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 sterile, antiseptic smell of Wukong Hospital was a familiar, unwelcome presence to Chi-Chi as she pushed open the door to Goku’s room, her mother, the formidable Ox-Queen, and a lecherously grinning Master Roshi in tow.

“Goku, dear, we brought you some—” Chi-Chi’s cheerful greeting died in her throat.

The bed was empty. The sheets were rumpled, but the space where her wife should have been convalescing was vacant. A cold dread trickled down Chi-Chi’s spine.

“Where is she?” the Ox-Queen boomed, her voice echoing in the small room. “That girl has the sense of a concussed gnat!”

Roshi, peering around, spotted a trail of discarded bandages leading out the open window. “Uh oh.”

—–

Miles away, in a desolate, sun-baked canyon far from any city, the air shimmered with heat and exertion. Goku, her body still a roadmap of purple and yellow bruises, her ribs tightly wrapped in fresh, sweat-soaked bandages, moved through a punishing kata. Each punch, each kick, was a symphony of pain. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the screaming protest from her shattered bones.

“Heh… not bad,” she panted to herself, sweat stinging her eyes. “Just a little more… gotta get stronger… for the next time…”

She launched into a series of high-speed afterimages, a technique that strained her body even at full health. The world blurred around her. The pain became a white-hot fire in her chest. Her vision swam, the edges turning black.

“Just… one… more…” she grunted, pushing off for a final, explosive leap.

She never landed. Her body gave out mid-air. The world went dark. She crashed to the hard, rocky ground in a heap, completely unconscious, her broken body finally succumbing to her own impossible drive. The vast, empty silence of the canyon swallowed her whole, leaving her stranded, alone, and utterly vulnerable.

The sun beat down on Goku’s unconscious form, the heat a dull, throbbing counterpoint to the sharper pains wracking her body. She drifted in a haze of semi-consciousness, her mind a fog of fractured memories—the fight with Vegeta, the crushing grip of the Oozaru, the sterile white of the hospital room, the desperate need to move, to push.

The sound was a distant drone at first, growing steadily louder until it became a deafening roar. A shadow fell over her. Through slitted eyes, she saw the familiar blue and white hull of a Capsule Corp airship settling onto the canyon floor nearby.

The hatch hissed open. The first person out was the Ox-Queen, her massive frame moving with a surprising grace. She stomped over to Goku, her face a thundercloud. “You foolish, foolish child!” she boomed, but her hands were surprisingly gentle as she scooped Goku’s broken body up as if she were a doll.

Chi-Chi was right behind her, her face pale with a mixture of fury and profound relief. “Goku! What were you thinking?! You could have died out here! Your ribs, your spine… you’ve probably made everything ten times worse!” Her voice cracked, the fear finally overwhelming the anger.

Master Roshi brought up the rear, her expression a mix of stern disapproval and grudging understanding. She climbed into the ship after the Ox-Queen deposited Goku on a med-cot. “The drive to improve is the heart of a warrior, Goku,” Roshi said, her voice low. “But a warrior must also have wisdom. What good is strength if you shatter the vessel that contains it? You’ve just added weeks to your recovery.”

Goku groaned, her vision clearing slightly. She looked at the three worried faces staring down at her. A wave of shame washed over her, hotter than the desert sun. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice raspy. “I just… I couldn’t stand it anymore. Lying in that bed, feeling so… weak. I had to do something.”

Chi-Chi’s stern expression softened by a fraction. She knelt beside the cot, taking Goku’s hand. “I know,” she sighed. “But being reckless isn’t the answer. Getting better is. So you can get back to training properly. Now, let’s get you back to the hospital before you undo all the good those doctors did.”

As the airship lifted off, carrying her back to the prison of her hospital bed, Goku knew they were right. But the fire to grow stronger, to never be so helpless again, still burned within her, a painful, unquenchable flame.

—–

The viscous, nutrient-rich fluid of the healing pod drained away with a low hiss, revealing Princess Vegeta’s body, whole and unbroken once more. She stepped out onto the cold metal floor of the Frieza Force medical bay, water sluicing from her pale, powerful form. Every muscle was restored, every bone fused, the raw stump of her tail now a clean, sealed scar. The only remnants of her humiliation were the memories, which burned brighter and more painful than any physical wound.

A cowering, lizard-like attendant scurried forward, holding a towel and her freshly cleaned and repaired armor. “P-Princess Vegeta,” the attendant stammered, not daring to look her in the eye. “A message from Lord Cui. She is looking for you. She seemed… insistent.”

Vegeta snatched the towel, ignoring the comment about Cui. That bloated toad was the least of her concerns. She dried herself with brisk, efficient movements.

“The injuries you sustained…” the attendant ventured, curiosity overcoming its sense of self-preservation. “The readings were… catastrophic. What manner of battle could have—”

Vegeta’s head snapped around, her eyes narrow slits of pure menace. The attendant flinched back, her question dying in her throat. She did not answer. She would never speak of the low-class warrior, the bald insect, the fat Earthling, or the child who had bested her. The shame was hers alone to bear, and to avenge.

She dressed in silence, pulling on the familiar weight of her white and blue battle armor. It felt like a second skin, a shell to contain her simmering rage. As she reached for the standard-issue scouter on a nearby tray, her hand paused. She remembered the constant, grating chirp of power levels, the limitations of the device, the way it had failed to capture the true, explosive potential of Kakarot and the others.

A sneer twisted her lips. She knocked the scouter from the tray, letting it clatter to the floor.

She no longer needed a machine to tell her who was strong. Her own body, her own senses, refined in the crucible of defeat, would be her guide. Power was not a number. It was a feeling, a fire in the blood, and hers burned hotter than any star.

Without a backward glance at the terrified attendant or the discarded technology, Vegeta strode from the room, her destination clear in her mind. She had a ship to find, and a planet called Namek to conquer.

The sterile, gray corridors of the Frieza Force outpost echoed with the sharp, purposeful click of Vegeta’s armored boots. Her mind was a singular, focused beam of intent: find a ship, get to Namek, secure the Dragon Balls, achieve immortality. The rest—the humiliation, the pain—was fuel.

A sneering, purple form stepped out from a cross-corridor, blocking her path. Cui. Her wide, frog-like face was split in a smug, taunting grin.

“Well, well, look what the healing pod coughed up,” Cui sneered, her voice a grating rumble. “I heard about your little trip to Earth. Lost your whole team, didn’t you? Raditz, then Nappa… and you came back looking like you’d been through a meat grinder. What happened, Vegeta? Did the local wildlife get frisky?”

Vegeta’s stride didn’t falter. She didn’t even grant Cui the dignity of a glance, walking past her as if she were a piece of scenery.

Cui’s grin widened, enjoying the lack of reaction. “Oh, and Lord Frieza is not happy. Attacking a planet without permission? That’s a big no-no. You’re lucky she’s in a… forgiving mood.”

That word—forgiving—was so alien in the context of Frieza that it made Vegeta stop dead in her tracks. She slowly turned her head, her eyes cold and dangerous.

Cui puffed out her chest, relishing the moment. “Turns out, your little unauthorized massacre had a silver lining. It clued her in on these ‘Dragon Balls’ you were after. So she’s decided to overlook your insubordination.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, mocking whisper. “She’s already on her way to Namek. Going to wish for immortality, to become truly invincible.”

The air around Vegeta seemed to grow cold. Every plan, every desperate hope for redemption and ultimate power, shattered in an instant. Frieza. Frieza was going for the Dragon Balls. The one being in the universe whose power was so absolute that the very concept of challenging her was insanity.

A low, guttural sound, more animal than Saiyan, rumbled in Vegeta’s chest. The game had just changed, and the stakes had been raised to a level that threatened to crush her entirely.

The smug satisfaction on Cui’s face was the last thing Vegeta registered before a cold, primal terror seized her. It wasn’t the fear of a fight, but the terror of absolute, eternal subjugation. If Frieza achieved immortality, the universe would be locked in a cage of her making forever. Vegeta’s dream of ruling, of surpassing the tyrant, of proving Saiyan supremacy… it would all turn to dust.

Her composure shattered. The cool, calculating princess was gone, replaced by a cornered animal.

“Out of my way!” she snarled, shoving Cui aside with enough force to send the larger woman stumbling into the wall with a grunt of surprise.

She spun on her heel, her previous resolve to forgo a scouter forgotten. She needed every advantage, every tool. She sprinted back the way she came, her boots pounding against the metal floor. She snatched the discarded scouter from the ground, not even bothering to wipe off the dust before clamping it over her eye. The familiar, low hum and the stream of data across the lens was a small, cold comfort.

She didn’t head for the main hangar. That would take too long, involve too many questions. She made for the emergency launch bay, a place stocked with single-pod vessels for rapid evacuation or deployment.

Bypassing the safety protocols with a savage punch to the control panel, she wrenched open the hatch of the nearest pod. She didn’t bother with pre-flight checks or navigation calibrations. She input one command, her fingers flying over the console: Namek. Maximum speed.

The pod’s engines screamed to life, a sound of pure, unadulterated panic. With a violent lurch that slammed her back into the seat, the pod shot out of the bay and into the void, a desperate purple streak against the blackness of space. Vegeta was gambling everything on a race she was already losing, her only hope to reach Namek before the universe’s fate was sealed by a wish.

—–

The gentle hum of the Namekian ship was a soothing balm after the horrors of the fake planet. In the dimly lit living quarters at the rear of the vessel, Launch and Gohan were fast asleep. The blonde, usually aggressive Launch was curled protectively around the small girl, one arm draped over her. Gohan’s head was nestled against Launch’s chest, her homemade Piccolo gi, which had been torn and stained during their ordeal, was now neatly mended. The stitches were a bit crude, but the care behind them was evident.

In the cockpit, Bulma sat in the pilot’s chair, staring out at the star-dusted tapestry of space. Krillin leaned against the console next to her, a soft smile on her face as she glanced back at the sleeping pair.

“You know,” Krillin said quietly, “I saw her doing that. After we got cleaned up. Blonde Launch, sitting there with a needle and thread, grumbling under her breath the whole time, but her hands were so careful. She didn’t want Gohan to wake up and see her gi was ruined.”

Bulma smiled, a genuine, warm expression that reached her eyes. “She’s full of surprises, that one. I don’t think it’s just two sides, Krillin. I think there’s a whole spectrum in there. The tough exterior, the scared interior, and a fiercely protective big sister lurking somewhere in the middle.”

Krillin’s gaze shifted from the sleepers to Bulma. She studied her friend—the brilliant blue hair, the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw that had just saved them all. A different kind of warmth spread through her, one that had nothing to do with friendship.

“You’re pretty amazing yourself, you know,” Krillin said, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. She nudged Bulma’s shoulder playfully. “Piloting alien ships, learning new languages, saving us from tentacle monsters… is there anything you can’t do?”

Bulma looked over, catching the new light in Krillin’s eyes. She felt a familiar flutter in her stomach, one she hadn’t felt in a long time. She smirked, a confident, teasing look. “Well, I haven’t tried everything yet. But I’m a quick learner.”

Krillin’s playful nudge turned into a gentle hand on Bulma’s arm, her thumb stroking the soft skin of her wrist. “Remember the World Martial Arts Tournament?” she murmured, her voice a low, intimate hum. “After you fixed up that mess with Emperor Pilaf? We celebrated… privately.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across Bulma’s face. The memory was a vivid one—the adrenaline, the victory, the way they’d stumbled into her room at Capsule Corp, laughing and tearing at each other’s clothes. “I remember,” she said, her voice dropping to match Krillin’s. “You were surprisingly… inventive.”

“I had a good teacher,” Krillin countered, her eyes sparkling. She leaned in a little closer, the scent of her—clean and faintly of ki—filling Bulma’s space. “And I’ve been carrying a little… souvenir from those days. Just in case.”

She reached into a small, hidden pocket on her gi and produced a single, pale futa bean. It sat innocently in her palm, a promise of a very specific, very intense kind of reunion.

Bulma’s breath hitched. Her eyes flicked from the bean to Krillin’s hopeful, hungry face, then back towards the sleeping forms of Launch and Gohan. The ship was on autopilot, the course set. The hum of the engines was a steady, rhythmic pulse that seemed to sync with the sudden, heavy beat of her heart.

“They’re out cold,” Krillin whispered, her lips now dangerously close to Bulma’s ear. “And the ship knows the way. What do you say, Bulma? For old times’ sake?”

The risk was there, a thrilling, dangerous edge. But the temptation, the memory of that long-ago passion, and the raw need for a connection that wasn’t born from terror or survival, was overwhelming. A wicked grin touched Bulma’s lips.

“You know,” she said, her voice husky. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like in zero gravity.”

Krillin’s grin widened, but she shook her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “Turning off the gravity? Bulma, the whole ship would lurch. That would definitely wake them up. I don’t think either of us wants to explain that to a five-year-old.”

Bulma pouted for a second, then her expression shifted to one of cunning. “Fine. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. But we’re not doing it in this chair.”

She stood up, taking Krillin’s hand and leading her away from the cockpit, towards a slightly more secluded area near the ship’s storage lockers. It wasn’t private, not really, but it was out of the direct line of sight from where Launch and Gohan slept.

Krillin didn’t hesitate. She popped the futa bean into her mouth and swallowed. The transformation was swift and intense. A thick, veined cock sprang forth from between her legs, already fully erect and throbbing with anticipation. The sight of it, so familiar and yet so powerfully present, sent a jolt of pure desire straight through Bulma.

“Missed this, did you?” Krillin murmured, her voice a little deeper, laced with a newfound confidence.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Bulma breathed, already pulling down her shorts and panties, baring herself to Krillin. She braced herself against the cool, organic wall of the ship.

Krillin didn’t need to be told twice. She moved behind Bulma, her hands gripping Bulma’s hips. She pushed in slowly at first, a delicious, stretching fullness that made Bulma gasp and bite her lip to keep quiet. Then, Krillin set a rhythm—deep, steady, and punishingly intimate. Each thrust was a silent conversation, a reaffirmation of their bond forged in countless battles and now rekindled in the quiet hum of a spaceship.

Bulma’s hands flattened against the wall, her knuckles white. She pressed her face against the cool surface, muffling her moans as Krillin drove into her, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind her eyelids. It was reckless, it was dangerous, and it was exactly what she needed—a raw, physical connection to remind her she was alive, desired, and not just a genius running from one cosmic disaster to another.

Krillin’s breath was hot on her neck, her own soft grunts of pleasure the only other sound besides the ship’s eternal hum. They moved together in a secret, stolen moment, two friends finding solace and fierce joy in each other’s bodies while their world slept just a few yards away.

Krillin’s rhythm was a masterful, deep-stroking cadence, each thrust a deliberate, soul-scouring claim. Her hands, calloused from a lifetime of training, roamed over Bulma’s body—gripping her hips to pull her back onto her cock, then sliding up to palm her breasts, squeezing the soft flesh, her thumbs circling the hardened nipples through the fabric of Bulma’s tank top.

“You feel that?” Krillin grunted into her ear, her voice a raw, husky thing. “You’re so fucking tight, Bulma. Still the best I’ve ever had.”

Bulma could only gasp in response, her mind hazy with a potent cocktail of pleasure and the thrilling risk of discovery. She pushed back against Krillin, meeting each drive with a roll of her own hips, the wet, slapping sound of their joining a lewd secret in the ship’s quiet hum. The base of Krillin’s cock rubbed perfectly against her clit with every inward stroke, building a coiling, electric heat in her core.

One of Krillin’s hands slid down from her breast, over the quivering plane of her stomach, and into the wet, tangled mess of her pubic hair. Her fingers found Bulma’s clit, applying a rough, perfect pressure that made Bulma’s legs tremble.

“Oh, fuck, Krillin… right there,” Bulma moaned, her head falling back against Krillin’s shoulder. “Don’t stop… please…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Krillin promised, her voice thick with her own building climax. She fucked her harder, faster, the pace becoming frantic. Her fingers worked Bulma’s clit in tight, frantic circles, the dual sensation of being filled and rubbed sending Bulma careening towards the edge.

Bulma’s body began to convulse, a silent scream locked in her throat as her orgasm ripped through her. Her inner muscles clamped down on Krillin’s cock in a series of violent, milking spasms. The intensity of it made her see stars, her vision whiting out at the edges.

Feeling Bulma’s climax, Krillin let out a guttural cry of her own, burying herself to the hilt as she came. A hot, pulsing flood erupted deep inside Bulma, each spurt a searing brand of their reunion. She held herself there, grinding against Bulma’s ass as she emptied herself, her body shuddering with the force of her release.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, panting and tangled together, Krillin’s softening cock still nestled inside Bulma, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. The only sound was their ragged breathing and the ever-present hum of the ship, a silent witness to their passionate, clandestine union.

The moment was shattered by a sharp, insistent beep from the ship’s main console. Krillin’s cock, already receding, vanished completely as they both jumped, the spell of their intimacy broken by the ship’s alert.

“Shit, get dressed!” Bulma hissed, scrambling to pull up her shorts and panties, her face flushed. Krillin was a blur of motion, straightening her gi and trying to look as if she hadn’t just been buried to the hilt inside her best friend.

From the back of the ship, they heard a sleepy groan, followed by Gohan’s small voice. “Aunt Launch? Are we there yet?”

Launch’s response was a grunt, then a rustle of blankets. “Dunno, kid. Let’s go see what all the racket’s about.”

By the time Launch and a yawning Gohan made their way to the cockpit, Bulma was already back in the pilot’s chair, her fingers flying over the controls with a professional efficiency that belied her disheveled hair and the lingering high color in her cheeks. Krillin stood nearby, trying and failing to look casually interested in a random readout.

“Alright, everyone, buckle up,” Bulma announced, her voice a little too bright. “We’re here.”

She gestured to the main viewport. Outside, hanging in the void like a perfect, massive emerald, was a planet. It was lush, vibrant, and teeming with life. A single, large sun cast a warm, yellow light over its swirling cloud cover and vast blue oceans. It felt… peaceful. Ancient. Real.

There was no mistaking it. No psychic illusions, no barren wastelands disguised as paradise.

Gohan pressed her face to the viewport, her eyes wide with awe. “It’s… it’s so green.”

Krillin let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “It’s the real thing this time.”

Launch cracked her knuckles, a fierce grin spreading across her face. “Good. I’d love to find me a couple of hot green-skinned bitches.”

Bulma guided the ship into the atmosphere, her heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and triumphant excitement. They had made it. They were on Namek. The Dragon Balls were here. And their real mission was finally about to begin.

The ship settled onto the soft, grassy bank of a gently flowing river with a soft thud and a final hum from its engines. The hatch hissed open, and the air that rushed in was clean, sweet, and thick with the scent of alien flora.

“Alright, everyone, stay put until I get the atmospheric—” Bulma began, turning with a handheld scanner in her hand.

But it was too late. Launch, Gohan, and Krillin were already unbuckled and surging towards the open hatch.

“Fresh air!” Launch whooped, taking a deep, dramatic breath.

Gohan was the first one out, her small feet hitting the vibrant blue-green grass. She spun in a circle, her eyes wide. “It’s… it’s just like the place Ms. Piccolo trained me!”

Krillin stepped out beside her, a thoughtful look on her face. “You think… you think she chose that place on Earth because it reminded her of home?”

Before they could ponder further, Bulma stomped out of the ship, her scanner beeping furiously. “You idiots! You could have been breathing poison! Or have your lungs turned inside out by some alien microbe!” She waved the device at them. “It’s fine, by the way. The air is breathable. But that’s not the point!”

She huffed, crossing her arms. Then, she remembered the real reason they were here. She pulled out her Dragon Radar and flipped it on. The screen lit up instantly, displaying a map of the surrounding area. And there they were. Seven distinct, powerful signals, scattered across the planet.

A slow, triumphant smile spread across Bulma’s face, erasing her irritation. “Well, would you look at that,” she said, her voice filled with awe. “Seven Dragon Balls. The real deal. They’re here.”

Krillin, her initial joy tempered by the memory of the cruel illusion, suddenly reached out and pinched Bulma’s cheek, hard.

“Ow! What the hell, Krillin?” Bulma yelped, slapping her hand away.

“Just making sure you’re real!” Krillin said with a relieved grin. “And that you’re not about to turn into a pink monster and try to fuck me or something.”

The sheer absurdity of the statement broke the tension. Bulma laughed, a genuine, relieved sound, and grabbed Krillin’s hands. The two of them did a little impromptu dance of pure, unadulterated joy right there in the alien grass. “We did it! We’re really here!”

Their celebration was cut short by Gohan. The small girl had gone very still, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Aunt Krillin… Bulma… I feel them. A lot of them. Their ki… it’s really strong.”

Krillin’s smile faded as she too focused, her senses expanding. Her eyes widened. “She’s right. There are… a bunch of powerful energies not too far from here. They feel… intense.”

Bulma waved a dismissive hand, still buzzing with triumph. “Of course they’re powerful! They’re Namekians! Piccolo and Kami had huge power levels too, remember? It’s just how they are. Queen Kai said they were a peaceful, spiritual race. I’m sure they’re just… meditating really hard or something.”

Gohan shook her head, her large eyes worried. “But… these don’t feel peaceful, Bulma. They feel… angry.”

Krillin nodded in agreement. “She’s right. There’s a sharpness to them. A… malice.”

Bulma planted her hands on her hips. “You two are just paranoid after what happened on that fake planet. This is the real Namek! Now, come on. Let’s not stand around judging the locals by their aura. We have Dragon Balls to find.” She turned and marched purposefully away from the ship, her Dragon Radar held out before her like a divining rod, completely confident in their—and the Namekians’—peaceful intentions.

Bulma’s confident stride faltered as a high-pitched shriek tore through the tranquil Namekian sky. A familiar, fireball-streaked pod screamed overhead, a vengeful comet against the green heavens. It slammed into the planet with a distant, ground-shaking crump miles away.

The color drained from Bulma’s face. “No… no, no, no!”

Krillin and Gohan flinched as if struck, their bodies recognizing the energy signature before their minds could fully process it.

“It’s her,” Krillin whispered, her voice tight with dread. “Vegeta.”

“Her ki… it’s even stronger than before,” Gohan added, her small body trembling.

Launch’s hands clenched into fists, a savage grin twisting her lips. “Good! I owe that Saiyan bitch for Tien. I’ll blow her head clean off her shoulders!”

“With what, a machine gun?” Bulma snapped, her panic making her voice shrill. “She swatted ki blasts away like flies last time! We can’t fight her! You all barely survived last time, and that was with Goku!”

Before their argument could escalate, another sound captured their attention—a deeper, more menacing roar. A second, similar ship sliced through the atmosphere. It landed somewhere beyond the horizon, its occupant—or occupants—a complete mystery.

“Who… who was that?” Gohan asked, her voice small.

“I don’t know,” Krillin said, her face pale. “But if Vegeta’s here, and she’s brought someone else to replace Raditz and Nappa…”

The reality of their situation crashed down on them. They weren’t on a peaceful planet. They were in a galactic free-for-all. They were the smallest, weakest players in a game where the grand prize was immortality, and the competition was a Saiyan princess and an unknown, but undoubtedly powerful, new contender. Bulma’s optimistic plan to simply ask the Namekians for their Dragon Balls suddenly seemed laughably, dangerously naive.