Written for the We're Just Saiyan Advent thingie. Day 1′s prompt was hot chocolate.
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She shuts off the burner and immediately lifts the pan with a practiced grip, tipping it slightly to the side to watch the satisfyingly thick stream pour into her mug, when a wall of heat presses up against her back. Two hands dip into her sleep shorts, dragging callouses over the curve of her hips and down the tops of her thighs.
Leaning back into that familiar weight is second nature, her muscles unlocking in an instant, and as those hands delve a little further her mouth twists on a shivery laugh. "We'd better make this quick. My husband's due back for a visit anytime now and he'll go berserk if he finds us like this."
Vegeta nips at the swell of her earlobe. "You're not funny."
"I'm hilarious," she counters, tilting her head to give his mouth better access. A hot wash of air pulls another shiver from her as he drags the tip of his nose down the line where her jaw meets her neck, and she smiles, turning her head to press her cheek to his forehead. They stand there like that for a few moments, locked together, and breathe.
"It's late. I thought you'd be asleep." The words rumble across her skin with the dreamy promise of distant thunder.
"I got caught up doing simulations in the lab… and by that I mean I threw a computer and spent way longer than I should've rebuilding it, then I saw the time. I figured I'd just stay up and wait for you to finally show." She gets a grateful swipe of tongue for that. "So, how are your classes going at the Son Goku Institute for Familial Neglect?"
"As if that idiot had any kind of formal education," Vegeta snorts. She can feel the moment the implication catches up with him: his fingers twitch against the swell of her mons before he pulls both his hands out of her shorts and backs away. "I haven't neglected you—"
This ought to be rich. She turns neatly on her heel and turns back to the counter. "It's been six months, asshole."
"When the greatest fighter in the universe wants to train you, you don't turn him down," Vegeta snarls.
"Whis wanted to train you, did he?" With a smirk, she reaches for the bowl of whipped cream—whisked until her arm threatened to detach, so it'd better be the best damn thing she's ever tasted—and spoons a dollop into her mug. It sits there like a little boat.
"Yes."
"You didn't badger him to take you on as a student? He just realized how amazing you are and begged you to come and train under him." She brings her mug up to her lips and takes a curious sip. Just this side of too-hot. It slips down the back of her throat like an oil spill, thick and cloying and absolutely perfect.
His clears his throat, shifty-eyed. "Exactly."
"Then explain this," she says, fumbling on the counter behind her for her phone. With the press of a button, her lock screen appears and she turns it to show him. The strangled sound of mortified outrage he makes at the sight of himself in an apron, clutching a mop and shouting at Goku, is something she'll treasure for the rest of her life.
"Where the fuck did you get that?!" The blood vessels in his eyes are bulging, and she's pretty sure it's not out of exhaustion.
She shrugs. "Whis."
That brings him up short. "But how—"
"Whis and I are bros." She takes another sip and closes her eyes in bliss. Man, but this is some of the best shit she's ever tasted. "I send him recipes, he sends me candids of you. Probably the best deal I've ever negotiated."
Vegeta's mouth moves soundlessly, and then before she can react, her mug disappears from her hand and rematerializes in Vegeta's. Damn saiyan super speed.
Pouting, Vegeta knocks back his prize, licking his lips thoughtfully as those admittedly delectable neck muscles swallow it down. He freezes, swallows again, and then squints at her suspiciously. "Who made this?"
"I did."
"Impossible," he says, a little wide-eyed. "It's delicious."
"Fuck you," Bulma snaps, crossing her arms. "I had six months to kill before I saw you again, so I took a class."
Vegeta peers into the empty mug. "They have classes on performing miracles?"
"Cooking is just chemistry, asshole."
"You hate chemistry," he says, bringing the mug up to lick the dregs from the rim. "I've spent Dende knows how many years listening to you bitch about the field being polluted with morons who failed out of molecular biology."
She sniffs and turns back to the counter, tossing her phone down and reaching for another mug. "I still stand behind that, but just because I don't like chemists doesn't mean I'm not a half-decent one when the time calls for it."
While His Royal Fuckmunch was off training with a master, so was she. It took only a few thousand zeni and a barely-veiled threat to expose an extramarital affair to get world-renowned Chef Pecsek to personally teach her how to boil water without burning down the neighborhood. The first couple of attempts didn't quite go how she'd hoped, and Capsule Corp quietly paid the fines and settled with all the plaintiffs, but after that it went relatively well. By the eleventh lesson, she was a goddamn culinary genius.
Well, that might be stretching it a bit, but damn can she make hot chocolate. And they all said she couldn't be taught.
She grabs the pot, tips chocolate into her new mug and, with a grumble, tops off the mug Vegeta stole when he thrusts it under her nose. Before she can open her mouth to ask if he wants whipped cream, he drains his drink in seconds. Philistine.
"So," Bulma drops another whipped cream boat into her mug, "how long do we get to keep you before Whis comes and begs you to go back?"
"A week."
A week? It isn't nearly long enough after six goddamn months—at least not for the kind of "welcome home" marathon sex she'd planned. And once Trunks wakes up to find his father back home, that'll be the end of that. Thwarted, she fastens her mouth to the rim of her mug with a sigh, sipping her chocolate and mentally trashing all the sex toys and lube she'd bought for this very occasion. What a waste.
Well. At least they'll have nights. Including this one. She smiles, ready to salvage some of her plans, and turns to her right to suggest Vegeta drop his pants so she can properly welcome him home, but the long-suffering expression on his face stops her.
"Vegeta? What's wrong?"
He's not looking at her. Brows knitting in confusion, she follows his gaze and turns her head to the left.
The god of destruction and his keeper stand right next to her, smiling as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding."
"Greetings, Lady Bulma!" Whis chirps, a literal ray of goddamn sunshine. "When Vegeta asked to come for a visit, I couldn't help but invite myself along. I find I had missed you, my dear. Texting just doesn't have the same emotional connection, wouldn't you agree? And I am dying to hear about your progress with your dark matter rearranger. Vegeta, you're so very lucky to have such a wonderfully intelligent and beautiful partner. Oh dear, what is that delectable smell? It's so sweet and rich! I wonder, is it this beverage you're drinking, Lady Bulma? I must know what it is."
"Laying it on a bit thick, there, aren't we?"
Whis beams at her. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh." She cuts Vegeta an unimpressed glare, because really? He just does his signature avoidance tactic: crossing his arms and looking anywhere but at her. Bastard. "Whis, Lord Beerus… While it's wonderful to see you both, I was hoping to spend some quality time with my husband after being apart from him for half a year…"
"Of course, Lady Bulma, I completely understand." Whis nods sagely but doesn't move.
"Maybe you guys can come back tomorrow."
"Of course, Lady Bulma."
There's a headache making itself known right at the base of her skull. Her eyebrow twitches. "So… Anytime you want to leave, please feel free."
"Of course, Lady Bulma."
She drops the pleasantries. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"
"Of course not, Lady Bulma," Whis says with a smile.
"Of course not," she echoes, defeated, then glances to Whis's right. Beerus just stares pointedly at her until she hands over her hot chocolate with a sigh.
She's never getting laid.