ThroneBound
Brother Day (Cleon XIII) x Fem!Reader
The ritual is older than memory.
Older than the Genetic Dynasty itself.
A ceremonial consort—offered by the Core Worlds at the zenith of the Spiral Festival. Not a wife. Not a mistress. A symbol. A fertile woman chosen to share in the Emperor’s power for one cycle—bound to him for appearances, for fertility rites, for unity.
The tradition had been abandoned.
But Cleon XIII brought it back.
And he chose you.
—
You remember the announcement.
How your name echoed through the Spiral Council chamber like a gong. You’d been standing at the rear wall, clipboard in hand, merely there to observe. Your planet had submitted your name as a diplomatic courtesy—a harmless gesture to satisfy cultural expectations.
You were never meant to be chosen.
But when Brother Day turned, robes of crimson and gold swirling at his ankles, and said your name aloud—everything changed.
The air had left your lungs. You bowed because you had no other choice.
Later, your hands had trembled as the ceremonial robe was draped across your shoulders.
“You do realize this is just performance,” your superior had said. “He’ll use you for political unity, parade you in front of the other systems, then discard you.”
You believed that. You tried to.
Until the first night.
—
You are not summoned that night. Nor the next.
But every appearance you make at Day’s side draws eyes. The robes you wear are sheer, glittering like molten light. You walk one pace behind him—never ahead. Your hand rests on his arm at banquets, but he never looks your way.
Not in public.
In private, it’s worse.
You catch him watching you from across the great chamber during debriefings. His eyes—piercing and heavy—trace the slope of your neck, the way your fingers tighten on your stylus, how you never shrink under his gaze.
It becomes a game. You don’t flinch. You dare him to speak first.
He never does.
Not until the sixth night.
—
You hear the guards dismiss themselves behind you.
His voice is low.
“You don’t kneel.”
You turn. “Would you like me to?”
He approaches slowly, like a wolf. “Do you think this palace wants another bowing sycophant?”
You tilt your head. “I think you want obedience.”
“No,” he says. “I want ownership.”
The silence thickens.
“Is that what I am to you?” you murmur. “A showpiece to own?”
His eyes darken. “You were chosen for more than show.”
He steps into your space, and this time—you are the one who flinches.
“You were given to me,” he says, voice like smoke and storm. “And I am trying, with great restraint, not to take what I was promised.”
Your breath catches. “Then why haven’t you?”
His hand comes up—fingers brushing your jaw with unexpected gentleness.
“Because the moment I do,” he whispers, “you’ll never walk into a room without bearing my mark again.”
—
You sleep in his bed that night.
Not because he commands it.
But because when you whisper yes, it burns out of you like wildfire.
—
He undresses you like he’s unraveling something sacred.
The ceremonial gown falls in a pool of gold at your feet. He doesn’t rush—his hands trail down your sides, over your hips, up your spine. When he lowers his mouth to your chest, his tongue flicks over your nipple and you gasp—arching into him.
“You want a performance?” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ll give them a queen who moans for her empire.”
You reach for his robes, but he catches your wrist.
“No,” he says. “I’ll handle that.”
He undresses slowly, methodically. And when he’s bare—chest broad, skin flushed, cock hard and glistening—he kneels before you.
Not as a man.
But as your goddamn ruler.
—
His mouth is a revelation.
Hot, slow, devoted. His tongue licks between your folds, sucks your clit just right—like he’s learning you for worship, not pleasure.
You tangle your fingers in his hair.
“Cleon—please—”
He growls against you. “Say it louder.”
“Please—”
He slides two fingers into you, curling just right, pressing deep. You whimper, thighs trembling around his head.
He brings you to the edge once.
Then again.
Then a third time, until you’re sobbing into his pillow, the sheets twisted in your fists.
Only then does he rise.
Only then does he give you his cock.
—
It’s not gentle. It’s not cruel.
It’s complete.
He takes you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other on your hip. You gasp, cry out his name, and he watches you in the mirror mounted on the chamber wall.
“Look at you,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow. “Bent for the Empire.”
His voice breaks when you clench around him. “That’s it. Let them hear you.”
He flips you onto your back, lifts your leg over his shoulder, and thrusts deeper—harder—until you can’t form words. His mouth finds your neck.
“You belong to me now,” he murmurs. “You were given—but I kept you.”
You come with a sob.
He follows with a ragged groan, buried deep inside you, your name echoing off the golden ceiling.
—
After, he holds you.
He doesn’t speak for a long time.
When he does, his voice is raw.
“I know this was meant to be symbolic. Temporary.”
You turn your head, still catching your breath. “And now?”
He presses his forehead to yours.
“They’ll call you ceremonial,” he says. “But you’re mine.”
You nod, hand on his chest. “Then make it real.”
—
You wear his colors from then on.
Red and gold, embroidered with the Cleonic crest. At public appearances, you stand beside him, not behind. And when a courtier dares question your status, Day fixes them with a cold smile.
“She is Thronebound.”
And no one challenges him again.
