You kick off your shoes and shuffle down the hallway, already pulling your hair out of the bun you'd done up that morning, now mostly falling out on its own. The bedroom door is cracked open, and when you push it wider, you find exactly what you were hoping for.

Satoru is sprawled across the bed like a starfish, still wearing his teaching clothes—black pants and a rumpled button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His blindfold is tossed carelessly on the nightstand, and his white hair is an absolute disaster, sticking up in every direction like he's been running his hands through it all day. His eyes are closed, one arm thrown over his face.

He looks as exhausted as you feel.

"Rough day?" you ask, and he groans without moving.

"The first years tried to fight a curse three grades above their level because Yuji said it 'looked easy,'" he mumbles into his arm. "I had to bail them out. Again. Then Megumi and Nobara got into an argument about mission protocol that somehow turned into a full-blown screaming match about who ate whose leftovers from the fridge. I had to separate them like they were toddlers."

Despite your exhaustion, you snort. "Sounds about right."

"And then," he continues, finally moving his arm to peek at you with one brilliant blue eye, "Yaga cornered me about paperwork I was supposed to file last week. Do you know how much I hate paperwork?"

"I'm aware." You're already moving toward the bed, unbuttoning your work pants. "You complain about it literally every time."

"Because it's the worst. I'm the strongest sorcerer alive. I shouldn't have to file incident reports."

"Mm-hmm, very tragic." You shimmy out of your pants and leave them in a heap on the floor—a problem for future you. Your blouse follows, leaving you in just your bra and underwear. "My day was also shit, for the record."

"Yeah?" He's watching you now with lazy interest, too tired to even sit up but still tracking your movements.

"My boss is an idiot, the coffee machine broke, I had to sit through a two-hour meeting that could've been an email, and Janet from accounting passive-aggressively cc'd the entire department on an email about someone stealing her lunch. Which, for the record, I didn't do, but she definitely thinks I did based on the way she was glaring at me."

"Want me to hollow purple Janet from accounting?" he offers, completely serious.

"Tempting, but no." You crawl onto the bed and without ceremony, flop directly on top of him, your full weight pressing him into the mattress. You bury your face in his chest with a long, dramatic groan. "I'm dead. This is me, dead."

"Hi, dead. I'm also dead." His arms come around you automatically, wrapping you up even though you're both too tired to really move. "We're both corpses now. This is our life."

"Our death," you correct, muffled against his shirt.

"Our death," he agrees solemnly.

For a moment, you just lie there, breathing in sync. He smells like his cologne mixed with the faint scent of the training grounds—sweat and grass and something distinctly him. It's comforting in a way you can't quite articulate. This exhausted, collapsed-together moment feels like home.

His hand starts moving on your back, slow and gentle, rubbing up and down your spine. It feels incredible, and you make an embarrassing sound of contentment that you'll deny later.

"You're tense as hell," he murmurs, fingers working at a knot between your shoulder blades.

"You try dealing with Janet's accusatory emails and see how relaxed you are," you mumble, but you're already melting into his touch.

"I'd just block her."

"You can't block coworkers, Satoru."

"You can if you're powerful enough." His hand slides lower, still rubbing your back, and you feel some of the day's tension starting to ease. "This okay?"

"It's perfect. You're my favorite human pillow."

"Just human pillow? Not devastatingly handsome boyfriend who you're lucky to have?"

"That's implied," you say, but you're smiling against his chest.

His other hand joins the first, both of them working at your tired muscles, and you honest-to-god almost start purring. This is exactly what you needed. Just this—him, the quiet apartment, his hands on you, the weight of the day slowly lifting.

But then his hands start to wander.

It's subtle at first. His fingers drift from your back to your sides, tracing the curve of your waist. Then lower, skimming over your hips. And then—

He grabs your ass. Both hands, full handfuls, squeezing appreciatively.

"Really?" you ask, lifting your head to look at him. "We're both dead, remember? Corpses don't grope."

"I'm a very motivated corpse." He squeezes again, shameless, and there's a grin tugging at his lips now. "Can't help it. You're lying on top of me in your underwear. What did you expect?"

"Self-control? Restraint? Basic human decency?"

"Baby, you know me better than that." His hands are still kneading your ass, and despite your sass, you can feel heat starting to pool low in your belly. "Besides, you love it."

"I love that you can't even wait until we've recovered from our respective terrible days before getting handsy?"

"Exactly." He's fully grinning now, that cocky, insufferable grin that makes you want to kiss him and smack him at the same time. "Your ass is the best stress relief. It's science."

"That's not science, you idiot."

"It's my science."

You snort, but you're not moving away. His hands are warm and familiar, and honestly, after the day you've had, this isn't the worst thing in the world. You let your head drop back to his chest, eyes drifting closed.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice softer now.

"Mmm," you hum in agreement. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it."

For a while, it's just quiet. His hands keep moving—sometimes squeezing, sometimes just resting there, thumbs drawing lazy circles. You can hear his heartbeat under your ear, steady and strong. The tension in your shoulders is almost completely gone now, replaced by a different kind of warmth, something slower and heavier.

You're half-asleep when you feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against your hip.

"Satoru," you mumble, not even opening your eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Are you seriously getting hard right now?"

There's a pause. Then he says, "...Maybe."

You lift your head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. He has the decency to look slightly sheepish, but there's heat in his eyes now, that familiar hunger that never really goes away when it comes to you.

"We were having a nice moment."

"We still are."

"You've got a boner."

"I do…That doesn't cancel the nice moment."

You stare at him for another second before letting out a laugh.

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"I come home exhausted, use you as a human mattress for ten minutes, and somehow I'm the problem?"

"You are absolutely the problem."

"I literally haven't done anything."

"You climbed on top of me, got all comfy, made that little happy humming noise, and then fell asleep on my chest."

"I hummed?"

"You hummed."

"I don't hum."

"You do when you're really comfortable."

You narrow your eyes. "I've never noticed that."

"I have."

You glare at him.

"…Baby." He exhales dramatically, like he's carrying the weight of the world. "You're makin' me so hard."

You snort. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm trying to be respectful."

"Are you?"

Silence.

"…No." He grins without an ounce of shame. "Not really."

Despite yourself, you laugh again, dropping your forehead back against his shoulder.

"You're ridiculous."

"I know."

His arms tighten around you just a little. "But you look so comfortable."

His voice is quieter now. "So happy."

You burrow your face further into his shoulder.

"…I like when you're like this."

You feel yourself smile before you can stop it. "You're such a sap."

"Only for you."

There's a comfortable silence. Then his hands drift just a little bit lower again.

"…Okay," you mumble. "Now you're definitely not being respectful."

"No." He gives your ass another shameless squeeze. "I'm definitely not."

Before you can respond, he's sitting up, keeping you in his lap, and capturing your mouth in a kiss that's hungry and demanding. You can taste his desperation, feel it in the way his hands grip you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.

When he pulls back, his lips are already swollen, his eyes are dark with want. "I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "Get up here."

"Up where—"

But he's already moving, sliding down the bed and pulling you with him. "On my face. Come on."

"Satoru—"

"Please." And there it is, that needy edge that makes your stomach flip. "I've been thinking about this all day. About you sitting on my face, riding my tongue until you come. Please, baby. I need it."

How are you supposed to say no to that?

"You're ridiculous," you say, but you're already moving, letting him position you. He's lying flat on his back now, looking up at you with such raw want that it makes you shiver.

"Not ridiculous. Desperate." His hands come up to grip your thighs, pulling you forward. "Now stop stalling and sit on my face."

"Bossy," you mutter, but you're lowering yourself down, and then—

"Oh fuck," you gasp as his tongue makes contact, sliding through your folds in one long, deliberate stroke.

He groans under you, the vibration going straight to your core, and his hands tighten on your thighs. "That's it," he mumbles against you. "Right there. Don't move."

But you're already moving, you can't help it, grinding down against his mouth as he licks and sucks and devours you like a man starving. His grip on your thighs is almost bruising, holding you exactly where he wants you, and when you try to lift up, worried about suffocating him, about being too much—he just pulls you back down harder.

"Satoru—"

"Stay," he demands, voice muffled. He pulls his face back to look up at you. "Fuck my face. Come on, baby, I can take it. Give it to me." Then he lowers his mouth to you again.

It's obscene, the wet sounds of his mouth on you, the way he's completely lost in it. His tongue circles your clit, then dips inside you, then back to your clit, and you're already shaking, already so close.

"That's it," he encourages, and you can hear the smugness in his voice even now. "You're dripping, baby. such a mess on my face."

"Shut—up," you gasp, but there's no heat in it because he's right—you can feel how wet you are, can feel it on his chin, his lips, and it should be embarrassing but it's just hot.

"Make me," he challenges, and then he's sucking your clit into his mouth, hard, and you cry out.

Your hands fly to the headboard, gripping the edge to steady yourself as the pleasure intensifies. You start to really move now, riding his face with purpose, and he moans underneath you like this is exactly what he wanted all along.

"Fuck, yes," he groans against you, the vibration making you gasp. "Just like that. Use me, baby. Take what you need."

His hands guide your hips, encouraging the rhythm, and his tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, pressing flat against you in a way that makes your thighs shake. You can feel yourself getting closer, that coil of heat tightening in your belly.

"Satoru, I'm—fuck—"

"Do it," he demands, voice rough. "Come on my face.”

His tongue flicks rapidly over your clit, and that's all it takes. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, pleasure rolling through your entire body. You're grinding down against his mouth, riding it out, and he's groaning underneath you like this is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

When you finally come down, shaking and oversensitive, you try to move off him, but his hands tighten on your thighs.

"Not yet," he mumbles, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. "Just—give me a second. You taste so fucking good."

"You're gonna kill me," you pant, but you're smiling.

But he's already diving back in, and you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again. Your whole body jolts at the sensitivity, but he doesn't let up—he's relentless, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he works you over. The pleasure is almost too much, bordering on overwhelming, and you're already moaning his name.

"Satoru—fuck—it's too much—"

"I know, baby," he groans against you, the vibration sending another wave through you. "But you can take it."

He's eating you out like he's starving, like he can't get enough, and your whole body is shaking. Your hands grip the headboard tighter, your hips moving against his mouth almost involuntarily. The pleasure is building again, impossibly fast, and you're gasping and moaning as he works you toward another orgasm.

"Oh god—Satoru—I'm gonna—"

"That's it," he encourages, his tongue flicking faster. 

Your second orgasm hits you like a wave, even more intense than the first, and you're crying out as pleasure crashes through you. Your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up, and he's groaning underneath you, clearly getting off on how much he's affecting you.

When you finally collapse, completely spent and oversensitive, he finally releases you, and you fall onto the bed next to him, breathing hard and trembling.

"And I'm dramatic?" He's grinning like he just won the lottery, his face wet, his hair a complete disaster. "That was—fuck. I love you, baby."

"You're insane," you say, but you're pulling him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.

"About you? Absolutely." His hands are already roaming again, cupping your face, then sliding down your sides. "But I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh really?"

"Really." He's kissing you again, slower this time, deeper. When he pulls back, there's something vulnerable in his expression beneath all the confidence. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Then show me," you challenge, and his eyes darken.

"Oh, baby."

He's fumbling with his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers, and his cock springs free—flushed and hard and already leaking. You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, and he hisses.

"Fuck, baby—"

"What?" You stroke him slowly, base to tip, and he's already trembling.

"Your hands—shit—they're so much smaller than mine. Look so good wrapped around my cock."

"Yeah?" you tease, giving him another slow stroke.

"Yeah." His voice is strained. 

He gently removes your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, and then he's pulling you against him. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip possessively. You can feel him, hard and hot against your thigh, and he's just... holding you there.

"Satoru—"

"Give me a second," he murmurs, his voice already rough. His breathing is uneven against your neck, and you can feel the tension in his body—the way he's trying to maintain control. "Just—fuck—you feel so good.”

His hips shift slightly, and you feel the length of him drag against you—not entering, just the pressure of him sliding through your wetness. The friction makes you gasp, and he groans.

"There it is," he breathes. "That sound. The little gasp you make when I—" He does it again, a slow roll of his hips, grinding against you. "When I touch you just right."

"Satoru, please—"

"Please what?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. "Tell me what you want, baby."

"You know what I want."

"I do." Another slow grind, and you can feel how wet you are, how easily he slides against you. "But I wanna hear you say it. Love the way your voice gets all breathy when you're desperate for me."

"You're killing me—"

"Good." He's kissing your neck now, teeth grazing your pulse point. "You've been killing me all day. All week. Every time you look at me with those eyes, every time you smile at me like I'm the only person in the world—fuck, baby, you have no idea."

His voice is shaking now, and you realize he's not teasing anymore—he's barely holding on. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, and you both freeze.

"I can't—" His forehead drops to your shoulder. "I can't think straight around you. Can't control myself. You just—you exist, and I'm gone."

"Then stop trying to control it," you whisper, and you feel him shudder.

"Fuck." He shifts, lining himself up properly, and then he's pushing in—slowly, so slowly. The stretch is intense, pleasure edged with the sweetest hint of pressure as he fills you inch by inch. "Fuck, baby. You feel so good. So tight. So perfect."

"Satoru—"

"I know. I've got you." He's only halfway in, taking his time, letting you adjust. His forehead is still pressed to your shoulder, and you can feel how much restraint this is taking him—the way his muscles are tense, the way his breath comes in short gasps. "You're taking me so well. You always take me so well."

Finally, finally, he's fully seated inside you, and you both just breathe for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of being completely connected.

"Okay?" he asks, lifting his head to look at you.

"Yes baby," you manage. "You can move.”

"Thank fuck." He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrusts back in. The drag of his cock against your walls makes you gasp, and he groans. "That sound. Fuck, I love that sound."

He sets a steady rhythm, deep and deliberate, each thrust making you feel impossibly full. His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, gripping your hips—like he can't decide where he wants to touch you most.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, watching your face. "All flushed and breathless. The way your eyes get all hazy when I'm inside you—fuck, it drives me crazy."

"Satoru—"

"I love you so much." His voice is rough with emotion now, not just desire. "Love everything about you. The way you feel, the way you look at me, the way you let me have you like this—"

"I love you too," you gasp, and his hips stutter.

His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, there's something raw there.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Fuck." His pace falters, becomes less controlled. "You can't—you can't just say it like that when I'm inside you. You're gonna—shit—"

"You feel so good," you tell him, cupping his face. "So perfect. You always make me feel so good."

His breath catches, and suddenly he's kissing you desperately, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, less measured.

"You're everything," he gasps against your mouth. "Everything to me. The way you trust me, the way you look at me like I'm—fuck, baby, I can't—"

"You are," you insist, and his composure cracks completely.

"Fuck—" He's moving faster now, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "Love how you fit around me. Like you were made for me. Like we were made for each other."

"We were," you gasp, and his eyes flash with something fierce and possessive.

"Damn right we were." He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust is devastating. "There it is. That's the spot, isn't it?"

"Yes—fuck—right there—"

"I know, baby. I know." His voice is breaking now, emotion and desire tangled together. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna watch your face when you—fuck—when you come because of me."

The pleasure is building so quickly you can barely breathe. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, his back, trying to anchor yourself as he drives into you again and again.

"That's it," he encourages, watching your face like he's memorizing it. "I can feel you getting tighter. You're close, aren't you? So fucking close."

"Don't stop—"

"Never." One of his hands slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me see you."

The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot and his thumb on your clit is too much. Your orgasm hits you hard, pleasure crashing through you in waves that make your whole body tense and shake. You're clenching around him, and he groans at the sensation.

"Fuck, yes," he breathes, still moving, fucking you through it. "That's it. That's my girl. You're so good. So beautiful. Fuck, I love you so much."

When you finally start to come down, gasping and trembling, you expect him to follow you over the edge. But instead, he slows his movements, pressing soft kisses to your face.

"Satoru—"

"Not done with you yet," he murmurs against your lips.

Before you can respond, he's pulling out and lifting your legs, draping them over his shoulders. The new position opens you up completely, and when he pushes back in, he's somehow even deeper than before.

"Oh fuck—" you gasp, and he groans.

"There we go." He starts moving again, and this angle is devastating. Every thrust feels impossibly deep, hitting places that make your toes curl. "How's that, baby? That good?"

"Yes—fuck—Satoru—"

"I love you so much," he says, his voice rough. "You know that? I'm never letting you go. You're mine. Always gonna be mine."

"Yours," you agree breathlessly, and something in his expression goes even more intense.

"That's right." His thrusts are harder now, more purposeful. "Gonna take care of you. Gonna make you feel so good. Gonna love you for the rest of my life."

His hand moves to your stomach, pressing down, and suddenly his eyes go wide. He can feel himself inside you, the bulge of his cock with each thrust, and something feral takes over his expression.

"Holy shit," he breathes, completely mesmerized. His hand traces the outline, feeling himself move in and out of you, and he starts fucking you even harder, unable to look away. "Look at that. Look at you taking me so deep."

You're already building toward another orgasm, the intensity of this angle and his words and the way he's looking at you like you're the most incredible thing he's ever seen—it's all too much.

He's transfixed, watching his cock disappear inside you again and again, feeling the movement under his palm. His breathing is ragged, his movements becoming more frantic.

"Can you feel that, baby?" he asks breathlessly, his voice completely wrecked. "Fuck—I'm so fucking deep—you feel that?"

You look up at him with half-shut glazed eyes, your mouth parted open, completely fucked out. "Yes—fuck—yes, Satoru, I feel it—"

He groans at the sight of you—at how thoroughly wrecked you look, at the way you're falling apart beneath him. "You're so hot. So fucking hot. The way you look right now—fuck—I'm obsessed with you."

He's fucking you harder now, more urgently, his hand still on your stomach feeling himself move inside you with each thrust. The visual seems to drive him wild, and his movements become almost desperate.

"Come for me again," he demands, his other hand finding your oversensitive clit. "I know you can. I know you've got one more in you. Come on, baby. Give it to me."

"Satoru—I can't—it's too much—"

"You can." His thumb presses harder, circling your clit. "You can, baby. I need you to.”

The pleasure is building impossibly fast, almost painful in its intensity. You're so sensitive from your first two orgasms that every thrust, every touch feels magnified.

"That's it," he encourages, watching your face. "I can see it. You're right there. Just let go, baby.”

His voice is breaking, his control completely shattered, and then something raw escapes from him. 

"I want you—" His hips snap forward harder. "Fuck—want all of you.”

His composure finally snaps.

"They've been on my ass my whole life about the bloodline. About heirs. About duty." Another hard thrust, his voice is cracking. "And I never—fuck—never wanted it."

He's breathing hard, almost gasping between words.

"Not until you."

His forehead drops closer to yours, his movements becoming more frantic.

"Only you. Want to marry you—want to wake up to you every day—want to call you my wife and—ah—know you're mine—"

Your orgasm crashes through you even harder, triggered by his words, by the desperation in his voice, by the sight of him completely undone above you. You're clenching around him so tight he gasps, your whole body shaking with the intensity.

"Fuck, yes—" He's just… staring at you, still moving, still feeling himself inside you. "So beautiful—The way your face—the way you sound—fuck—"

The sight of you completely wrecked under him, the feeling of you clenching around him, the way you gasp his name—it pushes him over the edge.

"Ah—fuck—fuck—fuuckk—" He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes hard, spilling into you in hot pulses. His whole body shudders with the intensity of it, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel the warmth spreading.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you but clearly boneless. For a while, you just breathe together, sweaty and satisfied.

"Holy shit," you mumble.

"Yeah." He's pressing kisses all over your face—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. He can’t seem to stop touching you, his hands running over your skin like he needs the contact. "You're amazing. Incredible. Best girlfriend in the entire world."

"Best girlfriend, or best pussy?" you tease, and he pulls back to look at you with mock offense.

"Both. Definitely both." He's grinning now, that soft, genuine smile that he only gives you. "But mostly you. I love you. Like, so much. An embarrassing amount."

"I love you too, you needy disaster."

"Your needy disaster," he corrects, and he's still touching you, hands running over your skin like he can't bear to stop. "Mine now. No takebacks."

"Wouldn't dream of it," you say softly, and you mean it.

He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest, and you can hear his heartbeat starting to slow. The exhaustion from earlier is creeping back in, but it's different now—satisfied, content, the good kind of tired.

"We should probably shower," you murmur, but you're already half-asleep.

"Later," he mumbles into your hair. "Right now I just wanna hold you."

"Clingy."

"Yep." He doesn't even sound ashamed. "You're stuck with me. Forever. Hope you're ready for that."

"I think I can manage," you say, smiling against his chest.

“I don’t feel like it.” You teased, dragging a finger up and down the sharp lines of his face. “Just jerk off or something.” You moved off his lap, making him furrow his eyebrows. Unfortunately, you didn’t get far before his hands gripped your waist, pulling you harshly back down enough to feel his bulge.

“I said, fix this, sweets.”

And when your best friend begs like that, it’s hard to say no.

“Oh!”

“That’s it, feel every inch.” Gojo coo’ed lowly, pecking at your cheeks. Your hips couldn’t catch a break with every thrust they made.

Your ass recoiled in his hands, cheeks fully spread to help his cock slide in and out. “F-fuck.” Your eyes fluttered shut, grasping onto his shoulders. Gojo grinned, pounding in harder to pound his pretty pink tip right where you needed him the most.

He’s contemplated disregarding condoms, wanting to feel you fully. But seeing the way he still managed to ruin you regardless, he learned to lay it no mind. You swear every time you have sex with him, your mind goes completely blank, only being able to remember his name.

“Sa-satoruuu..” His vein scraped against your walls, balls slapping up at your hole. Your bodies were intertwined, fitting together like a puzzle.

You hugged him close, drooling onto his chest at every thrust he delivered. His hands dug possessively into your thighs, biting back groans. “Missed this so fucking much.” He said before smashing his lips against yours, tongue diving into your mouth. “Missed this pretty cunt.”

“W-we ngh.. we fucked yesterday..” You whined.

“Yeah, it’s been a full day, sweets. That’s sooo long.” He didn’t let go of you for even a second, rubbing your hole in circles teasingly while watching every expression displayed on your face.

“I’ve got this event coming up, need to bring an extra with me.” He said in between kisses. “Come with me.”

“Is it that damn- f-fuck..” You hated when he would try and converse during sex. It was almost impossible to finish a full sentence without moaning.

“Dinner with other interns? Yeah.”

“But.. it’s usually the partners they b-bring with..”

“So?” He flipped you two over, not stopping his thrusts, laying you underneath him. “You’re basically my girlfriend already, taking my big fat cock..”

You chuckled, cupping his cheeks. “Big?”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side, slipping out of you with an embarrassingly wet sound. His hard length sprung free, hitting at your folds. “You don’t think it’s big?”

Of course he was. The thing itself weighed a gazillion pounds and barely fit inside you to begin with. “I’ve seen bigger.”

“I’m the only one you fuck around with.” He corrected, gripping the base of his cock before plummeting right back in. “Did you get tighter, princess?”

“N-no!”

Gojo chuckled softly, rocking his hips at the same pace they were going at five seconds ago. He leaned down to capture your lips in another searing kiss, swallowing every whimper. “You’re coming?”

“Yes! Ngh fuck m’close!”

“No, pretty.” He snorted, pecking your nose. “I meant to the event, as my girl.”

His voice held such softness that was only used on you, no one else. The way he said it, calling you his girl, made your stomach flip. And it wasn’t because his cock was scarily reaching up there or anything.

“Mhm!” You nodded. Gojo’s lips curled into a grin that you loved seeing so much, the one he always wore right before wrecking you. Without warning, he snapped forward in a powerful thrust, gasping when you clenched down on him.

He didn’t stop, continuing to fuck you until the bedframe creaked like it was about to give out. His muscles flexed under the lighting, hips still pistoning relentlessly as one hand reached up under your shirt to squeeze your breast. “Forgot to pay attention to my girls, I’m sorry babies.”

“You-You’re insane—“

“I know, but I did just make you cum either way didn’t I?” He asked, moving his mouth to bite down your shoulder, trying his best to muffle his moaning as he spilled in you. The condom caught everything, yet you could still feel the sudden warmth emerge.

The room fell silent, only your heavy breaths being heard. Gojo shook in your hold, not yet making a move to pull out. Instead, his large hands cupped your cheeks to wipe away any sweat or tears.

“Go get changed then. We’ve got a dinner to attend.”

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.