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"Woman! What is the meaning of this?"
Vegeta's growling shout echoed through the empty corridors of Capsule Corp, his anger above and beyond the typical baseline that had become familiar over the last few days since he returned from space, which was really saying something. The alien prince now living in the Briefs home was beyond prickly: he was a stick of dynamite always seconds away from exploding, and since Bulma was the one who had invited him in, she was also the one tasked with dealing with his intense and frequent tantrums.
"Yes, oh Short, Dark, and Broody?" Bulma responded, coming to a halt at his open bedroom door, hands on hips with a superior look on her face. There was no point talking to Vegeta unless she was prepared to meet him jab for jab, and the only jab she was good at making was a verbal one. He hadn't killed her for it yet, so she thought it must be working.
Vegeta stormed into eyeline, wrapped only in a towel, water dripping from the ends of his hair onto those perfectly sculpted muscles, one hand shaking a fist that was clenched around one of the sets of clothes she'd put in his room.
"These clothes!" Vegeta shouted, coming to a halt inches from Bulma's face, his eyebrows drawn and face twisted in disgust.
"Not your typical armour, I know," Bulma said, folding her arms now, eyes narrowing. "Hardly a reason to get so upset."
Vegeta looked at her for a moment, as if baffled at her idiocy. He spread out the garment in his hand - one of the new Capsule Corp t-shirts, designed with exercise in mind, the fabric a new polymer that would wick away sweat and regulate body temperature more effectively than the previous generation, a luxury item that was currently only available on pre-order at the low price of two hundred zenni.
"What," he hissed, shaking the t-shirt, "is the meaning of this."
Bulma looked at the t-shirt, unable to tell what was wrong with it. It was navy blue, the fabric was stretchy, it was breatheable...it was as close as anyone on earth could get to the fabric of the battlesuit he'd worn on Namek without being a replica.
And he hadn't even given her this much trouble about the Badman shirt.
"I thought you'd like that better than pink."
Vegeta snorted, his nose wrinkled and brow still furrowed. "Not the colour. That."
He extended his pointer finger to jab at the white Capsule Corp logo on the left side of the chest.
Bulma stared, then huffed a laugh. "You mean the logo."
Vegeta's face coloured, and Bulma thought that it might have been with embarrassment, although it was difficult to tell the difference between that and anger when the person in question had such a high baseline anger level all the time.
"Yes the logo."
"What's wrong with it?"
Vegeta's eyes narrowed, and Bulma stared back at him, keeping her face neutral. Her lack of reaction was power in this conversation, and she wasn't going to relinquish that.
"I won't," Vegeta said, wadding the t-shirt up in his fist once more, leaning even closer to Bulma, his glare hot, "be branded."
He was inches from her face, fury and power and fresh-smelling man in one hot-blooded package with a glare that made Bulma's body burn. Intrusive thoughts paraded through her head as she stared him down: she only needed to lean forward to kiss him, or she could grab that towel around his waist and use it to yank him forward so she could feel that hard body against her own. How would he react if she came onto him? Yamcha would kill her - no, he was too soft-hearted for that - but he would definitely break up with her for real this time if she did something like that. Maybe it would be worth it anyway -
Bulma took a deep inhale to drive the thoughts away. "It's just a clothing logo. It's a sign of where you bought the clothes from, not a sign of ownership."
"Good," Vegeta said, and the hand that wasn't fisting the t-shirt grabbed the neck of her dress to yank her forward another inch. "Because I am not property and I am not going to be branded."
Bulma found herself shoved backwards out the door, which slid shut between them, gasping for breath.
Later, when Vegeta found his way downstairs to head out to the Gravity Chamber, he was wearing the clothing Bulma left for him, but the CC logo on the t-shirt had been burned off and the joggers, which previously had the logo running down the side of one leg, had been chopped off neatly above the knee, no sign of the logo remaining.
Bulma special ordered new clothing that night. Black and navy blue, no logos.
The fight against Cell was brutal, but as far as Bulma was concerned it was far more difficult adjusting to life afterwards, especially when a certain asshole moved back into her house with every intention of antagonising her every time he saw her.
She was currently feeding Trunks breakfast, which basically amounted to her shoving food at him as quickly as he ate it, although he alternated ravenous bites with calculated throws and the occasional fist full of whatever it was that he rubbed through his own beautiful lilac hair, which was currently sticking up in all directions and threaded with mashed chicken and bananas. The food hadn't been mashed when she handed it to him; one lesson Bulma learned early in the weaning process was that Trunks could and would successfully smash any food into mush if he wanted to. He was too clever and too well-coordinated to take much interest in a food he couldn't turn into performance art, and he had yet to choke on anything.
The back door slid open and Vegeta stormed in sweating in his thin shorts and tanktop, looking just as much like walking sex as he always did. Bulma couldn't help her wandering eye taking him in with a quirk of her eyebrow, nor her internal wish that things would go back to the way they had been in those hot three weeks where they'd conceived Trunks. Hell, she'd gladly trade a year of her life just to get one more night out of that man.
As usual, he opened his mouth and immediately made her rescind that.
"What is that child wearing?" Vegeta demanded, frozen halfway across the room to stare at Trunks.
Bulma looked from Vegeta to Trunks, not sure exactly what the problem was. Trunks was adorable, as usual, if more covered in food than she would have liked. Surely a Saiyan would find being covered in food endearing?
"What's wrong with it?" She asked, passing another piece of chicken breast to the boy, who squealed in delight and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He made a kind of choking noise, but a second later the whole piece of chicken was gone down his throat into that voracious half-Saiyan stomach of his. She passed him another one, which promptly got launched at Vegeta.
Vegeta did not move and the chicken bounced harmlessly off of his chest. (mmm, Vegeta's chest. She wanted to lick it. He had really sensitive nipples and he always tasted of sweat after a workout - )
"He's covered in your symbol."
Vegeta's words dragged Bulma's mind away from breathy moans and twitching body parts back to the topic of conversation - which was her baby, thank you very much, she wasn't going to fantasise about her ex's nipples while she was feeding her baby. Not any more than she already had just now.
It took a few seconds of staring at Trunks for the gears in Bulma's perpetually sleep-deprived brain to clunk back into place. Brands. Oh yeah. Vegeta hated branded stuff. She hadn't quite figured out why. Probably something to do with not wanting to look like he was too closely associated with her, even though they could hardly be more closely associated than sharing a child, which had obviously happened in spite of his terrible attitude about the whole thing.
"He's my baby," Bulma said, finally turning her face back to Vegeta. "I can cover him in whatever brand I want."
Vegeta said nothing. He simply stared at her for a long moment, then turned on heel and left the room.
Bulma watched him go, fantasising about his ass until Trunks threw some chicken at her, too.
Six months later Bulma's back hit the wall of the Gravity Chamber and she gasped into the humid, ozone-filled air, clawing at Vegeta's hair as he mauled her neck with his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva and bruises, her legs hooked around his hips and his hands under her ass. Her brain wasn't working, she couldn't tell how they'd gotten here except that she'd come storming out to shut down the gravity and yell at him and he'd yelled back, and now they were here, pawing at each other with the inevitability of two terrible people who were very, very good together.
It wasn't the first time since he'd come back. It wasn't even the first time in this room.
Vegeta released one half of her backside to yank down the zip on her mechanic's jumpsuit, already thrusting at her as if he couldn't quite help himself, but once he got the zip down to reveal her utilitarian sports bra he paused in his assualt on her neck to grin down at her chest, a small chuckle trickling out of him.
"Something funny?" Bulma demanded, yanking on his hair in a way that drew a reflexive growl out of his throat.
Vegeta bit down on her sports bra and literally tore the front completely open so she spilled out of it. "No. I just thought you might have put your brand on that thing, too, since it's already on your jumpsuit."
Bulma laughed at the thought of a CC branded sports bra, but filed the idea away for later. It would definitely sell.
The tattoo shop on the club strip in West City was open late, ready to take anyone who stumbled in drunk from the clubs hoping for an ill-advised tattoo of their ex's initials or an inspirational message in a language they didn't speak. Spike wasn't picky about her customers, and rarely was open during the day when they might track her down to complain about their own choices under the influence of whatever they'd taken on a night out.
The man who came in at half past two in a black wifebeater and joggers wasn't drunk, and walked up to the counter with the swagger of someone who owned the world.
"I want a tattoo," he growled, his voice the kind of thing that instantly tipped Spike off that she should ask for his number and pray that he was as good in bed as he sounded like.
"Obviously," she drawled back, tapping the ashes off of her cigarette. "What do you want?"
"This," he said, presenting a small piece of paper with a carefully drawn logo in the centre of it. "No larger than this."
"Where?"
"Here."
"There?" Spike's eyebrows rose, and she wondered what kind of person she'd been in a past life to deserve this kind of joy, because she certainly wasn't a paragon of virtue now. "You'll have to take your pants off."
"Obviously," he drawled back.
Spike grinned. She was going to enjoy this.
Bulma yawned, stretched, and finally turned away from the balcony, another night gone. Vegeta had gone away for training once again, and as usual hadn't told her how long he intended to be away. She started waiting up for him after the third night, hoping that he would come back in time to grace their bed and get a bit of pleasure in before Trunks woke up asking to play, but it had been a week now and she was feeling both lonely and frustrated.
This was what she got for falling in love with the most infuriating man in the universe. He never called, never got in touch with her when he left, and he never really treated it like a big deal when he came back. Even when he occasionally went off-planet he couldn't be bothered to tell her half the time.
She could have strangled him for it.
Except that he was also the only person in the world she could imagine spending her nights with anymore, and he wasn't bad company in the daytime either, as long as he wasn't peacocking. All she had to do to turn Vegeta into a very good boyfriend was to keep him away from other fighters so he didn't feel the need to show off.
But not tonight. It was past midnight and there was no sign of him. Undoubtedly he would come back sometime in the next week - or two - and yell at her for not keeping up with Trunks' training (as if she could. Trunks was stronger at three years old than the strongest humans on earth). They would fight for a little while and then one of them would snap and they'd have some excellent sex before falling asleep in her bed, ready to move on with their lives.
It was warm enough to leave the windows open, and with no fear of anything in this world except for frogs, Bulma left her second floor balcony wide open so the breeze would reach her all night.
Three steps away from the bed, a pair of hands fell on her hips and a mouth closed around the skin on her neck.
"Vegeta," she breathed, a tension she hadn't known she carried slipping away so suddenly that she felt a boneless, almost orgasmic euphoria.
Vegeta said nothing as he turned her in his arms and explored her with tongue and hands in the slow, delicate way of a man who knows the thing he holds is precious. There wasn't any of the usual aggression, and Bulma felt her heart thudding in anticipation. She'd had Vegeta any number of ways, but gentle Vegeta was the rarest and made her feel that she was being honoured in some way she didn't completely understand.
He was gentle as clothing stripped away and they lowered to the mattress, as his hands took in every part of her, as he guided them both to the kind of pleasure she'd never known before him and would never know without him. She was a goddess, and he was a worshipper, all of his pride gone in this moment so that he could be completely bare before her, a soul that wished to sink into her so completely that they could never be parted.
In the morning light, Vegeta rose to get ready for training. It was early, but he had heard the boy already playing in his room ready to get on with the day, and it was best to train Trunks before breakfast so he would be able to sit still at the table for his meal.
Bulma stretched, sleepy but incredibly pleased at the return of her bedmate, and watched Vegeta dress with a predatory, possessive pleasure.
He was still drying off from his first shower of the day, scrupulously clean thanks to his powerful sense of smell, his back to her as he rummaged through the drawers for clothing. He did have a bedroom where he still kept many of his things, but Bulma had taken it on herself to ensure that he had a full wardrobe in her room as well, given that he spent most nights with her when he was home. She wanted him to be comfortable, and as far as either of them could tell, he was.
It had obviously been a successful training week, she thought as she noted the tight definition in the back of his bare thighs and glutes, every line clean and crisp without any new scars or bruises that were often a sign that he had gotten frustrated and careless. Perhaps, she thought, it had been a different kind of training this time, meditation or image training perhaps.
"Did you train with anyone while you were away?" Bulma asked sleepily, propping herself up with a pillow, still undressed from last night.
Vegeta half turned to look at her over his shoulder, and obviously took in her wandering eye based on the slight smirk that graced his lips. "No. I was alone."
"You should try training with Piccolo sometime. I think you two would get along if you ever gave it a chance." She yawned. "He tried to take over earth once upon a time."
Vegeta turned further, brow furrowed. "The Namekian?"
"Yeah. He was called a demon - wait, what's that?"
Bulma shot upright as if she'd been struck by lightning.
Vegeta bent over to put his shorts on. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Bulma's mouth dropped open as she watched the plain, unbranded navy shorts slide up his body and over the front of his hips, where on the right side there was - if her eyes didn't deceive her - a fingterip sized tattoo of the Capsule Corp logo.
"Vegeta," she breathed, stunned, staring at him.
Vegeta pulled a plain, unbranded navy tanktop over his head and settled it into place before he leaned over her in the bed to plant a kiss on each of her bare breasts before he looked directly into her face.
"I'm not wearing that brand where anyone else can see it."
"So you tattooed it onto the front of your hip?" She asked, unable to close her mouth.
Vegeta surged forward to capture her lips with his own, his fingers threading through her hair as the heat of their mouths mingled, uncaring of her morning breath.
When he pulled away, that devilish grin was still in place.
"You're my woman," he said from a hair's breadth away from her lips. "And you've always been so insistent on branding your property."
Bulma surged up to grab him around the shoulders, happy tears streaming down her face.
She had some property to claim.