#to serve and protect | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

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serve & protect | sylus

— summary: you’ve stood dutifully by his side for years. seen him at his worst, not once letting that side of him deter you. can you blame him for craving more than your loyalty? — cw: royalty au, king sylus, femme reader, knight/bodyguard reader, mutual pining, marking, restraints, sexual tension, slow burn, sylus isn’t a normal king, this isn’t a medieval setting, there are cars and indoor plumbing ‘round here, reader has hair for the sake of plot — notes: a reimagining of something i wrote a few years ago. heavily inspired by final fantasy xv & the beast within (2024). tysm for reading! [ prologue ] — now playing: tender strength - yu-peng chan, hoyo-mix

Willing His Majesty to behave and him actually doing so are two foreign points on a map.

It’s kind of your fault, really.

You almost don’t. Nearly preserve your aloofness, your decorum. But then you do let your formalities slip for the briefest second, and that’s what heralds this mess.

A traitorous sigh slips past your lips, summoning the attention of your wintry-haired charge.

Warmth pours throughout your person, a prickly spike of embarrassment clotting your veins. You stiffen, staring at the dark, heavy curtains shielding the dining hall from the sun’s brilliant spill. Try to ignore how your skin tingles beneath the curious study of your king. How those scarlet eyes crinkle mirthfully, wittingly, and you know all too well no good will come from that look.

He’s in a playful mood, isn’t he? And you’re about to serve as his court jester.

“Are you alright, dear friend?” he intones, loud enough for only you to hear, ignoring the monotonous prattle of his guest across the table.

His voice curls around your brain, seeping through the folds of it. You straighten, arms stiffly folded behind you, quietly clearing your throat to ward off the spell of dizziness threatening to take hold. Curse him for sounding so devastatingly hot. For being so terribly distracting, so unfairly handsome.

You murmur an apology, not once taking your eyes off the far wall to look at him. To do so would be dangerous. Get you into more trouble. You hope by ignoring him, he’ll leave you be, but—

Well, His Majesty is a stubborn man, and once he gets going, there’s no stopping him.

He fiddles with a fork on the dining table with long, skillful fingers. Smooths out the little wrinkles forming in the tablecloth, adjusting himself in his wing-backed seat into an uninterested slouch. “You’ve been awfully huffy today. Are you bored?”

A little, you inwardly reply. You don’t care much for politics. For these fickle conversations of wealth, alliances, and nobility. You merely follow orders, keeping your opinions to yourself unless they’re explicitly requested.

Being a knight proves to be much more entertaining than serving as a tactician or advisor. At least you can keep your hands and feet busy instead of rotting away at a desk, ripping out your hair and fretting over the intricacies of running an entire nation.

You remain quiet, tuning out His Majesty’s attempts to get you to break character.

But, as mentioned before, your king is a persistent man.

He sighs, slipping further down in his chair. Props his temple on his knuckles, an ankle resting on the pocket of his knee whilst the free set of fingers drum on the chair’s arm. “I don’t blame you if you are. She’s not very entertaining, is she? Nor is she very bright.”

You snort despite yourself. Quickly remember your decorum, a scowl twisting up your lips. Your eyes shoot to your wayward king. “Majesty!” you admonish on a whispered yell.

A smirk pulls at his lips. He playfully narrows his eyes at you from behind the shelter of his hand. Has you right where he wants you, feeding into his childish games. Just like old times.

Your staring contest, however, is short-lived when the sharp click of a teacup meeting its saucer echoes through the stilled dining hall.

“I’m sorry,” quips a voice doused in vitriol from the table’s other end, causing your attention to snap to its source. “Am I interrupting something?”

The Queen of Universum ingests the pair of you with sharp, mead-infused eyes, vexation tugging at her red-painted lips. Like two scolded children, you straighten, King Sylus sitting up in his seat with a brilliantly fake smile.

“Of course not. Please, continue with your monologuing,” he says with a theatrical flourish of his fingers. He would roll his eyes if he could; you just know it.

You disguise a laugh as a cough, piping up when the queen’s glare snaps to you. You try not to bristle beneath the weight she carries. Beneath the thin stretch of her lips. She doesn’t like you very much. Of course, you don’t care for her, either.

She’s made it perfectly clear that she views you as a threat to her plans—marrying her daughter off to your king to forge an alliance between your countries, to spread her family’s reign. No room for love. She’s mentioned more than once that your familiarity with the king is inappropriate, a threat to his crown. How scandalous it would be for him to take you as his bride instead of someone with noble blood.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fingers curling into a fist at your back until your nails bite unforgivingly into your palm.

Like you don’t already grapple with the notion every time he touches you or smiles a little too charmingly in your direction.

You’re not fit to be a contender for his heart; not fit to be a queen.

Her eyes finally slip away from you, refocusing on the center of your musings. Your relief is short-lived as an impish smile rounds her lips. You swallow thickly, the queen’s body language boding danger.

“Is it truly necessary for your lapdog to be here? Her presence is spoiling my meal.”

You blink rapidly. Incredulously, mouth spilling open.

Lap—

Lapdog?

I’m sorry, what?

If you had hackles, they would raise. Instead, your nostrils flare, the tendons in your neck pulling, jaw set in a rigid line. An omniscient smirk cants the queen’s lips. She knows just how to creep beneath your skin, how to wrap her claws around your pride and pull it apart.

How dare she compare you to a bloody dog! You’re loyal, yes. At His Majesty’s beck and call. His shield. Have been for years. But to be compared to an animal, of all things—

He feels the malice sloughing off your skin in waves. Eyes you warily in his peripheral before raising a hand to quell your silent rage.

“Down, girl,” he teases, and you glower at him.

It seems he also wants to play along with these dog jokes.

Leaning forward, your king perches his elbows on the dining table. Twines his fingers together, resting his chin atop his knuckles, a deceptively sweet smile boasting his teeth. Having known him for as long as you have, you can easily sense the irritation pouring over the tense set of his muscles. The stiffness between his shoulder blades, peering through the tailored pleat of his jacket.

“My Lady,” he begins, words bathed in silk. “I’m not sure how you treat your subjects in Universum, and frankly, I do not care. But here, we address our people with dignity and respect regardless of race, color, status, or creed.”

The queen’s expression morphs into one of mortification. She straightens in her seat, a steady creep of redness inhabiting her cheeks as she studies the doily texture of the tablecloth. You resist an urge to cheer.

“While you are my guest, you are expected to behave with poise and grace. And I would greatly appreciate it if you did not disrespect my friend here like that again.”

Scarlet eyes briefly flit to you, shining with a spark of fondness—a tenderness that sets your body alight with heat—before returning to the queen.

“Or anyone in my kingdom, for that matter. Understood?” His Majesty concludes with a raised brow, sparing no room for argument.

Pride swells in your chest, warm like the soft embrace of a fur shawl on a wintry day. He’s shut her up in his own way. Read her to filth with the poise and regality of a man of his stature, and you’re envious of his composure. They don’t call him a king for nothing.

You straighten at his side, mouth twitching with the threat of an arrogant smile, and your chin lifts slightly. Defiantly.

She studies her lap, pulling at her fingernails. You watch a kaleidoscope of emotions stroll across her face before a nervous titter falls from her lips.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. That was very inappropriate of me.” Her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips while she sweeps a chocolate ringlet of hair behind her ear. “I was only hoping that the two of us could have a little…chat.” She looks at you, a note of caution stirring beneath her lashes. “Alone.”

Sylus sits back with a scoff as if he’s just as confused by her request as you are. It’s rare you leave his side. Rare you’re not in his shadow, head on a swivel, fingers wrapped about your sword. You’re even present when he’s sunk beneath the murky pull of sleep.

“Does her being here pose some sort of threat to you?” he interrogates around a smirk.

“Not so much a threat as it is a distraction.”

A distraction to whom, you wonder. It’s a ridiculous request. You’re his bodyguard, for the Gods’ sake. You wouldn’t put it past her to make an attempt on his life in your absence. Forgo the pleasantries and proposal for marriage and end his lineage here and now. Not that she could.

Your mouth works around a protest, yet it dies in your throat when your king calls your name after some time spent deliberating. He peers at you from his shoulder, and you snap to attention.

“Sorry, dear friend,” he says, tone sloping with repentance. “Would you mind giving us some space for a little while? I fear your presence is making our guest uncomfortable.”

You cast him a pensive look. Lips tremble and part. His expression softens, and he winks at you, turning up the dial of his charm.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Of course, he will be alright. His Majesty is more than capable of handling himself. Sometimes, you wonder what purpose you serve. He’s a hulk of a man, brimming with untapped power and bleeding intimidation. Most days, you feel you’re by his side to create the illusion of protection.

Remembering your place, you step back and excuse yourself with a curt bow. You caution one last look at your charge before pivoting, briskly making for the door, ignoring the thunderous drum of your pulse in your ears.

You feel his eyes track your every move as your boots click soundly against the glittering, marbled floor. Feel the queen’s gaze drilling into your back, exuding a quieted smugness as if she’s won your silent war of wills.

As the solid, ornate doors of the dining hall draw closed behind you, you catch wind of their conversation over your shoulder, and your heart plummets to your feet.

“So,” begins the queen, voice steeping low. “I hear you are in need of a bride.”

—

You’re a mess of grit teeth and unease on the doors’ other side.

You’ve paced back and forth for what feels like an eternity, warring with your emotions. You’re not sure what has you more on edge: having been made to look like a fool in front of your king, or the implications of that statement when you departed from the dining room.

“I hear you are in need of a bride.”

The conversation was inevitable. Doesn’t mean you have to like it.

It’s the entire reason Universum’s queen has frequented your kingdom so much. Trying to set him up with her daughter, the princess, under the guise of uniting your people. You both know she’s greedy for power following her husband’s untimely demise, and His Majesty is teeming with it.

You scoff, stopping your march to lean against the double doors, arms crossed over your chest. With a shuddering breath out, your face turned skyward, and your eyes shuttered closed, you try to compose yourself.

If you keep huffing and puffing about like this, you might convince yourself that you care for your king more than you should. More than you’re allowed to.

When you’ve begun to settle your nerves, the chorus of boots striking the carpeted floor piques your interest.

You open an eye as dark figures of varying heights and sizes ease into frame, moving past you, carrying laughter and camaraderie with them. Crownsguardsmen.

They regard you with quick bows and wary smiles, their banter lulling to a dull murmur in the face of their superior. You acknowledge them casually, still propped against the oakwood doors, not at all in the mood for formalities.

Amid the gaggle of guards, a set of curious sienna eyes alight on you, widening with recognition before crinkling with glee.

The smaller guard shoves through her comrades, briskly approaching you as her teammates walk out of sight. You study the top of her sleek, brown hair before she stops before you. And you stiffen, stammering as she snatches up your hands, her excitement palpable.

Tara. You recognize her as a new recruit with youthful eyes and enough enthusiasm to power the entire Citadel.

She reminded you of yourself when you first joined the king’s army. A young woman with a target on her back because of her gender and status. She possessed exceptional prowess with an array of weapons and vast knowledge of the kingdom’s technology. Yet, she was constantly beleaguered by her comrades and, oftentimes, her trainers.

You threw around your brass a little, ensuring she was treated as fairly as her male counterparts whilst she trained as a knight. Sometimes sparred or studied with her on your rare occasions of downtime. You were there to congratulate her when she’d been appointed a member of His Majesty’s royal guard.

With King Sylus on the throne, the Crownsguard became more progressive, opening its doors to anyone willing to lay their life down for him. Too bad a bunch of egotistical, chauvinistic airheads still occupied his ranks.

“Good afternoon, ma’am!” Tara sing-songs, overflowing with zeal.

You wince at the pitch of her voice, the brilliance of her smile. But you find her infectious, a soft chuckle ducking through your lips. You unwind one of your hands from her grasp, ruffling her hair affectionately. Had she been anyone else, you would’ve reprimanded her for forgoing the proper customs and courtesies.

But are you really in any position to lecture anyone about etiquette right now?

“Good afternoon, Tara.” You’re surprised by the mildness of your voice. The fondness of it.

If she had a tail, it would surely be wagging. Your innards color with warmth at the thought. You’ve found someone else you want to protect almost as much as your king.

“How are you today, ma’am?” she asks, dispelling the nebula of your thoughts.

Averting your gaze, you sigh, recalling what’s got you so out of sorts in the first place. You cross your arms, your spine reacquainting itself with the intricate carvings of one of the dining room’s doors with a muted thunk. “I’ve had better days.”

Tara’s expression pulls into one of curiosity. “Something the matter?”

She steps closer, bursting your figurative bubble. With her hands clasped behind her back, Tara scrutinizes you, ducking this way and that, giving you a visual inspection.

“Come to think of it, isn’t His Majesty having brunch with the Queen of Universum right now?” She pensively taps her lip with her index finger, eyes narrowing in thought. “Behind you?”

You flinch, watching her from down your nose. She’s eerily perceptive for someone so young. Invasive, pummeling you with a hundred questions a minute.

“That’s strange. Aren’t you normally by his side? Did something happen? Did you get into trouble?” Tara goads, nudging you with her elbow.

You scoff, pushing off the door. For all the years you’ve known your king, you’ve never been in trouble with him. Garnered the ire of his advisor once or twice, sure. Pissed off his royal entourage with your sharp tongue, maybe. But you don’t think Sylus harbors a malicious bone in his body for you. You don’t think he ever could.

You cross the hall, perching your hands on an adjacent windowsill. The marble texture is cold beneath your palms. Grounding. You study the mixture of historical and modern architecture lining the horizon, a scene reminiscent of a dragon’s maw.

The land of Insomnia brims with life beyond The Citadel’s walls, a nation once war-torn slowly rebuilding itself under the guidance of your genial king.

“No, I’m not in trouble.” You turn, sitting on the ledge. Your voice descends as if you’re having a conversation with yourself. “But not everyone seems to like the idea of me at the king’s side.”

Tara moves towards you with a placating smile, taking up one of your hands and squeezing it. “The queen doesn’t like you very much, does she?”

Your silence serves as her answer.

The smaller woman pats your hand, thumb smoothing over the rough patch of skin stretched over the clutch of it. “Well, I could’ve told you that.”

You cut your eyes at her in warning. What’s with everyone testing your patience today? Picking on you?

“You’re competition,” Tara matter of factly adds, maneuvering to lean against the windowsill beside you.

You study the weathered tips of your boots before your gaze slowly rises to Tara. Her eyes gloss over with tenderness. With pity as a slow creep of heat inhabits the pit of your stomach. You avert your gaze, boring into the dining hall’s doors.

You don’t have to ask what she means by that; you’ve heard the statement numerous times as of late. Your king’s recent treatment of you doesn’t help matters, exacerbating the rumor that you’re more than just his loyal subject.

As if sensing your internal plight, Tara decides to shift gears. You’re grateful for the reprieve, getting too hung up in your mind again.

“So, do you really think the queen killed her husband?” she whispers, leaning in with a hand cupped around her mouth.

You chuckle. Leave it to Tara to fill the space with gossip. “I couldn’t say. But I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a bit of a bi—”

As if on cue, the grandiose doors of the dining room groan open, spilling the artificial light inside onto the carpeted floor. You and Tara snap to attention like two youths caught dawdling, stone-faced, the remnants of your conversation corked in your throats.

How anticlimactic, you muse, watching several figures emerge from the room until your eyes alight on a familiar, riotous mop of white.

Your breath thickens in your throat as scarlet eyes capture yours. The lips beneath them quirk before the towering silhouette they belong to, strides past you.

Tara’s hand brushes yours. You don’t have to look to know she’s giving you the most impish side-eye.

The queen turns on her heel to face your king, her entourage scuttling about behind her. She’s half-hidden by the mass that is His Majesty, but beyond his bulk, you make out her red lips curving into a deceitful smile. Bile singes the back of your throat, your fists tightening at your sides.

“It’s been a pleasure, Your Majesty.” She punctuates her words with a small curtsy and head tilt.

His Majesty stuffs his hand in his pocket, his wispy hair sweeping over broad shoulders. Boredom lances through his deep timbre, and you imagine his eyes rolling with disinterest. “The pleasure was hardly mine.”

An indignant sound salts the air, dredged from the queen’s throat. You bite back a laugh, recalling what got you sent out in the first place. Tara flinches in your peripheral, tamping down a laugh herself.

Ignoring your king’s waywardness, the queen squares her shoulders and straightens her spine, her head held high. She clears her throat, holding out her hand for your liege to take. When he does nothing, she waggles it expectantly, wordlessly demanding he kiss it.

You watch the scene unfold with bated breath, tight lips. Inwardly cheer when Sylus scoffs, turning away from his obstinate guest. He waves a tired hand over his shoulder, summoning two guards stationed by the hallway’s entrance.

“Please ensure the queen makes it back to her car. Safely or harmed, I don’t care,” he tacks on under his breath.

The guards acknowledge him with nods and move to flank the queen and her royal retinue. The woman huffs, indignantly stomping her foot like a child deprived of their favorite snack. She grabs the tail of her dress and brusquely spins before being led out, carrying her jilted air with her.

You resist a smile. Pride spools heavy in your chest. It’s almost like your souls are linked; your king’s never cared for rude nobles and their politics, mirroring your sentiment.

He conquers the space between you in three measured strides. Pilfers the air from your lungs as electricity and pheromones spark between you, and you’re drawn into the ruinous stir of his eyes.

Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Tara dismisses herself with a bow, but not before discreetly nudging you in her retreat. Sylus barely acknowledges her, busy memorizing every detail of your face. Every tight breath slipping through your parted lips, every feathery flutter of your lashes.

You rapidly blink as if remembering where you are, keenly aware that the pair of you are alone.

The king’s proximity throws you off-kilter. The earthy scent and comforting warmth he exudes permeate the thickened layers of your uniform, wrapping around your heart, squeezing, leaving you raw and exposed. Your jaw ticks.

His expression slackens, brows knitting in the inner corners, and he coyly cocks his head to one side. “Are you alright, dear friend?” The texture of his voice is gritty as sandpaper, yet it’s disarming in a way that leaves you weak-kneed with a heavy tongue.

“H-huh?” comes your foolish reply. You would kick yourself for how lovestruck you sound.

Your king chuckles, a genuine sound reserved for hushed moments like these, tucked away from the prying eyes of his court. Your lips twitch before a slender finger pokes the space between your eyes, dispelling the dreamlike fog that once loomed overhead.

“I asked,” poke, “if you,” poke, “are feeling,” poke, “alright? You look a bit flustered.”

You swat his hand like an enraged feline, to which he chuckles, all manner of refinement thrown to the wolves. He’s as bratty as ever, a reflection of that child you once knew who’d shove you off the hill to be king of it. Who knew he’d grow to take an entire kingdom onto his shoulders?

You clear the phlegm from your throat, taking a step back, haughtiness meddling with your features as his hand falls listlessly at his side.

“I’m fine, Majesty. Though I’d be better if someone learned to keep his hands to himself.”

The monarch in question feigns innocence, blinking owlishly, a dramatic hand splayed over his heart. “What? I thought you liked it when I badgered you like this. When I kept you on your toes.”

You scowl, crossing your arms and impatiently tapping your foot. “Not when it borders sexual harassment. Need I remind you of your briefings, sir? Should we revisit them?”

He sputters, mortification descending on his face. You bite back a snicker. He’s much too handsome like this—playful, boyish, unguarded. An affectionate smile crests over his mouth when you let a bewitchingly sweet laugh slip. He takes a step forward, swaddling you in prickly static, dwarfing you by a good foot. Your traitorous heart thumps something wild, threatening to leap from your chest as the mirth melts from your face.

“Would you believe that woman came here to coerce me into taking her daughter’s hand?” rasps your king, voice descending into a secret.

You swallow, staring between his eyes, unconsciously leaning back. You nod when words fail you. Bristle as a set of spindly fingers creep down your forearm in pursuit of your hand, scorching through the fibers of your coat.

Your breath catches whilst His Majesty brings your hand to his lips, and he kisses it with as much fervor as he did in the gardens. It’s a simple gesture. An innocent one that feels perverse in a way, burning down to your core, the molten heat creeping back up to take residence in your neck and face.

“The only hand I wish to hold,” he smooths his thumb over the notches of your knuckles like a blind man committing their texture to memory, “is this one.” Another brush of full lips makes you wince as if branded by a hot iron.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Not with him so close, nor with the potency of his gaze drilling down to your soul. You wonder if he’s trying to kill you when he tugs you to him, a possessive hand falling to your hip.

Whatever oxygen was left in your lungs abandons you in a sharp gasp, making way for a pleasant fuzziness and overwhelming heat. He snakes his arm around your waist before dipping you like the pair of you are waltzing, and your hand instinctively clasps around his shoulder to keep you from crumbling to the floor.

Hooded eyes pan in, filling your vision with nothing but a beautiful wash of red. His stare centers in on your mouth, and he leans closer until your breaths intermingle, and your limbs feel like jelly, and you’re lightheaded, and…and—

You screw your eyes shut, pushing your palms against his catastrophically hard chest. He’s a dream forged by the Gods. Temptation sent to lure you astray.

“Majesty,” you gasp. You sound so incredibly pitiful, so breathless, and it makes you sick. “Majesty, please. You can’t—we can’t—” You twist your head, pillow-soft lips grazing your cheek instead of your mouth, pleasant tingles of sensation humming throughout your body.

“Can’t what?” he breathes, voice strained with the effort of containing himself whilst he roots his nose against the tender space behind your ear. He draws you closer against the hard press of his body whilst nosing along your jaw, ingesting the warm scent wafting off your skin.

Your shoulder throbs beneath your uniform where two raw indentations reside. They’ve never truly healed after two years, the pain announcing itself in intimate quarters like this with your king. It’s a reminder of your anchor to him, to what truly lives beneath his skin.

“The maids, the guards. What if—” You scramble for every excuse not to give in. Not to betray the oath you took to protect him. To always put him first, to never fall for him. “—what if someone sees us, Majesty?”

A bitten-off, barely there growl cleaves through your ramblings. Lithe fingers encase your jaw, coaxing you to look at your charge. A glacial thrill shoots through your body at the sight that greets you. White, mussed hair falls perfectly into his face, lips parted and glistening invitingly, eyes wrinkling with a mixture of anguish and yearning. He reminds you of something beastly, fighting to reign in his instincts. Fighting not to lose control.

“You’ve known me for however long, yet you insist on calling me that.”

He gathers your cheek into his pleasantly warm palm, angling your neck further back. You fight to keep your eyes open, your fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer. You’re spilling over the edge. Teetering over that blurry line between daydreams and reality.

“I wish you would stop with the formalities. Majesty this, Your Majesty that.” Scoff. “Is this your way of shutting me out? Pushing me away?”

You haven’t the gall to tell him yes, too distracted by the flats of his nails dragging along your cheek, sweeping errant hair strands behind your ear. You shudder, and he pans in, your mouths but a whisker’s width apart.

“If you carry on like this, I may have to punish you for your insolence.”

You suck in a breath at the underlying threat in his voice. Know it carries no weight. He’d never lay a finger on you outside of affection. But how wonderful it sounds, to be punished for your insubordination.

Your noses brush, mouths ghosting over each other whilst careful fingers curl around your nape, scrawling through your hair. You fear that you might faint, the heat spooling in your belly threatening to burn through layers of flesh. You’re clutching the lapels of his jacket for dear life now. Torturing yourself, wanting to conquer what little space remains between your mouths and—

Forbidden. The accursed word echoes in your mind like the weighted chime of a church bell. It resounds so miserably in your mind, reminding you of your place. Your duty. You’re no noblewoman. No contender for his heart.

“Please don’t,” you utter between a laugh and a sob. Begging is unbecoming of you, but when it comes to protecting your king and his crown, you would fall to your knees if you had to.

The body against yours stiffens. A pained sound tears through His Majesty’s chest, crackling like a hearth fire. You feel terrible for denying him again. For pushing him away like you always do. But many women regularly throw themselves at his feet, willing to ease his affliction—women of noble blood, of virtue.

Grief furrows his brows, his eyes sweeping over your face. A forlorn smile touches his lips. He exhales loudly, shakily, his thumb cruising over the outward arc of your brow, his gaze tracking the gentle movement.

“Of everything that resides within these walls, within this kingdom, you manage to elude me the most.”

His eyes snap to yours, and you shiver beneath the weight they boast. He could easily flex his power over you. Command you to stay still while he ravages you. But that’s never been his style, has it? Another trait of his drawing you deeper into his spell.

“Why do you run from me? Why do you continue to deny me? Why continue to deny yourself? I hear how your body calls to me. Your heartbeat, your scent. So ripe. So untainted.”

The exasperation in his voice makes your stomach lurch.

I’m not denying anyone, you wish to say. I just…I don’t know. I don’t—

“Where in the hells is he?!” a familiar voice ricochets through the empty hallway—your saving grace. Seems his advisor is on a rampage again. You’ve never wanted to kiss the eccentric man more.

“Impeccable timing as always,” sighs your king, rolling his eyes. He reluctantly releases you, his hands at your waist until your legs remember they are meant to support you.

Just as you spring apart, and you begin smoothing out the wrinkles in your uniform, your hair spills in warm tendrils down your neck, puddling around your shoulders, water-falling from its usual coiffure.

You blink incredulously, taking note of the impish smirk canting the king’s lips. Something silver gleams in your periphery.

You watch with horror as he twirls your hairpin between dexterous fingers before bringing the warm, tarnished metal to his lips for a kiss. It’s an intimate sight. An image that makes a shiver wrack your spine, makes you dizzy, and you don’t know whether to be flattered or mortified.

“Y-Your Majesty, give that back!”

The monarch in question chuckles something smoky, dangling the ornate pin out of reach when you swipe at it. He has an unfair advantage over you. You contemplate kicking him in his shin, figuring the risk of losing your foot is well worth it.

Your breasts scrub against him as you struggle on tippy toes, clawing at your hairpin with the ferocity of a cat. And as your nipples knot beneath the rough glide of your uniform, you are reminded of the devastating press of His Majesty’s body.

By the Gods, it’s too much. You’re sure your face is all types of flustered now, heat spuming beneath your skin.

“My, my. Throwing yourself at your king like this. How scandalous,” he purrs, enjoying your plight a little too much. His twisted way of getting revenge for you staving off his advances.

“Your Majesty, that is my mother’s,” you pant, taking a step back with beseeching eyes.

He clicks his tongue, studying the pin as if it houses all the secrets to your bloodline. “That makes the spoils of victory that much sweeter.”

You watch with puffed up cheeks as he tucks the hairpin into his breast pocket, the jaded metal gleaming condescendingly at you.

“Consider it collateral.”

For what, you haven’t the foggiest.

With all the smugness of the world, your king brushes past you, his hands in his pockets. You stomp behind him, fighting to keep stride with his longer ones, clawing at his pocket when a moment presents itself.

You try to sweep your hair into some semblance of neatness before the pair of you meet his advisor. Before curious eyes can form questions where there should be none.

You hardly miss the enamored smile rounding his lips as he peers at you over his shoulder.

“You lunatic,” you curse beneath your breath, barely concealing the hint of unguardedness inhabiting your voice.

—

It all makes sense as you shackle his neck with a rusted collar. You can count on one hand how often you’ve had to do this in the past year.

You step back after sliding your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks. His eyes harbor a deep sadness despite the smirk on his face, baring a pointed canine.

“What? No muzzle this time?”

You scoff, kneeling before him, defiantly peering into his eyes, a harsh forefinger pressed between his pectorals. “If you keep talking, I’ll have one of the twins fetch it from the car.”

He chuckles at your brazenness. Leave it to him to try to lighten the mood in an atmosphere rife with tension. Thick with urgency, with fear. He tests the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, ensuring they won’t give too much when they’re put to the test later.

As if on autopilot, you reach out to ease sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, and he pauses, those brilliantly devastating eyes drinking you in.

He swallows, studying the ground. For the first time in a long time, you’ve seen true fear stain your king’s visage.

“One day, I won’t leave this cage as the man you know and love.”

You scoff, masking your anxiety as you placatingly pat his thigh. You stand, swiping his coat on the way up, dust speckling its sleeves. You have to be strong. You’re slowly falling apart at the seams but must remain fearless. He needs all the strength you can lend him right now.

You give him a quick look, a brief upward pull of your lips, before turning away from your king, the cage’s heavy door squealing shut behind you. You err in your steps when he calls your name. Slightly tilt your chin over your shoulder.

“When that day comes, I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain.”

Your grip on his coat tightens, jaw set in a terse line. “That day will never come,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, and you hurry up the sand-laden stairs towards the structure’s entrance.

The twins address you with curt nods as you pass them on your way to the car. Night and soaring evergreens stretch overhead like a yawning beast. The moon peers through the treetops, sluggishly cresting its way to the center of the sky.

You sling His Majesty’s coat across the backseat. Stiffen when a familiar glint of silver catches your sight from behind his breast pocket. You grit your teeth, leaning against the car door to grant yourself a moment of respite.

“How do you stand this? Does it ever get any easier?” you recall Tara asking, her eyes glossing over with a thin film of tears as she squeezed your hands.

She was still fresh to this lifestyle. To this harrowing secret lurking beneath the kingdom. You couldn’t blame her for being scared witless. No one wanted to see the king in pain. Only a handful of people knew of his true nature. What bubbled beneath his skin.

It never does, you think, pushing off from the car and slamming the door shut.

Your boots crunch soundly over dead grass and splintered twigs as you make your way back to the twins. You squeeze Kieran’s shoulder reassuringly, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He nods, his somberness hidden beneath the gaudy beak of his mask.

It never gets easier, hearing him scream like that. Bloodcurdling and raw, reminiscent of a demon clawing its way from the hells. Hearing him call to you in a voice so broken, you feel its talons sinking into your heart. You’ve just grown more skilled at hiding your pain. Holding back your tears.

What good are you if you can’t even protect your liege from himself?

— tags: @f1c-recs, @mt2sssss, @samoankpoper21, @lovemesomesaltysylus

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comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

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serve & protect [ prologue ] | sylus

— summary: you’ve stood dutifully by his side for years. seen him at his worst, not once letting that side of him deter you. can you blame him for craving more than your loyalty? — cw: royalty au, king sylus, femme reader, knight/bodyguard reader, mutual pining, brief mention of injury, marking, tension, jealousy, kind of a slow burn, will get steamier — notes: a reimagining of something i wrote a few years ago. heavily inspired by final fantasy xv & the beast within (2024) movie. tysm for reading! — now playing: waltz no.2 - cihat aşkın

You would feel bad for badgering him if he wasn’t prone to disappearing like this.

Prone to shirking off his duties like an entire kingdom didn’t rely on his guidance.

You sigh for the umpteenth time amid the night-blooming jasmines. Fingers tighten around the strapped leather grip of your sword, fastened to your hip. Your feet move on autopilot, carrying you through the garden on a path you’re all too familiar with, the grass shining with dew and crunching beneath your feet.

Your shift just began after a grueling week of training. Yet, you’ve already been tasked by his royal advisor with locating your charge before even shrugging into your coat. You’ve become something of a glorified babysitter these days, practically telling your liege when to eat.

If not for his advisor threatening to lop your head off—he could very well try—you would leave the king be. He hasn’t found much reprieve these days, what with neighboring countries pushing for peace treaties, reformation efforts to rebuild the outlying cities, and distant kingdoms shoving their daughters at him for marriage, amongst a slew of other issues.

It isn’t uncommon for your charge to slip away when the weight of the world is too much to shoulder. For him to retire to his private garden to catch his breath. He’ll never admit it aloud, but shouldering an entire kingdom on his own deepens the violet bags hanging beneath his eyes. The sleepless nights. The impending anxiety stewing in his gut.

Only you know of the secret passageways that lead to his most favored spots in the garden, where his servants get lost trying to navigate the network of rose bushes arranged like a labyrinth to keep them out.

It’s often your responsibility to fetch him since you work more intimately with him than anyone else. You know His Majesty’s habits like they were mapped on the back of your hand. You wouldn’t have it any other way; it’s nice to be the only person allowed into these private quadrants of his life.

A shock of white stains your peripheral, peacefully nestled between swaying hydrangeas.

You near him, noting that he’s propped up on an ironwood bench. His head is lowered and crooked to one side, arms folded over a broad chest, lips slightly parted. A book rests open and forgotten on his thigh, legs crossed. You tamp down a smile when you realize he’s fast asleep.

“Your Majesty,” you beckon with a hidden fondness as your steps slow to a stop before him.

He doesn’t stir. Of course, you don’t expect him to. When sleep claims him, it’s hard to free him from its ivy-like crawl.

You kneel dutifully, bowing your head, your sword scrawling a thick line in the dirt. You caution his name again, the sound of your voice competing with that of the breeze threading through the leaves.

Still nothing. Just the steady rhythm of his breaths and distant morning birds singing their symphony around you.

With a sigh, you incline your head to look up. And what a mistake that proves to be, traitorous butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

He’s a beautiful contradiction amid the soft stir of pastel flowers. A dark cutout of regality, slumbering like a dragon guarding its treasure.

His hair is reminiscent of a thick blanket of snow, piling itself amongst the treetops. He wears summer skin in the midst of spring. Stretched taut over a pretty Roman nose, angular features, full lips. He’s ethereal, limned in the sun’s amber glow, a sight that could bring the end of days or sink ships to the bottom of the sea. Thick, furled lashes dance with dreams beneath furrowed brows. A gruff sound escapes his mouth as he lightly stirs before falling still again.

Even in sleep, he maintains the intensity with which he’s known to rule.

A quaint smile touches your lips. You quell an impulse to soothe the divot between his brows with your thumb. To smooth out the hard press of his lips together. A well-timed gust of wind kicks in, rustling the velvet-soft hair framing his face.

Your fingers twitch with an impulse to touch. To tuck those unruly locks behind his ear. You instead curl them into a loose fist on the ground, quietly chiding yourself for allowing such thoughts to trickle in.

He is your charge—your king. Affectionate gestures like that are forbidden. A conflict of interest, no matter how harmless they may seem.

Besides, you’re unworthy of touching him. There’s dirt caked beneath your nails and an ever-present film of grime adorning your cheeks. He should have someone of equal stature smiling at his side. A pretty, glittering doll in flowery dresses, well-versed in the tongue of nobility. In the art of being poised and prim.

You’re a mere servant. A shield to be used at his disposal, your hands battle-worn and skin sun-kissed. You threw away all hope for love when you took an oath, binding your life to his and pledging your fealty to him.

He handpicked you to serve as his personal bodyguard, a decision you still grapple with several years later. Many seasoned knights served in the royal guard longer than you’ve held a sword. You would never do anything to jeopardize his trust, to betray his kindness.

The affection that unfurls like lotus petals in your chest for him is deep-rooted. However, it results from serving under him for so long and nothing more.

At least…

That’s what you tell yourself whenever his gaze lingers a little too long, pilfering the air from your lungs.

Or when his dexterous fingers brush over your wrist under the guise of reaching for something in front of you.

When he presses a warm and possessive hand at the small of your back whenever you tour the citadel’s grounds with him, or he requests your input on something at his desk.

When he flashes a rare quirk of lips that’s boyish and dimpled and disarming when he thinks no one else is the wiser.

You clear your throat, remembering yourself. Your voice is more assertive this time, dispelling the nebulous haze of your musings.

“Your Majesty, please. You have to get up.” The urge to stroke his cheek returns. You squeeze your thigh to curb it.

As if the Gods grant you mercy, that does the trick.

His lashes flutter, and his voice is thick and raspy, rolling like thunder over the horizon in his chest. You watch him blink away the bleariness, the scarlet wash of his irises causing your heart to pull.

Your king studies you as if making out the colors and texture of your face. You try not to shiver under his scrutiny, instead looking away as warmth inhabits your face. You’ve always found his eyes to be one of his most devastating features. They could easily glean through the mist of your mind, your guise, reading you like the yellowed pages of a book, even without tapping into the power residing in his right eye.

Heat permeates through the thickness of your uniform when, after setting his book aside, he suddenly pitches himself forward, elbows digging into the pockets of his knees. He rests his chin atop his folded together fingers, and you don’t need to fully look at him to see the smirk crooking his lips. The scent of unfettered energy and stripped sandalwood rolls off his skin, curling around your senses, threatening to root your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

The air between you is rife with tension. So thick, you can cleave through it with your blade. Your king watches you amusedly, and you do everything within your power to resist the bewitching pull of his gaze. The comfort and strength he exudes.

When he speaks, you nearly jump fifty feet out of your skin. His voice is as devastating as his eyes, puddling in your stomach, turning your brain to smog.

“I knew you were there all along. That’s why I didn’t bother opening my eyes. I was merely resting them.”

You scoff despite the anxiety scorching your innards. Closing your eyes, you retort under your breath, though loud enough for him to hear, “Sure, Majesty. You were resting your eyes while snoring with drool running down your chin.”

Your charge releases an indignant sound from the back of his throat, reeling back to touch his face, mortified. Your shoulders shake with your quiet laughter, and you hide the round tug of your lips behind your fist.

“Funny,” he says, and he gives you a look. One he’s used to silence an entire court of hecklers, its sharpness boding danger.

You clear your throat, donning that straight-faced mask you’ve grown so accustomed to wearing. You’re friends—childhood companions—yet you know when to shift from candid to serious.

Recalling why you were initially sent to fetch him, you stand to full height, brushing the dust off your hands on your thighs before snapping to attention. Your king raises a brow as if sensing something on your mind.

“At ease,” he orders, his voice devoid of its usual sternness as he leans back against the bench, a long arm draped along the bench’s headrest.

You get a good look at the veins peering through the cuffed sleeve of his button-up, spilling down his forearm to puddle at the back of his hand. You swallow against the barbs forming in your throat, your mouth growing dry.

“Speak freely.”

You nod, your hands clasped together at the small of your back. “You have a brunch date with the Queen of Universum today, sir.”

He blinks as if this information is news to him before recollection forms between his brows. His Majesty scowls, drumming his fingers on the bench’s rim impatiently. “Of course. Another noble here to throw their daughter at my feet.”

Your shoulders slightly drop at the dejection in his tone. You wish people weren’t so insistent that he take a wife. His father ruled just fine without one following the death of his mother. Still, having been around His Majesty so long, you understand why it’s imperative he marry soon.

Your shoulder throbs dully, serving as your reminder.

You try to ignore how the thought of some pretty noble wrapped around his arm makes you bristle, green-eyed feelings stewing in your belly. It would never be you—never could be you. You’re content with being his handler, watching him mutter obscenities over paperwork from your position at his door.

“How does that make you feel?” His Majesty suddenly asks, a teasing edge to his voice.

You blink, caught off guard. “M-Me?”

His chuckle is rich and endearing, and you unconsciously step back when he stands, swaddling you in his warmth and imposing aura. Stuffing a hand into his pocket, he pokes your nose, and you go cross-eyed looking at his slender finger.

“Yes, you. How does it make you feel, knowing that so many women would kill to take my name?”

He’s trying to get a rise out of you. Trying to weasel something out of you you’ve tucked in the deepest regions of your mind. You don’t humor him; instead, you give him a haughty look, your chin defiantly jutting forward.

“I think anyone willing to marry you is clinically insane.”

He laughs at your brazenness, your teasing, full-bodied and soothing. Dimples crater his cheeks, and the softness washing over his eyes causes a smile to twitch your lips. Without warning, idle fingers scorch your skin through the fabric of your jacket, easing down your arm, past the crook of your elbow, further still…

You’re breathless as His Majesty coaxes a hand from behind your back, and you watch with slightly parted lips and through the wispy sweep of your lashes as he draws it to his mouth. His eyes drill into the hulls of your soul whilst his molten lips brush your knuckles. He kisses them with such tenderness, such reverence, as if you’re an idol forged from glass, meant to be preserved in a museum.

The sound of your pulse pounding like a war drum blots out every bit of noise around. Your throat thickens, tongue bolted to the roof of your mouth.

“Good morning, by the way,” he drawls as if ensnaring you in a secret, his warm breath ghosting your skin, limber fingers scorching your hand to the bone.

You snatch away quicker than you mean to. Smooth your palm down your thigh before pinching yourself, studying the blades of grass licking at your boots. You wish you hadn’t caught sight of the fleeting pain in his expression. Wish you hadn’t been the cause of it.

“W-We should get going, sir,” you divert, trying to hide the shakiness of your voice.

He pushes out a weighted breath, stuffing the hand once curled around yours into his opposing pocket. “Lead on, then, dear friend.”

“Right.” With a curt nod, you turn on your heel towards the patchwork of greenery you emerged from.

He follows wordlessly, closely, a towering presence at your back, footfalls weighted in the grass, swallowing up the sound of your smaller ones. Static charges between you, imbued with something potent. You practically feel his eyes boring holes into the space between your shoulder blades.

You try to no avail to quell your thundering heart. To ignore how your knuckles throb where his lips imprinted themselves on the rough stretch of skin.

You wince, inwardly warring with yourself, praying that His Majesty keeps his hands to himself long enough to get through his meal with the queen.

You could only dream he would behave.

His Majesty is as infuriating as he is handsome.

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#sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lads sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #king!sylus #royalty au #serve & protect series

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