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They had already had sex four times in a little over a week the first time Vegeta went out of his way to see Bulma. She knew that he did, because he showed up on her private balcony still in his training clothes, musky from the Gravity Room, where he’d locked himself since that morning. It wasn’t behavior out of the ordinary for him, but coming to her private space on his own accord was admittedly new.
Bulma was leaning against the railing with a six pack of beer on ice to keep her company when he came to her. She shook out her curls with both hands and watched the city lights in the pink dark of summer. When Vegeta stepped into her vision, it was out of the air, and his oddly disheveled appearance coupled with that serious face made her crack a grin. He touched down on the balcony without a sound, pointedly not smiling back, so Bulma filled the silence with a loud, obnoxious slurp from her beer. It was so easy to get that lip-curling annoyed face out of him that she almost laughed.
“Hey, we match,” she said by way of hello, pointing between their black and grey Capsule Corp-branded gear: too-thin tank tops and too-small shorts. It was a balmy night, and neither of them had the patience for unnecessary layers right now, or at least Bulma didn’t. She suspected Vegeta just preferred tight clothes, regardless of the weather or circumstance. It was something they had in common, actually; to Bulma’s surprise, that was a longer list than she’d realized, even before they’d accidentally started fucking each other on the reg.
The last time they were together—less than twenty four hours earlier—was during an unplanned rendezvous in Vegeta’s room. A beyond-restless Bulma, after failing multiple times to get herself off solo, had knocked on his door at an obscene hour and demanded he bend her over that very instant. Evidently, she had woken him up, because he answered the door with a bleary glare wearing only his underwear, but he still pulled her inside. He still kissed her with a sleepy hunger and tossed her around his bed when she asked him to, and he still somehow fucked her harder, longer, and better than anyone else she had ever been with.
He’d been a little distant when she left, though, and there was a prickliness about him now. Maybe he was just tired, which was arguably her fault (not that Bulma was about to apologize for rocking his block).
Still —he had come to her tonight. What did that mean?
“Are you just gonna stand there all night,” said Bulma after too long a beat, reaching into the cooler by her feet and extending a can towards Vegeta, “or are you gonna unclench and have a beer with me?”
He eyed Bulma warily, but accepted the beer. He popped it open, sniffed it, drained the can in a matter of seconds, and then looked expectantly at her for another.
“Oh, fuck off, Prince of All Dickbags,” she said with a sharp laugh. She kicked at the cooler. “One is a favor, the rest you can get on your own, thank you very much.”
“What is a ‘dickbag’?” he said suspiciously as he bent to grab another can—his first words to her all day, charming.
“Your closest animal relative.”
Vegeta sneered at her, so Bulma stuck her tongue out at him. His cheeks turned red and he took an awkwardly huge gulp of beer, which was, unfortunately, cute.
Bulma watched him over the top of her own beer. The overly-affected way he was looking away from her meant that she didn’t even pretend she wasn’t looking him up and down. Surprising no one, Vegeta seemed tense—or rather, tenser than usual. She hadn’t yet known him to relax in the way other people did, even after now making him come hard on several non-consecutive occasions.
(How could he even be in a mood like this when he’d been getting a steady dose of Bulma’s good will?)
She remembered, suddenly, bodily, the feeling of all of those taut muscles pressed firmly on top of her, circling around her, pounding into of her. She knew now that his whole body felt like it was made of corded steel wrapped around a living, pulsing sun. With a pleasant shiver, she pursed her lips to suppress a smirk. She couldn’t miss the way Vegeta’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then flitted away nervously, almost angrily.
“Okay, what’s with that look?” Bulma said, because she never could stop herself from poking a bear. She smiled sweetly at him and he—still red—scowled at her, so she rolled her eyes and took another drink. “If you feel weird because we’ve had sex like four times and haven’t talked about it, we could always just, you know… talk about it.”
“I’m not—I don’t ‘feel weird,’” he said, which was (first of all) clearly a lie, and (second of all) spat out like the very idea of talking about feelings at all, much less feelings related to casual sex, would induce vomiting if he were forced to continue. And yet, he did, sort of: “If anyone should ‘feel weird’ it’s you,” he sputtered, which would have pissed her off if he wasn’t making such a fool of himself. “All of that—filthy nonsense you were saying last night…”
Uh oh.
Bulma paused, suddenly prickling with worry that she actually had said something that crossed the line for him. She knew that she could say some outrageous things in the heat of the moment, especially the kind of moment in which she was bent in half and howling like mad. She normally didn’t pay much attention to how she talked in bed, but this —whatever— with Vegeta was not something she was trying to spoil after only dipping her toes in, so to speak. She swallowed a heavy sip of beer and braced herself for the worst.
“Like what, exactly?”
“You said you wanted me to ‘fuck your brain out,’” he told her very, very seriously.
Bulma laughed so hard she snorted; it was only by the grace of Kami that she didn’t shoot beer out of her nose.
“No—holy shit—no, I didn’t,” she said when she caught her breath. A moment of obvious worry flashed across Vegeta’s face, something she was surprised she could read so easily on him. She was also surprised that his reaction made her feel a little bit bad for laughing. She kindly added, “It’s ‘brains,’ plural, not ‘brain,’ singular. Meaning fuck me until I’m so satisfied that my head is empty. It’s a, uh, not uncommon expression on Earth. ‘Fuck my brain out,’ oh my god. That’s so much worse.”
“Why is that worse?”
“It just is!”
He huffed like he wasn’t relieved, like he didn’t care either way about some dumb shit she’d said, but she could see the tension melting from his face even from where she stood. Hell, she could feel the air between them grow lighter. The difference was almost shocking—had he really been so affected by her mindless dirty talk? She already knew it was easy to mess with the guy, but geez.
“And here I assumed your depravity truly knew no bounds,” he said, sliding into that standard, comfortable, defensive smirk of his.
“My depravity, sure,” she scoffed. “What, you thought I wanted a literal lobotomy from your literal dick? Is that all you were worried about?”
“I certainly wasn’t worried—”
“Uh huh.”
“—but your language is…colorful. Difficult to track sometimes,” Vegeta said, in the same neighborhood as a joke. “I don’t put anything past you.”
She couldn’t tell if he meant that in a complimentary way or not, but something about it filled her with the same kind of excitement she got from holding a loaded gun. She felt herself flush—fuck, this was a bad idea. Vegeta brought a hand to his face to cover his smirk, which might actually have been turning into a smile, and it made Bulma’s insides feel warm and light and stupid.
She set her beer down on the thick stone railing of the balcony, and he mirrored her. She liked that little movement, the same way she liked that their eyes were almost exactly level. She liked that he liked when she was direct. She could do direct.
“Come here,” she said in a low voice, before she could overthink it.
She had found—at this point, in this context—that Vegeta didn’t bristle at orders the way she expected him to do in the world outside of the two of them. He did react, though. Visibly. Bulma watched him shiver and stand up a hair taller, then step towards her more quickly and quietly than any human could, until the sharp lines of his body came into contact with her softly outstretched hand. He stood still for a moment and let her slowly lean in closer, keeping his own hands tightly at his sides, until Bulma said, “Touch me,” an inch away from his hard mouth. He didn’t need to be told twice. He touched her, and his hands were strangely soft and hot, and his mouth was urgent and groaning against hers when she grabbed him roughly by the hair at the nape of his neck. She found her back to the cool wall of the house and her thigh between his legs, grinding sinuously on his hardness and teasing her own aching cunt. Vegeta was practically buzzing, and everywhere his skin touched hers was buzzing with him.
He pressed all of that body up against hers and sucked and bit at her throat until she made a humiliating noise. Bulma couldn’t tell who started getting the other naked first, but they were quickly scrabbling at each other’s clothes, and when she slid a hand less-then-gently around his hard cock, he made a humiliating noise, too. They stumbled away from the balcony and into her bedroom like two crazed animals, barely parting for a second, all heat and flesh and snarling teeth.
Bulma remembered—when they landed naked on her bed, Vegeta on his back, panting hungrily up at her as she rocked her hips against the length of his cock—that he was an alien to her, as she was to him. His eyes were too bright in the dark, his heart hammered too hard and fast under her hands. He possessed the kind of strength that could launch her into the sun, if he wanted to.
She remembered this every time, and it made her incredibly fucking wet.
Oh, she thought—dragging her cunt to his open mouth and pulling his hair with both hands—this is so dangerous. This is such a bad idea.
She rode his face the way she used to ride motorcycles through the jungle, no helmet, her system flooded with adrenaline while a powerful engine thrummed between her legs—only the motorcycle never moaned into her pussy and grabbed her ass and held her closer. She fucked his mouth until she came with the force of a body hitting the hard-packed earth, and she felt, rather than heard, the sound that he pulled out of her with his tongue.
“Fuck,” was all she could say after she fell back onto her bed, exhaling more than properly speaking. She turned her head and spent a few long moments catching her breath and watching Vegeta stroke his heavy cock, knowing without looking that his gaze was locked on her. She leaned up on her elbows and met his eyes, and she saw that his mouth and chin were slick with her and his pupils were blown huge. He was looking at her like the planet was set to explode and she was the last escape pod, like he needed her or he’d die.
“Fuck me,” Bulma gasped, her body burning. “Get on top of me, now.”
Vegeta groaned a few long, guttural syllables in a language Bulma didn’t know, his too-bright eyes growing even brighter, his too-powerful hands spreading her thighs open. He felt impossibly solid between her legs—body like a blunt instrument built to cleave her in half. His teeth scraped sharply across her jugular at the same time he sunk his cock into her wet cunt, and she cried out, begging him to keep doing that. Her neck would be a mess tomorrow, but she was not in the same universe as caring. She chanted, “Yes—yes—fuck yes,” as his hot skin snapped into hers again and again and he hissed more alien words into her ear.
Bulma swung her legs over his shoulders until her ankles crossed behind his head, and he growled at her. He pulled her even tighter against him by her thighs while she worked her fingers over her clit. She felt drunk with pleasure—her cup runneth over—when he cried, “Bulma—“ with a desperate groan and shuddered into her, and his orgasm kicked her over into her second of the night.
They both came down from their high like that: nose to nose, him bending her in half, with Bulma’s knees by her ears and Vegeta’s hands around her ass, breathing heavily of the same hot air. For some reason, it felt right at that moment for Bulma to reach up and cup his flushed cheek. As soon as she did it, she braced for him to flinch and push her away, yet he surprised her: he blinked at her, like it confused him more than anything, but he didn’t pull away from her touch.
They parted in a moment, of course; he rolled off of her and she stretched her legs out with a satisfied sigh. They lied beside one another in warm, pleasant silence for what felt like a long time, Bulma listening for Vegeta’s freakishly-even breathing. She let a few dozen more heartbeats pass before she said, “Do you like doing this? With me?”
Vegeta shot her that prudish look of his, like she was vulgar for even asking, but with his cheeks still flushed from coming inside of her the look carried a certain are you kidding me shade as well. She was preparing a rude follow-up when he simply said, “Yes.”
“Oh,” Bulma said with a small smile. “Well, good.” She knew that her face was all red, that her hair looked like a fucked-out mess, and that she definitely sounded like an idiot, but she still said, “I like it too.”
He nodded curtly once, then folded his arms behind his head and looked purposefully away from her. It was so perfectly Vegeta of him that she threw her head back and laughed, which made him sputter something embarrassed and stupid, which only made her laugh more.
So—now they had talked about it.