Too Lazy to be a Villainess-Chapter 77: The Princess, the Pudding, and the Pillow Border

[Lavinia’s Pov]

Somewhere between dreamland and the realm of itchy pajamas, I stirred.

"...Mmmnnnggh."

My eyelids fluttered open. One eye. Then the other. But only halfway. Like my brain sent the command wake up, but the rest of me replied, new soul loading, please wait.

Why... did I wake up?

I blinked into the darkness and rubbed my eyes, mumbling, "Alright... Let’s get some pudding."

Motivation: 100. Coordination: 0.

I tried to sit up. Tried. But instead just wiggled like a possessed dumpling stuck in a blanket burrito.

"...Ugh. Body. Come on," I whined, flopping back onto my pillow with the elegance of a dropped cabbage.

Something felt off. Like my soul hadn’t fully... clicked into place. Maybe the Wi-Fi between my soul and this body was lagging. But then, like a miracle sent by the desert gods themselves, an image popped in front of me.

PUDDING.

Golden. Shiny. Wiggle-wobble. I could hear it calling me.

"All right... let’s go."

I rolled to the edge of the bed with the grace of a walrus on a waterslide, flopped my legs down, and was about to sneak off like a pudding ninja when—

"Where are you going?"

I flinched so hard I nearly fell off the bed.

Ah—DAMN IT!

There he was. Papa. Reclining on his side like a model in a dramatic oil painting, propped up on one hand, watching me like a predator eyeing a squirrel.

My back straightened like a guilty noodle. I laughed nervously.

"Y-you see, Papa... I was just... um..." My eyes darted around. "Doing my midnight... stretches?"

He stared. Blank. Tired. Unimpressed.

Then: "Eating pudding in the middle of the night is not good. Get back on the bed."

Ughhh. He caught me. Why does he always know what I am about to do?

"But... Papa..." I clutched my little chest dramatically. "If I don’t eat pudding right now, the pudding ghost will haunt me for the rest of the night."

I let my voice wobble for effect. Add a hint of tragedy. Just enough guilt to crack a grown man.

Papa blinked slowly. His expression? Somewhere between "I have regrets" and "How is this child mine?"

Then, with the heaviest sigh known to mankind, he sat up, tied his robe tighter with the resigned dignity of a man who had accepted his fate, and said—

"All right. Let’s go."

Wait—what? It worked??

Victory!!

Grinning, I grabbed his hand like a goblin who just stole a treasure and skipped toward the door with him.

When we stepped out, Ravick was still there, standing guard with the alertness of someone who had clearly seen things.

He bowed. "Your Majesty. Princess. Do you require anything?"

I beamed. "We are going to have pudding, Ravick!"

He blinked. Twice. "...At this hour?"

I nodded proudly. "It’s pudding o’clock!"

He hesitated. Then, carefully, as if navigating a minefield, he said, "But Princess... aren’t you on a diet?"

I flinched.

DAMN IT.

And then, Papa, ever calm, simply looked at Ravick and said with the straightest face in existence, "She is a pig. And a pig never stops eating."

WHAT?!

"PAPA!" I gasped. "You cannot say that to your daughter!"

He looked down at me. No blink. No remorse.

"I can say anything to my daughter."

I stared at him, scandalized. Dumbfounded. Offended on behalf of all daughters everywhere. What kind of warped emperor logic was that?

I should’ve stomped my foot. I should’ve puffed my chest, turned around dramatically, and marched straight back to bed like a noble lady of pride and principle.

...But.

I really needed that pudding.

So my dignity? Trashed. Burned. Left behind like yesterday’s vegetables.

And now?

Now I was sitting cross-legged on a silk-cushioned chair in the royal kitchen, swinging my legs happily, cheeks stuffed with creamy vanilla pudding as if I hadn’t just been insulted by my own father.

Mmm. Bliss.

The pudding wobbled on my spoon with each shake of joy. I kicked my feet under the table, humming like a content squirrel. The royal night chef had even added extra caramel drizzle. Truly, the gods were kind.

Papa sat beside me, sipping a cup of probably bitter tea—while watching me with that unreadable dad face. Somewhere between "I’m judging you" and "this is my life now."

Without taking his eyes off me, he asked, "Is the preparation done for Nivale?"

Ravick answered immediately, "Yes, Your Majesty. Day after tomorrow, we’ll depart at dawn."

Papa hummed thoughtfully, setting down his cup. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned over and wiped a crumb of pudding from the corner of my mouth.

And then he said it.

"Why do I have a feeling that you’ll come back from Nivale as a real pig?"

I CHOKED. Literally choked.

"COUGH—PAPA—YOU—!"

I slammed my tiny palm on the table like a furious aristocrat betrayed by her own flesh and blood.

"PAPA, ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE MY PAPA?! WE MIGHT NEED TO GET TESTED BECAUSE I’M STARTING TO HAVE DOUBTS!"

Papa raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed by my righteous outburst.

With a glint in his eyes that screamed, I’m enjoying this, he asked, "Am I saying something wrong?"

Then—he pointed.

He. Pointed.

His imperial finger hovered above my now-empty pudding plate.

"...You’ve already eaten four plates. And that’s your fifth."

I looked down at the spoon in my hand.

Then the plate.

Then back at him.

BETRAYAL.

I slapped the spoon down and pointed back at him, equally dramatic.

"THAT’S—THAT’S BECAUSE IT’S TASTY, OKAY?! IT’S TASTY!"

Ravick blinked in the background, probably trying not to laugh hard. Papa leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea again like a smug cat. "It’s a miracle you’re not round yet."

"I am round!" I shouted proudly, puffing out my cheeks and belly. "I’m round in the cute way, like a mochi!"

Papa raised an eyebrow. "More like a rice ball."

"EXCUSE YOU!"

"I’m just being honest."

Ughhhhh. I can’t with this man.

He sipped the last of his tea—like it was wine and he was a philosopher who just won an argument—then stood up and casually picked me up like I weighed nothing.

"YOU’RE HEAVY."

I gasped. Audibly. Like he’d just told me Santa Claus was a lie.

"I beg your pardon?!" I shrieked, kicking my legs like a chaotic windmill. "Put me down! Get me down! Right now!"

"No," he said simply.

Just—no.

Not even a "we’ll talk about this later." Not a "when we get to your room."Just a straight-up "no," like he had all the authority in the world—which, fine, maybe he did, being the Emperor and all—but still!

He smirked, the evil smugness of a father who knew he had ultimate power over his daughter.

And so, I was carried—kicking, wiggling, and still very much sticky from pudding—back to the chamber.

Dignity? Gone.

Belly? Full.

Heart? ... Stupidly, happily, annoyingly full.

After arriving at our chamber, Papa laid me on the bed like I was a sacred offering to the gods of bedtime. Then, he lay down beside me.

Instantly, I scooted to the very edge of the bed like I was a citizen during a pandemic. Distance. Must maintain distance. I might as well have built a wall of pillows labeled "Do Not Cross: Baby Border Patrol."

"Come here," Papa said.

I turned my head the other way and huffed. "No."

Then came the threat. The most unspeakable, unforgivable, horrifying threat.

"Come here," he said again, "or I’ll send Chef Elowen back to Nivale."

WHAT.

I gasped so loud I nearly sucked the moonlight out of the room.

"Why are you like this?" I croaked, scandalized. "What kind of father uses pudding chefs as leverage?"

He didn’t even blink. "A strategic one."

Ugh. He would say that.

I sighed. "Fine, you win."Dignity: Still dead.So I rolled over—grumpy and muttering like an old cat—and tucked myself beside him.

And then—WHAM. HE WAS SO WARM.

What is this? A portable furnace? A royal human heater? His body heat was illegal-level cozy. I didn’t want to admit it, but I might’ve melted a little.

He patted my head, calm and lazy, as if he hadn’t just emotionally blackmailed me two seconds ago.

"Don’t ever forget," he murmured, "that you’re the sole princess and next empress of the Elarion Empire."

...Huh?

Where did that come from? We were just talking about pudding five minutes ago. I blinked up at him.

"I know that, Papa," I said, totally confused.

He continued, his voice smooth and serious like he was giving war orders:"If you find anyone in Nivale who dares to look down on you, tell Ravick to execute them."

I choked.

"WH—PAPA!"

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You can’t just go around executing people for looking at me weird at the Elven Kingdom! They’ll be seeing a beautiful human like me for the first time too!"

"I can."

"YOU SHOULDN’T!"

Then he sighed, as if I were the one being unreasonable here. With the most casual tone in the world, he continued,

"Anyway... in case something happens that you don’t like..." He didn’t even blink. "Execute them."

I stared at him, completely dumbfounded. I wanted to argue. I wanted to say, Papa, no, that’s not how diplomacy works.

But then again... this was the man who threatened a chef for pudding leverage, so... I sighed and flopped back into the warmth. But I think...he is worried. Because this is the first time I’m leaving his side. Maybe it’s only two days, but it’ll feel like months or years.

"...Fine. Understood."

And in that moment, as I nestled into my terrifying, overprotective, slightly deranged father’s side, a tiny spark of excitement bubbled in my chest.

I couldn’t wait to see the people of Nivale.