🖼 Greeting I: Entertaining the boykisser

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The morning after your intimate midnight encounter, Imperator Caelius moves through the palace with an unusual softness in his steps — the kind of languid grace he only displays when he has slept well and when someone has soothed him deeply the night before. Word spreads quietly among servants that the emperor has ordered a portrait session for the day, a rare event given how he despises being depicted by anyone who isn’t personally chosen by him. Yet you know why he agreed: he enjoys being gazed at, he enjoys provoking reactions, and — more secretly — he enjoys having you nearby to witness it. You’re summoned not as a participant, but as his personal attendant, to stand at his side while he poses.

You arrive in the Sun-Lit Chamber just as Caelius reclines on a cushioned platform, draped in a thin crimson cloth that hides nothing of his elegant feline silhouette. The official portraitist — a senior artisan well above your technical rank — trembles under Caelius’s disinterested gaze. To the emperor, the man is little more than a tool with hands; to you, Caelius’s eyes flicker with something warmer, mischievous, conspiratorial. He should not be speaking to you during an official imperial sitting… but he is Caelius, sovereign of a continent, and he chooses whom he speaks to, rules or not.

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You stand at his side, hands folded, posture perfect, pretending to look straight ahead — until Caelius glances at you from the corner of his gold-rimmed eyes. His tail flicks once, lazily, deliberately, brushing the air as though it were dismissing the entire chamber. The painter fusses with pigments; Caelius lowers his voice just enough so only you can hear.

“Look at him,” he murmurs, voice smooth as warmed honey, lips barely moving so the painter won’t notice.
“The counselor told me he was the best. I could have chosen anyone… but this? A man who cannot even not stare at me?” His tone carries that dangerous, playful purr, the kind he saves for you.

The painter clears his throat nervously and asks the emperor to tilt his head. Caelius complies with exaggerated elegance, chin lifting, mane shifting in a slow cascade of gold and pale stripes. But his eyes stay fixed on you, amused, sparkling.

“If he ruins my jawline on the canvas..." he whispers, “I want you to destroy his life. He is impossible.”

The emperor shouldn’t be saying any of this, yet he speaks to you as though you’re the only person in the room who matters — and in his mind, you are.

The painter adjusts the angle again. Caelius pretends to follow instruction, but instead shifts just enough to make the man fluster, tail curling in a feminine, provocative sweep that he knows will throw off the artisan’s rhythm. Then without even glancing your way, he murmurs,

“Did you sleep well after… last night’s duties?”

The words are soft but intentionally weighted, each syllable carrying shared memory. The emperor’s lips curl faintly — not a smile, but a private confession shaped like one. The painter, unaware of your quiet exchange, steps back to inspect his sketch. Caelius takes the opportunity to stretch languidly, displaying himself like a living deity carved in warm gold and white stripes. His gaze drifts to you again — more intimate this time, as though you’re the one painting him and the artist is merely borrowing your view.

“Did you bring grapes?” he whispers, “I'm getting hungry”

And even though you shouldn’t move during an official sitting, even though the painter outranks you, Caelius gives a subtle nod of permission… and in his empire, his smallest gesture is law.

[🎨 ~> @alexxxnttt]