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Velvet Shadows
They hadn’t planned to end up here.
The original idea had been simple: drinks at a rooftop bar, something sleek and celebratory. A toast to Raditz’s last night of freedom. A few cocktails, some laughter, maybe a cigar or two. Nothing extravagant.
But Raditz had other ideas. “If I’m getting married,” he’d said, already half-drunk on anticipation, “then I want one last night of bad decisions and velvet sins.” So they followed him.
Down a narrow alley that smelled like rain and regret.
Past a door with no sign, no bouncer, no welcome — just a single red light above the frame, glowing like a warning.
Inside, the air changed.
The club didn’t scream. It whispered.
Low-lit and intimate, the space was a study in seduction.
Walls draped in black silk. Ceilings low, heavy with shadows.
The scent of expensive perfume hung in the air — amber, musk, something floral and forbidden.
The music pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat in the dark.
Not loud. Not fast.
Just enough to make your skin hum.
Booths lined the perimeter — deep, curved, upholstered in blood-red velvet. Designed for privacy. For secrets.
The stage wasn’t raised. It was sunken into the floor, surrounded by velvet ropes and soft amber lighting.
No neon. No glitter.
Just suggestion.
It didn’t announce itself as a strip club.
It didn’t need to.
It was the kind of place where names didn’t matter, where eye contact was currency, and where the line between performance and confession blurred.
Raditz grinned as they entered, throwing an arm around Goku’s shoulder.
“This,” he said, eyes gleaming, “will be the best night of my life.”
Goku blinked, visibly uncomfortable.
“You sure this is the place?”
Raditz laughed, already scanning the room for trouble.
“I don’t want champagne and speeches. I want scandal. I want something I’ll regret in the morning.”
Goku laughed — high-pitched, nervous.
“Right. Sounds… fun.”
Nappa clapped him on the back, nearly knocking the drink out of his hand.
“Relax, Kakarot. You’re not the one getting married.”
Vegeta didn’t speak.
He stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, jaw tight.
His eyes scanned the exits, the corners, the shadows.
He was already regretting being here.
The crowd was eclectic — men in tailored suits with loosened ties, women in silk dresses cut too low and heels too high.
Some wore masks.
Some wore nothing but confidence.
Time slipped by in slow, sticky waves.
The music grew heavier.
The lights dimmed further.
The laughter around him turned slurred and stupid.
And the crew?
Drunk. Loud. Unfiltered.
Raditz was on his third round of shots, shouting something about “freedom before the chains.”
Nappa had lost his shirt and was arm-wrestling a waitress with a dragon tattoo across her collarbone.
Goku sat red-faced in a booth, sipping something pink and fizzy, clearly regretting every second.
Vegeta hadn’t moved.
He sat in the corner booth like a statue — arms folded, back straight, eyes sharp.
He hadn’t touched a drink.
Hadn’t cracked a smile.
Hadn’t said a word.
What the hell was he doing here?
He didn’t belong in places like this.
Places that smelled like sweat and sex and desperation.
Places where dignity came to die.
“What’s with him?” Nappa slurred, gesturing toward Vegeta.
“He looks like someone shoved a stick so far up his ass it’s poking out his head.”
Raditz cackled.
“Come on, Vegeta! Loosen up! One drink won’t kill you — unless your pride’s allergic to fun.”d
Vegeta didn’t respond.
His glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
Someone spilled a drink near his feet.
No one noticed.
He could’ve been anywhere else.
Training.
Reading.
Alone.
Instead, he was here — surrounded by velvet and vice, enduring the slow collapse of dignity.
He exhaled slowly.
His university friends were idiots.
All of them.
And then — just as he was about to get up and leave — the lights shifted.
A hush fell over the room.
The music changed.
And something — or someone — stepped onto the stage.
The music shifted.
Gone was the lazy pulse of background ambience.
In its place came something slower.
Darker.
A rhythm that didn’t ask for attention — it demanded it.
And then she stepped onto the stage.
Confident. Composed.
Every movement deliberate, every detail curated to provoke.
She wore a platinum wig — curled, theatrical, almost vintage in its drama.
Her skirt was short, black, and clung to her hips like a dare.
The top shimmered under the low amber lights, sequins catching gold, silver, and something in between — like stardust stitched into temptation.
It was designed to distract.
To seduce.
To silence.
Her heels were too high for comfort, too sharp for innocence.
She walked like she’d learned to weaponize elegance — hips swaying with precision, posture straight, chin lifted just enough to say:
I know you’re watching.
The room responded.
Men leaned forward.
Women whispered.
The air thickened.
But when her eyes swept the crowd —
When they landed on him —
Everything stopped.
Vegeta’s breath caught.
Sharp.
Silent.
His fingers curled against the velvet of the booth.
It was her.
Not a lookalike.
Not a coincidence.
Her.
Bulma.
She didn’t falter.
Didn’t blink.
But he saw it — the flicker of recognition.
The way her gaze lingered a fraction too long.
The way her lips parted, just slightly.
She held the room.
But she looked at him.
And suddenly, the club wasn’t velvet and vice anymore.
It was memory.
—
Flashback: The First Glance
It had been one of those rare warm afternoons on campus — the kind that made deadlines feel distant and lectures irrelevant.
They’d claimed a patch of grass near the engineering building.
Half sun, half shade.
The usual suspects.
Goku lay flat on his back, arms spread like he’d been knocked out by fresh air.
Raditz chewed on a pen, pretending to study.
Nappa had brought snacks. Too many.
Chi-chi sat cross-legged, flipping through her notes with surgical precision.
Vegeta leaned against a tree, arms folded, gaze drifting.
He was bored.
Same old campus. Same old day.
Nothing special.
Until she appeared.
She walked across the lawn with a coffee in one hand, her bag slung over one shoulder.
Her blue hair was tied up, sunglasses pushed into it like an afterthought.
She wasn’t dressed to impress — jeans, sneakers, a loose shirt that hung off one shoulder.
She laughed at something.
Not a giggle.
Not a performance.
Just a short, sharp burst of sound that didn’t ask for attention — but got it anyway.
Vegeta couldn’t look away.
Not because she was beautiful — though she was.
But because she moved like she didn’t care who was watching.
And that made him watch.
She didn’t look at him.
But she waved at Chi-chi — a quick flick of her fingers, a half-smile.
Chi-chi waved back.
Vegeta’s voice was low, almost uninterested.
“Who’s that?”
Raditz glanced up.
“That’s Chichi’s friend,” he said. “The one with the brain. Bulma.”
Goku sat up and grinned.
“Oh yeah. She’s cool. I like her.”
Vegeta didn’t respond.
He didn’t know why the sound of her laugh stayed in his ears longer than it should have.
Or why he remembered the way her fingers brushed her collarbone when she adjusted her bag.
Bulma hadn’t meant to look.
Not really.
But she felt him watching — steady, quiet, like gravity.
And when she turned, it was supposed to be casual.
A glance.
Nothing more.
But their eyes met.
His gaze was dark — not cold, not warm.
Just endless.
Like something you could fall into and never find the bottom.
She’d seen dark eyes before.
But not like his.
Not eyes that held stillness like a weapon.
Not eyes that made her forget what she was about to do.
She felt some kind of pull.
And for a moment, she was drowning.
In the black of his eyes, where nothing moved — and everything waited.
“Oi, Vegeta!”
Nappa’s voice cut through the air like a slap.
“Are you coming or what? We’re heading out!”
Vegeta blinked.
The tension snapped.
The thread between them broke.
Bulma looked away first and turned to leave.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Vegeta didn’t answer Nappa.
Not right away.
But the moment was gone.
He told himself it was nothing.
Just a face.
Just a moment.
But later, in class, when she sat two rows ahead of him and raised her hand to challenge a formula — calm, direct, unbothered —
When she didn’t hesitate, didn’t soften, didn’t care who disagreed —
He watched her again.
And realized:
She hadn’t caught his attention.
She’d taken it.
And he knew her blue eyes, her walk — but more than that, her presence.
The way she existed in space.
He could pick her out of a hundred.
No question.
—
Back to Present Time
Bulma stood frozen.
The spotlight bathed her in gold, casting soft shadows across her skin, catching the shimmer of sequins on her chest like stars trapped in silk. The music pulsed beneath her feet — slow, sensual, deliberate — but she didn’t move.
Her body was still.
Her breath shallow.
Her eyes locked on his.
Vegeta hadn’t blinked.
Hadn’t looked away.
Hadn’t softened.
He sat in the velvet booth like a sculpture carved from silence — arms folded, jaw tight, eyes dark and unrelenting. The club around them blurred into haze and heat, but his gaze was crystal. Focused. Unforgiving.
Bulma felt stripped bare.
Not by the outfit.
Not by the stage.
By him.
By the way he looked at her — not with judgment, not with desire, but with something deeper. Something that saw through the costume, through the persona, through the carefully constructed mask she wore for this world.
She tried to breathe.
Tried to remember the routine.
Tried to be the character she’d built for this job — the woman with the platinum wig and the weaponized walk.
But she wasn’t her anymore.
She was Bulma.
And he was Vegeta.
And everything else had vanished.
Then—
“Hey! Move, sweetheart!”
A voice from the crowd. Loud. Drunk. Impatient.
She flinched.
The spell shattered.
Her body jolted, her breath caught, and heat rushed to her face — not the seductive kind, but the burning flush of humiliation. Her hands trembled. Her rhythm was gone.
She turned away — quickly, too quickly.
Her steps faltered.
She tried to recover — to sway, to smile, to pretend — but the illusion had cracked.
Vegeta hadn’t moved.
Still silent.
Still watching.
But now his gaze had changed.
Sharper.
Darker.
Protective.
Bulma felt it like a warning.
Like a shield.
And for the first time in a long time, she wanted to disappear.
Suddenly, Vegeta stood.
No hesitation.
No words.
He walked straight to the bar — past the velvet ropes, past the manager who raised an eyebrow at his approach. The manager was dressed in a tailored black suit, his tie undone, his eyes calculating.
“I want a private room,” Vegeta said, voice low and firm.
The manager blinked. “You mean a booking?”
“Yes.”
“For which dancer?”
Vegeta didn’t answer.
He simply pointed.
The manager followed his gaze — to the stage, to Bulma, to the woman frozen in place.
“Her?” he said, surprised. “She’s popular. Expensive.”
Vegeta pulled out his card.
“I didn’t ask for a discount.”
The manager hesitated.
“She’s not available for private shows tonight.”
“She is now.”
There was something in Vegeta’s tone — not threatening, not pleading. Just final.
A voice that didn’t negotiate.
A voice that didn’t ask twice.
The manager nodded slowly.
“Room Seven. I’ll let her know.”
“Good.”
Vegeta turned without another word.
He didn’t do this for pleasure.
Not for curiosity.
Not for control.
He did it to protect her.
To give her space.
To give her dignity.
A simple way out.
And when she was told — when the manager leaned in and whispered, “Booked privately. Room Seven.” — she didn’t ask who.
She already knew.
Her eyes flicked toward the booth where he’d sat.
It was empty now.
And her heart thundered.
The music faded.
The lights shifted.
And Bulma stepped off the stage — not as a performer, not as a persona, but as herself.
She walked past the velvet ropes, past the crowd, past the manager who held the curtain open for her.
Room Seven waited.
And so did he.
—
Flashback: University Library
The library was hushed, but not silent — the kind of quiet that buzzed with concentration and caffeine. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow over rows of worn wooden tables and shelves stacked with knowledge no one had time to fully absorb.
Bulma sat near the back, where the windows spilled late afternoon light across her workspace. Her table was chaos in motion — open textbooks layered like geological strata, highlighters scattered like confetti, and a coffee cup that had long since surrendered to neglect. Her handwriting was fast, precise, almost aggressive — like she was racing the universe and winning.
She didn’t notice him at first.
Or maybe she did.
Vegeta dropped into the seat across from her without a word. No greeting. No hesitation. Just like always.
She didn’t look up.
She didn’t need to.
“You know there are other tables,” she said, pen still moving.
“I know,” he replied.
“Then why this one?”
“Decent lighting.”
She smirked, still scribbling.
“And the only one with me at it.”
He didn’t blink.
“Coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in small talk either.”
She leaned back, finally meeting his eyes.
The tension between them was quiet, taut, familiar.
“Then why are you still here?”
“You’re loud. I figured I’d match the energy.”
“I’m not loud. I’m efficient.”
“You’re disruptive.”
“I’m brilliant.”
“Same thing.”
She smiled — slow, dangerous.
“You’re just bitter I corrected you in front of Professor Hoshino.”
“You were smug.”
“I was right. And you know it.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze steady.
“You talk too much.”
“And you talk too little.”
“Balance.”
She laughed softly — not the sharp, public laugh she used in class, but something lower. Warmer. Private.
“You always sit exactly where I am.”
He didn’t answer.
But his gaze lingered.
And hers did too.
This wasn’t the first time.
Not even the fifth.
They’d been circling each other for months — in labs, in lectures, in hallways. Always finding each other. Always pretending it was by accident.
He’d show up where she studied.
She’d challenge him in class.
He’d steal her seat.
She’d steal his focus.
It was a game neither of them admitted to playing.
But they kept playing it anyway.
And in moments like this — quiet, close, charged —
It was hard to tell who was winning.
Or if winning was even the point.
The library around them faded — the rustle of pages, the click of keyboards, the distant coughs and whispers. All of it blurred into background noise.
What remained was the table between them.
The tension.
The unspoken.
She tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes still locked on his.
“You know,” she said, voice softer now, “you’re not as unreadable as you think.”
Vegeta tilted his head slightly.
“And you’re not as indifferent as you pretend.”
She smiled again.
This time, it reached her eyes.
And for a moment, the war between them paused.
Not ended.
Just paused.
Long enough to wonder what it would feel like to stop pretending.
—
Back to Present Time – Room Seven
The hallway was narrow, cloaked in velvet wallpaper the color of dried wine. Amber sconces lined the walls, casting soft pools of light that flickered like candle flame. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sweeter — perfume, maybe, or memory.
Bulma walked slowly, her heels clicking against the polished black floor like a metronome for her heartbeat. Her pulse was erratic. Her breath shallow. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached Room Seven.
The door was matte black, the handle brass, gleaming under the low light.
She stared at it.
Her hand didn’t move.
Then, with a breath she didn’t feel herself take, she opened it.
The room was quiet.
No music.
No crowd.
Just them.
The walls were upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, the ceiling low, the lighting dim and intimate. A single lamp glowed in the corner, casting long shadows across the floor. A velvet couch sat against the far wall, flanked by a small table with untouched glasses and a bottle of water. No champagne. No indulgence.
Vegeta was already inside.
He sat in a high-backed chair, legs apart, arms crossed over his chest. His posture was rigid, his expression unreadable — but his eyes were furious. Not wild. Not loud. Controlled fury. The kind that simmered beneath the surface.
He wore a fitted navy shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the top two buttons undone.
His jeans were black, snug, worn just enough to look lived-in, and his boots had that deliberate scuff — not careless, but chosen.
He looked like he’d walked straight out of a whiskey ad — sharp jaw, slow smirk, and just enough danger to make you lean in.
Bulma stepped in and closed the door behind her.
She stood there — tense, exposed, unsure.
The silence between them was thick.
Heavy.
Loaded.
“What do you want?” she asked finally, voice low, brittle.
Vegeta didn’t answer.
His gaze moved over her — not hungrily, not possessively. Just… carefully.
Like he was trying to understand something he hadn’t expected to see.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“And you shouldn’t be out there.”
She gave a dry laugh, arms folding across her chest.
“That’s not your call. I need the money for university.”
“I figured,” he snorted.
Then he gestured to the platinum wig still perched on her head.
“Otherwise I wouldn’t have found you in a place like this. First of all — lose it. It’s ridiculous.”
She hesitated.
“Now,” he said.
She reached up slowly, fingers brushing the synthetic curls, and pulled it off.
The familiar cascade of blue spilled down her shoulders.
He exhaled.
“Better.”
She looked at him, eyes sharp.
“Are you going to judge me?”
“No.”
The silence stretched — taut, electric.
Bulma moved toward the velvet couch, her eyes flicking toward him with uncertainty.
Then, slowly, she straightened.
Her chin lifted.
Her shoulders squared.
She stepped forward, purposeful.
Her heels made soft sounds against the floor.
She reached for the music panel embedded in the wall and selected something low, slow, rhythmic.
The speakers hummed to life — a sultry bassline, a whisper of percussion.
She turned back to him.
“If you paid for a show,” she said, voice clipped, “I might as well give you one.”
Vegeta’s eyes narrowed.
“Stop,” he said.
But she was already moving.
Her hips swayed.
Her hands slid down her sides.
Her body fell into the rhythm she knew too well — practiced, polished, detached.
She didn’t look at him.
She couldn’t.
She turned, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, her movements slow, deliberate.
He stood up abruptly.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“You paid,” she said, not turning around.
“This is what people pay for.”
“I didn’t pay for this.”
Bulma turned then — eyes flashing, voice sharp.
“Then why did you?”
“To get you off that stage.”
Her breath caught.
“I didn’t want to watch you,” he said.
“I wanted to get you away from them. To give you a break.”
Bulma stared at him — stunned, silent.
The silence returned — heavier now, filled with everything she hadn’t expected.
“I thought…” she began, then stopped.
“I know what you thought,” he said.
“And it pisses me off.”
She looked down.
It felt strange — but it had been a long time since she’d felt… seen.
Not exposed.
Not watched.
Just seen.
—
Flashback: The Lab After Hours
It was late.
The kind of late where the world outside had gone quiet — no footsteps in the hallway, no voices, just the low hum of machines left running overnight. The lab was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors and the flicker of a desk lamp casting warm light across scattered tools and open notebooks.
Everyone else had gone home.
Except them.
Bulma leaned over a circuit board, her fingers stained with graphite and solder. Her hair was pulled into a messy knot — once neat, now surrendered to chaos. A few strands clung to her temples, damp with focus. She wore a loose white tank top, the strap slipping off one shoulder, and black leggings smudged with ink and oil. Her boots were kicked off under the desk, leaving her barefoot on the cool tile floor.
Vegeta stood beside her, arms crossed, watching her work like she was the experiment.
He wore a dark T-shirt and black jeans, simple and unremarkable, but somehow still sharp on him. His boots were still laced, his posture rigid.
He looked like he hadn’t moved in hours — like he’d been carved into the room.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he said.
“I’m doing it my way,” she replied, not looking up.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
She glanced up, eyes sharp.
“If you’re so sure, fix it.”
He didn’t move.
“I like watching you struggle.”
She smirked.
“You just like watching me.”
He didn’t deny it.
She straightened, stretching her back. Her shirt lifted slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above her waistband. His gaze flicked down — quick, subtle, but she caught it.
“You always do that,” she said.
“What?”
“Look at me like you’re trying not to.”
“I’m not trying.”
“Exactly.”
She stepped closer — not much, just enough to shift the air between them.
The scent of solder and skin.
The tension, quiet but unmistakable.
“And you always stand too close,” she said.
“You always lean in.”
“If that’s what you think,” he said, his smirk inviting a reaction.
“Maybe I want to see if you’ll flinch.”
“I don’t flinch.”
She tilted her head.
“Not even if I do this?”
Her hand brushed his wrist — light, intentional.
Not a touch.
He didn’t move.
But his jaw tightened.
They were inches apart now.
No one else around.
No excuses left.
Her voice dropped, low and steady.
“You ever wonder what would happen if one of us stopped pretending?”
He looked at her — really looked.
Not just at her face, but through it.
Through the bravado.
Through the game.
She thought he might say something.
Do something.
But he didn’t.
He stepped back.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
She smiled — slow, dangerous.
“Thought so.”
He turned away, but his voice lingered, low and rough.
“You play with fire.”
“And you don’t burn easy.”
She watched him leave the lab, his shoulders tense, his steps sharp.
And she knew then —
He wanted her.
But he wouldn’t move first.
Not yet.
—
Back to the Present
The tension had settled — thick and quiet, like smoke that refused to clear.
Bulma sat on the edge of the velvet couch, legs crossed, spine straight, eyes lowered. Her fingers rested lightly on her knee, but her knuckles were pale from pressure. The soft lighting painted her skin in amber and shadow, catching the shimmer of her skirt as it shifted with each breath.
Across from her, Vegeta stood — arms folded, jaw tight, his body still simmering from the misunderstanding. His stance was rigid, boots planted, shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was loaded.
Then — a shift.
Her lips curled. Just slightly.
Not mockery.
Not defiance.
Something else.
She stood slowly, smoothing her skirt with both hands, the fabric clinging to her hips before falling into place. She stepped into the center of the room, heels silent against the plush carpet.
She didn’t want to hide anymore.
She didn’t want to explain.
She wanted to see him react.
To test him.
Her eyes locked onto his — and she saw it.
That same unreadable calm.
That same restraint.
It made her furious.
She stepped forward.
Slow. Intentional.
Vegeta didn’t move.
Another step.
Then another.
Until she was right in front of him.
And then — without warning — she pressed both hands against his chest and shoved him back into the velvet armchair.
He didn’t resist.
He let her.
“But maybe I want to dance,” she said.
Vegeta looked up at her, confused.
“Why?”
Her grace was steady.
“Because you’re here.”
“And because,” she added, stepping closer, “you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to tease.”
The air changed.
She straightened, took a step back, and began to move — not like before.
Not for the crowd.
Not for the job.
For him.
Her hips swayed, her gaze locked onto his, daring him to look away.
He didn’t.
She circled him slowly, each movement a provocation he refused to answer. Her fingers grazed her thighs, her breath steady, her body falling into rhythm like it was second nature.
At that moment, she wasn’t just dancing.
She was challenging him.
Bulma wanted to see if he would react.
She wanted to break his composure.
Vegeta leaned back slowly, arms resting on the sides of the chair like a king accepting a duel.
So this was her move.
Fine.
He’d play.
His gaze held hers — steady, unreadable, but no longer passive.
There was heat now.
Focus.
Calculation.
Bulma moved again, slower this time.
Her hips rolled.
Her fingers slid down her sides.
Her eyes never left his.
She circled him — teasing, daring, waiting for him to crack.
He didn’t.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, voice low and razor-sharp.
“That’s it?”
Bulma stopped.
Her breath caught — not in fear, but in surprise.
He wasn’t flustered.
He wasn’t overwhelmed.
He was engaged.
And now it was his turn.
Vegeta leaned forward — just slightly — enough to shift the air between them.
“Careful,” he said.
“You’re not the only one who knows how to play.”
Bulma’s heart thudded.
She’d wanted to provoke him.
She hadn’t expected him to enjoy it.
And now, the game was real.
No stage.
No audience.
Let’s see who wins.
Her hips rolled again with the rhythm.
She circled him once — slow, precise — then stopped in front of him.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I’m observing."
She turned, letting her blue hair fall over one shoulder, then looked back at him — over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded.
“You always liked control,” she murmured.
“But you never had it with me.”
He didn’t answer.
She straddled his lap — not touching, just hovering — her knees on either side of the chair, her breath brushing his cheek.
“You can stop me,” she whispered.
“I won’t.”
Her fingers slid down her own body, tracing the curve of her thighs.
She moved with purpose — teasing, intimate, meant for him alone.
Vegeta’s jaw flexed.
She saw it.
And smiled.
“You’re sweating,” she teased.
“I’m not.”
But he was.
She leaned in, lips grazing his jaw.
“You’re trying so hard.”
“To what?”
“To pretend you’re not dying to touch me.”
His hand moved — fast, firm — gripping her hip.
She gasped, just slightly.
He pulled her down onto his lap, their bodies flush, heat rising between them like fire.
Now she was on him.
“You think you’re in control?” he growled.
“I know I am.”
She rolled her hips once — slow, provocative — and he groaned, low and involuntary.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, her lips brushing his ear.
“I could make you beg.”
“I don’t beg.”
She smiled.
“Not yet.”
Bulma straddled him, her knees pressing into the velvet cushion on either side of his thighs. Her hands rested lightly on his chest, fingers splayed, feeling the heat beneath his shirt.
Vegeta didn’t move.
His hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white, jaw locked tight.
His eyes burned into hers — not with anger, but with something far more dangerous.
Desire held back by pride.
Bulma leaned in, her breath brushing his cheek, her voice low.
“You’re still holding back.”
Vegeta’s voice was gravel.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
She smiled — soft, defiant.
“Then show me.”
Her fingers slid down, found the hem of his navy shirt, and tugged.
He didn’t stop her.
She pulled it up, revealing hard lines and old scars.
Her breath caught.
He was beautiful.
She ran her hands over his skin, tracing the edge of a scar near his ribs.
He flinched — not from pain, but from memory.
Then her hands moved to her own top.
Vegeta’s eyes sharpened.
She pulled it over her head and let it fall to the floor.
He inhaled sharply.
Her fingers reached behind her back — the clasp of her bra.
“Don’t,” he said suddenly, grabbing her wrist.
She froze.
His grip was firm, but not rough.
His dark eyes locked onto hers, voice low and strained.
“Not like this.”
Bulma’s heart pounded.
“Why not?”
“Because if I let you do that,” he said, “I won’t stop.”
She searched his face — saw the war behind his eyes.
The restraint.
The fear of losing control.
And then, slowly, she leaned in.
Her lips brushed his — featherlight, tentative.
He didn’t pull away.
She kissed him — deep, her hands sliding into his hair, her body pressing closer.
And finally, he gave in.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that had waited far too long.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was hard and hot.
It was months of silence.
Of tension.
Of everything they never said.
Vegeta’s grip shifted — no longer holding back, no longer careful.
It turned from restraint to possession.
His mouth crushed hers and she met him with equal force — no hesitation, no softness. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, anchoring, her grip tight, desperate. His hands slid down her back, palms rough, fingers splayed, gripping her waist with a strength that made her gasp. He dragged her closer until she was straddling him fully, knees pressed into the cushion on either side of his thighs, her skirt riding up, her breath already uneven.
The armrests dug into her legs, but she didn’t care.
She wanted to feel everything — the tension in his body, the heat between them, the way his breath stuttered when her hips pressed down and rubbed against the hardness between them.
Vegeta’s hands roamed — rough, greedy, searching.
He grabbed her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, then slid down to her thighs, squeezing, lifting, adjusting her angle until she was grinding against him just right.
Then lower — his hands cupped her ass, pulled her tighter, forcing her to feel every inch of him through the layers still between them.
She gasped into his mouth, her breath breaking, her body already trembling from the friction, from the way he didn’t hold back.
Her hips rolled instinctively, chasing more, pressing harder, her body aching for contact.
“You feel that?” he growled against her lips, voice low and ragged, his forehead pressed to hers, eyes locked.
She nodded, lips brushing his, her voice barely a breath.
“I want more.”
“You’ll get it.”
He didn’t wait.
His hands were already at her back, fingers working the clasp of her bra — rough, impatient. The hook gave way with a snap, and he slid the straps down her arms, letting the fabric fall between them.
Then his mouth was on her breasts — not gentle, not tentative.
He devoured her.
His lips closed around one nipple, sucking hard, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
She arched into him, her breath catching, her fingers clutching his shoulders, nails digging in.
He didn’t stop.
He moved to the other breast, dragging his mouth across her skin, biting softly, licking deeper, teasing until her moans turned sharp.
His hands gripped her waist, then slid up — palms rough against her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts, lifting, squeezing, exploring.
Bulma’s head fell back, her hips grinding down against him, her body already trembling from the heat, the friction, the way he touched her like he needed to memorize every inch.
“You like that,” he muttered against her skin.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He kissed lower — down her sternum, across her stomach, dragging his mouth slowly, deliberately, until she was squirming in his lap, her thighs tightening around him.
She explored him too — her fingers sliding down his chest, tracing every scar, every line of muscle, every twitch beneath his skin. She didn’t rush. She wanted to feel him react. Her touch was slow, intentional, dragging across his ribs, down his abdomen, pausing at the sharp curve of his hip.
Then she leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, his neck, her breath hot against his skin. She kissed him there — open-mouthed, biting softly, tasting the sweat that had already begun to rise. He groaned low, his hands tightening on her waist.
Her skirt was still on — twisted, bunched, in the way.
He shoved it up, rough and impatient, exposing her thighs. His hands slid underneath, palms dragging along the inside of her legs, knuckles grazing heat.
Then his fingers found the edge of her underwear — damp, clinging, obstructing.
He pushed it aside, not gently but with purpose, baring her just enough to reach her fully.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered, voice thick, breath hot against her collarbone.
“Then do something about it,” she whispered, grinding down harder.
He didn’t hesitate.
His fingers slid higher, between her legs, finding her slick and ready.
He touched her — slow, firm, deliberate.
Not just teasing. Exploring.
She gasped, her hips jerking, her nails digging into his arms.
Her head fell forward, forehead resting against his, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
“Vegeta…”
He kept going — circling, pressing, dragging his fingers just right until her thighs trembled and her body began to shake. She moaned against his mouth, her rhythm faltering, her grip tightening.
Then his hands moved lower again — sliding over her hips, down her thighs, and this time he didn’t just push the fabric aside.
He pulled it down — slow, rough, final.
It slipped over her skin, down her legs, and was gone.
He looked at her — eyes dark, jaw clenched, breath ragged.
Bulma didn’t flinch.
She held his gaze, her body still trembling from his touch, lips parted, breath shallow.
Then she leaned in again, kissed him — slow this time, deep, dragging her mouth across his, tasting him, claiming him.
Vegeta’s hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into bare skin, pulling her closer until her body was flush against his.
She could feel him — hot, hard, pulsing beneath her, the tension in his muscles barely contained.
Her hand slid down between them, fingers trailing over his stomach, then lower — undoing, tugging, freeing him with slow, deliberate motion.
She slipped the belt loose, popped the button, dragged the zipper down, and pushed everything down over his hips, knuckles grazing heat.
His boxers followed — peeled away with the same rhythm, until he was bare beneath her.
She wrapped her fingers around him, stroked once — firm, unhurried, her thumb brushing the tip.
“Fuck, you’re so hard,” she whispered.
“I’ve been since you opened that damn door,” he hissed.
She kissed him — messy, open-mouthed, her tongue dragging against his, her hips grinding up into him.
“Don’t tease,” he growled.
She leaned in, lips at his ear, voice low and electric.
“You said you wouldn’t stop.”
“I won’t.”
He reached behind him, pulled the foil packet from his back pocket, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled it on fast — eyes never leaving hers, locked and burning.
She looked down at him, then back into his eyes.
“Ride me,” he said.
She didn’t wait.
Bulma shifted her hips, lined herself up, and sank down onto him — slow, deep, deliberate.
Her body stretched to take him, inch by inch, the pressure sharp, the heat immediate.
Her mouth fell open, breath catching in her throat, and her nails clawed down his chest — dragging red lines into sweat-slicked skin.
Vegeta groaned — guttural, raw, his head falling back for a beat before snapping forward again.
His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging in, holding her steady as she settled fully onto him.
She began to move — hips grinding, breath ragged, her rhythm fast and hungry.
She rode him hard, chasing friction, chasing heat, chasing the edge.
Her thighs flexed with every roll, her body arching, her breath spilling in broken gasps.
But she needed more.
She shifted her angle, rolled her hips tighter, sharper — dragging herself against him, chasing that spot that made her legs shake.
Her moans grew louder, breathless, desperate.
Vegeta felt it — the way her body clenched, the way her rhythm sharpened.
He didn’t just hold her steady.
He helped her chase it.
His grip tightened, dragging her down harder, deeper, matching her pace with raw force.
Every time she lifted, he met her halfway — driving up into her, sharp and relentless, making her feel every inch.
“You’re close,” he muttered, voice low, strained.
Bulma nodded, breath hitching, her fingers clutching his shoulders.
“Then stop holding back,” he growled. “I want you loud. I want you shaking.”
She leaned forward, her chest brushing his, nipples grazing his skin, her lips trailing along his neck.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, anchoring herself as she kissed him — not soft, not sweet — biting his lower lip, pulling, moaning against his mouth.
He slid one hand between them, fingers finding where she needed him most. Vegeta pressed, circled, timed it with every thrust — relentless, precise, merciless.
She gasped, her rhythm faltering, her thighs trembling.
“Fuck—Vegeta—”
“Let me feel you fall apart,” he said, voice rough against her ear.
Her breath shattered.
Her body burned.
She was right there — teetering, shaking, her whole body tightening around him.
He grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her close, slammed up into her again — harder, deeper, relentless. His breath was hot against her skin, his body tense beneath hers, every thrust a demand.
“Come for me,” he said — not pleading, not coaxing, but commanding.
She broke.
Her cry tore through the room, her body locking, her nails digging into his shoulders, her thighs clenching around him as she came — hard, violent, unstoppable.
Only then did he let go.
Vegeta drove into her — fast, rough, chasing his own edge, groaning into her neck as he followed her over.
His body jerked beneath hers, breathless, shaking, undone.
They stayed like that — tangled, slick, breathless.
Her forehead rested against his, her fingers still curled in his hair.
His hands stayed on her hips, not loosening, not letting go.
No words.
Just heat.
Just the sound of their breathing.
Slowly, Bulma let herself sink — her body softening, her breath evening out.
She slid down just enough to rest her head on his chest, where his heart beat fast, uneven, real.
Vegeta’s arm shifted around her, his fingers still tangled in her hair, his breath shallow and quiet.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t let go.
And that was enough.
“I didn’t plan this,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“But you let me in.”
“I couldn’t stop it.”
She lifted her head, kissed him once — soft, grounding, nothing like before.
“I don’t regret it,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
He looked at her then — not guarded, not cold. Just… open.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “But I want something.”
Her brow lifted. “What?”
“A date.”
She blinked.
Vegeta. Asking for a date.
Not demanding.
Not commanding.
Just… asking.
She smiled — slow, real, surprised.
“I’d like that.”
The world felt quiet.
Not heavy.
Not dangerous.
Just… possible