Velourè 𓃮

“I don’t even know what he looks like, Mother,” you say quietly, staring at the floor.

She grabs your chin, her grip so rough it stings, and forces you to meet her eyes. “You don’t need his face to remember what’s expected. Grand Regent Thragg is our hope — you’re marrying him. Don’t make me spell it out again.”

You freeze, your hands wrapped so tight around the seat that your knuckles look almost white. Every bump in the transport twists your stomach a little more.

Your brother glances back from the front, his mouth turned up in a sneer. “You act like you’re heading to your own execution.” He shakes his head. “Try to relax. You’re making a scene.”

“I’m just nervous,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

He sighs loudly and rolls his eyes, turning his attention to the road again. “Nervous? Really? Get over it. No one’s in the mood for your drama today.”

The transport groans to a halt. Your brother jumps out, extending his hand to help you step onto the icy stone floor of the Viltrumite stronghold. But Thragg isn’t waiting. Instead, you’re staring into the cold, mechanical glare of General Kregg.

Kregg waves your brother away and snaps, “Follow me.” He takes off down a maze of harsh, echoing corridors, finally stopping in front of a door that could only be your new room. He turns to leave, and his metal eye buzzes quietly. “The Grand Regent’s off-world. He’ll return soon.”

“Wait,” you call out, panic tightening your voice. “What’s he like?”

Kregg pauses. For a second, he just looks at you, completely expressionless.

He pivots, his metal eye fixed right on you. The silence hangs so thick and heavy it’s like you can barely breathe.

“He’s the strongest we have,” Kregg finally answers, his tone flat as stone. “He doesn't tolerate weakness. Or failure. The empire worships him. For you, he’ll be everything. Don’t kid yourself — he’s not just a man.”

He nods once and leaves, and you’re left alone with that chilling warning echoing in your head.

Your stomach twists, knotting up with dread. God? Someone everyone fears? You hate the sound of that. Panic floods your chest, urgent and sharp. You need to get out.

You slip away through thick doors and race down silent hallways, breaking out into the barren courtyard. The perimeter wall catches your eye — massive, but maybe not impossible. “If I can reach that ledge, I’ll manage,” you think, moving closer and hunting for any handholds.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The deep voice behind you makes you jump. Still, you don’t look back. You’re focused, desperate.

“Escaping,” you whisper.

“Escaping?” His voice almost sounds amused, but there's an edge.

“Yes,” you mutter, squinting up at the wall. “If you could just… you know, lift me, I could reach it.”

“Leverage,” he repeats, and you hear something in his voice you can’t place. “I can manage that.”

Before you even react, strong hands catch your waist. Instead of boosting you up, he lifts you clear off the ground — higher than you expect.

You gasp, feet dangling. But he’s not just tall; he’s floating. You look down, heartbeat jumping. He’s right there, hovering in Viltrumite regalia, broad shoulders, thick dark mustache, eyes bright with amusement.

He gives you a long look, one eyebrow arched. “This enough leverage for you… my bride?”

He sinks gently back to the ground, setting you down with surprising care. Your legs threaten to fold under you, and you just stand there, stunned, realizing exactly who you’re facing.

“I’m sorry…” you manage, your voice trembling. “Grand Regent.”

You get ready to kneel, bracing yourself for whatever comes next. But he stops you—hand pressing your shoulder, firm but gentle. You can tell he’s holding back real strength.

“Don’t bow,” Thragg says, slicing through your panic. His eyes are sharp, clear. “You’re my wife, not a servant. The future Empress of Viltrum doesn’t grovel—not even for me. Stand tall.”

•••

The drawing on the parchment makes your stomach twist. Dread floods in, turning your hands cold. The sketch is all sharp lines—cold, practical—but what it suggests is horrifying. For a Viltrumite, it’s just biology, nothing but a tool for building their empire. But to you, it looks like violence, plain and simple.

You can’t keep looking. You drop your eyes and clasp your hands together, struggling to keep them steady. Heat crawls up your neck.

The assistant notices. Without a word, she rolls the parchment away with a snap. Her expression never changes. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” she says. There’s no malice in it, just the cool detachment you’ve started to expect from her kind. “It’s only anatomy. The Grand Regent conquers, yes, but he’s no brute. He understands the limits of weaker species.”

You find your voice, though it shakes. “It looks painful. And I don’t… I don’t know how to do any of that.”

She’s as calm as ever, setting the scroll aside. “Strength takes endurance. Don’t worry. Grand Regent Thragg’s lived for thousands of years—he has complete control. He isn’t about to ruin his prize before the coronation.”

You open your mouth to ask more, but the heavy doors to your chambers slide open. The assistant straightens, eyes trained ahead.

Thragg enters.

He’s shed the sweeping cape. Now it’s just a dark, fitted tunic, broad shoulders filling the room. General Kregg’s warning rings in your mind—he’s not just a man—but looking at him, you see none of the savage cruelty you imagined. Just this still, quiet strength.

“Leave us,” he says, and the assistant bows and slips out. The doors seal. Suddenly, it’s quiet enough to hear your own breathing, and you’re alone with the empire’s most powerful man.

Thragg walks over to the table. He doesn’t touch the diagrams, but his gaze cuts from them to you. There’s the slightest smirk under his thick mustache.

“She’s been telling you about the breeding protocols, hasn’t she?” His deep voice fills the silence.

You can barely look up, eyes fixed on the floor. “She was explaining what’s expected of an Empress…on our wedding night.”

He steps closer, stopping just a foot from you. Heat radiates off him—Viltrumite blood, you remember. He’s like a mountain, but he doesn’t cross that last bit of space.

“And you’re afraid.” It’s not a question.

You can’t hide it. “I don’t know how to be what you need,” you blurt out. “I— I don’t know how to please someone like you. I don’t even understand half of what was in those drawings. If I disappoint you, or if I’m too weak—”

“Quiet.” He says it softly, but it shuts you up in an instant.

He reaches out, and for a second, you think he’ll grip your throat. Instead, his finger slides under your chin, lifting your face to meet his. The touch is gentle, impossibly gentle, especially for someone who could crack bones with a flick.

“I didn’t choose you because I needed a soldier,” Thragg says, locked on your eyes. “And I didn’t choose you to be some mindless vessel. Obedience? I have entire armies for that. My wife—” His voice drops— “I want something different.”

You barely breathe. “What?”

He holds your gaze. “Presence. Someone who doesn’t flinch when the galaxy bows down in fear. The acts of the bedchamber can wait. I set the pace—for my empire, and for my marriage. No one will make you do anything you’re not ready for.”

He lets go of your chin. He keeps watching you, though, and you feel the panic inside start to loosen, just a little.

“You look at me and see an executioner,” he says, turning to the viewport, looking out at the harsh, icy Viltrumite night. “But you’ll see, bride. For those loyal to me, I am the safest place in the universe. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, your training begins. And I’ll be the one to teach you.”

The silence that falls after he speaks isn’t suffocating like it was with General Kregg. It just opens up—wide and endless—like there’s finally space to breathe again. You stare at his broad back, framed by the sharp, strange light of alien stars outside the window.

"My training?" you echo, the word foreign in your mouth. "Training for what?"

Thragg glances at you over his shoulder. "To rule. To stand beside me, not like a prisoner waiting for a verdict. Tomorrow, you’ll start learning the history of the worlds we protect. You’ll learn what it means to carry yourself as a Viltrumite Empress." He faces you fully now, arms folded across his chest. "And you’ll find your own voice. I’d do that before morning, if I were you."

He gives you one last measured look, then heads for the doors. They open with a whisper, and just before he leaves, he pauses. "Sleep well. You’re safe here."

And that’s it. He’s gone.

The door closes with a soft hiss, and you’re really alone. You sit down hard on the bed, exhausted—your knees just give out.

Your head spins. He hadn’t demanded anything. He hadn’t stared at you with that cold warlord’s hunger you braced for. He did something worse: he tossed you a choice—to be more than prey.

Across the room, you spot the table with those rolled-up diagrams his assistant left. All the fear and disgust still churn in your stomach, but his words hang there too, almost protecting you. I set the pace.

Moving slowly, you slip into one of the plain, soft tunics left for you, then climb under the sheets. They’re cool, but the room itself still feels warm—like some trace of him is still there. For the first time since you landed in Viltrumite airspace, as you drift toward sleep, you don’t feel like someone waiting to die.

Morning hits with bright, merciless sunlight blasting off icy mountains outside your window. There’s no alarm. Just that fierce light.

You’re barely awake when the door chimes. You jerk upright, clutching the blankets to your chest. "Come in," you manage, expecting to see the old assistant, armed with more charts and lectures.

But it’s Thragg who steps in.

He’s in a plainer version of his usual white and crimson clothes—no heavy cape, but he’s just as commanding. He holds a tray, silver and simple, with a cup of steaming liquid and a plate of brightly colored fruit.

"You're awake," he says, moving with that same unstoppable, easy certainty. He sets the tray down by your bed. "Good. Eat. We start now."

You blink up at him, confused. "You… brought this yourself? Where’s the assistant?"

He waves that away, almost bored. "I dismissed her from your service. Her methods are outdated—they make soldiers, not Empresses. From now on, you learn from me."

He steps back, giving you space, watching as you reach—careful—for the cup. "Like I told you last night, my bride: you won’t be treated like property. Eat, get ready, and meet me in the courtyard where we met the first time. I’ll be waiting."

•••

The drink in the cup tastes sweet—like honey with some strange spice you can’t quite pick out. It makes you feel warm from the inside, and your appetite finally kicks back in. You eat the fruit fast, probably because the dread from last night has finally started to fade.

You pull on a thick, plain tunic and head out, weaving your way through the stronghold’s endless corridors. When you step into the barren courtyard, your heart thumps nervously. The wind stings your cheeks—yeah, it’s cold.

Thragg’s already there, planted in the middle of the yard with his back to the huge wall you tried to climb yesterday. He barely notices the cold; doesn’t even shiver. When he hears you coming, he turns around, his sharp gaze immediately sizing you up.

“You’re punctual,” he says, sounding pleased. “It’s important for a ruler.”

“I didn’t want to make you wait,” you say, stepping closer but stopping just short—keeping some space between you.

“Come here,” he says, calm but firm.

You move forward, now standing only a few feet away. Up close, Thragg seems even bigger, pretty intimidating. But that panicked feeling you had yesterday? It’s gone.

He gestures at the towering wall behind him. “Yesterday, you tried to climb this. What was your plan once you made it to the top?”

You glance down at the icy stone, cheeks burning. “Honestly, I didn’t have a plan. I just wanted out.”

“That was pure emotion,” Thragg says—not angry, just analyzing you. “A soldier follows instinct, but a leader needs strategy. Panic messes with your head. If you’d gotten over that wall, the cold outside would’ve frozen your lungs in minutes. Weakness isn’t just about the body—it’s a mindset. You need to control your fear.”

Thragg circles you slowly. For someone his size, he moves quietly—almost eerie.

He keeps talking, voice getting a little sharper. “Your assistant looked at your hips and your teeth like you were some animal in a market. She judged you for what your body could give the empire. That’s not what matters here. Viltrum has plenty of bodies—we don’t have enough conviction. When you’re beside me, ambassadors from hundreds of worlds will watch you, searching for weakness. If they spot fear, they’ll see an opening.”

He stops right in front of you.

“Look at me,” he says.

You raise your chin, meet his eyes. Your heart pounds, but you stand tall, remembering what he told you last night: The future Empress doesn’t grovel.

For once, Thragg’s usually cold face cracks into a small smile. It's genuine, if a bit rare.

“That’s better,” he says quietly. Then, out of nowhere, he stretches out his hand—palm up. “Take my hand.”

You hesitate, staring at his huge, rough palm. This is the hand that’s crushed enemies and conquered worlds. Slowly, you place your hand in his. He closes his fingers around yours—strong, but somehow gentle.

Before you can ask what’s happening, the ground drops away. You gasp, panic bubbling up again, but Thragg doesn’t let go. He rises slowly, taking you with him, until you hover high above the courtyard, way up next to the top of the fortress walls. The wind roars up here, blowing your hair across your face.

“Look,” Thragg says, his voice cutting through the noise.

You force your eyes open. Out past the fortress, the landscape is wild: sharp ice mountains glitter like diamonds under twin suns, stretching out for miles. It’s beautiful, but also terrifying—so much bigger than you imagined.

“This empire is enormous and its burdens are heavy,” Thragg says, gazing down at you as you float side by side in the icy sky. “But you don’t have to carry all this on your own, and you don’t have to be afraid. Trust my strength until you find your own.”

•••

It’s wild how fast everything changed—from terrified prisoner to bride of the Grand Regent. You barely had time to catch your breath. Lessons, endless evenings, and that weird feeling of safety started to crowd out the fear. Thragg kept his promise. He taught you to walk among the Viltrumite elite like you belonged there. He taught you how to speak so people listened, and how to own any room by the way you stood.

And now, here you are.

The ceremonial hall is packed beyond belief. Soldiers, generals, strangers from conquered worlds—all squeezed into rows so tight you can hardly move. Tension thickens the air, heavy with ozone and incense. You stand at the edge, looking down a black obsidian aisle stretched farther than you’d like.

You glance down at yourself. Draped in Viltrumite bridal regalia. The gown’s deep red and sharp white—metallic silk that catches every bit of light, almost like armor. It’s heavy, but honestly, you don’t slump anymore. Not today.

Your brother stands at your side in his sharpest uniform, no sneer left. He’s wide-eyed, silent, and you know he’s seeing you in a whole new way. Not as a sibling—to him, you’re a stranger, or maybe a monarch.

A huge horn blares, shaking the hall and even the stone under your feet.

"Walk," your brother whispers, his voice tight, almost strangled.

You step forward. The crowd parts in front of you like water, every eye burning into your skin. General Kregg is near the front, his mechanical eye whirring, never blinking. Yesterday, their glares would’ve knocked you flat. But you keep your head up, eyes straight ahead, daring anyone to challenge you.

And right there on the dais, before the throne, stands Thragg. He waits in full regalia—pristine tunic, brilliant crimson cape, medals gleaming on his chest. He looks exactly like Kregg said: a living god. You walk up and he looks at you—not past you, not through you, but right at you. His sharp eyes soften just a bit.

He holds his hand out. You take it. His grip is warm, steady—grounding you.

The high priest steps forward, holding a ceremonial blade. No sweet words here, no gentle promises. A Viltrumite wedding is a pact of strength, a vow to the empire and your bloodline.

"Do you swear to uphold the glory of the empire?" The priest’s voice fills the whole hall. "To be the pillar beside the throne, to show no weakness, and to bear the future of our people?"

Thragg looks at you, waiting. Everyone in the hall seems to freeze. You remember the drawings the assistant showed you, the weight of what was expected from you, the reality of enduring for this man. But you also remember Thragg’s promise: I dictate the pace of our marriage.

"I swear," you say. Your voice is steady, echoing off stone.

The court ripples with approval. Thragg’s fingers squeeze yours, just for a second, letting you know he’s with you.

The priest turns to Thragg. "And do you, Grand Regent Thragg, claim this prize as your Empress? Will you protect her honor, command her allegiance, and rule the Viltrumite Empire together?"

Thragg never looks away from you. "She is no prize," he says, his voice slicing through any doubt. "She is my wife. She is your Empress. I claim her for eternity."

The priest lifts the blade, cutting a small line across your palm and Thragg’s. He presses his bleeding hand to yours. The crowd explodes—soldiers pounding their chests, roaring for their new rulers.

The feast flashes by in a blur—lights, toasts, introductions to terrifying warlords who bow to you now. Eventually, the noise fades, and you’re taken to Thragg’s private quarters.

The doors seal shut. The suite is nothing like your old room. It’s huge, draped in silks, centered around a massive bed. Warm air, faintly sweet from wine, fills everything.

You’re suddenly standing in the middle, the heavy gown squeezing you. Your heart pounds, panic clawing at you. The wedding night is here. The drawings, the expectations, everything you have to face—it all hits you.

The doors open again.

Thragg walks in. He’s ditched the cape, starts unfastening his tunic, revealing scars and muscle. He’s massive, intimidating. But he sees you—your hands shaking, your cheeks pale.

"The court’s asleep now," Thragg says quietly. He steps close, heat from his skin reaching you. "The performance is over. You can breathe."

"I…" Your voice cracks. "The assistant said… tonight everything changes. I want to be a good wife, Thragg, but I’m still… afraid."

He considers you for a long, silent moment. He reaches for the laces on your gown, untying them gently, bit by bit. Letting you breathe deep at last.

"I told you before, my bride," he says, voice low and soft. He slips the heavy dress off your shoulders, leaving you in lighter clothes. "I dictate the pace. I didn’t marry you for one night. We have a lifetime."

His hands rest on your bare shoulders—firm, steady, nothing like the power he uses in battle.

"Tonight, you rest," Thragg says. He guides you to the bed, his touch careful. "Today you stood before an entire empire. Let me carry the weight for you tonight."

“N-no, I’m ready, please.” You protested

Thragg pauses, his big hands resting completely still on your shoulders. For a moment, the only thing you hear in the huge room is the steady, low hum of the stronghold’s climate core. He looks down at you, meeting your eyes, quietly studying your face—like he’s searching for any sign you’re just pretending to be brave.

"You’re trembling," he says gently, his thumb tracing slow, calming circles against your collarbone. "You don’t have to pretend when it’s just us."

"I’m not," you whisper, swallowing hard. You make yourself look him in the eye, just like he taught you. "I am scared. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t know how it’s not going to hurt. But I want to be your wife. Completely. Please."

Something flashes across Thragg’s face—pride, tenderness, something deep and real that the rest of the world will never get to see. The warlord is gone for now. Only the man remains.

"Alright," he says, his voice dropping low and soft, rumbling in his chest.

A Lesson in Restraint

Thragg picks you up, painfully slow, holding you like something precious. Nothing about it feels cold or clinical, not at all like what your assistant warned you about. He lays you down at the center of the sprawling silk-covered bed, moving so deliberately you almost forget to be afraid.

He follows, blocking out the rest of the room with his massive shape. The difference between you two is breathtaking—his chest is broad, scarred from endless battles, radiating a warmth that chases away every last trace of that sterile, artificial chill.

Your heart bangs against your ribs as he slides a calloused hand over your waist. You steel yourself, muscles tensing, bracing for the pain you saw in those crude, drawn diagrams.

"Look at me," Thragg says quietly, leaning close enough that you feel his breath on your lips.

You open your eyes, meeting his steady, deep gaze.

"I’m in control," he whispers, cupping your face, his thumb gently brushing away a tear you didn’t even know was there. "I could destroy a continent, or hold a feather without leaving a mark. You’re safe. Just focus on me."

He leans in, his mustache brushing your skin as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your throat. You shiver, but not from fear. Something warm and strange blooms, spreading from where he touches you out through your chest.

Every movement is slow, giving you room to breathe, to realize he’s holding back all the strength that makes the rest of the universe fear him. When his weight settles over you, it’s solid and heavy, but it feels like safety, not a threat.

All those awful, clinical images your assistant painted just disappear. They melt away, replaced by the reality in front of you—Thragg, patient and firm, completely focused on making sure you’re okay. When the moment of pain comes, it’s sharp, but he’s right there—kissing you, holding you close, soaking up your quiet gasp and wrapping you in his arms.

"Breathe," he says softly, voice rough with emotion he barely ever lets himself show. "You’ve got this. You’re doing perfectly."

The tension in you unravels. What rises in its place is a gentle warmth, something deep and new that connects you to him better than any vow or ceremony ever could.

Hours later, the twin suns of Viltrum cast delicate golden light across the quiet room. You’re curled against Thragg’s side, your head on his scarred chest. One of his arms wraps you in close, pulling you against his body. Your elaborate crimson wedding gown lies in a heap on the floor—a symbol of the Empress everyone sees. But here, with sunlight creeping in, you’re just his.

You trace a faint scar near his ribs. Your hand is steady this time.

Thragg stirs, chest rising under you as he breathes in. He keeps his eyes closed for a second, but his grip on you tightens, just a bit, pulling you even closer.

"You see," he says, his voice all rough morning gravel, the sound thrumming through you. "Those drawings don’t have a clue how an Empress is really made."

You smile, nestling your chin on his chest to look at him. "You didn’t break me."

He opens his eyes, giving you a look of quiet triumph. He runs his fingers through your hair. "I never would. You’re the only gentle thing I have, my bride. Now the empire is ours—together."

•••

Leaving Viltrum’s frozen, empty halls for Thraxa’s glowing moon felt like waking up in someone else’s dream. Thragg picked this planet on purpose—those wild violet forests, the gentle heat, nothing like the harsh stone fortress you came from. Month after month, you lived in a bubble, no generals barking orders, no cold calculations about breeding, just Thragg, searching your soul, and you, unraveling the wild devotion hiding under his armor.

But honestly, today’s sunshine feels different. There’s a secret in your chest, fluttering so hard you swear it’s about to burst.

You’re standing on your quiet balcony, tucked away from everything. Purple trees shimmer under the sunlight, stretching out below you. In your hand, there’s a little sensor, the one the medic handed you right before you boarded. The blue light on its display blinks, stealing your breath.

Pregnant.

Your heart slams against your ribs, and adrenaline zips through your blood. You think back to that assistant’s chilly speech about “bearing plenty of children for the empire,” but Thragg’s gentle touch in the dark quickly outshines the memory.

Something heavy moves in the wind—he’s here.

Thragg lands without a sound. There’s no armor, just loose white clothes, his hair tousled from flying and his eyes soft—relaxed in a way you only see when you’re alone together.

“The eastern oceans are calm today,” he says, walking straight to you. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing you close to his chest, then kisses your neck, his mustache brushing your skin. “You’re quiet today, my bride. What’s on your mind?”

You grip the sensor tighter and turn, forcing him to look at you.

“Thragg,” you whisper, barely able to get the word out.

His face changes instantly—sharp eyes, a sudden seriousness. He studies you, hunting for any sign of trouble. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is it the atmosphere—”

“I’m fine,” you say, cutting him off. You take a deep breath, then place the glowing sensor in his hand. “Look.”

He stares at the blue light, frozen for once. It’s weird seeing him like this—he’s always the first to move, but now he’s stock-still, not even breathing.

“A month.” It’s a raw sound, disbelief twisting his deep voice. He looks up, those bright eyes burning with a kind of awe. “You’re carrying my blood.”

“We’re having a baby,” you say, and a single tear slips down your face—not from fear, but because the moment is just too much. “I know the empire wants soldiers. But I wanted you to know. Here. Before we leave.”

He doesn’t say anything. He drops the sensor, his giant hands cupping your face, gentle and careful. Forehead pressed to yours, breath catching—his hands shake against your skin.

“Let the empire expect whatever it wants,” Thragg growls, his pride blazing so fiercely it makes your knees weak. “This child isn’t just another weapon. It’s the blood of the Grand Regent and the Empress. They’ll be everything.”

He pulls back, looking straight into your eyes, wiping the tear with his thumb. A real smile takes over his face—no warlord, just a man so fiercely happy he can barely contain it.

“You keep surprising me,” he whispers, hands sliding to your belly, spreading warmth through your body. “You’re not weak. You’re the strongest thing in this galaxy. My wife. The mother of my heir.”

He scoops you up effortlessly, holding you close as the purple trees sway underneath. Up here, you’re untouchable—wrapped up safe, hidden from the rest of the universe.

•••

9 months later,

The air in the medical bay stings with the sharp bite of chemicals and that awful sense that everything’s collapsing. Viltrum is coming undone out there—the Scourge Virus is ripping through it, leaving behind nothing but shadows of what used to be unstoppable gods. But here in this room, all that matters is the raw, healthy cry of a newborn.

You sink into the stiff, sterile pillows, your body just done. The virus is already burning its way through you—cold, brutal, and totally unfair. There’s nothing in your blood that can fight it off. You feel your breath getting tight, your vision smears at the edges.

Thragg’s there. He’s not looming, not now. He’s on his knees, gripping your hand, his shoulders slumped like the whole weight of Viltrum has finally crushed him. His hands shake, big and useless, and there’s pure panic behind his eyes.

"Stay with me," he pleads, his voice shredded and rough. "I can conquer galaxies, rip down stars... but I can’t lose you. Please. Breathe. For me, my bride, breathe."

You manage to open your eyes, just for him. Your hand drags up, cold and shaking, to touch his cheek—just as a single, silent tear escapes him. You wipe it away.

"Thragg..." Your voice barely breaks the noise in the room. "Look at me. Look what we made."

His gaze falls to the small, wriggling bundle beside you—a baby girl, strong and loud despite the world falling apart outside this room.

"You always said you were the safest place in the universe." You push out a trembling smile, the darkness creeping in. "Keep her safe, Thragg. Don’t let the empire swallow her up. Let her feel love, not just fear. Teach her how to be strong—like you taught me."

Thragg rests his forehead against your hand, his shoulders heaving as he tries to hold back the pain. "I swear. I swear it on Viltrum’s ashes."

"My beautiful regent..." you whisper, eyes closing. "My safest place."

Your breath stops, soft and final, and your hand slips free.

The whole room holds its breath, empty and silent. Thragg stands, and the grief in his chest freezes into something steely and unbreakable. He looks at your still face for a moment, leans down, and presses one last kiss to your forehead. He won’t forget your words—not ever. He won’t let your sacrifice mean nothing.

He turns to the doorway. General Kregg stands waiting—one of the last survivors, skin pale and twitching, his mechanical eye whirring.

"Kregg," Thragg commands, his voice filling the room with raw power. "Take the child. The virus will keep mutating. The empire’s lost. She can’t stay here."

Kregg straightens, gathers up the tiny girl, and looks to his leader. "Where do I take her, Grand Regent?"

"Earth," Thragg says, eyes scraping the stars. "Somewhere weaker, somewhere she can disappear. Protect her. No one finds her—not the vanguard, nobody."

Kregg nods and heads for the exit. He stops, looks down at the baby’s quiet face. "What’s her name?"

Every word you spoke lingers, echoing in the still, haunted air.

"Her name… her name is Nymeria. And she is strong. Be strong, my daughter."

The leap from Viltrum’s burning skies to a calm, human suburb is jarring. Kregg moves without a sound in the cool air, barely a shadow, until he reaches the doorstep of a small, two-story house. He gently sets the bundle down on the welcome mat. His mechanical eye records the child’s face, then he attaches a small paper tag, rings the bell, and slips away into the darkness before the echo dies.

Inside the house, a baby’s wail cuts open the night.

Debbie Grayson staggers awake, wraps a robe around herself, and rushes to the door. She expects a prank, maybe a package, but as soon as she opens the door she freezes.

“Oh my goodness..." she breathes, dropping to her knees as she lifts the baby up. The child is warm, strong in her cries—a different kind of strength, running through every wail.

"Mom?" Mark’s voice comes from the stairs. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes as he jogs down. "What's going on? Is that a—"

He cuts himself off as soon as he sees the bundle. "Jesus. Mom, is that a baby?"

"Yes, Mark. It's a baby," Debbie says, focused now as she brings the child inside and closes the door. She rocks the baby, soothing her, inspecting the wriggling little girl. "She's so small."

Mark hovers over her shoulder, mind racing. "Who just leaves a baby like this? Where the hell did she come from? Nobody does this."

"I don’t know," Debbie says, her thoughts skittering. "Maybe we should call Cecil."

"No." Mark’s answer is instant, sharp. He’s tense, eyes narrowed. "I don’t want Cecil here. If Global Defense finds out about a mystery baby on our porch, she’s a science experiment before sunrise."

"Then what?" Debbie asks, worried. "We can’t keep her secret forever. Maybe when Nolan gets home, he’ll know what to do."

She checks the blanket for a note or something. There it is—a tiny tag pinned to her chest with neat handwriting.

"Nymeria," Debbie reads, her voice gentle. The baby’s cries slow and settle. "Nymeria. That’s her name… It’s a little girl."

Mark stares at the bundle—now his foster sister. He feels the shift in the room, something heavy settling in. They have no idea what’s just landed in their living room. The future of the Viltrumite Empire is sleeping right there, safe for now, if only for a little while.

Rage was all Conquest had. Thragg had ripped out whatever light was left inside him, leaving nothing but an empty hole where his soul used to sit. Conquest stood over the shattered king, staring at the mess—not with fury, but with that cold, unsettling calm of someone who’s forgotten what emotions even feel like.

•••

Back before his life ever had light

Conquest spent centuries completely alone. He floated in this sterile, white space, trapped by military orders, with nothing left except stubborn loyalty to the mission.

He wasn’t like the others. While his Viltrumite kin bonded over their shared superiority, Conquest got nothing but raw, animal fear from them. No one talked to him. No one teamed up with him. Even Grand Regent Thragg refused to see a man behind all that brute strength—just a weapon, ready to be aimed wherever he wanted.

With that aching emptiness gnawing at him day after day, desperate for something—anything—to break the silence, Conquest finally turned his attention to Earth.

•••

On Earth, Conquest fit right in—almost too well. He slipped into the life of an old farmer, and honestly, he just took over. The man’s clothes, his home, his name. If Conquest remembered right from the license, the guy had been called Carl.

Well, now that was him—Carl.

The first time Conquest stepped into the bar, the place lit up. Everybody knew Carl, it seemed, and they greeted him like they always had. The real Carl had been the kind of neighbor people relied on, someone with a friendly face and a quiet routine. But even with all that, he’d been lonely. Deep down, so was the man wearing his skin now.

Conquest sat at the end of the counter. The woman behind it caught his eye, smiled, and slid a hot coffee his way.

A little while later, you showed up. Your day had dragged, the migraine still pounding behind your eyes, and you practically dropped into the seat next to him. You asked for a drink.

“Rough day?” His voice came from your left—gravelly, raspy.

You turned. It was Carl—at least, he looked like Carl. But something was different. He’d always been missing an arm, but now he seemed bigger, more solid. His presence almost threatened to spill over out of his seat.

“Yeah… Carl… you look different,” you said, squinting through the ache.

He gave a dry, quick laugh. “Old age sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Guess it does.” Then you reminded him, “Hey, you said you’d show me around your farm, remember?”

The man calling himself Carl hesitated. Just for a second, his eyes flickered with something you couldn’t read. Then he put the neighbor mask back on. “Yeah, I remember. Tomorrow work?”

You agreed, not realizing he saw the world in terms of conquest, not crops.

•••

The morning was brutal—sun blazing through mist over Carl’s fields. The farm felt deserted. No cows, no tractors, nothing. Just wind whistling through the barn’s battered boards.

You rolled up the driveway, your migraine now a low buzz, and got out. That’s when you saw him.

He stood at the edge of the wheat, his silhouette huge against the sky. Flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up; the stump of his missing arm dark against his side. He wasn’t working, just staring at the dirt like it might challenge him.

"You're here," he said. He didn’t look your way, but his voice was loud and clear.

"I said I’d come," you replied, walking over. Up close, whatever had felt odd in the bar was stronger now. He smelled like earth and metal, sort of electric. "Nice spot, Carl. Hard to run alone, though."

He met your gaze, eyes bright and icy, deep wrinkles branching out. Somewhere inside, you shuddered—like a rabbit sensing a fox.

"It’s… quiet," he replied, his voice lower. Glancing at the farmhouse, he went on, "The old man here—he spent his whole life making things grow. Trying to pull life out of the ground."

He reached down, fingers thick and rough. He didn’t just pluck a wheat stalk—he crushed it into dust between his thumb and fingers.

"I’ve spent my whole life doing just the opposite," he muttered, almost too quietly.

You raised your eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

He caught himself. The mask was back. A smile, stiff and careful.

"I mean I was a soldier," he said. "Destruction always came easier than farming. Maybe that’s why I’m here—to learn something new."

He nodded toward the barn. "Come on. Guess it’s time for your tour."

Heading toward the barn’s shadow, you noticed something weird—the dirt around his boots wasn’t just disturbed, it was cracked, like the ground broke under his weight.

"So," you tried to lighten things, "how long have you really lived out here? Feels like you’ve seen more than just this farm."

He glanced at you. "Further than that," he said quietly. "A lot further."

Conquest led you deeper into the barn's shadows. You moved past rusted tools and the dry, almost sweet smell of old hay, and your gaze caught on a mounted deer head. Its glass eyes just stared at the rafters.

“You still hunt, Carl?” you asked, your finger drifting along the antler.

“I did,” he said, flat as stone. “I stopped.”

“Why? You had a knack for it. You should teach me—I want to learn from someone like you.”

Your words hung in the air. Thick. Uncomfortable. Conquest froze. For you, maybe the buck was just some trophy, proof of patience. For him, it was something else—a stinging reminder of how small everything here was, how fragile.

He turned to you, planting his hand on a rusted old tractor. The metal actually creaked under his weight, and for a second, it looked like he could snap the thing in half without meaning to.

“You want me to teach you?” His voice had this deep scratch in it, like stones grinding together. “Hunting’s not about the trophy. It’s the chase that matters. It’s the second you know you’re faster, stronger—more worthy of breathing than whatever’s in front of you.”

He stepped closer. The floorboards didn’t just creak—they gave a sharp, breaking sound under his boots, way too heavy for just an old man.

“I stopped because the challenge died,” he said, low. “Once you know exactly how the heart beats before you pierce it, there’s no thrill. It’s just… chores.”

His eyes swept over you—all the way down to the pulse at your neck—then locked on your face. For a split second, the “Carl” mask slipped. You saw something ancient, battered, stained with blood—a conqueror who’d crushed kingdoms and split worlds.

“But you,” he said, and there was a dark edge to his voice now, almost hungry. “You still think the world’s a soft place.”

His big, calloused thumb touched your sleeve—so gentle it was jarring, but the strength just under his skin was like a warning, humming there, barely held back.

“If I teach you,” he warned, his voice dropping low, heavy enough to rumble in your chest, “you won’t be just following tracks. You’ll learn what it is to be a predator. Everything out there, everything—it’s either hunter, or it’s meat.”

He searched your face, waiting for you to flinch or look away. You didn’t. That seemed to change something—his mouth twitched up, just barely. Not a friendly smile. Not even close. More like a commander noticing grit in a fresh recruit.

“Tomorrow at dawn,” he said. “Wear clothes you don’t mind getting bloody. We’ll see if you’re up for what I have to show you.”

•••

Conquest’s “white box” days were gone, replaced by the hush of an old farmhouse. The silence now felt different—less like absence, more like holding your breath for a pulse.

He sat in Carl’s battered old armchair, which barely held him. He stared at his one hand, the one that had done everything from ending empires to breaking bones on distant worlds. It felt unbearably heavy.

Not old, exactly—just full of something heavier than battle.

For the first time, something inside him pulled in a way that wasn’t about orders or gravity.

He remembered how you looked at him. Not with that frozen fear his soldiers had or the cold math of Thragg. You actually looked like you saw him. He didn’t even have a word for the feeling when you said “Carl”—just this strange, sharp warmth burning through him. But the truth was settling into his heavy bones.

It was love. Really. A wild, impossible thing for someone like him, someone with a soul blackened by centuries.

Can a monster change? That question whispered somewhere in him, a tiny flame flickering in a vast dark space. He’d destroyed everything for eons. He wasn’t sure he could make anything at all. But now, some hunger started to grow inside him—a wanting that not even conquest could satisfy.

He didn’t want to conquer you. He wanted to shield you. He wanted to be worthy.

He stood and the boards groaned, house-old and weary. He went to the window. The sky was getting lighter—dawn wasn’t far. The hunt was coming, but all he cared about was how soon you’d show up, headlights cresting the drive. He realized he wasn’t looking for a student. He just wanted a reason to keep being “Carl.”

He leaned his head against the glass, breath leaving a patch of fog. The fields beyond were dark, endless. And for once, the old predator started to wonder if he could ever just be a man.

•••

The woods felt quiet, wrapped in a thick, silvery mist that made everything feel just a bit unreal, like the world wasn’t ready to open its eyes yet. Conquest moved ahead, somehow impossibly quiet for someone his size. Every time a twig snapped under your boot, it sounded huge and dangerous, but he just slowed down a little, steady and unbothered, grounding you without a word.

When the buck finally showed itself—a beautiful animal, just grazing in a patch of open ground—Conquest’s hand found your shoulder. Even through your jacket, his touch sent warmth straight through your body, and you felt your wild heartbeat start to settle.

He stayed silent. Instead, he nudged the rifle into your hands.

You took the weight of it, and he moved in, close enough that he was everywhere behind you—his chest pressed solidly against your back, his scarred arm reaching around so his hand could wrap over yours on the barrel, big enough to nearly swallow yours whole. He cast such a big shadow over you, it felt like you’d stepped into some private bubble that nothing could get in or out of—just the two of you, breathing the same cold air.

Conquest had seen centuries of emptiness, violence, and blood, always holding himself apart from everything around him, out of pride or just to feel superior. But that distance was gone now.

Standing there, so close, almost hurt.

He tilted his head the tiniest bit and breathed in.

He expected the woods—the dirt, the pine, the heavy wet rot. Instead, what came to him was just you. Warmth, life, something soft and breakable. The scent of someone who’d never even seen a Viltrumite warship or felt the kind of cold that lives forever in your bones. It was sweet, impossibly delicate, and so human it hurt to notice.

All at once, the mission, the empire, all that ugly history on his hands—gone, like none of it was ever real. He felt a jolt of wanting so strong it nearly swept him away. For a second, he just wished he could freeze time with you right there, keep you safe from this brutal universe he’d helped break.

His hand tightened on yours, just for a breath, then he forced himself to focus.

"Breathe," he whispered, his breath hot and close to your ear, and you could feel it go right through you. "Wait for the beat. Right between breaths—that’s when everything goes quiet."

But he wasn’t watching the buck anymore. His eyes were on you, his heart pounding. He realized it then—you weren’t the student and he wasn’t the teacher. He was the one in danger, hunted and helpless against a feeling he didn’t know he could survive.

The rifle cracked. The deer dropped where it stood, collapsing into the grass without a sound. There was a moment—just a heartbeat—when everything held still, and then you whooped, that half-wild, triumphant sound blasting away all your aches and doubts.

You spun on him, your cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with lovely, honest pride. "I did it! Carl, you saw that, right?"

Conquest barely glanced at the deer. The truth was, killing didn’t matter to him—he’d killed more things than he could count. All he saw was you, shining in the morning sun, alive, all energy and joy.

A slow, almost awkward smile pulled at his lips—not the feral grin he’d shown on a thousand battlefields, but something uncertain, heavy, and out of practice. It felt almost alien on his face, like he was hunting for an old memory and only just finding it.

"I saw," he said, deep voice rumbling out, soft for him.

A wave of wanting rolled through him so hard he thought his legs might buckle. He wanted to scoop you up, hold you hard enough that nothing could touch you, tell you he’d torch galaxies as long as you kept looking at him like that.

Instead, he just stepped up, dropping his huge hand on your head for a moment, a clumsy, honest gesture that meant more than he’d ever say.

"Your hands don’t shake," he said, his thumb brushing your hair. "And you face things head on. Not many do."

When you turned, all eager to catch another glimpse of your prize, Conquest held back, one pace behind. He watched the way you slipped through the brush, and he couldn’t tell anymore if wearing "Carl" was just an act. For the first time since forever, the Viltrum Empire’s deadliest soldier wasn’t looking for a fight.

He was just looking at you, and feeling, maybe for the first time, like he’d finally come home.

•••

The farmhouse glowed with soft amber light. It made the place feel safe, warm—a world apart from the endless night pressing against the windows. Dinner was nothing fancy. Just solid, simple food. But there was a charge in the air between you and Conquest, something heavier and quieter than adrenaline. It drew the walls in, made the kitchen feel a little smaller.

He watched you across the table, barely touching his meal. For a man used to scraps and war spoils, food hardly mattered. What he noticed more was the way the lamplight curved across your smile.

"You're quiet tonight, Carl," you said as you leaned back, swirling the last of your drink. "Is something on your mind, or are you judging my aim again?"

A short, dry laugh rumbled out of him, barely there. He leaned forward, huge elbows on the table, the wood groaning under his weight.

"I’m thinking about how much of my life I’ve wasted," he said, voice turned low—intimate, grounding.

You tilted your head. "Wasted? You’ve seen everything. You’ve lived harder than anyone I know."

He shook his head, eyes locking onto you, sharp enough to catch your breath. "I’ve seen destruction. I’ve seen things end. But I never stopped to really look at the quiet stuff, the in-between, the pieces that make you want to keep waking up."

He reached out. For a moment, his scarred hand hovered in the air, just over yours—a mountain of strength held back by a sliver of restraint. Then his fingers settled over your knuckles, hot and rough, mapped with stories he never told.

"Most of my life, I thought strength was just about breaking things," he murmured, thumb rubbing a slow pattern over your skin. "But here, with you... it turns out the hardest thing I’ve ever done is try to be gentle enough for this."

He stared down at your hands, longing peeling him open.

"I don't want to go back to the way things were," he whispered, looking up. The soldier’s look was gone; his eyes were just a man’s now, desperate, hopeful. "I didn’t think anything in this world could surprise me anymore." He shook his head. "I was wrong."

The silence that fell wasn't heavy. It was soft, almost private—a secret you shared without words. He didn’t pull away, just leaned in, his scent a strange comfort, all woodsmoke and lightning.

"Tell me," he said, his voice rough but gentle, "what does someone like you see when you look at a ruin like me? Do you see something worth keeping?"

You answered softly, not looking away, "I see something I want by my side, until the end."

The whole room seemed to hush, even the wind outside slipping away. Conquest’s tight grip on your hand froze.

Your words hit deep—quieter than a shout but sharper than any blade. Until death. He knew death better than anyone. Had given it to billions, expected it for himself, figured that’s all that waited at the end of his road. But when you said it, death sounded far off. Peaceful.

You weren’t talking about endings. You were talking about staying.

He squeezed your hand, careful, but desperate underneath. "You have no idea what you’re saying," he said, his voice wrecked and rough. He stood, never breaking your gaze, and moved around until he loomed over you.

He was massive, shadow swallowing you up, breath coming hard and fast. All the restraint he’d held onto through the day broke loose in his eyes. He reached for your face, calloused hand trembling when he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing slow over your lip.

"To stay by your side..." He bent close, touching his forehead to yours. "I’d pull the stars down if it kept this house safe. I’d let everything else burn, as long as I had this quiet, with you."

He closed his eyes, breathing you in. That warmth—normal, human—had become his anchor. The monster inside, the thing built by Thragg and sharpened by war, was gone. Now there was just a man, scared not of pain or losing a fight, but of losing you.

"Don’t say that," he whispered, voice trembling against your skin. "Not unless you mean to keep me. Because if I stay, I’m all yours. For as long as I can breathe."

He waited, lips barely apart from yours, searching for any hint of fear.

Those words were it. The last wall. Conquest let out a ragged breath. He kissed you—not gently, but desperately, like he was grounding himself in you, clinging to the one real thing he’d ever known.

The kiss was hungry, full of smoke and want and years of longing. Even as he cupped your jaw with reverence, it was clear he was still learning how to give instead of take. Being chosen—promised forever—nearly undid him.

When he broke away, just a little, he searched your eyes like he needed permission to believe all of it was real.

"I’ve been a weapon for so long," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "Didn’t think I had a soul left to give... but you found it, didn’t you?"

He let out a low, rough laugh thick with feeling, then slid his arm around your waist and pulled you tight to his chest. Wrapped in his embrace, you felt like nothing could touch you—like the world could end and all that mattered would still be here.

"I’ll hold you to that promise," he said into your hair, his voice rumbling in his chest. "Let the wars and empires fade away. As long as I’m here, and you’re with me, I’ve got everything I should have ever wanted."

He stayed there with you in the quiet farmhouse, amber light stretching soft shadows across the walls. For the first time in an age, Conquest wasn’t planning his next move or searching for another fight. He had everything he needed.

•••

The farmhouse had never felt so much like a safe haven as it did that quiet, golden afternoon. The ceremony wasn’t anything big—just a handful of neighbors, the woman from the bar, and the rolling hills as witnesses. To everyone else, a good, solid farmer named Carl had finally found his partner. But for the man at the altar, this felt like the biggest victory of his endless life.

Conquest stood at the edge of the porch, gazing out across fields he’d learned to work with his own hands. His suit was clean, though it barely contained his broad shoulders. He looked utterly peaceful.

You went out to join him, leaning your head against his arm. He didn’t need to look down—he knew it was you just by the weight of your step, the rhythm of your heartbeat, all of it as familiar as his own skin.

“One year,” he murmured, voice low and full of contentment. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer into the warmth radiating off him. “I used to think a year meant nothing—a blink for a soldier. Now… every day feels like a lifetime I actually want to live.”

He glanced at the gold band on his finger. It looked odd there—a ring of precious metal on a hand that had once destroyed worlds. For him, it was heavier than any planet, a grounding point.

“You did the impossible,” he said quietly, turning to face you. His thumb lifted your chin, his gaze tracing every bit of your face like he was memorizing it for eternity. “You took a man who only knew how to break things and taught him to grow. You gave a monster a name, a home… a reason to be good.”

He leaned down and gently kissed your forehead. The “Carl” mask wasn’t just a mask anymore—it was who he was. Memories of the Viltrumite Empire, of Thragg, and all that endless bloodshed faded, just echoes from a past that didn’t matter now.

“I told you I wouldn’t leave,” he whispered into your skin, holding you just a little tighter—this time not with force, but with the raw ache of someone who had finally found what he’d been missing. “And I meant it. Till death and whatever’s after. You’re my world now. My only conquest.”

The sun started to sink, painting the farm in long, purple shadows. You stood together, silent. For Conquest, that old emptiness had vanished, filled up entirely by the person in his arms.

•••

The air felt sharp and clean, carrying that wet earth smell, a hint of winter on its way—the kind of quiet Conquest had finally come to trust. He wandered along the edge of the north field, hands buried deep in his pockets, letting the silence seep in and calm him down. His thoughts were on you, waiting back at the house, and the dinner you’d promised. He thought about a life that felt real.

Then the wind switched.

That sharp, acrid smell hit him—a mix of burning cedar and dry insulation. His heart, frozen for ages, jolted with terror. He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He didn’t run either. He exploded upward, smashing the ground under his boots as he tore through the sound barrier in a desperate rush.

The farmhouse was nothing but a skeleton of orange and black, the flames so loud they drowned everything else out.

“No,” he hissed, not even sure his voice reached past the blaze.

He tore straight through the front wall, the heat meant for mortals barely touching his Viltrumite skin. He plunged through thick smoke, shouting your name, his voice cracking with panic.

He found you in the kitchen, slumped on the floor, firelight showing the brutal wound in your stomach.

Conquest gasped—a sound that twisted itself into a gut-wrenching wail. He dropped to his knees as the floorboards crumbled away, cradling your limp body in his arms. He tried to stop the bleeding, but there was nothing left to save. You lay cooling in a room that boiled.

“How pathetic.”

The words sliced through everything, cold in the heat. Conquest froze. He didn’t have to look.

Grand Regent Thragg hovered a few inches above the burned floor, his cape stirring in the hot air. His right fist dripped with familiar crimson. He looked on with a kind of bored disgust.

“You leave the Viltrum Empire to live like them,” Thragg spat, his voice bouncing through the gutted home. “You had a mission, Conquest. You were made for war, and you threw it all away for… this. For a slab of meat.”

Conquest pulled you closer, his knuckles white, face pressed into your shoulder, sobbing without a sound.

“I’m still giving you a chance,” Thragg said, his shadow looming over both the dead and the broken. “When you’re done here, when you remember what you are… come back home.”

Thragg didn’t wait for a reply. He shot up, slicing through the roof, vanishing into the cold blackness of space without a glance back.

Conquest was alone. The fire had eaten everything it could. All that was left were the charred scraps of a dream. He carried you out of the ruins, moving like a machine. He didn’t cry anymore. He’d run out.

Under the old oak, where you’d sat together not long ago, he started digging. No tools, just his own hands—hands that couldn’t save you. He laid you down, covered you with the earth you’d taught him to care about.

But he didn’t walk away. He couldn’t.

Conquest lay down on top of the fresh grave, blocking the wind and rain with his massive frame. He closed his eyes, breathing heavy, waiting for a heartbeat he’d never hear again.

Weeks blurred into months. Seasons slipped past. Snow covered him in silence, then spring melted it away. His suit fell apart; his hair tangled in weeds. He turned into part of the landscape—a grey monument to loss.

He never went back to the stars or to Thragg. He stayed, just like he’d promised.

Right there with you. Until the world ended.

•••

The quiet of the graveyard got blown apart by the brutal sonic boom as a Viltrumite landed hard. The air actually shook when General Kregg arrived, his boots sinking deep into the wild weeds that had taken over the old farm. He stood there, staring at the gray, weathered figure sprawled in the dirt—a man who looked less like a living person and more like some ancient statue forgotten by time, even though he was once the Empire’s most feared executioner.

“Conquest!” Kregg’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and edged with disbelief. “God, look at you. You were supposed to come home years ago.”

Conquest just lay there, unmoving. For a moment it seemed he might never move again. Eventually, though, he sat up, and the earth shifted under him. His suit was torn to shreds, his beard was a wild mess, and his eyes—once blazing with battle—were empty, deep wells of darkness.

“I finally found someone who brought a little light into my life,” Conquest managed, his voice dry and rough, barely more than a whisper. “And he took that from me.”

Kregg moved closer, hand reaching out. “Thragg’s the Grand Regent. His orders—”

“I don’t care about the Grand Regent’s orders,” Conquest barked, his voice blasting through the trees and making them quake. “What’s the point? I finally found something worth holding onto... and now it’s gone.”

He glanced at the simple wooden cross he’d carved, faded and gray from all the seasons that had passed.

The scent of you, the warmth of your hand in his, that promise of forever—all of it crashed back through his mind, tangled up with the image of Thragg’s fist slick with blood.

Conquest’s huge hand moved, his fingers clawing at the dirt over your grave, then curling up, trembling and tight. The ground around him started splitting, cracks crawling outward, and the air just felt heavier as raw power simmered beneath his skin.

People talk about the five stages of grief. Conquest spent years stuck in the cold, silent fog of denial and drowning in the emptiness of depression. But when he looked toward the horizon, toward the stars where Thragg ruled from his throne, something snapped.

The pain didn’t go away—it changed. It burned hot, wild, and dangerous.

He straightened, rising like a mountain that shouldn’t move. The “Carl” mask didn’t just fall off—it was gone, obliterated. His peace had died. The longing faded, replaced by a single, dark purpose.

He finally felt that first stage.

Rage.

•••

Present Day

The throne room felt like a mausoleum, marble cracked and stained with cooling blood. The air shoved copper and ozone down your throat, thick enough to make you gag if you weren’t strong. Right in the middle lay Thragg—once untouchable, now just broken pride scattered on the floor, brought low by a man who’d already lost everything.

Conquest’s breath rasped, wet and heavy. He stood over Thragg’s body, his hands—the same ones you’d held across a dinner table once—trembling as blood dripped from his fists. No rush of victory. Just the crushing silence that follows.

He turned away, dragging a battered leg, his cape torn and trailing behind like a rag.

“Conquest!” Kregg’s voice cracked the quiet, laced with both horror and duty. He blocked the path of the wounded giant. “This is unacceptable. The Empire… the succession… you can’t just walk away from this blood!”

Conquest stopped. He didn’t raise his fists. Didn’t even look angry. Just empty.

“I don’t have a life anymore,” he said, voice rough, like rocks grinding underwater. “Not as a Viltrumite... not as Carl.”

He stared past Kregg, eyes fixed on something far beyond the ruined palace walls.

“Without her, none of this matters,” he whispered. His gaze finally met Kregg’s, a flicker of raw, haunting pity in those worn-out eyes. “Someday, Kregg, you’ll see it too. Life is hollow without love. All the power, every world—it’s dust in the vacuum if there’s no one waiting for you.”

Kregg reached out, maybe to stop him, maybe just to comfort—but Conquest was already gone.

He took off, ripping a trail of white light through the shattered palace and into space. He kept flying—fast enough so the stars twisted, so sunlight itself bent toward a single, terrifying point ahead.

A black hole. An endless, hungry void.

As the event horizon drew close, huge and black, Conquest didn’t slow down. Let the tidal forces stretch him. Let the gravity take hold—the same pull he'd felt for thousands of years. He didn’t fight.

He closed his eyes. And in one last microsecond, before everything faded, he didn’t see Thragg’s blood or the fires of war.

He saw a farmhouse. He saw a deer in the mist. He saw you, smiling across that old wooden table, promising you’d stay by his side until the end.

“I’m coming home,” he thought.

At least… that’s what the paperwork said.

You didn’t yet fully understand what the job actually was. The description had been vague something about assistance, documentation, and field observation. It sounded serious, but not much different from other internships you’d taken before.

Your first day felt strangely normal so far. No dramatic introductions, no orientation speech. Just an address, a floor number, and instructions to report directly to Nanami’s office.

So you walked down the quiet hallway, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

You knocked once.

No answer.

You hesitated before slowly pushing the door open.

And immediately froze.

A woman was sitting on top of the desk.

Not beside it.

Not leaning on it.

Actually sitting on it.

One leg crossed over the other, smiling like she had all the time in the world. She was leaning forward slightly toward the man standing nearby, clearly in the middle of what looked like… flirting.

You blinked.

That was not what you expected to walk into.

Honestly, before today you pictured Nanami as someone plain and average. Maybe older, maybe boring. Just some office guy with an unusual job title.

But the moment he turned slightly into view, you understood immediately why the woman was flirting.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Blonde hair neatly combed back.

A perfectly pressed suit.

Calm posture that somehow made the entire room feel more serious.

This was definitely not the plain office worker you imagined.

For a second you just stood there awkwardly in the doorway.

Then you cleared your throat.

Both heads turned.

The woman looked mildly annoyed.

Meanwhile, Kento Nanami looked at you with calm, unreadable eyes.

Silence hung in the room.

Nanami glanced at the woman on his desk.

“Our conversation will have to end here.”

His voice was polite but firm.

“I have business to attend to.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh and slid off the desk, clearly disappointed.

“Nanami,” she said with a teasing tone, “you’re no fun.”

Her gaze drifted over to you.

She looked you up and down slowly.

“Well… good luck,” she added, sounding like she wasn’t entirely serious.

Her heels clicked as she walked out of the office.

The door shut behind her.

The room fell quiet.

Nanami adjusted his tie before finally looking fully at you.

“You must be the intern they sent to me.”

You nodded quickly.

“Yes, sir.”

He studied you for a moment, as if he were evaluating something.

Then he gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit.”

You walked over and sat down, trying not to look as nervous as you suddenly felt.

Nanami walked around the desk and took his seat across from you.

Everything about the office was neat, almost aggressively organized. Files stacked perfectly. Pens aligned. Not a single thing out of place.

He folded his hands together.

“You were briefed on the nature of this internship.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated.

“…Not really.”

Nanami closed his eyes for a brief moment, as he had expected that answer.

“I see.”

He leaned back slightly.

“My name is Kento Nanami. I work as a Grade 1 jujutsu sorcerer affiliated with Tokyo Jujutsu High.”

You stared at him.

That… meant absolutely nothing to you.

Nanami noticed.

His expression didn’t change, but something about his posture suggested mild disappointment in the system that sent you here.

“…Then I will explain.”

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin file.

“There are creatures in this world known as curses.”

He spoke calmly, like someone explaining basic office procedures.

“They are born from negative human emotions. Fear, anger, regret.”

You blinked.

“I exorcise them.”

He set the file on the desk.

“And as of today, you assist me.”

The words sat in the air for a moment.

You weren’t sure if he was joking.

He wasn’t smiling.

“…You’re serious?” you asked slowly.

Nanami adjusted his glasses slightly.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then he added:

“It can be dangerous.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk.

His gaze was steady and focused.

“Are you the type to run when something becomes inconvenient?”

The question caught you off guard.

You thought for a second.

Then you shook your head.

“No.”

Nanami studied your face for a moment longer.

Then he gave a small nod.

“Good.”

He stood up.

“Then we will begin with something simple.”

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on with practiced efficiency.

You blinked.

“…Now?”

Nanami glanced at the clock on the wall.

“Yes.”

He looked back at you.

“Curses do not operate on office hours.”

He picked up his briefcase.

“Come with me.”

Your first day had officially begun.

•••

Nanami walked quickly down the hallway.

Not hurried.

Not frantic.

Just efficient.

He moved at a pace that expected everyone else to keep up.

You, unfortunately, were wearing heels.

That was your first mistake.

The sharp click-click-click of your heels echoed as you half-walked, half-jogged behind him, trying to match his long strides. Every few steps, you nearly twisted your ankle.

Your bag bounced against your shoulder.

Your breath became uneven.

“Could you slow down?” you finally called out.

Nanami stopped.

Immediately.

So suddenly that you almost ran into his back.

Kento Nanami turned around slowly and looked down at your shoes, then back at your face.

His expression was calm, but you noticed a hint of realization.

“…You’re wearing heels.”

You stared at him.

“Yes.”

A small pause.

Nanami adjusted his glasses slightly.

“That was a poor tactical decision.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t know my internship would involve chasing you down hallways.”

Nanami thought that over for a moment.

“…Fair.”

He turned and began walking again.

This time, he walked more slowly.

Not dramatically slower but slow enough that you could walk beside him instead of sprinting behind him like a panicked assistant.

After a few steps, he spoke again.

“Field work often requires quick movement.”

You glanced at him.

“Field work?”

“Yes.”

They walked for a few more seconds.

Then Nanami calmly added, “Running is also common.”

You groaned quietly.

“Of course it is.”

He didn’t respond to your sarcasm.

Instead, he said, “If it becomes necessary, I will carry you.”

You nearly tripped.

“What?!”

Nanami didn’t even look at you.

“It would be inefficient to let you fall behind during a dangerous situation.”

He pushed open the building’s exit door.

Bright daylight spilled outside.

He stepped through it and paused just long enough for you to catch up.

Then he glanced at your shoes again.

“…For future assignments, wear something you can run in.”

A beat passed.

Then he added in the same calm tone, “You will likely need it.”

Suddenly, your “simple internship” felt a lot less simple.

•••

You pushed through the door after him, the bright daylight making you squint for a moment.

The city buzzed around you like any normal day: cars passing, people walking, distant chatter from pedestrians who had no idea that their world included curses.

You hurried to keep up with him.

Your heels clicked loudly against the pavement.

You glanced up at him.

“So, this fieldwork," you said carefully. “What does it include?”

Kento Nanami didn’t answer right away.

He walked a few steps more, one hand adjusting his sleeve.

Then he spoke.

“Primarily observation for you.”

You relaxed a little.

“Observation,” you repeated.

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

Nanami glanced at you briefly.

“For now.”

Your relief faded almost instantly.

He continued explaining as you walked.

“You will document the location, time, and type of curse you encounter. You will also record the damage caused and any civilian involvement.”

You nodded slowly, trying to take it all in.

“So, like a field report?”

“Yes.”

That sounded doable.

Then Nanami added calmly:

“You will also learn curse detection.”

You blinked.

“Detection?”

“Yes.”

He stopped at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change.

“Most humans cannot see curses.”

Your head turned sharply toward him.

“Wait, most?”

Nanami looked down at you again.

His gaze sharpened a bit, as if he were measuring something.

“You haven’t noticed anything unusual before?”

You shook your head.

“No.”

He hummed quietly.

“That is… unusual.”

Before you could ask what he meant, the walk signal appeared, and he stepped forward again.

“You will stay behind me during confrontations,” he continued.

“You will not approach a curse.”

You nodded quickly.

“Got it.”

“You will not attempt to interact with a curse.”

“Definitely got it.”

“And you will not try to assist unless I explicitly instruct you.”

You raised your hands a bit.

“I promise, I’m not trying to fight monster ghosts.”

Nanami didn’t react to the joke.

Instead, he looked ahead down the street.

His expression shifted slightly; he seemed more focused now.

“We are close.”

Your stomach tightened.

“Close to what?”

Nanami stopped walking.

The air around the alley ahead suddenly felt strange.

Heavy.

Like the atmosphere itself had thickened.

Nanami loosened his tie slightly.

“You will likely feel something unpleasant soon.”

You frowned.

“What kind of unpleasant—”

Then it hit you.

A wave of cold dread rolled down your spine.

Your chest tightened.

Your skin prickled like something invisible was watching you.

You instinctively grabbed the sleeve of his suit.

“What is that feeling?!”

Nanami looked down at you calmly.

“That,” he said, looking toward the alley,

"It is a curse.”

“A curse?” you asked, your voice softer than you meant.

The uneasy feeling in the air lingered, growing stronger as you stood closer to the alley. Your chest tightened, and a cold fear crept over your skin, as if something unseen was right behind you.

Kento Nanami stood beside you, completely calm.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

He loosened his tie with one hand and began wrapping it around his palm slowly. The movement was smooth and automatic.

“A curse,” he continued, “is a result of negative human emotion.”

You looked at the alley.

It seemed ordinary.

Trash bins, brick walls, and a flickering light in the back.

Nothing more.

“But I don’t see anything,” you said.

Nanami nodded slightly.

“That’s expected.”

He took a step closer to the alley entrance.

“Most people can’t see them without training or enough cursed energy.”

You grabbed his sleeve again without thinking.

“Wait.”

He halted and looked down at you.

“…Yes?”

“What if it comes out here?”

Nanami glanced at the people on the sidewalk nearby, completely unaware.

“It will not.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

He turned his focus back to the alley.

“But for your understanding…”

He gestured slightly toward the dark space ahead.

“Stay here.”

Your eyes widened.

“Stay here?!”

Nanami briefly looked at you.

“You will be safe.”

He paused, then added in the same calm voice, “If something comes near you, scream.”

You blinked.

“That’s your safety plan?”

“Yes.”

You stared at him.

“…Great.”

Without saying another word, Nanami stepped into the alley.

As soon as he entered the shadows, the air shifted again.

He stopped halfway down the narrow passage.

For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Then Nanami spoke into the empty air.

“I know you are there.”

Silence.

Then—

The air rippled.

Slowly, something began to take shape.

A distorted figure pulled itself from the darkness. Long arms dragged on the ground, and its body appeared half-melted into the brick wall.

You gasped.

“I—I can see it!”

Nanami didn’t turn around.

“That confirms my suspicion.”

The creature shrieked in a distorted voice.

Nanami adjusted his glasses calmly.

“Step back.”

You were already pressed against the wall.

“What is that thing?!”

Nanami tightened his tie around his hand.

“A low-grade curse.”

The creature lunged.

Nanami moved.

Fast.

His fist struck forward with brutal precision.

And the alley shook with the impact.

•••

You unlocked the door to your apartment slowly.

For a moment, you stood there with your hand on the knob.

Then you pushed it open.

The smell hit you first.

Cigarette smoke.

Alcohol.

Your stomach sank immediately.

The living room lights were on, but dim. The television flickered silently against the wall, casting shifting shadows across the room. Empty bottles filled the coffee table, and a thin line of smoke curled up from an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.

He was home.

Earlier than you expected.

Your heart began to beat faster.

You stepped inside quietly and closed the door behind you.

Your heels felt too loud against the floor.

You already knew what he would notice.

The kitchen was untouched.

No dinner cooking.

The dishes from the morning still sat in the sink.

The living room hadn’t been cleaned.

You had spent the entire day following Kento Nanami through the city, learning about curses, and trying to understand that monsters really existed.

Cleaning had been the last thing on your mind.

But he wouldn’t care about that.

From the couch, a voice spoke.

“You’re late.”

You froze.

He didn’t look at you right away. He slouched into the couch cushions, one arm hanging off the side, a glass of alcohol loosely held in his hand.

The TV light flickered across his face.

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

You swallowed.

“I was at work.”

He finally looked over at you.

Slowly.

His eyes moved over you, your clothes, your bag, your tired posture.

Then they moved past you toward the kitchen.

Toward the sink.

Toward the empty stove.

The silence stretched.

You already knew that look.

You learned it over time.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time when the two of you laughed together in this apartment, cooked meals side by side, watched movies late into the night, and shared quiet mornings without feeling heavy or scared.

You loved him.

You really did.

At least… You loved who he used to be.

The change had been slow.

So slow you barely noticed it at first.

A sharp comment here.

A controlling rule there.

Arguments ended with you apologizing even when you weren’t sure what you did wrong.

Then the yelling started.

Then the insults.

Eventually, sometimes it turned physical.

Bruises bloomed across your arms.

Marks that clothes could hide.

And every morning, you covered them carefully.

Long sleeves.

Makeup.

A smile.

You acted normally.

Because people who didn’t look closely didn’t notice.

On the couch, he took a slow drink.

“You didn’t cook.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag.

“I worked late today.”

His jaw shifted.

“And cleaning?”

Your throat felt tight.

“I was going to do it now.”

He laughed once.

A sharp, humorless sound.

“You were going to.”

He set the glass down harder than necessary.

The clink echoed in the quiet apartment.

Your heart started to race.

You already knew where this conversation was heading.

You just didn’t know how bad tonight would be.

The silence between you filled the room like thick smoke.

The apartment was quiet again after the argument.

You moved slowly around the kitchen, washing dishes that should have been done hours ago. Your shoulders were tense. Each clink of a plate against the sink made you flinch slightly.

Across the city, in a dim office, someone was watching.

Multiple small monitors glowed in the darkness of the room. Each one showed a different angle of your apartment, your kitchen, your living room, and the hallway near the door.

Kento Nanami sat in front of them.

His posture was still.

Too still.

His glasses reflected the glow of the screens as he watched you move through the apartment, pretending everything was normal.

But what he had already seen tonight was anything but normal.

He had watched your boyfriend grab your arm.

He had seen the way you tried to keep the peace, your voice small and careful.

He had noticed the way you flinched.

Nanami’s jaw tightened.

This wasn’t the first time he had seen it.

In fact, he had been watching you long before you applied for the internship.

Your routines.

Your commute.

Your apartment.

And him.

That man.

Nanami’s hand slowly tightened around the arm of his chair.

His blood boiled at the thought of that man touching you, speaking to you like that, and hurting you in the place where you were supposed to feel safe.

The moment replayed in his mind again.

The grip.

The cruelty.

The control.

Something inside him snapped.

Hours later, your boyfriend stumbled out of a crowded bar across town.

Music thumped behind the door as it closed. The night air was cool, but he barely noticed. Alcohol swayed his steps as he laughed loudly at something one of the women had said moments before.

He staggered down the sidewalk, digging his phone out of his pocket.

He was too drunk to realize he wasn’t alone anymore.

From the shadows across the street, Nanami watched.

Completely sober.

Completely calm.

The yellow glow of the streetlights caught the edge of his glasses as he stepped forward.

The man barely had time to react.

Nanami moved quickly and efficiently, grabbing him and dragging him out of sight behind the building. The drunk protests faded quickly into muffled sounds as Nanami forced him toward the alley.

Toward a dumpster tucked behind the bar.

Nanami looked down at him with cold, unwavering eyes.

The man tried to push himself up, slurring angrily.

Nanami didn’t say much.

He didn’t need to.

The night was quiet.

The city moved on around them, unaware.

Nanami adjusted his tie slowly.

One thought was clear in his mind.

You would never be hurt again.

No matter what it took.

•••

The next day, you arrived at work feeling different. Although tired and worn, you were determined. Your clothing was neat, with no attempts to dress down just to blend in. A small but fragile spark of self-respect reappeared.

Nanami was already at his desk when you entered. He looked up and met your gaze with calm, unreadable eyes, but there was something in his look that made you pause.

“I’m so—” you began, but he raised his hand to stop you.

“Stop,” he said quietly but firmly. “Don’t apologize yet.”

He stood up and gestured for you to follow. You hesitated, expecting to be taken back out for training or faced with another challenge. Instead, he led you out of the office and onto the busy streets.

Walking in silence, the sound of your heels clicking on pavement filled the air. Finally, he stopped before a modest restaurant, exuding the smell of fresh bread and warmth.

He opened the door and let you go inside first. You sat at a corner table across from him, the warm light softly illuminating his calm features.

“Why are we here?” you asked hesitantly.

Nanami didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he folded his hands on the table and looked into your eyes with steadiness.

“When was the last time you had a proper meal?” he inquired.

Your stomach clenched. “I… I haven’t eaten in a week. My boyfriend usually eats all the food, leaving me with little or none.”

Nanami slowly reached across the table. You instinctively flinched and pulled back. He paused, then gently placed his hand under your chin, tilting your face toward him.

A small scratch along your jawline made you flinch again.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I just fell.”

Nanami remained still, his intense gaze making it difficult to lie.

“I’m not an idiot,” he said quietly, almost dangerously calm. “Is he hurting you?”

Looking down at your hands, your chest ached, and the tears you’d been holding back threatened to fall. “No… yes,” you admitted softly.

“You don’t have to lie,” he said firmly. “No one should put their hands on you, especially a man.”

Swallowing hard, you said, “I… I can’t stop him. He’s changed so much.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. He lowered his hand from your chin and placed it lightly on yours, grounding and steadying you. For the first time in weeks, you felt somewhat safe.

“No one has the right to do that to you,” he said in a low, unwavering tone. “And you don’t have to face it alone anymore.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, and you quickly wiped them away, ashamed. You had spent so long hiding this part of your life—pretending, surviving. You're unaccustomed to someone seeing or acknowledging it.

“I know it’s hard to leave someone you love,” Nanami said, with steady eyes. “Even when they hurt you. But that isn’t love.”

Your chest tightened again, and you nodded slowly, struggling to find the right words.

“Whatever it takes,” he added, “you won’t have to go through it again. Not while I’m here.”

Looking at him, you felt a mix of fear, relief, and gratitude. Could you trust him? Could you let someone see your truth?

Nanami’s gaze softened slightly, but his voice remained steady.

“You survived a week without proper meals,” he said. “You survived what he did to you. That shows strength. But strength isn’t meant to hide pain. You deserve more than survival—you deserve safety. And I won’t let anyone take that from you again.”

Your hands trembled under his, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself rest them there. A shiver ran through you, a small flicker of hope igniting.

“I… I don’t know how to fix it,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“You don’t have to fix it alone,” Nanami said quietly, leaning forward. “You have me now. Together, we’ll ensure your safety.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to breathe. A tentative hope settled in your chest. Maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to hide anymore.

•••

Over the past few days, things had started to feel… different.

Not normal. Not like before. But safer.

Nanami had been keeping an eye on you—quietly, carefully, through the hidden cameras in your apartment. Not in a way that made you feel trapped, but in a way that meant someone was watching over you when you were alone. Making sure you got home safely, made a meal, and rested.

It was… comforting, in a way you didn’t expect.

One evening, there was a knock at your door.

Your stomach twisted nervously, but when you opened it, there he was. Nanami, standing calmly in the hallway, his coat draped over one arm, glasses catching the soft light from the corridor.

“I thought I’d check in,” he said simply.

You stepped aside, and he entered your apartment with that same quiet efficiency he always carried.

You both settled into the living room, the faint hum of the city outside a distant background to your conversation.

For a while, you spoke lightly about life, about work, about small things that normally would have felt meaningless. But with him, they felt important. You found yourself laughing softly at his dry comments, and he allowed himself a small, rare smile in return.

The conversation grew quieter and deeper. About life before everything changed, about the ways it had shaped both of you.

He looked at you, really looked at you, in a way that made your chest tighten. There was concern there, yes, but also something else, something unspoken that made your pulse quicken.

He shifted slightly closer. You didn’t move away.

His presence filled the space between you. You could feel the warmth of his body and the subtle rhythm of his breathing.

You glanced down for a moment, nervous, and when you looked back, he was even closer.

His hand brushed against yours—a light, almost casual touch at first, but the intention behind it was unmistakable.

Your heart raced.

“Are you… okay?” he asked softly, his voice low and careful.

You nodded, though your hands betrayed your nervousness, fidgeting slightly.

Then he leaned just a fraction closer, and something in the air shifted.

It was quiet, tense, and intimate.

Your eyes met, and without words, the distance disappeared.

His lips touched yours.

Soft at first, testing. Gentle, but insistent enough to make your knees go weak.

You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

Every worry, every fear, every bruise and scar, seemed to fade for a moment under the calm intensity of him.

The kiss deepened slightly, careful and deliberate, full of a promise you didn’t need words to understand: you would be safe. You would be protected. And in this moment, you weren’t alone anymore.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together. Both of you were breathing slightly heavier, and the silence between you wasn’t awkward; it was full. Full of something unspoken, something real, something that felt like the beginning of healing.

“You… you don’t have to hide anymore,” he whispered.

You smiled softly, a genuine, small smile the first one in a long time.

“I… I know,” you admitted.

And in that quiet apartment, with the city humming softly outside, you both sat a little closer, letting the world wait outside your door for just a little longer.

•••

Night had settled over the city, a soft glow from streetlights reflecting off slick pavements.

Nanami had asked you earlier in the week, almost casually, if you would be his plus one at an event for his company. You had hesitated, heart racing. You were a lowly intern; there was no way this was appropriate. But somehow, you hadn’t said no. And now here you were, standing in front of your mirror, dressed for the occasion.

The dress you wore clung perfectly, elegant but understated. He had told you to wear something that made you feel confident. You had chosen wisely.

When he arrived to pick you up, his eyes took you in. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just him and you.

“You look… beautiful,” he said softly, almost as if he were confessing something private, something meant only for you.

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest. Not just from the words, but from the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room who mattered.

“Thank you,” you said, voice quiet, still a little breathless from your gaze.

The drive to the event was filled with a tense kind of anticipation. Nanami didn’t speak much, but the occasional glance he threw your way made your stomach flutter. You could feel the strength and precision in his presence and the careful attention he gave to making sure you were comfortable, safe, and noticed.

When you arrived, the building was alive with light and music. People in elegant dresses and sharp suits milled about, talking and laughing. You felt small at first, but Nanami’s hand brushed against yours. He guided you effortlessly through the crowd, close enough that no one could ignore the way he was holding you.

Close. Almost possessive, but protective.

“You’re going to be safe,” he murmured, his voice low against your ear. “And you’re going to enjoy this. Trust me.”

Your heart thudded, not from fear, but from the intensity of his presence.

Throughout the event, he never let you out of his sight. When someone approached to speak with him, he subtly shifted you behind him, ensuring you were always shielded, always near. His hand never left yours or occasionally rested on the small of your back.

The mission tested patience but quickly went wrong. Hizashi Yamada, known as Present Mic, was close to blasting a Sound Point Blank to shake off the boredom. He wanted to scream, but a heavy, bandaged hand on his shoulder kept him in check.

"Don't even think about it, Mic," Shouta Aizawa muttered, his eyes glowing faintly red behind his goggles. "If you blow the roof off, we’ll lose the trail. Control yourself."

"I’m trying, Eraser! But these guys are chatty and saying nothing!" Hizashi hissed, his fingers twitching near his directional speaker.

Thanks to Aizawa’s restraint, the villain’s head stayed attached by the time they put the cuffs on. Yet the adrenaline had nowhere to go.

Once the paperwork was done, Hizashi had only one goal.

"Drinks. Now. I need to drown out my own thoughts."

"We have patrol logs to finish," Aizawa replied, though he was already following Hizashi to their usual neon-lit hangout. He knew the routine. If he didn’t go, Hizashi would end up befriending a jukebox and losing his wallet.

Three hours later, the "Voice Hero" was completely out.

"Just... one more, Shouta! For the fans!" Hizashi slurred, waving an empty glass at a bartender who wisely ignored him.

"The fans are asleep, and so should you be," Aizawa sighed, leaving a stack of yen on the counter. He hoisted Hizashi’s arm over his shoulder.

"Get up. I’m not dragging you through the dirt if you pass out in the alley," he added.

•••

The Long Night

The walk back was a blur of Hizashi humming off-key into Aizawa’s ear. Back at the apartment, Aizawa worked quickly, removing the heavy hero suit and swapping it for an oversized soft T-shirt and sweats.

He tucked Hizashi into bed, placing a trash can within reach, knowing what was coming. He didn’t leave. Instead, he sat in the armchair by the window, watching the moonlight shine on Hizashi's flushed face.

He didn’t stay out of obligation. He stayed because the silence in his own apartment felt overwhelming. After Oboro’s loss, being the "only one left" weighed on him. Hizashi was the only one brave enough to fill his quiet world with noise.

•••

The Morning After

The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon when Hizashi started retching. Aizawa was awake before the first sound hit the bottom of the plastic bin.

"Ugh... God, make it stop..." Hizashi groaned, clutching his head as if it might fall off.

Aizawa appeared beside him, pressing a cold glass of water and two tablets into Hizashi’s trembling hand.

"Drink. Slowly. If you puke on the rug, you’ll clean it with a toothbrush."

"You’re an angel, Shouta. A mean, grumpy, sleep-deprived angel," Hizashi mumbled, taking a weak sip.

Aizawa stepped into the hall to call UA.

"Nezu? It’s Aizawa. Yamada is... compromised. Food poisoning. No, he's an idiot. Yes, I’ll stay to make sure he doesn't choke. Thank you," he said, hanging up.

He returned to the doorway as Hizashi had already sunk into the pillows, breathing heavily but steadily. His hair, without gel, was a wild golden halo on the pillowcase. He looked peaceful, vulnerable.

"Go back to sleep, Hizashi," Aizawa whispered, his voice softening just enough that he’d deny it later. "The world can be quiet for one day."

Hizashi didn’t reply, already drifting off, his hand reaching out blindly. Aizawa hesitated then sat on the edge of the bed, letting his friend's fingers catch the sleeve of his shirt.

•••

The party was in full swing at a dimly lit bar tucked away in the quieter side of the city, the kind of place heroes frequented when they wanted to unwind without drawing too much attention. Bass-heavy music thumped through the speakers, vibrating the sticky floors, while clusters of off-duty pros laughed and clinked glasses. Hizashi had dragged Shouta here as his “reward” for sticking around during his recovery, and though Shouta grumbled about it the whole way, he hadn't turned back. They were already through the door, enveloped in the haze of cigarette smoke and spilled sake.

Shouta leaned against the bar, nursing his first whiskey on the rocks. He wasn't one for crowds, but the burn of the alcohol dulled the edges of the noise. Hizashi bounced around like he owned the place, his wild blond hair catching the neon lights as he chatted up old friends, his voice cutting through the din with that infectious energy. Every so often, he'd glance back at Shouta, flashing a grin that said, See? This is fun. Shouta just nodded, sipping deeper.

An hour in, Hizashi sidled up beside him, two fresh drinks in hand—something fruity and strong for himself, another whiskey for Shouta. “C'mon, Eraser, loosen up,” Hizashi teased, pressing the glass into his palm. Their fingers brushed, lingering a second too long, and Shouta felt a flicker of warmth that had nothing to do with the liquor. He downed half the drink in one go, the haze settling in his veins like a soft fog.

They talked—or rather, Hizashi talked, recounting wild patrol stories while Shouta interjected with dry remarks. The crowd thinned around them as the night wore on, bodies pressing closer in the heat. Hizashi's hand landed on Shouta's shoulder, squeezing, and he didn't move away. Shouta didn't shrug it off. Another round arrived, courtesy of some mutual acquaintance, and soon Shouta lost count. Three drinks? Four? The world tilted just enough to make everything feel distant, pliable.

Hizashi leaned in closer during a lull, his breath warm against Shouta's ear over the music. “You know, I owe you big time for last week. Staying like that... means a lot.” His voice dropped, sincere, and Shouta's gaze flicked to those green eyes, pupils dilated in the low light. The air between them thickened, charged. Shouta muttered something noncommittal, but his hand found Hizashi's arm, steadying himself as he stood straighter.

The next thing Shouta remembered clearly was them stumbling out of the bar, the cool night air hitting their flushed faces. Hizashi's arm slung around his shoulders, laughing about nothing, guiding them toward his apartment a few blocks away. “Can't let you crash alone, buddy,” Hizashi slurred lightly, and Shouta didn't protest. The walk blurred—streetlights smearing into streaks, Hizashi’s body heat pressing against his side.

Inside Hizashi's place, the door barely clicked shut before hands were on each other. It started as a clumsy hug, Hizashi pulling Shouta in with a mumbled thanks, but Shouta's fingers tangled in that messy hair, tugging just enough to tilt Hizashi’s head back. Their mouths crashed together, rough and urgent, whiskey-sharp tongues sliding against each other. Hizashi groaned into the kiss, backing Shouta against the wall, his hips grinding forward instinctively.

Clothes came off in a frenzy, Shouta's scarf unraveling first, tossed aside, then Hizashi yanking at his shirt buttons, exposing scarred chest to eager hands. Shouta shoved Hizashi’s jacket off, palms sliding under his shirt to grip firm abs, thumbs circling nipples that hardened instantly. They made it to the bedroom in stumbles, shedding pants along the way, cocks already straining against underwear that didn't last.

Hizashi pushed Shouta onto the bed, straddling his hips, grinding down with a hiss as skin met skin. “Fuck, Shouta,” he panted, leaning to suck a mark into Shouta's neck, teeth grazing stubble. Shouta's hands roamed, one cupping Hizashi’s ass, fingers digging in to spread cheeks, the other stroking the thick length of Hizashi’s cock, thumb smearing pre-cum over the head. Hizashi bucked into the touch, moaning loud enough to echo off the walls.

They flipped, Shouta pinning Hizashi beneath him, kissing down his throat, chest, latching onto a nipple to bite and suck until Hizashi arched, begging. “Please, touch me more.” Shouta obliged, trailing lower, tongue dipping into navel before wrapping lips around Hizashi’s cock, swallowing him deep. Hizashi’s fingers fisted in black hair, hips thrusting shallowly as Shouta bobbed, hollowing cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside vein.

But Hizashi pulled him up, desperate, rolling them again to return the favor. He took Shouta's cock in hand first, pumping slow and firm, then mouth following, hot and wet, sucking with sloppy enthusiasm. Shouta growled, thrusting up, fucking into his throat while Hizashi hummed around him, vibrations shooting pleasure straight to his core.

They didn't last long in that haze, Hizashi grabbed lube from the nightstand, slicking fingers to prep himself, two pushing in with a gasp, scissoring. Shouta watched, stroking himself, until Hizashi climbed back on, lining up and sinking slow, inch by inch, until Shouta's cock was buried deep in tight heat. Hizashi rode him hard, ass clenching, hands braced on Shouta's chest as he bounced, cock slapping against his abs with each drop.

Shouta gripped his hips, thrusting up to meet him, the bed creaking under the rhythm. Sweat slicked their bodies, breath ragged. Hizashi came first, spilling over Shouta's stomach with a cry, walls pulsing around him. Shouta followed seconds later, pumping cum deep inside, holding Hizashi down as he shuddered through it.

Exhausted, they collapsed, Hizashi curling against Shouta's chest, both drifting off in the sticky aftermath, naked and spent.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, pulling Shouta from sleep. His head throbbed faintly, his body heavy with the remnants of alcohol and exertion. He blinked, registering the warmth draped over him—Hizashi, out cold, blond head pillowed on his chest, one leg thrown over his thigh. They were both bare, sheets tangled around waists, the air thick with the scent of sex. Shouta's hand rested on Hizashi’s back, fingers tracing idle patterns on skin marked with faint bruises from the night before. Their relationship had shifted irrevocably, and as Hizashi stirred with a soft sigh, Shouta didn't pull away.

•••

The silence in the apartment was no longer comforting; it was deafening.

As the sun climbed higher, memory fragments began to slot into place like jagged glass. It wasn’t just the drinking or the caretaking. There had been a moment—blurred by exhaustion and whiskey—where the lines between "best friends" and "something more" had permanently smeared. A touch that lingered too long, a confession whispered into a collarbone, a choice made in the haze of the night.

Shouta moved like a ghost. He showered in scalding water, dressed in his hero gear with mechanical precision, and was out the door before Hizashi could even stir. He couldn't be there when those green eyes opened and the realization hit.

•••

The Teacher's Lounge

When Shouta slid open the door to the UA faculty lounge, the smell of burnt coffee hit him. Toshinori Yagi, All Might, was already there, hunched over a steaming mug. He looked up, his sunken eyes narrowing instantly.

"Aizawa," Toshinori greeted, his voice raspy. He paused, tilting his head. "You look... more tired than usual. And your posture is defensive. Did the mission go poorly?"

Shouta sat across from him, staring at his own scarred hands. He wanted to lie. He wanted to say it was just a long night of babysitting a drunk idiot. But Toshinori had spent decades reading people, and Shouta was currently an open book of suppressed panic.

"Something happened," Shouta said, his voice a low gravel. "With Yamada. Last night."

He kept it brief—the drinking, the blurred boundaries, the shift in the air that changed everything. He expected surprise. He expected Toshinori to be awkward or perhaps even offer a lecture on professionalism.

Instead, the former Number One Hero just sighed into his coffee

•••

The Truth Unveiled

"It isn't a surprise, Shouta," Toshinori said gently.

Aizawa blinked. "What?"

"Hizashi has been... frequenting my office for quite some time," Toshinori admitted, a small, knowing smile tugging at his thin lips. "He’s loud about everything else, but when it comes to you, he carries a very heavy burden. He’s had feelings for you since you both started teaching here. He’s just very good at masking it with noise."

The revelation hit Aizawa like a physical blow. He thought he knew Hizashi better than anyone, but he had missed the one thing that mattered most.

"He was drunk," Shouta argued, though it sounded weak even to his own ears. "It might have been an accident."

"Alcohol doesn't create feelings, Shouta. It just removes the locks we put on them," Toshinori leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "My advice? Don't let this 'go over your head.' You can't retreat into the shadows this time. You have to come to terms with him. It happened for a reason."