Chapter Text
At the time, Bulma had been so proud of herself. Yamcha had come to her, claiming he wanted to settle down and start the next phase of life with her, and she had patiently listened to his concerns as he stumbled over them; he wanted a marriage and a family, and he wanted it with her.
It all sounds well and good, right?
That's what Bulma thought too, until he sniffed and admitted that he wanted it with her, just not at her parents house.
This is where the pride comes in.
Because Bulma had only waited ten seconds before she chewed his ear out about it, ranting and raving about how this was not just her parents house, this was her house, and her workplace, and her life, and she'd be fucking damned if she would let him control where she lived like that.
Yes, Bulma is very proud that she waited ten seconds to unleash upon Yamcha.
But she's also proud that she reached a compromise with him. After all, she's a businesswoman, she knows how to work a deal with an insecure man. She's agreed that they should give it a trial run - rent a home in a suburb on the outskirts of the city and play house for a month. Give Yamcha that two storey, white picket fence life that he apparently craves now. And when they get to the end of that, they can revisit whether that's their next step.
If Bulma has her way, they won't last a week.
Still, she knows she needs to give it a try. After all, this is what humans do, right? Settle down, marry, kids, die alone on the couch watching fucking Wheel of Fortune, settle for barely fucking living let alone alone thriving.
The Friday they move in, it's quiet. Too quiet. She's already missing the hustle and bustle of the city, the gentle hum of technology that hugs her ears, but she's agreed to try and stay positive, even as she notes that all the houses look exactly the fucking same. All white and stale, bland in their design, all with the same black SUV parked out the front that she quickly realises is the same one Yamcha bought last month. In fact the only thing that stands out against the sea of mediocrity is the beaten red pickup truck parked in the driveway of the house next to theirs.
“Welcome home, babe,” Yamcha throws an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close.
It's only a month.
—
It's in the evening on her first Saturday night in her quaint mausoleum, alone and stifled, that she is reminded that there is a life to be had, even in the suburbs.
Yamcha has a game tomorrow, somewhere on the other side of the country, and his lack of apology or acknowledgement that he's left her alone on their first weekend in their test-run new life sets off something primal within her, a rage that can only be quelled by a glass of pinot grigio (or three) and an orgasm (or three). If Yamcha was here she would probably only be getting the first part of that equation - except she's not thinking about that tonight. No, she's going to lay in bed, maybe read a smutty, fantasy novel, and dream she's being whisked away by the knight with impossibly soft hair and a throbbing member that knows exactly where to reach within her to make her scream.
It's only been a fucking day.
It's when her head hits the pillow, all dolled up in plaid, flannelette pajamas, moisturised and half-asleep already, that the shift occurs. She hears a door slam in the distance, and for a brief moment she thinks there's a burglar (for even briefer, sicker moment, she's almost grateful for the intrusion for just a bit of fucking excitement, but she is not dwelling on that for a second longer).
When the shock of the sound settles, and she uses the logical part of her brain, she realises it came from outside. Specifically, across the way, from the house next door.
She sits up to peek through the curtains (beige, everything is fucking beige out here), only to slam her head down to the pillow again.
“What?!” she half-whispers, half-squeals, covering her mouth with her hands in equal parts shock and giddy excitement. She quickly flicks her bedside lamp off, drowning the room in instant darkness, save for the cool moonlight casting her room in the most pale blue.
Bulma rolls out of bed to land on her hands and knees with an ‘oof’ that she ignores, instantly crawling towards her window without being seen by the outside world.
When she peeks her eyes over the window sill, she nearly squeals again.
Standing in the middle of what she assumes is a bedroom, his bedroom, is a man.
No, not just a man.
A man might have some shame in what he's doing, or at least have the decency to close his curtains.
This must be some kind of god sent down from above to punish her, specifically.
Because he is standing in the middle of his room, facing out the window, out to the world, with a naked blonde woman on her knees before him, bobbing her head furiously. She's naked, pale form on display, but he is fully clothed in all black - jeans, shirt, flames above his head, eyes nearly rolling in the back of his head. His hands are wrapped up tight in her fair hair, rough, almost holding her in place as he rolls his hips, grinding his cock into her mouth, and Bulma knows, knows, she should look away, lay in bed, pretend this isn't happening, but fuck she just can't tear her eyes away.
The only thing that grounds her mind in this moment is the realisation that her fingers have crept up her neck, two of them tickling the corner of her lips, begging her to suck on them like she would suck on him. It's the sensation, the thought, that wrenches her back to Earth briefly. Definitely only briefly, because then he tugs her head back, and it takes all of Bulma's willpower not to harshly pull her own hair. He lifts the woman to her feet, hands still tangled in her tresses, still rough, still holding her in place as one hand traces a single hand to her throat, lower, and Bulma can see the exact moment his fingers enter her, the way the woman's body tenses then relaxes, almost a heap in his arms, held up only by his fingers fucking her, his other hand in her hair, his lips against her ear, moving, muttering something that has the woman arching her back.
“Fuck,” Bulma whispers, her own fingers already long plunged into her underwear, coated in her own wetness as she touches her clit, on her knees grinding against herself, searching for release as he brings the woman closer to hers.
It's so wrong, she knows this, but who fucking cares what's right or wrong right now.
She should care though.
Especially when his eyes lift and connect with her own.
She expects him to shout, to threaten, to at least fucking stop. Then again, she probably expects herself to stop.
He doesn't.
She doesn't.
Instead, a fucking devastating smirk tugs on one corner of his lips as his eyes bore into her own, daring her to look away if she can, knowing she absolutely cannot.
He's moving faster now, the woman quivering in his arms, Bulma shaking in her own pleasure, and it's so wrong, it's so fucking wrong, but when he winks at her she can't fight it anymore, crashing over the edge in a blissfully unholy haze, the world whitened and darkened simultaneously by her wicked deed.
When she comes to, the woman is still in his embrace, shaking, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck.
His eyes are still on Bulma.
He lifts his fingers, coated in the other woman's pleasure, and harshly pulls her hair back. She accepts his offer of herself gratefully, sucking her juices off him.
He's watching, waiting for her next move.
She knows what he wants.
She pushes higher on her knees, letting him see her whole face.
Without breaking their gaze, her fingers push past her own lips, sucking up every last drop of her. She moans around them like she would his, letting her other hand roam freely over her clothed breasts, and fuck could she have at least been wearing some sexy lingerie?
He doesn't seem to care.
With another wink, and another fucking smirk, he throws the blonde onto the bed, just out of Bulma's line of sight. He steps forward, closer to the window, and just when Bulma realises his hard cock is still out, dripping, still slick with saliva, he draws the crimson curtain shut, leaving Bulma to her gnawing guilt and painful pleasure, all alone once more.