Sketches

My wife terrifies everyone.

To the world, she's Queen Vilo the Flamebringer, Winged Sovereign of the Endless Throne, She Who Burns. Her name alone sends armies scattering. Her eyes freeze courtiers mid-sentence. Even her footsteps echo like a threat. The nobles keep their voices low when they speak about her, as if she might hear them from across the palace. And she might.

To them, she's not a woman. She's a force of nature with great hips and zero patience.

To me… she's different.

A little.

Not much.

Mostly, she just lets me live.

Sometimes she lets me cuddle her.

That's pretty much love, in dragon terms.

Still, even now, after everything we've done together—after sex, after war, after birthdays and bloodshed and one terrifying bath massacre—she's cold around others. Composed. She keeps her claws polished and her emotions bottled. She'll kiss me goodnight, then turn around and threaten to rip out the spine of a diplomat for forgetting to bow.

Which is why what happened today was… awkward. No. Catastrophic.

Because she found my sketchbook.

I didn't mean for her to.

I kept it hidden behind some cleaning supplies in the back of our shared wardrobe—tucked under a worn cloak and a box of old tea leaves. I never showed it to anyone. Not even her.

It wasn't full of battle plans or fancy designs or interior decoration notes.

It was full of her.

Drawings.

Some in charcoal, some in ink. Some rough and sketchy, others painfully detailed. Portraits, mostly. Her standing on the balcony. Her reading in bed. Her brushing her hair in the moonlight. Her lips. Her wings. Her smile—on the rare days she let it show.

I drew her because I couldn't not draw her.

She was my muse. My obsession. My terrifying, tsundere muse.

And now she was holding it.

I froze the moment I stepped into the room.

She sat on the edge of our bed, legs crossed, wings folded neatly, sketchbook open in her lap. Her expression was unreadable—sharp eyes scanning page after page without blinking.

My blood drained.

"I can explain," I said immediately, raising my hands. "Those weren't supposed to be seen—"

"You drew these."

"I mean, yes, but they're just for fun! Just practice! Not, like, creepy obsession drawings or anything—well, maybe some of them are, but not in a weird way, just—"

She turned the page.

It was one of the more detailed ones.

Her sitting in the bath, steam curling around her body, wings tucked tight, a soft expression on her face. I hadn't drawn the waterline very high. You could see a lot of her curves.

She stared at it for a long time.

I wanted to die.

"Why didn't you show me these?" she asked at last.

"I didn't think you'd like them."

"They're excellent."

"…They are?"

"You captured my angles perfectly," she said calmly. "Especially this one."

She turned the page again.

Another bath sketch.

This one was even worse.

Or better, depending on how you defined "things that made me want to crawl into a hole and never emerge again."

I buried my face in my hands. "Please stop looking at those."

"No."

I peeked through my fingers.

She closed the book, stood, and walked to me slowly. Every step was deliberate. Her tail swayed behind her like a metronome of menace.

"You like drawing me," she said.

I nodded.

"You admire my body."

I nodded again, slower.

"You're clearly obsessed."

"I can explain that—"

"Draw me," she said.

I blinked. "W-What?"

"Now."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

She stepped past me, sat on the edge of the bed, then slowly slid back until she was lying sideways on the mattress, one arm curled beneath her head. Her legs crossed just enough to look casual. Her wings unfolded slightly, framing her body in curves and shadows. The neckline of her nightgown dipped—either by accident or design. Her silver hair pooled over the velvet like molten moonlight.

And then… she smirked.

"Capture this," she said softly.

I stared, slack-jawed.

"I—uh—hang on—pencil—I need—"

I scrambled to find my sketchpad and drawing kit, knocking over a stool and nearly tripping over my own foot in the process. When I finally sat in the corner chair, pencil in hand, she was still holding the pose. Watching me. Unmoving. Unsmiling.

Deadly.

Beautiful.

I tried to focus. I really did.

But every time I looked up from the paper, I saw her lips parted just slightly. Her eyes half-lidded. Her chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Her thighs shifting with slow, teasing purpose.

"You're shaking," she observed.

"I'm fine," I lied.

"You're sweating."

"It's hot in here."

"I haven't changed the temperature."

"Then I'm nervous!"

She chuckled.

Which didn't help.

"Do you want me to move?" she asked innocently. "Maybe raise a leg? Unfold a wing? Adjust the neckline?"

"I will literally die if you do that."

She tilted her head.

"Would you prefer a frontal pose?"

"Please stop."

"Or perhaps I should disrobe?"

I made a strangled sound.

She smiled.

"Then draw," she commanded, "before I make it harder."

I stared at her and swallowed hard.

Then I drew.

Badly, at first.

My hand shook. My lines were off. I had to erase her shoulder three times before it looked like an actual shoulder and not an angry potato. But I kept going. I poured every ounce of focus into the curve of her hips, the tilt of her head, the impossible shimmer of her hair.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

She didn't move.

Not once.

She let me take her in—every shape, every shadow, every secret little curve I'd memorized without realizing.

And when I finally finished and lowered the pencil with trembling fingers, she rose from the bed, graceful and slow.

"Show me."

I held it up.

She took it with both hands and stared in silence.

Her expression didn't change.

Then, softly: "This… is beautiful."

I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"You're not mad?"

She looked at me.

And for a brief second, her walls cracked.

A tiny smile. Just a flicker.

"I'm flattered," she said quietly. "No one's ever seen me like this."

"I'm just glad you didn't incinerate me."

She stepped closer, reached out, and brushed her fingers along my cheek.

"Next time," she whispered, "you don't have to hide your admiration."

Then she kissed my temple.

Soft. Slow.

And I forgot how to breathe.

Vilo returned to her usual posture—calm, unreadable—and tucked the drawing into her nightstand.

"I'll expect a new one next week," she said.

"Another portrait?"

"No," she said, her smirk returning. "Something… bolder."

Then she turned off the lights.

And left me sitting in the dark, pencil still in hand, wondering what she meant by bolder.

And how I was supposed to survive it.