Welcome to Boxer & Rice

I don't know what makes me do it. It's not as though this fight's any different than any of the others we've had, the day's passed the same as any other day, but today... I just can't control my need to touch him. He's so beautiful, so passionate and every single second that I spend with him I fall more and more in love. I see what it was that Bulma saw in him, though I don't think she saw him as clearly as I do; she never noticed his deeply buried vulnerability, the fear that he doesn't show. He draws me like a moth to a candle flame, but I don't think that I'm the one who will burn if I'm not careful. His fragility has kept me at bay far more effectively than any aggression could.

Today I beat him, although it often ends in a stalemate, and I saw, for a brief second, the pain and the loneliness he keeps hidden behind that mask of his. But there was something more there this time, a sort of defeated resignation, as though he'd given up and didn't care anymore. I can't bear that; he shouldn 't look so defeated, so... broken. Not for a second, not ever. He's the Prince of Saiyajin's, he's strong and noble and... beautiful. Nothing so beautiful should ever be broken.

I'm lying on top of him, my body deliciously pressed against his, and I can feel the warmth rising from his skin, even through the thick cloth of my gi. I can't help it. I try to resist but it's like keeping a thirsty man from water. I stroke his side, keeping his wrists pinned to avoid being hit, fully expecting him to fight me, to protest this sudden, unwanted touch. He's always hated being touched.

He does nothing.

At first I think that it's because he doesn't know what's going on, but one glance at him shows lowered eyelids and heated cheeks, his face a picture of shyness and... submission? But that can never be; Vegeta would never submit. I run my fingers underneath his shirt and release his hands, hoping for some sort of return, some reply to what I've done. His arms fall limply to his sides and he doesn't raise his eyes.

I kiss him, pressing my lips against his, and licking softly at them, asking for entrance. He gives it immediately, his mouth a sweet treasure he allows me to explore. But he still does nothing, makes no sound, no movement. I'm the director of this play and all the actors – he seems content to be the stage. I don't want that. I've no wish to simply sate myself in him as though he were some sort of slave, a whore to satisfy my lust and nothing else. He's more than that; he completes me in ways I never hope to understand, he's my anchor, the person I can always depend on to be there when I most need it. He's not just...

He smelt of fear. A bone-deep fear whose cause I can't see, so strong I almost look around, searching for an enemy. But it's gone now, his eyes calm and his scent submissive, obedient...docile. Still that smell of fear remains lingering in my nostrils, an acidic scent with implications that I don't wish to examine. I know I must but... He doesn't fear me, does he?

He doesn't seem to and that encourages me. I lift his shirt from his sleek, taut body, careful not to startle him – he seems confused by something and a hint of apprehension enters his scent although his face remains calm, controlled... stoic? I want to see him flushed with pleasure, the fear banished completely from his eyes; I want him to know that I love him, that he is treasured as he's never been before. I run my hands down his back, caressing the base of his tail and he arches into me, his scent taking on the smell of pleasure. But the fear remains, it even gets stronger... I don't understand. What's wrong?

I continue, touching him softly, trying to reassure the beautiful, fire-born creature beneath me that I mean no harm. I want him to be ready, to want me as much as I want him, so my touches are gentle, teasing. The fear fades, as does the confusion, until I can barely sense them and for a second I smell something that resembles amusement, but there's something wrong with it... Perhaps I am just being paranoid.

I draw him onto my lap, thrusting into him slowly, giving his body time to adjust. I hit his sweet spot first time and he gasps, shocked by something. His eyes give a window to his emotions and right now they speak of confusion, fear, arousal and... pleading? What is it? What haven't I done that you need Vegeta? His silence is almost frightening in it's intensity, that gasp the first sound he's uttered the entire time – does he think I want him to be silent, or is this how he always is?

I move slowly inside him, waiting for him to catch up with me, and his eyes continue to beg then the pleading finally disappears. The scent of arousal becomes stronger, overwhelming everything but the fear. What are you afraid of Vegeta? What am I doing that you fear? He clasps his hands over his mouth, as though trying to prevent himself from making any noise. I remove them, wanting to hear him cry out in ecstasy. He looks upset, confused – he didn't expect me to remove his hands. Why not? What's missing? What am I missing?!

His pleasure increases but he's struggling to remain silent, his face twisted up in concentration and his hands balled up by his sides. He eventually loses the fight, a scream of ecstasy pealing out of him as he achieves his climax, and he grips my shoulders as though I'm the only thing in the whole world, his body shuddering in pleasure. The tightening of his muscles around me makes the world explode in streamers of multicoloured lights, and I shout my release to the stars. I pant, holding his lithe form against my own coarser frame; I never want to let him go.

He's trembling like a frightened bird in my arms, and it's not out of exhaustion. He's afraid of something, of me. Does he expect me to be angry? Why? He's done nothing wrong; he's not committed a terrible crime. He hangs his head like a spaniel knowing it's about to be whipped, his slight body shivering against mine, making me want to comfort him, to destroy whatever it is that has pushed him to such depths and I feel a rage growing in me for whatever did this to him. But I suppress it, for the moment, knowing it would only make him fear more.

I stroke him, and then lift his head, kissing his silken lips, and turn him in my lap so he's sitting sideways on to me. I breathe in the scent of his soft, ebony hair and then tickle his ear with my lips, smiling as he moans and stirs within my encompassing arms. He's so beautiful, and I tell him so, comparing him to the pearl hidden in an oyster's shell. His scent becomes confused again, and it seems as though he wants to contradict me but he doesn't, unusual for him... The fear scent appears again, along with guilt. Why should he feel guilty?

Slowly he stiffens against me, the fear once more overriding all other emotions in his scent until I want to sneeze to rid myself of it. I rock him, gently stroking his smooth skin and purring deep in my throat, hoping to soothe him out of the terror that's gripping him. He relaxes slowly, his scent becoming more controlled and his face gains an introverted expression. I don't interrupt his thoughts – he's obviously trying to sort something out in his mind. Suddenly his scent changes from relatively calm to pure terror, mixed with denial, which then fades away into a nervous, tremulously hopeful smell.

He lifts a trembling hand and lays it across my cheek – I can feel it shiver against my skin, the delicacy of his build once more hitting me; he's so very good at projecting a greater size than he actually has. He raises his head, his eyelids lifting and searching mine for something, something he doesn't want but nevertheless expects. I don't give it him, instead holding his eyes with my own for long moments, before turning my head and kissing his palm tenderly. He expected something else, something that would return him to that unnatural, docile state he's been in since I started this.

The smile that lights up his face when I kiss his hand is enough to illuminate the darkest depths. He starts to cry, clinging to me desperately and weeping silently into my shoulder. I don't mind – he's lost the fear, although I don't doubt that it will return, but for now he's not afraid. I've a suspicion about what causes him to behave so... tamely, so submissively, but I... we'll deal with it later. For now, I am content that he's happy in my arms, content to hold him as he drifts off to a peaceful sleep – perhaps the first he's had in years. Sleep my love, I will protect you.