Weekly Poll #8 - OC / Bulma (Dragon Ball) {Story 15 - Patreon Exlusive} (Patreon)

Weekly Poll #8 - OC / Bulma (Dragon Ball) {Story 15}

Doc- https://docs.google.com/document/d/1s5S1yW2Nj2Hn4NXH-_kACxnzYIXShcwcLY29akMo068/edit?usp=sharing . Also, the Word, PDF, and EPUB files are attached below. Thank you for the Support!

It was almost 1 a.m. when the internal comm buzzed on Jun Wataru's nightstand. He groaned, rolled over, and squinted at the screen. Capsule Corp private lab line. Bulma Briefs direct. The message was short:

"Lab B-7. Now. Emergency."

He sat up fast. Emergency calls from the boss herself usually meant some catastrophic prototype failure—explosive decompression, radiation leak, that one time the gravity chamber ate half the floor. He threw on yesterday's work shirt and slacks, didn't bother with the tie, and jogged to the east wing. The halls were dead quiet except for the low hum of the air recyclers.

When he swiped his keycard at B-7, the door hissed open. Dimmed overheads, only the blue glow from a dozen monitors still running. Bulma stood at the central workbench, back to him, shoulders hunched. Papers and half-finished circuit boards were scattered like she'd been shoving things around for hours. The air smelled faintly of solder, ozone, and something sharper—whiskey.

"Ms. Briefs?" he said, stepping inside. The door slid shut behind him with a soft click.

She didn't turn right away. Her blue hair was coming loose from its usual high ponytail, strands sticking to the side of her neck. She was still in the day's outfit: white cropped jacket, tight black skirt, thigh-high stockings that had a small run on the left leg now. One heel was missing; the shoe lay on its side near a tipped-over stool.

"You came," she said, voice rough. She finally faced him. Eyes red-rimmed, mascara smudged just enough to look like she'd rubbed at them. She held an almost-empty tumbler in one hand. The other gripped the edge of the bench so hard her knuckles were white.

"Of course. What's the emergency? Is it the new—"

She cut him off with a short, bitter laugh. "There's no emergency. Not the kind you're thinking." She set the glass down hard enough that it clinked. "I just... needed someone here. That's all."

Jun blinked. "Ma'am?"

"Don't 'ma'am' me right now." She took two unsteady steps toward him, the heel of her remaining shoe scraping on the tile. The whiskey glass sat forgotten behind her, half-tipped. "Vegeta's been gone again. Months this time. Died, came back, and didn't even stay long enough to unpack. Straight back to space to 'get stronger.' Again." Her voice cracked on the last word, like the admission physically hurt. She hugged her arms around her middle, cropped jacket creasing. "I keep staring at the same fucking schematic like it'll suddenly make me feel less... nothing."

Jun didn't know what to say. He'd seen Bulma angry—yelling at engineers when a capsule prototype glitched. He'd seen her excited, bouncing on her toes when a new gravity chamber hit 500G without exploding. Smug when she outsmarted some alien tech, exhausted after three all-nighters fixing the time machine. But never this raw. She looked small in a way that didn't match the woman who routinely yelled at Saiyans and rewrote physics for fun. Shoulders rounded, eyes glassy, the usual sharp edge completely gone. Like someone had hollowed her out and left the shell.

Bulma laughed once—short, bitter, no humor in it. "You want the whole stupid timeline? Fine. Maybe saying it out loud will make it stop sounding like a bad rerun." She leaned back against the workbench, palms flat on the cold surface like she needed something solid under her. The monitors cast blue light across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes.

"It started after the Buu mess. Or whatever the hell that pink nightmare was. Vegeta finally came home—alive, for once. I thought, okay, maybe this is it. Kid's older now, Trunks is actually talking to him instead of just glaring. I cooked actual meals instead of ordering from the company cafeteria. We had... nights. Real ones. Then one morning he just stands up from the breakfast table, says 'I need to push past my limits' like it's the most normal thing in the world, and walks out. No kiss, no 'I'll be back in a week,' nothing. Just blasts off in one of the old capsules I built for him. That was month one."

She swallowed hard, throat working. "I tracked him for the first couple weeks—Capsule Corp satellites, the ones I rigged with better scanners than the military ones. He was out past the asteroid belt, training in some gravity well that would crush a normal person in seconds. Fine. I told myself, he's always been like this. He'll burn it out and come back. Trunks asked every night, 'When's Dad home?' I lied. Said soon. Worked late so I wouldn't have to sit in an empty house listening to the silence."

Bulma's fingers drummed once on the bench, then stopped. "Month three. The alerts start pinging. Some new threat—some rogue bio-android thing the Red Ribbon remnants cooked up, or maybe it was just a random space pirate with a power level that shouldn't exist. Doesn't matter. Vegeta throws himself at it because that's what he does. I get the call from King Kai or whoever the hell relays these things now—'He's dead. Again.' Just like that. No body to bury, no funeral, just... gone. Trunks didn't even cry. He just punched a hole through the living-room wall and flew off to train himself. I spent three days in this same lab, building the Dragon Radar upgrade from scratch because the old one was too slow. Told myself if I worked fast enough, I could fix it. Fix him. Fix everything."

She pushed off the bench, paced three steps away, then back. Her voice got quieter but faster, like the words had been bottled up too long.

"Shenron grants the wish. Vegeta pops back into existence right there in the yard—naked, because that's how it always happens, right? I ran out with a blanket like an idiot. He looks at me, grunts 'Woman,' and that's it. No hug. No 'I missed you.' He walks straight past me into the house, grabs a new set of armor from the closet I keep stocked, shoves some capsules in his pocket, and says, 'Tell the boy I'll be stronger when I return.' Then he's gone. Again. Didn't even sleep in our bed that night. The sheets were still cold from the last time he left."

Jun shifted his weight, glove creaking as his fist tightened at his side. He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing felt right. This wasn't the Bulma who snapped at him for miswiring a hovercar. This was someone who'd been carrying it alone so long she'd forgotten how to set it down.

"Months again," she continued, eyes fixed on the floor now. "Four this time. I stopped tracking the satellites after a while. It hurt too much when the signal would flicker out right before another death. Trunks started sparring with Goten every day, trying to fill the gap. I threw myself into work—new gravity chamber models, the time-machine repairs, even that stupid infinite-energy reactor project nobody asked for. Kept the company running. Kept Trunks fed. Kept the house from falling apart. But every night I'd end up right here, staring at the same damn schematic for the next-generation scouter because if I stopped moving, I'd have to feel how empty everything was."

Her hands shook as she gestured vaguely at the scattered papers on the bench. "Then it happens again. Just last month. Another fight—some god-level whatever out in deep space. King Kai's voice in my head at 3 a.m.: 'Vegeta's dead. Again.' Like it's a fucking weather report. Trunks didn't even blink this time. Just said 'We'll wish him back' and went to bed. I sat here until sunrise, same schematic glowing on the screen, same half-finished circuit board in my hands. Waiting for the Dragon Balls to recharge. Waiting for Shenron to fix what Vegeta keeps breaking on purpose."

Bulma's voice dropped to almost nothing. "He'll come back. He always does. Pop into existence, grunt, grab supplies, leave. And I'll be here. Again. Invisible. The genius wife who builds everything he needs—capsules, ships, armor, the damn gravity chambers he trains in until he dies—but never enough to make him stay. Not for a week. Not for a night. Not even long enough to look at me like I'm more than the woman who fixes his mistakes."

She finally looked up at Jun, eyes wet but not quite crying. "Do you know what that does to someone? Months of nothing. Then a resurrection that lasts maybe forty-eight hours before he's gone again. I raised our son mostly alone. I run the biggest tech company on the planet alone. I fuck myself with my own hand in the shower alone, pretending it's enough. And tonight... tonight I just couldn't stare at this schematic anymore. Couldn't pretend I'm fine. Couldn't keep being the strong one who always waits."

She took another step closer. The whiskey smell mixed with the faint floral shampoo hit him stronger now. "So yeah. No emergency. Just me. Falling apart in my own lab because the one person I built my whole life around keeps choosing death and training over coming home. And you're here. You're the only one here."

Jun's mouth was dry. His brain kept replaying the timeline she'd just dumped on him—death, wish, gone, death, wish, gone—like some cruel loop. He'd always figured Vegeta was just... Vegeta. The proud Saiyan prince who didn't do soft. But hearing it laid out in Bulma's cracked voice made it feel different. Made her feel different. Small. Real. Hurting in a way that no amount of genius or money could patch.

She closed the distance. Her hand shot out and grabbed his forearm, fingers digging in. "Lock the door," she said quietly.

His heart kicked hard against his ribs. "Ms. Briefs—"

"Bulma." She swallowed. "Just Bulma. Please."

He reached back, thumbed the panel. The lock engaged with a heavier clunk than usual. Red light blinked above the frame: sealed.

She let out a shaky breath, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the lab's cooling fans. Then she pushed him—palms flat against his chest, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that he had no choice but to step back. His shoulders hit the cold metal wall paneling with a dull thunk. The chill seeped through his thin work shirt instantly, contrasting sharply with the heat rolling off her body as she followed right after, pressing flush against him from chest to thigh.

Bulma smelled like cheap whiskey—sharp and boozy—mixed with the salty edge of old sweat and that faint floral shampoo she always used, the one that lingered in the halls long after she'd walked by. Her forehead dropped to his collarbone for a second, hair tickling his neck. She stayed there, breathing unevenly against his shirt like she was gathering the last scraps of courage or maybe just trying not to fall apart completely.

"Please," she whispered, lips brushing the fabric so he felt the words more than heard them. "Just touch me. Make me feel like I'm actually here."

Jun's mouth went dry. His tongue felt thick, stuck to the roof of his mouth. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they didn't know where to land. He'd fantasized about her—quiet, guilty thoughts during late shifts when she'd bend over a workbench in those tight skirts or snap at him in that sharp, confident way—but this was different. This was real. Desperate. Broken. And terrifying.

"Bulma..." His voice came out rougher than he meant. "Are you sure?"

She didn't answer with words. Instead, her hand shot down, grabbed his right wrist—gloved fingers and all—and yanked it upward. Under the cropped jacket, under the thin white shirt, straight onto bare skin. No bra. Just the soft, heavy swell of her breast filling his palm. Her skin was fever-hot against the cool leather of his work glove, nipple already stiff and pressing insistently into the center of his hand like it had been waiting.

He groaned low in his throat before he could stop it—raw, involuntary. Years of seeing her stride around the Capsule Corp compound in those cropped tops and shorter skirts had left him with plenty of private thoughts: stolen glances at the way her hips swayed when she was excited about a breakthrough, the curve of her waist when she stretched after long hours, the flash of cleavage when she leaned over blueprints. But this was nothing like imagination. This was heavy. Soft. Real. The weight of her settled perfectly in his grip, warm and yielding under his fingers.

His hand curled instinctively, kneading the full swell of her. Thumb brushed over the hard peak once—testing—then circled it slowly. Bulma made a small, broken sound in the back of her throat, something between a whimper and a sigh, and arched into his touch. Her spine curved, pressing her breast harder into his palm, nipple dragging against the glove's seam.

His other hand moved on autopilot—found the dip of her waist first, then slid lower to grip the curve of her ass through the tight black skirt. Fabric bunched under his fingers as he pulled her tight against him. She fit there perfectly, hips slotting against his like they'd done this a hundred times. He was already hardening fast, the thick length of him trapped against her thigh, swelling with every heartbeat. The pressure of her body rubbing against it made it impossible to hide, impossible to think straight.

Bulma tipped her head back, blue hair spilling loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide in the dim monitor glow. Mascara had smudged into faint shadows under her lashes, but it only made her look more undone. "That's it," she breathed, voice husky from the whiskey and whatever else was cracking inside her. "Don't think. Just... do it."

He squeezed harder—fingers digging into soft flesh, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger through the glove. She gasped sharply, hips jerking forward in a quick, needy grind against his growing erection. The motion dragged a low grunt out of him. Her hands fumbled at his belt—clumsy, shaking from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever storm had been building in her for months. Nails scraped metal as she yanked at the buckle.

Jun helped without thinking. Popped the clasp open, shoved slacks and boxers down just far enough. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip, flushed dark in the cool lab air. The sudden freedom made him hiss through his teeth.

Bulma didn't hesitate. She hiked her own skirt up around her waist with one impatient tug—fabric wrinkling, hem catching on her hips. Black lace panties underneath, the crotch already visibly damp, dark patch spreading from how wet she'd gotten just from this much contact. Jun hooked two fingers into the side seam and yanked. The lace tore with a sharp rip—threads snapping. She didn't flinch. Didn't care. One leg hooked around his waist immediately, opening herself up, thigh pressing against his hip.

He gripped the back of that thigh to hold her steady—fingers sinking into soft skin, feeling the faint tremor running through her muscle. His other hand guided himself, wrapping around the base. The head of his cock slid through her slick folds—hot, slippery, coating him instantly. She was soaked, swollen, lips puffy and parted like her body had been aching for this longer than she'd admit. He rubbed the full length along her slit a few times—slow drags that nudged her clit on every pass upward. Each one pulled a small, desperate sound from her throat.

Her nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt—sharp enough to sting, anchoring herself. "Please," she panted against his jaw, breath hot and whiskey-sweet. Lips brushed his skin as she spoke. "I need it now. Don't make me wait anymore."

Jun lined up—tip notched at her entrance, feeling the slight give of her body. He pushed. Slow at first, testing. Her inner walls resisted for half a second—tight, fluttering—then yielded with a wet, audible squelch as he sank in deeper. The sound echoed in the quiet lab, obscene and loud against the background hum of machines.

Bulma cried out—sharp, needy, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud. Her leg tightened around his waist, heel digging into his lower back like she wanted to pull him in faster. He felt every inch: the hot, slick grip wrapping around him, pulsing faintly as her body adjusted. She was so tight it almost hurt—in the best way—walls clenching like they'd forgotten what it felt like to be filled.

He bottomed out in one long, careful slide—hips flush against hers, balls pressed to her ass. They both froze for a beat. Breathing hard. Her chest rose and fell against his, nipples dragging over his shirt with every inhale. He could feel her heartbeat thundering where they touched—fast, erratic, matching his own.

She swallowed, throat working. A small, trembling whimper escaped when he shifted the tiniest bit inside her—just enough to remind them both he was buried deep.

Jun's forehead dropped to hers. Sweat already beading at his hairline. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath—barely audible.

Bulma's fingers flexed on his shoulders, nails biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her grip tightened like she was afraid he'd pull away if she let go. "Move," she whispered, voice cracked but thick with urgency. The word came out almost like a plea wrapped in command. "Please... just move."

Jun exhaled sharply through his nose. His hips rolled once—testing—then snapped forward in a short, hard thrust. The wet slap of skin meeting skin hit the quiet lab immediately, loud and unmistakable. Slap. Slap. Slap. Each one echoed off the metal walls and humming monitors, no background noise to swallow it.

He hooked her other leg around his waist with a quick lift of his arm. Now she was pinned fully—back to the wall, thighs locked around him, weight supported only by his grip and the cold panel at her spine. The new angle let him sink deeper, the head of his cock nudging against something inside her that made her whole body jerk. Rougher than he'd meant to be. The restraint he'd been clinging to frayed fast under the heat of her, the way she clenched every time he bottomed out.

Her moans shifted—short, desperate little cries punched out of her with every thrust. "Ah—ah—fuck—" Not words, just sounds. Raw. Needy.

"Is this what you want?" he grunted, voice low and strained, gravelly from holding back. His free hand slid up again, found her breast, pinched the stiff nipple hard between thumb and finger—enough to make her jolt forward, inner walls fluttering wildly around him.

"Yes—fuck—don't stop!" Her thighs trembled violently around his hips, muscles quivering like they might give out any second. "Harder. Please—harder."

He gave it to her.

Faster. Deeper. No more measured strokes—just driving into her with everything he had. The metal wall panel behind her rattled faintly with each impact, a low metallic buzz under the wet smacks. Her cries climbed higher, sharper, breaking on every exhale. Sweat beaded on her neck, trickled down between her breasts. His shirt stuck to his back, damp and clinging.

Her first orgasm hit fast—maybe thirty seconds after he really let go. No slow build, just sudden, brutal clamp-down. She seized around him like a vice, walls pulsing in hard, rhythmic waves that dragged a groan out of his throat. Her whole body shook—legs spasming, back arching off the wall, head thrown back so hard it thumped against the panel. A broken sob tore out of her, half-cry, half-moan. Her nails raked down his back through the shirt—sharp lines of fire that made him hiss and thrust even harder.

He felt the gush immediately—hot, slick wetness flooding around his cock, coating his balls, dripping in thick trails down his thighs and onto the tile below. The sound turned sloppier, wetter, every thrust pulling obscene squelches from her body.

He didn't stop. Couldn't. Kept fucking her through the spasms, drawing the orgasm out until her cries fractured into high, whimpering gasps. Her head lolled forward, forehead dropping to his shoulder, breath coming in ragged pants against his neck.

When the worst of the shaking eased—when her legs loosened just a fraction—he slowed enough to pull out. The drag was slow, deliberate, both of them groaning at the loss. His cock glistened, coated thickly in her, strings of slick stretching between them before snapping.

He scooped her up properly then—hands sliding under her thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh just below her ass. Her back stayed braced against the wall for leverage as he lifted. She was lighter than he expected—exhausted, pliant, legs still loosely wrapped around him. A few steps—careful, unsteady because his own knees felt weak—and he kicked a rolling chair out of the way with his foot. It skidded across the floor with a metallic screech.

The nearest workbench was cluttered: scattered schematics, screwdrivers, a half-disassembled gravity pod component with exposed wiring, coffee-stained notepads. He swept his forearm across the surface in one impatient motion. Everything crashed to the floor—papers fluttering, metal clanging, something fragile shattering. He didn't care. Neither did she. Her eyes were half-closed, lips parted, focused only on him.

He set her down on the edge of the bench—careful enough not to hurt, but firm. Pushed her flat onto her back. Her legs fell open wide immediately, skirt still bunched uselessly around her waist like a forgotten belt. Her pussy was red and glistening—swollen, lips puffy and parted, inner folds dark and slick from the rough fucking. A thin trail of her arousal leaked steadily onto the metal surface beneath her.

Jun stepped between her thighs, gripped her hips to pull her closer to the edge. Lined up again—tip nudging her entrance—and slammed back inside in one hard stroke. The wet squelch was louder here, more contained by the bench.

She arched hard off the surface, spine bowing, a strangled "Oh god—" ripping out of her throat. Her hands flew to the edges of the bench, knuckles white, trying to anchor herself.

He leaned over her, caging her with his arms braced on either side of her head. Mouth found her breast—latched onto the stiff peak still peeking from under her shoved-up shirt. Sucked hard while he thrust deep and steady. Her tits were fuller than he'd expected—swollen, heavy, sensitive in a way that made her gasp every time his tongue flicked over the nipple.

He bit down gently—testing. A thin bead of milk leaked out immediately, white against flushed pink skin, trailing down the curve of her breast.

He froze for half a second—startled, eyes widening.

Bulma's hand flew to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there. "Don't stop," she whimpered, voice small and wrecked. "Please don't stop."

The plea snapped him out of it. He groaned against her skin—low, hungry—and latched on harder. Tongue swirled, lips sealed tight, sucking. More came—sweet, warm, trickling steadily now. He drank it down greedily while he pounded into her, hips snapping forward with bruising force. The bench creaked under them—loud, rhythmic protests. Thwump, thwump, thwump—his balls slapping wetly against her ass with every deep stroke.

"You're so tight," he rasped against her nipple, voice muffled by skin. "Taking it so good—fuck—"

She wrapped her legs around his lower back, heels digging into the small of his ass, pulling him impossibly deeper. "I'm so empty," she panted, words tumbling out between gasps. "Fill me up, Jun—please—need it—need you—"

The words hit like a spark to dry grass. Something in him broke loose. He drove harder, faster—short, brutal thrusts that rocked the entire bench. Tools rattled on lower shelves. Her second orgasm built quicker this time—no slow climb, just a sudden, tightening spiral. She started babbling—half pleas, half curses, voice cracking on every syllable. "Yes—right there—don't—fuck—coming—"

Then she broke. A sharp, keening cry. Body bowing off the bench again, thighs clamping around him like iron. She squirted hard—clear fluid gushing around his cock, soaking his hips, his thighs, pooling on the metal under her ass. The wet sloshing sounds turned louder, filthier—every thrust pulling more obscene noise from their joined bodies.

He fucked her through it—relentless, hips never slowing, chasing his own edge but holding back, not quite there yet. Her body kept twitching, aftershocks rolling through her in waves.

She was gasping, completely wrecked—chest heaving, skin slick with sweat and milk and her own release—but still moving with him, hips rocking weakly to meet every thrust.

After a minute—maybe two—she pushed at his chest with trembling hands. "Wait—turn me over."

He pulled out slowly, both of them groaning at the drag. She rolled onto her stomach—awkward, limbs heavy—then pushed up onto hands and knees. Back arched deep, ass presented high. Her pussy was flushed dark red now, lips swollen and glistening, leaking a steady mix of her arousal and his pre-cum down the insides of her thighs.

Jun grabbed her hips—fingers digging into the soft flesh just above where her skirt was still bunched like a useless belt. His thumbs slid inward, spreading her open for a second. Just looking. Her pussy was flushed dark, lips swollen and parted, glistening with a steady mix of her slick and the earlier mess. The sight made his cock twitch hard against his stomach. Then he slammed back in—one brutal, full-length stroke that buried him to the root.

The new angle let him go deeper than before. Brutal. The head nudged something inside her that made her entire body seize. She cried out into the cradle of her folded arms—muffled but sharp, voice cracking on the end like glass.

He reached around without breaking rhythm. Hands found her swinging breasts again—full, heavy, slick with sweat and the thin trails of milk that hadn't stopped leaking. He squeezed hard, fingers sinking in, then tugged downward in slow pulls. More milk welled up immediately—warm, white beads rolling over his knuckles and dripping onto the bench beneath them. The room was nothing but sounds now: his low, guttural grunts every time he bottomed out, her sobbing moans that rose and fell with each thrust, the relentless wet smack of his hips crashing against her ass—loud, rhythmic, obscene in the empty lab.

"Use me," she choked out against the cool metal of the bench, voice thick and wrecked. "Just use me like—like I'm nothing else."

The words hit him low in the gut. He lifted one hand and brought it down—hard. A single, sharp spank. The crack echoed off the walls like a gunshot. A bright red handprint bloomed fast across the pale curve of her ass, skin flushing hot under his palm. She jolted forward with a gasp, inner walls clamping down so tight he almost lost it right then.

"You're gonna cum for me again," he growled, voice rough and low, scraped raw. "One more."

She nodded frantically—hair plastered to her neck, blue strands sticking everywhere. No words, just desperate little jerks of her head.

He fucked her faster. Deeper. Angling his hips deliberately now—short, punishing strokes aimed right at that spot inside that made her whole body jerk like she'd been shocked. It didn't take long. Her third orgasm built in seconds—tightening, coiling, then shattering like a freight train through her. Full-body convulsions. She collapsed forward onto her elbows, ass still high and presented, pussy twitching violently around him in long, rolling spasms. A broken, keening sound tore out of her throat—half sob, half scream—before it fractured into whimpers.

He slowed but didn't stop. Rode her through the aftershocks with long, deliberate drags—pulling almost all the way out, then sinking back in deep enough to keep her trembling. Letting her catch her breath in short, ragged hitches. Sweat had plastered blue strands across her forehead and the back of her neck; her arms shook, barely holding her up anymore.

When he eased back just a fraction—giving her a moment—she made a small, needy whine and pushed her hips back toward him. Trying to chase the fullness, to keep him inside even as her legs threatened to give out.

Jun felt the pull low in his gut—balls tight, every shallow thrust sending white-hot sparks racing up his spine. He was close. Dangerously close. But he wasn't ready to finish. Not yet. He wanted one more round. Wanted to see her fall apart completely one last time.

He pulled out slowly. The wet drag was torturous—both of them groaning low at the loss. His cock came free glistening, coated thickly in her, strings of slick stretching between the head and her entrance before snapping with a faint, obscene sound. Bulma whimpered at the emptiness—thighs shaking, a fresh trickle leaking down the inside of one leg.

He dropped to the floor first. Cold tile bit into his back through his half-open shirt. Then he reached up and tugged her down with him—gentle but firm. "Come here."

She moved like she was on autopilot—legs weak, coordination shot. Straddled his hips carefully, knees bracketing him on the hard floor. Her skirt was still bunched uselessly around her waist; torn panties had been gone for what felt like hours. Her pussy hovered just above his waiting cock—red, swollen, dripping steadily onto his lower stomach.

She looked down at him—eyes glassy and unfocused, cheeks flushed dark, lips parted and swollen from biting them. Mascara tracks had dried into faint black streaks down her face. Wrecked. Beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten.

He gripped the base of himself—held steady so the head brushed her entrance. "Sit down."

Bulma sank slowly at first. The head parted her easily this time—she was so wet, so open from everything before. Inch by inch she took him until her ass met his thighs with a soft, wet slap. A long, shaky exhale left her when he bottomed out—deep enough that she could feel him pressing against her cervix. She stayed still for a long moment, just breathing, just feeling him fill her completely. Hands braced on his chest, fingers splayed over his shirt, nails digging in lightly.

Then she started moving.

Small rolls of her hips at first—grinding more than riding. Her clit dragged against his pubic bone on every slow circle, pulling soft, broken moans from her throat. Her breasts swayed heavy above him—still leaking in thin, milky trails that slid down her stomach and dripped onto his shirt. The sight made him groan.

Jun's hands found her ass—fingers sinking into soft flesh, helping guide her rhythm. He thrust up to meet her on the downstrokes—not hard, just steady pressure that made her gasp every time he bottomed out. The new angle let him feel every flutter, every tiny clench inside her.

He leaned up—mouth latching onto one nipple. Sucked hard. Warm, sweet milk flooded his tongue immediately. He groaned against her skin, the vibrations making her jolt and grind down harder. Switched to the other side—same thing. Drinking while she rode him slow and deep, hips rolling in lazy, exhausted circles.

Her pace picked up gradually. Less grinding, more actual bouncing. Wet slaps started again—quieter than the standing fuck, but steady. Slap-slap-slap as her ass met his thighs over and over. She was tired—movements getting sloppy, thighs trembling—but instinct kept her going, chasing that last edge.

"Look at me," he said, voice rough. He released her nipple with a wet pop, milk beading on his lips.

Bulma's eyes fluttered open—watery, unfocused at first, then slowly locking onto his.

"Who's fucking you right now?" he asked, low and steady.

"You are," she whispered. Voice cracked, barely there.

He thrust up harder once—sharp enough to punch a cry out of her. "Louder."

"You are," she said again, stronger this time, eyes clearing for a second. "Jun—you're fucking me."

His hands tightened on her ass—fingers bruising—and he pulled her down harder on the next drop. "And who do you belong to? Right now."

She swallowed. Tears welled again, spilling over slowly, but she didn't look away. "You. I belong to you."

That did it.

He gripped her hips tight—fingers digging in deep enough to leave marks—and started slamming her down onto him. Fast. Deep. No more teasing, no more slow build. The wet squelch turned loud again—obscene, filthy. Her tits bounced wildly; small drops of milk flicked across his chest with every hard drop. She braced both hands on his shoulders—nails biting into skin through his shirt—just trying to hold on as he fucked up into her relentlessly.

He felt her start to tighten again—another build, even though she'd already came three times. Her moans fractured into short, desperate sobs—voice breaking on every breath.

"Cum one more time," he grunted, hips snapping up. "Cum on my cock. Let me feel it."

She nodded frantically—head thrown back, blue hair swinging. Body locking up tight.

It hit her hard—gut-deep, wrenching. She clamped down around him like she wanted to keep him there forever. A broken cry tore out of her throat—raw, shattered. Her whole body shook—thighs quivering violently, pussy pulsing in long, rolling waves that dragged him right to the edge.

Jun couldn't hold back anymore.

He slammed her down one last time—buried to the hilt—and came. Hot spurts flooded her, thick and deep, pulse after pulse. He groaned low—hips jerking with each one—filling her up exactly like she'd begged earlier. The feeling dragged her orgasm out longer; she kept twitching around him, milking every drop in fluttering spasms.

When it finally eased, she collapsed forward onto his chest. Forehead pressed to his collarbone. Both of them slick—sweat, milk, cum, her arousal mixing into a sticky mess between them. Breathing hard. Hearts hammering against each other in uneven rhythm.

For a long minute, neither moved. Just the sound of their ragged inhales and exhales filling the quiet lab. The monitors still glowed faintly in the background—some schematic flickering on one screen like nothing at all had happened.

Then reality crept back in—slow at first, like cold air leaking through a cracked seal.

Bulma stirred against his chest. A small shift of weight, barely noticeable at first. Then she pushed herself up slowly—arms trembling under her own body, elbows locking only after a visible effort. His softening cock slipped free with a soft, wet sound—almost gentle compared to everything before. A thick trickle of cum followed right after, warm and viscous, sliding down the inside of her thigh in a slow path before dripping onto his stomach in small, heavy drops. The sensation made him twitch once, involuntarily.

She didn't look at him.

Not once.

She climbed off carefully—legs wobbly, knees threatening to buckle the second her feet touched the floor. She stood beside the bench for a long second, swaying slightly, one hand braced on the edge to steady herself. Her breathing was still uneven, shallow hitches that hadn't quite settled. Sweat cooled on her skin, making her shiver once—sharp, involuntary.

She reached down with mechanical movements. Pulled her skirt back into place—fabric wrinkled beyond saving, dark stains visible even in the dim monitor light. Tugged her shirt down over her breasts, the material clinging damply where milk and sweat had soaked through. Adjusted the cropped jacket just enough to cover the worst of it. Didn't bother with her hair—blue strands stuck to her neck and cheeks in messy tangles. Didn't wipe the smudged mascara tracks or the flush still burning high on her cheekbones. Just smoothed things enough to look halfway presentable if someone passed her in the hall. Halfway human.

Jun sat up slowly. The tile was cold against his palms. He watched her the entire time—silent, chest still rising and falling too fast. His own shirt hung half-open, buttons missing one or two from earlier frantic tugs. Slacks bunched around his thighs, boxers twisted awkwardly. He pulled them up with numb fingers, fumbled the belt buckle closed. The metal clinked softly—too loud in the sudden quiet.

She walked toward the door panel—stiff, careful steps like every muscle protested. One heel was still missing; the remaining shoe clicked unevenly against the floor. She thumbed the lock off without looking back. The red light above the frame blinked green with a faint beep.

"The emergency's over," she said. Voice flat. Quiet. Almost dead—no inflection, no warmth, no trace of the woman who'd begged him minutes ago. "Get out."

Jun stood. Adjusted his shirt one last time—tucking it in haphazardly, smoothing the front like it mattered. Looked at her back: shoulders hunched again, the same defeated curve she'd had when he first walked in. Like the weight had slammed back down the second the heat faded, heavier than before.

"Bulma—"

"Don't." The word cut sharp. She didn't turn. Didn't even flinch. "Just... go."

He hesitated another second—long enough to feel the silence stretch, thick and uncomfortable. Then he nodded to himself. No point pushing. No point saying anything that would make this worse.

He walked past her. Close enough to catch one last faint whiff of whiskey, sweat, and that floral shampoo. The door hissed open at his approach—same soft pneumatic sigh as when he'd arrived.

He stepped into the hallway.

It slid shut behind him with the same quiet click.

The corridor was still empty. Still silent except for the low, constant hum of the air recyclers pushing recycled oxygen through the vents. Fluorescent strips overhead buzzed faintly—too bright after the dim lab. His footsteps echoed once, twice, then faded as he kept walking. Didn't look back. Didn't slow down until he reached the east wing elevator.

Inside the lab, Bulma stood alone.

Arms wrapped tight around herself—elbows locked, hands fisted in the sleeves of her jacket like she was trying to hold her own pieces together. She stared at the workbench. Scattered tools lay where they'd fallen: screwdrivers tipped over, a soldering iron still warm, the half-disassembled gravity pod component cracked open like a broken toy. Crumpled schematics stuck to the wet streaks on the metal surface—her arousal, his cum, sweat, a few milky drops—drying slowly into faint, sticky rings. The monitors kept humming behind her. Blue light flickered across the same schematic she'd been staring at for hours: clean lines, precise annotations, endless calculations for a scouter upgrade that suddenly felt pointless.

The warmth was already gone.

Not just the physical heat between them—the sweat cooling on her skin, the ache settling into her muscles—but the brief flicker of something alive inside her chest. It had burned bright for maybe twenty minutes. Now it was ash. Left her colder than she'd been before he walked in. Colder than the nights she'd spent alone in the big house, listening to Trunks train in the yard or the distant rumble of Vegeta's ship long after it had disappeared into orbit.

She sank onto the stool—slow, like her legs had finally given permission to give up. The seat was cold through her skirt. She picked up the half-empty tumbler with shaking fingers. The whiskey had gone warm and flat, but she didn't care. Tipped it back in one long swallow—burned down her throat, settled heavy in her stomach like lead.

Then she set the glass down. Empty now.

Stared at the schematic again.

Same one.

Same glowing lines on the screen.

Nothing had changed.

The lab lights stayed on—dimmed but never off. The air recyclers kept their steady drone. Somewhere far down the corridor, a distant door hissed open and closed again—probably a night-shift janitor bot making rounds. She didn't move to check.

She just sat.

Hands folded in her lap now. Eyes fixed on the screen.

Waiting—for what, she didn't know anymore.

Maybe for the Dragon Balls to recharge again.

Maybe for Vegeta to decide she was worth coming home to.

Maybe for morning, when she'd have to pretend none of this had happened.

The schematic stared back—unchanging, perfect, indifferent.

She exhaled once—long, shaky.

Then reached for the keyboard.

Pulled the schematic window back into focus.

Started working again.

Because that was what she did.