here is harry’s version of the audio file talking. it took me way longer, because i couldn’t find good music for it, so i just took grand piano again. if you know a better one just tell me. i hope you guys like it and it helps you sleep. enjoy.
louis version / larry’s version, 2, 3 / zayn’s version / liam’s version / niall’s version / zouis version
AN: a quick thing i wrote to satisfy my daddy issues/because i wanted to write something kinda poetic. I thought writing an author yandere would perfect to do that bc it would sound more natural in the context of his thoughts. i'd love to hear what you think, let me know how i did. anyway, enjoy my little angsty drabble <3
TW: 18+ ONLY, DUB/NON-CON, cunnilingus, kidnapping, PIV sex, groping/touching, age gap (older man/younger woman), can you tell i love religous symbolism
He’s not a good man.
A good man wouldn’t have kept messaging the bright eyed girl that DMed him on a writing forum about how much she admired his work. A good man would have done the right thing and ended the chat, understanding the clear power imbalance between a forty year old award winning novelist and an aspiring author fresh out of college.
A good man wouldn’t have offered to mentor her, to read over her prose and give her guidance on the phone. He wouldn’t have praised her talent so aggressively, and he certainly wouldn’t have pleasured himself as she stammered out her thanks.
A good man wouldn’t have spent all his free time buried in his notebook, writing poetry that dripped with eroticism, each line pushing and pulling in the lilting cadence of a man and woman making love. A good man wouldn’t have posted them to the forum so that she’d see and gush to him about them over the phone, completely oblivious that they’re all about her.
A good man wouldn’t have gotten restless. He would have been satisfied admiring from a distance, knowing that it wasn’t fair to pluck a flower before it ever got the chance to bloom.
But he isn’t a good man.
Which is why he’s brushing your hair now, a year later, watching you stare blankly at yourself in the vanity mirror.
You’re unmoving, almost doll-like as he gently tugs at your silky locks. Your insipidness might have annoyed him if he didn’t know the long and tedious road the two of you traversed to get here. You’ve come a very long way since the beginning; back when he had to keep you chained up like an animal just so you wouldn’t claw his eyes out.
Perhaps you don’t accept his love enthusiastically, but you’re willing to receive it. And frankly, after all you’ve been through, that’s good enough.
He places a kiss on your cheek once he’s finished—a silent affirmation of your good behavior. You don’t respond. You never do. You just take his hand and let him lead you to the bed, sitting obediently at the foot and waiting for instruction.
He’s been on a press tour for the past few weeks. Without you, the days turn into years and weeks turn into lifetimes. He’s needy, ravenous, and you know it. It’s why your face burns as he starts unbuttoning his dress shirt. He’s taken care of you, gotten you cleaned and ready for bed. There's only one thing left to do before he lets his little girl sleep.
A good man wouldn’t have kissed you sweetly before pulling your nightgown over your head. A good man would have stopped when he noticed the fear behind your eyes. But he keeps going, sliding your pink, cotton panties down your legs and past your toes, leaving you completely bare and at his mercy.
You’re angelic splayed out on his bed, milky skin flushed a lovely pale pink, hair lying in a halo around your head, staring up at him with wide eyes. So small, so overpowered, like a young, spring lamb waiting for a priest to drag his knife across her throat.
Oh, how soft you are in his palms. Your stomach, breasts, thighs—feminine and supple in ways that would turn even Venus green with envy. He takes your nipples in his mouth and sucks, pulling every moan and whimper he can out of you before laving his tongue down your torso
You are his religion, your body his temple and he worships piously between your legs. Bowing his head in quiet subservience, offering his tongue and spit as sacrifice, hoping to find in you the cleanliness and light he cannot find in himself.
After you’ve spilt all your love onto his tongue and he's lapped it up like a dog, he'll line himself up and prepare to give you his second offering.
He’ll push into you slowly, looking down reverently as you knit your eyebrows, whimpering softly at the stretch. He’ll tell how lovely you are, how well you're taking him and he’ll revel at how you cling to his words. Even after everything, you still so desperately crave approval. You still blush when he calls you pretty.
Once you’re settled, he’ll ravage you. Fuck you dumb, pounding into you with all the force of a bull. You cry, scream in pleasure as he takes you, cores you out and defiles your guts. He reminds you through gritted teeth that this is his pussy, he is the one who makes it feel good, he is the one who loves it—loves you. And with a shaky, forced smile and tear stained face you agree,
“Yes! It’s your p-pretty pussy! I-I love you!”
With those words its over, he fans your clit and the two of you plummet over the edge into the abyss.
He’ll hold you close in his arms once he’s taken all you have, caressing your face as you softly snore. You look peaceful, drifting in a world free of stress or pain. He’s tried to provide that for you here, he shoulders every burden for you happily, but he’s never seen you this serene with your eyes open.
His book sales have skyrocketed since he brought you home. The love poems and letters in his newest book “The Writing Forum” have garnered critical acclaim. He’s given you a copy but he doubts you’ve touched it. That doesn’t hurt his feelings really, it’s what he’s expected.
What hurts is that you haven’t touched the notebook or pens he bought for you. They sit in the corner of the room, unopened and gathering dust. He’s encouraged you to start writing again, told you that he’d be happy to bring your work to publishers if you wished. You’d just smiled and nodded, offered him your thanks, but you haven’t written a word since he brought you home. He’s not sure if you ever will.
He’s robbed the world of your voice. His talented, perfect girl.
Of all his sins, that may be the one he burns hottest for in hell. It's what you'll likely forgive him for last, if ever at all.
But he doesn’t expect you to forgive a monster. He understands. No princess thinks highly of the dragon who traps her in a tower and hoards her like gold.
He is not a good man. He never will be. To be good would mean giving you your freedom, and that is the one thing he will never, ever do. He’s accepted that and he knows you have as well.
No, he doesn’t expect you to think he's a good man.
If he could convince you he’s not a bad one, that would be enough.
You can't even find the door, much less walk over and open it even if you did.
Some yanderes do it simply for the practicality. You become so cute and sweet—harmless little bundle of dopey softness. Happy for munchables and all too pliant when he cuddles you. He could stay with you forever like that—in your matching hoodies. You’ll protest a bit, but not for long—you get too tired and then you even start to like it. Nuzzling into him when he pulls you closer, small moans leaving you like the purrs of a sleepy kitten. That’s when his hand slips down into your panties. And all you do is croon so, so, so softly. You don’t even know what you’re doing anymore, so high you’ve become pure base instincts. Rubbing your ass back against his bulge as he rubs your clit—the two of you in a cozy spoon.
Other yanderes do it more to their own sadistic enjoyment. Likes seeing you stumble around like a little kid after too many carrousel rides. Likes how easy it becomes to overpower you—all your struggles degraded into but cute play fighting. He can even laugh and feign defeat with you, falling into a complete laughing fit because all your hits are like the cute slaps of a declawed kitten. You tucker yourself out all too quickly for it to matter anyway. You just end up needing to lay yourself down. Your so cute his heart swells and stomach flutters, needing to kiss your little face. You’ll whine but have no more strength to fend him off—even as he pulls your panties off and starts playing with you down there with a grin on his face.
Summary: Miguel O’Hara was never known to be a man wanting. He was beyond content with the power surging through him upon his multiversal throne. That is until he lays his hungry eyes upon you. Now, he will do whatever it takes just for the taste of you… dark!miguel x reader fic. very steamy as always <3
Notes: I couldn’t stop myself from this hades and persephone-esque fic so I hope you enjoy!! SW&P is far lighter if you desire that <3
next chap
one
Morning is a sweet greeting to you, warm and incandescent to shine it’s rays upon soft skin. As it always is. Though you find it to be dreary on days like this, as it is the same as the day prior, and the day prior to that day. As if it is not sparkling gold but shadowing gray.
All the same repetitive waltz for you.
Yet to your unknowing mind, much would change within the quick hour. Change not in the way of little things but rather in the way that would make your toes curl and your eager hands grab your tresses so you might not trip upon them on your dash toward the tallest hills.
You would have run had you known what was to come.
Yet you didn’t; and so? Your morning was quite a bore.
Similar to a zombie are your sunken cheeks and coffee kissed eyes decorated with awful bags. Your toothbrush is made of oak as is your boar-bristled comb. You tend to your prettying before slipping away from the hustle and bustle of a lively home. Four sisters and two brothers you sport, and an overbearing woman you dare to call your mother.
You made routine of this. Sneaking away with the latest print picked up from the small shop next to the apothecary in town. Out the oak wood door and past the burnt toast and meat to cuddle yourself comfortably against your favored weeping willow by the bend.
Your only company is the ducklings these days, though you don’t mind them much. They are mostly quiet beyond the occasional quack.
Serenity became you as you lay there in the remnants of springtime’s shadow, willfully sprouted in peonies and lilac blossoms.
Your print is a work of Austen, an old and worn thing but one you’d found comfort in recently. It would be your fourth time revisiting.
Would… however.
“Oh heavens sakes! You must enjoy making your mother walk upon tousled soil, girl! Have you got half a mind!? I don’t presume so otherwise you’d avoid any possibility of me losing a leg!”
A whine like that of a carnaged cat rings out from behind the bend. In the grassy plains your mother struggles her way toward you. You stand to your feet in swift motion, but your wandering eye finds curiosity in an unfamiliar bloom. Its colors an odd pairing of red and blue unfurled toward the sun.
What an odd thing, you think.
The huffing and puffing snaps your attention center, and you nearly grumble in complaint as you hurry toward your mother.
“Mama I was just—”
“Oh save it. I see you slip out each morning, I know full well your disdain for the company of your own family… but I didn’t come here to admonish you, sweet girl. Quite the opposite in fact. I am here to ask a favor of you. It seems the cold air has made our chickens most unwilling to provide us with eggs. Won’t you go in town and gather some?”
Like the rainfall’s mist caught by breath of wind, your hopes and plans of reading in the bend till dawn have dissipated. Pursing your lips, you nod— not wanting to administer a guaranteed headache at wake of your protest.
In to town you’ll venture.
✧*̥˚ … *̥˚✧
The cobblestone is cracked underneath your boot, as it is dampened by springtime’s departured mist. You like the clicking sound, though it is most lonesome at this ungodly hour.
The house cannot be run well with lack of your aid. Father left long ago and mother is just a dreadful housewife. The doctor blames her dissonance on the ailments within her mind’s confines though— she swears herself always to be whole and well.
Regardless, for the sake of your sisters— you help. Besides this, you owe it to her.
Your basket is made of weaved wicker and adorned with crimson cloth, at the end of the cobble is where life shines proud. A more lively gathering of townsfolk in search of early morning eggs to enjoy with their breakfast.
A single carriage, outdated as the things are, surges forward in an unstable command by a young man. He cannot be past twenty three, and his face is speckled with pale freckles. His hair is a burnt orange rasp.
The stallions are dark as midnight, sweat being huffed like chimney smoke from their nostrils. Dear god, the way he commands them is certain to ensure an accident.
You tuck the thought away in to the back of your mind to be focused upon your task. You’ll need no more than a dozen or perhaps three what with the vacuum cleaner your eldest brother refers to as his mouth.
Babblebrooke, it is where you’ve lived most your orphaned life. Surely some places have technology of picture books and magazines you skim through when you are awarded the rare chance but— you find yourself content with a place so simple.
You cannot imagine a life of loudness, no quiet space to tuck away and read. It’s a frightening thought.
The stand is nearby, only a few more passing steps and you’ll reach it. Your eyes are locked on the fresh berries, but you know full well you won’t have enough for them.
A bark startles you out of your trance, one excited and pointed. You jump at the sound and turn your head to find a cocker spaniel hound circling round and round to chase its own tail. You giggle at the sight, and its chestnut ears raise in alarm at the vibration.
Oh, it’s noticed you.
The little thing hobbles over excitedly, and you cannot help but bend on your knee to brush back its silken locks.
Beyond a canvas collar of pale pink lays a heart, engraved in molten silver the title: “Lyla.”
So she belongs to someone. Such a kind thing, they are to be a lucky companion indeed.
You smooth back the hair from her excited eyes before lifting to your feet again and continuing forward. She begins to follow you, but a movement in the alleyway shadows is a matter she finds far more pressing for her attention.
“Lyla…” you test in a whisper as you make your way behind a man hunched and gray— awaiting his eggs for breakfast.
Time seems agonizing and the line moves awfully slow, you peek behind the elder man to find annoyance laced in the eyes of the townsfolk. Blaire has taken a liking to the farm boy— it seems she’s busying herself with conversing nonsense with his mother rather than picking her fresh fruits for tart pastries.
You sigh, checking the time on your cracked, golden watch with impatience brewing at the soles of your boots. You sway on them, shifting your weight forward and back. No use just staring ahead.
Though it is quite loud, it doesn’t stop you from reaching in to your tote for “Jane Eyre.”
You find your favorite part, their first midnight meeting in the hallway. How romantic it is, you only wish that to be a possibility for you one day. You forbid yourself from joining the season of course but somewhere tucked away inside— you wonder how marvelous it would be for a broody and handsome thing to appear upon your doorstep with a bouquet the size of France.
You grin at the thought. Though it is swiftly interrupted by the quick patter of familiar paws.
“Woah! Easy!”
Your head snaps up at the gasps of those around you, and you are most horrified to see that the horses have reached the steep bend mere steps away. The ginger fool, they halt in warning and he kicks at them— slapping them with a russet pole. They comply, and the carriage loses control.
It creaks, hurling forward and disconnecting from its rusted shell. Tumbling at godspeed down the cobble and straight for little Lyla who lays mindlessly and happily on her back now.
Panic surges, and your eyes find worry in everyone’s features and yet no motive to act alongside it. Such cowardly men, allowing the poor thing to succumb to the bite of freak nature and cruel fate.
You won’t allow it. Though you feel frozen, the sharp and desperate shout of “Lyla!” from a phantom voice is enough to snap you back into the most horrible moment present.
“Christ!” You breathe, tossing Jane Eyre to the sapphire sky before surging forward. The carriage stalls on a pebble for a quick moment and it’s enough time for you to beat it by a mere step. You scoop the silly thing into your arms and as the wheel just grazes your skin— it is you now that is saved from immediate death.
A warm hand tugs at your wrist and you’re certain the brick wall has grown awfully large palms and fingers; for what you slam up against is hard and unpleasant.
You grunt, Lyla yelping in surprise where she is tucked up tightly against your chest.
Whistles and claps overtake the coward crowd and you sway upon your own boots as the wind itself makes you unsteady with its light graze. Firm palms steel you, grasping your shoulders tight to keep you together and well.
Your eyes venture on an upward path to find two crimson pupils imploring your features as if they are etched in stone and stored away in a beloved museum somewhere in Rome.
Brows pinched and quite bushy, eyes cold but curious, his reddened orbs search your face for what feels like a millennium. Fascinated.
Awed.
You blink, and the cry of the sweet creature in your arms breaks the trance you were entangled in. Lyla leaps from your arms and onto the cobble path— and you only huff and reach a weak arm toward her before the exhaustion of a skipped meal and your adrenaline fueled actions bring you to sit on the cobble ground.
He kneels beside you, the stranger. Yet you cannot find yourself mustering enough energy to truly examine his face. Just his eyes, rare things they are.
“She’ll be alright.” He whispers, hands still pleasantly upon your shoulders as if he fears you’ll topple over and shatter once he parts.
When you do lift your gaze however, stricken curious by the sickly silken sound of his voice, he’s gone.
“Thank y-”
The word croaks in your throat, and you can only wonder how it was possible… how quickly the phantom left you upon the cobble. The farm boy rushes over soon, much to the demise of poor Blaire. She stares on at the carriage and ginger man as if she wishes it was her nearly trampled.
He hands you fresh water and berries, and you wave his concern away and the crowd’s curiosity with a weak hand.
He's not in the show yet but as a comic reader I've been thinking a lot about how ABSOLUTELY AWFUL it would be to be a human captive of the Viltrumites and, forget Mark, forget Nolan, those two would not even compare because THRAGG is the real mf you don't want to be yandere for you
I was sitting and thinking about it and like. Just. Imagine being in a relationship or platonic yandere situationship with the Grayson family and then, boom, the invasion happens. You're just a helpless little human and Nolan traps you away to keep you safe while everything you've ever known and loved is taken from you. By the time you're "let out" the Earth and most of its major cities have been all but razed and Viltrumites and their construction drones are EVERYWHERE, rebuilding what was broken, essentially erasing the history of humanity
You're now a "registered human" under the official Viltrumite occupation of Earth. You have to wear an identification badge that can be scanned to identify you, to designate which Viltrumite you belong to, like some cat with a collar tag, and it also tracks your location at all times. Humans have extremely limited rights, and Nolan and Mark heavily restrict which other humans you can interact with because the occupying forces don't want some kind of rebellion (mostly though Mark and Nolan just couldn't risk any dumb humans putting any silly ideas in your head and getting you hurt when this life is good for you after all :( and what if some nasty little rebel tried to kiss you--)
But I just. I just picture Reader being Nolan's mate and at some point, you're sitting in your completely Viltrum-constructed home with Viltrum robots and androids that cook and clean and do everything for you and completely take away all your usefulness and agency for yourself when, someone comes to visit. Another Viltrumite you recognize from the broadcasts on TV. All you understand is that he's Nolan's boss on some level or another, and he came to speak with Nolan, but since the man isn't here, all his questions are directed to you
Can you even imagine you're like sitting there already suicidal and in comes Thragg asking why you aren't pregnant yet, like literally wanting actual fucking details about why you haven't bore a single child despite being with Nolan for a few years. I'm talking complete dehumanization as Thragg is asking you TO YOUR FACE how often you're having sex with Nolan, which positions, what do you do in bed, acting like you're doing something wrong. He asks what you do after mating and you just kind of start to reply and he sort of smirks, "you can still walk afterward?" And he seems grossly smug about it, but, this is a very threatening conversation to you. You have a man who could reduce you to paste at any moment and completely take away any luxury or privilege you and Nolan have and he's asking you extremely intimate questions you have to answer through ground teeth and at some point I'm sure he starts on about, "your duty as a woman"
Nolan comes home completely unaware that Thragg has been there and you're still sobbing on your hands and knees as you literally scrub the spotless floors by hand because Thragg told you what a submissive little servant you're expected to be as a lowly human woman and Nolan is trying to comfort you and your hands and fingers are literally pruning from cleaner as you keep crying and refuse to stop "because it's not good enough, it's not good enough"
At some point Nolan and Thragg get into it. Nolan is sent off on some mission that he very slightly underperformed on, or maybe he actually made a really huge tactical error, and here's Thragg, deciding to punish Nolan by. Taking you. Just straight up taking you away from Nolan like you're some kind of privilege he has been allowed and YEAH it is to be a servant/mate for Thragg himself. And Nolan makes a big fuss about how he's one of the ones who helped even conquer this damn rock, how dare the Grand Regent take his mate, but Thragg doesn't care and even if other Viltrumites who serve under him disagree, as you know he rules with such an iron fist that none dare to speak up
Can you even imagine you were with Nolan for like 5 years overall with never so much as a pregnancy scare and Thragg has you for like two months and boom, you're pregnant, in fact you're INSANELY pregnant, you've got TWINS, and for you noncomic readers, Viltrumite DNA is literally so aggressive that twins are literally quite literally unheard of because they cannibalize in the womb or only the strongest lives so, now you've presented Thragg with these nice shiny new little trophies he can self aggrandize over. The first Viltrumite twins in the entire history of their culture, and they're Thragg's
(Something something "what if thragg was having birth control put in your food so you wouldn't become pregnant by Nolan before he could manufacture an excuse to take you for himself" something something)
I also think like. Thragg had the twins in the comics, Ursaal and Onaan, so like. What if he already had the twins when you're taken from Nolan and you give him TRIPLETS. Like. Jesus not only is your fate sealed, you're going in the goddamn Viltrum history books as some sort of magical womb the oh so virile Grand Regent Thragg managed to conquer for himself idk 🙄🙄🙄
But I think it's just the concept of. Such a monstrously violent and cold dude realizing he has uncontrollable feelings for you and they're like FEELINGS FEELINGS, but he literally doesn't know how to act so he's being. Like. Kind of just blatantly shitty and abusive most of the time. You give him any lip and he's got his hands on your throat and threatening you but internally he's like. Turned on by your spice. He wishes you were a Viltrumite so he could be rougher with you. You two have a rare argument where you get those oh so rarely seen guts to talk down to him and later that night he's putting you in your place underneath him fucking you like he's trying to get another brood of children out of you
Think of just the little ways he could show affection which is completely foreign to him and he like doesn't even realize his own behavior and is rationalizing it as something else. He sees you talking to Ursaal one day, combing her hair, telling her that she could potentially consider cutting her hair as males tend to grab it as a battle tactic and he feels a little warmth in his chest as Ursaal dutifully nods "Yes Mother" and Onaan is lurking around the corner, jealous. Thragg forces you to make public appearances with him and you learn how to temper your emotions better, and you'll be brought along to school functions for the children, like Thragg smirking internally as you scold Onaan that he lost a scheduled fight because he's arrogant and wasn't properly paying attention to his opponents
You're forcibly assimilated deeper into Viltrumite culture, but you're also humanizing the Viltrumites you interact with. Ursaal and Onaan realize that they deeply desire more affection and support as children and become fiercely protective of you because you actually treat them with kindness. Thragg can act indifferent to you at best but one day you realize that you have significantly more privileges as his mate than Nolan's and you march off to Thragg's place of work because maybe the twins wanted you to see where they work with their father and you're brought into Thragg's office and he's as stonefaced as ever while you're like. Surrounded by photos of yourself just all over the place. The one on his desk directly in front of him isn't even one of you smiling, it's you scowling with a glare and looking pissed and apparently that one is his favorite. And Thragg is like not even bothered by you seeing all these photos, and his kids are just completely nonchalant like this is all totally normal, "oh, Father, you had a memorial photo made from where you and Mother visited my school, I like this one--" as if these uh collages have been up for quite some time, some maybe even taken from security cameras from your time with Nolan--
I just picture like. Can you imagine the triplet scenario and you wind up giving Thragg Mark, Ursaal, and Onaan, and you bond more with Mark as a late bloomer and the one who is the most human and his siblings are getting monstrously jealous and Thragg doesn't want his legacy tied to a weak powerless Viltrumite, like this man would rather have Mark be dead than not have powers, and Thragg is trying to force you and Mark apart. Can you even conceive like, being a mom and you walk into the room and your son is being absolutely brutalized by his father who is convinced he is hiding his powers or something and you have to shield your own son from his father before he kills him. Could you EVEN IMAGINE Thragg going to throw Mark off of whatever cyberpunk skyscraper nightmare you're living in because he's convinced the panic will make his boy finally learn how to fly and you have to watch as he just drops your (favorite) child off the building and Mark ... never comes back up. Thragg just sees how absolutely devastated you are and convinces himself it's because you're emotional and weak and just casually, "we can make another" (although I imagine in this scenario Mark was saved by Nolan and the two train and eventually basically spearhead a rebellion against Thragg and his empire and rescue you and restore Earth, but, whatever lmao)
I feel like as a general thing, yandere Thragg would often indulge in and enjoy the fact you couldn't deny him sex, because even if you try to deny him, what are you gonna do, overpower him? So he uses it to assert control over you. You snap at him or mouth off, you're getting railed that night to remind you how powerless you are, that you're still his mate. You two have a nasty fight where you legitimately manage to wound his pride, you're getting fucked near unconscious and you're essentially "grounded" for the next few days if not weeks where you aren't allowed to leave your home (maaaaybe because you've managed to make him insecure that his little mate doesn't like him 👉👈 he can't have anyone else steal you away, not when you're making him feel all these powerful emotions he doesn't even know what to call)
You're not even aware of it but the surveillance systems in your home are being CONSTANTLY tuned into all the time, if not by him, then by his own children who are tasked with watching you. I also feel like having the kids on the mix kind of makes everything kind of grotesque. Like imagine you just wake up and you're going by your business one day and you walk into the room and Thragg has your like 5 year old toddlers gathered around a table with knives and weapons on it and you hear little Mark say, "all these things can hurt Mom?" "They can" "even though they're so soft?" "Only to Viltrumites like us" "Mother is really that... weak?" And you realize Thragg is turning your own children into weapons to use against you, watch you, report back to him, because... your kids aren't like you. They're Viltrumites like him and he'll be damned if you make them 'too soft'
But I imagine a day comes when he's forced to at least semi-confront these feelings. Ursaal and Onaan are dedicated little soldiers to him, but also seem to respect your authority as their mother, something Thragg also sometimes encourages (since your "rank" as their mother earns a certain degree of respect and he's trying to teach them to respect the chain of command, even if you are a soft human). Ursaal and Onaan take a mission to another planet with their father and they return and Onaan has a gift for you, an alien flower he thought you might like, something he took without telling his father, but. He doesn't realize there's something wrong with it, something that wouldnt bother a Viltrumite but would definitely harm a human. The second you touch the plant, the second some of its pollen touches your akin, enters your lungs, you start becoming ill, very, very, very ill.
Thragg is trying to tell himself you're just another mate to him, just another bearer of his many many many children that he has no emotional attachments to, but the second he receives word that you might ACTUALLY BE DYING like genuinely actually fucking dying, there's no hesitation. The next time you open your eyes, you're in a Viltrum-run hospital in a lavish sanitized room receiving ONLY the best of care as Thragg is sitting in a chair beside your bed staring directly at you as if he had been staring at your unconscious body perhaps the entire time you were asleep. There's almost a visible relaxation of his posture as you're able to hold a conversation with him, but, his voice is, lowered but firm as he tells you you have yet to fully recover, that you're in isolation to reduce the risk of foreign pathogens. He feels the need to tell you in detail how severely Onaan was beaten for almost costing you your life, almost as if he's seeking your approval, some sort of forgiveness. You ask him how long he's been sitting there and he just deflects and tells you you're still too weak to hold a conversation and to conserve your strength, that the two of you can speak later.
Once you've recovered, it doesn't even seem like he's that interested in sex anymore, but the notoriously sturdy Viltrumite is suddenly returning home much more often now, if only to hold you as you sleep in the marital bed you share with him....
I guess as one final, final suggestion, I can't get over like. Is there an upper limit on the whole "oh you had Viltrum DNA but it just didn't kick in yet" thing. Could you imagine like, once the Viltrum invasion has begun and you're "acquired" for either Nolan or Thragg or whomever, you're scanned or whatever by Viltrum tech and they're like "oh hey what up, Viltrumite DNA detected? Dope?" And maybe it could even be "weak" like from a grandparent or something but, it inevitably "kicks in" and now you have to confront all the new caveats this brings with you. You're expected to live as a Viltrumite now. Maybe Thragg seems to find you a little less pathetic and personally wants to train you himself because he doesn't want the most publicly visible and famous of his mates to be weak. Also just maybe he's glad he can have rougher sex with you. I can just imagine he's forcing you two to have some sort of spar amd you have some sort of natural aptitude or higher than average strength and you wind up really giving him at least ONE really good fucking punch to the face and he's wrestling you down, pinning you down and forcing a kiss onto you as the blood from his broken nose drips onto both of your faces, like
Yeah, anyways I have normal feelings about this series tee hee 😘
In the future, medical science has advanced to the point where people are functionally immortal. However, the Grim Reaper likes to visit people on the day they would have died of natural causes for a talk.
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