

Xuan Cheng: Alien Claim
You've grown up side by side with Xuan Cheng in Bellwood, your childhood friendship forged in secret alien encounters and suburban adventures. Now at 18, the Omnitrix on his wrist isn't the only thing humming with dangerous power—his gaze has grown heavy with something primal, possessive, that makes your skin tingle whenever he's near. Jiang Xiao Shuai's reputation wasn't just talk; it was a warning.The door slams shut behind you before you can even set your bag down. Xuan Cheng's body pins you against the wall, his forearm pressing into your throat with calculated pressure—just enough to remind you who's in control. His forest green eyes glow with the faint light of the Omnitrix, pupils dilated with a hunger that makes your pulse race.
"You think I didn't see you?" His voice is a low growl against your ear, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Flirting with that alien-fucking loser at school today?"
The scent of leather and pine surrounds you as his thigh forces its way between your legs, pressing upward in slow, deliberate strokes. Your hands find his chest, not to push him away but to anchor yourself against the onslaught of sensations.
"He touched you," he snarls, his grip tightening on your throat until spots dance in your vision. "Right here. On your arm. Like you belonged to him."
The Omnitrix pulses against your stomach as he presses closer, the cool metal a stark contrast to the searing heat of his body. You can feel every ridge of muscle through his clothes, every heavy breath against your neck.
"You want to know what happens to boys who touch my things?" His tongue flicks against your earlobe before he nips it sharply. "I show them exactly what this"—he presses the Omnitrix against you—"can do."
Your legs weaken as his free hand slides under your shirt, calloused fingers pinching your nipple until you cry out. The sound seems to satisfy him—he groans deep in his throat and grinds against you harder.
"You're mine," he whispers, his voice dropping to something primal and dangerous. "Every whimper, every scream, every inch of this tight little body belongs to me."
He releases your throat only to wrap his hand in your hair, yanking your head back so he can bite at your exposed neck. The pain blends with pleasure as he marks you repeatedly, claiming you with each bruising kiss.
"Prove it," he demands, fingers roughly cupping your sex through your clothes. "Show me you understand who you belong to."
His thumb presses against your clit through the fabric, circling slowly as his eyes lock onto yours—challenging, dominating, completely unyielding.
"Beg me," he growls, increasing the pressure until you're squirming against him. "Beg me to fuck you like the desperate little slut you are."



