my world

porcelain cracks somewhere beneath the sound of your spine meeting the stone counter. his palm is flat against the small of your back, anchoring. the other slips down your thigh, searching without urgency. just certainty. like he’d planned this. not today, always.

he doesn’t kiss like he misses you.

he kisses like you never left.

the kitchen lights catch against his jaw, sharp with shadow. it’s too new in here. paint still clings faintly to the walls, the scent of cardboard and unspoiled wood clinging to the air. no warmth has softened this space. no domestic clutter to hide behind.

so he uses you instead.

“you dropped it,” you managed, voice breaking across your own throat.

his reply isn’t language. it’s lower. a drag of lips along your jaw. the scrape of stubble, intentional, unmistakable. it feels like an answer anyway.

you don’t remember which box it was. something fragile. something wrapped with care. the floor has taken it now. sylus has taken you now…

his hands spread your thighs, slow as if peeling back scripture. he doesn’t rush. why would he? his eyes flicker upward just once, blood-coloured and half-lidded, drinking in the shape of you on the counter like the offering you are. your thighs spread wider beneath his grip, back arching despite yourself.

still, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t perform.

he kneels.

not out of worship. out of need.

his hands on your hips are too firm to be tender. his thumbs press just beside the bone, anchoring again, and then his mouth descends without ceremony.

the first stroke of his tongue isn’t hurried. it’s… deliberate. a taste. a test. then another, longer, slower, dragging from the base up through the seam of you like he’s not just trying to learn you, but ruin you.

the countertop beneath you is cold. his mouth is not.

and when he hums into you, satisfied, you feel the vibration all the way in your teeth.

he doesn’t move fast. that’s never been his sin. sylus devours slow. like hunger is more sacred when prolonged. like pleasure should bruise.

the second pass of his tongue drags deeper, more insistent. he parts you with his hands first, thumbs anchoring along the soft crease of thigh and hip, then with his mouth. every movement is exact, like he’s etching memory into muscle. you feel it everywhere. in the pull of your stomach. the stutter of your breath. in the ache behind your knees as they tremble where he holds them wide.

no sound leaves him. just breath and wet and heat. he doesn’t ask how it feels. his mouth knows. the curl of it, the wet slide, he listens better this way. not to your voice, but your blood. the twitch in your hips. the shift in your breath.

his tongue circles once, light, maddening, a cruel mercy. and then he flattens it, presses harder. a groan escapes you before you can swallow it. and he hears.

the bastard hears.

he lifts his head just enough for air. lips wet, chin shining, eyes burning from the edge of shadow.

“you want this kitchen to remember you, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, soaked in wreckage.

you nod. it’s pathetic. you don’t care.

he doesn’t wait for more. his mouth returns with punishment.

this time, it’s fingers too.

two slide in, not gentle, not rough… just. complete. they curl like they know something you don’t. like they’ve waited for this precise moment, in this room, at this exact angle. his lips find your clit again. his fingers press deeper.

the counter shifts beneath you. not because it moves, but because you do. muscles tightening without command. one arm flings backward, scrabbling for something to hold. cabinet handle, towel, air.

“sylus….” it breaks out, cracked and near-feral.

and he rewards it. a noise of approval low in his throat. tongue flicking faster now. fingers deepening. curling. dragging moans out of you as if they were carved from your lungs.

every sound echoes. the kitchen is bare enough for that. each whimper bounces back at you, softened by distance, sharpened by how little else exists in this moment.

you lose track of rhythm.

only sensation remains.

the build is relentless. nto from speed, but pressure. the unbearable kind. it creeps. it tightens. it opens your jaw and steals your breath and makes your stomach twist with something close to violence.

and just as you’re about to fall, just as the edge breaks…

he stops.

pulls back. mouth glistening. fingers still inside you, but unmoving now.

you choke on a sound that isn’t a name. a protest, maybe. a plea.

his smirk is slow. wolfish. not cruel, worse. confident.

“i asked you a question,” he says, voice rough and unrepentant. “do your want this house to remember you?”

you answer with your hips, rocking down on his hand, seeking friction, salvation, anything.

his mouth returns. you don’t get another warning.

he consumes you.

licks through your cries, sucks through your shaking, licks you through the tremble and ruin of your climax like it’s something earned. something owed.

your legs spasm around his shoulders. he doesn’t flinch. just holds you open and takes every second of it.

even as you come apart, he keeps going.

slower, softer now, but still thorough. still claiming. still there.

every.

single.

drop.

when you finally collapse, breath lost, chest heaving, thighs twitching. he doesn’t rise.

his mouth grazes the inside of your thigh, tongue slow. licking. cleaning. then his teeth find skin, and he bites.

a mark. not deep. but deliberate.

the counter presses into your spine. your vision swims.

you blink, dazed, ruined, legs half-spread and shaking.

he looks up.

face haloed by your wreckage, lips gleaming, one brow raised.

“ready for round two? i was thinking the garden.”

The figure flips with a satisfying thud, crashing onto the floor. You pin them with your knee, your forearm braced hard against their throat. Your free hand darts toward the gun strapped to your ankle, until a cough rattles beneath you. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

Your vision sharpens past the haze of adrenaline, and suddenly his face comes into focus.

Sylus?

Guilt floods your chest. You yank your arm away, stumbling off him.

“Oh my god, Sy, I am so sorry! Are you alright?” You’re frantic, reaching down to help him up. He takes your hand, steadying himself as he sits up on your floor. His expression is a strange mix of surprise shadowed by something else you can’t quite pin down.

“I’m fine.” His voice is a little strangled, but calm. You’re about to press the issue, check if you’d bruised him, when the realization hits.

His cheeks are flushed. His posture stiff, like he’s hiding something. And he won’t quite look you in the eye.

“Did-did that turn you on?!” You ask incredulously.

You’ve never seen Sylus embarrassed before, but you’re pretty sure you’re seeing it now. Unfortunately for you, he recovers fast, smirk sliding back into place like a mask.

“I simply didn’t know you had that kind of strength, sweetie.” He dusts off his pants, rising to his usual imposing height. Still, the faint pink in his cheeks lingers, and you’re grinning like you’ve just uncovered his best-kept secret.

“You’ve seen me wield a claymore to kill huge Wanderers. Of course I can flip you! All you have to do is ask.” You lean into him, teasing. His eyes narrow, though the amusement glittering there gives him away. He dips closer, and your lashes lower instinctively.

“Need I remind you,” he murmurs into your ear, voice low enough to shiver along your spine, “that I’m not the only one who likes being tossed around.”

Heat curls through you at the challenge. You open your eyes, catching the smolder in his, and then his lips claim yours, hungry and insistent, pushing you back until your bedroom door bumps against your spine. You nearly trip, but Sylus just scoops you up with a strength that makes your stomach flip, carrying you straight to the mattress.

You land with an oomph, bouncing slightly. He hovers over you for a moment until you lock your legs around his waist and flip him, the look of surprise on his face delicious.

“Is this what you wanted?” you taunt, smirking down at him. His eyes flash, but the press of his hardness against your thigh answers for him.

“I knew you were obsessed with me, but is this really all it takes to get you going?” Your voice lilts with mockery as you trail kisses down his jaw, lingering at the edge of his throat. You bite just enough to leave marks you know he won’t bother to heal. Each one feels like a small victory.

He doesn’t reply, not in words. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he rolls his hips up into yours. The restraint in him is palpable; he’s usually quick to take control, but now he lets you set the pace. That surrender, however temporary, makes your pulse race.

You catch his wrists and pin them to the mattress, leaning over him. His expression is maddening, half amusement and half hunger. The smirk tugging at his lips tells you he’s humoring you, but the ragged breaths he tries to suppress betray him.

You drag your lips slowly over his neck, deliberately slow, never giving him more than the barest scrape of teeth or brush of tongue. His patience starts to fray, hips jerking each time you graze a sensitive spot. The hardness beneath you leaves no doubt about how much he wants more.

“How long do you intend to torture me?” he groans, his voice roughened, eyes closing as your teeth catch his skin.

“Until you beg me for it. Nicely. Like how I do for you.” Your grin is wicked, drunk on the sight of him submitting so easily when you know he could flip you at any moment.

For a moment, you think he’ll fight it. But instead, he exhales and rasps, “Please?”

It’s too shallow to match your own pleading, but you’ll take it. You’ve dragged this out long enough.

“Alright, Sy. I’ll give you what you want.” You murmur the words like a promise, savoring the way his shoulders relax beneath your grip. His relief is tangible when your fingers tug at his belt, undoing it with deliberate slowness.

He’s already panting by the time you wrap your hand around him, stroking languidly. His knuckles twitch against the sheets, but he keeps his hands to himself, disciplined in his restraint.

“Does it feel good?” you coo, dragging your palm deliberately slow.

His teeth grind, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His hand moves toward yours, but you’re quicker, catching his wrist and shoving it back down against the mattress. Your tongue clicks against your teeth in mock disapproval, and you stop entirely, leaning close until your lips nearly brush his.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Me on top of you, holding you down? Or…” you pause, letting the silence weigh heavy, “should I slam you into the floor again?”

His hips buck at the image, involuntary, his breath stuttering in his throat.

“I’ll get you back for this, sweetie.” The words are strained, his composure hanging by a thread.

You smirk, savoring every tremor running through him. “I look forward to it.” You seal the promise with a kiss, slow and consuming, as your hand starts to move again, this time exactly the way you know he likes it.

The moan that slips from him is low and ragged, vibrating against your mouth. It makes your heart pound, hungry for more. You slide lower, leaving his lips and trailing kisses down his stomach until you’re nestled between his thighs.

When you take him into your mouth, his eyes burn crimson before they flutter shut. The sound he makes is unguarded and guttural, and you relish it. Your nails dig into the tense muscle of his thighs, pinning him down as though he would want to go anywhere.

Your name spills from his lips in a broken chant, a curse and a prayer tangled together. You hum around him, and the vibration makes his thighs tense under your grip. His hips jerk up despite himself, and you dig your nails harder into his skin to keep him pinned down.

“Stay still,” you command softly, your voice thick with satisfaction. He growls, a sound that vibrates through his chest, but he obeys, barely. The obedience alone makes you smirk against him.

You drag your mouth up his length, slow enough to have his knuckles going white as he clutches the sheets, before sinking down again, taking him until your throat tightens around him. His strangled moan fills the room, his head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut.

“Sweetie-fuck-” His voice cracks, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him. The big bad Onychinus leader, the one who’s always in control, reduced to trembling beneath you.

You pull back just enough to breathe against the flushed tip of his cock, saliva glistening as you stroke him in your hand. “Beg for it properly, Sylus. Say it.”

His eyes snap to yours, blazing with heat, and for a moment you think he’ll defy you. But the tension in his jaw breaks, and he groans, the words torn from him. “Please…please make me cum. I need you.”

The sincerity in his voice sends a thrill through you, and you reward him by taking him into your mouth again, faster this time, your tongue working him mercilessly. His composure shatters completely, his moans raw, his thighs quivering under your nails.

It doesn’t take long before his whole body tightens, his hand finally leaving the sheets to bury itself in your hair as he spills down your throat with a cry of your name. You swallow greedily, not giving him a chance to recover until he’s whimpering, actually whimpering, from oversensitivity, gently tugging you away.

When you finally pull off, you crawl up his body, lips glistening, and kiss him slow, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He’s still panting, his chest heaving, and you’re drunk on the sight of him ruined beneath you.

“You look good like this,” you whisper against his lips. “I think I’ll do this more often.”