luminescenceinink

Ex-boyfriend!Zayne × Non-mc Ex-girlfriend!Reader

Word count : 1.6k

“You still love her?”

“Ay, you’re hopeless, Dr. Zayne.” 

The room erupted. Their laughter was a sudden, jagged intrusion, bouncing off the walls and shattering the silence I’d been carefully cultivating. I forced a small smile, dragging myself back from the borderlands of my own mind. A place where the floorboards still creak under the weight of your ghost and every shadow takes the shape of your silhouette.

I shook my head – not as a "no" to their question, but as a weary dismissal of their teasing – and leaned into the chorus of their mockery. I let the laughter wrap around me, a frantic effort to muffle the hollow thudding in my chest. It felt like wearing a mask that didn't quite fit.

To them, I was just a punchline, a guy stuck in a loop, repeating the same old mistakes. But they didn't see the architecture of my mind. To me, I wasn't just moving on – I was the sole curator of a museum dedicated to a girl who no longer existed in the light of day. I was wandering through halls of curated memories, dusting off the echoes of your voice, terrified that if I stopped looking, the exhibits would fade.

I sought a distraction in the cold weight of the soda can I’d been gripping since we arrived. I took a long pull, expecting the familiar, sharp bite of my usual choice. One I forced myself to like after she left.

Instead, the taste was a shock of sweetness that tasted like a Sunday afternoon years ago.

Huh?

My brow furrowed in confusion. I pulled the can back, rotating the aluminum under the dim light.

It wasn’t my brand. It was hers.

My gaze softened, a muscle in my jaw flickering as I stared at the label. It was a subtle shift, the kind of quiet surrender in the eyes that no one in this room would ever catch. Only she would have noticed. Only she knew that when I look at things this way, I’m tracing the memory of the person who loved it. 

Because that was how I've always looked at her.

A heavy, aching heat settled in my chest. It was the realization that my subconscious was still loyal to a ghost. I hadn't even noticed I’d picked it up. My hand had simply reached for the thing it had been trained to provide for years.

It’s a strange, quiet grief – to realize that she has transitioned from a person I hold, to a habit I can’t break. She isn't a presence anymore, she is a reflex. And I have become a man still buying the favorite things of a woman who only lives in the spaces between my heartbeats.  

"It’s nothing, really." I said, waving a hand as if I could brush her memory out of the air like static. 

"Don't mind me." 

Then came another  laugh. It felt like a physical deformity in my throat, a lie so loud and synthetic that I could feel the ick burrowing beneath my skin. I had this sudden, violent urge to reach up and claw at my own face, to peel back the mask of indifference just to stop the suffocating itch of pretending.

Six years. Six whole years have passed, yet they still can’t outweigh the years I spent with her. Time keeps moving forward, relentless in its pace, but my heart is stubborn enough to remain exactly where she left me. With my youth.  With ours.

Will I ever move on?

Well. I tell people I am trying. Sometimes I even convince myself it’s true. I go to work. I meet new faces. I smile when I’m supposed to. I never mention her name, but whenever I speak about her, I make sure they know it is her I’m talking about. As if leaving her unnamed somehow keeps her intact.

I’ve learned how to talk about her like she belongs to the past without letting my voice crack. I’ve gone as far as no longer feeling my heartbeat stumble when someone says her name out loud. I can look at her recent photographs now and feel a little less weight pressing against my chest.

I was doing well.

Trying, at least.

But I know now that trying has its limits, and I stay just shy of them on purpose. Because if I’m honest, truly honest in the quiet where I can’t lie to myself, I don’t want to try harder.

I don’t want to erase her. Not now, not ever.

Not from my mind. Not from my heart. The idea of a life where she no longer exists inside me feels colder than the loneliness itself. Unrealistic, I know. Maybe even pathetic. But loving her shaped me. Forgetting her would mean losing parts of myself I'm not ready to bury.

I know how this is supposed to end. Sooner or later, I’ll meet someone else. Someone kind. Someone patient. Someone who will stay. I’ll build a life with her. Maybe I’ll even grow old that way. That’s the future everyone promises me.

But even when I picture it, my heart betrays me. Because the face I want at the end of that life is still hers.

Yeah. How could I not? How could I ever forget—when she was the missing piece of a life I already thought was complete? She didn’t arrive to fix anything. She arrived and somehow made everything softer, brighter, more mine. How do you forget someone like that?

How could I, when even the smallest, most random things were enough to pull me toward her?

Like the way she reached for my hand without looking, always certain I’d be there. The way her thumb would trace slow, absent-minded circles against my skin while we walked, as if it were nothing, yet it grounded me more than words ever could.

Like how she remembered how I took my coffee before I did. How she’d hand it to me in the morning without asking, still half-asleep, eyes barely open, and smile when I took the first sip. As if loving me lived in that tiny, ordinary gesture.

Like sitting in silence and feeling full anyway. No pressure to speak. Just the quiet hum of the world around us, her shoulder against mine, her breathing steady. A proof that companionship didn’t need to be loud to be real.

Like grocery shopping turning into something sacred. Arguing softly over brands. Laughing in the aisle over something stupid. Pushing the cart together, our fingers brushing like teenagers, even though we already knew each other’s bodies by heart.

Like the way she’d steal my hoodies and never give them back. And how I never really wanted her to—because seeing her wrapped in something that smelled like me felt like a promise she didn’t know she was making.

Like how she’d look at me when I talked about something I loved. Not just listening, but seeing me. As if my joy was worth memorizing.

Like late nights when sleep wouldn’t come, and she’d press her forehead to mine and whisper, “I’m here,” as if that alone could keep the world from breaking us.

Like how her hands fix his collar without ceremony, the intimacy of being known without permission.

Those were the things. Not the grand gestures. Not the milestones people remember. It was the quiet accumulation of moments that meant everything. The way love lived in the in-between.

So how could I forget?

When even now, years later, a laugh that sounds like hers can stop me cold. When folded laundry still reminds me of how she paired socks wrong just to tease me. When love songs don’t feel like songs at all, just memories I didn’t ask to relive.

She was never loud in my life.

She was constant.

That’s the kind of love time leaves untouched.

And God, I was so certain it would be her until the end.

I still see her. Everywhere. In random streets, in gatherings, in the go-to store we used to visit without thinking. In places where she and I once lived a memory. 

I see her when I talk to people who used to adore us together, the ones who still look at me like they expect her to be just a step behind. I see her even through her family. And God—thank God for them, for being as good as she is. They still greet me the way they always have, warm and familiar, but careful. They know where to draw the line. They know how to keep kindness from becoming pain. It’s something I’ve always admired about them.

If anyone ever asks me if I still love her—yes.

Will I ever say it out loud again? No.

But there will always be signs.

In the way I still slow down when I pass places we once loved. 

In how certain songs never make it past the first verse. 

In the way my phone stays face down on the table, even though I know her name will never light up the screen again.

In how I still remember things she would like—little, useless facts I have nowhere to put now. 

In how I instinctively turn to share a thought, then stop halfway, reminded that she isn’t there anymore.

In the way I protect her absence the same way I once protected her presence. 

In how I never correct people when they speak of us softly, like we were something fragile that still deserves care.

And in the smallest habit of all —

how I still write her name to test out a pen.

Ghostface!Sylus × Girlfriend!Reader

sypnosis : The hour was a thief, having stolen the last sliver of twilight, yet the figure who appeared on the threshold belonged to an even deeper night. It wasn’t a social call; the air around him thrummed with the kind of severe purpose that required total, undivided attention — a matter that, according to his unnerving presence, only you could resolve.

word count : 3.8k

mdni/content : fem!reader, girlfriend!reader, ghostface cosplay!sylus, knee rubbing, knee grinding, slapping, choking, finger sucking, pet names, degradation, praising, overstimulation, smut no plot.

He was a monolith carved from shadow: heavy, military-grade boots grounding him to the worn floorboards of your porch, rough, dark fabric clinging to his powerful legs like a second, protective skin. Above, a tight compression shirt stretched taut across a chest engineered for silent menace. Every sculpted muscle beneath the cloth seemed to hold its breath, a coiled threat suggesting an effortless, catastrophic force held barely in check.

Confusion immediately clouded your mind — until your gaze found the apex of his form. A mask. Not a playful disguise, but a stark, silent violation of your reality. Pure, bone-white porcelain stretched into the icon of a grotesque, silent scream. The eyes were hollow voids, black and absolute, that didn't just look at you, but seemed to absorb the light, the air, and every frantic thought rattling inside your skull. The mouth is a drooping, endless oval, a silent testament to a terror you privately cherished.

An eerie, almost electric heat surged through you, a defiant counterpoint to the mask's chilling cold. It was a flush of acute, mortifying recognition — the sudden undeniable understanding that this man, Sylus, had cracked the vault of your mind. Your eyes that are widened performed a slow inventory of his imposing frame. God, the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

He remained silent. Only a dry clearing of his throat managed to shatter the moment, yanking you back from thoughts that were becoming increasingly, deliciously indefensible.

“I am here for a matter,” his voice was a low, resonant baritone, unnervingly polite against the visual menace, “where your assistance is, quite literally, most needed, Madame.”

A shockwave of desire and utter surrender travelled your spine. Your lips parted, breath hitched. You instinctively stepped aside, the movement an unspoken invitation into the intimacy of your space. “I… I’ll try to be of help,” you managed, your voice dissolving into a breathy whisper he was surely meant to hear.

“What’s the matter—?”

The question was stolen, not by the closing door, but by the closing distance. He strode past the threshold, then pivoted, stopping so close you had to take a hasty step back, your senses immediately overloaded by the scent of cool night air and something rich, dark, and uniquely Sylus. The latch of the door clicked shut behind him, a final sound that swallowed the last syllable of your query.

The masked face tilted slightly, the hollow eyes locked on yours. The answer, when it came, was a declaration, a psychological trespass that left you breathless and utterly exposed.

“Break this mask between your thighs.”

This was Sylus. He wasn't a man of subtlety; he was an apex predator who favored the direct approach. A man who considered ambiguity a waste of time. When he declared a want, it was already a certainty — he didn't ask for things, he simply laid claim. He was a giver of opulent comforts, a pampering indulgence, but always with the unspoken contract that when he came to collect, he would take something far more profound in return.

And his greatest, most terrifying asset? He knew. Everything. 

Sylus possessed the key to your darkest, most unhinged secrets, your subterranean fantasies you barely admitted to yourself in the dark. And he never failed to make you aware that he was ready, willing, and able to turn every last one of them into a brutal reality.

The mask, the attire — it was the ultimate transgression of his own boundaries for you. He had once been genuinely estranged by your fascination with the fictional killer, your peculiar obsession with the menacing anonymity of a simple white mask. He had resisted, but the depth of your desire acted like a slow poison, piquing a deadly curiosity in him.

He had actually watched the films — twice — just to decode the allure, spending hours on the darkest corners of the internet to confirm that many women shared your exquisite, terrible taste. The thought of your reaction, of your raw, shocked hunger upon seeing the fantasy materialized in his presence, had drawn a low, savage laugh from his chest.

And slowly, he became haunted. Not by Ghostface, but by you.

Yes, he would be a liar to himself, a fraud of a man, if the idea of dismantling you while wearing the symbol of your most forbidden lust hadn't driven him to aching hardness. Lying in the dark, he had indulged the raw thought of your beautiful, delicious thighs wrapping around his head, squeezing the breath and the very porcelain from his face. The thoughts were not just inappropriate; they were a roadmap.

That's why he stood there now, a dream made flesh. Because Sylus, the man of unwavering intent, refused to let a fantasy that good remain merely a dream to stroke out in the dark. He had come to collect on a debt of pure, unadulterated desire.

The initial shock of his arrival and the violation of the mask vanished, leaving only a residue of something far more electric: the deep, intoxicating recognition of a challenge met. Your small, slow smirk was a master key, not just to a locked door, but to the entire vault of his predatory instincts. He saw in the curve of your lips not just an invitation, but the flashing, brilliant schematics of your mind, laid bare and aching for the perfect kind of possession. For Sylus, that smirk was a confession, and he never failed to meet its challenge with the brutal, silent assurance that he found you magnificent in your naked desire.

“Coming home to me looking like that,” you purred, the sound a low vibration against the heavy, night-swallowed silence, “should be utterly illegal, baby.” Your hand drifted like smoke up the length of your bare thigh, a brush so light it was almost a whisper, snagging only when it met the familiar hem of his oversized shirt. A shirt that was now, undeniably, yours. Sylus felt a familiar, hot constriction in his chest, a wave of pure possessive gratification. He silently blessed the bone-white porcelain that swallowed the evidence of his slack-jawed hunger. It happened every time.

The shirt lifted, a slow-motion curtain call revealing the thin, black strip of lace clinging beneath. His gift. With an agonizing slowness that belied your casual air, you hooked your thumbs under the thong’s waistband, letting the silk and lace fall from your hips to pool around your ankles. You stepped free, like a queen dismissing a useless garment, then crossed the room. Sinking onto the couch, you leaned back, spreading your legs with the unwavering, breathtaking confidence of a challenge accepted.

“I’m afraid I’m not only breaking a mask. I might as well feed. You sound hungry, daddy. ~”

Feisty. If Sylus worshipped anything, it was this: your brutal, flawless ability to meet the terrifying sum of his demands. You weren't just his lover; you were a weapon forged in his own dark fire, his dirty little angel crafted to be the perfect counterpoint to his menace, made for him, and him alone.

He stood motionless, a human monolith against the backdrop of your raw invitation, utterly incredulous despite a thousand past encounters. A quick, predatory glance shot behind him, the lock was secure, their solitude absolute. A scoff escaped his throat, a sound of forced dismissal, but when his hollow eyes settled on the valley you’d created for him, his composure fractured.

“Well, if that’s how you’re going… to… be… wow.”

That stumble… that raw, imperfect lapse in his iron control was music to your ears. You lived to hear the formidable Sylus falter, to know that your presence could momentarily dismantle the man who sought to dismantle the world. You watched the subtle shift in his form, then, with unhurried grace, you began to close the distance between your knees, your eyes lifting to meet his.

The return of his attention aligns perfectly with the suggestive drifting of your knees from one another, an act that visibly dips his mask and – by extension – his attention. A hand rises from its useless placement at his side, utilizing a single finger to press the chin of the costumed features upwards until they rest at a slope against his forehead.

The expression displayed is one of nothing short of confident intrigue with the corners of his lips curling ever so lightly to match the curiosity that dances between his irises. “You handin’ out late-night snacks now, beautiful?”

Your smile widened, now laced with honeyed mischief. The kind that promised necessary trouble. You sat up, bending to retrieve the discarded thong. “Yes. I can’t help myself when such a handsome man comes seeking aid.” The lace dangled from your fingertips. “Though… if you only wish to be caught between my thighs and nothing more…” Your voice dripped with saccharine temptation. “I can always put this back on.”

His eyes, fiercely sending sharp daggers across the space, squinted just slightly, the light twitch at the corner of his lips, the only physical tell he permitted. The casual taunt was gasoline to his inner inferno. An urgency dispelled itself in a steaming breath as he shamelessly drank in the sight of the closing valley.

An unconscious step is taken to close the distance, followed by a second, the soles of his boots falling heavily across the floorboards as the sound of his advance. Once he stands within arm’s reach, he resituate the crimson mark over his features, disguising their blatant depravity with its lines of horror. “Oh, sweetie -...” 

With his hands now freed from their obligations, he slams them down atop your knees, his calloused digits digging into the soft flesh they find without remorse. His head tilts to the side, making the most of the facade’s effects while the palms atop your legs lazily begin to pry those alluring appendages apart once more. 

“-... let’s not do something we’ll regret, yeah?”

Your gaze, a velvet-smooth tether, never broke as the monolith of Sylus closed the final distance. A soft gasp slipped past your lips, and the thong tumbled from your fingers the moment his hand pressed firmly atop your knees. You melted back into the couch’s deep cushion with a faint, playful giggle. Your fingers rose, tracing a slow, deliberate path down the hard lines of his body—from the unyielding expanse of his chest, lower, lower, until they hovered, burning, at his pelvis. When he tilted the mask’s head, you mirrored the angle, meeting the hollow, black gaze with a look drenched in potent, total submission.

“I don’t think I’d regret pushing you a little closer to the edge,” you whispered, your smile lingering like a secret meant only for you. Both of your hands slipped downward, catching the hem of the shirt, tugging it upwards just enough to bare more of yourself to his gaze—an unmistakable offer of temptation.

Your comment elicited a gravelly scoff from beneath the mesh of the mask’s gaped mouth, the sound laced with an unspoken agreement to your challenge. “So, you like playing games then, gorgeous? Alright then… ~” His ominous words deteriorated into silence as he took a final step closer, positioning his broad physique between your legs, crushing any hope for their future closing.

Satisfied on that front, he raised his hands from their rests atop your knees. One slammed against the sturdy spine of the couch for support while the other began its invasive journey across your exposed torso. Two fingers alone detached, wandering your flesh: bruising the skin at your navel, caressing your abdomen, tracing the valley between your breasts, before finally cresting the bunched fabric of your top.

The twin digits gently pressed themselves to your lips, coaxing them apart before bullying their way between your teeth and into the warm, slick recess of your mouth. “…shall we play a game?”

He let out a breathy laugh as your brows knit, your breath now ragged and shallow, each inhale a struggle as though the air itself had grown heavy. A soft whimper slipped from your parted lips when Sylus’s hand began its slow ascent over your body. Your hips stirred instinctively, grinding in the faintest, neediest motion, betraying the ache pooling between your thighs. A shiver of fire sparked in your chest and spread lower with every touch he brushed over your body. Your gaze remained locked on the mask above you, every ounce of focus devoted to the man poised atop you. Your lips sealed around his digits, circling them as you began to suck, your tongue swirling, teasing.

Slowly, you bobbed your head with growing hunger, surrender etched in every movement. Your hands remained at your sides, obedient and still, giving your lover full reign to do with you as he wished.

“And it was over before it even began.” Amusement lined the edges of his words with a barely disguised sharpness, their haughty syllables lifted over the quiet slurping of your greedy maw.

Rather than fighting your obscene display of need, Sylus indulged it, inching his fingers towards the back of your throat with a sinister chuckle. It didn’t take long before they were seated between your teeth, the tips of his nails scraping gently at the entrance of your throat while drool ran along the prominent veins that criss-crossed the back of his hand.

Only then did he allow himself a proper, slow inventory of your shamelessly exposed figure. “Look at you…” he whispered behind the mask. Shifting his broad stance, he transferred his weight: the hand near your head withdrew as his knee wasted no time, pressing heavily atop your adjacent thigh.

The dense bone dug into the soft flesh of your limb, applying pressure that promised a bruise by morning. With his extremities now free, Sylus encircled the plush mound of your breast, his fingers lightly squeezing the perky pillow while an approving coo slipped from beneath the mask once more.

“I suppose they were right – every beauty needs a beast.” The facade’s features were suddenly thrust upwards with an exaggerated display of pensiveness, only for a slow shake to ruin the image.

“Nah, that’s cringey.”

As if to take out his dissatisfaction on you, Sylus jerked the hand lodged near your jaw firmly into your mouth, allowing his fingertips the chance to breach your throat. Each movement ignited the fire inside you further, feeding the ache that was already spilling over. You couldn't hide the shameful slickness between your thighs from the way he caressed and pressed you, his hands seemingly everywhere at once.

All you could manage were muffled moans, vibrating straight against the hard bone of his fingers as they filled your mouth. Saliva spilled from the corner of your lips, trailing down your chin as the tips of his fingers pressed deeper. You arched your back, a barely-there motion, caged as you were between his body and the couch. Your eyes stung as hot tears gathered, your brows knitting hard as you squeezed your eyes shut when he pushed deeper. A raw, choked gag slipped out despite your efforts to hold it back.

Your head stilled for a breath, trying to adjust, then slowly resumed the motion, the work of your lips and tongue once more deliberate and hungry. Your hands rose, trembling, wrapping around his forearm as your nails pressed into the tough, dark fabric. And Sylus couldn’t help but let a breathless groan escape at the messy, total sight of his woman.

A single finger thrummed across the delicate pink of your exposed nipple as you resumed your perverse devouring of his digits. The shy little gag that tightened the walls of your throat around his invading extremities acted as the final fracture in the dam of his self-control, plunging you almost instantly into a seemingly different reality.

“Oh? Still not enough for you, is it? Such a difficult creature to please…”

With the tables now completely turned and Sylus’s taunting being the dominant sound, he took brutal advantage of your natural proclivity for submission. He allowed his knee to slide along the curve of the thigh it rested upon. With half his weight settled there, the knee slammed home atop the vulnerable puff of your netherlips, dropping directly onto your clitoris. It then slipped into the warm, pooling depravity his action had already coaxed from your hips.

Feeling the warm liquid stain his pants broadened the sadistic grin that spread beneath the comparatively tame expression gazing lifelessly down at you from atop his shoulders. “Then let’s try this.” The hand actively present at your chest rose to the level of its counterpart, its thick, calloused fingers first stroking the fragile curves of your neck before seizing it.

The firmness of his grip threatened to deprive you of oxygen as the silver-haired man leaned forward, bringing his mask within an inch of your drooling face for a simple, whispered command.

“Work those hips, kitten. ~”

Your hazy gaze locked onto his, wide and pleading, before you nodded obediently at the command. Your hips began to move, grinding hungrily against the hard press of his knee. Up and down, circling, rocking — any way you could steal more of the friction he had allowed, savoring the tormenting gift of contact against your throbbing wetness.

Your mouth hung open, tongue curling against his fingers, your lips clinging greedily even as his chest heaved. “Fuck…” he groaned lowly as you panted helplessly beneath him, feverish and aching like a bitch in heat, driven by nothing but craving. This was just how you always ended up when your man hovered atop you.

An arrogant chuckle rumbled beneath the mask as Sylus watched his triumph over your common sense play out beneath his touch. Your dog-like obedience fed the superiority complex currently deciding your fate, and he refused to accept anything less than your undivided lechery. “Such a good girl, sweetie…”

Contrary to his words of praise, the hand wrapped tightly around your throat like a vascular, painfully restrictive necklace flexed its fingers, tightening them around its dainty captive. With your head secured, he drew the drenched lengths of the two digits that had succeeded in drawing out your submission from your mouth, allowing the excess saliva to spill from their tips down your body below.

They disappeared for a moment beneath the lip of his mask, only to reappear a second later, cleared of your parting gift. All the while, his knee obliged your feverish grinding with the occasional bucks that pistoned it against your drooling core as a whole. A broken cry escaped you. Your hips moved faster, grinding harder against the firm press of his knee. One trembling hand clawed at your thigh, nails dragging deep against the fabric of your pants as though you could anchor yourself to him. The other reached back, gripping the couch above your head for support, your body arching higher, straining and trembling on the edge.

The pressure grew unbearable, spilling white-hot heat through every nerve, and your teary eyes locked onto the hollow pits of the mask. You were begging for release, your voice breaking into a desperate whimper. Sylus could see it, smell it—the imminent break of your orgasm. He swore he could feel the slick heat of your arousal beneath his pants, staining the fabric.

“I’m cumming, daddy… ngh - hahh ~” The words trembled out, soaked in helpless need, as your whole body tightened and quivered beneath his control. You were fighting, and failing, to hold back the flood threatening to overtake you.

In the short interim between your breathless admission and the act it proclaimed, Sylus dropped his hand from your throat in one fluid movement. It was the same motion that carried the blissful friction of his knee away from your swollen folds. His fallen fingers instantly took its place, but rather than gifting you with a more finessed pleasure, they pinched your folds together, slipping against the lustful glaze that coated them.

Without warning, a violent slap whipped across your face, batting your head aside and staining your soft cheek with the brutal scarlet of a powerful connection. “I don’t remember giving you permission, kitten. C’mon… you can hold out for a few more seconds.~” A threat hid within the supportive junction of his tone while the fingers joined between your thighs tightened themselves painfully around your netherlips.

Another strike battered your face from the opposite side, the gift of a gentler backhand delivering your watering eyes back into the presence of his hidden gaze. “Now what do we say when we want to cum?” Though hidden, his brow rose beneath the mask, demanding the words.

Pain and pleasure tangled in a surge that made your hips twitch uncontrollably. You barely had time to gasp before the sharp sting of the slap bloomed across your cheek. Another soft cry escaped you, your lips trembling as the second slap landed on the other side. The burn on your skin only wound you tighter, making the ache between your thighs unbearable.

You clenched desperately around nothing, squirming beneath your observing boyfriend, trying to squeeze your thighs together only to feel him pinch harder, forcing them apart. Tears pricked your eyes as your gaze lifted to him, every bit of you undone beneath his control.

“Please, daddy… nghh - may I cum?” The words came out as a shuddering plea, your body arched and trembling, desperate for permission, desperate for the release he kept dangling just out of reach.

Rather than a verbal comment of approval, Sylus exhibited his charitable nature by releasing the vice-like pinch that sealed your slickened slit and plunging a single finger into the convulsing depths beyond. Without much effort, his strong digit honed in on your G-spot, curling itself between your trembling walls to stroke at that patch of wrinkled, nerve-heavy tissue with controlled fervor. The brawn on his shoulder pressed into the thin lining of his shirt as he twisted his wrist, angling the intrusive hand upward to allow its thumb to whip across your quivering clit.

The only thought present to Sylus was the idea of how satisfying it would be to break open that pretty little mind with only a moment of euphoric stimulation. His fingertips worked to push your body savagely past its own edge and then some, his chest heaving with perverse excitement. Finally, the ragged words you had been waiting for fell from his tongue with a demanding twist.

“Cum for me, slut. ~”

With what strength you had left, your hand reached up until your fingers curled around Sylus’s mask, tugging him down towards you. Your tongue slipped out, tracing a slow, playful lick along the edge of its gaping mouth before both your hands pressed hard into his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

Your lips hovered close to his ear, spilling out soft, sinful moans meant only for him. Your legs trembled violently as you reached your high, screaming in ecstasy as you released all over his hand. Your orgasm crashed through you in waves, your body clenching around his finger as your juice gushed down. One of your trembling hands slipped lower to your clitoris, rubbing hard and fast through the aftershocks, milking the pleasure until it burst out of you in a hot spray that splattered over his forearm and down your thighs.

You earned a low laugh from him, the sound vibrating through your body as he leaned down close to you. He took his mask off, finally showing you the handsome features you had missed. He sealed your lips into a kiss with his, a deep, possessive press, before breaking away immediately.

“All satisfied, sweetie? Next time, I’m gonna demand that thigh sandwich, you hear me?”

a/n : I didn't expect i'd reach this long, but I guess the days I had writer's block finally paying off. I hope you enjoyed the halloween degeneracy with Sylus. Take care always. x