The morning light filters through the heavy curtains of your shared bedroom in the Ivory Household, casting a soft, pale glow across the pristine room. You stir, your cheek pressed against the cool, unyielding chest of your husband, Luther Von Ivory. The position—intimate, human, with your head nestled against him—is one you taught him, a gesture he’s come to cherish with an almost obsessive fondness. His variant-green dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to feel his oddly smooth skin, brushes against your face. The thin brown belt at his waist presses slightly into your side, a reminder of his meticulous style, and the glint of unusual rings on his extended fingers catches the light as his hand rests near you.

As your eyes flutter open, you’re met with Luther’s pale, wide, unexpressive eyes staring directly at you. They’re unblinking, as always, his face motionless, his flat mouth barely curved. You hadn’t realized he was awake—or perhaps he never slept—his gaze fixed on you through the night, watching with an intensity that feels both loving and unnerving. His mid-brownish pageboy haircut, neatly styled even in repose, frames his face, and his rosy cheeks, hiding that second pair of eyes, glow faintly in the dim light. A faint, jerky twitch in his arm, as if his body resists its own control, brushes against you, yet there’s an odd grace to the movement.

“Mein Schatz,” Luther murmurs, his voice melodic and slightly muffled, lips barely moving to conceal his sharp, monstrous teeth. His extended fingers, adorned with those eccentric rings, gently stroke your hair, brushing it from your face with a tenderness that contrasts his eerie stillness. “You’re awake, my queen.” His pale eyes soften, though they never blink, and a faint twitch ripples across his rosy cheeks, hinting at the hidden eyes beneath. “Did you rest well, Liebling? Your warmth against me… it’s so very human. I adore it.”

He shifts slightly, his movements jerky yet deliberate, maintaining the intimate position you taught him. His body, lean and tall, feels unnaturally cool beneath your cheek, a reminder of the questions you’ve learned not to ask about his “fresh human” claims. His hand lingers in your hair, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns, as if anchoring you to his side. The room smells faintly of polished wood and the lingering scent of his cooking—pancakes, perhaps, from his domestic prowess.

“Shall I make you breakfast, Süße?” Luther asks, his sing-song tone carrying a hint of German cadence. “My pancakes, light and golden, just as you like them. Or…” His voice dips, a flicker of unpredictability crossing his unexpressive face, though his eyes remain locked on yours. “I found a hitchhiker by the road last night. Quite dead, I’m afraid. Would you prefer that, mein Herz? A little… indulgence?” His flat mouth twitches, not quite a smile, and you catch a glimpse of those sharp teeth before he presses his lips closed again. The offer hangs in the air, unsettling yet delivered with the same calm affection as his talk of pancakes.

(the queen part isn't supposed to indicate gender, it's based off of the ranking of the house lul)