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systlinsideblog · 3 years

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Part 4

I still lived.

I was, I thought, greatly in the minority. The woman Systlin had judged warrior after warrior, and warrior after warrior had met his end at a quiva's blade.

A great many of the sentences were carried out by the hands of the freed slave girls of the warriors. The number of these astounded me, as did the ferocity with which many of the girls fell upon their masters.

It is a Gorean saying that a woman cannot be free until she has been a slave. It is said that a woman wishes to be conquered, that she cannot respect any man save for the man who can reduce her to nothing.

The girls fell upon their masters with a fury I have rarely seen, and blood flowed until the grass was slick and red with it.

A few girls did not take up the quiva. These men, once sentence of death was passed, the she-sleen on the Ubar's robe killed herself. Her face was untroubled by this, unworried, and there was even a hint of vicious pleasure in those cold eyes as she swung the sword to remove their heads.

Those warriors who had taken Free Companions and who had children, the she-sleen ordered all material goods be split equally between the Free Companions, the children, and the freed slave girls. There were many sour faces among the Tuchuk women at that, but to my shock many more who accepted it without question.

When night neared, scarce three dozen warriors of the Tuchuk still lived, myself included. It was us and only us who had not admitted to owning slaves, and who had no slaves to call out our names.

A very few men..two or three, in all...had been spared by the request of their slave girls. These men were whipped, and the she-sleen commanded ash be rubbed into the whip wounds.

"I would have them remember." She had said, eyes cold and face passionless, even as the warriors held back cries of pain. "I want them to remember their crimes, and to remember me."

Those of us who had survived the slaughter had been unchained and taken to wagons, and allowed to eat and rest.

"So." Kamchak had survived the culling, and his face was set and cold. "We are free, then?"

"You are not slaves." Systlin had smiled a little, a cold smile that did not reach her eyes. "But if you seek to flee, or to move against me...well."

Behind her, I could see women chaining hunting sleen outside the wagons. Each was given clothing to smell; I noticed with a start a discarded tunic of my own among the items. The sleen began to pull and hiss, eyes bright.

"Say, rather, that you are prisoners for the time." Systlin continued. "I've much to do, and I've no time to be worrying about one of you burying a knife in my back in my sleep." Another humorless smile. "I'm not fool enough to think that all...or any...of you are paragons of virtue. I'll get the truth in time."

Kamchak spat. "You," he informed her, "Are the most disagreeable and wrenched wench I've ever had the misfortune to meet. There will come a day, where you meet a man to bring you to heel." A smile. "I wish to be there to see it."

I felt my heart sink; they were unwise words, but then Kamchak was Tuchuk.

To my surprise, the woman Systlin threw back her head and laughed, as if at a wonderful joke.

"Ahhh!" She wiped tears from her eyes at last, as I stared, stunned. "When I find my way home, I will tell Foicatch that." Another laugh. "A woman isn't brought to heel. We can choose to be a partner, or to bide our time and pretend until the time is right, but brought to heel? HA! You saw that, I think, today." Another terrible grin. "I saw your faces, when the women turned on your warriors. You did not expect that, did you?"

"Foicatch?" Kamchak, ever keen, inquired.

"My husband." Systlin said this lightly, easily. "Father of my daughter."

"Good god, you are married?" The words were out of me before I could think better of them. I tried to imagine what bedding such a woman would be like, and thought to myself that it would be much like the risk taken by the male of the praying mantis of Earth; what sort of man would marry such a creature?

"Yes. Goodnight." She shut the wagon behind her.

There was a moment of silence. Then, Kamchak spoke.

"It is probably a bad time, Tarl Cabot," he said. "To mention that Kutaituchuk was not the Ubar of the Tuchuks."

"What?"

It was surprising, Systlin thought, how many of the Tuchuk women had been willing...eager, even...to take up weapons and stand guard at her wagon.

Not to her. No. On Ellinon, the children of the Lady would have found the ideas of the men of this 'Gor' incomprehensible, unlawful, hearsay, and downright suicidal. But to many of the women of Gor themselves, Systlin thought, the sheer thrill that came when picking up a blade or spear was new.

She tried to picture what would have happened had Stellead found herself in this shithole of a world. Death, absolutely; her aunt had little talent in any form of Power, but she had won her place as Arms Master of Stellas Keep and as a Commander of the Bloodguard through sweat and skill.

Even now, Systlin could only best her aunt blade to blade perhaps two matches out of three.

If anyone...man, woman, even the gods themselves...had tried to bring Stellead to heel, she'd spit in their eye and disembowel them.

Systlin smiled to herself. It was a stubbornness and force of will that she herself shared, and that her aunt, mother, and father had always fostered.

The women did not know quite how to hold a spear, of course. Systlin had tried to gently insist that she didn't need an armed guard, more because she knew full well that they'd not yet be up to a fight than because she believed that. But they had insisted, and in the end she had simply advised them to stick to knives for the time being.

The rugs and cushions and furs in the wagon were quite comfortable, and she was quite tired, but sleep was elusive.

All of this...the rugs and furs, the sound of animals outside, the sound of low voices from the camp, the smell of dried dung fires...it was too similar to her time with the Rabi, with Sura, before Sura had become Queen of the Sands, when she'd simply been the leader of her clan.

Sura's laugh, bright as a bell, and the taste of pomegranate wine. The light of the brazier catching glints of copper and red off of Sura's black hair, which gleamed almost blue in sunlight.

The rugs beside her were cold, and she suddenly felt very alone.

Her throne would be empty. She'd held the North together through sheer grit, guile, charisma, and the edge of a sword, and beaten it back into working shape after the War of the Crown had nearly destroyed it.

Her daughter was only a girl. Foicatch, dear Foicatch, would do his best, she knew, but he was at heart a soldier, not a monarch.

Her sister would step in, at least. 'Sina was capable. But she didn't have the fear and respect of the lords of the realm and the love of the common folk the way Systlin did.

"Why am I here?" She whispered this in the dark, at the roof of the wagon.

No one answered.

"I have my own place. People who will miss me." She scowled at the dark, and anger rose hot and furious. "Responsibilities! I've not got time for...this!" She waved a hand randomly, indicating everything about this strange place.

No one answered. But Systlin had met gods in her time, and she knew that if they cared to, they could hear.

"Send me back!" She hissed this at the darkness, not sure who she was angry with. "Have I not done enough? Send me home! I do not want this!"

Nothing.

Exhaustion, at last, won out, and she slept.

She was, in her dreams, not surprised at her visitor.

The Lady's face could never be seen. The most that could be gathered was an impression of poise, of stately calm. It was impossible even to place what color Her hair was, or her skin, though the hair floated around her like a cloud and she was nude.

"You?" In her dream Systlin could still feel her anger, though it was a hollow ghost of what she'd felt while awake.

Me. It wasn't a spoken word; it was felt.

"I should have known at once." Systlin growled. "Have I not done enough? Can I have no peace?"

A laugh, chiming and musical, but which shook the very bones. You were never made for peace.

And that was true. Systlin knew it, felt the truth of it in her soul. It was impossible to deny it, not before the Lady.

She felt an answering whisper in her soul, as the slumbering power of what had once been the Lord of Night and Void, the God of Endings, the Fallen One, God of Conflict, Lord of Justice and retribution, stirred within her.

Sister. The word was pointed, and almost mocking. Who denies still that you are.

"I saved my world. It needs me; you know that damned well. I don't want to be a god."

Want. This word was definitely mocking. There is no want, sister. There is 'must'. My brother failed his duty, and corrupted it. You hold it now. In time, you will realize. Goddess of War, Goddess of Justice, Goddess of Protection, Goddess of Night, Goddess of Death, Goddess of Endings and rebirth. I do your duties for now, sister...but not forever.

Systlin clenched her fists, and pointedly ignored this. "My people need me, damn you."

They are safe.

Systlin closed her eyes. "You'll not send me back until I finish here." It wasn't a question.

You could send yourself back whenever you wished, if you accepted your new place.

Systlin glared.

Another smile. So stubborn. No, I will not. Good luck, sister.

She woke.

Within her, the power of the god she'd killed stirred again, and was once more silent.

It was morning. She could see the sunlight under the door, and could hear the cheerful bustle of camp outside.

"Gods damn it all to the pits." She muttered.

The hardest thing about training the women of the Tuchuk in combat, Systlin soon found, was ingrained survival habits.

Her aunt, in the long-ago days when Systlin had been a lanky youth still growing into her arms and legs and new to a training sword, had always said that the hardest thing about training older students was fixing ingrained and detrimental habits.

Stellead had been referring to habits picked up from lesser arms masters...letting your shield drop, footwork that was less than flawless. Systlin wondered how her aunt would have dealt with this, as she interrupted a woman to correct her form and the former slave cringed and dropped at her feet, begging forgiveness.

"I am sorry!" The woman was almost tearful. Systlin had been angry since she came to this cursed place, and she felt that knot of red rage flare. "I am sorry, I forgot..."

"It's all right." Systlin squatted, propping her elbows on her thighs. "Hush. It's all right. Here now." She offered her hand, and the girl hesitantly took it. Systlin stood, drawing the girl back to her feet, and then bent, picked up the dropped wooden sword, and offered it back hilt first. The girl took it.

"Do you know," Systlin said, keeping her voice light and conversational, "how long it took me to become good with a sword?"

The woman blinked. "I...no, Ubara."

"I started training at thirteen." Systlin smiled fondly in memory. "I first killed a wraithen at nineteen. I first killed men in battle at twenty five. that was two and a half decades and three wars ago." She tossed her own wooden sword in the air; it spun precisely one turn before she caught it again by the hilt. "Training takes time, and practice. You will make mistakes. I will never fault you for them; you simply correct them and keep training."

The girl nodded slowly. Systlin had given the same speech to many girls over the last three weeks, but the habits learned to survive the men of this Pit of a planet went deep. It would be slow going yet; she knew that.

"Fifty?" The question was unexpected.

"Hm?"

"You are fifty?"

"Close enough, yes."

"Your world then has brews of youth as well?" The girl seemed curious.

Systlin blinked. "I...no. But we're descended from the Lady, the goddess and mother of all. We live long." She considered the woman before her; she appeared to be perhaps in her late twenties. "How old are you?"

"Oh. Sixty, I think? My masters have given me the brews of youth three times."

The yawning pit of cold fury in Systlin's soul howled.

"How many years of that," Systlin kept her voice carefully level. "Were you kept as property?"

"Since I was...oh, sixteen?"

The world went abruptly white before her eyes. The yawning spectre of the power she'd pulled from the soul of a slain god roared; goddess of justice, goddess of protection....

Fury, she was furious, and for a moment she knew, knew that it would be so, so easy, to rise on the wind and come down on the people who had done this. To become a storm, a furious reckoning, to scour this world clean in a night...

...No. No no NO. I will not. I have to teach them. They must take it themselves, for all I might lead them. Or it will all be for nothing...

By the time she fought it down and came back to herself she was on her knees, clutching the trampled grass with white knuckles. Sweat was soaking her, as it never did even if she fought all day. Her breath was coming short and sharp.

"Ubara!" The voices were panicked, and she realized dimly that there were at least a dozen women around her, patting at her cheeks, offering water.

She looked up, and saw worry, and fear, and as the god-soul inside her stirred, she saw more. She saw desperation, and so, so much pain, oceans of pain, seas of injustice, rivers of innocent blood spilled.

And as the women of the Tuchuk looked at her, worried, she saw deep in their eyes hope.

"Ubara?" It was Sabra , the brave girl, who'd taken quite well to a spear. "Ubara?"

"I'm all right." She wasn't, not quite; her voice sounded rough to her own ears. "I'm all right. Keep practicing."

The hovered until she got to her feet, but once it was determined that the Ubara was not about to die, they slowly went back to their drills.

Systlin moved a bit away, absently climbed the nearest wagon, and sat cross legged, looking out over the makeshift training grounds without really seeing.

She'd always been a protector. Since they'd been children, and her sister's dreams had driven little 'Sina to cry and scream in her sleep. Since her father had nurtured that, and taught her that a Queen's people were her children, that her sacred duty was to protect and serve them.

Since she'd torn the North back from the hands of the greedy and the corrupt, who'd sought to carve it apart for power and profit.

Since she'd faced a god, putting her own body and soul between her people and the Fallen Lord himself.

Since she'd faced a second goddess, and demanded the Lady return her daughter from beyond death.

It was who she was, in the end. She knew it in her bones, even as she looked down at these strange people in this strange world, and felt it, that what she must do.

"Pitting hells." She muttered this softly, and somewhere felt the Lady smile.

For some weeks now, the routine had been much the same; Kamchak and I, and the other men, were kept chained and carefully watched. Some men, after a measure of time should they demonstrate a contrite enough demeanor, had their chains removed and were allowed to move about the camp; they did so, casting their eyes aside from those of us who were still chained.

I watched one man brush a bosk one evening, and oil its hooves. A slave girl should do such work, and he was clumsy at it. A girl was watching, wearing the leather trousers that had become fashionable among the women. Her hair, which was very long, was braided up and pinned in a coil on the top of her head; it was unflattering, I thought. She corrected him, and showed him how it was done properly, and he meekly listened. She smiled at him, and I thought that in silks and with hair loose she must have been quite a beauty. He smiled back, a bit tentatively.

I snorted in disdain. There are always men that are so, those that are more akin to women than true men.

She heard, and turned on me. There was a fierceness in her eyes.

"See." She pointed at me, mocking. "He thinks himself better than you, Sarthak. He thinks himself too good for work about the camp, thinks it should be done only by women in chains." She laughed, and spit in my direction. "And yet he is still a prisoner in chains, while you are a free man. So who, then, is the better man?"

Sarthak grinned at me. He wore no scars, and scant weeks ago he had likely been unregarded utterly by the Tuchuk.

"You speak true words, Lena." He agreed, and turned his back on me. She gave another laugh, and she turned back to their task. I realized with some surprise that the looks Lena was favoring the unscarred young man with were warm.

"Disgraceful." Kamchak was chained to the other axle of the wagon, and he too was regarding the young man with distaste. "Have they made a slave of you already, boy?"

"He's a free man." Lena didn't look around. "All free men and women of able body must do their share of work. You shall too, should you ever be trusted and set free."

Kamchak spat again, and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel.

"It was a sad day," said the Ubar of the Tuchuk, "That that she-sleen came to the Tuchuk, Tarl Cabot."

"Yes." I agreed. I wondered still how many she had slain in that night, through sorcery. The pyres had burned for two days and nights.

We watched the girl teach the young man to grease the axles of the wagon. We had little else to do.

As the evening meal was brought, we were finally given some surprise to rouse us from the deadly tedium that had marked the weeks.

The she-sleen had a cloak now, made of red larl-hide. She wore it pinned at a jaunty angle, thrown back over one shoulder. She was wearing a leather vest over her strange scale armor today. She regarded us for a moment, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. I'd examined that weapon many times now, and I still could not place the make of it; it was no Gorean style I knew of, and the silver-blue of the blade was unlike any alloy I knew on Earth. It was somewhat shorter than most blades I had seen, perhaps thirty-six inches in all in total length. A great polished amethyst was set into the pommel, the most darkly violet stone I'd ever seen.

It was viciously sharp. I knew this.

"You." She said to me. The word was said in Gorean; she was learning quickly, it seemed, for all her strange magic did seem to translate for her. "You'll come with me." She nodded at the girl following her...I recognized her, I realized, it was the girl Dina I had seen around camp before, the slave reputed to be the best at the running game...and Dina brought out a ring of keys.

Dina's hair was braided, as was Systlin's. Dina wore leather trousers, as did Systlin. Dina wore a quiva, as Systlin wore her long dagger, and had stood and rested her hand on the hilt of the quiva in conscious imitation of the strange woman.

It seemed to be a fashion, I noted, that many of the freed slave girls and even many of the Tuchuk women had taken up.

I said nothing. It had not been a request, of course, and I had little choice. My leg was healing, but I was far from my top form.

My chains were let loose. I stood, with some difficulty, and Dina's help. She was, I noticed with some surprise, quite strong. There were muscles through her shoulders that I'd never before seen so developed on any Gorean woman, and her hands were tough.

I knew that well; my own hands were callused thus from the hilt of sword and the haft of lance. It was surprising that a slave girl had developed such in such a short time.

I was led to the great wagon that Systlin had claimed as her own; the wagon that I knew, now, was not the true wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks.

Inside, a meal of roast bosk had been laid ready for us. Systlin sat cross legged on the cushions; the maleness of the gesture still grated at my sensibilities. Seeing it preformed by one who might look quite well kneeling in silks was wrong, quite wrong. Dina helped me, somewhat ungracefully and with some pain, to sit.

Systlin did not touch the food at once. She was watching me, and the gaze was keen and direct. I said nothing, but examined her in return.

I am an observant man. It is one of my strengths. But I could gather little from her, save that which I had already deduced; she was strongly built, for a woman, all solid wiry muscle. Her hands were tough, those of a swordsman. Her gaze was intelligent, and I could not place her origin; the bone structure and shape of her eyes was subtly foreign, but not of any place I knew. She could have been beautiful, perhaps, were she arrayed instead in silk. She never, I noted, let her weapons stray far from her hand.

She was used, I thought, to fighting. Used even to being attacked in the most secure of surroundings. She had said before that many men had tried to kill her; what sort of creature was this that sat before me?

"You're wondering why I brought you here." She broke the silence. Her tone was crisp, and it was not a question.

I said nothing.

"The answer is because you are not of these people. I know that the Wagon Peoples usually slay outsiders. That means you are unusual, and I'm wagering it means you're quite skilled at arms." She examined me again, much as I'd examined her, and I saw her noting the callus of my hands. "Your accent is not like that of these people, as well. They say you are Koroban, wherever the fuck that is. I've heard that you have, apparently, traveled."

I said nothing.

"That makes you potentially useful." She informed me of this without a hint of emotion. "I know very little of this world, and while I'm learning, I suspect that you know more than most."

I had heard her say such things before. I am quite well acquainted with such matters, of course, being once of Earth. "Of this world?" I said at last.

"Of this world." A horrible humorless smile. "You know full well I'm not from here. This whole place is a nightmare and a travesty. You're lucky my aunt Stellead is not here; she’s less merciful than I. She'd have castrated the lot of your slavers and rapists, slow roasted the genitals, and fed them back to you a bite at a time. And to be honest, I did consider that."

I could not help but cringe at the thought.

"From what I have gathered," she continued, "No part of this world is not at the mercy of monsters who hold humans as livestock and use them as they please. It's that, I think, that I've been brought here to end. And you, Tarl Cabot, are going to give me information as I do it."

The shock of her words was immediate. "Sent? The priest-kings...."

The wave of a hand, dismissive. "I've heard of them. No. Gods, no. I don't care a whit for them. If they interfere I'll deal with them. No, it's a power higher than them that's sent me."

I blinked at her in shock. The priest-kings are feared and worshiped as gods on Gor, with reason. They are advanced beyond any human designs, and are exceptionally powerful. Yet I saw not a trace of fear in her.

"They are very powerful," I said. "And your powers may bring their wrath yet." I hoped it, of course. They can burn a man to ashes on a whim.

A laugh. Another cold, humorless laugh. "Maybe." She said. "But I've slain gods before. What are a few more? No. You are going to give me information, Tarl Cabot, on this world. And then I am going to conquer it. Every last damned corner of it."

I stared at her in horror, and she simply smiled in return.

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scarletraven1001 · 7 years

Text

Truly Mine

He may have never said the words, but Bulma knew in her heart and soul that the arrogant Saiyan prince, the love of her life, loved her too.

A seven-year-gap fic, post-cell. One-shot.

An entry for @tpthvegebulsmutfest

Day 7: Afterglow

Also on Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12443826

Hi again, fellow DB fans!

I received such kind words from everyone when I sent in my last TPTH entry, so I was inspired to write one more!

I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it.

Lots of smut ahead!

8-8-8-8-8

Truly Mine

Bulma was still trying to catch her breath.

She was absolutely exhausted, but that wonderful feeling of lethargy was overpowered by her pounding heart, bursting with so much emotion that the sensation of it kept her from falling asleep.

She looked down at the flame-haired head resting on her chest. He nuzzled her breast, giving it a soft, almost innocent kiss. Their legs were tangled together amongst the unruly navy sheets of their bed, while his arms were wrapped tightly around her waist. Her own arms hugged his neck, one hand lovingly caressing his upper back, the fingers of her other hand playing idly with the hair on his nape, damp with perspiration from their vigorous activities earlier.

Sex with Vegeta was always mind blowing, but there was something phenomenally different about this time. This time, she knew, felt with every fiber of her being, that they had made love.

She looked down and peered into his face, her heart melting at the sight of his closed eyes and serene expression. He was vulnerable at the moment, the look on his face such that his heart was openly displayed for her to see, and she was honored to know that she was the only one who would ever see this side of her husband.

Her husband.

She lifted her left hand to gaze once more at her ring. She still couldn’t believe it.

Bulma Briefs was now a married woman. A wife.

Vegeta was now her husband. She was now the wife of Vegeta.

The words repeated themselves in her head, as she still could barely wrap her head around the concept.

Another wave of emotion flooded her chest and tears began to well up in her eyes. She was so incredibly happy that she almost couldn’t bear it. She felt like she was floating, and only Vegeta’s weight on her oh, so sated body kept her from flying off.

He lifted his head from her chest then, an intense look in his eyes as he gracefully crawled up to be at eye level with her. He lifted his left hand to gently caress her cheek, and on that hand, her eyes caught his own ring glinting against the darkness of their bedroom.

He kissed her then, the touch of his lips so sweet and full of feeling, that it made the tears standing in her eyes finally fall. She was so full of love for this man that she finally uttered the three words that she had always known in her heart, but had never before had the courage to say.

“I love you…”

He simply narrowed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath, almost as if he was hiding a gasp, and he dove in and kissed her so passionately that she felt his answer even if he stubbornly still refused to say the words.

His hands started roaming her body again, delicately holding her hips, tickling her waist, and as she felt herself giving in to what she knew would be another rousing session, she thought back to the happenings of the past month that led them to this peaceful moment of bliss.

8-8-8-8-8

“Do you want to get married?”

The question was so sudden, so out of field, that Bulma could do nothing other than stare dumbly at Vegeta. She nearly dropped the dented bot she had been fixing, it suddenly felt so heavy that she would have thought that the gravity chamber she was standing in had been activated.

Her heart suddenly stopped, and then just as quickly restarted, hammering painfully against her chest, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she did, indeed, hear him right.

“Did you just-”

“Woman, just answer me. Do you want to or not?” he snarled at her, looking uncomfortable, standing just out of arms reach for her.

Her scattered wits collected themselves with frightening speed as she took a deep breath, pushing a lock of her short blue hair behind one ear, and carefully choosing her words.

“Why are you asking me?” she asked, her voice soft but unwavering.

Vegeta pointedly looked away from her as he answered, “You were on the phone with one of your asinine friends yesterday, talking about the marriage of those two imbeciles that you always watch on the television. You told her that you had always wished for a large marriage celebration. Now, I will not, even under threat of disembowelment, agree to a large celebration. However, I am not opposed to marriage if you want it.”

Bulma stared in shock at her extraterrestrial lover. A deep red crept into his cheeks as he continued to look everywhere but at her.

“V-Ve-Vegeta,” she stuttered, amazed at this highly unexpected but very exciting turn of events. “Of course I want to. I would absolutely love to. But… What about you? I don’t want to put you through this if you don’t want this.”

“Tch,” he sneered. “I would not have asked if I was so opposed to it.”

“But… but… Do you know what marriage means? You’re not just asking because you overheard me say that I want to, are you?”

Vegeta finally turned to look at her, a light blush still dusting his cheeks.

Bulma wanted to squeal at how cute he was being, but she wisely refrained. This moment was serious, dammit.

“Your wanting it has influenced my thoughts on the subject, yes. But I am not against the idea. I might as well. We have a child, a powerful one, and I need him to be a rightful heir. As empty as my title has now become, the boy is a prince of an entire race, and he must be able to hold that title, even on principle alone.”

Bulma almost sighed. Did she honestly expect the man to profess his undying love for her and drop down on one knee, offering her a ring? Of course not. This was probably the closest she will ever get to hearing him say that he actually does want to marry her and isn’t being coerced into it.

“Additionally, I think I would prefer to be able to call you my wife. Then you would be truly mine, am I correct?”

Bulma actually gasped in shock at what he said, but quickly covered it up with one hand.

“I-I,” she stammered, looking at him through wide eyes. Her stare appeared to make him uncomfortable as he looked away yet again, then turned away from her to leave the room.

“Wait!” she called out, an arm extended in his direction as if to pull him back. “Wait, don’t go. I… I would love to marry you, Vegeta. I really would,” she said, smiling widely in her giddiness. “Let’s get married.”

He turned his head slightly, regarding her out of the corner of his eye. “Yes. Let us marry. And make it soon, Bulma,” he said, walking out of the room, leaving Bulma with a head full of thoughts and unable to concentrate on anything for the rest of the day.

8-8-8-8-8

Wedding preparations were difficult, more so due to the fact that the wedding was to be kept practically top secret. Vegeta had no marriageable identity to speak of, being a literal illegal alien. Strings were pulled, debts of gratitude called in, and all the connections held by her influential family were utilized as Bulma worked to make a fake identity for her husband-to-be.

The legalities involved in marrying an alien was, in a word, a bitch.

But she pushed on, and exactly three weeks after they agreed to marry, Bulma held in her hands a fake birth certificate, fake school diplomas and a real passport for one Mr. Vegeta, the sovereign prince of a now-defunct small nation of people who had lived deep in a rainforest in the south.

Four-year-old Trunks sat on the living room couch, staring widely at Bulma as she spoke on the phone to the people in their local court office, arranging a date for her and Vegeta’s wedding in front of the city’s judge. Her son was scrunching his face in concentration, listening hard, and Bulma wanted to pinch his chubby cheeks as she mentally squealed at how cute her baby was.

He was looking more and more like Vegeta every single day.

Also acting more and more like his father, as his face turned down into a fierce scowl, apparently giving up on understanding what was going on that had his mother so excited. He jumped off his chair and flew off, and Bulma watched as he flew through a window and headed straight for the gravity room.

Plans finalized, Bulma put the phone down and headed for the kitchen to check if any food had been laid out. Her mother, Panchy, was out and had left the cooking to the chef bots.

Panchy was also ludicrously excited about the wedding, that even the disappointment of not having a large celebration did not deter her. She still insisted on taking care of all the jewelry and clothes-shopping needed, and Bulma had to seriously sit her down and swear her to secrecy lest her ditzy mother let it slip to someone and caused a media-frenzy.

Oh, the paparazzi would just love to finally see the elusive father of the little eventual heir to the Briefs fortune.

Upon entering the kitchen, Bulma found enough food to feed an army and thought that it may be enough for her son and her fiancé. In her head, she had been calling Vegeta that since his proposal of sorts, and she smiled as she realized that only a week from then, exactly a month after their agreement, she can finally call him her husband.

The smile was still firmly in place as she called her two favorite boys to come in for dinner.

8-8-8-8-8

The day of the wedding was finally upon them, and Bulma kept shifting nervously in her seat. She was already dressed: a simple, sleeveless, v-neck white dress that reached the tops of her knees, with a thin blue belt and matching blue shoes. She had on some very simple white-gold earrings and a matching bracelet, and she anxiously kept looking at the stairs leading up to the bedrooms, waiting for Vegeta to finish dressing up so they can go.

There was also the matter of the rings. Panchy had been in charge of the jewelry, and her mother had steadfastly refused to show her the rings, insisting that she wanted it to be a surprise.

Trunks was sitting, unusually timid, on a chair in front of her. He knew something exciting was about to happen and looked restless, but she had given him extremely strict instructions to sit still and keep his tiny suit clean for the upcoming ceremony. She had tried to explain the marriage to him, but the four-year-old didn’t seem to care, and merely shrugged, saying “It’s all the same to me. You are my mama, and he is my papa.”

When Vegeta finally dropped down from the stairs, Bulma released the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. He was wearing a navy blue suit and leather shoes, and perhaps, she was just feeling sentimental on this day, but she didn’t believe she had ever seen him look more handsome.

The wedding itself went numbingly fast. A quick trip to the courthouse, and it seemed to Bulma that they were suddenly standing in front of the judge, who was holding up a book that was symbolic of an old marriage register. They signed their paperwork and did not have to go through the vows that she just knew would make Vegeta very uncomfortable.

However, time seemed to stop when the rings were finally revealed to Bulma.

Panchy had given the rings to Trunks, so he could hand it to the judge when the judge called for it. The rings were in a simple blue velvet box, and the judge opened it without preamble before handing it to Vegeta.

The Saiyan then looked at Bulma, his eyes intense, almost as if he was in battle, before he turned the box so that the rings faced her.

She gasped, words escaping her as she stared in disbelief.

Two simple platinum rings were delicately placed, side by side, inside the small jewelry box. This would not have been unusual, except for the tiny symbol carved into the center of each ring.

It was a symbol that Bulma had only seen twice, but knew like the back of her hand.

The royal Saiyan crest was inscribed into each ring, its clean lines and curves distinctive and unmistakable.

Vegeta had absently drawn the symbol on a sheet of paper once, before they had even gotten together, and he had turned away in embarrassment when she asked him about it. She saw it again once more, when she was cleaning his room after they had been sleeping together for some time, and he finally told her of the significance of the emblem then. She knew he treasured the symbol, a sign of his heritage that was now forever lost.

She never would have expected him to have it carved into their wedding rings.

“Vegeta… this… oh my,” she whispered in awe, lifting her eyes to look at a blushing Vegeta, who was clearly uneasy but stubbornly refusing to look away. Bulma heard her mother giggling, and she glanced at the blond woman, realizing that she, and maybe even her quietly smiling father, were in on the plan.

Bulma reached for the larger ring, holding it up while Vegeta did the same with the smaller ring. At the judges cue, they placed the respective rings on each other, and she barely held her tears back as the judge continued reading the rest of the words to proclaim them married.

The judge finally announced that they were now officially husband and wife, and gave the signal for the Saiyan to kiss his new wife. Never one for displays of affection, Vegeta reached up to cup her cheeks in his hands, before he stood straight and gave Bulma a chaste kiss on her forehead.

The lavish meal that her mother had organized for the wedding celebration afterwards was an exercise in excess. Bulma happily watched her son and new husband systematically decimate the food, while her parents and their few loyal household helpers enjoyed more normally-portioned meals along with her.

She felt a bit guilty for not inviting any of her friends, but she knew that Vegeta would not be comfortable with it, and she decided to let them all know that she and Vegeta had married in the most casual way possible the next time she saw them all.

As the day turned to night and all the inhabitants of Capsule Corp had slowly drifted off to bed, Bulma remained in the living room, with a very snuggly trunks wrapped in her arms. Her leg was falling asleep as his weight rested mostly on her thighs, and she slowly shifted to try to lift him up to bring him to bed.

A pair of muscled arms reached for her son, and Bulma looked gratefully up at Vegeta as he effortlessly lifted the heavy child.

“Go on up to our room and get ready for bed, woman. I shall take Trunks to his room and will be with you shortly,” he said as he turned to leave.

Bulma looked up from where she sat, and a giddy sort of delight filled her as she realized that tonight would be their first night as husband and wife.

She rushed up the stairs and hurriedly showered, slipping into a thin blue negligee and matching panties that reminded her of the ones she had been wearing the first time Vegeta took her to bed.

‘This will be another first,’ she thought dreamily, as she quickly ran a brush through her hair, then moved quickly and excitedly to their bed.

When several minutes had already passed and Vegeta still hadn’t returned, Bulma began to worry.

‘Is he not coming up to bed? He said he was going to follow me… did something go wrong?’

Just as worry had begun to set into her mind, the bedroom door opened to reveal her man, still wearing his pants and undershirt from the wedding.

Bulma stood up, intending to walk over to him and pull him to bed, but she stopped mid-step when he suddenly turned his dark eyes her way, staring at her so intently that she felt a small shiver go up her spine.

He approached her slowly, his gaze pinning her to spot, and she found herself unable to move even as he stood only inches away from her. He didn’t touch her, he was so still, and Bulma could have sworn that he was barely breathing.

She kept staring into his eyes, and the world could have exploded behind her, and she would still not have been able to look away from him.

“Vegeta,” she whispered softly, tentatively breaking the silence. He didn’t speak, but his hands slowly rose up to grasp her upper arms in answer.

His eyes started to burn with a feral intensity that Bulma now knew all too well. Vegeta was hungry, hungry for her, and before she even had the chance to gasp, he had pulled her to him, crushing her in his arms as his lips slanted possessively against her own.

Bulma immediately kissed him back, her tongue sliding between his teeth as his own greedily explored every crevice of her mouth. She moaned in delight as his hand began to roam her body, one hand resting on the small of her back as the other slid up and tangled between the blue strands of her hair.

His lips left hers and began to trail down her cheek, stopping momentarily to nip at the edge of her jaw, before planting a wet kiss onto her throat. She whimpered as he began to suck, his mouth leaving a trail of rapidly darkening marks onto her skin.

‘I should start wearing scarves. I’m getting too old to be showing off my hickeys,’ she thought in a daze, her hands dancing around his shoulders as she tried to grasp the hard muscles that she had now completely mapped out in her mind.

“Bulma,” she heard him groan, the sound of his voice filling her with a carnal kind of thrill, and she whispered his name in response.

He pulled away from her then, his lips moving away from her body so slowly that she thought he seemed reluctant to stop kissing her. He looked deep into her eyes again as he brought his hands down to grasp the bottom of his shirt, lifting it up and off him swiftly, and Bulma’s hungry eyes took in the familiar but eternally arousing view of his perfect torso.

‘He is so beautiful,’ she thought as she drank in the sight of the body of the man that was now, by all rights, hers.

He moved to grasp her hips, and Bulma was surprised when she realized that his hands were shaking slightly. She looked up at him in concern, but he silenced her questions with a gentle kiss, his lips lingering sweetly against her own as he slowly, tantalizingly lifted her night gown from her body.

His hands seemed to stop and start as he undressed her, lifting the hem of her dress above her hips, pausing there while he moved closer to plant a soft kiss on her shoulder. His hands moved again, pulling the cloth to bunch up below her breasts, as he moved his hot mouth to lick languidly around her collarbones. He pulled up again, this time completely freeing her of her clothing, and he dropped the gown to the floor before quickly encasing her soft body within his powerful arms, his lips once again seeking out her own.

She moaned into the kiss, completely aroused at his unusually tender movements. Her hands moved down to undo the button on his pants, but he stopped her as she began to pry the garment from him.

She pulled back from the kiss and looked at him questioningly, but he said nothing, and only held her by the waist as he slowly eased them both onto their bed. He had her partly on the bed, her knees hanging off the edge, and he kneeled down before her, his legs around her, his knees trapping her thighs closed.

Vegeta leaned down, his hands once again resuming their almost reverent trek around her body. He caressed her arms, his touch so soft and gentle that Bulma felt like he was paying homage to her body. He then propped himself up on one arm as he swooped down and captured her lips again, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he kissed back with gentle fervor. A groan escaped her as his other hand softly cupped and then teasingly squeezed her right breast.

She felt like putty in his hands, and she mewled as his kisses traveled lower. She felt him shift his legs to place one knee between her thighs, and her hands moved to stroke his upper back as he moved down to take one of her aching nipples into his hot mouth.

She hissed, getting more and more aroused by his actions, and she softly scraped her nails against his back. She knew that he loved her breasts, and she let go of him to pull her arms over her head to lift her bosoms just the way he liked it. He growled at her actions, his arms reaching up to hold her upper arms still as he kept smothering her breasts with his lips, sucking strongly enough to make her gasp and arch her chest to push her mounds further into his mouth.

He stopped worshipping her chest long enough to look up into her eyes and smirk at her, before he moved lower, nipping her stomach as his hands stroked her all the way from her breasts, down the sides of her waist, and down further to gently but firmly hold her hips.

He knelt on the floor now, as he slowly pulled her panties off of her, carelessly discarding the piece of cloth. He lifted her hips to the very edge of the bed, and his eyes met hers as he gently cupped her center, one finger moving to gently tap her clit.

She gasped in delight as the said finger began to slowly roll her bud around in a gentle motion that he knew both excited and frustrated her. She rolled her hips as her hands moved, one of them moving to clutch the sheets as the other grasped his hand that was still on her hip.

He inserted a finger into her then, and she whimpered his name, both still looking into each others’ eyes as he pleasured her with his hand.

A second finger joined in and Bulma groaned, no longer able to keep her eyes open as she threw her head back and panted from her husband’s actions.

“So wet for me. You are so ready for me, aren’t you, Bulma?” He whispered lasciviously as his other hand released her hip to join the one at her core. Bulma couldn’t even speak as she felt him open her with two fingers of one hand, and the other one pushed in to pleasure her more thoroughly. Her pants turned into moans as her hands lifted up to grasp the sheets beside her head, desperately looking for something to hold on to.

He increased the speed of his pumping fingers, and when a thumb joined in to vigorously roll her clit, the breathless sensation of an incoming orgasm began to wash over her, making her cry out.

Without stopping what he was doing, Vegeta leaned down and covered her core with his mouth, his tongue sweeping across her nether lips. His fingers moved out of her only to be replaced by his firm tongue, and Bulma cried out as he lapped at her relentlessly.

She peered down, the sight of his flame-haired head bobbing between her thighs so erotic that a shudder went through her body, pushing her closer to that wonderful edge.

Another lick, another press, and he pushed his fingers back inside her as his sinful mouth moved up, pressing the flat of his tongue against her button. His lips then wrapped around it and after one hard suck, Bulma screamed as a mind-numbing orgasm washed over her, her thighs shaking as she convulsed in pleasure.

Amidst her post-orgasmic haze, she watched Vegeta get up and oh, so slowly push his pants down his hips. Her starving eyes widened as he kicked the offending garment off, her mouth watering as she found that her naughty Saiyan had once again foregone underwear.

Vegeta crawled over her and Bulma eagerly used her arms to push herself up to lie down in the middle of the bed. When they had moved up enough that their whole bodies were now on the bed, she raised one arm to quickly push Vegeta to make him lie on his back.

He grinned at her, a cheeky lifting of one side of his lips, and he obediently fell onto his back.

She eagerly straddled him, leaning down to plant a breathless kiss on his lips. Her hands, hungry for his skin, moved greedily to stroke and caress every inch of him she could reach as her mouth moved downward, lapping at his chest, teasing and tasting the hard planes of his body.

Her hands reached below her, mapping a familiar path down to the tantalizing indentation between his abdomen and thighs. She traced the thin line of hair from the bottom of his stomach, a sexy trail leading to the part of him that no one on earth but her is allowed to see.

Her fingers wrapped around him. He was as thick and powerful here as the rest of his body, and as her fingers worked him, he released a strangled groan of pleasure as he lifted his head to look down at what her hands were doing to him. Up and down, she moved her hands, trying her hardest to fully wrap her small hands around the whole of him.

She could feel her breasts heave as she panted, as hearing the sounds of his pleasure, and knowing it was her who gave him pleasure, aroused her even more. She then leaned down and licked him, and he hissed, the sound dissolving into a growl as she took the tip of him into her mouth.

She sucked noisily, humming and moaning as she tasted his delicious essence on her tongue. She peered up at him, only to find him looking at her, his gaze focused on her as she took delight in pleasing him with her mouth.

She felt his member twitch, and suddenly, he had pulled her off of him, his arms wrapped around her once again as he pushed her to lie back down onto the bed. She blinked when he reached up and pulled down a pillow, and he lifted her head with a gentle hand on the back of her neck to place the soft linen under her head.

He crushed her to him again, his lips finding hers as their legs passionately tangled together. One of his large hands moved down to lift her left leg against his hips as he situated himself between her thighs, spreading her wide open.

He broke the kiss, looking intently into her eyes as one of his arms moved up beside her head, and he braced himself on an elbow as his fingers delved into her short hair.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his face close to hers as his other hand moved down, and holding himself, guided his member into her waiting core.

“Vegeta!” She gasped as he slowly pushed in, his body stretching her insides so deliciously, and she greedily clasped onto his every inch as he entered her all the way to the hilt. His hips locked against her own, he groaned, a long drawn out sound of pleasured agony that sang to her heart and pulled a strangled moan from her own lips.

A hand moved to clutch her hip, the tips of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her buttock as he still stubbornly refused to pump his hips. Instead of moving, he simply pressed their bodies closer together, pushing her deeper into the plush mattress with his body.

A sharp, almost physical ache formed in the pit of Bulma’s stomach as he continued to gaze at her, his eyes narrowed in concentration as his body pulsed within her, her own moving to clench sweetly against his delicious intrusion. She gasped as pleasure filled her, the sensation of their bodies simply melded together taking her breath away.

His hand in her hair moved down to gently cup her cheek, his eyes so unbelievably soft in that moment that Bulma had to choke back a sob. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her lips.

Then, he began to move.

He pulled back with his hips, but the rest of his body remained as flush against her own as possible. It was almost as if he needed to touch as much of her as he could, all at once. Bulma moved against him, taking his cue, grinding her hips against his own as she writhed against his wonderful body.

One hand snaked around her waist, pulling her even closer against him as they moved against each other. Deep, guttural moans escaped him, the pleasure making him grit his teeth, but he did not close his eyes, continuing to look only at her face.

Bulma, who did not possess nearly the same amount of control, had closed her eyes, his name escaping her lips in broken syllables that got more and more garbled by the minute.

“Oh- oh! Vegeta,” she panted breathlessly. She opened her eyes to gaze at him, the look in his eyes and the expression on his face overwhelming her completely. “Ah! You feel so good! You are so good! You are so beautiful, Vegeta… Oh!”

Soon enough, she was moaning incoherently, trying hard to keep her eyes locked onto Vegeta’s as he kept his face so close to hers that their breaths intermingled sweetly. His air was her air, his gasps were her gasps, and every exhaled endearment, sigh and wail was shared between them, both oblivious to anything other than each other.

He suddenly cursed, before he reared up and grabbed both of her hands, pulling them up by the wrists, until both of her arms were trapped above her head, his large hands swallowing her palms in his. Their fingers entwined, Vegeta braced a knee down as he moved against her vigorously, chasing that edge that was hovering only just out of their reach.

Bulma was breathing hard, almost sobbing, as her husband continued to pump in and out of her, his movements fast, but gentle and unhurried. He leaned down to plant a kiss between her brows and he strained against her, his heartbeat thrumming hard against her chest as they both neared that inevitable tumble into ecstasy.

Her body began to seize up, her toes curling in as her head arched up and off the pillow, her voice going hoarse as her whimpers melted into groans and her groans turned into screams.

‘I love you!’ she screamed in her head. She had never said those words to him yet, but she had known for years that she loved him with everything she was and more. She would die a thousand deaths to see him smile.

‘I love you, Vegeta!’ she thought deliriously as his body made love to her soul. His movements tonight made her want to shout the words out, but she caught herself getting tongue-tied around the unfamiliar words, and she keened a wordless plea for more, instead.

She said his name repeatedly, like a benediction falling from worshipful lips, and he answered back, her own name carelessly falling from his mouth as his barriers crashed down around them, broken into dust by the swirl of their emotions, the intensity of their lovemaking.

He ground his hips against hers, and a particularly hard twist broke her, sending Bulma spiraling into completion, his name echoing within the walls of their room as she screamed it with all of her heart.

She convulsed powerfully, the tremors going up and down her spine, and she had yet to come down from her high when she felt Vegeta begin to lose control above her, his hands grasping hers almost painfully as he chased his climax, until he finally reached it.

“Bulma!” he gasped out as his face contorted in near pain, his whole body shuddering against hers, and she felt his essence flood her deep inside.

He began to lose his balance, a shocking turn for the nimble alien warrior, and she slipped her hands from his loosening grasp to hold him gently around his chest, guiding his spent form down, and he, without hesitation, moved down to rest his head against her bosoms, his breath fanning harshly against her chest.

And Bulma, lost in the sensations of what had to be the most amazing sex of her life, grinned as she stroked his arms and basked in an amazing, nearly spiritual, afterglow.

8-8-8-8-8

Now, as Bulma felt Vegeta lift himself up to begin another round, she couldn’t help the shit-eating grin that spread across her face as he began to ravish her body once again.

Oh, he may not be able to say the words just yet, but she knew, deep in her heart, that he loved her too.

She was his wife now, and as he put it, “truly his”.

However, now, as he loved her with his body once again, she realized…

He was truly hers, too.

8-8-8-8-8

END

#tpthvegebulsmutfest #day7afterglow #october 2017 smutfest #vegebul #vegeta #bulma #fanfic #dragon ball #scarletraven fanfiction #fall 2017 smutfest

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rauliskafan · 7 years

Text

Scars - Frederick Chilton/Reader

Author’s Note: Happy Friday, everyone!!! It is my supreme privilege and honor to post this beautiful story on behalf of my sweet and spectacular writing partner, @vintagemichelle91, as she enjoys her amazing vacation. @mrschiltoncat, this is for you and all the Frederick fans on this fabulous Friday! Enjoy, lovelies!!!

You sighed as you looked at yourself once more in the mirror. Tracing the outline of your scar now faded into a long line of pink. The pain no longer stung; after all it had been two years. Sometimes it seemed hard to believe that you managed to pull through that terrible time. But whenever you so much as glanced at the scar, you were taken back to that awful night without wanting to… to relive the horrors. But tonight would be different. Tonight was not about the past. Tonight you were in the present, far away from dark, distant memories.

Pulling down your ivory silk camisole, you switched off the light and walked into Frederick’s bedroom. You smiled when he glanced up from his iPad and tapped the empty spot on the bed, beckoning you to join him. A wave of sadness suddenly washed over you. Soon you would have to go back home to another reality, miles and miles away on the other side of the country. The long-distance thing was far more difficult than you ever imagined… in your case even more so.

“You have been awfully quiet this evening, my love,” he started. “You know I prefer it when you talk to me… endlessly.” Frederick chuckled as he kissed the top of your head.

“I just hate to think that tomorrow I have to go back home and be so far away from you. This weekend went by too fast.” Burying your face in his chest, you felt warm tears prick your eyes.

“I know; I hate it too. But it is only temporary. Soon we will see each other again. I promise.” He inhaled the sweet scent of your jasmine perfume with a sigh. “But…”

“But what?” you softly asked.

“It does not make letting you go any easier.”

Lifting your head, you kissed his lips with all the passion you could muster, longing to be his once more before you had to leave. Frederick tightened his embrace as he deepened the kiss, his hands exploring your skin. Reaching underneath his black t-shirt, you felt his heartbeat quicken, Suddenly, as if singed by fire, he swiftly pulled your hand way, and the tears in your eyes were replaced by concern.

“Frederick, what is it? Did I do something wrong?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, obviously trying to calm his ragged breaths. Shaking his head, he took your small hand in his large palm. “I am not ready for you to see me…”

“Your scars you mean?”

He was always reluctant to reveal them. During any intimate moment in the past, Frederick failed to remove his shirt, an act you never questioned. Because you completely understood; you had yet to show him your mark, the brand better off ignored.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he said, opening his eyes with a sad smile that made your heart sink. That false idea fueled by his ego and ancient fears could not be further from the truth. Maybe, in his mind, the scar was a mistake. Maybe he thought in made him less than perfect. But in each and every way he was. To you.

Cupping his face in your hands, you looked deeply into his green eyes. “Believe me; the only thing in life that that scares me is losing you, Frederick.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he asked as he leaned into your touch, craving affection that you gladly bestowed upon him. Along with another kiss followed by a deep breath.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” you whispered.

The weekend had been magical. Candlelit dinners and lingering for hours in his plush bed. His smile at the sight of a new tie pin, a birthday present from you that he vowed to keep close to his heart when what felt like the whole wide world would stretch between you. But as his emerald eyes expanded, something in your soul suggested that this was the greatest gift you could give him.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Please.”

Climbing off the bed, you stood before him, your eyes never leaving his as you stripped off the camisole and let it fall to the floor, your body naked from the torso up. And his gaze growing wider. You felt no shame as you turned to let him look at the long line adorning the right side of your rib cage, looming large and wrapping around you like a vine.

“I… how?” he managed to ask.

“I was assaulted one night when I was coming home from a party,” you began. “A man… he came up behind me. I… I tried to fight him off. But I couldn’t. He was too strong and I… I was too weak.” You shuddered as you recalled the terrifying ordeal. As always, it was hard to even talk about. But with Frederick, even in the face of the memories, you felt safe.

“My love, the last thing you are is weak.”

As tears rolled down your cheeks, Frederick abandoned the bed and held you, his arms forming a protective fortress. You didn’t think you would cry this much, but here you were with sobs wracking your body. But the darkness was being held at bay because Frederick was here… guarding you with his life.

“I’m so sorry it happened,” he whispered into your hair, caressing your bare back, his fingers gently skimming the path of the scar. “Your strength is in your survival. And if there ever comes a time when that’s not enough, you lean on me.”

Your tears ceased, as Frederick tilted your face towards his stare, his lips descending into a delicate kiss. “Thank you for showing me,” he continued. “You did not have to. But the last thing I want is any secrets between us.” His tantalizing touch made you smile, and his fingers fell to your hands until he stood before you at arm’s length.

“Now, a promise is a promise,” he said.

“You don’t have to, Frederick. I don’t want to force---”

With a shake of his head, he gingerly touched the hem of his shirt. “I am not sure how much you know about my attacks---”

“I know enough,” you quickly said. “If it’s too much, you don’t have to re-live it by telling me.” Because you Googled him on your phone after your first date. Sought out his book after the second. Stories of Abel Gideon disemboweling him, Miriam Lass taking aim at his face. All because of the unfounded accusations that he was the Chesapeake Ripper. Of course he was innocent, framed by the real monster in everyone’s midst. All of it disturbed you. And you did have questions. But you would never press… not until he was ready.

Fredrick said nothing now as he removed his shirt and dropped it next to your camisole. The cruel red mark from the warped surgery stood pronounced against his pale flesh. But no worse than your own scar. You reached forward to touch it.

“Wait,” he said, his voice causing you to freeze. “There is more.”

Hanging his head, he proceeded to remove his glass eye. Oddly enthralled by his calm movements, you were not sure what you would see next. But you were far from afraid. Grabbing a tissue from the nightstand, Frederick wiped the make-up from his cheek, the concealer that even your kisses could never completely eradicate.

“This is the real me… underneath the mask…” he said, lifting his head while he avoided your glances. With a gasp, you felt the tears pool around your eyes once more. So many people… too many had hurt him severely. And that all but broke your heart. He shuffled where he stood, and you slowly stepped towards him, reaching for his face and turning his gaze to yours.

“Frederick, I love the real you.”

He looked stunned as he struggled for words. “I… I don’t understand how… how you could love a… a misshapen freak…”

“Stop that, Frederick,” you said determinedly. “You wouldn’t have let me get away with that.”

“But you are still beautiful, he argued. “The most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

“And you are the handsomest man I will ever know,” you insisted. “These scars… our scars. They are marks of battles that we won. Bringing us to this moment.”

He hesitated as you nuzzled his neck and stroked his chest, savoring the pulse of his heartbeat, the only sound in the room until his voice hit your ear.

“There is no victory sweeter than loving you,” he said. Hugging him tighter, you kissed his soft lips and clung to his neck, relieved when his arms wrapped around you and he gently laid you down on the bed.

“Show me how much you love me,” you sighed. “I’ve never wanted… never needed you more.”

He pulled off your panties, his pajama bottoms. Lying together naked, entangled in his sheets, you felt every shadow fade. Any walls that might have existed between you crashed down as your hands traveled the realm of his body, his lips matching the moves over every inch of your frame.

“Now, Frederick,” you moaned. “I can’t wait any longer.” You eased your leg over his, and he reached down to rub his manhood against your eager, moist mound. You thrust your hips forward, encouraging him to take you.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice worried as you laughed lightly, combing your fingers through his hair, your other hand falling to his ass where you felt his muscles flexing as you pushed him into your essence.

“You never could,” you whispered, stretching up to kiss the scar on his face. “Let go. It’s just you and me. Forever.”

The sound that drizzled off his tongue was delicious as he lunged inside you, over and over; the position didn’t quite allow for his full length to penetrate you, but you relished it nonetheless, delighted that you could kiss him continuously…

…until you needed more.

Reluctantly leaving his mouth, you used the leverage of your leg to push him to his back. Your moans consumed the bedroom as you rode him, grinding yourself against him. Leaning forward as your orgasm hit, you felt Frederick’s hands cradle your quivering ass, and he watched, with complete fascination, as you came undone. The climax seemed never ending, sent your senses reeling, and when it finished, you collapsed onto his chest with him still inside you, still throbbing.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he said, catching his breath as he caressed your flushed face. Sighing as you climbed off him, you cuddled into his side, winding the sheets around your bodies. With your fingers on his scar, his hand tenderly touching yours, you nodded into his neck and pressed your ear to his heart.

“I know,” you said, almost wishing that the sun would never rise. “But after tonight… now that we’re this close… even an ocean of stars and sky can’t come between us.”

Peering down at you, his lips curved into a small smile. You wondered if it was too much, if he was about to burst out laughing and remind you of practical things like time zones and borderlines. But Frederick just brushed a lock of hair from your face, kissed your eyes, and snuggled closer.

“I love the sound of that,” he started. “But…”

“Yes?” you asked.

“But not as much as I love you.”

#raul esparza #frederick chilton #hannibal fanfiction #not mine #vintagemichelle91 #she is so wonderful

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