rrrrinmaru

For his part, Rafayel just stays there, head tilted to the side as he watches you. Hands on the floor. Bare chest pushed out towards you. His ribcage expands lightly as he breathes, in and out through slightly parted lips,and you don’t know where to look.

You can’t quite place the feeling that unfurls in your chest. The closest description, perhaps, is that it feels like Rafayel in this moment is a very finely crafted, very fragile gem, resting in the palms of your hands. So fragile that you’re even afraid to properly hold it, to put pressure on it, for fear of you cracking the surface.

“Go on,” Rafayel says, raising an eyebrow at you. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

There’s this natural laziness to his movements as he shifts his weight around, but the heaviness in his voice betrays the anticipation he must feel. He clears his throat, seemingly insistent on keeping up the pretense of calmness.

Your hands curl into fists in your lap. You’re seated before him, also on the ground so you’re both at eye level. 

Quietly, so softly that you almost don’t even hear yourself, you whisper, “I don’t know where to start.”

From where he’s pretending to look at the waves crashing on the shoreline, Rafayel immediately turns to face you. He drops the unaffected air he was pretending to keep up, eyes raking over your face as he takes you in. He must see something in your gaze, or your posture, or something else entirely, but it makes his throat bob as he swallows.

“Start with the face.” His voice is hoarse. It might be the way the light catches on his face, but you think you can see the beginnings of a blush take root at his cheeks. “You should be more than familiar with that.”

It’s as good of a direction as any. There’s a sliver of uneasiness as you get on your knees, leaning forward into his space. Like this, you tower over him.

Rafayel uncrosses his legs. He spreads them, feet planted firmly on the ground as he brackets your hips with his knees. When he looks up at you, his eyes are dilated and there’s something expectant in his gaze. 

You lift your palms up, hand curved on instinct to fit the roundness of his cheek, but you don’t cup it fully. Your hand hovers there, not meeting his skin.

It’s… a little awkward, you think, face slightly flushed even though you’ve barely started. You’re starting to feel self-conscious. It’s easy to crook your fingers at him and demand Rafayel to come over and act cute by putting his chin in your palm—it’s another thing entirely to reach out and cup his cheek while he stares at you so intently.

He’s watching you. You know this, because you’re watching him just the same. 

When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, your eyes drop unconsciously to his mouth.

“You’re not touching me.” Rafayel’s throat sounds dry, you think distantly. “I’m getting impatient.”

This is the easiest part, you tell yourself. Rafayel may be teasing, but you asked him for this, in bits and pieces, and he squeezed the truth out of you until you felt like a hollowed out husk of your former self. 

You lean forward a little more, and you feel the heat of Rafayel’s skin against your palm. The moment your hand gently frames the curve of his cheek, Rafayel sighs, chest heaving like a load’s been lifted off his shoulders. His entire body sways, leaning into your touch like a creature seeking warmth. His eyes flutter shut, tension seeping from his muscles as he just… falls into your hand. 

You can feel heat creep up your cheeks. You must be bright red, like a glowing ball of fire in this dark room, and you’re almost relieved his eyes are closed. 

Your hand lingers for a moment. Your thumb strokes across the apple of his cheek, right next to the fragile skin under his eyes. Your other hand hesitantly touches his forehead, fingertips skating down his smooth skin to the bridge of his nose. 

Rafayel hums, eyes still closed. You’re not even sure if he knows he’s making that noise. Those small, pleased sounds, almost like a purr, radiating straight from the center of his chest. Rafayel would scowl and slap your hand away if you even insinuated that he resembled a cat, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt his pride. 

The hand at his eye moves up. You brace your thumb against his forehead, pushing back slightly—the other hand travels down to his jawline, the long, sharp cut of bone. You take his chin between your thumb and index finger and you pull up.

As if strung along by marionette strings attached to your fingers, Rafayel lets you tilt his head up. He’s so malleable like this, like fire hot metal being annealed, sparks flying along his glowing, red surface as you pull his chin up and expose his throat.

Like a prey animal caught in the jaws of a predator. Rafayel’s no pushover, but he lets you manhandle him like he is. He lies limp in the teeth of your grip, loose and pliant and at your mercy. 

Eyes still closed, he swallows. Like this, chin up, shoulders put back, the inverse T of his throat and collarbones exposed to such a degree—some part of you wants to lean in and take a bite. To leave a stinging bruise there, right at his Adam’s Apple, right at his jugular vein, so everyone knows who he belongs to. 

But the saner, more mature side of you resists it. The urge is tamped down, not as prominent as before, but you know it’s still there, bubbling under your skin.

So you settle for taking your hand off his forehead. That hand falls down right to the curve of Rafayel’s left shoulder. The hard muscle beneath, skin barely giving way as you press insistently on it.

“Mmph,” Rafayel grunts, the sound muffled at the back of his throat, like he was attempting to swallow it. His reaction makes you press even harder, wanting to elicit something stronger. 

You’re rewarded with a strangled sigh, his throat working furiously as he attempts to get his lungs back in working order, or that’s what you envision is going on in his mind. Maybe he’s distracted by your other thumb, stroking gently at the sensitive underside of his jaw, right above his throat. You can feel the way his breath hitches—the stutter in his breathing, the constriction in his throat. 

A sound rumbles in your chest. As if on instinct, you hush him, the hand on his shoulder sliding down to the curve of his clavicle to pause at the space between his collarbones. Above his sternum, right below his throat. That little divot of space that makes him gasp when you press at it, throat working in a way that makes you think this might be uncomfortable. 

But uncomfortable or not, Rafayel doesn’t say a word. His eyes do not open. There’s a moment where his lips part and they tremble, half-moon lips quivering as he steadies the heaviness in his breathing, and then the moment is over, as quickly as it came, like dust blown away by the wind.

His skin is fully flushed now. It’s hot to the touch, like there’s fire instead of blood flowing through his veins, scalding your fingertips from beneath the surface.

The hand at his chest splays out. You drag your palm down, feeling the bumps and grooves of the planes of his muscles. The way his heart kicks in his chest when you linger over it. The flurried beat it taps out, like a secret written in morse code. 

The skin over his chest is tight. You know this means he’s tensed up. Muscles are soft when relaxed, like sinking one’s fingers into freshly risen dough, pliable and bouncy. But the stretch of flesh beneath your fingers is hard and unforgivable like a brick wall. 

The hand you have on his neck tightens ever so slightly, Your thumb digs gently into his throat.

“Easy,” you hush when he makes a sudden sound, like you’re soothing a startled wild animal. The same way hunters soothe a rabbit in a trap, clicking their tongue and making gentle sounds until they can get a good angle at the rabbit’s neck. 

You don’t know if that sound triggers something in Rafayel, or if it was the word, or the tone of your voice, or the all-encompassing pressure from your hand folded around his neck—whatever the reason, Rafayel’s body bends, doubling over as he practically folds in two. His abdomen tenses sharply, exhaling quickly as if he’d been punched in the gut.

He holds himself there, a sharp, throbbing livewire of tension, his back curved like a strung bow. Rafayel breathes heavily, his throat fluttering in your grip. 

You look down, almost absentmindedly. His legs have fallen apart, the inside of his knees and thighs facing up to the tall ceiling. He looks debauched. The flush in his cheekbones, the way it travels all the way down to his chest, the way his eyes are still closed.

And nestled at the center of his legs is his length, the bulge already swelling and straining at the front of his pants.

The light gray of his pants makes his hard on look more prominent than you suspect it actually is. You can see it, the outline as it curves to the right. 

When you push against his Adam’s Apple, Rafayel flinches. His abdomen tenses again, shoulders shivering as his hips jerk. The full body reaction extends all the way down to his length, and you can see it twitch below the fabric.

Almost as if you’re a puppeteer, teasing out the involuntary reactions of his body with strings attached to a crossbrace. 

The hand on his chest drags lower. Your fingernails skate lightly over his taut muscles—it draws out this weak, needy keen at the back of Rafayel’s throat. He pulls his shoulders back further, as if offering his exposed chest to you.

You take him up on his offer. You over the lines you fingers traced, digging your fingernails in until they leave thin red streaks across Rafayel’s pale skin. They look like thin lashes in the moonlight, faint enough that you know they won’t last. But they must sting, here and now, and you wonder how Rafayel feels. If he feels the same way you do, like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin, like you’re a devout worshipper tracing the features of your god embalmed in marble, like you’re a huntsman running your fingers over the shaky ribcage of your game as you figure out the best way to peel its skin back.

His nipples are stiff. You push the pad of your thumb against one bud, pressing it gently to see how Rafayel reacts. He jerks, lips pressed together in this harsh, stiff line as he grunts. It’s clear he’s trying to hold himself back.

As if possessed, you press harder. Rafayel’s mouth falls open, hips rocking up into thin air as you scrape your fingernails lightly over the sensitive skin. When you take it between your fingers and tug, Rafayel moans lowly through gritted teeth. His abdomen flexes over and over, muscles rolling visibly beneath his skin. 

All that strength and he’s keeping it under wraps because you asked him to, you marvel. Rafayel could easily surge up and tackle you. He could push you off and call it quits. He could lock his legs around your waist and flip your positions, until he’s long and lean over you, purple eyes bearing into yours as he stares you down.

But he doesn’t. He sits there, shoulders tight with tension as his hands are on the floor, fingers twitching urgently against the tiles like he’s desperate to grip something but he can’t decide what. He just makes these frustrated, impatient noises, like he wants more, and yet he doesn’t do anything else. 

The ball is in your court, like he promised. 

You go lower. Your fingernails continue to leave thin, spindly lines as you mark up his skin. His muscles clench when you pass over his abdomen, at his navel, and Rafayel audibly hisses out a breath at your touch. 

Still, he doesn’t lean away. He doesn’t shy away from your touch. His eyelashes are trembling like a leaf caught in the current of the waves. His mouth is open like he’s a drowning man at sea, breathless and gasping for air.

It’s almost like petting a wild tiger. Rolling, sinewy muscle beneath your fingertips as you pet his abdomen. These little noises fall out of his throat, bitten-off noises like Rafayel only remembers right at the end to twist his lips shut.

You press into his waist, fingernails digging in as if you could claw under his skin if you were determined enough. Rafayel’s breath catches—an audible sound that lingers in the room like starlight, but you can feel the reverb in his throat, under your fingers. 

His breathing is laboured. He heaves, each breath shakier than the last. It makes his shoulders shake, the tremble following his muscles all the way down his torso, his sides, his abdomen.

Throughout it all, his eyes remain closed. Like an invisible blindfold you draped over him, shutting out one of his main senses. 

“Don’t look,” you’d told him, voice quiet as you both walked to his atelier. His footsteps were as sure as ever, so calm that you would’ve thought he was completely unaffected by your request, if not for the tension caught in his shoulders. The shoulders that were pulled back a little too far, his hands that were tucked a little too firmly into his pant pockets, head held a little too straight. The feigned casualness rolled off him in waves.

“I won’t look,” he promised, looking straight ahead. He hadn’t made fun of your request, or the little details you added on whenever they popped into your mind—his face had changed, slightly, as if confused, but he just agreed easily, without asking more. 

You’re grateful for that. You didn’t know how much you were holding your breath until Rafayel drew it out of you, like a pinprick in an oxygen tank, draining you bit by bit. 

And now, here you both are, your fingers inching further down until the nail of your middle finger catches on the button of his pants. Rafayel immediately stiffens, his entire body going still. 

Your hand hovers over the prominent bulge in his pants. You can see the way the fabric stretches, pulled to its limits to accommodate his arousal. It’s a heady thing, seeing the physical proof of how affected you make him. 

Your fingers curve, picking loosely at the button on Rafayel’s pants. You’re not looking to undo it just yet, but this simple movement is enough to make his muscles jump, abs clenching as he tries to roll his hips into your hand, chasing the ghost of your warmth. 

It’s enough, you realise. You’re enough, just like this. He’s not even looking at you—all he has are your hands on his body, the heat of your palms branding handprints into every square inch of his body. You’ve barely spoken, and he’s already this far gone. 

The flush is high on his cheeks. He looks drunk, on affection or arousal or the moonlight pooling in his collarbones; the gorgeous crimson staining his cheeks bleeds all the way to the tips of his ears and the back of his neck. You know this. His eyelashes flutter like a butterfly’s wings in the wind, eyes squeezed shut. 

He’s not even looking at you, and your touch has brought him to his figurative knees. 

As if he hasn’t had enough of surprising you, Rafayel huffs. The sound is low and full of irritation. He tilts his hips up, pushing his bulge impatiently into your palm. 

When he says your name, it’s like scratching an itch in the most sensitive part of your body. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, voice quiet in the back of your throat as you marvel at the sight before you. Your index finger drops down to hook around the zipper of his pants, letting the metal dig underneath your nail—you tug up, a brief pressure, and Rafayel’s hips immediately follow your hand, arching up like he’d chase you to the ends of the world just to get your hand on his cock. 

Rafayel makes a petulant sound, the muscles in his body straining from his neck to his abs as he trembles before you. “When?” He demands, hips still rolling up to try and chase the curve of your palm. 

Soon. You’re not sure you can wait much longer either, not when he’s all spread out and flushed and desperate for you. The hand on his bulge stays there, a featherlight touch ghosting over the hardness in his pants while your other hand reaches for the can you’d went to great pains to hide from Rafayel. 

The paint is sticky. It’s cold and wet, the texture starkly different from the pulsing heat of Rafayel’s arousal. You dip the surface of your palm into the mouth of the can, holding it there until you’re certain your palm is coated in the viscous liquid.

“Stay still,” you say, and Rafayel stiffens under your hand. His lips part, mouth dropping open wider than it already was, and you can almost feel the hot breath from his lungs when you lift your stained palm up and position it over his clavicle. 

You hesitate. “Chin up.”

Rafayel doesn’t even hesitate. He lifts his chin immediately, exhaling sharply when you inch closer, and the sound he makes when you press your palm against the base of his throat goes straight to your gut. 

“Wet,” he pants weakly. His eyelashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes closed. “What’re you d’ing?”

“Shh.” You close your palm slightly, fingers reaching around to the side of his neck. You hold your palm there for a second, long enough to feel his breath stutter in his throat, and you watch the way he bites his lower lip when you lift your hand from his neck.

A pale purple handprint cups his throat, like a collar in the shape of your palm. Your thumb is imprinted on one side of the long column of his neck while your fingers decorate the other side.

You stare at his neck, the purple staining the skin right below the bulge of his Adam’s Apple, and you lean forward without thinking—Rafayel grunts, lips pressing tightly together to muffle the sound when you press against his length. 

Your eyes are blown wide. Your breath is caught in your throat, barely conscious as you reach out for the can of paint by your side, palm dipping back in to refresh the coat sticking to your skin. You’re not as careful this time, soaking your hand briefly before pulling it back out to press it against Rafayel’s chest, right over his heart.

With your outstretched palm, fingers pulled apart so far that it starts to hurt; you press firmly against the jumping muscle, feeling the skip in his chest under your palm. 

You’re close enough that your breath brushes across Rafayel’s face. His eyelashes tremble when you exhale and he tilts his head up, lips spreading open as if trying to blindly find your mouth. 

“Wha’s this?” He slurs, voice slow as he reaches up to you, following the air slipping from your lips. “Mmph—’s sticky.”

“I won’t tell.” The words come out shaky. You feel strangely lightheaded. When you pull your hand back, you can’t drag your eyes away from the stark handprint marking his chest. Like you’ve branded him with your claim, so bold that you take even yourself by surprise. 

Rafayel swipes his tongue across his lips. He looks parched, and his fingers twitch against the ground, scrabbling for purchase that he can’t find. 

“You look good like this,” you say without much thought. “You look—”

He laughs, breathy and high. “Good enough to eat?”

You know he meant it as a joke, but it’s not entirely incorrect. The long line of his body, the curve of your palm pressed into his skin like an indelible mark, the persistent, leaking heat below you that begs for your attention; it’s a mouthwatering look. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and his length jumps under your palm. You reach back for the paint again, fingers trembling slightly when you dip your hand in. With each pass, you’re messier, more careless about the way you flick the excess paint from the space in between your fingers. You press your palm to his abdomen, to the shaking, tense muscles there, and something hot rushes down your spine at the sudden sharp intake of breath from him. 

You can feel it. His stomach, contracting as he inhales. The muscles quiver under your touch. 

The fingers of your other hand suddenly tug at his zipper. Not to pull the metal up, but to yank it down. The button is quickly undone as well, dancing between the pads of your fingers as you force it out. 

With the way he’s seated, there isn’t much room for you to pull his pants down. But undoing the zipper and the button is enough to expose his stiff length, the growing wet patch on the front of his briefs, dark and desperate. 

He gasps, your name falling from his lips like a litany. 

“Please”, he begs, hips tilting up to feed his clothed cock into your palm. “Please, please, please—”

You take your hand off him for a brief second and Rafayel immediately keens, rocking his hips up to chase the ghost of your touch. 

“No, no, no—come back,” Rafayel pleads, eyelashes trembling like he’s this close to wrenching his eyes open, unable to hold himself back any further. 

“Breathe.” You lick a stripe up your palm, making sure it’s wet with saliva before you bring it back down. It’s a bit of a weird angle, trying to pull his briefs down far enough to get your hand around his cock, but the whine Rafayel lets out the moment the heat of your palm cups his cock is incredible.

He sags, as if all the fight leaves his body. His abdomen undulates, twitching furiously with every shaky inhale he pulls into his chest, and you’re just as breathless. 

The flush on his cheeks. The handprint around his neck, a choker marking him as yours. The handprint across his heart, a brand you want to tattoo into his skin. His stomach, slippery with wet paint, pulsing beneath your hand. 

His cock, wet with precum and your spit, hard and throbbing in your grip. He moans, throwing his head back to expose his throat (handprint, you think wildly, eyes fixated on the purple marks around his neck, yours) when you twist your hand on the downstroke. 

“Nngh—fuck. ‘m close,” he gasps, cock jerking in your hand. Precum drips from the tip, sticky and translucent, dripping all over your hand and his briefs and his pants. He’s making a mess. 

You work him harder, pressing your thumb into the fat vein trailing the underside of his cock. It’s like you hold the secret to the world in your hand, a finger on his pulse point. Rafayel is so weak like this, so vulnerable, so obedient. You could ask him to heel and he would. You could ask him to crawl on his knees to feast between your legs and he would. All to get your hand on his cock like this. 

The corner of his eyes are wet. Your breath hitches at the sight—if you had a free hand to wipe the salty tracks from his face, you could. But both hands are occupied, and so you lean in, mind blissfully empty except for the sight of Rafayel’s trembling body before you, and you lick at the corner of his eyes. 

Salty. Exactly as you imagined. 

Rafayel says your name on his next exhale, and it sounds like a sob. It sounds fragile. Like you have him dangling on a precipice and he’s about to topple off at the gentlest breath of air from you. 

“Good boy,” you murmur, so soft that you’re not even sure if he hears. “Cum for me.”

“Aah, ‘m—’m close,” he tries, voice cracking halfway through his sentence. “Close, mmmph, please…”

Your paint streaked hand leaves his abdomen and flies up to his neck. You instinctively avoid the base of his neck, not wanting to ruin the stark handprint already there. You curve your hand instead, your thumb coming up to press right against his Adam’s Apple, right where it throbs, right where you can feel every vibration from his throat when he speaks, and your palm cups the back of his neck. 

“Go on,” you croon, pressing down. You can hear the way his breath catches, catches—it cuts off, one last flurried, desperate inhale, before your name spills from his mouth with a hard jerk of his hips. 

His cock pulses in your grip, cum spurting from the tip. It flies all the way up his abdomen, sticky white cum dripping across the messy handprint your left on his stomach. You stroke him through it, eyes greedily searching his face for every minute reaction as you work him through his orgasm, right over the edge and into overstimulation. 

He doesn’t stop you. You hold him there, hand around his throat, hand around his cock, until you suddenly take your thumb off his Adam’s Apple. Rafayel’s entire body shudders violently, almost as if he’s experiencing a second orgasm as he sucks in a breath. His cock trembles, another weak rope of cum spilling onto your fingers. 

And you rub your thumb over the weeping slit of his cock, rubbing the sensitive head until he’s making these tiny, fucked out sounds. 

You work him until he’s shivering, and only then do you slowly slide your hand down to the base of his cock, holding him gently. 

“Open your eyes for me, Rafayel,” you say quietly. 

Rafayel exhales. He takes a while to catch his breath, chest heaving from exertion, and then he slowly, gradually, peels his eyes open. 

He looks up at you with wet eyes, lips trembling as he pants, and you’re tempted to push him straight into another orgasm. You could, if you wanted to. You could push him back and suck his cock, work him back up into hardness and pull one more orgasm out of him. 

Rafayel would let you. You know this like you know the back of your hand. 

“Good boy,” you repeat, eyes soft as you absentmindedly sweep your thumb along the column of his neck. “You did very well.”

Rafayel doesn’t do anything except stare at you for a while. He licks his lips again, sucking at the insides of his cheeks. 

“You…” Before he finishes his sentence, he takes a cursory glance down to your hand, eyes zeroing in on where you’re still holding the base of his cock. 

He also notices the messy streak of paint in the vague shape of a handprint over his abdomen. 

Rafayel squints. He tilts his head and catches sight of the handprint over his heart. The paint has slipped a little, mixing with the beads of sweat on his body to drip down his chest. 

Eventually, he tilts his head back up, leaning into your hand cupping the back of his neck. He’s so loose-limbed that it feels like your hand is the only thing holding him upright—if you let go, he’ll go falling to the floor in a sprawl. 

“Paint?” He asks, voice scratchy and hoarse. “This is the, ahem, big secret you didn’t want to tell me about?”

You blush, fingers constricting around his cock. It makes his breath hitch; Rafayel gives his cock a considering look, before reluctantly looking back up at you. 

“Nice color,” he comments, raising an eyebrow. “Did you like marking me up?”

You grip the back of his neck, shaking him a little, like a wolf scruffing her cubs. “I did, but…” you shrug, nodding at the messy handprints on his skin. “They’re a little smudged.”

Under the moonlight, his eyes glitter. “I’ll teach you how to do it. Did you know there’s a certain kind of paint that tints the skin and lasts for around two weeks?”

You blink at him. “You want… the marks to last two weeks?”

Rafayel smirks up at you. His brash confidence is tempered by the blatant affection pooling in his gaze. 

“I’d accept your marks even if they lasted forever,” he says casually, like your handprints aren’t drying on his skin and there isn’t cum streaked all over his abdomen. “Why shouldn’t the world know who I belong to?”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, but Rafayel eyes the fond smile on your lips and laughs. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. And you may want to disinfect the floor. I told you doing it in your atelier was a bit of a hazard—”

Rafayel tilts his head up. He acts like he didn’t hear anything you just said, eyes bright as he smiles up at you. “Kiss.”

You huff. He’s so… so aggravating that you want to wring your hands. 

But he looks up at you, expectant and waiting, and you can’t help but lean down to press your lips to his. 

His lips are warm. Your mouth opens on instinct, sighing into the kiss as he licks into your mouth. 

Then, there is a hand around your waist and a hand at the back of your head, winding into your hair. Rafayel leans back, abdomen tense and hard as he eases the both of you back onto the floor—not fast enough to hurt himself, but it takes you by surprise. 

“Raf—you have paint and cum on you, don’t—!”

“Body paint, yes?” Rafayel interrupts you with a grin. 

“Of course it’s body paint, we both know I can’t use your normal paints for this!”

Rafayel rolls the both of you over. “Then I think you’re a little overdressed, princess. I think it’s only fair if we both get to mark each other up, don’t you?” He sits up, glancing back briefly to locate the paint can before he hooks the handle with a finger and drags it over. “I’ll start with the back of your thighs.”

He slips one hand beneath the mouth of your sweatpants, fingers dancing lightly over your heated skin. 

“Take it off,” Rafayel coaxes, his other hand already dipping into the paint can. “We’ll clean up after.”

==

Her tone doesn’t brook any disobedience. It forces the body on the sofa to finally shift, fingers clutching the pillow over his face to shift down slightly. Xavier peers at her from under the cushion, blinking blearily at her as if she forced him out a particularly sweet dream. 

As if he’s not currently on the clock. 

“When you requisitioned the sofa, I didn’t expect you to put it to such use,” Jenna comments, raising an eyebrow at him. “We should put a timer on it. A timer and a repelling collar on you that sends you flying from the sofa when you’ve spent over fifteen minutes on it.”

Xavier pulls the pillow further down, tucking it under his chin. “You would do that to the best Hunter on your team?”

“Who better to serve as a role model for the rest of the team than yourself?”

“Always so cruel,” Xavier sighs, sitting up properly. “The paperwork never ends.”

Jenna eyes the amount of paperwork piled up on his desk, the towering stacks of paper that bury the metal surface of his table. “It never ends because you never do them, Xavier. Get to it.”

“You’re the one in command. You do it.” Xavier gives her a look that is probably the closest thing to earnest, but Jenna’s fallen for it before and she’ll be damned if she falls for it again. 

“They’re your missions. The longer you put it off, the more paperwork there will be. All it needs is a simple mission summary—Data Analytics will handle the majority of the information. Look at what Ning wrote: ‘Tuesday morning, Wanderers at Chica’s Pizza, one Wanderer. Pizzeria was full of civilians, maybe thirty in total, full evacuation before engaging. No Protocore. Mission success.’ A total of twenty-five words.”

Xavier sighs. He stands, reluctance written all over his face and weighing his muscles down as he walks over to his desk. “What about something like, ‘I came, I saw, I conquered’?”

Jenna feels a headache come on. Xavier isn’t usually the main cause for her headaches—no, that position is saved for select people, like Nero, the serial escapist, or Andrew, the pain in her ass—but when Xavier gives her a headache, he gives her one that’s sharp and lingers. For ages. Because that’s how long he takes to complete his paperwork. 

“No. Captain’s orders. I know you have an excellent memory, Xavier. Once you put your mind to it, you’ll finish your work in no time.” She pauses, then, deciding to strike fear into his heart, adds, “be grateful I haven’t assigned you to liaise with Data Analytics on sifting through the data you bring back from your missions. I could make you list down all the Protocores you obtain from each mission, down to the specificity of each Protocurve. I could make you list the type of Wanderers you face, down to the category and details like how many limbs they had.”

The sound of pen on paper stops. When Jenna looks up, Xavier’s looking at her in shock. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says. He sounds hesitant even to her.

Jenna shrugs. This appears to be a surprisingly effective threat against him. She mentally files it away for a rainy day. “Maybe I would. I have the paperwork done up. All I need to do is have my hand slip.”

Xavier shakes his head. “Incredible,” he mutters, pen scratching away on the smooth surface of his documents. “You’re terrifying, Captain.”

==

In the shower, he slides his cock between your soaped up thighs and fucks you like that, the head of his cock slamming into your swollen clit with every swing of his hips. You’re gasping, hands scrabbling for purchase on the tiles while he brings the showerhead down to spray at your clit. Sylus’s other hand is squeezing your tit, fingers pulling sharply at your nipple and making you cry out. You’re close, fuck, you’re close. 

At the dining table, you’re on his lap. His cock is trapped under your panties, sitting against your wet cunt like a pulsing rod of heat. It slides against the seam of your pussy every time he leans forward to scoop something off the plate. Sylus feeds you, laughing lowly when you can barely stomach more than a few mouthfuls. You’re more focused on other things, like the heat coiling in your gut like a snake about to lunge at its prey. The lips of your cunt are spread around his cock, your hole clenching desperately against the base of his cock. 

Again, and again, Sylus brings you to the brink. He holds you there, like he has a hand on your throat, choking the orgasm off right at the tip. He keeps you right on edge, until your body is so overworked and so sensitive that even a brush of his shoulder against yours is enough to make you jump, pussy tightening at the slightest touch no matter how much you try to remind yourself that Sylus won’t let you cum. 

It makes you irritable. You want the high, the suffocating heat of something buried in your sweet cunt, something thick for your pussy to grip onto as you shudder through your orgasm, but Sylus dangles it just out of reach. You end up glaring at him more often than not, turning away to huff at the mere sight of him. 

But Sylus just laughs, one hand reaching out to reel you in, and proceeds to make you lose your mind before letting you go. 

“Sy–lus,” you choke out, fingers clutching weakly at the bedsheets. The fabric is completely crumpled beneath your grip and the pillow below your abdomen is soaked with sweat. Your legs feel numb, knees bent with your ass up as Sylus fucks into you with four fingers. He sets a harsh pace, licking at your clit as he slams his fingers into your cunt, hitting your g-spot with devastating accuracy. 

You’re going to tip over the edge. His tongue laps at your clit, lips closing around the swollen bud to suck on it harshly with a particularly vicious thrust of his fingers—it forces you up along the bed, hips jerking back to sit on his fingers before jolting away, as if your body can’t decide whether it wants to chase that pleasure or escape from it. 

“G’na cum,” you pant, barely getting the words out with how breathless you are. It’s a warning in every sense of the word—you think you might actually kill him if he stops halfway, but at the same time, something deep inside you wants to let him know you’re close. To let him know that if he’s going to stop, he needs to stop now or your mind will go blank from the way he’s sucking on your clit. 

Sylus gives one last kiss to your clit, teeth scraping briefly against the oversensitive nub before pulling away. It makes you yelp, the pleasure bordering on pain, but it’s so good, so fucking good that you can’t help but push your hips back in a bid to chase after his mouth. 

“Can’t have that happen, sweetie. Not yet,” he murmurs. But his fingers are still going, crooking inside your cunt and making you clench up every time they scrape against your walls. He’s fucking you like he intends to make you gush, like he’s ready to watch your slick drip out of your pussy, down his wrist, all the way to his forearm. Those clever fingers are punishing, demanding as they fuck into you, and your eyes roll into the back of your head when your pussy trembles once, twice—

Sylus withdraws his fingers in a flash. Your cunt clenches on nothing, hips squirming as you try to cling to his fingers even as he draws them out of you. There’s a loud, wailing sound in the room, and it takes you a good few seconds to realise it’s coming from your mouth. You’re sobbing, face buried in the sheets, gasping for your life at the orgasm that was ripped from your fingertips. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that he gets to tease you like this, to bring you to the edge so many times and leave you wanting—it’s not fair that he gets to play your body like a fiddle, making you sore and achy and so desperate for cock that you barely recognise your face in the mirror. It’s not fucking fair—

“Easy, dollface,” Sylus laughs, one hand scruffing you on the back of your neck, fingers and thumb wrapping around your throat like a necklace. “Open up.”

And he slides in, home, all the way until his cockhead pushes against the opening of your cervix. The slide is wet from how soaked you are, and you’re tight despite how he fingered you for what felt like hours. His cock sinks into you, and you distantly hear the low groan he lets out as he fucks in, in, in until his hips slam against your ass and he just stays there for a moment, luxuriating in the feel of your throbbing cunt closing around his dick. 

You don’t make a sound. Your mouth is open, chest tight as your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your limbs twitch, back arching as your hips move of their own accord, spasming around Sylus’ fat cock. It burns, like a fire eating you alive from the inside, so explosive it hurts. 

You cum from the feeling of his cock fully buried in your cunt, pussy gushing wetly and soaking the sheets. You shake apart, senses dulled as your entire world shrinks down to your cunt, your twitching clit, your pussy clinging desperately to the stiff cock inside you, stuffing you full. 

“Good girl,” Sylus says breathlessly from above you, fingers tightening around your throat. “I told you I’d make it good.”

The sound you make is indescribable. Sylus lets you ride it out on his cock, groaning whenever your cunt pulsates around his length. Right when your body is about to relax, to come down from it’s high, Sylus pulls out and slams back into you.

You shriek, entire body jolting from the electrifying burst of overstimulation that flashes white-hot through your body. 

Sylus doesn’t let up. He fucks you hard and dirty, like he’s putting all the pent-up energy from not being in your pussy for the past twenty-four hours to good use. He fucks like he’s desperate to bury himself in your cunt, to carve out a space for his cock that your pussy will remember for centuries even when he’s not inside you. 

The punishing pace shocks you right into your next orgasm. The pleasure never stops, just builds and builds until you’re pushed off the edge again, falling right into the throes of your second orgasm. 

“S-Sylus!” You cry out, voice hoarse from overuse. “Please, please—”

“I’ve got you,” Sylus growls. His voice is low, tight from exertion, but his hips don’t stop moving. His cock saws into you, the cockhead hitting your cervix and scrapping against your g-spot with such devastating accuracy that you can’t help how loud you get when you cum again, pussy squirting furiously around the hard cock inside you. “Again, sweetie.”

“C-can’t,” you gasp, desperately sucking in mouthfuls of air despite the grip on your neck. Sylus’s other hand is on your hip, holding you firmly in place as he fucks into your cunt, and you can hear him chuckle at the way your pussy drips slick. 

“What a messy girl,” he croons, slamming his cock deep into your pussy. It makes you shiver, overstimulation mixing with pleasure as it crawls all over your body, setting your nerve-endings aflame. “One more time.”

You exhale, body spasming as it obeys him. Your pussy clenches around him so tightly it makes him groan, and you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams when you cum again. 

This time, he fucks you slower, really letting you shake and shiver through the aftershocks of this orgasm. You’re a quiet, whining mess when he flips you over, cock still buried inside you, and you can barely force your eyes open to look him in the eye. 

“Cute,” he remarks, eyes glinting in the light as he reaches up to press a thumb against your parted lips. “Are you satisfied?”

You lie there, chest heaving as you try to gather your wits about yourself. Your cunt clenches weakly around his cock, clinging to the heat radiating off his length. If you could muster up the strength, you would maybe lift your legs in the air so he can get a better angle to fuck you with. 

But you don’t have the energy. You’re tired, vision blurry from sweat and tears, and you think you might need a few days to recover from this entire ordeal.

Sylus gives you a knowing look. His gaze rakes across your spread-out body, combing across every inch of you, and his gaze is so hungry that it makes you shiver and tighten up on his cock. 

He leans down, head dipping to position himself right at your ear. His hair brushes against your cheek and his breath blows against your neck. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You want to reach up and claw at his back but you don’t have the energy.

“I’m not satisfied,” Sylus whispers into your ear. His tongue darts out, tracing a wet trail along the shell of your ear. “I think you can give me a few more orgasms, sweetie.”

“Too—nngh, too much,” you breathe, voice stuttering when he rocks his hips into yours. “S-Sylus, I don’t—”

“You can,” he asserts, hands wandering down to grip you tightly by your hips. “Three more, and then I’ll kiss your pretty pink pussy until you soak my face. How about it?”

You moan, eyes fluttering shut at the mere thought of it. If Sylus says three more, he isn’t joking. He’ll fuck those orgasms out of you, whether you want to or not, and he’ll wring the pleasure out of your body until you’re a breathless, panting, limp body. Until your cunt aches and you can’t walk straight for a week.

Before you can answer, something pulls your legs up. Heat circles around your ankles, yanking your legs up and to your sides, knees coming to rest at your shoulders. Sylus pulls back just enough to hook the inside of his elbows around your knees, and he smirks down at you as he grinds into your cunt.

The slide is wet. So wet it’s absurd, so wet you can hear the squelching sounds from your dripping pussy. 

“Count for me,” Sylus murmurs, one eye shining a brilliant crimson. “I want to hear you scream my name.” 

He fucks you, over and over again, using his Evol to manhandle your body into different positions until you’re begging for mercy. You cum when he cums, at the hot sensation of his cum spilling into you, painting your insides white. You cum again when he holds you up, bouncing you on his cock with your tits pressed up against the window, clit rubbing against the glass, vision blurry as you look out onto the N109 zone. You cum one more time, slick dripping uselessly from your throbbing cunt when he fucks you while you’re on your side, one leg lifted into the air, his hand on your clit, the other hand groping your tit. 

Then he makes good on his promise, energy circling your ankles like cuffs as he holds your legs over your body, folding you in half so he can grip your ass and pull your cunt apart for him to lick into.

When you cum again, you think it’s a dry orgasm. Your pussy clenches and throbs, your clit pulsating weakly, but you don’t know if you produce any more slick or if your cunt is just filled with his spit and cum. You feel wrecked.

He mouths at your clit, carefully licking with the tip of his tongue while you shudder in his hands. When you come down from the orgasm, he pulls your legs back down and your body finally eases into the sheets. 

“Easy, sweetie,” Sylus repeats, but this time there’s a softness to his tone. His hands on you are gentle, tucking you into his chest as he lifts you from the bed. “I’ve got you.”

And despite all his sharp edges, all the snark, all the challenging—you think he does.

==

The red flammula circles around its massive tank. The tank is perched on the reinforced glass table, large enough that it practically takes up all the space. There are small underwater plants swaying with the ripples sent up by the portable water filter attached to the side of the tank. Sand and gravel sit at the bottom, with a few coral stones tossed in to add color to the place. 

Inside, the flammula spits out a string of bubbles.

“You don’t get it. So there they were, helpless and shaking, like a seal pup in front of a great white. The setting sun set their hair alight, awash with that orange hue—I really need to paint this before I forget it—and they were just standing there. Their eyes darted around, begging for help, and there I was! Right in their line of sight; tall, handsome, elegant. Offering a comment about your tragic lifespans on land so they know I’m intelligent.”

The flammula hides behind a particularly big rock. On the couch, the figure splutters, sitting upright. 

“Dropping an information snippet about the lifespan of aquatic creatures is not boring. It caught their attention. And then I took the net from their loose grip, emboldened by the hopeful gaze in their eyes, and swooped you up in one quick snap of my wrist. Really, you need to be better at running away from nets in the water. Is this how you got caught the first time?”

A long string of bubbles. The flammula swims out just to brush its underbelly against the sand before swimming back up to where the plants are swaying with the ripples. 

“After catching you, I proceeded to tell her about your historic legend—”

The flammula winds itself around a long, dark green plant. It flops over, the plant wrapped around it, and pretends to go still.

A hand reaches over, one knuckle knocking in irritation at the side of the tank, right next to where the flammula is.

“A little respect would be deserved,” Rafayel huffs, throwing his head to the side. “I didn’t have to save you, you know. I could have let you live up to your exceedingly short lifespan with the rest of your brethren in that tiny pool, at the mercy of small land children with sticky fingers and unwashed hands.”

The flammula revives long enough to flap a fin at Rafayel and breathe out bubbles before it returns to playing dead. 

Rafayel rolls his eyes. “Anyway, they then told me that Hat Island was closed off because of Wanderer sightings. Not that it would have stopped me, if I had really wanted to go, but—hey! This means they were concerned about me, weren’t they?”

The flammula doesn’t respond. 

“I mean, I picked a random pamphlet out of that booth near the place just so I had something to do with my hands, but what a stroke of luck!”

Rafayel dips a hand in the water, far enough to gently poke the flammula with the tip of his index finger. “Look alive, comrade. I’m not done here.”

The flammula twists its body, slapping Rafayel’s index finger with its tail. 

“They didn’t say it just because I’m a civilian and they were doing their job,” Rafayel shoots back, sounding miffed. “Well, whatever. Let’s move past that to the next important installation of our interaction, wherein I, very handsomely, popped you into the small container they were holding on to.”

A flurry of bubbles rise in the tank. The flammula seems to have a lot to say, reviving once more just to swim accusingly around Rafayel’s hand and bump angrily into his open palm. 

“You were not going to die from air exposure. I barely held you out for less than a minute. I wasn’t going to just let you die like that. And you are really detracting from my entire experience, here. Regardless, after you were finally allowed to breathe again, they told me to go to Whitesand Bay. How cute,” Rafayel remarks, a smile pulling at his lips.

The flammula scrapes its body against Rafayel’s fingers, nipping at his fingertips. 

“This level of aggression is seriously uncalled for,” Rafayel complains, poking the flammula’s tail. “I’m just trying to tell you about our meeting, and you’re acting like I tossed you into the middle of an oil spill. They told me to go visit Whitesand Bay, you know?”

He points outside the windows lining his wall, tempered glass from ceiling to floor, gesturing at the miles of paper white sand that stretch out before him. “How cute. Maybe I should invite them to walk with me at Whitesand Bay sometime.”

The flammula swings its tail, hitting Rafayel’s fingers. Once it gets the last word in, the flammula swims in a harried manner to the stone cave attached to the side of the tank, clearly ready to hide in there until Rafayel stops bothering it.

“You are no fun,” he tells the flammula, fishing his hand out of the water. There’s a brief flash and fire creeps up his skin, starting from his fingertips and crawling up his palms, the back of his hand, his wrist, his forearm—the flames lick at his elbow, and Rafayel shakes his arm out. 

Just as quickly as it appeared, the flames disappear. Rafayel slips his dry palm into his pocket and stands, turning to eye the view from his window. The translucent curtains flutter in the seabreeze, carried in through one of the open windows, and Rafayel tilts his head back, slowly breathing it in. 

“I’ll pack the rest of them and send them to where they should be,” he says, eyes closed, face turned to soak in the moonlight filtering through the glass. “I’ll send you along with them, I suppose.”

Bubbles escape the stone cave. 

“I’m not in the business of raising dependents,” Rafayel comments, looking back to eye the tank speculatively. “If I do keep you around, historic part of Lemurian culture or not, know that I may or may not end up using you as a midnight snack if I’m feeling peckish.” 

No response. Another round of playing dead. 

“How interesting,” he murmurs, bending down to tap the glass. “Well, if I ever come up with a use for you, I’ll let you know. Maybe I can trick them into thinking we’re co-parenting you. Heaven knows you need to learn some manners, disobedient punk.”

The thought makes Rafayel smile. They wouldn’t get it; they would likely be confused at the concept of teaching a fish manners, but it’s as good an excuse as any to get them into Rafayel’s home.

==

“Sylus,” you gasp, the sound weak and shaky. It’s more an exhale than a word at this point. Your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves and your knees are going to give out if he keeps trying to mouth wetly at your clit—

He kisses your pert clit, laughing at the way it makes you clench around nothing. “What an excellent view,” he murmurs, lips brushing teasingly along your cunt, the tip of his tongue darting out to slide along the slick wetness dripping down your thighs. You cry out, legs shaking as you rock forward on your toes. You’re not sure if you want to move away from his mouth or sit back down on his face to chase that clever tongue. “Hips up, sweetie.”

“I hate you,” you whine weakly. Your entire body is trembling from the effort of holding yourself up, thighs tensed as you try to prop yourself up higher. Your forearms are braced against the desk in his study, palms wet with sweat as you try to sweep away any stray papers. Sylus probably doesn’t care, but you don’t want to hear the smugness in his voice when he holds up a piece of paper with ink streaks all over the surface and accuses you of messing with his work. 

You tried to hold yourself up at first, propped up on your elbows enough to look back and see a head of silver hair. Fingers on your bare ass, skirt hiked up to your waist and pooling on the table—you could see the way his fingers dug into your skin, kneading the plush fat of your ass as he spread you the way he liked. Wide open and dripping, cunt hole twitching sporadically the longer you went without any stimulation.

If he wasn’t touching you, then he was looking at you. 

Then he put his mouth on your pussy, that hungry tongue digging into your cunt as if he truly wanted to eat you alive. The sucking sounds from your cunt were obscene and they made you drop your head to the silver surface of the table in an attempt to cool your flaming cheeks with the chilled metal. 

It didn’t work. Not when Sylus groaned after a while, fingers flexing against your ass to push you up higher so he can get a better angle to work at your pussy.

“Just let me cum,” you try pleading with him. Sylus hums, the vibrations going straight to your throbbing pussy and making the ache worse. 

“I don’t think you get to call the shots here.” There’s a thread of amusement in his voice—it’s a thread you want to grip between your fingers and snap. “Twenty-four hours, right?”

You’re not above setting your pride aside if it means you can cum. You’d be the first to fling it out the window when he’s got you on a high wire like this, so close to tripping over the edge you swear you can taste it. 

“Please, Sylus,” you moan, breath hitching when he latches back onto your clit midway through your words. You want to say something else, like I’m begging you, please just let me cum, I’m so fucking close, but he gives your swelling clit a particularly hard suck and your entire mind goes blank. It’s just straight pleasure, a fire rushing up your spine and making your eyes roll back on instinct. 

Your knees involuntarily go limp. You can’t hold yourself up, not when your upper body is balanced uselessly against the desk and your legs aren’t listening to you. In the split second where your toes slip against the floor, you’ve resigned yourself to tumbling to the ground and getting a bruise on your hip in the process.

But Sylus laughs, pulling back just enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to the hungry hole of your pussy, and slips his hands down to cup your ass. He pushes you up, forcing you to slide up on the desk—your hands flail weakly, scrabbling for some sort of purchase and finding none. You must hit something because there’s a brief snap of pain against your knuckles, and you think something tumbles to the ground. 

You don’t know what it is, though, because Sylus is suddenly hunched over your back, his chest pressed up tightly against you with both hands coming around to the front of your thighs to pull your legs further apart. 

“You’re so cute when you’re like this,” he pants into your ear. His voice is a low, rolling sound that goes straight to your clit. You try to close your legs to put some pressure on your pussy, and that makes him chuckle. He forces your thighs apart with ease. You’re not putting up much of a fight, not with how weak your muscles are and how the only thing you can focus on is that you’re this close to cumming.

“Please,” you beg, words escaping you. There isn’t anything else to say—your mind is a blur, clit and pussy twitching from the heat of Sylus’ hands just centimeters away. You want those hands on you, in you. You want him to bully your clit between his fingers, pinching and rolling your swollen clit while fucking two other fingers into you. Three fingers into you. Fuck, you’re wet enough that you think he could make four fit, just slide them in without any preamble and make you cry out from the stretch. 

Even the thought of it is enough to make you shiver. You moan, eyelashes fluttering as you weakly attempt to rock back into his hips. The line of his cock is hard against your skin, the metal zipper pressing into your ass. 

“Look at how desperate you are,” Sylus whispers. You can feel the shadow of his smile against the shell of your ear—his upturned lips rub against your heated skin, his breath burning a brand into the space where your ear meets your jaw. “Like a needy kitten in heat for a thick cock to fuck her stupid. Your clit is swollen, dollface.”

As if to prove a point, he presses against the underside of your clit with his thumb. It’s sensitive there, and he’s brought you to the edge and left you wanting so many times that this small movement is enough to make you jolt, a cry escaping your lips before you can even think to force it back. Your hips shudder, rutting against his thumb without any real thought or purpose, and he lets out an amused huff. 

“So twitchy. Is this pink pussy all for me?”

His other hand slips down, fingertips tracing the seam of your pussy. You’re so drenched you can hear the wet sounds of your pussy—the sticky sound when he dips one finger into your cunt and pulls it out, so quickly that you barely manage to clench around it for the slightest hint of pressure before it’s gone again. 

“Again, again—Sylus!”

A warm tongue runs along your neck. “Patience, sweetie. One finger isn’t enough for you?”

You are going to burst, and you swear you’ll take him with you. “More, please, I’m so fucking close—”

Two fingers fuck into you. They’re crooked at the knuckle, slamming up against the sensitive spot inside of you and you shriek, legs shaking so hard that Sylus has to lift you up again to press you against the table. 

“Please, please, please,” you babble mindlessly, vision blurry. “I’m—fuck, Sylus, nnngh—close, I’m—”

Your cunt tightens, clit twitching on Sylus’ thumb, and the heat enveloping you abruptly disappears. Your cunt is empty again, clinging onto nothing, and your clit is left with nothing to rub against, and there is nothing holding you up and you’re sliding off the desk. 

Strong arms come around your waist, scooping you up and onto a familiar lap. Sylus must have pulled his chair over, but you’re not concerned about that. You’re not concerned at all about the finer logistics of how he got you onto his lap. 

You’re concerned about how your pussy isn’t filled, how your thighs are still spasming from the brute force of an orgasm ripped away from your grasp like that.

You had it in your fingers. You were this close to cumming. One more slam of his fingers into your cunt and you would have tipped over and it would have been so good. 

“You can take it,” Sylus tells you, eyes gleaming. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

You stare at him. Is there a knife in the vicinity? Hell, a gun?

“Look at that expression. Are you upset?” He asks with a gleeful, knowing look in his eyes. “It’s just one orgasm, sweetie. Be patient.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out for a while. “Twenty-four hours?” You ask eventually, voice hoarse from crying out just seconds before, when you thought you were en route for cumming your mind out. 

Sylus shrugs, eyes closing briefly as he rolls his shoulders in that lazy manner of his. “You’ll cum soon enough.” His crimson gaze lands on you. Half-lidded and smug, like he’s pleased at how distraught you are from being denied an orgasm twice over. “If you can’t wait, I could tell you about how I plan to have you for the rest of my time. A little preview, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want a preview. I want this—” you reach down, fingers wrapping challengingly around Sylus’ stiff cock through the fabric of his pants. His breath catches, eyebrows rising as he looks down, admiring the way your fingers look against his outline of his cock, then he drags his gaze back up to you. 

His fingers thrum lightly against the sensitive skin at your waist. “And what will you do with it once you have it, dollface?”

You squeeze it, mollified by how it makes him tilt his head back and inhale sharply. It’s unfair how sexy he is, how good pleasure looks on him. He looks hedonistic like this, with his eyes closed as he lets the pleasure roll throughout his body, stemming from the hard cock beneath your fingers. You can feel the heat of it spilling through the fabric, and you’re tempted to pull his zipper down and sneak his cock out to sit on it. 

“Fuck myself on it,” you admit frankly. Your pussy clenches at the thought, and you dig your thumb into the head of his cock, hard enough for him to let out a pleased grunt. 

“Nngh, naughty girl. That wasn’t very nice of you,” he pants, opening one eye to look at you. But he doesn’t do anything to stop you. All he does is sit there, head lolling back far enough to expose his Adam’s Apple and the dip of his clavicle. As if waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You have half a mind to hop off his lap and leave him to settle it by himself. He deserves it, you think petulantly. If you can’t cum, then he shouldn’t get to soak in the syrupy pleasure of cumming either.

But you think about the heft of his cock. The way it feels in your palm, thick and heavy. The pearls of precum beading at the tip, the visceral proof of how aroused he can get at your touch. The way he flinches when you pull at his cock too tightly—the instinctive flinch, and then the gradual relaxation as he revels in the sensation. 

“Oh? Are you going to make it up to me?” He murmurs, feigned surprise in his voice as you pull the zipper down. He lifts his hips up helpfully, just enough for you to fish his cock out. 

You don’t bother replying to him. Instead, you steady his cock and suck on the insides of your mouth for a while. 

Then, you open your mouth, tongue out and resting on your lower lip as a trail of saliva drips from your mouth and onto Sylus’ cock. 

You see the way his cock jerks, precum spilling furiously from the tip. And when your saliva pools on Sylus cock, dripping into the slit and mixing with his precum—

“Fuck,” Sylus curses lowly. “Fuck, sweetie, you—”

You look up. Sylus’ pupils are blown wide open, dilated beyond belief as he stares at your mouth. His cock twitches, throbbing beneath your fingers and you slowly start to stroke, the slide made smooth by your saliva and his precum. You rub the pad of your thumb at his slit, playing with the sensitive head of his cock until he jerks, hips snapping up as he growls and tightens his grip on your waist. 

“You’re going to give a man ideas,” he groans, looking at you through half-lidded eyes. His gaze is hazy with arousal, and he looks at you with the confidence of a man who knows that you know he’s about to cum. His lips are crooked up in a taunting smile. 

You lick your lips. He looks good enough to eat. You had this cock in your mouth just hours ago, bruising the back of your throat, but you feel like sucking it again. You feel like running your tongue over the thick length of this cock. 

“I should edge you too.”

Sylus tilts his head. “You could,” he says agreeably. “Until I ordered you to make me cum. With your mouth. Your tits. Your fingers.”

His eyes drag down along the line of your body, pausing meaningfully at each location he mentions. “Your thighs,” he continues, looking straight at the sticky and damp patch between your thighs, tracking all the way up to your pussy. 

You shiver, clit pulsing at the thought of him rutting between your thighs. 

“Oh? You liked that, didn’t you?” He smirks, a pleased air settling on his shoulders as he looks you over. “Put your fingers to work, sweetie. I know you know how to use them.”

Some part of you really wants to resist on principle. But the horny part of you prevails, and you watch with satisfaction as you pull Sylus to the brink in a handful of minutes—he groans, a deep and hoarse sound as his muscles roll with the effort of keeping still so you’re balanced on his lap. His cock throbs heavily in your hand, betraying how he’s barely hanging on to his self-control, and you watch with bated breath as sticky cum spurts out in your palm.

You cup his swollen cockhead, catching the streaks of white cum on your fingers so it doesn’t stain his sweater. He makes a delicious sound when you rub the head of his cock against your palm while he’s still cumming—the overstimulation makes him twitch, fingers clenching at your waist over and over again as if to ground himself with the touch of your skin. 

“You made a mess,” you note idly, stroking him through the aftershocks. “Are you going to clean up after yourself?”

Sylus huffs, still breathing heavily with every pass of your hand, hips rutting up instinctively. “Decide where you want me to lick it off,” he grunts, free hand pulling your dress all the way up to your collar to expose your breasts. He licks his lips, giving you a pointed look as he blatantly stares at your tits, and you can feel the way your nipples harden under his gaze. 

“Go on,” he murmurs, breath catching when you rub at the underside of his cockhead. “Tits or cunt, sweetie? I’m feeling generous enough to let you choose.”

You want his mouth on your cunt again, but if he brings you to the brink one more time before ruining the orgasm, you might actually kill him. In these trying circumstances, having him lick the remnants of his cum off your breasts might be a better idea. 

Having come to a decision, you take your hands off his cock. Your palms are sticky with his cum, long strands of cum stretching between your fingers, and you reach up to cup your tits. 

Sylus watches intently, eyes glued to the way you pinch your nipples between your fingers. The way you spread his cum all over your tits, leaving white streaks on your skin as you go. His lips are slightly parted, tongue darting out occasionally to swipe across his lower lip as he watches, as if he can’t wait to put his mouth on you. 

His mouth on your chest, you think deliriously. Teeth worrying at your nipples, sucking at your skin until he leaves a ring of bruises across your skin. Tongue flicking those pretty buds until you’re begging for more, for fingers in your cunt—or his tongue flat, letting you rub your tits all over his mouth. 

You can’t decide which is better. So you press your arms together, pushing your cum covered tits up, and offer them to Sylus. 

“Clean them up,” you murmur, and Sylus chuckles.

“How demanding. Even when you have no power to order me around.” His tongue swipes against your left nipple, a fleeting sensation that sends sparks down your spine. “Lucky for you, I am feeling rather hungry.”

==

The torture continues. He corners you on the couch when you’re trying to watch something to get your mind off the hot arousal pooling in your gut for the past few hours. He puts you on his lap, back pressed up to your chest, feet up and planted on either side of his thighs on the sofa. Your hands under your knees just to hold yourself open for his taking as he plays idly with your cunt while watching the show you put on.

He keeps up a loose commentary about the show, laughing lightly when the male lead appears shirtless in the shower. “Is this what you watch in your free time?” Sylus asks, three fingers deep in your pussy while rubbing insistently at your clit. “Naked men in the shower?”

“Mmmph!” You moan, eyes rolling back at the electricity sparking in your veins. His fingers are thick and clever, pushing up against the bundle of nerves inside your pussy with such damning precision that your entire body is shaking from the effort of not cumming. And it’s like Sylus knows that, with how he shifts you easily in his lap, pulling you tighter against him and fucking rougher into you with his fingers. 

Like he’s trying to push you all the way to the brink. Like he takes pleasure in the way you deny yourself just to be obedient to him. 

“You’re missing the good parts,” Sylus continues, murmuring quietly in your ear. His voice isn’t loud, but your entire world seems to have shrunk to focus solely on him. His fingers, his heat, the puff of his breath against your ear. You’re looking straight ahead, eyes half-lidded, but you’re not seeing much of anything on the screen.

“Sylus,” you whine, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers. “Please, please, it’s been hours—”

He bites the shell of your ear, hard enough to sting, then runs his tongue wetly over the mark. “Patience,” he coaxes, even as his fingers pull at your clit hard enough to make you cry out, hips jerking forward uncontrollably. 

You’ve kind of had it with patience, but when Sylus lets go of you, third orgasm ruined, you take a deep breath and hold yourself back from strangling him. You do need his cock hard and alive to fuck yourself stupid on, when he’s stopped being so unhelpful. 

You go to bed early, nerves tense and temper high. If you punch the pillows around a bit before settling down and yanking the covers up to your chin, that’s between you and the bed. And Mephisto, who is likely reporting everything back to Sylus the moment you fall asleep. 

It takes ages, and a lot of tossing and turning in bed, but you must have fallen asleep at some point because you wake up to your legs in the air, held together by one hand wrapped around both ankles, and an unbearable heat between your thighs, pushing insistently against your clit.

You gasp, still dizzy from sleep and distracted by the wet slide of something against your pussy, hot and demanding. It drags along your slit, bumping the underside of your swollen pearl on every upstroke. It’s a slow, tenacious fire that builds in your gut, stoking the dying embers and coaxing the flames to roar up your spine once again. 

“Awake?” The voice is low, closer to a growl than anything else. “Go back to sleep, sweetie. All I need are your thighs and this sweet little cunt.”

His hips roll against yours, driving his cock further along your pussy. He fucks your thighs slowly, so fucking patient as he chases his orgasm—patience that you don’t have. You would try to coax him to fuck you harder if you weren’t still half-awake, vision bleary as you weakly clutch at the bedsheets. 

You’re not even sure what’s happening. All you know is that your pussy is aching, throbbing so badly for something, anything to be stuffed inside. His cock saws between your thighs, the slide made smooth by the copious amount of slick you’re dripping, and you moan when the head of his cock bumps against your clit. 

“More,” you gasp, the word rattling in your throat. “Sylus, please—”

“Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

You shake your head as best you can. Your back arches, trying to roll your hips up into his to get a better angle. To put more pressure on your clit. You’ve been denied for so long that you’re tiptoeing on the jagged knife’s edge—you just need a bit more, a little more of something, and you know you’ll cum.

But Sylus keeps up this devastatingly slow pace, like he’s taking his time, like he’s savoring the experience of you writhing beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg, eyes fluttering shut. There’s a moment where your voice breaks in two, and you think you might cry if he denies you again. It’s a steady build up, a long trek up a mountain with a payoff you can see, just barely out of reach. 

“Not yet,” Sylus replies softly. There is another hand on your hip, thumb rubbing gently over the skin there. It’s almost a reassurance, an attempt to cool the flames licking over your body, but then he moves your legs over one shoulder so his other hand can join your legs, squeezing your thighs together to create a tighter crevice for him to fuck into. “You can take it, sweetie.”

You’re not sure you can. The back of your thighs are pressed up against Sylus’ chest, the jut of his broad shoulder leaning into your calves. He holds you in place like you’re nothing more than a sex toy he’s using in the middle of the night to try and rub one off. He rocks his cock against your pussy, the full length of it scraping past your slit and peeking through your thighs at the end.

Your clit feels battered and bruised and far too sensitive for the consistent grinding of his cock. When he pulls back, far enough that the head of his cock is positioned right at the mouth of your pussy, you can hear the way you start to whine. 

You can feel it. The briefest touch of pressure, his cockhead nudging at your cunt, teasing your hungry pussy. Like he’s going to sink in and fill you up so full you can feel it in your throat, if you just ask nicely.

But he won’t. He teases your cunt just enough to make you shake, then he continues the slide to make the head of his cock kiss your clit. 

“You’re so mean,” you cry out, voice trembling as your pussy mouths hungrily at the touch of his cockhead. “Please, Sylus, I’m begging, please, please—”

Sylus grunts. His grip on your thighs gets tight, and you imagine you can see the veins in his forearm bulge. You imagine the way he’s frowning, brows taut as he grits his teeth and stares down at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

Restraint looks so ugly on him, you want to say, but the pressure against your pussy grows and your mouth drops open. It feels like some higher power is perched above the two of you, drawing the air from your lungs out, wisp by wisp, as your cunt opens up for the head of Sylus’ cock. 

“You don’t know how fucking good you look like this,” Sylus forces out, gripping you hard enough that it aches, that you know you’ll wake up with handprints on your outer thighs tomorrow. “Good enough to eat, sweetie. Just look at you.”

You open your eyes, hazily looking up. Sylus’ eye is glowing, glinting crimson through the dark, and there’s a ravenous look in his gaze. He looks down at you, searching your body, watching the bounce of your tits every time he fucks into you, the fat head of his cock slipping in just barely.

It’s not enough. There’s a gaping hole inside your pussy, so deep inside you that only Sylus’ full length can reach it to pummel it into submission. Even as you clench around the tip, your cunt mouthing hungrily at Sylus’ cockhead, it’s not enough.

“Just the tip,” Sylus groans, voice tight as he grinds the head of his cock into your pussy. “That’s all you’ll get for tonight.”

You arch your hips up, trying to force him to slip further into you. “More, I want more—”

He laughs breathlessly, hips stuttering when you tighten desperately around his cock. “Soon,” he promises, carefully fucking into you. Sylus keeps his word, feeding you just the tip and nothing else.

“You feel divine,” he murmurs, breathing heavily. The rhythm of his hips falter, a telltale sign that he’s losing control. He’s close, you think deliriously, and flex your pussy around his cock to pull him along at a faster rate. 

“Inside,” you moan, fingers blindly tracing down your body to find his hands, gripping his wrists. “Inside, inside, inside me,” you chant desperately.

“Want me to paint your pussy white?” Sylus coos, hips speeding up. The head of his cock pops in and out of your pussy, bullying its way past your throbbing hole to open you up just enough before he pulls back. It’s a horrible tease, and sometimes he moves too fast, too eager to sink his cockhead into the wet heat of your cunt and he misses. 

It makes him curse, eyes skimming down your body to fixate on your thighs. He watches you with the hungry intensity of a predator on a hunt—the shaking in your thighs, the way his slick cockhead peeks out from between your thighs, the way your chest squeezes tightly every time he grinds flatly along the swollen bump of your clit—

He slides back in your cunt, fucks in harshly, deeper than before, deep enough to make it feel like your breath’s been punched out of you.

Sylus’ cock throbs, pulses hotly inside you, and you can feel the spurts of cum against the walls of your cunt. 

The pooling heat of cum inside you is almost enough to make you tip over the edge. But your clit throbs insistently, demanding attention that Sylus refuses to give you. Your pussy clenches and unclenches tightly around Sylus’ cock, coaxing his orgasm out as he groans from the sensation. 

He holds himself tightly above you, refusing to fuck deeper or pull out. Sylus pants, the sound of his heavy breathing filling up the space around you as you try to catch your breath yourself, fingers still holding on to Sylus’ wrists. 

When he finally collects himself, his cock giving one last jerk inside your pussy, he leans down. Sylus’ face is right above yours, in painful clarity despite how dark the room is, and you look up at him with your heart thudding in your chest.

His gaze searches your face for a moment, then he smiles. 

“Good girl,” Sylus croons, and one of his hands leave your thighs. “Be obedient for a little bit more, and you’ll be rewarded at the end.”

“Twenty-four hours is way too lo—” your voice cracks, going high at the sudden touch of a thumb, wet with slickness, on your stiff clit. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, crimson gaze fixated on you. “Easy does it, sweetie. I’ll give you what you want.”

He brings you to the brink again, and again, and again, until you drift off to sleep from how worn out your body is.

==