Archive of Our Own ^beta

He really should leave the city. Go somewhere remote, isolated… Some backwater planet no one would ever discover… 

He knew it was just a matter of time before he was found here— too many people in this city, too high a chance of discovery. His visage was iconic throughout the sixth universe— everyone knew of the Good Samaritan Frost, savior of orphans and conqueror of evil… 

Or, well… that’s what he had once been. Now he was known throughout the universe by several new titles. Liar. Murderer. Genocidal maniac. War profiteer. His decades-long scheme had unraveled in an instant, and he had no choice but to go into hiding. 

The truth was an unforgiving thing; like the evils of Pandora’s Box, once opened it could not be sealed away again. Everyone knew what he was now. Frost’s face was plastered all over the universe, with exorbitant bounties offered for his capture, and smaller fees offered for a substantial tip about his whereabouts. 

When caught, he’d be put on trial and given a villain’s death— the kind of inglorious end that he cringed to think of.

The disgraced faux-hero shivered in the rain, drawing his cheap, flimsy robe tighter around himself. He no longer had access to any of his substantial fortune; since it was acquired more-or-less legitimately, he’d only set aside small amounts as an unlikely contingency plan if his secret were ever to be revealed— but he’d never actually thought he’d be caught. Now that the time had come, he found his preparation for the worst had come up woefully short. He had enough money to escape to a city known for its nameless, faceless lower class, and enough to bribe a few favors out of the populace in the first few weeks of his stay, but he had burned through his emergency funds much more quickly than anticipated.

Now he was sleeping on the streets in the cold, seemingly ceaseless rain. It was a far cry from the soft beds and warm food and luxurious surroundings he had enjoyed all these years— on the bleakest of occasions he would cry at the unfairness of it all, at how his life had been completely upended over something so stupid.

Frost never should’ve agreed to fight for Lord Champa. Never should’ve let Vados speak so freely. That Saiyan Goku must’ve battered Frost’s brain into mush along with his body— he should have denied all that Vados claimed him to be, rejected her words, openly and vehemently protested on behalf of his own honor.

But he didn’t disagree with Champa’s request, he didn’t stop Vados, he didn’t deny her accusations, and this was the result. 

Frost was cold, wet, tired. It was incredible one could expend so much energy simply struggling to survive— Frost’s belly was never quite full, his muscles never quite rested, his body never quite warm or dry. He could not simply plunder from the city to satisfy himself—  he feared being caught much more than disliked the gnawing at his belly, and so he denigrated his person to that of the common vagrant. He could not call any overt attention to himself- or else risk discovery- so he used just enough strength to secure the barest dregs to survive off of; gleaning a small bit of food here or there from unwary stores, or scrapping with other homeless for the best sleeping spots.

It was humiliating, degrading, but he had been doing it so long he’d almost gone numb to how ashamed his old self would have been. He was surviving in the meantime, and someday he would make a triumphant return and reclaim his throne as the beloved, wealthy benefactor Frost.

He stopped walking, a shiver wracking his form. He hesitated, then doubled back, going deeper into the maze of alleys scoring the city’s immense commercial district. He passed by garbage receptacles and scattered trash piles, stepping over puddles of rainwater that’d turned a murky black on contact with the ground; he was very familiar with these back-alley routes now. At one time he had felt claustrophobic, squeezing in the thin gaps between buildings twenty times his height; now he didn’t even notice how tall they loomed.

He paused. Up ahead, a fluorescent neon sign bolted on the side of a building broke up the monotonous grey-black of a drizzly night. Little specks of rain whizzed past it, illuminated for an instant before being swallowed back into the darkness. 

The glowing sign was written in a language Frost was not familiar with, but he had been here long enough to know what the store was for; liquor, what else?

There was a stoop at the back of the building; a raised door leading inside and a set of sheltered stairs that lead out into the back alley. There was an overhang projected over it, protecting the stairs from the elements. Depending on who was on shift, the manager of the liquor establishment would either remove him with prejudice, let him sleep undisturbed if he didn’t obstruct the stairs, or fetch him something soft to lay his head on while he slept. Frost didn’t recall what day it was, and so, didn’t remember which of the three managers were staffed tonight.

He took a gamble. Frost settled on a dry patch beside the foot of the stairs, leaving enough room for someone to squeeze by if necessary. The ground was hard and unforgiving, but not enough for him to give up his cloak for something to lay on. Warm always superseded comfortable. He bunched up the hood of his cloak, trying to beat it into a tolerable pillow without sacrificing the warmth of the rest of his body. 

He curled up, though couldn’t get to sleep for a long while. The rain pounding against the canopy sheltering him would have been nice when he still lived in penthouses and ate caviar— soothing, relaxing, even. Now it just reminded him that he was cold and wet and was dependent on the mercy of alcohol peddlers to stay dry. 

When Frost woke up from his slumber, it was still the characteristic gloomy black of night. The rain was still plinking against the ground, but he and his cloak had dried off a little during his rest. The side he was sleeping on ached- it must have been a little while since he’d fallen asleep- and he rolled onto his back to try to alleviate the worst of it. 

He lay there, groggily, unsure if he should go back to sleep. He would’ve been discovered by the staff by now, so it must’ve been option B working that night— the manager who couldn’t be bothered to get involved with a vagrant like Frost so long as he wasn’t causing trouble.

Unsure of whether he ought to move to a new spot, Frost stretched, tail curling behind him. He shivered when the tip caught a few droplets of freezing rain, and brought it back under his cloak. 

He was too tired to find a new place to sleep, he decided. He dozed, rain pattering into his subconscious, and he drifted for a while, halfway in reality and halfway in a dream… 

He didn’t think he’d fallen asleep until he’d been woken up again. 

Footsteps. It was the sound of slow, decisive footsteps that’d roused him. 

“Frost,” an oddly familiar voice, low and quiet, spoke into the quiet night. “Your energy wasn’t hard to track down. I could feel it from outside the city limits. Were you wagering that no one who could sense energy would come looking for you?”

Frost scrabbled up from his belly, now wide awake, and was on his feet in an instant. He dropped into a crouch, eyes darting in the dark, searching for the speaker. All he could see in the dreary gloom was the falling rain and the dark alleyways. 

The mystery speaker went on: “I can understand why you’re doing it. Your low-level form is the one everyone associates with you. Nobody outside a handful knows what your fourth form looks like, so you wagered on changing your appearance rather than lowering your ki.” 

A year’s worth of animal fear and desperation came rising to the surface, clawing to get out of Frost’s throat. He hated his life as it was, but he wanted to live. He desperately, desperately, wanted to stay safe and secure in this tumultuous existence he had secured for himself— he could not bear the humiliation of capture, the thought of dying. 

“If you know my fourth form, you were at the Tournament a year ago,” Frost said, struggling to breathe steady and even. He didn’t know fear too well in his cushy life before all this, so was unprepared to deal with it now. His heart beat a lurching, unsteady tattoo in his chest; his knees felt weak and unsteady; his stomach roiled with sickening nausea; his extremities went cold as his face went hot with his racing blood. “... It’s Hit the Assassin that’s come after me, isn’t it?” 

Fight or run away? Fight or run away? Fight or run away?  

The words thrummed through his skull but he had no answer. Making decisions under pressure was impossible when the wrong one meant you would die. 

Frost’s heart seized at the thought. Die. He felt numb. 

He knew Hit’s reputation, and from personal experience was aware that Hit was his physical superior; their little confrontation at the Seventh versus Sixth Universe Tournament told him as much. If Hit was hellbent on killing him, there was next to nothing he could do about it. Frost wouldn’t even see it coming. 

“It is,” the assassin obliged, from somewhere in the darkness. “But I’m not here to kill you.” 

Frost’s throat tightened. He did not believe that line in the slightest; it was probably a reassuring lie fed to idiots who hadn’t seen the true brutality, the cold unfairness, of the world. 

“What do you want, then?” Frost played along, seeing no other option. He had a few poison needles for emergencies—  if he could land a single strike on Hit, he could at the very least get away, if not incapacitate or kill the assassin. “You didn’t come here for a social visit.” 

“Lord Champa asked me to collect you,” Hit obliged. “The Omni-King is holding a tournament with all of the universes, and our Destroyer asked for you specifically. If you don’t come, I’ll kill you here and now.” 

“He wants me?” Frost blurted, surprised.

“Let me make the stakes clear here. If we lose the tournament, our universe is going to be erased.” Hit’s tone was grim, but the assassin did seem to be a stoic type. Frost thought for a second he was making a joke- one in poor taste- but it didn’t seem like he was laughing. 

“You… You’re serious?” 

“If I wanted to kill you you’d be dead. Toss the poison needles and come with me.” 

“... Hold on. How long do we have until this Tournament begins?” 

“Twelve hours.” 

Frost jolted, unable to contain his shock. “Twelve hours—?” He had been expecting a week at best, a day at the worst— but half a day? “If you’re joking, it isn’t funny. How long have you had notice!?” 

“Forty-eight hours. Champa contacted me at hour forty-seven. He, Vados, and I have been tracking down the rest of our competitors for the tournament— you’re the last one we needed, and were the most difficult to find.” 

Frost’s outrage at having been contacted so late withered— it must’ve taken Hit less than a day of searching to hunt him down, then… which sapped a little of the wind from Frost’s sails. He had thought he was cleverly on the lam, unable to be detected unless by happenstance— but Hit had scoured the entire universe and found him in scarcely a day. 

Frost’s tail flicked, indecisively. “Not that I won’t fight, Hit- I would be glad to battle for my universe’s survival- but now that I’ve gone into hiding, I’m not in the finest of shape… Especially if you want me to fight without my poison—” 

“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Hit said, stepping out from the gloom. “Come with me.” 

/ / /

Frost had assumed they would be going straight to Champa, for instructions or training or what-have-you, but he was wrong. Hit’s steady stride was taking them into the heart of the city; a nexus of life with glaring lights that caught the rain and the constant patrol of pedestrian and vehicular traffic. It was everything that Frost had shied away from in his new life. In the old days would’ve strolled through these streets like a king, signing autographs and posing for pictures and modestly batting down praise; now the sight of lights, of people, made him unbearably nervous. 

Frost kept his head down and stuck close to Hit. If the assassin was being honest about Lord Champa’s request, then he would have a vested interest in making sure that Frost wasn’t arrested. 

They finally came to a stop in front of a grand, opulent building; a hotel, by Frost’s estimation, and one that he wouldn’t have minded staying at back when he was still known as the smiling, horned savior of orphans. The lights were bright and glaring, even in the depths of night— there were a few wealthy-looking patrons strolling through the plazas and the richly decorated foyer, visible through the clear glass doors. 

Hit must’ve been able to sense him tense up, or else he knew Frost’s mental state too well for comfort. The tall assassin glanced down at him.

“Don’t draw attention to yourself. Stay calm.” 

“What are we doing here?” Frost demanded, quietly. He itched for his needles back; Hit had forced him to discard them all, including the hidden spurs, before they had left the alleyway.

“As you said, you’re not at your best. You need to eat, sleep, and bathe. It won’t recover you entirely, but it’ll be better than nothing. Let’s go.” 

Frost knew better than to argue- what counter did he have to that?- and simply followed after Hit. They went straight through the lobby, into an elevator, and up to one of the suites without bothering to check in. They went unaccosted by any employees, security, or guests. (Though there was at least one stray glance sent their way from a patron, seemingly offended at how shabby Frost’s appearance was.) It appeared Hit must’ve planned this stay out in advance, because he was pulling the room key out of his pocket and opening up their room without a single word. 

The suite was large. Certainly enough to more than enough to comfortably house Frost and Hit; the shorter alien spared a moment to wonder if this was Hit splurging on residence- he didn’t seem the type for luxuriant hotels- or Champa’s expensive booking, whom Frost could not see accommodating for more than the bare minimum. 

“Get clean,” Hit ordered, as soon as the door was closed, and Frost felt a tingle of indignation at being barked at like a subordinate. “By the time you’re done, dinner will be waiting.” 

Frost slowly removed his sodden, rain-slicked cloak- suppressing the feeling of nakedness and vulnerability he felt without it- and set the garment aside. With one final passing glance at Hit- who returned his look coolly- Frost searched for a place to get clean after months of his only washing being hypothermia-inducing rain showers. 

His search eventually turned up a very nice washroom. Marbled counters, artfully patterned tile floors, and gleaming facilities; the colors of countertops, the floor, the walls, and the decorations were obviously picked with a designer’s discerning eye, and the presence of modern artwork, polished metals, and exotic plants lent a very appreciated sense of immodest wealth to the whole picture. 

Bathing was an indulgence Frost hadn’t had for a very long time, and he would be damned if he wouldn’t make the most of it. He would have a shower and remove the caked-in grime from the streets, then relax in a luxuriant bath… The awaiting candles, herbs, soaps, and incense dotted around the room, waiting for use, hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

He spared a moment to stare at himself in a silver, polished mirror mounted on the wall, and did not particularly enjoy what he found there. He had lost weight, even though he was already fairly thin— over these months, his posture had grown naturally more reserved and hunched. His skin was grimy where it wasn’t wet, and he looked to be sickly and sleep deprived.

He moved on.

Water- hot, blessedly hot after months of cold- streamed over his bare body. He groomed under the steaming spray with vigor; scrubbing himself raw to return his skin to its usual luster, washing between the joints of his fingers and toes, letting a cloth glide over every inch of his skin. The light frothiness of the soap tingled over his grubby flesh; he massaged his tail, his muscles, his legs and chest and arms, drawing the filth away. He reveled in the feeling of being clean. 

After a while, he turned off the water. He dried himself with a towel, and hung it up when finished. 

Frost checked in the gleaming mirror on the wall; he looked much better, much brighter, less dingy. His skin was still a little sensitive from the intensity of the clean, but he’d be over it in time. 

He started a bath. The water quickly rushed in to fill the circular depression in the ground; there were little bubble jets and lights, and enough room for a handful of people to bathe together. While it was filling, Frost dimmed the lights and lit the candles and incense; he scattered a handful of flower petals over the surface of the steaming water, and it began to foam from soap. The air became fragrant; sweet and floral and pleasant, just slightly smoky. 

He turned the water off, and gently settled into the bath. It was hot, yes, but pleasant; it cradled his weary limbs and thick tail, and his eyes grew heavy-lidded at the sheer hedonism of a long-awaited warm bath. 

He drowsily puttered through a few more cleanliness rituals, struggling to not fall asleep at the pleasantness of it all; he lazily filed his nails, applied a moisturizing cream to his face, washed out his mouth and cleaned his teeth. He was almost asleep when a sharp rap on the door disturbed his dozing. 

He jolted in the bath, water sloshing, the fragrant petals and shiny mountains of foamy bubbles rocking with the motion.

“Frost,” it was Hit, as if it would be anyone else. “We don’t have forever. Hurry up.” 

“Right,” Frost muttered. It took about a half hour to get here- maybe a little more- and he’d spent probably a shade under an hour pampering himself…

He climbed out, water swirling at his exit, and drained the bath. He pinched out the candles, blew out the incense, and dried himself off with a new towel.

He felt heavy, satisfied. Despite the dire circumstances he would be facing in ten hours… he was glad that he had gotten the chance to enjoy this kind of primping once again. 

He stepped through the bathroom door, closing it quietly behind himself. Hit was waiting for him.

“You look better,” Hit said. 

“I feel better,” Frost replied, wryly. “You don’t know how bad you have it until you’ve forgone bathing for…” 

He trailed off. Hit must’ve called for room service while Frost was soaking; the scent of food curled pleasantly through the air, clutching at Frost’s stomach. His last meal… what had his last meal been? Frost didn’t quite remember. Bread, maybe? Sometime during the previous morning? 

There, placed upon a table in the spacious living room, was the source of the delectable smell. 

There was a reasonably sized portion of food waiting there. The core of it seemed to be meat, cooked to a seemingly perfect tenderness, glazed with an intriguing-looking sauce… it was plated with vegetables and mushrooms, sprinkled with some kind of chive or onion… There was a second plate, too, scarcely touched though visibly missing a small slice of its meat. Hit’s, he presumed. 

Frost was no animal, even if he was hungry. He gestured to the plates. 

“Excuse me. One of those is for me, isn’t it?” 

Hit gave a slow nod, which Frost took as permission to eat. The smaller alien walked over and sat down; he didn’t move in the throes of desperation, but he certainly wasn’t taking his time, either. 

The meat was rich and flavorful; its texture was pleasant to the mouth and rich in his throat. Everything had been cooked to an absolute perfection, and he felt fairly close to crying after a few mouthfuls. The vegetables were soft and warm, the mushrooms complimented the meat, and the sauce was to die for. 

It was strange how living life on the lam made you appreciate things that had once been ordinary to you.  

Hit joined him, though the assassin seemed content to peck at his food rather than eat properly. Frost was halfway finished before he’d managed a measly fourth, even with the assassin’s head start.

“Are you not hungry?” Frost asked, swallowing a morsel. 

“No.”

“Concerned about the upcoming Tournament?” Frost guessed. 

“Of course I am. If we fail, we all die.” 

Frost thought for a moment, tail swaying indecisively. “I didn’t get to see that last Saiyan fight in the tournament a year ago— Begeta, I think? Is he who you’re worried about?” 

“Not him. Goku, the one you fought. He returned to the matches once you were disqualified, and gave me a lot of trouble.”

Frost hesitated. He lowered his fork. “I may not sense energy well, but I can tell you’ve gotten stronger, Hit. Isn’t that enough to win?” 

“I have improved. But undoubtedly so has Goku.” Hit closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to be thinking. Whatever was going on in his head, it looked like it troubled him greatly. “His capacity for improvement in the middle of battle was like nothing I’d ever seen… Not to mention we don’t know at all who or what the other universes have selected.”

Nervousness prickled at Frost. He tried to suppress it. Focus on the meal. “Ah, well… I heard the Saiyans in our universe have a new trick. It had some cute, catchy little name, like Special-Saiyan. Super Saiyan?” Hit nodded in affirmation, and Frost went on. “Won’t that help us even the odds?” 

“Maybe so… But that just puts us on even footing with the Seventh.” Hit looked up from his plate, tilting his head slightly to regard Frost. His cold red eyes were surprisingly neutral. “Though… I can tell you’ve mastered control over your current form this past year. It’s clear your power has matured… I guess your life on the lam was good for something after all.”

A snarky comment rose in Frost’s throat, then gradually settled back down. He didn’t want to get in a verbal spat with Hit— so he’d take that one on the chin. 

Silence reigned after that; the only sound was the gentle clink of silverware on dishware, and soft chewing. 

“I don’t suppose you could have a bottle of wine sent up here?” Frost ventured, tentatively. 

Hit narrowed his eyes.

“No, of course not,” Frost sighed, resignedly. “I should have a clear head for the fight to come. I know. But I’m sure they must have a nice rosé—”

Hit’s glare did not soften. Frost lowered his head and returned to his food. He would be content with water, it seemed.

The meal drew to a close. Hit managed about half of his plate before giving up, and Frost managed to restrain himself from asking for the rest. Stuffing yourself before a fight was a good way to ensure you lost— even if you were hungry. 

“You can get six hours’ sleep,” Hit informed him. “Then we’re going to be going to Champa’s world to meet with the rest of our team and strategize, and then we’re heading for the Tournament.” 

Frost stood, nodding in understanding. After the luxurious treatment he’d given himself in the bath, he was feeling a little drowsy, and having a full belly certainly didn’t hurt matters… He was looking forward to those six hours.

Hit directed him to one of the bedrooms (there were two in their suite; a small one and a master, the latter of which, surprisingly, was where Hit brought him). It had the usual amenities to be expected; a few glowing projected holo-screens for entertainment, a massive and comfortable bed piled high with pillows, a walk-in closet, a small attached bathroom, an ornate desk, and a handful of couches clustered around a low-to-the-ground table. There was ample artwork hung on the walls or displayed on shelves, brass-plated light fixtures, and a glitzy gold-red coloring to most of the decor. 

Frost switched one of the holo-screens on, allowing the news to idly hum in the background while he investigated the room. Before a severe drop in his standards brought on by becoming an inter-universal fugitive, he had liked to fall asleep to the gentle droning of a news anchor or some other unintrusive noise. 

The small alien placed an exploratory hand on the mattress, testing its firmness; it was springy, pleasantly soft yet also resistant to the touch. He almost slavered at the thought of sleeping on it. 

Slowly, he crawled under the lush covers and placed his full weight on the mattress. He sank into the bed slightly, and nearly groaned in joy. It was like sleeping on a cloud; no more aching back or ribs or neck or spine… this would probably be the best six hours of sleep he’d had in nearly a year. It was so damned comfortable that he wanted to weep; he’d been missing this for so long and he finally had it back. 

He curled up on his side, being considerate of his tail, and was ready to drift off into sleep and wake up refreshed to fight to protect his universe in the morning— as an idle, excited thought, he wondered if perhaps just maybe he could redeem himself in the eyes of the people if he won the Tournament… 

(And to think, scarcely hours ago he had been sleeping outside a liquor store in the rain.)

Frost happened a stray glance at the entryway right before he was going to doze off, and was surprised to see Hit still lingering there. Frost shook himself more awake, switched off the news broadcast, and sat up in bed to regard the assassin.

“Something wrong?”

Perfectly placid, Hit said: “Champa was the one who ordered me to get you, but Vados was the one who arranged for this room and this evening. She gave me explicit instructions on a few things. Find you, put you up in a nice hotel, let you bathe, eat, and sleep.” 

Frost sensed something unpleasant coming. He forced his muscles- tired from work, tired from pampering- to tense, and regarded Hit with a wary eye. 

“... What are you getting at?”

“She gave me another order,” Hit obliged. “This isn’t personal.”

That was the last thing Frost wanted to hear out of the assassin’s mouth. He shifted backwards a little, wondering if this had all been some kind of merciful ruse designed to get him to drop his guard, or some kind of psychological torment to make his end more painful. Either way, Frost lashed his tail, knocking the covers away, and braced for a fight. His ki built up in his chest, flooding in and venting out like a wellspring of strength.

“Control yourself,” Hit ordered. He seemed perfectly in command of the situation still, but there was the barest shadow of surprise on his face; hopefully Frost’s flashy show of power was enough to deter him from picking a fight. “I wasn’t sent here to kill you. Vados didn’t want you harmed at all.” 

“Then what are you doing?” Frost demanded, uneasily. 

“Vados told me a lot about your species; knowledge that’s hard to come by, since there are so few of you.” Hit was gradually approaching the bed, one foot carefully after another, and it was making Frost even more nervous. “She told me you’re imbalanced. And that you’ll be stronger when you’ve stabilized.”

Thoughts fluttered through Frost, lightning fast. 

He can’t mean—

He’s not serious.

Is he?

“Vados… Vados told y—?”

“You’ve spent nearly a year on the run. I’m assuming in that time you haven’t trusted anyone enough to help you… given that they could easily turn you in.” 

“I feel fine.” Frost’s face colored, heat rushing to his head. Hit was serious. 

“Your strength is scrambled now,” Hit told him. “Even though your power has matured and you’ve become stronger since the match between the Sixth and Seventh, it’s still fluctuating. Once you’re stabilized… you’ll be a real force to be reckoned with.” There was a pause, and Hit added, “If you were then as you are now, I might not have been able to beat you a year ago.” 

Frost trembled, a rush of thoughts and feelings swirling through his mind; strobing flashes of uncertainty had him smoldering with hot and cold. 

“You… you can’t ask this of me,” he blustered.

“I wasn’t asking,” Hit replied. “Vados gave me an order.” 

Frost moved first. 

He sprang off the bed, tail flying to cinch around Hit’s throat; the assassin caught him in mid-flight, wrapping his hands around Frost’s tail, and slammed him down against the bed.

It gave a horrible, shuddering creak, clearly not pleased with the strength displayed by the two. With the knowledge of Hit’s intentions, Frost’s mind had gone into a blind panic, with only one thought: 

Get him away from me! 

The two wrestled on the bed thoughtlessly, ripping off the sheets and sending the duvet flying to the ground; pillows soared through the air and sent smaller bits of furniture toppling to the floor, and the bed swayed and groaned through the course of their unsophisticated little fight.

Hit was stronger, unquestionably, and more favorably positioned, but he was hindered by trying not to hurt Frost. Frost was smaller, weaker, and pinned beneath him, but he had an extra limb to use, and had no such qualms about hurting Hit. 

“Get off of m—” Frost shouted. Hit shoved one of the plentiful pillows into his face, pressing it against Frost’s mouth and nose with his elbow; he used his hand to combat Frost’s desperate swings. 

Frost grew frenzied— thrashing, vocalizing, tail wrapping around Hit’s leg to try to pull him off. His eyes bulged as he desperately tried to suck in air, but there was none to breathe. Soundlessly, he tried to claw at Hit’s elbow, to force him off, but he didn’t budge. 

Frost’s lungs burned. His eyes watered. His vision was starting to go black, and his thoughts were getting less cohesive, less articulate. His fingers and toes and tail-tip had gone numb, and his whole chest screamed for a breath. 

Please please please not like this not like this—! 

At what felt like much too late, Hit finally pulled the pillow away. 

Frost inhaled as soon as he was able, then began coughing, quickly followed by retching. His entire body trembled with shock, and sweet oxygen began to course through his veins once more. He struggled for a while to simply inhale, gasping and choking, until his lungs were finally working as they should. His chest hurt. The dinner he’d just eaten rose in his throat, acidic and thick, until he forcefully swallowed it back down. 

“It’ll be easier if you don’t struggle,” Hit told him, as if he didn’t already know. It would’ve sounded condescending from anyone else. 

“I— I…” Frost didn’t want this. Sweet Supreme Kai in the heavens, he didn’t want this. Not with anyone and certainly not with Hit.

His species had a heat cycle. Many alien races did; it was efficient for reproduction in most cases. Normally in modern times one of Frost’s species would take medicine to suppress sexual urges or stabilize their body chemistry- supposing they didn’t have a partner to help them take care of it- but Frost hadn’t been able to take any for the past year, for obvious reasons.

He wasn’t feeling any of the physical symptoms of heat, but if what Hit was saying was true, then it wouldn’t be out of the question to assume that his power was fluctuating with his hormones. (He wouldn’t know. He hadn’t been using it.)

That… obviously… would make Frost unreliable when it came down to a fight where every point of power and every scrap of strategy mattered. At this stage it was too late to dose Frost with suppressants; you needed multiple tablets over a span of several days, and they didn’t have that kind of time. The only option left before them was… manual stabilization. Copulation with a partner would do it… even if it wasn’t one of his own kind. 

All this to say Frost understood the why of it very well— he was just not keen on having the assassin do anything between his legs. His weighty tail curled upward, defending his cloaca, and he gave Hit a defiant glare. 

Hit was less than impressed. As a matter of fact, it looked like he was losing his patience. “Frost. Your compliance will make this faster.” 

“You— you think I’d just roll on my belly and let you do this to me!? I am not stock to be bred on Champa’s whim!” Frost hissed back. “Least of all by you— you humiliated me at the Tournament a year ago—!” 

Hit glared down at him, red eyes flashing with a rare intensity.

“Move your tail.” 

Frost remembered, in vivid detail, the dozen injuries Hit granted him at the Tournament, all without even moving. Remembered the horrible suffocation of mere moments ago. Knew that if Hit wanted, he could more likely than not remove Frost’s tail with a more permanent method. 

Slowly, uneasily, Frost lowered his tail, though the muscles in his cloaca were tightly contracted in protest. Hit opened the nearby dresser, retrieving a plain-looking bottle, and drizzled some clear, viscous substance onto his fingers. 

“Vados was very clear on your anatomy,” Hit said, soothingly. For a renowned assassin, he didn’t sound too heartless. “This won’t hurt.” 

His fingers were warm, though the gelled lubricant was cold. Frost gave an uncertain hiss at the touch.

Hit slowly traced soothing circles over Frost’s resisting hole; he made no efforts to delve in right away, simply massaging until Frost was used to the contact. Once he’d reluctantly loosened of his own volition, Hit’s first finger moved to breach. Frost’s nerves were buzzing in intrigue by now, tantalized by the repetitive circling; when it finally sank in, he gave an undignified shudder of bliss.

Hit worked it slowly; pumping in and out, gaining more ground with each steady motion. Frost’s body shook, and Hit slid to the knuckle. 

There was a squelch now, with every little twist and curl of Hit’s finger. Frost’s body was responding, gleefully, to the intrusion; producing plenty of slick to ease the way. 

Frost didn’t want to look. He’d cast his gaze off to the side, where a partially-curtained window looked out over the city. Lying prone, he couldn’t see out of it— only the pattering raindrops hitting the pane. 

Hit twisted his finger in just the right way and Frost gave an undignified whimper, his toes curling. The pad of Hit’s finger grazed a sensitive spot, once, twice, three times; Frost began to pant, his exhales labored and whiny. 

Hit pushed in a second finger. Frost had begun to feel the slight burn of just a little stretch— but the slow pleasure of Hit’s fingering was wearing down the discomfort, shocking Frost’s spine with bolts of ecstasy. The smaller alien’s heart was fluttering, breaths coming in short huffs; he felt good, unreasonably good. 

Hit knew what he was doing. He was hitting all the right spots, going at just the right tempo, moving in just the right ways. Frost’s head was spinning, dizzy with lust and pleasure. 

Hit pushed in a third. Frost had only ever fingered himself with three, and his hands were smaller than Hit’s; he shifted, groaning at the feeling. The stretch was almost something like pain now, though not urgent enough to have him struggle. 

“N-no, Hit— Two is enough—” Frost told him, breathily. Hit sank his third digit in deeper, and the smaller alien squirmed, clenching his muscles as if to expel the intruder. Frost’s thighs squeezed together, involuntarily, but Hit was undeterred.

“You’ll need to adjust,” the assassin said, patiently. The third finger delved deeper, straining Frost’s walls. 

“H-Hit, it’s too much,” Frost panted. When his warning went unheeded, he snapped up his tail and clamped it around Hit’s arm, holding it in place. “D- Don’t ignore me—”

Hit didn’t even move before a sudden excruciating pain shot through Frost’s tail. The smaller alien gave a short cry of pain, letting Hit go out of surprise, and the assassin wordlessly continued to push in. 

Nursing a smarting tail and an overfull cloaca, Frost bit his inner lip and tried to think of something other than the humiliation he was suffering through. Caviar, hot baths, soft pillows- there was a bolt of sensation, of pure shock, as Hit pushed his third finger to the knuckle, and a gush of slick trickled down the rim of his cloaca to the junction of Frost’s tail; humiliating, sickening, but also causing him to arch in a blend of pleasure and pain- incense, wine, dessert… 

Hit pulled his fingers free. Frost’s walls shuddered at the loss, clamping down around nothing. He hated the sudden feeling of emptiness— like he’d lost something.

“You’ll want to be on your stomach,” Hit said, brusquely.

“I— I am not a broodmare! I w-won’t be mounted by y-you—” Frost stammered. 

“On your stomach, Frost.” 

Frost swung his tail at Hit in protest, to no avail; Hit caught it, giving a reprimanding squeeze (Frost spat out a curse) and moved to manually turn Frost over himself. 

Frost was manhandled by the assassin, quickly being flipped onto his belly. Gravity had his leaking slick begin drooling out in the opposite direction, and it felt wholly unpleasant. He clenched his cloaca in a futile attempt to keep it in. 

“Keep your hands in front of you or I’ll have to pin them down,” Hit ordered. Frost bridled against the command, but reluctantly stretched out his arms to lay them nearly against the headboard. 

Did they really have to do this? Really? Really? Did a minute increase in Frost’s power matter so much? 

Hit shifted his heavy tail out of the way. Frost resisted the urge to strike him with it; it’d suffered enough abuse today, and was still throbbing from damage it’d taken earlier. He wasn’t keen on having Hit hurt him again. 

Hit’s fingers slid over his cloaca, and Frost bit back a groan. He could feel his hole had grown puffy and swollen in Hit’s absence, flushed with heat and eagerly awaiting a partner; it was embarrassing that his own body had fallen apart so quickly.

Hit’s fingers pried his resisting hole open; they stretched Frost’s walls, opening him up in preparation for… 

Frost hazarded a glance back. Hit had unbuckled his belt, but his characteristic coat was still on. It seemed like this was all business for him, then… 

At this angle, Frost couldn’t tell what his reproductive anatomy looked like. But soon enough he could feel it— the hot press of Hit’s sex meeting Frost’s. There were a few seconds of calm- allowing Frost to feel the tip against his hole, to adjust to the feeling- before it began to push in.

Hit’s shaft was thick, whatever it happened to look like. Frost’s race was small, with small reproductive organs— he began to wonder, uneasily, if they would have difficulty copulating because of it… and that wonder quickly collapsed into alarm. 

Hit began to sink in. The stretch at his entrance was unpleasant; Frost’s walls clung to his shaft, only reluctantly parting with his persistence. The assassin’s member was unpleasantly girthy, hot and huge, and though Frost tried to console himself with the thought that it’d be over soon, he couldn’t help but to squirm. 

“Hit— Hit— That— hurts ,” Frost reported, panting. “I d— I don’t think this is going to work. J— just—”

Hit’s hand came up to cradle Frost’s stomach, comfortingly stroking his belly as if to reassure him. The smaller alien shivered at the touch. 

“It’ll be over soon,” Hit told him, which was not the reassurance that Frost wanted to hear. The smaller alien closed his eyes, struggling to steadily breathe. His brain was chiming in the multitude of sensations in an incoherent jumble, feelings like pain and pleasure and discomfort and heat and slickness all trouncing about his skull with no reprieve. He clenched his fists, wanting badly to turn around and force Hit off of him, but he kept his hands where instructed. 

Hit did not relent, slowly but surely force-feeding his length in; his gentle touch to Frost’s stomach was soothing, but unwavering.

Hit did not go all the way to the hilt before pulling back. He began to withdraw and Frost gave a laborious groan at the feeling; his tight walls clung to Hit like a vice, reluctant to release him, and the disgraced hero could feel every little bit of electrifying friction as Hit slid out at a torturously slow pace. Frost’s body assaulted him with a barrage of sensation, overstimulated to fraying, and he pressed his cheek against the mattress, trying to not lose it. 

Hit pushed back in. Frost gave a tortured moan, his nails biting into his palms. His insides continued to resist Hit’s girth; they did not part easily or painlessly for his entry, but the assassin did not waver.

“Unh,” Frost’s tail thudded thoughtlessly against the mattress. Hit was sliding in deeper than he had before, and Frost’s body was not enjoying it. “Hit— Hit— this hurts.” Appealing to Hit’s empathy hadn’t worked yet, though, so Frost tried entreating Hit’s reasonable side: “You— You can’t expect me to fight tomorrow like this…” 

“If there’s any lasting issues… Vados will restore your body on Champa’s world,” Hit breathed. He pulled out, and it was all Frost could do to give a long groan to the air. He felt hot, dizzy, weak. His cloaca was buzzing from the contact, slippery from sex, and his sensitive walls were already aching. 

Hit was so… 

There was so much… 

Frost was whimpering on his exhales, breathing strained. Hit pushed back in again and Frost gave a low cry, his tail curling at the rush of pleasure-pain. 

“Why… did it have to be you?” Frost hissed to the air, bitterly. He would’ve preferred the Saiyan runt Cabba; at least he would be smaller in stature, easier to bully and walk over than a murderous assassin. 

(Frost stopped that line of thought when he realized that this task could’ve been the responsibility of Botamo or Magetta— both of which would’ve been far, far worse than Hit.) 

Hit let Frost’s insult go without a word of acknowledgement or complaint. He continued the gentle stroking of Frost’s stomach, sliding up the flat plane of his belly to Frost’s chest; he kneaded soothing circles into Frost’s wearied muscles, seemingly trying to draw attention away from the cock trying to split him down the middle. Hit was pressing, slowly but surely, deeper and deeper into Frost with every push-and-pull of his hips… 

“Ungh—”

Hit’s slow, smooth rhythm came to a gentle halt. Frost shivered. They were flush with one another now; Hit had buried himself to the root, resting comfortably in Frost’s insides. The feeling of his whole member, hot and thick in Frost’s small body, was not pleasant, but it wasn’t excruciating or completely intolerable . Their respective anatomies were not made for mating with one another, clearly, but Hit was at least in the same realm of reasonable… 

“H, h, ah…” Frost squirmed, trying to see if moving would award him a more comfortable position… but even the smallest motion was like a bolt of lightning through his body, jostling around the anchor of Hit’s sex. The assassin’s length was so— so damned weighty inside him… 

And Frost wasn’t the only one who was feeling it— Hit was starting to sweat, at least a little. Glancing back, Frost could see beads of perspiration glittering on his stoic brow. The assassin’s face was schooled into impassivity, but there was a slight, almost unnoticeable clench to his jaw. 

“Does it still hurt?” Hit asked, slightly breathless. 

Yes, Frost wanted to shout at him. There was an aching, burning heat underscoring Hit’s presence in Frost’s most sensitive regions. The disgraced hero was going to be sore later, if not outright unable to walk in the morning. His entire lower body was trembling. 

“I… it hurts,” Frost muttered, trying to sound as though he were still in control. He would keep his dignity, if nothing else. 

Hit remained stationary for a moment, then considerately pulled back. 

The assassin began more shallow thrusts, ones that made Frost groan and shudder. They felt less like breaking in half, and more deliberately pleasurable— the immediate pain of the stretch had lessened to a dull ache in the absence of his whole length. Hit, deliberately or not, was angled right and just far enough in to target the thickest bundle of pleasure nerves in Frost’s reproductive anatomy; he repeatedly abused that region with short, quick thrusts. 

(How deep had Vados’s education gone…? Frost recalled him massaging that spot at the very beginning of this mess— did he know?)

Hit sped up. Faster, sharper thrusts, ones more ably accommodated by Frost’s body with gradual adjustment and the oozing slick he was producing. Each movement was a dizzying punch to Frost’s core, superseding the earlier aching pain; the disgraced faux-hero began to groan in earnest, finding himself unable to keep from writhing in bliss. His tail arched, knees pushing up for a steeper angle, body swaying against Hit’s movements as he began to get closer to release. 

His primal mind knew the motions, even if he did not want to acknowledge it. Frost’s tail coiled loosely around Hit’s waist- an action only barely tolerated by the assassin, but to Frost, an expected gesture of his species’ mating rituals- and the disgraced hero began mumbling nonsense in both the common language and his native tongue. Praise, curses, incoherent words choked by groans— his pants for breath were high and fast, and he could never snatch enough air to satisfy himself for long. His body was blistering hot, his head thick and fuzzy, and his skin shone with perspiration; his lower body tightened with the tense heat of orgasm, all the while Hit’s thrusts sent electric pleasure skittering up his spine.

Gradually, Hit pushed deeper into Frost. The pleasure of earlier grew more raw, edging on painful; Frost gave a low cry at a particularly forceful thrust, fingers fisting against the bedding. Hit must’ve taken that as encouragement; he deepened his bucks into Frost’s body, pounding his way through some resistance. Frost’s innate slick and the motions of sex had eased the way more since Hit’s first push to the root, but the assassin’s girth was still overwhelming to Frost’s tight, overstimulated body. His insides had begun to ache from the stretch again; stung with any deep, sudden jabs. 

“Ghgh— Hit, not so— don’t—” Frost gasped. “Hurts, I said—”

Hit didn’t seem to be listening anymore. His breath was growing strained, and he had been quietly groaning along with Frost ever since he’d begun to thrust in earnest. He seemed— preoccupied. 

Frost twisted his head, trying to get a look at the assassin— there was something dark and pleasurable in Hit’s eyes, strangely glazed and lustful. Frost had never seen anything like it on the assassin’s face before, and the chill of fear temporarily overrode the heat of pleasure and pain. 

His tail cinched around Hit’s waist; a few dozen pounds of weighty, flexible muscle moved, hellbent on crushing Hit’s body and forcing the breath from his lungs. The assassin gave a sharp, involuntary exhale- snapping out of his apparent trance- and immediately grabbed at the offending appendage. Hit was unquestionably the stronger of the two, but it was the strength of a single arm and poor leverage versus Frost’s tail of pure muscle and good positioning. It took a moment for Hit to pry it free, and while he was preoccupied, Frost made his case: 

“I said it before, and I won’t say it again! Don’t ignore me, Hit! I am not your sex toy!” Frost bawled. “I said it hurts!” 

Hit squeezed, thumb digging into the developing bruise he’d set into Frost’s tail earlier; Frost yowled indignantly, but refused to desist. Only when he felt the stabbing pain of a potentially cracking tail vertebrae did he finally give up and let go, whipping his tail to the side as a concession.

The two paused for a moment, brought to a temporary stalemate; both of them now existed in a small, liminal window of calm, breathing heavily and trying to recover. Frost’s hole was twitching, leaking slick… he could feel Hit’s loss like an emptiness in his body, an absence waiting to be filled. Even so, his innards ached unpleasantly at the intrusion he’d already been subjected to. 

Hit’s member was visible to Frost for the first time; even accounting for his greater size, the assassin’s sex was longer and thicker, proportionally, than the majority of Frost’s species. It was flushed a deep purple, engorged with blood and shiny with manufactured lubricant and Frost’s natural slick. It was fairly unremarkable in shape and features as far as the reproductive anatomy of aliens went. 

“We’re wasting time,” Hit said, finally. 

“You are not putting that beastly thing inside me again,” Frost dictated, clamping his tail between his legs to shield his abused cloaca. “If you do, then I won’t fight in the Tournament.”

“If you don’t fight in the Tournament, I’ll kill you here and now,” Hit told him. “It’s your life at stake here, Frost. You’re not in a position to bargain.” 

“Y-you—! Guh, this is humiliating— and you don’t even want this either!” Frost blustered. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I intend on winning, so I’ll do whatever gives my universe a better chance.” Hit paused. “We were close to being done. Now, just lie back and let’s get this over with.”

“You wretched, smug, impudent...” Frost seethed. “Would you be so brusque if our positions were reversed?”

Hit remained unperturbed. “Yes.” There was a brief pause, pregnant with tension. Hit, obligingly, continued: “If I have to ask you to move your tail one more time, I’m going to tear it off.” 

Frost bit his inner cheek, indecisive. He shifted his approach. 

“After spending a year in this form, I can control my energy much better than I could before,” he said, low and sweet. “You said as much yourself. If I’m careful, Vados won’t know about us not coupling. I can pay for your silence, the same way she bought you. I was one of the wealthiest people in the cosmos—”

“No.” 

Frost jolted in surprise. He had assumed Hit’s only motivation was money, and survival, to an extent. Denying Frost’s price… was an uncharacteristic move. 

“Wh—?” 

“For one… you don’t have that money now, and I take my payment upfront. For another, Vados pays better than any client I’ve seen so far, and I’d be a fool to jeopardize our working relationship for you. For my final reason… I’m not going to half-ass a job that could kill me if I don’t do it right.” His impassive face darkened with a scowl that chilled Frost to his bones. “Move. Your tail. Now.”

Frost thought for a minute, trying to think of reasonable demands before he conceded. Any request he might’ve made- stick just to fingering, let me hurt you if you hurt me, forget all this, change positions so I’m on top or on my back- were all discarded, since they’d either be rejected by Hit or make the current situation worse. 

Frost settled for complaining instead. 

“I may be durable, but I do feel pain,” Frost muttered. “It hurts. Don’t you have any sympathy for that?”

“Do you have any sympathy for all the orphans you’ve made?” Hit replied, blithely. It was a situation of glass houses and stones; Frost’s response, berating Hit for daring to say as much when he was a paid hitman, was wisely left unsaid. 

“Guh,” Frost groaned, reluctantly kinking his tail over his back. “Don’t get things confused. This is not a victory over me, Hit— and to get things clear, I am not a warm hole for you to abuse, or a conquest for you to gloat over!” 

Hit’s expression offered Frost nothing. His warm fingers traced Frost’s outer rim considerately, then pushed in. Frost was scissored with ruthless, businesslike efficiency, and the former hero was nearly degraded to mewling in pleasure from targeted attention to his most sensitive spots. 

“Ungh— unhhh…” 

He’d begun drooling slick again. He could feel it pooling in his sex and spilling out, trying to drip down his legs. It was shameful, humiliating— almost as bad as his sudden inability to do anything other than tremble and groan from the skillful touch of Hit’s fingers. 

Hit pulled them out- Frost sincerely fighting the urge to whine at the loss- and replaced them with his member. Frost inhaled sharply at its intrusion, trying not to tense up, and remained perfectly motionless as Hit pushed to the root.

Frost’s head was cloudy, fogged with a volatile cocktail of pleasure, pain, and lust. He couldn’t get over the feeling of how small he was in comparison to Hit, being spread and stuffed by a damned assassin on a job… he could feel Hit’s heat, his girth, bulging inside his body; every last damned inch of it pressing into him. 

He cried out when Hit slid back. Sensitive nerves snapped with pain and pleasure, blitzing Frost’s nervous system. The assassin worked into a rhythm, slow and easy, sliding in and out; Frost bore it with as little complaint as possible, inhaling sharply on the upstrokes and whimpering on the downstrokes, interspersed with moans, groans, and soft keens. He’d torn holes in the mattress with his nails.

He felt so… full, and the only outlets available to him were to whine and squirm, or shudder helplessly and huff insufficient breaths into the bedding. 

(There was also the ability to flex his muscles, but he was trying to keep his lower body still, to make this as painless as possible. When he involuntarily clenched down on a particularly hard thrust, Hit gave a hot-sounding hiss of pleasure and bucked deeper, wrenching a pained cry from Frost.) 

His slick was coating his entrance by now; more of it was squelching out of his cloaca with each of Hit’s thrusts. It was mortifying how wet he was, how eager his body was to accept Hit… He hadn’t felt like he was in his estrus, but this much suggested that his body was more than ready to be bred.

Hit’s thrusts intensified. He adjusted his angle, forcing Frost’s shoulders down and his knees up; he drove into Frost with newfound determination and force, pummeling his insides with a hereto unseen vigor. 

He’s going to finish inside me! Frost realized, instantly indignant. It may have been a necessary part of the efforts to stabilize Frost’s heat-induced hormones, but it hadn’t dawned on him until now that Hit was genuinely going to do it. Of all the humiliating—! 

Hit was bucking into him with a vengeance now, shocking Frost with bolts of intertwined agony and ecstasy; Frost’s tongue tangled in his mouth, words of complaint being swept up in frantic, repetitive whines of overstimulation. There was pain, then pleasure, then pain again, trampling over one another to try to get through Frost’s neural system first . Their bodies rammed together, meeting with weighty slaps of flesh on flesh; Hit had begun to lose his tight-fisted control, chasing his own climax.

Frost loosely wrapped his tail around Hit, unable to do more than cry out and hold on for dear life. He shouted the assassin’s name unthinkingly— Hit, Hit, Hit!— unsure of what he even intended it to mean. 

Hit drove in again and gave a deep, shuddering groan; his hips rabbited, shallow little motions, as he came. Frost’s already wet, warm, and swollen insides did not especially change at the addition of Hit’s seed; he shivered at the feeling of hot, viscous fluid coating his insides so deeply, but stayed otherwise still. 

Hit remained buried in Frost for a moment as he came down from his orgasm; his breath lurched, unsteady, and his thick member began to soften. Frost let out a low, jagged breath when it was pulled free. 

He felt… 

Battered, now that it was all over. His innards were wrecked; they were still trying to clamp down on a huge, phantom shaft that was no longer there, and Frost was a mess of seed and slick, shivering slightly from overstimulation. His puffy, swollen cloaca had begun to twitch, for the Kais’s sake… All that while still aching at the monstrous length he had just taken. 

Frost reluctantly began to rise, feeling he was more than entitled to another bath, even if he might not be able to make it there under his own steam. 

Hit pushed him back down.

“Not done,” he muttered. He looked to still be clearing up from his climax; he was looking a little less cool and composed than he usually was. His red eyes were fogged— distant, almost. 

“If— if you shove that thing into me again—” Frost began to threaten, weakly.

“I’m not,” Hit reassured. “Here.” 

Hit gingerly turned Frost onto his back; Frost permitted him to do so with a great deal of irritated skepticism. To Frost’s immediate dismay, Hit parted his thighs once more; Frost lashed his tail in agitation, unsure of whether or not it was worth resisting the assassin’s advances. 

“You finished, what more do you w—” 

Hit pushed one of his fingers into Frost’s reddened cloaca, and Frost gave a drawn-out groan, throwing his head back against the pillows. Without waiting, Hit pushed in a second finger; Frost’s quaking, ruined walls were all too eager to get some stimulation back, his body still straining for release that he had been denied thus far. The small alien bit his lip, muffling his sounds, and tried not to embarrass himself too greatly. 

Hit wasted no time; he found that tender spot in Frost’s anatomy and unreservedly abused it. His fingers rolled in an incomprehensible pattern, back and forth, alternating speed and pressure— Frost was completely unprepared for it. He gasped, groaned, and whimpered, barreling towards his climax with Hit’s able assistance; he gushed more slick, muscles twitching without his say-so, unable to keep from writhing. His mind went blank at the sheer, simple pleasure Hit’s skillful fingers pried from him— and unlike before, Hit showed no signs of slowing down.

“Hit—” Frost’s tail curled around Hit’s thighs, loose enough to not be a threat but tight enough to convey a fraction of the intensity he was experiencing. “Oughh, Hit—!” 

The intense dam of pressure building in Frost’s lower body broke. His toes curled, his spine stiffened, his tail constricted, his cloaca clenched; he rode through his climax, muscles seized with an incomparable bliss… and for a moment, he basked in the sheer joy of release.

When he came back down from his high, he was shivery, overstimulated, and a little sore after his climax (discounting the already pre-existing feeling of throbbing soreness from earlier, courtesy of Hit’s mismatched size) and pretty quickly Frost noticed that Hit’s deft little motions had not stopped. 

The disgraced hero was momentarily stunned into silence from the sheer intensity of the overstimulation; it was too much, he was too sensitive—! He couldn’t take any more! 

“Enh—! Th-that’s enough, enough!” Frost bayed. He urgently swatted at Hit’s thigh with the end of his tail. “I came, s-stop!” 

Hit, to his credit, stopped, and considerately withdrew. Frost huffed for air, sitting up slightly, placing a hand on his chest. Almighty Kais, he was exhausted. He felt completely spent— so much so that he was more than willing to collapse into bed without even cleaning himself up. Those sweet six hours of rest promised to him- probably closer to five by now- began to feel woefully inefficient. 

“Is that enough?” Frost asked, too tired to put any force into it. He dreaded the idea of more— he already felt completely ravaged, and was certain he couldn’t handle anything further. He was so sore, so sensitive, already… 

“That should be enough,” Hit confirmed, voice a little rough. “Vados said that was all it should take to regulate your heat.”

“Finally,” Frost muttered, stretching out a little; his insides twinged with an unpleasant ache, both on their own and whenever he moved. 

Hit adjusted his trousers and re-buckled his belt. He slid off the bed and made for the door without another word.

The assassin lingered over the threshold for a moment, almost like he wanted to say something— but he never turned back to face Frost, and did not speak. The door closed behind him.

Frost sat there in silence for a moment- letting his tired, aching body rest- then turned the holo-screen on, allowing the low hum of a newscaster and the pattering rain on the windowpane to fill the room. He dreaded having to get up- just from tiny shifts of his thighs he could tell walking would be a unique challenge for the foreseeable future- and instead snagged the comforter off the floor with a careful use of his tail. 

He drew the blanket up to his shoulders, turned on his side,  and dropped off into sleep.

/ / /

Frost was woken by Hit in the morning after the promised six or so hours. As he’d anticipated from last night’s events, Frost’s gait was awkward and clumsy, and his body had only grown more sore and uncomfortable as it settled during the night. 

Frost went to bathe- sluicing off sweat and other fluids from the night prior- and during his attempt to clean himself up found his cloaca to be intolerably sore and inflamed to the touch. Suffice to say it was a very messy, unpleasant, and slow affair to get clean.

Afterwards, the pair ate a light breakfast together. There was no conversation. Hit seemed to be off in his own little world- fretting about the Tournament, no doubt- and Frost was really not keen on talking to him. Throughout the meal Frost found himself unable to sit still, never able to shift his weight into a comfortable spot. No matter how he sat, his innards ached. 

They left the city limits together once breakfast was done. They took a cab, despite Frost’s year-long instincts screaming at him to stay away from people, and were dropped off seemingly in the middle of nowhere (much to the confusion of the driver).

Vados arrived for them in her Hexahedron. Everyone else had been assembled already— Magetta, Botamo, Cabba, a pair of female Saiyans Frost didn’t recognize, a pair of green-skinned aliens, and a short, hog-faced creature with a sour-looking demeanor. 

“Mr. Hit! It’s good to have you with us,” Cabba seemed relieved to see Hit, though considerably less relieved to see Frost. The animosity was mutual. Cabba’s big mouth was what had led to Frost’s life on the run. “And… Frost. I guess you managed to find him after all.” 

Before Frost could retort, he was interrupted. 

“Let’s get going,” Champa howled, impatiently, from his position on top of the Hexahedron. Obediently, the two stragglers stepped aboard, Frost doing his best to disguise any remaining limp or outward sign of discomfort. The former faux-hero settled into a nice corner to brood while Hit busied himself with deflecting the attention everyone else was trying to heap on him. 

After they’d taken off, Frost glanced up at Vados; he hated her almost as much as Cabba at this stage, and would not feel at ease until he could have words with her in private. Especially not until she agreed to heal the body that had been battered on her orders.

The trip was lengthy. Discussion was free-flowing, mostly from the curious Saiyans to all the other races, but it was charged with the undercurrent of nervousness. If they did not win the Tournament, not only would they all die, but the existence of their entire universe would be completely erased. That, understandably, darkened the mood. 

Frost was not approached by anyone for the duration of their trip, but he was content to be left alone. The worst he got was a few curious glances and the occasional look of churlish loathing from the Saiyans.

When they landed on the twisted surface of Champa’s planet- a place all the competitors in the previous year’s tournament had visited once before- there was a little lull where Champa gave an insufficiently rousing speech, full of half-baked platitudes and unthreatening promises of destruction for weakness. Frost could scarcely bear to tolerate such time-wasting foolishness, but given no choice but to listen, he did. He glared directly at Vados through the speech, whose measured stare back gave him next to nothing in return.

Champa finished his bumbling tirade and ordered them to eat, to train, to nap— to do whatever it would take to get them in top form. They had scarcely three hours to get ready, and none of it should be wasted. 

Then he dismissed them.

The Saiyans ran off together to do whatever it was they did. The oddballs- Magetta, Botamo, and the hog- formed their own group and wandered away. The green aliens- Namekians, it seemed they were called- contented themselves with meditation. So did Hit. Champa went off to supervise the Saiyans. 

Vados waited patiently for Frost to come to her; it seems his anger had been nothing short of expected.

“I noticed you were having trouble walking,” she said, in a tone so infuriatingly measured that Frost wanted dearly to lose his own carefully controlled temper. “I’ll have you fixed up right away—”

She raised her staff, but Frost held out a hand to indicate she should stop.

“You vile woman,” he seethed at her. “You weren’t content to humiliate me by revealing what I was at the last Tournament? You had to instruct Hit to do that to me?”

She frowned. “My Lord ordered me to ensure every fighter would be in peak condition— to be as strong as possible, so long as it was allowed by the tournament rules. I noticed that you weren’t as powerful as you could have been, so I mentioned it to Hit, and he agreed that it should be acted upon.”

Frost’s tail slammed, weightily, against the ground. He had no rebuttal that would make a deity see reason, but that didn’t stop him from being blindingly angry. 

“You had better hope we don’t win,” Frost spat. “Because if we survive, I’m going to—”

“Please. Let’s not lose our temper, Frost. This was for the good of your universe.” Her chiding tone was infuriating. “You may not be able to tell, but there’s a clear consistency to your strength now. It’s much more orderly. It did good for you. Imagine how unreliable that fluctuating power would have been in combat?” 

“I still don’t appreciate being treated in such a way!” Frost blustered, his ki flickering to life. She continued to look down at him with no discernable reaction; Frost’s impotent rage began to bleed from his core when he realized, deflatingly, that none of his anger actually meant anything to her. She was effectively untouchable, and no amount of screaming or posturing would make her lose that infuriating attitude. His power dispelled.

“It seems you’re done. Would you like your injuries taken care of, then?” She prompted. He gave a slight nod, reluctantly conceding, and she raised her staff. A moment later, the aching soreness of Frost’s insides disappeared; the burgeoning bruises on his tail, from Hit’s strike and grabbing, healed. He felt much better; well-rested, free from pain. 

“Thank you,” he said, the words unpleasant in his mouth. 

“You’re welcome. Now, I think you should probably spar with someone to get ready… Given your history, maybe not Hit or the Saiyans… Perhaps one of the Namekians?”

Frost’s tail waved, uncertainly. It had been a long time since he’d engaged in a proper fight— probably during the Tournament against the Saiyan Goku. He was more than likely rusty after all this time, and an hour’s practice couldn’t hurt.

“Fine,” he said, turning to go. Before he could, Vados stopped him.

“If it’s any consolation, Frost, I didn’t actually think Hit would do it himself. His determination to see it through was rather uncharacteristic of him… I assumed he’d leave the task to someone else.” 

“ Tch. He wanted to be the one to lord it over me,” Frost’s lip curled at the very thought. “I suppose coupling with those who can’t fight back is how he gets his thrills when he isn’t killing people.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Vados said. It was transparently bait; he gave her a wary glare, reminded of her loose tongue at the Sixth and Seventh matches. She clearly had something unpleasant she intended to gleefully gossip about… 

“What?” He asked, impatiently. When she raised her eyebrows but did not speak, he amended: “Why do you think that?” 

“Up until about seven hours ago, Hit had been celibate,” she set her hand over her sly smile almost coquettishly, in a facetious expression of faux-disbelief. 

Frost paused, trying to process.

“... That was his first—?” 

Vados nodded, mid-sentence, and Frost felt no need to finish what he’d started to say. He glanced over at Hit, quietly meditating in the shade, and felt a strange blend of incomprehensible emotions rise in him all at once.

They didn’t overshadow his resentment- not by a mile- but…

Frost did have to wonder why.