#IMGOINGFERALLLLHELP

[mochieekittenz]

Hot Take! — Sylus's teasing

Sylus is basically the reason my brain goes feral at 2 AM AHAHAHHAH.. So here’s me spilling all the messy, spicy thoughts y’all didn’t ask for💗 Enjoy!

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Sylus is the type to tease you for his own pleasure — not to make you feel good (at least not right away), but to watch how fast your pride crumbles under the weight of his touch. He doesn’t rush. Never. He drags it out — every glance, every touch, every word laced with that slow, deliberate heat that sinks beneath your skin and coils low in your belly. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He wants you aching. Squirming AND desperate. Best all at once. He wants you simmering with that kind of want that trembles just under the surface, right there between your legs, already swollen with need.

He watches you like a predator, with a smirk that says he knows you better than anyone else, even if you still pretend you’re in control. But you’re not. Not when his long fingers ghost down your bare back, not when his breath brushes your neck and you feel that impossible shiver roll through your spine. It's torture in it's purest form.

He’s the type to make you beg without ever saying the word “beg.” He’d make you say “please” with your body — with the way your back arches, the way your breath stutters, the way you start chasing his fingers even when he pulls away, smirking like a devil he is.

Your whole skin can tingle and buzz, hypersensitive. Every nerve standing at attention, begging for him. And he gives you just enough. Fingertips grazing the inside of your thigh, feather-light. Lips barely touching the shell of your ear, whispering in that dark, smooth voice that makes your knees go weak. He wants to see you tremble. He wants your breath to hitch, your thighs to clench, your whole body to betray you while you’re still trying to play tough.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down your neck so slowly your brain short-circuits. “Every time I even breathe near you, you shiver.”

He touches you, like he’s learning you. Mapping you. Turning every inch of skin into a question he already knows the answer to.

“You feel that?” he breathes against your neck, mouth hot on your pulse. “All these little trembles… I haven’t even touched you, and already your body’s begging.”

His words aren’t filthy. They don’t need to be.

Because it’s not the language that ruins you — it’s the truth behind it.

The truth that your pride is slipping. That your silence is breaking. That your body is melting, wet and soft and open for him.

“You want it right here, don’t you?” he murmurs, dragging his hand just beside where your heat is pulsing, soaked and aching and ready for more than this torturous glide. “But I don’t think you’ve earned it yet.”

And then he does it again — strokes just next to where you need him, not on it. Always taunting, always giving you just a little taste of what is to come. Your thighs clench. Your core throbs with the effort of staying still. Every inch of you aches to be touched, filled, taken.

You’re burning. Literally. Every nerve tingling, begging, sensitive to every brush, every pause. He’s got you exactly where he wants you — open, exposed, greedy — and not satisfied.

“Tell me,” he drawls as he finally lets one finger slip between your folds, slowly, indulgently, sliding through your slick heat like he’s been starving for it. “Is this the part where you break for me, sweetie?”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out — just a sound, breathy and shattered. And he laughs under his breath, dragging his finger up again, circling your clit so slowly it feels like your body is winding tighter and tighter with every pass.

“You’re throbbing, kitten,” he says, almost gently. “All swollen and soaked…You’ve been clenching around nothing this whole time, haven’t you?”

He sinks a single finger into you — not fast, not hard — but deep. Slow enough that you feel every inch stretch and slip inside, and your body reacts like it’s starving for more. Your hips roll up instinctively, chasing something fuller, thicker, but he grips your thigh in warning.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “You’ll take what I give you.”

And what he gives is unbearable — one finger curling perfectly, pulling out, pressing in again, pumping slow and rhythmic, while his thumb grazes your clit in soft, maddening circles that make your breath come in broken little moans.

“Every time I push in, you squeeze like you’re afraid I’ll stop.”

He watches it all. Watches you tremble, arch, melt into the touch you pretended not to need. Watches the way your lips part, your eyes flutter, your thighs spread wider for him without you even realizing.

"You’re making a mess of my hand, sweetie.”

...

The whole thing is, that Sylus doesn’t destroy with force.

He destroys with patience.

With precision.

He doesn’t take — he waits.

Waits for you to offer it.

Waits until your pride softens into whimpers.

Until your confidence becomes pliant under his touch.

Until your need turns you inside out — and only then does he move.

Sylus knows it’s not about breaking you.

It’s about making you choose to fall apart — for him.

Because by the time he’s through with you, shaking, flushed, breathless…

You’ll think it was your idea all along.