You scoff and his lips meet yours in seconds. It’s fast, desperate and a more than practiced routine. Briefly, he retracts—cocking an eyebrow.

“Smudge-proof.” you indicate. His lips trail down to your neck regardless. Your back comes against the wall as he maps you with his mouth.

“Mmm,” he hums, “good. I’d like to think all the money they pump into this brings about something useful.”

Hand cupping his jaw, you bring him back to dip your tongue past those perfectly plush lips. It’s ridiculous how good they make him look. You kiss him harder, nipping at his bottom lip—swiping at the red that brims. Heat pools in your stomach and rises in your cheeks.

Small whines slip you, in time with his groans as you kill time.

It’s vile, how perfect he is—posed on stage, for all the world to see. You almost grumble.

Sylus senses your mild grievance and pulls back to chuckle. “Cute,” A simple, toying statement.

“Uh-huh.” Sarcasm clips with shock as you feel him trail down your chains with a finger, coming to kneel and sweep a nail against your thigh. One kiss to the inside before he dives in for his fix.

You tense, spine straightened—teetering on an arch, a shaken gasp in response. He licks a wet stripe up, back to clit and delights in the shiver it elicits. Tongue peeking out to savour the taste you’ve tempted him with, he smiles.

“Look at you,” he coos. “so damn wet already.” 

Announcement blaring on an overhead screen, he’s got five minutes to showtime—but the only performance he’s caring to bring is the one between your legs.

“A-ah- Sylus, you’re due.” you hiss at him, still canting your hips regardless of the warning.

Already terribly slick with excitement, the squelch that continues to meet him under there is sheerly filthy.

Breaking away for just a moment, to flash back that dangerously crimson glare through your heart—mouth downright slicked—he laughs. It’s low and sultry and you feel it in every fucking nerve.

“Sweetie, your hearing works just fine, right?” Dipping under the hem once more, he prods a finger at your pussy. “Five,” A kiss to your thigh. “minutes.” You’re going to kill him, you think. “All the time I need.”

“Fuck! Ah- you.” You’re almost thrown with how electric his touch feels.

“That’s the point, yes.” he hums against your skin.

Perhaps it’s the rush of adrenaline, the roaring audience mere moments away—the wave of cheers, all eyes on him. Everything seems to be teetering on its edge.

Sylus, on stage. Sylus, the global sensation. Sylus, the man devouring you like you’re the only thing in the world.

Bass begins to throw its echo around the stadium and it jolts the floor. He’s unfazed, the only buzz he could ever notice is how you clench around anything he’ll give you.

Tongue breaching your folds one more, he licks at your cunt like a man starved, iron grip pressed to your legs. They shake with fervour, but he holds you in place.

Sylus eats you out like his last meal. At this point, it’s become a pre-show ritual, to have you cum on his face before he greets the public.

Be it interviews or panels, one way or another, he’ll have his fingers—or something—in your mouth while he rocks your world. And he laps up all you give him with an unbridled thirst.

Time seems to pass in eternity, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s a little hard to discern the remaining time, but you’re not far off from the end.

Everything under your skin, every vein and lick of passion in your body seems to converge at once as you draw nearer and nearer to the edge. You haven’t a clue as to how you’re still fucking standing.

The audience almost entirely stills, rapt tones and bated breath. 

Coil in your gut pulled taut and verging on snapping, you grip at the curtain behind—a clawed grasp, you might ribbon the damn thing here.

“Yes, yes- shit, Sylus!”

Yanking back, like he’s been shocked—he emerges from beneath the flow of your dress. A hand claps around your mouth—a finger still plugging your cunt—barely pressing against your lips, but a warning all the same.

“You want the crowd to hear how debauched the second act is?”

It’s jealousy laced in his voice, it’s devotion strung around every syllable. Every gasp of his name, every shaky moan—all his and only his to hear. 

The world might have the privilege of the show you give them, but only Sylus can bear witness to your undoing.

Shaking your head feebly, you let your own hand clasp his wrist. His skin is practically alight, every touch a new burst of flame. Scarlet eyes lock with yours, heady and wanting. How the fuck are you supposed to perform after that?

“My perfect girl.”

His hand might have released your lips, but his words still press—you’ll be quiet, of course.

Slipping back down, the heat of his mouth envelops your pussy once more—he tongues at your clit and you can’t help but card fingers through his hair. And tug at his scalp.

“Fuck, there. So damn needy.” 

You’re hushed, but Sylus knows all too well, silence is a difficult virtue with you. His slobbering rhythm stutters at your words, and he’s suddenly taken with some sort of accelerated zeal.

The hand at your thigh tightens and the vice-like grip pushes you further against the wall.

“You’d throw the whole damn show if I– mmf– asked you to, huh Sylus?” you drawl, still barely above a whisper––but he can hear you just fine.

A hum against your cunt comes in reply as Sylus still laps at you—he’s practically making out with your pussy at this point. And he would, would throw away the fame and the fortune—just so the only song he’d ever hear is his name tumbling out of you, in the throes of pleasure.

Dancing for the eyes of the masses, a whirlwind of passion in your hips, a life’s story in lyric—but your gaze will never satisfy with anything less than that bold, brazen red. The eyes that meet in every crowd, every corner, every fleeting moment.

And certainly in this moment, they’re pulled shut—lost to the heaven between your legs, but not for much longer. His clutch stiffens so much you swear it’s going to bruise in the morning, and the heat inside you rolls over itself and it’s far too much and yet—

“Showtime,” he whispers, before giving one final lick to your clit.

The crowd erupts and so does your soul. Your orgasm crashes in waves, almost whitening your vision out entirely. 

Sylus’ face is utterly debauched, mouth spattered in slick—somehow none of it getting on his costume. Or yours for that matter. He’s disgustingly meticulous about his fix. Though that might not be the case for long, ever the rascal, reveling in the way your release dribbles down his chin. And he eyes the cum running down your thigh with terribly ravenous interest.

Tears teem at your eyes as the shake of your legs finally come to a head and you slump down against the wall. He rises to his feet, licking his lips with a hum—satisfied. You’d think he’d found water in a desert with how he sighs.

“You’re on in ten, kitten.” he winks, the slide of his tongue sweeping what he can before—begrudgingly—resorting to a tissue for the rest. In a flash, he drops the box next to you and slips out the door—to dazzle the thousands lining up to sneak even a blurry shot of him.

But nobody will see him like you, blissed out and thigh-locked.