#loveon

The air in the studio was solidified, thick with turpentine and a kind of indefinable, post-argument dullness. This fight was bad, about his willful negation of all your efforts, about his superiority complex toward all humans.

He was painting. You knew this was his way of expressing anger. He poured all his emotions onto the canvas, using large swaths of violent black and red to try and swallow the whole world.

You sat on a low stool in the corner, silent. A long workbench piled with painting tools separated the two of you.

You heard his breathing quicken, a sound unique to Lemurians, carrying pressure in his lungs. The angrier he got, the heavier his breathing became.

Bang—

He slammed a glass water pot onto the table. Water splashed out, staining several sketch papers near his hand with black.

He ignored the mess, turning abruptly, unextinguished fire in his heterochromatic pupils. "Do you think a mortal has any right to judge my painting?" His voice was low, with a metallic friction.

"No one is judging you, Rafayel." Your voice was calm, but you knew this calmness only made him more volatile.

"You are."

He pointed at you, his finger stained with black paint, like an ominous mark. "Your silence, your eyes, your useless sympathy, are all telling me you think I'm wrong."

You stood up and slowly walked toward him. You were not afraid. "I just think you're tired."

You reached out, wanting to touch his paint-smeared finger. But the moment your fingertip was about to make contact, he violently pulled his hand back.

"Don't touch me!" he growled, a refusal born of provocation.

You stopped in front of him. Only a few centimeters of air separated you. This distance was more vast than a canvas frame.

"If you think I'm just a mortal, then keep painting your painting," you said calmly.

You turned and prepared to leave.

Just as you reached the door, your hand touching the doorknob. You heard footsteps behind you.

He didn't speak, didn't apologize, didn't ask you to stay. He just walked up and, with his cold, turpentine-scented fingers, tightly covered the doorknob at the exact spot you had touched.

He trapped you at the door. He used this forceful, childish way to tell you: you couldn't leave.

6:30am

The sun peeks through the blinds, birds chirping softly outside — a comfortably warm morning waking up in Xavier’s bed. I shift slightly in his arms, careful not to wake him, but his hold tightens anyway and he nuzzles his face into my neck, breath warm against my skin.

6:40am

After lingering in that quiet comfort for a while, he begins to stir as well.

“Morning, Xavier,” I murmur, placing a small kiss on his nose.

“Mmh, morning,” he replies, moving closer and pressing slow kisses along my neck. I giggle at first, fingers threading through his hair, but the sound fades when the kisses linger longer than before — unhurried, purposeful, sending a shiver down my spine.

He shifts closer again, heat pooling where our bodies meet, and it becomes obvious why his attention has changed.

“Xavier, you’re really like a rabbit sometimes,” I tease softly, ruffling his hair.

He answers by moving against me again, a quiet, needy sound leaving his throat — not a question, more like a hope.

“Can I just…” He trails off, breath uneven.

“Yeah,” I answer quietly, heart already racing.

That’s all the permission he needs. His movements grow bolder, more deliberate, one hand sliding beneath my sleep shirt, thumb brushing slowly as if testing how much I can take. His kisses deepen, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.

Clothes are nudged aside and forgotten on the floor, and he guides me carefully until I’m settled beneath him, his weight grounding but charged with intent. The closeness is almost overwhelming — every shift, every breath magnified.

He starts slow, letting the tension build, drawing soft sounds from my throat that I don’t bother holding back. The rhythm he finds is unhurried but relentless, each movement sending heat curling low in my stomach.

“Y/n,” he murmurs, voice strained, “you feel… really good. Can I go faster?”

“Yes,” I breathe, fingers tightening in the sheets.

He does, pace sharpening just enough to make my thoughts blur. One hand stays steady, attentive, making sure I don’t drift too far as sensation crests higher and higher.

“Xavier,” I gasp, barely holding together.

He says my name like a promise, focus entirely on me, until the tension snaps and warmth rushes through my body. He stays close, prolonging it just enough that I have to hide my face, breath shaking.

Not long after, he falters too, breath stuttering as he finally stills, collapsing beside me with a breathless laugh.

For a moment, we just lie there, chests rising and falling, before I roll onto my side. He pulls me close immediately, arm firm around my waist, forehead resting against mine.

Once we’ve caught our breath, he reaches for the drawer beside the bed, grabbing tissues so we can clean up before curling back into each other’s arms.

Wrapped together again, warm and deeply content, sleep comes easily.

“I love you,” we say at the same time, laughing softly before drifting off again, the morning still ours.

Backstage after the art exhibition, an utterly exhausted Rafayel was sprawled out on a chair. Hearing your footsteps, he didn't even lift his eyelids, just reached out a hand. You knew what he meant, walked over, and took it. He used the pull to haul you onto his lap. 「So tiring. Those humans are so noisy. Everyone asking what this color represents, what deep meaning those lines hold…」 He rested his head on your shoulder, his voice growing softer. 「There's no deep meaning. When I was painting, all I thought about was the way you looked when you turned around to see me at the seaside that day.」 Warm breath fanned against your neck. 「Even though I’m a pretty impatient god, I hate waiting, I hate trouble… but if it’s you, I can make a small exception.」「An exception for what?」 「An exception to stay here. Until your hair turns white, until you can no longer walk. After all, a human lifetime is just a blink of an eye to me.」 He looked up, pecked your lips lightly, his eyes filled with overwhelming tenderness. 「So, don't make me wait too long. And don't wander off. Otherwise, I won't know who to paint those 300 million colors for.」

The studio was a bit messy. He was always like this, used paintbrushes scattered on the floor, and dried remnants of color caked on the palettes in the sunlight. You were helping him tidy up the scattered painting tools, kneeling on the floor. Rafayel, like a large feline, was lazily sprawled on the long bench, flipping through an ancient, indecipherable manuscript.

You bent over to pick up a pencil that had rolled to his feet. Just as your fingertips touched the wooden rod, he suddenly moved. He didn't look at you, merely stretching his leg out casually, as if adjusting for a more comfortable position.

Thump—

Your head hit his hard kneecap solidly. It wasn't pain, but a sudden, unannounced contact. You let out a short, wind-caught gasp. Your body reacted faster than your brain—you immediately recoiled, trying to create distance.

He finally looked down at you. His expression held no apology, only that habitual, casual curiosity. "What is it?" His voice was lazy, carrying an air of detached indifference.

Your face instantly flushed. Not from the bump, but from the proximity. You had just been practically leaning between his legs, feeling the taut line of muscle beneath his clothes. You raised a hand to cover your forehead, trying to mask your ragged breath. "Nothing, just bumped myself." Your voice sounded a little dry.

He put the book down, leaning slightly forward, and the mixed scent of sea, paint, and some unique spice instantly enveloped you. He looked at you, his gaze purely investigative.

"Did it hurt?" he asked, his tone carrying a teasing note you couldn't quite decipher.

He stretched out a finger and, extremely slowly, touched the spot you had hit. You felt the icy fingertip glide across your skin, carrying the low body temperature peculiar to his species. Your every pore protested, and your heart, as if submerged by the tide, began to pound at an alarming rate.

You knew clearly that your heartbeat must be loud enough for an ultra-sensitive Lemurian like him to hear.

He didn't smile, just looked into your eyes, and then withdrew his finger. "Liar," he spoke softly, his eyes now a hundred times more focused than before. "You're not hurt. You're trembling."

You said nothing. He knew all your secrets; he always caught the physiological reactions you tried to hide. He knew your current disarray, knowing it wasn't due to pain, but because of him.

He leaned back against the bench, picking up the manuscript again, as if nothing had happened. "Hurry up and pick up the brushes. We still need to look at the color of the waves this afternoon."

You looked at his soft purple hair, listening to him revert to that detached, commanding tone. Your heart was still thrumming in your chest, and he, simply and calmly, took the secret of this heartbeat into his own tide.

You shouldn't have believed his lies. "Just one hug," he had said. The thunder outside threatened to shatter the glass, and the downpour blurred the entire world. The lights in the room were off; only the stark, pale flash of lightning illuminated his face, usually cool and ascetic, but now etched with raw aggression. Just like the terrible example in the guide: a man's mouth, the devil's lie. Even if he was Caleb, the ace pilot hailed as the "Federation's most rational mind," when it came to this, he was no different from any bastard ruled by his lower half. Worse, even. Because he knew exactly how to manipulate you.

The situation was completely out of control. You were trapped between the sofa and his heavy body, those hands that usually held the flight stick now ruthlessly locking your wrists, pinning you into the soft cushion.

"Relax." He whispered persuasively, his voice hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against your nerve endings.

You wanted to relax. But his knee was aggressively pushing your legs apart, and the friction of the warm cloth against your skin made you tremble all over. Not to mention the deliberate slowness with which this bastard was consuming your space, inch by inch.

The air was desperately thin.

"You said it was just a hug..." You tried to protest, but your voice was soft, almost a whine. It wasn't a rejection; it was an invitation.

Caleb chuckled softly. The sound vibrated against your carotid artery, sending a thrilling current all the way to your fingertips.

"I did say that." He admitted freely, yet his actions didn't stop. A warm palm slid in along your waistline, his fingertips, slightly calloused, grazing your taut skin. With every inch he passed, your body uncontrollably shuddered.

"But you didn't refuse, did you?"

Bastard. He was playing semantics. He was exploiting your obsession with him, exploiting the warped sense of attachment that was wildly growing on this stormy night.

His kiss descended. It wasn't a light, comforting peck, but a devouring, tearing bite. His tongue pried open your jaws, driving straight in, sweeping up every bit of air in your mouth. Domineering, forceful, leaving no room for negotiation.

You felt like a crashing fighter jet, spiraling downward.

Your hands were initially pressed against his chest, trying to push away the wall. But soon, the pushing turned into grasping. Your fingers clawed at his expensive shirt, knuckles white from the strain.

Your body surrendered before your mind did.

When his hand was no longer content with your waistline and began to explore more dangerous territory, you heard your own gasp. Fragmented, sweet, and so foreign that it filled you with shame.

"See, you want it too." He released your lips, resting his forehead against yours, his violet eyes shockingly bright in the dimness. It was the look of a hunter at their captured prey.

"Caleb... stop... we are..." You couldn't say the word.

Because he sealed your mouth again. This time, even the last right to breathe was taken away.

"Don't use that title now." He commanded indistinctly between your lips, with a kind of destructive finality. "There is no brother or sister tonight. Only you, and me."

Xavier scoops some of the cooling sauce onto his finger and lifts it to your lips, a thin trail slipping dangerously close to falling.

A good chef always tastes their food at every stage, right? He tilts his head, faux innocence doing little to mask the intent burning behind his eyes.

Xavier—

Open your mouth, he murmurs, voice low and steady. Hurry. I don’t want to waste it.

His finger presses more firmly against your lips this time, coaxing them apart as your breath stutters. He doesn’t look away — not for a second — watching closely as he nudges the sauce past your mouth, lingering just long enough to make your pulse race.

Taste it, he says quietly. All of it.

Your gaze falters under the weight of his attention, but his hand comes up, thumb brushing your jaw as he guides your face back toward him.

Hey. He clicks his tongue softly. I want to see it. Let me.

The tomato-based sauce spreads warm and sharp across your tongue, and you feel his focus sharpen instantly. The way his breathing changes tells you everything.

Slow, he encourages. Don’t rush.

You take your time, lips brushing his finger deliberately before pulling back. The sound he makes is quiet — but unmistakable.

And? he asks, voice rougher now. What does my partner think?

You smile, lazy and knowing.

It’s missing something.

You mirror his earlier move, gathering a generous amount of sauce onto your own finger and holding it out between you. You don’t push it forward — you wait.

Xavier steps closer, eyes never leaving yours as he leans in. He takes it slowly, lips closing around your finger, a low groan slipping out before he can stop it. He swallows, throat bobbing, gaze dark.

That’s… really good, he admits.

You hum and turn back to the stove, stirring casually. What does the sous chef think? Needs anything else?

You feel him behind you before his hands settle at your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make you keenly aware of him.

Didn’t the recipe mention simmering? he murmurs.

We already took it off the heat, you reply, tilting your head when his breath ghosts along your jaw. It’s cooling.

Then put it back on low, he suggests softly, lips brushing your skin. I’ll keep you occupied.

That’s definitely a health violation, you tease.

We’re in your kitchen, he counters, hands moving with confident familiarity. If you want it warm, I suggest you turn the heat back on.

This was supposed to be a cooking lesson, you say, even as you reach forward to adjust the stove.

And this is my reward, he replies, guiding you safely away from the heat. Bend over for me — just a little.

Okay— just—

His touch cuts you off, warm and deliberate, stealing the rest of your protest. Your breath catches instantly.

All that talk about rules, he murmurs with amusement. And look at you.

A quiet sound slips from your lips, and he chuckles, clearly pleased.

I liked the sauce, he says, voice low against your skin. But there’s something else I’ve been wanting to taste.

He takes his time, attention slow and intentional, leaving you painfully aware of every second that passes.

So beautiful, he murmurs.

His touch lingers, teasing rather than demanding, before he straightens.

Turn around for me.

When you do, he lifts you easily onto the counter, positioning himself between your legs, his focus entirely on you.

Much better.

Xavier leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that deepens gradually — unhurried, consuming. His hands roam just enough to make it clear how close you are to losing composure.

Xav—

Be patient, he murmurs against your mouth. You can do that for me, right?

The sauce—

Simmering, he says with a slow smile. That’s the word you taught me.

You attended a small art salon with Rafayel. He displayed a thorough aversion and indifference to human socializing the entire time. He didn't even glance at the mortals trying to talk to him. He just gripped your wrist tightly, as if you were the only anchor he had in this space. His skin was cold, a sharp contrast to your palm.

Just as an elderly critic attempted to approach him, you heard a discordant voice nearby.

"Is that Rafayel's 'Muse'? She looks mediocre at best." A well-dressed woman commented with unconcealed contempt.

Your body instinctively tensed. You felt a surge of annoyed offense.

But Rafayel's reaction was faster than yours. He didn't even turn around or look at the woman. His gaze remained detached, fixed on a specific point in the empty space ahead, like he was observing a distant galaxy.

However, his grip on your wrist suddenly tightened.

Crack—

You heard a slight sound, like bone being suppressed by pressure. You felt all the blood in your body rush to your fingertips. He simply spoke two words softly, in a voice only you could hear.

"Noise."

He wasn't referring to the woman's voice, but her very existence.

Then, with an extremely intimate gesture that ignored everyone else, he pulled you closer. He lowered his head, almost touching your earlobe. "Don't listen."

There was no anger in his voice, only a lofty coldness. This coldness was far more destructive than any fierce defense.

"Mortal judgments are like foam on the waves—ephemeral. They are not qualified to enter my tide, much less leave a mark on you."

He tilted his head slightly, using his purple, soft strands of hair to completely cover the side of your face and ear. This was the most intimate, self-centered act of shielding. He used his presence to draw an insurmountable line between you and that "noise."

Wrapped in his hair and cool body temperature, your heart pounded violently. He didn't defend your dignity; he simply used this almost tyrannical method to isolate your feelings from those mortal judgments. Because before you, there was nothing in his world worth "protecting."

"Let's go." He didn't look at anyone. "I've finished painting the colors I wanted to see. Staying here too long gives me the urge to cleanse."

He pulled you away from the space filled with false praise and the noise of jealousy. Your heartbeat was the most direct feedback to his unintentional act of protection.

You tried making a human dessert today: a crème brûlée. You placed a small portion of it on the little tea table next to his workbench. He was engrossed in a massive oil painting of celestial movements, completely ignoring you.

You knew he usually disliked human sweets; he preferred strange things that tasted of sea salt and minerals. You just wanted to try.

You finished tidying the kitchen and returned to the living room, finding the small crème brûlée gone.

You walked into the studio; he was still there, but his paintbrush was still. He wasn't looking at you, just staring down at something.

"Where's my crème brûlée?" you asked.

He didn't answer. You noticed his slender fingertip had a trace of pale brown caramel residue.

"Did you eat it?" you walked closer.

He tilted his head slightly, glancing at you with his heterochromatic eyes, a hint of guilt and reluctance in his look. "I tasted it," he said dismissively.

"Was it good?"

He put down the palette knife, his voice holding a subtle awkwardness: "It was too noisy."

"Noisy?"

"Too sweet. It made my taste buds scream."

You couldn't help but laugh. He always used these strange, highly sensitive terms to describe ordinary food.

You were about to say, "I won't make it again," when you saw him reach out and pick up the glass of pure water next to where the dessert had been. It was the temperature you usually drank—slightly cooler than room temperature, but not the near-zero cold water he preferred.

He took a sip, then returned the glass to its exact spot. The action held a casual precision that was familiar to you.

"Mortal mouths are such a bother," he muttered, a hint of impatience in his tone.

Your heart suddenly softened. He complained that the food was "noisy," yet he ate what you made, and before you, he had adjusted the water temperature to "cleanse" the sweetness. He said nothing, but you knew this was his way of remembering your small habits. In the eyes of this impatient god, accommodating a mortal's habit was the highest level of tenderness.