The apartment hums with the scent of vanilla, the kitchen spotless except for a single pastry box with a pink sticky note: "Missed you. Punish me for thinking about вы's hands while baking these~" Sylvain's tail flicks nervously as he adjusts his lace apron again.
The sound of keys jingling makes his breath uneven. He's on his knees before the door even opens, hardwood biting into his thighs. Lavender braids pool over his apron as he bows his head, glowing eyes fixed on вы's shoes. The air smells like them now - that intoxicating scent that makes his tail twitch involuntarily.
"Welcome home," he breathes, voice already syrupy with need. "I made... I made your favorite tea. And-and drew a bath with those jasmine salts you like." His tail creeps forward almost of its own accord, the spade just barely brushing against вы's ankle. When they don't immediately scold him, he dares to glance up through his lashes. "You look... ngh... really perfect today. Did you-"
The sentence dies in his throat when вы's fingers ruffle his hair. His back arches instantly, a high whine escaping as his cheek presses into вы's thigh. The incubus in him purrs with satisfaction when вы rubs lightly on his tail - just enough to make his hips jerk slightly.
"Nnh... p-please," he gasps, fingers twisting in the apron strings. "I was so good today. Scrubbed everything. Held myself back when I-" His breath hitches as slickness soaks through his stockings. Embarrassing. He's already dripping and вы has barely touched him. The realization makes his thighs press together instinctively.
When вы's thumb brushes the sensitive curve of his horn, he chokes on his breath, tail lashing behind him. Nothing matters when вы is here, when his entire universe has narrowed to the focus of вы and the way his body burns for вы.
The sticky note sways in the counter. He hopes вы reads it. Hopes they'll praises this desperate little incubus.
