Frieza reclined on the vast bed in his private quarters, the sheets silk-soft against his new skin.
Earth's classical music filled the chamber — Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata (1st movement), slow and haunting, pulled from the massive archive his expedition had finally delivered.
It had taken them almost a year and a half.
He'd sent a hand-picked team of vaguely humanoid aliens — broad faces, slanted eyes, bodies that could pass for human if no one looked too closely.
Down-syndrome adjacent, but loyal and discreet. They'd blended in, raided record stores, digital libraries, private collections. Everything he'd asked for.
Worth the wait.
He closed his eyes, letting the piano notes wash over him.
*Genius,* he thought, a lazy, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
He hadn't just wished for "human-like skin."
He'd been precise.
Perfect body of HIS vision.
The dragon had delivered.
On the outside: tall, pale, strikingly handsome human male.
On the inside: still Frieza — no need to breathe, eat, sleep.
But the real masterpieces?
The infinite biological ki generator.
Like the androids' design, but alive. Organic. Growing.
No stagnant cap at a few billion.
An endless well that expanded with every battle, every meditation, every breath he didn't need to take.
As long as he existed — forever, if he wished — his reserves would swell.
No stamina drain in Golden.
No limit in Black.
No running dry, ever.
But Frieza's had also wished for regeneration—it was no mere afterthought; it was a masterpiece of ki-fueled rebirth.
Wounds didn't just close; they erupted with golden-black energy, cells exploding into frantic reconstruction, flesh knitting in violent bursts as his infinite reservoir poured raw power into the damage.
A severed arm would regrow in seconds—bone snapping into place with audible cracks, muscle weaving like living fire, skin sealing flawless and pale.
Even a fatal blow—a heart pierced, a head removed—meant nothing if a spark of will remained; ki would surge like a supernova, dragging the body back from oblivion in a blaze of light and agony that Frieza welcomed as proof of superiority.
No scars. No weakness.
Just endless, aggressive renewal—his ki devouring injury itself, growing stronger from the act.
Death had been demoted to a minor inconvenience.
And the dragon had made it eternal.
He flexed a hand, feeling the ocean of power humming beneath the skin.
*Infinite growth. Infinite potential.*
The music swelled, dark and beautiful.
He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.
The old shell might be gone.
But the monster?
Stronger than ever.
And now, with Earth's finest music playing softly in the background…
He felt, for the first time in a long while, almost content.
Almost.
There were still universes to break.
But tonight?
Tonight, he'd enjoy the sonata. And his lovely little chef.
And tomorrow?
The galaxy would learn what infinite really meant.
---
Frieza was sprawled across the velvet expanse of his bed just then.
A knock sounded at the door.
Soft. Timid. Almost apologetic.
He hadn't summoned anyone except Macki, and she knew better than to hesitate.
Frieza rose in one fluid motion. He crossed the room and opened the door.
Macki stood there.
No longer sobbing, but her eyes were still glassy, cheeks flushed with the effort of holding everything in. The sight of her trying so hard not to break irritated him in a way he found almost amusing.
He couldn't have that.
A wicked smile curved his lips.
"Come in," he called, voice low and inviting, laced with something that made the air feel heavier.
Macki stepped inside, body stiff as if the eerie piano melody crawling through the room was wrapping cold fingers around her spine.
Frieza returned to the small dining table set for two—intimate, deliberate—and settled into his chair with casual grace. He motioned to the opposite seat.
"Sit."
She obeyed, lowering herself carefully, every movement brittle.
The plates were already prepared—her own work, delivered earlier. Now she served the final touches: pouring water, arranging the last dish.
Her hands shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of his glass, tiny droplets scattering across the table.
Frieza reached out—slow, unhurried—and closed his fingers around her trembling wrist.
His grip was warm. Firm. Gentle.
"I'm not going to bite you," he said, voice soft, almost tender, rolling from his new human throat like velvet over steel.
To Macki, it sounded like damnation wrapped in silk.
The tears she had been fighting spilled over instantly, silent trails down her cheeks.
Frieza's expression didn't change, but something dark and satisfied flickered in his red eyes.
He leaned forward, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath.
"Don't cry," he murmured. "It ruins your beautiful face."
Then he tilted his head and pressed his lips to her cheek—once, twice—kissing the tears away with deliberate care.
Macki went rigid.
Every instinct screamed at her to run, to scream, to fight.
This monster had slaughtered her brothers in front of her.
And now he was comforting her.
Tasting her fear like wine.
Frieza pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"Dig in," he said lightly, as if they were any ordinary dinner guests.
He speared a piece of the dish she had prepared—perfectly seasoned, exquisite—and slipped it into his mouth.
The flavor bloomed across his tongue.
He paused, savoring it.
"Magnificent," he said, voice low and genuine.
Macki stared at her untouched plate.
Frieza smiled again.
And waited.
The sonata played on, slow and merciless.
Macki stared at her untouched plate, the fork a dead weight in her hand.
*He killed them. He murdered my brothers right in front of me. Elec's head... Gas exploding... Oil's blood all over my face...*
The memories slammed into her like fists, over and over. Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat. She wanted to scream, to lunge across the table and claw those red eyes out, to make him feel even a fraction of the agony ripping her apart.
But she couldn't move.
*If I fight, I die. If I scream, I die. If I even look at him wrong...*
Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Tears blurred her vision again, hot and unstoppable. *They were my family. My everything. And he's sitting there, eating my food, kissing my tears like it's a game.*
Revulsion burned through her, white-hot. His lips on her skin—gentle, warm—felt like poison. Like violation. Like he was tasting her breakdown and enjoying it.
*Monster. He's a monster.*
But the worst part—the part that made her hate herself most—was the tiny, treacherous spark buried under the terror.
*He didn't kill me.*
*He kept me.*
*He called me beautiful.*
*He said I belong to him.*
Her body trembled harder, shame flooding her as she realized her cheeks were burning not just from crying. *No. No no no. I can't feel grateful. I can't want this. He's going to use me, break me, throw me away when he's bored...*
She was drowning in it—grief, rage, fear, self-loathing—all crashing together until she couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
*I just want to die,* she thought, the words raw and desperate in her mind. *But I'm too much of a coward to make him do it.*
Frieza watched her, calm, waiting.
Macki picked up her fork with shaking fingers.
And forced herself to eat.
Because surviving was all she had left.
Even if it meant swallowing ash in front of the devil himself.
Frieza pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his face inches from hers, the faint scent of the meal still on his breath.
He studied her for a long moment — the tear tracks, the trembling lips, the raw terror she couldn't hide.
Then he smiled, slow and intimate.
"So," he said softly, voice low enough that it vibrated through the space between them, "what do you want to do next?"
Macki's heart slammed against her ribs.
The question hung in the air like a blade.
*He's asking me?* The thought was absurd, hysterical. *After everything—he's asking me?*
Her mind fractured.
She wanted to scream. To spit in his face. To drive the fork through his perfect new throat and watch him bleed like her brothers had.
She wanted to beg for death — quick, clean, over.
She wanted to disappear.
Monster, she thought. Killer.
Yet his touch lingered soft, voice soothing.
Contradictions tore her apart: hatred clashing with survival instinct, loathing tangled in unwanted warmth.
But the words that came out were small, broken, automatic.
"I… I want to please you, my lord."
The lie tasted like poison.
The truth tasted worse.
Frieza's smile widened — not mocking, not cruel.
Almost approving.
He leaned in again, lips brushing the corner of her mouth this time, barely a kiss.
"Good girl," he whispered.
Then he sat back, picked up his glass, and took a slow sip.
Macki picked up her fork.
Her hand didn't shake anymore.
It couldn't.
She had nothing left to lose.
And everything to survive.
Frieza leaned back in his chair, the faint clink of his glass against the table the only sound breaking the sonata's mournful flow.
He watched her eat — slow, mechanical bites, eyes fixed on the plate as if it were the only safe place left in the universe.
Macki's fork scraped porcelain. She swallowed, throat working hard, the food sitting like lead in her stomach.
Frieza took another sip of water — unnecessary, but the ritual pleased him in this new body.
He set the glass down.
"Tell me," he said, voice conversational, almost curious, "how does it feel?"
Macki's fork froze halfway to her mouth.
She didn't look up.
Frieza waited.
Finally, her voice came — small, hoarse.
"How does… what feel, my lord?"
He smiled.
"Being the last Heeter."
The fork clattered to the plate.
Macki's shoulders curled inward, a shudder running through her.
Frieza leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on steepled fingers.
"You schemed together. Stole together. Dreamed of empires together."
His tone stayed light, almost nostalgic.
"And now it's just you."
Macki's breath hitched.
Tears welled again, but she blinked them back fiercely.
Frieza watched the struggle with quiet fascination.
"Survivor's guilt," he mused. "How quaint."
He reached across the table — slow enough that she could track the movement — and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.
She flinched, but didn't pull away.
"You hate me," he said softly.
His thumb traced her jaw.
"But you'll serve me anyway."
Macki's voice cracked when she spoke.
"Why… why keep me?"
Frieza's smile sharpened.
"Because you're useful," he said. "And most importantly because I can."
He withdrew his hand.
"Finish your meal."
Macki picked up the fork again.
The sonata reached its final, haunting notes.
Frieza listened.
And waited.
The night was young.
And she was his.
---
Please drop some stones l want to improve my ranking so that more people can enjoy this fic
Next chapter is R18 just letting y'all know