DIFFERENT
By: debbiechan

The day Vegeta came back from the dead, he slept a lot.

Fresh from a shower, Bulma stood at the foot of their bed and watched him. He lay nude over the bedsheets, arms above his head as if he'd fallen there in defeat, a little grayish in the pre-dawn light but definitely alive. His perfect chest rose and fell, and his parted lips looked moist and real.

Bulma wondered how much longer he could sleep. She scrubbed her head one last time with the towel and tossed it so it fell with a damp slap on Vegeta's thighs. She was naked and fragrant from bath soap, her chest heaving with emotion. It was so unlike Vegeta to sleep so soundly. Sure, he'd eaten about four days worth of food in one sitting upon their return from Kami's Lookout, had fucked her four or five times, and had only collapsed long after midnight. Still, he seemed so--what? Peaceful lying there?

Even in exhausted sleep Vegeta had never looked peaceful. And no, he couldn't still be injured, because Son-kun had said that the Kami had healed Vegeta after the battle with Majin Buu.

Bulma crawled onto the bed and sat cross-legged next to the sleeping warrior. The details of the battle weren't all clear to her yet, but that was fine. Trunks would tell the whole story with boyish elaboration again and again for the rest of his life, and Son-kun could be trusted to authenticate particulars. Pulling the truth from Vegeta himself would be harder, but she knew he would eventually tell what was important for her to know. Bulma touched his wide brow with an adoring hand. What other woman in the world could say her husband helped save the universe? Ok, Son-kun's wife could, but what other woman could say that about Vegeta? This proud and egomaniacal man had given his life for her.

It was an incredible turn-on.

She knew he probably needed this sleep, but she couldn't help it. "Vegeta?" She said the name quietly, impressed with the velvety, insinuating sound of her own voice. As much as Vegeta had been oddly relaxed in the past hours, Bulma had been wired, unable to sleep except in increments, unable to eat yet full of great insatiable longing. "Vegeta?" He didn't stir. Maybe she needed to be less subtle. She uncrossed her legs and moved to sit on him, catching his hips with her thighs. Amazing how he still lay there. As she leaned over him, one drop of water fell from her hair onto his chest, and still he slept. Gods, he was gorgeous like this. She'd never had him in such a submissive position, and the thought occurred to her that she could fuck him awake.

She was considering that her next move might be when his eyes shot open and his hands caught her wrists. "Great fucking god almighty, Vegeta!"

He looked sincerely confused and sleepy. He hadn't been tricking her into thinking he was asleep--no, that would have been so playful and unlike Vegeta. But then, this startled, somewhat vulnerable looking face was not quite Vegeta to her either. The eyes were softer, looking at her with blatant concern.

"Bulma, you've been crying."

"Have I?" She was only now aware of the tears standing in her eyes. She had boo-hooed a little in the shower but she thought she'd recovered. "Well, what do you expect? You've just come back from the fucking dead."

"You were dead too." The lines of his face were drawing out of sleepy tenderness into a severity familiar to her. That mocking look. He smiled slightly out of the corner of his mouth in that handsome way of his. "I didn't weep for you."

"So then I'll have to make you cry now," Bulma said. She shoved her pelvis forward on his hips as she spoke. It was true she had been dead for a while during the Buu ordeal, but she had been in a paradise of which she had only wispy memories. Whatever gaiety and brightness she'd always had in her life had followed her there; she didn't feel changed at all. What she did feel was her face smiling in pure delight as she spoke. "I can give you a rougher time than you ever had in hell."

"Demon woman," Vegeta said, "I don't remember seeing you there." He yanked her towards him and dropped her wrists to catch her elbows. That look in his eyes--deadly as always but something was different. Bulma didn't have time to consider exactly what before he kissed her.

She was the one straddling him, but he was still the aggressor.

It had taken years to coax this dominant man into any vulnerable sexual position. He probably literally fell into one the first time, Bulma thought. So many years of being humped even as she sat on him, lost to his alien speed, distraught beyond pleasure into spasms of weeping joy, always being taken and sometimes transported as if the very presence of his fingers or tongue or cock inside her rearranged her molecules into another life. The man was a goddamn fucking miracle. In less frantic moments, those warm lulls of mutual exploration between fucks, she'd sometimes tried to tell him what felt better where. But verbal persuasion, one of Bulma's specialties, didn't work on the Saiyan--at least in bed. In bed as in battle, Vegeta was exacting yet given to passionate whims, and he certainly didn't take orders.

Still, Bulma had found moments of being able to guide her Saiyan. The man had a fetish for her fingers.

For someone who built gadgets, Bulma's bedroom repertoire was surprisingly gadget-free. One evening some years ago, she'd mentioned to Vegeta that she'd seen a catalogue featuring a beaded string that performed a similar function to her own crooked finger threading out of his anus as he climaxed, and Vegeta's look had been priceless. First dot-pupiled puzzlement and then total disinterest. "If I wanted a thing with my body, " he had whispered, "I would have mated with the tin can." Later she would remember it as probably one of the sweetest things he'd ever said to her. But that night Bulma, in her lusty state, had already begun to consider images of Juuhachigou and what the android's particular aptitude might be in intimate matters, when Vegeta had taken her hand and started flicking his tongue over her pulse, censoring all thought. There were no fantasies in bed with Vegeta--the man blinded her to anything but raw sensation.

Goddamnit the man can hold a kiss a long time. Bulma pulled away first, heaving for air. He was attacking her pulse points now, in that insistent way of his, a kiss at her throat, another at her armpit. He was here alrighty, by some miracle alive again in their bed, thoroughly awake and hushing her nostalgia by pulling her shoulders into his kisses. He made even the simple act of his nose nudging the crook of her elbow an overt demand. Bulma turned her arm upwards, so he could trail his face against the whiter side of it. Hot breath from his nostrils and parted lips staggered against her tender flesh. And then the tongue on her wrist. The second it darted out and dotted her with one little wet lick, she was lost. Her voice emerged, one long girlish-pitched mmmmmmmmmmm . Yes, lost--to the way Vegeta opened his mouth on the heel of her palm and lapped there. Fingers fell into his mouth, two or three at a time. Bulma almost sang as he sucked. And when her whole fist was frothed with his saliva, he grabbed it and placed it roughly against his groin.

Bulma's whole body dropped against his, her face against his neck, her breasts smashed against his chest, her drenched hand moving without specific intent, the fingers spread wide and swathing the area where they had been ordered. He was hairless there. How she loved that--

Bulma hadn't been surprised by the hairlessness the first time. She'd seen nary a pubic hair on Son-kun all those times they'd stripped to swim as teenagers, so she'd figured it was a Saiyan thing. Except for that one lack, the area was as poignant and human as Bulma had always dreamed it would be--the erection wide but not too wide, long but not too long, and as perfect as any other muscle on Vegeta's body. Her only other lover, the desert bandit, had been uncircumcised. Yamcha's had looked like Son-kun's, a supple roll of layers. When she'd first encountered the large and glistening head of Vegeta's cock, she guessed that maybe only the royal elite circumcised their babies (that would explain Son-kun). She had never bothered to question Vegeta about it, had only bowed before the novel sight, inspired to graze the frenulum with her fingertips as if it were still a wound. She had kissed the soft pink top as if itself were the exposed heart of the man she wanted like no other.

And here, again, that was exactly what she was being cued to do. That had been the whole selfish purpose behind the hand-lathering, of course. Vegeta loved her fingers on his shaft, her mouth on the head. Bulma grinned in anticipation. It took a few seconds to snap out of her lust-inspired swoon against Vegeta's body and gird herself for her task. She kissed his mouth briefly, a full-tongued goodbye, and then began to kiss her way down, her fingers already curling into her scheme and cupping the soft sack behind the rock-hard cock.

So much of Vegeta's torso was inviolable muscle, but it was warm and smooth, and the man weakened against her light kisses against it. "Oh," he sighed, still enough in command of his responses for the noise to sound like a word. "Oh…." His voice was beautiful, deep but colored in so many tones like music. The man could read aloud from a menu and make her wet, but the sound of his pleasure thrilled Bulma into catching her breath. He felt her slight intake of air against his abdomen and flinched in response, the muscles beneath her lips cascading in sequence like live things, and Bulma lost it again; she opened her mouth and slathered everywhere with no subtlety, her intended tease plummeting as she caught the pink bulb in her mouth and brought her wet hand to the base. She paused an instant to let herself taste.

In that moment she felt more muscles in his lower body shudder, and then his hands were in her hair, shoving her into business. She worked without much deliberation this time--his arousal so profound that there was no room for him to grow in her mouth once she took him. "Aaaah." His voice crazed her, and she began to wipe both her hands against this upper thighs as if to stave off her own climax. Eventually, after some blaze of forgetfulness, she stopped sucking and began bobbing. His moans increased in frequency but her own arousal had reached a plateau; she could concentrate on a setting a rhythm.

Vegeta was never the easiest man in the world to give a blow job. Bulma expected to be thrown on her back at any moment and fucked blind. But her best trick, if used sparingly, worked to keep him on his back, and she used it now. Before the ministrations of her teeth and tongue and bobbing head became too comfortable, she tucked her finger into the supple grasp of his anus and felt around for the button. There. A firm protrusion the size of her fingertip. She pressed it with all her strength. There was an instant increase in the light, salty, pre-release fluid in her mouth but no other clue.

Bulma glanced up. Vegeta's head was thrown too far back for her to savor his expression but the sight of his exposed throat, the small gulping motions there--that was good. And then he began to thread her hair, no longer clenching and demanding, but actually lifting his fingers away from her head, taking hair with them and allowing the strands to fall, then repeating the motion, as if his hands were weightless with pleasure.

She curled her finger into a knuckle and again pressed the button at the ceiling of that precious opening, and again, a fierce shove, and again, until Vegeta let out a hoarse gasp. Bulma tightened her own thighs together in response, and at the same time opened her mouth so that he almost fell out. Their voices moaned together. She caught the tip of his salivating muscle with her bottom lip and expected to hold him there, to prolong the agony, but he came without warning, the first spurt full in her mouth, the second all over her chin as she gaped in amazement. She grabbed the exalting cock in her hand just in time for it to spout its last great hot stream right between her breasts.

His hands were limp fists on either side of her face. Vegeta could control his ki before coming but not after. Bulma could hear fire crackling in those hands. She moved herself away from them and saw the tiny sparks at the palms as he struggled to recover himself.

And then she had it--her jewel of accomplishment. The sight of his face weakened from release. Lips parted and brow smooth. In this state he looked so young. She fell against him to kiss that un-Vegeta-like relaxed forehead, and the stickiness between their bodies made her slide a little and kiss his eye instead. No matter, she had intended to kiss all of his face. The eyelashes, the cheek, mouth, chin, jaw.

It was a long moment before he could even raise his arms to embrace her. Another long moment before he could kiss her back. Then he was Vegeta again, and there was no help for Bulma now.

"I love you, I love--" she started to say, but his tongue was in her ear, and his hands were kneading her shoulders. She felt the languid motion of his leg wrapping around her and his knee rubbing her ass in appreciation a couple times before she was flipped over, the dense warmth of his tongue still in place and muting her hearing. Blood in her veins sounded like roaring inside her head.

On her back, Bulma knew she was a goner. Even pretending to fight the Saiyan had no appeal; he didn't like little games, and his lovemaking was as uncontrived as the force of a monsoon across a defenseless island. He didn't kiss her face so much as he assaulted it with his own, rubbing the smooth hot planes of cheeks and nose against her. His breath huffed in random bursts, and she could only imagine what strange fragrances he was enjoying. His alien sense of smell was so peculiar and keen. Bulma herself could smell that she was swimming in her own musky succulence, in the still pasty wetness of Vegeta's ejaculations, so what in hell must her Saiyan be sensing? Whatever it was, she loved to watch him go mad as it intoxicated him.

He nuzzled her breasts with his whole face, tonguing and shoving them with the ardor of an animal. At last he stopped to suckle, but it was at a place just under a nipple, and Bulma tossed her whole body against his in a rage of longing. He stopped and lifted his head to look at her.

Were there blacker eyes in all the universe? And that mouth--it seemed to be restraining from some unimaginable cruelty, as the nostrils widened with a passionate intake of breath.

"Vegeta…." Her voice seemed tiny and shrill and so very less alluring than the aromas assailing his other senses. She knew hers would be a hopeless request. "Please fuck me, Vegeta."

"Maybe later." As Bulma laughed, half in agony and half in delight over that response, he dove that brutal look against her body again. His face massaged her chest in long, savage strokes, and then his wonderful hands touched her. Those hands, always gloved in battle, softer than her own, landed with such lightness on her hips that Bulma felt her frustration assuaged. He could hold her like this forever, with no more pressure than a cloud on her skin, until she died from staying still against such pleasure.

But then his hands began to sweep in unison towards the inside of her thighs. Bulma bucked to a sitting position, felt her own hands land on Vegeta's broad shoulders, the flesh there smooth as sculpture and so unyielding that she knew her hands could not cajole him. They could merely hold on for dear life.

"I love this." he said. The words startled her because they were new. Yet, with Vegeta, there was always something new. His voice was full-toned and in control, every word measured with deep intention. "I love this," he said, and he held her vulva like a face and kissed it.

"Oh Vegeta…" His lips began with a gentleness they had not graced above her waist. He kissed lightly, his fingers petting her outer folds in slow motion. The tenderness was incongruous with his fierce breathing, which she could hear and which she felt being exhaled in steaming pants against her most sensitive places. She felt rather than saw him examining her. For a long moment he made no motion to appease, then a sudden smear of pleasure told her that his mouth or his hand (she didn't know which!) had begun to make love.

"Vegeta, Vegeta, Vegeta…." Her head was thrashing from side to side, hair whipping her eyes. She had fallen back against the mattress. Yes, that was his mouth saying something against her clit, something mocking and mean but no matter, it was his mouth and the dim reverberation was shaking her to the core.

Bulma had only begun to lunge into her first orgasm when, with lightning speed, Vegeta's mouth left her only to be replaced by the massive pressure of his new arousal. Bulma felt herself lifted to an upright position by his arms and then he filled her, his thighs anchoring her body as she spasmed. He held her and fucked her for what seemed like hours. She knew nothing else but the beauty of his arms and cock and legs. She was not sure if she was weeping but she heard herself crying out at moments, and Vegeta's own voice answering her in anguish: "Bulma."

At some point lost to time and space, her belly was no longer contracting in aching fits, and she was merely shivering against the heaving wall of the man who held her. His sounds were rasps and grunts now, almost inhuman and yet that noise she recognized as her husband's voice made her sob, not from sexual ecstasy this time but from some swell of emotion in her chest. She pressed her face against his cheek, and he came, with a sharp cry that hurt her ear.

They held against one another, hearts hammering, upright in the bed for a long while. He held his ki-crackling palms apart from her like a surgeon holds up his hands after cleansing them. On either side of her face, the sound rustled into nothingness. Moisture pooled in the tightest places between them. When Vegeta moved one arm to reach for Bulma's face, she felt a shock of cold air where the arm had been pressing. The absence of perfect sex always assaulted her like that, cold space upon cold space, as he moved away. Even as he touched and kissed her warmly in closure, there was a loss. Loss even in the sweet exhausted wake, and because Bulma's body could not bear any more feeling, she lay back on the bed.

He followed her down. His head lay at the crook of her neck, one hand curled between her breasts and the other dropped against a pillow. He was somehow holding her lightly with his torso and legs, but his body was no longer part of hers. She wanted to speak but thought better of it, because his eyes were closed.

Vegeta was asleep again in no time. The nude length of his back and legs, illuminated by distant security lights outside the window, looked bluish and unreal. Full morning was still maybe an hour away. When she could think and feel again, Bulma lay awake considering so many things. She had been feeling such a strange sorrow since Buu's defeat. Maybe it was a frail sense of mourning?

Life had changed since Vegeta died. Things could never be as riotous and exciting again, for there was no imagining a greater challenge than Buu. Surely her husband was changed himself. Look at the way he slept holding her. He had always been a fidgety, light sleeper, wrecked with nightmares from his past and dread over his identity on her Earth. He was a monster pain in the ass to be married to, but Bulma the Adventurer had loved the excitement.

No, the close of all those years wasn't sad. And with this perplexing man, how could things ever be truly calm? Bulma couldn't stop gazing at her husband. His body was only slightly longer than her own on the mattress. Even if the Vegeta she had come to love in those past ten years was somehow different now, he was still the contrary bastard who was going to get on her last nerve. What was it about the way he was holding her in his sleep? The old Vegeta had been tentative, never wholly hers. This Vegeta was never going to leave planet Earth. Death was the only thing that could take him from her again.

The realization hit her with an almost sexual intensity. Deep inside her, some horror lurched, but the second she repeated the thought to herself, the odd feeling was gone. Death is the only thing that will take him from me again. She closed her eyes, sighed, and accepted that fact.

Until death then. If she got a couple hours good sleep, she could have him again before breakfast.

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