#mousey/modesty

[sysig]

Compressed audio for loud and quiet environments (Patreon)

#Doodles #Villainsona #The first one is relevant again because I am once again thinking about how much I love Mousey lol #It's always relevant because I always love Mousey but I'm not thinking of her 24/7 lol #It was just a random leftover for months and now it finally has room again ♪ #A little sad TVAU Villainsona 'cause why not - she was a spacefiller but didn't fit in with the rest of the set I was working on so :P #A stream doodle lol - post-stream technically #I don't know what it is about streaming but I can only describe my reaction as being Equalized #The highs are reigned in and the lows are lifted - neither manic nor depressive #It's kinda nice honestly I'd like to aim for more but I also don't want to accidentally break the mechanism by overusing it lol #TIRED! I was very tired I was underslept and worked hard and was around people for something like 10 hours #Introvert needs sleep and water pls and thank you #And then finally in my latest notebook yay ♥ It feels so good to have finally upgraded ahh #It probably won't last very long since I was limited in the number of pages I could a) make and b) fit on the wire #But I am looking forward to using it :D And I've got a new tool for when I make my next one!! So I'm looking forward to that too!! #Dug out an old shirt that has lovely heavy stretch material but it tends to hang nearly off my shoulders with how wide the neck is #Not exactly made for modesty #So I gave it a ponytail and it was both cuter and more comfortable so win win ✨ #More spider lamentations ouq I'll get one someday #I'm currently still on the hunt for substrate - I want to make sure it's clean and parasite free ouo Very important! #And then for the last one I cheated by a couple hours to give myself a one day page turnover for my first and second pages ♪ #It'd been a while and I was excited for my new notebook! I really was only a couple hours into the next day so it's very close anyhow #It just feels neat to have one day read like 1/1/22 and the next be 1/2/22 - shows inspiration ♪ Makes me happy

[doodle-pops]

(2/3) A fortnight later and Reader's once again doing her usual tidying in Maedhros' room. She had successfully avoided him for some time, but had been woken up late that morning and Maedhros, as is habit, sits down for his afternoon tea. He ignores the slightly shaking hands of the ("his?" querying in his thoughts with some far-off amusement) maid, though does observe the shadows under her eyes (not too unlike his own, perhaps). Maedhros (polite, quiet, though not silent) invites her to a seat on the opposite side of the table. Reader isn't able to refuse (it wouldn't be polite to refuse a direct offer, no matter her unfinished tasks of the day), pours herself a cup of tea (milk, no sugar), and obliges. He simply wants her to take a moment to rest as he does, and is content with her silence. After a few moments, she bursts into apology ("the day of the incident, you had let yourself a sigh so tightly restrained that I had been heartened to act in your favor") and ends up veering into matters of propriety and may or may not mention the time she had been heartsick enough to rest her head on his pillow -- peppered with many "Milord"s, of course.

Maedhros is kind enough to take it all in with mild perturbance, but he isn't as offput as expected. He finds himself smiling, not quite his well-practiced diplomat's smile, but something a touch older, softer… it helps that he doesn't find Reader difficult to look at -- more plain than anything, but possessing a certain sense of reservedness and meekness and general modesty that he finds appealing, despite her wavering voice and clearly uncomfortable behavior. Not wanting to scare her off, or, really, to ensure that she won't be as despondent as she must have had been, Maedhros invites her to stay for tea in the future. He has less of an outright romantic interest, but is receptive, at least, to the idea of the company of someone small, quiet, cute in a vague, mousey sort of way. As Reader rises to take their dishware back to the kitchens, he hands her a well-worn book from his personal stores. Only then does Maedhros have the chance to meet her eyes directly, doe-like with bright surprise and a sense of awe.

I guess the above is how it'd go about, though I'm not at all familiar with writing (and really, I like your ability to weave threads together the best, Mina.)

.

#[ plot doodles ] #maedhros #maedhros imagine #silmarillion imagine

[crazy-dog-lady-81]

A Bubble of Their Own

Chapter 2

June is Minnesota’s wettest month and, as they had come to associate rain with the brown-haired beauty, Kai’s thoughts were of Amelia as they left work. It was finally Friday evening, and her flight was due to arrive at Rochester International in two hours’ time. That gave Kai enough time to go home, shower and change before driving out to the airport to pick Amelia up. As their mind conjured up the taste of the kisses and the feel of the touches that would soon be a reality, Kai felt butterflies begin to flutter in the pit of their tummy.

On entering their apartment, they immediately slipped out of their clothing and into the shower. The water refreshed them. The worries and anxieties of their working week ran down the drain as they stood under the steaming cascade. And, to make the day even better, Amelia would soon be there.

As their hands ran over their athletic body, thoughts of their blue-eyed girlfriend continued to flow through their mind. Sweet, beautiful, sexy Amelia. Their thoughts ran wild, as they imagined her naked here in the shower with them, hands on and fingers in their body. Beats of desire began to pulse between their legs. Much as they wanted to allow their fingers to dip lower, part their slick folds and explore the source of that glorious feeling, Kai refrained. It took all their practiced self-discipline to do it. But Kai knew that absence made the heart grow fonder and that the fireworks display that they planned to share with their lover that night would be all the more intense for having waited for their release.

Stepping out of the shower, towelling themselves dry as they waked, Kai went to their closet and opened it. Neat rails of colour sorted shirts, waist coats and pants hung within. They chose to present their body in these masculine clothes because it was a vibe that suited them. However, they also had a soft femininity to them. It was to be seen in their grace, their kind nature, and their thoughtfulness towards other people. Although modesty would have made them argue to the contrary, Kai Bartley really was the complete package.

Allowing a long, slender finger to trace a path along the rail, they chose a short-sleeved navy linen shirt and their favourite pair of soft cream chinos. They wound a plaited brown leather belt through the loops of the pants and tucked in the tails of their shirt before zipping themselves up. After popping on some socks, they finished the look with a pair of brown deck shoes.

Using their fingers to diffuse the warm currents through their mousey locks, Kai blow-dried their hair. Despite their best efforts, it rejected their attempts to style it, and it settled instead into its usual casually tussled form. Kai finally admitted defeat.

After cleaning the bathroom and placing their dirty clothes into the laundry basket, they checked that they had every they needed before making their way out of the loft to their car.

The evening traffic was light, and Kai was making good time to the airport. As they drove along Rochester’s main street, they spotted a flower stall and, on impulse, stopped. They had never bought flowers for a woman before, and they were slightly at a loss as to what to choose. They browsed for a while, considering lilies, carnations, and tulips, before finally taking the vendors advice and settling on a single red rose. They wondered if this was too cheesy, but they were swayed by the woman’s argument that a single red rose was and would always be a quintessential symbol of love.

Romantic gestures had always been an alien concept to Kai. Their previous partners had never tapped into their desire to love, honour, and protect in the way that Amelia did. Had a gun been pointed to their head, they would have had to admit that they were entirely smitten with her and falling for her more and more all the time. While these new feelings presented a steep learning curve, they felt okay. More than okay actually, they felt right. Perfectly right.

In the airport terminal, Kai wandered up to the nearest arrivals board. They checked that the flight hadn’t been delayed, before selecting a column to lean against. Their choice of leaning position was strategic, giving them the best vantage position from which to scan the arrivals hall.

It wasn’t long before the passengers from the Seattle flight began to flow through from customs. As those tummy based butterflies took to flutter again, Kai felt themselves being sucked into a bubble. It began immediately to block out everyone and everything that wasn’t Amelia so that by the time that she came through the doors, Amelia was the only thing that they could see. Their heart rate increased at the sight of her coming towards them, her glowing smile so infectious that they found themselves smiling back.

“Hey Shepherd, how was your flight?” Kai asked, bending at the knees to kiss her softly on the cheek. “Yeah, it was fine. Plenty of leg room for my short ass so I can’t complain”, came the reply. “Is that for me?” Amelia indicated towards the rose. Her tone was one of pleasant surprise and gratitude.

Kai’s love was simple and uncomplicated. With them, she felt seen and heard. It was a space where she could be herself and where she was met with unconditional acceptance. More than that though, she sometimes felt like a loved up Juliet to Kai’s Romeo. She was stunned by the strength of the feelings she had for developed for them in a relatively short period of time. They’d been a couple in the truest sense of the word for only six months. She didn’t need to question it because there was no question about it. She was head over heels in love with Kai.

As their attention was drawn to the rose, Kai was suddenly struck shy. Shades of red crossed their cheeks as they handed the flower to her. By way of explanation they muttered, “I saw a flower stand on the way here and thought of you. I didn’t know what you liked so went with a rose. The lady on the stand said it would be romantic. I hope you like it.” They looked at the floor as they spoke.

“Look at me, Bartley. You bought it for me. You saw it and thought of me. That’s why it’s perfect, Kai.” The taller of the pair smiled. “Not too cheesy?” “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with cheese. I happen to love cheese. Not as much as I love you though.

Careful not to crush the vibrant bloom, Amelia stood up on her tippy toes then to kiss the lanky scientist. “You can mark this experiment as 100% successful”. Kai let themselves be kissed. They were relieved that Amelia had recognised and accepted their love token so willingly.

Kai wondered at Amelia’s ability to read them. Having never been told, she seemed to just instinctively know what they were thinking. It was like they were two puzzle pieces that, out of a box full of options, just so happened to fit perfectly together. The mathematical chances of such a thing happening were astronomical and Kai knew that they had gotten lucky, incredibly lucky in finding Amelia. They took the lead in the kiss, then, wanting to let Amelia know that she was loved beyond words.

When they finally pulled back, Kai noticed that people were looking at them. They were used to the mixture of reactions they saw, not that that made it any easier.

Some people smiled, seeing a couple caught up in the moment, showing their love for one another.

Others, they noted, were disapproving. They saw them as two women kissing and were uncomfortable, maybe even repulsed by it. This fact saddened Kai. They sometimes wondered if they would ever be fully accepted for who they were in their own society and culture.

Amelia didn’t appear to be aware of the looks that they were attracting, good or bad. Maybe it was because she didn’t care or maybe it was because she had never had to face public scrutiny of that nature. This was Amelia’s first queer relationship. Always bi-curious, all of her earlier partners had happened to be men.

Kai knew that society, through some really rigid, narrow and bigoted religious teachings, had been programmed to see these gender opposite relationships as the norm. Their own mother had been at pains to remind them that to be gay was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.

Kai wasn’t overly worried about the fire and brimstone implications of this statement. What got to them was the absolute unwillingness of people, especially their own mother, to even try to think beyond the pages of that two thousand year old book. The world had moved on so why couldn’t they?

Although Kai found it sweet that Amelia didn’t see these judgements, it worried them too. She couldn’t remain ignorant of these realities forever and they knew that they couldn’t possibly protect her from the hurt this knowledge would bring, much as they might want to.

Not wanting to continue down this painful rabbit-hole any further, knowing that it would only make them miserable, Kai made a conscious effort to snap out of it. Ever the gentleperson, they reached out and took Amelia’s suitcase for her. Amelia moved close to their side, holding her rose to smell it. Reading this closeness as permission to do so, they draped their arm around her. The move wasn’t rebuffed, and they were glad. They needed their girlfriend close to them, to chase anyway those last remain traces of rabbit-hole emotions.

Wanting to get away from the negativity, Kai said “Let’s go home, Shepherd”. They gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze as they walked out of the terminal. A thrill fizzed its way up Amelia’s spine. Going home with Kai was exactly what she wanted to do, and a big part of this weekend was to be spent bringing that reality closer to fruition.

During Kai’s visit to Seattle a weekend earlier, Amelia had confessed that living closer to them was what she wanted. To her surprise, they had returned the sentiment and they had promised that they would talk more about it when Amelia flew up.

While she looked forward to working out the details. there was a more pressing need for her at that moment. As if on cue, her tummy let out a rumble that the tall scientist clearly heard. Raising one eye brow and speaking, rather sexily in Amelia’s humble opinion, in a playful, teasing tone, Kai asked” Pizza?” Amelia replied amusedly “I could go for some pizza”. “Newt’s?” Amelia threw her head back and laughed. Her smile glowed and lit Kai’s heart on fire. “Am I that predictable?” Kai’s look told her that, apparently, she was.

As they ate their pizza, sitting side by side in a cosy booth at the back of the restaurant, the pair caught themselves up with each other’s lives. Never a day went by that they didn’t talk to each other. In fact, they had talked just that morning. Kai had told them about how they had finally convinced Ringo that staying where he was would lead to him becoming pot bound. Ever a stubborn one, he eventually saw that having limited space to grow was bad as it would mean that he might not be able to be the plant that he wanted to be. “Deep, young Bartley”, Amelia had said. “Very deep, old lady Shepherd”, had been Kai’s reply. “When I get my hands on you….”

Now, though, they talked more about the really important things in life. Amelia shared pictures of Scout. As Kai looked at them, their fingers began tracing the child’s face on the screen, almost like they were trying to memorise the toddlers face.

Despite evidence to the contrary, including their own sworn testimony, Kai had become really fond of the little guy. Once the reality of Scout’s existence had settled within them, they had come to accept that he was a part of Amelia, a part that had never been hidden from them to be fair.

As their relationship had become more solid, they had been gifted the opportunity to spend more and more time with him and they had found themselves becoming enraptured by Scout. What a difference Amelia had made in their life that they now felt that same desire to love and protect him as they did with his mom.

Amelia had hoped and prayed for this change of heart. That her prayers had been answered filled her with joy. To know that they could accept Scout helped her to see a future with their green eyed partner. She would not be contemplating making a bigger commitment to them if this were not the case. Living together, raising him together it all seemed possible. The future seemed wide open, filled with hope and opportunities.

After a while, Kai pushed their plate away. “That was good.” They wiped their lips and fingers with a napkin before leaning back and once again draping their arm around Amelia’s shoulders. They looked at the side of Amelia’s face. Feeling their eyes upon her, the surgeon also finished eating, and wiping the grease from her own fingers let herself rest back into Kai’s embrace. That was better. Life was always better when she was close to them.

Kai’s favourite song came on and they sang along unfazed as people around them stopped to listen. It was at odds with their hatred for public speaking that they could sing in front of people in a such carefree manner. And they could sing. They had performed for Amelia with their band on their first date and Amelia had been stunned. She hadn’t known, never even suspected that being a rock star was another one of Kai’s many talents.

Kai had also been so incredibly sexy. They had been surrounded by gay women who had been drooling at the thoughts of them, but they had only had eyes for her. As they sang to the room, it had been clear that they were really only singing to her. Their eyes barely left her face throughout their whole set, and it was in that incredibility intimate moment that Amelia had fallen for them. The deal had been sealed when they had gone back to Kai’s loft and had the best sex of her life.

“Okay, okay okay, just a little pin prick.” Their hand rose in unison and they flicked their index fingers up in exact time with that one single ding that followed. “There’ll no more ahhh ah ah, but you may feel a little sick.

Kai, realising that the song was referencing drug use, something that had once been part of Amelia’s world, looked down to make sure that she was okay. “Relax, Bartley. It’s a song and I don’t need drugs to feel alive anymore. That’s your job now”. Kai dropped her head down and placed a kiss into her hair. “I, Kai Bartley, promise you, Amelia Shepherd, that I will do all I can to make you feel alive for as long as you keep me around”. “That could be a hell of a long time.” “I’m cool with that.”

They sat wrapped up in one another, as Dave Gilmour brought them to the heavens with his famous solo. It was the simple things with Kai. They had the power to make the ordinary things in life special. Nobody else on earth could have made pizza at Newt’s feel like heaven on earth.

The urge to touch them very inappropriately was growing. Amelia reached up her hand and stroked their cheek, gaining their attention. “Hmmm?” they murmured contentedly. “Take me home, my Kai”. Her voice had a sultry undertone to it, suggestive and enticing in equal parts and an image of fireworks shot through Kai’s brain. Getting quickly to their feet, they offered their hand. “Dr. Shepherd, your wish is my command.”

#amelia x kai #amelia shepherd #kai x amelia #amelia shepard #kai bartley #greys anatomy

[pamelasturkishgarden]

The woman is a far cry from the mousey scientist from before, her hair is dishevelled, with vines of ivy messily nestled in it's magenta tangles, the same plants wrap around her form, the ravages of her transformation leaving her clothes in tatters, with just a torn pair shorts and vest preserving her modesty and leaving little to Jason's imagination. With sweat beading on her skin and flecks of soil covering her feet and under her nails, she is the epitome of a primal goddess, wild and untamed as the hair that cascades over her shoulders

Jason Woodrue falls to his knees as the woman before him stretches as if she had a long nap, she acknowledges him with a confused groan, before giving him a playful moan, giggling as she gazes down at him.

"Hello, Jason" purrs the newly risen goddess as pink light bathes her glorious form, the smoke that once streamed from the ground now diffusing. Her voice is smooth, seductive, confident. Both comforting and arousing. A far cry from the demure woman who was pushed into a slurry of vegetation and toxins before.

"...I think I've had a change of heart" she adds, breathily, her eyes suddenly lighting up as the last word escapes her lips, planting a seed of hope and desire deep within Jason's own heart as he gazes up at the woman before him.

The english version mentions a "Change of heart" which has a double meaning, the casual definition meaning a change of opinion, but the way Ivy uses and delicately accentuates the word "heart" puts an emphasis on romance and that her sudden change is more to do with her attraction to Jason than anything else. This is common with Ivy as a good deal of her lines have dual meanings.

This is, however, lost in some subtitle translations as a good deal of them just mention a change in opinion. There are some outliers though:

Croatian- "Srce mi je uzdrhtalo."

My heart is trembling.

Czech- "Já umírám touhou."

I'm dying of desire.

French- "Je crois que j'ai eu un coup de coeur."

I think I've had a blow to the heart.

Italian- "Penso di essere cambiata radicalmente."

I think I have changed dramatically.

Spanish- "Creo que tuve un cambio en lo más hondo del corazón."

I think I had a change in the depths of my heart.

[blackmouthdog]

Hair and Other

HAIR: Depending on the timeline Tick's hair length varies from quite long to cropped very short in the back. Generally their 'bangs' hang in her face often but she keeps most of her hair tucked back and away in some sort of covering in modesty- either a knit 'beanie' style if the hair is short enough or in a patterned square of fabric if her hair is longer. Very rarely do they not have something covering the crown of their head, as is a family belief and custom for modesty (as well as keeps hair from becoming a 'handle' during hunts if the hair isn't cut).

Her hair was once very light blonde in her childhood, but darkened into a mousey, nondescript brown in their young teens. Prematurely graying, which only adds to the muted color of their hair. Very fine and wispy. Tick has very dark eyelashes and eyebrows that can often grow thick.

She rarely shaves- usually due to lack of interest as well as deepseated beliefs ingrained from being raised in the Family, who regards a woman's hair to be tied to spiritual strength and is forbidden. In later iterations Tick is less strict about this belief, but still doesn't bother much with legs/underarms/groin simply because it is a societal norm they just don't quite understand.

OTHER/BONUS: Despite a questionable family pedigree, Tick is actually quite healthy compared to many in her Family, and looks unremarkable compared to her more affected family members. Looks have never been an important aspect to Tick as she was growing up, since entering the mainstream world she has grown a few self conscious insecurities regarding her image. This is a large reason she still chooses to dress in the many bulky layers she has come to be known for.

#answered asks #hunter headcanons: ref

[sherlolo-land]

So Sherlollians and other anti-johnlockers believe that we only ship Johnlock to  see John and Sherlock’s dicks touch, as if we have some weird fixation with genitals. (And this isn’t just me dragging out an old argument here. This is NOW. STILL. In 2018). And yet, in reality, they’re the most genital-obsessed group of people I’ve ever known to exist. They’re the ones constantly reducing women down to their vaginas (looking at YOU, mouseymodesty). They say we don’t like Molly because of her “vagina.” That we think Mary is a villain because of her “vagina.” That it’s wrong to ship Sherlock with anyone who has a “vagina.”

You guys think we’re obsessed with Sherlock and John fucking. But if your excuse for hating Johnlock is that you “don’t want to see dicks touch,” then YOU are the ones most obsessed with fucking. Shit. Even if it’s your NOTP, you are obsessed with who should and shouldn’t be having sex based on their sexual anatomy (homophobic much?) 

You guys think we hate certain characters solely because of their genitals. As if you aren’t the ones hating on a gay ship by constantly talking about their dicks touching (oh, but you’re totally not homophobic, right?) Just because Sherlock and John are played by cis men, doesn’t mean their shippers hate vaginas. There’s a whole sub sect of the johnlock fandom that headcanons Sherlock as trans (i.e. he was born with a vagina). We have tons of trans Sherlock fic. One of our recent, popular fics has John as trans. We write and draw femlock ALL the time. We love and support Miss Sherlock, a show that features BOTH of them as cis women (sorry, where were you vagina-supporting sherl0llians during the Miss Sherlock hype again? Oh yeah - sleeping).

And you know what? Genitals don’t determine someone’s gender you transphobic fucks. So if you’re trying to say that Johnlockers are somehow sexist because we don’t make every woman a love interest, then I suggest using different phrasing, because woman =/= vagina. And if you think referring to women as “vaginas” makes you sound all feminist and empowering, think again because it only makes you a transmisogynistic TERF. 

Johnlockers don’t ship Sherlock and John just to see them jump into bed and screw all night. You’d never say that you ship Sherlolly just because you want to see their genitals touch. So then why, when it’s a gay ship, is it suddenly all about sex and fucking and fetishization?! 

You guys don’t even REALIZE how homophobic, biphobic, transphobic, sexist and hypocritical you are. Yes, all of those things.

You drag anyone who doesn’t ship Sherlock with a CIS woman. 

You rail against people who ship Johnlock but support any (straight) ship without John, unless it’s warstan - cause lbr, you only stan Mary so much because she blocks Johnlock and you love it. (Cause if you hate John so much and loooove Mary, why else would you ship them? Hmm...)

You were all “uwu we love and support the warstan family” until Mary died, then suddenly John didn’t meant shit to you anymore because “warstan family who? Rosie is now a sherlolly baby uwu.”

You think gay shipping is fetishization but straight shipping obviously isn’t

The very minute ANYONE wishes that Molly would learn to love and respect herself instead of pining for a man who won’t love her back, you wail about them being misogynists.  

You think m/m ships are sexist because there’s no woman involved.

You think it’s sexist to not make a woman a love interest.

You think it’s sexist for women to be villains.

You refer to women as “vaginas” and can only see them as love interests or romantic threats. 

You support murder and physical abuse as long as a woman is doing it.

In fact, you make jokes and headcanons about physical abuse because to you it’s uwu bamf and cute and funny when women do it.

Most of you love and stan Eurus, a killer and rapist - oh, but you’re sooo feminist, right?

You say it’s sexist for us to call women “mirrors,” but then you go and say Maud Bellamy is Molly, and when Eurus dressed as Faith she was imitating Molly to attract Sherlock (she wasn’t, btw). 

You support shipping a self-proclaimed lesbian with a man because #bisexualrepresentation, but the moment anyone calls John bi you wail about how he married a woman and therefore can’t be bi. 

You guys love the morgue scene because it gives you an excuse to hate John- and then project and say that WE enjoy it, with no proof of us EVER saying so. 

You say we romanticize abuse by stanning the morgue scene, even though none of us actually do - when YOU guys are really the only ones stanning and supporting any violence between your OTP

You shit all over John for texting a woman, but then you go fantasize about Mary and Sherlock fucking, or Molly cheating on Tom with Sherlock, or say that they went on a “date” in TEH even though she was engaged.

You want receipts for any of this? They’re all over this blog. Start somewhere and get clicking. 

It’s 20fucking18 and you guys are STILL only capable of discussing ships in terms of sex and genitals. There’s more to relationships than caring about what is between someone’s legs. And women are not just walking, talking vaginas. Damn, the fact that some of you Sherlollians are in your 40s and have to be reminded of that is SAD.

#sherl0lly #sherl0llian logic #molly hooper #john watson #sherlock #mousey/modesty #tw: homophobia #tw: abuse #toxic shipping #sherl0llians are love #elennemigo #theleftpill #mizj0ely #hypocrisy revealed #tw: sexism #toxic ships #bbc sherlock #and of course #they're not literally ALL like this #but the toxic ones hardly care to differentiate between means and nice johnlockers when they talk about us #they think we're one big hive mind #so we have the right to talk about them the same way #tw: transphobia #Biphobia #bisexuality erasure #the real misogynists here

[thekatthatbarks]

arcuate for saisaku? (i love them!)

They’re so cute! Thank you for the prompt Mousey!

Ink Lines

ao3

              Sai’s eyes followed her as she moved. They traced the lines of her, curves and sharp edges, as she all but flew through the air. Her movements were fast and heavy, slamming her fist into the rubble and splintering trees. Sai couldn’t help but think about how beautiful she looked, that vicious smile on her face, the sweat of her brow, the scars the littered her skin. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to catch it on paper; nothing would be able to do her justice.

                Kakashi avoided another near attack, doing his best to not get caught by her skilled hands. Yamato came up beside him, leaning against the tree Sai sat at. “Something wrong with Sakura?”

                Sai gave him a moment’s glance before looking back to her. “I don’t think so. Why?”

                Yamato shrugged, a small smile on his face that Sai didn’t see. “Oh, nothing. You were just watching her closely.”

                Sai shifted against the tree, a movement he’d learned was nervous. He offered a lie, “Just watching the spar, Yamato-taichou.”

                He forced his eyes to Kakashi every now and then, but they kept wandering back to Sakura.

 ***

              “Sai, come here.” Sakura peaked her head out of her tent with a wave of her hand and disappeared as quickly.

                Sai got up from his place by the fire and went to her. He wasn’t on watch and it wasn’t like he could’ve denied her anyway. He found it hard to deny anything Sakura asked of him these days.

                He slipped into her tent to see her sitting on her bedroll, medical supplies surrounding her and dressed only in her bindings and black shorts. Sai felt his heart stutter at the picture she made.

                She gestured at the tent opening and told him, “Zip it back up. I don’t want the cold to get in.”

                Sai did as he was told and went to sit beside her. He cleared his throat. “What did you need?”

                Sakura looked at him with a tired smile and turned so her back was to him. “I used up a lot of chakra healing you and Kakashi earlier. There are a few cuts on my back, aren’t there? Can you clean them up for me? I can’t reach them.”

                Sai’s eyes went to the dark red wounds along her back. He didn’t think cuts was the right word to describe the gashes along her back, barely missing her spin. He felt his jaw lock, thinking she was lucky they weren’t that deep. He was sure her shirt was probably ruined, if not by the tears then by all the blood.

                He looked for a cloth in the mess around her, telling her, “Of course, Sakura.”

                She found it for him, then handed him a bowl of warm water. Sai dipped the cloth in the water and gently dabbed at her back, the blue fabric quickly becoming sticky with red as he worked. Sakura winced when he grazed her wounds and he didn’t look forward to pouring the disinfectant over them. He cleaned her up as well as he could and reached for the disinfectant, covering another small cloth in it before dabbing across the cuts, starting with the smaller ones first.

                Sakura hissed through her teeth and arched her back slightly. Sai’s other hand went to her hip, his thumb stroking across her skin soothingly. He did it without thought and almost pulled away but then she covered his hand with her own. His voice was quiet as he moved on to the longest gash under her shoulder blade. “Sorry, Sakura.”

                She shook her head at the apology, her fingers tightening around his as he went along the edges of the wound. He regretfully told her, pulling his hand away from her so he could grab the right supplies. “Some of these need stitches.”

                A bitter laugh fell from her lips. “Of course, they do.”

                Sai cut the thread and slipped it through a needle. “I’m nowhere near a medic, but I can at least do this.”

                He placed the heel of his palm near the smallest gash but waited for her response, “I trust you, Sai.”

                His chest felt tight and he didn’t reply before tending to the wound. Sakura was trying to not move as he worked, being the good patient she liked to see, but he could hear the quiet gasps and groans of pain that slipped from her mouth. Sai worked as quickly as he could without doing a bad job. He got to the last cut when he realized the end of it dipped into her bindings, the edges of the white soaked in red.

                “One of them goes through your bindings.” His voice was soft, hesitant to cut them without her consent. They were shinobi and modesty wasn’t really a trait many of them had. But Sai wasn’t unfeeling and understood the need to ask regardless.

                Sakura sighed and reached near her for a blanket to hold against her chest. “Cut them.”

                Sai nodded out of sight and pulled a kunai out from his pouch, cutting the bindings away with one movement. The shreds of them fell to her sides and Sakura pulled them from her front and tossed them to the mess of bloody cotton they had near them.

                Sai hesitated once more, sympathy coating his throat. “Sakura, this one is... Do you have any pain medication or – “

                She shook her head. “None of them would work fast enough. It’s fine, Sai. I can handle it.”

                Sai sighed, wishing he knew some medical ninjutsu, but he didn’t. Her skin glistened with sweat where he laid his other hand to keep her steady. He focused on the gash and thread in his hand, trying his best to tune out the small sounds that escaped Sakura. At some point, he noticed her covering her mouth with her hand and paused for a second. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm and told her in what he hoped was a soothing voice, “I’m almost done, Sakura.”

                She wordlessly nodded and he went back to stitching. After he was finally finished, he grabbed the gauze and bandages all the cuts. Sakura didn’t move from her spot, leaning her head in her hand as she breathed out. Sai cleaned up the area around them, putting her supplies back in her bag haphazardly knowing she would rearrange it all later anyway.

                He pulled gently on her shoulder until she laid down on her side on her bedroll. She looked up at him tiredly as he stood up. “Just stay in here.”

                Sai gave her a small smile and nodded. He normally shared a tent with Yamato, but he supposed it didn’t matter. He could still find him easily when it was his shift for watch.

 ***

                She had invited him over for dinner and Sai only remembered the book when they were cleaning up afterwards. Sakura looked over at him curiously as he stepped towards his pack that he’d laid on her counter. He handed the book to her a moment later and Sakura dried her hands before taking it. She gave him a confused smile, her eyes light. “Sai, what is this for?”

                She turned the book over in her hands and Sai ignored the nervous beating of his heart – there was no reason to be nervous, he knew that, but he couldn’t reason it out of himself. “When you were telling me about that medical jutsu you were working, I remembered seeing this book at the library. I think it would help with your research. It took me a while but I finally found it again yesterday.”

                Sakura’s expression softened and she chuckled softly, her eyes still on the book in her hands. But it was like she was looking through it. “You really do pay attention when I tell you things, don’t you?”

                Sai looked at her confused, a smile threatening his lips. “Well, yes. I care about you and what you share with me is important to me.”

                He wasn’t prepared for the emotion in her eyes when she looked up at him, setting the book down on the table as she stepped towards him. Her fingers twisted in his shirt and she pulled him, her other hand catching his face as she pressed her lips against his.

                Sai felt his breath catch in his chest and she met his eyes as she pulled back. The curve of her lips turned into a nervous smile. She bit her lip as she looked at him and Sai leaned forward to kiss her, his hands going to her face and hip. Sakura smiled into the kiss and the feeling that gave him rivaled the actual action of kissing her.

                He knew it was a clumsy kiss, he didn’t know what he was doing. But as her lips moved with his and natural instinct took over, he figured it out. It was almost overwhelming how she made him feel, how full his chest was. But he didn't think he could ever give it up.

 ***

                She was on top of him as they laid on her couch, cuddled against his chest. It had become a habit of theirs. Him slipping into her apartment after he got back from an ANBU mission, holding her tight throughout the night. She always made pancakes in the morning with two sugars in his coffee. Then, pulled him to her couch and crawled on top of him. The routine was comforting, and Sai didn’t like to admit how off kilter he felt when she was out on her own mission when he came back and missed out on it.

                The weight of her grounded him and his hands absent mindedly stroked across her skin as he looked out her window at the sky. She sighed softly against him as his hand slipped under shirt and his fingers ran along her spine.

                “Why do you do that?” Her quiet mumble brought him out of his thoughts.

                Sai guessed she was talking about his hands and he asked back, “Does it bother you?”

                “No, it’s nice.”

                Sai smiled, his fingers going back down her back. “Tracing the lines of your body.”

                Sakura snorted and nuzzled her face into his chest. She commented softly, “Ever the artist.”

 ***

              He would’ve understood if she had said no. He knew it was an odd request, but Sakura had only smiled and shrugged. “Sure, I think I’d like that.”

                He was forever grateful – with a hint of incredulity – that she seemed to like all his weird quirks.

                She was laying on her stomach on his bed, her bare skin visible with her clothes having been shed to the floor. Sai sat beside her, a brush and ink set next to him as his eyes lingered along her curves. Sakura peaked an eye at him from where her head rested on top of her crossed arms. “Is this okay?”

                He knew she was asking about the position she was in, but his answer held more meaning when he told her, “You’re perfect.”

                Sakura blushed a faint pink that made his heart squeeze and closed her eyes again.

                The first stroke of his brush against her skin made her shiver and he dragged the ink down the curve of her back in a smooth line. He glanced at her face when he raised the brush. “How does it feel?”

                She smiled into her arms. “Soothing.”

                Sai drew another line and watched as she seemed to melt into the bed. Black ink traced the lines of her, and her skin was soaked in his attention. It was almost reminiscent of her the marks that appeared across her skin from her strength of a hundred healings. His brush dipped into the crevice of her knee and he dragged the brush along the curve of her leg, smiling when he noticed her smother a giggle into her arms.

                He grabbed another color and repeated the process. He didn’t know how long he had been doing it, but Sakura had colored lines all across the back of her body. He was about to turn her over when he looked down at her face, her lips parted as she breathed softly. Maybe it was as relaxing as she said, and she’d dozed off at some point.

                He smiled and dipped his brush in red ink before bringing it to her back. He mindlessly wrote words across her skin. The safety of her back letting him say things he didn’t know how to articulate out loud.

                There was only one jagged line on her skin by the end of the night and it was from when she had opened her eyes to look at him, telling him in a warm voice, as quite as his bristles stroking her skin, “I love you too, Sai.”

                She joked later about having the words tattooed into her skin in his handwriting. Sai didn’t tell her that he knew a jutsu that could do that without a needle, not wanting her skin to be tainted by him. Not like that, not permanently.

                He finally told her years later when he noticed her asking around about tattoo artist nearby. Years afterwards and his breath still caught, his chest tight whenever his eyes landed on the black along her spine.

                I love you.

#2.2k #kat writes #saisaku #romance #fluff #mouseymightymarvellous

[susandwrites]

Fallen Through Time - Chapter Seven

Read on AO3.

Sherlock extended a confident hand and waved down his first Victorian cab. As John climbed in, he said to the driver, “Bart’s Hospital, please.” The man nodded and Sherlock slid into the back of the carriage, settling in beside John.

“I have a friend who works in the morgue who should be able to sneak us a peek at the murder victim,” John said, unbuttoning his jacket and making himself comfortable. “Perhaps we’ll be able to suss something out without traveling through time or giving chase to a stalker in the forest.”

Sherlock huffed a little laugh. “It would be helpful to finally have uninterrupted access to the body,” Sherlock mused. He ran his hands over the fabric of his new suit, admiring the handsome plaid pattern, and it occurred to him that John had made rather a large sacrifice in paying to clothe Sherlock. He had deduced when he first met John that he was living above his means simply for the sake of living in London and not begging to his family, and now he had gone and spent what much surely be a large sum of money on a man he had only just met. And kissed. Rather spectacularly. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush; John had done him a favour, apparently out of the goodness of his heart.

“John,” he said, keeping his face as smooth as possible, “I’d like to thank you for the suit. Sincerely. It was… quite generous of you.”

John looked almost taken aback. He blinked a little confusedly and uttered, “Oh — ah, of course. Think nothing of it.” He offered Sherlock an awkward little smile and turned his face back to the window. Doesn’t like to talk about money. Noted. Is that why he won’t go to his family? Oh, no. His family is why he doesn’t like to talk about money. Unsure of the next “appropriate” thing to say, Sherlock decided to leave it be. He had done what was socially required when a person does one a favour and, surprisingly, he had meant it. Sherlock continued to fiddle with his jacket until he felt something in his pocket. His eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock extracted a small slip of cardstock. It was printed with a delicate image of a bouquet of roses and read, “Miss Janine Hawkins, 43 George Street.”

“What on Earth?” Sherlock mumbled and John turned to see what he was on about. Sherlock turned the card for John to see and was surprised when John’s face split into a wide grin. “What?”

“It seems Miss Hawkins would like to see more of you, Mister Holmes,” he teased with a bright laugh. At Sherlock’s continued confusion, he explained, “It’s her calling card ‒ so you know where to find her. Surely people do something similar in your own time?”

“My understanding is that when young people are interested in coitus they send small pictures of aubergines and peaches via their mobile phones to the object of their affection.” Now it was John’s turn to be confused.

“Whatever for?”

“I believe it is due to their vague resemblance to human genitalia.” John’s eyebrows flew nearly to his hairline and Sherlock chuckled.

“Dear God,” he muttered, utterly scandalised.

“I know. Vulgar, isn’t it?”

“Rather.” They made eye contact and were soon enveloped in a fit of giggles that lasted until the cab pulled to a stop in front of St. Bart’s Hospital.

The morgue was located exactly where Sherlock remembered it — in the basement — and that small similarity gave him a tiny feeling of reassurance. This was a case, like any other, and he had to go about the Work with the same diligence and fervour with which he treated every case.

John led the way into the morgue, Sherlock following close behind. There were several bodies laid out on work tables, all covered over with heavy linen, and a quick survey told Sherlock that they were, surprisingly, all female.

“Miss Hooper. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” John was saying cordially, and Sherlock’s attention was drawn to a living woman at the back of the room. She turned and offered John a mousey little smile, taking his hand in a polite shake. Her hair was pinned up in a simple, slightly-askew bun and her clothes were plain. Simple. Practical, Sherlock corrected. Durable fabric, no excessive frills, well cared-for but clearly worn regularly ‒ not a large wardrobe, then. Single, lives with a relative ‒ likely an aunt or some such ‒ late twenties, works with her hands.

“You must be quick, Doctor Watson,” Miss Hooper replied in a thin voice. “I’m really not supposed to let you down here while I’m working.”

“Working?” Sherlock inquired with a tilt of his head. “You work with the bodies?”

“Yes,” Miss Hooper replied, slightly surprised by the question. “I’m the undertaker here for women and children. And you are…?”

“Oh! Apologies,” John interjected, “Miss Margaret Hooper, this is my new friend, Mister Sherlock Holmes. He’s a detective, helping me to investigate this murder.” Sherlock gave John a slightly-indignant look at being referred to as someone else’s helper, but he let it slide. He was, after all, the stranger in the strange land. Sherlock offered Miss Hooper a handshake and she took it.

“I didn’t expect a female undertaker,” Sherlock explained, but that earned him a surprisingly-hard expression from Miss Hooper. Her mouth formed a thin line and her eyes narrowed, clearly having heard this sentiment before.

“It’s more common than you might think,” she said, almost accusatory. “Bart’s has a policy against men embalming females and children for the sake of decency. It seems that even dead women are not free from the societal pressures of modesty.”

Sherlock was a little taken aback ‒ he had only suspected that, due to the time period, women would not be allowed to do what was often considered “man’s work”. Certainly, he didn’t think one’s gender had any bearing on their competency. Societal constructs of gender and sex were completely arbitrary, besides. Suddenly, it occured to Sherlock that he had not voiced any of these thoughts and had been staring uncomfortably at Miss Hooper for nearly thirty awkward seconds. “That’s not ‒ I didn’t mean…” he stuttered quickly, but John stepped in.

“I’m sure Mister Holmes is merely surprised,” he supplied helpfully. “He’s never worked with an undertaker before ‒ you must forgive his ignorance, Miss Hooper.” Ignorance? Sherlock had never been accused of ignorance before in his life. Well, except by Mycroft, but he was a cock. John raised a warning eyebrow at Sherlock  and he decided to take the path of least resistance.

“Apologies if I offended you, Miss Hooper. I am grateful for your assistance.” He nearly pulled a muscle from trying to maintain an expression of plausible contrition. But it appeared that Miss Hooper was mollified.

“I’ve heard it often enough,” she said with a sigh. With little fanfare, Miss Hooper approached one of the slabs and whipped the sheet from the body atop the wooden surface. “Mrs. Edith Herraldson, formerly of Swindon, in town visiting her sister who identified her earlier this morning. Thirty-four years of age, stabbed on the left-hand side with a non-serrated blade which punctured her liver and lung.”

“A bit of an expert maneuver, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock asked casually, bending to take a closer look at the wound in question. “To miss the ribs and not make a mess of the whole affair?”

“I’d say so,” Miss Hopper concurred.

“Are these bruises on her chin?” John was bent over Mrs. Herraldson’s face, his eyebrows furrowed and his fingers gently tilting her head left and right. “Here ‒ along her right jaw.”

Sherlock stepped closer and examined her face from John’s point-of-view. He was correct. “The killer must have gripped her ‘round the mouth as he stabbed her.”

“He?” John asked.

“Most likely, given the spacing of the bruises and the strength required for this kind of stabbing.” Sherlock righted himself and looked down at John, his open face a touchstone for steady thought.

“So he ‒ what? ‒ sat on the bench beside her and held her by the jaw?” One of John’s eyebrows lowered in contemplation. “Why wouldn’t she have moved away? Been afraid or offended?”

“I expect he was making a pass at her.” Sherlock looked quickly around the room before grabbing two chairs and plopping them down side by side. He pointed to one and John sat down before Sherlock took up the other seat. “He joins her on the bench, at a respectable distance, they start chatting and he slowly sidles closer.” Sherlock demonstrated and John turned to look at him with an expression that was somewhere between bemusement and amusement. Dropping his left arm onto the back of John’s chair, Sherlock leaned over him a little as he continued to speak. “He’s making her feel comfortable ‒ flattered, even. She’s not paying attention to his hands.” Sherlock dropped his gaze a little, glancing down at John’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. There was heat in John’s blue irises that hadn't been there a moment before. “It’s the perfect moment to strike.” Sherlock quickly wrapped his left hand around John’s jaw, covering his mouth, and jabbed John in the side with his right index finger. John jumped at the attack and Sherlock smirked. A little huff of embarrassed laughter escaped John’s nose and he practically rolled his eyes as Sherlock stood from their makeshift bench.

“You git,” he said, but there was no real annoyance behind the word.

“I’ve heard it often enough.” Sherlock grinned and offered Miss Hooper a playful little wink. Finally, she smiled at him and shook her head. It occured to Sherlock that in his own time, working with people was an unfortunate evil. He would never have felt inclined to make peace with someone whom he had offended ‒ or even realise that he had offended someone in the first place. But John was introducing him to people, practically insisting that he engage in polite conversation, and for some reason, Sherlock felt inclined to comply. It had been easier, for certain, to deal with people after being nice, if a little more time-consuming. But perhaps, in the long run, it would prove beneficial for people to feel engendered towards him. John truly was proving himself to be an asset to Sherlock’s very existence in this time.

“Well, if the two of you have gotten everything you need,” Miss Hopper said as John replaced the chairs to their proper stations, “Professor Moriarty will be down shortly to make his own notes and I’d rather not be caught letting unauthorised persons in the morgue.”

“Certainly, Miss Hooper,” John said, waving his hat politely before donning it.

“Thank you again.” Sherlock nodded with a small smile, which Miss Hopper returned, and he and John took their leave.

‒‒

“I don’t know what it is you want me to say, Mister Holmes. I know as much as you do.”

“Well, I doubt that very much.” Mycroft sat back in his chair and tapped the capped end of his Montblanc pen impatiently against the surface of his desk. He stared across at Detective Inspector Lestrade with a shrewd expression. “But when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, there are certain details of his everyday life which he still manages to keep from my sight.”

“What makes you think I know anything?” Lestrade demanded, equally impatient but unable to remain as infuriatingly calm as Mycroft. “I need him on this case ‒ a body turns up on Parliament Hill in what Sherlock assures me are authentic Victorian clothes, he goes running off into the woods, we all turn our backs for one second, and next thing he and the body are missing. What am I s’posed to do with that, eh? If I knew where he was, don’t you think I’d be after him myself?”

“I think you know where he is because, loathe though I am to admit it, you do probably know him best.”

“I’ve known him for five years and no I don’t.” Lestrade crossed his arms and flopped back in his own chair, far less comfortable than the one in which Mycroft reclined.

“You’ve been his arresting officer on no fewer than eleven occasions. I believe that gives me reason to suspect that you may have an inkling as to his whereabouts. His most-frequented bolt-holes, the people with whom he usually associated when he… relapses.”

“You’re the one with all this power ‒ you can’t track him or anything?”

“Power?” Mycroft scoffed. “What makes you think I have any power whatsoever?”

“Well, I’ve been sequestered in this office for more than twelve hours, brought here by spooks in an unmarked towncar. And, as you say, I’ve arrested Sherlock at least eleven times and the last time I checked, he doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket on his record. I know I  didn’t pardon him.” Lestrade lifted an eyebrow and gave Mycroft a look that could only be described as sassy. “Now, I will do anything I can to find Sherlock because he’s my friend, it’s my job, and I need his help. But I can’t do anything while I’m trapped in this bloody office.”

Mycroft took a deep breath through his nose and considered the detective before him. “This conversation never happened.”

“I’m sure it didn't.” Lestrade stood from his chair, grabbed up his jacket, and marched through the door.

#sherlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock #johnlock fanfic #ao3 #victorian au #fallen through time #molly hooper #sherlock holmes #john watson #ao3 update #i know im late #but it is what it is

[quillovesdbz]

Week 3 Submission for @tpthvegebulmayhem Clandestine Downfall

Chapters: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7

Chapter 4: The Weeping Wounds

Rating: T

Genre: Cloak and Dagger, Fantasy, Fairytale AU, Horror, Dark Fiction, Mystery

TW: Violence, conspiracy for murder, assassination, injury description, poisoning, vomiting, death, graphic depiction of an autopsy, light smut, homophobic ideology

Summary: Death! Who has poisoned the general? Is the same person after the prince? The kingdom has been compromised! And just who is the regent? Find out all that and more, in this installment of: Clandestine Downfall!

From the slight crack in the cellar door Bulma and Tien saw 3 men forcefully enter the cottage. The two smaller men seemed to be carrying a much larger, nearly unconscious one. The concealed two instantly recognized Yamcha. And Bulma recognized the other to be the prince. Her mind was suddenly flying, trying to piece together the situation, and then…

“Who is trip trapping on my bridge, and trespassing in my home?!” yelled a familiar  prepubescent voice. The unsurprisingly agile young boy swung down from the rafters like an exotic eastern monkey. His feet landed in perfect sync as he immediately stabled himself. In his two hands he held a long staff, a memento from Bulma’s father. Though her father had only used it as a walking stick in his later years, Goku seemed to favor it a weapon.

Though she feared for the boy's safety she knew very well he could hold his own in one on one combat. And with the larger man seemingly incapacitated, Goku and Yamcha could defend themselves if need be. She frantically looked around for the other missing two, Oolong would be easy to spot, but Lazuli was a master at hide and seek. Neither were in plain sight, which comforted her to some extent.

“Well speak up mister!” the monkey boy bellowed, pointing the slender red rod towards the prince.

Vegeta scanned the boy, from messy black head to dirty bare toes. Something about him seemed familiar. The hair, his striking dark and determined eyes, even the way he held himself, ready to lunge. He was so familiar yet so foreign and strange. Even the way he spoke, authoritative and calculated. Yes, Vegeta had seen this boy somewhere before, though he couldn't tell where.

“Who are you boy? And do you know who you are talking to?!” he retorted, with a disgusted look on his face.

“I am Goku, and no I don't know who you are, I've never met you before.” the boy replied rather matter of factly.

Feeling the slight tension between Vegeta and Goku, Yamcha cut in to calm the situation.

“Goku, he’s fine, he won't hurt us… for now. We need Bulma though! Where is she?”

The ominous mention of “for now" horrified Bulma, but she trusted Yamcha and decided to reveal herself. She whispered lightly to Tien to keep the girls hidden while she figured the situation out.

Goku completely let down his guard at Yamcha’s reassurance. He grinned a playful and mischievous grin, announcing “Alright I'll go get her from her hiding spot!”

Oh come on! She silently uttered, raising her open palm to her clammy forehead. Disgruntled as she was, she climbed out of the cellar door as quiet as a mouse. Luckily the prince wasn't looking in her direction, rather he focused on Goku with a very odd concentration.

Bulma extended her legs, pushing herself to a mostly standing position. She brushed the dust and dirt from the cellar off of her flaxen colored shift and bloomers. Her hair was tied loosely behind her head, but a large portion of her bangs fell softly in front of her eyes. Some strands from that portion had begun to soak the sweat from her forehead, and stuck to her face.

She stepped from the hallway connecting the kitchen and entryway, fist to her brow in preparation to bow. But she immediately caught herself, a man bows, a woman minds her modesty with a curtsey. Her fingertips traced the lace bottom of her shift and her hands pulled in each direction spreading the cloth for a proper bend. She swept her right leg behind the left and slowly dipped into a low, respectful greeting.

“Your Highness,” she breathed.

Yamcha nearly cried out, your highness?! But was cut off by the prince.

“Disgraceful! Your immodesty is only forgivable because this is an unexpected… visit… but you should be ashamed to even present yourself to me in such a state. Begone! Cover your nakedness!” Vegeta spewed after taking in the shocking visual of her.

Her face spontaneously combusted into flames the second she realized what she was wearing. And the Prince called her out so… elegantly. He could not have worded his disgust in such a way to make her feel any worse. Damn that's embarrassing… She shrieked internally. Without hesitation she fled to her chambers for a heavier, more company appropriate smock.

Yamcha turned to Vegeta when Bulma was out of earshot.

“Listen, I don't know what kind of crime warrants a visit of the prince himself, but please know she's done nothing wrong. Let her pay by healing your friend, and let her go.” The scar faced bandit pled.

“Don’t speak so plainly to your Prince! And I'll see to it she is punished of her crime regardless of what happens to Nappa, mark my word.”

…

Soon, the physician's daughter had Nappa situated.

“I've given him quite a large dose of opium, taking his size into account. He will be comfortable for now, but I'll need to know what the ailment is to properly treat him.”

She stood with authority and intelligence in her posture. She sported a white smock, tied in the waist that fell loosely to her ankles. She had a cloth covering most of her face and gloves on in case Nappa vomited again. She'd given Goku instructions to gather the rest of the children and wait in the cellar until this was all over. I'll come get you as soon as they leave. She half heartedly promised. Honestly, she had no idea what would happen to her in the next few minutes or hours. But what did happen was very far from anyone's expectations.

“He said he'd been poisoned. However he's been sick for the last few days, maybe he is just delirious.” the prince explained.

“That would explain the vomiting and the pale complexion, but those would be symptomatic of most illnesses. I need more time to observe him... Your grace.”

Vegeta sneered at the girl. Tch. He wanted to say he didn't really care whether Nappa lived or died. But he needed backup, and if anyone would kill the Great General, it would be the most powerful man in the kingdom, the prince himself. There's no way the prince would let him be beaten by a coward who poisoned him.

“Do what you must.” he replied, grasping his long navy cloak. Before leaving the room he glared at Yamcha, the way an alpha wolf would intimidate another male during meal time.

“Let's let him rest, Yamcha. Thank you, for doing this and I am so sorry to have dragged you into my mess…” Bulma nearly choked out. She felt her eyes becoming hot and wet, feeling responsible for his predicament. Yamcha instinctively leaned in for an embrace or a kiss, but Bulma pulled back. Silently she swept past him to meet the prince in the kitchen. Yamcha stayed a while thinking about his decisions.

“I'll fix you some food, your highness. And you're welcome to stay as long as it takes for Nappa to heal.” she offered.

With a grunt he accepted the food, the sliced apple that was meant for Tien and Goku, along with cheeses, cured meat, and a glass of wine. She secretly hoped the wine would loosen him up because his sober state was nearly unbearable.

Bulma and Goku fixed a room for the prince, with the softest of the hospital's twenty mattresses and a pea blossom bouquet for fragrance. I don't even treat myself to such luxury. She lamented.

She decided to conceal the children longer, in case anything happened to her, they would be able to escape.

…

It was early the next morning when Nappa said his final words.

Goku had wandered into his hospital room early in the morning to observe the giant. Goku had never seen such a big man in all his life. It was both daunting and exciting. He wanted to challenge the man to a spar when he awoke, like he, Krillin and Tien did with the old martial arts master in town. Master Roshi had challenged Goku to find bigger and stronger opponents. Goku delighted in the idea of becoming stronger to protect his family… and for fun of course.

...

Nappa dreamt of one thing for the entirety of his sleep. He replayed a peculiar conversation he had with the Regent a fortnight ago.

“Your grace,” Nappa greeted, head low and fist to brow.  He had been called into a meeting in the King’s counsel, though he had no idea what it was about. He was generally not invited to such discussions unless they involved war or battle, both of which had not occurred recently. To say the call for him was odd may have been an understatement.

“General Nappa. Please stand. Join us at the table, our guest.”

Nappa lifted himself from the wooden floor. At the table sat several confidantes, and an ambassador. There was the Regent himself at the head of the table. He was cloaked in black and crimson, which suited him well. There were small golden chains latched from his cloak to his lapels. His collar was a frilly black satin that crawled like a lizard up his thick neck. His skin was dark, and scarred. He too had seen battles, many of the same Nappa had, though they once fought on opposite sides. As handsome as the Regent was, Nappa wasn't jealous. He was thankful that his own face hadn't  been scarred in such a way, or else the castle maids wouldn't favor him!

To the left of the Regent was Piccolo, the highest ranking monk in the kingdom who attended the meetings as a spiritual guide. He was draped in loose white linens, no doubt an inexpensive thread. He was a very serious man and rarely spoke. He was very tall and muscular, but he wasn't intimidating. Nappa respected him.

To the right of the Regent was another confidante, Mistress Baba. She was the master of coin, a mousey broad with a large body and witch-like face. She was a voluntary spinster, though it's not certain she would have married if she wanted to. She was ugly, with an ugly personality to match, but no man could match her expertise in kingdom finance. She too, was clad in black nearly an identical outfit to the regent but in female form. Of all the people in the room, Nappa feared her the most.

Finally, next to the mistress was a man that Nappa recognized as a French ambassador, due to his French Crest proudly displayed on his right breast. His long grassy blonde hair was fastened in a tight braid, flowing gently down his chest and ending in his lap. His uniform was of high military rank, though Nappa could not identify what rank exactly. The deep navy, crimson and white threads in his uniform beautifully highlighted the cool undertones of his skin and bright green eyes.

Nappa took his seat next to Piccolo, so as to not to look highly underdressed next to the ambassador.

“This is Ambassador Zarbon, hand selected by the French Emperor to discuss a treaty with us today. I trust you know the rest of us here?” the Regent inquired.

“Of course,” Nappa replied, trying piece together why exactly the emperor would send an ambassador for treaty talks.

...

Nappa was restless in his comatose state. His body fought violently to subdue the arsenic, but unfortunately it was too late for the general. He had soaked the hospital mattress with his perspiration. This was his greatest and final battle.

…

The meeting was more of a declaration than a discussion. There was to be an assimilation with France, a merging of the armies and joint power to the emperor and the regent, followed by the king when he came of age.

Though Nappa vehemently opposed the idea, there was no arguing as all four other people agreed to the treaty. Nappa could envision a future where the emperor would get his sticky lizard hands on the prince and control him to do anything he wanted. The empire of France would get so large it seemed world domination may even be possible. And that's if the emperor kept his treaty promise. There was nothing him stopping from gaining the kingdom’s army and viciously turning it against itself like he'd done with so many others.

Baba claimed war would be too expensive. This is the only way.

Piccolo claimed that the treaty would bring the least bloodshed. This is the only way.

The ambassador claimed anything less than assimilation would displease the emperor. This is the only way.

And the Regent claimed this was the way to protect the kingdom, themselves, and the prince.

“This is the only way, General. Please order your soldiers at every station to stand down as the French make their way in. They will not be harmed.”

Nappa could not bring himself to agree, his pride being trampled on as it was. Instead, he stormed out of the room, his thunderous footsteps were audible for some time even after his exit.

After the dream replayed, several sickening times, a new event unfolded itself in Nappa’s mind.

The Regent stood from his chair. With a growl he followed Nappa. The regent was smaller, quicker, and caught up to Nappa without even breaking a walk. Nappa felt his legs grow heavy, his lungs filled with heavy unbreathable oxygen. He opened his mouth to give the Regent a piece of his mind when suddenly…

The regent lifted his fist and clenched the space between he and Nappa tightly. His own blood made ribbons on his wrist from his fingernails. His face was suddenly demonic, twisting into an evil scowl. As he tightened his fist, Nappa felt his lungs grow tighter and heavier as well. He couldn't breathe, or speak.

“I will kill you!” the regent threatened, further tightening his grasp.

The general's vision blurred, his pulse weakening in dream state and out.

He opened his eyes for the last time, and beheld a child with wild black hair. The spitting image of the regent. Though he couldn't tell if he was dreaming anymore, his eyes widened.

“Hi! I'm Goku!” the boy said.

The prince stood on the opposite side of the room, leaned against the wall, silently watching his general. When Nappa saw the prince he was relieved to be in at least half friendly company. But as his last breath drew near, so did the prince. In Vegeta’s left hand was a dagger.

“B-bardock! He is going to…”

Vegeta took one look at Nappa and knew this was the end. His face was ashen, purple even, with lack of oxygen. His black eyes were glazed over, veiny and red. Blood vessels all over his face and neck had ruptured forming an almost web like blanket on his face. He looked just like his father had looked so many years ago…

“I won’t let you die weakly, Nappa.”

“Vegeta-" Nappa choked, acid snaking its way from his empty stomach to his esophagus.

“The regent,” he whispered as Vegeta slid the cold smooth dagger into the General's heart.

In that moment Nappa thought nothing and said nothing as his eyes inevitably faded into nothing.

“Hey!! Why'd you do that?! Bulma was trying to save him! I was going to ask him to fight me!! He was your friend!!” Goku valiantly pled.

The prince said one thing and one thing only, not even noticing the boy's tantrum.

“Bardock.”

…

Nappa wasn't the only one to be plagued by dark dreams that night. Bulma also had a restless and nightmarish sleep.

She was walking barefoot on moist ground. The almost mud felt soft on her toes, not an unpleasant experience. It was dark where she was, but she felt like she knew the way. She pressed on, wondering what was next. She could not see much of her surroundings, just black ground and black rock walls. It was a cave of sorts. In the distance she heard a river, an indication of an end to the dark tunnel. She smiled in relief that the trek would soon be over. The smell of the cave began to shift from musty, saturated dirt to a more floral essence. She recognized the distinct scents of lavender and sweet pea blossom. It was an intoxicating mixture, and the promise of a fresh cool drink of water made her press on.

It seemed like ages that she was trapped in the cave, alone but not fearful.  Finally she could see the end. The misty rays of morning sunshine leaked into the entrance of the cave. Outside she could see long blades of green grass, dotted with bunches of pink and purple flowers. Tall pines, junipers and a few silver birch trees lined the entrance of the cave and the river.

“Peasant,” an abrupt, deep voice called.

Curious in nature, Bulma twisted toward the voice, coming from behind her, inside the cave.

“You can never leave me.” the voice was rigid and almost predatory.  The voice began to take the form of a man. He was the same height as herself, and muscular though not overly so. His face was hidden in shadows. Bulma could only just see his chest was bare, but he had dark navy trousers on. She tried to speak but the words dissipated in her mouth before she could form them.

The figure grasped her wrist with his own coarse calloused hand. The hand of a swordsman. He reeked of lavender, a scent she now knew originated with him, and not the outside of the cave. She wanted to recoil at his touch but felt powerless in his grasp. His skin felt much colder than hers, almost stinging when he touched her. When she decided to stop resisting she was electrified. The forbidden feeling of letting go excited her. He pulled her in, wrapping his other arm around her waist and locking her there. Her chest was pressed to his, which she could now see was scarred with snow white lines. She now knew this was the prince, but he had captured her. It felt so wrong to betray her beliefs and ideals in favor of his tantalizing body, but she did so anyway.

“But I hate you,” she was finally able to say. His head moved ever closer to hers as if he hadn't even heard her. When he was so close she could feel his warm breath on her own face, she stopped breathing. Anticipating. Suffering. Craving.

And then she awoke.

…

Bulma wore the same medical smock from the day before as she prepared to check on her patient. Yamcha had spent the night with her, though not in her bed. He was still asleep in her large reading chair when she glanced his way. She felt a small pang of guilt for her heated fantasy about the prince, even though it was just a dream. His features were soft and boyish when he slept. She frowned though, when she remembered that he had left her. He had no intention of being with her and she had to accept that. And the feeling was surprisingly mutual.

Out of the blue she heard her small brother yelling incoherently. Goku! Her mind raced.

Without gloves, boots or mask she sprinted to where she heard the voice, the patient's room. When she reached the doorway she was stopped by the broad figure of the prince. Her heart fluttered with visions of her steamy dream. Involuntarily, her face began to redden at the thought of how close they were. “Eep!” she yelped, at the sudden shock.

Vegeta was in his own head trying to work things out when the doctor's daughter appeared. She seemed flustered, red and messy. She hadn't her shoes, gloves or mask, likely due to hearing the child and rushing here. Her skin was dewy and fresh, her hair tangled but soft looking. And her deep blue eyes were wide and easy to look at. She was slender with pale skin and shoulder length hair. If she weren't a criminal peasant, the prince may have even favored her. But those matters were far from his mind when she stopped him in that doorway.

“He is dead. We must discuss some matters urgently, over breakfast,” he ultimately decided to say.

Bulma had to replay what he said before realizing what he meant. She stepped to the side of the prince and forced her way in to see the patient.

“What?” She vocalized. Dead? He was stable last night! She questioned herself.  And then she saw the bloody mess of sheets draped over the patient's heart. And Goku, standing over and studying the corpse.

“What happened?!” Bulma yelled, exasperated. She was so infinitely confused, did Goku do this? The prince? Yamcha or an intruder? She pressed her bare fingers to Nappa’s throat for a pulse. Nothing. Her fingers made contact with some blood from his chest wound, making her regret not wearing her gloves.

“He killed him! I wanted to spar with him when he got better, but he killed his friend!” Goku answered back to her.

Bulma was shocked and even more confused than before. Was she housing a psychotic murderous prince? Was this all part of the nightmare?

…

Yamcha had risen just slightly after Bulma, though he was awake long before her. She was restless in her sleep, tossing, turning and moaning the entire night. All he wanted to do was get away but she kept reeling him back in. Her hooks were deep and jagged in his heart. He cared for her and her family so much, and even though he could have escaped in the night and let her make her own bed, he stayed. At some point he was curious about the other children. He assumed she had them tucked away in the cellar but he decided to test that hypothesis. When he found them down there, he brought them food. Six bowls of porridge of varying sizes and temperatures. They were grateful, having not eaten the entire day. Yamcha patted Tien on his fuzzy head. He said something along the lines of Keep everyone safe in case anything happens. And Tien accepted the command with a nod.

And now Yamcha was awake and he noticed the bed in shambles. He lifted the blanket and began to smooth out the sheets. He tucked the corners neatly and fluffed the pillows, when suddenly he heard a commotion. The scar faced boy immediately pursued the noise.

Leaving the room, Yamcha passed right by the kitchen where he only barely noticed the prince sitting at the dining table… In fact the prince was sitting in his own usual spot at the dining table which really seemed to burn Yamcha.

Yamcha didn't exactly grow up learning proper gentleman's etiquette. In fact he was an orphan from the time he was young and he had to beg and steal to survive. It wasn't until recently that Bulma had begun correcting his grammar and social appropriateness. He learned not to call every woman he met a broad because it was impolite. He'd never learned what polite was, but he figured it meant saying the right words at the right time. And it was not a simple feat.

“Hey, ya sod! Make yourself comfortable in my chair why don't ya?” he spat at the prince. Vegeta stared at the young bandit, who had just committed three crimes against the crown in one sentence.

Tch what am I even doing here? He questioned himself sincerely. He came to arrest the peasant woman and maybe publicly humiliate her, but he didn't expect Nappa to die and… I can't go back there… What if the murderer comes after me?

Vegeta now recognized the smaller black haired boy as very similar to the Regent, but he couldn't be sure if there was any relation. Maybe this plot went a lot deeper than he originally anticipated. Just then Bulma entered the kitchen with a scowl directed towards the scar faced delinquent.

“Watch your mouth, Yamcha!” You'll get us all killed! She thought.

“Would you kindly mind explaining exactly what happened in there?!” she screeched at the comfortable looking prince. He shifted silently contemplating whether to tell her or not.

“Your grace?” she added as an afterthought.

“I killed him because he wouldn't have wanted to die in disgrace covered in his own vomit and feces.” he said smoothly.

“He may not have died! He seemed to have a very developed constitution, and-"

“He was choking to death as I watched him! And you have no right to instigate me, the prince and most powerful man in this kingdom! I should be asking you if you accelerated his deterioration?!” Not only did he cut her off but he insulted her medical skill and intelligence and accused her of murder! Almost nothing could stop her from raising her furious fist to his face, almost.

Goku grabbed Bulma's outstretched fist.

“What's a Bardock, Bulma?” he asked innocently and sincerely.

All three adults were silent and waited for what would be said next.

Vegeta decided to break the silence first. “You've tread on very thin ice here, woman. As I see it you have very few options. First you answer every question I have for you honestly and without hesitation. Secondly, you help me clean up this mess and get to the bottom of the poisoning fiasco. Thirdly, you submit to your arrest and face trial and punishment when this is all over. Do this, and I may spare you and these two clowns’ worthless lives.”

With her hand in Goku’s she focused on what the prince said. He doesn't know about the other children yet. She sighed, relieved. But that doesn't mean he can't find out. And Bulma had sworn to protect them no matter what. So she grimaced and bowed low to the prince, who seemingly had her in a corner.

“You may be a vulgar woman, but it takes a lot of guts to raise your fist to a prince,” he said, almost grinning respect for her.

Though arguments were had, Bulma, Goku, Vegeta and Yamcha settled on a quick breakfast before the autopsy of Nappa.

…

“Someone's been eating my porridge,” Bulma rummaged frantically through her barren kitchen cabinets. Her voice was hushed, her hands searching. Her fingertips grazed the dust inside, and she frowned at the thought of her siblings going without. Giving up on the idea of porridge, she placed her hands on her hips and sighed. Faintly, the children in the cellar could be heard rustling.

Munching eagerly on a bright red apple, the prince hadn't heard the children at first. Bulma stamped her foot loudly on the solid wood floor, a warning to quiet down for the moment. Though he had been deep in thought, mostly pondering the significance of the boy Goku, the stomp shook the prince to attention. Dirt fell on the children like rain. Tiny Lazuli breathed in, filling her lungs with powdered air.

The moment was short but lasted a lifetime in Bulma’s mind. The little girl’s cough was heard by every ear in the kitchen.

The Prince's first reaction to the small cough was suspicion. Why would this woman be hiding a child? He stood from his chair, and traced the sound with his eyes.

“No,” Bulma breathed.

“What are you hiding from me, woman?”

Like a hunted doe she froze, she waited, she tried to figure out what to say but it was almost too overwhelming.

Tien decided he was done playing hiding seek now. He wasn’t afraid of this stranger. With Goku and Yamcha, they could take him down if need be. The boy grabbed his sisters by their hands and motioned for his two brothers to follow behind.  The six short orphans crawled up from the cellar door near the back of the kitchen, Lazuli still hacking away at the dirt.

Revealed and vulnerable, Bulma had no choice but to resort to her feminine wiles in hopes the prince would agree to leave them alone.

“Um, oh, they're just sick children I'm caring for. They aren't related to me at all in fact, run along home little ones,” she gestured to the back door, and then turned to face the prince once again, “so that the adults can get down to business…” her voice and eyes dropped low and sultry, towards Vegeta.

Yamcha flushed as he realized what she was doing. In his limited wisdom he could not see this ending well so he broke his silence.

“Uh look, this has gone on long enough! We all know you're here to arrest Bulma. This is her family and without her they will die. In order to take care of them she had to make a living, and if it's a crime to love and care for your family then this kingdom is doomed.” Yamcha hadn't planned to insult the kingdom or its laws, it just came out that way. He always said what he felt.

“Look, I don't care what is going on here, because the kingdom is compromised. I need your help to figure out what exactly happened to Nappa. Then I can handle that situation and then arrest the woman!”

“Arrest me and let her go!” Yamcha yelled valiantly.

“No! Oh my God stop trying to save me!” Bulma yelled at the bandit.

Yamcha was visibly confused.

“I'll help you,” she stated, a promise. “But you have to promise no harm comes to my siblings… or Yamcha.”

“So far my only interest is punishing those who've committed crimes. The children have not, and you have my word no harm will come to them.” he promised back.

There was no promise to Yamcha, but Bulma had to agree to the terms to protect the children.

With knowing eyes she told Yamcha to take the children to pick apples, silently. And silently he agreed.

…

To hasten the process of congealing Nappa's blood, Bulma mixed a fine powder of yarrow and myrrh sap. The mixture was a sticky sweet smelling syrup that she applied to each incision.  The result was thick, molasses like blood that did not spill all over the floor. Nappa was far too large to let his blood in the tub, so this was a necessary process.

While the woman worked her magic on his general's corpse, Vegeta wandered close by in the connecting library. There had to have been a hundred books on medicine, poison, gynaecology, pediatrics and more. Most of the books looked well worn, likely years of reading and rereading. The prince slid his right hand fingers on an odd book, seemingly out of place with all the medical texts; Richard III by William Shakespeare.  A play… how oddly refined for a peasant woman…

His calloused fingers admired the worn leather of its binding. He shook the book open to a page and read an excerpt:

“Foul devil, for God’s sake hence, and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Fill’d it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O! gentlemen; see, see! dead Henry’s wounds Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh. Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For ’tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells: Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God! which this blood mad’st, revenge his death; O earth! which this blood drink’st, revenge his death; Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, Or earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good king’s blood, Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered!”

Vegeta mourned the act of killing his friend. As if precautionary, he checked to see if Nappa was bleeding again in his presence, even though he knew it a superstitious and outdated practice.

The physician's daughter cut away, a long Y shaped incision into the general's chest. She was unphased by the sight of blood, organs and the smell. The smell was most horrible, a fleshy and iron smell that turned sour the closer she got to his stomach. Even Vegeta, who had seen some battle in his young life, almost turned away in disgust. But not Bulma.

“Eureka!” the blue haired surgeon shrieked after some time spent digging in the general's stomach. Her blood-soaked and gloved hand pulled out a small amount of what looked like mud to the untrained eye.

“What is it?” he demanded as he got closer, eyes wide as if it could help him understand better.

“Food.” She proudly proclaimed, as if it truly answered his question. She knew it didn't but it was fun to dangle her superior intellect in front of him, teasingly. She turned away from the prince, and towards a table with many dishes and vials. And, next to them was a machine the prince hadn't seen before, even in the castle's infirmary and laboratory. It was a cylindrical device mounted on a small stand which held a glass plate. Curious and disgusted Vegeta watched her work. She placed the bloody mud she identified as food on the small glass plate. Then she ungloved her right hand and grasped the cylinder in it. She delicately placed her eye over the cylinder, where the prince now noticed there was a circular glass piece.

“A magnifier?” the prince guessed, moderately educated in his own right.

“Sort of,” the genius girl teased.

But quickly his mind wandered from what she was doing at the moment, to what she was doing with her life.

“Why do you harbor these orphans and that street rat?” He asked, bluntly.

For a moment Bulma was quiet. Through a quick look she determined the sample was of an apple. Though, the stomach and mouth of the corpse smelled distinctly of garlic. An odd combination that is rarely seen in traditional cooking.

Something inside her told her to answer him truthfully. So she did.

...

“I see. My father also passed when I was young… He appointed the Regent, Bardock, to fulfill his duties until a time when I decided to take over. I promised my father I would follow in his footsteps and become the most powerful man in the kingdom. But here I am chasing a silly criminal getting my most valuable general killed.”

The prince had opened up to her, albeit not without calling her silly, but he had really left himself vulnerable to whatever she could say next. His insecurities and fears of not meeting expectations seemed to weigh heavy on his shoulders. Ignoring the “silly" comment, she opted for a sympathetic response.

“You are doing a fine job, Nappa's death was not your fault. But you can make it better. Avenge him, and prove to your father and the regent that your time to rule is now.” She raised her gloved hand in a fist of rebellion.

“And fulfill your promise to be the most powerful by eliminating the French threat and protecting your kingdom!”

Oops. She had gone off on a tangent and revealed her true political ideals.

“I… what do you know about France?!” Vegeta demanded, cross browed and inquisitive.

“I um, sorry, I just have strong opinions and I let myself get carried away… your grace.” She stated, much quieter than before.

He just stared at her and let the sight of her fill him. That passion…

“Well since you will rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable life, you should know we are in the middle of a treaty with the emperor of France. We will assimilate and become one.”

Bulma was most shocked about the declaration of a treaty with France. It was almost as if she hadn't heard the rotting in a cell part. Almost.

“You fool,” she breathed, involuntarily. “he’ll kill us all before he even thinks of peace with this kingdom. What your father did was unforgivable and Emperor Frieza will make our kingdom pay… this ‘treaty’ is only a ploy and I can't believe you don't see it…”

It hadn't occurred to him that it was a trick, but she had made a fascinating point. If Frieza still harbored any ill will, he could flawlessly execute a coup d'état with the appearance of peace. It left the prince speechless, this woman’s intelligence.

“In fact, the plot may have already begun with the poisoning of your general. Arsenic.” and with that she removed her remaining bloody glove and began to cover the body with sheets.

…

They had made a makeshift wooden cart to carry Nappa behind their horses. His body was beginning to stiffen, but Vegeta and Yamcha were able to place him without too much effort.

Bulma mounted the fallen general's stallion with grace. Yamcha grabbed its reins to lead, but she insisted he join her on the horse. When he did Vegeta felt a small jealousy ignite in his chest. Alone on his own dark horse, Vegeta thought about one thing; the unexpected infatuation he'd developed with this vulgar cross-dressing harlot over the last three days.

God, how she glows. She is like a sinful fire and my body is freezing and my mind naive. She is not only beautiful, with porcelain skin, rivers of blue hair and deep twilight eyes, but she is intelligent and strong willed. She's got guts. The mousey maids in the castle are nothing like her. The dutchess suitors I'm accustomed to are so timid and withdrawn. None would even think to accomplish the feats this woman has in her eighteen years of life. I can never have her, and that makes me want her so much more.

Her beauty is nothing if not underrated by those around her. How she even managed to dress as a man for so long looking like that is beyond me. Her facial structure is angular and soft all at the same time. Her skin dewy and perfectly delicious. I don't know if I want to kiss her or eat her. I definitely want to touch every part of her, hair and skin, lips and neck even… Yes, she is certainly the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen.

Her intelligence is by far her most hidden trait. She has knowledge that could rival even the most skilled castle physicians. The graceful way she cut into Nappa, spilling the least blood and quickly identifying the poison. The exact food the poison was in even! She was taught well by her father. And to her credit he probably didn't teach her everything. Not a single book in her library was dusty nor pristine. All were well used, and well absorbed. Even the entertaining reads of plays and poetry showed her deep and critical knowledge. And she squandered her intellect, by working as a stable hand in my stables.

Her will power rivals even that of my own. In my life I have been dedicated to nothing but becoming a powerful warrior and king, to fulfill my father's wish. I can relate to her trials, she too promised her father, and kept it all these years. Here I am hiding away from the man who wishes to usurp me, or worse. And she is burying the friend of her enemy to ensure safety for her family. She has done all I have asked, albeit not without argument, for the prosperity of her family. She is passionate not only about them but the entire kingdom as well. It reminds me… well it reminds me of my mother. She was so strong even at her weakest. And Bulma is no different.

In fact, I respect her for all of this. How different and similar we are isn't so odd. In another world I'd scoop her up and steal her away, and she'd be my princess or I would be her peasant husband. Unfortunately...

Vegeta day dreamed silently as the trio rode further into the forest.

He made a decision then, and although he didn't know it yet, it would ultimately be the death of Bulma.

…

The group arrived at a clearing near a river shortly before sunset. Yamcha still wasn't sure why he needed to come, besides being secondary muscle to transport the hulking abomination.  

“Here will do.” The prince called out, halting his horse and dismounting. Bulma and Yamcha also dismounted and looked around. It was a far stretching meadow, mostly grassy with some large patches of sand and rock appearing closer to the river. Surrounding the clearing was a plethora of aspen trees and a few juniper and birch. In the distance the Jura mountain range could be seen, the citrus and peony sunset settled quietly behind it. No one said a word.

Once Nappa was buried, and as if on queue, hundreds of fireflies made their appearance in the dim and fleeting light of day. The floating flames danced around the trio, a spiritual sight to behold. Bulma smiled and reached out to touch one, her other arm rested safely on Yamcha’s shoulder. The prince took notice of the bugs, but to him they were far from wonderful. They stung him like bees, reminding him that his friend and mentor would never see the light of day again. Nor his father. Nor his mother. Nor his infant brother. His entire family, everyone who had ever meant anything to him was completely, utterly gone.

Darkly, the prince demanded “Get out of here.”

Taken aback by the demand, and not quite knowing the exact meaning, Bulma responded, “W-why, are you sending us home? Will you arrest me?”

“I will be back for you tonight. Make the final preparations for your family and leave them in his care,” he gestured to Yamcha. “You will be tried, and if found guilty you will be subject to punishment. There is a chance you may never return, so please make preparations for such a case. NOW GO!!” He roared, a lion towering above two mice. He grasped his cloak and turned to face the fresh grave, his back to the boy and girl.

“But you!” Bulma fought back tears. How could he? I've done so much! This isn't fair!

Yamcha threw his arm around Bulma, who was now a slobbering, whimpering mess, whose words felt like a different language altogether.  He took the reins, poorly leading the horse back home. Bulma sobbed and held her one time beau tightly as they headed back, slowly.

The prince stood in the clearing for what seemed an eternity. His chin was high, but eyes low examining the final resting place of the great general. The fireflies did not tire, even as the sun finally disappeared, they danced on. Slowly, a salty stream manifested in the prince’s eyes. Though he fought it, his thoughts had finally overwhelmed him. The annoying flying flames had finally bursted his last nerve. Withdrawing his sabre with finesse, he swung hard at the air, at the bugs. Frustrated from missing them, he turned his anger to the trees. He hacked and sliced for a while, until sweat had drenched his shirt and cloak. He discarded them without thought and returned to sparring the tree. He hadn't noticed but he was shouting with each swing. Only once he was hoarse and parched did he realize what strain he had put on his vocals.

He collapsed on the grassy, sandy earth in a huff. It was time.

…

Though Yamcha had plead for her to take her chance at escape, she declined. He had devised a quick and fairly executable plan to pack the children and run as far from the kingdom as possible. But Bulma was nothing if not brave and honorable. “This is my fault. I need to pay for my actions,” she told him.

They agreed not to tell the children, most of whom were sleeping. The rambunctious Goku was still awake and raiding what little stores of fresh food they still had.

Bulma and Yamcha spent most of the time they had left in silence, scrubbing the death soaked room that once housed Nappa. There was no arguing with Bulma, and there was certainly no arguing with the prince.

“Bulma,” Goku had made his way into the room where they were, seemingly without a sound.  

Bulma's face was colored deep red from hours of sobbing, her eyes swollen. She looked up from her position on the floor, to see him standing in the doorway.

Without words, the three of them just embraced. Each one felt it deep in their hearts, it would be the last time. But it wasn't in Goku's nature to give up like that.

“I will become strong! I will rescue you!” his eyes began to glaze and fill with tears.

“Shh, no, please don't. That would only get you killed and put our siblings in danger. Promise me you will take care of them, Goku,” she pled, a lump in her throat.

He just grasped her tighter, his arms around her neck, fingers digging into her skin. He never wanted to let her go, his sister, his rock, he loved her. She squeezed him back with all she had, her hand on the back of his wild head, fingers braided between his hair.

They couldn't let go. That is until they heard him coming.

Bulma grabbed a small bag packed with essentials. But the prince motioned for her to leave it. “You won't need a change of clothes when all you'll be wearing is a prison shift. Leave the unnecessary things and let's go. I tire of waiting.”

…

She was voluntarily silent for the entire ride to the castle. She was understandably furious with Vegeta, though he never lied to her. He always knew she would be punished, and he never said otherwise. But his reason for bringing her was not punishment, yet, it was for her help in determining the assassin. Once she helped him to clear out the bad apple or apples, he would release her. Though he hoped she would stay with him, he would never ask it of her. And he knew she would never want to anyway.

Vegeta tugged the reins and dug his heel into the side of the stallion, forcing it to gallop at almost full speed. Having nearly fallen from the abrupt change in acceleration, Bulma threw her arms around the prince’s waist to anchor herself. She grasped tightly, trying hard not to admire the feel of his firm abs against her arms. As though he knew exactly what she was thinking, he leaned forward and tightened his muscles. She'd teased him earlier with her superior mind, now it was his turn to tease her with his superior body.

She both despised and delighted the entire ride.

…

In the twilight Bulma could barely see the outline of the stables. Vegeta had slowed the horse drastically, and motioned for her to be silent. She wasn't entirely sure why he required her to be quiet, but she complied all the same.

When they were in walking distance the prince dismounted, and placed a hand on her thigh as a command to stay. She slid forward in the saddle and grasped  the horn. Vegeta soothingly patted the horse, an effort to keep it silent as well. The smell of hay and manure filled the air, a familiar scent to the whole company. Vegeta led the horse into its stall and moved to its side to help the girl down. Not wanting his help, Bulma kicked his hand away and growled like a feral cat. Then she dismounted most ungracefully, her shift sliding well above her thigh revealing her short bloomers. The prince tried to pretend not to see, but his face flushed at the audacity of this wild girl.

“Why are we sneaking?” Bulma asked.

The prince looked around the barn, that had been closed up for hours.  With no one in sight he moved toward the tack closet. “I can't explain you away in your current state of undress,” he explained, which made sense to him but not to Bulma.

“Just take me to my holding cell so that I don't have to be in your royal presence anymore.” she attacked.

“That's not why you are here,” he said, ignoring the insult, and pulling what looked like folded linens out of the tack closet. Becoming frustrated by his lack of explanation for anything, Bulma raised her voice.

“Oh? Then just why am I here, your majesty?!”

Horrified by her rash action the prince used his free hand to cup the woman’s mouth while simultaneously forcing her back to the stable wall.

He placed his head nearly parallel with hers, his lips less than inches from her ear. Her heart began to pound, in fear and in lust. His hand smelt of lavender, his breath like sweet honey.  

“I said you will assist me in my investigation. Until then you will present yourself as my apprentice, hand chosen by the late general. Do I make myself clear, Bull?” he whispered threateningly while shoving the stack of male clothing at her stomach.

She nodded her head and grabbed the clothing from him. He released his grasp on her face and turned the other way, allowing her a small privacy to change.

After removing her shift and boots, she pulled the off white trousers over each leg. She tightened the strings of the waist, this pair was just slightly large on her slender frame. She buttoned up the white dress shirt, more frilly than she was accustomed to, and tucked it neatly in the trousers. The overcoat was navy and gold, but not fancy enough to indicate royalty or similar. She looked the part of a wealthy young man, and not a bit overdressed. Her worn leather boots helped to tone down the prestige in her outfit as well. No one would have reason to question their story as long as she went unrecognized.

Bulma fastened the navy ribbon at the base of her head. That being the final touch on her costume, she turned to the prince and nodded a signal of her readiness.

It fascinated to prince just how beautiful she could be even in such form fitting clothing. It felt awkward admiring her masculine form, but his mind couldn't differentiate between this uniform and her tattered shift dress. All he saw was her beauty, inside and out. He wanted to touch her, so with authority in his movement, he grabbed her wrist. She followed without complaint.

Without a word he pulled her towards two large doors that she assumed connected to the castle. To her slight surprise the room behind the doors was filled with more hay, and what looked like training dummies. On the right wall, many different swords of different shapes and sizes were hung. The prince grabbed a smaller looking saber from the wall, and lifted it above Bulma's head and onto her shoulders. The sword was protected by a worn leather sheath and held to her chest by a belt of the same color. It was ordinary, just like her disguise. She was completely ordinary.

From the training room they made their way into the palace kitchens, no doubt a place the prince rarely entered. The kitchens were vast and empty of life. The walls were bare red brick and the floors hardwood. Several ovens lined the walls, butcher’s block on all the countertops, and dozens of pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. There were more knives than swords in the other room, a fact which excited the aspiring chef in Bulma. To the north of the large open room were several narrow wooden doors. “Servant quarters,” he whispered when he saw her notice the doors.

Discreetly, he grabbed her hand in his and tugged her along. He seemed to know the exact route to avoid people, though most were asleep at this hour anyway.

Finally they arrived at a long hallway lined with several doors on both sides. There was a red carpet with an intricate design down the middle, but it was well worn and faded where it had the most traffic. The hall itself smelled dusty and old, and several spiders had woven their webs in the corners. It gave Bulma a small sense of sadness and emptiness to be present in this hallway, as though only ghosts were permitted here.

“This is my chambers,” the prince stated, pointing to the door closest to them. “You will not enter under any circumstance, you are forbidden.”  Bulma nodded in acknowledgment and watched the prince as he walked further into the hall. The very next door, roughly fifteen feet from the first, was another chamber. The prince grabbed the knob and twisted as he pushed the door open.

“This will be yours for the time being…” he lingered on what to say afterward, contemplating whether to be rude or hospitable. “You may knock on my chamber if you need anything. Do not break disguise, I will fetch you in the morning.” he whispered the last part before returning to a normal tone, “understand Ser Bull?”

“Yes, your majesty,” she responded meekly but masculine. She stepped inside the chambers and absorbed her surroundings. It was dark, save for the sliver of moonlight that peeked in the drapeless window. In the center of the room was a large bed, dressed with red and indigo sheets and quilts. The bed had a canopy frame, though the canopy was seemingly missing. At the foot of the bed there was a large chest, which she assumed held clothing. On either side of the bed were hand carved oak nightstands, on top of each a single unlit candle. Adjacent from the bed was an older looking desk and chair, somewhat out of style for the year, yet not quite antique. On the desk was a quill and an inkwell, though the ink had long since dried. She determined from the dusty state of the room that it hadn't been used in quite some time. But it was more comfortable than the stone cold floor of a jail cell, so she rejoiced.

She kicked her boots off near the door and decided to sleep in her costume, in case any soul dare visit her during her sleep, she would be fully concealed. The mattress was like heaven to her aching bones, and she drifted off in a matter of minutes.

The prince, did not have such luck.

…

He dreamt of a deep azure lake with placid waves. He was sailing on the lake, at twilight. Though it was dark the full moon and blanket of stars lit up his surroundings. It was peaceful, for a time. His mother was aboard the tiny schooner, clad in her yellow Sunday gown. Underneath the gown her white lace petticoat peeked through. Her outfit was embroidered at the edges with lavender blossoms, her favorite flower. Her hair was long, nearly reaching the seat she rested on. It was lighter than his own, he inherited his raven hair from his father, hers was a hazelnut colored waterfall of curls. She smiled tenderly at him, as he rowed, steady.  

From the middle of the lake he heard a cry for help. Shooting a glance toward the noise, the prince began to row faster.

As they neared the source of the cry, Vegeta was able to make out the figure of a girl with blue hair. She struggled to stay afloat, gasping as her head bobbed above and below the water. In an instant the weather turned violent. Dark clouds shrouded the once bright stars and moon, as heavy rain began to fall. The small boat began to rock as the waves gained speed and height. The prince bent his torso over the edge of the boat, stretching his right arm toward the maiden.

She flailed about, trying in vain to grasp his hand. As the environment became more intense, his mother stood from her seat. She laid her hand on his shoulder, and lowered her face to his ear. He struggled to reach the drowning girl, each second ticking by she got further away.

“You’ve doomed her,” his mother whispered lightly. The girl’s head sank below the surface as her arm seemed to go limp.

Suddenly, a deafening roar of thunder and lightning crashed in the sky.

And the prince awoke with a jolt, sitting upright in his bed.

…

Bardock sat alone at a small tea table in his personal chambers. It was early, still dark outside. Several candles lit the room dimly, just so he could see at about arm’s length. He pulled a small dusting cloth from a drawer in the table and began to wipe his porcelain set of tea cups. They were a gift from a long lost friend, she had purchased them from a ceramic artist in the orient. Of his numerous regrets in life, the one that pained him the most was not marrying her. The mistake had cost him too many years of unrelenting loneliness.

Her image had all but faded from his mind. The last time he saw her was over ten years ago, before the king had died. Each day, as he took his tea, he tried to recount her features. She had blunt black hair, and big brown doe eyes. She was thin, a product of malnourishment due to her chosen profession.  When he first met her she was covered in bruises, her eyes and cheeks sunken in her face. He’d wandered into the amoral establishment by accident when he was looking for the tavern his fellow soldiers where at. She was used, like a scribbled piece of paper,  wasting away in a dirty bin. But she had so many invisible words printed on her skinny face, he could never read them all, not if he had known her his entire lifetime.

She offered him services, to which he blushingly declined, at first. She gave him directions to the tavern he was looking for, but asked him to return to her if he thought of her. He promised he would. And he never stopped thinking about her. So when he did return he stole her away, taking her to his quarters at the castle. There were no women allowed in the soldiers barracks but he defied the rule for her. They laid together every night for four weeks until she was found out. After which, she was permanently exiled from the kingdom, and he was given a stiff slap on the wrist. And he never saw her after that. Their affair was the first and last time he had loved anyone. But he should have known better than to fall in love with a whore.

Slowly, he poured the tea that had brewed into the delicate looking cup. He knew not what became of her, but he assumed she had died at some point. The lifestyle she chose was not sustainable, especially outside of the safety of the kingdom. So to honor her, in his own private way, he drank tea dedicated to her. Gine.

After drinking his tea he made his way to the mirror. He removed the red drape from it, and began the ominous chant. “Mirror, mirror,” he uttered coldly. Inside the figure of a face took form. It was nearly impossible to tell whether the form was male or female, its skin pale blue and long white hair.

“Milord,” it answered predictably.

“I wish to know what has become of Nappa, and where is the Prince?” Bardock inquired.

“The general breathes no longer,” the mirror reported. “The Prince is returned home last night, from a quiet journey where he laid the great general to rest.”  

“And what of the blue haired girl?”

“She is very intelligent. She will help him discover that you were the source of the general’s demise. Should she be allowed to live, she will lead the kingdom in rebellion against the french, as his queen.”

Content with the answers Bardock dismissed the mirror, concealing it once again with the long red drapes.

…

It was before sunrise, and his chambers were still dark. The prince rose to light a candle, his body fully awake from the terrifying dream he’d just had. His hands still shook with adrenaline, his breath still hard and cold. He was dressed only in trousers, the rest of him bare. For a split second he worried about Bulma, and decided to check on her.

Quietly he pushed the heavy wooden door open. The hinges made a slight squeak, though no one was around to hear. Barefoot, he crept silently toward her chambers. Her door made a much louder squeak, due to many years of unuse, but she did not stir. He made his way to her bedside and concluded that she was in fact safe and sound. He decided to check her breathing, in case anything had happened in her sleep. As he got closer to her face he heard her gentle breaths. Relieved, he rested his bottom on the wooden floor. He admired her soft features for a long time, entirely too long in fact, as she began to wake up while he was still there.

He rose to his feet immediately, as she began to stretch her arms out. She hadn't opened her eyes or noticed him yet. His heart leapt from his chest as he scurried to get to the door. Safely on the other side, he let a large breath out of his lungs with an audible sigh.  

As Bulma stretched out her well rested muscles she turned to see a lit candle on her nightstand. Alarmed, she looked around the room for an intruder. Seeing nothing she slowly got up and walked to the door where she heard heavy breathing. Expecting to find a creep on the other side she grabbed the sword she had lent against the wall the previous night. Slowly, she unsheathed it and readied herself for war.

She gradually opened the door, where to her surprise the prince was waiting on the other side.

“Oh jeez, it's just you,” she sighed, relieved. And then she remembered the candle. “Oh my God, were you watching me sleep?!” she ordered the prince to answer, her face close to his, an intimidation tactic she'd been using most of her life.

“I! No! I was just!” the prince struggled to defend himself, his face reddening. Narrowing her eyes, she felt a slight smile begin to form on her lips.

“Oh, I see,” she purred, finally aware of his crush. She lifted her extended index finger to his bare chest. “You fancy me,” she accused as she turned her body around, the tip of her finger grazing his nose. She folded her arms with her back to him.

“What?! Of course not!” he growled, his face twisting to a scowl, his fist raising as a threat.

While the prince stumbled over what words to use to articulate his feelings, Bulma tied her hair in a navy ribbon. When she finished the bouncy bow, she turned back around to face the prince. He was frozen as she gracefully moved toward him, stopping inches from his face. Without saying a word she quickly pressed her lips to his, an action which seemed to stop his heart beating. It was just a peck, over in an instant. The feeling of his blood boiling over led him to believe he would surely die. And as if nothing even happened she strolled past him, through the open door and into the hallway.

“Well make yourself useful and show me to breakfast,” she demanded, disguising her voice to sound more masculine.

He found it physically impossible to say anything at all, his jaw clenched so tightly it would take more than will power to pry open.

…

In the kitchens several maids scurried about, preparing breakfast for the court.

Near the kitchen entrance the prince sat in his usual chair at the head of the table. It was his usual chair, that is when he didn't take meals in his chambers, which was a rare sight. Bulma sat in the chair to his right, and when she did so she received several wide eyed glances from the servants. No one else in the court had arrived for breakfast so every other seat was empty. It must have been an important seat, but the prince did not protest so she stayed put.

He did everything he could to avoid looking at her. His elbow was propped on the table, his head in it's hand, and pointed away from her. He was red as an apple, and the servants took notice. The most odd thing they noticed though, was that the two, the prince and his new friend, said nothing at all to each other.

“Who-" Fasha began to say to her servant counterpart, Maron, who interrupted her.

“No idea, but he's bloody cute I tell ya what.”

“I've never seen him around before, but he looks awful familiar,” Fasha replied, searching her brain for some indication of the blue haired boy’s identity. The two servant girls whispered away in the kitchens, as Fasha stirred the wild boar stew she was making for that night's dinner banquet. Maron had several baskets of rolls to deliver to the tables, but was neglecting that duty for an opportunity to gossip with her friend.

“Yes but… something is off about him. And the way the prince is blushing… Do you reckon…?” Maron suggested, heavily implying that Bulma may be a homosexual man.

“Gee I hope not,” Fasha aspired, wanting to make the new boy her own.

Just then another maid entered, in a rush to have the rolls served.

“The lords and ladies are arriving, please get these out!” She demanded, pointing to Maron and the baskets.

“On it, Miss Mai,” Maron apologized as she hopped to work.

Mai was taller and older than both Fasha and Marron but had yet to marry. Though it wasn't for lack of beauty. She had long black locks that she kept braided at all times, and lips like ripe plums. Recently she had become a sort of forewoman of the kitchen, since the head chef had disappeared. It wasn't unlike Hit to disappear every once in a while, so she was appointed to a supervisory position in his absence.

“Miss Mai,” Fasha started, still stirring away. “Did you notice the new boy who is sat directly next to the prince? How bold.”

“How bold indeed,” Mai said with suspicion in her voice and narrowed eyes.

Unknown to Fasha and the rest of the castle, Mai had witnessed a very immoral act that morning, of which she was very conflicted. She saw the new boy kiss the prince as she walked past his chambers. She struggled to define her role in the act, and wondered if it was her duty inform anyone. Afterall, sodomy was a sin, punishable by death. But would she risk an accusation on the prince, of all people?

…

Several of the high class knights and a few of their ladies joined the breakfast table. These were all high born men and women, who achieved their rank through birthright. Many of them were scarred from enduring many battles with the French. Bulma felt nearly sick wondering how they must feel about the treaty. She wondered if any had protested, or if they feared to do so. Most of the ladies wore a somber look on their faces and in their dresses. Maybe they had heard of the death of the general, though the only people who knew were herself and the prince. Finally, filling the very last chair at the opposite end of the table was a tall and handsome man, with a ruggedly scarred face and black hair. He looked familiar, but Bulma couldn't quite put her finger on who he was. His position seemed to indicate royalty or very close to it. He must be the appointed regent. She decided silently.

Bulma and the prince had nearly had their fill of bread and pastries, and she was beginning to feel apprehensive about being in the presence of so many people. She tapped Vegeta’s leg with her riding boot, and motioned her head toward the exit when he looked at her. He gave a light nod and looked away from her quickly. Just looking at her made his heart race, and he didn't want to risk anyone noticing. He grabbed his fourth Danish, and shoved it in his mouth.

“Prince Vegeta, so nice of you to join everyone,” the regent announced from the other end of the table.

“Not because I want to,” the prince began. “I have news. General Nappa has been slain.” There were some hushed gasps and whispers among the guests, but not a single reaction from the regent. He didn't even blink at the news, it was as if he already knew.

Bulma had a terrible feeling about this man, though it was hard for her to understand why. She swallowed hard on the dry muffin she was eating.

“Unfortunate news. How did this come to pass?” the regent inquired.

“We were dueling, and I mortally wounded him. We didn't believe it to be life threatening. I bandaged him and we rested for the night. In the morning he had passed.” Bulma studied every second of the regent's reaction, scanning him for abnormalities. He twitched slightly at the explanation, almost as if he knew it to be a lie.

“I see. And what of this... “ he motioned a hand to Bulma as if indicating whatever he believed her to be was a dirty word.

“My squire. Appointed by the general himself three days ago. I will train him under my wing until a time when he can join the militia. My apologies if he does not know proper court etiquette, he is of very low birth.” he made it sound like she was a child or at least not even fifteen yet, the age when it is mandatory for men to join the militia.  She pondered for a moment just how old she looked to everyone else in her male regalia. Her sort of short stature, slender figure, and smooth face probably made her look much younger as a boy. She decided she wouldn't be insulted at the implication afterall.

“Excellent…” the regent replied, losing interest in the topic as he turned to one of the other guests to ignite a new discussion.

Out of the limelight, Vegeta threw his hand on Bulma's and pulled her to her feet with him. Realizing that he had actually touched her, he dropped her just as quickly. Bulma felt a grin in her heart, though it didn't make its appearance on her face. I'm disgusting. She lamented, partially enjoying her newfound infatuation, partially hating herself for it.

…

Later in the evening, Bulma found herself in a slight dilemma. She'd been assigned a chambermaid, who wished to draw her a bath. In these instances, a normal person would undress and allow the servant to bathe them. This was not in Bulma’s best interest for she was concealing her gender.

“Ser… Bull was it?” the red haired maiden called.

Bulma panicked as she turned to face the servant. “I won’t won’t be needing a bath today, dear.” She claimed in her most baritone voice.

“As you wish,” the maiden said, rolling her eyes and turning up her nose. The gesture reminded Bulma that the last time she had bathed was three days ago, and her body odor did her no favors.

“Can help you dress down for bed, sir?” The maiden offered, with a slightly disgusted tone of voice.

“N-no,” Bulma answered, flustered by the prospect. Persistent broad. She sighed silently. Finally, the redhead left, taking her harsh judgments with her.

Bulma sat at her desk and pondered the events of the day. An awkward breakfast followed by hours upon hours of being alone in her chambers. The prince had several duties to attend to since he had been absent the past few days. He didn't trust her wandering about on her own so he ordered her to stay put. So she did, and the only human interaction save for breakfast; was the annoying chambermaid she had finally gotten rid of.

She pulled a piece of parchment from a leather bound notebook she had found within the desk. In these uncertain times she felt like penning a letter, an activity that usually brought her peace. As she pulled the quill and inkwell from the desk, her chamber door wailed open.

Vegeta had quite the day. He had run from one end of the castle to the other appointing high ranking officers to new positions within the army. Like a cascading waterfall, when he replaced Nappa with Toma the tall, he needed someone to replace him, and so on and so on. Bardock appointed him these responsibilities to prepare him for when he would become king. The day was so soon in fact, he would be turning eighteen in just one month. He always knew it was coming but deep inside his unconscious mind he felt apprehensive about the title. He had always been the prince. And now he had very big shoes to fill.

His heart told him to seek out Bulma in his uncertain mood, though it did not tell him why or what to say. So he stood in her doorway, staring at her intensely, saying nothing.

“Can I help you, your highness?” she asked as she twisted in her seat.

“Rise,” he said, ignoring that she may not know the context of his command. “Er, rise when your prince enters your presence. That is proper court etiquette,” he explained.

Wow, she thought, he isn't demanding me and demeaning me as he does so. She was nearly floored at his unusually kind demeanor. So she rose and bowed formally to him.

“Again, how can I help you?”

He stood for a moment gathering the vocabulary to express what he wanted. He needed her to investigate the safety breach that had occurred, resulting in the poisoning of his general.

“I was wondering if you had any leads,” he whispered, slowly closing the rusty hinged door behind him.

“Ah,” she spoke, bringing her hand to her chin and looking down at her boots. She did have suspicions, but no concrete evidence, of anything. And what's more, she had been ordered to stay in her chambers all day, how was she supposed to have learned anything?

“The typical smell of arsenic is very close to garlic. Although, it has been at least several days since the poisoning, and so anyone who may have had it on their hands would have definitely been washed by now.”

The prince shifted his stance to one side, pulling his hand to his opposite hip. The shift made a floorboard creak slightly, bringing her attention to him. Just the simple act of looking up at him made his heart skip, her eyelashes perfectly framing her large doe eyes.

His face flushed, an action he could no longer control. His treacherous body’s ridiculous crush was absolutely maddening to the prince. His mind involuntary shoved the picture of her soft lips against his to his eyes. His heart betrayed him again as it leapt. Just being in her presence is driving me… He lamented silently.

Bulma took notice of the odd behavior the prince was exhibiting but she chose to ignore it. Instead she focused her brain on the mystery at hand.

“We should investigate the kitchens and the servants who work there.” she suggested.

“Yes,” he agreed, still fighting a great battle with his hormones. “But should we wait until after dinner?”

Bulma nodded, agreeing that he had a good idea.

Again she noted his odd behavior, flushed skin and awkward, stiff stance. The evil prince had fallen so hard for her; she was resisting the urge to gloat. Maybe the key to her freedom was making the prince fall in love with her. He wasn't terrible looking, in fact his body was godly, but she wasn't keen on his personality or political policies.  And God forbid, what if he wanted to keep her because he had fallen in love? What if he never let her go and she was stuck here the rest of her life to be his mistress or else rot in a cell? Bulma mourned not having the answer, like she might have if he were a horse or a sick patient. Still…

She moved on him, fast and hungry like a predator. Without thought, she grabbed his face, and pushed her lips to his, again. Her hand ran through his shock of wild black hair, holding him in place. Her other hand cupped his cheek and square jaw.

He was stunned, his heart had stopped. He did nothing, she had complete and utter control of him.

Her lust enveloped her, controlled her every move. She could not think, she only felt and acted, a slave to her emotions.

Losing all sense of morality and pride he lifted her from the ground and pressed deeper into her kiss. In response she wrapped her legs around him, a surprisingly easy task when equipped with male trousers. She pulled back from his kiss and looked into his eyes, sending a message that she wasn't completely sure of. She wasn't exactly a maiden anymore, the sentiments of which she didn't find too important to her lifestyle. She still valued most virtues, and as a girl she wanted to save herself for marriage. But her carnal desires had soiled that dream not too long ago. Her eyes dared him to take her, she didn't care to debate the morality of the act any longer.

For the prince it was so very much the opposite. He had never laid with anyone, and his hesitation to accept her dare very dangerously showed it. She had been his first kiss even, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to take her bounty just yet. His grip on the underside of her thighs loosened slightly, his courage faltering. He pressed some of her weight against the wall, anchoring himself to a more sturdy position.

As her body was lowered slightly, she felt the eager tightening of his pants, pressing into her. It was exhilarating, a dangerous situation on the horizon.

“Bulma,” he breathed, creasing his brow and questioning himself.

He was brave. He'd been in several battles. He had seen men die, some on his own blade. Some close friends to the enemy's blade. But for this, as with most firsts, he was nervous. And he also believed he would take her womanhood, an act he fervently believed should be saved for marriage. He waited for her verbal reply.

She did not give it. Instead she leaned her head to his and tugged his hair, lifting his face to hers. She again pressed her lips to his, but this time she took his lip in her mouth, and bit down lightly. His pained moans excited her, she felt powerful despite being pinned by him.

He couldn't take it any longer, he tightened his grip once again, lifting her off the wall. He swiveled around to face the bed and began to walk toward it. Not wanting to hurt her, he set her down on the bed gently, lips still tightly locked. When he pulled away from her she rose her hands to the base of her head. She untied the ribbon that held her hair, letting it fall heavy onto her shoulders. Her hands then reached for her shirt, and she began to unbutton it.

And then there was a knock at the door. Both of their hearts stopped, and resumed with an impossible speed. All Vegeta could hear was his heart pounding in his head.

Bulma had no clue what to do, she would be found out. Their sin would have them both killed, or at the very least just her. She looked to the prince for answers. His eyes wide and brow scrunched, he said nothing. She mouthed the words: What do I do? He shrugged in the same moment as he had an idea. Answer it, he replied while lowering himself to the ground, preparing to conceal himself beneath the bed.

She nodded, a determined look on her soft face. She cleared her throat, which she thought would conceal the noise of him sliding along the floor. It was successful. She made her way to the door and opened it, but only slightly.

It was a servant from the kitchen, Bulma did not know her name, but recognized her from breakfast. Her hair was long and dark as a moonless night. She had naturally dark lips that glistened likely due to regular treatment with animal fat. Bulma had heard of the fad of women using animal fat on their lips, but she refrained to maintain a manly appearance on her lips. The servant looked down on her, as she was much taller.

“Dinner, will begin shortly. Have you seen the prince? He did not answer my call at his door…” she remarked, a dark suspicion in her voice that Bulma immediately picked up on.

“No mam, thank you mam.” Bulma replied, wanting to close the door as soon as possible, and never open it again until she died of starvation.

“Please mind your seating at the table, boy.” the servant woman hissed, as she turned to walk away. Bulma noted the harsh remark, and said nothing, only closed the door. She pressed her back to the door, and her knees gave out underneath her. She slid down to the floor, landing quite hard. Ow. She groaned silently.

“She's gone,” Bulma beckoned the prince from his hiding spot. He crawled out, placing himself in front of her, also sitting on the floor.

“Close one,” he said with a mischievous grin.

Bulma however, had an entirely different attitude.

“What is this?” she demanded of the prince, not finding this kind of confrontation very funny in the least.

His grin vanished as he received the demand; though he had no idea how to respond. “I don't know,” he admitted truthfully.

Every ounce that was once lust and energy had completely changed to fear and depression in Bulma. Her eyes became dark and she stared at the ground. “I want to go home,” she said as her eyes shifted up at him. They began to fill with heavy, hot tears. She felt powerless now, playing with fire in a grease filled room. It was only a matter of time until someone realized she was a woman, even if she didn't pursue this perilous affair. Even if she would turn the prince to her side, he was unpredictable and until he was king he had no real power to pardon her.

He just stared at her. She couldn't leave him, he needed her. He wasn't safe until he knew his life was not in danger of the same assassin who poisoned Nappa. And he could only trust her. And now he wanted her, her body and her hand. He wanted to marry her, though the rational part of his brain told him that was just the lust talking. So he grabbed the ribbon on the floor and pressed it to her cheek, where her whale sized tears had fallen. She grabbed it from him and thanked him with her eyes.

He couldn't look at her when she was like this. He blushed and turned his head away with a scowl. The sickness that came with unsatisfied sexual desire began to hit him, along with the pains of hunger. He stood to his feet, smoothing his dishevelled hair to its original shape. Then he dusted off the floor dirt from his shirt and trousers. How unbecoming of him to literally stoop so low.

He reached out his hand, beckoning her to her feet.

She declined, symbolically using her hands to push herself to her feet. As she did so she averted her gaze from him, to the floor. She was embarrassed of her promiscuous behavior, and ashamed of her willingness to fall instantly in love with her enemy. She was utterly disgusted with herself, and she swore to never let it happen again. Then she opened the door and began to make her way to the dining hall.

Her rejection of his help to bring her to her feet felt harsh. Not two minutes ago he had her in his arms, inches from committing carnal sin. And suddenly, with the prospect of being found out on the horizon she froze to him. Her face had looked so hopelessly repulsed by himself, before she turned her back to him and ran off. What a pain it was to lose something he never even had. One thing was sure to him; he would never let that happen again.

…

Bulma had done well to place herself at a table very, very far from the prince. He should have told her the first time that she was disgracing herself by sitting in the late general's own chair. But no, he enjoyed seeing her embarrassed by the regent himself. Now she sat with low ranking, bachelor soldiers of no more than fifteen years.  They stunk, like overly ripe gourds and unwashed toilets. It sickened her so badly, on top of the night’s heart pounding events; she found herself unable to eat. So she pushed her stew around in her bowl and listened halfheartedly to the conversation the soldier boys were having. It mostly consisted of nailing the farmer’s daughters, and how many men each had killed already. The number of maidenhoods and French lives the lot of boys had claimed was numerous, and the most flamboyant fish tale Bulma had ever heard. She struggled not to roll her eyes at their exuberant lies.

Finally, after what had seemed hours, someone began tapping their silverware to their glass. A toast was in order, and Bulma was glad to hear anything other than fornication and murder. Her eyes followed the noise and determined it to be coming from the regent. She found herself suddenly very interested in him, a strange acting fellow indeed, whom she was certain played a role in the general's downfall.

Bardock stood, confidence in his posture and a laid back smile on his face. He was dressed very nicely for the occasion, he even had a long red cape attached to his lapels with golden chains. He certainly looked the part of royalty. After gaining most everyone's attention, he began to speak.

“I have an announcement to make to the court,” he began in a low and rich voice. “Very soon our kingdom will have cause for a wonderful celebration. In a few short days we will know peace with France for the first time since the late King Vegeta ruled!”

His voice rang through the halls, and pierced Bulma in the heart. No. She felt part of herself suddenly sadden, the prospect of a treaty with France could very possibly mean death for many people. She had no doubt this treaty was Emperor Frieza’s trojan horse. She scanned the table where Bardock was for the prince, but she did not see him. In fact she did not see him anywhere in the great hall. Whatever. She scolded herself for even caring. At this point she'd rather be locked away because she knew after helping him he'd never let her go anyway. Then the regent continued to talk.

“In one month our kingdom’s young prince will be a prince no longer. He will come of age, and it is time to honor him with a most wonderful coronation! It will be the biggest celebration in the history of our kingdom, we will have ambassadors from all over the continent attend as he is sworn in as the rightful King Vegeta!” this triggered a roar from every single guest in the dining hall; save for one. In the loud commotion Bulma could very nearly not hear herself think. But she wondered; if Bardock would willingly hand over control to the prince, and name him king, what motive did he have to assassinate Nappa? It just didn't fit. Either this was a farce, and Bardock planned to hurt Vegeta in some way, or he had absolutely nothing to do with Nappa at all. Bulma just wished she had no part in any of this. She missed the stables and the manure. Mostly she missed her siblings. But he snuck back into her mind too, as she pictured things that she loved.

Just then Prince Vegeta entered the room from the northern doors. He was dressed from head to toe in a most fabulous uniform. His doublet and trousers were a black velvet, with stripes of yellow, white and blue. He, too, had a long red cloak that attached to his lapels with golden hooks; though his cloak had what seemed to be a fluffy lynx fur around his shoulders. On his head was a small crown, what Bulma assumed was not the king's crown but a lesser version of it. Still it sparkled gold with specks of ruby and sapphire gems encrusted all over. He had on white gloves and white riding boots. He was the stunning image of a most regal prince. And Bulma hated him for his indulgences.  She decided to forego the meal all together, and return to her chambers for the rest of the night.

…

It had been two weeks since the announcement of the Prince’s coronation.  The annoying blue haired soldier had been hanging around the kitchen, fraternizing with the younger girls there. Mai had no doubt the deviant was planning to deflower them. She waited for more proof of his sodomy, but he had shifted his interest to her girls. He no longer visited the prince, nor did the prince visit him. Mai had garnered a sort of hatred for the boy, who favored any sex. He would probably fornicate with animals too, the poor sick bastard. She feared for the kitchen maids, this irregular sinner may have diseases of the flesh, and she could not bare him transferring it to them. Something had to be done.

She decided to come clean to the regent about the event she had witnessed two weeks ago.

Very soon Bulma would know the cold hard feel of the stone floor of a cell. She would know the piss and rat dropping smell that infiltrated every bit of oxygen in the castle's prison. She would know the feel of lice in her hair and cockroaches in her cot. She would know the hunger of slowly starving to death. She would wish for that death as mercy. And she would receive it.

To be continued…

#tpthvegebulmayhem #week 3 #clandestine downfall #vegebul #Vegeta x Bulma #vegeta #bulma #fanfiction #fanfic #au #fairytale au #dragon ball #dragon ball z #dbz #dragon ball super

[tedescu]

BODIES IN MOTION

Video fanatic, Lawrence (“Loopy”) La Porte, discovered that if he set his VCR to fast-forward scan, he could see his favorite movie 25 times in one day.  He made the Guinness Book of World Records for viewing Batman Returns a whopping 9,145 times in a single year.  La Porte claimed he didn't really miss the dialogue at the high speed scan because he already knew it by heart.  However, he did slow the movie down once every 5th showing in order to watch Christopher Walken push Michelle Pfeiffer through a window.  "That scene rocks!" he declared. 

Critics have praised this act of aggression as a masterpiece of modesty and good taste: insofar as Ms. Pfeiffer plummets all those stories into the street, while managing to keep her skirt perfectly in place.  No gratuitous sensuality here!  No sir, this is definitely a movie you can take your children to see! 

Notice too, Batman enthusiasts, that Michelle's character doesn't die here. Rather, all the cats in the neighborhood rush to her aid, lick her wounds and nurse her back to life.  How strangely reminiscent of the dogs lapping the blood of the slain king, Ahab, in the Old Testament—except, of course, that the evil king never returned to life.  But because Pfeiffer’s character is essentially a kind, likeable creature at heart (not to mention gorgeous), the writers and producers gave her a second chance.  Behold, therefore, she is suddenly transformed from a mousey, victimized broad, to the dynamic and fearless Cat Woman, who sets out to wreak vengeance on Christopher Walken and all the other predatory males who have oppressed her.  Meow!

Once again, parents can feel safe in exposing their kids to this clean, upbeat movie where, in spite of all the violence perpetrated on the people and the city of Gotham, nobody really suffers.  Even after whacking the pavement at full velocity, Ms. Pfeiffer experiences no impairment.  Instead, she undergoes a miraculous regeneration for which no explanation (however delightfully fantastical it might sound) is ever attempted.  What’s more, the producers pull this stunt off seamlessly.  No patronizing admonitions to children (or challenged adults) NOT to attempt this stunt at home.  No disclaimer during the closing credits stating: "Women who fall from windows do not really turn into pussycats."  Besides, you and I both know the studio paid good money for Michelle Pfeiffer, so they’re obviously not going to kill her off this early in the movie.

La Porte denies there’s a “message” to be gleaned from all this mayhem, or with his peculiar fascination with it.  Says he simply enjoys seeing bodies in motion.  “Especially if them bodies are wearin’ skirts.” 

His next project will be to comb the video stores for movies featuring similarly clad victims crashing through windows several stories high, or tossed from rooftops.  (“'Ceptin’ for dogs,” he said, “with or without clothes.”)  Then he plans to paste all those scenes together into a continuous loop, which he would watch at fast-forward scan 10 hours a day for a year in hopes of winning a new world's record.

“Hey look, I’m as humane and well-balanced as the next guy,” La Porte insisted in an interview.  “Watchin’ people hurlin’ though space is an incredible stress reliever—as long as them people ain’t me!”

#MOVIES #sarire #dark humor

[sherlolo-land]

John flirts with and dates women, and marries a woman, which in no way invalidates a bisexual person’s identity. Declares himself as not gay.... which means... he IS NOT GAY. Is implied to have a male ex, ogles Sherlock, has unspoken feelings for him, has equated his love to Sherlock with his love for Mary (as have both Mary and Sherlock). Could still be bisexual even if none of the above happened because it’s still possible for bisexual men to only date women or have a preference for women and guess what - they’re still bi. 

Sherlolly shippers (you didn’t misspell, so we won’t either): Obviously if a man marries and dates women, that MUST mean he is straight! There’s no way he could like men AND women psshhh! 

Irene declares herself as a lesbian but flirts/has sex with men and women because it’s literally her job and that doesn’t mean she’s actually attracted to any of the people she services. Also falls in love with Sherlock somehow because of misogynistic writing and Moffat’s ridiculous wank fantasy.

Sherlolly shippers: obviously saying “I am gay” means that she’s really bi!! Because yes, bisexuality exists all of a sudden! 

#bisexuality erasure #sherl0llian logic #mousey/modesty #homophobia #Biphobia #tagging done wrong #nice spelling of johnlock there mousey

[sherlolo-land]

Uhhhhh. Hey Mousey? I think it’s time for us to talk about your vagina obsession. It’s getting weird and frankly, gross and creepy. Why do you feel like you need to refer to your favorite female characters as vaginas? We’ve said many times that it’s offensive when you guys reduce m/m relationships down to “dicks touching,” and you know what? It’s offensive and gross when you do it to women too. What is this obsession with genitals that you have? I think it’s time for you to come up with some better insults than “you guys are afraid of women” because 

1. We’ve debunked the “johnlockers are misogynists” myth many times on this blog already. 

2. We’ve already proven that this whole “empowering feminist” act you guys like to put on is nothing but a coverup for your hypocrisy, double standards, and homophobia, and that your so-called female-empowerment only applies to very specific situations and certain fictional characters.   

3. Anyone with basic commons sense and a grain’s worth of critical thinking skills is able to see that your argument is total bullshit, a major oversimplification, and a flawed, reaching, illogical leap made from the fact that we ship John and Sherlock with each other and not women.

4. It’s gross that you think wanting women to be something other than love interests is misogynistic. It’s gross that you think shipping gay relationships is misogynistic simply because a woman is not involved. It’s gross that you think speculating about the women doing anything in the show other than fucking Sherlock or John is sexist (<-- Oh wait, is your ship about more than just fucking? Was it offensive for me to reduce it down to just sex? Oh, I’m sorry about that.) 

5. Your recycled arguments aren’t entertaining or shocking to anyone, and I hope you realize that you sound like a fucking disgusting terf when you say things like this. 

#mousey/modesty #the real misogynists here #hypocrisy revealed

[sherlolo-land]

Here you’ll see Sherl0llians doing everything from wishing John would betray Sherlock, to headcanoning about Molly taking over his role in Sherlock’s life (talk about character erasure), to wishing other characters would be violent towards him, or wishing he would DIE.

These people have always hated John and felt threatened by him because Sherlock loves him more than anyone - and they know it. And in S4 they were thrilled to finally have an excuse for all that hatred. That’s why they literally can’t shut up about the morgue scene. For a group that claims to be all about love and sunshine and positivity and turning lemons into lemonade, they sure can’t seem to shut the fuck up about a character they hate so much.

But then on the flip side, no one but them is allowed to touch Molly Hooper, even if what we have to say about her is in no way hateful at all. They get so personally offended when anyone other than them has an opinion about Molly. No, not a bad opinion necessarily - just an opinion. If we dislike her, we’re misogynists. If we are totally neutral towards her, we’re erasing/discarding her. If we pity her, we’re still misogynists. Heck, we’re not even allowed to like her because then it’s obviously “fake.” We get attacked for saying literally anything at all about her, even when it’s harmless. But LORD just IMAGINE if some of those above screenshots were things johnlockers said about Molly. BOY would sherl0llians be foaming at the mouth and sharpening their pitchforks. We’d be called sexist assholes for calling her story boring, blatantly replacing her with a male character, calling her a traitor, and wanting her to be beaten up or literally DIE. But they can say whatever they want about John because #doublestandards and “Sherl0llians are love uwu.”

Johnlockers never say that sort of crap about Molly. Yes, we will criticize her sometimes and talk about her poorly written arc because guess what? That’s not a fucking crime! But god, if we dare make a post about her that isn’t completely worshipful, we get assaulted with cries of “Keep your filthy hands off our girl!” “Stop the character hate!”

Stop the character hate? You’re really going to say that to us? 

#sherlock #bbc sherlock #molly hooper #john watson #john hate #double standards #hypocrisy revealed #theleftpill #mousey/modesty #miz/j0ely #barr/iss #icecat62 #petratodd #mae/jones #elennemigo #potterockian/egalitarian928 #Sherl0llians are love

[sherlolo-land]

FUcking tell her. 

#post hijacking #mousey/modesty #awesome clapbacks

[sherlolo-land]

A sherl0llian received this message from someone who is clearly not a johnlocker, based on the way they censor the ship name like all the antis do (as they should, if they are saying something hateful) and the way they totally misinterpret our meta and assume that we think the hug makes our ship canon, when really, no one thinks that. Any real johnlocker would know that and would never have said that.

Mouseymodesty though, of course, can’t pass up an opportunity to shit on johnlockers cause that’s basically her only hobby and she would do it for a living if she could. She reblogged the post and added this little piece:

Right. Because it’s totally not even possible for anyone in the fandom to send rude, hateful anons unless they are a johnlocker. Absolutely no one from any other ship has done this sort of thing before, ever. 

*COUGH* *Casually drops these here* [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] [x] 

Riiiiiight.

#anon hate #get your receipts here #hate receipts #mousey/modesty #sherl0llian logic

[sherlolo-land]

“So tender, sweet, funny, teasing, and warm”

“Matching bullet scars”

This post is a train wreck from start to finish- 

From forgetting that Mary was the one who put Sherlock’s scar there in the first place, to thinking a “better world” would be Sherlock furious with John for “cheating” instead of consoling him through it, to thinking Mary showed any sort of true remorse for shooting Sherlock whatsoever, to the blatant John erasure, to misreading every single character to fit their fantasy, to everything boiling down to “I want Mary and Sherlock to fuck”

#mary morstan #Mary Watson #mary wank #mousey/modesty #theleftpill