synopsis. desperation and hunger drove you to the qin manor — an accursed place from which no one came back. but you would take the risk any day, if it meant securing abandoned jewelries to pay for your survival. unfortunately, jewelries aren’t the only ones forgotten in there.
a/n. inspired by his recent 4* card where he gets us the pretty necklace! also written because of my raw and weird desire to have mirror sex with a vampire… please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the manor loomed before you like a corpse that refused to decay.
its windows were hollow eyes, its doors gaping lips frozen mid-scream. you’d heard the stories whispered in the taverns — that no one who crossed the iron gates of qin manor ever walked out again.
but hunger and desperation dulled the edge of fear.
gold glittered brighter than superstition.
the fog was thick enough to taste. it curled around the iron fences like smoke, softening the gleam of the moonlight until everything looked drowned in silver. you moved quietly through it all, a shadow among shadows, ragged boots barely making a sound on the dew-slick grass.
everyone in town whispered about this place. the old qin estate. cursed, they said. haunted, they promised. the perfect hiding place for jewelries no one dared to claim.
you smirked at that.
bad omens were for people with the luxury of fear.
the iron fence bit into your calloused palms as you climbed, the metal slick with frost. soon, your boots hit the cracked ground on the other side with a muted thud.
no dogs. no guards. only the silence of a place the world had already decided to forget.
you crossed the overgrown garden, weeds curling around cracked marble statues. the air smelled faintly of rot and rosewater — the scent of a home that once pretended at elegance.
“disgusting aristocrats.” you cursed to yourself, increasing the pace of your steps to traverse the gardens faster.
when you reached an adjacent servant’s door, hidden carefully behind thick bushes and age-stained columns, the rusted lock yielded beneath your pick in less than a minute. a soft click, and the old hinges groaned as you successfully slipped inside the cursed manor.
the darkness breathed around you.
every sound echoed too clearly — the crunch of your boots against piled dust, the steady thud of your heart against your ribs.
you’ve entered through the old pantry, now emptied by hungry rats and other lost animals looking for food. plates and mugs, tables and stools, all were powdered in dust, victims of time and ignorance, preserved in a moment all too distant from the present.
“hasn’t been touched in a long time, huh?”
curious as always, you dipped one bare finger into a bowl, scooping the thick layer of dust and shaking it off to inspect the porcelain. the pattern was expensive and intricate, layered with shiny metals that would definitely catch the eye of a merchant back in town.
if there are no jewels, a few plates will do.
the air was colder in the main corridor — not the chill of neglect, but something older, heavier.
candles, long melted into puddles, dotted the halls. faded portraits watched from their frames: pale faces, red mouths, shimmering eyes painted with such uncanny precision they seemed to follow your every step.
you ignored them. you always did.
aristocrats would never look at the poor. so at least now, in death, you could reciprocate their behavior — hold your head high, ignore their insistent gazes, pretend they don’t exist.
one abandoned candle stood proudly taller than the other, calling your name and asking to assist in your search. so, pulling out a lighter you’ve pocketed from a clueless traveler, you gave the old wick life to illuminate your way around the estate.
with your new addition in your dominant hand, you went up the staircase, boots brushing against carpets that had once been red. now, brown with dust and time. your heartbeat was steady — practiced — lulled by the certainty that you were alone and in control.
but if you’d paused long enough to listen, you might have noticed another pair of footsteps twitching across the old floorboards. slow. inhuman.
he had awoken the moment you touched the fence.
sylus’s eyes opened in the dark, bloody red pupils swallowing what little light seeped through the cracks of his coffin. the air had shifted — fragrant now with mortal blood.
fresh. defiant.
he hadn’t tasted such a scent in years.
he rose without a sound, the centuries of stillness melting from his body in seconds. shadows curled around him as he moved, parting to let him pass through the ruined mansion to get to you.
and oh, he found you so easily.
through the veil of dust and moonlight, he watched as you prowled through the manor, clever little hands rifling through cluttered drawers, your breath ghosting white in the cold air.
he could hear every heartbeat, every scrape of your sleeve, every curse, every swallow when the silence grew too heavy.
how long had it been since a mortal dared come this far?
sylus lingered at the edge of your vision — a shape that never quite solidified, a whisper that vanished when you turned. his hunger hummed low and steady, palpable in the air, but he did not move closer.
not yet.
he preferred to watch. to let you think yourself brave.
you were quite amusing, really.
going up another level, peering in closer and closer to his own chambers, your dirty hand brushed against a cracked hallway mirror. the dust cleared just enough for your reflection to flicker back — tired, nervous, haloed by the faint glow of the dying candlelight.
you didn’t see him behind you in the shadows. not really. just the hint of movement. a suggestion. a breath too close to your ear that could have been the wind.
a flicker of ruby-like shimmers that burnt too strong into your skin.
“ghosts are not real, ghosts are not real, ghosts are not–” you chanted like a mantra between deep breaths, trying to regulate your beating heart and your too-active of an imagination.
you couldn’t go back now, not like this — defeated, empty-handed, ridiculed by invented specters.
so you went on, passing the fractured mirror. ignoring the looming presence of the predator.
sylus did not strike — the thrill of watching was too exquisite.
he lingered in the shadows, unseen, tracking your careful steps as you crept through the corridor. his eyes, red as spilled blood, followed the small flame of your candle as it painted trembling light across the peeling walls.
the manor had not known a heartbeat in centuries, and now it pulsed with yours.
it excited him.
you started acting more cautious, suspicion creeping into your heart. you checked corners, pressed your ear to doors, measured each creak of the floorboards like an experienced thief. just in case someone was here with you, also planning to steal a handful of jewels and silver and exchange them for a life of comfort.
at least that was the only credible reason your feeble mind could muster up to justify the presence of another.
ghosts are not real, ghosts are not–
sylus admired that. the way you held your breath before turning a handle; the way your fingers hovered over a silver candelabrum before deciding it was too heavy to take. you moved like someone who understood risk, but not danger.
not the kind that waited, patient and ancient, in the dark.
not him.
when your weak candle flickered harshly, the silence pressed closer.
a chill kissed the back of your neck — faint, but sharp enough to make you shiver in your boots and glance behind. but there was nothing. only shadows stretching long and thin across the hallway.
sylus smirked at your adorable reaction, sharp fangs peering from behind his lips and shining faintly in the darkness. he was close enough now to hear the delicious flutter of your pulse.
your steps quickened, but he matched them — silent, gliding. you turned down another corridor, and for a moment he let you think you’d shaken whatever phantom haunted the halls.
then a whisper of movement brushed past your ear — colder than air, softer than breath.
the flame of your candle trembled again, threatening to die in a few pulses.
and… it bent towards him. recognizing him before you even saw his face.
a breath grazed your neck — chilly, yet not spectral — and your whole body went taut. you turned too fast, candlelight shaking, but saw only the dust stirring in your wake.
no one stood behind you. no one should.
and yet… you felt him.
fingers, invisible but deliberate, traced the air an inch from your throat, brushing close enough that your skin prickled in its wake. a slow, deliberate caress against the curve of your waist, the faintest tug at the worn-out hem of your blouse.
it wasn’t enough to prove he was real — just enough to make you tremble with the possibility.
“still you wander.” came a voice like silk drawn over glass. low, amused, hungry.
you spun, but the voice seemed to melt back into the walls, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.
“just the wind… just the wind…” you stumbled forward, clutching the candle, whispering under your breath.
sylus watched you through the half-light, every frantic breath a symphony, every heartbeat a lure. he wanted to see how far you would go when the darkness began to consume you whole.
so he followed you, guiding, shaping your path — the gentle touch at your elbow that turned you left instead of right, the cool brush of his hand that nudged open a particular door.
his mother’s room.
when you crossed the threshold, the air changed. softer. sadder. the moonlight poured through the torn drapes, laying pale ribbons across velvet and dust. the candle guttered out, but you did not notice; the silver glow was enough for your mortal eyes.
you started searching because it was easier than admitting you were afraid. your hands — small, dirty, desperate — opened drawers, lifted silks, scattered combs and trinkets. and when your fingers closed around a heavy and intricate string of silver, your fear cracked into laughter.
“ha, ha, ha–”
jewelries. real ones. cool and bright and beautiful against your ruined hands.
“ha, ha, finally!”
you laughed again, wild and giddy, and inattentively slipped the necklace over your neck. then a bracelet, a ring. they looked absurd against your ragged sleeves — a parody of wealth — but for once you felt radiant.
alive.
sylus leaned in the doorway, unseen, his eyes glowing faintly red in the moonlight. his lips curved — not in cruelty, but fascination.
a mortal, daring to adorn herself in the relics of the dead.
how divine.
he drifted closer, his presence no longer shy. the air around you cooled as he came near; his breath ghosted over your shoulder, his hand almost — almost — settling at your waist. he let you believe it was your choice to stand so still, to tilt your head slightly as if you’d admire the silver around your neck.
“a thief playing at nobility… how charming.” he murmured, soft and teasing, the baritone of his voice fully hitting your ears for the first time.
you froze, jewels clinking faintly against your throat, suddenly drooping heavier against your dirty skin.
he was behind you now, completely, yet his reflection absented in the vanity mirror. you only saw him from the corner of your eyes — tall, refined, red eyes catching moonlight like blood in a chalice.
a man was here with you. caught you in the act.
you gulped.
one gloved finger brushed your neck, tracing the necklace you’d stolen. the gesture was languid, reverent, dangerous.
you gulped again.
“i–”
“you wear them well.” sylus breathed, voice dipping low, amused, a mixture of teasing and sincerity. “my mother would have adored you.”
the words coiled through the air like smoke… intoxicating, dizzying. his thumb found the flutter of your pulse, lingering there, and you realized — too late — that you were trembling not from fear, but from how close he was.
mother?
the predator smiled once more at the fear of his prey.
shit, shit, was this a trap for thieves from the beginning?
you stumbled backwards, crashing into his toned chest, the necklace clutched in your fist like an old and dried loaf of bread you found on the streets.
“i'm sorry– i'll put them back– i was just–”
your voice cracked with fear and faux ignorance, half wishing to elbow the strange man and ran away with the goods, half wishing to solve it all peacefully. your hands moved to unclasp the chain, fingers fumbling against the cold locket to drag on the interaction.
“oh, no, no, no, sweetheart.”
his hand snapped out, not with force, but with a sudden, unyielding firmness. you gasped as he pinned your wrists behind your neck, ripping them away from the chain. his grip, like iron beneath the velvet glove, kept you still.
“do not.” he growled heavier, the amused tone evaporating into a venomous chill. “my mother wanted her heir's wife to wear them. she wanted to see them adorn someone worthy.”
his red gaze scorched you, one orb more luminous than the other, traveling from the jewels to your blown-out eyes.
“and you... you look so beautiful in them. like they were crafted for your thieving neck.”
your heart hammered, not just in fear, but in a peculiar, deep-seated dread. fuck, this strange man knew what you were and what your business was.
unable to face him due to his harsh grasp, your eyes flicked to the dusty vanity mirror leaning against the wall. you saw yourself — wilting, terrified, dressed in spoils and ornated with expensive jewelry.
but you did not see him. no reflection. no shadow.
just your own wide, horrified eyes staring back.
“w-what are you?” you whispered, the question torn from you. “why are you here? in this... abandoned place?”
he couldn’t possibly be a thief, putting on an act to take your loot. not with the way he was carrying himself.
not with the lack of reflection.
sylus tilted his head, a slow, predatory arch. he released your wrists, only to trail his gloved hand up your arm, over your shoulder, until his palm rested against the side of your neck. his thumb tipped your chin up towards him, forcing your head to turn behind and your gaze to meet his.
and now you fully saw him: pale skin, lifeless and devoid of any colour, matching a silvery mane. piercing red eyes, gleaming like freshly polished rubies in the shiny glaze of the moonlight. soft yet bruising lips, framing a mouth with a tad too angular set of teeth.
this man was a noble. a hauntingly beautiful one.
“i am the last son of qin. and this is not an abandoned manor.” he hissed, the words a poisoned lullaby. “it is my estate. my tomb. my preserve.”
and he leaned in, fast and unexpected, his nose brushing the column of your throat. you felt him inhale, long and deep, a gesture which made goosebumps bloom across your skin.
“wha…”
“your smell…” he murmured, ignoring your little whimper, voice thick with a hunger so antique it seemed to rot the air itself. “it awoke me. it stirred something in the darkness that has not been stirred for centuries.”
his lips, cold and soft, grazed the skin just below your ear. and then you felt the pressure of his fangs — not piercing yet, just resting there, twin points of imminent damnation.
vampire.
“i have been keeping to myself.” he breathed, the words a wave of ice down your spine. “but now... now you are here. your pulse is a drumbeat in my empty halls. your skin is warmth against my chill.”
fuck, i have to run. i have to–
one sturdy hand dipped lower and spread over your stomach, pulling you back against the chilly, unyielding line of his body, while the other propped itself on the edge of the vanity — successfully trapping you.
“my body craves yours, little thief. it would take so little to get what i want.” his teeth scraped lightly down against your jugular, not penetrating.
not yet.
“so tell me... will you let me do it?”
fuck, fuck, fuck–
your mind raced, but no answer came out. you were pinned between the vanity and his body, the jewels on your neck now feeling like a noose tightening with every brush of his mouth against your skin.
“sweetheart…” he pulled away from your neck just enough to look you in the eyes again, his gaze a bottomless, scarlet well.
“will you take responsibility?” he purred, his mouth curling into a predator smile.
your head spun, the room tilting on its axis from the quick turn. you were desperate to escape, the glint of his mischievous eyes sending a shiver down your spine.
“i... i can't.” you stammered, your voice a shabby whisper. “the jewels... they're not mine. i'll leave them, just let me go–”
“silence.”
the word wasn't spoken; it was hissed, a sound like silk tearing in the dark. his grip on your hips tightened, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you of the steel in his veins.
“you wear my family's heirloom. you have adorned yourself in the trappings of my ancestry. tradition is unyielding in such matters.”
tradition?
“you were the one who chose to put them on. by the old laws, you are now my wife.” his red gaze burned into you, incandescent and hungry.
“that's insane!” your protest came out as a panicked laugh, completely baffled by what you were hearing. “i'm no lady. i'm a thief! a scraper of gutters!”
“and yet…” he purred, his mouth finding the soft hollow behind your ear. “you wear the jewels as if they were woven from your own soul.” his hands moved, sliding up to your midsection, tightening its possessive claim on your waist. “and as my wife, you have a duty.”
“i owe you nothing!” you squirmed, trying to wrestle free, but his body curved into yours, a living, implacable prison of flesh and strength.
“you owe me everything.” he corrected, his tone dropping into a venomous whisper. “your very presence here is a trespass. i own the roof, the stones, the air you breathe. and now, little thief, i own you.”
his mouth returned to your neck, his lips tracing the threading pulse with sacred devotion.
“your duty is to feed me. to sustain me. to be the vessel for my eternal hunger.” his hand slid from your waist, groping the curve of your ass through thin, tattered fabric, his touch bold and unyielding. “and you will accept this. you will embrace it.”
“no–” your word cut off into a strident, stuttering gasp as his fangs pierced your skin.
the pain was sharp and precise, a quick, burning sting. but it was over in a heartbeat, replaced by a strange, warm sensation that spread outward like liquid sunshine. you felt your very muscles relax, a heavy, pliant weight settling in your limbs. a low, humming pleasure took root in your core, blooming into a heady, familiar arousal.
“what... what is this?” you murmured, your voice slurred.
sylus pulled back, his mouth stained scarlet. he smiled, his fangs glinting with the achievement of piercing you. “a gift.” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“and a reward. my bite... it can induce pleasure as easily as pain. it makes the submission sweeter.”
he swung you around and pressed you down, your back now flat to the vanity. your legs felt weak, your mind fuzzy and slow. the jewels on your neck felt heavier, their weight a promise of ownership.
“you are mine.” he repeated, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing around the thin fabric of your worn-out trousers. “your body, your blood, your pleasure. it all belongs to me now.”
your resistance crumbled, not under force, but under the strange, heady wave of aphrodisiac poison spreading through your veins. a moan escaped your lips as his fingers traced the soft, clothed skin of your inner thigh.
“that's it.” he coaxed, his voice a sinister lullaby. “accept your fate. it is more grandeur than whatever you could have stolen.”
he pulled you close, his body a shivering, immortal cold against your suddenly feverish heat. his mouth returned to the wound on your neck, and this time, when he sank his fangs deep, there was no pain. only a sweet, pulling sensation as he drank.
and a throbbing, urgent need between your legs that made you arch into his embrace, your hands finally raising to claw at his shoulders.
not to push him away, but to pull him closer.
“oh.”
he pulled back from your neck with a soft, wet sound, his tongue sweeping over the twin punctures he’d left behind. a low, hoarse moan ripped from your throat, the sensation of his wet tongue so exquisite it was nearly too much.
you could feel the warm trickle of your own blood slipping down your neck, past your collarbone, staining the dirty fabric of your blouse. it dripped onto the necklace adorning your throat too, coating the surface in a shimmering, dark crimson.
“that’s it, my wife.” sylus murmured, his voice a rumble against your skin. “let the sounds of your abandon fill my halls. they are more melodious than any symphony.”
his hips pushed forward, and you felt it — the hard, unyielding hardness of his arousal beneath the fine black material of his slacks. it strained against the fabric, a heavy, impressive bulge that pressed directly against the soft, quivering flesh of your inner thighs.
your own ragged pants, thin and worn, felt like no barrier at all.
every roll of his hips, every press of that thick, stone-hard cock against your clothed cunt sent a jolt of pleasure so sharp it made your vision blur.
“ahh…”
your head tilted back against the vanity, a sob escaping your lips as he rutted against you, the bunched material of your pants rubbing your swelling, sensitized folds through the soaked fabric of your undergarments. the aphrodisiac poison in your veins turned every touch into a liquid fire, and you could feel the wetness building, soaking through the rags, your body weeping with need.
he could smell it.
“so wet for me.” sylus groaned, his hands clenching on your hips through your thin pants. “so ready. all that feigned outrage, all those pitiful protests… melted away by a simple bite.” he laughed, a low, cocky chuckle that rumbled in his chest.
“you were always meant to be on your back for me, sweetheart. you just needed a little… encouragement.”
he rocked his hips, the steady, insistent pressure of his cock ruthlessly stroking the soaked, swollen bundle of nerves at your center. each pass elicited a new, higher moan, your hands flying up to clasp his back.
your fingers dug into the fine, black fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, your nails scraping against the underlying, chilled solidity of his body.
“please.” you whimpered, the word barely audible. it wasn’t a plea to stop; it was a plea for more.
“please what?” he purred, his mouth finding your ear. he nipped the lobe, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. “does my wife need something?”
“i… i need…” you couldn’t form the words. your hips bucked up instinctively, seeking harder pressure, more friction.
“you need your husband to take you.” he declared, his voice filled with arrogant certainty. “you need me to fill that empty, aching little cunt until you forget your own name.”
his hand slid between your body and the vanity, his fingertips skimming the waistband of your ragged pants. “you need to feel me split you open, don’t you? to finally have something real inside that puny, starving body.”
you cried out, a sharp, wailing sound as he unceremoniously tore the weak stitching of your pants open, the ripping fabric a vulgar confession of your surrender. the cold air of the manor hit your bare skin, but it was quickly sheltered by his bare hand cupping you.
he palmed your entire cunt, his thumb pressing roughly against your swollen clit, making you jerk and scream.
“there it is.” he hissed, his eyes blazing with triumphant possession. “there’s the gutter wench, reduced to a needy, sobbing little thing. all it took was a taste of real pleasure.”
he pushed one long, cold finger inside you, and your whole body convulsed, your nails drawing down his back. “you’re so tight. so empty. you were waiting for me.”
his first finger slid in with the effortlessness of a knife through warm butter. a sharp, guttural moan tore from your throat, your head thrashing back against the dusty vanity mirror. your hips bucked, your entire being focused on that one, invading digit.
“that’s it, sweetheart.” sylus murmured, his lips brushing your jaw as he watched you. “let me hear how much you need this.”
he curled that first finger, searching, and then hit that spongy spot inside you that made your vision burst into white sparks. you cried, a raw, unhinged sound, hitting your head again against the mirror. your hands, once clawing at his back, now flew to the edge of the vanity, gripping the wood as if it could save you.
“so responsive.” he hummed, his eyes dark and hungry. “but one isn’t enough, is it? your greedy little cunt wants more.”
before you could beg, his second finger joined the first. the stretch was sharp, incendiary. your mouth fell open, a silent, desperate scream escaping you as your eyes rolled back. he stretched you out, working you open with the precise, merciless efficiency of a sculptor.
“you take them so well, wife!” he praised, his thumb swiping through the soaked, twitching folds, landing on your clit. “so wet. so warm. it’s as if your body was built just to welcome me.”
the circles on your clit intensified.
you sobbed, a sound of overwhelmed, pleasure-bordering-on-pain ecstasy. your inner muscles fluttered, clenching around his daring digits, trying to accommodate the stretch. he pushed deeper, his bottom knuckles brushing against your swollen entrance.
“talk to me, sweetheart.” he ordered, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “tell me how my touch feels.”
“i-it’s… so good. “you gasped, your words slurred and heavy. “so… full.”
“full?” he laughed, a dark, chuckling sound. “this is nothing, my dear. you have no idea how full i will make you.”
then, he began to slowly withdraw his fingers. you whimpered, a protest at the loss, your orgasm now neglected. but he only smiled, his intense gaze locked on yours.
“patience, wife. i have something else for you.”
he raised his sticky hand, and your eyes flicked down past the wetness. on his ring finger, the one you had not yet felt, was a heavy, ornate silver ring with a large, intricately carved dragon.
your own eyes widened, recognizing it.
it was the match to the ring you had stuck on your own finger in your desperate greed.
“yes.” he whispered, seeing your realization. “the pair is complete. you put on the seal of your own bondage, my dear. it was always meant to be on your finger, just as mine is on my own.”
he pressed the tip of that ring finger against your soaked, trembling entrance. the metal was chilly, a contrast to your scalding heat. you moaned, low and long, as he pushed it inside, joined by his other two fingers.
“oh, lord–”
the sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt. the cold, hard metal of the ring continuously pressed against your swollen, spasming opening, pumping in and out, stretching you, filling you.
“three fingers.” he groaned, his own breath hitching as he watched his hand disappear into your body. “you take them all, my greedy little thief. you take what is yours.”
his thumb never ceased its round, rough circles on your clit, making you squirm and shudder. your hands left the wood, reaching for him again, tangling in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling at the collar of his shirt.
“tell me more.” he demanded, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. “tell me how needy you are for me. how you love being filled like this.”
“i’m so… so needy.” you sobbed, tears streaming down your face, words slurred between moans. “i love it. i love your fingers in me. i love how you stretch me. it feels so good, i… i can’t stand it.”
“you can stand it.” he growled, his nose pressing against your neck, licking at the coagulated blood. “you were made for it. now, thank me. thank your husband.”
your body began to tense, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly, spreading outward like a shattering wave. your vision tunneled, the only thing real was him, his hand, his touch.
“say it!” he roared, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit.
the orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. your back arched off the vanity, a soundless, raged scream frozen in your throat. your inner walls gripped his digits, spasms of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.
and in that peak, with his fingers deep inside you and his thumb on your swollen, pulsing clit, you sobbed the words.
“t-than-nk you, hus–”
the word echoed in the silent room, a sacrament, a surrender.
“–bnd.”
sylus stilled, his hand slowing its ruthless motion, yet not quite stopping. he leaned in, his lips parting in a triumphant, predatory smile, dipping his tongue down your cheek and collecting your salty tears.
“clearer, sweetheart.” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
your body was a trembling mess, shockwaves of pleasure still rippling through you, while the constant rubbing and thrusting of his fingers made it all overwhelming. you whimpered, eyes barely blinking through the tears, as you did your best to say the words.
“than-k yooou, husband-d.”
a slow, satisfied smile crept across sylus' face at your thanks.
“good girl.”
he purred, his voice a vibrating rumble against your skin. he slowly, thoughtfully, withdrew his soaked fingers from your spent cunt, the sudden emptiness a profane relief. you watched, your breath hitching, as he raised his hand to his crimson mouth.
his tongue, long and dexterous, swept out to meet his fingertips. he licked your arousal from his skin with the same reverent care a connoisseur would clean precious wine from a crystal goblet.
his ruby gaze held yours, unwavering, as he swallowed.
“the taste of your submission…” he mused, his voice a lull of dark pleasure. “it is even sweeter than your fear.”
he straightened, musing with that aristocratic arrogance. “but fingers are merely a prelude. a marriage must be consummated.”
his gaze swept the room, landing on a tall, carved wooden armchair near the window. with one effortless hand, he dragged it across the dusty floor, its legs scraping on the wood, and positioned it right before the large, golden-framed vanity mirror.
he turned back to you, his eyes glowing with possessive anticipation. “come, wife.”
your legs were still weak, your mind fogged with satiation and anticipation. so he swept you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, your ragged clothes a cruel juxtaposition against his immaculate silk and wool. he sat in the armchair ceremoniously, settling you across his lap, your back to his chest, your gaze forced toward your own reflection.
“look!” he commanded, his lips finding the shell of your ear. “look at the picture we make.”
your own image stared back at you: a wild-eyed, disheveled thing, hair a tangled mane, face flushed and shining with sweat. the silver around your neck gleamed, out of place against the dirt on your skin.
his mouth trailed down your throat, his teeth scraping gently against your bite mark. then, his hands followed, gripping the thin fabric of your blouse. with a sharp tear, he wrenched it down, the ragged cloth giving way to expose your beautiful, neglected chest.
the necklace settled over them, the cool metal a shivering contrast to your warm, peaked nipples.
“exquisite.” he hummed, his palms cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you moaned out loud, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “the jewels of my house, now put to proper use.”
his hands traveled down, over your quivering stomach, until he reached the waistband of your shredded pants. with a single, ruthless tug, he tore them away, leaving you completely bare on his lap. you felt him shift, and the sound of his slacks unfastening sent a new thrill of anticipation through you.
then you felt it — the heavy, intimidating weight of his arousal springing now free. he guided his cock, thick and long, upward, so the head notched just at your soaked, swollen entrance. the tip was a slightly darker hue, glistening in the moonlight, and it seemed impossibly large.
“here.”
he guided your hand to his lap, and your fingers met the solid, veiny length of his erect cock. it felt immense, hard as marble and slightly chilled.
“feel what you have won, wife.” he growled, his hand over yours, guiding you to stroke him. “something much greater than mere silver.”
he positioned you, lifting your hips slightly. you felt the thick, slightly tapered head of his cock press against your soaked, trembling entrance. your eyes, haunted and hungry, met your own in the mirror.
“watch.” he ordered, his voice a dark and smooth like velvet. “watch your lewd, little body. watch how it stretches to take its husband.”
he pushed in, and you saw it.
you saw your own reflection: your eyes wide, your mouth open in a silent scream, your slight frame bare and vulnerable. and you saw your cunt, so aroused, so wet, gaping open as it began to take him in.
but you saw no him.
no hands on your thighs, keeping you open.
no body behind you.
in the mirror, it looked as though your own body was simply floating, spread legs and arched back, as your cunt stretched and widened around… nothing. a blank space.
“yes.” he hissed, his voice a ghost in your ear as he slowly, inexorably filled you. “see how you grip nothing? see how your greedy, slutty little hole strains against the air? it is the ultimate surrender, my dear. to give yourself to a vampire.”
the stretch was incredible. he felt even larger than anything you’ve taken before. harder, more unyielding. you sobbed, your head falling back against his body, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“you like that, don't you?” he groaned, his hips beginning a slow, punishing rhythm. “you like playing the whore for a specter. a dead man, forgotten by all.”
he pushed deep, hitting your cervix, and you screamed, your eyes shutting against his neck.
“no, sweetheart! look!” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “look at yourself. look at the whorish wife i have acquired.”
your eyes flew open, meeting your own gaze. you saw the chain bouncing against your heaving chest. you saw the flush on your skin, the sweat on your brow. you saw the way your stomach bulged with each of his thrusts.
and you saw the sight of your own body, fucking itself on nothing, stretched and wet and totally, utterly ruined.
that aroused you even more.
“it's so… perverted.” you whimpered, your voice breaking.
yet you didn’t avert your gaze.
you saw it all. you saw the way your tight, young flesh strained, expanding around the invading cock. you saw how it swallowed him, how your body distorted to accommodate his size.
and you saw no reason for it.
in the reflecting surface, it was just you — your gaping, lewd cunt — opening around nothing more than empty air.
“tell me…” he growled, his voice strained as he slowly, mercilessly buried himself deeper inside you. “tell me how it feels to be fucked by no one. tell me how much you love being my little wife.”
your mouth opened, but only a ragged moan came out. he bottomed out suddenly, his hips fully cushioned against yours, and you felt him, so deep, so completely filling you, it seemed impossible.
and the mirror showed only you, your body deformed around a void.
“i... i love it.” you gasped, the words finally breaking through. “i love how it feels. i love how full i look, how profane i look... stretched out for you.”
he moved once, a slow, possessive roll of his hips, and you screamed, your mouth breaking into a large circle.
“then tell me to fuck you, wife. tell your husband to use his property.”
“please…” you sobbed, your hands reaching back to claw at his hair. “please, husband, fuck me. use me. i'm yours.”
his response was immediate and violent. the slow, possessive rolls of his hips exploded into a ruthless, punishing pace. he slammed into you, his thighs crashing against your spread ass with each thrust, the sound of skin against skin a wet, slapping echo in the dusty room.
your body rocked with the force of his strokes, your head snapping back, your hands scrambling for hold on the armrests of the chair.
“yes!” you screamed, the sound raw and unrecognizable. “yes, husband!”
your breasts, adorned with the stolen necklace, jiggled and bounced with outrageous rhythm. in the mirror, they looked like obscene, living trinkets, the pale silver a stark contrast against your flushed, dirt-streaked skin. your nipples were hard, aching, and the chain rolled against them with each jolt, overstimulating them with the coldness.
“so sinful.” sylus growled, his voice strained with the effort of his thrusts. “to be decorated in my ancestors' treasure while your body is used like a whore. you were born for this, to be fucked by cursed souls in a ruined manor.”
his hand snaked down between your bodies, his thumb pressing directly onto your swollen, throbbing clit. you let out a shriek, your body twitching. the sensation was too much — a sharp, overwhelming pleasure that tore at the edge of pain.
“that's it.” he hissed, his thumb making tight, round circles. “let that little nub guide you. feel how it enhances your pleasure.”
he accelerated, his thrusts becoming shallower, faster, more focused on that spot inside you that made your vision white. your moans were continuous now, a stream of sounds that were part sob, part scream.
your gaze was locked on the mirror as much as possible, on the sight of your own gaping, slopping cunt, stretched open around nothing.
“ahhh-h.”
then, you felt it — the scrape of his fangs against the tender skin of your throat. a shiver, not of fear, but of ravenous anticipation, ran down your spine.
the memory of the aphrodisiac poison, the euphoric surrender, was still so fresh.
“please.” you begged, your voice breaking. “bite me, husband. please, i need it.”
he groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated lust. “you want to feel me in your veins while i'm in your cunt? you want to bleed for me while you cry on my cock?”
“yes!” you sobbed, your hands reaching back to tangle in his hair, pulling his mouth closer to your neck. “please!”
he snarled, a sound of triumphant possession, and then his fangs pierced your skin.
“ohh...”
it wasn't the careful, teasing puncture of before. this was a voracious, possessive bite.
you felt the sharp, searing pain, and then the immediate, warm gush of your blood. he drank deeply, his throat working against your neck, and the sensation was so intimate, so violent, it sent a new, scorching wave of arousal surging through you.
he didn't stop fucking you.
in fact, his thrusts became more furious, more possessive, as he drank. you felt your own lifeforce being drawn out, and with it, any last shred of resistance.
your body was his.
your blood was his.
your pleasure was his.
he pulled away from your neck with a gasp, his lips stained bright red. “i tasted your soul.” he hissed, his voice gravelly. “and it is mine.”
and with that, his thrusts became erratic, unraveling. he ground deep inside you, his hand still working over your clit, and let out a low, guttural roar.
with that, you felt him pulse one last time, hard and hot, deep within you. thick, sticky ropes of his seed spurted into your womb, some spilling out, hot and plentiful.
he held you down, his body shuddering with the last of his release, making sure your greedy pussy took all of his cum.
then, slowly, he pulled out.
“s-shit.”
in the mirror, you saw it.
you saw your gaping, well-used cunt, now slopping with his seed. it trickled out of you, a pearly, opaque white against your swollen, abused hole.
it mixed with your own arousal, creating a lewd, shimmering cream at your entrance.
the sight was undeniably pornographic: the ragged thief, jeweled in silver, her body spent and filled, her vision haunted by her own submission.
“beautiful.” sylus whispered, his hand trailing through the mess he'd made of you, dexterous fingers scooping up the cum and smearing it all over your cunt. “my thieving, promiscuous wife.”
cw: stalking, violence, implied murder, possessiveness, yandere tendencies, breaking and entering, cussing, not proofread
authors note: a spooky treat for halloween 😉
"Praedator sightings have increased 10% this week following a recent prison-break…"
The crackle of the bus's radio intercom drowned out as you slipped your earbuds in. It seemed every week there were more sightings, more attacks, more prison breaks. You couldn't walk in the city without receiving a warning or hearing a vendor selling defense items.
Well, you were sick of it.
For all the danger Linkon held and all the years you'd spent there, you'd never seen a Praedator. Not once. Not even from a distance. You were starting to wonder if it was even true. What if it was all just a scare tactic, meant to grant more power to the people in control once the public was sufficiently frightened?
You might not be one for conspiracy theories, but it all seemed a bit too convenient.
The bus jolted to a stop and you were quick to gather your things. You scrambled to the front, not bothering to spare a glance at the other passengers tired from another workday. You were already thinking of your warm pajamas, the leftovers in your fridge, that next episode you were waiting to watch. A bit of peace after a long day, long week, long year.
A hand tugging on the fabric of your sleeve made you still, turning to see the wide, sunken eyes of the bus driver.
"Be careful out there," he warned. "It's not safe for someone alone."
You smiled. "Thank you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."
He swallowed, wetting his lips, wrinkled hand tightening on your sleeve. "I know it's the season, but this ain't one of your Halloween flicks. Just— keep an eye out. You never know who could be after you."
You hesitated before nodding slowly. Paranoia or not, it was starting to eat at you. If the Praedators really were real, what chance did you stand against one, or two, or three? You turned and stepped off the bus, the chill of the night biting into you. Screwed, that's what you were. Absolutely screwed.
Your pace quickened, shivering at the sound of wings flapping above you. A mechanical whirr buzzed in your ear, the barely-there glance of every person you passed suddenly feeling like a threat.
As you pushed open the door to your apartment building, you thought maybe it was all the excitement of Halloween getting to you. You always did scare easily, and horror elements were by the dozen around the holiday.
Just as your hand closed around the stairwell railing, the newly-hung sign in the lobby caught your eye. You squinted, trying to make out the words:
SECURITY SYSTEM DAMAGED LAST NIGHT. Be sure to lock your doors & windows until it can be repaired.
You bristled, starting up the stairs. It's just jitters, just Halloween. Really, what's the worst that could happen? Who would target your little building?
Your hand tightened around your key. Maybe you would believe it more if it didn't sound like foreshadowing.
Your key turned easily, chest easing as you stepped into your apartment. Your nose wrinkled, though, as an unfamiliar metallic scent hit it. Your steps slowed, becoming uneasy as your eyes flitted over your furniture, walls, windows.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
You laughed, an unconvincing sound, running your hand through your hair. "One too many horror movies," you muttered.
You discarded your shoes by the door, making you way to your bedroom. Maybe you should try to go to sleep early tonight, did sleep deprivation cause paranoia? The answer is yes, of course, why wouldn't it?
You pulled your pajama shirt over your head, trying to remember when you had set them out before work in the morning. Even if you couldn't remember, you were grateful all the same.
Next stop was the kitchen, and you were digging through your fridge for your leftovers. You paused suddenly, hand ghosting over red. "When did I buy a pomegranate?" you whispered.
With a deep breath, you shrugged it off. Sleep deprivation causes forgetfulness too, right?
Settling in front of the TV, plate in hand, you pulled the blanket tighter around you. You eyed the open window, making a note to shut it before you went to bed. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from your show and the lone streetlight outside your window.
You let the darkness consume you. Let it take away the stress of work, the stress of fear, the stress of life. For a moment, it was just you and the darkness. Nothing else. And what else mattered?
You didn't flinch when the last streetlight sputtered out, though your eyes snapped to the still open window. Your brows furrowed at the single crow perched on your windowsill, beady eyes glinting an eerie red in the night. In your fingers, you rolled around a discarded pen cap you'd found on your coffee table, watching the bird carefully. "Crows like shiny things, right?" You tossed the pen cap at it, which it caught in its beak with a quiet caw of approval.
Your phone buzzed on the table and you could just barely make out the yellow warning sign icon. More Praedator sightings. You were faintly aware that you needed to close the window, but the couch was so warm and comfortable and you were so tired. Your eyelid were heavy, already falling shut.
You shifted uncomfortably when the mutter of the TV quieted, but unease soon gave way to drowsiness. You were so tired. So tired and sleep deprived that you imagined there was someone there, cradling you close and carrying you to bed.
With a phantom kiss to your forehead, you wished you could have sweet dreams like this every night.
The shrill ring of your alarm had you jolting to sit up in bed. Something in the back of your mind screamed that this was not how it was when you'd fallen asleep, but the voice at the front of your mind was focused on how you were going to be late for work.
You scrambled to get your clothes on, running out the door without a glance to your kitchen counter top, or the datura flower that rested there.
You boarded the bus with a quiet nod to the driver, expecting more warnings like last night. When no warning or friendly conversation came, you finally looked at his face. In place of worn wrinkles and kind eyes was a youthful face and tired gaze.
"What happened to…?"
"Injury," he answered absentmindedly. "Praedator attack or something. I'm taking over his route 'til he gets better." You nodded slowly, starting down the narrow aisle. "If he gets better," the driver added.
You shivered. Was it naïve of you to think it all a hoax? Was it just wishful thinking? If your kind bus driver could get attacked, whose to say you aren't next?
The bus creaked and groaned along the path and you found yourself eyeing the other passengers. There weren't many on the bus today, which probably explained why no one sat around you. You recognized almost everyone, the same few people making their usual morning commute.
There were only two you couldn't place. The ones sitting closest to you. Twins, from the looks of it, though the bottom halves of their faces were hidden by black and silver masks. You couldn't help but shift in your seat at the look in their eyes, the foreboding tangible.
As the bus pulled to a stop, you found yourself glancing over your shoulder. No one stood when you did. No one followed you out.
A deep breath.
It's just baseless paranoia.
Your office building was… quiet. Peaceful. Which may have been your bias leaking through since your least favorite coworker was gone, but you'll take what you can get.
Your desk, organized and pristine, had a single steaming coffee cup sat in the middle. You grinned, dropping your bag at your chair before seeking out your coworker.
She looked up from her files as you approached. "Hey, what's up?" She smiled.
"I just wanted to thank you for the coffee," you explained. "I can pay you back, if you like?"
She furrowed her brows. "I didn't buy you coffee this morning."
"But…" you faltered. "Then who?"
She shrugged. "Maybe you have a secret admirer," she snickered.
You nodded numbly, walking away with a weak wave. Back at your desk, you examined the coffee carefully. No name written on it. Your order was messily scrawled along the side, exactly as you get it. You eyed it suspiciously before taking a hesitant sniff. Nothing entirely out of the ordinary. Finally, you lifted the cup up, scanning the bottom of it. Your blood ran cold at the sight of the harsh yet elegant handwriting.
You trust too easily, dove.
Careful. You never know who's waiting to shut the cage.
You chucked the cup in the trashcan, hands trembling. Your computer pinged with an email.
POSSIBLY SPAM:
That's not very nice, dove. Is this really how you treat your Protector?
No matter. I'll receive your gratitude in person soon enough.
Your heart pounded in your ears. You snatched up your bag, shoes scratching against the carpet as you raced to your boss's door. The knock hardly sounded before you were pushing the door open, an air of panic sticking around you. "I'm sick," you choked out. "I'll be going home now."
"You look it," your boss chuckled. "Get some proper rest. I hope I'll see you back to work soon."
Another blank nod from you and you were out the door, feeling more detached than ever. Your eyes were downcast, watching one foot in front of the other. No bus could pick you up now, you noted numbly. You'd have to walk.
The streets were empty, the silence eerie. No buzz of crowds going from store to store, no laughter of children too young to be in school. You quickened your pace trying to shake off the feeling of eyes on your back. If you strained, you could almost hear heavy footfalls behind you.
But every time you'd turn, the street would be empty.
You pulled your bag tighter. "I will not be a fucking horror movie victim," you muttered.
Your apartment building was quiet. Go figure. Your uneven breath felt too loud in the stairwell, though even that was preferable to the silence. Your door pushed open easily, too easily, no sticking. You stepped in cautiously. It was dark, your blinds drawn shut, though you don't remember closing them. The door clicked shut behind you.
Your fingers, hovering over the light switch, twitched in anticipation. You took a deep breath. Tried to fight off the overwhelming feeling that you weren't alone. Failed. Shut your eyes tight and flicked on the light switch.
Maybe you were expecting something immediate. A warm body close by. A gunshot. The floor opening up and swallowing you whole.
Instead you were met with something worse: a calm silence. Acceptance.
You opened your eyes slowly, cautiously not all surprised at the unfamiliar glint of metal and leather in the corner of your living room.
The man sitting in your home was large, but the space he took up felt larger. The air felt tighter as his gaze flitted over you almost lazily. He stood carefully, eyes never leaving yours, chains clinking together in the silence. Completely still, just like him, you didn't know what to do next, what he would do next.
You let your gaze drag over him. His tight leather pants that looked anything but comfortable, his uncovered torso that exposed rippling muscles and half-hidden tattoos. You swallowed. This would be how you die.
The flap of wings beside you had you flinching hard, head snapping to find the source. A crow. Shiny pen cap in hand— er, beak. The same shiny pen cap, in fact, that you had tossed to a crow just last night. You leaned closer, noticing the shine of metal beneath layers of feathers, noticing your own handiwork in the repairs of the left wing. You raised your hand slowly, hovering just before the crow, but he inched closer and nestled himself in your warmth.
"You're too generous, little dove." The deep gravel of his voice, a warning and a promise all in one, had your eyes drifting up to meet his own again. His steps were as heavy as his gaze, eyes molten and boots thudding against hardwood. He stopped just in front of you, shadow overtaking you.
You took a shaky step back. He took a step closer, just barely invading your space, keeping a distance between you that he could close in an instant.
"It's alright, though," he murmured. "I'm greedy enough for the both of us." He grinned then, all teeth and sharp edges.
You shivered. Another step back. You didn't miss the way his gaze hardened, though his smile never dropped.
"After all I've done for you," he snarled. "This is how you repay me?" He stepped forward. You stepped back, your back hitting the wall roughly. "I've protected you every day." Another step closer. There was no where for you to run. "Ever since I first saw you. Since you repaired Mephisto's wing all that time ago."
The crow ruffled its feathers. The man's heat was beginning to seep into you, though he hadn't touched you yet. You braced yourself for its inevitability.
"Four hundred seventy-four days. Eleven thousand three hundred and seventy-six hours, all devoted to you. And you greet me with fear?" His hand came up beside your head, body towering over you, caging you in. His other hand ran featherlight over your arm. His breath fanned across your cheeks. "But then," he hummed, "maybe you should be scared."
Your breath shook, wanting nothing more than to shrink away from his fiery gaze. "What do you want?" you breathed.
"I thought that was obvious." His hand drifted up to brush his knuckles across the apple of your cheek. "I want you, little dove. You're mine. Have been since I first saw you." A sharp inhale and his hand was fully cupping your cheek now. "It's alright if you don't understand yet. You will. Eventually."
You gripped his wrist, ignoring the way his lips ticked up at the contact. You pulled away from him, skin burning where his hand slipped away. "I'm not yours," you spat. "And 'all you've done for me?' What exactly have you done? That list begins and ends with you breaking into my apartment."
He barked out a laugh, sharp and metallic. "Oh, my naïve little dove." His gaze was cold as his fingers traced along the column of your neck. "All I've done for you… I've chased away pests. Those that thought they could hurt what's mine. Take what's mine. Those insignificant people on the street, on the bus, in your office. The Praedators that dared to get too close in their hunts. All gone. All for you."
Your eyes widened, dropping to his gloved hand ghosting your neck. On the black leather, you could faintly make out splotches of a deep red…
Just like his eyes. Bright, intense, hiding much more than you cared to know.
"When I first saw you, wide-eyed and innocent, helping my Mephisto, I knew I had to have you," he chuckled. "You were just so sweet." His tone dropped deliberately. "I don't get a lot of sweet things in my life. You were so— so vulnerable. So many people out there, wanting to hurt you. So I simply… got rid of them."
You stared up at him, voice trembling. "But why?" Why all this? Why now? Why you, of all people?
He smirked, cutting and predatory, before he flicked the lights off again. The darkness consumed you both, heavy and hiding the darkness that lied in the man before you. He pressed into your legs, the warmth of him bleeding into your body. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips, hot breath falling into your mouth and mingling with your poorly stifled gasps.
His hand, large, rough, and calloused, wrapped around your throat. Tight enough to keep you still, to let you know just who was in charge, but gentle enough to make sure you knew you wouldn't be hurt. That is, if you behaved as he wanted. His hand felt every bit a collar, something trapping you, a symbol of ownership.
"I already told you," he said softly. "You belong to me, little dove. I don't intend to let anyone take you away from me, not even you."
sylus will tolerate your tantrums if you insist on having them- but he’ll have to address them somehow, too.
▻ cw. smut, noncon elements, implied kidnapping, breeding if you squint, sylus is soft but the consent is still very dubious, 18+ characters, dark/yandere content, possessive behavior, stockholm syndrome
▻ notes. no explanation tbh. its around like 6k words i think.. with SEEMINGLY minimum plot but sylus is so whipped for mc. like truly whipped. this dynamic has a very special place in my heart its like canon to me. i wanna make a dragon sylus fic next… maybe another caleb one OR do a siren! raf thing. hope the girlies enjoy this <3
ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 (๑´ `๑)♡
You’re stubborn, tonight.
Between two days spent enduring your mean cold shoulder and the precious vase you threw to the ground, sending it sprawling in a million bits across the floor that Sylus fears will end up lodged in your feet, he’s a little emotionally-charged as well.
Sylus has never been one to bend over, no- his two most reliable henchmen are there for that, and they do it gladly. But there is something about you that makes him stick his neck out time and time again… So, without a word, just a resigning glance thrown your way, he lowers himself to a crouch and sweeps the glass shards into a dustpan.
Love will do that to you, he supposes with the ghost of an obliging grin.
It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.
It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.
The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.
With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.
He lets out a breath.
…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.
It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...
So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.
It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.
And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.
You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?
He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.
You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.
Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.
You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.
If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.
But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.
His stubborn, precious girl.
Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.
You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.
You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.
You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.
There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.
Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.
He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.
And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—
“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.
You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.
As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.
This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.
You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.
Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.
There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.
If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.
You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”
You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.
Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.
It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…
You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.
After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.
You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.
Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.
His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.
Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.
Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.
You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.
You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.
His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.
Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.
But his. His and perfect.
Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.
You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.
“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.
Kudos to him, for that.
He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.
“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”
…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.
Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.
“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”
Sylus gives a little sigh.
Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.
“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?
The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.
Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.
When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.
“N-No—“
He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.
He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—
“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.
You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.
Oh, you hate him.
“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.
Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.
He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.
He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.
Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.
He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.
Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.
When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.
Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.
Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.
“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”
The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.
He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”
Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.
He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.
Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.
He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.
“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”
He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.
His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.
And— And you hate him, y-you do.
Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.
Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.
“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.
You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.
And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.
“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”
He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.
He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.
Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.
“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”
A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.
There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?
The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.
Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.
He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.
A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.
You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.
You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.
“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.
You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.
(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)
“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”
Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.
He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”
“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.
“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.
“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.
It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.
“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”
With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.
Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.
With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.
“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.
“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”
Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.
Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.
“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).
His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.
Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.
Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.
It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.
Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.
And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.
…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—
Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.
Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.
He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.
He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.
He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”
“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.
Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.
“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.
Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.
Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.
He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.
Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.
Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.
Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.
Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.
“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”
Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.
Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.
It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.
Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.
Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.
And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.
“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.
You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”
A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.
“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”
Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.
Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.
You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.
Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.
Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.
Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.
“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“
Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.
“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.
You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.
Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.
You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.
It’s… confusing, to say the least.
A long while passes afterward.
In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.
Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—
“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.
Your mouth opens and wavers.
A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.
Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)
You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.
You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.
With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.
…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.
So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.
You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.
synopsis. what if you were able to completely get rid of your bully? what if you had to do just a tiiiiiiiny thing for you to be free? you’d do it, no?
pairing. bully! rafayel qi x reader
content/mdni. DUBCON. COERCION. fem!reader, implied uni!au, goodie-two-shoes!reader, innocent!reader, implied virgin!reader, implied delinquent!rafayel, dom!rafayel, bully!rafayel, mean!rafayel, pervert!rafayel, manipulative!rafayel, embarrassed!reader, ashamed!reader, MANIPULATION, looking up your skirt oop, slight groping, clit play, DACRYPHILIA, begging (m receiving), ORGASM DENIAL/EDGING (f receiving), teasing, slight praise, slight degradation, pet names (princess, good girl, little lamb), recording/taking pictures, allusion to (possible) blackmail.
word count. 2k
a/n. MEAN RAFAYEL MEAN RAFAYEL MEAN RAFAYEL. miiiiiiight write a part two where you go chase him! please tell me your thoughts! feedback and reblogs are deeply appreciated!
the afternoon light spilled through the high, grimy windows of the abandoned hall, illuminating dust particles that swirled in the stale air.
you should have known better than to take the shortcut through the old humanities building. but you were in a hurry, your bag full of books, your mind full of notes for an exam you could barely afford to fail.
you should have known better than to go through one of the delinquents’ favorite spot in campus.
rafayel’s voice curled around you before you saw him.
“well, well, well. look who’s wandering into the wolf’s den.”
you froze.
“a lost little lamb, so stupidly unguarded.”
he emerged from the shadows between the forgotten lockers, all sharp smirk and lazy demeanor, his uniform deliberately disheveled — tie loose, top buttons undone, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows.
he leaned against the doorframe in front of you, blocking the only exit that would give way into the new, crowded building.
“rafayel.” you managed, voice between a gasp and a whisper, hating how high your pitch sounded. “i– i don’t have time for this now.”
“you never have time for me, princess.” he pushed off the frame and walked closer, each step powerful against the wooden boards; a predatory stance against your cowering form. an attitude that deeply contrasted with his meek words. “that hurts my feelings.”
but you knew better than to listen to his vitriolic words, to that charming tune in his voice. so you backed away, until your hips struck the edge of a long oak desk, placed in the hallway for some unknown reason.
“please. just leave me alone.”
“but i like you right here.” he stopped inches from you, head tilted down towards your own, close enough that you could smell his cologne — an expensive and dark aroma that perfectly worked for him.
his fingers, always twitching with the need to feel you, found a strand of your hair and twirled it. it was almost romantic, the position the two of you were in… if one didn’t know the reality, that is.
“all flushed. all alone. no one to save you.”
what he was saying was true — he made it to be true. you had no friends to text, no one who would notice you missing. he knew it with certainty. he’d made sure of it, spreading rumors, isolating you with his cruel, infectious charm, until everyone on campus avoided you like the plague.
“what do you want?” you whispered, abandoning any hopes of being let alone without satisfying rafayel. and to do that, you had to find what his evil mind desired from you this time.
his grin widened at your question, pleased that you’d inquire about his needs. “right now? to watch you squirm beneath me.”
he cornered you further against the desk, leaning into your body and caging you with his arms. one hand slid along the table to your waist, squeezing the roundness of your body once, before trailing lower towards your ass.
you flinched and shooed his hand away, displeased by the physicality of his actions. he only laughed, amused by your reaction, as if he wanted the discomfort on your face more than the actual touches of your body.
“stop.” you hissed, voice cracking, and you pushed your body into the desk more to widen the distance between you and him. “please, rafayel. i’ll– ’ll do anything just so you leave me alone for good.”
ah, you’ve finally offered him something interesting.
his eyes glittered. “anything?”
something more interesting than your visible discomfort.
you nodded, desperate, fingers almost snapping in half from the way you were gripping the edge of the desk.
he tilted his head, pretending to contemplate his answer, pretending he didn’t already have something in mind for your pathetic self. his expression turned wicked, his seductive grin stretching into a scary smirk.
“show me.”
“huh?”
“lift your skirt.” he said it like it was nothing, pointing at the long skirt the girls’ uniforms had. making a circle in the air around your entirely covered legs. “let me see what’s under there. that’s all. and i’ll never bother you again.”
your stomach dropped, almost cramping at hearing his wish. “that’s– no.”
“then i guess i’ll see you later. and tomorrow. and the day after.” he shrugged, already stepping back, arms moving away from the desk and folding behind his neck. “and the day after. i’ll make your life a living hell, princess.”
no. no, no, no, no–
“wait.” the word tore out of you before you could think your options through. “fine. fine. just– not here.” you whispered quietly, looking around the abandoned hallway with suspicion.
he puffed, slow and satisfied, then walked back towards you. “follow me.” guiding you through the delinquents’ hiding spot to a more secluded place.
“here.”
he led you to a small, windowless storage room at the end of an adjacent hall: piles of old exams, broken chairs, a single flickering fluorescent light that somehow still worked. he blocked the door behind him with one of the chairs and gestured you to a small, intact desk near the wall.
“hop up on your throne, princess.”
you obeyed, pulse hammering against your pristine university shirt as you assumed position, taking a seat at the edge of the desk. your hands shook as you grasped the margins and hitched your long pleated skirt, bunching the excess fabric at your hips as you kept the hem up.
“ah.” the air was cold against your bare thighs and you couldn’t help out the hiss that escaped your lips.
rafayel hummed at your position as he leaned against the opposite wall, yet his arms crossed in dissatisfaction. “wider, princess. spread your legs for me.”
your face burned at his raunchy command, legs smushing together even more. “you said just the skirt.”
“but i can’t see anything.” he didn’t move, just watched you with hooded eyes, throwing spiteful comments at your weak self. “you want me gone forever? then do what i say. part your legs, let me see.”
humiliation curdled in your throat, but you, nonetheless, obeyed. slowly, trembling, you let your knees fall apart, meeting the edge of the desk with your bare skin.
at that, he finally pushed off the wall and stepped between them, close enough that you could smell that expensive perfume once more. he looked down at you, as he always does; but now there was something different about him — his eyes, darkened with mischief, stared at the thin cotton of your panties…
fixated on the damp spot that was already forming against the white material.
betraying you completely.
“my, my.” he murmured, dragging a finger up your inner thigh. enjoying the way your leg jolted at the touch. “you’re not as innocent as you pretend, are you?”
“i…” you whined from behind your skirt. “please– you said just looking–”
“and i’m looking.” he bent down, bringing his face at the level of your covered cunt. and you whimpered. “look at that. wet already. just from me telling you what to do. you like this, don’t you? being helpless?”
you shook your head, but your body disagreed, pushing out a glob of slick and making the wet patch grow right beneath rafayel’s eyes.
“fuuuck, you’re so fucking nasty, princess.”
you were too good for him now, acting like the needy, untouched woman he portrayed you as. he couldn’t help it anymore, so he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.
deciding to immortalize the moment.
“smile for me.”
“n–no!” you mustered up and immediately tried to shove your skirt down, to hide your drenching panties and your obvious arousal from the camera.
but he caught one of your wrists, grip iron-tight, and forced you to keep the skirt up for him.
“ah–ah. you said you’d do anything. remember?” he repositioned your other hand as well, successfully clearing the view, then he raised the phone, angling it between your legs. “now hold still.”
the shutter clicked. once. twice. three times. each sound a knife through your chest.
each click a new drop of stickiness on your panties.
“p–please delete those.” you begged, eyes beading with tears from the convolution of emotions that were taking over your mind. “rafayel, please.”
fuck, that only made rafayel want to torture you more.
“and why would i do that?” he examined the photos, thumb swiping across the screen and stopping on the perfect picture – arousal shining beautifully between your legs as a few brave tears rolled across your cheeks.
“you look so pretty like this. all wet and desperate. just for me.” he tucked the phone away and leaned in, breath hot against your ear as he whispered. “you’ve been such a good girl for me, princess, so i won’t send them to anyone else.”
you slumped with relief, arms falling one level down from their original position.
thinking you’ve escaped rafayel for good.
but his hand returned to your thigh, then slid inwards, one finger unexpectedly pressing against the soaked material of your panties. you gasped, from shock and pleasure, hips jerking back into his hand, head falling onto his left shoulder.
he was rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit through the fabric, closely watching how your face contorted in pleasure against his shirt.
“so sensitive.” he said, almost laughing at your reactions. “is this your first time being touched, princess? by someone who isn’t yourself?”
you couldn’t answer.
with a harsher push, your head fell back, a broken moan escaping your lips from the pleasure. without asking for permission, rafayel snatched your panties aside with two fingers, exposing your slick, swollen cunt to the cold air.
to his hungry, lust-filled eyes.
“oh, that’s it... such a pretty pussy.” he whistled, praising the body part he always wanted to see. he’d pulled the phone out again, this time hitting the screen once — recording. “quality material for my private collection.”
“rafayel–”
he pressed two fingers flat against your bare cunt, sliding through the wetness, and your protests dissolved into whines and moanes. he rubbed your clit in tight, maddening circles, not enough pressure, not fast enough, just enough to have you gushing more creamy arousal onto the desk below.
“you want to cum, don’t you, princess?” he asked, voice syrupy sweet, contrasting with the brutality of his fingers against your pussy.
“yes.” you choked, voice vibrating on the recording. “please.”
“please what?”
“please let me cum.”
he laughed at that, soft and cruel, savoring the way a few touches turned you into such a needy mess. “beg prettier.”
so you begged. you pleaded.
you dug your fingers into the desk’s edge, skirt long forgotten, tears streaming, hips grinding against his hand. your whole being focused on that point of contact between your two bodies, on the wet sounds of his fingers playing with you, on the occasional beeping of his phone recording every humiliating second.
“ngh– please, rafayel, i need it, i need to cum, please, please–”
but, oh no, where’s the fun in that?
he stopped.
just stopped. pulled his hand away. casually wiped his fingers on your inner thigh and stood, backing up, sliding his phone into his pocket.
like nothing happened.
you stared at him, chest heaving, head hurting, cunt aching and empty and so so close it was physically painful to breath.
“what– why–”
“because i just wanted a look.” he smiled, that same lazy, condescending smile, proudly reminding you of his wish. like you previously did. “you don’t get to cum, princess. not from me, at least.”
“h–huh?”
“you’ll think about this tonight, won’t you? lying alone in your stupid little bed, touching yourself, wishing it was my hand.”
he unlocked the door and stepped through, pausing for a brief second in the doorway.
“thanks for the fun, princess. and don’t worry– i’ll leave you alone now.”
“wait, wait!”
the door clicked shut. his footsteps faded.
you sat there, skirt bunched around your waist, panties ruined, thighs trembling, the ghost of his fingers still burning between your legs.
rafayel finally left you alone, but now... now you’re no longer sure you want that.
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Dear friends, this is my new campaign. I’m kindly asking for your support to help my family pay our rent.
Unfortunately, the beneficiary account responsible for receiving the funds was removed, and we are now in urgent need of $1100 for food and basic necessities. Please support us our previous campaign was verified and fully documented, and your help truly makes a difference.
This is our new campaign, and we deeply appreciate every contribution
Current Process : $ 142 / $ 1100
We barely have food or clean water. Every day is a battle for the basics of life.
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"Sorrow has become our constant shadow. It lives within us and never leaves. We see it in the corners of our freezing tents as we remember the homes we once had. We see it in the eyes of our children when they wake up in the bitter cold, begging for a meal other than the piece of bread and cheese we struggle to provide.
We feel the weight of this grief every time we walk through the streets, unable to buy the food our families need, or even find a change of clothes to replace our worn-out rags.
It has been a long time since we last felt the warmth of a helping hand. We fear the world has moved on, thinking our lives have returned to normal. But the truth is, we are living through a nightmare that refuses to end.
Please, friends of humanity, do not forget us. Your donation is more than just money; it is a meal for a hungry child, a warm coat for the cold, and a reminder that we are not alone in this hell. Please, donate today and share our story. Your kindness is our only lifeline."
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My name is Bethany-Grace, and I am the founder of The Gaza Giving Tree, a volunteer initiative dedicated to amplifying the voices of civilia
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