Milk
It was late. Capsule Corp's metallic halls were dark, like a submarine submerged in the inky depths of an ocean — or so Bulma's imagination had her believe as she walked through her home. Ugh, she was exhausted. She had been working around the clock on her latest experiment, barely catching the odd hour of sleep here and there as she waited for simulations to run their course. Her mind felt like syrup, her thoughts sluggish and hard to come by. She had hit her limit. As a scientist she knew the woes of sleep deprivation. Persistence in this state would only lead to mistakes, not results. Frustrated and impatient with her human limitations, Bulma nevertheless did the adult thing and had packed up her work in the lab before making her way to her bedroom to get some overdue rest.
Gaaooowrrrr!
Like a disgruntled cat in heat, her stomach made its needs known.
Er, well, perhaps she should eat something before bed.
Her feet lead her to the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, it was empty this time of night. Bulma didn't bother turning on the lights, her eyes already adjusted to the dark, her muscle memory well tuned to the kitchen's layout. She found some leftovers and put them into the microwave to heat. As the food slowly rotated under the butter-yellow light, Bulma found a seat at the kitchen counter and waited.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
A sound woke her, her head jerking up from where she had been sleeping — and drooling — on the countertop.
A few feet across from her, Vegeta stood at the refrigerator, looking just as taken-aback as she felt. His right hand rested on the fridge door, his left held a new gallon jug of milk. He looked hesitant, a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Bulma often got after him about raiding the refrigerator, not because of the food he took — he was more than welcome to it — but for the mess he inevitably left.
But right now, Bulma was more interested in his state of undress. Vegeta was topless, all shoulders and chest and abs-for-days that disappeared into a pair of haphazardly-worn Capsule Corp track-pants. She could smell ocean-spray scented soap on him; he must have come directly from a shower, having washed away the sweat and fatigue of another grueling session in the Gravity Room.
Their eyes met: hers wide, his guarded and unsure what to make of her presence in the kitchen at this hour.
When she made no move to stop him, Vegeta opened the milk jug and started chugging down the contents. His eyes remained locked on hers, wary and watchful.
She grimaced at his actions. "Ew, Vegeta. Use a glass. No one wants to share your back-wash."
His eyes narrowed. Ignoring her compliant, he continued drinking directly from the bottle. His Adam's-apple bobbed with each thirsty gulp, and the jug was rapidly drained. Holy shit, he wasn't going to actually finish it all, was he?
He was, and did. Jeez, Saiyans and their endless appetites.
With a satisfied gasp for air, Vegeta tossed the empty container into the sink. "Wasn't intending on sharing," he snarked.
Her lips thinned. Of course he wasn't. Vegeta? Share? Ha! But something bigger was at stake here. She pointed a delicate finger at the sink. "That's not where the recycling goes," she informed him. Not for the first time. Apparently, space-faring aliens didn't care much for environmentalism.
Vegeta crossed his arms with indifference. "Not my planet."
"Oh, charming. You're living on this planet, eating its food and breathing its air, but you won't recycle one measly bottle? Take, take, take, that's the Saiyan way, huh?"
Even in the dark of the kitchen, Bulma could see Vegeta's eyes glittering dangerously. "And what if it is? Better to enjoy what your planet has to offer while you can. This place is doomed, whether by my hand or the androids or the slow death of planet heating."
"Global warming," she corrected.
"Whatever it's called. You're naive to think that that—" he jerked his chin at the bottle, "is going to make a difference."
"I prefer to think of it as being an optimist," Bulma told him definitely. "And I would have thought that you of all people would understand the desire to protect your planet before it's too late."
The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
Vegeta didn't respond, and his eerie silence made her gut churn. The air felt colder; the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
If Vegeta had a line, she had crossed it.
He unfolded his arms — that action alone filling her with dread — and approached her with the slow deliberate strides of a predator. As he moved, shadows danced across his body, exaggerating his rippling muscles, caressing him in demonic worship. Vegeta was a creature dredged from nightmare: a demi-god. Death personified. She had poked the beast, and he was coming right for her.
Valiantly, Bulma stayed in her seat; after all, if he was serious about taking her life, there was nothing she could do.
He slammed his hands on the counter in front of her. She jumped but to her credit, didn't scream. Her show of bravery only earned a sneer, Vegeta's lip curled in disdain just inches from her face.
"Listen well, little human. I couldn't care less about what happens to this ball of dirt or any others. I will use what I like, how I like, and then dispose of it. You seem to have forgotten: I destroy planets. I don't protect them."
"Says who?" she asked.
His lips pulled back, his anger flaring with incredulity. "Are you deaf?"
"No. But if you ask me, that sounds more like Frieza talking."
Vegeta visibly balked, flinching back, a dog smacked on the nose. Betrayal flashed in his eyes before he could school his features back into cold indifference.
"I don't need Frieza or anyone else to speak for me," he snapped.
"Oh, my mistake then," she apologized, her tone sly. "I should have known a prince would act of his own agency." Slipping from her chair, Bulma picked up the empty milk jug, dangling it from one long extended finger. "Well, until you decide whether to destroy this planet, excuse me as I attempt to keep it in good health and looking beautiful."
She tried stepping around him.
Faster than she could comprehend, Vegeta pushed her against the refrigerator door. He needed only one finger to overpower her, pinning her just above her breasts. She hit the brushed aluminum with an 'oof'. The impact sent several magnets to the floor.
"Hey!" she squealed, her voice coming out higher than she wanted it to.
He leaned in, his finger pressing firmly against her sternum, skewering her in place like an insect on a pin in an entomology display. "You're playing a dangerous game," he growled with warning. His strength was as intimidating as his presence, both making her knees buckle.
Her heart thundered, her breathing accelerated. But Bulma refused to back down. When it came to ego, she and the saiyan were on equal footing. She raised her chin in defiance. "Recycling is no game."
His expression turned condescending. "That's not what I'm talking about, and you're smart enough to know that… Too smart," he added, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Don't think you can manipulate me without consequence. Frieza got away with it because he had hostages and superior strength. What do you have? I could kill you as easily as scratching an itch."
He was so close that his presence filled her vision. The scent of him — not soap, but him, musky and foreign — invaded her senses and triggered a memory: skin on skin, powerful hands holding her down, sweat and other fluids, interlocking body parts…
Vegeta was sneering at her, but Bulma suddenly had a better idea of how he could be using his mouth.
Cautiously, she placed her free hand over his chest. His cheek twitched, but he didn't shove here away.
"If you have an itch, I can help you scratch it," she offered, lowering her eyes as her fingers traced over Vegeta's pectorals, skipping down his abdominals towards his waistband. It was such a treat to touch him, mapping his every bulge and line. She gave Vegeta a coy look from under blue lashes. "Don't you remember what I have to offer? You seemed to enjoy it the last time. And the time before that."
He braced a powerful arm above her head, looming closer. She could feel the heat from his body radiating out, enveloping her. Scorching. He leaned in so that their noses almost touched, his breath ghosting her lips.
"As I recall, you were the one begging and crying for more," he pointed out, his voice low and softer than before.
She smiled and bit her lip. Her hand slipped under his sweats, finding her prize, and wrapped deftly about his burgeoning length. He was so thick and heavy in her hand, and grew more impressive with each stroke as she worked him to full mast. Vegeta's breathing quickened. He closed his eyes, dropping his head forwards to rest against hers. For a demi-god of death and destruction, he could be awfully cute.
She nuzzled her nose to his cheek, and purred, "What do you say, Vegeta. Feel like sharing your milk with me?"
His eyes slit open to look at her. "You are a vulgar woman."
She grinned. Guilty as charged. "Should I use my mouth on you?" she offered. "You came so hard and fast when I did that before. Was it your first time getting a blow job?"
"Tch."
He pulled away, slipping out of her grip. As he adjusted his erection, his eyes fell to the empty bottle she still held in her hand. He contemplated it for a moment before snatching it up, crumpling it into a tiny ball and tossing it over his shoulder. The ball landed neatly into the recycling behind him.
"Changed your mind about global warming?" she asked.
"No." He eyed her thoroughly from head to toe, then looked into her eyes. "But it's more satisfying to destroy something when it's beautiful."
Oh, damn.
Bulma's vocabulary failed her. A blush burned her cheeks.
Vegeta scooped her easily into his arms, his mouth curled into a wicked smirk. "What, no witty come-back?" he teased.
"J-just shut up and fuck me already."
"Hn. Smartest thing you've said all day."
~xox~
AN: Inspired by VegetaPsycho's art:
http COLLON SLASH SLASH vegetapsycho DOT tumblr DOT com SLASH post SLASH 151298564365 SLASH bulma-if-i-was-you-when-i-ran-into-this-guy-in-my
DBZ characters are property of Akira Toriyama