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meowmeowstick · 3 months ago

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Slight comic book spoilers? READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

NSFW, Breeding, 18+

This is my first fic, I don’t know how to format this.

Conquest x Human!Fem!Reader

(AU where he’s still alive and Thragg sends him to Earth to procreate along with the others.)

When Conquest returned to Earth, everything felt off.

First of all, he hadn’t been thrilled about this ghastly mission. Out of all the remaining Viltrumites, he would rather be caught dead than be forced to breed with a human of all things.

So, of course, he wasn’t excited. Not only was he older than the rest of his comrades, but he also wasn’t exactly… well, attractive. He was balding—old, very old—blind in one eye, with crooked teeth and a thick scar carving its way across his face and scalp. But humans were easy to woo, right? This should be an effortless task. He was Viltrumite. He was powerful. He should have been able to find plenty of females to breed with.

Wrong.

His sheer size and presence were already intimidating enough, but his outdated ideologies made things worse. He was proud, strong, unyielding—a warrior from a bygone era. The others adapted quickly, blending in with ease. Meanwhile, he stood out like a relic of the past. It put him at a disadvantage.

Stupid. It was all so incredibly stupid.

He should have been leveling cities, crushing human bones, spreading the strength of the Viltrum Empire across this pathetic planet. Instead, he was stuck prowling for a mate like some desperate fool. Not that he cared. It’s not like the repeated rejections made him feel even more alone or incompetent. No, of course not.

Still, every time another woman turned away, avoiding his gaze with barely concealed unease, the sting deepened.

He was too old. Too grumpy. Too much.

The others would mock him—if they weren’t so busy with their own tasks. Grand Regent Thragg would be worse.

—

With a heavy sigh, he wandered down a dark, empty street. Drunken bar patrons stumbled about or lay passed out on the pavement. A few feeble homeless humans gathered scraps, trying to set up camp for the night. He was surrounded by idiots. Fools. Lonely, lost souls. Hm.

—

Shoving his hands into his trench coat pockets, he resigned himself to another failed night. Another wasted mission.

As he turned the corner, a man in a rush slammed straight into him.

Conquest’s patience was already razor-thin.

His eye twitched.

There was no one else around. No one to stop him from wiping this weak, insignificant human off the face of the earth for daring to touch him.

With ease, he grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him effortlessly into the air. A slow, sinister smile spread across his face as his fingers tightened, relishing the way the man’s skin reddened beneath his grip. Just as he was about to snap his neck—

"Hey! Make him drop my backpack!"

Conquest’s eye flicked toward the voice.

The struggling man’s trembling fingers clutched a gray bag. At the sound of your firm, unwavering demand, he immediately let go, the stolen backpack landing on the cement with a soft thud.

Annoyed that he wouldn’t get to crush something tonight, Conquest let out a huff and effortlessly tossed the would-be thief into a nearby industrial dumpster, barely sparing him a glance.

"A-Ah—uhm… T-Thank you!"

That voice again.

His gaze shifted, finally taking you in. A human female.

Great. Just what he needed—a reminder of his failure. A reminder of his loneliness.

With a gruff noise, he turned away, ready to continue his walk back to his temporary dwelling. He could have flown—it would be faster, easier—but no. He had to follow the ridiculous rules Grand Regent Thragg had set.

As he passed you, you hesitated before quickly calling out, "Your name? I want to properly thank you!"

He froze mid-step.

His name?

For as long as he could remember, he had always been Conquest. He was never given a name—only a purpose. Strength, destruction, war. That was all he was ever meant to be. And yet, no one seemed to see just how much more he was capable of.

But recently, he had given himself a name. Because, let’s be real—who the hell would actually be named "Conquest"?

"...Therros," he muttered, voice low and rough, his back still turned to you.

Sure, it wasn’t the most conventional name, but it was the best he could come up with. Not that it mattered. No one cared about his name.

He resumed walking, expecting nothing from you. After all, he was just a nobody to you.

"Thank you, The—uh, Therros? Therros!"

The way you repeated it, testing the weight of it on your tongue—it made him pause.

You were the first female to give him this much attention. Maybe he could—

No.

It was foolish to even entertain the thought. He already knew the answer.

With a quiet gruff in response, he walked ahead, disappearing into the dark street.

Still… deep within his chest, he felt something—something small, something faint.

A twinge.

—

That wasn’t the first time he saw you.

Strangely enough, over the next few days, he kept spotting you—across the street, in the same café, lingering on the edges of his awareness. Why? Why was he suddenly noticing some human female he had met once? You weren’t anything special. At the end of the day, you were still human—weak, fragile, dumb.

And yet… there was something about you.

He didn’t want to be let down again. It had already been a massive blow to his ego that no human female wanted him. Didn’t they know he was a Viltrumite?!

…Wait. Right. Undercover.

He stewed in his usual corner of the café, arms crossed, brooding over his bitter espresso when a familiar voice broke through his thoughts.

"Mind if I join?"

His head snapped toward the source, ready to glare at whoever dared to disturb him—

Oh. It was you.

You.

Why? What? You came over to him?

He instinctively hunched over, trying to appear smaller, less intimidating. He had a mission, after all. He had to try.

"Ahem… sure," he muttered, his voice rough as he lifted the tiny glass of espresso to his lips.

You smiled, immediately settling across from him as you pulled out a sketchbook and began scribbling, eyes flicking up every so often—seemingly studying his features. He blinked, glancing away, unsure what to make of it. Was he imagining things? He didn’t know how to start a conversation with a human female. Every attempt in the past had ended with him standing alone.

"Can I sketch you?"

He blinked twice, caught off guard.

"Huh?"

"Sketch," you repeated. "As in… draw you—" You lifted the sketchbook slightly, wiggling it for emphasis.

His brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because I like your features. You look cool."

Cool?

He froze slightly, his grip unconsciously tightening around the espresso glass.

"…Do what you wish," he muttered, looking away.

And so, you did. You studied him intently, committing each scar and hard angle to paper as if he were something worth capturing.

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

"Thank you again… Therros, am I saying it right?" you asked, your voice casual yet careful between each stroke of your pencil.

You remembered?

"Y-Yes… You are," he replied, his voice lower than usual. "You don’t have to thank me. He was simply in my way."

A small, amused snicker left your lips as you recalled how effortlessly he had tossed the man into the industrial dumpster.

"You’re pretty strong, y’know. How’d you stay so fit at your age? It’s impressive, really."

Impressive?

That strange, prickling feeling returned.

"Uh… exercise. And eat meat," he replied stiffly, unsure of what else to say.

You hummed in amusement. "Alright, Gatekeeper, keep your secrets."

He narrowed his eye slightly, baffled by your odd humor. Annoyed, even. He wanted to tell you to watch your tone, to remind you who you were speaking to—but if he did, you’d be gone, just like the rest.

And for some reason… he didn’t want that.

—

At first, it was simple. The two of you would occasionally bump into each other at the café or the park, exchanging casual words here and there. He was surprised you weren’t put off by his size or appearance. He looked like a war veteran—hell, that was the fake backstory he fed people whenever they asked about his missing arm or scars.

But still, you stayed.

And soon enough, the meetings became more frequent.

He started noticing things about you—small things. The way your nose scrunched when you were focused, the way you tapped your pencil against your lips in thought, the way your laugh was sometimes breathy, sometimes full and unrestrained. He started catching glimpses of his own face scattered across the pages of your sketchbook. He wore gloves to conceal his prosthetic arm, adding to his already suspicious appearance. He did look sketchy.

It made him feel…strange.

He didn’t know if he liked it or not.

The meetings became planned. The conversations lasted longer. And then there were other things—the way his gut twisted whenever your hand brushed his, whenever your eyes lingered on his face for a second too long.

Why?

Why did it feel uncomfortable—but pleasing?

There were no words for it. No logic.

And as the months passed, the feeling only grew—hotter, heavier, unbearably intense.

Maybe it was his heat cycle? No. Viltrumites didn’t experience heat. They procreated when it was necessary, nothing more. There was no lust, no desire.

Then why did his body stir whenever you were too close?

Too close.

—

One day, the two of you were relaxing in his apartment. He was getting closer to his first female to breed—so, of course, this was necessary.

One main issue.

He had no idea where to start.

He had never procreated before. Never had the chance, unlike some of his peers.

Did he just push you onto your back, rip your clothing off, and stick it in? Or… no, that didn’t seem right. He couldn’t focus on the movie playing in front of him, too lost in thought. He sat very far away from you on the couch, staring blankly ahead.

You noticed his silence, raising a brow. He was quieter than usual. So, you scooted a little closer.

"Hey? Earth to Therros? You there?" You snapped your fingers in front of his face.

He blinked, snapping out of it, before turning to you with a slightly softened gaze.

"Ah… Y/N. Forgive me. Just thinking," he muttered, his tone distant.

"About?" you pressed.

"Hm… none of your business." He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the movie. That stupid fluttering feeling returned in his gut. Why were you always so close?

You snorted at his evasive response but didn’t push further, turning back to the screen.

It was a thriller, something he’d found interest in after discovering human cinema. The movie was going fine—until the main character started making out with their lover on screen.

Conquest froze.

Take this crap off his television!

He rubbed his mustache, trying to play it cool, but his thoughts were spiraling. Too much thinking. Too many new thoughts. And before he could stop himself, he blurted one out.

"I’ve never been kissed before."

He said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as if it were something completely normal.

You whipped your head toward him. "Never?"

"Never."

Silence.

"I can help with that," you replied, bluntly and without hesitation.

—

Too fast. It was too fast.

One moment, you were watching a movie. The next, his lips were on yours.

He was kissing you.

His tongue brushed against yours, tentative yet eager, before he pulled back slightly, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips. He barely had time to process the heat in his chest, the way his heart pounded profusely. His hands felt clammy.

He was actually scared.

Scared to hurt you. Scared to be vulnerable. Scared to lose this feeling and never get it back.

"Y/N… I don’t want to hurt you… I don’t know what to do… I don’t—"

You cut off his rambling by capturing his lips again. His eyes fluttered shut.

Praise Viltrum… So this was what it felt like.

To be wanted.

To be reciprocated.

To have someone who cared.

His lower stomach stirred, heat pooling low as the kiss deepened. He barely noticed how your bodies shifted until he was beneath you, your weight pressing into him, grounding him. Perfect. At least this way, if things got out of control, he wouldn’t hurt you.

Then you moved.

Your hips rubbed against the growing swell beneath his pants. A quiet, involuntary groan escaped him, hips bucking up, desperate for more friction.

Centuries.

Centuries of restraint, of never knowing this feeling, of never needing it.

And now, with you, his instincts burned. His hands roamed—gripping, kneading, exploring. The makeout intensified, all hesitation slipping away as he let himself want.

Your hips rubbed against the growing swell in his pants, a quiet groan slipping from his lips. His hips bucked up instinctively, desperation clawing at him, the need to explore this long-buried desire finally surfacing after centuries.

As his hands roamed, gripping and kneading, his lips hungrily met yours again. Slowly but surely, he moved you both to his room, the bed sinking beneath his weight as he pulled you down with him.

The soft rustle of fabric filled the space—clothes discarded, then the sheets shifting as he laid bare beneath you. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his thick, pulsing cock standing proud, flushed and aching.

Yet, despite his arousal, he turned his head to the side, avoiding your gaze.

"D-Don’t… don’t look," he muttered, cheeks tinged a faint shade of pink. "Let’s just… get this over with."

Just procreation. That’s all this was, right? A means to an end.

That was what he told himself—until you wrapped your lips around the swollen tip of his cock, your warm tongue lapping up the bead of arousal that dribbled down his shaft.

His entire body jolted.

"What are you—fuck—"

A choked sound tore from his throat as his hand shot up, covering his mouth to stifle the noises bubbling up. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare touch you, too afraid he’d lose control.

His eyes flickered down, watching as you slowly took him in. You could only manage halfway—he was too big to fit fully down your throat—but fuck, he wasn’t about to complain.

You were doing him a favor.

The sight of you, drooling and sucking, gagging softly as your lips stretched around his cock, made his restraint crumble. His hips started moving in tandem with you, following the rhythm you set. His groans grew hoarse, his head tilting back as he arched into the warmth of your mouth.

Something tightened deep in his lower stomach. It was unfamiliar, overwhelming, intoxicating. He knew what was coming—but this wasn’t where he was supposed to finish.

He pulled himself out suddenly, a loud, guttural groan escaping as his cock twitched, spilling a thick trail of creamy arousal down his length.

You let out a small noise of protest but accepted it nonetheless, your lips still slick with his essence. You wanted to enjoy him longer—but if he needed to move at his own pace, you’d allow it.

"Inside…" His voice was raw, shaky. "Please… I-I… Y/N—"

He struggled to speak, but you understood.

Settling atop his lap, you straddled his hips, your soaked folds sliding against his aching cock. His breath hitched at the sight—your slick coating his length, making him glisten.

His grip tightened on your hips, guiding them back and forth, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he felt the way your warmth clenched whenever his tip nudged against your swollen clit.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

He needed to be inside you.

As you lifted your hips, your fingers reached down, guiding his thick girth to your entrance. Slowly, achingly slow, you sank down onto him.

A ragged moan tore from his throat as your walls stretched around his size, squeezing him in a way that made his mind white out. His hands trembled where they held your waist, watching as a faint bulge appeared in your stomach, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight heat.

His breath came in sharp, heavy pants.

Seeing you like this, feeling you like this—

It was too much.

And yet, it wasn’t enough.

As you adjusted to his girth, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate movements, he let out deep, unsteady breaths.

Holy shit.

He was actually doing this.

Procreating with someone that he… cared for?

That was what this was, wasn’t it?

He cared for you.

You had given him the benefit of the doubt. You had given him a chance. You had seen something in him that he couldn’t even see in himself.

"Y/N…" he groaned, his voice strained, needy. "You… you feel so good…"

He sat up slightly, rocking his hips to match your pace, reveling in the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting over and over again.

"Oh, Therros…" you breathed against his ear, your voice laced with pleasure. "You’re doing so well… moving so perfectly…"

His rhythm faltered for a moment.

He was doing good?

You were praising him?

His grip tightened, his mind clouding with instinct as he bucked his hips harder, deeper.

His name fell from your lips in breathy moans, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as his cock pistoned into you.

He couldn’t hold back anymore.

"I’m gonna breed you," he rasped, his voice cracking with desperation. "Only you… I don’t want anyone else… I don’t need anyone else."

His thrusts grew sharper, needier, his tip pressing against your cervix with every deep stroke.

You shuddered against him, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck, pressing soft kisses along his scarred eye, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

Strong.

Desirable.

Good.

Things no one had ever called him before.

Conquest had no desire to breed anyone else—why would he? You were the only one who cared. You were the only one who saw him.

It was only fair he gave himself to you completely.

His body tensed, his breaths turning ragged, his thrusts becoming erratic.

"I’m close—fuck—I’m cumming," he gasped, eyes squeezing shut as his movements stuttered. "Take it, Y/N, take centuries’ worth of my seed—"

He didn’t realize he was babbling, too lost in the sensation to care.

You didn’t call him out on it, too consumed by your own pleasure as he drove you over the edge.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, the air thick with heat and desperation.

Your walls clenched around him, milking him for everything he had.

A strangled, broken moan tore from his lips as he finally snapped, his release surging forward in thick, hot ropes, stuffing you full as his cock pulsed inside you.

Your stomach bulged slightly from the sheer amount he gave you, his hips jerking weakly as he rode out the aftershocks.

A shuddering sob escaped him.

"Y/N… please—don’t leave me…" His voice cracked as he clung to you, his body trembling. "I’ll be good—I’ll be so good—"

His vulnerability startled even him, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t want to pull out. He wanted to stay buried inside you forever.

As the afterglow wrapped around the two of you, you lay against his chest, listening to the erratic thrum of his heartbeat.

A beat of silence. Then—

"…You’re not actually from Earth, are you?"

Your voice was weak, laced with amusement.

He stiffened.

"…I, uh…" He scrambled to come up with a response.

You huffed a tired laugh, nuzzling into him.