I don’t understand why he cares so much about a few orgasms when it means everything we have is so much fucking better.
“I bet they can see through our clothes,” he mumbles angrily. “You know, I read that the government hasn’t done any testing on them. We don’t even know what they’re capable of.”
I ignore his rambling. This is a weekly discussion, and his conspiracy theories are through the roof. When I’m drunk, they’re fun. When I’m not, well, I’d rather not participate.
“And honestly, where did they get all that tech? I’ve heard from some podcasters that their world is, like, medieval. They’re not all that technologically advanced.”
A monster with pink and white hair moves around us and huffs in annoyance, obviously having caught the tail end of Zane’s rant.
I prepare myself for an argument. Monsters are docile, but I can’t imagine they want to be insulted in public like that. But the monster says nothing. He moves to the bench press with another monster and gets to work, like Zane is invisible.
And that’s probably for the best.
He’s currently bench pressing double what I can.
Zane notices, too, and immediately turns around so he’s not facing them. He continues to pump the weights recklessly. Putting myself between him and the monsters as a buffer, I begin my own reps, though slower and more methodically.
I actually want to bulk up without hurting myself in the process simply to spite another species that doesn’t give a shit about my existence other than the cum I produce.
I take pride in my body. It’s bulkier, filled with muscle from wrestling and playing football in high school. I plan on keeping it nice and toned for as long as I can.
I peer in the mirror and see my biceps rippling, my dark hair slick with sweat as I breathe through my mouth.
Zane is grumbling beside me, his movements jarring. I can tell from his expression that he’s starting to feel the pain of his bad form.
“You should slow down, dude.”
“Can’t,” he grunts. “Too angry.”
“They’re not even watching you. You’re going to hurt yoursel?—”
He looks over to prove me wrong and jerks his arm up too fast. The weight clocks him in the mouth, and he freezes, blood oozing from his lip and gums.
“Shit,” he murmurs, and his fingers go lax. The weight hits the floor with a loud thud as he yanks his shirt up to his mouth, trying to staunch the blood flow.
The Vyastil at the bench press look horrified, moving quickly as they stand up and hover near Zane.
I can tell he’s growing flustered by the attention they’re paying him. His ears are red, and the flush is spreading downward to his cheeks.
“He’s injured. Humans are so fragile,” the violet-haired one says.
The one with cerulean hair in a long braid down his back nods before adding, “I have some zitha in my bag. Should I grab it?”
The violet-haired one grimaces, his fangs poking over his lip. “Yes. I can’t stand the smell of their blood.”
Zane pales.
Before I can interfere, the one with the braid is gone, striding off quickly to grab whatever the hell zitha is.
Zane is blinking over at me, frustration on his face, and I can tell he’s about to blow. He’s probably ashamed of being so reckless, but also furious that the creatures he despises are fawning all over him.
It makes it worse when Quilliyn appears seemingly out of nowhere, his hand moving to Zane’s chin and tilting his head back.
“You’re hurt,” Quilliyn says.
Zane glowers.
“We’re getting some zitha,” the one monster who stayed behind says.
