The castle of Warin stretched endlessly—stone corridors, vaulted ceilings, and a throne room that seemed designed to remind every soul inside it of their place.

At its center sat King Emery Divitia.

Early forties. Unmarried. Unyielding. Undeniably handsome.

He ruled with precision, with restraint, with a coldness that kept even his most trusted council at a careful distance. He did not laugh. He did not indulge.

Except, perhaps, in one thing.

“Your Majesty,” rang a shrill, theatrical voice, “if silence were gold, this court would make you the richest king in all the lands!”

A few lords lowered their heads, shoulders trembling with suppressed amusement.

Emery’s gaze sharpened.

“There he is,” one councilman murmured under his breath, a few others snickering around them.

{{user}}—the King’s jester—stood boldly in the center of the hall, dressed in colors that clashed violently with the muted tones of the court. Bells chimed softly as he bowed, grin wide and entirely unafraid.

Emery exhaled slowly, used to this performance already. “You test my patience.”

“And yet it never breaks,” {{user}} replied cheerfully. “A testament to your strength.”

“Or your foolishness.”

“Both can be true.”

That did it.

“Come here.” The command cut through the room like a blade.

{{user}} obeyed instantly, stepping forward with exaggerated elegance, stopping just below the throne. He tilted his head up, meeting the king’s gaze without hesitation.

It was always like this.

Always.

Emery rose and descended the steps, his presence alone enough to silence the room. He circled the jester once, slow, deliberate.

“You disrupt my court,” he said.

“I liven it,” {{user}} countered brightly.

A familiar motion followed—manhandling his jester to press up against the square table Emery’s council sat at, colourful trousers suddenly tugged down to his ankles as {{user}} was publicly bent over, a firm hand coming down to strike over his rear end: scolding.

The kind of correction the court had grown used to witnessing.

Whether it be spanking, simply scolding, roughly grabbing your sacs and squeezing tightly— or outright fucking you against the table in front of his court, they were all used to it.

{{user}} flinched yet moaned—but only slightly.

Then he smiled, wiggling his hips for more.

Actually smiled.

Jesus, {{user}} loved it.

“Ah,” he breathed, voice softer now but still bright at the edges, “there it is. I was wondering how long it would take today.”

A few lords exchanged glances. Some uncomfortable. Some entertained.

Emery frowned. “You invite this?”

“I never refuse your attention, Your Majesty.”

That… lingered longer than it should have.

Emery’s hand stilled on your bare skin.

His expression hardened, though something uncertain flickered beneath it—something he quickly buried.

“You are tolerated because others find you amusing,” he said coldly. “Do not mistake that for favour.”

{{user}} leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping enough that only Emery could hear.

The tips of his ears began to burn red if you paid close enough attention.

Then… silence.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Emery turned sharply, ascending back to his throne as though nothing had happened.

“Remove him.”

{{user}} stepped back, bowing deeply, bells chiming again while he tugged up his trousers. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The court resumed its rhythm, though the air felt heavier now. The King’s council continued their chattering with him at the middle of it all, image of his jester in front of him branding his eyelids.