Second Helpings

January 5, 2012

a/n: I kind of want to finish out the Sins Challenge, even though its out of season. Plus, I always thought the first part was too short and have wanted to expand on it for awhile. Did I succeed?

His anger simmered to dissatisfaction, and disgust. The bloodlust left a foul taste in his mouth and he was further repulsed by a repugnant desire to sate said 'bloodlust' with something other then murder – torture.

Never before had Vegeta dallied in torture, having too frequently been the recipient himself in the past he found it of no direct use or benefit to him. While he had before reveled in the pain of others, not a novel behavior in the slightest, it wasn't his pursuit to do so through that particular type of torment.

The caged frustration and aggravation boiled in his skull until he ritualistically fell into the rhythmically familiar pattern of training. The ache in his muscles would not drive away the growing appetite that began gnawing on the periphery. It needled and prodded at him, teasing his mind in an attempt to have it wander off the strict path of measured counts dictating his exercise.

To counteract the fire in his arm while undertaking one-handed push-ups, he focused on his hand to avoid giving into the encumberance of artificial gravity. The bulge in the veins on the back of his palm began to throb in time with the pains in his body; logically the next step was to refocus elsewhere, the orange tile of the floor.

Soon the strict internal counting fell away to the pain, leaving his mind to wander to the idea of torture. He thought about how he'd pushed his palm into the Woman's hip and held her against the wall with it and a hand caged around her neck. He could remember the soft thump thump of her rushing blood over her hipbones through his glove long before she'd pressed his hand to her frantic heart.

He licked his lips, he wanted to use the hand on her hip to wrap around the bone and feel the meat there in his hands. There was a desire next to have wrapped the hand she'd pressed to her lips around her mouth before dragging her off to conduct his business in seclusion. His mind's eye saw her whimpering and begging under his shadow, then crying out, panting and finally moaning. Moaning?

With blurry eyes he realized that he'd halted the progression of exercises and had obviously, given the throb in his wrist, been holding that particular position for some time. He stepped down from the handstand and glared towards his feet. A break was in order, his mind couldn't function under this onslaught, nor could his body obviously.

He grunts and hisses his displeasure with his physical self. While off in his reverie his body has rebelled against his mind, and somehow appeared to have subverted gravity. A prominence stood out at the crotch of his black shorts, uncomfortable in the constricting material. He plucks at it to adjust himself, only serving to free his trapped self. The press of gravity is no hinderance, and he thinks again back to the 'torture' he imagines himself inflicting, and the metaphor reveals itself, another roll of repugnance. The wrath he wishes to bring down upon her head rears itself in another rush of images; and his groin tightens again. The bloodlust is a craving deeper then the violent streaks imposed so deeply on the man, it is in the marrow of his bones, the center of his being, and superimposed on his thoughts. He roars his frustration and slaps the consol to shut down the machine.