Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rolling Stone Magazine – The Last Full Moon is Rising, Once Again!

_______________________________

The cult fan favorite, Blue Moon and the Saiyans are remastering their hit debut album – The Last Full Moon in memory of their deceased and beloved bassist, Nappa Green. The group broke up shortly after their world tour riding off the wild success of the album. Lead guitarist, Vegeta Saiyan, infamously left the band and stormed off stage in the middle of a show in 1979. While rumors were neither confirmed nor denied, fans have been speculating for the last fifteen years whether it was over an unrequited love between lead singer Bulma Moon, daughter to world famous and filthy rich inventor, Boxer Briefs. It seems the band has been able to put aside their differences over the mutual mourning of Green, and the original line up is back in the studio to re-record with brothers Goku Saiyan, percussion, and Radditz Saiyan, keyboard, both cousins to Vegeta. Even Bulma Moon, now going by her given last name Briefs and following in her father’s footsteps of engineering, has agreed to the album. Playing alongside them will be Vegeta’s brother, Tarble Saiyan and band’s former manager, taking the lead on the bass in honor of Green. MTV has already been pushing for a live unplugged televised broadcast of it in its finality. Rolling Stones will be covering their story and providing photos and updates.

_______________________________

1994

Listen to the wind blow, down comes the night
Running the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies
Break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light

\\//\\//\\//\\//

Bulma turned the dial on her radio in her baby blue convertible. She hadn’t been keeping up with the latest music and needed to find something she could actually appreciate. She flickered with the dial until she suddenly heard the ending chords of an all too familiar song.

“That was The Chain, from Blue Moon and the Saiyans. Rumor has it the band is getting back together to re-record—”

She punched the radio off, cutting the voice of the radio announcer, glaring at it until she heard the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle revving in the distance.

“Fucking fuck.” An exhale of smoke, some sort of eulogy left her lips in a sigh as she saw the motorcycle pull into the parking lot.

She yanked the cigarette back between her red lips, willing the tremor in her hand to stop.

He put down the kickstand and ripped off his helmet. He was an apparition yanking down the curtain that separated them for the last fifteen years. It was as though the clock had never moved; time had ceased to have any meaning as the black pointed flame of his hair struck upward. But as she looked closer, there was a freckle of gray in the ebony. A slight stubble against his rigid jaw. Fine creases near his brow and cheeks, somehow making him even more fucking handsome. A sculpture with small cracks in it to show how long it had been appreciated and admired for. It maturity. The aviators conveniently shielded his eyes from her so she could see nothing, and he could hide everything.

Not that she could ever figure out what the fuck he was thinking in the first place even with his black eyes unguarded.

She sat, frozen, glued to the white vinyl of her convertible. As though she was somehow in cognito even though she was out in the open, wide-eyed behind her black, oval sunglasses.

He was smoothed out in denim jeans that fit too good for anyone’s own god damn business, a dark brown bomber jacket strained against his shoulders, a black t-shirt fitted to his slim waist. She swallowed down the nicotine and the dryness that overwhelmed her at just the sight of him. An unwelcome ache in her chest, a longing that she attempted to smother but never quite got the hang of.

His steps were assured, confident. The smack of his black boots hitting the pavement of the parking lot. He hadn’t seen her yet. He probably assumed she would never get here early.

He was always the one for punctuality. He used to wring his hands in fury at how predictably late she, Raditz and Goku always were. He would tell them they were inconsiderate assholes.

But here she was.

Punctual.

Early, even.

Chain smoking Virginia Slims out of business, picking at the red nail polish that she didn’t know why she even bothered to get painted in the first place, they always chipped right away.

This is why she was never on time.

She was being punished.

The simmering wave of dawn brushed past the amber trees above them. A cool breeze tossed her blue locks around her. Something stirred in the air, and he seemed to sense it. He snapped his head towards her direction.

His boot smacked against the pavement one last time and stopped, frozen in place. His jaw clenched, his body stiffened, and his frown lifted considerably before creasing again.

She waved.

She actually fucking waved at him.

A roll of her fingers, her lips parted in anticipation before realization tapped her on the shoulder.

If only she could just die, vanish into thin air, get abducted by aliens.

Anything.

She could hear his ‘tch’ a snap in the otherwise calm air, rising over the soft song of the birds.

“I didn’t know you were able to tell time. Did you forget to set your clocks back or something?” His voice, his fucking voice.

She somehow willed herself to stop from visibly shuddering at the way it scratched every part of her that hadn’t been properly itched.

And just like that, fury overtook her. His ability to go from clenching around her heart to making her want to deck him, was truly impressive.

“I see you still didn’t manage to figure out that whole issue of being an asshole,” she muttered under her breath.

The remains of a smile flickered across his face, until he seemed to realize himself and shook it off. A solider returning to salute position when they noticed that they had relaxed a bit too much.

He sidled over to her car, keeping a safe distance but close enough that she caught the sharpness of his aftershave. The heady spearmint, cedar and distinctly him, a combination of salt and stone. She could feel her pulse thickening.

“Are you gonna sit in your car all day or are we going to record this fucking album and get it over with?”

“Maybe, haven’t decided yet.”

She wished that she didn’t sound as petulant as she did but there wasn’t much that she could do about it.

“Hey Geets! Hey B!”

They both turned their attention to Goku who had gone from a steady stroll to a strong jog over towards the pair.

“Has hell suddenly fucking frozen over? You’re on time, too?”

“You said, seven o’clock, right?” Goku said, grinning widely at them.

Bulma beamed at her friend. She hadn’t seen him in a few years, not since he and Chi-Chi had gotten caught up in domestic life with their son, Gohan. And Bulma got caught in the whirlwind of taking over Capsule Corp, traveling the world, attending so many meetings with incompetent ancient men that she couldn’t even read spreadsheets properly without frowning. But the soft spot for her friend stayed there, still. He wore gym shorts and a gray hoodie that already had a ketchup stain on it, white sneakers with a gym bag hanging off of his shoulder.

“Yes, because I knew that meant you would get here at 8-8:30. And we start recording at 9.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Goku frowned, scratching the back of his head. Bulma smiled, fondly, feeling as though nothing had changed at all.

Vegeta grumbled something under his breath before storming away.

“Geez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” Goku said, laughing.

”He woke up on the wrong side of this god damn Earth.”

Goku howled with laughter and nodded in agreement.

Bulma got out of the car and gave him a big hug.

“I’ve missed you, kiddo,” she said into the fabric of his hoodie, taking care not to smudge her face into the ketchup stain.

“Miss you, B! Chi-Chi is coming by once Gohan is out of school to come say hi, too. We all miss you.”

Bulma pulled away from him.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Things have just been crazy lately. I haven’t seen you all since the funeral. Well, not Vegeta. I haven’t seem him in…”

“Fifteen years,” Goku finished the sentence for her. His eyes hardened ever so slightly, and it was in moments like this when she was reminded that Goku was no longer the naive and aloof kid she had once known. He was secretly very perceptive about things that truly mattered.

Silence tugged between them at the memory. First, standing over Nappa’s open casket, tears welling in her eyes at the sight of the larger-than-life man, looking so incredibly small and sallow. His young son in his black suit sniffling back tears, pawing at his face with his sleeve.

She couldn’t bear that memory anymore.

A twist, a swirl of the sound of Vegeta’s guitar thudding onto the stage. A desperate clatter, cards being folded back into a losing hand. The violent scream of the amplifier rushing to find a home, caught in the wires and atmosphere instead. The pulse of neon lights, framing him, a spotlight wavering around him like a halo. The furious and wild look in his eyes as he stormed away from her, from everyone. She shook her head, she couldn’t go there, not right now.

She had to actually fucking look at him now, not just in her mind’s eye when she lay twisted beneath bed sheets, panting. Or writhing beneath a man, who could never quite fulfill her like he once did.

So she couldn’t think.

Not about him.

Goku seemed to sense the trepidation written all over her and rustled his hand on top of her head affectionately. She rolled her eyes, swatting away her non-biological brother but nonetheless grateful for him.

“I have a feeling we’ll be waiting a while for Raditz, so why don’t we go on and head inside?” She suggested and the two walked over to the entrance of the office building.

Bulma had been correct that Raditz would be the only one to live up to his reputation of tardiness and stroll in wearing what looked very much like his outfit from the night before and a half-spilled coffee, a bottle of Jamison tucked into the crook of his arm, a knot in his wild black mane. 

“Well, well, well if it isn’t ‘The Most Beautiful Woman in the World,’” Raditz sighed as he placed his various beverages down and palmed his hands on his hips, in a very Bulma-like stance.

Bulma grinned before running over to Raditz and throwing her arms around him.

///

Vegeta tuned his guitar, fiddled with it, brushed his calloused thumb against the strings. Stroking it like letters of an epitaph, muscle memory overwhelming him. He hadn’t played in years. Resigning himself to the more comfortable and consistent life of producing instead of traveling in claustrophobic tour buses and taking red eye planes to play guest lead guitar for random bands. It had been easier being off the stage. Easier to not think. To not think about her on stage. What it felt like playing beside her, the static and the electricity pulsating between them. An unwavering connection of sound waves and desire. To play beside anyone else, felt like and empty chasm inside of him.

So, it was better not to think.

Easier.

To not think. Specifically, about her.

He had become skilled at it over the years. Sure, it was a little bit difficult to avoid seeing the most famous woman in the world. In fact, just a few weeks ago he was standing in line at the grocery store, arms full of chicken and pre-made salads, only to have his eyes wander to the magazine rack and get stared down by the very blue he pretended was not branded into his retinas. His throat closed, he slammed his groceries onto the conveyor belt and turned away with a growl.

But he hadn’t seen her in person since…

His hands tightened, a vice like grip onto his fender. He shook his head.

No.

Not now.

But here he was, with a blistering front row seat to her. Looking somehow more stunning than she had fifteen years ago. Her blue hair was cut bluntly above her shoulders, straightened to a curl that seemed to point directly towards her chest. Her signature bangs that had famously been side swept around her cheekbones, now cut across her brow, highlighting her sapphire eyes. She looked more polished, more restrained. Slightly more tamed. And yet altogether the same storm that had always decimated anything in her wake.

She pulled away from Raditz and smacked his shoulder over something he had whispered to her. He had always hated the ease with which the two of them got along together. Something always confidently connecting them with a friendship of familiarity and comfort. It had never been comfortable between him and Bulma.

He swallowed, practically strangling the neck of his guitar. The fucking succubus she was, daring to laugh at a time like this! The sparkling sound it made, how she lit up the entire god damn room she was in. As if being naïve to the fact that her very presence had him neck deep in quicksand. She, of course, wore a tight—too tight, white turtleneck. The fabric was pulled against her breasts, straining so hard that he wondered if (hoped) a seam was going to tear. She wore a black bra underneath, obviously on purpose, as it stuck out against the white fabric. A plaid skirt that was indecently short, bordering on obscene, with translucent black tights underneath of it pulled taught against her thighs. She was the walking embodiment of ‘haha look at everything you could have had, asshole.’

She had already kicked her shoes off. Black covered toes dancing around the room, on top of the Persian rugs. Something that had usually appalled him, how she could just waltz around barefoot in recording studios, even on stage sometimes, instead it yanked at something deep inside of his chest, scorching him.

Affection and longing, reared their ugly faces up, ruining any chance of nonchalance.

“Hey, Geets, you’re gonna break your fender, staring at her like that,” Raditz nudged Vegeta sharply in the side with his elbow.

“Get fucked,” Vegeta hissed.

“I already did, this morning, why do you think I was late? Thank you for asking,” he winked and howled with laughter at the grimace on Vegeta’s face at such an admonition.

Raditz looked exactly the same, except that his hair was even longer, more out of control than it had been years past. He had precisely two dimples on either side of his smile that were the only indication that he wasn’t forever 27 years old. Raditz had embraced the current grunge era and was decked out in plaid and torn up denim. His grin was wild, unruly, just like his personality. Canines flashing that glimmer of the inability to just sit still. He had taken to DJing since the band’s demise and had been touring all over the world. He dropped his tour just to be here.

Vegeta hadn’t seen him in over a year and he forgot just how fucking annoying his cousin could be.

“What about snacks? Why aren’t there any snacks?” He heard the whine of Kakarot’s voice. A traumatic flashback of watching Kakarot, hands covered in the grease and dust of cheese doodles, touching his drum kit, smoothing over the lines of wires sprawled out around them like a spider’s web. Turning the dials on Vegeta’s amplifier, leaving orange fingerprints in his wake.

On second thought, Kakarot was definitely still the more annoying of the two.

Tarble strolled into the room carrying a case of soda with bags of chips stacked on top. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got you covered, cuz!”

Tarble, Vegeta’s equal in height but with about only half of his body muscle, struggled with carrying so many things at once. He plopped it onto the table next to Raditz’s coffee and bottle of Jamison, arching an eyebrow of judgment.

“Oh my god, you remembered!” Bulma shrieked with delight as she clung to a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

“How could I forget! We should have bought stock in Kellog’s during the tour at how many boxes you had gone through,” Tarble laughed, as Bulma pulled away from the hug she had wrapped him in.

Vegeta hated how just fucking happy everyone was. As though it were a high school reunion but he was the kid that got picked on and everyone just had pity in their eyes when they looked at him. It’s not like they didn’t see Bulma all the time. Well, at least a few times a year. 

But not him. Never him.

She approached him, already halfway through a Pop-Tart, silver wrapping still clinging to its base. Crumbs collected at the corner of her mouth, and he could smell the strawberry. The lush smell of summer, and sweat and the moans that left her mouth that night.

“The Chain?” She asked, as she grabbed the side of her lips, sliding her thumb around their shape to rid her face of the Pop-Tart crumbs.

“Fine,” his voice was smooth, and he nearly did a double take with himself over how well he was covering this up.

Everyone got into their positions, the pleasantries and exchanges between them were brief. All of them wanting to ignore how wrong it felt without Nappa’s booming voice, hands bigger than his bass. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t true. Instead, they focused on their connecting wires. All of them burning to feel the static and sound between them once more. And for Tarble, a lifelong dream and hope to get to actually play with them. Forever behind the stage instead of on it.

For the first time in fifteen years.

Vegeta’s thumb and index finger brushed against the strings, a steady stream of rhythm. The callouses that he longed to seal long ago, burning brighter than before. Goku kicked the bass drum at a gentle knock, perfectly aligning with the guitar’s deep sound.

She gripped the microphone, curled between her red claws the way she always did. Her lips curved, plump and needy before she flashed her canines. It took his breath away. His mouth hovered over his microphone as their voices mingled once again. A cat knowingly circling another, breathing in its scent, curling its tail in familiarity before releasing a purr.

It was almost unfair the way their voices sounded together. Interlocking precisely, stunningly. So different with their pitch and earthiness, yet so smooth together. Goosebumps rolled across his arms, the sound summoning something ancient within him.

His guitar solo came sooner than his mind recollected, but his fingers remembered.

Her eyes locked onto his, her bangs clinging to her forehead in sweat, her chest heaving beneath her white turtleneck, a tear already running in her tights at her knee.

His eyes connected with hers.

Muscle memory.

Vegeta’s fingers moved at brutal pace. Doing with his fingers to his guitar what he wish he could do below that plaid skirt of hers. He mentally kicked himself in the gut, attempting to reign it in and pretend he wasn’t fighting for his life right now.

She smiled right at him, eyes alight with something borrowed and something new. A light flickering on in an abyss, and it was over for him.

And if you don't love me now
You will never love me again
I can still hear you saying
You would never break the chain (never break the chain)

Chapter Text

1978

And the days go by like a strand in the wind
In the web that is my own, I begin again
Said to my friend (everything's not)
"Baby, nothin' else mattered"

\\//\\//\\//\\//

It was because of nepotism. That was his first thought the moment Raditz slapped a magazine with her perfect fucking face on it, onto their kitchen table.

Bulma Moon.

A stage name. Her real name was Bulma Briefs, infamous, filthy rich heiress to Capsule Corporation (the most profitable company in the world) wanting to dip her feet in the shark infested waters of the music industry. He scoffed, assuming they were joking. The Saiyan’s sound was meant to be an angrier shuffle. A clenched fist rattling against iron bars of a cage. Not all of the compliant upbeat bops, or love ballads that seemed to be saturating radios everywhere. It’s what made them stand out! And also, coincidentally what made them not as successful as they could be.

And now they were suggesting Bulma fucking Moon? With eyes so sugary blue it made you feel like you needed Novocaine and a lobotomy simultaneously. She didn’t exactly say ‘angry at the world.’ She said, ‘buy my record because it’s trendy, and not because it’s actually good.’

They didn’t really have a frontman for their band, there was nobody to just sing instead of focusing so much on actually playing their instruments that the singing became a bit more of an afterthought. Vegeta was not willing to part with his guitar and would rather die than be at center stage with the spotlight pointed directly onto him. He was doing it for the music, not for the fame. Though the idea of glory and pride swelled deep in his gut and he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he wanted to be known but not looked directly upon.

They didn’t formally start a search for a frontman, but they all collectively, and quietly, agreed that there was something missing from their band. Though they were moderately successful and had even gone on tour already after securing their first record, there was the apprehension and the desire to be so much more.

But Bulma Moon? Sounded like a kamikaze to their grand plans and foundation.

Raditz immediately got on the defensive about how Vegeta hadn’t even heard her sing before. He was just judging a book by its cover. It was very obviously because Raditz just wanted to probably eye fuck her 24/7 while also probably trying to actually fuck her and destroy their band or whatever else he plotted in his down time.

“And no, I’m not just saying it because she’s foxy as hell. I heard her sing at Namek the other night and holy shit, dude. I got full ass chills.”

“She seems nice, Vegeta, you just can’t help yourself from… being yourself,” Nappa acknowledged nodding his gigantic bald head in his direction, taking a long gulp from his coffee mug.

“Fuck off,” he growled in response.

They had pooled their scrapings from working various side jobs like bouncing at a club or doing construction during the day to afford the bungalow they crammed themselves into. Except for Kakarot, he was already shacked up with Chi-Chi. And now Vegeta had the joy of waking up to the sounds of Nappa’s snores that rivaled that of a chainsaw from the room next to his. Or the sounds of Raditz’s evening pursuits crying out to their maker.

And now they had the audacity to wake up early and interrupt him during his weightlifting. The only time he usually had for peace, when the two idiots were sleeping off the night before.

Somehow, he agreed that he would at least go and listen to her sing before he flat out refused to let her into their band. He knew Raditz was not going to let this go until he at least gave her a shot, so against his better judgment and his sanity, Vegeta scoffed in disbelief the whole time he got ready. Ignoring the fact that he had been very particular about the outfit that he chose to wear, ensuring he put on the black jeans that hugged his ass perfectly. Or the fact that he had smoothed out his hair, made sure he used his best smelling aftershave. That was just… incidental.

He sloshed down his Bud-light, making a face as he sat down on a barstool hidden beneath the solitude of dark, amber lightbulbs shrouded in emerald lampshades swinging above the bar.

Piccolo and Dende were launching drinks at various patrons that were waving drunken dollars over their heads. Vegeta had never seen the bar this fucking crowded before. The promise of Bulma Moon being in residence had done wonders for business. Vegeta rolled his eyes at such a thought.

The shadows dimmed, until a solitary pale light echoed onto the rickety stage.

Below the light, swimming in white and green she sat on a stool, microphone holding its breath against her lips. Her blue hair a curtain around her round, high cheekbones and long curved eyelashes. The green dress stopped mid thigh, belled out at her wrists and she tapped a pointed brown boot against the stool that she sat on.

Her fingers gripped an acoustic guitar, and she strummed every string, coaxing it to sing exactly how it was intended to. Fingers graceful and precise and all he could think of was what they would feel like digging into his flesh.

He immediately regretted ever coming.

It was a huge mistake.

The dumbest one of his whole 27 years of life.

He stood up from his seat at the bar, in awe. Gobsmacked, fucking possessed. He was dragged towards the stage in a hypnotic trance, not even realizing he was pushing past people to get closer to her.

He couldn’t tell you what the fuck words she was saying. All he could hear was the sound that came from her rib cage. It was like watching a rose ripen on a stem in real time. She locked on to him once he stepped past the forest of shadows, and a ricochet of the white spotlight cast its dim onto him.

She sang directly to him, eyes unfaltering in a confidence that made him second guess every single life decision he had made up until now. She smiled, a breathy glint of something harmful and hopeful all at once. And he felt his knees bow beneath him.

Her set was over, and the moment she put the guitar down, it was as though he had been ripped away from a dream he never wanted to wake up from.

He hadn’t even noticed that Raditz, Nappa and Kakarot all arrived at the bar and stood behind him as each one of them listened to her sing and play. Raditz already ordered a round of shots of something that was likely as sickly sweet as it was strong enough to make them all hungover.

“Are you already so drunk that you forgot how to fucking count higher than a kindergartner?” Vegeta scoffed as he realized the line of shots had one extra one.

“Nah, I’m just chivalrous and always make sure to share when a lady is present,” Raditz said, tilting his head.

Vegeta crinkled his brow in confusion before he felt a cosmic tectonic plate shift within him. Bulma Moon appeared behind Raditz and grabbed the shot that Vegeta was about to take right out of his hand.

She tilted her head back, letting the booze run down her throat before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and grinning at him. She sized him up, pausing audaciously over each part that she seemed to enjoy before finally opening up her mouth.

“And you are?”

“Vegeta Saiyan,” he muttered, hands shoved so far down into the pockets of his denim jacket that he swore the threads were cutting off all circulation to his brain.

“Hi, I’m Bulma, the newest addition to your band.”

“You sound a bit too sure of yourself. I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Vegeta said before he grabbed a different shot off of the tray and gulped it down, not breaking eye contact with her.

She licked her lips, the taste of a challenge tingling on her tongue before laughing. A sound that would haunt him for the rest of his remaining years. A sound that surpassed the way his favorite song felt bursting into his eardrums. She tilted her head back, flashing her white teeth like a smear of bright against his dark. Her turquoise hair fell loosely past her shoulders and the entire room was captivated by her.

“I think I missed whatever the joke was,” Vegeta snapped, crossing his arms over his chest, noticing that her blue eyes traced the muscles of his bicep, straining against the denim coat.

“The joke was you thinking that I won’t be walking into band practice tomorrow morning.”

“I wonder what band it will be for, since sitting on a stool and mewling folk music sure as shit doesn’t count for a band or for practice.”

Her smile turned to a smirk before her tongue slicked against her teeth, sharpening her blades.

“You know, I’ve heard you were a bit of an asshole,” she said. “Thank you for not disappointing.”

Raditz whistled through his teeth, guffawing at the interaction before he waved at Piccolo for more shots.

Her hand pressed against his chest, tracing a line with the sharp edge of her ivory nails there, punctuating her words. “See you tomorrow, Saiyan.” He felt like he had inhaled fumes, toxicity flaring his nostrils as he smelled strawberries and citrus and peonies all at once.

The night ended after many drinks and banter and Vegeta wondering how he could even tell the difference between his own head and his asshole after interacting with Bulma. He had been bitten by a poisonous snake, the venom taking root in his bloodstream, altering his brain chemistry before he could think rationally. It was no wonder that before he could stop himself, he was muttering against the side of his pillow, hand covering his eyes. 

“Fine, see if I care. She can be in the fucking band. But I don’t want to hear it when she ruins everything.”

///

She wouldn’t admit how excited she was. The way she popped out of her bed like pop tart out of the toaster, before the alarm she forgot to even set could have the chance to not actually go off. She couldn’t remember the last time that she had been this excited for something.

And meeting Vegeta Saiyan certainly upped the ante, also refusing to admit the way his black eyes tore through her and pulled apart at her ribs. She had been gazed at by many but had never felt so truly seen before.

But then he opened his stupid fucking mouth. And now she could think of nothing more than how to take him apart, stitch by stitch, loosening until the thread would snap. He was too full of himself, and there wasn’t enough room in their band for both of their oversized egos.

She pulled her convertible in front of the run-down bungalow, and she squinted at it, trying to imagine how Nappa, Raditz and Vegeta’s big head could fit in such a tiny place. She lifted up her sunglasses, plopping the aviators on top of her head and palmed away some stray hair that had been blown around her from the drive over. With the car door slamming behind her, she strolled down the pathway leading up to the front door, weeds overgrown in the cracked cement and the mailbox propped open for some reason. When she half knocked, half opened the door she was greeted by Vegeta pouring a mug of coffee looking as though he might have been hit by a car and then tossed off of a mountain, hitting every sharp rock along the way. He looked so weary that she almost felt bad for him.

“I’m assuming by the obnoxious smile on your face that you’re already sufficiently caffeinated,” his voice, which scratched at every itch that begged to be itched, hinted at something deeper. The surliness and crackle of his words, the way the tight gray Henley held him in a tight embrace, hit every check box in her imaginary checklist.

“I mean is one ever truly sufficiently caffeinated?”

“I don’t know I’m not a fucking cardiologist or anything but whatever amount you had, seems to be enough.”

She rolled her eyes at him before grabbing a ceramic mug and pouring herself a cup from the coffee pot. She sighed in disappointment when she realized there was no creamer or milk to put into her coffee.

“You are all uncivilized,” she muttered sipping the coffee, black, and regretting it at once.

“Nappa! Mom and dad are fighting again,” Raditz called in a whiny voice as he strolled into the kitchen. He was still pulling on his t-shirt and she appreciated the flash of muscular flesh she got to see before he attempted to make himself halfway decent.

Bulma giggled and Raditz threw her a wink before grabbing his own mug of coffee.

A blonde woman slunk past them, clearly wearing an outfit from the night before, her hair in disarray. “Thanks for a fun night,” she winked, patting Raditz on the shoulder as she departed the kitchen and left the house.

“Have a good day, pretty lady,” he called over his shoulder before pounding down half of his coffee in one go.

Vegeta and Nappa kept any comments to themselves, either used to the routine of such a morning, or both were too tired and hungover to think of anything smart to say.

“So, where do we practice?” Bulma wondered, smoothing out her palms on the hips of her high-rise blue jeans.

Vegeta gazed at her over the steam of his coffee mug as he took a long sip. “In here. We don’t actually use instruments, we sing a capella and bang forks and knives on the table.”

“Honestly it would probably be an improvement if you did that,” Bulma snorted and Vegeta’s blood boiled.

“Alright, let’s try to save the homicide until we at least play one song,” Raditz said, grabbing Vegeta by his shoulders and practically shoving him down the basement stairs.

Bulma’s sneakers slapped against the concrete steps before she made it to the basement floor and absorbed the scene around her. There were instruments placed strategically all over the floor covered with random shag rugs. The dull gray of the cinderblocks was contrasted with the random posters and photographs taped to the walls. Bulma walked around, staring at the photographs in awe of how striking they were. There were pictures of Nappa, Raditz and Kakarot all playing on various stages, differing light sources.

There was also a picture of Vegeta with a camera strapped around his neck, middle finger covering most of his face towards whoever had decided to snap his photo. Nappa began tuning his bass, Raditz went over to his tracks and keyboard.

“To the surprise of no one, Kakarot is running late,” Raditz said nodding towards the clock on the wall.

“And all of you were late, too,” Vegeta pointed out. “We were supposed to start a half hour ago.”

“I am who I am,” Raditz shrugged. “Besides, it was absolutely worth it.”

“Well, what are we going to do without percussion?” Bulma asked as she smoothed out the tight yellow t-shirt clinging to her chest, tucked into her bell bottoms.

“Well, we’re not playing one of your whiny little acoustic ballads,” Vegeta said, hair jostled over his forehead as he moved an amplifier across the room.

“I never suggested that we would. I think we should be writing something new, instead,” Bulma replied, snap quick. Vegeta was not used to someone who was quicker than he was with words and he swallowed down the feeling of being impressed and smothered it with his standard irritation instead.

“What do you have in mind?”

She pulled out a crumpled-up paper from her back pocket, letters scrawled on lined paper before she shoved it towards Vegeta. Words, poetry, non-sense, coffee cup stains cluttered the paper like a road map with no specific destination.

“I think I need to go to med school to decipher this level of crazy,” Vegeta said as he squinted at the paper turning it upside down and sideways a few times, pretending that the air did not literally jump from his lungs the moment he read a few of her lyrics.

“So, were you born with a stick lodged this far up your ass, or did it grow over time like from a seed?”

Vegeta blinked rapidly, unable to reconcile the words he just heard coming from the stunning, nymphlike creature standing in front of him.

“Excuse me?”

“Did all of those years of off-key chords you’ve been hammering into the amplifiers also give you permanent hearing loss, or something?” She didn’t mean it, of course. She actually respected the hell out of his guitar skills, but she knew it would invoke a strong reaction from him.

He pressed down an outraged yet deeply satisfied looked on his face.

“No, I’ve just never heard somebody use so many words and not have a single intelligent thing to say. It’s remarkable, truly.”

“I find that hard to believe, given that you listen to yourself talk all day.”

Raditz nearly keeled over in laughter. Nappa chuckled as he twisted the knobs on his bass, pulled out a mini pocket notebook from his jeans and put a second tally mark next to Bulma’s name.

“Why don’t you all just shut the fuck up.”

Vegeta growled, stomped over to his amplifier and twisted the knob, before he strummed into the guitar strings furiously, playing the beginning of one of the Saiyan’s songs.

She licked at her lip, a victorious grin sliced in half, before Nappa thundered in with his bass, carrying the beat and following the flow of Vegeta’s guitar. Raditz began flexing his fingers before tapping away at his keyboard.

Bulma pulled the microphone out of the stand, gripping it in her palm and let her head nod to the sounds flowing all around her, sinking in it like a cool bath floating in its fluidity. She stomped her foot down hard, hitting the cement in time to when Kakarot would have been hitting his drum if he had been able to read a clock.

She strolled over towards Vegeta, where he was playing and was fully pretending that his fingers were sweaty from playing and not from Bulma getting into such close proximity to him as he played.

“Those two are going to make us all filthy rich,” Vegeta Sr. chuckled beside Tarble at the mouth to the basement. Tarble smiled broadly at his father, both men sneaking into the band practice after getting word from Raditz that Vegeta agreed to let Bulma Moon play with them this morning.

“How did you convince your brother to even go listen to her sing?”

Tarble’s face twitched slightly, a flash of a sneaky smirk that would have made his brother proud. He put his face back into place, forgetting himself for a moment. “Oh, I didn’t. I just planted the idea into Raditz’s head, and just like that, the work was done for me.”

He watched his brother closely, the way his eyes pierced into her as though he had never seen a woman before. Guilt began to nag at him, pawing at his ankles before he kicked it away. Did he specifically pick a woman who fit his brother’s type to a T? Yes. Did he also understand there was a 50/50 chance that this could actually destroy the band? Also, yes. But the prospect of the profit and fame that loomed beyond, seemed to put those numbers into a different perspective. One shifting in all of their favor.

She and Vegeta began singing at precisely the same beat and a chill exploded through him. It felt like being born again, ripped from treacherous waters, oxygen tearing through his lungs. Seeing life so clearly for the first time. Their voices were not perfect on their own, but there was something about the way they mingled, interlocked fingers and danced as though no one was watching them, as though they had always been doing it. It felt effortless and terrifying and Vegeta and Bulma realized in that very moment, simultaneously…

They were completely and utterly fucked.

Well, I hear you in the morning
And I hear you at nightfall
Sometimes to be near you
Is to be unable to feel you
My love

Chapter Text

1978

She is like a cat in the dark
And then she is your darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark
And when the sky is starless

\\//\\//\\//\\//

Bulma popped the cigarette between her lips, licking the diameter of it inside of her mouth. She took a long, intentional pull before blowing it out, grasping the short glass with ice sloshing against bourbon. She eyed him across the glass, watching as he and the rest of the Saiyans and Nappa strolled in beside him. Like some sort of gang of idiots.

Vegeta’s fists were shoved into his tight denim pockets, a racing stripe repeated across his abdomen and tight Henley. His eyes sought her before landing on her with a scowl.

It had been her idea to meet here, neutral territory, instead of their house or the basement, or even her house. Neutrality was important for this situation in particular.

And the situation was somehow getting Vegeta Saiyan to agree to let Bulma write a few of the songs on the new album.

Something told her that hell was more likely to sprout icicles than for any version of that happening. But she wasn’t known for her backing down and rolling over skills. She was known for her persuasion. Her tenacity. And her ability to verbally kick a man in the balls and somehow make him apologize for it.

She beamed at him, waving in enthusiasm as a means of embarrassing him.

His cheeks were a deep red, his black brows knitted together and she silently put a check of victory across her mind’s eye.

“Hiya,” Kakarot said with a wave and Vegeta glared daggers at him, as though he wasn’t allowed to be friendly to the newest member of the band.

Bulma rolled her eyes. “Hi, boys.”

“I’m gonna go get us all some beer. Do you want anything, Bulma?” Nappa asked politely. She nodded her head yes, holding up her almost empty bourbon.

“Bourbon, please.”

“You got it,” Nappa nodded at her and Kakarot followed him to the bar.

“So, I was thinking after practice yesterday, that one of the songs I’ve been writing would sound great in—”

Vegeta cut her off, holding up a hand. “No.”

“Did… did you just actually hold a hand up to quiet me down?” Bulma snapped, hand palming at her hip, sucking in a deep infuriated breath.

“Did it work?”

“Go fuck a cactus, Saiyan.”

“Alright, Alright!” Raditz shouted, stepping in between the pair. It had been a few weeks of these two snapping at each other like ankle biting chihuahuas. There didn’t seem to be a single thing that they agreed on. Other than how much they enjoyed fighting each other.

“We’ve gotta resolve this. I feel like I’m babysitting except nobody is paying me for this shit,” Raditz grunted, slapping a hand on Vegeta and Bulma’s shoulders. Trying to drag them into closer proximity of one another.

“Well, I’m not changing my mind,” Vegeta hissed, arms somehow tightening in their fold across his chest. Bulma tried to ignore the vein bulging out of one of his biceps, sticking out below his tight henley t-shirt.

She blinked away the smell of him. Leather, and metal and the crackle of a campfire, wrapping its fingers around her throat, leading her to walk off the plank.

“I’m not changing my mind, either,” she said, petulantly.

“Fine.

“Fine!”

“What about some friendly competition to figure out this… little issue?” Raditz suggested, looking around the room. His eyes lingered on darts, a ping pong table and a pinball machine. “Otherwise, I’m gonna be old as fuck or dead and buried before we write this album.”

“How about a game of pool?” Vegeta intercepted Raditz’s idea, curating it for his benefit. Bulma’s eyes flickered across the dimly lit bar at the beaten-up pool table that looked older than she was.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Bulma said, thoughtfully.

“Why, scared of a crushing defeat?” Vegeta said, a haughty smirk curling up his lip.

“You know what, fine. Let’s play a game of pool,” Bulma agreed, cooly.

“Ladies first,” Vegeta suggested, his hand waving towards the pool table cordially. He rotated the blue chalk over the tip of the faded pool stick.

Bulma took another drag of her cigarette before putting it into the ashtray next to her drink that she emptied. She grabbed a pool stick, passing on chalking the tip before she racked the balls into the triangle. When everything was lined up precisely, she aimed the cue sloppily. Grasping the stick in an awkward position, no precision for where her hands should go. Her tongue poked out and her brow crinkled in a way that nearly disarmed Vegeta.

Before Vegeta could say anything taunting, Raditz was rounding the table and taking a hold of Bulma’s hand and arm, guiding her to hold her pool stick correctly.

Bulma licked at the smile twitching at her cheek, threatening to spring forward. She swallowed it down and let Raditz press his muscular chest against her back as he showed her how to aim.

Vegeta watched the spectacle before him, nearly breaking the pool cue in his hand into splinters. Bulma giggled and swatted Raditz away before pulling the cue back and breaking the triangle of balls apart with a snap.

“Traitor,” Vegeta grumbled to Raditz who shrugged innocently as he joined his side.

“I’m just being a Good Samaritan. That wouldn’t be a fair win if she didn’t even know how to shoot properly,” Raditz whispered as they watched Bulma. “You’re being a stubborn asshole about all of this and we both know it.”

Nappa and Kakarot joined the table with their hands full with drinks and an overflowing pitcher sloshing to the floor.

“Oh, pool! Great idea!” Kakarot said in excitement, before getting shushed and waved off by Raditz.

“So, what are we betting on? Exactly, I mean. What am I gonna get when I win?” Bulma wondered as she missed sinking a solid ball.

“Creative freedom. When I win, I get to write the songs. And if I dropped dead mid-game and you therefore won, then you get to write some of the songs.”

“Without you complaining about it,” Bulma added as Vegeta prowled around the pool table evaluating every angle and possible shot he had at sinking a striped ball. A true predator of bar games.

“Fine,” Vegeta flashed a triumphant, albeit sarcastic, smile as he sank two striped balls.

Bulma smoothed out her teal tube top adjusting it across her chest in a way that nearly broke the necks of several men in the bar vicinity. She walked over and grabbed the bourbon from Nappa with a grateful smile before taking a sip. Her high waisted white jeans hugged her hips creating the silhouette of Aphrodite, the wildfire grin spreading across her face, the fury of Medusa.

Vegeta pretended not to notice any of it and he certainly wouldn’t admit that it was why he missed the next shot. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly; he had come back from far worse to incredibly skilled players. He had been bouncing at bars for years. This would be nothing against a novice.

Bulma walked around the table, purposely slinking in front of Vegeta and brushing against him before leaning fully over the pool table, perfectly rounded ass pointed to the heavens that it came from. She completely changed the posture of how she hoisted the pool cue up, aiming it with the precision of a sniper. She pulled back and snapped the cue forward, sinking 3 solids in one swift hit.

She stood up, the whiplash of her movement nearly knocking the silent bar of patrons onto its ass. She rounded the pool table, this time pushing past Vegeta, nearly knocking him to the ground with how dumbfounded he was. She lined up another two balls, sinking both of them perfectly.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” She said in a sicky sweet voice. “My father’s favorite thing to do when he’s trying to think about a new project is play pool.”

Another clap of thunder.

Another breeze of air and the thunk of the ball into the pocket.

“I’ve been playing pool since I could walk.”

Raditz coughed on his beer, Nappa slapped him on the back and Kakarot wheezed with laughter.

“You just assumed I would… how did you say it? A crushing defeat?” She smirked palming the pool cue before spinning it around.

“8 ball, corner pocket,” she said, pointed her chin and her best toward the direction of the pre-destined orb. “Also, you failed to remember that my expertise is in aerodynamics and physics. Or to put into words that your little brain might understand better: I know how to make things move. I’m pretty fucking brilliant, actually.”

A crackle of the ball, connecting and rolling until it sank into the pocket Bulma had predicted. There was a huge cacophony of hooting and hollering across the bar. Raditz nearly passed out from laughing so hard and Nappa had spit beer across the bar in a cloud of liquid.

She paused in front of Vegeta whose jaw might never go back to normal after hitting the ground so hard. She grabbed the beer that he had in his hand, taking a long swig of it.

“And I’m also more than just a pretty face and a perfect pair of tits.”

She sauntered away with his beer and approached the bar, facing away from him.

Nappa scrawled another victorious tally mark next to Bulma’s name in his pocket-sized notebook.

///

Vegeta’s black eyes glared at his bedroom ceiling. As though it was entirely the fault of the ceiling, and not his, all of the embarrassment he had endured tonight. His bare arms had started to get needles and pins in them from how tensely he had been holding the position.

The victorious grin, the way her hips moved when she walked away from him. The pull of her scent. Of earth and bourbon and nicotine. A sweetness engulfed in flames.

He felt the pull and the twitch of his cock.

He slammed his eyes shut, as though that would stop the flicker of Polaroids in his mind. All he could see was her. He jumped up from the bed, turned on his nightstand light and yanked his notebook from inside of the drawer.

The words drained from his fingers. Ink meeting water and flowing through each page with a vengeance.

It was not lost on him why he had this sudden burst of creative inspiration. Finally, at last a thunderstorm in the desert.

He finally had a muse.

A demonic entity that seemed hellbent on his demise.

Luring him to his death in exchange for a moment of bliss.

///

Bulma sat, bare legs crossed underneath of her, the hot midnight breeze tickled her arms as she plucked at a few guitar strings. She pulled the pink pen that was between her lips out and immediately started scrawling into her notebook. With only the light of the porch twinkle lights, she squinted to read her own words.

She hummed quietly, the porch swing below her swaying in her slight movements.

It was not lost on her, why she was writing with such vigor and intensity.

She laughed, thinking of the dumbfounded look on his face.

The way his pointed jaw and chiseled cheek unhinged, gave her such unabashed joy.

But not as much as the thought of what that mess of flamed black hair would look like between her thighs.

She pawed at her pajama shorts cursing as she realized she forgot her cigarettes.

“What the fuck am I going to do about this?” She wondered, wishfully hoping that the empty night would somehow answer her back.

All your life you've never seen
Woman taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win?
Will you ever win?

check out this STUNNINGLY BEAUTIFUL ART by Astronaut Mike Dexter. Go look at her incredible art and read her awesome stories!