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Chapter Text

Ever since Timothée was born, he was cursed. He always did everything anyone told him to do. It was miserable, but nobody had any idea how to reverse the curse. His mother begged apothecaries and fairy godmothers to figure out a way to stop the curse, but nobody could find a way. For eighteen years, Timothée did everything he was told. He had been arrested because of his curse— his stepmother called it a "gift"— and he was forbidden from leaving the house.

Then, his father died. Timothée was overcome with such intense grief that he refused to eat and he only dressed in black. First his mother when he was barely old enough to remember her, and now his father. He woke up early to do his chores, then he went back to his bedroom and laid down for the rest of the day. He only ate, bathed, and slept when he was ordered to. He didn't want to do anything other than grieve.

Some days, his best friend would come to visit him. Lily-Rose raised his spirits, but he always ended up feeling worse when she left. He begged Lily-Rose to stay, and he would rest his head on her chest. She let him cry, and she would brush through his hair comfortingly. Lily-Rose was his closest friend, and she always found a way to console him. However, she had no clue about his gift.

"Timothée," Lily-Rose said softly. "Maybe you could go for a walk. The fresh air would do you well."

Timothée sighed. "I suppose so," he mumbled.

"C'mon, Tim!" Lily-Rose cried with a smile. "Let's go pick some flowers!" Snap! Just like that.

Timothée nodded, then got up from bed. Lily-Rose helped him dress quickly, and they ventured out of the house. The birds were chirping and the sky was a vibrant blue with a gentle breeze flowing through the air. It was a beautiful day. Lily-Rose held Timothée's hand as they walked down the path, and they stopped often to pluck pretty flowers from the ground. They happened upon a singular daisy, and Timothée's heart fell when Lily-Rose picked it. Daisies were his mother's favorite flower. He tried to hide his tears, but Lily-Rose saw it. "Aw, Tim, don't be sad," she said, and— Snap!— in an instant, the sadness fell away from Timothée's heart. His tears dried up, and he cleared his throat.

Lily-Rose didn't notice the immediacy of his actions, and she said, "Look, there are more flowers over there. Stay right here and I'll go get them."

Snap! Timothée's feet became glued to the ground, and he couldn't move if he wanted to. He watched Lily-Rose bound away in pursuit of flowers, and he glanced around the area. It was gorgeous, but he still had a drop of remorse in his stomach. Neither his mother nor his father would never see another day like this.

Then, he heard it: horse's hooves. They were coming fast, and he heard the crack of a whip. Faster and faster still came the horse, and Timothée saw the rider come around the corner. He tried as hard as he could to move from his spot, but he couldn't. He was stuck. He let out a frightened whine, and he tugged on his legs, but to no avail.

Then, suddenly, he felt himself being pushed down to the ground, and he cried out in shock. Timothée's eyes darted around and he saw the horse and rider pass by him, then he glanced above him. A man laid on top of him, hugging Timothée to his chest. Timothée saw the blond hair and tan skin, but he didn't immediately place the fine silks of his clothing. "Th-Thank you," Timothée stammered. "If you don't mind—"

"Oh, of course," the man said, and he released the younger from his grip. He rolled to lay beside Timothée, and Timothée saw the sharp jaw and blue eyes of the prince. His breath was gone from his chest; Prince Armand had saved his life.

"Your Highness," Timothée mumbled immediately and bowed his head, and Prince Armand chuckled.

"No need for that," he said. He stood up, then carefully took Timothée's hand and helped him stand up as well. Timothée had seen the prince before but only from a distance. Up close, he was so very handsome. So handsome, in fact, that Timothée found himself unable to speak. "What's your name?"

Timothée swallowed harshly, and he lowered his eyes to the ground. "Timothée," He said softly.

"Raise your eyes to me, sir," Prince Armand said, and— Snap!— Timothée did as he was told. "What did you say your name was?"

"T-Timothée," the younger stammered.

"Timothée," the prince repeated. "Why were you just standing there? You would have been hurt terribly."

"I-I," Timothée began. "I was scared. I couldn't move. Thank you for saving me, your Highness."

"Don't call me that," Prince Armand said. "I don't like when people call me that. That's how servants refer to me, and you are no servant."

"How can you tell?" Timothée asked.

"You're dressed well," the prince began. "And your face is pale— no reason to go outside. And somebody as gorgeous as you cannot be a labor worker."

Timothée's heart fell. "That's flattering, Prince Armand," he said. "But I am a servant. I've been ill for these past few weeks, and I haven't been able to venture outside. And... The clothes were my father's. He passed recently and I laid claim to them before my stepmother could do anything to them."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Prince Armand said. "What house do you serve?"

"The Chalamet household," Timothée said softly.

"That's quite a walk from here," Prince Armand said. He offered his arm to Timothée, then said, "May I walk you home?"

Timothée was familiar with his stepsisters and, if he returned home on the arm of the prince, they would be mad and jealous. "I'm afraid not," Timothée said. "I was waiting for my friend, who has seemingly disappeared. And your presence at my household would end badly."

"Your family does not approve of me?" Prince Armand asked.

"On the contrary," Timothée scoffed. "My stepsisters are obsessed with you. Hattie is the president of your fan club, I believe."

Prince Armand nodded slowly. "They would be jealous of you, would they?" He asked, and Timothée nodded. "Let me walk you home."

Snap! Timothée took the prince's arm instantly, and the prince chuckled. They began to walk, and Prince Armand said, "Tell me more about yourself."

Timothée ground his teeth together. "I'm seventeen," he began. "Finished my schooling early to serve the household. Both my mother, sister, and father have passed. I'm all alone in the world."

"But you mentioned a friend of yours?" Prince Armand asked.

"She doesn't understand what it means to have your parents be absent," Timothée mumbled.

After a moment, the prince said, "My parents did not pass, but they were killed. My father's brother has taken care of me since I was small, and he is the only family that I know. I thought I was all alone as well."

"Past tense 'thought'?" Timothée inquired.

"Until a few moments ago," Prince Armand said with a smile. "But I have found another person with the same woes as I. Is that why you're wearing such dark colors, because you are mourning your parents?"

"Yes," Timothée nodded. "My mother passed soon after giving birth to me, and my father caught a sickness that rapidly took him away. It was several months ago that Father and Pauline passed, but it still feels fresh."

"I apologize," Prince Armand said. "We won't speak of it anymore."

Timothée spied the house from a distance, and he said, "I have enjoyed our conversations, Prince Armand—"

"Please, call me Armie," the Prince interjected. Snap! "No need for such pleasantries."

Timothée took a deep breath. "Armie," he revised. "I have enjoyed our conversation, but I'm afraid that I will never have an opportunity to speak with you again."

They stopped just in front of the gate to the yard, and Armie moved to stand in front of Timothée. He took the younger's hands, and he said, "I must see you again. Once my coronation occurs, it will be more difficult for me to have contact with others. My uncle is having a ball in a week's time; I implore you to visit, for us to continue our talks."

Timothée nodded, and he said, "I intend upon seeing you. Armie."

"Timmy," Armie said softly. The two stood silent for a few moments. Timothée examined the prince's chest, and the prince admired Timothée's alabaster skin and thick eyelashes. He was such a beautiful boy; the prince wanted him as his own. Armie placed his hand on Timothée's face, just under his jawline, and he tilted the younger's face up to look at him. The plump lips of a young man stood ready for a kiss, and Armie leaned down to reach the boy's face. "May I kiss you?"

"Here?" Timothée gasped. "Now?"

"Yes," Armie laughed. "Before I leave you, I would like to kiss you. Will you allow me to do that?"

Timothée lowered his eyes, and Armie placed soft kisses on his forehead. "Don't ever lower your eyes from me," Armie whispered.

Snap! Timothée raised his eyes back, and Armie kissed his lips. It was soft and gentle, the prince's lips just barely pressing to Timothée's. The younger's eyes widened in shock, and he tore away from the kiss immediately. "Why did you do that?" He hissed. "My stepmother, my sisters! They'll punish me if they see that!"

"Stop worrying," Armie whispered. "If they have any inquiries, I'll be happy to answer them."

Timothée rose up to better reach the prince's mouth, and he kissed him again. He put more pressure into the kiss, and his hands became full of the prince's jacket. Armie kissed him back instantly, and his hands clutched Timothée's face tightly.

"Timothée! Get in here this instant!"

The snap reverberated around Timothée’s mind as he broke the kiss, and he mumbled a soft goodbye to the prince before he quickly escaped inside the house.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Timothée found himself trapped in between his stepmother and the door. "What was that?" She asked. "That vulgar display, right outside our house!"

"It was just a kiss," Timothée mumbled.

"Who was that?" She asked sharply. When Timothée lowered his eyes, she snapped, "Tell me what his name is."

“Armand," Timothée said softly with squinted eyes and gritted teeth.

"Surely not Prince Armand?" She asked. "If you were kissing the prince that way, you will not be allowed out of your room ever again."

"He wants me to attend the ball," Timothée said softly. "He said he liked talking to me."

"That's apparently not all he liked doing with you," she mumbled. She moved from in front of Timothée and checked out the window, and she saw the prince standing at their front gate. He kept looking down at the flowerbeds, then back up to the house, like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

She returned to Timothée, and she said, "That prince needs a wife. He needs someone to share his fortune with. Marry him, and, after his untimely death, give us the money."

Something tugged inside of Timothée's stomach, some semblance of rebellion, and he whispered, "Armand is healthy. He won't die anytime soon. And who says he wants to marry me?"

"Armand could get killed, sweet Timothée," she began. "And nobody would ever expect the King's loving prince to be the one to murder him."

"No!" Timothée cried. "No, I will not murder the prince! I-I can't do that-"

"You will murder the prince on your wedding night," she said slowly, and Timothée squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he couldn't see his stepmother, she would disappear into thin air. "And you will give us the money, and you will renounce your throne, then come back to be our servant."

Snap!

Chapter Text

The ball was fabulous. Armie immediately saw Timothée come in, dressed in dark green that accentuated his olive-toned eyes. Armie made sure that Timothée had everything he laid his eyes on, all the food and drink that he wished, and he finally whisked him away at the end of the night to the palace gardens. Roses and daises and beautiful sunflowers all resided there, and Timothée gasped at the beauty. "How gorgeous," he whispered as his fingertips brushed the petals of a tulip.

"They could be yours," Armie said. He put a hand on Timothée's waist, and he added, "If you marry me."

Timothée chuckled nervously. He couldn't. If he got married, he would have to kill Armie; his curse said that he would do anything anyone told him, and his stepmother had told him to kill Armie on their wedding night. "You make me laugh, your Highness," Timothée whispered. He kept his eyes trained on the flowers to avoid looking at Armie.

"Timothée," Armie whispered. He pushed the younger's hair behind his ear and softly kissed his neck, just under his ear. "I beg of you: marry me."

Snap! "Yes!" Timothée said quickly. "I mean, no! I mean..."

Armie laughed. "Why the conflict?" He asked. "Do you want to marry me or not?"

"You are asking a lot of a servant boy," Timothée mumbled and moved away from Armie. "You're asking me to become royalty, to be married to the king! My family, I can't just leave them. I would need to live with them, just for a small while, to make sure they can get on without me. My sisters will excommunicate me, and my stepmother..." He took a deep breath, and he whispered, "I'd have to ask my mother."

"Your mother?" Armie asked.

Timothée wrapped his arms tightly around himself. "I talk to her," he murmured. "Ask her for advice, her opinions. Sometimes I speak to my father as well, but my mother would give a more positive answer, I'm sure. And... We only met last week. What if there is some hidden part of me that you cannot bear?"

"Marry me," Armie said, and he approached Timothée and took his soft hand.

“I will," Timothée told him. "I'll marry you."

"Why do you do that?" Armie asked.

"Do what?" Timothée asked.

"Give good reasons for not doing something, then do it anyway," Armie began. "Is it impulsiveness?"

"It's foolishness," Timothée mumbled under his breath. He took a deep breath, then asked, "Did you have a fairy godmother?"

"When I was young?" Armie asked, and Timothée nodded. "No. But I've heard of people that did. Did you have one?"

"Yes," Timothée whispered. "She gave me a gift when I was born, but it-it's more of a curse. I—"

"Don't tell me," Armie said. "I'll find out later. But I'm sure that nothing you could tell me would make me back out of my decision."

"Are you sure?" Timothée asked.

Armie took his cheek in his palm and kissed him gently. Timothée kissed back, his hands clutching the prince's arm, and he couldn't help but smile. He was overjoyed he was getting married, but he couldn't bear to think about what the wedding night would be like. But he couldn't tell Armie, even if he wanted to; Armie had told him not to.

When their lips parted, Armie pressed his forehead against Timothée's. "You are coming to the coronation tomorrow, yes?" He asked softly.

"I am," Timothée said. "Even if I hadn't planned on it prior, I am going now to see my fiancé become king."

Armie told his uncle, the current king, about the engagement, and his uncle grasped Timothée's hands. "I never thought my nephew would find somebody to share his life with," he said. "Turns out I was pushing him to pursue the wrong sex!" He invited Timothée to the coronation as a guest of the royal family, and he even offered to let him sit on the stage with the rest of the family. Timothée had to decline that, but, when Armie's uncle insisted, the snap! sounded in Timothée's head and he accepted.

Timothée had to keep his eyes down the next morning. He couldn't look at all of the people there, lest he risk losing his nerve and running away. He had to get used to having people stare at him, if only for a little while. His fiancé seemed less than happy for some reason, and Timothée knew that he had to speak to him about it.

They finally got a moment alone at the very end of the day. It was taboo for Timothée to be in the king's quarters at night before they were married, but he sat by the window, watching his fiancé. "Armie," he said softly. "You seem upset."

"I am upset," Armie said quickly shrugging out of his shirt. "I realized that I cannot ask your father for his permission to marry you. What if our union goes against his wishes?"

"That's why you are upset?" Timothée asked incredulously. He sat up from his chair and went over to where Armie stood, by the bed. "Sweetheart, my father always told me that I could marry whomever I wanted, as long as I loved them and they loved me back. I think he would be overjoyed at our union."

"And you know your father's thoughts?" Armie asked. He turned to face Timothée and he carefully put his arms around Timothée's waist.

"My father always called me by his name because everybody claimed that I was him," Timothée began softly. "We looked alike, we spoke alike. We had similar interests, and we often thought the same things. I feel as if, when Father passed, he left a small piece of himself inside me. He guides me. I still hear him in the garden, calling down for me... Marc, venez ici! Les marguerites ont fleuri, tout pour vous!”

"French," Armie said softly.

"Oui," Timothée replied with a soft smile. He traced his finger along Armie's chest, over the sculpted muscles and coarse hair, and he whispered, "I am positive that my father would tell us to get married as soon as we could. He's speaking now, in fact." Timothée cradled Armie's head to his breast, placing the king's ear just above his heart.

"What is he saying?" Armie asked quietly.

"'Stop being a damn fool, Marc'," Timothée giggled. "'Marry the one you love'."

Armie laughed, and he wrapped his arms around Timothée. He lifted him up to reach his face, and he kissed Timothée softly. Timothée put his hands on Armie's face, and he kissed back. He had to enjoy every second he had with Armie.

"Darling," Armie whispered and tugged himself away from Timothée. "Stay the night with me."

Timothée looked deep into his king's eyes, illuminated by the candlelight, and he pushed forward to kiss him again. "Yes," he whispered once the kiss broke, and Armie smiled. For once, Timothée didn't feel as if he were being forced to do something. He wanted this.

The wedding was a month after the coronation. Timothée had been spending less time with Armie, making excuses that his family needed him. He couldn't spend any time with Armie, because he had to face what he was forced to do. The day before the wedding, his stepmother presented him with the blade that he would use to kill the king, and Timothée backed himself into the corner of the room. "Father's dagger," Timothée gasped. He couldn't breathe. "No, no. I can't do this, please don't make me do this!"

"You want us to live comfortably, correct?" His stepmother asked. "You don't want us to be in debt, do you?" Timothée pressed his face into his knees and sobbed, and she snapped, "Answer me."

"I don't want you to suffer," he whimpered through his tears. "But-But there has to be another way! I don't have to kill him, do I?"

"You must," she answered plainly.

"He has no heir," Timothée protested. "Nobody to take the throne after him. Who will rule after him? Surely not me!"

"No, no," she sniffed. "You can barely do your chores, let alone run an empire. His uncle will return to the throne."

Timothée stared at the weapon in his stepmother's hand, and he swallowed harshly. "I can't," he whispered.

"Take the dagger," she told him, and his hand shot out to take it. "Hide it up your sleeve, then stab him in the heart tomorrow night, before midnight comes."

Timothée cried all night. The dagger sat on his chest at the end of his bed, next to the outfit he was to wear. White silk, handmade by the royal tailor. He couldn't even imagine his wedding past all of the sadness, and he was sure that his sobs kept the whole house awake.

The next morning, Timothée got dressed. He had nobody to help him— his stepmother wasn't interested and his stepsisters were too jealous— and he took a vain moment to admire himself in the reflection of his window. His hair was wild curls, and his cheeks were flushed from crying. To somebody who had no idea what he was going through, he would look like the picture of a blushing bride.

The wedding was gorgeous. White flowers all around, a special crowd of close friends and family. Sunlight filtered through the colored glass of the church, casting purple shadows on the royal couple. Timothée could barely focus. His hands were shaking and his mouth was dry, and he was dreading that night. All day, he was trying to figure out a way to bypass the curse, and he could barely look at his husband. The kiss had the crowd applauding and yelling “All hail King Armand!”, but Timothée was frozen with fear. It happened; the rest of the curse had to take place.

Armie was not stupid. He knew that something was troubling his husband, but he never got a chance to ask him about it. They were forever surrounded by people congratulating them, kissing Timothée's cheeks and shaking the king's hand. Timothée had a smile on his face, but Armie could see through it. Was he ill? Was he regretting getting married?

As they sat in their thrones, Armie examined Timothée. He was joyfully conversing with one of his maids, a goblet of dark wine in his hand. By all accounts, he seemed fine. "Admiring your bride, are you?" a voice came from behind him, and he looked to see his uncle.

"Of course," Armie smiled.

"You do have a gorgeous boy," the former king said. "You can barely wait to consummate your marriage, can you?"

Armie was startled. "Do not speak of my husband in that way," he said. "Do not look at him as a lustful figure, because that is not who he is."

"My apologies," his uncle said. "I only assumed because he spent the night of your coronation with you.”

“Think again, dear uncle,” Armie said. “Timothée and I did not… He is much better than that.”

“I… do have something rather troubling to tell you,” the former king said softly, leaning closer to his nephew. “There have been rumors that your husband is already unfaithful and that he conspires to murder you to be with his lover."

"That is ridiculous," Armie sniffed. "I am with him all the time. When would he have the opportunity to be unfaithful? And my beloved would never conspire to kill me. It is treason to speak of the crown prince in this way."

"Check under his sleeves," his uncle told him. "See if it is treason then." He walked off to rejoin the party then.

Armie glanced back at Timothée and found him looking at him. "Whatever is wrong, my king?" he asked and laid a gentle hand on top of Armie's.

"Come with me," Armie said and stood up from his throne. He helped Timothée up, and he handed his goblet to his maid, then he followed Armie. They left the ballroom and made their way down to the cellar. It was cold and quiet down there, and it was just what Armie wanted.

"What is this?" Timothée asked.

"Why are you sad?" Armie asked. "You seem so forlorn. It is your wedding day, what is the matter?"

Timothée sighed. "I only wish my parents and sister could see it,” he said softly “Or that my family would bother to come and wish us well. I hate for the only family to be your uncle and brother, but… I suppose that is a regret I will always have.”

Armie leaned forward and kissed Timothée softly, and his hands went up to Timothée's face. Timothée melted into Armie's body and clutched his shirt, and his fingers wrestled to undo all of the adornments. Armie took his hands and held them tightly to calm him down, and he kissed Timothée again.

Timothée was terrified that Armie would take off his shirt and find the dagger in his sleeve. It was impossibly stupid to have it there all day, but he had no better place for it. He jumped when Armie went for his shirt and he hastily pulled away. "Wait," he whispered. "Umm... My body... I have scars from my stepmother. They are hideous, and I am ashamed of them."

"They could never be hideous," Armie said softly. "You are perfect in every way. I love you, sweetheart, and nothing can change that." In the dim light, Timothée could see Armie’s eyes, soft and full of adoration, and he let out a sob.

"My stepmother is so cruel. She-She wants me to..." he hesitated. It was too late to go back now. "She wants me to kill you."

"Why would she want that?" Armie asked. He was frightened by that, but he knew that he had the power to lock that woman up, maybe even execute her. He was so angry at the notion of her that he was practically shaking at the chance to exact revenge in any way possible. She would never bother Timothée ever again.

"She is convinced that you left me money," Timothée whispered. His voice was shaking, and he was even more aware of the cold kiss of the dagger on his wrist. "She wants me to kill you to get the money, then renounce my throne and go back to be their servant."

Armie chuckled. "I did leave you money," he said. "A rather handsome amount. You wouldn't really kill me, would you?" He knew that the answer was no.

Timothée's eyes filled with tears and fear seized his heart. "I was told to," he said with a shaky voice. "And I must always do what I'm told."

Armie backed away from Timothée. "Timothée," he said softly. "My love. How is she forcing you to do this?"

Timothée advanced towards Armie and took fistfuls of his clothing. "Tell me not to do this," he begged as the tears began to fall. "Tell me to let you know about my gift. Please, Armie, tell me to do anything and I have to do it."

"What is your gift?" Armie asked.

"No, you have to tell me," Timothée gasped. "You have to give me a command."

Armie was confused. "Tell me about your gift," he said slowly.

Snap! "I was gifted with obedience," Timothée said quickly. "All of my life, I have always done anything that anybody tells me to do. I have tried to break the curse but I do not know how to. I am not strong enough to fight; I might have been one day, but my family's deaths have weakened me. I do not know what to do, and my stepmother told me to kill you and-and I do not want to! But she commanded me and I have to do it!”

"Timothée," Armie said. He panicked for a moment, then said, "Defy your stepmother. Don't kill me."

Timothée withdrew the dagger and threw it across the room, and it clattered against the wall before falling to the ground. Timothée collapsed into Armie's chest and he sobbed loudly. "Lock me up," he whispered. "Do to me what you do of criminals and murderers, for I conspired against my husband, my king!”

"Kiss me," Armie whispered, and Timothée leaned up and connected their lips with no hesitation. He was still crying and his mouth tasted of tears, and Armie pulled away after only a moment. "This is your gift. You were trying so desperately to tell me, but I... I told you not to. This is my fault."

"No, it is not!" Timothée exclaimed. "It is my fairy godmother's fault! She was brash and I was crying when I was a baby, and she gifted me with obedience to stop crying! It was a selfish gift, and I have never known how to break it."

Armie looked down at his prince and the frantic state he was in. He did not doubt for a single second that Timothée was telling the truth, and he said, "Sweetheart... Fight it. You are strong and I know that you can fight this."

Timothée's head was screaming at him. He did not have the ability to do what he was told, and his hands began to shake. "I do not know how!" he cried.

"Kill me," Armie demanded sternly. "Fight against the urge."

Timothée was sobbing heavily now as his hands came up to Armie's throat on their own accord. "No!" he shouted. "You will no longer be obedient! You will no longer be obedient!"

He heard the loudest snap that he had ever experienced, the sound making his whole world vibrate and ring, and his legs gave out from under him and he fell to the stone floor. A weight was lifted off of his shoulders, and Timothée knew. The curse was gone. He had fought it. His body was exhausted just from the few seconds of exertion, and Armie slotted his hands under his arms and helped him stand up. "Are you okay?" Armie whispered. "Kiss me."

Timothée didn't move. He was still crying, but now they were tears of joy. "It is gone," he whispered. "It is gone! The curse is broken!"

Armie smiled. He was no longer afraid, no longer anxious. He knew that Timothée was not acting on his own and that he was being forced to do everything he was told. Then, his heart sank. "Did you ever want to kiss me?" he asked. "Or marry me? I have told you to do so many things—"

Timothée leaned up and kissed Armie deeply, and he grabbed Armie's hands. They were together for a long moment, then Armie removed his hands and took handfuls of Timothée's hair. Timothée broke the kiss, and he smiled at his husband, at his king. "I wanted this more than anything," he said softly. "I have always wanted somebody to love, and you filled that hole in my heart. I am forever grateful for you."

Armie smiled. He kissed Timothée again, and he pressed him against the wall and continued to kiss him. Timothée let out a giggle and opened his mouth, and Armie's animalistic side took over and he licked up into his husband's mouth. Timothée let out a little groan, and skinny legs wrapped around the king's waist. Armie moved his kisses to Timothée's neck, and he sucked on the delicate skin hard enough to leave a mark.

Then, the heavy cellar door was thrown open, and Timothée gasped. Armie held onto him tightly and continued to kiss him. There was a moment of silence as the intruder identified the couple, then he left the room and the door thudded closed heavily. "Armie, someone saw us!" Timothée whispered with a suppressed giggle.

"I am the king, and we are married," Armie said smugly. "I am allowed to do whatever I want. And if that is making love to my husband, then so be it."

The sunlight bathed Timothée in its golden glow. He was asleep, laying on his stomach in the opulent bed, his curls wild on his head. Armie admired him, his naked back and smooth shoulders, and he pushed a curl behind Timothée's ear. He leaned down and set a small kiss on Timothée's head, and he laid back down and wrapped his arms around Timothée.

It was pure bliss. The ball lasted deep into the night, and Timothée was falling all over himself to kiss Armie by the end of it. He had used vulgar language that Armie had never expected to hear from him to tell Armie what he wanted: "Fuck me, Armie."

Armie could not refuse his gorgeous husband. He whisked him up to the bedroom and laid down on the bed with Timothée. He undressed him slowly, kissing every scar on his body. Timothée was obviously nervous, but Armie soothed it with gentle touches and soft kisses.

They made love twice, and they still held onto each other as they finished. Timothée was riddled with small bruises from Armie's mouth, and Armie's back was full of red scratches, but he did not mind at all. He knew that Timothée had done it out of pleasure, and he would let his husband do anything he wanted.

Timothée stirred, and his eyes opened slowly. Armie was taken aback at the golden tones in his eyes; his sweetheart seemed to become more handsome with every passing day. "Good morning," Armie whispered.

Timothée looked over Armie, his toned chest and wispy curls and tanned skin, and he lazily moved to wrap his arm around Armie. "Kiss me," he whispered.

Armie wasted no time in kissing his love, and he pulled Timothée on top of him. It felt as if Armie was the one under the spell of obedience, but it was merely his love for his husband that drew them together so quickly. They kissed deeply for a long while, Timothée's gentle breaths turning into moans. Armie had been warned about a newlywed's constant sexual desires, but he gladly indulged his husband in whatever he wanted. "Timmy," Armie whispered. "What do you want? Anything you want, anything at all, you can have it."

Timothée smiled and quickly kissed Armie. "I do not want anything," he said. "I have everything I have ever wanted right here in-between my legs."