Chapter Text
The first thing Bulma noticed about the ship was how obnoxiously clean it was.
Gleaming decks, spotless chrome rails, not a fingerprint on the control panels. The entire place smelled like lemon disinfectant and money. She adjusted the strap on her duffel and tried not to roll her eyes at the glass elevator zipping down to the lower decks as she made her way toward the bridge.
The S.S. Queen Panchy was Capsule Corp’s most luxurious cruise liner- flagship of their fleet. She had technically been a gift from her father- a retirement present for her mother that somehow turned into a tax write-off with a spa deck and a casino. Which meant Panchy was almost always on board, always tan, always several glasses in.
Now, thanks to a string of mechanical failures and one conveniently timed retirement from the ship’s chief engineer- some guy the crew only ever referred to as “Old Sparks,” who may or may not have faked a back injury during bingo night-her father had sent her in to fix it.
Because of course the Queen Panchy had to run perfectly. Her mom deserved nothing less than hot water on demand, bottomless champagne, and pool lighting that matched her sarong.
She resisted the urge to pull up the maintenance logs again. They were a mess. Fouled heat exchangers, overridden safeties, half-patched firmware, and diagnostic notes that might as well have been written by a toddler. Either the last guy had been coasting on seniority and duct tape for the past decade, or-
Her boots hit the bridge floor.
“You’re late.”
She looked up.
Captain Vegeta Saiyan was standing at the edge of said bridge, arms folded tight across his chest, sunglasses hiding his eyes, jaw clenched like it had been that way since birth. His uniform was tailored, pressed within an inch of its life, and somehow made him look both regal and pissed off.
Bulma knew the type- hell, she’d read his company file. Gruff, commanding, former naval officer. Rumor was, he’d led a rogue rescue op off the coast of Madagascar, saved two ships, then chewed out an admiral over open comms during the debrief. Didn’t matter that he was right, he got discharged so fast his boots barely touched the dock.
He ran the Queen Panchy like she was a warship and the guests were lucky to be tolerated. Which, to be fair, was part of the appeal. The ship hadn’t missed a single schedule under his watch.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t still a pain in the ass.
Which was unfortunate. Because, objectively speaking, his ass was smoking hot.
The kind of hot that made you mad about it. Square jaw, perfect posture, hair that somehow looked both feral and deliberate. If he had even a hint of charm, he’d be unbearable.
Good thing he didn’t.
“And you’re exactly as pleasant as advertised,” she replied. “Great start.”
He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.
Bulma stepped forward and held out her hand. “Bulma Briefs. Your new Chief Engineer.”
He didn’t take it.
Just flicked his gaze over her- cargo pants, baggy t-shirt, steel toe Timberlands, and a streak of teal tied in a low braid- and made a sound low in his throat. Something between words and a scoff. It was actually kind of impressive.
“I thought engineers wore uniforms.”
She dropped her hand. “I left mine on my last ship, along with my tolerance for dick-measuring contests.”
A moment passed. Then his mouth twitched in a barely there flicker.
“Let’s get something straight, Briefs. I don’t care who your father is, or how many patents have your name on them. This ship is not your playground.”
She smiled. Not in a nice way.
“How about this? Let me clean up the systems the last guy trashed under your watch, and I’ll be out of your big hair before the pool deck DJ plays his third ABBA remix.”
The silence between them stretched tight. Behind her, one of the junior crew members was pretending not to listen, suddenly very interested in cleaning a porthole.
Bulma tilted her head. “I assume you’ve read the reports? Half your diagnostics are faked, and your emergency protocols haven’t been updated in six months.”
Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. “Those logs aren’t for external review.”
She shrugged. “Good thing I’m not external. I hacked your shit twelve minutes after boarding.”
That, at least, earned her a slight turn of the head.
“I’m not here to make friends, Captain. I’m here because your last chief engineer nearly got this ship stranded off the Canary coast, and Daddy’s not interested in lawsuits.”
Vegeta’s jaw tensed. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel.
“Follow me,” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’ll show you your engine room.”
Bulma fell into step behind him.
“My engine room?” she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.
He didn’t answer. Just kept walking, like he hadn’t heard. Moving like he was trying to walk off a migraine in real time.
And as she watched the way his broad shoulders shifted beneath that razor-starched jacket, how the cut of his uniform did absolutely nothing to hide the tight, round ass beneath it, she couldn’t help the thought creeping in:
This was going to be interesting.
Complicated.
But interesting.
Notes:
Easter egg- Old Sparks is based off a real guy I used to work with. He had a food gut the size of a fully pregnant woman, and instead of hot ladies as his computer background screen like most blue-collar dudes have, he had a photo of a pastrami sandwich on rye. He was glorious, and I plan on treating him like the ship's cryptid.
I probably won't be able to update this very often because of work, school, and finishing HH, but I went on a spiral last night and cranked this out. Hope you enjoy.
Chapter 2: Choppy Waters
Chapter Text
Bulma had seen some shit in her time- a coolant leak on the Emperor Pilaf that nearly deep-fried the backup systems, an electronic failsafe override on the Oolong Dream that once blew the mechanical safeties on her primary turbines and had shut down the ship for a day, and one spectacular time the waste treatment pump on the King Coldliner overloaded and turned into a geyser of liquified regret.
But this?
This was worse.
On top of that, Captain Tight-Ass had dropped her off a few hours ago, warning of his “imminent return” for a full status report. Like she didn’t have enough to deal with.
“I swear to God, if I find one more thing labeled ‘do not touch or it breaks,’ I’m going to scream,” she muttered, wedged under a console as she pulled fried relays out of a comms junction. Her forearm was already streaked with grime. Her braid was pulling out of its formation.
“That might have been Old Sparks,” said a voice from above. “He had a labeling system. Very advanced. Color-coded sticky notes and everything.”
Bulma rolled out from under the console and looked up at a husky man eating an entire egg salad sandwich with one hand and leaning against a pipe that definitely wasn’t rated for structural load.
“Hi, I'm Bulma, and you must be my techs,” she said flatly.
“Day shift,” he confirmed, still chewing. “I’m Yajirobe. That’s Korin.”
Korin, a small man in white coveralls, gave her a solemn nod from atop a toolbox.
“You’re the one who replaced Sparks?” Korin asked.
“Unfortunately.”
Yajirobe took another bite. “Don’t worry. The good news is, he wasn’t really doing much for the past two years anyway.”
“...Um. If that’s the good news, what’s the bad news?”
“Well,” Korin said, “everything’s broken. And the guests are boarding in twenty-four hours.”
Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose. “The crew roster I read said there were three of you.”
“There are,” Yajirobe said. “But Roshi’s night shift.”
“Technically.”
“Unofficially,” Korin added, “he’s more like… an urban legend.”
“Lives in the aft crew quarters. Comes out at midnight. Smells like sake and magazine paper.”
“Don’t wake him up unless the ship’s on fire.”
Bulma’s eyes drifted back and forth between them. “...Good to know?”
Bulma sighed. “Alright, what’s the worst of it? If we had to triage one crisis right now, what’s top of the list?”
Yajirobe and Korin didn’t even hesitate. They just turned and pointed at the hulking unit on the far wall.
“Central cooling water pump,” Korin said.
“It’s spinning,” Yajirobe added unhelpfully. “Just… not actually pumping anything.”
Bulma’s eyes narrowed. “Show me.”
They moved aside as she marched over. The pump was humming- a low, lazy vibration. The indicator lights were green, but she didn’t like the sound of it. Too smooth. She put a hand on the volute and couldn't feel anything. The impeller obviously wasn't turning.
Walking to her duffel, she rifled though, finding the emergency tool kit inside and pulling out a lock and tag. “Where’s the disconnect?”
“Over here,” Korin said, pointing to the junction box on the bulkhead.
Bulma crossed the room, threw the switch, and snapped the lock through the hasp. The bright red tag fluttered from it as she let go.
“Now no one touches it,” she said, already moving back toward the pump. “Let’s see how deep this rabbit hole goes.”
She crouched, peering at the guard. “One of you hand me a strap wrench,” she said, holding out her hand.
Korin scrambled to the nearby tool cart and passed it over.
Bulma unbolted the protective cover where the motor met the gearbox and exposed the coupling. She turned it manually, eyes tracking each rotation. The motor end shifted. The pump end didn’t budge.
“Are you…” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “You’ve had this thing running like this?”
Yajirobe shrugged. “The light’s green.”
“Green just means the motor’s getting power! The shaft’s probably snapped!”
“...So that’s bad?”
She stood up fast enough to nearly knock the two over. “The system thinks the pump is running, but there’s no flow. There is zero sea water hitting that plate heater. If we’d have hit full load like this, we’d be halfway to a meltdown in a few minutes.”
“How long has it been like this?” she demanded, eyes flicking between them.
Korin hesitated. “I think… a day? Maybe two? A little after we pulled into port.”
Bulma blinked. “You’re telling me it hasn’t been working since then and no one pulled it apart?”
“The light was green,” Yajirobe mumbled again.
Bulma swore under her breath. “Diagnostics probably flagged it the morning after docking. Sparks logged his last report around then- ‘all nominal.’ Probably wrote that while packing his bingo cards.”
Korin winced. “Sparks would have said it was fine.”
“Sparks,” she snapped, “probably thought duct tape was a viable long-term fix. Jesus Christ.”
She muttered something under her breath and dove back in her bag, already reaching for the next tool. After a moment, she paused and frowned, looking around.
“…Wait, where’s the aux?”
Yajirobe blinked. “The what?”
“The auxiliary pump ,” she snapped back. “It’s supposed to auto-kick on if the main goes down. It should be bolted right-” She leaned, looked, cursed. “Oh fucking hell. It’s gone.”
Korin scratched the back of his neck. “Oh. Uh. Sparks pulled it. During the radiator bypass incident last spring. Said he needed the parts.”
Bulma straightened up, grease already smudging her shirt. “Of course he did! Okay…okay. Do either of you geniuses know if we’ve got a replacement shaft?”
Korin blinked. “Uh… I think we’ve got some spare O-rings?”
“I said shaft.”
Yajirobe scratched his head. “Maybe some seal kits in Storage 3B?”
“No shaft?”
They both shook their heads.
Bulma threw up her hands. “Of course you don’t. Why would you have the one thing we need to avoid catastrophic failure?” She pointed a gloved finger at the pump. “This whole thing is about to eat itself alive, and you’re telling me Old Sparks just- what- put a sticky note on it and called it good?”
“He did have a lot of sticky notes,” Yajirobe offered weakly.
She whipped around. “I want every seal kit, bag of O-rings, every set of fucking springs, a portable welder, and every shaft-compatible part on this ship pulled and accounted for in the next ten minutes. Go!”
They bolted.
Bulma turned, and stopped.
Captain Vegeta stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with unreadable eyes behind those damn sunglasses.
“Oh, perfect,” she snapped. “Here to supervise now, Captain?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I needed to oversee some basic troubleshooting from someone who apparently already has everything under control.”
Normally, Bulma may have stopped there, tried to calm down a bit. But she was on a roll now.
And luckily, she was already speaking to the perfect recipient for her fury.
She stormed toward him, finger jabbing the air. “This isn’t troubleshooting, this is a goddamn resurrection. Your last engineer nearly turned this ship into a floating death trap, and you let it happen!”
“Old Sparks said the system was under control.”
“Old Sparks probably also thought the Earth was flat and soap was optional!”
He opened his mouth. She cut him off.
“You’re fucking lucky this didn’t happen at sea, or we’d be handing out life jackets with dinner mints." She pointed behind her. "That broken pump handles cooling water for the main engine. You lose it, you lose the ship. The only reason we’re not already on fire is because I crawled in here and found it first.”
That landed. Vegeta went still, his jaw tight, shoulders squared like he'd just taken a direct hit. He took off those abominable sunglasses. His eyes flitted to the pump, then back to her.
A long pause stretched between them.
Vegeta’s jaw flexed. “You done with whatever this is?”
Bulma peeled off one grimy glove, letting it drop with a slap to the deck. “Not even close.”
Vegeta didn’t move. Just stood there, every inch of him infuriatingly still, like her rage barely scratched the surface.
“Let me guess,” she said, pacing in a slow, tight circle around him, “you’re gonna pull rank now? Remind me that I’m just a lowly engineer? Or tell me to mind my tone while your ship slowly turns into a floating toaster oven?”
“I don’t need to waste time humoring theatrics.”
Bulma barked out a laugh. “Oh, theatrics? That’s rich coming from the guy in designer sunglasses who probably yells at his crew for breathing too loud.”
“I don’t yell,” he said coolly. “I give orders. You’re just not used to taking them.”
She stopped pacing, head tilting, dangerous. “And you’re not used to anyone pushing back.”
He stepped closer. “I’m not used to engineers who think a bad attitude is a substitute for rank.”
“I’m not used to captains who’d rather posture than listen when their ship’s one blown seal away from taking a nosedive!”
Vegeta sneered. “This isn’t about the ship. It’s clearly about your ego-you can’t stand not reminding everyone that you think you’re the smartest person in the room.”
His mouth parted to continue his tirade, but something faltered when she stepped into his space- close enough he could see the sweat at her temple, the grease streaking her jaw, the fury crackling in her eyes.
She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You think this is about ego? You’re damn right it is. Because The Queen Panchy is my mother’s ship. This is my father’s company. And I’m the one keeping it from exploding under your command.”
His composure finally cracked.
“I trusted Sparks, all right? I didn’t think I needed to hover over a guy with thirty years under his belt. I’ve got a busted system, a ship full of VIPs boarding in twenty-four goddamn hours, and a self-proclaimed genius more interested in proving a point than fixing the damn problem.”
“Oh, please ,” she snapped, stepping in. “I am a genius. And I could run circles around you with a blindfold and one hand zip-tied to the goddamn deck.”
“You think I want you down here?” His voice rose. “I didn’t ask for Capsule’s spoiled princess to come stomping through my ship like she owns the place!”
“I do own the place!”
They were chest to chest now, breathing hard.
“Then act like it,” he growled.
Bulma leaned in, voice absolutely lethal. “Careful, you sound like you’re about one tantrum away from dropping to your knees, Captain.”
Vegeta’s neck turned red first. Then his face. Then his ears- flushed to the tips, like the heat was fighting its way out of him. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, jaw clenching like it might hold the words in preemptively. They came out anyway.
“Keep trying me,” he finally bit out. “And we’ll see who’s begging first.”
Bulma just grinned, knowing she finally had him.
“You always this fucking hot when you’re angry, Captain?” she shot back before she could stop herself.
His breath lodged halfway between his esophagus and his throat, then came out in a choking gasp. Her mouth parted slightly. His eyes dropped to it.
No one moved.
And then-
Yajirobe’s voice rang out, completely unaware of what he’d just walked in on.
“Hey! We found two seal kits and something that might be a shaft but also might be part of the ice cream machine-”
She turned her head, calling out over her shoulder, “I’m going for some lunch. I want this pump fully disassembled in an hour. Every bolt, every seal, laid out and ready for assessment. If any part so much as squeaks, I’m replacing it.”
Yajirobe and Korin gave twin salutes and scrambled into action.
She looked back at Vegeta, her mouth curling into something halfway between a grin and a warning. “I’ll have your precious ship ready to run before nightfall, Captain. Do me a favor and stay out of my way.”
Then she shoved past him, shoulder brushing his as she stalked out- bristling, furious, and completely in control.
________
Vegeta didn’t move. He just watched her saunter away.
His body was taut, blood rushing in directions it had no business going. Her voice was still ricocheting in his skull.
"About one tantrum away from dropping to your knees, Captain."
And he’d said what?? “We’ll see who’s begging first?”
Fuck.
He’d said that. To the CEO’s daughter. In the middle of his engine room. While half the staff was still within earshot.
He scrubbed a hand down his face like it might wipe the heat off. It didn’t. His skin was still burning. His cock was half-hard. Maybe more than half.
And all she’d done was yell at him.
Yell at him and smell like grease and adrenaline and smug goddamn victory.
It had been too long. That was the only explanation.
Too long since he’d gotten laid. Too long since anyone had talked to him like that.
Too long since someone had looked at him like she did.
He needed a fucking shower. A cold one. And maybe a punch to the face.
Instead, he stood there, fists clenched, replaying the way she’d looked at him- like she could pin him to the bulkhead if she wanted to. Like he’d let her.
Shit.
He was so screwed.
Chapter 3: Below Decks
Chapter Text
Bulma stalked off without looking back, the sound of her boots chasing her heartbeat up the corridor. She needed a moment. And a sandwich. And maybe a blunt instrument to hurl into the ocean.
Instead, she settled for the staff café, grabbed the least-wilted sandwich in the cold case, and made a beeline for the nearest coffee dispenser. Two creamers. No sugar. She took a scalding sip and hissed through her teeth, instantly regretting her life choices.
Still fuming, she made her way up to the VIP lido deck.
The sun hit her like a spotlight as she stepped through the glass doors. Her vision was immediately accosted by glittering pools. Gauzy cabanas. A champagne bar shaped like a nautilus shell. Of course.
Bulma squinted against the brightness, coffee in one hand, a half-wrapped sandwich in the other, scanning for a familiar shade of platinum blonde.
There.
Panchy Briefs was sprawled on a lounger beneath a massive umbrella, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, glass of something bubbly in hand. Her bikini matched the floral cushion beneath her, of course. Sitting beside her in a folding chair that definitely wasn’t part of the set was a very tall, broad-shouldered man in a short-sleeved button-up, messy hair tied back, and a grin that said “I’m here for a good time and maybe to accidentally start a conga line.”
“Momma,” Bulma called as she approached, voice warm.
“Bulma Blue! There you are!” Panchy trilled, lifting her glass. “Come give your mother a kiss- you’re scandalously late!”
“Well, sorry ,” Bulma snarked, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. “I was crawling through the engine room trying to keep this ship from going kaboom. Daddy sends his love by the way- apparently the Tokyo investors needed a personal touch. But he says he’s counting the hours until he can sneak away to you.”
Panchy sighed and put a hand on her chest. “Oh, my sweet man. Always working, always charming. I hope he remembers to pack the silk pajamas this time.”
The man beside her mother raised an eyebrow. “So you’re the infamous daughter-slash-engineering genius. Heard you raised hell on the bridge this morning.”
Bulma didn’t hesitate. “I raise hell professionally. And you are?”
“Raditz,” he said, offering a hand, which she took. “Cruise activities director, DJ, and proud accomplice to Mrs. Briefs’ itinerary of leisure.”
“Only when I’m on vacation,” Panchy chimed, sipping her drink.
“Which is always,” he added with a grin.
Panchy raised her glass in agreement.
Raditz laughed. “I’d say keeping her company is the best gig on this ship. She’s already roped me into hosting a cha-cha contest later on this week. I think she’s trying to turn this into a matchmaking cruise.”
Bulma gave her mother a suspicious look. “Are you?”
Panchy just took another sip, noncommittal.
Raditz stood, stretching lazily. “Anyway, I should give you the rundown on the rest of the cast. Senior staff, if we’re being generous. Floating soap opera, if we’re being honest.”
Bulma’s eyes widened. “That’s what you call the leadership team?”
“Affectionately,” he said, grinning. “You’ll meet most of them tomorrow at the morning briefing. 0600 sharp. Captain’s orders.”
Bulma nearly dropped her coffee. “Six in the goddamn morning?”
“Mhm.” He looked far too amused. “Captain Vegeta runs a tight schedule. No excuses, no mercy.”
Panchy waved a hand. “I told you this cruise would be good for your routine, sweetheart.”
Bulma pointed at her. “Mother. You’re drinking bubbles at ten a.m.”
“Exactly,” Panchy said serenely.
Raditz chuckled. “Anyway, so there’s me, which you already know. Then there’s my little brother, Goku- head of security. Big guy, big heart, big appetite. Don’t let the smile fool you, he once tackled a streaker off the upper deck without spilling his lunch.”
Bulma tilted her head. “Your brother?”
“Tragic but true,” Raditz said, deadpan. “He got all the muscle. I got the hair.”
Bulma gave him a slow once-over, eyebrow arched. “Please. Those thighs could strangle a person happy. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Raditz barked a laugh. “Well damn, remind me to wear tighter shorts from now on, darlin’.”
She sipped her coffee with a genuine smile. “Somehow I doubt you need much reminding or encouragement. Well go on, who else is there?”
He ticked another finger. “You’ll also meet Chi-Chi, the entertainment director. Goku’s... complication. She plans every formal event, musical, and play on the ship and doesn’t take shit from anyone.”
Bulma smirked. “My kind of gal. What do you mean ‘complication’ ?”
Raditz leaned in slightly, conspiratorial. “Let’s just say my brother turns into a walking facepalm every time she’s in the room. It’s tragic. And hilarious.”
Bulma laughed, delighted. “God, I need to see that. Who else is fun to watch around here?”
Raditz grinned. “You’ll love Lazuli. Spa director. Cold as ice, sharp as hell, and somehow still the most popular person on this ship. Don’t get on her bad side unless you want your seaweed wrap swapped with hot mustard.”
Bulma snorted.
“Her brother Lapis runs safety drills and environmental compliance. Quiet type, always lurking around maintenance decks like a ghost in gym shorts. Used to be a forest ranger, so now he treats the ship like his personal nature preserve. Once gave a two-hour lecture on invasive barnacles. I’m still recovering.”
“Oh, Lapis is lovely,” Panchy chimed in. “Terrible at small talk, but he’s got that brooding thing going for him.”
She glanced sidelong at Raditz, the picture of innocence. “Very steady. Very handsome. If only someone charming and energetic would show him how to loosen up a little. I suppose I could say the same for his sister.”
Raditz actually had the decency to blush at that. “Are you matchmaking again, Mrs. Briefs?”
Panchy smiled into her drink. “I’m just saying… opposites do attract.”
Bulma nearly choked on her coffee. “Momma.”
“What?” Panchy blinked, all feigned surprise. “I’m retired. Let me have my hobbies.”
"Sorry about her- this is just what she does," Bulma said fondly, with a half-smile. "Please, continue."
Raditz went on. “Krillin’s our first mate. You’ll meet him tomorrow. He handles logistics and keeps the rest of us from sinking the ship. Don’t be fooled by his height or the bald head. He’s smarter than most of us and somehow friends with everyone .”
“Except the Captain, I’m guessing,” Bulma inferred.
Raditz gave a low whistle. “Ah, yes. Captain Vegeta. Hates fun. Hates delays. Hates distractions. So naturally, you’re his favorite person right now.”
Bulma groaned into her coffee. “Please.”
“Oh no, it’s already made the rounds,” Raditz said, clearly delighted. “Word is, you just waltzed onto the bridge, roasted him, and walked off like you’d just repossessed the whole damn ship.”
Bulma snorted. “Well, they’re not wrong.”
Panchy perked up. “What’s this about roasting?”
Raditz leaned in conspiratorially. “Apparently our new chief engineer left the Captain so rattled he forgot how to blink. I’m told there was a full-body jaw clench. Possibly a vein popping.”
“Ohhh,” Panchy said, eyes sparkling. “So that’s why you came up here looking like a thundercloud.”
Bulma gave her mother a withering look. “He started it.”
“Mm,” Panchy hummed, supremely unconvinced.
Raditz grinned. “Hasn’t had a girlfriend in years, by the way. Which is wild, considering the number of crew who’d throw themselves off the lido deck if he so much as unbuttoned his collar.”
Bulma raised an eyebrow. “Is that gossip or personal observation?”
He winked. “Let’s just say I have eyes. And a pulse.”
Panchy sipped her drink and smiled. “So many handsome men on this ship.”
Bulma scoffed. “Don’t you start.”
Raditz just crossed his arms with a smug smile. “Too late.”
Bulma downed the rest of her coffee. “Well you two, this has been lovely, but unfortunately the issues on this overgrown boat aren’t gonna fix themselves.”
“Not with that attitude,” Raditz offered, grinning.
Panchy fluttered her fingers with a wink. “Don’t work too hard, Bulma Blue. You’ll wrinkle your pretty forehead.”
Bulma rolled her eyes, but bent down to kiss her cheek. “Love you, Momma.”
She turned to Raditz. “Nice meeting you, chaos coordinator.”
He gave a mock salute. “Pleasure’s mine, chief.”
And with that, she headed off down to the engine room. Back to business, heart rate mostly normal, and totally unbothered.
Mostly.
—-----------------------
Vegeta should’ve gone to his quarters.
Night had fallen. His shift was over. He had reports to finish, a workout to do, a cold shower to take. But instead, he was stalking back toward the lower deck- jaw tight, pulse pounding, dick half-hard like it had been all goddamned day.
This wasn’t about her.
It was about the pump.
Vegeta was only going down there to double-check her work. Obviously. Someone had to make sure she wasn’t coasting on cocky attitude and half-baked shortcuts like the last sorry excuse for a chief engineer. If systems were running hot, it was because no one had been riding their asses properly. That ended now. From this point forward, every bolt, every bypass, every goddamn level control valve would answer to him. As it should’ve been from the start.
That was it.
Absolutely that.
The second he crossed into the engine bay, he knew he had made an enormous mistake.
Bulma was perched on a bench over the exposed pump housing, one leg up, a tub of lubricant balanced next to her. Her gloves were slick with compound, fingertips silver, a streak of grease trailing from her wrist to her elbow. Her braid was sliding sideways, and her shirt was riding up in the back.
She looked like the cover of a maintenance manual published by karma, bound in leather, and mailed express to his libido.
“Oh hello Captain. Didn’t think you’d swing by,” she said without looking up. “Figured you’d be in bed by now. Or, I don’t know, off polishing your ego somewhere.”
“I came to make sure you’d have that damn thing ready on time.”
“Please. It’ll be rebuilt, reinstalled, and aligned by lights-on. If you’ve come to watch the show, do it by the door. I don’t need you breathing down my neck and distracting me.”
She didn’t move from her spot. Just shifted her weight and reached down into the open casing, twisting something inside with slow, deliberate force. The motion made her hips roll slightly against the bench.
Vegeta’s fists clenched at his sides.
He cleared his throat. Loudly. “Where’s Roshi?”
“Sent him back to his quarters after he tried to cop a feel. Cracked a few of my knuckles open, punching him.”
She held up her right hand. Her glove gleamed, fingertips slick with compound, but the real detail was the gauze wrapped beneath- just visible along her knuckles. She flexed her fingers like it didn’t bother her, then dipped the hand back into the lubricant, already onto the next task.
Vegeta’s brow twitched. “You hit him?”
“Of course I hit him. Self-defense. He was being disgusting.”
He should’ve said something. Cited protocol. Asserted the chain of command. But all he could do was stare.
Because she wasn’t posturing. She wasn’t even angry. She was just calm. Efficient. Like punching a lecherous subordinate was no different than tightening a bolt.
It rattled something in him. Something wired too deep to name.
“And you’re admitting that to the captain of this ship?”
She finally looked up.
Her eyes caught the light, glinting like sharpened glass.
“What, you gonna send me to the brig for it?” she asked, head cocked slightly, lips parted like she already knew the answer.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
No words. No reprimand. Nothing came out, because all he could feel was heat.
That tight, unbearable pull deep in his center, the one that had been dogging him all day, twisted sharper. His stance locked. His breath came short. The fabric of his slacks dragged uncomfortably tight across his hips, and suddenly his blazer felt like it was the only thing keeping him from total disgrace.
She didn’t move or smirk. Just kept watching him, like she was measuring something- and whatever she saw, it wasn’t scaring her off.
That was really what did it.
She was wrapped in steel and silver grease, crouched over heavy machinery like it belonged to her- and it did. She belonged down here. She thrived down here. Hands dirty, jaw firm, spine unbent.
Whatever this feeling was, it was crawling under his skin. Twisting deeper.
He wanted-
God, he wanted -
No.
He stopped the thought before it finished forming, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
That pull in his stomach, the throb in his chest- it didn’t mean anything. Just adrenaline. Overstimulation. A reaction.
It would pass.
It had to.
His hand twitched at his side. The other tightened at his jacket hem, resisting the urge to adjust, to cover, to do something before his body gave him away completely.
But her eyes were still on him.
And she was still so goddamned composed.
He managed to finally reply with a single, stiff shake of the head.
No. He was not sending her to the brig.
Mostly because if he moved, she’d see exactly why he couldn’t.
She held his gaze a fraction longer than necessary, then turned back to the pump like the conversation hadn’t happened.
He should’ve left then. Should’ve turned around and gone directly to cold shower, do not pass go, do not suffer public humiliation.
Instead, he stood there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Suffering.
Bulma twisted the shaft with slow, practiced pressure, applying another coat of silver compound and sliding it into the housing with practiced ease. Something that required care. Precision. The way her fingers worked, deliberate and confident, made his throat close.
“You get shallow engagement like that,” she murmured, voice low and even, “and the whole system backs up. Needs better alignment. More pressure.”
She wasn’t looking at him, but fuck, she had to know. Had to know what she was doing to him.
She continued to smooth grease along the shaft in long, steady motions, palm wrapping the metal, spreading evenly. Then she rotated it again. Click. Another half-turn.
Vegeta’s spine went rigid. His teeth locked behind a tight, sharp breath.
“Honestly,” she went on, tone maddeningly clinical, “the whole thing just needs to be re-lubed and eased in manually. Then you can laser align.”
Vegeta made a small sound. Not a grunt. Not a prayer. Something closer to a death rattle.
His hand jerked against the side of his jacket, as if bracing himself. The weight of his body had shifted forward at some point, he wasn’t sure when, but now every inch of fabric below the waist felt wrong. Stretched. Hot. Dangerous. Like his uniform had turned traitor and was broadcasting exactly what kind of tension he was in.
It wasn’t just the way she moved. It was the intent behind it. The assuredness. She was completely in control down here. Of her tools. Of her space. Of herself .
And he wanted to lose every scrap of control he had left.
He didn’t dare move. Just stared like a man watching his own doom take form- beautiful and infuriating, elbow-deep in industrial lubricant and utterly unaware of the fire she was feeding.
Bulma crouched lower over the casing, turning the shaft with both hands now, still coated in silver. “See, look. Just needs finesse. Work it in steady. Don’t rush the insertion.”
He backed up a step- right into a folding chair. He gripped it, stepped behind it, as if the flimsy chair could shield him from the raging, shamefully public betrayal happening in his pants..
His knuckles whitened. The chair dug into his hips. He pressed it closer- like he could crush the feeling back down, like brute force might save him.
But it was a bad idea.
A very very bad idea.
The edge of the chair hit just wrong. Directly colliding with the pulse point of his undoing, sharp and merciless. His hips arched forward involuntarily with the contact, an instinctive twitch-
and the jolt it sent through him was searing.
Superheated. Unforgiving.
Too much. Too fast.
No.
No no no no no-
His breath came in soft, fractured pulls, each one quieter than the last, like holding still might stop it from happening. Muscles clenched. His entire frame locked in place like he’d been hit with a stun bolt. Every inch of him went rigid- except the part of him that really didn’t need more pressure right now.
His hands dug into the cold metal of the chair. Jaw locked. Spine at the point of snapping.
And then-
Oh god.
It was over before it even began. The shock rolled through him like fire down a fuse- fast, uncontrollable, and devastating. Heat bloomed low, a full-body clench and release that left his knees trembling and his brain blank. And even though he wanted to deny the horrible truth of the situation, he couldn’t.
Vegeta came.
Standing.
In his uniform.
Behind a folding chair.
In the mother fucking engine room of his own ship.
Bulma didn’t even turn around.
“You okay back there?” she called, still casually twisting the shaft into place like she hadn’t just set off a sexual extinction-level event. “You sound weird.”
Vegeta was frozen.
He was utterly, catastrophically, still.
His palms were slick. His back was flushed with warmth. And his dick- traitorous bastard- was still twitching in the mess it made, like it thought this wasn’t already bad enough.
“Fine,” he croaked. Swallowed. “I’m fine.”
Bulma stood, finally, wiping her gloved hands on a rag, totally unbothered.
“There,” she said, still not turning to look at him. “Fully sealed and seated. Not bad for a half-day job. Just gotta reinstall and then we’re good to go.”
She turned again, crouching to secure the housing bolts, already back in the zone.
Vegeta’s heart pounded. His slacks were a crime scene. His dignity lay in a damp, defeated heap between the chair and the floor grating.
“Fine. Briefs. Good-good enough. Just… be at the staff meeting tomorrow. Zero-six-hundred.”
Whether she acknowledged him or not, he never knew.
He backed up with slow, careful steps-keeping the chair in front of him like it might shield his ruined soul.
Then turned. And bolted.
Fled the engine room at full, silent speed, praying to every cosmic force in existence that she never- never - realized what had just happened.
Behind him, Bulma hummed to herself, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Chapter Text
At 0555 sharp, Bulma somehow found herself in one of the too-stiff chairs in the captain’s ready room, legs crossed. Her temples throbbed. The overhead lights were punishing. She’d slept- barely- and not well. Her stomach made an accusatory noise. She ignored it.
She slouched into her seat, nursing her second cup of barely viable sludge that passed as coffee from the employee cafe, and glanced around the table at the rest of the captives.
She could point out Chi-Chi right away. She stood at the head like an over-caffeinated war general. Clipboard. Gel pens. Earrings shaped like little disco balls. Perfectly put together before sunrise.
Next to her sat a short guy with a highlighter and a brow already furrowed in concentration- Krillin, most likely. Beside him, the massive one: all smiles and muscle just like Raditz said. Goku.
On the far side, a blonde woman with a gaze sharp enough to cut hull plating didn’t even pretend to look awake. Her twin-had to be her twin-leaned back in his chair like he might vanish into it. Lapis and Lazuli, then.
Raditz burst in wearing flip flops.
“Bulma Blue!” he boomed, strutting in like he owned the place, and she was the prize behind curtain number three.
Every head turned.
Bulma blinked. “Please tell me that’s not what you’ve been calling me behind my back.”
“Only in the most flattering way,” he said, sliding into the chair beside her and draping one muscular arm casually around the back of hers. “She’s the one I told you about. Engine whisperer. Corporate royalty.”
She huffed a laugh and shifted slightly in her seat.
“Stop trying to charm me,” she said, lips quirking despite herself. “You’re not my type.”
Raditz gave a faux-wounded pout. “Rude. You don’t even know my type.”
“I can guess.” She laughed.
Chi-Chi didn’t look up from her clipboard. “His type is ‘yes.’”
Laughter circled the room. Even Lazuli smirked. Goku beamed. Krillin offered her a look that said: good luck with this one.
Bulma made a show of poking her fingers against Raditz’s thigh for emphasis- barely a touch, more gesture than anything. “Behave,” she warned, winking.
Raditz looked at his watch and leaned in slightly, voice pitched low so no one else could hear. “Bet I could guess your type in three… two…”
And that was the exact moment the door opened.
The last to enter, of course, was Captain Vegeta.
She blushed, the comment landing him a smack on the thigh this time.
“Don’t,” she hissed, trying not to grin.
There was no “good morning” or “how is everyone at this god-awful hour?”. Vegeta just walked in and vaguely nodded, then took the seat nearest the door without so much as a glance her way. His white collar was buttoned all the way up. His hair looked slightly damp. His jaw looked like it had been locked since the Pleistocene.
For half a second, she could tell that it looked like he hadn’t slept.
And she could pretty much figure out the reason why.
She hadn’t seen anything last night. Just heard the sound he made- a kind of strangled nghh that didn’t belong in polite company- and then absolute silence.
The kind of silence that said do not turn around, do not make eye contact, and for the love of God, do not ask if he needs assistance .
When she finally looked, he was gone.
Correction: he’d vanished like a vampire at sunrise. One second there, the next- just a multicolored folding chair tilted slightly off-kilter, as if it had been part of the crime scene.
It had been so tempting for her not to laugh when she was walking him through the rebuild.
Because yeah- she knew exactly what she was doing.
It didn’t take that much grease to lube a pump shaft. And it sure as hell didn’t need that much wrist action.
She was just teasing him. A little. Maybe more than a little.
And he’d absolutely taken the bait.
And if she had been a worse person, or a little less professional, she might’ve followed him out last night.
Might’ve cornered him somewhere out of view. Locked the door behind them. Pushed him back until his ass hit the wall and there was nowhere left to run.
Would’ve touched him slowly, carefully. Looked him right in the eye while he tried to keep it together and failed, just like when he had been standing there. Only it would be on purpose. With her hand wrapped around him. With her voice in his ear.
Made sure he knew what it felt like to completely come undone, this time with her helping .
Might’ve even helped him clean up the mess he made. Just to be thorough.
Her legs crossed beneath the table. A little too tightly.
She shifted. Took another sip of coffee.
They were coworkers. That was the line.
And one of them needed to draw it.
She forced herself back into the present. He’d clearly come in prepared, all stone-faced and emotionally cauterized. It was all business.
Until she noticed him finally looking at her.
Her face still pink with laughter. Head tilted slightly toward Raditz. Her hand…still resting on his thigh.
She didn’t even realize.
Not at first.
She was too busy thinking about him .
Then she saw the way his gaze flicked down. The way his shoulders tensed. And his eyes snapped up and met hers.
Their vision locked across the table.
Everything else- Raditz, the crew, the meeting- blurred out at the edges.
Something intense surged across Vegeta’s face. If she hadn’t been staring at him so intently, she would have missed it. And then it was gone. Smothered. Buried beneath practiced indifference.
She startled. Pulled back her hand like she’d touched a hot stove. Cleared her throat a little too loudly. Reached for her coffee, only to realize it was empty. Set it down. Picked it up again. Set it back down.
Raditz watched the entire exchange with the slowly spreading grin of a man who’d just uncovered the juiciest gossip on the ship.
He didn’t say anything.
Chi-Chi clapped her hands. “Okay! Let’s get started. Welcome back, everyone. And welcome to our new Chief Engineer for this voyage, Bulma Briefs.”
A few nods. A polite murmur.
Goku smiled.
Vegeta continued to exist.
“I’ll go ahead and introduce everyone to you. Starting with Krillin- first mate and logistics lead. Beside him, our head of security, Goku.”
Goku waved. “Heya!”
“Across from them,” Chi-Chi continued, “our spa director, Lazuli. Her brother Lapis handles EH&S, and general maintenance.”
Lazuli didn’t even look up. Lapis barely acknowledged her existence.
“And of course…” Chi-Chi gestured to Raditz, whose arm was still casually resting on Bulma’s chair. “Raditz- activities director, DJ. But it looks like you two have already met.”
Raditz beamed like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Bulma cleared her throat and tried not to visibly shrink.
“There’s also-” Chi-Chi gestured to the captain, tone just a shade too casual. “Captain Vegeta. But I believe you’re already acquainted as well.”
Bulma didn’t dare look, but she could feel that he was making a face.
Raditz slowly dragged his arm back to his own chair.
Goku leaned toward Krillin and whispered, not quietly, “Wait, when did they meet?”
Krillin mouthed, shut up.
Chi-Chi didn’t acknowledge the interruption. She just smiled and kept things moving.
“And lastly, I’m Chi-Chi, your Entertainment Director and Personal Relations Lead. Normally the captain runs these briefings, but since today’s all about VIP guests and PR logistics…” She gave a little flutter of her clipboard. “You’re stuck with me.”
Her earrings sparkled menacingly.
“After this, some of us will break into one-on-ones in the atrium so we can go over celebrity itinerary management, security assignments, fan interaction zones, and making sure none of you end up on someone’s TikTok doing something stupid or committing any accidental maritime crimes. Any questions so far?”
There was a short pause.
Raditz raised a hand halfway.
“No, Raditz, your abs don’t count as a maritime crime.”
He lowered it, unrepentant.
Chi-Chi pressed on. “First on the agenda: VIP guests. Along with the usual high-status crowd, we’ve got four high-profile bookings this voyage, and we need to be at full polish. That means no accidents, no tabloid headlines, and no one gets drunk and tries to hump the karaoke machine.”
She shot a meaningful look at Raditz. He just raised his eyebrows and shrugged.
Chi-Chi flipped a page. “First up-Hercule Satan. International wrestling icon, five-time winner of The World Martial Arts Championship, and self-proclaimed savior of televised combat. He’ll be hosting a poolside meet-and-greet tomorrow.”
Krillin sighed, “Last time he came aboard, he suplexed a deck chair.”
Goku looked impressed. “Nice.”
Chi-Chi ignored them. “Second guest: Jimmy Firecracker. Veteran journalist, host of Firecracker Live , and purveyor of unfiltered nonsense. He’s requested interviews with the captain, head of security, and-” she glanced up “-our new chief engineer.”
Bulma made a face. “Hard pass.”
“You’ll get media training,” Chi-Chi said sweetly. “Third guest: Yamcha.” She sighed like she was already exhausted. “Washed-up baseball player, now a full-time vlogger-slash-fitness guru. Big online following. Already attempted to negotiate a protein powder sponsorship at the pre-boarding breakfast buffet.”
Lapis actually made a sound.
Bulma perked up. “Wait- Yamcha? I met that guy once.”
Chi-Chi arched her brow. “Oh no.”
“At a Capsule Cruiseline charity gala,” Bulma explained, turning to the table like this was a PSA. “He was technically on the guest list. Showed up with a ring light and a cooler full of supplements. It was a black-tie event, and he wore a tux, but with the sleeves ripped off. Said it was for ‘shoulder mobility.’”
Krillin snorted into his mug.
“He was actually kind of charming at first,” she continued. “Until he tried to get me to take his ‘body type quiz’ so he could ‘optimize my fat-burning potential.’”
Lazuli winced. “Ugh, one of those.”
“Said my metabolism was probably sluggish from estrogen dominance,” Bulma added, voice flat. “And that his twelve-week shred plan could fix it.”
“Did you punch him?” asked Lapis, suddenly intrigued.
“I considered it. But I figured letting him finish the sentence in front of everyone there did more damage to his brand.”
Raditz whistled, impressed. “Queen behavior.”
Vegeta said nothing.
But his lip curled. Just slightly.
Chi-Chi flipped to the last sheet. “Agreed. But let’s keep it on track. Last guest- Piccolo. Music prodigy turned survivalist influencer. Known for ambient cello covers of Slayer and his YouTube series Solo in the Snow . Requested an isolated suite and no eye contact before noon.”
“Respect,” Lazuli said quietly.
Chi-Chi clapped the clipboard closed. “Some of you will be getting assignments throughout the week. Events, mixers, and special security detail. Be professional, be charming, and please- please -no one set anything on fire this time.”
She gave Goku a long look.
“That was one time,” he mumbled.
“And,” she continued, “VIP and general guest boarding begins at 0800 sharp. That’s over four hundred passengers coming aboard today, so everyone needs to be visible, helpful, and maybe try not to actively insult anyone with a checkmark next to their name.”
She shot Raditz a look. “Also, save the glitter cannons for after my welcome speech. I’m handling the galas, stage productions, and formal entertainment. You’re in charge of limbo contests, poolside chaos, and whatever you ordered from that sketchy party supply website.”
Raditz grinned like that was a compliment.
“Oh,” Chi-Chi added, flipping to the last page of her clipboard, “and don’t forget- the Captain’s Ball is scheduled for the night before the final night of the cruise. Dress code is formal. Attendance is mandatory.”
A groan rumbled from the other side of the table.
She didn’t even look up. “Yes, even you, Captain. Well, that’s all from me.”
She sat down, letting command settle fully back into his hands.
Vegeta didn’t miss a beat. “Status check. Krillin.”
Krillin straightened. “All pre-boarding supplies are secured. Emergency kits in place. Final port of call confirmations received: we’re running Central City, West Capital, and then South Islands. Three-night stay each.”
He tapped his tablet. “Weather’s clear along our route. Only thing to note is a storm system forming to the south- currently classified as Hurricane Beerus. Tracking shows it staying well offshore. No side effects projected.”
Vegeta nodded once. “Kakarot.”
Goku beamed. “Security’s good. Cameras are online, badges issued, panic protocols clean. I ran two drills last night with my team. No one puked this time.”
Bulma’s brow furrowed. Kakarot? Puked? she mouthed at Raditz.
He just shook his head and whispered, “Long story.”
Vegeta didn’t respond, which Goku apparently took as praise.
“Lazuli. Lapis.”
“Spa’s fully staffed,” Lazuli answered flatly. “Hot stone heater’s glitching again, but I’ll have it fixed before the first influencer tries to sue us for spiritual dissonance.”
Lapis just gave a thumbs-up.
“Raditz.”
“Got the welcome luau, celebrity mixer, and karaoke night prepped. Also, I ordered a bubble machine. That wasn’t strictly necessary, but morale’s important.”
Vegeta’s eye twitched.
Then he turned to her.
“Chief Engineer.”
So, they weren’t even on a last name basis. Interesting.
Bulma held his gaze.
“Internal systems are online. I ran a full diagnostic on all propulsion subsystems and hydrocoolers. The main cooling pump’s also functional again- we just better hope it stays that way until I can rig up an auxiliary.”
Drawn in without thinking, she leaned closer, voice calm, face unreadable.
“I reprogrammed the cooling circuits on Deck 4, cleared the duplicate permissions on the ship wide comms, and rewired the backup nav diagnostic panel manually, since the interface is still acting like it hasn’t had a firmware update since 1999.”
Vegeta blinked. His eyes hadn’t left hers, but she realized he had subtly leaned in as well.
Bulma paused, trying to remember what her point was.
“Basically,” she finished, “the ship is ready to run. But the engine room needs work. Software, electrical, structural-the whole damn alphabet. We can’t push her too hard.”
Vegeta’s ears turned a pleasing shade of red.
Chi-Chi coughed loudly into her hand.
Across the table, Raditz glanced at Krillin, who raised both brows. Lapis made a small noise into his coffee.
“Noted,” Vegeta finally said, voice clipped. “Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped. Coffee was abandoned. Bulma stood and grabbed her tablet, very deliberately not looking across the table.
As she stepped behind the captain’s chair to leave, Raditz passed at the same time and clipped her shoulder.
She stumbled.
And collided straight into Vegeta.
Both hands shot out, dropping her tablet and landing squarely on his bare arms. He was in some sort of short-sleeved uniform today, the crisp white cotton rolled tight across his biceps.
Her chest pressed into his back, full-body contact, and he was all lean tension beneath her.
She didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Her eyes widened. Realized her face was hovering near the side of his neck. Realized she was holding him. Realized she was breathing in the clean, faintly spicy scent of whatever soap he'd used in the shower that morning. Realized that her tits were practically smushed into his traps.
And then she noticed her tablet- on the floor. Just to the side of his thigh.
“Oh god,” she blurted, finally pulling back. “Sorry-I tripped, I didn’t-”
She crouched down to grab the tablet, cheeks burning, looking away from him as she retrieved it.
Raditz let out a strangled cough behind her, eyes wide, mouth twitching like he might actually implode from holding it in.
“My bad,” he said, raising both hands. “Didn’t mean to knock you off course.”
Vegeta still hadn’t turned his head. Just sat there, shoulders locked, breathing a little more quickly than normal, every visible swath of skin flushed an unholy shade of red.
Bulma bolted upright with the tablet clutched to her chest and practically power-walked toward the door.
She didn’t look back.
But Raditz did.
Vegeta had turned to watch her go. He caught his eye.
And grinned.
Slow. Knowing. Infuriating.
Then-just to twist the knife-he waggled his eyebrows.
Vegeta’s glare could’ve peeled paint off the bulkhead.
Raditz beamed wider.
—-----------------------------
The grand atrium sparkled with sunlight and glass- three stories of polished railings, spiral staircases, and a chandelier shaped like a sea urchin made entirely out of crystal. A perfect place to make an impression.
Chi-Chi stood on the mezzanine above the crowd, mic in hand, blazer cinched to perfection. “On behalf of Capsule Cruise Lines, welcome aboard the Queen Panchy! Whether this is your first voyage or your fifth, we’re thrilled to have you with us.”
Applause. Phones out. Champagne flutes clinked somewhere off to the right.
Bulma stood to the side of her with the rest of the senior crew and did her best to look composed. She was people-watching with precision: cataloging celebrity guests, sizing up outfits, and mentally bracing for tech support requests she hadn’t even received yet.
To her left, Captain Vegeta stood with arms crossed, posture ramrod straight. The sunglasses had made a reappearance, doing their utmost to hide whatever expression he wasn’t sharing.
Her mother waved at her from a nearby railing, already two bellinis in and blowing kisses at everyone in uniform.
Bulma gave a helpless smile and tucked her hair behind her ear.
Chi-Chi continued, crisp and confident: “We’re joined this week by a number of high-profile guests. Please respect their privacy and space. If you recognize anyone, keep it professional-no unsolicited selfies, no pitching your brand, and please let them finish their breakfast before you try to network.”
Cue light laughter.
Chi-Chi let the laughter settle with a smile. “We’re thrilled to have you aboard the Queen Panchy . From all of us on the senior crew-welcome, and we hope this voyage is as unforgettable as the horizon ahead.”
She gestured gracefully toward the crowd. “Now please, enjoy your morning. We’ll see you around the decks.”
Bulma clapped and turned to head back to her post.
That was when she felt it: the looming presence of creatine and bad decisions behind her.
“Bulma, right?” came a voice like a late-night infomercial. “We met at that charity thing-you still look incredible.”
She turned. And there he was.
Yamcha. Tank top far too small. GoPro on a selfie stick in one hand, a protein shake in the other, with a ring light clipped to the chest strap of his backpack.
“Oh,” she said brightly, trying not to recoil. “Hi again.”
He turned and angled the camera at them before she could blink. “Say hey to the WolfFam! This beauty right here is Bulma Briefs- brains and body, am I right?”
Bulma smiled tightly. “Actually, I’m working right now-”
He leaned closer. “Hey, before you run off, have you thought about doing a collab with me? You’re exactly the kind of figure we like to promote. Real curves. No filters. Natural- well, mostly natural?”
Her nose creased. “I have to go.”
“Wait- what’s your body type again? I can run through the quiz with you real quick-”
“Bye, Yamcha,” she said sweetly, already pivoting into the crowd with smooth precision.
As she maneuvered her way through the crowd, she passed Vegeta. Her fingertips grazed the inside of his wrist- an accident. But they lingered a fraction too long, warm against his skin, before disappearing.
He turned.
She looked up.
Their eyes locked. There was one suspended beat, full of breathless tension, of everything unspoken and nowhere to put it. The noise around them dimmed. The air thickened.
She didn’t smile. Neither did he.
But her lips parted, and his gaze dropped, only for a second, before she vanished into the crowd.
From across the room, Piccolo glared murder at Yamcha’s ring light. Hercule Satan looked confused. Jimmy Firecracker was already trying to talk Goku into doing an interview.
Bulma didn’t stop to watch it unfold.
She slipped down the nearest stairwell, and didn’t pause until the hum of machinery swallowed the noise of the upper decks.
Down in engineering, surrounded by wires, pipes, and things she could actually fix, she exhaled.
“Only three weeks to go,” she muttered.
Then got to work.
Notes:
Ok so,
1. That chair Vegeta hid behind was a multicolored lawnchair. 3rd of it's kind
2. Yes, Jimmy Firecracker will at least appear or be mentioned in all my fics.
3. Yamcha is absolutely Yamcha as V-Shred as Yamcha
4. All I know about cruise ships is from YouTube.
Chapter Text
By the time the sun dipped past the waterline later that day, Bulma’s hands were smudged with grease, her ponytail was falling out, and she felt more grimey than she had talking to Yamcha that morning. A quick shower, a short skirt, and some fresh lipstick had her heading topside again, this time to the one place on the ship she actually looked forward to.
The dining room was dim and quiet. Her table was half-hidden behind a cluster of planters and a curved wall feature, tucked just far enough from the main floor to feel private, but with a clean line of sight to the entrance. Soft jazz drifted from unseen speakers. Wine glasses caught the candlelight.
This restaurant, Amori Nascosti, was one of the few things she’d insisted get copied across every Capsule cruise liner. Same menu. Same dark wood trim. Same mood lighting that made the food look decadent and everyone else just a little more attractive. It was her refuge. A hidden pocket of luxury when everything else felt like sticking positioners and oil seal leaks.
Tonight, she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be back in engineering, running system checks with Korin and Roshi. But after three hours of dealing with a thermal spike that blew out a flange gasket- soaking her in orange coolant while Yajirobe licked his glove and called it “Tang, but with a kick”- Bulma needed carbs. And wine. Preferably both. Especially after spending most of that time pretending not to think about the way Captain Tight-Ass had flushed fire-engine red when she’d tripped all over him in the staff meeting that morning.
So, when she saw the owner of Said Ass walk in, she nearly choked on her olive.
Vegeta stood in the entrance like he was deciding whether or not to burn the place down. He scanned the room, then spotted her, and hesitated.
Bulma stared.
He wasn’t in uniform. No jacket. No heavy work boots. Just a navy henley, sleeves pushed up, and grey slacks that did nothing to make looking at him any easier.
Of all the restaurants on this damn ship, he picked hers ?
He strode over imperialistically.
“You’re in my spot,” he said dryly.
“I was here first. And besides, this is my spot.”
“I always eat here,” he said, like that settled it.
“Yeah, well, I designed this restaurant,” she snapped. “ I had it replicated across every Capsule cruise liner for a reason. This whole place was my idea. So if anyone has a claim on this booth, it’s me .”
He seemed surprised at that.
“I need food,” he finally answered, still standing in front of her. “Didn’t realize you’d be here holding court like Cleopatra.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you dined among the peasants.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at her, arms crossed, expression indomitable.
Then, a waiter appeared at his elbow. “Captain! Welcome. I didn’t realize you and Ms. Briefs would be dining together tonight.”
Bulma’s mouth opened, ready to correct him, but it was too late.
The waiter plucked a menu from under his arm and, with a smooth motion, gestured Vegeta toward the seat. “Your usual table, of course.”
Before she could object, Vegeta was being ushered onto the seat beside her.
The corner booth was meant for two, cozy by design. Which meant that when he sat, there wasn’t much room to not touch.
Bulma stared straight ahead, jaw tight. “You could’ve sat somewhere else.”
“So could you.”
Their knees brushed under the table. Neither of them moved.
“Excellent,” the waiter said, returning with a second water glass and a fresh napkin as if nothing strange had happened at all. “Shall I give you both a moment to decide?”
“No need,” Bulma said tightly, glaring at her menu. “I’ll have the gnocchi.”
“Same,” Vegeta scoffed.
The waiter smiled, collected their menus, and vanished.
The silence that followed was combustible.
“You’re welcome,” she hissed eventually.
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“No kidding.”
He exhaled through his nose- almost a laugh, if you squinted.
“You could scoot over,” she added.
“You could leave.”
“I was here first!”
“Then we’re at an impasse.”
She just glared at him incredulously. “You know, you really have some nerve.”
He ignored her and pushed on. “Heard you made quite a splash in engineering today.”
She froze mid-reach for her water glass. Their fingers brushed as he reached for his. She pulled back like her hand was on fire.
“What?”
“Coolant geyser. Impressive trajectory, from what I hear.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”
He finally looked at her, eyes cool. “Yajirobe said you were glowing. In orange.”
Her elbow knocked into his as she reached for her wine. He didn’t move.
“Unbelievable,” she grumbled
“Mm,” he said, taking a long sip of water. “I assume the gasket died a heroic death.”
She sipped her wine like it might keep her from throwing it. “You’re an asshole.”
He managed a sardonic smile at that. “I also saw you didn’t include it in your report for today.”
She cocked her head. “Oh? Did you actually read it? Or did you have your sunglasses do it for you?”
His gaze cut toward her, sharp. “I read it. Thoroughly.”
“Oh, good. Then you saw the part about the aft coolant system failing if we push too hard before recalibration is complete?”
“I saw it and the part where you annotated it in all caps AGAIN, circled it twice, and then underlined it.”
Under the table, her bare leg bumped his. Neither of them moved.
“Sometimes you have to shout to be heard,” she said tightly.
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the rumble of his voice against her cheek. “I hear you just fine.”
Her breath caught.
His eyes flicked to her lips. He smirked.
She didn’t flinch. Just stared him down as her leg slid intentionally against his beneath the table.
“Sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”
“Careful, Chief,” he warned, his voice barely above a growl, eyes locked on hers.
She tilted her chin, lips inches from his now.
“Or what?” she whispered, close enough to where he could feel her words on his mouth.
He didn’t answer, because a waiter appeared like he’d sensed the pressure drop in the room. “Your gnocchi alla Sorrentina,” he said cheerfully, placing two identical plates in front of them with practiced ease. “Enjoy.”
She tossed out a polite thank-you. Vegeta gave a tight nod. And then there was silence.
They ate.
Or rather, chewed with purpose , like the act of stabbing each pillowy dumpling might keep them from stabbing each other.
Fork. Chew. Sip. Stare at the candle.
After a minute too long, Bulma broke.
“So,” she said lightly, twirling her fork. “Do you always dine in silence, or am I just special?”
Vegeta didn’t look up. “Depends on the company.”
She tilted her head. “I’d take that as an insult, but your mouth is full.”
He swallowed. “Feel free to interpret it however you like.”
“I usually do.” She popped a bite between her lips and leveled him with a look. “And for the record, you’re not exactly charming dinner company either.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not here to charm you.”
She leaned in slowly, like she couldn’t help herself anymore.
“Well that’s evident.”
He didn’t move.
And maybe that was why she noticed it- how close they were now. Somewhere between the wine and the barbs, they’d drifted together again. Her thigh still touched his. His arm brushed hers when he shifted slowly. Everything he did was choreographed, like any loss of control might kill him.
“What’s your deal, anyway?” she asked, curious. “You strut around like a walking lockdown protocol, barking orders and glaring at everything that breathes.”
His jaw tensed, but she kept going.
“I mean, it’s a little textbook for a captain, don’t you think? Control freak. Refuses help. Refuses eye contact. Probably refuses- God forbid- a chair with armrests. ”
“I’m not here to be psychoanalyzed,” he bit out.
“No, you’re here because this is your table,” she said with an exaggerated scoff. “Right. Sorry, forgot I was trespassing.”
He turned to her, his gaze nearly pinning her to the wall of the booth.
She smirked and took another sip of wine, emptying the glass and letting the heat rise in her cheeks.
“I just think it’s funny,” she said, quieter now, “how someone so obsessed with control didn’t seem very in control last night.”
His whole body went still.
She leaned in, lips brushing the rim of her glass. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
The tips of his ears went crimson. His mouth opened, then closed again. Nothing came out.
She set her glass down.
“If I hadn’t been so busy doing real work,” she said, sweetly cruel, “I might’ve dropped to my knees and helped you get through it. Like a good teammate.”
The red travelled all the way down his neck .
“Bulma,” he warned, and she realized it was probably the first time she’d heard him say her name, “Say one more thing like that and I swear to god-”
“What?” she purred. “You’ll come again?”
His fork hit the table with a dull clatter.
She didn’t notice his hand move, just felt it suddenly there, gripping her thigh. Warm. Steady. Dangerous.
Her pulse jumped. Her brain shouted no. But her body wasn’t listening.
She leaned in, breath catching as her lips hovered over his ear.
“I’ve had about two days of you, Captain,” she whispered, voice rife with something that felt too much like desperation, “and I’m not sure I can handle the full three weeks.”
Then, before she could stop herself, she licked the shell of his ear.
He tried to hide a shiver.
“Tell me what the hell you want from me,” she said, jaw tight, voice barely audible. “Because I’m this close to snapping and doing something really fucking stupid. And if you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m not gonna care who’s watching when I do.”
She didn’t move. Neither did he.
Then he lunged.
One hand hooked behind her neck, the other locking around her jaw. His mouth slammed into hers- hard, reckless, no warning. The table shuddered as her wineglass toppled and rolled, forgotten.
She gasped, and he devoured the sound.
“You...” he growled against her lips, biting each word between kisses, “infuriating-woman-”
Her back hit the booth wall. His hand dropped from her neck and slid to her waist, pinning her there, while the other fisted in her hair like he was daring her to pull away.
“Make me lose my mind,” he hissed. Another kiss- rough, starving. “Make me humiliate myself-”
She whimpered into his mouth, fingers clutching his shoulders, nails biting through fabric. She could feel it, that tight, unraveling edge in his voice.
He kissed her harder, like he was punishing himself with every drag of his mouth over hers.
Then his hand disappeared under the table.
Hers chased it.
There was no plan. No signal. Just a desperate collision of need beneath white linen.
His fingers worked their way under her skirt and found the edge of her panties.
Hers wrapped around the thick, tight heat in his slacks.
They both froze.
Breath tangled. Temperatures spiked.
“Fuck,” she whispered, stroking him slowly, her palm dragging over the length of him with cruel precision.
He cleared his throat, trying not to make a sound. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath harsh.
He slid her panties aside with careful fingers. His touch was maddening. Light, coaxing. Not nearly enough.
Her hips tilted toward his hand, seeking more.
“You’re soaked,” he whispered against her mouth, voice like gravel.
She squeezed him harder. “You’re huge.”
His response was a strangled sound.
He let out a curse and kissed her again- messy, open-mouthed, more tongue than finesse.
“Want to touch you,” she whispered, grinding against his hand now.
“You first,” he shot back, fingers slipping deeper.
She bit his lip. “Asshole.”
“Brat.”
They were panting. Sweating. Slouched down and arms tangled under the cloth, completely oblivious to anything around them.
A clink of silverware at a distant table snapped her out of it- just for a moment.
“Someone’s gonna see,” she hissed, breathless.
“Then keep quiet,” he growled. “Or stop me.”
She didn’t.
Not when she was this close.
His hand started moving again like he knew her- like he’d been dreaming about this, replaying it, refining the angles. He found her clit with two fingers and rubbed in quick, devastating circles. No teasing now. No games.
She choked back a moan and rubbed him harder, curling her fingers around the heat of him through his slacks.
“Fuck,” he muttered, forehead pressed to hers, eyes shut tight.
Their mouths crashed again- wet, teeth knocking in the chaos. She let go of him, too far gone to keep focus, and braced against his thigh as his fingers drove her higher. Deep, relentless strokes that made her tremble.
“Vegeta, I’m gonna-”
He kissed her harder.
She came with his tongue on hers, right there in the restaurant, hips jerking, thighs clenching around his wrist, breath hitching as she shattered against him.
He didn’t stop.
Just softened his touch and kissed her jaw, coaxing her down, her breath hot against his neck as she trembled through it.
Then, quietly, determined, she reached for him.
Her fingers were swift, almost surgical, unfastening his belt and popping the button of his pants and sliding down the front, slipping beneath the waistband of his briefs to wrap around him fully.
He was so hard, and the sound he made when she touched him skin-to-skin went straight to her sex.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Another strained rumble escaped into her neck as her hand moved, slow, sure, stroking him with smooth, deliberate pressure. She couldn’t see him, but she felt him- molten and burning in her grip, his abs pulled so tight they felt like steel under her arm.
She stroked faster, desperate to finish him before the waiter wandered over again.
It didn’t take much.
He buried his face in her shoulder, teeth grazing her collarbone as he came in her hand- hips bucking once, twice, then locking up as he spilled hot into her palm and under the hem of his shirt, breath ragged against her skin.
By the time he pulled back, there was a damp patch blooming on the front of his henley- subtle, but unmistakable. Like he’d spilled something.
She bit back a smile.
For a long moment, they didn’t move.
Just sat there- hands still on each other, breathing like they’d run a marathon, candlelight painting their flushed skin gold.
Then she finally looked at him.
“Well,” she said, voice husky, “that’s one way to resolve workplace tension.”
He blinked at her, dazed. “We’re in a public dining room.”
She smirked. “Not my fault you moan like a damn engine.”
He pulled his hand back. Slowly. Carefully.
“God,” she muttered, glancing at his lap. “You’re a mess.”
He leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled with a wince.
She smiled lazily, then raised her own hand, the one still slick with him, and brought it to her mouth.
Maintaining eye contact, she licked a slow, filthy stripe along her palm.
Vegeta’s breath caught like he’d been punched.
She leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.
He stared at her, stunned. Dazed. Possibly broken.
Silence settled over them.
Finally, he spoke. “We can’t do this again.”
Bulma was quiet, then nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I know. We should go. I’m honestly shocked no one saw that.”
Another pause.
She looked at him, really looked, and her voice dropped into something quieter. Something more dangerous.
“It was good though. But yeah. Bad idea.”
“The worst,” he muttered, still catching his breath.
Their thighs were still touching. Her hand was still sticky and damp. His belt was still unfastened. She could see by the silhouette of him that he was still half-hard.
Neither of them moved.
Bulma sat back, wiped her hand with a napkin, and smoothed her skirt with trembling hands.
Vegeta buttoned his pants without looking at her.
“We need to keep this strictly professional,” she said almost to herself.
“Absolutely,” he said.
They didn’t speak as they got up and walked out of the restaurant.
Too close.
Too aware of how badly they’d just fucked up.
The corridor was blessedly void of guests. Bulma kept a half-step ahead, arms folded tight across her chest like she could squeeze the memory of him out of herself.
Vegeta walked stiffly beside her, jaw clenched, belt still slightly askew.
“It was a one-time thing,” she decided.
“It was.”
“Just blowing off steam. Happens to the best of us.”
“Obviously.”
They rounded the corner toward the main crew elevator. The corridor was empty. The lift doors slid open.
Bulma stepped in first.
Vegeta followed.
Silence.
The doors closed.
He didn’t look at her.
She didn’t look at him.
The air between them buzzed like static, thick with tension, body heat, and everything unspoken. Everything still happening .
She shifted.
He twitched.
The elevator creaked softly as it began its slow descent.
Then, without warning, Vegeta slammed the emergency stop.
The lift jolted to a halt.
Bulma’s head whipped toward him, eyes wide. “What the hell are you-”
He grabbed her.
Hands fisting in her blouse, mouth crashing to hers, kissing her like he’d been drowning in regret for the last five minutes and she was the only oxygen left.
She gasped into his mouth, then turned and shoved him back against the wall, hooked a leg around his waist, and kissed him even harder.
He found the hem of her skirt, shoved it up to her hips, and slid his hand straight into her panties.
She was even more slick than before.
He groaned and his eyes fluttered shut. He circled her clit twice before slipping two fingers deep inside her.
She gasped and bit his shoulder through his shirt. “Fuck, yes-”
His hips bucked reflexively. She could feel him already hard again beneath her- straining, already twitching against the fly of his pants. She reached down between them and tugged his zipper down with one swift motion.
“It’s only been a few minutes,” she murmured, lips brushing his ear. “When’s the last time someone had you like this? Because I’m starting to think it’s been a long time.”
“Does it matter?” he groused, voice tight.
But his hips jerked again when she traced the line of him through his briefs.
He wasn’t fooling either of them.
“Please tell me you have a condom,” she whispered, breath ragged.
There was a pause.
Then he grunted and shifted just enough to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet with one hand, flipped it open, and yanked out a tattered gold foil wrapper which looked like it had been burning a hole in there since his Navy deployment.
Bulma blinked. “Seriously? What’s the expiration date on that thing?”
He didn’t answer.
One hand hooked under the waistband of his briefs, yanking them down just far enough.
Her eyes flicked down, and her mouth actually parted.
Holy fuck.
He was thick, flushed, and bigger than anyone that emotionally constipated had any right to be.
Of course he was huge. Of course. It was just her luck to be trapped in an elevator with the final boss of cocks.
No wonder he was losing it. The man clearly had needs.
His hands were shaking as he tore the wrapper open- too fast, almost dropping it- then gripped the base of his cock and tried to roll it on one-handed in the tight space between their bodies.
She watched him fumble, watched his jaw tighten like he was one second from exploding again.
“You’re gonna put it on inside out.”
“I know how to…fuck…just…don’t talk.”
She bit her lip, not quite smiling.
Finally, he got it on. She could feel him trembling.
He swore, low and vicious, then hoisted her up and turned with one smooth motion. Her back hit the elevator wall with a soft thud, legs wrapping tight around his waist.
He shoved her panties aside. Pressed the blunt head of himself to her entrance, and paused.
Not out of hesitation. Out of calculation.
He steadied himself and looked at her. Really looked. Eyes burning, jaw tight.
And then he gave a slight tilt of his head and smirked. The barest lift of his brow. A challenge. A dare. But underneath all the bravado, she knew he was double checking.
Her breath hitched. She nodded.
That was all he needed.
He drove into her with a sharp, broken sound that might’ve been her name.
She was hot and slick and clenching already. Tight enough he had to grit his teeth just to hold back.
“God,” she whispered, forehead falling to his. “You feel-”
He pulled out and thrust into her hard.
A feral sound tore from her throat. Her back hit the wall. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her whole body clenched around him, and he groaned like he was about to lose it right there.
“Fuck,” he muttered, hips jerking as he pulled back and slammed in again. “You’re so-tight-”
She rolled her hips against him, meeting every thrust with a hungry, wet rhythm.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “Don’t you fucking dare…”
His pace turned punishing-fast, deep, desperate. Every thrust drove her higher. Her breath came in pants against his neck, her moans muffled against his shoulder as he fucked her against the wall like he meant to leave a mark.
He started talking, words spilling from his mouth without preamble or regret.
“You wanted this,” he snarled, slamming into her.
“Yes!”
“From the moment we met- disrespecting me on the bridge-”
“Yes! Vegeta-”
“Bent over that fucking pump shaft like the vulgar tease you are-”
She whimpered, fingers digging into his back, like that accusation only made her needier. “You loved it!”
“I fucking hated it!” He growled.
She came.
Hard.
Her whole body shook, legs locking, nails raking down his back. He sucked a mark into her neck as she spasmed around him, hips jerking in aftershocks against his cock.
And he wasn’t far behind.
One more thrust. Another. Then he buried himself deep with a guttural groan, coming, hips pressed flush, every muscle tensed, no shame, no sense left.
He kissed her as he came. A breathless press of lips to hers, open and trembling, like his body couldn’t help it. Like some part of him needed it. And she kissed him back. Just as desperately. And for a second, they forgot to hate each other.
They stayed locked together as they came down. Breathing, shaking, silent except for the slow, echoing creak of the ship.
Eventually, Bulma let her head fall back against the wall.
Then reality came crashing back in.
She gently unwound her legs from his waist.
Vegeta set her down, slower than he meant to, and immediately turned away to fumble with the condom, tying it off with practiced efficiency before awkwardly putting it in his pocket to throw away as soon as he could.
They didn’t speak.
She smoothed her skirt.
He zipped his pants, buttoned his fly.
She wiped smudged lipstick off her mouth with the side of her hand.
He tried to fix his hair and failed.
They still didn’t speak.
Then Vegeta reached for the emergency stop and flipped it off.
The elevator lurched and resumed its descent like nothing had happened.
Their reflections stared back at them in the mirrored door- disheveled, flushed, avoiding each other’s eyes.
The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. They stepped into the crew corridor like strangers.
Still no eye contact. Still no words.
Bulma broke first. “We got it out of our systems that time, right?” she said lightly, too lightly.
He gave the barest nod. “Right.”
She shook her head. “Good,” she said.
“Good.”
A pause.
“We won’t talk about it,” he added.
She straightened her blouse, all business and shook her head. “Of course not.”
They walked in opposite directions.
And the silence between them screamed.
Notes:
oops, they fucked. Good thing it was meaningless and all that.
Chapter 6: Crosscurrents
Chapter Text
At precisely 0559, Bulma slid into her usual seat in the captain’s ready room with her tablet, a caffeine headache, and absolutely no interest in looking in front of her.
That’s where Vegeta would be. That’s where he always was.
And for the last three days, he hadn’t said a single word to her. Not outside of her system reports, which he reviewed with robotic efficiency and responded to with such surgical brevity it made her want to throw a wrench at something. Preferably his face.
It was fine.
Totally fine.
She was a professional. And whatever had happened between them the other night—however mind-melting and illegal and technically excellent—it was over. Done. They had moved on. Matured. Locked that entire incident in a metaphorical airlock and flushed it out to sea.
Which was the right thing to do.
Next to her, Raditz shifted in his seat and shot her a look.
The kind of look that said you can lie to everyone else, sweetheart, but I see the steam rising off you both.
Bulma sighed. Then tilted her tablet up to shield her face.
The door opened.
Captain Vegeta entered without his usual rod-up-the-ass posture. Since the… incident …he had looked loose. Relaxed. A constant and unwelcome reminder of what had happened between them. He didn’t look at her or anyone else. He just took his seat without a word.
Raditz’s eyebrows went up another millimeter.
The meeting began.
Chi-Chi went first. She stood at the head of the table, perfectly dressed as always, clipboard in one hand and the other tapping a pen against her temple like it was a metronome for executive function.
“Alright, crew. We’re almost through week one. Everyone still upright and mostly hydrated? No one seduced an influencer into international waters?”
A low chuckle circled the table.
“Let’s keep it that way. Quick guest related updates first. Goku?”
Goku straightened in his chair, wide-eyed and already sweating. “Y-yeah! Uh, security systems are—good. No flagged badges, all guest alert buttons are responsive, and—uh—oh! I got with Bulma yesterday, and Korin fixed the glitch on deck six, so guests won’t accidentally open the emergency hatches when they press buttons on the ice machine.”
Chi-Chi nodded but didn’t comment.
Goku cleared his throat. “Also, I, um… I flagged your ID badge for the—uh, priority guest override protocol. Just in case there’s, like, an emergency and we need to—uh—secure you first.”
A pause.
He blinked, then rushed ahead. “I mean, not that you’d need rescuing. You’re, uh. Really capable. Obviously. But protocol says—if there’s a—like, lifeboat situation, you get one first. Not because you can’t swim! Just—uh—standard procedure. Because you—.”
Chi-Chi stared, expression unreadable.
Goku wilted. “I’ll email the report.”
Chi-Chi blinked once, slowly. “Thank you, Goku.”
He nodded too many times. Raditz coughed to hide a laugh.
“Lazuli?” Chi-Chi turned.
“Panel shorted out in Room Three. Fried the circuit that controls the massage table height settings. Unless you want influencers tweeting about getting yeeted mid-massage, I’d like engineering to take a look.”
Chi-Chi nodded, already scribbling a note. “Bulma?”
Bulma lifted her chin. “I’ll handle it right after this.”
Lazuli gave her a short, approving nod.
Chi-Chi flipped to the next page of her clipboard. “Any other VIP status updates?”
Krillin raised a hand, visibly tired. “Mr. Satan attempted to body slam a fruit sculpture at the buffet because it ‘looked at him funny.’ Half the mangoes are still missing. He offered to autograph the stand as compensation. I also heard that he challenged a senior guest to an arm-wrestling match in the spa. She won. He said he was ‘holding back for safety reasons.’”
Chi-Chi didn’t even react. “Noted.”
Lapis spoke next in a bored tone. “Yamcha’s been filming unapproved workout tutorials in the fire escape stairwell. Also keeps asking maintenance if we have a ‘cold plunge tub for peak shred performance.’”
“Firecracker,” Lazuli added, “requested a press pass to interview the sauna occupants. When we said no, he tried to sneak in with a GoPro and a monologue about ‘elemental rebirth.’”
Chi-Chi’s pen paused. “...Did it at least sound good?”
“No.”
Raditz smirked. “To be fair, the three of them have been getting along like a damn boy band. Had to kick them off the karaoke machine last night. They were halfway through their fifteenth round of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ when the speakers cut out from emotional exhaustion.”
Goku chimed in brightly. “I think they’re calling themselves the ‘Swole Patrol.’”
The table groaned.
“...Let’s keep them away from sharp objects, hot tubs, and all open mics until further notice.” Chi-Chi said.
Raditz perked up next. “Now, I know this might shock everyone, but I’m announcing an official crew mixer tonight. Theme is 80’s night. I’m DJing. Attendance encouraged. Dancing mandatory.”
Chi-Chi sighed without looking up. “No tear-away jumpsuits this time, Raditz.”
“Just a light fog machine, I promise. And the jumpsuit tears itself off when destiny calls. I don’t control that,” Raditz said innocently, eyes sliding toward Lapis like he wasn’t being obvious.
Lapis, halfway through his coffee, didn’t react.
But Bulma saw the way Raditz’s grin crooked downwards.
Chi-Chi tapped her clipboard once more. “Great. That’s it for announcements. Captain?”
Vegeta nodded once, eyes locked on his tablet.
“Briefs. Acknowledging that report from last night. If the graywater pump clogs again, I want a manual flush line rigged as a fallback.”
“Already halfway done,” she replied, without looking at him.
The pause that followed was about three seconds too long. Raditz clocked it. So did Chi-Chi, if the slight twitch of her brow meant anything.
“Then you’re all dismissed,” Vegeta said.
Chairs scraped. The crew stood. Everyone began trickling out, talking amongst themselves.
Raditz lingered just long enough to murmur at Bulma’s side, “See you at the mixer, Chief.”
Then, with a meaningful glance in Vegeta’s direction, he added, “You look like you want to dance off some tension.”
He winked and was gone.
Bulma stood still for a moment longer. Then turned on her heel, tablet in hand, and headed straight for the spa.
She had a panel to fix.
—-----------------
Bulma adjusted the bodice of her strapless red mini dress as she stepped into the pulsing glow of the club. It caught the light with every movement—very short, sequined, unapologetic—and she’d told herself—repeatedly—that she wasn’t wearing it for him.
Just a normal crew party. Normal drinks. Normal mingling. Nothing else. He probably wouldn’t even be there.
The music was already thumping. A high BPM remix of Caribbean Queen filtered through the haze of sound and neon, and from the DJ booth, Raditz threw a wink in her direction before dipping his giant mane in rhythm to the beat.
She spotted Chi-Chi and Lazuli at a corner table draped in blue lights. Her mother was there as well, naturally, holding court at the bar with something pink in hand, already surrounded by admirers.
“Look who decided to show,” Lazuli said, lifting her glass.
“You clean up nice,” Chi-Chi added. “We were starting to think you’d chicken out.”
Bulma rolled her eyes and sat down. “Please. I practically built this club.”
“And you’re currently the hottest thing in it,” Lazuli said, then tilted her head. “Well. Second hottest.”
Bulma followed her gaze instinctively—
—and there he was.
Vegeta. In black. Collared shirt open at the throat. Hands in his pockets. Standing just inside the entrance like he was already regretting coming.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Then he went and sat down at one of the tables.
“No! He never shows up to these,” Chi-Chi said. “What’s he doing here?”
“Maybe he’s trying to be social?” Lazuli offered, eyebrows raised in blatant disbelief.
“Maybe he’s lost,” Chi-Chi snorted.
Bulma reached for a drink from a nearby serving tray and pretended she couldn’t still feel the ache of him being inside of her.
Don’t be an idiot. She thought. It didn’t mean anything. Just hormones.
She kept her eyes trained on her glass. Until she saw something she wished she had rather not seen.
Across the room, a female crew member—entertainment staff, maybe—had approached Vegeta’s table. She leaned in as she spoke, one hand brushing his arm, the other tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Laughing at something he’d said.
He wasn’t laughing.
But he also wasn’t leaving.
Bulma exhaled slowly through her nose.
Next to her, Lazuli lowered her drink. “Wait. Is he—talking to a woman?”
Chi-Chi just stared. “She’s on my team. Name’s Miguel. Singer. Sweet voice, bad taste.”
Lazuli leaned forward. “Miguel? Like Michael in Spanish?”
Chi-Chi sipped her wine. “Her parents had a sense of humor. Don’t make it a thing, she’s sensitive about it.”
“Noted.” Lazuli kept watching, brow arched. “He hasn’t moved. That’s… new.”
Lazuli’s eyes tracked the Miguel situation for another second before she sat back with a scoff. “Well, that’s almost too much social growth from the captain for one night.”
She drained the last of her cocktail, set the glass down, and nudged Chi-Chi with her elbow. “Come on. Dance floor. I’ve got my eye on someone.”
Lazuli’s gaze skimmed the crowd. “Little bald one. Killer smile. Looks like he’s trying not to spill his drink.”
Bulma’s eyes tracked lazily toward the corner of the dance floor—where Krillin stood next to Goku, sipping cautiously from a highball.
Next to him, Goku was very intently not looking at Chi-Chi…and failing miserably. His eyes flicked toward her, then away, then back again, like he thought staring in intervals would make it less obvious.
Bulma smirked.
Chi-Chi groaned but stood anyway. “Lazuli, you need to quit hooking up with him. And you’d better not get us written up. I’ll pretend like I don’t know you.”
“No promises,” Lazuli said brightly, already pulling her toward the crowd.
As they wove through the dancers, Bulma caught another glance toward the guys and nearly snorted into her empty glass.
Goku had apparently decided now was the time to ask Chi-Chi to dance. Only instead of walking over like a normal person, he attempted some kind of confident spin move that ended with him knocking into a cocktail tray, apologizing profusely to a passing crew member, and nearly taking Krillin down with him.
Across the floor, Krillin winced. Goku straightened, gave a thumbs-up to no one in particular, and finally started beelining—red-faced—toward Chi-Chi.
Bulma laughed under her breath. “Wow. Subtle.”
She turned back curiously toward the other situation.
Miguel hadn’t left yet. They were deep in conversation—too deep. Vegeta wasn’t looking bored or irritated. He was engaged. Focused.
Bulma’s grip tightened slightly around her glass.
She couldn’t hear a word they were saying, but something about the way Miguel leaned in, all casual charm and effortless smiles, made her want to launch her glass across the room.
She looked away. Then looked back.
Still talking.
And that’s when Raditz’s voice came infuriatingly amused from just behind her.
“Why Bulma, you look positively blue with envy.”
She turned sharply.
“You’re hilarious.”
“It’s a gift.”
Raditz glanced toward Vegeta’s table, then back at her with an exaggeratedly sympathetic look.
“Want me to go cause a distraction?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Say the word, and I’ll DJ a slow jam and pull him into a sensual interpretive dance.”
“I swear to god.”
He held up his hands. “Fine, fine. But you might want to do something before she starts climbing into his lap.”
Bulma scowled. She wasn’t going to do anything. She wasn’t.
The lights shifted. The synthy pulse of Love Is a Battlefield rose through the club, somehow both ironic and all-too-fitting.
Raditz tilted his head to the beat like he was genuinely considering that interpretive dance. But then his gaze drifted—scanning the crowd, the corners, the bar—and never quite landed.
His smirk dimmed.
Bulma watched the shift happen. Barely a crease in his brow, but it was there. A flicker. A pause too long.
She followed his line of sight, but no one was there. And that’s when she realized who he was looking for.
“…Maybe this just isn’t his scene,” she said, quietly.
Raditz smiled, but the edges of it were too smooth, too practiced. “He’s probably neck-deep in spreadsheets or saving the whales or something.”
She didn’t answer.
He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Or maybe he just hates fun. That would track.”
Bulma tilted her head. “And yet, here you are. DJing the night away for the rest of us miserable bastards.”
Raditz chuckled. “Yeah, well. Some of us are professionals.”
Bulma set her glass on the table, then looked up at him through her lashes. “You still taking requests?”
His brow lifted, amused. “Always.”
She slid off her stool and stepped closer. “Dance with me.”
He grinned—genuine this time, wide and wolfish. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They made their way to the floor, slipping between swaying couples and pulsing lights. The air was thick with heat and bass, bodies brushing past in time with the beat. Raditz kept one hand light on her waist, the other loose at her side, letting her lead the distance—or lack of it.
Bulma’s movements were smooth, deliberate. A slow turn here, a roll of her hips there. She danced close, then pulled back, teasing the rhythm. The room blurred around her; all color and pulse and sweat—but her eyes kept drifting to one place.
Vegeta.
He was still there.
But now he was watching.
Raditz leaned in, his voice pitched just for her to hear. “Careful, sweetheart. If you keep looking at him like that, you’ll burn a hole through the table.”
Bulma didn’t break eye contact with him.
“I hope I do.”
Bulma’s eyes flicked over the scene just as Miguel traced Vegeta’s eyeline, mumbled something and practically fled. Vegeta just sat there, glued to the chair.
His eyes were locked on her.
So she danced.
Not with Raditz. Not really. He was there, sure, grinning like the smug bastard he was, throwing a wink and a spin in her direction like this was just a game. But she didn’t touch him. Didn’t let him in her space.
And when she turned again, her gaze found Vegeta’s.
She held it.
Daring and unapologetic.
And for a second, she swore—swore —his whole posture changed. Like he was about to move. Like he might—
Then Raditz leaned in close, murmuring something into her ear with a grin that made it clear he was only ever trying to cause trouble. She didn’t laugh. Just smirked. Which only made Raditz howl like he’d won something.
When she looked back at him, he was gone.
Bulma stopped dancing.
She was still catching her breath when an unmistakable voice sliced through the music.
“Hey, Chief Techie! ” Yamcha shouted over the beat, striding up with a GoPro strapped to his chest and a drink already sloshing in his hand. “The VIP section is lit! And I gotta say—you clean up way better than those engine rooms they got you down in.”
Bulma turned slowly. “What the hell are you doing here? This is crew-only.”
Yamcha looked at her like that was a technicality. “Relax. Hercule and I were invited.”
“By whom?” she snapped.
As if on cue, Hercule Satan was already at the bar, dramatically stirring something neon with a straw the size of a pool noodle. He threw up finger guns and shouted, “WE GO WHERE THE PARTY GOES, BABY!”
Miguel had interestingly moved on quickly from Vegeta, because she was now fawning all over Mr. Satan. Bad taste indeed.
Bulma groaned looking back at Yamcha. “You crashed.”
Yamcha grinned. “We’re elevating the vibe. I might even livestream this for the fans.”
Before she could respond with the industrial-grade insult on the tip of her tongue, Raditz slid into view—grinning like a shark who’d just found something shiny.
“Well, well,” he purred. “If it isn’t our resident hazard cone.”
Yamcha frowned. “Who?”
Raditz draped one arm over Yamcha’s shoulder, leaned in, and said in a tone thick with mischief, “You. With that hair and the chaos aura? You practically begged me to drag you onto the dance floor.”
“Wait—what?” Yamcha blinked, but didn’t pull away.
Raditz ran a smooth finger down Yamcha’s lapel. “Panchy’s been dying to meet an influencer. You should see how she moves to Prince.”
“I—I mean I do like Prince,” Yamcha admitted warily.
“Excellent,” Raditz said, already steering him toward the bar with one large, persuasive hand. “I promise to return you with only minor glitter damage.”
“No—hold on—are you flirting with me?” Yamcha asked, glancing back, eyes wide.
Raditz smirked over his shoulder. “That depends. Is it working?”
Panchy came waltzing over, raising her drink in the air. “Dance with me, influencer man!”
Yamcha’s “What is happening?” echoed faintly as he disappeared into the disco haze.
Bulma shook her head, biting back a laugh.
It didn’t make everything okay. It didn’t stop her from wondering where Vegeta had gone, or what he’d been thinking before he turned and walked away.
But it helped.
A little.
—----------------
The echo of bass still pulsed faintly in her ears when she finally collapsed into bed that night. Sleep came hard. But not for long.
She woke with a sharp twist low in her belly. Like someone had looped a wire around her spine and yanked.
Shit.
She didn’t move. Just braced through it, jaw locked, breath shallow. But the next wave came harder. Deeper. A full-body throb that made her eyes blur.
Something warm was already seeping beneath her. She didn’t have to look to know.
Of course.
She hadn’t even realized what day it was. Normally, she’d have been ahead of it. Medicated. Rested. Ready. But she’d been distracted—too many fires, too many ghosts. By fucking Vegeta. By fucking Vegeta. And unfortunately, this one snuck up on her and took the entire house down.
Her fingers searched the nightstand, clumsy and half-blind. They finally found the little prescription bottle. She dry-swallowed a few in the dark. No water. No time.
She stood up too fast and nearly doubled over again.
Grabbing a tampon, she dragged herself to the bathroom and did what had to be done. The thought alone made her gag—her whole body clenched on reflex—but she pushed through it, breath ragged. Her fingers shook.
By the time she changed into bike shorts and a tank, her skin was clammy. Her legs were unsteady. She pulled a hoodie over the whole mess and grabbed a towel.
She wasn’t getting back to sleep. Not like this.
The hallway was dark and silent. Cool under her feet. The spa was still open, technically. Perks of being senior crew.
She slipped in without turning on the overheads, just the low glow of recessed lights shimmering off the steam. The water was already warm, and there was no one around.
Perfect.
She dropped the towel, peeled off the hoodie, and slid into the jacuzzi with a hiss.
The heat hit first, then stalled. It hadn’t reached the part that hurt yet. She bit down on a groan and tried to breathe through it. It would help. Eventually. She hoped.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
And then a voice cut through the quiet.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.”
She froze. Her eyes snapped open.
Vegeta.
He was leaned back in the far corner of the spa, shirtless, arms resting behind him like he’d been poured straight into the damn tile.
“Why are you here?” she asked, voice sharper than she meant it. She couldn’t quite straighten her body. Just lifted her chin from where she half-floated near the opposite edge.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he simply said.
She scoffed. “What, that crew member I saw you with earlier keeping you up tonight?”
He turned his head slowly enough to signal that he’d heard her.
“Fraternizing with subordinates is against protocol,” he said. “And not something I do.”
Bulma stared at him.
Then she barked out an incredulous laugh.
“Oh, now we care about protocol?”
He said nothing.
“That is rich, coming from the man who fucked me against an elevator wall.”
His jaw twitched. A muscle jumped near his temple.
“That didn’t happen.”
“Right. Forgot I hallucinated the best orgasm of my life.” She winced as another cramp stabbed low, sinking deeper into the water. “And here I thought it was just a shared delusion.”
He didn’t respond, but his scowl faltered for half a second.
He gave her a once over.
“You’re in pain.”
“I’m fucking fine and dandy.”
“You don’t look fine.”
She huffed. “You know what?” Her voice cracked, brittle with effort. “I can’t do this right now.”
Then she tried to stand.
Her legs didn’t want to. Another wave hit, and her knees buckled. She staggered, slipping on the tile step.
Vegeta was beside her in an instant.
His hand reached for her arm, steadying her, but she flinched—not from him, but from the pain still tearing through her gut.
“Don’t,” she choked out, shaking her head. “Just…don’t.”
He immediately let go and froze, raising his hands like she might bite. But he didn’t back away.
He stayed there, crouched in the water beside her, eyes scanning her face, confused.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, softer now.
She didn’t answer. Just pressed her palm to her abdomen and sat back down against the tile, shoulders curling in like she was trying to hold herself together from the inside out.
Another cramp hit. Her breath hitched.
She dropped her head into her shaking hands.
“It’s my period, okay?” she bit out. “If you’re gonna make a fucking joke, just do it now and get it over with.”
Silence.
He stared at her like she’d just spoken another language.
“I have some scar tissue,” she added, eyes flicking up to his. “From a surgery. Sometimes it’s manageable. Sometimes it’s this. So go ahead. Say something gross. Ask if I’m bleeding all over your precious spa. Whatever the hell it is guys like you do.”
His expression didn’t change for a long moment.
Then, quietly he spoke. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
She blinked. “You just looked so ready to—”
“To what?” he interrupted, “Mock you for being in pain?”
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
“Is that the kind of person you think I am?”
That landed harder than she expected. Her throat tightened. Her arms folded back over her stomach.
“I don’t know what kind of person you are,” she muttered.
She didn’t know what to say after that. Vegeta was still beside her, crouched low in the water, eyes flicking toward her abdomen, then away. Like he wanted to fix something and had no idea how.
Then he asked, “Do you need anything?”
She creased her brow. “What?”
“I said—” He shifted. Looked annoyed at having to repeat himself. “Do you need anything? From your room. Water. Medication. I don’t know. Whatever you use when this happens.”
She just stared at him.
“Why would you want to do that?”
His brow raised.
“Would you rather keep suffering?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You think just because we hooked up the other night, you’re… what? Obligated to be nice to me now?”
He recoiled like she’d slapped him.
“It’s not about that,” he said angrily.
“Then what is it about?”
His eyes flicked away. His jaw worked.
“You’re not feeling well.”
She looked at him again. Really looked. And for once, he wasn’t trying to stare her down or shut her up or win. He just looked…there.
Present.
Frustrated. Concerned. Kind of pissed at himself for even asking.
She exhaled slowly, the fight bleeding out of her.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
He didn’t respond. Just continued to watch her like she might tip over again.
“It snuck up on me,” she said, quieter now. “I usually get ahead of it. If I don’t take something before it starts, it’s… hard to catch up.”
She ran a hand through her damp hair and leaned her head back against the tile.
“I took meds before I came down. They’ll kick in eventually. Just takes a while if the pain’s already bad.”
He nodded once.
“How long?”
“Another thirty minutes, maybe.” She breathed slowly. “Sometimes less.”
He hummed. It wasn’t a sound of impatience. Just…registering. Then he sat back down where he had been and didn’t speak again.
She stayed where she was. Moving felt worse, and if he had any more to say, he could fuck right off.
She leaned back against the wall of the spa, arms still wrapped tight around her middle.
Steam curled around them in slow, lazy spirals. Her eyes fluttered closed.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, her body started to relax.
The edge was still there but beginning to dull for the moment. She let out a slow, shaky breath and let herself go slack.
She must have tilted a little too far. Before she could catch herself, a hand caught the back of her head.
“Careful,” Vegeta said. “You were listing.”
She looked over at him sluggishly and didn’t answer.
“I’m going to move you,” he said. “So, you don’t drown and cause a scene.”
He hesitated, then added, in a quieter tone, “Is that alright?”
She gave a faint nod, eyes still closed.
That must have been enough for him, because he shifted her with efficiency, slid an arm behind her back, the other under her knees, and eased her into his lap.
His arms settled around her, steady but impersonal. At first.
Then she curled into him and let out a soft exhale. He didn’t move.
“Didn’t want to fish you out,” he muttered after a bit. “That’s all.”
She didn’t answer. Just let herself rest.
Her head stayed against his shoulder. Her body felt heavy, but not from the heat. More like her bones had started to gelatinize.
She hated this. Not just the pain. It was the loss of control. The absolute inconvenience.
Him seeing her like this.
What the hell was she doing— what were they doing —sitting like this?
His arms around her. Her head on his chest.
It didn’t make sense. None of it did.
They’d fought. Screamed. Hooked up in a goddamn restaurant and elevator.
And now some strange chain of events had led her to being comforted by him in her most embarrassing moments. Her stomach twisted again, but this time she couldn’t tell if it was pain or something else.
Everything was blurred.
The cramps had eased for a few moments, maybe from the pills finally kicking in. But they were slowly creeping back in for another round, curling mean behind her hips.
She clenched her jaw and tried to breathe through it, but it didn’t let up. A harsh sound tore out of her—more growl than sob. Her shoulders shook once. Then again. Tears hit her cheeks before she could stop them.
“Goddamn it,” she muttered, scrubbing her face with the heel of her hand. “I fucking hate this.”
He cleared his throat. “Does it help,” he said, “when someone touches you?”
“What?”
“The pain.” His voice was awkward. “If someone rubs your back. Or whatever.”
The question caught her off guard.
He sounded serious.
She hesitated, eyes searching his face like she might catch the trick. But there was nothing there except the same furrowed brow and too-tired scowl. Like he was annoyed—at the situation, maybe, or at himself for even asking.
Finally, she nodded. Just once.
He reached for her slowly, like he didn’t want to startle her. His hand moved across her back, unsure at first, but warm and comforting.
“Tell me if it makes it worse,” he said.
She didn’t respond. But she didn’t pull away, either.
So he kept going.
She stayed curled against him, tears drying slowly, breath starting to even out. Her face was pressed into the middle of his chest now, warm skin under her cheek, steam softening everything.
His hand was still moving over her upper back, but slower now.
Then it stopped.
He paused.
“It hurts lower, doesn’t it?” he asked, voice low.
She didn’t answer.
“Here?” he asked, his palm hovering just above the base of her spine under the water.
She gave the barest nod.
He pressed his palm there, then he started to move in small, slow circles.
The pain didn’t vanish, but her body melted a little more. Her head slipped further down his chest, breath slowing.
Eventually, she stilled.
Vegeta just sat there, stock still, listening to the slow pull of her breath against his chest.
Asleep.
Of course she’d passed out in his lap. Because why the hell not. Nothing about this damn trip made sense.
He stared straight ahead at the steam rising off the water, doing everything he could not to look at her.
He was still touching her, though.
His hand kept moving gently against her lower back. Not because he wanted to. Not because it meant anything. Only because when he stopped, she tensed like it made things worse. And when he started again, she let out that breathy little sound of relief.
So he kept going.
He didn’t know what this was supposed to be. Didn’t know what he was supposed to do when she woke up.
But they’d already been more intimate than this. It wasn't that big of a deal.
And it wasn’t about feelings.
She was in pain. That was it. And this—this was just the decent thing to do. What anyone would do.
That’s what he told himself at least.
He’d do the same if it were Chi-Chi. Or Lazuli.
Except he wouldn’t.
He may have asked if they needed something, but the thought of this? Of holding them like this? It was fucking ridiculous, and he knew it.
He needed to nip this in the bud.
He didn’t do this type of thing. This kind of vulnerability was what got you dragged under. Stripped of rank and shipped home in disgrace.
Now he was here. Babysitting billionaires in the middle of the ocean. Pretending he was still something.
She shifted in his arms, breaking him from his thoughts, and murmured something he couldn’t catch.
And then she pressed a soft, unconscious kiss to his chest.
Right over his heart.
Every thought he had unraveled like rope gone slack. He forgot where he was, why he was angry. Forgot how the hell this started.
This was a problem.
Bulma woke slowly.
Warm. Heavy. A little dizzy, but not in a bad way.
The pain was still there, but dulled now, like someone had turned the volume down on her entire body. The heat had soaked into her bones.
And there was something else—
Breath. Chest rising and falling under her cheek. A steady rhythm, not hers.
She stiffened.
Memory came rushing back in uneven pieces. The spa. The cramps. The pills. The pain.
Vegeta.
Her head was on his chest. One of her arms was still draped across him. His hand…
Still on her lower back.
Her breath caught.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly.
She didn’t move right away. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” He said.
Like it was obvious. Like she hadn’t just spent the last few minutes alseep on his chest after crying into his collarbone.
She finally pushed herself up carefully.
She glanced at him.
He didn’t look away.
“Thanks,” she said, voice scratchy.
He gave a slight nod. That was all.
She shifted to stand up fully, arms wrapped around her middle. The water lapped gently at her sides now. Her hair clung to her neck. She felt wrung out, sore, warm, a little weightless.
And she could feel him watching her.
Vegeta moved first.
He climbed out of the spa without a word, muscles slick and tense as he reached for one of the staff towels. Steam rolled off him. His back caught the low light, all sharp lines and broad shoulders.
She told herself not to look.
She looked anyway.
When he turned, she jerked her gaze up too fast.
“You done staring?”
“I wasn’t—shut up,” she muttered, cheeks hot.
He didn’t push it. Just held the towel out. “Here.”
She took it with a quiet thanks and tried to get out.
The shift in weight made her knees wobble. Before she could stumble, he stepped back down and caught her at the waist. “Careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were unconscious on me two minutes ago.”
He helped her out gently, then took the towel from her and wrapped it around her shoulders himself.
She clutched the towel closer. Looked anywhere but at his face.
“Sorry you had to see me like that,” she said. “I know it’s not exactly dignified.”
He glanced at her like that was the stupidest thing she could’ve said. “There was nothing wrong with it.”
She stared.
“It wasn’t disgusting,” he added. “Or shameful. I’m not an idiot.”
She stared at him.
He shifted, and looked away, clearly hating every word that came out of his mouth. “I respect your strength.”
There was a pause.
Then she grinned. “You respect me?”
He immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, no. You respect me,” she said, grinning now. “That’s so sweet, Captain. You gonna write me a letter of recommendation?”
“Shut up.”
“Should I get it notarized?”
“Briefs .”
But his ears were red.
And they stayed that way until they reached her quarters.
They stopped outside her cabin door.
Neither of them said anything at first.
She fumbled with the key panel. The towel was still wrapped around her shoulders.
She looked at him.
Then she leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
“You’re not a total bastard, Captain,” she whispered. “But don’t let that go to your head.”
She pulled back before he could react, turned toward the door. “And thanks again,” she added, quieter now. “For everything.”
The door opened, and she stepped inside without looking back.
Vegeta stood there for several seconds longer.
Still shirtless, damp, and very much not okay.
Then he turned and walked away.
Notes:
"Listing" is a nautical term to describe when a vessel takes on water and tilts to one side.
I hope you guys enjoyed a very silly shout out to a certain baby that may be created soon. Now we just need the other one…
Chapter 7: Running Aground
Chapter Text
Bulma’s back slammed hard into the bulkhead. Vegeta’s mouth was on hers, bruising and harsh, with a kind of desperation she’d never experienced from anyone before.
She gasped, then bit his bottom lip just to make him groan. He did, and it sent a full-body shiver ripping through her.
How the hell had this even started?
She’d skipped the morning meeting. First time all trip. Didn’t even send a message. And honestly? She hadn’t cared. Her body still ached from the night before. Her mood was shot. And she’d been elbow-deep in reseating one of the graywater treatment valves when he showed up, unannounced and uninvited.
No one else had been around. Yajirobe and Korin were at lunch. Engineering was dead quiet.
She’d heard him before she saw him. The cadence of his boots. She hated that she could recognize it now.
She hadn’t looked up. “Unless you're here to scrub pipes, get lost.”
“I’m checking progress,” he’d said, tone clipped.
“Uh huh.” She didn’t even try to hide the bite in her voice.
He’d been so gentle with her the night before, letting her press her face to his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. She hadn’t expected that from him. She also hadn’t known how much she needed it until he gave it.
Now he was back to being snarly and stiff, standing too close, staring at her like he wanted to both scold her and touch her again.
It made no sense. And worse—it made something wild start to burn in her chest.
He’d moved closer anyway. Close enough for her to feel him at her back.
“Pressure’s still fluctuating in the secondary wastewater loop,” he had said. “You missed it.”
“I didn’t miss anything.” She had twisted up to glare at him. “I’m literally watching the readout while I fix this.”
He'd pointed toward the gauge cluster above her, the motion just a little too close.
“Then what’s that?” he asked.
His arm had brushed her shoulder. She stiffened.
And without thinking, she’d grabbed his wrist. “Don’t fucking touch my—”
They stumbled.
It was instant. Bodies crashing. No space between them.
His hand had landed hard on the wall behind her. Hers clutched his collar before she could stop herself. And for one suspended second, they just stared at each other.
Then he kissed her.
Or maybe she kissed him. She wasn’t sure.
Didn’t really matter at this point.
Now they were here. Making out in the wide-open engine room like two horny teenagers behind the bleachers.
The room was too hot. Lights glared. Sweat beaded between her lower back where her t-shirt had ridden up under her overalls, but all she could feel was him . His body was all grit and tension, and he was pulling at her like he’d lost his mind.
He kissed her again, rougher. Open-mouthed, tongue dragging with maddening slowness against hers. She followed it with her own. Clawed at his shoulders. Slid her hands down his chest just and grabbed a handful of that fucking ridiculous black blazer to yank him closer.
He grunted into her mouth and shoved his hands under her shirt like he couldn’t wait a second longer. Calluses caught on her skin, dragging over her ribs, her waist, right below the underwire of her bra.
“Fuck,” she breathed, lips still brushing his.
He nodded and propped himself on the wall of the ship with one hand and began to suck the curve where her jaw met her neck. Her whole body jerked.
He must have felt it, because he began to lave at her with his tongue. Pulling and tugging at the skin so hard, she knew she’d need to wear a scarf to cover it for weeks.
She grabbed his jaw roughly with her fingers and pulled him away, returning his mouth to hers and sucking on his tongue in a crude imitation of what she’d rather be doing to his cock. She bit his lip again, then let him shove her harder against the wall with his knee slotted between her legs.
A wrench clattered to the floor next to them. Neither of them heard.
He spread her open with his leg so that she was nearly sitting on it, and ground into her. She shivered and rolled her hips into his thigh, already too worked up for something this fast and messy.
He tensed. His hands slid lower, rough at her hips, thumbs digging into the beltloops of her overalls like he was trying to get her closer.
“You still in pain?” he asked against her cheek.
Her breath hitched. “A little.”
He kissed her again a little more gently. “Tell me what you need.”
She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, jaw slack.
Then she started to move, grinding her pussy against his thigh, eyes half-lidded. Her lips parted around a shaky breath.
He smirked. “That an answer?”
She kissed him hungrily then pulled back just enough to whisper—
“I want you to keep your thigh right there,” she said, rubbing against him again. “I want to come on it.”
He gasped out a low sound.
“I want to rub against you until I can’t think straight,” she went on. “I want to make a mess. I want you to feel it.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, biting down on his own lip. His hands twitched, locking into place at her hips, anchoring her, but not pushing.
“Keep going,” he said. “Show me how you make yourself come.”
She exhaled, unable to hold back a trembling moan and continued to slide back and forth.
He was hypnotized by her.
“That dress last night,” he whispered in her ear. “That little red thing.”
His hands slid up her back, under her shirt. “You wore it to fuck with me. Don’t lie.”
She gasped, rutted against him harder, and whispered against his mouth, “Yes…Was hoping you’d be there…Wanted you to see me.”
“I did,” he said, lips dragging down her throat. “Couldn’t look at anyone else.”
His breath ran ragged. His thigh flexed beneath her.
“Short as hell. Tight across your ass. You knew what you were doing. Smiling like I didn’t exist. That woman who was talking to me…wanted to tell her to fuck off so I could keep staring.”
She whimpered. He kissed her jaw.
“I almost dragged you out of there,” he said. “Out of that crowd. Out of that fucking dress. Back to my quarters so I could fuck you senseless.”
Her hips snapped harder. She was right there.
“After I left... went back to my cabin and locked the damn door. Fisted my cock and got myself off so hard I couldn’t fucking breathe. Just from thinking about you.”
She went still for half a second, then let out a feral noise.
“You should’ve told me,” she whispered, mouth at his ear. “I’d have dropped to my knees right there in front of her.”
He inhaled sharply. She kissed the hinge of his jaw.
“Would’ve held you down and let the whole party watch me suck you off.”
His breath shattered . Hands gripping her too hard, jaw slack for the first time.
She felt it. All over him. In the way he stiffened beneath her, in the way his lips parted but nothing came out.
Her eyes widened slightly. Something clicked.
“Oh…” she whispered, watching his pupils blow wide. “You like that, don’t you?”
A flush crept up his neck. His hands trembled against her hips.
Bulma leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth wickedly.
“You want me to take you apart.”
He moaned helplessly, like she’d just said something dangerous and true.
She licked the shell of his ear, barely whispering, “Maybe I should tie you down. Real tight. Make you sit still while I take my time.”
His breath stuttered hard against her neck.
She grinned and leaned in closer.
“Bet you’d let me,” she whispered, mouth brushing his ear. “Let me push you back in a chair. Unzip you slow. Make you beg for it with your teeth gritted and your hands tied behind you.”
Vegeta shuddered. Actually shuddered .
Bulma’s lips ghosted over his throat.
“Yeah. And you’d hate every second of it… right up until you came all over yourself.”
He let out a ragged, guttural sound—half snarl, half moan—and gripped her like he was the one about to fall apart.
She went for the kill.
“And when you start mouthing off…” she murmured with a voice like silk-wrapped sin, “‘I’ll turn you over and spank that perfect ass of yours ‘til you behave.”
That did it.
He growled— truly growled—and suddenly she wasn’t in control anymore.
His grip tightened, hoisting her up higher with a bruising drag of his thigh, one hand slipping under her ass, the other fisting in her hair.
“Enough,” he rasped, voice shaking with restraint. “You want to come? You do it now. Right here. On me .”
He pushed her back and forth, helping her rub against him faster and faster until her whole body seized. Then he gave a sharp tug at her hair, tilting her head back just enough to make it burn.
A choked gasp caught in her throat as she broke apart against him, legs shaking, grip iron-tight on his shoulders.
He held her securely through it, not asking for a damn thing in return. Then he slowly lowered his knee, helping her stand upright again.
But before he could register it, she reached between them and yanked at the button and zipper of his slacks, dragging it halfway down before he caught her wrists.
“Stop,” he hissed, breathing hard. “We shouldn’t—”
Her lips brushed his neck, and she tilted her head toward his ear.
“I need you in my mouth, Vegeta. Right fucking now.”
The sound he made wasn’t human. His grip faltered. His forehead dropped to hers like it physically pained him to hold back.
Then he kissed her again, brutal and greedy, bucking hard into her waiting palm.
Suddenly a voice crackled over the nearby comm panel. Krillin. “Engineering, this is Bridge Ops. Pressure’s dropping in line B-7. You got eyes on that?”
They froze.
Bulma’s chest heaved against his. Vegeta swore and stepped back.
“Engineering, come in?”
Bulma finally broke out of her stupor and staggered over to the panel and hit the button. “Yeah, this is Briefs. It’s under control.”
“Copy that. Let us know if you need—”
She shut the channel off.
Silence hammered between them.
Bulma’s lips were still parted. Her body was thrumming.
Vegeta looked ruined. He swallowed. “I-We have to stop.”
“Yeah,” she echoed, breathless. “Right.”
Neither moved.
He stepped back. His hands fumbled at his uniform pants, zipping them back up in one harsh jerk. Then he adjusted himself with a hissed curse under his breath.
“This can’t happen again,” he said. But even he didn’t sound sure.
Bulma said nothing.
What was there to say?
He turned for the door, paused like he might look back, but didn’t.
And then he was gone.
She sank onto a crate, legs trembling, heart hammering.
What the fuck just happened?
Vegeta barely made it two corridors before slamming his fist into the wall.
The clang echoed sharp through the passage, louder than he meant, hard enough to sting his knuckles. It helped. Barely.
Fuck.
That woman.
Her voice, her mouth, the way she’d whispered filth into his ear with a smirk like she knew — knew —exactly where to cut. Like she’d seen the part of him he’d buried years ago and decided to play with it.
He didn’t even like being told what to do—and yet every word she spoke had curled around something forbidden in him, something raw and private he hadn’t thought about in years.
And she’d enjoyed it. Watching him almost break.
His legs moved before he could think.
He ducked into the nearest technician washroom, flicked the lock behind him. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Metal shelves. A mirror that had seen better days.
He braced both hands on the wall above the sink.
He could still feel her. The drag of her hips. Her breath on his ear.
“Make you beg with your teeth gritted and your hands tied behind you.” “Spank that perfect ass of yours ‘til you behave.”
Vegeta groaned and pressed his forehead to his arm.
He didn’t even fight it anymore.
He unzipped his slacks, shoved his pants down just far enough, and wrapped a hand around himself with a hiss.
It took nothing. A few rough strokes, and he was already spiraling, hips jerking forward, that dirty little fantasy of her mouth wet and open on his cock burned into his brain.
He came hard, muffling the sound into the crook of his arm, her name silent on his lips.
His whole body sagged.
The room spun slightly.
Vegeta braced both hands on the sink and stared at his reflection.
Red-rimmed eyes. Sweat-dampened hair. Jaw tight like he could grind his teeth into dust.
His chest heaved. The collar of his uniform hung open. His control, his discipline—shredded.
He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser with more force than necessary and wiped the mess away.
He’d barely lasted five minutes after he left her.
He shut his eyes.
The air in the room was dry. Sterile. As if oxygen itself had been stripped for efficiency.
Vegeta stood at parade rest, back rigid, jaw locked, gaze fixed somewhere past the far wall. His uniform was regulation-perfect and freshly pressed, because if he was going to be dismantled, he’d be dismantled with dignity.
His rear admiral stood across from him—slightly taller and older, his expression carved from granite. His hands were folded neatly behind him.
“You cursed out a superior officer,” the man said, voice as cold as steel. “On an open channel. In front of your crew. In front of the fleet.”
“You humiliated this command,” he continued his tirade, words like ice slicing down the middle of the room. “You defied protocol, disrespected rank, and broadcast your temper like a child throwing a tantrum.”
Vegeta said nothing.
“And not to just any officer,” his superior went on. “A vice admiral.”
The pause that followed next wasn’t for emphasis. It was for disgust.
“You always were unstable. I warned them. Hot-headed. Prone to dramatics. But no, they saw potential.” A sneer. “You were never ready. You just looked good on paper.”
Vegeta swallowed. His jaw clicked from the force of holding everything in.
“You think this is about some outburst?” The admiral’s voice sharpened, slicing into something raw. “It’s about weakness. You are weak. You’ve embarrassed me. Embarrassed this family.”
His father exhaled through his nose. “You were always too emotional. Too reactive. Could never keep your mouth shut when it mattered. Just like your mother.”
Vegeta’s fists twitched.
His father gave him one last look. Final.
“You will accept the discharge. Quietly. With no appeal. We will wipe your name from the registry, and you will thank the stars we’re not pressing charges.”
Vegeta’s throat worked, but no words would come.
“You won’t wear this uniform anymore; you won’t set foot in this command. And if you think for a moment you can crawl back home—”
He took a slow step forward, eyes like polished steel.
“—you are not my son in uniform. And you are not my son at all.”
“You want to see your mother? Your brother?” A scoff. “You gave up that right the moment you embarrassed this family. You’ll stay gone, for their sake as much as yours.”
Vegeta’s chest tightened.
His father leaned in, voice just above a whisper.
“I don’t want them confused. Thinking failure is something we welcome. Tarble is still young. Still salvageable. Your mother… well. She’s learned when to hold her tongue. Don’t give her a reason to forget.”
Then he straightened. Calm again. Cold again.
“You’re dismissed.”
Vegeta’s eyes opened to the dim glow of the overhead lights. The same hollow ache bloomed in his chest like it had that day.
He gripped the sink harder.
You will accept the discharge. Quietly.
He had. For years.
And now here he was—sweating in a bathroom, undone by the memory of a woman whispering filth in his ear like she knew his most private shame.
Worse than the want was the fear of what she could do to him.
What if she followed through with it? What if she liked watching him lose control?
And what if he liked letting her?
He splashed cold water on his face, jaw trembling.
You are not my son at all.
He dried his hands. Buttoned his collar. And walked out without looking back.
Chapter 8: Taut Line
Chapter Text
The next morning, Bulma actually made it to the 0600 staff briefing. Her hair was brushed, her shirt was clean, and—miraculously—her uterus no longer felt like it was trying to tear itself free and strangle someone.
Krillin was already mid-sentence as she slid into her seat, scrolling through information on a tablet. “...so the storm’s shifted a little east, but as long as we stay on schedule for the next port call, we should skirt the edge just fine. Still tracking it though, Hurricane Beerus isn’t messing around.”
Bulma caught Chi-Chi’s eye across the table. She looked unusually tired, fiddling with the cap of her water bottle and saying nothing. Goku, seated two chairs down, was avoiding her gaze like it was radioactive.
Raditz leaned toward Bulma and whispered, “Back from your high-level business summit, I see.”
“My what?” she asked.
Goku helpfully chimed in, “Captain said you were out yesterday handling corporate strategy stuff. Some kinda emergency video call? Sounded important.”
Bulma turned slowly and locked eyes with Vegeta.
His expression was unreadable, posture stiff and straight. But his ears—his ears were very red.
“Oh,” she said, catching on. “Right. Yes. Very... critical.”
“Hope everything worked out,” Goku added, earnestly.
“Thanks,” she said, still looking in Vegeta’s direction. “It did.”
Vegeta cleared his throat and looked down at the table.
The man had actually lied for her. Not to cover something shameful but to protect her privacy . To cast her as powerful, competent, and untouchable, even when he knew the truth was messy.
“Are we prepared for docking at West Capital?” Vegeta asked. “I want a clean transition for the VIP guests and no surprises with the tenders this time.”
Krillin nodded. “Tenders are confirmed and logistics already dispatched to the port. We’re set to arrive just after noon local, the day after tomorrow.”
Bulma tuned in just long enough to nod. She hadn’t even gotten off the ship at the last port. Too busy elbow-deep fixing one of Old Sparks’ latest uncovered disasters: a miswired speed sensor on a pump that had nearly triggered a false bilge alarm. While everyone else was snorkeling or drinking out of coconuts, she’d been covered in sweat and dealing with that emergency.
“Briefs?” Vegeta’s voice cut through her thoughts.
She looked up, realizing she’d been zoning out again. “We can dock on time assuming we don’t have to slow down again. I’m still seeing pressure fluctuations in the port-side seawater intake. If they spike again, I’ll have to throttle down to keep the cooling system from overloading. It doesn’t seem critical, yet.”
Vegeta’s jaw ticked. “Is that likely?”
She shook her hear. “Unclear. But I’m not gambling with another blown regulator.”
He gave a tight nod. “Fine. Keep me posted.”
Before the air could grow any tenser, Raditz clapped his hands. “Well! Assuming we don’t get stranded in open water and have to eat the VIPs for survival, I did manage to book us the usual private beach on West Capital’s south coast. Crew-only. Sun, sand, no screaming children.”
He grinned. “You’re welcome. 'Clothing optional' is technically not endorsed by corporate, but the dress code is, shall we say, open to interpretation.”
Goku laughed as if remembering something. “Last time was great! Until Chi-Chi yelled at me for swimming in my boxers.”
Chi-Chi, across the table, immediately dropped her pen. It clattered loudly.
Everyone looked.
She froze, then smiled a shade too wide. “Sorry. Butterfingers.”
Goku scratched the back of his neck, cheeks turning pink. “Hah, yeah. Weird energy today, huh?”
Raditz’s eyes narrowed. He looked between the two of them, then tilted his head and mouthed did you— at his brother.
Goku ignored him, eyes darting around the room.
Krillin coughed to cover a laugh. “So Chi-Chi, how is it going with the VIPs?”
Chi-Chi latched onto the subject with the desperation of a woman clinging to a lifeboat. “Oh, yes. Our guests.”
She rattled off the names. “Mr. Satan’s amateur wrestling event is set for tomorrow. Jimmy Firecracker is still trying to schedule interviews with Goku and Bulma. Yamcha— please no one feed him protein bars —is filming daily workout streams.”
“Speaking of Yamcha,” Raditz cut in, voice deceptively casual, “he and I had quite the evening the other night. You know. Real deep conversation. Excellent core work.”
He dragged the word core out like it had layers.
Lapis, across the table, didn’t look up, but his hand tightened just slightly around his coffee cup.
Bulma noticed.
“Hey, what’s up with that Piccolo guy? I haven’t even seen him all week.” Bulma asked.
Chi-Chi nodded. “Still in his suite. Apparently, he’s been meditating on his private balcony.”
Raditz added, “I actually saw him pop out for lunch yesterday and offered to help him relax. He told me to fuck off. Progress. Your mom, though? Scored a dinner date with him for tonight.”
Bulma blinked. “With Piccolo ?”
He held up a hand. “Swear on my thighs.”
She stared. “What the hell did she say to him?”
“Asked if she could pick his brain about his last three-week survival stint in the Diablo Desert.” He shrugged. “Guy never stood a chance.”
Bulma laughed, shaking her head. “That, I gotta see.”
Raditz grinned wider. “Then crash it. They're meeting at The Mariner’s Table tonight, seven sharp.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
Krillin cleared his throat. “Okay, okay you guys, let’s circle back to port logistics.”
Chairs shifted. The conversation moved on.
Bulma took a sip of her coffee, half-listening now. Her gaze drifted toward Vegeta.
His eyes were on her.
Not just watching, tracking. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t realized he was doing it until she looked back.
She saw the moment he did. The flicker of something in his expression. Want. Hesitation. Hunger, barely leashed.
His fingers drummed once on the table, then stopped. The gears were turning. She knew that look.
He felt it too.
The pull. The ache. The impossibility of pretending nothing had happened.
The feeling was mutual.
As soon as the meeting ended, Bulma slid out of her chair and made a break for the corridor, pretending she wasn’t internally combusting from fifteen minutes of shared oxygen and suppressed horniness.
Naturally, Raditz was on her heels.
“You know,” he said casually, “if there was an Olympic event for Eye-Fucking Across a Conference Table, you two would’ve medaled.”
She groaned. “Please tell me this is going somewhere useful.”
“Oh, it’s useful,” he said brightly. “Gave me something to watch while Krillin talked about wind speeds. Very enriching.”
Bulma stopped in front of the elevator and fixed him with a look. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”
“And you’re all red and blushing,” he said, gesturing to her face.
She gave him a long look, then cocked her head, changing the subject. “You really had a good time with Yamcha, huh?”
Raditz’s eyes widened. “What?”
“That comment in the meeting. I know you were trying to get Lapis to react.” She folded her arms. “But you were also grinning like maybe you actually meant it.”
Raditz tilted his head, expression unreadable for a moment. “Would it be so hard to believe?”
She raised a brow. “But you like Lapis. I see you pining away for him at every staff meeting.”
“I can like more than one person,” he said easily. “It’s called range.”
She squinted. “So… you did hook up with Yamcha?”
Raditz shrugged, infuriatingly nonchalant. “Define ‘hook up.’”
“Raditz.”
He grinned. “Okay, fine. We hung out. Got a little tipsy. Went to the gym. Maybe I let him give me a shoulder massage while he explained his ‘primal power pyramid’ and tried to sell me on chia-based creatine. And well…Next thing I know, we’re making out behind a stack of yoga mats while someone in the next room tries to deadlift to Bon Jovi .”
Bulma stared. “Wow.”
“I know,” he muttered. “It was... honestly kind of hot. But also weird, because I kept wondering what Lapis would think if he walked in on us.”
She snorted. “God, you’re such a disaster.”
“I’m a high-functioning disaster,” he corrected, raising a finger. “Don’t cheapen the brand.”
Bulma leaned against the wall next to him, arms crossed. “So what now? You make eyes dramatically at Lapis from across the pool deck while Yamcha sends you shirtless selfies?”
Raditz gave a lopsided smile. “Nah. I think I just… wait. See who wants to make a move. Or ruin me first.”
Bulma raised her brows. “You’ve got issues.”
He winked. “Takes one to know one, Blue.”
And with that, he pushed off the wall and headed down the corridor, his voice floating back over his shoulder:
“Tell the captain I said hi. Or better yet, just moan it in his direction next time.”
She flipped him off without looking.
But she didn’t stop smiling all the way back to engineering. That was, until she walked in on the scene unfolding before her.
“What the hell are you two doing?” she snapped.
Yajirobe was bent over an open coolant tank, holding a ladle. “Lost a wrench.”
“A what ?”
“One of the good ones,” Korin added from his perch on a workbench, sipping from a juice box. “The one with the grippy handle.”
Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose. “And your first thought was soup ladle.”
“It’s stainless steel!” Yajirobe protested. “High-temp rated!”
Korin held up a finger. “Also, it wasn't our first choice! He dropped the magnet stick in right before this.”
“…You what ?”
“We were trying to be efficient.”
Bulma stared at them. Then at the tank. Then at the ladle slowly sinking into the blue coolant like it was giving up on life.
Without a word, she turned on her heel, walked to the nearest panel, and hit the emergency shutoff.
Yajirobe blinked. “That’s probably overkill.”
“Keep talking,” she muttered, “and you’re going in next.”
Korin sipped his juice and looked at Yajirobe. “Yeah, she definitely loves us.”
---
Bulma stepped into The Mariner’s Table a little after 7:15. She’d warned her mother she might stop by, and Panchy had been delighted, as expected.
The restaurant was tucked behind the spa deck, dimly lit and elegant, with warm wood accents and soft jazz filtering through the speakers. Trailing vines lined the walls, and the candlelight made the stemware glow.
She smoothed the front of her navy sundress, double-breasted with gold buttons and a softly flared skirt that hit mid-thigh— just enough to show off her legs. The little blue heels she’d paired with it gave the whole look a confident snap.
Bulma entered the dining room, eyes sweeping across the tables—and froze.
Her mother was already seated at a corner table with two glasses of white wine, chatting animatedly. Across from her sat Piccolo, looking comically stoic amid the candlelight and linen napkins.
And next to him—
Was Vegeta.
Bulma did a double take.
He wasn’t in uniform. Just a black button-down, sleeves casually rolled, collar slightly askew like he’d tugged at it once and gave up. He had a fork in one hand and a wineglass in the other.
And he was…smiling. A little.
What the hell?
“Oh good,” Panchy chirped as Bulma approached. “We started without you. Piccolo, this is Bulma! And yes, she gets her charm from me. Also, Captain Vegeta came in to grab something to go, but I told him that was utterly barbaric and made him sit down.”
“I didn’t agree,” Vegeta said, glancing at Bulma. “I was ambushed.”
“You’re still here,” Panchy sang. “And drinking wine.”
He looked like he wanted to argue but took a sip instead.
Bulma slid into the empty seat beside her mother, stunned. “Nice to meet you, Piccolo. Wow. Two of the most repressed men on this ship in one spot. And voluntarily.”
“I was promised a meal,” Piccolo said, droll. “And quiet.”
Panchy beamed. “And I was promised charm. Look at us all over-delivering.”
Bulma snorted.
For a long while while they ate, the four of them just…talked. Not about work. Panchy kept things flowing with ease—talking about art installations, the best saunas on board, Piccolo’s posture, and the vintage of the wine. She even got Vegeta to grumble about a particular brand of olive oil that had changed suppliers.
And Bulma kept glancing at him. At Vegeta . Listening. Engaging. Not snapping, not growling. Just…there. Still sharp, still dry, but present in a way she didn’t recognize.
At one point, he said something about storm protocols, and Panchy nodded with such intense interest you’d think he was reading poetry.
Bulma stared. Since when do you talk this much in public?
As if sensing her confusion, he glanced over and met her eyes. There was something different in his expression. A flicker of challenge. Or maybe amusement.
Panchy swirled her wine. “Oh, Bulma dear, before you sat down earlier Piccolo was telling us about that survival show he filmed a few years ago. The one where they dropped him in the Andes with only a blanket and a lighter.”
Piccolo blinked once. “It was a tarp and a flint striker.”
“Even worse,” Panchy said cheerfully. “And you still looked so composed. Didn’t even muss your clothes.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Wonderful,” she said. “And you, Vegeta?” She pivoted smoothly, eyes gleaming with interest. “I heard you were in the navy. Ever have to survive something wild? Sharks? Pirates? A tragic shortage of espresso?”
Vegeta didn’t answer immediately. His thumb brushed the rim of his glass. “I wasn’t on luxury vessels.”
Bulma leaned in, curious despite herself.
“Oh?” Panchy prompted. “What kind of vessels were they?”
“Frigates. Gunboats. Ocean patrol and response.” He took a sip. “Once spent forty-six hours in open water after a hull breach. No comms. No backup. Just drifted.”
“Shit,” Bulma said, before she could stop herself.
Vegeta’s mouth twitched. “It wasn’t the worst week I’ve had.”
Panchy placed a hand dramatically over her heart. “Well, now I feel silly for ever complaining about air conditioning.”
Piccolo raised an eyebrow. “How’d you make it out?”
“Currents took us into traffic lanes eventually. Got picked up by a Panamanian crew.” He glanced over at Piccolo. “We weren’t filming, though.”
“I wasn’t trying to impress anyone,” Piccolo replied dryly.
Panchy fanned herself. “I don’t know, I’m impressed. Danger, discipline, daring—what a dinner table.”
Bulma sat back in her chair, watching Vegeta out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t even trying to be interesting. He was just being —and maybe for the first time, she was seeing pieces of the man he never talked about.
And she’d be damned if it wasn’t doing something to her.
Panchy took another sip of her wine, undeterred by the gravity of his last statement. “Well, I for one am thrilled we have you at the helm. You’re like a walking, brooding lighthouse.”
Vegeta grunted. Possibly in acknowledgment. Possibly because she was impossible to argue with.
“Truly,” she went on, leaning her chin into her palm, “it must be awfully lonely though. Stuck out at sea all the time. Don’t you have someone waiting for you somewhere? A family? Partner? Cat?”
Bulma nearly choked on her wine.
Vegeta didn’t flinch. But his pause was just long enough to register.
“No,” he said. “No one’s waiting.”
“Oh, come on,” Panchy said, breezy as ever. “A man like you? I’m sure you’ve left a trail of broken hearts in every port.”
That got a twitch of his brow. “I don’t make port often.”
Piccolo laughed softly into his drink.
“Well, that’s a waste,” Panchy declared. “All this mystery and no one to enjoy it.”
Bulma said nothing, but her heart tugged a little at that. She watched Vegeta as he rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers, gaze distant, unreadable.
He set the glass down with quiet finality. “Some of us do better without attachments.”
“Or so you tell yourself,” Piccolo said mildly, not unkind.
Bulma decided it was time to intervene, if only to shift the spotlight. “Piccolo, didn’t you film that survival episode in the Everglades last year? Where the camera crew got stuck in the mud?”
He gave a slight nod. “Three days. One of them tried to eat a pine cone.”
Bulma opened her mouth, but Panchy barreled on, cheerful as ever. “Speaking of survival skills, my daughter once rebuilt an entire onboard water purification system when she was sixteen. Got bored one summer. The ship ran better afterward.”
Vegeta smirked.
“She also installed emergency solar backups on our private fleet. And fixed a combustion engine with chewing gum once…but I think that was just to prove she could.”
Bulma rolled her eyes. “Mom—”
For a moment, the table quieted. Jazz murmured low from the speakers. Silverware clinked in the distance. Bulma looked over and met Vegeta’s eyes.
And for the first time since they’d met, there wasn’t lust sparking between them.
There was recognition.
Panchy leaned back, swirling her wine with the casual grace of someone entirely in control of the evening. “So, Captain,” she said breezily, “what do you like to do when you're not wrangling guests and surviving storms?”
Vegeta didn’t answer right away. "I train.”
“Oh,” Panchy said, delighted. “Like martial arts? Or lifting?”
“A little bit of both.” He replied.
Bulma tilted her head. “Even on shore leave?”
“Especially then,” he said. “Too easy to go soft.”
Panchy smiled. “That’s admirable. But do you ever unwind? Read, maybe? Listen to music?”
Vegeta shifted. “I read.”
“Oh?” Bulma perked up, trying not to show it. “What kind of stuff?”
“…History. Biographies...Science fiction.”
Bulma’s mouth dropped. “Wait, seriously?”
“It’s the only genre where people are smart enough to evacuate a ship properly.”
Bulma stared. “You read it for the emergency protocols?”
He took a bite of his food. “And the killer robots.”
Piccolo made a sound that might have been approval.
Panchy, clearly enjoying herself, kept going. “And do you like any particular genre of music?”
“…Opera,” Vegeta said.
Bulma blinked.
That she had not expected.
“I knew it,” Panchy said, utterly pleased. “You have a secret romantic streak. You just don’t want anyone to know.”
Vegeta scowled.
Piccolo sipped his iced tea like he was watching a play.
Panchy leaned in with a wink at her daughter. “Isn’t that right, Bulma? A man who likes high drama, loyalty, and a tragic soprano? Sounds like your type.”
Bulma gave her a look, cheeks warm. “Mom.”
But when she risked another glance at Vegeta, he wasn’t smirking.
He was watching her again, like maybe she’d just become more dangerous than he thought.
Panchy turned gracefully back to Piccolo with a conspiratorial smile. “And what about you, darling? Any other secret talents I should know about? You play cello, right? Or was that just my imagination projecting onto your whole… brooding symphony thing?”
Piccolo arched a brow. “I do play cello.”
Bulma took a bite of her fish to hide her laugh.
“As of late, I’ve been more interested in gardening,” Piccolo added after a beat. “Succulents, mostly.”
Panchy’s eyes sparkled. “Strong, silent, and nurturing. Bulma, if I were thirty years younger—”
“You’re not,” Bulma said pointedly.
Piccolo looked vaguely alarmed.
Vegeta let out something that might’ve been a snort.
Panchy took a dainty bite of her food, then set her fork down with theatrical grace. “Well,” she said, eyes flicking to Vegeta’s empty plate, “looks like someone’s all finished.”
She dabbed her lips with her napkin and smiled serenely at her daughter. “Why don’t you walk him out, darling? Can’t have the Captain getting lost on his own ship.”
Bulma glanced at her mother, then at Vegeta, who was already half turned in his seat, watching her. “…Sure,” she said, pushing back her chair.
She gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, then nodded to Piccolo. "Nice to have finally met you."
Piccolo raised his glass in farewell. “Pleasure, Bulma. Captain.”
As they stepped out into the corridor together, the hush of the spa deck replaced the soft jazz and chatter. For a moment, neither spoke. Their shoulders brushed once. Then again.
Then Bulma huffed a laugh. “You know that was her way of all but giving me her blessing, right?”
Vegeta glanced over at her. “Subtle. I see where you get it from.”
“Rude,” she said, elbowing him. “I’ll have you know I’m the picture of restraint.”
He barked out a laugh before he could stop it.
“And she thinks she’s subtle,” Bulma said dryly. “That was her version of tying a ribbon around your wrist and handing you over.”
He made a noncommittal sound, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “I’ve been through less intense interrogations from senior officers.”
“You handled it pretty well, considering.” She said.
He shrugged. “It’s easier when there’s wine.”
“And when someone’s genuinely interesting,” she added. “I liked hearing you talk.”
He didn’t look at her, but something in his posture shifted. “Most people don’t.”
“Most people are boring,” she said, bumping his arm with hers. “I like the way you think.”
They walked in silence for a while. A few crew members passed by in the distance, but no one paid them any mind.
“I didn’t peg you as an opera guy,” she said eventually, teasing. “Or a reader.”
“I don’t lead with it,” he muttered.
“You should,” she said. “It suits you.”
That earned her a brief glance, sharper than before. Almost searching. But he didn’t push it, and neither did she.
By the time they reached his corridor, neither of them had said a word about where they were heading. They just...ended up there.
Bulma stopped beside him. “Guess I walked you home.”
“You did,” he said, voice low.
Vegeta stopped in front of his cabin and pulled out his key card. The lock clicked with a soft beep, and he pushed the door open.
He turned slightly, as if to say good night.
But before he could say anything, Bulma followed him in, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him. The door closed behind them.
He froze for half a second. Then his hands found her waist.
When she pulled back, her breath was warm against his mouth.
“I don’t want to stop,” she said.
Vegeta stared at her. His jaw worked once. “This isn’t a good idea.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because you’re my superior?”
“Yes. Among other things.”
She gave him a crooked smile. “Vegeta. I outrank you on the company board.”
His eyes widened. She could practically hear the short-circuit happening in his brain.
“I mean,” she added, stepping in close, “my family owns the ship. So, technically… you’re the one fraternizing upward.”
He just stared at her like she’d flipped a breaker in his brain and he was still waiting for the lights to come back on.
Then her gaze drifted past him, catching something behind his shoulder.
“…Is that Dicksee?”
Vegeta turned slightly. The painting hung in perfect symmetry above his dresser.
“Romeo and Juliet,” she said, surprised. “Didn’t have you pegged as a doomed-lovers type.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “It was my mother’s.”
Something in his voice had softened.
“It used to hang in our hallway at home. I’d… look at it a lot as a child. She sent it to me recently. Said it was time I had it.”
Bulma stepped closer, studying the print. “It’s beautiful.”
“She liked the colors. Said it reminded her of her childhood.”
“Do you talk often?”
He exhaled. “We write letters back and forth. She still refuses to use email.”
Bulma smiled. “Old-school. I like her already.”
“She says it makes her feel like I’m really listening.”
Bulma looked back at the painting. “That’s actually kind of beautiful.”
She hesitated, then asked, gently, “Do you see her much?”
His whole body locked.
“…No.”
The wall slammed back into place. Bulma felt it.
But instead of pushing, she shifted the subject, gave him space to breathe.
“So what do you think?”
He frowned. “About what?”
She gestured between them. “This. You and me. Do we keep sneaking around? Or…” Her voice dropped. “Do we have a little fun somewhere where we won’t get caught?”
His eyes dropped to her lips. “You want that?”
“I want you ,” she said simply. “I’ve never been this attracted to someone before.”
“Neither have I.” He admitted.
Bulma smiled.
“So why don’t we see where it goes?”
Vegeta tensed.
She saw it, and softened the blow herself.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything. Could just be to release tension. Blow off steam.”
Her voice was casual. Too casual.
Vegeta watched her like he was trying to read every lie in her smile.
But he didn’t call her on it. He was too far gone to.
“…All right.” He finally said.
Bulma smiled and moved forward, kissing him again, hand pressed to the side of his neck, thumb brushing along the curve of his jaw. He leaned into it with a sound so low it barely qualified as breath.
She gently guided him backward, fingers sliding over his chest, until the backs of his knees met the bed.
“Sit,” she whispered.
He obeyed, breath uneven.
She stayed close, straddling one thigh as her hands rested lightly on his shoulders. She kissed him again, then pulled back just enough to murmur, “You remember what I said to you yesterday in the engine room?”
He swallowed. “Which part?”
Her smile curved into something wicked. “Something about tying you up.”
He froze, then flushed.
Bulma leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “It seemed to get a reaction.”
Vegeta’s jaw clenched. “You were imagining things.”
She looked at him. His pupils were blown wide, breath shallow, chest rising under her hands like he was trying to stay perfectly still.
“I don’t think I was.”
She kissed his throat gently. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”
He shook his head once. “No.”
Her fingers skimmed under the hem of his shirt. “Would you like to? With me?”
He made a small, involuntary noise.
Bulma smiled.
“It’s okay if the answer’s no,” she added, “I want you however you’re comfortable. We don’t have to do anything you’re not sure about.”
He was already breathing harder.
She brushed her nose against his jaw. “We can start slow.”
He paused for a long time, as if truly considering it.
Then his hands met her hips.
“…Yes.”
She moved back, looking him in the eye. “Can I take care of you tonight?”
Vegeta looked like he was being electrocuted in slow motion.
“…Yes,” he said again, hoarse.
“Can I blindfold you?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes.”
Her hand moved to his wrist. She brushed her fingers over the pulse point. “And if I gently tied your hands?”
He exhaled shakily. His hips shifted under her.
“…Yes.”
Her smile softened.
“Good.”
She kissed him again, slow, teasing, promising.
Then she whispered against his lips, “You just let me know if anything doesn’t feel good or if you want to stop. Otherwise…” Her voice dropped to a purr. “You don’t have to think at all.”
“I’m not going to tap out,” he said, eyes flicking away for just a second.
She smiled knowingly and pulled back just slightly to run her fingers through his hair. His eyes closed.
“Undress all the way for me,” she whispered. “Then lie down.”
Vegeta’s breath caught. To her shock, he didn’t reply, he just obeyed.
Bulma stepped back as he pushed to his feet. First came the black button-down. He unfastened each button with maddening precision, then shrugged it off, revealing the lean, flexed tension of his torso. Scars, muscle, breath rising a little too quickly.
Next, he undid his slacks. The sound of the zipper dragged like a spark down her back. He folded them with the same discipline and laid them atop the chair, stripped down now—bare, unguarded, and already visibly hard.
He climbed onto the bed and reclined against the pillows, arms at his sides, thighs taut and slightly spread. His composure was intact, but barely. His jaw ticked. His chest rose in quick, shallow lifts. And lower, his cock stood thick and eager against the flat plane of his stomach, the sight so bold it knocked the breath from her lungs.
“God,” she breathed, drinking him in. “You are gorgeous .”
He looked away like he didn’t know how to take that. She let it hang in the air, then walked toward the closet.
“Do you own any neckties?” she asked.
“In the back,” he breathed.
She found them easily, two dark silk ties, neatly rolled and rarely used. When she returned, he was where she’d left him: naked, breath heavy, hands still obediently at his sides.
She climbed up beside him, straddling his thighs, and cupped his jaw. “Hey.”
He looked up at her.
She kissed him gently, then trailed her fingertips down his chest, mapping the curve of each rib.
“I’m going to blindfold you now. Okay?”
“…Okay.”
She slid the silk tie around his head, tugging it into place with a light touch, testing the pressure. He inhaled sharply at the loss of sight, body going even more still.
“You’re doing great,” she whispered.
Then she reached for his wrists.
“I’m going to tie your hands now. Just to the headboard. Nothing too tight.”
He swallowed audibly.
“I’ll undo them the second you say the word.”
“…Okay.”
She guided his arms up, tying one wrist, then the other, firmly but not too tight. She stroked the inside of his forearms once she was done, letting him feel her presence.
Then she took a moment to just look at him, completely spread out, blindfolded, breath trembling under her touch.
He was stunning.
She leaned down and kissed his collarbone.
Then his throat.
His sternum.
Lower.
Her hands mapped his hips, her mouth dragging kisses along his ribs and waist, everywhere but where he clearly ached for her.
“You’re so good for me,” she murmured into his skin, voice thick with admiration. “So obedient.”
He made a sound in his throat—half agony, half worship.
Her tongue dipped to the inside of his thigh.
“I can't wait to see you fall apart,” she whispered.
He whimpered, actual, honest-to-god whimpered.
And she smiled.
She kissed along his hip, her fingers drifting down the thick muscle of his thigh. He was trembling now, tense all over.
“You’re doing really well,” she murmured, brushing a kiss just above his knee. Her hand glided slowly inward, fingertips grazing where the tension still lived. “But you’re still holding tightness in some areas.”
Vegeta let out a groan.
“Oh really, where?” He snarked. “My fucking cock?”
Without missing a beat, Bulma lifted her hand and delivered a sharp, open-palmed swat to the outer curve of his thigh.
His reaction was instant and visceral. He jolted like he’d been struck by lightning, his hips jumping off the mattress, shoulders flexing, heels digging reflexively into the sheets. He squirmed beneath her, trying—and failing—to stay still. His thighs tensed, his chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths, and the flush creeping down his neck deepened.
Bulma trailed her palm soothingly over the spot she’d just marked. “Oh, did that surprise you?”
“Fuck,” he hissed, the word cracking in his throat. His fists were clenched where they’d been tied. “What the hell was that?”
“A reminder,” she whispered against his skin. “That I’m in charge tonight.”
He gave another twitch, and tried to grind his hips upwards for relief, but she caught the motion and tutted.
“Squirming already?” she teased. “And here I thought you had more discipline than that.”
He exhaled hard through his nose, face turned toward the pillow, voice ragged. “You’re going to kill me.”
Bulma crawled up his body and leaned over him, her mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”
Vegeta’s breath caught in little pants that he could no longer control.
She went back down to her original position, fingers skimming over the stinging imprint she’d left on his outer thigh. Then they drifted—slow, feather-soft—along the curve of his hip and the taut lines of muscle that trembled beneath her.
He squirmed again, not from pain but from the maddening delicacy of it. Every nerve was lit up now, every inch of him hypersensitive.
Bulma smiled against his skin, and her voice dropped to a sultry murmur. “Did you like it when I punished you?”
Vegeta didn’t answer at first. Just breathed, ragged, shaky, strained.
So she did it again on the opposite thigh. Gentler this time.
That got him to let out a growl. “You know I did.”
Her grin widened. “Then why so quiet?”
“Because,” he ground out, “I don’t trust myself to say what I’m thinking right now.”
She laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the hollow where his abdomen met his thigh. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” he rasped, the words muffled by where he had turned his head into the pillow. “You’re going to pay for this.”
“Oh, I hope so,” she whispered, dragging her nails ever so gently down his abs. “But not yet.”
He shivered under her again, completely at her mercy.
And from the sounds he was making, she knew that he loved it.
She brushed her lips against the top of his thigh, then kissed it again, slower this time. Her hand trailed inward, fingers dragging up the tender skin where thigh met groin, but she still didn’t touch him where he ached. Not yet.
“I’m going to touch you soon. Don’t hold back,” she said, voice low. “I want to hear you.”
He growled—a sound of warning, of pride—and she grinned against his skin. Because he was trying so hard to hold on. He still thought he could win this.
“You’re so lovely like this,” she whispered, voice like velvet. “Wrecked and trying not to show it. Still pretending you’re in control.”
Her hands found his wrists, and she gave the softest tug on the tie—just enough for him to feel it, to remember that she had him.
He shuddered beneath her.
“You’ve been so good for me tonight,” she murmured, trailing kisses along his jaw. “Do you know how happy you’ve made me?”
Vegeta’s breath hitched.
She smiled, lips brushing his. “Do you think you deserve a reward for that?”
“…Yes.”
She arched her brow. “That didn’t sound very convincing.”
His voice was ragged, low. His teeth clenched. “Please…Bulma…”
She smiled and, finally, her hand drifted between his legs.
He made a sound then. Sharp, strangled. Vulnerable. He rutted into her palm, unable to control himself any longer.
“There you are,” she whispered, leaning down and pressing a kiss just below his navel. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
She scooted down even further and looked up at him from between his legs. “You’ve been so good for me,” she said. “But I can feel how badly you need to come.”
Vegeta was breathing hard now. Chest rising, falling. Fingers twitching against the soft binding around his wrists.
She brushed her mouth against the base of him, but just for a moment. Just enough for him to jerk forward with a strangled noise.
“I didn’t say you could yet,” she whispered.
“ Fuck, ” he hissed, voice cracking.
His hips stuttered.
He was so close. So painfully close, and all she’d done was touch him a little.
He was shaking now.
His muscles were tight, straining. He’d been edged to the brink more times than he could count, and his cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking and flushed dark with need.
“Still with me?” she murmured, her voice warm and low as her hands slid along his thighs.
He nodded. “Yes,” he rasped. “Fuck—yes.”
Her mouth finally hovered where he needed her. She blew gently across the tip, and he jumped , a stifled moan slipping through gritted teeth.
Then she licked.
A slow, deliberate line from base to head, her tongue firm and hot. He gasped, hips jerking up, completely unprepared for the contact. She wrapped one hand around him, steadying him as she took him into her mouth—slowly, deeply—until he was nearly all the way in.
“God—” His hands twisted in the restraints. “Bulma—!”
She pulled back slightly and gave a little hum of acknowledgment, the vibration making him curse under his breath.
Every pass of her mouth was measured, careful, controlled, coaxing more from him each time. She didn’t rush. She wanted to feel every twitch of his thighs, every buck of his hips, every ragged breath. His body trembled beneath her, suspended between unbearable need and overwhelming sensation.
“You’re doing so well,” she whispered when she pulled off for air, her lips slick and eyes shining. “Would you like me to let you come now?”
All he could do was nod as his head his head lolled to the side on the pillow.
She kissed the flushed tip, then took him again, faster now, with more pressure, her hand working in rhythm with her mouth.
Vegeta’s whole body arched.
“Bulma—I’m—” His voice broke on the warning, but she didn’t stop. She just sucked harder, kept stroking, swallowed around him with focused intent.
He climaxed with a strangled, shocked sound, his entire body seizing beneath her as if he’d been struck. His hips bucked once, then again, and his mouth fell open. His reaction was so loud she almost pulled back in surprise—but she didn’t. She held him gently, coaxing every wave of release from him, her mouth soft and steady as he came undone.
When he finally sagged into the mattress, boneless and panting, she slid up beside him and slowly pulled off the blindfold.
His eyes, when they finally focused on her, were dazed and stunned. He looked ruined. Just as she had promised.
She reached for the knot at his wrists, fingers careful, gentle. His skin was warm under her touch, still flushed with the aftershocks of release. As the tie slipped loose, he let out a slow, shuddering exhale.
“That's it. Just relax for a while. You okay?” she asked softly, brushing her thumb over the faint crease the fabric left behind.
His hand shot out and caught her wrist.
“Vegeta—?”
He moved before she could finish, eyes burning as he rolled them swiftly, easily, flipping her onto her back with a force that made the mattress creak. Her body jolted beneath him, caught between a laugh and a gasp as his weight pressed her down.
“ Oh. ”
He was on his knees between her legs, hands braced on either side of her head.
His mouth was still slack but curling into something wild.
“That was not fair,” he said hoarsely.
Bulma looked up at him, heart kicking hard. “What wasn’t?”
“You,” he growled. “Doing all that. Then acting like we’re finished.”
A thrill rolled down her spine. “I never said we were finished.”
He dragged his palm down her side, until his hand cupped her thigh and squeezed.
“Good,” he murmured. Then his mouth was at her neck, his body pressing into hers, his voice at her ear.
“I want to hear you now.”
Her breath stuttered.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, then trailed lower, sucking at her breasts through the fabric of her dress. When she arched into his hands, he groaned, fingers rougher now, more desperate.
“Fuck,” she whispered, clinging to him, laughing breathlessly. “You’re—very welcome.”
He bit lightly at her collarbone.
She didn’t have long to wonder what he’d do next.
Vegeta flipped her onto her stomach. A startled sound escaped her lips, as his weight shifted above her, hands sweeping down her back, possessive and hungry.
“Tell me right now if you want me to stop,” he growled at her ear, voice hot.
His hand ran down the back of her thigh, under the hem of her dress.
“Don’t stop.” She was already trembling.
His voice dropped. “You remember when you mouthed off in engineering when we first met? When you told me I would get down on my knees and beg you?”
Bulma shivered. “…Yeah.”
"I wanted my hands between your legs before you even finished that sentence.”
That was all she needed to hear. "Show me." She breathed. "Show me what you would have done. What you would have said."
He shoved the dress up in one smooth motion, baring her to the waist. Her panties clung damply to her skin, and he peeled them down just far enough to expose the swell of her ass, leaving them around her thighs.
“Still feeling smug, genius?”
She arched her hips up, teasing. “Always.”
He made a sharp, desperate sound, and then his hand slid between her legs, fingers cupping her completely.
She gasped, jerking forward against the sheets.
His touch was relentless. He spread her gently with two fingers and circled her clit.
She whimpered. “Please—”
“Please what?” he rasped.
“Touch me. Vegeta—don’t stop—”
“You want me to make you come like this?” His voice was thick. “Face down, soaking wet, legs shaking because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “Yes—fuck— yes —”
He groaned, grabbing a handful of her ass with one hand, the other rubbing harder, faster—fingers slick and sure as she trembled beneath him.
“You look ruined already,” he hissed. “And I haven’t even—”
Her body bucked, breath gone. She was on the precipice and he could tell.
“Let me hear it,” he snarled.
And she shattered.
The orgasm hit her hard, her cries muffled by the pillow as she clenched the sheets and broke . Her whole body arched off the bed, hips jerking, breath leaving her in sobs and gasps and his name on repeat.
He didn’t let up, drawing it out until she was boneless, her thighs twitching, her whole body spent.
Then, finally, he braced himself over her. Breathing hard.
She was still trembling when he leaned down and kissed her shoulder.
Bulma’s lashes fluttered. Her heart was pounding.
Vegeta’s voice was as gentle as she’d ever heard. “You okay?”
She let out a shaky laugh. “What gave it away? The screaming?”
His fingers slid down her spine. “I mean it. I didn’t…go too far, did I?”
She turned her head just enough to look up at him, cheeks flushed, mascara slightly smudged. “I’m perfect. Seriously.”
He let out a long, slow breath.
Then, carefully, he reached for her panties and began to pull them back up. His touch was almost shy now.
But Bulma reached down and caught his wrist.
“Wait.”
She sat up slowly, cheeks still flushed, and peeled the dress over her head in one smooth motion. Then her bra. Then the rest. No hesitation.
And just like that, she was bare—completely bare—lying beside him in the dim light, meeting his stunned silence with a look that dared him to see her.
“Now we’re even,” she whispered.
His breath hitched, and he reached for her like he’d never get enough.
She looked at him, hair mussed, chest still rising and falling, brow faintly furrowed like he didn’t know what to do next.
So she tugged him back down to the bed.
And kissed him.
His body settled beside hers, still tense beneath the surface, like he was still afraid he’d done too much. But she held his jaw and kept kissing him, threading her fingers into his hair.
“You were amazing,” she whispered between kisses. His fingers curled tighter at her waist.
He didn’t say anything—just exhaled against her temple and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in like he meant to keep her there.
And she let herself rest, face tucked beneath his chin, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breath.
Chapter Text
The shrill beep-beep-beep of Vegeta’s alarm ripped through the dark.
He grunted, muttered a half-asleep curse, and swatted the phone to snooze.
0400 hours.
He cracked one eye open, disoriented. It took a second to remember where he was, what day it was. His body ached in unfamiliar places: wrists, neck, thighs.
He was just about to roll out of bed when he felt her.
Bulma.
Pressed flush to his front, still fast asleep.
His arm rested across her waist, palm curled lazily around her breast, thumb grazing the curve like it was already automatic for him. She stirred faintly and let out a soft breath, then tucked herself even closer, utterly unbothered.
His throat went dry. And the memories surged in.
God, the things she’d done to him. The way she’d kissed him, blindfolded him, taken him apart like she knew how he was wired more so than he even did. And then afterward—when he’d wrecked her right back and they’d collapsed, dazed and tangled together—they’d dozed off for maybe an hour, until she stirred, mumbling something about needing a shower.
He’d stayed in bed, listening to the quiet sounds of her in the bathroom—the flush of the toilet, the rush of water. He moved then, grabbed a condom, crossed the room like a man possessed.
The bathroom door had been unlocked.
She was already under the spray, head tilted back, hair clinging to her shoulders in wet ribbons. When she saw him, she’d laughed.
“About time,” she’d teased, eyeing what he held. “Came prepared, huh?”
He’d stepped forward, then paused just outside the glass, eyes flicking down her body. His jaw flexed.
“…You okay with it?” he’d asked gruffly. He’d been sure there had been a hint of color in his cheeks.
Bulma leaned back against the tile, arms folding under her chest, breasts lifting just enough to make him swallow. She tilted her head and smirked.
“Are you?”
That had been all it took.
He’d stepped under the water and kissed her—hard.
She’d gasped against his mouth, but melted into him. Hands gripping his waist. Her body slick and hot and so damn willing. And when she’d turned, braced her hands on the wall, and let him slide into her from behind—
That was the moment. That was the one etched into his brain.
The steam curling around her. Her back arched. Her soft, soaked body taking all of him so willingly—the way she tightened around him, the ragged way she moaned his name when she came.
He blinked back to the present.
Now, she was curled in his arms, wearing only a pair of his black briefs. They were too tight across her hips, riding up one side. After the shower, she’d come out in a towel, grumbling about running out of tampons. She’d pulled a pad from her purse, glanced at her ruined underwear on the floor, and looked around awkwardly.
He didn’t even let her ask. Just handed her a clean pair of his.
She’d raised her eyebrow playfully at him and gone back into the bathroom. Two minutes later, when she came back out, he’d hauled her straight back into bed.
Now she stirred again, slowly turning over to face him. Her eyes cracked open, barely. Lips dry, cheek creased from the pillow.
She smiled. “Mmnh. Morning.”
He stared.
There was a little dried drool at the corner of her mouth. A smudge of mascara under one eye. Her hair was a wild, static-laced mess.
And for whatever reason, that’s when it hit him.
The epiphany of all mother fucking epiphanies.
He was in love with her.
Not just drawn to her. Not just addicted to how she made him feel. He was completely, catastrophically, idiotically in love.
And it had taken—what? A week ?
She blinked up at him, a sleepy crease forming between her brows. “Are you cold?”
He hadn’t realized he was shaking.
“Yeah,” he said. “Must be.”
She reached down and tugged the blanket higher, tucking it over his shoulders. “Still dark out. Go back to sleep.”
Then she curled into him again, one arm slipping around his waist, her leg tangled with his like it was second nature. Her lips brushed his collarbone.
Vegeta stared at the ceiling.
He was going to die.
This was a mistake. All of it. Letting her in. Touching her. Keeping her. But he was already too far gone.
And maybe it didn’t matter.
She’d be gone in a few weeks, and this would be over.
Then—he’d stop. Turn it off. Like a swit—
She sighed and whispered his name against his chest.
Vegeta looked down at her, eyes tracing her lashes, the way her lips barely parted.
… Fuck.
He reached blindly for his phone and canceled the 0400 alarm. Set a new one for 0515.
Just a little longer.
He closed his eyes and wrapped both arms around her, buried his face in her hair, and went back to sleep.
---
Bulma walked into the staff conference room at around 6:05 AM, hair just slightly mussed, travel mug in hand, and a practiced look of casual sleepiness on her face.
They’d agreed on the plan before parting ways, well, pausing things, thirty minutes ago.
Vegeta would go in first. She’d stroll in late. He’d scold her. She’d roll her eyes.
Flawless cover. Professional. Believable. No one would even think twice. Which was impressive, considering she’d had her tongue in his mouth and her hand gripping his bare ass less than an hour ago. Oh, and was still wearing his underwear.
She slid into her usual seat at the middle of the table.
Vegeta didn’t look up from whatever notes he was reading. “Glad you could finally join us, Briefs.”
He looked so relaxed after last night, it took everything in her not to laugh.
She fought the corner of her mouth from twitching. “Alarm didn’t go off,” she mumbled, yawning into her coffee lid.
He gave a small nod. “Let’s keep it tighter next time.”
She saluted lazily and took a sip.
The meeting rolled on.
Nobody noticed. Raditz was thankfully too busy making teasing eyes at his brother, and the rest of the crew seemed to be engaged with whatever update Krillin was giving.
But her mind wandered.
Not much, just for a second. Long enough to remember the way the room smelled an hour ago. Clean sheets. Him. Her hair still smelled like a blend of his shampoo and his deodorant from where she had been locked tight under his arm at one point.
She’d stirred around five to find herself pressed to his chest, lips brushing the base of his throat. He’d still been half-asleep, hand resting low on her back, heat radiating off him like a furnace.
She’d watched him for a moment, so relaxed in sleep. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get over how stunning he was. Even with mussed hair and morning breath, he was still unfairly, impossibly handsome.
She decided she should wake him. Soft kisses to his jaw, neck, mouth. Slow and coaxing, barely-there, until he’d stirred and groaned and kissed her back.
By the time his alarm went off, he’d been breathing like he’d run five miles, and she’d been clinging to him like it wasn’t enough. Like it would never be enough.
Somewhere in that haze—after he’d kissed down her throat, after she’d wrapped her leg over his hip and whispered his name into his ear—she’d murmured, “When can I see you again?”
His breath caught, like he hadn’t expected the question.
Then her hand slid down, fingers curling around him under the sheets.
He’d gone momentarily blank.
“Tonight,” he’d rasped. “1900.”
She’d smiled against his neck, thumb brushing against him in just the right way to make him hiss.
But then he’d groaned, grabbed her wrist, and pressed a kiss to her temple like it physically pained him.
“We have to go,” he’d said. “Don’t start something we can’t finish.”
She’d sighed dramatically and nuzzled closer for one last second. “Fine.”
They didn’t move for another two minutes.
Now, across the table, he looked normal. Stern. Focused. Unshakable.
Krillin coughed. “Um, Bulma, did you hear me? Everything should be good to go for port tomorrow, right?”
“Briefs?” Vegeta prompted,
She looked up from her tablet. “We’re still seeing low-level cavitation near the port-side intake. Probably a result of some minor impeller wear or debris backflow. I’ve been adjusting the flow manually, throttling to balance out the pressure differential.”
Krillin frowned. “Is it stable?”
Bulma nodded slowly. “For now, but if it spikes again, I’ll need to reduce speed on that intake to avoid further damage. It might mean we dock a little later than scheduled.”
Vegeta’s brow twitched. “How much later?”
She tapped the screen. “Thirty to sixty minutes max, if it holds steady. Longer if it doesn’t. I’ll monitor it in real-time.”
Vegeta’s eyes flicked to Krillin. “That deviation going to be a problem?”
Krillin scratched his head. “Shouldn’t be. As long as we don’t fall more than an hour off schedule, we’ll stay clear of the storm track.”
Vegeta’s jaw tightened. “And if we do?”
Krillin hesitated, then gave a short shrug. “Then we adjust. Not ideal, but doable.”
Bulma added, “I’ll keep monitoring the intake. If the pressure stays within range, we’ll make up the time.”
Vegeta didn’t look convinced. “Let me know the second anything shifts.”
She nodded. She could do that. That was fine. Simple and normal, like usual.
Except it wasn’t.
Because now she knew what his skin felt like under her palms. What his voice sounded like when he lost control. How it felt to fall asleep in his bed, in his arms, wearing his clothes.
And now she was supposed to sit across from him like it was any other morning. Like she wasn’t hyper-aware of every glance, every flick of his fingers, every shift of muscle beneath that damned white uniform shirt.
This was fine. It was all fine.
They were just blowing off steam. Two consenting adults. It wasn’t like she meant anything by it. It wasn’t like she needed to know what he sounded like when he genuinely laughed. Or what kind of books he actually kept in that nightstand drawer. Or how it would be to wake up next to him like that again. Maybe even multiple times. For science.
She cleared her throat.
This was just sex. Just fun. Temporary.
They had an end date. And this was healthy. Rational. Only mildly unhinged.
Totally manageable.
At the end of the meeting, just as she stood, Raditz sidled up beside her, coffee in hand and that usual glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Guess who’s sleeping together?” he murmured.
Bulma froze. “What?”
He leaned in, grinning. “Goku and Chi-Chi.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Oh! No way!”
“Oh, yes. Apparently they got a little tipsy after the 80s mixer—those electric blue daiquiris’ll do it—and boom. One thing led to another.”
Bulma covered her mouth, choking down a laugh.
Raditz looked entirely too pleased with himself. “I cornered Goku about it yesterday. Poor bastard was all flustered, said she smelled like peaches and he accidentally called her ‘my love’ during. Guy’s in deep.”
“And Chi-Chi?”
“She’s been dodging him like he’s contagious. Either she regrets it, or maybe she just doesn’t know what to do with a five-foot-nine golden retriever who wants to feed her croissants and hold hands on the job.”
Bulma shook her head, grinning. “Poor guy.”
Raditz gave her a look, then nudged her elbow. “Mhm. Anyway, how was your dinner last night?”
Her smile faltered. “My what?”
He tilted his head. “I was trying to find you after to see if you wanted to come up to the VIP deck—one of my DJs was throwing a little impromptu mixer. But you’d vanished.”
Bulma raised an eyebrow.
“I did see your mom, though,” he went on. “She said you went to bed early.”
Bulma snorted. “Did she?”
Raditz’s grin widened. “Yup. Real early. Around the time a certain captain was also not seen again until dawn.”
Bulma rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s good for him. I can only imagine what that man does in his spare time.”
He gave her a sideways look, just long enough to register the faintest pink in her cheeks, the way she focused a little too hard on screwing the lid back onto her coffee.
“Well, at any rate, did you see him this morning? Top button on his shirt was undone, like he’s on spring break. Man’s out of control.”
Bulma let out a startled laugh and smacked his arm. “Shut up.”
Raditz just grinned and lifted his cup in a mock toast. “Just saying. It’s always the quiet ones.”
She shook her head, trying not to smile as she walked off.
“See you at beach day tomorrow, Blue,” he called after her, tone maddeningly amused.
She tossed a wave over her shoulder, but didn’t turn around.
---
Bulma’s morning passed in a blur of maintenance reports, system checks, and coffee. None of it was particularly exciting, which was just as well, she wasn’t in the mood for excitement. Not after the night she’d had. Or the morning. Or the very loud thoughts currently rolling around in her head.
By noon, she’d escaped.
She found her mother exactly where she expected: sprawled in a lounge chair by the VIP pool, wide-brimmed sunhat shading her sunglasses, and an unread book in one hand. The breeze ruffled her gauzy caftan, and her sandals were kicked off neatly beside her chair like she'd been born to live this exact moment.
“Oh, darling,” Panchy said without looking up, “you’re right on time. I ordered us the grilled fish and some kind of island salad thing. Also, the waiter is adorable. He’s bringing us fresh pineapple.”
Bulma slid into the chair beside her with a sigh. “Ok, how did you know I was coming? And thank you. I haven’t eaten since… I don’t know. Last night, I guess. Coffee counts as a meal, right?”
“Only if it's paired with pastries and poor decisions. Which, let’s be honest, runs in the family.” Panchy handed her a fresh drink from her side table and looked at her over the rim of her sunglasses. “And I figured I'd see you sooner or later. You look wrecked. In a fun way.”
Bulma groaned and pressed the cold glass to her forehead. “Please don’t start.”
“I haven’t said a word,” Panchy said innocently. “Yet.”
They lapsed into a moment of silence while the food was set on the table beside them—grilled fish, rice, charred mango, something green and refreshing. The ocean glinted in the distance. Someone was playing soft steel drum music from a nearby bar deck.
Panchy took a delicate bite of her salad. “So… are we talking about it? Or are we just pretending you’re not all glowing and twitchy like someone who finally got laid by a man with good instincts?”
Bulma choked. “Mom.”
“What? I said good instincts . That’s a compliment.”
Bulma buried her face in her hands, then peeked over her fingers. “…You can’t tell anyone.”
“Oh, please.” Panchy waved a hand. “Do you think I gossip about my daughter’s sex life with strangers? I save that for girls’ night.”
Bulma let out a slow breath. Her fingers toyed with the condensation on her glass. “I’m…I’m not sure it’s just sex, momma. Been trying to tell myself all morning that it is.”
Panchy looked at her, just for a second. Then she set her fork down. “No, I didn’t think it was.”
Bulma blinked. “You didn’t?”
“Honey,” Panchy said gently, “I’ve known how you are since you had a head full of curls and couldn’t stop bossing your stuffed animals around. I know what you look like when you’re in trouble.”
Bulma stared at her. Then looked away. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“It never is.”
Bulma picked at her food, quiet for a moment. “He’s… impossible. But good. Really good.”
“You like him.”
“I think I do.”
Panchy sipped her drink. “That’s the problem with good ones. They sneak up on you.”
“I knew something was up last night at dinner.”
Bulma blinked. “What?”
“Oh, come on. The way you two looked at each other? I thought the tablecloth might catch fire.” Panchy raised a brow. “He looked… unguarded. That’s rare in a man like him.”
Bulma picked up a forkful of mango and waved it vaguely. “Well, regardless, it’s just… an affair. A cruise thing. We're just having a little fun. That’s all it should be.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’m going back after this. He knows that.”
Panchy popped a pineapple slice into her mouth, chewing slowly. Then she tilted her head. “Do you know that?”
Bulma opened her mouth, then closed it. “It’s not— I mean, that’s the plan.”
Panchy didn’t push. She just smiled, softer now, and leaned back in her chair, watching the breeze catch the edge of her sunhat.
“You know,” she said, “when I met your father, I was on a yacht with someone else.”
Bulma choked. “What?”
“Oh, don’t look so scandalized. It wasn’t serious. He was handsome and rich and terribly boring. Your grandfather was trying to marry me off to someone with stock options.”
“That… sounds about right.”
Panchy laughed. “Anyway, we’re halfway through this cruise, and there’s this man in the engine room—wiry, distracted, hair like he combed it with a fork. Had grease on his face and a little band-aid on his ear. No idea who he was at first.”
“Dad?”
“Mmhm. He was working on the ship’s stabilizer. I asked him what he was doing, and he talked at me for twenty-five minutes without once looking up.”
Bulma snorted. “Sounds about right.”
“I had no idea what he was saying, but the way he lit up while explaining it—” Panchy smiled to herself, eyes distant. “I knew. Just like that. That was it.”
Bulma stared at her. “Seriously?”
“He asked me to dinner the next day. I said yes. We got married six months later.”
Bulma sat back, quiet.
Panchy glanced over. “I’m not saying that’s what this is. I’m just saying… don’t pretend something doesn’t matter just because it wasn’t part of the plan.”
Bulma sat back in her chair, silent for a moment. Her fork hovered over the fish, forgotten.
Panchy sipped her drink and gave her a gentle smile. “That’s all. Just… be honest with yourself. Whatever this is, own it. Even if it’s messy.”
Bulma exhaled slowly. “I wasn’t ready for this conversation.”
“I know,” Panchy said breezily, reaching for a piece of pineapple. “But you needed it.”
Bulma was just about to reply when a sudden burst of laughter and shouting erupted from the pool bar.
They both turned.
Raditz was already halfway onto the counter, shirt open, gesturing wildly as he heckled Yamcha with something loud and outrageous. Yamcha, to his credit, looked both alarmed and intrigued. Mr. Satan was pumping his fists like a hype man, and Jimmy Firecracker had whipped out his phone, filming like it was the next big pay-per-view event.
Bulma groaned. “Oh no.”
Panchy raised her sunglasses. “Oh yes.”
Bulma just watched them for a while. “Do you think Raditz actually likes Yamcha, or is this just chaos for chaos’s sake?”
Panchy didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, both, darling. He’s a firestarter. Loves to poke. But he only pokes what he wants to keep.”
Bulma raised a brow. “So you think he’s serious?”
“I think he’s interested. And curious. And Yamcha is just the kind of flashy, insecure, performative man who would love being pursued—especially by someone bigger, louder, and more dangerous than him.”
Bulma made a skeptical noise. “You sound invested.”
Panchy sipped her drink. “I enjoy love stories. Even the ridiculous ones. Especially the ridiculous ones.”
She twirled her straw, then leaned in a little. “Besides, your generation deserves more outrageous romances. God knows it’s all apps and emotional unavailability these days. At least Raditz knows how to make an entrance.”
Bulma snorted. “You think Yamcha could handle him?”
“Oh no,” Panchy said brightly. “But it would be so fun to watch him try.”
Raditz had wandered off toward the upper deck, already animatedly talking to Yamcha and Mr. Satan, gesturing wildly like he was narrating a soap opera. Yamcha looked delighted to be the center of attention. Hercule flexed without prompting.
Bulma sipped her drink, watching the scene unfold. “What do you think about Raditz and Lapis?”
Panchy arched a brow. “Oh, now that’s a cocktail I’d try once and regret immediately.”
Bulma laughed. “You don’t think they’d work?”
“Oh, no. Lapis is all calm and ice water. Smart, watchful, unreadable. Raditz is a walking sparkler someone set off indoors. The man has never used his inside voice.”
“Opposites attract.”
“Sometimes. But Raditz would bounce off him like a racquetball. Lapis would give him one eyebrow, say something quietly cutting, and go right back to picking at his fingernails.”
Bulma snorted. “I think Raditz would like the challenge.”
“Oh, he’d love it. He’d flirt until he was blue in the face. But Lapis doesn’t play fast. Or loud. And if Raditz isn’t getting chased, he gets bored. Or starts breakdancing.”
Bulma groaned. “God, he really did do that at the crew mixer.”
Panchy nodded sagely. “In flip-flops.”
They clinked glasses. The silence that followed was warm, a little salty from the breeze.
Then Panchy added, “Lapis likes him, but I’d give it a week. Tops. Two if Lapis is feeling generous or needs entertainment.”
“Brutal,” Bulma said, smirking.
“I’m realistic.” She sipped her drink. “Now, what I want to know is who’s got money on Raditz doing a cannonball in his tux at the Captain’s Ball.”
Bulma laughed and set her drink down, eyeing the group of men across the deck.
“Honestly, I don’t know who’s worse: Raditz for enabling Yamcha, or Yamcha for encouraging him.” Panchy said.
Bulma smiled behind her sunglasses. “They’re like a human feedback loop. If we end up stranded, it’ll be because one of them thought it’d be ‘epic content.’”
“Oh, don’t say that,” Panchy sighed dramatically. “I only brought four caftans. I’m not emotionally prepared for rationing.”
They both giggled.
Then Panchy leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “God, I love a good disaster.”
---
At precisely 19:03, Bulma knocked twice on the cabin door, a takeout bag slung over one arm and a bottle of red tucked under the other.
There was a pause. Then the door cracked open.
Vegeta stood there in a fitted black tee and loose gray drawstring pants, barefoot, hair damp like he’d just showered. He took one look at the food, then at her, and grunted.
“You’re late.”
She smirked. “By one minute.”
“By three.”
“Aw,” she said with a grin, “were you counting down the minutes, Vegeta?”
Before he could respond, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
He stiffened and huffed, eyes narrowing as she brushed past him into the cabin like nothing had happened.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered.
She smirked over her shoulder. “Come on. You waited by the door.”
“I was checking the lock.”
“Uh-huh.” She went to a small table he had at the far corner of the room and started unpacking the food with theatrical care. “Because that’s your top priority. Cabin security.”
He closed the door behind her, shaking his head as she made herself at home.
“Okay,” she said, laying things out with a flourish. “I hit that little tucked-away cantina on Deck 3. Don’t ask how I sweet-talked them into doing a custom order. You’re getting carne asada tacos, grilled elote, and extra guac—because apparently, I’m very persuasive.”
Vegeta arched a brow but said nothing as he grabbed two real forks from a little set of drawers and joined her.
She handed him the box with the tacos. He peeled back the lid, blinked, and muttered, “Hn.”
She took that as approval.
They sat across from each other at the little table, legs brushing under the surface, the warm lighting from the window casting golden shadows across the cabin.
“You didn’t have to bring food,” he said finally, between bites.
“I wanted to,” she replied, biting into a taco. “Figured it’s a good excuse to talk for a bit. Y’know, like actual human beings.”
Vegeta snorted. “That so?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” she teased.
He didn’t answer. But he did keep eating.
After a few minutes of quiet, she asked, “So what do you like? Opera-wise.”
He chewed, swallowed, and said, “Verdi.”
She blinked. “Seriously?”
He gave her a sharp look, like he was waiting for the joke.
Bulma tilted her head, eyes curious. “Let me guess— La forza del destino ?”
Vegeta paused mid-bite. One brow ticked upward. “You know it?”
“Tragic lovers. Family vengeance. Guilt. Lots of yelling and dying. Yeah,” she said. “It’s dramatic. Kind of like you.”
He gave her a dry look. “It’s about fate,” he said. “And the cost of trying to outrun it.”
She stilled, eyes scanning his face. “You think you can’t outrun yours?”
He didn’t answer at first. “I don't know." He finally said. "Maybe I don't want to."
She was quiet for a moment as she contemplated that.
Bulma waggled her eyebrows. “And the love story?”
Vegeta gave her a dry look, then shrugged. “They never stop loving each other,” he said. “Even when it’s a terrible idea.”
She smiled, resting her chin on her hand. “Tragic.”
He stabbed at his taco. “Dramatic, more like. But the music’s good.”
“What about you?” he asked, almost suspiciously.
“Depends on the mood. I like jazz when I’m working. Hard rock when I’m driving. And show tunes when I’m drunk.”
That got a slight, begrudging smirk.
“I will not sing you any.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking it.”
Vegeta scooped up some guacamole, then nodded toward the wine she’d brought. “You should open that up though. Might improve the odds.”
Bulma chuckled. “You’re an insufferable bastard, you know that?”
He just shrugged, unapologetic.
She set the bottle on the table. “Got a wine opener, or am I supposed to use my teeth?”
Without a word, Vegeta stood, rummaged through a drawer, and tossed her a corkscrew.
She caught it midair. “Look at you. Prepared.”
“Always.”
She opened the bottle, took a swig, and held it out.
He reached for it, and took a sip.
Bulma shifted in her seat, legs tucked under her, and let her gaze drift across the cabin. Her eyes landed on the framed painting above the dresser Romeo and Juliet , mid-embrace, the colors deep and dramatic in the evening light.
She tilted her head toward it. “So… is it off-limits for me to delve into that relationship again?”
He didn’t look up right away. Just stared into the bottle like he was weighing the question.
“I mean,” she added gently, “I don’t want to push. But last night you seemed a little cagey when I brought it up.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose and set the bottle down.
“My mother used to have that painting in her study,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “I think she liked the idea of tragic romance.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Maybe because my father is such an asshole.”
Bulma sat up a little straighter, listening.
“She sent it to me last year,” he went on. “Said she wanted me to have something beautiful. I don’t think she knows what to say most of the time, but she tries.”
Bulma’s chest tightened. “She sounds like she cares.”
“She does,” he said, almost reluctantly. “But we’re not close. Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
His jaw shifted. “My father happened. He didn’t leave room for anyone else.”
Bulma nodded, absorbing that. “Was he like—strict? Or just… cruel?”
“Both.” He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. “He believed love was earned. Through obedience. Discipline. Honor.”
She frowned. “That sounds like bullshit.”
“It was.” His tone was dry, almost bitter. “Didn’t stop him from drilling it into my brother and me for years.”
She reached across the table without thinking and rested her fingers over his. “You didn’t deserve that.”
He didn’t pull away.
After a pause, he said, “My mother used to sneak me sweets when he wasn’t looking. She’d write me letters when I was away at school. Little things, but… they helped.”
Bulma smiled. “That painting’s not tragic, then. Not really.”
He huffed a small breath, not quite a laugh. “Guess not.”
She squeezed his hand, then let go. “For what it’s worth, I think she’d like knowing you hung it up where you could see it all the time.”
He nodded, then looked at her again, longer this time. “You’re not what I expected.”
Bulma blinked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
They lapsed into quiet again. A comfortable one.
Then she took a slow sip of wine, eyeing him over the rim. “So what did you expect?”
His lips curled faintly. “Trouble.”
Her grin widened. “Well. You weren’t wrong.”
Bulma swirled the bottle a little. “Y’know,” she said after a beat, “I used to think I was the only one who had a weird relationship with their parents.”
Vegeta quirked an eyebrow. “Isn’t your father a genius?”
“He is. And he’s kind. Just… kind of absent. Not on purpose. He just gets wrapped up in whatever invention he’s working on and forgets the rest of the world exists.” She gave a small laugh. “Once, when I was nine, he forgot it was Christmas. I found him in the lab trying to reverse-engineer toaster settings.”
He snorted. “And your mother?”
“Momma’s amazing. Don’t get me wrong. But she’s always been… on. She’s made for the spotlight. And for a while, she wanted me to be, too.”
He tilted his head, curious.
Bulma sighed. “I grew up doing press. Banquets. Launch parties. Paparazzi followed me from middle school onward. There was this one time, when I was maybe fifteen… I thought I was being sneaky. Snuck out of a charity gala to meet a boy behind the building.”
Vegeta raised an eyebrow, already amused.
“We made out for maybe two minutes before someone snapped a picture of me with one strap off my shoulder. The headlines the next morning said I was ‘spiraling.’ The next day some reporters outside my school tried to grill me about modesty and family values. I flipped them off and made the whole thing worse.”
He gave a dry, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh, it gets better,” she said, drinking more of the wine. “That same boy sold his story to a tabloid for six grand. Told them I’d begged him to take my virginity behind the catering truck.”
Vegeta’s amusement vanished. “What happened to him?”
Bulma smirked. “I hacked his school records, forged a few emails, and got him transferred to a military prep academy out west.”
He stared.
She wiggled her fingers innocently. “Did I mention I was already taking computer engineering classes on the side by then?”
“…Remind me never to piss you off.”
“Too late,” she said, leaning in slightly. “But you’re lucky I like you.”
That earned a faint twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile.
She settled back. “Anyway. After that, I learned real fast how to control the public narrative. Always smile. Always be composed. Be clever, but not too clever. Pretty, but not too sexy. Ambitious, but not threatening.”
Vegeta watched her carefully.
She glanced down at her hands. “You grow up like that long enough, it’s hard to know what’s actually you and what’s just… performance.”
“And now?” He asked.
She looked up at him. “Right here, right now? I don’t feel like I have to perform around you.”
He looked briefly thrown. His eyes flicked away, jaw tense, then he nodded, just once, and said quietly, “Good.”
Later, the trays were empty, and the wine bottle was down to its last two inches. They’d migrated from the table to the bed, backs against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of them, hips brushing now and then. Bulma tucked her feet under the throw blanket he’d kicked down to the end of the bed. Vegeta rested the bottle on his thigh, swirling it idly. She could tell he didn’t drink often—he was entirely too relaxed.
She tipped her head toward him. “So. What’s your favorite movie?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Heat.”
She blinked. “Oh?”
Vegeta took another slow sip from the bottle, then glanced at her. “Everyone in it knows what they’re doing. No bullshit. No begging for sympathy.”
Bulma raised a brow. “And the tragic ending?”
“Consequences.”
She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “So you just like watching emotionally repressed men blow up their lives in crisp suits.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “You?”
“Honestly? I think mine’s The Princess Bride.”
He frowned slightly. “The one with the pirates?”
“And sword fights. And true love. And Rodents of Unusual Size. It’s a masterpiece.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it.”
“…I’ve seen parts.”
“We’re watching it. Next time.” She looked at him, eyes dancing. “Non-negotiable.”
He just kept playing with the bottle. “Fine. But I pick the one after.”
“Deal. And it better not be about wartime grain shortages.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Minutes passed. The hum of the ship filled the space between them.
Bulma leaned her head back against the headboard. “I used to think I wanted someone just like me,” she said softly. “Loud, driven, bold, you know? But maybe what I really needed was someone who actually saw me.”
Vegeta was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I see you.”
She turned her head. Their eyes met.
Her throat went tight. “Yeah. I think you do.”
“You know,” she said eventually, “I used to plan everything. My whole life. I had goals, schedules, and checklists. I thought if I could plan it all right, nothing would hurt.”
His jaw worked, just barely.
“And then somehow, I ended up here. On this ship. With you.”
He watched her closely. “Is that a complaint?”
She smiled. “Not even a little.”
He reached out then—almost shy—and brushed her hair behind her ear. Let his hand linger.
Bulma didn’t speak. She just shifted closer, so their thighs fully touched.
“I don’t usually do this,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“But I like… talking to you.”
“…You talk a lot.”
She grinned. “You like it.”
He didn’t deny it.
She looked at the bottle in his hand. “There’s a tiny bit left. Want it?”
“Split it.”
He took a sip and handed the rest to her.
Her voice dropped. “You ever think about what comes after this cruise?”
He was quiet.
She didn’t press. Just sat there with him, heart beating slow and heavy.
Eventually, he murmured, “I don’t know what comes next. But I know I want more nights like this.”
She looked over at him. “Me too.”
He let out a breath and took the bottle from her, setting it on the nightstand. Then he leaned in and kissed her—deeply and unhurried.
When they finally pulled apart, he nodded toward the pillow. “Come here.”
She slid down beside him, curling into his side.
They lay there in the dark, warm and pressed together, the last of the wine softening everything around the edges. His arm was draped under her waist, fingers splayed against her stomach. Her cheek rested on his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath.
She gave a little hum, a sleepy laugh vibrating against him. “I thought we were gonna fool around,” she murmured, voice drowsy. “Kind of a bait-and-switch, don’t you think?”
He huffed quietly, chest moving under her. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”
“Not tempted?”
“Always tempted,” he muttered. “Just a little drunk right now.”
She smiled against him.
He reached down, found her hand, and laced their fingers together. His thumb brushed hers once, twice.
“Tomorrow, at the beach. We’ll sneak off. Find a cabana,” he said.
“Promise?”
He gave the faintest nod. “You won’t be able to walk straight.”
She laughed again, a soft puff of breath against his chest. “Bold words for a man already half-asleep.”
He didn’t answer that. Just pulled her closer and pressed his lips to her hair.
They fell asleep like that, smiling.
Notes:
So, my personal head canon for this AU is that Dr. Briefs was originally a ship engineer. He met Panchy while working below deck on a yacht she happened to be vacationing on (with someone else). She fell for his distracted genius, helped turn his tech innovations into a business, and together they built Capsule Corp Cruises from the ground up.
Dr. Briefs focused on the innovation and technology side (stabilizers, power systems, etc.), while Panchy handled PR, branding, luxury design, and investor strategy. That is, until she retired and let the board worry about that kind of thing.
Also, it's fun to make Vegeta say things when he's a little tipsy.
Chapter 10: Shore Leave
Chapter Text
The sun wasn’t even that high yet, and already the day felt like the start of a reality show.
It was 8:00 a.m. sharp, and the senior crew had gathered at the tender station that would ferry them to the private beach. Luggage bins were stacked with towels, drinks, food, umbrellas, games, and a large waterproof speaker that must have belonged to Raditz. Chi-Chi was adjusting her sun hat and barking instructions to everyone around her. Goku had sunscreen on his nose and no idea what was going on. Krillin had already cracked a beer.
Bulma arrived fashionably late. A breezy white cover-up drifted around her thighs, cinched loosely at her waist. Her sunglasses were oversized, her lip gloss was fresh, and her expression said she didn’t give a damn who noticed.
Well, except for maybe one person in particular.
Raditz let out a low whistle. “Someone came to cause trouble.”
Bulma tossed her hair. “Someone has to.”
Yamcha, stood beside him, wearing obnoxiously neon pink swim trunks and had a camera in one hand. He perked up upon seeing her. “Hey, Bulma! Mind being in my beach reel later? Thinking slo-mo, Baywatch vibes—”
“Nope,” she said, pushing past him.
Lapis sat near the back of the tender platform, legs stretched out, arms folded, sunglasses in place. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze lingered on Raditz longer than it should’ve.
Panchy arrived next, floating in like a summer breeze in a blue floral caftan, large sunglasses, and stacked gold bangles.
Piccolo, of all people, was on her arm and he was inexplicably carrying her sunhat.
Bulma stared. “Is that…Piccolo?”
Raditz’s mouth fell open. “Oh, come on.”
Panchy ignored them both, gliding onto the platform like it was a runway. She plucked her hat from Piccolo’s hands, set it delicately on her head, and turned to Raditz and Bulma with a smile.
“Oh good, we haven’t left,” she said brightly. “I was afraid I’d missed the drama.”
“Don’t worry,” Bulma said dryly. “It’s still brewing.”
“And hello again, Piccolo,” she added with a grin. “Nice to have you here.”
He just nodded.
“My usual date brought someone else,” Panchy said, winking at Raditz as she adjusted her bangles.
Yamcha, mid-selfie, perked up. “Who?”
“Mm,” Panchy ignored him, eyeing the group with leisurely interest. “Thankfully Mr. Piccolo was kind enough to fill in. Now, where is your captain?”
“I assume hiding from all of this.” Raditz laughed. “He never comes to—”
He hadn't even finished speaking when a hush fell over the dock.
Bulma turned.
And there he was.
Vegeta strode down the pier with an overwhelming amount of nonchalance. He wore black swim trunks, and a navy-and-red hibiscus flower shirt—unbuttoned and flapping—clung to his shoulders. Flip-flops smacked against the floor of the ship with every step. Aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, and his hair, for once, was gloriously untamed.
Every crew member stared.
Chi-Chi did a double take.
Krillin dropped his beer. It hit the ground, rolled once, and exploded sideways in a pressurized geyser that matched the expression on his face.
Bulma didn’t even try to hide her smile. She glanced over at Panchy, who caught her eye and winked.
Vegeta stopped at the edge of the group and looked around. “What the hell are you all staring at?”
No one answered.
He scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go.”
The group scrambled into action.
Bulma was still smiling when she boarded the tender. Vegeta took a seat on the opposite side of the small boat, arms crossed, legs planted wide. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but she could feel him watching her anyway.
She sank onto the bench beside her mother and stretched her legs.
“Oh, this is going to be fun ,” Panchy murmured, settling in with a wicked smile.
And Bulma, watching the man across from her pretend not to smolder in swimwear, had to agree.
After a short trip, the tender bumped gently against the dock of the beach, and the crew poured out onto the soft white sand.
Coolers thumped down. Umbrellas popped open. Goku started inflating a pool float shaped like a flamingo. Chi-Chi organized sunscreen distribution like a field commander. Yamcha was already filming an intro for his vlog, crouched low with the camera angled upward to catch the full sweep of the island.
"Private beach day, baby!" he shouted. “Let’s get some sun on these buns!”
"Not if I bury you in the sand first," Lapis muttered, passing to stake a claim on a beach chair.
Raditz was shirtless within seconds, volleyball under one arm. “Alright, degenerates. We’re setting up the net. And just like last time, there will be no mercy.”
Bulma laughed as she picked her way across the sand, sandals dangling from one finger, beach tote over her shoulder. She scouted a prime spot two chairs down from where Vegeta had already claimed a shaded lounger. His arms were crossed, sunglasses on, and he was absolutely pretending like he hadn’t noticed the way she was approaching.
She took her time laying out her towel. Then, with deliberate ease, she unknotted the sash at her waist and slid the white coverup from her shoulders.
It fell in a gentle rustle to the sand.
The red bikini underneath was…generous in spirit, minimal in coverage. Consisting of thin straps, narrow triangles, and barely-there bottoms that tied at the hips, it was sleek and unapologetic. A bikini designed to ruin someone's whole emotional stability.
She didn’t look over at Vegeta.
She already felt a pause in the air. That gravitational pull from his direction.
When she finally set her playful gaze on him, she nearly lost it.
Vegeta’s jaw was clenched behind his sunglasses. His fingers twitched against the arms of the chair like he wanted to grab something and wasn’t sure if it was her or the coverup she just dropped.
Raditz clocked the tension, instantly running up between them with the ball. “Oh my god Blue , do we need a cold shower tent?”
“You offering to build one, Big Hair?”
Raditz laughed and gave Vegeta a side eye while speaking to her. “For you? I’d install a whole hydro system.”
Vegeta cleared his throat and picked up his book.
“Hey, you playing Bulma?” Krillin interrupted them.
“Only if we’re keeping score,” she called back.
“I’ll ref,” Panchy added from her lounger, fanning herself with a glossy magazine. “And I will be very biased.”
Bulma glanced at Vegeta just once as she passed him, bare feet in the sand, hips swaying.
He didn’t move.
But under those sunglasses, he watched her like a drowning man sighting land.
---
Vegeta remained in his chair, arms crossed, pretending to read The Forever War while the crew was fanned out across the sand.
He was not reading.
He, in fact, had not turned a page in five minutes.
Across the makeshift court, Bulma laughed brightly as she jogged to bump the ball back over the net. Her bikini was criminal. Gravity-defying. Every bounce, every twist of her waist was an act of war.
He adjusted his sunglasses and shifted in his seat.
Nope.
Still a problem.
Goddammit.
She jumped high to spike and her top, held by what could only be witchcraft, lifted just enough to make his jaw flex so hard his molars might crack.
He heard Krillin shout, “Nice save, Bulma!” and Goku call, “I got it! I got it—wait no, I don’t—!” followed by a spectacular dive that likely ended in a face full of sand.
Vegeta didn’t see it. His eyes were still on her.
She’d pulled her hair up into a messy bun, and a few damp strands clung to the curve of her neck. Her skin shimmered faintly from sweat and SPF.
His dick twitched in protest against the mesh lining of his trunks. He gritted his teeth and shifted again.
“Need another drink, Captain?” Panchy asked sweetly, sipping something icy from her lounge chair beside him.
Vegeta didn’t even flinch. “I’m fine.”
“Hm. You look a little…tense.”
He turned one slow eye toward her.
Panchy smiled. “Should’ve worn looser shorts, darling.”
He sighed and attempted to think about something safe—like engine flow rates or pressure valves—but that somehow rerouted to lubricant, then to Bulma greasing that infernal pump shaft on the night that he…and just like that, his boner had outwitted his brain again.
Back at the net, Bulma fumbled a pass from Lazuli, giggled, and jogged after the ball. She bent to retrieve it, and paused, facing away, giving him a perfect, unholy view of her barely-covered backside.
God help him.
She glanced over her shoulder then, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Their eyes met.
She winked.
Vegeta set the book strategically on his lap and muttered, “I’m going to drown myself.”
Panchy, still reclined on her lounger, didn’t even glance over. She just sipped her drink and said, "Should’ve brought a second book, dear. That one’s about to get creased in the worst way."
Vegeta groaned, crossed his arms over his chest, and blushed scarlet behind his sunglasses.
---
The group had broken for lunch, lounging under umbrellas and picking at grilled skewers, tropical fruit, and congealing buffet pasta. Bulma had slipped away to the bathroom, sunscreen bottle in hand and hips swaying like she didn’t know she was singlehandedly raising blood pressure across the shoreline.
She knew.
When she emerged, freshly spritzed and skin glowing, she barely made it two steps before a strong hand caught her wrist.
“What the—?”
“Shh.”
Vegeta didn’t look at her, he just kept his grip steady and steered her off the path, weaving between chairs and towels with practiced purpose.
“Vegeta, where are you—?”
But then she saw the cabana. One of several, tucked between palms, draped in gauzy white curtains. Most were open, unoccupied. This one wasn’t.
The curtains were drawn.
Her heart kicked.
“Are you kidnapping me?” she whispered, breath catching as he pulled her inside.
He didn’t give her time to finish. He pushed her back against the wooden frame with a firm press of his body, the sheer curtains fluttering shut behind him, closing them off from the world. His mouth crashed into hers, stealing her breath, his hands already skimming down her sides like he couldn’t decide what to touch first.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all morning?” he growled against her mouth.
She grinned against his lips, smug. “Mm. Maybe.”
He kissed her again, rougher this time, his hand slipping beneath her cover-up to grip the back of her bare thigh. Then, in one swift motion, he hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, gasping as her back thudded softly against the wooden paneling.
The curtain flared briefly in the breeze, but no one was close enough to notice. They were entirely hidden.
His mouth traveled to her throat, tongue dragging along her pulse. “All that jumping. This little red bikini. You trying to kill me?”
“You liked it.”
He bit her lightly, just under the jaw. “Liked watching you bounce around while I sat there hard as fuck trying to look normal? Yeah. I liked it.”
Then, as she laughed breathlessly, he reached for the loose white cover-up still clinging to her shoulders and tugged it off, letting it fall to the floor.
Without a word, he set her down and dropped to his knees in front of her.
Her breath hitched. Her hands instinctively found his shoulders, steadying herself as she looked down at him, wide-eyed. He gripped her thighs, thumbs stroking gently against her skin, and pressed his mouth to the inside of her knee, then higher.
“Are you…ok if I…?” he asked suddenly, voice hoarse, desperate. “I mean—your cycle—are you…comfortable if I—”
She blinked. “I mean, I finished this morning. Why—”
He groaned, like she’d just said something life-changing.
“Vegeta—what are you—?”
He looked up at her reverently, his eyes dark and wild. “Can I taste you?”
Her heart slammed once, hard.
She nodded. “Oh! Oh. Yeah,” she breathed. “Yes.”
He didn’t waste a second. His fingers tugged the strings of her bikini bottom aside, and then his mouth was on her. Her head fell back with a choked sound as his tongue slid through her, slowly savoring, curling against her clit until her knees shook.
Her thighs trembled. He growled against her, the vibration tearing through her like heat lightning.
He wrapped his arms around her legs, locking her in place, pressing her open. She couldn’t move. His grip was iron, mouth greedy, tongue dragging and flicking and rolling until her breath came in stutters.
“F—fuck… Ve–Vegeta—oh my god—”
She shattered fast, wild, helpless. Her hands flew to his hair, nails scraping his scalp, pulling him closer even as her hips arched into his face. Her cry tore free from her throat as she came, legs shaking, body clenching around nothing but the raw heat of his mouth.
But he didn’t let go. Not until she sagged, panting, against him.
Then he stood, lifting her like she weighed nothing, and walked her backward toward the pile of lounge cushions stacked neatly on the daybed.
He laid her down gently, but there was nothing gentle about the look in his eyes. His hands immediately found the thin strings of her bikini top, tugging the triangles together at the center of her chest until the fabric covered nothing. It turned the top into something obscene—a lewd little halter that left her bare breasts framed and begging.
“Every time you moved,” he said lowly, eyes on her chest, “I thought one of these perfect tits was going to fall out.”
She sucked in a breath as his fingers grazed the soft underside of one, then the other, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked under his touch.
“Was that the plan?” he murmured, bending down to lick a slow circle around one. “Drive me insane?”
“I was playing volleyball,” she managed, breath catching as he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her arch. “In a bikini. Like everyone else.”
“You’re not like everyone else,” he said, tongue flicking. “And you knew exactly what you were doing.”
He moved to the other breast, laving attention on it until she was writhing, clutching the cushions under her.
“What did you think would happen if one of them slipped?” he asked, voice dark. “If I saw you bounce one more time, just enough to spill out for everyone to see?”
Her head fell back. “I don’t know,” she gasped. “Maybe you’d blow a fuse.”
He chuckled, biting lightly at her breast. “I nearly did.”
His hand slid down her stomach, fingers teasing the waistband of her bikini bottom.
“I should keep you like this,” he murmured. “Tits out, mouth open, legs shaking. Would you like that Bulma?”
She whimpered.
His lips brushed her sternum, working their way up to her collarbone, her throat, the edge of her jaw.
He finally untied the top and pulled it off completely. Then he kissed her hungrily, like the taste of her was the only thing tethering him to earth.
Between rough heated kisses, he spoke—his voice tense and aching, saying things she hoped he wouldn’t eventually regret.
“No one else gets to see you like this.” A kiss to her jaw.
“No one touches you like this.” A bite to her earlobe. “No one makes you sound like this but me.”
She gasped, nails digging into his back, her breath stuttering.
“Say it,” he growled. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Only you.”
He groaned against her skin.
“You’re—” He stopped himself. Bit down on whatever word was coming.
“I’m what?”
But she heard the pause.
Felt it.
So she slid her hands down his chest, pushed his shirt off his shoulders, and dragged her nails lightly along the ridges of his abdomen.
“That’s alright,” she whispered, kissing the edge of his jaw. “I already know.”
“And I know that no one else sees you like that either.”
He froze, pulse jumping.
“No one else sees you lose control. No one else gets to hear how you sound when you're the one gasping. Moaning. Begging .”
She leaned in, voice soft but searing.
“No one else has seen you tied up and shaking , so wanton and desperate for release you could barely breathe.”
A beat passed. Her eyes never left his.
“Only me.”
Instead of responding, he shrugged off the last of the shirt, tossed it aside. Trembling, he kissed her again. Fierce. Starving. Pouring every ounce of unadmitted emotion into her mouth.
“Please, need you,” she pulled him fully down on top of her, unable to handle it any longer. Her hands yanked at the waistband of his swim trunks.
He broke the kiss just long enough to help her—shoving the fabric down his hips, not bothering to kick them off all the way. They tangled around his thighs as he reached for the ties of her bikini bottom.
“Lift,” he said roughly.
She did, heart pounding, and he slid the tiny scrap of red string down her legs, tossing it aside.
Her thighs parted for him instinctively. Her nails dug into his back.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered against his lips. “Now.”
He groaned, like she’d said the one thing he couldn’t resist, and in the next moment, he was covering her body, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her heat.
He pushed in deep, one hard, aching thrust, and both of them moaned.
It was fast, desperate, drenched in heat and the sound of their skin slapping together. The air was thick and humid, the scent of sex and ocean salt surrounding them. Her hands clawed at his back as he drove into her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist.
“Bulma,” he groaned into her neck.
“Harder,” she begged.
He gave it to her.
Each thrust hit deeper, harder, her back arching up into him, his hands gripping her hips. They didn’t speak beyond gasps and moans and ragged breaths, but it felt like something more.
She clenched around him, whimpering. “So close…”
He kissed her with more desperation than she thought him capable of. “Come with me.”
All she could do was nod, sliding up against him on each down stroke.
“ Fuck, baby, I’m coming—”
Vegeta’s head snapped up like he’d been struck by her words. His rhythm faltered for a split second, then his grip on her hips tightened, and he drove into her with a low, feral sound.
They came together, trembling, locked tight, her nails in his shoulders and his mouth buried against her skin like he wanted to disappear inside her.
When it was over, they didn’t speak. He just kissed her forehead and pulled her into his arms on the bed of pillows, their bodies sticky and spent and still tangled.
For a few minutes, the world didn’t exist.
Then, he shifted, reaching down for one of the folded towels tucked by the edge of the cabana bed. He cleaned her first, then ran the towel over his own stomach and thighs, finally divesting himself of his trunks.
She watched him through heavy lashes, too blissed-out to speak, but her heart clenched a little at the tenderness in the way he moved.
She lay half draped over his chest, dazed and glowing, her fingers absently tracing a line up his hip.
And then, without thinking, high on endorphins and the way he’d just ruined her, she blurted:
“I think you’re the best I’ve ever had.”
Entirely way too late, her brain caught up with her mouth.
“Oh god, ignore me,” she groaned, burying her face in his shoulder. “That was an internal thought. That was supposed to stay internal.”
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
She peeked up at him.
Oh he was smug. Smug as hell and fire engine red.
One eyebrow was arched, and there was a ghost of a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Is that so?” he asked.
She groaned and slapped a hand over her face. “Please don’t quote that back to me later.”
“No promises.”
She shoved him, but he didn’t budge. He didn’t stop smiling either. The moment was already carved into his ego for life.
She smiled and shook her head, curling closer.
And in the privacy of that cabana, with the curtains drawn and the sun high in the sky, they drifted in that fragile, perfect haze—not quite lovers, not quite done.
She was just starting to doze when he shifted beneath her and rolled to the side.
“Don’t move,” he said sleepily.
She nodded, her eyes still closed. She felt him get up and heard a quiet rustle.
When he settled next to her again, he was holding a small tray piled with fruit skewers and a few runaway strawberries. He must’ve grabbed it before whisking her away.
Her eyes widened. “Did you steal snacks?”
He shrugged. “Strategic acquisition.”
She laughed drowsily. “You’re such a menace.”
He leaned over, took a strawberry between his fingers, and held it to her lips. She let him feed it to her slowly, teeth sinking in, juice sweet and cold against her tongue. He watched her mouth the whole time.
Another strawberry. Another lingering glance.
“Strawberries are my favorite,” she murmured.
“I know,” he said gruffly. “Your mother dropped that little tidbit in my ear when I was making the plate.”
“She what ?”
“She saw me lurking around the buffet trying to look casual,” he said. “Handed me the plate and said, ‘Bulma loves strawberries. She’ll act like she doesn’t care, but she always eats them first.’ ”
Bulma snorted, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
Vegeta’s scowl deepened. “Then she winked at me. Like she knew .”
Bulma held a piece of watermelon up to him, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Of course she knew what you were up to. She sees everything. She’s like Santa, but with better outfits.”
He looked horrified as he ate.
She smiled softly. “Don’t worry, she can keep a secret. Especially when it’s important.”
Vegeta gave a small grunt, unconvinced, but didn’t argue. Instead, he plucked a piece of guava from the tray and held it to her lips.
“Open,” he said.
She did, and he popped the fruit into her mouth, watching as she chewed, as her tongue darted out to catch a drop of juice.
Then his thumb was at her lip, wiping it away and sucking it into his mouth. She flushed, heat pooling again in her belly despite everything they’d just done.
Vegeta sat back against the pillows, letting her curl into him again. He balanced the tray on one knee and fed her another slice.
Outside, the surf rolled in a gentle rhythm. No one called their names. No one noticed they were missing.
And for the moment, there was nothing left to perform.
After a while, they laid back down, tangled together, her fingers idly brushing along his forearm. The tray of stolen fruit rested beside them on a low table, sunlight soft through the drawn curtains.
Bulma stretched with a pleased hum, then rolled toward him, propping her chin on his chest. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “if this whole cruise captain thing doesn’t work out, you could probably get a job feeding women fruit in private cabanas.”
Vegeta snorted. “I’d last ten minutes before getting fired for attitude.”
She grinned. “You say that like it's a bad thing. Honestly, I’d pay extra for the grumpy package.”
His eyes narrowed. “Tch. I’m nobody’s rental.”
She laughed, reaching over and grabbing the last strawberry from the tray. “No. And at any rate, I probably wouldn't let anyone else book you.”
“Now, open your mouth,” she whispered, voice sultry.
His lips parted without hesitation.
She bit into the strawberry, then leaned over him on all fours, her hair brushing his chest as she hovered close.
Holding the other half to his mouth, she fed it to him, lips grazing as the fruit passed between them, soft, wet, sweet.
His mouth lingered against hers, not kissing, just breathing her in. An electric tension began to build between them again.
She smiled, lazy and smug. “Still hungry?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower.
But then—
They heard a muffled thud. A low groan. And then a voice:
“ Right there, fuck—don’t stop. ”
Bulma looked up. “Was that—?”
There was more rustling. Then the distinctive creak of a cabana daybed under strain. Then they heard Raditz’s voice, half-growling, “You like that? Say it again.”
A breathless moan followed. Definitely Yamcha. “Harder, please—”
Vegeta sat up slightly, scowling toward the sound. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Bulma clapped a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed.
A sharp gasp echoed across the beach, followed by a rhythmic thud-thud-thud . Then, Yamcha groaned louder this time, “Raditz—oh, fuck, just like that—”
She nearly choked on laughter. “ Oh my god. ”
Vegeta scrubbed a hand down his face. “This fucking beach is cursed.”
Bulma collapsed against his chest, wheezing. “They can’t even be that close to us. They’re just that loud. ”
Another groan. Another slam . Then Raditz again, rough, breathless: “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you baby?”
Bulma buried her face against his chest, her laughter vibrating through both of them. “We can never leave this cabana. We live here now.”
Vegeta sighed. “I’ll have the area sealed off and designated a restricted zone.”
Another groan.
Another thump.
Bulma wiped her eyes, breathless. “Okay but… good for them.”
Vegeta grunted, still glaring toward the sound.
She grinned, nuzzling into him. “Don't be mad. You started the trend.”
He muttered something unintelligible and kissed the top of her head.
The rhythmic creaking from the other cabana eventually faded into muffled laughter and rustling, then quiet. The breeze picked up slightly, ruffling the sheer curtain just enough to let sunlight slant across their tangled legs.
Bulma exhaled, still grinning faintly. “God, this crew is unhinged.”
Vegeta didn’t reply. He was staring at her again, but softer now—hand stroking absently along her hip, fingers tracing the curve of her waist like he was memorizing it. She couldn’t help but notice that his expression had shifted to something a little more soft.
She reached out and cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Want you again,” she whispered.
He leaned up, forehead resting gently against hers. “Tonight,” he murmured. “In my quarters. After dinner.”
She nodded, heart catching a little.
But then, he held her in place, still on top of him, one hand sliding slowly between them down her stomach.
“Vegeta—” she breathed, startled.
“Shh,” he whispered against her cheek. “Let me.”
His fingers found her with practiced confidence now, slipping through her slick heat, stroking her gently. He kissed her shoulder, her jaw, then the corner of her mouth. His other hand slid up and cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple with the same unhurried rhythm.
She gasped, thighs twitching around his waist, but he didn’t stop. Just kept circling, stroking, touching her like it was a privilege.
“Look at me,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “I want to see you.”
Her eyes fluttered open—hazy, dazed, and so full of want. He held her gaze, kept working her with his fingers until she was panting, squirming above him. No teasing this time, just the steady, delicious pressure that had her unraveling at the seams.
Her back arched. “Oh—god—Vegeta—”
He caught her moan with a kiss, swallowed it whole as she came. Her hips rocked against his hand, thighs tightening, mouth parting in a helpless, broken cry. He kissed her through it, never breaking rhythm until she collapsed back onto him, trembling and boneless.
Her breath stuttered. She blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted, skin glowing with heat.
Vegeta eased his hand away, then reached for a clean corner of the towel next to them. He moved carefully, gently cleaning her up with quiet focus, his other hand smoothing over her hip in slow, grounding strokes.
Bulma shivered at the sensation, still dazed, but didn’t flinch. She trusted him utterly. A thought that shocked her even in her current state.
When he finished, he set the towel aside and leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek. She sighed, her fingers loosely curling against his chest.
He tucked her into his arms, the cabana quiet around them, the hypnotic ebb and flow of waves just audible beyond the curtains.
After a while, Bulma rolled off him with a sigh. “We should probably get back before anyone notices we’ve been gone this long.”
For a second, he didn’t move. His eyes stared up at the ceiling of the cabana like her words had dropped a stone in the still water of his brain.
Then he bolted upright like she’d pulled the emergency alarm. “Shit.”
He grabbed his trunks and yanked them on, eyes already scanning for his shirt with military precision.
Bulma raised an eyebrow, still lounging on the pillows. “Wow. Panicking much?”
“I’m not panicking,” he said, shoving an arm through the wrong sleeve.
“You are absolutely panicking.”
“We’ve been gone over an hour, someone’s bound to notice.”
She snorted. “Please. Everyone’s too wrapped up in their own drama to care. Goku’s probably lost in Chi-Chi’s eyes, Krillin and Lazuli are probably glad to have a moment to themselves, and the biggest gossip on this beach is otherwise occupied. Technically also definitely screwing his brains out.”
That made him pause. His jaw twitched.
“See?” she said. “No one’s looking for us.”
They dressed in a comfortable silence after that, exchanging small glances and smirks. When they stepped out into the sun again, the beach was lively with chatter and music.
She reached for his hand instinctively. He caught it for a second, then let go.
Not here. Not yet.
But tonight?
Tonight, she knew he was hers.
She went to the restroom to clean up whale Vegeta sauntered back.
The early afternoon haze drifted lazily over the private beach, heat shimmering off of the sand as the cruise crew settled into their vacation rhythm.
Near the volleyball net, Lapis and Piccolo stood in quiet conversation, both mostly shaded under a canopy. Lapis sipped from a coconut drink with a ridiculous paper umbrella sticking out, arms crossed and trying not to look sulky. Piccolo, in swim trunks and an oversized sun hat, listened patiently as Lapis muttered something about people “pairing off like a summer camp for hot idiots.”
“Well,” Piccolo replied evenly, “it is summer. And you are here.”
Lapis snorted despite himself.
Just a few chairs down, Panchy waved a hand at them in mock offense. “Darling, I cannot believe someone stole my date while you and I were out on our walk this morning.” She cast Bulma a sly look, eyes sparkling over the rim of her rosé.
Bulma tried to keep her composure as she adjusted the tie of her bikini top behind her back.
“Momma—”
“Oh, shh. Let me.” Panchy rose gracefully and reached to help, fingers moving deftly as she whispered, “Just a little loose. We don’t want you falling out too early in the day. Save some energy for the evening.”
Vegeta, who had resumed his lounging nearby with sunglasses perched low on his nose and a paperback open on his thigh, cleared his throat.
Panchy gave him an innocent smile. “You’re welcome, dear.”
Before Bulma could reply, a loud, very satisfied voice rang out across the beach.
“God, I needed that.”
Raditz strolled back onto the sand shirtless and glowing, ponytail mussed, towel hung around his neck like a prizefighter after a win. He looked extremely pleased with himself.
Yamcha trailed behind, cheeks pinker than his swim trunks, hair sticking up in defiance of gravity. He looked a little wobbly, a little dazed, like a man who’d just been gently disassembled and hadn’t fully come back online yet.
Chi-Chi, reclining a few chairs down, raised an eyebrow over her sunglasses. Goku handed her a drink with both hands and smiled sheepishly. She accepted it. Their fingers brushed. She blushed. He blushed harder.
In a hammock strung between two palms, Krillin and Lazuli swayed gently. Her head rested on his shoulder, his fingers tracing idle shapes on her thigh. They clinked their beers together without a word.
For a moment, it all felt like summer was supposed to feel. Sunny, golden, suspended in time.
Then the wind shifted.
Bulma noticed it first—a drop in pressure, the slight rustle of palm fronds moving against the wrong breeze. A cool gust hit her shoulders. She looked up.
Clouds. Heavy ones. Rolling in across the water. But not from the ocean.
From the inland horizon.
Krillin sat up in the hammock, digging in his backpack for his cell. He swiped, paused, then stood quickly.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Vegeta was already out of his chair. “What is it?”
Krillin’s eyes stayed on the screen. “Beerus changed course again.”
Vegeta’s jaw tightened. “How bad?”
Krillin turned the screen toward them. “Tail end’s tracking fast—landside. Coming this direction. We’ve got maybe an hour before we catch the outer bands. If it gets too close, winds could hit up to eighty knots.”
Vegeta barked, “Call the bridge.”
“Already on it. Tenders are being recalled now.”
Bulma’s heart skipped. The wide, clear sky was giving way to something heavier.
Panchy rose, brushing sand from her coverup. “Time to go, darling.”
Crew scrambled. Radios crackled. A whistle blew from the tender dock.
Vegeta turned to Bulma, voice low so no one else could hear and gave her a look. “Stay close.”
His face was composed, unreadable—except to her. She caught it. A flicker of worry beneath the calm.
She nodded once.
The beach that had felt like paradise an hour ago suddenly felt like it was holding its breath.
Behind them, the clouds rolled in.
Chapter 11: Hurricane Beerus
Chapter Text
The storm hit harder than expected.
Lightning flared white across the sky, followed by the crack of thunder so sharp it rattled the glass panels of the bridge. Rain sheeted sideways in relentless gusts, hammering the decks. Waves slammed the hull hard enough that the stabilizers groaned in protest. Even running at full capacity, they couldn’t smooth out the roll completely.
Passengers were ordered to shelter in their cabins. The crew moved fast—shutting exterior doors, securing loose equipment, handing out nausea bags as the ship heaved again.
Goku’s voice crackled over the comm, shouting above the wind: “Upper decks are clear, locking them down now!”
Chi-Chi’s calm voice followed a second later, addressing guests over the PA, urging everyone to stay inside and away from balconies.
After the tender had docked, they’d all scattered to change. After a new set of clothes and making sure that her mother was safely in her room, Bulma had ended up on the bridge and hadn’t moved since, monitoring power flow and diagnostics from the main console. It was faster to reroute from there if the storm screwed with the systems.
Roshi’s voice came through the comms next. “We’ve got a propulsion alarm! Reading a spike on the port side—shit—possible surge damage. Stand by!”
There was a clatter in the background, then they heard Yajirobe’s panicked shout: “Holy hell, it’s sparking! Roshi, that thing’s about to blow!”
“Kill the breaker!” Korin’s high-pitched yowl followed immediately. “Kill it before we all fry!”
“I’m not touching that! You touch it!”
“YOU’RE CLOSER!”
“Goddammit, someone gag these two before I gag myself!” Roshi snapped. “Bridge, I need clearance to isolate the system now, or we’re gonna lose the whole propulsion grid!”
Bulma was already at the console, fingers flying across the touchscreen as alarms flashed red. “Roshi, it’s Bulma,” she said, pitching her voice over the noise. “I see the surge. Kill port-side flow to the drive and switch to auxiliary intake.”
“I know that, girl, I just need the okay!”
“You have it, old man! Do it now.”
“Copy that,” he responded, before the line erupted again in Yajirobe’s horrified wail: “IT’S STILL SPITTING!”
“Because you’re standing in the arc zone, you idiot, move your ass!” Roshi roared, and the channel cut with a sharp pop.
Bulma blew out a breath, eyes locked on her HMI screen. Another jolt shook the deck under her feet, sending an empty coffee mug skittering across the floor.
By 2100 hours, the situation was barely under control. They’d sustained minor damage, scratches to the paint, unsecured furniture tossed, a few electronics fried. Turbulence had knocked out some non-essential systems. Nothing catastrophic yet, but the tension on the bridge was thick enough to choke on.
Bulma was double-checking the stabilizer load when the door slammed open. Krillin stumbled in, dripping wet, his jacket plastered to his skin, hair slicked flat against his skull. His face was pale.
“We’ve got a kid missing,” he blurted, chest heaving. “Her name’s Maya. Parents say she ran off during beach reboarding and never came back to the cabin.”
Every head snapped up.
Vegeta spun around fast. “How long?”
“They just reported it,” Krillin said, shoving water out of his eyes. “They thought she was with a friend. Realized ten minutes ago she wasn’t.”
Bulma didn’t think twice. “We’ll help search.”
Vegeta was already moving, barking into the comm for Goku and Raditz to sweep every restricted area. Bulma yanked a flashlight from the emergency locker and sprinted after him as he ran out of the bridge.
The corridors were chaos. The ship had a slight list to starboard, making every step a fight for balance. Rainwater tracked in from the outer decks slicked the floors. The hum of generators under strain vibrated through the walls. They walked past shuttered shops and darkened restaurants, voices cutting through the howl of wind outside.
“Nothing here,” Bulma panted as they cleared another stairwell, her soaked boots smacking the tile.
“Keep looking,” Vegeta snapped—not at her, but at the situation. His voice was clipped, vibrating with something close to panic.
They hit Deck 6. The indoor play area was deserted, the bright murals and padded flooring ghostly under dim emergency lights. A scattering of plastic blocks rolled with the slow sway of the ship.
Bulma swung her flashlight across the foam floor and froze. “Wait—”
A small foot stuck out from under the play structure.
“Vegeta,” she breathed.
He was already moving. He crouched and shoved aside the dangling fabric of a mini climbing tunnel. There she was: a little girl, maybe five years old, knees pulled to her chest, damp hair plastered to her forehead, clutching a soaked stuffed bear so tight her knuckles were white. Her cheeks were streaked with tears.
“Hey,” Bulma said softly, crouching down beside him. “Sweetheart… are you hurt?”
The girl shook her head fast, eyes wide.
“What’s your name?” Bulma kept her voice calm.
The girl hiccupped. “M-Maya.”
“Okay, Maya. You’re safe now, okay? We’re taking you back to your parents.”
Vegeta didn’t waste time with more questions. He reached in slowly, careful not to startle her. “Come on,” he said.
She hesitated for a second, then lunged for him. Her little arms locked around his neck. He lifted her out in one smooth motion, tucking her close to his chest. She buried her face in his soaked uniform jacket with a muffled sob.
“Got her,” he said. His hand cradled the back of her head like it was glass.
Bulma exhaled hard, her knees going weak with relief. “Let’s get her out of here.”
Later, they returned to the bridge, soaked and breathless.
Krillin was waiting. “We’ve got another problem. Lightning just fried part of the nav system. Our GPS and radar are glitching.”
As if on cue with more bad news, Roshi called in again: “Chief, are you up there? We’ve fully lost propulsion now. Something surged through the backups. We’re dead in the water until we can get this looked at.”
Bulma was already moving toward the console, checking the diagnostics screen. “I see it,” she said. “Start isolating the damage on your end. I’ll reroute whatever we can to keep the essential systems stable. I expect an update in five hours.”
“Copy that,” Roshi grunted, his voice fading as Yajirobe hollered something about the floor flooding in the background.
Vegeta’s knuckles went white on the console edge.
Bulma stepped up beside him. “Can we anchor?”
“Already dropping now,” Krillin said. “Storm’s easing off. We’ll hold.”
“And the nav?” Vegeta growled.
“I got a nearby vessel to respond to our signal,” Krillin added quickly. “They’ve got compatible parts. They’ll be here after noon tomorrow.”
Vegeta turned away.
Bulma watched his shoulders rise and fall, like he was trying to pull himself together.
“All guests and non-essential crew are being told to stay in their cabins. The worst of the storm is moving away.” Krillin said. “We’re stable for now.”
Vegeta didn’t respond.
He just walked out of the bridge.
Bulma hesitated only a second before going after him.
By the time she caught up, his cabin door was already slamming behind them.
Bulma barely had time to catch her breath before he spoke. His voice was dangerously calm.
“I should’ve seen it coming.”
She stepped closer, water dripping from the hem of her shirt. “Vegeta, no one could’ve—”
“I should’ve known ,” he snapped, whirling on her. His eyes were wild, rimmed red from salt and exhaustion. “The forecast shifted. The systems failed. We barely got the guests off that beach. That’s on me. ”
“Storms shift all the time,” she argued. “It wasn’t your—”
“I let my fucking guard down.”
He paced, boots grinding against the floor, back rigid like every step was a fight not to explode. His hands raked through his hair, scattering droplets. “I let Sparks fuck up this ship. I let the whole goddamn cruise fall apart. And I—” He broke off, chest heaving.
Bulma moved closer, water dripping down her arms, her own shirt plastered to her skin. “Vegeta, you got everyone back on board. You anchored the ship. You found that little girl—”
“That’s the bare minimum,” he snarled, voice cracking on the words.
“No, it’s not!”
He froze.
Her voice cut through the roar of wind outside. “Everyone’s alive because of you. Do you hear me? Everyone. That’s not nothing.”
He turned his face away like he didn’t deserve to look at her. His shoulders rose and fell too fast, muscles bunching under the cling of wet fabric.
Bulma took a breath. “So what? You're going to punish yourself for a lightning strike now? You want to spiral because you were human for one fucking day?”
He looked at her then. Just looked.
“They’re all safe,” she repeated gently. “Everyone’s accounted for. And we’re anchored.”
His head dropped, but his fists stayed tight.
“Listen to me,” she said, firmly.
His chest was still heaving.
Bulma walked closer to him. “You didn’t fail. You did an amazing job.”
His laugh was hollow. “Tell that to my fucking father.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Vegeta’s jaw locked the instant it slipped. “Forget it.”
Bulma sighed.
“Vegeta.” She stepped into his space, close enough to feel the heat of him under all that tension. Close enough to see the flicker in his eyes, the one that wasn’t anger at all. Not really.
There was only guilt, fear, sadness.
Her voice softened. “You don’t have to carry all of it tonight.”
His throat bobbed.
“Sit down,” she said gently.
He didn’t move at first. Then, like his body surrendered before his pride, he sank onto the edge of the bed, hands hanging loose between his knees.
Bulma knelt in front of him, palms warm on his iron-hard thighs. He was coiled so tight she wondered how he was still breathing.
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
His eyes dragged up. God, they were dark. Lost. Like he was still out there in the storm, gripping the wheel while the world tore loose.
“You’re safe,” she kept reiterating. “The ship’s safe. You did everything you could.”
He just stared.
Her hands slid higher, over damp fabric and rigid muscle. “You’re not on the bridge now,” she murmured. “You’re here. With me. You don’t have to be the captain in this room.”
Something broke in his face. His breath hitched.
“Vegeta,” she said softly, “do you want me to take care of you tonight? Would that help you feel better?”
His throat worked. He didn’t answer.
She cupped his cheek, guiding his eyes to hers. “Like the other night,” she added. “Do you want that? For me to take control?”
That last part sat between them, heavy with meaning.
His voice was hoarse when it finally came. “…Yes.”
Her pulse kicked. “Say it for me.”
He swallowed hard. “I…want you to.”
Her thumb brushed the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Do you trust me with this?”
His answer was instant. “I trust you.”
“Good,” she whispered, kissing him once before pulling back. “Stand up.”
He didn’t fight when she eased him upright and tugged at his jacket. She stripped it away, then his shirt, peeling the soaked fabric from his skin. His breathing sped up as she traced the slope of his shoulders.
“Gorgeous,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. “So strong.”
Her hands skimmed lower, dragging over the tense ladder of his spine, down to the waistband of his pants. She unbuttoned them, pulling them down slowly with his underwear. When her fingers brushed the swell of his ass, he jolted slightly.
Bulma smiled faintly against his skin. “Is this what you need from me, baby?” she whispered. “To let go? Want me to spank that pretty ass of yours? Make it red for me?”
He shuddered. For a second, he didn’t breathe. Then he hauled her against him roughly, grinding his cock against her stomach, hard enough to make her gasp.
“Vegeta,” she whispered, hands gripping his sides. “Is that a yes?”
His answer was a sound against her throat. His hips rolled once more, and then he pressed his forehead to hers. “Please.”
She nodded and slid one hand up to his jaw, kissing him deeply before pulling back just enough to breathe against his lips.
“Get on the bed. On your stomach. Hands flat. Legs spread.”
He obeyed immediately.
Every motion was stripped of his usual precision now, raw and urgent as he fully kicked off his pants, climbed onto the mattress, and lowered himself down. His breath came shallow, muscles quivering as he stretched out flat, arms above his head, palms splayed against the sheets like he needed the anchor. His cock hung heavily between his legs and was pressed into the mattress, smearing a dark, obscene stain of precum against the white linen as his body shifted involuntarily.
“You're doing so well,” she murmured, leaning over the bed and kissing him once more before pulling back. Then she stood, letting him see every inch of her.
Her fingers gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. The soaked fabric hit the floor with a wet slap. “That’s it,” she praised softly. “Eyes on me.”
She unhooked her bra next, letting it drop beside the shirt. His jaw flexed, breath jagged, but he didn’t move.
“Good,” she approved. “Just like that. Stay still for me.”
Her hands traveled down, pushing her pants over her hips, then sliding her panties down her legs. When the last scrap of fabric fell, she stood bare before him, smiling faintly at the way his shoulders trembled with restraint.
“Good boy,” she whispered, then climbed up after him, straddling his thighs. Her hands swept over the hard ridges of his back, down to his sides, before cupping the curve of his ass. She squeezed once as a reward.
“Spread your legs a little wider for me,” she said.
He did, shifting his knees apart until his thighs opened under her. The sight nearly made her dizzy—strong legs spread wide, his ass already flushed from her touch, and his cock, dragging against the sheets with every tiny twitch of his hips.
“That's it,” she murmured, dragging her nails over his back in a slow, gentle scrape before lifting her hand. “Now don’t move.”
The first slap landed sharp and clean across one perfect cheek.
The crack of it filled the room, followed by his sharp inhale and the deep sound caught in his throat. He jerked forward, pushing into the bed with an involuntary thrust.
Bulma smoothed her palm soothingly over the sting. “Did that feel good, Vegeta?” she asked. “Did you like that?”
His voice was muffled by the pillow he had shoved his crimson face into. “...Yes.”
Her lips curved faintly. She leaned forward just enough for her voice to slip against his ear. Her breasts grazed his back, heat pressing into his skin as she whispered, “Do you want more?”
His answer was a broken exhale. “Yes.”
She smiled. Her lips trailed down his spine, tasting salt and skin, until she reached the edge of the deep red mark blooming on his cheek. She kissed it, then bit down just enough to make him gasp. “I love it when you tell me what you like.” She murmured against the sting.
Her hand lifted again. Another slap, louder this time. He jolted hard, cock grinding into the bed, smearing another slick streak across the fabric.
“Look at you,” she purred, running her fingertips lightly over the backs of his thighs now, making him shiver. Her fingers slid higher, brushing between his legs, just enough to tease the heavy weight of his balls before retreating. “So perfect like this. So fucking strong, and still giving up control for me.”
He choked out a sound that might have been her name. His body shook under her touch, muscles quivering as he ground into the soaked sheets, cock sliding easily through the mess he’d already made.
Bulma bent low. “Tell me something,” she whispered, “Are you gonna come for me like this? Just from rubbing against the bed while I spank this perfect ass?”
His answering groan was wrecked, raw, and left no doubt.
“That’s what I thought.” Her hand came down again, on the opposite cheek, harder this time. The sharp crack pulled another sound from him. His body lurched forward again.
Bulma soothed her palm over the sting, fingers tracing the heat blooming under his skin. "Still with me?” she murmured softly.
A rough sound rumbled against the pillow. “Yeah.”
Her free hand slid underneath him, over the tense plane of his stomach, tracing the ridges of his abs before sweeping back to cup the inside of his thigh. The muscles jumped under her touch. “You feel how hard you are?” she whispered, brushing her fingertips just shy of his cock. “You’re dripping for me, Vegeta. Making such a mess… is that what you wanted?”
He nodded, rubbing against the bed again, breath tearing ragged from his lungs.
Bulma's lips grazed the flushed skin of his back. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. God, I’m so proud of you.” Her teeth nipped at his waist lightly as her hand stroked the inside of his thigh again. “You’ve been carrying everything for days. For years, haven't you? And now you’re giving it to me. All of it.”
She gave him another smack. His muscles flexed hard under her thighs. His hips rolled, thrusting down in an erratic rhythm he couldn’t control anymore.
That was when she realized she couldn't take it.
“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “Spread out like this… shaking for me… so fucking beautiful—” Her hand slipped away from him.
He made a strangled sound at the loss of her touch.
Bulma bit down on a moan as her fingers found herself, soaked and aching. “You hear that?” she breathed. “That’s me. Touching my pussy because I can’t watch you like this and not fall apart.”
Vegeta’s whole body jerked like she’d struck him harder than any slap. A moan tore from his body.
“You like that?” she gasped, fingers circling harder, wetter. “Knowing I’m soaked for you while you lie here and take it?”
He choked on a gasp, but then he spoke, ragged and desperate, still muffled by the pillow but commanding all the same. “Don’t stop.”
Bulma froze for half a heartbeat.
“Keep touching yourself,” he ground out, voice shredded, every syllable shaking. “Do it for me—fuck—I want you to come when I come, Bulma.”
Her moan was sharp as her fingers slid deeper, circling her clit in fast, wet spirals. Slick sounds filled the space between them, rhythmic, loud enough to blend with the storm hammering outside. She was drenched, thighs trembling as she rocked into her own hand, matching the frantic movement of his hips.
“God—fuck—Vegeta—” she gasped, as her free hand clawed down his trembling back. He groaned hoarsely into the pillow, body shaking so violently it rattled the bedframe.
Bulma leaned over him, voice molten. “You’re going to take one more before you come,” she panted, pulling her arm back. “You hear me? One more for me.”
Her hand came down hard, cracking across his red, marked cheek. The sound rang through the room like a gunshot.
Vegeta broke.
He drove himself forward with a guttural cry, cock jerking as the first hot spurt shot out, striping his stomach in a thick white arc before flooding the sheets in violent, endless pulses. Cum smeared across his abdomen and under his rutting hips as he thrust through it helplessly, lost to the rhythm of release. His arms gave out, fists twisting in the sheets while his entire body seized and convulsed, each spasm wringing another desperate surge from his cock until the bed was a soaked disaster beneath him.
Bulma shattered with him.
She slumped over him, her orgasm slamming through her so hard she bit down on his shoulder to smother the scream, her fingers circling frantically as she rocked against her palm. Heat burst between her thighs in waves, soaking her hand as she trembled over his shaking body, moaning into his skin like she couldn’t stop. “Vegeta—fuck—” spilled against his spine, her voice breaking with every pulse of pleasure.
When the last shudder wrung them both dry, Bulma carefully slid off him, her hand gliding down his back in one last soothing stroke before she shifted to his side. “C’mere,” she whispered, as she coaxed him onto his back. He didn’t fight it, too wrung out to do anything but let her move him. His body was limp and heavy as she gathered him close, pulling his head against her chest.
“That’s it,” she murmured into his hair, kissing his temple. Her hands roamed slowly, one combing through the damp spikes clinging to his forehead, the other smoothing circles between his shoulder blades. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
He lay there, his breath stuttering, fists still clenched in the sheets like he couldn’t quite believe it was over.
Bulma held him tighter, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she spoke. “You were perfect for me,” she whispered. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”
At her words, his breath came out shakily, before it spilled out again in a jagged sound that wasn’t lust this time. His shoulders shook once, twice, and then he made a noise like the fight had finally left him.
“Hey…” She cupped his face, tilting it up just enough to see the wet shine streaking his cheeks. Her heart clenched, but she kept her voice steady. “Oh, baby…it’s okay.”
He turned his face away hard, like it burned to be seen. “I—what the fuck—” His voice was almost unrecognizable.
“It’s just a different type of release,” she soothed, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones as she kissed his temple again. “That’s all this is. You’re safe. Let it out.”
Whatever wall he’d tried to throw up crumbled. His face pressed into her chest, his breath hitching against her skin as his fists curled helplessly at her sides. Bulma wrapped him tighter, rocking him slowly, kissing his hairline as she whispered the words of praise to him like a litany.
They stayed like that until the storm outside softened from rage to rain. When his breathing finally began to even out, she stroked a hand down his arm and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Don’t move,” she whispered.
Sliding carefully from the bed, Bulma grabbed a towel from the bathroom and came back to find him exactly where she left him—boneless, face half-buried in the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded but watching her through the fringe of his lashes. She cleaned him up tenderly, swiping the mess from his stomach and thighs, brushing cool cloth over flushed, trembling skin.
“You ruined your sheets, Captain,” she teased softly, trying to lighten the weight in the room.
One corner of his mouth twitched.
She tossed the towel aside, tugged the covers over him, and slid in close. His body curled toward hers instinctively, strong arms drawing her in with the kind of hold that said he’d never admit how much he needed it.
She kissed his temple one last time, tucking her face into the warm crook of his neck. His breath feathered against her hair, and then he whispered two words. “…Thank you.”
Bulma smiled against his skin, her heart aching in the best possible way. “Sleep,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”
---
A loud series of knocks shattered the quiet of the early morning.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Bulma stirred groggily, disoriented. The sheets were tangled around her legs, her hair a mess. She rubbed her face with one hand and sat up slowly, blinking against the early gray light filtering in.
Another knock. Louder. “It’s urgent!”
Still half-asleep, Bulma slid off the bed, grabbing the sheet instinctively and wrapping it around her body. The fabric smelled like Vegeta, but her brain was too fogged to care.
“One sec!” she called, voice scratchy.
She padded to the door, yawned, and flung it open.
The entire senior crew stood on the other side. Krillin. Chi-Chi. Goku. Lapis. Lazuli.
And Raditz, eyes puffy and red for some reason.
Everyone froze.
So did Bulma.
She looked down at her sheet.
She looked back up.
And in that moment, it hit her: this wasn’t her cabin. This was Vegeta’s. She was in his bed. Naked. In his sheets. With the entire bridge crew staring at her.
“Bulma?” Chi-Chi blinked. “Is… the captain here?”
There was a rustle behind her.
“Who the fuck is banging at this hour—”
Vegeta emerged from the shadows shirtless, black sweatpants hanging low on his hips like he’d yanked them on in a panic. His hair was wild, his eyes half-lidded, and a dark bruise bloomed on his collarbone where her mouth had been an hour ago during round two. He stopped dead.
Every jaw dropped. Krillin’s mouth was actually open.
Vegeta’s eyes darted from Bulma to the crew. To her sheet. To the bed in plain view. To Raditz, who went very still, before his grin split slow and wicked, like a shark catching the scent of blood.
Bulma felt him tense behind her.
“No,” Vegeta sputtered. “No, no, no—”
“I knew it!” Raditz cackled, laughter bursting out uncontrollably. “You dog.”
Chi-Chi elbowed him. Lazuli coughed. Goku looked confused. Lapis looked like he was witnessing a nuclear detonation.
Then Krillin blurted, voice cracking:
“Yamcha’s dead!”
Vegeta’s soul left his body.
Chapter 12: Dead in the Water
Chapter Text
Bulma sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her shirt over her head with numb, shaky fingers. Her body still tingled where Vegeta’s hands had been. Her lips felt swollen from his kiss. Her chest ached in a way she couldn’t name.
They were finally gone. The crew.
“Yamcha’s dead!”
The words still ricocheted in her skull like a loose bolt.
Except he wasn’t though.
Krillin had started backpedaling before the echo in the hallway died, tripping over his own tongue while Vegeta barked at him to spit it out. Turned out Yamcha had been screwing around on an upper pool deck after dark, probably filming some obnoxious storm vlog, when he tripped over a cord and got himself electrocuted. Mildly.
They’d found him flat on his back, half a can of hard seltzer by his hand, phone still streaming the whole thing live. Apparently, he’d been clinically dead for ninety seconds according to the playback. Thankfully, Raditz had been watching in his quarters, and had run and gotten help.
Goku and one of the medics got to him in time. Now he was down in the med-bay, stable, alive, and no doubt planning his comeback video the second he could sit up. He was fine.
Physically fine, anyway. Ego damage? Irreparable.
The room was quiet now.
The sheets were a wreck. A towel hung off the edge of the mattress, half-stuffed under a pillow. The air still held the faint scent of sweat and sex.
Bulma cleared her throat softly. “Are you…angry? About me…answering the door?”
He didn’t look at her right away. His hands were clasped loosely between his knees; knuckles pale where they pressed together.
“Angry?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. He shook his head once. “No.”
Because what would anger change? The door had been opened. Raditz had seen. Krillin had seen. Half the damn ship probably knew by now. His father’s voice thundered in his skull: Lack of discipline. Lack of control. Tempermental.
He’d never been good at shutting it out. Even now, after years, oceans, and a dishonorable discharge later, the man’s contempt still clung like oil on his skin. The old bastard would’ve had his hide for this. For letting himself get compromised in his own quarters. For looking this...weak.
Vegeta flexed his hands once, staring down at the lines of his palms. Calloused, scarred, useless. He’d always known what to do. Always had an order, a system, a goddamn plan. Until her.
He turned his head finally. She was just looking at him expectantly, hair mussed, shirt clinging crooked on one shoulder.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said quietly. The words surprised him. Not because they weren’t true, she’d been half-asleep, disoriented, but because of how much it mattered to tell her. To take that guilt off her face. He couldn’t bear it.
She nodded, biting her lip, then looked down at her hands in her lap. “We kind of screwed this up, didn’t we?”
He wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her he’d do it again, ten times over. That if she asked, he’d lock the door and keep her here until the sun burned out. Instead, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose, because wanting and having were never the same thing.
“Maybe…” He dragged a hand over his face, the stubble on his chin rasping against his palm. “Maybe we should…stop.” The word scraped his throat raw. “At least until I can—until we can think.”
Bulma froze. The hitch in her breath was so faint he almost missed it.
“Think,” she echoed, voice quiet. It sounded like it cut her just to say it. Her hands twisted in her lap, rubbing against the fabric of her pants. For a long while, she didn’t look at him. Then she gave a small nod. Small but large enough to feel like a death knell.
“Yeah.” Her voice cracked. She cleared it fast, but the damage was done. “Yeah. That’s…probably smart.”
Smart. Right. Sensible. Every word he’d been raised to worship, every doctrine of control, and not one of them felt anything but wrong.
He stared down at the carpet between his feet. “We lost sight,” he said finally. “Of the job. The crew. Everything.” His jaw ached from how tight he held it. “That’s not—It can’t happen again.”
Bulma gave a short, humorless laugh. “You think I don’t know that? I told Roshi to report to me after five hours last night, and then in his mind, I probably just disappeared.” She pressed her thumb hard against her temple like she could scrub the guilt out. “I don’t miss things like that. Ever.”
Vegeta sighed. “I’ve never missed a bridge check-in. Not once since I took this ship.” His mouth twisted. “But because I, because we were too busy—” He stopped.
Her head dipped, hair sliding around her face. “We weren’t thinking,” she whispered. “Just…feeling.”
“Exactly,” he bit out, and the word felt like spitting glass.
The silence that followed was thick, the air between them crowded with everything they wouldn’t say, how much they wanted more, how much it already hurt to let go.
Finally, she drew a breath and lifted her chin. Her eyes were bright and raw and steady when they met his. “So, we stop. For now.”
“For now,” he agreed, even though the words tasted like poison.
She nodded like she was convincing herself, smoothing her shirt like it would erase the memory of his hands. Then she hesitated, her voice dropping softer. “But…”
His head came up, sharply.
“I just need you to know…” Her throat bobbed. She reached out, fingers brushing his forearm, light as a breath, almost nothing, but it leveled him. “I don’t regret it. Any of it. Not one second. And last night was…” Her laugh cracked and broke. “God, Vegeta. It was amazing. And you—” She swallowed hard. “You were amazing.”
Something in his chest tore clean in two.
“And it’s okay,” she added, her voice gentler now, anchored in something fierce and true. “What happened after, when you… That doesn’t make me think less of you. It just makes me respect you more.”
Respect. Christ. She had no idea what that word coming from her did to him, how it hollowed him out and filled him up in the same breath. He wanted to hold her there, bury his face in her neck, tell her everything. That he loved her. That he was hers in every way that mattered. That none of the rest meant a damn thing. But he just sat there. Uselessly.
She drew in a breath, stood, and gave a small, unsteady smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “See you on the bridge, then.” She whispered.
Something in him broke.
He was on his feet before he could think, before reason could drag him away from her. His hand caught her wrist, spun her toward him, and then his mouth was on hers, hard, consuming, a collision of everything they were trying to bury.
Bulma gasped against his lips, then melted into him with a sound that would haunt him until the day he died. Her hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, like she could imprint the shape of him into her bones before she had to walk away.
He kissed her like he'd never get the chance again. Her body pressed flush to his, warm and trembling, and he wanted to tear the universe in half for deciding to put an end to this. To them. But it was too late.
When he finally tore his mouth from hers, they were both shaking, foreheads pressed together.
And then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, she tried to smile. Her voice wobbled as she whispered, “You still owe me a viewing of The Princess Bride. Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook for that.”
It nearly fucking killed him.
He didn’t answer with words. He just crushed her to his chest; arms iron around her as if he could hold the world still for one more second. His lips found her hair, and he kissed the crown of her head. Then he nodded against her, because speech was impossible. If he opened his mouth, everything he’d sworn to lock down would spill out, and she deserved better than his ruin.
Bulma drew in a shaky breath, pressed a final kiss to his jaw, and eased back before either of them caved.
She walked away, and he let her go.
The door clicked shut behind her.
He stood there a long time, staring at the space she left behind, feeling the last echo of her lips burn against his. His hands hung useless at his sides. For the first time in his life, he had no orders, no answers, no compass to follow.
But this was for the best. For the crew. For the chain of command. For everything that mattered on paper.
---
The storm had passed, but the bridge still felt like the eye of it. Calm on the surface, tense underneath. Systems were holding, but just barely. Auxiliary power was stable, propulsion patched, diagnostics streaming with yellow flags. Nothing Bulma couldn’t handle under normal circumstances.
But nothing felt normal.
She kept her eyes locked on the engineering console, scrolling through damage reports for the third time like they might read differently now. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to keep from thinking about Vegeta. He had been right. They needed to focus on the job. There was still nearly a week of this cruise left, and this wasn’t some cargo hauler—they were a luxury liner, sold as unsinkable perfection. And now? They had a storm-damaged ship, a navigation failure, and a celebrity influencer who technically flatlined on their watch.
Bulma swallowed hard, scrolling through diagnostics she’d already memorized. Yamcha’s brief death was probably already making the rounds online, blown out of proportion and dripping with drama. The company was either about to drown in backlash or ride a tidal wave of viral attention, and neither option was good for the crew stuck cleaning up the mess.
They had to hold the line. Keep the systems running, keep the guests calm, keep the narrative under control.
Her chest still ached so hard she could barely breathe.
You wanted this , she reminded herself. It was the smart call. The right one. And she understood that. But knowing didn’t stop the hollow ache in her ribs. Nor did it stop the sting behind her eyes every time she caught the faintest trace of his cologne in her hair.
“Coffee?”
Bulma blinked and glanced up. Chi-Chi stood beside her with a paper cup, her expression soft but unreadable to anyone who didn’t know better. Bulma managed a grateful smile and murmured a thanks, curling her fingers around the cup.
The warm weight of a hand landed on her shoulder. Raditz. He was silent, giving her a single, solid pat before strolling toward the viewport with his usual swagger, muttering something about needing a drink after all this.
The others kept their distance, but their silence wasn’t cold. Goku shot her a small grin. Lazuli offered a barely-there nod when their eyes met. Even Krillin, usually a fountain of chatter, kept his voice calm and level at comms. There were no questions or judgment. Just…acceptance.
Bulma’s throat tightened, and she ducked her head fast, pretending to sip her coffee before anyone could see.
The bridge doors opened behind her.
She didn’t have to look to see that it was him. She felt the way the air shifted, like the steel spine of command had just walked in.
“Status,” Vegeta barked. His voice was calm. Controlled. Like thirty minutes ago hadn’t happened at all.
Bulma forced herself to glance up, just once, quick. He was immaculate. Uniform straight, boots polished, not a single trace of what had happened in his quarters. If she hadn’t seen him break, she might’ve believed the mask.
Krillin cleared his throat. “Uh, systems holding, Captain. Aux power’s steady. Propulsion’s stable for now. Biggest issue is still nav—GPS and radar keep dropping out.”
Vegeta’s gaze slid to him. “ETA on the replacement?”
“That’s the weird part.” Krillin tapped the console, frowning. “They weren’t due until after noon, but I just got a ping, and the ship’s already in range. Way ahead of schedule.”
Bulma’s brows knit. “Seriously? They’re not supposed to be here for hours.”
“That’s what I thought too. They must have been making good time.” Krillin angled the monitor so she could see the faint outline of a blip, pulsing on their glitching radar. “But they’re close. Real close. We should have visual any minute.”
As if on cue, Goku’s voice cut in. “Got eyes. Look over there. Starboard horizon. Big ship.”
Bulma turned toward the forward viewport just as the vessel rose from the blue, cutting a dark, sleek shape against the water. Even at this distance, she could tell it wasn’t a supply hauler. No cargo crates stacked on deck, no bulk freighter lines. This was all dangerous steel—streamlined hull, armored flanks, twin comm towers standing rigid like spines.
The ship closed in, the sunlight flashing off its bow until the lettering on the hull burned clear:
SS SADALA.
Below it, a crimson insignia glared.
Bulma’s breath caught.
“Holy shit,” Krillin muttered. “That’s—”
“A command-class cruiser,” she finished softly, the words dry in her mouth. “That’s not…that’s not just a supply ship.”
“Sure isn’t,” Goku said, his usual warmth stripped clean. “What the hell’s that doing out here?”
No one answered.
Bulma’s eyes slid to Vegeta, and her pulse spiked.
He hadn’t moved, but the color had drained from his face. His jaw locked, hands clasped so tight behind his back she could see the tendons standing out. And when his fingers twitched against his cuff, barely, but enough, it felt like the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
He never flinched. Not in the storm. Not when they lost propulsion. Not even when he was told that Yamcha flatlined.
So why now?
And then she heard him speak—low, almost swallowed, like a thought was slipping unbidden out of his mouth:
“ Oh fuck .”
Chapter 13: Broadside
Chapter Text
The docking corridor was quiet.
Not silent, nothing ever was on a ship this size. But it was subdued. Tight. Even the thump of Bulma’s boots sounded too loud against the reinforced floor panels as she trailed just behind Vegeta, on their way to greet the engineering team.
He hadn’t said a word since leaving the bridge.
His shoulders were squared, stride measured, posture textbook-perfect. No tension in his hands. No scowl. Just complete, clinical calm.
Which meant he was unraveling.
Bulma knew the signs now. The straighter he stood, the harder he was trying not to break.
They reached the aft emergency docking bay just as the external seal disengaged. Through the viewport, the sleek boarding ramp of the Sadala was already extending, locking in place with a heavy final clunk. A group of uniformed Navy engineers stepped forward in formation, dark coats, electrical kits, and tool packs strapped to their belts.
And then—
Another figure emerged from behind them. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of them.
He wore the tan khaki uniform of a command officer, crisp, pressed, and impossibly neat. The silver eagles on his collar caught the light, glinting just enough to draw the eye. He was an Admiral. His rank insignia sat on his collar above a row of ribbons on his chest, and his black oxfords were polished like mirrors.
His hair was dark, streaked at the temples with silver. His jaw was strong, mouth hard-set, eyes flat and sharp. The resemblance was unmistakable. The same cheekbones. The same brow. The same hairline. But colder. Crueler. Like someone had taken Vegeta’s face and scraped the soul out of it.
Bulma didn’t need to ask.
She knew .
The man’s gaze swept the docking bay like a drill instructor, pausing briefly on Bulma, then freezing on Vegeta.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes. Surprise. Disbelief. Then immediate disdain.
“Well,” the Admiral said coolly. “I’ll be damned.”
Vegeta didn’t flinch. “Sir.”
“You’re the captain of this vessel?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause. The air thickened. One of the younger engineers shifted uncomfortably.
Bulma stepped forward, her voice calm and professional. “Welcome aboard The Queen Panchy . I’m Bulma Briefs, head of corporate engineering and Chief Engineer for this voyage. Thank you for arriving ahead of schedule. We’ve been stabilizing the ship since last night’s storm, but we’re still partially running without a nav system.”
The Admiral barely looked at her. “Admiral Vegeta. Senior. And I wasn’t aware this liner warranted a full engineering team. I assumed it was staffed with waiters and party clowns.”
Bulma cocked her head.
Well then.
Her eyes swept over him. Every part of him was polished, self-important, and utterly humorless. But it wasn’t the uniform that hit her. It was the tone. The lazy, entitled dismissal. The way he didn’t even try to see her.
And suddenly, things slid into place.
The stiff posture. The brutal perfectionism. The control. All the ways Vegeta never let his guard down unless she peeled it off of him herself.
Her stomach twisted.
This man wasn’t just cold.
He was cruel. And familiar . The kind of man who broke people young and then blamed them for the cracks.
She smiled, sharp and sugar-sweet.
“You must be fun at weddings.”
The junior engineers blinked. One coughed into his hand.
Admiral Vegeta’s gaze swung back to his son. “I wasn’t informed of this assignment. Although I suppose civilian contracts are beneath my purview.”
“You weren’t informed,” Vegeta said tightly, “because it wasn’t your business.”
Bulma’s eyes widened.
The Admiral’s voice sharpened. “Watch your tone.”
“I wasn’t aware I reported to you,” Vegeta replied.
A long beat passed. The Admiral’s mouth curled like he smelled something sour. “You never did learn respect.”
Bulma cut in before she could stop herself. “Admiral. If you’re done measuring your rank, we have a ship to stabilize.”
The silence cracked.
The Admiral looked at her again, more directly this time. “And what makes you think I give a damn about your ship?”
Bulma shrugged. “Maritime law states that you do. Besides, you came all this way. If you just wanted to throw a tantrum, we have celebrities for that.”
The Admiral’s nostrils flared. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the corridor. “Lead the way, then, Chief .”
The moment they stepped into Engineering, the Admiral began his performance.
“This is the main systems room?” he asked, tone unimpressed.
Bulma didn’t bother answering. She just strode ahead, snapping her gloves on with a satisfying pop.
Yajirobe and Korin were already on standby, working quietly at a junction panel. Two of the visiting engineers moved in to assist, one cradling the replacement nav component like it was a newborn.
“This is where we install?” one of them asked.
Bulma nodded. “Access panel’s prepped. Power flow’s been rerouted. You’ll want to check the alignment before seating the array, our mount is customized.”
One of the navy engineers squinted at the brackets. “Huh. This isn’t standard-issue.”
“Nope,” Bulma said, popping the ‘p.’ “Because the standard-issue design had a cross-feedback vulnerability. I reworked the whole housing.”
“You—” the guy blinked. “You redesigned the—?”
“Mmhm,” she said, crouching next to him and tapping the console open. “Capsule patent #7198.”
The Admiral, meanwhile, prowled the perimeter like a disapproving ghost.
“Modified housing,” he muttered. “Is that why this system failed during a routine storm?”
Vegeta, silent until now, spoke tightly. “The storm wasn’t routine. We were rerouted by a last-minute port delay—”
“You were late to a port of call?” the Admiral cut in, voice sharp. “I see.”
“We were correcting for engineering delays,” Bulma interjected. “Which were caused by a retired crewmember’s faulty prior work. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
The Admiral raised a brow. “And who approved that hire?”
Vegeta’s jaw twitched.
Bulma stood slowly.
“Human resources did,” she said evenly. “And captains have to work with the personnel they’re given. Even when those personnel are underqualified, or legacy hires. You do understand that, right?”
The Admiral’s face darkened.
“Watch yourself, Chief,” he said lowly.
From the edge of her vision, she saw Vegeta twitch, shoulders pulling back, breath sharp. He was about to say something. Maybe do something. Perhaps commit a national crime.
So she looked at him.
Met his eyes and smirked, then gave a subtle shake of her head.
She had this.
Then, smoothly, she turned back to the Admiral.
“I’m watching the repair,” she said coolly. “You’re the one circling like a vulture.”
The tension hit critical mass. Yajirobe and Korin froze. The visiting engineers pretended not to exist.
The Admiral, apparently deciding the exchange wasn’t worth it, adjusted his cuffs and stepped back.
“I’ll expect a formal update on operational status by eighteen hundred for my report on this civilian rescue,” he said, gaze on Bulma. “And I’d prefer it from someone qualified.”
Just as Bulma was about to haul out and test her rusty kickboxing skills, Vegeta stepped forward. Just one step. But it was enough.
“You’ll get your update from my chief ,” he bit out. “She built the fucking ship you’re standing on.”
The Admiral adjusted his cuffs again, glancing around the engine bay.
“I see some things never change,” he said flatly. “Your time away from the Navy hasn’t improved you. If anything, it’s dulled you further.”
Then, without giving anyone time to respond, he turned toward the exit.
“I suppose that concludes my gracious intervention. You’re lucky we made such good time. I trust your team can handle the installation from here.”
Bulma didn’t answer. She was too busy mentally rerouting power diagnostics to avoid blowing a fuse, either literally or emotionally.
The Admiral continued, tone casual in a way that only made it worse. “And given the…urgency of our assistance, it seems appropriate to receive a formal thank-you. Perhaps dinner. Something befitting the occasion.”
There it was.
Vegeta didn’t move. His silence was deafening.
Bulma stepped in before he could speak. Her voice was smooth, polished steel. “Of course. Consider it arranged.”
The Admiral gave her a small, smug nod.
“My mother and I,” she added, smile tight and bright, “would be honored to host you personally.”
Vegeta blinked at her. She could swear he was trying to deliver an SOS.
But Bulma wasn’t done.
“You may not be aware, Admiral, but Capsule Cruise Lines is a family-owned operation. And my mother—Panchy Briefs—is especially fond of meeting our…distinguished guests.”
The Admiral pursed his lips, but he didn’t respond. Perhaps he sensed, faintly, that something had just shifted beneath his boots.
The moment his father exited the engine bay Vegeta turned and walked the other way. Not storming, not bolting. Just gone. Like if he didn’t keep moving, something inside him might give.
Bulma followed, peeling off her gloves and tossing them into her belt, eyes burning.
“Vegeta.”
“Hey.”
He turned the corridor. Shoulders stiff. Breathing sharp.
“Don’t walk away from me after that ,” she snapped.
He halted. Fists clenched.
She caught up beside him, still fuming. “What the fuck is wrong with that man?”
He sighed and finally turned around.
“That was your father .” she pressed. “Admiral ‘I-shit-gold-bars’?”
His hands flexed at his sides.
“He undermined you in front of your own crew. Dismissed your command. Tried to take credit for fixing a problem he doesn’t even understand. And then he demanded a thank-you dinner like he was God’s gift to maritime disaster relief.”
Still no reply. His eyes were on the far wall again. Focused and vacant, like he was keeping everything from spilling out.
Bulma stepped in front of him. “I need you to tell me right now that he doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”
His jaw ticked. “It’s not that simple.”
“Like hell it isn’t!”
Vegeta’s eyes cut to hers. “You think I don’t know exactly who and what he is?”
She paused.
“I spent my entire life trying to live up to something that never existed,” he said, voice low. “I thought if I just got better—faster, sharper, more disciplined—he’d see me. Just once. Not as a liability. Not as a disappointment.”
Bulma’s throat tightened.
Vegeta exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You already know the first part, I’m sure. I got court-martialed for cursing out a vice admiral who refused to conduct a rescue mission on two ships in critical condition. My father was one of my commanding officers. Said I was a weak embarrassment.”
Bulma saw red.
“I spent the night in the brig and was discharged by noon the next day. And he never spoke to me again.” He looked at her, jaw tense. “Until today.”
There was a moment of silence between them. Her anger dimmed, replaced by something protective.
“And he thinks he can walk in here and take command?” she asked.
He gave a humorless huff. “He thinks this ship is beneath him. That I am.”
“Well, he’s about to find out otherwise.”
Vegeta lifted an eyebrow.
Bulma pulled out her phone. “I’m texting my mother. We’re going to give him the classiest, coldest, most Capsule-branded ‘fuck you’ ever served with shrimp cocktails.”
That pulled a breath out of him, half laugh, half sigh.
Bulma studied him for a moment. He still looked like he was holding back everything with sheer willpower.
Quietly, she said, “I know that we’re not…anymore…right now...but, just, you don’t have to pretend with me. You’re still my friend.”
That landed with him. He didn’t answer, but his expression shifted. A flicker of something vulnerable in the space between his breath and his silence.
She stepped a little closer, her voice soft. “You’re not him, Vegeta.”
He swallowed hard.
“And if he’s too blind to see what kind of captain you are, then let him choke on the wine tonight.”
Vegeta’s jaw flexed. He looked away, then back at her—like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust himself to speak.
Then, quietly, he admitted, “I’m almost curious to see how two Briefs women plan to handle a man like him.”
Bulma’s lips curled. “Oh sweetie. You're in for a real treat. He’s already outmatched.”
---
The dining room didn’t look like part of a cruise ship anymore.
Krillin had joked earlier that it looked like a war room disguised as a Michelin restaurant, and he wasn’t wrong. The long table was linen-draped, polished to a gleam, set with glittering silver and crystal glassware. Candlelight gleamed off the centerpiece, a subtle arrangement of white orchids and tropical leaves. The walls were paneled in deep walnut, the lighting moody and formal. Every detail said: we belong here, and you don't.
Vegeta sat at the head of the table. Perfect posture. Cold expression. Immaculate in full uniform.
To his right was Admiral Vegeta, already nursing a whiskey with the smug satisfaction of someone who believed the room had been arranged for his benefit.
Beside him was his First Officer—a graying man in crisp navy blues by the name of Celeric who hadn’t spoken more than three words since they boarded. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Across from them, Bulma sat in a sleek corporate black dress, her hair twisted up, makeup sharp. She wasn’t just matching the tone of the room, she was setting it. Every inch of her screamed composed authority, and every inch was for Vegeta . She hadn’t even looked at the Admiral since they sat down.
Krillin, trying his best not to sweat, was seated further down the table. He had polished his shoes. He had buttoned his collar. He looked like a man watching a slow-moving train crash and praying to escape the shrapnel.
Then the doors opened.
And the whole room shifted.
Panchy Briefs walked in like a vision straight out of a Vogue power spread: navy blue pantsuit tailored within an inch of its life, gold jewelry glinting at her wrists and throat, and heels that clicked like punctuation. Her makeup was soft but perfect. Her long blonde hair was twisted up in an elegant chignon that somehow made her look even taller.
She was smiling.
But it wasn’t her usual champagne-in-hand, breezy cruise smile.
It was colder. Calmer. Still sunny—but like sunlight on glass.
The kind she used to reserve for the board.
“Apologies for the delay,” she said, striding in easily.
Vegeta stood automatically. So did Krillin.
The Admiral did not.
Panchy reached the table, her heels stopping just beside the Admiral’s chair. She extended a hand with perfect grace. “You must be Captain Vegeta’s father. “Bulma told me all about you.”
The Admiral looked up, startled.
“Yes,” he said slowly, standing halfway. “Admiral Vegeta, Third Command, SS Sadala .”
“Oh, Admiral, ” Panchy said, like she’d just realized she was talking to someone important and didn’t particularly care. She took his hand lightly, shook it once, then let it drop like a napkin. “Panchy Briefs. Owner and Chair of Capsule Cruise Lines.”
Her voice was smooth and professional. Not a trace of her usual singsong warmth.
The First Officer blinked like someone had snapped a rubber band across his wrist.
“I hope the accommodations are to your liking,” Panchy continued, sliding into the empty seat at the opposite head of the table. “We tried to match the formality of your ship. Though sadly, we don’t have quite as many guns.”
The Admiral’s brow twitched. “A well-run ship doesn't need to flaunt its arsenal.”
Vegeta’s nostrils flared.
Bulma said nothing. She reached for her wine and took a deliberate sip, eyes sharp over the rim.
“Mm,” Panchy said, unfolding her napkin. “Well, thank goodness we had your team here to assist. I’m sure your engineers were just thrilled to work under my daughter’s direction.”
Celeric smiled pleasantly.
The Admiral didn’t. “Your daughter is competent enough. Though perhaps a bit—” his eyes cut to Bulma “—emotional.”
Bulma raised a brow. “Only when I’m being condescended to.”
Krillin choked on his water.
Panchy’s smile didn’t budge. “Oh, I love a spirited conversation. Especially when men feel threatened by competence. Don’t you?”
The Admiral finally looked at her fully. “I wouldn’t call it threatened. I just prefer professionalism to theatrics.”
Panchy’s voice didn’t lose an ounce of cheer. “Oh, same here! That’s why I don’t tolerate people undermining my captain in his own engineering bay.”
The Admiral squinted in disbelief.
Vegeta didn’t move, but his hand, resting on the table, shifted. His knuckles eased.
Panchy poured herself a glass of wine and took a sip before anyone could respond. “Now, shall we begin with the appetizers?”
The first course was served with an almost uncomfortable level of professionalism.
“Grilled hearts of palm,” Panchy said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Sourced from a stop during one of our last cruises to Costa Rica. We try to reflect the itinerary in each formal meal.”
The Admiral gave a tight nod. “Your culinary program is surprisingly well-curated. For a civilian vessel.”
Bulma smiled coolly. “We’ve been working on elevating the experience.”
“I can see that,” he said, gaze flicking toward her. “Though I imagine such things are easier to manage from the safety of the bridge.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Bulma replied. “I’m usually in the engine room. Working.”
Celeric took a sip of his wine and murmured, “Frankly, Chief, I was surprised to see you hands-on. Most cruise line execs I’ve met don’t even tour below deck.”
Bulma inclined her head. “I grew up in the prototype bays at Capsule. My father taught me to get my hands dirty.”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” Panchy added, sipping her drink. “She didn’t just grow up in the bays, she redesigned half our propulsion systems before she turned twenty.”
“Twenty-two,” Bulma corrected.
“Still counts. I’m rounding down for drama.”
The Admiral chuckled once. “And yet, despite such talent, the ship still broke.”
A hush fell.
Vegeta’s eyes didn’t lift from his plate. But his knife scraped a little harder through his next bite.
Panchy set her wineglass down gently. “What exactly are you implying, Admiral?”
“I’m simply observing that it’s unusual for a luxury liner to require emergency parts delivery in calm waters. Unusual—and telling.”
Vegeta’s voice entered like a drop of oil in water.
“Would you prefer we continued on without navigation?”
The Admiral looked at him. “No. Only that you handle things before they reach failure. Prevention, Captain. Something you’ve historically struggled with.”
Bulma sat forward, eyes narrowing.
But Panchy beat her to the punch.
“Well, thank goodness you were here to fix it all, Admiral,” she said, tone pleasant. “I’m sure that’s what your engineers told you, right before my daughter walked them through the install.”
Celeric shifted uncomfortably. “With respect, ma’am…Chief Briefs’ instructions were extremely thorough.”
Bulma turned to him. “Thank you.”
“I’ve just never seen anyone quote capacitor clearance specs from memory,” He added. “It was impressive.”
The Admiral gave him a sidelong glance. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“Oh, please, let’s,” Panchy said sweetly. “It’s so rare anyone compliments my daughter at dinner. Usually, they’re too busy ogling the dessert cart.”
Vegeta took a long sip of his drink.
The Admiral’s lips tightened. “It’s clear this ship values a…certain kind of leadership.”
“Efficient?” Bulma asked.
“Civil,” said Krillin, quietly.
“Incompetent,” said the Admiral.
Vegeta set his glass down carefully. “You don’t like how I run this ship, fine. But don’t insult my crew. Don’t insult her.”
The Admiral’s eyebrows lifted. “I wasn’t aware your authority was so fragile it needed defending.”
“I wasn’t aware yours needed validating over dinner,” Vegeta said calmly.
Panchy’s lips parted—surprised, pleased.
Krillin let out a small, stunned, “Damn.”
The Admiral leaned back. “You always did have a mouth on you.”
“Only when you’re in the room.”
Silence.
Even the waitstaff had paused mid-step.
Panchy cleared her throat. “Well, now that we’re all acquainted with each other’s leadership styles,” she said, voice sugar-glazed and poison-tipped, “why don’t we move on to the main course?”
She smiled. “Tonight’s special is seared salmon. But don’t worry, Admiral—ours isn’t prone to flopping around once it’s out of water.”
By the time dessert arrived, no one was eating. Course by course, the Admiral had chipped away at the table’s civility—needling, implying, circling like a shark—and now, he went in for the kill.
The crème brûlée sat untouched in front of Bulma, the sugar top pristine and gleaming under candlelight. She didn’t move. Didn’t touch her wine. Her hands were folded too tightly in her lap.
Across from her, Vegeta was still.
One hand rested on the stem of his glass. The other was curled under the table, knuckles white. He hadn’t spoken in minutes.
Finally, the Admiral leaned back in his chair with the smugness of a man who thought he'd finally taken control of the conversation.
“Well Vegeta, you always did land on your feet,” he said, casually swirling the brandy in his glass. “Even after everything you lost.”
Vegeta’s gaze didn’t move.
The Admiral smiled faintly. “Not many men recover from a discharge like that. But then, you’ve always been resilient. Even when you failed upward.”
Bulma inhaled sharply.
Krillin shifted like he might actually crawl under the table.
Panchy raised one perfectly shaped brow.
The Admiral took another sip and turned to Bulma. “He didn’t tell you, did he? That he was thrown out of the Navy?”
“Stop,” Vegeta said, voice low and tight.
But the Admiral didn’t. “Disgraced. Court-martialed. That temper of his. No sense of protocol. No respect for authority.”
Vegeta’s face flamed red.
“You’re lucky we taught you how to stand upright,” the Admiral continued. “This ship has more polish than I expected.”
And finally— finally —Bulma stood.
The chair legs scraped back across the carpet. The sound cut through the table like a crack of thunder.
“You need to shut your god damn mouth.”
The Admiral blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t get to walk onto this ship, insult everyone at this table, and act like we should thank you for it.”
His smile returned. “My engineers saved your ship.”
“And we thanked them,” she shot back. “But you didn’t come here to help. You came to sneer. At your son. At me. At the crew who held this ship together through a storm that could have injured hundreds of people.”
The Admiral’s gaze flicked to Vegeta again, like he was trying to gauge how far he could push.
He leaned back, eyes cold and glittering.
“I see what’s going on here,” he said, gaze sliding between Bulma and Panchy. “Which one of you is screwing him?”
The room went still. Vegeta froze, going pale.
Bulma didn’t hesitate.
She picked up her wineglass and flung it square in the Admiral’s face.
The wine hit him with a soft splat , deep red dripping down his pristine white collar. He didn’t flinch. He inhaled slowly, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“ You sick fuck ,” she said. Her voice shook with rage. “How dare you. You come onto our ship and dare insult this crew—”
“And you just assaulted a high-ranking officer,” the Admiral growled, blotting his face with a napkin.
“I’ll do worse,” she snapped. “If you ever speak to me or my mother like that again. If you so much as make eye contact with me again, I’ll break every single Capsule Corp technology contract with the Navy. I'm sure you know all about those, seeing as how high ranking you are. Let’s see how your fleet runs without our propulsion systems and power cores.”
The Admiral froze.
So did Celeric.
Krillin swallowed audibly.
Panchy calmly dabbed her lips with her napkin, then laid it on the table. “Well, I think I’ve heard all there is to hear.”
The Admiral looked at her.
She was still seated, posture perfect, a faint smile on her lips. But her eyes had lost all warmth.
“I’ve been in this dining room for less than an hour with you, Admiral,” she said lightly, “and I already know more than I care to.”
He tilted his head. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yes.” She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers laced. “I’ve met your type before. Rigid. Self-impressed. Obsessed with hierarchy because it’s the only way you can keep people beneath you. You confuse fear with respect. You think barking louder makes you a better leader.”
Vegeta went still.
“You walked onto my ship, into my dining room, and tried to tear down the one man here who has actually earned his command. Not because he’s incompetent, but because you can’t stand the fact that he commands so well without you.”
The Admiral’s jaw twitched.
“And for all your polish, all your medals, all your so-called discipline,” she continued, “I’ve seen the truth tonight. You’re not a leader. You’re a man who needs everyone to be smaller so you can feel big.”
She paused for effect.
“And that darling," she said sweetly, “is pathetic.”
Panchy rose slowly, gracefully, deliberately. “I appreciate your engineers’ assistance, but I won’t tolerate another word out of you. You’re a guest. You don’t insult my crew. You don’t insult my daughter. And you sure as hell don’t insult my captain.”
Her smile sharpened. “I’m not your subordinate, Admiral. I’m your host. And now, I’m telling you to leave.”
For a moment, it was as if the room was frozen in time. The Admiral just stared at his plate. Vegeta's mouth fell open. Krillin’s fork slid off his plate.
Celeric was the first to break the spell. He rose quickly, trying and failing to hide a smirk. “Well, thank you for dinner. I’ll see to our team.”
He nodded to the Admiral, who finally stood without a word. The two men left together, the door shutting firmly behind them.
For a moment, no one moved.
Krillin exhaled hard and reached for the wine. “Holy shit.”
He took a long sip, then stood. “I’m gonna...check on the ship's status.”
No one stopped him. He was gone a second later.
Vegeta stood with a sigh, looking down at the carpet.
Panchy approached and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it one quiet squeeze.
“That’s the last time that man ever sets foot on my ship.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
“You did well tonight,” she said gently.
“I barely said anything.”
“That’s why, sweetie,” she smiled. “You let us say it for you.”
When he didn’t pull away from her, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened, then slowly, hesitantly, his arms came up. Held her back.
When she stepped back, she smoothed the front of his jacket like a mother straightening her son’s tie.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” she said softly. “You didn’t deserve it then, and you don’t now.”
A breath escaped him.
She gave him one last pat on the chest. “Goodnight, son.”
And with that, she walked out.
Bulma stayed behind.
Vegeta hadn’t moved since Panchy let go.
She stepped closer, slow but steady, stopping just beside him. Close enough that she didn’t have to speak loudly.
“Well, you survived your first official Briefs family dinner,” she said. “The first one with Piccolo didn’t count. Not enough drama.”
He scoffed and didn’t respond.
She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “I’d give you a medal, but we’re out of gold-plated bullshit.”
That earned a half a laugh from him.
Her smile softened.
“You know you’re stuck with us now, right?” she added, voice gentler. “Whether you like it or not.”
His brow twitched, but he didn’t meet her eyes.
She tilted her head. “That’s how we get you. First wine, then emotionally disarming public character assassinations, and then boom, you’re family.”
His mouth tugged at one corner.
But when she reached out and touched his arm—just lightly, comfortingly—he turned without a word and pulled her into him.
It wasn’t rough, but it was sudden.
His arms wrapped around her waist and crushed her against his chest, one hand curling protectively at her back, the other settling at her shoulder like he couldn’t bear to let go.
Her breath caught. Then she melted into him, arms winding up around his neck.
He held her tighter.
Not like he was falling apart, but like she was the only thing that had ever put him back together.
After a moment, she could feel a change in the rise and fall of his chest. The way he breathed a little shallower now. The tension in his arms, like he was holding back something sharp and dangerous lodged just behind his teeth.
Then his breath brushed her ear. Warm and hesitant. Too soft for anyone but her to hear.
“I—”
She pulled back slightly and looked at him expectantly.
“…I thank you,” he whispered.
Bulma smirked and raised a knowing brow.
She inched her arm up slowly, placing a hand on his cheek. “I thank you too, Vegeta.”
Chapter 14: Steady As She Goes
Chapter Text
Bulma was three-quarters of the way through a margherita pizza and two-thirds of the way through clearing her inbox.
She didn’t look up as she reached for another slice. Her fingers were greasy, her legs folded under the booth, and the orange juice she’d been oddly craving all week sat sweating beside her, half-drunk. She’d finally wrangled her unreads down to a manageable number, and no one had come looking for her yet. So she had stayed for a few hours.
It had been a while since she had come back to Amori Nascosti .
Technically she hadn't been there since the last time...with him.
Her face warmed, unbidden. She took another bite of crust and refused to dwell on the memory.
It had been a few days since the storm had passed. The Admiral was long gone. No one had shouted “emergency” in over seventy-two hours, and all celebrity guests had thankfully kept safely to themselves. Engineering was...quiet. Miraculously.
They’d made real progress. The new nav array was solid. Power flow had stabilized. Even Roshi had shown up and contributed without incident. If nothing blew up in the next three days, she could finally call this a success. If things held steady, she could bring in a new engineer at the end of the cruise and hand things off without issue.
Her gaze drifted toward the wall for a moment, eyes unfocused.
As for her and Vegeta?
They’d been good.
Professional. Efficient. Cordial, even. No hallway detours. No suspicious delays. No lingering glances over the conference room table. Just two senior officers doing their jobs like nothing had ever happened.
Both veritable models of restraint.
Except for once.
Yesterday morning, they’d taken the elevator to the senior staff meeting.
Just the two of them.
She hadn’t meant to stand so close. Really. It had just been habit, or muscle memory, or that thing her brain did when it forgot how proximity worked around him.
Her arm had brushed his. Just barely.
And then her fingers had twitched subtly, almost imperceptibly. But instead of stuffing her hands in her pockets like a sane person, she let one of them drift, slowly, over the back of his hand.
He had kept his eyes straight ahead on the elevator doors.
But to her surprise, he’d laced their fingers together like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.
For maybe fifteen seconds, they’d just stood there. Silent. His hand wrapped around hers. Simple and sweet compared to everything they’d done.
Then the doors opened, and they’d dropped hands like someone had flipped a switch.
She hadn’t brought it up. Neither had he. But her chest ached a little at the memory. She shook it off, and shoved another read email into a folder, and reached for her juice.
There could be no drama. No distractions. Just work. Mostly.
She was halfway through her latest diagnostics log when a throat cleared nearby.
Her brain registered him right away, somewhere past the scroll of code, past the pizza crust between her fingers. The shift in air. The stillness. The shape of a presence she knew better than she wanted to admit.
Her fingers stilled on the trackpad.
Then she looked up.
Vegeta stood just outside the booth, shoulders squared like always, but not quite. One hand hung loose at his side, the other resting on the edge of the booth like it wasn’t supposed to. Like he’d walked past and something in him forgot how to keep going.
He wasn’t in uniform. He wore dark jeans. A black t-shirt. His hair was just barely mussed, like he’d changed clothes in a hurry without checking the mirror. Or had and just didn’t care.
His expression was neutral. His posture was rigid. But his eyes gave him away. He clearly had been expecting to see her here.
“I thought you didn’t come here on Wednesdays,” he said.
Bulma raised a brow. “I don’t. Usually.”
He paused, waiting.
Then she scooted over and nodded toward the seat beside her. “Well, are you gonna stand there awkwardly, or sit down before your scowl scares off the waitstaff?”
He hesitated, although not long. Then he stepped forward and sat.
It was kind of surreal, seeing him at this table again. Not just in his civvies, but like this—unannounced, off-duty, and very possibly off-script. He looked like he was still figuring out what the hell he was doing here.
No one said anything, so she reached for her water.
He glanced at the half-eaten pizza between them.
“Want a slice?” she asked, like it wasn’t a loaded question.
He didn’t answer, just reached for the cleanest one and took a bite.
She watched him chew for a second, then let her eyes drift down to the table. The tablecloth. The line of his wrist.
“Oh and hands above the table this time, I promise.” she said lightly, lifting her juice glass to hide her smile.
Vegeta choked.
He coughed once into his fist and reached for her water glass like she’d hit him with a live round.
Color climbed up his neck.
She took another smug bite of pizza. God, he was cute when he was flustered.
“Relax,” she said. “I’m just kidding.”
He muttered something she couldn’t quite hear and stared intently at the candle.
They fell into a rhythm after that.
He finished the slice. She drank the last of her juice. Her laptop sat closed between them, untouched.
“Engineering’s in good shape,” she said after a while. “New nav system’s purring. Power’s steady. Even Roshi’s quiet. Either everything’s stable or we’re cursed again and just don’t know it yet.”
Vegeta huffed. “We’re always cursed.”
“Probably,” she said softly. “Although Yajirobe said something the other day about how they feel like they’ve finally stopped bracing for a fire alarm every five minutes. I think we might actually be okay.”
He nodded but continued to sit in silence.
She tapped her nail against the side of her glass. “If things hold through Thursday, I’ll call in the new hire to meet us at the port on Saturday afternoon. Tien. I think you’ll like him. He’s smart and has a good head on his shoulders.”
Still nothing.
Vegeta picked at some crumbs on the tablecloth. “And then you’re leaving.”
She looked up.
“I was never supposed to stay,” she said.
“I know.”
She swallowed.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “The team’s solid. You’ve got this ship under control.”
“That’s not the part I’m worried about.” He admitted.
She froze.
When she looked at him again, he still wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were shadowed. His expression unreadable.
Her voice came out softer. “Have you um, heard anything? From your father?”
“No,” he said finally. “I think he got the message.”
She nodded. “Good. I still can’t believe the same gene pool produced you . It’s like evolution took one look at him and said, ‘Yeah, no. Let’s try again.’”
That earned her a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just enough to count.
And for a moment, just a moment, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease.
She played with her pizza crust. “You’re nothing like him, you know,” she added. “Just thought I’d say that out loud in case you forgot.”
Vegeta sat there, still as ever, his eyes homed in on the tablecloth. His jaw twitched in a way that she knew he acknowledged but he didn’t look at her.
Bulma waited, watching the rise and fall of his chest. She saw the way his hands were fisted on the table now, fingers curled inward like he was holding something back. Like if he moved, it would spill out.
The fragile silence stretched. Held together by clinking glassware and the low voices of other diners.
Bulma laughed awkwardly, looking around the room. “They really need to change the playlist in here,” she murmured, glancing toward the ceiling speakers. “If I have to hear one more jazz cover of a Taylor Swift song…”
Vegeta huffed. “I thought you liked jazz.”
“Not when it sounds like a robot trying to flirt.”
He shook his head, eyes briefly crinkling. “This is what you complain about. The music.”
“I’m in a good mood,” she shrugged. “Nothing’s broken today. Yajirobe didn’t eat anything that was not considered food. My pizza was hot and I’m now only two emails behind. That’s a miracle.”
He grunted.
She watched him for a second, then she tried a different tactic. “Have you eaten at that ramen place on Deck 4 since they reopened?”
He shook his head.
“I think they’re trying a new broth. Less sodium.”
He didn’t answer.
The silence returned.
Longer this time.
She shifted in her seat. “So uh…how’s the—”
“I miss you,” he blurted.
It came out low. Barely audible. Like it had slipped out against his will.
Bulma froze.
Vegeta’s fingers curled tighter around themselves, knuckles white. He looked miserable, but he didn’t take it back.
And that, more than anything, made her breath catch.
She set her glass down carefully.
“Vegeta…”
He swallowed. “I know what we said—” His voice caught. “I know what we agreed. I know it was my fucking idea.”
Bulma’s heart was thudding.
He finally looked at her. And when he did, she saw it plain as day, how much he meant it. How much it cost him to admit.
“But I do,” he said, quieter now. “I miss you.”
She scooted closer to him in the booth, and wrapped her hand gently around his.
Vegeta looked down at their hands.
“Hey,” she smiled softly. “You want to get out of here?”
His eyes lifted to meet hers, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
Then he nodded.
They walked side by side into the corridor’s quiet hush, the table behind them still warm.
Bulma led the way up to the observation deck, the higher one, partially sheltered and mostly forgotten at this hour. She wasn’t even sure why she picked it. She just…wanted quiet. Wanted him.
The sky was clear, and the ship glided smooth over dark, endless water. The moonlight hit his hair as they walked, turning pieces of it a little silver.
There were a few loungers near the railing. Most were singles. One wasn’t.
She sat in the double chair without a word. He followed.
For a moment, they just leaned back shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. Every time one of them shifted, their arms brushed. His warmth beside her made it hard to think straight. The sea wind curled at his sleeves, tugged at her hair.
She didn’t want to break the silence, but she also couldn’t take it anymore.
“I’ve missed you too,” she said quietly. “Every night. Every stupid day we haven't been together. Every meeting. Every time I passed you in the hallway and didn’t touch you.” She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I’m not good at pretending, Vegeta. I’m losing my mind.”
He reached between them and wrapped his fingers around hers.
She glanced down at their hands. Her heart hurt.
“So,” she murmured, “what do we do?”
“We finish the cruise,” he said.
She nodded slowly. “And after that?”
He paused as if trying to find the right words.
“You said it yourself, you’ll bring in a new engineer by the end.”
“I will,” she said. Her voice was smaller now. “That was always the plan. I just didn’t expect to meet you.”
He nodded, and it looked like it pained him.
“We probably shouldn’t work together again like this,” he said.
She smiled tightly, the words poking somewhere under her ribs. “Probably not.”
“It’ll make things easier. Simpler.”
Bulma turned just enough to look at him.
“You think this is simple?”
He let out a faint snort. “Not even a little.”
She gave a soft laugh and squeezed his hand.
“We’ll make it through this week,” she said. “Then we figure it out. On land. Somewhere without crew gossip or maintenance reports or sexy elevators.”
He didn’t smile, but something softened in his eyes.
She hesitated. Then continued. “And maybe…” She bit her lip, suddenly shy. “Maybe we start fresh. No uniforms. No job titles. Just… you and me.”
He turned at that and looked at her, really looked at her, like she had just handed him something breakable and sacred.
Then, quieter than before, she added, “I’ve got a few weeks of vacation saved. I was gonna waste them at home, but…if you wanted…we could maybe use some of those days. Together.”
She shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like her heart wasn’t thudding in her ears.
Vegeta’s hand tightened in hers.
Then he nodded.
Bulma smiled. Her stomach flipped.
They sat in silence a while longer, the wind shifting around them.
Then she tilted her head, a familiar glint in her eye.
“So,” she said lightly, “if we’re still intent on being good until the end of the cruise…”
His brow rose. “Mm?”
“You’ll need a date to the Captain’s Ball, right?”
He blinked. “You’re asking me?”
“I am. Formally. With full knowledge of the risk to my reputation.”
He just stared at her.
“You know I hate those things,” he said.
“I know,” she grinned. “That’s half the fun.”
His mouth parted like he might argue. Then he just sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at one corner of his lips.
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at nineteen hundred.”
Her grin widened.
“And after that…” she said, watching her own fingernails, “the guests disembark Saturday morning. So we probably won’t have much to do that night. Work-wise.”
She glanced up at him with exaggerated innocence.
Vegeta blinked once. “Right. Quiet night. Most of the guests will be packing.”
“Engineering should be buttoned up by then.”
“Bridge too.”
She shrugged. “Might get boring.”
His mouth curved. “Might.”
Her eyes roamed over him, just once.
“Maybe we’ll find something to do.”
He held her gaze.
“I’m sure we will.”
Bulma’s chest rose slowly. His hand was still warm in hers, his fingers rough and familiar. He was watching her like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss her or just keep holding on.
So she leaned in first.
Just a little. Just enough to close the gap.
Her nose brushed his.
Vegeta’s breath hitched, and then his lips met hers.
It wasn’t hungry or rushed. Just a quiet kiss under the stars, like they had all the time in the world.
His hand slid to her cheek, fingers calloused and gentle, anchoring her there. She melted into the warmth of it, into him , every part of her aching with relief.
He pulled back barely an inch, like he couldn’t go far. His voice was gruff. “We’re still being good, right?”
Bulma smiled against his mouth. “Painfully so.”
And then she kissed him again, because screw it.
Afterwards, she rested her head lightly against his shoulder. He tilted just enough to lean into her in return. Their joined hands stayed curled between them.
The breeze tousled her hair again, cooler now, with the night deepening. She sighed against him, eyelids fluttering.
Vegeta was quiet. Still. The kind of still that made her feel safe, even when everything else was in motion.
Beneath them, the ship hummed. Above, the stars spun slowly on.
She let herself sink into it.
Into him.
When she finally stirred, it was with regret.
“We should head back,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.
He didn’t move at first, just made a soft sound of agreement and rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand.
Reluctantly, they stood. Close, then closer, like gravity hadn’t quite released them yet.
He looked at her for a long second in the moonlight. Then touched her hair, tucking a windblown strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered.
She smiled at him. “Walk me back?”
He gave a small nod.
They walked shoulder to shoulder through the quiet corridor, their pace unhurried, like maybe neither of them wanted the night to end.
Bulma’s arm was still looped through his. A few string lights still glowed dimly overhead, casting soft golden arcs across the floor, but the rest of the ship was asleep.
Or so she thought.
They rounded a corner towards the end of the upper pool deck and nearly tripped over a pair of long legs sprawled across the walkway.
“Shit—” Bulma jumped back just in time to avoid a sandal to the shin. “Wait… is that—?”
Raditz lay draped across one of the deck chairs, shirt half-open, sunglasses on despite the hour, and a mostly empty bottle of wine tucked under one arm like a teddy bear.
His eyes were red.
So was his nose.
And possibly his whole face.
“Oh no,” Bulma murmured.
Vegeta made a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl. “Of course.”
Raditz blinked blearily up at them. “Oh. It’s you two.”
“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Bulma asked gently, stepping closer.
“I’m fine ,” he slurred, then sniffled. “Just having a—just a moment. A deep, oceanic—soul-searching moment.”
Vegeta muttered something under his breath and crossed his arms.
Raditz sat up slowly, arms flopping limply around his knees. “Yamcha dumped me.”
Bulma blinked. “Wait, what? I thought you two were…well whatever it is you were?”
“So did I.” He sniffled again. “But apparently he’s ‘on a post death journey now.’ Some kind of personal pilgrimage . Finding himself. Healing his aura. Some bullshit he got from a podcast.”
“Oh god,” Bulma said, crouching beside him. “Did he seriously podcast-dump you?”
“He said I’m ‘too much weight on his path to enlightenment.’” Raditz made air quotes with exaggerated, wobbly fingers. “Can you believe that? Me ? Too much weight?”
Vegeta stared at him flatly. “Yes.”
Bulma shot him a look, then turned back to Raditz, gently rubbing his arm. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
Raditz pouted and hiccuped. “And now you guys are just out here…holding hands under the stars like a rom-com epilogue . It's so hic- so fucking beautiful.”
“We are not—” Vegeta started, but Raditz cut him off.
“Why can’t I have what you two have?” he wailed, collapsing back into the chair like a wet towel. “It’s not fair! I’m big! I’m handsome! I moisturize!”
Bulma bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Vegeta looked like he was trying to decide whether to walk away or launch himself over the railing.
Raditz let out a long, exaggerated groan and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his open Hawaiian shirt.
“Okay, okay,” Bulma said, patting his shoulder. “C’mon. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to find someone who appreciates you for your…excessive volume.”
“And thighs,” Raditz mumbled.
“Especially the thighs.”
He sniffled again. “Do you think Lapis still hates me?”
“Yes,” Vegeta said.
“Vegeta,” Bulma snapped. "No, I don't. And I think you might still be able to shoot your shot with him. Once you sober up anyway."
Raditz moaned and dramatically rolled onto his side. “Just leave me here to be tragic and beautiful. I’ll probably write poetry.”
Vegeta exhaled sharply through his nose. “That's it. Get up.”
Raditz blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Vegeta stepped forward and jerked his head toward the hallway. “I’m not leaving you out here to scare the passengers.”
“But I’m heartbroken —”
Vegeta grabbed him by the arm and hauled him halfway upright. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m also fragile—”
“Move.”
With a dramatic wobble and a groan, Raditz slung an arm around Vegeta’s shoulders and leaned his full weight into him. “You’re warm,” he mumbled.
Vegeta looked like he wanted to shove him off the side of the ship, but he adjusted his grip and kept walking anyway, grunting as they took slow, unsteady steps toward the crew corridor.
Just before they disappeared around the corner, Vegeta glanced back.
It was brief. Just a moment. But his eyes found hers, soft and tired and unmistakably fond.
Her breath caught.
Then he turned back around and disappeared into the dark, Raditz leaning heavily on his side, still muttering something about being “a tropical tragedy.”
Bulma watched them go, arms crossed, lips twitching.
And yet, beneath all of it, somewhere under the ridiculous, was a steady little truth she couldn’t ignore.
It hit her, with no warning, no fanfare, and she felt stupid for not allowing herself to feel it sooner.
She loved him.
Her mother was going to be ecstatic.
She stood there for a while longer, letting the night wrap around her. Then she smiled to herself, turned, and made her way back to her cabin.
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