alaska

The mission itself had been simple enough – get in, retrieve the protocore, get out and exterminate a few wanderers while you were at it. Although in hindsight, perhaps it had been too simple. 

The protocore had been stashed away in a heavily sealed safe, and yet you’d managed to crack the code without too much effort. Entirely too convenient, you think, muttering a curse under your breath as you glance at the protocore held tightly in your hand.

It was real, there was no doubt about that, and valuable. Your brows furrow when you turn the protocore in your fingers, the magnitude of energy contained inside making your skin tingle. When your Evol flares, the protocore glows, a sharp sound of pain escaping you when its energy prickles across your skin – this time far more intensely.

No wonder the Hunters Association ordered an immediate retrieval. The stupid thing was powerful. 

There’s not enough time to direct further insults towards the protocore, your focus instead directed back to the task of sucking in lungfuls of air to try and dampen the churning in your stomach. It hardly helps, your tongue feeling heavy as you retch unceremoniously, staggering again.

But this was hardly the time to be complacent. It had been an ambush, bullets whizzing past the moment you had touched the protocore, one embedding itself deep into the side of your stomach, another grazing your leg, each one drawing blood. 

Your phone and watch had become unresponsive, blinking glaringly red with signal errors, and your guns had gotten jammed along the way, leaving you injured and effectively, defenseless. 

And now, as pathetic as it was, you were running. 

The sprawling expanse of the base wasn’t exactly helping, the main building you’d infiltrated surrounded by several smaller ones, forming a perimeter, closed off by a thicket of shrubbery and overgrown trees.

Getting out the way you came in wouldn’t work, not when they had so obviously anticipated your arrival. The south end of the base seemed safer, and you’d chosen to go that way without much deliberation. 

The voices searching for you grow louder, jolting you out of your attempt to recuperate, feet beginning to drag pitifully once more as you teeter towards a hopeful escape. It’s exhausting, every little movement sending sparks of sharp pain through your body, teeth sinking into your fist to muffle a scream when you move too quickly.

Your vision swims.

“Fuck,” you murmur under your breath, fingers trembling as you try and press your watch in one last ditch effort.

It’s unresponsive. 

Not a big deal, you think as your knees buckle, giving out under you. Not a big deal, you repeat to yourself, crawling forward on all fours like some sort of desperate animal on the brink of death, foliage and dirt clinging to your hands and knees, dirtying your clothes.

As if you were going to die out here. The fence was right there, visible to you now, lining the perimeter of the base. You crawl towards what you hope is a blind-spot, hidden behind a stack of crates, curling up against the wall. 

It’s a momentary reprieve. When something sparks across the fence, you frown. Feeling around you, your fingers enclose around a rock, flinging it at the fence. Electricity snaps across the length of the fence, sparking brightly for a brief moment. You blink down at the rock, half of it gone, instead reduced to ash. A disbelieving laugh leaves you. 

You were going to die out here. 

A sharp, sudden pain rips up the side of your body, a ragged gasp interrupting your laugh, body curling into itself. When you press your hand against your side, it comes back wet with fresh blood, crimson and sticky, the blurry sight of your own blood enough to make you feel even weaker than you already were. 

You were going to miss Linkon, you think belatedly, too tired to try and staunch the heavy bleeding. You don’t bother listening for footsteps anymore either. It would be a small mercy to not be shot to death. How morbid.

Still, you can’t be bothered to fret over the intricacies of death. Sleep, your mind coaxes, and you find yourself giving in without further thought. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders, previously taut muscles beginning to loosen. Head tipping back against the wall, you let your eyes slip shut. 

But the soothing silence doesn’t seem to last for long, an ill-timed caw sounding in the distance. 

Your head turns sluggishly, a wince escaping you as pain shoots up your side, tears prickling at your eyes. Through your bleary vision, you manage to spot a crow perched on the fence, its feathers slightly ruffled. 

Forget being shot, you were going to be pecked to death by a crow. Great.

You flinch when it swoops down towards you, eyes squeezing shut, ready to feel the piercing peck that would tear apart your flesh. Only the crow does nothing of the sort. You wait a few more minutes, eyes peeling open slowly, to find the crow’s startlingly crimson eyes trained on you.

“Oh,” you breathe out in realization, “it’s you. Hello, Mephie.”

Mephisto lets out a soft clicking sound, his little head tilting to watch you. You give the crow what you hope is a convincing enough smile, although you’re almost sure it looks more like a grimace. 

“Is he watching?” you ask him, managing to lift your hand just enough to stroke a bloody finger over his velvety feathers. A sigh escapes you when Mephisto nuzzles into your hand, his dark feathers now glistening with a tinge of red. “I suppose he is, if you found me.”

You smile hazily when Mephisto flutters up to perch on your shoulder, head tilting away when his beak taps against your cheek as though he were trying to keep you awake. 

“You’re being quite persistent,” you sigh, brows furrowing when he pecks your cheek a little harder, then nuzzles his feathery little head against you. “Ouch. That hurt, Mephie.”

Mephisto caws indignantly, his feathers ruffling as his wings flutter for a moment before he settles down, beak pressing into your cheek again.

“I’m bleeding out to death,” you say, a frown pulling at your lips. “Mephie, you ought to let me go peacefully.” When Mephisto tilts his head, you think he might be rolling his eyes if he could. “I am not being dramatic!” you protest, watching as he flutters to perch on your thigh, his bright eyes blinking at you boredly. 

“You are.”

You flinch when someone emerges through a swirl of red mist, their tall stature casting a shadow upon you. Mephisto trills, and your eyes meet the crimson stare of a man that you’ve become all too familiar with.

“Sylus,” you greet, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, despite sagging like a deflated balloon. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He hums, his sharp gaze assessing your injured form, crouching down before long to stop you from craning your neck. 

“You’re not going to die,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers prying your hand away from your side, lifting your shirt to see your wound. His jaw clenches when he sees the blood smeared across your skin, his fingers tracing across the edges of the wound. 

Your face twists in anguish when he presses his fingers against you a little more firmly, his cool touch doing little to dissipate the heat festering inside of you, a feverish sensation crawling its way across your skin.

“Fine,” you breathe out unconvincingly, peering up into his eyes. “I’m fine, Sylus.”

“Learn your limits, sweetie,” he replies curtly, wiping his blood-stained fingers against his trousers. “This was a foolish endeavour, even for you.”

“Is the leader of Onychinus really lecturing me?” you ask drily, a wave of exhaustion rushing over you, shoulders slumping further. 

You sigh heavily when Sylus doesn’t respond, eyes slipping shut when he reaches out again, his fingers drifting across your face with such tenderness that it leaves an odd feeling in your chest – warm and mellow – and for the first time today, you feel… safe.

His voice softens when he speaks again.

“Who did this to you?”

Sylus clicks his tongue when you slur out an unintelligible response, his fingers sliding over your skin to cup your jaw more firmly.

“Quickly now,” he murmurs, voice laced with soft urgency, his thumb stroking away a stray droplet of blood on your cheek. “Who did this to you?”

You can’t help but think he sounds worried. There’s a furrow in his brow, lips down-turned, crimson eyes holding a depth of emotion that you’re unused to. Even like this, Sylus looks impossibly handsome, the light softening his snowy hair, casting shadows across his face that seem to make his eyes appear brighter. 

“Pretty,” you mumble, leaning into his hand tiredly, enraptured by his eyes.

Sylus’ expression hardens. “Answer my question,” he says roughly, tipping your head up when your eyes begin to droop shut again. “And stay awake.”

You pout, head tilting into the soothing stroke of his thumb against your cheek. “I didn’t see,” you breathe out airily, “I only came here to retrieve a protocore.”

“By yourself?” Sylus murmurs, his eyes narrowing, “I thought the Hunters Association was meant to care for its Hunters, not leave them out to die.” 

“I insisted,” you grumble, trying to lean into his hand further, nuzzling against its warmth like a cat demanding attention. “Besides…” you trail off, letting out another heavy, exhausted sigh, eyes fluttering shut completely, “I was handling it.”

“Handling it,” Sylus echoes, sounding entirely unconvinced. “I suppose if you consider bleeding out to death as handling it, you’ve done a fine job.” 

The thinly concealed jab in his response has you grumbling disgruntledly, a frown settling on your face. There’s a finger tapping against your cheek, much more firmly now, and you peel your eyes open with great effort, blinking to try and clear your vision. It doesn’t help much, little spots appearing and refusing to dissipate when you try and focus, swirls of darkness beginning to cloud your vision.

A harsh noise leaves Sylus, akin to a frustrated sigh, his fingers brushing away the hair that stubbornly clings to your sweat-slicked skin. 

“Get her out of here.”

The hand on your cheek is pulling away and you whine, lurching forward in the absence of the soothing touch. There’s a pair of hands sliding underneath you, taking care not to jostle you too much when you wince softly, face scrunching at the flare of pain. 

“Sylus?” you murmur. 

“Nope! Sorry to disappoint. The boss-man’s gone to uh– take care of things.”

The voice that answers you is slightly deeper. Kieran, you realize, in your injured haze. Someone else speaks – Luke, probably – but the voice sounds so far away that you don’t bother concentrating, head lolling against Kieran’s chest. 

A sudden rush of wind ruffles your hair, a familiar mist of red beginning to curl around you. You ignore the sharp sting of pain and Kieran’s protest as you squirm in his arms, hands landing on his shoulders as you shift to look over his shoulder.

Through your blurry vision you can see Mephisto swooping down, settling down on Sylus’ shoulder. You’re opening your mouth to call out towards him – to warn him, to say something to deter him – but Sylus’ head is already turning, his gaze meeting yours briefly. Even the darkness clouding your vision can’t dim his probing stare, the red in his irises growing in intensity – enough to have you feeling unnerved. 

He stares at you for a moment longer, his expression dark, before he turns away. The air around you shifts when he flicks his fingers back, Kieran’s arms adjusting to keep you secured in place against him. The sensation is strange, as though you’re gently being split apart between two places, time and space bending to the unshakeable will of Sylus’ Evol. 

Kieran’s voice is muffled when he speaks again, and you glance back over his shoulder once more, the base now engulfed by an ominous fog of black and red. Sylus disappears into the thick of it. 

You don’t hear the screams that follow.

-

“You’re awake!”

You groan when you hear Luke’s voice piercing through the fading haze of sleep, sitting up groggily. Nothing hurts, you think sleepily, as you take in your surroundings, finding yourself in Sylus’ room, although the leader of Onychinus is nowhere to be seen.

“Glad you’re awake,” Kieran adds, “we were starting to worry you wouldn’t wake up.”

Your brows furrow as you digest his words, staring at him confusedly.

“What do you mean?” you ask, rubbing at your eyes, “it’s only been a day, hasn’t it?”

“Uh– no,” Luke says slowly, staring at you, concerned flitting over his expression. He shows you his phone. “You were out for nearly a week.”

You stare at him blankly, mouth opening and shutting like a gaping fish until you manage to find the words to articulate yourself properly. “What?” you sputter, kicking the blankets heaped over you in a flurry, stumbling to your feet. “A week? I’ve been in the N109 Zone for a week?”

“Hey, hey–” Kieran is blocking your path before you can dart out of Sylus’ bedroom, shooting you an apologetic look. “Sorry, boss’ orders.”

“I have work!” you protest, gaze darting between the twins frantically, “and not to mention, people are probably wondering where I am!”

“Boss took care of it,” Luke offers, before he gestures towards you, “and… all of your injuries.”

Your movements pause at his words, Kieran letting out a sigh of relief when you stop trying to shove past him. “What do you mean?” you begin, staring down at yourself until it becomes disturbingly clear that nothing hurts and that you’d just practically jumped out of bed with such renewed vigour that only a person bereft of injury could match.

Not your shirt, your mind supplies belatedly, the fabric hanging over your body loosely. The thought of wearing Sylus’ clothes alarms you slightly, although your fingers are working agitatedly before you can dwell on it any longer, yanking up the hem to find that the wound marring the side of your stomach has all but completely healed. A scar lingers, its edges jagged.

You lift your leg, twisting it to find that the wound from earlier no longer exists, rather replaced by another scar, streaking across the side of your leg.

“Well, shit,” you breathe out, rubbing your fingers across your skin.

“He wasn’t happy, you know,” Luke announces, sprawling out on the lounge, his head tipping back over the armrest. 

“I don’t know why anyone would be happy about someone else bleeding out to death, Luke,” you reply pointedly, moving to sit on the edge of Sylus’ bed.

“Boss enjoys it,” Luke muses, waving his hand about, “especially when it’s someone that steps out of line. But with you…” he trails off, his gaze drifting towards Kieran.

“You’re not just anyone,” Kieran finishes, shrugging. “He killed everyone there.”

You stiffen at Kieran’s words, stomach churning uncomfortably. It’s a startling reminder that Sylus is exactly as dangerous as he’s described in the countless reports you’d read before stepping foot into the N109 Zone. You don’t know why you’re so taken aback by the news though, fingers beginning to play with each other as you think of the sinister mist that had surrounded the base on that day.

If the twins see the pensive and conflicted expression on your face, they don’t say anything. Instead, Kieran quietly pushes a tray of food towards you, the silence in the room broken by Mephisto’s arrival. You feed him a small piece of sausage, smiling when he pecks at your fingers gently.

“Where is Sylus?” you ask once you’ve taken a sip of juice, brows furrowing. “If he was so worried, shouldn’t he be here at least?”

“He was,” Luke replies, “while you were asleep. Even Mephisto got in trouble for getting too close to you.”

Mephisto lets out an irritated caw, his feathers puffing up indignantly until Kieran manages to coax the offended crow towards him.

“After that base was destroyed, now everyone in the N109 Zone wants to meet him,” Kieran explains, “they have their own motives obviously, but losing Sylus’ favor would affect business for most of them.”

You hum absentmindedly, picking at a piece of fruit. “So in other words,” you begin, “this whole thing is technically my fault?”

“Yeah!” Luke supplies energetically, no doubt grinning under his mask.

“Boss hasn’t eaten either,” Kieran murmurs under his breath, his fingers petting across Mephisto’s head idly, while Luke twirls a knife between his fingers absentmindedly. “I’ve never seen him so… out of sorts.”

“Not to mention his punching bag,” Luke pipes up, his head tilting animatedly. “It’s in tatters. He nearly wiped out an entire faction the other day.”

“Another one?” you ask exasperatedly, pushing the tray aside and rubbing your aching temples. “Don’t you think he’s going too far? Sylus is far too calculated to just lash out!”

“Not when it comes to you,” the twins say in unison.

You stare at them blankly, shaking your head. “I don’t want to know what that means.”

“Why not, sweetie?”

Your head snaps over to the now opened doors, heart jolting in your chest when you see Sylus standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze dipping over you lazily. Luke scrambles off of the lounge hastily, nearly tripping over his own feet if not for Kieran catching ahold of his shoulder and pulling him up.

“Get out,” Sylus says, his head jerking, “and that includes you, Mephisto.”

Mephisto’s feathers begin to puff up again, and a sense of panic takes a hold of you. “They– they can stay!” you sputter, “Right? Luke, Kieran, stay please.”

The twins stare at you, unsure, their heads turning to meet Sylus’ unwavering gaze. For a moment, you think he might let them, but there’s mist swirling around them and the twins along with Mephisto disappear in a blink.

You swallow nervously when the doors shut, squirming back on the bed when Sylus steps towards you.

“Are you afraid of me?” he drawls, his eyes glinting darkly.

“What?” you retort, “no– no, I’m not scared. I’m simply… exercising caution.”

That draws a laugh out of Sylus, low and deep, and for some strange reason it makes you feel warm, the sound wrapping around you like a long-lost embrace. You clear your throat, curling up under the blankets when he draws closer, peeking out at him as he sits on the edge of his bed.

“I heard you were worried about me,” you murmur, cheek squishing against the pillows. “Really, really worried.”

“Is that what they told you?” Sylus muses, pulling the blankets away from you, “the twins share information far too easily.”

Your eyes widen when he’s reaching for you, a soft gasp escaping you when he grabs a hold of your leg – the one that had been injured – his fingers running over the scar. His fingers are warm, the soft, stroking motions doing little to dampen the heat beginning to fester inside of you. It only gets worse when he draws closer, his fingers pushing at the shirt, rucking it up.

“You– you ought to ask,” you protest, trying to wiggle away but Sylus’ hand is curling over the curve of your waist, examining the scar there too.

“You are in my debt, sweetie,” Sylus replies breezily, his brows furrowing as he checks the now healed wound. “Or did you forget the fact that I saved your life?”

“Debt?” you echo, swatting his hand away and pulling your shirt down, “I didn’t ask for you to save my life, Sylus. You made that choice, all on your own.”

Sylus’ eyes narrow, his hands landing on either side of your head as he stares down at you. “Are you implying that I should have let you die?”

“I didn’t say that!” you say exasperatedly, throwing an arm over your face to cover the heat that was flooding your cheeks with how close he was. He smelled so nice, so inviting, and part of you wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him and bury your face into the crook of his neck.

You peer up at him, concern flooding through you when you finally see just how exhausted Sylus is. His eyes seem duller, missing the brightness that you had gotten accustomed to, his expression looking slightly sunken.

“Kieran told me you weren’t eating,” you announce, voice accusatory, “and I’m awake now, so,” you sit up, pushing at his chest before reaching for your half-eaten tray of breakfast, “eat, Sylus.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, but does as you say, finishing the rest of your breakfast. You stare at him quietly, lips pursing, fingers itching to reach out and brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Thank you,” you say finally, voice soft. “For– for taking care of me.”

Sylus smiles lazily, flicking your forehead. “I’m not so cruel to have left you there,” he says, smiling wider when you glare at him. “Not to mention, you said my eyes were pretty.” He leans in closer, voice lowering, “I’m flattered, sweetie.”

You huff out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late,” he replies drily, bed dipping when he leans back to rest on his hands.

It doesn’t help that the motion pulls his shirt tighter around his chest, your throat drying when the fabric practically melds to his body. You bite back an indecent noise when you see the outline of his muscled abdomen. What was wrong with you? Here you were sitting with the most dangerous man within the N109 Zone, feeling like some stupid fool with a crush.

Crush? 

You wince as the term pops into your mind, pinching your wrist to vanquish the thought from your mind. You needed to get out of here.

“O– okay,” you breathe out, hands clasping together once you manage to tear your gaze away. “I’m going to go now, you know, back to Linkon. Everyone’s probably missing me and– and I have work so–” you wave your hands nonsensically, tongue feeling embarrassingly loose. 

“So soon?” Sylus murmurs, his fingers curling around your wrist when you begin to stand up. “You didn’t happen to forget that you were in my debt, did you?”

Of course, the asshole was going to hold it over your head – and here you thought Sylus was showing genuine concern.

“What do you want?” you ask stiffly, a frown pulling at your lips.

“Don’t look so sullen,” he muses, thumb soothing over the spot where you had pinched yourself. “The twins had no qualms telling you that you weren’t just anyone to me. Surely you’ve understood that by now, sweetie?”

Your breath hitches at his words, fingers twitching. You’re unsure of what he’s playing at and what he could possibly want from you, apart from the Aether Core embedded in your heart. 

“Because of the Aether Core,” you say finally, “that’s why I’m so important to you, isn’t it? You need it, and by extension, me.”

Sylus’ expression hardens, his jaw clenching. For a moment, you think he might snap at you, spying the undercurrent of irritation festering in his eyes, but all he does is let go of your wrist.

“Do you truly think so little of me, sweetie?” Sylus asks, voice sharp, “I thought I had shown you what you meant to me.”

“And what is that?” you retort, feeling off-kilter. “What exactly do I mean to you?”

“You know the answer to that,” he says, his eyes narrowing, “even if you do seem content with making me the villain.”

A sharp scoff leaves you, annoyance growing at his blatant deflection of the question. “Villain? We aren’t in some fairytale, Sylus. You were going to force me into resonating with you.”

“For good reason,” Sylus snaps, his voice harsh, “if only you knew–”

“Knew what?” you interrupt, chest rising and falling rapidly. “If only I knew what?”

“Nothing,” he grits out, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “It’s nothing. And as for what I want,” Sylus fixes you with a stern glare, “Your company, every week. No excuses.”

So he was hiding something from you. Part of you is scared to find out, anxiety beginning to sink its claws into you, stomach feeling queasy. Either way, his request leaves you vexed, fingers tapping against your arm agitatedly.

But in the end, you agree.

You don’t bother telling Sylus that it’s because being with him is the safest you’ve felt in a long time. 

–

Your weekly escapades to the N109 Zone soon turn into routine. 

Sylus sets aside a room for you, and you’ve grown so accustomed to staying there that half of your belongings in Linkon have somehow migrated across the border into your room in Sylus’ home.

The frustrated tension between you and Sylus seems to dissipate over time, and it’s almost startling as to how quickly you both slip back into old habits. Still, his words linger in your mind, and despite your best efforts to conduct your own investigations into whatever it may be that Sylus is hiding, nothing of importance surfaces.

Luke and Kieran are delighted with your practically constant presence, and you find yourself enjoying it too, training and sparring with the twins before lounging in Sylus’ library with Mephisto nestled in your lap.

But Sylus is late tonight.

Usually he’d have come in by now and given Mephisto a treat or two before shooing the crow away to lapse into conversation with you.

“Where is he?” you murmur, fingers stroking across Mephisto’s head. “Hm, Mephie? Where’s your insufferable boss disappeared off to?”

Mephisto trills, his red eyes blinking lazily before his wings flutter. You stand up as he flies away, padding after him through the hallways to find him perched on a stand outside Sylus’ office.

“Thank you, Mephie,” you say, giving the crow a smile and a playful tap to his beak.

He pecks your finger before fluttering away again. You push at the already ajar door to Sylus’ office, poking your head in to find him sitting at his desk, a pile of papers set in front of him.

“You didn’t come to see me,” you say, closing the door behind you, stepping towards him.

“And so you’ve found your way to me,” Sylus says, setting his pen down. “Suddenly everyone wants to fall in line after I… well, took care of things for you.”

“I think our definitions of taking care of things are very, very different,” you reply drily, leaning against his desk. “You didn’t have to kill them.”

He leans back as you take a few papers, watching as you rifle through them. Letters, weapons and protocore trade offers – it seemed as though Kieran was right – they were all vying for Sylus’ favor.

“Sometimes I forget how dangerous you are,” you sigh, setting the papers down.

“The N109 Zone is a cesspool,” Sylus murmurs, “only the strongest survive here, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, considering his words. “The strongest don’t need to survive if they can’t be killed.”

“Perhaps,” he offers, crossing his arms over his chest, “but we choose to devour those who cannot keep up.”

You raise your brows, rocking on your feet, hands landing on the edge of his desk. “So I’m keeping up with you? You haven’t devoured me.”

“No,” Sylus whispers, “not yet.”

Not yet. 

It almost feels like a threat, but the way Sylus says it leaves the words ridden with some sort of palpable hunger that leaves your chest tight. You stare at him blankly, unsure of what to say. Surprise flutters through you when his Evol wraps around you, placing you between Sylus and his desk.

“Stay the night.”

“What?” you ask, drawn out of your haze, “I wouldn’t be able to make it to Linkon in time then.”

“So take the day off work,” Sylus replies, propping his elbow on the armrest of his chair, his thighs spreading slightly. “I’m sure the Hunters Association is more than willing to give their best Hunter a day off.”

Against better judgement, your gaze dips for a moment, tongue feeling heavy at the sight of his spread thighs, his black trousers making it harder for you to look away.

“I– I can’t just call out of work whenever I feel like it, Sylus,” you breathe out, crossing your arms over your chest, dragging your gaze back up, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

You glare at him when you see his usual smirk, rolling your eyes when he shifts again, his hips lifting for a moment. Asshole.

“But you don’t want to leave,” he replies smoothly, “do you?”

“Maybe I just like staying in your enormous home,” you shoot back. “Or maybe… I enjoy your company, as insufferable as you are.”

Sylus laughs, his head tilting. “I’ve already made it clear you’re welcome to stay. Why go back to Linkon? The N109 Zone has everything you could possibly want, sweetie.”

“And how would you know what I want?” you ask, hands landing behind you, on his desk as you lean back, raising your brows.

“Because I know you,” Sylus muses, his hand waving as red mist wraps around you, bringing you closer to him, until you’re standing between his spread legs. 

You swallow nervously, a shaky breath leaving you when his hand curls over your hip, sliding upwards over your shirt to rest on your waist. The warmth of his skin bleeds into you, even through the fabric, his crimson eyes burning brighter as he leans towards you.

“What–” you flush when you choke on your own words, embarrassment making you feel hot. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you,” he murmurs, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal the scar that sits on the side of your stomach.

You stiffen, unsure of what to do with your hands, fingers trembling before you curl your hands into fists tightly, a shiver racking through you when his fingers stroke across the scar.

“You should’ve called for me that day,” Sylus says, voice low. “I would have come for you.”

“My phone–” you sound embarrassingly breathless, “the signal was jammed.”

When he leans closer, you foolishly hope he might kiss the scar that lays against your skin. Instead, he offers you a smile, one so sickeningly soft that you think your knees may buckle under the weight of his gaze – tender and knowing. 

“Did you want something from me, Miss Hunter?”

“N– no.” Yes.

Sylus hums, pulling your shirt back down, his hand moving to rest on your hip once more.

“Are you sure, sweetie?” he asks, raising his brows.

“Yes,” you grit out the lie, feeling faint. “I’m perfectly sure, Sylus.”

“Always so headstrong,” Sylus tuts, and you feel like a scolded child for a moment, until he speaks again, his voice quieter. “Just as you were back then.”

“You keep doing that,” you announce accusingly, “you keep saying things that don’t make sense.”

“Because you refuse to remember,” he says coolly, his hand catching yours, fingers lacing tightly together. “Resonate.”

“What?” you sputter, trying to pull your hand free but to no avail. Sylus’ grip is tight, his other arm curling around your waist to keep you in place. 

“Please,” he breathes out, desperation bleeding into his voice. 

You stare at the man before you, taken aback. Sylus was never like this, never so… vulnerable. It feels almost wrong to see him like this, desperate and pleading, nothing like the ruthless leader of Onychinus who had forced you into that chair in the Odd Workshop.

“I– I can’t,” you say meekly, “it’s not that I don’t want to, there’s– there’s something stopping me. Philip said–”

“I thought we had spent enough time together for you to fix whatever you had against me,” Sylus says, his hand squeezing yours.

Your brows furrow, expression souring at his words. “So that’s why you wanted me here?” You scoff sharply, pulling your hand free from his roughly. “And here I thought you might actually enjoy my company. I thought you– fuck, I thought you cared about me.”

A yelp escapes you when Sylus stands suddenly, crowding in against you until the edge of his desk digs into your lower back, his hands landing on either side of you, on his desk.

“I do care about you,” he hisses, crimson eyes boring into yours, “I care more than you could possibly know.”

Sylus’ words only serve to make you angrier, cheeks flushing hot, an embarrassing lump beginning to swell in your throat. 

“You care about the Aether Core,” you snap, shoving at his chest, causing him to stumble back. “That’s all this has been about.” You wave your hands about wildly, chest rising and falling rapidly as you speak in an exaggerated imitation. “Oh, Miss Hunter, come stay in my ridiculously large home so I can trick you into resonating with me and seduce you along the way!”

“Enough!”

You flinch when Sylus snaps back at you, the sharpness of his voice making you want to squirm away and curl up in the library you had been in moments earlier – warm, cozy and calm.

“You asked me what you meant to me– look at me,” Sylus rasps, his hand shooting out to grab your chin, holding you in place when you avert your gaze. “You mean everything to me.”

The sheer bluntness with which he says it scares you the most. The detached facade that you’ve kept on for so long begins to crack under the weight of his words, body trembling as you process his answer.

“Ask me,” he murmurs roughly, stepping closer, his hand sliding to cup your cheek, “ask me why. Ask me and I shall tell you, sweetie.”

The pet name feels more like an insult this time, stubborn irritation beginning to fester inside you yet again.

“Fine,” you retort, back stiffening. “Why?”

“I am bound to you,” he whispers, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, “when I was on the brink of death, you– you bound my soul to yours. In every lifetime–” Sylus lets out a harsh breath, looking away. “In every lifetime, I am yours.”

There’s hardly any breath left in your lungs, fingers splaying across your throat in an attempt to soothe the still lingering lump there. Sylus isn’t lying, you know that much, as much as you would like to refute, to tell him that he had clearly lost his mind, you can see the unwavering truth in his eyes.

“Oh,” you manage out, letting a heavy, shuddering breath escape, “and– and you remember?”

“Certain memories,” Sylus murmurs, his hand falling from your face, “but you’re there. Always.”

He shifts away from you, shoulders sagging tiredly. You peer up at him, finding exhaustion etched across his face once more. There’s a strange sense of anxiety seizing you, fingers fidgeting absentmindedly as you watch him move away towards the window. There’s snow falling outside, just like when you had released the newly-healed dove and watched the fireworks together. You’d thought he’d kiss you that night.

“Do you love me?” you ask quietly.

“No,” his voice is just as quiet. “But I did, back then at least.”

His answer relieves you. You bite your lip nervously, stepping towards him until you stand beside him. Sylus turns to face you. The dim lighting makes his eyes appear brighter, and your eyes flutter shut when his fingers graze your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You want me to resonate with you so I’ll remember,” you surmise, leaning into the warmth of his palm.

“There’s a chance you won’t remember,” Sylus sighs, stepping closer, his other hand coming to cup your other cheek. 

“And there’s a chance that you’re lying to me,” you counter, peering up at him as he forces you to step back until your back hits the wall.

“You don’t trust me,” he muses, his head dipping low, nose nudging against yours.

“Trusting a man like you would be foolish,” you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut when his hand slips to the small of your back, causing you to press flush against him. “You’re dangerous,” you continue, head tilting when he squeezes your waist, “unpredictable, at times. Insane, even – who destroys an entire faction?”

“I do,” Sylus says, “yes, the Aether Core is valuable to me, but you–” his teeth graze over your jaw making you gasp, “you are far more valuable to me.”

“Isn’t– ah– isn’t that convenient?” you manage out, heat swirling in your stomach as his lips brush over your ear. “We happen to come together.”

He clicks his tongue. “Really, sweetie?” Sylus murmurs, his fingers moving to tilt your chin upwards. “How much longer are we going to play this game? I want to love you,” he rasps, nose dragging along your cheek, “I want to possess you, I want to devour you until you know nothing but me.”

“Which is exactly what the Aether Core wants–” you begin to protest, shrieking when Sylus is suddenly gathering you into his arms, carrying you out of his office. “Put– put me down, you brute!” 

An undignified yelp escapes you when he ignores you, instead moving through his home lazily, dumping you face first onto his bed. You glare, muttering a slew of curses under your breath as you slip awkwardly across the silk sheets when you try and sit up.

“I’ll have you know,” you spit, “I could have your little crime ring swarmed–”

Your breath catches in your throat when you see him removing his shirt, watching dazedly as he sits down in a chair, his thighs spreading invitingly. The air prickles across your skin when he props his elbow on the armrest, his head tilting languidly, the motion causing his bicep to flex.

Somehow, Sylus seemed bigger than before, your throat drying at the thought of him settling between your thighs, his weight dropping down onto you while he pounded– 

“If you want something, you need only ask, sweetie,” Sylus says, adjusting once more, thighs spreading a little wider. “Or perhaps… you ought to come here and simply take it.”

“No,” you grouse, crossing your arms over your chest, looking away. 

Your gaze snaps towards the doors when they click, his Evol having locked them. Unable to help yourself, you sneak a glance at him, heart fluttering when you see him smiling.

“Come here, sweetie.”

“No.”

“Let me take care of you, hm?” Sylus coaxes, his voice soft.

“You’re so– so desperate,” you shoot back, trying not to lose yourself in the fog of desire that was beginning to settle over your mind.

“Even the most stubborn kittens crave affection,” he counters, “hissing and spitting until they finally wear themselves out.”

You scoff sharply, eyes flitting around his room for some way to escape. At this rate, you wouldn’t make it back to Linkon in time – although part of you was more than happy to accept that.

“What exactly are you offering?” you ask, peering over at him, thighs squeezing together involuntarily at the sight of him.

“Myself,” Sylus says, his head tilting, “for however long you wish to have me. This is on your terms, sweetie.”

To prove himself trust-worthy, you realize, that’s what he was actually offering. You pretend to consider his words – as though you wouldn’t have said yes weeks ago – pursing your lips.

“And you won’t be hurt when I leave?” you prod further, raising your brows.

Sylus smirks knowingly, his voice a languid purr. “You won’t leave. After all, you’ve kept coming back every week.”

“Because you said I was in your debt–”

“I never held you to it, did I?” Sylus murmurs, leaning forward. “You come here at your own volition, sweetie.”

Shit. 

He had you there. Maybe the whole soulmate thing was starting to hold up, that would explain the itching feeling inside of you to be close to him. Either way, there was no denying you wanted this as much as he did.

“Fine,” you say quietly, “I’ll bite.”

You stand up, padding towards him slowly. His Evol sweeps around you, lifting you gently and placing you in his lap. Cheeks flushing, you squirm, hand landing on his warm, firm chest to steady yourself, swallowing at the sight of his pecs. 

Sylus stares down at you, his arms moving to wrap around your waist tightly. You blink up at him, heart lurching when he lowers his head once more, his nose nudging against yours affectionately.

“Are you scared?” he whispers, lips brushing across your cheek in a fleeting kiss.

“No,” you whisper, swallowing harshly, “yes. I– I don’t know.”

His fingers slide under your chin, thumb stroking across your jaw. When he kisses your cheek again, your eyes flutter shut, hands sliding over his warm skin to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Sylus asks softly, his lips lingering against your cheek.

You decide not to answer, leaning forward instead, heart thudding in your chest violently. It’s quick, your lips meeting his in a shy, chaste kiss before you pull back, peering up into his eyes.

“Another one,” he breathes out, “give me another one, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Hot desire rushes through you when he says that, a desperate eagerness to please flooding your senses, arms tightening around his neck.

You surge forward, inhibitions forgotten, lips pressing against Sylus’ purposefully. The groan that escapes from him has you whining, fingers slipping into his hair when he returns your kiss, lips working against yours hungrily.

It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before – all consuming and so violently right – the chair creaking as you shift on his lap, rising up onto your knees to kiss him deeper. Sylus squeezes at your waist, his hands slipping lower to caress the backs of your bare thighs, his mouth opening at the behest of your tongue.

You lick into his mouth, the motion a little clumsy, but Sylus doesn’t seem to mind, his head tipping back to let you take what you want. A hand settles on your back, pulling you back down, his kisses growing hungrier, taking and taking, until spit is leaking from the sides of your mouth.

Heavy pants leave you when you pull away, lips slick with spit and slightly swollen, eyes hazy. Sylus’ thumb is rubbing at the corner of your mouth, gently cleaning, brushing over your lower lip until he presses his thumb into your mouth. You whine, sucking and mewling, hands curling around his wrist to try and press his thumb in deeper.

“Is this what you wanted?” Sylus murmurs hoarsely, his eyes fluttering shut when you bite the tip of his thumb in a playful tease. “Is this what you were too afraid to ask for?”

“Y– yes,” you gasp out, hips beginning to rock across his lap needily.

A moan leaves you when he grinds his hips up into you, the friction of his trousers creating a pleasurable sensation between your thighs, through the fabric of your panties and sleep shorts. There’s a hand cradling the back of your head to guide you towards him, Sylus stealing your breath with another kiss.

“Yeah?” he rasps, smiling against your lips. “Needy fuckin’ baby, hm? Look at you, grinding all over my lap.”

“Shut– shut up!” you mewl, mouth opening against his as you breath heavily, dragging your hips across his lap before grinding down, biting down on his lower lip in retaliation. “You said this– ah– was on my terms,” you whimper, head tipping back when you feel his hips rising to match your movements, his hands holding you in place.

“Am I not giving you what you want, sweetness?” Sylus asks, hissing lowly when you scratch your nails down his chest.

“My terms means,” you lean forward, cupping his jaw to pull him closer, tongue flicking against his lips, “you shut up and do whatever I say.”

He stares down at you, crimson eyes bright with lust and admiration. “Then use me, sweetheart,” he offers, his own hand cupping your jaw, squishing your cheeks together until your lips pucker out, “make me yours.”

You hardly need any more encouragement. Shifting back, you take the time to stare at his chest and abdomen properly, biting your lip at the sight. Thick pecs, even thicker biceps, and muscled abdomen that was becoming increasingly difficult to tear your eyes away from.

“‘s not fair,” you mutter, staring at him, “I mean, seriously? You’re so big.”

Sylus smiles smugly, shifting back, jostling you in his lap. You reach out, unable to help yourself, squeezing his pec. A soft noise slips out of Sylus, your ears perking up at the sound, leaning closer.

“Did you like that?” you whisper, peering up into his half-lidded eyes.

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman grope me before, sweetie,” he breathes out in response, head tipping back when you squeeze his pec again.

“Grope?” you pout, dipping your head to press a kiss to his pec instead, teeth scraping against his skin. “You said I could use you.”

Sylus’ hips buck, a shaky gasp escaping him. You smile against his skin, mouth latching onto his pec stubbornly, sucking and laving your tongue over him until you lean back to find a mark blossoming onto his skin prettily.

“Satisfied?” he rasps, chest rising and falling, unable to keep his hips from rocking up against the friction of your clothed pussy rubbing against him.

“Not quite,” you murmur, leaning forward again, mouth latching on with renewed fervour.

It’s addictive, the way Sylus groans and whines when you bite into him gently, his hands clamping over your hips to keep you against him as he ruts his hips up into you. You moan when he squeezes your ass, arching your back to press more of yourself into his wandering hands, gasping against his throat when his fingers slide down, rubbing you through your sleep shorts.

“My needy baby,” he coos, voice just condescending enough to have you mewling against him, teeth nipping at his throat in retaliation. “I can feel how wet you are, sweetness. Panties must be ruined.”

When he tsks, you bite down harder, relishing in the whimper that leaves Sylus, only for a similar noise to leave you when his fingers press down hard against your swollen, aching clit.

“You’re– oh fuck– you’re so mean,” you whine, hips rocking back against his hand, panting when his hand moves to cup your wet pussy through the fabric, grinding the heel of his hand against you instead.

“How am I being mean if I’m giving you exactly what you need, baby?” Sylus murmurs, his head tilting down to kiss your cheek, trailing a line of kisses across the line of your jaw before he captures your lips once more in a searing kiss.

“Stop talking,” you grouse, eyes squeezing shut, forehead pressing against his shoulder as you grind back against his hand.

You yelp when his free hand comes down on your ass, jolting at the sensation before an embarrassingly loud moan slips out of you when he spanks you again. Sylus laughs, and you flush hot, hand squirming down between your bodies to press against his hardened cock that was currently straining against his trousers.

Big – like the rest of him.

Your fingers are working faster than your mind, managing to tug his trousers and boxers down just enough with the help of Sylus lifting his hips. Your hands curl around his cock greedily, a shaky breath leaving you when you feel how heavy and thick his cock is.

“‘s that big enough for you?” he whispers against your lips, teeth nipping at your swollen lower lip. “Thick enough?”

“You should really stop asking stupid questions, Sylus,” you pant into his mouth, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, feeling his pre-cum wet your skin.

“Fuck–” he swears under his breath, eyes fluttering shut when you begin to stroke his cock slowly, his fingers still working against your clothed pussy, rubbing at your clit.

“But your cock is really fat,” you whisper into his ear, biting down on his earlobe, smiling when his hips jerk up involuntarily. Your voice lowers, turning airy with the way he rubs at your dripping cunt, your hand working against his cock, fastening your pace. “Bet it’ll be all snug inside me.”

Sylus’ eyes snap open, his hand shooting out to grab your face when you try to hide in the crook of his neck, his eyes darkening.

“You’re filthy,” he hisses, “so fucking filthy, sweetheart, speaking about my cock like that.”

“You’re– nghhh– you’re the one that asked,” you protest, head tilting when he shifts to lean over you, his fingers prying your mouth open.

It’s embarrassing how quickly your tongue lolls out, lapping at his fingers, trying to suck them into your mouth. He doesn’t give them to you, no matter how much you whine and squirm and stroke his cock, instead letting his nose brush against yours, lips pursing together before he spits into your mouth.

You swallow almost immediately, eyes widening when you realize what he’d– no, what you’d done, mouth opening and closing as words fail you.

“You need this– need me,” he growls, lips pressing along the column of your neck in a barrage of heated kisses. “How long have I been neglecting you? I should’ve given you my cock, my fingers, my mouth to you months ago.”

“‘m not some sort of sex addict,” you whine pitifully, although your hand tightens around his cock, squeezing to watch thick globs of pre-cum bead at the tip, rolling over the sides of the head of his cock slowly, wetting your fingers. “You– you just make me feel this way.”

“Because we– shit– belong together,” Sylus whispers, his head falling forward to rest on your shoulder when you squeeze at the head of his cock again, his hips rolling to meet your strokes as your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock. “You will be mine, as I will be yours. Always.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the soft strands, hips circling down to press against his hand firmly. He lets you, breathing heavily against your shoulder as you twist your wrist, working your hand along the length of his cock purposefully. His head tips back for a moment and your mouth slots over his, eager and desperate, tongue pushing into his mouth.

Sylus groans and you work your other hand between you, cupping his heavy balls in your hand, massaging gently.

“Do you mean that?” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his cock until his hand curls over yours, beginning to guide your pace. “Always?”

“Yes,” Sylus murmurs hoarsely, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s– ah– it’s always been you.”

Violent affection unfurls in your chest, your body surging forward to kiss him again, movements feverish as you stroke him, faster and faster until Sylus’ hips are bucking uncontrollably, his hands curling into fists.

“Then I trust you,” you murmur, tongue lapping at his lips.

That’s all it takes. You squeak in surprise when his cock jerks in your hand, a loud, uneven groan leaving Sylus as he cums, thick, hot cum spilling over your fingers, smearing across his abdomen. You blink, eyes wide, watching as he trembles, his chest heaving with ragged pants.

Sylus’ eyes open a few moments later, his fingers tracing over your cheek shakily, lips pressing against yours gently. 

When he peers down at you – flushed and utterly gone – you can’t help but tease him. A devilish smile spreads across your face as you take your time to make a show of licking your fingers clean. The heady taste of his cum has you feeling emboldened. 

“Who’s the needy fuckin’ baby now?”

All you see is a blur of your surroundings, a shriek escaping you when he picks you up suddenly, tossing you onto his bed. You squirm, squeaking when he’s moving you onto your stomach, tugging your hips up, sleep shorts and panties pulled down roughly.

“Sylus–” you begin, “I didn’t mean to– ah!”

His face is buried between your thighs before you can finish. A loud squeal leaves you, face pressing into his pillows when he presses his face into your dripping pussy, tongue swirling through your puffy folds.

“You’ve had your fun,” Sylus murmurs, his thumbs pulling apart your folds, a broken groan leaving him when he sees the webs of slick clinging to your thighs and folds. “Pretty– pretty fuckin’ pussy, baby.”

You mewl, hips rocking back to meet his tongue, fisting the silk sheets in your hands, mouth opening wantonly against his pillows. You can hardly think straight, eyes drooping shut when he kisses your puffy folds, his fingers beginning to rub against your clit again.

“Does it ache?” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your clit, gently lapping at the swollen bud before kissing it again. “Hm? Does it ache, sweetness? Shall I kiss it better?”

“Y– yes!” you whimper out, trying to press your pussy back into his face, squirming and wiggling your hips desperately. “P– please, Sylus– want– want your mouth!”

“So soft,” he murmurs absentmindedly, fingers stroking over your wet pussy, rubbing your slick into you, a finger pressing inside of you for a moment before he withdraws it. 

“For the love of– oh fuck!”

You squeal again when he buries his face back into you, clawing at the sheets with broken, wanton noises, body jerking back when Sylus pulls you towards him, his nose pressing into you in the most delicious way. You’re seeing stars – maybe the entire universe – with the way his tongue is moving, swirling and flicking, his fingers joining the fray soon after.

A dazed gasp escapes you, drool seeping from your mouth, wetting his pillows. His fingers are thick, already beginning to stretch you out as he works one after the other, the two digits enough to have you feeling full.

“Good girl. My good girl,” Sylus whispers, his teeth scraping across your inner thighs in faux gentleness before he bites down hard enough to have you moaning again. “Take what I give you.”

You’re too busy drooling into the pillows to response, mind feeling like mush as he sinks his fingers into you repeatedly, his mouth placing measured, affectionate kisses to your clit every now and then. You can feel his smile against your dripping pussy, the curve of his lips making you smile hazily to yourself.

“Wanna– ngh– c–cum,” you mumble, pouting, “please? You said you’d– oh– take care of me, Sylus.”

He hums into your cunt, the vibration enough to have your toes curling. The loss of his fingers has you whining softly, until they press against your aching clit, rubbing against it in fast circles, whilst his tongue laps at your fluttering pussy.

It feels so awfully obscene, but this entire thing has left you strung so tight that you feel like you might combust if you don’t cum.

“I could keep you like this for days,” Sylus says, pressing a kiss to the fat of your ass, “on my fingers and tongue.” He sighs, drawing back until you feel him spit onto your cunt, the lewd sensation making your knees tremble. “You liked it,” he whispers, tongue sliding through your puffy folds, drinking down your slick, “in my memories… always begging for more of my cock.”

“Probably ‘cause it’s so big,” you slur, “like you.” You bite the pillow, face shoving deeper, voice muffled. “I like you.” 

“I know,” he soothes, a hand sliding over your thigh to squeeze gently, his lips drifting across your ass as you arch your back a little more, wanting to feel his mouth on you again. “I lo– like you too.”

A drunken giggle slips out of you, teeth sinking into your lower lip when Sylus’ tongue presses into your aching cunt. He fucks it in and out you, the fingers on your clit only adding to the mounting pleasure in your lower stomach, pussy clenching around his tongue.

“Oh fuck,” you begin to chant when his tongue laves over your pussy again, fingers replacing his tongue once more as he presses them in, curling them up against you. “Fuck– ah– nghh– fuck, fuck, fuck–”

“That’s it,” he breathes out, sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking against the swollen bud, “that’s it, sweetness. Be a good girl and cum for me.”

Sylus sucks harshly at your clit at the same time his fingers sink into you, hard and fast, the combined motions making you cry out, thighs shaking violently. Your knees give out under you, pussy fluttering and clenching around his fingers as you cum, hand shoving down between your thighs when his fingers don’t stop moving.

“Sylus,” you mewl, “‘s too much!”

“You can handle it, baby,” Sylus says, mouth latching onto your clit again, “doing so good for me.”

The praise curls around you, slow and syrupy, cheek squishing against the pillow as you twitch against his sheets, hips rolling back to meet his fingers and the kisses he peppers to your clit. 

Sylus gently turns you onto your back when he’s had his fill, your hazy eyes meeting his, gaze drifting to find the lower half of his face and lips shining with your slick. It makes your heart flutter, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down for a kiss, uncaring of the way you tasted yourself on his tongue.

He pulls away and you pout, letting him tug your shirt up over your head, along with your bra. His hair is soft as you slide your fingers into it, playing with the soft strands as he trails kisses down your chest, over your breasts.

Your back arches to meet his kisses, thighs squeezing together when Sylus lets his tongue swirl over an aerola, sucking your breast into his mouth before he switches to the other, teeth tugging at a nipple. A whimper leaves you when he bites down measuredly, the sensation sending a thrill down through your stomach, a dull ache beginning to flare again in your cunt.

A pout pulls at your lips when he pulls away, watching as he wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“Oh,” you whisper, thighs beginning to shut when you see his heavy, fat cock, hard once again and somehow more intimidating than earlier when you had stroked it in your hand. “That’s–” you shake your head, biting back a moan when his hand curls around his cock, beginning to stroke it lazily, “that’s not going to fit, Sylus.”

“No?” he murmurs, his hand grasping your ankle, sliding over your calf to gently pry your thighs apart again. “It happened to fit in my dreams, sweetness.”

You flush, trembling when his head dips, brushing a kiss to the scar streaking across the side of your leg. “You’ve had dreams about me?”

“I thought it was obvious,” he sighs, staring at your puffy pussy once more as though entranced.

His hand works along the length of his cock for a few more moments, your cunt clenching when he shifts over you, letting the thick globs of pre-cum drip onto your pussy and clit. You bite your lip, hazy eyes meeting his as you let your hand drift lower, rubbing his cum into your clit lazily.

Sylus’ throat bobs at the sight, his cock twitching in his hand. You tilt your head, hoping the motion is sultry enough, spreading your thighs a little wider. 

“I’ve had dreams about you too,” you whisper airily, fingers splaying against your pussy, spreading yourself open for him before you rub his pre-cum into you, letting your fingers press inside of your needy cunt briefly. You pout a little, lips puckering out as you play with your pussy, your other hand squeezing at your breast. “‘m so empty, Sylus.”

And Sylus unravels.

You yelp when he pulls your hand away, his mouth slotting over yours hungrily, stealing your breath. He pants into your mouth, ragged and uneven, and your hips buck when you feel the head of his cock press against your clit.

“Should I fill this little cunt up?” he murmurs, teeth scraping at your lower lip, letting his cock slip between your folds before he slaps it against your pussy. “Flood it with my cum? Claim you?”

“Nghh– yes,” you whine, dragging the word out, nails already beginning to scrape down his broad back.

Sylus slaps his cock against your pussy and you jerk, moaning as you feel the weight of it against you, heavy and hot. 

“Take it then, baby,” Sylus growls, his lips pressing against your cheek as he rocks his hips forward, notching the head of his cock against you. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock.”

Something between a gasp and a squeal leaves you, your back arching when he begins to sink his cock into you, already splitting you open. He hushes you, open-mouthed kisses pressed along your neck as he buries his face into the crook of it, body curling over yours while his cock sinks into you, inch by inch.

“Just a– fuck– just a little more,” he breathes out, rolling his hips, hands squeezing at your hips with desperation. “So fucking tight around me, sweetheart.”

You whimper, throwing your arm over your face, cunt fluttering around his cock uncontrollably in an attempt to accommodate his size. You feel so terribly full, the aching emptiness from earlier dissipating with every inch he gives you.

“Look,” he rasps, pulling back to stare at where he’s inside you, balls flush against your ass. “Look at how we fit.”

You crane your neck, blinking blearily, mewling when you see the slight bulge in your stomach moving when he draws his hips back, thrusting them forward lazily. 

“Oh,” you whisper, feeling utterly gone.

Sylus laughs, the sound hoarse and scratchy, his nose nudging against yours. “What was it you said, sweetness?” he kisses you, slow and deep. “Nice and… snug.”

“I really– oh– really hate you,” you whine out, although your legs are wrapping around his waist tightly, heels digging into his ass when he laughs again, the deep velvety sound only adding to the heat between your thighs, causing your cunt to clench.

“Yeah?” he hums, his hand sliding over your eyes, breath fanning across your lips. “You seem cockdrunk to me, baby. Squirming all over my cock like a little brat.”

You let out a noise of protest only for him to silence you, muffling your noises with a gentle kiss. It’s difficult to understand what’s happening for a moment, body seizing up in the darkness surrounding you until something in the air shifts.

A soft moan escapes you when you feel something light caress you – Sylus’ Evol – the streaks of mist somehow manifesting into something more tangible. It strokes across you fleetingly, over the curves of your sides, against your thighs, over your breasts.

“What– what are you doing?” you whimper, legs tightening around him as he drives his cock into you, the measured thrusts enough to have you seeing stars.

“Giving you everything,” he whispers, mouth drifting over your chest, teeth tugging at a nipple. “Feel this– feel me, sweetheart.”

And you do feel. It’s strange, the sensations that pour through you – pleasure, affection, and something much deeper that curls itself around your heart, as though trying to lodge itself into the beating muscle much like the protocore. 

“Sylus–” you gasp, clawing at his back, breath hitching when he drops his weight onto you, the heat of his body melting, swirling into yours.

“Feel me,” Sylus rasps, his hand finding yours, squeezing it tightly whilst his Evol washes over you. 

It does something to you, the combined motions of his cock thrusting into you, his hand in yours, body pressed tightly over yours. For a moment, something in your mind cracks open –  a flash of red, a field of crimson flowers in bloom, Sylus – before it disappears as quickly as it came. When his hand slips away, you peer up into his eyes searchingly. You know him, you realize, fingers slipping over his jaw and cheeks. You know him.

“Good girl,” Sylus whispers, seeing the look in your eyes, his hips beginning to pick up the pace as you cry out. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

Your head tips back and Sylus follows, his lips finding yours, the kiss messy and sloppy. His balls slap against your ass, the sounds so lewd that you’d be ridden with embarrassment if not for the fact that his hand was still in yours.

You reach out blindly, hand cupping his jaw to kiss him better, whining and mewling into his mouth, hips trying to roll back to meet his thrusts. There’s a muscled arm sliding under you, his hand curling over your hip as he hauls you against him, fucking his cock into you. It hits the very place you need, his fat cock burying itself so deep inside that Sylus is moaning into your mouth as he feels the bulge his cock forms in your stomach pressing against his.

“‘m gonna–” you whimper, back arching, “‘m gonna cum, Sylus!”

“Then– fuck– then cum for me,” Sylus snarls, the muscles in his back flexing as he shifts, hips snapping forward as he pounds his cock into you, thumb slipping to find your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles against it.

An embarrassingly loud moan leaves you, body seizing up as the coil in your lower stomach winds tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. Every part of you trembles, cunt fluttering and clenching uncontrollably around Sylus’ cock, your hands clawing and squeezing at whatever you can grab – the sheets, Sylus’ biceps – teeth sinking into his shoulder, body thrashing as the force of your orgasm slams into you.

“Shit,” he whispers raggedly, “baby– sweetheart–”

“Inside,” you slur, heels digging into him when he tries to pull out, “p– please, want you inside, Sylus.”

He groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck, hips jerking unevenly as he holds you flush against him. Sylus curses under his breath, and you can feel his cock throb, mewling when you feel hot, thick cum spill into you.

Sylus’s hips stutter, despite his body still moving lazily, stuffing his cock inside of you in the wake of his own orgasm, the coarse hair laying past his navel rubbing against you in a way that makes your pussy flutter tiredly. 

He slumps over you, hand stroking over your hair and you smile, trying to nuzzle against him. It has him letting out a soft laugh, his lips brushing over your cheek gently before he rolls off of you.

“I suppose I won’t be going back to Linkon after all,” you sigh, playing with his hair as he turns into you, laying soft kisses over your face, neck, shoulders.

“No, I suppose not,” he agrees.

His lips trail lower, your heart lurching when his fingers brush over the scar on the side of your stomach.

“You should know… I was scared that day,” Sylus confesses lowly, tracing the edges of the scar with his fingers. “I thought–” a shuddering breath escapes him, his brows furrowing as he shakes his head. “I didn’t– don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper, gently brushing his hair out of his eyes, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Emotion swells up inside of you when his lips press against the scar firmly, his lips lingering in a silent promise. Your lower lip trembles for a moment, eyes slipping shut when he kisses it again tenderly.

“I adore you,” he whispers across your skin, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

“Stop saying things like that. You make this sound real.” The lump in your throat makes you sound choked. 

There’s a smile pulling at his lips, his arms curling around you to pull you into his chest, his lips brushing across your forehead.

“This is real,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers finding yours, lacing together tightly. 

You squeeze his hand tightly, face pressing into his chest to hide the glassy look in your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. He stays quiet, thumb rubbing over the back of your hand.

“Do you promise?” you ask quietly, pressing closer, your head tilting to kiss his cheek.

“Yes,” Sylus says, his lips brushing over yours, tentatively at first and then deeper and deeper until you can feel the weight of his answer behind every motion of his lips.

Your arms wrap around his neck when he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His voice is much quieter when he speaks again, his arms tightening around you.

Pure, inexplicable rage has been flowing through your veins quite regularly this past week, and taming your ugly mood at every minor inconvenience has become a major challenge.

You push your scrambled egg around the scarcely touched plate in front of you, swallowing the watery saliva that keeps filling up your mouth to warn you of impending doom. This sickly feeling has been niggling away in your body since you begrudgingly woke up an hour ago, and it was only getting progressively worse.

As was your anger.

“Could you two chew with your mouths closed?” you carefully scold, trying not to sound like an ass. “You both sound like the inside of a washer-dryer.”

They both smirk at you, finding themselves particularly amusing. “Yes, mom,” they respond in unison.

You click your tongue, biting back a bitter retort. Usually, you’d bounce off of them, and the three of you would be getting on Sylus’s nerves instead, a task that requires a tonne of skill since he has more patience than most. You could do with a bit of his steely composure this morning.

He was sitting beside you, scarlet eyes scanning the newspaper through his thin glasses that were perfectly perched at the end of his nose. His silvery hair was mussed and in disarray, and his robe was open just enough at the lapels that you caught a nip-slip.

That morning look never fails to make you ravenous, no matter how many times you’ve willingly fallen victim to it, and it often led to a trip back to bed together for several more hours.

This morning, though, the smell of his coffee was overwhelming you, the heat from his body beside yours was making you feel feverish, and his hand on your thigh beneath the table felt like a lead weight pinning you to your seat, overstimulating you in the worst of ways. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold yourself together.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Luke and Kieran greedily wolf down the rest of their fried feasts, both gathering their plates and cutlery to take back to the kitchen so they can get ready to head out into the city to terrorise today’s rivals of Onychinus. Once they’re gone and you’re alone with the human embodiment of a hot water bottle, Sylus sets down his paper and closes the dining room door with a mere flick of his wrist.

“Something the matter?” he asks, already seeing it in your demeanour.

You don’t want to lie to him, and you know he would see straight through it anyway. “Honestly? I don’t know,” you mutter truthfully. “I just feel like I’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

He stares for a moment, studying you like he’s trying to read your body. “You look a little flushed,” he finally assesses, touching your clammy cheek with the backs of his fingers.

You shrug. “It’s probably nothing,” you brush off, taking a sip of your water and pushing away your full plate of food. “I might just go lie down for a bit.”

A week had passed since that morning, and you were truly starting to freak out now.

Every morning without fail, you were bringing your breakfast back up, hiding away in the most neglected bathroom in the property.

Your hips were housing a consistent ache, and there was a small panging feeling that kept happening in the lowest part of your abdomen that was noticeable enough to make you flinch a few times. It wasn’t painful, but it was hard to ignore when every other part of your body felt like it was morphing into something foreign. It’s like you’re becoming someone else.

At first, you were expecting your period to appear and kick you in the ass, putting the unusual symptoms down to a change in hormones. That was four days ago, and there has been zero sign of Mother Nature and her attack on your reproductive organs.

In the back of your mind, you knew. It was like a little voice locked away somewhere, trying to reason with you that the answer to this issue was clear as day.

The problem was, you didn’t want to listen to it.

You refused.

Dragging yourself off of the tiled floor for the third time this morning, you rinse out your mouth under the tap, your hands shaking on either side of the basin as you do. Physically, you feel rough. Mentally, you feel terrified.

You take several deep, steadying breaths before leaving the bathroom, taking the lengthy trek through the dark halls to get back to the bedroom you share with Sylus. You have all intentions of slipping back into bed and sleeping this morning’s vomit session off.

When you open the door, though, your plan is immediately out the window as you walk in on Sylus perched on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other. He has one hand splayed out on the mattress behind him, holding up his slightly reclined body so that he has a full view of you, and the other hand is holding out a small paper bag.

“For you,” he states.

You frown, not moving to take it. “Am I forgetting an anniversary or something?”

“Or something,” he drawls cryptically.

Hesitantly, you take the small bag from him, peering inside. You only catch a glimpse, but you don’t want to look any longer than a fraction of a second.

Sylus stands up from the bed, looking down at you expectantly. “I think you’re forgetting to tell me something, kitten,” he says quietly.

Thrusting the bag against his chest in a blind panic, you storm around the bed to put some space between yourself and the abundance of pregnancy tests now nestled in his hands again. “I am not pregnant.”

In this case, ignorance was the only bliss you could get, and you were happy to keep ignoring the very possible chance that a problem was growing in your womb.

Sylus turns to face you, a hand on his hip. “And you’re sure about this?”

“Very,” you bite back, not looking at him. You swing open the door to the walk-in wardrobe, tearing off your t-shirt that smells faintly of the breakfast you’ve been throwing up for the past thirty minutes. You’re unsure if Sylus caught the little gag that happened automatically, but if he did, he feigns ignorance.

“So you’ve already taken a test?” he asks, following you and leaning against the doorframe. He watches you change unashamedly, a glint of desire in his eyes even at the sight of you in mismatched underwear.

“I don’t need to,” you respond simply. “I’m not pregnant.”

You slip on one of your short, silk nightgowns, despite it being the middle of winter. An uncomfortable heat had been bubbling inside you for days, and too much clothing touching your skin made you want to peel the skin from your bones.

The fabric is clean, smelling sweetly of florals. It’s how you loved your clean laundry to smell.

Emphasis on the word loved.

The second the smell wafted into your nose and attacked your heightened senses, you were gagging again, quickly pulling the nightgown off and slipping past your boyfriend to get to the en-suite. Your knees thudded hard against the marbled floor as you heaved up the last scraps of your stomach contents.

In the midst of your violent gagging, you felt two large hands graze your clammy neck as Sylus gathered up your hair, holding it in one hand and rubbing your back with the other. He doesn’t say anything, his presence enough of a comfort in a moment like this.

When you finally sit back on the heels of your feet, you start to cry. Well, sob is a more accurate description. You know that this isn’t right, and you know that a pregnancy test is going to bring you a result you’re not feeling very prepared for.

Sylus used some tissue to wipe just under your chin, tossing it into the toilet and pulling the flush to discard of your regurgitated breakfast.

“Here,” he murmurs, sitting beside you and carefully pulling you onto his lap. He presses a feather light kiss to your damp forehead. “I’ve got you.”

He did have you. He’s always had you, there was no doubt in your mind about that. But would he have you heavy and round with pregnancy? Would he have you hormonal and unable to control your emotions? Would he have you screaming and sweating through labour?

You’ve always assumed that his domesticity only extended to you, Luke and Kieran—despite his refusal to admit to the latter two. He’s lead a dangerous, thrilling life thus far, one that a baby just wouldn’t fit into.

And if you are pregnant, you won’t fit into it, either.

“I’ve always had a knack for knowing what you’re thinking,” Sylus says quietly, cutting through your thoughts. “You think this would be a bad thing, right?”

You groan in frustration, pushing your face into the side of his neck. “It would be.”

He hums, lips resting against your messy hair. “How have you arrived at that conclusion?”

Rearing your head back, you frown at him like the grouchy ball of hormones you are. “Maybe because we live in the base of your organisation that’s in the sights of every violent crime ring in this damn city. Maybe because the N109 Zone has to be the worst place on earth to raise a child, and maybe I don’t want our child to become the target that you and I have been for so many years. Maybe because I’m already scared for it, and I don’t even know if it’s even in there yet.”

Sylus doesn’t blink at your rant, saying nothing until he knows you’re finished. There isn’t a hint of worry or stress in his eyes, and it brings you the same amount of comfort as it does irritation.

Doesn’t he think the same?

“What else?” he asks calmly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“That’s it,” you pout, making him chuckle softly.

“No it isn’t,” he presses. “What else, sweetie?”

The irritation soon turns to tears again, the flood of conflicting emotions making you feel crazy. If this is what pregnancy is going to be like, he’s surely going to grow tired of you.

His gentle fingers, the same ones that have pulled many strings and triggers in this city, continue the same motion of smoothing your unruly hair behind your ear. It’s grounding enough to push the whispered words from your trembling lips.

“I’m going to be a nightmare.”

Sylus still doesn’t react, as if he already knew exactly what you were going to say. He’s quiet for a moment, pulling you against him again so that your temple is rested against his collarbone.

“First of all, I love you. I love you happy. I love you angry. I love every version of you, and that’s not going to change,” he murmurs, looking down at you. “Understand?”

You nod, sniffing softly. Despite your insecurities, you’ve never doubted his love. He’s never let a day pass without expressing it.

“Secondly, we are not tied to this place. We are not tied to anything but each other.” He uses his thumb to wipe at your tears. “I will never let a soul come within a mile radius of you or our future family if they have even a passing thought of ill intention. I can guarantee you of that without any doubt. But if you want to get away from here, I could have this whole place packed up and a jet on standby before lunch. You say the word, and we go. Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

The tears keep falling, but he catches every one of them.

“And thirdly, you haven’t done a test yet. At this moment in time, this is all hypothetical.”

“I can’t do it,” you mumble pathetically.

Sylus chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “There’s no I in this. It’s you and me, no matter what. I’ve got you in this. Every part.”

You fiddle with the fabric of his T-shirt in a futile attempt to distract yourself, but a nerve wracking question won’t stop bouncing around your mind.

“What if it’s positive? Is this even something you want?” you whisper.

He curls his finger beneath your chin, tilting your face up to lock eyes with you. “I told you that I love every version of you. That includes a mini one, too. I couldn’t think of anything that would put me off of an extension of you and me.” He pauses a moment, swallowing noticeably as his eyes flicker between yours. “Would you trust me as a father?”

The sudden vulnerability in his quiet tone knocks every remaining ounce of doubt out of you. You frown at him. “Are you joking? I trust that you would keep a dust mite safe, warm and fed if I asked you to.”

Sylus snorts, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He stands up from the floor with you in one arm, retrieving the bag of tests from the bedroom before returning to sit you on the vanity in the en-suite. Pulling one of the boxes out of the bag, he reads through the instructions thoroughly. “Ready?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, expelling any last remnants of fear and uncertainty. “Ready.”

“See?” you say softly.

He does. But not the way you mean.

For a moment, the world narrows to the pulse in his wrist, the shape of your fingers pressed against his, the light in your eyes. Luke and Kieran are laughing somewhere behind you, Mephisto’s faint caw echoing from his perch, but Sylus barely registers any of it.

All he sees is you — your face framed by the string lights overhead, the faint shimmer of reflected stars caught in your gaze. You’re radiant. Alive. And when you laugh again, he feels something inside him stutter, his heartbeat falling perfectly in time with your joy.

He thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

And he wonders, fleetingly, if you have any idea how much of his heart you already hold between your hands.

“C’mon, bossman!” Luke’s voice cuts through the quiet laughter, rough and teasing. “Look at the camera! Smile!”

Sylus exhales, rolling his eyes heavenward. Of course. He should’ve known they wouldn’t let the moment pass unmocked. “You two—” he starts, half ready to give them a piece of his mind, but the words dissolve before he can finish.

Because you’re suddenly right there beside him, close enough that the air shifts between you. Your cheek brushes against his, soft and impossibly warm, and he can feel your smile in the way your skin curves against his. The touch steals whatever irritation he had left, grounding him in something quiet, tender, and far too human.

He relents, glancing toward Luke’s phone, and the faintest smile tugs at his lips — reluctant, but real.

“Are you two filming?” you ask, half amused, half incredulous.

Kieran’s laugh echoes from behind the lens. “We can’t pass up this opportunity! Nobody’ll believe our boss is a lovestruck fool without proof!”

You laugh — a sound that wraps around him like sunlight, leaving him utterly defenseless. When you pull back, even just an inch, the loss hits him like a cold wind. He hadn’t realized how much warmth he’d borrowed from that small contact until it’s gone. His chest tightens, something instinctive and sharp whispering come back.

But before he can reach for you, you’re grinning up at him, eyes bright. “We better make this good blackmail then,” you say lightly.

And then — you kiss him.

First on the cheek, a fleeting, playful thing that sends a pulse straight to his heart. He turns to you, startled, and that’s when your lips find his.

The world stops.

It’s like every nerve in his body goes still, overwhelmed by the single, perfect point of contact where your lips meet his. The background fades — Luke’s laughter, Kieran’s triumphant shout, even Mephisto’s distant caw — all of it disappears beneath the rush of blood in his ears and the taste of you lingering against him.

You pull away before he can think to chase it, eyes shining in the twinkling light, laughter still dancing on your lips. Sylus just stares for a moment, caught between disbelief and something far deeper — that dangerous, consuming warmth that coils in his chest and refuses to let go.

Because that’s what you do to him. You make him feel alive — in ways he’s long forgotten how to be.

And as he watches you laugh, still radiant beneath the lights, he realizes with a quiet, terrifying certainty that if this warmth ever left him… he’d never find his way back to himself again.

The laughter lingers between you — his, yours, Luke’s muffled cackling somewhere in the distance — but it all blurs into something softer, muted. The world feels suspended, as if even the night itself is holding its breath.

Sylus leans in before he can think better of it, the movement instinctive, drawn by gravity. His lips brush the curve of your neck, and his voice drops low, meant only for you.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

The words vibrate against your skin, raw and unguarded. He feels you go still — just a flicker, a heartbeat of surprise — and he can’t blame you. He doesn’t say it often. He’s never been good at softness, at voicing what lives in his chest. But now, with your warmth pressed against him and laughter still echoing faintly in his ears, he wishes he’d said it more. Said it when he had the chance.

You pull back just enough to look at him. The lights above catch in your eyes, tiny galaxies spinning in their depths, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

“I love you too, Sylus,” you whisper.

The words are barely there — fragile, soft as breath — but they land squarely in his heart. He closes his eyes, letting the sound imprint itself on his memory, the shape of it, the warmth. He tells himself he’ll never forget the way you said it. How you always said it, so easily, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

But now—

Now, when he opens his eyes, it isn’t you standing before him. It’s the low, sterile glow of a screen, its cold light painting hollow shadows across his study. 

Your laughter spills from the speakers — too bright, too alive — and it cuts through the silence like a ghost of sunlight. His hand trembles against the edge of the table. The video loops: your hands fixing his, your kiss captured forever in the glow.

He watches it in silence. He can almost believe you’re still here, sitting across from him, waiting for him to turn and smile. But when he looks up, there’s nothing. Just the still air. The quiet. The ache.

The air around him feels dead — like whatever warmth you carried with you left this place hollow in your absence. Every sound, every breath feels too loud against the emptiness. You used to fill this house with your moods: laughter and irritation and gentle teasing that never failed to make the corners of his mouth twitch. Now there’s only the void you left behind, a silence so heavy it suffocates.

It’s worse tonight.

Your anniversary.

You should’ve been here, celebrating another year together — celebrating the time he fought so hard for. The time he thought you two had. He’d believed in it, foolishly, with everything he had. Believed that after everything, you two had finally outwitted fate.

Sylus lets out a broken breath, shaking his head. He feels like a fool — to think he could reconstruct destiny with his own two hands. To think he could bury his heart in your arms and keep it safe this time. He truly believed it would be different. That you would grow old together. That the both of you would finally find peace, watching the days slip by in the quiet beauty of an untroubled life.

Instead, here he sits, surrounded by ghosts and silence, watching a memory that refuses to fade.

He stands, almost absently, and crosses the room. The old record waits in the corner — the one you’d given him on your first anniversary. He traces the edge of the vinyl, thumb brushing over the faded handwriting you’d scrawled on the sleeve. Then he sets it spinning.

The first notes bloom through the air, warm and crackling. The melody fills the silence, and for a moment, he lets himself drift. He closes his eyes and imagines you there — humming under your breath, laughter spilling softly against his chest as you danced that night, the record spinning slow and lazy in the background.

He can almost feel it: your warmth pressed to him, the ghost of your heartbeat bleeding into his ribs, the faint tickle of your breath against his throat. Then, softly — a kiss. A phantom brush across his forehead, light as air. He doesn’t know if it’s his sanity fraying or if it’s you — the other half of his soul — still lingering, still trying to comfort what's left of him.

The tears come freely now, unrestrained, slipping down his face and catching the light of the monitor. He doesn’t bother to wipe them away. They fall in rhythm with the song, with the sound of your laughter echoing faintly through his mind.

When the record reaches its final note, the silence returns — thick, all-encompassing. Sylus swallows hard, his throat tight, and whispers into the stillness:

“I love you.”

The words tremble in the air, small and desperate, carried on the hum of the fading record. He hopes — with everything that’s left of him — that somehow, they still reach you. Wherever you are now.

“You look good, by the way. The whole uh—whore thing is working for you.” He said, letting out a melodic laugh while he poured himself a drink of whatever cheap liquor was in the closest bottle.

“What are you supposed to be anyway?” It’s hard to mistake a Snow White costume for anything else—he knew who you were. Even if the bottom of your ass was hanging out of the skirt and your tits looked like they were one dance move away from falling out of the cheap velour top, a slutty Snow White costume is very clearly a slutty Snow White costume. He just wanted to see the annoyed look that was now staining your face. You rolled your eyes at the question before moving your cup closer to the mouth of the bottle, motioning for him to top off your drink.

“You said I’m dressed as a whore, didn’t you? I decided to be your mother for Halloween.” He hissed out at the reply, feigning shock.

“Wow… liquor makes you mean. You’re so much sweeter when you’re high, huh, baby.” He wasn’t even trying to be quiet, and if it weren’t for the fact that everyone else was too busy playing a game of beer pong in the next room, which your boyfriend was currently enjoying, someone certainly would’ve heard him on their way past the kitchen. You choked on your drink.

“Are you insane?” Your response only made him laugh even harder.

“What did I say wrong? I thought you liked it when I talked to you like that—you certainly did the other night when you were cumming all over me in the backseat of my car. What was it that you said again? Hm…” He took a second, pretending to rack his brain for the next line. “Oh yeah, it was something to the effect of uhh ‘please daddy, let me cum.’ Uhh, you said something else too—'you’re fucking me so good, daddy. Please cum inside of me, I need your babies.’ You’re such a tough girl until I start playing with that pussy, huh? Then you’ll do or say just about anything I tell you to.” He recalled the series of events so casually, as if he were talking about the weather.

“Didn’t I tell you that we— no, that this is over.” Your fingers gestured between the two of you.

“Yeah, I think I do remember you saying that. I guess I got kind of confused, because right after that, you begged me to spit in your mouth. And then, right after that, you sucked my dick so fucking sloppy and then you said ‘please daddy—’” You cut him off before he could finish, sensing another sequence of mocking was on the way.

“I told you that I’m not doing this anymore. The sneaking around is just too much for—” Now you were the one getting cut off. Not by Caleb, though, no, instead the sound of a lilted voice floated through the room, causing you to take a larger-than-normal step away from the man.

“Oh my god, baby! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” It was a dark-haired girl in a cheap little red riding hood costume who had clearly enjoyed a few too many Jell-O shots, but still, you weren’t quite sure who she was calling baby. That is, until she closed in on Caleb, their bodies now impossibly close as she craned her neck up, inviting a kiss. A sudden surge of rage boiled inside of you when he obliged, his veiny arm slithering around her waist, his tongue making its way past her lips. They were making out as if no one else was in the room. In fact, you would’ve thought you had become invisible if it wasn’t for Caleb’s eyes locking onto yours over her shoulder. He was watching you, searching for some sort of reaction, and the more irritated you looked, the longer they kissed. In fact, if it hadn’t been for someone calling for the girl to come play the next round of beer pong, you were almost positive they would’ve fucked in front of you. Finally, their mouths parted, a filthy string of saliva connecting them before the girl skipped away, leaving the two of you alone once again. You took the rest of your drink to the head as Caleb continued studying you, a shit-eating grin painted across his face, his hair ruffled from her fingers running through it, the print of his dick evident in those sweatpants.

You poured another drink—brown liquor and some soda.

“Sorry, we got interrupted. You were saying something earlier, right?” he asked. It was as if the earlier performance had never taken place.

“Mmh, well yeah. You got a little busy there for a second, I guess. A new addition to your brothel?”

“Jealous?” You immediately scrunched your face in response.

“I’m just asking because it would be crazy for you to be jealous, you know, considering uhhh—the whole you cheating on your boyfriend with me thing, right?” You nodded in agreement, but Caleb noticed the way your nostrils flared when he said it.

“There’s really nothing to be jealous of, though, is there? I would have to actually like you to get jealous, Caleb, and if I haven’t made it clear by now, I don’t like you. You’re a good fuck, but that’s about it.”

“Oh wow, just ‘good?’” You nodded again, stomach now in knots, either from the recent production that had just taken place or from the cheap alcohol on an empty stomach.

“Really? So, you don’t think about me when you’re with your boyfriend, right? Like when he’s inside of you, you’re not closing your eyes to imagine it’s me. I mean, I guess it would be hard to—after all, you always seem to mention how I’m so much bigger than he is.”

"I've never said that." You rolled your eyes as you replied.

"No? I could've swore you said, 'Oh my god, daddy, you're stretching me out so good.' Then I said, 'Does your boyfriend fuck you this good, baby?' And then you said... damn, I don't wanna mince words. I think it was, 'No one fucks me better than you, your dick is so big you're so much bigger. I can barely take it.' Blah blah blah. That was just the last time, by the way. Should I recount a few others? Hmm let me see, there was that one time where you--" You had to cut off the monologue that was about to ensue.

“Caleb, I don’t think about you, ever. I’m glad you’ve found someone—really, she’s quite classy.” He leaned back against the countertop as he surveyed your body language once more. You were far from convincing. You were jealous, and it was obvious and illogical, but it was true, nonetheless.

“I think about you, y’know.” The smirk was gone, replaced by an expression that you hadn’t really seen before, almost like he meant it.

“When I’m with other girls, I mean—I think about you. The way your eyes roll back into your head when I slide my fingers inside of you, or the way you whine when I slow down to make you beg me. I think about the way you feel, how your mouth is always so warm and so—so fucking wet when you suck my dick. It keeps me up at night sometimes.” A wave of silence fell over the two of you, your eyes searching his now. He’d never said anything like that before. In fact, unless he was looking for something filthy to say in bed, he never brought up your boyfriend or any of the members of his personal harem at all. At first, it was just sex, but then it turned into staying for another round, or do you wanna order something to eat? Before you knew it, the two of you would fall asleep in each other’s beds. It was complicated, to say the least.

“Right. Well, what about your little girlfriend?”

“What about her? She’s something to do when you decide every two weeks that you’re gonna turn your life around and play the good, dutiful girlfriend. We’re on and off—” His fingers motioned between your bodies. “When me and her are on, it’s only because me and you are off.” Brutal honesty has always been a quality of Caleb's.

“That’s fucking awful, Caleb. Really, I mean, you can’t just keep stringing these girls along if—”

“Are you seriously giving me a fucking lecture right now, like you’re some saint?" He laughed through the words. "You’re the one who's been smiling in your boyfriend’s face for the last year as if every other night you haven’t been fucking me, so don’t tell me about right and wrong, alright? If I’m so awful, then what does that make you?” It was true. You were no better than Caleb was at the end of the day, and that thought was beyond unsettling. You wanted to say something back, give a witty rebuttal, but the words were caught in your throat. He had never thrown it back in your face like this before, and an overwhelming wave of emotions came over you once he did.

He knew he had gone a little too far when you didn’t even bother to argue with him, but those words had been building in his chest for months now, and before he knew it, they’d slipped out.  You tossed your cup into the trash can and walked in the opposite direction. You couldn’t even hear the sound of your heels clicking against the wooden floors as you paced down the hallway, desperately searching for whatever bedroom the host of this party had used as the designated coat closet for the evening.

Just as you thought you had spotted a familiar door, though, you felt a warm hand grip your wrist, pulling you into another room, shutting the door before flipping on the light switch. It was the same tall figure, Ghostface mask back on. Your heart was beating out of your chest as he cornered you until your back was against the door, his body glued to yours. His knee was between your thighs as he leaned down to meet your ear.

“Don’t—please, don’t walk away from me again.” It was a plea, his voice clear through the plastic mask which he’d only bothered putting back on, so none of his whores knew it was him going down the same hallway as you.

“Caleb, I’m serious. I can’t do this with you anymore. This is wrong. I can’t keep—”

“I know, but just… just let me touch you one last time, then, yeah? Let me make you feel good one more time before you go.” It was horrible, really, the way you were squirming against him as his hand slowly slid under the bottom of your skirt. There was nowhere to hide; the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom quickly cut through the little buzz that you had.

“You can tell me to stop, and I will.” He always said that. In fact, it seemed like the one time he wasn’t joking around was whenever he said that.

“I know,” you whispered. His index finger halted just against the hem of your panties, right where your thigh meets your hip.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” He could feel you tremble beneath his touch, little gasps leaving your lips as his fingers danced along your skin.

“Please. Please touch me.” He hummed with approval.

“‘Please touch me,’ who?” He wasn’t being smug now or doing it to tease you; he just needed to hear it one last time.

“Please, Caleb, touch me.” He did.

“Oh my god. You’re so fucking wet for me, huh? When did that happen, princess?” This was a new nickname, probably liquor-induced, or maybe your costume inspired the creativity.

“I— I don’t know.” That was a lie. He took his time sliding his finger along your slit, your wetness making it hard for him to concentrate.

“No? You sure it wasn’t when you saw me kissing her? When I was looking at you while I grabbed her, when I was—shit—thinking about your fucking body when I touched her.” All you could do was whine, terrified that any sounds above a certain decibel would be heard through the door.

“You gonna let me taste you, pretty girl, hm? Can I taste what a big fucking mess you’ve been making for me all night?” You nodded fervently, desperately hoping that he would follow through with the offer, but he didn’t. Instead, he placed his free hand against the hollow of your neck, your throat so little in his grasp that he could almost wrap his fingers all the way around you.

“Speak,” he commanded as his middle finger slid past your entrance without warning. You bit your lip to hold back the nasty moan that was almost released.

“I wanna feel your mouth, please.”

“Aw, look at you, using your manners. There she is—my perfect girl. You gonna be good for daddy?” His fingers were so deep, curling just right inside of you, his entire palm rubbing against your clit with every thrust.

“Yes, daddy. I promise, just please—go faster.” You heard a light chuckle escape the mask at your request.

“Faster? What, like this?” He sped up, so good and so deep, just how you liked it. He had learned your body so well, learned exactly what gets you off, and if it was up to him, he’d make you cum over and over again just to hear the pretty noises you’d make.

“Oh wow, princess. You’re getting so fucking tight around my fingers—you gonna cum already?” A string of desperate pleas left your lips.

“Yeah? Yeah, are you sure you wanna cum? You think you deserve it, baby?” He was whispering so sweetly in your ear. You were so close—painfully close, and Caleb knew it. Two more seconds and you were about to cum—so he pulled his hand away. Just before he could whine in protest, his grip on your neck tightened, his other palm slamming back down against your clit simultaneously.

“Ow, what the fuck is your problem?” It was louder than you’d intended, but the sudden switch caught you by surprise.

“You didn’t actually think I was gonna let you cum, did you?” He was genuinely amused; a laugh, almost hysterical, erupted from his chest. It wasn’t until right now that you realized, this wasn’t a goodbye fuck, no, this was a revenge fuck. He had you pinned against the door, and no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to unwrap your leg from his body, giving him perfect access to your cunt. So, he smacked it again. You shut your eyes together at the sensation.

“Why would you think that I would give you a gift, when you’ve been so mean to me?” he asked. He wasn’t being sarcastic either; this was a genuine question.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” His palm came down against your clit once again.

“See, wow—there’s that filthy mouth I’m so used to. Y’know, you always say how bad you feel for doing this to your boyfriend—how it keeps you up at night because you just feel so terrible, but do you ever think about what you’ve done to me?” he asked. Now you were really confused.

“It makes me sick to think about him touching you—touching what belongs to me,” he continued.

“You don’t own me, Caleb.”

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure this—" he said, hand cupping your pussy entirely, the pressure on your clit forcing you to push against him. “This fucking pussy is mine. It seems like she’s who controls this body, huh? Not your brain.”

“See—you’re fucking humping my hand all on your own. I’m not even doing anything anymore. Is that something that someone who isn’t controlled by their pussy would do?” It was true. You weren’t trying to, but it was like you were drawn to his touch, the two of you clinging together like magnets as you desperately tried to get some sort of relief.

“Whose pussy is this?” He tightened his grip on your throat a little more, jerking your head to force your gaze back on him. The whole thing was so fucked up—you writhing against him, his hand under your skirt, and he still hadn’t even bothered to take the mask off.

“Fucking answer me or I’m gonna make you get caught.” Before you could even ask what he meant by that, his hand came down on your cunt harder than before, forcing you to let out a scream. You reached up to cover your mouth, but he stopped you in your tracks. “Don’t move your fucking hands or I’ll slap your clit harder. Tell me who owns this little hole, huh?” He noticed your hands freeze in submission as he rolled his thumb around your clit, gently soothing the ache.

“You do—shit. It’s your pussy,” you whimpered in defeat.

“Yeah? What about these, huh?” He let your throat go before roughly reaching into the top of your costume, his hand pulling one of your tits out. He rolled your nipple between his thumb and middle fingers, not shy about pinching it at all.

“These mine too? Last time we—fuck—“ he slid a finger back inside your cunt. “Last time we fucked, you said you wanted my babies. It made me so hard. Thinking about these pretty fucking tits getting so full if you were pregnant, y’know. After you went home that night, I jerked off thinking about it. I just know, you’d look so cute… pregnant with my babies—tits full of milk. Would you let me taste it, princess?” You couldn’t even think clearly anymore. The feeling of the pad of his finger rubbing against your g-spot made your mouth hang open—Caleb thought it was cute how pathetic you looked.

“Yes, yes, I would. I would let you because they’re yours—your tits, please don’t stop.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t know if I believe you, baby. You think you can convince me?” He slid his finger back out, rubbing his entire palm against your clit, reveling in the way you had to try so hard to stay quiet.

“Get on your knees.” Before you knew it, he took his hand out of your panties, leaving nothing but the wet fabric to rub against you. One by one, he watched as the soft skin of your knees touched the cool tile beneath you, your eyes wide and watery, thighs pressing together in agony.

“Kiss my dick.” You reached for the waistband of his pants before he grabbed both of your wrists in his hand, forcing them above your head against the door.

“Did I tell you to take it out or did I tell you to kiss it?”

“You said to kiss it.”

“Right—what a smart girl for daddy. So go ahead and kiss it.” He took a step closer to you, your knees between his legs, his clothed cock so close to your lips. You placed a soft kiss against the fabric.

“Mmh, good job, baby. Now lick it for me.” You whined at the request.

“Please just…” The words were caught in your throat.

“Just what, baby, huh? Tell daddy what you want.”

“Please just take it out. I want to taste you so bad.” He couldn’t help but stifle a moan at the familiar sight, you beneath him, begging to suck his dick.

“But you don’t deserve it, baby. If you’re not mine, then I’m not yours either.” He took another step forward, forcing your head against the door completely now. “This is how I treat my toys, huh? The girls that you always bitch about seeing me with—this is how I fuck them. This is what it feels like to not belong to me. It’s what you wanted, so fucking lick my dick through my pants.” You did, sticking your tongue out flat against him, leaving a wet trail behind. You could tell he was forcing himself to be quiet, but all you wanted was to hear him moan.

“Again. Make out with it, baby, come on. Maybe I’ll use your throat if you do a good job for me.” You left kisses and spit all over every inch of his clothed crotch as he kept you pinned against the door.

“Does it not feel good? You’re so quiet,” you whispered between kisses. He took his free hand to reach down and grab your face, forcing your gaze on him.

“It does feel good, baby. But I have to be quiet because I’m punishing you. I know it makes your cunt so fucking sloppy when I moan for you, right? So that’s why I’m not doing it.” He freed your wrists, kneeling in front of you on the tile, his other hand still on your cheeks.

“Turn around.” It wasn’t much of a request, really, so you did. By now, both of your tits were hanging out of the dress, your panties barely concealing anything after being pulled to the side before. You felt his hand slip beneath your skirt again before he straightened out the fabric, covering your pussy fully now. Before you could fully comprehend how odd this was, you felt something warm between your thighs. It slipped in and out, brushing ever so lightly against your clit—it was unmistakably his cock.

“You didn’t think—mmh—" he took a beat to continue, forcing himself to swallow his moans. “You didn’t think I was going to fuck you, did you?” His hands made their way to your hips, gripping them so tightly that it stung.

“Bend over for me, princess. Elbows on the ground.” You wanted to protest, but he tightened his grip on your hips when he felt you hesitate, so you did as he asked. Your ass was in the air; a smooth arch left in your back as you got on all fours.

“Now see—this is just fucking pathetic, really. I mean, do you want me to play with you that bad, baby?” He wasn’t going to move until you agreed, and you both knew it.

“Please… use me.” The shit that was coming out of your mouth would’ve been shocking if you’d said it to your boyfriend, but Caleb knew that getting you like this was inevitable. He wasted no time, sliding himself against the fabric of your panties again, his balls rubbing against your tulle skirt as he grinded into you.

“Repeat after me, pretty girl. Say ‘thank you, daddy.’” You spat it back out verbatim. He pushed one of his hands against your spine, forcing you down even further.

“Say ‘I’m sorry for being such a slut.’” You did.

“Say ‘I don’t deserve to feel daddy inside of me.’” Wait, what? Was he actually still not going to fuck you? He reached forward to grab your face once again, pushing your cheeks together in his grip.

“Fucking say it,” he demanded, almost growling.

“Caleb… please. I need—"

“I don’t really give a fuck what you need, if I’m honest, baby. Toys don't have needs, right? This isn't about you, right now. You just wanna fuck me, well this is what it's like when you fuck me instead of me fucking you. Make sense?” His fingers slid past your lips, forcing themselves towards the back of your throat as he kept grinding into you like he was fucking a pillow. You gagged against his hand, drool sliding down his wrist.

“You make a mess, you’re gonna be the one cleaning it up, princess.” You were, indeed, making a mess; a pool of spit had now formed beneath you.

“Fuck, this cunt is so warm, even through your little panties, baby, I can still feel how messy you are for me. You wanna feel daddy cum on your pussy, huh?” You were basically panting now, your hand limply wrapped around Caleb’s wrist. You tried to speak against his fingers, but it was useless.

“Huh? What’s that, sweet girl? You do want me to cum all over these pretty fucking panties? Are you sure? I mean, if I cum now, then I’m not sure I’ll have the energy to fuck you later.” You tried to protest, but you were so muffled that the words were indistinguishable.

“Fuck, okay, baby. Whatever you want. Come on, princess, rub yourself on daddy so he can cum for you. Come on, pretty girl, do a good job for me.” You couldn’t even stop your hips from moving if you wanted to, desperately hoping that if you grinded fast enough, you’d be able to cum too… but it was no use. Just before you were getting to the edge again, he stopped. You knew he was close too, but he was so determined to torture you that he refused to rub against you one second more if it meant you would cum when he didn’t want you to. You were crying at this point, tears staining your face as the frustration finally caught up to you.

“Aw, what? What is it, baby? Did you think I wouldn’t notice you were trying to cum too?” You didn’t even bother to respond at this point.

“I could tell. You were pushing these pretty hips against me so fast, humping me like a little bunny. Really, you’re not so stupid that you thought I couldn’t tell what you were doing, are you?” He slid his fingers out of your mouth, forcing even more of your spit to drip onto the tile. He heard you sniffling over the soft sound of the music blasting in the other room.

“Are you crying, princess? Oh, my sweet girl. Daddy didn’t mean to make you cry. Shhhh… It’s okay, baby. I got you, yeah?” He wrapped his arm around your waist now, leaning you back so you were flat against his chest. You could feel his heart beating erratically against you, his dick flush against your lower back.

“Let me make it up to you, huh? Can you be a big girl and do one more thing for me? I’ll let you cum after, okay? Pinky swear.” He reached for your hand as you shook in his arms, wrapping his little finger around yours. You nodded weakly in agreement.

“Alright, princess.” He slid his fingers across your face, a trail of your own spit coating your skin before reaching around to the back of your head. He grabbed a fistful of your hair as he leaned into the crook of your neck to whisper.

“You see all the drool you got on the floor, baby?” He took his free hand to pull off the mask, and finally, you felt the skin of his cheek against your shoulder. He leaned over you and stuck his tongue out above the floor, forcing a trail of his own saliva to coat the already slick ground. “Lick it up.” You had never seen this side of Caleb before; this almost sadistic energy that he had was foreign. You were waiting for him to laugh or say a punchline because, clearly, he couldn’t have been serious.

“Caleb—that’s so embarrassing.” It was beyond embarrassing. It was actually just gross.

“You’ve been embarrassing yourself all night, though, baby. When you stuffed your face against my cock trying to lick me through my pants—that was embarrassing. Or how about just now when you were calling me daddy and begging me to use you—also embarrassing. What’s one more time?” His logic was ridiculous. He placed a soft kiss on your neck just below your ear. It was the first time you had felt his lips against you all night, and it made you squirm under his touch.

“Show me you can be good one more time and I’ll let you cum in my mouth, yeah?” Probably under any other circumstance, this would not have been enough to sway you, but being edged over and over and over again had made your brain fuzzy, and the only thing you wanted at this point was to cum.

So, you sat up on your knees, Caleb’s hand still against your scalp as he guided your face towards the floor.

“That’s it, baby.” You closed your eyes, the thought of licking saliva off of someone else’s bathroom floor making your stomach turn. Either way, it wasn’t long before your tongue was against the cool tile, lapping up a pool of yours and Caleb’s drool.

“Aw, you’re so fucking nasty for me, huh, princess. Look at you following directions so well. That's it. Eat up all of daddy's spit. Just a little more—you missed a spot.” He guided your head a little to the right, watching as your tongue danced along the tile before he was finally satisfied.

“That’s my girl. You did such a good job for me. You ready for your treat now, princess?” You nodded like an excited puppy.

“Okay, turn around for me, hm. Let me see your pretty face.” You faced him now. Finally seeing his gaze again, skin flushed, pupils dilated, his hair was a mess, but he still looked so fucking good.

“Aw, baby. I’m sorry I had to be mean to you, yeah? No more tears, okay? Lie on your back for me. Let daddy kiss it better.” You wasted no time pressing your back against the wet tile. He laughed at your urgency.

“You need it that bad, princess? Spread your legs for me, let daddy see you,” He grabbed one of your thighs, draping it over his shoulder as his fingers slid your panties to the side once more.

“Baby, she’s so swollen, aw. I’m so sorry. Daddy’s pussy must hurt real bad, huh?” You whined in response as he brought his lips closer to you.

“Yeah? Let me get a better look at the damage.” He spread your lips apart with his thumbs, exposing your hole to him, which had been clenching around nothing for god knows how long at this point.

“Damn, baby. I bet if I just kiss this clit a little, you’d cum so quick, huh?” He did. His lips pressed the softest kiss on your clit before licking one long trail up your slit.

“You taste so needy for me, princess. You need daddy to let you cum, huh? Should I make this pussy cum in my mouth?” A string of praise left your lips, begging him to lick you just a few more times.

“What if I suck on your clit a little bit? You think you can cum like that, baby?” He laughed at the way you whined beneath him, your thighs shaking against his grasp. You felt him spit onto your cunt before licking it back up again.

“You wanna cum for me, sweet girl, hm? Repeat after me again,” He was muffled as he spoke against you, the vibrations from his mouth only bringing you closer.

“Say ‘thank you, daddy for licking my pussy even though I’m an ungrateful brat.’” You didn’t even care anymore. You said it.

“Mhm, now say ‘I promise I won’t be jealous of other girls anymore because daddy doesn’t treat any of them as good as he treats me.’”

“Say ‘daddy eats my pussy so much better than my boyfriend.’”

“Say ‘daddy’s gonna let me cum on his tongue if I say the next thing he tells me to.’”

“Say ‘I’m gonna break up with my boyfriend.’” His mouth stopped moving immediately. You froze beneath him, knowing that this was really what all of this was about.

“And don’t repeat it if it’s a lie, baby.” He whispered against you, placing a soft kiss on the inside of your thigh. You stayed quiet.

“That’s what I thought.” He wasted no time picking his head back up, gently pulling your thigh down off of him.

“Wait, Caleb.”

“Y’know, you’re right. We can’t do this anymore.” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping the wetness from his face as he stood. You sat up, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Until you get rid of him—I’m never touching you again.” He didn’t laugh or crack a smile. He was dead serious.

“So wet,” You’re slurring your words, drunk on him and the sparkles that emanate from your jewellery. A shaky hand reaches out to him as your lust-curved lips twist into a saccharine grin. “Gimme. I wanna see you.” The camera feels just as heavy as the jewellery covering your wrists when he give it to you.

Through the lens, there’s a haze from the dimmed warm lights forming some hind of halo around his body. His signature jewellery, silver and speckled with rubies and natural cut diamonds, bounces on his skin and gleams brightly, making him look like he’s in a 90’s porno.

His voice doesn’t make it any better either. He’s real loud in his demeanour and his expression. Eyebrows are crunching, lips are curving into pouts and half-asses smirks all too distracted by your goddess pussy squeezing and milking him for all he’s worth.

Moans slip from your lips recklessly as he picks up the pace, skin slapping skin as your bodies collide in hot, lewd squelches. His cock’s draaaaaaging its way through your cunt, leaving its mark in your cunt to the point where you can memorise each vein without having to look.

“Can you hear how messy we’re getting, sweetie? Listen.” He’s completely drunk on your pussy.  “So noisy. So us.”

You can barely hear the noises coming from your cunt since the bed is practically screaming from how roughly you move together. The headboard’s banging the wall threatening to split in half, the mattress is squelching from the how many times your cum’s soaked into the black silk sheets beneath you. 

It’s all too good.

He’s pounding you faster and faster until his cock slips out, grinding on your swollen clit like he’s not aware that he isn’t in you anymore. 

“Sy, baby, put it back in,” You whine, whining your hips to guide his cock back into (it doesn’t work). Your cries must be going to deaf ears because he’s still grinding up to your clit like his life depends on it. 

“Of course, my love,” The smoothed jewels constricting his cock slide up and down between your swollen folds before finally, finally, slipping back into you in one swift thrust.

It just slips in and out of you with ease. The routine’s remained consistent for years, as strong as your marriage is. You’ve studied each other well enough to be on a PhD level, you rarely need to utter a word because you both already know what you’re thinking.

His back is well accustomed to your nails marking scars into his skin and your waist and hips are equally as familiar to his relentless grip and the tightness of his arms wrapping around you. You don’t even have to warn him that your orgasm is about to come— he’s already praising you as you do it.

“Let me take it off, sweetie.” He begs, rubbing circles into your hips. Drool is dribbling down his chin as his eyes haze over. Waves of intense pleasure wash over him, his heavy balls are strung up so tight that he can just hear the pleas for release bubbling in his core.

“I’ve been so good, so well behaved. I— oh my fuck— I didn’t rip it off with my hands.” He’s heeling over, pushing your legs up until the bend and squish your spit-slick tits together. “‘ve made you cum so much you can barely think straight. Don’t I deserve to cum with you?” 

You turn your head away, still panting and moaning strings of curses with his name. Looking at that desperate gaze might just make you give in. You can feel him throbbing inside you, practically begging to cum so much that he’s leaking small pearls out his swollen tip.

How did this start? 

Sylus, your powerful, terrifying husband, was taunting you. Nothing new, really. After years of marriage, you would think you’d be used to this behaviour.

You're lying to yourself if you said yes.

He still knows how to irritate you. Endearingly, lovingly, annoyingly.

“How about you use a cock ring on me?” He had suggested hours earlier after parading his confidence in making you cum multiple times before he can. Which he has proven to be true. Multiple times. You had retorted saying you’ve had him slip many times before so that brought about his suggestion. 

You wrapped a bracelet encrusted with diamonds and rubies around the base of his shaft tight enough to make him feel how hard he is but not enough to hurt him and got to work. He was fine the first few rounds, but now he’s lost his grip.

The only ‘downside’ is that you aren’t letting him take it off.

“You do,” You nod and pout, still hot and buzzing. You’re intoxicated on his cock, thoughts slipping by as you try to keep a grip on them just enough to speak coherently. “But you wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh.” Yeah, your husband is gone. 

“So stick with it.”

“So mean.” Sylus whines, rutting into your cunt. “Won’t even let me stuff you just the way you like it.” His hips snap into yours faster and deeper with this angle, building up pressure by kissing your cervix over and over with his tip. “Fine. Keep me nice ’n hard so I can make you cum again and again, yeah?”

Of course, he will always find light in a ‘tough’ position and make sure you both deal with the torture. 

“It feels much bigger when it’s all tied up like this, doesn’t it?” Sylus mouths your neck with wet smooches, pressing his weight onto you. “Or maybe you’re squeezing tighter. I love it either way.”

High-pitched moans flow right into his ears in bliss. The camera’s pointing up to the chandelier-spotted ceiling, shaking as your body tenses from your — you’ve lost count, to be honest — nth climax. 

“Love you so so much,” You grab his face with a free hand, pulling him down for a kiss. The diamond on your ring twists round your finger as you move until it grazes his cheek to his ignorance. “I love you— mmph— so— ahh— Sylus, stop kissing me!”

“No,” He moans as your lips smack together, tilting his head to meld himself deeper into your lips. His hips roll into yours in waves, not slowing down even as you recover from your recent climax. “I…” mwah. “Love…” mwah. “You.” 

“Love you so much— ahh, fuck.” He drags his tongue across your cheek, savouring the taste of your pleasure-induced tears and the cherry wine you had together hours ago. “Adore you too much, sweetie. Let your husband worship you.”

There’s no point in arguing with him when he’s like this. Once he’s dead set on worshipping you the entire night, he’ll go full throttle. He’s much worse during your anniversaries. 

Sighing into his lips in pure bliss you plop the camera on the bedding, hoping you’ve angled it right before it completely slips your mind. He gives your waist a gentle squeeze, a little note shared between you saying it’s time to switch positions. 

One hand hooks your leg while the other holds your back and flips you to your sides, face to face, with your back turned to the camera.

“You sure it’s a good idea for my back to be the only view?” You ask, nuzzling your nose on his. 

One of the many necklaces he’s adorned you with is long. It hangs down your back with a string of jewels bedazzling your spine, so long as you’re not lying on your side. He somehow made it work with the choker, the pendant, the lariat, the rivière, opera, and matinee lavallieres wrapped around your neck to make you look like a goddess present for him to worship. 

But that angle just won’t do, will it?

“I have a plan,” He languidly reaches for the camera and pans it above your heads slowly enough to capture a long kiss before setting it just beneath your entangled legs, sparkling with rhinestone-wrapped anklets and garters. “Now, we’ll see a perfect view of you choking and milking me dry.”

The thought alone makes your walls pulsate. “So grotesque.” 

“You’ve said worse.”

“Like what?”

His right eye glints for a split second. Maybe you shouldn’t taunt him while he’s balls deep inside you. 

“Hmm,” Sylus feigns deep thought, slowly drawing his cock back until his tip is all that’s being sucked in. “I believe it was our first night together when we got married.”

He prods deeper into you in small, almost unkind thrusts only to pull back to the tip just before he’s almost bottomed out. “Sylus.” You try to scold him but it comes out as a struggled attempt to swallow a whine.

The long forgotten camera is filming the debauched sight of his bedazzled cock slipping in and out, practically redden from the base right to his tip from the makeshift cock ring you put on him earlier. Strings of white connect you together, sticky and warm, creating wet plaps every time your hips collide.

“I still think about it after all these years.” He chuckles to himself as if he isn’t edging you and himself to the point of mental ruin. “You said, ‘If you don’t stuff me full of you right now, neither of us will be seeing the sun tomorrow.’”

Your ears go hot from the memory. 

You had just gotten to your home, your shared room, after a long day of festivities from your wedding. Your clothes were ripped off and your joint bed witnessed hours of love-making before you could even touch the sheets.

He was teasing you, restraining his own insatiable greed, and you were growing impatient, dangerously hungry. It’s safe to say you kept your word. That room reeked of sex the following evening and you still weren’t done.

“Don’t remind me.” You groan into his shoulder, hiding from his teasing grin.

“You looked like you’d kill me if I even attempted to taunt you a little more.” His cock is threatening to explode, twitching like crazy and yet he just does not let up. Just a bit more and surely you’ll let him take the damn thing off. 

“I felt so compelled to ensure we were painted wet with each other. Even if neither of us would walk properly for a day or two, or if our voices would be gone, or if we’d look like we walked out of a tough battle. Just had to fill you up with cum, just the way you wanted.” Slowly, slowly, he bottoms out, grinding the jewels on your folds to remind you of what you need.

“Just like you want me to right now.”

Fuck, he has a way with his words.

“Take it off.” You won’t bother teasing him and he won’t wait for you to tell him twice.

His hand rushes down and breaks the jewellery off with a soft snap! It’s truly liberating to feel the blood rush around his cock again with his cum threatening to spill out.

Sylus latches onto you, pounding his hips deep into you with no intention to stop any time soon. He’s getting loud, moaning your name in reverence all while muttering senseless filth in tandem with your own noises of pleasure.

“You feel so good inside me, Sy,” Your nails are digging into his biceps, fully consumed by him, pussy spasming around his cock again. “So, soooo good!”

If he wasn’t already married to you, Sylus would get on both knees and present the finest jewels and propose again and again and again. Maybe he should make it a yearly tradition. 

“‘m gonna cum just for you,” His eyes gloss over his right eye glows at its brightest to warn you of his restraint disappearing with his eyes as they roll into his skull. “Just for you.”

And then he cums.

It is divine. Hours of self-control finally slip out in spurts of hot, thick ribbons, painting you from your bruised cervix until you’re full of him. Full. Of. Him.

It doesn’t even stop there. It leaks out of you like a burst pipe, spurting out far enough to reach the camera to blur the lens just a little. 

He’s groaning— no, growling into your neck, noises so primal that your walls clench harder around him, bringing another wave of cum to burst right into you.

“Love you, love you, love you—“ His babbling into your lips, moaning your name as tears drip across the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks. The overstimulation hurts so good that he just can’t stop grinding and rutting.

You wrap your arms around him tight, whimpering your praise as you kiss him into calm. Your eyes are almost rolling back from how good it feels but you keep your attention on your husband, soothing him until the pulsing waves leave him serene in your embrace.

“So beautiful,” is the first thing he says after staring into your eyes. “So radiant.”

In moments like these, where the world just stops, you can’t help but admire how age has gracefully blessed you both. Your stamina is still through the roof, your wrinkles compliment you with class. It’s like you’re still your younger selves but with a bit more refinement.

If time had returned you to when you were young, you would choose him again. And again. Always.

The peace lulls you so gently that you almost want to fall asleep like this. Almost.

His cock stirs again inside you, twitching as if he didn’t just pour multiple rounds’ worth of cum into you. “Never let me taunt you to that extent.” Sylus pecks you twice, caressing your waist as he gently grinds into you once more. “I might just go insane if you do.”

Readjusting your legs for a better, deeper thrust, you bite his lower lip in agreement. “Never.” 

It doesn’t matter if the camera’s batteries run out. You are both more than happy to do as many takes as you need.

To be honest, you haven’t quite managed to think that far. After you finally had him in your line of sight, it was like your body moved of its own accord, your hand fisting in his clothes as soon as he was within reach, refusing to let him go. When he had pulled you into his arms, his familiar scent— smoky leather and warm incense buried beneath burnt gunpowder and the tang of copper— nearly brought you to tears. Even now, the tell-tale pressure behind your eyes is too damn close to spilling over the edge for your liking. You sniff, eyeing the missing cuff links on his sleeve and the mystery stains on his collar.   

“You just got back, didn’t you?” Your question is chased by squeaking cupboard doors and the faint scruff of movement across fiberboard shelves. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’ve been worse.” 

You hear the shrug in his voice, and for some reason, you can’t control the answering surge of irritation. When you drop the plastic first aid kit on the counter with a clatter, much to your charign, he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, his knowing gaze burns into yours.

“Sweetie…”

“Don’t sweetie me,” you bristle, grabbing the gauze and antiseptic wipes. “Sit. And take off your shirt.” 

“So bossy,” he quips, and your eye twitches at the underlying warmth in his tone. Thankfully, he doesn’t say much else. The rustle of fabric sliding off skin seems abnormally loud in the following quiet; slow, careful movements punctuated by muted grunts. Your fingers tighten on the roll of gauze as you flit over him, cataloging every scrape and bruise scattered across his body, unable to keep your lips from parting in shock when you see it. 

An angry, oozing laceration at his side, the irritated edges of the wound bleeding crimson and purple-blue. 

“How...?”

“A shattered window,” he says simply, as if it was nothing but a minor inconvenience. 

“No,” —you toss aside the wipe, hands scrambling for the bottle of saline solution— “that’s not... I mean, why isn’t it healing?”

He releases a strained sigh, his chest falling with a slight shudder as you flush out the wound. “Even I have limits, little dove. But this is only a scratch.”   

“A scratch?” 

Oops. 

You don’t mean to raise your voice like that. You know you don’t really have a right to be upset. Weren’t you the one who kept telling him how much of a bother he was? How much better your life would be if he just disappeared? Was it really that much of a stretch that he would take your words to heart? 

Gently, you pat at the raw flesh with gauze, slowing when he flinches— a barely-there tremor, more instinct than protest. 

Pfft, take your words to heart? This is the Onychinus boss you’re talking about here. Since when did the big bad crime lord actually listen to what you had to say? If anything, judging by the way he treated you those first few fateful days of knowing him, he couldn’t care less of what you thought or said. 

So, why now?  

Why would he choose to listen now?   

Everything about Sylus made frustratingly little sense. His ‘bad luck’ at Kitty Cards. His soft spot for small animals. His terribly off-tune singing. The puzzle pieces of his life that you manage to gather fail time and time again to paint a convincing picture of an evil crime lord. And yet, when accused of wrongdoing— regardless of whether he had a hand in it— he doesn’t bother on correcting it either. It’s like the stupid man is intent on wearing the ugly rumours like a mantle, carrying their weight as if he believes them or actually accepts them as his due—

“You’re angry.” 

You’re tempted to reply with something scathing, but you hold it in, biting your lip. You know better than to glance his way— the weight of his gaze smoldering at the edges of your awareness. 

A firm touch on the curve of your bottom lip startles you, so much so that your gaze snaps up to his. The corner of his lip curls as if privy to some hidden joke, the glint of amusement evident in his pair of glittering garnet eyes. 

“Care to enlighten me as to why,” he murmurs, the pad of his thumb dragging slowly across your lower lip, ”little dove?” 

The heat of him saturates your small kitchen, seems to invade the very air in your lungs, and you’re reminded again of just how big Sylus is in your tiny apartment. How he towers over you, how your slight frame is so easily engulfed by the breadth of his bare chest. It’s only logical to feel some sort of fear, or at the very least wariness, at the difference in sheer stature, over the potential power he has over you. But fear isn’t the emotion making your heart stutter, isn’t the motivation behind your burning ears as you blink in rapid succession, wanting to shake off the tingle drifting down your back like the brush of unfurling wings. 

“You disappeared.” The words come out unbidden, much more petulant than you want. 

Sylus hesitates, an uncharacteristic searching gaze flickering over your face. 

“You wanted me to,” he says, doling out his words with a measured caution. 

“And since when,” —a lump swells in your throat, a sting prickling at the corner of your eyes— “do you care about what I want?” 

His gaze, usually crinkled in infuriating smugness or narrowed in scheming calculation, is soft in a way that feels foreign. Wide, too wide, as if caught unguarded in a moment he hasn’t prepared for. 

“I’m sorry.” 

His voice is a raw rumble, his breath catching at the end as if something unsaid is lodged in his throat. His thumb swipes your cheek, catching a wetness that wasn't there before. 

“Hurting you,” he starts again, his words aching with resignation, “was never my intention…” 

“Then,” —you blink away another tear, swallowing harshly— “what is your intention?” 

His brow twitches up, just slightly. 

“Come now,” he drawls, touch still painstakingly gentle as a note of amusement settles back in his voice. “I didn’t think I was being subtle.”  

He wasn’t. 

Sure, you had been confused at first. Why he seemed to get such a kick out of bringing around his alter-ego Skye. Why he seemed endlessly entertained by ruffling your feathers. But it didn’t take long for you to deduce the obvious, why the Onychinus crime boss would casually drop the locations of his safe houses, allow you to permanently book up a seat on his private jet, or let you freely peruse around in his precious armories. You had just chosen to run away from the signs. 

Well, you’re not running any longer. 

It’s more of a half baked thought, one that your addled brain seizes on reflex more than realization. He’s already close, his warm breath fluttering across your cheek. It doesn’t take much for your hands to breach the remaining distance, curling around the back of his neck, nestling into soft white locks. He doesn’t offer any resistance when you tug him closer; you only get a glance of irises flickering wide, and an uneven, sharp inhale— 

You land more on his cheek than anything else, smushed up against the corner of his upper lip. 

Your cheeks burn, but it doesn’t deter you; you eagerly press another peck to your frozen target. His lips are unexpectedly soft— softer than they have any right to be. Utterly unfair, really— 

The air shifts. 

Subtle, like the kindling of sparks whispering over glowing embers, and then sharp, the focus of a dragon’s eye as it shutters open. He presses back, slow at first— like a predator gauging its prey— hands gathering you closer, curving your pliant form into his searing warmth. He’s hot, burning, his all-encompassing heat sinking into you like the sunset bleeding onto a darkening sky. You shiver, an ache coiling low and honey thick, his heady scent unfurling in your lungs. Melting into his embrace, your lips tilt and then mold more firmly against his, your nails dragging down the nape of his neck. A low sound escapes him— a throaty growl that bears the weight of his growing intent. It presses in, his fingers curling and then gripping, his breath pulling in deeper and harsher pants. But there’s still an unspoken hesitation in the way his hands skim across your frame, a slight restraint in how his lips move against yours, as if testing the ground before taking flight. 

Waiting. 

Like grazing talons poised over golden treasure. 

Your tongue darts out for a better taste, and he groans, the tortured sound thrumming on your skin. Muscles coil beneath your touch, the shallow rise of his chest stalling for a moment before he leans away. Much to your dismay, the delicious heat follows and you sway forward, the whine poised on your lips quelled by a firm hand catching your chin. 

Instead, you can't help the smugness you feel at the utter destruction around you. It feel like vindication for what they had done to you. Done to Sylus.

A bright red flower catches your eyes amidst the blanket of white and green. You take a closer look at the ground around you and realize that these small red flowers are scattered about, seeming to thrive in this fallen sanctuary.

When you kneel down to inspect it, you gently prod the petals. It's then you realize these flowers look familiar, your mind drifting back to that day with Sylus, in the valley of blood-red datura.

You inspect the flower closely, carefully plucking it from the ground and twirling it in your fingertips.

The datura looked odd—unlike the ones you'd seen in the valley. The bright red color was unlike the deep, rich, blood red—almost maroon—shade you'd seen before. In fact, it looked unnatural, artificial. Like it didn't belong here.

You gently sniff the flower, wincing at the sickly sweet smell.

A terrifying roar makes you jump, the flower slipping from your fingers and fluttering back to the floor.

"Sylus?!"

Your voice is panicked as your feet move frantically, looking for the source of the cry. The sound of marble slamming against the floor rattles you.

Was the Legion here?

You find him in the back of the church. His fists are clenched, his entire body facing away from you. A layer of dust clouds the air around him, as if the pillars surrounding him were freshly destroyed.

"Sylus?" you whisper worriedly, your feet instinctively taking you towards him.

"Stay back," he growls, his voice strangled and labored. His face snaps to you, flushed red—the heat creeping down his neck and even his bare chest.

"What's wrong?" you say, not stopping. Sylus backs away, his wings unfurled and twitching wildly—in a way you'd never seen before.

"Don't come closer."

You finally pause, noticing those same red flowers around Sylus's feet. One of them had been plucked from the ground, now crushed on the floor.

"Are you hurt?" you question frantically, "Please tell me what's wrong."

Sylus straightens up, his massive wings flapping uncontrollably, causing the dust to stir.

"Those damn flowers," he rasps, fingers digging into what was left of the marble pillar. They leave behind deep indents in the shape of his talon tipped fingers.

"Fucking abominations," he snaps—struggling to articulate himself, "They're modified."

"What do you mean? I feel fine," you whisper as you inch towards him, wanting to be closer.

"Hah—I don't know. Must b'something the Legion engineered for Fiends," he rasps. He clutches his head, struggling to breathe. He can physically feel his heart rate skyrocketing to levels that even a Fiend could not withstand.

"W-What do we do? What's going to happen to you?"

No longer heeding his warnings, especially knowing he's been potentially poisoned, you rush to your place by his side. Sylus goes rigid when you touch him, your skin feeling like a balm to a festered wound against his.

Sylus bruises your skin as he takes hold of you, his fingers enclosed firmly around your arms. It doesn't hurt—God only knows he's held you tighter, harder, before. But still, his speed surprises you.

"Fuck," he grates, sounding more pained than you'd ever heard him. He buries his face into the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, fingers releasing—only in favor of enclosing his arms desperately around your waist completely.

"Sylus, you're scaring me…" you murmur, reaching up to stroke his hair. The sound of your heart beating wildly beneath him only exacerbates the heat and he growls terrifyingly.

Your eyes dart around wildly, afraid the Legion would show up any moment. If they'd modified these flowers to specifically only affect Fiends then it definitely wasn't safe here. This entire place might've been a trap created for them, for him. You knew news of a Fiend that'd been freed, with a "sorceress" by his side, and was razing cities to the ground had been widespread. They cited that cities known to be occupied by followers of the Sacred Judicator were specifically being targeted.

"We need to get out of h—"

You're cut off by your own strangled moan when Sylus's fangs sink into your neck, not hard enough to break skin but enough to bruise.

"Sylus," you moan, clutching him, "Does it hurt that bad?"

The pain is easy to withstand, especially when you know it brings Sylus even a semblance of relief. ButSylus's body was becoming increasingly hot and clammy underneath your touch, almost like there was a raging fire searing through his body—the pollen spreading like wildfire.

And you had no idea what it might do to him.

"Fucking burns," he snarls, clutching you tightly, "Christ—it hurts."

Sylus inhales your scent greedily, squeezing your smaller body in his arms like a stress ball. Every muscle in his body tightens dangerously when that sweet smell emanating from between your legs reaches him. Blood pounds in his ears as it rushes south, his body unable to recirculate and redistribute.

Suddenly, Sylus pushes off of you so firmly that it almost knocks you to the floor. With a dangerous growl, he regards you venomously.

"You need to get out of here. Now."

Your eyes widen as you try to regain your footing, "Like hell I am! I'm not leaving you like this."

Sylus growls—the sound entirely animal-like, his entire body trembling with the effects of the the modified flower. Black mist starts to swirl around him, a visual representation of the war the wages in his body. Your name sounds foreign as he snarls it.

"Listen to me. You are capable, but you are still human."

His fist crushes marble to dust as he struggles to keep himself in check, the Fiend side of him fighting his human instincts. His scarlet eyes glow dangerously as he turns to you again, careful to make sure he stays at least five meters back.

"Do you know what I could do to you?"

You squirm under Sylus's scrutiny. He's looked at you like this before. Like you're his next meal.

Sylus snarls, forcing himself to turn around, "Christ, like that. Do you know what you smell like right now?"

The tremors rack his body as the potent cocktail of fear, arousal, and something distinctly you work in tandem to drive him mad. It's all amplified by whatever the pollen was doing to him.

"Sylus, please. I've been able to handle you so far, haven't I?"

Your heart drops as you watch his wings outstretch, signaling his intent to take flight. Without you.

But he only stumbles about, his magnificent wings swinging with little coordination. Sylus curses as he realizes the pollen has rendered him all but immobile—his blood flow concentrated in one area only.

Those cursed humans.

"For fuck's sake—listen to me. This is your last chance."

Bits of rubble stir wildly as Sylus's wings sway erratically, the movements uncontrolled as he backs away from you. His steps are heavy, as if he's forcefully dragging his body away from you.

And he is, knowing exactly what he wants and needs right now.

The urgency and desperation was so intense even he knew. As a Fiend, he could very likely hurt you in his quest for relief.

But your body refuses to move. Not from fear, but because you can't imagine the type of pain he might be in that would render him this way. And for that reason, you cannot leave him.

"I am listening," you retort, "So please, tell me what's wrong. Let me help."

Sylus's deep crimson eyes hone onto you, making you shiver—feeling like a deer caught in the crosshair of a hunter.

"You want to help?" he snarls, his particularly sharp canines baring at you. Before you know it, Sylus has you pressed up against a crumbling marble pillar, his fingers closed around the sides of your throat.

His grip is gentle as he clearly tries to reign in whatever it is that's taking control of him. It's only firm enough to make your breath catch at his proximity, cursing your ill-timed arousal. You truly couldn't help yourself around him.

Gripping you urgently in place, Sylus crashed his lips to yours. You whimper as his tongue instantly invades your mouth, nearly choking you in his intensity. Sylus molds you so firmly against the half-standing pillar that your tailbone aches in protest.

He swallows your whines as you keen at the feeling of his teeth nibbling at your bottom lip. The kiss is feverish, his aggressiveness bordering on insanity. Sylus thrusts his hips against you, groaning into your lips as the friction eases the burn, just barely.

"Sy," you gasp breathlessly, gently pushing him back with your palms, to which he growls unhappily.

He cuts you off, pulling you back by your waist and molding you to fit against his solid body.

"H-Help me with this then."

The uncharacteristic stutter makes your eyes widen—the effects the flower was having on him really sinking in. He snatches your hand and places it between your bodies. You tremble as he wraps your fingers around his erection, guiding your hand with his to jerk it aggressively.

"Jesus," you gasp when you feel how engorged he is. You'd always known Sylus was undoubtedly bigger than humans. But this?

This was nothing short of monstrous.

"Regretting your decision?" Sylus dips down to whisper dangerously in your ear, still using your hand for relief. It isn't enough.

"N-No," you snap defiantly, "We shouldn't do this here. Let's g—"

Sylus threads his fingers in the back of your head, tangling with your hair and tugging backward. It cuts off your words and exposes your pulse to his ravenous gaze.

"You think you can just leave now?" he demands, already starting to undress you with one hand. When he exposes your nipples to the outdoor air, his fingers abandon its hold over your own and roughly grab one of your breasts. He relishes in your pleasured moans, letting it fan the flames that were consuming him.

"You said you wanted to help? So help."

He pushes you onto your knees, the mossy floor digging imprints into your skin. He's rough and demanding, but you fall willingly—wanting to help him.

"Please, sweetheart," he grates, sounding unbearably pained, "D-Don't make me ask again."

You nod eagerly, eyes darting around—anxious that the Legion could appear at any moment, as you undo Sylus's belts. Sylus growls, moving your fingers to the side and frantically undoing them himself, leather tearing.

BothSylus's cocks spring free, the pollen making it impossible for him to hide it even if he'd wanted to. Squeezing your jaw in his fingers, he coaxes your mouth open and eagerly pushes himself inside.

A breathy roar expels from Sylus as soon as your soft lips make contact with his angrily sensitive flesh. His fist clenches and collides with a nearby tree trunk, the wood splintering against the lush green and red floor. Sylus's mind reels at the sensation, the pollen amplifying everything tenfold, making him more sensitive, more demanding, more desperate.

You'd taken him like this before, but he'd never been quite this swollen. Your jaw quickly starts to ache in protest, but you try your best to take all that he's giving you. You felt dirty for it, but the effects the pollen had on Sylus encourages you—excites you. Even knowing he's in pain, the way he wanted you was inescapable. And that made your heart flutter.

Sweat drips from his temple, down onto your own cheek as you look up at him. It mixes with the tears that begin to flow down your face when he hits the back of your throat. There's a lot of him that doesn't fit in your mouth.

"S-Stroke it," Sylus demands, voice hoarse and labored. He swears, throwing his head back as he pants—the fire simultaneously quelled and enraged by your beautiful little mouth. The better he felt, the more his drugged body demanded.

Using both your hands, you grip the part of his cock you cannot envelop and jerk him back and forth. Sylus hisses, both hands in your hair now, controlling your pace. Some where in the back of his head he feels bad at the way you gag and choke for air, but with the pollen ravaging his body he can't bring himself to slow down.

"Yeah, j-jus' like that," Sylus rasps into the air, his neck bobbing as he faces the open sky—eyes rolling back until they're white.

Your eyes flicker down as Sylus releases your hair with one hand, moving it beneath your chin. Vision almost entirely obscured by the cock stuffing your mouth, you can vaguely make out his lengthy fingers closing over his second cock, stroking it right beneath where your lips wrap around the other one.

"You're so good," he hisses as you soothe the fire in his bones, "So good for me. Fuck—that feels amazing."

The vibrations rock him as you moan, his increased sensitivity sending him over the edge unexpectedly. The ground shakes and the air vibrates with the sheer magnificence of his guttural roar.

You almost feel like you're being suffocated as his endless seed shoots down your throat. It smears everywhere as you choke, joining the pearly thick essence that his second cock spurts on your bare chest, effectively coating you in his cum—inside and out.

"Fuck—!" he swears, still thrusting himself in and out of your mouth—enraged that the relief only lasts seconds before the burning fever returns, "I-I want more."

He needs more.

You desperately gasp for air as he finally releases you. Sylus hoists you onto your feet, your knees wobbly as he supports you to the same tree he'd all but destroyed. The previous caution and fear he'd felt for what his pollen-fueled desires could do to you had been obliterated.

He was too far gone now. All he could feel was the overwhelming urge to cum—that's the only thing that would sate the ravenous wildfire.

Specifically inside of you.

"Ass out," Sylus demands with a heavy breath.

"Sylus—" your voice is rough and your throat is sore. Your eyes are wide as he firmly pushes you against the trunk, your body obliging him even as your brain struggles to keep up.

"I-I don't—nghn…—think it'll fit," you reason, shivering as his claws trace your soft inner thighs. Your back arches for him, letting him fully shred the bodice of your dress.

He'd always already been difficult for you to take, both his dragon cocks far larger than humans were made for. And the pollen seemed to have only made him bigger.

Sylus snarls in your ear—sounding almost angry.

"Kitten, I never took you for an idiot," he growls, greedy fingers quickly finding your arousal, parting you with two fingers.

As you moan, unable to speak as those same fingers breach your defenses, he continues, "Of course it'll fit. Fuck—"

He trembles, mouth watering as his fingers explore your wet warmth. He needed to get inside you.

"Don't even say that."

Suddenly, he withdraws his digits. Your head cranes back, watching as he spits on his cock—the heavier one sitting above the other.

He briefly jerks himself off, smearing the moisture across his shaft, "I fu-fucking n-need to get inside you. Please. H-Hah—this isn't nearly enough."

Sylus normally was quite patient with you, giving you ample time to adjust to him—even when every instinct in his body screamed for dominance and selfish release. But right now, he couldn't fight off that same restraint like he normally would. Right now, his body needed relief and he needed it now.

And only you could provide it for him.

"See what you fucking do t'me?" he accuses huskily as he strokes desperately, "And you want to say it won't fit?"

You gape with indignation, voice wavering as he drags his tip between your lips, "You can't possibly blame this all on me!"

"Don't fuckin' kid yourself," he grits, dragging his canines along your shoulder—his words slurring, "It's not the pollen."

Sylus places his fingers gently around your throat, pulling you against his body.

"You always have this effect on me." He presses his leaking tip against your entrance, spreading your legs even wider.

"The only difference is now, I can't and won't cage myself."

You squeal, nails raking down the bark as Sylus starts to press into you. The stretch stings, making tears form in the corner of your eyes. You don't even register the splints under your fingernails.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, looking upward at him. He looks down at you, his eyes wildly dangerous—pupils blown out.

"Mnngh…I-I don't want you to do that…"

Sylus growls with satisfaction, his throat bobbing with feral rumbles, "Yeah? Such a good little mate for me, aren't you?"

With your admission, Sylus pushes deeper. He let's his saliva splatter between his pelvis and your ass, aiding your already copious nectar in his conquest. Sweat drips down his brow as he seats himself as fully as he can inside of you.

It hurts more than usual, but you'd expected as much with how much larger he is right now, compared to usual. You can't even remain upright on your own, Sylus's veiny forearm wrapped around your stomach—supporting you as your hands feebly gripped the tree.

"Fuck—fuck! Finally," he rambles deeply, pulling out and thrusting back into you. Your perfect body does wonders to soothe the fire ravaging his body.

But while it dulls the ache, it only grows his desperation for you—evident in the way he was already pummeling in and out of you, giving you little time to adjust.

"Sy-Sylus," you whimper, "O-Oh…so f-fucking big."

It isn't long before it starts to feel good—better than usual, your body responding to his girth and sucking him in hard. Sylus's jaw clenches as he watches how beautifully you take him—stretched impossibly wide for a mere human.

"Oh p-princess," he stutters, "J-Jus' like that. God you're so fucking tight. Suck me in, just like th-that."

You've never heard Sylus babble like this before and it makes your toes curl with satisfaction, fueling your own pleasure.

"M-More," you encourage him, needing more of his unfiltered desperation. For the first time, you're realizing just how much he would hold back. But now, the pollen had changed that.

Your brain rattles as Sylus's thrusts rock your soul, snarling, "More, little bird? Can you handle more?"

"C-Can," is all you're able to say.

"Good," he hisses into your ear, "Cause I need more of this perfect little body. You're gonna take both, yeah?"

Your eyes widen as you realize what he wants, "W-Wait!"

You can't lie, the idea of it makes your toes curl. But at the same time, it terrifies you, "Th-There's no way! C-Can't, jus' one is t-too big."

Sylus chuckles, the sound deeply velvety, "I have no intention of breaking you today. Not when I need you. Over and over and over."

You gasp when he pulls out of you briefly, only to stuff you full of his second cock just as quickly. The other, now completely wet with both your slick, presses tauntingly against your other entrance.

He yanks your hair upward until the back of your head rests on his chest, "You're gonna let me in, aren't you princess?"

He nips your earlobe, "Because I need you. Fucking need you so damn badly."

Sylus starts pressing closer, groaning at the feeling of your ass instantly starting to yield to him, stretching ever so slightly—made easier with how filthily you'd soaked him while he was inside of you. You groan, eyes rolling back at the foreign sensation.

You'd never taken him like this before.

"Sy," your eyes flutter dazedly up at him, drool dribbling from the corner of your lips. He growls hungrily, dipping down to lap it up. You shudder at the feeling and find yourself nodding mindlessly.

At that, Sylus's eyes darken considerably, "G-God you are fucking incredible. Such'a good little fuckin' mate for me."

He continues to push in, completely stretching out your virgin territory. You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your knees give out. Sylus supports you to the floor, placing you on your hands and knees and mountingyou from behind—like an animal.

Reaching forward, he shoves two of his fingers into your mouth—pressing down on your tongue and coating himself in your saliva.

He grunts in your ear, progressively feral and incoherent as you take inch after inch of his cock in your newly discovered warmth.

"You were made for me to fuck—you know that, baby?"

You moan onto his fingers, entire body screaming with a potent mix of pleasure-pain—your body stretched to its limits.

"M-Made to be—haah—stuffed full of my cock. Jus' like this, huh?"

He removes his fingers, smearing his drenched digits against the remainder of his cock that peeked out of your cheeks. With that, he drives himself into you fully, all the way to both hilts.

"C-Christ," he growls, "You look so damn perfect with both my cocks stuffed inside you. F-Fuck, my perfect fucking dove."

You squeal as his stretches you impossibly full, his obscenities and praises making your heart flutter and your stomach tighten. You could physically feel how swollen both your holes were, withstanding the relentless pleasure he rained upon your body in pursuit of his own ecstasy.

"God look at this little ass," he hisses, his thumb pressing at where he has you stretched out on his cock causing you to squeal and instinctively crawl away.

Sylus buries his face into your neck, stopping your retreat. He's almost entirely on top of you now. You briefly wonder what a sight it must be—the image of the way you cowered before Sylus and took everything he demanded of you.

"Sylus—!" you gasp, vision going white momentarily, "W-What if the L-Legion—nnngh o-oh God—comes?"

Sylus pistons faster, trying to practically trying to burrow in you. He chuckles, a growl rumbling from his throat.

"Let them."

His movements grow increasingly frenzied as he imagines it—imagines anyone coming near you while he was in this state.

They'd be dead in seconds.

The thought of it makes him snarl aggressively, talons digging in as the possessive instincts threaten to overwhelm him. The idea of anyone coming near his mate drove him into a frenzy.

And he took that out on your sweet, heavenly body.

"Hah…You're mine, aren't you? You and every—fuck—inch of this perfect body."

You yelp when his palm spanks your rear, leaving his mark behind, "Say it. Tell me you're mine."

When you hesitate, too wrapped up in the feeling of his cocks slamming into you, he spanks you again.

"P-Please Sylus," you slur, "Y-Yours, only yours!"

Sylus snarls with satisfaction. Every slam causes his thick heavy balls to thwack into your clit, all but assuring you'd explode for him. So powerfully you knew it was going to hurt.

The amount of pre-cum Sylus leaked was enough to make your first anal experience as mind-blowing as possible. The pain quickly ebbed into a delicious sting that reminded you how filled you were with him.

Like he was consuming you entirely leaving only himself behind.

"S-Sy…" you moan, slumping in his firm grip, "C-Can't take much more."

"Fuuck—y-yeah? Give it to me, sweetheart."

Moving your hair to the side, Sylus presses his lips to the mark he'd bitten into your neck all those months ago.

Over time, that bite had gotten incredibly sensitive. And he knew that, using that against you. For you. For him.

Your eyes go wide at the sensation, your entire body convulsing—wringing tightly against him.

"C-Cumming—!" you scream, dirt burrowing under your finger nails as your fingers rake through the earth. You explode against his abdomen, coating him in your own nectar.

A terrifying roar erupts from Sylus as he throws his head back, making the greenery rustle. Without warning, your orgasm triggers his—thick, hot, milky seed spurting from both cocks.

You can't form any words as you whimper and scream through your orgasm, your body burning as rope after rope of his essence fills yourholes. You can feel the hot sticky cream trickling down your bare thighs, dripping obscenely onto the ground beneath you.

"Sylus…" is all you can manage, your voice broken and strangled as Sylus holds you in place, not nearly done.

Finally, he slumps against you. His body completely exhausted and ravaged, the pollen sated.

For now.

"Thank you," he whispers, kissing up your spine.

"Course Sy," you mumble, not even caring that your cheek is pressed into the mossy ground—body far too spent to hold yourself up, "Do you feel better?"

Sylus pauses, feeling his knots start to swell inside you. Normally, he could control it—stop the growth. But with the pollen still lingering, he couldn't. Or maybe he just did not want to.

"F-Fuck, please," he snarls, his body starting to burn painfully. The relief was gone as quickly as it'd come. He holds you firmly in place as his cocks swell, the sensation of your tight holes milking him painfully dry.

Your eyes widen as you feel both his knots swelling—still inside you. Sylus moans, grasping your hips as you instinctively scramble away.

"Where d'you think you're going?" he growls, holding you in place as his knots grow, locking you onto him. It's like his body knew exactly what he needed, refusing to let it escape.

"Y-You said you weren't going to break me tonight!" you squeak, half playful and half serious. Your knees buckle as his knots lock into place, the swelling stopping. In reality, it didn't even hurt. It was just a scary amount of pressure in your lower-half.

"O-One more time?" he growls pleadingly.

"S-Sylus, someone is going to find us here," you moan as he starts to roll his hips, his knots snug yet gently creating friction. It felt confusingly painful and good all at once, the soreness reminding you just how thoroughly he owned you.

Sylus chuckles darkly, hands finding your hips once more. He knew you were right. Someone had to be responsible for these contaminated datura. And they'd undoubtedly be showing up soon. But he couldn't bring himself to care in the slightest.

Nothing could keep him away from you right now. Not himself, not the Gods themselves. Certainly not the Legion.

His hips are already gently slapping against your ass as he slowly fucks his knots deeper into you. His crimson eyes narrow as he watches you finally submit, his perfect little mate.

"Then let's give them a show, hm?"

© aeyumicore 2025.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

☆ Xavier ☆ 910k views ▶︎ 08:35min Girlfriend Climbs On Me While I'm Sleeping.ᐟ

The tripod's ready, blinking red and still standing where he left it for last nights stream, angled perfectly toward the bed.

The sunlight finally breaks through when your figure shifts, no longer blocking it from the bed. It spills golden across tangled sheets, catching in the lens of the recording device before warming over your bare shoulders. You plop back onto the mattress with a little bounce, heavy eyes darting toward the camera before sliding to him.

He's like an angel, hair splawed across the sheets in a light-blonde halo, mouth slightly agape with his light brows knitted, clearly dreaming about something.

Or someone.

It's evident in the way your boyfriend is sprawled flat on his back, head tilted slightly toward the camera's view, one arm crooked over his head like he passed out mid-reach, prominent bulge peeking from between his thighs, laying heavy.

The waistband of his sweatpants hangs loose, barely clinging to his hips. You crawl forward, slow enough for the mattress to hardly dip.

Your knees sinking into the sheets beside him, sly hands slide up his thighs delicately before hooking your fingers into the waistband easing it down.

His morning wood falls free, heavy and firm, damn near smacking against your plush thigh, pre already leaking before you even touch him.

Wrapping your hand around him, you gift him with slow strokes that thicken him in your grip, causing him to stir faintly, a hushed groan rumbling in his chest, but his eyes stay shut.

Your quick, vicious smirk towards the camera predicts your next move, already shifting forward to straddle his hips, holding the weeping cock by the base, dragging the head through your slick folds.

The mic catches those faint, filthy little schlick schlick schlicks that make your cunt twitch when his swollen tip drags against your entrance. Then one slow, steady push has you giving way, walls fluttering as you stretch inch by inch, carefully navigating through his rushed breath until your thighs meet his with an almost too loud wham, planted flush in his lap.

"Goshhh, you're so pretty like this, Xav'", you mutter more to yourself, but loud enough for the mic to catch it, and loud enough for him to twitch inside your snug cunny, the arm that was flung over his face groping it's way down to fondle your thigh subconciously.

It's a sight to see, indeed.

His cheeks flushed, tired breaths and hitches following once you start with lazy rolls of your hips, every sudden twitch of his making his tip press deeper against your sweet spot.

The lens catches the soft curve of your ass, the way your babyblue silk top rides up your waist, and the faint arch in your back.

"Baby…?"

His voice is groggy, confused, even. Light lashes fluttering open before his glazed eyes open just enough to spot your lip caged between your teeth, sneakily trying to surpress your moans.

"Mhhh, couldn't wait."

His lips curve into a lazy smirk. "H-hahhh, yeah, yeah," he murmurs, tilting his head toward the camera, lips curving into a lazy sneer, "I can tell."

His hands slide up your hips, breath catching, guiding your movements to rock harder against him, "Waking up with my pretty girl ontop of me like this," his eyes dip to where you're joined, then back to your hazy ones. "it's like heaven, you know?"

You roll your hips down harder, a breathy laugh slipping past your lips as you lean down, placing a peek to his ear before whispering, "Mhmm, knew you'd like it."

"Like it?" his voice rumbles low, rough from sleep. "Loooove it, angel." He's quick to sneak his hand to your thigh, giving it an encouraging squeeze, urging you to listen, voice damn near cracking, "Now turn around for me. P-please?"

You shift carefully, never daring to let him slip out until you're facing away from him, angle having you bouncing deeper, the slick stretch of every drop making your thighs quake.

He sighs loudly behind you, hands gripping the swell of your ass, kneading hard before landing a sharp smack! that makes you clasp rigid around him.

"Good girl."

Oh he's about to pump his load right into your stuffed cunny, getting high of the repeated clenches of your feisty walls, throwing one of his arms over his face to gain some composure, followed by a pathetic whine.

"F-fuckkkk, that's what I get to wake up to,"

And you know the words are not directed towards you because of his sudden possessive grip on both of your ass cheeks, and his harsh but sloppy thrusts up into you, kissing your womb awake, "only me."

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching and shivering, still bouncing despite the screaming ache in your calves. The loud smack smack smacking of your ass hitting his raw and already red thighs grows wetter with each squelching squirt from your pent up hole, spilling down his length before coating his lap in strings of slick that cling and break apart with every rise and fall of your restless hips.

You glance to the side from your shoulder, lips swollen and parted as sweat drips from your temple as your hips grind with more fierceness, eyes locking onto the little red light of the lens.

"Y-yessss, there you go. Gonna make a big mess, huh, angel? Gonna show them your pretty face while you cum?"

"M-mhmm! Gonna cum sooo good!"

It builds sharp in the darkest pit of your belly, each thrust adding weight to the flimsy thin string inside you, heat climbing, sparking higher. His fat cockhead drags and thuds against your g-spot relentlessly, battering your poor gummy walls until your vision sparks with stars.

Nails tear down his thighs, painting them in strings of fresh red as your head hangs slack.

A choked and raw cry jumps out of your throat as your cunt clamps down and gushes hard, squirting messy streams over his lap and onto the sheets below. Your orgasm is almost violent, so hard you can barely hear yourself over the obscene wet babbling mess of your lewd pussy milking him.

"Thaaat's it— fuckkk! Keep looking pretty for me," he growls, as his eyes snap and shot the camera a quick sly look. His hand stays gripping your face, angling it so every twitch of your mouth, every glazed roll of your eyes gets caught, burned into memory.

Your hips stutter, rhythm breaking into frantic bounces, wet slaps echoing as slick gushes down your thighs. "Ahh! H-hahhh! F-fuck!—right there, right there—!"

Your scream fractures, broken into sobbed moans as you go limp, fingers twitching against his milky thighs before falling back on of him, his arm now comfortably holding you in a light headlock.

His cock kicks inside you once, twice, and then he's beyond saving, thrusting deep, burying to the hilt with a last helpless sound as he spills hot and thick inside your pulsing cunt. He holds you down, grinding into the mess as he floods you full, refusing to let you lift off.

As if you could if you even tried.

Your body quivers, clenching greedily around him, milking every drop until the thumb thumb thumbing of his girth inside you has your toes curling.

His groan vibrates against your ear where you're tucked into his shoulder, still caught in the snug headlock he refuses to release.

Every tiny aftershock drags another shallow thrust from him, more rutting than fucking, really.

Your whimper earns a breathless chuckle, the sound scraping his throat as his lips brush the crown of your messy head. His free hand slips down to grip your waist, hauling you tighter against him until your overstretched walls can't hold it, his fresh load seeping out in a slow, messy trickle, sliding warm down between his thighs.

With a grin that's far too smug for the state he's in, he leans in close, voice dropping into a husky murmur that curls against your ear.

"Good morning, angel."

꩜sy_lust: She's so eager, jumping up and down like a little bunny. So adorable. Well, and there's... you.

꩜I_luvsleepybois: Chat, I can't stop gooning to this, am I cooked?

꩜deeznuts: This is how I wanna wake up ;( Lucky ass.

꩜DrCumInside: Just what I needed after a stressful shift. Her cute moans help me relax. Thanks for sharing ;).

☆ Zayne ☆ 960k views ▶︎ 4:15min My Hubby is so Sleep-Deprived and Desperate after Long Shifts.ᐟ

The couch dips under him as he props the camera, aiming low so only your bodies fill the frame. His chest glistens faintly with leftover sweat, sleeves rolled up, pants hanging loose over his hips. His face is out of view, tilted slightly down, hidden by shadows, barely showing of his chissled jawline and the frantic bobbing of his adams apple.

You shift on the cushions, squirming, quick to tug at your top. Chest heaving just as heavy as his, unbearable heat filling the space you two share as if you're in the sauna instead of the small comfort of your home. He growls low, half-lidded, breath heavy, and slides one sneaking hand to rest just against your pulse.

Before you can protest, he pulls you flush against him, lips smacking against yours in a desperate, hungry tangle of tongues.

Your sweet, impatient whimper only winds him tighter, making him shake with restraint, shoulders strain as his hand roams greedily, palming your tits through that silk negligée he gifted you on your last wedding anniversary, then sliding down to grab a fistful of your ass with a sharp smack! that makes you yelp into his mouth, cursing the God's above for those damned panties you're wearing.

"Can't wait," he whispers against your ear, already rutting against you, cock thick and heavy, grinding hard enough that you feel every hot, throbbing pulse of him through your soaked panties.

The fabric clings to you like a second skin from the heat and sweat covering you both, molding every curve of your pussy against the rigid length straining in his pants. Each drag of his hips smears your wetness across your panties, darkening until they're nearly transparent.

Maybe they already are.

His teeth graze your ear, the sharp nip making you jolt even as your hips instinctively press up against the grind of his cock. Hands sliding down your thigh to yank it higher, fingers digging into your bare thigh, trying to keep his composure.

"Honey! Quit teasing! W-wanna— ouhhhh!"

His lips trace your jaw now, teeth grazing down your throat, slightly exposing the bridge of his nose and the loose glasses ontop of it.

"Shhhh, darling." he growls, grinding deeper, harder, until the blunt outline of his cockhead presses right against your swollen clit. "Let me have you like this for now."

One hand clamps onto your waist, locking you in place, the other draaaags lower, rock rock rocking you against his cock in a lazy grind.

"I've been thinking about you alllll day," his thumb sneaks through, managing to brush your drenched folds through the ruined silk, gasping at the stickiness.

He tilts your chin toward his, hiding your face, camera only catching your plumb quivering lips caught between your teeth, "This gorgeous face,"

Your pussy's grinding wildly against his hand and the massive girth straining his boxers now, obscene hicups and gasps flying past your lips, eyes glassy and desperate. "And those sweet sounds of yours."

"My perfect, little darling wife." His grip tightens possesively, voice barely above a whisper against your ear, "Mine."

Arching against him, your nails claw at the couch, hips twitching and turning uncontrolably.

"You're close."

It's a statement because, let's be real, you couldn't fool him. Even through the barrier of fabric he can feel your puffy clit pulsating at his fingertips and your greedy hole clenching around nothing.

You tilt forward slightly, hair brushing the back of his neck, pressing yourself harder against his hard length. The grip on your waist is firm, keeping you flush to him as he hums and groans in delight, too tired for any more action than this, too tired to even bother to move and strip himself of his clothes.

Work's clearly been grinding him down, you can see it in the tension wound through his body and in the ragged edge to every breath. Because on any other day he'd—

Riiiiip!—

"Now that's better."

Oh.

Your breath stutters as cool air rushes over your freshly bared folds, your thighs snapping tight around his hips in reflex. Wide, glossy eyes search his, but Zayne's gaze is fixed lower, hooked to your glistening pussy.

Oh how badly he'd like to fuck you up right now.

His jaw flexes, teeth gritted, fighting for control he's already losing, evident in the firm grip of his veiny hands to your waist, blood thumb thumb thumbing through his veins in lightning speed.

Impatient, you grind your bare folds over his clothed girth once, twice, pussy slick and slicker, dirtying his boxers in your slick while he hums in content.

Whispers of your name tumble out of him, almost unintelligible, swallowed into your hair. The sound frays you further, pushes you to the edge until your own voice fills the room, whimpers breaking into high, helpless wails.

The wet, obscene shlick shlick shlick of your pussy grinding against the damp fabric of his boxers echoes between you, louder with every rut, every pulse of his cock threatening to break the barrier.

Then his swollen tip drags just right, snagging over your throbbing clit. That's when white heat snaps through you, a sharp, strangled shriek ripping from your throat as your body bows, pleasure tearing you apart. Your cunt clenches wildly against nothing and everything at once, thighs trembling, locking him in place as you cum messily against his cock.

"What a mess, honey." He grins, finger already hooking against his soaked boxers, "Well, you leave me no other choice, hm?"

He's quick with it, already tossing them somewhere aside before he grips the base, aligning his tip riiiiight at your clit, "My sweet wife always gets what she wants afterall."

"Mhmm! Wanna help my— oouhh!— m-my husband cool off."

That's all it takes for him to snap, wrecked growl tearing from his throat as his cock drags through your messy folds, fat tip catching at your entrance before swiftly splitting you open.

Your mind goes numb, body seizing, tummy tucking in tight with your thighs shaking as he pushes past resistance and slides in until the stretch has you screaming so loud it feels like it could shatter glass.

"T-then you— f-fuckkk!— better take it like a good little wife."

One brutal thrust and your back arches off the cousion, nails clawing trenches into the couch as slick sprays between you. The second retorts a loud smack! of his pelvis against yours clit, couch jerking under your weight.

And with the third he rams home, the obscene squelch! of your pussy echoing through the room over and over.

Your cries break into shrieks, so garbled and frantic, every nerve snapping into two as his fat cock saws in and out of your spurting cunny.

Twitching and thrashing you try to breathe, but only manage strangled moans while his girth robs your every breath.

He fucks you like a man possessed, all in it now, grinding in to the base, knocking bulls-eye to that gummy spot that has you gushing before yanking out and driving back hard, rutting you into the cushions over and over and over again, until—

"S-sweet fucking pussy. F-fuckkk!—"

Bzzzt— Krrrk!

꩜skyhavenspanker: Hot shit. Just came all over my screen. Show her face next time, please?

꩜ZaynesMessMaker: The sudden cut-off in the end?? Hello?!?! ABSOLUTE FUCKING CINEMA.

꩜AnonLoadDrop: If this is what marriage looks like, sign me up.

꩜sy_lust: You know better than to show ur face, probably unimaginably gorgeous. On the other hand, I'm glad I don't have to see your husbands face, helps me imagine myself in his place ;).

☆ Rafayel ☆ 997k views ▶︎ 07:55min Bratty Boyfriend Lets Me Ride Him In The Tub Until He Gets Mean.ᐟ

"Thereee she comes."

The warm water wraps around you as you straddle him in the tub, his angry red head teasing your entrance before you slide down sloooowly, lips caught between his teeth as he watches you, just like the camera does, proped on the edge, balanced so it catches your bodies, your faces, and, of course, the smolder in his eyes.

His hands sit comfortably at your hips, thumbs brushing over your sides. "Ohhh, I could eat you right up," he murmurs cockily through a smug grin, his chest pressing against yours, heartbeat thudding through the warmth.

"You're already a blabbering mess, Raf'. Is my pussy that good?"

Just then, his shameless moan rips through the bathroom, hips jerking up as your cunt swallows him deep, all the way to the base. Your lashes flutter, body almost like it's on fire, walls gripping him like they want to drag him inside the depths of your gummy tunnel.

"I know it is."

And it's killing him.

He leans back against the tub, grasping the camera steady with one hand while his other presses you closer, making sure every motion of your hips in rhythm with the swaying recoiling water is caught.

"Feeling bold today, h-hahh?"

"Mhm, now shut up and let me ride you properly."

"B-brat."

Him? Shut up? Oh, you got the wrong guy.

He's a mess already, thrusting lazily in response to your vicious hips and headlock grip of your cunny. Lips curl into a teasing grin, glancing right into the camera as he ruts his hips up into yours so meanly, your head falls into the crook of his neck.

Your back arches, pressing your chest against him, letting the water ripple around your bodies with every roll of your hips, clit grinding against his faint trail of hair causing your eyes to roll into the back of your skull.

Now his hand slide down to guide you, fingers digging lightly into your sides as he tilts the camera to keep both your faces in frame, focusing in on your lips parting in soft gasps, eyes hanging low with flushed cheeks, the slick sheen of water only adding detail to the pornographic scene.

" Naughty fuckin' girl," he teases, biting his lip before offering your ass a quick smack, spashing the water with it, "But I love it. Fucking love it when ya' act all high and mighty," His eyes lock on yours, with a hunger that could be seen as downright cannibalistic, ramming his mushroomy tip right up to knock 'hello' to your cervix, "Makes it more fun to put ya' in your place."

He nuzzles at your nipple, tongue flicking and circling while his hand slides from your ass up to your breast, squeezing and kneading, trying to milk every singular moan from your lips.

You shriek, caught off guard, hands flying up to slam into his glistening chest in tight fists, nails digging just enough to make him grunt, hips jerking against yours in response.

"W-wait! S' too much! Too much— hieeek!"

A strong arm locks around your hip, slamming you down with a force that's almost otherworldly, using you like some flimsy pocketpussy at this point.

Repeatedly his cock punches your gooey walls, abused g-spot damn near swelling from the endless strikes to it, your cunny clenching desperately around his hefty length with each brutal bounce, walls milking him greedily, loud splash splash splashing sounds of the water making you dizzy, body giving out as you fall onto your boyfriends chest.

His other hand stays steady on the camera, recording every obscene, slick motion and fuck, you hate how he still has the strength, the audacity, to laugh through it all.

"Oh puh-lease," he rasps a laughter, tongue swiping over his swollen lips, "don't give me that bullshit now."

He snaps his hips harder, cock dragging deep inside you, tears forming at your lashline before they drip down, salty liquid mixing into the shining, thrashing body of water below you.

Your body's betraying you, twitching and grinding, utterly consumed by the relentless pleasure he's driving into you.

Water splashes over the tub's edge with every ruthless thrust, your trembling hands tangling in his wet, lilac hair for balance, nails scraping against his scalp as your body rocks helplessly.

But the moment your bobbing head lifts, lips all swollen and pouty, eyes glassy and rimmed red from fresh tears, he catches sight of you and swears he could feel his cock grow another inch inside you.

"Look. at. herrrr."

He shifts, shoving the camera right into your fucked-out face, ramming each word right into you, his devilish grin just in sight. Your, hips are moving on their own now as you chase for the desperate release you can taste at the tip of your tongue.

"My pretty little crybaby." He coos, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as a whimper catches in his throat, predetory coral hues scanning your face for every tiny detail.

"Nghhhh! P-please slow down, baby! I'm— ahhh! I'm—"

"You're cumming, cutie."

You don't even realize the first tremor of your climax hitting you until it rips through you with force, hips spasming uncontrollably with your poor cunt twitching around his throbbing cock, the pleasure shattering every nerve ending.

Whimpers tear from your throat, eyes squeezing shut, body shuddering violently with each wave, gushing juices after juices right onto him. And it's a talent really, how you manage to make everything feel wetter and more soaked while submerged in the humid tub water.

"Just listennn," he groans, more to an audience than to you, tilting the camera down for a second to catch the frothy swirl of bubbles, water, and where your bodies meet. "Sooooo damn sloppy for me baby. Ya made such a beautiful big mess."

Your hands scrabble for purchase against his soaked chest, nails catching on slippery skin as your body jerks through another aftershock, head lolling back, throat already raw from moaning. He grits his teeth, arm tightening like a vice around your waist, surely leaving an imprint in it's wake, forcing you to take every grim slam of his.

"Fuh-fuckkkk!

When he follows you into ecstasy with a broken whimper, his hips jump erratically, shoving himself as deep as he can possibly go with a loud thwack!, cock pulsing hot ropes into your fluttering cunt.

He holds you down, grinding through his high, refusing to let you rise even an inch, falling to swallow a moan when the excess seeps out around his shaft, clouding the water with creamy streaks.

"Hahhhh," he breathes, voice breaking into a laugh,drunk on the sight of you. You both catch the way your swollen pussy still hungrily milks him, pearly streaks of cum leaking down his length into the water. "Greedy lil' cunny doesn't know how to s-stop milking me, hmm?"

Too gone to answer, you're trembling in his lap as his cock twitches one last time inside you, lashes set heavy, eyes wet with tears as the culprit grins, every inch of your body like putty in his hold.

Rafayel plants a sloppy kiss to your temple, slender hand stroking down your spine, leaving a shiver in it's wake, before smacking your ass just hard enough to make the water splash, lips brushing your ear to whisper something just for you to hear,

"I already know this is gonna make fuckin' numbers, baby."

꩜DrCumInside: Focus the camera more on yourself for the next video, please? I think we've all had enough of your boyfriends solo selfie-shots.

꩜slutforfishydick: Don't clean out the tub I wanna buy the bathwater. Selling my liver for it.

꩜CamWhoreFan: Try watching this stoned af. Thought I saw fish scales on his arm and neck for a sec. lmao.

꩜sleepycockwarmingchamp: Love the close up angle on her. Looking beautiful as always. Can’t understand how she can keep up with ur cocky ass.

☆Caleb ☆ 1Mio views ▶︎ 8:45min Two Freaks try 69 for the first Time.ᐟ

"Don't be shy, pips'. Sit down."

Yank!

He pulls you down by the hips, slamming your dripping pussy right onto his face. You cry out, thighs snapping tight around his head the second his tongue sneaks into you.

And he gets right into it like a man starved, groaning and moaning like some crazed lunatic, sounds vibrating straight through your cunt, making your whole body jolt as he drinks you in, lapping and plunging, ready to die a happy man by drowing in your heavenly pussy.

You whine, hips bucking reflexively, cunt clenching around his tongue. He hums low in approval, lips smearing over your slick, drenched folds, while his face and your pussy, glossy and flushed, completely in frame, red dot of the camera glisterning in the reflexion of his eyes.

Your shaky breaths fan hot over the flushed head of his cock, fat tip twitching and slightly smearing pre against your lips. So when you finally wipe your tongue over your lips, humming in delight before wrapping your plush lips around his leaking tip, his hips buck so hard you gag right on his mean girth, quick to pull off with a cough.

"Cay'! Quit it!"

"Sorry baby. Couldn't help it, feels so good."

He's not sorry in the slightest.

You roll your eyes because you can barely even hear him over the wet squelches as he munches on your pussy as if he's glued to it, his hands coming up to spreaaaad your cheeks apart, granting him further access to his favourite meal.

Tongue's shoving impossibly deeper now, scraping your spasming walls like a desperate mutt begging for more. His hands grip bruises into your rear, tilting you just right so he can hit your gushing spot with precision.

He even puts on a show, slowwwwly parting your folds with his tongue, traveling carefuly downwards before he catches your clit, sucking on it so hard your hips try to wiggle away.

"No runnin'", he mumbles half-assed right into your cunny, one strong hand landing a mean smack to your ass, quick to buck his hips up, tip nudging your lips, "Get to it."

"You're s-so mean."

Your mouth quickly plops his tip right in, bobbing over his cock in shaky motions, tears stinging your lashes as he bucks into your throat, desperate groans punching out of his chest.

The camera catches your muffled moans around his cock, throat stretching as he throbs inside, thick veins pulsing against your hot tongue. He growls at the vibration, face slick and glossy under you, eyes half-lidded, mind locked dead on his target.

Low hum against your slit and then, his tongue darts higher. He drags it all the way from your puffy clit up to lap up every messy drop of slick clinging to your hole before teasing further, pressing the flat of his tongue right over your tight little pucker.

"Cay-Caleb! Hnghhh!—"

The wicked snort against you makes you whimper, his hot breath washing over the puckering hole as his tongue circles it. You gag on his cock when he does, saliva drip drip dripping down the corner of your stretched mouth, throat squeezing tight shut around him.

It's so fucking messy the way one hand spreads your ass open wider, thumb digging in while his tongue flicks all over your holes, folds, clit— not an inch left unexplored by his greedy tastebuds.

And all he can do is whimper right into your blubbering pussy at the thought of watching you choking on him later on video. He's already imagining your lips stretched around his fat girth, cheeks swollen full, tears streaking down while his tongue works messily between your holes.

"Open wider, baby. Say ahhhh," he ushers, spit dripping down his chin as his finger circles the rim of your pussy hole, making you jerk, "need ta' see that throat take me deep likeee—" Two fingers tease you now before they slide through your squelching hole, pads already caressing the gummy spot in your fluttering hole, "—this."

"A-ahhh! Nghhh!"

Wordlessly, you do as told, mouth stretching further, burning almost, cock sliding heavy across your tongue. Now his tongue makes work to your clit, sucking hard enough while keeping a merciless pace with his meaty fingers, making your thighs convulse. The vibration of his moan rattles your whole cunt again, his hips bucking wildly into your mouth now.

"F-fuck yeah. Js' like that, baby. Good fuckin' girl."

The camera rocks with every mutt-like buck of his hips, shaky lens catching the sight of your limp, mindless body bouncing on his face. You're wailing mess, face covered in a mixture of tears, pre and saliva, his swollen tip stretching your lips, bulging out the inside of your cheek.

"Now would ya' look at that pretty little thing. Fuckkkk."

Caleb's eyes go black with hunger, smirk twitching wider as he twitches up against your mouth, teeth scraping your thigh, lips sucking deep at your soaked folds, each sloppy kiss landing with a loud mwah. He snatches the camera for a moment to zoom meanly close to the glossy mess of your cunt, eyes sparkling at the sight of spit and pre smeared everywhere, messy hole clenching so hard, you might aswell snap his fingers off.

"Better hurry, pips. Can already feel yer' cunny's realllll close to givin' me somethin' sweet."

You try to match his pace, you really do, sucking greedily, hollowing your cheeks, both fists working up and down his massive base to wring the soul out of him but he's always two steps ahead.

Teeth graze your clit now to give it a teasing tug, humming in concentration before swiftly replacing his finger with his tongue.

You still got one more trick up your sleeve. All or nothing.

When your shaky little hand wraps around his leaking tip and gives it a desperate squeeze, you feel the hot fan of his breath tickle your folds. His eyes flutter back for a moment, a groan ripping from his chest as his hips buck again. Your tongue slides slowwwwy across his leaking slit, kittenlicks teasingy scrapy against the sensitive split, tasting every salty drop of pre spilling.

Shit. Shitshitshitshit—

"Ouhh! M' cuh- cumming! M'—!"

All warning comes to late as your orgasm crashes over you violently, cunt clenching and trembling around his face as some of your juices messily spray over the lense.

And that smug bastard eats it all up, licking every drop, every squirt, groaning and moaning, guiding you through your release by firmly rocking your hips onto his face, nose nudging your stuttering hole.

You sob, throat stuffed with his cock, muffling your own cries as tears spill down your cheeks. Your hands claw at his meaty thighs, leaving deep imprints in their wake.

Slurp, spurt, squelch squelch— the sound are downright criminally filthy, the slick gush of your overstimulated cunny refusing to stop spraying your release over him.

"Uh huhhhh, just like that baby. G-gonna— gonna cum right down that lil' throat."

Animal like growl resounds as his hips stutter up against your face, grabing the nape of your neck with one firm hand, forcing you to take him allll the way to the base as his own release threatens to burst, cock swelling with a maddening heat.

"Ohhh fuck! Just a lil' bit more, a lil'— shitshitshit!—"

Hand now traveling to tighten in your hair by the roots, locking you against him as his eyes roll back, hurling himself over the edge. Thick, messy ropes of cum pulse into your mouth and down your aching throat, leaving a hot trail in it's wake.

Camera gripped loosely in his other hand shakes violently with his ruts and finally tips off the bed and onto the cold floor, only catching the mixture of moans and groans from you both, lens forced to remain in the dark as it stares at the dull ceiling.

"Cay'."

His chest rises and falls in heavy bursts, slick hair plastered to his forehead, chestnut eyes snapping open at the sound of your voice. One broad hand kneads your ass to mark his attention, the forgotten camera lying useless on the floor as he watched you grind your hips back against his mouth.

"Say no more, sweets. Wanna squirt on my cock now, huh?"

His cum coated your chin, saying more than any 'yes' could. His tongue is quick to dart out, tasting in relishing kitten licks. He massages your right ass cheek.

You shift down, trembling, lips brushing the flushed head of his cock in a teasing kiss before glancing back at him with a weak rise of your head, cheek resting against his still stiffened cock, your hand fondling his balls playfully.

"Mhmmm."

꩜sleepycockwarmingchamp: Woah. Perfect pussy. She's squirting everywhere :0 Collab?

꩜octopussycat: Bro is locked tf in lolllll.

꩜pilotdicklover: Oh he's a MUNCHHHH. Nose-deep in it and shit. Needddd him so bad.

꩜JustHere2Moan: HELLO WHERE IS PART 2?!? NO WAY IT JUST CUTS OFF HERE

☆Sylus☆ 1.2Mio views ▶︎ 11:23min I Couldn't Wait Until We Got Home.ᐟ

"What a sight to behold."

And he's already filming by the time you glide out of the auction hall and into the chilly city night, lense capturing your turning head, only the curve of your cheek and the mysterious glint in your eye.

You scoff at the lazy smirk tugging at Sylus's lips, his phone hanging loose in his hand as the lens trails after you, drinking in the way your dress clings like it was painted on, the sway of your hips seductive without meaning to be, your every step framed perfectly.

How he loves filming you. Show his treasure off to the world and bathe in their raging jealousy. It's a guilty pleasure of his.

His angle shifts when you slip into the limousine, door shutting with a decadent thud, the camera catching the shape of your thighs as he slides in behind you.

"Perv."

Heat crawls up your cheeks when he only leans in in response, brushing a featherlight kiss against your cheek, grin flashing right into the lens before he pans down again.

"What now? Appreciating my wife's a crime?" Voice dipped in cocky delight as his pale hand slips up, broad palm grazing your thigh just enough to make your thighs twitch and shoot him a warning glare.

You soon squirm in the cramped seat once his fingers dig into your thigh, biting your lip hard as the fabric of your dress shifts dangerously high under his touch.

"You're scheming something, aren't you?"

"Me? Oh, please, sweetie."

.

.

.

"L-liar!"

The footage jumps and you're on all fours in the plush seat now, hair mussed, your gorgeous dress bunched up around your hips. Your panties cling pathetically to one thigh, nearly torn through as his cock digs deep into your drenched pussy, splitting you open like the red sea.

To be honest, you don't even know how he persuaded you into this.

"Hmm? What was that? I can hardly hear you over this—" thwak thwak thwak resounds from your screaming cunny in obscene volume as his hips smash! against your ass with such force your head lolls dumbly in the front, "—mouthy pussy."

The obscene squelch squelch squelching noises and the wet slapping fills the broad vehicle, bouncing off the leather seats and tinted windows,camera wavering just enough to catch the hypnotic jiggle of your ass, the arch of your back, your manicured nails sinking into the cushions as his swollen and eager tip relentlessly grinds against your sweet spot.

"S-sy! The chauffeur's gonna—"

"Leave him be."

Unbothered he drives into you harder, ripping a raw scream from your throat. Your bobbing head snaps toward the thin divider of glass, separating the sinful, musky air from the unsuspecting driver just feet away.

Nothing. The man doesn't stir— out of fear or simply because he couldn't hear, you can't tell.

"See? So why don't you do us both a favor and give our fans some pretty little moans to listen to?"

"Nghhh!"

God, you really shouldn't do this. Sure it feels good and sure the whole situation is making your pussy thrill in excitement, but—

"Pretty please, darling?"

Wait, what were you worrying about again?

Tone mockingly sweet as his fingers hook into your ruined panties, tearing them away with one brutal, insulting tug. A loud rip follows suit, the delicate thread of your dress straining dangerously.

What a shame. This dress is one of your favourites.

"I'll take you shopping right after this, hm? You can buy every pair of panties, every dress you've ever dreamed of…and maybe you'll forgive your husband for shredding these ones."

One firm hand clamped on your hip as he drags you back onto his cock, each thrust more wicked than the last, deep groans rumbling out of him, vibrating against your spine, "How does that sound? Deal?"

When he doesn't get an answer right away, the sharp crack of his palm against your ass lands heavy, sting instantly soothed as his hand rubbing over the mark in lazy apology.

"A-ahh! Y-yes. Yes! Deal!"

"Mhm."

His hand lingers on your ass, squeezing the sting into a bruise as his thrusts turn sharp and hard now, slap of skin fills the car again, so lewd and obscene, each deep kiss to your womb forcing your moans higher, louder.

"Look at you. Already ruined. This the same girl who called me a 'perv' ten minutes ago?" His grip tightens on your hip, dragging you back until you feel the blunt head batter your cervix.

Ah. It's been ten minutes. Feels like an hour on your end.

A sobbing moan as your reply, your eyes begin to water, pussy gushing around his cock loud enough to drown out the hum of the engine.

"Try holding it for me."

Huh?

Handing you the phone with a cheeky grin, your fingers tremble slightly as you adjust it, trying to capture the perfect backshot of him pressing into you, sight of his sculptured pelvis, lower abs and messy silver hair making your pussy gush a sheen coat onto his girth.

You stumble a little, hips pressing against him, hands shaking as you try to frame both your ass and your face, the cute, desperate expressions you can't hide as he ruts into you with teasing thrusts making him throb inbetween your tight tunnel.

"Good girl. Now say you loveeee the way your husband fills you up."

"N-noouhhh! Sy, 's embarrassing!"

Smack! His hand lands on your ass again, harder this time, making you jolt forward with a cry, drool running down your chin. He rubs the sting away slowly, almost soothing, but it's clear he doesn't take your dumb babbling for an answer.

"Say it."

"Fuh-fuck! L-love the way my hus— husband fills me up! 's so gooood!"

"Mmm, hear that? Soooo good, yes?" His gaze flicks to the camera, lips curling into a devilish grin as he leans down so his handsome face sits in frame with your arched back, precisely keeping himself locked deep against your sweet spot to rub rub rub against it. "My sweet wife's pussy is all mine to fuck. "

"Sy! Sy! so damn d-deep! Can't— I can't!"

"Louder, sweetie. Don't make me ask twice."

"I—loooove the way my— ohh! husband f-fucks me!"

"Aww. She's already gone. What a shame." He leans closer, low voice curling like smoke in your ear, then looks past you again, placing a kiss ontop of your head before proceeding to ram you into the seats, dark rubies set onto the camera. " Look at my sweet girl. She just can't help herself but get cock druck every night."

Watching you struggle with that known smirk he always wears, broken moan escaping him once you pulsate around him in protest.

"Let me help, honey," he murmurs, pressing his hand to your back, forcing you into a nasty arch while the other sneaks the phone out of your hand, much to your relief.

Suddenly, your hips are pushed harder into him, his body pressed firmly onto yours and his hand grips your waist to end your squirming, jolting your weakly squashed body against his like you're nothing but a light feather.

"So cute like this," he bites your shoulder lightly, steadying camera to focus in on your drool covered face, mouth slack as your cheek's pressed into the seat, "my messy little wife."

"Wanna, wanna! cuh— Syyyy—lussss!"

"Who's holding you back? Surely not me."

His thrusts hammer harder, his cock swelling thick at the base, the drag of his tip battering your sweet spot until your nails carve crescent moons into the cushions, damn near ripping them. "Go on. Give them a show worth watching, sweetie."

On cue your cunny clenches once, twice, thighs trembling violently under him as your orgasm rips through you, shameless expression fully plastered on display as you soak your husbands cock in gush after gush of cum while your scream echoes in the car.

"F-fuck— yes, just like t-that."

Hanging onto a thin thread himself now, his voice fractures into a grunt, pace stuttering as his head falls back with a snarl, veins bulging in his throat.

One last harsh slam and heat floods your womb in heavy buckets of his cum spilling so deep it forces some to drip down onto the expensive leather.

Quickly, he hauls you into his lap now, cock still locked deep inside as your head lolls back onto his shoulder, eyes hazily making out the recording lens and the messy kiss he pulls you into, tongues and teeth clashing as your saliva smears across his face.

He focuses in on your stuffed cunny, a faint bulge pressing against your lower belly, exposing the buckets of cum he dumped into you.

When you weakly try to press your thighs together, his hand wedges between them, prying you open with ease, fingers digging into your soft flesh, holding you wide, putting your ruined pussy on display.

"We still got fifteen more minutes until we're home. One more round to go, darling."

꩜skyhavenspanker: Pussy so good bro just had to knock her up at the back of a limo lmao. I get it tho.

꩜octopussycat: Y'ALL ARE FREAKS FRFR. GYATTTT DAYUMMM! Is your husband up to sharing?^^

꩜daddyissues69: They're both so hot I wish I could have a 3way with them so bad and get taken to pound town.

꩜FapFiend: You guys must have the best make-up sex jesus christ.

"EEE! You're never usually up this early, bestie!!!" she shrieks, her arms wrapping around your neck in an ambush hug that nearly sends the entire tray flying.

You stumble, your elbow knocking into a napkin dispenser, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge. You manage to steady yourself just in time, shooting her a glare while trying not to spill breakfast all over your shirt.

"Tara! Jesus—warn me next time," you mutter, clutching the tray like a shield.

She bounces back with a grin, eyes wide with the manic energy of someone who’s either had too much coffee or is running purely on adrenaline. Her short brown hair is immaculately styled, every strand in place like she spent half an hour perfecting it in the mirror—despite the fact that she’s bouncing around like she mainlined espresso for breakfast.

"What are you doing awake right before class? You good? Are you sick? Are you dying? Should I alert the RA?"

You smirk, adjusting your tray. "Just...figured I’d try being a functional human for once."

"Uh huh. Sure. Just out of the blue you decide to turn over a new leaf at 8 a.m.?" she says, raising a skeptical brow as she falls into step beside you. "This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain new professor, would it?"

You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. That’s all anyone had been obsessing over for days now—whispers in crowded lecture halls, overheard conversations in library study rooms. Every time someone so much as mentioned the history department, mentions of him came up like clockwork.

You couldn’t walk across campus or sit down in the dining hall without catching snippets—"Did you hear he's taking over Alden's class?" or "I heard he's, like, stupid smart and scary hot." Even the TA had mentioned him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"Oh my god. Not you too," you say, groaning into your tray like it might protect you from further humiliation.

Tara gasps like you just confessed a dark secret. "So it is! You’re totally crushing already, I knew it!"

You glare at her, signaling that she’s pushing it, but she just beams wider. "No one’s even seen him yet, much less me," you say sharply, appalled at the very idea that you'd ever crush on a man that you'd never even laid eyes on. "What are you even talking about?"

Tara snorts and whips out her phone like it’s a mic drop. "Oh c'mon... you didn’t see the photo posted to MOMENTS last night? Someone leaked his resume and everything. There’s literally a thread titled ‘Hot History Daddy.’ "

You freeze for a split second, internally cringe and then groan. Who would name a thread something so...awful? "Of course there is."

"I mean...he’s tall, he’s broody in that unreadable, 'probably knows six dead languages' kind of way, and he apparently got his PhD in military and political revolutions by the time he was twenty-four?! And he’s teaching that upper-level history class right?"

You don’t answer to Tara's continuous yapping, mostly because your absolutely starving. Instead, you find an empty table and finally set your tray down, shoulders still tight from the collision. Tara sits across from you like she’s waiting for tea to be spilled.

"I’m just saying," she hums, propping her chin on her hand, "if he’s half as intense in person as he looks on paper, you’re gonna be in trouble."

You snort, shoving a bite of omelet into your mouth before answering, voice thick with sarcasm. "Tara, I’m on track to graduate with one of the highest GPA's on campus. Some 'hot' professor is not going to throw me off course."

She giggles and casually reaches across the table to take a sip from your coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re better than me. I’m genuinely considering switching majors just to get into his class. That man could lecture me about 18th-century tax codes and I’d still be hooked. He’s twenty-eight, did you know that? Twenty-eight! And apparently, he has one of those low, sexy voices that makes everything sound ten times more important. Like, how can a girl resist?!"

You roll your eyes but can’t help laughing with her. The two of you fall into your usual rhythm, the conversation drifting into safer territory—her awful roommate, who leaves dishes in the sink for days and uses her skincare without asking, and the flood of assignments you’ve both been hit with.

Still, despite the easy back-and-forth, your thoughts keep circling back. You hadn’t given much attention to the change in faculty—Alden’s resignation had seemed abrupt, sure, but professors left all the time. It wasn’t your problem. Or at least, it hadn’t been.

Now, though, a question stuck in your brain like a loose thread: who was this new guy, really?

You shook the thought off with a small, amused exhale. It didn’t matter. You had goals. And no broody, sharp-jawed academic with a mysterious background and a voice like smooth bourbon was going to distract you.

Absolutely not.

Eventually, breakfast winds down, though Tara tries her best to drag it out with one last dramatic rumor about the new professor supposedly having a pet crow. After a warm, slightly-too-tight bear hug—complete with her whispering, "Try not to drool if he speaks directly to you!". You both finally part ways and head off in separate directions to face the day.

Your first class is an advanced writing seminar tucked away on the second floor of the humanities building. You slip into a seat by the window, letting the late morning sun pour in as you unpack your notebook and pens. The professor launches into a lecture about persuasive structure—ethos, pathos, logos—but your mind keeps drifting. You find yourself doodling in the margins, scribbling random phrases like "commanding presence" and underlining them without meaning to. Every five minutes, your gaze flicks to the clock.

You manage to take decent notes—nothing spectacular, but passable. You answer one question without stumbling, which feels like a small miracle. But underneath it all, your mind hums. You keep imagining what his voice might actually sound like. Would it even be sexy? Or just...distracting? Maybe a little ridiculous?

You couldn't decide if you were intrigued or just caught up in the collective hysteria.

Next is psychology—an elective you chose partly for the credits and partly because you hoped it would be more engaging than another dry lecture. Today’s topic is groupthink, which your professor is oddly excited about. She moves around the room gesturing like she’s on a game show, explaining how consensus-seeking can override critical thinking. You catch about half of it. Your notes are scattered—some bullet points, a half-finished diagram, and an accidental sketch of what might be a jawline with glasses.

Tara’s words keep echoing: He’s twenty-eight. Low, sexy voice. Makes everything sound important. You hadn’t realized how thoroughly she’d infected your brain with this nonsense, but there it was—taking up real estate where your attention span should’ve been.

By the time your third class starts—econ, which you only enrolled in because you needed it for your requirements—you’re a mess of frayed nerves and wandering thoughts. The lecture is already underway when you slip into your seat. You open your notebook, but your pen just hovers above the page. The professor’s voice is background noise.

"Miss?" he says. Once. Then again, louder.

Your head snaps up. Everyone’s looking at you.

"Would you like to repeat what I just said?" he asks, not unkindly, but definitely with an edge of impatience.

You blink, heart thudding, throat dry. "Uh...something about...marginal utility?"

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the classroom. The professor gives you a look—just short of disappointed—then nods and continues.

You sink lower into your chair, wishing you could melt into the linoleum.

God. Tara had gotten in your head. And not just a little.

Now, every passing minute felt like a countdown—one that ticked steadily toward the class you were trying not to think about. Toward the room where you’d finally see him for yourself.

You told yourself again it didn’t matter. You had goals, a plan. You weren’t the type to get distracted by a face, or a voice, or...anything.

But still—your pulse beat a little faster. Your fingers tightened slightly on your pen.

Next up was "Conflict and Transformation in Modern History"—one of those broad, upper-level courses that tried to cover everything from revolutions and world wars to decolonization and ideological shifts. It was supposed to be challenging, heavy on reading and discussion, and definitely not the kind of class where you could just show up and coast through.

You had liked Alden. Sure, he’d been a bit elderly—white hair, soft-spoken, with a habit of misplacing his glasses—but he wasn’t intense. He’d stroll into class five minutes late with a thermos of tea and a thick stack of notes, and somehow still managed to deliver lectures that felt more like storytelling than instruction.

He graded fairly, gave actual, thoughtful feedback instead of those vague comments professors sometimes scribbled in the margins, and his assignments—while definitely not light—had been surprisingly fun. Creative, even. You’d created a detailed, annotated map showing troop movements, resource lines, and political borders during a war and actually enjoyed yourself.

You always knew where you stood in his class. Alden taught because he loved history, and it showed. You respected that.

So yeah, when they announced he was stepping down mid-semester, it had thrown you. And the fact that his replacement was someone younger, fresh-faced, and supposedly "brilliant" only made it worse. The buzz around campus hadn’t helped either. It turned what should have been a simple change in faculty into something laced with nerves and speculation.

You dreaded to think what this new professor would put you through. The syllabus had been updated without warning—longer reading lists, more rigid grading structure, and a participation section that made your stomach twist. You feared the type: overly serious, hyper-competitive, the kind who took some kind of intellectual pride in confusing their students and pretending it was all part of the learning process.

If you were lucky, maybe he’d be the kind who relied on endless PowerPoint slides, assigned textbook readings that no one did, and tossed in the occasional multiple-choice quiz to make it feel like he was keeping everyone on their toes. You could handle that. That was survivable. That was routine.

But something told you luck wasn’t on your side this semester. Not with the way everyone was talking. Not with the way Tara had described him like he was a character straight out of a gothic novel—sharp eyes, sharper voice, and a mind that probably never turned off.

You hadn’t even met him yet, and still, he was already taking up space in your head. And that...was not a good sign.

Your nerves didn’t ease as you sat alone in the corner of the dining hall for lunch, choosing a small table by the window like you always did when you needed to think. The glass was cold to the touch where your elbow brushed it, the view outside a blur of passing students and drifting autumn leaves. Tara was across Linkon on another campus, buried in some group project for her class, which meant there was no one to distract you from your spiraling thoughts—or the restless energy twisting in your stomach.

The soup in front of you sent up gentle curls of steam, smelling faintly of chicken, salt, and something vaguely herbal. You scooped it up in quick, uneven gulps, as if finishing faster might stop the churn in your gut. Instead, each swallow landed like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable, making you wonder if it was anxiety or the soup that had turned your insides into a knot.

The walk across campus felt longer than it ever had before. Your shoes scuffed against the pavement, and you fell into a rhythm of letting out a sigh every dozen steps, hoping it might somehow bleed the tension from your shoulders.

When the history building finally came into view, you slowed, almost without meaning to. The stone façade loomed ahead, cool and imposing in the shade. You rubbed your damp palms against your jeans, willing your heartbeat to calm. At the entrance, you paused, pulled in one long, steadying breath, and stepped inside.

It didn't take long to find your class, passing about six or seven doors before you finally made it.

The classroom was already alive with sound—low conversations weaving together into a steady buzz, chairs scraping against the floor, backpacks hitting the ground with soft thumps. Students were sliding into their usual seats, greeting each other, flipping through notebooks. You caught snippets of laughter, a complaint about last week’s reading, someone unwrapping a granola bar.

Your eyes scanned the room automatically, taking stock. It didn’t take long to notice the changes: Alden’s personal touches were gone. The framed maps that had lined the walls, the slightly dusty shelf stacked with worn hardcovers, even the old, battered globe that had sat near the window—they’d all vanished. Without them, the space felt stripped bare, almost clinical.

But of the new professor? Not a single trace. No bag on the desk. No laptop waiting to be opened. Just an empty chair at the front of the room, and a silence in that corner that made you all the more aware of the seconds ticking by.

Your nerves eased slightly, but not completely. You glanced down at your phone, the screen glowing back at you with the time. Late on his first day? Ugh. Maybe you’d been overthinking this whole thing after all. If he couldn’t even be bothered to show up on time, how intense could he really be? The rumors had painted him as punctual to the point of severity, the kind of man who valued discipline above all else. But now, with the seconds slipping by, that image began to crack.

You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to loosen, and slipped into your seat. The room felt warmer now, filled with the restless hum of idle chatter. A group of boys in the back had taken it upon themselves to entertain the class, cracking loud jokes about the “ten-minute rule” and declaring that if the professor didn’t show up soon, they were morally—no, legally—obligated to leave. One of them even glanced at his watch theatrically, prompting more laughter.

A girl two seats over leaned toward her friend, whispering something that made them both snicker. Pages turned, backpacks shifted, and a faint, impatient drumming of fingers on wood began somewhere behind you. The atmosphere was loose, unbothered—like everyone was already half-expecting a free period.

A few minutes pass…then a few more. The restless shifting in the room grows louder, students exchanging glances as the seconds drag on. The boys in the back keep their running commentary going, each joke a little louder than the last, like they’re performing for an invisible audience. Pens click, chair legs scrape against the floor, and the tension between expectation and impatience hangs heavy in the air.

Finally, one of them pushes back from his desk with a dramatic sigh, stretching his arms high overhead as if this has been the most exhausting wait of his life. He rolls his shoulders, glances at his friends with a grin, and saunters toward the door like he’s about to lead them in a bold, freedom-seeking escape.

“Damn, teach is late on his first day? Sheesh,” he says, pitching his voice so it carries across the entire room. A couple of his buddies chuckle. He reaches for the handle and swings the door open wide—only to stop short as he nearly collides chest-first with what feels like a solid wall of black wool and muscle.

The man standing there is tall—easily over six feet—with the kind of presence that turns heads without trying. His silver hair is styled into a sleek, well-kept mullet, the front and crown swept neatly back to catch the light from the hallway while the longer layers brush the nape of his neck, and his coat hangs perfectly tailored over broad shoulders. Beneath it, a black turtleneck only sharpens the lines of his frame. For a moment, the noise from the hall seems to vanish, replaced by a hush that seeps into the room. The boy at the door loses his grin in an instant, his hand still on the knob. 

The man tilts his head, studying the student with piercing red eyes that seem to miss nothing. When he speaks, his voice is smooth, resonant, and edged with just enough dry humor to sting. “I’d hate to think you were planning to leave before I even had the chance to start.”

The boy laughs awkwardly and steps aside, but the damage is done—the air in the room feels different now, taut and expectant, every eye following the professor as he steps inside.

You suddenly feel like you can’t breathe. This is…your new professor? No fucking way. He looks like he should be modeling for some high end magazine, not teaching an advanced history course at a college. Up close, he’s even taller than you’d imagined, the lines of his tailored coat cutting a sharp silhouette as he steps into the room. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click.

Your eyes track him without meaning to, caught by the way he moves—unhurried, purposeful, not sparing a glance for anyone just yet. It’s the walk of someone who already owns the space he’s in, whether or not anyone has given him permission.

Your classmates are just as spellbound. The room, which moments ago had been a low roar of chatter, falls into fractured silence. Heads swivel, whispered words taper off, and even the boys in the back quiet down. He reaches the desk and sets down a sleek black laptop, the soft thud of it hitting the wood somehow louder than the hum of the heaters. The faint glint of silver at his temple catches the overhead light, drawing your focus again.

Without so much as a word, he turns toward the whiteboard. The shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable—a slight straightening of his back, a set to his shoulders that makes him seem even taller. Hushed whispers stir again, a rustling of curiosity that moves through the rows like a current.

He picks up a marker, and the motion is quick yet deliberate. His hand moves with the kind of certainty that brooks no hesitation, each stroke sharp and clean. The faint chemical tang of fresh ink drifts in the air. You find yourself leaning forward without thinking, your eyes fixed on the letters forming under his hand.

In bold, uncompromising block letters, he writes:

“Power never dies. It only changes hands.”

The words stand stark against the whiteboard, heavy with implication. He pauses, marker poised, then draws a single underline beneath the sentence—slow, steady. The scraping sound of the tip against the board seems to echo in the stillness.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. No one breathes.

Then silently, he turns, the marker still in his hand, and lets the corners of his mouth curl into a small, knowing smile aimed at the class. Your heart drops straight into your stomach as your eyes take in his entire face for the first time. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it was carved to smirk, and eyes sharp enough to pin you to your seat.

“He’s fucking hot…” the girl next to you whispers to her friend with a half-stifled giggle.

You can’t help it—you agree without hesitation. Yeah, he’s more than hot. He’s unfairly gorgeous, almost otherworldly, like someone took every good feature possible and assembled them in a way that made it hard to breathe. Tara’s going to lose her mind when she hears she was right. The thought makes your face heat, especially when that faint smile of his lingers just a second longer.

Then, in a voice that’s smooth and measured, he says, “We can skip the honorific titles. No ‘Mister’ here—you can all call me Sylus.”

He adjusts his thin, wire-framed glasses with a small push at the bridge of his nose, the motion precise and somehow just as disarming as the smile. Your heart beats faster at the sound of his smooth, sultry voice.

Another win for Tara.

“You’re not here to memorize dates,” he says, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “If that’s what you’re after, leave now. Google can tell you who won, and when. I’m not interested in that.”

He paces slowly at the front of the room, the low sound of his shoes against the floor filling the silence. There’s no PowerPoint clicker in his hand, no projected bullet points to follow. Just him, his words, and the steady thrum of anticipation in your chest.

“History is not simply a list of dead men and dusty treaties. It is a graveyard of decisions,” he continues, his gaze sweeping the rows like a searchlight. “It’s blood soaked into soil no one remembers walking on. It’s ordinary people destroyed by extraordinary ambitions. And it never stays buried.”

He stops mid-stride, facing the class head-on. For a moment, he doesn’t speak—just lets the weight of his words sink in. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, roam over the faces in front of him, and you get the uneasy feeling he can already tell who will thrive here…and who will flinch.

You feel your blood run cold as his eyes seem to stop directly on your face, the weight of his gaze locking you in place. For a second, the rest of the room blurs—just you, his piercing focus, and the thudding in your chest. Huh? Are you imagining it, or is he actually looking at you? Your skin prickles under the possibility. Heat creeps up your neck, and embarrassed, you force yourself to break the moment, pretending to dig through your bag as if searching for something urgent. The crinkle of paper and shuffle of pens feels absurdly loud in your ears. You let out a quiet sigh of relief only when you sense his attention drifting to the other side of the room.

“In this course, we do not celebrate civilizations,” he says, his tone dropping even lower. “We dissect them. We pull apart the gears to see how they worked, who turned them…and who was crushed in the process. You will read primary sources that lie outright. You will examine revolutions that sputtered out before they could burn. You will question the heroes you were told to admire. And if you do this right—if you’re brave enough—you’ll realize how terrifyingly easy it is to repeat the worst mistakes of all of it.”

Another pause, longer this time. His voice softens, but the intensity doesn’t waver.

“We begin,” he says, taking the same marker and writing the words slowly across the board, “with the fall of the Virelian Republic.” He sets the marker down, turns, and adds, “Not the empire. The republic—because that’s where the real story begins.”

A ripple of unease moves through the room. You feel it too.

But your unease is…different now. It’s not the jittery nervousness you felt when you first walked in—this is sharper, coiled tight in your belly, making your skin buzz with awareness. You can’t take your eyes off him as he moves across the front of the room, the quiet thud of his shoes punctuating his words. His voice flows with an unhurried confidence, carrying easily to every corner of the classroom without him ever raising it.

You’re mesmerized. The way his piercing red eyes scan the rows, never lingering on any one person for too long, as though he’s taking mental notes on each of you. The subtle flex of his jaw when he emphasizes a point. The faint gleam of light against the lenses of his thin, wire-framed glasses before he nudges them higher with a practiced push of two fingers. Even the shift of his shoulders when he changes direction catches your attention, and it makes your face warm in a way you try desperately to ignore.

He stops mid-stride, turning to face the class fully. His hands rest lightly behind his back, posture straight, expression calm. “So,” he says evenly, his gaze sweeping the room, “what do you think was the single most significant factor in the collapse of the Virelian Republic?”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should. A few hesitant hands rise. “The assassination of Marcellus Vire,” one student ventures. Without hesitation, he gives a small shake of his head. Another offers, “Economic inequality,” and he tilts his head slightly, acknowledging the thought but clearly unsatisfied. A third, from the back row, says, “Corruption,” earning a raised brow and the faintest hum of interest, but still no sign they’ve hit the mark.

He lets the silence stretch, his gaze moving from face to face, giving each student a moment under its weight before shifting to the next. The soft scratching of a pen somewhere in the room seems unnaturally loud in the stillness.

You sit there, pulse pounding in your ears, realizing with a jolt that you know the answer—really know it. It’s there, fully formed, pressed to the tip of your tongue, your hand twitching faintly against your notebook. You can already imagine the way his eyes might narrow, the way his attention might lock on you if you spoke. The thought sends another rush of heat to your face. Still, the answer burns inside you, insistent, demanding to be said.

Your academic side gets the best of you—and, if you’re being brutally honest, maybe there’s also that ridiculous, sudden craving for his attention—so you raise your hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He nods in your direction and it sends a strange jolt through your chest. You can feel the shift in the room instantly, the weight of your classmates’ eyes settling on you, their curiosity almost tangible. For a moment, it’s just you under his gaze, your pulse loud in your ears, the answer balanced on the edge of your lips.

“That's a trick question. It wasn’t just one event,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “It was the breakdown of the political norms that held the Republic together. Once those were gone, everything else—civil wars, power grabs, Marcellus Vire—was inevitable.”

A beat of silence follows. His eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, and then—just barely—he nods. Not a perfunctory acknowledgment, but a slow, deliberate motion that makes your chest tighten.

“Correct,” he says, his voice carrying enough weight to make it feel like more than a simple affirmation. “And the fact that you understand that means you already know how dangerous that kind of collapse can be.”

The attention in the room shifts again, but you can still feel the echo of his gaze lingering, as if he’d left a mark you can’t quite shake.

You breathe a sigh of relief, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time since you walked into the room. Yeah, this was going to be fine—maybe even easy. Even with a new professor, the material wasn’t foreign to you. He clearly knew his subject, his explanations were sharp, but nothing about the lesson itself felt beyond your reach. You could keep up, you could answer questions, and maybe, if you played your cards right, you could even impress him.

So why the hell did you still feel so nervous? The unease wasn’t the same as the pre-class jitters—it had shifted into something heavier, something you felt low in your stomach. Every time his eyes swept over the room and passed your row, you caught yourself holding your breath without realizing it. Your pulse would skip, and a faint heat would creep up the back of your neck before you forced yourself to refocus on your notes.

You told yourself it was because he had a commanding presence, that it was only natural to be on edge around someone like that. But deep down, you knew there was more to it. The timbre of his voice stuck with you longer than it should have. The way he moved, the precision in his gestures, the deliberate pauses between his sentences—they all had a way of pulling your attention back to him, no matter how determined you were to concentrate on the material.

The rest of class passes in a blur of steady pacing, crisp notes scratched into your notebook, and that deep voice threading through every explanation like it’s weaving itself into your brain. He moves effortlessly from one concept to the next, making complex political shifts and centuries-old grievances sound like stories you’d overhear in a shadowy tavern. By the time the clock’s hands creep toward the hour, you’ve almost forgotten how tense you’d been when you walked in.

Then he caps his marker with a deliberate click and turns toward the class, his eyes scanning the rows before landing somewhere in the middle.

“For your first assignment,” he says, “I want you to write a two-page account of the Virelian Republic’s collapse… but from the perspective of someone who didn’t survive it. A soldier, a baker, a servant—anyone whose voice might have been lost in the official records. No research yet. Just imagination.”

A ripple of confusion moves through the room—eyebrows raise, a few pens pause mid-scratch. It’s not the kind of task you expect in a history course. You can feel the class collectively leaning into the idea even as they exchange wary glances.

The room stays hushed for a beat before the rustle of notebooks and backpacks resumes, louder now in the silence he’s left. He gives a single nod of dismissal. “Due next week. That’s all.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Relief rolls through you in a warm wave—not just because there’s only one assignment, but because you’ll finally get to leave. Leave the stifling awareness of the way your heart stutters every time your gaze lingers on him too long. Or the inexplicable urge to press your thighs together when he smirks mid-sentence.

You shove your notebook into your bag with unnecessary force, the corners catching on your sleeve, and stand so quickly your chair legs scrape the floor.

You follow the flow of students toward the door, the din of shuffling feet and low chatter filling the air. You’re only a few steps away from freedom when it happens.

“Miss?”

The single word cuts through the noise like a blade, rich enough to seem almost tangible. It slides along your skin, curling low in your stomach. You freeze mid-step as every nerve in your body sparks awake.

You turn toward him, trying to regulate your breathing, your throat tightening with the effort to look composed. Meeting his eyes is harder than you expect—like staring into something that might see more than you want to reveal. Still, you manage, holding his gaze for a fleeting moment. “Yes, Mr— I mean, Sylus?” you say, the stumble making you cringe inwardly even as you force a small, nervous smile to soften it.

He doesn’t comment on your slip, but his attention doesn’t waver either. Unexpectedly, he gestures toward the desk where you’d been sitting just moments ago, his fingers flicking in that direction. “Your bag,” he says simply, the syllables clipped but not unkind.

A wave of embarrassment surges through you, hot and immediate, making your skin prickle. You almost want to laugh it off, but your voice comes out in a quick, higher-than-usual rush. “Oh! Thank you—silly me,” you manage, the words tumbling over each other.

You turn on your heel and make your way back to your seat, every step feeling strangely amplified, as if the sound of your shoes on the floor is far too loud. The imagined weight of his gaze follows you, a steady pressure between your shoulder blades. You bend to grab the strap of your bag and sling it over your shoulder with more force than necessary. Your cheeks are warm, and you’re painfully aware of the way your hair shifts around your face as you move.

As you straighten and turn toward the door again, you resist the urge to glance back, though you can feel—deep in your gut—that his eyes are still on you. The awareness lingers, prickling at the edges of your thoughts, all the way to the doorway.

Way to make yourself look like a complete dumbass, you think, but the truth is, part of you wonders if he’s still watching long after you’ve gone.

There was no denying it—it was crush at first sight. The moment you’d seen him, something in you had shifted like the click of a lock, and there was no pretending otherwise. It had been instant, irrational, and a little terrifying. And it was immediately obvious to Tara, of course. You could never hide anything from her for long. She had a talent for sniffing out gossip and romantic tension faster than anyone else on campus, like a bloodhound with a nose for drama. She could read you like an open book, whether you wanted her to or not.

She didn’t even wait for you to bring it up. The second she saw your face, she lit up with a grin that spelled trouble. “You like him! I knew it!” she declared, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

You groaned, rolling your eyes, but she only leaned in closer, unwilling to let you wriggle free. “Seeee? I told you you’d be in troubleeeee,” she sing-songed as the two of you strolled down the long campus hallways. The polished tile echoed your footsteps, her teasing voice bouncing off the walls just loud enough to make you want to clamp a hand over her mouth.

You stifled another groan, dragging your hand over your face as if you could physically hide the flush blooming across your cheeks. “Okay, yeah—he’s hot. Like, really hot. How am I ever gonna be able to focus in class?” you muttered, your voice halfway between defeat and disbelief.

Tara laughed, looping her arm through yours in an almost conspiratorial way. “You won’t,” she said cheerfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And it’s gonna be amazing.”

You shot her a look, but she only smirked, clearly already imagining every possible outcome. Tara of course, would be no comfort. “Mark my words, you’re gonna thank me for warning you.” She bumped her shoulder into yours, and you couldn’t tell if she was joking or actually serious.

"What am I gonna do? His voice…his face…his…hands." You let your own hands fall into your lap with a dramatic thud, the sound echoing faintly down the hallway, making the moment feel even more ridiculous.

"Tara. They’re fucking huge. You should see him hold a pen. I could barely breathe…" The words tumble out in a rush, your voice low but urgent, like admitting it too loudly would make it more real. Just thinking about it sends your pulse racing all over again. The image is vivid—his long fingers curled around the pen, the slow precision of his movements, the ease with which he commanded even the smallest gesture. It had been ridiculous, and you’d been painfully aware of every second you spent watching. You sigh, leaning your weight against the wall, as if it might ground you before your legs give out completely.

Tara’s smirk widens knowingly. She crosses her arms and props herself against the opposite wall like she’s the audience to your confession, not your best friend. She tilts her head, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of curiosity and mischief that always means trouble. "Get his attention! That’s what you do! You’re smart—use it. Answer all his questions, make yourself impossible to ignore. Find excuses to talk to him. Flirt!"

You gape at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. "Flirt? With my professor?" you hiss, but she just grins, clearly savoring your reaction. Leave it to Tara to encourage behavior that could land you in academic scandal.

Your cheeks burn hotter at her persistence, and you cover your face with both hands again like maybe she won’t see the flush spreading across your skin. "You’re insane," you mumble through your palms. "He’s my professor, Tara. He’s definitely not gonna pay attention to a student. That’s…like…highly unethical."

"That’s where you’re wrong," she counters, her tone dripping with confidence. "Even the most strict professors drop their boundaries with a little push." The way she says it makes your stomach twist—not entirely from nerves. She pushes off the wall with a casual grace, falling into step beside you as you start walking again. Her voice stays light, almost playful, but her eyes stay sharp, calculating, like she’s already mapping out a plan you’ll have no choice but to follow.

You glance sideways at her, both dreading and curious about whatever scheme is brewing in her head.

Still, you listen as she rambles off advice, her tone breezy but her eyes sharp, like she’s enjoying every second of this. You tell her about how he’d called after you when you forgot your bag, expecting her to laugh it off—but instead, she seizes on it instantly.

"Forget it more often," she suggests with a sly grin, "but not too often. You don’t want to look like you’re doing it on purpose. Make it subtle—give him a reason to call you back."

Before you can respond, she’s already onto the next step. "And dress more…eye-catching. You know—tighter clothes, ones that show off your assets. Make him notice, even if he’s trying not to." She says it so casually, like this is just another piece of friendly advice, the same way she might suggest a good place for coffee.

You can’t believe you’re actually listening. The thought alone makes you want to laugh, but you bite it back. You half-wonder if she’s done this before. Then you realize—that’s a stupid question.

She’s Tara. Of course she has.

And maybe…just maybe…it couldn’t hurt to try. Right?

The next few classes were nerve-wracking, each one a mix of genuine academic focus and the constant, distracting hum of your awareness of him. Still, you took Tara’s advice to heart. You started wearing your tightest shirts, the ones that hugged your figure in all the right places, along with shorts, skirts, and leggings that left little to the imagination—always hovering on the right side of “college appropriate,” but enough to make you feel his eyes might catch on you, even if only for a second. Every morning, choosing an outfit became less about comfort and more about calculated impact.

Sylus’s next big lesson was on the Siege of Caelthorn—a brutal turning point long before Linkon existed as a nation—though it happened on the land that would one day become Linkon, rife with political betrayal, desperate alliances, and the kind of last-stand tragedies that could haunt you for weeks. He paced as he spoke, weaving the dry facts into a gripping narrative, his voice lowering and rising at just the right moments to keep you hooked. He spoke of generals who turned traitor, civilians who fought with spears, and an entire winter where the city’s people lived on scraps of bark and boiled leather. You could picture it in your mind, his words painting the scene vividly…or at least, you could have, if you weren’t so busy noticing other things.

Because today, he was in a short-sleeved shirt—simple, fitted, and criminally distracting. The cut of the fabric framed his broad shoulders perfectly, and every movement pulled it taut across his arms, revealing the kind of muscle definition you didn’t expect from a professor. Your pen hovered uselessly over the page as you watched the fabric stretch and flex with the roll of his shoulders, your brain catching on details that had nothing to do with Caelthorn.

Fuck. He has biceps? The thought popped into your head with the force of a revelation, almost making you miss the next thing he said. And then, because your brain clearly hated you, the thought spiraled. What does his stomach look like? Does he have abs under there?

And the more important thought of what was hiding in his pants. Tara had made the lewd remark of "Well...if his hands and feet are big...you know what that means!"

You tore your gaze away, fixing it firmly on your notebook. You tried to copy down the date of the siege, the names of key figures, but the words swam in front of you, meaningless. All you could think about was the curve of his arm as he gestured toward the map, the faint veins visible along his forearms, and how close you were sitting—close enough that if he walked past your desk, you might actually smell his cologne.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to focus on the lesson, but the mental image lingered stubbornly, just out of reach, refusing to fade even as the bell approached.

Deciding to push yourself, you start asking questions in class—questions you already know the answers to. "Did the Siege of Caelthorn shift trade routes permanently or just temporarily?"

"Did the loss at Caelthorn weaken the Republic more through military defeat or through the collapse of public morale?"

You pick your moments carefully, raising your hand when you’re sure he’ll notice, tilting your head in that curious way that says I’m engaged without overdoing it. Each time, he listens, then responds in that precise, almost measured tone.

“The siege permanently altered trade in the southern provinces,” he says, “redirecting goods through coastal routes instead of inland. And the greater blow to the Republic?” He pauses just long enough for a few pens to hover over notebooks. “It came from the public’s loss of faith in its leaders, not from the military defeat itself.” His delivery is steady, free of theatrics, but you swear you catch the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes before he turns away. It’s subtle, almost nothing…but enough to keep you trying again the next day.

After class, you decided to “forget” your bag again. You made a little production of it this time—sliding your notebook into your backpack with exaggerated care, glancing toward the door as if you were already thinking about your next class, then strolling right out without looking back. A giddy rush of excitement curled in your chest as you took a few steps into the hallway, pretending to fish something out of your pocket while waiting for that familiar sound—his voice.

Sure enough, it came. But this time, when you turned, you saw he’d already walked a few steps toward you, your bag in hand. “A few more times,” he said, holding it out, “and this might just become someone else’s bag.”

The corners of your mouth tugged upward in a laugh that felt lighter than you meant it to. “Thanks again, sorry about that,” you replied, reaching for the strap.

His fingers brushed yours as he passed it over, the contact brief but enough to make your pulse skip. He nodded, his gaze steady, lingering just long enough to make you feel like the hallway had gone a little quieter. “Good questions today, by the way. It’s always a pleasure to hear from you.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs as you smiled back, trying to ignore the warmth blooming in your cheeks. Holy shit—this was the longest conversation you’d had with him so far. You told yourself to keep it cool, to keep your voice even. “Of course,” you said, adjusting the bag on your shoulder, “history has always been my favorite subject.”

He gave the smallest smirk, just enough to make you second-guess whether you’d imagined it. “Glad to hear it,” he said, before turning back toward the classroom. And as you walked away, your mind replayed every word, every glance, clinging to the moment. He smelled....really nice.

The test came soon after, and naturally, this was no multiple choice hand-holding. Written answers only—the kind of exam that demanded you know the material well enough to explain it in your own words. Everyone else seemed deeply immersed in their own work…everyone except you.

Your eyes kept flicking upward, drawn against your will to Sylus, seated at his desk with a thick, worn book open in front of him. The light caught on the edges of his glasses as he read, his expression calm, almost unreadable. Every so often, his long, veiny hand flexed as he turned a page, the tendons shifting under his skin in a way that made your chest tighten. It was such a mundane movement, yet somehow it had your attention locked. You had no business noticing something like that during a test—but your brain didn’t care. Fuck, you gotta focus.

You dragged your gaze back to the paper in front of you, forcing your mind to zero in on the questions. They were challenging but fair, each one built to test not just memory but actual understanding. You found the answers coming to you without hesitation, your pen moving swiftly across the page. By the time you reached the final prompt, your hand ached faintly from writing, but you powered through, finishing with a flourish before setting your pen down. The relief was immediate, a quiet exhale as the weight of the exam lifted.

The minutes ticked down, and soon the end of the class arrived. Sylus gave a brief nod of dismissal, and the room stirred back to life. Chairs scraped loudly against the floor, backpacks were unzipped and zipped again, and the low hum of post-test chatter filled the space. One by one, students filed out through the door, drifting toward the rest of their day.

But not everyone left.

A small knot of girls lingered behind, their movements slower, their voices low but tinged with laughter. Some pretended to fuss with their notebooks, others hovered near his desk under the pretense of asking questions.

Fuck. You should’ve known you wouldn’t be the only one feigning for his attention.

But it gave you an idea. If they could linger, so could you—except you’d do it better. You could feign ignorance after class, asking questions about assignments you’d already mastered, making it look like you were just a diligent student seeking clarity. So you upped your antics. Not only did you sometimes “forget” your bag, but you also began lingering both before and after class, crafting questions that would buy you precious extra minutes with him. You watched the subtle irritation grow on the faces of the other girls who tried the same, and every small victory made you bolder.

Today, you timed your approach perfectly. The last few students were zipping up backpacks, some shuffling toward the door, when you stepped forward. “Sylus, about the essay on the Siege of Caelthorn,” you began, tilting your head with feigned thoughtfulness, “would it be better to focus on one civilian’s perspective in depth, or weave in multiple viewpoints for contrast?”

He glanced at you, cocking his head to the side. A faint crease formed between his brows, as if he were genuinely puzzled why you—one of his strongest students—were asking something so basic. “I think ones best work comes from making their own decisions,” he said slowly, his tone both curious and mildly amused. He looked like he might say more, but before he could, a shadow fell across the desk.

“Sylus, can you help me? I don’t know—” another girl interrupted, stepping forward with a notebook in hand.

He didn’t even hesitate. Offering her a gentle smile, he raised a hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “In a bit. I’m with another student right now.”

You fought to keep your face neutral, but the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite your best efforts. The warm flicker of triumph settled in your chest, and inside, you were practically glowing with glee. The girl’s forced smile faltered into a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but you didn’t mind—in fact, it only made the moment sweeter.

And when the test came back, of course you’d aced it. Not just a high grade—you’d nailed every single question with enough precision and detail to make your handwriting look smug. In fact, your answers had impressed him so much that he’d even left a little handwritten note at the bottom of the last page. It was simple, but it made you smile.

“Remind me not to underestimate you in debates.”

After weeks of your carefully planned antics, you and Sylus had settled into a rhythm of longer, more frequent conversations, each one leaving you with a little more to think about than the last. Today was no different—class ended, the shuffle of papers and zippers filled the air, and you quickly grabbed your bag before making your way to his desk, determined to reach him before anyone else could.

He glanced up as you approached, that faintly amused smile tugging at his lips again, the kind that made it seem like he already knew exactly why you were there. “Didn’t forget your bag today? I’m almost disappointed,” he said dryly. “It’s become a habit of mine to look for it.” His tone was light, but there was an undertone of familiarity there, like this was now a private joke between you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help returning the smile. “I wanted to ask, Professor—what made you want to get your degree in such a subject? You always captivate me with how you speak during your lessons. It’s like you’re telling a story you’ve lived through.”

For a moment, he seemed taken aback by the direct compliment. His brow lifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as if weighing how much he wanted to give away. “I’ve always been a man who enjoys reading documents, old accounts, and learning about humanity’s failures and triumphs,” he replied after a beat, his voice low. “There’s a kind of…honesty in the past, even in its ugliness.”

He paused, and you caught it—the subtle shift in his gaze as he seemed to wander over your body. It wandered, just briefly, over you in a way that sent heat crawling up your neck, making your pulse quicken despite your best effort to stay composed. When his red eyes met yours again, there was a flicker of something unreadable, and his tone softened, edged with something far less academic.

“Though,” he added, his lips curling into a faint smirk, “I wouldn’t say I’m the only person who’s captivating when they open their mouth.”

The air between you seemed to tighten, your thoughts scattering as you scrambled for a response that wouldn’t give too much away. Was he...flirting?!

"O-oh?" you say, eyes widening.

He leans back slightly, the smirk lingering. “Mhm,” he says smoothly, “Like Alcibiades. He was truly a captivating figure in his lifetime—brilliant, charming, and entirely too good at convincing people to join in a revolution.” He lets the name hang in the air, eyes locked on yours, his tone perfectly casual as if it were just an academic reference. But you know better.

In your head, you can’t help thinking, what a save…acting like you’re keeping it professional, Sylus.

You could toe the line too. In fact, you could do it better. When he passed out papers after a test, you’d make a point to “accidentally” let your fingers brush against his when grabbing yours, just long enough for the warmth of his skin to register against yours. He’d pause briefly—just a fraction of a second too long—before moving on, and to you, that pause was further proof he wasn’t entirely unaffected. Sometimes you’d let your gaze linger on him as you returned to your seat, just to see if he noticed.

When talking to him after class, especially on days you wore skirts or tight leggings, you began taking it a step further—waiting until everyone else had left, then casually perching yourself directly on the edge of his desk, close enough that your knees were almost brushing his. From there, you’d tilt your head, ask a question, maybe fiddle idly with your pen while he answered, knowing the image you presented.

It was a risky move, one you’d half expected him to shut down immediately. You’d prepared yourself for a polite correction or a subtle shift in tone. But instead, he’d simply smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair, his gaze steady as he answered your questions with the same professional ease you’d come to expect from him—his voice calm, his expression composed, even if you swore you caught the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgement of the unspoken game you were both playing.

Today was no different. He’d assigned a worksheet after class, and the tension between you two had been coiling tighter with each passing day. You’d decided you were going to cross the line a bit today—Tara’s advice echoing in your head like a dare. The classroom was quiet, the hum of his laptop keys the only sound. He sat at his desk, focused, typing steadily, and thankfully, no students lingered to interrupt. Everyone else had packed up and left.

You took your chance.

Striding forward, you stopped in front of his desk before promptly hopping onto the edge, letting the motion speak for itself. You flashed the paper toward him with a teasing smile. “Since when do you assign worksheets with multiple choice? Is my professor getting lazy?” you joked, letting your tone dance between playful and challenging.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. With an easy motion, he pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, his gaze never leaving yours. “Just something easy to end the week while I catch up on grading,” he said, his tone deceptively casual but carrying a subtle thread of amusement.

You caught the faint shift of his lips, the corners tugging upward like he was enjoying this more than he’d admit. His red eyes glinted under the light, catching just enough to make your stomach twist in that maddening way. Then, with the faintest, almost taunting smirk, he added, “Why? Too easy for you? A shame.”

The tease lingered in the air, the words wrapping around you with a challenge that made your pulse pick up.

"No, in fact, it’s far harder than I expected," you say, deliberately putting just a touch too much emphasis on the word harder, letting it hang in the space between you. Your lips curl into a faint smile as you glance down at the paper in your hand, flipping it over like you’re searching for something.

“For example—this one,” you say, pointing at a question halfway down the page. “Which charter established the Great Council of Aramoor? I know we went over it, but…I’m not entirely sure I remember.” You tilt your head in mock uncertainty, even though you could recite the answer in your sleep, watching closely to see how he’ll react.

He hums in acknowledgment, shifting in his chair as he leans a little closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re a smart girl. Top of my class. Why don’t you tell me?” he says, his tone dripping with amusement, each word laced with just enough weight to make your pulse skip.

Shit. You weren’t expecting him to call your bluff so soon. Your chest tightens, your heartbeat loud in your ears, and for a moment, you swear you can’t breathe. Don’t stutter, you warn yourself. You pull in a slow, steady breath, forcing your shoulders to relax, willing your voice not to crack. Even sitting, he’s tall enough that you still have to tilt your head to meet his gaze, and that alone makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t want to examine.

You let the silence stretch a little longer than necessary, just to see if he’ll flinch, before finally speaking. “If I get it right…do I get a prize, professor?” Your words are slow, laced with a subtle playfulness that you know could be taken the wrong way—or exactly the right way.

This time, he actually seems taken aback. His brows lift just slightly, surprise flickering in his eyes, before another chuckle escapes him—softer this time, but edged with something unreadable. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, like he’s deciding how much rope to give you. “A prize?” he repeats, drawing out the word as if tasting it. “I wasn’t aware I was teaching kindergarten,” he replies at last, the corner of his mouth curving upward in quiet challenge, as if daring you to try again.

"Alright, I’ll humor you. What exactly would you want for this...prize?" he asks, leaning forward slightly in his chair but keeping his gaze locked on you.

You lean in just a fraction, your voice slipping into something coy. Now or never. “A kiss seems fitting. It is a very hard question, after all.”

He pretends to be appalled, pressing a hand dramatically over his chest, though the chuckle that follows gives him away. His eyes glint with mischief as they flicker from yours, lingering there for a heartbeat, then—just for a second—drifting down to your lips. It’s quick, but enough to make your pulse skip.

“That’s highly inappropriate, young lady,” he murmurs, though the warning is undermined by the amusement tugging at his mouth.

You close the gap ever so slightly, your cheeks warm but your gaze unwavering. “Maybe,” you say softly, a small smirk pulling at your lips. “But that’s not a no, sir.”

The sudden shift in his breathing let you know that he definitely enjoyed the nickname you just sprung on him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his expression shifting just slightly as though the gears are turning in his head, weighing his next words. The pause stretches long enough to make your breath catch, your heart beating faster in the silence, before he finally speaks—his tone tinged with something almost teasing.

“You're not wrong, I didn't say no. Go on then. Tell me the answer, sweetie. It shouldn’t be too hard for a smart girl like you.”

The nickname lands like a jolt of electricity, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine that you can’t hide. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the paper in your hand, and you swear the air between you feels heavier now, warmer. Oh…boundaries are definitely slipping now, and by the way he’s still watching you, it’s clear he knows it too.

You answer quickly—maybe too quickly—blurting out, “The Great Council of Aramoor, established under the Charter of Unity, ratified in the winter of 642, after the War of the Seven Provinces ended,” your words tumbling out in a rush. You even add, “It was signed in the capital’s Great Hall, under the banner of the Phoenix Crest,” without thinking, the details pouring from you so effortlessly that it almost betrays how much you’ve studied. Your eagerness is impossible to hide now, and the moment the words leave your mouth, you wonder if you’ve given yourself away. But there’s no pulling them back.

He nods slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that makes you feel like he can see every stray thought flitting through your mind. The moment stretches taut, the air between you heavy, before he finally glances down briefly—almost as if deciding something—then looks back up, a faint, knowing smile curving his lips.

“Exceptional answer. Well, I'm man of my word,” he says simply, before patting his lap.

Your heart lurches into your throat. His lap? Your mind reels instantly with the implications. If someone walked in right now, there’d be no excuse, no cover story—nothing to hide what the two of you were doing. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, but your body moves before your mind can stop it. You slide down from his desk, the motion slow, almost testing him, before you hesitate for a heartbeat and then settle onto him. The shock of how solid he feels beneath you makes your breath catch, his frame fitting against yours in a way that unravels your thoughts. Your pulse hammers so loudly you wonder if he can hear it.

That’s when it hits you—you’re nervous to kiss him. Not because you don’t want to, but because the possibility of being bad at it gnaws at the edges of your confidence. You’ve never wanted someone’s approval like this. The thought loops endlessly, a dizzying hum in your head, until his voice slices through it.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetie” he murmurs, the words slow, deliberate, as if he can see the hesitation in your eyes and knows exactly why it’s there.

You nod once, pulling in a deep breath to steady the chaos inside you. Then, in a surge of determination, you reach up and slip his glasses from his face. The motion is simple but intimate, your fingertips brushing his temple for the briefest second. His eyes flicker with surprise, the smallest crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. Just do it, you tell yourself, your pulse pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

So you do. You lean in, closing the last inches between you, and capture his lips with yours. They’re warm—softer than you expected—and up close, he smells absolutely divine, a faint mix of clean soap and something darker, like cedarwood. Your plan had been to make this quick, just a small, testing peck. You didn’t want to take a mile when you’d only been given an inch. But the moment you try to pull back, his hands find your waist, firm and deliberate, holding you in place.

Your breath hitches at the contact, and before you can react, he deepens the kiss. It’s smooth, confident, and far more intoxicating than you’d prepared for, making your head spin. The world outside the two of you disappears, the only sounds the faint hitch in your breathing and the low, subtle hum from him. It’s not long before you’re both slightly panting against each other, foreheads brushing, the air between you thick with lust.

You begin to grind your lower half against his, slow at first, testing the waters. His reaction is immediate—his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath catch. Encouraged, you slide your hands down his chest and start to trail them under his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. But just as the heat between you threatens to tip into something reckless, he pulls back.

His face is slightly flushed, his breathing uneven, but his eyes are steady. “As delightful as this has been,” he says, his tone quieter now but no less firm, “we can’t go any further. A sweet girl such as yourself has no business with a man like me.”

Frustrated, you look him square in the eye, your voice low but firm. “I can handle you. Don’t patronize me,” you say, refusing to back down. His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your pulse jump despite your defiance.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re asking for, sweetie,” he replies, the endearment rolling off his tongue like both a warning and a temptation. "Shouldn't you head to your next class? An upstanding student such as yourself shouldn't be late."

You pout, your lips pressing into a thin line, but eventually sigh and slide off his lap, your feet touching the floor with a quiet thud. You’d come so far, and for what? Clearly, he’d just been toying with you for weeks—dangling the possibility, only to pull away at the last second. Whatever. You grab your bag with more force than necessary and march toward the door.

But as you reach it, you freeze. Something in you twists, and you turn back to face him, your voice cool but laced with a bite. “This has given me the revelation that I should change classes. We’ve crossed the line after all, professor. It’s been…nice.” You give him one last glance before turning back to leave, determined not to look over your shoulder again.

Suddenly, the air shifts. In a blur of red and black mist, you suddenly feel him behind you—so close that the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You jolt in surprise, your pulse spiking.

He…has an Evol??

You pant as he rests his hand firmly on the door above your shoulder, blocking your way out. The solid thud of his palm against the wood sends a vibration through the frame, making your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. His presence is overwhelming—close enough that you can feel the subtle heat radiating from him, the faint scent of paper clinging to his clothes. He leans in closer, so close you swear you can hear the faintest hitch in his breathing, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear and sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“You can recount several treaties by memory but can’t tell when a man is teasing you? How cute,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich, curling around you like smoke and sinking under your skin. His hand slides slowly down the door, the movement unhurried, almost taunting, until his fingers find the lock. The faint scrape of metal turning is deafening in the quiet room, and with a soft, final click, he twists it in place, sealing the two of you inside with no chance of interruption.

“Look at me, sweetie” he says, the command soft yet carrying a weight that leaves no room for disobedience. His tone isn’t loud, but it thrums through you, making it impossible not to obey, even as your breath comes faster.

You turn and look up at him, your knees feeling weak under the oppressive weight of the tension hanging in the air. Every inch of the room feels charged, the atmosphere so thick it’s almost dizzying. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears that you nearly miss the words that follow, his voice low but cutting through everything else.

“I’m going to make you cum three times,” he says, each syllable slow and certain, as if he’s stating an unshakable fact. He holds up three fingers in front of you, commanding your full attention. “Once with my fingers. Another with my mouth. And then…”

Your breath catches, your chest rising and falling faster as your eyes, without your permission, drift lower. They trace the lines of his torso until they land on the hardened outline of his cock in his pants. The sight makes your skin feel hot, your imagination filling in the rest before he even finishes speaking, painting vivid possibilities you can’t push away. You swallow hard, unable to stop the way your heart stutters at the unspoken promise hanging between you.

"You’ll have to be quiet if you don’t want to get caught. We would certainly be the talk of the campus," he chuckled, the sound dark and warm. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head slightly. “So, I have your consent then?”

Yes. God, yes. Every part of you wanted to blurt it out, but your throat felt tight, your voice trapped behind the pounding in your chest. Instead, you simply nod, breath quick and uneven.

“I need to hear a yes, kitten” he murmured, his tone dropping lower, each word deliberate and coaxing. “Use your big girl words.”

“Yes. I consent, Sylus…” you sigh, the words spilling out with a mix of anticipation and heat as you lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth captures yours in a deep, claiming kiss. The intensity makes your head spin, and before you can even register the shift, he teleports you both in a swirl of dark mist to his desk.

You’re both panting, breaths mingling in the charged air as he lowers you back onto the polished surface. The wood is cool against your skin, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from him. Your shirt rides up just enough to expose the soft curve of your stomach, the edge of the fabric brushing lightly against your ribs. His gaze drops to the newly exposed skin, making your pulse race even faster.

He leans down, his lips brushing softly against the sensitive skin of your stomach, making you jolt and stifle a giggle. The sensation is electric, sending shivers down your spine. But your laughter quickly turns to a sharp intake of breath as his hands move to your skirt, slowly sliding it down your thighs. The cool air hits your skin as your skirt pools around your ankles, eventually dropping to the floor, leaving you exposed in your lace underwear.

"Cute choice," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "These are my particular favorite." His words send a rush of heat through you, a mix of embarrassment and desire. You realize with a jolt that he must have seen your underwear before, perhaps at a time when you bent over, and the thought sends a thrill through you.

Without hesitation, he slides your underwear to the side, revealing your already wet cunt. You squeal in embarrassment, the sound mingling with a moan as his fingers find your aching clit. The touch is electric, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You arch your back, pressing into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Mgnh! Ah...!"

His fingers move with expert precision, circling and teasing, drawing out moans and gasps from deep within you. The room seems to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his touch and the sound of your own ragged breathing. Each stroke building intensity with every touch. You're lost in the moment, your body responding to his every move, completely at his mercy.

"S-sylus!" you shriek, the sound a mix of surprise and pleasure as his long, dextrous fingers suddenly slide inside you. The sensation is intense, filling you completely, and you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. Your body clenches around his fingers, a primal response to the sudden intrusion.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers soft shushes, trying to calm you. "Be a good girl and stay quiet kitten," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends vibrations through your body. You moan again, softer this time, as he extends his knuckle, touching that spongy, sensitive spot inside you. The sensation is overwhelming, and your body jerks. "You feel quite tight. A few orgasms should definitely fix that."

You feel like you can't breathe, your lungs constricting as your body tenses, teetering on the edge of release. Each movement of his fingers sends you spiraling closer, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity. Your grip tightens on him, your nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself to something solid in the storm of sensation.

"Oh, going to cum already? Adorable."

His fingers continue their relentless assault, curling and stroking, drawing out moans and gasps from deep within you. You're so close, your body trembling with the effort of holding back. Each touch, each whisper, each breath pushes you further, until you're balanced on the knife's edge, ready to fall into the abyss of pleasure.

"Ahh...mghn....ahh!"

You feel the coil snap tighter and tighter, the tension in your body building to an almost unbearable point. And then, suddenly, it shatters. You release with a force that leaves you trembling, your body twisting and grinding against his fingers. You stifle your sounds with one of your hands, biting down on your knuckles to keep from crying out, your body shaking with the intensity of your release.

By the time the waves subside, you feel like a boneless, limp mass of jelly, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. You're panting, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and you're already slick with sweat, your skin glistening in the dim light. Your eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with lust, roam to Sylus, whose cock is harder than it was previously, strains against his pants. He watches you come undone, his gaze intense and hungry.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Just as I imagined. Now I wonder if you taste as good too?"

"W-wait...I need a brea-ah..."

Before you can catch your breath, he lowers his face between your soaking wet folds, his tongue lapping up your essence with eager, hungry strokes. You throw your head back, a cry of surprise and pleasure escaping your lips as his hot tongue finds your sensitive, swollen clit.

He laps at you like a starving dog, his tongue exploring every inch of your cunt. Each stroke sends jolts of ecstasy through you, reigniting the fire in your body. You're already on the edge of another release, your body responding to his touch with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You're lost in the sensation, your body and mind completely consumed by the pleasure he's drawing from you.

You've never felt such intense sensations before, not even with your previous boyfriends. Each touch, each lick, sends you spiraling into a realm of pleasure you never knew existed. He leaves you no time to think, his mouth and tongue working in a relentless rhythm that leaves you gasping and moaning.

He sucks on your clit, the sensation so intense that it rips another desperate moan from your throat. You cling to his mullet, your fingers tangling in the strands as you try to anchor yourself to something solid in the storm of sensation. Not that he seems to mind; if anything, it spurs him on, his tongue pushing into your walls with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

The feeling of his tongue is overwhelming, drawing out yet another embarrassingly quick orgasm. You feel your body tense and then shatter, unable to stop yourself from pushing against his face as you finish again. When he's sure you're done cumming against his tongue, he licks his lips and shifts, towering over you.

Your body is shaking, completely unable to move a muscle, as you pant and gasp for breath. "I-felt so…oh my god," you manage to stammer, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to process the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You're not sure you can survive another orgasm, your body already pushed to its limits.

You hear a low chuckle, followed by the distinct sound of a belt coming undone. "I did warn you" he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Don't pass out on me now." Your eyes shoot open as he lifts your shirt, exposing your breasts to the cool air. The sudden change in temperature makes your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of goosebumps spread across your skin.

His pupils dilate, and he lets out an excited breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He shifts his pants and boxers off his body, his movements quick and efficient. His hardened cock springs free, and you almost drool at the size, your eyes widening as you take in the sight. It's pale, thick and long, the head glistening with pre-cum, and you can't help but imagine how it would feel inside you.

You're caught in a mix of anticipation and fear, your body already aching for more despite the overwhelming pleasure you've already experienced. You watch as he moves between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, a predatory gleam in his gaze.

He begins to rub his tip between your folds, a low groan escaping his lips as he feels how easily he slides against your slick, sensitive pussy. The sensation is intense, sending jolts of ecstasy through both of you. You whine impatiently, using the last of your strength to try and push him inside you when he slides back again, your body aching for more.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Eager, I know. My fault for teasing you, sweetie," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "We should hurry before my next class. Tell me if it hurts." You nod breathlessly, your body tensing in anticipation as he begins to push himself slowly inside you.

You twitch and clench as he starts to disappear inside your wet walls, the sensation of being filled so completely sending a hint of discomfort through your body. He moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, his eyes locked on yours, watching your reactions closely.

The feeling is overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and pressure that leaves you nearly sobbing. You can feel every inch of him, stretching and filling you, and you're acutely aware that you might tear from the sheer size of him.

"F-feels so good…" you pant, your voice a breathless whisper as you attempt to tug him closer, your body aching to be close to him. He obliges, leaning in to capture your lips in a fierce, passionate kiss as he pushes himself all the way into you. You nearly scream against his mouth, but quickly forget the pain as you lose yourself in his searing kiss.

You can feel him poking the very edge of your cervix, making you whine and grind against him, willing him to move. He seems breathless himself, pulling away from the kiss slightly, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "So wet and yet, still tight as ever," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.

He pulls out slightly before slowly pushing back in, the movement deliberate and controlled. You both moan in harmony, the sound a raw, uninhibited symphony of the pleasure you're both experiencing. You stare into each other's eyes, the connection between you intense and electric, as his cock reaches the end of your walls again.

This certainly feels more intimate than a hookup.

He begins to thrust a bit faster, spurred on by the way your cunt tightens and loosens around him, sucking him deeper with each movement. "Shit…" he growls, his hands displayed on either side of the desk as he plunges into you, his body tensing with each thrust. You're shocked that a man as composed as him is cussing, and it nearly distracts you from the fact that your professor is quite literally balls deep inside you right now.

Your moans fill the air, mingling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, as he picks up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent and desperate. The wetness between your legs begins to coat the desk, the sounds of it rocking back and forth filling the room.

You moan into each other's mouths, your lips locked in a fierce, passionate kiss as he drives into you. You can feel the tension building, the pressure in your body coiling tighter again with each movement.

The room seems to spin around you, the only steady point being the sensation of him inside you, the sound of your moans, and the taste of his lips.

You're both acutely aware of the dwindling time, the reality of his next class looming over you like a dark cloud. While it would be nice to do this forever, you start to feel nervous and glance at the clock, your eyes widening at the realization of how little time you have left.

"S-sylus…your next class will be here soon….mghm.." you moan, pulling away from his kiss, your voice a breathless whisper. He nods, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, as he tugs you back closer to him. "I'm aware. Hah-as...ah- shameful as it is to admit, I'm already close. You feel fucking amazing," he pants, his voice a low growl.

You whine as his thrusts begin to get more desperate, your body clinging to his and feeling like you're on the brink of dissolving into a puddle of jello. You can feel yourself on the edge of another orgasm, already on the brink of snapping.

“Gonna cum-ah-Sylus…please...”

Suddenly, the sharp sound of the door being tugged and a knock interrupts your impending orgasm. You gasp, your eyes widening in fear as you realize that students are forming on the other side of the door. You look at Sylus, your expression a mixture of panic and desperation, but he simply smirks, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

He puts a finger to his lips, a silent command for you to be quiet, before covering your mouth with his hand, muffling your moans. The sound of his next thrust is louder, the wetness between your legs making a lewd, obscene sound as he pushes into you, the desk rocking back and forth with the force of his movements.

You moan at the intense, increased pace, the sounds muffled by his hand covering your mouth. "Mghm! Mghn! Mhhn!" you whimper, feeling yourself drool beneath the skin of his hand, your belly feeling tighter and tighter with each passing second. Another knock, another sound of a student mumbling on the other side of the door, the reality of your situation only heightening the intensity of the moment.

Sylus is clearly at his end now, his legs shaking with the effort of thrusting as hard as he can, his body tensing. He looks down at you, giving you an apologetic smile, his eyes filled with contemplation. Your eyes widen in realization, the question clear in your gaze: He's not really going to cum inside you, is he?!

Sure enough, he pushes far as he can go, releasing hot ropes of cum inside your walls with a low, guttural groan. You feel it leaking out of you instantly, your body shivering beneath him as your forced to take every single ounce he gives you. The sound of his release is quiet, the wetness between your legs coating the desk, the evidence of sex on full display.

You both pant, faces flushed, the weight of what just happened settling heavily between you. Your thoughts spin, but his voice cuts through, calm and practical. “Apologies. Easier to hide the evidence if it’s inside you,” he says, his gaze dipping lower to watch as said "evidence" slides down your leg. "Well, most of it anyways." Heat floods your face at his words, and you instinctively glance down too, eyeing his cum with a sheepish smile.

“Here, we need to hurry.” He reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief. Without hesitation, he begins helping you clean up—quick but gentle, his touch careful, almost reverent despite the urgency. You tremble slightly as he helps you fix your underwear and smooths your skirt back into place.

Looking around the room, your pulse spikes again. “Sylus… they’re gonna be suspicious if they see me leave…”

He meets your eyes briefly, then nods toward the far door on the opposite end of the room. “That leads outside. Go quickly,” he instructs, his voice firm but low, like he’s already thinking two steps ahead.

O-okay…” you breathe, your voice shaky as you turn to leave, grabbing your bag with quick, nervous movements. But before you can take a full step toward the far door, his hand wraps firmly around your wrist, halting you in place. In one swift motion, he spins you back toward him, and you barely have time to gasp out, “Syl—mghn…” before your words are swallowed by a searing kiss.

His lips are warm and commanding against yours, stealing the air from your lungs as heat floods your face. Your fingers tighten instinctively around the strap of your bag, your knees nearly buckling from the intensity. Just as quickly, he pulls away, but not without leaving a small, knowing smile on his face—one that sends your thoughts scattering.

Then, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. His hand lingers briefly at your waist before he steps back, giving you a subtle motion toward the door. The silent order is clear: hurry.

You waste no time, rushing out of the door, the cool air outside hitting you as his cum continues to soak your underwear with every hurried step. Your heartbeat is still wild, each thud a reminder of the heat and chaos you’ve just left behind. Despite the soreness between your thighs and the damp cling of your clothes, a small, wicked smile curves your lips. You’re wet, sore, and absolutely thrilled by what you’ve just accomplished.

Tara is going to lose her mind when she hears about this…

Monday's class drones on, your pen scratching steadily across the page as you scribble notes into your notebook. Sylus’s voice fills the room, smooth and measured, as he delves into another lecture—this time on the rise of a long-forgotten civilization. You force yourself to focus, but the words blur a little, your mind drifting back to the last time you were alone with him.

You had spent all weekend thinking about it in fact. Dreaming of it even. You couldn't get it out of your head. Still, he had greeted you normally and started class like nothing had changed. That was it then? Well, at least you got it out of your system.

A soft buzz from your phone jolts you from your thoughts. Glancing down, you slide your hand under the desk and sneak a peek at the screen. The corner of your mouth tugs upward when you see Tara’s name and the message beneath it: Tell me if you hook up again!! I need DETAILS this time!! :D

You stifle a laugh, quickly locking the screen and slipping the phone back away before Sylus notices. Still, the smile lingers as you keep writing, your mind already forming the reply you’ll send her later.

The sound of Sylus's voice snaps you back to attention.

“I’m sure some of you are anxious to see your scores on the previous essay I assigned,” Sylus says, his tone calm but carrying that subtle edge of authority that makes the room fall silent. He lifts a neat stack of papers in his hands. “You’ll soon find out.”

A collective groan ripples through the class, a few students slumping in their seats. You can’t help but giggle nervously, tapping your pen against your notebook. Your eyes follow him as he starts down the first row, passing the essays out one by one. Some students light up with barely contained pride, others groan in dismay at their grades.

Your stomach tightens as he gets closer, your breath caught halfway in your chest. Then, suddenly, he’s there—pausing at your desk. You glance up, and for the briefest moment, your eyes meet his. The air between you feels heavier, charged, though he masks it with ease. He slides your essay onto your desk, the corner brushing your fingertips.

You give him a confident smile, as if you already know you did well. He returns it with the faintest curve of his lips before moving on to the next row, leaving you to stare down at the paper in anticipation.

Of course, a perfect score. As usual. You can’t help the small swell of pride in your chest as you scan the neat red ink at the top of the page. But then—what’s this? Your eyes land on a small arrow and a short, handwritten note in the corner: Flip to the back.

Your curiosity piqued, you turn the paper over. The moment your eyes fall on the words he’s written, your grin begins to grow, stretching wider with every sentence. Wasn’t very gentlemanly of me to shove you out the door…perhaps I can make it up to you over dinner? Your choice, my treat of course.

Another note catches your eye, scrawled in the margin near a passage you’d underlined. Call me, sometime? I’d be more than interested to hear that cute voice outside of class. Beneath it, in neat digits, is his number.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the edges of the paper, the quiet hum of the classroom fading into the background. You glance up, catching the faintest flicker of his gaze in your direction, and your heart gives a sharp, giddy kick.

He wants it to be more than a fling? The thought is unexpected—strangely so—but you can’t help the way your lips curve into a slow, pleased smile. The idea of keeping this going sends a ripple of excitement through you. Of course you’ll be texting and calling him later; that’s not even a question.

But your smile falters as your eyes catch on yet another note, this one written beside the final passage you’d worked so hard on. By the way, the Treaty of Westmarch wasn’t signed in the spring—it was in late winter. His neat handwriting continues: Should technically knock you down some points, but I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. See me after class for a refresher, sweetie.

You roll your eyes at the gentle jab, biting back a grin as you lift your gaze to find him. Sure enough, he’s already looking at you, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips.