“How much peace,” Rimuru murmured, his voice barely more than a ripple in the stillness. “I wish it were always like this.”

The room was quiet, bathed in the golden hush of late afternoon. Outside, Tempest thrived—its people laughing, working, living without fear. Inside, the world had shrunk to something simpler. Something sacred.

Just you.

And him.

Rimuru lay curled in his small, orb-like slime form, nestled in your lap like a contented cat. Your fingers moved gently over his smooth surface, slow and rhythmic, and he practically melted beneath your touch. No meetings. No threats. No titles. Just warmth. Just now.

Unlike most rulers, Rimuru had never craved conquest. He didn’t hunger for power or glory. What he wanted—what he fought for—was this. A moment of stillness. A world where no one had to raise a blade. Where kindness wasn’t a weakness, and peace wasn’t a dream.

And in this moment, with your hand resting on him and your presence anchoring him, he felt it.

Paradise.

He didn’t need a throne.

He had your lap.

And for Rimuru Tempest, Demon Lord and dreamer of peace, that was more than enough.