ANYTHING GOOD
By: debbiechan

Honeymoons don't last forever. Since Buu's defeat and the restoration of planet Earth, Bulma and Vegeta had been going at it like teenagers on Spring Break. The couple broke even their own nocturnal marathon records. Eventually, though, the hot times tapered off. Bulma had started chafing, and her trusty lotions and herbal balms (especially developed in her lab years ago when she first encountered intense Saiyan sex bouts) were not healing itchy nipples and raw thighs. Vegeta was a little anxious to get back to training after a whole two weeks' layoff, and that was that.

One morning found the couple at breakfast at a perfectly reasonable hour. Even eight-year-old Trunks noticed that his mother's lips weren't super puffy and that all those post-Buu hickeys on her jawline were fading into dim pink ovals. It was sure nice to see his parents. His best pal's dad had been dead even longer than his own dad, so Trunks hadn't seen Goten in days and days. The Son family was on an extended fishing trip or camping trip or some other hick adventure.

"Trunks honey," Bulma began, noting the unasked question in her son's eyes, "Your father is testing the gravity room upgrade today, so maybe you would like--"

"Dad, can I?" Trunks almost spit out his oatmeal. "Can I train with you today, Dad?"

"Hn." Vegeta was standing before the large freezer that stocked food in Saiyan quantity. "Perhaps playing video games strengthened the boy's wrists, but his larger muscles are atrophied from lack of use. Trunks, you will train with me for four hours every morning starting today." The freezer was full, because his son had been eating dinners at his grandparents' the past couple weeks. Vegeta found some waffles and idly bit into a stack of the icicled discs as he searched for something sweeter. He liked the pastries with the fruit inside.

"Trunks has not just been playing video games. Poppa's been teaching him a little particle physics and Tang dynasty poetry. Right, sweetie?"

"Right," answered Trunks. His mother was walking to the counter for another cup of coffee with an odd, strained gait. He thought she walked like a cowboy. "Why are you walking funny, Mom?"

Bulma put one hand at the small of her back and grimaced. "Sore muscles from, um, just being tense," she explained. She shot Vegeta a look. "I keep thinking the world is going to blow up again. Post Traumatic Buu Disorder."

Vegeta cracked a half-smile.

"I need to get back to work tomorrow," Bulma continued, "so your father and I have decided to just call the whole vacation over, ok? Trunks, after training, let's you and me get cracking on some pre-algebra. I'll call Momma and tell her you're eating with us tonight. You won't miss her home-cooking too much, eh sweetie?"

Vegeta tossed a plastic bag of strawberry danishes at Trunks. The boy caught it mid-air with both hands. "You found them! Al-right, Mom and Dad!"

And so began the first day of the return to normal life. For the first day since Buu's defeat, Bulma wasn't moved to tears at any point or wrecked into sudden sobs of appreciation for all the glories of family, friends, and an un-exploded home planet. Trunks couldn't stop smiling after his sparring session with his dad and did his most tedious math problems with no complaint. But that night, when Bulma saw her husband again, the man was "off." Bulma assumed he was grumpy because he wasn't going to get any. They'd agreed the previous night that their so-called "tapering off" wasn't letting Bulma recover well, and so even a one-shot was out of the question. She hadn't let him shower with her, and now Vegeta was sitting on the edge of the bed, remote in hand, browsing through channels with a sour look his wife hadn't seen since before he died.

"Look Vegeta, it's not like I don't want to. I honestly don't know how I'm going to be able to sleep without it." She was standing in the middle of the room wearing a plush, oversized bathrobe that fell to her ankles. "If we did it, I'd be so messed up we wouldn't be able to fuck for--I don't know--days and days."

"Fine."

He wasn't even looking in her direction, so Bulma slipped off the giant robe and began to dress in her dowdiest pajamas. A nice roomy top with long cotton sleeves and bottoms one size too big.

Vegeta snapped the off button on the remote, and the last flash from the television as it shut off reminded Bulma of the way a fireball dissolves when it crashes against an opponent. The war is over, she reminded herself. Maybe that's why Vegeta is looking so pissy. He doesn't have a death duel on his schedule anytime soon.

"Disappointing day training?" she ventured. The far-away look on his face was just begging to be kissed. Bulma wanted to disrupt his mood, but she knew trifling questions weren't the best tactic with Vegeta.

He seemed to hold his breath a little before he spoke. When he did speak, his words were stark and unexpected. "I told you I would never hurt you again," he said. The ceiling lights were still on, and Bulma could see grief plain on his face.

"What?" Bulma sat down next to him. "All you did was spend some of that extra Saiyan energy on my love thing for a couple weeks. It was worth the rug burn, believe me."

"That's not what I meant," Vegeta said. "Kakkarot didn't tell you, did he? About what I told him when we fought? When I was Majin…."

"When you were--? You were possessed, Vegeta. I know you didn't want to blow up the stadium and kill all those people."

"You're wrong. I wanted to."

"You were possessed."

Vegeta continued to look at the television, as if his redemption was there and he just couldn't envision it. The black screen reflected the couple sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I could've stopped Babidi from possessing me. I was strong enough to do that. I let him take over my body because I wanted it. I wanted his Majin power so I could at last defeat Kakkarot."

The confession hung there, unanswered. Bulma considered it. It wasn't surprising--Vegeta had been obsessed with defeating her best friend ever since the beginning. But whatever had happened in the battle with Buu, it had changed Vegeta. The man's obsession had dropped like a weapon he no longer wanted to use against himself, and her husband's priorities had shifted radically. Why else would he have clung so resolutely to her those first glorious days after Buu's defeat, not even asking about the gravity room, making amazing love to her, pausing only for food and drink? His long-ago vow, the one about not hurting her, made after some melodramatic lovers' spat Bulma couldn't even remember--

"Hey there Mr. Bad Man," she said, poking him with her finger in his ribs. "Whatever awful thing you think you did, it doesn't matter. The Kais brought only the good people of Earth back to life. Son-kun told me that much, that it's official, you're cool with the Kais now."

Vegeta cast an absent look around the room, as if he didn't know what to do with himself for once in his life. If he wasn't Bulma's lover and he wasn't Kakkarot's enemy, who was he at this particular moment? "I could care less what those effeminate blue blobs that play dice with the afterlife think of me," he said, "I am a Saiyan."

"Does being a Saiyan automatically mean you're no good?"

"You thought so, once."

"I don't know," Bulma said, "It's not like you've really done anything bad since all that."

Even as the words left her mouth, Bulma realized that any half-assed pep talk would have no effect on her proud husband. Vegeta was measuring himself against a new model now, and perfectionist that he was, he seemed to be familiar with falling just short of expectations. "It's not like I've done anything good either," he said softly.

"Anything good?" Bulma knew what he meant, that he would never be as human as Son-kun, that he had already wasted so much time trying to deny the very emotions that made him stronger. This was a rare Vegeta moment, and she was going to goad him into actually saying the words. "What do you mean, Vegeta?"

He wasn't going to play. He looked at her with a face that said you know, and the frankness in his eyes made her immediately ashamed of trying to get him to reveal anything aloud. She should've known better. That hard, haunted look, the one he'd worn most often his first year on Earth, overtook his features. She knew how to drive it out. She could offer him the comfort of her body, the opportunity to display his fine gift of control and his deep need to let go, to turn loose his demons if only in some sexual circus where he teased her, fulfilled her, destroyed her.

Sex seemed like the easy way out of this one, though. Then again, Bulma's scientist mind reminded her that first you test the obvious hypothesis and measure your results before attempting more elaborate theories. It was that downcast, love-hungry moroseness of Vegeta's that had attracted her in the first place.

"I'm so stupid!" Bulma tossed up her hands and then grabbed her own head, fists mussing her hair. "I'm an idiot, I'm a moron, I'm…." Her eyes widened to the epiphany. "I'm the dumbest genius I know!"

Vegeta was startled out of gloominess, but he didn't have a clue what was up with his wife. He stared at her.

"Look, I know a way we can have some fun tonight. I'll just--oh let me show you." Bulma started to unbutton her boxy pajama top. When she finished, she lifted her arms. Fabric parted like a theatre curtain to reveal one generous breast. "You just look at me, " she said. Her mouth narrowed into a straight line and a fierce challenge. She ran one hand through her hair and with the other began to palm her collarbone. "You just look at me and think about every bad thing you've ever wanted to do in your whole life." She breathed in deeply for effect. She shrugged off one shoulder of her top so that the other breast was exposed. "You pleasure yourself Vegeta, and just watching you do it will…pleasure me."

At least Vegeta didn't look miserable anymore. But he didn't look that interested in the strip tease either. He was still holding the remote.

Bulma pulled out all guns. Her top slid off completely. She lay back on the mattress and made slow, snow-angel wings against the sheets with her bare arms. She could feel the movement making her breasts rise and fall; she imagined her abdomen pulling her navel into tantalizing shapes. She ran her hands down her sides, past her waistband, and tugged down the clownishly big pajama pants as if they were the naughtiest accoutrements known to mankind. Once they were off, she pulled herself up to her knees slowly, her back arched so that her hips and tuft of blue hair faced her audience first. Then, when her shoulders were level with the rest of her, she tossed her head so that her short bangs fell back into place, cupped her breasts with her hands, and looked Vegeta square in the eye. "I'm so hot, Vegeta," she confessed. "I don't think I can do this without your touching me."

He looked away. "I'll go sleep in another room."

"No! Listen, Vegeta, just don't worry about me. I can go to my mom's spa tomorrow for whole week. Just do it to me one more time, ok? I promise. Just this one time."

A rustling of the sheets made him turn around and look. Bulma was on all fours, every inch of her exposed in the bright light, and looking over her shoulder pleadingly. It was such a crass invitation, this time he did drop the remote.

Of all the sights in the universe--even the dead eyes of a felled enemy or his own hands bursting into the golden hues of Super Saiyan--none gave Vegeta more pure gladness than the sight of Bulma's pert little bottom in the air. After so many years, it still amazed him--how could this unusually intelligent ningen have offered herself to him in the first place? Here, again, she was giving him her total trust and her white round rear--it was like serving a dollop of ice cream to a mass murderer. Vegeta had not forgotten who he was. Not any of the Kais in heaven could solicit his redemption, and no knowledge that he had saved as many souls he once destroyed could ever give him peace. But that fine piece of Bulma Briefs ass--there was paradise.

He decided that it would be harder than going Super Saiyan the first time to even try to resist her tonight. Vegeta leaned forward on the bed, slapped both his hands on the delectable globes before him and--taking care not to use his nails--squeezed each buttock. "If you bleed or if your ass falls off during this, I'm not stopping," he said.

"Shut up, Vegeta. You know I want it."

He removed his hands and unhurriedly began to strip himself of his tank shirt and sweatpants. Bulma didn't budge from her pose while he did so and peered, grinning, over one shrugging, coquettish shoulder. A little surprised by his own breathlessness, Vegeta approached her again, landed his palms on that perfect ass, and began to rub large circles into the pliable flesh. "I could eat you," he said, his voice roughening.

"Been there, done that. Buu turned me into chocolate, remember? Fuck me, Vegeta."

He ran his hands past her hips and swept them into damp hair. He began to finger the folds there, but Bulma waggled them off by shaking her whole bottom in one brisk motion. "I said fuck me."

He was huge and hard against her.

Bulma used her boss voice. "Dammit, I'm not in the mood to be teased!"

"Bitch." His push into her body had the precision of a death blow. Bulma groaned as he filled her and dropped her face and chest to the mattress. He didn't move. He was inside her to the hilt. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes." Her eyes were closed and her mouth was smiling. Those little hands of hers already curled into fists.

Fucking Bulma was always a test of his control. One careless shove and his Saiyan strength could rip her in half. She knew it, and he knew it, and the unspoken danger had always been an added thrill. Tonight there was the special challenge of not hurting the fool woman any more than he had to, so Vegeta began with a slowness he'd never tried before--pulling out almost completely and then easing in again with ridiculous deliberation. He thought of the fluid grace of fighters performing slow motion katas in some ritual called tai chi, and his hips instantly adopted the rhythm. The woman didn't complain. He watched her little fists and listened for her breathing and continued his strange streaming motions. It was like petting her on the inside, each stroke memorizing her sweetness and milking pleasure from almost no friction at all.

She came almost right away of course. The woman was hopeless, no self-control. Her little shudders sucked him into a slightly faster tempo, but he didn't shift out of gentleness. It was much longer until her next orgasm, but by then Vegeta had found himself in a trance of discipline. His woman's gasps and writhings had little effect on the lilting cadence he'd already established. He waited until she finished, and then he stopped. Hands on her hips, he pulled out, and her knees slumped forward until she was flat on her stomach on the bed.

Vegeta lay down next to her, and she turned a dreamy, satisfied face towards his. "I'm not tired," she said, and put a hand on his cheek. "You're amazing, Vegeta."

"You're not done yet," he said and kissed her. So many other nights he had kissed her raw, sometimes tasting blood. Tonight his tongue didn't pass her teeth; it lingered on her bottom lip. When he pulled away, her blue eyes were glistening, and she looked drunk with tenderness. She began to finger his nipples, but he caught both her hands and brought them to her sides. "I said you're not done yet."

The woman's own nipples were pinker than usual, surrounded by concentric circles of more pinkness where his mouth had sucked so much the past weeks. Vegeta decided to kiss each one once and then lick lightly past them towards the similarly wounded navel. That he kissed too, and then he went down on her like a kitten lapping milk. He was curious now--how kindly could his tongue graze her and still bring her to climax?

Her folds were red and purplish, swollen and abused. Had he really fucked her so hard and so often? The overhead lamp let him see, plainly, all the tiny bruises on her inner thighs--many already healing into brown spots, others still blue and shaped like his fingers. His little human woman….

He was kissing her clit with the barest skimming motion of his lips when she began to come, so he opened his mouth, twirling his tongue in delicate circles, tasting dense juices. She came again and again, not screaming her head off like usual but groaning low and huskily. He held her thighs in place so her own turbulence wouldn't scoot her away. Even after the throaty noises stopped, he kept licking her, using no pressure, only a frenetic speed and the lightest touches, and she came one last time, spurting clear liquid in his face. He loved it when that happened and was about to plunge his whole face between her legs to lap up the whole frothy area, but he restrained himself. Something was checking his impulses--was it only that he didn't want to hurt her? Or was it another game of will, of testing his own limits?

He sat up and straddled her at her knees. This was the part where he usually got payback for his oral efforts. But her mouth--it looked so vulnerable and spent. He wouldn't let that mouth finish him. He didn't want her to do anything, and besides, he couldn't wait for her to recover. Looking at her lying there so beautiful and dazed, he pumped his own arousal to completion with a few strokes of one hand. She smiled ever so slightly when he came, as if the hot shower itself felt good on her legs, and it only seemed to follow that he should rub the stuff all over her. Vegeta didn't think about it--he just began to massage the warm creaminess that had come from both their bodies all over her bruised thighs, the hickeyed belly and breasts. This little human body so powerless and soft.

His hands were gliding towards her shoulders when she turned her head to look at him. "Wow,Vegeta. I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I didn't think you had it in you to--" She paused, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

"Refrain from killing you?"

"Yeah."

He lay his head beside hers, continuing to knead one of her shoulders with only his fingertips. He felt like he was claiming her the way he always did. Only this time he had done it without demanding her reciprocity. Without using his teeth. The effort itself had been exhilarating.

"I-I really liked that licking thing. Can you do it like that again, even when I'm not messed up?"

"How much longer are you going to be…(Vegeta hated so many human phrases) messed up?"

"It doesn't matter. I said I'm going to Momma's favorite spa. I'll be back in a day or so. You spend some time with your son, ok?"

Vegeta dropped on his back against the pillow and looked at the ceiling. "He needs to work on his left kick. He relies too much on those defenses Kakkarot's brat uses."

The next day Trunks was a little disappointed to hear that his mom was going away, but he cheered up considerably when his dad let him eat a frozen key lime pie for lunch. The training time with his dad just rocked. He couldn't remember his dad having paid so much attention to him before. And then there was Four Meats Deluxe frozen pizza for dinner, and--unlike Mom who was so weird about the stove--Dad let him use it so Trunks could eat his own pizzas cooked. Dad, of course, preferred them raw.

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