Note: This story was written with assistance by an AI. I provided prompts and edited the results to make sense, creating something resembling a full story.

I thought it would be fun to explore the canon of the Dragon Ball F Universe. The story will follow the basic flow of Dragon Ball Z, but obviously there will be many differences. Some changes are made by the AI, some by me, but I think it helps to give this world its own feel besides the basic premise of it being a female-only world. I hope some of you will enjoy these stories, I’ll release them when I can!

The world was a terrifying, nauseating blur of wind and cloud. Bulma’s initial scream had long since died in her throat, replaced by a silent, white-knuckled prayer to any god that might be listening. Her arms were locked around Ms. Popo’s midsection, her face buried so deeply in the soft, dark recesses of her cleabage that she was practically inhaling her. It was an act of pure, self-preserving terror, but a strange thing happened as the flight went on. Beneath the alien scent of incense and something like ancient, dry earth, there was a solid, unwavering warmth. Ms. Popo’s body was a pillar of calm in the chaotic sky, her breathing even and unbothered. Against all logic and her own better judgment, Bulma found the embrace oddly, profoundly comforting.

Just as she was starting to believe she might not vomit, the carpet began to slow. The deafening rush of wind faded to a whisper. Bulma dared to crack open one eye.

They were hovering before a structure that defied all her understanding of physics and engineering. It wasn’t sleek or metallic like the Saiyan pods. It was… organic. A massive, off-white ovoid, like a colossal stone egg, nestled in the hidden valleys of some forgotten segment of earth. Protruding from its top and bottom were jagged, rough spikes that gleamed with a faint internal light. There were no visible seams, no doors, no engine nacelles. It looked less like a ship and more like a fossilized seed pod from a planet of giants.

“Behold,” Ms. Popo said, her serene voice a stark contrast to the bizarre sight. “The vessel of my friend, Kami.”

Bulma’s grip loosened slightly, her scientific curiosity momentarily overpowering her terror. She stared, her mind racing through a thousand possibilities and rejecting them all. “That… that’s it? That’s the spaceship? It looks like a giant, spiky… tooth.”

The carpet settled onto the rocky, wind-scoured ground with a soft whisper. The silence of the Yunzabit Highlands was absolute, a vast, empty weight after the roar of their flight. Before them, the colossal, insect-like ship loomed, its presence both alien and ancient.

Ms. Popo glided off the carpet, her feet not making a sound on the stone. “Kami spoke little of her time before becoming Earth’s Guardian,” she began, her monotone voice carrying easily in the stillness. “But she once mentioned the strange house she lived in when she first fell from the stars. A house that was cold and round.”

Bulma approached the vessel, her earlier fear replaced by a thrumming, scientific excitement. She ran a hand over the surface; it was smooth and cool, like polished river stone, but with a faint, almost imperceptible vibration. “A house… You think this is it? That Kami arrived in this… thing?”

“It is the only object on this planet that matches the description and is not of this world,” Popo stated. She floated to a section of the hull that looked no different from any other. “She also taught me a word. A word from the tongue of the Namekians. She said it was the first word she learned for the place that was not her home.”

Popo placed a dark hand flat against the hull. She closed her eyes.

“Piccolo.”

The air hummed. A section of the seamless, off-white hull split open with a soft, grinding sound of stone on stone, revealing a dark, circular platform that descended to the ground. A wave of cold, stale air, smelling of dust and ages, washed over them.

The hatch was open. The guess had been right. They were looking into the ship that had, a century ago, brought a nameless Namekian to Earth.

They stepped onto the platform, and Ms. Popo repeated that familiar phrase: “Piccolo.”

Bulma yelped with surprise as they were lifted up into the ship’s interior, a cavern of shadows and silence, the air so still and ancient it felt like breathing in a tomb. As they stepped across the threshold, a soft, greenish light flickered to life along the curved walls, pulsing gently as if the vessel itself were stirring from a long slumber. The light revealed a single, spacious chamber, its architecture flowing and organic, with no sharp corners or visible seams. It felt less like a machine and more like the inside of a giant, petrified seashell.

At the far end, set into the wall, was a smooth, podium-like panel, devoid of any physical controls.

“Fascinating,” Bulma whispered, her voice swallowed by the immense quiet. She hurried over, her fingers hovering over the blank surface. “No buttons, no levers, no interface… it’s completely seamless.” She tapped it, but it was unyielding. “The technology is psychometric. It must respond to bio-signatures or… or verbal commands. But it would need to be in the pilot’s native language. Namekian.” She slumped in frustration. “Which none of us speak.”

A soft rustle of robes sounded beside her. “I do.”

Bulma spun around. Ms. Popo stood serenely, her dark eyes reflecting the ship’s gentle green glow.

“For three hundred years, I served Kami,” she explained in her placid monotone. “I learned the sounds of her homeland, the words for ‘food,’ for ‘water,’ for ‘the sky is blue today.’ I learned the stories of her people.” She floated closer to the control panel. “I can speak to the ship.”

A wild, giddy hope surged in Bulma’s chest. “You can? Then let’s test it! Nothing too far. Just… take us to Jupiter!”

Ms. Popo nodded, floating before the obsidian panel. She closed her eyes, her expression one of deep concentration. A series of guttural, flowing syllables, utterly alien to Bulma’s ears, echoed in the chamber. “Jupitah antu karr.” (Jupiter, go now.)

The effect was instantaneous. The ship gave a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the very bones of its passengers. With a lurch that felt like the world dropping out from under them, the vessel shot straight up through the atmosphere, the view outside the organic viewport blurring into a streak of blue, then the star-dusted black of space. The g-forces were immense.

Bulma, who had been standing, was thrown backward. She shrieked, flailing through the air before slamming into the curved wall and sliding to the floor. “SEAT BELT! I NEED A SEAT BELT!” she screamed, clinging to a slight ridge in the floor.

A section of the floor before her irised open with a soft shoop, and a comfortable-looking, moss-green bed slid silently up into the chamber.

Ms. Popo, perfectly balanced and unperturbed, glanced over. “You said ‘butla antu.’ It means ‘bed.’ The sleepy-time.”

Bulma scrambled to her feet, her hair a mess. “No! Not a bed! A seat belt! A strap! To hold me in!” she yelled, over-enunciating every syllable. “SEAT. BELT.”

The ship hummed again. Another section of the floor opened, and a perfectly functional, if bizarrely organic-looking, toilet unit emerged directly in front of her.

“Seata belta,” Popo clarified calmly. “It means ‘toilet.’ The place for the little waters.”

Before Bulma could scream again in frustration, the ship slowed its impossible acceleration. The view outside the viewport stabilized, and her breath caught in her throat. All annoyance vanished, replaced by pure, childlike wonder.

There it was. Jupiter. Not a picture in a textbook, but a living, swirling giant of ochre, cream, and dusky orange. The Great Red Spot churned like a cosmic hurricane, its scale so vast it defied comprehension. The planet filled their entire view, a majestic, banded colossus hanging in the infinite black, its silent, awesome power pressing against the viewport.

“Whoa,” Bulma breathed, all other words failing her. They had just traveled hundreds of millions of miles in the span of a minute, in a ship controlled by a magical attendant and a language she couldn’t speak, and it had brought them face-to-face with a god.

The sheer, impossible scale of their journey crashed down on Bulma. The calculations ran through her mind in a dizzying flash—the distance, the fuel, the time. A tremor ran through her hands.

“A six-year journey… minimum,” she whispered, her voice trembling with awe. “Even our fastest deep-space probes would take over a year just to get here. We got here in less than a minute.” She turned from the magnificent, terrifying vista of Jupiter, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears of pure, unadulterated joy. “Popo… with this ship… Namek isn’t just a dream. It’s a destination!”

The dam of her professional composure broke. A giddy, childlike laugh burst from her lips, and she threw her arms around the startled Ms. Popo in a tight, spontaneous hug. She planted a quick, exuberant kiss on her smooth, dark cheek. “We can do it! We can actually go!”

For the first time, Ms. Popo’s eternal placidity fractured. A single, glistening tear welled in the corner of her eye and traced a slow path down her face. The thought, the tangible hope, of seeing her friend again, of hearing Kami’s gentle voice, of no longer being the sole guardian of a silent, empty Lookout… it was a wave of emotion so profound it shook her to her core. Her lower lip trembled slightly.

“Yes,” she breathed, her usually monotone voice thick with feeling. She returned Bulma’s hug with a surprising strength. “We can bring her home.”

The breath hitched in Bulma’s throat, the sound a small, broken thing. The sterile, logical part of her mind was completely offline, overridden by a primal need for connection, for the warmth of another being after so much loss and terror. Ms. Popo’s initial surprise melted into a deep, resonating warmth. All the fear, the grief, the pressure of being the smartest person on a planet facing extinction. It all came pouring out—the terror of the Saiyan invasion, the horror of watching Yamcha die, the helplessness as Tien was violated, the sheer relief at being alive, at having a tangible, reachable goal.

Bulma’s hands, usually so precise with tools and data, were clumsy as they fumbled with the clasps of Ms. Popo’s simple robes. The fabric, surprisingly soft and ancient, gave way under her frantic fingers. Popo’s own hands rose, not to push away, but to meet her halfway, her fingers tangling in the white fabric of Bulma’s Capsule Corp t-shirt.

It wasn’t a gentle undressing. It was a frantic, mutual shedding of armor. The kiss deepened, fueled by weeks of shared trauma. It was a desperate search for life, for proof they were still here, still fighting. The kiss was a lifeline.

Ms. Popo, who had maintained a celestial calm for three centuries, found herself clutching Bulma just as tightly, her own breath catching in a soft, shuddering gasp. It was a claiming, a promise. The ship, a silent witness, hummed around them, its gentle green light glinting off the tears now freely streaming down both their faces. It was salty and desperate and perfect.

The frantic shedding of clothes became a blur of desperate hands and heated skin. Bulma’s shirt was torn away, her bra following, her pale, perfect breasts bouncing free as she pushed Ms. Popo back against the cool, organic wall of the ship. The ancient attendant’s robes pooled at her feet, revealing a body that was both soft and impossibly strong, her dark skin a stunning contrast to Bulma’s own. There were no words left, only panting breaths and the slick, wet sound of their mouths meeting again and again, tongues dueling in a frantic dance.

Bulma’s hands roamed over Popo’s back, her nails scraping lightly, then digging in with a possessiveness that made the other woman moan into her mouth. She dropped to her knees, her face level with Popo’s smooth mound. She didn’t hesitate, burying her face between Popo’s thick thighs, her tongue finding her clit with an engineer’s precision and a lover’s hunger. The taste was ancient and sweet, like honey and sacred incense, and Bulma devoured her, her hands gripping Popo’s ass, pulling her closer, deeper.

Popo’s head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, a string of guttural, forgotten curses and pleas tumbling from her lips. Her fingers tangled in Bulma’s blue hair, not pushing her away, but holding her there, anchoring herself as the pleasure built into a crashing wave. Her hips bucked against Bulma’s mouth, her body bowing as a raw, shuddering climax ripped through her, her cries echoing in the silent chamber.

The taste of Popo’s climax was still on Bulma’s lips, a heady, sacred nectar, when strong, dark hands gripped her hips. With a gentle but undeniable strength, Popo guided her down onto the cool, yielding floor of the ship. The strange, organic material felt almost alive beneath her bare skin, a soft, humming contrast to the feverish heat of her own body.

Popo didn’t speak. Her movements were deliberate, reverent. She lifted Bulma’s legs, hooking them over her shoulders, spreading her wide open to the sterile, green-tinged air of the cabin. Bulma gasped, her head falling back, her blue hair fanning out around her. The view through the viewport was dizzying—the colossal, swirling face of Jupiter, a silent, gas giant witness to their intimate, human desperation.

Then Popo’s mouth was on her.

It wasn’t the frantic hunger Bulma had shown. This was something slower, deeper, a worshipful exploration. Popo’s tongue was a flat, hot pressure against her clit, then a delicate, flicking point tracing every fold and contour. She lapped at Bulma’s essence with a slow, relentless rhythm, her dark eyes fixed on Bulma’s face, watching every twitch, every flutter of her eyelids.

Bulma’s back arched off the floor, a broken moan escaping her lips. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the smooth floor, finding none. The pleasure was an electric current, building from her core, radiating out to her fingertips, to the very tips of her toes which curled tightly in the air. Jupiter, with its silent, stormy majesty, hung in the black void behind Popo’s head, a surreal backdrop to the most intense, grounding physical sensation of Bulma’s life. She was tethered to the universe only by the mouth between her legs, by the ancient, knowing woman who was unmaking her with a slow, torturous, perfect expertise.

The climax that tore through Bulma was a silent, shattering convulsion, her body seizing as Popo’s tongue wrung the last shuddering pulses of pleasure from her. She went limp, her legs sliding bonelessly from Popo’s shoulders to the floor, her chest heaving. Popo rose over her, her dark eyes soft with a profound, possessive tenderness. She didn’t give Bulma a moment to recover. She settled between her pale, trembling thighs, her own thicker, powerful legs tangling with Bulma’s slender ones.

Their bodies aligned, a study in contrasts. Popo’s dark, meaty thighs pressed against the soft, pale inside of Bulma’s, the friction already hot and damp. Then, they began to move. It wasn’t a frantic rhythm, but a slow, deep, grinding press. Popo’s hips rolled with an ancient, knowing cadence, her swollen, sensitive pussy grinding against Bulma’s equally slick and oversensitive folds.

The sensation was overwhelming, a continuous, building friction that sparked fresh waves of pleasure directly from the heart of Bulma’s recent climax. A low, continuous moan was forced from her lips as she met Popo’s rhythm, their bodies moving together in a primal, scissoring dance. The wet, sticky sounds of their joined flesh filled the chamber, a lewd counterpoint to the silent, majestic dance of the gas giant beyond the viewport. Popo leaned down, capturing Bulma’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, swallowing her moans as their hips continued their relentless, intimate grind, pushing each other steadily toward another, even more powerful peak.

The rhythm was everything. The slow, deliberate grind of their bodies, the press of Popo’s thick, powerful thighs against her own, the hot, wet friction where they were joined most intimately—it built a pleasure so deep and resonant it felt like a fundamental truth of the universe. Bulma’s mind, usually a whirlwind of calculations and anxieties, was blissfully quiet. There was only this feeling, this connection.

Her eyes, half-lidded with pleasure, traced the lines of Popo’s face, so close to her own. The smooth, dark skin, the full, red lips, the deep, black eyes that had once seemed so alien and terrifying. The fear she’d felt on the flying carpet, the instinctual recoil from something so utterly other, felt like a lifetime ago. Now, she saw only beauty. A serene, ancient, and powerfully sexual beauty. Popo was not a monster or a servant; she was a woman, a guardian, a lover, her body a testament to a strength that was both gentle and absolute.

Popo’s gaze held hers, a silent understanding passing between them. There was no need for words. Their hips moved in perfect, increasing sync, the grinding becoming more urgent, more desperate. The coil of pleasure in Bulma’s gut tightened, a brilliant, unbearable pressure. She could see the same tension reflected in the slight parting of Popo’s lips, the deepening intensity in her eyes.

Their climax hit them not as separate events, but as a single, shared detonation.

A sharp, shared cry echoed in the chamber, swallowed by the ship’s hum. Bulma’s body arched, her fingers digging into Popo’s back as waves of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashed through her, so intense they blurred her vision. At the same moment, Popo shuddered above her, a deep, guttural moan vibrating through her chest and into Bulma’s, her own release a hot, pulsing answer.

The tension shattered, leaving them boneless and spent. Popo collapsed forward, her weight a comforting warmth atop Bulma. They lay tangled together on the cool floor of the ship, limbs intertwined, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The only sound was the soft hum of the vessel and the quiet, shared rhythm of their hearts. Jupiter, immense and silent, continued its eternal turn, a witness to the fragile, human connection forged in the void.

A comfortable, sated silence settled between them, broken only by the ship’s gentle hum. Bulma traced idle patterns on Popo’s dark, smooth back, her mind already racing ahead, fueled by post-coital bliss and a brilliant, renewed hope.

“Just think,” Bulma murmured, a lazy, wicked grin spreading across her face. “A journey of who-knows-how-many light-years. Just the two of us. In this ship. We could have sex in zero gravity. On the control panel. We could map the entire Kama Sutra against the backdrop of a nebula.”

Popo’s serene expression didn’t change, but a faint, almost imperceptible sadness touched her eyes. “I cannot go.”

Bulma’s grin vanished. She propped herself up on an elbow. “What? Why not?”

“The Lookout,” Popo said simply. “It cannot be left unattended. It is my sacred charge. It is my home.”

A cold knot of dread tightened in Bulma’s stomach. “But… you’re the only one who can speak Namekian! You’re the only one who can pilot this thing! I can’t go alone!”

A slow, knowing smile graced Popo’s lips. It was a different smile than before—less serene, more promising. “Then I will teach you.”

“Teach me? An entire alien language? Popo, I’m a genius, not a miracle worker! That could take months! Years!”

“The fundamentals of piloting are simple,” Popo countered, her voice a soft, hypnotic murmur. Her hand slid down Bulma’s side, coming to rest on her hip. “A few dozen key phrases. ‘Go.’ ‘Stop.’ ‘Land.’ ‘Avoid that star.'” Her fingers began to trace slow, distracting circles on Bulma’s skin. “And I am a very… thorough… teacher. Our study sessions will be… immersive.”

The implication sent a fresh, delicious shiver through Bulma. She could already picture it—cramming vocabulary with Popo’s mouth on her neck, practicing pronunciation while their bodies were tangled together on this very floor.

“It’s a crazy plan,” Bulma breathed, her resolve already melting under Popo’s touch and the tantalizing prospect of combining education and ecstasy.

“It is,” Popo agreed, leaning in to brush her lips against Bulma’s. “But you will learn. You will learn just enough.” Her kiss deepened, a seal on their new, intimate pact. “I have faith in you.”

—–

The sterile, metallic chill of the Frieza Force outpost was a welcome shock after the blood-soaked dirt of Earth. Vegeta’s escape pod, scarred and venting atmosphere, had been tractored into a hangar bay the moment it limped into range. Red-alert klaxons blared as a team of med-bots and terrified alien attendants swarmed the hatch.

They found her inside, a broken doll of royal Saiyan flesh. Her armor was missing, her body a canvas of deep bruises, cracked bones, and the raw, cauterized stump where her tail had been. She was barely conscious, her breath a ragged, bubbling whisper, but her eyes—her eyes burned with undiminished hatred.

They moved with practiced efficiency, lifting her onto a grav-stretcher and rushing her through stark, gray corridors to the medical bay. Within minutes, she was submerged in the green, viscous fluid of an advanced healing pod. Bionic filaments snaked from the pod’s interior, attaching to her spine and major nerve clusters. The fluid began to glow, its nanites swarming her injuries, knitting bone and muscle with a speed that would be considered magic on the backwater world she’d just fled.

Suspended in the silent, artificial womb, Vegeta’s mind was not at rest. Behind her closed eyelids, she saw it all again. The low-class runt, Kakarot, matching her blow for blow. The bald insect, Krillin, holding a blade to her throat. The fat Earthling, Yajirobe, and her bottomless, humiliating appetite. The child, transforming into the very power that was her birthright.

And the final, ultimate insult: being spared. Let go. Out of pity.

A silent scream of pure, volcanic rage built in her soul.

Revenge.

The thought was a cold, sharp diamond in the haze of her healing. She would have it. She would return to that miserable mudball, but not as a conqueror. As a master. She would track down every one of them. She would fit Kakarot’s neck with a collar of unbreakable alloy, forcing the powerful Saiyan to her knees. The bald one would be leashed to her throne, a permanent reminder of the mercy she should never have been granted. The fat one would be her personal stress-relief toy, fucked into a mindless, compliant stupor daily. The fiery mother, the hybrid child… they would all be broken to her will, their spirits crushed until the only thing that gave them purpose was serving her pleasure.

But first, she needed power. Real power. Power beyond a Super Saiyan legend.

The Dragon Balls of Namek. A wish of her own. Immortality? Perhaps. Ultimate power? Certainly.

The nanites worked, her bones fusing, her flesh regenerating. With every cell that was repaired, her resolve hardened, her plan crystallizing in the healing tank’s eerie light. Let the Earthlings enjoy their fleeting victory. Let them think they were safe.

Her time would come. And they would all learn the true price of humiliating a Saiyan princess.