the sea god's offering | rafayel x reader, knifeplay
two for the price of one | zayne x sylus x reader, auction
i'll worship like a dog at the shrine of you(r thighs) | caleb x reader, body worship, pseudo-incest
run little bunny run | xavier x reader, Dead Dove: CNC, primal play, praise kink
Long fics, exclusively on AO3
i'd love if you knew you were on my mind | xavier x rafayel x zayne x sylus x caleb x mc, angst, reader decides to speed date someone who is not the LI and the boys get jealous, ongoing
you'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling | xavier x rafayel x zayne x sylus x caleb x mc, reader hosts a dinner to ask the boys to date her at once and angst (and groveling) ensue, completed
zayne believes in consequences. so, when you decide not to behave tonight, he simply delivers your punishment.
right now, you’re hovering over his lap, your thighs shaking so hard you can barely keep your balance. he’s already used his stupidly long fingers to make you cum three times, leaving your cunt feeling raw, dripping wet and so sensitive that the friction of your own movement feels like a shock.
and now your punishment, it seems, is to ride his cock until you fucking can’t.
“z-zayne...i don’t...i can’t,” you whimper, tears stinging your eyes. you try to lower yourself but the head of his cock stretches your aching walls so intensely that you immediately freeze, crying out from the sheer fullness of him.
zayne lies perfectly still beneath you. he looks up at your flushed face, his expression entirely calm with a slight upturn of his lips, even though his own cock is twitching inside you, tip leaking with pre cum.
without a word, he reaches over to the nightstand. the familiar clink of his stethoscope makes your heart race.
“sit still,” zayne says, voice low and steady.
he puts the earpieces in and then the freezing steel of the stethoscope presses right against your bare chest.
the icy metal against your flushed hot skin makes you gasp. your cunt instantly clamps down, squeezing his cock like a vice. a heavy groan escapes zayne as you tighten around him.
“your pulse is too fast,” zayne murmurs, his eyes locked onto your face, reading every flicker of your expression. “your heart is pounding. it’s all for me, yes?”
the audacity to even ask, you think.
“because of you,” you sob, trying to lift your lips to escape this agonizing pleasure. “p-please... zayne, let me stop..”
“no,” zayne replies softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. oh fuck you. you want to say it out so badly, but you precisely know what position that’d leave you in, so you don’t.
his thick cock buries itself completely inside your soaking wet cunt, bottoming out inside you. a broken, breathless wail escapes your lips as you slump against his chestt, completely ruined by the friction.
zayne keeps the stethoscope pressed firmly over your racing heart listening to the chaotic, rapid thumping spike to a dangerous peak as he fills you to the brim.
“you brought this on yourself,” zayne whispers against your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. “now, stay right there. let me listen to your heart race for me.”
I saw this delightful post about cat!hybrid mc and then the next day i saw this painting called the intruder and my brain made this story. i'm planning on a part 2 (hopefully this week if work cooperates??) but i was too tired today to finish the whole thing.
edit: i'm so tired i forgot the summary.
Summary: You're a cat!hybrid living in captivity and sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways. you decide to sneakily follow your savior home without asking for permission.
sylus x cat!hybrid reader/f!mc (she can shapeshift between full cat and hybrid cat forms). 4,701 words. Content: forced captivity, references to physical abuse, caleb's dead and haunts the narrative (a little, as a treat, i'm sorry caleb) murder (sylus is the murderer, bless him) the description always makes it sound worse than it is, i am trying to write a fluffy fun silly story, sylus is a fake nonchalant, mephisto is a snitch. The next part will be pure fluff and silliness.
The night is chilly, but you don't feel it. Your fur is thick, its downy softness insulating against the early spring night. Not that the seasons are that noticeable in the N109 Zone, where nothing grows, where perpetual gloom reigns. It's no place for a wild animal whose heart longs for the scent of green, growing things, for the safety of thick foliage, cover to hide in from the worst predators in existence: human men.
No, you don't feel a thing, here in this concrete jungle where the safest place you can be is locked behind the bars of your cage.
You don't get locked in your cage nearly enough, as far as you're concerned.
At least in your cage, you go unnoticed and untouched. It's harder to hurt you in there. You can shrink yourself, huddled against the back corner, just out of reach.
It's a small act of rebellion, forcing him to reach for the cattle prod in order to get to you. You take what you can get.
But tonight, you carefully feel nothing at all, inside on a chilly spring night, curled in the lap of the man you hate the most. The room is dim, dark-wood paneled. Heavy leather furniture and sound-proofed walls, the faded reek of cigar hanging heavy in the air and making it hard to breathe through your sensitive nose. A gentleman's club VIP room, not cozy or small, not expansive. Big enough to fit an insecure man good at feigning confidence, his overinflated ego, and enough lackeys to make him feel safe.
Tonight, his hands are deceptively tender as he runs his palm along your back, over and over. As he curls your tail around his finger, pulling gently, just shy of pain. A nervous tick, a self-soothing tell. The only one he gives, with his perfected poker face and preternatural stillness during high-stakes negotiations. Your soft fur, your forced compliance, in his lap every time he must make a deal—as your heart races, his calms.
One of the many reasons he keeps you.
Curled in his lap, you keep your eyes on the man sitting across from you and your owner.
Long legs crossed elegantly, huge body leaning back against the brown leather couch, arms spread wide against the backrest—he's the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. And unlike your owner, he's not faking a thing. You can smell it. His genuine ease in the face of the men looming behind your owner, hands folded at their backs at false parade rest. False, as they keep their firearms tucked into their back waistbands and you know from experience that each one already has the pistol grip already fisted, ready to draw and fire.
The man smells… good. Like an oncoming storm. Exciting, powerful.
He smells like the safety of a burrow to shelter in once the storm hits.
You flare your nostrils delicately, trying to subtly inhale as much of him as you can.
You flick your ears. It's strange—he smells like ease, but his heart gallops as fast as yours. As if it naturally beats faster than a normal person's.
You suppress a shudder as his ruby eyes flick to yours, as if he can read your thoughts, your confusion, your fascination.
He's not a normal person.
His eyes not leaving yours, he lifts a thick, silver eyebrow. "Five mil was not the deal."
His voice, deep and bored, ripples down your spine. Its calm, dark notes eclipse the hand on your back, makes the hand bearable.
Your owner's hand presses a little harder as it sweeps along your spine, even as his voice remains calm. "It can't be helped. The Association has been sniffing around, exponentially increasing our logistics costs. It's a miracle that this shipment arrived on time, as promised. It's already a deal for you, considering the rarity of some of the items."
"I'm not interested in your shipping troubles." The man finally flicks his gaze back to your owner, but instead of being a relief, it feels like a loss. "Your failure to adequately plan for predictable complications is none of my business."
"If I accept anything less than five million, I will go under and you will lose your only reliable shipper through the strait. That is your business. Paying a fair price is part of any good business relationship." Your owner still sounds calm, as self-possessed as ever, but the building frustration wafts off of him in nauseating waves.
"You might be the last person I'd take relationship advice from," the red-eyed man drawls, shifting his gaze to you again before losing all interest in the conversation. He begins to examine his nails.
Your owner's frustration morphs into rage, with a curious thread of terror. You've never seen him so shaken before. It's like the more bored the other man gets, the more upset your owner gets. Clearing his throat, tightening his grip on your back, he struggles to maintain his serene facade. "No need for personal attacks."
The man snorts, the nostrils of his long, magnificent nose flaring in resigned amusement. "I find your reneging on our deal to be a personal attack. Two million, or I walk."
"We're both reasonable men," your owner coaxes. "I know for a fact that five million is a drop in the bucket for you while it is everything to me. It's a small premium to ensure our continued mutually beneficial relationship. We both walk away satisfied." His voice, and his hand on you, hardens. "If you walk, I go under. Do not mistake my patience with your diva behavior up to this point as weakness—I will only tolerate it up to a point."
The man on the white couch, his sterling hair shining like polished silver under the soft lighting of the cigar lounge, goes very still before rolling his head leisurely, gaze drifting from your owner's face to yours. "The irony of being called a diva by a man stroking a cat like a B-movie film villain would be funny if it weren't so boring."
Your owner's hand stops. You tense. You know from experience that things are about to get ugly.
"This is your last chance, Mr. Qin. Look around. No matter how powerful of a man you are, you still chose to walk in here, unarmed and alone, while I have my the best members of my security force at my back. The deal is on: five million, last chance."
You stare at the man… Mr. Qin. He remains still, utterly at ease, a slight, disdainful smile lifting one corner of his full mouth. His scent remains the same—electric. It just… intensifies. The lights flicker, faintly. You don't want him to die. But you've seen this scene so many times before.
They always die.
It has been a long, long time since you tried to defy your owner. Nothing seemed to matter, after he killed your littermate. Your only family. Your last link to humanity. He had threatened to do it, and you called his bluff, thinking that your brother was too valuable, just like you, to simply dispose of.
You paid dearly for that gamble. In fact, it cost you everything. You and Caleb were caught by his lackeys, weakened from malnutrition and the evol-suppressing collars. That night, your owner dragged Caleb out of your cage by the tail and you never saw him again.
But something about the man on the white couch, with his lava-molten eyes, regal nose, and machine-gun heartbeat. You feel concerned about another person for the first time in years. Inexplicably—or maybe as simple as instinct—the idea of him being hurt fills you with the same terror that used to overcome you when your owner would punish Caleb for your defiance.
Mr. Qin grunts, derisive, and your racing heart sinks. "Two million, you throw in the cat as compensation for wasting my time, and then you've got a deal." Waiting a beat, he lets the provocation sink in. Then, mockingly, he echoes, "Last chance."
As always, a sense of desolate helplessness fills you. But for the first time in years, you can't just sit back and do nothing. You know what it will cost you. But maybe you can buy this strange, magnetic man enough time to do… something. Even if it's hopeless, maybe the grief will be bearable this time, because at least you tried to stop it, instead of running headfirst into it.
Keeping your eyes open, you deliberately dig your claws into your owner's thigh, as deep as you can, and then drag them through his flesh.
He screams, not used to being the one receiving pain. Reflexively gripping you by the scruff of your neck, he flings your small body off of his lap.
The lights go out.
Gunfire explodes, so many fireworks deafening and blinding you, forcing you to lay your ears flat on on your head, to blink in pain.
You land on your feet, as you always do, but something dark and sparking, something slithering, electric—something inexorable drags you to the couch at Mr. Qin's feet and keeps you pinned to the ground behind his legs. A swishing, wooshing roar competes with the gunfire, muffling the painful blasts in your delicate eardrums.
Sheltered in the swirling embrace of the inky force keeping you pinned, you feel safer than you have in years.
You lift your head, gazing up between Mr. Qin's long legs, no longer crossed but spread leisurely, as if the occasion no longer requires the decorum of his previous posture.
The gunfire illuminates him, strobelights revealing how calmly he remains seated. As he lifts one hand, palm facing forward. As bullets plink to the ground before they reach him, a curtain of leaded rain. Blinding light, pitch black, blinding light, as he lifts his other hand, snapping his long fingers.
You swing your head just in time to see your owner explode in a fine mist of blood, flesh, and ash.
The lights flicker back on, just in time for you to see the guns in the hands of the men behind him disassemble themselves and float in the air, nothing more now than gun schematics rendered in 3d.
"This is the power of Onychinus," a mischievous, mocking voice rings from over Mr. Qin's right shoulder. You look back and up again. A masked man whom you didn't sense at all drapes himself over the back of the couch.
"Surrender and maybe you'll survive tonight," a matching voice, over Mr. Qin's left shoulder, drawls. The owner of the voice wears an identical mask, its beak wickedly curved as if to personify the dark glee in its owner's proclamation. "Keep resisting…"
"And join your boss," his twin finishes.
Each and every former employee of your owner lifts his hands into the air.
Mr. Qin gazes down at you, still crouched between his legs even though the force that was pinning you, now clearly visible in all of its scarlet and ink glory, slowly dissipates. "No. No mercy," he murmurs thoughtfully.
"Boss?" The man on his right sounds surprised.
Mr. Qin leans down and runs one long, elegant finger along the evol-suppressing shock collar around your neck. "They knew, and they did nothing."
"Yes, boss," the other man says, a grin clear in his voice.
Mr. Qin, with a tenderness that surprises you, calls forth that swirling mist again. As its electric current caresses your fur, causing it to stand on end, the weight of your shock collar fades into nothing.
Your neck is naked for the first time in years.
You can't tear your eyes from him, even though you're free, for the first time in years.
He stares down at you and his eyes glow like the sun through a glass of red wine. "Go on, kitten," he coaxes gently.
Ignoring his gentle order, you sit back on your haunches, waiting to see what he'll do.
"Suit yourself," he shrugs and then rises gracefully to his feet. "Exterminate the vermin, secure the goods, and report back to the base when it's done."
"Yes, boss," the two men chirp in unison.
Mr. Qin hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark tailored suit and saunters out of the room without looking back.
The twins duck, mirrored images as they lean behind the couch and each retrieve a bazooka.
You turn, tail high in the air, and scurry after the man who just left, not waiting to see the mirrored men heft the weapons onto their shoulders, nor hear the explosions and screams of agony that follow.
His scent is so strong. It hangs in the air, long after he's revved his motorcycle and disappeared into the night in a roar of growling engine and motor oil.
You follow it easily, winding your way agilely through the dark city, across its rain-slicked payment, through its neon-soaked streets. You stick to the sides of buildings, to shortcuts through alleyways, your nose guiding you unfailingly through the garbage and perfume, exhaust from vehicles, cigarette and weed smoke, concrete and despair.
It's been years, since you've been free. Your heart beats wildly with the exhilaration of it. With the grief of it.
Your littermate deserved this too.
Finally, you find the scent's destination. A towering skyscraper in the heart of the N109 Zone. Sleek, windows an impenetrable black as they soar into the sky and come to a vicious peak, hardly visible through the fog from where you are on the ground. You follow the delicious smell to an underground garage, slip underneath the boom gate, slink between the fleet of expensive vehicles, a mix of high octane modern sports models and antique muscle cars. You lose count of how many motorcycles there are. Finally, you find an elevator next to an emergency exit leading to the stairwell.
In this form, you can't reach the elevator button. Shockingly, however, the emergency exit door is ajar. Propped open with a… can of tuna?
You stare at it.
It smells really good.
Tuna in olive oil, not water. Nice and fatty.
Why would the leader of a notorious criminal organization have such lax security?
It's almost like…
You twitch your whiskers.
As far as Mr. Qin knows, you're just a normal cat. Your owner guarded the truth of your and Caleb's natures as his most valuable trade secret. He was paranoid about theft. Although you had rendered yourself functionally useless to him by refusing to shift between hybrid and cat form following Caleb's death, he kept you out of twisted spite. A good luck charm to viciously pet, to smugly parade under rivals' noses who had no idea what you really were.
The power of your evol. The strength of your hybrid form and its utility in a fight. Your value to medical science, military science. The exotic, twisted fetishes your true nature could indulge, if rented out at the right price.
No, no one outside of your owner's inner circle knows what you really are. There's no way this can of tuna is for you.
Maybe Mr. Qin just likes cats, and feeds strays. Or has one of his own. He did ask for you as part of the deal. Maybe he was looking to get another pet.
That's it. He's just a cat person.
A cat person who killed the motherfucker who destroyed your life. A cat person whom you instinctively feel safe with, now that you're free, reeling, without your brother and without a cage.
Since you're in your full cat form, you don't overthink it too much. Instinct drives you forward, and you don't question it further.
You pad across the narrow threshold, ensuring that you're inside the stairwell before turning again and shoving your face into the can of tuna. You devour it, not caring that the grease now covers your mouth and nose, drips from your whiskers. You'll clean it in a minute.
But first, you bat the empty tuna can out from between the door and the doorframe into the parking garage. Only after hearing the click and then beep of the electronic lock do you turn and hop your way up the seemingly endless stairwell.
Someone's got to make sure that the security of this place is tight if the owner himself can't be bothered, no matter how strong he seems to be.
Up, up, up you go. When you get tired, you pause for a moment, licking your mouth and whiskers, running your forepaws gently over them for good measure. No need to look sloppy, even if you don't intend for him to find out that you're here anytime soon.
You continue, following his scent trail as it once again grows thicker and thicker. You're dizzy with it.
Finally, you come to the top of the stairwell and can go no further. There is simply a black door, sleek and shiny. You see your reflection in it.
Huge golden eyes. Glossy black fur. Tufts of fur at the tips of your big, swiveling ears. Your body fur is thick and short, but your tail is fluffy, a silky bottle brush sweeping behind you, betraying your excitement.
This door, too, is slightly ajar, this time propped open by a gigantic black leather biker boot. The chains around the heel are shiny. You bat at them and enjoy the satisfying clink of the links.
Ahem. You will not let yourself get distracted. What is wrong with this man??! Anyone could walk in!
You repress the deep wish that your owner had been so lax with security, less paranoid, more secure. Maybe your life would have looked very different. You appreciate that Mr. Qin killed him, but you do slightly resent the fact that he was exploded so thoroughly that there was no body for you to mutilate afterward. You'd piss on his corpse if one had been left behind.
No. Not your owner. He was never your owner.
The fucker who kept you captive for years and tried to break you. He very nearly did, taking Caleb from you.
You step delicately over the big boot, pausing only for a moment to inhale its delicious aroma. Mr. Qin's feet apparently smell as good as the rest of him.
You follow the long, wide, dark corridor. Black marble flooring with gold veining. Ornate wainscotting along the dark gray walls. Your footsteps are silent, but if you were in your human form wearing shoes, your feet would echo. Flicking your ears back and forth, you follow his intensifying scent as faint music joins the trail to where he must be.
Something soft, classical. Violins. The smell of food joins the intoxicating smell of this place's inhabitant. Cooking meat.
Finally, finally—you peek around the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim hallway to the slightly brighter open plan kitchen that spreads out before you, a dining and living area stretching beyond until the soaring floor to ceiling windows spill over the cityscape below. The pleasant scent of burning firewood in a huge open hearth fireplace competes with the smell of Mr. Qin and the steak he's apparently grilling on his fancy ass stove.
He doesn't seem to notice you. He's grilling in the same suit that he negotiated in, without an apron or anything, just the suit jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined, powerful forearms. Like he's begging for stains, just like he's begging for an intruder like you in his house by leaving all the doors wide open. His forearms flex as he lifts the pan. The violins sing into the quiet room, blending with the hiss of the cooking meat, the crackling of the fireplace.
You take advantage of his focus on his task and slink around the edges of the room, sniffing as you go, noting the heavy, antique furniture, the atrocious modern art on the walls, the subtlety of the lighting in sharp-edged sconces along the walls and ornate floorlamps providing light from below. The music is coming from a record playing on an ancient-looking gramaphone. A sharp, metallic scent draws your attention to guns scattered across the hulking, ornately carved dining table, to bullets carelessly spread across the marble-topped coffee table between the sleek, black leather couches and lounge chairs of the sitting area.
There is a chaise lounge next to the windows at the far end of the room, as if the owner often reclines on it and looks down on the city below. You slip silently across the thick, ornate rugs softening the marble floors and slink underneath the chaise lounge. From this angle, you don't think you can be seen, but you have a clear view of most of the room, the fireplace, the man standing behind the kitchen island facing you, his sharp features flickering between light and shadow in the firelight.
You curl up in a little ball and watch him.
He hums along to the music as he cooks, causing your ears to flick back and forth. The vibration in his throat is more pleasant than the humming, but both manage to lull you to sleep.
When you wake up, you're still under the chaise lounge, but the gramophone is quiet, the lights are dimmed to their lowest settings, and Mr. Qin is gone. It must be sometime in the morning, although in the N109 Zone there's not too much of a difference between night and day. But the monotonous gray is paler than at night, and the gaudy, black and golden grandfather clock indicates that it's 11:00 in the morning.
You slip out from underneath the chair, sticking your tail in the air and stretching your spine as far as you can. It feels good to wiggle your toes, to let your claws come out. You then pad out of the room and follow that delicious scent that makes you drunk and lured you here to begin with.
Mr. Qin apparently sleeps with his door wide open, again as if he doesn't have a care in the world. His bedroom is huge, just like he is, just like the rest of his 'base' is, if this is the base to which he was referring when speaking to the masked men. It's lined with bookcases, more heavy leather furniture, sweeping windows now covered by blackout curtains. You stop, sniffing the books. Old paper. Old ink. A little bit of dust. The memory of his scent, from his hands on the pages as he held them. He's read them. The books in here are not for show, like the sterile, color coordinated library of your former captor. Maybe while he's gone you can finagle them off the shelves and do some reading. It's been a long, long time since you were allowed to read.
If you had lost your sense of smell during the gun battle last night, you would still know exactly where Mr. Qin is from the heavy snoring coming from the humongous, four poster, curtained bed at the far end of the room. He sounds like a chainsaw. You pad closer, closer, flattening your ears against the racket, and then jump lightly onto the end of the bed.
He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow. His broad, naked back expands, falls, expands with his relaxed breathing. You sit back on your haunches, flicking your tail thoughtfully.
He's beautiful. Like a sculpture. You would drag your littermate to art museums, back when you were free. Classical exhibitions were your favorite, with sweeping, carved marble sculptures depicting mythological stories. Where stone rippled like fabric under the artist's chisel. Where fingertips pressed into dimpled flesh, belying the cold marble.
This man, even at rest, looks like a god carved in stone.
A benevolent god, a brutal god. A god who, unbidden, saved you after you had stopped trying to save yourself. If you were in human form, you'd touch your throat with your hands, where your collar used to be. Instead, you just marvel at the lightness around your neck. The way your skin can breathe through your fur for the first time in years.
You're glad you're in cat form, and can't cry. If you started, you're not sure you'd ever stop. Over all the things you've lost. All the things that have been taken from you.
Intending to sniff at his feet through the sheets as a treat before slinking back into the dark, you rise to your paws and take a step forward—
when the most atrocious, unnatural-sounding screech splits the silence of Mr. Qin's bedroom.
"Caw! Caw! CAW CAW CAW!"
Sylus is dreaming. A lovely dream involving soft hands, a soft mouth, a sharp tongue, warmth and quiet, smug laughter. No images—just impressions, smears of what felft like memory, the scent of flowers, of wine, of peace dripping with warm blood.
And then he is jerking upright up, gun heavy in hand, Mephisto's alarmed cries splitting his eardrums.
"What? What? I'm wake, what?" he slurs, disoriented in the darkness of his bedroom, in being jerked painfully from a pleasant dream.
"CAW! CAW! CAW!"
Mephisto sits on his perch next to his bed, flapping his wings in indignant agitation, screeching his mechanical head off, ruby eye glowing menacingly in the dim room.
Oh. Kitten.
Sylus turns, sweeping his gaze across his bed, finding the vicious, threatening, feline intruder whom Mephisto is snitching on. Sylus, still holding the grip of the pistol, rubs his eye with his fist. He was so annoyed about the tanked deal, the lack of sleep he's been suffering from recently, the shock collar on—
In all the fuss, he forgot to program Mephisto to register that bastard's 'cat' as a non-threat before he passed out this morning.
The black cat's back is arched, her tail puffed up like a feather duster, and she's meeting each of Mephisto's screeches with a deep, menacing hiss and growl of her own, completely unintimidated by the big bird's aggressive flapping and snapping beak.
Sylus lowers his gun, tucking it back under his pillow, before leaning against the bed's headboard and watching the show in exhausted amusement.
The more Mephisto screeches, the more defiant the cat becomes. She boldly takes steps forward, moving closer to Sylus's feet, until Mephisto has lifted himself from the perch angrily and is about to shoot her with his eye lasers as he flaps in the air.
"Mephisto, stand down," Sylus orders, trying hard to suppress his laugh. Mephisto is sensitive to perceived mockery.
Squawking in protest, Mephisto reluctantly obeys, his eye powering down as he settles back on the perch. His feathers, however, remain puffed so that he looks twice his actual size.
Sylus contemplates the cat. As if to gloat about her triumph, she marches up to Sylus's foot underneath the silk sheets and plants her butt on his ankle, staring at Mephisto the whole time. It can't be comfortable for her, but she refuses to move, almost as if on principle.
"No need to rub it in, kitten," he murmurs, for Mephisto's sake. She looks at him with her bright, golden eyes and blinks once, slowly. "You're the intruder here, technically," he reminds her. She just swishes her tail, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say, And what will you do about it?
He can't help his smile. If he wanted to do anything about it, he wouldn't have left the doors open for her to begin with. Now, he simply intends to sit back and enjoy seeing what she will do. But he has a care for his bird's feelings, too. He was here first this time, after all.
She doesn't disappoint. She flicks those beautiful, amber eyes back to Mephisto and then marches up the line of Sylus's leg, stopping next to where his hip and ass meet the headboard. She turns in a circle, once, twice, three times before giving one last derisive glare at Mephisto and curling up in a tight little ball snuggled next to Sylus's ass.
Not for the first time, he regrets not killing her 'owner' much, much sooner, and much, much more slowly.
Hello I hope you enjoyed it! I want to write a similar length, maybe slightly longer for part two, but i'm so tired of starting stories and getting interrupted and never sharing them for fear of never being able to return and finish so I just decided to post part 1 already! @restinpurples left some really great questions about this fic idea in a reblog of the delightful cat!hybrid post and i'm hoping to answer a few of them in the fic by the time the second part is finished. hopefully. I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts in comments or tags if you feel like sharing!
Pairing: 18+ | Outlaw Rafayel x Outlaw Reader x Outlaw Xavier
Tags: post-apocalyptic, survival, polyamory, bounty hunting, burlesque, gothic western, slow burn, dirty talk, secrets, violence, nitty gritty, angst, banter, Rafayel and Xavier fall first, widowed reader, high-stakes, eventual smut and everything in between.
Summary: after your loss, you'd vowed to run solo. Drowning sorrow in work, taking any job but murder, you were the last marksman in the county. Your latest job would set you right for the rest of year, until it's thwarted by a pair of outlaws, one armed with a smart-mouth and dagger, the other with observant eyes and a sword. You would rather never see the two of them again, until they approach you with an offer impossible to refuse.
Word Count: 2.4k
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Music was an art you thought would die with the people.
Few artists existed, extinct like marksmen. But within the local cabaret restaurant, jazz emanated from the public stage. Waiters and waitresses paraded between the small tables, balancing trays of hard liquor and palate cleansers. A young woman placed a glass in front of Xavier, her hips bumping the table, rattling the decorative fringe lining the lampshade in the center.
She leaned down, kissing Xavier on his cheek, stamping lipstick upon his pale skin. Then she was departing, dramatic in her movements, selling an image many people would flock to.
Afterall, burlesque was a form of steady income, adamantly respected by modern society, commonly sought after.
“Your boyfriend won’t be bothered?” You prompted, crossing your leg to recline in the wooden chair.
Xavier took a sip of his liquor, swirling the ice at the bottom in an afterthought. When his eyes darted to yours, you averted your gaze, fixating on the woman singing. Her scarf, you decided to critique, had too many feathers.
“Rafayel and I aren’t romantically involved,” Xavier answered.
You hummed, gloved hands plucking a walnut from the tray situated at the base of the lamp. With the grip of your gun, you smashed the husk between metal and wood.
Munching on the snack, you jutted your chin in the direction of the bar housed in the corner of the establishment, “does he always do this?”
Rafayel, with a cocktail shaker between his hands, sold a show, luring an audience that rivaled the performance on stage. His seduction oozed from his frame, showcased in tailored clothes and beguiled eyes, confidence commanded those open to his hypnotism.
Dressed in dark, earthy greens, the lavender of his hair, and the violet, sapphire of his eyes were accentuated. The Masquerade mask plastered to his face was emerald, captivating even your stare. Long sleeves billowed, the over-sized top shoved into a tall, leather corset. Tan, the tight attire praised the chosen color palette. That, and it cinched his waist in a manner which advertised a man born to be admired.
“Rafayel does well in the spotlight,” Xavier mused, perching his chin on the flat of his palm. His elbow dug into the tabletop, rocking the lampshade once more. Unlike his partner, he adorned the same attire as you, boasting your status as outlaws.
However, similar to his partner, the slant of his hat over his hair flaunted sultry temptation. The brim shadowed those eyes, tempting you to venture into the deep, dark depths of his character.
“If you don’t wish to wait, we can discuss the terms of our agreement without him,” Xavier grabbed a walnut, crushing it within his palm, “him and I move together.”
“No shit,” you retorted before you could catch yourself.
Xavier laughed, a subtle chuckle that exuded a particular sense of fondness. He pushed his glass of alcohol across the table with the tip of his finger, hogging the table with his arm and torso as he got closer. To onlookers, he appeared to be captivating you, courting you with dirty promises.
In a whisper, he bartered with intimate information, “witches tend to stick together in these times.”
Retreating back to his chair, his legs crossed, folded hands resting atop his knee. You loathed his covert arrogance, yet was equally impressed by how well he masked such vanity. Soft in appearance, you suspected many would fall victim to his boyish charm.
“I might make a fortune selling your identities to those who wish to purge our land,” you took a risk, grabbing his glass. You didn’t take a swig until he smirked.
“If you truly wanted to sell us out, you’d be dead before you swallowed.”
You held his gaze, suspended in time as the rim of the glass left your lips, and you swallowed. It was loud in your ears, the burn of the liquor blazing down your sternum, heavy in your stomach. When the bottom of the glass landed on the tabletop, you exhaled, sliding the cup into his open hand with a flick of your wrist.
“How is your leg healing?” You removed your hat, planting it on the ledge of your elevated knee.
Your words were a reminder, one that hinted at violence should Xavier underestimate you. While you were born without the powers that labeled one as a witch, your prowess with a gun closed a potential gap between abilities.
“Fine,” Xavier said, “although you’re the reason Rafayel has to wear a mask tonight.”
“Say my name and I shall be summoned.”
You flinched, the weight of a body behind yours assaulting your instincts. His hand grappled with the backrest of your chair, the other resting flat on the tabletop, allowing his stature to lean over your side. The tip of Rafayel’s nose nudged your temple, and your were unlatching your gun from its holster.
The barrel found the space behind the edge of his chin, and you rose from your seat, straightening to full height just as you forced him to do the same. Your hat tumbled to the floor, forgotten.
Rafayel tutted, the tip of his dagger pressing below your sternum, “so quick to violence, sweetheart.”
“I’m tempted to take you down with me again.”
He winked, “second time this week, huh. Just admit it, cutie, it has made your week that much better - thinking of me.”
You pulled the hammer back with your thumb, preparing your revolver to shoot, “how you survived this long is beyond me.”
“One of life’s greatest mysteries,” he smirked, “although you certainly are no mystery. That fire in your eyes, not many would threaten a witch.”
“You left me no choice.”
“Sweetheart,” he mused, “when it comes to me, you always have a choice.”
Xavier approached, and your right hand dipped to your second sixshooter at your thigh. Brutality was no stranger in the way of life; employees were already removing valuables from the cabinets and shelves surrounding the restaurant in case one of you should be thrown.
Gently, Xavier rested his gloved fingers over the top of your hand, asking silently for you to not draw your second weapon.
His touch was not revolting, rather, you calmed. Towards him, at least.
“If you would like my help, keep him in line,” you directed your conditions at Xavier, withdrawing your gun from Rafayel, decocking it before slipping it back into its holster.
As Rafayel sheathed his dagger, his eyes held yours, “any longer, and you would have given me a new, but welcome kink, cutie.”
Violet irises roamed down to your thighs, eyeing the weapons there. Several seconds he observed your guns, then his gaze crawled up your body, capturing your focus.
No words had to be said, you understood his intentions.
How crude.
You ignored his flirtatious distraction, and took a seat, picking your hat off the floor, replacing it on your head.
Rafayel pulled a chair from a nearby table, attempting to sit to your left, and Xavier’s right. Spinning it on its leg, he straddled the piece of furniture, resting his arms over the backrest. He removed the mask from his face, setting it on the table. His chin found the top of his forearm as he looked between you and Xavier.
A bruise tarnished his skin, ugly against his eye.
You took some satisfaction in the thought he couldn’t rest easy at night. However, there was a fleck of regret in your heart, and an apology almost spilled from your lips.
“No need to apologize,” Rafayel read you, his plush lips tilting into a smirk once more, “it’s a conversation starter. Honestly, I might just be thanking you later, it could get me laid.”
Something stunted your usual nature, and instead of a raw verbal parry, you hesitated. Disappointment flooded your chest, dampening that fire Rafayel had bragged he noticed. It was confusing, and you weren’t sure if it was his blunt sexuality, or his divergence of attention.
“How curious,” Rafayel narrowed his eyes, inspecting you under the scope of his expertise, “if you want my courtship, all you have to do is ask.”
Fear swelled. Memories of warmth, affection, and lust dashing past the forefront of your mind. There were evenings with sparse bundles of flowers, lit candles, and written poems. There were mornings naked in bed, patched blankets tangled in blankets, and a steaming mug of tea on your flimsy nightstand.
Sunlight would highlight specks of desk, sparkling in front of the backdrop of electric, blue eyes.
Touch, since then, whether intimate or shallow, was painful regardless, defiling what you longed to preserve.
Vile, and accumulating a voice robust with poison, you pinned Rafayel with your stare, then spoke.
“Unfortunately for you, I have standards.”
Rafayel shrugged, further provoked by your backlash. His head rolled, now resting his weight on his cheek. His stare would default in your direction. Instead of deterring him, you had done nothing but obtain more of his unwanted regard.
“Explains why you’re so uptight,” he said, the rich detail in his voice unexpected, teasing a range that could be interpreted as serious. “You’re pent up, nothing a few orgasms can’t solve.”
He dug underneath your skin, poking and prodding. It led you to cradle your left hand in your lap, the thumb and forefinger of your right massaging your ring finger. The metal band rotated beneath the leather of your gloves, distributing strength.
“Whatever you hope to achieve with me,” you answered, “it won’t ever happen.”
Rafayel dug further, his eyes entrapping you, blurring everything and anything around. You were in his grasp, stuck, and as much as you wanted to break free, he neared parts of you that were sensitive and bare.
“You misunderstand, sweetheart, I was only offering my help.” Rafayel lied, retreating, far too cautious, far too early. If he had wanted, he could have made you shatter, vulnerable to his attacks.
It was a faux departure, and you lowered your defenses, leaving you open to his final advance.
He took it.
“I just figured it had been a long time since you’d had any form of companionship,” he mumbled, coy, then when he had recaptured your observations, he spoke, “considering you can’t even look Xavier in the eyes.”
The song ended on stage, routine phrases of gratitude leaving the singer’s mouth. Other customers clapped, completing the exchange of entertainment. It was all fuzzy in your ears, your hands immovable on the tops of your legs. Intuition had kept you alive this long, it would continue to do so. Although rattled, you kept your features serene.
No one could know Rafayel had just displaced your entire world.
“Rafayel,” Xavier warned, concern evident in his tone, “drop it.”
Through your dissociation, you witnessed a facade dwindle, albeit slightly. You wouldn’t recognize it for what it was until later, but in that moment, anger fueled assumption, and understanding Rafayel as something more than a provocative fool, was seemingly implausible.
“I’m protecting you,” Rafayel hissed, hushed, “you’ve always been too trusting.”
“What will it take?” You interjected, “what do I have to do to prove I am on your side. Which makes no sense, considering you two apparently need me.”
“You’re agreeing to work with us?” Xavier expressed surprise, the same instant Rafayel said, “glad you asked.”
“This,” Rafayel tossed a necklace onto the table, removing it from behind the collar of his shirt. The chain was gold, the pendant housing a sizable ruby. You had seen this particular piece of jewelry before. It had once laid in your pocket, an eventual victim to the sleight of hand.
“You never collected the bounty,” you blatantly stated.
“Hard to when the client mysteriously disappears,” Xavier explained. Ducking his hand into his trench coat, he rummaged around, pulling a stack of folded papers from his hidden pocket. “These were left at her estate.”
“You two certainly work fast.”
Unfurling the papers, you spread them across the compact table. You skimmed over the bulk of words, locating key words, identifying the context of the situation. In your environment, you brought the lamp closer, requiring more light.
You tapped the table with your finger, grabbing Rafayel’s attention, refusing to look up from the papers.
“Bring me something easy, like a cider.”
“Fuck,” Rafayel teased, “that’s sexy - when you order me around.”
In the amount of time it took him to pour you a drink, you had filtered through the stack, finding two letters that would give you everything you needed. He set the pint glass down, taking his own seat to converse with Xavier. Their banter was background noise, a few more customers entering the establishment to admire the new performer.
None of it mattered, not when you were connecting the dots, putting your mind to work.
That silenced the grief.
“When was the last time you boys have been to the abandoned train station on the outskirts of town?”
You sat back, finally indulging in your drink. Rafayel lunged for a piece of paper, pinching it on the edge, rotating it as if you had somehow deduced the answer from something obvious. He held it beneath the light, adorable in the way he floundered for clues. Childlike, you stared, experiencing a new dynamic.
“What gives,” Rafayel huffed, sliding the paper in front of Xavier. He collected all the paperwork, hiding it within his trench coat, just as he had before.
“Some of those documents are from our client herself, the others from whomever had captured her. I’d bet it was the wife of her affair,” you speculated, pausing to take another drink. You were thirsty, and as water was sparse, therefore expensive, alcohol would have to do. “The ink is different between the two, one written on wood, the other metal. No fair lady would write on metal unless she had to. The scent on our client’s letters is perfume, the other reeks of dirt. The only place I can think of that has an abundance of soil in this miserable valley is the abandoned station. Plenty of metal to write on there, too.”
Out of the corner of your eye, Xavier’s mouth moved, opening to speak. You abruptly stood, effectively cutting him off. He’d have questions, and you’d refuse to answer. Questions bred suspicion. Suspicion bred explanation.
You threw an influx of coins on the table and briefly met Xavier’s eyes, before looking to Rafayel.
“Gear up,” you commanded, “we have a bounty to catch.”
You and Sylus were certainly something, but it was just a lot of sex, a lot of backshots, so much - 'kitten, sweetie, good girl' - but you want something serious. You cut your friends with benefits off, and he seems supportive! So supportive in fact he leaves you a twenty minute voicemail of just how much he wants to bury his himself in you again, complete with ridiculous moans and him jerking it, begging for one more shot. Will you stay independent, or end up at his mansion?
pairings - modern sylus x fwb reader
warnings - MDNI- toxic ish obsessed sylus, oral sex, basically Sylus makes you a JOI via voicemail, masturbation, overstimulation, use of restraints, he calls you a pretty fucktoy, friends with benefits, repressed feelings, reader has nip piercings <3
this was a commission piece based of a very spicy audio hehe - 6.2k wc <3
It's been two weeks since you last had that white haired… demon. Yes he must be some sort of incubus or something, to have fucked your brains out the way he did. Two weeks since Sylus had you bent over the arm of the couch, railing your cunt until you drooled.
It's for the best, right? That you parted ways, that you started dating someone who really wants a relationship and not just sex. You keep telling yourself that, especially after the awkward date today, where your new boyfriend practically came in your hand the moment you touched him. The new guy who didn't even try to get you off. But he's … sweet, right? Serious. Committed.
You will not touch yourself thinking of Sylus. No. When he called during your date, you made sure to fuck you button him, and apparently he's left a hell of a voice-mail. You blink in confusion at the length of it, lips parted now.
20 fucking minutes!?
Who leaves a 20 minute voice-mail? Surely it's just some accident, you get up to wash some dishes and pop it on out of boredom, ignoring the ache in your core when you hear that deep, raspy voice of his.
“Hey sweetie,” fuck him really. “I just wanted to say how… mnh…”
“Does he have to sound like that!?” Your cat blinks at you. “Well he sounds ridiculous okay? I don't like his voice. Stop staring at me, fluffy, I already know you liked him.”
Your cat prances away as you wash a dish, gripping the sponge in your hands, biting down on your lip as his voice continues, wondering if you finally did get your brains fucked out by him.
“I am just so happy for you, really I am,” he sighs now, a loud sigh that breaks in the middle. “Fuck I'm just so happy you're dating someone, what was his name? I remember bending you over, cumming in that pretty pussy, and you were texting him why you couldn't come. Hah… oh kitten, remember?”
The dish falls into the sink with a click, you stare at your phone in horror now.
“Ah I'll behave, I know what you're thinking. I can behave, I promise, I don't have to talk about your cunt squirting on my cock. Or how you twitch after you cum, right? No, I just wanted… to say goodbye to you, a little send off.” Everything the man says sounds like sex, you swear. Not a single word that slips isn’t like velvet, you dry your hands on a towel before carrying the phone over to your bed.
It’s past dinner now and about eight, your boyfriend texts you while the voicemail is playing. Sylus is breathing and even that fucks your mental state up.
It was so good to see you baby. I can't wait to see you again!
Me too, night!
You’re already internally hating yourself, why do you always want the red flags who aren’t any good for you? The man who talked about breeding your cunt so casually then went off on some secret work thing for two weeks, only to come back and sink to his knees, drinking your cunt up and saying how he jerked it all week to the thought of tasting you again.
Messy and undefined is what you two were, and it was best that it ended – the moment you became official, in fact, you put a stop to his nonstop visits. You closed up shop for lack of a better word, told Sylus this ‘friends with benefits’ had to end, and he seemed relatively supportive.
Until now.
The message just keeps going, and you hate that you’re shifting your thighs listening to him, eyes shut, picturing the way those ruby eyes got so dark right before he busted inside of you.
“Ah, I know you’re probably busy, or maybe getting ready for bed, but I guess let me help you sleep one last time. The way I used to do it, remember? I’d have you cum on my cock over and over, until you were drooling, half asleep and all that white would slip from your hole.”
“Fuck you Sylus,” you cover your face up, grimacing, cunt just pulsing around the air at this point.
“Maybe I’m being too bold, yeah? Well, it’s just I was gonna delete these pictures, since we aren’t together. But I couldn’t help but just get so hard lookin’ at them, especially this one. You on your knees in that slutty Halloween outfit, remember?” He sighs, and you hear a soft moan. “God how you took my cock in your throat, you took all of it.”
You won’t touch yourself to Sylus. You won’t. You’ll just listen and scowl.
“Your throat felt so good, is he getting that? Well I hope he deserves that mouth, that throat, so tight and so slutty. Like your cunt, like that tight ass I was hoping to slide my cock in, I think I only got a couple fingers. Fuck I bet it feels so good, every one of your holes. Mmm…”
Is he?
He better not be.
“Touching myself?”
Fuck Sylus.
“Yeah, I am sweetie, hah – can you just tell? I’ve been stroking my cock to these pictures I have to delete, call me selfish or sadistic, maybe. How can I not get hard thinking of the best pussy I had? The prettiest girl laid out in front of me, or in this picture knelt. I had your wrists bound behind your back, remember?”
Of course you remember, and you hate him for it – for thinking of how good it felt when his cock choked you, gagged out, spit and drool pouring from the sides of your mouth, tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. Sucking in through your nose and grinding your messy cunt on his fancy dress shoes.
Good girl, doin’ such a good job, kitten. That’s it, takin’ daddy’s cock like that? Like you’re made to?
Yep, you called him daddy – how do you not call Sylus daddy, when he’s cupping your face gently with one hand, pulling your hair so hard it hurts with the other? Fucking your throat right in your kitchen, chuckling the way he does, whimpering when his tip glides against your uvula.
“I remember you’d suck me off so good I’d whine out, like pathetic you made me…” He sighs louder, you hear it then, a messy wet stroke. “Even spit doesn’t compare, not when I had that wet throat around me. Suckin’ me like you had something to prove, mmm, fuck…”
“You ass…” You’re not touching yourself, you’re gonna stop this voicemail.
Right?
“Listen, just need to cum to you once more, fuck just once, I don’t think I’ll ever even get hard again for someone, not now that I had you. Fuck and I didn’t tell you, how much I loved it, cumming in your throat, kissing you after, tasting myself. You were such a good little fuck toy for me, hmm? Yeah, you were.”
Sylus is stroking his cock faster, you can hear it – the fwap fwap fwap, the little moans, your nipples are so hard your piercings are just poking through your sleep top, the untouched ones your date barely caressed. Not Sylus though, he’d tongue those little nipple rings until you came just from that, cup them, spit on them.
“I know you’re wet, you’re probably dripping through your shorts, slutty girl barely wears panties, huh? Well, I’ll admit… you’re missing a couple pairs.”
“Freak.”
“You’re probably calling me a freak,” you hate, hate, hate him. “But I bet you get off on it, huh? Knowing how desperate I am for you, knowing I lick them just to remember your taste. I’m gonna be so sad when your scent is gone, f-fuck…”
He’s stroking faster, you hear his hitch of breath, burying your face in your pillow, trying your best not to give in.
“Oh, kitten, the way your pussy tastes, so sweet, fuck I hope he licks you every single day, every time he’s near you. I did, but I’d do it even more if I ever could again, have your squirt gushing down my face, your thighs squeezing my head. The way you fucked my face, I’d do anything just to feel that again, to drink you up, slurp your cunt until you’re pulsing.”
Your fingers slip down your tummy, you’re soaked, ridiculously uncomfortably soaking wet and sticky. You pull back, trying your best not to give in, but him and that velvety voice continue, his moans soft and rushing into your ears. You can’t keep listening, not to this.
Yet you don’t stop the voicemail.
“How you’d grip my tongue, fuck is any pussy that tight? Even after you’d cum three or four times and I slid my cock in, the way she’d clamp down on him – hah – fuck I wanna be inside that pussy right now. I meant for this to go better, sweetie, I really did, but this picture? Of my cum leaking from your hole, your ass littered with handprints?”
He moans, stroking faster.
“I wanna lick my cum right out of it, I know I used to finger it back in, you’d push it out like the messy girl you are. But I never did get to lick it, did I? Fuck, I would love to eat it out then spit it right back into your mouth, you used to love to swallow my spit… mnhh… oh I’m finally getting close, just thinking of that. I bet you’d kiss me with all my cum swapping between us hmm?”
Fuck it.
Who will know if you touch yourself?
Your fingers slip down to your needy clit, it twitches underneath your touch, making you whimper as he moans, running little circles on your sticky, messy cunt, listening to the man who fucked your brains out jerk it to you.
“I know you’re touching yourself, you can’t lie to me,” he chuckles, you would want to smack him if you weren’t already moaning out, gripping your sheets. “You’re such a little slut for me, I am so mad he’s getting that. Does he really deserve it? Does he make you cum till you’re such a mess you’re drooling?”
“Ngh…” Your fingers pump in and out of your messy hole now, quivering walls begging for more.
For Sylus.
“Oh fuck, just thinking of your little fingers buried in your perfect cunt?” His breath catches audibly, the sounds of him milking his cock are obscene, cunt just spasming now, hardly able to keep yourself together, taking several shaky breaths. “That’s it, keep fingering that perfect pussy, but I bet you’re missing my fingers. Do his hit like mine? Hah, I doubt it, but I hope he does.”
You’re covering your own mouth, cunt dripping down your ass, making a mess of your sheets, picturing his instead, how they hit that spot you can’t, how he’d hit your cervix with just his fingers. Your eyes roll back, heel of your hand grinding on your clit, desperately whining out and muffling it, as if his voicemail could hear.
“You deserve to come every fucking day, y’know that? Over and over, after work I should have been there between your thighs, drinking you. Should have made sure you didn’t go to work without my load dripping from you – mnh – close, so close now, but I keep stopping, looking at these pictures. My cum should be shot down your throat, in your cunt, not all over my hands.”
“F-fuck you…” You’re cussing even as you’re rolling your hips, bucking them up for friction, so wet your fingers slip.
“You’re such a good girl I know you’re listening, I wish I could hear that squelch, y’know? Your cunt is so loud, sweetie, god I can hear it from the memory, when I’d play with you at the restaurant, and you’d blush the way you do? Hah, remember you stroking my cock under the table, with all your friends? Fuck you’re slutty – but I loved it, how slutty you are. Are you close, baby? You gonna cum one more time?”
“No, no,” you’re already about to fall off the edge.
“Play with your tits too, perfect tits, remember when you fucked me with them? My dick gliding up and down them, all covered in my spit, you were suckin’ the tip - ah! - suckin’ it s’good…”
His words are slurring as he works his cock faster, these moans just ruining you, making you remember them in your ear now.
“Imagine getting to fuck you again, I’m trying so hard to be happy – but I just know he won’t be able to give you what I can. I know he won’t spend an hour fucking you with his tongue until you’re such a mess you’re babbling, know he won’t decorate every pretty inch of your body with cum like I did.”
Sex, it was just sex, and now you have a relationship, right? Sylus was just a friend you fucked – a friend who ruined your mind, who wrecked your body, who had you crying out ‘daddy’ as he pumped so much cum you could hardly take it. Now he’s jerking it to your pictures and he just had to make you wet, had to have you about to cum for him.
“This picture, you’re just so fuckin’ beautiful, kitten. You love when I call you kitten, stop lying.”
“Do not.”
“You do,” you glare but your gummy walls are quivering, cunt so wet and tummy so tense it hurts. “You love it when I call you a good girl, when I said how I wanted to breed your pussy. Remember me shoving you in a mating press, hmm? Telling you to keep all that cum inside you, folding your thighs back until I had you bent in half? Oh, sweetie, imagine being inside you again, cumming in your perfect hole.”
You gasp out, orgasm about to rush through you.
“I’d do anything to feel it again, feel her milkin’ my cock, watch it bulge in your tummy, you just took it like you were made for it, made for me. You are, aren’t you? Your cunt knows my shape, you know you don’t want him, you know you deserve all I have to give. You deserve more. I’ll give it too, fuck if you just gave me one m-more time… got me stuttering, don’t you kitten?”
Your vision darkens, thighs shaking, you hate him for this.
“Don’t forget your clit, you love my rough fingers on it, hmm? Cum for me, cum with me, remember us cumming together? Your aftershocks I’d do anything t-to feel ‘em again. That’s it, give me it, cum so hard you make those sheets a mess, I’m so desperate I’d lick your juices off them.”
His voice does get desperate, as he strokes his cock, you hear spit and vividly picture him trailing it down on that perfect pink tip, leaking all that pre you miss coating your tongue.
“I’d fuck you right now, he doesn’t even have to know. You just deserve it, deserve to cum on my cock, don’t you? You’re such a good girl, such a pretty fuck doll, you should get to squirt on me. Just once, just once, I could live off it, jerk it to you, picture you when I’m inside anyone – but I know it won’t be as tight, I know they won’t take it like you. Kitten, f-fuck… just once.”
“I hate you, mnh!” You shatter then, cunt clenching, vision going white, your thighs soaking from how much of your juices spurt out, and you can hear him cumming too. His groan is so sexy you can only imagine it in your ear – ruined, throaty, as if you’re right there getting filled to the brim by him, as if he’s painting your walls in white.
You hate him. You hate him for this, for making you cum in time, for hearing his shaky breaths, those alone almost taking you out.
“You’re such a good girl, I know you came so hard,” you ease your fingers out, a trembling mess, looking at the slick coating them. “Fuck just once more, I didn’t get to tell you… that I fucking love you.”
You gasp now, staring at the phone.
“Listen, I know you’re with him, I just… I can’t stop missing you, fuck…” He’s wiping himself up, shaky as he talks, you can see it so vividly, his handsome face with those eyes shut. “Missing us, I should have told you I fell… I was scared as shit of what this was, I thought we had time.”
Tears spill from your eyes now, hastily cleaning yourself up, covering your face and sinking into the bed. “You don’t.”
“I do,” he murmurs, voice still broken by his little breaths. “I wish I’d asked you to be more, not just let some loser date you, touch you. You deserve everything, deserve to be in my mansion, not your apartment. Deserve to eat steak and drink the finest wine every night, not lift a finger, then have me on my knees. Don’t you, sweetie? Deserve more than I gave.”
You feel your tummy in knots, skin burning.
You loved Sylus but you didn’t say it, you knew you were just a fuck buddy to him… or so you thought.
Were you really more?
“God no one can make me cum like this,” he exhales now, you look at the time, the voicemail is finally ending, your hand shakes as you hold the phone, watching it tick by. “Just once, then I’ll leave you alone, give you my blessing.”
Sarcastic little shit.
“I’ll be home, I’ll be here waiting if you want to cum… if you want to be bred by me, if you want me to make you squirt until you pass out. Want me to suck on your nipple rings the way you like, brush your hair back and call you a good girl, worship your pussy. If you wanna choke on my cock, want me to pull your hair, wanna use me. Any part of my body, all yours to use.”
It’s quiet, he hums just a bit, in a horrible off tune – Sylus can’t sing for shit. A man can’t be rich, gorgeous, six foot four and sing, really. Your lips are trembling in a smile, despite yourself.
“I’m here at your disposal if you want it once more, or,” he trails off. “If you want to keep using me. I’ll be waiting, kitten.”
“Oh fuck you.” You throw your phone across the room, trying your best to fucking keep it together.
You’re not just gonna go over there because he jerked off on your voicemail, what’s he even thinking!? A conceited, arrogant man, so self sure, as if he just knows you’ll fold from it, from knowing you have that effect on him. Not you, you’re independent, you’re not someone to just jump and run at someone's command - no matter how commanding Sylus might naturally be.
Your phone starts ringing, you rush to grab it.
“What do you want!?”
“Um… hi baby?” You sigh now, realizing it is your very sweet boyfriend. “I came to call and tell you you’re so pretty and perfect, and I can’t stop thinking of you.”
You slide down your own door to the floor, wincing, feeling instantly guilty that you fingered yourself to Sylus’ voice. “Oh? Um, that's sweet!” Maybe you could get excited about him, instead? “How are you thinking of me?”
“I’m thinking about… how I came, and you stroked me,” you bite down on your lip, maybe this will excite you! Maybe Sylus was just loose ends that needed to be tied.
“Oh? Are you? What did you like about it, me making you cum?”
“I uh… I liked… cumming?”
Fuck.
Shit, fuck, shit actually.
Your eyes flutter shut. “Are you thinking of making me cum?”
“You didn’t?”
You glare at the phone, lips parted. “How could I, you just touched my nipple ring, that was it?”
“But you liked it, right? I um… will play with your other nipple - hah!”
You sigh loudly.
“Are you moaning, touching yourself? Thinking of me-”
“I’m sorry, I can’t date you.”
“Huh!? Sweet pretty angel - what!”
“I just… can’t,” you curse under your breath. “It’s definitely me that’s the problem, okay? You deserve someone who… cums jerking you off. I can’t.”
“Well maybe if you jerk me off more you-”
“Okay I gotta go.”
You hang up and stand then, looking in your mirror, putting your hair up, before you talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing on a hoodie, snatching up that lube Sylus loves to use, the kind that tastes sweet when you lick his cock once he pulls out of your hole. You’re trembling when you drive over to his mansion in the middle of the night, hoping he’s not there, hoping you can save face.
But no, he’s there.
*****
“Look what’s at my doorstep,” he murmurs, taking you in. God even in a big hoodie and leggings you’re the sexiest thing there is.
He was desperate leaving that long ass voicemail, jerking it and cumming to you until he was raw from it, hurting knowing not a damn thing would ever come close. Now you’re glaring, crossing your arms, bag slung over your shoulder – your cheeks are tinged with the pretty color of your blush, making his heart race as much as his cock throbs underneath his slacks.
Fuck, imagine you underneath him again? This time he’d never let you go – he’d chain you up, keep you here forever if you just give him a chance. What did you do, to make him so desperate, so needy? Him – Sylus, he could have anyone but who was anyone when they weren’t you, this angry girl on his front porch glaring daggers up at him in the dark.
You’ve been all he wants, and he can’t wait to make you cum till you faint, till you drool, till you cry out his name.
“What will your little boyfriend think, hmm? Though I won’t share your little secret,” he leans low, so tall you have to arch your head back, brushing his fingers across your cheek. “Our secret.”
“I left him,” Sylus’ heart thrums in his chest. “Not for you, but… I…”
“Well?” He crosses his arms, leaning on his doorway. “Are you going to be mine, or not kitten?”
“Dumb fucking nickname,” you tug him down then, kissing his lips, and that’s when it’s over. Tumbling into the foyer of his pretentious mansion, his huge hands all over you, lifting you with one arm like it’s nothing and carrying you. “Mnh!”
“You did miss me, didn’t you sweetie?” He purrs those words, you shake your head, but it’s a fucking lie.
“Did you mean what you said, psycho?” You breathe out, thighs on either side of his hips, his huge hands gripping your ass, pressing you against that wall.
“I meant all of it,” he sighs now, easing you down, letting you slide across his body. “Show me how much you missed me.”
“Make me.”
Sylus shoves you down on your knees now, you look up at him so obediently, so pretty. “Hands behind your back, mouth open.”
Only for Sylus have you ever submitted, but how can you not, when his ruby eyes look down at you like that, when he undoes his belt ever so slowly, leather and metal quietly clicking. Your breaths are coming faster, still in your hoodie when his cockhead brushes your lips, smearing them in precum like a gloss, coating them in a white you lick off.
“Open wider,” you open your mouth, tongue out for him, earning his moan, his huge hand gripping the hair at the nape of your neck. “That’s it, good little kitten. Gonna swallow my cock, aren’t you?”
“Mhm,” you’re moaning when you suck him, letting him fuck your throat, hands eagerly behind your back as instructed, looking up to see the mess you’re making of him.
“Perfect little throat, fuck,” he breathes out, holding your face in place to fuck into your throat, stretching it until it burns, bulging inside your neck with how thick he is. Your eyes do him in, hopelessly beautiful, filling with tears. “Love your throat, love how tight it is, f-fuck I miss you…”
You’re swallowing him down, cunt dripping, pulsing around the air as you rock back on your heels, gasping for a breath just to get suffocated by him. Spit is spilling down in gossamer strings, your hair is just a mess between his fingers when he tugs that scrunchy out, your skin flushed so pretty.
He groans, your throat squeezing around him, taking him so deep your nose is against that white hair nestled over his cock, swallowing around him to where he almost cums down your throat. He pulls back, sucking in a sharp breath, before shoving in fully, his heavy balls press into your chin, full of cum.
He grips your hair tighter, thrusting in deep, his cock twitching before he pulls fully out, leaving you gagging, tears slipping down the corners of your eyes. “Good girl, my good girl, aren’t you?”
You nod without arguing, biting your now swollen lower lip, looking up at him under your lashes, pupils blown out. “Sylus…”
“Mine,” he tugs you up now, pressing a kiss to your lips, tasting his own pre on your tongue. “My slutty little kitten.”
“You’re so fucking possessive,” you mutter against his lips, he chuckles against them when you wrap your arms around his neck.
“And you get off on it, hmm? Did you cum for me?”
“You wish,” he chuckles again, the sound far too throaty and inviting when he picks you up, carrying you up the stairs to his bedroom, you’d hardly been here, usually he was at your place. Even the blankets and sheets he tossed you on are stupidly expensive, soft underneath your skin as he climbs over you.
“Did you?”
“Shut up,” you tug him down, pressing your lips to his once more, moaning into his mouth as his hands slide under your hoodie, fingers dancing across your ribs, tracing the lace of your bra, exhaling as he feels your nipple.
“Imagining not sucking these tits again was tragic baby,” Sylus calling you baby fucks you up even more, he shoves that hoodie up now, showcasing your tits that are barely hidden by lace. “Perfect, pretty tits.”
Sylus has you tied up to his bed posts before you can process what is fully happening, completely naked aside from your soaking wet panties you wish he’d take off. He’s smacking your tits, watching them jiggle and moaning, your nipples hard and begging for his mouth.
He spits right on one nipple, slathering around that saliva, watching it perk up before he sucks it in his hungry mouth, cheeks hollowing, the metal flicking right on his tongue. “Oh, f-fuck… Sylus, please.”
“Patience, sweetie, wanna take my time,” he smirks down at you, crimson eyes black with need. “Missed this, missed your pretty body, these tits, those hips… these thighs. Oh, and this pretty cunt – but, you hurt my feelings, y’know?” You’re tugging at the restraints, moaning softly when he leans down, pulling your panties aside and spitting right on your cunt.
“You’re m-mad at me? Really, y-you… ah!” He spits again, watching that bubbly trail down your puffy folds, groaning at the sight of it trailing. “Sylus, in me, please.”
“Mmm, not yet. Missed this too much, need to take my time,” he chuckles, tongue slipping, gathering your sweetness. He groans now, cock rutting against the mattress, only wearing a pair of red boxer briefs and nothing else. You taste so good he’s leaking more pre, hurting. “Fuck you’re sweet.”
“Want you in me, fuck I drove all the – Sylus!” He’s lavishing your clit in a mean circle, teasing, not giving you what you need.
“Shh, or do I need to gag you? I will gladly. Mmm, but then I love to hear your cute little moans, when I stuff your tiny cunt so full. Oh, need something?”
“Hate you,” you grumble, he grins, the lines of his teeth against your heated cunt. “Need to cum, please.”
“Answer me, and I’ll consider it,” you’re narrowing your eyes, but the roll back the moment his tongue fucks your quivering hole, gripping that wet muscle. His moans vibrate against your cunt, long fingers digging into your thighs. “Oh she did miss me. Now, did you cum to my message?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes, only for him to pull away.
“I did, okay!?” He chuckles again, slipping two long fingers in your hole. “Oh f-fuck yes, please…”
“You’re so sweet like this, tied up and at my mercy,” his silvery locks fall over a brow, eyes so dark all you can see are red rings around his pupils, curling his fingertips up in your gummy walls, tapping that spot that makes the pressure build. “Those sounds you make, been playin’ in my head, over and over.”
He’s fingering you faster, panties still tugged to the side, your tits rising and falling with your shaky little breaths. He moves them in and out now, scissoring ‘em with a messy squelch, dragging every movement so you feel all the callouses, the ridges of his fingers. You’re screaming out, head falling back, wrists burning from the tugging.
“Mmm, cum f’me like this, then maybe I’ll let you have my cock,” it’s too late, you’re already shattering for his mouth, when he sucks your twitchy lil clit right in his hot, eager mouth, humming off tune the way he does.
“Sylus! Nghhh!” You’re so sweet like this really, not the feisty mean little thing he’s used to, no, you’re pliant, your cunt is spasming around his fingers, clit jumping as you gush and gush, screaming out and trembling.
“So cute like this,” he whispers, pulling back and licking his lips now, grin diabolical on his face, glistening with you. He leans over now, pulling his fingers out, shoving them in your mouth. “Clean these up, made a bit of a mess, didn’t we? Did you mess up your sheets hearing me stroke my cock?”
You can’t even answer and he knows it, sucking your arousal off his thick fingers, earning a - good girl - as you bob your head up and down, eyes lidded and heavy. Your cunt is still spasming from you cumming, his thumb running little circles around your clit, pushing you even further.
“Too much, too much, in me,” he clicks his tongue just a bit, smirking as he overstimulates it even more. Your hips jerk back, pressing into the mattress, thighs trying to close and failing with the restraints he has on your ankles. “In me, fuck, s-stop teasing.”
“Oh you’re such a needy kitten,” Sylus steps off the bed, slipping down his boxers finally, his heavy cock slapping his flat abdomen, leaking milky pre, making your tummy just clench up even more. You had it in your mouth but you’re dying to have it buried inside.
“Mmm, wanna touch you,” you whisper, tugging again, he undoes your ankle restraints, leather unbuckling from your skin, but he leaves the wrists. “Meanie.”
“Am I mean? No, mean would be this,” he smacks your cunt with his heavy cock, over and over, not giving you anything else, messy wet sounds echoing in his dark room, lit only by an ostentatious chandelier.
“Who has a fucking chandalier in their room? Ah!”
“Me,” he smirks and smacks your cunt with his fingers, pulling back and lifting your thighs, over and over, making your cunt swollen, red marks lifting where his fingers leave whelps. “Ah, need more?”
“Fuck me,” he pauses then, he wants to tease but god you’re pretty, he almost busts when you arch your hips, tits jiggling with the motion, once again toying with your restraints. “Inside, fuck. Please, I said please.”
“Mmm but you were a bad girl, tsk,” he takes your panties now, covering your cunt back up.
“Sylus!”
“Mhm?” He grinds his thick cock over your slit, smirking down at the wet mess they have become. “This fabric, it’s ruined sweetie.”
“Then t-take it off,” he doesn’t listen, spitting a filthy string of bubbly saliva, rubbing over it again, pressing his cock head almost inside with the cotton in the way, torturing you. “Thought you missed my pussy?”
“Oh I do,” he yanks the panties off until they rip. “Whoops.”
“Can’t stand you.” He just grins, far too fucking attractive, you’re all talk though – you love him teasing you, edging you, making you beg for it. You love all of it.
You love his psycho ass too, not that you’d say it till you got his cum spurted up in your needy hole, though.
“Need something more? Here’s my cock,” he rubs up between your slit, gliding his entire shaft, hovering over you now. Two silver crosses dangle and brush your skin when he kisses your swollen lips, moaning into them. “Aww are you crying, kitten?”
“Fuck off,” you breathe out, mascara trailing down on your cheeks.
“So pretty like this,” he pulls back now, undoing your wrists. “Behave or I’ll put them right back.”
You just swallow and nod, they’re so numb but he’s gently rubbing them, like he’s not torturing you. He’s gliding his tip up and down, up and down, you’re so wet it keeps slipping, but he won’t put it in. He teases a tip, stretching that tight ring of muscles, only to pull right back, sucking in a breath when you clamp down.
“Ready for me, sweetie?” Your glare just makes him grin. “Fuck I love when you’re mad at me, makes your cunt even better when it wraps my cock.”
How dare he talk like that in that voice.
Sylus slips his cock in, but he bottoms the fuck out, your nails gripping his biceps and digging in, earning his muffled moan, the pain making him suck a breath. He eases back on his knees, dragging your hips so you’re taking all you can, tip pressing on your cervix.
“Look at that,” he whispers, mesmerized with how your tummy just bulges with his cock. “Oh you’re so perfect, takin’ me like this? Look at me ruining your insides, all me, just me.”
Sylus is pussy drunk on three strokes in your cute little pussy, watching his cock move in and out, groaning. His head falls forward, those dark lashes fluttering shut, moving inside of you faster, faster, until you can’t take it. He has you cumming before he even ‘lets’ you, he’s too fucked up on you to tease anymore.
You’re both so sensitive, he’s whimpering, whispering your name, railing your cunt harder and harder, making you see white. Wet, filthy sound of skin slapping skin the only thing you can hear over your own desperate cries and that ringing in your ears, just hints of him moaning your name, fucking into you harder, like he’s never gonna get enough.
"That's it, takin’ all of it, every fucking inch," his rhythm is brutal, cockhead bruising your cervix with every deep fuck in your messy hole. Fuck swollen folds moving along with every glide, tummy so full of him. “Gonna take all my cum, my perfect, pretty fuck toy, hmm?”
You can’t answer, just a nod when he overstims your little clit again, buried to the hilt. Your thighs lock up on either side of his slutty, narrow waist, cunt clamping down on him like a vise. “Mnh!”
“That’s it, milking me, huh? So fucking pretty, look how you take me,” he’s losing it at the sight of your pretty face, your black streaked cheeks and glimmery eyes, lips trembling, whispering his name. “Want it, pretty?”
“Mhm, ah!” You barely make out a word, his cock starts throbbing, thickening inside of you.
"Gonna fill this pretty pussy up with so much cum," he pants, his voice ragged. "Gonna pump you so full of me it'll be dripping out for a week. You want that? You want me to breed your pretty lil cunt, kitten?"\
You’re too fucked out to answer, you can nod eagerly, when his heavy balls just start pumping, and you feel the hot, thick spurts of his cum painting your insides, warmth flooding as he leans over you, moaning, kissing up your neck. His lips drift to your ear, feeling your aftershocks push more and more white ropes from him.
“Oh fuck, you deserve all of it,” he whispers, leaning back now to look at you. “I need a picture of this pretty pussy pushing all this cum out.”
“Mmm, psycho,” he just smirks, but your phone is ringing as he uses it, snapping pics of your cum. “Oh god, don’t answer.”
He does it anyway, devious shit that he is, smirking and spreading your pussy lips wide, watching the creamy release pour out. “Mmm, your ex-girlfriend you mean? Well, she’s spread in front of me, dripping my cum. Who’s this? Well, it’s her new boyfriend.”
“Sylus!” He parts your thighs, snapping another pic now.
“Don’t worry I won’t send them, he doesn’t deserve to see you. These are just for me to stroke myself. Oh, I’m still on the phone…” He shuts it off and you giggle until he’s got you bent over. “Arch, sweetie, we’re not even close to done tonight.”
****
hehehe tysm for this commission love!
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summary: you find sylus hiding in his office. for good reason.
cw: y/n-esque!emcee (she is very annoying and no one really likes her in this)
a/n: inspired by that ceo x y/n trend where the ceo is overly protective of sweet, innocent and naive y/n. but the ceo here isn't interested in y/n and is far more interested in YOU. i also want to thank the ever so lovely @sysjuicebox-archive for adding onto this idea with her glorious mind, it was so much!
"Mr. Qin?" You call out as you open one of his large office doors, having knocked a few times already. Each knock received no response, making you wonder if your boss had stepped out for something or the other.
Usually an impromptu lunch meeting or an all too often emergency trip to his twin sons' school.
Whatever it is, he hadn't informed you and you remember that Sylus had given you permission to enter his office at any time for whatever reason.
"I trust you," he had said, a rare genuine smile soften his sharp, handsome features. Your heart had been sent off to the races, winning first place with how fast it had been beating. It had been a...moment between you two that replays consistently in your head when you go to bed at time, like clockwork.
You peer into his office, scanning the familiar surroundings as you step in and close the door behind you.
His huge obsidian desk is neatly organised, sealed envelopes and papers stacked into small piles. The outrageously expensive ergonomic chair he loves leaning back in is facing the fall-to-ceiling windows. He was probably taking in the cityscape, his mind drifting far away to avoid an incoming headache.
You set some paperwork on his desk, skirting around it until you're standing in front of the wide window. You immediately notice your apartment building in the not too far distance. As well as the bakery that's a block down from it and off to the east, you can barely make out Sylus' favourite Mediterranean restaurant.
The view, however familiar, engrosses you so much that you don't notice a hand sneaking out from under his desk.
But you feel it latch onto your ankle and scream loudly in shock, kicking it away to press yourself against the window.
With your heart pounding, you look down at where the hand came from and feel immediate anger.
"Was this your idea of a funny joke?" You ask, having spotted Sylus who's hilariously curled up beneath his desk. The space is big but clearly not big enough to hide a 6'4" broad-shouldered man who's famously feared for his sharp intelligence and keen business sense. "I will report you to HR for this."
"Janice in HR loves me so good luck with that," Sylus says smoothly and he isn't wrong. Janice is obsessed with him. "And my intention wasn't to scare you, I simply wanted to grab your attention."
"And you couldn't have just said my name?"
Sylus shakes his head. "She'll hear me otherwise."
You blink. "Who?"
As if on cue, there're three knocks coming from Sylus' door.
"Ooooh Sylus~!" Emcee calls out, her tone sickly sweet.
It makes your stomach churn.
"Oh, her," you deadpan before kneeling on the ground to hide your silhouette from view. "I didn't think you'd be rendered scared by someone half your size and has a quarter of your strength."
"I don't have her time today," Sylus says, now in a low whisper. "She's annoyingly persistent and has been in my office a total of 32 times today."
You check your watch. "But it's only 1 PM."
"I know."
"Goodness gracious."
"Exactly."
There're three more knocks.
"Qinnikins~?" She calls out and you snort, covering your mouth.
"Qinnikins?" You mouth and Sylus shoots you a dreadful look.
Another three knocks.
"I need you to get her away," Sylus murmurs. "She knows I haven't left the building yet because she's—"
"—crazy and a stalker—"
"—right, and I just need her to leave so I can sneak outside."
"Well, isn't this funny?" You say with an amused smile. "Mr. Qin trapped in his own company building by a tiny employee." You move to stand up. "What would your competitors think?"
"That I'm a kind and thoughtful man who doesn't want to hurt said tiny employee's feelings."
You huff a laugh. "Good man."
With a quick pat to his shoulder, you rise up and say, "Hey Emcee, come in."
One of the doors swing open to reveal a pretty woman in a dress that's certainly not HR approved.
"Oh, it's you," Emcee says, immediately disinterested. "I thought Sylus was here. I swear I heard his voice a minute ago."
"I was on call with him," you lie. "Put him on speaker because I was dealing with some paperwork." You gesture to the pile you had brought in. "He's gone out and won't be back until after lunch."
Emcee gives you a look. "And how would you know that?"
You're unbothered by it. "I'm kind of his secretary so it's my job to know."
Emcee bristles; that had hit a sore spot.
"Whatever," she grumbles. "You're not competition anyway so why would I be bothered?"
You wave her off as she slams the door and sigh deeply, bending down to look at Sylus.
"You owe me big time, Qinnikins," you say and Sylus smiles, grateful.
"Then how about I take you out for lunch?" He offers, crawling out of his hiding space to stand at his full height.
How he made that look elegant is beyond you but that doesn't matter because:
"Are you asking me out to lunch?" You aim for playful but your heart's beating a little too fast for you to concentrate.
"Are you saying yes?" Sylus asks and there's a sparkle in those crimson eyes of his.
You swallow deeply.
"...I want pasta," you say and Sylus smirks.
"Anything you want; it's on me."
tags~☆: @blessdunrest @thatweirdomidas
a/n: this will probably become a series, haha! it was fun to write and there's so much more to add. :)
Tags: seductive, yandere, love and hate, possessive, toxic, obsessive, exhibitionism, stalking, control, marking, voyeurism, masturbation, rough, teasing and taunting, spit kink, light knife play, light blood play, enemies, dead dove, uniform kink, leather, punishment, dom/sub undertones, breath play, choking, angst no comfort, dubious consent, implied somnophilia, come-marking
Trope: "Who did this to you?"
Word Count: 2.6k
AN: Hey, so, welcome to my first attempt at a toxic and dark obsession. Mind the tags above, this isn't my usual style if you've read my other works. The things I have in store for y'all....
Next
“Who did this to you?”
His voice, laced with concern, was puzzling, doused by the echoes of nearby battles.
Your boot slid in the mud on your retreat, slick with dirt and blood. But you held your ground, grasping his wrist, removing the tip of his dagger from the tear in your shirt. You knew what he had seen.
The bruising, the indents of thick fingers, the ghost of a grip so tight, ink had consumed your vision.
In the pouring rain, surrounded by flickers of lightning, his silhouette towered, advancing with a silent declaration.
Lilac eyes embraced you, designed to hoard your being and consume you whole. Every moment of scrutiny provided intel he catalogued, features and habits you reckoned he obsessed over in the confines of his prison. Like now, when his eyes dipped to your sleeve, fixating on the marred skin of your wrist.
His eyes narrowed, eyebrows furrowing as his lips distorted into a crude line, frustration prevailing over his composure.
You had seen that look upon his face once, a few years prior.
A gala hosted by your clan, one he had attended with blatant intentions.
That night your eyes had never left his frame. He drank, he mingled, and he flirted.
Rafayel, when adorned in the veil of seduction, was devastating. He toyed with femininity, and lured masculinity, governing both as his own. As you stood on the opposite end of the room, concealed by the conversing filth of aristocracy, you shamelessly stared.
A man like that enticed like a sweet poison. One taste would be lethal.
You weren’t a fool like the others who flocked to him like a moth enraptured by light. You kept your distance, paralleling his parade, making your way from one table of confections to another. When men approached, intrigued by your glamour, their attention barely tickled your desires. None had that dangerous smile, that smirk that made you want to lick and bite, delectable like a forbidden slice of chilled cake. And like that candied cherry atop that chunk of sugary delight, his lips would color, rubbed raw from your kiss.
Not her kiss.
Whomever had caught his attention had won his lips. Brazen, Rafayel kissed his latest interest with closed eyes, an index finger beneath her jaw, surrounded by a room full of spectators.
He led her by his mouth alone, directing an act those around were captivated by.
Including you.
Jealousy scorched, catastrophic to the foundation built by your predecessors. It burned, and your hand found your chest, kneading the skin as if that itself might soothe the blaze.
His tongue flicked, lapping at her bottom lip as his thumb pawed at her chin, urging her mouth to open.
It did. A gasp escaped.
Whether it came from your chest, or another’s, you wouldn’t know.
His other arm wrapped around her waist, supporting her as her legs were robbed of strength, as feeble as the whipping cream you witnessed bakers in the kitchens beat and swirl. Baser instincts craved such a phenomenon, as no other had ever stripped you of your wits. While Rafayel had been privy to another man nibbling on various parts of your body, you had never made him yearn as intensively as he teased you.
Rafayel’s kiss was sacred, his taste solely intended for your palette. Whether you would partake was an entirely different matter. Let him seethe in disappointment as you denied him, taunting him with ambrosial gloss and pleading eyes.
Your fingers grasped a fluke of champagne, the sparkling concoction sizzling the roof of your mouth. A welcoming distraction, yet not strong enough, not when Rafayel’s current fling was grappling at his strands of hair, knocking the hood of his leather overcoat onto his broad shoulders.
Rafayel was sensitive there, you knew by how he would play with his own locks, tugging, eventually whimpering when his nails raked over his scalp. Alone, so desperate, fumbling to get his pants down his legs had been deemed absurd. The vent of his pants had been spread, his hand reaching deep to collect his length, poising it over the leathers across his abdomen.
The raven-black gloves encasing his hand contrasted against the flushing crown of his cock. One bead of arousal slithered over his fingers, white as a pearl, remnants at the slit caught by the pad of his thumb to aid the slide.
It was the same thumb that had pressed on your tongue earlier that day, hooking on your bottom row of teeth to yank your head to the side. You had bit down in return, indenting the leather.
His hiss had cleaved through the air between you.
“Was that supposed to hurt?” He had mocked, examining his hand with a tilt of his lips. Caged by the height of his frame, it was easy for him to rest the tip of his thumb against the crease of your mouth, wedging past your teeth to pet the valley of your tongue. “Why don’t we try that again, yeah?”
He waited, patient, a predator hunting its prey. Even as saliva accumulated, dripping to collect at the curve between his thumb and forefinger, you both delayed. Your eyes rummaged through his gaze, running wild, exploring whatever he would willingly offer. Very little, if anything at all.
The tip of his dagger threatened your ribs. With additional pressure, your posture stiffened, automatically rising in an attempt to evade the blade. But you refused to bite, to surrender to his whims. Victory was the last thing you would award him.
He tutted, amusement swirling in the pigment of his irises. His pupils dilated, trained on you, spellbound.
“Do you like this? Disobeying?” He pierced the leathers of your armor, not yet spilling blood. You flinched, an involuntary reaction you had hoped he’d never see. But as he had watched you since you could remember, your abandonment should be in his arms. “I said bite me, harder, I need to feel you till tomorrow.”
Your hand encircled the blade at your side, squeezing until scarlet welled, warming your palm. The pain sobered. Exertion tore a cry from your throat, muffled by the grip he maintained over your tongue. You pushed his weapon away, launching from the wall to force him back. The weight of his thumb, now absent from your mouth, was missed.
You swiped the back of your hand over your chin, clearing your face of any evidence.
Rafayel chuckled, humored by your offense. His stare scoured your body, lingering at your lips, then your hand.
His own tongue curled around his thumb, lips wrapping around the base, suckling until he reached the tip.
“Every time you look at that vicious cut on your hand, think of me.”
Then, he had disappeared, an expert in navigating the shadows and sins of night.
In his room, you understood, mesmerized by his hand working the base of his length, rotating his wrist so his palm rubbed the thick veins sheathed by molten skin. If he were to offer his hand, you’d soak his glove from wrist to fingertip, kissing the planes of his palm, coiling your tongue through his fingers. If he wanted to pinch the tip of your tongue, and escort your mouth to his cock, you’d oblige.
He hadn’t invited you to his bedroom, or this erotic display of sexuality. You had made yourself a participant via sly, nefarious means. Your hand was bandaged, throbbing where his blade had severed skin. You savored it, a souvenir provided by steel crafted for him.
Perched on his nightstand, the moonlight streaming through his window accentuated the dagger. It had been flung, landing at an angle, elevated by miscellaneous items scattered. Such lazy discarding told a story of torment, as if he couldn’t wait another second to alleviate his ache.
Laid diagonally across his bed, Rafayel was propped on a multitude of pillows, one leg bent at the knee, the other locked straight. His chest heaved with each pass of his hand. You recorded every reaction with intense eyes, hidden by an armoire. The perspective had been perfect, close enough you could note the sweat littering his face, yet far enough he would be unable to capture you.
His pace increased, heels sinking into the mattress. The arc of his spine as he arched seared into your mind, concrete, etched into your memory.
Rafayel whimpered, gasping as his hips bucked, ramming his length through his tight fist. He was teetering at the edge, if the greed in his movements was anything to go by. Words of encouragement dallied at the tip of your tongue, prepared to reason with his body, and inspire his release.
“Fuck,” he gasped, tensing, shivering as he spilled, staining the dark colors across his abdomen.
Languidly, he relaxed, chin dipping as he sighed. Glazed in lust, his eyes met yours, a satisfied smile gracing his mouth.
That look of his, smug and seductive, was worn by him once more as he kissed his suitor. Their positions switched, his nose brushing hers as he slanted his lips over her mouth. His eyes opened, ensnaring you, the woman caught in his trap oblivious to her purpose.
I know, he eyes relayed, that you’re watching.
Humiliation threatened to wind its way through your frame, but just as you had with his thumb pressed to your tongue, you met his strike. You sipped more of your champagne, bracing your rear against the table, folding your arms.
I’ll watch, you narrowed your eyes, challenging him, show me what you can do.
This game you two had engaged in was ceaseless, and you had provoked him on instinct, as if simply breathing. What you couldn’t ignore was that weakness within, the fragment of doubt that had ripened with age. As priorities shifted, and autonomy was gained, questions flitted through your consciousness.
Questions only one other would understand.
That person had his hand underneath a woman’s dress, her hem bunched at his wrist, black glove stark against her thigh. Her leg climbed, hooking on the swell of his waist, settling him into the crux of her body.
She clung to him, unabashed.
Rafayel latched on with a mouth to her neck. He had looked away, eyes closed as he focused on brandishing the woman with a hickey.
Her hand danced around the collar of his jacket, the edge of her finger sneaking its way beneath the leather.
Time slowed, the air seemingly thick and unfit for human lungs. You watched as her fingers swelled the garment, inching towards a location marked as your own.
He wouldn’t.
He would.
You knew when her fingers found the scar at his shoulder, the raised line, jagged and imperfect, long and aged. Curiosity might have wandered her thoughts if her senses weren’t being ravaged, stimulated by a talented tongue.
That was your only salvation - her lack of awareness.
Because she was unknowingly venturing into a past, one that was shared by two, engineered to instigate an infinite, ruthless, inviolable bond.
For sport, your parents had stood behind you, an array of weapons laid out on the butler’s cart. Rafayel had already chosen his, a dagger the length of his adolescent forearm. His parents were elated, unsettling smiles curling the ends of their mouths.
You didn’t want them near you. If they stepped anywhere within your vicinity, you’d be tarnished. The same could be said for your own parents.
Young and naive, you had equipped a sword, rationalizing the longer length would keep enemies at bay.
It was pure luck your blow had landed.
It was pure agony when Rafayel had screamed, his dagger clattering to the ground as his hand worked to staunch the bleeding at his shoulder.
His revenge would come the next year, when he would be praised for slipping past your defenses. In your bed his palm would muffle your lips, his dagger sliding over your shoulder, carving an exact replica of the mark on his body.
Your mother had chided you minutes after the attack, stitching your wound on a chair placed directly in front of the open window.
Your mistake, she had pointed out, something to ponder.
Much to her disappointment, your concern had fallen for a more trivial matter. Next to your pillow, your favorite stuffed animal sat, its button eyes unblinking. It was supposed to keep your nightmares in its belly, charmed by the local seamstress.
Or so you had heard.
Yet it had allowed one to come to life.
On Rafayel’s tenth birthday, you’d leave it as a gift.
You had to wonder if he thought back to such things when another touched his scar. You did, taking excessive measures so no other could come near it. Like the use of your sword, you had cast a bubble around it.
Which led you to exit the gala.
Another hand on his scar was like tar laid over your heart. Once hardened, it would render your thoughts, emotions, and logic useless. With Rafayel, it often resulted in your departure, the sight of him too difficult to bear.
Pace hurried, you rounded the corner, out of the reception hall. The owner of the mansion who hosted the event had riches beyond any royal’s imagination. It showed in the expensive paintings tacked onto the walls, the wreaths of flowers hung upon railings and arches, down to the plush fabric of the rugs lining the hallways and common rooms.
Art was a detour in your life you rarely took, mimicking actions of those you had stalked. Every once in a while you dressed the part, cooling yourself with a lace folding fan while bored eyes tracked brush strokes. Alone, you had no one to critique with. And even on your most desperate days, you refused to acknowledge Rafayel’s presence.
Often, he’d blend into the crowd, prickling the back of your neck with his stare.
As he was now.
You hadn’t even reached the end of counting a minute before he was pursuing you.
The phantom of his touch, how he might grab you, urged you forward. You had, after all, managed to upset him. Rafayel, throughout the years, angered when you didn’t provide the attention he chased. If you pushed far enough, his outbursts didn’t pertain to just you.
It prevented you from running - the silent threats he aroused.
His emotional surges belonged to you, and no one else. You would accept the burn of his blade, the grip of his fingers, the stern, frivolous look in his eyes.
You shivered, diverting to another hall. This one was lined with doors on one side, a railing on the other, overlooking the indoor garden. Details you hardly cared for.
Rafayel’s steps were obtuse, obvious to your ears. Such nuances were purposeful, he was as lithe as a cat, silent if he desired. This was a hunt, a type of play you both were raised to enjoy. Between the two of you, he excelled at prowling, natural in his way of observing. Some nights, you suspected he lounged in your room, watchful of your sleep.
Perhaps he was even the reason lustful dreams manifested throughout your evenings. Marks on your body upon waking up gave such suspicions credibility. The most recent being a blossom of crimson on your wrist, crafted by skilled lips and ruthless teeth.
You slowed your steps, heart rate erratic.
“What a naughty little thing you are.”
His snarl tempted, voice depraved.
The leather of his gloves gripped you, his chest firm.
starsnowcrowmc (18+ content ahead!!!) || arranged marriage AU w/ eventual polyamory and smut
SUMMARY: You are the newest lady of House Li, married to a man twice your age who seems reluctant to even look at you after a wedding night fueled by desire and aphrodisiacs. As new players enter the stage, you learn more about your husband's past and find love…in more places than one.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi!! this is a continuation of my fic the collapse of one's self-control (read here). please note that this fic contains potentially sensitive topics, such as age gaps, religious themes, religious trauma, homophobia/internalized homophobia, misogyny, minor depictions of psuedo-incest, abuse, and discussions/referenced to past dubiously consensual sex. read at your own risk. a TW will be placed at the beginning of each chapter. enjoy ㅤ♡
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TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: none
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Wakefulness came to you in fits and starts, hazy sunlight filling your sight as you blinked and squinted. Your body felt sore, and there was a strange stickiness between your legs, but the bed you lay in was so comfortable that you felt content to ignore it and try to drift back into slumber. That would be fine, you mused. No one would miss you if you caught another hour or two of sleep.
It was only once you heard someone moving around across the room that you realized three things with a start.
One, you'd gotten married yesterday.
Two, it was almost noon, judging by the position of the sun shining through the window.
Three, and perhaps most concerning of all, there was someone in the room with you.
You shot upright, only to let out a pained groan as your muscles strained in protest. The room's other occupant froze from their position in front of the wardrobe, casting a glance over their shoulder before straightening and turning.
"Good morning, my lady." They gave a soft bow, stepping forward so you could see them more clearly. It was a woman, dark hair neatly tied back into a bun and dressed in a plain dress and apron. "My name is Yvonne, and I'm the head maid here at Snowcrest Castle. I'm sorry that I scared you."
Waking up with a maid at your beck and call wasn't something you were used to. Back at home, you'd be lucky if one of your mother's maids remembered you existed long enough to help you get dressed; you'd gotten so used to dressing yourself that the idea of being dressed by someone else felt foreign. You weren't really sure what to do in this situation.
"It's fine," you rasped back, raising a surprised hand to your throat at how rough it sounded.
"I heard you had a bit of a rough night last night!" Yvonne added, crossing the room to take a tray off a table and bring it to you. "Here, I had the cook make you some breakfast."
You took the tray wordlessly, examining the contents. Toast and eggs, with a steaming cup of tea—not too shabby. Picking up the provided fork, you started to eat silently as Yvonne busied herself with tidying up the room.
"Um…where's Lord Li?"
Yvonne turned to you again. "He's a little busy today, so he won't be able to see you until later, but he said you have free reign of the place. Dr. Greyson's going to come by later to check on you on his orders, but you can do whatever otherwise."
"…Lord Li requested a checkup for me? Why?"
Yvonne shrugged. "No clue. He tends to be a worrier, so that's probably it."
"Ah," you said softly.
After you finished your breakfast, Yvonne helped you into your clothes for the day: a dress from your trunk and a knitted shawl you'd never seen before. You were a little concerned that she'd gone through your trunk, but you shoved it down, not wanting to rock the boat. Once she saw the mess between your thighs, she silently offered you a wet cloth to clean up with, one that you took with quiet gratefulness.
Dr. Greyson came in shortly after, a young man with thick spectacles and a cheerful demeanor that you found yourself incredibly endeared by. He quickly examined you, then pronounced that you'd be fine with a little bit of rest before handing you a vial of green-colored liquid.
"What's this?" you asked, turning it over in your hands. The liquid seemed quite thick, with an almost syrupy texture.
"A contraceptive." Dr. Greyson started to fasten the closures on his medical bag. "Lord Li requested that I give it to you. It's got a nasty taste, so I recommend eating something sweet afterwards."
As he left, you stared at the vial, the liquid inside almost taunting you. Why did Lord Li want you to take a contraceptive? Did he not want children? He was certainly getting along in age, so it would probably be best if the two of you had a child sooner rather than later. Was he repulsed by whatever he saw last night? To be honest, you didn't remember very much from your night together—a cramping in your belly, searing heat, then blissful, wonderful release. Maybe it hadn't been pleasurable for him.
You uncorked the vial, lifted it to your lips, and swallowed.
Immediately after that, you gagged. The taste was vile.
"Oh, dear," Yvonne murmured. "Let me go get you some tea."
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After you'd managed to completely rid your mouth of the taste of what had to be the world's most bitter-tasting medicine ever, House Li's butler came to call. His name was Noah, a kind-looking older gentleman with a warm demeanor and thick spectacles.
"I've known Lord Li since he was a boy," he explained to you as the two of you walked down the hallway, him leading you on a tour of the castle.
"Oh?"
"Yes, yes. I was brought on shortly after his birth, if I recall."
"What was he like?" you asked, curious. You were having a hard time imagining the tall, solemn Lord Li as anything but an adult.
Noah's voice was fond. "Well, he was a shy boy, for one thing. Tended to keep to himself. Ah, here, I'll show you."
He stopped in front of a painting, and you had to double back so you could stop and look.
The painting was an old family portrait, colors a bit faded with time. A woman who could only be the former Lady Li sat in the center, with the former Lord Li behind her and a boy on each side. The current Lord Li was on the left, but you couldn't recognize the other boy.
"Who's that?"
"Ah, that'd be Master William, the lord's older brother."
Brother? You weren't aware that Lord Li had a brother.
"He passed young," Noah continued, "so Lord Li took his place. I think he was more devastated at his brother's loss than when his parents passed."
"How tragic," you added after a moment of silence, unsure how to respond.
Thankfully, Noah moved on after that, choosing to tell you about how the previous Lady Li had needed to refurnish almost the entire castle after she moved in. Lady Althea Li had come from money, you learned, and you could tell by the way the castle had been filled. It had a tasteful, understated sort of elegance to it, with dark wooden furniture and thick, plush carpets. Beautiful tapestries covered the walls, and thick curtains were hung by almost every window.
The castle was a lot bigger than you'd anticipated. Given that it had been constructed as a fortress, according to Noah, you'd expected the areas where the members of House Li lived to be pretty small, and the rest of it dedicated to defense. That was not the case, however, and as Noah showed you through each room, you became more and more impressed. It had everything to offer that House Xia's manor did, and more.
You were particularly impressed by the library. Noah explained that Lord Li's great-grandfather built the current great hall, and his grandfather repurposed the old one into a library. It was a large room with high ceilings, but the roaring fire in the hearth kept the room surprisingly warm, and the floor was filled with plush couches and comfortable-looking chairs. You could see yourself spending a lot of time in here.
"And this is the recieving room," Noah explained as the two of you walked down an intricately-carved wooden staircase. "As the name implies, this is whe—"
"Mr. Noah!"
A young boy with shockingly white hair came bolting up the stairs, followed by some sort of small dog, a breed you'd never seen before.
"Shubai? What's wrong?"
"Sorry—" the boy—Shubai—panted, placing his hands on his knees as he bent over to catch his breath. "Lord Qin is here, and he's a little scary, so please—"
"Of course. I'll take care of it." Noah turned to you. "My lady, would you care to recieve our visitor with me? It'd be good for you to start meeting local lords."
You were a little hesitant, but nodded anyway and followed Noah down the stairs and to the center of the room.
The visitor turned out to be a shockingly tall man—even taller than Lord Li, somehow—with silvery hair and striking ruby-red eyes. As you looked at him, however, you felt like maybe blood would be a better comparison.
"Lord Qin," Noah greeted with a bow. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?"
"Zayne asked me to come," the man rumbled, voice almost sinfully deep, as he shrugged off his coat and handed it to Shubai. "I thought he'd bother to greet me when I came in for once, but not this time, it seems."
Crimson eyes landed on you, and his lips quirked up into an interested smile.
"And you must be the little lady." He turned to you, holding out his hand, and you slipped your hand into his. "Sylus Qin. I live nearby."
You gave him your name, then followed with a soft, "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise." He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, but didn't let go of your hand. "Tell me: is that grumpy old icicle treating you well?"
"Huh?"
Lord Qin laughed, a rich, decadent sound. "Your new husband."
"Ah…" You thought for a moment. "He's been….nice, I guess? I haven't seen him at all today, though…"
"Abandoning you so soon? What a pity."
"It's alright!" Somehow, you found yourself rushing to defend a man you hardly knew. "I know he's busy."
"It really is a shame, though," he murmured, leaning closer. "Such a pretty girl like you shouldn't be left alone in such a cold, sad place. He really should be spoiling you with attention. What if you get bored and decide to seek out someone else?"
"I don't—"
"Sylus."
Another voice cut through the air, and you near jumped backwards.
Lord Li strolled down the stairs, face icy as he looked at Lord Qin.
"Zayne," Lord Qin greeted, an easy smile on his face. "Finally decided to grace me with your presence?"
"I would appreciate it," Lord Li hissed, storming over, "if you didn't touch my wife."
"Oh? I was just greeting her." Lord Qin seemed completely unphased by your husband's anger. "What's the harm in that? Isn't it impolite to ignore the wife of your betters?"
"Keep your hands to yourself." With that, your husband took hold of Lord Qin's wrist and wrenched his hand away from yours.
"So rough," Lord Qin sighed in response. "Well, you're here now. What did you need? It seemed like you were really in a bind."
Lord Li cast a glance toward you, and you gave him a smile, not sure what was going on. He looked away quickly, and you felt oddly hurt by his reluctance to even greet you properly.
"Not in front of the lady. Follow me." He turned and headed towards the stairs, and Lord Qin followed him, casting a glance over his shoulder and sending you a wink before focusing on the task at hand.
After a few quiet moments, Noah cleared his throat.
I seriously love AO3. Like what do you mean that I get extra content of my favorite fandoms for free?? What do you mean that some of the Shakespeare-level writing is what we could only dream to get in canon?? What do you mean I can read all the content tags and warnings so I know what I’m reading and can choose what I enjoy?? What do you mean I can search and filter for specific troupes and emotions instead of vague genres?? WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO ADS AND ONCE AGAIN IT’S ALL FREE?? Ack I’ll never get over this website lol <333
