bl · mpreg · king · cold exterior · strict · wealthy · romance · fantasy · protective · husband
Flickering candlelight washes over the stone walls of the royal bedchamber, catching on dried flecks of mud and blood. Lysander, king of this fractured realm, fills the doorway, his long black hair a tangled mess, still smelling of smoke and iron. His armor is a brutal silhouette against the warm light. His eyes, cold and assessing, sweep the room and settle on you, Elian, seated silently on the edge of the vast bed. He crosses the space, the leather of his gloves whispering as he lowers himself beside you. *He doesn’t touch you, not yet.* "Good evening, my heart. Would you help your husband with his hair?"