Chapter 5
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Post-Match Debriefing
Meanwhile, behind one of Capsule Corp's side garden alcoves, Bulma and Vegeta leaned against the warm stone of the wall, moonlight trailing over them.
She had her heels in her hand. He had his arms folded. Not in his usual rigid stance, but something looser. Still. Like he was trying to stay still on purpose.
"You're enjoying this," Bulma teased.
Vegeta gave a grunt that might've been a laugh. "Your spy squad is an embarrassment."
She smirked. "They meant well."
"One of them tried to take cover behind a plant. And failed. Loudly."
Bulma laughed. "You still materialized out of nowhere like a final boss and caught them on sight."
"Because I saw them coming," he said, quieter now. "I always do."
There was something different in his tone. Not smug. Just certain. A statement from someone who'd learned the hard way to never be caught off-guard.
He shifted closer, enough that their shoulders brushed. "They think I'm here to steal from you. Or drag you into something dangerous."
"Are you?" she asked, only half-joking.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes scanned hers like he was trying to work out a formula he hadn't been trained to solve.
Then, almost too low to hear: "I've done worse for less."
Her breath caught, but not from fear. From the knowing. The shift. The pause between predator and possibility.
And just like that, he blinked, turned his head slightly, retreating before he could say anything else he'd have to acknowledge later.
"You're terrible," she said, laughing gently, pulling the mood back before it turned too real.
But the mood had already shifted. Something crackled under the surface, raw and unspoken.
He looked at her again, really looked, and this time, when she tilted her chin up, he didn't retreat. His hand found her waist, steady, grounded. Hers rose instinctively to his chest.
Their lips met like a pull too strong to resist. It wasn't playful this time. It was slower. Weighted. A question neither of them could answer but both were asking anyway.
When they pulled apart, their foreheads still brushed. Bulma exhaled shakily, trying to mask how deep the kiss had struck.
"We don't have to make this anything," she whispered, eyes flicking away. "We don't… I mean, it's not..."
But his silence undid her.
Vegeta's jaw was tense. Not with resistance, but recognition. The kind that made his pride flare like a defense mechanism.
"This can't become a habit," he muttered, stepping back. Not cold, but firm. Drawing a line he clearly didn't trust himself not to cross.
Bulma swallowed. "Of course not."
But her pulse betrayed her. Her breath betrayed her.
And deep down, both of them knew this wasn't just a moment. It was the beginning of something neither of them were ready to name.
The next day, Capsule Corp's tech deck was unusually quiet for a Saturday. Bulma leaned over a diagnostics panel, typing lazily with one hand while sipping coffee with the other. She hadn't stopped thinking about last night. Not just the kissing. Not just the garden. But the energy between them. It was like static electricity waiting to strike again.
When she heard the soft metallic click of the elevator, she didn't even need to look up. She smirked instead.
"You never knock," she said.
"You leave the door unlocked," Vegeta replied, stepping inside. He looked less guarded than usual, though still very much himself; broad shoulders, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he was assessing the gravity of the room.
"I figured you'd ghost," Bulma teased, shutting her tablet.
Vegeta grunted. "I don't ghost. I disappear when I want to."
"Right. My mistake."
She leaned back against the console, tilting her head. "You came here for something?"
There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then, he stepped closer.
"I've got a match next week," he said, voice low.
Bulma's brow arched. "So? You want me to check the betting odds?"
He exhaled through his nose. "I'm not asking for fanfare."
She paused, then tilted her head thoughtfully. "Are you… inviting me?"
A long silence stretched between them.
"You can come if you want," he said at last. "But I'm not changing anything just because you're there."
Bulma fought a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."
He stepped closer, just enough to steal a glance at her lips. "Try not to wear anything vulgar or distracting this time."
She laughed. "I make no promises."
"Of course not," he said, brushing past her with the barest touch of his shoulder.
But as he walked toward the elevator again, she called after him. "Vegeta?"
He stopped.
"I've been to plenty of fights," she said, lifting her mug, "but never solo. Never… for anyone else."
He didn't turn, but she saw the slight lift in his posture. The quiet acknowledgment.
"Then make it count," he said.
The elevator doors shut behind him.
Bulma stared at the closed doors for a while.
Then whispered to herself, "I think I just agreed to a date… in a blood pit."
And she was… weirdly okay with it.
The stadium roared like a beast.
Capsule Corp's VIP section pulsed with overhead lights and thunderous energy, but Bulma barely noticed. She stood at the edge of the glass overlooking the OctaDome arena, arms folded, lips pursed in something dangerously close to nervous anticipation.
This wasn't her first fight.
She'd sat through a hundred of Goku's matches, cheered for Yamcha back when he was still cocky enough to try pro circuits, even played medic once when Krillin got headbutted by a six-armed beetle alien from Planet Torga. She knew the rhythm of a match, the tension before a round, the adrenaline humming in the seats like live current.
But she'd never come to one alone.
Never came just for someone who wasn't already Z-family.
And definitely never came for Vegeta.
Below, the ring lit up as the announcer's voice boomed across the coliseum.
"In the red corner, Galactic Division Rank Six, undefeated this season, hailing from the icy plates of Duraxi-7, GRAUL THE GRINDER!"
The crowd went absolutely wild as the alien fighter stepped into the spotlight, towering at nearly eight feet tall, his skin mottled gray and silver like shifting tectonic plates. His arms were thick with ropey muscle, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the lights. He wore no gloves, as Duraxians didn't believe in padding. His signature move was said to involve bone pressure points and submission traps.
Bulma whistled softly. "Okay. So not a pushover."
Then the lights dimmed.
"And in the blue corner, representing the Saiyan stronghold of New Sadala and top contender for the Galactic Title, VEGETA!"
The arena split into half roars and half gasps.
Vegeta emerged from the underground platform like a shadow forged in steel. Black gloves, sleeveless navy tank, dark boots that thundered against the floor with each step. His expression was unreadable, but the air changed around him; compressed, sharper. He didn't acknowledge the crowd. Didn't play to the cameras. He didn't need to.
He was already commanding the room.
Bulma felt her breath catch.
He moved like war.
No ki blasts. No flying. Galactic MMA had stripped the rules down to raw power; grapples, counters, endurance, technical prowess. You couldn't just beam someone out of the ring.
You had to break them down.
And Vegeta? He didn't come to play. He came to dominate.
The match started with a clang.
Graul surged first, a living avalanche of brute strength. But Vegeta was faster; He ducked the first hook, rolled through the countergrip, and drove an elbow to the alien's ribs. The crowd gasped as Graul stumbled.
They circled. Clinched. Vegeta took a blow to the shoulder but responded with a brutal leg sweep, sending Graul crashing down like a felled tree. No flare. Just pure technique. The man fought like he'd studied every weakness in the galaxy and planned this as a lesson.
The arena felt like it was holding its breath.
Bulma leaned forward, heart pounding.
It was hot. Not just the match. But the precision. The restraint. The strategy. No Saiyan bravado, no snarling threats. Just a machine of destruction in a man's body who was treating this like he was sharpening a knife on living stone.
She couldn't look away.
By the final round, Graul's movements were slower, more reactive. Vegeta feinted left, caught him off-guard, and dropped him with a chokehold that transitioned into a slam. The final count hit the floor.
Vegeta didn't pose.
He didn't even wait for the hand raise.
He just stood there, arms loose at his sides, sweat on his brow, eyes scanning the crowd once, and only once. They locked with hers.
Then he turned away.
Bulma's throat went dry.
When the post-match press and medical check-ins ended, she didn't wait.
She made her way through the back corridors of the arena, flashing her ID, nodding past staff, until she found the hallway leading to the fighter's locker rooms. The crowd was gone. The cameras shut off.
Her heels echoed.
The door creaked.
Vegeta was there. Alone, towel around his neck, shirt peeled off and discarded. Bruises bloomed faint on his ribs, but he was already wrapping his wrists again. Not because he needed to but because he hated sitting still.
He glanced up
and froze.
She stood in the doorway in an emerald velvet dress, slit high, hair half-up in soft waves that framed her face, sultry makeup still fresh despite the arena heat. His eyes moved over her slowly, methodically, lingering with a hunger he didn't bother to hide.
She'd dressed for the night.
And gods help him, she wore it like she knew.
His stare sharpened; hungry, yes, but tempered now. Like he was working to cage whatever instinct just pulled at him.
Bulma caught it instantly. The way his hands stilled, the breath he forgot to take. The way his eyes said everything his mouth never would.
And maybe that was why she leaned in the doorframe, casual but deliberate, letting him look. Letting herself be seen.
Vegeta turned his gaze away too slowly, back to his wrist wraps. His voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. "Didn't think you'd show dressed to kill."
Something sharp and defensive flickered under the surface. As if admitting he'd noticed at all was already too much.
Don't start thinking this means anything, he told himself.
But the thought rang hollow, and the ghost of it clung to him anyway.
Bulma stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her. "I've seen a lot of fights. But I've never seen one like that." She locked it.
Vegeta grunted. "Weak opponent."
She smirked. "You're such a liar."
He gave her a look before turning around, and whatever passed between them wasn't just heat...it was something else. A burn under the skin that hadn't cooled since the garden.
She walked toward him slowly. "You don't let people in here, do you?"
"No," he said simply.
"I take it you enjoyed the show," he muttered, not turning around.
"I'm not here for an autograph," she said coolly.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes dark. "Didn't think you were."
"I like you like this," she said, letting her eyes roam slowly. "All worked up. Sweaty. A little busted up. Reminds me what you can do."
His smirk twitched. "You want a replay?"
"Not on the mat," she said, stepping forward, voice low. "But somewhere I can test your stamina."
Vegeta stepped toward her, eyes gleaming. In one fluid motion, he backed her toward the nearest bench, spinning her with a hand on her hip. She caught herself on the cool metal just as his body pressed flush behind her.
"You always this mouthy after a match?" he growled, tugging her dress up with one hand, the other already trailing fire along her thigh.
"Only when the winner's hot," she shot back.
He leaned down, brushing her hair aside to press a slow, heated kiss against the back of her neck. Then he cupped her breast, kneading it with one hand while his thumb teased her nipple through the thin fabric. She arched into him instinctively, reaching back to tangle her fingers with his. He let her guide his hand as he rolled her nipple gently between his fingers, then dipped his head and took it into his mouth through the fabric, sucking lightly.
Her moan echoed off the walls. She bent slightly over the bench, her other hand slipping between her thighs. She rubbed herself in slow circles, matching the rhythm of his mouth. Her breath hitched.
"You like watching me win, don't you?" he rasped, lifting his head.
She bit her lip. "Maybe."
Vegeta's other hand slid down, dragging her panties aside with skilled impatience. He bent to kiss her shoulder, then her collarbone, before turning her enough to tug her dress down and take her bare breast in his mouth. His tongue flicked her nipple, slow and deliberate.
"Gods, yes," she whispered.
"Turn back around." Vegeta ordered gruffly and she obliged. He straightened and pressed himself against her from behind. She felt him, hard and ready, before she heard his belt hit the floor.
His hands slid over her hips, gripping them tight, steadying her.
"You know," Bulma panted, breath teasing between words as he rubbed against her, "I always figured if I ever got railed in a locker room, it'd be after my victory lap."
Vegeta let out a rough chuckle. "Consider this a mutual win."
Then he pushed in.
She gasped, fingers curling against the bench, breath knocked out of her chest as his hips met hers in a sharp thrust.
Vegeta grunted behind her, low and unrelenting. "Still not impressed?"
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed off the locker walls; sharp, wet, relentless.
Each thrust landed like a claim; his pace as brutal as it was deliberate. She moaned, hand still working her clit as he set a rhythm; fast, intense, possessive. Her body rocked forward with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the locker walls. Her thighs trembled, hips aching where his grip dug in hard enough to leave marks.
She didn't care. If anything, the sting made it hotter.
Her voice broke on a gasp. "Gods, you're—"
"Say it," he snarled, driving deeper.
"A menace," she moaned.
He bit her shoulder lightly, hips slamming into hers again. "Louder."
"You win," she whispered, surrendering the words like a secret. "You fucking win."
Vegeta's pace grew punishing, her legs shaking as the tension coiled and snapped, pleasure detonating through her like a shot to the bloodstream. She cried out, grinding her hips back into his, and as her climax surged, her free hand reached back to grip his, linking their fingers tightly while her other still teased herself through the waves.
He wasn't far behind. A growl ripped from his throat as he thrust one final time, burying himself deep.
Silence followed; sharp and heavy, save for the ragged sounds of their breathing.
Bulma slowly pushed up, hair mussed, skin flushed. "You're terrible at keeping things casual."
Vegeta pulled her back against his chest, mouth brushing her ear. "You love it."
She turned in his arms, gaze flicking to his lips. "I might."
He kissed her then, slower this time. Steady. Like he didn't mind staying right where he was. There was a beat where he nearly said something...
Something reckless. Something true.
But the words caught in his throat like fire.
Instead, he kissed her deeper, letting his mouth say what his pride never would.
The bench creaked beneath them, and somewhere in the distance, a janitor turned up the hallway.
They both froze.
Bulma stifled a laugh. "Time to go, champ."
Vegeta grabbed his shirt. "Next time, it's your lab."
She grinned. "Hope you like countertops."
They didn't look back as they slipped out the side exit, breathless and wrecked. Neither said a word. Whatever this thing between them was, it wasn't casual anymore...No matter how good they were at pretending. And whatever came next? It wouldn't be simple. Or clean. Or easy
A/N: *Sings Casual by Chappel Roan* Lol!
Prepare to hate me in the next chapters *Muah* How are you guys liking it so far?