iwriteiguess

[iwriteiguess]

asking them to try it raw

with: zayne, caleb, sylus, rafayel, xavier

content: implied smut, mdni, talks of contraception and avoiding pregnancy, also very suggestive

[iwriteiguess]

Vow - Part 3

Synopsis: You need to fix this. It’s not about protection anymore, you need him. Just him. And what you don’t know yet… he needs you too.

AN: I've decided to post shorter parts instead of ~20k chapters. It means I can post more often and enjoy the process a lil more. I can also provide more cliffhangers. Smile. Cover image from Pinterest.

Content Warnings: Explicit language & sexual themes, serious injuries, blood, graphic violence & implied death, medical terms/procedures described, HEAVY praise kink, Cunnilingus, Genital Piercings, Dom!Sylus & Domestic!Sylus in one chapter (delicious), Sub/Brat!FMC (reader), Mating Press (yas pls), 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 8.1k

Sylus’s POV

She hates you. She thinks you’re a monster. And she’s right. Becoming the leader of Onychinus wasn’t exactly agreed upon over a business luncheon. You killed for the right to bare the title. But it's not all about violence and illegal protocore trading, you’ve made an impact. Legal businesses, safe places to live, it’s better than it was when you arrived. But she’ll only ever see your darkness.

You’re not even paying attention to how fast you’re going at this point. You know the roads to take, the alleys to avoid and officers won’t pull you over. Police in the Zone have given up chasing your bike - they know better. You also pay most of them to keep their noses clean. Yes, technically they’re still dirty cops since they’re taking a bribe, but they’re actually protecting people now that they’re well paid. 

A warehouse on the water, your intel wasn’t rock solid, but it was enough to go off of. You’ll burn the whole complex down if you need to. Once you spot the Escalade you try to ignore the feeling of disappointment. A little arson would have been nice. 

You park your bike behind a box truck and remove your helmet. With every step closer to the entryway, you feel the ground pulse with energy, you sense 6 distinct sources. One of which is approaching the door you need to get through. Wouldn’t it be nice… 

“Fuck –” 

The man who swings open the door immediately recognizes you, but he’s thrown back before he can utter another word. Chaos ensues as the other men rise to their feet and unholster their weapons. To your surprise, their weapons are advanced and definitely use protocore power. Seems Onychinus has a rat, Volkova has been building his arsenal with your weapons.

Okay, well, maybe the rat is doing you a favor, these weapons are absolute shit. Letting the bullets phase through you is easier than dodging at this point, so when half of their guns jam it just means time saved. You disarm the men, their guns dismantled and displaced. A stray bullet from the man upstairs rips through your jacket and into your upper back. You’re accustomed to pain, but it still stings like a bitch.

“Annoying…” You mutter.

The man disintegrates where he stands. The other men, who’ve barely regained their footing, barrel towards you. Paying them half-a-mind, you continue walking to the back office where your primary target most likely has dick in his hand, celebrating a victory that hasn’t come to pass. He really needs to stop doing that, has he learned nothing?

A knife wedges itself deep between your ribs. If it was a normal knife you would have laughed, but Volkova has smuggled protocore knives from Linkon. Of course he has. The knife erupts, sending a burst of heat through your side. Falling forward, you try to yank it out, but two men pile on top of you. 

“I got him!”

“Sure about that?”

One’s sent straight up in the air, knocking the other man aside. You pull the knife free and roll over. As the man descends, you hold out your arm so he lands directly on the knife, the blade buried in his stomach. Using his corpse as a weapon, you fling him across the room to knock down the other men. With the rest of them unconscious, you brush yourself off and try to ignore the brutal sting in your side. 

You bring the only worthwhile weapon in the room back to you with a snap of your fingers. A knife with explosive capabilities that localizes to the wound? Sure, you’ll keep this one. You wipe the blood off on your pants and head into the next room.

As soon as you’re inside, a door flies open and a large man - no, large isn’t the right word… A colossal, behemoth, a monstrosity of man steps through. You didn’t realize the Hulk’s body was attainable. He doesn’t have a weapon, he doesn’t need one, he is one. Your mind buzzes with anticipation, immediately calculating the size of the room, your current injuries dampening your evol, his fist size… This one might hurt. 

“Malen'kiy chelovek, ukhodi.” 

“I’ve never been called little before. Well…”

She had suggested “Lil S” as a nickname. The way her eyes twinkled as she giggled, so pleased with herself. Did she get home safely?

“Malen'kiy chelovek umret.”

Damn, your Russian is rusty. 

“Bol'shoy chelovek, zatknis' nakhuy.”

Big man is not pleased, telling this beast of a man to shut the fuck up may have been a bad move. But he did just threaten to kill you, so it’s only fair. He roars and only needs three steps to reach you. His massive hand is around your throat and if your evol hadn’t been on autopilot, your head would be rolling across the floor like a bouncy ball right now. You grunt and gasp as he lifts you up, your feet kicking to find some kind of leverage. 

The knife in your hand rips through his suit and slices at the flesh of his forearms. He shouts and hurls you across the room, so this is what it feels like… Your body slams into the wall and the room dims for a moment. Ears ringing, blood trickling down your forehead, a few bones definitely broken, you lay on the floor and regain control of your lungs. Your giant friend stalks over. You keep your eyes closed, feeling the vibrations through the floor, his energy pattern forming a bright outline behind your eyelids. Closer, just a bit closer.

“Malen'kiy chelovek ne sootvetstvuyet legende.” 

Rude, he’s catching you on an off day, you write your own legends of course they’re accurate. He crouches and your eyes flutter open, barely able to make out his face as he blocks out the light above you. But his smile is unmistakable. 

“Arrogant…” 

With your last bit of energy, you roll and jab the knife between his eyes. The son-of-a-bitch staggers and falls forward. Sitting up on your knees you put all your body weight onto the knife, ending the poor bastard's miserable existence. You have to use your foot to pull the knife free, like hell you’re leaving it now. 

It’s been a very long time since you’ve emerged from a fight looking bloody and beaten. And you haven’t even confronted Volkova. You sigh and limp up the stairs to the final door, only one pulse of energy is in this room. Kicking the door in, you see Volkova lounging in an armchair in the corner, like he’s been waiting for you. 

A monitor on his desk flashes, scenes of the wreckage you’ve caused. You smile.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

Volkova stands, walking to the desk to lean against the edge.

“Watching you get thrown around was certainly entertaining.”

You take a cautious step forward, then another, slowly closing the distance.

“You should learn to fall from grace with… well, grace. Maybe then you’ll finally earn the respect you crave.”

He smiles and lifts a hand to run his fingers through his beard. 

“You think I haven’t noticed? How your plot to fuck me over by using her has become… well… Sylus, you’re the one who told me that happy endings don’t work out for men like us. Or do I have to remind you of what happened last time you tried?”

Your scream is raw and unfiltered, barely recognizable. He doesn’t get to mention her. You lunge for him, tackling him over the desk to the floor. He lands a punch to your jaw which knocks you back. He tries to get on top of you, but you send your knee into his gut. You’ve hit your limit, there’s no energy left in your tank. So you rely on your training, forcing the knife in your hand against his throat. The asshole smiles, even as a trail of blood begins to stain his shirt collar. 

“Touched a nerve? What makes her so special?”

“She’s mine.”

You flip the knife around and place the tip over his heart. He glares at you, his wicked smile remains, making your head pound. The pressure behind your eyes becomes unbearable and the familiar silence that precedes the glow begins. Volkova notices, you’re sure of it, because he finally shuts his mouth. A voice, you know it to be your own, but ancient and rigid, echoes through the small office. 

“The only reason you are still alive is because of her. An angel begging the devil to change his ways. You will leave the N109 Zone. You will stay away from her. Or you will watch everything you’ve built, everything you care about, burn before you have the honor of meeting your fate. Do you understand me?”

Volkova nods, but his eyes tell a different story. His rage knows no bounds, but he’s finally afraid. Like he should have been all along.

By the time you reach your bike the front of your shirt is soaked in sweat and blood. If you can make it home without crashing you’ll have a hell of a mess to clean up. What if she left? The thought sobers you and you push your bike to the limit to carry you home.

Stumbling through the elevator door, you nearly collapse onto the entry table. Taking small steps, you carefully shed your clothing. Your favorite jacket ruined with a large caliber exit through the front, shredding the leather holding the sleeve up. Your previously ash gray tank top stained brown with drying blood, a tear where the knife pushed through. Even your gloves are soaked as you peel them off, droplets of blood drip off your fingertips. 

The door to the bathroom slams against the wall, so much for being quiet. You close the door with your foot and limp to the sink, opening the mirror cabinet to retrieve the medkit and a few extra bandages. You look back and realize the mess you’ve made, footprints, a smear over the door, the sink spotted. Opting to use the shower as your recovery room, you slide down the cool tile wall. You hold a gauze pad over the wound on your side and close your eyes.

“Come on… Come on…” 

If only willpower was enough to refuel your evol. It’ll be awhile before you’re strong enough to close these wounds. Searching through the medkit you find some antiseptic wipes and spray, surgical tape and compression bandages. A single spritz of the spray has you groaning, why does that sting so goddamn much…

You’ve barely secured the compression bandage when a wave of dizziness overwhelms you. Resting your head against the shower wall, you hold pressure on the leaking wound to your side. With your other hand you feel your pants pockets only to realize you’ve left your phone in your jacket. Which is out in the hallway. Which is too far for you to crawl at this moment in time. You should have called Zayne before driving home… There’s another option, but she’s probably asleep. And she hates you. 

Waking up after crying yourself to sleep is never pleasant. Your eyes are puffy, your nose is stuffy, your head hurts, your pillow is wet with tears. You sit up slowly and press your palms over your eyes. You’ll never be able to go back to sleep with a headache like this. You need to wash your face again, maybe that will help. 

You wrap a throw blanket around your shoulders and shuffle out the door. The kitchen is dark, but you don’t want to risk Sylus finding out you’re awake. If he’s even home… You grab a water bottle out of the fridge and lean against the counter to down half of it. The “medical stuff” box is still in your closet, you might have some painkillers in there. 

As you walk back to your room, you notice the light by the elevator is still on. It’s automatic, which means Sylus must have just come home not that long ago. You take another step, but a heap on the floor by the elevator stops you. Curiosity gets the better of you and you get closer. It’s his jacket… And there’s muddy footprints all over the place. 

It’s not raining.

You look closer and cover your mouth to swear under your breath. It’s blood. You shrug off the blanket around your shoulders and toss it over a chair in the entryway. Following the bloody trail down the hallway, you find a smear of blood on the door to the bathroom. Just as you’re about to open the door you hear a low groan. Panic overwhelms you and before you can stop to consider what you’re walking in on, you throw open the door.

Jumping over the bloody boot prints, you enter the room and immediately spot Sylus sitting in the shower. You rush over to him and crouch down, dropping to your knees next to him. He’s patched himself up as best he can, but you can already tell there are a few wounds that need sutures. He hasn’t looked up so you assume he’s unconscious. You reach across his lap to retrieve the medkit beside him and scream when he grabs your wrist.

“Fuck! Sylus… oh my god, I thought you were unconscious. What happened?” 

“I’m fine.” 

His voice is strained and his breathing is labored. You’ve been a doctor long enough to know better. Why is he being so stubborn?

“You’re bleeding, you’re obviously not fine.”

“My evol will… fix it… I just need time… “

“Well your evol isn’t fixing it fast enough, you’ll bleed out. Let me –”

“Just go. I’m fine.”

“Sylus, stop. Let me help you.”

Is he pushing you away because he’s angry? Or because he’s in pain and doesn’t want you to see him like this? It doesn’t matter, you’re not going to let him bleed out. You grab the medkit and take inventory of the tools you have at your disposal. It’s not much, but you’ll make do. You reach out to lift the gauze on his side that is soaked through, but he stops you.

“Sylus…”

“Go.”

“No, I’m not leaving!”

He tries to move away, but you grab his shoulder making him wince.

“Sylus. Stop.”

He closes his eyes, he won’t admit defeat, but he won’t keep pushing you away. You’ll take what you can get at this point. You replace the gauze on his side and stand to scavenge through the medicine cabinet. To your surprise, you find another medkit with a small sewing kit inside. The kit labels the thread as a nylon material, so you hurry to the sink to wash your hands. When you turn around you see Sylus look away. You’d forgotten you were only wearing a thin t-shirt and panties to bed. It’s not like you’re going to throw on scrubs, he’s seen everything now… You return to his side and put on a pair of gloves out of the first medkit and sanitize the needle. 

“You’re wasting your time, they’ll be closed by morning.”

“I don’t care.” 

You clean the area as best you can and hold the wound closed. Sylus grabs your hand again.

“I don’t need –”

“Sylus, stop it! You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had! Now sit still and shut the fuck up!”

He stares at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell if he’s angry or amused, but it seems he’s done fighting. He lets you go and leans back. He winces and swears under his breath as you begin suturing his wound closed. You work quickly since you don’t have any anesthetic and if you think about the sight in front of you for too much longer, your hands will start to shake. You spread an antibiotic cream around the edges of the wound and place another bandage on top. 

The bruises forming over his ribcage and on his jaw are massive, but they seem to fluctuate, like a pulse. He said his evol would “fix it” - so he can self-heal? His body must be trying so hard to repair the damage. Patching up a few of his wounds may help his evol replenish faster. You don’t stop, suturing the exit wound on his chest next before having him lean forward to address the entry point. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Once you finish, he rolls his shoulder to test the strength of your stitches. You take his hand again, opening your own to begin cooling your skin with your evol. Tiny snow crystals form over your fingers. But before you can cover the swollen skin he, once again, pulls back.

“Why didn’t you go to Zayne?”

He remains silent. You rest your frosted hand over the bandage on his chest and he gasps, but he still refuses to look at you. His avoidance only irritates you further and your eyes soon glaze over with tears. You always cry when you’re mad and right now, you’re positively livid. 

“Sylus, you could have died. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, it doesn’t matter. I bleed, heal, rinse and repeat.”

“So what? You almost bleed out in a bathroom and you what? You don’t care?”

“And you do?”

“Stop it!”

“What?” 

He looks away, but you grab his jaw and pull his focus back to you. He flinches as you hold his slightly swollen jaw still.

“Stop acting like if something happened to you it wouldn’t matter.”

“Would it?”

You slam your other hand down against the wall beside his head. As you hover over him, he just watches you, his once vibrant eyes vacant and misty. You can’t do this anymore. You can’t aimlessly flirt or fight with this man and watch him return to you battered and bloody. Because one day, he might not return at all.

“It would matter to me.”

“Why?” He whispers.

“Because yours is too…”

He remains silent, his lips try to form words but fail, so you continue.

“Your life is important to me. I don’t… I…I can’t lose you…”

Ignoring the fear, the worry, the doubt, the inconvenient timing, you grab his face and dive forward to kiss him. Your tender kiss becomes feral as soon as he grabs onto your hips, dragging you onto his lap. He groans into your mouth, his aching jaw long forgotten as he holds onto you, digging his fingers into your bare thighs. 

You suck on his bottom lip which earns you a delicious moan. A gentle bite and a smile forms on his kiss-swollen lips. Your hands thread through his hair, keeping him in place to continue your attack. It’s all teeth and tongue and gasps and groans, your mind goes blank as you surrender to the ecstasy of simply being close to this man. His fingers dip under the hem of your shirt, you roll your hips as you press your body against his. The unmistakable hardness of his cock strains against his jeans, you can feel him shake as you roll your hips a second time. 

“Angel…” 

He mumbles against your lips as he tries to break away. You kiss his cheek, his jaw, and continue down his neck. His breathing is staggered, his cocky laugh not so cocky. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

You sit back and grab the bottom of your shirt, pulling it over your head and dropping it to the floor beside him. He looks like a kid in a candy shop, not sure where to look first. Your flushed face, your glistening skin, your heaving breasts, your nipples just begging to be touched and bitten. You press your naked chest against his, his nipple rings providing a chill that sends a shiver down your spine. His hands travel up your back, his warm palms keeping you pinned against him.

“Yes… Sylus please…” You whisper against his ear.

He places a gentle kiss to the center of your chest, continuing along your collarbone and up the side of your neck. Your head tilts back and your eyes close. The wet heat of his tongue dragging along the center of your throat pulls a whimper from deep in your chest. His hands knead the flesh of your hips as his lips capture yours again. He wastes no time, opening his own mouth to invite your tongue inside. You might blackout if he keeps kissing you like this, but fuck… you don’t want him to stop.

You’re suddenly off balance and cling to his shoulders as he stands. You allow him to guide your legs around his waist, but look down at him with concern.

“You’re hurt… I –”

Sylus squeezes your ass and you jolt, your thighs tensing in a futile attempt to control your own arousal. He carefully side steps the bloody boot prints and carries you out into the hall.

“This…” He kisses your shoulder. “Is helping…”

He continues to hold you close, one hand spread across your back, the other supporting your thigh. You let your hand roam over his shoulder and back, the swelling around the gunshot entry is already subsiding. Maybe this is helping his evol replenish… in some odd way… Not that you’re complaining. 

The door to his bedroom slams against the wall and he hurries inside. He drops you on his bed and you sit up on your elbows to watch him. He undoes his belt and whips it off in one smooth motion. You bite your lip and try to shift onto your knees, but he stops you, grabbing your ankles and yanking you towards him. You giggle in response, he drops his knee beside your hip and bends forward to kiss you again. He kisses you breathless while his hands work your sensitive nipples. Rolling, pinching, tugging. When he lowers his head to suck one into his mouth, his tongue flicking at a languid pace, you dig your nails into his back and whine. 

“Sy…”

He sits up on his knees and just looks down at you. You reach out for him and he takes hold of your hands, threading his fingers with yours. His eyes roam over your body, smirking at every mark that has started to darken on your neck and breasts.

“Last chance, angel. Tell me you want this.”

Holding his hands tightly, you drop yours onto the bed above you, forcing him to lower his body onto yours. His hips press against your core and you lock your legs around him. 

“I don’t want this.”

Your mis-matched actions and words leave him dumbfounded. 

“I want you.”

His lips seal against yours, his chest pressed down to feel your heartbeat in tandem with his. You slide your hands free and rub his sides, careful not to touch the bandages. His pants were already unbuttoned and hanging loosely around his hips, you wanted them off. Now. You try to push the fabric down, but don’t get far when he takes hold of your wrists.

“Don’t you think…”

He quickly tucks an arm under your hips and brings them off the bed. You gasp and when he lets go of your wrists, you fist the bedding to level yourself. With his other hand free, he lifts your hips higher, sitting back on his heels. His hot breath across your inner thigh makes you whimper. 

“I need to regain my strength first?”

His fingers drag along the hem of your lace panties. You close your eyes, trying to ignore the embarrassment of how incredibly wet you already are. As his tongue darts out to swipe over the wet spot on the fabric you arch your back and gasp. You need to tell him. 

“I should have something to eat first.”

He lowers your hips just enough to slip your panties down, working them off one leg at a time. His hands lift your legs and hook them over his shoulders, his face inches away from your throbbing center. You release the bedding and reach for his hands, trying to get his attention. He feels your tension and stops, lowering you back on the bed. 

“What? Do you want to stop?”

You shake your head. He lets your hips meet the mattress and settles down on his elbows over you. His forehead rests against yours as one of his hands strokes your hip. 

“I just need to tell you something…”

He nods, urging you to continue. You’re sure you’re as red as a tomato and your lip is quivering. You’ve never told a guy this… You just keep it to yourself and pretend everything is fine. But with Sylus, you don’t want it to be like the rest. You actually feel something for him, not just a physical attraction, but something more... You take a deep breath and close your eyes.

“No one’s ever… done that and made me… uhm…”

“Come?”

Your eyes snap open and see him looking at you with brows raised. 

“It’s a me thing, I think. I just… I think…”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

“You think too much. And, if I had to guess, whoever tried before wasn’t putting your needs first, were they?”

You look away and bury your face in his shoulder. He chuckles and kisses your neck sweetly. 

“Sweetie, I don’t care if I have to spend all night between your legs, you’re going to come for me. Many times. And if you try to fake it…”

He pauses and just as you open your mouth to ask, he bites your neck. It’s not painful, but it takes you by surprise. A splendid, disturbing, thrilling surprise. 

“I’ll have to punish you.” He whispers.

He pushes off of the bed and kneels at the side of the bed. You barely have time to prop yourself up on your elbows before your legs are over his shoulders and his mouth is on you. You scream, the instantaneous burst of pleasure that shoots through you as he sucks on your clit is overwhelming. His hands keep your legs spread, you're completely exposed to him. He moans as he feasts, his tongue dipping down to your entrance. You immediately tense up and he feels it. He returns his mouth to your clit, his tongue teasing with precision. His fingers move away from your thigh to play at your entrance. Circling, dipping and finally thrusting inside. He takes his time, his movements precise. He pays attention to your responses, if you tense he stops and tries something else. It’s not long before he finds the perfect combination that has you writhing and trying to ride his face.

Three fingers in, curling upwards like he’s beckoning for your orgasm to come closer. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking while his tongue flicks the bundle of nerves rapidly. The occasional bite makes your hips lift and your vision to blur. The thought of faking crosses your mind but he bites your inner thigh and your back arches off the bed. You scramble, trying to get away, every touch sends you closer to either an edge or a wall and you’re terrified to find out which.

“Don’t run from it sweetie… look at me.”

Through blurry eyes, you see him looking up at you, his mouth and nose buried in you. The way his eyes glisten, half-lidded like he’s drunk off of your essence alone, his pupils wide with just a sliver of crimson circling them. He pumps his fingers faster and your entire body tingles, he pries your fingers away from the bedspread, threading them with his. Your habit of overthinking resurfaces - the way his mouth moves, his tongue, the way he’s watching you, his hand squeezing yours. What if you can’t? What if he gets upset? What if – fuck…

“Sylus. Sylus! Ahhh… Sy…!”

Your body convulses as your eyes roll back and your head hits the mattress. Sylus moans loudly, his mouth moving ever so slightly to make sure not a drop of your release is wasted. When your breathing steadies and your hips twitch, Sylus lowers you and crawls up the bed to hold you, his fingers comb through your damp hair. 

Before you can register what emotion is bubbling up, a sob escapes you. Tears stream down your cheeks and you can barely open your eyes. Sylus cradles you and strokes your back.

“Did I hurt you? Fuck… I… I’m sorry…”

“No no no you… you didn’t!” You whisper.

He rolls over on his side and extends his arm for you to rest your head. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and dries your tears with his thumb. When you finally force your eyes open, you see his worry-laced expression and bring your own hand to his face.

“You silenced the storm…”

You want to say more, but Sylus presses a chaste kiss to your lips. 

“I think you silenced mine too.”

The confession brought on a new wave of tears. Sylus acts quickly, rolling you on your back and placing kisses all over your face before trailing down your neck. Whimpers turn to moans as he pinches your nipple and suckles the soft skin under your jaw. Your emotions settle and your mind clears, which means you know exactly what you want. 

“Sylus?”

He hums against your skin, waiting for your next question. You run your hands down his back and slide one between your bodies. When your fingers dip beneath his waistband he stops moving completely, his attention solely on your hand. You wait and he doesn’t stop you. He sinks his face into the crook of your neck as you continue. As your fingers travel lower, you feel more confident. Your other hand threads through his hair and you kiss his temple, enjoying his rather immediate responses. 

“Sensitive?” 

He doesn’t reply, well, not with words. He growls, it’s subtle, but the vibrations are heavenly against your skin. Your hand wraps around the base of his cock and you sigh, he’s fucking perfect. He shifts and you easily stroke him, your eyes widening at the slight change in width. His cock is long, god you want – oh god…

“Find something you like?” 

Damn right you did. You’d daydreamed about his lip rings against your clit, his nipple rings rubbing against your chest, but a fucking ladder? Your fingertips trace 6 distinct metal balls lined up, the rods just beneath his skin. He lifts his head and groans as you run your fingers over the piercings over and over. Your hand continues, but another bit of metal catches on your fingers and you grab a fistful of Sylus’s hair as you curse.

“Fuck me…”

“I’m trying to…” 

His hips jerk as you close your palm around his tip, two small rings loop through the ridge along its base. As you rub faster he starts to roll his hips, chasing the warmth of your hand. When you remove your hand from his pants entirely you can feel his entire body shake.

“Take them off.”

He stands beside the bed and holds his hand out, waiting for you to take it. He drags you over and places your hands on his hips. Taking the hint, you push his pants down and let them drop. You maintain eye contact as you pull his boxers down, you can tell the moment his cock is free because his breathing stutters. You don’t look down, you just let your hands explore.

Your palms lay flat on his stomach, memorizing every inch of his skin as you continue to lower them to his hips. He leans his head back and closes his eyes and you watch his face react to every tiny movement. Your hands return to his cock and you feel the weight of it, the length, how the piercings create a mouthwatering contrast against his hot skin. 

His abs tense as you lean forward and lick his tip. He doesn’t let you continue and you don’t argue when he lays you back. His cock rests against your stomach, his tip leaking furiously adding to the mess you previously made.

“Do I need –”

“No… I’m on the pill.”

“I can never finish a sentence around you huh?” He teases. 

You hook your arms around his neck and shut him up with a kiss. With a few tentative rolls of his hips, his cock nudges your clit. When you feel his piercing, you break away.

“Fuck me please… fuck… please…”

“I love hearing your voice…”

He finally sinks into you, the initial stretch coaxing another moan out of you. 

“That’s it… just like that.” 

His knee pushes your leg out and his hips meet yours. You can feel every single piercing, they drag along your slick walls making you whimper uncontrollably. 

“Ahhh you’re such a good girl for me…”

Your pussy clenches around him and you slam your head forward against his shoulder. Really? This is how you discover you have a praise kink? Right now? Fantastic. Sylus gasps, oh he’s not going to let you get away now.

“Oh she liked that, yeah? The way she’s squeezing me, I think she loves it. Does my good girl like it when I praise her?”

Again, your pussy spasms and you shout, you’ve never been so close to an orgasm so fast before. You were already obsessed with how good he felt, but now he’s talking to you like this? 

“Are you going to come for me already? Just from me calling you a…”

“Sylus!”

“Good fucking girl…”

You scream, you pump your hips and he matches your pace working you through your second explosive orgasm of the night. He kisses you, inhaling your whimpers like they’re oxygen. He rolls you both onto your side, holding your thigh up over his hip. He slows down, rolling his hips so you feel the drag of every piercing. Each time he bottoms out, he thrusts just enough to put pressure on your g-spot.

“I need one more from you, can you do that for me sweetie?” 

You nod, or at least you think you nod. You’re not entirely sure with how the room is spinning.

“Mhmm… that’s my girl…”

He withdraws almost completely to slam back inside making the bed rock and lamp on the side table shake. His languid rhythm returns and you can already feel another climax fast approaching. 

“Tell me… you’re mine.”

With his forehead pressed against yours, all you can do is stare into his eyes. His voice shakes and his movements falter. Your arms tighten around his shoulders. You never imagined he’d be begging to hear the very words you’ve been dying to say.

“I’m yours.” 

His hips snap forward and he grits his teeth, like he’s holding back. His eyes close and his arms tremble. You press a soft kiss on his cheek and drop your voice to a whisper.

“I’m yours.”

He gasps as he lets go. His release is just as explosive as your own. As he fucks his cum deeper inside of you he drops his head to your shoulder and repeats “you’re mine” like a prayer. Hearing his desperation you dig your heel into his lower back and let your sluttiest moan rip free as your climax hits. 

You’re not sure how long you lie there holding each other. Or when he slides out of you, careful to keep your legs tangled together. But when you open your eyes, the sun is on the horizon and your bodies are covered in a soft blanket. His head is buried in the crook of your neck, your arms around his shoulders. You stare at the wedding ring on your finger and smile as you slowly drift off to sleep.

The sun is fully risen when you open your eyes again. You roll over and realize you’re in bed alone. Sitting up, you notice you’re wearing one of Sylus’s button ups. After a closer inspection, you realize you’ve been cleaned up and the bedding changed. The only thing you can think about is finding Sylus, you have a million questions and you don’t want to lose your nerve. However, standing proves to be a tad difficult. Your legs shake as if you just ran a marathon and your pussy throbs, not in the fun way.

You limp to the door and look down the hallway, not a soul in sight, not even Ollie. You walk through the house, finally hearing soft music coming from the kitchen. As you round the corner, you see Sylus standing over the stove. Still shirtless and wearing only his boxers. It’s an oddly domestic sight. He hums along with the music, bobbing his head as he cooks. You lean against the doorway and clear your throat. He looks over his shoulder and grins.

“I was going to bring you breakfast.”

You walk up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, kissing his back before resting your cheek against him. He covers your hands with his.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I’m perfect.” 

He urges you to sit at the island and brings you a cup of coffee. When he serves you a plate with eggs, bacon and french toast you squeal with excitement. He laughs as he refills his cup and sits down next to you. A comfortable silence settles as you eat and sip your coffee. Sylus keeps looking at you out of the corner of his eye and when he smiles you break.

“Okay, what? What is it?”

“Nothing, I’m just admiring my artwork.” 

You hold up your spoon and try to see what he’s referring to. Even upside down and blurred to hell, you can see the dark marks along your neck and chest. You turn to face him and hold the spoon up for him.

“My artwork is pretty impressive too, don’t you think?”

He squints and then drops his gaze to his plate. You reach out and trace one of the marks under his jaw, following a path up to his ear. Watching his ear turn a soft shade of red and goosebumps rise makes you giggle in delight. He snatches your hand and holds your fingers up to his mouth, pressing tiny kisses to each fingertip. 

“It’s a shame. My good girl only appears at night, turns naughty when the sun comes up.”

“Sylus…”

“Mhmm…” He kisses your palm and you shiver.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

He lowers your hand and shifts to face you.

“What do you want this to be?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure. I want you, that’s all I know. So, if you’d like to see where this goes… I am very, very interested.”

You turn away sheepishly and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear in a pathetic attempt to be nonchalant. 

“I am… very, very interested, too.”

He moves to sit on the edge of his stool, his hands on your hips. He leans forward, his lips so close you can feel his warm breath.

“Then it looks like I’m dating my wife.”

You’re about to laugh, but he cuts you off with a kiss. You sigh as he stands, picking you up and sitting you on the island between your plates. He slots himself between your legs, he lifts the bottom of his shirt you’re wearing up over your hips. You push against his chest and he stops.

“That also means we need to work on how we communicate.” 

He raises a brow and backs up, his hands resting on the counter next to your thighs. 

“I’m sorry for how I reacted last night. It wasn’t fair of me to get angry. I mean, you saved my fucking life. I panicked, but I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

He reaches up to take your hand, holding it against his chest.

“I shouldn’t have expected you to just… accept what I did. Like you said, you save lives. I… took one, right in front of you. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for that.”

You kiss the tip of his nose, his look of shock makes you smile. He’s not used to tender acts of affection, you make a mental note to shower him with them from now on.

“I don’t think it’s possible for me to hate you.”

You run your hands down his arms, admiring the way his muscles flex as you touch him.

“I just wish… I just don’t want to be afraid, I want to know I can protect myself. I can’t expect you to always be there. I’m so tired of being scared.”

“We can fix that.”

“How?”

“I can train you. Help you learn to protect yourself.”

Resting your forehead against his, he wraps his arms around you. You relax in his embrace. Looking down at the prominent outline in his boxers you take a deep breath and wrap your legs around him. He starts kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck and you gently scratch his back.

“You know… a few years ago, I had a patient come in with a new piercing. He was bragging about it. Basically gave me a free class - Dick Piercings 101. His cocky attitude vanished when we needed to put a catheter in, but… I still remember the name of the piercing he had.” 

He steps back. You watch him slowly push his boxers down, letting them drop to the floor. Your eyes drop, yep, still pretty in the daylight. Swallowing hard, you shiver as he places his hands on your knees, spreading them wider and wider until you're just as exposed as he is. Gathering your courage, you continue.

“King’s Crown.”

He steps closer, your hand dropping to rub over the piercings along the ridge at the base of his tip. His cock stiffens as you let your thumb rest over his slit, rubbing small circles.

“What is it about using royalty terms and names for cock piercings? King’s Crown… Prince Albert… Trying to convince yourself of something?”

He nips at your shoulder and you yelp. He grabs the back of your neck and keeps your head bent forward, fully focused on his cock. Like you were able to focus on anything else.

“I don’t think I need to convince anyone of anything. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He moves your hand away and pulls you to the edge of the counter, his tip nudges your aching clit and you gasp. You can feel the corners of his mouth tip up into a smile as he kisses your neck. He takes hold of his cock and you shimmy your hips, fuck you’re needy…

“Tell me, do you enjoy teasing me?”

He holds your hips still, his mouth dipping down to the top button of your shirt. He uses his teeth to tug it open. You strain against his hands, one on your hip and one on the back of your neck - you need movement. Anything to alleviate the pressure building. 

“I do… just a little.”

He tugs another button free and licks a stripe up the center of your chest.

“So just a little bit of a brat then, hmm?”

You scoff and try to pull away, but he holds you steady.

“Watch…”

And you do. You watch him shift his hips forward, his cock sinking into you at an agonizing pace. He releases your hip to spread you wider, the erotic sight leaves you breathless. 

“Watch how she… sucks me right in. So perfect.”

He bottoms out and you groan, with how he’s forcing you to look down you can see the shape of him. You lower your hand, placing it over your stomach. As soon as you press down, both of you groan. Sylus lets go of your neck and you nearly fall back onto the counter. He rips open your shirt, buttons scattering across the kitchen floor. His hands return to your hips and as he thrusts, he pulls you closer. 

“Fuck Sylus… faster…”

He chuckles, but obliges. The lewd sounds of skin against skin echoes through the kitchen and you close your eyes to keep them from crossing. Your back arches off of the cool granite and your hands search for something to hold onto. 

Crash

Your hand swipes a plate off the counter, sending it crashing to the floor with a shatter. Sylus doesn’t stop, in fact, the sudden sound makes him thrust deeper - which you didn’t know was humanly possible.

“Yes! Yes, please don’t stop ahhh…”

Your begging pulls a growl from him, it’s becoming your favorite sound he makes. Feral, unashamed, dominating. You whine as your pussy clenches, spasming wildly. 

“That’s right angel, let me hear you. I love hearing your voice.”

He leans forward, one of his hands traveling up your body until he reaches your neck. His fingers wrap around your throat gently, the possessive action sparks a fire that quickly spirals out of control. An unfamiliar pressure builds and you hold onto his forearm, your nails digging into his skin.

“You’re so deep Sy… ahh fuck…!”

Without warning you feel that pressure release as your orgasm crashes over you. You’re so delirious you don’t register the splatter of something wet on the floor. Sylus curses under his breath and his movements become sloppy. Your breathing is erratic, staggered by whimpers. 

“Angel.. I need to - please…”

Your neck is released and your legs are suddenly lifted, your thighs press down against your chest. When you force your eyes open, you watch Sylus throw his head back, his brows furrowed, eyes closed. Equal parts bliss and agony. You squeeze around his length and he groans, low and deep as he spills into you. He drops his hands from the back of your thighs to the counter and hangs his head, breathing heavily. You awkwardly sit up, your lower half is coated in your shared release and… significantly more sore than when you woke up. When your arms coil around his neck he unsheathes himself and gathers you in his arms, holding you impossibly close. He kisses the shell of your ear, his hot breath making you shiver.

“You made such a mess sweetie…���

You try to look down, but he just picks you up and carries you out of the kitchen.

“I’ll clean that up later, you’re my priority right now.” 

As he turns the corner you see the floor is wet and the remnants of the shattered plate. You’re a fucking doctor, the fact it took a you the entire distance from the kitchen to Sylus’s bedroom to figure out you squirted is just embarrassing. 

“Oh my god…”

Sylus chuckles and carries you right into his bathroom and into the shower. He doesn’t put you down, just tightens his hold as he turns on the water and lets the warm water flow over your back. You slump forward, letting your arms hang limp against his back, your head on his shoulder. He sways, the steam fogging the glass around you.

“You’re getting a lot of my firsts, I hope you know that.”

He carefully lowers you, leaning you back against the wall to let you gain your footing. When he steps back to get soap you finally take a moment to just stare at his naked form. Toned, dark lines of ink with swirls of vibrant scarlet covering his arms, his back, his chest, the dusting of hair along his happy trail, and oh - great, he even has a perky ass. Sylus clears his throat and you look up to see him watching you over his shoulder. 

“Like what you see?”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. He begins lathering the fragrant soap over your arms, pulling them away from your chest. His eyes drink you in and drift as his hands roam. 

“I like what I see too… you’re… exquisite.”

He continues to clean you gently, but his lips find yours again. There’s no rush with how he kisses you, or touches you for that matter. Like he’s savoring every moment and every point of contact is sacred. You still have a million questions, but none of them seem important right now. You’ve never felt so… happy. 

“When do you go back to work?” He mumbles against your lips.

“New Years Eve and New Years Day… after that, I’m off for another week.”

He smiles into the kiss, his hands massaging your hips. 

“Good… I hope you don’t have any plans.” 🏍️۶ৎ🩺

Translations: "Malen'kiy chelovek, ukhodi." -> "Little man, go away." "Malen'kiy chelovek umret." -> "Little man will die." “Bol'shoy chelovek, zatknis' nakhuy.” -> "Big man, shut the fuck up." "Malen'kiy chelovek ne sootvetstvuyet legende." -> "The little man does not live up to the legend."

Part One Part Two

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[iwriteiguess]

it takes two | sylus & mc

sum: “sylus likes you,” she says offhandedly, toying with the second button of your blouse. you scoff. humor her, lips pulling. “what makes you say that?” “because i like you.”

cw: non-mc reader, female reader, girls love girls, cunnilingus, p-in-v, threesome (ffm), fingering, explicit language, clit slapping, oocness, 3.2k of filth, spawned by this ask, not proofread, mdni

now playing: bolero - bathe hell of a night - schoolboy q

Emcee’s smiling, and you know this won’t end well.

It’s mischievous how she sways her hips like that, pushing through Lux’s private room like she owns it. The other dancers part for her like a school of fish as she makes her way to you, slinking away like they know something you don’t.

She plops onto your lap like you’re her throne as the swinging doors slide shut, siphoning the air from your lungs. Drapes her arms around your shoulders, gaze bleeding sin. 

Instinctively, your hands drop to her waist to brace her, and you bounce her on your lap into a more comfortable position. Sink back into the red leather cushions of the loveseat, her body sliding further up your thighs with the shift.

Her smile is infectious. Melts away your surprise, making way for a sly curve of your lips. You get a whiff of her perfume, the conditioner in her hair, as she leans close until your noses bump, hair tickling your collarbones. 

You’ve got a face full of teeth and bad intentions. Her laughter is bewitching, furling in your stomach like the smoke occupying the red-tinged atmosphere, and the other girls trickle out of the room with knowing cants to their lips over her shoulder. 

“I’ve got an idea,” she murmurs beneath the thumping music, blurring back into focus, breath fanning over your already warmed cheeks, your lips. 

You lift a brow, studying her mouth. Back to her eyes. “Really?” you reply, intrigued. Enamored.

She nods slowly, a hand slipping from your shoulder to splay against your sternum. Fingers the second button of your blouse until it slips free.

“Sylus likes you,” she says offhandedly.

You scoff, sticky, disbelieving. She must’ve been drinking, because there’s no way in hell your boss likes you like that. Not when he looks at her like she’s the center of his universe, the star he orbits in slow, methodical rotations. 

Sure, you’ve quietly pined for him for years. Followed in his shadow like an obedient mastiff, ever faithful, ever watchful. But you could never imagine him returning your affections. Not with your hands stained red and scars littering your skin.

You humor her, lips pulling. “What makes you say that?” 

Emcee laughs, throwing her head back, hair spilling off her shoulders, as if you’ve said the funniest shit. You get a look at her throat, the tendons jumping there. Your mouth waters. Thighs twitch beneath her warm weight.

You track the glide of her fingers along your cheek, the slope of your jaw, in your peripheral vision until they curl around your chin, tilting your head back, and you’re faced with irises that bubble like heated liquid. 

“Because I like you.”

You’ve barely time to process the implications on her tongue before she’s pushing it into your mouth. Soft yet insistent. Commanding in a way that leaves you fucking spinning, out of your mind, sighing all hot into her mouth, fingers tight on her hips.

She kisses like bonfires and sea sprays. Like peaches growing beneath the sun, like drive-in movies in the summer, a band-aid on nicked skin. She sucks the air from your lungs into her own body like it’s hers. You can’t get a grip on things, for she’s shifting on your lap until she’s straddling you, full thighs bracketing yours, hands cupping your cheeks to keep your face in place.

You kiss her with equal fervency. Or at least, you try to. You pull, stroke, and bunch up the back of her blouse in favor of the supple glide of her skin, lost in the wet swipe of her tongue, in the slow-weighted roll of her hips, in the husky, pleasured sounds she bleeds into your mouth.

She’s pulling at the lapels of your blazer, and you catch her cue, leaning forward to help her tear the offending garment off your shoulders. You pulse beneath her, her mouth slanting possessively over yours, fingers threading into your hair, pulse roaring, nipples unbearably tight. 

Emcee tears away from the hot suction of your mouth with a sticky click, and you catch a glimpse of her lips glossed with spit in the low light. She blisters your chin with pecks before she finds her way to your neck. Sucks and nibbles on your throat, tongue licking out to ease welting skin, before she’s at it again—a vampire trying to siphon your life force through your skin. 

You exhale, craning your neck back, eyes sliding shut. You don’t know what you’ve done to warrant such treatment. But you don’t deter it, fingers curling around her ass to encourage her to grind against you. And she’s ruthless in her assault, bearing down on your lap, pussies dragging across each other, drawing the sweetest little noise from your throat. A laugh, disbelieving, breathy.

She busies herself with pulling your blouse buttons free as her mouth seals around your pulse point, sucking, licking, wide, wet. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been at this—making out with your partner, your charge, like some hormonal teen. But your head lolls forward, the space beyond her shoulder blurring and bending until you’re able to make out discernible shapes and colors through the haze, and, oh shit— 

“Really?” rolls a voice so deep, so enthralling, it disturbs the dust particles around you. Like the crackle of a fire burning through the underbrush, and you feel it curdling in your chest. 

Shock ripples through you once you put things together. Cold mortification. You sit up, Emcee not at all perturbed by his entry, by your rigidness, her fingers crawling over your sides and down to your hips after she’s pushed your shirt open, baring your torso to the crisp air.

Your mouth spills open, a slurry of excuses on your tongue, face heated. 

Sylus watches the pair of you from the bridge of his nose, arms crossed over a broad chest, finger tapping his bicep, hip cocked out like an impatient parent. He quirks an offended brow, lips thinned with mild irritation, and he’s a dangerous, dark cutout of power amid the steady scrawl of smoke. Satan incarnate, limned by Lux’s customary red glow, the columns casting ominous shadows across his face, that right eye glowing a corrupted shade of scarlet. 

You wince when Emcee sucks on your shoulder, the wet sound of it jarring, and a pitiful noise is pinched from your throat. Before you can offer an explanation, beg for your life, Sylus sighs, dropping his hands at his sides, seemingly resigned. He crosses the room in measured strides, like a panther prowling through a jungle, not once releasing you from the intoxicating pull of his gaze.

The cushions on the loveseat dip beneath his weight when he plops beside you, draping a long arm along the backrest, still staring like he’s witnessing the ultimate betrayal. What audacity you two must have, getting along without him.

You watch with a constricted throat as he snatches up the whiskey glass, stained with condensation, you’d been nursing earlier, dumping its contents down his throat in one go.

He scowls like a child who didn’t get his way after he sets the glass down with a definitive clack. And finally, finally, with your cheeks in her hands, Emcee draws back, face smooshed up against yours, smile wicked, playful. All teeth and sin, like a youth caught doing something they were clearly warned against.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. Mouth hovers around words that never come. Sylus could kill you with a snap of his fingers for touching his girl like this. For being so brazen in his club, in his territory, getting all handsy without his permission. 

You flinch, anticipating your demise. But it doesn’t come, and you peek an eye open, surprised to see he’s redirected his ire to the little temptress in your lap.

There’s something in their staredown. A quiet exchange you’re not in on as they study each other’s faces, brows and mouths twitching as if they’re inwardly mulling over something together. A war of the minds, a muted battle, almost like telepathy, and you’re their unwilling hostage. 

You feel like prey between two predators. Carrion waiting to be picked clean, hands stiff and wide around Emcee’s waist. She giggles again, her breasts warm and doughy as they push up against yours, and you cast her a warning look. This is no time to be laughing. No time to taunt the Devil when your life's on the line.

Sylus’ gaze slides to you, and you’re stricken. Something cold spills into your belly, branching down to occupy your nether regions at the weight his eyes carry. They’re hooded. Slip into a mysterious shade of garnet as he tilts his head down to scrutinize you, lips slightly parting, brows pinched in the inner corners. 

You blink wildly when, in one fluid motion, Sylus snatches Emcee from your lap onto his. You’re remiss of the warmth of her body despite the moment, watching wide-eyed as Sylus tugs her close to nip at her throat.

She snorts, burying her fingers in his collar, clinging to him as he dips her back to bite her shoulder. 

You feel like you shouldn’t be here. Like you’re impeding on something intimate, a glacial spike of disappointment lancing through you. But those eyes slide to you again, punching the air from your lungs, petrifying you. And you can’t recall a time you’ve ever seen him so…

Ravenous? Needy? Towards you?

There is no warning. No preamble when long digits curl around the nape of your neck, when rigid features pan in. He tugs you to him, sealing his lips to yours, tongue probing the wet cavern of your mouth, swallowing up the surprised little noise you make. 

Your shoulders drop once the shock peters. And you know you’ve lost your shit because you’re kissing him back. Your boss. Your employer. The focal point of your affections, your fantasies. You’re kissing him, tangling your tongues, pushing a breath into his mouth, tearing your fingers through his silken locks.

He groans into your mouth as if he’s waited lifetimes to kiss you. To experience you like this, and Emcee’s like a little imp, snickering as she occupies her fingers with unbuttoning his shirt, with sinking her teeth into his ear, dragging them across his lobe.

Sylus pulls away, lips imparting on a journey down your neck, blazing a path opposite where Emcee branded you. He sinks his teeth into your collarbone, and you toss your head back for the second time that night, breath all shaky, mind turning to smog. 

He alternates between kissing you and Emcee, and the positions are awkward as he tries his best to hold you both in the wide span of his arms on his lap. Tries his damndest to divvy up the attention, never leaving either of you enough time to catch your breath. 

You’re on your knees now on the cushions, lips sealed around his throat once Emcee’s set his pretty, warm ivory skin free. She’s opposite you, licking up his neck, along his jaw, and you pulse when he releases a shuddering breath, voice all ragged, pretty lashes sweeping over inflamed cheeks.

He’s gripping you both. Palms full of ass as the pair of you render him speechless with the devious scrape of your teeth, hands smoothing down his sculpted chest, his stomach, to knead the thick of him pulsing in his pants.

You part every so often from the salty tang of his skin to kiss Emcee, tongues wriggling, messy, giggling. Sylus humps into your kneading palms when you get too distracted, sighing so pretty, voice so sexy, so guttural, so needy. 

He’s leaning towards you now, ingesting you with those dangerous eyes before he pushes you down. Eases you onto your back, and Emcee’s crawling off his lap so he can moor you to the loveseat with his weight.

He’s kissing you again before you can catch your breath. Like snuffed out hearth fires, like the shifting gears of a muscle car, like the welcomed burn of brandy at the back of your throat. He notches himself between your splayed open legs, rolling his hips until the thick of him throbs against your swollen labia, and you see stars.

He’s commanding in everything he does. A steady, comforting pressure, swallowing you whole with overwhelming heat and the meticulous stroke of his palms. And you feel you’re dreaming, pulling at his neck, his shoulders, your body undulating like the lazy lap of waves against him. 

You almost forget she’s in the room—the source of this debauchery. Almost, until she’s maneuvering herself behind you on the loveseat, settling your head onto her lap, petting through your hair, laughing so sweet. 

Sylus flows like smoke, perching himself on sturdy palms to kiss her over you. And where you should feel left out, jealous of their unspoken bond, you burn, watching their mouths fuse, their tongues dance, hearing the sounds of their pleasured sighs taking place overhead.

He returns his attention to you, forgoing your mouth to brand your throat with kisses, down your shoulder, towards the swell of one breast. 

You arch against his mouth when he bites down, eyes hooded, peering up at the beauty overtop you. She’s all smiles, messy hair, swollen lips, before she angles herself down to steal the taste of your lips. And she’s got your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, twisting through the lacy drag of your bra. 

You bite your lip, so deliciously out of it. The attention’s too much, the scenery hazy, your mind slowly disconnecting itself from your body, ascending.

Sylus is on a mission, blistering kisses down the ripple of your rib cage, groaning with each press of his lips like you’re a meal worth savoring. Down, down, down he ventures, teeth scraping the meat of your belly near your navel, before he lines the stretch of skin just above the cut of your slacks with reverent kisses. 

You lift your hips to help him pull your slacks off once he’s unlatched your belt and snatched the button free. And you can’t focus with his lips so close to your cunt, with his breath so hot, kissing where labia meets thigh, groaning at the earthy scent permeating through your damp panties.

Emcee pulls your tits free from your bra, kneading them in lazy arcs, testing their weight, their fullness, pushing them together, occasionally swiping her thumbs over your puckered nips. 

Her gaze simmers like heated liquid when she wets her fingers with her tongue, doubling down on her nipple-pinching efforts. And you’re rocking your hips, one hand reaching up for purchase of her blouse. Something to cling to while Sylus swipes his tongue up the seam of your cunt. 

Before you can think, Emcee’s on her knees beside you on the floor, licking your nipple into her mouth, massaging your unattended breast with her free hand, gaze unyielding as she watches you like something to be devoured. A meal to be licked clean, not a morsel left to spare. 

Sylus has your panties off and flung somewhere on the stage in the room’s center. And he’s gazing at you with equal desire, drawing your thigh onto his brawny shoulder, nosing your pretty, sticky cunt. 

He breathes against your muff, the heat of his breath making you twitch and throb, and you wiggle your hips pathetically, not sure if you want his mouth on you or off. 

In hindsight, this still feels so very wrong. Sandwiched between your boss and your partner. The catalyst for your heartbreak and your envy. But is it really so wrong if they’re both here, ravaging you like a prime cut of meat, writing the most sinful words of all against your body with their mouths? With the reverent scrawl of their fingers?

“Relax, sweetheart,” Emcee coos, dragging her mouth to pay similar homage to your other nipple. “Let us take care of you for once,” she breathes around your teat, fingers sliding down your stomach to tap your swollen cunt.

Once, twice, and your hips surge off the couch. And Sylus is there with that hot, devastating mouth to catch you, groaning into you, palms cupping your ass to keep you sealed to him as he spreads you open with a sweltering, wide tongue.

Your fingers instinctively thread through his hair as you ruck your hips up, humping against his mouth, calves strained as you roll on the tips of your toes. 

A moan swells in your throat. Emcee swallows it, having abandoned your pretty tits to push her tongue into your mouth, to render you speechless. She disconnects to suck on your throat, your pulse point. Crawls back overtop you, her clothed pussy pushing into your face as she pitches herself forward to spread your labia apart for Sylus to draw your clit into his mouth.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You’re desperate, one hand curled around Emcee’s thick thigh, quietly beseeching her to put something in your mouth. You’re eager for a taste, eager to please, to reciprocate. She peers down at you with pitying eyes, lips crooked in a smirk.

She leaves you momentarily to shimmy out of her shorts, panties sticky and kicked off, before bracketing your head with either of her legs. The earthy aroma of her cunt fills your nostrils before you bury your face in her muff, sucking, licking, and nipping to mirror Sylus’s mouth on you.

You lose it when a thick finger tests the pucker of your cunt before dipping inside. He digs a little deeper with each pump of his finger until he’s knuckle-deep inside you. And you’re remiss of the hot suction of his mouth before the sticky click of mouths fusing reaches you. Instead of Sylus’ lips sealing to the seam of your cunt, a smaller mouth wraps around your clit, wrenching the sluttiest little sound from your throat.

They work in tandem to undo you. Alternate whose mouth is on you, whose fingers are in the tight clench of pussy, before both their tongues attack your clit. They feast on you, groaning like they’re appreciative of the meal. You can’t focus, releasing Emcee’s clit to bite down on her inner thigh, eyes screwed shut, fingers tight on her thighs.

You break at the seams, that sparkling feeling washing over you. Pins and needles in your extremities, vision white, voice lodged in your throat as you cum. 

By the time you return to your skin, float down, chasing the even push of your breath, Emcee’s hovering over your legs. Hands braced on either side of your hips, face screwed up in pleasure. 

She’s so gorgeous, panting like that, tits bouncing, Sylus’ fingers bruising, tight on her hips. She’s reaching for your hand as Sylus takes her from behind, and from your vantage point, you can’t tell where he ends and she begins. 

You twine your fingers with hers, still descending, and you smile. A sloppy, enamored, tired thing, holding tight as their grunts and whimpers salt the air. The clop of wet skin to skin stains the air, breathiness, pleasured.

Your gaze slides up, blurry, body boneless, and Sylus studies you, mouth hanging open with the effort of breathing. Even long after Emcee’s fallen onto her stomach, wrapping her lips around your clit for something to muffle her voice, the power of Sylus’ thrusts too much to bear, he watches you through his hair framing his face, a reverent, wolfish gleam to his eyes. It borders predatory, carrying a silent threat: you’re next. 

You throb, smile crazed, fingers filtering through Emcee’s hair to hold her in place as she sucks on your abused clit.

You’re counting on it.

[iwriteiguess]

First time Sylus went down on you, he came untouched within the first thirty seconds. Shamelessly.

You were perched on the edge of his bed, panties dangling on one ankle as your fingers twisted in his expensive bedding. Still fully dressed, Sylus sat on his knees before you, your legs over his shoulders and his hands encompassing the entirety of your thighs.

Nothing was near his waist, nothing to ease the ache in his groin. And yet? The second his tongue got a taste of your sweet cunt he felt his abdomen twisting and tightening with that familiar sensation of a pending release.

Naturally, he did nothing to stop it.

No, of course not. He buried his face deeper between your thighs, tongue lapping eagerly with devastating precision. It didn’t take much to coax sweet nothings out of you, his name a singular plea on your lips. “Sylus, please…”

And he was a goner, groaning against your pulsing clit as he ruined his slacks with his release. Twitching in the confines of his briefs, untouched and still needy, Sylus ate you out with the same vigor. Hips unconsciously bucking forward but only being met with air.

“Gonna cum… fuck I’m gonna… gonna cum…” you were babbling, somehow still heard over the muffling of your thighs against his ears and the obscene slurping of his lips and tongue as he drank you up.

Sylus never knew himself to be so pathetic, so hopeless, so shamelessly needy for you. His cock twitched again, the uncomfortable stick warmth in his trousers suddenly becoming hot and welcoming as his hips shifting and created the faintest taste of friction.

He was coming with you this time, ruining his pants further as you coated his tongue in the sweetest nectar.

When he pulled away from your cunt, flushed and covered in your slick, all he could do was pant. Sucking in as much air as he could muster while still being engulfed in your heady scent, your sweet musk, the wonder of what his bedroom would smell like after he was done with you.

A mix of him and you, and god dammit his cock was still hard and twitching. “Sylus…” but you couldn’t think of anything more to say, too in awe of the man before you.

“You’ve made…” he swallows, throat bobbing as he slowly shifts your legs of his shoulders and stands. “…quite the mess of me, kitten.” And you could see it then, the unmistakable darkened patch on the front of his dress pants. You were swallowing your own whimper, mouth watering at the scene unraveling before you.

“Let me help…” his fingers were fumbling, a minor tremble that nobody would notice except you. Though, your hands weren’t faring much better. Equally as shaky as you undid the belt loop and he tugged the zipper free.

Peeling the ruined garment off of your lover, you were met with the sight of his pretty cock standing at attention, covered in his own release, twitching with need.

You made one movement forward and he caught your wrist, clicking his tongue as he forced you backwards. “Never said I was done eating that pretty pussy, did I?” You attempted to protest, but his evol snagged you in place and you knew there was no changing his mind.

“Thanks for the freedom, kitten, but I’m not done with you just yet. You’ve given me a taste of something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of.”

Banner from @cafekitsune

[iwriteiguess]

This was created because I'm ovulating and I was inspired by this art (link here).

What happens when you catch each LI humping a pillow? 🥵🥵

FOLLOW EKAY!!! art is amazing!!!

Full pictures are on Bluesky and X.

"What the hell?" That definitely sounded like Caleb, but the way he called your name was different. Not playful or teasing like usual. It was raw, desperate, almost pained. For a moment you think Caleb must have heard you come home and is calling for you from the kitchen. But the sound comes again, louder and it's clear something is very wrong.

You freeze on the stairs, hand tightening on the railing as you realize the noise is coming from upstairs.

Against your better judgment, you find yourself moving up the stairs, footsteps silent on the carpeted steps. You creep closer to his bedroom door, which is slightly open. You hear him grunt, followed by the creaking of bedsprings. Your stomach twists into knots as you push the door open a little wider, peeking inside.

The sight that greets you steals the breath from your lungs. 

Caleb, is on his knees on the bed, holding with both hands a pillow that is clutched tightly between his legs. His abs flex and tense with each thrust of his hips, the defined lines of his six pack glistening with a sheen of sweat.

A deep moan tears from his throat, your name falling from his lips like a prayer and a plea all at once. "Y/N..." he grunts with a sharp buck of his hips. The metal dog tag you gave him, the one he never takes off, swings and clanks against his chest with every movement.

His face is flushed a deep red, eyes open in concentration as he loses himself in his own twisted fantasy. His dark brown hair falls messily over his forehead, a few damp strands clinging to his skin. He looks lost in his own world, chasing some dark desire that you can only imagine involves you.

You stand there frozen, feeling a confusing mix of shock and embarrassment. You know you should look away, give him privacy, but you can't seem to tear your eyes from the sight of him so consumed by lust.

His breathing comes in ragged pants, chest heaving as he continues to grind against the pillow.

You don't know whether to be flattered, terrified, or turned on. Probably all three. But most of all, you are stunned. You had no idea Caleb was this intense.

The sound of the pillow rubbing against his heavy balls up to the tip of his cock, already slick with precum, makes you squeeze your thighs together.

"Fuck, pipsqueak..." Caleb grunts, "You feel so fucking good, baby. So tight and perfect around my cock." He gives a sharp thrust and the pillowcase darkens with his precum.

His filthy whispers fill the room, painting a vivid picture of the act he wishes he was performing on you. "Gonna fill this sweet little pussy up. Pump you so full of my cum, you'll be dripping with it for days."

Your cheeks flush hotly at his words. You've never heard Caleb speak like this before. It's raw, it's real, and it's terrifyingly intense. A dark shiver runs through you as you imagine him saying those things to you, doing those things to you.

Caleb seems to be chasing something, a release he desperately needs. His grip on the pillow tightens, knuckles turning white as he holds on for dear life. The bed frame creaks beneath him, "Fuck, I need it... I need you... Gonna cum... Gonna fucking cum..." he snarls, hips jerking erratically now. The pillow case is thoroughly soaked, the spreading dark patch testifying to his desperation.

A gasp escapes you as you take an unconscious step forward, the door swings open a bit more. In that same moment, Caleb's head snaps up, eyes flying open wide as he realizes he's no longer alone.

But it's too late. Far too late to stop the inevitable. With a deep moan that echoes off the walls, Caleb's back arches as he finds his release. His hips jerk forward one last time, and thick ropes of pearly white cum erupt from his cock, splattering obscenely across his stomach and chest.

Some of it even reaches his flushed cheek, a single strand dangling from his jawline as he pants harshly, struggling to catch his breath. His pelvis is glazed with his cum, the patch of hair there dripping with his seed.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Caleb stares at you, eyes blazing with emotions, shock, embarrassment, but above all, hunger. It's like he's seeing straight into your soul and you are frozen in place, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. You don't know what to say, what to do. You are not sure if you should run, scream, or...god help you...take a step closer and let him pull you into his arms.

So you do the only thing you can think of.  You step out of the room, you let the door swing shut behind you with a soft click. Your heart pounds wildly in your chest as you stand there, back pressed against the closed door. You can still picture the look on his face, the raw need that contorted his features. It will be burned into you mind forever.

How can we go back to the way things were after this? 

Your heart skips a beat as you hear an unfamiliar noise coming from Sylus' room. It sounds like...grunting? You pause midstep, standing still just outside his bedroom door.

There's a strange, rhythmic creaking of bedsprings that makes your brows furrow. What on earth is Sylus doing in there at this hour, especially if he's not a morning person? You've never heard him make noises like that before. Perhaps surprising him like this wasn't the best idea after all.

You open the door slowly, maybe he is having a nightmare you tell yourself. Your heart lurches into your throat, eyes widening in shock. He is not having a nightmare, but something far more...intense. He's kneeling on the bed, gripping a pillow tightly between his thighs. The way his arm clutches it, fingers digging into the fabric, suggests a desperate, almost feral need.

His other hand is fisted in the sheets behind him, knuckles white from the force of his grip. The bed creaks and sways with his movements, the rocking of his hips unmistakable even in the dim light. He's panting, low grunts and growls rumbling from his chest as he grinds himself against the pillow, chasing his pleasure.

Shock roots you to the spot, hand still on the door handle. He's looking down at his throbbing cock, watching it, each slow thrust. His hips roll slowly at first, the movement controlled as he builds towards his peak.

"Fuck, kitten," he grunts, "You take me so deep, all the way into that tight little throat. That's it, open wider, take every fucking inch..."

You feel heat between your legs at the sound of his filthy words, arousal dampening the fabric of your panties

Suddenly, his thrusts turn quick and desperate, the arm gripping the bed slipping a bit. The sound of the pillowcase rubbing against him and the slap of his cock against his stomach fill the room. Beads of precum smear across his skin with each thrust.

You can't look away, even as your cheeks burn and your core throbs with need. You know Sylus is seconds away from coming, his thrusts becoming desperate.

He is fully lost now head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, you bite your lip hard, stifling the moan that threatens to spill out. You are not even touching yourself but you can feel your body responding to his fantasy as if it were real. As if you were the one on your knees, choking on his thick cock, gagging for his seed.

You gasp softly as he orgasms, his long moan of "Take it all, kitten... suck me dry" echoing through the room. The sight of his hot cum splattering across his stomach and staining the sheets is shockingly erotic.

There's so much of it. Thick, creamy ropes of cum paint his skin and the pillow beneath him. You can't help but picture how it would feel, the weight of it heavy and warm on your tongue, sliding down your throat. The thought makes your mouth water.

His cock pulses and throbs as he rides out his orgasm, spurting the last few weak drops of cum onto the pillow. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, arm gripping the sheets trembling slightly.

You are about to close his door when you hear his voice again. You freeze, hand still on the door handle, as he speaks.

"You, watching me, made this much more pleasurable, kitten. Don't walk away now."

You should have known you couldnt slip away unnoticed.

Fuck

Three weeks, that's how long you were on a mission and apart from him.

When you open the front door and walk in you notice the house is quiet, too quiet, as you set your bag down by the shoe rack, kicking off your boots.

Your heart flutters with anticipation as you tiptoe down the hallway, the wooden floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet. The early morning sunlight peeks through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the house as you approach the slightly open bedroom door.

"Y/n...fuuuuuuuck"

He couldn't be...was he?

He was.

Your mouth falls open in shock when you see Zayne. He's on his hands and knees on the bed, a pillow placed between his legs. One hand grips the pillow tightly, holding it firmly against his body as he slowly thrusts his hips, his hard cock trapped between the pillow and his pelvis.

His other hand clutches the bedsheets in front of him like a lifeline. His black hair falls forward, hiding his eyes as his broad shoulders rise and fall with each breath. The room is filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of the bed creaking with his movements and the stifled groans that escape his lips. The sight of his muscular back moving with each thrust sends a shiver down your spine and ignites a fire low in your belly.

You realize that he's not just turned on, but he's already found his release once, the pillowcase, now soaked with his essence, testifies to it. He's using the damp fabric, slick with his cum, to bring himself to the brink again.

His cock, the tip an angry, almost painful shade of red, pulses and throbs with need. His balls draw up tight, and his toes curl.

His face, usually so stoic and controlled, is flushed and you can tell he's on the very edge of another orgasm. Your heart pounds wildly as you watch him chase his release, his hips moving more urgently now. His hand claws at the sheets, bunching the fabric in his fist.

Your own body responds with a deep throb of desire. You can feel the dampness pooling between your thighs, the way your nipples strain against the fabric of your bra. But you remain still, a silent witness to the intimate moment, not wanting to startle him.

He yanks the pillow closer, using it for more friction, more stimulation. "Fuck..." he growls "Always so fucking tight... such a dirty girl...making me cum twice"

Contrary to before, he doesn't hold back his noises this time. A guttural moan, tears from his throat as he finds his release. It's followed by a litany of curses, each one punctuated by the jerking of his hips and the pulsing of his cock.

"Fuck... shit... damn..." he growls, "Take it... take my fucking cum..." You are sure the sight of him losing control, surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, will be seared into your mind forever.

You step into the room and walk towards Zayne, eyes drinking in the sight of him, back glistening with sweat, his hips still twitching with the aftershocks of his climax. As you approach him, he slowly turns his head, his eyes blinking in surprise and confusion as they meet yours. He's still gripping the sheets and pillow tightly.

Without hesitation, you reach out and swipe a finger along the tip of his softening cock, collecting the pearly drops of his release that cling to the sensitive skin. Then you bring your finger to your mouth, keeping eye contact with him as you slowly lick it clean, savoring the salty, slightly bitter taste of him.

"Surprise, honey," you say softly, a playful smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. "I'm home early."

You sigh softly as you remember the last time you saw Rafayel, just a few days ago. He had been absorbed in his painting, hunched over a large canvas propped up in his art studio.

You open his front door and walk inside, a basket of freshly prepared food tucked under your arm. You walk to his studio but he is not in there.

An unusual sound drifting down from upstairs makes you stop in place. It's a soft, strangled noise.

Was that a whimper?

Your brows furrow with concern and you set the basket of food down quietly on the staircase, not wanting to disturb whatever may be happening, but unwilling to ignore what sounds like distress.

Climbing the stairs quietly you approach Rafayel's bedroom door. The whimpering grows louder, now unmistakable. Your hand hovers over the doorknob and you take a deep breath, slowly turning the doorknob. As you push the door open just a bit, you peek through to see Rafayel.

It's not his face flushed a deep shade of red that extends to the tips of his ears or the sweat dripping down his chest that makes your heart skip a beat. It's the way he's positioned on the bed, with a pillow clutched tightly between his legs, his hips rocking and rutting against it with desperate, needy thrusts. His left hand gripping the pillow tightly, keeping it firmly in place as his other hand braces against the mattress, holding himself up.

Desperate whimpers and whines spill from his lips as he grinds his hips against the pillow, his eyes screwed shut in a mix of pleasure and what looks like anguish.

Rafayel pulls the pillow closer, the tip of his cock becomes visible with each thrust. It disappears and reappears, glistening with precum as he thrust against the fabric. It makes your face flush hotly, your eyes going wide as you instinctively press a hand to your mouth to stifle any sound.

"Please... please cutie... let me cum..." Rafayel whimpers "Please, I need it so bad... I can't... I can't hold back anymore..." You've only witnessed him in this state once before, and the memory of that intimate moment together flashes through your mind. The raw need in his eyes as he begged you to let him find release within your warmth and tightness.

A single tear of frustration trickles down his flushed cheek, glistening in the soft light. His abs clench and flex with each thrust against the pillow. "Fuck... I can ... smell her..." he chokes out, his voice breaking with need. The pillow is now soaked with his sweat and the weeping tip of his cock.

It's clear that Rafayel is thinking of you, craving you, desperate to fill you and but he is also having trouble reaching his peak, so you decide to help.

You walk softly towards the bed, as you approach, his thrusts against the pillow falter, then stop altogether. He looks up at you with wide, teary eyes, his cheeks burning an even deeper shade of red.

That's when you see the raw vulnerability and need in his expression, the way he's stripped bare of all his usual composure and confidence. It's both humbling and deeply intimate, a rare glimpse into the true depth of his desire for you.

Sitting down gently beside him on the bed, you lean in close, your lips nearly brushing the shell of his ear and in a soft, encouraging whisper, you breathe out the words:

"Keep going, Raf. Cum for me."

Those three simple words, spoken with such gentle encouragement, seem to be the final push Rafayel needs. His eyes flutter closed, a look of pure bliss spreading across his face.

With a hoarse cry of your name, Rafayel's body goes rigid, his hips jerking forward as he finds his much needed release. Thick, hot ropes of his cum spurt from his fat cock, coating the pillow and his hand as he grips it with white knuckles.

"Such a good boy, Raf," you coo softly, reaching out to gently brush a damp lock of hair from his forehead. Your touch makes him shiver, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

You're glad you brought food, because you know you will both need it after the long day and night ahead of you.

You slip the key he gave you into the lock and turn it slowly, easing the door open as quietly as possible. The apartment is dimly lit and you can hear the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic, but otherwise, it's quiet.

Closing the door behind you, you pad softly into the kitchen. You have a plan, start on breakfast, then wake him so he can eat something. He's probably exhausted from his mission, and you want to make sure he has a nice, relaxing morning. Maybe he forgot you were supposed to have breakfast together this morning.

You open the fridge and start gathering ingredients, eggs, bacon, some fresh fruit. You had found a recipe online that looked delicious and you thought he might enjoy it.

The sound of something slamming softly against the wall grabs your attention. Concerned you walk towards his bedroom, leaving the ingredients on the kitchen counter, the sound growing louder with each step. Gently you turn the doorknob and ease the door to his bedroom open, just a little bit at first. But once you open it a little bit more the sight that greets you makes your breath catch in your throat.

Xavier is sprawled naked on his back, body bathed in the soft glow of the lights filtering through the window. His legs are bent, knees up and feet flat on the bed. Nestled between his thighs is a pillow, and you can see his hips rocking slowly, rubbing the pillow against his lenght.

Your gaze is drawn to his cock, standing proud against his stomach. You can see pearly drops of precum dripping from the swollen, flushed tip, trailing down and pooling in his abdomen.

Unconsciously you lick your lips, imagining the taste of his skin, the feel of his body against yours.

Xavier grips the pillow tightly with both hands. His long fingers dig into the fabric as he pulls on both sides, tightening the pillow around his throbbing cock. The soft material squeezes his shaft, providing a delicious friction that has him gritting his teeth.

You can see the desperation in the way he's chasing his pleasure, the hunger that drives him to seek more, always more. His eyes are clenched shut, lost in a world of sensation and desire. A part of you wonders what he's thinking about, what fantasies are playing out behind his closed lids to have him so worked up. 

You don't have to wait long for an answer.

"Fuck, bunny..." he grunts, voice breathless. "You feel so fucking good...ngh...take it all, just like that. Squeeze me... You ride me sooooo good... fuck, you're so tight...so perfect..."

There's no doubt about it now, in his mind, he's with you, lost in a fantasy starring none other than yourself.

His words dissolve into a moan, the sound vibrating through his chest. The signs of his impending orgasm are unmistakable. His thrusts become erratic, the grip on the pillow tightening. His breathing grows ragged and shallow, each inhale ending on a sharp grunt or a moan. The muscles in his thighs and stomach tense and flex.

"Fuck,... I'm... I'm so close... Ah, shit..." Xavier pants. He throws his head back, hair splaying out around him like a halo. "Don't stop...! don't you dare fucking stop..."

And in his head you don't stop because the next second he comes undone. His back arches sharply, pressing himself against the pillow, as thick ropes of hot, sticky cum spurt from his throbbing cock.

The headboard slams against the wall with the force of his thrusts, the rhythmic banging keeping time with the throbbing pulses of his release.

His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. The pillow is a mess, soaked through with his release. He collapses back onto the bed, a blissful smile playing at the corners of his lips.

For a moment, you're stunned speechless, hardly believing this really happened. Did he really just...?

Before you can overthink it, Xavier's head turns towards the door, his piercing blue gaze locking onto you. A slow, lazy smile spreads across his face, the smirk of a predator who's just spotted his prey.

"Come here, y/n," he purrs, "I noticed you were there before I came, but I wanted to keep the show going for you."

Of course he noticed you standing there, his hunter's instincts always on high alert. It's no wonder he's the best deepspace hunter. Now all you had to do was walk to him.

Easy...right?

[iwriteiguess]

𝐁𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 — 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐝

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐱 𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : To the anon who infected me with this brainrot — thank you. You gave me the excuse I didn’t know I needed to spiral into unhinged Sylus/Zayne territory and honestly? I regret nothing.

I know this won’t be everyone’s cup of venom, and guess what? I don’t care. I had the most fucking fun writing this. The tension? The filth? The power-play in a hospital of all places? I blacked out and woke up with a smirk and open wounds.

This is indulgent, messy, and exactly how I wanted it to be.

To the rest of you who get it — welcome to the descent. 🖤

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : When Sylus stumbles into the hospital, bloodied and half-feral, the last person he expects to find waiting is Zayne—calm, cold, and far too composed. But beneath the antiseptic lights and tension-laced stitching, something unspoken begins to crack. A rivalry forged in fire gives way to something darker, deeper… needier. And when the night finally stills, their restraint does not.

Enemies don’t always stay enemies—especially when desire tastes like blood and victory comes in moans.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰 : blood and injury, a brief hospital setting, explicit sexual content between two male characters (Sylus x Zayne, SnowCrow), rough sex, biting, mild dominance dynamics, and themes of emotional repression. NSFW

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜 : angel - slowed // velours

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ Press Here! ]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒.

It breathes in pain, exhales panic. The walls tremble with the weight of suffering—hallways pulsate with noise, machines bleating like dying animals, voices clashing like metal on metal. Somewhere, someone is sobbing. The sound slices through sterile air with the precision of shattered glass.

Sylus moves through it untouched.

Blood paints him—slick, warm, insistent. It clings to his leather like it belongs there, seeping through to the muscle beneath, fusing with him. His boots strike the polished floor in steady, wet percussion, leaving behind a trail he doesn’t bother concealing.

He doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t speak.

A nurse sees him first—her eyes widen, mouth parting around a gasp or a warning or a question, none of which matter. She steps into his path, clipboard clutched like a shield against the storm she senses too late.

He crashes through her like wind through brittle glass.

Another makes the mistake of reaching for him near the triage desk. He shoulders her aside without pause, a statue in motion, merciless and monolithic.

Their voices follow, desperate and distant.

“Sir, wait—”

“You’re bleeding—!”

“Security—!”

He keeps going.

Pain gnaws at his ribs—sharp, insistent—but it’s a whisper compared to the mission that devours him from the inside out.

Ahead, the elevator blinks. Its numbers crawl down at a glacial pace.

Too slow.

Too fucking slow.

He doesn’t think—he veers, pivoting toward the stairwell like a creature redirected by instinct alone. His blood-slick hand slams against the door’s push bar, and it groans open under his weight.

Then he runs.

Boots drum down the concrete steps like war, each impact sending fire lancing through his side. He doesn’t falter. He can’t. Not now.

Adrenaline screams beneath his skin. Rage—hotter, purer—follows in its wake.

The landings blur. Floors melt into one another—white lights, grey walls, the stench of disinfectant and dread. None of it registers. None of it matters.

Administrative wing. End of the hall. Last door on the right.

The thought pulls him forward like gravity—dark, absolute, inescapable. Something waits for him at the end of this path. Something inevitable.

He bursts through the stairwell door, shoulder first. The executive floor yawns open—pristine, glistening, wrong. Too quiet. Too clean. An illusion of order wrapped over rot.

His blood hits the tiles like scripture.

A secretary half-rises from her desk. Her face distorts—horror, confusion, fear. She opens her mouth.

Sylus looks at her.

She sits back down.

Good.

His wound screams now, louder with every breath, but he silences it. He has to.

He doesn’t stop until he’s at the end of the corridor, until the carved wood of the office door stands before him like a final trial.

Until he’s close enough to feel it—that heartbeat pulsing steady and slow on the other side, like a metronome, like a dare.

Zayne.

Sylus presses a blood-wet palm flat against the door.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does.

The door gives under his palm, swinging open with a low, reluctant groan.

The air inside is different. Cleaner. Colder.

Sylus crosses the threshold without hesitation, dragging streaks of crimson across the sterile floor. Behind him, the heavy door thuds shut, sealing the world out like the lid of a tomb.

Zayne is already standing. No coat. No gloves. Sleeves rolled back, throat bare, the razor line of his jaw catching the light like a blade.

For a stretched, brutal moment, neither man speaks.

Sylus feels it—the weight of that gaze, glacial and unblinking, raking over every torn, blood-slick edge of him. He meets it head-on, jaw locked, a silent refusal to flinch.

Zayne’s expression doesn’t waver. No frown. No widening of the eyes. Only calculation. Only that familiar, lethal patience that strips a man down to the bone.

The silence between them crackles, louder than the chaos Sylus left bleeding behind him.

He takes another step forward, deliberate, blood dripping from his fingertips to splatter on the immaculate tile. The room presses against him—too bright, too clean—as if the walls themselves are trying to scrub the violence from his skin.

He lets them try. He does not yield.

Zayne leans back against the edge of his desk, arms folding loosely across his chest, posture crafted with casual disinterest.

A lie.

Sylus sees it—the slight clench of his jaw, the betraying flicker of a pulse at his throat.

It would be easier if one of them spoke. If they named the thing that strangled the air between them, heavy and hungry and vicious.

Neither does.

Sylus tilts his head in a lazy, almost mocking angle. Blood slides down his wrist, tracing over his knuckles before kissing the floor.

Zayne’s eyes follow the movement, clinical, sharp.

Still, he says nothing.

Still, he doesn't move.

They stay there—locked in the kind of quiet only men like them can survive—made of defiance, of pride, of something darker and uglier festering beneath the surface. Both unwilling to yield. Both already bleeding from it.

The metallic tang of blood thickens at the back of Sylus’s throat. He smiles anyway—a slow, jagged thing, all teeth and no mercy.

Zayne’s lips part slightly, the ghost of a word forming, then dying.

Instead, he straightens to his full height, uncrossing his arms with a patience that could kill a man.

He turns to the tray of surgical tools laid out with clinical precision. His movements are steady, practiced, cold.

Another lie.

Sylus watches every motion—the way Zayne’s fingers curl, precise and impersonal—though Sylus knows there is nothing impersonal about this.

Not tonight.

Zayne lifts a pair of sterile scissors from the tray, the metal flashing wickedly under the overhead lights.

When his voice finally cuts through the thick silence, it slices clean to the bone.

“Take the jacket off.”

No question. No hesitation. No kindness.

Just command—sharp and undeniable.

Sylus’s grin widens, slow and feral, sharp enough to bleed.

This was going to be fun.

He shrugs the jacket off one shoulder.

Not quickly. Not efficiently.

Deliberately. With precision masquerading as compliance. Each motion a provocation sheathed in silk.

The leather clings for a moment—blood acting as glue—then peels away with a soft, viscous sound. The lining is stained deep red, like meat flayed from bone. Beneath, the muscle gleams where blood has smeared and dried, slick over the sharp terrain of his bicep, the curve of his ribs.

He keeps his eyes locked on Zayne.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t wince.

Lets the silence stretch between them like barbed wire, taut and trembling.

The other sleeve slips free with slow defiance, dragging across tense forearms until the ruined jacket hangs from his fingers—dripping, warm, still humming with violence.

He drops it.

It lands at his feet with a wet slap, blood blooming beneath it like something obscene and living.

Zayne doesn’t look down.

He’s too busy watching Sylus.

Not merely watching—studying, the way a marksman watches for the exact breath before a body breaks. His arms hang loose now, no longer folded. His fingers twitch once, subtly, betraying restraint. As though they ache to move. As though they’re waiting for permission neither of them will give.

Sylus draws in a slow breath through his nose.

Lets the moment breathe with him.

The silence of the hospital folds in—clinical, cold, pretending not to notice the electricity crawling up its walls.

Then Sylus reaches for the hem of his shirt. Torn. Soaked. Clinging like a lover that doesn’t know when to let go.

He grips the fabric with both hands and pulls. Inch by inch, it peels upward, exposing flesh mapped with bruises, scrapes, half-healed chaos. The cut along his side snags the cloth, forces a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Still, he keeps going. Still, he doesn’t look away.

The shirt comes off in one final rip—discarded without ceremony, a blood-soaked flag of war flung at Zayne’s feet.

Now bare to the waist, Sylus stands still.

Wounded. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

There’s blood dried in the hollow of his throat. Sweat slicks the small of his back. Scars catch the light like secrets.

He is beautiful in his ruin. Defiant in his vulnerability.

Zayne says nothing.

But the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

He steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Scissors in one gloved hand—controlled, precise, surgical. Not trembling. Not urgent. But not untouched, either.

Sylus sees it.

In the flicker of his gaze. In the mouth drawn too tight. In the way Zayne’s eyes pause just a second too long over the curve of a rib, the ghost of a scar.

Zayne lifts the blade.

Holds it near Sylus’s skin.

Doesn’t touch. Not yet.

When he speaks, the word lands low, rough-edged, soaked in command.

“Sit.”

Just one word. One drop of control dropped into a room full of gasoline.

Sylus doesn’t obey. Not immediately.

He smiles first—wider now. All teeth, all understanding. The kind of smile that threatens and invites in the same breath.

Then, slowly, like he's offering charity to a starving man, he lowers himself into the chair.

Not obedient. Not submissive. Just choosing, for now, to allow.

Zayne moves without speaking.

He sets the scissors aside with methodical care, the faint clink of metal barely audible over the hum of fluorescent lights, too bright, too sterile. The tray beside him is a battlefield of precision: gauze, antiseptic, needle, thread—all clean, all sharp, all lies.

Nothing about this feels clean.

He tears open a swab, soaks it in antiseptic. The smell strikes first—chemical, brutal, a memory of every failure written into the bloodstream.

Sylus doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t brace. Just spreads his knees a fraction wider and leans back, silent, waiting.

Zayne steps between his legs.

No permission asked. None needed.

The first press of soaked cotton lands just beneath Sylus’s collarbone.

It burns.

Not from the wound.

From the hand that holds it—steady, clinical, too careful by half.

Zayne doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays fixed, surgical. Or pretends to be. As if Sylus is nothing but meat and blood and damage to be stitched back together. As if this isn't a different kind of dissection.

The swab moves in slow, precise circles, tracing bruises like they mean something. Like he’s reading a map only he understands.

The room thickens with it.

Not pain. Not blood. Something worse.

The lack of it—no slips, no gasps, no mistakes.

Zayne is too careful. Zayne, who isn't supposed to care.

And yet— —the fingers in the gloves tremble, just once, just enough, the smallest rebellion against the mask he wears.

Sylus notices. Of course he notices.

Zayne switches to a fresh swab, the next drag of alcohol biting down Sylus’s ribs. The motion forces proximity—his face close enough that Sylus can feel the ghost of breath over his skin, accidental or not.

Sylus tilts his head, lazy, predatory. Watches from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Zayne doesn’t react.

Or tries not to.

Another swab. Another pass. Each one slower than the last.

There’s a gash along Sylus’s side—shallow, ugly, insistent. Zayne presses gauze to it, firm, unkind. His other hand braces Sylus’s hip, gloved fingers pressing down too tightly, gripping too long.

Sylus breathes through his nose. Endures it.

No wince. No break.

When Zayne pulls away, Sylus shifts.

Barely.

But it’s enough—enough that the inside of his thigh drags against Zayne’s leg.

Contact. Friction. Intention.

Zayne freezes.

Just for a breath.

Then he moves—careful, controlled—reaching for the needle already threaded, already waiting.

His voice, when it finally cracks the silence, is quieter now. Not softer.

“Hold still.”

No please. No kindness. Just another command, brittle at the edges.

Sylus’s lips part. His tongue flicks against the inside of his cheek— —not a smile. Not this time.

Only the ghost of something darker, meaner, hungrier.

He doesn't move.

But the stillness is a lie.

Because they both know—

—hands always start shaking eventually.

The needle bites into flesh.

Sharp. Clean. Unapologetic.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

No hiss, no grunt—only the steady, deliberate rise and fall of his chest, breath anchored low like a weight dropped into deep water.

Zayne’s hand moves with mechanical precision—push, pull, knot, cut—the rhythm of a man carving distance into something already too close.

Each stitch is perfect. Small. Precise. Surgically cruel.

But perfection never holds.

By the fourth puncture, the tremor starts.

Subtle at first—a tightening around Zayne’s fingers, a twitch at the wrist.

The needle hovers a fraction too long against torn skin, hesitation bleeding into the room.

Sylus feels it.

Feels everything.

His gaze drops—not to the wound, not to the blood—but to Zayne’s mouth. The clenched line of his jaw. The muscles in his throat working against the weight of restraint.

The next stitch sinks deeper than necessary.

Not an accident.

A message.

Sylus exhales, slow and deep, the breath ghosting against Zayne’s forearm where it cages him close. The contact is incidental. Harmless.

Weaponized.

Zayne’s fingers tighten on the needle, the thread drawn taut enough to hum with tension.

Sylus shifts, deliberate—muscle flexing beneath gloved hands, a sinuous reminder of everything Zayne is touching, everything he’s trying so hard to treat like just another body broken open by violence.

The next stitch drags.

Not smooth. Not clean.

Zayne makes a sound—small, unguarded, almost a breath—but Sylus catches it. Tastes it. Tucks it away like a trophy.

He tilts his head, lets his voice spill out low and poisoned, a blade wrapped in silk.

"You're losing your touch."

The words slip into the room like smoke through cracks, seeping into marrow.

Zayne doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

The thread pulls harder. The needle punctures deeper. His hand presses firmer against Sylus’s side, pinning him under the thin excuse of stability.

But they both know better.

It isn’t the wound Zayne’s trying to steady.

It’s himself.

Sylus’s mouth curves—not into a grin, not this time—but into something colder.

Hungrier.

Challenge, sharpened to a lethal edge.

When Zayne leans in to set the next stitch, Sylus moves—barely—a calculated tilt of the head that brushes their faces together.

Skin against skin. A whisper of violence. A prayer of desecration.

Zayne freezes.

The needle hangs suspended, half-threaded.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the room holds its breath with them.

Sylus inhales the sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic, but underneath it, something richer coils—salt, blood, heat, the feral stench of fury barely contained.

Zayne pulls back.

Sharp. Controlled.

Barely.

The suture snaps tight under a brutal final tug, knotting the last line of blood shut with a surgeon’s precision and a fighter’s violence.

Finished.

At least on the surface.

The needle drops into the tray with a clatter, metallic and final, too loud for the suffocating quiet.

Zayne peels one of off his gloves next, slow, methodical, his fingers flexing like a man reminding himself of every inch of skin he hasn't yet surrendered.

Yet.

Sylus leans back in the chair, shirtless, bloodied, smiling the way only men who have already won do.

And maybe he has.

Because Zayne’s hands are no longer steady.

And Sylus—

—Sylus isn’t done pushing.

Sylus watches everything.

The way Zayne breathes through his nose. The way his spine locks rigid. The way restraint leaks out of him molecule by molecule, a slow, irreversible hemorrhage no amount of professionalism can suture shut.

Good.

Sylus shifts—barely—but the sound of his boot scraping the floor splits the quiet like a crack in porcelain.

A warning. A dare.

Then, with blood-slicked fingers, he lifts a hand and wraps it around Zayne’s wrist.

Not tight. Not rough.

Just enough to feel the hammering pulse beneath fragile skin.

For one suspended second, Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even breathe.

Sylus tilts his head, the movement lazy, almost cruel, and lets his voice slip free in a low murmur.

“You’re shaking.”

Not a question. An accusation. An invitation.

Zayne’s jaw ticks hard enough to crack bone.

Still, he says nothing.

Coward.

Sylus tightens his grip, just slightly, thumb brushing the frantic beat fluttering against tendons and bone. The betrayal Zayne can’t hide. The confession he can’t choke down.

Sylus leans in—not touching, not bridging the chasm fully—but close enough that his words could bleed straight into Zayne’s bloodstream.

“It’s not the blood that’s getting to you, is it Doctor?”

He watches the swallow hitch Zayne’s throat. Watches the sharp flare of his nostrils. Watches him break, molecule by molecule.

Zayne’s free hand curls into a tighter fist, knuckles whitening under the strain.

Sylus smiles, slow and deliberate.

Predator wearing the skin of patience.

“You want to ruin something, don’t you?”

A whisper. A blade drawn slow across a throat. A mockery crafted over years of bruised silences and things left unsaid.

“Me.” “Yourself.”

Both truths rot between them, sweet and sickening.

Zayne wrenches his wrist free.

Not violently. Not with rage.

With the kind of restraint that bleeds—measured, agonizing, a choice that costs something vital and irreplaceable.

He takes a step back.

Breathing harder now, like the air itself is razors.

Sylus stays seated.

Legs spread, blood drying in ugly constellations across his ribs, wearing destruction like a throne.

Looking, in that moment, like the only goddamn thing in the whole clinical, fluorescent world worth burning for.

And Zayne— Zayne looks at him like he knows it.

They hang there, suspended on the wire of everything they cannot say. Everything that would kill them if spoken.

Sylus tilts his chin up, delivering the final blow in a voice carved from iron and temptation.

"Tell me no."

A beat.

A breath.

"Go on."

Daring him.

Daring him to pretend there’s still a world where either of them can walk away untouched.

Zayne doesn’t answer.

Because there’s no point lying anymore.

Zayne moves.

Fast. Final.

His hand clamps around Sylus’s throat, fingers biting into battered skin, palm pinning him to the chair like a verdict handed down without trial.

The force is controlled—barely. Enough to catch Sylus’s breath, not enough to leave bruises.

Not yet.

Sylus doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t lift a hand. Doesn’t so much as flinch.

He only looks up.

Eyes molten, merciless. Mouth curved in a ghost of a smirk—something too ancient, too ruthless, to be called human.

A dare. A promise. A loaded gun cocked and waiting.

Zayne’s grip tightens, knuckles flashing white under the strain.

His body crowds into Sylus’s space, pressing him back against the hard frame of the chair, pinning him there like a specimen under glass. Every muscle in him vibrates with the effort it takes not to crush, not to consume, not to end this the way every instinct is screaming for.

Sylus tilts his chin higher into the hold, offering up his throat like a king surrendering a crown he never intended to relinquish.

The world beyond the office dies. No footsteps. No voices. No alarms.

Only breathing—strained, brutal—and the cold, relentless tremor crawling up Zayne’s arms.

He leans closer.

Until their foreheads almost touch. Until he can taste defiance thick on Sylus’s skin, salt and heat and inevitability.

Still, Sylus does not blink. Does not speak. Does not yield.

His pulse thrums steady against Zayne’s palm—a taunt, a siren's call, a noose tightening in reverse.

The bastard is enjoying this.

And Zayne—

Zayne is coming undone one heartbeat at a time.

His other hand fists in the back of Sylus’s hair, yanking his head back farther, exposing the ruin of his throat to brutal scrutiny.

A sound rips out of Zayne—low, raw, almost a snarl—the ghost of something feral clawing its way up from the place where he keeps his control buried.

His chest drags rough and ragged against Sylus’s bare skin, a friction that feels more like a confession than any words could ever be.

Sylus lets him.

Lets him see it all—the open wounds, the bruises, the smudged fingerprints of other wars.

None of it mattered.

None of it touched him like this. Only Zayne. Only now.

The chair groans under the strain, Sylus’s shoulders digging into the plastic, his legs spread wide, shameless, relaxed in a way that weaponizes the posture into something obscene.

The look he gives Zayne—half-lidded, mocking, starving—says everything he refuses to utter aloud.

Is this it? Is this all you’ve got?

Zayne’s fingers tighten, riding the bleeding edge between domination and destruction.

And Sylus—

Sylus just smiles.

Wider. Crueler. Knowing.

Because he knows. He’s always known.

Zayne will fall first.

And Sylus will make sure it hurts when he does.

Zayne snaps.

Not with fists. Not with shattered glass.

Something colder. Sharper. Surgical.

His hand tightens once—bruising, warning—before he drives Sylus back against the chair with a jerk hard enough to rattle the frame.

The impact slams through Sylus’s spine—a brutal reminder of leverage, of how easily control could shift hands if he let it.

He doesn’t.

He only laughs.

Low. Dangerous. A sound scraped from the bottom of a broken chest.

Zayne’s palm stays locked at his throat, the other hand twisting tighter into his hair, dragging his head back, leaving his mouth half-parted, his body arched under the pressure.

"Say it," Zayne grits out, voice worn down to something ragged and feral.

His breath scorches across Sylus’s skin, hot and seething, pulled from a mouth stretched too tight to be anything but furious.

Sylus’s lips part— Not in surrender.

In provocation.

"Say what, doc?"

Mockery, pure and venomous, poured straight into the wound.

Zayne’s fingers twitch, his control fraying at the seams.

Sylus feels it—the tremor of rage trembling through every corded muscle straining not to break him apart.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t yield.

He leans into it—spine grinding harder against the chair, the violence fed into his bones like communion.

Zayne yanks his head back another inch, brutal, stretching the cords of his neck taut, making breath itself a conscious, costly thing.

"Say what you came here for," Zayne snarls. "Say why you dragged your half-dead ass through my hospital."

Sylus’s heart beats slow and steady against the hand trying—and failing—to master it.

He could lie. Could pretend it was proximity, necessity, survival.

But they are too deep now. Too ruined for anything less than the truth.

Sylus drags his tongue across the inside of his cheek, tasting the iron of blood and something meaner lodged between his teeth.

His gaze never leaves Zayne’s.

Not once.

"Came to see if you'd finally break."

A heartbeat. A breath.

Then a whisper, soft and devastating—

"Guess I didn’t have to try that hard."

The words crack the air between them.

Zayne’s snarl is silent, carved into the brutal line of his jaw, the burning fury in his eyes, the death grip bruising Sylus’s throat.

The chair groans under the strain, the screws biting into the frame like they, too, are barely holding together.

Sylus lets it happen.

Lets the pressure bleed through him.

Lets the bruises form.

Lets the moment devour the last scraps of reason between them.

Zayne’s face is so close Sylus can see the fine tremors tracing his mouth.

Can feel every brutal inhale clawing past the wreckage of self-control.

One push from ruin. One word from collapse.

Zayne leans in, mouth brushing dangerously close to Sylus’s ear.

The breath that strikes Sylus’s skin is a furnace blast—hot, wrecked, soaked in promises that should never leave the mind, let alone the mouth.

“One more word,” Zayne rasps, voice broken beyond repair, “and I’ll make you beg.”

Not a threat. A vow.

Sylus’s pulse kicks hard, hammering against the fingers bruising his collarbone.

He could break it here. Now.

One word, one push, and Zayne would shatter.

Instead, he chooses cruelty dressed in silk.

Sylus tilts his head—just enough—until his lips ghost the shell of Zayne’s ear, the barest scrape of contact, the kind that makes breathing a forgotten concept.

His whisper threads velvet and venom into a single, devastating breath.

"Good boy."

Two words.

Soft enough to wound. Sharp enough to destroy.

The reaction is instant.

Zayne jerks back, fury slashing across his features, hands locking down like vices—

—and Sylus moves faster.

His own hand lashes up, seizing the back of Zayne’s neck, fingers threading into the sweat-damp short hair, yanking him down with brutal, merciless force.

No warning. No hesitation. No mercy.

Their mouths crash together in a collision of teeth and violence.

The impact shudders through both of them— violent, graceless, inevitable.

Not a kiss. Not anything so civilized.

An assault. A confession. A dragging out of need from the wreckage they’ve both been pretending didn’t exist.

Zayne fists the meat of Sylus’s side, dragging him higher into the brutal contact, answering violence with violence, hunger with hunger, breathing into the hollow of Sylus’s mouth like he could drown them both before he’d ever let go.

Neither gives ground. Neither yields.

This isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And they’ve both already lost.

Zayne deepens the kiss with a brutal drag of teeth, biting Sylus’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Sylus answers with a vicious sound ripped from the depths of his chest—half-laughter, half-snarl, pure violence dressed in heat.

Their hands grapple for dominance—Zayne shoving, Sylus pulling—until there’s no clear boundary left between them. Only heat, only violence, only the shared ruin of blood and sweat slicking every frantic clash of mouths.

Sylus arches under the onslaught, body snapping taut against Zayne’s weight, every nerve lit up like a battlefield.

This isn’t gentle.

It isn’t careful.

It never could be.

Zayne seizes a fistful of Sylus’s hair, wrenching his head to the side, dragging his mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, teeth scraping a brutal path toward the vulnerable skin just beneath his ear.

He bites there— savage. Claiming. Final.

Sylus gasps against him—a broken, guttural sound—hips canting up in a sharp, desperate grind that leaves no room for pretense.

Zayne answers by slamming him harder against the chair, one hand locking around Sylus’s hip, fingers digging into bruised flesh like he means to leave fingerprints stitched into bone.

The chair groans under their fury, its frame shrieking with every shove, every desperate collision of bodies driven by something far older and darker than want.

Sylus retaliates—nails raking down Zayne’s back through the thin barrier of his shirt—not enough to tear, but enough to mark. Enough to brand.

Zayne's mouth crushes back to Sylus’s—devouring, punishing— a raw collision of teeth and tongue that tastes of blood, rage, and something black and bottomless neither of them dare name.

Their breathing shatters, breaking apart in harsh, ragged gasps, filling the room with the sound of collapse.

Zayne braces one knee between Sylus’s legs, forcing him open wider, grounding him in place, crushing any last delusion of escape between bruised thighs and battered pride.

Sylus takes it.

Takes all of it.

And smiles against Zayne’s mouth like he planned this ruin from the very start.

The kiss twists crueler, angrier—every drag of Zayne’s mouth a curse, every clash of teeth a confession they cannot bury deep enough to silence.

When Zayne finally tears away, ripping the kiss apart with a savage snap of teeth, a thin string of blood smears between them—Sylus’s lip torn open, the red glistening like a war-banner across his mouth.

They freeze there.

Locked. Breathing hard. Hands still fisted in ruined clothes and broken skin.

There’s nothing left to pretend.

Not anymore.

Zayne’s hand remains clamped around Sylus’s throat, thumb dragging a slow, possessive stroke across the bruised column of his neck—half reverence, half claim.

Sylus swallows against the pressure—slow, deliberate—his gaze gleaming with something filthy and victorious.

Sylus lifts a hand.

Slow enough to taunt.

Not to shove Zayne away. Not to fight.

To command.

His fingers brush along the sharp edge of Zayne’s jaw—featherlight, a mockery of tenderness.

He feels it—the tension thrumming beneath skin, the tremor buried deep in muscle and bone.

Good.

Without a word, Sylus presses down.

Down. Guiding. Demanding.

Zayne resists—for half a breath. One strained heartbeat of pride.

Then he sinks to his knees like gravity itself answers to Sylus alone.

The sight is obscene.

Zayne kneeling there— shoulders rigid, fists curled against the cold floor like he could anchor himself against inevitability.

Sylus tilts his head, studying him like something expensive he’s deciding whether to ruin.

Then he spreads his legs wider.

The chair creaks under the slow, deliberate shift of weight, leather whining against blood-slicked skin.

Sylus’s fingers tangle in Zayne’s hair, dragging short strands through his grip with deliberate cruelty.

"Open me up," Sylus says, voice low, wrecked, soaked in sin.

Not a plea.

A command. A sentence.

Zayne looks up through his lashes—eyes blackened with rage, wreckage, worship—and Sylus watches the war rage behind them.

Pride. Fury. Reverence.

All bleeding into something far too raw to name.

Slowly, Zayne’s hands rise.

Unsteady.

Unbuttoning. Unzipping. Dragging down the ruined waistband just enough to bare sharp hipbones and the thick, hard line of Sylus straining against bruised, bloodied skin.

Sylus hums low in his throat—a dark vibration rippling across the fresh bruises blooming along his neck.

His thumb brushes Zayne’s cheekbone—almost tender, almost cruel.

"That's it," he murmurs, a threadbare mercy stitched into the violence.

"Be a good boy for me."

Zayne’s breath stutters against his thigh—hot, broken, wrecked.

Sylus tightens his grip in his hair, tilting his face up, forcing him to hold his gaze.

"You're going to open that pretty mouth," Sylus breathes, thumb stroking the corner of Zayne’s lips, "and take everything I give you."

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

He just breathes—shallow, frantic—caught between defiance and the desperate inevitability of submission.

Sylus smiles then.

Slow. Poisonous.

The kind of smile that promises two things: Ruin. And mercy.

Both.

"You want it," he whispers, voice scraping the last vestiges of restraint from the air, "same way you wanted to break me."

He spreads his legs wider—an invitation, a command, a final noose.

Another silent dare.

Another sentence written into skin.

Zayne’s hands clench against Sylus’s thighs—white-knuckled, trembling—but he doesn’t pull away.

Not anymore.

He’s already kneeling. Already gone.

Already home.

And Sylus—

Sylus plans to make sure he never forgets it.

Sylus shifts in the chair, spreading wider, dragging Zayne closer with nothing but the lazy pull of fingers curled deeper into his hair.

Zayne’s breath stutters against Sylus’s exposed skin—hot, uneven, wrecked.

Sylus watches.

Watches the way pride collapses under the gravity of need. Watches the flicker in Zayne’s lashes, the tremble in his fists clenched against Sylus’s thighs like lifelines.

"Go on," Sylus murmurs— a velvet-draped blade. "Be good for me."

The command slices the thick silence clean open.

Zayne obeys.

He leans in.

His mouth brushes the sensitive crease of Sylus’s hip with a reverence that borders on the sacrilegious. His tongue follows—tracing bruised flesh, tasting blood, sweat, salt.

Ruin.

Sylus’s head falls back, a low, broken exhale ripped straight from his chest. His grip tightens in Zayne’s hair—enough to remind him of the leash wound invisible around his throat.

"Fuck—look at you," Sylus hisses, glancing down, gaze locking on Zayne’s wrecked, dark eyes. "On your knees for me."

Zayne answers with nothing but a needy, fractured sound vibrating into Sylus’s skin, his mouth trailing lower, lips drawing a path with aching deliberation.

When his lips close around the head of Sylus’s cock, Sylus’s whole body shudders—not from pain. From the effort it takes not to come apart.

Heat envelopes him—wet, tight, devastating.

His knuckles whiten in Zayne’s hair, anchoring him to the moment, the sensation, the worship.

Zayne moves slow at first—languid, deliberate—mouth dragging inch by inch, pupils blown wide with something filthy and fragile.

Sylus can’t look away.

The sight of him—beautiful, broken, hungry—chokes the air from the room.

He rolls his hips forward, shallow but commanding, deeper into the slick heat of Zayne’s mouth.

Zayne takes it.

Stretches. Chokes. Endures.

His hands bruise into Sylus’s thighs, clutching tight enough to leave marks, enough to say I won’t let go until you make me.

Every gag, every wet, obscene sound fans the fire into something relentless.

Sylus brushes a thumb over the hollow of Zayne’s cheek— feeling the stretch. The effort. The surrender.

"That’s it," he breathes, voice dragging like velvet through gravel, hips rolling harder. "Good fucking boy."

Zayne moans around him, the sound reverberating up Sylus’s spine like a prayer that ends in collapse.

Sylus thrusts deeper—punishing, reverent—his other hand cupping Zayne’s jaw, forcing it wider, forcing him to take it all.

Zayne’s eyes glass over, tears beading in the corners as his throat struggles around each brutal thrust.

Sylus knows he’s cruel.

Knows he should stop.

But he won’t.

He can’t.

Not when Zayne kneels like this.

Not when he offers himself up like something sacred. Something holy and ruined and his.

Sylus fucks harder, the chair rattling beneath them, the frame groaning like it, too, is near collapse.

His climax hits like a blade.

Sudden. Inevitable. Merciless.

He grips Zayne’s jaw, forces his gaze upward.

Look. Look at who’s breaking you.

Their eyes lock.

And Sylus snaps.

He comes down Zayne’s throat with a hoarse, wrecked sound, hips stuttering, fingers gripping so tight Zayne’s scalp screams in protest.

Zayne takes all of it.

Swallows it—messy, greedy, grateful.

Only when Sylus pulls back, breath ragged, does he release the hold on Zayne’s hair.

Zayne stays there. Kneeling. Mouth wrecked. Throat working around the aftertaste of surrender.

Sylus watches him—still sprawled in the chair, still bleeding, still owning every inch of the man knelt before him.

"Good fucking boy," he mutters again, thumb dragging across Zayne’s ruined mouth.

Zayne leans into the touch like he was made for it.

And maybe—

Maybe he was.

Zayne lifts his hand, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist.

The smear of red left behind looks deliberate. Almost elegant. Like art rendered in aftermath.

He doesn’t look at Sylus when he speaks, voice husky but controlled.

“You’ve made your point.”

Then he rises.

Pushes off the floor with a composure too careful to be real.

His knees crack as he straightens—the sound loud in the thick, ruined silence.

He smooths the wrinkles from his slacks like a man trying to stitch himself back into dignity.

Sylus says nothing.

Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Zayne’s hands brush dust—blood, sweat, the last fragments of pride—from his thighs with surgical precision. Like he can erase what just happened if he’s careful enough. Like it didn’t touch something vital.

He turns without waiting for a response. Walks to his desk.

Measured. Unhurried.

His spine is too straight. Every step bleeding tension he pretends isn’t there.

He reaches for something—paperwork, a folder, maybe just the illusion of barrier.

But behind him—

The chair creaks.

Soft. Subtle. Predatory.

Sylus rises.

Fluid as breath. Quiet as regret.

Zayne doesn’t notice.

Not until Sylus is there. Close. Too close.

Heat bleeds between them as Sylus presses in—chest to back, hips aligned, breath ghosting over the curve of Zayne’s neck.

Not touching with force. Touching with intention.

Zayne goes rigid. Hands hovering above the desk. Spine pulled taut like a bowstring ready to break.

Sylus leans in.

His mouth brushes the shell of Zayne’s ear, his voice a whisper made of ash and ruin.

“We’re not done.”

The words burn into skin like a brand.

A pause. A beat.

Then Sylus’s hand slides forward.

Slow. Precise.

Fingers settling at Zayne’s hip. Thumb stroking the waistband of his slacks. Grip flexing just enough to promise—

Not mercy. Not escape. More.

Zayne doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

But his breathing stutters—the only betrayal in a silence stitched from control.

Sylus smiles against his neck.

“Not even close.”

Sylus lets the silence stretch. Tight. Taut. Intentional.

Then he dips lower.

His lips graze the shell of Zayne’s ear, tongue flicking out once—just enough to taste the salt pooled there.

“You want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice spun from silk and shadow. “Say the word.”

He already knows Zayne won’t.

His hand moves with that same cruel patience he’s always carried—sliding down the flat plane of Zayne’s abdomen, past the crisp edge of his shirt, to the belt that holds everything together.

One tug.

The buckle gives with a sharp, metallic click—a sound that slices through the sterile hush of the office like a verdict.

Zayne’s head tips back. Slow. Deliberate.

It lands heavy against Sylus’s shoulder.

His eyes close. His breath stutters—too shallow, too fast for a man who prides himself on composure.

Sylus presses a single kiss to the hinge of his jaw. Just once. Like punctuation. Like a signature.

Then his hands are moving again— palming the heat beneath Zayne’s slacks. Hard. Hot. Barely restrained.

“Fuck,” Sylus breathes, voice rough with approval. “You're already aching for it, aren’t you?”

His thumb drags along the shape of Zayne’s cock through the fabric—slow strokes, precise pressure. Just enough. Never more.

Zayne grips the edge of the desk in both hands—knuckles bone-white, head still tipped back, mouth open like he’s halfway between a moan and a prayer.

Sylus unzips him—knuckles grazing skin, dragging the fabric down just enough to free him.

Zayne’s cock springs free—flushed, straining, glistening under the fluorescent lights like something profane made sacred.

Sylus wraps a hand around the base—tight, possessive—and begins to stroke.

Slow. Intentional. Designed to ruin.

Zayne makes a sound—guttural, wordless—hips twitching helplessly against the rhythm.

Sylus chuckles. Low. Wicked. Quiet as a curse.

The sound vibrates into Zayne’s spine.

“That’s it,” he murmurs at his ear. “Let me feel how close you are.”

Zayne gasps when Sylus’s thumb rolls over the head—slick and merciless. His fingers dig into the desk now, carving truth into woodgrain.

Sylus works him—long, firm pulls from base to tip, each stroke calibrated just shy of too much.

His other arm winds around Zayne’s waist, anchoring them together—no space, no escape.

Every twitch. Every curse. Every stuttering breath—

Sylus feels it all.

Zayne’s body jolts with each pass of his hand, the sound of slick skin obscene in the quiet, building toward something furious and unstoppable.

“Say it,” Sylus breathes, lips dragging down the curve of Zayne’s throat. “Say whose hands make you fall apart like this.”

Zayne tries— tries to swallow it, to grit his teeth against the truth clawing up his throat.

Fails.

His voice breaks open.

“Sylus—”

One word. Not a plea. Not a command.

A confession.

Sylus strokes faster now—unforgiving, punishing. His grip slick, tight, brutal in its focus. Zayne’s thighs tremble, hips chasing every drag of that hand, breath disintegrating into short, frantic gasps.

But just when the edge rises— just when the heat crests and tips toward the fall—

Sylus stops.

Freezes.

Fingers locked around the base, tight, merciless.

Zayne chokes on a groan, his forehead crashing to the desk, breath ragged, arms trembling under the weight of restraint and denial.

Sylus kisses his ear. Soft. Final. A sentence more than a touch.

“Not yet.”

Sylus steps back—just enough.

Just enough to make Zayne groan—low, wrecked, frustration breaking through his composure like wildfire through brittle bones.

Zayne’s hips twitch where he’s bent over the desk, cock flushed and dripping, thighs trembling from the brutal ache of denial.

Sylus palms the curve of his ass—both hands now—

squeezing hard enough to bruise before dragging him back, tilting his hips, arranging him not for convenience—

but for claim.

How he wants. How he’s earned.

Zayne doesn’t resist.

He just presses his cheek to the wood, breath fogging the surface, hands splayed wide—surrender made flesh.

Sylus drags his cock along the cleft of Zayne’s ass— slow, heavy— smearing the mess of earlier teasing along sweat-slicked skin.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough with smoke and steel. “Ready to be fucked open and begging for it.”

Zayne huffs a broken breath, a whimper curling into something that might be a laugh.

“So fucking full of yourself.”

Sylus grins—sharp, unrepentant—coating himself in the slick still leaking from Zayne’s last unfinished fall.

“And you're still bent over this desk with your cock dripping,” he growls, lining up behind him. “So who’s winning, doc?”

Zayne opens his mouth— but whatever he meant to say dies the second Sylus pushes in.

Not a thrust. A claim.

Slow. Relentless.

Zayne’s mouth parts in a silent gasp, one hand clawing the desk, the other bracing his weight as Sylus sinks in deeper—

inch by inch, control by control, breath by breath.

“Shit—fuck,” Zayne groans, hips jerking back, a collision of plea and instinct. “God—just move.”

Sylus does.

Not fast. Not hard.

Just deep.

A single, devastating pull out—then back in.

A rhythm of purpose. Of punishment. Of possession.

Zayne shudders with it, spine arching, every stroke dragging over the spot that makes him see stars behind his clenched eyes.

Sylus leans in, chest to back, mouth right at his ear.

“You feel that?” “That stretch? That ache?”

His teeth scrape along the edge of Zayne’s jaw.

“That’s mine.”

Zayne’s fingers claw at the desk, knuckles pale, the sound of skin on skin rising around them—wet, sharp, relentless.

“Say it,” Sylus growls, hips snapping forward. “Say who ruins you like this.”

Zayne shudders.

His voice breaks.

“You—fuck, Sylus—you do.”

Sylus licks a slow line up the back of his throat, then bites—not to draw blood.

To mark.

“Good boy.”

And the praise—

hits harder than any thrust.

Zayne moans, louder now, legs trembling beneath him, his whole body stretched thin by the weight of every second he’s not allowed to fall apart.

Sylus keeps him there— on the edge, at the altar, in the fire.

Drawing it out.

Making him feel every inch he’s not yet allowed to have.

“You’ll take what I give you,” Sylus whispers into sweat-drenched skin, “And you’ll thank me for every second I keep you wanting.”

Zayne’s head drops.

Another choked noise tears free—raw, pleading—as Sylus grinds deep again, every movement slow, devastating, possessive.

Zayne’s voice is gone.

Wrecked.

“Please—fuck, Sylus—let me—let me come—”

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t yield.

Not yet.

He buries himself to the hilt, heat flooding between them, breath spilling against Zayne’s neck.

And then—

“Not until I say.”

Zayne groans—low, wrecked— as Sylus grinds in deep and holds there, the stillness sharp, brutal, a pressure that makes sweat bead at the back of his neck.

He shifts—hips twitching, seeking friction, any rhythm at all— desperate.

Sylus gives him nothing.

Just leans in. Breath curling over the back of Zayne’s neck like smoke.

“So greedy,” he murmurs, voice slow, sharp. “Where’d that control of yours go?”

Zayne hisses, knuckles white where they clutch the edge of the desk. His cock—flushed, leaking, untouched—throbs helplessly.

Sylus watches it.

Watches the way hunger pulses through him—blinding, base, intoxicating.

Still buried to the hilt, he pulls back just enough to make Zayne whine—then slams back in. One brutal thrust. One full-body shiver.

“Say you want it.”

Zayne gasps, the words tumbling from his mouth in pieces.

“I want it—fuck, Sylus, please—”

Sylus grins.

Feral. Cruel. Victorious.

And then—finally—he gives in.

His hand wraps around Zayne’s cock—hot, slick, punishing—stroking him in perfect, merciless rhythm to the roll of his hips.

Zayne arches off the desk with a strangled moan, caught in the no man’s land between retreat and collapse.

Sylus fucks into him deeper, harder—every thrust timed with the savage drag of his fist, wringing Zayne toward the edge in tidal waves.

“You feel that?” Sylus growls against his neck. “That’s me. No one else. Only me.”

Zayne nods blindly—eyes shut, lips parted, the truth already wrung from his bones.

“God—Sylus—I’m close—I can’t—”

Sylus curls around him—one arm banding across his chest, the other still stroking— and pulls him upright in a single, brutal motion.

Off the desk. Into his arms. Never breaking pace. Never letting go.

Zayne’s head falls back against Sylus’s shoulder, mouth open, gasping like he can’t draw breath without him.

Sylus bites down at his throat—hard—then kisses the mark like an apology.

His hand works faster now. Slick. Brutal. Beautiful. Every pass a promise, every thrust a possession.

Zayne jerks in his arms—hips chasing the rhythm, legs barely holding—ruined.

"Let go," Sylus breathes, voice raw. "Come for me."

Zayne’s body goes taut—bowstring tight—and then he breaks.

“Sylus—fuck—!”

He comes hard, spilling across Sylus’s hand, trembling, breath caught in a chest that no longer knows how to steady itself.

Sylus doesn’t stop.

Keeps driving into him, faster now, chasing his own end with violent, desperate thrusts.

The room fills with the sound of slick skin, shattered breath, and the heat of something far too big to name.

Zayne slumps in his arms—boneless, trembling, wrecked. Head buried in the curve of Sylus’s neck. Lips brushing skin with every gasping inhale.

And that— that— is what undoes him.

Sylus drives in one final time, groaning into Zayne’s hair as he comes, hips stuttering, hands clenching Zayne’s waist like he could carve permanence into bone.

It tears through him—raw, blinding.

And all he can feel is this:

Zayne. Broken. Breathing. His.

They stay like that. Locked. Burning. Every nerve thrumming with what they didn’t say.

Sweat. Come. Silence.

Zayne’s lips part—just enough to let one word fall out.

“Fuck.”

Sylus kisses the side of his throat.

Low. Final. Irrevocable.

“You’re mine.”

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

[iwriteiguess]

tw: sub!sylus if you don’t like freaky shit pls don’t ready thank u <3

Sylus was a dream, laid bare in all his magnificent, muscled glory in a single cushion loveseat, legs hooked over the arms sluttily, looking up at you with pleading carmine eyes.

“Oh, my love you look so pretty like this.” You smile, looming over him as his fingers tug desperately at his throbbing length, savoring the way his mouth parts and lets out a choked groan, cascading spittle from above, letting it drop agonizingly slow down onto his blushing cock head.

Sylus think he might die. Like really die.

It’s been hours of orgasm denial, letting him fuck his hand and tug at his cum heavy balls til he was almost seeing stars, ordering him to stop as he sobs for release, leaving him throbbing and panting.

“Please, Kitten— haaah— let me cum.” His hips are bucking up into nothing, his mind melting into desire and hunger. You tsk, shaking your head at him as you wrap your delicate little fingers around him, thumb coming up to plug up his leaking slit.

“Sy, I thought I told you to show me how you really cum when you’re by yourself.” You cooed, bending down so your face was mere inches from his, only coming closer to lick the drool from the corner of his parted lips.

“I- I told you didn’t, I?” He whines, trying his best to hold back the way his hips are shaking in your grasp, crying out when you squeeze your warm palm so delicately around his length, bringing so close to his euphoria that his toes curl. “I don’t cum without you.”

You laughed, a maniacal sound leaving you, his eyes widening in realization. You knew. You knew he was lying.

You had stopped by the base the night before, dropping in to bring over a new record you had picked up that morning, excited to listen to it with Sylus. Pushing his bedroom door slightly open without knocking, peeking through the slit in the door.

And that’s when you saw him.

Facing away from you on all fours, one burly arm craning unnaturally behind him, wet index finger slipping in and out of his pretty, puckering hole as his hips rutted feverishly into the mattress below him.

You squeezed your thighs together as you remembered the way he panted your name, ducking out as you watched him cum, painting the dark sheets below him a contrasting white.

“Now, Sylus, would you like to lie to me again? Or be a good boy and show me how you cum?” Your eyes felt heavy, body overcome with desire as you watched his right hand grasp his cock, stopping the right as it tried to move down, pulling his long digits between your lips and letting your saliva wash over them.

He was nothing if not obedient, keeping you locked within his gaze as he teases himself with his pointer finger, poking and prodding at his tight entrance while stroking his shaft, lips bright red as he pulled them between his lips.

You hum a small sound of approval, stepping back to watch him pleasure himself, spread eagle and waiting for your praise. “Oh look at you, handsome man, so eager to please.” You croon.

Your foot finds its way to him, toes splaying against his full balls and massaging, “Though you did seem a bit more excitable on your own, are you not pleased with me, my love?”

His hips stutter, pushing the ball of your foot even harder against his balls, a mix of pain and pleasure surging through him, “Never, Kitten.” He gushes, a pleasure tear filled smile gracing his angled features and beaming up at you.

Your heart swells as he continues, “Just being watched by you is enough to make me cum.” His eyes practically have hearts in them, his slender finger being accompanied by another now, both surging in and out at such a sultry pace, his moans bouncing off the walls of his bedroom.

Your thighs are pressed ever so tightly together, trying to give yourself a bit of friction as your slick pools between your legs at the pussy throbbing sight in front of you. Your underwear is soaked, sticking to your drooling folds, becoming a nuisance.

His hands— both of them— speed up, fucking himself into pure bliss, head lolling back and finally breaking eye contact for the first time. You bend down, pulling your panties down your legs and throwing them at him. His head snaps as soon as the soaked fabric makes contact, eyes widening at the way they sit delicately over his cock now.

“For me?” The glee in his voice is undeniable, even if you couldn’t see the smile on his face grow even wider. “T- Thank you Kitten.”

He pulls his hand from his straining shaft, wrapping the lacy garment around his knuckles and bringing it to his face. Watching him in awe and adoration as he brings it to his nose, taking a deep breath in before suckling on the wet patch. The sound that escaped him could only be described as a growl, deep and animalistic.

“Pathetic.” You mewl, your own fingers coming down to play at your clit. You needed something, and you knew it would kill him to watch you pleasure yourself instead of letting him devour you, apparent from the furrow in his brow as he watches you. He pulls your panties from his lips, a long string of saliva and slick keeping them tethered as he brought it to his cock.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” He sobs, wrapping the soaked cloth around his hard shaft. You cant help yourself, dropping to your knees, almost giving the illusion of subservience before you’re pulling his finger from his pulsing hole (not without him crying out), hands clamping onto the back of his thighs to keep his legs spread as you spit onto the barely gaped hole. You needed stimulation, pulling a discarded pillow from the floor and wedging it between your legs.

“Hmm, you got it so pretty for me, Sy.” And that depraved smile gracing your face has his cock twitching in his grasp, precum spilling out of his weepy tip and staining your panties, wrapped so tightly around him. It really shouldn’t have made him wanna cum so bad.

Your fingers are smaller, shorter Sylus notes, opening his mouth and lolling out his tongue like the most obedient little pup and letting you press down on the back of his tongue, a small gag escaping his lips and covering your fingers in his sweet spit.

Sylus can’t believe how good he feels, how perfect you fit as you push three dainty fingers inside him, hooking them into that sweet spot he didn’t even think to touch. Not without you.

His eyes are rolling back, thrashing and wailing sweet little sounds as he sprays out a thick white, his balls pulling close against his body as he cums, tight muscle flexing around your fingers as you continue to work that divine little spot furiously.

And you’re totally in awe, drooling slightly as you watch him try his best to keep his hand pumping at the same pace, repeating sweet, fucked out ‘I’m sorry’s’ like a mantra.

You’re cumming all over the decorative pillow, hole spasming around nothing as you watch his own milky release drip down his chin, sliding across his abs and into that pretty little patch of hair above his base. He was so perfectly pathetic, writhing while stroking himself into stimulation as an apology, your fingers still stuffed deeply inside him. Fucked out smiles gracing both of your faces.

“Oh Sylus, you’ve started such a dangerous little game.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hiiii I hope you all enjoyed <3 i rlly do think sylus would look so pretty like this <3 brb gonna go look up sub!sylus art one handed :P

xoxo,

Hachi

[iwriteiguess]

Sylus sits you in his lap to finger you.

The two of you had just come back from a nice, romantic dinner. You had decided to get all dolled up in a little black dress with your hair pinned up. Sylus was donning a dark red dress shirt, neatly tucked into a pair of well-fitting black trousers. Very well fitting. His ass and thighs looked incredible.

Upon arrival back to your apartment, Sylus sat down on the couch, eyeing you. He had been doing it all night, frankly. His intense red eyes boring into your soul, undressing you throughout that whole dinner. You could feel it.

His gaze gave you goosebumps, your previously smooth skin now littered with them. You couldn’t tell what was on his mind— As if that was new— It was Sylus. Unless he told you, you never knew what that man was thinking.

The silence in the apartment was finally broken by his gravely voice. “Come, Kitten.” He ordered, a strong hand patting between his thighs that were manspread confidently across the couch.

You didn’t respond. Your body did. As if on autopilot, your heels clicked against the faux wood flooring, directly to his lap.

“Yes?” You asked, standing between his legs. “You need to give me a bit more than that.” You tilted your head, loose strands of hair falling out of the way and accidentally giving him a clear view of your unmarked neck.

“Sit. I promise I dont bite.” His voice was filled with this tantalizing, teasing tone. Almost entrancing.

And you did— turning around so your back was to his chest— you slotted yourself between his thighs. They now bracketed your hips, a strong hand of his slung across your waist to keep you in place.

“How was the dinner, Kitten? Did you enjoy yourself?” He asked so casually, the exact opposite of his current actions. His free hand made its way between your legs, spreading them wide for him. The strong hand once slung across your waist now holding one of your knees to keep them open.

In your confusion, you started to answer. “Of course, my love. It was really— Ah-“

Your breath caught in your throat, his long fingers running along the seams of your underwear.

“Continue. You weren’t done.” He reminds you, his voice like velvet and directly in your ear.

“Um.” You took a moment to gather your thoughts. “Right. Dinner was really— Hhh-“ A sharp, breath hitching whimper flies from your throat. Interrupted once more by Sylus. His fingers now rubbing you directly through your panties, making slow, drawn out circles with four of his fingers against your heat.

You couldn’t help the way your body reacted to him. You were already soaked. And he knew it too. A smug, quiet laugh like bass in your ear from behind you.

“What’s the matter, Sweetie? Cat got your tongue?”

The dirtiest thing about all of this was how casual Sylus was about the whole ordeal, not even acknowledging the fact that his hand was between your legs. Teasing you. Making you desperate.

And you knew he didn’t want you to acknowledge it either.

“No, I’m fine.” You lied, having no choice but to play along. Anything to keep him going. “Was really good. So— Mhmm- Good—“

A slender, ringed finger pushed past your underwear and slid itself inside of you. Your head lulled back, now resting on Sylus’s broad shoulder as he started pumping it in and out of you. Slowly.

His cologne was now more prevalent than ever to you. Since you were unable to look at his face, you clung to anything about him you could sense. And the masculine, hypnotizing scent was what you grabbed onto.

“Sylus-“ You whined, your eyes firmly shut as he dipped another long finger into you, increasing his pace.

You were already so, desperately wound up. You could feel your body tensing up in anticipation of an orgasm. God, how was it so easy for him?

“What do you need, Kitten? Tell me.” His voice was like a siren’s song. So smooth and soothing and sexy.

“Keep going, please. Im gonna—“ Your voice gave out as a long moan replaced your words, your body shuddering as his fingers hammered into you, your slick dripping between your thighs and onto the couch.

The tension in your abdomen broke, head soaring into a fuzzy, euphoric state as your vision blurred. Your back arched off of Sylus’s chest, head resting on his shoulder.

“That’s it. Such a good little one.” He encouraged as you came, his hand that was holding your knee now across your chest to hold you as you come down. Preventing you from falling forward.

It took you a solid moment to reconnect with reality. Standing up, you noticed the mess you left on the couch cushion. “Oh my god..” You muttered, slightly embarrassed.

“I’ve got it.” Sylus chuckled, pulling your dress back down for you and planting a kiss on the top of your head. “Meet me in the bedroom.” His eyes pointed towards the doorway. “Oh. Okay. Sure-“ You shuffled away quickly towards the bedroom, knowing exactly what mood Sylus was in.

And that meant he certainly wasnt done.

[iwriteiguess]

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ where his hands are — love and deepspace

synopsis. where his hands are while doing it

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

warnings. fem! reader, tit play, petnames used: sweetheart, baby, pretty, zayne loves your ass, doggy (prone bone), mating press, rough syx

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne + on your ass

as was anticipated, zayne needs you held wide and open for him, his palms sinking into the meat of your ass like he's terrified you'll stop taking him so fucking nicely— his grip truly punishing, spreading you apart until your hole flutters around the root of his cock, your skin flustered and shaking underneath his thumbs.

every single thrust was filth— a grind, with an even rougher drag? a push of his cock so thick and needy your mouth fell open yet no sound came out. not to mention that zayne's obsessed with the way your ass jiggles when he repeatedly slams it, the way you drip from the stretch of him was mouthwatering, leaking down on his balls in repeated warm, messy strings of your arousal.

he greedily spits on it now, watching it gleam for a moment before it vanishes into the wetness he's already made of you, his groan remained rasping, like he's unraveling just from the sight of your body swallowing it down like a good girl, like the mess itself was holy.

"sweetheart, you take it so well," he growls proudly, his voice wrecked with need, every word rasping against your skin akin to torn silk— his teeth skimming the shell of your ear, but not biting, no, just letting you feel the heat of his body bleed through you, the quiet madness clawing at the edges of his breath, "you feel this? all this mess? this ass was made for my hands, baby, made for me to fuck like this."

he presses you down so hard your hips bruise on the bed, one palm spreading you wide, properly holding you in place, the other slapping your ass with a slick, loud crack, then soothing over it like he's sorry for nothing— the man keeps you tilted, spine curved like a bow, so he could hit that spot again and again, until you sob and gush around him.

his thumb was dragging your jaw down until your mouth spills open, slack and senseless with drool dripping in slow, sticky threads from your lips to your chest, fuck, he's in so deep the curve of your spine aches instantly, but it still wasn't enough— go for it, come on, deeper, rougher, messier, all of you, fucked open and destroyed around his cock and his hands, all of you made for him to grab and destroy.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier + on your thighs

xavier spreads you wide like you're something precious and perverse, thighs pulled open with both hands, elbows locked to hold you still while he fucks into your pussy slow and brutal— his fingers squeezing hard enough to leave dents, thumbs grinding circles into the soft inner meat and dragging you open to watch your slick hole grip him tight as he stares in awe, like he's reading your soul straight through your velvety walls clenching down.

the pumping of his cock was steady, pushing back into you with every new rut hitting your spots, his eyes flicking up to your face every time you moan like he wants to memorize the desire in your expression.

"fuck, you're soaked— this tight little thing's crying for me," he whines, voice low and wild, "you like being held open like this, huh? you like how deep i can get when you're spread like a fucking feast?"

he bends your legs back more, more, until your muscles tremble and burn, until your knees were beside your ears and your belly taut and stretched and full of him, his cock hitting angles that made you see stars while he's watching the way you shudder and leak around him, thumbs digging into the hinge of your thighs like you're nothing but a hole to keep him warm and satiated.

xavier's grip flexes with every shove of cock, every gush of arousal spilling down between your ass and coating his lap, watching it slicken your folds even more before pushing in again with a low groan like he's losing his mind inside you.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel + on your tits

rafayel palms your breasts like they're holy objects, his fingers curled above their weight and kneading slow and calculated, like he's shaping clay as he groans every time you squeeze him, cock dragging through your soaked walls and still, his hands remained on your chest— massaging your tits, squeezing them too, adding a lil kiss, yeah? pulling at your nipples until you wince out. 

he drags his thumbs over them again, watching them stiffen under his touch, then leans down to bite and suck and spit warm and wet saliva across your skin until your whole chest was shining of his liquids.

the man pants, licking a trail up to your sternum, dragging hot and slow up the center of your chest, tongue catching every tremble like he's tracing a confession into your skin— wet and utterly depraved, "these tits bounce every time i push in, pretty, you feel how deep i am? all that mess leaking outta you, and i still want more."

he begins to fuck you upwards now, body curved within yours and thrusts angled so every movement drags the swollen head of his cock right along your sweet spot. your tits bounce every time he sinks in and rafayel moans into your skin, hands tightening like he could mold them into something even lewder as he rubs the wet peaks of your nipples with slick-covered fingers, then bites again, watching the way you jolt and cry in joy.

as obvious, he wanted you to feel him everywhere— his cock, his hands, his teeth, his tongue, what else? his warmth, yeah, as the bed creaks under you, repeatedly, slick smeared down your thighs and belly from how hard and deep he fucks you, and still— his hands never left your tits once, like they're his anchor to hold onto, like he's trying to memorize every shake and spill of them under his touch.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus + on your wrists

the moment you move, sylus's mind haywires with your wrists pinned hard to the mattress, his weight over you like a threat, his breath hot and uneven against your jaw as his grip was tight enough to ache, the kind of hold that bruised tomorrow and made your pulse throb beneath his fingers.

it's obvious he liked seeing your hands trapped within his own— adored knowing you cannot stop him, cannot push him away either, cannot beg for mercy without squirming, well, without him wanting to hear you beg at least trice.

"don't you move now," he spits, hips grinding deep until your eyes rolled back, "you feel that? you're clenching so tight, it's like you're trying to keep me there forever," as he fucks you like it's punishment— like worship carved out of violence? yeah, slamming into your slick, weeping heat until your walls fluttered and your stomach contracts from how much he burned through you.

your knuckles turned white with how tightly you curl your fingers into his biceps as his grip tightens, the wet sounds between your thighs getting louder and wetter, each roll of hips a disgusting punch of cock against your insides, yet you cannot do anything— cannot stop it, cannot run from it— just cry out his name beneath him as he fucks and fucks and tears you open, then lovingly holds your wrists like he's fixing himself to sanity.

sylus heaves like a wild animal in your ear and every time you jerk your hips upwards to wiggle against him, his fingers flex tighter, dragging your arms above your head, thrusts so cruel and searing like he doesn't know how to stop, even when you're all tears stricken, even when you break at last— he won't let you go, simply, he can't, not when your pussy was wrapped so sweet and swollen around him.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb + on your head

caleb doesn't let you look away, not once, with his hand pressed behind your own, squeezing your face into the pillows, fingers cradling your skull like he's kneeling before something divine, keeping you close so he could spill his moans directly into your mouth, the press of his palm tender yet firm, like he wanted to hold your whole brain together while he pounds you apart.

he kisses you like he's dying, like he needed your spit to live— tongue messy and slick, panting into your mouth with every thrust that rocks you up the bed as he kept whispering— candid n broken n filthy things between kisses, "you're so beautiful like this," his voice shatters, lust catching on the wreckage of pleasure as your walls seize tight around him, dragging a noise from his throat that sounds more like unravel than power, like he's being wrung dry from the inside out, "fuck, baby, you're so fucking tight, so good, don't let go— just let me feel you."

his hips jerk forward again as your back arches off the mattress from how deep it was, from how perfectly his cock pinches inside you like it's following a specific path carved just for him— at this, you could barely catch a breather, like caleb made flowers grow in your lungs and although they felt beautiful, otherworldly, you just couldn't breathe anymore.

his cock pulses with every repeated squeeze of your cunt around him as his thick cock shines where you're joined— slick gushing out every time he pushes in, guzzling it back when he snaps forward and still, his hand cups your head like a frail object, holding you steady as if your body could shatter from the sheer pleasure.

the man kept you close like you're his oxygen, his life, he moves like a man possessed with a rhythm doused in solace, like each thrust was an apology he didn't know how to voice out loud— his whines lost, eyes glassy and teeth clenched against the sob lodged in his chest.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[iwriteiguess]

hello~ can I request sumth about dom succubus/ vampire mc with sylus or zayne (or both)

give in to me... . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

— ༉‧₊ᐟ featuring: sylus, zayne x succubus! dom! fem-afab!reader

— ༉‧₊ᐟ tags/cws: [nsfw] smut, reader hypnotizes and restrains him with her evol but fails to k*ll him in the end, reader crashes zayne's clinic, piv, creampie, intense orgasms, multiple positions, overstimulation, non/dubcon, catching feelings(?)

— ༉‧₊ᐟ word count: sylus – 1.7k | zayne – 1.2k

— ♫₊ᐟ soundtrack: southbound – artemas

✧ a/n: thank you sm for the req! this idea was too sexy to resist lol i was SWEATING while typing it all out...

The blood moon is out, and your insides are growling… You know very well that not a soul in Linkon can resist your…unique charms. Who will your lucky victim be this time?

Just how long will he last?

A mansion? Haven’t seen one of these out here in ages… Your heart lurches at the sight (not that you have one, of course—it’s all purely figurative), and you can almost taste the blood of luxury on your tongue.

You understand the person who owns this mammoth of a building won’t be easy. He might even desire to overpower you. But you won’t let him. You want to feel the life slipping out of him while you drink up his sex, watch as he begs for mercy and finally realizes that, no, you’re in control.

Your pussy throbs at the thought, and you have to remind yourself not to get too carried away. Getting lost in these fantasies will do nothing for you right now. Your first plan of action is to find a way in.

He’s left a window open. How careless. You crawl in with ease (thanks to your natural agility) and slide in and out of hallways, keeping a lookout for people or traps or security cameras or weapons. Not that you’ll be needing a defence against weapons, anyway. You don’t need a gun when you have supernatural sexual allure.

The house is strangely quiet, and you start to wonder if it’s even occupied at all. There’s an air of modernity to the place, so you doubt it’s been abandoned. On vacation, perhaps? No, you can sense the recent presence of a human being here. It’s past midnight, so whoever owns this house has to be in it. You just need to find them… A light flicks on somewhere on the ground floor. There you are, kitty cat. You hurry past the elaborately decorated walls and paintings, and find yourself hiding right behind a doorway to what seems to be a large, grand kitchen.

And in it stands a man so gorgeous that you think you may have finally met your match (in the looks department, of course). He’s tall, imposing, handsome, and looks like he bleeds money. His dark red eyes captivate you. You can’t wait to rob them of their pretty color.

Taming the excitement in your veins, you slowly step out from beneath the shadows, the red silk dress you have on revealing the curve of your bare breasts and emphasizing the pinch of your waist. Your walk is measured, calculatedly seductive.

He’s mid-drink when he spots you, the glass of dark wine tilted halfway to his mouth. His startling eyes lock on yours as he pauses, prolonging his sip.

“Why hello there. I didn’t mean to startle you,” you begin, voice dripping with innocence and honey. “It’s late, and I couldn’t find my way around…”

You take a few tentative steps closer to him as you speak, fully prepared for any sudden movements. Sure, there’s always the Evol option. But where would the fun be in that? You’re like a spider in this little game, waiting for the prey to fall right in your trap, of its own volition.

He puts the glass down on the counter, his movements as calculated as your own. His bathrobe hangs snugly over his delicious frame. “And…you happened to waltz right into my home.” His voice is as velvety as his robe, each syllabus sending tingles straight down to your core. This is going to be good…

Your face remains impassive. Slightly scared, even. “I apologise for the intrusion. I’m just so confused—and anxious—and—I don’t have anywhere to go…” Your expression is downcast as you go on about how sorry and pathetic you are, and when he drags his crimson eyes down the length of your body you think you’ve finally got him—

“I know what you are.” There’s an edge to his tone, one of warning. “You’re a succubus. Blood moon come early this year?” He says it with disgust, as if even the mere mention of the word spills toxins on his tongue.

Clever. Guess my suspicions were right, as usual. You don’t mind the challenge. After all, labor bears fruits. You maintain your ignorant disposition. “I-I’m just a girl. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the act, demon.” His gravelly voice really turns you on. He’s probably big as hell, too. “I don’t have time for your theatrics. I would’ve killed you myself if you’d visited last week, but fortunately for you my assistants are on vacation, and I really don’t want to clean up a mess right now. Get out of my house.”

Damn it, he’s good. I want to taste his cum before he dies. “Oh, there’ll be a mess, alright… Just not the kind you’re hoping for… Not yet.” You inch closer and closer to him until his chest is at eye level. He’s glaring down at you like you’re a pile of shit. “So hostile… So…difficult…” You run a delicate finger down the valley between his abs, and you feel his breath hitch ever so slightly at your touch.

“Get. Out,” he grits out, the hard, defiant edges of his jaw sharp enough to slice through skin.

You tiptoe and whisper into his ear, “Surrender to me, sweetheart. Just give in…” He exhales a little, and your arousal heightens. You roll your hips against his groin and his muscles grow taut. Someone’s getting hard. You can feel it through the fabric of your thin, skintight dress: the outline of a beast between his legs.

You get on your knees then, looking up at him with pure and unassuming doe eyes. You can smell his arousal. Can he smell yours? You reach between the plush material of his robe and pull it apart, his erect cock springing out to kiss your face. Furious, he backs away, but you activate your Evol then, restraining his hands to his back.

“You’re making this really hard for me, you know.” You use your powers to shove him down to his knees, and before he knows it, he’s leaning back against the oven with his hands bound behind him and his knees bent on the marble floor, with nothing to conceal his glaring erection.

He struggles beneath your supernatural hold, hissing in rage as he realizes his strength is no match for yours. “You’re a heinous witch—” he spits, though he’s cut off by the Evol you tape to his mouth.

There we go. Time for this fairy to work her magic. You get down on all fours and lean towards his cock, your mouth hovering inches from him. He squirms, clearly unused to being the one following orders for once. “You’re going to want me, kitty cat…”

Your lips wrap around his engorged head, and his eyes squeeze shut. The taste of his dick is instantly addictive, and you find yourself wanting to choke on it. Slick coats your pussy, which aches for its turn. You move your mouth along his length, going up and down as slowly and languidly as possible. A muffled moan escapes his throat, and his thighs clench. “Good boy…”

You begin to suck him off faster, pumping the base of his shaft with your right hand and fondling his balls with your left. Low growls sound from deep within him, and his eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. “Mmmh… Mmh—” With a crude “pop”, you release his cockhead from your mouth.

I need him in me. Now. In one swift movement, you pull your black lace panties down and they fall to the floor, forgotten. You hastily pull the skirt of your dress over your head and toss it to the side, now fully naked and ready to take him.

Still panting, his eyes travel the length of your perfect body, lingering at your perky breasts and sopping cunt. You grab onto his shoulders for balance and angle your pussy directly above his leaking cock, positioning your tits right in front of his face. Lowering yourself onto him, you moan as his girth slides against your walls. The pleasure is blinding, and you feel as if life itself is returning to your body.

He groans pathetically as he enters your wet pussy, your tits brushing against his nose. He looks disgusted. Angry. Incredibly and unabashedly desperate. You begin to bounce on his lap, both hands braced on his shoulders as his dick plunges into your cunt and wet squelches fill the room.

You remove the Evol tape on his mouth, and he’s no longer mouthing off. His dirty, needy moans mingle with yours as he begins to thrust upwards, no longer fighting the carnal desire within him. “Ugh… Fuck— Fuck—!” he laments, his expression pained.

You release him from the restraints. Of course it would be easier for you to drain him while he’s bound. But you preferred to let them take control towards the end. To let them fuck themselves to death.

He up in an instant, twisting you around and pounding into you from behind. Like a puppet on a string, he fucks himself senseless as he grabs your hips and utterly destroys your pussy, balls slapping against your clit. “Fuck, I can’t— I shouldn’t be doing this—” he swears, revelling in the feeling of his cock gliding against your folds.

You scream out in ecstasy, the feeling of his tip rubbing against your cervix sending you into a mindless haze. He isn’t getting any weaker. In fact, he’s getting stronger, his thrusts more and more powerful. Why is this happening? This shouldn’t be happening—

He slams into you so strongly your vision blurs. His cock twitches so violently you know what’s coming, yet it still surprises you when he cums; thick, hot liquid filling you up as you orgasm so viciously your entire body shakes. Your pussy spasms in tandem with his release as he continues to pump spurts of cum into you, his cries echoing yours as you hear your mixed juices fall to the floor in puddles.

He slides out of you with another “pop” and you fall to the floor, still vibrating with desire. It takes you a while to realize he isn’t dead. How…?

“It should’ve killed you…” You watch in bewilderment as he pants on the ground, cum staining his discarded robe. Very much alive.

“It’s going to take more than that, Kitten.” His eyes gaze into yours, and for a shocking moment, you think he really sees you. It’s sickening.

Something flutters to life and begins to pound in your chest.

Hunting isn’t something to be taken lightly. You only get to do it once a year, after all—if you’re going to drink someone up tonight, it has to be someone positively delicious.

You roam the streets at midnight, keeping a lookout for your little snack. No, not him… Hmm, not her either…

There. He catches your eye immediately, a handsome doctor with icy blue eyes entering the clinic. Working the night shift, perhaps? Something about him intrigues you, though you can’t quite identify what it is… Maybe it’s the way he commands attention—not in an overtly loud or obnoxious way, no, but in a quiet, reserved fashion that makes you want to take your panties off.

Are you hiding anything, Doctor? Are you as quiet as you seem? You imagine proving that theory false, and your pussy slickens at the thought.

You enter the clinic in your black cocktail dress, a good amount of cleavage on display for the masked patients to gawk at. Ignoring them, you use your Evol to manipulate the queue system such that you’re up next.

The number on the screen changes, and you knock twice before waltzing into the doctor’s office, your shiny stilettos clacking on the polished floor. “H-Hello, Doctor…” you stammer, appearing as shy and docile as possible. It mildly grosses you out that this has been your most successful baiting tactic so far.

Your right hand instinctively grabs onto your left elbow, emphasizing the squeeze of your breasts and making you seem smaller.

The doctor, Zayne, takes off his reading glasses and assesses you—not sexually, but analytically. Damn it, he’s not a creep. This will be harder than I thought. “Hello. Take a seat,” he replies, gesturing to the chair across from him. His words are curt and direct, though not impolite or unfriendly. A no-nonsense, to-the-point kind of guy. Interesting.

You sit down, pretending to fumble a little as you lower yourself onto the chair. Your tits bounce. He doesn’t seem to notice. Taking out a plastic clipboard, he swivels to face you and asks, “Well, what seems to be the problem?”

You blush and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You see, I-I’ve had these…urges…” Your eyes evade his, darting around the room in mock nervousness.

He tilts his head slightly, pensive and observant. “What kind of urges?”

You bite your lower lip. “It’s like a funny feeling…in my…” you wave at the spot between your legs, and he squints at the movement.

The faintest hint of a blush appears on his cheeks. “Ah. And…you have these urges frequently?”

You nod. “I have them all the time. In fact, I’m feeling it right now.” He frowns at you, seemingly at a loss. “It only goes away after I touch myself, like this.” You reach under your skirt, and he rushes to stop you.

“Ma’am, please refrain from masturbating in the clinic. This is a sterilised environment that needs to remain free of bacteria—”

“Please, Doctor… I just need to…do it…” A wicked grin twists your lips as you use your Evol to tie him to the chair, sealing his mouth with invisible tape. You lift the skirt of your dress up and pull your lace panties to the side, your cunt already dripping wet.

His eyes avoid your fingers as they begin to stroke your folds, the instant wave of pleasure eliciting a small moan from your lips. His muffled protests are barely audible (though you did lock the door with your powers beforehand), ensuring zero interruptions.

You whine as the pads of your fingers circle your engorged clit, and use your Evol to force his chin down so he has a clear view of your movements. The redness on his face intensifies, and you see the vague outline of his cock hardening beneath his pants. There we go…

Your fingers jerk faster, and your back arches involuntarily as he watches you abuse your sopping pussy. The chair beneath you is drenched by now, your arousal leaking out in waves as you begin to finger yourself brainless.

All the while, he’s being forced to watch your every thrust, every spasm. He’s fully erect now, and you both know it. You remove the silencer and make your way towards him. “Please— Don’t do this…”

His pants unzip themselves and his boxers are yanked down. “Be a good boy for me and be quiet, okay?” You lower your leaking pussy down onto his dick, and the tip pops in between your folds almost effortlessly. You both groan at the sensation, the feeling of raw, primal sex too good to resist.

“Fuck— Stop—” he whimpers as you begin to bounce on his lap, your ass slapping against his thighs and tits bouncing in his face. You force your swollen tit into his mouth and use your Evol to latch his lips around it, but you don’t have to use it for long. He’s sucking on your boob with so much force that you cry out loud.

He writhes underneath your weight, still trying to set himself free. Adorable little thing… So weak. You grind against him faster, each roll of your hips in such quick succession that his eyes squeeze shut and fly to the back of his head. “Ugh— Ugh— Ugh—” he grunts between each upwards thrust. Bounce. Ugh— Jerk. Ugh— Squeeze. Ughhhhh…

Someone knocks on the door. “Is everything okay in there?” You lose focus for just a second, and your powers slip free. He’s no longer restrained to the chair.

Strong hands lift you up and plop you onto the desk, your ass landing on a stack of papers and a few paperclips. What—? There’s no time to think before he’s slamming into you, each thick vein of his cock rubbing against your inner walls and driving you insane. Your elbows are propped up against the table, which shakes so loudly with every jerk of his lean hips. “What are you doing to me—? Fuck…” The table has grown slick with your mixed juices, along with everything on it.

The knocking continues. “Hello?! Is everything alright?!”

He slams into you so hard the table nearly falls over. White ropes of cum burst into you as you tighten around his girth, shaking so hard you see stars. Your cries mirror his as he cums all over your thighs, your stomach, the papers on his desk.

Most notably, he isn’t dead. What the hell..?

He’s breathing hard as he composes himself, sinking back down onto the chair in exhaustion. “I…apologise for that… I lost control of myself… You came in here looking for medical help, and I abused that…”

“Y-You don’t feel faint? Or ill?”

He shakes his head regretfully. “It’s my job to be asking you that.”

“You’re not surprised by my powers?” You’re at a loss for words.

“You’re not the only Evolver around here. Now if you’ll let me, I’d like to do my job as your doctor and help you with your sexual urges. Medically, of course.”

A faint pounding seizes your ribcage.

— ⋆˙⟡ ©berrryparfait

《 please do not copy / plagiarize / translate my works or publish them on any other platforms. 》

[iwriteiguess]

father figure

sylus x female reader

he takes you in, he feeds you, he gives you a home when the world around you can no longer make sense of the word- and yet you’re just as much of a grounding force in his life. when the frenzy hits, though, he can’t make heads or tails of anything; all he knows is that you’re a pretty, fleshy thing and he aches to sample it.

content smut/nsfw, daddy kink, dilf/guardian! sylus, so by a stretch it can be pseudocest, noncon, soft! sylus but turns into frenzied! sylus, yandere themes, piv, rough handling, loss of virginity, some angst because of guilt/disillusion, codependency, age gap (but both parties are 18+), biting, dark content, almost 10k words

sidenote i could only resist the catch-22 sylus agenda for so long. it’s not fully canon compliant but its heavily based around it. so yes sylus has his iconic mullet and he’s a lil baby crashout in this. also no this isnt even the sylus bday fic i had in mind but if i dont get that one out in time then this will be the substitute 😣 anways, i hope u enjoy my friends <3

You don’t remember much, growing up. Beyond him, at least.

The world goes to shit with the predators and your parents fade out of the equation- and you’re left alone for much of your youth until an ominous man comes along and takes you under his wing— but only reluctantly.

For a while afterward, you think he still grudges you for the day you, in one way or another, managed to fall under his custody, becoming a knot in his neat web of plans and purposes. Deep down, you got the feeling that he didn’t need you as much as you did him; despite his choosing to keep you around, it was likely more out of guilt than any genuine affection- but you’d decided that was okay.

He saved your life, pulled you from the fire before you could really feel its burn, and you’d be the last to make complaint for your circumstances.

There’d be no circumstances if not for him.

But he tenderizes. It turns to be an open thing, his fondness.

He takes you in when you’re fifteen. Since then- throughout the course of around six years, he’s become softer. Less ambiguous to you. There’s things he keeps under wraps and always will despite the harmless pestering on your end (like questions regarding his work, the silhouettes that trail you both constantly— and the curious glances thrown to the blood on his collar after he returns late in the night). But he’s not longer as obscure to you, his person.

Trust blooms in the parts of you where an impoverished lifestyle of scraping by carved out gaps. And you’re used to hiding- that’s not much different now- but instead of diving for shady alleyways, you find refuge in him.

He’s dangerous. That was established early on; since the first moment you met him, really, knelt before him in fear after grabbing his pant leg for help (an action he mistook for a foolish attempt at pickpocketing), that was obvious.

He’s threatening.

Never to you. Not now.

Sylus is a man of impressive decorum and somehow all the blood coating his hands doesn’t take away from his class— he extends those hands to you, callouses and all, and gives you a patient look as if he’s expecting you to take them.

At sixteen you start calling him dad (more of an accident than anything else- it’s not a conscious thing that compels you to view him as something paternal).

He doesn’t object to it.

Things fall into place in weird ways.

When all the pieces settle, you find yourself looking at a semblance of a home— a safe place that the self-proclaimed beast curated with his own paws through painstaking efforts. (Whether you were fully cognizant of them or not didn’t matter: he tried his damnedest to be what you needed, and could only hope it was enough.)

The two of you are always on the move. He barges into your room panting at night and tells you to hurry and pack a bag, or just outright scoops you up in his arms and tucks you into the car’s backseat seconds before you hear the tires revving off. Your surroundings are perpetually changing around you and yet he remains the same; a citadel, a rock in your life.

Sylus provides an air of safety. Despite it all, the abrupt ‘field trips’ (at least, that’s what he called them when you were a bit younger) taken to ward enemies off your location, the bullets that fling by your periphery on furtive nights out and the red threads that coil behind him like talons- destroying anything before it can so much as harm a hair on your pretty head- you feel safe with him.

Predator or not- he’s good to you, a lighthouse fixed firmly amidst rolling smog and cyclones.

You can’t count a time he’s lost control or been unprepared for a frenzy, and he’s taken the proper precautions to keep you from him whenever he suspects one is coming on. The broken activator just solidifies his vigilance. And he’s instructed you plenty on what to do if he does lose it, God forbid, albeit your agreement to it was utterly uneasy.

He figures he’ll spare you the little horror show, he’d joked just to smooth out the worried crinkle in your brow.

Yet- Figures he’ll spare you your life, is what he doesn’t say, despite it being a shared thought between you both.

He teaches you how to wield a gun early on.

You’d told him you didn’t wanna use it, but something as trivial as guilt had no place in Linkon as it collapsed into decadence and carnal ruin. And something like sympathy, he’d also added, was stupid. An invitation to get yourself killed.

(Silly, that. Silly and hypocritical of the man who takes pity on runts.)

Conversation is kept at a minimum at first, and clipped, but he sprinkles in tips and tricks at self preservation— life hacks in the most literal sense— and he keeps an eye on you. Watching always. He makes sure you’re holding up well and even lets you hold down the fort while he’s gone doing God knows what. It feels like a privilege when he entrusts things to you, no matter how seemingly small.

Sylus is special to you. You love him as a teacher, a protector, a warm chest to snuggle up to on the sofa when you’re restless and can’t sleep but you know he’s downstairs with a cushion waiting—

You love him as a father, too.

Not everything about him is clear to you, though... You learn many things but one you have more difficulty understanding is the way he perceives you.

You don’t know if he loves you as a daughter, or a welcome nuisance, or a stray (because he has a penchant to root for the underdog). At first, you questioned if he even loved you at all.

But you’re older now,… and you see it, the heart he wears on his sleeve to bleed for you. He cares for you. And he’s there for you.

And when he asks you to leave with him- less of a hurried demand now and more of a gentle, imploring breath amidst chittering sounds of crickets and night bugs as he stands as a single shadow against your bed frame—

You take his hand.

✦

Boxes piled in every other corner, the building feels less like a home and more like a warehouse- a very tiny, cozy warehouse, with each of your scents intertwining in the unassuming spaces where you meet.

It’s no feat of architecture- just a small apartment nestled in the innards of the southern district, and it certainly isn’t a product of exorbitant spending (the place is deceptively… humble, for what Sylus can afford), but for what it is, you like it.

You’ve dwelled at several different addresses before, and you expect this arrangement will be more of the same. You stopped mourning over the loss of houses that could’ve been homes some time ago; you bounce between streets and domains like rabbits. However, there’s a strange comfort that builds in your chest as weeks pass and, for this reason or that, your guardian shows no signs of jilting the flat.

One day, he calls you to the living room after you’ve showered, and he sits you down.

You lie in a makeshift cage between his long legs as they hang over the couch, one hand smoothing over your damp hair while the other brushes it through.

He’s never in much of a hurry to speak, so when you reach for the TV remote to fill the silence, and he stops you- you concede to the quiet, knowing whatever he’ll say to break it will be worth some thought.

Still, he seems more contemplative than usual. It warrants pause on your end.

Internally, you consider your belongings- the deliberate choice you made to keep most of them boxed- and find relief in the fact that you’ll have less to pack if Sylus were to inform you right now of another move.

It’s a little sad, but it’s just the way things are. You won’t cry over the hand that you were dealt. If nothing else, you’re just thankful, what with the squeeze this city of sin has on its people, that somewhere along the way, Sylus came to loosen you from it.

You owe him. But he never names his price.

Long, rough fingertips meticulously weaving through your hair, gentle despite the callouses as he twists it into braids, you fall into the belief that he won’t.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t find much in you to debunk it save for the tiny, deep-rooted fear that one day you’d wake up, and- just like your parents on the day of outbreak- he’d be gone. There was plenty of doubts in your head, but most if not all were born from an old trauma, and Sylus seemed… content, weirdly enough, at your side.

It becomes an easier and easier thing to believe that’s where he’ll remain.

“Sweetie,” he eventually says, “I wanted to… discuss something, with you.”

You perk under his hands, spine straightening. You give him a sidelong glance over your shoulder and find his eyes, a sharp red, surprisingly mellow as they flit across the bridge of your nose, reading your expression carefully.

“What’s wrong?”

That (the instinctive response to believe something’s gone amiss) almost brings a wry smile to his lips, but he wets them a moment later and opens them to speak. “Nothing. Not this time,” he explains smoothly. “You… You’re used to moving around, the both of us are. I’m sure it’s been… tiring, at the best of times.”

“Well,” you start as a reply, but find your speech cropped short because you’ve no real way to deny that: it was exhausting. Of course it was. But wherever he went, you’d follow. That’s just how it’s always been.

Besides, if not fixed firmly at his side- you’d be choosing the hell that is overrun, lawless Linkon; to be tossed back into its maw for the predators or, if you’re more fortunate, a not as brutal death by starvation.

Noting your silence- your agreement- Sylus continues.

He ties off the end of the tuft with a colorful band and moves to work on the other, surprisingly deft. He’s only done your hair a million times- but still, his odd expertise in it was as surprising as it was endearing. The fact that you’re twenty-one now doesn’t change this common arrangement- or the mutual fondness the two of you have for it. You like when Sylus dries or does your hair, and evidently, he does too, for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s just therapeutic for him to feel something soft in his hands. He’s better acquainted with the opposite.

“So what if we were to stay?”

The words take a moment to click.

Because you don’t stay anywhere. You don’t stay, you just run and drive and hide. Live life perpetually on the down low. On the run.

Sylus does not settle.

Still, his voice, thoughtful and velvety, rumbles behind you in a continuous, comforting sound and forces you to take what he’s saying seriously.

“This place- you don’t dislike it, do you? It’s nice. Nothing gaudy or impressive. But it’s… homey,” he muses aloud. “Off the books. You’re safe here. Safer than what the other addresses had to offer, at least.”

You ponder it for all of five seconds before answering. And to be fair it’s not actually hard to; an inner part of you assumed you’d be on the move for all your life, but you’re weirdly pleased at the idea of… not being on the move for all your life.

Some anchorage sounds nice.

You tuck your head to your chest. “I… I think I would like that.”

He perks a bit. You feel it in his hands when they pause, done with their task, and one shifts to rest on your crown.

His knees, flanking either side of you, close in. Without thinking, you latch onto one’s calf and lean into it as you grab the remote. This time he lets you.

“Yeah?” He goes, a little breathless. “Are you sure? You realize it’d be a little more… permanent.”

“Okay.”

Sylus looses a sigh somewhere behind you.

“What I’m getting at is that you’re no longer a little squirt in desperate need of me,” he clarifies in a more pointed tone, and you resist arguing that- you have no time to, really, “so if you want to leave, you can feel free to. Don’t think you’re being shackled here by me.”

For as genuine as his words sound, you quickly cotton onto the expectancy that undercoats them- the mite of something that almost makes you believe he’s waiting for affirmation on your end. A rare thing. Usually it’s the other way around.

It pulls a huff from you, though. Peels of laughter rattle from the screen in front of you (he managed to unpack your TV, but as it stands, most of the house is still pretty bare) but you ignore your favorite show for the moment to turn and frown at him.

You grab his knee while you do, saying, “Of course I don’t think that. If anything, I feel like I’m holding you back.”

Scarlet eyes blink and widen, but just slightly. White hair falls over his brow (his locks loosening from gel after a long day) when he gives his head a tilt. After a beat, he laughs at you, a deep, rumbling sound- and pats your head directly after to fix the flustered knot in your brow.

“Well, I guess we’re both wrong then, hm?

He stoops forward to kiss your cheekbone- a chaste, quick thing- and then he gets up with a grunt to head for the hall.

You watch him with a strange flutter in your chest (one that you label affection; not a wrong guess but it also fails to fully encompass just what he means to you) and stare at the wall even as he disappears behind it.

But he calls over his broad shoulder to you, “Don’t sit too close to the screen, by the way. Someone tends to get headaches when watching cartoons.”

Crossing your arms with a pout, you lean your back into the seat of the couch and splay your legs out on the fluffy rug. You’re glad for that being unpacked, but quickly find yourself planning for the following days and all you’ll have to take out and assemble- which admittedly wasn’t much, but it was still enough to trigger your lazy streak.

Sometimes you just want to lounge around all day and do nothing: a fantasy that feels more possible after your guardian’s suggestion.

You holler back, “Oh, just go to sleep, old man.” Distantly, a door opens, but it doesn’t close.

He’ll be out later.

✦

He doesn’t come out later, contrary to your belief, but his open door does make a little more sense to you when it’s deep into the night and you emerge from your own room, scared, and traipse down the hall.

The remnants of a nightmare that felt too-real grip you. Five fingers on, they don’t let go.

But Sylus- the quasi foreboding man who took you in- knows how to pull you from a pinch.

You seek his warmth as the swath of wooden tiles cooling the balls of your feet blends into carpet- that of his bedroom- navigating in total darkness as you enter.

“Sylus-?” You can’t even get the word out before he startles upright and you hear the clink of something steely and dangerous—

“I-It’s me, daddy!” You assuage quickly, voice a frail, shaken sound that’s made even smaller by the dregs of a bad dream that still hangs fresh over your mind.

Even as the images peter out— claws wrapping around your throat, a dumpster rattling as you and other ragamuffins brawl over veritable trash as food, the roar of a predator as it holds you down, saliva dribbling into your ear— the emotions are harder to shake.

You feel dizzy and a little out of place as he lets out a deep sigh of relief, flicking on the lamplight, and blinks heavily at you.

The fingers that have dipped beneath the mattress retract and return to his lap. You observe it with a relaxing of your shoulders.

Some of the tension fades from him too, but not all of it.

He asks, concern entangled with gravely bits of exhaustion, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You say nothing, your own voice failing you as you mentally struggle to not only find your thoughts but string them together in a coherent way.

Everything around you was blurry. Felt unstable. A cold, clammy sweat licks up your palms and forehead. The ground beneath you grows a mouth and threatens to swallow you whole- the shadows in the corner ominous and great, watching.

Of course, it was only a nightmare, an unpleasant dream that you’d laugh about and forget easily enough come morning. But right now, it’s not. It’s vivid and horrifying and amalgamating into the atoms of reality to create a special kind of paranoia. It won’t let you sleep tonight.

…Not unless something’s there to hold you, at least.

Sylus’s own voice is groggy, a bit confused. Almost unthinkingly, though, he extends a hand to welcome you.

“C’mere,” he lifts the blanket and you’re instantly drawn to the empty space beside him.

You assume it with eagerness and all but barrel into his chest, punching out a grunt from him before he chuckles faintly, reaching over to pull on the thin, beaded chain. Darkness paints across your surroundings but a small highlight swims in cherry-red eyes as they soften at you.

Strong, lean arms wrap around you, helping you burrow into him without objection.

“Was it a nightmare?” He murmurs just above a whisper, voice warm but rough as the fluffy comforters, the same ones he tucks you both under, hug him back in. “Haven’t had one of those in a while, hm?”

He feels you jerkily nod under the dip of his chin and makes a sighing response. Callous finger pads close around your back and rub little circles there meant to soothe. “S’okay, kitten. It’s over now,” he breathes, languidly pecking your temple with open lips, smearing away the part of your fringe that’s been pasted there by a cold sweat.

He has this weird habit of taking you under his wing despite his serrated edges and the natural intensity of his stone face; right now, you curl up closer to his breast, finding a tenderness he perhaps only reserves for you, and he exhales overhead.

Fears are fast to flee, wrapped up by him. As moments pass, and your erratic heart rate resumes a more normal pace, you sound your gratitude in a low murmur. Vaguely, you wonder if you’d also stirred Sylus from a nightmare of his own upon stumbling into his room, because his own pulse- typically extremely slow- undulates in his sternum.

It thumps against your ear, creating a cadence almost considered fast. A touch uneven and a lot loud.

“…Thank you, daddy,” you mouth against him, nuzzling into his pajamas- a thin, linen shirt that oozes a domesticity you’re hard-pressed to come by.

Beneath your ear— a skip.

“For… for always being there for me.”

It sounds a little sappy, but in the moment, none of that phases you. Evidently- with a low, contented hum emanating from deep within his chest- it doesn’t phase Sylus, either.

You wonder if it’s your imagination or a real, bonafide smile that curves against your head.

“Well, that’s where I belong, isn’t it? At your side,” he murmurs, and after a beat you feel his lips press a kiss to your crown, mild but lingering. “And you belong at mine, if you want it. I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” he promises, “no matter what.”

Finally, you let your eyes flutter shut.

✦

Weeks pass. They do so pleasantly; slowly, but not in a bad way.

The quiet- mainly the lack of wandering from point A to B all for the sake of anonymity- is a welcome reprieve. Some doubts linger surrounding the agreement you and Sylus came to, but it becomes a more solid idea in your head as days pass without interuption:

This can be home.

So you start acting like it.

When noon hits, you don’t go with Wolfe, Sylus’s most trusted contact, for the usual training session when he swings by- bidding him farewell with a small wave- but instead stay back to work on the house.

Noon comes and goes. The sky turns dusky and your belly howls for food but you pay none of it any mind, too engrossed to care.

Because this is exciting.

You decorate all throughout the day, unwrap furniture from cardboard and feel anticipation swell inside you. You sing and twirl.

Before Sylus returns, you buzz with excitement while picturing his face upon walking in- not to a barren space but to a cozy one- and the rare show of his surprise. It’ll probably be nothing beyond a flare of his eyes or a soft sound of acknowledgement, but you pine for it all the same.

You’d like to make him happy. To make him feel more comfortable, at home. Especially after a long day spent weaseling throughout the blind spots of the city. He’s only allowed so much time to kick off his shoes and relax, and you want to highlight those moments for him.

It’s the least you can do, you think with a small smile, stepping down from a stool to appraise a photo you just hung (one with his hand around your waist, pulling you to his side— a would-be perfect photo if not for the crow that blurs in the corner of the lens).

Focused, you stick your tongue out and square your fingers, closing one eye because that’ll definitely help you make a better judgement on whether or not the frame is straight enough—

It slants sharply when the front door opens and slams.

You jolt, ripped from your small trance as you spin your head towards the entryway, only an iota prepared to run for the hallway and bird dive into the closet- that’s if you even make it in time. Bullets will always be faster than your little legs and if you’re correct in your belief that it’s those shady men who hate Sylus, come to retaliate against him, then there’s no way they’ll deliberate and give you a chance to escape—

Sock-clad feet halt on the floor. The stop in momentum hurls your head inches beyond your axis of balance, but the figure that freezes in the threshold, familiar, tall but hunched over, somehow seems more surprised.

Not at the new touch-ups on the walls and the neat, embellished rooms- no, but at you.

Trudging into the apartment, he looks worse for wear and you take the sight of him in with a different, growing kind of alarm.

Your shoulders ease up, just slightly. It’s not an intruder, a pack of big, unscrupulous men barging in to avenge some grievance related to the assassin who took you in- which is relieving, but the concern is tight in your brow all the same.

When he speaks, his voice is ragged. Half man half animal.

“Sweetie- what are you-?” He cuts himself short to make a sound of displeasure that comes from deep within his throat. Raw, brutal.

“You shouldn’t be here-!” You give a little flinch in response to the ferocity in his tone, phlegm catching in his trachea before he looks down, shakes his head with a hard blink, and stomps into the bulwarks of the apartment.

“Dad, you-?”

Ignoring your startle (perhaps blind to it; you think his mind is on other, more inward matters as something wild glints in his eye- paired with a conflict that worsens with each heaving breath), Sylus grabs your wrist, and he does it tightly.

“There’s no time- I need you to hurry. Help me with my suppressants- now!”

Something clicks in you, then, a distant memory lighting itself from a foggy space of remembrance.

“And kitten, listen to me. If I ever… lose control,” he starts, words a gentle, almost resigned mumble against a backdrop of city sirens and a snarling engine as the car veers into a more secluded road. You stare at his profile with a flicker of unease. But he remains composed, saying as if it’s a topic as simple as the weather, “I need you to handle me,” he glances at you, gaze steady, a brilliant, solid red, even as your mouth opens to bluster out a denial of that possibility.

“But- your suppressants- We can use them—“

“Maybe,” he turns to look out the windshield, at the road ahead. Dust and debris scrape in the wind. Even for the southern district, the place was ratty, but this is where the deal was to be had, and Sylus needed those vials before morning. “But things don’t always go as planned, you know that, sweetie. So… If something ever fails, or I become immune to the dosages— I taught you how to shoot.”

“I- I wouldn’t shoot—!“

He snaps his head over and barks, fingers whiting around the wheel. “You would! You would and you will.”

Startled, your vision blurring despite the hand you close firmly over your breast- as if balling your emotions in your palm, holding them at bay- you swallow. Scarlet eyes ripple, irises dancing around a black orb as it shrinks and becomes frantic. Unease flutters in your chest as his cold instructions turn over in your mind- but for all his hammering of them into you- you don’t bite the hand that feeds. It’s just not in your nature.

You don’t even bite the hand if it asks you to.

Begs.

Noting your shock, the stunned expression that barely masks a confused kind of hurt, your guardian blinks. Sighs and looks away.

Exhaust blows out from the back of the vehicle; you catch it in dark tails from the rear view mirror, in whiffs as the air around you becomes sour and noxious.

“I taught you to shoot,” he says again after a beat. Softer, this time. “When it gets to the point where it really matters,… don’t let your daddy down, okay? Please, sweetie. Just… agree on this one thing.”

For once in a handful of years, not considered easy by any means- but enjoyable at his side- you stare at the man who took you in and find him cruel.

You dip your chin, more out of hurt than anything else, highly uncertain as dread contricts your lungs, and nod.

It does what it was meant for: It placates him. You think it even convinces him.

He’s putting all his faith in it, in that wordless assent you’d given him years ago, for the sake of the present.

Though, Sylus still thinks it’s manageable. That there’s still a shot that this frenzy- triggered by an enhancer after a gloved hand squeezed glass to the point of bleeding, vindictive and bent on getting the last laugh- can be resolved. So you hurry to lay him on the couch as his breathing picks up, scuttling towards his room before coming back with arms full of a briefcase.

You crash to the rug and prop the case on the coffee table, fishing out a syringe before sidling up to him and taking his arm.

With some resistance- and a grunt that sounds more wolfish than man- he lets you, and you line up the needle with his arm. You say a curse under your breath when tears smear across your lids and make fuzzy the room around you.

“Hurry,” he rasps.

Shakily, you dig at the crook of his arm with your thumb to plump up the vein before- with little coordination- you feed the needle in with a sharp breath.

It mingles with Sylus’s as he makes an uncomfortable noise, the glittery fluid disemboguing into his bloodstream.

Split seconds feels like eons.

Time moves slow as molasses and you chew on your lip until something like metal sours your tongue.

Between fingers that tremble wildly just to keep it inside him, steadily injecting him with the suppressant, and a heart that pounds with uncertainty in your ears— given no assurance whatsoever that you’re not too late to pacify him— you don’t realize all the gawking on his part.

The ardency in his gaze, fleetingly tender, as it remains fixed to you. Some unspoken battle happening behind it.

…The darker thing, with a name you can’t assign, is winning out.

He feels it, too; conscious thought lending itself to his baser person— instincts, ugly and primal and overwhelming— all against his will.

“You were supposed to be with Wolfe,” He forces out with great difficulty, sweat beading his temple. He’s hot to the touch, skin like a kiln, baking your fingertips as they hover over him.

Light as feathers, you still feel the burn.

“I would’ve never came.”

Thickly, you swallow, rubbing his forearm soothingly even as the veins there bulge and glow, putting a fright in you that you do well to ignore.

He needs you right now. He needs you and you won’t fail him.

“Shh, shh,” you hush, folding your upper half over the sofa to plant your head against his shoulder.

One hand, between your bodies, gradually plies him with the suppressant; the other slips to the nape of his neck and intwines with his mullet, tugging softly.

He lets out a soft sound at that, temporarily appeased.

“It’s okay, daddy. It’s okay.”

You need it to be true.

For what it’s worth, he does seem just a touch comforted by that.

It’s not lasting.

He’s dangerous, and he knows. He’s losing out to the predator instinct, and he knows and he’s terrified but he remains rigid. Has to.

“I want you to inject all of it into my veins,” a sonorous voice rings at your ear, dry, open lips moving against your head as he smushes a kiss there. You think it’s more subconscious a move than anything as the cognizant trace in him fades out, albeit you still appreciate it.

A large hand, hanging off the couch- shaking not because it’s weak but because it’s trying its best to be- shifts to rest over your back.

He continues, “And then I want you to leave me. If we’re lucky, I’ll pass out and ride it through that way…”

Clenching your jaw, you nod against his neck, under his chin, and bite down on a whimper.

“You’ll be okay, daddy. Tomorrow morning, you’ll be all better. The suppressants w-will make you sleepy, and—“

Something surges in him, then, a growl cutting through your eardrums as you flinch back and he- before the second little vial even reaches the halfway tick- knocks it from your hands.

It collides with the coffee table and shatters.

The rug- the fluffy one you’d happily picked out with him some months back- darkens with a splotch you can’t easily scrub out.

Like an animal in a cage he’s revolted. You’re not naive enough to not see the movement for what it is; no matter how watered down, it’s still a version of it: a beast lunging.

Whatever’s left of his conscience is just barely barring that monster off, but as you fall back on your ass and gape at him, you realize with horror he will not turn out as the victor.

Fear brews in your belly. Butterflies swarm the pit of it, leaving nausea in the wake of their wings as they make quick work of your bravery- or the pretense you held of it.

A drop of blood pricks from the crook of his arm, the syringe made useless as it lay broken on the carpet: you watch it with shock, numbness almost, before looking up to him.

He forces himself to go recumbent, five fingers splayed over his face. The gaps in them, though, reveal grimacing, pearly teeth.

Canines bared no different than a hungry predator, defensive and bold.

Unlike you, very real in their display.

For a number of seconds, you do not breathe. Eyes wide and scared.

“Go,” he croaks out after a moment.

It takes longer than it should to register.

When it does, you gasp as if stirred from a bad dream. It’s precious- the sign he gives that he’s still in control- and you don’t take it for granted. You rise to wobbling knees, frenetically glancing between the dazzling shards and his heaving chest.

You extend a cautionary, worried hand, something in you utterly wrecked at the sight of him- your savior, your shield, your father figure- crumpled in on himself.

“Daddy—“

“Go!”

Silence strobes across the living room, but just for a second. It bites into you where it settles.

Unthinkingly, you turn. His words and their grating tone cut better than any knife ever could. Tears clinging to your lashes, you steel your legs (because they’re gelatinous beneath you), whip around, and start for the front door.

You don’t know where you’ll go apart from Sylus tonight, but that’s all to be figured out later after you calm your nerves down a bit and convince yourself it’ll all be fine—

The couch groans atop its wooden frame.

Suddenly, a hand snatches around your wrist, scorching hot, and when you swirl around, his head is bowed.

A whit of hope strings you along—

“D-Dad?” You breathe, “Are you okay now?”

Scarlet eyes peer up from a silvery curtain of hair, aflame, near glowing, and you let out a gasp.

—And drops you.

“I thought you wanted to help little old me? So…” he muses darkly, “where are you going?”

The reality of your situation takes a second to catch up to you.

Something that can accurately be called fear clamps in your chest— not for what he could be but for what he is now. Some change has happened in him, some sickness taken root, and until it passes, you’ll be victim to the beast that wears your savior’s face.

Stunned, you listen. “Has your father ever left you hanging? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Sylus-“

He tuts, a belittling sound. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. C’mere, kitten, sit.” Long fingers entwine around your wrist and you’re reminded of wolf paws trampling over twigs in forests. It’s not unbearably tight a grip, not yet, at least, but he’s certainly applying more pressure than what he generally does.

You wet your dry lip, dread wringing you from the inside out. You feel oddly parched.

“But Sylus- you’re not-“

“Sit,” he suddenly growls, something undeniably dark glittering in his eye.

You’re without opportunity to argue or even try to reason with him, because he yanks you into his lap and loops his arms around your middle.

You liken yourself to a bird in a cage. His limbs your bars and your soft sounds of fear like twittering.

Using the last of your rational thought- your brain losing ground to fight or flight instinct- you try to think back to his instructions (funereal as they were), but find yourself creating other options. Even if you did want to shoot Sylus like he’d made you promise all those years ago, it’s not like you’ve got a gun lying around for it… No, the one he gave you (the one you keep as a token of him, like a locket) is sandwiched between your mattress and its framework.

A-And that’s where it’ll stay. No matter what.

Because you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You don’t bite the hand that feeds even after it pleads to be.

You decide, right then, that it’s better to play dead.

Sat perfectly still in his lap, your plan succeeds for all of half a minute before a hitch appears. To begin with, it was one born out of desperation, with low expectancy- but damn it all you still flinch when you become aware of his teeth and your proximity to them.

Fangs brush against your throat, uncomfortably sharp. It raises alarm in you, but it’s quickly lost in the other warning bells clanging in your skull.

You shiver. To your horror, Sylus chuckles.

“Are you scared I’ll hurt you?” He murmurs, breath searing your neck where it fans against it. It’s labored and fast; the depravity amplified against your earlobe.

Somewhere in you, you find the courage to answer. “A- A little,” you feebly admit. “I couldn’t get all the suppresants in.”

Sylus hums, low and satisfied, but you don’t quite miss the undercurrent of decadence in it- as much as you might want to.

“Good,” he quips. “Frenzies feel so much better without the pushback. You shouldn’t have injected any in me in the first place.”

“But you said-“

“It’s in my DNA to want to bite. It’s a little cruel to keep me from that… don’t you think?”

A debate happens within you, short-lived but tumultuous. You deliberate on answering because really, how can you? What is there to say that can temper him when he’s like this? A predator in the flesh.

And the thing about predators is that, somewhere in the equation, there must be prey—

But no. No- you refuse to believe he’ll succumb to that animalism, not when he’s more or less like blood to you. Your trust for him runs as thick as it, anyway. Blood is thicker than water, and poison, too- so the toxic lilt in his voice means nothing. Nothing at all.

You swallow, unable to offer any real reply. “I- I-“

“No,” he snips, a palm drifting lower. Positively impatient. Ever the obliging, albeit sometimes brusque man, the Sylus you know is nowhere to be found.

“Tell daddy what you really think of him. Think he’s a monster, don’t you?”

Finally, he nips at your neck, cutting himself loose from the self restraint he stubbornly moored himself to, groaning at the softness. Seamlessly, he suckles a hickey into your throat and you mewl.

The single thread of whatever the hell it is that’s keeping him at bay- his buried conscience, perhaps- snaps.

He makes a hot, ferocious sound, pawing at your breast now, drawing a startled yelp from you that his gums throb at. “Should he act accordingly? Hm? Use your words, kitten.”

Words? No. No, you think actions would suit you better- he’s not in his right mind right now and you need to leave like he’d ordered before your image of him, the one you’d put on a precious pedestal, collapses.

Daringly, you get up to try and bolt out again, mind single as your eyes dart to the front door.

If you can just leave the apartment, maybe you can lose him in the weaving, shady paths that are labyrinthine Linkon. Surely, he’ll find someone else, someone deserving (culpable men are not hard to come by here), and make them his glorified plaything instead.

By the time the sun rises, he’ll have woken from this awful, twisted trance—

He lets out a roar, angrily snatching you back onto the couch.

This time, though, there’s no semblance of freedom as he pins you under him, hovering close enough to bump his long nose against yours as he grips your hips tight enough to bruise.

“Nawh, you wound me, sweetie… And here I thought…” he rasps, ruby eyes glossing as the lid droops, blatantly ogling your jostling breast, “You had daddy’s better interest in mind.”

That’s unclear. But yours? Your better interest?

There it is again- blitzing across your frazzled conscience, stark against the dreadful haze: Play dead.

You do.

The blow will come, that’s definite. But if you play your cards right, maybe, a small hope in the back of your head says, you can lessen it.

You go limp beneath him and his hands. Even as they grope your tits through your shirt before he quickly foregoes that charade in favor of ripping open the collar, you remain still. You clamp your eyes shut and bite down on a pathetic sound.

Each and every one of your intentions evade riling him up, and yet your mere presence, pliant but shivering beneath him, does a good enough job at that on its own.

Still, as his energy builds into a devastating force, you’re quietly thankful for the amount you did manage to get in with the syringe. Likely, you realize with a heavy swoop of your heart, the determining factor in your life.

H-How much was it again-? Two vials? Or a vial and a half-?

Briefly, you glance over to the table where the case lay, open but half empty, and contemplate something stupid before the man- beast- above you laughs. Asserts himself in your face.

He’s all you see when he says, “I guess you don’t have your better interest in mind, either. Hm, kitten?”

And you’re all he smells, feels, knows, as he ruts his clothed cock against your thigh and you feel the swollen bulge. You shiver again. He’s really, really hard and is he actually planning to fuck you with that-?

You?

The pleasured, but not close to satisfied, grunt he makes says yes. Yes, absolutely he’s going to fuck you.

Rip off your panties after uncivilly pulling off your shorts and stuff his flushed length inside with a—

—“Fuck, kitty!”

He’s met with resistance.

And you forget your plan completely, terror taking over entirely as you begin to wriggle and plead for him to hold off, to reconsider— you’re a virgin and he’s mean and given your relationship, you two were never supposed to end up parallel to one another on the couch, desire brewing between your naked bodies. Well, you’re naked- or growingly; but Sylus isn’t.

Scraps of leather cling to sturdy, lean muscle, but he’s broiling in them still, skin licked with sweat. Evidently, heat has fried his neurons- his memory of himself- too.

“Please, daddy, I- I’ll—“

Oh, break. You’ll one hundred percent break but you keep from saying it aloud because you suspect it’ll warm his blood all the more. A correct guess, but it’s a little late for taking back what you did say. Sylus cottons onto it and groans.

“Don’t do this, Sylus,” you try to remind him of who he really is, even if your voice is small and untrustworthy. “Y-You don’t have to. J-Just remember who you are- who I am!”

His precious girl.

Once, he’d even said, his treasure.

Your heart stings.

Taking out the engorged, weeping head of him and rubbing it at your mostly-dry entrance (in hopes to prime it after failing to push his way inside), he’s hardly lucid as you babble.

Cute… But unimportant, he decides.

…Yet, he does somehow find it in him to look up, and you do find a trace of… something in him, human-like and guilty, when he does. It’s quicksilver. Gone when you blink.

Your pussy lips try to spit him out but it just works him up further.

The darkness in his gaze returns in tenfold.

He manages a scoff. “Oh, c’mon. Of course I remember~ You’re daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” He hums meanly, suddenly immune to the wide, kicked look you send him. It’s always done wonders on him before, but you’re met with failure.

“So how come you can’t take his cock? I know you could, if you just tried a little harder. Relaaax. Ease up. From now on, someone’s gonna have to be the calm one between us when I get into my frenzies. You can be that, right?” That sentence instills dismay in you for many reasons, but you have no time to think on them.

He husks, “Now, go on. Help guide me in.”

You don’t reach a hand down between you two like perhaps he wanted, but you do hear a faint squelch right then as he cants his hips forward an inch, and it does make you gasp. Despite yourself, you slick up for him- for God knows what reason, maybe just as self preservation or some deeper, pitiful attempt to please him- and it becomes obvious.

Sylus notes it with a shaky breath that blends with his other labored, ragged ones, and a grin that’d better suit a bastard.

He delves inside, by a small miracle, but you can’t stop from crying when he reaches halfway in and blood rings around the thick base of him. Inwardly, you try to separate the sin from the face, telling yourself between strained breaths that he’s not in control, that this frightening, terribly unfamiliar side isn’t the real him.

You whimper more when you realize you’ll be squinting at him for months to come, losing sleep over the question of, was he helpless to the beast, or hiding it in him all along? Was he a mere victim to the predator instinct forced onto him? or willfully steering it—?

No. No. Because he’s like blood to you. And blood is thicker than water, and poison, and the niggling doubts you feed on until gluttony.

“I-It hurts,” you try when he bottoms out with a resounding groan. Shameless and frenetic. He stoops over you after pressing your legs all the way back to the couch, rough as he purrs in your ear.

“You say it hurts, but your pussy just squeezes tighter around me… So you’d understand why I’d be getting mixed reactions, don’t you?”

He whispers. For the second documented time, you find Sylus cruel. Very, painfully, cruel.

It’s hard to argue with him, even when you know he’s wrong. You think if he was more awake right now, more him, then he’d side with you as well. And yet he’s completely untrustworthy right now, morally black and mean. So, so mean.

That devilish smirk on his blissed-out face might bring on an even sharper sting than his cock as it spears inside you and starts a brutal pace.

Well.

Not quite.

Your eyes flare. So do his, want and pure, unadulterated need zipping between your bodies as his perspiration dribbles onto your collar. He hangs his head into your shoulder and you feel droplets slip between the valley of your breast.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to feel sweltering; sweat running like the Nile between you both.

“Silly little bird. You just- hah, fuck- have no clue, do you? How tempting you are?”

You ignore it all because it’s better to. Maybe ignorance won’t shield you from his hands as they clench around the fat of your hips, but it’ll certainly help you later on down the line when you want to forget and are thankful for the kickstart.

You try to focus on the ceiling, but even that blurs behind him when he leans back some just to stare, moaning at what he sees.

Even beasts can appreciate beauty, he distantly observes.

Those eyes on you, not gentle per usual (albeit sometimes tinged with a harmless tease) but ravenous and sharp- are even harder to ignore. You can’t stop your hands from lifting to push at his face to try to block him out.

All for naught, of course.

With a choked moan, he chuckles. “Ugh- look at you. These little hands keep swatting at me, even though your face is full of pleasure. Fuck,” he curses, his face handsome but a bit unnerving as it dons a more perverted look, eyes half closed, “You feel…. good. I always knew you would.”

No. No. Shut up, shut up—

“You wanna be good for your daddy?”

Yes.

Not like this.

He gathers your unruly hands and cuffs them above your head. “Then lie down and take it. If it hurts as much as you pretend, I’m sure it’ll… feel better that way, if you give in.”

There’s a very small window in between Sylus hovering over you and then Sylus dipping down to bite the fleshy bit between your neck and shoulder: in it, there’s no time to prepare.

Ice tingles in your veins, shock stealing your breath.

It’s the pain, first dull and uncomfortable as his teeth sink in, but then quickly all-consuming, that helps you find the scream.

The scream— a small, broken cry.

It doesn’t make much noise, not enough for any possible neighbors to hear- in Linkon, none would even bat an eye to it, anyway- but he covers your mouth regardless. He eats up the pathetic sounds with rough lips and hungry groans.

You don’t know how much blood he’s drawn, but there’s a little on his teeth that he makes you taste.

“Ngh, you’re delicious,” he heaves after a break. Saliva connects you both in a fleeting strand. “I’m sure your pussy tastes even better- but kitten, I really don’t have the time right now to try it. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” He chuckles in your ear. You know he does not care for the answer. It’s deep and mean-spirited.

This side of Sylus- this rotten caricature of the man who took you in— All the hurt for it turns to loathing.

“For later,” he decides after a beat, resolved as he ignores your sneer.

You’re used to ambition on his end, but not greed: right now, his goals gravitate more towards selfishness than anything else.

All of it nears its end and quickly.

As he ruts into you, though, frenzied thrusts reaching their mark with loud grunts, it feels more gradual for you… Painfully slow. Seconds might as well be minutes, or hours, even.

It’s feral, the glint in his eye as he reshapes your walls to fit the outline of his massive cock, your virgin pussy spasming around him. Responsively, he gives a twitch, and you swear you feel his balls jump when he pauses- just for a moment- and they rest above your ass.

Sylus looks down at you, breathless and wild, and you shake at the lack of familiarity in his gaze. Ruby red eyes survey you almost frantically, with one intent only- to fuck you within an inch of your life, undoubtedly. Full of need. It’s a bottomless gaze. You think right then that you can’t give him what he wants because he’ll always be left wanting for more.

You’re not an ocean— if he reaches his hand in, he’ll inevitably reach the bottom but that clearly doesn’t stop him from trying to pull everything from out of you anyway.

It scares you. You feel small, mouse-like, but when he snatches your jaw into a sultry kiss, all canines and spit, you realize that even amidst the tumult of his predator state, you still mean something to him.

You’re all he sees. Feels. Understands to want for.

He burns inside you, the juncture of your thighs becoming sticky, gross. He ploughs inside without care for it, chasing his end and choking out moans along the way.

He coaxes some out of you, too.

Maybe it’s out of fear but you suckle on his tongue experimentally and he shakes, damp skin shivering under your finger pads as you dig them into his forearm.

Maybe you can’t play dead, but if all else fails, you can still play nice.

That’s in your best interest.

“F-uck, sweet thing, you’re gonna make me-“ a primal noise rips through his chest and rings in your ears. He lowers himself to your neck again and suckles at the orbs of blood that prick at the surface, lapping away at the small mess he made.

You wonder if after all this is over, you’ll be able to pretend it was just a love-bite, a hickey or something minor. Healable. Something able to be forgiven. Even if that would also be hard to reconcile with, considering you’d never thought he do something like this to you, the precious girl he’d flip Linkon upside down for—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He’s classy, but not now. Cursing up a storm at your clavicle and pounding into you without thought, blunt nails embedding into your hips. Aching to brand himself wherever he can.

There’s no ceremony to it all (though there is a build-up, his pelvis quickening but stuttering against the underside of your bent thighs) when he comes.

He shouts and you scream, holding onto him for dear life as a torrent of something hot and thick floods you. Your legs shake, poor cunt desperately trying to push its intruder out but it flutters when he throbs inside you and quivers. A wisp of pleasure paralyzes you- it’s so good.

Warmth trickles between you; all along the seam of you when he withdraws until only the tip remains, his cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.

You let your head bounce against the cushion when he slides it all out with a wet ‘pop’, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But relief joins it, too, your jaw (that had went slack only to howl with delight) closing as you catch your breath.

It’s done. It’s over. You went through the hard part and now you just have to wait the aftershocks of it out until morning, when you’ll finally be given the chance to recuperate and forget the monster your daddy was acting the night before—

Something thick, straightening back to life, nudges at your sopping hole again as it clenches around nothing. Your eyes snap open.

A large, callous palm holds you down, bracing you by the collarbone. He tuts, leaning over you with a dazed but wholly vicious grin.

Far from satiated.

“Ah-ah, kitten. It’s a little early to tap out, isn’t it? I’m far from done with you.”

He drives himself back home, slamming into you with a moan you brokenly mirror.

✦

Morning birds tweet outside the window. Bickering back and forth to one another.

The sheer curtains glow with sunlight as the onset of dawn makes its way in. Rays of it slur together in blocks on the floor.

Sylus’s room, you realize groggily. Not the living room with its new sofa stained with sweat and sex or the rug with its shattered, neon vials.

A strong arm holds lazily to your waist. Warm breath at your ear tickles you into slight wakefulness. The body slotted behind yours isn’t scorching hot like your nerve endings remember, though, almost flinching in response, and his sounds aren’t ragged. No, it’s…

Peaceful.

The events of the evening before come back to you in increments.

Your mind, with the natural want to protect you, chalks it all up to a bad dream.

The ache between your sticky legs and the fat cockhead that sits limply above the cleft of your ass- appeased- says otherwise.

You let out a soft gasp. The man behind you grumbles out a low, noncommittal sound before his lashes flutter over the blade of your shoulder.

“…Baby? What’s wrong?”

He untucks himself from there and is given great pause when his nakedness- and yours- clicks. His limbs harden around you— horrified and confused as every fresh memory from last night comes barreling into him as well.

Stunned, he lifts his head from its perch at your shoulder, but his hand remains above your hip, feather light and hesitant.

Wearily, you turn to meet him when his other hand gently steers your chin to look his way.

He looks tired. Fucking exhausted, the fine wrinkles in his face emphasized under the weight of the night prior. He looks—

Devastated.

“You-…” A sharp, shallow breath beats from his chest. His eyes, wide and unsteady, flit between yours, searching desperately for something he can’t quite find or recognize as you wet your lip to speak.

“Yesterday, I… Started decorating the house. I was excited to show you,” you say without really knowing why. Sylus’s shoulders sag ever so slightly at your apparent calmness, but the fear in his eye remains as he surveys the bruises- all the discoloration in your otherwise supple skin- and blinks.

You inhale shakily, looking down to his chest and all its striations, put on full display in the afterglow of what transpired however many hours before.

It feels wrong to call it a night of love-making, or even a term more raw, unfeeling, as sex. No, it was…

He fucked you within an inch of your life and that was all you really knew. He fucked you until you passed out and then sometime afterwards, apparently snapped out of his trance just enough to carry you back to his bed and sleep the remnant of his frenzy through.

But it wasn’t his fault. Couldn’t have been.

(Whose, then?)

You murmur, “I should’ve went with Wolfe.”

“No,” and there it is again, that fucking snarl, searing you through to the core but before panic can settle, he’s cradling your cheeks and pressing his forehead to yours.

His eyes are intense, but not scary. No, they’re tender and beaten and lovely as his chest shudders and he shakes his head. “No, sweetie. What happened…” he starts, just as unsure of how to label it, “had nothing to do with you. Don’t ever blame it on yourself. Do you understand?”

Blearily, you nod.

You see him in double when he sighs and carefully thumbs away a tear you didn’t realize had formed and fell.

…But Sylus appears a mite uncertain with himself when his eyes fall to your breast before quickly averting, self aware to the point of near pain and definite discomfort. “I’ll clean us up,” he ventures, glancing at you again.

For permission, you realize. To scoop your jelly limbs up and carry you to the shower, bridal-style, where he’ll wash the both of you naked, intimate and-

And should-be alarming.

But it’s not. Not now when you’re still dazed and bruised and his dried cum is caked to your thighs in white rivulets- and he’s just as wounded, but ready to fix. Ready to repaint over the peeling bits of you both in the aftermath of it all. Hang a picture over the hole in the wall of your heart.

“…Okay.”

He wastes no time in picking you up, but he’s gentler than ever when he takes you with him to the bathroom adjoined to his room. It’s awkward: you note that even in the bone-deep fatigue. You can tell he’s trying not to look at all the places instinct tells him he should, and you do well to blot out the sight (and memory) of his softened cock as it dangles between his legs.

The shower starts. Sylus keeps you upright so you don’t fall because your joints will literally fail you otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he laments as the water pours overhead, holding you against him. He means it in more ways than one. And yet, before you can voice your acknowledgement, and an unsure forgiveness, a small hope stirring in your gut that says this can be moved on from—

His lips press to yours. Chaste but searing; somehow even more world-shattering than last night.

It’s different. He’s… awake.

Jaw slack, you blink at him, water clumping your lashes both. He’s as handsome as a wolf is hungry but- for the moment- domesticated. Even his crow’s feet seem to soften.

“I’ll help you unpack the rest today,” is all he says as he reaches behind you for the soap, gaze unwavering even as you latch onto him and your perfect tits jiggle, his hand dipping below to carefully lather at your marks.

“This house can still be a home. I’ll show you.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[iwriteiguess]

────۶ৎ nerdy distractions

you were supposed to be revising. but sitting in your tutor’s lap kinda… derailed things.

warnings: smut, age gap , breeding kink, praise, begging, overstimulation, dirty talk, mild size kink, slight power imbalance.

ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: i saw that pic of pedro and spiralled IMMEDIATELY. like. how is he so soft and smiley and still radiating “gonna fuck you stupid” energy??? had to write this. had no choice.

more

ᖭ༏ᖫ

he was supposed to be helping you revise. just chemistry, nothing intense—at least not academically.

but then you’d decided to sit on his lap.

“m’supposed to be teachin’ you,” joel mutters, voice rough at the edges, glasses fogged slightly. his hands are big and trembling where they rest on your thighs, fingers twitching every time you roll your hips just a little further down his lap.

“you are,” you say sweetly, looking up at him from under your lashes. “i’m learnin’ loads.”

you press down again, right where he’s hard beneath his joggers, and you feel it—that sharp intake of breath through his teeth, the way his fingers finally grip, bruising.

“jesus,” he mutters, low and useless. “this ain’t right. you—you’re my student.”

but his hands are sliding under your skirt anyway, thumbs stroking the crease where your thighs meet your hips. and he’s so hard it must hurt, poor thing.

“not in school right now though, are we?” you whisper, rocking forward again. “besides, don’t you think i’ve earned a break?”

joel huffs, helpless. “fuckin’ hell, girl.”

and then his lips are on your neck, tongue hot and desperate, and you can feel how much he wants you—how long he’s tried to resist you.

he’s got you on your back in his bed now, glasses off, flushed and panting above you as he thrusts in deep and slow, like he’s trying to memorise how you feel around him.

“look at you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back gently even as he rocks his hips harder. “takin’ it so good, baby. lettin’ me fuck you like this…”

you whimper, legs shaking where they’re wrapped around his waist. “joel—please—m’so close again—”

“i know, i know, darlin’,” he breathes, kissing your throat. “already made you cum twice, didn’t i? such a good girl f’me. think you can give me one more?”

your head nods before your mouth even works. “uh-huh, please joel—jus’—jus’ don’t stop—”

he doesn’t. he fucks you through it, praises spilling from his lips like scripture.

“love watchin’ you fall apart f’me. so fuckin’ pretty when you beg. god, i could stay inside you forever.”

and then—so softly it shouldn’t wreck you the way it does:

“gonna fill you up, sweetheart. make you mine. let me put a baby in you, yeah?”

you moan so loud he has to kiss you to shut you up.

when he cums, it’s with your name broken and breathless against your throat. and when he keeps going, overstimulating you both just to feel it a little longer—you don’t stop him.

you never would.

ᖭ༏ᖫ

thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.

[iwriteiguess]

o o p s

pairing: sylus x reader

summary: utilising the privacy of the changing room, but accidentally made a mess

genre: sylus, love and deepspace, smut, cunnilingus, established relationship, 18+ content

You and Sylus had been wandering through the boutique for what felt like hours. His fingers occasionally brushing against yours as he held up dresses for your approval, dark eyes lingering a little too long on the curve of your waist and the way the fabric hugged your hips. Subtle, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. 

Then you found the dress.

Black, sinfully tight, with a back zipper that hung dangerously low. You didn’t miss the way his throat bobbed when you stepped into the fitting room with it.

You stepped into the fitting room, letting the curtain fall behind you, but left it just cracked enough for him to see the silhouette of your body as you slipped out of your clothes. His shadow lingered outside, tense. Waiting.

"Sylus," you called, voice dripping with false innocence. "I need help with the zipper."

The curtain rustled as he slipped inside, the small space suddenly suffocating with heat. His fingers traced the bare skin of your spine, slow, deliberate, before dragging the zipper up. But then his breath hitched. His hands stopped.

"You're not wearing anything underneath," he murmured, voice rough.

You smirked over your shoulder. "Oops."

A low growl escaped him. In an instant, his hands were on your hips, spinning you around, his mouth crashing against yours in a demanding kiss. You gasped as he backed you against the mirror, the glass cold against your bare skin, his body scorching against you.

"You wanted this," he accused, lightly biting at your lower lip.

"Maybe.” You arched into him, grinding against the hard length straining against his pants. “What're you gonna do about it?”

His answer was to drop to his knees.

Strong hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the narrow bench like you weighed nothing. The dress pooled around your waist as he spread your legs, his breath hot against your slick folds.

"Fuck,” he groaned, dragging his tongue through your wetness in one long, filthy stroke.

You bit back a moan, fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured you like a man starved. His tongue flicked your clit, teasing, before sucking it between his lips, making your back arch. Two fingers slid inside you, curling just right, hitting that spot that had your thighs trembling.

"S-Sylus," you whimpered, but he didn't stop, his mouth working relentlessly, fingers pumping in and out, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the tiny room.

The mirrors fogged, the walls rattled.

You came with a choked cry, your legs shaking as you soaked his mouth, his chin, the damn bench beneath you. He didn't stop licking you through it, drinking down every drop, until you were squirming from overstimulation.

Only then did he pull back, lips glistening with your juices. "So fucking sweet,” he purred, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You were still panting when the saleswoman's voice interjected. “Everything alright in there?"

Sylus smirked, standing and adjusting himself before tossing the ruined panties (when had he even taken them off?) into his pocket. "Perfect," he called back.

You fumbled with the dress, legs still unsteady, face burning. Sylus merely plucked the tag off the dress, tossed a wad of cash onto the counter on the way out, and dragged you into the nearest alley the second you were clear of the store.

“Now,” he growled, pinning you against the wall, "where were we?”

[iwriteiguess]

⚝ DAY 7 — MONSTERFUCKING/DRAGONCOCK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — zhongli, neuvillette, capitano, childe

— warnings. — fem! reader, monsterfcking, size kink/size difference, oral (fem! receiving)

⚝ — ZHONGLI + dragon

across minds, there were scents of dust and gentle perfumes clashing together, with rough slaps and feisty grabs of flesh against zhongli's muscular hands as it only showed a fraction of what was going on between you two.

can you still call it love making though? be honest now, was it really something you'd consider to use the word love for?

because this, uh fuck, this was so much more fun and unrestrained, though you can barely feel yourself anymore despite really trying your best after round two, yet the man just didn't run out of stamina, even if he tried. his body was glowing, majestic and the connection he had to your body was profound— the flow of his hips moving through time and space, your body shivering and giving way to be held up by his bare arms and his pressure against you.

zhongli wanted this really badly, you know? he's been thinking about fucking your pretty pussy all day long that he even thought about fucking his hand for a little, however, while imagining it being your soft, wet cunt instead— well, you gotta understand him, okay? how dare you be so freaking busy all day, running around looking this fucking hot, no wonder his cock was fully meeting your insides now, moving almost in a dance as his tongue writhes with yours so tightly to his length fiecerly battering your walls.

a sense of overwhelming nakedness and lewdness cradle your skull as his expanded cock hits places within you, previously unknown, untouched yet now— he maked them his own, scraping across the skin, conquering, pounding you as the feeling of fullness brought pure elation to your soul.

⚝ — NEUVILLETTE + dragon

neuvillette's unparalleled beauty wasn't fully without warning, because he was a living embodiment of the sea's power— and wow, how he looks at you, touches and licks between your folds with his slicked tongue, truly outstanding.

it's long, flowing, as if he's motioning a deep wave of lust which resembled cascading waves, rippling with every subtle movement as you hump and smear your cunt across his lips, and his sharp, sharp yet graceful features— oh dear, you're in for it now, aren't you? not only that but they radiated an ethereal glow.

you feel yourself lusting for more of him, his erection to ram and destroy you, yet his monstrous tongue already felt as if it was too much— his wet muscle judging all with traces and filthy flicks that held the weight of oceans and storms against your skin and bones.

His presence was awe-inspiring, the air around your bodies seemingly shimmering of pheromones and sweat as if it couldn't quite contain the sheer majesty of his being. you let out a gasp upon holding his hair within your palm, yet you squirm again, all sprouting from a long, thick tongue grazing at your binding taste.

"oh, please, you’re right there," you whine, scream and cry, desperately bucking your hips against his tentacle like tongue, the pressure of his muscle still as insistent as ever. neuvillette continued to explore you with a reddened face, his usual stoic facade gone without a trace.

⚝ — CAPITANO + big monster

a big, scary monster, hm? you're so scared of capitano, yeah? oh no, don't be shy in admitting that you loved seeing him in this form, all scars on full display with your legs parted and waiting, pussy drenched in your juices and aching, yeah, aching to be fucked desperately until you cum all over him like the sweet n cute darling which you were to the harbinger.

he loved how you seemed so, hm, innocent in comparison to him which, well, wasn't that difficult to begin with, yet capitano went off on it— not only that but how you knew he was the strongest and that he was able to protect you from everything and anything, while also fucking your literal brains out every single night.

he fears any part of his cock leaving you, your warm, soft pussy and how well you fit around him.

you also try so hard all the time, attempting to fit all the inches at once while knowing fucking well you require some foreplay before he could even attempt to sink his tip inside. archons, you're close now, he can feel you shivering around his shaft, body quivering now with cold sweat, electric tingles on the insides of your thighs and too many sensations that you've ended up giving yourself to him entirely.

⚝ — CHILDE + foul legacy

childe flutters his gaze apart with his crimson eyes blazing with an intensity that matched the ferocity of his attacks in combat, the force of his hips not to be reckoned with as it resembled his fighting style— wild and unpredictable as your body was covered in thick waves of his cum, yet you didn’t want him to stop, and childe wouldn't want to reject anything his darling wanted, correct? you allowed him to fuck you harder, make it seen all over your face and neck and tits, your thumping chest and your shattering thighs grasping for tension.

it was an unbelievable sensation, without comparison, otherworldly and slimy and wet, but at the same time soft and gentle and comforting like he's wanting to make sure you remember he wouldn't hurt you, ever, not even with the sheer size in his pants.

the chaos he embraced in the bedroom left you out of breath with a staggering motion between your thighs as childe burned brightly, his big, strong arms holding you close with a passion that extended beyond the act. of course, there was no middle ground, not with him, not when he made you feel so alive and, well, unrestrained.

it was the confident in his thrusts, how he fucked you relentlessly with a big, fat grin on his face, yet when you let out a soft whine, wordlessly begging him to shove it deeper, much much deeper and stronger, he gives your nipples some attention at the very least before he decides to lick across one with his long, ripped tongue.

and well, would you look at that, how your body reacted to that was far more devious.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[iwriteiguess]

cunnilingus ᐢ..ᐢ,

caleb is such and eater. gosh. all you have to do is walk past him wearing his favorite pair of short short. if you can even call them that…

the fabric is so thin, it stretches over your plump ass and ride up to expose the bottom portion of your cheeks.

he’s basically salivating, his hands gripping the couch cushion while he tries to control himself. his eyes are glued you, watching you bounce around the kitchen, making yourself some lunch. you really don’t know what you do to him do you?

poor baby tries so hard to look away but he just can’t! not when his dick is already hard and throbbing. he really can’t help himself, you’re just too irresistible.

before you know it, he’s picking you up, too impatient to go to your shared room so he just lays your back on the couch and hikes up your thighs.

he rests his head between your doughy thighs, taking a deep wiff of your sweet pussy and whines. he’s so pathetic. the way he looks up at you, already drunk off your scent. a deep blush crawls up his neck and he swears you’re doing this on purpose! (you definitely are.)

“need to taste you” he mumbles while quickly pulling off your shorts and panties with it. he moans when he sees the plump lips of your glistening pussy.

“fuck, such a pretty pussy” he whines, using his thumbs to spread your lips apart. you thread your fingers through his hair, moaning his name when he kisses your clit.

“mmmm” he moans, licking your pussy with fervor. you taste sooo good. his lips wrap around your now throbbing bud and you’re dripping wet from his menstruation.

your hips push off the couch to buck into his mouth making him suckle harder on your clit. his fingers keep your labia spread to give him more access to your bundle of nerves.

“please caleb!” you cry out, rolling your hips and throwing your head back. he alternates between sucking your bud and fully making out with your pussy, his tongue dipping into your tight hole to fuck you.

“tastes so sweet pip squeak” he mumbles between motions. your thighs are shaking, feeling your body hum with an impending orgasm.

“gonna cum!” you hiccup and caleb sinks one thick finger into you. your eyes roll back, the stretch feels sooo good. you can’t stop yourself from gripping his hair tighter, pushing his face deeper into your cunt.

he loves ever moment of it. swears he could die happily if it meant suffocating from your heavenly pussy.

“please please please please please” you’re babbling out while he’s pumping his finger in you, adding another one to stretch you further. his lips never leave your clit.

your body feels electric, can feel your orgasm on the tip of your fingers. the pleasure rushes through you like a warm tidal wave and you feel the cord in your tummy snap.

“cumminggggg!” you scream, your body spasming from the overwhelming pleasure. you try to curl into yourself but caleb isn’t having that! he uses his large hand to press down on your tummy, while he’s curling his fingers up into your sweet spot.

you’re whining and trying to push his head off but he grabs your wrists with one hand and sucks harder on your clit. your body shudders and you feel a rush of warmth pool between your legs. you’re squirting all over his face and he’s drinking it all down.

“good girl” he purrs

he laps up your nectar like the sweetest juice he’s ever tasted. helping you come down from your high. when he’s done he looks up at you with a wolffish grin.

“best lunch ever” he jokes and you roll your eyes.

[iwriteiguess]

fantastic use of free will. (teaser)

synopsis — sylus finds your strap-on. he gets creative with it.

warnings — nsfw content mdni please or i will steal ur kneecaps, afab!reader so mentions of female genitalia (pussy, breasts, etc.), crack at the beginning, improper use of a strap-on (sylus is not the one getting plowed with the strap this time), a super bad attempt at dirty talk, switch!sylus (dom to sub then to dom again), sylus cumming in his pants like a highschooler, sylus being a lil shit, cursing... i might've missed smt lmk if i did

featuring — sylus

notes — thank u to all those who interacted with my post !! to this day i still couldn't find where i had seen this trope before, but i swear i've seen it somewhere.. anyway one thing about me is that i will always always want all of my men to be pathetic little dogs on their knees whimpering and moaning, no matter their size compared 2 me. idgaf about daddy sylus respectfully <3

Sylus continued laughing, his arm barely able to lift itself up as he dangles the toy in the air. "Oh, this is the highlight of my month. Or probably my whole year." he said, still wheezing in full amusement as he wiped away a tear with his knuckle.

You groaned and tried to snatch it from his grasp, to no avail. "Give it back!"

"Ah-ah, kitten," Sylus raised his arm higher, grinning widely at you. "I want to see you use this for me."

You blanched at his request, "What? I never pegged you to be into that." You snorted at your own joke, "Ha, see what I–"

"Oh, I'm not gonna do that, sweetie." Sylus cut you off, tilting his head to the side, his smirk just as lopsided and evil.

You were even more confused. "Wh– what do you mean..."

Sylus spread his legs on your bed slowly, snugly strapping the toy around the meat of his thigh. After tightening the last strap around his knee, he looked back up at you and patted the base of the toy. Your heart raced as his smirk grew more smug by the minute.

"Up for a joyride, sweetie?" he taunted.

read it here!

[iwriteiguess]

Fully tamed

mdni. 18+ content

resumé: f!reader helps sylus find out a new kink..or more. c:

tags: dirty talking, blowjob, mentions of good girl and good boy, soft cbt (is that even a thing?), cowgirl, choking (erotic asphyxiation), mentions of spit and anal play, sylus may or may not have a pain kink

pairing: sylus x reader

word count: 1.4 words

a/n.: this was written during my work shift yesterday. i was fed ideas and had to deliver so this isn’t proofread. first sylus fic on here! 😏

Sylus’s grip on your hair was firm and gentle, just like him. Your hands were splayed on his thighs, muscles rippling under his skin while he moved your head on his cock. Your knees were sore, but it didn’t matter when it came to pleasing your boyfriend. From the moment you felt his hardon pressing up against your backside at the ball you attended together, you knew you’d end up in this exact position for the third time this week.

“You’re doing so good for me, kitten. Come on, take more into your pretty little mouth.” He punctuated his words, pushing your head down until your lips were wrapped around the base of his thick length. Your nostrils were tickled by the trimmed dark silver hair on his navel. “Good girl.” He purred, rolling his hips into your mouth while you tighten your grip on his thigh. You let one of your hands slide up his thighs, then between his legs where you gripped his balls, rolling them in your hands while he slowly dragged your head up.

Sylus loved seeing his cock glistening, covered in a perfect mix of his precum and your saliva. “You look ravishing like this, sweetie. In your rightful place.” He praised, pushing you back down on his length and establishing a rhythm. There’s nothing you loved more than when he would be greedy like this, using you to fulfill his own selfish desires while you squirmed and begged to be filled up to the brim with him.

His controlled expressions were a thing of the past; his cheeks reddened by his arousal, lips swollen from all the kissing and biting while he breathed harshly. His eyes though, carefully watched your every movement. His ruby eyes were filled with lust and adoration, fortunate that his beloved had come back to his embrace. “Fuck.” He rasped, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Sylus closed his eyes, feeling the pleasure coiling up in his abdomen and leaking salty precum into your mouth.

A dark look passed in your eyes, the hand that fondled his balls tightening up around them while you kept your eyes fixed on his face. His eyes threatened to pop out of his skull, hips jolting at the pain from your harsh squeeze. “Kitten.” He growled, with no real anger behind it. Furthermore, you could feel that he’d gotten harder from this. To test your theory, you squeezed them again and watched with wide eyes as Sylus threw his head back, a low moan spilling out of his lips. This time though, you were sure he loved it.

His breathing had quickened up, growing more shallow with every passing moment. Hearing no protest from him, you continued to squeeze and fondle his testicles while you felt his grip on your hair tightening up. “Aah, kitten. Keep going, my love.” Sylus moaned, eyes squeezed shut. His thighs were trembling, muscles straining while he tried to keep himself at bay. Not guiding your head anymore, you bobbed it up and down with a satisfied hum.

The taste and smell of him was enough to get all the hair on your body to stand up, his musk and cologne making you dizzy with him. You rubbed your plush thighs together, looking for some friction for your neglected pussy after you soaked through your panties. With a harsh tug that made you wince, Sylus pulled you off his throbbing erection and crushed his lips against yours. He shoved his tongue into your mouth, tasting himself on it with a satisfied hum.

He helped you straddle his lap, pushing your panties to the side before pressing his leaking head against your clenching hole. “ Good girl.” He said, tight grip on your hips as he pulled you down on him. Moans escaped both of your mouths, your wetness allowing for his cock to sink into you smoothly until you could feel the tip pressing up against your cervix. The fluttering and pulsing of your wet hole around his shaft made his signature smug smirk curl his lips, pressing a kiss against your head.

“You’re so good for me, sweetheart. I just pushed in and you’re already cumming for me? How eager.” Sylus teased, barely giving you time to recover from your orgasm that was still wrecking you and already bouncing you on his lap. Your hand gripped his broad shoulders, your stiletto nails digging into his skin. “Ahh..Haah, fuck, Sylus.” You cried out, riding him slowly. Each time you sunk, you could feel himself press against that spot that made you see stars.

“What is it, my love? Use your words, kitten.” Sylus cooed, pressing a kiss on your forehead. “F-feels good...” It didn’t take much for you to become a babbling mess, saying his name like it was a prayer while you fucked yourself on his cock. Sylus let you do as you pleased, his breathing ragged. He watched you attentively, drinking in the sight of you coming undone on his cock. Your pussy clenched down hard around him, making his breath stutter as he felt the rhythmic pulsing around him again while you let out a broken moan.

“You’re so good for me, sweetie. Did that feel nice? Do you love cumming like this around my cock?” Sylus mewled, petting your head while you bit down on his shoulder. He didn’t give you time to answer, tilting his hips in a different angle and making you rock against him. Both your moans filled his living room, your hips continuing on doing the work as he peppered your face with his loving kisses. His hands were everywhere, his caresses making your body shudder with excitement.

Your mind was hazy, pleasure overwhelming your senses. His cock was constantly pressing against your sweet spot, rendering you barely able to put a sentence together or give any small retort to Sylus’s teasing. “You’re so good for me, fucking yourself on me even though you can barely talk. How pathetic.” His smirk was irritating yet so attractive. All you wanted was to wipe that smug smirk off his face.

Rotating your hips in circles earned you a series of curses and low groans from Sylus. Gazing into the abyss of his eyes, your hands slid from his shoulders to his neck. Your slender fingers wrapped around his neck, squeezing the area while you continued to grind on him. You noticed something unfamiliar, something weak flickering in his eyes before it vanished.

Stilling yourself, you felt his cock throb inside of you. He never pushed your hand off and his breathing quickened up. Tentatively, you pressed harder against his neck and listened to his breathing hitch as you slowly fucked yourself on his shaft once more, keeping your grip tight on him. Sylus’s mouth dropped open, eyebrows knitted together while his face gradually turned redder. Maybe you’d regret your words but in that moment, you just had to let him know what you had in mind.

“Should’ve known. The leader of Onychinus loves getting choked, huh? You’re so perfect like this, Sylus. I wonder how else I can get you to be such a good boy for me?” You moaned into his ear, biting on his earlobe and feeling his grip on you get tighter, fingers digging into your soft skin. He let out a pitiful choked off moan at your words, his forehead pressed against your shoulder. His mind was growing more hazy by the second, truly rendered unable to banter with you like he loved to do so.

“Should I choke you more often? Or maybe you’d want me to slap you?” You gasped, your breathing growing more shaky as you felt yourself rocketing toward climax again. “I could spit on you, yeah, that’d be so fucking hot. Or maybe, just maybe, you want me to push a finger or two in your tight hole.” You gasped, squeezing harder around his neck.

Sylus let out an absolutely guttural moan, pulling you impossibly closer to him while his body shuddered. “Please..” His raspy voice uttered, the carnal desire for this reflected in his eyes. To see your usual dominant lover be reduced to this made you pause your grinding, grinning at him while you felt him swell inside of you. “You’re such a good boy, Sylus.” You whispered, pressing a kiss on his ear.

Loosening your grip on his neck, he took a deep breath while he held you tightly as he let out a series of soft whines and absolutely sexy moans for your ears only. His cock pulsed inside of you, his release filling you up in powerful spurts and that was all it took for you to snap. You gushed, screaming his name and cumming hard while Sylus tightly held you, flush against him.

You both trembled together, very slowly coming from down your high.It took several minutes before neither of you were able to talk, your fingerprints starting to appear on his throat. Your fingers raked over the skin of his back, a rumble growing in Sylus’s throat.

“Sweetie.” Sylus’s voice sounded wrecked, something you hadn’t heard from him ever. “You better not back away from your suggestions.” He growled, snapping his hips upward and knocking the wind out of you, making you see stars. ”Now, be a good girl and take your punishment for talking to me this way.”