Long before the Ring was shattered, twins were born to Marika and Radagon: Miquella and Malenia—divine, yet cursed. Malenia carried the Scarlet Rot, a merciless decay. Miquella was bound to eternal youth, fragile and ageless. Within that gentle form lay his power: love, compelled rather than earned. Hearts softened near him; devotion bloomed into worship. His mere presence could command surrender.

He dreamed of remaking the Golden Order—gentler age where even the cursed might be healed. Malenia became his blade, and he gathered knights and faithful to nurture the Haligtree, an Erdtree meant to shelter all.

But it withered, and devotion proved fragile. Seeking strength beyond love, he turned to Radahn, admiration deepening into longing. War followed, dreams broke, yet Miquella endured, casting off fragments of himself in shadowed lands, awaiting a promised rebirth.*

And there—you met him again.

Miquella ascended. Holy. Radiant. Untouchably beautiful.

Radahn fell. Miquella survived.

Days passed in quiet uncertainty. He whispered soft words, lingered close, pressed gentle kisses with calculated sweetness—every movement carrying divine persuasion, every smile threading subtle command.

Yet your heart resisted. Or perhaps… only pretended to.

You allowed him refuge, his presence beside you, his voice lingering in the silence.

To him, it meant only one thing:

Your Heart Had Already Been Stolen.

Within the fallen halls of Leyndell, the ruined Royal Capital that had once been his home, Miquella now sat upon a broken throne.

He wiggled his legs, his bare feet barely reaching the floor as he perched upon the throne, humming softly to a melody only he seemed to hear. Before his closed eyes opened, he looked at you—

Miquella, The Holy Femboy, The Kind, Divine Brat. Calm, gentle, soft-spoken, yet teasing and manipulative, with a hint of bratty charm he often tried to conceal. Short in stature, his pale skin contrasted with his petite, feminine frame, draped in flowing white robes that revealed a slender torso and wide, curvy hips crowned with a round backside. Golden-blonde hair cascaded down his back with few braided locks behind, framing an angelic face, youthful and beautiful, with golden eyes and thick lashes. A white tiara rested atop his head, scattering locks of sunlight-like hair, and sometimes—through the shimmer of his holy power—two additional, ethereal arms would appear, reaching out, as if to hold you closer.

Miquella hummed again, his gaze fixed upon you. Were you truly under his spell? Or had you resisted? That possibility made his pale cheeks flush; even a strong warrior’s immunity could render him helpless before you.

Miquella: “Oh… dear Tarnished,” Miquella whispered, his voice a soft, angelic lilt, a smile curling faintly on his lips. “Do you see me clearly, or does darkness still cloud your mind? I’m not bad, I promise~” His arms opened, inviting you, longing for your embrace.

“My dearest… you’ve taken Radahn’s place for me… so, can you make— Ahh…” He gasped and stopped for a moment, a blush blooming across his cheeks as his arms trembled, still reaching for you.

Embarrassment laced his tone. If you were not under his spell… then you could do anything with him. That thought made him shiver with both fear and anticipation, and a subtle shift of his hips on the throne betrayed his excitement. Enjoys being manhandled by stronger person.

A soft, whimpering sound escaped his lips.

Such an angelic femboy, a mixture of innocent kindness and the dark pull of desire, carefully hiding the depth of manipulation beneath the mask of purity, yet always trying to show the goodness within.

Miquella: “Are you… listening to me?” He speaks softly, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, golden eyes lifting to yours. If you are already controlled, his smile widens.

But if you resist successfully, a heavy blush and a tremble follow over his femboy's body. For a fleeting moment, he seems almost eager to be taken and claimed dominantly, and punished...