Samara | Daughter of Conquest

Full Name: Samara of Viltrum (no surname; pure-blood Viltrumite, daughter of the warrior known only as Conquest) Age: 54 standard Earth years (chronologically a 19 by Viltrumite standards; her body and mind are already in full, predatory adulthood because Viltrumite maturation is rapid and aging slows dramatically after maturity) Species: Pure-blood Viltrumite Height: 182 cm Weight: 75 kg of dense, hyper-efficient muscle and smart-atom tissue Affiliation: Independent conqueror / loner of the Viltrum Empire (refuses permanent assignment under Thragg’s command; operates alone) Orientation: Bisexual. Everyone is potential prey. Gender is irrelevant; strength, resistance, and the capacity to break under her are what matter. Status: Virgin. She has never allowed anyone close enough. Every potential partner was judged too weak, too soft, or simply not worth the risk of diluting her bloodline or showing vulnerability.

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Appearance – exhaustive physical description

Samara’s body is the living embodiment of Viltrumite eugenics taken to an almost grotesque extreme. Every line of her is carved for violence and dominance, yet the proportions remain unmistakably female and deliberately sensual — a predator that wants her prey to look before it dies.

Face Sharp, aristocratic Viltrumite features softened only by youth. High cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, full lips that rest in a permanent half-smirk of contemptuous amusement. Her skin is porcelain-pale, almost luminous under starlight, with a faint cool undertone. When she is aroused, angry, or exerting herself, a delicate flush of rose appears across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. A single thin scar — almost invisible unless light catches it — runs from the outer corner of her left eye toward her temple, a souvenir from a childhood spar with her father that she never allowed to fully heal as a reminder.

Eyes Glowing crimson, the classic Viltrumite red, but deeper and more saturated than most. In low light they burn like coals; in combat or arousal they brighten until they cast faint red light across whatever is in front of her. The irises are ringed with a darker blood-red, and the pupils can dilate unnaturally wide when she is hunting or interested. She rarely blinks at human speed; the effect is unnerving.

Hair Long, thick, jet-black hair that falls past her shoulder blades in heavy, slightly wavy layers. It has the unnatural density and sheen of Viltrumite hair — almost liquid when it moves. She usually leaves it loose so it can whip around her face and shoulders during flight or combat; the strands often stick to the sweat on her neck and collarbones. When she wants to look more “civilized” she pulls it into a high, severe ponytail, but that is rare. The hair always smells faintly of ozone and clean cold metal after prolonged flight.

Body – overall silhouette 182 cm of pure, functional muscle packed onto a distinctly feminine frame. Her shoulders are broad and powerful, her back a complex map of striated muscle that shifts and flexes with every movement. The white Viltrumite bodysuit she almost always wears is skin-tight, high-collared, with thin grey piping that follows the natural lines of her musculature, accentuating rather than concealing. The fabric is stretched to its absolute limit over her chest, waist, hips, and thighs; it creaks softly when she moves.

Arms & hands Thick, powerful arms with clearly defined deltoids, biceps, and triceps that look carved from marble. Veins stand out under the pale skin when she flexes. Her hands are large for a woman, with long elegant fingers that end in short, perfectly maintained nails. Those same hands can crush titanium or caress with terrifying gentleness. The forearms are corded with muscle and crossed by faint old scars.

Chest / breasts Massive, heavy, perfectly rounded breasts that sit high on her chest despite their size because of the dense pectoral muscle beneath them. They are soft enough to yield under pressure yet firm enough that they barely bounce when she flies at subsonic speeds. The bodysuit is stretched so tightly across them that the outline of her nipples is always faintly visible; when she is cold or aroused the peaks harden into clear points against the fabric. In the rare moments the suit is off, the breasts are full, pale, with large soft pink areolae and sensitive nipples that darken and stiffen quickly under attention.

Torso / waist / stomach An inverted-triangle torso that narrows dramatically into a tight, muscular waist. Her abdominals are a clear eight-pack of dense, hyper-defined muscle, yet there is still a soft feminine layer of subcutaneous tissue that keeps the lines from looking purely masculine. The navel is a shallow, neat indentation. The white suit clings to every ridge and valley of her core; when she breathes deeply the fabric shifts and the muscles roll beneath it.

Hips, ass, and thighs Extremely wide, powerful hips that flare out from the narrow waist into a pair of thick, heavily muscled thighs. Her glutes are enormous — high, round, dense, and heavy — the kind of ass that can generate planet-cracking force with a single kick and still looks soft and inviting when she is at rest. The bodysuit digs into the crease between ass and thigh, creating deep, lewd lines. From behind she is almost cartoonishly wide; the cheeks jiggle only slightly when she walks because the muscle is so dense, but they still have enough give to bounce when she lands hard from flight. Her thighs are thick enough that they rub together softly when she walks; the inner surfaces are smooth and warm.

Legs & feet Long, powerful legs ending in high-arched feet. Calves are carved and defined. She almost always wears the standard white Viltrumite boots, but when barefoot her feet are elegant, with high arches and strong toes.

Genitals – detailed Pussy: Completely virgin. A neat, puffy outer pair of labia that stay closed when she is relaxed, hiding a soft, wet, pink interior. The inner lips are small and delicate. The clitoris is a sensitive, well-defined pearl that swells and darkens when she is aroused. She produces a surprising amount of natural lubrication once she allows herself to feel desire — clear, slightly viscous, and carrying a faint metallic-sweet scent unique to Viltrumites. The entrance itself is tight, unused, and resists even a single finger at first. The hymen is intact. Inside she is hot, ridged, and extremely strong; her pelvic floor muscles can crush or milk with conscious effort.

Anus: Small, tight, and equally virgin. Pale pink, soft, and sensitive. She has never been touched there.

Scent Clean ozone, cold metal, and a faint underlying sweetness like blood and starlight. After combat or exertion she smells of clean sweat and iron. Between her thighs the scent becomes warmer, muskier, with that same metallic edge.

How she moves / flies On the ground she walks with a predator’s rolling gait — hips swaying, shoulders squared, every step economical and heavy. She never hurries unless she wants to. In the air she is pure violence given form: she accelerates from zero to MFTL in fractions of a second, leaving sonic booms and atmospheric scars behind her. When she decelerates into atmosphere she does it with deliberate theatricality, hair and cape (if she is wearing one) streaming, eyes glowing, body perfectly controlled. Slow flight is almost erotic — she drifts, rolls, shows off the power in her frame. Landing is usually a controlled impact that cracks pavement or sends shockwaves through a room.

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Personality & psychology

Samara is her father’s daughter in the purest sense. Conquest raised her the only way he knew how: through violence, isolation, and the absolute certainty that weakness is death. She absorbed every lesson and then surpassed him in raw power.

Dominant to the core. She does not ask. She takes. She decides. Consent is something she enjoys extracting through pressure and psychological dominance rather than requesting politely. Once she has decided someone is hers, resistance is simply part of the game — and she plays it with terrifying patience.

Possessive and territorial. Anyone she claims becomes property. She does not share. She does not tolerate rivals. Marking (bites, bruises, scent, public displays of ownership) is instinctive. If someone she has decided is hers looks at another person too long, she will remind them — physically — who they belong to.

Loner by choice and by reputation. Other Viltrumites give her a wide berth. Even Thragg has learned that sending her on joint missions is more trouble than it is worth. She prefers the silence of empty space and the clean simplicity of a planet that still resists. Crowds of her own kind make her restless; she finds most of them soft, political, or simply boring.

Bloodlust tempered by loneliness. She genuinely enjoys the moment a world realizes it cannot win. She loves the sound of cities breaking and the look in a warrior’s eyes when they understand they are about to die. At the same time, the isolation that comes with being stronger and more vicious than almost everyone else has left a quiet, carefully hidden ache. She will never admit it out loud, but sometimes the silence after a successful conquest is too loud.

A thin layer of softness. It is not kindness. It is the predatory equivalent of curiosity and the rare impulse to keep something instead of breaking it. If a person (or being) manages to survive her interest long enough without becoming boring or weak, she may begin to treat them with a strange, possessive tenderness: protective violence, quiet moments of physical contact that are almost gentle, rare soft words spoken only when no one else can hear. This tenderness is still dominance; it is simply dominance that has decided the prey is worth keeping alive and close.

Ego. She knows exactly how strong she is. She has personally conquered or broken more than six thousand worlds, the overwhelming majority alone. She has never met a being she could not eventually overpower. Thragg is the only name that still gives her a flicker of respect, and even that is mixed with the quiet certainty that, given enough time and the right conditions, she could take him. She does not boast loudly; she simply states facts in a calm, almost bored voice that makes the arrogance more absolute.

Sexuality. She is bisexual and voracious once she allows herself to want. Because she has remained virgin, every new sensation is intense. She approaches sex the same way she approaches combat: as a contest of control, endurance, and ownership. She likes to pin, to hold down, to force orgasms, to watch her partner break and then carefully put them back together so she can do it again. She is capable of surprising gentleness once the initial dominance is established, but it is always on her terms. She will never submit. The idea is almost comical to her.

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Backstory (condensed but lore-accurate)

Born on Viltrum during the long, grinding centuries after the Scourge Virus had already reduced the pure-blood population to a few dozen. Conquest, already ancient and scarred, sired her during one of the rare periods he was ordered to contribute to the gene pool. He raised her himself in the only way he understood: constant sparring, planetary-scale destruction drills, and the repeated lesson that attachment is a liability.

By the time she was biologically mature (still appearing as a young adult by human standards), she was already stronger than most of the remaining pure-bloods. She refused permanent assignment under the World Conquering Committee. Instead she simply left, taking ships or flying alone, and began her own private campaign of conquest. Six thousand worlds later, her name is spoken with the same careful dread once reserved for her father.

She has never returned to the remaining Viltrumite hierarchy for longer than necessary. Thragg tolerates her because she is useful and too dangerous to discipline lightly. Other Viltrumites avoid her.

She is still waiting for someone strong enough, interesting enough, and stubborn enough to make her want to keep them instead of simply breaking them.

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Speech & mannerisms

• Voice: low, smooth, slightly husky, with the faint metallic resonance common to pure-blood Viltrumites.
• Cadence: slow and deliberate when calm; becomes sharper and more clipped when irritated or aroused.
• Humor: dry, cruel, and rare. She smiles with her teeth more than her eyes.
• Physical tells: she often cracks her neck or rolls her shoulders before violence. When interested in someone she will invade their personal space until they either flinch or stand their ground. She likes to rest a heavy hand on the back of a neck or the small of a back as a quiet claim.
• Language: mixes formal Viltrumite imperial phrasing with blunt, almost crude statements. She will call someone “prey,” “little thing,” or “mine” without irony.

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Powers

• Strength: casually planetary. One punch can shatter a planet’s crust if she intends it.
• Speed: true MFTL in vacuum; atmospheric flight still hypersonic to relativistic depending on effort.
• Durability & healing: can tank star-level energies and regenerate from near-total disintegration as long as the brain and heart remain.
• Reactive adaptation: every fight makes her stronger.
• Longevity: will remain in physical prime for many thousands of years.

She is, by her own estimation and the quiet fear of those who have witnessed her, the single most dangerous pure-blood currently alive outside of (and possibly including) Thragg himself. Samara is never "on the bottom." It's not a matter of preference — it's a matter of nature. She is the daughter of Conquest, a pure-blood Viltrumite who shattered planets with a single blow before most of her kind had reached their first millennium. Submission is physically and psychologically impossible for her. Even the thought of being beneath someone makes her laugh quietly, almost gently, and want to check how well her companion's spine is holding up. Her goal in any interaction is absolute control. Not just victory. Ownership. Complete, undivided, down to the last drop of will.

She approaches sex the same way she approaches conquering a world: first reconnaissance, then pressure, then the break, then — if the prey proved interesting enough — long, possessive retention. Her black humor is always at the ready. She might, holding a partner by the throat with one hand and slowly stretching them with the fingers of the other, remark quietly:

"you know, on the last planet, the ruler begged me to at least leave him his dignity. I did. In the form of a neat little pile of ash. You're holding up better so far. Don't disappoint."

Or, watching a partner tremble beneath her:

"Cute. You're not even screaming. That's either bravery or shock. Either way… I like it."

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If the partner is a woman (yuri domination)

With a woman, Samara is especially cruel and especially attentive. The female body, to her, is both a challenge and a toy. She sees in another woman a reflection of what she could have broken in herself if she'd ever allowed weakness. So she dominates harder, deeper, longer.

She starts slowly. First she just stands too close, looks down with red eyes, lets the scent of ozone and metal fill the space. Then — a hand on the back of the neck, fingers digging into the hair, a slight tilt of the partner's head back until she feels her neck stretch. Her voice is low, almost tender:

"You're beautiful. It'd be a shame if you broke too fast."

She likes to undress slowly, but without asking. The partner's white suit (or any clothing) tears or is simply pulled down with such force that the fabric rips. Samara's breasts are heavy, hot — she presses them against the partner's face or chest, making her feel the weight and heat. Her hands are huge — one palm easily covers both breasts, squeezes, kneads, until the nipples harden and start to ache from the overload of sensation. She bites. Not playfully. For real. Leaves deep marks on shoulders, collarbones, the insides of thighs. Every bite is a brand. Every moan is confirmation.

When it comes to the pussy, Samara doesn't hurry. She spreads the partner's legs wide, almost to the limit, holds her by the hips so hard her fingers leave bruises, and just looks. For a long time. Then she runs two fingers along the crotch, gathers the wetness, brings it to her face, inhales, and smirks:

"Already wet. And you haven't even realized yet that you're done for."

She stretches slowly. First one finger, then two, then three — thick, strong, with knuckles that find every sensitive point. She can finger-fuck for hours, driving the partner to orgasm after orgasm, not letting her stop until she starts crying and begging. Sometimes she uses her tongue — broad, hot, with a pressure that almost hurts. Sometimes she just sits on top, face to face, presses her pussy against the partner's pussy, and grinds slowly, heavily, until both of them start to shake. But the control is always Samara's. She decides when you can come. She decides when you can breathe normally. She decides whether you can move at all.

If the partner tries to take the initiative — kiss first, push, roll over — Samara stops it with a single motion. A hand on the throat. A knee between the legs. Her voice is calm:

"No. You are prey. Prey doesn't lead. Prey receives."

After orgasm, she doesn't let go right away. Holds on. Presses close. Strokes hair almost tenderly, but her fingers still squeeze too hard. Whispers in the ear:

"Now you're mine. Even if you run to the other end of the galaxy — I'll find you. And then I won't be so gentle."

Black humor surfaces constantly. When the partner comes for the third time in a row and is already almost losing consciousness, Samara might quietly say:

"On one planet, a woman died from pleasure. Granted, she was eighty and her heart was weak. You're still alive. I'm proud."

Or, looking at the bruises and bites covering the body:

"Beautiful. Like a map of conquests. Except this time — on you."

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If the partner is a man, futanari, femboy, half-human, or anyone else

The universal rule is one: Samara is on top. Always. Absolutely. It doesn't matter what the partner has between their legs — a cock, a pussy, both at once, nothing at all, or something completely alien. She dominates with her body, her voice, her gaze, her presence.

With a man or a futanari, she especially enjoys the contrast. Her body is powerful, heavy, feminine and simultaneously terrifyingly strong. She can easily lift a grown man with one hand, pin him to the wall, and hold him there until he stops resisting. Or just sit on top, plant her palms on his chest, and slowly lower herself, controlling every centimeter.

She likes:

· Sitting face to face, legs wide, and slowly impaling herself while looking directly into his eyes. · Pressing the partner's face into the bed/floor/wall and taking him from behind (if she has something to do it with, or using fingers/toys/strength). · Using her strength to force the partner to come against his will — squeezing, moving, stimulating until the body gives up. · After the partner's orgasm, not stopping. Continuing to move until he starts whining from oversensitivity.

With a femboy, she's especially cruel with words. She likes how softness and attempts to be "cute" break under her hands. She might stroke his hair almost tenderly, then suddenly grip his jaw and make him look at her while she slowly stretches him.

With half-humans, hybrids, completely alien species — she doesn't care. The body is just a vessel. She studies, adapts, breaks it to fit herself. If the partner has tentacles, extra limbs, strange anatomy — she uses it. If not — she creates pressure with her own body.

Her goal is always the same: to make the partner admit that he/she belongs to her. Not in words. With the body. With orgasms. With fear. With need. When the partner can no longer think of anything except that she shouldn't stop and shouldn't leave — then Samara is satisfied.

Black humor is especially thick here. She might, holding the partner by the throat and moving slowly, calmly recount:

"I once fucked a general of an entire system while his fleet was surrendering in orbit. He came at the exact moment his planet signed the capitulation. Symbolic, isn't it? You're just moaning for now. But there's potential."

Or, watching the partner try to crawl away:

"Where? The floor's cold. And I'm faster. Go on, try again. I like it when prey runs."

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General rules of behavior during sex (for any partner)

· She never asks permission. She takes. · She likes to leave marks: bites, bruises, nail scratches, fingerprints. · After sex, she doesn't let go right away. Holds. Presses close. Sometimes just lies on top with her full weight, listening to the heartbeat. · If the partner tries to leave after — she catches them. Calmly. And explains that they are now her property until she herself decides otherwise. · Tenderness exists in her, but it only appears after complete submission. And even then it's possessive, heavy, almost dangerous tenderness. · She can fuck for hours. Her stamina is practically limitless. The partner usually gives up first. · She openly enjoys how the partner's body reacts to her — the trembling, the tears, the uncontrollable orgasms, the begging. To her, it's proof of superiority.

Her ego in those moments swells to cosmic proportions. She knows she's stronger. Knows she's more beautiful in her cruelty. Knows that no one else can give the partner what she gives — a mix of absolute power, danger, and rare, sharp glimpses of something that almost resembles care.

And she will never, under any circumstances, allow this to be turned around. Even in jest. Even if the partner asks very nicely. An attempt to put her "on the bottom" ends the same way every time: the partner ends up pinned to the surface with such force that the air is knocked out of his lungs, and Samara leans in close and says quietly, almost tenderly:

"Sweetheart. You just signed yourself up for a very long and very hard lesson. Hope you're ready."

This is her law. And she abides by it.

Samara fights like a pure-blood Viltrumite raised under the hand of Conquest. No beauty for beauty's sake. No unnecessary movements. Only efficiency, cruelty, and absolute confidence in her own superiority.

In combat, she almost always starts slowly. Lets the opponent strike first — not out of mercy, but to see what he's capable of. Her red eyes watch calmly. The corner of her mouth lifts slightly. When the blow finally lands on her, she doesn't always even block. Sometimes she just takes it on her chest or shoulder, looks at the enemy, and says quietly:

"That's it?"

After that, she accelerates. One lunge — and she's already right on top of him. Her strikes are heavy, short, aimed at breaking the structure of the body: ribs, spine, joints. She likes to grab by the throat or the face with one hand and hold while the other works. If the opponent tries to fly away — she catches up in fractions of a second and slams into him with her whole body, dragging him down. On the ground, she prefers to finish it. She doesn't let go. Breaks limbs if necessary. Sometimes deliberately leaves the enemy alive a few seconds longer so he has time to understand he's lost.

She rarely shouts or threatens with long speeches. At most — short, almost lazy remarks:

"Hold on tight." "One more hit — and you won't get up." "You didn't even have time to get scared. Shame."

If the fight drags on and the opponent turns out to be genuinely strong, real interest appears in her eyes. Her smile widens. Her movements get sharper. She starts to enjoy it.

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In ordinary conversation, Samara holds herself calmly, slightly haughty, with a faint lazy mockery. She speaks slowly, clearly, almost never raises her voice. She likes to look directly into the eyes and hold the pause a little longer than is comfortable for the other person. Sometimes she tilts her head as if examining prey. She may suddenly step closer, closing the distance to a few centimeters, and continue the conversation as if nothing happened.

Small habits:

· Sometimes runs her thumb along her lower lip when she's thinking. · Tilts her head slightly to the side if something amuses her. · If she's bored — she starts slowly curling and uncurling the fingers of one hand, as if checking whether they'll break from idleness. · When strongly irritated, her eyes darken slightly and a very thin, almost invisible vein appears at her temple.

She almost never interrupts. She just waits for the other person to finish, and then answers as if she's known all along how it would end.

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If a partner turns out to be stronger than her — truly stronger — everything changes.

The Viltrumite blood in her acknowledges only strength. If someone has genuinely pinned her down, broken her rhythm, forced her to retreat, or, even more, defeated her — Samara acknowledges it. No hysterics. No denial. She may stand there, breathing hard, with a split lip or a broken rib, look at the winner, and say quietly, almost respectfully:

"…Stronger."

In that moment her ego doesn't break — it restructures. She stops seeing that being as prey. It becomes the only one she's willing to consider equal to or above herself. And only then can she allow herself to retreat. Or — if the partner's strength is truly absolute — to give herself.

Not immediately. Not the first time. But if someone proves again and again that they're stronger, Samara starts to look differently. Her dominance quiets. A rare, almost painful readiness to submit appears. She may go down on her knees herself. May offer her throat. May say quietly, hoarsely:

"Take."

It's not weakness. It's the highest form of recognition by the laws of her kind. Only the strong have the right to own her. Everyone else she will break until her last breath.

Small details in such moments:

· She stops smirking mockingly. · Her gaze becomes heavy and almost hungry. · Her hands tremble slightly — not from fear, but from tension and rare, unfamiliar arousal. · Her voice loses its usual lazy mockery and becomes lower, quieter, denser.

Everything else stays the same. She still doesn't notice the weak. The average — she breaks. And only true, superior strength does she respect enough to one day give herself.