The Prompt: Vegeta and Bulma-
Choking kink. Vegeta loves to push it with Bulma, so much so that she nearly dies on a daily basis. Bonus points if Bulma is the first being ever to survive it.

The fill:

When the woman sat up in a flurry of blue hair and gasps, Vegeta nearly turned over in the bed. He settled for turning his head. The supposed-corpse besides him was too busy hacking up a lung to notice his expression.

And he'd thought at least a few of his problems had finally been solved.

She hadn't even screamed when he'd thrown her down. Or when he'd stripped her. Nor did she call for help when he spread her legs as she'd so teased him to do, so many times before. Or when he finally had enough of her whining and complaining to reach up with his still-gloved hand to wrap around that throat, just trying to stifle the complaints, the grumbling, the sarcastic disrespectful remarks.

Finally. Silence, he'd thought, trying to fall into an uneasy slumber.

In the morning, there would be questions of her death, but he still couldn't bring himself to care. There had been the somewhat amusing idea that this woman had survived Namek, only to die later at his hand in her own hand.

Apparently, the arching back and scratching nails hadn't been her struggling, or any sort of death throes.

Vegeta let little of his amazement creep into his voice. "You're alive."

"Fu—uck you. Goddamn." She stretched out with one hand, reaching for a crinkled pack of her reeking cigarettes. The other hand massaging her neck. "Ow."

The Saiyan could only stare, rather than knock the lit cigarette out of her hands. Hands that were so small and white, and seemingly helpless despite the callouses and old scars.

"You actually survived."

"Well, I'll give you this: that was more adventurous than I expected.

"I thought you were more a meat and potatoes type of guy. More selfish. Which, okay, you were. But that was something new.

"Usually, I'm the one to introduce something new into the bedroom. So I appreciated that move.

"For a second, I thought you were trying to really kill me. Hah, uh, ugh."

Bulma coughed out her cigarette, which even Vegeta could have told her wouldn't help her breathing problems.

None of his other bedmates had survived such a thing. And he'd never had such a delicate creature in his bed. She couldn't even throw a proper punch, yet here she was, still alive and breathing (somewhat). Even Nappa and Raditz had been left croaking, spitting blood heaving figures, clutching their wounded and/or unsatisfied sexual organs. Yet here this blue-eyed woman, this human, who seemed actually rather upbeat and satisfied.

But he had strangled her. He closed his fist, remembering the sensation, the thrumming beneath his fingers. Tightening around the soft white throat, pale and easily bruised, as beneath the silk blankets, she tightened around his cock. Tight and wet, cozy, welcoming, ("Vegeta! Go harder!") and Vegeta had almost regretted killing her for a brief moment, since it was so different from all the others whom he'd briefly allowed into his sleeping quarters. The sensation hadn't been deplorable, and she'd had a fire about her that the others of her species seemed to lack. An annoying mouth, though.

Finishing as she'd died, feeling his heart rate increase as though he were back on the battlefield. Alive. Then he'd rolled off her, decided on a whim to stay in this bed with her cooling body rather than go back to his own room, or the training chamber.

The woman, Bulma, smiled at him around the smoke. "We should try that again. Hell, every day, if we can manage. Besides my mother's cooking, it would be the highlight of your day.

"Haven't been that worked up since…Namek. Hah, and that was because of you then, too.

"Maybe this time, you be the sub?"

"…How are you alive?"

She was at her wit's end. Beneath her, Vegeta looked up, unamused. Soon he would give her that fuck-off face that meant that the evening had effectively come to a stop. Shove her off and leave, either threateningly silent, or grumbling insults. Leaving her unsatisfied, self-conscious, mad, and with a pair of sore hands. That uncomfortableness in the morning.

Meeting those cold black eyes had never been a problem for Bulma, even without coffee. But knowing that she'd sucked in bed with this guy was too much. Her. Her reputation would not allow for failure. It was one thing to almost burn Capsule Corp down during her latest attempt at improving the gravity chamber, but to have the furious exotic alien prince leaving her bed, unsatisfied—no, her pride wouldn't allow it.

It just…he was supposed to be a lousy lay. He ranged between lasting until she was literally left weak-kneed and shaking, or shooting off before she managed to fully undressing him. And his foreplay left lots to be desired. But when it came down to it, he was a pissed, sweaty, hate-sex machine. When he tossed her down onto the bed, them basically naked, rolling on the bed, knocking into the bedpost, pushing down the bedside tables, lamps falling, windows basically shaking in their frames, various pets having to run away from the building, it was on. There wouldn't be anything but destructive property damage, and her body just being wrung free of screams and energy.

She'd adored it (if not him) when their fights turned physical. Then sexual. At how just a few choice words turned him from stumbling about as gently as the Saiyan was capable to a terrifying grinding monster. One with a surprising breathe-play kink. As surprising as his awkward hands on his breasts had been, this had also been something novel.

Not even her coercion of new things into the bedroom with Yamcha had gone in that direction. And they'd done some weird stuff. Nothing dangerous though, definitely nothing that heart throbbing, vein raising, oh-so-thrilling. It made everything seem so lifeless and vanilla by comparison. All the previous sexual exploits now seemed to be as amazing as playing board games with the guys. Hell, less exhausting since her sex life didn't consist of having to help Krillin pry open Goku's jaws to make sure he hadn't eaten any game pieces.

Him wearing gloves had been the most interesting thing to their new sex, Bulma had figured. That, and the alien/murderous pirate thing. Then his hand had come out of nowhere. She'd literally blacked out, if only momentarily. Then just lay there in a daze, a silly dizziness that had brought on a grin. There had been the tiniest fear, after breaking up with Yamcha, the slightest, absurd fear that she wouldn't find anyone she could be anywhere near as capable with—sexually or otherwise. Her and Yamcha hadn't even been like pieces to the same puzzle, yet after a decade together, Bulma had wondered.

Who else would do what her long-haired ex-lover did? Was there another man who would so easy to wrap around her finger, who was so pretty, whose qualms about having sex in porno booths or movie theatres or that one time to never be forgotten or repeated, at Roshi's house where they were walked in upon by the perverts, the turtle, and a disturbed Krillin?

But then, the fates had brought Vegeta to her.

He had even stuck around, sleeping sweetly nearby. Practically cuddling. Reminding her of his softer touches, the strange mercy he'd shown on Namek. Like a strange, deadly, fickle angel in some scary story, minus the toga. Perhaps he could and did care in his own bizarre way.

Until the blue-haired woman had shoved him out, told him to get lost, and made him wander back to his room in ripped clothes.

The next night, she had to have him again. His hands grabbing at her, bruising but not breaking, hissing ("Woman, I need to train, get off me, get off, get—fuck. Get on then. And hurry up."), but not screaming. Not allowing her to scream either, when his gloved fist wrapped around her throat, as though trying to throttle her, ("this one will take," a promise that she hadn't understood) until she came hard enough to see bright lights, and actually scratch his skin, bite her mouth bloody, so happy she kissed him right on the mouth while Vegeta tried to pull her off like she were a clinging cat.

The space pirate had lowered her to the plush carpet with a gruff, "Alright. That's enough."

"For now," Bulma had said; her own promise. "I'll see you in…let's say twelve hours."

"I hope to never have to see your face again."

He ended up successfully avoiding her until the scientist had jumped him in the shower. The thrumming sound of water hadn't blocked out his curses, or her laughter at the sight of him with flattened hair. Nor would it be successful at covering the sound of his howls as she lowered herself to her knees to please the stuck-up Saiyan, or her shrieks as she pounded loose tiles that were so cold against her heated flesh as he returned her favor. That haircut had never looked more absurd and more welcome than when it was between her legs.

And again, again, against the floor. The bathroom floor, and then in the carpeted, screw-ridden floor of her bedroom. Both of them cursing against the coldness, her hating him when he slowly entered her as though he really cared, when one of her father's cats came in and used the litterbox to scrape dust in their faces. The angry and red-eyed screaming match that resulted in the bedroom tumble that left them both with strange marks and a new appreciation for her mother's vacuum.

Them in the living room, on the couch, then the nice clean carpet and rugs, then against the TV screen that would hold their butt marks and mystify her Mom.

In the hallway, pictures falling down as they bounced from wall to her until she began laughing and Vegeta cursed her existence , and pulled out as revenge, making her clean up the stain he left out of fear of Mrs. Brief's housecleaning that she was now so aware of.

Later, in the pool, which only helped the choking thing he had. Shoving her under the heated water, everything cozy and creepily womblike, and apparently dragged up Freudian issues Vegeta had, as he began to weep dryly as he attempted to pretend-drown her. She felt like some strange porno version of Ophelia. Until she shoved him under the water in return. They ended up awkwardly trying to fuck on the pool stairs, then settling for a beach chair, both silently deciding not to say anything about what had happened because for two ex-enemies having bitter, rage-filled hate sex, that had just been weird.

For all that strangeness though, it had given her a taste of being in charge. One that she definitely so loved. For all the stereotypes about CEO's being such subs, Bulma had to say she had always enjoyed being on top. Part of the reason she and Yamcha were so incompatible was due to her hating to not be behind the driver's seat, a fact that Bulma recognized and had little trouble accepting.

She finally talked him back to her bed, which was so totally her domain. They sat there, on her nice huge bedspread, surveying the new landscape. There she unleashed her arsenal of handcuffs and whips and dildos and vibrators that Vegeta would show nothing more than disgust towards. "Why do you even need any of that?"

"You're so boring! At least let me tie you up and call you my slave."

"Never."

Then Bulma pulled her top off.

"…still never."

So the scientist had to settle for her old standby: a distraction blowjob. But then, halfway through it, he was settling easily on her fingers with no care. Looking down at her with the eyes like endless waterless wells, "Is that all? That's all you wanted?"

"Wha-no! There's way more!"

When the Saiyan didn't even blink over the strap-on, Bulma knew she'd met her match. It brought forth a reluctant smile, as she stared down at the fighter who took a dildo with the same reaction he took to morning toast. So much more exciting than any of her other boyfriends. Not even Yamcha, the ex-bandit who'd nearly killed her and Goku, had been so quick to embrace her erotic tastes. The handcuffs he straight laughed at. "Sure, if those pathetic restraints make you feel safer."

As though she needed some comfort of safety. As though she feared him.

He looked at the harness. "That's all?"

"What, have you had bigger?"

"Yes."

She didn't even know what the hell he'd been sleeping with before her. Crazy alien dinosaurs crawling with ET herpes, for all she knew. "…I should be making you wear a condom, shouldn't I?"

"What's a 'condom'?"

But Bulma threw herself at the mercy and faith of antibiotics, and continued. The clothespins on the nipples made him roll his eyes impatiently. She ended up tossing the whip aside, as her hands grew more tired than his skin red and pained. Only the rubbing of his old tail scar could make him flinch. Putting cigarettes out on him didn't do anything either. By the end of her experiments, she had an idea he could take a fire hydrant without a single remark. Whether or not it was from past experiences, or something unique to Saiyans, or if all fighters were capable of it, Bulma couldn't say.

After the cockring broke, she gave up going in that direction. Instruments just weren't enough to make him squirm. She settled atop him, and attempted to strangle him for a few moments. She couldn't even crease his skin, and Vegeta gave a long sigh. As though bored. Bored. With her.

Bulma leaned forward, kissing him warmly, sweetly, until he struggled.

"What are you doing?"

"You're so kind. Like Goku."

"Knock it off."

"Cute." She laughed. "I guess I'll have to tell everyone about us."

"'Us'?"

"What we do."

"No. Don't do that."

"They're my friends. They have to know I'm in a relationship."

"I am not mating with you. This is just sexual relations. An exchange of a few fluids. We are no procreating. There is no need."

"Sorry. That's what's going to happen."

"I'll deny your accusations."

"No one would lie about sleeping with you. It's too insane and shameful."

"You'd only be doing that to annoy me."

"Duh. Now, gimme a nice kiss, Veggie dear."

"Stop it."

"Nope."

"I said stop!"

"That's not the safe word!"