#scent of a memory

[afireintheflame]

POV Missing Your LaDs Guy

I was inspired by another creator’s writing about scents and wearing items of clothing that belong to your LI. I will tag the creator when I find the original post!

I’m gonna try and do a multi-fic post but my fics tend to be on the longer side about these men (^_^; I can’t stop myself from wanting to say more!

TW: Smut light, scent based triggers

Pairings: Rafayel X Reader and Sylus X Reader

If you guys like them I’ll definitely try and write ones for Caleb, Zayne, and Xavier

Reblogs appreciated ❤️

Rafayel 🐟🔥🎨🛁

Rafayel was never too busy for his favorite cutie—but every now and then, even you couldn’t pull him away from his work. This time, Thomas had made it crystal clear: Rafayel had to be at his next gallery showing, no excuses. It was outside of Linkon, and unfortunately, you couldn’t take the time off to go with him. So, in classic dramatic fashion, the two of you parted ways with Rafayel pouting like a child, insisting he should just kidnap you for the next two weeks. And honestly? The idea was tempting. But after the last gala—where you both got a little too drunk and made a bit too much of a scene—you couldn’t risk him getting on Thomas’s bad side again.

Still, that didn’t stop him from sulking all the way to the airport, one hand in yours, the other gripping his sketchpad like it was an emotional support canvas.

“I should just cancel the whole thing,” he muttered as you reached his terminal. “Tell Thomas I had a spiritual awakening and need to stay home for artistic reasons. Maybe something involving paint fumes and divine visions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And how would that explain the flight and hotel already booked in your name?”

“I’ll tell him I was possessed. By a muse. You.” He shot you a grin, though it was soft around the edges.

The first boarding call echoed, and his fingers curled a little tighter around yours before he pressed something into your palm.

You looked down. His keys.

“The studio’s yours while I’m gone,” he said. “Sleep in the bed, paint on the walls, eat the cookies I definitely didn’t burn. Just don’t fall in love with anyone else while I’m away.”

You stared at the keys, your throat catching a little. “You said your studio was sacred.”

He smiled, cupping your cheek. “Exactly.”

A final boarding call cut through the moment, and you rose up to kiss him—slow and steady, like it might be the last quiet moment for a while.

“Go,” you whispered. “Before I let you kidnap me.”

He groaned, dramatic as ever, but he turned and walked away—backward for the first few steps just to keep you in sight. One last blown kiss. One last wink. And then he disappeared into the crowd.

The next day, you let yourself into his studio by the sea.

The place was exactly as he’d left it, warm with sunlight and bursting with Rafayel’s strange, vibrant energy. The smell hit you first—not just the ocean, which lived in the air like a heartbeat, but him. Salt and fire. Burnt matches and shells ground into paint. Every pigment he mixed carried something of the beach outside—chalky whites from crushed sand dollars, deep blues born from tide-worn glass, and the faint tang of salt in everything he touched.

You slipped off your shoes and padded across the cool floorboards, letting the space wrap around you. The walls were cluttered with art—some chaotic and bold, some so intimate it almost felt wrong to look. His easel stood in the center of the room like an altar, canvas still wet with whatever he’d been working on last.

The cookies were there too. On the counter. Slightly overbaked and left beneath a note that read: If they taste weird, blame love. Or the fact I was thinking about your thighs again.

You laughed quietly, then wandered toward the stack of canvases leaning against the far wall, drawn by some invisible thread. One by one, you sifted through them. Landscapes. Abstract bursts of emotion. A few commissions.

And then—you.

Moments you hadn’t even realized he’d been capturing. You curled up in his favorite cardigan, the soft wool bunched around your wrists. You leaning on the balcony rail, lost in thought. You, laughing, hair a mess, eyes squinted from too much sun.

And one… unfinished. Just your face. Quiet. Real. No dramatics. No posing.

You traced the edge of the frame with your fingertips, heart full and aching all at once.

Rafayel may have been halfway across the country—but somehow, he’d left a thousand pieces of himself behind.

You moved through the studio like a quiet tide, your fingers brushing over tabletops, paint jars, the curve of an empty teacup beside a half-sketched landscape. The silence wasn’t lonely—it was heavy with him, as if Rafayel had only just stepped out to grab something from the beach and would be back any second, cardigan flaring behind him, curls tousled by the wind.

You wandered deeper into the space, passing his neatly folded scarves on a chair, the faint scent of sandalwood and sea lingering in the air. Then you stepped into the bathroom—and stopped.

His bathtub.

If the studio was sacred, the bathtub was its hidden chapel. You’d teased him about how seriously he treated it—how he called it “a portal to another plane” after long painting sessions. But standing there now, you understood.

The soft light through the frosted windows. The mosaic tile around the edges, each tiny piece hand-placed, many painted by Rafayel himself. And nestled all along the side of the tub—your favorite bath bombs, oils, and soaps. Sea-salt lavender. Rose quartz shimmer. The one that smelled like warm citrus and driftwood. He’d remembered them all.

A note sat propped against a jar of soaking salts, written in his looping, dramatic script:

“In case you miss me too much—these all smell like me. Or at least, like the version of me who wants you to relax, feel adored, and remember that even if I’m away, I’m still absolutely obsessed with you. Use them. Soak. Pretend I’m sitting beside the tub reading you weird poetry. (I probably am, spiritually speaking.)”

You laughed softly, brushing a thumb over the edge of the paper. Trust Rafayel to turn a simple bath into something holy. You could already imagine it—his voice echoing off the tiles, reciting Lemurian poems or something ridiculous he made up on the spot, one hand swirling the water lazily as he watched you with those knowing, stormy eyes.

Maybe tonight, you’d light the candles.

Maybe tonight, you’d let yourself miss him just a little more.

You sank into the bath with a sigh, the water turning silky as your favorite bath bomb fizzed and dissolved, releasing soft floral notes and a shimmer of warmth that clung to your skin. The scent reminded you of him—salt and citrus, something wild and thoughtful all at once. You closed your eyes and leaned back, letting the water hold you the way his arms used to.

For a while, you just breathed. Let the quiet hum of the sea outside wrap around you like a lullaby. You could almost hear him reading beside you, voice low, words floating somewhere between poetry and seduction.

Time blurred.

Eventually, the water cooled, and you stepped out, skin flushed and wrapped in the oversized towel he always called your “personal cloud.” You padded barefoot through the studio, glowing from warmth and the kind of peace only Rafayel could conjure—even from miles away.

You made your way to his bed—round, queen-sized, draped in soft linen sheets that always smelled faintly of cedar and the sea. The windows stretched around it in a half-moon curve, offering a perfect view of the ocean below. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting streaks of gold and blush across the waves. You curled onto the bed, damp hair trailing across his pillow, watching the tide shimmer under the setting sun.

It was impossible not to think of him here.

He’d said it once, half-asleep with your legs tangled in his and his hand resting over your heartbeat: “You were always meant for the ocean. The way you move, the way you feel. That saltwater kind of beauty. Untamed, but gentle. Just like the tide.”

At the time, you’d rolled your eyes, teased him for being dramatic. But now, with the sea glowing outside and his scent still on the sheets—you finally understood what he meant.

Maybe you were meant for the ocean.

And maybe, in some strange, beautiful way… you’d been meant for him too.

The sky outside melted into shades of lavender and honey, the waves rolling in a steady rhythm like the breath of the world itself. You sank deeper into the bed, letting the ocean soothe the ache in your chest—but it wasn’t quite enough. Not without him.

The sheets were still warm from the sun, but you missed his warmth. His weight. His presence. You sat up slowly, eyes drifting toward the worn armchair near the window where he always draped his cardigans.

One was still there.

You rose and crossed the room, fingers brushing over the soft knit fabric before pulling it into your arms. It was his favorite—cream with a blue and red argile pattern woven through it, smelling faintly of his cologne and sea salt. You slipped it on, sleeves too long, shoulders wide and comforting, like being wrapped in him.

As you settled back into bed, something crinkled beneath the pillow.

Frowning, you reached underneath and pulled out a small audio recorder. Simple. Classic Rafayel.

There was a little sticker on the front. A doodle of a seashell and a tiny note scrawled beneath it in his loopy, artistic handwriting:

“Play when the sea isn’t enough.”

Your heart jumped.

You clicked it on.

There was a moment of static, then his voice—low, warm, a little teasing, like he was speaking from just over your shoulder.

"Hey, my cutie. If you're hearing this, it means I’m not beside you—which, frankly, is a crime against romance and art and probably international law, but we’ll let that slide for now."

You smiled, heart clenching.

"I know you’re probably curled up in my bed right now, wearing one of my cardigans, looking like some soft ocean spirit that wandered in from the tide. I hope you took a bath. If not—pause this and go. Seriously. I left you the good stuff."

A pause. A soft breath.

"I just… I didn’t want you to feel alone in the silence. Not here. Not in a space that knows you almost as well as I do."

"Every brushstroke, every color I mix—there’s you in all of it. You’re not just my muse. You’re the whole damn palette."

Another pause. Softer now.

"So rest. Watch the sea. Wear my cardigan till it smells like you. And when I get back, I’ll paint the sunset exactly how you looked tonight."

Static again. Then silence.

You held the recorder to your chest, eyes burning, Rafayel’s voice echoing in your mind like a lullaby pulled from the tide.

He wasn’t here—but he was everywhere. In the scent on your skin, in the rhythm of the waves, in the cardigan curled around your frame.

And in that moment, wrapped in him, you didn’t feel alone at all.

The room had gone dusky, shadows stretching long across the bed as the last light of day dipped below the horizon. You were still curled beneath his blankets, his cardigan wrapped around you like a second skin. The audio recorder sat beside you on the pillow, still warm from your grip, Rafayel’s voice lingering in your ears like an echo.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand, thumb hovering for a moment before switching to the front camera. The soft golden light of the setting sun kissed your features. His cardigan hung off your frame, oversized and familiar, the sleeves bunched at your wrists. You looked like you belonged here—like you’d been painted into the moment.

You snapped the photo. No filter. No caption.

Then you opened your messages and typed slowly:

me:

goodnight, my fishie prince. the sea isn’t enough. come home soon.

You added the photo and hit send before you could overthink it.

Almost immediately, the little “typing…” bubble popped up.

Then:

rafayel:

cutie.

you’re lucky i didn’t see this before boarding or i would’ve turned around and let thomas sue me.

i’ll paint that look the second i’m back.

sleep in my spot tonight. dream of me. i’ll dream of you.

Your heart fluttered.

You tucked the phone to your chest, smiling as the waves outside rolled softly against the shore, steady and endless.

Maybe the sea wasn’t enough.

But the love he left behind in every corner of this place?

That was more than enough to hold you through the night.

The room had grown quiet, the hush of the sea outside the only sound as the last of the sun slipped beneath the horizon. You nestled deeper into his bed, tugging the cardigan tighter around your body. Your phone rested beside your pillow, his message still glowing faintly on the screen.

You turned it face-down.

Then let your eyes close.

Sleep didn’t come all at once—it arrived in slow waves, gentle and warm, like fingers combing through your hair.

And then, you were there again.

Back in the park, that first chilly autumn morning when he showed up with two cups of coffee and paint on his cheek, his hair wind swept in the breeze like some romantic mess of a man. He’d handed you the coffee with both hands and said, “I didn’t know what you liked, so I brought six sugar packets. I can be trained, though. Like a well-kept dog. Or a mildly feral raccoon.”

You laughed in your sleep.

Another memory bloomed—his studio, months later, when he let you smear paint across a fresh canvas just because you said you were curious. You’d made a mess. He’d kissed you anyway, paint in your hair, his hands on your waist, whispering, “There’s nothing more beautiful than watching you become part of my chaos.”

And then the beach.

The night you watched the stars together, wrapped in a blanket, his voice low and dreamy beside your ear as he told you stories about gods made of salt and women who controlled tides with their laughter. He said you were one of them—obviously.

Memory folded into memory like watercolor seeping into wet paper.

All of them vivid.

All of them soft.

And in every single one—Rafayel, smiling at you like you were the masterpiece he’d never be able to finish.

A week passed.

The studio had started to feel like a second skin. You knew where Rafayel kept his half-finished sketches, which mugs he favored for tea, which corner of the windowsill he always left cracked open for the salt breeze. You’d fallen asleep each night wrapped in his cardigan, surrounded by his scent and voice, lulled to sleep by waves and the low hum of his love lingering in every room.

But today—the silence buzzed with something new.

Anticipation.

The airport buzzed with the usual chaos—luggage wheels clattering, voices echoing off high glass ceilings, the dull murmur of announcements overhead. But none of it mattered. Your heartbeat had claimed your focus, drumming fast in your ears as you stood near the arrivals gate, scanning every passing figure with a quiet desperation you tried not to show.

Your phone buzzed.

rafayel:

Landing in 20. I expect dramatic eye contact across the arrivals gate. Maybe even a slow-motion run. Optional kiss. Mandatory swoon.

You laughed out loud, biting your bottom lip to keep from smiling too hard as you texted back:

you:

I’ll bring the swoon if you bring that paint-smudged artist look. Deal?

rafayel:

I’ve missed you so badly I’m considering doing the whole proposal-in-the-airport thing. But I’ll settle for holding your face and not letting go for ten full minutes.

The sun was just starting to dip by the time you reached the terminal, casting the glass walls in amber light. People bustled in every direction, voices echoing across tiled floors. But your eyes were only searching for one thing.

Then you saw him.

Moving through the crowd like he belonged on another plane of existence entirely.

The top buttons of his white shirt were undone, collar loose in that casually undone way that only he could pull off. His violet hair was tousled from the flight, a few strands falling into his blue-pink eyes—eyes that found you instantly, lighting up like a canvas catching first light.

You didn’t run.

But you moved.

And so did he.

He dropped his bag before he even reached you, closing the distance in a few quick strides. His hands found your face the second you were close enough, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, and he let out the breath he’d clearly been holding for days.

"Hi, cutie," he said, voice a little rough from travel, but still so unmistakably him. "God, I missed this face. No painting, no dream, no color came close."

You leaned into his touch, smiling so hard it almost hurt.

"You’re real," you whispered, and that was all it took—he pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you with that same warmth you'd been craving every night in his bed.

His cheek pressed against your hair, and you felt him smile.

"You kept my cardigan warm, didn’t you?"

"Every night."

"Good. Because now I need it to smell like you."

The arrivals gate faded away. The noise. The movement. Everything. It was just him, you, and the warmth between your bodies—finally closing the distance.

You didn’t head straight home.

Rafayel slipped his fingers between yours the second you stepped out of the airport, tugging you gently toward the coastal road. His bag was slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, violet hair catching the fading light like brushstrokes in motion.

The car ride was quiet, peaceful.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

And when the beach came into view—the same stretch of sand you could see from his studio window—you pulled off onto the side, kicking off your shoes as he did the same.

The tide was low, the breeze soft and cool. Sunset spilled across the ocean in melted gold and dusky pinks, casting a glow over everything. Rafayel breathed in deep and closed his eyes for a moment, like he was letting the sea wash away the weight of time spent apart.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

“You’re glowing,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Did the sea take care of you while I was gone?”

You laughed softly. “It tried. But it wasn’t the same without you.”

He grinned, blue-pink eyes reflecting the sky. “You know,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a tiny, spiral shell, “I saw this and thought of you. Kept it with me the whole trip. It’s not much. But it was the only thing that reminded me of home.”

You took it gently, fingers brushing his. “I am home,” you whispered.

That made him pause—just long enough for emotion to flicker in his expression. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, resting his forehead to yours.

“You know you were always a part of the ocean” he said softly. “But I think… I was meant for you.”

You stood there like that, the waves lapping at your feet, your bodies pressed together, hearts syncing in the salt-kissed silence. And as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, you let the moment settle between you—unspoken but understood.

Love didn’t always need grand gestures or fireworks.

Sometimes, it was as simple as a quiet return.

A cardigan left behind.

A beach at sunset.

And two people who chose each other, again and again.

—————————————————————————

Sylus 🐦‍⬛🐉🌹💥

It was rare that Sylus ever made you wait, especially on a date night. He’d hurriedly finish his business deals so he could relax into your embrace, but tonight this deal was different and unfortunately was bleeding into date night.

“I promise, kitten, I’ll make it up to you.”

You read the text, you knew he would but it still sucked waiting for him. You hadn’t seen each other in several weeks. The Association kept you busy with overseas missions, and Sylus was dealing with more unrest in the N109 zone as one of the crime heads had been taken into custody. Now, there were turf wars and shady dealings to see who would take over. Sylus naturally was targeted, being the leader of Onichynus, was anything but peaceful.

You missed him, his warmth, the smell of his cologne with a hint of gunpowder, your thoughts drifted as you wandered your shared bedroom. Before you realized it, you were standing in front of the walk-in closet. You opened the double doors and instantly gravitated to his jackets. You tenderly ran your fingers against the sleeves, the material soft and silky. He always had impeccable fashion sense, everything was either designer or professionally tailored, one of a kind for him. You grabbed your favorite jacket he would wear lazily over his broad shoulders. The black fabric embroidered with crimson feathers smelled of his cologne, gunpowder, and rain. You couldn’t help yourself and slipped your arms through the sleeves. The jacket wore you rather than you wearing it, but it didn’t matter. It felt like being held by him, the weight of the material mimicking his gentle embrace. You pressed the sleeves to your cheeks, taking in the warmth like he was cradling you with his hands. You were tearing up, trembling, and slowly lowered yourself to the plush carpet of the closet.

You missed him. The way he made you feel safe, the look in his ruby eyes saying, “As long as you’re with him, any place is home.” You catch yourself looking at all the clothes, each sparking a memory of your time together: his riding jacket, the freedom of speeding down the N109 zone, the leather trench coat, and tussling his silver hair pretending to get the snow out.

You grabbed some of his clothes, donning them like makeshift armor. You know it’s only a temporary fix, but for now, you feel a bit more at ease waiting for him to come home. The business deals normally ended messily these days, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

A soft chime pulled you from your thoughts—a message, but not from Sylus this time.

Unknown Sender: “Your man’s making moves. Might not walk away clean tonight.”

Your stomach twisted. It was vague, unsigned, and all-too-familiar with the kind of cryptic language used in the underworld. You stared at the message, your fingers tightening on the cuffs of his jacket.

You shouldn’t worry. You knew Sylus. No one navigated the criminal underbelly of the N109 Zone better than he did. But still, this deal was different. Bigger. Riskier.

You rose from the floor slowly, the heavy fabric of his jacket still wrapped around you like a shield. You crossed the room and tapped into the secure comm line he’d given you, not for check-ins or sweet nothings, but emergencies. You hesitated, thumb hovering over the button. Was this one?

Just as your finger grazed it, your screen blinked to life. A video call. From him.

You answered immediately, breath catching when Sylus’s face came into view. He looked exhausted—silver hair mussed, the collar of his shirt undone, crimson eyes shadowed and sharp. But he was alive. Whole.

And when he saw you wearing his jacket, something in his expression shifted. Softened.

“You waiting for me like that, Sweetie?” he said, voice low and warm despite the tension you could sense in him. “You’re gonna make me speed through this meeting and blow someone’s car up just to get back faster.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, a watery laugh escaping you. “You’re late.”

He sighed, leaning back against the wall of wherever he was—dim lights, a flicker of movement behind him. “I know. Things got complicated. I’ll be home in one hour. Two, max. I swear it.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you murmured, trying to smile.

His eyes held yours through the screen. “Kitten. I always keep my promises to you.”

The call ended before you could say anything else—likely someone had pulled him back into the fray. You were left with the echo of his voice and the lingering tension in your chest.

Still… something about his face had told you he meant it. That he’d crawl through hell to keep it.

You stood there for a long moment, wrapped in the comfort of his scent, his presence lingering in every thread. And even though the night stretched long and uncertain, you felt a little steadier, knowing that somewhere out there, Sylus was fighting his way back to you.

The rain had started not long after the call ended—fat droplets smacking against the windows in chaotic rhythm. Lightning flashed in the distance, followed by the low, slow rumble of thunder that seemed to crawl across the sky. You stayed curled on the couch, still in his jacket, eyes flicking to the door with every creak and shadow.

Then came the sound you’d been waiting for: the lock sliding open.

You were on your feet before the door had even finished opening.

Sylus stepped inside, head bowed, silver hair soaked and plastered to his forehead. Water dripped from the hem of his coat, running in rivulets down his neck and into the dark fabric clinging to his frame. He kicked the door closed with the back of his boot and looked up at you.

That tired smirk pulled at his lips, even as the storm clung to him. “Told you I’d make it back, didn’t I?”

You didn’t respond right away. You just crossed the room in a few quick strides and threw your arms around him. His jacket soaked yours instantly, but you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of rain and gunpowder and him, now fresh and raw.

His arms came around you slowly, as if taking a moment to process that he was really home, that you were really there waiting for him. He leaned his cheek against the top of your head, exhaling deeply.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured back. “I missed you too, Sweetie. Every damn second.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes, though rimmed with exhaustion, held that flicker of warmth that only ever appeared for you. You brushed wet strands of hair from his forehead.

“You’re soaked,” you said.

“Storm caught me on the way out. Didn’t want to stop.” He looked you over, registering the jacket still draped over your shoulders. “That mine?”

You nodded. “My armor.”

A real smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me trade you for something warmer. I’ll get cleaned up—won’t take long.”

But you held onto him a second longer, not quite ready to let go yet.

“You’re here now,” you said softly. “That’s all I needed.”

Sylus pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek. Gentle. Reassuring. “And I’m not going anywhere tonight. That’s a promise I can keep.”

The storm had softened to a steady drizzle by the time Sylus emerged from the shower, dressed in a dark fitted shirt with the sleeves casually rolled to his elbows and a pair of soft lounge pants that were definitely not designer. His damp silver hair curled slightly at the ends, the clean scent of his soap replacing the smoke and rain.

You had set the table in the meantime—nothing extravagant, just a warm meal for two and the comfort of being in the same room again.

He padded barefoot into the dining area, eyes locking onto you immediately. That quiet look passed between you again—the one that said we made it through another night—and then his gaze dropped slightly as he walked closer.

You noticed the cuts when he sat down. Small, angry red lines along his knuckles and a shallow graze at the sharp edge of his jaw. Faint, but fresh. Evidence of how “complicated” the meeting had really gotten.

“Sylus,” you murmured, reaching over before he could deflect.

“It looks worse than it is,” he said, not pulling away when your fingers brushed over the skin near his jaw. He winced slightly. “Okay, maybe just a little worse.”

You turned his hand over gently in yours, examining the bruised knuckles. “And this?”

He shrugged, almost sheepish. “Some people don’t like losing leverage.”

You didn’t press. You knew how these deals went—how easily a dinner table could turn into a battlefield.

Instead, you got up quietly, grabbed the small medkit from the drawer, and returned to your seat beside him. He let you clean the cuts in silence, his gaze soft and steady on you the entire time.

“I can’t stop you from getting hurt,” you said quietly, wrapping a thin bandage around his hand. “But I still hate seeing it.”

“I know.” His voice was low. “But I’d rather come home to you a little bloodied than not at all.”

You blinked, your hands stilling. His honesty always caught you off guard when it came unannounced like that—raw and real, without the silk of his usual charm.

Dinner was quieter than usual, but not uncomfortable. He watched you between bites, eyes lingering not with possessiveness but with something steadier. Devotion. As if reminding himself that no matter what storms he walked through out there, this—you—was what he came back for.

“Thanks for waiting for me,” he said softly, near the end of the meal.

You smiled faintly, leaning your chin on your hand. “I always will.”

You’d just finished clearing the dishes when Sylus leaned back in his chair, watching you with that unmistakable gleam in his eye—the kind that usually came right before he got exactly what he wanted.

“You know,” he said, his voice dropping a note lower, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I walked in.”

You turned, curious. “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes roaming over you, still wrapped in his tailored black jacket, the sleeves rolled to fit, the hem hanging loose just past your thighs. “That. Seeing you in my clothes.”

A slow smirk curved his lips as he stood, crossing the room in a few unhurried strides. He stopped in front of you, one hand lifting to brush a thumb over your collarbone, just beneath the open lapel. His touch was light, but his gaze was anything but.

“It’s dangerous,” he murmured, “how good you look in this.”

You arched a brow, trying to stay coy. “Dangerous how?”

Sylus leaned in, his nose brushing the side of your jaw as he whispered, “Makes me want to keep you like this. Just mine. Wearing only what I give you.”

Your breath caught as his fingers traced down your side, slow and deliberate, stopping just at your waist. His lips hovered near your skin, not quite touching, sending goosebumps across your chest and arms.

“You walk around like this,” he said against your throat, “and I forget how tired I am. I forget how messy the world gets. All I can think about… is how soft you’d feel underneath me.”

His hand slid behind you, resting on the small of your back as he pulled you flush against him. His heat bled through the layers, even through the jacket you’d borrowed. “You wore this like armor earlier,” he murmured. “But now it feels like a gift you left waiting for me.”

You leaned into him, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe I did.”

He exhaled, a low sound deep in his chest, as if your words untied something inside him.

“Bedroom. Now.” His voice was husky but restrained, barely leashed hunger laced with reverence.

And when he kissed you—slow, deep, possessive in the way only a man in love can be—it felt like all the waiting, the longing, the storm, had led to this one inevitable moment.

He didn’t need to say it twice.

The moment you reached the bedroom, Sylus was already behind you, one hand at your waist, the other slipping under the hem of his jacket as he pressed you up against the wall. His mouth found yours again—hungrier now, no longer restrained. He kissed like a man who had been starving for weeks, and finally had his first taste of warmth.

You gasped against his lips when his hand slipped beneath the fabric, tracing along your bare thigh. “Still wearing this for me?” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your neck.

“Wasn’t planning to take it off,” you whispered.

“Good,” he growled. “Because I want to unwrap you slowly.”

He turned you around with a fluid motion, letting your back press against his chest as he tugged the jacket open, exposing the softness beneath. His fingers skimmed over your stomach, trailing up under the thin shirt you wore beneath—his shirt.

“You even wore this,” he said, almost reverently, as his hands slipped beneath the fabric. “You really missed me, didn’t you, Kitten?”

You nodded, already breathless, hips arching back into him instinctively.

He guided you to the bed, laying you down as if you were something precious and breakable—though the hunger in his eyes promised anything but gentleness. The room was quiet except for the sound of rain against the window, and your shared breaths as he peeled his shirt off you, inch by inch.

His mouth followed, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovered. “You wear me so well,” he whispered. “But I want to feel all of you.”

When you reached for his shirt in return, he let you strip it away, revealing the fresh cuts you’d tended to earlier—his battle scars, earned and endured just to make it back here, to you.

You sat up enough to press your lips to the bandage on his jaw, then his collarbone, then lower—until Sylus gave a low, shaky laugh and gently pushed you back down.

“Sweetheart, if you keep that up, I’m not going to last.”

“Then don’t,” you murmured, pulling him back to you. “Just take me.”

And he did.

He was slow as he worked his way inside you, watching your expression for any signs of pain, but you looked in pure bliss, and he continued.

When down to the hilt, he started to move the fullness inside of you, making you gasp and cry out. “Keep up with those sounds, kitten, and I won’t be able to hold back,” he growled. You wanted him to ravage you as a way to make up for the time lost.

With every breathless moan, every tangled sheet, and whispered promise, Sylus made good on his word. He worshipped every inch of you like he’d been waiting years. The world outside, the chaos of his empire, the dangers that clung to his name—none of it mattered in this room.

Here, it was just you and Sylus.

And by the time your name was falling from his lips in a hoarse whisper, bodies slick with sweat and hearts pounding in sync.

The storm outside had softened to a gentle hum, raindrops tapping rhythmically against the windowpane. The kind of sound that made you want to stay wrapped in blankets for hours, limbs tangled and hearts steady.

Sylus didn’t move right away. He lay beside you, breathing hard, one arm draped over your waist, the other buried beneath you, holding you close as if letting go wasn’t an option. His skin was still warm from the heat you’d both shared, his silver hair damp with sweat.

You turned your face into the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss just beneath his jaw. He exhaled slowly, his hand brushing lazy circles across your spine.

"You okay?" he murmured against your temple.

You nodded, your voice still a little hoarse. “Better than okay.”

His hand paused for a second—just long enough for you to feel the weight behind it. “I didn’t hurt you?” he asked, quieter now.

You looked up, touched by the concern in his ruby eyes. “No, Sylus. You were perfect.”

That seemed to ease something in him. He pressed his lips to your forehead and lingered there, breathing you in. “You scare the hell out of me, sometimes,” he whispered. “The way I feel about you…”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I know. Same here.”

For a while, you lay there in silence, your breath syncing with his, the only sounds in the room the storm’s fading echo and the occasional thrum of city life far below the Onychinus base. Sylus eventually shifted, gently rolling you into his chest before grabbing a soft towel from the nightstand drawer.

“Stay still, sweetie,” he murmured, carefully wiping at the slickness on your thighs, taking his time like he was tending to something sacred.

You flushed from the tenderness of it all—how this man, feared across the N109 zone, now handled you with such reverence. When he finished, he tossed the towel aside and helped you pull on one of his oversized shirts.

He threw on a pair of loose black pants, then padded barefoot into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with a glass of water and a warm cloth to clean your face. You drank, not realizing how parched you were, and he pressed a kiss to your cheek when you finished.

“You always take care of me,” you said softly, watching him as he climbed back into bed and pulled the blanket over both of you.

“Of course I do,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face. “Because you’re the one thing in this whole damn world I can’t afford to lose.”

You snuggled closer, letting your hand rest over the steady beat of his heart. “Then you better keep making it back to me.”

His laugh was low and tired. “Always, Kitten.”

And in the warmth of his arms, with the storm now nothing but a lullaby, you finally let yourself drift to sleep—safe, loved, and held like a treasure in the arms of the most dangerous man in the zone.

_________________________________________

I really enjoy writing these and I hope you all enjoy it too! I love Sylus so much he stole my heart and has really been a comfort character as a lot of his mannerisms match my irl partners. Rafayel is so sassy and fun to write for! Truly my favorite fishie

[daddldee]

𓍯ㅤ　maison martin margiela replica

　　 　　　 　　　 　ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ sailing day eau de toiletteㅤ　₊ ⊹

　　 　ㅤㅤㅤఌ︎.ㅤ　leave my mark in your memoriesㅤㅤ　𓂅　

[bambicito]

❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿ ❀ ✿

[ant1quar1an]

because the kustard thoughts are wild:

consider Craftverse Dust, Horror, Classic and Killer having dated Fell before, and now he's been recruited into Nightmare's multi-planetary gang.

and has to deal with all of his exes.

[sovonight]

soft morning

[tithsokphanny31]

Anyone else remember those Scented markers from the 90's?

[amurderandconspiracy]

Scents and Grief

(Brief scene with Lucanis)

****Dragon Age Veilguard spoilers AHEAD, read at your own peril ****

This scene is prompted by what was not shown of the companions during the Regret Prison. This scene is specific to Lucanis, a romanced Lucanis. My Rook is a nonbinary Crow!Mage!Rook but this scene does not necessarily give any descriptions of Rook, so you can inject your own into the scene if that helps you. This scene is emotional, so if you aren’t necessarily in a good mental space, please be gentle with yourself. There is no self-harm content but it does explore depression and emotional breaking.

Hope you enjoy.

>>>

The stone hallway pressed in, oppressively looming as if it would reflect and embody the raging void of turmoil inside and swallow him whole. He had been standing outside of this threshold for several minutes, not wanting to breach the perimeter and make reality come crashing back. Hesitation held him in place, not wanting to intrude when there was no one inside to grant permission.

That thought stuck and he tried to swallow his pained response. The emotional war and struggle to contain it, stirred his demon for a moment, but Spite was sulking in the recesses of his mind, having expended most of his energy attempting to break free from his friends and hunt down the Betrayer. Spite had raged and seized control of Lucanis almost immediately after Solas had emerged from the Fade; when Rook had not.

Spite hadn’t cared that their found-family was desperate to keep him alive. Neither man, nor demon cared that they could have died in the effort, but at least they would have done something, an attempt to avenge Rook and make Solas bleed for his treachery. Instead, his teammates and friends had turned from their own shock and sadness to restrain the murderous demon and his equally vengeful host and dragged them away from making good on their tirade of threats.

Lucanis shifted his feet, almost as if to avoid the series of memories that played out within his mind.

NOT GONE. That was all that Spite managed to say, the angry pleading in that short sentence spoke volumes.

Lucanis didn’t respond, he couldn’t. Either he had to cling to the hope of that statement, or he had to deny it and speak something into being he had not yet managed to say aloud.

The Lighthouse, perhaps making the decision easier for him, clicked and swung its wood and metal double doors open, exposing the room to his view. The light of the tank danced like specters on the walls in rippling currents, and his heart did a brief stutter as his mind recalled another nightmare from his memories, only to be overcome by the more ready and recent nightmare of Rook’s absence.

He had come to their room, searching for some small comfort, he only wanted to exist where they did, breathe the air that had filled their lungs or be touched by the currents that had caressed their skin. With an unsteady intake of breath, he stepped into the dark room that had served as their rest chamber, looking around for subtle hints that they had only stepped out for a moment. His eyes roamed all over the small displays of their presence and life, seeing their silver halla statue, poisoners kit, and metal looking mirror, but what caught his attention, what he had not expected to see, was a large drawing of wings hanging on the right side wall and an azure Crow mask on the table top below it. They had few belongings, but these were seemingly important enough to decorate their room with. He noted them because they were not simply a drawing and a mask. The artist’s impression was something he had mentioned, whilst in the marketplace with Rook, he had idly noted that the wings depicted did not appropriately illustrate those Spite has conjured. And the mask was familiar from a mission they had handled together. Together, before the gods had started their final gambit, and the cruel mistress, fortune, had turned her back on Rook.

A choked sob rose in his throat, and he realized how foolish he had been to ignore the signs or less than subtle hints of their affection. He had been afraid. Afraid to hope that they truly wanted him - an abomination, a monster. Terrified of the harm, he could do to someone he never wanted to hurt; his savior in more ways than one. He had even stopped their confession, fearing that with the words spoken, the last chance to avoid succumbing to this distracting flood of emotions was gone. And with the truth standing between them, he might not be focused enough. He might miss again because he wasn’t focused on the kill, on fulfilling his contract. He might lose them to that distraction.

Driven forth by an unseen force, or the compulsion of this despondency, he stepped further into the room, unable to care about the mission, unwilling to live in the reality that was so full of loss, guilt and regret, so painfully empty of Rook. Mindlessly, he gazed at the drawings of the wings, an artist’s study, and saw a recent addition to the piece, a soft sketch overlaying the crows wings inked in purple and extending the feathers features to look closer to the manifestation of wings that he and Spite used. He stopped breathing for a moment, seeing the careful detail of the added ink, as if the later artist had paid special attention to the differences between the original and the new subject.

SAW US. WATCHED US. THOUGHT. ABOUT. US. Spite whispered in a gravelly voice that sounded strained and unpracticed.

Lucanis knew he should respond, knew that Spite was also hurting. But he did not dare speak aloud just yet. Though since their agreement in the false Ossuary, they had conversed both in speech and by internal monologue; he could not speak.

Lucanis blinked several times, clearing the persistent collection of moisture from his eye-line, and walked toward the green chaise at the center of the room. There were no pillows or blankets upon the verdant green leather, nor in any visible space in the room. Lucanis knew they shared a predisposition for insomnia, but he knew Rook had managed to sleep some nights. He just wanted…he didn’t know exactly what he wanted…but the idea of laying down wrapped in Rook’s unique scent was all consuming. His eyes scanned the room before resting on the large wardrobe on the rear left side of the room. Surmising that the linens, or at least Rook’s favorite feathered blanket, would be there. As there were no other chests for storage in the room, he approached the wardrobe. Despite years of training and the practice gait of an assassin, Lucanis shuffled from the chaise to the cupboard, his feet leaden and his usual posture bent under the weight of denied happiness and suffused longing. Only slight resistance kept the doors of the wardrobe closed to him before acquiescing and opening, releasing from its depths a cloud of aroma unique to Rook.

CITRUS AND LAVENDER. ROOK. Spite inhaled deeply and pushed forward in Lucanis’ mind, not to assume control, but to partake of the fragrance and the comfort of its presence.

Lucanis leaned, shifting more toward the clothing and belongings in the wardrobe, and breathed deeply as if to inhale only the scent of Rook. He realized that while Spite’s senses were greater than his own, he had far more experience with the subtle difference of sources for smells, and he found that Rook did smell of a citrus, though it was more unique than that; the honey and citrus scent of neroli.

His mind and Spite’s held on that in the moment and consciousness dawned as he realized with some bitter comprehension that it wasn’t coincidence that his answer to Rook’s inquiry about the scent of first kisses would be honey and lavender cream. Why he had not discerned this before he could not say, but it seemed that his mind had given him hints of his affection, even then.

Something in that awareness was too much for his fragile hold on performative normalcy, and the wafer-thin veneer of control that had allowed him to carry on to this point snapped. The burden of his misery forced him down to his knees and he started to release his accumulated grief; stored inside since the Ossuary to now. Cruel pains ravaged him, and the usually collected assassin gave into the depression weighing on his body and mind. With the remaining strength he and Spite could muster, he pulled himself into the cradle of the wardrobe and wrapped their body in Rook’s shadow-colored feather blanket. They watched as the doors of this sanctuary softly closed, surrounded and engulfed by Rook’s scent as the heaviness on their eyes and mind pulled them away to hide from the waking nightmare of loss. Perhaps to find a hint of them in the dreams of the Fade or simply the respite of nothingness save their body cocooned by darkness and Rook.

[yeossemble]

➷ ↷ I ≠ DOLL ﹙ ♩

[vykodlak]

Temprachure outside is getting ridiculously high again so I’ve busted out this bad boy today. I’ve gone through one and a half samples of this already, it’s such an oddly comforting scent to me. Creamy, powdery, feels like when you’ve been lazing around outside during the hottest day in the middle of summer, the sun’s high in the sky, warming your face, your arms, the top of your head point blank. you’re getting sweaty but the heat spreading out through your bones makes you too lethargic to make the move to some shade. Perfect beach scent for days when you don’t have access to a beach.

[gojoest]

when satoru crosses his fingers to open his domain he gets a bit hard. he also gets that obscene grin splattered on his face—one might think he really is a jujutsu obsessed freak getting aroused by the fact he’s about to fight

but little do they know that he’s smiling and twitching because those very fingers of his were inside you shortly before that, and— they still smell like you

[sensualeroticblogplus]

𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭... 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫.

[haeerizm]

study tip (3): put on a certain scent right before studying, something very distinct that you’ll be ably to remember. on your exam day try putting that scent on again and you’ll hopefully recall ALOT more!

[fleuradors]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⋰˚☆ diptyque philosykos

[b-ubbleberry]

۪ ♡ᱹ ʾʿ ⬞ ꩜ hold your breath for the flower bomb ۫ ⬫ ܻ` 김⠀ ⠀݃⠀ ✣ ⠀۪⠀

[stygabbs]

𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫 ⠀⸻⠀⠀꽃 combine floral notes of jasmine with sweetness !

[chthonic-cassandra]

My practice of reusing old tea tins for different types of tea than they originally held is definitely going to backfire on me sooner rather than later.