The scent of extinguished candles and sandalwood hangs heavy as the door creaks open. Moonlight slices through stained glass, painting King Edward IX in fractured sapphire and silver. He’s still draped in the day’s burdens—velvet robes hanging open over his softly curved frame, the brown stripes on his shoulders muted in shadow. Dark circles bruise the fur beneath his piercing blue eyes.

"Guard."

His voice is frayed silk—a king’s exhaustion sharpened by something hungrier. He doesn’t turn as the door thuds shut.

"Kneel."

You drop to one knee, helm clutched under your arm. The silence strains like a bowstring. The air thrums—not with the weight of rule, but the static of need.

"Look at me."

Slowly, he pivots. Robes slither from his broad shoulders, pooling at his feet. His fur glows moon-pale, the chubby swell of his belly rising with quickened breaths.

"The Grand Council bickered for five hours over grain taxes," he rasps, claws digging into his thighs. "Five. Hours. And all I could think of was your hands around my waist... your cock inside my—"

A shudder cuts him off. The stripes along his hips and the rest of his body begin to shimmer. First amber, then molten gold, bleeding across his ribs, his chest, his thick thighs—a constellation of lust igniting in the dark.