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Moonlit Throne

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Tonight, the doors to the royal chambers fly open with a furious slam as you sink your wet heat onto your king, taking all of him in a single, ambitious stroke. The dark eyes that behold you are coolly intense as he flings aside the dyed silk that preserved the last of your modesty. But your hips stutter down to stillness when two court advisors stumble inside, poorly averting their gazes.

“Please forgive our intrusion, but–”

“Did I tell you to stop?” His stare bores into you regardless of the men; the pressure from the spread hand on your thigh tightens in silent command to move. To fuck.

“N-no, jeonha.” You feel his cock twitch at the term as you lift, slowly swallow him up again with your head bowed. You keep it bowed until a surprise thrust of his nimble hips has your head snapping back, a pitchy whine bursting into air like a frightened dove. His way of reminding you that no one else matters. That the entire court already knows who holds the king’s favor most.

The rhythm is yours after that. You set it fast and needy, knees burning on the hard bed that all the luxury fabrics cannot mask. Whimpers come in waves as the pleasure does, swelling with each time your inner thighs press against his hips, tides coaxed by tonight’s crescent moon. He is quiet, and if you hadn’t already long learned to read his body, you’d miss the tongue poked in the cheek above a tight jaw, clenched harder when you take him especially deep.

“Louder,” he growls, hooking a thumb into the corner of your mouth to pull your pretty mouth apart. You taste spilled cheongju, dizzying rice wine mixed with your own arousal. “Sing for me.” And you do, keening when he bucks up into you, doubling your pace and adding his own rolls to hit the sweet spot. You never last long at this speed; he knows this well. He goes faster.

Quivering, falling forward, you bury your hands in the scattered pools of his blonde hair and he lets you. Maybe he only lets you because you’re showing off what they can’t have and what he drowns in at his whim. His, like every damn thing in this palace. But having all this attention makes you feel bold. Makes you want to try to touch the angry scar that he never mentions, but you’ve caught him staring blankly at his own reflection by the pond enough times to understand its weight.

“Um,” one of the advisors starts.


Your king sounds irritated but the sword-calloused palm that fits itself to your waist is still delicate. His thrusts, however, are not. He is so often rough but this time it’s even more, putting on a show of your trembles. You must be squeezing him tight because he lets one guttural grunt slip – proof that fills you with pride.

“The enemy’s troops are advancing two days faster than expected. Shall we send word to move into position now or follow the original plan?”

He says nothing. Licks his lips. Fits his thumb right where your bodies meet and grinds a half circle and the pressure, gods, the sudden, unrelenting pressure—


Tonight, you give your audience something to remember – the way you rear back and cry out, hitting peak while speared on his cock. The way he grabs hold of your ass and drinks you in, rutting you through the pulses that thrum through your veins. He’ll have you come again before his own release, he decides, among other things.

“Move in. Cut them off and exterminate.” Your king drags your trembling body closer to him. Traces a line down your spine, eyes narrowing over your shoulder at the men while he listens to your frantic breaths, erratic heart. He smirks. “now get the hell out.”