#jester!soap

Thank you ahhh > _ <

The morning sun crept through the velvet curtains, gold spilling across the royal chamber.

And there he was. The King. The fearsome, untouchable Ghost.

Pinned. Absolutely pinned.

Simon lay flat on his back, crown nowhere in sight, mask discarded on the bedside table. His arm was hooked protectively around you, your face tucked against his chest, crown of your hair a mess against his skin. On his other side, Johnny was sprawled like a starfish, one leg thrown haphazardly across the King’s waist, mouth open as he snored softly.

Three bodies knotted together under one blanket, the kingdom’s greatest secret: its monarch didn’t sleep alone.

“Simon,” you mumbled against his sternum, voice still groggy. “Court… in an hour.”

“Don’t remind me,” he muttered, eyes still closed. His voice was rough, almost petulant. “Five more minutes.”

From the other side of the bed came a muffled, sleep-drunk laugh. Soap cracked one eye open, hair sticking in every direction. “If we’re late again, the council’s gonna start a revolt. ‘Specially if they find out it’s ‘cause their glorious king’s been playin’ little spoon.”

Simon tensed. “I am not the little—”

“Yes ye are,” Soap cut in gleefully, tightening his arm around him like a koala. “Look at ye, all cozy and cuddled. Adorable.”

You bit back a giggle, propping yourself up just enough to kiss Simon’s jaw before he could argue. “He’s right. Adorable.”

That earned you both a scowl dark enough to curdle milk—though the tips of his ears flushed scarlet.

Then came the knock. Loud. Impatient.

“Your Majesty? Council is assembled!”

The three of you froze.

You could practically feel Simon’s soul leave his body as he shoved at Soap, who only clung tighter, laughing into his shoulder. “Go on then, mighty king, lead us to duty with bedhead and love bites.”

You were already stumbling out of bed, yanking a robe around your shoulders, trying not to laugh. Simon was half-dragging, half-carrying Soap off him, growling curses under his breath while you searched for his crown.

Minutes later, the three of you stumbled out of the royal quarters. You, still tying your robe; Soap, bells crooked on his half-buttoned motley; and Simon, hair mussed, jaw tight, crown slightly askew.

To the world, he was the unshakable monarch.

To you and Soap? He was just your grumpy king who’d woken up late because his consort and his jester wouldn’t stop cuddling him.

This post here. It had me reeling and it’s giving off Galavant vibes?

I couldn’t find the part where they say “and the jester is sleeping with your wife!” But this pretty much sums it up Here. Word count: 0.8k

So now I’m thinking about big stern behemoth of a man king!Price. He married you because he had to. He needed a wife before he took the throne. You were the only woman smart enough to actually play an instrument and learned how to write. 

The throne room was suffocating, but not from the heat.

Simon lounged like a predator beside you, legs spread, one hand loose on the armrest. His expression masked, but his gaze never left you, not when you laughed, not when you leaned forward to whisper something to a minister, not even when Johnny cartwheeled across the marble floor to scatter the tension.

You shifted in your throne, smoothing your gown over your knees. Simon's eyes followed the motion like he could peel the fabric away just by staring.

"Majesty," Johnny crooned from below, dropping into an exaggerated bow that left him sprawled at your feet. His grin was wicked, sharp, teeth bared.

"Allow me to kiss the hem of yer gown."

A hush fell. Nobles stiffened, horrified. He'll be executed. Surely this is it.

But Simon said nothing.

And you - oh, you tilted your chin, just slightly.

"You may."

Johnnys lips brushed the silk at your ankle. Too soft. Too lingering. His gaze flicked up, catching yours, bright with mischief and something filthier.

You swore you felt his breath against your skin through the layers of fabric.

From beside you, Simon's knuckles flexed on the throne.

"Careful," he warned, voice a low growl that slid through the chamber like smoke.

Johnny smirked against your gown, voice muffled but taunting. "Aye, I know my place." His tongue darted out, just enough to wet the fabric. Gasps rippled through the nobles. "On my knees."

You hid your smile behind your hand, feigning demureness. Simon's gaze burned into you like punishment promised.

No one moved. No one dared breathe.

Because in that moment, every soul in the court understood:

You weren't just Queen. Simon wasn't just King. Johnny wasn't just Jester.

This was a trinity.

A dangerous, unholy devotion that everyone could feel but no one could name.

And if they stared too long at the way Simon leaned closer, at the way johnnys mouth lingered too near your skin, at the way you looked between them.