Human behave yourself

The gunpowder hung heavy in the air, sharp and metallic, crawling into your hair, your skin, the fabric of your shirt. You lifted the pistol again, lining your body with the lane, steadying your breath before the squeeze.

Behind you, footsteps. A hand ghosted over your forearm, adjusting your angle. The man’s voice was low, practiced– “Like this, steadier… keep your wrist firm.” His touch lingered a second too long, warm against the veins beneath your skin. You gave a polite nod, even a small laugh to brush it off.

Across the lane, Sylus didn’t move.

He leaned against the glass partition, arms folded, dark sleeves rolled up, the black of his rings catching the fluorescents. His expression didn’t shift. No scowl. No warning. Just the stillness of a loaded weapon, eyes pinned to the way another man’s fingers dared to guide yours.

You fired. The casing clinked to the floor. The stranger gave a satisfied hum, patted your shoulder, and stepped back.

Sylus’s jaw worked once, like he was chewing glass, and then stilled.

He didn’t interfere. And when you glanced at him, just once, the look he gave you was heavier than the gun in your hands.

⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ཐིཋྀ ཐིཋྀ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒

The engine’s hum filled the cabin, steady and low, the only sound between you. Streetlights flashed over his face in intervals– cutting his mouth in shadow, painting his crimson eyes in silver, then plunging him back into the dark again. He drove like he always did, one hand on the wheel, the other draped carelessly over the gearshift, but his shoulders were locked, jaw set, every line of him sharp enough to cut.

You shifted in your seat, clutching the strap of your bag tighter than you needed to. The silence felt engineered, deliberate, as if he wanted you to squirm in it.

“Are you… mad?” The words were smaller than you meant them to be, fragile against the hum of the tires.

Sylus didn’t look at you. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “Mad,” he echoed, voice flat, as if tasting the word before spitting it out. He rolled the wheel lazily through the next turn, knuckles pale in the sodium light. “If that’s what you think.”

The way he said it– disinterested, almost bored– somehow carried more weight than if he’d shouted. He wasn’t raising his voice, he never did. He wasn’t raising anything. He was sitting on it, and that was worse.

You pressed, fumbling for the edge of his mood. “You looked… upset. At the range.”

That earned you a glance– quick, sharp, something almost like amusement cutting across his face before vanishing again. His tongue flicked over his teeth, but he didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he downshifted hard, the car growling under him like it shared his mood, and muttered, “We’ll talk when we’re home.”

The rest of the ride unspooled in taut silence, every unspoken word crowding the space between you, pressing closer, until you were half-wild with trying to guess which bullet he was loading in the chamber.

⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ཐིཋྀ ཐིཋྀ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒

The door shut behind you with a hollow thud, the quiet of home somehow heavier than the silence in the car. You turned, dropping your bag by the wall, but Sylus was already there– close, too close, his shadow filling the space before his voice did.

“You let him touch you.”

The words were blunt, not shouted, but they hit like a recoil all the same. His eyes raked over you, not gentle, not forgiving. “Guide your hands like you need him. Like I wasn’t standing right there.”

Heat rose to your face, your chest. “It wasn’t like that. He was– ”

“I don’t care what he was,” Sylus cut in, his tone low, final. He leaned in, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His mouth hovered near yours, breath smoky, his voice scraping against your skin. “What I care about… is that you didn’t use me. You could’ve. Should’ve.”

His eyes burned into you, pupils wide, swallowing the dim light. “If you want help, if you want someone’s hands on you– ” his jaw tightened, a vein jumping in his throat, “– then use mine. However you want. However you see fit.”

The last words weren’t spit in anger– they were dragged out, a rasp, a surrender disguised as a challenge. His teeth grazed your jaw as he murmured, “That’s what I’m here for.”

For a moment, the room was nothing but the sound of your breathing, heavy and uneven, his mouth so close it felt like he was already on your skin. And then he tipped his chin, offering you his throat, as though daring you to test the truth of what he’d just confessed.

You didn’t think too long. Your hand caught his collar, yanking him forward until his chest slammed against yours. The wall was at your back, but the impact rattled him more than you. His lips crashed into yours, hot and rough.

The taste of smoke and metal filled your mouth, and the shock of it left your pulse skittering. His hands found your hips, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, but they didn’t drag you against him– they held, braced, offered.

You shoved him back a step. His shoulders hit the opposite wall with a dull thud, and his grin broke through bloody at the corner of his mouth. He liked it. You could feel that he liked it– the taut tremor in his breath, the twitch of his hips against yours when you pinned him there.

Your teeth found the edge of his jaw, biting down until his groan vibrated into your tongue. You left your mark and dragged lower, lips sucking bruises into his throat, each one blooming purple and red, your signature carved in his skin. His head tipped back, baring more, silent invitation.

“Good,” he rasped, voice frayed but heavy with satisfaction. His hands tightened, not to guide you, but to hold himself steady under the weight of you.

You felt the power in your own body, the pulse of it in your stomach and thighs as you ground against him, making him feel the drag of your want. His breath hitched, caught between control and surrender, every mark you left drawing a sharper exhale.

The heat of his arousal pressed against you, straining, undeniable, and he didn’t hide it. He let you feel it, let you know what you were doing to him. When you reached down, palming him through his pants, his hiss broke into a laugh, low and wrecked.

“Use me, sweetie,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours, eyes focused. “Make me yours.”

And in the tension of his body, the way his chest rose and fell under your grip, you knew it wasn’t just a line. It was a need. He thrived in this, in you claiming him, breaking him down with every bruise, every bite, every thrust of control you seized.

Your hand fisted tighter in his collar as you ground your hips against him, the wall at his back and your body pressing him in place. His cock strained against the rough fabric of his pants, hot and thick under your palm when you gripped him. The low sound that tore out of him– half growl, half gasp– shot straight down your spine.

You didn’t ease the pressure. You squeezed harder, your thumb dragging slow over his length, savoring the way his breath stuttered, the way his body arched into your touch without permission. His rings dug into your hips as if he needed the pain to anchor him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head tipping back as your mouth claimed his throat again. You sucked hard, teeth biting until his pulse thundered against your tongue. He groaned, a sound guttural and raw, hips jerking helplessly against your hand. He liked it– being marked, being owned. You felt the way his chest heaved, the tension trembling in his thighs as he held still for you, let you take what you wanted.

You tugged at his belt, popping it loose with one sharp pull, the clatter of metal loud in the room. He didn’t stop you. He couldn’t. His eyes were black with hunger as you shoved his pants down just enough to free him, cock heavy and flushed in your hand.

The first stroke made him bite down on his own lip, a hiss bleeding between his teeth. The second had him groaning into your mouth when you kissed him again, his tongue pushing greedy and desperate against yours.

“You’re mine,” you whispered against his lips, pumping him harder, twisting your wrist at the head until his knees almost buckled.

His laugh was wrecked, unsteady, but his grin was pure surrender. “Say it again.” His voice was rough, a rasp born of want and smoke. “Say it while you use me.”

You dropped to your knees before he could catch his breath, his cock slapping hot against your tongue when you took him deep. His hand shot to your hair– not to control, but to hold on. His thighs shook under your grip as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking and licking until his groan broke into a curse.

"–'esus kitten–"

The taste of salt and sweat filled your mouth, his body twitching when you swallowed around him. He looked down, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, the sight of you on your knees unraveling whatever was left of his composure.

He wasn’t begging. Not yet. But every rough gasp, every strained moan spilling out of him was proof enough: Sylus thrived on being undone at your mercy.

And when you dragged your nails up his thighs, forcing him deeper into your throat, his hips jerked, his head hit the wall, and his voice broke in a way that made your whole body clench with heat.

You rose from your knees with his taste still on your tongue, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you pushed him back against the wall again. His cock hung heavy, glistening with your spit, the sight of it pulling a sharp ache low in your belly.

“Get on the couch,” you ordered, voice rougher than you meant it.

For a second, his grin cut sharp through the haze. He liked the command– liked it too much. He obeyed without hesitation, stripping the rest of the way as he went, dropping onto the cushions with his legs spread and his cock standing thick against his stomach.

You climbed after him, straddling his hips, dragging the head of his cock against your folds until your whole body trembled. His breath hitched, chest heaving under you, but he didn’t thrust. He let you take control, let you tease him, the wet slide over and over without letting him inside.

When you finally sank down, inch by glorious inch, the stretch of him filled you so slowly it almost hurt. Sylus swore under his breath, his hands gripping the throw pillows instead of your body, veins standing out in his forearms as he forced himself not to move.

“Fuck– ” His voice broke, hoarse and shaking. “So tight… so fucking– ”

You rode him deliberately, every rise and fall measured, slow enough to drive him insane. The wet drag of your walls squeezed him mercilessly, pulling sounds from his throat he tried and failed to swallow down.

Your hands pressed to his chest, nails scraping down until he arched up into you, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a plea. His eyes locked on yours, wide, dark, desperate.

“You’re killing me, kitten,” he gasped, hips twitching as he fought to stay still beneath you. “Slow– fuck– don’t stop– ”

You ground down hard, circling your hips until his head slammed against the backrest, a groan ripping out of him so raw it made your clit throb. He was unraveling, the sharp edges of him dulled by the pace you forced, reduced to broken curses and wrecked moans.

Every time you sank down fully, the head of his cock buried deep, he shook with it, chest heaving, jaw slack. His hands hovered at your thighs, flexing open and shut like he didn’t know whether to grab hold or surrender completely.

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear as you fucked him slow, cruel, perfect. “Look at you,” you whispered, your voice sweet poison. “All mine. Nothing without me.”

The sound that left him then wasn’t words– it was a strangled noise, guttural and beautiful, his body jerking under yours as if you’d shot straight through him.

The rhythm stayed merciless– your hips rolling, grinding, sinking down until his cock throbbed inside you so deep it hurt. Every time he tried to thrust up, you pressed him flat again, riding him at your pace, your rules.

Sweat slicked his chest, his hair damp against the backrest. His mouth moved, half-formed curses, prayers, your name tangled between them like a mantra he couldn’t stop chanting. His eyes rolled back when you clenched tight around him, dragging another strangled groan from his throat.

“Please– ” His voice cracked, guttural, nothing like the smooth control he wore in every other corner of life. His hands gripped the cushions hard enough to tear. “Fuck, please, I’m gonna– ”

You rode him harder, still slow but deeper, grinding your clit against the base of his cock until pleasure sparked hot through your veins. His hips jerked up despite himself, his body betraying him, desperate to give in.

He broke first.

His moan split into something raw, half-growl, half-plea, as he came hard, spilling into you with shuddering pulses. His whole body locked, then shook, his face buried against your throat like he couldn’t stand being seen unraveling.

You didn’t stop. You kept him buried deep, kept circling your hips, milking every drop, drawing ragged sounds out of him until his voice was wrecked and his body sagged boneless under you.

When you finally slowed, you felt his chest still heaving beneath you, his hands finally unclenching from the couch cushions to clutch at your thighs like a lifeline.

“Mine,” you whispered against his ear, lips brushing the shell of it.

His laugh was ruined, wrecked, but laced with satisfaction. “Yours,” he rasped, voice shredded and hoarse, his body trembling beneath your weight.

You didn't give him much of a break.

His cock still pulsed inside you, hot and twitching, when you ground down harder, chasing your own edge. He was still trembling, overstimulated, every nerve in him lit raw– but he didn’t push you off. He spread his legs wider beneath you, opened himself further, as if saying: take more.

You rolled your hips, slow but relentless, grinding your clit against the base of him, squeezing tight around every inch. The friction caught fire, white-hot, your breath breaking into desperate little sounds you couldn’t hold back.

Sylus’s eyes flicked open, glassy and wrecked, but the sight of you riding him still knocked another groan out of him. “Fuck– yes, that– don’t stop,” he rasped, voice hoarse and low. His hands finally found your ass, not to control, but to anchor himself to you as your pace turned frantic.

The coil snapped hard. Pleasure tore through you in a rush so sharp you cried out, back arching, thighs quaking as you clamped down around him. Every clench dragged another ragged moan from his chest, and the way you screamed his name had him spilling again, a second orgasm ripped out of him, messier, rawer, breaking him completely.

Your climax rolled on, waves crashing through you, leaving you shaking as you slumped against his chest. His skin burned hot under your cheek, his heart hammering wild against your ear.

You felt him smile there in the dark, teeth sinking gently into your shoulder as he whispered, ruined and reverent, “That’s what I wanted. That’s what I need. You, using me. Owning me.”

Both of you breathless, both of you marked, tangled, and spent– your ache sated by the sound of him breaking apart beneath you, and his hunger satisfied by the proof that you could ruin him just as deeply as he’d always wanted.

Thanks for reading <3

Yalllllll the mafia daddy main story Sylus vibesssss.

The way they interact with each other now 😩😩😩

Gawd. It’s everything. ❤️ I love my possessive rich husband.