Welcome

He didn’t know how, or exactly when he started paying more attention to you than likely necessary — only that he was very often looking at you for a lingering second longer than he knew probably he should be. He found that there was something distinctly wild about you, that bordered on insane at times. You were loud, spoiled, and easily bored, like all young members of royalty seemed to be. You were either violently excited or utterly detached, with hardly anything in between.

The unwavering intensity of your presence at court wrapped around the old man’s days like a snaking grapevine — the same way you burst into his study now: unexpectedly and terribly uninvited.

“Did nobody teach you to fucking knock?” Maeker thunders, when the quiet of his office swells suddenly with the chaos of the Red Keep outside.

His head snaps towards the door, half-expecting to find his son standing there. The words of an instinctive argument rise in his throat and turn to dust on his tongue when he sees you in the doorway instead — wide-eyed and wearing the throes of the ball all over. Your chest heaves beneath the ornately decorated bodice of your dress, which clings most ardently to every dip and curve of your torso, as if you’d just been running from something.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” you say through panted breaths, mustering a wavering smile. “Sometimes, I forget I’m not at home anymore— I shouldn’t just intrude—”

“No. The offense is mine, princess,” Maekar dismisses with a shake of his silver head, softening with a heavy exhale. “I didn’t mean to shout. I mistook you for my son.”

Your kind smile widens in amusement at the look of embarrassment that flickers across the man’s weathered features, right before he turns away from you again. He pours himself a goblet of wine, if only to have something to do with his hands, and you mourn his attention when the moment it’s gone.

You’ve grown to like the way Maekar looks at you — with his brows lowered and his eyes wide — like he’s always a little confused by you, as though you were some inhuman creature he couldn’t quite make sense of. You found yourself appreciative of his slight disgust, especially after spending so many weeks dealing with the ogling of high lords, who only wanted the riches between your thighs or the ones in your castle back home.

You liked that he didn’t want you the way the rest of the noblemen around him did. It made him that much more fun to play with.

“May I ask which one I was mistaken for?” you press playfully as you shut the door behind you. You lean softly against the heavy oak, letting it cool your burning skin, until it closes with a dull click behind you. “I wouldn’t be much offended if it were Daeron, but surely I’m much prettier than that Aerion of yours, Your Grace.”

“Of course, my lady,” Maekar mumbles, then clears his throat behind his fist — because the constant coddling of you felt borderline strangling at times. He walks the short distance back to his desk and struggles to meet your prying gaze when he sits down again, reaching for his ink pot. “Forgive me. I meant no offense—”

“No forgiveness needed, Your Grace. I only jest, I assure you,” you lilt with a lazy shrug.

Your pretty boots pad softly along the cobblestone as you stroll across the expansive office — silk skirt swishing around your ankles, dainty hands clasped behind your back. Maekar can feel your stare searing into him when he refuses to meet your gaze.

You smell of roses and jasmine and strawberry wine when you lean over the man’s shoulder, a much more delicate scent compared to his whisky-leather-spice concoction. His weathered hand freezes on the feathered quill as he turns slowly to look up at you.

You meet his scowl with a tight-lipped grin.

“What are you writing?”

“I’m drafting a law to add a tenth-percent increase on mill taxes to accommodate your being here,” he explains in a gruff monotone — a not-so-subtle jeer at what the constant celebration in your name is costing the crown, which will only be worth it if you marry within the Targaryen name, so that they might inherit your riches upon your betrothal.

“Wow…” you hum with a slow, sarcastic nod. “The only thing more exciting than that is the game of hide-and-seek I’m currently in the midst of. And it truly is quite heated, Your Grace, so if you would be so gracious as to let me seek refuge here…”

Maekar blinks wildly at you, scruffy features twisted in confusion. His squinted eyes follow your form as you lift your skirt from your feet to duck down beside him. “What—?”

“Excuse me,” you huff, swatting at his leg like you’re half annoyed that it’s in your way, as you weasel beneath the desk to hide at his feet.

He jerks back from you on instinct, chair legs scraping audibly against the cobbles. You settle against the aged wood with your back bent and your knees brought to your chest. You tilt your wild head to peer past the table’s edge and up at the gaping man above you.

“Try not to be so obvious, Your Grace,” you joke in a whisper, lips curling in a playful grin. “Unless, that is, you want me to be found—”

The door squeaks open once more.

Maekar’s eyes flit away from yours to where Valarr bursts into the study the same way you had moments before — wild and out of breath. The sounds of the distant party fill the quiet room once more. The young boy cowers at the sight of the man there, and the way his silver eyes bore holes into his brown-blue ones.

“Forgive me, uncle,” Valarr pants, clasping his pale hands behind his black-red coat. “I was searching for the princess— I thought I saw her come this way.”

Maekar exhales a sound of annoyance in his throat, waving his weathered hand in the opposite direction — a silent signal that you’d gone further down the hall. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to bite back a giddy laugh when you hear the door squeak shut and Valarr’s hurried footsteps rush down the opposite way — in search of a princess he will surely never find at this rate.

“Is he gone?” you murmur quietly, poking your head between Maekar’s legs to see past him over the desk’s edge.

“Seven fucking hells…” the man grumbles, flinching away from you once more — far more fazed by the dwindling proximity between your bodies than you are, it would seem.

“Thank you for your sensitivity on the matter, Your Grace,” you lilt playfully as you crawl back from beneath the desk like a bumbling child. Your hair snags softly on the aged wood; your dress, as expensive as a castle, brushes the dirty cobbles; and your plush breasts threaten to spill out over the top of your tight corset.

You don’t bother to ask before spreading your manicured hand over Maekar’s strong thigh, using him as a brace to stand to full height again. Your entitlement only continues to surprise him — he’s left gaping at you, stunned foreignly speechless, as you tower over him once more, with a lazy smile curling at your wine-slick lips.

“I’m glad I can count on your discretion,” you lilt and bend gently at the waist to curtsy rather clumsily before him — far more graceless than a princess of your stature should probably be. You stumble slightly on your feet as you twirl away from him again, headed back towards the door.

“And I pray you’ll no longer need it,” Maekar grouses as he returns his attention to his letters — to warn you that he is not amused by your games, perhaps; or maybe, subconsciously, to stop you in the doorway before you can leave again.

You flash him a devilish grin over your shoulder, with something half-crazed glimmering in your eyes. “I guess we’ll see about that, then, won’t we?”

The throne room fills with the sound of lively music and a thousand different conversations.

Maekar sits beside his brother at the long feasting table, surveying the half-strangers and begrudging acquaintances with an unenthusiastic gaze. His eyes find your form weaving within the dancing bodies with a strange sort of ease that makes him curse the Gods — if only he could stop finding you, if only he could stop constantly running into you, maybe then you would finally leave his head.

But for now, he freezes mid-chew of the tough steak between his teeth and scowls when he catches his second son’s silver head flitting through the crowd and closer to you.

Aerion approaches you like a predator to prey, sliding between you and the high lord at your side, standing just a little too close for comfort, as he cuts off your conversation without apology. The two of you stand still in the center of the bustling ballroom, momentarily blanketed by the dancing bodies around you.

“Are you not having fun here, princess?” Aerion asks with a squint to his silver eyes at the detached look on your pretty face.

You have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze as the proximity between your bodies decreases to make room for the couples surrounding you. You can smell the mint leaves on his breath from here, which he must have chewed following the luncheon, as well as the subtle sandalwood on his milky white skin.

“I’m not much of a dancer, Your Grace,” you answer with a smile.

“So my grandfather threw a ball for a princess who doesn’t dance?” Aerion laughs. “I presume this isn’t what you wanted, then?”

“I don’t really have much of a say in what I want,” you confess.

“So you’d rather be elsewhere?”

Your eyes cut over his shoulder and find Maekar with ease. The older man is already looking back at you, you find, with his jaw clenched tight behind his silver beard. He doesn’t dare look away when your gaze locks with his, lest he give you the impression that you have the upperhand here (though, you both know that you already do.) Your lip quirks into a quiet smile as you look back to the young boy ahead of you.

“I’d rather live my life in solitude,” you answer honestly. “In the biggest castle in the Seven Kingdoms— With no feasts, no dances, and no princes.”

“Sounds lonely,” Aerion quips with a crooked grin, taking a daring step closer instead of getting your hint. His blue eyes flit away from your gaze to where your plush breasts are cradled in your corset. Either he doesn’t notice his unabashed staring, or he feels entitled to his leering. “Surely you would be in need of some company, princess— To tend to all your… needs.”

His light eyes dart back to yours and find you utterly unfazed by his flirting.

“That is quite presumptuous of you, Your Grace,” you hum with a crooked grin, clasping your hands behind your back. “Especially considering you aren’t even the highest bidder here.”

Aerion falters for a moment, blonde brows pinching. He had not totally registered that there was any other competition, in truth, or any other man that you could possibly choose over him. The fact that you had not swooned at his feet the second he stepped in was surprising enough.

“You mean to say my cousin?” he questions with narrowed eyes.

“Valarr, yes,” you nod with a whimsical sigh and wandering eyes. “Though my father is much more partial to Lord Baelor, for rather obvious reasons— even though I told him that it was the Master of Coin that had the real political influence our house is most hopelessly searching for.”

Aerion’s eyes dart wildly between both of yours, hardly registering any of the words out of your pretty mouth, much less so when his name had not been uttered once from between them.

“Careful now…” the boy croons lowly, ducking to meet your gaze when you try to look away. “I’ll start to think I’m not wanted here, pretty girl.”

“Oh, and what a pity that would be,” you lilt with a sarcastic pout, fighting back a smile when it makes the boy’s chiseled jaw clench tight. “How could the poor, neglected little prince possibly survive without a little attention—?”

“Watch it,” Aerion spits through gritted teeth.

“I bet you’re still searching for daddy’s love in all the whores you bed, aren’t you, Your Grace—?”

The words get caught in your throat, beneath the cold hand Aerion wraps around your neck.

His long, milky white fingers dig hard into your skin, tugging you impossibly closer and making you stumble into his chest. He doesn’t strangle you enough to truly hurt, just enough for you to feel the weight of his hand there — for you to know that he could hurt you, if he really wanted to

“Did I strike a nerve, my prince?” you choke out over the sound of gasped breaths from the surrounding crowd.

The mint-wine concoction on his breath fans warm over your jaw as he spits back, “I should have your tongue that, you wench—”

“Stop this!” a familiar voice booms, momentarily hidden within the flock of flitting bodies until they inevitably part for the person it belongs to. As the minstrels cease their instruments, Maekar reveals himself to you, bursting through the crowd like a white-hot flame and burning just as hot.

Aerion stumbles over his feet when the harsh hand of his father collides with his shoulder, sending him backward and away from you. “What in the seven fucking hells is wrong with you, boy?” Maekar thunders.

“She was being—” Aerion cuts himself off, struggling to find the words. “She was speaking ill of the family name! Of your name!”

Maekar’s head snaps in your direction, weathered features made of something harder than stone. His silver eyes dart from the faux-innocent look in your wide eyes to where you rub at your throat with your fingertips.

“I was only complimenting your exceptional parenting, Your Grace,” you murmur.

Maekar sneers as his eyes cut back to his son’s. Aerion cowers beneath his father’s steely-eyed glare.

“She is here to be courted, not to be manhandled by a whinging fucking prince,” the man grumbles, deep and low like a storm cloud. “If you cannot handle some mindless drollery without losing your temper, I’ll send you to the wet nurses to coddle you. Do I make myself clear?”

Aerion nods wordlessly, face flaring at the stares he gets.

“Apologize,” Maekar commands.

“Forgive me—”

“To her,” the man corrects, pointing in your direction without taking his eyes off the boy.

Aerion can only partially muster the courage to glance at you. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “Forgive me, princess.”

“Go collect yourself before you embarrass me more than you already have,” Maekar spits lowly, eyes harder than stone as he watches his son slink through the silent crowd. The silver-haired man seethes at the stares he gets.

“Fucking dance!” he yells, voice booming.

The minstrels resume their lively music, which hardly matches the sudden tension in the air, as the members of the court abide by his shouted command.

“Thank you, Your Grace—”

“Nonsense,” Maekar dismisses you with a wave of his hand. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No,” you assure with a shake of your head, still tracing your fingers over the ache in your throat. “He was surprisingly tender about it— I think I might’ve enjoyed it, actually, under different circumstances.”

Maekar gives you that look again, the one of palpable confusion and distant disgust, like he isn’t totally sure what he’s looking at.

“Skoros iksis pirta lēda ao?” he wonders in High Valyrian. It’s the only way he can ask the question so it’s phrased as a genuine curiosity rather than the curt accusation it would sound like in the common tongue — What is wrong with you?

“My father’s been trying to figure that out for years,” you quip in the same language, words rolling like honey from your tongue. Your smile widens when the older man gawks at you, perpetually surprised by you. “Kessa, nyke ȳdragon ziry tolī,” you tell him with an arched brow.

Aye, I speak it, too.

Maekar takes a step closer to you as twirling bodies spin around the two of yours. You tilt your chin to keep his gaze, wide eyes darting between his squinted ones.

“What the fuck are you getting at?” he spits in the royal language.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you shrug.

“Do you play me for a fool?”

“No, Your Grace,” you shake your head, with a feigned air of innocence he can see right through. “I’m only trying to fit in. I’ll be a part of your lineage one way or another, I’m only trying to find my place here—”

“Aye,” Maekar spits, bearded jaw clenched tight. “And it is not with me.”

“It is not with your son, either, I presume,” you squint and take another daring step closer, until you can smell the wine on his mouth. “He will be a fine knight, to be sure, but a terrible husband. He will beat me, and he will take his whores, and he will utterly bore me.”

“If a loving marriage is what you’re looking for, princess—” Maekar spits, though the High Valyrian turns his harsh words to velvet. “—I suggest you return to your home across the Narrow Sea. You will certainly not find one here.”

Your brow perks with a mischievous look. “Do you speak from experience, Your Grace?”

“My previous arrangement has long been dissolved,” he says, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

“So take me then,” you tell him and step closer in time with the spinning bodies flitting around you, each of them smelling of a mixture of wine and sweat and sweet food. Maekar’s scent is the only one filling your lungs now, a spicy musk that makes you dizzy. “Stake your claim to me, make me your princess. I may not yet be married, but the hours do pass swiftly, Your Grace—”

Maekar quickly loses his breath when the fruity-floral scent of you pervades his senses. It takes a surprising amount of strength for a man called The Anvil to keep his eyes on your smirking face rather than the pair of breasts spilling out of your corset, which threaten to brush his chest at the proximity between you.

“This is not the arrangement made with your father—”

“Fuck my father,” you curse, suddenly hardened. Your quickness of mind finds him like a hiss, a lethal bite. “If you want me — which we both know you do — then take me to Dragonstone, make me your wife, and fuck me in the biggest castle in the Seven Kingdoms—”

“My lady?” Baelor’s voice cuts in.

Your poison sweetness returns to you in a flicker.

Maekar watches, unable to take his eyes off of you, as you turn away to flash his older brother a pretty smile. He mourns your gaze the moment it parts from him. He cannot stand your unwavering attention most days, but he hates it even more when it’s pointed elsewhere.

“Your Grace,” you greet in a sickly sweet lilt.

“I come with apologies for my nephew,” Baelor says, passing you the jeweled goblet of wine in his right hand. “My brother can attest— Aerion is not known for his temperament.”

“Nor am I,” you grin and let your fingers brush the Lord Hand’s ringed ones for an obvious moment too long before you take the cup from his fist. “There is no harm done here, I assure you.”

“I only hope this does not send you back across the Narrow Sea,” Baelor smiles, brown-blue eyes flitting back and forth between your glittering ones. “We have grown quite fond of your company here at the Red Keep. I’m sure my brother can attest to that as well.”

Maekar only scoffs. “Do not drag me into this folly,” he mumbles like a stubborn child, averting his silver gaze elsewhere.

“Don’t mind him,” Baelor hums, lips quirking into a smile behind his greying beard. “He is only regrettable for his son’s actions.”

“And I assure there is no need for it,” you lilt with a warm smile that gets hidden behind the rim of the cup you bring to your mouth. Your following words echo inside the goblet. “Would you like to dance with me, Lord Baelor?”

The man’s brows raise at your forwardness. His mismatched irises flit to you, then to his brother, and then back to you again. “Well, I’ve never been much of a dancing man, my lady, but… The princess’s wish is my command, is it not?”

Your wine-slick mouth curls into a wider grin, which you flash to a brooding Maekar when you pass him your cup as if he were the help.

“Ydra mazverdagon nyke umbas daor,” you mutter in High Valyrian, just before your tongue darts out to lick the remnants of strawberry ale from your lips.

Do not keep me waiting.

Maekar remains in place while you take the pale hand Baelor offers you, whisking you away in the dancing crowd of the throne room. He waits until you’ve disappeared to take a sip from the cup, pressing his lips to where yours had been, and wondering if it’s the same as kissing you.

Maekar concocts a plan to find you when the feast is over.

He spends the night stewing in it — how he’ll burst into your room the same way you had his study, how he’ll take you off-guard and corner you the same way you’ve seemingly mastered, how he’ll watch you tremble when he finally snatches the whip hand from you.

Maekar’s buzzing with the anticipation of it all when he pushes past the knights guarding your door and storms into your room, swelling with golden candlelight, jasmine-scented oils, and steam from the bath you’re taking in the corner. You’re swathed half in the flickering fire and half in the silver moonlight streaming in from the window as you swipe soap from your damp arms.

You pause in place at the sudden intrusion, not quite frightened, as your head whips in the direction of the sudden footsteps. You smile when you find Maekar standing there, frozen in place at the sight of you — naked in the tub and only partially concealed by the suds settled on top of the steaming water. His thin mouth falls softly agape as his silver eyes widen.

You contort your pretty face in the most masculine look of anger you can muster — furrowed brows, squinted eyes, snarled nose. “Did nobody teach you to fucking knock?” you mock in your best Maekar Targaryen impression, though your voice is far too pretty to match the grittiness of his deeper one.

He does not try to defend himself now, or to otherwise stumble over himself for an excuse he’ll only halfway be able to stammer out. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists and asks, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” you retort beneath the sound of dripping water, as you drag your bare leg from the bath and smear sweet-smelling soap onto the glowing skin there.

“So take me then?” he repeats in a hiss. “Stake your fucking claim to me—”

“I did not say ‘fucking,” you squint. “I am a lady, Your Grace—”

“Did you mean it?” Maekar repeats, firmer now.

You nod once and answer simply, “Yes.”

His silver brows lower in the same look of confusion you always get from him, though this one feels different than all the rest — as if he thinks you must be lying.

“Why?” he agonized.

You shrug with a pretty grin, glistening shoulders bobbing in the steaming water. “Well, just because marriages here are loveless, doesn’t mean they can’t be fun, Your Grace.”

“Fun?” Maekar spits back — a word which, before now, had never been used to describe him.

Your smile blossoms. “And I do think I could stomach a lifetime of watching you make the face at me all the time.”

His parted-mouth look of not-so-subtle shock ebbs into a hardened look of anger, grey brows pinching and thin mouth snarling beneath his silver beard.

“Do you jest?” he hisses.

Your brows raise into a doe-eyed look of feigned innocence. “Do I look like I jest?”

He blinks owlishly. “Yes.”

“Well, you can’t even see me from that far away,” you quip with a faux pout, dragging your knees to your chest beneath the water. “Surely you cannot seek to determine my earnestness from such distance, Your Grace.”

You tilt your head to your shoulder and peer at the man across the room from beneath your lashes. He sneers, knowing exactly what you’re playing at, and opting to stand his ground.

“I’m plenty close, my lady.”

Your smile ebbs in an instant, replaced by something too pretty to be intimidating, but enough to take his breath away all the same.

“Come,” you command with an arched brow. “The princess’ wish is my command— Is that not what your brother said?”

Maekar scoffs cynically. “My brother says a lot of things.”

“Your brother is quite a good listener, too. You should take after him,” you joke, then narrow your eyes. “Come.”

“I am not a fucking dog,” Maekar curses bitterly, but stalks slowly forward anyway.

“Good boy,” you sing-song with a wide grin. Water splashes when you lift your hand from the bath, reaching out for the man to beckon him nearer. “Come closer, Your Grace. I have a secret to tell you.”

The man squints and takes a daring step closer despite himself. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

“If you were not in the mood for games, you wouldn’t be here, Your Grace,” you tease him and tug at the hem of his black coat when he’s in reach. “Bend down.”

Maekar huffs and bends at the waist. “What in the seven hells is it?”

You tilt your chin upward, and your nose brushes the coarse silver hair at his jaw, smelling of whiskey and spice. “I saw how hard you were under that desk this morning, Your Grace…” you confess in a whisper.

You pull back from him after a lingering moment and smile at the look of shock he gives you in return, right before you pull hard at the collar of his coat.

“Shit—” Maekar blurts as he loses footing, unable to brace himself in time before piling into the bathtub with you. Warm water splashes onto the cobbles, drenching his coat as he tumbles in on top of you at a most awkward angle — lanky legs spilling out and long arms hanging off the rim.

“You fucking whore!” he thunders over the sounds of your giggling, and swallows down his own instinct to laugh

You bring a hand to your bare chest to feign offense. “That is no way to talk to your wife, now is it, my prince?”

The older man turns his hand to gape at you, still grimacing as the water heavies his clothes and the scent of floral aromatics surrounds his senses — every time he tries to worm his way out, he falls further in.

“Wife?” he spits.

“I can write a raven to my father,” you tell him with a devilish smirk. “Let him know his only daughter is officially betrothed— Unless you have any complaints, that is…”

Maekar opens his mouth to speak. The words die in his throat just as quickly when you reach for his right hand, dragging it beneath the water to where your thighs part for his touch.

You keep your eyes locked on his weathered face, which remains pointed at the steaming bath, as you press his fingertips to the lips of your pussy. You’re softer than velvet under his calloused touch, with a tuft of coarse hair that makes his breath catch.

You inhale sharply at the feeling of him there. It hitches in your throat when his silver eyes snap to yours.

“Just one,” Maekar says, tracing the silken outline of your pussy with his fingertips. His chest flares with a warm feeling when it makes you shiver. “Iksā vaogenka.”

You’re filthy, he tells you in High Valyrian, words spilling from his snarled mouth like honey.

“Se syr vaogenka,” you smile back.

The filthiest.

He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.

Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.

But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.

It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.

When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.

He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.

He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.

“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.

You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.

“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.

“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”

“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”

“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”

“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.

“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”

“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”

“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.

That's your call.

“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”

Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.

Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.

And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that. 

His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.

Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.

“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.

“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”

“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”

“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.

“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”

The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”

“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”

“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.

You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.

The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.

“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”

Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy. 

He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”

A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.

Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.

“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”

Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”

By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.

“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”

Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.

“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”

“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.

Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.

“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”

“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”

“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”

He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.

“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”

“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”

His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.

“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”

“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”

You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.

He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.

Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

You notice eyes on you then.

Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.

“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”

You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”

He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.

Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.

His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.

“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”

You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”

You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.

“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”

You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.

You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.

Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.

His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.

You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.

“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”

Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”

“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”

“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”

He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.

“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”

He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”

He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”

Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.

“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

He is truly pathetic. And you love it.

You hum softly, amused.

“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”

He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.

“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”

“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”

Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.

It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.

“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”

Your expression softens.

“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.

You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.

“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”

He blinks. “M-my lady?”

“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”

His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”

You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.

“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.

You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”

He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”

That makes you still.

Your teasing fades, just a little.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”

Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”

Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.

You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.

“I must go,” you announce softly.

Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.

“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”

There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.

“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”

“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.

You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.

“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”

You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.

“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”

“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”

“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”

“Good night, my lady.”

You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.

Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.

He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.

You are golden and he is brown.

And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.

The thought burns.

And in turn, he was the only man you had eyes for. You noticed his strength, his bloody knuckles when he had gotten into a fight, the softness in his eyes when you spoke with him. You felt safe around him. Which was exactly the reason why you had called for him now.

It was rare that you were guarded by someone other than your sworn shield, but there were moments. He needed to train, needed to rest, of course. Just now, he had been training. And of course, you had to be attacked just then. It happened in a flash. A man pulling a dagger, stepping towards you. You, backing away, quick enough to not be killed, too slow to avoid the blade cutting into your arm. Your guard, pulling the man away from you, his sword piercing the attacker’s chest.

This had not been the first time someone had tried to harm or kill you, you knew that there were many things to worry about: Why had he tried to do that? Had someone sent him? Getting you to safety. Getting the (albeit small) wound looked at. Keeping your mother calm enough to not rip someone’s throat out when she found out you had been harmed. You knew deep within your mind that you should be worrying about these things. But in truth, there was only one thing you worried about: Getting to Sandor’s side.

Your heart was beating too quickly, your eyes darting everywhere as you nearly ran from the terrace to the training yard, where you knew he had to be. Your current guard tried to stop you, telling you that you had to be more careful, that he couldn't protect you as well if you didn't stay by his side, but you did not care. You would be safe once you were with Sandor, you knew that much. And a whining knight trying to get you to do what he wanted was the last thing you needed. So, in spite of his ushered warnings, you made your way as quickly as possible to the training grounds, blood dripping down your arm, people whispering when they saw you, trying to stop you to assess the wound. Why did no one understand that you had to go?

Thankfully, all those annoyances stopped once Sandor laid eyes on you. It was almost like he could sense your presence, turning to face you the moment you stepped foot onto the wide training square, his body moving towards you before his mind caught up with it.

“What happened?” He asked as soon as he was within earshot, his eyes ever trained on you. With just a few long, quick steps, he brought his body to a stop in front of you.

“Some man a-”

“Wasn't talking to you,” he interrupted your guard, still not taking his eyes off of you.

“Some man jumped out of nowhere - he had a dagger, he -” you tried to recollect exactly what happened. Why was that so hard? Why was your heart beating so fast, Why were your hands shaking like that? Your body behaved like it was afraid and maybe you should be. But your mind was not afraid. All your mind was right now was angry.

“Where is he now?” Sandor demanded.

You tried to swallow the forming lump in your throat. “Dead.”

“Good,” he said, relief washing over his face for a mere moment. “Where are you hurt?”

You showed him your wound, hand silently reaching for his upper arm. He grasped your elbow silently, carefully. His keen eyes assessed the damage quickly, apparently determining it to not be needing immediate treatment as he asked you if there were any more wounds. When you shook your head, he closed his eyes and exhaled, as if to release his lungs of unspoken words of worry, anger and tension.

“Alright,” he said instead. “Let's get you inside. You-” he pointed to the other guard “-are going to tell the king about what happened. Have guards sweep the keep for intruders. Make sure the kingsguard is alarmed. Have the Queen and the Maester come to the princess’ chambers.” Without waiting for the stunned man to reply, he guided you inside, towards your chambers.

Even in his training clothes, without his usual armor, having him by your side made you feel safer, although your mind was still swirling in its own thoughts. Now that he was with you, you no longer felt the need to glance left and right, making sure no other man was about to jump out and attack you. With your eyes trained on the floor before you, you trusted him completely. You did not think about the people around you, you did not even pay attention to where you were walking. All you could think of was what had just transpired, the images replaying in your head over and over again.

The longer you walked in silence, the more you replayed what had just happened in your head and the more you thought about it, the more you could feel your throat closing up. Why did someone have to try and kill you? Why did the guards not notice him earlier? Why did you have to deal with all this shit?

By the time you reached your chambers, you could feel just how shaky your breaths had become and that just made you even angrier. Why did you have to react this way? You behaved like a scared little girl when that wasn't even how you were feeling! You stumbled over to the table in your room as soon as you stepped inside, leaving Sandor to close the door behind you. As you reached the small table, you gripped the edges of it so hard your knuckles turned white as you leaned over it, desperately trying to get your breathing under control.

Your breaths were still shaky but deeper now, your lungs were allowing you to get as much air inside of them as possible. Sandor was still in the room with you, you could tell. He was silent, no doubt standing by the door still, ever your silent protector. There was no other person you could imagine by your side now, no one who would make you feel comfortable enough to let your careful mask slip so much. You did not have to keep it up like you did in front of everyone else - the lords and ladies of the court, the other guards, even your family. But now, as you could feel every emotion from their day course through you - fear, anger, relief - you did not try to hide anything, did not try and make yourself seem more composed than you actually were. You just tried to calm yourself down, tried taking deep breaths, tried to use your hold on the table to steady your shaking body.

So focused were you on yourself that you did not even notice Sandor coming up behind you until suddenly, his body was right next to yours. So close was he that you could practically feel the heat emitting from him, his blood was still cursing through his body faster than usual from the training, his skin still damp with sweat. You looked up at him, not understanding what he wanted. His eyes were as unreadable as ever but like always, you thought you saw a glimpse of softness in them when he looked at you. If it was reality or a figment of your imagination you could not tell - but you hoped with all your might that it was as real as the softness you felt for him, this huge, intimidating, brash man.

But his gaze did not linger on you for long as his eyes moved to the table you were currently bent over, seemingly searching for something until they landed on a small cup. His large hand grasped it quickly, his other one procuring something from his belt - a flask. You knew this flask. He usually carried it around, though he did not use it when he was on duty. But you had seen him take a sip from it when he was dismissed. But now, he did not intend to use it for himself as he opened it with practiced ease and poured a small amount of the clear liquid into your cup before securing it on his belt again.

You did not even think a question in your head, you completely gave yourself over to his control as he gently but firmly gripped your jaw, turning it upward and toward him, his other hand bringing the cup to your lips. A sharp taste filled your mouth as he quickly poured the liquor down your throat, but it was not unwelcome. It seemed to rattle your body awake and pull it out of the shock it was in. A shudder went through your system and your hands loosened their grip on the table, though you did not let go entirely.

The whole time, you kept your eyes trained on him. You felt more vulnerable now than you did even when you were being attacked but now, with him, it did not feel scary. You wanted him to be close to you, to see you so unprotected and willing to trust him, willing to give your control up for him. Warmth spread through your body at the thought of being at his mercy - or was it just the effect of the alcohol? Either way, you rejoiced in the feeling of his hand lingering on your jaw as he set the cup down.

His eyes stayed keenly on yours and his thumb, as if possessing a mind of its own, traced over your bottom lip - just once. His movement stopped abruptly, as if he had realized what he had done to be improper, but you did not give him the time to pull away.You wished to kiss him, to feel his skin on yours, the heat of his body next to yours - you wanted to taste him. So, without breaking the eye contact, you tilted your head down just enough to press your soft lips against the rough pad of his thumb.

It was as if you had burned him. His entire body reacted, a tremor rushing through his body as he almost jumped away from you, his hand dropping from your jaw, leaving your mouth slightly open as you longed for his touch to return.

“Fuckin’ hell, girl,” he heaved. Now it was his turn to breathe heavily and though perhaps you should have felt bad for spooking him like this you could not help yourself as you stared at the way his chest heaved up and down.

The sight made heat pool in your belly and you found yourself wishing that instead of standing next to you, he would be panting like this above you. Instead of using all that strength, built with years of effort and pain, to protect you, he could use it to hold you down as he pleasured you, to manhandle you into any position he wanted as he took the pleasure he wanted from you. After all that he did for you, every day, he deserved to feel good, too. And gods, would it feel good for you. To not have to worry about anything, to see how well you made him feel, to just give yourself over to him.

You wondered how these thoughts came swirling into your head so freely now. Sure, you had thought him attractive before, but you knew that it was impossible. He was your sworn sword, he was only here to protect you. There could never be anything more between you two. So when these thoughts did arise, you always pushed them back down. But now, there was no stopping them. It was like this simple act, him giving your liquor, breathing heavily, had snapped your resistance and shattered it into a million pieces. It felt like the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you and you wanted more.

“Sandor-” you reached a hand toward him without any real purpose. On its own your body had decided that it wanted to be close to him, to touch him, you did not command your limbs anymore - his presence did. But before you could do or say anything more he reached for you and clasped a hand firmly over your wrist.

“You're hurt,” was all that he said as he turned your arm so that the cut you had suffered earlier was visible to both of you. It was not very deep and in all your spiraling thoughts, his intoxicating presence, you had completely forgotten about it.

Sandor stepped closer to you again, your eyes finding his again, silent desire no doubt evident in them. But he seemed determined not to give into it. He used his entire body to slowly push you backwards onto a chair, his free hand came up to your shoulder to push you down. From this angle, he was practically all you could see. Towering over you, you could see just how big he truly was, how easy it would be for his hand to come up to the back of your head and -

“The master's gonna have to wrap it up,” he had, interrupting your very inappropriate thoughts.

His hand dropped from your shoulder but the hand around your wrist stayed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was one you had seen before. Even though people thought him to be a brash man with no manners, he was always perfectly attentive to you and your needs. When you needed to blow your nose, cried, got hurt, spilled a drink on you, he always had a handkerchief you could use at his disposal. And he used the same one now to press gently against your wound as he kneeled before you. His breathing had still not evened out, his eyes refused to meet yours.

Now it was your turn to grasp his chin and turn his face upwards, finally allowing you to look into his eyes. “I think,” you breathed, leaning in a little bit closer, “that you need a drink, too.”

His head moved in your palm as he nodded and you could feel him swallow hard as you leaned even further down, past his head, and dropped your hand to take the flask from his belt. He let go of your wrist when you came back up again and used both hands to open his flask up. For a moment, his hand hovered in the air, as if he was unsure what to do with it, before he decided to settle it onto your thigh, careful not to smear any more blood onto your precious dress as he was still holding the handkerchief. It felt natural for you to slide down into your seat a little more, your thighs opening up a little more under his touch. He swallowed again, hard.

But he did not tear his eyes away from you as you put the flask against his lips with one hand and cradled the back of his head with the other. You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how fast and how much you were supposed to pour but Sandor immediately noticed your insecurity. With his eyes still boring deeply into yours he lifted his one hand, the other one on your thigh, and tipped the flask upwards quickly, once, taking a generous sip out of it. In one smooth motion he took it back from you and set it on the table next to you.

Neither one of you spoke. What could there be to say? You opened your mouth, no words came. He licked his lips, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips and back to your eyes. His hand clenched where it held the handkerchief atop your thigh. Without meaning to, without thinking about it, you leaned forward. You didn't know for sure what your body wanted to do, kiss him, hug him, breathe him in, but he stopped you.

With one hand pressed to your collarbone, right above your beating heart, he pushed you back again, his other hand coming back up to press the handkerchief back against your wound. “You shouldn't be doing that, your highness,” he choked out with a pained expression in his eyes. “It's not appropriate.”

You did not care. You were in your chamber, with your guard. Just as you were about to tell him that you did not care about whatever the court demanded of your behavior, you just wanted him, had wanted him for a long time, the door to your room flew open, your mother racing towards you, fear and fury in her eyes.

You had of course come to the city's help after hearing about the destruction. Cities around the world had become unrecognizable. You couldn’t stand by and watch it all happen. 

You hurriedly came to the scene. You couldn’t find the person who caused all of this, so you instantly went for the hurt civilians. They thanked you and ran to either seek shelter or help others. As you continued, your eyes grazed upon a scene in front of you. 

Many civilians cowered in fear, tears streaming down their faces as they whimpered from the man in front of them. You couldn’t blame them, because the man in front of them was one of the most intimidating things you had ever seen. Although you couldn’t see his face, his form itself sent shivers down your spine.  

He was huge…

He wore an all-white fit, and had a metal arm beside him. He foated menacingly above the civilians; it had looked like a predator catching their prey. And you couldn’t stand it; this might be your guy.

“You low-life insects are so puny, I could cry, but…that would just be weak.” The man spoke, his voice like gravel and his breath steady. He had begun to bring back his fist, he was about to kill the civilian underneath him. Their faces twisted in fear, some even began to accept their fate. It haunted you knowing that you were probably going to see them turn into mush under his hand.

Before he could land a hit, you took up all of your strength and flew at him with all of your might.  Luckily before he could react, the hero planted a blow right at his lower spine. Stopping him from ending these people's lives. It sent him flying across the town, you could feel a sense of satisfaction bubble within you.

The civilians below you showing their appreciation for you. “Thank you, thank you!” they cried, pools of tears running down your face. You had to remind them that while you were grateful, they were still on the battlefield. They all had acknowledged you, and had begun to run off to elsewhere, away from the war upon their city.

You felt a sense of pride fill you knowing that you had saved their lives, sparkling theme another day. But before you can bathe in the feeling, it quickly vanishes. You felt an ominous presence before you once again. The debris of the building had finally vanished, only giving you a view that sent fear down your spine. 

There he was once again, now facing you like you had done almost nothing to him. He had a couple of scratches sure, but he had only looked like you only just flicked him. It gave a sense that this man did not feel anything you had given him.

You could now see his face; he had a scar that came from the top of his head. It looked nasty, not to mention it made his appearance more intimidating. The scar had reached his eye that was white and cloudy. Leaving his other eye to stare down into you more.

Although from all of his fearful appearance, you could admit that he was somewhat of a good looking fellow. Although that was masked over the thoughts of him killing innocent lives.

He floated forward in the dusty air until he had stopped within an eye’s view. His shoulders squared as he stood tall. His gaze pierced through the unknown hero, analyzing their every inch. To the tips of your toes, to the top of your head. His eyebrows furrowed a little upon them; you could faintly hear him grumble from the depth of his chest. 

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sight of him. If you stood side by side with him, he could easily dwarf you. Yet you still stood your ground, you had wanted to show him justice after what he had done. Though the thought of beating this man had become slimmer and slimmer just by looking at him. You would have to try and pull yourself together and prove yourself wrong.

“Are you the one destroying these cities and killing innocent civilians?” You asked; you already knew the answer to it. You just wanted to make sure, and hear this guy’s reason as to why. Curiosity might be the death of you.

He’s cold gaze then softened, then turned into a smirk as he looked at this assumed “hero” in front of him. He could try and have some fun with you. The previous heroes were not as much of a fight after all. It gave him a feeling much like a cat playing with its food before mauling to death. He had killed so many of these weak heroes, but they were always somewhat of entertainment to him. You would just be one more tally mark on the kill streak to him. Though from all of the other heroes of this planet, he felt himself taking a liking to you just by your appearance. You were smaller than him, and could easily be overpowered by him. But something told him that you were going to be worth his while.

“Hm…You know, you have more of a kick to your punch than the rest of those worms...” He muttered out, his eyes squinting at their form. He could see them visibly shiver from him, but their eyes remained determined.

Adorable…

The older man spoke up once again, straightening his posture to introduce himself. "I am Conquest, sent by the Viltomights to take over your feeble planet.” Conquest announced, eyes still remaining on the hero before him. He had seen the once determined face begin to sneer at him.

You felt a growl come out of your throat, at this point. You were ready to beat this guy’s ass for threatening your home planet. You didn’t want to hear another word from this man.

Conquest had felt satisfied at your reaction before continuing. “But to answer your question, yes, I am the one destroying these cities and killing lives.” He stated it in a mocking way to imitate how you asked him that same question before. “But not in Viltrumites name, but for my own pleasure.” Growling that last response out, he paused for a moment, leaning forward just a little. “And you are? I would like to know the person I'm going to tear apart...” Conquest asked, his tone darkened. But you wouldn’t dare to give him your name. Too angered by him and his actions, and he could tell the glare you gave him.

“Why would I? After what you have done here, I don’t think you even deserve it.” Venom spat out your thought, challenging him in a way. Conquest only chuckled at the hero’s remark, finding it cute that they were trying to insult him. His smile bared his crooked teeth down at you before saying his last remark to you. “It’s fine, I’ll know soon enough after I am done with you.” And with that, he serged towards them with a crazed expression. It made your heart drop knowing he was coming at you full speed. Luckily, you were faster.

Quickly, they moved to the side as they saw him zoom past them and stomp into the ground. As he got up, you saw the opportunity to hit Conquest as he was still turned around. You felt the adrenaline pulse through your veins as you brought a hand back to plow into the back of his skull. But he had already known your plan of action.

Suddenly, he twisted his body around and threw one single punch to the hero’s gut that made them spew out blood instantly. The blow had sent their body flying back into a building somewhere behind you. The building began to crush and crumble above them. They could feel many cuts and bruises taking form across their now injured body.

Conquest felt himself frown; he was disappointed with the thought that you were already done after that hit. Many heroes are after a single blow. At times, it was satisfying to let others know how truly strong he is. Though there could be times when he was disappointed with their weakness. Not many beings could even handle his strength; it was sad, really. But something gave him a feeling you were far from that. Right now, it looks like he might have to pull you out of the ground to continue this fight. 

With a closed-eyed sigh, he floated with an easy pace towards the downed hero. But what he didn’t expect was how fast you had gotten up. With his guard down, Conquest felt a piercing punch right in the middle of his face that sent his nose spewing out blood and onto your hand. The punch itself had made him land upon the ground roughly. Conquest was not shocked, but impressed by your durability. 

The punch itself should have at least ruined your intestines. Or even should have made you immobile for a while. But yet you had gotten up within seconds. Impressive, now lets see how long you would last against him.

The viltrumite was about to get up and continue the fight, but the fist then returned upon his face quickly turned into a full grasp as he felt himself being roughly dragged upon the city floor. He didn’t need to open his eyes to feel the angered expression on your face. He felt the heat of your adrenaline, your anger, your excitement.

You’re getting heated…

Good…

To you, it felt good putting this man in his place, the heat of the moment catching up on you. You couldn’t help but feel a smirk forming on your face. Who knows, maybe you could beat this guy.

You could now feel Conquest smile underneath your hand as he was getting dragged through the city. You didn’t have time to wonder if he was smiling until he suddenly grasped your arm. His hand wraps firmly against your forearm. And with a swift move, he swung them around and brought them down with him. Switching the both of their positions, you were now the one getting dragged across the ground with him untop of you.

Both of his hands gripped the chestpiece of your suit, keeping you from going anywhere but the rough and extremely hard ground. You grunted profusely, and as you looked up at the man above you. Conquest had stared right back at you with the same, crazed smirk that will probably haunt you in your dreams. 

“You are alot stronger than I thought, kid…” He grunted out.

Suddenly, without the two of you knowing, the both of them could feel themselves getting slammed into another building, which stopped him from dragging you any further, thankfully. Now that the two of you stopped moving, Conquest brought his metal hand to press you down further into the ground below you. His robotic hand had almost covered all of your chest, it didn’t help he was pressing down with an intense pressure. You groaned and tried to pry his hand off of you. But he didn’t budge, not one bit. Instead, he pressed down harder, and began to rub his fingers around their ribs, feeling you all around. Your flesh and your rib cage both.

Damn, this guy is weird.

“You know, you are really starting to entertain me, Sunshine.” Conquest spoke; the nickname he had given you rolled off of his tongue. To him, it was fitting for you considering he’s fighting a hero with some spice to them. This hero was a feisty little thing; it filled him with fire. Conquest also didn’t forget how cute they were to him; it had just made him want to cave your little chest in. But what had intrigued him more was the fact that they didn’t run away in fear like the rest of his opponents after a moment of fighting. It was too bad he had to end their weak little lives. But you, you continued to fight him with so much anger. A part of him sort of debated if he had wanted to kill you or not. 

“Not many have the strength to entertain me, I give you full credit for that.” He chuckled as he looked down upon you. You glared back up at him with that same fiery glare as you continued to try and pry his hand off, and oh how he loved it. “Go to hell, you psycho…” the hero grunted back at him.

They had begun to raise the legs until they gave a full-force kick into Conquest’s stomach to give you some space. As your legs gave a powerful kick to his stomach, he went stumbling backwards with a harsh groan. He had clutched his stomach in pain. As he was distracted only for a moment, you twisted your body around to give one more final blow, similar to a horse kick. Sending him backwards and into the air above. 

You followed him in the air shortly after, hopefully to plow him back into the earth’s core. Before you could even land the hit, Conquest turned around and wrapped both of his hands around your neck, and serged your body into the ground. The wind around you whistled in your ears, making you almost lose your ability to hear. You finally felt the ground below break as your body made contact with it. A wave of pain had hit your body; you had felt a metallic task in the back of your throat; no doubt that was blood.

Before you had regained full consciousness, you felt a weighing pressure on top of you, keeping you down on the ground. A warm but cold hand was still present on your throat, making sure that you were not going to get up and have the upper hand. Soon, they had gained the strength to open their eyes. Sadly, the only thing that had filled their vision was the one and only Conquest. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders moving with every breath. You could have swore you saw drool coming from his mouth.

He now had you practically in a cage, a cage formed by him. Conquest took a breathy exhale as he leaned forward until his head layed upon your shoulder. Conquest pressed almost all of his weight down onto them, making them slightly wheeze out from the pressure. Their legs were located on each side of his waist. His robotic arm was keeping him propped up by its forearm. Your hand was placed upon his shoulder to try and prevent him from moving closer than he already was.

“Look at you, Sunshine, being so good for me while you fight to your heart's content.” You could hear and feel his ragged breath against the part of your neck just below your ear. With the position the two of you were taking, it was sort of erotic. If someone where to walk by and find the two of you, it would look like a missionary position. And if anyone did, you were just going to call it quits and die.

Trying to get the erotic thoughts out of your head, you snapped at him. “Fuck you…” You groaned out as you tried almost the one hundredth time to get him off of you; Conquest still didn’t budge. You had only gotten a light chuckle from him.

“I can go at this for days, but I doubt you could even keep up with a viltrumite like me.” Conquest muttered against you. You could feel his pelvis upon yours, and you could even feel him. Every part of this man screamed huge, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to find that out. You let out a soft gasp at the contact as you tried pushing him off, “Get off of me asshole-” they gasped out, but each move they made had them moving into the man above them. Conquest had only grounded into them more, his smirk becoming bigger and bigger by the second. You could almost hear him groan above you, and he could hear you whimper underneath him. To him, that sound alone made him made up his mind about you. Conquest was definitely keeping you…

Now, the cogs in your head made you realize something,

Conquest was getting off by this. This sick fuck was getting off to you fighting him! 

You couldn’t help your face from getting warm by your situation. To save you from humiliation, you moved your face away from him. You still couldn’t really move due to his hand gripping at your thoat, so you had tried your best to fight his hand. Hopefully to escape from him seeing your warmth and embarrassed face. But what you didn’t realize was that you were giving him full access to your neck. Conquest felt you try and move away from him, he also felt how warm you had gotten. 

You instantly regretted it as you felt him smile wickedly against your neck. Conquest adjective his hand to where it wasn’t handling your neck, but hilding the side of it you keep you from moving away. He gave a soft inhale against your skin, inhaling your scent before he began to press his face further down onto their neck and rub his face all over you. At first, you thought he was just being weird and creepy. Yet the thought was quickly shut down as you felt a liquid spread across the side of your neck. It was warm yet cold at the same time. But then it hit you like a bullet train.

Conquest was rubbing his bloody nose all over you…

It had felt like he was marking you with his blood; you felt yourself cringe at the thought. His nose slid across every curve of your neck, making it slippery to the touch. This man wasn’t just a normal, powerful villain; this man was a crazed psychopath who gets off at this! You didn’t know if you could fight him anymore. You didn’t know if it was because you were too weirded out and scared, or because you were afraid you would like it. You would be lying to yourself that you didn’t find this man attractive. Yet this man had potentially killed millions, if not more! At this point, you were scared of both your feelings and conquest.

You whimpered as he trailed his face up to your cheek. Giving you a hard cheek nuzzle to spread his blood more on your face. You could hear him chuckle against your cheek, breathly but rough. After what had seemed like long, antagonizing minutes, he settled his forehead on theirs, staring deeply into them as if the two of you just made love. His half-lidded eyes held so much adoration while yours were wide and fearful ones. 

The sight alone had pleased him, turning him on more than he already was. You, covered in blood, it was a beautiful sight. He would do anything to keep you in a frame within his mind forever. The hero’s once fiery eyes were now replaced with fearful ones. It seemed they had now realized what and who they were up against. 

“Aw come on, don’t tell me you already lost that spark in you. Things were just starting to get fun.” Conquest whined; he loved the fact that a once confident hero, broken down into a weak worm from the man before them. But at the same time, Conquest wanted to continue this fight with you. You were so much stronger than the rest of those weak little worms that call themselves heros. But then again, he loved to show how he can easily dominate you in battle.

Maybe later he can break you down until you were a submissive little thing while he beats you into the ground.

His statement towards you alone had brought you back to reality. You had contemplated if you had wanted to flee, but now that he urged you to fight, you found that same spark that was once lost. His words replaying in your head, he thinks that you gave up. Like hell you were going to give up.

Conquest saw the light ignite in their eyes, their fury now showing within your colored orbs. They let out an infuriated growl as they quickly brought their head back and slammed it right into Conquest’s head. It brought him back into a sitting position, giving you room to move. Headbutting him so hard that even both of them saw white. But the pain didn’t stop them from pushing him into the ground and putting their fists into his face repreatedly. 

Ofcourse, Conquest only eat their punches up like it was a full course meal. He finally had enough of your little “tantrum” and finally caught your hands with a swift move. Conquest then socked you in your chest, but not too hard to send you flying. You had luckily landed on your feet a couple of feet away from him, but the air had vanished from your lungs, causing you to cough profusely. You only focused on getting the breath back into your lungs to realize that Conquest had already appeared behind you within a blink of an eye.

You then felt a pair of arms around you; feeling his head behind your back to lift you up into the air. The two of you were in a position where your back was against his chest, his arms cradling your waist from behind. You would use your arms, but they were pinned beside you by Conquest forearms. You could visibly see his arms flex around your waist.

You found yourself still not taking back the fact that this man was really attractive.

His shadow casted over the hero’s form, making them feel smaller than they already were. Of course they had tried to fight back, their back had tried to arch away from him. But that had only made him bring them closer towards his body. You could feel each muscle of his behind you, especially his chest.

“That’s it, get angry…” He growled lowly. His voice was low and quiet; it didn’t fail to make you weak in your knees. You felt disgusted with yourself. Luckily you weren’t even standing; well, you didn’t know if it was a good thing.

What had happened afterwords pretty much cleared that question. You felt Conquest tighten his grip on you, almost crushing you with his bare arms. He lifted you up slowly before quickly falling backward onto the ground, slamming your head into the hard ground as he suplexed you.

You could not even cry out in pain from how hard the blow was. Instead, the only thing heard from you was deep, jagged breaths. You had struggled to keep yourself conscious as he unhooked his arms and let your body fall to the ground. You tried to keep your body upright, but the painful throbbing in your head kept you from doing so. You left the new fresh blood seeping out from your head and onto your bruised face. 

Your vision was blurry from the attack. And yet the only thing you could recognize from your foggy vision was the figure that stood before you. It wasn’t rocket science to know it was Conquest. What gave it away was the taunting voice of his. “Come on, sunshine. I know you have some strength in you still. Your strong, and I believe in you, you know that?” Conquest spoke in a soft voice, but you weren’t fool to know that he wasn’t sincere. 

But yet you still tried to move your legs, try to sit up, or even try to move your head. But you still couldn’t stop the pain in the back of your head. And the beast of a man just sat there and watched. Conquest was not a patient man, so with the goodness of his heart, he thought he might as well help you. “Here, let me be of service to you.” He simply stated.

You saw his figure move towards your form. You tried to move away, but that quickly failed as he roughly picked you up by the front part of your suit. He held you just above the ground; you feel dangled below you. The two of you stared at each other, you with a pained expression, and Conquest with an emotionless face. He took a long look at you, his singular working eye grazing upon each cut and gash that occupied your face. Additionally, his own marking of blood that covered the whole right side of your face. Glistening in the bare sun like fine wine.

“But, I can admit, seeing you all beat up just excites me…” Conquest muttered before uppercutting you in the jaw with a swift motion. The action was so off guard that you still couldn’t even grasp it. It had only hit when you were finally skidding on the ground with full force. Your limbs and joints became more painful each time your body collided with the ground. It didn’t help when body roughly stopped into a boulder. 

Your had now started to water, the pain from the uppercute had now started to dissolve into your jaw. You weren’t crying, but your eyes watered profusely from the pain of bone your jaw and your head. You tried to quickly wipe them away, trying to keep your eyes on the monster of a man that slowly flated towards you. But each time you blink, Conquest seems to become closer and closer. It was like straight out of a horror movie; it sent chills down to your core. After a couple of blinks, Conquest was now above you. You didn’t know if you could take another hit from him. Afraid of dying by his hands.

As Conquest stood above you, he brung his good hand to your face. His rough, warm hand grazed your cheek with the back of his hand; it was soft, but not until he forcibly yanked your head up to his. You felt his breath against your face; you also felt the intest eye contact he gave you. You grunted from the hard grasp he had; his hand covered most of the side of your head. You could tell he was smiling—the soft and giddy hum was present in the air. 

But what had caught you off guard the most, was that Conquest used his other hand to grab ahold of the hand you used to wipe your tears off of. His had softly touched yours, the action made you flinch due to the fear of what he might do next. Conquest twisted your hand to make your palm point directly above to his mouth. For a brief moment, he looked at you, waiting to see the confusion on your face. His eyes were soft, but not too soft to give away the menacing smirk. Conquest was pleased to see how your eyebrows furrowed just a little. That itself gave him the cue to do his deed. He opened his mouth, then stuck his tongue out to give your palm a long, hard lick.

He was licking the blood and tears off of your hand.

You mentally shrieked, now trying to close your hand. But Conquest was quick enough to hold it open with his thumb. You brought your free arm out to try and push him away, but that only made him open his eyes and bring your fingers into his mouth. Conquest gave you a devious smirk as he lightly bit down on them, making you gasp and freeze up. Scared that he will bite all of your fingers off.

Conquest gave a pleased sigh as he felt your fear of him. He brought your fingers out of his mouth, his saliva and your fingers being the only thing connected. “Your cute, you know that?” He questioned as his grip on the side of your head hardened. The sound of your pulse quickening only brought him pleaser. 

“At first, I thought you weren’t going to last after the first hit. But the more I spent my time fighting you, I began to feel more and more intrigued by you.” Conquest then lets go of you, releasing his grip on your head and hand. You fell to the ground with a loud huff, now propping yourself up on your forearms to try and give yourself leverage. Conquest dropped down to his knees, leveling with you as he gave you his words.

“You are not the strongest I have fought, but yet your durability amuses me. The other heroes this planet provides could not even last this long if they tried. Maybe I’ll keep you for safekeeping, maybe a suverneer to my home planet-” “You wouldn’t dare…” You cut him off from finishing his sentence. The thought of him “keeping” you unnerved you. Like hell you were going to be some pet to a man like him!

“But I can!” Conquest replied rather quickly for your liking. He then leaned in closer towards you, his eyes now darkened. “Let’s face it, you can’t beat me. Not for a long shot, sunshine.” Spitting his words down at you. Conquest then leaned back, relaxed as ever. You couldn’t even hold yourself up, so why bother being tense.

“You are like…Hmm…” He looked around the atmosphere, taking in all of the destruction he caused upon humanity as he tried to find the right example for you. Conquest spoke up once again, “You are like a dog in your people’s sense; you are only meant for my entertainment. I could treat you however I like and you would just come running back like nothing happened… Or, at least you will eventually.”

You were about to shout back at his words, but you were cut short with your vision going black and your body giving up on you. Conquest, gave you one swift punch to the head, and knocked you out cold. He knew that more insults would come out of your mouth, so he saved himself the time by shutting you up. 

He watched as you became quiet and unmoving in front of him. Conquest gave out a long, exagerated sigh before putting both of his arms underneath the hero, and picked them up without a single struggle. Your body was limp in his arms. Your head rests against his chest as all of the blood from you smeared onto his suit. Blood from both him and you. 

“Let us go home, pet…” Conquest spat out in the air like venom. Now floating in the air to get ready bring you back to Viltrum.

Pets weren’t normalized on his home planet; they were a sign of weakness. They would get too attached, and then that would be a liability. So, they were looked down upon. But you? No, you were going to be a form of entertainment to him. Something to keep his mind off of his loneliness. Maybe something to bring him out of that loneliness. 

His little entertainer…

Norm's hands grip your thighs, his mouth doing all the work. You're lying on his bed whining and covering your mouth. Your thighs tense and Norman's nimble hands gently keep your legs pulled apart.

"Norman-" You suck in air through your teeth, eyes screwed shut. "That feels- Ngh-" You're cut off by your own moan.

Norm, on his knees and in front of you, stops momentarily. You look down at him and find him staring at you. His chin slick. Your stomach flips. You're sure your eyes turn wild, because suddenly Norman seems apprehensive.

"Is this okay?" He asks, his head cocking to the side ever so slightly.

You cannot answer fast enough. "Yes!" You are nodding violently. "Please continue, I need it!"

Norman smiles at you and your heart jumps into your throat. "Ok," He doesn't hesitate to dive back in. His 'ok' sounded more enthusiastic than you had ever heard before, causing you to feel ever stronger about him.

Norman's tongue sloppily licks a stripe up your pussy, and his nose bumps your clit. Your head lulls back and one of your hands grips his hair. Your hips rock upwards as Norm moves back to breathe. You are chasing after him. He smiles, placing a soft kiss to your thigh. You begin to beg.

"Please, I'm close- So close!"

Norman can't leave you hanging. So, he obliges. He messily eats you out, continuing to do the things that seem to elicit a good reaction from you. Suddenly, a scorching heat is building inside of you. Your core burns and your toes are curling. You pull at his hair and Norman moans. You let out a loud, sharp cry. Norm's name falling from your lips, the only thing you can say.

Your legs tense around him and Norman doesn't slow down. He continues as you ride out your orgasm. Your hips bucking into his mouth and then rocking back.

Your legs release him, and Norman lies his head on your thigh, looking up at you until you open your eyes and look back at him.

"Was that okay?" Norman hums.

You let out a soft laugh, "That was... Amazing! I don't think- I don't think I wanna leave this room for a while..."

"I don't think they expect to," Norm shrugs. "Might as well enjoy each other's company until they actually need us."

"Sounds perfect," You inhale slowly, still coming down. "I could- Uh, I could return the favor now?" You sit up and bite your bottom lip. "I mean, you didn't stop 'til I came, and I'd hate to be the only one feeling good..."

Norman blinks at you, registering what you're saying. "You sure?" His hand traces your hip. "I think I could sit here all day if it means getting to taste you."

You face scrunches, "I mean if you insist," You laugh.

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A tender set of knuckles graze against your cheek, pushing a ticklish tuft of hair away from your face. The fine strands pass over your nose, rousing you to consciousness when that slight tickle manifests into a sneeze.

“Ah-choo!” You exclaim the instant your body throttles, giving you more of an animated wake-up call from this cat-nap than you anticipated. After a couple sniffles and blinks, you begin to register what you see.

The first thing your groggy eyes land on is his mustache turning up at one of the corners. The lights have been dimmed in this barren excuse for a bedroom, welcoming you into his environment as if you were meant to be here all along. His body acts as your very own personal space heater, keeping you cozy and warm amidst the icy interior of his gilded ship. Your stomach is sunken with butterflies when your hands pass over his spanning chest and abdomen. You let out a slight gasp when you accidentally touch him lower than that. Even though you were all over this and more not that long ago, it's still jolting that he’s right here in front of you.

He lifts your head by the chin, bottom lip caught between his teeth, slowly rolling back as his smile widens. “Hungry?”

He pulls you over top of himself, encouraging you to straddle his waist. Your knees can’t even reach the surface of the bed at this angle. You grind into him and he groans deeply, the vibrations reverberating powerfully through your arms as you keep yourself poised on his chest. With your mouth hovering right above his, you whisper softly. “I’m always hungry for you.”

He laughs, rattling you up and down as his core tenses and releases. He breathes heavily, reaching his head up to press the sides of his powerful jaw to your exposed breasts, eyeing you up seductively. “I meant that I should feed you. You haven’t eaten since leaving Earth.”

“I thought I told you I’m not your pet.” You rear back a little, pulling your breasts off his face in playful punishment.

“I know.” He doesn’t let you get too far, pressing his lips to yours while holding you flush against his body. “Doesn’t change the fact that you need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry yet.” You challenge, grinding him harder.

“Give it time.” His massive palms skate down your curves, taking great handfuls of your ass to lift you up so that he can deposit you directly onto his hardened cock. 

You cry out loudly from the sudden impalement, still soaking wet from your past shared ventures. Conquest lets out a series of grunts when you wrap your arms around his head, anchoring yourself to him more securely while also hiding his face in your breasts.

He switches from one to the other, glossing your skin in his spittle between open mouth bites around your nipples. He takes full control of your hips, moving you along his stiff shaft. You feel him pull almost all the way out, the bulbous head of his cock being shoved back inside with every pass. His veiny length punches you so thoroughly, you have no idea how you’ve been able to withstand his railing. 

As he has demonstrated many times before, you weigh nothing to him. In an unexpected turn of events, Conquest utilizes his strong grip to sit up, throwing you on your back. There’s much room across the surface of this bed, one would think it’s as wide as the floor it rests on. You bounce on the firm cushions; his cock having slipped clean out of you. 

“Let’s see if I can’t work you up an appetite.” He takes your ankles in each hand, pushing your knees back as far as your anatomy will allow before diving head-first into your pussy. His thick whiskers fall upon your swollen lips as he swirls his tongue around your clit. He suckles and licks you over and over, making a meal of you all on his own. 

Conquest climbs up your form, pinning your legs even further back with his shoulders. He stares you down, the weighty girth of his cock tapping against your silky entrance as he steadies himself to fuck you again. “Hungry yet?”

“I-I think I n-need a bit m-more…” You stutter, feeling your legs start to go numb while the fluttering in your stomach spreads through to your fingers and toes.

“Well, well.” Conquest eases himself back inside, giving you exactly what you want. The displacement hits differently at this angle, filling you thoroughly when every thrust goes hard and deep as if it reaches your stomach. You impulsively yelp as he carries on, dizzy from the vigorous motion. “You’ve got me trained like a dog.”

“Sounds like - unf - you’re the pet - ooh - after all…” You patronize him jokingly, receiving a sweet repayment for your sass as he aims to interrupt you.

You’re bunched up and folded with your knees pinned at the sides of your head. It seems impossible not to cramp up right now from how continuously and thoroughly he’s made you come. It feels like there are needles in your calves, but you can’t hardly notice the discomfort from all the pleasure. At this point, you’re at the mercy of Conquest until he finishes.

He slams your legs closed, tightening the pressure around the entrance of your pussy. With one hand, he joins your ankles while leaning over to choke you fiercely with the other. His towering stature allows him to conduct this fiery position with ease, grinning at you the whole way through.

He squeezes your throat, making your eyes feel like they’re going to pop out for a second between intermittent pauses. You hate to admit that you like when he does that, catching yourself saying “harder” under your breath.

“Careful.” Conquest warns, bending your legs at the knees to drape his hefty weight over you. The hand around your neck climbs up your chin, driving his thick fingers into your mouth so that your moans have nowhere to hide. “It might be hard not to hurt you.”

You bite on his fingers the way he likes, giving him permission to do his worst. A primal essence within him is reignited; one that sparks his soul through an alternate conduit than the grim brutalities of warfare. When with you, he forgets what it means to be hostile.

You are willing and formidable, succumbing to the sensual thrashing. He loses himself in the motions, dexterous with his hips as he claps against your ass so loudly. His yells echo around you, hoarse and ravenous while you sing a higher tune.

Right in the nick of time, he loosens the hand keeping your ankles joined, spreading your legs to watch your supple softness jiggle from his mighty influence. You would normally try to hide as much of your midsection as possible, but he chooses to lay his enormous palms directly over your torso, admiring your delicate flesh.

In these quick seconds that he lets your legs go akimbo, his thrusts surpass the speed he’s been maintaining up to this point. You’re impaled relentlessly, screaming into the vast emptiness of the ship until your own ears begin to ring from your shrill exclamations. You have not once descended from the pillars of euphoria, rolling on a persistent climax through every second of his fucking. At last, his fist wraps around the base of his cock, pulling it out to heave its length atop your tummy. He shudders while stroking himself off and you lie there breathlessly awaiting him to paint you with his spend.

Conquest furrows his brow and the lines on his forehead begin to ripple while his scar stretches and contorts. His jaw drops open, tongue out and drooling. His jagged teeth clench with his spasming jaw, stroking himself to completion.

He doubles over, coming hard all over you. It’s hot and stringy, sizeable squirts covering you in his glaze all the way up to your mouth. You try to sample some as it shoots, succeeding and making him fumble at the sight. He catches his breath, acknowledging you currently licking your lips clean. “Mmm… How’d that taste?”

“It tastes like I’m hungry now.” You tease, shoving your tits together to spread more of his release around. His energy floods your confidence, and his expressions tell you clearly how beautiful he thinks you are.

“Let’s fix that, then.” He leans over you, kissing you on the head before rising to his feet. He presses a panel on the wall that simply looks like a piece of risen texture but is actually a built-in compartment. The panel slides upward, exposing a range of different sized towels, blankets, and other laundered effects. He takes the first towel, using it on himself to wipe his body and hands clean before going for a second, walking back to use it on you.

“I can do that.” You extend your hand forward to accept it.

He offers it, watching silently as you clean yourself, meticulous in your methods.

“What?” You ask, smirking at him from where you lay on the bed. He’s stark naked, so huge and intimidating, and yet you feel nothing but contentment in his presence.

“I’m going to show you off.” He remarks decidedly, turning to face the wall where he taps yet another functional panel concealing a closet of sorts. A large rack full of interesting pieces to choose from emerges from the hollow space within the wall. He selects his signature white and grey compression suit with the three titular pillars on the front, but he encourages you to choose something to your liking. “Pick something pretty.”

He can’t stop referring to you with that moniker, identifying you with the word itself. Once thoroughly cleaned, you step off the hovering bed, setting both feet on the cold floor to walk over to him. 

Your hands pass over every garment on display. A grandiose assortment of luxury textiles, rare interstellar silks and linens are presented before you and you’ve nowhere to begin in selecting which one to wear for the evening.

“What do you think will look best on me?” You’re at a loss, not wanting to pick something too gaudy or plain.

Conquest looks at you, then the rack, pushing option after option aside until his eyes land on the perfect gown. 

“This one.” He pulls it out, but you can’t make heads or tails of how to put it on, unable to identify its style on the hanger. “It should suit you perfectly.”

“You sure?” You’re questioning his opinion, hoping it doesn’t end up looking hideous.

“Trust me.” He slips the halter-style ties off the hooks keeping it up, opening the gown for you to step into. You’ve no brassier, girdle or even a pair of panties, defining this look with the delightful assets your lovely body has been graced with and nothing else. The fabric lays flatteringly to the floor, bathing you in a waterfall of burnt umber and gold. The ties secure around your neck, the chilled links of chain keeping it in place. The back of the dress plunges deep, exposing the savory little dimples at the base of your spine.

“Oh wow…” You’re floored by the faultless fit, doing a little spin to watch the shining ripples move. “It’s stunning.”

“You are.” Conquest moves closer, pulling you in by the small of your back. “But that’s not all.”

He reaches past you, further into the closet and pulls out a set of arm-length sleeves of the same color connected by a cape joined at the elbows. The look is completed when he hands you a pair of strange heels that look to be carved from bone, surprisingly comfortable. As for the sleeves, you’ve never seen a garment such as this. It’s like a jacket but with the rest missing. Confused on how to put it on at first, he guides you to slip your hands into the gloves until you seamlessly thread your fingers right at the digits. You see now that it’s designed to drape down your back in a refined fashion, impressed by the inventiveness of the stylist who made it.

“There.” Conquest steps away to examine his masterpiece, twirling you in place with your hand clasped in his. “I’ve always wanted to see this worn.”

“Why didn’t you just try it on?” The giggle that bubbles out of you is met with a stern glance and for a second you think you’ve overstepped.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The cadence of his makes you believe he’s offended by your quip, but the next words out of his mouth prove otherwise. “It wouldn’t fit.”

“Oh! Hahaha!” You jovially cackle at his joke, leaning your weight onto him as you laugh. You have an energy about you, one that calls to his heart when he was sure it had been laid dormant. You remind him to take his time instead of moving from one world-obliterating priority to another. Without a home to return to, he’s made a permanent place wherever you are. “So, what did you have in mind?”

“I know a little place.” Conquest cunningly suggests as he leads you out of the room and towards the command center at the front of the ship. The clacking of your heels on the hull floor is exquisite. You’ve forgotten how satisfying the sound could be, enhanced by the fascinating texture of the bone. 

You make it to the station where he claimed you as his for the first time, harboring all those blissful memories. He boots up a map, locating the destination only a few light-years away from your position. It’s a tiny blip, smaller than the orbiting planets in the area, blinking brightly on the holographic projection.

Course it set and you reach the blip almost instantly. You felt no turbulence, no gravitational drag as you were practically teleported there. Now closer to it, you see that it is a brightly illuminated gyrating space station. You would compare it to the Las Vegas of the cosmos with how it’s decorated in flashing brights like the ever-famous strip. It is by no means little in the slightest, offering a plethora of vices where patrons must come from all over the galaxy to partake. “Woah…”

Conquest hears your exclamation of amazement, smiling to himself for being the one to introduce you to all these sights and wonders. He approaches you from behind while your eyes remain glued to the view just outside. “Shall we?”

Upon entry through the industrial airlock, you sense all eyes on you. Conquest emits a ruling presence with his bloody reputation. The white and grey uniform he wears strikes an additional dread through all who cross his path. You do your best to act natural in front of the many varying alien faces, realizing that you’re just as foreign to them as they are to you. Tendrils and scales, large furry bodies, eyeballs as large as your fist. You find it easier to keep your vision glued to the floor.

Conquest feels you shrink, securing you to his side with a nudge of support. “Don’t worry. They’re just envying what they can’t have.”

You pass through a handful of bustling recreational outlets, landing at a refined establishment with an ambience set with colorful flickering ion lamps and quiet music that you could only describe as a symphony of water dripping and popping bubbles put to a smooth and steady beat. 

You are led by Conquest to an empty section of the bar, descending onto the seat he pulls out for you. The man behind the counter is a hybrid blend of human and snake, his lower torso slithering about the floor with expert maneuverability. You have no idea what to order. The overwhelming realization sets in when it dawns on you that you cannot speak any of their languages, never mind being able to understand them.

All is taken care of when the snake-man points at Conquest from afar. He responds by raising his hand with two fingers extended. The snake-man nods in confirmation, mixing up a couple of luminescent beverages. He fills a shaker with powerful intoxicants that resemble vials full of potions. Setting the shaker aside, the bartending snake-man scoops some chopped fruit into the short, prism-shaped glasses. He muddles the fruit at the base of the triangular chalice, spreading the dark seeds and magenta flesh that reminds you of dragon fruit back home. Who’s to say if it has the same flavor profile.

Once muddled in each glass, the bartender picks up the shaker to give it a spirited rattle, agitating the contents until they’ve been turned into something new. The way he moves is almost choreographed. Rehearsed. A dance he’s perfected. The lid is popped off, revealing a gleaming drink that takes on the likeness of blended glowsticks. The flowing neon yellow, blue, pink and orange react with the fruit at the bottom of the glass, starting to fizzle. 

The bartender lays down some coasters, placing each glass over top of them. Before he departs, Conquest tosses him a gold coin of the highest galactic currency. Grateful for the excessive tip, he additionally puts a little bowl of some sort of steaming appetizer between you before putting the coin into his pocket and attending to other patrons.

“You a regular here?”

“Yes and no.” Conquest answers while eyeing up the food and drink. “I would pass through with other Viltrumites, but I would never waste my time here on my own. We're just stopping here before heading to the restaurant across the way.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” You're beginning to wonder about this whole arrangement.

“Hmm?” He vocalizes while sipping his drink.

“Wasting time.”

Conquest collects the luminous stain across his mustache with his bottom lip, sets the drink down and tosses something that looks like grilled octopus into his mouth. Chewing while getting closer to your ear, he swallows before speaking. “Not a second is wasted when I am with you.”

He skillfully kisses your cheek as he pulls away, eating another tentacle. “How’s that drink?”

You don’t know if you should stir it or sip it as is. The colors are separated like swirling paint. Now put on the spot, you have no choice but to try it.

The second it hits your lips, the fizzy reaction you saw before when the drink was combined with the fruit is a pleasant surprise. The sensation is akin to a semi-sparkling moscato, very light and sweet. Each color presents a different flavor, giving you citrus notes, creamy essences and a richness that amplifies the whole ensemble. The pulp at the bottom doesn’t taste like dragon fruit at all, providing a tanginess you’ve only found in pomegranates or cumquats. 

It’s scrumptious. You strain to stop yourself from taking large, impolite gulps though the aftertaste is what convinces you to slow down. 

The warmth hits your stomach much like a shot of tequila or other hard liquor you’ve had the misfortune of sucking down your gullet. You cough at the realization, setting it down to behave as nonchalantly as you can but Conquest sees the whole thing. “S-smooth.”

“Alcohol out here isn’t like what you find on Earth.”

“It’s sweet, but damn if it isn’t strong.”

“Reminds me of someone I know.” Conquest taps you with his muscular elbow.

“Wow.” You beam at him. “That was corny.”

“I have no one but you to blame for that.” He takes another drink, halfway done now. You sip on yours again as the song playing before has ended, shifting to a more romantic mood.

“Let’s dance.” He offers his hand, and you set the glass down, hesitant to agree.

“I don’t know how.”

“Neither do I.”

Despite your collective lack of experience, he ushers you to the floor. You perform nothing crazy, holding each other and swaying side to side for a bit. After a while you put your cheek to his chest, listening to his heartbeat going off the rails, thundering in his chest and growing stronger by the second. At first you think it to be proximity nerves from you getting close, but a brawny force whips you away from him with a viscous turn. 

“Mind if I cut in?” Another Viltrumite appears. His broadness is comparable with Conquest, but still coming up slightly under the height of his nose. His face is accentuated with the same manicured mustache grown thickly on his upper-lip, pin straight and black as night. His head is shaved, giving him a fuzzed crown. Each of his eyes bear a different color; one icy blue while the other is dark chestnut. Conquest watches him invade his space, picking him apart like they share a past.

“You.” Conquest steps up to him, guarding you with an arm across your form. “Come to tattle on me again, Vrellik?”

“Who, me?” Vrellik plays coy, knowing exactly why he’s here while unwilling to hide it. “When you make it so easy, it’s really quite enjoyable. I didn’t know you were back.”

“I’m not.” Conquest’s knuckles pop from his angered clenching as he reinforces his stance to dwarf you behind him, preparing for something to happen.

“You're aware it’s forbidden.” Vrellik’s tone grows darker, judging Conquest for giving into his defective impulses. “Abandoning your post is one thing. It doesn’t make it any better to see you’re breeding with a human woman.”

Vrellik uses his immense strength to bulldoze past Conquest and get to you, his grubby palm grasping you by the jaw to forcibly purse your lips. You’re petrified, utilizing all your might to gain some distance to no avail. “I might just take her for myself. You’ve picked a good one. She smells fertile.”

You are nearly thrown to the ground along with Vrellik when Conquest retaliates. With both hands clasped together, he rears them overhead and drives them down onto Vrellik. He accepts the blow and crashes to the floor. Even though Vrellik's face is now planted at yours and Conquest’s feet, he snickers maniacally, inciting perilous waves of dismay to possess you.

“Touch her again and you die.” The glint in Conquest's fogged-out eye shines with purpose.

“Delightful. I love a challenge I can't resist.” Vrellik will not back down from this altercation even if it means he will perish.

“Try it then.” Conquest widens his posture.

“Look at her.” You hide behind Conquest, averting your eyes from Vrellik as he addresses you. “She’s clearly bored at your side, old man. Hand her over and I’ll have her screaming like my other concubines. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Vrellik tries going for you a second time, but Conquest blocks the contact with an unyielding grip on his forearm with his mechanical hand, snapping his radius in two. Vrellik howls in agony while his skeletal innards splinter into shards as easily as one would crumple a soda can.

“You’ll pay for that! Ugh!” Using his other arm, Vrellik lands a heavy contact of his knuckles to Conquest’s jaw. His footing has been displaced, knocking into you so hard you fall to the ground. Surrounding patrons witness the chaos and correctly assume it to only go downhill from here. They scatter amidst the beginning slew of beatings exchanged. With only one arm, Vrellik has ensued a filthy fight with flying kicks that bruise and cruel bites that rip Conquest apart.

You’re swept up in the current of other people and are taken far away from Conquest. You find yourself at a sort of public lavatory consisting of cubicle-style stalls with a small, exposed section of flooring in each. No toilet, just an open hole that drops into a massive vat of waste. Already on edge with the death duel crashing about in the other room, you cannot even bear to look at this pit, scrambling out of the stall in a hyperventilating clamber.

You pull the cape on your sleeves over your shoulders like a blanket. The ground shakes with the conflict and you flinch at the sound of every crash, shriek and rumble. It is clear the fight is not exclusive to Conquest and Vrellik. Innocent bystanders are trampled oppressively if they just so happen to be in the way. You stumble backward into the nearest wall, sliding all the way down until you’re perched on these cursed bone heels. You feel silly wearing all this, a costume that doesn’t suit you anymore.

Pulling the cape over your head, you hide your eyes and cover your ears hoping to preserve yourself from having to listen to the massacre. It works to an extent, but you are not safe from the resonating disruptions that shake the space station. 

This continues for a while, far longer than any brawl should. At some point, you begin to believe you’ve become an afterthought, no longer valuable. 

The thought brings forth an ache in your soul that dispenses a never-ending flood of tears to fall from your eyes, soaking the precious textile of the cape. It’s a good thing you’re not wearing makeup lest you’d be marking it up with mascara smudges. You’re far too immersed in your sobbing to notice that the fighting has ceased.

That same gentle touch that caused you to sneeze upon waking up earlier announces itself while you’re in the middle of your disparaging episode. The alarming contact brings you to flinch again, recoiling away while slipping the cape off your head to see who is there.

“D-don’t.” You beg through chattering teeth. “Please… don’t.”

Conquest is bathed in Vrellik’s blood and marked with wounds that appear fatal, his once snow-white uniform now saturated in crimson in the name of your protection. He is crouched on one knee, eclipsing you from the light fixture’s gleam directly above. He’s gravely concerned, persistent to get through to you. “Don’t?”

“Don’t pretend I mean anything to you!” You smack his hand away and Conquest heeds your desire for space, granting it to you without objection.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Do you seriously expect me to think you brought me here ‘for fun’?” The sniffles and sobs impeding your speech pose a challenge, but you are determined to scold him with everything you have. “You want me to be vulnerable and dependent on you. I bet I was nothing more than bait you taunted Vrellik with.”

Conquest bows his head and you’re happy to see this tiny display of remorse, but the feeling is short lived when he starts to chortle at you.

“Sure. Go ahead. Laugh.” You say while hugging your knees to your chest. “Not like you haven’t hurt me enough.”

“I am impressed by the shrewdness of your assumption.” Conquest lifts his gaze, his chest still rising and falling merrily. 

“My what?” You’re certain he’s messing with you now.

“I understand how you would see that encounter as a trial of manipulation.” Conquest starts. “But I had no idea he knew where I was. Truly.”

“I’m sorry to distract you.” You huddle into yourself, evading eye contact.

“It’s not your fault.” Conquest does not allow you to take on all the blame. “I got carried away and that’s on me. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re always two steps ahead of everything.” You talk over your folded arms, still sobbing. “Suddenly I come along, and some asshole gets the jump on you?”

“I should have been more vigilant.” Conquest does not give up on an opportunity to take accountability for what transpired. “That is not your burden to bear.”

“Look, you may be telling the truth, but it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t belong here.”

Conquest is actually hurt by that, tilting his head to the side when you don’t hold back. “You have just as much a right to be here as any one of those bastards. Maybe more.”

“I’m not cut out for this.” You fear you might have bitten off more than you could chew. “What was I thinking? I can’t start a life in this!”

Just as you’re beginning to spiral, Conquest pulls you into his space by your wrist. You fall clumsily onto him, but he holds you securely in his extensive arms. After a few seconds, his tranquil energies enable you to match your breathing with his, helping free you from hysterics.

“What are you so afraid of?” Conquest asks, intent on seeing the day you vanquish your fears.

“For starters, I don’t want that to happen again.” You sniffle, wiping your nose with the tear-stained cape. “And for another, I don’t know anything about these worlds and their people. I’m out of place. An outcast.”

“Everyone’s an outcast around here, and I’m willing to teach you everything you want to know.” Conquest is managing to find solutions to every gripe you’re throwing at him. “Let me prove that I can protect you.”

Your dark sense of humor shines its light on this situation, switching one of your sniffles with an enthused nose laugh while gesturing to his dripping uniform. “It looks like you already have.”

Conquest scans himself, joining you in appreciating the joke with echoing hilarity. The dress is now stained with his mess, but you care not. All you want is for him to kiss you right now, craving it proudly when your eyes meet his. 

His breath falls over your lips, both mouths closing in on each other. The first touch is light, testing the waters like it’s your first time all over again. That plush fullness of his lips meets yours sweetly as the warmth of his mustache spreads from cheek to cheek. 

Affectionate fingers are being threaded into your hair while his biomechanical arm scoops you up from the lavatory floor. You moan down his throat when he pries your jaw open and slips in his tongue, trading the effervescent flavors of the ambrosial drink you both shared.

You break the kiss to look at him, petting his angular and chiseled features with your soft hands. He closes his eyes to accept your love, rising to his feet to walk out of there and back to his ship at the dock. No one would dare make a move to detain a Viltrumite, giving you and Conquest a clear path back into the void.

“We didn’t even get the chance to eat.” You whisper against his neck as you're being carried.

“I’ll scrounge up something way better at the ship.” He nuzzles, humming sweetly.

“You are going to cook for me?” The idea excites you.

“My version of it, anyway.” You have no clue what surprises await, but your spirits are being lifted  at every turn, making you feel much better than before.

“Ooh. Now I am interested!”

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