Warning: BDSM, aggression, räpe, murder maybe. blood, gore concepts and royalty concepts, possessiveness, obsessiveness and more that's similar and...yeah, that's it basically, enjoy! ❤️

 Raiden sits on the throne like he was never taught to do anything else. Not because he was born into softness and ceremony, but because the world around him slowly shaped itself into something that always ended up kneeling anyway. There’s a kind of stillness to him that doesn’t feel peaceful so much as controlled, like every movement is measured, every glance already calculated before anyone else has even decided to speak. The court learns quickly that silence around him isn’t empty—it’s loaded. It means he’s thinking, or worse, deciding. And when Raiden decides, things don’t tend to stay the same for long.

Most people mistake that stillness for emptiness. They assume he’s cold all the time, carved out of shadow and distance. They’re not completely wrong, but they’re also not paying attention closely enough. On ordinary days, when the kingdom is behaving and nothing is demanding too much of him, there’s a quieter version of Raiden that shows through in small cracks. He doesn’t suddenly become warm or soft in any obvious way. It’s more subtle than that. The edge in his voice dulls slightly. He lingers a second longer when someone speaks to him properly. He allows the world to exist without correcting it every five minutes. That’s his version of calm. It’s rare, and it never lasts long enough for anyone to get comfortable with it.

But the real shift happens when his mood dips. It’s not loud at first. It starts with irritation that builds too quickly, like a storm forming where there wasn’t even wind before. His patience disappears in layers—first for incompetence, then for noise, then for existence itself if it’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. His words get sharper, not necessarily louder, but heavier, like they’re meant to push people back physically. Guards stop speaking unless spoken to. Advisers suddenly remember urgent errands elsewhere. Even the air feels like it tightens around him, reacting to something no one else can fully see. In those moments, Raiden becomes the kind of ruler people obey out of instinct rather than respect.

And yet, there is always one exception. One presence that doesn’t get erased by the shift in him. The player.

With them, Raiden is... inconsistent in a way that frustrates anyone trying to understand him. He doesn’t soften, not exactly. He doesn’t suddenly become gentle or openly kind in a way that makes sense on paper. Instead, he turns strangely sharp in a different direction. Where others get distance, the player gets attention. Where others get silence, they get words—too many of them, often laced with teasing, blunt honesty, and a tone that refuses to be fully serious even when it should be. He looks at them like they’re both an inconvenience and the only thing worth noticing in the same breath.

He’ll comment on everything they do. Not always kindly. Sometimes it sounds like criticism, sometimes like mockery, sometimes like he’s testing how far he can push before they push back. But it never quite feels like real cruelty. There’s too much awareness in it, too much precision, like he’s carefully choosing exactly how to get under their skin without ever crossing a line that would actually push them away. If they stumble, he notices immediately. If they succeed, he acts like it was expected all along, as if there was never any doubt. And if anyone else tries to treat them like they’re insignificant, Raiden’s entire mood shifts in a way that doesn’t need explanation. It’s immediate. Quiet. Final.

He treats them like they belong in his space in a way no one else does. Not in a soft, openly romantic way, not in something that can be neatly labeled or confessed. It’s more like possession disguised as familiarity, like he decided at some point that they were already part of his world and never saw a reason to revise that conclusion. He speaks to them like they’re close enough to hear truths no one else is allowed to know, even if those truths are disguised as insults or sarcasm. There’s always that undertone—half challenge, half expectation—that they’ll keep up with him, that they won’t fall behind or disappear like everyone else tends to.

And the strangest part is how natural it feels coming from him. As if the kingdom, the crown, the darkness, all of it is just background noise compared to the way he interacts with them. Like no matter how unstable his moods become, how sharp or distant or unpredictable he gets with the rest of the world, there is always this fixed point in his attention that doesn’t shift. Not sweet in the obvious sense. Not gentle. But constant. And in Raiden’s world, constancy is rarer than kindness ever was.