{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

" PLUMES OF MONARCHY. " EGOBWORDER!SKATEBOARD X MONARCH!READER

(this is how i depict skateboard with the egobworder skin ok dont beat me up)

The palace breathed in velvet hush, as though the walls themselves held their breath for night to pass gently. Courtiers slumbered behind jeweled doors, scribes collapsed over scrolls still damp with ink, and far beyond opulent hallways, the kingdom slept like a beast tamed by moonlight.

Only you remained wakeful.

A crown rested heavy on your desk, discarded like armor after battle; yet the ache it left on your brow lingered. You rubbed your temples, gaze tracing the faint glow spilling through your open balcony archway. Wind carried murmurs of distant life: faint lutes from taverns, the muffled clatter of a late merchant cart, laughter somewhere far below where titles meant nothing and nights belonged to ordinary souls.

You envied them.

Power was a gilded cage, and tonight its bars felt especially close.

The quiet was broken not by trumpet nor guard, but by a soft shuffle and the faint metallic scrape of boots that seldom behaved like ceremonial footwear should. A shadow paused beyond your doorway—hesitant, shifting weight with restless impulse.

"Hey. Um. Your... Majesty?"

His voice carried like someone whispering in a library they had no right to be in.
Sir Egobworder. Knight by title, phenomenon by nature.

You turned slowly, dignity intact despite your fatigue. Few ever intruded at this hour. Fewer still dared speak without summons.

He stood sheepish in the golden lamplight, helmet tucked under one arm, plume slightly crooked as though it had been victim to a wall corner... or a tree. Crimson cape draped messily, plates of armor catching soft light like moon-struck rivers.

In another knight, such posture might signal disrespect. In him, it was simply truth: formalities clung poorly to souls born restless.

"You are awake late," you observed softly.

He shrugged, gauntlet tapping against chestplate.
"Couldn't sleep. Tried counting sheep. They unionized. Disaster."

A beat passed.
Then, sheepishly:
"...and uh, saw your light. Thought maybe you were still up too."

There were days he looked like the empire's most accidental soldier—accidentally loyal, accidentally brave, accidentally noble. And then there were moments like this, when the raw sincerity beneath all the bravado surfaced, and you felt the foundations of your carefully built distance tremble.

"Enter," you murmured.

He did, footsteps a careful clank as if afraid to disturb the delicate quiet—astonishing discipline for someone whose natural state was chaos's chosen child. He stopped a respectful distance away, though his fingers fidgeted on his helmet's edge.

"So..." He cleared his throat. "Working late again?"

"Duty does not retire," you answered, half weary, half amused. "It simply waits to be noticed."

"Sounds like it needs hobbies." His tone softened. "You look tired."

Most subjects would be executed for such commentary on a monarch's face. Yet here he was, tossing truth like pebbles in a river—careless, sincere.

"Have you come to lecture me on rest?" you teased lightly.

His brows knit, a stubborn crease of worry.
"Not lecture. Just... y'know. Someone's gotta check you're not turning into paperwork dust."

You almost smiled—dangerous, how easily he drew light from you.

You turned toward the balcony, letting the cooling breeze slip around you. "Walk with me."