wendeee being saucy

i have even more thoughts....

he wouldn't mind taking breaks during his walks with you, because that means he gets to spend more time gazing at your happy face and talking about nothing important together

the way he'd roll up his sleeves while giving the dog a bath!!! his strong forearms and big hands gently scrubbing soap into the dogs fur, and both of you laughing when afterwards the dog shakes himself out and sprays you both with water.

^^ also bonus points if he's the one who decided to indulge the dog's whims and let him roll around in the mud and have fun after a rainy day!!!

showing up to his meetings with dog fur on his clothing and not caring one bit! and maybe also how he'd get a little bit of a tummy from leading a more relaxed lifestyle with you, physically softening as well :)))

more personal yap but ive been playing this mobile game called adorable home since highschool and i got emotional thinking about living in a place like this with sylus ⇩

just somewhere open and warm and happy with animals visiting and lots of cats. and maybe you even have a small pond in your backyard where ducks like to visit,,

(the customization options for characters aren't very robust and there's no white/grey/blonde hair options so i share my home with kaeya but its ok i love kaeya too)

Sylus

You had a ridiculous, and maybe not so slightly arousing, idea: creating a cologne that was uniquely Sylus.

So, you found a perfume-making workshop in Linkon and spent all of your free time there.

You really did not think Sylus would notice. That was your mistake. Sylus noticed everything about you. Still, you had assumed he would not care that much, especially since he was usually asleep during the day.

Until one evening, you spent too much time trying and failing to create the perfect blend. It was already too late to drive to N109. And the thought of wasting even more time on the road made you sigh in defeat. You would have less time with Sylus before you inevitably fell asleep and that was the last thing you wanted. So you went home and sent him a quick apology and promised to make it up to him.

Half an hour later, you heard a knock on your door. You frowned, glancing at the clock before opening it anyway.

“Sylus?” You blinked in surprise. “Why are you here? And did you use your Evol to teleport all the way from N109?”

He ignored your question entirely, strolling past you into your apartment before stopping so suddenly that you nearly collided with his back. Sylus took a slow, deliberate inhale, then turned and closed the distance between you in a single effortless motion. Before you could react, he had you pinned against the door, his body warm and solid against yours. He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck and dragging his nose along your skin.

“What’s this?” he murmured, his voice low and amused. “Little dragon cancels on me, and now I find her smelling like another man?”

You gripped his broad shoulders, trying to stay on your feet while squirming at the ticklish sensation of his hair against your cheek.

“S-stop…” you laughed breathlessly. “It’s not like that. I wanted to make a cologne with your scent, so I signed up for lessons at a perfume workshop.”

“Oh?” Sylus did not stop sniffing you, as though he could not help himself. You could feel the faint rumble of his chest against you, almost like a purr.

“Mhm. That’s why I canceled today. I got too invested in it and lost track of time.”

He drew in one last deep breath, taking in the mix of whiskey, spice, and something unmistakably you before finally pulling back.

“Why pay for lessons?”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I have a perfectly functional perfume-making workshop in N109.” His red eyes gleamed with smugness. “And something tells me the ingredients there are far better than whatever they use in Linkon.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated, and reached up to ruffle his hair, messing it up a little.

“Of course you do,” you said. “Why am I not surprised?”

Sylus caught your wrist with a satisfied smirk, still looking far too pleased with himself.

“I have a lot of interests,” he said, leaning close again, “And now you won’t have to cancel on me again.”

Caleb

Caleb was away on Fleet business so often that you decided to make your own cologne blend that would suit him. Not to gift it to him, though. The idea was simpler and a little more personal than you’d admit out loud. You wanted to spray it on your clothes, your pillows, anything you could. Just so you could at least feel like you still had him nearby while he was gone. You didn’t think much of it at first.

Now your apartment always smelled like one of your experimental blends. You kept tweaking it, getting closer and closer to something that felt right until one day you succeeded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was him. So now your whole space smelled like Caleb.

There were still a few days until his return, so that morning you sprayed the blend everywhere, taking slow, deep breaths. Somehow, it soothed your frayed nerves. You found yourself worrying about his mission in the Deepspace Tunnel just a little less.

It was midday when you suddenly heard your front door open. You frowned. Weird. Only Caleb had a key, and he wasn’t supposed to be back yet. Grabbing the biggest frying pan you could find, you held it like a weapon and crept into the hallway.

“What’s that, little apple?” Caleb’s voice cut through the silence.

He stood there in his Colonel uniform, still clearly fresh from travel, disheveled and tired. “Were you expecting a robbery?”

Before you could answer, his expression shifted. The teasing warmth vanished. His features sharpened instantly, purple eyes turning cold and focused. His jaw tightened so hard you could see the muscle twitch.

“Caleb?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he marched through your apartment, throwing open doors one after another, scanning everything like he was clearing a battlefield. You followed him, confused, until he stopped in the middle of the living room. His eyes pinned you in place.

“What’s that smell?” he asked, eerily calm.

You blinked and then, despite yourself, burst out laughing. Caleb’s glare deepened immediately, a low growl slipping from his throat.

“Sorry, sorry,” you managed between laughs, wiping at your eyes. You put away the frying pan and walked toward him. Up close, you could see just how tense he really was.

“I was just a bit lonely while you were away,” you admitted softly. “So I started looking into perfume-making workshops. I wanted to create a cologne with your scent.”

Your voice softened into something more sincere. “Something I could keep with me.”

His chest heaved slightly at your words. Then, just like that, Caleb deflated. The tension drained out of him as he dropped his head onto your shoulder, letting out a slow breath he had clearly been holding.

“What,” you teased lightly, wrapping your arms around his waist, “you thought I had another man in here?”

“No,” he said immediately, too quickly.

That earned him another quiet laugh from you. You weren’t even surprised the next day when you walked into the workshop and found him there, already talking to the instructor, claiming he needed a perfume with your scent to help him stay sane on long missions

Rafayel

Your phone looked like it was about to take off from the sheer number of texts it was receiving.

You did not even need to check the screen to know who it was. Rafayel.

Any other time, you would have answered immediately. Partly because you genuinely did not want to upset your fishie, and partly because dealing with Rafayel in full dramatic meltdown mode was… exhausting. He would start claiming you hated him, that you were abandoning him, that your love had clearly been a lie. All because you took longer than five seconds to reply.

But right now, you were busy.

You adjusted the proportions again, adding just a drop more of the base note before swirling the vial gently. The scent shifted, closer, but not quite right. Not him yet.

Your phone buzzed again.

And again.

And again.

The vibration grew stronger, rattling faintly against the table like it might actually throw itself off the edge out of sheer desperation. You ignored it, too focused on the blend in front of you. This one had to be right.

Your phone lit up once more.

Rafayel: So you’ve decided to abandon me.

Another buzz.

Rafayel: At least have the decency to say it to my face. Rafayel: I deserve that much.

You winced a little, but still did not pick it up. Ten more minutes passed. You barely noticed. Another message.

Rafayel: …Have I done something wrong? Rafayel: Please, answer… Rafayel: Don’t abandon me… Rafayel: Please?..

The scent in the vial had finally settled into something soft, layered, so unmistackenly him. It made your chest tighten. And suddenly, the silence on your left felt a little too loud. You’ve finally reached for your phone and looked through almost a hundred unanswered messages from Rafayel, each one getting more desperate then the last. Guilt hit you all at once. You cursed yourself and quickly typed back that you were on your way. The drive to his studio has been a blur. You were pretty sure you broke at least three traffic rules, but you didn’t care.

By the time you arrived, your heart was pounding. You slipped inside quietly, unsure of what you would find.

The studio was eerily silent.

Then you saw him.

Rafayel sat in front of a canvas, completely still, a brush hanging loosely in his hand. He did not blink. Did not move. It was as though all the energy he usually carried had drained out of him, leaving behind something hollow and fragile.

“Rafayel?” you called softly.

No response.

You stepped closer. “Hey… I’m here.”

Slowly, his head turned. Those blue-pink eyes locked onto you, and for a split second, something sharp flickered in them. Not anger. Not quite relief. Something deeper.

“You came,” he said quietly.

Then, just as quickly, his expression twisted. His lips trembled. His eyes glossed over and a stray tear rolled down his cheek. The second it left his skin, it turned into a deep blue pearl.

Your heart clenched painfully at the sight.

Rafayel had already turned away from you, back toward the blank canvas, as if looking at you any longer would make whatever was left of his composure disappear completely.

You sighed and walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I was at a perfume-making workshop. I was trying to capture your scent, you know.”

You nuzzled into his neck, taking a slow breath. His shoulders loosened almost imperceptibly.

“So you were trying to bottle me?” he asked, and there it was again that familiar note of amusement, fragile but returning. And you could hear the pout even beneath the teasing.

“Yes,” you admitted. “And you were being very dramatic.”

Rafayel let out a soft huff, though he still leaned back into you. “I was not being dramatic. I was being neglected.”

You smiled against his neck. “You sent nearly a hundred messages.”

“That only proves my point.”

At that, you finally felt the last of the tension in his body ebb away. He tilted his head just enough to brush his cheek against yours, and his voice dropped into something quieter, more genuine.

“Next time,” he muttered, “take me with you.”

And then, with a tiny wicked curve of his lips, he added, “Or at least reply before I start dying of heartbreak again.”

Zayne

Zayne had noticed something was different long before you said anything. At first, it was subtle. A small shift in the way you smelled when the two of you met. Barely there, easy to miss. He said nothing. He simply committed it to memory. Then it became consistent. Every time you were near him, the scent changed slightly. Not enough for most people to notice, but enough for him. Zayne waited. And when the pattern stopped being a coincidence, he finally asked.

“Have you changed your perfume?”

You were sitting together on a bench in a quiet corner of the park, far from the usual foot traffic.

“Hm?” You glanced at him, confused. “No, I didn’t change it. Why?”

Zayne adjusted his glasses and studied you more closely.

“No? It changed a few weeks ago,” he said evenly. “And it has been slightly different each time we’ve met since.”

You stared at him.

“You can tell that precisely?”

“It’s my job to notice even the slightest changes,” he replied as composed as ever.

A grin tugged at your lips. You reached into your bag, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a small glass vial.

“I’ve been trying to make this,” you said.

You gently took his wrist, applying a small amount of the perfume to his skin. Your fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before you let go. Zayne lifted his hand, bringing it closer as he inhaled once.

The silence stretched.

“Well?” you asked, unable to hide the slight tremor in your voice. You clasped your hands together to steady them. “I’ve been working on it for a while. I even signed up for a perfume-making workshop. I wanted to create something that was… uniquely you.”

“It’s accurate,” he said at last.

Your heart skipped. “That’s it?”

Zayne reached for your hands, gently prying them apart and holding them in his own. His grip was firm, grounding.

“It’s not something most people would consciously notice,” he continued, tone calm and analytical. “But it aligns with your previous attempts. You refined the base. Reduced the sharper top notes. The composition is more balanced now.”

You blinked at him. “You can tell even that?”

“I notice everything about you.”

The words were simple. The weight behind them was not.

For a brief moment, his gaze softened just enough to make your breath catch.

“If this is meant to represent me,” he added, quieter now, “then you’ve done it correctly.”

Before you could respond, he lifted your hand slightly and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss to your wrist. When he pulled back, his expression had already settled into its usual composure.

 “However,” he continued, as if nothing had happened, “you should be mindful of overexposure. Repeated inhalation of concentrated compounds…”

You laughed, cutting him off, and Zayne paused with the faintest hint of resignation in his eyes.

“I know, Doctor Zayne.”

Xavier

You woke to the insistent sound of your alarm.

With a quiet groan, you reached blindly toward your bedside table and turned it off. The room fell back into silence, warm and still, the kind that made it tempting to close your eyes again. You shifted, intending to get out of bed. A familiar arm slipped around your waist before you could move any further, pulling you back against a warm chest. Xavier nuzzled into the back of your neck. You giggled, squirming slightly as soft hair brushed against the back of your neck, tickling you.

“Xavie,” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “I need to get up.”

“Mhm…” he hummed, barely awake, his hold tightening just a little. “Stay. It’s too early anyway.”

You let out a breathy laugh.

“It’s not early, you sleepyhead. And I need to go somewhere.”

He did not respond right away. For a moment, you thought he had already fallen back asleep.

Then his grip shifted, subtle but firm enough to keep you in place.

“Where?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated for a second. “Just… somewhere.”

That earned you a soft exhale against your skin, almost like a sigh. His nose brushed along your neck again, slow and absentminded.

“You’ve been leaving a lot lately,” he said.

It was not accusatory. Just… a statement. You blinked, a little surprised by that.

“I have not,” you said, though it came out weaker than you intended.

“Mhm.” His voice was still calm, still soft but there was something more awake in it now. “You smell different every time you come back.”

That made you pause.

Xavier shifted slightly behind you, just enough to press his face closer to your neck again, inhaling slowly.

“I’m just trying to make something,” you quietly admitted.

He made a small, thoughtful sound but didn’t reply. You could feel it that he was waiting. Listening. And he wasn’t going to let you go until you explained.

“I signed up for a perfume-making workshop,” you continued softly. “I had this idea… to make a cologne with your scent.”

“Why?”

You shrugged slightly. “I just wanted to try something new.”

Then you hesitated for a second and decided to be honest.

“You scent calms me down,” you murmured. “Especially when you’re not here.”

The shift was immediate. One second, you were wrapped in his arms. The next, your world shifted. Xavier moved with sudden, quiet precision, turning you onto your back. The mattress dipped as he leaned over you, his knees settling on both sides of you. He pinned your wrists gently but firmly above your head.

“Xav?..” you squeaked, startled.

He was fully awake now.

His expression hadn’t changed much. Still that calm, unreadable look but his gaze felt sharper, more focused as it rested on you.

“If you recreate my scent perfectly…” he said, voice low and even, “will I still need to be here?”

The question lingered in the air, heavier than it should have been. You blinked up at him, your heart picking up pace. Not from fear, but from the strange weight behind his words.

“That’s not…” you started, then stopped, searching his face. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

Xavier didn’t move. His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t loosen either.

“Then why?” he asked.

You swallowed.

“Because it reminds me of you,” you said softly. “Not replaces you.”

Something flickered in his eyes, subtle, but there.

His gaze lingered on your face for a moment longer before he leaned down slightly, just enough for his forehead to brush against yours.

“Good,” he murmured.

The tension eased. Not completely but enough. After a second, his grip on your wrists loosened, though he didn’t move away entirely. Instead, he rested there, close, his presence warm and grounding.

“You can go,” he added quietly.

A pause.

“After five more minutes.”

Sylus’s hands are so big, and hold you so gently, so firmly, so securely, while you tangle your fingers in his soft locks and tug him a little closer. As if you both aren’t about to practically fuse together from how there simply isn’t even a sliver of space left between the two of you. You reciprocate his impassioned kisses with a vehemence of your own, and you clutch that warm, solid body of his to you despairingly, like he’s your saving grace. Maybe he is. “Hm—Sy—mmph—can’t breathe…”

“Need you,” he simply breathes in reply, voice a deep, winded rasp. “God, sweetheart—hm—you’re so—”

Your bleary eyes meet his half-closed ones, hazy and dark and molten, but holding an undeniable gleam of adoration. It brightens those scarlet hues of his, usually so dim with the blood he’s spilled, giving a shine to them that isn’t commonly seen otherwise. Solely with you. He only ever looks at you that way. With a gaze only a jagged, fragmented man who has seen and done and suffered far too much is capable of.

It hollows out your chest and then replenishes it with warmth. Affection. Love. He’s all purity and candour. How can a man so sullied be so blameless? How did you earn his devotion, his commitment, in all its earnestness and sincerity? Sylus won’t stop kissing you. It’s like he can’t. It’s like it physically wounds him to part from you, and perhaps it drives deeper than the outward when it happens. His chest is heaving when he finally detaches his lips from yours with an audible smack, and his mouth hangs open, eyes staring up and at you with an intensity that roots you to the spot, puffs of heavy breaths softly gusting against your nape. “Ha…Ha…You—you okay, sweetheart?”

“…Yeah,” you eventually reply, slumping, limp all over, burying your face into his sweaty neck. Your head’s spinning, as it always is after a heated session with the man. Sylus’s shirt is all crumpled, half-unbuttoned, wide, toned chest peeping out from beneath the silky material. You’re not much different. “Just…need to catch my breath.”

One of his hands settles on the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles into your flesh. The other grasps your thigh, keeping you steady. “Too eager, was I?”

“You’ve been worse,” you snicker, perhaps a bit weakly, mouth throbbing. Your entire body is throbbing.

His head turns and he’s nuzzling your temple, burying his nose into your hair, kissing the crown of your head, as he chuckles too. “My apologies, sweetheart, but I fear I have zero remorse.”

“Of course you don’t.” You’re smiling into his nape. “Such a sentiment is nonexistent to you.”

“Uh-huh.” And you’re suddenly being lifted off his shoulder and onto the cushions beneath, his powerful frame looming above you, all broad shoulders and big arms and a toothy smirk. “That means there’s something here to continue, without remorse, right?”

You smack his upper arm, biting back a grin. “Shove it, you big oaf. You do realise we’ve got a meeting to attend.”

Sylus is nudging your collar with his nose, pressing soft kisses to your skin. “Eh.” His wide shoulders lift and lower with an indifferent shrug. “It can wait.”

Sylus

It was a quiet evening, the two of you were in his study. Sylus was typing something on his computer while you lounged on the sofa with a book, trying to keep yourself occupied. You really were trying. Sylus had promised he just needed to finish something quickly and then his attention would be entirely yours. You were impatient, but you were doing your best to let him work. But eventually your book stopped holding your attention, so you set it aside. Your gaze wandered idly around the study until it settled on him.

Sylus was focused, hands moving across the keyboard with effortless precision. His sleeves were rolled back, exposing strong forearms, every so often his rings caught the lamplight with a faint glint.

Your eyes traced his features. The line of his jaw, the silver locks falling around his face, the sharp curve of his mouth, the quiet gleam in those red eyes. Your fingers twitched, almost as if resisting the urge to trace his face.

“You are ridiculously handsome,” you murmured.

His fingers stilled over the keyboard. Only then did you realize you had said it out loud. Heat flooded your cheeks.

“I… I mean…”

You stuttered, too flustered, while he slowly lifted his head and looked at you with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

“Oh?”

Surely, your face could not get any hotter.

“It wasn’t supposed to…” your voice trailed off as you silently begged the floor to open and swallow you whole.

“To be said out loud?” Sylus supplied.

You huffed and looked away, fixing your stare on a bookshelf as if it might save you. Then you heard the scrape of his chair. Footsteps.

Closer.

And closer.

Until he stood directly in front of you.

“Well,” he drawled, “I was wondering why you were staring.”

He leaned down slightly.

“Guess I got my answer.”

“I wasn’t staring,” you protested weakly.

The lie convinced neither of you. Sylus gave a low hum.

“You looked seconds away from climbing into my lap.”

A strangled sound escaped you and his smirk deepened. He braced one hand against the back of the sofa, caging you in.

“Say that again.”

“No,” you refused immediately, painfully aware of how close he was.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re enjoying this way too much.” You grumbled, but it only amused him more.

His free hand came up, fingers surprisingly gentle as he cupped your jaw and tilted your face back toward him. And then you noticed it. The tips of his ears were pink. You blinked and looked closer. Then you realized that he was flustered too. He was simply hiding it better. Something in your chest ached. Because suddenly it occurred to you that maybe those words had not been said to him often, if ever.

Your hands rose almost instinctively, cupping his face. Your thumbs brushed over his cheeks.

“You are very handsome,” you whispered, looking right into his eyes. “Every version of you.”

Something flickered deep in his eyes. Doubt.

“And yes,” you added softly, as if answering his unspoken question, “that includes the dragon.”

And just like that, scales shimmered beneath your hands and his tail curled around your leg with desperate tenderness. Sylus stared at you like you had broken something in him.

Then, quiet and almost pleading:

“Say that again.” The smugness in his voice was gone.

You smiled and happily obliged.

“You are so, so handsome.”

Before you could say more, Sylus dropped to his knees in front of you with a heavy thud and pressed his head into your lap. His tail tightened around your leg.

Your fingers slid into his silver hair, threading his locks.

And for once, the illustrious and feared leader of Onychinus, always composed and seemingly untouchable, looked utterly wrecked by a compliment.

“Again,” he murmured against you.

You laughed softly and repeated your words again and again, until he believed them himself.

Caleb

Caleb was leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his purple eyes while he absentmindedly helped you cook. Well, “helped” was not quite the right word for it, because you were mostly just sitting on the counter, dangling your feet and babbling about your day while he did almost all the actual work. Not that Caleb minded. In fact, he seemed to prefer it this way.

He was casually chopping vegetables, calm and efficient, while you watched and pretended you were supervising him properly.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“You’re so handsome.”

The knife paused mid-air. Caleb did not look up right away. When he did, it was slow and measured, like he was trying to decide whether he had heard you correctly.

“What did you say, little apple?”

Your face heated instantly.

“I… I didn’t… I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it out loud.” You looked away, too embarrassed to look at Caleb. That earned a quiet hum from him. He set the knife down carefully and turned fully toward you.

“So you think I’m handsome.”

“That is not what I said,” you protested weakly, even though you knew denying it was pointless.

“Mm. Yet that is what I heard.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands for a second before peeking through your fingers. Caleb was watching you now, expression unreadable. Not cold exactly, but thoughtful. There was something else underneath the teasing, something you could not quite name.

“Say that again,” he said. He sounded far too casual.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Caleb’s mouth curved in a smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer, closing the already small distance between you until he was standing right between your knees.

“You didn’t mean it?” he asked, voice light, though there was a strange edge to it now. “Or…” His gaze sharpened just a little. “Do you think someone else is more handsome?”

The question was delivered with a playful tone, but the look in his eyes was intensely attentive, as if he was waiting for your answer with far more interest than he wanted to admit.

When the silence stretched for far too long, he leaned in again and gave you his best sad puppy eyes he was able to make.

“Oh, I see…” He sighed and you could’ve sworn you saw a stray tear rolling down his cheek. He looked like a kicked puppy now. You rolled your eyes and reached to ruffle his hair, making it even messier than it already was.

“Of course not. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever met.”

The second the words left your mouth, Caleb went still for half a beat. Then all the tension drained out of him so quickly it was almost comical. He leaned in immediately, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder with the kind of contentment that made it very obvious he was pleased with himself. When he looked up at you again, his purple eyes were bright and unmistakably soft. That ridiculous, puppy-like look he got whenever you gave him just enough affection to send him straight into orbit.

You laughed under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Caleb said, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips, “you still said I was handsome.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You totally planned that.”

“Maybe.”

“Caleb.”

He only smiled wider, completely unashamed. What was worse was that he looked far too satisfied with himself, like he had just confirmed something important.

“Good,” he said at last, voice warm and easy again. “Now I know it is affecting your judgment.”

You stared at him. He glanced up, all innocence and sunshine.

“What?” he asked. “That was useful information.”

You laughed, helplessly exasperated, and Caleb’s smile softened into something quieter. Something more knowing. He tucked the thought away, as if he had just been handed a private little treasure to keep. And knowing him, he would absolutely bring it up again when he wanted to catch you flustered. Which, you had to admit, was probably exactly why he had asked you to say it again in the first place.

Rafayel

You were at the Mo Art studio, keeping Rafayel company while he worked. Or, more accurately, while he sulked and worked. Your fishie boyfriend sat in front of a massive canvas with all the wounded dignity of a tragically misunderstood genius forced into labor. His brush moved with practiced grace despite the dramatic pout on his face, each stroke far too precise for someone who had spent the last hour complaining that inspiration could not be rushed.

Just an hour earlier Thomas had ripped into him for procrastinating, missing every imaginable deadline, and disappearing in the middle of commissioned work because he had, in his words, “felt spiritually called to collect seashells.”

Rafayel had taken the lecture like someone being condemned. With great offense, dramatic sighs and at least one muttered accusation that Thomas was ‘stifling true art.’

And now Thomas, desperate and clearly at the end of his rope, had quietly conspired with you before leaving.

“Keep him motivated,” he whispered.

Which, in practice, meant keeping Rafayel from abandoning the painting halfway through to drag you to the seaside or fake an artistic crisis.

You had agreed. At first, it had been easy. A little praise here, a few approving hums there. Occasionally reminding him how pretty his hands looked covered in paint. That had bought you almost forty minutes of productivity.

Then he started sulking again.

“This is oppression,” Rafayel declared, not looking away from the canvas.

“You’re painting.”

“Against my will.”

“You volunteered for this commission.”

“That was before I realized deadlines were involved.”

You bit back a smile. Rafayel dabbed at the canvas with exaggerated suffering.

“You know,” he added mournfully, “a less cruel lover would be distracting me right now.”

“I’m literally here to keep you working.”

He turned just enough to level you with an accusing look.

“Exactly.”

You laughed and leaned back in the chair beside him. For a while, only the sound of brushstrokes filled the room. Then your eyes drifted to him. He really was beautiful when he painted. Purple hair slipping loose around his face, paint smudged faintly across his knuckles, eyes narrowed in concentration. The slight part of his lips when he focused. Something in your chest squeezed and the words escaped before you thought them through.

“You’re so handsome.”

You immediately bit your tongue, but the damage had already been done. Rafayel stopped painting and turned to look at you.

“Excuse me?”

You quietly tsked, slightly annoyed that he wasn’t focused on his painting when you blurted that.

“Ignore it. Back to your painting.”

The brush clattered into a jar, as Rafayel stood up alarmingly fast.

“You can’t just say something like that and expect me to continue as if nothing happened.”

He crossed the room in seconds and planted himself in front of you, arms crossed.

“Repeat it.”

“Not until you finish that painting.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“I’m motivating you, just as Thomas asked me to.”

Rafayel looked like you betrayed him. “So Thomas had corrupted you.”

You folded your arms and glared at him stubbornly. “Canvas first, compliments later.”

Rafayel had narrowed his eyes and, to your horror, dropped to his knees in front of your chair. “Please?” He clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, blue-pink eyes suddenly glossy. “I can’t paint without encouragement from my muse.”

You just rolled your eyes at his antics.

“Was this a lie?..” His eyes glossed over even more, his lower lip was trembling. He actually pouted right now and somehow looked offended, wounded and flirtatious at the same time.

You gave up with a sigh and murmured. “You are very handsome.”

He blinked, as if he didn’t expect you to surrender so quickly. “Again.”

You laughed at his demand. “You are impossible.”

“And handsome.”

“And dramatic.”

“And handsome.”

You reached out and caught his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his warm cheeks.

“You,” you said slowly, “are distractingly, unfairly, devastatingly handsome.”

Rafayel stared, completely stunned. Then his ears went pink. And for a fleeting second, he looked almost vulnerable enough that you nearly believed you had truly stunned him. But then his expression turned mischievous.

“Excellent.” He said solemnly. “I’m too emotionally overwhelmed to paint now.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh, you manipulative little…”

You didn’t get the chance to finish, because Rafayel stood and with surprising strength for someone so slender, scooped you up effortlessly and sat in your chair, shifting you onto his lap, painting completely forgotten. Rafayel nuzzled into your shoulder and sighed dramatically.

“My muse has praised my beauty,” he murmured. “How can anyone expect me to work under these conditions?”

“You set this up.”

“I prefer ‘inspired this outcome.’”

You tried to glare. Then he tilted his head, looking far too pleased.

“Say ‘devastatingly handsome’ again.”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

“You have a deadline.”

“I have emotional needs.”

He pressed his cheek against yours. You sighed exasperated. That commission wasn’t getting finished today.

Zayne

“You are so handsome,” you murmured, your gaze lingering on Zayne as he reviewed a report Greyson had asked him to look over.

Zayne only lifted his eyes above the pages for the briefest glance.

“Mm.”

That was it. You stared at him dumbfounded.

“That’s your response? I just called you handsome.”

His eyes kept moving over the report, as if you were talking about the weather.

“You’ve been staring at me for quite a while, before voicing your observations.” He said evenly. “I acknowledged it.”

You narrowed your eyes, staring intently at him. “I just called you handsome,” you repeated more firmly this time.

“Yes.” He turned another page.

“And?” You could already feel your eye twitch.

“And what?”

You huffed and folded your arms.

“Most people would react, when their girlfriend would call them handsome.” “I did react.” You almost growled at his infuriatingly calm tone.

“That wasn’t much of a reaction, you just made a noise.”

Zayne finally paused. Slowly, he lowered the report just enough to look at you properly over the top edge.

“If you are looking for a dramatic response,” he said, “I can provide one.”

You blinked. Before you could ask what he meant, Zayne set the report aside, removed his glasses, and folded them neatly against the edge of the desk. Your eyes immediately went wide, as you followed his every movement.

Zayne moved toward you with unhurried precision, every step measured, his expression unreadable. The closer he got, the more aware you became of him, his height, the quiet strength in his frame, the subtle warmth of his presence.

He stopped directly in front of you.

You looked up at him, suddenly very aware of how short the distance between you had become.

“What are you doing?” you asked, though your voice had lost some of its earlier bite.

Zayne’s gaze pinned you in place.

“You wanted a reaction.” He leaned down and your heart skipped a beat.

Zayne slowly decreased the distance and you could feel his breath tickling your ear.

“That was a very accurate observation,” he murmured, his voice low enough to make your skin prickle. You entire face burned. And then, as if it wasn’t enough, you felt his lips ghost over the shell of your ear. You were sure your heart had actually stopped beating for a second.

Zayne lingered there for a moment too long, as if clinically observing the effect he was having. When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to study your expression. His eyes, usually so composed, held the faintest glimmer of satisfaction.

You stared at him speechless, as your mind scrambled for some kind of a reaction and finding none.

“Now,” he murmured ever so softly, “let me finish reviewing the report without trying to distract me.”

You could only make a strangled little sound, catching the thinly veiled warning in his voice. The worst part? You had not actually been trying to distract him, not this time at least.

Zayne turned as if to return to his desk and then paused.

Without looking back, he added calmly:

“Though…”

Your breath caught again, as he glanced at you over his shoulder.

“If you insist on offering further observations…” the corners of his mouth tilted upwards, barely. “I may be persuaded to react again.”

You made an incoherent sound.

Zayne returned to his desk as if he had not just completely dismantled your nervous system. He picked up the report, adjusted his glasses and resumed reading. Like nothing had happened. And that was your breaking point. Now you just had to see him flustered. You slid off the couch and padded over to his desk, stopping beside him. You leaned down and murmured into his ear.

“You are still very handsome.”

Silence stretched between you. Then Zayne removed his glasses again. You immediately took a step back, your heart instantly hammering in your chest.

“You seem intent,” he said quietly, “on preventing me from finishing this report.”

And then you realized, his first reaction wasn’t him being indifferent to the compliment. He was being merciful. And now you will pay the price for distracting him twice.

Xavier

You were in the kitchen preparing dinner. In the living room your boyfriend was peacefully sleeping on the couch, even though it was a little too small for him. He had shown up on your doorstep an hour ago, claiming he was terribly tired after a gruesome fight with several Wanderers. He looked completely unharmed to you though. He also claimed he had depleted his Evol during the fight and could not even teleport back home. Another lie, you were certain of it, since the only Wanderers sighting was closer to his apartment complex, not to yours.

You just rolled your eyes and let him play whatever game he was playing. After the dinner was cooked, you went into the living room and crouched down in front of him, staring at his sleeping face. You would never tell him that, but you actually liked watching him sleep. It was probably the only time when he was completely at peace and not looking like the weight of the entirety of time and space had rested on his shoulders.

You reached up carefully brushing away hair from his face. Slowly, trying not to wake him up, you traced his featured with the tips of your fingers.

“You are so handsome, Xavie, it’s dangerous.” you murmured.

For a second, nothing happened. Then his lashes fluttered and you froze. Xavier did not open his eyes right away, instead his hand moved lazily, his fingers curling around you wrist, not letting you pull away.

“Dangerous?” he repeated, voice rough with sleep.

“You were awake?” you asked suspiciously.

The corners of his mouth tilted just slightly. “Awake enough to hear you.”

Heat rushed to your face and you tried to pull your hand away, but his fingers tightened by a fraction, preventing that.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” you muttered.

Xavier hummed softly, his thumb brushing once over your wrist. Then he slowly opened his eyes.

“You think I’m dangerous,” he noted quietly. He shifted, just enough for his shoulder to sink deeper into the couch cushion. His gaze stayed on you, calm but no longer half-lidded with sleep.

You sighed, defeated.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No? You said it.”

Suddenly your vision blurred and your world shifted.  When the bright light stopped blinding you, you slowly opened your eyes and realized you were now sitting on the couch and Xavier was resting his head on your lap.

You glared at him half-heartedly, sinking your fingers into his hair. “You said you couldn’t teleport,” you carefully tagged at the strand of his hair, not to hurt him but to make a point. He only looked at you with those absurdly wide blue doe eyes.

“I couldn’t.”

You huffed, amused now. “You literally just teleported.”

“It was…” a pause. “…strategic repositioning.”

You laughed as your fingers drifted through his hair. Xavier’s eyes fluttered half-shut, but you could tell he still was watching you from under those big eyelashes.

Then he said, almost too casually:

“You called me dangerously handsome.” A pause, then softer: “What makes me dangerous?”

You stared down at him as he actually waited for your answer. You threaded your fingers through his hair, while pondering over his question.

“You look far too innocent, when in reality you are very far from that.”

His eyes opened again, looking at you thoughtfully. Then his hand found yours where it rested in his hair and laced your fingers together. He drew you hand closer to his lips and slowly kissed your knuckles.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

Xavier’s mouth curved faintly.

“That’s dangerous?”

“You do things like that with that handsome face of yours and pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Xavier looked far too satisfied, closed his eyes and shifted to be more comfortable.

“Wake me up in ten minutes,” he murmured, already half-asleep, as if the conversation was over.

your heart can’t help but swell at every sweet compliment she throws your way.

and when her first middle school dance rolls around, you make sure to arrive three hours early, arms loaded with your makeup kit and a box of hair curlers. with a beaming smile, you ask her if she’s ready to be the most dazzling sixth grader linkon middle school has ever seen.

it turns out, caleb had offered to help her get ready, but eve politely turned him down, saving the special time for her favorite person in the world—you.

you barely spare your boyfriend a glance from where he sits on the living room couch as you beeline for the kitchen table, already unpacking your supplies with practiced ease.

“well, hello to you too,” you hear him say as he comes up behind you, arms ready to wrap around your waist—but you pay him no mind. not when you're in work mode.

still, you can't help but stifle a giggle when eve chimes in.

“oh no you don’t. not in front of me.”

she tries, and fails, to push caleb away from you and back toward the archway to the living room. within seconds, she's huffing, barely having moved him an inch.

then she turns to you, giving you that look—the one she knows will have him gone in seconds.

you nod.

“i’m sorry, caleb. but this is strictly girls only." you lift your hand to his cheek, and he leans into your touch, those enchanting nebula eyes full of deep purple and gold making him so hard to refuse. “so, i’m going to have to ask you to leave, my love.”

this moment isn't about him at all—it's about your precious eve.

everything goes according to plan when he finally relents, shooting eve a narrowed look and sticking his tongue out at her, while she beams in triumph.

“your girlfriend loves me more than you,” she taunts.

caleb rolls his eyes in. “yeah, yeah. whatever. enjoy her now while you can, cause she’s hanging out with me later.”

that's when you finally let yourself laugh, enjoying their playful banter.

eve tells you everything—she always has. she trusts with secrets about her classmates and all the little dramas of her age. about aiden dating julianna, and what sarai said about carmela. it makes you reminisce about your own memories and your old friends, too.

she comes to you for advice, too.

advice about trying out for the volleyball team and about things she could never bring herself to ask her grandmother, much less caleb.

and once, on a girls' day while shopping for caleb's birthday present, she told you how happy she was that you were in caleb’s life, because without you, she would never have known what it was like to have a wonderful older sister.

your heart tightens at her words, because you feel exactly the same. your eve is such a loving, wonderful girl. she's just so easy to cherish.

later that same day, caleb finds the two of you, sprawled on the living room floor, surrounded by pillows and blankets, hands busy with crafts—measuring wrists with white string and picking out beads to match each others eyes. you're chatting and laughing about who knows what, and caleb can't help but pause at the sight, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

you've always treated his little sister with so much care and affection...

Every suckle, every greedy swirl of his tongue against your pulse, sends shimmering embers through your limbs. His elegant fingers are already buried knuckle-deep inside you, stroking deliberately slowly as if you are his most precious canvas and he intends to prime every inch of you before the final masterpiece.

He draws back just enough to let the entire crescent of council members see the glossy string of saliva connecting his lips to your skin.

Rafayel’s obsession with public claim began long before you wore his crown. As the last Lemurian prince, he grew up surrounded by murmurs about extinguished bloodlines and fragile alliances. The first time he touched you in private, he whispered, “One day, I’m going to show them all exactly who owns my heart.” 

To Rafayel, having witnesses isn’t about political necessity. It’s about etching the truth into their memories so no one can ever pretend you do not belong to him.

You feel the familiar drag of his fangs over the tender spot beneath your ear, and you keen softly. The council murmurs, but Rafayel silences them with a glance sharper than a trident’s edge.

“Shh, my Queen.” his voice rumbles against your throat. “They need to hear you, not their own empty gossip.”

His fingers curl forward, finding that secret spot that turns your vision to sea foam. You gasp, hips jerking, and he rewards you with a low, satisfied hum. The sound vibrates straight through his chest and into yours. He works you with the same devotion he pours into breathing life onto canvas, swirling and circling, pausing only to trace wet designs across the plushness of your inner thigh with the pad of his thumb.

Rafayel sees intimacy as the ultimate art form. Before the consummation ceremony, he painted your body with phosphorescent ink himself, murmuring about ‘painting his devotion where everyone can see.’ The shimmering patterns still ghost your skin—tendrils of sea mist, the crescent of his kingdom, the exact secret spot where you first confessed you loved him—and they glow brighter the nearer you are to ecstasy. He chose them specifically so the council cannot mistake your pleasure.

“Let them look at you,” he breathes, withdrawing his fingers only to bring them to his mouth. He licks them clean, lashes fluttering shut in exaggerated reverence, before fixing his gaze on the hooded figures encircling the dais. “See how sweet my Empress is? None of you will ever taste anything half as divine.”

One of the elders clears his throat, intending some ritualistic remark, but Rafayel ignores him completely. He is already guiding your thighs further apart, settling you more firmly across his lap. The heavy ceremonial robes he still wears are undone just enough to free his length, the proof of his own ache for you. He drags the flushed tip through your slickness, painting you with himself, deliberately drawing out the moment. Your forehead drops against his, breaths intermingling.

“You’re doing so well, my pearl,” he praises, and the tenderness beneath the possession undoes you more than anything else. “Now let them see you fall apart before I even take you.”

His mouth descends on your breast, tongue tracing a glowing whorl of bioluminescence around your nipple. The ink ignites, soft coral light pulsing in time with your heartbeat. The council collectively shifts; even the most stoic among them cannot hide the flicker of awe. Rafayel suckles hard enough to make you cry out, his name tearing from your throat like a prayer. He grins against your skin, one hand splayed across the small of your back to keep you arched, the other guiding himself just barely inside your aching warmth.

Rafayel’s tongue is not merely talented; it’s reverent in its pursuit. He once told you that every time he puts his mouth on you, he’s composing a love letter no brush could ever replicate. He can recite the exact taste of your want, compare it to the sweetness of moon jelly nectar, and he insists on spending at least one hour a day learning your body with his lips. The council’s presence changes nothing; if anything, it sharpens his need to demonstrate that you are the most worshipped creature in any realm. 

He nudges his cock deeper, just a fraction, and stops. Your whimper echoes off the vaulted ceiling, and he shushes you with a kiss—deep, demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips the same way he is about to fill you. He tastes of the sweet bombons you had shared earlier, and incense and a heady possessiveness that leaves you dizzy.

“They’re watching,” he murmurs into your mouth, withdrawing just enough to stare into your blown pupils. “Every single one of them. And they’re going to witness exactly how thoroughly I please my Empress. How beautifully she takes what belongs to her.”

Then he thrusts up, full and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, unstoppable stroke. The moan that escapes you is half-sob, half-symphony. Rafayel’s composure fractures for exactly one heartbeat—his hips stutter, his forehead drops to your shoulder, an almost wounded sound escaping his throat—before he regathers himself with a wicked curve of his lips.

“Perfection,” he announces loudly, so the council cannot mistake the word. “Absolutely perfect, she is.”

He moves inside you with rolling patience, each stroke focused to drag against every sensitive inch of your body he has spent months memorizing. His fingers find your clit again, tracing spirals of cool pressure that counterpoint the heat of his possession inside you. He coos instructions that are meant as much for the audience as for you, “Good girl, just like that,”; “Let go for me, I want to feel you lose yourself to me,”; “They need to know, don’t they? How well I take care of my Empress.”

When your climax crests, it’s a tidal wave. Your vision whites out, your nails rake the exposed skin of his neck, and your cry shatters against the throne room’s stained-glass windows. Rafayel doesn’t slow. He rides the convulsions of your body with single-minded focus, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear as he whispers filth-edged devotion.

Only after your body goes pliant and trembling does he allow himself to chase his own release. His rhythm turns ragged, the artistry giving way to raw need. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply as his hips piston upward. When he finishes, he groans your name—not your title, not “my Queen,” but the intimate syllables you’d almost forgotten existed beneath all the formality. He fills you with thick pulses of heat, and you feel the glow of the phosphorescent ink on your skin spike brilliantly, illuminating the entire dais in a private aurora.

The council is utterly silent. Then, one by one, they lower their heads in a bow deeper than any you have ever received.

Rafayel doesn’t pull out immediately. He keeps himself tucked inside you, softening but still claiming, one arm wrapped around your waist while the other hand cups your cheek. He studies your flushed face with an artist’s greed, making silent note of each blown pupil, each kiss-swollen lip.

“They’ll remember this, my darling Empress,” he says softly, but his voice carries so much tenderness, as much as possessiveness. “Every time they lay eyes on you, they’ll see you draped across my throne, falling apart on my fingers, taking my cock like you were forged for it. They’ll never doubt again, that you are mine, and I am yours. That you shall take me as I take you, yearn for me as I yearn for you.”

He presses a reverent kiss to your forehead. His thumb traces your cheekbone, leaving a shimmer of your own wetness behind.

“My masterpiece,” he breathes, just for you. “My beloved bride. My love.”

The council begins to file out in ceremonial silence, but Rafayel doesn’t spare them a glance. He is already using the hem of his robe to tenderly clean the inside of your thighs, pressing soft, apologetic kisses to every spot where his grip bruised.

Later, you know he will carry you to the royal baths and spend an hour just holding you, murmuring about all the paintings he wants to make of tonight’s tableau. But for now, before the empty throne room, he lets you curl against his chest, still intimately joined, and hums the lullaby of the deep that only Lemurian royalty ever learn.

And you, his Queen, his Empress, the sole keeper of his fathomless heart, drift in a pleasure so complete it feels like the tides themselves are cradling you home.

© zaynessbeloved 2026. please don’t copy, repost or translate my works. thank you!

🏷️: @aiycnlyme, @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple, @youkoden, @w0ndert1nk, @deadlyskepticalnightmare, @2affectionate4z, @daisybbyxx, @kokoa21, @imaginationofafan