Chapter Text
In the kitchen, you prepare breakfast, sureness in every movement. Hunger gnaws at Conquest the second you begin.
He's not used to actually having the desire to eat. It was always a chore before. Meals on Viltrum were focused on getting as many calories and vitamins into them as possible, taste and texture be damned. Another result of his kinds desire to be the best of the best, the result of putting strength above all else.
That is not to say feasts didn't happen. What was the point of winning a grand battle or conquering a planet if you did not celebrate it even a little?
No Viltrumite would ever admit they enjoyed those feasts. It was the only time food would be focused on flavour than anything else. A decadence not often allowed.
With you, however, every day was like a feast, regardless of what you made or if you even made it yourself. Conquest had never understood the importance some cultures put on food before, but he did now.
A soft humming fills the air, blending with the sizzling of eggs and bacon; the smell was simple, grounded, yet divine simply because he was not used to it.
With an increasing sureness, Conquest sets the table, grabs the plates and utensils, gets the jams out (so many– humans were such frivolous yet wonderful creatures), gets the tissues– he even pours you both a glass of fruit juice!
It's the most domestic Conquest has ever been. The most domestic any Viltrumite has probably been– except Nolan.
Had he done this, too? With his human wife and half-breed son? Conquest can finally see the appeal, can finally understand why one of their best turned traitor.
If Conquest got this every morning for twenty years straight, he'd turn traitor as well!
(If he wasn't already, that is.)
The toast pops out of the toaster, and he grabs them without even a blink. His mouth waters at the thought of smothering it in jam. So far, strawberry is his favourite.
You finish cooking, and fill his plate. "A big man's gotta eat." Is all you said the first time you cooked for him, and it had taken all of his self-restraint from mating with you there and then. It was the only way he knew how to properly show his appreciation.
Eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes, and toast; the yellow centre wobbles as he adjusts his plate, popping when he dips a bit of toast into it. It leaks, and he runs the bacon through it, tastes mixing and exploding on his tongue the second he takes a bite.
Appreciation for your work comes in the form of a satisfied moan, and you smile to yourself, proud.
Food was an expression of love, Conquest discovered not long after meeting you. A form of labour, work, effort put in to satiate a need, a necessary part of life; what was not necessary, however, was just how much effort you put into it. The tastes were always pure bliss, the food's appearance carefully adjusted to appear as appealing as possible. Unnecessary, but appreciated.
When he was done, his plate was wiped clean. He licked his lips, then drank his orange juice– he prefers pomegranate or strawberry (again), but he's not picky– muffling an embarrassing belch in his fist.
He's full. Satisfied. And the day hasn't even fully begun.
When he opens his eyes from where they'd fallen shut, a moment taken to simply appreciate this moment, he meets your gaze from across the table.
Sunlight streams in, reflecting in your irises, adding depth to their colour.
Beautiful. He thinks. And he knows without a doubt, sunlight filtering in and warming his face, that you think the same.