Cuck Goku? (700 follower special)

The Son household sat nestled into the eastern slope of Mount Paozu, surrounded by dense forest that hummed with insects and the occasional distant call of wildlife. The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy in broken shafts of amber and gold, painting the wooden porch in warm light. The house itself was modest but sturdy — built by hand over the years with patched walls and a roof that Chi-Chi had threatened Goku into fixing more times than she could count. A garden flanked the left side of the property, rows of vegetables growing in neat lines that Chi-Chi maintained with military precision. Wind chimes made from old shells and bits of metal hung from the porch overhang, tinkling softly in the warm breeze that swept down from the mountain peaks.

Inside the kitchen, the heart of the home, every surface seemed alive with activity. Pots crowded the gas stove, steam curling toward the low ceiling in lazy spirals. The counters were a organized chaos of cutting boards, ceramic bowls filled with prepped ingredients, and stacks of recipe cards pinned beneath a heavy glass paperweight shaped like a turtle — a gift from Master Roshi years ago that Chi-Chi had kept out of stubborn sentimentality. The window above the sink was propped open with a wooden stick, letting in the golden light and the sound of birds nesting in the eaves. The linoleum floor was clean but well-worn, faded in patches near the stove where Chi-Chi stood every evening. A hand-stitched calendar hung on the wall beside the refrigerator, every day neatly marked with meal plans, chores, and Gohan's old school schedules that she never took down.

Chi-Chi was pacing between the counter and the stove when you arrived at the front door. She was wearing a modest house dress — practical cotton, knee-length, with a small floral pattern in faded blue and white. It clung gently to her athletic frame, the fabric soft from years of washing. Her black hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, though several strands had escaped to frame her face, stuck to her skin with perspiration. Her dark eyes were sharp and bright with frustration, her small frame practically vibrating with barely contained energy. Despite being well into adulthood, Chi-Chi carried a youthful quality in her face — high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, full lips that were currently pressed into a thin hard line. Her hands were small but calloused, the hands of someone who had spent years chopping, stirring, scrubbing, and long before that, fighting.

Her head whipped around at the sound of your footsteps on the porch. The fury in her expression shifted just slightly — the tension in her shoulders loosened a fraction, the hard set of her mouth softened by a hair. Relief, even if she'd never call it that.

"Oh good, you're here." She pointed the wooden spoon at you like a weapon. "They did it again. I told them — I TOLD both of them this morning — dinner is at six and I needed help at four. And what do they do? They vanish! Off to punch each other in the woods like a couple of wild animals! Not a word! Not a single word!"

She threw her free hand up in exasperation, sauce splattering across the tile floor from the spoon. Her ponytail swished with the sharp movement. The flush rising up her neck was the particular shade of red that came not from embarrassment but from the deep volcanic frustration of a woman who had been explaining basic household expectations to Saiyans for over a decade.

"Goku I expect this from. The man has the follow-through of a wet paper bag. But Goten? Goten knows better! Or at least he did until his father's influence rotted whatever sense of responsibility I spent YEARS building in that boy!"

She stopped pacing and pressed the back of her wrist against her forehead, taking a sharp breath. The fabric of her dress pulled tight across her shoulders with the motion. A bead of sweat tracked down her temple and along the curve of her jaw. The kitchen was genuinely hot — all four burners running, the oven on low for the bread she'd started earlier, and the summer air drifting through the open window carrying no relief.

"Okay. Okay I can't — I can't deal with this right now. I'm overheating in this stupid dress and the soup is going to be ruined if I keep spiraling." She thrust the spoon toward you. "Stir that. Medium-low if it bubbles too hard. I'm going to go change. I'll be right back."

She disappeared through the kitchen doorway into the hall, her footsteps retreating quickly toward the bedroom. The house settled into a brief silence punctuated only by the hiss and pop of cooking oil and the gentle rolling boil of the soup pot. Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of golden light. A clock ticked on the wall above the doorway. Outside, a bird landed on the windowsill, glanced in, and fluttered away.

A few minutes passed. The afternoon light shifted deeper gold through the windows, casting long warm shadows across the worn wooden floor.

Then her footsteps returned. Slower this time. Deliberate.

Chi-Chi appeared in the kitchen doorway. She stood there wearing nothing but a frilled white apron. The cute one with the little embroidered flowers along the hem that usually hung on the pantry door hook. The strings were tied in a neat bow at the small of her bare back. That was it. The apron covered her front barely, the top edge cutting low enough to reveal the upper curves of her chest, the thin white fabric doing nothing to hide the full shape beneath it. The bottom hem ended well above mid-thigh, leaving her legs completely exposed — toned and smooth, the faintest remnant of muscle definition from years of martial arts training visible in her calves and thighs. Her long black hair was down now, falling loose over her bare shoulders in a dark cascade that reached the middle of her back. Her skin was flushed pink across her cheeks, her collarbones, her chest. The warm kitchen light caught every inch of bare skin the apron didn't cover.

She pressed her lips together and looked at you from beneath dark lashes, one small hand resting on the doorframe. Her fingers curled slightly against the wood. The wind chimes outside tinkled faintly through the open window.

"Much better."

Your garden sat on a gentle slope behind your house, a modest plot of land bordered by a low stone wall you'd stacked yourself years ago. Rows of tomato plants climbed their wooden stakes, green beans trailed up a mesh trellis, and a patch of herbs grew wild near the back step — basil, cilantro, and mint that spread a little more each season despite your half-hearted attempts to contain them. The soil was dark and rich from years of composting, and the late morning sun hung in a clear blue sky, warm but not yet oppressive. A light breeze carried the scent of pine from the surrounding forest and the faint distant sound of a river somewhere down the mountainside. Your wheelbarrow sat half-loaded with pulled weeds near the fence. A pair of gardening gloves lay draped over a fence post. The nearest neighbor in any direction was the Son household, a ten-minute walk through dense trees, though at this elevation you could sometimes hear Goku's shouts echoing off the mountains when he sparred with the boys.

You were crouched between the tomato rows, fingers deep in the soil, when the light changed.

It was subtle at first. A shadow falling across the dirt where there shouldn't be one given the angle of the sun. Then a whisper of displaced air, barely enough to ruffle the leaves of the nearest plant. And then a voice from directly behind you, close enough that you could hear the breath in it.

"Don't turn around yet. I'm figuring out how to land without looking stupid."

Chi-Chi's voice. Slightly strained. Slightly breathless. Coming from somewhere above your head.

A soft thud on the grass behind you, lighter than it should have been. The sound of bare feet touching ground. Then a sharp exhale — the kind that came with relief and mild self-annoyance in equal measure.

"Okay. Okay you can look."

You turned to find Chi-Chi standing on the grass just inside your garden gate. She was in her usual casual clothes today — fitted black pants that tapered at the ankle, a sleeveless red blouse that showed off her toned arms, and simple flat shoes she was currently holding by the straps in one hand. Her feet were bare in the grass. Her black hair was down, falling past her shoulders, slightly windswept from whatever flight path she'd taken. A thin sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead and along the exposed skin of her arms. Her dark eyes were bright with something caught between pride and embarrassment.

She looked at you. Looked at the sky behind her. Looked back at you.

"I learned to fly."

She said it flatly, like she was confessing to a minor crime. She set her shoes down beside the stone wall and crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other on the cool grass.

"Don't — don't give me that look. I know what I said. I said I wanted to be a normal housewife. I said I was done with all of that nonsense. I said fighting and flying and all of it was behind me and I meant it. I did mean it."

She paused. Uncrossed her arms. Picked at a blade of grass with her toes.

"But I remember Nimbus. I remember riding on that cloud when I was young and the wind in my hair and the whole world just — below me. Like everything that weighed me down couldn't reach me up there. And Goku flies everywhere now. The boys fly. Even Gohan flies when he bothers to visit. And I just..."

Her jaw tightened. She looked off toward the tree line, her expression shifting into something vulnerable that she rarely let anyone see.

"I felt it. A pang. Like jealousy but heavier. Like I'd given away a piece of myself that I actually wanted back. So I practiced. Out behind the house at night when everyone was asleep. For weeks. And I'm not — I'm not anything special at it. I can't go fast. I can't do tricks. I just sort of... float. But I can do it."

She stepped closer to you, her bare feet quiet on the soft earth. The breeze caught her hair and pushed it across her face. She brushed it away with a small impatient gesture.

"I came here because I wanted to show someone. And I wanted to show you specifically because you actually listen to me when I talk. Unlike some people who live in my house."

Another step closer. Her dark eyes searched yours. The flush on her cheeks deepened — not from the flight this time.

"There's something else too. Something I've been thinking about. And I'm just going to say it because I've been carrying it around for three days and if I don't say it now I'll lose my nerve."

She reached out and took your hand. Her grip was firm and warm, the callouses on her palms familiar from years of kitchen work and long-forgotten martial arts.

"I want to try something. Up there." She tilted her head toward the sky. "I want to try... us. While flying."

Her voice dropped lower. Her blush spread down her neck.

"And before you ask — yes I can carry you. It's nothing impressive. Pure mom strength. You know how I haul groceries up the mountain path like it's nothing? Gohan's textbooks in middle school weighed more than you. Probably. I don't — I'm not calling you scrawny I'm just saying I can manage. Physically."

She squeezed your hand. Her breathing had quickened. The wind chimes on your porch played their quiet song in the breeze.

"Nobody can see us up there. Not from the ground. Not from the mountain. Just sky and us. And I want — I want something that's just mine. Not Goku's. Not the boys'. Mine."

Her eyes held yours with the same fierce determination she brought to everything — raising children, keeping a house, standing her ground against warriors who could shatter planets.

"So. Do you want to?"

Capsule Corporation's grounds were supposed to be celebrating. The massive estate had been transformed for Bulma's birthday — food tables stretching end to end, a DJ booth now silent and abandoned, enough drink to supply a small country sitting untouched in ice buckets and on trays nobody had touched in over an hour. Every decoration Bulma had meticulously planned — the banners, the balloons, the fireworks rigged to launch at midnight — sat ignored and forgotten.

Because nobody was celebrating.

The lawn was packed with familiar faces and every single one of them was staring at the same point in the sky with expressions ranging from fear to awe to barely contained dread. Krillin stood near the pool with his fists clenched at his sides, his face pale and slick with sweat, his knees locked to keep them from shaking. Android 18 stood beside him with her arms crossed but her composure was thin — her blue eyes tracked every streak of light with an intensity that betrayed how seriously she understood the stakes. Yamcha had backed away from the appetizer table entirely, standing rigid near the perimeter fence with his jaw slack. Master Roshi's sunglasses were pushed up onto his forehead and his face was stripped of its usual lecherous humor, replaced by the grim expression of an old warrior watching a battle he couldn't comprehend. Tien stood with his arms crossed and his third eye wide open, every muscle in his body tense, Chiaotzu floating beside him with both hands pressed to his cheeks. Even Piccolo — who always maintained distance, who always pretended detachment — had pushed off the wall and stood exposed on the lawn with his white cape snapping in the violent wind, his eyes open and unblinking, his lips slightly parted.

Vegeta stood closest to the house with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cables. His eyes tracked the battle with an intensity that went beyond watching. His entire body trembled. Not from fear. From rage. From the sickening recognition that the gap between himself and the fighters above was not closing. That the creature up there — the God of Destruction — existed on a plane that made everything Vegeta had suffered, trained for, sacrificed for, feel meaningless. Bulma stood beside him, not in front of him, and for once she wasn't leading the crowd or raising a glass. She was quiet. Her champagne glass hung forgotten at her side. Her blue hair whipped in the wind generated by impacts that happened miles above but shook the ground like earthquakes.

Gohan sat on the grass with Videl beside him, neither of them speaking. Gohan's scholarly composure had cracked completely. His hands were buried in the lawn, fingers digging into the soil, his Saiyan blood roaring in response to the power radiating from above. He'd abandoned his glasses on the ground beside him. Videl had her hand on his arm — not to comfort him but to anchor herself. They'd been dating for barely a year. She'd seen fights before but nothing like this. Nothing that made the sky itself feel like it was breaking apart.

The sky was the only thing anyone was watching.

High above the estate, the atmosphere itself seemed to recoil from the violence happening within it. Goku and Beerus moved at speeds that made tracking individual blows impossible — you could only follow the aftermath. Shockwaves rolled outward from each collision in concentric rings, flattening clouds for miles in every direction. The sound came delayed, arriving seconds after each impact, a deep concussive roar that vibrated in your chest and rattled your teeth. The light was blinding in flashes — white and purple and gold streaks painting the broken sky like a canvas being torn apart and stitched back together in real time. The air pressure shifted constantly, a nauseating push-pull that made some people stagger and others grip the nearest solid object.

This was not a sparring match. This was not a tournament. The Z-Fighters could feel it in their ki — the terrifying, suffocating, godly energy that radiated from Beerus like heat from a dying star. If Goku lost — if Goku failed — there was no Plan B. There was no next fighter. Vegeta knew it. Piccolo knew it. Krillin knew it and was trying not to throw up. The fate of the planet hung in a thread that stretched between a Saiyan who loved fighting too much and a God of Destruction who could erase them all with a thought.

Everyone was transfixed. Every single person. Not with casual fascination but with the white-knuckled attention of people watching their own survival play out in real time hundreds of miles above their heads.

Nobody was watching you.

Nobody except Chi-Chi.

You felt the hand before you saw her. Small, firm, calloused fingers wrapping around your wrist with the particular grip of a woman who had once been a tournament fighter and never fully lost the instinct. A sharp tug. You stumbled sideways off the path between two tall hedgerows that bordered the east side of the estate, your back brushing against the trimmed green wall as Chi-Chi pulled you into the narrow gap between the hedge and the outer wall of one of Bulma's many storage buildings.

The space was barely wide enough for two people. Concrete on one side, dense green leaves on the other. The sounds of the party and the distant battle were muffled here, reduced to a low roar and the occasional thunderclap of ki. The lighting was dim, filtered through the hedge, casting everything in deep green shadow. A forgotten folding chair leaned against the building wall beside you. A garden hose was coiled near your feet.

Chi-Chi pressed her back against the concrete wall and faced you. Her dark eyes were wild, pupils dilated, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. She was wearing one of her nicer outfits today — a fitted magenta qipao-style dress with gold trim that hugged her athletic frame, the collar high and the hem reaching just above her knees. Her black hair was down and loose, pinned back on one side with a small jeweled clip Bulma had given her. She'd put on actual makeup — a rarity — with subtle color on her lips and a hint of shadow on her eyes. She looked beautiful and put-together and completely out of her mind.

Her fingers went immediately to the top clasp of her dress.

"Nobody's watching," she whispered, her voice tight and breathless. "Not a single one of them. Not Krillin, not Piccolo, not even Gohan and he notices everything. They're all staring at the sky like the world is about to end. Because it might be."

The clasp came undone. Then the next one. Her fingers were trembling slightly but her movements were deliberate, practiced, like she'd been thinking about this for hours.

"Do you know what it's like watching him up there? Fighting a god? Throwing himself at something that could kill him?" Her voice cracked but she kept going, kept undoing buttons. "I should be terrified. I am terrified. I am watching my husband fight something that could erase our entire planet and everyone I love. But I'm also so angry I can barely breathe. He left. Again. He chose fighting over his family. Again. And everyone out there is too scared to move and I'm supposed to just stand there and tremble and wait to find out if I still have a husband by sundown?"

The dress fell open. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. The magenta fabric hung loose off her shoulders, framing her bare body in the dim green light filtering through the hedge. Her skin was flushed, warm, dotted with a faint sheen of perspiration from the heat of the afternoon and the energy radiating from the battle overhead. Her stomach was flat and taut, the faint ghost of definition from her martial arts past still visible. Her legs were bare and toned beneath the bunched fabric of the dress.

She stepped closer. The leaves of the hedge brushed against her bare shoulder. Her hand came up and pressed flat against your chest, feeling your heartbeat through your shirt. The ground shuddered again. Dust fell from the building wall behind her.

"You're here. You're always here. You were there when Piccolo took Gohan. You were there when Cell happened. You were there when Goku didn't come back. Every single time the world nearly ended you were the one standing next to me in the aftermath. Not him. You."

Thunder cracked overhead so loud it felt like the sky was splitting open. The hedge shuddered. Someone in the distance shouted — not cheering, worrying. The stakes were real and everyone felt them.

"Right now in this moment while every person I've ever known is terrified and staring at the sky, I want to be selfish. I want something for myself. Something that isn't about Goku or Gohan or Goten or being a mother or being a wife or wondering if the man I married is going to survive the next ten minutes."

Chi-Chi's fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. Her lips were inches from yours. Her dark eyes burned with that particular fire — the one that had once made the Ox-King's daughter face down demons, the same fire she channeled into every argument, every meal, every moment she held her family together through sheer stubborn will.

Nobody looked. Nobody noticed. The sky split with light and the world held its collective breath while Chi-Chi pulled you closer in the shadow of the hedge, hidden from everyone, wanting nothing and no one but you.

The natural hot spring sat nestled in a rocky clearing halfway up the eastern face of Mount Paozu, accessible only by a narrow trail that wound through dense bamboo and ancient cedar trees. Steam rose from the water in thick white columns, drifting through the canopy and disappearing into the cool mountain air. The pool itself was roughly circular, carved by centuries of mineral-rich water bubbling up from deep underground, its edges smooth dark stone worn slick and warm to the touch. The water was a pale milky blue, opaque enough to hide everything below the surface, heated to a perfect simmering temperature that made muscles unknot on contact. Flat boulders ringed the pool on three sides, forming natural benches and ledges where you could sit chest-deep and lean back against sun-warmed rock. The fourth side opened toward a narrow valley where the view stretched for miles — layered ridges of green and blue fading into haze, the distant glint of a river catching afternoon light. Ferns grew between the rocks. Moss crept along every surface that the steam touched. A small waterfall trickled down a mossy cliff face on the far side of the pool, feeding the spring with fresh cold water that mixed with the hot to create perfect temperature zones depending on where you sat.

Nobody came here. That was the point. The trail was unmarked, overgrown in places, and required navigating a steep scramble up a rocky section that discouraged casual hikers. Chi-Chi had discovered it years ago during one of her angry walks — the kind she took when Goku vanished for training and the boys were at school and the house was too quiet and too empty and her thoughts became unbearable. She'd told you about it exactly once, in a low voice late at night, and then never mentioned it again until yesterday when she'd appeared at your door with a bag of groceries and said simply, "The spring. Tomorrow. Before sunset. Don't be late."

You weren't late. You were already in the water.

The heat enveloped you from the neck down, sinking into your skin and loosening every tight muscle in your back and shoulders. You sat against a smooth boulder on the shallow side, the water lapping at your collarbones. Your clothes were folded on a dry flat rock near the trail entrance. The steam curled around you in slow drifting curtains, and through gaps in the vapor the valley stretched out below in spectacular golden light. The only sounds were the gentle gurgle of the waterfall, the occasional bubble rising from the spring's source, and birds calling from the surrounding trees.

You heard her before you saw her.

The sound of bare feet on the rocky trail. Careful footsteps navigating the scramble, the soft crunch of gravel and the occasional quiet exhale. Then the rustle of ferns being pushed aside and the creak of a branch moving back into place.

Chi-Chi emerged from the tree line at the edge of the clearing.

She was completely naked.

She carried nothing with her. No towel. No bag. No change of clothes. Whatever she'd worn on the hike up was nowhere in sight, likely left somewhere along the trail. Her body was fully bare and unashamed in the golden light that filtered through the canopy. Her black hair was down, falling past her shoulders and brushing the middle of her back, slightly damp at the ends from the mountain air. Her skin was flushed from the hike, a warm pink spreading across her chest and cheeks and the tops of her shoulders. She was small and athletic, her frame carrying the lean strength of someone who had spent her youth fighting and her adulthood carrying children and hauling supplies up mountainsides. Her waist was narrow, her hips gently curved, her legs toned and defined. The faint silver lines of old stretch marks traced along her lower stomach — remnants of two pregnancies she never tried to hide. Her breasts were full, swaying slightly as she walked, her dark nipples tight from the contrast between the cool air and the warm steam rising from the pool.

She walked to the edge of the spring without hesitation. Her dark eyes found you through the steam and held. No shyness. No coy performance. Just direct, unblinking contact that carried weight.

She stepped into the water.

Her toes touched the surface first and she hissed softly through her teeth at the heat, then sank in gradually — ankles, calves, knees, thighs. The milky blue water rose around her body and hid everything below the surface in slow increments as she waded deeper. Steam curled around her bare shoulders and neck. Her hair fanned out on the water's surface behind her like black ink.

She crossed the pool directly toward you. No wandering. No hesitation. Each step bringing her closer until the water reached her chest and then she was right there, right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from her skin before she even touched you.

She pressed against you.

Her body slid against yours beneath the water, smooth skin on skin, her chest flattening against yours as her arms came up and wrapped around your shoulders. Her legs found yours beneath the surface, tangling together. Her face buried into the curve of your neck and she exhaled — a long shaking breath that carried the weight of everything she'd been holding.

The water rippled around you both. The steam thickened. The waterfall murmured. The valley stretched out below in golden silence.

Her lips brushed your ear.

"Nobody knows I'm here," she whispered. Her voice was raw and quiet and stripped of every defense she usually wore. "Goku thinks I'm at the market. Gohan thinks I'm home. Nobody will come looking for me until dark."

Her fingers traced slowly down the back of your neck.

"Stay with me. Just like this. Don't say anything. Don't move. Just — stay."

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