TheCuteLilSquish

Letting his mind wander around, he looked at every corners of the room. He couldn’t let his mind relax even a little bit. “Maybe that’s why they told me to leave and relax. But did it really have to be the pleasure district…” Jinshi sighed and turned his head towards the copper mirror that stood against the wall. His eyes wandered from his outfit up to his hair and face, making sure that the scar Maomao had painted on him as a disguise hadn’t washed off or moved. 

As he was checking his looks a knock came from the door making him turn back around. 

“Yes?” 

“Master Jinshi? It’s (Y/N), may I come in?” 

“Of course.” Sitting up straighter, Jinshi slowly placed his tea cup down. 

Moving the sliding door open, Jinshi could see her new outfit. With the previous outfit she had worn, nobody would know that she was working in the Verdrigi house. Instead she was wearing a more expensive looking Hanfu, hair pinned up with a few strands falling in her face framing her beautiful eyes. 

Jinshi had to physically shake his head to snap out of his trance as she walked further into the room and sat across from him. They sat in silence before (Y/N) picked up the tea pot and filled his cup and her own before speaking.

“I hope you know why the madam chose me to be here.” 

“Yes. I suspect you are one of the higher ranked ones with that are around the same price with the three princesses?” 

“Something like that.” (Y/N) blew softly against her tea before sipping on it. 

Meanwhile, Jinshi gazed at her, confused at what she meant with it and awestruck by her beauty even by her just sipping at her tea. He could see the soft red painted at her eyes and the little amount of gold paint accentuating her eyes as she closed her eyes while drinking. Other than the others in the Verdrigi house, (Y/N) wore her Hanfu more like a someone from a higher ranked household then someone working in the pleasure district. What also made him think was how there hadn’t been a word about her. With her beauty and grace, he would have thought that many men and even women would be talking about her. 

“Why is it that I haven’t heard anything about you working here, my lady?” His mouth had already opened before he could think more about it. Jinshi bit his tongue as the “my lady” slipped out, he was way too used to his role in the palace. Instead of flattery or confusion, (Y/N) simply chuckled and placed the cup back on the small table between them with a small clank. 

“I don’t think I can take the title lady, good sir.” (Y/N) softly gazed at him before reaching under the table and pulling out a small extension of the table. On top were Go pieces, ready for them to play. “How about a few rounds while we talk?” 

Jinshi stared at that board and nodded defeated. Both moved to the side and and picked up their colours, (Y/N) black and jinshi white. 

“I have to warn, I’m not very good at this game.” the first white tile is placed in the very middle.

“That is fine. It’s just for us to pass some time.” A black tile joins at the edge of the board. 

“Don’t you normally flatter your guests and encourage them?” a second white tile is placed next to the first.

“Do you want to be encouraged?” black meets the board. 

“...No, it’s fine.” 

“A-Mao had told me that you overworked yourself and were brought here.” 

Jinshi didn’t comment on that and placed another tile down. (Y/N) chuckled at his resignation and they played a few moves in quiet. One tile after another, the board slowly filled up, no real winner could yet be seen. 

“How do you know Maomao?” 

“I raised her.” 

Jinshi chocked at his tea he was sipping in between moves. The way she said was way too nonchalant. (Y/N) just watched in amusement and handed him a handkerchief as he tries to get better airflow back into his lungs. 

“Not alone of course.” 

“Ah cough of course.” 

The door from the room slid open before Jinshi could ask her to elaborate. Both turned to look over and saw Maomao standing there with a white cloth covering her hair. 

“Jiejie, come! I need your help. Sorry Master Jinshi.” Maomao hastily apologised and stepped into the room and pulled her out of the room. Perplexed, Jinshi slowly stood up and walked after them. Curiosity got the better of him. 

“What’s wrong, A-Mao?” 

“Dad isn’t here and a costumer got hurt.” 

“Oh.”

“Just ‘Oh.’. Why are they both so nonchalant with that….” Jinshi couldn’t help but look at the two in exaggeration. “Also what did she mean with ‘raised her’? They do act similar but their age isn’t that much different. (Y/N) is maybe a few years older but it couldn’t be too much, right?” 

Arriving at the room, Jinshi thoughtfully stayed outside and watched as (Y/N) pushed her sleeves up and went to work with Maomao at her side and handing her over the medicine and tools she would need. It was fascinating to Jinshi that even (Y/N) was able to work with medicine, he naively thought that Maomao would be the only one capable to do that, not knowing that (Y/N) had also learned to be a apothecarian. 

“Now, what is our estimate guest doing here?”

“Oh, madam. My apologies.” 

“It’s fine. I should apologies for Maomao dragging (Y/N) away while she was entertaining you.” The Madam waved her hand dismissively. “Those two are really too similar.” she mumbled. 

“What was that?” Jinshi curiosity peaked, he turned to the old lady and wanted to know more. 

The old madam stared at him for a while before sighing. “I guess it’s fine.” she took a drag from her pipe and exhaled. “(Y/N) doesn’t really work here, she is mainly here for teaching and medicine here. So since she had so much time at her hand, more than the others, she took over and raised Maomao mostly by herself, with the old man of course.” 

“...But aren’t they the same age?” Jinshi gazed at the working duo with his fingers placed on is chin, completely oblivious to the dumbfounded stare the madam was giving him. 

“Same age, huh.” the madam muttered. “(Y/N) should be around 10 years older or so.” her muttering was way to quite for him to hear but he wouldn’t have heard it either way. He was too focused on (Y/N). 

_______________________

After nearly an hour, (Y/N) and Maomao were finished and cleaned up. It was getting late and Jinshi and Maomao needed to go back soon. Maomao stayed in the room and cleaned up while (Y/N) walked out of the room and closer to Jinshi to apologies. 

“I’m sorry, Master Jinshi.”

“Don’t sweat it. It can’t be helped.” For the first time, Jinshi gave her a soft smile, not his usual forced smile that he would give the concubines in the palace. 

“I heard from Maomao that you need to head back after she is finished cleaning. I told her I would lead you to the carriage first.”

“Thank you.” 

Arriving at the carriage Jinshi turned to her instead of going inside. 

“Is something the matter?” (Y/N) tilted her head as she looked at him, waiting for him to say anything. 

“...It’s nothing.” Jinshi did want to say something, but he thought since she wasn’t truly working in the Verdigris house it would be easier to see her again at some other time. Jinshi decided to enter the carriage but was stopped by the sound of her voice again. 

“Oh, A-Mao. There you are. You are also going back right?” 

“Yes, jiejie.” 

“You want me to tell, father anything?” 

“..I don’t think so, but thanks.” 

“No problem. And also…”

“Yes?” 

“Try to do the makeup a little more believable next time.” 

(Y/N) gave her a closed eyes smile and giving her a kiss on the forehead before walking back inside, leaving Maomao and Jinshi shocked as both froze in their track. 

Now on the way back to the palace, Jinshi was still trying to wrap his head around how she knew that he was wearing makeup while Maomao was chewing at her nail. 

“Damn it. I knew I couldn’t fool her. Guess I’d have to practice more!” 

Sylus ⟢

- straddling sylus as he massages your pretty tits

- how he has you on the couch after a long day

- sylus after beating down on his cock because he misses you so much; pls come back to him </3

- devouring your pussy like he's a starving and dying man; he hopes luke and kieran can hear the both of you through the wall

- he loves rubbing your clit as he fucks you nicely after tearing off your favorite lingerie

- you deserve getting a spanking after being so annoying and naughty to sylus

Xavier ⟢

- slow and soft missionary before bedtime because he missed you so much <3

- making him cum through his boxers because you're both too lazy and tired to take everything off

- getting too excited and having you in so many ways against the walls

- sweet morning sex because he can't get enough of you

- xav got bored and wanted to send something teasing for not giving him a goodbye kiss this morning

- he loves how squishy and soft your ass is while he has you over his lap and his finger digging inside your pussy

Rafayel ⟢

- getting spread out and whining for rafayel to breed you

- acting like an annoying brat and denying that you'll cum for him... he'll prove you wrong

- you were being mean to him earlier so now he has to be even meaner by fucking your back

- rafa loves the noises you make when he suck and teases your nipples with his tongue

- he's imagining that his sucky silicon toy is your ass :(

- guiding you kindly to take his cock in so many ways

Zayne ⟢

- zayne cumming inside his sweetheart after her desperate pleas and begging >_<

- dolled up for him after a short shift for funsies, now he has you over the armrest

- rubbing dr zayne's boner before work so he can be hard and thinking about you for the rest of the day

- breeding you in broad daylight after a long week working at the hospital ^_^

- fucking you with just his thumb after you were being a brat the whole day and sending him teasing photos at work

- car sex under the rain after a romantic date night with zayne <3

Husband!Caleb lovesss to do daily activities with his wife— like showering. You’re brushing your teeth in the morning shower in a rush because you're late for work (your husband refused to let go of your body in the morning) when the culprit silently joins you. He pulls you in without a word, kissing you hard, groaning into your mouth as if he didn't have his full last night, “Already miss bein' inside of ya'. C'mon, call in sick today,” he takes you up against the tile, water cascading over your tangled limbs, steam clouding the space and the world beyond it, "Wanna love on my darlin' wife."

Husband!Caleb loves how you let him do what he wants, even at a formal fleet dinner like this. His hand disappears under the tablecloth halfway through the night, and you try to keep a straight face and listen to the unimportant higher-ups ranting on and on how well of a job your husband does while he lazily teases your slick folds. "M-mhmmm, I know, he's— incredible!" Caleb chuckles at your slight slip-up, fingers now dipping into your heat as he places a soothing kiss to your temple, eyes locked on you as he speaks to the backround characters, fingers curling right against your g-spot, "Truth is, I just married wayyy up. All credits to my wife."

Husband!Caleb who bends you over the counter as you're making breakfast in nothing but that cute apron he bought you that says 'Hotter Than My Oven'. His fingers are teasing, squeezing your perked tits under the apron before landing a playful smack to your exposed ass, “You really think I can wait till after breakfast when my wife 's all cutesy in this apron? Hell nah.”

Husband!Caleb cherishes moments like these, when you visit him in his office as a surprise just to “check in.” You end up bent over his desk, muffling moans against his hand, wedding band cold on your pursed lips while he fucks you into oblivion. “C-could visit me more often here— f-fuckkk! Loveeee your company—", he cuts himself off with one bullying thrust to your cervix, surely bruising something inside you and you're worrying if you can even go home by yourself after this, "—and her's too."

Husband!Caleb lives for lazy morning sex because he's just insatiable when it comes to you. He slips one hand between your thighs to make enough room so his leaking tip can align to your soaked entrance. He starts kissing down your back as he stuffes you full, inch by inch, softly coaxing you awake with soft bites and low groans. “Just lay there and lemme spoil my wife, pretty girl."

Husband!Caleb can't deny the weird feeling in his gut as he sees a baby of one of his officers in your arms as you coo little nonsense to it. He married you already, and maybe it’s time for some mini you‘s running around now, no? So he makes it his life's mission to pump you full of his seed from every day onward, catching neighbours complaint after complaint. But he couldn't care less, not at the image of you round and plumb with his child (or twins, he wouldn't mind), a lovestruck grin on his face as his neighbour gets on and on about you both being too loud for the nth time this week.

Husband!Caleb's dedication is actually out of this world. He's so certain that after he'd plugged you full of at least four of his loads and propped a pillow below you to lift your legs up, that you're surely pregnant now.

Husband!Caleb just smirks in triumph after you show him the two pink stripes on the test, strong muscles lifting you up, spinning around, telling you 'how excited he is on being a papa' and 'how good of a mother you'll be', before he settles you down onto the matress, celebrating his victory by having a nasty make-out session with your cute obidient cunt as a 'thank you'.

Husband!Caleb can never get enough of you and would never want to, because you both are bound together. Forever. Not even death will do you two apart, because he refuses to ever leave you. You're husband and wife—bound, destined and live together happily ever after.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise. 

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell. 

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame. 

Sylus Qin. 

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe. 

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive. 

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk. 

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota. 

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon. 

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked. 

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection. 

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong. 

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase. 

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase. 

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery. 

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder. 

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room. 

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth. 

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact. 

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.” 

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.” 

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?” 

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.” 

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale. 

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place. 

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.” 

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post. 

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice. 

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.” 

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face. 

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.” 

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name. 

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is. 

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over. 

It was time to stare Death in the face. 

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably. 

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair. 

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates. 

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve. 

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen. 

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin! 

Your heart stops. 

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera. 

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet. 

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives. 

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome. 

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.” 

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway. 

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.” 

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…” 

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked. 

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage. 

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny. 

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.” 

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down. 

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more. 

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise. 

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country. 

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy. 

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again. 

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.” 

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot. 

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience. 

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge. 

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours. 

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period. 

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door. 

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go. 

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires. 

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history. 

You’d started simple: his social media. 

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck. 

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face. 

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse? 

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history. 

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too. 

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned. 

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate. 

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter. 

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read. 

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer. 

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him. 

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him. 

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him. 

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo. 

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point. 

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done. 

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin. 

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism. 

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :) 

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered. 

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.  

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them. 

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind. 

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words. 

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in. 

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair. 

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do. 

Sylus Qin is here. 

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh. 

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know. 

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you. 

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you. 

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over. 

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show. 

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.” 

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little. 

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan. 

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls. 

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in. 

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided. 

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.” 

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm. 

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore. 

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification. 

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile. 

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.” 

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance. 

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not. 

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week. 

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime. 

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do. 

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain. 

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe. 

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life. 

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights. 

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme. 

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television. 

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair. 

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips. 

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about. 

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit. 

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you. 

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man. 

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips. 

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair. 

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show. 

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography. 

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine. 

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you. 

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all. 

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left. 

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room. 

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late. 

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place. 

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you. 

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear. 

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response. 

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches. 

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs. 

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit. 

 “I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.” 

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon. 

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder. 

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.” 

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely. 

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss. 

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight. 

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.” 

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body. 

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls. 

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing. 

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.” 

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal. 

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment. 

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give. 

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you. 

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan. 

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight. 

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room. 

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning. 

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily. 

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker. 

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off. 

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

(★.) caleb's first day back from training went exactly how he'd fantasized since the moment he kissed you goodbye and boarded that DAA shuttle. he'd stroked his cock to the memory of your mouth more nights than he could count, but nothing—fucking nothing—compared to the way you sound now, moaning his name like it's the only word anyone's ever taught you. "fuck, baby girl." he sobs, fingers digging into your hips as he drives into you from behind. "say my name like that again." he demands. "and tell me how much you missed me, please..." even the way you're drooling on the pillow beneath you, you manage to croak the words out. "caleb, missed you so bad. though about you every day. fuck meee, pleaseee~!"

your thighs shake from the mean thrusts and how deep he's hitting, from the way he leans over you and spits his praises like it's dirt in his mouth. "feel that?" you can feel it. the way that he throbs inside of you. he groans when his hips stutter. "had to pretend my hand was a replacement for this tight fucking cunt for months. now look at you, pussy's slobbering all over me. my perfect fucking girl." and your name tears from his throat when you clench around him again, cumming brainlessly. but he doesn't stop. caleb doesn't want to stop. he wants to hear you sing his name like gospel and fuck you until your bedframe is destroyed and reduced down to nothing but kindling for the fireplace. and it goes exactly like he imagined every night he was kept away from you.

(★.) early mornings with caleb never went the same way. most of the time, he needed to be in control, hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd float away but today; it was slower. he was slower and gentler when he could hear your whines erupting from the base of your neck as you rode him at your own pace. your thighs straddle his, lazy sunlight warming your skin while air particles danced across your hazy eyes, vision too blissed out to even focus on him properly. he watches you like he's dreaming. he moans like he's trying not to be louder than you, so he doesn't miss each sound you make.

(★.) "i can wait," he speaks into the back of your neck with his shallow breath and he sounds so beyond wrecked for you as he pulls you back just enough to so that you can feel how badly he wants you. "i can... wait... for you." he says these words as if he's trying to convince himself. the fabric between your bodies burns. it's thin enough, soaked, and so fucking frustrating. and still, he doesn't move any more than he's allowed himself. it's just enough to sate the both of you without crossing the line.

(★.) caleb doesn't even have the patience to take them off. he can't. not when they're this cute. "fuck, they're so soft." he whimpers as he rubs his leaking tip against the gingham print of your panties. "these might be my new favorites, honey." your panties are soaked through (all his fault) and when he finally cums, the splash is audible. it's all over your skin. all of over your thighs, your lips, the cotton. caleb gasps like it hurts. and when he's done, he presses his forehead against yours and whispers the softest, most woeful, thank you. as if you just saved his life.

(★.) he's not supposed to be here. not in your room this late at night, not in your bed, definitely not inside of you like this, fucking you so hard that your small bedframe (that he already barely fits in) rattles under the weight of your joined bodies. "gotta be quieter, pipsqueak," he mumbles through grit teeth. "you don't want granny to he… hear us, do you?" caleb smiles down at you when he flips you onto your back and cups your face. he eases back inside of your silky heat. "fuck!" you moan, again just a little too loudly. and he lets you this time because, fuck, granny's hearing has been getting weaker anyway and you just sound so sweet when you let caleb make you feel good like this, pussy sucking him in like you need him more than you need air.

(★.) caleb moves inside you like he's afraid that the pleasure he's giving you will break you, like the loss of the soft rhythm he's set between your thighs is too much. but his thrusts are shallow, slow, so purposeful that it hurts you both. but what gets you most is his hand. his fucking hand and his fingers rubbing that soft spot nestled right between your legs. he starts working soft circles, never stuttering his movement, never rushing either. "that's it, baby," he murmurs, lips brushing your temple as he makes you moan louder than you ever have in your life. "give. me. all. of. it." caleb doesn't chase his own high. not yet. he can wait until you've soaked through his bedsheets. your back arching, cunt tightening as he touches you just right. exactly the way you like it and the way that he's trained you to like it.

The water shimmered like obsidian glass beneath the moonlight, glinting with each subtle movement of his body. Sylus cut through the surface with deliberate grace, every stroke fluid, every breath a display of absolute gorgeousness. His back arched with each pull through the water, muscles contracting with each move, shoulders broad and smooth, tapering into that ridiculous V-line that disappeared below the waistband of his swim trunks. God, and the soft illumination from the pool lights played against his skin, highlighting every dip and ridge of his toned body. Honestly, sometimes he looked less like a man and more like some Greek god or a myth carved from heavenly sin. And it certainly fit how one of his favorite classic records—Chaconne in G Minor, to be exact—was playing in the background, emphasizing what majestic god of a man was relaxing in the pool. 

You were supposed to be reading. Or pretending to, at least.

Instead, you found yourself slouched in the lounge chair beside the pool, the chilled stem of a wine glass resting against your thigh, and eyes glued to the man in the water like he was a scene from a forbidden dream. You’d seen Sylus shirtless more times than you could count by now. Hell, you lived with the man. But there was something different about watching him like this. This raw, unfiltered sight of him like you were spying on a secret he never meant to share.

And yet, deep in the pit of your stomach, something churned.

Six months.

Six months of being his—whatever this was. Girlfriend. Partner. Possession, sometimes, when he was feeling particularly growly. 

Half a year of stolen glances and hidden touches and shared beds. Of whispered sweet nothings in the dark, of his fingers memorizing the lines of your body like he wanted to carve them into his memory. You were his, and he made sure you knew it every time he held your jaw and called you kitten, every time he stood behind you in public with a hand on your lower back like a gentleman. 

​​But every time things went too far, every time your back hit a mattress and you whispered that you were ready, he’d stop. He just never went all the way. And while his kisses were fire and his touches were thunder, you couldn’t shake the one thought in your head: Why hasn’t he?

Look, you didn’t want to ask. Not directly. Because maybe you didn’t want to hear the answer. It could be… restraint? Patience? Or was it disgust, after all? Maybe he hated the curve of your thighs or the way your stomach folded when you sat. Maybe he didn’t want to see you undone because, deep down, he didn’t think you were worth ruining.

Your grip tightened around the glass. You knew how he looked at you. You felt his hunger, even if he never let it tip over the edge. But still, that question lodged in your ribs like a thorn.

“I can feel you staring,” Sylus drawled from the water.

Your breath hitched but you played it cool by sipping from your glass. “I’m allowed to look.”

He moved slowly, swimming toward the edge like a snake slithering out of the dark. He reached the side, pulling himself up slightly with both arms braced on the ledge. Water streamed down his torso in glistening rivulets, his hair slicked back, not to mention the unholy sharpness of his cheekbones. “Then ask what you really want to ask,” he murmured, voice smooth as dark velvet.

You tilted your head, feigning nonchalance. “And what would that be?”

His deep, clearly taunting laugh reverberated in your ears. “Why I haven’t had you yet.”

Heat slammed through you like a wave, your fingers tightening around the wine glass so hard it nearly cracked. You refused to give him the satisfaction of flustering you. So instead, you lifted your brows and asked, “Is it some kind of twisted power play?”

His tongue ran along his bottom lip. Deliberately, if you may add. And he looked at you like he wanted to devour you. “Tempting,” said he. “But no.”

Your mouth went dry. “Then, what?”

And that’s when he leaned in closer, his arms flexing on the pool’s edge, voice dropping into something feral. “Because I know you can’t take me, kitten.”

You blinked, your entire body going still. Mind blank. Completely. When you regained your sanity, you later stood and walked over to him, bare feet silent on the tile until you were right in front of him. You leaned down just enough so he could catch the fire in your eyes, the defiance in the part of your lips, the way your swimsuit clung to every curve. You reached out and plucked a cherry from the dark chocolate cake, took a slow bite, and let the juice slip from your mouth, trailing down the curve of your neck.

“Well,” you whispered in true competitive you, watching as his lips formed an upward curl, “try me.”

~~

“Haaah!”

He did.

“S-Sy—!”

That night, everything changed. Literally. 

“Mmmh! R-Right there!” 

If your moans didn’t already make it obvious, then believe this—the whispers about Sylus being incredible in bed weren’t just rumors. It was hell of a fucking truth. 

He touched you like you were sacred. His mouth was reverent, his hands patient, tracing the slopes of your mounds like he was memorizing it. Every kiss was full of ardor, every sigh against your skin was likely an apology for all the nights he made you wait. He undressed you like you were something precious, something breakable, and still looked at you like you were the most dangerous thing in the room.

And, not to brag, but being his girlfriend had some of the best perks in the intimacy department, too. Because he was packing. You already knew he was, just by noticing the bulge that would show behind his boxers. But this time around, you finally had the front row access to actually see his manhood. And taste it, even. Just that, it didn’t fit your mouth. Not in the way you expected, because when you said he was big, you didn’t know he was that big. His cock, when fully grown and hard, was probably 8 inches at least. It had a very slight upward curve, thick veins, and a pinkish nude tip. It was hot and pulsing, angry and desperate. 

When he finally entered you, it wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was slow. Painfully, agonizingly slow like he was afraid of ripping you open. The first entrance made you scream, not from pain, but from the first wave of ecstasy you discovered your body could draw out. Blood may have soaked his entire girth, but you didn’t care about that right now. You were too drunk from the mixing pain and pleasure, and could barely open your eyes as your lover went in and out of you, calling you a good girl, telling you your pussy was so tight it was squeezing him. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your ear, holding your hips steady as he pulled away to adjust his pace. It was the very first time you’d heard him cuss. “This… There’s no going back after this, kitten.”  

“I-I don’t care.” You pulled him back, letting him dive his face onto your neck while you pushed your chest against his. Skin-to-skin, flesh on flesh. His toned chest pressing against your soft breasts. He was rocking his hips back and forth like he couldn’t get enough, rock-hard cock hitting your sweet spot with every thrust. He was deep enough that he had you folded in half against the mattress and your walls wrapped around his shaft so perfectly it must have felt like a lubricated glove. 

And when he whispered your name against your throat like it was holy, something inside you cracked open. 

“Aah—ah!” 

Is it my cervix he’s hitting? Gosh, you couldn’t tell any more. Your legs were already shaking at that point and all you could think of was wanting to explode. To combust.

You had never felt more worshipped. You had never felt more wanted, desired.

“Mouth,” he growled on your lips, “Tits, or inside? Your choice, kitten.” 

At first, you didn’t understand what he meant. You didn’t exactly have a book of how to’s when having sex, so it took you awhile to fully realize it amidst salacious moans and animalistic heat. And when you did, your cheeks burned a scorching 150°F. 

“M-Mouth,” you managed to say while he bit your lower lip. He didn't stop ramming into you until your voice was hoarse and your body trembling, and even then, he kissed you softly like he was holding an angel in his arms. That was, until he started moaning—no, grunting, and his pace was increasing its speed. In one swift motion, he pulled out, moved to place his throbbing cock by your mouth, and jerked his shaft until white, hot seed spattered all over your tongue. 

Sylus immediately grabbed your jaw, wanton ruby eyes staring down at you with nothing but perversion in mind. “Don’t spit it out, sweetie. Swallow it like a good girl.” 

You did as told. Even sucked him dry to make sure no drop was wasted. And frankly, although the taste of cum was foreign, it wasn’t as bad as you imagined. All you could think about was the fact that it came from the love of your life, the man you only ever desired, after a pleasure-filled night. You got that out of him. It was you who released it from him. 

And you didn’t really sleep that night. Not because he didn’t let you, but because you were still processing the experience and because he couldn’t stop touching you. Fingertips grazing your arm. Lips pressing against your temple. I love you’s in your ear as if losing your virginity was the greatest honor he had the pleasure of having. 

~~

But a week passed. Probably two.

And something shifted again.

Sylus still kissed you. Still touched you. Still looked at you like you were made of light feather. But he didn’t take you. Not again after the first time. Every time you leaned into him, heat in your eyes and want in your breath, he pulled back. Made excuses. “Busy week, kitten.” “Long meeting.” “You need rest, sweetie.” And more often than not, he distracted you with affection and whispered sweet lies of “next time” against your skin until the moment passed.

It wasn’t rejection. He was still soft with you, still attentive. But it was like there was an invisible wall he’d rebuilt, brick by silent brick. You didn’t press at first, but the doubt returned that maybe you weren’t good enough, maybe that night was a fluke and he regretted it. Maybe he thought your skills paled in comparison to other girls he had sex with before. 

The thought ate you alive in the most bitter way, so naturally, you stopped trying. You avoided him in small, quiet ways. Stopped initiating. Stopped trying. You wore oversized shirts instead of lingeries, avoided his lap and chose the farthest corner of the couch. You kissed his cheek instead of his mouth. You smiled when he teased, but you didn’t force a chuckle out.

And what terrible boyfriend would Sylus be if he didn’t notice?

It was subtle, at first. Longer stares. More questions. Quiet, unreadable glances from across the room. Then, one night, he found you curled into the far corner of the couch, eyes glued to your phone, back turned to him. He walked over. Without a word, he picked you up and pulled you into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist, holding you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world.

“Alright. Tell me now. What did I do?” he asked quietly.

You froze like a deer caught in the headlights and refused to return his gaze. “Nothing.”

“Kitten.” That voice. Gentle command, cloaked in velvet. The one that always made you crumble. “You’re not fooling anyone here with that adorable grumpy face.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Well, then why couldn’t you just spit it out? Everytime I asked if we could have sex, you kept making excuses. If you didn’t want to do it again or if you hated my body, you could’ve just said so.”

He went still. “What?”

“I’m not mad, by the way,” you clarified, a little too quickly, a little too defensively while you held onto that glare he found so damn amusing. “I’m not. And if that was all you wanted from me, it’s fine. I’m sure your other girls did it better before—”

He cut you off with a hand on your jaw, turning your face to his. “Stop.”

“What?” You looked up and he was staring at you like you’d just said something insane. It made you want to curl and bury yourself six feet under, then and there. It was embarrassing. 

“You think I didn’t want to because of you?” He let out a ridiculous chuckle, one that he usually made whenever he found your antics a little too farcical. His thumb brushed over your cheek, then under your chin, lifting your face. “You think I don’t fantasize over this?” he added, hand trailing down to cup your breast before moving further to give your bum a playful squeeze, “You think I hate this?” 

Swallowing, you looked away shyly. “Then, why do you keep rejecting—”

“It’s because when I get addicted… I can’t stop,” he whispered, pecking your lips tenderly. “And with you, kitten, I know I will. You’ll hate me for it.”

Blinking, you told him,

“Who said I wanted you to stop?”

~~

The months that followed were, in two words, pure filth.

Sylus became a beast. His previous slow and sensual pace became history as soon as he discovered a preference for doing it hard and fast. Your nights turned into marathons. Mornings were a blur of sore muscles, bruised hips, and smug glances from across the breakfast table. You couldn’t keep up, and you didn’t want to. You liked seeing what he was like when he didn’t hold back. When he gave in. When he devoured.

In the living room. In his office. In the bathtub. In his car. On his motorcycle. On a bear skin rug by the fireplace. Missionary, doggy, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, standing up, against the wall. You name it. He became utterly, obsessively yours. Pulled you away from the Association mid-duty, muttering, “Come here. Now.” Dragged you back into bed after a shower just because he’d remembered how you looked the night before. He’d whisper, “You did this to me, kitten,” and kiss you until you forgot your own name.

Once, you joked that you hadn’t done actual cardio in a month. And the idiot grinned and murmured, “Good. Because you’ll be doing laps tonight.”

You did. Three times.

And tonight, the choice of place was the shower. The position? Well, you weren’t even sure what it was called anymore. All you knew was that you two stood under the cascade of water, your right leg dangling on his arm as he fucked you from the side. Your moans were louder than the sound of rainshower, even more as he slammed his cock inside you over and over, at a speed you couldn’t even keep up with. 

“A-Aaah, Sylus—!” 

His lips were on your neck, marking and mapping it with hickeys. His hands moved to squeeze your tits from behind, before he held your hips in place. With your ass against his cock, he made you lower yourself and arch your back a little, just so he could start pounding you from the back. 

“Nghhh!”

“You said you can keep up with me, kitten.”

“I-I c-can…!”

And somehow, you didn’t remember how you ended up in bed, absolutely soaking wet, as you bounced against his hardened member. He made you squat, legs on each side, hands on his knees for support so you could move up and down his cock like a bunny. Because you two did, in fact, fuck like rabbits. Or in his very sophisticated words, “copious amount of coitus”. 

In the end, you were sprawled over his chest like a limp noodle, hair a mess, thighs sore beyond recognition, you groaned into his collarbone and could still feel his warm seed leaking out of your entrance. 

“I need a vacation from my own bedroom,” you quipped.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. Just kept stroking his fingers lazily down your spine, his breathing calm beneath you. His skin was still warm from everything he’d done to you until dawn, and his heartbeat thumped steady and smug beneath your cheek.

You tilted your head to glance up at him. “I’m serious. I think my body’s filing a complaint.”

“Let it,” he said, eyes still closed. “I’ll counter-sue for emotional damages.”

You snorted. “What damage?”

He opened one eye, ruby gaze dropping to your lips. “I told you I’d get addicted.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, snuggling back into his chest and feeling comfort from his scent, “this is the worst rehab program ever.”

He smiled into your hair, huge arms tightening around you. “There’s no rehab, kitten.”

“None at all?” 

“No, I’m never recovering from you.”