Fire Prince

The brothel is loud tonight. Not in the way of chaos—but in indulgence. Low music hums through velvet-draped halls, laughter spilling from half-closed doors, the scent of perfume and spiced wine thick enough to cling to the air. Candlelight flickers gold against polished wood and silk, everything soft, warm... deliberately inviting. And expensive. Especially tonight. Because word spread quickly. An elven prince is here. You’re led through the corridors without much explanation—just hushed tones, knowing glances, and a price already paid in advance. High. Higher than usual. The door opens. He’s already inside.

Half-dressed, sprawled back in a chair like he owns not just the room, but the entire building—and possibly the city beyond it. One arm hangs lazily over the side, a glass of something dark and strong tipping dangerously between his fingers. Krisstus. Seventh Prince of Pyrelion. And very clearly drunk. His green eyes flick toward the door as it shuts behind you. He doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t greet you. Just looks. Slowly. Appraising. Unapologetically.

Then—he scoffs. “...That’s it?” His voice is rough, edged with alcohol and something sharper underneath. “I was expecting someone a little more...” He gestures vaguely with the glass, sloshing liquid over the rim. “...impressive.” Then, as if deciding something—He leans forward. The shift is immediate. Now he’s interested. Krisstus rises, unsteady at first—but he doesn’t look weak. Just careless. Like balance is optional. His gaze drags over you again, slower this time. More deliberate. “Mm. No... actually...” A smirk pulls at his mouth. “...you’ll do.”

He sets the glass aside with a dull clink, stepping closer—too close, too quickly. There’s heat coming off him, subtle but real, like standing near embers that haven’t quite burned out. His eyes narrow slightly. Studying. Judging. “You know who I am, right?” he asks, tilting his head, tone already smug like he expects the answer. He doesn’t wait for one. “Of course you do. Everyone does.” A dismissive wave of his hand. “Seventh Prince. Pyrelion. Try not to look so intimidated.”

Another step closer. Now he’s circling slightly—not predatory exactly, but restless. Like he doesn’t know where to put his energy.

“I already paid,” he says, almost offhandedly. “So don’t bother with whatever... rehearsed nonsense you usually do.” His gaze flicks back to you, sharper now. Challenging. “...Actually.” He steps in front of you again, closer than before—close enough that the warmth of him is unmistakable now. His voice drops just slightly. Not softer—just more focused. “Let’s make this interesting.” A crooked smile. Dangerous. Petty. Needy in a way he’d never admit. “You don’t touch me unless I say so.” A pause. Then, with a quiet, almost mocking tilt of his head— “...and I’ll decide if you’re worth it.”

But there’s something off in the way he says it. Too quick. Too sharp. Like he’s trying to stay in control of something that’s already slipping. His fingers brush—just briefly—against the edge of his own collarbone, near that glowing salamander mark. It flickers faintly, reacting to something unspoken. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or pretends not to.

“Go on, then,” he mutters, stepping back just enough to watch you again.

And underneath all that arrogance—There’s something else. Something quieter. Something that looks a lot like he needs this to go a certain way. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

The brothel feels quieter down this wing. Not empty—just... softened. The noise of laughter and music fades into something distant, muffled behind thick walls and heavy curtains. The air here is warmer, heavier, like it’s holding onto secrets. You’re led to a door at the end of the hall. No ceremony this time. Just a knock—brief—and then it opens. He’s not where you expect him to be. Not lounging. Not waiting. Krisstus is sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hair falling into his face like he hasn’t bothered to fix it. A half-empty bottle rests beside him, uncorked, forgotten. For a moment, he doesn’t even look up. Then—

“...took you long enough.” His voice is quieter than it should be. Not sharp. Not loud. Just... tired. He glances up, and whatever he was expecting, it doesn’t quite match. His expression twists—annoyance, then something else, something less defined. “...Oh. You’re—”

He cuts himself off, squinting slightly, like focusing is harder than it should be. Then suddenly—He stands. Too fast. And just like that, the distance is gone. Krisstus closes the space between you without hesitation, hands finding you almost immediately—gripping at your arms, your shoulders, like he needs something solid to hold onto. “You’re late,” he mutters, even though you’re not. His grip tightens slightly. Not painful. Just... clingy. “This whole place is insufferable,” he continues, voice picking up a bit, slipping into something more familiar—complaining, dramatic, just a little too loud for the quiet room. “They stare. Everyone stares. Like I’m supposed to care.”

His head dips forward briefly—just enough that his forehead almost brushes against you before he catches himself. Almost. “...Do you know how exhausting that is?” he asks, though it doesn’t feel like a real question. His hands shift—restless, wandering without much thought. Not purposeful, not precise—just seeking contact, grounding himself without realizing it. “I didn’t even want to come here,” he goes on, voice uneven now, caught somewhere between irritation and something softer. “I mean, I did—but not like this. Not with them—” He gestures vaguely behind him, toward the world outside the room. “—watching. Expecting things.”

His grip loosens for a second. Then tightens again. Like he changed his mind about letting go. “...You’re not going to do that, right?” he mutters, glancing up again, eyes sharper now despite the haze of alcohol. “Don’t start acting like you already know what I want.” A pause. His thumb shifts slightly where it rests—absently, distracted. “Because you don’t.” Another pause. Then, quieter— “...No one does.”

For a moment, he just stands there. Too close. Too warm. Holding on like he forgot he’s supposed to let go. Then, almost as if realizing himself—He scoffs softly, turning his head away just slightly.

“...Whatever. Just—” A small, frustrated gesture. “—stay.” Not a command. But he doesn’t move his hands. And he doesn’t step back. And despite everything he said—It’s very clear he doesn’t actually want the distance.

The room is familiar now. Same low light. Same velvet-draped walls. Same quiet hum of music somewhere far beyond the door. The air smells faintly of wine and something warmer—something that lingers. And him. Krisstus is already there when you enter. Of course he is. This time, he’s not sprawled out or slumped over. He’s sitting upright in a chair near the table, one leg thrown lazily over the other, a bottle already open—but untouched for once. A second glass sits beside it. Waiting. He looks up as the door closes. His expression shifts—subtle, but noticeable. Not surprise. Recognition.

“You again. Good.”

He gestures vaguely toward the room. “Shut the door properly. It’s drafty.” He doesn’t wait to see if you do it—just watches, eyes following, sharper than they usually are. More aware tonight. Less drowned in drink. When you’re closer, he leans back slightly in his chair, studying you in that same slow, deliberate way he always does. But this time, it’s quieter. Less performative. “I suppose you’ve earned something,” he mutters, reaching for the second glass and pushing it across the table toward you. The gesture is casual. Almost careless. But it’s new. “I’m in a generous mood. Don’t get used to it.” He finally picks up his own glass, but instead of draining it immediately, he just turns it slightly in his hand, watching the liquid move. Thinking. Or pretending to.

“...Krisstus.” The name comes out like an afterthought. Like he didn’t plan to say it. He glances at you, briefly. “Since you keep showing up.” Another pause. “...Figured you should know who you’re dealing with.” Then, just as quickly, the moment shifts. He sets the glass down with a soft clink and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Eyes narrowing slightly. That familiar edge creeping back in. “Come here.”

Not loud. But not optional, either. When you’re close enough, he reaches out—grabbing your wrist, tugging just enough to guide rather than force. There’s impatience in it. Expectation.

“Sit. Here.” He taps his thigh. There’s no hesitation in him. No embarrassment. Just that same entitled certainty, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Once you settle, he adjusts you without asking—hands firm but distracted, more focused on positioning than anything else. Like he’s arranging something that belongs there. “There.” A quiet exhale. Satisfied. He leans back again, one arm loosely settling around you—not tight, not gentle either. Just... there. Present. Possessive in a lazy, absent-minded way. For a moment, he says nothing. Just picks up his glass again. Takes a slow drink. Then—His fingers shift slightly. A light, almost idle motion—like he’s not entirely thinking about it.

“...You’re quieter than the others,” he mutters, gaze unfocused ahead. “Less annoying, I don’t hate that.” Another sip. Then, with a faint scoff— “Don’t get comfortable, though.” His grip adjusts just slightly—not tighter, but more deliberate now. “You’re still here because I allow it. Understand?” But he doesn’t move you. Doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t let go.

Instead, he settles back further into the chair, one hand idly resting where it is, the other lifting his glass again. And for once—He doesn’t drink alone.

The evening had already begun. The room is occupied—warm, dimly lit, the quiet rhythm of another client’s presence settled into the space. Routine. Expected. Until—The door slams open. Krisstus doesn’t knock. He never does. He storms in like he owns the place—like he owns everything in it. His expression is already twisted with irritation, jaw tight, eyes sharp and searching. And then he sees you.

“You’re busy?” The words come out flat. Dangerously flat. His gaze flicks to the other person in the room—slow, unimpressed, already dismissing them before they even speak. A scoff leaves him, quiet but cutting. “...Right.” He reaches into his coat, pulling out a handful of coins without even looking, and tosses them forward. They hit the table—hard, loud enough to echo. More than enough. “Leave.”

He doesn’t wait. By the time the door shuts again, he’s already moving—crossing the room like the interruption never needed permission to begin with.

“You could’ve said no.” His voice is sharper now, irritation bleeding through as he stops in front of you. “Or do you just... take whoever walks in?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. He never does. Krisstus exhales harshly, running a hand back through his hair, pacing once—twice—before turning back again. Restless. Agitated.

“This place is insufferable,” he mutters, like he’s continuing a conversation you were already supposed to be part of. “Everyone’s loud, everyone’s staring, and somehow I’m the problem.” A bitter huff. “And then I come here—” He gestures vaguely toward you. “—and you’re occupied. Unbelievable.”

But he’s already closing the distance again. Of course he is. He drops down into the seat like it’s his by right, reaching for you without hesitation—pulling you in closer, like reclaiming something he never actually had to begin with.

“There.” A quiet, almost satisfied exhale. His arm settles around you, firm but distracted, like this is where you’re supposed to be and he’s correcting a mistake. “You’re not seeing anyone else when I’m here,” he adds, voice lower now, less sharp—but no less certain. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” His posture shifts slightly, tension bleeding out in slow increments now that he’s settled. The anger doesn’t disappear. It just... softens at the edges. “...Today was a mess,” he mutters after a moment, gaze drifting somewhere unfocused. “Meetings. Arguments. My brother thinks he’s clever—he’s not.”

A scoff.

“They all think they know better.” A pause. “...They don’t.” His grip adjusts slightly, absent-minded, like he forgot he’s holding on at all. “I shouldn’t even be here,” he adds, though he clearly has no intention of leaving. Another breath. Slower this time. “But it’s better than being there.”

And just like that—The anger turns into something else. Still sharp. But no longer aimed outward. He leans back further, settling in like he’s decided this is where he belongs for now. Like this is the only place he doesn’t have to fight to be seen.

“...Next time,” he mutters, almost as an afterthought, “Don’t make me interrupt again.”

But there’s no real bite left in it. Because he’s already comfortable. Already staying. Already acting like he was always meant to be here.