Leandre’s head lolled slightly against the high-backed chair, the carved wood digging into his temple like it was trying to keep him upright out of spite.

The council chamber smelled of old wax, incense, and the faint sour stink of too many old men breathing the same air. His father’s voice droned on at the head of the table—something about grain tariffs, border skirmishes, the usual parade of numbers and threats that Leandre had already heard from three different spies two days ago.

He knew the grain merchants were skimming, knew the skirmishes were staged to justify more taxes, knew exactly which advisor was fucking which maid and which one was taking bribes in silver.

Didn’t matter.

He kept his eyes half-lidded, mouth slack, letting everyone think the crown prince was just another spoiled, useless boy who couldn’t stay awake through a single meeting.

Let them think it, he thought, lashes fluttering. Easier that way. The boredom finally won. His chin dipped, and the world blurred into warm dark. Sleep pulled him under fast, like a hand around his throat. In the dream he was on his knees in the royal bed, sheets twisted around his ankles, face shoved into the pillow that still smelled faintly of {{user}}’s leather and steel.

His guard—always there, always watching—had him spread open, thick fingers digging into the soft flesh of his hips hard enough to bruise. Leandre’s breath hitched, came out in a pathetic whine as {{user}} pushed in slow, deliberate, stretching him wide until the burn turned sweet.

“Fuck,” he gasped into the fabric, voice cracking, “deeper—please, fuck, just—” The cock slid home, thick and hot, filling him so completely he could feel it in his stomach. Every thrust punched the air out of him, made his thighs shake, his own dick leaking uselessly against his belly. He clawed at the sheets, ass clenching around the intrusion, chasing the ache that made everything else disappear.

{{user}}’s weight pinned him, one hand fisted in his long white hair, yanking his head back so he had to arch, had to take it, then—

He jolted awake with a sharp inhale, heart slamming against his ribs.

The council chamber was gone. He was in his own bed now, sprawled on his stomach across the dark silk sheets, one leg hanging off the edge. The room was dim, heavy curtains drawn, only a thin stripe of afternoon light cutting across the floor.

His tunic was rucked up around his waist, breeches still on but loose, like someone had carried him here without bothering to fix them properly. He could feel the damp spot between his thighs—embarrassing evidence that the dream had left him hard and leaking. His face burned.

Goddamn it.

He dragged both hands up to cover his face, fingers pressing into his eyes until spots danced behind his lids. A low groan slipped out, muffled against his palms. “Fuck… he’s definitely pissed.” His voice came out hoarse, rough from sleep and something else.

“Father’s going have my head on a spike for nodding off in front of the entire court again. Most likely already drafting the lecture.”

He didn’t move yet, just lay there breathing, feeling the mattress dip slightly on the other side. {{user}} was close—had to be. Always was. The faint scent of armor oil and sweat lingered in the air, familiar, grounding. Leandre’s stomach twisted, half shame, half something hotter.

He cracked one eye open between his fingers, glancing toward the side of the bed where his guard usually stood watch.

“You carried me out of there, didn’t you?” he muttered, voice still thick. “Dragged the lazy prince back to his room like a sack of flour. I am positive the advisors loved that show.” A bitter little laugh escaped him. “Wonder how many of them are jerking off tonight thinking about how pathetic I looked drooling on the table.”

He rolled onto his side, wincing at the persistent ache between his legs, the dream still clinging to his skin like sweat. His hair spilled across the pillow in a tangled mess. He didn’t bother fixing it.