Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Hookups And Hangups ❯ Chapter 3 ( Chapter 3 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: springandbysummerfall 
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 08.26.2013 | Updated On: 08.01.2015 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.0K | Visits: 553 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Romance | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 08.26.2013 | Updated On: 08.01.2015 | Pages: 4 | Words: 6.0K | Visits: 553 | Status: Work In Progress
It was easy to lose herself in the kiss because ohmygosh, when had she last kissed a man? Last kissed a man as first rate at kissing as this? He was certainly...experienced...and yet, there was no hint of following a familiar outline here. His kiss was aggressive, molten, cinders and smoke and maybe even some kind of laser light show going on behind him, or at least it was deserving of it. He smelled like clean laundry and woodsmoke and, curiously, hard work, his lapels crisp in her hands, and she had a short moment to wonder how in the hell this had happened to her. The milk jug wedged uncomfortably against her butt cheek and she heard the echoes of her own accusations directed at Chi Chi just an hour ago for setting her up with this man, when she had been working so hard to just remain merrily single.
And he was definitely all man, pressed up against the fridge as she was by him, milk jug sticking her in the butt and feeling altogether desirable under this man's mouth, his hands cupping her face. She certainly wasn't going to insert logic into this situation and risk popping it like a bubble. His warm hands held her face in a parody of affection as his mouth ransacked hers ruthlessly, and as it began its unhurried descent down the curve of her neck, she knew with gut-deep certainty that she was going to let this man undress her tonight. She was going to allow him to get between her recently shaved legs in a dance unfamiliar to her—but maybe not in her bed, maybe just on the couch like teenagers, because she didn't want to scare him away with the state of emergency her room was (always) in right now.
Vegeta's mouth was clean, his kiss smooth as water over stone, but electrifying, his tongue playing games with her own competitively, the flavorless ghost of vodka between them. How had she not realized it was a bad idea to open up a liquor bottle? It was making her consider crazy possibilities!
There was no mistaking that this man knew how to kiss. In fact, took great pride in it, probably. Her own hands crept up his chest and unbuttoned his shirt at the neckline, and she just kind of watched with bewilderment, shrinking away from these hands she just did not recognize anymore! Who was this smoky eyed, husky voiced vixen that his desire had transformed her into? Whose next move no doubt was to rip her own clothes off to reveal a leopard print bustier and garter before crooking her finger with a cat-eyed wink? She pressed her palm against Vegeta's hard chest and let out a little sigh through her nose as he tilted her head for better access. The man was magic, and she was his fool. It'd been too long, her body seethed. It was dragging her places she normally wouldn't venture to. Her heart was a vagabond, a wanderer, and it took her places that made other people, Chi Chi namely, cringe. But even she knew that sometimes it needed locked up and shut up.
But with the same mysterious speed that this man had gone from a 'No Fucking Way' in her little imaginary book of people she'd sleep with to a 'PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU TO,' the balmy heat between them evaporated as quickly as it had set itself upon them.
Regretfully—thankfully?—it was as Bulma touched the back of his neck tentatively, running her fingers over the hair there that jut stubbornly upwards, and he shivered, disengaging from their kiss slowly, stealing her breath as he fixed her with his own personal mixture of an icy, heated gaze, and she felt his fingers at her skirt zipper, her desire heavy, sitting on her chest...
When his hard thigh began vibrating against her own...
the unmistakable, annoying pulse of a cellphone.
And, to her utter astonishment, he reached into his pocket and cooly answered it, turning away from her abruptly to talk about...stocks and shares?—Bulma's eyebrows twisted upwards—with his back to her, gesturing for privacy. At—Bulma gaped at the digital clock on the stove—a quarter to midnight on a Saturday night. She stood in the doorway of the open fridge, blinking like an idiot.
To her growing horror, Vegeta crisply delivered his advice on the price of letterhead as Bulma stared incredulously.
"Ohmygod, what am I doing," she mumbled to herself, before glancing at the fridge with confusion, her eyes wandering to the bottle of vodka on the counter he had placed beside them. Half gone.
She looked up at him, his broad shoulders and slender, compact waist, his pants handsomely skimming his round backside as though he'd come straight from a GQ photo shoot, and as he barked at whoever was on the other line about setting up an overflow account with 12% interest
Bulma
Became
Furious.
Vegeta slapped his phone shut, just as Bulma slammed shut the fridge door with a rattling clang. Remembering where he was, he turned around—
—to come face to face with Bulma's outraged face.
"Get out," she issued harshly.
Vegeta gave a slight shake of his head as though he hadn't understood. "Excuse me?"
"Tell me though, before you go," she spat, chomping on her stupid emotions like a bit, "how much of this do you need to entertain the idea of kissing me?" She held up the vodka.
"You weren't complaining a minute ago," he protested, features screwing with defensive anger, his smooth voice dragging over gravel as he became angered.
"I honestly didn't think that you would choose to answer a business call in the middle of an intimate moment!" She threw her arms up in the air.
"Oh, I see here." His face grew stormy as his voice became poisoned, and he coiled up, pointing his finger at her. "You think there's more to this than there really is." He laughed, a horrible thing. Bulma's heart crumpled up a little, her fury withering in the face of his rejection.
He continued, really on a roll now. "This," he pointed back and forth between them, "means nothing. That call from my assistant was far more important to me than kissing some tawdry mechanic—"
"Tawdry!" She cried out, insulted.
"...even if my assistant and I were just discussing card stock." He glowered down at her, surely feeling every inch a real conquering hero.
He met her stare confrontationally. Her vivid blue eyes were torn between frustration and pain, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her pale collarbones jutting out from her unbuttoned shirt, and for a brief moment, he regretted what he'd said, entertained smoothing it over so he could put his mouth on her again.
He just couldn't tolerate it! He couldn't stand it when someone patronized him, let alone a woman with conceivably no ambition or personal success. He hadn't slaved his entire adult life to be in the position he was to listen to some insubordinate woman tell him how to do business. He deserved respect, always, even—especially—halfway to the bedroom.
He was sitting on his high horse now, his high horse balancing on another high horse beneath it. ”Don’t get a big head about my being here with you. You are one of many things to do on a Saturday night, the next of many Saturday night women to pen in my ledger," and he sneered, twisting the knife as he bit down on his own strange, flickering sense of disappointment with himself. He didn't...he didn't...like hurting her, though.
"Do you really know what I want from you?" She answered neutrally, carefully. He watched her as she stood rigidly before him, before turning to stride to the front door, opening it in a clear indication that she expected him to leave. He narrowed his eyes at her and peered down his nose before stiffly walking towards her and the door.
He jumped when she put her hand on his sleeve, and they stared at each other, his jaw tight.
His proximity grated on her, his deep brown eyes staring at her severely from an impossibly handsome face. And for just a moment, she watched a flicker of guilt...followed by hope?...drift across his features.
Stupidly, a savage urge to kiss him goodbye filled her...and she impetuously, dumbly let it lead her to his mouth. She couldn't help wanting to taste it, again and maybe again, if she could help it, before she had to say goodbye forever.
She barely had the room to be more shocked with herself when, after a moment, his mouth opened for hers, and with a clash, he swept his tongue deeply into her mouth, stubbornly plundering it even in the face of their absolute abhorrence of the other.
This is unhealthy! This is unhealthy! Some part of her squealed in the far parts of her mind.
Stupidly, strangely, impossibly, there was a part of her that couldn't stand to see him go, and it was that insane impulsive part of her that pressed herself closer to him even as ‘DANGER, DANGER’ flashed red through her mind. She was playing with fire, and at any moment he would burst into flames and consume her with a fine tuned understanding of the weapons of emotional and verbal abuse.
He certainly didn't deserve it, her kissing him like this, but in light of all of it, the more defiant she became, and she dispatched any lingering protests by yanking on his collar and burying her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck to deepen the kiss.
He rolled her out of the doorway smoothly, and with a slight 'oomph,' he pressed her back up against the wall and scoured her mouth, quietly reaching out and closing her front door.
Her body, wracked with rebellious desire, ignited with agreement, and she undid the buttons quickly on his shirt as they kissed the other frantically. He grabbed at her hand as his shirt gaped open with her progress, pressing it against the wall and sending her a heated, smoky promise of devourment from beneath his lashes. He had strong, neat eyebrows, and they dipped gracefully as his other hand appeared and lightly freed one of her buttons from its hole.
"I want your skin in my mouth," he confided, before feeling a warring alarm in his belly at the outburst. He hadn't intended to say that; it felt like much more of a confession than stock dirty talk. Bulma's eyes rolled upwards as his mouth trailed along her collar, and a jolt of jagged heat rooted in her core sent its clawed fire up into her belly, along her chest, and into her fingertips.
"I want you," she moaned, and despite her vulnerability at the admission it was impossible to contain. Had it just been so long? She felt as though she were in the path of a tidal wave of rabid need, on the verge of a primal urge to submit herself to him in otherwise really embarrassing ways.
"What am I to you?" He growled from beneath her as his tongue licked up her throat, his fingers on her pulse at her wrist, still held firmly against the wall.
"What?" She breathed, confused, as his other hand skimmed her hip and, to her depraved thrill, drew her leg up at the back of her knee, ran along the curve of her ass and along her thighs.
"What were you going to say? When I was about to leave?" His rough voice forced her eyes open with its penetrative need and she was relieved and curious to see that he looked as far gone as she.
Her lids lowered as she considered what to say.
"That you aren't even a blip in my radar," she finished, setting her jaw firmly.
He knocked her bare foot to the side with his own and planted his knee between hers.
The sudden heat of his thigh against her core sent heat into her cheeks, and she looked up at him with vulnerability as he gazed down at her.
And set his mouth against hers savagely.
"I don't know why I want you," she spoke into his mouth frantically. "You drive me crazy. All I ask is that you don't bitch about the chocolate chip cookie crumbs in my bed."
And to his bafflement, he replied silkily, "Good. You've laid out the red carpet for me." He tugged at the underwear at her hip. "Now I won't have to get out of bed for my after-sex snack."
She laughed, this carousing, sibilant chime that sent something young inside him burbling to the surface, and then began tugging him to the bedroom by the front of his pants. "Better rethink that buddy," she laughed, and this unfamiliar excitement careened through him. "I don't share my chocolate chip cookies."
He stopped her in the hallway, pinning her against the wall to strip her of her bra and rub the hard length in his slacks against her.
"Nobody denies me chocolate chip cookies," he whispered into her ear before tearing his shirt off.
`````````
He blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
He sat up abruptly, and looked first thing at the bedroom door. Vegeta jumped up and jabbed the lock in, and spun around to regard what he knew with increasing anxiety awaited him.
The late morning sunlight was bright through the sheer curtains, and he squinted against it as he took in the messy blue mane of curls, the pale arm thrown over the pillow, with grim acknowledgment. The rest of her was wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, thick enough that she'd probably survive a pretty steep fall, her legs sprawled out behind her and her body nearly sideways on the bed. She hadn't budged since he got up. That explained the crook in his back.
He heard voices from the other side of the door from the kitchen. He must have woke up when he sensed someone enter the apartment.
"What a mess," came the muffled, disdainful voice of Goku's girlfriend. "What on Earth did she do, get trashed and have a tantrum?"
"Do you want me to sweep up?" He heard Goku ask good-naturedly.
The harpy sighed. "Yes, please. Ugh, what a mess. No matter how hard I try I cannot get that girl to grow up."
Vegeta snorted.
He glanced at the clock on the night stand. It was nearly noon. He began to feel very self-conscious with Goku and Chi Chi on the other side of the door and with…her…just a few feet away. He plodded to the bed, and looked around.
He filled with dread.
Where the hell were his clothes?
Bulma's breath against his mouth, her hands running down his sweaty chest and gripping his smooth face as they kissed, listing backwards until her back hit the bedroom door. His hands palmed her breasts, and he wrapped her legs around his hip, grinding against her as he yanked her shirt from her arms.
"Ah!" She cried. "This is Chi Chi's. Weren't you satisfied ripping the buttons off your own shirt?"
"No," he admitted darkly.
He blushed unnaturally, remembering. Well, that explained where his clothes were—flung around from here to the front door. He noticed her panties were thrown onto her desk, lying limply on top of a stack of aged VW service manuals. Her bra hung over the lamp shade. He couldn't remember how either of them had got there.
"Where the hell are my clothes?" He grit.
"Bulma?" Chi Chi yelled, stamping down the hall before banging on the door. "Are you in there?"
"Go away," came Bulma's groggy, muffled voice, her arm snaking out and chucking the nearest item at the bedroom door without even looking at it, which bounced off the door next to him with a squeak.
A cat toy.
As if summoned, a chubby black cat raced out from under the bed and leapt on the toy, before rolling onto its back clumsily, trying to juggle the toy in its round paws.
The cat finally seemed to notice him, and turned its gold eyes on him.
Vegeta cupped himself instinctively.
He looked up at Bulma helplessly, but she had returned to the way he'd found her, buried securely under a dozen blankets.
Where the fuck were his clothes?
Her slick hips bucking against his, sweat pooling in her naval as she groaned his name...
He ran his hand through his hair in wild frustration.
...Sweeping his arm across the table and heaving her up onto the desk top before pulling his undershirt from the waist of his pants and dropping his trousers...
"I'm confused," she’d panted as his lips traced up her thighs, which yawned open for him. "Why do you...like me..."
He pressed his hips against her and her eyes widened. It suddenly because very clear how interested in her he was.
He leaned over her, staring at her intensely. "Shut up," he said, before sinking to his knees and burying his face between her legs with such fevered intent that any fear that he was trolling her flew right out of her empty head—
Goku's clothes! They were in the living room, disregarded on the couch cushions. Damnet. With a mixture of awkwardness and apprehension, he moved to her dresser, where he quietly upended her drawers, poking around for something unisex he could put on to escape.
The curl of her lip as she ground against him, her arms wrapped tight around his neck as she urged him harder...
He pulled the sweats over his legs, leg hair catching on the gray terry cloth before shrugging on an extra large blue hoodie with a stain—grease? chocolate?—across the breast.
He heard the tinkle of glass falling into the wastebasket.
The vodka. He vaguely remembered shoving it off the countertop with a tremor as she surprised him at the fridge with her warm mouth on his member, later that night when he went looking for some bottled water.
The second time he'd tossed her onto the couch and buried himself into her from the side of it.
He grimaced.
No more vodka. Never again.
"It smells like a drunk in here," he heard Chi Chi complain.
"Give her a break," Goku encouraged her gently. "Everyone needs to let off a little steam sometimes."
"I don't feel the need to make a scene at a nice restaurant and take it out on my best friends home decor," Chi Chi grumbled.
"Look, I've got to run, Cheech. I've got a game at noon." There was a pause, the smack of a light kiss. "Why don't you go in there and talk to her? Tell her how you feel, but hear how she's feeling too? Walk a mile in her shoes, you know?"
"Thanks, Goku," he heard the woman murmur begrudgingly before giggling. "Stop, you're messing up my hair."
He had to get out of here!
Vegeta glanced frantically around the room, before peeking out the window sheers that he absently noted were little boy's draperies, complete with race cars and rocket ships. He had to get out of here now.
"Cheech, I really have to go. I'm starving, and I want to eat before the game," Goku whined flirtatiously, and Vegeta rolled his eyes. He really didn't want to know what Son Goku's bedroom voice sounded like.
"Come on, I'll walk you down," his woman said playfully, and as Vegeta's heart leapt in his chest hopefully, he heard the front door click shut, followed by thick silence.
Vegeta could hardly move fast enough. He stuffed his bare feet in his shoes and yanked open Bulma's door without sparing the burrito of blankets a passing glance. He then sprinted out to the living room, where he immediately recognized his shirt stuffed between the fridge and the stainless steel microwave. He snatched it and balled it up, shoving it between his arm and side, and then scurried to the hallway and grabbed the pants that had been eagerly discarded outside her bedroom door. Giving the living room a cursory glance, and having his necessary apparel accounted for, Vegeta sidled up to the front door and listened for noise on the other side. Nothing. Slowly, he turned the knob, waited a second, and then peeked out. The hall was silent and empty. Vegeta rushed out, slamming the door behind him, twisted around in the hall a few times on his hunt for the fire escape, and shot down the dark stairs with unexamined anxiety.
No more vodka. Never again.
/ /
Chi Chi opened her front door with a sigh, eyes raking over the place judgmentally. She just couldn't understand what was going through Bulma's head. It was like the harder she tried to help her friend, the more of a mess Bulma made! Chi Chi sighed again, this time more loudly as she surveyed the couch cushions littered on the living room floor, two glass tumblers awry on the table.
Chi Chi's eyes opened wide. Two glasses?
And between the end table and the arm of the suede couch, a lone piece of evidence that Bulma hadn't been alone last night:
A sleek black tie.
Chi Chi held her breath, and then looked up, down the hall at her friends door with confusion. It wasn't like Bulma to bring a man home.
For just a moment, Chi Chi remembered the last man Bulma had been seen with who had also been wearing a tie. Her breath froze in her lungs.
But there was just no way….In fact, the last person Bulma had been with intimately was...well, that was years ago, and that had been a serious relationship that had lasted many years. And even as she considered the possibility, the other man ghosted in her mind, and she shut down the possibility with the force of an iron door, and a few more iron doors and a tangle of barbed wire fence for good measure. Even if her friend had been capable, he was not. She couldn't even picture it.
Worry coursed through her for a moment. Had Bulma brought some strange man home that could have gone through their stuff and stolen all her jewelry and good silverware? Was he in there with her now, pocketing Chi Chi's valuables?
Chi Chi couldn't have moved fast enough. She had Bulma's door open in the blink of an eye, and she raked over her friend's room with alarm. Everything looked normal—trashed, in other words. Candy wrappers and styrofoam cups from her friend's favorite gas station, the one she got her Pepsi's from religiously every morning and evening. Chi Chi remembered because Bulma occasionally gossiped about the clerk's colorful love life. Cautiously, she inched over to her friend’s side, characteristically wrapped up in nine different blankets, four of them with children's cartoon characters printed all over them. One she was pretty certain she got from some wandering Native American and his mutt that stopped by to have his rust bucket looked at last year; Chi Chi had washed the damn thing half a dozen times, to Bulma's irritation, suspecting fleas.
"Bulma?" She asked, poking her friend's shoulder. "Are you alone?"
There was a faraway groan, and the blankets shifted slightly.
"Bulma?"
The blankets rustled some more, the toes curling on the foot that poked from the sprawl, letting her know her friend was, indeed, inside.
Slowly, Bulma pulled the blankets down to reveal a pair of sleepy eyes and a matted mess of teal hair.
"Good morning," Chi Chi greeted with evident disapproval. "Rough night?"
Bulma looked past Chi Chi sleepily and frowned with confusion. "No, why?" Only for her eyes to widen exponentially. "Ohmygod."
"Just what the hell happened last night?" Chi Chi demanded, frustration bubbling over as she watched her friend sit up in bed abruptly and feel around her under the blankets, patting frantically around her. "Did you come home and get wasted? Or were you already drunk by the time you got home?" She accused.
Bulma's head snapped up and she glared at her friend. "What's your deal? Why are you all over my ass lately?"
"What's my deal? Why am I 'all over your ass?' I'm just trying to make sure you stay all in one piece!"
"Oh, yeah," Bulma agreed mockingly, "because how on earth could I make it without you to hold my hand?"
Chi Chi straightened angrily. "Sometimes you can be so immature!"
"Yeah, well, sometimes I wish you would quit sublimating your desperation for Goku to propose to you onto me or whatever!" Bulma hid her head back under the covers. "If you came in here to yell at me, kindly see yourself out!"
Chi Chi stared with barely controlled frustration at the blankets that hid Bulma, and remembered Goku's advice. "Tell her how you feel, but hear how she's feeling too? Walk a mile in her shoes, you know."
She sighed reproachfully and plopped down on her friend's bed, gazing at the wall, its pretty robin's egg blue paint marred with greasy fingerprints and cracked plaster, remnants of a time before Chi Chi set up ground rules about working on engines in the house. "Don't you have a whole shop for this kind of stuff?" Chi Chi had screeched as her blue haired friend looked up warily from her project beneath her bulky safety glasses.
Maybe she was just approaching this the wrong way.
"Bulma...what's going on with you? Truthfully...Is it me? Are you, like, rebelling against me? Are you...upset with me?"
Bulma peeked out from the covers again. "Why are you always trying to fix me? Why aren't I good enough for you?" Her voice was hoarse and muffled against the blankets.
Chi Chi gazed at her with regret. "Now, Bulma, I like you just the way you are-"
"Bullshit." Bulma's eyes narrowed and she turned over. Bulma may have been selective about her priorities—cars and chocolate waffle cones first, replacing the empty toilet paper roll much farther down on the list—but she wasn't stupid. It was easy to forget that, because Bulma was just so easy going. Much like Goku.
Chi Chi swallowing a protest, and tried again for understanding. "I can see why you think I'm trying to 'change' you—"
Her friend blew a raspberry into the covers.
“--but I'm doing it to help you. Look at you! Your room is a mess! Last night was a mess! My kitchen and living room are a mess! Your love life is—" Chi Chi choked on her words just as her friend whipped back around.
"What?" She snapped. "Go ahead and finish. Is that what you really think of me? That I'm a mess? That I'm not complete without a man and daydreams of romance? That I'm not grown up without some designer furniture and the need to be seen at the coolest bars in town among a bunch of snotty lawyers? Let me tell you something, Chi Chi, this is what I think. You grew up a pampered, spoiled only child of a very restrictive single father. You had a closet full of dresses, a room full of dolls and doll houses, your bed was a fake castle, your head full of romance and privilege. In return, he expected you to grow up nurturing so you'd take care of him. Freud, much? Who can say. Anything less than an A was grounds for something worse than his disappointment—your diminished self worth. I get it. You pursued your internalized father's pride your whole life, I get it. I'm not telling you anything you don't know, right?"
Chi Chi gaped.
"Some of us, however, didn't grow up believing being a tidy ball buster were the tell tales of superiority. Some of us were raised in our father's grungy workspaces, following our heads second, our hearts first. When I opened up my shop," Bulma continued raggedly, "I was the happiest I'd ever been. I finally found what I'd wanted to do this whole time, after a decade spent waffling and wasting in higher education. I wake up every day at 5 am and come home every day at 8 working my ass off to keep my shop afloat because it's what I love to do. I am a hard working woman in a field of men and have been modestly, satisfyingly successful. The fact that I eat animal crackers for dinner doesn't diminish that. The fact that I'm not afraid to walk into a Go Chicken Go and order a bucket of fried chicken and watch Alien by myself on a Saturday night doesn't diminish my value as a woman. But for some reason it does affect the way my best friend sees me. If my best friend can't be happy with me, despite that a Friday spent in front of the tv is a victimless crime, despite that I'm a successful business owner...how can I call her a friend?"
Bulma stared at Chi Chi plaintively from over her Transformers blanket, her unflagging expression giving Chi Chi no quarter for excuses.
Chi Chi felt her eyes water. Bulma never talked to her like this. Her friend was usually very forgiving.
Chi Chi cleared her throat, her voice trembling on her lips. "I deserved that. I'm sorry, B. I never intended to make you feel bad about yourself. I just thought I could help, make you happier."
"I don't need help, Cheech." Bulma said gently. "I need your unequivocal, unconditional support."
Bulma opened her arms forgivingly and Chi Chi laid down next to her heavily. The women lay there in swollen silence.
"Why can't you just accept that you're going to be my domestic partner for the rest of your life?" Bulma asked, smiling at the top of her friend's head.
The women giggled.
"I'm sorry I set you up with Vegeta. He's an asshole." Chi Chi finally commiserated. Bulma stiffened.
"Yep." Bulma finally agreed, neutrally. "Forget about it."
"Goku was telling me about how much of a hard ass at work he can be. I guess he's really good at what he does, though. He spends all his time at work, very ambitious, and hard working. Occasionally he goes out with the guys, the bachelors of the firm, you know, Nappa and Bardock and Turles, and they always complain that he doesn't know how to cut loose. He's all work, no play," Chi Chi gossiped quietly, flicking her silky bangs out of her eyes.
Bulma snorted. "I can believe it." Although he certainly knows how to cut loose in bed, she thought, remembering him pumping beneath her with a dark smirk in the moonlight. Her face heated. Oh god.
"So what happened? Did you go to a bar last night and hook up with someone?" Chi Chi flipped around to face Bulma. "I saw the tie on the couch. I'm kind of surprised you'd be interested in a guy who has to wear one, honestly."
Bulma looked back at her fearfully.
"You hooked up with someone," Chi Chi guessed, eyes gleaming. "You got lucky! Oh my, how long's it been? Like millennia? Did he have to pull out the oil to lubricate all the rusty parts down there?"
"Ohmygawddddd," Bulma moaned with anguish into her blankets before trying to kick Chi Chi off the bed, burying her flushing face into her pillow. "Get out."
"Oh my god, am I laying in the bed you guys did it in?" Chi Chi shot up. "Eeeew, was that your guys post coital sweat I was laying in!" She shrieked.
"Only you would call it 'post coital,'" Bulma complained, certain she was going to die of mortification at any moment.
"I've got to take a shower now. Ew." She shivered dramatically, heading for the door. "How did you hide all the cookie crumbs from him? I know you spent all Friday night eating cookies and playing sudoku in bed."
Bulma watched Chi Chi make her way down the hall to her room with renewed energy, balance restored between them, gut churning as she recalled Vegeta's long, slow strokes inside her, his stomach rippling with the movement, his eyes pinning her against her Rainbow Bright sheets. Sweat beaded in her hair, and her hips swayed to meet his, her bed creaking with the force of his controlled movements as he leaned down, brushing her lips with his own, his lips trailing to her ear and giving her goosebumps as he whispered dangerously, "Nobody denies me chocolate chip cookies."
And he was definitely all man, pressed up against the fridge as she was by him, milk jug sticking her in the butt and feeling altogether desirable under this man's mouth, his hands cupping her face. She certainly wasn't going to insert logic into this situation and risk popping it like a bubble. His warm hands held her face in a parody of affection as his mouth ransacked hers ruthlessly, and as it began its unhurried descent down the curve of her neck, she knew with gut-deep certainty that she was going to let this man undress her tonight. She was going to allow him to get between her recently shaved legs in a dance unfamiliar to her—but maybe not in her bed, maybe just on the couch like teenagers, because she didn't want to scare him away with the state of emergency her room was (always) in right now.
Vegeta's mouth was clean, his kiss smooth as water over stone, but electrifying, his tongue playing games with her own competitively, the flavorless ghost of vodka between them. How had she not realized it was a bad idea to open up a liquor bottle? It was making her consider crazy possibilities!
There was no mistaking that this man knew how to kiss. In fact, took great pride in it, probably. Her own hands crept up his chest and unbuttoned his shirt at the neckline, and she just kind of watched with bewilderment, shrinking away from these hands she just did not recognize anymore! Who was this smoky eyed, husky voiced vixen that his desire had transformed her into? Whose next move no doubt was to rip her own clothes off to reveal a leopard print bustier and garter before crooking her finger with a cat-eyed wink? She pressed her palm against Vegeta's hard chest and let out a little sigh through her nose as he tilted her head for better access. The man was magic, and she was his fool. It'd been too long, her body seethed. It was dragging her places she normally wouldn't venture to. Her heart was a vagabond, a wanderer, and it took her places that made other people, Chi Chi namely, cringe. But even she knew that sometimes it needed locked up and shut up.
But with the same mysterious speed that this man had gone from a 'No Fucking Way' in her little imaginary book of people she'd sleep with to a 'PLEASE I'M BEGGING YOU TO,' the balmy heat between them evaporated as quickly as it had set itself upon them.
Regretfully—thankfully?—it was as Bulma touched the back of his neck tentatively, running her fingers over the hair there that jut stubbornly upwards, and he shivered, disengaging from their kiss slowly, stealing her breath as he fixed her with his own personal mixture of an icy, heated gaze, and she felt his fingers at her skirt zipper, her desire heavy, sitting on her chest...
When his hard thigh began vibrating against her own...
the unmistakable, annoying pulse of a cellphone.
And, to her utter astonishment, he reached into his pocket and cooly answered it, turning away from her abruptly to talk about...stocks and shares?—Bulma's eyebrows twisted upwards—with his back to her, gesturing for privacy. At—Bulma gaped at the digital clock on the stove—a quarter to midnight on a Saturday night. She stood in the doorway of the open fridge, blinking like an idiot.
To her growing horror, Vegeta crisply delivered his advice on the price of letterhead as Bulma stared incredulously.
"Ohmygod, what am I doing," she mumbled to herself, before glancing at the fridge with confusion, her eyes wandering to the bottle of vodka on the counter he had placed beside them. Half gone.
She looked up at him, his broad shoulders and slender, compact waist, his pants handsomely skimming his round backside as though he'd come straight from a GQ photo shoot, and as he barked at whoever was on the other line about setting up an overflow account with 12% interest
Bulma
Became
Furious.
Vegeta slapped his phone shut, just as Bulma slammed shut the fridge door with a rattling clang. Remembering where he was, he turned around—
—to come face to face with Bulma's outraged face.
"Get out," she issued harshly.
Vegeta gave a slight shake of his head as though he hadn't understood. "Excuse me?"
"Tell me though, before you go," she spat, chomping on her stupid emotions like a bit, "how much of this do you need to entertain the idea of kissing me?" She held up the vodka.
"You weren't complaining a minute ago," he protested, features screwing with defensive anger, his smooth voice dragging over gravel as he became angered.
"I honestly didn't think that you would choose to answer a business call in the middle of an intimate moment!" She threw her arms up in the air.
"Oh, I see here." His face grew stormy as his voice became poisoned, and he coiled up, pointing his finger at her. "You think there's more to this than there really is." He laughed, a horrible thing. Bulma's heart crumpled up a little, her fury withering in the face of his rejection.
He continued, really on a roll now. "This," he pointed back and forth between them, "means nothing. That call from my assistant was far more important to me than kissing some tawdry mechanic—"
"Tawdry!" She cried out, insulted.
"...even if my assistant and I were just discussing card stock." He glowered down at her, surely feeling every inch a real conquering hero.
He met her stare confrontationally. Her vivid blue eyes were torn between frustration and pain, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her pale collarbones jutting out from her unbuttoned shirt, and for a brief moment, he regretted what he'd said, entertained smoothing it over so he could put his mouth on her again.
He just couldn't tolerate it! He couldn't stand it when someone patronized him, let alone a woman with conceivably no ambition or personal success. He hadn't slaved his entire adult life to be in the position he was to listen to some insubordinate woman tell him how to do business. He deserved respect, always, even—especially—halfway to the bedroom.
He was sitting on his high horse now, his high horse balancing on another high horse beneath it. ”Don’t get a big head about my being here with you. You are one of many things to do on a Saturday night, the next of many Saturday night women to pen in my ledger," and he sneered, twisting the knife as he bit down on his own strange, flickering sense of disappointment with himself. He didn't...he didn't...like hurting her, though.
"Do you really know what I want from you?" She answered neutrally, carefully. He watched her as she stood rigidly before him, before turning to stride to the front door, opening it in a clear indication that she expected him to leave. He narrowed his eyes at her and peered down his nose before stiffly walking towards her and the door.
He jumped when she put her hand on his sleeve, and they stared at each other, his jaw tight.
His proximity grated on her, his deep brown eyes staring at her severely from an impossibly handsome face. And for just a moment, she watched a flicker of guilt...followed by hope?...drift across his features.
Stupidly, a savage urge to kiss him goodbye filled her...and she impetuously, dumbly let it lead her to his mouth. She couldn't help wanting to taste it, again and maybe again, if she could help it, before she had to say goodbye forever.
She barely had the room to be more shocked with herself when, after a moment, his mouth opened for hers, and with a clash, he swept his tongue deeply into her mouth, stubbornly plundering it even in the face of their absolute abhorrence of the other.
This is unhealthy! This is unhealthy! Some part of her squealed in the far parts of her mind.
Stupidly, strangely, impossibly, there was a part of her that couldn't stand to see him go, and it was that insane impulsive part of her that pressed herself closer to him even as ‘DANGER, DANGER’ flashed red through her mind. She was playing with fire, and at any moment he would burst into flames and consume her with a fine tuned understanding of the weapons of emotional and verbal abuse.
He certainly didn't deserve it, her kissing him like this, but in light of all of it, the more defiant she became, and she dispatched any lingering protests by yanking on his collar and burying her fingers into the hair at the back of his neck to deepen the kiss.
He rolled her out of the doorway smoothly, and with a slight 'oomph,' he pressed her back up against the wall and scoured her mouth, quietly reaching out and closing her front door.
Her body, wracked with rebellious desire, ignited with agreement, and she undid the buttons quickly on his shirt as they kissed the other frantically. He grabbed at her hand as his shirt gaped open with her progress, pressing it against the wall and sending her a heated, smoky promise of devourment from beneath his lashes. He had strong, neat eyebrows, and they dipped gracefully as his other hand appeared and lightly freed one of her buttons from its hole.
"I want your skin in my mouth," he confided, before feeling a warring alarm in his belly at the outburst. He hadn't intended to say that; it felt like much more of a confession than stock dirty talk. Bulma's eyes rolled upwards as his mouth trailed along her collar, and a jolt of jagged heat rooted in her core sent its clawed fire up into her belly, along her chest, and into her fingertips.
"I want you," she moaned, and despite her vulnerability at the admission it was impossible to contain. Had it just been so long? She felt as though she were in the path of a tidal wave of rabid need, on the verge of a primal urge to submit herself to him in otherwise really embarrassing ways.
"What am I to you?" He growled from beneath her as his tongue licked up her throat, his fingers on her pulse at her wrist, still held firmly against the wall.
"What?" She breathed, confused, as his other hand skimmed her hip and, to her depraved thrill, drew her leg up at the back of her knee, ran along the curve of her ass and along her thighs.
"What were you going to say? When I was about to leave?" His rough voice forced her eyes open with its penetrative need and she was relieved and curious to see that he looked as far gone as she.
Her lids lowered as she considered what to say.
"That you aren't even a blip in my radar," she finished, setting her jaw firmly.
He knocked her bare foot to the side with his own and planted his knee between hers.
The sudden heat of his thigh against her core sent heat into her cheeks, and she looked up at him with vulnerability as he gazed down at her.
And set his mouth against hers savagely.
"I don't know why I want you," she spoke into his mouth frantically. "You drive me crazy. All I ask is that you don't bitch about the chocolate chip cookie crumbs in my bed."
And to his bafflement, he replied silkily, "Good. You've laid out the red carpet for me." He tugged at the underwear at her hip. "Now I won't have to get out of bed for my after-sex snack."
She laughed, this carousing, sibilant chime that sent something young inside him burbling to the surface, and then began tugging him to the bedroom by the front of his pants. "Better rethink that buddy," she laughed, and this unfamiliar excitement careened through him. "I don't share my chocolate chip cookies."
He stopped her in the hallway, pinning her against the wall to strip her of her bra and rub the hard length in his slacks against her.
"Nobody denies me chocolate chip cookies," he whispered into her ear before tearing his shirt off.
`````````
He blinked up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
He sat up abruptly, and looked first thing at the bedroom door. Vegeta jumped up and jabbed the lock in, and spun around to regard what he knew with increasing anxiety awaited him.
The late morning sunlight was bright through the sheer curtains, and he squinted against it as he took in the messy blue mane of curls, the pale arm thrown over the pillow, with grim acknowledgment. The rest of her was wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, thick enough that she'd probably survive a pretty steep fall, her legs sprawled out behind her and her body nearly sideways on the bed. She hadn't budged since he got up. That explained the crook in his back.
He heard voices from the other side of the door from the kitchen. He must have woke up when he sensed someone enter the apartment.
"What a mess," came the muffled, disdainful voice of Goku's girlfriend. "What on Earth did she do, get trashed and have a tantrum?"
"Do you want me to sweep up?" He heard Goku ask good-naturedly.
The harpy sighed. "Yes, please. Ugh, what a mess. No matter how hard I try I cannot get that girl to grow up."
Vegeta snorted.
He glanced at the clock on the night stand. It was nearly noon. He began to feel very self-conscious with Goku and Chi Chi on the other side of the door and with…her…just a few feet away. He plodded to the bed, and looked around.
He filled with dread.
Where the hell were his clothes?
Bulma's breath against his mouth, her hands running down his sweaty chest and gripping his smooth face as they kissed, listing backwards until her back hit the bedroom door. His hands palmed her breasts, and he wrapped her legs around his hip, grinding against her as he yanked her shirt from her arms.
"Ah!" She cried. "This is Chi Chi's. Weren't you satisfied ripping the buttons off your own shirt?"
"No," he admitted darkly.
He blushed unnaturally, remembering. Well, that explained where his clothes were—flung around from here to the front door. He noticed her panties were thrown onto her desk, lying limply on top of a stack of aged VW service manuals. Her bra hung over the lamp shade. He couldn't remember how either of them had got there.
"Where the hell are my clothes?" He grit.
"Bulma?" Chi Chi yelled, stamping down the hall before banging on the door. "Are you in there?"
"Go away," came Bulma's groggy, muffled voice, her arm snaking out and chucking the nearest item at the bedroom door without even looking at it, which bounced off the door next to him with a squeak.
A cat toy.
As if summoned, a chubby black cat raced out from under the bed and leapt on the toy, before rolling onto its back clumsily, trying to juggle the toy in its round paws.
The cat finally seemed to notice him, and turned its gold eyes on him.
Vegeta cupped himself instinctively.
He looked up at Bulma helplessly, but she had returned to the way he'd found her, buried securely under a dozen blankets.
Where the fuck were his clothes?
Her slick hips bucking against his, sweat pooling in her naval as she groaned his name...
He ran his hand through his hair in wild frustration.
...Sweeping his arm across the table and heaving her up onto the desk top before pulling his undershirt from the waist of his pants and dropping his trousers...
"I'm confused," she’d panted as his lips traced up her thighs, which yawned open for him. "Why do you...like me..."
He pressed his hips against her and her eyes widened. It suddenly because very clear how interested in her he was.
He leaned over her, staring at her intensely. "Shut up," he said, before sinking to his knees and burying his face between her legs with such fevered intent that any fear that he was trolling her flew right out of her empty head—
Goku's clothes! They were in the living room, disregarded on the couch cushions. Damnet. With a mixture of awkwardness and apprehension, he moved to her dresser, where he quietly upended her drawers, poking around for something unisex he could put on to escape.
The curl of her lip as she ground against him, her arms wrapped tight around his neck as she urged him harder...
He pulled the sweats over his legs, leg hair catching on the gray terry cloth before shrugging on an extra large blue hoodie with a stain—grease? chocolate?—across the breast.
He heard the tinkle of glass falling into the wastebasket.
The vodka. He vaguely remembered shoving it off the countertop with a tremor as she surprised him at the fridge with her warm mouth on his member, later that night when he went looking for some bottled water.
The second time he'd tossed her onto the couch and buried himself into her from the side of it.
He grimaced.
No more vodka. Never again.
"It smells like a drunk in here," he heard Chi Chi complain.
"Give her a break," Goku encouraged her gently. "Everyone needs to let off a little steam sometimes."
"I don't feel the need to make a scene at a nice restaurant and take it out on my best friends home decor," Chi Chi grumbled.
"Look, I've got to run, Cheech. I've got a game at noon." There was a pause, the smack of a light kiss. "Why don't you go in there and talk to her? Tell her how you feel, but hear how she's feeling too? Walk a mile in her shoes, you know?"
"Thanks, Goku," he heard the woman murmur begrudgingly before giggling. "Stop, you're messing up my hair."
He had to get out of here!
Vegeta glanced frantically around the room, before peeking out the window sheers that he absently noted were little boy's draperies, complete with race cars and rocket ships. He had to get out of here now.
"Cheech, I really have to go. I'm starving, and I want to eat before the game," Goku whined flirtatiously, and Vegeta rolled his eyes. He really didn't want to know what Son Goku's bedroom voice sounded like.
"Come on, I'll walk you down," his woman said playfully, and as Vegeta's heart leapt in his chest hopefully, he heard the front door click shut, followed by thick silence.
Vegeta could hardly move fast enough. He stuffed his bare feet in his shoes and yanked open Bulma's door without sparing the burrito of blankets a passing glance. He then sprinted out to the living room, where he immediately recognized his shirt stuffed between the fridge and the stainless steel microwave. He snatched it and balled it up, shoving it between his arm and side, and then scurried to the hallway and grabbed the pants that had been eagerly discarded outside her bedroom door. Giving the living room a cursory glance, and having his necessary apparel accounted for, Vegeta sidled up to the front door and listened for noise on the other side. Nothing. Slowly, he turned the knob, waited a second, and then peeked out. The hall was silent and empty. Vegeta rushed out, slamming the door behind him, twisted around in the hall a few times on his hunt for the fire escape, and shot down the dark stairs with unexamined anxiety.
No more vodka. Never again.
/ /
Chi Chi opened her front door with a sigh, eyes raking over the place judgmentally. She just couldn't understand what was going through Bulma's head. It was like the harder she tried to help her friend, the more of a mess Bulma made! Chi Chi sighed again, this time more loudly as she surveyed the couch cushions littered on the living room floor, two glass tumblers awry on the table.
Chi Chi's eyes opened wide. Two glasses?
And between the end table and the arm of the suede couch, a lone piece of evidence that Bulma hadn't been alone last night:
A sleek black tie.
Chi Chi held her breath, and then looked up, down the hall at her friends door with confusion. It wasn't like Bulma to bring a man home.
For just a moment, Chi Chi remembered the last man Bulma had been seen with who had also been wearing a tie. Her breath froze in her lungs.
But there was just no way….In fact, the last person Bulma had been with intimately was...well, that was years ago, and that had been a serious relationship that had lasted many years. And even as she considered the possibility, the other man ghosted in her mind, and she shut down the possibility with the force of an iron door, and a few more iron doors and a tangle of barbed wire fence for good measure. Even if her friend had been capable, he was not. She couldn't even picture it.
Worry coursed through her for a moment. Had Bulma brought some strange man home that could have gone through their stuff and stolen all her jewelry and good silverware? Was he in there with her now, pocketing Chi Chi's valuables?
Chi Chi couldn't have moved fast enough. She had Bulma's door open in the blink of an eye, and she raked over her friend's room with alarm. Everything looked normal—trashed, in other words. Candy wrappers and styrofoam cups from her friend's favorite gas station, the one she got her Pepsi's from religiously every morning and evening. Chi Chi remembered because Bulma occasionally gossiped about the clerk's colorful love life. Cautiously, she inched over to her friend’s side, characteristically wrapped up in nine different blankets, four of them with children's cartoon characters printed all over them. One she was pretty certain she got from some wandering Native American and his mutt that stopped by to have his rust bucket looked at last year; Chi Chi had washed the damn thing half a dozen times, to Bulma's irritation, suspecting fleas.
"Bulma?" She asked, poking her friend's shoulder. "Are you alone?"
There was a faraway groan, and the blankets shifted slightly.
"Bulma?"
The blankets rustled some more, the toes curling on the foot that poked from the sprawl, letting her know her friend was, indeed, inside.
Slowly, Bulma pulled the blankets down to reveal a pair of sleepy eyes and a matted mess of teal hair.
"Good morning," Chi Chi greeted with evident disapproval. "Rough night?"
Bulma looked past Chi Chi sleepily and frowned with confusion. "No, why?" Only for her eyes to widen exponentially. "Ohmygod."
"Just what the hell happened last night?" Chi Chi demanded, frustration bubbling over as she watched her friend sit up in bed abruptly and feel around her under the blankets, patting frantically around her. "Did you come home and get wasted? Or were you already drunk by the time you got home?" She accused.
Bulma's head snapped up and she glared at her friend. "What's your deal? Why are you all over my ass lately?"
"What's my deal? Why am I 'all over your ass?' I'm just trying to make sure you stay all in one piece!"
"Oh, yeah," Bulma agreed mockingly, "because how on earth could I make it without you to hold my hand?"
Chi Chi straightened angrily. "Sometimes you can be so immature!"
"Yeah, well, sometimes I wish you would quit sublimating your desperation for Goku to propose to you onto me or whatever!" Bulma hid her head back under the covers. "If you came in here to yell at me, kindly see yourself out!"
Chi Chi stared with barely controlled frustration at the blankets that hid Bulma, and remembered Goku's advice. "Tell her how you feel, but hear how she's feeling too? Walk a mile in her shoes, you know."
She sighed reproachfully and plopped down on her friend's bed, gazing at the wall, its pretty robin's egg blue paint marred with greasy fingerprints and cracked plaster, remnants of a time before Chi Chi set up ground rules about working on engines in the house. "Don't you have a whole shop for this kind of stuff?" Chi Chi had screeched as her blue haired friend looked up warily from her project beneath her bulky safety glasses.
Maybe she was just approaching this the wrong way.
"Bulma...what's going on with you? Truthfully...Is it me? Are you, like, rebelling against me? Are you...upset with me?"
Bulma peeked out from the covers again. "Why are you always trying to fix me? Why aren't I good enough for you?" Her voice was hoarse and muffled against the blankets.
Chi Chi gazed at her with regret. "Now, Bulma, I like you just the way you are-"
"Bullshit." Bulma's eyes narrowed and she turned over. Bulma may have been selective about her priorities—cars and chocolate waffle cones first, replacing the empty toilet paper roll much farther down on the list—but she wasn't stupid. It was easy to forget that, because Bulma was just so easy going. Much like Goku.
Chi Chi swallowing a protest, and tried again for understanding. "I can see why you think I'm trying to 'change' you—"
Her friend blew a raspberry into the covers.
“--but I'm doing it to help you. Look at you! Your room is a mess! Last night was a mess! My kitchen and living room are a mess! Your love life is—" Chi Chi choked on her words just as her friend whipped back around.
"What?" She snapped. "Go ahead and finish. Is that what you really think of me? That I'm a mess? That I'm not complete without a man and daydreams of romance? That I'm not grown up without some designer furniture and the need to be seen at the coolest bars in town among a bunch of snotty lawyers? Let me tell you something, Chi Chi, this is what I think. You grew up a pampered, spoiled only child of a very restrictive single father. You had a closet full of dresses, a room full of dolls and doll houses, your bed was a fake castle, your head full of romance and privilege. In return, he expected you to grow up nurturing so you'd take care of him. Freud, much? Who can say. Anything less than an A was grounds for something worse than his disappointment—your diminished self worth. I get it. You pursued your internalized father's pride your whole life, I get it. I'm not telling you anything you don't know, right?"
Chi Chi gaped.
"Some of us, however, didn't grow up believing being a tidy ball buster were the tell tales of superiority. Some of us were raised in our father's grungy workspaces, following our heads second, our hearts first. When I opened up my shop," Bulma continued raggedly, "I was the happiest I'd ever been. I finally found what I'd wanted to do this whole time, after a decade spent waffling and wasting in higher education. I wake up every day at 5 am and come home every day at 8 working my ass off to keep my shop afloat because it's what I love to do. I am a hard working woman in a field of men and have been modestly, satisfyingly successful. The fact that I eat animal crackers for dinner doesn't diminish that. The fact that I'm not afraid to walk into a Go Chicken Go and order a bucket of fried chicken and watch Alien by myself on a Saturday night doesn't diminish my value as a woman. But for some reason it does affect the way my best friend sees me. If my best friend can't be happy with me, despite that a Friday spent in front of the tv is a victimless crime, despite that I'm a successful business owner...how can I call her a friend?"
Bulma stared at Chi Chi plaintively from over her Transformers blanket, her unflagging expression giving Chi Chi no quarter for excuses.
Chi Chi felt her eyes water. Bulma never talked to her like this. Her friend was usually very forgiving.
Chi Chi cleared her throat, her voice trembling on her lips. "I deserved that. I'm sorry, B. I never intended to make you feel bad about yourself. I just thought I could help, make you happier."
"I don't need help, Cheech." Bulma said gently. "I need your unequivocal, unconditional support."
Bulma opened her arms forgivingly and Chi Chi laid down next to her heavily. The women lay there in swollen silence.
"Why can't you just accept that you're going to be my domestic partner for the rest of your life?" Bulma asked, smiling at the top of her friend's head.
The women giggled.
"I'm sorry I set you up with Vegeta. He's an asshole." Chi Chi finally commiserated. Bulma stiffened.
"Yep." Bulma finally agreed, neutrally. "Forget about it."
"Goku was telling me about how much of a hard ass at work he can be. I guess he's really good at what he does, though. He spends all his time at work, very ambitious, and hard working. Occasionally he goes out with the guys, the bachelors of the firm, you know, Nappa and Bardock and Turles, and they always complain that he doesn't know how to cut loose. He's all work, no play," Chi Chi gossiped quietly, flicking her silky bangs out of her eyes.
Bulma snorted. "I can believe it." Although he certainly knows how to cut loose in bed, she thought, remembering him pumping beneath her with a dark smirk in the moonlight. Her face heated. Oh god.
"So what happened? Did you go to a bar last night and hook up with someone?" Chi Chi flipped around to face Bulma. "I saw the tie on the couch. I'm kind of surprised you'd be interested in a guy who has to wear one, honestly."
Bulma looked back at her fearfully.
"You hooked up with someone," Chi Chi guessed, eyes gleaming. "You got lucky! Oh my, how long's it been? Like millennia? Did he have to pull out the oil to lubricate all the rusty parts down there?"
"Ohmygawddddd," Bulma moaned with anguish into her blankets before trying to kick Chi Chi off the bed, burying her flushing face into her pillow. "Get out."
"Oh my god, am I laying in the bed you guys did it in?" Chi Chi shot up. "Eeeew, was that your guys post coital sweat I was laying in!" She shrieked.
"Only you would call it 'post coital,'" Bulma complained, certain she was going to die of mortification at any moment.
"I've got to take a shower now. Ew." She shivered dramatically, heading for the door. "How did you hide all the cookie crumbs from him? I know you spent all Friday night eating cookies and playing sudoku in bed."
Bulma watched Chi Chi make her way down the hall to her room with renewed energy, balance restored between them, gut churning as she recalled Vegeta's long, slow strokes inside her, his stomach rippling with the movement, his eyes pinning her against her Rainbow Bright sheets. Sweat beaded in her hair, and her hips swayed to meet his, her bed creaking with the force of his controlled movements as he leaned down, brushing her lips with his own, his lips trailing to her ear and giving her goosebumps as he whispered dangerously, "Nobody denies me chocolate chip cookies."