Acrimony or matrimony?

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for the idea, and even that's been done before. I don't pretend to own anything, and am making no profit off this piece. (Do warm fuzzy feelings from reviews count?)

Authoress' note: Hello, everyone. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Here's the deal: I wrote this snippet, and now I have absolutely no idea what I should do with it. Any possible directions would be great… unload all of your bunnies on me. Should I even continue it?

Please review. Enjoy!

Acrimony or matrimony?

Friday

She stirred sleepily, burying her face into the hard, muscular chest that was offered. The moonlight filtered in through an open window, and the sounds of crickets were heard throughout the room. A tastefully draped bedsheet fell down to reveal perfect legs, with just a hint of tan, and delicate crimson lingerie that-

The picture fizzles and breaks. I sigh and hit the mute button for the television, staring contemptuously at my own pale legs in an old pair of boxer shorts. Why can't my life be like that? I watch the heroine's gorgeous hunk of man stand up and lovingly take her hairbrush and pull it through her glossy curls of blonde hair. I can't remember where my curling iron is- and also, Vegeta and I don't sleep together. Well, we do, but there's not generally not much sleeping involved, and if I tried to get a brush through my hair after we 'slept together' the brush would probably come alive for the sole purpose of laughing at me.

Beside me, Vegeta grunts and takes a swig of beer. "Why do you insist on watching this shit?"

"Because I need to be reminded constantly of how very sad my own love life is. I mean… would you ever do that for me? Y'know, brush my hair?"

"Woman, shut up. No self-respecting man would, much less a Saiyan Prince such as mys-

"Shut up, your Highn-ass."

He takes another sip of beer, but I swear that he's trying to smile.

"Still… we're so unromantic…" I whine, more to bother him than anything else. "I mean we weren't even raised on the same planet…"

"So? What does that have to do with anything? I don't see you complaining when you have your mouth around my- "

"Let's go eat," I interrupt, turning a little red.

I get up and straighten the back of my shirt; damn cotton-spandex blend is riding up again. I keep forgetting the no-spandex rule when it comes to shirts.

"There's the Bulma I know and... know," he says, stretching. He stands up, and before I can blink, appears beside me and slaps my butt. I yelp and swat at him, but he's gone again. " You've been looking a little chunky lately, though," he adds, appearing on my other side and slinging his left arm around my waist. 

"Next time we go out, I'm wearing heels," I mutter. I know that he can't stand being shorter than anyone, least of all me. He murmurs something rude in response and the arm is gone. "Those five-inch stilettos you hate," I add, rubbing it in a little.

One point to Bulma! A small victory, but a victory still. Yay!

"So, what did you attempt to make today, pudgy?"

"Spaghetti. And it looks pretty good."

"You can't judge something by its looks… looking at you, I wouldn't think that you were a screechy, clingy psychopath."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," I tell him, looking for some music to put on. Maybe it'll drown out the sound of his voice. I stick in an old U2 record and turn it up.

He swallows down the pasta amazingly fast, considering his whining about how terrible it is. Saiyan appetite will never cease to amaze me.

I finish my own bowl quickly, and watch him eat. He finishes off his beer, opens another one. It's cheap stuff; probably domestic- I think he finished all of the good beer. Damn- now I'll have to go buy some more. I think the lady at the beer store thinks that I'm some kind of extraordinarily large bladdered alcoholic.

Nah, not me, just my lovely little boyfriend. I love him. I love this arrogant, rude, obsessive-compulsive Saiyan. I don't know why. I love him, and it's not the kind of lie-detector, trust fund, or muscle density kind of love; I think it's real this time. (Although the muscle density thing is a bonus.)

After all, whenever I'm not sure, I just have to ask myself why I keep him around, and it has to be love...Nothing else is strong enough.

"Woman, get off your ass and get me some pickles."

"What's that?" I say, voice sing-songy and breezy.

He rolls his eyes. "Bulma, get off your ass and get me some pickles."

Well, it's better than usual. Usually he glares at me for four minutes (I timed it) and then gets up and does it himself.

Maybe there is hope.

A meatball hits me on the head, right between the eyes. "Come on, move it!"

 Then again, maybe not.