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AS OF LATE I'VE BEEN 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 OVER…
⭒Conquest, Invincible⭒⭒Thragg, Invincible⭒
..and who i want to write for...but havent yet✹⭒future warden, superjail⭒postal dude, postal movie⭒am, i have no mouth⭒dieter hellstrom, inglorious basterds⭒
also why is nobody talking about how hot this was!!! like the manhandling??? the sudden proximity??? HIS LITTLE CHUCKLE AT THE END?????? dont even get me started
IN CONCLUSION: it says a lot that every time he speaks there is someone choking on their own blood in the background. And everything conquest does is hot. and hes so super cute
never been one for the whole animal hybrid thing but also rognarr hybrid reader who beats the shit out of conquest or a younger thragg.
I just adore the idea of a reader stronger than the strongest viltrumites but isnt actually a viltrumite. The only thing i want out of life is to be put in a position where I can stare down this hot man with an inflated sense of self as he mouths off about sum genetic superiority and ""Viltrumite Empire."" Then you really get into the combat side of things...and he's realizing you're able to pin him down a little too easily. Just holding him down to watch the rageful aggression in his eyes fade to fear.🤤.
Imagine Conquest giving the pep talk while fucking you
"Its okay,.. s'alright, your pussy will get used to it real quick..Practice makes perfect right? And ill make sure this cock will fit perfectly in this virgin pussy"
been plagued by this idea of a smut fic but i need plot and worldbuilding and this and that to make it work and broo😭😭😭😭i dont knowwww!!! it got me feeling like
my brain is pushing this "collect an unrestrained attraction for the (old) men of invincible like pokemon cards NOW!!!" agenda and I fear kregg is next. i just cant stop thinking about like what if
what if there's a new-comer in your little backwoods town; you've only seen him from the windows of your part time mom n' pop. He, who rides upon a streak of god's light; he, who leaves rip roaring smoke clouds, pure mechanical majesty under the blazing summer sun.
He, who has no business in the backwater and broken asphalt of Great America's forgotten half. Where a hero hasn't been seen in months, if not years, while persistent weeds make their homes in potholes cause they cant quit living
He, who wears an eyepatch like a pirate, or a war vet, or a secret service agent. Whose uncovered eye has seen about a million other somethings much greater than all of you combined. Who might be an oil baron's son or a prince, just as much as another alcoholic on a deathtrap out to find some invariable unknown.
In daylight, you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him soaring along the turnpike, trailed by rattling applause from an uncontrolled engine. In the light of a starless night sky, you stare at the ceiling, hearing his metal beast snarl deep into the night.
He'll keep you up past your bedtime, this mystery motorcycle man. Midnight masculinity on the prowl, scouring the streets and stalking shadows. Searching.
The only reason you know he's no daydream are the rumors making the rounds: devil's creed, here to take our daughters and corrupt our sons; womanizer muscling through a mid life crisis; supervillain maniac come here to destroy; godsent prophet or hellfire savior. Some other outlandish cry.
..
AND what if your dad is a real bad man. Everyone knows he's black at his core, that he's lived here his whole life and planned on dyin in the same mines his own father worked.
But what everyone knew more than that, was what sparse company he kept around just so happened to a little worse than he. If they were vultures to a corpse, your broken-down house is bloated with rot and decay.
it was the running joke: to look good by comparison. No one knows this better than you, not your daddy and not his friends.
You've seen them stare now and you've seen them stare then, in beginning --- when you were yet a sweet girl. They looked, and looked, and looked at you like your daddy looks at hookers by the streetlight.
Those same stares birthed feverous drive to escape. You rose early, crept out under thunderous snores or drunken stupor. You worked, went to school, worked some more or kicked around till late.
And when you got home, it was after they'd all snuck back into whatever sin-ridden den they came from. You knew, you timed it through trial and error. They didn't care enough to stay; you're just something to hang their eyes on.
If one or two're already asleep, a chair tucked snug against your locked door and a bat in the closet would do you well.
..
It shoulda been no surprise when your mystery motorcycle man came soaring in on clouds and glass bottles, easing his purring kitten right into your daddy's depraved circle of tobacco spit and foul language. A real women's hell.
Inevitable, no matter who this pirate/antichrist/heir is, and how long he found himself on these roads --- most men of his make and model in this town came one place when the bar simply ain't enough.
But when you step onto your bald lawn where spots of water-starved grass broke swirling dust, you expected the typical emptiness. You glance up through the humidity keeping your body sweat-soaked, felt a diamondback open its jaws beside your heart.
Legs stop where they stand. Eyes train on a thin coil of grey rising from his cigarette.
In the dark, he stands as if he'd been waiting for you. Shadows pool in the pits and hollows of lean muscle; porchlight dance across his sun kissed skin, across the triceps of his folded arms. The same dingy light bent and broke along the lines of his steel stallion, shouldering the weight from a leaning body.
How long had he been watching you?
Didn't matter --- clearly not long enough to eye you up close. No use in a retreat, not now, not as you feel the heat of his gaze trace what your body offered in that wicked way of heat-lusted men. Running would do you no good. Sometimes they like a little chase.
hammered out on this god removed lawn like roadkill, you realize it's the closest you've ever been. Anxiety is already balling up your gut, and the idea of getting any closer wasn't something you were too keen on.
To meet his eye may spell ruination, but you couldn't care --- hell, you could hardly help it. Past the amber dot of his inhale, your vision honed home, expecting hookers and children.
Brightness ran up your body; lighting or some other source second to Earth --- whichever comes after the first round of Russian roulette.
Another long exhale from him, gentle smokescreen, nonexistent breeze drawing an acrid whiff over to your lungs. Within that dark eye, warm curiosity affixed its scrappy haunches. Surveying, beyond sexual release. This man's vying to place a weight --- a big one at that.
Your brain bent to place just what exactly he's trying to tell you. How this man held himself, held his power and didn't throw it around --- maybe he truly was an oil baron's son, or a prince, or whatever else they say.
He was an acting outlier. It unnatural to watch him watch you, felt worse when you recognized a visceral desire pouring between your thighs. It took just about every bit of strength in you to draw up a foot and continue to the back door, keeping a wary eye on an orange speck in the corner of-
Creeeeeaak.
Your heart stutters, almost taking your feet with it. You shoot a glance back at the schemer and his cigarette which dropped onto the driveway with the rest of its kin. You continue onwards, not much pleased with how jumpy you're acting.
He spoke, and it wasnt a greeting. Wasnt a question either.
"You're the daughter."
The melodic baritone filled your chest; his tone was soft, practised, rich and deep.. and sanded down. Any fool could tell a roughness lay in him under the rounded edges.
You turn, not cause you want to, cause its the polite thing to do. The dingy porch light snatches up your eyes, and already they're tracing where it caught on his neck, and where it didn't. He sighed, movement at his chest drew you to his open collarbones. Planes of musculature enclosed by tight fabric offered an easy guess on the view under.
Good god, you've never really seen a man before. Not like him. His thumb grazed once across his forefinger and middle to purge the cigarette's stain. It must be an illusion.
The infinite ultimatum gaze was drilling into you once more. The serious intensity calls for perceiving eternity; how you imagined your daddy must've, to whichever woman whose womb you crawled out of.
"I've heard of you." There wasn't much of a response to that --- not one you wanted to give, anyway. Held by his beady eye, you went hot and cold and soft, hands clammy and back weeping sweat, not cause of the summer night.
"Kraig." It was sharp, not C but K curving round your eardrums.
Couldve been a second, couldve been a year before Kraig shifted; he leaned over the motorcycle, hands curled around the bars. Limber back stretched taut, begging your eyes to memorize the hills and valleys.
He shot you one last look and you recognize it as a... lonesome one.
His ride roared to life, bleaching your driveway with its silver eyes. And Kraig was gone, departed into light pollution with a snarl.
..
It was a strange encounter. A stranger look. Had your daddy made some err in judgement? Men of his caliber don't typically bleed the quiet pleading he threw you that night, that special need for companionship.
You stare beyond the tabloid's blaring images and walls of text to the window --- the sky was a cornucopia of orange and pink. Another hour, and you'd be out. Your gaze fell to the road. Few cars, nothing notable. No motorcycle, to your dissappointed relief.
That little chink in armor, the soft white throat of him pulled at the lead of a certain what if...
One in which you finally get close: close enough to run the tips of your fingers up his forearms, trace the veins, cradle his face in your hands. To have your lips search through a wave of cigarette smoke to brush against his, heady taste of chainsmoking and cheap beer on your tastebuds. To feel the heat of red-hot blood and the hours he's spent on the highway in how his hands rest on your hips. Lost. Homesick.
An engine cried somewhere distant, and you heave away from the image, cheeks already hot. A quick scan at an empty parking lot awash with sunset denied your fear of his appearance. It left you in silence at the counter.
With vowels like suburbia, the best case scenario for "Kraig" was that he here to slum, to study, to laugh and even sympathise. It doesn't matter how he looks at you, cause he wouldn't treat you right.
There's an A-Plus guarantee that you'll find yourself in a broken little pile, swept under the stairs. He meant no good to anyone especially you, so it'd be best to keep a distance. Lay on the bitterness thick and repeat it till you believe it. Sometimes it worked.
The doorbell jingles, you almost throw up when Kraig walks through the door. He buys.. something.. um and theres eye contact... idk...
His eyes run over your nametag. Electricity builds in anticipation for it to leave his mouth, but his eyes flick to yours. He doesn't say anything, just logged the information.
His dastardly name should honestly remain out of your mouth, and yet you are plagued with a desire to taste the syllables, plagued by the image of him when he hears you say it.
You let the words loose. "Have a good evening, Kraig." Silence, as he looks at you with those eyes once more.
YOUR CONQUEST PERIOD SEX FIC WAS INSANE so deliciously dark and sexy i would looooooove to see a glimpse or 2 of the Being Conquest's Concubine cinematic universe if you feel so inclined...
<3 omg yesyes i'm activley working on more conquest stuff, but it's super sporadic. basically a jumble of sentences on the doc where i list what I want conquest to do to reader/you/me and where I want the story to lead.
SO far I've decided that conquest wins (rip mark)and reader/you/me is deemed unfit to breed with due to genetics or power bullshit. Therefore you’re a gift to Conquest for his loyalty and victory or whatever
You were sent to help Mark fight Conquest as a last ditch effort, needless to say it doesn't go as planned.
_________________________________________
The fight had been something of a blood bath. You got some good hits in but right now you were laying on the ground, grass uprooted and dirt smearing your suit.
You breathe hard, it was like Conquest had been toying with you this entire time. Blood ran down from your nose. Red stained your teeth. You were in bad shape. You only expected it to get worse when you felt a presence cast a shadow over you.
His boots hit the ground and he walked towards you. Lumbering like death incarnate. You swallowed a mouth full of metallic flavored spit as he slowly approaches. One good eye looking down at you.
"Thanks for coming out." Conquest smiles, kneeling down to your level. "I haven't had this much fun in a while and with someone so pretty."
You feel yourself stomach tighten at his words, you can barely move. Your body bruised and legs refusing to get any kind of second wind. You just watched him talk from where you laid.
His large metal hand goes down between his legs, he's...adjusting himself. You stared at the motion with wide eyes. Is he getting off on this???
He tilts his head, almost mockingly. Tongue running across his jagged teeth. "Don't look at me like that, you gotta admit you were havin fun too."
You grit your teeth, staring up at him. "You're abhorrent." You managed to choke out.
He groans, grabbing the front of your suit and brought you closer to his face. "Don't stop now, I'm all for talkin dirty, kitten."
You felt an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. What was happening here? He couldn't seriously think you were getting some twisted satisfaction from this.
Your breathing was ragged, you practically weaz with every intake of air. His hand comes to your cheek, thumb swiping some of the blood there away. You watch in abject horror, disgust and....intrigue as he brings his thumb to his lips. Sucking the blood off of it. His eyes roll into the back of his head as he groans deep in his throat. You cut your eyes away, trying to look anywhere but there.
He grins at your attempt but forces you to look back at him, pressing one finger to your cheek. "I don't think I've ever tasted blood that sweet. You wouldn't mind if I had another taste, would you?" He croaked.
Before you could even think about answering he tugs on your suit till your lips meet his in a blood filled, obscenely wet kiss. The blood from your wounds mixing with the blood from his.
His nose pressing harshly against yours as his tongue licks up as much of the red liquid on your face as he could. You're shocked, beside yourself with confusion and disgust and...and...you don't really want it to stop. Your eyes go wide, feeling his large, hot tongue lathe into your jaw and around your mouth.
He pulls away practically moaning, his face smeared with blood and saliva. Tongue licking up whatever else it could before slithering back into his mouth. You just stare back at him, your face so hot you feel like you might pass out. Your muscles tense as he let's your suit go and lays you back down slowly.
"This has been a hell of a time. Delicious, really." He stands slowly, the mix of blood and spit running down his chin. "If your hearts still beating by the time I come back to take over your planet, I look forward to tasting your blood all over again." He bends his knees before forcing himself up into the sky. Disappearing into the clouds.
Your muscles finally relax, giving put as you stare at the sky. The blood on your face dribbling out onto the dirt below.
Your mouth slightly agape, wondering what the hell just happened.
✿˖˚ ༘𐙚 > // synop: conquest is tryna beat your ass but gets distracted. OR (inclusive or) you have the worst day ever, plus youre on your PERIOD!! (wink hint wink kissyface hint distracted wink)
wordcount: 2654
rating: rare -> noncon, porn no plot
warnings: noncon, blood, biting, period sex, oral (fem rec.), overstimulation, freakquest, pet names, violence, pain, threats, fingering a little
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Because, as far as scattered recollection allows, a few seconds ago you were facing down an unnamed adversary — a rather humanizing title for this behemothic muscle-mass swathed in viscera and blood, like it was a part of his monochrome uniform. With a jaw set in grim acceptance, you realized you might just die here. About half a second too late, a voice had screamed about superpowers. Use them, dumbass!
You moved quick and he moved quicker — teleported, you believed, since a red-white-grey wall of destructive unpredictability was all that remained of your vision.
The world shot backwards, leaving you behind in a state of ineffable pain as you whirled through the air, bones screeching as all the suffering you’ve ever lived through was actively drilling into your skeleton.
Howling gusts devoured what hoarse screams you could wheeze out, and you were but a freshly-fired bullet aimed at the heart of everyone who’ll be present at your funeral service – until a presence at your back broke the wind tunnel.
The telltale warmth of skin stretched over rushing blood nestled onto your shoulder — a gnarled chin and ragged lips, words that flew away under breakneck speed and pained delirium, a low, sly rumble into your ear.
He had called you “pet,” or “doll,” another playful name twisted into a threat.
He had hissed how good it smells.
It. You didn't know what “it” was then, but you have a good idea now, hammered down though orgasm after shuddering orgasm.
Two grotesquely large hands (the metal one thieving heat it refused to return) pry your legs apart, wide enough to be an utter restraint of any combatants to his long groan, straight into your throbbing heat. Overstimulated synapses spark at the vibrations, shooting a jerk down your body. A spit-and-blood slick cunt drags over the inhuman fuck’s face — Conquest, you’d learned.
The action is an encouraging one; a long moan-sigh breaths into your folds. Conquest cocks his head as if to deepen his salacious kiss with your sex, and you feel his tongue reach deeper inside. Muscles spasm on their own accord, your back arching, clit begging for mercy while a tongue swirls headily into it in a fervent search for more. He probably doesn’t even know how a period works.
The overpowering metallic stench of life crushed by torn-down buildings is fading fast as you get used to it. God, how long have you been here? You glance down, watching his head move with a broad lick that sends another spark to your finish. Conquest isn’t just messy, he’s gruesome.
It’s like watching a rabid beast, starved to death ten-times over, tear into prey (you); Conquest’s face bores between your legs, every subtle movement forcing an involuntary twitch like post-mortem movements. An occasional shift, head tilt, presses the wiry bristles of his mustache into the flesh, clotted up in your bloodflow. At least the sight tentatively unwinds that deep, heated coil in your core that his mouth appears intent to break.
Your second-skin of sweat brings an awareness of even the slightest breeze — a whisper of cold over your shoulder has you scanning the skies for a flash of incoming help to end this fucked up servitude. It’s pure desperation, and entirely useless, but you persist.
Hot, writhing muscle parts your folds, heralding a long groan of pure, sensuous obsession from Conquest’s throat. You feel sick, nauseous, at a complete loss of power; prevention is an alien concept, but retaliation isn’t.
In vain — and you know it's in vain — your hands fasten into his hair and tug, heave with such strain you curl forwards with the intention of ripping his scalp off. It only triggers another mumble of what may be words, just as well as animalistic noises, and a hand on your pliable abdomen, slamming you into the rubble below. A searing pain shoots up your spine, chasing all the frantic thoughts from your head.
“Stay put, sweetheart,” spoken into the pulsing heat between your thighs, “I’ll give you what you want when I’m done.”
Disgust and anxiety, concentrated primal fear sinks its teeth into your gut. A cold wave floors an internal gas on your bloodstream, squeezing a sob from you because that is the first thing he’s said.
Until now, Conquest hadn’t even spoken. He didn’t praise you or degrade you or tell you how you taste – hell, the man didn’t even look up. His eyes have been closed the whole time.
Fucking animal.
But now they stare, doe-eyed brown and quartz, pretty and a little wet like you’ve bestowed upon him god’s secret to happiness; his gaze, dripping in what looks like submission, all but radiates a timid thankfulness, a wanton desire to sate and satisfy either himself or you or some other, primordial need. A warm little feeling takes a seat in your chest.
Or maybe it’s your imagination.
It must be, because staring back makes it worse — so much worse. The look sharpens to a point, pupils dilate and he raises his head by a fraction, hesitation in the stutter of his neck, and you can’t decide if the sight is horrific or an otherwise you won’t acknowledge.
Light glitters and pools in Conquest’s slickened chin, practically dripping blood, facial hair now a dark crimson to match the cruor smudged across his cheeks. His face splits in a shattered-glass smile, crooked teeth stained red. From you. Deep down, butterflies flick their wings.
“What?” he currs and your whole body tightens, “thought I forgot about you, pet?”
The question, rhetorical or not, withers in the face of silence. Wide eyes are his only response as an overload of jittering adrenaline overloads the remains of your thinking and oh god you’re starting to breathe too quickly, puffs of pure metal coming and going and not getting anything of substance from the air.
A conversational tone, placid gravel, repeats “I asked you a question,” but there’s a hidden force of iron behind it that shoots another hit of liquid nitrogen into your system. “And I want an answer.”
You manage out a negatory sound, but a brief flash of disapproval has you blubbering, “N-No, no of course not, sir-”
“Fear’s a good smell on you.”
-was all he said before his head is between your thighs and this time he’s using his teeth. A grimace cuts off a breathy, desperate gasp as jagged edges of hunger graze your sensitivity. You bit your lip in turn, basking in the sharpness as a desperate attempt to draw your mind away from Conquest’s slight mastication. Your back screams as it burrows against the concrete carcass of the school you’re sprawled out upon, hips bucking off the rubble; to get away or get more, your abased, blown-out mind can’t decide.
No matter – it's the wrong move. Conquest gains more access to your abused cunt, licking a long, broad stripe up the length of it. He absolutely relishes this new position you’ve offered him. It’s evident that switching positions during sex… or whatever horrific activity this is, has never occurred to him. You give a half-hearted jerk downwards to revert but a pair of hands are already under your ass, one of leathery skin stretched firmly over brick and the other of cold, unforgiving metal, pushing you father up until your lower back whines in discomfort.
This new entrenchment has Conquest satisfying himself with reinvigorated adamance. A broad stroke tracing your hole has your hips stuttering, catching his tongue and he presses it against a wall, slides it in and out. His fingers grip your flesh like something’s coming to steal you away, and his nose presses against your clit like it’ll keep you there. A twinge of heated release joins the pool at your center. You bite your hand. Another grunt, borderline whine, sends vibrations so deep you can feel it in your womb.
Conquest’s earlier sentiment echoes in your mind. You wind and play and rewind the statement over and over to tone out what’s going on below your hips, catching something new in his voice each time. “What you want,” is a foul, pain-ridden promise; you know it’s not what you want because you want to fly until you’ve put at least three atlantics distance between you, curl into a ball, and weep.
No, it’s simply more of satisfying himself in a forcible twisting of words. “What you want,” is really, “what I want” — I, being Conquest. It’s in the forceful delivery and that breathy growl curling on the end.
Maybe this isn’t about weird, cannibalistic urges.
Maybe this is about lust. And maybe he’s simply brimming with it.
A grunt slices through your musings. Those noises, downright pornographic — on cue, an open-mouth groan from the depths of his gut exits into your pussy, all but screaming utter neediness.
You- you don’t taste this good, right?
Conquest pushes his nose close into your clit, and a long hiss – a sniff – makes you shudder in (hopefully) disgust, but the pressure is deliriously intoxicating and you catch a moan in your throat. Dragged back into the land of the living, you feel him.
Conquest has his tongue buried at the hilt within you, grunting as he pressed for more and his lips shift- “oh fuck-“ slides out of your mouth.
It's like he’s trying to suck out your organs by way of pussy. His lips affix to your entrance, tongue buried deep to feed, tasting every drop of what was left to give. There it was: telltale, hot pressure of a shameful orgasm wrapping around your core had tears down your cheeks and all you yearn for is release.
Conquest is nestling his face down into your cunt again, the hands at your ass shifting to adorn the skin over your hips with pretty little bruises as they raise the lower half of your body further, drags you closer, until the entirety of his lower face sits entrapped between your thighs.
Those jaws are back, and you cringe, grab his hair again as he goes on biting at soft, pliable flesh to draw more blood than what you already offer-
The interior of your thigh explodes in a burning sharpness and you try to push away while Conquest hums at the retaliation (just like before, when you tried your powers, or when you screamed for help). He must think you’re some joke of a hero, lapping at the rivulet in lazy, self-satisfied strokes running heat and chilling saliva across the searing patch of tenderness.
The displaced flesh is noticeable. You wonder where it went, accepting anything but the truth. At least you have a miniscule, nigh on meaningless break — graciously welcomed by your abused cunt.
Eyes shut, the pain at your thigh drags everything else away. You almost manage a little sigh, right when he moves. Conquest burrows his tongue impossibly deep within your sensitivity, suckling the bleeding entrance and you’re caught by surprise. A moan, long and low, tumbles across your tongue, strummed to life by your hoarse voicebox.
Eyes sealed shut, you don’t catch Conquest’s glance upwards, watching your splayed out form draped in a shredded suit, little stripes of bare, sweaty skin eyeing him back, your face twisted in agony — or delight, could be either of the two; it’s all the same to him. And you certainly don’t catch the way his eyes glitter with a string of visions much more reasonable than destruction.
His hot tongue slides along your walls, catching every drop before he licks another broad stripe over your folds, once, twice, again, again, playing with his food and you're about to reach down to massage your clit, if not beg for his lips, anything when he’s pressed you closer and pointed his tongue and pushed it down-
“Fuck-” the gasp slips from your mouth, and Conquest breathes his smile into your cunt.
Doesn’t even feel like a tongue is running over your positively sopping entrance, there’s too much force to it, more like a pressing finger testing the flexibility of your cunt. Back arching upward, your legs squeeze his head and an animalistic, guttural moan that sounds more like some second form of praising a chef tattoos its vibrations onto your vulva. It's transcendent. It’s disgusting.
It shouldn't feel like how it’s feeling — perfect, every little bit, especially for a semi-sane man born of slaughter who must’ve killed about a hundred people before he found you, and must have no concept of mutual pleasure.
He’s sucking at your clit again and another roll of heated tightness explodes at your core, nervous system wracked by shockwaves. You bite your lip against the whine building at your throat and once more, look up. Nothing. No one. A whiff of burning hair passes along in the wind.
You’re fucked, so fucked. Maybe when he’s done, he’ll kill you. Eat your corpse. Not far from it now. A hiss of breath invades your mouth as pain from something jolts through battered limbs, seizing muscle in an impulsive jerk to get away.
His non-metal hand removes itself from your skin, the other shifting to press a freezing, metal palm into your abdomen, pressure buckling your spine into the rubble. A rippling shudder has you squirming under his fingers, goosebumps a bodily scream for respite.
Thick, calloused fingers reopen your legs, spread your lips. Hot, thick liquid drops onto your clenching, unclenching entrance. You gasp, but the position renders your powers useless to prevent the inevitable. You screw your eyes shut and wait for the worst.
The stretch of two unnecessarily thick fingers burn like a cock in their own right, and that moan you’ve been denying breaks the floodgates. Even with your soaked insides, it’s a slow and painful stretch as they inch in, gasps and whimpers falling out every centimeter he slides forward.
It’s then, at the halfway point, they curl against that sweet spot and you almost moan his name. Almost. The word climbs back down your throat. His hand presses forward, pressure building when his fingers burrow against your wall. Lips brush your ear, wet with the fluid of sin.
“I could rip right through you if I wanted,” Conquest purrs and you take a sharp inhale, “But I won't."
You can feel the smile in the lilt of his voice as he rumbles on, “I’ll have time to do that later.”
“When the empire invades,” a whisper of space was all that lay between your brain and his teeth, “You’ll be my concubine.”
Conquest offers a long, slow chuckle. “You’ll be all mine.”
You pray he didn't feel that flutter.
His fingers dive to the hilt, impact pushing your release over the edge. Your joints lock up, back arching under an implosion of your senses. Conquest moves back down, removing his fingers to lap into your heat, each lick forcing a long keen from your chest.
“Pathetic,” Conquest growls, but the word can’t even pierce the orgasmic haze shrouding your mind.
Finally, finally, Conquest removes his mouth. Heated panting still brushes the over-sensitive, throbbing, bloodied mess that is your pussy, but he’s off of you.
He’s done, isn’t he? Done?
Dried up tear ducts manage to squeeze out a sheen of tears over your eyes, which find Conquest in an unfocused glare. Your legs are shaking, what’s between them throbbing much too strong for the blood leaking out to be natural.
“I’ll be back to finish you, after I’ve ripped Invincible limb from limb,” you saw his bloodied teeth curve in that horrible, horrible grin of his. “Don’t move, kitten.”
Conquest presses his lips against one of your thighs in a parting kiss — what you think is a kiss — and rises from the ground. Then he’s gone, launched beyond the ozone layer in a matter of milliseconds.
You would’ve told him there’s nothing to worry about.
When will there be more stories with Alex? I haven't seen a story with him anywhere, only with you, where else can I read something with him?
I think after library i may put him on pause for a bit to work on other fics (cough.. invincible..) but you can hop over to ao3 for more alex. it’s sparse picking but i mean… if you wanna see it then write it! if it sucks who cares judging is for losers
