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It began, as most of Leon Cromwell's problems did, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.
He had been reviewing the latest architectural blueprints for El Dorado's new eastern promenade, a sweeping colonnade of gilded marble and enchanted glass that would catch the morning light, when Alfonse knocked on the study door with the particular rhythm that meant he had opinions.
Three sharp raps. A pause. Then one more, as if to emphasize the gravity of what was coming.
Leon set down his quill.
"Come in," he said, in the tone he reserved for diplomatic correspondence from nations he found tedious.
Alfonse entered.
He was a small man, Alfonse, compact and white-haired, with a spine forged from pure, unyielding propriety. He wore his butler's uniform with the solemnity of a man donning on ceremonial armor. His face, deeply lined and perpetually earnest, was currently arranged in an expression of such grave concern that Leon briefly wondered if someone had died.
"My lord," Alfonse said, closing the door behind him to achieve the appropriate amount of privacy for what he was about to reveal.
Leon waited for him to continue.
"I have been thinking."
"That is generally considered a prerequisite for conversation," Leon said.
Alfonse did not appear to register the dryness of this. He never did. It was, Leon had long since concluded, one of his butler's defining characteristics — a near-total imperviousness to irony, as though sarcasm simply bounced off him like arrows off enchanted plate.
"It is about Demon Lord Guy Crimson," Alfonse said.
Leon's quill, which he had been about to pick up again, remained on the desk. A very specific, complicated tension tightened the muscles in his lower back.
"Is it," he said.
"Yes, my lord." Alfonse clasped his hands behind his back and drew himself up to his full, modest height. "I have been observing the political situation among the Demon Lords for some time now, and I must say…I find it deeply troubling."
Leon waited. He tried not to think about the last time he had seen Guy Crimson. It had been two weeks ago, in Leon's own bedroom, where Leon had been pinned against his bed and Guy had been dismantling his composure with the same terrifying efficiency he used to dismantle empires.
"Demon Lord Guy Crimson," Alfonse continued, with the air of a man delivering a verdict, "does entirely as he pleases."
A beat of silence.
"Yes," Leon said carefully, pushing the memory of Guy's fangs grazing his nipples to the back of his mind. "He does."
"He has grown far too bold. It is time someone dealt with him."
Leon blinked. Guy Crimson, bold. He searched Alfonse's face for any sign of humor, but found only conviction, the kind usually reserved for religious martyrs and men about to do something irreversible. "What," he asked carefully, "do you mean by bold?"
"He makes decisions without consulting the other Demon Lords. He sets the agenda for the Walpurgis council. He speaks first, and loudest, and everyone simply…accepts it. That is what Lords Claude and Alrose have told me, repeatedly." Alfonse's brow furrowed with the deep moral indignation of a man who had never personally encountered the being he was discussing. "It is, my lord, an outrage."
Leon felt a strange pressure build behind his eyes. Guy Crimson — the Lord of Darkness, the Red Primordial who had existed since before the concept of nations had been invented and could instantly turn a continent into a wasteland — did, in fact, do exactly as he pleased. No outrage there, merely the natural order of things, in the same way that the sun rose in the east and rivers ran downhill.
"He sits improperly," Alfonse added darkly. "Sideways. As if the chair were beneath him. And he visits El Dorado whenever he pleases, without so much as a formal letter to announce his intentions."
Leon stared. Those were the worst crimes? "That," he said slowly, "is your evidence."
"It is the attitude behind it, my lord," Alfonse insisted. "He behaves as if he were king."
"He is," Leon said flatly, "functionally the ruler of our world."
"A self-proclaimed one," Alfonse snapped.
"Alfonse, what is the point you are building toward?"
Alfonse's expression shifted. It became, if anything, more earnest. More sincere. The expression of a man who had spent considerable time on a plan and was very proud of it. "My lord," he said, "you should be at the top."
Leon looked at him.
"You are the Platinum Devil. The Platinum Saber. A true Demon Lord, a former hero and a man of extraordinary power and refinement." The butler gestured at the study around them — at the architectural drawings, the bookshelves, the precisely arranged desk — with the reverence of a man pointing at a cathedral. "And yet you sit at the seventh seat of the Octagram, beneath that red-haired menace —"
The word beneath echoed dangerously in the quiet study and sent a traitorous heat through Leon's veins. His mind, usually a fortress of architectural precision, suddenly betrayed him with a vivid flash of memory: the image of the Ice Continent, tangled silk sheets, and the way Guy took what he wanted with a demonic hunger that left Leon breathless and aching.
"— while that…that upstart —"
"Upstart," Leon repeated, his voice flat as he ruthlessly crushed his unbidden thoughts. He had attended those Walpurgis meetings. He had watched Guy sprawl like a bored god, insulting beings older than empires while somehow commanding their respect through sheer overwhelming presence. He had also felt the weight of that crimson gaze whenever it settled on him, the way it turned knowing and full of immoral promises that sent a traitorous thrill down his spine.
"— that arrogant, self-appointed —"
"Alfonse."
"— bribed his way to the top, my lord! Bribed! Bought votes! Bought the loyalty and the silence of the other Demon Lords with favors!"
"Alfonse." Leon's voice was very quiet now. "Guy Crimson did not bribe anyone." He doesn't need to, he thought. He simply walks into a room, and the room belongs to him. He touches you, and you belong to him. Leon shifted in his chair, annoyed by the sudden heat in his face. He hated how easily his body remembered the weight of the Red Primordial, the overwhelming, suffocating intensity of him. "He holds the first seat because he has done so since before most of the other Demon Lords were born," he said. "No one has ever successfully taken it from him because no one can."
Alfonse absorbed this. Then he said, with the unshakeable confidence of a man who had not quite heard what he'd just been told, "All the more reason, my lord, that someone should try."
Leon's mind stopped like a clock that had been dropped from a great height. The gears ceased turning, the hands froze. Somewhere in the vast, calculating machinery of his intellect, a small, bewildered voice said: what. He stared at Alfonse.
Alfonse stared back, with the patient, encouraging expression of a man waiting for his lord to catch up. To him, apparently, Leon's silence looked like contemplation. Like the deep, measured consideration of a great mind turning over a brilliant proposal. Alfonse's eyes brightened. He straightened further, which Leon had not thought possible. "I knew you would see it, my lord," the butler said warmly. "I knew you would understand."
I understand nothing, Leon thought, from somewhere very far away. I am standing in a room with a man who has just suggested that someone should challenge Guy Crimson for the leadership of the Demon Lords, and he is looking at me as though he has just solved a particularly difficult puzzle, and I cannot—
He breathed.
He was Leon Cromwell. He had survived three hundred years of political intrigue, demonic warfare, and the savage, addictive ordeal of sharing Guy Crimson's bed. He could survive this. "Go on," he said, because apparently some part of him had decided that he needed to hear the full scope of the disaster before he addressed it.
Alfonse beamed. "I have been conducting research," he said, beaming with the pride of a man who had discovered fire. "Into the matter of Guy Crimson's…vulnerabilities."
Vulnerabilities. The word landed in Leon's mind like a stone dropped into still water. Guy had no vulnerabilities…unless one counted his bizarre fixation on Leon himself, which usually manifested in Guy appearing uninvited, wrecking Leon's bod— schedule — and leaving Leon sore, exhausted, and furiously pretending he hadn't enjoyed every second of it.
"And I have devised a plan," Alfonse continued. "A most elegant plan, if I may say so."
"You may not," Leon said, "but I suspect you will anyway."
"There is an Assassin's Guild," Alfonse said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "on the eastern continent, of course. I know you will not tolerate such filth here, my lord. Very discreet and quite reputable, I am told. They handle…difficult situations."
Leon thought about a human assassin — a skilled one, presumably, the best the Guild had to offer — arriving at the Frost Palace on the Ice Continent. He thought about this assassin not freezing instantly and somehow navigating past Raine and Misery, both walking catastrophes, who had, between them, participated in the destruction of multiple nations. He thought about this assassin somehow reaching Guy Crimson himself, and then…
What? Stabbing him? Shooting him? Presenting him with a strongly worded letter?
How, Leon thought with a kind of exhausted wonder, has this man survived this long?
Leon was three hundred years old. He had watched empires rise, crumble and new ones take their place, and, inevitably, encountered a remarkable variety of human stupidity. And yet…"Alfonse," he said.
"My lord?"
"How long have you been in my service?"
Alfonse considered. "Forty-eight years, my lord. Since I was a young man of twenty-three." A small, nostalgic smile crossed his face. "You were very intimidating, if I may say so. Still are, of course. But I was not deterred."
Leon looked at him for a long moment. Forty-eight years, he thought. And I never noticed. He had always known Alfonse was not a strategist and had hired him because he was loyal, meticulous, kept the palace running with the quiet efficiency of a well-maintained clock…and because — Leon was honest enough to admit this, at least to himself — he had a certain fondness for the man that he would never, under any circumstances, express aloud.
But this…This.
A human assassin for the Red Primordial, the being older than most recorded history, whose presence alone terrified lesser Demon Lords. Leon’s…lover.
Well, "lover" was perhaps too domestic a word for what they were. A collision — a secret kept in the dark. They were Leon saying no and get out and I hate you, and Guy laughing that low, dark laugh and proving him a liar.
"Alfonse," Leon said eventually, "I want you to listen to me very carefully."
The butler straightened. "Of course, my lord."
"Guy Crimson is not a man who can be assassinated."
"My lord, with respect, any man can be —"
"He is not a man," Leon said. "He is a primordial daemon who has existed since before the concept of nations, unkillable by human means." He paused. "A human assassin attempting to kill him would be as effective as a worm challenging an elephant."
Alfonse was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Ah."
"Yes," Leon said. "Ah."
"Well," Alfonse said, with the resilience of a man who had not quite given up, "if the assassin fails, my lord, there are always other ways. We could place a new maid in Guy Crimson's service. Instruct her to serve him poisoned tea. And that would be the end of that arrogant upstart."
Leon closed his eyes.
He considered explaining that daemons didn't require hydration in the human sense, and the only things that Guy Crimson did drink were liquors that melted glass, stronger than any poison. And the idea of a "new maid" getting past Raine and Misery was so absurd it bordered on the divine.
Leon opened his eyes.
"Alfonse," he said, his aura bleeding into the room until the air chilled. "You will not contact the Assassin's Guild. You will not attempt to place anyone in Guy Crimson's service. You will not pursue any plan, scheme, or notion — however well-intentioned — that involves Guy Crimson in any capacity whatsoever."
Because if you do, Leon thought, he will come here to mock me and ask why my butler is trying to kill him. And then he will drag me to bed again and make me apologize for it, and I have too much work to do this week for that.
"If you do — if you take a single step in that direction — I will know. And I will deal with it. Personally."
The implication of personally hung in the air between them.
Alfonse swallowed. "My lord," he said, after a moment, "I only want what is best for —"
"I know," Leon replied. That was the problem. "What is best for El Dorado is that Guy Crimson has no reason to look in our direction." Any more than he already does. "Do you understand me?"
Alfonse was quiet. He had the expression of a man who understood, intellectually, that he was being told something important, but who had not fully abandoned his convictions.
This, Leon noted with a sinking feeling, was not the expression of a man who was persuaded.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leon spent the next three days in a state of controlled anxiety. He watched, at first personally, then he assigned two trusted knights to maintain a discreet watch on Alfonse. The man's correspondence was monitored, his movements logged. Unfortunately, his earnestness did not fade. Leon received reports of his butler "researching" Guy Crimson in local taverns via gossip, outdated pamphlets, and one deeply inaccurate bard song describing Guy as "a red-haired menace with poor table manners." Leon burned that one personally.
He drafted, and then destroyed, three separate letters to Guy that began with variations of Please ignore my staff and ended with him staring at the paper, remembering the way Guy's throat felt around his prick, and burning the letter out of sheer mortification.
He worried.
Leon had built El Dorado stone by stone over the course centuries. He had designed every golden building, every plaza, sweeping arch and enchanted fountain. It was his greatest work, his finest achievement and the physical expression of everything he believed architecture could be. It was also home to thousands of people who depended on him for their safety and their lives.
Guy, in a bad mood, could erase it from the map. He might even destroy the whole continent, while he was at it.
Guy, in a good mood, could also erase it from the map, if he felt like it, just to see Leon's reaction.
In the quiet hours of the early morning, when the palace was still and his blueprints spread across his desk like a map of everything he had built and intended to keep, Leon finally allowed himself to think through the scenarios. Usually, thoughts of Guy keeping him awake involved intense heat, bruised pride, and a profound lack of sleep, but this was a different kind of beast.
Scenario one: Alfonse actually contacted the Guild. The assassin reached the Ice Continent, was instantly detected by Raine or Misery, whose senses made human stealth look like a joke, and was captured. Under interrogation, the assassin confessed. Guy would then find out that Leon's household had ordered an assassination.
Leon's assessment: catastrophic.
Guy would be…insulted, perhaps even angry. At best, he would show up at El Dorado demanding a personal apology, which he would ruthlessly exact from Leon behind locked doors until Leon couldn't remember his own name, let alone his architectural plans. At worst…
Scenario two: Alfonse somehow managed to sneak a maid into Guy's service. It was impossible, yes, but Leon had learned never to underestimate the power of determined stupidity. The maid would serve Guy poisoned tea. Guy, who didn't drink tea and was immune to poison anyway, would probably drink it out of sheer boredom and then decide to track down the source.
Leon's assessment: also catastrophic, with the added bonus of being deeply embarrassing.
Guy would never let him live it down. He would spend the next century teasing Leon about his "domestic fantasies" and asking if he was trying to add a little lethal spice to their foreplay. Unless, of course, Guy felt insulted…which brought an end to their playtime and El Dorado, as a whole.
Scenario three, the one that actually kept him awake: Guy simply decided to visit El Dorado. It wasn't unprecedented. Guy occasionally dropped in on Leon, usually bypassing all the wards to appear in Leon's private chambers with a wicked smile and too much energy. If Guy visited while Alfonse was in this state of dangerous sincerity...
Leon pictured his butler lurking behind a pillar with a poisoned tray, waiting until Guy was, in Alfonse's estimation, distracted, then leaping out to smash the tray over the Primordial's head while shouting, "Now, Lord Leon, while he's weakened!"
Guy wouldn't be hurt, of course, but he might take offence. Or he might laugh, look at Leon with that crimson, knowing gaze, and the carefully maintained secret of their... arrangement would be blown wide open in front of the entire staff. And then Guy might just reduce El Dorado to ash anyway, simply because he found the ensuing chaos entertaining.
Leon picked up his quill, then changed his mind, set it down and went to find his butler.
Alfonse was in the west corridor, cornering a junior knight. The young man had only been in Leon's service for five months and currently wore the expression of someone trapped in a very confusing nightmare.
"—and if one were to hypothetically encounter a being of overwhelming power," Alfonse was lecturing, sounding as though he had rehearsed this in a mirror, "one must project absolute confidence. They sense hesitation."
The young man was nodding so rapidly it looked like a nervous tic.
"Alfonse," Leon said.
Alfonse turned, his face lighting up. Honestly, it was disarming how genuinely pleased the man still looked to see him after forty-eight years.
"Lord Leon!"
Leon glanced at the young man, who looked like he was praying for a rescue. "You are dismissed," Leon told him.
The knight vanished with a speed that suggested he had been waiting for permission to flee.
Leon turned back to his butler. "What are you doing?"
"Preparing the staff," Alfonse said proudly. "In case of future encounters."
"With whom?" Leon asked, though he already knew.
Alfonse leaned in slightly. "Him."
Leon exhaled slowly. "Alfonse, I have told you three days ago—"
"My lord," Alfonse interrupted, using the gentle patience of a man correcting a minor misunderstanding, "I have not contacted the Guild, nor placed anyone in his service. I have merely been...preparing. One must be ready."
"Ready."
"Yes. In case he visits."
That cold knot of dread settled in Leon's chest again. "Why exactly would you expect him to visit?"
"I do not expect it, my lord. I simply think it prudent to cover our contingencies." Alfonse looked entirely sincere. "He has already been here once this month, and Lord Alrose has recently confided in me that Guy Crimson seemed most entertained by you at the last Walpurgis. I thought he might—"
"He was not entertained by me," Leon snapped. "He was being insufferable, which is his default state, and I was ignoring him, which is my default response."
"He laughed several times," Alfonse pointed out.
"That doesn't mean—"
"And he said," Alfonse paused, retrieving the memory with great care, "that you were 'a flawless masterpiece, though he looks his best when thoroughly dismantled.' Those were his exact words, my lord."
Leon wished, with considerable force, that he didn't remember that so well, nor the exact scene when Guy had repeated those words. He'd murmured them against the sensitive skin of Leon's neck in the dark, right before Leon had lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
"That was not a compliment," Leon said, his voice slightly strained.
Alfonse looked unconvinced.
"It was not," Leon insisted, more firmly.
Alfonse's expression suggested he was politely humoring his master, but keeping his own opinions on the matter. Leon turned and walked away before his face could do something as undignified as blushing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then, on Wednesday, the inevitable happened.
Guy Crimson arrived, as he always did, without warning and invitation, and with the serene confidence of a daemon who owned the concept of space. One moment Leon's private study was empty; the next, the air warped, mana recoiled, and the palace wards screamed in recognition.
Guy sprawled across Leon's personal chair — the one Leon had specifically designed with high, rigid backing to discourage such a posture. Guy was slouching magnificently, just as Alfonse had complained about.
"Yo," Guy said cheerfully, his long crimson hair glowing like embers. "Why so tense, lover? Still thinking about my previous visit and the night we spent in your bedroom? You were certainly making enough noise then."
Still standing by the window, Leon turned slowly. His face remained a mask of platinum ice, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "You are ignoring doors again," he replied evenly. His mind raced. Where was Alfonse? Perhaps still in the gardens, as far away from them as possible?
Guy laughed. It was a rich, velvet sound that made Leon's stomach do a traitorous little flip. "Doors are a suggestion, my dear Leon. Like clothing." He grinned, sharp and predatory. "Speaking of which, you look tired. Not sleeping well without me?"
"I sleep perfectly fine," Leon lied. "I have been busy. Working."
"Mm." Guy stood up. He moved with fluid grace, closing the distance between them in two strides. Possessive, familiar fingers reached out to brush the hair from Leon's forehead. "You work too hard. You should let me distract you."
Leon caught his wrist. "I am working now, Guy. Leave."
"Make me," Guy murmured, leaning in, their lips a breath apart. "You know, I’ve heard the most hilarious rumor, about someone here plotting to—“
"My lord!"
Leon froze. The imaginary scene of Alfonse bringing the tray down on Guy's head while shouting, “Now, Lord Leon, while he's distracted!” replayed itself over and over in his head.
Guy pulled back an inch, looking over Leon's shoulder with mild curiosity.
Alfonse stood in the doorway. He was holding a silver tray with a steaming teapot, a single cup, and a small plate of biscuits. Behind him, looking deeply amused, were Raine and Misery.
"We tried to stop him," Raine said, leaning against a bookcase and clearly lying. "But he was very determined."
"He said he had 'special refreshments' for the guest," Misery added, her green eyes gleaming.
Leon looked at the teapot, then at Alfonse's face, which was set in a mask of grim determination. Poison, he thought. He has actually brought poisoned tea to the Red Primordial. "Alfonse," he said, his voice strangled. "Put. The tray. Down."
"But my lord, I have prepared the special blend," Alfonse insisted, stepping toward Guy with a terrifyingly earnest smile. "Lord Crimson, surely a traveler of your stature would enjoy a refreshing cup of tea?"
Raine lost it. She doubled over, clutching a pillar for support. Even Misery's lips twitched.
"Tea?" Guy said. "You know I don't drink tea, Leon. Unless..." He smirked. "Is this a roleplay thing? I didn't know you were into domestic fantasies."
Leon felt his soul leave his body.
"It is a special blend, sir," Alfonse said, bowing stiffly and setting the tray down on the table nearest to Guy. "For the... distinguished guest."
Guy picked up the cup. He sniffed it.
He paused.
He looked at Alfonse. "Arsenic? And... is that hydra venom?"
Alfonse went pale. "I—I am sure I do not know what you mean, sir. It is merely... herbal. Medicinal."
Guy burst into a roar of laughter that shook the chandeliers. "Medicinal!" He looked at Leon, his eyes dancing with genuine, unbridled delight. "Leon, your butler is trying to kill me…with hospitality."
"Alfonse," Leon said, "get out." For your own good, mine and El Dorado's.
"But my lord—"
"Get. Out."
"Wait," Guy said. He lifted the cup. "I want to try it."
"Guy, don't," Leon hissed.
"Oh, relax." Guy took a sip. He swirled it in his mouth, considering. "Needs more venom. A bit dry on the finish. But the arsenic adds a nice kick."
He set the cup down and looked at Alfonse, who was staring at him with the horror of a man watching a god consume death and ask for seconds.
"You," Guy said, pointing a black-tipped finger at Alfonse. "I like you. You've got more guts than half the Demon Lords I know."
Alfonse trembled. "Sir?"
"Most people are terrified of me," Guy said, stepping closer. Alfonse held his ground, though his knees were visibly shaking. "You're terrified, but you tried to poison me anyway. For him." Guy gestured to Leon. "That's loyalty. I respect that."
"I…I only want what is best for Lord Leon," Alfonse said, standing his ground. "He belongs at the top."
Guy turned to Leon, his expression softening into something wickedly affectionate. "Hear that, Leon? He thinks you belong on top. It's a tempting offer. I might even let you try it today, just to watch you get flustered and demand I take over again."
Leon hid the furious heat rising in his cheeks behind a scowl that had once made entire armies retreat. "Take your servants and leave, Guy. You’ve had your fun."
Guy didn't leave. Instead, he closed the distance between them, invading Leon's personal space until the heat radiating from his body was a physical weight. He backed Leon against the edge of the heavy mahogany desk, trapping him there without needing to lay a single finger on him.
Guy leaned in, his breath ghosting hot over the sensitive shell of Leon's ear. "I haven't even started having my fun," he murmured, his voice a velvet purr that vibrated straight down to Leon's core. "And I'm certainly not leaving without my prize. You've been so tense lately, Leon. I think you need me to take you apart."
A violent shiver wrecked Leon's spine. His hands gripped the edge of the desk behind him, white-knuckled, fighting the sudden, disastrous urge to grab Guy by the lapels and drag him closer. "Idiot," he choked out. He wasn't sure if he meant Guy, his butler, or himself. "Alfonse. Leave us. Now."
"But—my lord, the poison..." Alfonse stammered, staring in horror at the empty teacup, completely oblivious to the fact that the only thing currently in danger of being devoured in that room was his master.
"Did absolutely nothing," Guy said cheerfully. He pulled back just enough to flash Alfonse a brilliant, wicked smile, though his body remained flush against Leon's. "I'm a Demon Lord, old man. I eat poison for breakfast. Literally, sometimes."
Guy's crimson eyes slid back to Leon. His gaze dropped deliberately to Leon's mouth, then between his legs, heavy with indecent memories. He smirked. "Though Leon usually prefers it when I eat... other things."
Leon made a sound that was half-choke, half-strangled gasp. His face went completely, catastrophically red. "Guy!"
Guy's grin became a shade darker, the playful amusement bleeding into something far more dangerous. He didn't even look away from Leon as he addressed the room. "Run along, butler. Your master and I have... architectural matters to discuss."
Alfonse looked at Leon. Leon nodded, a sharp, desperate jerk of his head.
The butler bowed stiffly and retreated, casting one last, bewildered look at the empty teacup. The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut, Raine and Misery vanished with soft, knowing giggles.
The silence that fell over the room was immediate and thick.
Guy didn't waste a single second. He crowded Leon further, parting Leon's knees just enough to step between them. He planted his hands on the wood on either side of Leon's hips and caged him in completely.
Before Leon could even draw a breath to protest, Guy leaned down and captured his mouth in a claiming, thorough kiss. Guy's hand left the desk to grip Leon's jaw, his thumb pressing into the frantic pulse there as he tilted Leon's head back and parted his lips with practiced ease.
Leon made a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat. His hands, which had instinctively come up to push Guy away, betrayed him instantly. His fingers curled tight into the dark fabric of Guy's jacket as he melted into the overwhelming heat, kissing back with a desperate, answering fire.
"So," Guy murmured once their lips parted, his breath ghosting hot across Leon's swollen mouth and his voice a low thrumming that Leon felt in his chest. "Your butler wants me dead so you can take my seat."
Leon let out a shaky breath. The sheer proximity of the Red Primordial was intoxicating. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a deep need. He was already so hard it ached. "He thinks you are an upstart who bribed his way to power. And that I deserve to be the first seat."
"Cute," Guy purred. He lifted a hand, his long fingers tracing the sharp line of Leon's jaw before tangling possessively in his pale blond hair. "And you? Do you want my seat?"
Leon tilted his head back, exposing his throat, though he tried to keep his gaze defiant. "I have no interest in your seat. I have enough trouble managing my own continent."
"Good." Guy's thumb stroked over Leon's pulse point, feeling the frantic, telltale flutter there. His other hand slid around Leon's waist, gripping his hip, pulling Leon flush against his own hard body. "Because I'd have to punish you if you tried to take it." His voice dropped into a seductive register, full of decadent promise. "And we both know exactly how much you'd enjoy that." His hips jerked sharply, bringing their tenting groins together.
Leon's breath hitched, his flush burning all the way down his neck. He hated that Guy was right, the immediate, treacherous spike of adrenaline and the way his body looked forward to the threat rather than fighting it. "You are insufferable," he breathed out. His grip on Guy's jacket tightened, as if he were anchoring himself.
"And you," Guy whispered, leaning down to drag his lips along the sensitive column of Leon's neck, "are going to be screaming my name until your throat gives out." He caught Leon's earlobe between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to sting.
Leon gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as his knees went weak.
Guy's mouth lingered against Leon's skin, his breath hot and teasing. "Next time," he murmured, "tell the butler to use Demon Lord-grade poison. If he really wants to impress me."
"There will not be a next time," Leon managed to say, though his fierce declaration was ruined by the determined way he pulled Guy closer.
Guy's low chuckle rumbled against Leon's collarbone. He pulled back just enough to look into Leon's heavy-lidded eyes, his own crimson gaze burning with predatory affection. "We'll see. Now... about those architectural matters, and my offer to let you be on top..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two weeks later, a letter arrived from the Ice Continent. It was written on heavy parchment that radiated a faint, unnatural chill, cooling the air in Leon's study the moment he broke the crimson wax seal.
Leon,
Your butler is a menace. Raine hasn't stopped trying to 'poison' my wine with tea leaves since we left. I blame you entirely.
Also, your new promenade looks slightly asymmetrical from the air. The columns on the northern end need adjustment. Fix them before I come back and distract you from your work again.
Speaking of your work... the tea was terrible. Next time, skip the cup and just serve yourself. I can still taste you, you know. Every time I close my eyes, I remember exactly how you looked pinned against that heavy desk of yours — completely undone, your nails digging into the wood, making those beautiful, desperate sounds while I pounded you senseless.
Come to the Frost Palace tonight. I think we need to continue our discussion about your 'leadership' qualities. I might even let you play hard-to-get…though we both know you'll be begging to be wrecked again before the first five minutes are up.
Don't keep me waiting.
— G
Leon’s breath hitched, a sudden, treacherous spike of heat pooling low in his stomach. He read the letter twice, set it down on the very desk Guy had so thoroughly defiled, and then immediately picked it up again.
His eyes lingered on the arrogant, filthy promise in those words, and a furious blush spread all the way down to his collarbones. His body betrayed him instantly, supplying a vivid, full-body flashback of exactly what Guy was talking about. He could almost feel the phantom weight of the Red Primordial pressing him into the polished mahogany, the grip on his hips, and the relentless, devastating rhythm that had left Leon completely undone, his mind blank and his voice hoarse. Guy had proved exactly why he was the strongest Demon Lord, stripping away every ounce of Leon's legendary control until there was nothing left but raw, shivering need.
Leon swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the magically chilled parchment as if it could somehow cool the sudden desire burning through his veins. "Five minutes is generous," he muttered to the empty room, his voice rough. He tossed the letter back onto the desk, though the fire flickering in his eyes betrayed exactly how eager he was to lose that wager.
He opened his desk drawer, took out the blueprints, and looked at the notation he had made not so long ago.
He sat with this for a long moment, then made a small adjustment to the northern columns — exactly where Guy had suggested. "It has nothing to do with him," he whispered to himself. Then he folded the letter very precisely, placed it in the drawer beneath the schematics, and closed the drawer.
Somewhere in the west corridor, he could hear Alfonse lecturing a junior knight: "Keep your back straight, boy! Lord Crimson visited twice in one month. Twice! In my experience, a man does not do that unless he is either very angry or very interested. Lord Leon assures me it is the former, but I have my own theories."
Leon listened to the sound of it for a moment. Then, in the privacy of his study, with no one to see and no one to report it, he allowed himself something that was not quite a smile.
It lasted approximately two seconds, then he went back to work.
El Dorado stood, as it always had, gleaming golden in the light of the southern morning — the life's work of a man who had spent centuries building something worth protecting. And it was, for the moment, entirely safe.