Work Text:
He had to admit that, as he got to know Bulma, he found himself increasingly captivated by her.
She was never strong; she barely had the strength to carry objects he considered insignificant. Strength had always been fundamental to him.
But Bulma… she was different. Defiant.
Even though they were the same height, there were moments when she managed to make him feel small. Something he knew, deep down, unsettled him far more than he was willing to admit. Something that disturbed him… and that a part of him found dangerously stimulating, coming from a woman like her.
She was tough. She wasn’t afraid of him. She didn’t back down when something displeased him, unlike all those fools who crumbled the moment he so much as frowned.
And she was brilliant. More so than any scientist he had ever known.
She could be mocking, sweet, loud… provocative without even trying.
And always so absurdly beautiful.
Vain, yes. She liked looking good—carefully chosen clothes, impeccable hairstyles, precise makeup. She enjoyed using her attractiveness as a weapon, fully aware of how effective it was on him. Though, if he were being honest with himself, she would have looked just as impressive wrapped in a sack of potatoes.
It was an undeniable truth that, back then, he didn’t fully process.
To him, they were only strange, contradictory sensations. Discomfort. Tension. And that persistent, unfamiliar feeling he couldn’t quite name… but which felt far too much like pleasure.
That morbid pleasure that coursed through his entire body when they fought, hurling horrid words at each other with cruel creativity. His understanding of it went no further than one uncomfortable certainty: he sought it out, again and again.
The tension. The clash. The way she never backed down.
He didn’t know why it provoked that mix of irritation and something heavier, denser, harder to ignore. He only knew it drew him in, pushed him to provoke her, to insist, to stay close to that invisible boundary.
Until he began to dream of her.
The nightmares that had always haunted him were invaded—or outright replaced—by that woman.
Everything was blurry, confused, constantly shifting. Scenarios unraveled and reformed without logic, as if his mind couldn’t hold on to a single image for too long.
The only thing he knew for certain was that, just before waking, she was always far too close.
And when he opened his eyes, he was alone. In the guest room he had made his own, surrounded by tangled sheets, his chest heaving and his mind disoriented, waking again and again with her name echoing far too loudly in his head.
✂====================
What are we doing?” she asked softly.
The warm water enveloped them, dense and heavy, rising to the middle of their chests, muffling every movement, every breath. The night air contrasted with the heat of the pool, lightly prickling his skin.
He knew she wasn’t simply asking why they were swimming at that hour, alone in the pool, with no one around.
Was she asking why he had decided to borrow a pair of swim trunks and come down at that precise time, as if he didn’t know she usually swam at night?
Or why they had ended up speaking in hushed voices, letting the silence fill with nothing but the murmur of water and the distant sound of crickets?
Was she asking about the way he was looking at her?
The bikini clung to her body with unsettling precision—dark, simple, tracing every line without exaggeration. Water clung to her skin and slid over her chest, following the slow rise and fall of her breathing.
There was something inevitably intimate about seeing her like that, so exposed and yet so entirely in control of herself.
Sometimes, Bulma’s gaze reminded him of a goddess he had once seen in the corridors of the palace he had called home.
An ancient painting: a sea deity rendered in deep tones, with a curving body and blue hair cascading like a frozen waterfall.
The association made him uncomfortable.
Not because Bulma didn’t resemble that image—she lacked that brutal force and rigid solemnity—but because the presence was similar. The same sense of something that didn’t need to impose itself to be unquestionable. Something that existed naturally, occupying space without asking permission.
And that, he thought with an inward grimace, was even more disturbing—because deep down he knew it fascinated him.
Seeing her… truly seeing her. An unbroken, profound eye contact. No mockery, no jokes. Just the chill of the night and the warmth of the water wrapping around them both.
He looked at her with eyes weighed down by thought, his expression calm, free of scrutiny or obvious desire… as if a thousand ideas crossed his mind and none of them quite settled. As if simply observing her had suddenly become too much.
Or had she taken that as a challenge? Because Bulma ended up looking back at him the same way—direct, unhurried, letting the closeness become undeniable. The water gently pushed them toward one another, shrinking the distance until it became uncomfortable, dangerous… familiar, like in those dreams.
Was she asking about all of that?
Or about what they had been doing for the past few months, slowly pushing toward a limit neither of them seemed willing to name?
He didn’t even have an answer for any of it.
He tilted his head and blinked, as if he needed to remind himself where he was, to feel the water against his chest again.
“I don’t know,” he replied, just as softly.
✂====================
The dreams didn’t fade. On the contrary, they persisted. They worsened.
He reached a point where he didn’t know whether he enjoyed sleeping or feared it even more. There was something undeniably pleasurable in those dreams, yet he always woke up more uncomfortable.
That was the stage where the dreams went further. Hands and sensations trapped him in that unreal world with unsettling intensity, and he would wake in a start, as if fleeing from a nightmare.
Always accompanied by that lingering discomfort in his pants.
And he avoided explaining it. To anyone. Even to himself.
His confrontations with her began to change. They weren’t as aggressive anymore, but that vehemence—that contained passion—still hung in the air. Moments of silence stopped being awkward or dull and became mutual introspection. Eye contact shifted from judgment to anticipation.
That small, soft voice in his head—always drowned out by the roar of his ego and his pain—whispered that he knew where those changes in attitude came from.
The shift in atmosphere wasn’t divine or random. It was simply the result of his subconscious reacting to what he desired most, confronted with that insufferable woman who seemed to catch every signal, every tension, and return it with the same intensity.
Perhaps with even greater stubbornness in refusing to acknowledge it consciously.
It was like fighting a battle.
One against an opponent just as strong and determined. Not easy. Not impossible.
But at the same time, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t about being the strongest, about emerging victorious.
It was something more animal. More primal. Something rooted in him since he was a young boy.
That innate pleasure of simply… fighting.
The adrenaline. The hardness. The techniques. The craving. And thousands of other sensations and thoughts he couldn’t describe.
All of it without giving or receiving a single blow.
And yet, it left him exhausted.
It was a different kind of battle. Silent. Without witnesses. One he couldn’t win through pride or discipline. His body reacted before his mind, betraying him with humiliating clarity, flooded with contradictory sensations that coursed through him—though deep down he knew they all led to the same place: pleasure.
He blamed his dreams, convincing himself that those desires only appeared there, that they manifested only in that space.
But he knew it was a lie. That small voice in his head screamed it at him, because the truth was that the manifestations in waking life were worse. The only difference was that his dreaming self didn’t resist.
…and one of those many unnameable desires was this.
He felt that strange tingling in his tail.
Submission. Service. Adoration.
Not as an imposed order, nor as conscious humiliation, but as a response that arose on its own. Instinctive. An ancient reflex he didn’t fully recognize, yet one his body seemed to understand all too well.
His subconscious screamed at him to behave.
To restrain himself. To obey.
Not to survive—not like the wretches he had once been forced to obey and bend before in order not to be crushed.
It wasn’t serving by force, nor obedience learned through pain. It was worse: the need to bow without being commanded. To acknowledge a superior presence not through power, but through closeness. Through what she awakened in him.
To receive. To behave because his body knew that if he did, he would find relief.
The idea made his stomach churn.
Awake, he denied it.
Asleep, he gave in.
In those wet dreams, where reason dissolved and the body spoke without filters, the sensation became unbearable. His hands reacted before thought. His breathing fell out of rhythm.
And when he woke, startled, with his pulse racing and desire still clinging to his body, the only thing he felt was shame.
Because he could no longer ignore it.
In any case… all of it came to an abrupt end.
In the most mind-altering sexual experience of his life.
And in a violet-haired baby named Trunks.