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Chapter Text

Ignoring the truly immense power that stood only meters away, Hit crouched by each of the three bodies. Kale was first, as a cursory glance suggested she was the worst off. She was unconscious and made no movement when Hit pressed two fingers to her neck to confirm a steady pulse. One arm was obviously broken and her hair was matted with blood, but at least she was alive.

Cabba was next. The Saiyan was drawn up into the fetal position, his arms tightly hugging his chest. Bilateral broken ribs, Hit guessed, maybe worse internal damage. But alive, that was what mattered.

"Hit?" Cabba asked. His voice was a pained whisper. "Is everyone-"

"Yes, they're alive."

When the young Saiyan tried to reply, Hit cut him off. "Save your energy."

The assassin approached the last body, the only one capable of active motion, if the drag marks in the dust behind her were any indication. Caulifla stopped crawling and looked up at Hit. The Saiyan's typical cockiness had been wiped completely away and was replaced with a feral desperation not even the Tournament of Power had provoked in her.

"What happened?" Hit asked. The broad strokes were easy to see—it had been a brutal, one-sided massacre—but something important might be hiding in the details.

"We got our asses handed to us," Caulifla replied. She sniffled, barely holding back tears. "I think- I don't know- Can you get me over to Kale?"

"In a moment. Tell me exactly what happened."

"There's nothing to tell! Me and Kale were just relaxing when we felt this huge wave of energy. Like, massive. So we went to check it out. And it was him!" Caulifla pointed at the smirking golden warrior. "It was over before we could do anything. He knocked Kale out the second she went Super Saiyan. I tried to stop him and look what happened. Then Cabba finally decided to show up, and he got folded too."

"I see." Without another word, Hit gathered the wounded Saiyan into his arms. He rose a few feet into the air, his flight so controlled and steady he avoided jostling Caulifla at all. Once they were beside Kale, Hit gently reunited the two Saiyans.

"Oh, my poor Kale." Caulifla reached out and rested her hand on Kale's shoulder.

Hit turned his back on the tender scene.

"Wait a second, where are you going? You're not gonna try to take him on, are you?! I know you're way stronger than any of us, but it's still suicide!" Caulifla shouted.

"I will do whatever is necessary," Hit replied.

"I can't watch any more of my friends get beat up today," the Saiyan said.

That gave Hit pause. Caulifla actually considered him a friend? Why? If all of them survived, he'd have to ask her about it.

"People like him enjoy nothing more than the sound of their own voice," Hit said. "I'll try that first."

Before Caulifla could try talking sense into him, Hit stepped forward.

"And who are you?" Frieza asked.

It took Hit about half a millisecond to decide his opponent was baiting him. There was no confusion on Frieza's face, just pure, gleeful malice.

"Ah, of course, you're the dreaded assassin Hit who couldn't even survive halfway through the Tournament of Power." Frieza scoffed. "To think, you lived a thousand years to become a flash in the pan when your universe needed you most."

Hit considered reminding Frieza that he wasn't immune to being reduced to a punching bag, but suspected such a statement might get everyone on the planet killed.

"Could that be the reason you're here? Are you seeking redemption? Or to be put out of your misery?"

Hit remained silent.

"Let's try it again." Frieza leveled a finger at Caulifla. A tiny spark of energy began to dance at his fingertip.

"I'm here to offer a trade," Hit said. He time-skipped, appearing suddenly in front of the dimension-hopping emperor. It was a trick that almost never failed to startle his opponent. Almost being the critical word. Neither Frieza's cruel grin nor his finger wavered in the slightest.

"And what do you have to offer?"

"Myself, in exchange for the lives of the Saiyans."

"One life for three is hardly fair."

"I'm much more durable. You would get your money's worth."

"Interesting."

Frieza jabbed his still-glowing finger forward, prodding it against Hit's chest. The assassin stared resolutely ahead, unbothered by the threat of being blasted at any moment.

"If I were to put a hole through you in this exact location, would it kill you?" Frieza inquired.

"In about ten minutes," Hit replied.

"I can cause you considerable agony in ten minutes."

Hit gave a faint shrug. "You can do whatever you'd like to me if you agree to the trade."

"What would keep me from having my fun with you and then eliminating the marginally civilized monkeys?"

For most fighters, honor would be a good answer. However, Frieza was the type to betray his universe, double-cross whoever was foolish enough to take him at face value, and then kick a puppy just for the hell of it.

"It would be beneath you," Hit said. "You've proven your superiority, anything further would be egregious."

"I would hate to appear gauche," Frieza acknowledged. "Though I may despise Saiyans more."

The tyrant mulled it over. Hit waited in perfect stillness and silence for his answer.

"I accept your offer, assassin."

The finger that had been threatening to spear him with a death-beam withdrew. For a moment Hit assumed Frieza intended to shake hands, as several species typically did to seal a deal. Any chance of niceties evaporated when Frieza's hand, suddenly a tight fist, slammed into the assassin's stomach.

"There is but one shortcoming to this form: those who should be below me instead stand over me. I've found a fine solution, wouldn't you agree?"

Hit, doubled-over and on the verge of either retching or blacking out, could offer no reply. The small portion of his mind not focused on the agony radiating through most of his body was in awe of what it had just experienced. Hit had been struck by Super Saiyan Gods and the pride of the Eleventh Universe. He knew what power felt like.

Frieza was beyond power.

As strong as the golden transformation was, there was something buried underneath it. Hit had sensed merely a glimmer in the moment the emperor made contact with him. It was...infinite. Terrifying on a primal level. If Hit dwelt on it too long, he suspected he'd crack.

The assassin fell to his knees. Overwhelmed by both the physical blow and the realization of what he faced, he was unable to remain standing.

"This position suits you even better," Frieza taunted.

"Your power," Hit began, but couldn't think of a way to finish.

"If you keep me entertained, I may consider showing you more of it."

What the hell. He was going to die anyway. Might as well go out gazing into the heart of a supernova.

Hit managed to nod.

"Excellent. Now the only question that remains is how will you entertain me?"

By being viciously beaten, tortured, and eventually murdered, Hit assumed. He was still a little muddled, but not to the point his pragmatism deserted him.

"Being a man of few words may add to your mystique as an assassin, but when I ask a question, I expect to have it answered."

Before Hit could format a response that wouldn't actively encourage the aforementioned beating, torturing, and murdering, Frieza lost his patience. He swiped the tip of his muscular tail across the assassin's jaw, delivering a stinging slap.

"You've got a lovely mouth, use it."

It seemed Frieza had committed a verbal slip, judging from the way he immediately tried to backpedal. Hit's wide-eyed stare at the phrasing was met with the first sign Frieza wasn't entirely perfect and unflappable.

"I simply meant your color palette is better than anything else I've seen on this planet. I have a partiality to purple myself."

Hit could see that. Quite a bit of purple was currently shading the sadistic tyrant's cheeks.

"I can do as you ask," Hit said, "if you allow me to move the Saiyans to safety."

Indignant, Frieza asked, "What secret talent could that mouth of yours possibly possess that would warrant further alterations to our deal? I already have permission to do with you as I like."

"That's true," Hit acknowledged. "But what you don't have is my participation. As it stands, I won't resist, but I won't engage with you either."

Frieza considered his interest piqued. "Fine. Just know this is the last bone I intend to throw you and if you disappoint me, I'll destroy the planet."

Hit stood. "I understand."

Moving with his usual clinical efficiency, Hit assessed Kale again. Still unconscious, still the most dire. Caulifla, at least, was looking more lively. She was able to stagger to her feet and support her own weight. With a little help, Hit hoped she could fly. Or at least cling to him piggyback-style.

"Can you just tell me what's going on? What did you agree to do, Hit?" Caulifla asked.

"Nothing I'm unwilling to do," the assassin replied.

"But-"

"Where's the nearest hospital?"

"But-"

"Cabba, the nearest hospital?"

"About thirty kilometers northeast of here, in Celeri City," Cabba replied.

Hit knelt beside Kale. He supported her head and spine as fully as he could and then lifted her body. The Saiyan grimaced and whimpered, which was a good sign. If she responded to pain and the stimulus of being moved, she wasn't comatose.

"What's gonna happen-"

"Can you fly?" Hit asked, still treating the Saiyan's questions as if he hadn't heard them.

"Will you please stop being such an-" Caulifla tried one more time, this time less friendly.

"If you can, let's go. If not, hold onto me."

Caulifla managed to rise from the ground with all the grace of a fledgling on its first flight. Hit waited a few seconds to ensure the Saiyan wasn't going to tumble from the sky and then lifted off himself.

"Stay close. If you feel lightheaded or like you're going to fall, grab onto me," Hit instructed. "Cabba, I'll return shortly."

After what felt like hours but had to be only minutes, Cabba heard Hit touch down. The Saiyan couldn't turn around, but he was able to follow Hit's approach by the assassin's footsteps.

"I'll be as gentle as I can, but there's no way to avoid causing you pain," Hit said.

Cabba nodded his assent. Hit wasted no time scooping up the wounded Saiyan. Cabba gasped and clenched his fists as broken bones and bruised muscles were shifted.

"You will return promptly, won't you?" Frieza asked.

"I will," Hit confirmed.

With his word given, the assassin took to the skies. He was able to fly faster this time around, as he didn't have to keep an eye on Caulifla.

Likewise, the medical staff were quicker on the uptake and spent less time looking at Hit like he was speaking a language they didn't understand. Cabba was whisked out of his arms and onto a stretcher by a platoon of doctors and nurses.

"Hit, wait!" Cabba called just before he was wheeled into the hospital. "I…wanted to thank you. Please, stay safe."

Hit wasn't in the habit of making promises he couldn't keep, so he said nothing. Alone with his thoughts, the assassin forced himself not to delay. He had a job, he was going to do it. Simple as that.

"So you've chosen not to flee," Frieza said upon Hit's return.

"The thought never crossed my mind," Hit replied. He approached the emperor with the calm, steady gait of a man walking a familiar street. Frieza considered putting a hole through the assassin for his audacity (and for being even taller than the accursed Goku), but held himself back out of curiosity.

Without prompting—or a crippling blow to his abdomen—Hit dropped to his knees in front of Frieza.

"I see you've learned your place," the tyrant said. "And now that you've eliminated all witnesses, what debauchery do you have planned?"

"Put your tail in my mouth," Hit said bluntly.

"I beg your pardon!" Frieza sputtered.

That might have been a bit too forward, Hit supposed. Not that he could blame himself for being rusty when it came to flirtation. It had been decades since he'd last used such skills, while short, simple statements—mostly "I'm here to kill you" and the like—were at the forefront of his lexicon.

"If you'd like me to use my mouth for your entertainment, your tail isn't a bad place to start. It's less intimate than genitals. Though if you'd prefer to start there, that's fine."

"Do you even know what parts my species possesses?" Frieza asked.

"I know the anatomy of your counterpart species in this universe. I imagine there are some similarities."

Frieza leered at Hit. "Don't tell me you've been wallowing in the mire with that cheap facsimile Frost."

Hit shook his head. "No, never. I've familiarized myself with the anatomy of almost every sentient species in this universe so I can kill them efficiently."

"And mate with them just as efficiently?" Frieza inquired.

The assassin shrugged. "Not usually, but I've made exceptions in the past."

Frieza chuckled at that. His prehensile tail rose and Hit braced for another nasty blow from the appendage. Instead, the tip of it lightly traced Hit's face, ghosting across his lips and traveling down the border where the lavender and purple skin tones met. It wormed inside the collar of his coat, then back up and across his throat. Hit imagined the tail tightening around him, as muscular as the coils of a python, and choking the life out of him. Something told him he wouldn't be the first.

"You really are too pretty for Frost. Open."

Pretty. Hit didn't think he'd ever been called that in his life. It just wasn't an adjective that sat next to words like intimidating, ruthless, and cold very often.

Hit was distracted from his thoughts by the cool, dry skin suddenly pressed against his lips. He did as ordered and opened his mouth, allowing the tail to slide inside. It was only the first few inches, nothing bothersome, even once the serpentine appendage started moving. Like a prospective home-buyer inspecting a property, the tail explored every corner of the assassin's mouth.

"I do appreciate the warmth, but beyond that it's hardly titillating. I must say, if you don't have anything else to offer-" Frieza's complaint was silenced as Hit closed his mouth around the tail and sucked firmly.

The squawk that came from the tyrant was one of the least-dignified sounds he'd ever made. The moan that quickly followed wasn't any more regal.

Frieza looked at his tail in a brand new light. The appendage had been a most useful tool for everything from strangling his enemies to bludgeoning his enemies to restraining his enemies when they tried to escape. It had not, however, ever been viewed as a potential source of carnal pleasure.

What a shame. Up until then, Frieza had no idea what he'd been missing out on. He'd have to make up for lost time.

"You're beginning to earn your keep, assassin. How do you feel about taking more?"

Hit nodded, beckoning Frieza with a wave of his hand. The tyrant grinned in a way that was anything but good-natured.

"If it becomes too much for you, try to choke quietly."

Before Hit could react to the callous words, Frieza thrust his tail forward. There was no more curious exploration, only vicious conquest. The tail forced its way in until its diameter became too great to squeeze past Hit's teeth.

Most beings would have been thrown into a panic by such a violent and sudden intrusion. Hit was lucky enough to have both excellent foresight and nigh total control over his body. He suppressed his gag reflex and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax. If he focused on breathing through his nose, he was able to get just enough air to avoid suffocation.

"I could—oh! If that was voluntary, do it again—tear you apart from the—exquisite work—inside out. And I will, if you dare stop!" Frieza threatened. "You, this planet, and this entire universe."

For the sake of himself, Sadala, and the rest of the Sixth Universe, Hit continued. The act that had Frieza in such a tizzy was easy to replicate: it was nothing more than repeated swallowing. And the occasional spasm brought on by the stress his mouth and throat were under. Again, easy to replicate given the circumstances.

Frieza laid two fingers against Hit's forehead. He pushed the assassin's head back, exposing his throat. A light touch down the taut skin made Hit shudder.

"Does it hurt? Are you suffering for my pleasure?" Frieza asked with mocking sweetness.

There was no way for Hit to answer, except to himself in his head. Of course it hurt, his esophagus was crammed with tail. Though, if there was any bright side, at least the pleasure wasn't all Frieza's. The overwhelming majority surely was, but Hit was able to eke out enough to give himself a few tingles.

Frieza withdrew his hands and allowed Hit to lower his head. "Let's see how comparable my anatomy really is."

That was an interesting switch from sadistic taunting. Though Hit suspected this moment would come sooner or later. Frieza, charming personality and people skills aside, didn't seem like he received much sexual satisfaction. Having his tail enveloped in heat and pressure—and having complete control over Hit—was no doubt enough to get him aroused, maybe even enough to get him desperate.

What it wasn't, however, was enough to get him off.

Hit held his hands out like a supplicant, requesting permission to touch. Though he found it easier to stay calm and focused if he kept his eyes closed, he doubted Frieza would appreciate him groping blindly.

"I'm nothing if not a gracious lord," Frieza said. He stepped closer, allowing Hit easy access to his body.

It would have been nice to be able to speak, to ask for feedback or clarification, but it didn't seem like Frieza had any inclination to remove his tail. Moving slowly so as not to jostle the choking hazard, Hit plied his hands to Frieza's hips.

"Aren't you brash?" Frieza asked. "Though I suppose we've had enough foreplay. Continue."

The assassin's fingers slid inward, dragging over the golden musculature of Frieza's thighs. His hands met at the confluence of the emperor's legs, a smooth, unassuming patch of skin. Hit hesitated just a moment, wished again he could request explicit permission, and decided to throw caution to the wind. He ran his index and middle fingers up and down the seemingly sexless crotch.

"It's going to take more than that," Frieza huffed.

Maybe, but Hit wagered not much more. He could already feel moisture beneath his fingertips. The assassin began to trace a series of overlapping circles to gauge the tyrant's response. Any area that was met with a shiver or moan received additional attention.

Given the small space, it really was a job better suited for one hand. Instead of letting it go to waste, Hit used his now-free hand to grab Frieza's tail as close to the base as he could reach. That spot was, according to the anatomical literature, nearly as sensitive as the tip of the tail due to its proximity to the spine.

A few firm, massaging squeezes to the tail coupled with a more teasing direct approach turned out to be the magic combination. Because, all of a sudden, Hit had what he assumed was a cock in his hand.

Frieza threw back his head, his energy blazing around him. The emperor inhaled deeply—Hit never thought he'd be jealous of someone breathing, but here he was—and then looked down at the kneeling assassin.

"I trust you know what you're doing with that," Frieza said.

Hit had some familiarity with the equipment, though he'd never worked with Frieza's exact model before. It did bear a strong resemblance to what the assassin had seen in clinical texts and photographs, though the coloration was different, skewing purple instead of blue. Aesthetics aside, Hit understood what he was dealing with.

A two-fold approach had worked to coax the organ out of hiding, and Hit saw no reason to fix what wasn't broken. One hand continued to apply rhythmic pressure at the base of the tail, while the other followed the same tempo, stroking the slick length.

The synchronized motions soon had Frieza gasping and writhing. There was one issue, however, Hit had not foreseen. As Frieza lost himself to his passion, his tail took on a mind of its own. The appendage squirmed, each movement more forceful than the last. Besides being agony on Hit's raw nerves, there was the growing threat one wrong flex would compress his trachea or tear something.

"Would you like a little reward? Perhaps to taste something new?" Frieza asked, as though reading the concerns straight from Hit's mind.

Hit nodded as forcefully as he could, given how much was jammed down his throat. He liked to think he wasn't squeamish about his own death, but the idea of asphyxiating on Frieza's tail was appalling. The idea of replacing tail with cock was…considerably better.

Frieza slid his tail free by torturous inches. Hit winced as already abused flesh was raked over again. The assassin's hands faltered once or twice due to spiking pain, but by the time Frieza finally finished withdrawing, both parties were left quivering, albeit for different reasons.

A minute to catch his breath and work some of the stiffness out of his jaw would have been appreciated, but Hit understood Frieza had already granted him a rare mercy. The tyrant could have easily found release in Hit's hands—and probably choked him unconscious or worse in the process—but Frieza had opted to provide a more manageable treat.

"Keep your hand on my tail," Frieza ordered.

"Of course." Hit flinched at the sound of his own voice, more a harsh caw than anything. He hoped it wasn't permanent damage, and then remembered he still fully expected to die in the next few minutes, rendering the fear moot either way.

Hit activated his time skip for a novel purpose: to seamlessly trade his hand for his mouth in the service of Lord Frieza.

The burst of uncontrolled energy that surged from Frieza let Hit know his unorthodox time skip had been a rousing success. Smirking a bit—and damn did it feel good to be able to move his lips and mouth enough to smirk—Hit deployed a few less complicated techniques. He could work a fair bit of magic with his tongue when it wasn't pinned flat.

Fingers grabbed the collar of his coat. Hit guessed if he had hair, antennas, or any other sort of protrusion on his head, they'd be tangled there instead. At the sound of fabric ripping, Hit thanked his lucky stars his species was bald.

The taste of salt grew more prominent as Frieza continued to mangle Hit's coat. There was no denying the end was near. If that was the case, Hit decided it needed to be...explosive.

The assassin ensured he had a good seal with his lips, then applied full suction. At the same moment, Hit clamped down on Frieza's tail. The shocking blend of pain and ecstasy hurled Frieza off a cliff. He arched his back, forcing himself as deeply into Hit as he could, and came with a guttural cry.

The world erupted into light. Even pressed as he was against Frieza's body, Hit was still blinded. He felt something, either a shockwave of energy or Frieza's foot, hit him square in the chest and send him tumbling. Hit had just enough wherewithal to let go of Frieza's tail before he was swatted away like a bug.

Stunned from the radiance, the blow, the building energy, and having been on the verge of hypoxia for who knew how long, Hit was slow to rise. By the time he secured his footing, the blinding light had faded enough to reveal a Frieza who had changed dramatically. His golden form had been exchanged for black.

"Congratulations are in order," Frieza said. "You're the first person in the Sixth Universe to have the privilege of this form."

"Thank you, Lord Frieza." Hit bowed his head. Though he wondered who else in which universe had had the pleasure.

"After I finish my business elsewhere, I might be tempted to visit again. If you have anything more to offer, that is."

Hit nodded, dumbstruck both at the proposition and at the fact he, apparently, wasn't going to die.

Frieza chortled. "Did you expect to be killed?"

"Yes."

"I have found so few suitable bedmates, pruning one as delightful as you would be a disservice to myself."

Having paid his one allotted compliment for the decade, Frieza began to power down. Stark black gave way to glowing gold, which was soon replaced with porcelain white. Hit watched the transformations with curiosity. Was the black form, as omnipotent as it seemed, too much of an energy sink to be maintained without a good reason?

Noting the assassin's interest at his downgrade, Frieza said, "I am more than capable of sustaining that form for as long as I wish. I simply enjoy watching the confidence and hope bleed from my foes when they realize what they're truly up against."

Hit would have liked to know which foes specifically were about to be turned into paste, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. The longer Frieza stuck around, the greater the chance he'd unleash a cataclysm.

Without another word, Frieza bent his knees and then launched himself upward. His speed, even in his reduced form, was incredible. Within seconds, there was nothing more to see, nor even energy to feel. It was like the emperor had vanished from the universe.

Hell, maybe he had. Hit would think about it after he concocted a plausible excuse for how he'd survived and why he sounded like a crow with laryngitis. Because under no circumstances could anyone ever discover what he and Frieza had done. 

Or might do in the near future.

Chapter Text

It was like he'd taken in a belligerent zoo animal that did nothing except pace from room to room, growl, and steal his food. Except the zoo animal could also talk, and, while wearing holes in the carpet, it made snide comments and griped about every aspect of its current enclosure.

"You can't keep me here! You have no right!"

Hit pointed to the door. "You're free to go. I never said you weren't."

Frost, not taking his eyes off of Hit, scurried across the room. Hit continued sipping his tea and paying absolutely no mind to his ungrateful guest. He could have time-skipped to the door and knocked Frost out with a single blow (as he'd done in the past) but he meant what he said.

"Have fun being pursued by every cop, assassin, and two-bit bounty hunter in the universe."

The traitorous reptile smirked. "I am more than capable of handling myself."

"You're stronger than most of them, but do you think you're stronger than all of them? I understand the Sadala Defense Forces are involved now."

Frost paused, his hand on the doorknob. "I refuse to be intimidated by meddling Saiyans. Cabba is not better than me."

Assured by his own confident words—or too proud to backtrack—Frost threw the door open and disappeared into the night. Hit sighed. The arrogant little pain-in-the-ass couldn't even close the door behind him. The assassin rose from his seat and closed it himself.

With that accomplished, Hit returned to his chair and his tea. His mind was at ease. Frost did not concern him. He'd extended an unprecedented kindness to his former teammate and Frost had spit in his face, after critiquing his décor and raiding his cupboards. If anything, Hit was happy to be rid of him.

Besides, Hit was confident Frost would come crawling back sooner or later.

It ended up being later, even later than Hit expected. The assassin was on the verge of packing up the few perishables in the safe house when the front door was blown off its hinges. Luckily for Frost, Hit had sensed his incoming energy and did not retaliate with deadly force for the home invasion.

Frost was in a state. Slumped against the door frame, hardly able to hold himself up, bloody and covered in an array of bruises and lacerations, it looked like he'd barely escaped with his life.

"I encountered someone from the Seventh Universe," Frost explained as he staggered into the room.

"Who was it? One of the Saiyans?" Hit asked. He sure as hell wouldn't mind another chance to fight Goku. Both of their previous encounters had been some of the most exhilarating battles of Hit's life, and the Saiyan could push him in a way no one else could.

"The Namekian, the one I poisoned. He's orange now."

Hit must have misheard. How, he wasn't sure, because it wasn't like anything rhymed with or sounded all that much like "orange," but Namekians were green in both the Sixth and Seventh Universe.

"Shall I speak slower? The. Namekian. Is. Orange! And larger. And much stronger. And I think my tail is broken." Frost ended his speech with a woeful little whimper.

And to think, five minutes ago Hit had been contemplating abandoning the planet and getting back to work.

"It might be a transformation of some kind," Hit guessed. He didn't know much about Namekians, as they were a species that kept to themselves and didn't routinely interact with hitmen.

"The damned Namekian wasn't the part you were supposed to focus on!" Frost groused.

"Fine, let me see it," Hit replied.

Instead of swinging his tail around, Frost turned his entire body. He was able to lift the extremity, but the latter third of the tail was all but unresponsive. It had also acquired a strange bend that Hit would guarantee hadn't been there the last time he'd seen Frost.

"I don't think it's broken, but it looks dislocated," Hit announced after a quick examination of the injured appendage.

"And there's probably not a hospital on this planet that has experience with my species," Frost said. "I suppose I'll have to-"

Hit grabbed the tail, one hand on either side of the unnatural crook. Before Frost could react, the assassin applied steady pressure. There was an unpleasant pop, immediately followed by a shriek.

"You bastard! You unpardonably vile cretin!"

Frost yanked his tail from Hit's hands. The enraged fugitive twirled around and laid into the assassin both verbally and physically.

Hit let him have two punches—which actually would have caused damage if Frost hadn't been on death's door—before he caught the flailing fists.

"Keep it up and your tail really will get broken," Hit warned.

"How dare you- how dare- threaten…"

Frost fell forward and would have hit the floor face first if Hit hadn't been there to catch him. The assassin effortlessly scooped up the much smaller body. After ascertaining Frost had merely passed out, not raged himself into an aneurysm, Hit carried him to bed.

"Idiot," the assassin gently chided as he pulled back the blankets and deposited the unconscious menace. "You're going to bleed all over my sheets."

Before covering Frost, Hit took the time to tend to his wounds. He cleaned and bandaged anything that was still oozing. Through the whole process, Frost remained out cold. At one point he began to snore.

"I hope you wake up in a better mood," Hit said before burying Frost in blankets.

Now all that was left was to fix the door.

Frost awoke with no knowledge of where he was, only that he was in agony and wrapped in something soft. Every inch of him felt like it had been run over and then dragged over gravel. He groaned piteously and struggled against the blankets that surrounded him.

All the noise inevitably caught Hit's attention. The assassin stepped into the room and flicked on the lights, revealing one agitated lizard trying to escape his warm cocoon.

"Would you like some help?" Hit asked.

Seeing the assassin seemed to awaken Frost's memories. He recalled scarcely surviving his fight with that orange giant, fleeing across the solar system, and then collapsing in Hit's house. Where Hit had, apparently, attended to him and put him to bed.

"What I'd like is something for pain!" Frost snapped back.

"I'll see what I've got."

Hit returned a few minutes later with a bottle of perfectly legal painkillers. Frost regarded Hit as though the assassin had offered him poison while promising warm cinnamon buns. "Is that the best you can give me?"

"Yes, Frost, it is. I'm an assassin, not a pharmacist or a drug dealer."

"Fine."

Hit considered tossing Frost the bottle, then imagined him either eating a triple dose or spilling pills everywhere. There was no way Hit was going to allow either scenario.

"Put your hand out," Hit said.

Frost rolled his eyes. "I can unscrew a childproof cap."

"You either put your hand out, or you get nothing."

Muttering under his breath, Frost presented his palm. Hit deposited two pills onto it.

"That's not going to do a thing for me."

"Given your size, you'd probably be safer with the child dosage. Want that instead?" Hit asked.

Glaring at Hit, Frost popped the two pills into his mouth. Hit handed him a cup of water, which he drained.

Putting something—even a glass of water and some mild medication—in his stomach made Frost realize how long it had been since he'd had a decent meal.

"Where did you encounter your large orange Namekian?" Hit asked. "And what did you do to deserve such a beating?"

"The answer to both of your questions is 'none of your damn business.' In the time I've been gone, have you gotten anything decent to eat?"

"Let's make a deal. You answer my questions, I feed you. You keep acting like a brat, you can crawl down to the river and eat what you catch."

Frost wrinkled his nose at the thought of anything so primitive. Catching, cleaning, scaling, de-boning? No, thank you. Enjoying a grilled fillet and bottle of fine wine under the guise of a "charity dinner?" Much better.

"I was simply doing research," Frost said.

"On what?" Hit asked.

"Namekian culture."

"Specifics, now."

"The Namekians of the Seventh Universe are capable of creating Dragon Balls. I was curious why ours couldn't do the same."

Hit pinched the bridge of his nose. "Frost, did you attack the Namekians and demand they make Dragon Balls for you or you'd do something absurd like blow up their planet?"

"No…"

"Was that your plan, at least until you encountered Piccolo, for whatever reason he was there?"

"Who?"

"The Namekian from the Seventh Universe. Do you remember any of the names from the Tournament of Power?"

"I remember Jiren," Frost said smugly.

Hit took a moment to locate the worst bruise on Frost's body, then punched him there. Frost hissed through his teeth and made a grab for the assassin. Hit pinned him down with one hand.

"What would you have wished for?"

Frost stop struggling. He stared up at Hit.

"If you'd been presented a set of Dragon Balls, what would you have wished for?"

The fugitive's cheeks colored dark blue. "I- I hadn't actually gotten that far."

"I don't believe you. You wouldn't invade a planet without a thorough plan. If you were organized enough to keep your double life under wraps for as long as you did, you didn't fly to Namek without preparing from start to finish."

Frost sighed. "Let me up, feed me, and I'll tell you."

Hit took his hand away. "What do you want to eat?"

"Carry me to your paltry stocks and allow me to browse."

"Your legs aren't broken."

Frost flopped onto his back dramatically. "I am suffering and you're heaping further abuse on me!"

"Good grief." Hit gathered up the fugitive—he tried and failed not to think of the positioning as bridal-style—and brought him to the kitchen.

Being in the proximity of food magically healed at least half of Frost's complaints. He hopped from Hit's arms onto the counter and then began rooting around in the cupboards.

"I was away for weeks; you could have flown to any city on the planet and gotten something decent."

"It isn't like you let me know when to expect you. The welcome feast you apparently wanted wasn't going to keep for weeks," Hit said. "Besides, you left in a huff last time and said you felt like a prisoner. Maybe I thought you were gone for good."

Frost had to concede that was true. "I may have been a tad ungrateful. I was bored, and felt confined, and-"

"You've got the highest bounty I've ever seen on your head, and I'm sure whatever mischief you got up to on Namek isn't going to make it any smaller. You need to decide if you can live under the radar, either with me or on your own, or if you'd rather spend the rest of your life in prison. Or maybe you'd rather die." Hit shrugged. "That's up to you."

Frost froze with his hands on a package of instant noodles. Having it laid bare like that was…sobering.

"I like this flavor," Frost said quietly, after a brief, contemplative silence.

"So do I." Hit took two packs of the noodles and set a pot of water to boil.

While they waited for the water to heat, Hit and Frost took their seats at the table. Seconds after sitting, Frost started talking.

"I'd wish to be forgotten. Or, rather, to have everyone forget I was a fraud. I enjoyed the adoration, and the freedom, and the vast riches. I miss that life."

"Smart wish," Hit said.

"Though I'd make an exception," Frost added. "I'd like one person to remember."

Hit had a suspicion of who that one person was, but he kept his mouth shut. It was on Frost to share if he wanted to.

"It's you, of course, and I'm sure you knew it! You're the only one who's offered me any kindness since that day."

"You did commit war crimes on a galactic scale while pretending to be a saint," the assassin pointed out. "I don't hold it against anyone who'd like to see you brought to justice."

"You'd just harbor me, feed me, and keep me hidden from them."

Hit nodded. "More or less. Though if you'd prefer to face the music, I'll take you to Sadala and hand you over to Cabba myself."

Frost gulped. "I did not say that! I merely-"

"Relax. The noodles should be ready." Hit rose from the table.

Frost beat him to the stove. In what was the only show of appreciation the fugitive had given Hit to date, Frost took over preparation of the noodles. He performed the gargantuan tasks of draining excess water and adding a packet of premixed spices with aplomb.

Grinning proudly, as if he was presenting a five-star meal instead of a staple of starving college students across the multi-verse, Frost laid Hit's bowl on the table. He then placed his own bowl in front of it.

Hit looked at him quizzically. The curiosity turned to confusion, then something approaching alarm, when Frost, instead of returning to his proper side of the table, climbed into Hit's lap.

"I'm not a chair!" Hit protested. "What are you doing?"

"I've decided to take you up on your offer," Frost announced. "I'll allow you to be my protector. In that case, the closer I stay, the easier your job should be."

"Frost…"

"Don't let your noodles get cold," Frost said. He happily ladled up the sodium-rich broth.

Hit picked up his own spoon. "After we finish eating, we're going to have a discussion. A thorough, honest one."

As long as he got to stay on Hit's lap, Frost was more than happy to go along with anything the assassin wanted.

Chapter Text

It had become something of a ritual. A primitive, bloody ritual—and far more often spilling Hit's blood, though he was starting to even the score—that the assassin found himself craving. It was atonement for his failure during the Tournament of Power, the best source of training Hit had found to date, and fuel for some very interesting dreams, all wrapped into one package.

And then jammed into a ridiculous, skintight outfit.

Hit was broken from his reverie by a fist slamming into his midsection. The assassin doubled over, his breath coming in desperate wheezes.

"Pathetic."

Hit tried to look up and challenge Jiren to say that again, but the pain in his abdomen made the world lurch. He instead lowered his head and tried to concentrate on staying conscious.

"Where is your mind at, assassin?"

"It's on you," Hit replied.

"It isn't on this fight."

"It's on you," Hit repeated.

Jiren's large eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing."

The hulking Pride Trooper scoffed. "Then we're wasting each other's time. We'll pick this up when you can focus."

Hit, wincing as he moved, assumed his typical narrow stance. "I'm ready right now."

Apparently, he wasn't. Not five seconds later, Hit was sprawled out with Jiren's foot pressed to his chest. The Pride Trooper looked like a trophy hunter posing with a kill. Hit burned with an unholy mix of humiliation and-

No, absolutely not.

The assassin found a sudden well of strength. Pain be damned, he grabbed Jiren's ankle and twisted. It was enough to unbalance Jiren...for about half a second. The Pride Trooper responded to Hit's attack by wrenching his leg away and then stomping down, hard.

"That was unwise," Jiren said, watching Hit clutch his chest and writhe in the dirt.

Hit didn't need an x-ray to know Jiren had broken at least two of his ribs. Even with his naturally accelerated healing, it would be a week before he was ready for anything strenuous.

"We're done here." Jiren's words had the finality of a death certificate. He walked a short distance away and sat down in the shade of a scrawny tree.

The Pride Trooper rolled up the edge of one glove to reveal a communicator that, apparently, had the ability to transmit across universes. He spoke quietly but Hit was able to pick up a few words. Jiren was phoning home and requesting a ride back to the Eleventh Universe.

Not that Hit could blame him. The assassin was down for the count, and even before that, it had by no means been Hit's strongest outing. Jiren would be better off sparring with his fellow Pride Troopers, even if he couldn't pummel them as hard, until Hit got his head on straight.

Though just breathing was agony, remaining on the ground so whoever was coming from the Eleventh Universe could see his weakness was worse. Hit clenched his teeth, used one arm to try and stabilize his ribs, and then used the opposite arm to ease himself into a sitting position.

Jiren's eyes flicked to the struggling assassin. He watched Hit silently, offering neither encouragement nor derision.

By the time Jiren's inter-dimensional taxi arrived, Hit had managed to limp over to his own tree. The effort had caused him considerable misery, though it was all worth it when the new arrivals found him standing—with a little help from the tree trunk behind him—instead of struggling in the dirt.

Top, with his usual boisterousness, called out to Jiren and hurried over to him. Marcarita greeted him without any of Top's flamboyance. Jiren had a few words with the Angel and soon-to-be Destroyer. Judging by the way Top kept looking his way, Hit figured he was the subject of their conversation. He considered giving them all a sarcastic little wave and decided he really didn't need his ass kicked any harder than it had already been kicked.

To Hit's surprise, Marcarita approached him. Before he could ask what she wanted, she raised her staff in his direction. Hit gasped as the stabbing pain in his chest vanished. His ribs knitted instantly, leaving him with not such much as an itch.

"Thank you. I'm assuming Jiren asked you to do that?"

"He may have." Her side-quest complete, Marcarita returned to her starting position.

The Angel's next order of business was to get the Sixth Universe in the rearview mirror. Just before departure, Jiren spoke. He made no effort to face Hit, or acknowledge any questions the assassin had.

"You have three days. I'll return on the fourth."

With that succinct statement, the trio ascended and were out of sight in seconds.

Hit watched them go and kept his eyes on the sky long after they were gone. "Three days."

Three days to get his emotions in check, to get himself sorted out, to face Jiren with his mind clear and free of distractions. Three days to grapple with the dreams that left him sweaty and confused and in dire need of a cold shower.

This…might be a problem.

On the first day, Hit meditated. Thanks to centuries of practice, he could usually achieve a zen state akin to dreamless sleep or image train with fantastic realism, pitting himself against foes both past and potential.

Except every attempt at image training inevitably ended with him and Jiren in varying degrees of undress.

On the second day, Hit pushed himself to the point of physical exhaustion. If exercising his mind didn't get results, maybe he could beat his body into submission.

That night, sleeping deeper than was typical, Hit was beset upon by dreams more befitting a hormone-addled teenager. He awoke in a cold sweat and soon discovered, to his horror, that not all the moisture on him was, in fact, sweat.

On the third and final day, Hit gave in. Sometimes the answer to a craving was indulgence. He knew it was a terrible precedent to set, but the assassin was out of ideas. It just wasn't a problem he seemed to be able to meditate or train or berate himself out of.

With that in mind, Hit spent an inordinate amount of time ensuring he was alone. For the safety of others, he and Jiren sparred in a desolate region of space where the most advanced lifeforms were slow-growing trees and a few primitive fishes. Nobody—except fools looking to beat each other silly—had any reason to venture into that corner of the universe.

Even with such a guarantee of privacy, Hit searched for any energy signature stronger than a lamprey or shrubbery. It was only after he'd checked thrice that no curious onlookers had braved the nearby asteroid belts that he retreated to his humble campsite, with the emphasis on humble.

The cave wasn't awful as far as caves went: it was dry, and Hit hadn't encountered any sort of blind, crawling, stinging, or otherwise unpleasant roommates. It was, overall, not the worst place he'd ever had to seek shelter.

Hit began by removing his boots, the guards from his knees and elbows, his belt, and finally his coat. After folding the coat and laying everything else either on top of or beside it, the assassin sat down on his sleeping bag. He rested his back against the stone wall and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Was he really going to do this?

Was he really going to...pleasure himself...in a cave...while thinking of Jiren?

Yes, yes he was.

Because it was either that, or what? Confess his weakness to Jiren tomorrow? Ask Jiren to kill him and spare his dignity? Collect some universe's Dragon Balls and wish himself less of an idiot?

The last idea wasn't bad, but there just wasn't time. Hit needed a quick—if temporary—fix so he could face the bastard who had caused him nothing but trouble and woe since the Tournament of Power.

Hit breathed deeply through his nose.

Then he closed his eyes and got to work.

The next day, just after sunrise, Hit returned to the exact spot from which he'd watched Jiren depart. He leaned against the same tree and scanned the sky. Jiren had given no specific times, but Hit had an inkling that it would be earlier in the day rather than later.

As Hit predicted, within an hour he sensed approaching energy. He stood straight, took his weight off the accommodating tree, and waited for his visitors to land.

This time it was Belmod who apparently had nothing better to do and no universe to run.

"I don't know why you bother with him, Jiren, I really don't. I'm not about to stop you, but the Sixth Universe is a long way to come for a second-rate training partner," Belmod said, more than loudly enough for Hit to hear it all.

"I have my reasons," Jiren replied.

The Destroyer shrugged. "I'm sure you do. Personally, I think this whole universe smells weird. Let's get out of here, Marcarita."

Both warriors waited for the Angel and Destroyer to leave the planet before they approached each other.

"You've had three days," Jiren said. "What have you decided?"

"I… I want you to kill me," Hit replied.

Not much fazed Jiren, but hearing that statement out of nowhere sure did the job.

"I don't understand."

Hit chuckled dryly. "Welcome to the club."

"What club?"

"The club of not understanding." The assassin sighed. "I intended to say something else, but the second I saw you- No, that's the reason I'd prefer you kill me."

"You'd rather die than tell me something?"

Hit let his arms hang by his side and lowered his guard completely.

"I'm not going to kill you," Jiren said firmly. "Forget it."

If that was the case, then it seemed they were locked in a stalemate. Maybe it would be better if each of them flew to an opposite side of the planet and forgot the other existed. Or if Jiren found someone in another universe to frustrate beyond comprehension. Or-

"The thing you refuse to tell me...is it a confession?"

Hit flinched, confirming Jiren's guess.

The Pride Trooper, his gray complexion broken up by an increasing amount of scarlet, resolutely continued. "I have my own confession."

Hit stared in complete shock.

"If I share mine, you will share yours."

The assassin nodded. Fair was fair.

"Despite my disgust at your profession, I found myself...preoccupied with you. It's why I chose to train here instead of with more upstanding partners. I had hoped that beating you repeatedly would convince me of your insignificance. It did not."

Hit took a moment to absorb what he'd just heard and to gather his response. Blurting out "I fantasized about you yesterday" might get the point across, but the assassin couldn't bring himself to be that blunt or unhinged.

"I shouldn't want anything to do with you, either. The last thing you said to me during the Tournament was that my honor was worth nothing. And you are more than adept at 'beating me repeatedly.' But here we are. I wasn't lying when I said my mind was on you; despite my best efforts, you're...the bane of my existence."

A heavy silence settled in after the pair of confessions. Neither warrior dared make the first move, or was even sure what the first move should be. A thousand conflicting ideas whirled through their heads: flee, embrace, say something, say anything, dig a hole, crawl into it, and bury yourself.

"What do we do now?" Jiren finally asked, shutting up his thoughts enough to speak.

"I suppose we'll have to figure it out together," Hit replied.

His dreams offered some suggestions. 

Chapter Text

Hit had been at the nondescript hotel for two days, his room registered under a false name and paid for with enough cash to buy the silence of the staff ten times over. During those two days, he'd been planning, down to the most minute detail, the death of a vicious dictator on one of the planet's larger moons. It was a more elaborate job than most, his target more guarded and dangerous, but Hit expected no real trouble.

That confidence was, of course, a flashing invitation for the universe to throw a wrench into his plans.

Hit was just about to call himself satisfied for the night when someone knocked on the door. It was a tentative knock, certainly not the authoritative pounding of law enforcement, but Hit still went on the defensive. He was expecting no visitors, no packages, no food deliveries. No one should have known his location.

The assassin took a quick look through the peephole. He saw a small, anxious-looking alien standing in the hallway. Hit was struck by a sense of familiarity; in both mannerism and appearance, his unwanted visitor reminded him of Monaka, the "warrior" who had "defeated" him during the tournament against the Seventh Universe.

"Mr. Hit?" the alien asked the closed door. He sounded as timid as his knock.

Paranoia kept an assassin alive, but Hit sensed no ill-intent (nor the ability to do any harm to him, even if he lowered his guard completely). He decided to open the door a crack.

"Just Hit. What do you need?"

"I was asked to deliver this to you." The alien reached into his satchel bag and produced an envelope. It was unmarked except for Hit's name emblazoned on the front in flowing purple script.

Hit tipped the courier generously and retreated into his room. He examined the envelope front and back. It offered few clues.

Maybe the contents would clear things up. Hit opened the envelope to reveal a card almost as plain as its packaging. In the same elaborate handwriting, the card bore a simple message.

"Join us," Hit read aloud. Below that was an address. Hit didn't recognize the street, but the city he knew relatively well. He'd killed a handful of people there over the years.

There was no specific time or date on the card, so Hit assumed it was an open invitation. His contract was not so flexible. Hit slid the card into his pocket and finished the last of his preparations.

A few days later, his job complete without any hiccups, Hit sought out the address on the card. It ended up being a rather impressive building in the richest neighborhood in the city. The location, coupled with the unnecessarily ornate handwriting, solidified Hit's theory on who had sent the card.

With that in mind, Hit took flight. The building no-doubt hosted dozens of luxury apartments, but Hit headed for the penthouse at the very top.

Someone had left a window open for him. Presumably. If he entered and found a confused and distressed resident who'd only been hoping for fresh night air, not strange visitors, he'd know otherwise.

"I received your invitation," Hit announced to the empty room.

"You could have come quicker."

That was…not the voice Hit expected. Because it belonged to someone who wasn't even a native of the universe, never mind the planet.

"We've been waiting for days," Frieza said, stepping into the room.

Hit assumed his defensive stance instinctively. This was an enemy, a dangerous, clever one that had caused the Sixth Universe team great harm during the Tournament of Power.

"Wait!"

The person Hit had been expecting raced in and threw himself between Hit and Frieza.

"There's no need to fight, I assure you," Frost promised. "This isn't a trap. We have a genuine proposition for you."

"I'm not interested in helping you conquer planets," Hit said.

"It's not that type of proposition."

Frieza sniffed, offended. "As though we would ever require help for something so mundane."

Hit refused to drop his guard. "Just tell me what you want."

Frost cleared his throat. "Well. That is certainly a good question. And the answer is-"

"We'd like to have sexual relations with you. To fuck you, if you prefer the debased and vulgar," Frieza interrupted.

The stunned assassin looked to Frost, who nodded enthusiastically. He then looked to the open window and the promise of a sane, normal world just beyond it. Then back to Frost. Then to Frieza. Then to the window again.

"I need to speak with Frost. Alone."

When it became apparent Frieza wasn't going to vacate, Hit grabbed Frost and manhandled him into the nearest available room. Which just so happened to be a bathroom. That really wasn't the place Hit wanted to have a conversation, but it would have to do.

"So, you and Frieza?" Hit asked. "Didn't you get erased for trying to kill him after he betrayed you?"

"Succinct and true," Frost replied. "But we've repaired our relationship since then."

Hit could feel a headache coming on. "Explain."

"Despising him felt too much like despising myself. We're alike in more than form, you know; both of us are clever, ruthless, and insatiable. Fate drew us together during the Tournament, and then again months later. Frieza and I have been together ever since."

Fantastic. Two duplicitous narcissists, equally in love with themselves and each other. That wasn't going to end poorly for anyone.

"Then this is consensual for you. There's no pressure, no threats, you want this as much as Frieza," Hit said.

Frost laughed. "I want it more! It was my idea! Though once I proposed it, Frieza was most eager."

"If that's the case, alright. Provided we work out the details beforehand," Hit said.

A moment later, Frost and Hit emerged from their impromptu conference room. Frieza was now seated languidly on a sofa, as though he had not a care in the world.

"Were all your questions answered, assassin?" Frieza asked.

"Not yet," Hit replied. "I want specifics."

"On what we have planned for you? I'd hate to ruin the surprise…"

"I'm not taking off my clothes until I understand what to expect."

"The issue of size came up, of course. You are far larger than either of us. Frost is also of the opinion you're, ahem, well-endowed."

Hit felt his cheeks burn at the thought of Frieza and Frost gossiping about him in such a way. Which was a bit silly considering he was on the cusp of agreeing to have sex with both of them. But logic tended not to be a great counter for embarrassment.

Frieza continued. "That led to a natural conclusion: Frost and I should be the ones penetrating you."

All the moisture disappeared from Hit's mouth. All the thoughts disappeared from his mind as well.

"Oh dear, it appears I've broken the poor thing," Frieza said, chuckling.

Frost hastily cut in. "If that makes you uncomfortable, there are other options. Plenty of them! There doesn't even need to be any-"

"No, it's the safest arrangement," Hit said, his brain rebooting. "And I'm curious about the experience."

Frieza stood up and clasped his hands. "Then everyone is in accordance. Shall we retire to the bedroom?"

Once Frieza had ambled off, Frost turned to Hit. "I stand by what I said. If you're at all uncomfortable-"

"I was just surprised; I've never had a partner offer such a proposal," Hit replied.

Frost's eyes widened. "Wait… You mean you've never…! I don't know whether it would be better to divulge this to Frieza or keep it to ourselves."

"I've been on the other end of it and I understand the logistics. I can handle Frieza."

"Can you?"

Frost jumped at the sound of his counterpart's voice. Both he and Hit turned toward the bedroom and found Frieza standing in the doorway.

"I wondered what was keeping you and came to investigate," Frieza said. "I couldn't help but overhear your interesting disclosure."

Frieza stepped forward until he stood a few feet from Hit. He surveyed the assassin, who blushed a most beautiful shade of violet but met his gaze without blinking.

"Come along, and I'll show you what you've been missing for the last thousand years."

Hit was the only participant who routinely wore clothes, which meant he was the only one who could offer a free strip show. Not that it was particularly titillating. His hands moved automatically, having performed the same actions tens of thousands of times.

"Where did you get that coat? I assume it's bespoke," Frieza said from his position at the edge of the bed.

"It is. It was payment for killing a warlord who had conscripted the tailor's sons and sent them to die pointless deaths." Hit folded said coat and laid it next to his boots.

Even though there was no teasing dance associated with it, both Frost and Frieza watched with great interest as Hit removed the top half of his bodysuit. Frost licked his lips unconsciously as he took in the newly revealed topography of Hit's torso.

Ignoring the ogling pair as best he could, Hit stripped out of his last stitch of clothing. He crouched down and added the two pieces of the bodysuit to his tidy pile of clothes. After taking a fortifying breath, the assassin turned and presented himself fully to Frost and Frieza.

"Yes, I think that qualifies as well-endowed." Frieza couldn't take his eyes off the sight before him.

"I…may still want to try," Frost said quietly.

"Allow me to make a call and ready the infirmary on my ship first. Ah, Hit, excuse our banter. Come and join us on the bed."

Hit did as bidden. He sat down between them—it seemed like they'd purposely left a gap that would fit him perfectly—and contemplated his position.

"How would you like to do this?" Hit asked.

"Considering you're the guest of honor, the choice is yours. Though Frost and I are more than happy to make suggestions."

Hit nodded. "I'd like that."

"Perfect."

Frieza grinned like a fiend. Before Hit could react, Frieza splayed his hand against the dead center of Hit's chest and pushed him backward onto the mattress. The assassin instinctively tried to rise, only to find Frieza atop him, straddling his chest.

"I recommend we start with foreplay. Tell me, Hit, have you ever used your mouth on a partner?" Frieza asked.

"Yes, many times," the assassin answered.

"Good, I'd hate to think of you as a selfish lover. Frost, switch places with me."

Once the exchange was made, Frieza sat back and appraised the arrangement.

"It does generally take some effort to warm up a member of our species," Frieza said. "Why don't the two of you get acquainted?"

Hit and Frost exchanged confused looks as Frieza scooted off the bed.

"Don't worry, I'll return shortly. There's one little item I need to find, for Hit's enjoyment. Feel free to begin." With that, the emperor slipped into an adjacent room.

"Come closer," Hit invited the second Frieza was gone.

Frost hesitated just a moment before sliding forward…all of two inches.

"Closer, Frost, I still can't reach you."

Frost finally got the message. Which was a relief for Hit, who really didn't want to have to say the words "sit on my face."

Frieza was treated to the audio of Frost and Hit's escapades long before he was granted the visual. All the irritation he'd built up during the search, which had required much more ransacking then he'd anticipated, evaporated instantly. It was replaced with a burning that was equal parts curiosity and lust. Just what were those two doing to wring such cries from Frost?

Moving with the silent swiftness of a cat, Frieza hurried back to the bedroom. He stepped over the threshold and came to a complete halt at what was unfolding before him.

Hit was feasting on Frost. Frieza couldn't see all of the specifics from his location, but he could see the results. Frost's head was thrown back, his skin was flushed, and he was practically screaming out in pleasure.

Even Frieza was not depraved enough to interrupt such a moment. He was, however, depraved enough to creep along the wall for a better view.

From his improved vantage point, Frieza saw how Hit's size worked as a benefit. The assassin's mouth covered every inch of Frost's crotch, leaving no sensitive nerve neglected.

Frieza was well-acquainted with the increasingly frantic noises Frost was making; he'd been the cause of them dozens of times since their reconciliation. He could almost set a timer based on the tempo of Frost's cries and predict exactly how long it would be before his lover climaxed. In this case, not very long at all.

Frost suddenly gasped and went boneless. Hit reached up to grab his hips and steady him, but Frieza's tail was even quicker. The flexible appendage wrapped around Frost's midsection like a seatbelt and held him upright.

"Did you have fun?" Frieza inquired, still supporting Frost.

Frost managed to nod.

"I'm glad to hear it." Frieza gently lifted Frost off of Hit and lowered him onto the bed.

The moment Frost was safely deposited, Frieza pounced on Hit. The assassin, assuming he was under attack, tried to defend himself. If Hit had been in top form, Frieza would have caught a potentially crippling blow to the face. Luckily for the mad emperor, Hit's mind had been on certain delicacies, and his reflexes reflected it.

After restraining Hit's arms, Frieza leaned in. Hit flinched, sure he was about to be bitten. Instead, he was licked. And then Frieza's lips crushed against his own. The assassin felt Frieza's tongue invade his mouth, seeking traces of what Hit had just enjoyed.

"He tastes rather nice, doesn't he?" Frieza asked, pulling away just a bit.

The question was apparently rhetorical, as before Hit could answer to the affirmative, Frieza said, "But enough about Frost for the moment. You and I are due some pleasure of our own."

Frieza released Hit and backed away from him. The assassin sat up and wiped his mouth and cheeks. He could have done without the licking, but he was ready for whatever else Frieza intended for him.

At least he hoped so.

"Get into a position where you're comfortable," Frieza instructed.

Comfort was important, but so was the ability to brace himself. Hit had no intention of being pushed all over the bed. He looked for anything with a solid handhold and locked onto the ornate headboard. Dainty filigree aside, it was a sturdy chunk of exotic wood.

"That's carved from a species of tree that has since gone extinct, so if you crack it with your death-grip, there will be repercussions. Also—and I do not say this often, even in jest—I have no plans to hurt you. Relax."

That was all well and good, except Frieza was both a renowned liar and sadist. Still, Hit forced himself to loosen his grasp on the headboard. He doubted Frost would approve of anything overly brutal happening to him, and, if worst came to worst, Hit was confident he could at least fight Frieza to a draw.

"Better. I'm going to approach you now," Frieza announced, as though Hit was a skittish horse prone to kicking.

Hit felt fingers ghost along his shoulders, then his back. There was a slow but unmistakable downward trajectory to the touches.

"You've got an excellent physique for a man your age," Frieza said, tracing well-defined muscles.

The assassin laughed. "Considering most men my age are dead…"

"I do jest, of course. You're quite the handsome specimen. I think you'll be able to handle what I have in store for you."

The roving hands disappeared. Hit waited, expectant. The soft pop of a bottle top being opened drew Hit's attention. He craned his neck and saw Frieza drizzling the contents of the bottle onto one hand.

"Is that what you went to find?" Hit asked.

"Frost and I haven't needed any additional lubrication since the early days. And you know how things go missing when you don't use them."

Hit considered asking where Frieza had finally found the small bottle, but if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to stall. Getting Frost off had left Hit painfully hard, and even the simple touches from Frieza had been akin to torture.

"Are you ready?"

The assassin faced forward and gave a sharp nod. "I am."

"I'm not going to execute you." Frieza laughed at Hit's grim formality. "I'm only going to…"

Hit (barely) avoided yelping at the sudden intrusion. His grip tightened into a stranglehold on Frieza's precious headboard, though the emperor's warning kept him from snapping anything. He clenched his teeth and-

And nothing.

It didn't hurt in the slightest. He could have done with a bit of warning before two fingers were jammed inside him, but it wasn't bad having them there. Hit wouldn't call it exactly pleasurable, but there was no doubt he'd let his anxiety get the best of him for a few seconds.

"You can move your hand now," Hit said.

"I'm surprised, assassin. I thought it would take you at least twice as long to recover," Frieza teased.

Hit blushed, though it was indistinguishable from his overall flushed appearance. "I may have overreacted."

"Just a bit." Smirking, Frieza gave Hit what he needed.

He started slow and gentle, working his fingers in and out at a sedate pace. When Hit asked for more, either directly or with his body language, Frieza supplied it. The addition of a third finger left Hit reeling. Quicker thrusts, timed to mimic what a cock could deliver, finally forced the first sounds from Hit. Frieza savored every quiet gasp he wrung from the assassin as much as he savored Frost's unrestrained cries.

Carefully judging Hit's responses, Frieza waited until the assassin was on the verge of hyperventilating before he asked, "Would you like to proceed to the main event?"

A strangled "yes" was all Hit could get out. It took every remaining ounce of his willpower not to surrender to the emperor's touch alone. If they didn't get a move on, his final reserve of self-control was going to evaporate.

Frieza slid his fingers free. Hit groaned and rested his forehead against cool wood. Incredible, twenty minutes of stimulation made him crave something he hadn't given more than a passing thought to in all the previous years of his long life.

Hands gripped Hit's hips. Frieza gave the assassin no time to react or tense up before he buried himself fully. For a being his size, Frieza had nothing to be ashamed about below the belt. What had been almost difficult for Frost to accept during their first few encounters was perfect for Hit. More than fingers but not overwhelming, able to scratch an itch deep inside that the assassin didn't even know he had until Frieza's thighs rested flush against his ass.

It was a miracle Hit didn't immediately come, collapse, or both. He wasn't sure what stopped him, except his desire to enjoy the journey with Frieza just a little longer.

"What do you think? Was it worth waiting a thousand years so Lord Frieza could be the first to take you?"

Hit wished he had a snappy comeback, but he was almost beyond words, never mind sarcasm. A nod was about the most coherent response he could produce. Frieza, grinning, rewarded his honesty with a sharp thrust that filled Hit's vision with stars.

"More," Hit whispered. "Please, more."

The quiet plea sent a bolt of pleasure straight through Frieza. Whether on the battlefield or in the bedroom, he loved nothing more than being begged. It meant he had won, had conquered his adversary, had proven himself superior (as if there was any doubt) once again.

Frieza increased his pace, driving into Hit both harder and faster. "Is this to your liking?"

Ragged panting was all Hit could offer in reply. He was so, so, so close. It might have been nice to finish with Frieza, but that wasn't in the cards. Not that Frieza was going to mind; if anything, it would probably boost his already-planet-sized ego to get his partner off first.

Imitating what he'd done earlier with his hands, Frieza began to run his tail up and down the assassin's back. Then across his ribcage. Then down his stomach. Then, inevitably, around his dick. The same appendage that could snap a warrior's neck like a twig could also provide gentle pressure on the most sensitive of organs.

At the same moment he dragged the loose coil of his tail along the rigid length of Hit's dick, Frieza canted his hips and plunged in at a new angle. Hit endured exactly two strokes of doubled pleasure before he came harder than he ever had in his life.

Maybe he passed out for a few seconds, maybe his orgasm was so all-consuming he was unaware of the world around him, maybe he'd been fucked so well he accidentally invented a new type of time skip. Whatever had happened between his last memory and his return to his senses, someone had laid his body flat on the bed. Presumably the same someone was still atop him, railing him with a desperation Hit understood all too well.

"Frieza?" Hit asked.

"Ah, I," the emperor gasped for breath, "timed it perfectly."

Hit was going to ask what Frieza had timed perfectly when two simultaneous moans reached his ears. A moment later there was a strange twitching inside him that made Hit want to squirm. Then, without warning, there were two wanted criminals sprawled out on the bed beside him, as though it had started raining reptiles. Hit was left with an aching in a place that had never ached before and several pressing questions.

The assassin held said questions until there were definite signs of life from his bedmates. As soon as Frieza and Frost propped themselves up, Hit considered them fair game.

"My dear Frost was watching us intently the entire time," Frieza explained. "He, of course, couldn't help but pleasure himself. How he kept so quiet, I'll never know."

Hit was thankful he'd been facing the wall and had been oblivious to the voyeurism. "So the two of you were able to synchronize-"

"Oh, it's even better than that," Frost said.

"It was more 'the three of us.' We also took into account when you would recover enough to bask in the glory of it," Frieza added.

"We've become experts at climaxing together," Frost continued. "We would have liked to do the same with you, but it would have been cruel to drag it out any longer."

Hit had no words.

Frieza shrugged. "There's always next time."

Chapter Text

That wasn't there two days ago.

Though it did add a nice pop of color to an otherwise beige room.

The delicate, mingling fragrances were also a pleasant break from the stale air.

Hit lifted the vase and examined its contents. It was a simple arrangement, purple and gold, none of the individual flowers all that extravagant. Jonquil and lilac were certainly out of season in the late fall, but they were still native to the planet.

"Do you like them? This place needed something to make it not the most depressing hotel room in the known universe," Frost said as he strolled from his room.

Hit chuckled at Frost's naivete. The hotel was by no means five-star luxury, but at least there were no roaches scurrying around or bedbugs lurking in the furniture. Hit had checked before anyone or their luggage touched anything.

"You're an assassin, you're used to living in, I don't know, garbage dumps with roofs. They don't even offer complimentary breakfast here," Frost griped.

"Is it safe for you to be seen enjoying free breakfast in public anyway?" Hit asked, setting the vase back where he found it.

"Of course, my disguise is subtle but impenetrable."

"Your 'disguise' is to cover ninety-five percent of your body in a long cloak and hover two feet off the ground at all times so you look taller."

Frost glared. "I look regal and imposing!"

"People are too polite to ask why you have no lower body."

"It- It's not that obvious!"

"It is."

"Well…there may be room for improvement."

A week later, on a different planet, Hit and Frost settled into another plain, boring, off-the-beaten-track hotel. Once Hit finished his inspection of the room, Frost threw himself onto the sofa. Which was, of course, lumpy and vaguely sticky.

"I know you won't disclose your net worth, nor how much you make per contract, but I'm assuming you're filthy rich. Given that, why don't we ever stay at a place with class?"

"Because luxury hotels have functioning cameras and security and actually pay attention to who their guests are," Hit replied.

Frost scoffed. "As though we couldn't eliminate anyone foolhardy enough to bother us."

"It's not the direct threat, it's the heat. You're a fugitive, and most of the universe would sell you out even if there wasn't a massive bounty on your head. You pissed off a lot of people, Frost. I don't need the hassle of dealing with them."

"Ugh." Without another word, Frost hopped off the sofa and headed for the door. On the way he grabbed his now-modified disguise and slipped it on.

"Where are you going?" Hit asked.

"To add some character to this room before I die of blandness," Frost replied.

"That's a foolish reason to risk your freedom."

Frost rounded on Hit. "I didn't ask for your opinion!"

With that, Hit was left alone in the room. He sighed heavily and decided he needed to go for a walk.

When he returned an hour later, a container of Frost's favorite guilty pleasure takeout food in hand, he discovered he was still alone. Though Frost had obviously stopped by. There was a gift waiting for Hit on the coffee table.

After stashing Frost's food in the mini-fridge, Hit returned to his gift. It was a rustic bouquet that Hit initially mistook for dill until he was close enough to smell it. The bitter, herbaceous fragrance the stems and flowers emitted identified it instead as rue. Judging from the uneven cut of the stems, someone in a hurry had created the bouquet. Hit smiled warmly at the thought of Frost sneaking into a florist shop and fighting with garden shears and ribbons.

The room had no proper vase, so Hit used a disposable cup. He then placed the bouquet as a centerpiece on the table. With the flowers cared for, there was nothing for Hit to do except take a seat and wait for Frost's return.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Hit heard the faint beep that signaled a key card had successfully unlocked the door. The assassin closed his eyes, let his head droop forward, slowed his breathing, and entered the perfect mimicry of sleep. Then he waited.

Frost moved into the room and abruptly sneezed. He swore, his eyes immediately darting to Hit. The assassin continued to snooze, unbothered.

"I had no idea it would smell so strongly," Frost muttered. "How can Hit stand it?"

Hit had gone nose-blind some hours back. Though once he was reminded of the plant's imposing scent, it crept back into his awareness.

"Apologies, but you've got to go." Frost grabbed the improvised vase and its contents and, to Hit's barely contained amusement, chucked them out the nearest window. He also left the window open to air the room out.

That taken care of, Frost returned to the coffee table. He'd come bearing a much better gift and now, with the rue rotting in the gutter, it had a perfect spot of honor.

"I know you're awake," Frost said conversationally.

Most people would open their eyes and admit defeat at that point. The only ones that wouldn't were the ones who were actually asleep.

And Hit.

Frost thought about it. He was (relatively) sure Hit was awake and toying with him. Though even if the assassin was asleep, Frost wanted him up. So the solution remained the same in either case.

Frost slipped a leaf from his impressive present. He then tickled Hit under the nose with it. The assassin instantly swatted his hand and stole the leaf.

"Mmm, I've been deep asleep this entire time and am just now returning to consciousness." Hit opened his eyes and gave the most cartoonish, ridiculous yawn Frost had ever seen.

Whether he'd been faking sleep or not, Hit's eyes had been closed the entire time. When he saw the arrangement that had taken the place of his quaint bouquet of rue, his reaction was genuine.

"This is beautiful," the assassin said softly. "How did a fugitive war criminal get his hands on something like this in the middle of the night?"

"It's quite a story! Soon after I left, I began to feel-"

"Guilty?" Hit suggested.

"No, of course not, don't be absurd. Like you deserved a little gift for all you've done for me. I found a florist shop, unfortunately closed for the night, but I finessed the lock."

"You broke it," Hit corrected.

Frost waved his hand, dismissing any difference in semantics. "However you care to phrase it, I gained entry. I was unsure of security measures, so I didn't dally. I made your apology- I mean, your random gift that I felt like giving you, with the intention of coming back later for something grander if there was no police presence. Which there wasn't."

"So you spent nearly all night at the florist?"

Frost shook his head. "Not quite. I may be a monster to some, but I had no intentions of stealing from a small business, especially not one with such high-quality product. I made restitution for the flowers, supplies, and the lock."

"Where did you get the money to pay for anything, never mind all that?" Hit asked.

"I found it," Frost replied.

"You found it."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, in the wallets of three men who were harassing those smaller and weaker than themselves."

Hit did something unusual: he laughed, earnestly and without restraint. "So you were paid for a public service. That sounds fair to me."

"I love it when you laugh," Frost said wistfully.

The realization of what he'd just said hit Frost immediately and with the force of a gut-punch. Blushing furiously, the fugitive spun away from Hit.

"What am I saying?! I must be exhausted from my long night! Yes, of course, I'm delirious!" Frost shouted, almost manic. "Please enjoy the flowers while I get some sleep!"

It would have been nice to shut himself away, but the only separate quarters were a small closet and the bathroom. With no other options, Frost chose the bed farthest from Hit. He practically leapt under the covers and pulled them over his head, like a child hiding from monsters.

Hit blinked. Did that just happen? Apparently yes, as there was a small, slightly trembling, muttering and swearing lump under a blanket only a few meters away. The assassin sighed and decided not to make things more awkward.

As Frost had asked, Hit turned his attention to the flowers. It was a magnificent arrangement that Frost must have spent hours planning and executing. Again, a foolish thing to risk his freedom on, but the results were remarkable and Hit would give credit where it was due.

There was an actual vase this time, tall, black, with a glossy finish. It was full to bursting with blooms, predominantly red, but with a few sparks of other colors thrown in for variety. No, not just variety. Each flower told a piece of a story, if one was able to understand the language.

Scarlet chrysanthemums with flowers so large their stems could barely support them. Red daisies with centers like egg yolks. Carnations, both red and pink varieties. Roses, of course, with the classic colors well-represented, but also rare blue roses that Hit would bet money were the result of genetic engineering, not dyes. Tulips, yellow and red in equal numbers. Tiny forget-me-nots like pale freckles. And, wrapped across the neck of the vase like a heavy shawl, were several long strands of pendant amaranth.

Taken in their entirety, the flowers wove a tale of a soul burning with love and passion, desperate to be acknowledged by another, only to find their love unrequited. As beautiful as they were, the flowers were a record of tragedy.

Hit's heart lurched in a way it hadn't in centuries, in a way he didn't think he was capable of experiencing anymore. He had to fix this.

The blanket lump had stopped moving and talking to itself. Hit couldn't guarantee Frost was asleep, but the odds were probably in his favor. Either way, Hit didn't intend to be gone long.

Frost hadn't said exactly where the florist was, but it had to be close enough for him to stumble upon it, break in, find and bind a bouquet of rue, and drop off said bouquet in less than an hour. Hit hadn't seen a florist on his walk earlier, so he assumed it must be in the opposite direction. With that in mind, Hit snuck from the room and went on the search.

Dawn had broken and the streets were no longer deserted, but Hit radiated an aura that warned off anyone who might try to bother him. People took one look at him, tall and grim and obviously not from around those parts, and stepped well clear of his path.

With his much longer stride, Hit shaved several minutes off Frost's arrival time. There was no question he'd found the right place. A slender green alien that almost resembled a plant was standing in front of the shop and talking to a cop.

Hit tried to loiter as nonchalantly as possibly across the street, leaning against the wall of a cafe that hadn't opened yet. He watched as the cop typed a few things into a tiny, wrist-mounted computer, then spoke to the florist again. After a bit more back-and-forth, the cop mounted his hoverbike and was on his merry way. Not once did he look in Hit's direction.

Once the cop was out of sight, Hit hurried across the street.

"I'm so sorry, but I'm closed today. I was robbed last night," the florist explained.

"I'll make it worth your while," Hit replied. "It's an emergency."

The florist raised their eyebrows. "A flower emergency?"

Hit nodded.

"How worth my while?"

"Very."

The florist held open the door and allowed Hit to enter. As he did, he took a glance at the lock. Frost had shot a death-beam through it. Talk about overkill.

"Okay, Mr. Emergency, what can I do for you? Just please don't expect too much, like I said, I got robbed. Weirdest thing, whoever did it didn't take cash, just flowers."

And, at least according to Frost, also paid for the damages. Not that Hit was going to inquire. If the florist wanted to double dip with their insurance agency, that was none of his business.

"Do you have any roses left?" Hit asked.

"Yep, plenty of black ones."

Hit grimaced and shook his head. Absolutely not.

"What about-"

The florist suddenly bent down and picked something up from the floor. "Hey, it's your lucky day. The bastard must've dropped this. It's a little banged up so I'll let it go for half price."

One lonely red rose—which looked like it had been trodden on—had managed to escape from Frost.

"I'll take it."

As the florist rang him up, Hit asked, "If money was no obstacle, how quickly could you restock?"

"I could overnight ship from a couple wholesalers I know. If we're talking no obstacle, probably six or eight hours."

"We are talking precisely that."

The florist's green eyes grew wide. "Yeah?"

Hit nodded. "He's worth it."

Frost awoke in the dim fuzzy warmth of his blanket cocoon. His embarrassment rose with him. How could he have made such a fool out of himself? To stare at Hit like some love-struck simpleton and swoon over his laugh?

The only solution was to pretend like it had never happened and to follow through on his earlier excuses of being so tired he hadn't realized what he was saying. On the off chance Hit mentioned it, Frost would brush it off, hopefully with more conviction than he'd been able to manage...however long ago it had been.

On that note, what time was it, anyway? Frost felt rested, but a decent hour-long nap could feel as invigorating as a night's sleep. The only way to be sure was to brave the outside world.

Like a hibernating mammal emerging from its winter den, Frost stuck his head out from the blankets. He scanned the room and soon found Hit sitting on the subpar sofa. The assassin was looking straight at him.

Frost's first instinct was to scramble back under the blankets. But he was an adult and he needed to face his problems (being a fugitive war criminal excluded, of course).

"Good afternoon. The answer is yes," Hit said.

Frost tilted his head like a confused dog. What in the world was Hit talking about? Frost hadn't asked him a thing—how could he have, he'd been in blanket purgatory.

Unless-

No, the very notion was absurd.

The assassin picked up something from the coffee table and approached Frost. In a moment it became clear what it was: another disposable cup turned into a vase, with a single red rose propped inside it. Hit handed the cup and flower to Frost, who hurriedly threw off the blankets and sat up.

"I understood the significance of your bouquets," Hit confirmed.

"The flowers, you knew? How?!"

"I'm a thousand years old. I've had a hobby or two in that time. I've also read a book here and there."

"And it's...yes? You return my feelings?" Frost lifted the cup with restrained hope.

"Adamantly. I would've gotten you a full dozen roses to prove it, but someone robbed the only florist around," Hit joked.

Frost sniffled. Hit sat down beside him on the bed. Instead of bursting into tears of relief and happiness and soaking Hit with them, Frost settled for resting against the assassin. Hit wrapped an arm around Frost and pulled him even closer.

"If you're happy now, what's in the fridge might earn me a kiss."

In the most remarkable display of speed Hit had seen since his fight against Dyspo, Frost was instantly in front of the mini-fridge. He removed the takeout container, opened it, and basked in the deep-fried, hedonistic glory.

"For this, you can have two kisses. And I may even share a few bites with you."

While they waited for the food to reheat, Frost and Hit transferred from the bed to the sofa. It was for purely practical reasons: bed was not the place to enjoy anything cheesy, hot, and covered in sauce. The new location didn't stop Frost from fulfilling his promise, however.

Frost delivered two kisses, the first a little peck on the cheek that made Hit laugh. The second was a proper kiss on the mouth, Frost standing on the sofa and leaning against Hit's solid form to get the right angle.

"I have one more surprise for you," Hit said once they parted.

"You're beginning to spoil me," Frost replied. "Please continue."

If the florist's estimation was accurate, the shipment of fresh flowers should have arrived. And thanks to the earlier exchange of large sums of currency, Hit had secured the right to the pick of the floral litter, as well as an expert arrangement of his choice.

"I'll get it after we eat," Hit said. "I know if I leave now, there won't be anything left for me when I get back."

"Or you could go now and pick up a few more servings while you're out. I think that would earn you at least three kisses, plus a night of unbridled passion interrupted only by snack breaks."

Hit was gone before Frost could blink.

Chapter Text

Hit lay in near-total darkness. He stared up at the ceiling and contemplated the events that had led him to this particular hotel room, to this particular bed, to this particular partner. Not that he could focus enough to gain true introspective. The soft sounds coming from the other half of the bed were quite the distraction.

"Do you…" the assassin trailed off. Hit wasn't sure he had the stomach or the empathy for any conversation that might germinate from his question.

The sounds continued. With no other choice, Hit took a moment to gather his courage before bluntly asking, "Do you always cry after sex?"

"It is a beautiful, life-affirming act when it is performed with consent, trust, and passion! I do not partake often, but when I do, it never fails to bring a tear to my eyes! I say that with pride!"

"As long as they're tears of pride, not regret," Hit muttered.

The bed groaned as the large body beside him rolled over. "Are you having regrets?"

Hit considered it for a moment, then shook his head. He was having something, but he wouldn't call it regret. A mild existential crisis, perhaps, or simply his mind still trying to come to terms with some heavy and inescapable facts.

"Good, good, I'm glad to hear it."

The silence stretched between them like taffy, pulling longer and longer, until it was unable to support its own weight. Hit was the one to finally snap it.

"This is absurd. All of it," the assassin said. "You know that as well as I do."

"Of course," Toppo agreed happily.

"If anything, we should be trying to kill each other."

"My species prefers to talk and then to sleep afterward. Though I understand and respect others' mating rituals."

Hit had half a mind to either escape into his pocket dimension or punch Toppo in the face. Maybe a little of both. Not that he'd been able to land more than a few nuisance blows on the soon-to-be Destroyer during their exhibition match earlier in the day.

Though maybe he wouldn't have made such an ass out of himself if he'd been more focused. Or if his focus had been on something beside how magnificent and imposing Toppo looked in his Destroyer regalia. At the time, Hit had been sure his face was blank and unreadable, keen interest be damned. Considering what the hotel walls had witnessed...Toppo must have seen something.

"Would you like to discuss it?" Toppo asked.

"Discuss what?" Hit replied.

"Whatever is bothering you."

The assassin sighed. "Why not? I'm berating myself for allowing my pride to make me foolish, for my distraction during our match, and for having any attraction to you in the first place."

"That sounds like regret."

"I don't regret the sex!" Hit snapped.

"Just what led to it?"

"Considering what led to it was you pummeling me unconscious-"

"After you humiliated one of my Pride Troopers and caused him significant dental trauma and-"

"If he had fought with more honor during the Tournament of Power, then I wouldn't have-"

"How dare you impugn Dyspo's honor-"

"Dyspo doesn't need my help to impugn-"

There was a brief rustling of sheets, a crash as Toppo's massive hand knocked a nightstand over, and finally the click of a lamp being turned on. Hit's night vision was sharp and the sudden brightness made him squint for a few seconds. Once his vision was clear, the assassin sat up to see what his partner was doing.

Toppo had gotten out of bed and was standing with his hands on his hips. He made no effort to fetch his clothes. Hit made it a point to avoid looking anywhere lower than his waist.

"I will not stand idly by and allow my Pride Troopers to be insulted!" Toppo proclaimed.

Word for word, that was what Toppo had shouted earlier in the day, after Hit had finished tossing Dyspo's limp body from the arena. Hit had, without hesitation, invited him to do his worst.

And not five minutes later, Hit was sprawled out ringside, several bones broken, his mouth full of blood. His memory of everything after one well-placed punch was foggy, but the rest of his team had been happy to fill in the details after Vados had patched him up. Apparently it had been so vicious an ass-kicking that Champa had tried to pick a fight with both Belmod and Toppo over unsportsmanlike conduct.

Was that what Toppo wanted now, another match Hit wasn't going to win?

No, the assassin decided, most likely not. For one, the risk of civilian casualties was enormous. A hotel was no place for a battle, especially not between such great powers.

Secondly, despite his surly scowl, there was a glimmer of something more mischievous in Toppo's eyes.

This was a farce, and Hit was happy to play along.

"Then shut me up," Hit replied.

"Arrogant villain, you will rue the day you spoke to me in such a manner!"

Hit lay back on the bed. "I'm sure I will."

A moment later, Toppo was astride him and was pinning his wrists down. Hit offered a token show of resistance, which ended when Toppo gave his arms a warning squeeze. Even though the future Destroyer restrained himself significantly, a bone-deep ache settled into the assassin's flesh.

Seeing Hit wince—despite how quickly he covered it—Toppo released him immediately. "The rules remain the same. If either party, for any reason or no reason, wishes to stop, we will stop."

"I didn't ask you to stop," Hit said.

"I know, I was uncomfortable with causing you pain," Toppo replied.

He hadn't had an issue with it during their match, but Hit wasn't going to push it. Either party, any reason or no reason, no questions asked, no boundaries ignored.

"Then I won't ask you to hurt me. Though if you're willing to try something else…" With Hit's encouragement, Toppo again seized the assassin's arms. This time he used just enough force to keep him still.

"You've got me," Hit acknowledged.

"Of course I do, justice always triumphs!" Toppo replied.

Hit looked around, idly wondering how soundproof the room was. He hoped the answer was very, because otherwise, every other guest in the building was going to get an earful of Toppo's booming voice.

"Keep your eyes on me, killer, and nowhere else!"

As a rule, Hit despised being ordered around. He only bowed to Champa's commands because one, he had nothing better to do, and two, he wasn't yet strong enough to ensure he could challenge the pudgy god.

Given that, the assassin was surprised to find himself obeying without protest or resentment. He locked onto Toppo's face.

"Better. And now that I've got your full attention…"

If Toppo wanted Hit to ask what his fate would be, Hit was prepared to make him wait until his mustache grew past his knees. The assassin had learned the art of patience through stalking his targets, sometimes spending days observing them, memorizing their routines, and anticipating the perfect moment to strike. He was not about to be flustered, not even by the hot, heavy body separated from his own by nothing except a bed sheet.

"Impudent," Toppo scoffed, "though it's a game two can play."

"That works for me. I'm not going anywhere," Hit said. He made a show of relaxing his body into the mattress.

"My self-control is legendary."

"I can endure days without moving, sleeping, or eating."

Toppo blinked. "Does that include forgoing...bathroom breaks?"

"It does."

"I refuse to force that on myself or another. A warrior's kidneys must be cared for as much as the rest of his body. To spare anyone an increased risk of urinary tract infections, I will reveal my judgment!"

Hit, once again, wondered how his life choices had led him here.

"For your audacity, you must learn humility! You will master my ten favorite and most powerful poses, and then create one of your own!"

"Thank you for the scintillating evening, I'm going to leave now."

Toppo broke into full-bodied laughter. "Not to your liking?"

Ridiculous posturing might not have been, but the motion of Toppo's hips as he laughed was very much to Hit's liking. The assassin could feel his blood rush to two areas of his body. And Toppo, damn him, took note of both.

"In that case, I offer you a new challenge: keep your composure," Toppo said. He punctuated his words with a roll of his hips that would have undone a less worthy opponent.

"Let's see you do the same." Hit was relieved to hear his voice was steady.

Grinning, Toppo leaned forward a bit, redistributing his weight so more of it was supported by his arms while his lower body was able to move freer. Both anticipation and the increased pressure—not pain, just perfect, restraining heaviness—made Hit's blood thrum.

Toppo started a slow, rocking rhythm. Back and forth, steady as a metronome. The bed sheet caught between them helped the process. It felt luxurious like silk, though was (hopefully) something synthetic and much easier to clean. The fabric allowed for smoother movements and the way it dragged across Hit's progressively sensitive skin was like a lover's lips.

The assassin wasn't the only one feeling the friction. Toppo was beginning to sweat, and there was no convenient cover to hide his body's reaction.

"I suppose you'd like to use your hands," Toppo said. "You look uncomfortable."

Hit, understanding the game, shook his head. "Not at all. Though if you need relief-"

The fledgling Destroyer huffed. "I have never felt more at ease."

His flushed face and straining erection said otherwise.

"What about a compromise?" Toppo suggested.

"I could be tempted," Hit admitted.

"We acknowledge each other as equally stoic. Then we advance to the endgame."

The assassin couldn't agree quickly enough. He would never admit it, but he'd been painfully close to cracking and rutting against any part of Toppo he could reach from his position.

Toppo released his hold on Hit's arms. The assassin flexed his fingers, squeezing the blood back into them. There had been no maliciousness in it, but Toppo's grip had gotten steadily tighter over the last several minutes.

"As soon as I get sensation back in my hands, I'd be happy to take over," Hit said. "You've done enough. More than enough."

"That seems like a fair division of labor. How do you plan to proceed?" Toppo asked.

"Any preferences?"

"Oh, surprise me."

During their first romp, while they'd been exploring each other's bodies and quirks, they'd discovered Hit was tickled so badly by Toppo's prodigious mustache that anything involving the Pride Trooper's mouth was off the table. Hit really hadn't had a chance to return the favor and see how Toppo responded to less hairy stimulation.

"I need you off of me," Hit said.

Toppo was lying next to Hit instead of astride him a moment later. Hit sat up, already missing the heat that radiated from the Pride Trooper's massive body. That was alright, though. He knew a way to bring that heat internally.

Hit considered using his time skip, but, truth be told, he wasn't sure he could take Toppo in one quick go. Toppo was proportional, hands not included. (Though if there had been a correlation in size between his hands and his dick, Hit might have excused himself from the room and not returned.)

"Are you sure-" Toppo began, once it became clear what Hit intended to do.

"Completely," Hit replied.

"Please don't feel pressured, especially if-"

"Toppo, shut up."

Before the Pride Trooper could respond, Hit's mouth was on him.

Hit suppressed his gag reflex to the point it ceased to exist. Even without it, fully accommodating Toppo was going to be a tall order. Hit had never been one to run from a challenge, however, especially not one that gave him the chance for a little revenge.

The assassin worked with torturous, teasing slowness. He bobbed his head, pushing himself down a little farther each time. It wasn't long before his efforts had Toppo moaning and writhing.

Just before Hit achieved his goal, he suddenly pulled back. Toppo gasped in shock at the loss of enveloping warmth.

It took a few seconds, but once Toppo's wits returned to him, he asked, "Are you alright? There's no need to make yourself uncomfortable-"

Hit laid a hand against Toppo's thigh, silencing him. The assassin grinned, his cheeks flushed deep violet, his eyes almost glassy, as though he was feverish or tipsy. In a way, Hit supposed, he was a little bit of both.

"Should we finish this together?" Hit asked.

Toppo nodded fervently. There really wasn't a more intimate or, dare he say it, romantic way to find release.

This time, Hit went straight for his prize. His instincts told him Toppo was teetering in a gale and a flick of a finger would be enough to send him over the edge. Hit himself wasn't quite that close. He needed to play catch-up, while keeping Toppo balanced on the cusp.

Once he had Toppo fully engulfed, Hit ceased all movement except for one hand. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around his aching dick. The assassin's eyes fluttered closed at the sensation; Toppo was far too preoccupied to demand Hit look at him this time.

Between the feeling of fullness that was so intense it brushed against being painful and the deft strokes delivered with Hit's usual efficiency, the assassin brought himself to Toppo's level of desperation in a matter of minutes. Were they the most protracted minutes of Toppo's life? They were, but he wasn't complaining. He knew Hit would reward his forbearance soon enough.

Hit hummed, the low reverberations as powerful as a gut-punch to Toppo in his current state. The Pride Trooper threw back his head, his hands clutching convulsively at the bed sheets. His body was at its limit. He needed relief or he was going to spontaneously combust.

There was the soft sound of an inhale as Hit took as deep a breath as possible through his nose. He hummed again, something that could have been muffled speech, musical scales, or random vibrations with no meaning except a burning desire to get Toppo off.

Regardless of the significance—or lack thereof—the humming was as powerful a weapon as Hit had ever wielded. Before he had even run low on breath, he felt Toppo spasm deep inside him. The assassin took that as his cue to hurry himself along.

Hit imagined Toppo holding him down on the bed, the Pride Trooper's hands a relentless, irresistible force. He recalled with perfect clarity the pressure Toppo had exerted, particularly the moment he'd squeezed a little too hard.

That was all Hit needed. He gasped and felt every muscle in his body tighten. Hit had just enough wherewithal to avoid clenching his jaw and ruining Toppo's night in spectacular fashion. After that, there were no more conscious thoughts as everything burned away to white-hot bliss.

A few minutes later, after both Hit and Toppo had recovered enough to breathe without panting, the pair lay side by side. Hit again found himself staring up at the ceiling, though he was less brooding this time around.

"How are we going to explain our mysterious night-long disappearance?" Hit asked.

Toppo pulled the assassin closer and invited Hit to use his shoulder as a pillow. "Ask me in the morning."

"It's going to fall to me to make the excuses, huh?"

Toppo chuckled. "I don't think either Lord Belmod or Lord Champa would believe the truth if they heard it."

"Should we test that theory?"

"To be on the safe side, perhaps not."

Now it was Hit's turn to laugh. "Then we'll just have to sleep on it and hope one of us has creative dreams."

Chapter Text

Hit slid the last box of supplies into the pantry. Once he stepped out of the way, Dyspo slammed the door.

"Glad that's finished," Dyspo said.

"You spent more time talking gibberish to your chickens and following them around than you did working," Hit replied. "Especially considering most of the boxes contained things you requested."

"Excuse me for being invested in my babies."

"Just tell me you thought of better names than Dyspo Junior One, Two, and Three."

The Pride Trooper laughed. "Nope, because those are the best possible names in existence."

Hit shook his head. Not even birds deserved to be saddled with names like that.

Dyspo leaned against the door he'd just closed. "We could stand here and fight over chicken names, or we could finally test out that shower. I know which one I'm voting for."

It had been like pulling teeth to get Dyspo to forget about the shower romp long enough to do the responsible thing and store their supplies properly. Hit knew if he denied the Pride Trooper much longer, Dyspo was going to get annoying. Or more annoying than his baseline.

And, truth be told, Hit could use both a good scrubbing and a little fun. It had been a hell of a day and he probably smelled like it.

"My vote's the same," Hit said.

Dyspo whooped with excitement. "The votes are in and it's unanimous: it's shower time!"

The pair moved to the communal washroom, Hit grabbing towels from the linen closet on the way. There was no separate changing room, but there was a corner with shelves to hold belongings. Dyspo wasted no time throwing his gloves onto a shelf and getting to work on the rest of his outfit.

"I just realized I've never seen you completely naked," Dyspo noted as he pulled off his boots.

"And you won't if you're obnoxious about it," Hit replied.

"What are you gonna do, wear a towel the whole time?"

"I'll choose a separate stall and leave my shower curtains in place. I'm assuming, as a Pride Trooper and a decent person, you would have to respect that decision."

Dyspo groaned. Of course he was honor-bound not to watch people bathing without explicit consent, but that didn't mean being denied the opportunity wouldn't break his heart.

Hit was still working on his coat when Dyspo tossed his uniform onto the shelf as haphazardly as he'd thrown his gloves and boots. With a flush in his cheeks and a grin on his face, Dyspo faced Hit straight on. The assassin pointedly ignored the bare-as-the-day-it-was-born body.

"Do you want me to wait or start without you?" Dyspo asked.

"Go ahead, there's no reason for you to stand naked in the cold," Hit replied.

Dyspo trotted over to the three shower stalls, each separated by their own opaque plastic curtains. He entered the middle one and examined the plumbing. It seemed showers were basically the same in any universe.

After a bit of fiddling with temperature control—and yelping over both extremes of hot and cold—Dyspo stepped under the stream. He tilted his head and let the water run over his prodigious ears. A soft moan escaped him at the soothing heat and gentle beat of the droplets.

"If you ever get in here, I know what I want you to do to me," Dyspo said.

"Something with your ears?" Hit guessed.

"I'll never say no to that."

Neither would Hit. He quickened his undressing just a bit, not carelessly throwing his clothes all over like Dyspo, but pulling the top of his bodysuit off and folding it. The sound of fabric sliding over skin was just what the Pride Trooper had been waiting to hear.

"Can I watch?" Dyspo asked.

The assassin sighed. He'd kept his coat on for one of their encounters at Dyspo's request, so the precedent was set. "Fine, if you're quiet."

Dyspo drew back the rear curtain. Hit glanced at him and was not remotely surprised to see he was already at half-mast. And rising.

Hit grasped his waistband and shimmied his pants down. He stepped out of them one leg at a time. With a little more provocation than the act necessarily required, Hit bent down and picked up his discarded bodysuit bottom. He stored it on the same shelf as the rest of his accouterments.

"I'm impressed with your restraint," Hit said, turning to again face the Pride Trooper.

"That's great, but can I talk now?" Dyspo asked.

The moment Hit nodded, the Pride Trooper blurted out, "You've got one of the best asses I've ever seen!"

The comment left Hit speechless. The accompanying pantomime as Dyspo outlined the shape of his ass and continued to praise it made him wish he'd never taken off his coat, never mind everything else.

"No, come on, you've got a great body! Bring it over here!" Dyspo invited, seeing Hit's reaction to his words.

Hit understood the Pride Trooper's intentions were good (though not remotely noble), even if he went about phrasing it in the dumbest and most crass way possible. And, ignoring the comments about his posterior altogether, the idea of getting under hot water for purely hygienic purposes was tempting.

"I'd like to wash before we do anything," Hit said.

"Could I maybe..." Dyspo gathered his courage. "Can I help with that?"

"With what, washing me? No one's done that in a millennium."

"I just really want to touch you right now," the rabbit said. "I don't care how, I need my hands on you."

Hit would be lying if he said he found no appeal in the flushed, almost submissive look on Dyspo's face. Or if the Pride Trooper's body didn't have its own beckoning charms.

"Only if I can return the favor."

Without further delay, Hit stepped into the shower stall. Dyspo allowed the curtain to fall closed. No sooner had the curtain dropped than Dyspo reached for the assassin. Hit intercepted him and pressed a bar of soap into his hand.

"You're going to need that," Hit said.

"This would've been a lot easier if either of us thought about sponges or loofahs but what are you gonna do?" Dyspo began to work up a lather with his hands.

Once he had coated both hands in bubbles, Dyspo set down the soap and plied his hands to Hit's chest. He rubbed in slow, broad circles, each pass inevitably gliding over a nipple. Hit sighed and closed his eyes.

A few inches above the range of the soap, Hit felt an additional pressure. Dyspo's lips pressed against the side of the assassin's neck. He nuzzled there like an affectionate cat, planting the occasional soft kiss against sensitive skin.

"Touch my ears and I'll give you what you want," the Pride Trooper whispered.

"You'll give me peace and quiet, and you'll change your chickens' names?" Hit replied.

Dyspo nipped just below the assassin's jawline. It was a playful bite but more than enough to whet Hit's appetite.

"Pass me the soap." Hit's voice was as tight as his pants would've been if he'd been wearing any.

Hit began at the very tips of the Pride Trooper's ears. His hands moved in perfect synchronization, soaping each ear in tandem. When he reached the bases, which experience had taught him were the most erogenous, he gave them a perfunctory rub and continued on to the back of Dyspo's head.

"That's a great warm-up, but I think I'm gonna need a little more," Dyspo protested.

"Be patient," Hit replied.

"You know who you're talking to, right?"

"Someone who would benefit from learning delayed gratification."

"What, like edging?"

Hit had come across the term before—even if his sex partners were few and far between, he had computer access on dozens of planets—but he considered, just for fun, playing the confused grandpa. Watching Dyspo awkwardly explain sex acts to him would be almost as entertaining as actually performing said sex acts.

"As an example, yes," Hit said. "Though it could be anything that taught you to appreciate the journey without your sole focus being the destination."

"Travel metaphors, love 'em. But you know what I'd really love? If somebody would put one hand on my-"

Hit doubted "shoulders" was going to be the next word from the Pride Trooper's mouth, but that was where his hands landed. He began to massage the lean muscles, squeezing both tension and enthusiastic moans from the rabbit.

"Okay, that's not bad," Dyspo relented.

"Turn around and I'll see if I can do any better than 'not bad.'"

After Dyspo obeyed, Hit adjusted the shower head downward so the water was aimed directly at the rabbit's upper back. Heat was an excellent adjutant to manual pressure when it came to loosening tight muscles. Soap bubbles were perhaps a less common component, but it wasn't like Hit had any scented massage oil handy.

The assassin's skilled, powerful hands soon had Dyspo weak in the knees. And scrubbed cleaner than he'd ever been. There was no way even the most resilient speck of dirt could escape when it felt like Hit was trying to separate the individual fibers of Dyspo's muscles.

By the time Hit worked his way to the middle of the Pride Trooper's back, Dyspo was forced to brace himself against the rear wall of the shower. Everywhere Hit's hands passed felt like gelatin and everywhere Dyspo wanted those hands throbbed and ached like an infected tooth.

"You're- damn you- way too good- sadistic bastard-" A meandering string of epithets and praise poured from the Pride Trooper.

"Very articulate," Hit teased.

"One of these times, I'm gonna turn you into the babbling idiot and then we'll see how you like it!" Anger apparently made getting his words out much easier.

Hit slipped one hand around Dyspo's hip and cupped his dick.

"If this is any indication, I should like it just fine."

Dyspo threw his head back and almost smacked Hit in the face. "I'm calling it, we're both clean enough, please, please, please, let's get filthy!"

Hit spun Dyspo around, the slippery, soapy tile making his job effortless. The assassin answered in the form of a searing kiss. Not to be outdone, Dyspo surged forward, almost unbalancing the much broader man.

While they tested the strength of each other's lips, both warriors' hands inevitably went questing. Dyspo wasted no time grabbing twin handfuls of ass-cheek and kneading them with all the force Hit had used on his shoulders and back earlier. Hit returned the favor and was polite enough not to say Dyspo's lithe form could barely satisfy one hand, never mind two.

"Now what?" the Pride Trooper asked, panting, after he and Hit separated.

"I was going to ask you the same question," the assassin replied.

"There's so much I wanna do with you, but I'm losing my mind. Can we get to the gratification already?"

Hit hummed thoughtfully.

"Let me phrase it another way. Either we get to the gratification, or I get to the gratification." Dyspo held up a hand and pointed to it. "If you catch my drift."

"I do. Does the deal from earlier still stand?"

"What deal? Oh, yeah!"

That was all Hit needed to hear. He reached up with both hands and encircled Dyspo's ears. As before, he started at the top and slowly worked his way down, exploring the anatomy as he went. This time, however, Hit honed in on the delicate muscles than innervated the ears.

Using only his thumbs, Hit applied feather-light touches to the base of each ear. When Dyspo growled in frustration, Hit pressed down a little harder. The Pride Trooper's grumbling turned into more appreciative sounds.

Amused (and aroused) by Dyspo's reactions, Hit granted the rabbit a reward. He dug his thumbs in a bit deeper and traced a figure eight into the eager ears.

Dyspo jerked as though a live wire had been touched to his skin.

"I think I need to sit down before I fall down," the Pride Trooper said.

"Good idea," Hit replied.

Hit followed the rabbit to the floor, careful to keep both hands on his ears the entire time. The tile had been heated by the constant rain of hot water and was comfortable to rest upon. Once Dyspo was stable on the floor, Hit knelt in front of him and returned to his work.

"Slow down, just a little," Dyspo said abruptly.

Hit raised a brow. "Slow down? I don't think I've ever heard you say that before."

The Pride Trooper snorted. "Yeah, neither has anybody else. But I haven't been keeping my end of the deal. We gotta get you caught up, because after the day we've had, we're doing this together or not at all. Besides, you wanted to teach me patience, didn't you?"

Far be it from Hit to stand in the way of Dyspo's personal growth. The assassin abandoned the exquisitely sensitive bases of the Pride Trooper's ears for more temperate flesh midway up. It was kinder than cutting off the pleasure cold turkey, and still allowed Dyspo to focus on something besides the jolts of electric bliss that shot straight down his spine.

"Your turn for some fun," the Pride Trooper said.

As much as it ran counter to his nature and survival instincts, Hit tilted his head back, giving Dyspo easy access to his throat. The rabbit went for the vulnerable skin with the intensity of a predator. Only instead of sinking his teeth in, Dyspo lavished Hit's neck with kisses.

The assassin smelled and tasted of nothing, not even soap, thanks to the constant flow of water. Despite the lack of flavor, Dyspo's enthusiasm showed no signs of wavering. The gentle kisses turned more aggressive, with little bruising nips thrown in for spice.

While he mauled Hit, the Pride Trooper's hands roved the assassin's body. Hit was by no means opposed to giving Dyspo access to any- and everything. The rabbit might have been a loud-mouthed nuisance, but he knew what could crack Hit's armor.

Fingers traced the defined muscles of Hit's chest. It was familiar territory for Dyspo, and he loved every inch of it. He took a second to deliver a quick pinch to the assassin's nipples—Hit hissed as his hands clenched into fists—before moving to the ridges and valleys of Hit's abs. A thousand years of intense training had left Dyspo plenty to play with. Hoping it came off as more sensual and less like the start of a tickle fight, Dyspo ran his hands down the landscape of Hit's stomach.

And just below that? First were the powerful muscles of Hit's thighs. Dyspo considered reaching around to play another game of grab-ass, but what was right in front of him was too tempting. The Pride Trooper couldn't help but lift his head and look down.

"Do you like what you see?" Hit asked, his voice husky.

In silent reply, Dyspo drew his hands along Hit's thighs until they met in the middle. The hot, throbbing, frankly impressive middle.

"So here's my idea," Dyspo said, wrapping one hand around Hit's erection and giving it a little stroke. "You keep going on my ears, and I'll work on this. When you feel close, let me know and I'll get you there."

There was no such thing as a quickie for Hit. Relinquishing control, even in the name of absolute bliss, took considerable effort for the assassin, and by proxy, his partner. Dyspo, however, had learned a few surefire tricks from their previous sessions.

The Pride Trooper watched his hand glide back and forth for a few seconds, then switched his attention to Hit's face. Giving the assassin an impish grin, Dyspo leaned forward. He returned to the familiar ground of Hit's neck, where a few of his nastier bites were already forming deep-purple bruises.

Perfect.

Dyspo chose a particularly vivid bruise and plastered his lips to it. He fastened on like a lamprey, sucking and licking as though he'd found the tastiest thing in the universe.

While his mouth tortured one of the few places on Hit's body that could be called "soft," Dyspo's hand caressed and teased iron hardness. He cycled through a variety of speeds and rhythms, gauging Hit's response.

It seemed the thing Hit enjoyed best was the unpredictability. That was something Dyspo could deliver with aplomb. The same distaste for boredom that led him to be terrible at chores let him flourish at keeping Hit off-balance.

Hit's hands suddenly dropped from the middle of Dyspo's ears back to the bottoms. The Pride Trooper nodded, indicating he'd received the message loud and clear. He'd been expecting it for some time; Hit's breathing was so ragged and erratic it was clear the assassin was at the end of his rope.

Dyspo was brought to an equal level of desperation in mere minutes, thanks to Hit assailing him with the same precision the assassin brought to all his contracts. Talented fingers drew increasingly intricate patterns onto his burning ears. Hit's hands remained unfailingly steady, even while his blood boiled with pleasure.

It was soon too much. Dyspo slung his free arm around Hit's back and pulled their bodies together. The Pride Trooper rutted against the assassin's thigh, seeking any relief he could find. Their closeness and positioning led to an inevitable meeting of straining flesh that wrung gasps from both warriors.

That was the breaking point for both of them. Hit's hands clamped down on Dyspo's ears. The staggering bolt of melded pleasure and pain was all the Pride Trooper needed. His hips jerked mindlessly a few times as he came with a loud moan. Hit followed seconds behind him, spurred on by the multifocal friction and the delicious marks Dyspo had left down his neck.

The pair collapsed into each other's arms, completely satisfied, and let the water wash them clean.

Chapter Text

"I've forgotten the face of my father."

Vados turned away from the training battles she'd been sent to observe. She regarded the somber assassin, who stared straight ahead as he spoke.

"I went to a safe house I haven't used in decades, maybe closer to a century. I don't know what possessed me to do it."

"You've been contemplative since the Tournament of Power," the Angel said.

Hit scoffed. "Being erased with the rest of your universe will do that to a person."

"Did you find something at the safe house?" Vados asked. She, along with the rest of her brothers and sisters, had been spared erasure. Commenting on the experience when she'd been exempt seemed impolite.

"I found a box buried under the floorboards. Something in the back of my mind told me it was there." Hit reached into his pocket and produced said box. He'd cleaned it up after disinterring it, but its age was still obvious.

Without a word, the assassin handed the box to Vados. She held it for a moment, running her fingers along the edge of the lid, before opening it.

The box was full of trinkets, everything from silver rings to tiny plastic toys faded by the passage of time. Most of them looked used, if not well-worn. They appeared to be from different eras, different planets, wildly different styles.

"After this long, you could call them artifacts," Hit said. "I think some of them may be older than me."

Vados had the privilege of viewing time from a grander scale than even Hit could fully comprehend, but she understood that for mortals, a thousand years was an incredible span. Very few could trace their ancestry back that far, never mind show off keepsakes from the bygone eras.

"The ring was my father's. When I picked it up, I thought of him wearing it. I could see the patterns on his clothes, but I couldn't picture his face."

Unsure of how Hit would react, but too curious to resist, Vados lifted the ring and examined it closer. It was a simple band of metal, unadorned, as basic as a ring could be. The Angel glanced to Hit's fingers, themselves completely unadorned, and considered trying to place the ring on one of them.

"It doesn't fit me. And even if it did, it wouldn't suit me," Hit said, noting where Vados was looking.

Vados returned the ring to the box. A spot of red, brighter than most of the surrounding contents, caught her attention. She pulled a small metal charm shaped like a toadstool from the collection. It was the type of pendant that might hang from a bracelet or necklace, a rather odd object for a man like Hit to keep.

"That was a gift from an assassin I knew about six hundred years ago. Mushrooms were his weapon of choice," Hit explained.

"Mushrooms? How interesting!" Vados exclaimed.

"I usually don't respect killers who utilize poison, but I can appreciate a master when I meet one. He cultivated his own mushrooms, knew all their properties, and was adept at sneaking them into the food of even the most paranoid target."

"He must have been quite the assassin to win you over," the Angel joked. "Whatever became of him?"

"He taught me his craft too well. I realized what he was trying to drop into my soup one night and I put an end to it. And to him."

The charm made a quiet clink as Vados hastily returned it.

Hit shrugged. "Even if I hadn't killed him, he would have died of old age at least three hundred years ago."

Vados supposed that was true enough. It didn't seem like Hit was particularly bothered by what should have been a painful betrayal. Six hundred years of separation might have dulled the ache somewhat.

"Keep going. I want to see how much I remember," Hit said softly. "And how much I don't."

The Angel regarded Hit levelly. Was masochistic melancholy the best thing for the assassin right then? Probably not, but the choice was his to make.

Not to mention, on the strictly selfish side, Vados had to admit that she was invested. Hit was easily one of the most interesting mortals she had come across, and this was a rare insight into his life.

Vados let her eyes wander and waited for something to attract her attention as the mushroom charm had done. There were only a few vibrant objects left and the Angel decided to save them for later. She instead chose a bizarre key with a complicated pattern cut into it.

Hit shook his head. "I don't remember anything about that one."

"It must fit an unusual lock," Vados said, hoping it would prompt more from the assassin's memories.

"Unless it's purely decorative or a joke."

Those were possibilities, and with no clues to go on, there was no way to tell who was right. Defeated, Vados was forced to move on to the next trinket.

The odd and the elaborate had borne no fruit, so Vados' selection was plain and simple. She chose a sliver of white stone, most likely marble if her geology was up to snuff.

"It's…" Hit closed his eyes and concentrated. The answer was right there, he only had to seize it. "That's a fragment of a gravestone. From someone I killed. I don't recall the circumstances behind either the death or me coming into possession of the fragment."

Another tease.

The rock was traded for a coin-sized flower encased in resin. Vados had barely touched her fingers to it when Hit spoke.

"That was my mother's favorite flower. Preserving flowers like this was all the rage for years. Until it was revealed the most common resins contained toxic chemicals. By the time the truth came out, my mother was an old woman and unconcerned. If you're wondering, no, she was not ultimately killed by the flower."

Her question answered before she ever had to ask it, Vados moved to return the preserved flower.

"Keep it. I doubt there's much risk to you," Hit said.

"I don't believe I've ever been given flowers before." The Angel admired the trinket again before slipping it into a pocket.

For reasons he couldn't full articulate, the statement raised Hit's hackles. Vados deserved flowers. She was the strongest being in the entire Sixth Universe, and the Destroyer she served was a fool who failed to realize how lucky he was to have her.

Just the thought of Champa stoked Hit's temper to a boil. Useless, lazy, cowardly, slovenly Champa, who couldn't be bothered to help train his universe's warriors, even after how badly they'd lost in the Tournament of Power. Who sent Vados out once a week for a quick status report, but wouldn't allow the Angel to serve as an instructor, out of the fear Hit would quickly grow strong enough to challenge him. Who did nothing to-

The light brush of fingertips against his hand distracted Hit from his anger. With a sigh, the assassin looked to Vados.

"I appreciate the gift, but perhaps it would be best to take a break now," the Angel suggested.

"I'd like to break Champa's nose," Hit muttered.

Vados' light, airy laughter further cooled the assassin's ire. "Maybe one day you will."

Hit silently received his box and pocketed it. He was just about to stand when Vados clasped her hand to his.

"It was a pleasure. If you'd like to continue exploring your past, we can pick back up next week."

"I would, thank you," Hit replied.

The Angel gave Hit's hand another friendly pat. "You're doing an excellent job. Even if Lord Champa seems unappreciative, he is attentive during my reports."

Which was well below the bare minimum as far as Hit was concerned, but at least it was the tiniest foot in the door to getting the Destroyer off his ass. Trying not to let his frustration sour his mood, Hit watched Vados take her leave. The Angel offered a broad wave that was clearly meant for everyone, students and coach alike, and was gone moments later.

Hit contemplated the now-empty sky for a few moments before focusing his attention on his teammates turned pupils. He knew all of them had paused their training without permission to watch Vados leave, but Hit was feeling uncharacteristically generous today.

"Twelve laps around the planet, the last one back faces me!" Hit shouted.

After an initial mad scramble that resulted in Caulifla tripping two people and Dr. Rota becoming tangled in his robes, Hit was left standing alone on the sidelines. He nested his hands in his pockets, allowing the hand that shared space with the box to trace its angles for a few seconds. Then, resolute, the assassin set his mind on the present.

Chapter Text

Hit wasn't sure exactly when the young Saiyan's behavior started, but, looking back over at least the last month with a clear mind, the signs were there. The lingering gazes, the blushes whenever Hit praised his efforts, the uncharacteristic distraction and daydreaming...

The assassin knew one thing: he had to nip this in the bud. Offering even a shred of false hope would be as cruel as it was pointless. It was much kinder to be direct, to make Cabba see reason, even if it left the Saiyan's heart bruised.

And speaking of Cabba, it seemed he'd chosen that moment to arrive.

"Sorry, Kale and Caulifla aren't coming today. They wouldn't tell me why, so I'm assuming they're planning something illegal." Cabba shook his head, obviously disappointed in his fellow warriors.

The news worked in Hit's favor. Now he wouldn't have to evade the other two Saiyans to find a quiet moment with Cabba.

"We have to talk," Hit said simply.

Cabba perked up instantly. "Sure! What do you want to talk about?"

"You and me."

"I don't quite know what you mean. What about us?"

"There can't be an 'us' in any way, shape, or form."

"Hit, I still don't-" The Saiyan's eyes widened as realization dawned on him.

Cabba abruptly stepped back and held his hands out in front of him, as though warding off an attack. "It's not like that! I-I enjoy training with you and I admire your strength, but I don't see you in that way!"

The assassin watched the floundering Saiyan, gauging his assumptions against Cabba's denials. "You don't? Not at all?"

"No! I mean…no, definitely not."

"Would you swear that on your honor? Or on the honor of your mentor Vegeta?"

Cabba flushed so deeply red his face was nearly the same color as Hit's eyes. He hung his head.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," he said softly.

"You have nothing to apologize or feel ashamed for," Hit replied. "But you have to think about it logically."

"I don't think I can do that either." The Saiyan's voice was so quiet Hit wasn't sure he'd heard him correctly.

"There's no point in chasing something impossible."

Cabba lifted his head. "Tell me why it's impossible."

Hit began to count off points, raising a finger for each reason. "You're a noble and kind person, while I kill people for a living. As a member of Sadala's Defense Forces, you shouldn't fraternize with assassins. I'm a thousand years older than you."

Upon reaching ten reasons and running out of fingers, Hit held up both hands and splayed his fingers for emphasis. "This is why."

Cabba stepped towards Hit slowly, as though approaching a frightened animal that could either bite or flee. It was an apt simile, because the same assassin who could face the wrath of a Destroyer with complete nonchalance looked as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Without a word, Cabba held out his own hands. He raised them and spread his fingers, mirroring Hit. When he was close enough, he reached for the assassin.

The moment Cabba's fingers brushed his own, Hit recoiled. A confounding amount of adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream at the simple touch. Most contracts didn't begin to approach that level of stimulation.

There had to be something catastrophically wrong with his parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous systems. That was the only explanation for how minor contact with Cabba's fingers made Hit want to disappear into his pocket dimension or get as far away as he could in the half-second a time skip provided him.

"Hit? Are you okay?"

Though his nerves continued to jump like over-caffeinated kangaroos, the assassin forced himself to project a calm he did not feel. Hit jammed his hands into his pockets, where he clenched them compulsively. At least Cabba couldn't see them misbehave in there.

"I'm not used to," Hit searched for a word with no leading connotations, "friendly touches."

Cabba lowered his own hands. "I should never have tried to touch you without asking first. I'm sorry."

"I can't return your affection, physical or otherwise. It's one more reason nothing can exist between us."

Not that the Saiyan should need any more reasons, given the ten Hit had already laid out for him! And yet. Instead of being dissuaded, he looked increasingly determined.

"Can I try something?" Cabba asked.

Hit's first instinct was to say "absolutely not, stop torturing yourself, find someone more appropriate and deserving." Instead, he said, "That depends on what you want."

"Would it be alright if I touched you just once? Nowhere inappropriate, I promise!" Cabba hastily added.

There was no universe in which Hit expected the guileless Saiyan to cop a feel without getting written consent first. It was so outside the realm of possibility, the assassin almost laughed.

"If you do and I have no reaction, will you let it go?" Hit asked.

Cabba hesitated a moment and then nodded firmly. "I'll swear it on my honor."

Hit considered asking if Cabba would also swear on Vegeta's honor, but it was not the time or the place to invoke any other parties. This was about Hit and Cabba, and no one else.

As Cabba had gone for his hands—and Hit had nearly fled into a metaphysical space over it—Hit supposed the chances were high the Saiyan would try to interlace their fingers again. This time, he'd be ready. After ensuring his hands were steady, the assassin slipped them from his pockets. He let his arms hang loose by his sides, his fingers likewise relaxed.

"Get it over with."

Cabba strode forward quicker than Hit expected. If it had been an attack, the assassin still could have blocked it, but Hit was determined to not so much as twitch. Any motion from him could be construed as a reaction and he would not be reduced to arguing semantics.

All Hit's planned indifference shattered the moment Cabba reached him and threw his arms around him. The assassin's entire body went rigid. It had been so long since someone had hugged him. Lifetimes and lifetimes, the span of whole bloodlines and empires for most other beings.

Cabba rested his head against Hit's chest. Even through the heavy fabric of the coat, Hit knew Cabba could hear his heart racing. Hell, the Saiyan could probably feel it, from how hard it was beating.

"You win," Hit said quietly.

"Do you want me to let go now?" Cabba asked.

"No."

Cabba gasped softly when he felt Hit's arms encircle him. Due to the almost-comedic height disparity, Hit ended up with his arms around Cabba's shoulders, while Cabba couldn't reach much higher than Hit's waist.

"I guess it's a good thing I can fly." The Saiyan looked up, blushing, and met Hit's eyes. "It would be awkward to kiss you otherwise."

Hit again froze like a malfunctioning machine. He recovered a bit quicker this time, though.

"Not necessarily."

To prove his point, Hit adjusted his grip, transitioning from the hug around the shoulders to holding just below Cabba's armpits. Once Hit was satisfied with his hand placement, he lifted the Saiyan.

Bringing them face-to-face left Cabba dangling at least a foot in the air. Not that he minded. Or would have minded, if he was aware of anything except his proximity to Hit.

"It works, though this might be better."

When he felt himself being lowered back to the ground, Cabba almost shouted with frustration. He'd been seconds away from leaning in and initiating the kiss. If only he'd been quicker and more resolute!

The assassin dropped to his knees. "There, now you're taller."

Cabba laughed, his regret instantly vanished. "Not by much."

True, but it was enough to simplify everything. All Cabba had to do was close the gap and press his lips against Hit's. Easy. No problem. It would be fine, great even! So long as he didn't miss or knock their heads together or-

Fingers tangled in the Saiyan's hair. "You're overthinking it. Let me help with that."

For the first few seconds of the kiss, Cabba's mind was an incoherent mess of joy and relief. He'd imagined this—and then scolded himself for even entertaining the thought—for longer than he cared to admit. Discovering his affection wasn't just an unrequited, foolish dream set him free.

Hit was good at taking steady, controlled breaths through his nose. Cabba, less so. By the time they parted, the Saiyan was so dizzy he could barely stand. Hit, seeing the condition he'd inadvertently put Cabba in, quickly got to his feet and steadied his swaying partner.

"You can always pause and take a breather," Hit said. "It would be less of an interruption than you needing first aid."

Cabba blushed and nodded. "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

"To breathing?"

"Believe it or not, yep." The Saiyan awkwardly rubbed the back of his head.

Hit sighed. "In that case, there's only one solution."

Cabba felt his heart drop. In the name of safety, would Hit ban any further lip-locking?

"Practice," the assassin said.

"Practice?" Cabba repeated.

"Rigorous practice, with proper breathing techniques included."

Something told Cabba he would have no problem following whatever regiment Hit concocted.

Elsewhere, in a rarely-visited corner of Sadala, two Saiyans enjoyed their totally-innocent-and-not-planned day off.

By speculating what, exactly, two of their former teammates were getting up to at that moment.

"They've both got sticks lodged way too far up their asses. It might do them some good to jam something else up there for a change."

"Caulifla!" Kale shrieked.

"I'm kidding," Caulifla said. "Knowing the two of them, it'll take them five years to get to second base."

"But do you think they'll finally talk to each other? Cabba is so shy and Hit…"

"Heh, don't worry about that. I've been dropping hints like crazy for weeks. 'Damn, Hit, you're great at motivating Cabba! He loves training with you!' And I just remind Cabba how hot Hit is. That does the trick every time."

Kale flushed at the mere description of Caulifla's behavior. She was so brash and downright lewd!

"You wanna go and see if I'm right?"

The meek Saiyan shook her head. "No! What if we see something-"

"Really, really steamy?" Caulifla laughed maniacally. "Oh man, I can imagine the look on Cabba's face."

"And what about the look on Hit's face? Do you think he'd ever train with us again? Or what if he...you know."

That was a good point. Caulifla didn't think Hit would kill someone over a little voyeurism, but she wouldn't bet her life on it. And training with him was too much fun to risk screwing up that arrangement.

"I guess you're right. We'll just have to use our imaginations. Until the next time I see Cabba, that is! Then we'll squeeze all the juicy details out of him!"

Kale crossed her arms. "You should just be happy if Cabba and Hit are happy. We don't have to make it awkward for them."

Caulifla flopped backward, forcing Kale to catch her. "You're such a romantic. Fine, I won't say anything. I think it'll be pretty obvious anyway. Cabba can't hide his feelings at all."

Neither could Caulifla. A few seconds in Kale's arms and suddenly whatever anyone else was doing didn't seem that important.

Grinning like a demon, Caulifla pressed the back of her head against Kale's chest. "There's no reason they should have all the fun. We've got the whole day off. Let's enjoy it too!"

Chapter Text

Hit looked over the competition. He tried—and failed—not to feel insulted. Exactly none of the warriors he'd been looking forward to facing were present. In their place was one of the bottom rungs of the Seventh Universe's Tournament of Power team, plus a pink creature with an uncanny, off-putting face and a pair of half-Saiyan teenagers.

"Damn, I guess Goku and Vegeta had something better to do. I really wanted to show them my new form. And ask if they know where my eyebrows go," Caulifla said.

"I'm just happy they come back after you power down," Kale added.

Cabba sighed and hung his head. He hadn't been able to master the next stage of Super Saiyan yet and would have happily traded his eyebrows for the ability to do so.

"I doubt you'll need much above your base forms," Hit said. He then turned away.

"Where you going, Hit?" Caulifla called.

The assassin pointed to a nearby rock. "You three can handle this."

"Come on, you're gonna miss the fun!"

"Be careful with the pink one; he looks soft but there's something strange about him."

Caulifla scoffed. "You mean his whole body? He looks like bubblegum that got cursed by a wizard."

"A magical origin wouldn't surprise me."

"Too bad Dr. Rota had 'appointments' and couldn't make it today. Maybe he'd know for sure. Or maybe he'd just get his ass kicked before he could do any of his wizard or doctor stuff. Again."

The second option seemed more likely, in Hit's opinion. Not that it mattered, really. Barring any incredible surprises hidden in the pudgy pink body, the Saiyans would wipe the floor with the Seventh Universe's leftovers.

Just as Hit was about to get acquainted with his rock, one of the opposing fighters broke off from the group. With the rest of his team looking at him with surprise and concern (except the pink one, who was distracted by a butterfly), the muscular bald man approached Hit.

"Before you go anywhere, I want a chance to fight you," Tien said.

"No, you don't," Hit replied.

Tien responded by assuming a battle stance.

The assassin studied his would-be opponent. The man's insistence seemed…disproportionate. It was almost like challenging Hit was personal for Tien. Why, Hit had no idea. Besides temporarily murdering someone the man probably considered a friend, Hit had never done anything to him.

Hit shrugged. "It's your funeral."

"Hey, I thought everybody agreed to no killing?! Whis said this is just supposed to be for fun!" one of the younger warriors protested.

So the son was no more prudent than the father. Not that Hit was surprised. He fixed Vegeta's boy—Hit had never gotten the kid's name—with a level stare. The kid was practically quaking in his boots, but he'd be damned before he'd back down.

"Relax. I didn't mean it literally."

With the question of mortal combat addressed, Hit and Tien approached the large but simple arena that Vados and Whis had crafted and assembled earlier, just before they had waltzed off to who knew where with their respective Destroyers in tow. There was nothing except a raised ring consisting of cut blocks, no ridiculous portraits of Beerus and Champa or floating seating areas. It was a sensible place for scrimmage matches and general training, but lacked the flair either Destroyer would demand for tournament grounds.

"We don't have a referee," Hit noted as the warriors took their places.

"I don't need you to humor me," Tien replied. "We both know I'm going to lose."

"Then why demand I fight you?"

"I don't like assassins."

"Most moral men don't. It isn't a profession you join to make friends."

"It's more than that."

Tien shook his head and said nothing for so long that Hit began to suspect he had no intentions of elaborating. Just as the assassin was about to suggest they get down to business, the man continued.

"One of my first mentors was an assassin."

Of all the reasons Hit expected—such as an assassin taking the life of someone near and dear to Tien—that wasn't one of them. Throughout his life, Hit had met his fair share of hired killers, and exactly none of them would take on a student who was anything except a future cold-blooded murderer.

"You don't seem the type," Hit said.

"Maybe not anymore, but if you'd known me back then, I don't think you'd be surprised. I was…a monster. I hurt a lot of people who didn't deserve it."

"Did Goku have anything to do with your redemption?"

Tien looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. "He does have a gift for bringing out the best in people. Half his friends tried to kill him at some point, myself and Buu—that's him over there—included."

"I hoped Goku would be here. Even if I have no plans to reform, he left an impression on me," Hit said.

"Yeah, I could tell you weren't thrilled with any of us."

Hit raised his fists in front of him. "I'd like to be proven wrong."

Tien smirked. "I'll try to hold off the inevitable for as long as I can. I'm pretty good at that."

It sounded like there was a hell of a story behind those two lines, and Hit intended to ask about it later. After he knocked the three-eyed man out of the ring.

"Take a free shot," Hit invited.

"I don't need your charity," Tien replied.

"It's the only way I'll get to see your moves."

Tien muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "arrogant bastard." Despite his consternation, he began to gather energy. As he did so, he positioned his hands, pressing the fingertips of one hand against their mates on the other. Likewise joining his thumbs, he created a vaguely triangular shape in the space between his palms. He adjusted his aim and placed Hit in the dead center of the tunnel formed by his hands.

"Tri-Beam!"

Hit dropped his guarded stance and thrust his arms out, palms up and ready to meet the blast. And what a blast it was! Despite the massive difference in power between the two of them, Hit felt himself being pushed back. It was only by slow inches, but it was still damn impressive.

The captive energy battening against his palms started to sting. Hit redirected the Tri-Beam upward, sending it out into the cosmos.

"That attack packs a punch." Hit's hands felt scraped raw. "But I know it's not your only surprise. I understand you can make copies of yourself. Show me."

The second Tien split into his four equal clones, Hit time-skipped. He struck each of the Multi-Forms in the center of their chest. Hit was careful to restrain himself and use just enough force to knock the breath from Tien's lungs and throw him from the ring. A moment after hitting the ground, the four stunned clones faded into one body.

"Your techniques are impressive," Hit said, hopping down from the arena. He extended a hand that Tien accepted without too much resentment.

"Thanks for trying to preserve my ego."

Their hands remained clasped for marginally longer than necessary. Not that anyone took notice. Once it became clear the action was over between Tien and Hit, the question of who was going to tussle next took precedence. Caulifla was clambering to fight the only Saiyan representation the Seventh Universe had brought. Kale and Cabba tried to dissuade her from being too mean to teenagers.

"This may take a while to sort itself out. Caulifla is…certainly a personality," Hit said.

"Goten's more reasonable, but Trunks has too much Vegeta in him sometimes. But they work well together. Generally better than their fathers, at least. I guess they'd have to for the fusion to function."

Hit almost missed the line, it was said so casually. "Did you say fusion?"

Tien had been with the same limited circle of friends so long that he'd almost forgotten what it was like to interact with someone who didn't have the same shared weird and wild experiences. Hit was by no means a civilian whose brain would melt if he found out the truth about his universe, but he'd never had to hope two terrified kids could save the planet from a monster that wanted to turn everyone into candy.

"It's a long story," Tien said.

"We've got nothing but time. Join me on my rock."

That wasn't an invitation Tien could turn down. He followed Hit away from the noise—which was growing because Trunks decided to be a little shit-stirrer—and settled onto the flat surface of the stone.

"So those two—Trunks and Goten—can fuse? Without Potara earrings?" Hit asked.

"There's a…dance," Tien explained poorly.

"A dance."

"I'm not going to even try to demonstrate it, so don't ask! Two warriors who have to be physically close in size match their energy levels, do the fusion dance, and merge," Tien explained less poorly. "Goku picked up the technique and taught it to those two."

"Caulifla is going to lose her mind."

Several minutes later, Hit was proven correct. The first thing Goten and Trunks did in their two-on-two match was to turn it into a one-on-two match. Caulifla's colorful exclamations probably carried to the outer reaches of the atmosphere.

"Screw fighting, you gotta teach us that right now!" Caulifla pointed to herself and Kale.

"Uh, I guess I can try… But it's definitely easier if you can see two people do it," Gotenks replied.

"So unfuse and do the dance again! Come on, you can't just whip out something like fusion and then tell me you'll try!"

"The thing is… I'm stuck like this for thirty minutes. And then I need to take a break before I can do it again."

Caulifla groaned in frustration. "I don't want to wait that long! Just do your best. I'll pay really close attention."

And so began the comedy of errors that was Gotenks, who had never, per se, done the fusion dance himself, attempting to teach Caulifla and Kale how to fuse. Buu thought the fumbling was hilarious and jumped into the ring for a closer look. Cabba tried to be a good cheerleader but had to cover his mouth to keep himself from laughing and bringing the wrath of Caulifla down upon his head. Hit and Tien, both stricken with severe second-hand embarrassment, decided they needed to find somewhere else to be.

On the off chance a miracle happened and a fight between two fusions ensued, Hit and Tien opted against going too far. They only flew until another suitably large rock caught their attention.

"Do you think they'll get it sometime today?" Tien asked.

Hit shook his head. "Not a chance. It's going to take days, maybe weeks, because Caulifla lacks patience and Kale lacks confidence."

"I don't think Gotenks ever tried to teach anyone fusion before either."

"This will complicate things. Whatever 'things' are in motion here."

Tien didn't like the sound of that, though he'd be lying if he said he didn't find Whis showing up at his dojo and asking if he was busy to be the epitome of suspicious. There hadn't been any Tournament-of-Power levels of urgency and anxiety rolling from Beerus or Champa, as far as Tien could tell, but Hit had to be right. Something was in the works between the two universes.

"Any idea what's going on? You're probably more tuned in than I am," Tien said.

"I have a few guesses but nothing more concrete than a gut feeling," Hit replied.

"For someone as skilled and experienced as you, that probably counts as evidence."

Hit's silent gaze lingered on Tien so long the mostly-human fighter began to sweat.

"That scar on your chest, is it a gift from your old mentor?"

The abrupt shift in conversation topic left Tien unbalanced. "Yes, he pulled a weapon on me when it was clear he couldn't beat me in a fair match."

For the second time, Tien got to experience Hit's time skip. One moment the assassin was sitting next to him and then, quicker than a blink, Hit had a hand inside his gi and was tracing the scar. Tien's first instinct was to shove Hit away and rebuke him, but the assassin's light touch kept him frozen.

"A coward's attack," Hit said murmured. "Your old life lashing out at you one last time."

"That's right. And I never looked back after that," Tien said, just as softly.

Hit withdrew his hand. "I understand. I'm sorry I intruded."

Another time skip and Hit was right back where he'd originally been, sitting on the rock beside Tien. Like their little interaction, strange as it was, had never happened.

Except it had. Tien could still feel Hit's fingers sliding along the old scar. The assassin's words, condemning that bastard Tao for the spineless vermin he was, made Tien want to smile.

"Wait. I didn't mean it like that." Tien sighed heavily. "I know you're an assassin. But you don't make me feel the same way he does."

"I've been killing people for almost a thousand years. My body count probably eclipses your mentor's a hundred times over," Hit stated.

Tien wanted to grab Hit by the high collar of his coat and shake him. He knew Hit was an assassin. He understood what that entailed. He didn't need Hit to try to dissuade him or save him from temptation. He wasn't going to relapse and end up flying around on a pillar, wearing the words "Kill You" on the back of his gi!

"You don't have to worry about corrupting me. I have my past, you have yours," Tien said. "In other words, I know who I am, I know who you are, and I can make my own decisions."

"And what decision are you making?" Hit asked.

Tien took Hit's hand, slipped it under his gi and pressed it against his chest. There was no way to get past Hit's tightly zipped coat, so Tien settled for laying his own hand outside of the assassin's clothes.

Hit surveyed the hand placement, both his own and Tien's. "That's a bold move on a man you just met."

"You left a good first impression. For an assassin."

Hit smirked. "And how could I leave an even better second impression?"

"Take your coat off?" Tien suggested.

"Now that's an extremely bold move."

But not too bold for Hit to comply.

Chapter Text

At some point, Hit had surrendered to the idea that he was going to be used as furniture. There was just no point in protesting, shoving Frost off of him, or time-skipping out from under the little gremlin. Inevitably as death and taxes, Frost would return undaunted and seat himself in Hit's lap, or rest his head on the assassin's chest, or sprawl out and consume as much space as he could.

This time Hit was a chair. While he stretched out on the sofa, Frost in turn lounged on him. For such a small being, Frost was a compact, solid presence.

"Do you know what I've been craving recently?" Frost asked.

"Freedom? Power? Fame and adoration?" Hit guessed.

I said recently, not every second of my life."

"My mistake. Pickles?"

Frost gave Hit an incredulous look. "Pickles?"

The assassin shrugged. "I've heard people crave them."

"It isn't pickles. It's a bottle of wine. I'd set fire to an orphanage for a decent vintage. You wouldn't happen to have any lying around, would you?"

"I don't ingest anything that could dull my reflexes or perceptions."

Frost sighed. "Of course you don't. If not for the murder-for-hire habit, you'd be the most boring, straight-laced creature in the universe."

"Really?" Hit inquired. "There's nothing else I do that's interesting to you?"

Frost tapped his chin. "I suppose you can cook. To some degree. And you make a decent cup of tea. Your leaf blends are intriguing."

"As long as I'm fulfilling a purpose," the assassin muttered.

"How silly of me." Frost wiggled his ass against Hit's crotch. "I almost forgot the marathons of debauchery!"

Frost rolled over so that he and Hit now lay belly to belly. "If you can't ply me with wine, maybe there's another service you could provide me?"

"I'm always happy to 'service' you," Hit replied.

"Excellent! Though you seem to be overdressed for the occasion." Frost drew a finger across Hit's chest, which was clad in the assassin's trademark heavy coat.

"Let me take care of that."

Without warning, Hit stood up. Frost tumbled off him and onto the sofa.

"How rude! I could have fallen and been injured!" Frost protested.

"I can't get undressed with you on top of me," Hit replied mildly. "Besides, you're no delicate little flower. The floor would break long before you did."

Frost sat up and crossed his arms. "I still don't appreciate it."

Hit dropped his coat onto Frost's head. The fugitive squawked and threw the offending garment off. He glared up at Hit, though his gaze softened when he found the assassin stripping out of his shirt.

This was by no means the first time Frost had seen Hit undress. It was a treat every time, an experience that could never become dull or boring. The more skin Hit revealed, the more Frost wanted to run his hands, his tail, his tongue along it.

"You do know how to distract me from my indignation," Frost said.

His pants still on—not that they hid much—Hit began to collect his discarded clothes.

"And that is not it." Frost frowned as the assassin vigorously dusted off his coat, as though it had been tossed into the desert instead of onto an impeccably clean floor.

"Hit!"

The assassin folded his coat and laid it on the arm of the sofa. He then began to work on the shirt.

"Hit!"

It appeared Frost would have to take matters into his own hands. Or, more accurately, his own tail.

"I do not like being teased."

Hit looked down at the muscular appendage that was suddenly wrapped around his waist like a living belt. Most people would have feared for the integrity of their internal organs in such a position. Hit continued to attend to his clothes.

"I can't believe your gall."

While the heftier coil of the tail kept Hit immobile—voluntarily, freedom was a quick jab or time skip away if the assassin wanted it—the tip of it slipped under his waistband. The tail was almost as versatile as a hand and had Hit's pants around his ankles in one swift jerk.

"Step," Frost ordered.

"I love how you think you're in charge," Hit said. Despite his words, he obediently kicked his pants away.

"And give me this!" Frost yanked the assassin's half-folded shirt from his hands and chucked it. "Now back on the sofa before I-"

Hit time-skipped, using it to slip free of Frost's tail and grab the fugitive's wrists instead.

"Before you what?" the assassin asked.

Frost scowled at the position he suddenly found himself in. "How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?!"

"At least once more."

"I have no idea how you ever convinced me to live with you," Frost muttered.

"Because it was either that, or spend the rest of your life in prison on Sadala. And because I can do this."

Hit gently tossed the much smaller man onto the sofa. Another time skip allowed Hit to get astride Frost before he could start screeching about how much he hated being manhandled.

"I despise that horrible technique, but at least you're finally putting it to good use," Frost grumbled.

Using it to fulfill his contracts and get paid also seemed worthwhile to Hit, but now wasn't the time to parse words. Now was a time for action.

"Tell me what you want," Hit said.

"You know damned well what I want!" Frost replied.

"Fingers, mouth-"

"All of the above! I also want to be on top."

Hit scoffed. "Don't you always."

Despite his feigned annoyance, Hit quickly reversed their positions. Frost now straddled Hit just above his waist.

"Better. Now show me your skills," Frost ordered.

There was a challenge Hit couldn't turn down. He started at the top, cupping the back of Frost's head with one hand and pulling the conniving reptile down. They took a moment to gaze into each other's eyes before Frost leaned a bit lower and pressed his lips to Hit's.

While one hand massaged Frost's head, the other glided down the fugitive's body. Hit's fingers slid along the angle of Frost's jaw, where an artery pulsed tantalizingly close to the surface. Then to the blue, gem-like plate that sat in the center of Frost's chest, directly over his heart. Lower, skirting over his abdomen. Finally to the darker skin of his thighs, where another major artery throbbed beneath Hit's fingertips. All places the assassin could easily land a lethal blow.

Frost broke the kiss and sat up. He glared at Hit. "You're not thinking of ways to kill me, are you?"

"Farthest thing from my mind," Hit replied.

"Hmm. For my safety, it might be wise to give you something that will push the thought back even farther."

Frost's tail, while strong enough to crush bone, could also stroke with a feather-light gentleness. Hit exhaled softly as the tip of the tail slithered upward, starting at his knee. When it reached the assassin's inner thigh, it stopped just centimeters from his dick.

Hit repaid Frost with some teasing of his own. Since their short kissing session was apparently over, Hit found a new use for his hand. He brought it down to join its twin, one hand clasped on each of Frost's muscular legs.

"Ask me for it," Hit said.

"Not until you beg me for it," Frost replied.

"I'm a thousand years old. If you think touching my thigh is going to make me melt, you're-"

The tail wound itself ever so carefully around the most vulnerable part of Hit's body.

Well, that was…distracting. But not to the point Hit was unable to pay Frost back. The assassin clutched with his left hand, digging his fingers into Frost's thigh. His right hand moved inward to the blank canvas between the fugitive's legs.

To the uninitiated, it appeared as though Frost was sexless. Hit knew better. It was simply a matter of gaining access. And Hit had a talent for getting into places under even the tightest lockdown.

This wasn't Hit's first rodeo with Frost. The assassin dragged his focus away from what that damned tail was doing to his dick and forced himself to concentrate solely on the task in front of him. He plied dexterous fingers to smooth skin and began to rub where he knew Frost's best-kept secret waited.

It helped that Frost was already eager from their earlier tussling. A little manual stimulation and Hit soon felt heat and moisture beneath his fingertips. Smirking, the assassin kept up his attack until Frost, with a wanton moan, opened up to him.

Not only did Frost have genitals, he had options. Hit hummed appreciatively at what now lay before him. Decisions, decisions.

"Since you're on an ordering me around kick, what do you want me to do? And to which part?" Hit asked.

"Fingers, inside me now. And the other hand on my tail," Frost replied.

"Just remember what that tail's currently attached to." Hit had seen Frost, lost in the throes of passion, swing his tail with total abandon.

Despite at least a bit of concern, Hit could no more deny Frost than he could deny the need to breathe. He transplanted his hand from the fugitive's thigh to the base of his tail. A single finger on the opposite hand slipped into Frost, who was as tightly muscled within as without.

"One? I specified fingers, plural," Frost groused.

"Greedy bastard," Hit replied. "Impatient too."

Nevertheless, Hit complied. His middle finger joined his index finger in the wet warmth. Hit took his sweet time, burying his fingers a knuckle at a time, then withdrawing them at the same languid pace.

As Frost's body responded to his slow ministrations, Hit grew a little bolder. The muscles that had previously been squeezing his fingers relaxed, allowing him more room to work. With a gradual build in speed that gave Frost plenty of time to adjust, Hit soon had the fugitive squirming atop him.

Once he was sure there was space, Hit added a third finger. Frost keened, his hands clutching for any purchase he could find. Hit wished he could reach up and intertwine his fingers with Frost's, but he was pretty sure the fugitive would never forgive him if he withdrew at that moment.

"Grab me however you need to," Hit said.

Frost practically fell forward; he caught himself at the last moment, his hands splayed on Hit's chest. His fingernails were deceptively sharp as they dug into the skin below the assassin's collarbones. The beautiful little sparks of pain shot straight to Hit's aching erection. He was forced to bite back a groan.

Hit shook his head, trying to clear the euphoric fog from his thoughts. He needed to get his mind off his own pleasure. He worked on controlling his breathing, keeping his hands steady, focusing on the intricacies of Frost's body. Frost came first.

No pun intended.

With his goal solidly in front of him, Hit brought out his bag of tricks. Speed was all well and good, but technique was what made a warrior. Or a lover.

The assassin crooked his fingers, stretching and stroking at the same time. Frost threw back his head, every muscle in his body coiling in anticipation.

"More, just a little more, please," Frost begged.

It was confirmation Hit didn't really need. Though hearing Frost whimper like that was always a nice ego boost.

The hand that had been waiting so patiently, exerting gentle pressure on the base of Frost's tail, snapped to life. Hit gauged exactly how hard to compress the powerful appendage, blending just a few drops of pain and surprise into the mix.

At the exact moment he squeezed the tail, Hit rammed his fingers in as deeply as he could. Frost was so hot and wet, practically scalding internally compared to his typically cool and dry skin. The fugitive arched against Hit, trying to force every millimeter into himself.

Hit synchronized the motion of both hands, thrusting and massaging, leaving Frost skewered by pleasure from the front and back. It was more than anyone could endure. Frost cried out Hit's name and collapsed atop him.

As he came, Frost's tail pulsed with a rhythm like a heartbeat. Hit had no way to resist the pressure that fully enveloped him, nor any desire to do so. He gasped "Frost!" as his orgasm swept him away.

Time moved through a lazy haze.

Hit ran his hand up and down the length of Frost's back while Frost nestled half-drowsing against his chest. Eventually, at some undetermined point in the future, Hit would gently lift Frost and carry him to the bathroom. He'd run a hot bath and deposit both himself and Frost into the water. They'd scrub each other's sticky bodies, wish they had the energy for another round, and finally make their way to the bedroom.

But for now, Hit was content to stay exactly as he was. He closed his eyes, and before long, joined Frost in sleep.

Chapter Text

"If you've given Kakarot a rematch, I demand the same."

And here Hit thought he'd managed to slip away unnoticed. With a sigh, the assassin turned around and faced Vegeta.

"I'm exhausted. The only thing I'm doing is going home," Hit replied.

"Wait here." Without another word, the Saiyan took to the skies.

Against his better judgment, Hit stayed. He sat down on the nearest available rock and tried not to fall asleep. His match with Goku had left him running on empty, but satisfied in a way no job had for centuries.

Vegeta returned before Hit could lose his patience or his ability to remain awake. The Saiyan thrust something at Hit, which the assassin regarded warily and made no move to accept.

"This is called a Senzu Bean. Eat it and your energy will be fully restored." Vegeta opened his hand to reveal a small legume that looked just as mundane as any other vegetable Hit had ever seen.

"I don't want your magic bean. If you need your rematch so badly, do what Goku did: convince an Angel to pay me to kill you."

"I'd prefer to avoid the trouble," Vegeta replied.

"Too bad. I'm not interested otherwise." Hit rose from his rock.

A gloved hand grabbed his forearm.

"You have one second to take your hand off me, or I'm going to confiscate it," Hit warned.

Vegeta leered at the assassin. "I'd like to see you try in the sorry state you're in."

Hit wrenched his arm free and followed up with a punch that caught Vegeta square in the solar plexus. The Saiyan dissolved into a coughing fit as his diaphragm spasmed from the blow. His hands clenched tight, securing the bean, even as he struggled to breathe.

"That's the only mercy I'm giving you. The next one is aimed at your heart," Hit said.

Wincing, a hand pressed against his abdomen, Vegeta straightened. "You won't get a 'next one.'"

As much as he didn't want to, Hit brought his fists up in front of him. Vegeta launched himself at the assassin, immediately striking at him with a flurry of punches. Hit blocked them all, though the impacts rattled him.

Like a shark smelling blood, Vegeta honed in on Hit's fatigued condition. He powered up to Super Saiyan Blue.

Hit prepared to die.

At least it didn't come to that. The next round of blows sent the assassin staggering until his typically immaculate guard could take no more. Vegeta exploited the opening with surgical precision, striking Hit on the jaw and knocking him off his feet.

"There, you've won." The assassin made no effort to get up. "I hope your pride is satisfied now."

"Of course it isn't! There's no honor in beating an opponent who's already been weakened by someone else. Especially when that someone is Kakarot!" Vegeta shouted.

"Tough shit."

Vegeta gave Hit a look of surprise.

Hit sat up and wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "What, did you think I hadn't picked up some foul language in the thousand years I've been alive? Or that I was too reserved to use it?"

"You just didn't seem the type," Vegeta replied.

"I'm usually not, you're right, but you're being a pain in my ass. I needed to get that message through to you."

Being spoken to so bluntly shocked some sense into the Saiyan. He powered down to his base level.

"Fine, I see you have no intention of fighting me. But would you be opposed to…something else?"

Hit began to get the impression Vegeta was, evasiveness aside, after one very specific thing.

"Aren't you married?" Not that Hit cared about being a homewrecker. He'd ended plenty of marriages by murdering one of the spouses (sometimes at the behest of the other spouse or spouses).

"My wife is aware and supportive of my proclivities," the Saiyan said.

"Do you mean with men, aliens, or both?" Hit asked.

"Both when the opportunity presents itself."

"Which I'm assuming isn't often on this planet."

Vegeta shook his head. "And before you ask, no, I want nothing to do with the few aliens that I'm forced to share Earth with."

"You're a little pigheaded for my tastes," Hit said.

"And you're far too purple for mine, but as I've said, my options are limited." There was a brief pause. "Your body isn't bad. For a living fossil."

"How can I control my lust with such praise?"

"Shut up and let's do this."

"Then I suppose I'll need that bean now."

Vegeta handed over the Senzu. Hit gave it another dubious look before popping it into his mouth. The taste was nothing to write home about but-

The assassin gasped.

Every ache, bruise, and ounce of fatigue vanished. He examined his body, flexing muscles that had been overworked to the point of malfunction only seconds before. No matter what transpired beyond this point, Hit was sure of one thing: he needed to get his hands on a few more of those beans and see if he couldn't cultivate them within his universe.

"Maybe I'd prefer to fight-"

Hit was interrupted by hands on his coat, trying to grab him and drag him down.

"Before we go any farther, there needs to be clarity between us," Hit said. He brought an arm up, separating himself from Vegeta. "What exactly do you want from…whatever this is?"

"Sex. The details can work themselves out," Vegeta replied.

"That's not the way I operate."

Vegeta almost growled in frustration. "What do you need, an itinerary?"

"Expectations and boundaries, how about we start there?"

"And what if my expectations are to fuck you into the ground?"

"I'd say I was surprised, but it was an acceptable arrangement. I'm flexible."

"Why would you be surprised?! Are you claiming that I, Prince Vegeta, come across as-"

"A bottom?"

Hit caught the punch before it could make a mess of his face. Vegeta, practically snarling, tore his hand free.

"You're too reactive to something that isn't intrinsically an insult. Unless you believe that being penetrated is somehow shameful or emasculating? If that's the case, we're done here."

Vegeta bristled like a soaked cat. "Of- of course I don't!"

The Saiyan muttered something under his breath, something too low for Hit to hear but that made Vegeta blush from his hairline down to his neck.

"I didn't catch that," the assassin said.

"I've been…adventurous…in the bedroom before. Not that it's any of your business."

Exactly as Hit expected. He, of course, had no intention of mocking Vegeta for either his sexual escapades or his embarrassment over them. Hit had meant every word he said earlier, including that he would, without reservation, allow the Saiyan to have his way with him.

"In any case, it doesn't seem like penetrative sex between us is the best idea. There are other options, however."

"What do you propose?" Vegeta asked.

"Something that your competitive spirit should enjoy," Hit replied.

"I'm listening."

"Hands only, last man standing wins."

Vegeta frowned. "A punching contest? This hardly seems like the appropriate time!"

"Hands are good for more than just inflicting damage."

The lightbulb clicked on. "I see. And by last man standing you mean…"

Hit nodded. "It's a contest of stamina."

"How can I be sure you're giving it your all? This contest would be easy to cheat."

"That's why your hand will be on me and mine on you. Then there's no question of anyone holding back," Hit said.

Vegeta swallowed hard, his face again bright red. "That's… yes, fine."

Without another word, Vegeta began shucking off his armor. He dropped the chest-piece and gloves onto a handy nearby boulder. When the Saiyan, now clad only in his navy bodysuit and boots, turned around he found Hit hadn't gotten a single thing off yet.

"Do you need help with your coat, old man?" Vegeta taunted.

"I can handle it," Hit replied.

Vegeta was left standing around, watching, as Hit took his sweet time. One lifetime later, the assassin laid his coat, guards, and belt down beside Vegeta's armor.

The pair sized each other up. Hit's gaze was cool and analytical, like that of a scientist, while Vegeta was a hungry dog staring at a meal.

Vegeta hadn't pursued Hit just to appreciate him from a distance, like some portrait hung behind glass at a museum. He closed the gap between them and motioned to the tight-fitting bodysuit that did nothing to hide the assassin's incredible physique.

"Is there a seam somewhere?" Vegeta asked.

"Here." Hit slipped a finger into the almost invisible overlay and separated the top and bottom of his bodysuit.

"Mine's the same." Vegeta demonstrated where the seam lay.

"Count of three?" Hit suggested.

"May the better man win," the Saiyan replied.

Three seconds later, the warriors' hands slipped past their opponent's waistband. Just like in a spar against an unfamiliar fighter, there was an initial sizing up (in this case literally) of the opposition. Each of them tested what the other sported, mentally measuring and comparing.

Hit hummed briefly.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Vegeta demanded.

"Not everything I do is an affront to your honor," Hit said. "Though if it puts your mind at ease, I like it."

"Yours is…serviceable."

Hit scoffed. "That isn't all it is."

If not for a strategic tug that distracted Vegeta completely, Hit would have had another punch to deflect. Hit took advantage of the Saiyan's momentary paralysis to squeeze him to the point of causing pain.

"This isn't a dick-measuring contest. If I haven't made it clear, I am now. Play by the rules or forfeit, but stop with the attitude," Hit warned.

Whether it was being scolded, being grabbed, or a combination of both, Vegeta was suddenly rock hard in Hit's hand. The assassin tried not to react, but his eyes widened of their own accord.

"Understood," Vegeta mumbled.

Hit replaced his frown with an impish smirk. He loosened his grip (a little) and rewarded the Saiyan with a languid stroke from base to tip. Vegeta groaned as Hit's thumb rubbed circles on the head of his cock.

At this rate, it was going to be a very one-sided contest. Which was fine with Hit. Vegeta's prize could be pleasure, Hit would be satisfied with the win.

"Don't look so smug," Vegeta said. "I'm only getting started."

Hit doubted that a man who was "only getting started" would be as red in the face as Vegeta was, but the assassin kept his opinions to himself. Rather than run his mouth, Hit let his hand fight his battles for him. Calm and steady, but relentless. A rhythm meant to wear down his opponent, not unlike the attack pattern he'd used to dispatch the Saiyan during the tournament between their universes.

While his thumb provided friction at the tip, the assassin's fingers both gripped and caressed. Hit mapped the length of Vegeta's cock, familiarizing himself with all aspects of the anatomy. He traced veins, explored the textures of the skin, marveled at the feverish heat of it.

All at once, Hit realized how warm his own body was. His singular focus had been on Vegeta, his own physical reactions pushed to the back of his mind until they reached a critical mass he couldn't ignore any longer.

The Saiyan chuckled at the sight of the faltering assassin. "You're good, but you're not invincible."

Hit grunted, reluctant to make any noise at all but incapable of totally stopping himself. He still considered himself ahead in the competition, but it was much closer than he expected.

There would be no more toying with the Saiyan and no more mercy. Hit increased the tempo of his movements, let his fingers drag across burning skin, provided surrounding pressure that was as tight as any orifice could ever be.

"Kiss me," Vegeta suddenly gasped.

Hit reacted without thought. He was on the Saiyan in an instant, pulling the shorter man up until Vegeta stood, swaying, on the tips of his toes. Their lips crashed against each other with animal savagery. It wasn't long before tongues and teeth got involved. Hit hissed as Vegeta bit down on his lower lip. He returned the favor and tasted iron.

The hand not engaged down Vegeta's pants tangled in his hair. Hit, being bald, offered fewer places to grab. Though Vegeta eventually found one after raking his fingernails down the assassin's back. He cupped the firm muscles of Hit's ass and squeezed.

It was overwhelming. So many points of stimulation, so many warring sensations, so much pleasure.

Vegeta succumbed first. He clenched his eyes shut as his body stiffened against Hit. His hips bucked a few times and then a sticky wetness coated the assassin's fingers. Hit, too lost in his own teetering body, was barely aware his partner had come undone.

Hit was also too distracted to realize how drained Vegeta was until the Saiyan staggered and collapsed. Vegeta landed on his tailbone with a grunt. That brought a sliver of sobriety to Hit, who immediately checked on his partner.

"Are you alright?" the assassin asked.

The Saiyan looked unusually sullen for someone who had come so hard they'd been knocked off their feet.

"You win. Again."

Vegeta rose to his knees. He then reached for Hit. 

"The contest is over. You don't have to do anything else, regardless of who won," Hit said, stepping back a few paces.

"I can't leave you like this." Vegeta gestured to the prominent tent in the assassin's pants. "Even I'm not that much of a bastard."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

Vegeta snorted. "Just get over here."

The assassin groaned as the blazing heat of Vegeta's mouth engulfed him. Hit made no attempt to draw out the experience, amazing as it was. A few licks and a little suction was enough to draw Hit over the edge.

Hit had just enough energy to tuck himself back into his pants before he sat down heavily. Vegeta plopped beside him a second later.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I didn't mind losing. Not much, anyway. Though next time I'll claim victory!" Vegeta promised.

"I wouldn't say either of us exactly lost," Hit replied. "But I wouldn't mind another rematch. Eventually."

"Eventually," Vegeta echoed.

Chapter Text

At first Hit came for the sparring.

Though before long, the stories became just as strong a draw.

Because they were completely and utterly insane. The tales Goku told—of androids and time travel and wizards and evil doppelgangers and resurrections and body-swapping and a confounding amount of panties—made Hit feel like he was in a fever dream influenced by bad science fiction novels and dirty magazines.

There was never a question of Goku embellishing or lying. Hit would stake his life on the Saiyan's complete and total sincerity. The only possibilities that Hit even remotely considered were that Goku, due to his naivete, didn't fully understand certain events (especially from his youth), or that vicious beatings he'd received during some events had left him concussed or worse.

"-so I figured the moon was the best place for him," Goku finished.

"But I thought the moon was destroyed?" Hit asked.

"Yep, twice. Maybe three times. It could even be four, if Frieza got it when he blew up the Earth. But this was before any of that happened."

Hit liked to think of himself as cool, calm, and collected. But this was all too much. A psychopathic rabbit who had the ridiculous ability to turn people into carrots had been banished to the moon by teenaged Goku. And then the moon had been blown up.

On multiple occasions.

Though Hit had seen it floating in the sky with his own two eyes.

"Your life is-" Hit stopped himself from saying "like a gag manga written by a maniac." He instead settled for "incredible."

Goku chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, I guess it's been pretty cool. But I bet you've got all kinds of crazy assassin stories and stuff you've seen in Universe 6!"

"With a few outliers, most of my contracts are the same," Hit said. "If you've killed one mob boss or petty tyrant, you've killed them all."

"But there has to be somebody who stood out," Goku protested.

"You."

The Saiyan blinked.

"Killing you was…invigorating. I'd nearly forgotten how thrilling it could be."

Goku absently massaged his chest in the exact spot Hit had delivered the mortal blow months ago. "I'm just glad I got revived so quick that time."

"What do you mean 'that time?' How many times have you died?"

The Saiyan began to count on his fingers. "Piccolo killed me, but it was what we had to do to stop my brother and save Gohan. Then there was Cell—I told you about him, right? And you. And there was this thing where I was dead, but I got to come back for a day, but then I burned through all my energy, so I don't know if that counts."

Hit's head was spinning. Three times. Three!

"Are you okay?" Goku asked.

"People don't die three times in my universe," Hit said.

"Oh yeah, your universe doesn't have Dragon Balls. Hmm, I wonder… Maybe I could ask the Namekian Elder if he could make you some! They could be really useful!"

Or they could cause unbelievable trouble and inconvenience for Hit. He could just imagine one of his targets being wished back. Absolutely not.

"I'll think about it" was all Hit was willing to commit to.

"Sure, it's a big decision. And I'm not even sure if Dragon Balls would work in another universe. I'd have to ask the Elder. Or maybe Dende would know."

With talk of Dragon Balls on the back burner, the conversation turned to more mundane topics: family, food, the next vegetable harvest. Hit offered the rare comment, while Goku rambled on in a most endearing fashion.

Until the rumble of his stomach interrupted him mid-sentence. The Saiyan looked down at his gut and then up to Hit.

"Huh, I guess it's getting pretty late. Chi-Chi's probably got dinner waiting for me. Wanna come try some awesome Earth cooking?" Goku asked.

"I appreciate the offer, but I doubt your wife would like to see the man who killed her husband," Hit said.

"Oh, yeah, she might still be mad about that. Next week I'll bring you some lunch. Maybe we'll have a picnic after we fight!"

Hit found himself smiling. "I'd like that."

With one last wave, Goku took flight, leaving Hit to watch his form grow smaller and eventually disappear into the sunset. The assassin surveyed the empty skies for longer than was healthy. When he finally turned away, he opted against an immediate return to the Sixth Universe. There were a few conversations Hit wanted to have before he left.

The doorbell rang just as Krillin was about to dig into his dessert. He gave his cake a look of longing before he hopped from his chair.

Krillin opened the door. His brain needed a second to process who was standing in front of him. When his brain finally caught up to his eyes, the only thing he could do was emit a terrified squeak.

From the kitchen, Eighteen asked, "Who's at the door? It's not that vacuum salesman again, is it?"

"Uh, no, I'm pretty sure you scared him off for good. It's just, um, the neighbor asking about borrowing some tools!"

Eighteen laughed. "He should come in and talk to me instead. Just kidding. You've gotten pretty handy lately."

Krillin hastily stepped out and shut the door.

"Are you here to kill me?" Krillin asked.

"No," Hit replied.

"You're not here to kill Eighteen, are you? Or our daughter?!"

"I'm not here to kill anyone. I have some questions."

Krillin relaxed a little. "Okay, what do you want to know?"

"Did you and Goku trade a woman to an old man in exchange for martial arts training?"

Those were all words Krillin knew and had used multiple times in his life, but in that order, from the mouth of an assassin, they made absolutely no sense.

"Huh?" was what Krillin finally managed to get out.

"Goku told me how he came to study under Master Roshi. The old man agreed to train you and Goku if you delivered a woman to him, is that correct?"

"That was like forty years ago! And we didn't kidnap anybody, I swear, they all agreed to come with us!"

"Was one of them…odd?"

"I'm gonna be honest, I think most of them were weird. There was a mermaid, and Launch-"

"That one."

"What did Goku tell you about her?" Krillin asked.

"She had two personalities in one body and they freely swapped any time she sneezed," Hit replied.

"Yep, totally true. One of them was sweet and a really good cook. The other one liked to pull out a machine gun."

Hit nodded. "Exactly as he described it."

"Goku's really not the kind of guy who makes stuff up," Krillin said.

"I agree. My concern was more…naivete or brain damage."

Krillin had to laugh. "Well, I can't say you're wrong there. Did you have anything else to ask me about Goku?"

"I've got a list."

Krillin didn't have to ask; he knew the list was long.

"Tell me about the talking pig that was obsessed with underwear. And the warrior who nearly killed you with his stench."

"Sure, just give me a second to ask Eighteen to put my cake in the fridge. And to think of a reasonable excuse for why I'm still out here."

"I need advice on all the tools I'm borrowing."

Krillin shrugged. "That works."

Nearly an hour later, Hit thanked Krillin for his time and went in search of his next font of Goku information.

Krillin wiped sweat off his brow. "Phew, glad that's over."

With the danger passed, Krillin opened the door. Eighteen was sitting on the sofa, phone in hand, Marron playing with a toy beside her. Krillin gave them a little wave and proceeded on to the kitchen.

"So…that wasn't the neighbor," Eighteen said.

Krillin almost dropped his plate.

"That was an assassin from another universe, who you talked to for 56 minutes."

Before Krillin could ask how she knew, his wife turned her phone around to reveal a familiar view of the yard. "Bulma hooked me up with the best doorbell cam available. I told you I was going to get one when that vacuum creep kept coming around."

"Are you mad at me? I didn't want to worry you," Krillin said.

"I'm not mad, but damn, you and Goku were both pretty messed up kids!" Eighteen laughed. "Any idea why he wanted to know all those things?"

Krillin shook his head. "Nope, none."

Eighteen shrugged. "Want me to text Bulma and let her know what's coming?"

Of all the responses Hit expected, an open door and an invitation to coffee were not among them. Under the watchful glare of Vegeta, Hit followed Bulma to a comfortable sitting area.

"Krillin and Eighteen said you were headed here next," Bulma said.

"Goku has spoken extensively about both of you. Krillin agreed that you'd have some insightful stories."

"Why are you so interested in Kakarot anyway? Are you trying to kill him again?" Vegeta asked.

"I don't need a man's life story to kill him," Hit replied. "I only need a name and a face."

Vegeta scoffed.

"Ignore him, he's still pissed off that you beat him," Bulma said.

The Saiyan's frown grew somehow even more severe. Hit paid it no mind.

"I understand that you were the first person he met following the death of his adopted grandfather," Hit said.

"And now I've got a better question: why does Kakarot share every intimate detail of his life with an assassin?" Vegeta wondered aloud.

Bulma replied, "I sure was. I was out searching for the Dragon Balls when I stumbled across this weird feral kid with a tail. He wrecked my car, I shot him a few times, we had all kinds of adventures. If you've got time to kill, I can tell you about them."

"I have all the time in the world."

"Some guard you are. Get up, it's your turn," Bulma said, prodding her sleeping husband.

Vegeta awoke with a start. How could he have fallen asleep with that damned assassin in the room with him? Sure, he'd been training hard with Whis and Broly, and he and Bulma had had an eventful afternoon, and he'd refused any coffee, and his chair was plush and welcoming, but there was no excuse!

"My turn for what?" the Saiyan asked.

"Regale Hit with your Goku stories. I'm going to bed," Bulma replied.

With one last yawn, Bulma was gone. Vegeta leered at the assassin sitting across from him.

Not remotely intimidated by Vegeta's glare, Hit said, "You're not obligated to tell me anything. If you'd rather I leave-"

"I don't know why you're interested in that clown, but I happen to be his greatest rival," Vegeta said. "If you want to know what makes Kakarot tick, there's nobody better than me to ask."

Something flashed in Hit's eyes, though it was gone so quickly Vegeta wasn't even sure he'd seen it in the first place. It might have been a trick of the light.

It might also have been jealousy.

"The first time the two of you fought, how did you transform into a giant ape? The Saiyans from my universe can't do that."

"Did you come for a biology lesson or anecdotes about Kakarot?" Vegeta asked.

"Both. I assume they're intertwined and you're by far the best source available for information on Saiyan anatomy and physiology," Hit replied.

"It's the tail."

"You don't have a tail."

"I don't have a tail anymore, thanks to the bastard who cut it off. Which means I can no longer transform. There's a biochemical reaction that occurs within the tail when a Saiyan is exposed to moonlight that leads to the transformation. No tail, or no moon, means no transformation."

"Goku and Bulma mentioned him transforming as a boy. Goku has no memories of his own, only what he was told by witnesses. He was a mindless brute but you could still speak?"

"That's the drawback: unless they've been trained, a transformed Saiyan is a wild animal hellbent on destruction. The transformation increases a Saiyan's strength dramatically, but can also rob them of their reasoning and intelligence," Vegeta explained.

"I see, there's a trade-off, one the Saiyans in my universe never made. Evolution took a different path with them, making them less violent and stronger overall, but with no ability to transform for huge gains in power."

Hit sat in quiet contemplation for half a minute.

"They're more than strong enough without tails. I assume you're ensuring they keep up with their training, aren't you?" Vegeta asked.

Hit nodded. "Of course."

Vegeta scoffed. "I'm sure you do your best, but what they really need is a fellow Saiyan to motivate them in the right way. I'll have to talk to Whis about paying a visit to the Sixth Universe."

"They'd love that. Cabba talks about you. Often."

"Hmph. When I do arrange a visit, I suppose that will leave you with nothing to do for a few days. You'll have to take my place here as Kakarot's sparring partner."

The Saiyan and the assassin locked eyes. If Vegeta needed any more evidence to support his suspicions, what he read on Hit's face was more than enough confirmation.

"If you share what I'm about to tell you with anyone, I'll find some way to kill you so not even the Super Dragon Balls will be able to revive you," Vegeta warned.

"Whatever it is, I'll keep it to myself," Hit promised.

"Kakarot is the best man I've ever known. He spared my life when he had no reason to do so and showed me there was something to live for outside of battle. He's the bravest warrior, the most reckless fool, and to top it off, he's damn handsome."

Hit felt like his throat had been stuffed full of cotton. What was Vegeta talking about? Why was he saying this? Was it some sort of secret confession? But why share it so casually with someone he didn't even like? Unless it was to tell Hit that Goku was already spoken for and would never choose an assassin over his fellow Saiyan?

"I want to make it clear that I'm perfectly happy with my wife and children. I'm not going to run off with Kakarot. Training with him is enough for me. But is it enough for you?" Vegeta asked.

"I… I don't know," Hit finally choked out.

"Judging by your reaction, I doubt it. Talk to him. And don't be evasive or use too many syllables or he'll never understand what you mean."

"He has a family. I can't-"

"You're not going to spirit him away to the Sixth Universe and live happily ever after, that's true. But if you don't do anything, you're going to suffer. And you're going to regret being a coward for the rest of your life. Which, given the time nonsense you've got going on, might be another thousand years. Or more."

There was no way Hit would survive a thousand years of feeling like he had a hole in his heart.

"I'll talk to him," the assassin said quietly, "the next time we meet to spar."

"Great. Now get out of my house. It's either far too late or far too early for me to deal with love-sick assassins."

Chapter Text

"Too much?"

The hand at the back of his head that compelled him down again was all the assurance Piccolo needed. He sunk his fangs in just south of where they'd been, earning him a breathless gasp from the body beneath him.

"At this point," Hit panted, "too much isn't enough."

"Careful saying things like that. I might take it as a challenge."

The assassin flinched and Piccolo immediately dropped the telepathic link. It wasn't a skill Piccolo deployed often, and on the rare occasions he did use it, it was on friends familiar with the sensation. Generally simple friends who were impressed by any type of parlor trick.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that without permission," Piccolo apologized.

Hit really wasn't a fan of giving others even the most limited access to his mind, but he was less enthused with the idea of Piccolo having to stop every time he needed to speak.

"Just warn me next time," Hit said. "And get back to work."

The Namekian scoffed but lowered his head. "Whatever you say."

Hit groaned as Piccolo's fangs clamped down, this time on his shoulder. His instincts had been spot-on: those teeth were every bit as sharp as they looked, and damn, did their owner know how to use them.

"Is this how everyone does it?" Piccolo asked telepathically. "Or would they think we're-"

"Save yourself some grief and don't do that," Hit replied.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't think about your friends' sex lives. Nothing good will come of it."

"It's your fault I'm thinking of anything related to sex. Coming to me with your propositions when all I intended to do today was meditate," Piccolo groused.

There was a momentary lull as both of them focused on the situation at hand. That quiet was broken by a most peculiar question.

"What's it feel like?"

Hit went dead silent. Piccolo began to wonder if he'd been completely walled off from the assassin's mind, if his question had been too weird? Too intimate? Too impossible to answer?

"Do you really want to know?" the assassin asked.

Now it was Piccolo's turn to shut off all communications. He thought long and hard about it, weighing his fear against his burning curiosity.

"Yes." He restrained himself from adding a hesitant "I think" to the end of his statement.

"I can open my mind to you. A little. Enough to let sensation come through. I don't know exactly how it will translate with us having different anatomy, but I'm assuming if you can feel pleasure, you'll get something out of it."

Hit waited a few seconds to ensure neither he nor Piccolo were going to come to their senses and reconsider. When both of them remained equally stupid, the assassin sighed and closed his eyes.

He never dropped his barriers.

Ever.

It ran contrary to everything that had kept him alive for the last millennium. But this was a novel situation. For both of them. It wasn't every day that Hit—or any living being for that matter—got the chance to share the experience of sex with a species that existed wholly without it.

Hit forced himself to relax. He lowered mental barricades that had been in place for centuries; if they'd been physical objects, they would have been rusted monoliths welded together by time.

Once the way was as clear as Hit was inclined to make it, he extended his own telepathic message to the Namekian. "Come on in. Don't touch anything."

"You're a real… Why am I tingling? And so warm?" Piccolo asked, alarmed.

"Because I'm warm and tingling," Hit replied.

The Namekian moved a hand to his crotch. "It's worse here. It almost hurts. But it's amazing at the same time."

"Uh-huh, sounds about right."

"How do you make it stop?"

"You can either get out of my head or…no, probably not a good idea."

"Or what?"

"Get me to orgasm. But that's intense. And I've never done it with company in my head."

After a few seconds of hesitation, Piccolo asked, "Would you be willing to try?"

"I'd be a real bastard if I got you aroused for the first time in your species' history and then refused to take you the rest of the way," Hit replied. "Just prepare yourself. Like I said, it's intense."

Piccolo tried to imagine what "intense" amounted to. Sure, he'd experienced pleasure, but it was the variety that came with winning fights and finishing a good book. What he'd felt so far was a different animal entirely. How much higher could such sensations be ratcheted up?

His thoughts were interrupted by Hit's hand slipping between their bodies.

"What are you doing?" the Namekian asked once it became apparent where the hand was headed.

"I'm taking the direct approach. Biting isn't everyone's cup of tea. But manual stimulation is as good as it is basic," Hit explained. "It's how most people start to explore their sexuality."

Hit exhaled long and slow as he closed his hand around himself, but the noise Piccolo made suggested he'd been kicked in the kidney.

"What the hell?" Piccolo gasped. "It's-"

"Intense?" Hit offered.

"Does it feel like this every time? If it does, how do people have the motivation to get anything done?"

Hit laughed. "I would call this above average. I'm already worked up thanks to you, so my body is sensitive. Especially where I'm touching."

Piccolo was familiar with how mammals operated when it came to sex. Living in the middle of nowhere as he did, it wasn't like he'd never stumbled upon two rabbits or squirrels going at it. But to go from passive observation to full participation was overwhelming.

"You can always break the connection if it becomes too much," Hit reminded Piccolo.

The Namekian scoffed. "No, I really can't."

Fair point, Hit conceded. If his guest decided he had to tap out, that would leave Piccolo suffering and with no other way to climax. Probably. Maybe Namekians had something like an erogenous zone, but rubbing down every inch of that strong green body would take far more time than either of them had the patience for at that moment.

"I'm going to speed things up, if that's alright with you," Hit said.

Piccolo groaned against the assassin's shoulder.

Hit took that as a yes. He increased the tempo, hoping his partner could bear it.

Piccolo found himself drowning. His species wasn't made for this. They subsisted off of water and spent their days tending trees, for pity's sake. There was a reason they reproduced via eggs and left this kind of bullshit to the mammals.

"Hold onto me," Hit urged, feeling his partner's distress seep into him. "You'll be okay, just hold on."

Desperate hands clamped down on the assassin's upper arms. That was fine. It still left Hit's hand mobile and didn't interfere with the rhythm he had going.

As the pair approached their inevitable conclusion, telepathic pathways become tangled webs. Words, sensations, and emotions whirled without clear source or recipient. Pleasure blended with chaos and the assassin began to realize he'd left his mind too open. He and Piccolo were joining in a way that was more intimate than sex on its own could ever be.

The Namekian suddenly jerked and cried out. Hit could feel it too. There was a coiled heaviness in his stomach that promised release and relief. All Hit had to do was drag himself and his partner over the finish line.

And soon.

Focusing as singularly as he could with all the technicolor noise bombarding him, Hit concentrated on just his body. His burning nerves, the sharp, sweet sting from the fangs embedded in him, the pressure of Piccolo clinging to him for dear life.

That whetted his arousal, but it still wasn't enough. No, Hit realized, of course it wasn't. Because this was no longer about him or his body. Piccolo was present, floundering in the shared sea of their thoughts. A partner who was in over their head needed to be protected and shown care, not further over-stimulated.

"Hold onto me," Hit repeated, this time soft and gentle. "We're getting through this together."

Hit turned his mind to Piccolo. To the first time he'd seen the Namekian, and his disappointment they never got to fight in the competition between their universes. How impressed he was both with Piccolo's physical talents and mental prowess.

And how, for the first time in ages, Hit had felt himself burdened by longing. Longing for an alien from an asexual species who lived in another universe. The sheer star-crossed absurdity of the whole thing made Hit smile.

It worked. Warmth now transfused the chaos. Hit kept going, projecting affection intermixed with a healthy dose of lust. Dropping Piccolo into a brain already stewing in hormones hadn't been a considerate move on Hit's part, useless warning or no useless warning, but now he was going to make it right.

"Thank you for doing this with me. You're so much more than I deserve," Hit said.

One of the hands that had been exerting a desperate death-grip on his biceps was suddenly gone. Hit held his breath as he waited to see where that hand would land.

With an urgency that was understandable under the circumstances, Piccolo batted Hit's hand out of the way. The Namekian wrapped his own hand around the assassin's dick the second there was space. Hit gasped, his heels sliding on the bed sheets, his body and mind in knots.

Hit was unashamed to say he didn't last long. Piccolo was by no means a master, but this was the fulfillment not only of their encounter, but of months of fantasies on Hit's part. A few strokes was all it took before the assassin threw back his head as both he and Piccolo were completely undone.

It was pleasure like neither of them had ever felt before, an all-consuming feedback loop of explosive bliss that obliterated everything in its path. Conscious thought was temporarily wiped away, replaced with the novelty of the ultimate shared climax.

Hit returned to his senses feeling like he'd been dragged under by a riptide, beaten against the seafloor until his breath was spent, and then spat unceremoniously onto an alien shore. His head ached, but that was nothing like the throb that radiated from his shoulder. He raised a clumsy hand to the source of his pain and found his skin wet with blood.

Piccolo must have bitten down-

Piccolo!

Adrenaline cleared enough of the cobwebs to allow Hit to sit up. Where was the Namekian?

A clawed hand clutched feebly at the edge of the mattress. "Down here."

Hit looked over the side of the bed. His partner was on the floor and appeared just as thoroughly wrecked.

"Sorry about that." Piccolo gestured to the dripping punctures he'd left in the assassin's shoulder.

"Not your fault," Hit assured him. "It was too much for either of us."

"No kidding. It knocked me right on my ass." With a groan, the Namekian hauled himself up. He flopped onto the bed and rested his head on Hit's lap.

Hit absently toyed with Piccolo's antennae. "Is everything, your ass included, intact?"

"Yeah, I think so," Piccolo replied. "Just a hell of a headache."

"I've got the same," Hit said. "I'm sorry for how that spiraled out of control. I've never done anything quite like it."

"The weird thing is, I have."

Hit's eyes widened.

"Especially at the end, that started to feel a little too close to fusion, the Namekian version of it, at least."

"You've fused?" Hit asked. He was aware that the Namekians from his universe were capable of the same feat, though he'd never asked what it felt like.

"I'm the sum of three individuals. And, no offense, I'm glad you're not the fourth."

The assassin grinned. "You're full of surprises."

"And I've got one more for you. I'd be willing to do this again. Not tomorrow, or next week, but someday."

"Didn't you just say it was unpleasant?" Hit asked.

"I said it gave me a headache and reminded me of fusion. Both of those are sacrifices I'm willing to make if it means I get to feel something that incredible. If you're ever in the neighborhood, that is," Piccolo replied.

"My travels could take me through this universe at some point," Hit said. "It would be difficult to say exactly when, but I have a feeling the urge to visit may strike me in…a month."

"A feeling, huh?" Piccolo asked with a chuckle. 

"A strong feeling."

Chapter Text

A shadowy figure stepped from the twilight gloom. Seventeen immediately recognized that this was no common poacher.

"I'm assuming nobody would hire a hitman to kill animals, so that must mean you're here for me."

Hit nodded in affirmation. "I am."

Seventeen sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Let's get this over with."

The assassin kept his hands in his pockets as he advanced. Just as Seventeen was about to draw back his fist, Hit came to a halt. While the ranger looked on, perplexed, Hit bent forward from the waist.

"Okay, what's this about?" Seventeen asked.

"You did what I couldn't: you kept the Sixth Universe safe." Hit maintained his deep bow. "I owe you a debt I can never repay, though I want to try. I'm offering my services to you free of charge."

"Are you saying you'd assassinate someone for me? No, thanks," Seventeen said. "Stand up."

Hit straightened. "If you don't want anyone eliminated, I can be of other uses."

"What do you want to do, help me patrol? Keep an eye out for poachers? Count the number of bird nests in the southern half of the island?"

"Those are all jobs I'm capable of doing."

Seventeen's eyes narrowed. "You'd waste your talents on hunting down poachers and counting birds? Really?"

"If the winner of the Tournament of Power thinks this is worthwhile, I'm happy to do it," Hit replied.

The ranger shrugged. "We'll get started in the morning. It'll be easier to see the nests."

As Seventeen gathered wood and prepared a fire, he kept his eyes on his unexpected guest. The assassin seated himself on the ground nearby. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms.

"You remind me a little of someone I knew a long time ago," Seventeen said. "I think the two of you would've enjoyed each other's silence. And the prospect of killing Goku."

Hit opened his eyes. "A friend of yours wanted to kill Goku?"

Seventeen smirked. "You'll love this. Years ago, I wanted to kill Goku. I don't know how much of it was programming and how much of it was that I was bored and it sounded like a fun challenge. Not that I ever came close. I got myself killed before I ever met him."

The fact that people routinely died and returned in the Seventh Universe (and talked about it so casually) was never not going to surprise Hit.

"I assume a wish brought you back?" Hit asked.

"Yep, me and a couple thousand others. Cell was a thirsty bitch."

Hit had no idea what that last line was supposed to mean. Who or what was Cell, and what did said entity being a "thirsty bitch" have to do with thousands of deaths?

"Can you elaborate?"

Seventeen finished lighting the fire. Once he was sure it would burn well, he joined Hit on the ground.

"Buckle up, it's a hell of a story," the ranger said.

Hit listened, enraptured, as Seventeen wove his tale of the murderous bio-android Cell and his quest to hunt down and absorb his "brother and sister." During the course of the story, Hit also discerned who he reminded Seventeen of: the quiet giant Sixteen. Hit had certainly been compared to worse.

"So that's how I ended up here, defending the wildlife," Seventeen summarized. "Crazy, huh?"

"Very," Hit replied.

Seventeen stretched his legs out in front of him. "I've got a bed I don't really use if you'd be more comfortable inside."

That wasn't the direction Hit expected the conversation to turn. "I'm comfortable here."

"Don't take it the wrong way; I'm not trying anything. I just know not everyone likes camping out."

Hit took his time answering. "Would you like me to take it the wrong way?"

Seventeen gasped in mock shock at the sheer scandal of what he was hearing. "How wrong are we talking here?"

"That depends entirely on you. As I said, I'm willing to do whatever you want of me."

"Is that one of the perks of being the savior of the Sixth Universe?" Seventeen asked.

"That's one of the perks of being my partner. I'm accommodating," Hit said.

"The funny thing is, so am I. Maybe we'll have to flip a coin. Or take turns."

"Heads or tails does sound like innuendo."

Seventeen laughed. "You're right, it does. Too bad I don't have any loose change on me. I guess we'll just have to get started and see what happens."

With that plan in mind, Seventeen and Hit retreated into the humble hut the ranger called home most of the year. Hit looked around the room. There was a surprising number of junk food packages and comic books piled up.

"Whenever I need a day off, I get Trunks and/or Goten to watch the island for me. I don't know if you ever met them, they're half-Saiyan kids and a lot less annoying than their parents. They're happy to get paid in snacks and manga," Seventeen explained. "If you're hungry, help yourself."

Hit picked up a box of cookies, examined the label, balked at the amount of sugar, and put it back where he found it. "I think I'll pass."

"Hold onto them. You might need the energy by the time I'm done with you," Seventeen said.

The assassin raised a brow. "I think you're going to be the one who needs to recharge."

"Ha ha, robot jokes," the ranger deadpanned.

Hit smirked. "Would you like to see who's right?"

Shoes, socks and accessories went first for both warriors and in about the same amount of time. Getting topless was a quicker, easier job for Seventeen. He pulled his shirt over his head and voila.

"They don't have zippers in the Sixth Universe?" Seventeen joked.

"They do, but they're prone to snagging and breaking and are a pain to replace," Hit replied. "I'm assuming it's the same as in this universe."

Seventeen made a show of pulling down the zipper on his jeans in the slowest, most exaggerated way possible. When no catastrophic failure occurred, he shucked off his pants and ambled over to the bed. Now clad only in his boxers, he rested his back against the headboard and waited with a remarkable amount of patience.

While he finished with his coat, Hit kept his eyes on the ranger. He liked what he saw. Seventeen was shorter and slimmer, built more for agility than raw power, though obviously still strong. It would be a pleasure to run his hands over the ranger's body and explore that lithe physique. Or to submit to it. Whichever way the wind blew, Hit knew he'd enjoy himself.

Hit draped his coat over a handy chair and then slipped off the top half of his bodysuit. It joined the coat on the chair. Now equally disrobed, Hit turned to Seventeen and waited for his invitation. The ranger patted the bed next to him.

"I've never been with anyone who wasn't human," Seventeen said. "I made a pass at a Namekian once but that didn't get me very far. Your species doesn't come from eggs, does it?"

The assassin chuckled. "No, I'm mammalian."

"I figured, with the nipples and belly button, but it's a big universe. Or universes."

"If it makes you feel more at ease, I've never been with a human, never mind an augmented one."

"First time for both of us in that case. Give me a second and we'll get started."

Seventeen climbed over the assassin and out of the bed. He crouched and rooted around under the bed until he came up with a locked box. With box in hand, he returned to his original spot. "I told Goten and Trunks that I had a gun in here and if I so much as suspected they tampered with it, they were done working for me for good. It's not that I don't trust them, it's that I'm not an idiot."

Hit watched with great interest as Seventeen opened the box. The ranger hid the contents with his hands, forcing Hit to stew in his own curiosity.

"Let's see. We've got peach, cherry, and watermelon. What's your poison?" Seventeen asked, setting out three small bottles.

"What are those? Fruits?" Hit examined the images printed on the bottles. He then turned his attention to the writing on the labels.

Oh. Hit felt his cheeks flush when he realized what he held.

Grinning like an imp, Seventeen said, "You'll have to return the favor one day and show me some flavored lube from your universe. In the meantime, want a taste?"

"Absolutely." Hit's reply was instantaneous.

"And how do you want to taste it?"

The assassin weighed his options. Decisions, decisions. There wasn't a part of the ranger's body Hit wouldn't lick fake fruit flavor off of, but Hit decided Seventeen could keep his undergarments on just a little longer.

The assassin held up a hand and wiggled his fingers.

Seventeen smeared a light coating of the first flavor—peach—on the tip of his index finger and offered it to Hit. The assassin took it into his mouth, about two knuckles deep, and then closed his lips around the digit.

"You're good at that," Seventeen observed, his breathing already a little shaky.

"I try to excel at everything I do. I've always been that way," Hit replied once he'd sucked the finger clean and released it.

"Competitive, huh? I like a challenge myself. Let's play a little game to decide who puts what where. After you try the other two flavors."

Peach and watermelon were sweet without relief, but cherry had an undercurrent of tart that Hit enjoyed. He said as much to Seventeen.

"I thought that might be your favorite, given how those cookies offended your sensibilities." Seventeen stashed the other two bottles but left the cherry out and in easy reach.

"Now, what's your challenge?" Hit asked.

"You're straight to the point, huh? Does your universe have a game called rock, paper, scissors?"

The assassin stared at the ranger. "What?"

Seventeen made a fist, then splayed his fingers out and laid his hand flat, then made a snipping motion with his middle and index fingers. "Rock, paper, scissors."

"No, I know the game. Which is an oddly specific thing for two universes to share…" Hit shook his head. He'd consider the strange designs of the counterpart universes later. "I just thought you were joking."

Seventeen's pale blue eyes transfixed Hit. "Rock, paper, scissors is a sacred, time-honored way to make decisions and settle arguments in this universe."

"You're…kidding?" Hit asked, wary.

The ranger broke into a wide smile. "I'm messing with you. You're incredibly sexy when you're flustered."

It was like Seventeen had found a magic button that made Hit blush every time he pressed it. "But about the rock, paper, scissors, were you serious?"

"I think it's a great way to work things out. Let's do three rounds. The winner of round one gets a handjob, round two gets a blowjob, and you can use your imagination for round three."

Hit swallowed thickly. Those were the absolute hottest stakes he'd ever played for.

Round one ended with Hit throwing scissors and Seventeen smashing them with a rock. Round two was equally decisive, with Hit's paper succumbing. Round three was a draw at first, though Seventeen again proved victorious through the unyielding power of rock.

"Did you throw all three games?" Seventeen asked.

"Of course not. I would never violate the sanctity of rock, paper, scissors, nor would I ever lose a match intentionally," Hit replied.

"Uh-huh. In any case, since you're the ultimate loser, I'll take my prizes now."

As Hit had said earlier, he'd come with the intention of being agreeable to basically anything Seventeen wanted. And as this was something Hit also wanted so bad it hurt, the assassin wasted no time getting to work. Seventeen had barely slipped his boxers over his hips when Hit loomed over him.

"This is kind of unfair, don't you think?" Seventeen asked.

"How so?" Hit replied.

"You've still got half your bodysuit on. I mean, it doesn't leave that much to the imagination but I want to see all of you."

Hit moved so quickly it was almost as if he'd activated his time skip. One moment he was covered, the next his skin was fully bared to the warm night air. And Seventeen's curious gaze.

The ranger sat up a little straighter and stared, wide-eyed. "Wow, I guess you actually let me win for my safety. Thanks for that."

Hit chuckled. Seventeen was by no means lacking, but Hit understood his anatomy could be…intimidating. Especially given the ranger's smaller build. Though, in all honesty, safety had been low on the list of reasons why Hit had played his worst three games of rock, paper, scissors.

"I'll get started, if that's alright with you," Hit said.

"I'd be offended if you didn't."

With no further prompting necessary, the assassin got to work. His hand was strong and steady, as sure at delivering pleasure as it was at delivering death.

Seventeen hissed through his teeth. "You're good at this, too. Seems like the only thing you can't do is-"

Hit groaned. "Are you ever going to stop tormenting me about the game?"

"Maybe if you take my mind off of it," Seventeen offered.

"I think I know how to do that."

Working with the same immaculate oral skills he'd unleashed on Seventeen's finger, Hit enveloped his larger target. Even without the addition of cherry flavoring, the assassin licked and sucked with full enthusiasm.

Before long a hand tapped a borderline frantic staccato on Hit's shoulder. The assassin lifted his head. He found Seventeen clutching the sheets with his other hand, his knuckles white from the effort.

"Sorry to stop you, but I'm really close. If you want to finish me off, go for it, but I'll need a minute or two to recover." Seventeen reconsidered after a moment. "You know what, do it. It's not like I'll last longer if I'm in some other hole."

Seventeen's bluntness was something to behold. But not something Hit could deny. He obediently resumed his work, taking the ranger back into his mouth.

As expected, Seventeen was thrusting into the assassin's accommodating throat within minutes. Hit suppressed his gag reflex and let the ranger do as he pleased.

Seventeen grunted as he came with one last jerk of his hips. He collapsed, limp, against the headboard. Hit reached forward and brushed dark hair from the ranger's forehead, tucking the loose strands behind Seventeen's ears.

"That's nice, keep playing with my hair," Seventeen murmured.

Hit, having no real experience with hair, did his best to read Seventeen's reactions. He kept his touches light, both on the ranger's face and along his scalp, adjusting as Seventeen leaned toward him. Whether Hit was actually any good at it, or whether Seventeen just loved being caressed in such a way, the ranger's body began to show its own appreciation.

"I thought you were exaggerating when you said 'a minute or two,' but you apparently weren't," Hit observed.

"I'm not sure if it's a natural talent or a bonus of being a cyborg, but I don't have much of a refractory period," Seventeen replied.

Hit couldn't begin to guess which it was, so he offered a shrug. "In either case, if you're ready, I'm ready. How would you like to do this?"

"You're too handsome to waste facing the wall. We need a position that will let me see the full effect of everything I'm going to do to you," Seventeen said.

The size difference between them made certain angles of attack cumbersome, but it was by no means an insurmountable problem. With a little adjustment, the pair soon found a position that worked to their mutual benefit. Seventeen eased himself away from the headboard and propped a pillow under his head. Hit straddled the ranger's hips, holding himself just above Seventeen's eager erection.

"Do you want me to-" Seventeen began, but Hit cut him off.

"I've got it. Just hand me the bottle."

Seventeen watched Hit's face intently. Disregarding the occasional hitch in his breathing and the violet flush across his cheeks, there were no signs the assassin was steadily working first one, then two fingers into himself.

When Hit was satisfied, he withdrew his fingers and squeezed a little more lube onto his palm. He then worked his hand over Seventeen's cock, coating it and earning him a groan from the ranger.

The assassin took a deep, calming breath and slowly lowered himself down. His eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of being breached.

"You good?" Seventeen asked. The assassin sure looked good, but there was no harm in checking.

"That's an understatement," Hit replied. He settled flush against Seventeen's thighs and exhaled softly. The ranger was a perfect fit.

"I'm going to move if that's okay with you."

Hit shook his head.

"Am I hurting you? Do you need more time to get used to it?" Seventeen looked at Hit with concern.

"It's not that. At all."

In silent explanation, Hit raised himself up with exquisite slowness. Then, flesh dragging over flesh with such patient friction that Seventeen wanted to scream, Hit took the full measure of the ranger's cock.

"How in the hell do you have so much self-control?" Seventeen asked.

"A thousand years of practice and discipline," Hit replied.

"Good for you. If you want to do all the hard work, at least let me help with this." The ranger gestured to Hit's own neglected dick. 

Hit was in no position to deny such a favor. He exhaled sharply as fingers wrapped around him. Seventeen apparently had no intention of copying Hit's pacing, but chose a rhythm that better matched both of their growing desperation.

The assassin's stoicism could only endure so much. "Now, I need you to move now."

"Oh thank fuck, I thought you'd never ask!" Seventeen exclaimed. He bucked his hips, driving into Hit with an intensity that soon left both warriors breathless.

Being stimulated so well from two fronts wore Hit down just a little quicker. With a soft gasp, he clenched his eyes shut and threw back his head. That was just the thing Seventeen had been holding on for. The sight of the assassin lost in euphoria was the final trigger Seventeen needed to join him in bliss.

After riding his orgasmic high for as long as he could, Hit gingerly extricated himself and collapsed next to Seventeen. He could hear the ranger's ragged breathing, a perfect match for his own. Though, much quicker than Hit anticipated (or could hope to match), Seventeen propped himself up against the headboard.

"That wasn't bad for my first time with an alien. But what do you think, will my second time be even better?"

Hit scoffed at him. "You can't be serious."

"Come on, you're not tired already," Seventeen teased.

Hit sat up. "Throw me those cookies and find me some water and I might have one more go in me. Maybe."

Seventeen grinned as he scooted off the edge of the bed. "I'll take what I can get. Here, catch."

Chapter Text

"Here you go. I asked Chi-Chi to make a little of everything."

Goku laid an enormous bento box on the ground in front of Hit. He then took the remaining four boxes and sat down on the grass. Hit opened the lid and stared at the ridiculous feast before him.

"Something wrong?" Goku asked, seeing Hit's expression.

"This is a beautiful spread, but it's more than I could eat in a week," Hit replied.

The Saiyan laughed. "Oops, I wasn't sure how much chow you wanted. You can take the leftovers with you or I won't say no to them!"

Hit enjoyed a sample of every dish and side. When he decided he was as full as he could stuff himself without risking nausea, he surveyed the leftovers. He'd hardly made a dent, while Goku was happily wolfing down the contents of his second box.

With nothing else to do, Hit sat back and watched the spectacle unfold. It didn't seem possible for that much food to physically fit inside Goku. Yes, the Saiyans from the Sixth Universe could also pack away the portions, but one of the bento boxes would satisfy most of them. Goku was like a magician, making noodles and grilled vegetables and fish fillets disappear.

Hit marveled at the workings of the Saiyan's digestive tract. How did he avoid choking? It didn't even look like he chewed thoroughly.

If Goku could handle that much food in his mouth, it stood to reason he should have no problem managing-

Where in the darkest depths of hell had that thought come from?! Hit physically recoiled, appalled at his own brain.

Goku looked over at the sudden movement. "Are you okay? You look kinda flushed. Oh crap, I hope you're not allergic to Earth food! Do you feel itchy anywhere?"

"Please don't mind me, I'm fine!" Hit felt, somehow, even more color flood his cheeks. "But I need to leave. Right now!"

"Hold on!" Goku, unthinking, grabbed Hit's wrist. "If the food made you sick, you shouldn't try to fly anywhere. What if you pass out or start throwing up or-"

"It's not the food," Hit said.

"Then what is it?" Goku asked.

Hit remembered Vegeta's instructions: be clear, concise, and straightforward. Or spend the rest of a potentially very long life regretting his choices.

"It's…you."

"What, me? You're allergic to me?"

Hit shook his head. "I'm not allergic to anything."

"If you say so. But something's going on. Come on, Hit, you can tell me. I'm a great listener," Goku promised.

The assassin took a quick glance at Goku's face. It was so earnest and full of concern, almost childlike in its innocence. Decidedly not the face of someone who would have anything to do with hired killers.

"I want something I cannot and should not have. Let go of me."

Goku instead tightened his grip. "Not until you tell me the truth. All of it."

Hit considered his options. The same part of his brain that had produced the unpardonably lewd thoughts about Goku's mouth now suggested he kill the Saiyan and be done with the whole mess. A slightly less vicious option was to punch Goku but leave him stunned or unconscious. Hit figured he could also easily time skip out of the Saiyan's grasp.

And there was the final choice: to do as Goku said and spill his secrets. To confess. And to then crawl under a rock and not emerge again until the Saiyan's natural lifespan had passed.

The assassin closed his eyes. Then, before he could talk sense into himself, he leaned forward. With blinding speed, he pressed his lips to the Saiyan's. And, when the reality of what he'd done fell on him with the weight of a neutron star, withdrew just as quickly.

"Did- did you just kiss me?" Goku sputtered.

"I'm sorry!" Hit pulled away again but found himself still trapped.

"No, it's just, wow." Goku touched a finger to his lips. "That was a super fast kiss. I didn't even really get a chance to enjoy it."

Hit stopped yanking like a wild animal with its paw caught in a snare.

"You...didn't mind?" Hit asked.

The Saiyan shook his head. "Nope! Ever since Vegeta explained kissing to me, me and Chi-Chi do it all the time. She really likes it too. I guess you're the same."

Hit decided not to ask why Vegeta needed to explain to a middle-aged man how kissing worked. Or how Chi-Chi would feel about her husband being kissed by a man who'd killed him.

"Do you wanna do it some more? Maybe slower this time?" Goku asked.

Hit felt his equilibrium desert him. There was no way this was actually happening.

"I would."

The Saiyan grinned. "Just gimme one second. I gotta cover my leftovers before the ants get them."

Goku released his grip on Hit's wrist and hurried over to save his food from the incoming bug invasion. The assassin was still too shocked to move and, despite his quivering nerves, too excited to do the wise thing and flee.

"All good!" Goku said upon his return. "I put the lid back on yours too."

Too decent and considerate, not someone who deserved to wallow in the darkness of an assassin's life.

Still, Hit stayed.

He stayed even when Goku reached up and gently cupped the back of his head. Hit offered no resistance to the hand inexorably bringing him and Goku closer, and closer, and-

The kiss was…spicy. Whatever Goku had last eaten still lingered on his lips, fragrant with a little kick. Horseradish or wasabi, maybe. Hit closed his eyes and savored the mild burning.

Though it lasted at least twenty times longer than the first awkward peck Hit had delivered, the kiss was still over infinitely quicker than the assassin wanted. He understood the need to breathe, and to gauge the other party's response, but Hit would have been content to spend the rest of the day lip-locked with Goku.

"You're a lot taller than Chi-Chi!" Goku laughed, lowering himself off his tiptoes.

Still grinning, the Saiyan looked up, meeting Hit's eyes. "I guess there's about the same height difference between me and Chi-Chi and me and you. Hey, that gives me an idea. It might be kinda silly…"

"No, whatever it is, I'll do it," Hit vowed.

"Chi-Chi loves it when I twirl her and kiss her at the same time. I always thought it looked fun but she can't pick me up and everybody I know who is tall enough definitely wouldn't do it."

Hit could just picture Goku bringing his proposal to Piccolo and being promptly punched through a mountain.

"I'd be delighted to do that," Hit said.

"Really? You wouldn't be embarrassed if somebody saw-"

"I'm a thousand years old. Peer pressure has no hold on me because all my peers are dead," Hit replied. "I'll twirl however I please."

Without further ado, Hit grabbed Goku at the waist. He took a moment to bask in the Saiyan's gentle gaze before lifting him straight off the ground. Hit pulled Goku closer, let their faces linger inches apart just long enough to tease, and then closed the distance between them.

Hit could feel Goku smiling through their kiss, especially once Hit started moving. The assassin was light on his feet, each step so sure despite the building speed. As the centrifugal force between them tugged at Goku's feet and the skirt of Hit's coat, they clung tighter to each other.

It was sweet and fun and whimsical and all the things Hit wasn't. And it warmed his soul in a way nothing had for ages. Hit found himself almost matching Goku's grin.

Hit wound down slowly so there would be no abrupt jerking. When he finally came to a full and complete stop, he took a second to press his forehead against Goku's. He then lowered Goku to the ground and removed his hands from the Saiyan's waist.

"I get why Chi-Chi likes this so much," Goku said. "Phew, I think I'm a little dizzy."

The Saiyan staggered like a sailor who'd lost his land legs after months at sea. Hit chuckled and steadied him before he could collide with something or trip.

Goku clapped Hit on the back. "We gotta do this again really soon. All of it."

"How soon is really soon?" Hit asked, not caring how desperate he sounded.

"Next time you come to spar, for sure. And maybe even quicker than that? Vegeta told me he was gonna take a trip to the Sixth Universe 'to make sure that assassin is training the Saiyans right.'" Goku put on a surly scowl as he imitated Vegeta. "I asked if I could come too but he said you'd keep me busy here."

Hit feigned surprise. "This is the first I'm hearing about it. When is he leaving?"

"A couple days. He said he had to work some stuff out with Whis and Lord Beerus first. If you don't have anything better to do, maybe you could stay here and train with me 'til Vegeta gets back."

Hit could have had contracts lined up out the door, but at that moment, he would have dropped them all for the chance to spend uninterrupted time with Goku.

"The only thing is…"

The assassin froze. "What is it?" 

"We gotta find you a place to live, because Chi-Chi's not gonna want you under her roof."

Hit almost laughed. That was what Goku was worried about? "I'll be fine. I can find my own accommodations. This world must have hotels. If not, I'm not averse to sleeping rough."

Goku snapped his fingers. "You could do that, but I have a better idea. Stay with Bulma; she's cool with aliens. She let all the Namekians live with her when their planet blew up. That way I'll know where to find you and we can use all Vegeta's fancy training equipment."

Bulma had been a generous host when Hit had come seeking stories of young Goku. Her coffee was first rate too.

"Don't worry, I'll talk to her," Goku said. "I can bribe her with some vegetables if I have to."

"Thank you, that's an excellent idea," Hit replied.

Goku opened his mouth, but before any words came out, his stomach interrupted him with a loud rumble. The Saiyan looked down at his gut. "Oh, yeah, I still gotta finish my lunch. When I'm done, I can Instant Transmission over to Bulma's. I just hope she's not in the shower this time."

Hit was not going to ask.

He was not.

"Do you teleport into your friends' showers often?"

Chapter Text

Weeks passed. Hit's voice returned, he had his coat repaired, and eventually Caulifla stopped trying to squeeze answers out of him. Not that there was ever a torture devised that would have gotten him to speak of his encounter with Frieza.

It was his, and only his. It was something to recall in the wee hours of the morning, as Hit, restless, paced the floor in faceless hotels. It was something that led Hit to kneel beside his bed, jam three fingers in his mouth, and let his body burn in ways that shamed and enthralled him.

Frieza had made no sure promises, but he'd left the door wide open for a return visit. Part of Hit dreaded the idea, both because it could put his universe in danger, and because Frieza had overwhelmed him completely. The tyrant's power, particularly in that black form, was beyond belief. Hit had been reduced to kneeling in the dirt, choking on tail, expecting to be snuffed out at any moment.

But on the other hand, Frieza had overwhelmed him completely. Servicing Lord Frieza had been, despite the threat of impending death and the pain and the humiliation, the inspiration for every fantasy Hit had had since the event (and there had been far more fantasies than usual). He'd be a liar if he said he never wanted a follow-up, even if it was every bit as one-sided as the first encounter.

With all of that conflict weighing on his mind, Hit froze when the moment actually came and he sensed the unmistakably powerful energy signature of Frieza. The war between fear and desire kept him immobile for a few seconds, until his brain could wrangle his emotions. Regardless of what he felt, Hit knew he couldn't ignore the presence that had landed in his universe.

This time Frieza at least had the courtesy to pick an empty world and to avoid any casualties. Hit found the tyrant, decked out in his ostentatious golden form, standing alone in the middle of a vast desert wasteland.

"Ah, I see my humble plaything has decided to answer my call," Frieza said.

Hit scowled at Frieza's wording; just because it was true didn't mean Hit liked hearing it phrased that way.

"What do you want?" Hit asked.

"Straight to the point. I was considering razing a few planets to the ground and exterminating some of your beloved monkeys, but I could be swayed," Frieza replied.

The assassin sighed. "You don't have to threaten my universe or my teammates to force my compliance."

"But where's the fun in that?" The emperor chuckled.

"Just tell me what you want from me."

"First, I'd like you to disrobe. You can begin with the coat and leave everything else. For now."

That was new. Last time Frieza had been satisfied with nearly ripping the collar from Hit's coat. Hoping to spare his signature look this time around, Hit undid the coat. He looked around the dry landscape for somewhere to put it and settled on a tall boulder.

In one of the pettiest displays Hit had ever seen, Frieza took aim at the coat only moments after Hit laid it down and blasted it off the boulder. The heavy garment landed in the dirt with a thump, throwing up a cloud of dust in the process.

"Should I send you the bill for that or do you expect me to eat the cost?" Hit asked, watching wisps of smoke rise from his poor coat.

"That's not all I expect you to eat," Frieza replied.

"I guess I walked right into that one," the assassin acknowledged. "Where do you want me to begin?"

"Before I grant you any access to my body, I want a closer look at yours, now that I have something to view besides that ridiculous coat."

Hit stayed perfectly still as the tiny tyrant circled him like a predator. Frieza prodded him seemingly at random, sometimes with a finger, sometimes with his tail if it was a part of Hit's body that was out of easy reach. At least Frieza was kind enough not to grope Hit's clothed crotch, though his eyes did linger there longer than at any other part of the assassin's body.

"Do you want to see if I've got all my teeth while you're at it?" Hit joked.

"I'm well-acquainted with your mouth. Likely better than anyone, wouldn't you agree?" Frieza replied. He brushed the tip of his tail across the assassin's lips.

"You're certainly the only tail I've ever had down my throat."

"Are you implying you've had them elsewhere?"

Hit shook his head. "No, that was a unique experience in general."

"In that case, would you care to? I did a bit of light reading regarding your species' anatomy and I understand you have another option."

The memory of Frieza jamming an unpleasant amount of tail into him jumped to the forefront of the assassin's mind. Hit's entire body clenched at the thought of the same thing happening with any other orifice.

"I am not comfortable with that," Hit said.

"No? What if I promised to be gentle?" Frieza teased.

"I'd be even more suspicious that you planned something evil."

Frieza reached out and ran a finger down the assassin's thigh. "It's hardly fair to present such a body to me and then not allow me any fun with it."

"I didn't say that; I said I don't want your tail near my ass."

"Then I propose a compromise: I'll penetrate you with a more traditional organ and keep my tail busy elsewhere."

Hit considered it. There were only so many denials Frieza was going to accept before he decided violence would be more fulfilling than sex.

"I can live with that," Hit finally said.

"Exquisite."

Hit reached toward Frieza, who blocked him with his tail.

"Not yet, that privilege must be earned," Frieza said. "Get down where you belong."

Hit again felt the churning blend of arousal, irritation, and humiliation. He gave Frieza a glare before kneeling.

"Are you unhappy about something?" Frieza asked. "That look on your face suggests you are."

"No," Hit replied.

Quicker than Hit could react, Frieza's tail lashed out, striking him across the chest and sending him sprawling. The assassin scrambled to his feet, wincing at the fat diagonal line of stinging agony that now ran from his shoulder to his ribs on the opposite side.

"Try again," the tyrant ordered.

"You bastard, if you can't get hard without torturing someone, that isn't my fault!" Hit snapped.

Frieza blinked in surprise. "And here I thought you were clever enough to know better."

Hit raised his fists in front of him. Without further warning, he activated his time skip. And was promptly blindsided by Frieza body-checking him with enough force to knock the breath from him. When Hit tried again, Frieza swept the assassin's legs out from under him and "helped" Hit to meet the ground even quicker with a single punch to his sternum.

The assassin groaned in misery. It was his Tournament of Power fight against Jiren all over again. Except worse, because at least Jiren wasn't a prissy little sadistic bitch.

Jiren didn't have a tail, either. Frieza did, as Hit was reminded when the prehensile appendage wrapped itself around his vulnerable throat. Hit felt himself being unceremoniously lifted from the shallow crater Frieza had carved out with the impact of the assassin's body.

"I'll have you know," Frieza's tail tightened like a noose, "your pain is more of an hors d'oeuvre than the main course. I am perfectly capable of enjoying myself without it."

As proof, Frieza uncoiled his stranglehold and allowed the assassin to slip free. Hit collapsed to his hands and knees, panting for breath. He raised a hand to his throat and winced. There was no doubt it was going to bruise.

Always assuming Hit lived long enough, of course.

"Happy now?" Frieza inquired.

Hit was reluctant to answer for obvious reasons.

Frieza tutted. "Don't tell me I've beaten the spirit out of you already."

"Yes, I'm much happier not being strangled," Hit said. "And if you're serious about-"

"I am. Though I expect you to be very, very good to deserve such a reprieve from Lord Frieza."

"I always earn my pay."

The emperor smirked. "That's excellent to hear, as I am not a client it would be wise to short."

Hit didn't need to be reminded of that. The pain in his neck and across his chest (not to mention the memories of his last encounter with Frieza) were proof enough.

Frieza moved closer. "So, what do you have planned, assassin?"

Hit had a few ideas. Hoping it wouldn't snap back around to bite a chunk out of his ass, Hit decided on the boldest among them. He reached out and grabbed Frieza's hips, earning him a glare. Undeterred, the assassin lifted Frieza as high as he could from his kneeling position.

"Put your legs over my shoulders," Hit said.

"Aren't you audacious!" Frieza's indignation at the manhandling turned to gleeful anticipation once he realized what Hit intended to do. He happily obeyed, hiking his legs up and clasping his unusually dexterous feet together behind Hit's head.

There wasn't much room in the cage created by Frieza's muscular thighs. That was fine; Hit wasn't claustrophobic and, if anything, the close confines would make his job easier.

Hit pressed his face forward. He rubbed his nose against the offered skin a few times, then switched to his much more versatile mouth. Hit took what he'd learned last time and translated the motion of fingers to the warm lavishing of a tongue.

It wasn't long before a telltale slit made its presence known. Hit pressed his lips against it, his mouth open enough to accommodate what would soon emerge. The smell and taste both reminded Hit of the ocean, salty with undertones of minerals and bitterness.

As Frieza's cock slinked into him, Hit closed his eyes. He ran his tongue over the intrusion, acquainting himself with the finer points of the anatomy. Not that Hit had any intention of sharing such a fact, but as far as genitals he'd put in his mouth went, Frieza's was not the worst. There was no need to fake or force his enthusiasm, at least.

Hit continued until Frieza squirmed atop him. "That's enough. I won't have you finishing me quite so quickly."

With some reluctance, Hit opened his mouth. Frieza parted his legs and then pulled himself from the warm depths. The emperor floated off of Hit's shoulders and gently to the ground, as though he weighed no more than dandelion fluff in a breeze.

"I don't suppose you brought anything to make this easier?" Frieza asked once he'd landed.

The assassin blushed and shook his head. "I didn't want to appear presumptuous."

"No matter. My body can produce a natural lubricant if sufficiently aroused."

Hit was damn sure that clause was met.

"If that issue is solved, how do you want me?" Hit asked.

"You looked rather fetching on all fours earlier. And, of course, remove any obstructing clothing."

Hit didn't ask if it was the position or the fact he'd just been strangled that made him "fetching" in Frieza's twisted eyes. Some things were better left unasked and unanswered.

Given his current stance and the fact he was still wearing his boots, fully taking off his pants would be a pain in the ass. Hit settled for slipping the bottom half of his bodysuit down to his knees. That left plenty of him exposed as he leaned forward.

Frieza stepped behind him. There was a brief noise that Hit could only describe as wet and squelching, and then one hand rested lightly on his hip. The other hand…

"Don't tense," Frieza warned. "I can hardly be blamed for hurting you if you don't cooperate."

The assassin muttered something that might have been "see if you can relax under these circumstances."

With an irritated huff, Frieza repositioned his hands, moving them to Hit's lower back. While his hands worked the taut muscles there, the emperor's tail snaked along the assassin's stomach. Hit was familiar enough with the power and potential for violence in that tail to want it nowhere near the most sensitive part of his body. He jerked away, his already tight muscles further resisting any pathetic attempts to loosen them.

"I can kill you with my tail, true enough. My intentions at the moment, however, are much more delicate," Frieza said.

"This isn't going to work. I know you can't be trusted, there's no way-" The words died on Hit's lips as Frieza began to stroke him with gentle pressure.

"What was it you were saying?" Frieza asked as he resumed rubbing on Hit's back.

"Just give me a few minutes before you try anything."

Frieza had learned the virtue of patience since his golden form's first ignoble defeat on Earth. He continued his ministrations until Hit was a panting, distracted mess. Once it was apparent the assassin was now in a much better frame of mind, Frieza again slicked the fingers on one hand.

Hit offered no resistance this time.

Some species had glands or tightly concentrated bundles of nerves that served as orgasm shortcuts. Frieza took his time exploring to see if Hit was a member of one of those lucky species. His finger, then fingers, relentlessly probed, rubbed, and stretched without finding anything noteworthy.

Even if Hit didn't have a magic button hidden inside him, all the stimulation still felt good. So good, in fact, that Hit wanted more than fingers. (Almost) all of his anxiety over being penetrated melted away in the face of what Frieza was doing to him.

"Get on with it."

"Are you quite sure? You must be eager to please me, but you may not be prepared for the full extent of what that entails," Frieza replied.

"I've had you in my mouth, you're not that big."

Frieza's first instinct was to be insulted and then to atomize the assassin. Which, if done quickly enough, would technically be painless. Though that would leave him with an uncomfortably hard problem and nothing to solve it except his own hand.

Frieza settled for removing his fingers and immediately sliding into Hit's welcoming body in one smooth motion. The assassin's back arched, his hands scrambling in the dust, and for a moment Frieza thought their little game of forced decency was over and he'd lost. But Hit was pushing against him, encouraging him deeper.

Which meant Hit had been right about being able to safely accommodate Frieza's cock.

Which, in turn, meant Frieza wished to punish him most severely for his arrogance and insinuations.

Sending a few death beams through Hit was tragically off the table. Though there were other methods, other things the tyrant could do to the assassin's body and mind…

It was a different breed of torture than what Frieza typically employed, but the results were just as beautiful: the soft whimpers, the hands clenched into tight fists, the sheen of sweat, all of it was as familiar as it was delicious.

And just as with traditional torment, Frieza dragged it out for as long as he could. He teased with his tail, only to unwind it moments before Hit could climax. If that wasn't enough, he slowed his rhythm, stopping completely at one point until Hit cursed him, his extended family, his ancestors, and the entirety of his species. The assassin almost sobbed with relief when, with an evil cackle, Frieza picked up the pace.

There was no amount of willpower that could withstand Frieza's exquisite cruelty forever. Faced with feeling like he'd lose his mind if he didn't find release, Hit shoved aside a thousand years of carefully cultivated pride. How convenient that he was already in such a perfect position for begging…

"Your tail." Hit panted frantically. "Please."

"Where do you need it?" Frieza asked.

"Mouth. In my-" The rest was cut off by the appendage in question sliding past Hit's teeth. Still mindful of their agreement, Frieza gave Hit only what he could handle without pain.

It was exactly what the assassin had been missing. Little details like the need to breathe melted away. There was only heat and pleasure and Frieza's complete dominion over him.

Moments later, the body in which Frieza was buried deep inside spasmed around him. The emperor had known from the desperation in Hit's voice that the assassin was on the narrowest of ledges, so it was by no means an unexpected development. Neither was it an unwelcome one. Frieza had been barely fending off his own orgasm and decided now was the perfect moment to give in. A few quick thrusts, tempered just enough to ensure Frieza kept his word, sent the tyrant over the edge.

The first thing Frieza did upon regaining his senses was to slip his tail free of Hit's mouth. He had been careful to only give Hit a few inches down his throat, hardly farther than what the emperor's cock could have reached, and nowhere near the assassin's limits. Still, it wouldn't do to have his pet asphyxiate and lose consciousness at this point.

"Are you satisfied?" Frieza inquired of the sprawled body at his feet.

He was met with a dazed, unfocused gaze. It was a look Frieza was well familiar with, though he was more used to getting it through head trauma as opposed to sex.

"I'll take that as a yes," the emperor said. "And for an equally important question: did I at any point hurt you?"

"No, not at all," Hit replied, now recovered enough to make basic words.

"In that case, I have only one more question. If we were to keep the same terms, would you be receptive to more encounters?"

Hit fixed his pants before hauling himself off his belly and into a sitting position. "As often as you like, provided you don't destroy any more of my clothes and we stick to uninhabited planets."

Frieza chuckled. "Your simian teammates might enjoy such a display."

The dark look he received from Hit told him no, the assassin was not interested in public exhibitions of debauchery on Sadala, or anywhere else for that matter.

"Have it your way," Frieza conceded. "I'll be sure to call on you again."

Their second encounter ended the same way as their first: with Frieza rocketing off into the atmosphere and moments later out of sight.

Once Frieza was gone, Hit picked up the remains of his coat and shook his head. He knew of only a few tailors in the universe who might be able to salvage the poor thing. At least all of them had the good sense to be discrete.

Chapter Text

"Get up."

Frost rolled over in bed and pulled the blankets over his head.

"I'm not playing games. You agreed to train today and you're going to keep your word. Now get up."

There was motion under the covers that Hit was relatively sure was Frost also putting a pillow over his head to further muffle the outside world. With an irritated sigh, Hit grabbed the blankets and gave them a harsh tug.

"It's cold!" Frost protested. "Give them back!"

"You can survive in the vacuum of space, so don't tell me it's too cold," Hit replied.

"Just because I can survive doesn't mean I'd be comfortable! Though speaking of comfort…" Frost lounged on the bed, parting his legs in a way that only carried one connotation.

"Seduction isn't going to work either. You have three seconds to maintain your dignity before I pick you up and carry you."

"I'd rather maintain my beauty sleep."

"Not an option." Hit scooped Frost up, ignored the writhing and threats, and threw the protesting lizard over his shoulder like a heavy sack of pissed-off grain.

Despite his raging bluster, Frost was smart enough not to attempt anything too dangerous. Hit would shrug off insults; he wouldn't take so blithely to a tail aimed at his face.

Hit had chosen a safe house on a nigh-deserted planet so both his fugitive guest and their training regimen wouldn't draw attention. Not that it looked like they would get to training any time soon. Upon being set down, the belligerent lizard flopped to the ground and sat there like a pouting toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

"You can't be serious," Hit muttered.

"I told you, it's far too early and far too cold," Frost replied.

"Harsh conditions breed strength."

"Pressure turns coal into diamonds, true enough, but dough needs warmth and peace to rise."

Hit blinked. "Are you trying to dissuade me with…metaphors?"

The fugitive perked up. "Is it working?"

Hit's foot aimed at his face suggested no, no it was not.

"What are you doing?!" Frost demanded. "You could have broken my jaw!"

"Defend yourself," Hit said. "Or die."

The intensity in Hit's eyes told Frost the assassin was not playing. Frost jumped back, putting space between himself and Hit.

"This is ridiculous," Frost huffed. "You're taking this far too seriously."

Frost never saw the blow that struck him in the gut and threw him backwards. He wasn't even sure what type of attack it had been. It looked like Hit had barely moved.

Whatever the cause, the effect was Frost landing in a pained tangle of limbs and tail.

Hit's shadow fell over him. "It's life or death. It should be taken seriously."

Frost lashed out with his tail. Hit took a single step back and out of range. When the fugitive tried for another strike, Hit stepped on his tail, forcing it down.

"Agh! Get off!" Frost howled.

Frost's tail was sensitive, certainly not to the point of Saiyan tails, but enough where having the sole of Hit's boot grinding it into the dirt shot pain straight up his spine and dispersed it through the whole of his nervous system.

With a desperate snarl, Frost reared up and swung at Hit's face. The assassin caught his hand with ease. Frost formed the intention to try again, but found himself propelled to the ground long before that errant thought could translate into motion.

Icejin were durable, able to endure what would turn weaker species into loose bags of meat and bone splinters. That mattered as much as a single drop of rain in the vastness of the ocean. As Frost took in his position against Hit's, his arm and tail pinned and chest bared to the assassin's drawn-back fist, he understood completely.

Hit was actually going to do it.

Hit was actually going to kill him.

Frost's first instinct was to cower and beg for his life. He knew he was no match for Hit, but he very much wanted to keep breathing. Except Frost also knew there was no universe where Hit would so much as bat an eye to his pleas. The assassin was a machine with a singular focus when he was on the job.

To hell with it. If there was nothing he could do to save his own life, he'd at least make sure Hit remembered his last moments.

With a vicious twist of his body, Frost was able to unbalance Hit just enough to bring him into range. Frost stretched every muscle to its maximum and managed to lock his jaws on Hit's wrist, which had come exposed from his bulky coat thanks to the awkward positioning needed to restrain Frost.

Hit didn't quite scream, but he certainly made a noise. And when Frost began to pull back like a dog trying to yank its favorite squeaky toy from its owner's hands, Hit made another, even more urgent noise.

He then kissed Frost four times in quick succession, first on the nose, then each cheek, and finally on the forehead. "Good work."

Frost's mouth fell open out of equal parts confusion and shock.

Hit yanked his arm free and brought it to his chest, smearing blood on his coat in the process. He removed his boot from Frost's tail and, still taking advantage of the fugitive's stunned state, released his hold on Frost's wrist. Hit then quickly backed away, well out of the range of any physical attack from Frost.

"That's what I needed to see. It wasn't what I was expecting, and it wasn't the most honorable technique, but it was effective." Hit held up his arm, which was imprinted with a perfect cast of Frost's teeth.

"You're not…furious and about to murder me?" Frost asked, wary of the sudden change in Hit's demeanor.

"I would have preferred you fought back in another way—I did leave you a few openings I thought you'd take—but I have no right to be angry. I pushed you to do it."

"Would you have gone through with it if I didn't bite you? If I begged and beseeched you instead?" There was no need to spell out what "it" was.

Hit shook his head. "No. I probably would have knocked you out, but I like your company too much to kill you. Don't let that make you complacent. I have no compunction against beating some sense into you."

Frost's eyes narrowed. "I can't believe the scare you gave me! I thought I was about to die! And for what?!"

"So if there's ever another Tournament of Power, your contribution won't be selling out your universe and then getting your ass kicked," Hit replied.

Frost crossed his arms. "You could have found a nicer way to convince me."

"Like reasonable conversation? I tried that, you hid under the covers."

"I- I am not a morning person."

"No, people who enjoy skulking as much as you tend to be night owls."

"How dare you! I don't skulk! I make legitimate business deals. Or at least I used to… Either way, I demand you retract that statement!"

"Give me an hour of training, actual intense work, and I will consider it," Hit replied.

Frost assumed a battle stance that Hit was ninety-nine point nine percent sure was modeled after his own. "Fine, but I expect to be treated to a bountiful breakfast after you've made your apology."

"Get a clean hit on me—no teeth—and I'll make an honest attempt at crepes."

Now that was motivation Frost could get behind.

Chapter Text

Once a month, Hit got the band back together.

He would have liked to do it more often, but juggling nine schedules (Frost, for his safety and that of his former teammates, was not invited) was a pain in the ass. Everyone had lives, most of them had jobs or at least responsibilities, but they made it work.

Because all those lives and jobs and responsibilities wouldn't mean a damn thing if their universe was erased.

Again.

So once a month, the Sixth Universe's Tournament of Power team trained together. It was also a chance for Hit to judge how effectively everyone had been working on their own time. The assassin was pleased, maybe even proud, to say he was rarely disappointed in what he saw.

"Excellent work, you've shaved more time off your power-up."

"The accuracy of your magma stream has improved."

"Caulifla, don't made rude hand gestures at your sparring partner without a good reason. Otherwise, strong form."

After Hit finished meting out his compliments and suggestions, the gathered warriors broke into their own cliques. There was some light conversation, the occasional ribbing, and promises to meet back up one month hence.

Besides Hit himself, two warriors lingered after the main crowd departed to their assorted home planets. Hit let the Saiyans loiter around like beggars outside a convenience store for a few minutes before inquiring what they were up to.

"Wasn't Cabba your ride back to Sadala?" Hit asked the Saiyan pair.

"Nope, we borrowed a ship and drove ourselves. His taste in road trip music, ew, that's all I'm gonna say," Caulifla replied.

"Borrowing requires permission. Otherwise it's known as grand theft."

Caulifla waved it off. "We'll have the ship back before anyone misses it. And if not, what're they gonna do, send Cabba to arrest us?"

Kale shifted nervously. "But you said-"

"What I meant to say was, yep, totally borrowed, asked the owner and everything. So don't sweat it, Kale."

"Either way, what's keeping you from returning the ship promptly?" Hit asked. "Did you hope for some private training?"

"Something like that."

Caulifla, grinning fiendishly, hurried to her totally-not-stolen ship. She rooted around for a few seconds and then returned holding something in her tightly closed fists. Still maintaining the same up-to-no-good smile, she opened both hands.

Hit's eyes widened. "Potara earrings. How did you come by those?"

"The better question—and the one that won't get Champa and the Supreme Kai mad at me—is what are we gonna do with them?" Caulifla smirked. "And the answer is, we're gonna fulfill some fantasies, if that's cool with you, Hit."

"I don't understand," the assassin said.

"Kale, you wanna try?" Caulifla asked.

The meek Saiyan blushed and shook her head.

Caulifla shrugged. "Then I'll just come out and say it. We wanna fuse and then bang you."

"What?!"

"We both think you're hot and we both wanna be Kefla again, so two and two just came together."

Hit looked like he was about to have a stroke. "That's utterly insane."

"I think it's pretty simple, actually."

"I'm ancient!" Hit protested.

"Doesn't bother us."

Kale nodded in silent agreement.

"How about this? Forget what I said for a second. I know you wouldn't pass up the chance to fight Kefla. So let's start with that and see how it goes. If there's no chemistry, then we'll just stick to sparring."

Everyone present knew any denials from Hit would be blatant lies. He decided against wasting his breath.

Caulifla handed Kale an earring. Moving like mirror images, they clipped the earrings on. The effect was instantaneous: the two Saiyans were pulled towards each other, and then, at the moment of joining, their bodies disappeared into a flash of light.

One stood where two had just been. Kefla grinned and stretched, testing muscles that had seen less than an hour of existence.

Hit hadn't gotten a chance to properly appreciate Kefla during the Tournament of Power. He'd been too busy with his own fights, then too busy hating himself for his failure, to give his teammates the attention they deserved.

He gave it now.

Kefla was a blend of beauty and strength in the same way she was a blend of Kale and Caulifla. Hit took in every inch of her, from the spikes of her hair, down to her toned, exposed midriff, then along the fit curves of her hips.

"What do you think? You wanna do this?" Kefla challenged.

Hit nodded. "Show me what you've got."

The fusion was on him in an instant. Hit barely had time to get his arms up and block the punch aimed at his face. The shock of the impact rattled the bones in his forearms, even through the heavy fabric of his coat.

He was going to have to take this fight seriously.

Kefla's ki attacks, Hit soon discovered, were as vicious as her physical blows. And creative to boot. She, for good reason, seemed to have a thing for twin blasts. Double the power, double the distraction, doubly hard to block successfully.

While he didn't much employ energy attacks himself, Hit had fought plenty of opponents who did. His thousand years of experience with both physical and special fighters let him dodge or block everything Kefla threw at him. Though the assassin had to admit, several times she got dangerously close. If he had hair or eyebrows, they would've been singed.

Just as Hit felt he had a firm upper hand on the fight, Kefla flashed him a smile. She clenched her fists and bore down. With a primal scream, her energy level shot through the stratosphere.

Noisy transformations. Hit's favorite. Though in this case, he really did appreciate the results. Electricity danced around the fusion. She looked like a force of nature, wreathed in gold and power.

And she hit like a planet-killing asteroid. Hit had allowed himself to become the tiniest bit distracted by his awe, and he paid for his mistake in pain. Kefla's fist, aimed at his nose, struck him instead on the cheek as he tried, too little, too late, to turn away. The assassin's head snapped back and the vision in the eye just above the point of impact blurred.

Hit dropped all constraints on himself, with the only exception being his most lethal techniques. If Kefla wanted a fight, Hit would give her one.

The next time Kefla flew at him, Hit vanished. He side-stepped into his pocket dimension, putting himself out of the Saiyan's reach.

"Come on, Hit, that's cheating!"

But fusion and Super Saiyan transformations weren't? The assassin shook his head. That was pure Caulifla, whining about unfair advantages and ignoring her own hypocrisy.

Hit produced another trick that would no doubt be called low-down dirty in Kefla/Caulifla's book: cloned ki. He didn't think she was aware of his ability to make copies of his energy signature, which meant there was, quite frankly, no way she wouldn't fall for it.

Just as Hit expected, Kefla turned in the direction of Hit's energy forgery. He kept it subtle, let it fade in and out, as though it was trickling through a crack between dimensions.

"Nice try, Hit, but you can't hide from me!"

Right on cue, the Saiyan blasted…a passing cloud. Seeing he was successful, Hit sent out another fraudulent energy signature. This time, to further throw Kefla off her game, Hit gave her a little jump scare by having his energy materialize directly behind her.

She spun around, visibly off kilter, and again found nothing solid she could plant her boot into.

Kefla growled in frustration. "I freaking know I felt-"

Something slammed into her back. Kefla whirled around, her fist swinging through empty air. Suddenly she was besieged, peppered from all sides by energy Hit phased between dimensions.

Trying to fend off Hit's attack was like trying to fight a hailstorm. Not that Kefla had many options other than to keep trying. Her only other recourse was to hunker down, guard her vitals, and wait for Hit to move to another technique. That really wasn't her style.

The moment Hit decided Kefla had reached peak distraction, he struck. He, physical, in-the-flesh Hit, no tricks, no stand-ins. He dealt the most decisive non-lethal blow he could, sending Kefla rocketing to the ground before she even knew what hit her.

Kefla lay sprawled in the dirt. Hit landed a few meters from her. She was alive, the maintained Super Saiyan transformation told Hit that much. And, as he approached, he noticed that she was smiling. Hit took it as proof that he hadn't damaged her too badly.

"Looks like you beat me," the Saiyan said, her hair fading back to black.

Hit sat down beside her. "Yes, but you gave me a run for my money."

"Did I break anything?"

Hit pressed a hand to his cheek. The flesh was spongy, definitely bruised, but it felt like the bone underneath was still solid. "I don't think so."

Kefla sat up with a wince. "Damn. Can't say I didn't try."

"You fought well. That was exhilarating."

"Uh-huh. Good enough to do that thing I mentioned?"

The assassin breathed deeply through his nose, held it, then exhaled out through his mouth. Slow, calming breaths, buying time to weigh his options.

"Hit, I'm not asking you to get married, settle down on Sadala, and adopt twelve kids. I just wanna get laid. No strings, I promise."

His stomach in knots, Hit nodded. "Yes."

"Awesome!" Kefla cheered. "Hurry up and get that coat off, the clock's ticking!"

It was indeed. Kefla only had an hour at baseline, and given the amount of energy she'd expended in their fight, her short lifespan could very well have been reduced beyond what they'd used brawling. With that in mind, Hit stood and quickly began working on his garments.

The second his coat, belt, and boots were off, Kefla tackled him. Hit managed to stay on his feet, though the fusion clung to him. She hauled herself up using Hit's shoulders as leverage and crushed her lips against his.

The kiss was hungry, voracious, particularly on Kefla's end. Her hands were everywhere, her tongue just as omnipresent, and by the time they parted, both the assassin and the fusion were gasping for breath.

It was apparent that Kefla was going to run the show. Not that Hit thought for one second he'd have any luck if he tried taking the lead. Kefla was fire and passion and knew exactly what she wanted.

And what she wanted was Hit.

Preferably with less clothing.

At Kefla's urging, Hit removed the top of his bodysuit. The Saiyan's hands were roaming his bare chest as soon as the shirt was discarded, tracing muscles and marveling over what she saw and felt.

"You're the buffest old man I ever met," Kefla joked as her palms slid down Hit's abs.

Hit slipped his hands under Kefla's top. "And you're the most powerful and beautiful fusion I've ever met."

"Ha, who's my competition, that giant monster guy from the Tournament of Power?"

The assassin laughed. "Robotic kaiju aren't my type."

"Lucky for me." Kefla claimed another kiss from Hit, her tongue invading his mouth without resistance.

There was a brief session of kissing and groping. At some point Kefla's shirt disappeared. Not too long after, Hit found something to kiss besides the fusion's lips. His mouth was gentle in a way most people would assume an assassin couldn't be as he lightly sucked one nipple while his fingers caressed the other.

As good as the pampering foreplay was, Kefla had to interrupt it. Her body was already aflame, and there was a void in her that needed to be filled with something a little more substantial.

"Hey, I've got a question," Kefla said. "Does this still count as my first time if the two people who make me up get it on every night?"

Hit felt like he blushed from his head to the soles of his feet as he imagined things about his students that he never wanted to know. "I-I have no idea how to answer that."

Kefla didn't give him much time to ponder. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pants and a second later stepped out of them.

Without a word, Hit dropped to his knees before her. From their positioning, it was obvious what Hit wanted to do. There was not a world, universe, or alternate timeline where Kefla would stop him.

Hit nuzzled against Kefla, basking in the warmth of her skin. She smelled like exertion, a mix of sweat and natural musk. The obvious follow-up question was, how did she taste?

Kefla squealed at the sensation of a curious tongue exploring her. It was new territory for Hit—hell, new territory for anyone, as Kefla hadn't even had a chance to map her own pleasure points—and he did a thorough job.

When Hit found a spot so sensitive that Kefla gasped at even light contact, he attacked it mercilessly. He wrote poetry on the fusion's nerves with the tip of his tongue, earning him more delightful sounds from Kefla.

"That's so good- Keep going- I swear Caulifla and Kale say more interesting things to each other when they do this, but- Hit!"

The assassin had faltered for just a second when Kefla started talking about Caulifla and Kale, but his recovery had been flawless. And now he had Kefla exactly where he wanted her: writhing and moaning his name as she came.

"You sure know how to treat a girl," Kefla said, breathless, her legs still quivering. "But I'm hoping you're not done with me just yet."

For his own selfish reasons—namely the throbbing between his legs—Hit was thrilled to hear the Saiyan wanted more. "There is something else we could try."

If he'd been expecting romantic entanglement, Hit would have brought a blanket, something supple and soft and more appropriate for lying upon than desert rock. As he never, not in a trillion years, thought he'd end up with Kefla, the best thing Hit could offer was his coat. It was sturdy if nothing else and would be better than bare earth. Hit grabbed his discarded coat and spread it out at Kefla's feet.

"Do you want-" Hit began, only to have Kefla rest her hand on his chest, then gently push him.

"How about you lay down?" the fusion suggested.

Hit swallowed hard a few times, then nodded. He liked her plan very much.

The assassin lowered himself to the ground.

"Let's see what you're working with." Hit lifted his hips a little, allowing Kefla to peel his bodysuit down.

Kefla whistled. "Oh man, this is gonna be fun!"

Hit hissed through his teeth as the fusion began to stroke him. He was already hard enough to fuck a hole through a steel plate. What she was doing was tantamount to torture.

He loved every second of it.

If Hit was honest, most of the thousand years of his life were boring, or at least monotonous. None of his targets were challenges, not when he could time-skip and end them before they ever knew they were in danger. The tournament against the Seventh Universe was the first time in ages Hit had been truly motivated. Then, of course, the Tournament of Power.

And now this. It had been a busy year for a man who thought any chance for true excitement was long dead.

"Whatcha thinking about? I hope it's not some other fusion," Kefla teased.

"That I'm very, very lucky," Hit replied.

"Yeah, you are. And you're about to get even luckier."

After one more slow rub down Hit's dick, Kefla released the assassin. She then adjusted her position before starting the laborious process of getting the full measure of Hit inside her.

Hit's breaths came in sharp pants as he struggled to keep his composure and self-control. The Saiyan was a blazing vise around him, so tight Hit began to worry this was a dangerous venture for Kefla.

It looked like Kefla was feeling it every bit as much as Hit was. Her cheeks were flushed scarlet, never mind pink. She was biting her lip with a look of pure concentration and determination; Hit didn't think he read any pain on her face, and he was looking.

"Phew." Kefla wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as her body settled flush against Hit's. "That was a workout."

"I hope it isn't too much," Hit said.

His words could be read as concerned, or as a challenge. Kefla, of course, chose to interpret them as the latter. "Nah, it's amazing. Just watch what I can do with you now!"

Kefla braced herself on Hit's chest. She then began rocking her hips. Her movements were slow and subtle at first, like a boat sailing through a light breeze. Hit barely resisted the urge to reach up and shake a stronger motion out of her.

"Don't worry, I'm just warming up." Kefla grinned at the way Hit's fists were clenched. "You know how it is, you gotta start with stretching."

The stretches must have done the trick, as Kefla picked up her pace. If Hit kept his silly boat simile going, her hips now rolled like a tempest-tossed ship. The slick heat and the ceaseless motion soon had Hit half out of his mind.

"I hope you're close," Kefla said, "because I don't think I can keep this up much longer."

The assassin nodded fervently. "Ready when you are."

Kefla set a pace and a rhythm that, if Hit hadn't been drunk on pleasure, would have left the assassin worrying about the integrity of his pelvis. She added a little bounce to her riding, the friction enough to send both of them to the brink of their endurance.

It was a photo finish, with Kefla the winner by an arbitrarily small unit of time. As her body pulsed around him, Hit had no reason to hold back.

The fusion collapsed atop Hit, her head coming to rest on his chest. Once he remembered how his arms worked, Hit moved to embrace her. Just before he could touch her, a flash of light swallowed Kefla.

The singular weight sprawled across him was gone, replaced with one on either side of him. Hit was lucky enough to have two arms, one for each freshly defused Saiyan. He gathered them up and held them until they recovered from both an intense orgasm and splitting from a singular being.

"Are you both alright?" Hit asked.

Caulifla sat up and looked over her bare body. "Huh, so if Kefla takes off her clothes, we'll be naked too. I was wondering about that."

"I hope our clothes separated like we did," Kale said quietly, covering her chest by crossing her arms. "That's my favorite top."

Hit went to check on the state of their clothes. He returned with two complete outfits and handed them over to their respective owners. Hit then picked up and dusted off his own clothing, minus his coat, which was being sat upon by both Saiyans.

"Same time next month?" Caulifla casually asked, like she was suggesting a meet-up for brunch.

Hit replied with his own question. "Is someone going to reclaim their stolen Potara earring between now and then?"

"Not if you hold onto them."

Good point. Hit held out a palm onto which both earrings were dropped.

Once the Saiyans were off, hopefully to return their "borrowed" ship before a posse showed up looking for it, Hit grabbed his coat. It seemed like he was about to face the longest month of his life.

Chapter Text

Caulifla was, for lack of a better term, a menace to Saiyan society. Per Cabba's accounts, she routinely stole, broke her compatriots out of jail, initiated public brawls, dined and dashed, and painted poorly-spelled graffiti mocking the king of Sadala and the planet's Defense Forces across any city or town she ventured into.

If Hit had been an upstanding citizen of Sadala, he might have been offended by her actions. As he was an assassin with a body count in the thousands, he really had no room to criticize her.

Though her spelling and grammar certainly could've used some work.

At least her dedication to training was beyond reproach. She'd always been scrappy, but since the Tournament of Power, the Saiyan had taken on improving her fighting prowess with singular focus.

Her fellow Saiyans didn't have much tolerance for being pummeled, which lead to Caulifla reaching out for someone stronger and sturdier. Botamo or Auta Magetta would have sufficed, but Caulifla wasn't the type for half measures.

So here he was. Between contracts—and it seemed like so few interested him nowadays—Hit spent most of his free time sparring. It was good for him and he knew it; training alone yielded results, but Caulifla was now at a level where he could start putting actual effort into their fights.

"If I decided I wanted to become an assassin, could I be your apprentice?" Caulifla asked out of the blue during a quick lunch break.

"No." Hit's reply was firm and instantaneous.

"Why not?"

The assassin sighed. "Because you're not the killing kind. And because you'd die of old age before you could master my techniques. They're not suited for your fighting style."

Caulifla chewed it over. "Yeah, I guess the best thing would be for me to get a Saiyan teacher. But nobody in this universe is really strong enough. Except Kale, but she'd rather plant flowers or visit orphan puppies in the hospital than totally let loose. All the cool Saiyans are from the Seventh Universe. I really wish they'd visit again."

Hit could only nod in agreement. Though he was relatively sure it would end with a decisive loss on his part, a rematch with Goku was on the top of Hit's wishlist.

"Oh well. Looks like we're stuck with each other until Goku or Vegeta or Goku's nerdy kid stops by."

Caulifla crumpled up the empty packaging from her lunch. Her first instinct was to toss it wherever and wait for somebody else to clean it up, but the stern look on Hit's face made her vaporize it with a little flare of energy instead.

"How are you not done yet?" the Saiyan asked, looking over at the boxed lunch in front of Hit. "You know that's a kids' meal, right?"

"Unlike you, I'm not a bottomless pit. And I like to actually taste my food," Hit replied, placidly cutting another slice of fruit.

Like an irritating mosquito, Caulifla rose into the air and began to circle Hit. "Do you need help finishing it? I've still got some room left. And do you want the toy or can I have it?"

"Why don't you go outside and find something productive to do?" Hit suggested.

Caulifla laughed. "Because I really like pissing you off, old man."

"Do you think that's smart? Or safe?"

Caulifla did a flip and then remained upside down. "Nope, and definitely nope. But people always said I was gonna die young doing something stupid."

Hit looked at her, frowning. "Where's this coming from?"

The Saiyan began counting on her fingers. "My parents, my teachers, Cabba, the cops, Cabba again, the mean old lady who ran that shop I worked at for a week, my brother, and I'm pretty sure Vados side-eyes me every time she sees me."

"Vados side-eyes everyone; it's one of her privileges as an Angel. As for Cabba, I'll correct him next time we meet."

Caulifla froze in midair. "Wait, for real? You'd kick his ass for talking down to me?"

"More like ask him to adjust his attitude."

"By punching him in the face?"

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Hit's mouth. "Only if all else fails."

"That's awesome! I'm sure my gang would throw down for me, but knowing I have the famous Legendary Assassin backing me up too is even better!"

"Caulifla. Do not use my name as a weapon. I'm not involving myself in your mischief, I'm reminding you that you have worth. You're a skilled warrior and a credit to your planet, Cabba's opinion be damned."

The Saiyan dropped to the floor, her face as sober as Hit had ever seen it. "Wow, I wish teen me could've heard that. Maybe I wouldn't have gotten expelled so often."

Hit silently surveyed Caulifla. It struck him all at once how young she was. How young almost everyone was in comparison with his sprawling lifetime.

"I can't tell her, so I'm telling you."

For just a moment there was a sparkle in the corners of Caulifla's eyes. She then furiously shook her head, banishing any prenatal tears before they could fall. "Thanks, Hit, I appreciate it."

Hit nodded. Then he paused, obviously deep in thought about something. Considering the intensity in which the assassin looked at her, Caulifla supposed she was the object of his concentration.

"I've reconsidered. I do have a technique I can teach you."

"Hold on, what? You're really willing to trust me with one of your techniques?" Caulifla asked.

"If you'd like."

"No freakin' way! What are you gonna teach me? Can it be how to time skip? Please, please, please, that's such a badass move!"

"It takes decades to master that ability, and it isn't something that can be taught from scratch, at least not with any consistency."

Caulifla tried not to let her disappointment show. Even if Hit couldn't share his time skip, he had to have a million other moves he could impart on an excitable Saiyan.

"What I can teach you is how to kill with one blow and leave an unmarked corpse."

Caulifla's mouth fell open and stayed that way.

"When I was young—relatively speaking, I was still old enough to be your father, maybe even your grandfather—and working out what kind of assassin I was, this technique served me well. It became something of a trademark."

Caulifla's mouth still didn't close. If anything, it somehow dropped wider, like the unhinged jaws of a snake about to swallow an egg bigger than its head.

"I cannot make this any clearer: this is an attack that will kill anyone with a single heart. Do you understand the gravity of what I intend to teach you?" Hit asked.

All the boisterous energy had disappeared from the Saiyan, though she did finally get her mouth to work again. "Hit… I don't think I should learn this. You were right, I'm really not assassin material."

Hit laid a gentle hand on Caulifla's shoulder. "Good."

"Good? You're not mad that I begged you to teach me something and then I told you I didn't want to learn it after all?"

"Not at all, because you stuck to your principles even though you believed it would upset me. Remember this. Don't let anyone—Cabba included—reduce you to a delinquent."

Caulifla thought about it for a while before shaking her head. "For an assassin, you sure are cheesy. And nice. And-"

"And those facts don't leave this room," Hit interrupted.

The Saiyan was back in the air, performing more acrobatics. "No problem. Just as long as you don't go around telling people I'm a big baby who gets her feelings hurt and needs Super Grandpa to give her an ego boost."

"Don't call me Super Grandpa."

"Yeah, you're more like...Mega Grandpa."

Hit ignored all further nicknames and aerial stunts as he returned to the now-cold remains of his lunch.

Chapter Text

Frost sprawled out dramatically. "I can't do it."

"It's only been three weeks. I don't think it's time to despair just yet," Hit replied.

"I, on the other hand, can't think of a better time to quit than now. I can't get those three weeks back, but I can stop myself from wasting any more of them."

Hit wondered if this wasn't some sort of cosmic balancing act. Frost had enormous power and potential when compared to just about anything else in the universe. However, he was also lazy, averse to training, and prone to indulgent desires that encouraged him to lie in bed all day.

Hit also wondered if Frost's counterpart in the Seventh Universe had the same base nature, and if so, how he'd overcome it to achieve his powerful golden form. If Frieza wasn't such a conniving bastard—and if he didn't live in an entirely different universe—Hit would have liked to ask him.

Because, quite frankly, Frost pretending to be a frail maiden in danger of fainting from the vapors at any moment was beginning to wear on Hit's patience.

"Enough whining, Frost. You aren't hurt, you aren't tired, and considering lunch was thirty minutes ago, I know damn well you aren't hungry."

"We've been out here every day for nearly a month without even a glimmer of gold. I simply lack the motivation to continue our fruitless efforts," Frost replied.

"How's this for motivation? You're not getting me into your bed again until I see a transformation."

In what Hit had to admit was impressively quick thinking, Frost reverted to his hulking prior form. He turned his elongated head to fully present his off-putting side profile and give Hit a view the assassin would've been happier without.

"A new transformation," Hit corrected.

Frost crossed his arms, which looked doubly ridiculous given how monstrous his current form was. "Amending a contract after the fact is terribly unfair and would never hold up in court."

"Dishonorable contracts with a fugitive war criminal are not what's going to get me arrested," Hit replied.

Muttering under his breath the whole time, Frost powered back up to his final form. "I hope you're prepared to bear the full weight of your threat. I have no doubt you'll be eating your words in no time."

Despite his taunt, it was apparent within days that Frost was the one who lacked conviction or staying power. Hit had gone decades without sex before, and even if he liked Frost more than many of his past partners, he could ignore his libido no matter what the fugitive threw at him. Every come-hither glance from Frost was met by the same stare of cool indifference Hit gave his victims.

"If you have the energy for sex, you have the energy to train."

"I'm not interested, Frost, put it away."

"No."

On one occasion, Hit responded to Frost's parted legs by gripping his knees and snapping them together like the cover of a book.

After a week of such failures, Frost began to get desperate.

And horny.

Very, very horny.

With no other outlets for either his sexual or general frustration, Frost turned to the most spiteful masturbation ever witnessed in the Sixth Universe.

"On my bed. Are you serious?" Hit asked upon opening his bedroom door and finding Frost enjoying a solo session.

"You hardly sleep anyway," Frost replied. He continued to go at himself, the motion of his fingers never slowing.

"You- you're washing those sheets as soon as you're finished." Hit shut the door.

He did not linger just outside, listening to Frost's exaggerated moans. He did not.

The next time was in the bathroom. Hit walked in to find Frost submerged in the tub. That would have only been mildly awkward, except, besides the upper half of Frost's head, the only other part of the fugitive sticking out of the water was the tip of his prominent erection. Without a word, Frost began stroking himself, creating ripples across the soapy surface.

"All of the doors close and lock!" Hit demonstrated how to engage the lock, just in case Frost had somehow gotten a very specific case of amnesia. On his way out, he slammed the door a little harder than intended.

Frost took his hand off his dick and slapped the water with an angry palm. "Damn it, I thought for sure that would be too much for him to resist!"

The third time was the final straw for Hit. He had spent all morning—and yes, most of the afternoon—out training by himself, since someone who ate his food, slept under his roof, and disrespected his personal space was still on strike. All he wanted to do after his long workout was have a nice meal, soak in the tub, and soothe his muscles.

Instead he received an eyeful. Frost had rearranged the furniture to put the sofa only feet from the front door. Like some hedonistic god, Frost lounged on the chair, holding a cluster of grapes in one hand and his dick in the other. He brought the bunch closer to his mouth and delicately plucked off a single grape.

"Enjoy yourself," was all the assassin said before turning back the way he came.

When Frost tried to yell after Hit, the grape that had been between his teeth rolled to the back of his throat. Frost was forced to pound on his chest until he managed to dislodge the fruit. In the aftermath, he was left coughing and sputtering for air.

By the time Frost recovered from his near-death experience, Hit was long gone.

When Hit didn't return by nightfall, Frost came to the painful realization that if he wanted dinner, he was going to have to cook it himself. That was only a few steps above having to scrounge for it in garbage cans outside of restaurants! Even in the case of scavenging during his months on the lam, someone else put in all the effort of preparing and cooking; all Frost had to do was lift a lid and pick out the freshest bits. Here he had to assess Hit's fridge, select ingredients, measure, season, and burn his first attempt to charcoal.

After opening all the windows in the house to purge the smoke, Frost decided a cold meal might be safer. He had no appetite for fruit thanks to the grape's attempt on his life, so he settled for something approaching a salad. There were vegetables, at least.

Hardly satisfied after his meal, Frost pushed the sofa back to its rightful place. He then threw himself atop it and glared up at the ceiling.

"How dare that accursed assassin expect so much from me! There's no guarantee I even have the ability to achieve another transformation! Just because some bastard from another universe who bears a vague resemblance to me can do it doesn't mean I can!"

Frost fell asleep with a scowl on his face.

He woke up confused. His dreams had been bizarre, with both Hit and Frieza making frequent guest appearances. Frost shuddered at the memory of one nightmare in particular in which Hit and Frieza both mocked him for being weak and then began to get handsy with each other right in front of him.

"Hit?" Frost called.

There was no reply. Frost sat up and dangled his legs over the edge of the sofa. Had Hit really not come back all night?

The idea that something had happened to Hit was laughable. He was the strongest in the Sixth Universe, and even if the field was expanded, the number of people who could harm him in any universe could be counted on Frost's fingers. If the assassin wasn't here, it was of his own free will.

Frost padded around the house, checking every room and Hit-sized nook just to be sure. Nothing. He then made his way outside to Hit's favorite training spots.

"Hit, I find your absence completely unacceptable!" Frost shouted to the early morning air. "The gall you have, abandoning me to fend for myself!"

The assassin did not materialize. Not that Frost really expected him to. With an angry huff, Frost stomped back to the house and made himself a (cold) breakfast.

By noon Frost worried he might succumb to...something. Starvation, boredom, what creatures with external testicles commonly called "blue balls." Or perhaps all of the above. He'd just wither away to dust. Hit would find his skeleton, assuming the assassin ever deigned to stop by again.

Frost let out a long sigh.

To think he'd survived so much just to give up now.

The thought came again, angry this time instead of pathetic. He was a survivor! He'd lived for months hiding in alleys and gutters, wearing rags, pretending to be nobody! He'd be damned if he was going to quit just because he'd lost his cook!

Burning with a newfound will to not only survive but to thrive, Frost hopped off the sofa and headed straight for the kitchen. He did his best to remember the steps he'd seen Hit take to prepare meals in the past. He also scolded his younger self for not paying attention or asking questions.

The fruit of his labor wasn't perfect but it was edible, maybe even tasty! Frost could feel the energy of a good hot meal filling him. He was not going to perish, he was going to prosper!

And what was more, he would achieve a new form, golden or otherwise, and then he'd use it to kick Hit's ass!

Spurred by his new goal, Frost hustled outside. He had no sentient sparring partner, so the largest tree in sight had to suffice. Frost could have easily blown it to toothpicks, but he was after something other than raw power: control. If he could truly master himself and his energy, he could begin to shape something new.

That was the hope, at least.

Frost took up a position at the base of the tree. He blasted off the nearest branch, obliterating it.

"No, that's too easy," Frost said. "I need a more challenging target."

The tree was a towering conifer and offered plenty of pine cones. Frost gathered a small pile of them from the ground and then took to the air. He positioned the pine cones around the tree, balancing them at the end of branches, tucking them into forks and crevices, and sticking them into abandoned bird nests.

"Pine cones, prepare to meet your end at the hands of Frost!"

Frost set his sights on a pine cone about thirty feet above his head. He took careful aim and fired an energy attack that Frieza would have considered stolen intellectual property.

The narrow beam sheared pine needles from the tree but missed its target by about an inch. Frost immediately tried again and found he overcompensated, with the branch on the opposite side of the pine cone now getting a shave.

It would have been easy to get frustrated and quit. But that was no doubt what the pine cones were hoping for. Too bad Frost was not in a merciful mood.

The fugitive adjusted his stance, bringing his feet a bit closer together and squaring his shoulders. He raised his arm, extended his finger, and fired. This time his beam scored a direct hit; the pine cone exploded like a miniature firework and threw smoldering fragments in all directions.

The pine cone assassin continued his work. He systematically shot down every target within view. Frost then lifted off and circled the tree, picking off the pine cones he'd placed near the top and around the far side of the tree. By the time he was done, there were no survivors.

Frost grinned fiercely as he landed. He had never doubted his abilities. And what was more, that had been fun. Certainly more fun than any of the training exercises Hit had ever proposed. Maybe if the assassin had a sense of gleeful wanton destruction instead of just a stick jammed up his ass-

"Nice shooting."

Frost whirled around and found Hit sitting in the shade of a much smaller nearby tree. He blinked. Hit did not disappear like a hallucination. When Frost rushed over and poked him, he was perfectly solid.

"You're back? I thought you might not return," Frost said. "Wait, how long have you been watching me?"

"I was gone for less than a day," Hit replied. "And I've been here for the last ten minutes. I thought about interrupting but you were locked in."

"It felt longer, much, much longer! Where did you go, anyway? Did someone demand prompt service on a murder?"

The assassin pointed to the sky. Frost followed the line of his finger until he spotted a barely visible celestial body.

"You went to the moon, the smaller moon, whatever its name is? I thought it was inhospitable."

"It is. I wanted something to keep me focused, so I decided to push myself in a low oxygen, high stress environment."

"Of course you did. And that sort of dedication is precisely why I need you!"

Hit raised a hairless brow. "Oh? I thought the situation was hopeless and all you planned to do was pleasure yourself in inconvenient places."

Frost waved off any such notion. "I am a changed man. If you're willing to assist me—and cook for me and sleep with me again, please—I have every intention of unlocking a new form."

"What did you say in the middle of that sentence? Your voice dipped," Hit said.

"Nothing important."

"Uh-huh. Well, if you're willing to put in the effort and stop treating every minor setback like it's the end of the world, I think we could get somewhere together."

"Together!" Frost echoed.

Hit couldn't help but smile as he confirmed it: "Together."

Chapter Text

The stranger wasn't from around these parts. And by "these parts," Hit meant the whole of the universe. His long and storied career had brought him into contact with most of the sentient species in the Sixth Universe—and he probably had a more diverse list of victims than anyone in history—but he'd never met someone who quite matched what he was currently looking at.

And who, incidentally, was looking right back at him. Even in the crowded cafe, there was no doubt the stranger only had eyes for Hit.

After a few seconds of feeling each other out across the room, the stranger rose from his chair. Hit noticed he left money that didn't resemble the local currency and, the assassin guessed, wouldn't be easily converted to said currency. To avoid any ill will, Hit supposed he'd have to leave a hefty tip on the stranger's behalf.

Being approached in the wild was unusual for Hit. People who sought his services tended to do it anonymously through secret bank accounts, certainly not in public spaces. And while the rare (and often unhinged) fan or curious historian had made his acquaintance in the past, the stranger didn't give off the energy of either.

"Glorio." The stranger extended a hand.

"Hit." The assassin shook it.

"I've been sent to this universe as an emissary of Supreme Demon King Majin Kuu."

That explained his unique appearance. What it did not explain, however, was why that was any of Hit's business. He decided to find out sooner rather than later.

"Good for you. Though unless the Demon Realm needs a reliable assassin and is prepared to pay, I don't have anything to offer you."

"I don't need an assassin specifically, but I do need someone reliable and I am willing to pay."

"Not enough. The prices I charge for tomfoolery are much higher than the ones I charge for a body."

Glorio hesitated a moment before he decided to fall back on his trump card, the one he'd been instructed to play should Hit prove stubborn. "Vados told me where I could find you. She said you would be able to assist me."

Hit sighed heavily. There was no favor or errand he could deny Vados. The Angel was well aware of this fact and had no compunction against using it. "Fine. Tell me how I can help."

"The Demon King is looking to establish trade with the outside universes. Mostly for sweets and interesting foods, if I'm being honest," Glorio explained. "I was selected to explore the Sixth and bring back samples."

The assassin face-palmed. "You came all the way from the Demon Realm for snacks. Given what Champa and Beerus are like, somehow I'm not surprised your ruler is the same."

"I'm not trying to start a fight, but I'd take my king over your Destroyer. My meeting with him was brief but...annoying."

Hit scoffed. "Under no circumstances would I come to Champa's defense. Say whatever you like about that useless glutton."

"If I've got your permission, then here goes. He's loud, belligerent, doesn't listen, and is somehow a worse statesman than the previous Demon King."

"He's a coward who fails this universe time and time again," Hit added.

"He needs to bathe more often, or at least wipe his mouth after he eats."

That got a chuckle out of Hit. It was a bit of a low blow, but just as true as the other insults. If not for Vados cleaning up after him, Champa would probably have a swarm of ants, roaches, and flies in constant pursuit.

"Let me get a few things for the journey. Would you rather I fly or is your ship suitable?" Hit asked.

"If you're willing to help me, the least I can do is drive. I'm parked this way," Glorio replied.

As Hit worked exclusively alone, he never got to experience life from the passenger seat. It was nice. Glorio was a skilled pilot and didn't find the need to fill the silence that surrounded Hit.

"I'm not much of a gourmet, and I don't know what demons like to eat, but I'll try to get you pointed in the right direction," Hit said.

"Most demons will eat anything you put in front of them. Kuu and his brother Duu prefer sweets. They like chocolate best; chips are probably a close second. Do they have those things in this universe?" Glorio asked.

Hit nodded. "On almost every planet, in more varieties than will fit on your vessel."

"This should be a short mission in that case."

Hit couldn't fully explain why, but the idea of Glorio departing so soon gave him a little twinge in his chest. Though he'd just met the man, Hit could say that Glorio rubbed him the right way: the professionalism and proficiency, the dislike of Champa, the purple jacket.

"Quick and clean is always my goal," Hit said.

"Every time?" Glorio inquired. Hit read something mischievous in the pilot's tone and prayed he wasn't misinterpreting it.

"Unless you're paying me by the hour. In which case I could be tempted to drag out the job a little."

"I guess we never really finalized payment details. I'm sure we could come to a mutual agreement, something that both of us could...enjoy."

The two leaned over the armrests of their respective seats and met in a kiss that progressed from curious to ravenous in a matter of minutes. Hands joined in, with Hit having much easier access. He roamed under Glorio's shirt, touching and rubbing, until the pilot broke away, panting.

"I have a bed." Glorio motioned to the rear of the ship.

The "bed" consisted of a thin mattress squeezed in between stacks of supplies, plus a single pillow and blanket. If Glorio's head had been clearer, he might have found the fact he hadn't bothered to make the bed embarrassing. As was, a collection of sex toys arranged by size and color wouldn't have caused either man even a moment's distraction.

Not that Glorio had such a thing.

Not with him, at least. Though what he had locked up in his room back in the Demon Realm was anyone's guess.

The pair practically fell onto the mattress. From there, it was a race to undress. A race which Glorio won handily. His clothes came off easier—his jacket wasn't even zipped—and Hit might have traded speed for the chance to observe.

Once they were both exposed, they took a minute to study each other's body. Hit had met species in his universe that were rumored to have Demon Realm ancestry, and had even seen a few of them naked, but he'd never met a certified original citizen.

"Is there much variation in the Demon Realm?" Hit asked. "Anatomically, I mean."

Glorio nodded. "Whatever you're into, you'll find it there. And then some."

Color Hit intrigued. Though he could let his imagination run wild later. There was only one specimen that deserved his attention at the moment.

"I'm guessing demon ears are sensitive."

Glorio inclined his head in Hit's direction. "Feel free to test your theory."

Hit took the tip of the proffered ear into his mouth. He let his teeth lightly graze along the skin, nowhere near hard enough to cause pain. Glorio sighed softly.

There were definitely a few nerve endings to tease, but not quite as strong of a reaction as Hit anticipated. No problem. The assassin had other targets. He reached for the most prominent and desperate one.

"Before you do that, can I try something?" Glorio asked.

When Hit nodded, Glorio instructed him to lie flat. Once Hit had obeyed, the pilot rested his palms on the assassin's chest. The positioning reminded Hit of defibrillator paddles.

It started slow, a tingly warmth that emerged from Glorio's hands. As he ratcheted up the intensity, the sensation spread: through Hit's blood, through his bones, through the tendons in his feet. His entire body was aglow with whatever the hell Glorio was doing to him.

After a few minutes of steady bliss, the energy began to ebb. Hit sorely missed it before it had even fully faded.

"What was that?" As Hit sat up, he could still feel the aftershocks pulsing through him.

"Magic. Literally." Glorio let a little spark dance along his fingertips. "I understand ki tends to be the preferred choice up here, but the Demon Realm runs on magic."

Hit lay back down. "Harder."

Glorio cocked an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, what? I've knocked people unconscious with the power I've already run through you."

The assassin mimed turning a dial. "Now I want to try something. So up the voltage. Believe me, I'm stronger than anyone you've done this with."

Glorio shook his head, more in a way that spoke to disbelief than refusal. "I should have you sign a waiver. If you pass out or piss yourself, I don't want to be blamed."

"You're absolved if anything happens. Do it."

With at least mild trepidation, the pilot laid his palms on Hit's chest again.

"Don't tease, don't hold back, give me everything you've-"

Hit's entire body jerked. For a second Glorio worried he'd induced a seizure, though the lack of any additional twitches eased that fear. The look on Hit's face, something like but not quite identical to being stoned out of his mind, further relieved the pilot.

"Keep it up as long as you can," Hit said. His own voice sounded far away to his ears, as though he was hearing it from the distant end of a long tunnel.

Without another word, Hit reached for the man who was currently straddling him. His hand felt like it was moving through syrup instead of air. He persevered, strangely heavy atmosphere or not.

Now it was Glorio's turn to jump. The instant Hit closed a loose fist around his dick, his body was suffused with the most pleasurable fire he'd ever experienced. Some of it was his own magic bleeding back to him, but Hit had also added his own energy to the mix.

Try as he might, Glorio couldn't help moaning. Once he started vocalizing, it was like his body couldn't stop. Every slow glide of Hit's hand forced some new, lewd sound out of him.

And that wasn't even the worst of it. His hips had also taken on a mind of their own. He was desperate for any sort of friction, to fuck or be fucked didn't matter, but there was nothing. He couldn't take his hands off Hit, couldn't coax the assassin to move any faster or squeeze any harder, and most importantly…

"Hit, I can't hold out much longer," Glorio said. As though proving his point, he was forced to clench his eyes shut as Hit's relentless fingers reached the aching tip of his dick.

That was convenient, because Hit had been hanging by the proverbial thread since the second wave of magic had all but fried his higher functions. If not for his thousand years of experience, self-denial, and discipline, Hit would have come the moment all that strange, delicious energy flooded him.

"Let go. Believe me, I'm right behind-"

Or maybe Hit was actually in the lead. His climax usually didn't sneak up on him, but he was nowhere near as in-tuned to his senses as he normally was. Mid-sentence, the assassin found himself bucking up, his vision wiped white.

Glorio came and collapsed almost simultaneously. He was completely spent, his magic and his stamina drained in a way they hadn't been since the battle against the now-deposed Gomah.

Both of them lay panting and disheveled, painted in unmentionable bodily fluids. They stayed that way until Hit gathered the energy to stir.

"Do you have towels somewhere?" Hit asked. He gave Glorio a little shake. "Towels?"

The pilot motioned blindly to a corner of the ship. Hit extricated himself and laid Glorio on the mattress. He then padded over to the general area Glorio had indicated. The assassin sorted through unlabeled boxes and bags, trying not to let his curiosity get the better of him. His mission was towels not vile-looking wine and…a satchel of bugs.

Must be a Demon Realm thing.

The assassin finally found what he needed. He wiped himself off best he could—there was probably water somewhere on the ship, but Hit wasn't doing another random search—and then returned to see if Glorio had recovered enough to do the same.

He hadn't. The pilot was fast asleep, his breathing even and slow. Hit sighed and got to scrubbing. Once Glorio was as clean as Hit could make him, Hit discarded the towels and looked down at the unconscious body before him.

"You've got the right idea," Hit said. He nudged Glorio over a little then crawled into bed next to him. Hit pulled the blanket over both of them and was asleep seconds later.

They slept until the gentle beep of the autopilot let them know they were approaching their destination. Hit and Glorio both arose with the speed and grace of zombies. Glorio preparing two mugs of instant coffee helped perk them both up and made sorting through their discarded clothes an easier task.

Once they were dressed, pilot and passenger settled into their preferred seats. They watched the planet outside grow closer, its geography becoming clearer as they approached. It was a verdant-looking world, most of its landmasses covered in green, the perfect place to find any number of tasty-

"I forgot," Hit said suddenly, "that this planet has experienced a recent shortage of both potatoes and sugar. You're not going to find any chocolate or chips here."

Glorio smirked and plugged in the next planetary coordinates Hit suggested. "Looks like I'll have to stick around a little longer."