Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Girl Next Door ❯ 06 Mouse ( Chapter 7 )

NB: Based on chapter 1, `Tough Guy/ First Fight/ Midnight Visit' (& ch.2 `bye bye V card'?) of the “Girl Next Door” (aka FriendsAU) comic by stupidoomdoodles.

Girl Next Door

06 - Mouse

The seconds ticked by, not counted by a clock because he found those fucking obnoxious, but by his own sleepless thoughts. He frowned, trying to scrunch his eyes further against the night and with it, shut out the annoying events that were replaying over and over in his head like some sick fucking Saturday morning cartoon.

His attempt at `returning the favor' had gone, well, let's just say, not very well.

Disastrous, if he was being honest, and that was still putting it lightly. He'd been more successful at the recent shoot out than he had been with her, and he'd nearly died then, so that was kind of the summation of the shit hole he'd dug himself into.

He still didn't really understand what had happened. He'd wanted to give her something… special, and the only thing he knew with a certainty was Frieza's protection; it was absolute. She just needed to put his sign in her window and she'd never have to worry about locking her door again because anyone dumb enough to mess with Frieza's protection wasn't going to be around to reproduce those lack-luster genes for very long.

“Vegeta! You can walk already?”

“I'm a tough guy, remember?”

He cringed at the memory. What had possessed him to say that? When she said it she always made it sound so genuine and flattering, and a small (large) part of him enjoyed having his ego stroked. But when he said it, it sounded so… needy, especially as he still had to hold his gut as he did because he really shouldn't have been up and about yet after getting shot, and that kind of ruined the effect of being `tough', but he just really wanted to see her and yes, maybe impress her a little and try to be that `tough guy'…

… for her.

Fuck he was pathetic.

“Here, I wanted to give you this after the other night…”

“Oh my! A love note? And I just needed to save your life to get one?”

Would… would she have accepted a love note?

Would you have fucking written one?

Well, no…

But that's when it had gone down hill. He'd seen her face change, saw something in her eyes he'd never seen before as she regarded the symbol he'd drawn for her. She'd turned pale, looked stricken…

And slapped him. Hard.

That he let her walk away after hitting him, hitting him, to live another day was testament to how fucking far he'd really fallen down the rabbit hole.

Of course, he couldn't let it go. He'd given her the only gift he'd given that wasn't at the end of a muzzle or shoelace, and he was damned if she was going to be such an ungrateful bitch about it. He'd chased her, screamed at her, and she'd screamed at him until he'd wanted to yank his hair out and slap some goddamn sense into her but then…

“And how can YOU imagine that I would be happy about getting shit ass `protection' from the assholes who keep sending you to death traps and made you completely fucked up in the head?! The pieces of shit you still support even after seeing me cry like a dumbass over your dying body?!!”

Oh.

Oooohhhh….

She's not wrong you know.

And that was the worst part. She wasn't just not wrong. She was very fucking quite right, and he was having a hell of time trying to reconcile that little bombshell. He tried brushing off what she said as simple naivety, because what would she know about it anyway? She was just some silly, white, upper-middle-class girl who'd lived a charmed fucking life and was getting off flirting with him and his lifestyle because she liked bad boys. Please. Kindly fuck off with that crap. What could she possibly know about gangs?

Saying as much had been the second big mistake of the day.

She yelled something about him needing to think over his priorities. She was red in the face and her eyes had shimmered with tears she bravely kept back as she'd stormed into her apartment, slamming the door shut and locking it loudly behind her. Still confused, he'd left her to cool off and returned home to nurse his side and his pride.

The next morning she didn't answer when he banged on her door for the subway, and when he tried the handle he found it locked. She didn't meet him in the laundry room that evening. He didn't see her at the convenience store. She didn't invite him over or ask for any favors or bump into him in the stairwell. He went the entire day without seeing or hearing from her. It should have been magical, a relief, an amazing fucking gift of fortune…

It was miserable.

She was right fucking there, right across from him, separated by a stupid fucking wall he could punch through and yet he couldn't even talk to her. Couldn't even call her a stupid bitch or scowl at her stupid, blue hair that felt like feathers or feel her fingers against his, slipping against his rough skin like buttermilk. She'd come into his world, shaken him up like a goddamn snow-globe, and then just as suddenly left and now he was scattered about, floating in a million pieces that he didn't have the slightest goddamn clue what to do with and she wasn't there to guide him. All that was left to him was to float back down to the ground like the piece of trash that he was and wait to be trampled over like 3 day old trodden snow.

He didn't see her the next day either. On the third day he was done being ignored. He waited outside her apartment until she came out, not giving a shit if he was late for work, fuming and seething as the hour ticked by, getting later and later. The door finally opened and she was surprised to find him there. She frowned and walked past, ignoring him.

Oh no. Not on his watch.

He slammed his arm before the stairwell, blocking her from leaving. “Goddamnit, Blue-”

“That's not my name,” she said, her voice flat, not looking at him.

Something cold and sharp twisted in his gut. He clenched his jaw, scowling against it. “… Bulma.”

“Vegeta,” she responded, still not looking at him. “Please let me go.”

Vegeta felt as if her words had punched him in the gut, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Let her go? Let her go? What? No…

“I'm going to be late. Excuse me,” she added curtly, impatient.

Oh… ohhh that's what she meant. He felt the rising tide of panic abate, and he grudgingly lowered his arm, watching her slip past and head down the stairs. He didn't follow, he wasn't that fucking pathetic, besides… he was still trying to swallow back his pride at how badly her request had shaken him.

Nappa was right. You're slipping.

Tell me about it.

Day four saw him falling back into old habits. He didn't even knock on her door, didn't try to catch her before the subway. He went to work on time, he did his job to perfection. He killed some people he didn't really have to, but that's what was expected of him, wasn't it? It didn't make him feel any better to end their lives, but it didn't make the raging apathy and heartache inside him any worse, so there was that, and everyone else seemed pleased with his performance, so ya-fucking-hoo, right?

On his way back to the subway he passed a Barstrucks and despite himself found his feet taking him inside. He ordered a cinnamon hot chocolate to go. They must have forgotten the sugar because it tasted fucking bitter and he threw it out after one miserable sip.

It rained on him on the way back to the apartments and he stomped up the stairs, soaking wet, his boots squelching, dragging him past his door up to hers for some reason. The carpet was still stained pink where he'd bled out against it and was now growing wet from the water he dripped all over the place. He pulled up his hand to knock-

And hesitated.

He swallowed, something heavy and dark pulling, dragging him down inside himself, telling him, in very definite terms, that he didn't deserve her. He never had. He'd had his moment, had something precious, but now it was over. She'd shown him what life could have been like, what he might have had, had he not been raised so fucked up and fucked over. At least he'd had a few months with her, even if he'd been too miserable and wrapped up in his own psychosis to enjoy most of it. He could at least take that with him to the grave, it was more than most assholes like him got.

He lowered his hand, resting his brow against her door, and bit back an overwhelming feeling of despair.

He peeled himself away from her door and returned to the husk of his room. He shucked off his wet clothing, changed, and collapsed into bed. And here he lay, trying to grapple with the reality that he'd wake up tomorrow and she wouldn't be in his life anymore, just a waif on the edges of his peripherals, lost to him day after day, and he'd rise and kill and come home and sleep, and do the same thing the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that, the perfect cog in Frieza's machine, a hollow, empty tool to be used and used and used until he was of no more use to anyone…

At some point he must have drifted off, because the next thing he woke up to was-

“KYAAAAAAAAH!”

His hand gripped the pistol under his pillow as his eyes shot open. He knew that voice anywhere.

“Bulma??”

It was funny how time slowed down, how in the tiniest fraction of a second the human mind could process a thousand thoughts at once. And Vegeta, with all the years of torture he'd both endured and doled out, with all the pain and misery and loss he'd been forced to suffer, his mind could process an awful lot of violence, imaging a thousand horrendous things that could be happening to her, right. Fucking. Now. And for the first time since he was a kid, he felt fear.

He sprang out of bed, his heart in his throat, throwing himself into the hallway and against her door before he could even consider the implications of going in blind. Her door splintered open under his assault with a mighty CRACK!, slamming wide to reveal her standing in her kitchen, alone, terrified, holding a broom.

“WHERE ARE THEY?!?” He demanded, looking around for the threat, his body thrumming with adrenalin, fucking relieved to see that she was unharmed.

“VE-VEGETA??!” she screamed, her eyes wide in shock.

He eyed the apartment and moved over to her, tugging her in protectively, sheltering her against his body. “Stay close!” he instructed while searching, scanning the place. Nothing. Fuck. Where were they? “What are they? Mafia? Rival gang?”

“It's a MOUSE.”

…. Say what? “…What?”

“There's a mouse. In my kitchen!” She said, pulling back to point towards the fluffy animal while her other hand rested on his chest, and he could feel that she was trembling, which was okay because he kind of was too.

He stared at the furry bastard, his heart still pounding a thousand miles an hour, his head still trying to think of the best ways to barricade them in against an assault and wondering if she could make it down the fire escape without any shoes on and he didn't know if he'd be able to put up much of a fight with his wound still barely healed and-

Wait, okay, back up. A fucking MOUSE.

Really?

It's little nose twitched at him.

“…Oh.”

Her hand was still on his chest. She looked up and stiffened. “… YOU BROKE MY DOOR!” She said, her panic quickly turning to anger.

He glanced over, surveying the damage he had wrought. “…I did…” Wow. She'd even had the dealt bolt on. No wonder his shoulder fucking hurt.

“YOU BROUGHT A GUN?!!”

Oh yeah, that too. Whoops.

He brought the weapon up, looking at it as if he could somehow explain it away. He couldn't. “…Yeeeaaahh,” he admitted.

Oh boy did she look pissed. But she was still touching his chest, he could feel her fingers pressed over his heart which was thumping a wild tattoo that was having a hard time calming down after the shock of her `attack'.

Suddenly she started beating on his chest, her tiny fists slapping him harmlessly. It might have been funny if she didn't look so upset and he wasn't still half expecting some gangster to come jumping out of the shadows and try to take them out.

“YOU… FRIGGIN… INSANE… ASSHOLE…!” she shouted, her voice suddenly thick with tears as she beat on him. “You're not supposed to react like this. No one reacts like this,” she accused, her hands fisting on his top, having worn herself out. “What the hell is wrong with you?!?”

Oh lady, where do we even begin? How much vacation time do you get, because this is going to take a while… But she didn't seem to actually want an answer because, because…

She was crying. Oh no… She was full on, legitimately crying against his chest, her shoulders hitching as she sobbed into his singlet. And instead of wanting to run or make it stop with violence, Vegeta just really, really needed her to stop crying because it was tearing him up inside. She was so small, and pretty, and perfect, and watching her crumble before him, because of him, was more brutal than any beating he'd taken.

She was still mad at him. That hurt the worst, and the fear that this could be the last time he'd get to see her, talk to her, was oppressing. If he was going to lose her, then the least he could do was give her a small, honest part of himself before he left and let himself be used up by Frieza.

There was only one thing he could think to say, one thing he'd never told anyone before, because it had never been true before, not until now. “…I'm sorry?”

Her reaction was instantaneous. She reached up, hugging him, and he stiffened in alarm. “…I'm sorry too!” she said wetly against his neck, and she made it sound so easy to admit to.

And just like that, the last four days were forgiven. Like they never happened.

She was sorry too. She was sorry…

Ohthankgod.

He hugged her back, greedily clutching her against him, fighting back the overwhelming relief and gratitude that he hadn't lost her.

She was warm and soft and fit so perfectly against him and fuck he'd almost forgotten how good it was to hug her, and she'd taught him that, because she was amazing. She treated him like a human being even though he wasn't, and when he came up short which he almost always did, she helped tow the line, taught him what to do and how to do it, and he'd fought and struggled and resisted at first because he was a dick like that, because his life had always been so cut and dry, black and white, but then she came along and suddenly everything started being a whole lot more grey, but he was so unbearably grateful to her now, and to that stupid fucking mouse for letting him have her again.

Oh right, the mouse.

“…Wait, you yelled that loud for a mouse?”

“Oh shut up, Vegeta.”

Right. Shutting up. Didn't want to fuck this up again so soon.

And oh, wow… she was only wearing a tank top and panties. Really cute, pink striped panties.

Whhhhyyyyy…..

She pulled back, wiping at her cheeks, and she gave him a wet smile. “You came charging in here to protect me from a rival gang?” she asked, starting to sound like her usual self.

Vegeta looked away, very acutely aware that she was half naked. “Yeah…”

“You're insane.”

No kidding.

She picked up the broom.

“Uh, what are you doing?” he asked, still in a state of shock.

“I have to get this mouse out of here,” she said, her knuckles white on the broom handle.

He scoffed. “You're going to catch it. With that?” he pointed at the miserable broom.

“Well, what else am I going to do?”

“Get out of the way,” he snapped at her, pushing her back behind him as he crouched down. “Don't make any sudden movements,” he warned her.

He placed his gun gently on the floor and then let his body loosen and relax and just waited. A few moments later she crouched by his side, clutching her knees to her chest.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

“Shhh.”

“…”

“…”

“Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“Bulma, I swear to god…”

“Right. Zipping it.”

He gave her a sidelong glance and she had her mouth pressed against her hands, looking up at him from her knees, her eyes dancing with something warm and affectionate that made his stomach flip flop.

He looked away before he could overanalyze that and saw that the mouse had started to creep away from the wall. He cupped his hands forward, and slowly, slowly, inched forward. He went still, watching, waiting, his muscles tensing like a snake ready to strike…

He lashed out, and Bulma squealed, but luckily he caught the damn thing before her cry could scare it off.

“See? Superior hunter skills,” he said smugly, the mouse cupped in his palms as he approached her.

She scrambled up and backed away from his hands, her eyes big. “Oh my GOD, Vegeta!”

“What?” What had he done now?

She looked at him uncertainly. “… What are you going to do with it?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you think I'm going to do with it? You wanted it gone, right?” This, this he could do for her, this he was good at. Killing things. Finally.

“No, don't kill it. Take it outside,” she said.

His brows rose up, perplexed. “Outside?” In the cold, and snow? Rather than a quick snapping of the neck?

Brutal.

“Yes!” she said, her tone adamant, still looking nervously at his squeaking hands.

He rolled his eyes and headed out, carrying the stupid thing all the way down the stairs, out to the back lot where he let it go to probably freeze to death but at least Bulma could rest easy thinking she'd been merciful. God he hoped she wasn't doing the same thing to him, but at this point would he even fucking object?

It was cold, so on the way back he grabbed a hoodie from his place and made sure to secure his apartment before returning to hers.

She hadn't moved, waiting for him in the kitchen, his gun still on the floor, and she still wasn't dressed, so he draped his hoodie over a chair because it didn't seem appropriate to put on more clothes when she was hardly wearing any.

He scooped up his gun, still distracted by her pink striped underwear and he wondered if he should mention it but wouldn't that be impolite, because it was her apartment after all, so he really had no place telling her how to dress and why was he still going on about this?

“Uh, perhaps we should put that out of the way for now,” she suggested, eyeing his pistol warily, holding out her hand for it.

“Oh, right,” he replied. He flicked the safety on and handed the weapon to her.

And froze as soon as she took it.

What

The

Fuck.

What the FUCK.

He'd just given her his weapon. He's just given her. His weapon.

Fully loaded.

O

h

N

o

o

o…

He couldn't move, paralyzed by the onset of a sudden goddamn anxiety attack. She placed the gun above her refrigerator and offered him a drink like nothing was fucking wrong but he was too freaked out to reply. It hit him like a fucking freight train, realization a fucking bitch.

He'd been prepared to fight for her.

Kill for her.

Maybe even die for her.

He'd apologized to her.

And he'd given her his weapon.

Oh god. Oh god. What… what was this? What was this? He'd come in here to reign death upon some enemies, not get struck in the face with a fucking identity crisis.

“Hey,” she said, stepping before him, slipping her hand into his. He looked down between them, his eyes going wide, seeing them hand in hand and both of them wearing far, far too little.

“It's late,” she said, her tone soft, looking up at him from under hooded lashes.

His throat bobbed.

Oh god, oh god, oh god…

“Do you want to lie down?”

Ooohhh god. Did he want to lie down? Yes, he was beginning to think he needed to but he didn't think that's what she actually meant. She started leading him towards her bedroom by his hand and his feet seemed to work but that was the only part of him that did because his mouth was dry, and his chest was hurting from his heart beating a thousand fucking miles an hour, and he could feel himself start to sweat.

He'd given her his weapon. And she was inviting him back to her bedroom in cute pink striped panties and he wasn't ready, he wasn't ready for this, he'd come to shoot people in the face and he was Not

Ready

For this. For her. She wasn't just some prostitute he could fuck and then leave and never, ever have to see again. She was… she was Bulma.

Oh god, she was Bulma.

He wasn't ready for this…

His feet dragged and he rubbed his chest, suddenly feeling like he might be sick. She turned around to smile at him, but her face fell, her eyes going wide.

“Oh wow, buddy, are… are you okay? You look like you're about to pass out.”

He felt like he was. He kept rubbing his chest, his eyes darting about, wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. “Think I'll take that water if it's still up for offer,” he said weakly.

“Yeah,” she agreed, looking concerned, and she led him over to her couch and he sat down and lowered his head between his knees and tried to breathe.

Well, this was suitably humiliating.

She sat down next to him some moments later, pressing a glass of water into his hands. He took a large sip, and the cool liquid sliding down his throat helped to settle his frayed nerves.

That she was pressed up against him in her underwear did not.

He gripped the glass and tried to just, calm the fuck down. He had this, this was just… just some weird shock, from the adrenalin. Some freak, temporary PTSD shit or something.

“Vegeta, can I ask you a personal question?”

Oh yeah, sure, great. Why the fuck not? He was having a melt down, and she was using the opportunity to pry into his life; he was her goddamn fucking captive audience. Clever bitch.

“Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Huh? That questions was… unexpected. He gave her a side-long look, hunching over his drink and trying not to break the glass from squeezing it so tightly. Did she make him uncomfortable? He didn't know how to answer that.

Yes.

No.

Neither. Both. It was hard to say.

She nudged him gently. “You're supposed to answer.”

“What kind of question is that?” he snapped, because being a dick was how he deflected best.

“You tell me, you're the one having a nervous break down in my apartment,” she replied, her tone more concerned than accusatory, which somehow only made it worse.

He scowled down at his water.

Bulma sighed, sadly. “… Should I leave?”

He looked at her, dismayed. There was that word again. Leave. He reached out without thinking and took her wrist. “… Don't.” Please, fuck, I can't handle this right now…

Her eyes softened and she placed her hand over his, squeezing. “You got it, tough guy.”

Oh, okay… okay…

Breathe.

She pulled her legs up on the couch, tucking them under her and cuddled up against his side. She held his hand in her lap, looking comfortable and relaxed and very non threatening next to him, and he felt his barriers start to lower.

He'd missed her. This.

Four days without this.

It had been torture.

She started trailing her fingers over his hard, tanned forearm, tracing his musculature and the collage of old wounds he'd acquired, making his skin prickle where she touched him. “Can I ask you about these?” she asked, brushing her thumb over his scars.

He hesitated. Most of them had been earned in unpleasant ways. But he didn't want to deny her, he wanted her to know, wanted to let her in.

“… `Kay.”

They spoke for a while of pain, of struggles, of loss. She gently pried, and he answered as best he could. He didn't tell her details, didn't tell her anything that would put her in danger or would appall her, but he still let her in to a very small part of his dark world that he'd never let anyone else into before. She listened without reproach, gently stroking his arm and marveling at what he revealed.

It was… nice.

Hypnotic.

Cathartic.

He fell quiet, and she raised her head to peer up at him. “Honestly? Your boss sounds like a dick.”

She didn't know the half of it. “Pretty much,” he agreed noncommittally.

“Why don't you quit?”

“It's not that easy, Bulma.”

She frowned, but didn't say anything else. He was a little surprised, expecting her to push the point as usual but she didn't, much to his relief because he couldn't see that conversation going anywhere but poorly.

“What if it had been them?” she asked suddenly.

“What if what had been what?”

“When you came charging in here, breaking my door and shouting about rival gangs. What if it had been your, you know, your people, attacking me? What would you have done?”

Pfft, please, like he even had to think about that. “I would have sent you out to get more ammonia and vinegar, because I doubt you have enough to clean up that mess.”

She looked at him with widening eyes. “Oh wow, do you need a minute to maybe think about that?”

“Not really.” What was there to think about? He hated pretty much everyone he knew. Some people he tolerated, barely, because they had their uses, like Raditz or Nappa, and maybe if it had been them he would have given them the chance to explain themselves before he pulled the trigger. But he certainly wouldn't miss them, and wouldn't lose any sleep if they died. Honestly, half the time he was looking forward to Frieza's peons dying, had even smirked when some of the men got themselves killed in ridiculous ways because it made him feel just a little bit better about his own situation. So yeah, if he found one of those assholes threatening Bulma, they'd be counting their life in the nanoseconds it took for him to aim and fire. He really didn't get what the big deal wa-

She threw her arms around his neck, hugging him. “I can't believe you'd choose me over your gang. That's really quite romantic, coming from you.”

Oh, well, when you put it like that… Shit. He hadn't meant it like that, hadn't meant for it to sound like he was choosing… had he?

You tell me. You're the one mentally killing off your own brotherhood for her.

Huh.…

“Vegeta?” she murmured in his ear. She was warm and soft and smelt really good and something about the way she said his name had him aching for her to say it again.

“Mm?”

“I think I really like you.”

He felt himself tense, his fingers tightening on the couch. “…Oh?”

Oh god, what was she doing? This wasn't fair, where the hell was this coming from? He felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of his face and drip down his neck, down to his chest.

She leaned back and looked at him expectantly. He looked away, nervous. Fuck, fuck, what was he supposed to say? What did she want from him?

“And I think you like me too, right?”

Fuck! Like her? Like? Vegeta wasn't even sure he understood the meaning of the word. Mostly there were just things that annoyed him less than others. Did he like her? Fuck, he could spend hours agonizing over how she confused him, over the way she'd integrated into his life, the way she smiled at him, said his name, held his hand, yelled at him, made him crazy for her in worry, made him crazy in a way that was sliding his ethical scale more towards human and further from sadistic bastard, but that was all beside the point because, ultimately, he'd just given her his weapon and she could have used it to blow a hole in his heart but somehow he'd trusted her not to, and that was probably as close to like as he was ever gonna get.

“… It's possible,” he finally concurred, glancing at her warily.

She smiled and hugged him again. Her breasts pressed against him, her arms wrapped firmly around him. He put a hand hesitantly to the small of her back and then jerked it away guiltily when he encountered skin, forgetting she was in her panties.

“It's okay, you can touch me if you want to,” she encouraged, taking his hand and putting it on her hip.

Oh god…

He swallowed, hesitantly firming his grip. He'd never felt skin as soft as hers, and she was amazingly warm despite wearing so little. She hummed in pleasure at this touch, right against his ear, vibrating right through him, straight to his cock.

“Mmm, that's nice, Vegeta. Can I touch you?”

“Oh… yeah…” sure, why not. Fucking kill me…

She pulled back from her hug, settling by his side and put her hand innocently on his thigh. He tensed, a knee jerk reaction, but she either didn't notice or care because she started rubbing his thigh. She was giving him a coy look, her fingers stroking his leg, and he realized pretty quickly that it was redirecting his blood flow to all the wrong fucking places.

He grabbed her wrist to stop her before things got more awkward.

“What's wrong?” she asked, her eyes dancing.

Oh fuck her, she knew.

“Nothing.”

“Rriiight.”

Fuck, this was the unbearable.

She gave him a smile with a wicked edge. He swallowed nervously and suddenly she was slipping into his lap, straddling him, unexpectedly very, very close. He became painfully aware that his sweat pants were far too thin and for fuck's sake he had nothing on underneath. She sat in his lap, her hands on his shoulders, and she gently started massaging him.

“You feel tense,” she commented.

No shit.

She let her hands run up and down his arms, before following the line of his singlet, brushing along the soft fabric on his chest and making his belly tighten. He watched, magnetized and a little fearful as her hands went lower until she reached the hem of his top and paused. “Can I take it off?” she asked.

“Oh… sure…” Fuuuuuuucckkk…

He sat, his heart trying to kill him it was beating so hard, and he let her disrobe him. She pulled the singlet up slowly, the fabric dragging over his skin. He raised his arms to help, and he felt her lean in, pressing her soft breasts to his chest to get the shirt off his hands. Then he was free, bare chested, very exposed under her gaze.

“Wow, Vegeta, just… wow.” She was looking at him, her eyes eating him up, biting her lip cutely between her teeth.

“What?” he asked.

“You take really good care of yourself,” she purred.

“Is that… good?” he asked uncertainly.

“O-ho boy yes,” she assured him. “It's very, very good. Good job, buddy.”

He winced, never quite sure if she was poking fun at him or not when she called him that. She noticed because she smiled and took his face gently in her hands, leaning in, her breasts pillowing against his chest, and fuck, FUCK he could feel her nipples through her thin tank top pressing against his skin and he just wanted to die.

“Can I kiss you?”

Oooohhh pleasegodfuckingwhy.

His heart was racing. She was liquid heat pooling in his lap, pressing him back against the couch, trapping him with her soft body and her pretty blue eyes that looked at him and didn't judge. And then there was her question, Can I kiss you, hanging between them, had been growing between them for days, weeks, swelling and building and mounting until it was ripe to burst, the skin splitting and oozing with the promise of something unimaginably sweet, all he had to do was reach out and take it and have it come apart in his mouth…

“Vegeta?” she whispered, so close, her breath ghosting against his lips, her amazingly blue eyes capturing his gaze, luring him in with something he couldn't admit to but desperately wanted.

Fuck it. Fuck it all to hell.

Her. He wanted her. And he wanted to fucking kiss her.

“…Yes,” he agreed.

She smiled. Leaning in, her eyes fluttered closed.

Her mouth barely brushed over his, hardly kissed him at all, her lips feather light, soft and warm. It was maddening, teasing, making him ache in desperation for more.

His fingers touched her thighs, and she gave a tiny, satisfied sigh against his mouth, melting against him like honey. He didn't think a kiss could be so sweet, but he'd never been kissed before so what the hell would he know? She kept drifting her lips against his, infuriatingly coy, igniting something hot inside him that coiled tighter and tighter in his lower belly until he was throbbing with a need to have more of her, wanting to push his fingers through her fine hair and crush their mouths together because he didn't want just a little bit, he wanted all of it, all of her… and then she broke apart, leaving him aching and longing.

Her face was flushed, her breathing unsteady as she smiled at him. “H-how was that?”

Fucking incredible.

His cock agreed.

He wanted to reach up and brush the bangs from her eyes but he felt drugged, heavy, so he simply looked at her, marveling. “You're blushing,” he noted, the words spoken before he could think to stop them.

She laughed softly, a little embarrassed, touching her cheek. “Yeah, I am. I guess you have that effect on me.”

He swallowed thickly.

Holy shit…

“Is your side okay?” she asked, reaching down to gingerly place her fingers over his bandages.

He nodded. “Fine,” he assured. Probably.

“Let me know if I hurt you,” she softly asked.

He looked at her, suddenly wary. “What are you going to do?”

She grinned, resting her arms on his shoulders. “Trust me,” she crooned, her tone silky. And then she rolled her hips and he jolted upright as she rubbed up against the thick, hot length of his erection trapped between them.

Milking it.

“Fuck!” he stammered, grabbing her waist, trying to ease her back, humiliated that she'd found him out.

She resisted, shushing him. “It's okay,” she reassured, wrapping both her hands about his neck to anchor herself. “It's really fucking flattering.” She lowered her lashes, leaning in and pressed her lips to his ear. “I'm really wet for you too.”

“H-ooh fff-uck…” he groaned, his fingers curling in despair. He was done for.

She pet some of the sweaty hair back from his face, and her mouth was once again hovering over his, their breaths intermingling. She rolled her hips and he choked back a groan, spitting colorful words he'd picked up from a Polish assassin once and he had no idea why they fell from his tongue right now but his mind was short circuiting and bless her she didn't stop grinding against his dick and it was the greatest moment of his goddamn fucking life.

“So on a scale of one to having your fingers inside of me, how turned on are you right now?” she asked evilly.

“Goddamnit,” he swore pitifully. He was hot, suffocating, over sensitized where she touched him and she was touching him pretty much everywhere and in pretty much nothing. She was rubbing on him in her skimpy pink panties and a tank top so dislodged that it was barely necessary at this point, one of the sleeves having slipped down and she was practically spilling out. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes hooded. The sight of her riding him, all hot, bothered and disheveled, was devastating.

He couldn't contain himself any longer and grabbed her about the waist, thrusting up against her, letting his cock slip between them along her pretty cunt and one or both of them was very wet because his sweats were now incredibly damp.

“O-oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically, her breath hitching when he grabbed her, and her voice spurned him on. He held her tighter and rose his hips to meet hers as she rolled against him. “Oh god, Vegeta, that feels so nice,” she gasped, and he shuddered to hear her encouragement.

She kissed him again, different from before, open mouthed and hot and needy and fuck it was amazing. Her fingers were stroking his hair, his face, undoing him with their gentle caresses as her hips wrecked him, his cock weeping against her soft belly, and he wondered what it would be like to spill himself all over her creamy perfection…

“Do you like that, tough guy? Does it feel good?” she moaned into his mouth, and he was dead, utterly, terribly shot through by her words. He was teetering on the edge, dangerously close to reaching some fantastic perfection, his cock swollen to bursting, his balls tight, and she was whispering the most incredible things just for him and he was fuck.ing. Lose.ing. It…

“Bulma…” he pleaded, his brow furrowing.

“I want you, Vegeta. Fuck, I want you so badly. Oh god, I really wish I could see your cock right now, it feels so good, you feel so good, I want you inside of me…”

He choked, his hands shaking from struggling not to break her. The swell of her wet cunt rubbing against him wore him down and he threw his head back, thrusting hopelessly against her as he shattered and came, filling his sweats with his cum.

“Oooohh fuck yessss….”

Bliss. It was earth-shattering bliss…

…

“Vegeta… Did you just…?”

Realization struck with horrifying dread.

“Oh shit, no, fuck, don't look down!” he stammered, instantly devastated, tugging her closer to prevent her from seeing the evidence.

For a moment she didn't respond, surprised. Her face was caught in wonder. “Oh god, that's so fucking hot.”

Still panting, humiliated, he looked at her, positive she was crazy.

She gave him a lopsided smile, then hugged him. He let her but wasn't happy about it. His chest was rising and falling, struggling to calm down from something that was simultaneously both the best and most mortifying moment of his life.

“I'm so flattered I could make you cum just from that,” she gushed.

“Bulma,” he warned.

“I'm going to cum thinking about this later when I touch myself,” she told him impishly.

“Goddamnit, Bulma,” he groaned, pressing his brow against her shoulder, sagging helplessly against her. He didn't know why he bothered struggling or trying so hard when it came to her, he always lost.

And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

She hugged him, stroking his hair, pressing herself languidly against him. He could feel his lap quickly growing cool and wet.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I uh… should change.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, sitting back, and she was still very flushed, her eyes dilated, her nipples visibly pebbled, and it occurred to him she still might be in need. He'd never given his partner's pleasure much thought before, alright, none really, but he suddenly wanted to return the favor, to see how flustered she could get, to see what she looked like when she broke…

And the idea… excited him. Maybe it was just his pride talking, his extremely competitive nature to be the best and come out on top, because she'd seen him come and now he had to right the playing field, tip the balance back in his favor. He wanted to push her down, push inside of her and watch her beg as he thrust in and out (and she would beg, because she was obviously a talker and no doubt would scream for him with little prodding). He wanted to watch her from between her thighs as he made her come apart with just his tongue. He wanted to have her pretty, cocky mouth wrapped around his cock, just to shut her up for once, and to feel her worshiping him with her tongue…

But before he could offer any reciprocation, she climbed off him and he lost his nerve, and he really was a mess and needed to get cleaned up before the situation got any worse. He cupped himself awkwardly and grabbed his keys.

“You're leaving?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

That was the plan, wasn't it? “…Yes?”

“Use my shower,” she suggested.

“And what the hell am I suppose to wear?”

“I can get you something from your place,” she offered.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. What the hell, he'd already given her his gun, giving her his keys was nothing compared to that, so he did.

“I'll be right back,” she promised as she moved towards the door.

“Wait.” He scowled and looked around. Spotting his hoodie on the kitchen chair he stomped over, picked it up, and thrusted it at her. “Put something on before you head out, christ, someone might see you.” She was still only in her goddamn underwear, her pretty breasts bouncing about all over the place.

She took his top, her fingers running over the material. “Gosh, aren't you sweet?” she teased, smiling at him coquettishly.

He blushed and tried to hide it with a frown. Why did she have to call him out on everything and make him feel a hundred times more awkward about it? And why the fuck did he kind of like it?

Like?

Fuck.

“Tch,” he huffed, and he reached out and tugged the tiny shoe string strap of her top up, slipping it back over her shoulder. There. Better.

For that she placed her hand on his chest and leaned up, kissing him on the corner of his mouth. It sent him into critical melt down all over again and he froze, prey caught in a predator's gaze; a mouse caught in a trap.

She glanced at him coyly. “D'you like when I do that?” she whispered against his lips, watching his reaction, trying to read him, see what made him tick, and at this point he was willing to play along.

Mostly. But he was no mouse.

He answered her by brushing his lips to hers. Her eyes rose in surprise, but only for a moment before she accepted his advance, pressing against him, kissing him back. He wrapped his hands around her tiny, feminine waist and to hell with the mess in his pants because holding her against him was so much better.

That was, until she rubbed against him and he felt the cooling, sticky evidence of his previous pleasure squish and he grimaced in disgust.

“I need that shower,” he mumbled, reluctantly detaching.

She let him go with a knowing smirk, and slipped his hoodie on. The sight of her in it, in his fucking shirt, the hem of it licking the tops of her thighs, was making his stomach curl possessively. He suddenly had the irrational need to watch her cross the hall in it, move about in his apartment in it, fetch his clothes for him in it, and bend over the kitchen table in it, his hands pushing it up over her ass-

“I'll get you some clothes,” she said, jingling his keys.

Yes, good, fucking go now please, I can't stop with you here like this..!

“Promise I won't snoop,” she winked.

“Knock yourself out,” he offered. She wouldn't find anything even if she did. His apartment was a barren wasteland, only the bare necessities. There were clothes, food, weapons - and he'd already given her one gun so what was 12 more? He kept nothing incriminating, not only for security reasons but because he simply didn't have anything. Well, there was his cell, but she'd have to hack that and she hardly seemed the type. Besides, what else did he really have left to hide from her?

Not…a whole fucking lot, actually. And that should have been terrifying. But it kind of wasn't.

In fact, it was kind of nice.

She left while he was considering the implications of that and he went and showered in her bathroom. Her place was unsettling, the set up the same as his but everything here was far more colorful and cluttered. Lived in. He eyed all her things warily, hair products and body lotions and myriads of other girly toiletries that he didn't even pretend to know what they were, hogging up all the available shelf space. Did she really use all this shit? After he'd showered he realized that he had no fresh bandages, and when he opened her bathroom cupboards to check, was greeted with more bottles and hairdryers and other useless items and he gave up.

He exited the bathroom, finding a clean set of his clothes folded for him. He put on his bottoms before heading out into the main living space and found her on the couch, still in his hoodie waiting for him, his keys on the table.

“Don't suppose you have any gauze?” he asked, holding a hand over his wound.

“Actually, yes.”

She wasn't kidding. She had a pretty elaborate first aid kit in a cabinet in the kitchen. Over prepared much? Then again, she had a lot of everything so he didn't think much of it.

Bulma had him sit on the counter and she cleaned and bandaged his side while he watched. He tried not to think of how intimate the situation was. Her pretty brow was furrowed in a soft frown, and he wondered what she was thinking.

“This is going to leave some scar,” she said as she finished up.

He shrugged. His body was covered in scars, what was one more?

She crouched down to put the first aid kit away in the bottom cabinet and as she turned she startled, her eyes widening in alarm. “Oh my god… it's back.”

“What?” he asked, slipping off the counter and crouching down by her.

“The mouse. It's back!” she exclaimed, one hand pointing, the other reaching out and grabbing his arm in fear. He looked down at her tiny hand and smirked, puffing up with pride and a little amusement that she saw him as her protector.

He glanced to where she pointed. “…. You mean that pile of dust?”

She leaned forward hesitantly, still clutching his arm, squinting. “…Oh, wow, yes. You're right. I must be tired.”

“You need to clean more, maybe then you wouldn't attract rodents.”

“Is that why you're here?”

“No, I'm the exterminator.”

“Ah. Right.”

She reached out and took his hand, pulling it into her lap and holding it.

And neither of them thought to get up, so they sat huddled on the kitchen floor, and just… started speaking. Well, she spoke, he mostly listened, but sometimes she asked him questions, and he answered as best he could. She talked a lot about her friends and travels when she was younger, and he was surprised because she sounded a lot more adventurous then he'd given her credit for, but then again she'd been fearless around him so it made a weird sort of sense. She spoke of her family and interests, tried to ask him about both of his but he couldn't say much to those so he tried to change the subject. His mind went blank. He panicked and asked her what her best christmas was and she told him about it in extravagant detail.

“… So yeah, it was almost as good as my 16th birthday.”

“…”

“… Oh my god.”

“Bulma, don't-”

“YOU HAVEN'T HAD A BIRTHDAY?!”

He sighed.

And she spent the better part of the next hour planning his birthday party and god he hoped she forgot about it before she could ever put it into action.

They spoke of everything and nothing and it was perfectly, genuinely comfortable. She pressed right up against him even though they had the whole damn kitchen floor, but who the fuck was he kidding he didn't mind at all, and she played with his hand and arm, touching him as casually as you please. As the night whittled by he found himself opening up, venting his frustrations and making snarky comments about his `work' and `colleagues' that he normally only kept to himself and sure enough that conversation led to Frieza.

She asked a lot of questions about that, wanting to know how he really felt about Frieza and why he'd ever joined the gang in the first place - like it had been a fucking choice - and he couldn't answer her because there were things he couldn't even admit to himself yet, let alone her, but he managed to successfully talk around the issue, or so he thought… Suddenly years of pent-up malice came brimming to the surface, years of abuse and ill deeds and slights that he'd been forced to endure, forced to bury and bottled up, forced to swallow down and repress until now… Finally he had the chance to vent, release some of that pressure but he was struggling not to let it froth up and explode all over the place like a badly shaken bottle of beer. And just when he thought he was going to lose control she quelled his fury, squeezing his hand and giving him an understanding look. She deftly changed the subject, and just like that, Frieza was forgotten.

Like Frieza didn't fucking matter. Because with her, he didn't.

It was just her, and him.

She had become his goddamn oasis in the harsh dessert of his world. She was so removed from the intricacies of gang life and the underworld it was refreshing, her normalcy a balm to his chaos. He knew with her he could escape all the bullshit and just be himself, just be Vegeta, whoever that was. He hadn't even known that he could be someone that wasn't just an extension of Frieza's gang, and he still wasn't entirely sure that he could, but with her, at least he thought it was possible.

“So, I guess talking really does it for you, huh?” she teased, getting back onto that subject.

He flushed, scowling. “Why are you so vulgar?”

“You don't seem to have a problem with it. I didn't hear you complaining earlier, or when you had your fingers inside me at the bar.”

He gritted his teeth, feeling his face grow warm. “I thought you said you didn't remember that!”

She gave him a salacious grin. “It came back to me. So… any regrets?”

“……. No.”

She beamed, plopping her head on his shoulder affectionately. “Me either.”

And thankfully she let that conversation end there or she was going to have to get him another pair of pants.

Suddenly an alarm clock started ringing, and Bulma looked out the window. He did too, seeing the pale light of morning. Holy shit they'd been talking all night.

They got up stiffly, and Bulma left, turning off her alarm. She returned a moment later dressed in a robe, handing him back his hoodie. He slipped it on, and it was warm and smelt just like her.

“Oh, I have some left overs, you can take them if you like,” she suggested, and started packing him a lunch before he could object. She gave him a bag and he took it mutely.

He grabbed up his things and without speaking they both headed to the front door, reality waiting for them on the other side.

“So, I guess you're… uh…”

“Going to `work'?” he suggested.

“Pfft… Yeah, if you want to call it that.”

She was playing with the strap about her robe, looking at him, waiting. The comfort they'd developed suddenly seemed to have vanished and he felt awkward and tense all over again.

Say something for fuck's sake.

“Thanks for…” Getting me off with a bit of heavy petting and lewd encouragement? Not being mad at me anymore? Being the most incredible human being in my life who I don't fucking deserve? “…Not kicking me out after last night's… fiasco?”

“Yeah, well, honestly, I didn't feel safe alone in a freakin' doorless apartment.”

Damn, she was still on about that, huh. He was the one with a shoulder that felt like it might be dislocated. “Yeeahh.. I.. will pay for the repai-”

She suddenly darted forward, leaning against him and kissing his cheek, and despite everything that had happened it still made him fucking blush.

“Just.. Um..,” she said, pressing up real close and coy, touching his chest familiarly. “If you want to drop by again tonight… We'll do something other than just “talk” this time… If you want…”

CRITICAL MELTDOWN. MALFUNCTION DETECTED. ERROR, ERROR.

He raised a hand to his cheek and she gently pushed him through the doorway with a tiny finger on his chest, right between his pecs, backing him out.

“So… Enjoy your day at `work' then…”

The door softly clicked shut on him, or as shut as it was going to get with the latch splintered and the hinges shot.

And he stood there, dumbfounded, his mind trying to wrap itself around her offer.

Holy shit, Vegeta… Holy shit. I think you just scored.

I did?

You so did. Fuck, you get to have that tonight.

Holy fuck… YUSS.

Good luck getting through the day with that on your mind.

…. Fuck.

~~ox0xo~~

AN: If you haven't seen it yet, Dooms drew the most AMAZING picture for a very particular scene in this, haha XD

DBZ owned by Akira Toriyama. This AU is stupidoomdoodle's idea. I'm just playing in their sandboxes, very graciously by Dooms too I might add. Stupidoomdoodles and LadyVegeets can be found on twitter, tubmlr and p atreon. Girl Next Door comic can also be found on smackjeeves. Read it, love it, be haunted by it, like I am.