“Just one more,” Sylus whispers into your hair. You roll to face him, noses nearly brushing as you share a pillow. His features are nothing more than a collection of shadows in the dim light, but you can make out the crimson gleam of one iris.
“That's what you said last time.”
“But now we have two girls and only one boy.” His breath brushes your lips as he murmurs, smelling of toothpaste and a hint of wine from earlier. “He needs a playmate.” His hand slides from your waist to your lower belly, fingers teasing under the waistband of your pajama pants.
“He likes playing with his big sisters.”
“They boss him around too much, I think they get it from you. Ow, stop pinching me.” He captures your hand and pins it to the pillow by your head. You retaliate by kicking him in the shin. The ensuing scuffle ends with you pinned to the mattress, his knees bracketing your hips. “He needs an ally against the tyrannical women of this household.”
“Who are you calling-” your indignant question is cut off by his mouth, warm lips stifling any complaint. You close your eyes and surrender to his touch, but he pulls back only a moment later, giving the tip of your nose a peck in passing.
“What do you say? Yes, no, maybe so?”
You can't find it in yourself to refuse him. Not when he looks at you with eyes soft as candle light. Not when you can imagine with perfect clarity a large hand cupping the curve of a tiny head, a low voice murmuring a tuneless lullaby. Not when he makes you ache, as he always has, with a desire that can never be satisfied for long.
You'll still be wanting him on your deathbed, and long, long after.
“And what if the next one is another girl?”
He smiles, his triumph dark and sweet as molasses. “Then I guess we'll have to try again.” He kisses the angle of your jaw. “And again.” His lips trail across your skin. “And again.” He hovers over you, breaths mingling in the darkness.
“A dragon's greed is never satisfied.” You whisper, running your hands up his back under his shirt, feeling the familiar planes of muscle, the hard curves of bones.
His teeth flash white in a smile. “Never.”
You laugh against his lips, then the laugh becomes a moan and you give him what he wants.
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✧˖°. I Can’t Stop Dreaming of You by vixenvows ⋆˙⟡ (reupload)
Contents: swearing, smut, angst, anal sex, rough sex that starts out gentle, protective sex, bottom Darryl, top Max, skinny love, internalized homophobia
Word Total: 2,042
Summary: Honesty shines through beneath the silver moon.
A/N: This is just a reupload so that I can have direct access to the post settings again. I did tweak some things here and there for better clarity (I hope) + there was a sentence where their roles got mixed up and I needed to fix that for my mental well being -_-
✧˖°.Chapter 1⋆˙⟡
The moon perches high. Its pale gaze seeking spare signs of softness amid the turbulence of a Harlem steeped in beggarly misfortunes. Inner-city crime that never sleeps.
Neo-Grec slums prop up a bleak repetition some don like the Dapper Dan's that flaunt their illicit status; sleek bodies and tinted windows prowling incitement to envy and intimidate.
Others submit to what they deem inevitable. Kindred hardships and heartaches nurtured by cruel things they inherited. Weedy traces that have taken root long before them and will propagate all who follow after.
All serve their part, falling in line one way or another.
Switching hips work the avenue on stilettos and desperation. Their strut bumping a tune to readily bid another ungodly hour to any lustful eye for the right price.
Jive talk from tipsy fools whose booze-bolstered egos outweigh their circumstance, puffed up on lesser things and aspirations that don’t extend past the corner they occupy.
Weary souls tucked away in graffitied vacancies. Reveries boundless through blackened pipes and busted needles. Their sorrows melted away in a numbing hit of blissful destruction.
The longer it went on, the faster it left. Arms perforated, teeth stained with proof of their frequent wager on dopamine and death.
Nightfall burns so cold this time of year, stinging in bitter recognition of all it beholds. Hoping to be relieved. To stumble upon a single abode of prevailing warmth and respite, for comfort finds itself even in waste places where home must be made.
Sure enough, a seemingly rest-fallen room offers in abundance what fails to be attained in the streets just outside. Streams of silver peek through unsealed blinds. A gentle intrusion falling around two bodies tangled in heated harmony. Two souls who deny the true nature of the flames fueling their bond.
They move as one: flexing, contorting silhouettes in the dark, misted limbs drifting in and out of low light.
“Shit~right there…” Darryl gasps on breathless desire. His hands fist the sheets as Max rocks into him… smooth… steady… pressing at the soft point that melts his insides molten. Rendering him weak, unspun, defenseless.
“I’m hittin’ that spot, D?” the ebony-shaded male speaks low from behind. His lips hover close to the other’s ear, and the loose curls at Darryl's temple swirl beneath the drift of his sigh.
He’s sheathed in Darryl’s velvet heat. Every fluid stroke a pierce that sends shimmers of stardust coursing through their veins, glittering and incandescent.
Darryl manages a long, throaty sound in agreeance. His words stifled by a depth of pleasure consuming his sense of self or reason.
All that remains, ringing like a mantra, is Max, Max, Max. His weight draped over him. The languid stir of hips at every throbbing inch he impales him with. The husky tones that rumble in his throat and vibrate through Darryl’s entire frame.
Max licks a broad stripe up the side of Darryl's neck. A shiver runs up the almond boy’s spine in response, defying the sultry air they stir.
It clings to their skin and nostrils, thick with the heady musk of sweat and sex, and the base notes of something sweetly, addictingly, one another.
That scent sends Max’s head swimming. The way his fuses with Darryl’s. The way they seep into each other’s pores. Into everything around them.
It’s a fragrance that always lingers in quiet longing in the far recesses of his mind until they’re wrapped around each other again. A staple as proof that these secluded interludes are real, sculpted to embrace and unwind with fervent devotion.
Though, Max’s sober lips would never spill the magnitude of the closeness this offers. A heart-rending longing that lingers just beneath for him to choke down before he grows too full and slips up.
In shadows, expectation crumbles. Facade slackens its grip. Here, they move unrehearsed, finding refuge through the impatient meld of lips. The ritualistic ram of flesh. Bare and exploring passion they’ll hide come sunrise.
It always ends the same. They’ll wash away the essence of taboo pleasures. Force themselves to compartmentalize the heat of nearness and tender caresses. Then slip masks back on, pristine and renewed, to flaunt manliness as irrefutable truth.
But for now, their honesty shines through beneath the silver moon, illuminating just enough for this encounter to remain theirs alone.
Max’s motions don’t falter, slow, measured, grinding into Darryl’s prostate with delectable friction. And it’s simultaneously, for Darryl… unnerving. Unbearable.
This fragility Max seems intent on not letting up; it stirs a foolish, highly speculative inkling Darryl wishes to escape. One that settles in and begins to infest his thoughts.
It threatens to dwindle the spark of his approaching orgasm. Wound taut in his lower belly, pulsing in his length, long neglected with precum dribbling from the tip, needy for attention.
He lowers a golden, sinewy hand to his front, fingers reaching to wrap around himself for relief.
“Nah, nunna that.”
A startled noise leaps from Darryl as Max moves swiftly. His face plants into the pillow as his wrist is wrenched and locked solid at the middle of his back. Max’s grip is ironclad to keep it from wandering any farther.
Not tight enough to cause any real harm, but firm enough to make it clear that he has full control over Darryl getting off tonight.
“C’mon Max, ‘s not enough. You gonna fuck me right or not?” His complaint is muffled and frustrated. He strains against the top’s hold, writhing underneath his weight, insistent for Max to please him harder.
To stop treating him with this softness that strives to cloud his head with hopeful nonsense.
Max lets out a chuckle at that, but it is hollow. Almost humorless.
“So fuckin’ greedy. I’m given’ you every inch~” Darryl yelps as Max emphasizes his sentiment with a harsh rut into his ass, burying himself to the hilt, “~of me. And it ain’t enough for you? Bet that. Imma make you feel it.”
Max vows with an edge that sounds more menacing than sympathetic. What he has in store just might confirm it.
He lifts Darryl by both arms, extended behind his back, gripping a wrist tightly in each hand to steady him. Max readjusts his own position, sitting upright with knees squared between the other’s thighs for better leverage.
No heed or warning is offered as he all but knocks the wind straight from Darryl’s lungs. The surge of his hips is unforgiving, pistoning into Darryl harder than his mind or body feels capable of keeping up with.
The air Darryl heaves back in again shatters with a sound that bellows from his pit, broken and visceral and desperately unbridled. His hands scramble for hold on Max’s forearms to brace himself against the rapid thrusts plowing through his hole. The force rocks him unstable, his length bobbing and weeping from the impact.
Max sneers at that, wide and wicked, his silver earring shimmering in the moonlight as he fucks into Darryl with abandon.
“You feel me now?”
The taunt in Max’s tone is as maddening as it is arousing. He knows just how to get under Darryl’s skin. Embed himself there and make it his home to wreck as he pleases.
Darryl invites his bruising destruction with earnest submission.
“S-shit~just like that! Don’t stop!” Darryl begs with an expression broken in bliss. His eyes are unfocused, lips parted over uneven breath and head thrown back. His frame jerks forward as Max drives into him rough and reckless.
“That’s right. Take all this dick,” Max growls through clenched teeth. His abdomen burns from his efforts and his awaiting release.
He feels himself slipping more and more as that vibrant sensation swells closer to ecstasy. But he swallows it down with tenacious hunger, determined to hold off a little longer to revel in Darryl’s lost sensibilities.
How he renders Darryl’s private school etiquette and calm composure into consuming desperation. How he molds him into this hedonistic devotee that surrenders all propriety at the push of his cock. It’s a carnal feat Max takes much pride in.
Contrary to his rough-handed tendencies, he always starts with careful precision. He eases himself in and out of Darryl until he’s stretched enough to accommodate his size and the brash energy he rarely ever sheds.
But some part of that calm, delicate approach wants to savor Darryl with tenderness. To meld reverently and pretend, if only for a moment, that what they share reaches beyond the physical. That the wistful space he keeps for his friend could be returned in kind.
That he could simply say to hell with it and love Darryl in the way the world deems wrong. In the way he’s spent so long fiercely trying to shut himself off from.
But it breaches through in spite of him. And that’s when the terms of their arrangement begin to blur.
Those gentle grazes and hushed utterances pry into Darryl like something hellish and persistent to invade his rationale. To seep in and corrode the barrier he’s so meticulously constructed to hold his emotions at bay.
It wrangles with his heart and attempts to infringe on his better judgement. A turbulent struggle only his friend’s familiar abrasiveness can quell.
So Darryl gets defiant. He takes what he wants without permission, talks back, pushes all the right buttons to rile up the harsh dominance he needs. It's effective in dragging Max out of that dreamy head space, reminding him why he’s here to begin with.
And Max damn sure doesn’t hesitate to put him in his place. Even so, this he knows for certain Darryl would have no other way.
And Darryl could die happy here. Pinned firm, opened wide to the blissful brunt of pent-up and repressed desire Max denies in daylight until he can bury it all within him.
He welcomes the sting of hefty hands tugging at his roots until his scalp twinges for relief, squeezing his hip so hard Max’s palm brands there.
Offers himself willingly to the greedy pull of lips, etching splotchy hues along hidden places only he will savor.
Relishes in the dull throb that will settle in his backside for days after this engagement. Each rough reminder a testament to these nightly rendezvous.
Darryl is more than pleased to surrender to any lashing his friend sees fit when it hurts this good. When such elated torment overrides the ache of unconfessed feelings he quietly continues to bear.
The headboard bangs against the wall, mattress groaning beneath the force of merciless intimacy. A rhythm that underscores their moans and the clash created where bodies meet; Darryl’s ass bouncing off of Max as he drills him fast and deep.
“Gonna m-make me cum!” Darryl gasps through trembling lips. His joints stiffen, squeezing Max’s slick forearms so hard that sweat breaks from his own palms. His core simmers and pulsates with electric. A sweltering overcurrent that brims every muscle and extremity and demands to be unraveled.
“Give it to me. I got you,” Max pants. And that husky urging, needy and insistent, is all it takes to set Darryl off.
His length lurches as thick ropes of white splatter across the bedsheet. His mouth is agape, emitting a stream of sounds he can barely process over the sultry bliss that pervades his entire being, buzzing with static from head to toe.
Max continues to chase his own high, moving with a ferocity that starts to wane and stutter as Darryl’s feverish ring of muscle clamps down tight. His focus tunnels solely to that bind, the heat that fills him and the way Darryl shatters into complete rapture around his dick.
He soon follows with a loud, heavy groan, hips planted flush to Darryl’s behind. Euphoric tides crash through his body as he unloads his seed within the latex layer keeping them scarcely separated.
And then they’re left motionless in silent, heavy warmth. Their labored breaths mingle over the distant night cacophony, roaring on beyond this small, separate world they’ve carved out for themselves.
They linger in this suspended state until finality presses them to part. And as Max slowly draws back, slipping away from Darryl…
They share an unspoken desire to remain wrapped in each other’s closeness just a little while longer.
jisung had been crushing on your since you both were kids. well, more like him being the kid, and you being a teenager. you’re 5 years older than him. if you think about it, it is kind of weird for a 12 year old to have a crush on a 17 year old.
the first time jisung laid his eyes on you, you were over at his house, on the couch of the living room, giggling with his older sister.
“is that your brother?” he heard you ask his sister. he found your voice so soft and sweet, the total opposite of his sister’s.
“yeah! sung come here and say hi,” she waved for jisung to walk over so you could take a better look at him.
it was love at first sight for jisung. you looked so different from the girls in his class. the way your hair falls when you brush them out of your face. the perfect smile you flashed at him when you introduced yourself, the soft pat on his head when you called him cute.
jisung thought his crush on you would be over after awhile, but it didn’t. he found himself wanting to be stuck around you 24/7 when you were over. when his sister held sleepovers, he always slept beside you, all cuddly on the king size bed with you slotted in between the two sibling. not that you minded, in your eyes, he’s just your best friend’s younger brother.
“sung get out! it’s supposed to be a girls night.”
you laughed, telling her it’s alright to have her younger brother in the room (again). jisung’s heart bloomed when you pulled him into your embrace, having him sat on top of your lap.
“you’ve gotta stop babying him all the time,” she rolled her eyes, glaring at jisung, “this is the last. time. you hear me?!”
when jisung reached the age of 16, he realised that it was no longer a simple crush. during his sister’s 21st birthday, their parents were out, which lead up to her throwing a house party. she allowed jisung to invite a couple of his friends over so he wouldn’t feel alone.
on that very day, jisung and his friends stayed in his room all night. he only saw you once, when you peeked into through the door of his room to say hi.
“fuck! i lost again,” jisung’s friend—jeno, cursed as he threw the controller on the ground lightly, “the game is fucking rigged.”
“i won jisung earlier so i’ll just say that you suck at the game,” haechan, another one of jisung’s friend chuckled, taking a gulp out of the giant coke bottle on the floor.
“whatever, i’m gonna go grab some snacks from the kitchen. y’all want anything?” jisung got up, dusting his pants.
“anything’s fine.”
“ice cream.”
as jisung turned around the end of the stairs, he was faced with your back leaning against the kitchen counter, with a guy chatting you up. jisung might be 16 but he’s not stupid. he saw the way the older guy eyed your body. jisung doesn’t know if he was being possessive over you or if he was just jealous, could be both. but he couldn’t do anything about it. he quickly rummaged through the fridge for ice cream. the sound of that might’ve been louder than the songs being played on the speaker, because you noticed his presence.
“ji!” you called out. he pretends not to hear you, with a tub of ice cream in his hand, he went back upstairs after shutting the door of the fridge with his foot.
“who’s he?” the guy in front of you questioned as he watched the kid disappear up the steps.
“birthday girl’s younger brother,” you answered.
jisung’s 18 when his body went through his second growth spurt. many girls fawn over him. he had grown much taller than before, his features are more defined now, and his muscles are super obvious too. not that you realised, you’re practically with him the entire time his body went through changes.
for some reason his sex hormones are shooting out the roof after turning 18. jisung had spent plenty of nights jerking off to dirty thoughts of you, to the point where he doesn’t know if he’s capable of holding himself back anymore. he’s not even slightly interested in the girls that practically throws themselves at him.
through multiple years of having a one sided crush on his older sister’s friend, he no longer knows what to do about it.
currently jisung is in his room, playing computer games with his friends.
“left! on the left!” jisung flinches when he hears haechan’s loud screams through his headset.
“fucking hell.” jeno utters, spamming the keys.
all three of them groan when the screen announces their loss. before jisung could say something about their last play, his door swings open as you walk into his room, flopping down on his bed. jisung takes his headset off, leaving it on the table.
“i’m bored ji,” you lay down on your side to face him when he turns his gaming chair to face you, “your sister went grocery shopping with her boyfriend.”
he hums, “why didn’t you tag along?” he doesn’t even care about his sister or her boyfriend, whatever it is, not when you’re on his bed with the tightest tank top and the shortest shorts he’s seen in his entire life. you’re not even wearing a bra. thats how comfortable you are with him. he bets you don’t even see him as a man.
“don’t wanna be a thirdwheel,” you sigh, but it came out sounding like a soft moan. jisung’s body tenses up seeing you flip over on his bed, your ass on display for him to gawk at. no way in hell you’re this naive he thought to himself.
he can feel himself getting harder underneath his sweats. “y-y/n, i just remembered that i have something important to work on, and i kind of need my privacy.. to focus.” jisung didn’t sound convincing at all, you quickly got up and sat on his lap, which causes jisung to bite on his bottom lip. it has become a normal thing for you to sit on jisung’s lap. the first time consisted of you telling him it was normal since he always sat on your lap when he was a child. you didn’t take it weirdly when you were sat comfortably on his lap.
“what’s so important?” you turn the chair to face his pc.
jisung grunts when you shift your ass closer to his crotch. he didn’t mean to stare down at your ass but, as a man, he couldn’t control himself. his heart starts to beat faster and he can feel his boner sticking uncomfortably on his sweats.
“ji is your phone in your pocket or something?” you ask, hands moving behind to grab his phone but you pull back when you realise that it’s something else.
“shit- sorry,” you quickly got up from his lap, excusing yourself, wondering why he had a hard on, “i think your sister might be back soon so i’ll wait for her downstairs.” you try to not sound too nervous, because why in the world would you be nervous and flustered?
your hands are already turning the doorknob, but before you could step out of him room, jisung slams the door shut. his tall figure hovering behind you, your back facing him.
“noona, i- i need you.” he admits as he grinds his cock against your ass, hands gripping your hips so tightly.
you gasp at the feeling of him rubbing his hard length on your core through your underwear. “fuck- ji.. we- we can’t do this, it’s w-wrong.”
“just once.. wanna feel you, please.”
you feel jisung’s hot breath hitting your neck, moments later he’s sucking and licking on your shoulders, nape, up to your ear.
you know you shouldn’t. you know. but you can’t help it. you know you’ll never be able to see your best friend without feeling guilty anymore, for wanting to fuck her younger brother. the little boy that you took care of all these years, grew up to be so.. alluring.
you whimper when jisung pushes your panties to the side, “wait ji- you’re gonna regret—”
he cuts you off, “no. wanted you for so long, wanted to fuck you since forever, wanted you all to myself, but of course you’d never see me that way, not back then, not now, and probably not ever. i’ll always be a little brother in your eyes. isn’t that right? i’m going to fuck you now, i’m going to make sure you’ll never forget it.. forget this. shit— never forget me, gonna ruin you for all the other guys out there, you’re mine. you’re mine noona, you hear me?”
his words are so intoxicating, so dirty, you wonder where he learnt how to talk like that. your breath gets slammed out of your lungs when he plunges into you, hard.
“fuck! ji!” you slap your palm over your mouth, trying your best to contain your noises. afraid of your best friend coming back early, and hearing your back being blown out by her younger brother.
“let me hear you noona.. let me hear how good im making you feel.”
to be honest, it’s impossible to not make a sound, not with the way he’s fucking into you. so good, so fucking good.
“pussy made for me, you’re made for me.. aren’t you?”
you nod, “y-yes.. yours, only yours ji.”
“shit- taking me in so well, fucking love you.”
jisung feels the way your walls flutter around him, “close?”
you nod again.
“cum for me.”
and you did.
so did jisung, painting your walls white.
you shiver, feeling full and warm.
—
“we’re home!!” your best friend announces when she walks through the front door with her boyfriend behind her, “y’all having that bonding time or something?” she says, noticing you and jisung by the counter.
“yeah.” you smile at her, thighs twitching as you sense jisung’s cum leaking out of your hole.
thankful that he allowed you to put on your underwear at the very least.
—
bonus
“holy shit. he really fucked her.” haechan chuckles in shock.
“didn’t know he had it in him,” jeno says, jaw dropping.
“i think i’m hard.”
“you think?” jeno laughs light heartedly, switching his tab to incognito mode.
Imagine season 3 opening with Benedict painting Kate and Anthony’s marriage/wedding portrait. Benedict pulling faces and completely aspirated because they just can’t keep their hands off each other and it messing with his ability to paint. Anthony taking in Kate's scent, kissing, tickling and whispering in her ear to make her laugh. Benedict would be so annoyed by their lovesick obnoxiousness not knowing it’s almost his turn to fall madly in love. It would be the perfect season set-up foreshadowing the Benophie love story AND giving us quality Kanthony content in a single scene 💭
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This drabble comes courtesy of @littlebommetje who commented that Sylus's legs were so long for the purpose of ‘wrapping himself around kitten like an octopus so no escape can occur’, which reminded me of this silly little thing that has been rotting in my drafts for months.
It was supposed to be just a short nap. You’d come home from work, tired and slightly achey, and the sight of Sylus sprawled in bed, after he’d been away on business for so long, was too tempting to resist. So after a quick shower you’d curled up next to him and… next thing you knew you were waking up disoriented, sweating, and feeling like there was a weight on your chest.
Wait. No. There was a weight on your chest. You cracked your eyes open blearily to be greeted by the sight of tousled silver hair from Sylus’s head nuzzled into the side of your neck. He was practically on top of you, limbs wrapped around you like a feverish octopus. (Could cephalopods get fevers? You’d have to ask Zayne later.) In the winter you usually appreciated his body heat, but now it was just overwhelming.
“Sy, you’re squishing me,” you whispered, pushing gently at his shoulder. He just grumbled something unintelligible and held you even tighter, not even waking. “Sylus!” You squirmed uselessly against him, but each motion seemed to only make him hold you tighter.
A soft chuckle drew your attention to your other lover, sitting across the room in a pool of lamplight, an open book in his hand.
“Zayne,” you whined, reaching an entreating hand out to him. “Help me, I’m being suffocated.”
“If you can talk you can breathe,” he said, casually turning a page. “Sound like you’re fine to me.”
“I’m being suffocated and squashed and baked. Soon all you’ll have left of me is a pancake.”
“I could go for pancakes right now.” At your glare he laughed softly and relented, putting aside his book and strolling over to the bed. “What do you want me to do? This?” He trailed a finger from your cheekbone down your neck to your clavicle, leaving lacy patterns of frost in its wake. You shivered at the contact, the frost feeling like bliss on your overheated skin.
“It’s a start.”
“Or this?” He hooked a finger into the neckline of your tanktop, pulling it down slightly, the path of the frost continuing between your breasts and down, down…
Out of nowhere, red-black tendrils of energy wrapped around him and yanked him onto the bed next to you. He landed with a soft yelp, squashed against you by the tendrils. Before either of you could get your bearings, Sylus struck. His arm wrapped across Zayne’s waist, leg crossed across your body to wrap over Zayne’s thigh, pinning him to the mattress.
“Too noisy,” Sylus grumbled into your neck. “‘M trying to sleep.”
You were trapped even more than you had been at the beginning, squashed between two large bodies. You met Zayne’s eyes in mutual startlement for a moment before scowling.
“Now look what you’ve done.” You hissed, trying to keep your voice down.
“How is this my fault?” He responded in a whisper.
“If you’d just helped me out when I asked you-”
“You were more than capable-”
“Quiet,” Sylus’s voice rumbled out, hoarse from sleep. He raised his head, eyes bleary, to glare at the both of you. “I have been awake for 27 hours straight. I have been shot at, disrespected, and forced to endure the most tedious meetings known to man. You can either sleep quietly with me… or I can make you. Any objections?”
You and Zayne glanced at each other, then mutely shook your heads.
“I mean, you’re kinda squishing me, Sy,” you said meekly. He sighed as if asked to endure a great ordeal, then pushed himself off. You rolled onto your side, and he pulled you snug against his chest, body curved against your spine, with your cheek pillowed on Zayne’s shoulder.
“Better?”
“Better.”
Within moments his breathing deepened into a peaceful rhythm again, body going slack and heavy against yours in sleep. He was still blazing hot, but with Zayne on your other side, his cool shoulder under your cheek, it felt cozy instead of overwhelming. You could almost feel his sleepiness seeping into you, as if by osmosis. You shut your eyes, nestling deeper into Zayne’s side while sliding a hand up under his loose pajama shirt. His muscles twitched instinctively under your touch.
“Zayne,” you mumbled on the verge of unconsciousness. “Can octopi get fevers?”
“What?” His hand paused in the motion of twining his fingers with yours. But if he answered further you don’t hear it, having already slipped under into sleep.
Sylus, Leader of Onichynus, Ruler of the N109 zone, has vanished. His traces remain: crows with glowing eyes watch from lofty perches and his twin shadows carry about his business with an efficiency and brutality that belies their playful nature, but the man himself hasn't been seen in months.
Rumors fly, of course. Some say that he's grown bored with his little kingdom and gone to expand his domain in distant lands. Others that he'd returned to whatever hellish dimension he'd appeared from all those years ago.
In the shadows, some whisper darker tales. The kind that border on mutiny. Captured by the Hunters Association, lost his evol in a freak accident, dead at the hands of the twins who now seem to rule his empire.
As the days pass and no evidence arises to dispel the rumors, the whispers grow bolder, turn to scheming around dingy bar tables and high end board rooms alike. If Sylus is gone, what's to prevent them from taking Onichynus’s power?
Plots are laid, plans put into motion. Weapons change hands in dark alleys. Violence bubbles beneath the surface, barely contained, all eyes set on the same goal: Onichynus.
And in a room in a distant castle, a phone rings.
The sound cuts through the sun-drenched silence of the old stone room. On the couch, the man stirs. His disheveled silver hair and dark-circled eyes speak of busy days and sleepless nights. The culprit rests on his chest, a small puddle of drool dripping from her open mouth onto his shirt as she, for once, sleeps soundly. The phone’s ring is harsh in the sacred silence, and she makes a small noise of discontent, like the mewl of a kitten. The man stirs as well, one hand groping blindly for his phone while the other rests comfortingly on her back, large enough to span all the way across her tiny frame. He cracks an eye open to glance at the screen, scowling as he reads the name on the caller ID.
“I told you not to bother me over trivial matters.” His voice is rough from sleep. An indistinct voice can be heard from the other end, then another, followed by a muffled explosion. He sits up abruptly, scowl deepening, though his grip on his precious bundle is as gentle as ever. “Is that so? It seems they’ve forgotten who they’re dealing with. Give me an hour. I’ll be there.”
As he stands, you emerge from the bedroom, swathed in a fluffy robe and drying your hair with a towel. You look more refreshed than you have in days. “Was that the twins?”
He nods, handing you the baby as he passes you, entering the bedroom to begin his transformation from doting father to Leader of Onichynus. His soft sweater is replaced with the stark black of his sharply tailored suit, the jacket hanging from his shoulders increasing the breadth of his already impressive frame. “It seems I’ve been away from the zone for too long. Certain people need a reminder of my true power.”
Your eyes brighten and you take a step forward. “I can-”
“No,” he cuts you off, then chuckles as you pout. “You have a wound the size of a dinner plate on your uterus, sweetie. You should be resting.”
The baby makes a sound, wiggling in your grasp, and he looks at her with mock sternness. “You too, missy. Wait another decade or two, and I’ll consider it.” He cups her head with one large, calloused hand and lays a soft kiss on her forehead, then lifts his head to place another, longer kiss on your lips.
“How long do you expect to be?” You murmur against his mouth.
“No more than a few hours. All they need me for is a show of strength: I’ll disintegrate a few people, blow up a building or two, and be home in time for dinner. The twins can handle the rest.”
“You’d better be.” You brush a strand of hair away from his face. “I’ll make something for dinner.”
He gives you a disapproving look. “What part of ‘you should be resting’ don’t you understand?”
“Then you better hurry back to stop me,” your voice has a teasing lilt to it. You pat his cheek and then give his shoulder a shove. “Go on then, reclaim your empire, oh mighty dragon.”
He salutes you ironically, then, in a swirl of red mist, is gone.
I headcannon that after they started having kids, MC and Sylus moved into the castle from Valleydream Bloom to let the kids have the normal, peaceful childhood they were both denied
Tags: Sub!Sylus, Switch!Sylus, Dom!reader, Switch!reader, teacher-student roleplay, Sylus is a bit of a brat, face slapping, praise and mild degredation (slut), a tiny bit of blood because they're both freaks
A/N: This is the filthiest thing I've ever written. I'm dropping it and running away before I can talk myself out of it lmao
“I’m disappointed to see you in detention again, Mr. Qin, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” You let out a sigh, resting your hip against the side of your (his) office desk. Sylus sits opposite you, lounging in a wooden desk identical to the ones you’d spent countless hours listening to droning lectures in, right down to the scuffed edges and phallic doodles. It looks comically small under his large frame, his long legs extending far beyond the wooden legs as he slumps in his seat, collar undone and tie askew, looking every bit the indolent schoolboy.
“Sorry, miss.” He practically purrs.
You open a small paper, looking over the contents disapprovingly. “It says here you were assigned detention for disrupting class and not paying attention to the lesson, is that correct?”
“Yes, miss. It’s just so hard to stay focused on the lesson when there are so many distractions.” His eyes sweep over your figure: your white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a bit of cleavage, the tight pencil skirt hugging your hips. His reading glasses are perched on your nose, lending you a professorial air. His eyes return to your face after his perusal, a look of perfect innocence on his handsome face. “Maybe you could help me.”
You bite back a laugh. Laying it on a bit thick, Sylus. You’d discussed the setup to the scenario in advance of course, but he hadn’t wanted to know anything beyond the premise. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy any punishment you see fit to dole out, kitten. Surprise me.”
You pick up a ruler from the desk, twirling it between your fingers as you speak. “You're a bright young man, Sylus, but you lack focus, obedience, discipline.” You smack the ruler against your palm, enjoying the way his eyes darken at the sound.
“Then teach me,” his voice is low, a bit huskier than normal. “Isn’t that your entire job, miss teacher?”
You tsk in mock disapproval. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, Mr. Qin. Let’s see if we can’t put it to better use.” You lean against the desk, beckoning him over. “Come.”
His mouth curls into a satisfied smile. “Oh, I’m sure I will.” He untucks himself from the too-small desk and saunters over, hands in his pockets. He’s too tall, towering over you even in your heels, radiating the same casual power he always does. You intend to strip that from him… at least for a few minutes.
You gesture at the floor with the ruler. “Down.”
“Am I a dog now?” He raises an eyebrow but complies, sinking smoothly onto his knees.
“At least a dog knows how to follow commands. I’ve yet to see such level of obedience from you.”
He chuckles softly.
“But who knows…” you continue, sliding the ruler along the edge of his jaw to tilt his face up to you. “Maybe after this you’ll be worthy of being my dog.”
“I’m looking forward to it, miss.”
“Now for our first lesson: obeying instructions.” You slide the hem of your skirt slowly up your thighs, enjoying the way his eyes latch onto the motion, greedily following every inch of exposed skin. His breath catches as you tug the skirt around your hips, revealing your undergarments. Or rather, your lack. Other than a garter belt holding your stockings up, you’re completely bare under the skirt. You’ve been wet for hours, the simple act of preparing for a scene turning you on in an almost pavlovian reaction. He licks his lips, eyes focused on your glistening pussy.
“Who would have guessed that under those prim little skirts miss was such a slut?” He murmurs.
You flick your wrist, smacking the ruler against his cheek. It’s not hard enough to bruise, but a rosy mark appears on his cheekbone. “Did I say you could speak?” You press the flat of the ruler against the mark. He hisses but doesn’t pull away, leaning into the touch, his eyes falling halfway shut. “Your instructions are to lick my cunt until I tell you to stop. Nod if you understand.” He lets out a shuddering breath and nods. “Good.”
His hands slide up your hips, trying to pull you closer, but you flick the ruler against his other cheek, slightly softer this time. “I didn’t tell you to use your hands.” His eyes narrow in irritation and you tap his cheek again. “Hands behind your back, to remove the temptation.”
He glares as he clasps his hands behind his back, the position pulling his shirt taut across his chest. You lace your fingers through his hair and pull him in until you can feel his hot breath on your sensitive core. “Go on,” you croon, “show me what you can do.” He doesn’t hesitate, leaning in to nuzzle his cheek against the soft skin of your thigh before his mouth finds you.
He’s good. Of course he is; at this point he probably knows your body better than you do, just where to lick and suck and how to gently graze with his teeth in the way that adds a delicious edge of pain to your pleasure. You use your grip in his hair to control the pressure and tempo, voicing largely unnecessary directions which he follows to a tee, crimson eyes gazing up to drink in your reactions. When you roll your hips against his face, fingers tightening in his hair with the rising tide of your orgasm, he groans against you, vibrations rumbling against your core. As much as you hate to, you instantly pull him off, placing your foot on his shoulder to keep him at a distance. He glares, leaning back towards his denied prize despite the sharp heel of your stilettos digging into his shoulder.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr. Qin,” you say severely, “But I will ask you to remain silent for the duration of the lesson. I can’t teach you if you keep interrupting me with your little noises.”
“I know you happen to like my “little noises”, miss,” he says unrepentantly. You retaliate by pushing your heel deeper into the meat of his shoulder. He exhales sharply, almost a snarl.
“Are you going to be good for me,” you ask softly, “or should I end the lesson right here, right now?”
He hesitates for only a moment, glancing between your face and your cunt before looking down. “I’ll be good.”
After that it doesn’t take long. You can feel his tension, his tenuous self control, in every line of his body, and somehow it only serves to heighten your own arousal. Despite your best efforts, you whine as you come, a white knuckled grip in his hair and hips grinding against his face in an effort to prolong your own pleasure.
When your tremors subside you tug gently at his hair to pull him away. He’s flushed, eyes burning and dilated as he stares up at you. His lips are swollen, glistening with your release. You remove your foot from his shoulder, trailing the tip of your shoe down his chest to rest lightly on the bulge in the front of his pants.
“All this just from tasting me?” You allow a note of amusement into your voice. “Who’s the slut now?” His breath hitches as you press down a little harder, stroking along the length of him. “That wasn’t rhetorical. Answer the question: who’s the slut now?”
His eyes fall closed. “I am.” He rasps. “I’m your slut.”
“Good boy,” you coo. “I knew you could follow instructions.” You pull him up as you bend down, meeting him in the middle in a messy, heated kiss. There’s something undeniably erotic about the fact that his mouth still tastes of you. You slide your tongue along his bottom lip, seeking more of the taste
“Is this my reward miss?” he murmurs against your lips.
“Mmm,” you hum in agreement. “Positive reinforcement is an effective pedagogical technique.”
“Is that so?” His hand slides up your calf to grip your thigh, and then he’s standing, looming over you as he pushes you back against the desk. “I think I need some more positive reinforcement, then. Just to make sure the lesson sticks.” He grinds against you, clothed bulge against your bare, slick pussy, just to prove his point.
“You make a convincing argument.” You loop his tie around your fist, pulling him closer. He comes eagerly, eyes locked on your lips, but you use the tie as leverage to flip your positions, pushing him flat on his back on top of the desk while you straddle his thighs. “But class is still in session. Don't forget who's in charge. You want a reward? Fine: prove you can be a good little student for me and you can have whatever reward you want.”
You reach down, scraping your fingernails lightly across his clothed erection just to feel him shudder under you before undoing his belt and pants to free his length. It springs free, flushed and throbbing, the head already shining with precum. “Same rules as before: no touching, no noise. Let's see if this pretty cock can make me cum as well as your mouth can.”
You notch the tip at you entrance, rubbing it across your folds a few times before sinking down on him. You’re sensitive from your first orgasm, inner walls plush and aching as they stretch around his girth, and you can’t hold back a satisfied moan as you bottom out, his tip kissing your cervix as your hips meet his. A strangled sound tears itself from his throat and his head thunks back against the desk, lips parting in pleasure. Instinctively, his hands move to grab your hips but he stops himself at the last second, instead reaching over his head to grasp the edge of the desk. The tendons on his forearms stand out as his hands clench in a white-knuckle grip.
“Very good,” you praise, voice husky. “Redirection to an appropriate behavior is exactly what I want to see from you.” You take a moment to adjust to the size of him, rocking your hips ever so slightly to feel him slip against all the tender places inside you. He’s beautiful like this: all half-lidded eyes and parted lips, a flush rising from the open collar of his shirt to the tips of his ears, restrained hunger in every line of his form. You decide to give him a bit of a show: just a taste of his reward. Unhurried, you unbutton your blouse, letting it hang halfway off your shoulders as you run your hands over your body: down past your bunched up skirt to skim across where the two of you are joined, then up to cup your lace-covered breasts. You circle your fingertips around your nipples, working them to pebbled peaks through your sheer bra.
“You feel so good inside me,” you allow a hint of a whine to enter your voice, a touch of the neediness you know he craves. “So deep, so full…” your hips begin to move with more purpose, grinding your clit against his pubic bone. His cock twitches inside you at the praise, strong enough that you can feel it. He bites his lip, eyes squeezing shut as he struggles to control himself, to be good for you. You know that asking him to be quiet during sex, to restrain the noises and words that usually flow from him, is a special kind of torture, but you’re feeling slightly vindictive at the moment. Seeing him struggle under you, his normally iron-clad composure faltering at such a simple command, is a heady sensation.
“Class is still in session, Mr. Qin,” you say sternly, grabbing his chin and shaking it slightly to get his attention. “Eyes on me.” His lids slide open, eyes blazing with hunger, and fix on yours once again.
“Good boy,” you say approvingly. Your gaze lands on his mouth again, caught by a flash of scarlet. He’s bitten down hard enough to break the skin, a bead of bright blood marring his plush lower lip. You use your thumb to gently pry his lip from between his teeth, then swipe away the blood. You bring it to your mouth, maintaining eye contact with him as you lick the blood away.
That small action is enough to break his composure. He moans, low and breathy. “Fuck, kitten, you’re killing me here.”
You immediately pull off him, rising until just the tip remains inside, feeling aching and empty without him inside you. He makes a small, whining sound of discontent. “What did I say about talking?” You’ve slipped back into your strict “teacher” voice, a note of syrupy mocking creeping in as you lean over him, hand planted on the desk beside his head. “Can’t keep your slutty mouth shut for two fucking minutes, no wonder you never learn anything.”
“Kitten, please-” your hand cracks against his cheek, a red mark blooming on his already flushed skin, and his eyes widen in shock, pupils dilated until barely any red remains around the rim.
“Who am I now?”
“My teacher, Miss.”
“Exactly. You’ll do well to remember that. Now, shut your filthy mouth and take your lesson.” You place your hand on his throat, pressing down just enough to make your point without restricting his breath or blood flow.
And then you pause, just for a moment, waiting to see if he’ll safeword. None of this is new territory for the two of you, but degradation isn’t part of your normal repertoire, even in a roleplay situation like this, and a part of you worries you might have gone too far. But he’s nodding -- as much as he can with your hand on his throat, and his hips buck up against yours, eager to keep going.
You scoff, tightening your grip slightly. “Oh, you like this, don’t you, like being teacher’s pet for a few minutes? Acting out for attention, huh, is that what this is about?” Before he has a chance to respond you prop one one foot on the desk, using it for leverage to slam your hips down on his, chasing your pleasure using his body. The new angle opens you up, letting him even deeper, grinding every exquisite inch of him against your sensitive walls with each roll of your hips. His eyes roll back, mouth falling open. Under your palm his breath comes fast and ragged, his pulse thundering against your thumb where it presses just under his jaw.
“That’s it,” you moan, sliding your other hand down to circle your clit in time with the movement of your hips. “Fuck, you look so good like this, letting me use you. That’s my good boy.”
He gives a choked-off whimper, lips moving in a silent plea. You can tell he’s getting close to his climax, that the slightest sign from you could tip him over the edge, but you won’t let him fall. Not yet.
“Hold it,” you say breathlessly. “J-just a few more minutes for me. Fuck, I’m close. Just hold on.” You work your clit harder, circling your hips in a way that drags the ridge of his cock against your most sensitive spot. Your orgasm is a smouldering fire in the pit of your stomach. You stoke it, fueling it with each roll of your hips, each stroke of your fingers, until it blazes up, racing through your veins in waves of liquid flame. Your head falls back, a keening, wordless cry escaping your lips.
Somehow you manage to stay upright through it, and, even more miraculously, Sylus managed to keep himself together. Both of you are panting as if you’d run a marathon, and a fine tremor runs through his body, a shift along the faultline of his self-control. You move your hand from his neck to his chest, patting it gently. “You were so good for me. You want a reward? Go ahead and take it, whatever you want.”
You’ve barely finished speaking before he’s moving, pulling you off his lap to bend you over the desk, slamming back into you with a desperate ferocity.
His chest is flush against your back, mouth at your ear as he gasps disjointed phrases in your ear, letting loose all the sounds you'd made him hold back.
“You're evil- so fucking good- please-”
You'll have bruises on your hips and thighs later from the force of his thrusts.
He lasts longer than you'd expected, considering how on edge he'd been earlier. Long enough that your own pleasure has time to build again, washing through you slow and lazy and rippling. He shudders at the way you clench around him, hips losing their rhythm.
“Please- let me-”
You reach over your shoulder to grab his hair, pulling his mouth towards the side of your neck, tilted toward him as an offering. No sooner does he bite down than his own peak arrives, spilling hot into you as he tenses and groans above you.
You take a moment to enjoy this: his weight on you, inside you, both of you breathing heavily. Then you clear your throat, wiggling your hips to signal him to get off you. He does, a hot gush of cum flowing down your thighs as he pulls out, but doesn't move far. He stays leaning against the desk, an arm on either side of you, as you straighten your clothes, smooth your rumpled hair, adjust the borrowed glasses.
You turn back to him, suppressing a smile at his adorably mussed hair and soft, love-drunk eyes to resume your prim teacher persona. “Well, I believe that concludes detention for today, Mr. Qin. You've shown remarkable aptitude when given proper educational support.”
“I'm happy to hear it, miss. Does that mean we'll continue with our tutoring sessions?” He captures a stray strand of your hair and tugs it playfully
You laugh, smoothing his collar. “Of course. Anything for my favorite student.”
