#boriqua

is there any women out there that are this kind of masc??? or fem or switch idc

New Sauce Music is the Sound tho, nyc🤖🗽🇵🇷⚡️

Chapter one:

Sunlight stretches across El Palacio Real, spilling through the tall windows and golden arches, while beyond the palace gates, the rhythmic whisper of ocean waves whisper from the cliffs below and the faint rustle of palm trees fill the silence as they sway playfully against the fresh, salty breeze.

You walk down the illuminated corridor, slowly, deliberately, your head slightly bowed as you’ve been taught by the head of the household earlier this morning. The great wooden doors at the end of the hallway seem to loom larger than life, judging your every step, every breath, every heartbeat. Your chest tightens as you remember the words of Señora Garcia:

“Keep your eyes lowered. Do not speak unless spoken to. And never turn your back towards the Queen.”

When given the assignment of being the attendant of Queen María Victoria herself, you simply bowed your head and swore to serve her well.

Inside, you were terrified.

You have heard of the Queen’s reputation. Whispers of her sharp mind, effortless grace, and her sickeningly sweet smile that makes anyone kneel before her without thinking. The linen in your hands anchors you, a reminder to steady yourself. The fabric suddenly feels heavy in your hands as you pause in front of the doors, the only obstacle between you and the most powerful woman in Borinquen.

Taking a deep breath, you lift your hand and knock gently against the polished wood. The sounds echoes down the corridor, swallowed almost instantly by the grandeur of the palace. You stand there, pulse thrumming in your ears as you wait for permission to enter.

“Entra,” comes a soft, measured voice from the other side, smooth and delicate, and a shiver goes down your spine as you realize this is no ordinary summons.

The doors feel impossibly heavy as you push them open, and with trembling steps, you enter the royal chambers. As you move about, you can feel the Queen’s gaze on you— sharp, calculating, and impossibly precise. Your task is simple: leave the linen and keep yourself as small and silent as possible until the Queen dismissed you with her explicit instructions. You place it neatly where it belongs, soothing the fabric with trembling fingers, and step back, lowering your eyes as Señora Garcia taught you.

A soft, deliberate pause passes, broken only by the faint whisper of ocean waves and rustling palm fronds from the balcony beyond. You dare not look up—but you feel the Queen’s presence pressing in.

“Tú eres nueva,” the Queen’s voice breaks the silence, her accent melodic and smooth. The words roll of her tongue like silk, and there is a trace of amusement—or is it challenge?—underneath, and it makes your stomach twist.

“What is your name?”

You swallow hard, lowering your gaze further. “My name is Y/N, Su Majestad.”

“Y/N…” the Queen echoes, her voice soft but deliberate, almost savoring the syllables. “Look at me.”

You obey her.

Slowly, you lift your gaze, and you pause, lips parting in surprise.

María Victoria lays on the bed on her side, half in shadow, half in the golden sunlight that makes her seem to glisten, highlighting the gentle curve of her hips and the elegant sweeps of her cheekbones. Her long, wavy hair cascades down her shoulders like a dark waterfall, the light catching in the strands and giving them a gentle hue. She is stripped down to a thin linen chemise, sleeve falling off the shoulder, one leg bare and bent at the knee, a scandalous sight of leisure and vulnerability that would have courtiers whispering for months. Her tattoos— black ink and delicate linework—peek from beneath the loose drape of her chemise, tracing along the curve of her collarbone and disappearing just beneath the fabric, as if daring the eye to follow.

There is a faint curve on her lips, as if she already knows the effect she has on you.

“Entonces, Y/N…” the queen begins, her voice lilting, soft but deliberate, “do you always obey so perfectly, or is it only when I ask?”

You flush, unsure whether to answer, whether to stay composed—or to surrender for a moment to the dangerous allure of her gaze. María Victoria doesn’t look away. Instead, she watches you— closely, intently— and it is enough to make your pulse quicken.

“I am at your disposal for whatever you might ask of me, Majestad,” you say carefully.

“Then I am sure we will be seeing each other again very soon,” the Queen says, her voice soft but edged with amusement, letting the words linger like a delicate caress. Her voice drops slightly, “Let us hope you are as devoted as you claim.”

You bow your head. “Espero lo mismo, mi reina.”

“Puedes retirarte. Pero quédate cerca.” Her lips curve into that infuriatingly sweet, teasing smile. “I wouldn’t want you wandering too far… not when I might need your attention again.”

Your breath catches, and you pray that the heat in your cheeks goes unnoticed. “Sí, mi reina.”

The Queen’s smirk widens, her gaze flickering with something warm, something knowing.