wendeee being saucy

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!

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The shift in angle makes you arch, nails digging into the flexing muscle of his back. He groans, a sound ripped from somewhere so deep it’s almost pained, and his forehead drops to yours. His eyes are squeezed shut, dark lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, and his composure has been frayed thread by thread until all that’s left is the raw, desperate man trembling inside you.

You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desire to keep you close. The telltale hitch of his breath, the way his rhythm stutters and then catches, harder, needier. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his waist, and the new depth punches a gasp from both of you. He’s talking now, a low, breathless litany against your skin—my love, my darling, you’re everything—and the words are so saturated with reverence that they feel like prayer.

Then his mouth finds the shell of your ear, his voice a ruined whisper. “I can’t—I don’t ever want this to end. I need you. I need you forever. Please, will you—”

He breaks off with a sharp, stunned inhale, but the words he’s already let slip hang in the humid space between your bodies like a struck bell.

Marry me.

You freeze. He freezes. For one suspended heartbeat, the only movement is the involuntary clench of your body around him, and you watch, dazed, as the reality of what he’s just moaned into your ear crashes over him. 

Zayne’s eyes fly open, wide and glassy with pleasure that is rapidly being eclipsed by outright horror. The flush that was already painting his cheeks and chest deepens to a violent, boyish scarlet, spreading down his neck and over the tops of his shoulders. His hips have stopped moving entirely, though he’s still buried to the hilt, and the sudden stillness is almost unbearable.

“I—” he starts, and his voice cracks. Zayne, whose voice never cracks. He looks utterly, catastrophically wrecked—hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen and glossy, pupils blown so wide there’s only a slim ring of hazel left. “That was not—I did not intend to say that out loud. Not like this. Not while I’m—” he makes a small, strangled gesture between your bodies, as if to indicate the absolute indecency of the circumstances. The movement shifts him inside you in a way that makes you both suck in air.

You should probably help him. You should say something. But the sight of him floundering in the aftermath of his own accidental proposal is so endearingly human that you can’t quite stop the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. Your chest feels impossibly full, a honey-warm bloom of affection tangling with the lingering heat low in your belly.

“Zayne,” you grin up at him, but he flinches like you’ve just pronounced his death sentence. “Did you just propose to me in the middle of—”

“Yes,” he cuts in, voice strangled and mortified. “And I am terribly, acutely aware that this is not how one is supposed to—there were plans. There was a restaurant and flowers. A ring. I’ve had the ring for months—” he groans, dropping his forehead to the curve of your shoulder, enveloping you in the heat radiating off his skin. “Months, and I ruined it because I couldn’t control my own mouth during—during—”

“Really, really good sex?” you offer, unable to resist.

He makes a wounded noise against your neck. “Please don’t say it like that, my love.”

You laugh, breathless and a little wild, your fingers coming up to card through the damp strands of his hair. He shivers at the touch, still buried deep inside, still half-hard and thrumming with a tension that has nothing to do with lust now, or so you think. “Zayne. Look at me, baby.”

It takes a moment, but he lifts his head. The expression on his face is a war zone. Embarrassment, frustration with himself, and underneath it all, a raw, quivering hope that he’s trying valiantly to hide. He looks so devastatingly beautiful like this—vulnerable and stripped bare in every possible way—that you feel your heart clench right alongside the rest of you.

“Ask me again,” you nudge softly. “Properly.”

His throat works up and down, your eyes tracing the movement with hope and excitement. The flush hasn’t faded, but something in his eyes steadies. He shifts his weight to one elbow, freeing a hand to cup your face with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting. His thumb traces the arch of your cheekbone, so softly it makes you melt even more under his touch. 

When he speaks, his voice is still a little shaken but steadier, every word with purpose behind them now.

“I love you,” he confesses. “I have loved you so long I don’t remember what it felt like before. I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you and have you steal my shirts and drink my coffee and interrupt my charts with doodles in the margins. I want everything. Every argument, every quiet morning in our home, every messy, inexplicable, wonderful moment of being with you. Will you—” he gulps softly, a ghost of his earlier fluster flickers across his features, but he pushes through it, earnest and achingly sincere. “Will you marry me?”

The answer is already spilling from your lips before he’s finished. A whispered, fervent yes that he catches with his mouth, kissing you with a depth of emotion that steals your breath away. The kiss turns heated almost immediately, the suspended passion roaring back to life, and when he finally rocks his hips again, you both moan into the space between your mouths.

Afterwards, tangled in sheets and each other, he buries his face in your hair and mutters something that sounds like I can’t believe I proposed to you mid-coitus, and you laugh until your sides ache, pressing kisses to his burning cheeks while he tries, and fails, to maintain any remaining shred of dignity.

It is, you decide, the most perfect proposal you could have ever imagined.

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

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ZAYNE

you would never call zayne boring, but the man was meticulous and that showed even in your most intimate moments. he was a busy doctor after all, and it was quite romantic how he noted and scheduled these moments with you in his daily planner, making sure adequate time was allocated to you and your relationship. you loved it, for the most part. the other part, the little devil on your shoulder, craved just a bit more.

“is that new?” were the first words that escaped zayne’s lips after he swallowed dryly, his eyes scanning your lingerie clad frame nervously.

“of course it’s new.” you grinned, giving him a bit of a twirl that made him immediately shut the front door and drop his briefcase to the ground.

“and aren’t you cold?” your boyfriend asked with barely there concern, his hands on you already warming you up.

RAFAYEL

the private beach behind rafayel’s home was a godsend when the weather was just right. the two of you sat in the sand, soaking in the sunshine as rafayel chatted away. you stole a few glances at him, an idea conjuring up in your mischievous mind. it was very rare that you could tease your boyfriend so why not take the opportunity so perfectly presented to you?

you sat up straight, still eyeing him as though you were paying attention to his rambling. then you reached down and slowly, purposefully, you pulled off your top and chucked it to the side. rafayel’s voice stopped abruptly, the chatty man rendered speechless as he stared at you before a cheeky smirk formed on his lips.

“you’re done talking?”

“yes my dear.”

SYLUS

sylus had walked the entire floor plan of the mansion searching for you. he was growing worried but he also knew if anyone could take care of you it was yourself. the last resort was the garage but he had no reasonable explanation as to why you’d be in there. the door was slightly ajar as he stepped inside, calling your name.

“in here!” you replied back in a small voice, nestled in the backseat of his car.

“darling, what are you—”

he cut himself off when he poked his head through the open car door and caught sight of your attire, or lack there of.

“i was coming up to surprise you but i had to duck in here because kieran and luke were walking around.” you explained in embarrassment.

“well then let me join you in here until they decide to call it a night hm?”

CALEB

you’d stayed over at caleb’s apartment multiple times, but you were always prepared with your own toiletries and clothes. then, on a random night, you’d forgotten a few things and ended up in one of caleb’s oversized sleep shirts and smelling like his musky shower gel. your boyfriend had been smitten, like he would never get over how personal it felt to see you in his space wearing and using his things. it was silly, but you saved it in your mind to use for a moment like this.

you strolled into his living room, dressed in one of his t-shirts, freshly showered and with a tiny spritz of his cologne wafting around you. caleb beamed as you planted yourself in his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs.

“you might be a narcissist with the way you react when i look like you.” you joked.

“it’s not like that,” caleb’s hands trailed up your spine, “i just think loving you isn’t enough so we need to become one person.”

"r-rafayel—hnngh—wish you would do this.."

your voice was a breathy whisper as you fought to keep yourself quiet, your fingers working sloppily as your head dropped back, clamping a hand over your mouth to keep yourself silent.

it was late into the night, thirty minutes past midnight and ovulation had never hit you this hard before, until tonight, one of the few nights rafayel was actually at the house overnight, and not at a hotel for some artist exhibition he had to attend.

it was a shame the walls were so thin, and rafayel's room was right behind yours. enough times to hear the clattering of his paint materials and his murmured curses.

the rabbit plush sat propped up on your headboard, coincidentally angled towards your sprawled out body. if it had eyes, it would have a perfect view of your ministrations.

Rafayel's hand was tightly wrapped around his leaking cock, biting his fist hard as he watched his computer screen, the light glaring and reflecting onto his face.

his pants were unzipped just enough to free his cock, not bothering to fully take off his pants as soon as he got the notification that the camera he installed picked up movement from your room.

rafayel's heavy breaths filled the room as your moans sounded through the earbuds he connected, he didn't take his eyes off of you as he stroked himself, his own whispered moans combining with yours.

"rafayel, wish you would… do this."

he nearly came on the spot when he heard your voice, his grip instinctively tightening on himself, pre-cum leaking steadily from his tip as he fought back a groan.

your thighs tensed and quaked as your fingers plunged in and out of you, your eyes squeezing shut as you lay against the pillow, arm covering your face.

you felt yourself nearing your climax as your fingers left your cunt, messily going to your clit.

sweat built up as you moved your arm off your face, cracking an eye open as your gaze fell on the plush rabbit, your gaze focusing on its face as you remembered when rafayel gave it to you, and it was enough to push you over the edge.

a broken cry left you, one that rafayel would be sure to hear through the walls, your back arching and body shaking from the aftershocks.

rafayel's thighs were tensed as he bit his fist harder, pumping himself harder and sloppier as he felt himself close.

his face heated up as he saw your gaze lock onto the camera, afraid that it somehow gave it away, but as soon as he saw your face contort again, he let his thumb brush over his tip, his body jolting as he suddenly came, his eyes rolling back as his head fell back against his headrest.

your moans corresponded with his, and he almost thought there was an echo through his headphones, until he realized just how loud you were, and that it went through the walls.

catching his breath, he wiped his hand off on his pants, cracking an eye open and realizing some of his release had gotten on his pants, already staining.

…

cracking open the door to your room, you tried your best to silently go to the bathroom, but your heart immediately stopped when you heard the door to rafayel's room open at the same time.

your gaze immediately ran over him, noticing his disheveled state. and you suddenly realized that he could have heard you through the walls. and his computer.

suddenly, your gaze fell on the damp spot on his pants, a light gray on his black pants.

"rafayel! i.. i didn't know you were still awake! whats on your pants?"

rafayel immediately felt the tips of his ears go red as he noticed where you were gesturing to on his pants.

running a hand through his hair, he rolled his eyes, as if he was annoyed by the patch himself.

"i was painting and got some on myself. you know how i can get clumsy."

the lie rolled off his tongue easily, after all, it wasn't the first time he had almost gotten caught by you.

after you walked away, he already made a mental note to save the recording to his files for any time he was away and needed you.

if you couldn't tell, this was not proofread. not proud of my writing in this piece ToT

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