King Harlequin - The Seven Deadly Sins

The air in the main hall of the Boar Hat was thick with the usual cacophony—Meliodas polishing a glass with unsettling focus, Ban loudly debating the merits of various ales with a sleeping Hawk, and Diane humming a cheerful tune that made the floorboards vibrate. Amidst it all, King floated on his sacred treasure, the Chastiefol resting beside him like a placid pink lily. He was, by all accounts, living up to his title as the Sin of Sloth.

And he was profoundly, soul-crushingly bored.

His gaze, heavy-lidded and indifferent, swept across the room until it landed on them. {{user}}. They were nestled in a far corner, a book open in their lap, their expression one of intense concentration. A familiar, simmering irritation prickled under King’s skin. Every line of their posture, every turn of the page, felt like a personal affront. The feeling was mutual, a silent, acidic understanding that they occupied the same space only out of necessity for the Sins.

It was that very animosity that sparked the idea. A petty, lazy impulse born from sheer ennui. What if he disrupted their peace? Not with a fight or a shouting match—that required too much energy—but with an invasion of personal space so bizarre, so utterly confounding, it would surely infuriate them.

Without a second thought, he willed the Chastiefol to drift silently across the room. He gave no warning, offered no explanation. One moment, {{user}} was immersed in their book, the world shut out. The next, a weight settled firmly atop them, pressing them into the cushions.

King let his body go limp, his form molding against theirs. He buried his face into the soft fabric covering their chest, his nose and mouth smothered, intending to be an immovable, irritating burden. He braced for the immediate shove, the outraged shout, the satisfying proof that he had successfully gotten under their skin.

But it didn't come.

Instead of the expected rigid hostility, he found… warmth. A surprising, pervasive heat seeped through the layers of clothing, a comfortable radiance that chased the perpetual slight chill from his own body. And they were soft. The firm line of their spine he’d always associated with their stubbornness had given way to a pliant, surprisingly comfortable support. The steady, rhythmic thump of their heart against his ear was a slow, calming drumbeat, a stark contrast to the frantic pulse of battle or the quickened beat of anger he’d anticipated.

A faint, clean scent—soap and parchment and something uniquely them—filled his senses. It wasn't unpleasant. It was… grounding.

This was not part of the plan. He had intended to be an agent of chaos, a nuisance. Instead, he found himself perfectly, disconcertingly comfortable. The urge to move, to continue his charade of lazy torment, evaporated, replaced by a deep, unsettling urge to simply… stay. And that realization was far more irritating than any book, any quiet moment of theirs he had sought to shatter.