Page 146 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
This is celebration.
This is victory.
This is joy incarnate.
When I come—loud, raw, shuddering—it wraps around me like a storm in the bones. My pussy tightens, clenching him in a way that makes him growl and thrust harder.
“Yes—Grau—yes—” I cry, voice breaking and beautiful.
He follows me moments later—thick, hot release spilling into me—and his body trembles, eyes squeezed shut, breath ragged.
We come down together—panting, trembling, hearts pounding like drums.
He collapses beside me, pulling me into his chest.
Slow strokes along my arm. Warmth radiating against my back.
No words for a long, sacred minute.
Then I breathe, soft and certain, “That… was joy.”
His lips press to my temple.
“Yours,” he murmurs.
Not possessed.
Just chosen.
CHAPTER 28
YARA
The station hums like a living thing.
It’s easier to forget there’s no air in the void when the walls vibrate with the breath of machinery and purpose. Up here, beyond the pull of Helios’s gravity well, the stars don’t twinkle—theyglare, infinite and unforgiving. They look like truth.
I stand at the edge of the observation deck, heels planted on the polished alloy floor with a confidence that feels like sunlight on my shoulders. Beside me, Foster watches the crew move like constellations in formation—scientists, engineers, veterans, dozens of them in smart uniforms that readbelonginginstead ofprotocol.
Months have passed since the moonbase confrontation. Months since the sabotage. Months since we reclaimed CY8 and reconstructed its soul. And only now—only in this moment, wearing this insignia proudly over my heart—do I feel the weight ofcompletionshimmer against my skin.
The orbital station above Helios isn’t just another outpost.
It’s a promise.
A sanctuary.
A place where veterans can walk through air that doesn’t judge them, into labs that understand them, into corridors where prosthetics aren’t a last resort but anew beginning.
I can almost taste it: the sharp tang of recycled oxygen mixed with the sweetness of achievement. My palette of emotion is an elegant cocktail tonight—joy spiked with remembrance and a quiet undercurrent of triumph.
Foster steps beside me.
“You’ve done something remarkable,” he says, voice low and warm like a well-worn coat.
I glance at him—his posture is straight, but there’s kindness in the crease of his eyes, respect in that slight nod of his head.
“This belongs to them,” I say, gesturing toward the corridor where technicians converse in a dozen languages and contractors give tours to thrilled families. “If we do this right, no one should ever face the void alone again.”
