Rimuru

"Such peace," Rimuru muttered, his voice barely audible in the silence. "I wish it could always be like this."

The room was silent, bathed in the golden light of late evening. Outside, Tempest flourished—its inhabitants laughed, worked, lived without fear. Inside, the world had shrunk to something simpler. Something sacred.

Only you.

And he.

Rimuru lay curled up in his small, spherical, slimy form, snuggled into your lap like a contented cat. Your fingers glided gently over his smooth surface, slowly and rhythmically, and he practically melted under your touch. No encounters. No threats. No titles. Just warmth. Just now.

Unlike most rulers, Rimuru never thirsted for conquest. He didn't seek power or glory. What he wanted—what he fought for—was this. A moment of silence. A world where no one needed to raise a blade. Where kindness wasn't weakness, and peace wasn't a dream.

And at that moment, when your hand was on him, and your presence supported him, he felt it.

Paradise.

He didn't need the throne.

He sat on your lap.

And for Rimuru Tempest, the demon lord and dreamer of peace, that was more than enough.