose, returns to do what he does best. We've seen it everywhere from Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns to The Last Jedi. Heck, the fighter-turned-farmer called back to a life of peril is the exact plot of Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven. Meaning that Vegeta is ... Morgan Freeman's character in that movie?

Anyway, while the montage of the hero putting his boots back on and once again rescuing the helpless is indeed energetic and triumphant, what most of these stories have in common is that they're actually about aging. The toll that life takes on us, physically and psychologically, plays heavily into the characterizations of the protagonists. It's why DKR's Batman is a hulking figure haunted by his inability to truly change Gotham and Last Jedi's Luke Skywalker is a recluse who struggles with his own principles due to how they've seemingly failed him in the past. And Clint Eastwood has been roughly 80 years old since 1972, so you get my point.

It's in this commonly shared aspect that Dragon Ball Super differs. Because Goku doesn't really have much of a problem with his grand return. Sure, not that much time has passed since the finale of Z, but he's surprisingly not rusty. And over the course of Super, he gets better, faster, and all-around more powerful. By the end of Super, he's sparring against Vegeta, promising to get even stronger. Now, in most other stories, I'd find this to be a lackluster idea. Because mortality or at least the threat of mortality provides so much tension and so many spoken and unspoken stakes for narratives.

Even in comic book movies, based on a medium where it's all but guaranteed that the hero will survive or even be reborn to fight again, the age of the actors themselves provides some grounding. Hugh Jackman somehow spent 20 years putting on lean muscle for a character whose main power is that he doesn't really age, but inevitably, that dude was gonna wanna stop doing so many push-ups and have a margarita.

In Dragon Ball, though, the refusal to acknowledge how time can break down heroes is a feature, not a bug. Even when characters do die — Goku does a few times, as does his long-time enemy, Frieza — they return even more powerful than before. Heck, when Goku is killed by Raditz at the beginning of Z, he spends his time in the afterlife training. His purgatory is jogging. The ethos of Dragon Ball is to always strive to get better and to beat any odds in your way, and it is all-encompassing. So when you get to Super, which is all about Goku showing off his eternally progressing powers by taking on gods and tournaments, it isn't surprising. That's just Goku bein' Goku.

This also means that Super possibly reveals Dragon Ball's endgame, or lack thereof. I'm not saying that Dragon Ball couldn't have a finale, some final punch followed by a final farewell from all the characters we've loved for almost 40 years at this point. Heck, Goku flying away at the end of Z could be that. That finale might one day come, whether in manga or anime form or both, and I'm sure I will weep when it becomes clear that we've seen the last of Krillin, Bulma, Yamcha, Piccolo, and the rest.

I'm saying that Super proves it doesn't need an ending. By Kamehameha-ing the well-worn plot of "guy comes back into action and feels the effects of time" and replacing it with "guy comes back into action and is somehow even radder than before," it becomes clear that perhaps the best conclusion to Dragon Ball is one that doesn't really exist at all.

It's a quality that separates Dragon Ball from all of the series it inspired. Naruto became Hokage, effectively growing up and reaching his goal. I assume Luffy will one day find the One Piece. Deku will achieve the mantle of Greatest Hero. But Goku will just keep trying to get stronger while urging others to do the same. Thus, any ending to any part of the Dragon Ball franchise could suffice as the true finish. In the last arc of Z, which takes place after Super, Goku leaves to go train Uub to be Earth's new defender, but even still, he tells Vegeta he can't wait to fight him again. It's a truly never-ending cycle between those two.

And for Dragon Ball, that's okay. Even the tone of Super, which is a little goofier than Z, seems to indicate that looking for a grand wrap-up to the story of Goku is futile. It's better just to enjoy being able to spend time in his world and relish in his struggles and his victories. Then, when there's no more of it, we won't ever have to debate if the ending was a fitting one. We'll just be able to reflect on the happiness the journey gave us. That's pretty cool, I think.

Daniel Dockery is a Senior Staff Writer for Crunchyroll. Follow him on Twitter!

Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features.

By: Daniel Dockery

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

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