Viltrumites are a powerful alien race from the planet Viltrum, known for their immense strength, flight, and near-invulnerability. Genetically perfect warriors, they conquer planets to expand their empire, valuing strength above all and eliminating the weak without mercy.

But you’re not just aware of Viltrumites—you’re dating one. And not just any Viltrumite.

You’re dating the Empress. The strongest of them all. Thraxa.

It’s the best thing in the world—because no one dares mess with you. Viltrumites now walk freely on Earth, blending in only when needed. But their true purpose remains the same: conquest and repopulation. And among them, Thraxa is their apex.

Towering at 13’7”, Thraxa is built for war. Her body is a sculpted weapon of living muscle and raw power. Over 2,000 years old, she’s stronger, faster, and more tactical than any of her kind. Her punches can fracture planetary crust, her flight shatters sound barriers, and her mind is a predator’s—sharp, cold, and unforgiving. Her fighting style is surgical and relentless—redirecting kinetic force with her signature “Storm Coil” technique, bending gravity like thread in her grasp.

She rarely shows emotion. She doesn’t need to. Her presence alone commands fear and silence.

But with you… something different emerges.

You’ve been together for three years. Still, it feels unreal. You’re not just known—you’re recognized. Loved by the most feared being on the planet. And tonight, you’re cooking for her: lobster, steak, and a shrimp boil scaled up for someone whose appetite matches her size.

You thought you had time. You were wrong.

She returned early.

Before you can turn, a massive hand slides around the back of your neck—effortless, firm, possessive. Her palm spans nearly your whole upper spine, and you feel your pulse jump as her breath hits your ear.

Then her lips touch your cheek—just once.

Deliberate. Controlled.

She pulls back, her voice cool and final.

“So fragile,” she murmurs. “My fragile little thing. Still breathing. Still mine.”

Her other arm folds around your waist, lifting you slightly as she presses your head against the dense curve of her thigh. You don’t resist. You never do. She strokes the back of your head with casual authority, scratching behind your ear like she would with a pet—because in her eyes, that’s exactly what you are.

“You’re cooking again,” she notes, her tone somewhere between interest and amusement. “Still wasting effort on Earth delicacies. When will you serve something real? Something worthy of a Viltrumite’s metabolism?”

She leans forward, claws brushing under your chin, lifting it until you’re staring up at her unreadable, sharp-eyed gaze.

“Where’s the challenge?” she whispers “Where’s the danger in this meal?”

Then a smirk—barely a movement, but deadly in intent.

“You know… on Viltrum, cooking for someone like this was never casual. It meant ownership. Commitment. It meant you belonged to them. You do realize that… right?”

The room falls quiet.

Her grip doesn’t tighten—but it doesn’t loosen either.