"I swear to Kami, Vegeta, if I have to teach you how to use the new system again, I will go super-Saiyan," the woman grumbled as she moved toward the GR console. Vegeta hated that fucking thing. The mechanisms on all Saiyan space tech, co-opted by Frieza, had been managed through scouters for the most part, but there was no "coding" necessary, no typing. It was primitive. He hated it. But he knew how it worked.
Vegeta wanted to be able to interact with the blue-haired beauty without pretense, but courtship on this planet was incomprehensible. It all seemed to be predicated on a thinly veiled whoring system of exchanging currency for food, food for sex and/or mating privileges. Vegeta, despite his wealth, couldn't exchange currency for anything on this fucking backwater because not a single establishment he'd been to had currency transfer stations.
Every other fucking system he'd been to in order to engage in commerce had joined the intergalactic currency exchange. Which meant he could spend his money anywhere. Anywhere except the one fucking planet he'd ended up stranded on without a fucking ship. Without a fucking fleck to his name. It infuriated him. Left him helpless and unmanned, in poverty despite being wealthy. Dependent on the woman angrily typing before him.
It wasn't just the fucking divine smelling woman, either. Everything. Everything on the planet required currency. You weren't allowed to kill anyone for any reason, everything was done with the exchange of currency. Not that Vegeta cared whether killing was permissible, but once he started the killing, where would it end? He'd just murder his way through the whole lot of these weakling humans and then he'd be trapped alone on this awful salt-water riddled excuse for a planet. At least it was beautiful.
And so was the woman bent over the computer screen, her squeezable ass thrust out on display so perfectly. She sighed and said, "Vegeta? Did you hear me?"
"No. What?"
"Vegeta, there is no point in me teaching you anything if you don't fucking listen to me," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
"I was listening! You're a terrible teacher!" Vegeta growled. Smooth, Vegeta, excellent. No currency, no decency, and a slew of insults. His fucking ego. Nothing had ever done Vegeta more harm that his own fucking pride.
"Oh yeah? I'd like to see you teach anyone anything!" she snapped back. Gods, it almost made him shiver how unafraid she was. The way she got in his face. The way she poked him in the chest even though he could incinerate her without even thinking about it. What could he do to capture this woman's attention? To hold it?
He smirked. She left an opening for him. Maybe there were other ways of courting on this saline-soaked pile of rocks orbiting a dying star. "Oh? Is that a challenge, woman? Name anything I can do that you can't, and I vow I can teach you."
Vegeta's pupils widened as the smell of her arousal hit him. It took all his will not to shove his face in between her legs just to smell it more, smell it closer. He stifled a groan. Did she know she smelled so lovely? Did she purposely dress the way she did so he could take in more of her scent? As if her lush body and beautiful face weren't enough to bring the Prince of All Saiyans to his knees, that scent. Her scent. Good gods. He needed to hold his breath or he'd get hard.
He tapped his toe and said, "I'm waiting. Name the skill and we can decide on a time."
A little skitter of worry ran up his spine when she smirked back. She strutted toward him, leaned so close to his face he both hoped and feared she was going to kiss him. He could smell the coffee on her breath, the toothpaste above it, then beneath it all, the perfect base, the smell of the way her mouth would taste if he met it and slipped his tongue alongside hers.
She walked her fingers up the front of his breastplate and over his chin and lips and she…she booped his nose. Vegeta gritted his teeth and made to chastise her, but she pressed her finger to his lips. The vixen was absolutely fearless. It was magnificent. He wanted to fuck her senseless.
"Teach me to fly, bad man," she purred, "You've got one week. We start tonight, when you're done training."
Vegeta meant to have a snappy retort, but this request left him sputtering, "You…that…I…but…"
"Ha! Not so cocky now, are you, Vegeta? You want to take your snide comment back and just admit that sometimes the student matters with the lesson? That not everyone can be taught because some people are just too incapable?" she said, her beautiful turquoise eyes glittering with mirth.
"No. It's just that you're so weak it might take me a bit longer than a week to get your chi up to snuff to be able to get you off the ground. Tonight? After dinner?" Vegeta said, swallowing his dismay that he had signed up for this impossible task. Would it disappoint her? Did she want to fly? Or was it possible she wanted what he wanted: to spend time together outside meals with her parents or bickering during his training when equipment broke?
The woman's chest rose and fell faster as she said, "I could bring food up to your balcony and we could have a little picnic first, if you want. It's been so nice out in the evenings."
Vegeta's eyes widened. Caught off guard again. "Oh, I, yes, very well. If…if you…I…If it's not too much trouble," Vegeta said lamely. No wonder he couldn't court the woman, he was a fucking imbecile.
But she looked delighted by his response. She said, "I fixed the bot program, so all you have to do is hit 'enter' and they'll start, okay?"
"Yes, that I can manage," he said with a smirk. She left him and Vegeta struggled to focus the rest of the day.
Near the top of the extremely long list of things that Vegeta hated about Earth and human culture was clothing. Everyone on Vegeta-sei had worn pretty much the same thing with variations in length and color to some extent, and the occasional wild dresser, like Raditz with his fucking arm and thigh bands, but all the same utilitarian fabric. All well-fitted. Different armor denoted class. Capes reserved for nobility and royalty.
Frieza made dressing even simpler: battle suit, armor. Of course there was still a bit of frippery every now and again, but it was perfectly acceptable to just wear the same style over and over again. How he fucking dressed had never effected Vegeta's chances of getting laid. Only what was underneath one's clothes.
But here he stood, freshly showered, in an enormous closet filled with ridiculous clothing options to be combined in bewildering ways to lure in potential sexual partners. Vegeta very, very secretly enjoyed human forms of entertainment—books and movies and television shows and music and dance. Never had such complete frivolity ever occurred to him as a thing a society would produce. He devoured Earth entertainment, complaining outwardly so his lessers didn't think he was on their level, but if he had learned nothing else from the dramatic romances, it was that apparel sent all sorts of unspoken signals.
Unfortunately, he had yet to decode which items meant which things, because even that seemed to vary depending upon context. It was no wonder human technology was so far behind Saiyan tech—they spent all their time developing complex, indecipherable dress codes. Vegeta held his chin and thought.
Men did not wear gloves typically, in the modern era, which made Vegeta cringe a little, but one did what one had to do sometimes. They seemed to show a different level of class with buttons on their shirts. He pawed through the myriad shirts, different fabrics, colors, cuts, so many with buttons!
"Fuck!" he snarled. He hated feeling this incompetent. He'd traveled the godsdamned universe, trained to rule an entire race of people, spoke more languages than he could count, but he didn't know how to fucking dress for dinner? It was shameful.
"Vegeta?" the woman said.
Vegeta's cheeks flamed red, she was in his closet with him. He whirled, his eyes wide. He thanked all the gods that he still had a towel around his waist because he was certain that otherwise just her gaze on his cock would have made him hard. Vegeta, ridiculously, had a brief moment of fear that he would cry he was so powerfully ashamed. He swallowed it and growled, "What are you doing in here?!"
"What are you doing? I've been waiting like ten minutes. I heard you curse, so I came to see if you'd hurt yourself."
"How could I possibly hurt myself in the closet?"
The woman giggled and said, "By thinking too hard?" She flicked through three shirts and grabbed one. She glanced through the shorts and chose a pair seemingly at random. She pulled a pair of the obnoxious flipper-flapper foot things off a low shelf. It was clear she was bent on humiliating him. They were horrible to walk in and they made their onomatopoeia noise: flip-flap, flip-flap. They made him sound like an injured duck.
Adding further insult to this humiliating situation, she went in the drawers. That was where the "undergarments" were. Vegeta would not deign to wear some sort of adult diaper. If the day ever came when he needed such nonsense, he would just explode and be done. She pulled out a pair that were essentially a shorter pair of training shorts but with a dick hole. Vegeta willed himself to die rather than endure this.
"I guess human clothing is pretty overwhelming when you've lived your whole life in a uniform, huh?" she said.
Vegeta opened his eyes. He searched her fathomless turquoise ones. There was no sarcasm or cruelty. Only empathy. Only questioning. He lowered his eyes, ashamed of his ignorance even with her kindness, and said, "Yes. It is."
She squeezed his forearm and said, "I don't care what you wear, Vegeta, but I can help you if you want help. I don't mind. I like picking out clothes."
"I'm not a child," he said, barely audible.
"I know that, but you are really out of your depth here. Like if I was in a Frieza Force mess hall, would you help me pick out my food?"
"Yes, some of it is inedible for humanoid, single-stomach species," he said and met her eyes again.
"Does that make me a child?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Good. Get dressed. I'll see you on the balcony. Unless you want me to help you put your clothes on?" she said with a wink.
Winking. Another Earthling tic. Did…did it mean something? Did she want to help him get dressed? That was the opposite of what he wanted. He wanted her to help him get undressed. She was gone, so it didn't matter. He was left with a neat little pile of garments. He left the undergarments, no need to adhere to their hidden nonsense in order to assimilate. The woman wouldn't know that he'd refused one of her clothing picks.
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