#invincible au

A world inhabited by billions of the strongest beings to ever grace the universe, where power was not a rarity but rather a birthright, and might thrived in such abundance it bled into the very architecture of the empire itself. 

Viltrum did not just survive for millennia, it had spent them conquering. The Viltrumites bent a myriad of civilizations to their knees and called it order, this is what they were made to do—to inflict brutality upon those weaker, which in turn, made Viltrum prosper. A race of people so certain of its own superiority, extinction had never once been considered a possibility. 

Then…the Scourge Virus came, and with it, came ruin. 

The disease spread throughout Viltrum like a curse; hollowing the planet from the inside out. Billions were reduced to mere fractions; certainty tainted with panic, and proud legacy careened into desperate survival. 

What once had been a world overflowing with life, power, and conquest was left gasping for air, which may have been rightfully deserved; a karmic outcome of sorts. All of that cruelty, all that destruction they inflicted among others was now occurring to their own people, with no cure, no way of stopping it. The virus claimed countless lives, taking those who were supposedly the strongest in a short matter of time, and spreading far too quickly to ever contain it. 

Now? Viltrum stands not as it once was, but as a graveyard dressed in imperial red and pearly white. A planet that was so prosperous it seemed eternal now lingers on the verge of extinction, its future balanced precariously between dwindling bloodlines and the threat of yet another war—one looming close enough to feel it in the air itself. The Coalition of Planets awaits Viltrum like carrion beyond the stars, united in grief, eager to finish what the virus started. 

And in the center of it all, sits your father.

Grand Regent Thragg. 

Ruler of what remains, the keeper of a rapidly dying empire and the strongest Viltrumite the planet had ever borne witness to…with the sole exception of Satoru Gojo, of course.

And he has summoned you without explanation, how typical of him. When you are as powerful and feared as he, no one dares to ask why, afraid it may be the very last thing they say. 

The corridor leading to the throne room seems longer today, lined in stone the shade of dried blood; the palace, similar to everything else left on this world, does not feel alive anymore. It feels artificial, preserved, like the bones of something once magnificent is now forced to pretend it has not already rotted from the inside out. 

You hate being summoned here alone, not out of fear—no, you fear nothing, not even him, but because you already have a rising suspicion as to why he has requested it.

Your eighteenth birthday had passed not long ago, you are an adult now, a fully grown one in the eyes of Viltrum. And on a planet with so few women left, you can think of only a handful of reasons a father like yours would wish to speak to you in private.

The doors part at your approach with a low groan and you step into the vast chamber with your spine straight and your chin high, red light spilling through the massive windows and painting the floor in the color of fresh violence. 

Your father stands with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the tethered remnants of Viltrum below. You stop a respectful distance away and drop into a kneel, arm crossed over your heart with your head bowed. Despite the Grand Regent being your own flesh, he still commands your respect just as he does everyone else. 

“Father.”

He does not turn immediately, does not say a thing. Instead, he lets the silence stretch until the one standing within it begins to feel small; he has always wielded silence well in this way. 

Then, at last, his pragmatic voice cuts through the room, “Daughter…Let me explain your future to you.”

The words settle cold and heavy in your stomach. It is how he says it, as if your future has already been decided, written into scripture before you were ever born. Slowly, you lift your head. Thragg turns then and there is nothing soft in his face, there rarely is. Yet, tonight he somehow looks even less like your father and more like what he truly is—the ruler of a wretched world, a man so thoroughly carved from purpose that tenderness had never been useful to him. 

“You are aware of our circumstances,” He says.

“Yes.”

“The number of remaining females is no longer sufficient enough to justify unnecessary risk.”

Your brows draw together unwillingly, "Unnecessary risk,” You repeat flatly.

His expression does not so much as flicker, it stays as hard as stone, “You will no longer participate in combat in the same capacity.”

For a second, you simply stare at him. You understand what he means, quite perfectly, and heat crawls up your spine at once, “We are on the brink of war with the Coalition,” You say, rising from your kneel in one smooth motion, “And you want me to…sit out?”

“I want to preserve what remains of Viltrum.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, unable to bite it back, “By sidelining your heir?”

“By ensuring my heir survives long enough to matter.”

The room falls still and silent once again. Cruel—that is what it is. How can his tone remain so calm and certain as if your anger is nothing more than air moving through the atmosphere?

You take a step closer, jaw tight, “I am not some delicate thing to be hidden away while everyone else goes to war in my place.”

“No,” Thragg agrees, “You are not.”

And, somehow, his agreement is worse. Because he is not suggesting you are weak, of course not, you share his genetics, there is no way you could be weak. But…your strength no longer matters.

“As my daughter and as my heir, your purpose has changed.”

Your fingers curl at your sides, “My purpose.”

“Yes.”

The words come out sharper now, barbed with disbelief, “You would remove me from battle when our species is balanced on the edge of extinction?”

His gaze stays fixed on you, “Your value to Viltrum no longer lies there.”

Your value. 

Now, it is not measured by how many enemies you can kill, but by what your body can produce. You hold his gaze anyway, looking away would feel too much like yielding and you are not ready to do that, not yet, “So that is what this is? You drag me in here to tell me I have been repurposed?”

If the word offends him, he gives no indication. Though, majority of the time he is unreadable regardless, “The future of our world will not be secured through sentiment,” He states, “It will only be secured through blood.”

You purse your lips, “And you have already chosen whose, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

No surprise there. He would never summon you for a discussion he had not already resolved in his own mind. Men like Thragg do not ask, they decide and inform. Still, your stomach twists with something tight and ugly all the same, because there are only so many names he would consider suitable for a task like this. 

“The bloodlines of surviving females are too closely shared with those of the remaining males. Any offspring produced from such pairings would carry an unacceptable risk of deficiency.” 

Though you were already aware of this. The survivors were not merely few in number; they were descended from the same handful of families, their bloodlines crossing so many times that there was hardly any meaningful distance left between them.

Your father’s voice stays level and unfeeling, “Your mother’s lineage was preserved separately from the central Viltrumite population for generations. Through her, your blood remains sufficiently distinct from that of the surviving males.”

You knew this as well. Your mother had been descended from an isolated Viltrumite branch, one that had resided beyond the empire’s central territories long enough to avoid the tangled ancestry now burdening those left behind. 

It was what made you valuable—the fact that enough of your blood was different. However, it should not feel isolating. On Viltrum, usefulness is a virtue. Value is an honor. To be necessary is to matter. And yet your arms fold over your chest in silent protest. 

“The male chosen for you, therefore…” Thragg trails off, choosing his verbiage thoughtfully, “...Could not be selected carelessly.”

You swallow once, though it does nothing to alleviate the heat bubbling in your chest, “Who is it?”

Thragg does not speak the answer. Instead, with all the chilling ease of a man summoning a soldier rather than a future father to his grandchildren, he gives a short nod to the doors and they part at once. 

Satoru Gojo steps through them. 

The breath leaves your lungs so fast it nearly hurts. 

He is the strongest besides your father. The Viltrumite they have named the Honored One. 

Of course he was the one chosen. 

He enters the throne room alone, tall, broad, and pale in the flood of red light, white hair catching gold where it spills across his forehead. Even now, beneath nothing but imperial summons and the weight of your father’s gaze, he moves with that same impeccable steadiness he carries into battle—unhurried, precise, devastatingly self-possessed. Eighteen years old, the same as you, and already spoken of as if he were something much older and inevitable. 

He stops at your side and lowers himself into a kneel, one fist over his heart, but you see it—an almost imperceptible flicker of his eyes in your direction, before they lock onto your father, “Grand Regent.”

Up close, the sight of him is even more striking. Now he is not merely a name or the strongest of this generation or the boy you have spent your whole life seeing from the edges of training halls and state assemblies; always near, never touchable. No, now he is here, beside you, beautiful in the severe, infuriating way only very dangerous men ever are. 

And as he stands here next to you, in this context, the reality lands all at once. You see exactly why your father chose him. Worse—you see exactly how easily Viltrum would use a man like this again and again if allowed. 

A male like Gojo, with blood like his, strength like his, a body like his, would never be left to breed with one woman unless someone made it impossible. Something possessive flares at that thought, shocking even you. 

Your father’s voice remains level, “Satoru Gojo.”

Satoru lifts his head just enough to meet his cold gaze, “You summoned me.”

“I did,” Thragg looks between the two of you as if assessing nothing more intimate than a military resource, “The future of Viltrum requires deliberate preservation. My daughter is the only surviving female whose bloodline remains sufficiently distinct from that of our males and she has reached physical maturity. Among the surviving males, several could have served the role. But, I have chosen you.”

For the first time, something shifts in Gojo. There is a tightening in the line of his jaw as he comes to the understanding that there were others considered for this position. Older males, more seasoned veterans, men with longer battle records and centuries of experience behind them, some that have even fathered offspring before. Despite that…your father still chose him. 

The knowledge pleases him, but he buries it well. It stirs some private, sharpened satisfaction that does not touch his face. His sense of superiority among the Viltrumites spikes ever so slightly. 

But beside him, you catch the faintest change in his posture, as if another male standing where he now stands would have sat poorly with him. 

Thragg continues, “You understand what is being asked of you.”

Oh, Satoru knows. Selective breeding is not a foreign concept to Viltrum. In reality, it is the standard to assure the most sufficient children with the perfect genetics. A simple arrangement between males and females, nothing more than a means of reproduction. Though, this time around it is much different. This is a last ditch effort for salvation. 

“Yes,” He answers. 

“And you accept it.”

Satoru does not hesitate, “I do.”

The words land strangely because there is no reluctance in them, no visible uncertainty. They lack eagerness, too. Nothing crude, just acceptance, like this is another duty placed into his hands. And for some reason, that bothers you more than if he had smirked or displayed smugness. 

You look at him fully then and…

God, he is handsome.

That only causes the flare of possession to deepen. 

Because if your father has chosen him—this beautiful, terrible thing at your side who is so composed he may as well have been curated from the same stone as the palace, then you know exactly what Viltrum would do with him when given the chance. 

Use him. 

Broadly, strategically, repeatedly, everywhere. 

No. 

If your body is to become strategy, then you refuse to become the first stop in a wider plan for his. 

“If I am to bear children for Viltrum,” You announce, cutting through the room before either of them can continue, “Then I will do it with him,” Thragg says nothing, neither does Satoru. You keep your eyes on the latter anyway, “But only him. He will not take other women. Not on Viltrum. Not elsewhere. Not later. If I am to do this, then he belongs only to me.”

The words ring through the throne room like steel and for one second, nobody moves, nobody even breathes. Your father studies you with a cool, almost curious stillness. Next to you, Satoru remains composed, but there is the faintest shift in him—small enough that another may miss it. A sharpening of focus.

You already can assume what your father is thinking. Monogamy? That is unheard of on Viltrum. Especially whilst on the brink of extinction? It is an almost offensive demand. But, Thragg is in no position to argue. If this is the only way to get you to accept the terms of the arrangement, then he has no other choice. 

He speaks first, opting for something you did not expect, “You are possessive.”

Your lip curls, “I feel it is practical.”

His gaze lingers on you a moment longer, then lands on Satoru, “My daughter has made her condition clear.”

Satoru’s eyes flick to you again, only for a breath, but it is long enough for you to feel the full, unnerving weight of them on your face. Then he says, just as calmly as before, “Understood.”

No sign that he finds the condition unreasonable at all, despite it being unreasonable as ever. 

You are not sure why that should matter to you this much, but it does. 

Your father seems satisfied enough by the answer and inclines his head, “It is done,” Then his eyes harden further with expectation, “Do not delay.”

The meaning of it burns through the room at once and you hate that your body recognizes it instantly. You hate even more that some traitorous part responds. 

Thragg says nothing else because there is no need to, the dismissal implicit now, both heavy and absolute. Your jaw tightens and without another word, you turn for the doors and hear Satoru move beside you a second later; the sound of his steps falling into place with yours as the two of you leave the throne room beneath your father’s cold, watchful silence. 

The corridor beyond feels longer now, narrower too, and for several strides, neither of you speaks, but the quiet between you is not empty. It is crowded with the knowledge of where you are being sent and what is meant to happen once you get there. 

You can feel him beside you in a way that makes no sense and all the sense in the world; the hushed gravity of a man you have known the shape of your entire life and yet have never once stood this close to. 

Distance has always separated you both and now, there is none left. 

You cannot find it in yourself to look at him first, unable to trust what seeing him again so clearly might do to the uneasiness weighing on your chest. So instead you keep your eyes dead ahead, on the corridor created out of blood-colored stone, and let your mind do what it has done for years when it comes to Satoru Gojo—circle him without touching. 

The boy who was always the strongest, the one your father observed differently, the one whom others measured themselves against and did not live to tell the tale. The weapon who kept becoming more beautiful with age in that unfairly infuriating way, all pale severity and blue eyes so brilliant and the kind of body Viltrum revered without need to say it aloud. 

And now…he walks beside you because your father has decided that he will father your children. 

You almost miss a step as the thought of that haunts you. Beside you, he is still silent as ever. Entirely too composed for a man who has just been informed he is expected to bed the Grand Regent’s daughter before the hour is out. That irritates you too. Everything about him seems to. 

By the time the two of you reach your chambers, your pulse is annoyingly frantic. The doors part and you step inside first. Red light spills through thin windows cut high in the walls, dragging long shadows over everything in its wake. A broad bed sits in the center, too neatly made to feel inviting, more like another imperial command waiting to be obeyed than somewhere either of you might willingly lay. A basin gleams near the far wall along with folded linens and a low table. It is obvious the room had been carefully prepared for this moment. 

You hear the doors close behind him and now you are entirely alone with Satoru Gojo, and the crushing expectation of what is meant to happen next. 

For an awkward while, neither of you says anything nor dares breathe too loudly. Genuinely, it is absurd. The arrangement had already been made, the purpose is as clear as day, and the room itself may as well shout well what are you two waiting for?

Regardless, the both of you simply stand there. 

Until, at last, unable to bear the silence any longer, you move to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight and a second later, after the briefest pause, he does the same. He is far enough to not touch, but close enough to be painfully aware of him anyway. 

And all you can do is stir over the fact that you know exactly what is expected and still have no idea how to begin. 

You burn holes into the floor, then finally turn your head, “So…” His gaze shifts to you, “You are the strongest.”

The reply comes laced with that maddening calmness, “That is what they say.”

It is such a dry response that you nearly laugh, but refuse to. You let your eyes drag over him openly since there is no point in pretending otherwise now. This is the first time in your life you have been permitted to look at him this long. There is even more to appreciate when being this close. 

The broadness of his shoulders, his posture is perfect in that arrogant–Viltrumite way, the pale beauty of his face works cohesively with the white uniform he adorns. A body honed by violence, primed to be one of the most formidable killers Viltrum had ever produced. You had known, abstractly, what he was. Feared it, perhaps. Admired it too, in the private way one admires storms from a distance. 

Distance was much kinder than whatever this is. 

And he is looking at you too. In recognition, maybe. As if he is seeing you clearly for the first time as well and finding the view more complicated than anticipated. 

“You accepted quickly,” You note.

“There was no reason not to.”

You turn your gaze away from him again, to the crimson light stretched across the floor, “None at all?”

“Your father did not summon me for my opinion.”

“And that does not trouble you?”

Satoru is silent for a moment, then says, “It is what is required.”

You huff a frustrated breath, “It is easy for you to say.”

His gaze rests on your face, “Because I was not removed from the battlefield.”

You look at him after he speaks and for the first time since he entered the throne room, something in his countenance seems to slip from pure unreadability. There is nothing so openly dangerous, but understanding, possibly? At least he is not stupid enough or selfish enough to feign ignorance. 

“No. You were not,” Your voice comes out harsher for the restraint wrapped around it, “I have spent my life being raised to fight. To conquer. To rule after him, if it came to that. And now, suddenly, I am told that none of it matters as much as what my body can produce.”

Satoru says nothing and you almost snap at him for it, until you realize he is not silent out of indifference. He is simply listening. You laugh this time, though it is small and bitter, “And you—you are told you are to father the next generation and you kneel and say understood.”

He does not flinch, “Yes.”

You turn toward him more fully, “That is all?”

“That is what a man in my position is for.”

His answer is what helps you remember that he is still only eighteen too. Young, but a grown man. Spoken of like he is some towering inevitability and some warrior fated to reshape whatever war he enters, but he is really, the same as you. He is merely just another body the empire has deemed useful enough to claim fully and use in this predicament. You should not find that as disarming as you do. 

“And my condition…you accepted that quickly too.”

At that, something almost flickers in his blues, “I did.”

“You do not mind being told where you may and may not go?”

The corner of his mouth shifts so faintly you nearly miss it, “No.”

You narrow your eyes, “No?”

“You asked for exclusivity,” He says, “I understood.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“Then what are you asking now?”

The question catches you off guard. You stare at him a minute too long, suddenly very aware that this is the first true exchange the two of you ever had, and it is already beginning to feel less like politics. You know you need to answer carefully, but what comes out is, “I am asking whether it offends you.”

His eyes stay on yours, “No.”

The reply is immediate enough to feel sincere, “Why not?”

Satoru pauses long enough that you see him consider the words before speaking them, “Because your father chose me for you,” He says, “Not the others.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Perhaps, buried under the composure, there is something in that answer that feels a little too close to what had flashed through your own mind in the throne room, “That sounds very pleased with itself.”

“It is only true.”

“It is rather arrogant.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, “I am simply correct.”

Then the room falls quiet once more. And now that the real questions have been answered, the reason why you are here at all sits there between you. Your eyes drift to the door and you drop some of the formalities now that your partnership has become more solidified, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting just outside it.”

Something similar to amusement ghosts across Satoru’s face, “I imagine he’d be disappointed by how long we’ve spent sitting here.”

You turn your head and glare at him, “You’re irritating.”

“Would you prefer it were someone else?”

No. You would not. Not at all.

The answer rises too quickly to be anything but true and the fact that he likely sees it in your expression before you can hide it only makes your blood run hotter. Whatever trace of amusement that had touched his face disappears again, leaving only that ridiculous poise. 

Your fingers tighten in the sheets under you, “I don’t know what to expect…”

Satoru knows what you mean by that and he, too, does not know, being just as inexperienced as you, “Neither do I.”

The realization changes him. Beneath all of who he is, you can glimpse the outline of something startlingly young. Your gaze drops, unwillingly, to his hands where they rest on his thighs. Large, scarred, capable of splitting bodies open without a second thought and little effort—the thought of those same hands touching you should terrify you. Instead, it oddly entices you. 

“This is for Viltrum,” You mutter, unsure whether you are reminding him or yourself. 

He nods, eyes fixated on you, “Yes. For Viltrum.”

For Viltrum. 

For survival. For bloodline. For the empire. 

Though when the words settle, they almost immediately begin to sound thin. 

And then he moves, slightly, one hand lifting from his thigh and your pulse jumps so hard it makes you angry. His hand comes to rest, soft as a whisper, against the side of your face and the touch is so tender it startles you more than roughness would have. You stare at him; this is the same man who tears enemies apart, the same man your people call honored, and yet his thumb brushes against the line of your cheek like you are something precious he must preserve. 

He is…gentle? How strange. 

Then, slowly, his hand slips from your cheek to the back of your neck. He leans in enough that the air shifts and you feel his breath before you feel anything else. Your fingers curl in the bedspread, somehow, he notices, “If you want me to stop…say so.”

You simply shake your head and close the remaining gap yourself; the first kiss is not graceful whatsoever. It is tentative and weird and misaligned from inexperience, your noses brush and your mouths meet with all the awkwardness of two people who have never done this before and are trying very hard not to show it. The sheer absurdity of it almost makes you pull back. 

But then, his hand tightens at the back of your neck and he kisses you again, more certainly, and suddenly the awkwardness is no longer the dominant thing. Now, there is only heat. His mouth is softer than it should be, his hand at your neck is steadier than you expected, the broadness of his body when he shifts closer to you makes the bed dip beneath your combined weight, and a small sound slips out of you, causing Satoru to draw back an inch. 

His eyes are brighter, mouth parted slightly from the kiss, breath no longer as measured as it was previously.

“You’re still being careful,” You murmur.

“I said I would stop if you wanted.”

“And I didn’t.”

God no, you definitely did not. 

If anything, your body has only betrayed you more and more with every touch and every brush of his lips. It is becoming harder to remember that this is meant to be something practical. Something done for survival. For duty. For Viltrum. 

Well, because practical things are not supposed to make your skin this hot. They are not supposed to make your stomach knot when his hand slides from the back of your neck to your waist, tightening to pull you properly into him. 

Not getting another second to think, his mouth is on yours again, hotter now, and your hand fists the front of his uniform hard enough to wrinkle the pristine white. Satoru reacts by moving quicker, undoing one clasp of yours, then another gives way beneath deft fingers while your own fumble at his. 

Eventually, within minutes, the bed is littered in pieces of white and grey, and when his hands find your skin for the first time, the air leaves your lungs all over again. Seated beside him, turned slightly inward, your bare thighs are practically touching. His hands rest at your waist where the last piece of your uniform had fallen away, large enough that his fingers span the width of it. 

For a moment, Satoru only looks at you and there is nothing discreet about it. His eyes graze over every inch you have exposed to him—your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach, the smooth skin between your thighs, as if the sight requires study. The open astonishment on his face makes heat crawl from the center of your chest all the way to your cheeks and down between your legs.

You have been looked at your entire life, it is something you are not new to. You have been assessed for strength, examined for injury, watched in combat to determine whether the Grand Regent’s daughter might someday prove worthy of inheriting his place, but never like this. Never as though someone has forgotten what he intended to say simply because you are sitting before him completely naked and without anything left to hide behind. 

Your first instinct is to cover yourself, although pride prevents it, “Stop staring.”

His gaze rises to your face, hands remaining settled at your waist, “I’m looking.”

“That is the same thing.”

“No,” He answers, almost absently, “It is not.”

His fingers begin to move before you can find a response, tracing the curve of your waist with a caution that feels absolutely absurd coming from him. These hands have broken bone and torn through flesh without hesitation, yet now his fingertips barely skim your skin, mapping you with an uncertain fascination. 

The touch makes your stomach tighten and he notices immediately; his attention sharpens, following the small reaction as if he means to memorize it, “You trembled.”

“You touched me.”

“I’m aware.”

The faint arrogance in his tone nearly makes you roll your eyes, but then his thumb passes slowly over your hip and every clever response abandons you. Still, you refuse to be the only one left exposed beneath such scrutiny, letting your gaze drop to him. 

Without the white severity of his uniform, Satoru appears somehow larger. You always knew he was built like he was carved from stone by gods themselves, but none of him is softened by the fabric anymore, and seeing him like this and this close is entirely different. 

Your eyes travel over the firm planes of his chest, the powerful lines of his stomach, and the narrow taper of his waist. The strength Viltrum praises so proudly lives everywhere beneath his skin, every part of him honed through violence. 

Then you notice the scars. There are more than you expected. Thin, silvery marks cross his shoulders and ribs, remnants of injuries severe enough to leave evidence even after self-healing had done its job. One cuts diagonally across the middle of his chest and fades dangerously close to his heart. Your hand lifts without warning, tips of your fingers following the pale line; Satoru goes still.

“What caused this?”

“I don’t remember.”

You glance up at him, puzzled as to how he could forget, “It nearly struck your heart.”

“It did strike my heart.”

Your fingers halt because of the way he says it so casually, “And you survived.”

The corner of his mouth shifts, “Clearly.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but your palm remains against his chest. His heart beats beneath it, faster and more erratic than it should be. 

“You have scars too,” He mentions, hand leaving your waist long enough to comb over a mark along your side. The tenderness of the gesture feels more intimate than nakedness itself. 

“Training.”

“With your father?”

“Who else?”

Something dark passes briefly through his expression, then his gaze drops again, following the line of your body, and your own attention drifts lower in response. The sight awaiting you there wipes every thought from your mind. 

His cock is half-hard and intimidatingly large, resting heavy upon the cut of his lower abdomen. It twitches under your stare, thickening further as it rises with prominent veins running along the shaft; flushed tip already glistening. 

You cannot help but wonder how something of that size is supposed to fit inside you, the sheer girth alone looks impossible—far too wide to take without splitting you open. Your lips part on a shaky exhale and Satoru follows your stare, and for the first time that evening, uncertainty breaks visibly through his composure. A faint blush colors the tops of his cheeks. 

“That may be a problem,” You murmur, voice quieter than you intended. 

His brows draw together, “You are Viltrumite.”

“That does not make every part of me indestructible.”

“It nearly does.”

You glare at him, but the edge of amusement touching his mouth disappears when he realizes that your apprehension is genuine. His hand returns to your waist as he says, “Lie back.”

Your pulse stumbles, and instantly, you think he is ready to start and get this over with. Finish the task that has been assigned to him. Get you pregnant. 

But his voice…it is low and careful, so you find yourself obeying his words, shifting farther onto the mattress. Satoru helps guide you down, one hand supporting your back until your shoulders meet the sheets, and he follows you without hesitation. 

The mattress lowers beneath his weight as he moves between your parted legs, kneeling there while you lie under him. His thighs press against the backs of yours, broad shoulders blocking part of the red light spilling through the windows. The position leaves you entirely open to him, legs threatening to close on instinct, but Satoru’s hands settle lightly on your knees before they can; merely holding them there as his striking eyes lift to yours, and he waits. 

Slowly, you let your legs relax, and only then, does his gaze drop. The look of wonder that crosses his face is enough to make you want to hide all over again. 

His hand travels down the inside of your thigh, rough pads of his fingertips running along a path that leaves your skin burning behind them. When he reaches the slick heat between your legs, his touch turns tentative—curious. He explores without a semblance of knowledge, parting your folds with two thick fingers, spreading the wetness gathered there, dragging them up to circle your swollen clit. 

When your hips jerk against the mattress, he knows he may have done something right. He immediately looks up for confirmation, “That affected you.”

You swallow the thick lump in your throat, breathing out a strangled, “It...did.”

He repeats the motion, firmer, rubbing slow circles over that seemingly sensitive bud, while his vibrant blues stays fixed on your face. Pleasure sparks sharp through you, drawing a few unsteady breaths that he clearly hears, “Does this feel good?”

You look away, cheeks burning, embarrassment the main thing you feel. You are not a being who is supposed to feel pleasure, “...I think so.”

“You think?”

“I have nothing to compare it to.”

Recognition makes his expression soften, “I don’t either.”

But he keeps going, still cautious, though more deliberate now. He replicates what made you react, studying every tremor and every tightening of your hands in the sheets with unnerving concentration, “You are—learning very quickly.”

Satoru hums thoughtfully, transfixed on the sight of your pretty face and his fingers glistening in your folds, “I usually do.”

Even now, his arrogance finds a way to survive. You might have insulted him for it had another movement of his fingertips against your clit not stolen the words from you. 

He watches your expression change and something hungry begins to replace the wonder in his eyes. Now that he has discovered he can make you feel good, the knowledge of that pleases him far more than it should.

Growing increasingly impatient and curious whether the act might feel as good to him as his touch seems to feel to you, he withdraws his soaked hand from your core and disappointment flashes through you before you can hide it. He notices that too, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.

But he doesn't move yet, attention dropping to his fingers. They are glittering in the red light, coated so thoroughly in the viscous wetness of your cunt that it shines over his knuckles. Satoru stares, turning his hand slightly as if examining the aftermath of some unfamiliar phenomenon.

Heat rushes instantly to your cheeks, "What is it?"

His thumb drags slowly over the slick coating his fingertips, spreading it between them. The expression on his face fades from curiosity and into unmistakable gratification, "This came from you."

You scoff, slightly embarrassed by his intrigue in it, "Obviously."

He looks at you then, "Because I touched you."

The satisfaction dripping from his tone makes your stomach clench, "Don't look so proud of yourself."

"Why shouldn't I be?"

Before you can respond, he brings his coated fingers back between your thighs, dragging them one more time through your folds as though unwilling to waste the evidence; the touch pulls another small twitch from you.

Satoru is no idiot. Inexperienced, yes. But he can decipher what this means.

Your body wants him.

And in knowing that, he feels much more confident when he shifts closer between your thighs—the considerable size of him becomes impossible to ignore once again. His cock ghosts over your entrance as his hand slides beneath one of your legs, lifting it carefully as he settles over you.

One arm braces beside your head while the other remains at your thigh, trying to understand angles, bodies, where he is meant to go. Perhaps, it would be almost funny if the sight of him between your legs did not make your pulse tick so violently. 

He notches the blunt head of his cock into your tight cunt, stretching you open with a burning pressure that forces a sharp inhale from your chest and every muscle in your body tenses; he stops right away, not pushing an inch further, eyes finding yours, “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You probably will.” 

His jaw tightens, and for all his power, he looks wary now, “Then tell me how much.”

You reach for him, wrapping one hand around his muscular bicep and drawing him closer, “I will.”

He studies your face for another moment, searching for uncertainty, but whatever he finds seems to satisfy him. His forehead lowers to yours, breath warm against your mouth, and he pushes in another inch, yet this time, the effect on him is immediate. Satoru’s breath leaves him in a rasping, fractured sound, so unlike anything you have ever heard from him, or anyone else for that matter, that your eyes fly to his face. 

His entire body goes rigid above you, the arm braced next to your head locks at the elbow, muscle drawn taut, while his other hand clamps around your thigh. His expression is almost impossible to comprehend, appearing somewhat stricken with the violent shock of sensation.

You are so warm around him…so tight, it knocks the air straight from his lungs. He parts his lips, brows pulled together, brilliant eyes gone unfocused as though every thought inside his head has been extinguished at once. How is anything supposed to feel…this good?

And when he thrusts himself inside you deeper, his hand flees from your thigh and fists in the sheet beside you, the fabric straining under his strength, seams tearing in his fingers; but he does not seem to realize any of it, too lost in the feeling of you squeezing around his cock that he keeps sinking in deeper and deeper, until he’s buried to the hilt. 

He forces himself to stay motionless, every line of his body trembling with the effort to not pull back and fully stuff his length inside you again. It is quite funny, for all the ease with which Satoru can dominate a battlefield, he seems to have relatively no command here. 

At the same time, while he is above you losing his mind entirely, the pressure in your lower belly becomes almost unbearable. Your fingers close around his biceps, nails clawing hard enough to leave crescent moons in skin that ordinarily resists mostly everything. 

His focus returns as soon as he feels it, “Does it hurt?”

You nod slightly, biting your lower lip, “A little.”

Although you are particularly used to enduring pain, essentially every Viltrumite is—trained to withstand even the most brutal injuries, this form of pain is too intimate to handle and surprisingly, he cares a great deal about your comfort. You half expected him not to care whatsoever; a dangerous Viltrumite who has perhaps killed many of his own kind, worries of harming you. How absurd. 

He becomes stiller, which should not be physically possible, but of course he defies all odds. His eyes search your face, all hints of hunger momentarily eclipsed by concern, “I can stop.”

“No,” Your answer comes too quickly. 

His jaw clenches so hard the muscle pops, “But you said it hurts.”

“It does.”

“Then—”

“Just wait.”

It should not shock you that he listens, yet it does. The strongest male of your generation remains frozen over you, chest rising unevenly, hand still tangled in the ruined sheet as if it is the only thing preventing him from losing control completely. You breathe through the discomfort of being stretched out and little by little, the pain begins to subside. 

Your body adjusts around his girth, the unfamiliar pressure becoming something warmer, almost intoxicating even. The grip you have on his arms loosens and instead, your hands slide upward over the hard curvature of his shoulders and onto his back. 

Satoru watches every change in your countenance, nothing escaping him. He takes it all in—your breath evening out, your thighs relaxing around him, the slight, unconscious shift of your hips beneath his.

His blue irises darken, “Better?”

“Yes…”

That single word nearly destroys him, causing his fingers to twist into the sheet and forehead to drop against yours. His breath breaks hot over your mouth as your nails drag down his back, making a sound somewhere between a gasp and a growl. His free hand flies to your waist, nails digging into your skin hard enough to remind you exactly what he is, but he catches himself quickly, loosening his grip, yet you tighten your legs around him before he can pull away. 

His eyes snap open as you pull him closer to you, and whatever restraint he had left starts to die. He kisses you suddenly, without precision because he is still inexperienced as ever, though desperate all the same. His mouth hovers yours when he draws back for the first time, moving only a few cautious inches, before slowly pressing forward again.

The motion sends another flare of pressure through you, but it is different now. No longer is it that immediate pain from before. 

He moves once more, slower this time, withdrawing with painstaking control before easing himself back inside you. The strange heat deep in your lower belly gathers, spreading through you with every inch until your fingers sink into his back. Satoru fixates on your face as he keeps repeating the motion, watching the tension between your brows gradually dissipate, and your lips part for an entirely separate reason. 

“Oh…” You breathe quietly, this feels…unexpectedly good.

He starts to move more purposefully then, deep, rolling thrusts that turn faster and rougher, though still measured for your sake—albeit barely. 

The mattress creaks with each snap of his hips; the wet, filthy sound of his cock plunging into your slick filling the chamber. Your pain has nearly vanished now, transformed into a blinding pleasure that makes your vision white out and thoughts blur at the edges. 

You start meeting his thrusts without meaning to, learning his rhythm and movements almost as quickly as he learns you, and the first time you do it deliberately, Satoru stops breathing. 

His face lifts from yours, “You did that.”

Despite everything, you stifle a laugh, “I did it purposely.”

“...Do it again.”

He gives the demand softly, and you comply, clenching around his cock as you grind up to meet him once more. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and the composure he wears like armor disappears totally; the sight sends a thrill through you.

This is the Honored One. 

The Viltrumite who has stood untouched before collapsing planets. The weapon who has ripped through armies and returned home with boredom in his gaze. And you—are undoing him with your tight cunt he cannot seem to get enough of. 

He fucks himself deeper, more urgently, though he continues watching you with almost obsessive attention. Each little moan you make seems to draw another from him. Every time your nails score his back, his grip tightens at your waist and his cock drives harder into you. 

“You feel…” He starts, and stops, voice gone hoarse.

You peer up at him with half-lidded eyes, “What?”

He stares at you like he resents the fact that language has failed him, he has never been this vulnerable, “...so perfect.”

The praise makes heat bloom through you; your hands move over his back again, tugging him down until his chest presses fully against yours, and he shudders at the feel of your breasts touching his bare skin. 

Then, something in him shifts. His breathing breaks apart, his rhythm loses its careful consistency, becoming uneven and instinctive as he enters you with long strokes. His eyes widen slightly with dawning realization. 

He knows what his body is approaching—a climax. 

Viltrum educated him well enough for that. This was the means to reproduce. 

What no one had taught him was how overwhelming it would feel.

“Satoru?”

His fingers stab into your waist, “I know.”

But he sounds as though he does not know anything at all. Because he does not. He has never ejaculated before—never even felt something half as pleasurable as this. 

His body tightens over yours with such sudden force that the bed groans beneath both of you, face dropping into the crook of your neck as he stuffs himself as deep as possible. You feel his cock throb and pulse within your walls, followed by the hot, thick rush of his cum flooding inside you in heavy spurts. 

For several seconds, he cannot speak or move, seemingly he has forgotten how. You feel him trembling, the hand at your waist still clamped tight as he empties every last drop of his load into your womb, and when he finally lifts his head, his pale cheeks are flushed. His white hair hangs disheveled across his forehead, lips parted. His eyes, usually so clear and cutting, appear dazed. 

He knows exactly what has happened. What he does not understand is why no one warned him it would feel like being split apart from the inside in the best possible way.

His gaze lingers on your face, “That was…”

Trailing off, still searching for the correct word, you are breathing no more steadily than he is when you ask, “It was…?”

Satoru swallows, “No one said it would feel like that.”

Something about his honesty makes your chest swell, but before you can really acknowledge it, you notice his attention shifting. His eyes lower between your bodies, slowly pulling out just enough to watch his cock slip free, and a stream of his cum leaks from your swollen cunt, dripping onto the sheets in thick, white globs. 

The bewilderment in his expression sharpens into one darker. Because there it is. 

The abstract purpose of this arrangement suddenly made visible. 

He had completed the act required of him. His body had done precisely what it was summoned here to do. Yet the satisfaction spreading through him is anything but dutiful. 

His seed is inside you. 

His. 

There had been other males your father could have selected. Older veterans with centuries of conquest behind them. Proven fathers. Men who would have entered this chamber without hesitation, far too eager to bed you, and leave once the task was done. 

But…none of them had been chosen. 

Satoru had. 

And you had ensured that choice would be permanent. 

No other male would ever father your children. No other female would ever carry his. His bloodline would continue through your body alone, just as yours would continue only through him. The thought settles somewhere deeper than pride. 

You had claimed him before he ever touched you, and now, staring at the evidence of himself inside you, Satoru realizes he would have demanded the same in return. He could not tolerate another male standing where he stood now nor could he bear the thought of someone else knowing you this way, or worse—giving you a child.

No.

You are his. 

But that realization comes with another, equally consuming truth. 

He is yours too. 

Thragg did not order that one. That was your own doing. You had looked upon Satoru and decided that you wanted him for yourself. He would not be used elsewhere other than with you. 

A deeper hunger takes hold of him then, twisted with pride, possession, and something dangerously close to devotion. 

He wants more of you. 

Wants your body to remember him, to accept his seed again and again until conception feels less like a possibility and more like an inevitability. Wants to see you carry the living proof that, among every male left on Viltrum, he had been chosen. 

And underneath all of that, sits one startling, intoxicating truth—he belongs exactly where you put him.  

His hand settles low over your belly, then slides even lower to gather whatever left of himself he can to push it back inside you with two fingers, as if to make sure it takes. 

Your back arches slightly, whining, “Satoru.”

His eyes lift slowly to yours, “Perhaps…we should make another attempt.”

You stare at him, searching for any concern that this first attempt may have failed, but do not find it. All you find is the want.

“To ensure conception?” You ask curiously. 

He hesitates for a mere breath, “Yes.”

The lie is almost convincing, and your reply comes before any caution can reach it. You know you should not want more of him already, but you do. Desperately.

“Then let’s make another attempt.”

Satoru’s gaze darkens at the words. And this time, when he reaches for you, all the gentle restraint he had is gone. He flips you over onto your stomach with that effortless strength, pulls your hips up, and before sinking back inside your cum filled cunt to do it over again, his mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear to whisper—

"For Viltrum…right?”

You arch up into him, “For Viltrum…” You repeat, however meaninglessly. 

God, he’s lost count of how many times he’s tapped on it over the years. Late night emergencies. Movie marathons. Panic attacks before exams. Celebrations. Breakups. Bad days. Good days. All roads, eventually lead to here. So, this shouldn’t be any different.

You’d always slide the window open with that sleepy smile.

“Hey, dummy.”

The memory flickers warm and bright in his chest, fragile as a candle flame in a storm.

He swallows, as he lands gently at your window, nerves crawling under his skin, then reaches forward and taps gently against the glass.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

No response. He waits. The porch light hums softly around the corner. Crickets chirp in the distance, steady as a ticking clock. Somewhere down the street, a dog barks a few times then goes quiet.

Mark taps again.

Tap. Tap.

Still nothing. A flicker of unease slides down his spine. You’re usually a light sleeper. He shifts closer, pressing nearer to the window, trying to peer inside.

That’s when he sees movement. A blur of motion across the room. Your silhouette. Relief blooms in his chest, quick and warm.

‘Okay. Good. You’re home.’ Mark thinks

Then the relief stutters. Because you’re not alone. There’s another shape in the bed with you. A shape with broad shoulders, and a bare back once he manages to get a clear view through your blinds. Blond hair catches the faint glow of your bedside lamp and Mark freezes. His brain stumbles, struggling to make sense of what he’s seeing, like a computer buffering on a bad connection.

You’re tangled together in the sheets, bodies close, your hands gripping at the tight muscles of his shoulders as you kiss the mystery man.

The bouquet slips slightly in his grasp, petals trembling. Mark’s stomach drops somewhere into his shoes, and for a second, he can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t move. Jealousy hits him like a freight train with no brakes. It’s sudden, and violent, and loud enough to drown out reason.

Because this is his window. His late-night spot. His person.

The thought is ugly the second it forms, but it’s already there, coiled tight in his chest like a snake preparing to strike.

Inside, you laugh softly against the man’s mouth. A sound Mark knows by heart. The kind that usually means you feel safe. That’s you’re comfortable.

The stranger shifts slightly, rolling onto his side, pulling you closer. And something about the movement prickles at the back of Mark’s brain. It’s familiar. Too familiar the way the muscles move. Mark squints, heart hammering, breath fogging the glass.

The man leans back just enough for the lamplight to catch his face. Sharp jaw. Blond hair. That smug, punchable expression Mark would recognize.

His eyes widen, and his jaw drops in disbelief as he whispers harshly to himself, “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Because sitting in your bed. Kissing you like he belongs there, is Todd.

Todd fucking Williams.

The same Todd who used to shove Mark into lockers in middle school. The same Todd who once called you “Mark’s shadow” during gym class. The same Todd who peaked in high school and never quite learned how to stop being loud about it.

Heat floods Mark’s veins. Jealousy mixing with old resentment until it becomes something sharp and electric. His grip tightens around the bouquet. A few stems snap under the pressure.

Inside, you shift again, your hand sliding up Todd’s shoulder as he says something Mark can’t quite hear. Your expression is soft and relaxed. Happy in a way that twists the knife deeper.

Because that used to be him. The late-night visitor. The safe place. The first person you called. And now he’s outside the glass like a ghost haunting his own past. And Todd is his fucking replacement.

A storm brews in his chest, loud and messy and completely irrational. He tells himself he has no right to be angry. You’re single. He left you. And now he’s the one holding flowers like a peace offering that arrived after the war already ended.

His hand lifts before he can stop it. His knuckles tightening and he knocks. Hard.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The sound cracks through the night like a gunshot. Inside, both of you jerk in surprise, and your head snaps toward the window. Eyes wide. Confusion flashing across your face. Then recognition crosses your face and your expression freezes.

Todd turns too, irritation already forming, brows knitting together as he squints toward the glass.

Mark stands there, chest heaving, flowers clenched in his fist like a lifeline he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with.

He’s hurt, and jealous, and angry. Furious at himself for feeling any of it.

Your name catches in his throat before finally breaking free, rough and breathless, disbelief cracking through every syllable, “… Y/N, seriously?”

Todd shifts beside you, sitting up slightly, confusion hardening into irritation as he takes in the scene.

You blink once, twice, trying to catch up to the moment. Your brain is still foggy with surprise, adrenaline rushing in like cold water.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask, voice sharp from shock more than anger, and you can see the way Mark’s jaw tightens.

“I knocked,” he snaps, gesturing vaguely at the window like that explains everything, “You didn’t answer.”

Todd lets out a short, incredulous breath beside you, running a hand through his hair as he sits up fully now, the sheet sliding down to his waist.

“Yeah,” he mutters dryly, “because most people don’t expect visitors at midnight, Grayson.”

Mark’s eyes flick to him. The tension in his shoulders ratchets up another notch.

“Can you open the window?” Mark says, voice tight. You know the sound and you know it isn’t a request.

You hesitate, just for a second before you push the blankets back and slide off the bed, crossing the room with stiff, careful steps. The floor is cold under your feet. The air feels heavier with every inch closer to him.

You unlock the latch and push the window open. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the faint smell of damp pavement and something else… Storm-weather energy. The kind that makes your skin prickle before it pours and thunder cracks.

Mark comes inside immediately. Too fast and really intense. He lands on the floor with a soft thud, silence folding around the room, his eyes darting around the room like he’s cataloging evidence.

Then they land back on Todd, and something ugly flashes across his face. Disgust. Jealousy, maybe. Hurt for certain.

“Of all people,” Mark says, voice low and disbelieving, shaking his head once like he still can’t quite accept what he’s seeing, “Todd? Seriously?”

Your spine stiffens instantly. Todd’s expression shifts, irritation sharpening into something more guarded as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, posture straightening as he stands up.

“Wow,” Todd says flatly, “Nice to see you too, man.”

Mark ignores him completely, eyes locked on you like Todd is nothing more than a temporary fixture of your room.

“How could you pick him?” he demands, the words bursting out before he can stop them. His voice rises, raw and emotional, “Out of everyone, you go with Todd Williams?”

Your stomach drops. There it is. Mark isn’t coming to you with concern. Or an apology. Instead you’re facing his judgment. Heat blooms in your chest, anger flickering to life behind your eyes.

“You don’t get to have an opinion on who I date,” you fire back, arms crossing tightly over your chest like armor snapping into place. Mark scoffs, pacing once across the room, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I’m your best friend,” he shoots back, “Yeah, I do.”

“No,” you say, sharper now, “You were my best friend. Then you left me crying in a parking lot and disappeared for weeks, you didn’t even try to apologize for the shitty thing you did!”

The words land clean. Precise. And Mark flinches like you slapped him. Silence stretches tight between you, thin as guitar strings, taut and ready to snap with one wrong pluck.

Todd watches the exchange carefully, jaw tightening as the tension escalates. He glances at you once, checking, reading the room.

Then Mark gestures angrily toward the bed.

“Him, though!?” he repeats, incredulous, “You’re hooking up with the guy who used to treat us like garbage? The guy who called you my shadow?”

“That was years ago,” you snap, your pulse spiking.

“He hasn’t changed,” Mark insists.

Todd lets out a slow breath through his nose, patience wearing thin.

“Okay,” he says, voice calm but firm, standing up fully now, his shoulders squared. He’s taller than Mark remembered. Broader too. His presence fills the space in a way that wasn’t true back in high school, more sure of himself, confident opposed to cocky, “I’m gonna stop you right there.”

Mark turns toward him, eyes flashing, “Oh, now you want to talk?”

Todd meets his stare evenly. No bravado or swagger. Just a quiet resolve.

“Look,” Todd says, tone steady, controlled, “I get that they’re your best friend. Or was. And I get that this is weird for you. But I’m not going to sit here and let you talk to like that and upset them.”

Mark’s chest rises sharply, anger flaring brighter now, defensive and wounded all at once.

“You don’t know anything about us!” he snaps.

Todd shrugs once.

“Maybe not,” he says simply, “But I know what respect looks like, and I know you ain’t giving none of it.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, blood rushing through them. Adrenaline settling in your veins. Because this is the moment you see in movies, where there’s a fork in the road and decision is made the steers the rest of the story.

Mark looks at you then. Eyes searching your face, desperate for backup. For loyalty. For the version of you who would always stand beside him no matter what. Even when he was wrong.

Your throat tightens, but something inside you settles, and suddenly you feel like the man standing infront of you isn’t the one you grew up beside. And it breaks your heart, cracks splintering from the one he left months ago on it.

You take a slow breath, then you step back, towards Todd. Mark’s face goes still and the realization hits him all at once, sharp and brutal. You’re not choosing him this time.

“Mark,” you say quietly, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest, “You need to leave.”

The words seem to echo through your bedroom and his eyes widen slightly, hurt flashing across his face before anger slams back into place like a shield.

“You’re serious?” he asks, voice low.

You nod once, “Yes, Mark.”

A long, heavy silence follows. Then Mark lets out a hollow laugh. It’s bitter and disbelieving.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

His gaze drops to the crushed bouquet still clutched in his hand. The flowers look tired now. Bent, bruised, and broken. Slowly, and stiffly he sets them down on your desk.

“I came here to apologize,” he says, voice rough, eyes flicking back up to yours, “But clearly you’ve moved on without that.”

The accusation hangs between you, sharp like shattered glass. You don’t answer. Because anything you say right now will only make it worse.

Mark swallows hard, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. For a second, it looks like he might say something else. Something honest or vulnerable that would remind you he’s still your person. But pride gets there first.

“Fine,” he says flatly. Then he turns, strides to the window, and climbs out into the night without another word.

<<<Previous Part Next Part>>>

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It was a boring summer evening, and you were leaning against a car in some back alley, chatting with your best friend. You were holding the cigarette more thoughtfully than actually smoking it, idly rolling it between your lips. Your eyes were fixed on the asphalt below, half listening as your friend chattered on about the sluts at her part-time job.

At first you heard a sound. Strange. "Is that a jet flying over at this hour?" your friend blew out cigarette smoke and glanced up at the empty, starless sky. You lifted your head too. "Ehh maybe the fucking people in charge decided to start a surprise war or something," you shrugged indifferently. "Makes total sense. I mean I wouldn't say no to a chance to sleep with some military guys." she grinned, wrapping her lips back around her cigarette. You raised an eyebrow. "God, you've been in a relationship for seven years and you still talk like that...you really are-"

A flash of white stood out in the darkness as something landed right in front of you, making you both jump. It had come down far too close. You and your friend flinched and cursed without thinking. What the fuck was this now, you threw your cigarette to the ground crushed it fast under your heel and squinted. It took only a moment to realize that the thing kneeling before you was actually a person. He was wearing a strange uniform...very tight and white? Some kind of hero the government hadn't told the public about? You watched the man rise to his feet, indifferent to the fact that he'd punched a hole straight through the asphalt upon landing. Even at this distance, his piercing blue eyes made your skin crawl. The hairs on your arms stood up as if someone had deliberately blown cold air across them. A senseless fear began blooming in your heart.

The man strode toward you quickly. "Hey, are you single?" Your friend stared at him—at the man approaching with clear, immense threat—with terror. Neither of you knew what was happening but something was definitely, deeply wrong. You barely managed to glance sideways at your friend, then back at the man. Your friend dropped her cigarette. "No, no, no," she babbled. It was normal for her to have panic attacks; it came from being raised alone by an alcoholic father. Before you could even process anything, you watched with a sickening, wet splat as his hand punched through the center of your friend's head in a single blow. Wait...what had you just watched? Your friend. You could feel your muscles locking up so tight you couldn't even raise a hand to wipe the fluid that had splattered onto your face. Your lips parted with a shallow breath. That was when your mind finally began to register what had happened. What he had just done to your friend.

A terrified scream tore from your lips as your legs gave out and you fell backward onto your ass. As if you hadn't just let out a shriek that should've echoed through the entire alley, he indifferently pulled his hand from your friend's head. The body dropped to the ground between you with a horrible sound. His blue eyes lifted from the corpse for a moment. He seemed to be calculating something. Or maybe he wasn't thinking about anything at all.

He turned toward you. "Are you single?" Desperately fighting the urge to piss yourself in fear, you babbled without a single thought. "YES! YES! YES!" A burning sensation began to bloom in your eyes, and you struggled to keep your lids from shutting. It felt like if you closed your eyes, everything would end...

And that's how you started a happy married life with Nolan and five kids.

You woke up writhing in pain in the bed, your hand flying to your waist by reflex as your eyes tried to make sense of the familiar surroundings. Wait—why were you home? How had you gotten back to your place...your mind foggy, you tried to sit up in bed and the realization that you were naked beneath the sheets hit you like a slap. And as if that were enough to sober up your mind, you remembered last night. Your hand flew to your mouth, silencing a hitching sob before it could escape. Your friend...your friend had been killed right in front of your eyes, and you had fucked the man right next to her corpse just to avoid sharing the same fate.

...

The rough walls of the old building scraped painfully against your back even through your clothes, and you tried desperately to close your eyes. So you wouldn't have to see your friend again, lying just beyond with a massive hole punched through her head. But it was so hard...so, so hard. Not while a man you didn't even know had you suspended in the air, feet off the ground, tearing moans from your throat. That stranger you didn't even dare to look at, and yet were forced to see with every blow you took. With every rough slam of his hips, the fluids pooled in your cunt spilled over.

By now you couldn't even tell if it was your fluid or his. Your brain had long since stopped thinking. It just took—just like the walls of your cunt, despite struggling, sucked him in and held him tight as if clinging for dear life. You didn't even notice the drool running down to your chin. "What a whorish hole this is."with those words, another blow to your cervix, another long release that pushed the remnants of old seed out of you. Feeling like a dessert being filled with cream, you just sniffled. It felt like your stomach was being stuffed—there was so much pressure..you weakly dropped your head onto his shoulder while he continued his indifferent thrusts. You stared down at your blood and sweat-slicked stomach, you could see the outline of his cock moving beneath the skin. Just seeing the bulge was enough to make you lose your mind. You must have truly stopped thinking, otherwise you wouldn't have squeezed down on the length of the man who could kill you like you were nothing. A single clench and you both groaned. Hearing that beautiful groan caress your ear felt surreal. Why was it that the bad guys always had to be good at everything...

Breathlessly, you felt him lean closer to your ear. "What do you think you're doing?" Despite his rough voice, the words came out needy. You only whined in response,followed by a harsh slap to your ass. A blow that threatened to break bone. As you moaned in pain, he grabbed you by the hair and yanked your head back, so careless that the back of your head hit the wall. "Use your words, human." He didn't care at all about the pain he was causing you. He crushed you with his burning gaze, and all you could do was try to speak through the mush your state had reduced you to. "Donnn't...tknowww."

His brows furrowed further, unsatisfied. He pressed more of his body weight onto you, impossibly crushing you further between himself and the wall. Your body felt like was going to burst. Your breasts were painfully flattened and pressed against his chest. Even breathing was a struggle, but he just kept fucking you as if utterly unaffected. You almost felt like breeding animal...

A small growl reached your ear. He was gritting his teeth, his hand still in your hair, tightening as he watched the place where you were joined. As if hypnotized, he was taking it all in. "Damn it cum, female." He sounded tired of the suffocating way your walls were clenching around him, chasing yet another orgasm. He wanted to tear you apart. Seeing your damned state was making things hard for him. But he shouldn't. He had to impregnate you. He had to produce an heir. A child free of the Scourge Virus.

His grip on you tightened with your rising moans. A slight shift while he fucked you—and that beautiful groan he wanted to deny again. He bit his lip, his brows furrowed in concentration. He could feel himself sweating under the burning grip of your cunt. He had to admit—an unexpectedly tight response...maybe you would give him a strong heir. He felt his expectations rising, with a thought his hand slipped between you, finding your clit. He pinched experimentally. You hissed. His gaze flickered between your face and your pussy. This time, a gentler touch—then a caress. Not caring that his hands were sticky with fluid, he began to explore your pussy beyond just the hole. His fingers roamed possessively, confidently, over your folds. The softness of your flesh was the kind that drove him mad—the kind he wanted to tear off and pull,but he wouldn't.

He did what he'd seen a man do to a woman while roaming the sky of this world on his first day, observing. A soft, wet kiss to the back of your neck, pulled back by his hand. The gesture was so gentle it made your skin prickle and itch—it felt strange. He'd closed his eyes without realizing it while placing the kiss, now opening them halfway. He stared absently at the spot where no mark remained. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he had touched someone without leaving a trace.

"Damn it, you're confusing me..." his tongue swept over your lips before finally drowning you in a kiss. He was so clumsy, so inexperienced, that you both groaned at the situation. "Ugh it wasn't supposed to be like this," he whispered against your lips. "I don't want to feel this way." Between his words, he kissed you rawly. In contrast to the harsh slams of his hips against your hips and his grip, he was trying—uncomprehendingly—to be gentle with your lips. Seeing that you were enjoying it as much as he was felt like approval, like he was doing something right. His grip on your hip bounced you slightly, adjusting the position to get even closer. It was insane that he could hold you like this, as if you weighed nothing, perhaps for hours. It made you wetter than you ever thought possible.

He fought the urge to close his eyes completely. When you finally milked the orgasm he'd been teetering on the edge of for so long, he spilled into you again. "Ugh...embarrassing, damn it." His head fell back, eyelids twitching with pleasure. His jawline, impossibly sharper from clenching, stood out as he bit his lip to hold back his groans.

He looked at you in his arms. You reminded him of those small plush things the human children had clutched all day in the sky. Your body seemed to have lost all control over even a single muscle. Eh, maybe it wasn't that embarrassing. Especially since you were too out of it to notice he'd cum immediately just because you had.

As if finally deciding you both needed to breathe, he pulled out of you. It didn't change much—you still felt stuffed full. Small whimpers escaped your lips. Your throat was dry, exhausted from screaming, you couldn't even let out a squeak anymore.

You felt your feet touch the ground. A hand on your waist was the only thing keeping you upright while he adjusted his own clothes. He turned his attention to you—barely able to keep your eyes open, legs constantly buckling. His hands were now on your sides. He bent down and pulled up your underwear, which had been pooled around your ankles. As he dressed you, your body lifted slightly off the ground just like when your mother used to dress you as a child. It must have been because he didn't know how to control his strength.

Then he grabbed your baggy pants and pulled them up too. His face held a frown; his eyes were fixed on your buttons, having skipped the zipper entirely, struggling with them. Meanwhile you were breathing in the cool night breeze down to your bones. Your head lolled like a drunkard's, unable to stay fixed in any direction. You vaguely remembered him saying something to you. Those hard muscles scooping you up from under your knees...and you throwing up.

Your head was now tucked between your knees, squeezing your aching thighs beneath the covers despite the pain, everything replaying over and over in your mind. "Oh god...what am I going to do..."

The door creaked open, and your head snapped up so fast a cramp shot through your neck. Hissing at the sensation, you looked at the person entering. Familiar uniform, familiar slightly furrowed brows. You opened your mouth to scream—not a single sound came out. As if utterly oblivious to what he'd done, he walked toward you holding a bowl and spoke. "You humans eat this in the mornings, or so the package said anyway...here."

Your brain took the bowl he offered without thinking. Like a reflex. You stared blankly ahead for a moment then looked down at the bowl in your hands. Your stolen dignity, your friend's life, the fact that your body had been treated worse than if it had been hit by a car...and now—AND NOW he was giving you DAMN CEREAL?!

Rage must have flooded your brain fast,not caring about the possibility of him killing you, you hurled the bowl at him and screamed at the top of your lungs. "YOU'RE A MONSTER! A MONSTER YOUU I HATE YOU!" Your eyes were rapidly filling with tears. Like your body, they burned. But most of all? Most of all, your heart was burning...

He casually leaned aside, slipping past the bowl you hurled at him, and caught it swiftly in mid-air before it could hit the wall. And through all of this, his expression never once changed. With such professionalism that not a drop of milk spilled. That was what cut your screams short. Holding the bowl in his hand, utterly unfazed by your words, he said, "I can understand your whining. You humans are too...soft hearted to handle such things."

Your whining...your whining? Was he mocking you?

He held the bowl in one hand, the other behind his back, his unwavering gaze already providing the answer. He was serious. Sickeningly so. "You-" He didn't even let you start "The last few hours must have been too much for you," —or in other words he'd fucked your brains out— "and you seem to have forgotten our agreement. I asked you if you were single, and I received a yes."

You blinked your burning eyes. Your vision had blurred slightly. "And?" you said. Just uttering that single word was painfully difficult. As if you'd said something wrong his furrowed brows rose slightly, he hadn't expected that answer. "That in itself was consent." he stated firmly, but his tone was more like he was waiting to be validated. You barely managed to look into his blue irises. The effort alone made your eyes flutter, sending a headache through your skull. "No, it wasn't...you and your fucked up mentality, I don't know where you grew up but what you've done-"

You couldn't even track his movement. Suddenly you were grabbed by the throat and slammed onto your back on the bed. The pressure was suffocating, not helping your already aching throat. "Speak correctly about me, female." That dark glint in his eyes was the kind that made you want to pass out right there. He continued speaking slowly, his voice dripping with venom. "I will explain this once and I will never repeat it, so listen well. I come from a planet called Viltrum, far beyond what your tiny brain can even imagine. We who live there are called Viltrumites. We are a galactic empire, we have either wiped out or conquered species like yours, to those who submit we show a mercy they should be grateful for their entire lives. We possess traits and powers beyond your comprehension. Flight, regeneration and more. The things you lack, the things you foolishly dream of exist within us as worthless as the water you drink."

The pressure on the your skin beneath his fingers eased almost imperceptibly. His head tilted up slightly, looking down at you completely with those piercing eyes. "As a result of new decisions made by my Empire, selected individuals were sent to various planets. To bring innovations to our Empire. Earth and its population have been deemed suitable for breeding with us and I was sent here to produce strong hybrids in accordance with my mission. And you are the key to that mission. You cannot refuse." He seemed to be watching for the slightest flicker in your eyes. "I have already planted my seed inside you. All I have to do is wait for the result and for you to conceive. If it doesn't take, we will try again and again." His teeth were more visible now, his mouth moving as if snarling, his head dipping lower again. "Until you are pregnant. But do not let that make you feel valuable, the fact that I chose you as a suitable candidate does not change the fact that there are better ones than you. Provoke me, try to insult me, defy me." with each word his grip tightened, making you wince in pain. "I will kill you. I won't even care if you fear death in the end, I will find every single thing you value and erase them just like you, until not even a crumb remains to carry the smallest memory of you."

He fell silent. The air between you grew heavy, like a balloon ready to burst. He hadn't released his grip, hadn't made any move to break eye contact. There was a part of his gaze that seemed to be gauging whether you understood his words. But you—you had already fearfully burned every word into your mind. Along with the painful realization that, despite his appearance, he had absolutely nothing in common with you humans. That you were face to face with an individual from a totalitarian monarchy. And what he had done to you last night...you wanted to cry, you didn't want to bear the child of this man from a distant corner of the galaxy, you didn't want to give a child to this Empire. Blinking, wetness spread across your skin.

"Get up." He released you immediately. He placed the bowl which you only now realized he was still holding in his other hand—onto your lap without waiting for you to sit up. "You need to eat well so the child develops properly." Using your trembling hands for support, you pushed yourself into a sitting position on the bed. You didn't question it. You didn't hesitate. You just grabbed the spoon, held the bowl, and did as you were told. With every spoonful, more tears streamed from your eyes, inviting snot to join them. He just watched, arms behind his back like a soldier. A brief glance you stole at his figure only made you cry harder.

Your sobs were violent but muffled by the cereal in your mouth. You kept desperately sniffing to stop the stream from your nose from running down further. The last person who had made you cry like this was your mother. Oh, your dear mother. The day had truly come when you missed even her harshness, just as she'd always said you would. But now instead of your mother—whom you'd cried and whined to at age ten for not letting you take your giant elephant plushie to school—there was an alien. A disgustingly handsome alien who looked human. "Can I have a napkin...?"

"What's that?"

Your brows were slightly furrowed as you glanced back at the figure trailing behind you, shooting you the same look you were giving him. "Nolan," you said, your voice laced with exasperation and just a hint of desperate hope, "You can't follow me when I go to work." Standing there in the middle of the street in that strange white uniform, he looked at you with a face that refused to accept what you were saying. "Your statements are as ridiculous as your society."

This man...your brow twitched as if it wanted to spasm. It had only been two weeks since he'd arrived on Earth and his ability to adapt to the world was zero. He was like an adult version of a baby, finding something to criticize and complain about everywhere he went. You were growing more certain by the day that this stemmed less from ego and more from his inherent mentality. He was foreign to weakness and entertainment. You'd easily gathered that the planet he grew up on harbored absolutely none of those things. They were very, very boring.

A part of you actually felt sorry for him because of this, but you tried to shoo the thought away. You were humans—empathetic enough creatures to bond even with a stupid robot. And he—he was a species you shouldn't bond with. "Nolan you cannot come to my workplace, I'm serious and I can't be late to work again because of you. My boss is already looking for an excuse to fire me." He pouted at your words, as always. He was definitely going to give you trouble. "That job doesn't even provide you with much gain. All it does is weaken you. Every day you come home weak...vulnerable to attack. You're truly are a broken society." you dragged both hands down your face. You stopped your hands at nose level so he could see the glare you were directing at him. "It provides me with a lot. It gives us a roof over our heads, it lets me buy food to fill my stomach—no, our stomachs, it allows us to live warm and safe under a light." you pulled your hand away from your face and pointed a finger at him. "Look Nolan, I don't know what kind of system you had back home, but we humans have to live off something called money. The most painful thing in life is not having money." You could no longer ignore the strange looks the passing crowd was giving Nolan. "And please for the love of god, change that outfit." You clasped your hands together and waved them at him in the air. "I'm begging you."

You watched Nolan roll his eyes, just as fed up with your words as you were with him. He was adopting the attitude of a teenager forced to listen to their parents lectures. "I still don't understand..."

You couldn't stay any longer. You were going to be late for that damn job. "Money is power." you said, thinking you were finally speaking a language he would understand. You turned quickly and walked into the crowd, ready to snap back at him if he followed. But when you glanced over your shoulder, you saw him standing in the exact same spot, watching you walk away. Amidst the large crowd, he looked too pure. Too angelic.

"Hah, angelic my ass. This bastard could destroy the world in two minutes." You twisted your own words back at yourself, rolling your eyes.

He was a complete headache. How many times had he made a move on you because you hadn't shown any signs of pregnancy, and each time you'd put off this clueless brute with excuses that felt like they belonged in a comedy film. His ignorance genuinely worked in your favor. Though you were sure that with the time he spent on this world, it would change. Even if he didn't know anything about you humans, he absorbed information frighteningly fast. It was terrifying how you only had to show him something once and he'd handle it.

As much as you hated to admit it, you'd gotten his name during this time. It was strange; they didn't even have surnames. It reminded you of the nomadic societies of Central Asia your friend had talked about in history class long ago. No surnames, barely even nicknames. At least that's what you'd managed to get out of his mouth. Even when he acted like he was telling you a lot, it felt like he was deliberately hiding things. The things he had told you about his empire were horrifying, yet they still felt like just the tip of the iceberg. You didn't question it much. You didn't know if it was because you didn't want to deal with him or because you didn't want to relive what had happened on that first day in your apartment two weeks ago.

When you reached the building where you worked, you set an alarm on your phone. You were going to buy a pregnancy test after work today. As much as you didn't want to...there was no escape. Especially not with a flea waiting at home, ready to fuck just to make sure you'd conceived.

As the weight of the day grew heavier, your escape from work drew closer and closer. Focusing on your job and clearing your head had buried your unease about everything else deep underground. Until you saw the news.

'ROBBERY AT XXX: ONE OF THE LARGEST BANKS'

Seeing villains on the news nonstop had become normal. It wasn't all that surprising. But as your breath caught and you rubbed your temple—rage bubbling up inside you like lava—you stared at the footage the reporters were broadcasting. A young man dressed entirely in white. He had a massive case full of gold in his hands, and he was flying away without a care for the gunfire being shot at him.

"That rotten son of a bitch..."

You were so furious that by the time you reached the pharmacy, you nearly attacked the pharmacist just for asking what you needed. Your shoes heels slammed against the ground with every step, loud and sharp. You didn't even spare a glance toward the open door of the music studio on the ground floor, where the young crowd inside was throwing out welcoming invitations. You didn't even have time to wait for the elevator. You were a ticking time bomb walking. Of course there were those who couldn't see it—your downstairs neighbor, an elderly widowed woman named Ericca, smiled at you kindly. She had filled the hallway outside her door with pots upon pots of plants and was watering them. "Hello, sweetheart."

"Hello, Mrs Ericca." you didn't even glance her way as you kept climbing the stairs. "See you later, Mrs Ericca." When you reached your floor, the door opened before you could even press the bell. The moment Nolan's face appeared, your fist made its introduction. Had you lost your mind? Maybe. But not as much as he had.

Up until now, you'd hated families who disciplined their children with violence. But right now you understood them completely. The best way to train a man was a beating. And you had a hell of a beating to give.

Unbothered by the fact that Nolan was completely unfazed by the punch to his face, just surprised—you shoved him by the chest and stormed into your apartment. You slammed the door behind you with a thunderous noise. "Nolan." Despite the fury dancing in your eyes, your voice came out remarkably calm. You watched the man in front of you stare at you in bewilderment, his hand having moved to the spot where you'd punched him. Maybe you should've been just as bewildered as he was. Or maybe not. Truth was, right now you felt nothing but the urge to beat the shit out of him.

You pointed your finger at him. Like you were pointing at a demon.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, huh?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA," you started advancing on him and he—god, he was slowly walking backward. "HOW MUCH EFFORT I'VE PUT INTO THIS HOME, THIS LIFE, YOU FUCKER?! YOU—" Nolan's still shocked state and passive movements only fueled the rage inside you. You were practically drunk on the power rush of it. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY TROUBLES AND MISERIES I'VE STRUGGLED THROUGH AS A PERSON—LET ALONE A WOMAN IN THIS SHITTY FUCKING WORLD?! ALL OF IT—WHY?! WHY?!"

Nolan opened and closed his mouth,not knowing what to say. He looked like a seal pulled out of water. "BECAUSE OF FUCKERS LIKE YOU WHO NEVER GET TIRED OF LICKING THEIR OWN PUSSIES! YOU COMMIT CRIMES AND LEAVE WITHOUT EVEN LOOKING BACK AT THE SHIT YOU LEFT BEHIND—LIKE GETTING UP FROM A DAMN TOILET AND WE,"

Roaring at Nolan had backed him into the corner of the room. As if the couch could somehow act as a shield, he moved closer behind it in the living room. "WE PAY TAXES LIKE IDIOTS SO YOUR FILTH GETS CLEANED UP. HAVE YOU EVER PAID TAXES IN YOUR LIFE, HUH? OF COURSE NOT BECAUSE IN YOUR FUCKING VILTRUMITE THERE ARE FUCKERS LIKE YOU TOO, WHAT WOULD TAXES EVEN BE? EVEN TAXES WOULD BE TOO AFRAID TO ASK ANYTHING FROM YOU, DAMN IT!"

The way he didn't know what to do in the face of your fury was so bizarre. After all, for weeks you'd been the one cowering from this man who'd barged into your life. When you went to your friend's funeral, her crying mother's embrace had only made you want to end your life right then and there. You didn't. You walked right back to the house that sheltered your friend's murderer. It had made you feel like a lamb. No—like a lamb dressed in a wolf's costume. After that funeral, with every breath you took in that house, with every moment your eyes met his, that truth twisted and taunted your heart over and over. Throughout those two long weeks, it was as if your skin were a costume and if you just tried hard enough, you could free yourself from it, from this shitty life. You kept reaching for the back of your neck. At first just your neck, then lower—shamelessly slipping your arm under your clothes and tearing at your back. You dug your nails in. You scratched and scratched, uncaring of the bleeding.

Even at night sitting on the bathroom floor, washing your bloodied undershirts by hand, you couldn't stop yourself from checking, scratched, your back now and then. The wounds grew. Hideous marks spread across your skin, your flesh grew rough but you didn't stop. Whose fault was it? His. No—both of you. Because of his Viltrumiteness and your humanness.

You were guilty because you were a human who could fear what came after death. The unknown frightens humans. Death and spending a day with this man—both held the same uncertainty. And being stuck between the two had only worn you down.

"We can't go on like this, Nolan." You said it as much to yourself as to him. Despite your voice having calmed somewhat, Nolan still looked at you hesitantly, his blue irises wide like a deer's. "I don't understand what I did..." The words fell from his lips like those of an innocent child.

It stirred a guilt inside you. Though—what did it matter? He hadn't shown a single sign of guilt for killing your friend, so why should you show any for him? Was it the society he grew up in...fuck it. Despite the cruelty of the world, there were plenty of people who still knew how to hold tightly to the goodness inside them and protect it. Exceptions exist everywhere. But he wasn't an exception. And even if he were, exceptions don't break the rule.

You wanted to think this way. You threw yourself onto the couch between you, seething with rage. You hurled your bag which you'd forgotten to let go of in your fury—into a corner of the room. Ignoring the gaze behind you, you spread your arms out over the backrest of the couch and sprawled. "I don't like you, Nolan. And I know you feel the same. Still in this shitty life, no fruit comes from a plan where no agreement can be reached. I don't want to understand you and you don't want to understand me. I'd prefer it stayed that way. Or I would have."

You turned your head back toward him. Your eyes met his as he listened to you with immense curiosity. He was looking at you as if you were the most dangerous thing he'd ever seen in his life—or so you thought. "Earth is a cruel place, even if not as cruel as yours. You took possession of me. Forcibly, so to speak. I was afraid of dying, so I submitted. Still that doesn't change the fact that you raped me..." Your voice came out almost trembling. Even though Nolan noticed, he didn't even try to assert dominance.

You paused, leaning on one arm, turning back toward him even more as if seeking confirmation. "Do you know what rape is?"

Nolan silently nodded. It was easy to guess, especially in a society like his. "I'm sure you learned it through interactions with other societies. I doubt your kind even has this kind of nonmonstrous concept." You spat the words with a biting voice. Right now, he could probably sever your head with a single motion of his hand and flying out the window like it was nothing. And you'd just be another victim whose killer no one knew. The fact that Nolan didn't act that he just listened to you like that—felt strange.

He truly hadn't expected your outburst of rage, you supposed. Or for you to show courage and stop submitting? You didn't give a single fuck what he was thinking.

"Tell me, Nolan." you said, despite your previous thoughts, with a sense of curiosity. Because you wanted to figure it out. "How well do you know about this in your society?"

Nolan seemed to be weighing his answer in his mind, as if the words he was about to say might ruin everything. Even though he shouldn't have cared about anything. "We..." his gaze drifted to the ceiling, his blue irises lingering as if the words were up there, "The strong take what is theirs. When we find a candidate to breed with, we break them, conquer them. Consent," his head dropped, yet instead of looking at you, he looked to the side.

Then he looked back at you. There was a hurt in his eyes—not exactly emotional, more like the fragility of a soldier accused of failing a mission. "We don't dwell on such things."

You let out a rasping breath. A strange feeling had settled deep inside you—though, for god's sake who wouldn't feel it? Standing before you was an individual who saw rape as conquest, whose culture had legitimized rape the way a bride brings a dowry. It was horrifying. You wanted to spit in his face, to curse him and his entire people. Though at the end of the day...your gaze dropped. Your lashes nearly brushed your skin, and you didn't even care that Nolan was looking at you hesitantly, like you might bite at any moment.

It was obvious he'd never truly interacted with any society other than the one he'd grown up in. He struggled so much just to adapt to Earth—he was like a newly hatched duckling, trying to mimic whatever he saw from you. And you...if you ignored the fact that your life was on the line, you had given him your consent. Forced though it was. Even if he hadn't asked for it.

This argument you were having now wouldn't bring anything back. Your friend was dead, he had fucked you and even though you shouldn't have...there was a part of you that had taken pleasure, no matter how much it hurt. You had lied right to the faces of the people you could call family as they wept for their daughter. And now? Now you might be pregnant with his child. A child you didn't know what would come out of—from the two of you. Even if you tried to throw him out, despite the possibility of dying, what would it change? You'd only seen his power once—when he killed your friend like she was nothing. And what if you were pregnant with his child? How could you possibly handle a child like that? A child who might accidentally kill you while barely learning to crawl...

You rose from the couch as if the weight of the world were on top of you. Your hand slipped into your hair, pushing back a loose strand, while your other hand settled on the hem of your pants. You walked toward Nolan. Toward the man who was starved for whatever words might leave your lips. "I..." You tried to shove the guilt and disgust inside you to the background. You knew those feelings wouldn't get you anywhere. "Let's...leave the past behind."

The two of you stared into each other's eyes, searching for something. "If we want to move forward...while I try to meet what you expect from me, I also have expectations from you."

He swallowed audibly. You saw his adam's apple move. "I'm listening."

It was too obedient, too amicable a voice. You'd expected roughness. You tilted your head slightly to the side, giving him a chance to show his old attitude, to grab you by the throat. But he just stood there, waiting for your words.

"No stealing. You going and stealing gold and money from that bank is a crime, Nolan. I don't want to harbor a criminal in my home, because crime also brings trouble. And we can't raise a healthy child in the middle of trouble."

Nolan studied your face for a moment, his eyes moving as if weighing your words. He clearly didn't understand some parts. Damn it. "But you told me money is power." he said. You sighed, shifting your weight slightly back onto your foot. Your hand went to the bridge of your nose. "Yes, it really does give power, but it's not right for us to get that kind of power through this kind of way, okay?"

You pulled your hand away from your face and tapped the same spot on his chest with your finger, over and over. "You're going to get a job. A crime-free job."

He repeated after you. "Crime-free."

You clapped your hands together in the air and forced a smile. "Yessss good, yes—a crime-free job. To put it better: no killing people, no snapping necks, no stabbing or slashing people, no stealing anything. And no interacting with people like a tyrant."

You raised your brows and tilted your head toward him. "Deal?" He looked at you as if a thousand thoughts were running through his mind, but he just said what you wanted to hear. "D-deal."

"Good." You turned your back and started walking away, aching to get out of these clothes and into your room. "And ah!" You stopped suddenly as if remembering something, and looked back at him. "We're getting rid of that damn uniform."

His brows furrowed—more out of reflex than implication. His hands moved slightly in the air, as if trying to defend something invisible. "But-"

You didn't let him protest. "Don't make me burn it, Nolan."

"...alright, Y/n." He turned his gaze to the carpet as if he'd just been slapped. Good. Seemed Viltrumites weren't so untameable after all. You turned your back not letting him see the strange, unsettling curl on your lips, and headed to your room.

"For god's sake, Nolan, don't touch it!" You smacked his hand hard, stopping him from touching the pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom tile. Nolan pouted at the hit, as if taking it personally. "I don't even care that you've peed on it."

You couldn't suppress the urge to roll your eyes. This man was sometimes something that had chewed up and swallowed the concept of shame entirely. Still the two of you leaned in, head to head, waiting with curiosity for the test result. You'd already had your period just a few days before your first encounter with Nolan, so with your next period not yet due, you genuinely didn't know if you were pregnant or not. It wasn't like you had a particularly regular cycle anyway. You wondered if he could hear the pounding of your heart—beating with curiosity, expectation and fear. You shifted your gaze to Nolan, your heads nearly knocking together.

He was focused on the test with those beautiful blue eyes that could make anyone jealous. As if the fate of the world depended on it, his lips unconsciously curled again, making yours do the same. The way his soft hair brushed against and mixed with yours in this position—it was a sight worth seeing. The seven wonders of the world could definitely be called a deserved list, but now that this stupid single celled organism had arrived, it looked like you'd need to submit an application to raise the number to eight.

Until he opened his mouth. Yes, all his charm was lost the moment he couldn't keep it shut. "Your technology is so stupid. Who pisses on a stick that looks like a dick?" His blue eyes shifted to yours without breaking position, his hand still holding the test box, shaking it slightly with implication. You were currently trying to find a reason not to slap Nolan.

I'm not going to become one of those horrible women who beat their husbands, no...you tried to rein yourself in with your inner voice, throwing him a disdainful look instead. "What kind of test do you do back where you're from?"

"How would I know? It's the first time I've gotten someone pregnant." You couldn't decide whether his confession should touch your heart or be used as ammunition for criticism. You wondered if it meant what you thought it meant. If so that would be weird, to say the least. "So...are you a virgin?"

"Huh? Yes..." He looked at you, bewildered by the question. Unaware that a discomfort, a defense was rising inside him—not for him but for you. "Are you...are you not?"

"I'm exercising my right to remain silent." He moved in such a way that your heads—pressed together—knocked hard against each other again. You groaned in pain, while he unaffected by the sudden collision, looked as if he'd been struck by your words instead. "What's that supposed to mean? Stop speaking in Earthling. Am I not your first?!" Despite his raised voice, he sounded almost like a fragile high schooler.

You almost opened your mouth but didn't answer. He grunted and pulled back from the counter he'd been leaning over. The muscles beneath his white uniform literally rippled with the movement—mouthwateringly so. You gave him a sly smirk in return for his ugly, furrowed brows. "What, are you going to cry? Go on, don't hold back, you can cry. I won't tell anyone back in your homeland. Oh, that's right—because there isn't a single other freak from your homeland here."

"I thought we agreed to leave the past behind," he said, the space between his brows still somehow wrinkling even further. The displeasure in his voice sent a jolt down your spine. It carried a provocative sharpness. "Eh, I didn't say we'd leave our origins behind."

"Whatever." Before you could react, he snatched the test off the counter. "I wasn't expecting results from your technology anyway." He bowed his head, looking at the test he held in both hands. Despite all that waiting, not a single line had appeared. Nolan wasn't stupid—he'd read the entire prescription more carefully than even you had, annoyingly so. The test was invalid. A new one was needed.

"God, Nolan you're disgusting. I told you not to touch it." you said, adjusting the way you were leaning against the counter with exhaustion. Nolan was literally draining every ounce of energy from your soul. A mountain of muscle with harsh yet oddly childish mannerisms—who wouldn't be worn out by that?

Nolan simply snapped the test in his hands. Your mouth fell slightly open, your hand twitching in the air as if to say what the fuck are you doing. "We didn't even need this test from the start. I kept telling you you weren't pregnant, but you stubbornly kept us waiting." He tossed the test straight into the trash without even looking. "Look, I'm not like you humans—you already know this. From heartbeats to your scent, I can notice changes easily. It's not like I haven't seen pregnant women in society; I can spot the differences immediately. And I haven't seen a single change in you. You're not pregnant. That's it. So maybe quit being stubborn and go ahead and fulfill the duty that falls to you."

You weren't sure whether to be shocked by the information you'd just learned, or by the fact that Nolan was whining like a housewife just because you weren't pregnant. Still the way he so casually voiced trying again didn't bother you—yet it stirred a warmth in your stomach. You felt that annoying heat rising in your cheeks too. Taking that cock inside you again sounded strangely shameful. Yet it was also like a tempting dream.

But you hadn't forgotten your first time. Nolan was a brute. The reason you'd been limping for days, the style you'd cursed over and over. "I think we should get another test. Instincts can be deceiving. We shouldn't take a step based on-"

"Would you cut the whining, damn it." He suddenly grabbed your wrist, backing you up until your back hit the wall. It wasn't painful but it was breathtakingly fast. "We should wait a little longer." Even you didn't believe your own words against his breath brushing your lips. There was almost no distance left between you.

One hand was on your pulse beating wrist, the other against the wall. He murmured, his eyes on your lips. "We've waited long enough." His gaze met yours in a dizzying way. It was the kind of look that made you want to bend your knees and lie down on the floor. It was gentle—in a way he shouldn't have been capable of. "If you'll allow me."

It was a small sentence, and it was enough to ignite the fire inside you. For just a moment you couldn't help but think that after everything he'd said, he would still force you—and here he was, doing the complete opposite, asking for your permission. Ah, damn it...how could I be mad at something like that. As you felt the heat surge, you didn't even want to look away. Maybe, maybe this time could be different. Less painful, less rough. That small sentence planted a hope inside you that you shouldn't have let grow. Wanting to let it grow, however, was a different matter.

"Nolan," you spoke his name in a whisper, as if tasting it. And his eyes brightened even more, as if it were a word bestowed by God. You bit your lip by reflex. Still...not wanting to seem too eager, you said "Let's go to the bedroom."

There it was. The moment you gave your consent, he scooped you up in an instant. In surprise, you wrapped your legs around the man who lifted your weight like it was nothing. Your hands clung to his shoulders. That muscular build—even beneath his unforgivingly tight uniform, it was mouthwatering but touching it was a sensation all its own. It reminded you of your first night. No—you shook your head left and right as Nolan carried you to the bedroom, as if chasing away a thought bubble. You glanced one last time at the corridor behind you, wrapped around the man carrying you. Don't think about the past. The one holding me now is different from before. He'd come further. Or he was trying. That was what mattered right now. You could think about the rest another time.

You had wrestled with so much stress and such a terrible state of mind. You wouldn't call yourself a sex addict but right now you were certain nothing else could clear your head but sex. When Nolan laid you on your back on the bed, you let out a breath that deflated your chest. He was at the edge of the bed, between your spread legs, about to lean over you and take your top off—when you grabbed his hand. He looked at you directly, more like he was asking a question. "You undress first." You licked your lips, feeling them dry. "I want to see you naked."

He hadn't seen you fully naked either, truth be told,but you would've preferred it to be you who revealed your first nakedness. Nolan didn't protest. He straightened up obediently from where he was and brought his hands crosswise to the hem of his top. You watched as he pulled it up and over his head in a movement that was clearly trying to be impressive—hoping to impress you. Years ago, you might have blushed and giggled like a stupid teenager. But no—after all this time, in the face of Nolan's gentle behavior toward you, you weren't going to give him what he wanted easily. You sat up slightly on the bed. Without breaking eye contact with the man who was looking at you helplessly, your hand went to his bare stomach. As you examined the muscles there, you shrugged. "Not bad."

You could've sworn you saw his skin twitch for a split second, but it was gone immediately. Nolan must have remembered your lack of an answer about the virginity question, and his insecurity might have spiked. You were so certain he was comparing himself to Earth men. A filthy smirk appeared on your face—one that could rival those sly men in movies. Seizing the opportunity of his slight vulnerability, you placed one hand on his tailbone and slowly ran your tongue along his v shaped oblique line. Without breaking pace you licked a deep, straight line with a slowness that would make his skin prickle.

You could feel it even on your tongue as Nolan shivered while looking into your eyes. You caught the blush spreading across his cheeks, too. Your eyes slowly narrowed with a provocative heat. Nolan's hands reflexively grabbed onto your shoulders. He didn't push you away, but he stammered—yes, stammered like a virgin. "What are you doing..."

You extended your tongue, making him yearn for the touch. He let out a moan that made it clear he would've told you to stop if he weren't so embarrassed. "What do you think I could be doing, mhm?" Instead of looking away, Nolan closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he still couldn't rein in his shyness, and it only served to embarrass him further. "I'm not food."

The sly smirk on your face vanished instantly, replaced by slight surprise and then a laugh. "I can't believe you, Nolan! Don't worry, we human females don't eat our males. That was just because I find you hot. Don't tell me you don't have this kind of thing where you're from."

He didn't answer—just rolled his eyes, his cheeks burning even hotter. Cute, you thought and slid the hand still resting on his tailbone lower down, landing a smack on his ass. He literally let out a groan and shot you a sharp look, his brows returning to that slight furrow. "I thought you wanted a child, and here you are blushing and acting shy like a princess. And you've only exposed your upper body. I mean, you know you really do have an impressive body, but the women on Earth see that kind of thing every day. Since we don't hang around like cultists the way you do…so you'd better take those pants off."

With a soft grumble, Nolan tugged his pants down—awkwardly, shyly with the same slowness, as if you hadn't already seen it before. You kept a mocking expression on your face, but deep inside the heat was consuming you. God, are all these abs mine…why do you give this statue like perfection to bastards, oh Lord!

You held your breath as you watched Nolan kick his pants off and toss them to the floor, then pull his boxers down in the same manner. While he wasn't looking, you stuck out your tongue—like a woman who knew exactly what she'd gotten her hands on.

There it was. At last, you were reunited. With the same cock that had been just as hard the day you'd first met—when you were on the verge of pissing yourself from fear. You hadn't been able to see it clearly that night in the darkness of the street, but now you could make out a prominent vein or two on his slightly upturned cock, its tip glistening red with heat. They seemed to pulse almost expectantly. You grabbed Nolan by the biceps and yanked him onto you, not caring that he stumbled. His hands landed on either side of your head, bracing himself so he wouldn't crush you, as he dragged his knees forward and pulled his legs onto the bed. You could feel his cock hanging between you, even if only slightly.

Despite your desire, you didn't bother moving much. No—now that you had such an obedient snack in your hands, you weren't going to lift a single finger. You had nothing against dominant, fiery men but you wouldn't say no to an obedient slave who'd serve you and make you feel like you were getting a blowjob in bed. "What are you waiting for, undress me, handsome."

You were practically speaking like a perverted old man. Embarrassing, but fuck it—you wanted him to feel the embarrassment, to squirm. As the mounting pressure in your stomach made you impatient, you watched Nolan turn his head down toward your body and grab the hem of your top, pulling it up. He slid one hand under your back, easily lifting you just enough to slip the garment off. He stared at your skin, now bare except for your bra, his breath caught. He gently removed your bra as well and tossed it aside. His lips parted slightly. It was a mesmerized gaze. Whether it was from the embarrassment he was feeling right now or because he was genuinely captivated, you weren't sure—but he decided to voice something on his own. "I can't do this."

You raised an eyebrow—filled with desire, and maybe a little curiosity. "What can't you do?" Surprisingly, Nolan straightened up above you. Your grip on him simply slipped off and fell away. "I need to use the toilet."

You froze at his confession. Sitting up from the bed, you shoved Nolan off you. He nearly fell off the bed, quickly planting his feet on the floor and grumbling at your scolding. "Fuck off, you can't even hold your piss? You've ruined the entire mood, Nolan. GET OUTTTT!"

"You humans are so dramatic." He turned his back to you and walked out the door, heading down the corridor. You wrinkled your nose at his bare perfectly sculpted ass, crossing your arms as you watched. "Forty—no, twenty-one and a half seconds, or I'll leave you alone in agony with that cock! There's no pussy waiting for you here!" You raised your voice toward the end, making sure he heard you.

You wiggled your feet slightly, which were dangling off the bed, in mild irritation, unable to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at the empty space again. What kind of creature truly was he? Still, you didn't want to deal with that needy pressure building under your skin on your own. When you heard Nolan flush the toilet, you started counting down at the top of your lungs. "…nine, eight, five, five and a half, DON'T COME BACK WITHOUT WASHING YOUR HANDS AND YOUR DICK, four and a half, three quarters, two, zero."

You nearly had a heart attack when his body suddenly appeared right in front of you. "You're terrible at counting." You flinched and fell back onto the bed onto your elbows. This fucker…and his damn speed. "Nolan! Are you trying to kill me?" This time, he watched your scowling complaints with a grin. He loved hearing the way your heartbeat fluttered like a frantic little pigeon. As he climbed back onto the bed and over you, you placed a hand on his chest, trying to keep some distance. Questioningly, "You washed, right?"

He leaned right up to your nose. "I don't know, do you think I did?" Unbothered by your pinching his skin in response, he reached for your lower clothing and slid it down your legs, ridding you of the barrier between you. He was a bit too careless—so much so that he'd taken your panties along with your pants. "God, Nolan!" At your scolding tone, he looked at you with confusion and curiosity as he pulled the fabric off your ankles, and your tone shifted. You smiled. "Looks like I need to make you watch some steamy movies."

He didn't understand what you meant, but he didn't wait for an explanation either. You immediately stopped him when his hand went to his cock and aimed it at your pussy—which he was already staring at hungrily. "Wait, wait, what are you doing?" He looked at you with confusion again. Ugh, did you really have to teach this man everything? Did he have no common sense at all? "Are you going to put it in without prepping me, Nolan? And here I was, lying innocently innocently thinking you were going to be gentle with me."

"Prepping…" You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. Just as you were about to tell him what to do, you closed your mouth. You pursed your lips, looking at him thoughtfully. Nolan fidgeted uncomfortably under your gaze. He really did see sex as nothing more than reproduction. You could never forget how mercilessly he'd thrust into you during your first time. And now, looking carefully again, he was deprived of the best parts of sex. "I've changed my mind." Nolan, not knowing what to do, watched as you slid upward from beneath him with the help of your elbows. His hand went to your waist but he didn't pull you back under him. Your lower body was now at face level with him as you leaned back against the pillow behind you. Enjoying his confused state as you settled into a comfortable position, you spread your legs. He bit his lip at the sight of your pussy, now even more exposed to his gaze. "Let's try something different."

He slid toward you. Your hands found his biceps, stopping his advance. "We, uhm…don't just do sex your way." You didn't even know how to explain it. What the hell could you say to a man who didn't know what oral sex was, damn it. "AH to hell with it, whatever. Do you want a taste?"

Nolan looked between your face and your pussy, glistening with its own wetness. "You taste this?" The way he said it as if what you were doing was something illegal even among his kind—put you on the defensive. "What would you even know about the pleasure of it, huh?! How about for once, instead of being prejudiced against everything, you take a step forward, huh?!"

Nolan's brows rose slightly at your defensive attitude, and his gaze stirred a sense of shame inside you. Were you being too dramatic? Was your period approaching or something…

You held your breath as you watched him lean down toward your pussy, putting his weight onto his hands on your hips. Aside from shame, another feeling had sprouted inside you. For some reason, letting him do this didn't feel right in that moment. You grabbed Nolan by the shoulders and made him look at you. "Hey, if it makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to…" You studied his face with hesitation. You searched for any trace of reluctance, any disgust. Of course he might not like it—setting aside the fact that he was from another race, there were even humans on Earth who didn't enjoy oral sex.

There wasn't a single trace of discomfort on his face. There was more of a blush. One so faint against his skin tone that you could barely notice it. Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his face to your pussy. The warm air from his words caressed your cunt with a shiver-inducing sensation. "I want to."

You squirmed on the pillows, closing your eyes at the tongue making contact with your pussy. Good. It felt good, for now. Along with your rising heartbeat, you watched Nolan from behind your lashes—his hands glued to your hips, clumsily tasting you. If his tongue weren't like yours, you'd die before letting him go down on you. Your spine prickled just at the thought of him having a barbed tongue, even for a split second.

Despite his clumsy licks, the shiver of pleasure he sent through your pussy made your legs twitch. Nolan seemed to pause under the pressure of the soft flesh wrapping around his head—he must not have expected this. He pulled his tongue back for a moment, then adjusted his position. His hands slid from your hips down to your thighs. He gripped the soft mass there as if it belonged in his palms from the very start. The warmth of his breath made contact again—not with the tip of his tongue, but almost with the side of his lips. It was a slightly damp, hesitant touch. As if he were kissing it, and yet not quite. It didn't resemble a kiss and you couldn't even attempt to call it eating. You could feel the corners of his mouth spreading wider, gliding over your ever more sensitive flesh.

A pleasure laced breath escaped your lips. Even if you'd wanted to reflexively close your legs, you couldn't. His grip was as solid as a ship's anchor. The heat of his breath spread first across your groin, then further along your skin. Or rather your body was warming up from the heat—creating a pressure with his touches.

You bit your lip at the increasingly wet, clumsy sounds Nolan was making. Your gaze drifted down to him, working between your legs. You reached your hands toward his hair but then pulled them back. You didn't even know why you did it. Your heart had started racing just as senselessly as the gesture. Your hands moved to the sheets beside you.

"You have a strange taste." You glanced down again at Nolan, who was trying to move at a normal human pace between his stiff, flat licks. Your only response was an audible breath—though even that came out slightly shaky, despite yourself.

Unaware of the heat building and swelling beneath your stomach, Nolan was wrestling with the novelty before him. You were clueless about his inner world—but he was terrified of doing something wrong and making you tense up suddenly. That was why every few seconds, he stopped and looked up, his eyes asking, is this good?, while his mouth was far too busy for an answer.

You caught every glance. The way those blue eyes searched for yours. You were taking pleasure, yes but both of you were holding back too much. Too hesitant to give more, too hesitant to take. The last thing you wanted was for Nolan to lose control and snap your spine or something. You probably couldn't even go to the hospital from the shame of it. But your hesitations were making your journey toward orgasm move at a crawl.

Nothing happened without taking a risk. You wanted to open your lips, to wait for him to break your rhythm. But this effort…this clumsy, trial and error filled, pure effort melted you inside. The sound of your breathing escaped uncontrollably between your lips. Your hand buried itself in his hair. You got lost on that thin line between pressing him into you and pushing him away. When he found the rhythm, the muffled, proud sound Nolan made—just because he realized he was doing it right—was even heavier than the coming orgasm.

Your fingers disappeared into his hair. Now, as he mercilessly licked and crushed your clit with his tongue, intense and unrelenting, you nearly drowned in your own breath. Instead of escaping your lips, your moan caught in your throat. You adjusted your grip on his hair. Nolan's shoulders were tensed like the cables of a bridge. The movement of his muscles beneath his skin was mesmerizing.

His tongue pressed against the resisting ring of your entrance. A little more effort, and it slipped between your walls like a current of air. You moaned, savoring the feeling of his tongue reaching as deep as it could go. Then he pulled it back, probing the edges of every wall as he withdrew. Without letting you miss the pleasure he'd just given you, he found his place against your walls again. Back and forth, back and forth—until your skin grew slick with sweat. You whimpered softly at the hot loss of his tongue. It had come out from your lips in a tone like a protest.

You hissed, throwing your head back at the sudden jolt of pain. You'd been bitten. You looked down at Nolan through your moans—he was biting and tugging at your clit. "What are you doing-"

His gaze flicked up at you. Just for a moment. Then he returned to it, went back to what he was doing. You could feel your sensitive flesh being pulled under the force of his teeth. The wet folds of your pussy were also subjected to friction during the assault.

A rasping breath tore from your throat. The sting of your sensitive flesh and the pleasure you took from the discomfort ignited the heat that had been building under your skin like a storm. You barely managed to give a warning between your trembling, clenching walls, releasing what was inside. "I-I'm coming…Nolan.."

You shuddered as you came against the startled breath blowing onto your pussy, while Nolan—without hesitation, without guidance—latched onto your pussy. His entire mouth pressed against you as much as it could, swallowing whatever he could take from you in hard, thoughtless gulps. The sound of the fluid going down his throat vibrated against your skin. Another needy moan escaped your lips. You mindlessly babbled his name. Your eyes had rolled back in pleasure, and you didn't even look at the gaze burning into your bare chest.

As your orgasm subsided and your body trembled with the lingering aftershocks of pleasure, Nolan pulled away from the swollen, sucked flesh with a pop. He straightened up on his knees without letting go of your calves—using them as some kind of support. You studied his face through half lidded eyes. You caught a glimpse of the fluids coating his lips before he licked them away and erased the evidence.

"God…you were amazing…" You confessed it with a lazy smirk. With you clearly melting from pleasure before him, hiding it from him would've been foolish anyway. The way he'd turned rough and demanding toward the end had been unexpected. You thought you liked this side of him a bit more—though right now, you still would've preferred his gentler side.

He increased the pressure on your calves, pulling you even closer to him. Now your calves were pressed skin to skin. Just as he pulled you, he folded you in half within a single breath. "Huh, Nolan?" He ignored your questioning of what he was doing, his breaths continuing. His hands slid from your calves up to your stomach. Like a wrestler, he pressed down on your belly—still slightly sore after your orgasm. You furrowed your brows with a groan. You couldn't do anything as he pulled you even further, nearly headfirst. Because of this new position, you could only half see his face.

He bowed his head and licked hard, demanding the wetness still clinging to your skin as if it were his right. You moaned at the unexpected harsh drag of his tongue. Staring at the headboard through your inverted view, you whined. "Nolan…damn you-"

In response to your words, the rough friction probing the insides of your folds sent a shiver down your spine. The pressure of Nolan's clasped hands on your stomach was building another kind of pressure beneath it.

Nolan pulled his head back. He drank in with satisfied eyes the way your pussy clenched at the loss of his mouth. Once he was certain he'd cleaned up every last trace of your fluids, he pressed a wet kiss right to the center of your cunt with his swollen lips. Your entrance clenched at the kiss. You desperately tried to squirm your hips. "Hah, Nolan…at this rate I'm gonna have a brain bleed!"

With your voice coming out somewhat exhausted from everything he'd put you through, Nolan shifted his grip and guided you by the hips, laying you on your side. You could feel his gaze on your back as it rose and fell with your breaths. You looked back at him over your shoulder. Nolan, stretched out behind you, had found your upper leg with one hand and lifted it. "If it's uncomfortable, tell me. I can change positions." Against his breath caressing your ear, you parted your lips. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, his hand settled beneath your stomach, his arm wrapping around you. "I don't know…this could work for now…"

Nolan gripped his cock and positioned himself at your wet entrance—already fucked by his tongue just moments before. You bit your lip as the head of his cock kissed your warmth and wetness. Your hand found the sheets crushed beneath your body. You clutched them between your fingers in a way that resembled an old portrait.

As his hand cupped one of your breasts, gripping you, he slowly brought his length into your warmth. Unlike your first night, it was a slow thrust—one that didn't hurt. You dropped your head down like a dead weight with a groan. Your eyes watched your crumpled sheets. Your hair was stuck to your sweat damp forehead from everything that had happened so far.

Slowly, without forcing your walls but without giving up either, he made you accept his size, pushing all the way to the hilt. Until he was fully seated inside you, as if he were a missing piece. Neither of you moved—as if doing so might shatter the moment—trying only to focus on the sensation. The only thing that moved was his warm hand, gently squeezing your breast between his palm. It was almost soothing.

The stretch didn't hurt, but it was still an ache. His wet lips brushed your earlobe. "I'm going to move now."

You let out an almost sweet breath. The kind both of you could hear. His gesture was perhaps small and familiar, but it was the kind that warmed your heart. You hoped he'd be this thoughtful more often. Not just during sex, but in everyday life too.

He spread the leg he was holding in the air a little wider and moved his hips. Slowly he pulled out, dragging against your walls. You let out a cold breath that hit your chest. Nolan was trying to catch your expressions from your downturned face with curious eyes. He couldn't describe the feeling of being inside you—he'd almost missed it. He truly wanted to give you pleasure. He hadn't cared about that before but now it was different. You'd given him a chance to at least truly be accepted. Maybe a week ago, he wouldn't have cared. Why would he?..he didn't need validation from a human like you. He didn't even care whether you accepted him or not. But now…things had changed. At a speed that even he would find himself caught in the middle of.

Yet as foreign as it felt, it also felt right. As if it had been planted inside him from the very start. It had just been waiting for a little watering, hoping for a single moment to breathe. And you had given him that. That feeling he'd buried deep in his society—too afraid to even try to dig it out and understand it. He didn't want it to disappear, even though part of him wanted to crush it under his fist because of how much it unsettled him. He wondered what would happen if it stayed alive and grew even larger.

He began to move, rolling his hips in a rhythm that wouldn't hurt you but wouldn't deprive you of pleasure either. As his chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, he pressed his lips to the surface of your back. It was damp and fragrant. Almost pleasant. But what pleased him most was the flesh in his palm. The softness of your breasts was mesmerizing. He couldn't even get enough of the view—he felt like he might just grow addicted to your very existence.

Your hand found his, pulling it away from the pleasure he was giving you—needily. "Touch me." you said, eagerly trying to meet his thrusts with your hips. Following your passive guidance, Nolan brought his hand to your pussy. He probed the flesh there with fingers that felt cold against the heat. While still fucking your tight walls, he studied your face and his hand finally found your clit. From your expressions, he understood—this was the part that gave you more pleasure.

As he rubbed your clit with his fingers, working it with wet, slick sounds, his hips were almost gently pounding against yours. The movement of his hands was the complete opposite of his hips. You could do nothing but moan at the mouthwatering sensation of Nolan's cock. And as if taking courage from that, his slow movements intensified—his pace quickening along with it. But there was still an effort of control there. Nolan was aware that even among his own race, he was young. And the last thing he wanted, with the loss of control that youth brought, was to tear your lower body apart, to turn it into pulp beneath his hands. "Nolann—"

At your moaning of his name, he practically leaned down to look at your mouth. He responded with a tone that made your walls clench even tighter. "Tell me what you want."

As your hips desperately chased your approaching orgasm against his hand, your lips said something else. "Kiss me." as if the asking were enough, his lips crashed into yours. You grew breathless as he tried to devour you with raw desire—the same way he'd done to your pussy moments before. As he continued fucking you, in your spinning world, you tried to gain dominance in the chaotic war between your lips.

It was like a wordlessly agreed upon war between you. You moaned into his mouth as Nolan slyly pinched your clit. He slipped his tongue in, just to taste yours. As he leaned into you, your hand went to his pulsebeating neck. It was damp with moisture, just like yours. You could feel every muscle and vein of the man devouring your lips—almost beneath his skin.

It was so, so dizzying. If only I could dive into the blue of those eyes and cool off as if in a sea. Your muscles were now twitching involuntarily. With your breath growing irregular, you shifted your hips to the side, breaking sync with his. As if the thread holding your mind in place had snapped, your walls tried to suck him in like a leech, and you finally came.

You could feel him losing control in the heat that clenched around him, nearly snarling right beside his ear. His movements were almost desperate. Your walls, trying to coax him into release, were irresistible. And he couldn't hold back any longer—especially when all he wanted was to please you. How could he possibly resist? God, he couldn't withstand you. With a hard thrust, the tip of his cock planted a farewell kiss on the cervix he'd so gently been pounding moments before.

You threw your head to the side as you felt the weight of the fluid filling you. Nolan took the opportunity, sinking a bite into the exposed skin of your neck—not enough to hurt but enough to make your body tremble. And you didn't resist. You let the bite bloom on your skin like a poppy, as if it were an act of love.

You whined at the dizzying feeling of him still filling you. It was leaking out of your hole now—smeared onto the sheets, onto your legs, onto places you didn't even know. "Fuck…you Viltrumite men…you're complete whores."

Your words seemed to come alive before his eyes. Then he laughed softly, almost with delight. The words that would've made him kill anyone else—he took them from you as a compliment. "Hah. If you're going to love me like this? I think I'll accept being a whore."