You have been warned in the previous and current chapter. It's not too late to exit this page.

WARNING: Erotica.

Because when life throws you lemons, squeeze those pulps dry and make some good lemon fics.

Soft Simple Pleasures

Part I: A Heart of Gold, A Heart of Stone

Never thought you'd make me perspire

Never thought I'd do you the same

Never thought I'd fill with desire

Never thought I'd feel so ashamed

My Sweet Prince by Placebo

"Did you wish it was you beneath me?"

"I did," he says, his voice low, husky, and filled with a fiery desire. But she gives him no response, her reactions can only be seen through her dilating pupils and heard through the rapid beating of her heart.

Prince Vegeta leans into her back, securing her in place even though he knows she isn't going to escape his grasp.

"That's alright," he whispers into her ear, his eyes burning intensely into her crystal depths through the mirror, a palm caressing her flat stomach seductively. He nuzzles her neck and kisses her hot flesh. Bulma's eyelids flutter close and she breathes heavily through parted lips, unconsciously inclining her head to the side as he plants another kiss, and another, and another. "You don't have to answer me right now. We'll find out soon enough."

He grabs her hips and turns her around slowly, very gently, before his gloved hands reach up to fondle the length of her torso. Up and down his palms go, feeling the roundness of her hips to the softness of every curve. Their eyes meet as his large callous hands skim past her breasts to her neck, and then encircling her slender column while his thumbs tease her pouty bottom lip.

He tilts her chin up and gazes down at her lips, musing about the hours he has spent yearning to devour those coral-hued bows. Slowly, he dips his head down and graces the tip of his lips against hers, warm breaths intermingling in the spaces between them. A soft touch at first to test the tenderness of her flesh, and then a light tugging on her bottom lip to reveal her tiny set of teeth. He pushes his tongue past her lips, sliding it across the ridge of her pearly white teeth, experimenting its smooth surface before retracting and going back to kissing her.

She tastes like sunshine and the earthy after-rain essence, reminding him of the sweetness of a stormy summer's day.

Bulma shudders against him, becoming lost in his kiss – so gentle, warm, and seductive, as she has never been touched like this before. Her hands slide up his chest plate, and he captures her wrists in a firm hold. He clutches them – softly at first, gauging and controlling the level of strength he can use on her, wondering about the level of pain she can endure. The grip in his hold increases until she gasps in pain, and he loosens his grasp.

He tears away from her lips and pulls her flushed against his body. Closing her eyes, Bulma rests her head on his chest and lets his hands caress her. Her heart blooms at the thought of her crush finally looking her way, even though she knows what he has in store for her. Still, the fact remains that she is in his arms.

He strokes the length of her back, starting with the shoulder, then the curve of her spine to the arc of her back, and finally her bottom. She wraps her arms around his waist and draws in his masculine scent. Since the day she arrived on this planet, she had never felt this safe and secure; loved even, if she admits to derangement. It has been a decade when she last felt somebody's tender touch, hence, she feels absolutely compelled to relish in the embrace of his powerful arms.

Vegeta feels her arms tighten around him. Maybe it is his imagination, but he thinks she is trembling. So he pulls back slightly and reaches up to cup her chin. As he sets his sight on her face, interpreting her blue eyes and delighting in the softness of her skin, he thinks and muses that he has never come across someone as fragile as this delicate creature. Once more, he descends and claims her lips, this time a little more fervent than before. His kiss deepens and she releases a moan, giving his feral instincts a boost.

He moves forward and backs her up against the wall roughly, forgetting to mind the back of her head as he devours her lips. He tugs her top down from the shoulder, revealing more of her juicy porcelain flesh but not yet exposing her precious mounds, and attacks the juncture of her neck and collarbone in a desperate haste; sucking and biting on the tender spot where her main artery resides. Bulma panics and in response, whimpers and reaches up in an attempt to push him away. But he overpowers her easily and, prying her hands off of his chest, painfully pinned her wrists on the wall.

Swirling in a burning, lusty haze urged by the sheer exquisiteness of her body, Prince Vegeta wants nothing more than to lose himself inside her. He releases her wrists and cups the underside of her breasts, squeezing and pushing them together as he nuzzles the plush top. A groan reverberated off his chest as he takes his haste down a notch and kisses his way up to her neck and jawline, and finally, her soft cheeks.

He pauses to lick his lips and, upon sampling a salted substance, furrows his brow in confusion. Eyelids flutter open to reveal a dark, disconcerted gaze, and as it focuses on her face, he realises it is her tears that he tasted. Quickly, he becomes alert and more aware of her and her odd discomposure. She has her head turned away from him and eyes clenched shut. Her cheeks are damped with moisture streaming down from the corner of her eyes. He swallows; his throat tightens at the sight of it.

Did I hurt her? He wonders, finding himself worried.

"Hey…" he calls softly, but she remains frozen as though she has tuned out everything that goes on around her, and he urges again, "Hey. Bulma."

The sound of her name reels her back to the present and she finally responds. Her eyes are teary but her gaze is lost. She turns to stare at him as though she had just seen a ghost, but when recognition strikes, she takes in her surroundings and looks around aimlessly, temporarily forgetting where she is.

She looks back at him with a surge of horror emanating from her eyes, rendering the prince into a bewildered bout of speechlessness. Then without so much as a warning, she crushes herself to him and wraps her hands around his waist. Vegeta, who is literally taken by surprise, slams his palms on the wall behind her to steady himself.

His gaze is lost in the crevices of the wall tiles, seemingly finding a crack to concentrate upon or crawl into as the female begins to sob. The saltiness of her tears fill his nasal passage, triggering his sense of smell and reminding him of the subtle scent of morning dews.

"Please… hold me," she whimpers, her voice nearly inaudible and he would have missed it if not for his keen hearing.

Such an odd request has never been asked of him before, so he is unable to respond with ease and thus chooses to remain strictly still. It isn't until Bulma tightens her hold on him only does he react, and even then, he is hesitant. He handles her like delicate china, gingerly straightening the top of her dress to cover her skin before gently placing a palm on the small of her back.

She lets out a shaky breath, moulding her body against the prince's muscular physique, and fleetingly thinks that his embrace could have been a little more intimate. Her teary blue eyes open, her mind drawing blanks save for the following thoughts.

Since when has the prince become the one to provide her with comfort? Was it that incident where he saved her, or that day when he'd sanctioned her secret hobby, or when she discovered that he had considerately borrowed the encyclopaedia for her from the royal library?

While she is busy deliberating the source of his comfort, Vegeta slowly comes to and wraps the other arm around her, containing her tiny, fragile frame in a powerful embrace. He gives her a moment of weakness, and at the same time, delighting in the feel of her body melting against his touch and the potent aroma that cannot seem to stop radiating from her skin. She is so tantalisingly desirable and, dare he say, divine.

He closes his eyes and dips his head down to her neck, sticking his nose particularly close to her pumping artery. He takes a deep whiff. That is where her scent is most intoxicating, he realises. As he indulges his senses with his alluring Human treat, he allows his mind to succumb to a temporary lockdown, and as such, nearly bowls over when he hears her next words.

"Am I being punished?"

His eyes pop open and he quickly reaches up in between them to cup her face, pulling back slightly to look her in the eye. The first thought that comes to mind is that whatever or whoever drove her to correlate sex with torment should be slayed.

"Sex is not a form of punishment," he explains, still mildly taken aback by how skewed her perception of sex must have been, "It is about giving pleasure, and receiving it."

He lowers his face and hovers his lips dangerously close above hers, staring deeply into her eyes and it suddenly dawns on him that she has absolutely no true experience in that department. The extent of her understanding of it must have stemmed from a foul act of rape that was performed on her to subdue her. His stomach tightens at that plausible notion – that someone had defiled a frail creature such as her in the worst possible manner imagined – and his blood boils, but strangely, he feels compelled to change her viewpoint on the matter. A small smirk graces his handsome features and he whispers, "I'll show you how."

Very gently he pushes her up against the wall again, this time minding the back of her head as he digs into her lush tresses, his tawny-coloured lips descending upon her plump ones.

His breath caresses her skin and she exhales into his mouth, melting against him and his kiss. Their tongues meet in a fervent rendezvous on her tiny teeth, the roof of her mouth, and so many more places. When they are done, the prince pulls away and takes her by the hand, prying her off the wall and leading her out of the bathroom.

He pulls her flush to his body, simultaneously capturing her lips in another fiery lip-lock and striding forward with determined steps. His powerful hands cup her hips as he pushes her back on her heels and guides her towards the direction of his bed. His callous fingers touch her in a restless caress, teasing every curve until they find the back sash of her attire. One hand tugs at the string that unties the bow, while the other reaches up for the pull tab of her zipper. He unzips her dress in an excruciating slow manner and observes the way the top of her dress falls past her shoulders to reveal more of her creamy fair skin, leaving the top of her bountiful mounds to his imagination.

Her dress inches downwards in a tantalising, most agonising slowness, and when it finally hits the floor, Bulma is left clad only in her underwear. Vegeta holds her close, a crooked grin on his face, as he lets his eyes delight in the length of her body – from her collarbone to her plush breasts and flat tummy. A hand samples the feel of a breast, effectively eliciting a sharp intake of breath through her swollen lips.

In all his adolescent hormone-driven years and still counting into his twenty's, Vegeta has sampled many types of breasts but never once felt bosoms as soft and full as hers. It is also the first time he's encountered coral pink nipples, a colour that complements her sweet lips, accompanied by areolas of the same shade that are dotted with adorable little bumps. The sight of them makes his mouth salivate and dry at the same time, providing him with an indescribable yearning.

He is fascinated as she is the complete opposite of him in every sense and briefly muses about the way the feminine colour goes well with her creamy, alabaster skin, making her all the more delicious. He dips his head to her chest and samples a pert, tender nipple, his tongue snaking out to swirl and tease. She gasps lightly and clutches the shoulder guard of his armour.

When he's sure her nipple is hardened to its utmost, he moves on to the other to bestow a similar treatment. Once he is done, they look even better and more enticing and he could feel a pleasurable surge flowing in the tightness of his pants, begging him to channel it into her warmth and burst with abandon. But for this one, he will be patient.

"Lie down," he groans out his demand, gazing deeply at her and already pulling off the tip of his gloves. Bulma blushes but obeys unquestioningly and takes her place on the bed, gingerly scooting backwards with the heel of her palms.

Vegeta watches closely as she reclines, taking note of the way she locks her knees and covers her chest to shy away. Endearing, a small part of him thinks, but that cannot do. On the bed, Bulma knows that his eyes are on her and thus, keeps hers glued to the ceiling to avoid his heated gaze. His gloves fall to the floor carelessly, followed closely by his armour. Soon, he is bare and ready, his hardened shaft twitching in anticipation. He climbs into bed and, like a seasoned prowler, makes his way to her on all fours.

The mattress sinks with his weight and, closing her eyes, Bulma braces herself when he is finally above her. She swallows, feeling his warmth on her face as he nuzzles and plants a trail of kisses on her temple, cheek, jawline, and neck. He reaches up in between them to encircle her wrists, moving them away from her breasts, and kisses her knuckles before pinning her hands above her head.

She watches as he feels up the contour of her body, observing the way he feasts his feral eyes on every part of her that he could set them on. All he can think of is how exotically beautiful she is; unlike anything or anyone he's seen before; most definitely unlike the Saiyan women he is accustomed to. He attacks her neck once again and she arches her back upon contact. His tongue and lips caress her skin recklessly, sucking the crooks of her collarbones, licking the valley of her breasts, and nibbling on her tender nipples.

His kisses descend further, his tongue leaving a wet trail down her stomach and stopping at her navel. He continues to tease her to elicit those sweet, soft moans from her lips which he finds desirable. Callous fingers reach out to her legs, their tips skimming deliciously slow over her skin until they hook at the band of her panties. His mouth approaches the apex of her thighs and with one swift pull, draws her underwear down.

Bulma gasps and locks her knees even tighter but he would have none of that, and a fine way to do it is to keep her relaxed. As such, he smothers her smooth legs with a string of kisses, successfully undressing her whole as he discards her undergarment to the floor. He finds amusement in her demureness and continues his relentless teasing, grinning against her skin and feathering his fingertips over the plane of her stomach and thighs. Once he reaches her knees, he pauses and gently pries her legs open. Bulma, in her lusty daze, snaps them shut again by reflex but the prince is uncompromising and gives her thighs a firm push apart, revealing her hidden feminine glory for his eyes to feast on.

Bulma props herself up on her elbows and gapes at Vegeta, her eyes wide as they will him to stop before she ruptures with embarrassment. But he pays her no heed and takes in the sight of her intimate part, noting how her nether lips are as fair as the rest of her body but with a slightly redder under tone at the rim – they look as though they are blushing just as hard as her cheeks.

He shoots her a devious look before diving down to her small blue furry patch, capturing her clit with his mouth and instantly earning a moan from her coral lips. Her back arches as she shudders from the sudden painful pleasure his tongue is eliciting. He pins her hips down in place and, deploying an impressive amount of measurable strength, his tongue alternates between swirling and flicking and pushing against her nub and thrusting into her folds – his movements are never too rough but never too gentle, just enough to keep her squirming.

Bulma whimpers and quivers as he builds her up mercilessly, her fingers hovering just above his head. Even amid her lusty haze, she still doesn't dare touch him and thus retracts her hand, clenching her fingers to squash away the urge to dig into his hair.

"My lord…" she rasps, her breaths coming out short and quick; her fingers clenching the bed sheets instead. Vegeta finds that he is annoyed and doesn't want her calling him as such. Thinking so, he feels very much compelled in correcting her and stops what he is doing and climbs over her.

"… 'Vegeta'," his deep voice drawls out into her ear, brushing his lips across her cheek and nuzzling her neck.

"In private, you may call me by my name," he adds, his warm breath caressing her skin, causing her to moan. It quickly dawns on him that the area is her sensitive spot and he smirks in the hollow of her throat at the revelation. Without further ado, his hand descends south and massages her clitoris with a middle finger.

"Vegeta!" Bulma gasps at the sudden surge of pleasure, not being given the time to recover from the previous build-up. Just how many more times does he intend to take her to the brink of ecstasy only to release and allow her to plummet before she even reaches the peak? It is rather unfair but Bulma has no time to dwell on the sexual prejudice her prince has caused as his fingers slide further south, slipping into her slick opening.

His index finger slinks in first, then the middle one, and both now expanding her inner walls as he fingers her deeply and gently like a man crafting an exquisite work of art. His wrist soon picks up pace and he watches her intently, delighting in the swishing of her wetness against the quick movement of his digits. She is like his instrument, and he, her instrumentalist. Her soft, bird-like pants and erotic moans travel to his ears like a reconstruction of an ancient classical music in which its vocal range and pitch harmonise to create a sweet rhythm – the perfect symphony.

A sonata that is exclusive to him.

That being said, every masterpiece comes with an interval, be it a gentle fade-out or an abrupt pause, moments before the grand finale. Vegeta retracts his hand just as Bulma is, once again, at the final step to the peak. She whimpers out her frustration; her body arches forward at the loss of contact, craving for the climax of which she is denied.

Amused, Vegeta grins uncharacteristically as he sits on his heels, twirling his fingers and observing the way her cum webs in the spaces between them. He lays his eyes on her face once more, slipping in the wet index finger into his mouth and tasting her essence of sweetness that is masked behind a light sweaty, salty, and savoury note. When he is done lapping up her juices, he licks his lips clean and crawls over her, sliding the remaining finger into her hot, inviting mouth.

After studying the way the prince puts his lips and tongue to work, Bulma sucks and licks, her tongue twirls and rolls, her teeth bites and grazes; as though it is an exotic delicacy, she indulges his finger. And he allows her on the merits of watching and interpreting her slow, sensual movements like a sexually charged prowler.

Vegeta removes his finger slowly; gently, tugging down her bottom lip as it glides out of her mouth, the anticipation of what is to come nearly driving them both insane. He kisses her deeply, grabbing a hold of her delicate wrist and leading her hand to his hardened shaft, their fingers wrapping around it as he guides her into a steady, pumping rhythm.

He pulls away from the kiss and Bulma dares a glance downwards. She gasps at the sight of his engorged member, absolutely positive that he wouldn't fit her, and starts to push him away. But his lips find her neck and he nibbles the sensitive spot, making her shudder once more. "Vegeta, I can't," she breathes out, making another futile attempt to slip away from him, but he holds her in place, pinning her wrists beside her head.

"You can," he asserts, probing lower and sliding an inch of himself into her moist opening, "… And you will."

He eases his full length into her and she draws in a sharp gasp at his sudden intrusion. She arches her back and then collapses with a huff that turns into a strangled moan, writhing under his muscular body while he stretches her inner walls. Her fingernails bite into the flesh of his arms as he moves inside her, slowly and very gentle, allowing her to grow accustom to his size.

Her breaths are feather-like as they wash over his skin in soft little wafts, her lips projecting a light gasp with every thrust he makes. When he is certain that she is much more relaxed and receiving him with ease, his pace gradually increases until he is ramming away.

Bulma's moans are mingled with Vegeta's grunts. He grips her hips as they gyrate against one another in smooth, circular motions, his arousal digging in deep and hitting her core with every rotation of his hips. He peers down at her, eyes shadowed and lips pressed into a line of determination as he works, and Bulma cannot help but to feel embarrassingly exposed under his intense spotlight of a glance even though they have already gone past the boundary.

His thrusts are steady, eventually picking up pace, but would periodically fall back to their initial rhythm. Despite the lusty haze that fogs up his mind, Vegeta is relatively sober, enough to be aware of his surroundings – something about being in control of his mind and body, and that of hers as well.

There are times when he ceases his movements and finds a look of disconcertment amid lust-filled blue eyes. Those are the times when he feels as though he is dangling on the edge of her sky blue orbs – a colour which shifts into a sea of deep blue – moments from falling from the height of which he has climbed and plunging into the abyss, drowning and begging for air. Eye colour cannot change, she says, he remembers.

He'd then regain his senses and shove into her forcefully; demandingly; taking control and gauging her level of endurance to the amount of strength he is allowed to deploy into her fragile body without breaking a single bone.

She is like a precious book and Vegeta is determined to study her in detail. His fingertips feather lightly across her skin, noting the quality of its cover; evaluating its value; judging its content; flipping through the pages one at a time. He absorbs her wholly, taking his time to know her through and through; all of her strengths, all of her weaknesses.

Soon, her body starts to move on its own, matching his maddening rhythm and meeting his feverish thrusts. Bulma lets him take what she could never demand, giving him a part of herself freely as she rides the waves of ecstasy. In this one act of desire, all of last ten years seem distant, irrelevant, and unreal. It is like a fantasy playing out vividly in her mind as he takes control of her body, her will. His body moulding against hers, his lips kissing hers, and his warmth heating her up – the product of her imagination.

Is it slavery if she gets what she wants?

Back on Earth, gold had been a luxury to mankind and yet, not everyone had the privilege of possessing it. The blue-haired Human had always associated gold with wealth. It had always been the colour of riches, of people clamoured in diamond rings and fancy cars and majestic horses of elite families. The colour that she used to associate herself with, the colour that was meant for her.

But they have now become distant, irrelevant, and unreal. She associates gold with the man above her, and as she squirms beneath him, he shines like the opulent colour, glowing in regal power and exuding an allure of wealth. He is the colour of luxury; the colour that is not meant for her, and never will.

And no matter how much she hopes, no matter how much she wants, she is a simple servant and he is a prince.

His eyes are downcast, looking deeply into hers as he digs his fingers into her hair. As though he read her mind, he captures her lips in a searing kiss and continues to move with her, extending her pleasure at his control. Her breath hitches in her throat and she throws her head back, her back arching and buckling, allowing him a deeper angle to slam into.

As she exposes her neck, Vegeta takes the chance to ravage the hollow of her throat for the millionth time, simultaneously thrusting in a firm and steady rhythm and jerking them both forward until she is pushed up against the headboard. He hooks his thick forearms beneath her knees and hoists her legs over his shoulders, his large hands supporting her tiny waist and pushing her down on him. Bulma is now trapped in between two hard places, and rating from the raging heat from the friction he is inducing, something sparks inside her, something feral, something raw, but nothing like she has ever felt before – a feeling that sends her towards a dangerous edge.

A hand slinks up her neck and his fingers find their way back into the nest of her tresses. He pulls her head back as much as the space between her and the headboard allows him, staring into her eyes and not letting her not look at him as he ploughs deeper, harder… faster.

His fist tightens against her scalp and Bulma bites back a cry, whimpering and trembling without a word. He quickens his pace and intensifies his momentum, but he does not let her stumble, only allowing her to melt against him and drown in an ocean of ecstatic bliss. Sweat glistens against their skin, making him look like a mountain drenched with stormy rain droplets and her, like pink roses sprinkled with morning dewdrops.

He bites her on the shoulder, his teeth sinking down and so close to piercing the delicate layer of her dermis and she wonders, as she finally reaches the peak she has been yearning to attain and cries out his name, will she bleed?

Her voice, so sweet to his ears like soft music; and her wail, so raw and untamed and lost in pleasure, beckoning and urging him to unleash the beast inside. He tries reasserting his control, keeping himself at bay and unwilling to yield to her cries of desire in a selfish attempt to elongate his own orgasm. But like a dam threatening to burst, he breaks through that wall and erupts in torrents all over her, inside her, his flow marking her as his… no control whatsoever.

They soar to the highest height and plunge from it together. Vegeta drops and lies on top of her, regaining his breathing and nuzzling her throat and feeling her frenzy pulse against his lips, while Bulma trembles quietly beneath him, completely spent, quivering and catching her breath in little air intakes.

The prince rolls off and lies next to her, drawing in deep breaths to contain his own rapture. His eyes scan the ceiling above as he replays the last hour over and over and over in his head. So much so, he is oblivious when Bulma shifts beside him and turns to lie on her side.

Like a kitten she curls up into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest as she gives herself a moment to alight from her recent climax. Her mind is now a mixture of confusion and wonder, but painful memories force themselves into her mind, mercilessly bringing her back to that one night when the warden had… when the warden had…

She shuts her eyes and wills the disturbing imagery away. It is easy to think of ponies and ice-creams to replace the pictures in her head but the feeling those memories incite proves to be a little more difficult to expel. It was a painful experience; a punishment that she didn't know better and had reluctantly but detachedly received. Versus the feeling that Prince Vegeta has just instilled within her, she admits that he is right about one thing – sex is about giving pleasure, and receiving it; and did she receive it? A ghost of a smile tugs at her lips, and she can only hope that she has given just as much as she has received.

Bulma draws in a lungful of air before removing herself from the bed to retrieve her clothes. She spots her uniform on the floor and picks it up, and as she slips a foot into her attire, the prince speaks.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks, propping himself up on an elbow, lounging lazily as he watches her with wariness. She shudders with much unease at the revelation of how a simple gaze from him could render her nearly immobile.

But imageries of his coupling with that other woman rush to her head and Bulma cannot forget that he had dismissed the woman right after he was done, and so assumes he'd expect the same of her.

"I… I didn't think you'd want me here," she says, her voice raspy and coarse from all the screaming. And when he remains still, she looks down at her half-worn dress, her face donning a disconcerted expression.

Vegeta registers her words and studies her face intently, wondering why in Saiyan hell she would think as such. She dares a glance at him and notices his uncertainty but then tears her gaze away, her cheeks flaring up a bright crimson. Then with a voice soft and careful, she refreshes his memory, relaying what she assumed to be factual in his books. His mind clicks and he scoffs at the absurdity of her logic, garnering a look of concern from his blue beau. Despite the frown on his face, he relaxes and teases, "Did I say you can leave?"

Petrified that she may have angered the prince, Bulma shakes her head warily in a silent 'no'. He then pats the empty spot on the bed, silently goading her to return to his side. She eyes the hand that called to her and puts away her dress, gingerly scooting back into his arms in all her naked glory. Vegeta shifts, allowing her a comfortable space, and gazes deeply into her eyes. He stares for a long time and his restless hands would occasionally wander across the threshold of her soft body – discovering, experiencing – and she would let him.

Bulma cannot ignore the giddiness she is feeling inside whenever her love interest gazes at her after knowing him in the most intimate manner, but she also cannot ignore the fact that this love interest will never bloom into something more than just one or two rolls in the hay. As such, she remains quiet and resigned while he caresses her, relinquishing all hopes as she gives him a wistful smile.

Meanwhile, an emotional storm is raging inside Vegeta. Take her once, he reminds himself, and get her out of your system for good. But once will not be enough, he argues, there is so much more to explore, so much more to understand. Torn and rendered uncertain by his own inner voice, the urge to snap her neck beckons just from the sheer power she has over him for simply being. His hand reaches up, brushing past her breasts and against her collarbone before lightly encircling her throat. But she smiles up at him and he pauses. That one innocent act stops him from ending her life and he suddenly draws the conclusion that he is going to keep her, that he never, ever wants to see her lifeless, as though he had known it all along.

"You were wrong," he smirks, claiming her swollen lips in another searing kiss, the hand meant to kill sliding to the back of her head. Once he is done, he hovers close to her face, his warmth washing over her cool skin, and breathes against her lips, "Eye colour can change."

After that day, Prince Vegeta and Bulma continue their affair in secrecy, tangling limbs together whenever possible. He can never get enough of her and would intercept her while she is working in his study or bathroom. Times when he would rouse in the middle of the night and pine for her touch, he'd freely summon for her presence, undoubtedly confirming suspicions and rumours that have been circling around the household. But the prince's wordless authority overpowers the staff's propensity for wordy gossips, and not a soul would dare breathe a word, lest they breathe their last.

He has Bulma in his embrace for three months now, and with time, she has only become more creative and willing and exhausted, but with time, Vegeta also wants more and more of her. Nights when he has her over, she would return to her quarters, sometimes wobbling but mostly sated, and wake up tired. Yet, no one would reprimand her for she would make up for her fatigue, persevering to the last hour despite having to endure the prince's advances in between. Besides, she cannot say that she doesn't enjoy the arrangement.

However, after one sweltering evening, spent and pleasures fulfilled, Bulma finds herself lounging on the bed feeling more comfortable in his presence than usual. Her back is facing Vegeta and she seems contented from simply resting. At least this is what the prince speculates as he lies beside her with his upper torso casually propped up by an elbow while the other hand traces the soft skin on her back.

It is times like these that he takes in a little pleasure to appreciate and revel in the slowness of the day and comfortable silence between two people. He studies her body, relishing in the smoothness of her curves and pale yet captivating complexion. Who would have thought that Humans and Saiyans were anatomically compatible?

More often than not, he tries to goad her into light conversations but she rarely speaks to him, no more than the necessary yes-no answers that are typically followed by the formal addressing of his title. He doesn't mind the status calling, so long as she regards him on a personal basis when writing in pleasure.

There are days when the woman would talk, more than he expected, but today, she is exceptionally quiet. Normally when she is this resigned or tired, she'd still make the smallest of noises – light sniffles, gentle clearing of the throat, and heavy, steady breathing after her pumping heart settles down. But there are none of that and Vegeta briefly wonders, as his fingers feather across the fading scars on which her body bears, why that is.

"What's on your mind?" he thinks out loud and quickly holds his tongue, realising much too late to take it back.

Bulma stiffens, the vibration of his guttural voice washing over her bare skin along with the warmth of his breath. She turns around slowly to lie on her back, meeting his firm gaze for a second, never expecting him to take interest in her welfare.

"You are the prince… and I, a servant," she states the obvious, her eyes hooded and averted and her voice small, and yet the volume of her words conveys a louder meaning, "What does this all mean?"

Vegeta's movements falter as soon as she finishes, but only because he has been caught off guard by the sheer uncertainty of the question she poses. Its weight hangs heavily on the edge of his mind as he truly ponders the question. What exactly does it all mean? He despises being in doubt of himself and incontrollable of a situation, they often bring out the worst in him. Usually he faces them on the battlefield, but hardly ever in bed.

Before he engaged Bulma, he had been sure it would be a one-off affair. It was what he told himself before making his move. But he decided to keep her and one-off became one time too many, and before he knew it, he had taken her to the hilt of pleasure for days, weeks, and now, months.

She has become a malicious addiction that he keeps securely by his side, a powerful drug and antidote that is not to be shared, and indulged only to quench his sexual thirst. Her Human body is so unlike to that of the women of his kind and yet, as he watches her face contort with a mixture of pain and pleasure, as he thrusts into her and hears her cry out the immeasurable ecstasy that bursts within her core, he feels.

He feels a string of emotions tying itself around his hardened warrior heart, a place where feelings of warmth and compassion have no business residing. This occurrence is persistent, sneaking up on him usually at the very end of each coitus, the second he releases into her. Each time it happens, he ends up trying to convince himself that she is nothing more than just a sinful indulgence.

So, again, he asks himself, what exactly does it all mean?

"What do you want it mean?" he murmurs back, moving to sit up, avoiding her gaze. A little voice in his head tells him that this is not going to end well.

"What we are doing," says Bulma softly, sitting up as well and pulling her legs close to her chest, "… is it not a scandal?"

Vegeta is quiet, his face contemplative. It is in all honesty when he thought she should be nothing more than a sinful indulgence. A prince and his chambermaid; scandal is possibly the most accurate term to describe this affair, even though none of the other servants in this house would dare acknowledge it as such.

"We both know that you will never be seen in the eyes of the public," Vegeta declares truthfully, his voice monotonous. He dares a glance at her and finds her head lowered and eyes hooded. She is fighting back tears.

Bulma knows her life has been less than fortunate. Fate has traded her life of wealth, family, and love with a life of enslavement, pain, and heartache, taking everything she holds dear against her will and leaving no chance for her to find even the slightest of happiness. As a Human, she yearns companionship, compassion, and affection; something in life to be contented with, something to be happy for.

Something to live for.

The time when she had been in Vegeta's arms are times when she feels genuinely safe and happy, but those are also times when reality clashes with fantasy, creating a deluded pathway on which she ignorantly walks. Her brain knows that Vegeta is the prince of Vegetasei – an unattainable individual. But her heart tells her that he is Vegeta, the boy who helped her out of his own kindness, who turned into the man she finds herself falling for – one of whom she discovers is capable of a gentle touch, one of whom she has come to love – is the same unattainable individual.

Pretending always helps her remember, and at the same time, it also makes her forget. It is only through pretending that she believes in her ability to survive, in the power to retaining her sanity.

When she is in his arms, she pretends that they are soul mates. She pretends that he loves her wholeheartedly. And she pretends that she is happy. But as days go by, as their affair takes a terrible turn in her head, solidifying the foundation in her feeble state of mind that this sinful dalliance between them is real, she can no longer pretend because it makes her forget what true happiness is like, reminding her of the agony and heartache that are harbouring just beyond the pier of her heart. Reality stands out like a sore thumb and the more she pretends, the more painful the truth becomes.

And because of this revelation, it occurs to her that she is broken, and has been damaged all this time.

"It isn't fair," she says, all her anguish poured out in three little words, and when she raises her eyes to meet his hardened gaze, she wishes the words could be taken back.

Vegeta's lips tighten, the rim white from the pressure of his teeth clamping down on his inner delicate flesh. He breathes through his nostrils, their passageways flaring angrily and looking as though they are about to expel fire. But he douses the internal fire as he comes to understand the position she is in. In all actuality, this subject has been hovering in his head for a while now. All the prerequisites in the mate he should look for of which the Queen had laid down befit just about anybody. But he finds that he doesn't want just anybody. He stares at the blue-haired servant in his bed and his mind comes to a dead end.

"What did you expect out of this?" he asks bluntly, his intention every bit as genuine as his bloodline but the tone of his voice belies it.

Stubborn silence radiates strongly on Bulma's end, its thickness washing over the Saiyan prince and tickling his temper to its edge. It is widely known that he is not a man of patience, not when his integrity is being questioned. And as much as he has been patient where she is concerned, be it measuring his strength to keep from hurting her delicate flesh or constructing the right words to coax her into relaxing against his touch, there is still a limit to how far one can test before he decides if they are worthy to live.


She flinches from the sheer rumbling of his deep voice, its resonance pronounced, eager, and powerful. It frightens her to the bone but still she tries to appear unaffected and strong, much like the way she had all those ten years ago.

"Nothing that you can give," she murmurs softly, if not boldly, as she suddenly finds herself no longer afraid of him.

Offended, the prince glares at the only woman he shares his bed with for the last three months. She has undermined him and he is not glad. When has he ever gone all out for a woman, what more an alien female? He has given her leeway, enlightened her, given her the kind of freedom most would kill for, and here she says that he cannot give her what she desires.

No. He is not glad.

Is it a challenge that she poses? He could give her anything her little, feeble Human heart desires, can he not?

"Name it," he growls.

Her eyes flash and flare up at his words, a small part of her that was once used to the tone of a challenge by a superior sparks, and the defiance that has been buried deep inside those azure depths begins to resurface.

"… If what I want is something substantial, something precious, something real, something that I can wake up to every morning… will you be able to give it to me?" she stares at him, her eyes tearing up and she takes in a deep breath to stop herself from crying, but one single teardrop betrays her, "... Will you be able to give me back the last ten years of my life?"

Vegeta stares unblinkingly, his lips parting ever so slightly before he tears his gaze away. With a light huff and steady voice, he tells her, "I can never be your lover." He blinks, unsure if he even mean those words.

Bulma lowers her head, eyes shadowed and teeth clamped against the inner flesh of her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. It is just as she has expected, but even as she feels a little more than relief for getting things off her chest, the absence of the weight still breaks her heart.

"I understand."

Does she really? Vegeta thinks, looking back at her. And what would her next course of action be? Continue to lay in bed with me? Threaten to disclose the affair? Demand for riches in exchange for her body?

"The truth hurts, and the ideology of you as a house servant being involved with me will never be in favour to the public or the King and Queen. For that, I will give you an offer."

Bulma glances warily at the man before her, and while her expression is guarded, the beating organ behind her rib cage feels as though it is about to explode.

"You can either stay as you are, and I shall bestow you with the title of Royal Mistress who will tend to matters of this house and undertake my needs in every sense of the word. You will dwell in the riches I offer and never have to lift another feather duster for as long as you live-"

He pauses, allowing his words to sink in, "- Or you can leave the warmth of my bed and I shall give you my word as prince that I will, henceforth, never interfere with your life again."

Unless fate deems otherwise, he thinks, getting up from the bed and moving towards the bathroom. He stops and lingers by the door and adds in a note more solemn than expected, "It is your choice."

He glances back in time to see her turning away, looking crushed and resigned, and lets his gaze linger for a moment longer. Where has the spark gone? he wonders, the question popping up in his head just as quickly as the answer that appears after it. You just diffused it, you fool.

The self-accusation loiters in the forefront of his mind until he can no longer bear witness to her evident distraught. He quickly enters the bathroom and locks the door behind him, turning on the shower head and allowing the water's powerful pressure to drown out any sound she might make; drown out the voices in his head. He then takes a stand by the sink, leaning his back against the counter as he folds his arms, and waited.

Ten minutes pass by and he begins to pace the spacious bathroom floor. When he can wait no more, he goes to take a shower, cranking up the temperature to a near-scalding degree. At least the heat will numb his flesh and subsequently, derail his train of thought.

Moments later, he gets out of the shower stall and wraps a fresh towel around his waist, finally ready to see the woman. A large part of him anticipates her lying on the bed and waiting for him. If she decides to stay, then he could have all of her without boundaries. If not, he would let her go.

The smaller part of him that's left is his heart, where the possibility of all things acidic like disappointment and despair dwells. But he knows he shouldn't give a name to the things that she incites in him, nor should he allow those feelings to manifest into something unstoppable. Because the inability to control and be the master of his emotions constitutes him as weak, and Prince Vegeta is anything but weak.

His hand clutches the door handle with a firm grip and slowly, not exactly wanting to, he pulls it open. His face is placid and knuckles turning white from clenching the knob too tightly. And as he lets out the breath that he has been stubbornly holding on to, all he can do is stare at his bed.

Thirty odd minutes later Vegeta finds himself lounging alone on the edge of his mattress, back hunched and elbows propped against his knees. He stares out of the large picture window, gazing hauntingly into the night. The pale glow of the planet's two crescent satellites trump the shimmering stars that shroud behind a bed of dark clouds, but no matter how much the blackness of the sky swallows up the light, it can never be as dim as the pits of Vegeta's heart.

Everything around him seems to be frozen in time, but everything inside him is spiralling nearly out of control. He blinks as though the single muscle twitch could wink away the imageries of Bulma. Maybe he is overthinking things, but he deeply wonders if he could drop everything about her with a snap of his fingers. Certainly he could do it, considering he has done it many times with other women, his squad members, his enemies, and his victims.

He angrily refuses to believe that the duration of the last three months with that one single female has drastically changed him internally. And so, getting up and putting on his training gear, he has decided.

He may have been dumped by an alien female, but she is not a significant enough reason for him to get hung up over. Even killing her seems like a waste of his efforts. She has made her choice and he will adhere to the requisites as stipulated in his proposal. She is a mere chambermaid, his servant and subordinate and, henceforth, she will be well reminded of her place for he is her lord and ruler, the Crown Prince of Vegetasei.

Yes, Vegeta. Continue telling yourself that.

A/N: I apologise for the late update. My laptop charging cable died on me (since the update of Legendary Evolution) and I got it replaced immediately, but the darn thing arrived only a few days ago. Yay me!

And thanks for reading! Again, I apologise for errors spotted. Do review and tell me what you think of Chapter 3.1.

I hope the wait was not disappointing. And this is not the end, and yes, there will be a Chapter 3.2. Or Chapter 4, if you'd like to call it that but I did say this is a 3-piece fic. I blame it on the fact that I cannot stop myself from writing long ass chapters! T_T