Just Nyx

Companion piece to:

Deals With The Devil - After being sent on a strange errand by his employer Mr. Le Bail, The Lawyer realises the terms and conditions of his own contract may not be as cut and dry as they first seemed.

The Devil's Daughter - The Lawyer has some questions for you...

The Things That Make You Human - You discover more about The Lawyer's past after he invites you to stay at his home.

Performative - You begin to question The Lawyer's feelings for you.

Monsters - The Lawyer makes a discovery about your reading habits.

Six Days - You discover a certain clause in your contract.

A Goddamn Love Story (NSFW) - You become an absolute menace when The Lawyer works too late.

A Marriage of Convenience - You get a sharp reminder that your marriage is one of convenience, not love.

The Middle Ground - The Lawyer battles to make himself heard after the issue with his fuckbuddy.

The Toy (NSFW) - Make up sex has never felt so damn good.

Family Ties - The Lawyer discovers the true purpose behind your marriage.

In The Dark - You know something's wrong the moment you wake up in the darkness.

The Power of a Name - You confront your father, leading to a revelation that stuns Mr. Le Bail.

The Loophole - You exploit a loophole in The Lawyer's rules.

Mauve.

The colour of quiet love and sentimentality.

Of elegance, femininity, and creativity.

All the things you are, and a hell of a lot more, The Lawyer thinks, as he stands in front of an arch intertwined with rich, deep-toned florals and lush greenery. He watches as you walk down the aisle towards him in a tulle dress that leaves nothing to the imagination to the crooning tones of Gregory Porter’s You Send Me.

The sparkling translucent material clings to your form, revealing the bare skin underneath the translucent fabric. The color thickens over your chest and down across your waist, hiding your nipples and all those other areas he can’t wait to get his mouth on.

The neckline deviates into a deep V that ends just before your belly button, tempting him to run his fingertips down your sternum all the way to where the fabric meets, cinched together by two glittering swallows kissing.

There’s a crown of flowers on your head, something delightfully pagan and bohemian that matches your dress. Your hair is loose, falling across your features like a waterfall as the sun causes it to shimmer in the dying light.

You look ethereal, other worldly. A goddess who defied death and decided to marry a wretch like him.

“My, my, you did choose well.” Titus’s wife Diana murmurs, leaning in from her position alongside him. “I assume you’ll be expecting us to leave after the cocktails and canapes so you can have your wicked way with her.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” He concedes, inclining his head slightly as you amble down an aisle lit with warm, gold Moroccan lamps.

“Oh, no bother at all.” Diana says, casting a glance at Titus standing at the mahogany podium underneath the floral arch, his fingers steeped together. He’s wearing his black satanist robe, the edging trimmed with gold. The hood is up, making him look practically demonic as his whisky eyes focus on The Book laid out in front of him. “He always gets a little frisky after wearing the robe anyway. I tried to talk him out of it, but you know he takes his role as officiant very seriously.”

“I do.” The Lawyer says before adding. “I also know you can’t deny him anything when he pouts.”

“There was a lot of pouting.” Diana admits before she straightens her spine and steps back into position. “I can’t deny him anything when he gives me those puppy dog eyes.”

The song finishes, the final notes fading out and there you are standing right in front of him.

The women he loves, his happily ever after.

“You look absolutely stunning.” He tells you, taking your hands in his, gripping them tightly. You squeeze back, the edges of your dark red lips tipping up into a salacious smile as you drink him in.

“You don’t clean up to badly yourself.” You say, your gaze coming to rest on the matching buttonhole he’s wearing. It’s dusky thistle the exact colour of your dress, its sharp edges set against forest green leaves. It’s the perfect accompaniment to the light grey suit he’s wearing. “How did you know?”

“I called the designer who fitted your dress, asked what the colour was so I could match-” He’s interrupted by a throat clearing, Titus breaking into the moment as he pulls down his hood. “I guess we’re starting.”

The rest of the ceremony is silent, a myriad of sign language done with such flourish it’s almost beautiful. When it comes to the rings, it’s Diana that hands them over. Yours is silver, a delicate vine design with a teardrop of onyx in the centre and several diamonds tucked amongst the leaves. His is made of black hammered Tungsten with a crushed meteorite inlay that gives it a thorny appearance underneath the surface. They contrast against each other nicely, a pair designed exactly for this occasion.

You may kiss the bride, Titus signs and The Lawyer’s arm wraps around your waist drawing you to him. Your fingers run through his hair as you ruin him, your teeth grazing his lower lip, so sinful, so full of promise.

“We’re not going to make it to the canapes are we, darling?” He whispers, his mouth stained with lipstick as your fingertips toy with the buttons on his waistcoat.

“No Benji.” You say, that wickedness in your eyes. “I don’t think we will.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

So they clean up from dinner, and Shane goes about setting up for them. He won’t let Ilya do anything, tells him, “Just let me. I know what we need.” So Ilya just sits on the sofa and waits, and watches Shane. Shane, who moves around the apartment with single-minded focus. Dishwasher on. Lights dim. Thermostat up. Cushion placed at Ilya’s feet, not for Shane this time, but for Ilya. He demands Ilya’s clothes, gets him stripped to just his boxers, then does the same for himself. He flicks the TV on to a hockey documentary he’s been wanting to watch. And then he turns to Ilya with a grin.

“Ready!” He’s bouncing on his feet a little, and Ilya can’t stop the warm chuckle that escapes from him.

“Excited, kotok?” And Shane rolls his eyes and says, “You should be excited,” but in truth, Ilya feels a bit nervous. He wants this to work. He’s seen how this can be like an off button for Shane’s brain, and there are some days he needs that too. Shane must sense some of what Ilya’s thinking because he says, “It’s going to be so good. I promise,” and places a soft kiss on Ilya’s forehead. Ilya slaps his hands on his thighs, stands up, and says, “Ok, do your worst, Hollander,” and Shane just laughs.

Ilya gets settled on his knees, already grateful for the cushion beneath him. The season’s barely started, but it’s already been brutal, and Ilya’s body is a patchwork of bruises, some fresh and some fading. As he goes to his knees, he thinks about Shane’s promise and the stress of the season and how good it would feel to not think for a while. He hopes Shane is right.

At first, Ilya feels a bit unsure. He loves Shane’s cock in his mouth, of course, but he can’t help feeling that he should be doing something. He’s so aware of the weight of Shane’s cock on his tongue, and shouldn’t Ilya be sucking him down, or bobbing his head? (No, Shane had said at dinner, cheeks pink, I want this to last) And Shane’s thighs are right there, so close they brush his ears, and isn’t Ilya supposed to be gripping them, guiding Shane deeper into his throat? (No, you’ll keep your hands still, too). And Ilya can hear the murmur of the talking heads on the documentary and the soft hum of the dishwasher, but he doesn't hear Shane groaning, oh, oh, fuck, yeah baby, just like that, so the whole thing feels a bit pointless. 

But then Shane spreads his thighs a bit more, and Ilya sinks down a bit lower, gets his nose pressed right up against Shane’s belly. And Shane is mostly soft, but he lets out a sigh and a “so good, Ilya,” and, ok, that is nice. And then Shane does something Ilya doesn’t expect. Two fingers tap Ilya’s chin, look at me, so their eyes are locked when Shane says, “Please, Sir, may I touch your hair?” and oh, fucking hell, Ilya might die right here. They’ve tried our sir once or twice, and every time Ilya’s brain short-circuits. It’s the way Shane says it, a little breathless and eager. It’s the way it makes Ilya feel, trusted and powerful. And Shane is looking at him now with so much love in his eyes and waiting so patiently for an answer, fuck.

Ilya nods as best he can in this position, and Shane says “Thank you, Sir,” and Ilya groans and sinks down down down as Shane’s hands find his hair. And then it’s all gentle tugs on his curls and Shane’s strong fingers running over his scalp, and someone is moaning, and oh, that’s me, Ilya realizes. Ilya spreads his knees a little wider, sinks into his body a little more, and that earns him a, “That’s right, Sir. Get comfortable."

Jesus, Shane is going to kill him. 

They stay that way for a while, Shane’s lovely fingers in his hair and Shane’s perfect cock in his mouth. Shane’s hard now but seemingly in no hurry, just keeping his hands tangled in Ilya’s hair and saying, “Love your mouth, Sir,” and “Sir, you’re taking me so good,” and Ilya is…he’s not floating, not like Shane gets, but his mind is calm in its own way. It’s just that somehow Shane has crowded out everything else. Or narrowed it down, maybe, made it seem small and insignificant compared to Shane’s strong hands and thick thighs and big cock. 

And then Shane says, “Sir?” and gives Ilya’s hair a little tug, like maybe he’s been asking for a while, and all Ilya can do is give a questioning groan, taking Shane out of his mouth to answer is unfathomable, and Shane asks, “Sir, can I fuck your mouth, please?” And suddenly Ilya has never wanted anything more in his life. He moans, long and low, and his own hips fuck up like he’s the one asking, and Shane just says “Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you,” before he tightens his hands in Ilya’s hair and starts to move. 

Ilya feels delirious. He knows he’s drooling, but he can’t stop it. He’s hard, he thinks, but it’s difficult to tell when his whole body feels like a circuit of pleasure stemming from the point where his mouth meets Shane’s cock. Every time Shane fucks in deep, he says, “Thank you, Sir,” and every time Ilya answers with a whine. When Shane pulls back, Ilya can taste the pre-cum on his tongue, and his own cock leaks in response. Shane’s pace is steady, and his body is strong and solid, and Ilya’s mind is blank but for Shane Shane Shane. 

“Sir, oh, oh, it’s so good. I think I’m—you’re gonna make me come,” Shane gasps out, and Ilya wants that, desperately. “Please, please, Sir, can I come?” And it’s almost too much, Shane begging like this and calling him sir while he’s holding Ilya’s head tight and fucking deep into his throat. He feels so powerless. He feels so powerful. 

Ilya isn’t sure what noise he makes to signal his permission, but Shane, perfect Shane who understands everything, knows a yes for a yes. He fucks his hips up one last time as he shudders and shakes and spills. Ilya’s shaking too, and he can’t stop it. He feels like he’s might fly apart into thousands of pieces, but then Shane says, “Sir, let me—” and strong arms are hauling Ilya up and settling him on the couch, and Ilya’s got a lap full of Shane, Shane who is saying “Want to make you come, Sir, can I?” and Ilya nods, he thinks, but mostly he keeps his eyes fixed on Shane, Shane who unraveled him completely, Shane who will put him back together. And then Shane’s warm hand is wrapped around Ilya’s cock, and Shane is saying, “Please, please, Sir, give me your cum. Please, can I have it? I need it, I need it so much,” and Ilya, who can deny Shane nothing, gives him what he needs.