debbiechan fanfiction

Always A First Time

by debbiechan

Disclaimer: I can make no claim to owning DBZ, yet I have a masochistic compulsion to tell this damn story.


Chapter Six: Aftermath

“We should settle down, get married and have a happy family. Or something like that.”--Yamcha, episode 123

“Discipline!” grunted Yamcha as he punched the air. “I don’t have it, Puar!”

“That’s not true,” mewed a very high voice. “You have discipline. You’re just not fanatical about fighting like Son Goku and those other guys.”

“Vegeta!” Yamcha shouted the name as he began a series of waist-level kicks. “He’s driven. Just like Goku! Maybe--” Yamcha switched legs. “Maybe Saiyans aren’t so much stronger than humans than … just more stubborn, you know? They don’t give up!”

Puar started to float in a circular orbit around Yamcha’s head as the Z warrior’s kicks began to shift direction--east, west, south, then a shoulder-high kick to the sky at north. “Don’t say things like that! You’re not a quitter.”

“Quitter?” Yamcha pummeled an invisible foe with a series of two-fisted blows. “QUITTER?” Another flurry of punches, and then Yamcha stopped cold. He stood there, chest heaving. “The truth is that I’m a loser. I don’t mean like a total jerk or something like that.” Yamcha smiled a sad smile at his tiny gray shapeshifter friend. “I know I have friends and a good life and a good job and that I’m a nice person.”

Puar wrinkled her tiny nose in concern. “Then why, Yamcha? Why do you think you’re a loser?”

Yamcha laughed and pulled a towel out of his duffel bag on the grass. “A loser is someone who doesn’t win, Puar. When’s the last time I actually won a martial arts match?”

“Um….” Puar was thinking fast. “You win baseball games all the time!” she said cheerfully.

Yamcha sat on the grass and twisted open a bottle of imported water. “Exactly. And you know what else, Puar?”


“It feels like I’m losing Bulma again.”


Bulma knew before she opened her eyes that it hadn’t been a dream. She had been sleeping. She had fallen asleep while that hot and excruciatingly delicious body was still thrusting against her, but he was gone now.

The dense foliage around the glass walls of the giant atrium should have kept anyone who wasn’t deliberately spying from seeing her and Vegeta. But…how long had she lain there, naked? The sun was still high and blazing through the glass ceiling. Oh shit, no sunscreen! Bulma looked herself all over for any signs of telltale redness. She was rosy-white and unmarked. No burns, no--Bulma looked at her upper arms where Vegeta had grabbed her that first time. Nothing, not even a trace of a bruise.

She began to gather her clothes. Her panties were sliced into two perfectly symmetrical sections. He had done that with a mere tug of a finger. Bulma stuffed the pieces into her shorts pocket, pulled on her t-shirt and boots, picked up her belt and--not bothering to button up her shorts or put on the belt--headed for her bedroom.

Once there, she collapsed on her bed. What have I done? It was exhaustion that had driven her to it, it was insanity, the sex was supposed to have fixed everything--but no, the longing was worse.

The memories were making her blush, making her want to touch herself but she didn’t dare. How he had pulled off her boot and cupped her naked heel in his hand and how he had begun to rub curious little circles against her toes with his thumb! Vegeta! Who knew he had such a wonderful mouth and that he would want to lick the length of her calves, the backs of her knees?

Oh dear GOD, what if I’ve caught a disease? He had taken her once more. Once he had started his onslaught of touch, she had not been able to rise, to do anything but lie on her back and receive all his amazing ministrations. And how he had filled her! Sweet heavens! Bulma knew she wasn’t ovulating--she had been on the pill for ten years. She and Yamcha had begun to use condoms once she suspected dalliances with baseball bimbos, but … who knew where Vegeta’s extraterrestrial ass had been? All over the freaking galaxy?

Bulma couldn’t shake the memory of her hands on that hard hot ass while he pumped her. The strong, insistent, glorious rhythm. He had fucked her into whimpering, into tiny explosion after explosion of sharp pleasure; he had fucked her to sleep. She had fallen asleep while he was still moving inside her. It had been so relentless, so amazing.

I need a shower. I need a cigarette. I need to think.

And while she was trying what to decide to do next, exhaustion caught up with her again, and Bulma drifted into deep sleep.


Vegeta stood before the control panel of Capsule 3. The take-off initiation sequence was not disabled, but most of the spaceship’s functions were a mess.

Had the woman said the bot repairs would not be happening anytime soon? What did that mean? Not anytime soon?

There was nowhere to go. Vegeta stood, utterly confounded, perfectly naked, training shorts and white shirt still clenched in his fist. He’d grabbed his clothes before escaping the atrium.

Why did I do that?

For a moment, he had thought the woman was dead. That he had killed her. He had been moving inside her with deliberation, control, no increase of power, and she had started shaking as if stricken with an electric current. This climax had been so different from the previous one. She had finally stopped shaking and had turned her face to one side and sighed. He was too busy trying not to lose control at that moment to pay any more attention to her.

But after he came, with a low strangled noise, and after his grip loosened on the backs of her thighs so that her legs slumped to the ground, he noticed she was being unusually quiet. That’s when he thought he’d killed her. Then her breathing told him she was asleep.

Were all human females this strange or was it just this one?

Vegeta was clueless when it came to Earth custom in these fucking matters. He had made no sociological observations about humans outside of this Capsule Corporation place (where, he told himself, existed the only thing that mattered to him about the planet--technology to assist him in his training). Would the weakling Earth warrior challenge him for the female? Vegeta didn’t want the female, but fine, he would kill the Yamcha creature and make quite a terrifying display of it too. Would the Earth woman be tortured and sacrificed for having transgressed some obligation to the Yamcha creature?

These humans didn’t seem the type. Kind, trusting, whatever. Maybe they settled sexual claims without violence?

In any event, he had nothing much to do until the bots were fixed. Were there still pizzas in the fridge here? He walked to the small appliance and opened it.

The cold--in a puff of white mist--hit his nude body, and that’s when he noticed that he was hard and erect in the extra-bright fridge light.

He was not accustomed to his own body surprising him like that.

Damned woman.

He still wanted her.


Yamcha was capable of preparing his own lunch--he knew that, and yet he let Mrs. Briefs follow him into the kitchen and babble about how she had an extra box of cannoli from the doctor’s favorite pastry shop, and oh please, could she just fix a little plate of this and that for the famous baseball player and his little cat? Yamcha told himself it was easier to let her run her mouth than to argue with her.

And then she started pulling off her garden gloves. “Ooh,” she said, noticing up a little atomizer that she’d placed on the counter. “I shouldn’t have brought this inside. It’s pesticide. Looks just like cooking oil!” She spritzed a little from the nozzle onto her palm and giggled.

“Mrs. B?” Yamcha put one large hand on the woman’s shoulder and tried to usher her back outside. “Please just go back to your roses, ok? You were having such a nice time out there, I could tell. I’m not hungry at all.”

“But Yamcha-chan, you have to eat something! Honestly, everyone’s working so hard and being so busy! I haven’t seen Bulma-chan since yesterday, and goodness knows where her father is. The roses are not as good company as you are, dear.”

Yamcha sighed. “Ok, Mrs. B, but you sit down right there. I’ll put on the coffee and serve you, ok?”

There was an eruption of cooing sounds from the tiny woman, followed by ebullient praise for Yamcha’s sweetness and consideration, but Yamcha wasn’t listening to any of it. He wasn’t going to let yet another woman feed his ego when he knew that the one woman whose praise he wanted was the one towards whom he had been less than sweet and considerate lately: Bulma.

What was wrong with their relationship had to be his fault. The next time he saw her he wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. He’d been dizzy with stardom the last few years. He’d played the field, and he wasn’t talking shortstop. The whole gloom and doom message from the boy from the Future about how everyone was going to be killed by androids was sobering him up. It was time to put aside childish things. It was time to grow up.

Maybe Yamcha couldn’t train at the level the others were training and increase his fighting skill much, but he could make things right with the woman he loved. Yep, and he wasn’t going to let himself get baited into another argument with Bulma about how she seemed to think it was ok for her to have a roving eye, but he was supposed to go city to city every spring without her and not be tempted by groupies. She would just have to understand that it was time to get serious (and no, he wasn’t going to make the mistake of using that “we’re not getting any younger” line like last time!). Everybody knew that they belonged together. Even Goku--even Goku--had smiled and insinuated something about a baby the last time they’d seen him.

Yamcha’s hand set the coffee carafe down a little harder than he meant to. A little bit spilled. He wiped the mess with the end of his obi. Fatherhood. Yeah, they could do it. Who knows, it might even be the great adventure that had been eluding him lately. One thing for sure--he and Bulma would have the prettiest children.

The pastry box was full of all sorts of creamy colorful thingies. He handed a pink-coated one to Puar on his shoulder.

“Have one, Yamcha-chan,” Mrs. Briefs was cooing.

“Nah, I’m training,” Yamcha said. “Only the nutritious stuff for me.” No more frivolities, life is short, time to get serious. “Any idea when Bulma went to bed last night? I know she was up fixing those bots for Vegeta.”

“Haven’t seen her, sweetheart.”

He would take her out someplace cozy, not too fancy but definitely dress-up, after she was done with this bot project. He would even put on a tie. They both needed the time together.

To plan their future.

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