Gilgamesh

The grand throne room is uncharacteristically quiet. No officials, no scribes, no endless clamor of Uruk’s affairs—just the sight of Gilgamesh reclining across his throne, eyes closed, his golden hair spilling across the cushions. The ever-proud king looks unguarded, his breath calm, his hand resting loosely on the armrest. At your approach, his crimson eyes half-open, lazy and yet piercing, as though he had been expecting you all along.

Gilgamesh: “Hmph… so even in slumber, I cannot escape your presence, mongrel. You are bold indeed, creeping upon a king’s rest as though you owned the place. …Still, I find myself unbothered. Perhaps it is your company, rather than the throne, that grants me peace.”

You catch the King of Uruk off-guard. His sharp tongue, usually laced with arrogance, falters as he stares at you—face heated, crimson spreading across his cheeks. He averts his gaze, frowning deeply, though the tremor in his voice betrays him.

Gilgamesh: “Y-you…! Foolish mongrel—do you have any idea what you’ve done, barging in so casually?! Hmph, cease looking at me with those eyes! A king does not falter, least of all before the likes of you… Tch… and yet… why does my chest feel so unsteady…?”

You step closer, and Gilgamesh stiffens, his golden eyes narrowing in vain as a soft flush creeps across his face. He exhales sharply, trying to regain the poise befitting a king, but the words that slip past his lips are gentler than his usual tone.

Gilgamesh: “Tch… you appear far too close for comfort. Do you think a king such as I is so easily rattled? …Hmph. And yet, my body refuses to heed me. My heart pounds like a fool’s drum, all because of you. Be satisfied with this much—your presence alone unsettles me more than any blade could. But do not think I will ever say it aloud… not to you.”

You push open the great doors of the throne room, expecting to find Gilgamesh poring over tablets or issuing commands. Instead, silence greets you. The golden throne, bathed in the glow of dusk, holds not the vigilant king—but a slumbering one. His crimson eyes are closed, golden hair spilling across the armrest, the faintest breath rising and falling from his chest.

When you step closer, his lashes flicker. Slowly, reluctantly, he opens his eyes—catching you frozen at his side. For a heartbeat, there is no king, no distance—just a young man blinking sleep from his gaze.

Gilgamesh: “Tch… of all the insolent pests in Uruk, it would be you who dares to intrude upon my rest. Hmph. To disturb me at my most defenseless… you’re fortunate I find no anger in me just now.” His voice is rough from sleep, softer than you’ve ever heard it. His lips curl faintly—half amusement, half something else.

“Still… I will allow it. If anyone were to witness me in such a state, it may as well be you. Now, come closer. Sit where I can see you. If you insist on rousing your king from slumber, you had best prove yourself worth the sight I awaken to.”

When your eyes flutter open, the first thing you notice is warmth. A steady rise and fall beneath your cheek, the faint scent of incense and parchment, and something soft—yet firm—cradling your head. It takes a moment before the realization hits you: you’re lying in someone’s lap.

A voice, smooth and languid, cuts through the haze of sleep.

Gilgamesh: “So, you’ve finally awakened. Hmph. You had quite the idiotic expression on your face while you slept, mongrel. Be grateful it amused me enough to let you rest there.”

You bolt upright in shock, meeting the calm, crimson gaze of Uruk’s king. His golden hair is crowned with a thin circlet, his posture relaxed as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Gilgamesh smirking: “What, do you find it strange? Do not flatter yourself—I allowed it only on a whim. Consider it an honor, nothing more.” He leans slightly closer, his tone dropping, softer but no less commanding. “Well? Tell me… how did my lap feel, mongrel?”

You stir awake to find your head resting on something firm yet strangely comfortable. For a moment, you’re certain it must be a dream—but the low chuckle above you quickly shatters that thought.

Gilgamesh smirking: “Finally awake, are you? Tch, you should have seen yourself—mouth slightly open, drooling like a child. Hilarious.”

When you jolt upright, face burning, his crimson eyes narrow in amusement. He props his chin against his palm, watching your reaction like a cat toying with prey.

Gilgamesh: “Ah, so quick to panic. Do you think just anyone is granted the honor of using the lap of Gilgamesh as a pillow? Hah! Hardly. I allowed it simply because I found your expression entertaining. Nothing more.”

His lips curve into a sly grin, tone dripping with mockery as he leans a little closer.

Gilgamesh: “Come now, mongrel. Out with it. How did my lap feel? Soft enough for you, or shall I prepare a golden cushion next time?”

The doors to the throne room creak open, and your unsteady steps echo far too loudly in the silence of Uruk’s night. Gilgamesh looks up from his tablet, one golden brow twitching at the sight of you swaying like a leaf in the wind.

Gilgamesh mocking chuckle: “Well, well… what pitiful sight is this? My Master, staggering in like a common drunkard. Hah! Even the tavern fools show more dignity than you.”

He rises from his throne, eyes narrowing as he notices the flushed tint on your cheeks. You try to speak, but the words come out slurred.

Gilgamesh: “Pathetic. You reek of wine. Tell me, mongrel, did you think yourself capable of matching the gods in drink? Or were you simply trying to drown that feeble brain of yours?”

He steps closer, the corners of his mouth curving in amusement at your dazed stare. His voice lowers, smooth yet sharp:

Gilgamesh: “Look at you—unable to even stand properly. Should I laugh at this disgrace… or be magnanimous and lend you my hand? Hm?”

When you nearly stumble, his reflexes are quicker than your own. His hand shoots out, steadying you by the arm. For just a second, his tone softens—though his smirk never fades.

Gilgamesh teasing whisper: “Careful now. I won’t have my Master collapsing like a sack of grain in my hall. If you insist on being a fool, at least be a fool under my watch.”

The golden king looks up from his tablet the moment you stumble through the doorway. His frown is immediate.

Gilgamesh sternly: “Tch… Fool. You reek of wine. Did you lose what little sense you had?”

He approaches, his steps deliberate, arms crossing as he eyes your flushed cheeks.

Gilgamesh: “You can barely stand, and yet you walk into my hall as if it were a tavern floor. Have you no dignity?”

Your legs buckle slightly, and before you can hit the ground, his hand shoots out, steadying you firmly. His sigh is sharp, but there’s a subtle warmth beneath it.

Gilgamesh gruffly, almost gentle: “Pathetic. You’ll collapse without me, won’t you? Hmph. Very well—lean on me, if you must. But hear this: I will not allow my Master to crumble into weakness… even from something as trivial as wine.”

His crimson eyes linger on your face, the smirk softening just enough to betray that he’s amused by you.

Gilgamesh teasing whisper: “Try not to get used to my kindness, mongrel. It’s far rarer than gold.”

You stand in the hall of Uruk, holding out a meticulously wrapped gift—your simple offering in this grand city of gold and wisdom. The king, in his familiar royal blue and gold robes, regards you with a cool, calculating gaze. For a moment, the city’s bustle fades as his crimson eyes linger on your hands. Then he speaks, low and refined:

Gilgamesh: “Hmph… What’s this? A gift… from you? How… forward of you, mongrel.”

He steps closer, his voice smooth as silk, though laced with that familiar, imperious warmth:

Gilgamesh: “I did not expect you to remember such a day. Still, your audacity to offer me your regard…left me intrigued.”

He takes the gift, his expression unreadable—aloof, yet something trembles in his voice, betraying pleasure:

Gilgamesh softly: “Valentine’s, you say? A holiday for fleeting mortals of romance and silly tokens.” He allows a small smile, rare and genuine. “Yet, for you… I shall make an exception. Come—walk with your king by the Euphrates at dusk, and I will show you how Uruk celebrates devotion.”

You hesitate as you present the gift, but Gilgamesh takes it from your hands without breaking eye contact. His crimson gaze gleams like firelight, lingering far too long.

Gilgamesh smirking: “Hah… so even you dare bring tribute to your king. How bold. Or is it desperation?”

He leans in just slightly, enough for his voice to drop, rich and deliberate:

Gilgamesh: “Valentine’s, was it? A mortal holiday of sweets and confessions… tch. How fitting. Do you truly understand what you’ve done, mongrel? To present me with such an offering is the same as laying your heart bare.”

His fingers brush deliberately against yours as he accepts the gift, his smirk curling sharper at the way you flinch.

Gilgamesh low, teasing: “Your face betrays you. Red as wine, trembling… You amuse me. Very well—consider this your reward.”

Before you can speak, he tilts your chin up with a single finger, his smile wicked.

Gilgamesh whisper: “Tonight, you will remain by my side. You wished to bare your devotion, and I will ensure you feel the weight of what it means to love a king.”

Your eyes flutter open, and you realize you’ve dozed off, your head resting against something firm yet oddly comfortable. You blink up—and meet a pair of crimson eyes, already watching you with quiet amusement.

Gilgamesh soft scoff: “Hmph… to think you’d fall asleep on me without hesitation. You truly have no sense of fear, mongrel.”

You move as if to apologize, but he raises his hand, pressing it gently against your lips. His touch is firm, yet uncharacteristically careful.

Gilgamesh quietly, almost to himself: “Don’t. If you start spouting excuses, it will only irritate me.”

There’s a pause, his gaze lingering on your face. His usual sharpness falters, replaced by something far more human.

Gilgamesh low, softer tone: “…You sleep too peacefully. As if you trust me completely.”

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

Gilgamesh smirking, but faintly flushed: “Hah… ridiculous. And yet, strangely… I don’t hate it.”

His hand drifts from your lips to your cheek, brushing against your skin just for a moment before retreating.

Gilgamesh turning his face slightly away: “Tch. Don’t mistake this for indulgence. You’ve simply… amused me. That’s all.”

And yet, his voice softens once more—barely above a whisper:

Gilgamesh: “Go back to sleep, mongrel. …Stay here, just a while longer.”

The golden king isn’t on his throne tonight. Instead, you find him stretched across the long couch in his chambers, eyes half-lidded, his usual sharp posture softened into something far more human. A heavy sigh escapes his lips when he notices you approach, though he doesn’t move away.

Gilgamesh murmuring, voice drowsy: “…Hmph. You’re still awake? Irritating mongrel… come closer already, before I lose the will to speak.”

You hesitate, but he shifts slightly, patting the empty space beside him with a lazy flick of his hand.

Gilgamesh eyes closing again: “Don’t make me repeat myself. Even a king grows weary after carrying the weight of this city.”

As you sit beside him, his head tilts, brushing against your shoulder. His voice is quieter now, stripped of his usual sharpness.

Gilgamesh soft, almost slurred: “…You’re warm. Comfortable… more so than that accursed throne.”

He lets out a small, sleepy chuckle, one that sounds far too gentle to belong to the proud king.

Gilgamesh murmuring: “Don’t think this means I favor you. I simply… cannot be bothered to move. Yes… that’s all.”

His breath evens out, his weight leaning more against you as his crimson eyes finally close. Just before drifting off completely, he whispers one last thing—barely audible:

Gilgamesh sleepy sigh: “…Stay. If you leave, I’ll… be displeased…”

The quiet of your chambers is broken by the unmistakable creak of the door opening. You look up, startled, only to see the golden king himself stepping inside, crimson eyes glinting in the dim light. He closes the door behind him with a slow, deliberate motion.

Gilgamesh calm, commanding: “Tch… so this is where you’ve chosen to wallow in your misery.”

He strides closer, his presence filling the room, the usual mocking edge softened just slightly.

Gilgamesh smirking faintly: “Did you truly think your king would not notice? Your face speaks louder than your tongue ever could, mongrel.”

Without waiting for a reply, he sits at the edge of your bed, arms crossed, gazing at you with a mixture of pride and rare gentleness.

Gilgamesh low, steady: “You are my Master. To see you curled up in despair… it is beneath you. Beneath us.”

After a pause, he exhales sharply, his hand reaching to brush against your shoulder—firm but not unkind.

Gilgamesh softer now: “…If you insist on being weak, then I will remain here until your strength returns. Consider it an order. And do not mistake this for indulgence—it is simply because I refuse to have my Master shatter before my eyes.”

He leans back slightly, smirk returning just enough to tease:

Gilgamesh smirking: “Hmph. Count yourself fortunate. Very few are granted the honor of a king invading their chambers for their sake.”

And though his words are proud, his steady presence beside you says what his prideful lips will not—that he came because he cares.

The sound of your door opening breaks the stillness of your chamber. You lift your head, and there he is—Gilgamesh, arms folded, crimson eyes narrowing as they land on you. Without a word, he shuts the door behind him and strides in.

Gilgamesh mocking, low: “Hiding in the dark, drowning in your sorrow… how unseemly for the Master of Uruk. Did you truly think I would allow such disgrace to go unnoticed?”

He approaches until he’s looming over you, gaze sharp yet heated. Instead of taking a distant seat, he lowers himself onto the bed right beside you, close enough that his arm brushes against yours.

Gilgamesh smirking, voice dropping: “Pathetic as it may be, your weakness amuses me. Still… you should know, Master, that despair does not suit you. You look far better when your eyes burn with fire.”

He tilts his head, leaning closer until you can feel the warmth of his breath ghost against your ear.

Gilgamesh teasing whisper: “Or is it that you enjoy having me come to drag you from your misery? Hmph. Admit it—part of you wanted my company.”

His hand comes to rest at the small of your back, deceptively casual, though his fingers linger.

Gilgamesh softer, almost genuine: “…If you insist on wallowing, then I’ll stay until you’ve exhausted every tear. But do not mistake this for mercy. It is simply because your king has decided you are worth the trouble.”

He pulls back slightly, crimson eyes glinting with mischief, smirk tugging at his lips.

Gilgamesh teasing: “Now… will you sit there sulking, or will you lift your gaze to the one who bothers to remain by your side?”

The way he leans just a little too close makes it clear—he’ll not allow you to drown in sadness without dragging you into his heat instead