#moth x reader

The palace had been unusually busy that day.

Servants hurried through corridors carrying scrolls, the council locked itself into endless meetings, and even the courtyards seemed louder with visiting envoys and their entourages. You had found quiet refuge in the library—dust motes drifting like golden snow in the beams of light—and kept yourself busy with little things.

You mended a frayed sleeve. Tidied up the books someone left strewn across the low tables. Even started a list of herbs you wanted to ask the gardeners about. None of it was urgent, none of it important, but it filled the quiet.

And though you didn’t say it aloud, you felt the emptiness of a certain presence missing.

Opal.

You hadn’t seen him since early morning, when he’d been swept off in a flurry of attendants and advisors. His wing brushed your arms in parting, his antennae had drooped with reluctance, and he had whispered “Stay near. I’ll find you when I can.”

And now the day was near ending.

You didn’t hear him before you felt him.

One moment, you were carefully arranging the stack of books. The next—

“My darling beloved!”

Arms full of warm fluff and silk wings enveloped you in a crushing embrace, and you nearly toppled forward under the weight of him throwing himself at you. Opal buried his face against your neck, antennae trembling, and made the most pitiful groan you’d ever heard.

“I thought I would perish,” he gasped. “An entire day without you—how do mortals stand it?”

You sputtered, laughing, trying to steady yourself with a hand on the table. “Opal! You saw me this morning.”

“Too long ago!” he declared, muffled into your shoulder. His hands clutched at you like you might vanish if he loosened his grip. His wings cocooned you both in shimmering velvet light. “Do you know how many hours are in a day? Do you know how many times my heart beat while you were not near enough to hear it?”

You smiled, stroking the soft fur along the back of his neck. “I think your council needed you more than I did today.”

“They can have my words,” he said, finally pulling back just far enough to look at you, eyes wide and a little watery, “but not my soul. That belongs here.” He pressed your joined hands against his chest, where his heart thudded fast and wild.

Your cheeks warmed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m starving,” he corrected, pouting, antennae drooping until they brushed your cheek. “I starved all day. Not for food. For you. For your laugh. For your smell. For the way you tilt your head when you pretend to listen to boring people.”

You laughed then, which made his entire face brighten in relief.

“There it is,” he whispered, almost reverent. “My remedy.”

You shook your head, still chuckling. “You make it sound like I’m medicine.”

“You are,” he said at once. “You are my cure, my comfort, my air. Without you, every hour tastes wrong. Every corridor feels empty.”

And then, in the middle of the library, without the slightest care for propriety, Opal squeezed you tighter and rocked back and forth like an oversized, desperate moth who had finally found the lantern he’d been aching for.

You let him. You leaned into him.

And even though you teased him about being dramatic, a quiet part of you thrilled at his words. At being wanted so wholly, so deeply, that even a day apart could leave him aching.

After a long while, Opal loosened his hold, though his wings still brushed against you, unwilling to break contact. He tilted his head, eyes sparkling now.

“Tomorrow,” he said with playful menace, “you’re not allowed to vanish. I will glue us together if I must.”

You grinned. “Glue?”

“Magical, beautiful glue,” he promised solemnly, nuzzling into your cheek. “The kind that binds two souls and makes separation impossible. I’ve already commissioned research.”

You laughed again, and his heart finally stopped aching.

..

Yandere Moth Demon that finally figures it out soon after you got into bed and is quick to crawl into your room, wings fluttering softly as it grabs at your face.

They’re curious over your tears, softly wiping the tears away in awe and happily squeaking when you blink in shock because there’s a giant bug on your bed??

Yandere Moth Demon that you kick out soon after, confused and scared because what the fuck is this thing doing in your home and why?

They point at your lamp as you push them out the window, chirping happy as you sigh and hand it to it.

Yandere Moth Demon that returns the next night in tears with a broken lamp, sniffling and squeaking as it shows it to you through the window.

You’re confused but let it in, having hoped that you hallucinated or something the night before while you were sobbing over the comments on your pictures.

Yandere Moth Demon that rests its chin on your shoulder, watching you scroll online for a globe lamp and chirping happily when you find the perfect one.

You can just sigh softly as they nuzzle your neck in happiness, refusing to leave from that moment on.

Yandere Moth Demon that insists on sleeping on your bed during the day, feeling safest under your covers and even more when you are there as well.

They show up about an hour before you wake up to get under the covers, wings fluttering softly before settling over you like a second blanket.

Yandere Moth Demon that watches humans kissing and doing other activities on your tv and gets curious about it all, pointing at it once it’s got your attention.

You’re hesitant about it, especially after you taught them how to do your hair and now they refuse to let you do it yourself, but eventually give in.

Yandere Moth Demon that loves it when you dress them up, a bath and some accessories makes it feel attractive and even more when you compliment them.

Yandere Moth Demon that rarely leaves your home, carrying the globe lamp in its hands as it wanders your home all night.

It eats some of your honey and sugar packets (yes the whole paper packet with the sugar in it), and makes sure that you’re safe all night.

Yandere Moth Demon that is quick to squeak aggressively the moment someone is at your door with flowers, ready for a date that you were in the middle of getting ready for.

Why are you going out with anyone but them? Do you not know that you belong to them now?? This human clearly wont take good care of you!

Yandere Moth Demon that watches you sigh at your phone an hour later, all dressed up and ready to go, chirping softly as you make yourself dinner.

They’re quick to follow, holding up the flowers for you to take.

Yandere Moth Demon that grabs your hand and tugs you to the living room once your dinner is done, chirping happily as it curls up into your side and hands you the tv remote.

Hopefully you don’t smell the metallic scent on their fur, they’d hate to make you have to wash them again.

The kitchens had already thanked you twice. The gardeners insisted they no longer needed another pair of hands. Even the palace librarians, who usually welcomed anyone willing to dust shelves and sort scrolls, had gently urged you toward the door with promises that they truly had everything under control.

You smiled anyway, "Just let me finish this one thing." It had become such an easy phrase to say that you hardly noticed it anymore.

The basket balanced comfortably against your hip as you crossed another corridor, freshly folded linens stacked almost to your chin. One of the maids had only mentioned, in passing, that she was running behind after a visiting delegation requested additional rooms. You'd offered before she'd even finished explaining.

It wasn't difficult work, a little here a little there. Another errand, another task, another chance to be useful.

Another chance to prove—

"...There you are." You looked up, snapping out of your trance.

Opal stood at the far end of the corridor, sunlight spilling through the tall windows behind him until the edges of his wings seemed almost translucent. He smiled the moment your eyes met, though it softened almost immediately when he noticed the basket in your arms. "I've been looking for you."

You shifted the linens a little higher. "Have you? Sorry, I was helping in the east wing."

"I know." His answer came so simply that it caught you off guard. "I asked after you. They told me you'd been with the gardeners this morning."

"Mhm."

"And before that... the kitchens."

"They were short-handed."

"And yesterday, the archives."

You laughed quietly, hoping the conversation would drift elsewhere. "I've been busy."

"So I've noticed." His voice wasn't accusing. If anything, it sounded... wistful.

He crossed the remaining distance between you, slow enough that you could have walked away if you'd wanted to. Instead, he stopped within arm's reach, looking at you with that familiar warmth that always made it difficult to hide anything from him. "I missed breakfast with you."

A flicker of guilt crossed your face before you could stop it. "I know. I'm sorry."

"I missed our walk through the gardens."

"I was helping prune the moonvines."

"I know."

"And tea."

"I know." Each answer was softer than the last, his antennae dipped ever so slightly. "I've missed my spouse."

You looked away, "I've just... had things to do."

His gaze lingered on you for another quiet moment before he reached out, not for the basket, but for your free hand.

Your fingers were colder than he expected, his thumb brushed absently across your knuckles. "You've been working since dawn."

"I'm alright."

"You said that yesterday."

"I meant it."

"And the day before?"

You smiled again, only it didn't quite reach your eyes. "I should deliver these before they wrinkle." You made to step around him, he moved with you. Not with the intention to block your path, he only simply stayed close. "Would you keep me company for a little while afterward?"

"I'll try."

"Don't stay on your feet too long." You nodded.

"I won't."

.

By the time evening settled over the palace, you'd forgotten you'd made him that promise. There had been another delivery, then someone needed help carrying crates into storage. One of the younger attendants couldn't reach the lantern hooks, so you'd climbed the ladder yourself.

The work wasn't difficult, it simply... never seemed to end.

You rubbed absently at your shoulder as you made your way toward the western gallery, unaware that someone had been watching you for the better part of an hour.

Opal found you replacing a vase that one of the servants had accidentally chipped. You hadn't even noticed him arrive until warm hands gently closed around your wrists.

You looked up, he held a worried expression. "Love." The endearment came so softly that your heart sank before he spoke another word. "When was the last time you sat down?"

"I..." You searched your memory. "I don't know." You laughed weakly. "I suppose I lost track."

The corridor had emptied long ago, the bustle of the palace settling into the calm hum of evening. Somewhere outside, night insects had begun to sing.

Opal looked down at your hands still resting between his own. Your fingertips were rougher than they had been a month ago. A tiny scrape crossed one knuckle, another decorated your palm. His brow pinched. "...You're wearing yourself out."

"I'm just helping, I need to." His eyes lifted back to yours. "...Need to?"

The words escaped before you could catch them. "If I don't... then what good am I here?" Silence followed soon after that, you wished immediately that you could take the sentence back. Opal's hold became gentler. "What do you mean?"

You looked stubbornly at your joined hands. "I mean..." You laughed once, suddenly embarrassed. "You have wings that can shelter an entire family from the rain." His wings shifted faintly behind him at that.

"Your people glow."

"They do."

"They grow food I've never even seen before."

"It's true yes."

"They're graceful and magical and beautiful and..." Your voice trailed away. "I'm me." The confession felt smaller spoken aloud than it had inside your own head. "I can't do any of that, so I thought..." You swallowed. "...maybe if I worked hard enough..."

The rest refused to come, but Opal understood anyway. "Oh, my moon." You felt one of his hands leave yours only to cup your cheek. He guided your gaze upward with infinite patience. "There you are."

You blinked. "I've been wondering where you'd gone."

"...I'm right here." He smiled sadly. "No." His thumb brushed beneath your eye. "You've been trying so hard to become worthy that I haven't seen you in days."

Something in your chest cracked. "I just wanted your court to know that marrying me wasn't a mistake." His face fell.

"Oh..." The sound was barely more than a breath. "My beloved." He stepped closer until your forehead rested naturally against his. "You've misunderstood something terribly." His wings unfolded slowly around you, shutting out the long corridor behind, holding you.

"I did not marry the most useful person in my kingdom." His nose brushed yours. "I married my favorite person in the world."

Your lip trembled, a tear escaped before you could stop it. It disappeared almost immediately into the pale fur beneath his collar when you leaned against him.

You hadn't realized how tired you were until he was holding you, how desperately your body had wanted to stop. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

"What for?"

"For..." You shook your head. "I don't know anymore." He chuckled quietly, the sound warm against your temple. "I don't think you owe anyone an apology."

One of his hands slipped into your hair, combing gently through it while the other rubbed slow circles between your shoulders. "You wake up beside me every morning." A kiss rested against your forehead. "You laugh at my dreadful sketches." Another against your temple. "You insist on tasting every new tea before I do because you're convinced one of them will eventually be poisonous."

You huffed out a watery laugh. "I've been right once."

"You have." His smile brushed your skin. "And every evening, no matter how busy the day has been..." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "...you come home to me." His opalescent eyes shone so earnestly it almost hurt to meet them.

"What more could I possibly ask you to prove?" The question settled quietly between you. You searched for an answer, and couldn't find one. Opal seemed content with that.

"Come." He took your hand again, threading your fingers together. "I think my spouse has done quite enough proving for one lifetime."

"And where are we going?"

His wings fluffed just a little. "To bed." You blinked. "It's barely evening."

"I know." His smile turned impossibly fond. "I've missed holding you all day."

He lifted your hand, pressing a lingering kiss into your palm before smiling against your skin. "So tonight..." His antennae brushed your forehead. "...let me do something useful."

"And what's that?"

He looked at you as though the answer was the simplest thing in the world. "Remind you that you never had to earn a place beside me."

Then, still holding your hand, he led you home. His wings brushed yours with every step, never quite leaving your side, as though even for the short walk back to your shared chambers, he couldn't bear the thought of there being any distance between you at all.

..

The palace had never been so alive.

Lanterns floated like captured stars along every corridor, humming faintly with warmth. Silks draped the archways, flowers whispered to one another as guests passed, and somewhere in the distance, music tuned itself into something soft and expectant.

It was a celebration, a union, a promise.

And you—

You stood just outside it all, fingers twisting together, gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor.

Your reflection in the polished stone felt unfamiliar. Too still. Too… human.

No glow. No wings. No quiet shimmer of magic under your skin.

Just you.

You swallowed, shoulders tight.

“Beloved of mine.”

His voice didn’t startle you. It never did. But it made your hands still.

You didn’t turn right away, you didn’t trust your face yet. There was a pause—soft, patient, the kind Opal always gave you when he sensed something fragile. Then the faint rustle of wings, careful, unhurried.

He didn’t approach like a prince. He approached like someone stepping into something sacred.

“You slipped away,” he said gently. Not accusing. Just… noticing.

“I just needed a second,” you murmured. A lie, and you both knew it.

Another pause, then warmth—close, but not overwhelming. Opal didn’t touch you yet.

“May I?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, only then did his hands find yours. Soft. Warm. Steady.

He didn’t pull you to face him. Didn’t force your gaze up. Just held your hands between his, thumbs brushing slowly over your knuckles, grounding, patient.

“You’re thinking,” he said, voice low as evening light. “And it’s not kind thoughts.”

You huffed a weak breath. “You always know.”

“I listen,” he corrected gently.

Your fingers curled tighter in his without meaning to.

“…Opal,” you started, then faltered. Your eyes stayed fixed on your hands—on the contrast between your skin and the soft pale fur along his fingers.

“I just—” You swallowed. “Look at all of this. Your people, your court, your traditions… and then there’s me.”

His thumbs stilled, but you rushed on before you could lose the nerve.

“I don’t fit here. I don’t look like anyone else. I don’t belong in the same way you do. And you’re, you Opal. You deserve someone who—who matches you. Someone who doesn’t feel like they wandered into the wrong life.”

The words hung there, fragile and aching.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then— your hands were lifted. Carefully, reverently. He turned them over, just like he had the first time you’d ever done this to him.

And pressed a soft kiss into your palm. You froze. “Do you remember,” he murmured, “when you first did this to me?”

Another kiss—your wrist this time, right over your pulse. “I thought my heart might leave my body.”

A third—your knuckles, slow and deliberate. “I didn’t think I deserved something so gentle.”

Your breath caught. “Opal—”

He finally guided your hands upward, just enough that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. He looked… steady. Certain, completely, unwaveringly sure.

“You say you don’t belong,” he said softly. “But you are the only place I have ever felt certain of belonging.”

Your throat tightened, his wings shifted, not wide or dramatic—just enough to brush around you, a quiet cocoon forming instinctively.

“I was born into this palace,” he continued, voice calm and warm. “Into expectation, into duty, into a life chosen for me before I understood it.”

His thumb traced the back of your hand. “But you—”

A pause, soft. Intentional. “You are the first thing I chose.”

Your breath hitched.

“You are not out of place,” he said, more firmly now. “You are the place I return to. Again and again. Every thought, every moment, every dream I have when I’m meant to be working—”

You huffed a broken laugh. He smiled softly at that, relieved. “I do not want someone who matches me,” he continued. “I want someone who moves me. Someone who changes the way I see the world. Someone who teaches me new ways to love.”

His forehead rested against yours. “And that has always been you.”

Your hands loosened, tension slipping away little by little.

“But I’m human,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he said simply. Not dismissing, nor correcting. Just… accepting.

“And I am a moth,” he added gently. “And yet, here we are. Drawn to the same light.”

Your eyes begin to sting, he nudged your nose lightly with his own, a small, fond gesture.

“I would not trade you for all the glowing beings in every court,” he said. “Not for beauty. Not for power. Not for perfection.”

His voice softened again, almost a whisper.

“Because I am your's and I am so, so proud of that.”

Something in your chest gave way.

Finally.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead more firmly against his, hands tightening around his.

“I was scared,” you admitted.

“I know,” he said gently.

“You’re really sure?”

He huffed a quiet, almost amused breath, his antennae brushing your temple.

“Beloved light,” he murmured, “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.” His hands lifted yours once more, pressing them to his chest, right over his racing heart.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Not because you must. But because you choose to.”

You nodded this time, without hesitation.

“I choose you,” you said.

His wings fluttered—soft, relieved, glowing. “And I choose you,” he answered.

Then, with one last tender brush of his fingers against your cheek, he smiled.

“Now,” he added softly, warmth returning to his tone, “shall we go let the entire kingdom witness how lucky I am?”

You laughed—real, steady, no longer trembling.

And this time, when he offered his hand— you took it without fear.

..

- Sylvian vibrates when excited. Literally. His wings blur, his glow brightens, and he starts talking faster than usual. When he realizes he’s doing it, he snaps, “Stop staring, I’m enthusiastic, not unstable.”

.

..

🌸 Sylvian Headcanons

- Loves sitting in your sleeves, pockets, or collar like it’s prime real estate. Claims it’s “strategic vantage points,” but really he just likes being close to your warmth.

- Sleeps curled under your chin or in the hollow of your throat, wings tucked tight like petals closing at dusk. If moved, he wakes instantly and grumbles, “Rude. I was nesting.”

- His laughter sounds like chimes, and he hates that you love it. “Stop encouraging it! I’m trying to maintain dignity!”

- Collects shiny things, pressed flowers, and tiny trinkets that remind him of you. Keeps them in a hidden nest and pretends it’s “just clutter,” but he checks it obsessively.

- Gets territorial over space, not freedom. He doesn’t care where you go — just wants to know where he fits into it. “As long as I’m with you, I’m satisfied.”

🦋 Opal Headcanons

- When he’s happy, his wings flutter without permission. He tries to hold them still in public and fails every time you laugh.

- His antennae are extremely expressive. He cannot lie to you—if he’s excited, they perk; if embarrassed, they curl inward; if overwhelmed with affection, they tremble like they’re vibrating with light.

- He naps in strange places. Windowsills. Sun-warmed steps. Half-curled around you on a couch he swore he’d only sit on for a moment.

- He gets offended on your behalf when someone underestimates you. Calm on the outside, quietly furious moth on the inside.

- Opal learns your habits like sacred rituals: how you take your tea, where you like to sit, the way you fidget when nervous. He adjusts himself to fit you without ever making a show of it.

- He practices saying your name under his breath when he’s alone. Just to hear how it sounds. Sometimes with different tones, like he’s trying to memorize every possible way to say it.

🌊 Kelpie Headcanons

- He is violently territorial over his stretch of river. Not just the water — the mudbanks, the reeds, the stones. If something changes, he notices immediately.

- His aggression is instinct-first. He reacts before thinking, which is why first meetings are rough, snarling, physical.

- Biting is like a reflexive affection for him. He doesn’t fully understand it at first — he just knows your pulse feels right under his teeth.

- He growls when confused, overstimulated, or emotionally overwhelmed. Which… happens a lot around you.

- His mane/hair is extremely sensitive. Touching it is intimate — borderline sacred — and he only allows it once he trusts you.

- He smells emotions before he understands them. Fear, stress, sadness — it all hits him before words do.

..

The kingdom of the moths was a place that seemed to breathe silver.

When harvest season arrived, the gardens behind the palace came alive—quite literally. Under a shimmering dusk sky, their vines rustled in greetings, blossoms hummed faint tunes, and fruits the color of moonlight swelled beneath the soft hum of fireflies. Some glowed faintly, others twitched when brushed, and one or two looked suspiciously like they were keeping watch.

And in the middle of all that beauty stood Opal, your betrothed, glittering as if he belonged among the flora. His soft wings caught the light of the moon, making him appear as if spun from starlight. His antennae quivered in excitement as he turned toward you with his hands clasped eagerly.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he beamed. “They only bloom like this once a year, when the moon is at her fullest! Come—come, my love, I’ve been dying to show you everything.”

You couldn’t help smiling at the way his words tumbled over themselves. “You sound like a child at a fair.”

“I am,” he admitted cheerfully, wings fluffing with pride. “A child hopelessly in love, and this—” He gestured grandly toward a swaying bush bearing translucent, glowing orbs— “is my favorite part of the year.”

He led you between the luminous rows, naming every strange and beautiful creation. There were whisper apples, which hummed when plucked. Star plums, that left trails of faint light in the air when tossed. And the dawnvine, whose flowers only opened when someone laughed nearby—something Opal kept provoking you to do with exaggerated antics just to watch them bloom.

Everywhere he went, life seemed to follow—petals turned toward him, vines brushed his sleeves, like the garden adored him as much as you did.

Then you reached a curious little plant by a pond’s edge. It looked like a tangle of stems crowned with delicate, glassy petals, each shimmering with tiny beads of dew.

Opal’s wings fluttered proudly. “Ah! The azuria bloom. They’re sensitive, very rare! They only allow the gentle to touch them.”

You crouched beside him, intrigued. “Sensitive how?”

He smiled with exaggerated grace and extended one elegant finger to the nearest petal. “Like this. You must be delicate, gentle, and—”

The moment he brushed the bloom, it shivered, the stem twisted like a coiled spring—

—and promptly squirted a small splash of water right in his face.

The attack hit him squarely across his nose and soaked the soft fur at his collar.

You gasped. Then… you laughed.

“Opal!”

He blinked, sputtering, wiping droplets from his lashes while the plant gave a smug little jiggle, as if delighted by its triumph. His wings drooped pitifully, water dripping from their edges.

“I— I assure you,” he stammered, cheeks pink, “that has never happened before.”

“Clearly, it’s selective in its affection,” you teased, still giggling.

He gave the flower a wounded look. “You betray me before my beloved,” he muttered. Then, turning to you again, trying desperately to regain his composure, “It seems my lessons in gentleness require further refinement.”

“Oh, come here,” you said softly, reaching out to brush a few droplets from his face. The moment your fingers touched his cheek, his embarrassment melted into that warm, fluttering fondness he could never hide.

His wings twitched, half-open, catching the soft glow of the fruit trees around you. “Even drenched and humiliated, I’m happy,” he said with a laugh that cracked with sincerity. “Because you’re here to see it.”

You smiled, leaning closer. “You really are hopeless.”

“Entirely,” he confessed, taking your damp hand and kissing the back of it. “Hopeless for you. Always.”

The mischievous azuria bloom rustled again, almost in applause—or laughter.

Opal narrowed his eyes at it. “Don’t you start.”

And the two of you wandered deeper into the silver-lit garden, your laughter echoing through the living orchard, while the moth prince, still a little wet and glowing from embarrassment, couldn’t stop glancing at you like you were the brightest bloom of them all.

..

The council chamber emptied like dust slipping through a crack in the wall — hurried, silent, purposeful.

Quills were tucked away. Scrolls rolled up. Advisors murmured polite farewells as though nothing catastrophic had just transpired.

On his seat, however, Opal did not move.

He sat perfectly still, wings folded tight against his back, cheeks impossibly flushed beneath the glow of the chamber’s lanterns. In his lap — a parchment, edges crumpled, corners smudged with ink.

He didn’t notice you approach.

Not metaphorically.

Because at that moment, Opal was convinced he was going to combust.

Literally.

Combust.

Into tiny, star-shaped embarrassment sparks.

You reached his side and touched his arm gently — just a whisper of contact — but it was enough to make him flinch, his antennae curling inward like scared moth whorls.

His eyes didn’t leave the parchment in his hands — a sheet that bore something exactly like you.

You blinked up at him. “Hey, you okay?”

He had been trying — in the middle of the meeting — to make notes on trade proposals.

He swore he was writing “important” things.

But the corners of the page slowly accumulated doodles — your smile, your posture, the way your hair fell against your neck.

And then you were fully there — sketched, awkward, imperfect, undeniably you.

And once he’d noticed you…

He hadn’t realized he was shaking until the paper slipped a little through his trembling fingers. The council hadn’t noticed; they were too absorbed in fruit exports and lunar tides. But when he’d finally looked up… his face had been the color of raw moonstone.

Well.

That was it.

That was the moment Opal had felt his dignity take a very noticeable nosedive into the tapestry floor.

You crouched beside him, watching his quiet agitation with something close to fondness.

Now his wings trembled.

“Opal,” you murmured, “if something happened —”

He snapped his head toward you, like a moth startled by a breeze before he suddenly covered his face with both hands.

He didn’t want comfort.

You blinked.

He wanted to disappear into your arms like a soggy paper lantern.

He was… terrified. Of embarrassment. Of being seen drawing you. Of mistakenly thinking he could be subtle about it.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, reaching out to brush his fingers aside.

His wings fluttered anxiously.

You reached out and placed a hand gently on his knee.

“No,” he whispered. “It’s not fine. I—I drew you. In the meeting. I thought I was taking notes! Important ones! And then—” He paused, mouth opening and closing like he was trying to swallow a glowing beetle.

“Hey,” you said, very quietly. “It’s okay.”

He looked up — eyes wide, still flushed, still on the verge of crumbling like starlit sand.

“I thought I could control it,” he admitted, voice small, “but then I realized everyone left and I was still… doodling you.”

You smiled. It was gentle. Patient. Warm. “Why does that embarrass you?”

You waited.

He blinked, startled into honest silence.

Because Opal didn’t always know why his heart decided to crack open in ways that felt both glorious and torturous.

Finally, he whispered, “Because… because it’s you. And I wasn’t aware I felt this strongly. And then suddenly—halfway through ‘important notes’—I was drawing you again… and I couldn’t stop.”

That was… unexpectedly raw.

You reached out and ran your thumb softly along his cheek — just a slow, grounding touch. He flinched at first, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

Then he leaned into the motion.

“Opal,” you said, gently, “there’s nothing wrong with feeling drawn to someone. Especially someone you adore.”

He exhaled — long, shaky, like he’d been holding his breath since sunrise. “You adore me?” he asked, voice small.

You smiled, brushing your fingers along his wing softly — not to hide him, not to comfort him or soothe fear, but just to be there.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He looked down at the parchment again.

His antennae twitched — slowly, uncertainly, like they hadn’t realized permission was being granted. “You tried to draw me,” you continued, tone light and warm. “And you were embarrassed. That’s… kind of sweet.”

“Sweet?” he echoed, voice so soft it might have been a breeze.

You nodded. “Really sweet. And honest. And… you tried. That matters to me.”

“Even though it looks like a confused root vegetable?” he asked, voice wary.

He blinked. Then exhaled again — slower, more like relief and less like scattered moth wings in a storm. His wings settled — a tiny bit — and he turned his gaze fully to you.

“Especially because it looks like a confused root vegetable,” you said with a laugh.

“Then,” he said finally, a tiny spark returning to his voice, “I think I would like to draw you again. But… after the meeting.”

He stared at you for a moment — like maybe this was a dream, or maybe you were made of moonbeam and kindness.

You laughed again. Quiet, warm, and perfectly at ease.

And for the first time since the parchment had brought him to the brink of self-inflicted mortification, Opal looked almost… relieved.

“Yes,” you said. “After the meeting.”

..

The palace gardens were unusually quiet.

Most of the courtiers were attending a trade summit in the northern wing, and the remaining household staff had vanished into the peaceful hush of early afternoon. Even the wind seemed to tiptoe between the mulberry trees, careful not to disturb the calm.

You sat beneath the shade of a flowering archway, knees drawn up, your sketchbook balanced comfortably across your lap. A single charcoal stick was pinched gently between your fingers, smudges already dusting the side of your hand. You worked in near silence—save for the occasional chirp of a breeze-blown bird—eyes flicking from memory to paper.

The image forming beneath your hand was tender.

Curved antennae. Wide, starlit eyes. That soft downy fur he never stopped shedding on your pillows. Wings that folded like silken curtains, always half-draped around you when you were close.

Opal, as he had looked earlier that morning, half-asleep and curled around his teacup, blinking slowly like he hadn’t quite joined the waking world yet. You hadn’t meant to sketch him—it had just… happened. Something about the sleepy curve of his smile and the way his wing drooped like a lazy fan over his shoulder had caught in your chest and spilled out through your fingers.

You were so absorbed in shading the delicate swoop of his wing that you didn’t notice the real one brushing quietly through the leaves behind you.

“Beloved?”

You jumped slightly, but not with alarm. You smiled and hugged your sketchbook to your chest just as Opal emerged through a curtain of sweet peas, blinking down at you with delight and curiosity.

“There you are,” he said warmly. “I was beginning to worry you’d been stolen by goblins or books again. Or worse—decided to take a nap without inviting me.”

You snorted. “You’ve never worried about that last one in your life.”

“I worry constantly,” he said solemnly, settling beside you with a graceful fluff of his wings. “Especially about naps I’m not included in. It's my royal duty.”

His antennae perked as he peered toward your sketchbook. “What were you doing, anyway?”

“Just drawing.”

His entire posture changed at the word. “Drawing?” he repeated, eyes lighting up with the kind of excitement he usually showed when discovering new breeds of moss or rare moonberries.

You tucked the book against your chest.

Immediately suspicious, he narrowed his eyes—though his smile was still wide and warm. “Are you hiding something?”

You grinned, standing slowly. “Maaaaybe.”

Opal rose in one elegant movement, fluff catching the sunlight like frost. “Oh, that won’t do.”

And then you were running, laughing as you darted under tree branches and around stone paths, keeping the sketchbook clutched tight to your chest.

“Is it scandalous?” he called behind you, giddy. “Is it me in a scandalous vest? Is it me as a frog again?”

“You’ll never know!” you called over your shoulder.

“I am your betrothed!” he declared, chasing you in playful, bounding glides. “I have royal rights to emotional blackmail and gentle pestering!”

You managed to keep ahead of him for a while—Opal was graceful in flight, yes, but a little too distracted by flowers, shadows, and your laughter. Eventually, though, his wings fluttered in a sudden gust and he landed directly in front of you, hands outstretched.

You skidded to a halt.

“Now,” he said, panting lightly, eyes sparkling. “Hand it over and I shall kiss you senseless in thanks.”

You flushed. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”

He arched a brow. “I know I’ll be thankful.”

You rolled your eyes but slowly—reluctantly—passed him the sketchbook.

He held it with reverence, antennae tilting forward as if it was some fragile magical artifact.

And then he saw the sketch.

He blinked once. Twice. Then his wings gave a visible poof of fluff and shimmer as he jolted in place, antennae going stiff.

“You—” he squeaked.

You tilted your head innocently. “Yes?”

“This is me.”

“Mmhmm.”

“This is me, being... being sleepy. And... soft. And adorable.”

“Mmhmm,” you said again, biting back a grin.

“I—I didn’t even know I looked like that,” he whispered, holding the sketch closer. “I thought my morning face was... tragic.”

“You always look like that,” you said softly. “Like something caught halfway between a dream and the moon.”

He made a helpless noise—one part pride, one part utter bashfulness—and clutched the book to his chest like he was the one being flattered into melting now.

“I—I want to frame this,” he said breathlessly. “No. I want to have it sewn into my funeral robes so it’s the last thing I take to the stars.”

You laughed, falling back into the grass, cheeks sore with smiling.

Opal flopped beside you, still clutching the sketchbook, still faintly flustered. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do this?”

You turned toward him, your arm brushing his. “It’s just a hobby.”

He shook his head. “No, love. This is a window. Into how you see the world. And into how you see me. And now I know you think I’m lovely even when I’m drooling into my tea.”

You nudged him playfully, and he curled his wing around you in return.

And there, in the sun-dappled quiet, you lay together—Opal murmuring questions about your other drawings, you promising to show him more later. He was glowing. Not from magic or courtly polish, but from genuine joy, from the thrill of learning something new about the person he adored.

And deep in his chest, under soft fur and fluttering wings, his heart beat just a little faster.

Because now he had a new favorite version of you: the one that saw him so clearly… and still chose to sketch him gently, with love in every line.

..