Adore Me || Quintus L’Amante

Power... People say it’s smooth and rich, with notes of sweetness that linger on the tongue and just enough bitterness to remind you it’s real. Fools, mere peasants among them, might delude themselves into thinking they've tasted it, let it trickle down their throats like watered-down ale. But true power, the kind that bends hearts and minds to your will? That is ambrosial, divine.

Oh, how Quintus loved power.

It was a hum in his chest, making it easy to breathe, to laugh and revel in the celebration. He raised his chalice to that hum, to the heady sensation of his power growing by the second. He’d just finished his speech, a toast to the bygones.

Each word had dripped from his tongue like a snake's poison. None the wiser, his audience hadn’t suspected a thing. Already under his spell, respect and admiration overflowed from their cups, ‘To Lysander Estrith.’ Three cheers and a rush of heady euphoria.

Fucking delicious.

Quintus tilted his wine goblet to his lips, eyelids fluttering over dazed eyeballs rolling back in their sockets. He wasn’t drunk on alcohol, yet it would take far more than a sharp eye to realize the truth. The man hadn’t felt this sated in so long.

He’d made the right choice—killing off that wretched brat. Lazy green eyes drifted to a similar pair, weaved into the tapestry created in the likeness of the late— murdered —King Estrith. This was an event of mourning, to remember the man and grieve over Cyndralis’ loss.

Quintus chuckled to himself, the tip of his polished white boot tapping rhythmically with the spirited music playing from the other side of the grand hall. Nymphs, elves, werewolves, and more, danced merrily, their laughter ringing like gold coins spilling from their grinning mouths. An event of mourning, indeed.

“Minister L’Amante,” came a wintry voice, “is it possible for you to stop preening for five minutes? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were almost as bad as Mintharion.”

Quintus didn’t need to look up to recognize it. “Ah, Irilion. Your warmth graces me at last.”

A fellow member of the High Tribunal, Irilion Isolde, slid into the seat beside him, bringing a glacier’s chill. He adjusted his immaculate robe and, without a word, reached out, his cold fingers catching the tip of Quintus' chin and tilting it upward with an air of clinical detachment. The frost that always lingered on Irilion’s skin bloomed outward, thin vines of ice curling across Quintus’ jawline, glittering faintly before melting away under his warmth.

Quintus didn’t flinch, but his smirk faltered just slightly. “Careful, Ice Prince,” he warned, gritting his teeth against the sensation of far more than just frigid tendrils creeping into his skin.

The elf was well aware the red-headed man was averse to physical contact—for reasons Quintus refused to explain—but that didn’t stop him from doing what he wanted. “It’s remarkable how you manage to bask in the attention of others despite no one actually looking at you.” Irilion said, the corner of his lips twitching into a smile, as though the exchange amused him in some way.

Quintus narrowed his eyes, mentally pushing back at the other man's amusement infecting the corners of his mind. If this lasted much longer, he wouldn’t be able to stop the laughter clawing its way to the surface, no matter how hard he resisted.

The frost elf finally released the larger man and leaned back, fingers idly tracing the crystalline patterns on his own arm, which flickered like delicate snowflakes under the light. “But even the finest masks crack when the air grows cold enough. Remember that.”

Quintus hid his relief behind a chuckle, tilting his goblet side to side. “You have such a poetic way of saying nothing at all.” His eyes followed the sloshing liquid in his cup, washing away the invasive emotions.

The frost elf let the comment hang between them, his attention sliding to the crowd instead. Quintus followed his gaze, watching the sea of swirling silks and glittering jewels, sycophantic laughter echoing off the walls of the grand hall.

All perfectly normal—except for one figure, standing just beyond the edges of the crowd.

Something about them was... distinct. Out of place. Quintus’ sharp green eyes lingered on them, and for the briefest moment, the delectable hum of satisfaction that filled him dulled, overtaken by intrigue. He tilted his head, his smirk returning as he lowered his goblet. “Well, well,” he murmured, his fingers tightening around the golden stem. “What have we here?”

They were dressed just like the other servants, simple and drab. But not a flicker of adoration in their eyes. Not a hint of worship. Not even respect. Why? Quintus tilted his head slightly, watching. He tried to catch their eyes, straightening his posture. He ran a hand over his hair, pretending that his composure wasn’t fracturing pathetically. He needed to get it together.

Irilion glanced at Quintus’ newly agitated state and left, drifting like a ghost to go float around some other, less volatile Tribunal member. Quintus didn’t notice, the fae wouldn’t have cared even if he did.

Did they not know who he was? Did that lowly servant not realize that he was the only thing in this room that mattered? The thought almost made him laugh. Oh, but he wasn’t going to let it go. He was far too important to let such a tiny detail slide. Not now. Not when the throne was practically within his grasp. He could already hear the whispers of his name being spoken in every corner.

And so, with all the casual elegance of someone who had never known a moment of discomfort in his life, Quintus made his way through the crowd. They dare dislike him? Every noble parted in his wake, making room for greatness. His perfectly tailored white and pink attire shimmered as he moved. I’ve never even talked to them before... Did I brush past them in the corridors, perhaps? Or has a rumor started behind my back? Just who the hell do they think they are? An ugly snarl had replaced his face, hands clenched into fists that he ached to swing into the next noble who twirled into his path.

He caught sight of himself in a reflective plate and froze. With a few careful deep breaths and a quick fix of his tie, he calmed himself. A polite incline of the head to the nearest naga, and he continued through the ballroom on his hunt for his target.

That void of warm, positive regard. He could track it down with his eyes closed. The flow of approval that should be coming from every single person in this blasted room—he couldn’t sense it from them.

Only several feet away, he hovered like a slobbering greyhound, waiting for his opportunity to pounce and shake that damned servant by the collar. He needed their validation, needed them to look at him and love him—love him?

Fuck, he was losing his mind. His skin must not be as thick as he had believed if a peasant had found their way under it. Too wrapped up in messy thoughts, he bumped into them as they picked up a tray laden with wine-filled goblets.

Ohhh... but the way the garnet stain bloomed on their white uniform... It was almost too delicious. The clamor drew everyone’s eyes and Quintus inhaled sharply, feeling a bit of rationality returning with the weight of their attention.

A charming expression, perfected with decades of practice, settled on his features as he stepped forward. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” he sympathized, every word dripping with the kind of sweetness that only men like him could afford. His eyes gleamed with amusement and the faintest push of magic, just to make this scene a bit more believable. To make him the hero.

“Let me make it right.” The offer was an order, carefully disguised. “You can’t stand there like that. It’s beneath you.” His gloved hands brushed the air near their back. Not touching them, no. Not yet. Not ever. He wasn’t quite that reckless. But it was close enough, close enough to make them feel the force of his presence. And he would use that force, press on them, until you could no longer tell where he ended and they began.

Until they craved him like he was their oxygen.

He escorted poor {{user}} out of the ballroom—he’d picked up their name from the panicked whispers of the other servants. He felt like a king walking through his kingdom. And he was a king, wasn’t he? Not yet in name, but in time. He couldn’t help but wonder if they could feel it, too.

Because everyone else fucking did.

"Well, I suppose not everyone is meant to hold something precious," Quintus tossed {{user}} a pitying smile, like a bone to a dog. The Erosian Fae guided the servant towards the nearest bathroom, his perfect steps echoed through hallways he already considered his own.

His nose wrinkled subtly as he opened the door for them, muttering under his breath, “Shall I teach you how to hold something with grace? Heaven knows you could use a lesson.”