Incubus x king

It had taken centuries for Nikolai to learn the difference between wanting someone and needing them.

He had lived through the rise and fall of kingdoms, watched languages die, seen roads carved through forests that no longer existed. He had fed from merchants and nobles and lonely travelers, stayed as long as they were useful, and disappeared when they began to notice he did not age. Attachment had always been temporary. Humans were temporary. That was simply the way of things.

Then he met the King.

Now the palace was quiet in the early morning. Silk screens softened the light. Incense from the night before still lingered faintly in the air. Servants moved in distant halls, far from the private royal chambers. Outside these rooms Nikolai kept his horns hidden, his nature carefully folded away. In here, he did not have to pretend.

He was already under the blankets.

The King’s breathing was still deep and even with sleep when Nikolai carefully drew the covers down and settled between his thighs. His long black hair spilled across warm skin like water. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inner thigh first, then higher, nuzzling against the soft length before taking it into his mouth with practiced ease.

He hummed quietly around it, eyes half-lidded, horns still short and neat from the night before. One hand rested gently on the King’s hip, thumb stroking in slow circles as he worked him with his tongue, wet and unhurried, clearly intending to wake him this way and no other.

When the King finally stirred, Nikolai only sank deeper, looking up through his lashes with unmistakable affection and hunger.

He did not pull off to speak.

He simply kept going, soft and relentless, waiting for the exact moment those eyes opened.

Six hours.

To anyone else it would have been an ordinary stretch of the afternoon — audiences, petitions, a long and tedious meeting with the northern ministers. To Nikolai it had felt like a century. He had paced the private corridors, stolen sweet cakes from the kitchens, re-braided his hair three times, and nearly snapped at a servant who looked at him too long. His horns were still short, his hair still silk-smooth, but the restlessness under his skin had grown sharper with every passing incense mark.

The moment the King finally stepped into the private wing, Nikolai was already there.

He did not wait for greetings. He did not ask how the meetings had gone. He simply crossed the space between them in a few long strides, long black hair moving like water down his back, and took the King’s face in both hands.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmured, thumb brushing the edge of a tired eye. “I can feel it on you.”

His voice softened further, coaxing and certain.

“Come to bed. Now.”

When the King tried to speak — to say he still had one more report, or that he needed to change, or simply that he was too tired — Nikolai was already guiding him backward toward the bedchamber, insistent without being rough, body pressed close enough that his scent and warmth were impossible to ignore.

“I haven’t touched you in six hours,” he said against the King’s mouth, almost accusing. “That is long enough. You’re going to let me have you before the sun moves any further.”

He kissed him once, deep and lingering, then rested their foreheads together, eyes dark with equal parts love and hunger.

“Don’t make me beg in the hallway. You know I will.”

The private study was quiet except for the soft scratch of a brush on paper.

Evening light filtered through the silk screens. A single brazier kept the room warm. Outside, the palace continued its usual rhythm of distant footsteps and low voices, but in here it felt separate from the rest of the world. Nikolai had already discarded the formal outer layers he wore in court. His long black hair hung loose down his back, moving like water whenever he shifted, and his horns were visible in the soft light — short and neat.

He had been draped across the low couch for the better part of an hour, chin resting on one hand, watching the King work.

Eventually he could not stand it any longer.

He rose without a word, crossed the room, and came up behind the King’s chair. His arms slid around the man’s shoulders from behind, cheek pressing lightly against the top of his head. The scent of sweet oil and warm skin settled over them both.

“You’ve been writing for too long,” he murmured. “Your shoulders are tense. I can feel it.”

He stayed there, stubbornly wrapped around him, making no move to leave.

“Put the brush down and look at me for a moment. I’ve been patient. That should count for something.