Did You Miss Me ?

24 | Fangirl y quejas 24/7 | she/her| esp/poor eng.

[grecianotes]

I never thought I’d have to say this, but because of all the disgusting DMs (and even a death threat, I think)

Yes

I’m a freak. Proship, Anti-censorship and of course I make content for freaks, and most importantly, for myself. If that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me. Minors DNI.

[qintten]

sylus kitty kisses ━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐦‍⬛

f!mc and m!mc versions f2u gifs/stickers with or without cred! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

[seagodbride]

you had always suspected of rafayel having a crying kink. to be exact, on you. hell will have to freeze first before you even have the chance to take the lead and dominate him. he never really allowed you to take the lead whenever you both are being intimate with each other.

you remember it being called dacryphilia or something, thanks to your obsession on spending your time reading stuff online.

rafayel really made it subtle at first. he plunged his cock deep inside you, before dragging it out to hear you whine at the loss feeling.

“r-rafayel, why would you pull out…?” your voice came in in a high pitched tone, as your hips moved to find rafayel’s cock.

you looked back to look at rafayel. his breath hitched, as he feels his cock twitched at the sight of your face. he swears to the gods above he just gets harder than he ever been before on catching the glimpse of tear in your eyes.

god, he wanna break you.

“shh, it’s okay. just breathe for me, cutie,” rafayel leaned down to kiss your damp cheek, before thrusting his dick back into your wet cunt.

rafayel couldn’t believe his own restraint that night. he was so close to just break you down, hurt you the way he knows you would like it, but he knows better than to do that out of the blue.

the second time it happened is when you tried to ride him yourself.

“ngh- r-rafayel… i- i can’t do it myself. help me…” you whimpered as you struggled to sink all the way down on his cock, as he was just too big.

rafayel let out a nasty chuckle, as his slender hands gripped the fat of your hips to steady your body. you’ve been stuck trying to sink down on his cock for at least half an hour now.

you promised to him that you wanted to take him all by yourself tonight, craving to show him how good you can be. you thought it would be easy, as taking him was never really a struggle before.

but you were mistaken. it was only easy because of rafayel’s generous help, as you now realised you had never taken him all by yourself.

his cock is so stupidly big and thick, damn him.

“buuuut cutie, didn’t you promised me that you wanna take my cock all by yourself? don’t you wanna be good for me?” rafayel nuzzled your cheek, breathing in your warm scent, before planting a soft kiss on it.

you whined in response. you’ve been trying so hard, but rafayel didn’t even spare a thought to help you. mean. you cursed him, mumbling the best insults you could think at the moment as your hips moved again to take his cock in.

the eagerness of trying to make him proud of you and feeling the euphoria at the same time drove you to finally push in his cock fully inside your walls.

the sensation made you moaned and rafayel grunted in pleasure. he can feel the tip of his cock leaking of precum hitting at the end of your walls.

“now move. c’mon, you can do this. be good for me, cutie,” rafayel murmured, he held himself back from taking over and thrust himself into you.

you gave him a small nod, as you rise your hips up and then back down again. it was a sloppy action, you couldn’t find the perfect rhythm to keep the ride satisfying for both you and him.

you didn’t want to give up, but all the feelings from earlier had been building up inside of you, it makes you frustrated.

why couldn’t i do this right? i just want to please him.

rafayel noticed how your body language was showing signs of frustration. he wanted to feel bad and helped, but a tear that left your eye stopped him from doing so.

you’re crying, stressed and frustrated. ah, rafayel wants to break you even more.

“r-rafayel…! please, help me. ngh- i-i can’t-“ you don’t even know if you’re even moving at this point. it felt sloppy and useless.

rafayel gripped your hips, inching his face closer, as his lips grazed against yours. you thought rafayel would guide you to ride his cock.

how you were wrong.

rafayel pulled his face back, as he chuckled and grin at your disheveled state. “no.”

you let out a broken whimper at his answer. your tears broke down like a dam, all the pent up frustration that’s been building up escaping your system.

rafayel cooed at the pitiful sight. he got closer just to lick your tears with his tongue. “why are you crying? weren’t you the one who wanted this? why are you acting like the victim, cutie? i’m hurt.”

“r-raf- i-i- p-please-!” your words slurred as you keep clenching around his dick, gripping him with your tight walls.

“can’t even form a sentence. did i break your brain, baby? i didn’t even do anything, though,” he snickered, taking in your condition as a joke to him.

your face were soaked with tears, hiccuping over and over again. you were beyond frustrated, feeling like your lower limbs are numbed.

you hide yourself in his chest, feeling too vulnerable in this state.

but rafayel was quick to grip and gather your hair into a ponytail, pulling you back from hiding in, making you whined in pain.

“ah, ah, don’t do that, cutie. i was just about to have fun. after all, my beloved bride did promise me to be good tonight. you can be good by giving me your tears more. you look so pretty crying for me.”

at least now your suspicion is valid.

here’s a fish snack omg i haven’t write him for so long

𑣲⋆｡˚ please do not copy my work, repost or feed it into ai!

[chaacoonnee]

don't tell daddy...

or, four times dad!sylus promised to keep your secrets safe from daddy!zayne in exchange for a kiss, and one time you ran out of things to hide...

4.6k wc / cw: pseudocest, underage kissing, daddy kink / ao3 / masterlist

a/n: yes, sylus + zayne are both ur dads who have the hots 4 u, and what about it???

You sneak through the front door at 2:47 AM with your heels in one hand and your purse in the other, moving as if tiptoeing might actually work on the hardwood floor.

It doesn't.

"Fun night?"

You freeze.

Sylus is on the couch in the dark living room, illuminated only by the glow of his phone. With his legs stretched out and ankles crossed on the coffee table, he looks entirely too awake for someone you had planned on being asleep at this hour.

“Dad…you're awake,” you say, as if maybe he hasn't noticed.

"I am." He locks his phone and sets it on the armrest. “Daddy went to bed at eleven. He thinks you're at Tara's."

"I was at Tara's."

"Tara posted her location at a house party three hours ago. You're in the background of two of her stories.” He tilts his head. "You're also wearing significantly less clothing than you left the house in, which suggests a wardrobe change at some point between 'quiet girl’s night in’ and…whatever we’re calling this."

You look down at yourself—dressed in a crop top and miniskirt, yoga pants stuffed in your bag, sparkling with glitter on your collarbones that definitely had no part of a quiet girl’s night in.

"Okay," you concede. "Fine. I went out. And it was fun and I'm fine and I'm home now and Daddy doesn't need to know because it would just—he'd worry, and there's nothing to worry about, and—"

"You're rambling, sweetie.”

"I'm explaining."

"You're rambling while explaining." Sylus swings his legs off the coffee table and stands, crossing to where you're frozen in the entryway. He smells like the sandalwood candle he burns when he reads, and his hair is pushed back like he's been running his hands through it. "I'm not going to tell him."

The relief hits you so hard your shoulders drop three inches. "Really?"

"One condition." He holds up a finger. "A kiss."

Your heart does something fast and stupid, which is ridiculous, because you’ve kissed your Dad on the cheek a thousand times over the years. Maybe it’s because it’s a little too late at night, or maybe you’re a little too drunk, or maybe you're a little too old to be kissing him on the cheek. A little too aware of what kissing could mean and what it could lead to, if two people wanted to take it there.

You want to take it there so desperately you could scream.

You've imagined it—both Sylus and Zayne—in ways you don't let yourself think about in the daylight. In ways that are inappropriate and filthy and wrong, because they’re the closest thing you have ever had to family, your guardians, your protectors, the only two men in this world who put you above all else without a second thought. Because they’ve sacrificed so much just to keep you healthy and happy and safe under their roof when you had nowhere else to go. Because they’re more than twice your age and see you as their little girl, not a woman who desires to be desired by them.

But this isn't anything inappropriate or filthy or wrong, is it? This is Sylus being Sylus, teasing and transactional, the same way he bargains for the last slice of pizza and negotiates who does the dishes and operates an entire criminal enterprise.

He turns his face to the side and taps his cheek.

"Right here, kitten. Quick and painless."

You roll your eyes, go up on your toes, and lean in.

What happens next is a logistical error. A catastrophic failure of geometry and physics and biology and every other branch of science and mathematics known to man. The angle is wrong, or you overcorrect, or he shifts at the last second—you'll never be sure which. But your mouth lands on the corner of his, half cheek and half lip, and for one suspended heartbeat neither of you moves.

His lips are warm and softer than you expected.

You pull back fast. "Sorry. Missed."

"Did you,” he says flatly. His expression gives nothing away.

"Bad aim. I've been drinking."

"Clearly." He studies you for a moment longer, scanning your face like he can see right through it, then steps aside. "Go to bed. Drink water. I didn't see anything."

You pad down the hallway on unsteady legs, and you fall asleep convincing yourself the heat in your face is from the alcohol and nothing else at all.

On a quiet morning two weeks later, you knock Zayne's stethoscope off his desk while reaching for a pen, and it hits the floor with a sound that makes your entire body go cold.

You pick it up. The diaphragm is fine. The tubing is fine. The earpieces are—

One of the earpieces is bent. Visibly, undeniably bent, at an angle that has no chance of escaping Zayne’s attention.

"Oh no," you whisper. "Oh no, no, no."

"What'd you break this time, sweetie?”

You spin. Sylus is leaning in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

"Nothing." You shove the stethoscope behind your back. "Go away."

Striding to where you stand, he reaches around you with one long arm and plucks it from your hands. He examines the bent earpiece and whistles, low and almost impressed.

“Daddy’s going to be upset,” he says.

"I know."

"That's his good one. The one he uses at home."

"I know."

"The one he specifically asked both of us not to—"

“Dad. I’m aware." You grab for it, but he holds it above your head because he's insufferable and a foot taller than you. "Please. Can you fix it?"

"I could." He lowers it, turning the bent earpiece between his fingers. "But it would never sit right. He'd notice."

"Then don't tell him. I'll replace it. I'll order the exact same one and swap it out before he—"

"One kiss."

Your stomach flips so fast it nearly takes the rest of you with it. You tilt your head back to look at him properly. To see if he means it.

He towers above you in a soft black t-shirt, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair messy from sleep. It’s a painfully ordinary sight, one you've seen almost every morning for the better part of your life. Though from this angle, burdened by the knowledge that his lips feel tender and warm beneath yours, your body reacts as if familiarity has only made the sight more dangerous.

You go up on your toes and will the butterflies out of your throat.

"Fine,” you sigh.

He turns his cheek to you again, the same way he did last time.

You aim for the cheek. You land on the corner of his mouth. Again. Except this time your lips linger for a full second before you pull away, and this time you don't have alcohol to blame for the placement.

"Missed again," he says.

"Must be a depth perception issue."

"Must be."

He holds your gaze for a second, jaw flexing so faintly you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for just that—any sort of tell that signals he’s affected, too. That the want isn’t one-sided, that he lies awake at night, too, and thinks about the girl asleep down the hall and the pressure of her mouth and her breath mixed with his and what her tongue might taste like if he dared to kiss you the way fathers aren’t supposed to kiss their daughters.

Then he bends the earpiece back into shape with his bare hands—one quick, easy adjustment, like it had never truly been a problem at all, like he’d known that from the start—and sets the stethoscope back on the desk.

"Fixed," he says. "Our secret."

He leaves the office. You stand there for a long time, pressing your fingers to the corner of your mouth where it still feels electric.

Our secret.

The third time comes a few weeks later. It’s Sylus’s turn to drive you to school, and you come down the hallway in a dress that could start a war.

He's waiting by the front door, keys in hand, and when he sees you, his hand stills midway to his pocket. His eyes track up your bare legs, to the hem of your dress—which is ambitious—to the neckline—which is more ambitious—and back up to your face.

"No," he says.

"You haven't even said hi."

"Hi. No."

“Dad, please. It's Tara's birthday. She specifically requested—"

"I don't care what Tara requested. You're going to get a dress code violation, and Daddy is going to lose his mind, and I'm going to be the one who let you leave the house like this, which makes me an accessory to the crime.” He pulls out his wallet. "How much?"

"Excuse me?"

"To change." He starts pulling out bills, counting them onto the hall table. “Five hundred to swap the dress. Another five if you pick something with sleeves."

You watch him stack cash on the table like he's negotiating a hostage release. It's so ridiculous you almost laugh, except the earnestness underneath it is doing something to your chest that laughter can't quite cover.

You take the money, fold it neatly, and tuck it into the side pocket of your backpack.

Then you don't move.

“We had a deal," he says.

"There is no deal. I'm keeping the money. And the dress."

He pinches the bridge of his nose with a dark laugh. ”You're impossible."

"I'm resourceful. I might even say I learned from the best.” You lean against the wall, examining your nails like this conversation bores you. "But I could be persuaded to change. For the right price."

“Kitten.” His eyes narrow. "I just gave you a thousand dollars."

You tilt your chin up, faking a confidence you don’t entirely feel. “I don't want money."

The hallway gets very quiet, so quiet you can hear the hum of the refrigerator and your own heartbeat too loud in your ears and nothing else.

"What do you want?" Sylus asks, and his voice has dropped to a depth you've never heard him use with you before.

“One kiss."

The request drains the air from the room.

Sylus doesn't move, or smirk, or deflect with humor or a nickname or any of the things he usually reaches for when things get uncomfortable. He just looks at you—really looks, with those crimson eyes that miss nothing—and you watch him understand that the game has changed. That you’re attempting to rewrite the rules.

And that he’s going to let you.

"You want me to kiss you," he says. "And in exchange, you'll change the dress."

"That's the offer. Take it or leave it.”

"And if I leave it?”

"Then I walk into first period looking like this, and when Daddy gets a call from the principal, you get to explain that you let me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but it’s not a smile. It’s something closer to resignation, or surrender, or maybe the recognition that he's been outplayed by someone half his size.

He crosses the hallway in two steps, takes your face in both hands, and kisses you.

On the mouth. Fully, unmistakably, on the mouth.

His lips are tender and firm and unhurried, and his thumbs press into the hollows beneath your cheekbones, and for three seconds the entire world narrows to the pressure of his mouth against yours and the faint sound he makes in the back of his throat that he almost certainly doesn't know you can hear but that you will replay in the darkness of your bedroom for the rest of your life.

He pulls back. His hands drop to your shoulders and give them a squeeze. A totally normal, totally fatherly squeeze that is completely at odds with the heat in his eyes.

"Go change," he says, voice rough. And turns you toward the hallway.

You go to your room and change into something with sleeves, and your hands shake the entire drive to school.

As time passes, it becomes a secret language.

Not one either of you acknowledges in daylight. But a language all the same, one spoken only in hallways and doorways and the kitchen after midnight, existing in the gray space between what men you call Dad are allowed to do to you and what they aren’t.

You eat the last of Zayne's leftovers one night. Sylus catches you scraping the container into the trash, your eyes wide and guilty, his narrowed and amused.

You don't even have to say it anymore. He just tilts his head, and you just lean in, and the kiss lands on his mouth like it was always going to.

This one lasts long enough that his hand comes up to rest against the side of your neck, thumb settling over your pulse, and when you pull back, his eyes are closed.

"You have to stop eating his food," he murmurs.

"Make me."

His eyes open. Something in them sparks, but he just shakes his head and walks away, and you stand in the kitchen with your heart hammering and the taste of him still on your lips.

Then there's the Sunday you use Zayne's favorite mug without asking—the handmade ceramic one from that conference in Kyoto—and you bring it to Sylus like an offering, holding it up between both hands with practiced innocence written all over your face.

"I washed it already," you say. “You won’t tell him, right, Dad?”

Sylus takes the mug from you, sets it on the counter, and pulls you in by your wrist. This kiss is slower, more intentional than any of the others. His other hand rests at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. Your hand flattens against his chest, and beneath your palm you can feel his heart going faster than his face would ever suggest.

When you break apart, you're both breathing harder than the moment should warrant.

“Sweetie, we can't keep—" he starts.

The front door opens.

You spring apart so fast you knock the mug off the counter. Sylus catches it one-handed with reflexes that border on supernatural, and by the time Zayne rounds the corner with grocery bags, the two of you are standing four feet apart, Sylus pretending to drink casually from the mug and you examining the inside of the refrigerator like it contains the secrets of the universe.

"Everything alright?" Zayne asks, setting the bags on the counter.

"Fine," you say, into the refrigerator.

"Wonderful," Sylus says, into the mug.

Zayne’s eyes move between the two of you in that investigative way that makes him impossible to fool, yet somehow never quite catches this.

He nods once, then starts unpacking the groceries.

That night, lying in bed, you press your fingers to your mouth and trace the kiss that still lives there. In the room down the hall, Sylus is doing something similar, or you imagine he is, or you hope he is, and the hope is what you cling to day after day after day.

It's a Thursday. Zayne has a late shift. And you’re running out of excuses.

The apartment is dim and still in the way it only can be when it's just you and Sylus, illuminated only by a few candles, a vinyl record humming a soft jazz melody by the window. You stand in the hallway and work up the nerve for something you've been thinking about for days, or weeks, or months—or years, if you’re really being honest with yourself.

Sylus is stretched across the couch, reading with one arm behind his head. He's in a white t-shirt and flannel sleep pants and looks unfairly handsome for someone doing absolutely nothing.

You take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, pull your knees up, and stare at the blank TV screen.

“I used some of Daddy’s favorite tea this morning.”

Sylus turns a page. "Did you."

"By accident. I grabbed the wrong one."

"Mm."

"He'll be able to tell. He always notices."

"He will."

You pick at a thread on the couch cushion. "So."

He doesn't look up from his book, but the corner of his mouth curves upward. "So."

"If you could just...not mention it."

He turns another page, still not looking at you, still giving you the space to close the distance yourself, the way he always does. Holding the door open and waiting for you to be the one to walk through it, even though you want him to drag you through it with both hands.

"Come here," he says.

You cross the couch on your knees, and he sets the book on the side table. You settle beside him, close enough that your knee presses against his thigh, and tilt your face up.

He looks at you. Looks at your mouth. But doesn't move.

"You haven't said it," you whisper.

"Said what?"

"One kiss."

Something shifts behind his eyes. "Do I still need to say it?"

"Maybe I want to hear it."

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down the side of your neck before falling away. "One kiss," he murmurs, lower and softer than he’s ever said the words.

You lean in slowly, until your noses brush, your mouth a breath from his, close enough to feel his exhale against your lips. You stay there, letting the almost stretch, letting the space between you turn charged and trembling, and you feel his breathing go shorter and shallower through his nose.

“One kiss,” you agree quietly against his mouth.

You brush your lips across his. It’s not a kiss, just a graze, your lower lip dragging over his upper in a pass so light it barely qualifies as contact, and his breath catches like you've touched an open wound.

You do it again in the other direction, slower, feeling the texture of his mouth, the heat of it, the way his lips part just slightly as you pass over them, and the small, raw sound he makes is so quiet you feel it more than hear it.

Then you press your mouth to his, softly and completely. His lips yield under yours and the heat of it spreads from your mouth down through your chest, your stomach, your fingertips where they're curled against the couch cushion. He doesn't push forward or deepen it, just lets you have his mouth, lets himself have next to nothing.

You pull back.

His eyes stay closed, lips barely parted, still holding the feel of the kiss, and the vulnerability in his expression makes your heart beat faster. When his eyes open, he looks at you like something inside him has shifted and he can't put it back, and he is trying very hard to put it back, and you are trying very hard to shatter it into a million pieces.

You try to lean in again, and he turns his face to the side.

“That’s enough,” he says in that tone you don’t like, the one he takes when you’re in trouble.

You can’t stop your bottom lip from wobbling, humiliation flooding behind your ribs. “Did I do something wrong?"

His expression fractures, like the question hurt him physically.

"No, sweetie. God, no. You didn't—" He stops. His hand comes up and pushes your hair back from your face so gently, so contradictory to the tension coursing through every muscle in his body. "You haven't done anything wrong. That's the problem. I have."

You frown. “You haven't done anything at all.”

"I've done everything." His fingers linger at your temple, smoothing your hair behind your ear. "Every time I turned my cheek. Every time I let you come back. Every time I told myself it was harmless." His hand drops. "None of it was harmless."

"I don't care."

"I know you don't. And it terrifies me."

You lean your face into the space where his hand just was, chasing his touch, and the gesture is so instinctive, so guileless, that his breath leaves him in a rush. His hand comes back to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone, and you turn your face into his palm and press your lips against the heel of it.

"One more," you whisper into his hand. “Please, Dad. Just one more."

His thumb traces your lower lip. You can feel the callus at the pad of it, the slight roughness, and when you part your lips and let the tip of your tongue touch his thumb—barely, just a taste—he hisses through his teeth.

"This is a bad idea," he grits out.

You press your mouth against his palm again. "You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not." He brushes his knuckles down the line of your throat, and you shiver. "That's the problem."

You shift closer. Then closer again. And then you're moving without thinking about it, swinging one leg across his lap, settling your weight against his thighs. His hand stays on your neck. His other hand stays on the couch. He looks up at you from beneath you—jaw tilted up, lips parted, lashes low—completely at your mercy and completely aware of it.

“Hi, Dad,” you whisper.

“Hi, baby.”

The endearment runs through you like current. Not sweetie, or kitten, but something new. A word that makes you mean something more to him. Something that feels like permission. Like a promise.

You move to kiss him again, and this time he doesn’t pull away. Instead of starting with your mouth, you touch your tongue to his lower lip.

He goes rigid, his whole body tensing beneath you, and the sound he makes is unfiltered and broken. His lips part wider and the tip of his tongue meets yours, tentative, tasting, and the first full slide of his tongue against yours is so slow and so warm so perfect that your fingers shake where they’ve come to grip his shirt.

You make a noise into his mouth, small and wanting, and you feel his hips shift beneath you. A readjustment, or the beginning of something new, something you don’t have a name for. You sink lower into his lap with each deep lick of his tongue against yours, and through the thin flannel of his pajama pants you can feel how hard he is, pressed right against the seam of your shorts, and the initial contact draws a noise from deep in both of you.

“Fuck,” he curses, a sound so rare it sends a buzz of thrill down your spine.

You loop your arms around his neck and press closer, your chest against his, tucking your face into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, hammering faster than his voice would suggest, and for a moment you just stay like that—breathing him in, feeling the warm strength of his body beneath yours, letting yourself want this without justifying it.

You melt into him, arms tightening around his neck, face buried against him, and you move without meaning to—not on purpose, not exactly. More like your body finding what feels good and following it, seeking the hard press of him beneath you, the heat between your legs and his, the way the friction sends a pulse of warmth through your stomach.

He sucks in a breath. For a second you fear he might push you away.

“Again,” he orders.

You do it again. Slower, pressing down with more intention, and this time you feel every inch of him, hard and pulsing, and it hits you like a lightning strike—the sudden realization that you did that to him, that your Dad’s cock is aching to be closer to your needy pussy, makes you whimper softly against his neck.

His palm slides from your neck to your hair. Not gripping, but smoothing, long strokes from the crown of your head down to the nape of your neck, the way he’s soothed you so many times before. His breathing is uneven but his hand is steady, petting you, holding space for what you're doing without rushing it, and the tenderness makes your eyes sting.

"You're okay," he murmurs. “I’ve got you, baby. Take what you need."

You move against him with your face still buried in his neck, your arms tight around his shoulders, hiding from what this means and chasing what it feels like. Each roll of your hips presses the length of him against you through cotton and flannel, and the friction is not enough and everything at the same time, building in waves slow and heavy. You whimper with each pass, small sounds you can't swallow, muffled against his skin.

His hand keeps stroking your hair. His hips stay still, letting you grind against him, his restraint so total you can feel it vibrating through his thighs.

“Dad,” you breathe out. Your hips stutter, losing rhythm, and you press down harder, desperately trying to find the angle again. “Please, Dad, I need you—need more—”

Something snaps.

His hand leaves your hair and grips the back of your neck. His other hand catches your hip, and suddenly he's holding you, pulling your forehead against his until your noses are touching and you can see nothing but his eyes, pupils blown, the darkness nearly eclipsing the red that’s so fierce it seems to glow, so all-consuming you try to turn away.

His hand at your neck holds you in place.

"Look at me," he says roughly. 

You do  

His grip on your hip tightens, and he guides you—making the rhythm his now, dragging you against him in a slow, hard grind that makes the couch creak. His hips push up to meet yours, and you can feel every inch of him, feel the head of his cock catching against your sensitive clit through the soaked fabric that clings tighter to your skin with each thrust, and the moan that tears from your throat makes his whole face change.

"There she is," he breathes. “My sweet, perfect girl.”

He pulls you harder against him. Faster. His hand on the back of your neck keeps your forehead pressed to his, and you can't look away, or close your eyes, or do anything except watch his face as you meet every upward grind with a roll of your hips. Your fingers dig into his shoulders deeper with each filthy word he speaks into your mouth—give Dad your tongue. That’s it, baby, just like that. Such a good girl for me. Your needy little cunt has been waiting so long for Dad’s cock, hm? All while the sounds filling the room become increasingly damning in their obscenity: fabric against fabric, the creak of the couch, his breathing and yours wrecked beyond recognition.

“Dad, I can’t—” you start. “It feels—ah—you feel so—so—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer. "I feel it, too."

Your thighs are shaking. He's driving up into you so hard now that your knees are lifting off the cushion with each thrust, your nails leaving marks, mouth open against his, not even kissing anymore—just breathing into each other, sharing the same ragged air.

The front door opens.

Keys drop into the bowl.

His hips still. Your hips still. His hand stays on the back of your neck. Yours stay fisted in his shirt. Your foreheads are still pressed together, both of you panting, both of you flushed and sweat-slicked and ruined, pressed together in a way that can't be mistaken for anything other than what it is.

The sound of footsteps grows closer.

You look at Sylus. He looks at you. Presses a kiss to your temple.

And neither of you lets go.

[grecianotes]

Better than drugs

[niisancomplex]

🍎🍏 mimir

[qintten]

sorry for writing in ask, but i’m actually on xhs, there was drama where sylus mains accused valko supporters of stealing the sylus sticker (your sticker!) and supposedly making it about valko (that also you did!) but after that these sylus mains accused you (!) of tracing (!) their chinese artist xianyu because that artist had a sticker set with similar mc look with cat ears, crazy stuff

i was gonna post about this since i got some DMs too, but i'll just use your ask to announce:

all of my stickers are my own art (╥﹏╥)!!!! i sketched, drew, and animated them myself! and if there's any resemblance to existing MC art, it's because i based it on MC's official art, colors and everything 💔

also i did make a version for all the LIs, yes including valko, because i wanted everyone to have one for their main (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟) sorry if the cat ears made it seem like it's sylus exclusive.... that's my bad!!! 🙇

but i hope people don't fight about it, i made it for everyone in the fandom! 🥲💔 i can always make a version with no cat ears as well (and i have!)

so yeah like i said i don't have xhs so ( ;´ - `;) i hope it hasn't gotten too bad! and thank you for letting me know

[qintten]

rafayel nuzzles 「black hair」━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐟

[recolor request!] f!mc and m!mc versions ♡ f2u, w/ or w/o credit (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

[qintten]

sylus nuzzles 「black hair」━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐦‍⬛

[recolor request!] f!mc and m!mc versions ♡ f2u, w/ or w/o credit (๑ > ᴗ < ๑)

[femsylusglazer]

STOP STARING AT MY BOOBS.ᐟ.ᐟ

Synopsis: Struggling to kiss fem!sylus bcz her boobs keep getting in the way>_<

Warning(s): boobs ig...if ur scared of big boobies don't read..., fem!reader, fluff, sfw, a cute and fun ficlet

Art cr: boochhaan

People have many problems in life, but your problem at the moment was not being able to kiss your wife because her HUGE boobs kept getting in the way. Ugh, it was annoying, especially when she just grins while you struggle. Fuck that stupidly hot, smug grin she has plastered on her face, literally all the time, to tease you.

Like that one time you were gonna surprise kiss her, but just as you were abt to reach her lips, you hit stop as her boobs got in the way, pressing against your chest like a barrier, stopping you in your tracks. You could feel that smug grin, full of amusement, forming on her face, and you could practically feel your own entire face burning. Man, it was embarrassing.

Another time, you were trying to take a pic together, but just as you moved backwards to get closer to her, you hit the back of your head against her boobs instead. It didn't help that she was so tall, too, and you could only reach her neck. It's like her boobs hate you and don't want you near her. Poor you.

But you can't really complain when you love her boobs so much, too... It's always so comfy and soft to bury your face in and sleep there. You genuinely get the best sleep of your life every time you're sleeping on her boobs, and when both of you go bath together, and your back is flushed against her chest while she shampoos your hair, oh, that feeling was literally heaven. Her soft, round peaks touching your bare back was fucking killing you inside from how good it felt.

And those times when you're feeling down, she would pull you into a big hug, while having your face resting against her chest and listening to her heartbeat, which used to make you feel so much better and safer. It was so precious, you won't trade those moments for anything else in the entire universe.

There were cons, like you not being able to kiss her easily, but there were more pros than that, so you don't really mind in the end…

a/n: YALL DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH I WAS KICKING MY FEET AT THIS SKSKSKSKSK I NEED FEM!SYLUS SO BAD GAWDDJDJDJDDD IM NOT KIDIDNG ISTGGGGG imagine stuffing ur face between her boobas🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤also that fanart oml🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

© femsylusglazer | Pls don't feed my work into AI, or anything related to it. If u wanna repost it on a different platform or translate it, u can do it, but pls credit me properly, and ask permission first.

[grecianotes]

Why the lads community is always losing their fic writers??? Why y’all can’t be idk NORMAL with them??

THEY ENTERTAIN YOU FOR FREE

THEY SHARE THEIR ART WITH YOU!

Istg I’ve been in a lot of fandoms in this one of the most toxic ones, they don’t have fandom etiquette or the minimum respect for the artist in the community

They force people to delete their profiles and stories, or go into hiatus and guess what? The same thing happened with the company they eliminated Valko and now those same people believe they have the power to do whatever they want, and so tired of them

[obsessivel0v3r]

From a young age I knew that my love language was intense obsession and devotion and that I'd need someone who was the exact same.ᐟ

[grecianotes]

How I feel with all the blurbs, fics and fics ideas

@mwphisto @zaynezone @calebsfavoriteusedthong

Srry for tagging xd

[qintten]

rafayel fan gifs 「black hair」 ━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐟

[recolor request!] f!mc and m!mc versions ♡ f2u, w/ or w/o credit ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

[qintten]

sylus fan gifs 「black hair」━ ✧ ₊˚ 🐦‍⬛

[recolor request!] f!mc and m!mc versions ♡ f2u, w/ or w/o credit ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

[rafayelspet]

this is one of rafayel's favorite moments. the type of evening where the breeze is just right, where the moon is high and bright above, and most importantly, you are with him. no distractions, no work, no outside expectations.

just the two of you, alone. moments like these happens all the time, especially with rafayel. you can't escape from him, not that you would want to anyway. no matter how busy work becomes for you both, no matter how hectic life turns, you know without doubt that rafayel will find time to see you, to hear you, to talk to you. it doesn't matter how far, he'll make it happen.

and he has proven you to be a man that keeps his words and promises, through and through. and even if rafayel spends 24 hours with you, from morning til night, sunday to saturday ; it is never enough for him. he is a greedy, insatiable, selfish man. he wants you all the time.

he wants to hear you talk about your day, about your feelings, about something stupid that made you crash out. he wants to watch you doomscroll on your phone, laughing at stupid videos. he wants to cuddle and wrap you in his arms, his precious little pearl. he wants to caress your waist, your thighs, your arms, your hair, your face -- gods, if he could glue himself to you, he would.

he wants to cook, to eat with you. whenever you get ready, rafayel just absolutely melts every single time. his mind is rambling with thoughts of how lucky he is to have you, of how beautiful your curves are, how ravishing your thighs look, how your skin feels so soft and molds perfectly in his big, graceful painter's hands.

you are his muse, his canvas, his art. and rafayel means it every time. his heart never fails to feel the same intensity as the beginning. and rafayel will never get sick of reminding you of how perfect you fit with him. he'll repeat a thousand times a day if needed, about how he'd die for you.

and the worst thing is, rafayel knows this isn't love. it can't be love -- love is too small and minimal of a word to describe what he feels towards you. rafayel doesn't just want to take care of you, to protect and cherish you. no.

he wants more. it goes beyond bare necessities of life. rafayel needs you like his lungs needs air. his skin just doesn't feel right, if you aren't touching him. his mind can't focus, if your eyes aren't on him. he becomes irrationally impatient with others, if he can't stare at you, at your soft and plump chest. and every time you aren't in his line of sight, he can practically feel his heart breaking, tearing.

rafayel doesn't just simply love you. he is obsessed. a completely obsessed and addicted man. so when you ask him if he would still love you after gaining weight, or going on a diet, or having stretch marks, or pimples -- whatever insecurities, it feels like a stab right in his heart. it wouldn't be love if rafayel only loved your physique. it's not just about the stretch marks, the curves, the bones, the fat -- it's about how you mold perfectly with him.

and the only thing he'll ask in return : your full, undivided, and entire attention.

[sylus-beloved-wife]

Personal LI's icons 🌱

Drawn on request: @irandial

[qintten]

the eras of sylus fics is so fun to look back on

on his debut, there were lots of fics with his more dark, rough mob boss aesthetic. sylusmc were still enemies-to-lovers at the point so there were also tons of hate fucking fics. also lots of mc being a badass and kicking his ass (and him liking it, we really ate up NDZ). delicious delicious.... (,,>﹏<,,) ♥️

then when we saw more of his cards, came the softer, fluffier kind of smut. missionary, soft dom sylus, and looottss about him being a consent king (,,>⩊<,,) very poetic dialogue too! very romantic! love love love it.

and then there was this era of him being a girl dad LOL. i don't know what triggered it specifically 💭? but it stuck and there were so many tooth rotting fluff of him and his princess and i loooveeee it aaaaaahhhh. BONUS if it mentions his dragon lore too. clutches chest. so cute.

now it's more of a mix of everything i think! i def see more silly sylus, sassy sylus, and funny sylus too. especially ragebaiter sylus because ofc. but i think his core (?) traits remained where he's like. still very poetic and romantic but also didn't really lose that rugged (?) mafia (??) aura (???)

anyway! happy 2 years not just to sylus but to everyone in the fandom who's made fics and art and edits of him as well (੭ ;´ - `;)੭ ♡ i also celebrate you all!!!!