For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺
𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄
synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table.
cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing.
read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr
Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.
It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.
His hand tightened around yours.
“Dobro,” he said.
Another crash.
From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”
Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.
He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”
“More than people?”
“Depends on the people.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.
Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.
Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.
Do not say you're full.
And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.
You had asked what the soup incident was.
He had started to walk faster.
Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.
“Valko,” you said softly.
“Yes?”
“You're shaking.”
“I'm not shaking.”
“You are.”
“I’m containing myself.”
“From what?”
“Hereditary embarrassment.”
The door flew open.
A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.
A slow smile cut across her face.
“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”
Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.
“I changed once.”
“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”
His ears went red.
The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”
“Unfortunately,” Valko added.
“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”
“It isn't optional.”
“Because of me.”
You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.
Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.
Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”
Valko muttered, “We were.”
She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”
You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.
Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.
“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”
You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.
“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”
“I hear everything,” the old woman said.
Valko went still.
Milena smiled into her shoulder.
The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.
“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.
She, of course, ignored him.
Instead, she took your face between both hands.
Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.
“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”
“I eat,” Valko protested.
Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”
“That was taken out of context.”
“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.
Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.
Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”
Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”
No one listened to him.
You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.
“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.
Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.
The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.
Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”
“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”
Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”
Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.
Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.
Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.
“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.
You obeyed.
The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.
You chewed. Swallowed.
“It’s delicious.”
Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”
Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”
Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”
“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.
“No.”
“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”
The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.
“That was private.”
“You said it in the kitchen.”
“That makes it private.”
Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”
Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.
The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.
He had spoken of you here.
At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.
Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.
“He was always like this,” she said.
“Baba, please.”
“He was a strange child,” she said.
Valko groaned. “Please.”
“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.
“A dramatic child,” Luka said.
“A biting child,” Milena added.
Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”
“You looked biteable.”
“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”
There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.
You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.
He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.
There he was.
Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.
Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.
“Are you keeping him?”
The kitchen stopped.
Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.
Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”
“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”
His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.
You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.
Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.
His fingers closed around yours at once.
“I’d like to,” you said.
The house held itself still for half a breath.
Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.
“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”
Valko bowed his head.
His shoulders shook.
At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.
Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”
Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”
Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”
“For Valko?” you asked.
“For all of us.”
Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.
Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.
“That's just Valko,” Milena said.
“I am not a dog.”
“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”
Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.
A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.
You noticed on the fourth offering.
His family noticed on the first.
Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.
“Ah,” she said.
Valko froze.
It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.
“What?” he said.
“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”
Mika threw his head back.
You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”
He looked at the cake.
Then he looked at you.
His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.
Milena saw it.
Her teasing quieted.
For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.
Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”
Valko blinked. “Me?”
“Her.” Milena pointed at you.
Valko frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That's not a reason.”
“It has worked on you for years.”
You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.
She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.
Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”
The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.
For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.
“He likes you,” she said.
You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”
“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”
A laugh escaped you.
Milena folded her arms.
“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”
Your throat tightened.
From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”
Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”
“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”
Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”
You laughed softly.
She looked at you again, sharper now.
“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”
“The goat?”
“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”
You glanced back towards the kitchen.
He had asked if his laugh was strange.
Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.
You looked down.
“He didn’t need to worry,”
“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”
“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”
There it was.
The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.
“I’m not here to hurt him,”
“Most people aren’t, at first.”
“Milena.”
Milena’s gaze narrowed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.
“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”
Milena stared at you.
Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”
You looked down, caught.
She seemed satisfied. “Good.”
“Is that approval?”
“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”
“You were being difficult?”
“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”
When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.
His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”
Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”
“I’m not.”
“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”
He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”
You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”
“That was Baba.”
“Family consensus.”
His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”
“I am.”
“You were supposed to be intimidated.”
“By Mika?”
“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”
“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”
Valko sighed.
You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”
He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.
“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”
Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His smile softened.
For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.
“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”
“I do”
“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”
He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.
“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”
Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.
“No.”
“Yes,”
“No photographs.”
“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.
Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”
Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”
He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”
You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.
“Sit,” she said.
Valko sat.
It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.
For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.
Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.
There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.
Each photograph was another small door.
You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.
At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.
“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.
You turned a page.
A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.
“Yes,” you said. “I do.”
He stared at you.
Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.
It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.
Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.
The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.
Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You looked at him. “For what?”'
“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”
“I like Milena.”
“That means she behaved.”
“She said she was being polite.”
He winced. “Then she liked you.”
You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.
Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.
She waved back.
Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”
“She loves you.”
“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”
“It’s a good one.”
He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.
“Did you mean it?” he asked.
“Which part?”
“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”
The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.
You reached for him.
This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.
“I meant it,”
His eyes searched yours.
“For tonight?”
“For longer than that.”
He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.
Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”
Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”
You laughed.
He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish
“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.
You touched his cheek.
Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.
priest caleb x virgin reader
virgin reader confesses her lustful thoughts to her kind and gentle priest, unaware of his own battle with temptation. 11k words.
read on ao3
You were a good girl.
Good girls weren’t distracted during Sunday sermon. They sat still and attentive, obediently absorbing lessons to carry with them throughout their lives. Good girls were never distracted.
Especially not by their priest.
They weren’t distracted by the hair curling around his neck in pretty little flicks of brown, or by the look in his gentle eyes when his gaze lingered on them in the second row of pews, or by the ways his long fingers firmly gripped the Holy Book as he held it high—far out of reach of the average person.
For two whole years, you remind yourself of these things. You sit through Sunday mass every week without fail, hands folds neatly in your lap, and you ask for forgiveness on your knees beside your bed each night when you realise your focus had drifted from the Lord to His messenger.
It felt much like a test you were failing, over and over and over.
His fingers.
His fingers, above all else, were your undoing.
The Communion procession shuffles forward slowly, drawing you towards your ultimate weekly test. Behold him who takes away the sins of the world. You repeat the words to yourself as the line carries you closer to him. Behold him who takes away the sins…
“Amen,” the elderly woman in front of you mutters under her breath.
And then it’s your turn.
His eyes are gentle and kind, fixed on you as soon as you step forward—unwavering—even as he reaches for the sacramental bread, a small perfectly circular wafer. This was the part that played over and over in your mind as you tossed and turned at night. This was what you asked forgiveness for, above all else. Your heart races in anticipation as his eyes flick to your lips.
You obey his silent request, parting your lips in preparation to accept his offering. He would place the delicate wafer on your tongue with practised ease, careful not to touch you. And then he’d hold the chalice of wine to your lips—helping you take a chaste sip. His eyes would never leave you, and your face would shamefully heat in response.
One small moment of intoxicating proximity.
Repeated, week after week; never changing.
His warm eyes fix on yours as the small wafer approaches your waiting tongue, and you savour the details of his face—surrendering to your habitual sinful indulgence.
Something is different.
You replayed this never-changing ritual in your mind for years. You knew all its minor details. You knew it intimately.
Something is different.
His bottom lip trembles slightly and then drops—falling away from his upper lip. And at the same moment you watch his mouth part, mirroring yours, something else new draws a tiny gasp from your lungs.
His warm finger touches your tongue.
Every week, for years, he repeated the motion of chastely placing the small disc on the tongues of the congregation.
Never before had he touched you. Not once.
“The body of Christ,” he says, hushed, like this was normal.
His parted lips, a touch of his fingertip to your wet tongue, and then, to finalise your torment, he brushes your bottom lip in his retreat.
It’s only the well-formed muscle memory that draws a quiet “Amen” from your lips.
That night, after kneeling and begging forgiveness, you crawl under your covers and desperately will sleep to take you—to free you from your spiralling, sinful remembrance. You toss and turn. You stare at your ceiling. Eventually, you open a window and sip from a glass of water as the cool night air soothes your heated cheeks. And it would be that small sip that finally unravelled you, drawing your mind back to the moment he pressed the lip of the chalice to your lips—the lips he’d touched.
Your cotton nightgown bunches up around your waist as you roll onto your stomach and slip your hand between your legs. It was the way he guided you—the look in his eyes—like he might reach out and wipe away any wine that spilled down your chin if you were too eager. It was the way his pretty fingers wrapped around the cup. It was knowing their warmth. The way they felt on your skin. On your tongue.
He would guide you so gently, if he were here with you now. You’d imagined it before: him watching over you as you traced your fingers through your slick. But never had you imagined him touching. Touching was forbidden. A step too far. He did not touch.
Until now.
A heavenly addition to your sensory experience of him.
It’s what draws the sinful noises from you now: shameful whimpers and gasps as you picture his finger in place of yours—dipping a little inside you.
How could this be such wicked depravity if his finger slipping past your lips could be part of a Holy Rite? Was there really such a difference between two parts of a body? What made the wet heat of your mouth so different from the wet heat between your legs?
It’s these spiralling thoughts, and the flood of tears that follow your cry of his name at your peak, that finally break you.
You were not a good girl.
You were damned.
And only confession could save you.
If you were brave, you wouldn’t hesitate. You’d march through the open church door at the first opportunity and take a place in the pews among a spattering of familiar faces, each waiting their turn to speak to him.
Instead, when weekly confessional hours do arrive, you sit on a small stone bench in the church graveyard and watch people filter in and out. You notice the little changes in them as they leave. Eyes that had been focused on the pavement instead look up into the trees. Their steps are lighter.
A mother who had first passed you hurriedly, tugging her small child behind her, leaves with him in her arms. She pauses and points out a little white rabbit at the edge of the churchyard, bouncing the toddler on her hip a little as she cherishes his reaction. And when the rabbit dips into the bushes, she continues her leisurely pace, engaging with the child’s chatter.
The weight of your burden seems to grow heavier the more you watch them all relieved of theirs. If you hadn’t hesitated at the sight of the open door and rerouted to the small stone bench, you could’ve avoided this. Instead of watching them, you could’ve been sitting in the pews watching him. He would’ve made the child laugh, settling him, so he could talk to his mother.
You loved watching the way they all reacted to him, adored him.
That’s what you should have done; what you should do now. But when you stand, instead of heading inside, you find yourself turning the way you came—scurrying from the church grounds, no braver than a little white rabbit.
When Sunday comes, for the first time in years, you don’t attend.
It’s all the hesitation your body allows before you are nearly sick with anxiety. Wanting it over, you take up position on that same stone bench during confession hours, again. And like the week before, you wait. You watch as a spattering of congregants seeking opportunity for repentance come and go. An hour passes, beyond the departure of his final visitor. Again, you’d let the official hours come and go.
The sky turns a golden yellow as the sun dips behind the trees, and you wrap your small cardigan around yourself as the temperature dips with it.
And then a familiar, warm voice calls your name.
He stands in the stone arch of the old church's entryway, looking out at you. “You must be cold,” he says in his gentle, patient way. “I thought you might be waiting to speak to me last. Some people prefer knowing there’s no one waiting their turn.”
You take a small step forward, arms around yourself in a self-soothing hug. “I was,” you confess. “I’m sorry, I–”
“It’s alright,” he says gently, mercifully cutting you off as a visible shiver takes hold of you. “Come inside, please.”
He stands in the entrance, turning his body to the side as you pass. Somehow, he feels larger—taller—when you’re alone with him. Much like the empty church makes you feel small when its empty of its congregation. He towers over you.
“It must be serious,” he says, his voice echoing slightly. The large wooden door closes as you linger in the aisle between pews. A closed door meant no more visitors. You were the last allowed entry. “Serious enough for you to prefer turning to ice rather than speak to me about it.” He’s slightly teasing as he approaches—clearly trying to ease the tension that has you still wrapped around yourself—cowering like a scared little lamb.
It’s a warm, comforting sort of teasing. Familiar. It’s his natural warmth that contributes to his busy visiting hours. You’d never heard a bad word spoken against him.
It makes your guilt so much worse.
Shame wracks you, suddenly faced with the reality of confessing your wickedness to a man so good and kind. A man so rare. You had been all alone for so long. No family to guide you with unconditional care. He was a little spark of genuine warmth and care, irresistible to someone starved of it.
You couldn’t imagine returning to Sunday mass every week after this, knowing that he might think back to this night every time his eyes landed on you in the pews.
Soft footfalls approach as you stare at the stone floor.
He speaks your name in a hushed, gentle command.He wants you to look at him. To face your shame.
And when you refuse, eyes stubbornly fixed to the floor, you must deal with the repercussions.
For the second time, he touches you.
His fingers rest under your chin as he lifts your head with a gentle pressure. He’s warm. Warmer than he’d been last time. At least, that’s how it seems as your chilled skin leaches the heat from his fingers. They linger, just for a moment, holding you in position as his eyes flick across your face.
Then they’re gone.
“Would the booth make it easier?” he asks, hushed enough to avoid the echo.
There was no shame in hiding, you tell yourself. It was the only way you’d ever manage it. How could you ever tell him the truth with his eyes warming your skin?
He sees the answer in your eyes. And you’re grateful when he takes the lead without further question, letting you trail behind him to the small confessional booth in the corner of the empty church.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen,” you begin. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is… three months since my last confession.” Three months. The last time you’d convinced yourself to confess, only to find yourself listing off trivial everyday faults instead.
The sound of your breathing seems far too loud in the small wooden chamber. So much so that you take in shallower breaths in the silence that follows, self-conscious.
“Are you unwell?” he asks as the silence stretches, kind—like he truly cared. When you hesitate, confused by the unexpected question, he adds, “You were absent on Sunday. I assumed you might’ve been sick, but you look healthy. Nothing serious, then.” The last part isn’t a question. He says it like he’s reassuring himself, like he really, truly cared.
Always so caring, of everyone. It makes it worse.
Your gut flips, anxiety rushing through you. You remember why you’d listed of a few trivial things and escaped in your last attempt. It was unbearable.
You couldn’t do this again.
“It’s a kind of sickness,” you confess, relying on the echo of the box to carry your hushed words through the small hatched window in the divider between you.
He’s quiet, letting you elaborate in your own time.
“I’ve been distracted. I haven’t heard your sermons. Not really.” You dig your fingernails into your thighs. “Not because they aren’t interesting… or helpful. It’s me. I’m full of—” One of your knees starts to bounce automatically. “My head is full of… sickness. Sick thoughts. They won’t stop.”
You focus on his steady breathing in the lull between your confession and his answer, letting the even rhythm of it calm you until your leg stills.
“Has something happened?” he asks. “Something is bothering you.” A pause. “Someone?”
“Someone,” the word leaves you on an exhale.
His next question leaves him faster than any of his previous responses. You haven’t even managed to take in another breath. It’s a falter in the calm rhythm you are used to, catching you off guard.
“Who?”
“It… doesn’t matter.”
It did matter. You’d lied. One moment of impulse and you’d lied. If your distraction had been a man in the pews instead of the one standing at the pulpit, it would be a different matter entirely. You’d have asked Caleb for advice years earlier.
You’d have confessed your eyes had been drifting in the pews, distracted by temptation, instead of focused on him, as they should be. There’d be no confusing, twisted entanglement between his guidance and his unwilling involvement in your sin.
“Gideon,” he says, disrupting your spiralling thoughts. “He’s only been attending a few weeks. I haven’t seen him approach you. Was it after service?”
You’d never heard the name in your life. You hadn’t even noticed a new face in the congregation.
If only you had. If only it was that simple.
When you fail to answer, mind whirring, he continues, “Is that why you weren’t here Sunday?” The fabric of his pants brush across the wood in a way that signals his movement. His voice is a little clearer when he speaks next, closer. “Has he hurt you?”
“No,” you answer, quickly. “No, I—”
“You’ll be honest with me,” he interrupts. “Won’t you?” He sounds a little like a parent about to catch their child in a lie. Not quite stern, but the authority in his tone has you biting your lip.
“It’s not Gideon.”
“Who?”
“That’s what makes it so wicked, Father. I’ve been so afraid—” Movement again, through the divider. It breaks your momentum. You fall into silence.
Like his face, you know his voice. You’ve studied it intently, every week, for years. All the warm, gentle kindness is missing when he interrupts you, “Afraid?”
You pick at the skin at the edge of your nail.
“Of you,” you finish.
Silence follows, except from your breath.
His, for the first time, is inaudible.
You should continue. You should take the silence as opportunity to confess the depths of your depravity. Your lips part, ready—
“Communion.” His voice fills the box—fills your head.
He knew.
He must’ve seen it in your face. Of course he did. He was good and pure and righteous. He would have seen that lustful wickedness on your face each and every time.
Had he been waiting for you to confess it? Had he expected it from you each and every time you came to him, only to be disappointed when you failed to admit to your true sin?
Shame. Embarrassing, pitiful shame.
Your voice is shaky, emotion thinly veiled. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No.” He cuts you off quickly. “This is my weakness. I should be asking your forgiveness.” A bump against the wood. Maybe his elbow. Your eyes lift to the small window separating you for the first time as you turn his words over, confused. “I took advantage of your innocence. I didn’t think you’d notice. I was weak. If I knew you’d see—feel my…” he trails off, sucks in a breath, then, “I shouldn’t have touched you. Forgive me.”
Your heart races as you put together his meaning.
He was talking about his accidental touch of your tongue… and lip.
No, that wasn’t right. He was confessing it was… intentional.
He was confessing.
It’s like a sedative: the daze his words puts you in. Suddenly, instead of being hyper aware of your body, of your anxiety, you feel entirely outside of it—floating outside of yourself. “I don’t understand,” you mutter, disbelief stuttering your ability to process. He was good, and righteous, and loved, and kind, and virtu—
“You dont—,” he starts. “You don’t understand?”
He’d wanted to touch you? Why would he—
“Talk to me,” he adds with a hint of urgency. “You don’t understand?”
“It was on purpose?”
He’s quiet. Then, “You said you were afraid of me. If it’s not that—”
“You wanted to touch me?” you whisper, hardly hearing his questioning through your ongoing daze.
“Yes,” he answers quickly. “I succumbed to—” He sighs. “I gave in.”
He had... lusted. He’d lusted… for you. And even if it had been a one-off moment of weakness, unlike your own, his sin had reached out to brush yours…
Something releases inside of you. Confession rushes from your lips, unrestrained. “Father, bless me, for I have sinned. I’ve also given into lustful thoughts.”
Silence.
Then, “These are your… sick thoughts? The sickness distracting you from sermon?”
You nod. “For two years now.”
“Two—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “During mass.” He shifts. “And when else?”
The marks in your thighs capture your attention again. You scratch at them. “At night,” you confess, hushed. This… is where your sin diverged from his. Shame surrounds it still, heavy.
“Your indulgence…” he trails off.
“Yes, Father?”
A bump against wood. “Why were you absent this past Sunday?”
“I—” You tug the hem of your dress down over your knees. “I was afraid to see you.”
“Because of Communion? Because I—”
“No.” You shake your head, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I was ashamed.”
He’s quiet.
It stretches.
Finally, “We all have moments of weakness—”
“But it wasn’t a moment,” you interject. “There’s something wrong with me. Father, it’s—I can’t—My Sunday’s aren’t spent in worship of the Lord, they’re—” spent in worship of you.
You drop your head into your hands, incapable of speaking the words aloud. Then, so quiet you aren’t sure he can even hear you with your head bowed the way it is, “I’d never done it before you.”
When he doesn’t respond, you raise your head. “I’ve never thought about anyone but you. What is wrong with me? To lust for the first time—to lust only for a man of God?”
You focus on his breathing in the silence, hoping to let it calm you like it had before. But it’s different now. It’s uneven, heavier. It stirs your unease instead.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says, finally.
“But—”
“There is nothing wrong with you,” he insists, firm, without room for argument. “You are… perfection, sent to tempt me.” The wooden bench he sits on creaks with his movement.
“Tell me why you wore that dress,” he adds, gentler.
You look down at the plain dress, hem resting at your knees where you’d tugged it down. Did you have a reason? You hadn’t worn it in while, and the weather was just about to get too cold for you to wear it again for months. That was all.
At your hesitation, he continues, “You wore that the first day I gave in. Apple red.”
“…gave in?” you question, a little wobble in your voice. You know what he’s implying, deep down. But it’s all too much. One thing after the other, shattering all you thought you knew.
And then, unaware of your imminent collapse, he deals the final blow.
“The first time I wrapped my hand around myself and thought of the way looked up at me, all sweet and trusting. You look at me like—”
Your small sob cuts him off, and you press your hands over your mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sounds escaping you without permission.
He stands, draws his curtain back, and exits his half off the booth. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth when he pulls the curtain in your little part of the box aside.
You look up at him with watery eyes, a towering dark shadow. And when he slowly enters and kneels in front of you, his large body fills your little section of booth. “Are you afraid?” he whispers. “Did I scare you?”
You shake your head, hands still clasped across your mouth.
You aren’t breathing at all when he leans a little closer and gently guides your hands from your face into your lap instead. His thumbs brush over your knuckles in soothing caresses as he speaks again, “Why are you crying?”
Months and months of inner turmoil spill from you in shaky half-sobs that you fail to hold back. You look into his eyes—gentle, familiar, warm. He’s an angel filling your vision, dressed in black—sin and salvation. His skin is hot where he touches you. And your eyes flutter closed when his hand lifts to your cheek, ghosting over your damp skin—like he meant to wipe away your tears but wasn’t sure he should.
With a slight tilt towards him, you close the distance.
His knuckles brush your skin, gently wiping at your tears. “I’m so proud of you for coming to speak to me,” he says, voice still lowered. “You’re so good.”
You shake your head quickly, looking down.
He lifts your chin, guiding your focus back up to him. His eyes flick across your face. “Why are you crying?” he asks again.
You suck in a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”
“Overwhelmed?”
You nod, exhaling.
“Mm,” he hums, taking your hand in his. “That’s okay.”
Gently, he guides you from the box. He stands before you, closer than he stood in Communion—a wall of black fabric. You watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Then you tilt your head back to look up at him.
“Deep breaths,” he soothes as your breathing evens out.
His thumb strokes across your knuckles again.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe into the space between you.
He shakes his head, and his palm lifts to your cheek—making proper contact this time. “Don’t. Didn’t I say you did good? I’m proud of you,” he whispers.
“But—”
“Would I lie to you?”
You look up at him with glassy eyes. At your priest. Loved and trusted by all. Gentle and kind and good.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s how you look at me—how you’ve always looked at me.” His fingers slip behind your ear and eventually curl around the back of your neck, holding you steady. “Thought it was your love for the Lord. That I was a privileged conduit, sampling all that sweet love you carried around inside you.”
His fingers press into your skin. “…but it was for me,” he finishes, breathy.
You whimper, tears forming again.
“Shh,” he coos, breath tickling your lips as he lowers himself to meet you. His hands are all gentle again after that brief moment of pressure. One trails up your arm as the other cups the side of your head, thumb stroking across your temple. “Please don’t cry.”
“It was wicked,” you whisper. “I’ve been wicked.”
His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, rubbing back and forth—comforting. His eyes drop to watch the way your cardigan slips off, folding down to expose the thin shoulder strap of your red dress. “No, sweet girl,” he says, distracted. His eyes move across your upper chest before returning to meet your gaze. “You were worshipping the Lord through me.”
His hair looks darker than you’d ever seen it before. The sun is gone now. You’d never seen him by candlelight before. “I was?” you sniffle.
He drags your cardigan back up over your shoulder. “You’re a virgin?”
You nod. Another sniffle.
“And you’ve only touched yourself when you were thinking of me?”
He doesn’t let you drop your head when you try, so you nod—eyes darting to the side in shame.
“What could be more sacred?” he breathes.
His lips ghost over yours before landing on your cheek in a feather-light kiss. You close your eyes, savouring his touch as he leaves a leisurely trail of them across your face. Tender kisses anointing your skin in patient reverence.
“A sweet..” Kiss. “Innocent…” Kiss. “Little lamb.” Kiss. “Using her body to worship Him. You love Him through me. That’s all.” He returns to your mouth, holding your head steady as his warm lips slide across yours—your first kiss. “Through my body,” he finishes, warm breath mixing with yours.
That made sense, your hazy mind offers. It’s why it had consumed you all these years; why you’d never felt it for anyone but him.
Light, bubbly, warmth rises in your chest as the guilt lifts.
Caleb would not lie to you. It was an impossibility.
He watches the smile take over your face with a look you’ve never seen on him before. Then his head drops to your neck, and he’s lifting you into his arms. He doesn’t move. He just stands there, holding you to his body—breathing in the scent of you. He groans something into your neck, a word you can’t decipher. Then he withdraws.
“Would you let me guide you in worship?” he says, a little shaky with his uneven breathing.
“Mm,” you hum, nodding. Whatever that means. It didn’t matter. This was good. Everything was okay now. You’re practically limp in his arms, releasing yourself to his will.
He takes a few step backwards, and then lowers himself into a pew. You sit in his lap, knees at either side of his thighs—relaxed as his strong arms hold you against him. “I’ve resisted for so long,” he says, fingers tangling in your hair at the back of your head.
Then he drags you to his mouth, messy in his indulgence. He’s eager to please the Lord, your mind supplies, as his tongue dips between your lips to meet your own. You have no experience. You don’t know what you’re doing. So you let him take you. There’s a moment, when you are limp in his arms—eyes closed, chin wet with drool—that he dips his long fingers between your lips to play with your tongue. He takes it between his fingertips. Toys with it.
When your eyes flutter open, you find yourself transfixed by the expression on his face as he plays with you. His own lips are parted to accommodate his ragged breathing, and his eyes are hooded, locked on his fingers in your mouth.
Eventually, he lowers you onto your back across the pew and crawls over you. It’s only now you notice his black shirt untucked from his pants. Then his mouth is on yours again, devouring you with a low groan. The wood is cool against your back, contrasting with the heat of him above you—with the heat of his mouth. He tasted a little sweet, like the hard candies he kept at the entrance of the booth.
He’d sucked on one while listening to confessions.
He’d heard their sins, in all his virtuous kindness, and he’d let the sweet lolly melt in his hot mouth.
And now you were tasting it.
You were tasting your sweet priest.
His warm breath tickles your neck when he parts from you.
Then his fingers return. Slipping between your wet lips and into your mouth, he plays. In and out and around your tongue, he explores your mouth like it hid something he treasured. You take in as much of his face as the dim candlelit space allowed. Lost in worship, you hardly process his words when he finally speaks.
“Body of Christ,” he mumbles.
He holds your jaw, wet fingers against your cheek. And you lay limp beneath him, willing to receive, as he hovers over you and spits into your mouth.
You swallow without hesitation, indulging in the brand new expression painting his pretty face. Hunger and satisfaction combined.
He pets your hair with one long gentle stroke, adoration flooding his eyes as he gazes down upon you. It’s a look that has your heart fluttering in your chest as your mind drifts further and further outside of your body and into the space above you—light and free.
As his thumb brushes across your glistening lips, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, a question flitters across your vacated mind. “Is this sex?” you mutter in a dreamy breathy sigh.
He stills.
You watch the muscles move in his face as his expression shifts. His brows tug together, then relax. His wet lips part, then close, then part again.
“It’s worship,” he answers. Your cardigan had fallen off both your shoulders at some point. He gently lifts the soft fabric back over your bare skin now, putting you back together. “When it’s with me, it’s worship.”
You release a shaky breath. “So I’ll still—I’ll still be a virgin? After?”
His fingers trace over your collarbone, then wrap around your neck lightly. His voice is as gentle and warm as always when he answers, “Only when it’s with me. No one else.”
“No one else,” you sigh, blissful under his exalted guidance.
He nods with an approving hum, fingers slipping from your throat down to your chest. He traces down your body, making little patterns over the fabric of your dress as he goes.
“When I fill you with my cock…”
He makes a pattern over your lower belly as he speaks.
“…and your untouched cunt clings to me…”
His fingers brush at your thigh, where your hem bunches up. “…I might say some terrible, vulgar, things. Perverted depravity—” His fingertips dig into your skin. “—is only natural as such perfect worship is filtered through our imperfect human bodies.”
His warm breath tickles your thighs as he lifts your dress, exposing your cotton panties to the cool air, and to his eyes. He looks up at you through the brown hair that falls over his face. “No matter what I say, remember this is worship. Okay?”
“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, entirely surrendered to him.
“Good girl,” he breathes, the warmth of it tickling you through the cotton. “Angel.”
His finger makes a single light stroke down the centre of the fabric, tickling your clit as he passes. Immediately, your body tenses as you attempt to curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the newness of the feeling. You’d expected it to feel like it did when you’d slipped your hands between your legs yourself.
It didn’t.
He traps your thighs in the firm grip of his hands, preventing you from escaping him.
“It tickles,” you confess, embarrassed.
“Here?” He brushes over the fabric again, and it’s only his firm grip on one thigh that prevents you clamping him between your legs.
His hands slip just under the dip of your lower back, and he tugs you down the bench a little, towards his mouth. Then, as you look up at the vast vaulted ceiling, he kisses the cotton. It’s nothing more than a peck. And somehow, it feels closer to sin than anything prior. More than his tongue in your mouth, or his candy-flavoured spit.
But this wasn’t sin.
Another gentle kiss, directly over your clit.
This was worship.
“Father?”
“Mm?” he hums.
You can’t see him, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Should I… kiss you too?” Your cardigan falls off one shoulder again. “I mean like you are. Worshipping your body is worshipping Him?”
He crawls up your body, filling your vision as he hovers over you again. His eyes fall to your exposed shoulder briefly. This time, he doesn’t fix it. “Where I kissed you?” he asks on a ragged breath.
Your eyes drop to his chest, and you fill in the rest of the path down to his belt in your mind. “Between your legs,” you whisper.
His thumb swipes across your lower lip, then he strums it a little—letting it bounce back as he watches its movement intently. “You want to kiss my cock?” he asks, a little rumble in his voice—dropping it lower than you’d heard it before.
Your eyes widen a little, still unused to his vulgar language.
“Remember what I told you,” he adds. “It’s natural, hm? To speak like this.”
You nod.
He lowers his face to your neck, and you look at the ceiling again and he inhales deeply, nose against your skin. Then, “Say it.” His lips tickle your neck as he speaks. “How do you want to worship m—Him?” His chest presses into yours. “Say it.”
The ceiling is a void of darkness. His body separates you from it, warm and safe. You turn your head and breathe in the scent of his soft hair. “I want to kiss you… kiss your cock.”
You jolt a little beneath him as his teeth sink into your skin without warning. “Good girl,” he groans. “So good. So proud of you.” A kiss where he’d bitten you… then another behind your ear… then your cheek… the corner of your mouth. “Just let me taste you a little first,” he whispers. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long.”
You expect him to take your mouth again.
But he disappears, back down your body, to his position between your thighs.
You close your eyes rather than stare up into the darkness again, focusing on the warmth of him between your legs… on the delicate way he plays with the little strip of cotton covering you. His fingers lift the edges just a little as his breath fills the space he occupies—warming your thighs and cunt alike. “No one has seen it?” he asks as he toys with the fabric.
You shake your head and drop an arm across your head, over your closed eyes. “No, Father.”
“No one has touched it?”
“Just me,” you answer quietly, embarrassed, still.
His finger dips far enough under the fabric to sample the wetness beginning to leak from you. You should be ashamed, wracked with the guilt of sinful indulgence of the worst kind. Instead, a small high-pitched sound escapes you.
“And now me,” he says, low enough you almost miss it. “You’ll let me take these off, won’t you? You’ll let me see?”
“Mm,” you squeak with a nod.
His fingers hook into the waistband. You expect him to take them off quickly, like removing a band-aid.
“This is only for me,” he mutters as he lightly tugs at the fabric, inching the underwear down in a torturous lazy indulgence. “This is worship.”
You nod. “Anyone else would be sinful.”
“Mm. That’s right, angel. That’s good.”
Just before your twitching cunt is exposed to the room, he stops. You open your eyes and watch as he kneels beside the pew so he can guide your underwear down your legs and over your feet.
Then he stands.
He looks down at you.
And you watch as he brings the white cotton to his face and breathes in.
He turns and takes a few steps away. You watch him inhale again.
Then he shoves them into his pocket.
He stands there, with his back to you, lit by the candles at the entrance to the booth.
“Father?” you prompt after a long lingering silence.
His shoulders rise on a deep inhale, then he turns. He stands there, looking at you with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away that you can’t make out his expression in the darkness.
Even when you sit up, he doesn’t move.
You tug your dress down over your knees. “Did I—Did I do something wrong?”
He takes one step forward, the sole of his shoe squeaking over the stone tiles in his haste. But then he freezes again.
“No,” he answers simply.
You tilt your head, trying to make out his expression. The dark empty church seems bigger now. It’s dark corners seem darker. You resist turning around to check nothing is creeping from the dark while your back is turned. The cold starts to bite at you again. You miss him.
It’s only when you wrap your arms around yourself—much like you had when he’d found you on the bench—that he seems to break from whatever invisible string held him back. He surges towards you and drops to his knees at your feet. “Forgive me,” he pleads, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his forehead to your stomach.
Your red dress rides up to your thighs again. He takes the chance to invade the space between your thighs, gripping onto you like a lifeline.
“This is wrong,” he says, head still bowed, pressed against you. “Forgive me.” He grips the dress at your back in closed fists. “I gave in. You’re too sweet. I’ve never strayed before. Forgive—”
“I don’t understand.”
“—me. You’re—”
You shove at his shoulders.
It’s enough to halt his speech, but it does nothing to loosen his hold on you.
“Father?”
He looks up at you. Tortured. That’s how you’d describe the twist of his pretty features now. “I told myself I’d let myself have you once. That it’d be enough. That it’d fix it.” His fists flatten against your back. “But it won’t ever be enough,” he breathes. It leaves him like a confession. But instead of it making him lighter, he sags. His hands slide down to your hips, then a little further. He plays with the puddle of fabric where your dress bunches up at the top of your thighs. “I’m sick,” he mutters, sounding defeated.
“But it’s worship. It’s okay.”
He looks up at you from between your legs, through the hair that falls over his eyes—messier than you’ve ever seen it before. “Mm, it’s worship,” he says. “But it has nothing to do with God.”
You look over to the altar, then to the crucifix on the wall behind it.
Then, you look back at the man kneeling at your feet.
“It didn’t feel like sin.”
His eyes drop to your lips, and then his fingers wrap around your thighs, just below your hem. “No?” His hands warm your thighs where he touches you, squeezing and releasing you in a comforting rhythm. “It did for me, angel. So much I nearly lost myself to it. It was so easy. I’ve spent so long resisting you and all it took was a little confession, and I nearly had your—”
He swallows.
“I’m a bad man.”
You shake your head emphatically, quickly covering his hands with yours. “Don’t say that. Please.”
He looks down at your hands covering his own, lingering there, even when he speaks. “You should find a new church,” he says, entirely unmoving. “Or I’ll leave, if that makes it easier. I can leave.”
He sounds a little like he’s trying to convince himself at the end.
And when he shifts, attempting to pull himself to his feet, you panic. “No!” you cry, wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him back into you. You wrap your calves around him for good measure. “Please don’t leave me. Please? I’ll be good. I won’t bother you again. I swear I won’t bother you.”
He breathes heavily as you cling to him, forcing his head against you again.
Then, when the tension leaves his body, and you’re sure he’s not about the leap to his feet, you loosen your hold on him enough that he can look up at you. His hand lifts to your cheek. “You are good,” he says. “You’ve always been so good, and you’ve never bothered me. Never.”
“But—”
“I’ll give in,” he interrupts. “I’ll give in eventually. I want you so—” he sighs. “I’ll give in.”
Your eyes flick to the altar again. Just briefly.
A door was opened now, one you’d kept locked and buried deep inside you. His tongue between your lips had been the key to unlock it, and the prospect of him pulling away—of losing him—had swung it wide open on its hinges.
Nothing mattered more to you.
No one. Not even God mattered more than—“Caleb,” you whisper.
His eyes dart to yours. It’s the first time you’ve called him by name. You hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
He looks at you in a way that makes it immediately clear that you’d never truly seen his gentleness more. Not really. You suppose you’d seen part of it. Maybe a little sliver. But the way he looks at you now fills you with a desperation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A desperation to cling to him. He looks at you like he could offer you everything.
You couldn’t part from him now.
Not ever.
“Have you really thought of me before? In sin?”
He doesn’t look away when he answers. “Many times.”
Even after having his spit dribbling down your chin, you struggle to comprehend the idea of him… touching himself. Especially thinking of you. Was the man before you now really the same pious one you’d idolised all these years?
“And you asked for forgiveness?” you ask softly. It was comforting to imagine someone like him kneeling beside his bed in prayer the same way you had.
His eyes drop now, shame crossing his face.
He grips the bench either side of you and slumps forward, until all you can see of him is the soft brown hair at the crown of his head. Then, “No, I haven’t. Not for this. Not from Him.”
His breath tickles your thighs as you battle your confusion. It’d been a self-soothing search for comfort, not a genuine question. You hadn’t considered he might say no.
“I’ve never strayed before,” he says, head still lowered before you. “Not before you.” His arms move to your back again. He takes hold of your dress and tugs you forward until his head rests on your stomach. “You are my greatest sin,” he confesses, sounded closer to distress than you’d ever heard him. “I don’t understand it. I’ve sat as a helpless passenger as it’s wrapped itself around me—inside me.” He looks up, glassy eyes meeting yours. “You’re inside me.”
Your lips are slightly parted in awe—in stupor.
You weren’t alone in this feeling.
The door—unlocked by his touch—falls off it’s hinges entirely. You could never close it again.
With his glassy eyes still on you, you gently nudge your cardigan from your shoulders and let the warm fabric fall into a pile around your hips.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes widening slightly.
“I feel it too,” you answer, hushed. “I want to be wrapped around you. I want to feel you inside me.”
He shakes his head, and you feel his body tense, like he might try and escape again.
Quickly, you wrap your arms around his neck and fall forward, falling onto him. He keeps his balance for a moment, but gravity wins. He lands on his back, and you manage to cradle his head—preventing it making contact with the stone tile floor.
He’s entirely still.
“Caleb?” you whisper with a little tilt of your head, resting comfortably on top of him.
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Please—” He swallows. “Please, sweetheart. You shouldn’t—we can’t do this.”
It only takes a little adjustment for you to brush you lips over his. “Why?” you whisper.
His lips tickles yours as he speaks. “I’m sick,” he breathes. His hand glides up your back as he says it, until his fingers wrap around the back of your neck. “You make me sick.” His grip is firm now, fingertips making little indentations in your skin. “I’m supposed to guide you, protect your sweet soul as you walk through this sick world, and instead, I look at you, and all I think about is plucking you and keeping you. Greed and depravity and lust and—”
A little whimper from you silences him.
His eyes flick across your face, studying, and then he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—tugging just a little, then releasing you again. “I realised it when I couldn’t find you in the pews—when Gideon was absent too: it’s not just lust,” he continues, keeping his hold on you. “It’s anger, and violence, and jealousy. I feel it all.”
“Father…” you breathe into his mouth. “I don’t want anyone else to see me, or touch me.” Gently, you cradle his warm cheek in your palm. “No one but you.”
His nostrils flare slightly.
Then his hand drops from the back of your neck, leaving you entirely.
His eyes flick down your bodies, to where your thighs cradle his stomach. Then he turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, shaking it a little, like he’s trying to erase whatever thought his mind had conjured.
You sit up, straddling him. His stomach is firm beneath your palms and you shimmy down a little more, until you’re resting just above his belt.
His brows draw together as you roll your hips, bare pussy separated from his skin only by the cotton of his dark dress shirt. The friction of it feels a lot like your pillow had on nights you’d writhed against it and thought of him.
But you can feel his warmth, seeping through the fabric.
He must feels yours too.
It was your warmest place, after all.
His eyes open, and for a moment, he stares out into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks directly at you—watching as you move against him. Watching as your lips part and you let a few little sounds of pleasure slip out.
His shirt nudges higher with your rhythmic movement.
He does nothing to fix it.
He doesn’t move. Except for his eyes.
They move between your face and the red fabric covering your shame.
He knows his shirt is nudging higher.
He doesn’t look away.
And when it finally creeps high enough to allow you to drag your slippery pussy over his warm stomach for the first time, his hands snap to your hips.
He holds you so tightly, you are forced to halt your movement entirely.
“Stop it,” he scolds, stern.
You tilt your head. He says it like he hadn’t been watching, waiting—as if he hadn’t been anticipating the feel of your messy cunt against him.
“But I need—”
He sits up suddenly, supporting you with a hand to your back as you slip into his lap. “What?” he demands. “What do you need? You came for confession. You needed to confess and be heard. That’s my purpose. That’s what I am to you.”
“Are you angry with me?”
He leans forward, holding you firmly against him. “Why is your little flower all messy? Hm?”His eyes drop between your eyes and your lips, over and over. “What kind of girl rubs her juicy little cunt all over the priest who was supposed to protect her perfect, pure, sweet soul—on the floor of His Holy Sanctuary?”
He bites at your lip before you can even process the lewdness of his words. “Your body is a temple of worship,” he continues, a hint of anger still darkening his voice in a way you’d never heard before. He presses you into him, forcing your breasts to compress against his chest.
You didn’t need to wear a bra with this dress. It wrapped around you so perfectly that it supported you fine all on it’s own.
“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper. “I—I—” Tears swell in your eyes as you stutter, quickly breaching your lower lids and streaking down your cheeks.
As your vision blurs, your world tilts. Your back meets the hard floor gently, and the shape of him hovers above you—obscured by your tears. It all happens in one smooth motion.
And then, without another word, the sound of tearing fabric fills the empty church.
He tears the red fabric from your skin, split from the neckline down the centre of you.
Your chest rises and falls heavily in the stillness that follows.
He’s a blurry figure above you. You haven’t had time to blink away your tears.
His breathing is uneven and heavy, to match your own.
Then, as your vision starts to clear, he falls forward and wraps his warm lips around one of your nipples. There’s no build-up. He starts in a frenzy—a chaotic tandem of his wet swirling tongue interspersed with desperate feral suckling. It fills the echoing darkness with vulgar symphony.
It drags desperate whimpers from your lips. And when one of them sounds like a high, broken cry of his name, he surges into you—wrapping his arms around your back and tugging you a little off the floor and further into his mouth. He hums something around you, the muffled words vibrating around your nipples.
Your eyes lock on the crucifix behind him as he ravages your breasts, animalistic in his intensity. It felt like all-consuming reverence, adoration… worship.
It was worship.
Worship was good.
He was good.
You aren’t even aware you are doing it when you start muttering. It’s only when he detaches from you with gasping breaths and looks up into your eyes that you realise it.
What had you been saying?
Your nipples, wet with his spit, pebble tight in the frigid air.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
That was it.
You had been thanking him.
He sucks in a long shaky breath. Then, with his eyes fixed on yours, his large, warm hand cups your breast—covering it entirely. “These were made to nurture new life,” he begins. He’s all gentle, guiding authority figure now. This was how you’d always known him. He has the same cadence he used in the booth when he was offering up the Lord’s teachings. “They’re His perfect design.” He palms your breast, massaging it without hesitation or restraint. “Don’t you think it’s right—” He takes your other breast in hand and leans back a little so he can watch as he gropes you almost painfully. “—that we honour and cherish His perfect creation?”
He swings a leg over you, never ceasing his rough kneading. “Take it off,” he instructs, rolling his hips towards you. “Undo the buckle.”
His belt is hidden under his loose shirt. You fumble a little with it, half-blind. He doesn’t stop to help you. He plays with your breasts instead, looking down at you from above.
“That’s it,” he coos in gentle encouragement as you slip the leather through the loops at his waistband.
It’s only then that he lifts his hands from you.
He sits above you, one leg on either side of your body—holding his weight off you. And you watch as he unbuttons his shirt. The collar goes first. He tosses the white strip aside without looking at it’s landing place.
His pretty fingers work at the buttons.
He makes it about half-way.
Then he grips the fabric and tears. Buttons pop off and scatter across the stone around you.
And then he’s bare.
Muscle sculpts him like a living, breathing work of art. He’s— “Beautiful.”
His chest rises and falls heavily as he gazes down at you, head tilting a little as the word slips from your lips involuntarily.
“Mm?” he hums, falling forward over you. “What was that?”
When you avoid his gaze, he grips your jaw in his palm. “Touch me,” he says, “as I touched you. Worship Him through me. We are created in His image.”
He takes your hand, falls back on his heels, and lift you to your feet as he stands.
You are bare, and he is half-bare. Somehow, he feels taller than he ever had before.
Then he places your palm on his chest, flat against his warm skin. “This is my body,” he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God…” He quotes the passage as he guides your hands across his torso. “So we treasure it, and and honour Him through it.”
His stomach is firm under your palm, rising and falling shallowly as he guides you to the little trail of hair that disappearing down into his waistband. “Look at me,” he commands.
You obey, fingering brushing the hem of his underwear.
“I’m a bad man,” he says.
You shake your head, frowning. He was wrong. He wasn’t bad, he was everything good and safe and warm.
He catches your chin just as it dip downwards; as your attention is drawn to the movement at his hips. He keeps your eyes fixed on his as he undoes his fly with one hand. “I’m a bad man,” he repeats. “I want to fuck you,” he breathes, a little ragged now. “Pretty little virgin comes to her trusted priest asking for forgiveness and he lowers her to the cold floor, naked, and tells her he wants to shove his leaking cock deep inside her. Is that a bad man?”
You can’t respond. Not with the way he grips you.
“He tells her he wants her to kiss his throbbing cock. To worship him, like he was her god. He wants her to put him above all other gods, above her God. He’s a jealous man, without exception.” Fabric hits the floor, and slowly, he guides your hand into the elastic of his underwear. “He wants her on her knees, looking up at him with her sweet, devoted eyes, promising she’ll put no one else above him.” You gasp as he guides your fingers around him, hot and thick. “Is that a bad man?”
His other hand slides up your stomach to wrap around your breast, still wet from his spit.
“He wants to fill his pretty little angel with his hot cum, until she’s bred nice and full, and then when her pretty tits ache with sweet milk—” He squeezes at your breast as he speaks, over and over. “—he wants to suck at her until it dribbles down his chin. Is that a bad man?”
He leans down and places a gentle kiss to your lips. “He wants her to call him Father when he’s inside her,” he whispers. “He wants her to cry as she sucks at his cock with her naughty little cunt because she knows it’s bad.” He squeezes your hand around his erection. “You know it’s bad, don’t you, angel?”
One shaky breath. Two. Then you nod.
He lips curve into a little smile, proud. “Good girl,” he whispers. Then he steps away from you, separating you from him.
You take a small step to follow.
“No.”
You freeze, wobbling a little on your feet in your haste to obey.
“Go lay down on the steps and spread your legs.”
Your eyes flick to the stairs leading up the pulpit, then back to him.
You rock on your feet again, this time in hesitation.
The stone is cold on the soles of your feet. If you stood there long enough, they might go numb.
But the steps are covered in a dark, red carpet.
He takes a small step towards you. “Didn’t you come here to confess? Hm? Show me. I need to see the part of you that aches for me.”
His eyes heat your skin as you slip past him and climb the steps. There’s only a few.
He’s closer when you turn.
And he’s entirely bare.
He stands in the candlelight, just in front of the first pew, watching you—waiting for your obedience. And as you lower yourself onto the steps, leaning back to prop yourself up on your elbows, his hand wraps around himself.
You can still feel the heat of him in your palm.
“Spread your legs,” he commands.
“Mm,” you nod. “Yes, Father.” Then you drop your knees, exposing your messy centre to his hungry eyes and the cold air. He’s silent as your cunt clenches around nothing, wanting. He strokes over himself in gentle twists, base to tip—eyes locked on your offering.
“Are you going to ask me what I think?” He doesn't look up from between your legs as he speaks. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t? For help?”
You nod, readjusting yourself on your elbows a little.
He closes the distance between you and lowers himself onto his knees on the bottom step. “I can see it clenching,” he murmurs. “Greedy. Hm? Is it greedy, angel?”
Your lips quiver as you suck in a shaky breath.
“Mm,” he hums. “Tell me why you touch it. Help me understand.”
“I don’t know,” you mutter with a shake of your head.
“You’ll tell me the truth,” he orders. It’s not like earlier, in the booth—when he was still the man you’d thought you’d known these past two years. He’s all stern authority now. There’s no doubt. You will tell him the truth.
“Felt empty,” you confess in a little whine and roll of your hips. “I felt so empty.”
He leans closer. “Yeah? Poor little baby. A virgin with an achy little hole…” His fingers wrap around your ankle. “Empty,” he mutters. "So proud of you for coming to me,” he says as he strokes up your calf in a comforting caress. You struggle not to squeeze your thighs together, tortured by the lack of friction and the pulse of your cunt under his lingering gaze.
Then he lowers himself down between your legs. His finger strokes the skin just around where you want him most. “Sweetheart,” he breathes. “You need filling with the Holy Spirit. You’re all empty, yeah? You came to me because you knew I could fix it? Because I can fill you?”
He’s asking you a question, but he’s focused entirely on your twitching pussy as you flinch under this teasing touches. There is no logic to his questioning regardless. He’s consumed by the lust you share—slave to it.
“Who better to fill you than me?” he mutters as his fingertip dips into your hole. It’s barely a prod, easing back again as soon as your soft entrance offers a little resistance.
“Just for you…” you breathe.
“Hm?” He looks up. “What was that?”
“Only want you.”
He crawls over you slowly, forcing you to look into his eyes as he asks, “Me? Yeah? You came to your priest to fill your empty little pussy?”
“Forgive me,” you whisper.
He brushes his knuckles from your temple down to your chin. “I’ll help you, angel.” His lips brush over yours. “My angel…”
When he climbs off you and stands to his feet, a tiny part of your brain fires off in panic—afraid of him leaving you. But then his pretty fingers wrap around the thick length as it bobs above you. “It needs anointing,” he says with a gravely darkness in his voice.
He towers above you, skin glowing golden as the candlelight bounces off him. The same strong fingers that gripped the Holy Book high above his head each Sunday glide over the length of him as he looks down upon you.
He takes one step backward, down the steps. “On your knees,” he instructs. His aim becomes clear as he takes one step closer again, levelling himself at the perfect height for your mouth. “Tell me,” he prompts. “Where do you want to kiss me?”
On a shaky breath, you exhale, “Your cock, Father.”
You watch his closed fist stroke over his length, from the base to the tip. There’s a little shine there, at the end of it, leaking from the slit. “Alright, angel. Anoint my cock with your drool, hm?” He lets go of it, and you watching it bob a little—heavy. Looking up at him for reassurance, you level yourself with the head and touch your lips to him tentatively. One gentle kiss. “That’s it,” he coos. So you place another to his skin, right at the very tip. It bobs a little as he shifts his weight. Then you dip your tongue out, catching a little of the shine at the slit.
A bird calls in the night as it flies somewhere nearby.
His head drops back.
“This is what you needed,” he sighs. “This is what you came to me for. Isn’t it?”
You nod with a hum as you take the tip of him between your lips, tongue working in clumsy little swirling flicks—confidence building.
“Good girl,” he praises, looking down at you again. “Oh, my good girl. Just play with it. Just like that. Sweet little kisses for Father’s cock. Oh, Fuck. Oh God,” he groans.
He slips from your lips as you startle a little, looking up at him. The vulgarity had become your new normal. But this was new.
“What is it, baby?” he coos, stroking your hair. “I shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m sorry.” He takes his cock in hand as he apologises, standing on the steps of the pulpit, in the empty church where he gives his sermon each Sunday.
No one else would ever see him like this. He was too good. He was loved and trusted and righteous. And his cock was wet with your spit.
When you stand to your feet at his guidance, he still towers over you from the step down.
“Are you gonna put it inside me now?” you question with a little tilt of your head.
He takes one step down and runs his fingers through his hair. For a brief moment, it almost looks like he comes back to himself—to the version of him that almost left you—good and virtuous. It fights to take over.
So you take one step towards him.
He takes a step down again, in return, away from you.
“I’m so empty, Father,” you whine, slipping your fingers down between your legs. “Need you to fill me up again. Please.”
A further step down has him standing on the stone tiles.
So you lower yourself onto the steps again, leaning back and parting your thighs.
He stands there as you play with yourself, slipping your fingers through your slick until your clit is as sloppy as the fluttering entrance you leak from.
His heavy cock twitches as you watch each other. He doesn’t touch it.
“Please, Father,” you plead with a half-sob, on the edge of tears. “My pussy…”
He takes a small step towards you and pauses again.
“I know it’s bad,” you continue, somewhere between a sob and a whine. “It’s wicked. My naughty pussy wants to worship your cock, Father. Wanted it so long. I think about it during mass. I imagine you inside me. I come every week for you.” You dip your finger inside yourself, whimpering a little. “Don’t you want me?”
His chest rises and falls heavily as he approaches. He’s slow, like a predator stalking.
“So bad,” he mutters as he lowers himself onto the steps between your legs.
He watches as you play with yourself, messy and clumsy.
“Sent to tempt me,” he continues muttering as his fingers wrap around himself again. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Are you from the Devil? Made to look like a perfect little angel? Is that it?” His hand strokes along his whole length, base to tip, over and over in a slight twisting action as he speaks. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”
It sounded right. Made for him. You’d never wanted anyone else.
He lowers himself over you before you can answer.
“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he warns. “It’ll get worse and worse. I can feel it. This obsession.”
His forehead drops to yours. And with your eyes closed and his warmth over you, the slick tip of him slides over you for the first time. You want to kiss him, but he doesn’t let you get close. Instead, he breathes into your mouth as his tip collects all the slick between your folds and spreads it in an obscene mess between your thighs. “This belongs to me. Only I get to fill your greedy little pussy, yeah?”
His lips brush yours.
“No one else touches it. No one else looks at it.” He prods at your virgin hole, indulging in the sweet spongy heat that presses back at him. “This is worship,” he breathes. “You’ll suck me inside your sweet cunt, all needy and sweet and looking at me like you do in Communion. You’ll worship me. Above all else.” A chaste kiss. “Then I’ll flood you with cum, so you’re nice and full, yeah? Does that sound nice?”
“Inside,” you plead as you squirm, trying to take him in as he slips over you again and again.
He breathes into your neck as he prods at you a little harder. “You gotta let me inside. Can feel you sucking at me. Take me inside, sweet girl. Come on.”
He kisses your neck as you try to take him, letting your muscles go slack under him as he eases inside you over and over. “There you go,” he mumbles. “Fuck, that’s it. Perfect fucking cunt. Mine.”
It’s just the tip of him. It fills the ache beyond anything you’d managed with your fingers. His breath, his voice, his warmth, and his thick hot cock stretching your walls open.
It’s enough to drag tears from you again.
He kisses them away as they wet your cheeks.
“You’re inside. Inside me.”
His brows draw together as you squeeze at him, clenching rhythmically.
“Thank you, Father,” you whisper.
He groans, and then he shifts, and impossibly, he fills you further—spearing apart your walls until it feels like you might look down and see the shape of him in your belly.
“We shouldn’t—” he mutters. “Forgive me.” His hips drag back, and then he’s pressing into you again. “Forgive me.” He bites at your earlobe. “Naughty pussy. Naughty girl. Desperate for her priest to fill her with cock. Fuck. Fuck, you feel so good.”
“This is sex,” you mewl.
He bites into you, feral, and the obscene slap of skin echoes from the pulpit steps as his hips slam into yours. “This is sex,” he answers, breathless. “This is what you wanted. You wanted to suck on my cock with your perfect little cunny. You wanted to be full of me, hm? This is what you wanted.”
“He’ll forgive us,” you whisper into his ear. “I’m made for you. He made me for you. How can it be wrong?”
“Yeah?” he rasps, looking a little frenzied when he lifts his head to find your eyes. “You made for me?”
“Can’t you feel it?” you ask with a roll of your hips.
You watch his eyes flutter shut.“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart, I feel it. Wrap around me so perfect.” He grinds into you, indulging in the feeling of your walls rippling around him in desperate waves. “I’m keeping you. You’re mine now. My pretty girl. Mine to fuck, and kiss—” He licks at your jaw. “—and breed.” He drops his weight onto you, smothering you in his heat. “Gonna keep you safe and warm. All mine.”
“Do you think He’s watching?” you whisper in his ear.
He groans into your neck. “Tell me who you were thinking of,” he orders, low and gravelly. “When you looked up at me during Communion. Tell me.”
“You.”
He draws his hips back and begins fucking you just with his tip in shallow little rocking thrusts. “No one else before me, hm?” he prods as you clench rhythmically around him, attempting to draw him back in. “You worship me with this cunt. Only me.”
You nod desperately, emphatically. “Only you.”
Pleased, he sinks back inside you with a low groan.
All your life you’d believed your body was a temple of the Lord; that you were filled with His Spirit; that you carried Him inside you always.
But you’d been empty. You’d been so, so empty. Longing to fill the cold, hollowness inside you. You’d desperately returned to this church week after week, believing the man at the pulpit was merely a messenger between you and your heavenly God. Believing your fixation was your failure—that he was temptation, and only in submission to God could you be delivered from him.
But with his cum anointing your skin, and his large warm body sheltering you from the cold, you know the truth of it all: anything, or anyone, which worked to separate you from him, could be nothing but the greatest evil. He was your salvation. And nothing would come before him.
Your face is quickly wet with tears again as you roll against each other in the dark, empty church—indulging in your mutual worship. His mouth adorns your neck in messy kisses as you mutter in his ear: praising him, worshiping him. You can’t stop, desperate to release the intensity of your adoration upon him.
And when he cradles your cheek in his hand and gazes down at you from above, you see it in his eyes: love, devotion. “My good girl,” he breathes.
How the lads boys handle you attending a girl’s night out.
(ft. Zayne, Sylus, Caleb)
**MDNI 18+**
cw: slightly modern! au, drunk sex, rough play, car sex, oral (f! receiving) spit play, choking, caleb is his own warning *pseudocest*, slight BDSM, roleplay, p in v sex, anal play, double penetration, fingering, dacryphilia, spanking, overstimulation, squirting, sliiight breeding kink of you squint, everything is consensual <3
a/n: lowk went a bit overboard with caleb bc i’m insane about him :P this is my first work i’ve put out in like ten years LMFAO- crying n throwing up but pls enjoy!!!!
wc: 16.2k wooof
-dividers are from @/cursed-carmine ty ty!!
Zayne - 911!
Pushing through the sea of crammed, sweaty bodies was already enough to make the poor, overworked doctor’s temple throb with annoyance. You said you’d be waiting outside for him, which he already knew you wouldn’t- anticipating that you’d lose track of time and completely forget that he was coming to pick you up judging by the slur of your sweet voice over the phone not even an hour prior.
It was your best friend’s birthday. What kind of friend would you be if you hadn’t agreed to go clubbing for your sweetest girl’s special day?
You weren’t willing to find out, that’s for sure. You called your sweet doctor, letting him know to not worry about having to stay late at Akso due to complications with a couple of his patients seeing as you finally had plans with your girls. He was pleased at first with the decision, understanding that it was your closest friend’s birthday and you yourself deserved to let loose- being such a dedicated and hard worker yourself it was rare to have plans with your friends to get so excited for.
It was when the snowman finally broke through the crowd that he found you tucked away with your closest gal pals- drink in one hand while swaying your delectably full hips in hypnotic circles as your excuse of a dress rode up dangerously high- that any contentment in Zayne’s brain immediately disappeared and turned into something darker.
You were unbelievable- he couldn’t deny that much. Ethereal in your most authentic state, you danced like nothing else mattered while your friends circled around you like a true hype squad. Your smile was bright, cheeks pink with a deep flush and your hair just slightly stuck to your warm skin. You looked ravishing to the doctor in a tight, dusty blue and silver sparkling mini dress. What had him reeling though, was the significant dip in the back of the dress, showcasing the beautiful curve of your spine as you moved and grooved to the beat.
That annoying throb in his forehead deepened and quickly shot somewhere down south, and suddenly the club was rising in temperature despite his evol desperately trying to cool him off. This was a sight that he for more than selfish reasons needed to cut short. For the safety of everyone in the tight space- it was time to call it a night.
You were in a trance, loudly singing off tune to the song blasting in the club’s speakers when suddenly two large hands placed themselves on your hips. Your reaction time was slightly delayed, but you managed to swing yourself around as your mouth began to spit vicious threats.
“BACK OFF! DUNNO WHO Y’THINK YOU ARE TOUCHIN’ ME LIKE THAT BUT M’MARRIED! BETTER BACK UP BEFORE I CALL HIM- ohhhhh heyyyyy babyyyyyy!”
Your sweet smile only grew as a fit of laughter overtook you, putting your drink down before wrapping your arms around the taller man and hugging him tight. From this angle, Zayne’s emerald gaze dropped low to land directly on your soft cleavage that was squished right up against his hard torso. He scoffed to himself~ clearly the front of the dress matches the back.
You didn’t notice the clear tension in his dark gaze, or the way his grip was tightening on your hips the longer he processed the outfit choice you’ve been sporting all night. “Married, huh?” He teased, a familiar swell grew in his chest over your absentminded upgrade to your relationship title. You could only bat your lashes up at him with that signature glossy pout you used specifically when you wanted to get your way. “Y’wanna dance with me?” You purred and pawed at his muscular chest, still clad in his work attire minus the white coat- he’d come straight from Akso.
His glasses inched just slightly down the sharp bridge of his nose, and your half lidded eyes caught it- taking the opportunity to trail your manicured fingers up the broad expanse of his chest, nails ghosting over the warm skin of his neck and jaw teasingly before gently pushing them back into place with surprising accuracy. A mischievous smirk pulling at your plump lips.
He swallowed, meeting your eyes before swiftly spinning you out of the way of a couple of guys that were drunkenly stumbling into your little snow globe of space. Your body swung with ease and you squealed in delight, clutching his thick biceps with the movement. “C’monnn Zaynie,” you begged before he firmly shook his head. His annoyance was throbbing deeper, between taking in your devastating appearance and taking in the way the other men on the dance floor were also staring you down like they could see through the little blue and silver number you deemed appropriate for the night- he was determined to get you out of here and to the privacy of his car asap.
“We can dance our hearts out another night, my love. Come on, say goodbye so we can go home.” He nudged you while politely waving a farewell to your group of friends that seemed quite intrigued by the obviously jealous expression plastered on your boyfriend’s typically calm face. Grinning at you like they all knew the end to your fairytale of a night before you’d even made it to the climax, they offered overzealous waves and cheers of having a goooood night.
Every drink you had tonight hit you all at once as your bare back slid against the cool leather of Zayne’s passenger seat. You only then realized how short your dress was, riding up your thick thighs until the tiniest peak of your white thong was visible to not only your eyes but also the dark emeralds that peered down right at the same time as he buckled you in.
He was quick to shut the door on you and take the long way to the driver’s door, leaving you to stew in your own buzzed nerves. He got in and started driving, avoiding looking over at your half lidded gaze while still being painfully aware of your every movement.
There was a warmth buzzing in the thickening air of the car, despite how short of a drive it was to his apartment- you each felt like you were going to suffocate from the charged tension between the two of you. You plucked your heels off while shifting to face the doctor in the driver’s seat, your back pressing against the warm glass of the window as your feet came up and perched on top of the center console. “Mm, Zaynie,” you huff out while chewing on your bottom lip and savoring the faint vanilla flavor from your gloss.
You were taking all of him in- well, not ALL of him, and that was an entirely new issue. Your eyes bounced between the terribly sharp features of his profile and the way the dark fabric of his dress shirt was straining against his biceps. A deeper craving to feel those bare muscles brush against your skin caused your plush thighs to squeeze together firmer. The longer you stared, the better your memory served you. It was good enough to vividly imagine the feeling of his rough, precise hands squishing and squeezing the fat of your ass while the fat head of his cock crammed itself into your needy hole from behind- you needed to relive this memory immediately.
“What is it? Sit properly in your seat, please. Sitting like that can be dangerous.” His voice was stern, and you could tell his patience was thinning. You grinned to yourself, inching your feet closer to his warm lap while he drove. Maybe if you gave him a little push, he’d surely give you what you wanted, right? A certain wave of confidence that came exclusively on nights like tonight crashed over you and you folded your arms around your chest, your elbows subtly pushing your plump tits together and offering the man next to you a more amplified view of your cleavage.
“Somethin’s wrong, Zaynie. Think I need to see a doctor-” you’re growing breathless from your own arousal dominating your senses, but your bait was easily snagged as he finally turned to look at you once the car stopped at the red light. His expression was sexily concerned, eyes jumping around to find the cause of your statement as well as drink in your appearance.
“What do you need a doctor for? I’m right here, what’s wrong?” His voice, laced with concern almost makes you feel guilty for worrying him- but you can’t bring yourself to care when he’s looking at you like that.
“Doctor Zayne, It hurts. ’m so wet it hurts,”
You spread your thighs as you spoke to reveal the white lace of your thong was now basically transparent from how damp they were with your slick. Zayne’s soul caught in his throat as he slightly choked at the sight alone, making out the exact shape of your pretty, puffy lips weeping against the fabric. He grit his teeth when he felt your little feet brush softly against the growing tent in his dress slacks, feeling completely helpless for a moment behind the wheel. To make matters worse, you held your needy gaze on the doctor’s darkening gaze, bringing two of your own fingers down to tease your own slit over your panties.
“Sweetheart-” Zayne was absolutely dumbfounded by your boldness. The bottoms of your feet stroked and caressed his length with fever as you tugged the soaked fabric to the side, exposing your glistening heat with a breathy whine from your chest. “Make it better, please? Always take such good care of me. Wanna feel you inside me~”
You were a little temptress, a succubus just dying to feed on his soul through his cock- and he found himself more turned on than he’s ever been in his life.
Of course the two of you have always had an agreement to take care of each other even in the event of one of you being more inebriated than the other and it’s worked out great so far- you’ve built a strong enough trust amongst each other not only in your relationship, but through the fact you’ve known each other since childhood. Still, a distant pang of guilt tugged in his chest, he never wanted to take advantage of you.
But you were stubborn, and Zayne knew better than anyone that if you were willing to slut yourself out in his passenger seat like this- it was only going to get worse from here if he didn’t stop you now.
Your skin was on fire, your free hand shot to your chest but before you could free one of your breasts his strong hands were gripping you tight. One hand grasping both of your ankles to stop your feet from their assault on his straining cock while the other captured your wrist that was reaching for your chest. His chest was heaving as he leaned slightly towards you, eyes narrowed down angrily at your shocked expression. You gasped at the sudden sharpness of his movements, heart pounding in your throat and between your sticky thighs as you met his glare.
“Misbehaving like this in the car isn’t going to get you anywhere you want to be tonight. I advise you to behave accordingly and sit properly like a good girl for the remainder of the drive.”
You couldn’t suppress the pout that pulled at your lips as he shifted your feet back over to your side of the front once the stoplight turned green again. You folded into yourself at first, seemingly defeated while your boyfriend white knuckled the steering wheel as he drove even faster than he was, set on wherever his mind was.
Then you could feel that defiant urge sparking up in your chest.
After a moment of tense silence, his cold voice ran warm down your spine once you placed your feet up on the dashboard in front of you. “Maybe if you behave tonight, i’ll give you what you want in the morning. You just can not cause such a distraction when i’m trying to drive.” He didn’t want to be so harsh with you, knowing how needy you’ve grown-, especially from the fact that both of your schedules have been too busy to take care of each other’s needs in the last week.
He’s even found himself feeling equally needy even without the drinks, craving the sweet taste of your syrupy slick straight from the source- and the feeling of your thighs squeezing the sides of his head like the softest pair of ear muffs he’s ever worn. He misses that dip in your spine when you arched your plush ass up into the air for him.
The same dip in your spine that everybody in the club was gawking at all night.
Your eyes widened over his words and your heart sank initially, in the morning!? As in, he won’t touch you until MORNING!??! Oh hell no. You made your choice then and there, if he was going to pull this card and leave you as needy as you were, then you would make it the most regretful decision of his life.
“Don’t then,” you pouted out angrily, letting your eyes fall down to where your inner thighs glistened with your never ending arousal. You felt your skin buzz with excitement hearing his confused breath, dragging your nails down to the hem of your dress before slightly pulling the fabric high enough to fully expose yourself.
“Excuse me?” His eyes were so trained on the road he was missing your little ministrations, only when he heard the distinct squelch! did his head snap over to find you knuckle deep in your own little cunt, back arching off the leather like it burned you. You were panting, pushing your smaller fingers as deep as they could go in your pulsing walls, pretty brows pinched together in concentration while you pulled your thighs back to press against your chest for a deeper reach. The lewd sounds of your arousal splashing against your fingers began flooding the car and you ground your hips down to chase the burning friction- giving your boyfriend the sluttiest view of you that he’s ever seen. You needed to cum no matter what it took, you didn’t pay any mind to the glare Zayne’s eyes were burning into you.
“Don’t look then. Since y’don’t wanna fuck me, gonna fuck m’self,” your free hand boldly reached across the front seat to push at Zayne’s burning hot cheek in an attempt to tear his eyes away from you. Your fingers thrusted harder and the most diabolical whine left your throat, harmonizing with the symphony of your juices dripping down your wrist and all over the leather seat. It was quite the thrill, you could get off just from the sight of him watching you with that furious tick in his jaw-, you’ve really done it in for yourself now. Knowing his patience was being pushed to its limits, you grinned to yourself as you pulled your fingers out to gawk at how your skin glistened with your creamy slick.
Proud of yourself, you brought your digits to your waiting tongue and lewdly sucked off your essence like honey- moaning at the sweet taste before dipping back in to drag yourself closer to the edge. Your thighs were throbbing, as was your boyfriend’s length at the sight of you. You were insatiable, on your absolute worst behavior tonight and despite how aggravated he was with your blatant defiance, he couldn’t deny the carnal need to put you back in your place brewing in his gut.
Before you knew it, the car was parked and you were ripped from the passenger seat and thrown over a shoulder with an excessive force that to anybody else would have looked like the beginning of some true crime horror story. The wind was knocked out of your lungs-, but you grinned wickedly to yourself as Zayne stormed up into his apartment, balancing you on one of his bulky shoulders. Anyone else awake at this hour would be so worried seeing this display, but worry is the last emotion to cross your mind-
You’re exactly where you want to be.
“Hah- Where do you think you’re going? Fuck, be a big girl now, you asked for this after all.”
Zayne’s hips were relentless, slamming against your ass from behind with no sign of slowing down despite the two of you having been at this for what’s felt like hours. His thick cock was taking its anger out on your poor cervix, slamming against it with every thrust and it had you biting down on the disheveled sheets below you. Your arms were bound behind your back by a piece of rope saved for special nights when you got yourself into trouble like tonight, wrists tied together tightly enough to feel the material dig into your skin with every movement~ surgeons always did tie the best knots. Your legs felt like jelly, only able to keep your ass up in the air thanks to your boyfriend’s strong grip on the plush of your round hips.
“A-Ah, please, m’sorry, fuuuuckkk~” your attempt at an apology is cut short when one of his large hands moves from your hip to push your spine into a deeper, meaner arch. You were a pathetic mess below him, drool and tears mixing together to soak the sheets even worse than they already were from your multiple orgasms prior. Your gummy walls were sucking him in deeper and deeper despite your pleas for him to slow down- you loved making him so mad he’d treat you like his personal fuck toy, you just couldn’t bring yourself to admit it.
“No you’re fucking not, haah-, you know exactly what you did. Now, stop running.”
To hear Zayne curse like this was a telltale sign he was just as delirious as you, drunk and losing himself in the sight of his fat cock dragging iiiinnnn and oouuttt of your sopping wet hole. The way your ass clapped so loudly with every thrust had your face burning, but the doctor behind you was absolutely enamored with the sight.
“Mnnh, c-can’t, I-I- ohmygooooodddd, s’too much!Zaynie pl-please!!” You wailed out when the hand that had pushed you further down trailed back to your ass, giving it yet another sharp spank that cracked loudly in the room~ you were gonna be so bruised after this. His palm came down once more for another mean spank before reaching for your wrist restraints and tugging you up until your arched spine met the hot, hard muscles of his torso.
You squealed at the new angle that allowed the crown of his cock to grind even deeper against your constricting walls, feeling his labored breath in your ear once he brought his face to the crook of your neck. You peered over at him through your blurry vision, his hair was an unkempt mess, some dark strands sticking to his forehead as his eyes stayed locked in on your fucked out expression.
The hand that had tugged you back to him wrapped around your waist to hold you steady as he continued to rut into you from behind while his free hand reached around to get between your sticky thighs and pinch at your throbbing clit. His fingers were so precise, giving your sensitive bud the friction you didn’t realize it was craving. You trembled below him, a string of sobs heaving from your chest as you turned your head away from him in an attempt to try and escape him somehow.
“You can. Give me this last one and we’ll call it a night. Show me you’re sorry and be my good girl one more time.”
His gentle voice rang gruff in your ears while his fingers kept working your clit to the pace of his thrusts. He leaned back on his heels just the slightest bit to take in the entire sight of you while he fucked you like it was the last time. Taking in the way your shoulders trembled with every sob, the way your ass jiggled and recoiled with every slam! of his hips, the strings of your sticky arousal that absolutely drenched the base of his cock and kept him connected to the back of your thighs. You were thoroughly worn out, he knew this.
Nobody knew your physical limits better than your doctor, after all. But he also knew you still had just enough juice for one last orgasm, he craved the feeling of your tight walls suffocating his length one last time. You could do it, he was sure of it.
Your heart pounded in your chest when you felt the familiar pressure in your lower abdomen flare up suddenly, tensing up before a sudden slap! on your clit paired with his swollen tip grinding against your g-spot for the umpteenth time had you fucking soaking the sheets. Your limbs gave out on impact, dropping like dead weight while squirting all over Zayne’s cock as you came hard.
Zayne, who was still locked in a trance at the sight of you completely debauched below him, felt his abs clench tight as the sweet burn of his own release was finally approaching. “Fuck, that’s r-right. That’s my girl. Take what I- hah- give you, baby.” He crammed himself to the hilt before shooting his thick, hot load deep in your womb, groaning out a string of curses while his fingers dug bruises into your damp skin.
It was euphoric- filling you up with his cum until it dribbled out around his girth, completely overfilling you. You became incoherent, whining a soft, sleepy “thank you” as your teary eyes rolled to the back of your head in a sleepy bliss. His hands quickly dropped in temperature, utilizing his evol to soothe the deep ache in your body as he smoothed over your sore muscles.
There was a deep satisfaction that stirred within him as he gently pulled out of you with a sigh, moving to untie your wrists before stepping away to grab a wash cloth to clean you up with. You rolled over onto your side, completely out of breath but too exhausted to chase it as you waited for him. He cleaned you softly, pressing sweet kisses into your skin as he resumed massaging your tender skin.
“You did so well,” his voice is soft, and warm against your skin and it had you purring like a cat as you snuggled deeper into the fresh blankets he’d brought you. “Mmh, love you, Zaynie,” you just barely make out in a whisper as he pushes himself up to grab you fresh pajamas from his closet.
He let his eyes drift over to your already snoring figure, asleep and stretched across his bed, a small smile forcing its way to tug at his lips. This was a sight that would always feel like the first time all over again, making his heart jump into his throat from how beautiful you were to him.
He knew all along this was where the night would end up, the way you’d grown so bratty tonight was a lesson learned for him as well as it was for you.
A lesson for him that he should definitely start saying no to these late night overtime shifts to preserve and nurture his relationship with you and prevent this much frustration boiling over like this again~
And a lesson for you that you should have girl’s night out more often~
Sylus - Playtime!
It was one of those nights where the aether core in Sylus’s eye was causing quite the trouble to his otherwise peaceful evening. He was at his desk, hunched over a stack of paperwork with his face in his hands, trying to fit off the burning desire that relentlessly grew in his chest. He was hungry, starving even.
And you were nowhere to be found in the base.
He knew you’d had plans, your little coworkers planned some sort of bar crawl as a way to bond and you were excited. He found it to be a waste of time, but refused to overstep- knowing you’d eventually grow bored and come crawling back as you often did whenever you tried to go out of your comfort zone with nights out like this. The fiend always found these little escapades especially irritating on the nights where his soul longed for yours.
His eye throbbed with frustration and he sighed deeply to himself, leaning back in his chair to stare out at the empty space of his office. He contemplated for a moment, would it be so bad to have you come over in the middle of your little “girl’s night”?
Before he finished his own thought his phone pinged with a very specific notification. Then again. And again.
Kitten: miss u
Kitten: cmere
Kitten: *image attachment*
Sylus opened up his phone to find a selfie of you in what looked to be a more underground bar. The lighting was low, his eyes trailed over the way the shadows stretched across your skin, emphasizing the deep flush across your complexion. He grinned to himself, you were definitely drunk right now. You gave the camera a kissy face and he could make out you were wearing his favorite shade of lip gloss, red. With your eyes half lidded, you had the camera tilted just enough for him to gawk at the swell of your chest, cleavage practically spilling out of your black corset top.
Despite how happy he was to have a current photo of you enjoying yourself, and knowing you missed him as well- his eye began to throb with more fervor. His craving for you burned hot enough to set his entire estate ablaze, maybe it would be safer for him to not see you tonight like this. Maybe he should just sleep his desires off, he can’t trust himself to not push you too far if he were to get his hands on you, especially if you’re already drunk.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, massaging the skin there while weighing all of his options before typing with his free hand.
Your phone buzzed in your lap as you sat in the smaller booth with your coworkers, listening to them ramble on about their recent dating adventures. These girls were super cool, but something about tonight kept your mind drifting back to those deep red irises that you were sure were waiting for you back at Onychinus. You sent your boyfriend a cute selfie, hoping it would get him to take little break from working and come scoop you up.
Looking down at your phone you see his name pop up and slightly frown at the messages you read.
Sy: my beautiful kitten, you look stunning tonight
Sy: what a shame it is for me to be so far away. I don’t know that it would be a good idea for me to come get you. i’m having a slight inconvenience getting in the way of my evening. do you need a ride home? I can send the boys to come get you
Slight inconvenience?
Your sense of judgement is obviously not in its prime at the moment, but somewhere in your gut you have a feeling he isn’t being exactly truthful. You ponder his response for a bit, meanwhile he’s back in his office staring down at his phone with a sense of guilt tugging at him. He should just be honest with you, to give you an actual choice instead of assuming he’ll be too much for you. But he knows himself, he knows how carried away he gets with you- and with you also being drunk adds in an entirely different layer.
Of course the two of you have had plenty of drunk sex. The two of you go through about 3 bottles of wine alone over most dinners you both share, but he knows how you get as well. You’re a force to be reckoned with when you get drunk, and you forget your own limits. He can’t risk hurting you tonight, he nods his head to himself as if he’s made up his mind- he can’t see you. That’s it. He rubs his large palms over his face in exhaustion before dragging his eyes back to the paperwork in front of him.
Then his phone pings again, as if on queue.
He opens his phone, eyes immediately widening at the messages on his screen.
Kitten: 2 bad. i’m inconvenienced too
Kitten: *image attachment*
Kitten: gonna have to take care of this all by myself :(
Sylus was absolutely shocked, staring at a photo you scandalously took in the bathroom of your pretty pussy from under your leather skirt. Of course you weren’t wearing any panties- your puffy folds glistened with your sweet arousal while two of your smaller fingers spread them open enough to show off your weeping hole. God, your nails were red too- he groaned at the sight of his favorite color adorning your pretty, long nails, his cock throbbing harder than his aether core as he inspected your little photo. You’re so wet- are you able to feel his desire from where you’re at? Do you know how bad he’s suffering? Did you send that to taunt him? Did you want him to suffer even worse?
Without another moment, his fingers were swiping away from the photo and Luke and Kieran were sent an urgent demand to deliver you to the base immediately.
This won’t do, you won’t be getting away with torturing him like this while you enjoy your little night out.
Your phone buzzed as you stepped, more like stumbled, out of the bathroom. The air around you reeked of cheap liquor and only added to the thrill you felt of sending such a bold picture to try and get your boyfriend’s attention. No slight inconvenience will keep him away from your pretty pussy, right? You proudly shuffled towards the booth where all of your coworkers were sat, giggling to each other over some hookup story when you finally looked down at your phone.
Sy: 10 minutes. Be outside.
You couldn’t grin harder if you tried. So beyond proud of yourself for getting the big bad leader of Onychinus to fold so quickly for you. You began to bid farewells and had one last group shot, before stumbling your way out of the little hole in the wall bar you’d spent the last hour in. Your hips swayed a little heavier once the outside air brushed against your skin, your bright and prideful ego immediately deflated once your eyes landed on the twins that stuck their heads out of the familiar black sports car.
What are they doing here? Why isn’t Sylus here to pick you up?
What was once pride sharply turned into fear when Luke helped you get into the backseat and you noticed slight unease across his softer features. Nobody said anything for the first few minutes, it gave the alcohol in your system enough time to amplify your nerves enough to finally make you ask the obvious.
“Ummm, where’s Sy?”
Neither of them looked back at you as Kieran drove, Luke awkwardly scratched at his neck with a nervous chuckle. “So, let’s just say that boss man sent us instead because he isn’t too well tonight.”
Your eyes narrowed, leaning forward in the back seat to grip on the oh-shit handle as you pressed further. “Isn’t well how?” You were on the edge of your seat, literally, as Luke continued scratching at his skin.
“He says his eye has been bugging him all day, he’s kinda been in the worst mood ever because of it.” He muttered, Kieran nodding in agreement from the driver’s seat.
You leaned back in your seat, heart starting to pound between your thighs. His eye- the aether core specifically, you know it only bugs him for one thing. Your brain tracks back to how every time his aether core has acted up you’ve ended up being the one in recovery for at least 2-3 business days. Your brain also tracks back to what you’d last sent him, not knowing what he was dealing with and once your brain puts the equation together of what you were on your way to-
A tiny grin tugged once more at the corners of your lips.
You were so fucked.
Arriving at Onychinus, your black heels clicked semi loudly against the marbled floors as you stumbled through the empty halls towards Sylus’s office. Your stomach was buzzing with nerves, an excitement bubbled in your chest but you wouldn’t let it show as you finally reached the large door to his office. Maybe you could play it cool? Act like you totally didn’t send him a pussy pic to tease him before he sent the boys to come get you. Maybe he won’t be so mad if you make the first move and offer to suck his cock as an apology.
Reality was hitting you that this was quite literally like a deadly dragon’s lair that you were about to let yourself enter, but the liquor in your system saw it more as a game instead of a death sentence for between your thighs.
You pushed the heavy wood open to reveal the man you’d been waiting to see all night, already staring at you with a hunger you immediately clocked. You start with your plan and play it cool, leaning against the doorway in a way that amplified the curves to your silhouette and you noticed the way his jaw ticks at the sight. He took you in like he was examining his last meal- analyzing every little detail of your appearance. The tension is overwhelming to a point, waiting for him to greet you had you almost overthinking the thick stretch of silence. Is he mad? He hasn’t jumped your bones yet- so maybe his aether core isn’t as bad as the boys warned you about.
“Come here.” His deep voice was colder than normal, sharp in its command and you hesitated for a second, nervously reaching for the door knob to enclose yourself in the dragon’s lair before nervously shuffling towards Sylus as he remained seated in the large leather chair behind his desk. You made your way to the opposite side of the desk, his gaze growing in weight that hung heavy on your shoulders and you froze when his eyes narrowed at you. For as sweet and warm as he usually is with you, this side of him comes off as terrifying when you can’t tell what his exact intentions are.
“Not there. Here.” His hand gestures to the open space between his lap and the desk. You swallow your nerves, reminding yourself to think of it as a game, before following his orders and coming around to stand directly in front of him. Your eyes fell to gawk at the giant tent straining against his black slacks, his body was emitting enough heat to burn you alive and you’d gladly let it the longer you took in his own appearance from up close. His hands were firmly gripping the arms of his chair, thick thighs spread wide to emphasize the way his cock was suffocating against the confines of his pants. His eyes were half lidded with his pupils blown out, the right one glowing brightly as it drank you in.
His dress shirt was slightly disheveled, the top buttons undone and his silver hair was a total mess, you could tell he’s been pulling at it or running his hands through it non stop tonight. That fact alone made you smirk, feeling a sense of cockiness knowing he was only this down bad for you and you were proud about it.
“Proud, huh? That’s what you feel about the way you taunted me tonight?” His voice was heavy, rough around the edges and your eyes widened- did you say that out loud? Or did his eye just read you like a fucking book?
“Go on, answer for yourself. Tell me how proud you are of your little picture.” His large hands burned your skin through the leather of your skirt as he manhandled you to sit up on the dark wood in front of him. Your thighs squeezed together shyly as you stared at his angered expression. He’s losing patience fast, but somehow you’re finding it exciting deep down.
“I-I uh, I didn’t know, Sy. M’sorry baby,” your bottom lip jutted out in a pout and you didn’t miss the way his eye glowed brighter when his gaze flicked down to your lips for a moment. He cocked a sharp brow, bringing his hands to grip your soft thighs and pull your ass right to the edge of the desk. Your pulse pounded hard, his thick fingers slipped between your knees before using his strength to force your legs allllll the way open. You gasped at the cold air of his office hitting your exposed heat, feeling like prey to the predator that sat right in front of you.
His eyes dared to roll back at the sight of you alone, and before you could even try to close your legs-, two of his thick fingertips traced your dripping slit from your entrance up to your clit, circling the cute nub as it twitched below his fingers. Your face burned as he brought his fingers to his lips and you watched him lick and savor your taste off of his digits. You were in a trance from the sight, feeling your cunt gush with an arousal that matched the heavy tension that still lingered in the room.
“You didn’t know? Funny, this sweet pussy of yours is telling me she knew all along how cruel it was to send me such a picture even after I said it wasn’t a good idea for me to see you.” His hands were pushing your skirt all the way up to bunch around your waist before pressing his face between your thighs to run his hot tongue up your folds without warning. You cried out, back arching into his face and brought both of your hands to grip at his silver locks as a means to ground yourself. He grunted out, “we’ll have to work on getting your mouth to be as honest as your body.”
It wasn’t long at all before you felt a sharp, heavy grip on your wrists that forced them behind your back as his lips closed around your now swollen clit and sucked!
His hands remained on your inner thighs while your own strained against the force of his evol restraining your wrists to keep them from interfering. He groaned at the raw taste of you, shoving his tongue even deeper inside of you through your cries. Your eyes rolled back, hips twitching to chase his tongue as it fucked into you at a brutal pace. You were delusional from the pleasure alone, looking down to see him completely lost in you, devouring you whole. Your feet rested on each of his knees and you whined out before trailing your heel clad foot up his thigh to nudge the heavy bulge in his pants.
The groan that echoed through his office was the only warning you got before your back hit the hard wood, and your knees were pressed against your chest hard enough to knock the wind out of you. His evol stretched around your thighs to lock you in place, despite how hard you struggled to free your legs once more. The fiend below you was now hovering over your fully exposed cunt, spitting angrily against your clit just to watch it slide all the way down to your quivering hole before shoving his tongue back inside your gummy walls. You were ascending, toes curling against your shoes as the pit in your stomach swelled with a burning hot need for him to fill you all the way up.
“You ran around with your little friends wearing this without anything underneath it- did you know tonight would end this way? Did you know all along i’d devour you like the little treat you are? I hope you’re ready for a long night, kitten,” two of his fingers slid all the way inside of you and curled, the squelch rang loudly in your burning hot ears and you cried out at the stretch. Shaking your head, tears stung at your lashes as you tried to look past the red mist that bound your legs to your chest at him. You couldn’t see the way he was drooling at the sight of your slutty hole sucking his fingers in, curling his fingers again to strum against your g-spot.
“N-No! Thought you’d- AH!”
“Lying doesn’t suit you,” he’s adding a third finger now, the stretch intensifying as he began rocking the digits in and out of your gushing hole. He brought his thumb back to press down against your pulsing clit, listening to your cries of protest with a cruel smile.
You were so close already, thighs tensing against his evol you could taste your own release with the way his fingers worked you straight to it. “Sy-hah-Sylus, I-fuuuuuck, ‘m sorryyy~ m’gonna cum please,” you began to plead with the man, not even sure what for, as you began to tremble against the solid wood of his desk. Your jaw was slack, gasping for air to fill your burning lungs as you craned your neck to watch him bring his tongue back to sloppily lap at your clit.
It was when you felt his fingers twirl inside your throbbing walls and you felt his pinky just barely press against the rim of your empty hole, the semi-foreign feeling shot you straight past the finish line as you writhed against the desk in ecstasy with what sounded more like a howl than a scream. He pressed his pinky in past the first knuckle, stretching you with slight caution. It’s been awhile since he’s played with you there- and he lets out a satisfied hum with how much harder you cum because of it.
Your veins flooded with white hot pleasure, blood pounding loud enough in your ears to completely miss the sound of a drawer opening. That white hot pleasure quickly became sharp overstimulation once Sylus placed the red rose toy against your still swollen clit and turned it on.
You choked on something between a scream and a gasp-, slamming your head back against the desk with a relatively loud thud while your hips thrusted up and sideways to attempt an escape from the vibrations. As much as this man loved to watch you struggle, his desire to make you submit completely overpowers anything else in his mind as he decides to stand from his chair and tower over you. His fingers stayed inside your sobbing cunt and your tight ass and continue working your holes open, as his other hand pressed the rose firmer against your clit. Everything burns as you’re reminded of how much bigger he is than you, trembling under the pressure of his stare along with everything else you’re feeling.
You barely notice the quick look of admiration in his scarlet irises before they darken with a burning hot desire that matched the deep heat in the base of your spine. His chest was heaving from how hard he was holding himself back, refusing to take you exactly how you both wanted before dragging you to your absolute limit. He needed you to feel as desperate as him, to feel the carnal need for his soul like he felt for yours. He needed you delirious, strung out as far as you could take it.
Deciding it was time to crank the heat back up, his thumb nudged the vibration setting on the rose up before using his evol to hold it firmly against your sensitive nub. The hand that had been holding it reached to clasp your throat, cutting off your airflow while he pressed his pinky finger allll the way inside your ass. You screamed at the feeling, thrashing against him once more in hopes that it would get him to slow down- but you knew deep down it was pointless. Without your safe word, you knew he wouldn’t stop- especially with the way his eye was practically illuminating the room with its neon glow.
“C’mon, kitty. Don’t run from it now, you wanted it to be like this,” he purred against the skin on back of your thigh as he leans down before placing a hot kiss to your sensitive skin. His one hand was still gripping your throat and intermittently applying and taking away pressure for you to get just enough oxygen while his kisses turned into bites on the plush skin of your thighs. You sobbed out, still squirming and babbling when he pulled his ring finger from your pussy to join his pinky in stretching your smaller hole out even more.
“You’re really good at running away, sweetie, but it isn’t going to benefit you if you keep trying.” His tongue ran hot against your skin, soothing a deeper bite he’d just left on your inner thigh that was clenching unbearably hard.
Your back arches against his desk as you hiss from the pressure pooling in your abdomen. He was so good with his fingers, knowing exactly how to make overstimulation feel so fucking good- knowing exactly how to make your holes squeeze and suffocate his digits.
This was everything he’d been needing, craving the sight of you completely at his will. He needed to have you writhing from the pleasure he’s forcing on you, corrupting his sweet kitten like this was always what his aether core craved on nights like this.
“Open, sweetie.” Sylus is now face to face with you, leaning over your trembling figure as the hand on your throat let go to trail up your jaw. You were everywhere all at once, so strung out already from the pleasure but you tried your best to focus on him, letting your jaw open and sticking your tongue out obediently.
If the brooding wasn’t already in heaven, this sight of you below him like this absolutely sent him to the pearly gates. He hums in satisfaction before leaning his face down, letting a wad of his spit drop down onto your waiting tongue which you immediately swallowed. Your blurry vision catches the way his grin stretches before he’s slamming his lips against yours.
His fingers curled deeper in each of your holes, rocking his wrist in a way that had you seeing stars. His tongue dragged against yours as you kissed, groaning into you as he’s sharing the sweet taste of your slick. You kiss him back with every ounce of energy that you can muster, feeling your core tighten and burn with another orgasm approaching.
You hear the wet pop! before registering his lips have left yours before you watch him disappear between your legs again. You scream when he replaces the two fingers in your smaller hole with his fat tongue, the groan he lets out vibrates against you in tandem with the rose.
One thing about Sylus, aside from the fact that he is and always has been the messiest eater, is the fact that he is a certified ass man. It was a bit more rare for him to get this down and dirty with you, but the way your little cunt was absolutely drooling the second he started giving your neglected hole a little attention gave him the green light to get on his knees and give into his own desires selfishly.
You cum even harder this time when he fucks your ass with his tongue, still working your cunt with his two fingers and the rose that buzzed torturously against your swollen clit. The satisfied man opens his eyes just in time to catch you squirt right on his face. He’s in complete awe at the sight alone, already ready to force you into a stronger wave of overstimulation when his free hand reaches for the settings button on the poor rose toy.
Yeah, you’re finally starting to regret sending that pussy pic right about now…
The deafening sounds of Sylus’s strong hips slamming into yours were enough to echo throughout the entire base- such obscene squelches rang in your borderline deaf ears as Sylus pounded you from above. You’re practically upside down, upper back against the floor with your ass held up with slight help from his evol as your ankles were pushed past your ears~ your toes were definitely touching the floor and you had no idea you could ever be this flexible, but didn’t have the brain power to even process the fact that you were.
Your back was on fire from rug burn as Sylus pounded into you, each thrust shoving you deeper into the floor as his hands pressed firm bruises into the backs of your thighs to keep them in place. A cute little plug stuffed in your smaller hole adorning a bright red ruby that his heavy balls smacked with every plap! that echoed through his office. You’ve cum so many times you’ve completely lost count- the fiend above you would be lying if he said he hadn’t lost count either.
Your muscles burned, they ached with a deep exhaustion from how many positions your boyfriend has fucked you in, from how many orgasms he’s ripped from you when you thought you didn’t have anything left in you.
Like now, you surely were going to give out at any second, your body endured the force of his hips as he crammed his fat cock as deep as it could go, angrily kissing your cervix as he panted above you.
“You’re going to be the-hah, the death of me, sweetie.” His voice strained with his thrusts, moving one of the hands on your thighs up to brush against your abused clit. You felt so numb, but the way his fingers traced circles against you had you jolting from the stimulation.
“Syyyy- st-stop, g’na-mmph, can’t! I can’t!”
Your voice gargled out a plea, but it went in one of his ears and out the other as he stared down at the creamy mixture of your cum and his seeping out and dripping onto the floor below where you were connected. “You can. And you will.” His voice boomed, landing a sharp smack! on your clit to emphasize the control he had over your body. Your eyes rolled back, sobbing out incoherent pleas as you sunk your nails into the remaining evol that stayed wrapped around your wrists above your head.
He brought his hand down to your face, tracing the skin of your jaw that was damp with sweat before pressing two of his slick covered digits to your swollen lips. You didn’t have the energy to deny him entrance into your mouth, tasting the both of you when your tongue lazily swirled against the pads of his fingers. He groaned like a pornstar at the sight, grinding his hips deep enough to make you feel the tip of his cock kissing your heart through your ribcage.
Plap! Plap! Plap!
The overwhelming fullness had your teeth biting down weakly on his fingers, making him stutter and grip your jaw tighter. “Fuck, bite me harder.” He demanded, voice choppy in your ears and more tears burned down the sides of your face as he pleaded for you. His knees were equally burning from the carpet below, but he couldn’t care less as he pressed his fingers down against your hot tongue. His heart was racing from how close he was to his final orgasm, he knew this would be enough to satiate the aether core as well as his own pent up desires. You were so perfect like this, radiant underneath him as you were completely fucked out and his. If you were maybe a little more coherent, he’d ask you to marry him right here and now. Hell, little did you know he technically did already have a ring ready for you hiding in the bottom drawer of his desk.
You obliged his request, and the second he felt your teeth bite down on his flesh again his own eyes finally rolled to the back of his skull as he fully let go and gave in to his desires for the last time tonight. The air was knocked out of your lungs as he fucked you hard enough to make you see white- the pearly gates themselves began to fizzle into reality in front of you as your cunt strangled his girth one last time while he filled your walls once more with his burning hot seed.
You cried out together before your body went completely limp, you would’ve dropped like a fly had it not been for his careful hands maneuvering you to lay gently on your side as he reluctantly pulled out of you. He watched the way your combined juices slipped out of your hole, and scoffed softly before bringing his fingers down to press them back inside. “Can’t waste a drop, kitten.” His voice purred, but it sounded distant as you slipped in and out of consciousness.
This was prime time to assess the damages as he came down from his own high, letting his gaze trail over your entire body to check for bruising, burns from the carpet below you, and handprints from spanking you relentlessly countless rounds ago.
He sighs to himself, knowing you’re okay but still acknowledging he may have gone a bit overboard- exactly what he predicted.
The two of you stayed as you were on his office floor for a good long while, you had fallen fast asleep to the feeling of his fingertips softly running up and down your side to ground you after such an intense session. A pit in his chest burned at the sight of you sleeping so cozily, how was he supposed to clean you up without waking you? No bother- if you wake he’ll just lull you back to sleep.
Scooping you up in his burly arms, he draped a blanket over your sleeping frame with a small smile. A hot bath sounds nice, he can hold you close and clean the both of you up all at once. He smiles proudly to himself as he takes in the sight of his demolished office space, it reeked with the smell of sex and your vanilla perfume, making him huff a quiet laugh before stepping out and down the hall to run into two seemingly agitated red headed boys.
“Jesus christ. Did you kill her?” Luke gawked at his father figure while Kieran pinched the bridge of his nose angrily. “Thought we were gonna need a body bag, boss-man. Next time boss lady goes out for girl’s night and your aether core starts to act up at LEAST send us out somewhere for the night instead of subjecting us to THAT.”
The silver headed man was typically a proud man. A man that always found embarrassment to be pointless when it came to the noise levels of your “sessions”. But the way his two henchmen were chastising him mixed with the post nut clarity of how hard he really went on you managed to make the tips of his ears burn with a nervousness he’d never felt before. Of course, it was more-so a nervousness for you to wake up and realize the twins had heard you, but still-
“I did not kill her,” he began with his defense, holding the blanket tighter around your naked form as he looked down at the irritated boys before walking past them, calling out, “And to be fair, I don’t think our boss lady will be attending another girl’s night out for a long time.”
And with that, he slammed the door to his bedroom shut- leaving the boys to dwell in their mortification as he began running his sweetest girl a relaxing hot bath to clean you up in.
Caleb - XOXO!
It was a normal weekend back home from university, you’d found out about a group of friends from school were getting together to celebrate finals being right around the corner, and you’re beyond overdue for a break from all the stress of homework and studying. Too bad coming home from Uni always came with a daunting tax, that tax coming in the form of the terribly hot boy you’d grown up next to. Caleb was fucking gorgeous. Tall, built like an absolute unit with brunette hair that shined in the light just like his violet eyes that always seemed to glimmer when he looked your way.
He always seemed to find a way to visit home the same times that you did, and you almost wondered if he was tracking you with how spot on his timing seemed to be.
This visit though, you’d pull one over on him.
If he knew you were going to a girl’s night out, he’d surely pull some overprotective shit to try and keep you from going. Whenever he played the “big brother” role that the universe should have never cursed you with, you grew sick to your stomach. Something in your heart never went back to normal the older you got, only growing more sore as the pulse between your thighs when you saw your Gege grew stronger.
You hid it well though, keeping enough distance from him to prevent any form of suspicion that you’d felt anything inappropriate towards the one person you weren’t supposed to. He was your best friend at the end of the day, that alone should make it easy to drown out any and all attraction towards him.
But fuck, the sound of his voice alone was enough to have you squeeze your aching thighs together.
You shake your head to yourself, doing a once over in the mirror before shooting your friends a text that you were ready to be picked up. Caleb had just left for the gym, and you hadn’t said a word to him about your plans tonight. It wasn’t any of his business anyways, so what did it matter? Still, you nervously adjusted the hem of your strapless lavender mini dress. You never dressed so boldly, but you felt good about the way your curves filled out the soft fabric of this dress, especially where the fabric clung to your ass in a way that emphasized every movement.
Tonight was casual yes, but, you’ve been feeling a bit strung out since you’d last ended things with your ex situation-ship, and you were quite open to meeting someone new- even if it was just for a night.
You stepped into your black kitten heels and threw on your favorite perfume- a warm amber fragrance Caleb had actually gifted you for your birthday last year- before heading downstairs and out the front door to meet your friends that were waiting in the loud ass jeep outside. They all squealed together at your appearance and you squealed with excitement in response, the typical greeting you often gave each other especially when everybody looked so good like tonight.
Thank the lord Caleb isn’t here to chastise you or force you to change.
You’ve been gone for at least two hours by the time Caleb comes home from the gym and a short drive to clear his head. He needed to blow some steam off when he’d “accidentally” caught a glimpse of you in the shower through the crack in the bathroom door. The sight of your silhouette through the steam was enough to have his cock achingly hard, and even though he couldn’t make many of your features out too well, the sounds of you lathering your body in that sweet, apple scented body wash was enough to have him palming his length over his sweatpants.
Fuck, it was so wrong of him to be so turned on by you- he couldn’t help but wonder what you’d do if you’d caught him. If you had caught him any of the countless times he’d jerked his stiff cock to minor glances of you prior to this afternoon.
Would you have screamed and freaked out on him? Or would you have invited him in for a closer look?
He shakes the earlier memory away as he jogs up the staircase of his “grandma’s” house, at least that’s what the woman that took both of you in as kids wanted to be called-, and he found himself frowning when he notices the silence that echoed in the house. Were you sleeping? He knocked softly on your shut door, “Pips? You in there?” He gave it a moment before deciding to crack your door open.
His chest tightened not just by the fact that you were MIA, but the fact that you were MIA and he could faintly sniff out your favorite perfume. The same one he bought for you because he’d never smelled something so pretty in his life, perfect for the prettiest girl he’d ever seen in his life. His eyes narrowed at the context of this smell though, you’d been suspiciously quiet today, and now that you’re gone his mind can’t help but race.
Are you out on a fucking date right now?
Who would you even be out on a date with? Your Caleb had a knack for technology, to a point where he knew all of your passwords and knew you’d recently blown things off with the guy you’d been seeing over the last semester. Caleb couldn’t help but sigh with relief when he’d snooped through your breakup messages, but quickly felt a foreign surge of anger when he read a little deeper to discover how truly unsatisfied you were in your sex life.
The messages you’d sent dogging on his head game after he’d passively dissed your hyper sex drive was enough fuel for his imagination to last a good month or two. His mind immediately wandered to how horny you typically were, and if his own never ending sex drive would be enough to match you. He’d wondered how soft you’d feel against his tongue, if you’d sit on his face to let him chow down on your sweet pussy or if you’d arch that perky ass of yours up to let him eat you from behind.
Who on Earth would you be going on a date with if you haven’t even been texting anyone new!?
From the club you’re at, you feel your phone buzz as you down your third green tea shot of the night. You look down and feel your chest flutter initially as Caleb’s contact showed up in a text notification.
Big Apple: piiips whered u go? thought i could cook one of ur favs 2nite ;(
You don’t fight the blush that spreads across your face and decide to type something back.
Pip Pip! Hooray!: i just went out for a little girls night out with a couple friends! should be back home tn but if something changes i’ll lyk! :P
Caleb can’t shake the knot growing in his stomach as he reads the message plastered on his screen.
Girls night out? With who!? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything to him before?
The man begins to spiral, spitefully opening the drawer in front of him to fish out a pink lacy thong to hold close to his face like a safety blanket. He inhales the fabric, the faintest smell of you mixed with your favorite fabric softener would typically calm his nerves when he’d get worked up about you, but in this case- it only spurred him on in his growing spiral.
He has to be rational- he can’t scare you off but his thumbs start typing again before he can stop himself.
Your phone buzzed once again as you danced with your friends, you spun your way out of the dance circle back to your little section just to check the notification.
Big Apple: girl’s night? why didn’t u tell me before xD i can drive you home tonight, don’t worry about it :)
Your brow furrows down at the screen, how the hell are you gonna tell him that you’re actually looking to hook up with someone tonight and will not be in need of his services?
Well, fuck, you’re so in need of his services- but, you clearly can’t say that either.
You send one last message before finally putting your phone down to re join your friends, your favorite Megan song started booming in the speakers.
Pip Pip! Hooray!: how about we play it by ear gege. i’ll let you know <3
He takes another long whiff of your panties as he reads your message for a second time. You have no idea what calling him that does to him. Having no blood relation, but still referring to him as your big brother, it makes something extremely dark brew in his gut- something dangerous.
He paces your room for a moment, pocketing the lace before stepping out to go in his old bedroom right next to yours. He digs around his nightstand for his backup phone, turning it on and opening instagram to access your account instead of his. He went through your DM’s, scrolling through your conversations to see what kind of trouble you were getting yourself into. He found nothing at first- no new messages, comments, or likes even. No tags as to where you’re at, which makes him huff out in frustration before pulling up your location on his secret tracking app.
You’re downtown, at one of the rowdiest clubs Caleb’s ever been to. He feels his pulse intensify as his phone finally pings with a new notification from your instagram- a story mention.
Bingo.
He expected a group selfie or picture, you somewhere squeezed in with a bunch of other people also tagged. Something of substance to hold him over until he decided to swing by the club himself to pick you up regardless of “playing it by ear.”
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
You were in your zone, dancing with your best friend when another Megan track started blaring in the speakers. The beat was fluid, possessing you to move your body as provocative as possible. You would’ve made your queen proud with the way you swooped down to the floor, balancing on your ankles as you put your knees to work and bounces your ass in a whole ass circle along the beat. Arms in the air, you threw your head back as you hollered the lyrics out and threw your ass back like your life depended on it.
Before you knew it, one of your friends had the flash on you, capturing the way the fat of your ass recoiled with every movement before your best friend crouched down and smacked your ass over your dress that was just barely covering your cheeks as you danced. You glanced back at the camera with your tongue playfully poking out, not shying away as you switched your rhythm up- shooting back up to throw it back some more against your best friend’s torso.
The video only lasted about 13 seconds, your friend proudly announced how hot you looked, how she wouldn’t be able to recite what the color of ANYTHING was before tagging you and posting it to her story. You grinned as you continued dancing, hopeful that maybe your semi pro dancing skills would elicit enough of a reaction to get you fucked tonight.
Elicit a reaction you did.
Fucked you were.
Caleb was rendered speechless as he watched the video on repeat from your account, blood pounding in his ears loud enough to drown the video’s audio out. The logical thing he could get himself to do at first was obviously screen record the video- there was no universe that he’d be able to see content like this of you again unless by miracle you felt the same way about him that he felt about you. Not likely.
A rage burned in his chest as he watched the way you moved, seeing your dress just barely covering your plump ass he almost could peek at what panties you’re wearing in the video when you go to stand. Growing angrier with the fact that if he could make that much out from just a video- he can’t let himself imagine the view that whatever guys are at the club are currently getting of your slutty little dancing.
He was moving like your actual life was on the line, gripping his keys before racing to his truck and speeding towards downtown.
You were dancing your little heart away in the meantime. You determine that shaking ass with your friends should be a weekly requirement- this was the most fun you’ve ever had. Your little video was stacking up views, and your phone was flooding with men showering you in compliments. Some cheesier than others, you’ll admit, but you couldn’t find it in you to care as long as it ended with you getting your pussy devoured like it was somebody’s last meal.
You’d sent a couple flirtatious replies back, one of which was to an old fling from your freshman year. You’d sucked him off once during seven minutes in heaven and the timer ended before he could ever repay the favor, but seemed more than willing. He was actually in town this weekend with some of his own friends, and was on his way to meet up for a drink.
He showed up quicker than you expected, flirtatious as ever as he offers to get you a drink. By the time you make it to the bar and your potential hookup orders your drink, you feel a sudden energy change in the club. Something’s off but you can’t quite place it, shrugging it off you notice your drink is in the guy’s hands, and he’s smirking down at you before a heavy hand is on the small of your back. Your eyes widen, goosebumps prickling your skin from the contact as you look next to you to see none other than Caleb, burning absolute holes into this guy you’re talking to.
What the fuck!?
“That drink isn’t for my Pipsqueak, is it?” His voice was curious, you were too dumbfounded to react beyond your jaw dropping to the floor from the way his hand wrapped around your hip and gripped, pulling you snug into his side. He was warm, and he smelled so comforting, but you felt super nervous about the way he was holding you and how hard you were probably blushing because of it.
“Your what? Sorry man, just buying my old friend a drink so she and I could catch up. Though, you didn’t tell me you had a man.” His tone grew sharp as his eyes shifted from Caleb to now you. He thinks you and Caleb are together!? Although the assumption does something to your stomach you begin shaking your head frantically to try and mend the situation and scold Caleb for being overbearing as usual, but then Caleb opens his mouth again and you’re completely dumbfounded.
“Buying her a drink? Cute. You always roofie drinks you buy for pretty girls? Or just her?”
WHAT. THE. FUCK!?
The guy in front of you pales as though he’s seen a ghost, eyes shooting between my shocked gaze and Caleb’s murderous gaze as he gripped the glass tighter. “I-What!? What are you talking about, man!?” He panicked, but your eyes tracked the drink in his hand. Right on par, you noticed a bit more carbonation than what’s typical for a regular rum and coke- as if something was dissolving in the drink.
No fucking way Caleb just clocked that.
And the way he called you pretty? That wasn’t like how he normally complimented you.
“If I were you, i’d dump that drink and get the fuck out of here. Before I change my mind on being nice.” Caleb sounded angrier than you’d ever heard him, and your stomach pooled with the all too familiar heat you’d always carried for him. Sighing with frustration to yourself, you watched the guy you were previously planning to hook up with scurry off like a scared little mouse.
Well, though you’re eternally grateful for Caleb saving your night, you can’t drown out the disappointment of another potential hookup flushing down the drain.
“As for you,” there goes his voice again, but this time it was right in your ear- quiet yet still much louder than any of the music playing in the club. You shivered, unable to help it from the proximity and the way his violet eyes bored into yours. He was pissed, that much was obvious, you blinked up at him and he almost folded right then and there as he looked down at your flushed expression, his anger completely diffusing.
You really are the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
“Pipsqueak, I-I’m sorry for just barging in on your night, I was just-” it was then that he realized just how close he was holding you. His fingers were splayed across your plush hip, face only mere inches from yours. He was close enough to notice the way your breath hitched as you came to the same realization, the way your pretty lashes fluttered as you tried to process the proximity, the way your gaze flickered for a split second- but that split second felt like forever when you glanced down at his lips.
Wait a second- is he imagining this!? Did you just check him out?
He’d felt bad about barging in without the invitation- but the second he’d notice that shit bag you were with’s wrist flick ever so slightly over your drink while you were staring off in thought made him see red. This is exactly why he doesn’t like you going out without him, what would you have done without him? You always need your Caleb, and he’s more than willing to prove that to you in every way.
He grew lost in your eyes for a moment, the anger- guilt- everything he’d opened his mouth to attempt an apology over and explain himself about, died in his throat as he watched you purse your glossy lips. He found himself wondering if your lipgloss was apple flavored like your body wash. You leaned into his hold with a huff of your breath, breaking eye contact with a saddened expression as you’d mentally accepted your sexless fate- quickly covering with a small smile.
“Thanks, Caleb. Didn’t have to come check on me but man, i’m sure glad y’did.” Your grin feels forced, and your breath catches in your throat when Caleb’s free hand holds your chin and pulls you back to look at him. Your heart is absolutely pounding at the forced contact, you almost whine from his soft touch as he holds you close- “talk to me, pip. What’s happening in your brain?”
You don’t get the chance to answer as a loud squeal echoes in your peripheral. You both snap your faces to find your friend group rushing you with eager expressions. “Excuse me!? Who’s this tall glass of handsome!?” One of your friend inquires, the way she sized Caleb up makes a pang of jealousy strike down your spine.
“Wait a second! This is the guy from your pictures in your dorm!! Wait, oh my god- the photos don’t do this hunk ANY justice! Why the fuck do you never talk about him!? I’ve been wanting to ask who he is to you buuuut, think it’s obvious,” another girl rambled and the group started nodding in agreement, egging each other on to keep commenting on the way you both looked so good together.
Your stomach dropped- fear engulfing you as you nervously looked between Caleb and the girls. You never talked about him for a reason- but kept all of your photos of the two of you in your dorm to look at when you felt down. Not only did you not care to explain your weird relationship, the assumed “makeshift family” vibe always irked you to talk about. But to give any of your friends an inch to gawk at him or even an idea that they’d ever have a shot, had you absolutely fucked up.
Caleb was beside himself internally. Here you are, looking like you got caught with your hand up your dress, cute face beet red and at a loss for words right after your friends basically outed you for hiding your relationship from them. Curiosity piqued his interest, you never told them about him, and they’re openly assuming you’re together- granted, it sure may have looked like it with the way he was just holding you. He couldn’t have cared less about the assumption, honestly preferring it without admitting that fact.
But you- why would you not clarify? Did you want the impression to be that you’re together? He noticed the way you tensed as they complimented him, growing delighted at this new revelation.
Are you jealous?
Do you really feel the same way?
Only one way to find out.
You feel his heavy arm drop around your shoulders, anchoring you back into his toned torso as he leaned his face up even closer to yours, breath fanning your jaw. “C’mon, Pip. Go ahead and tell them what I am to you. Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ me a secret.” The angle of which he had you up against him gave him the perfect view of your cleavage straining against the thin fabric of your dress, he felt that same familiar heat pool in his spine watching your chest heave as you tried to get your shit together.
This is a pivotal moment in your life happening right now- you’re suddenly on the spot stuck between the sharpest rock and hardest brick wall. The way Caleb was leaning his weight on you posed the most pressure on you rather than your friends. You could always shrug them off and laugh, but Caleb-
He always did everything with intent, so the way he was holding you- held you just earlier- it was different than anything you’d ever felt before in your life. He’d never touched you with such a sense of possessiveness before- could it have been just because he stopped someone in their tracks from harming you? There’s absolutely no way he could be feeling the same way as you- right? No way he’s testing you, because he won’t say it first, right?
You trembled with nerves from the pressure, feeling everyone’s eyes on you as your face burned a deeper crimson. What do you say? The thought of calling Caleb family always felt sour on your tongue and burned your throat like poison. You never once wanted that to be the establishment between the two of you, always dreaming of a universe where you could be honest and give things a shot with the perfect guy you’d grown up with.
To give him a different label than anything he’s ever been used to terrified you, but you couldn’t shake the desire that fluttered deep in your chest. You take a deep breath, turning to face the girls that stared expectingly at you for a response. “H-He’s my Caleb. Mine.” Your abridged response had the brunette grinning even more, you totally feel the same way and you’re bluffing while still trying to stake your claim on him.
How cute of you to think you needed to stake any kind of claim when he was completely yours to begin with.
“Cute,” his voice was warm in your ear before standing up straight and bringing his heavy hand back to hold you by the small of your back. Your eyes slightly widened when his fingers splayed, just slightly grazing the curve of your ass while he spoke. “Anyways, I just came to pick my sweet girl up a little early. Sorry, ladies, there’s an important matter we have to tend to, together~” his voice grew sing-song-y and confusion swells in your already burning chest.
Important matter?
You’re being pulled out of the club faster than your legs can keep up with, being dragged by Caleb’s massive grip on your wrist. “Wait a second! Slow down!” You’re crossing the parking lot to get to the emptier, sketchier end where his truck is parked. You couldn’t make out his expression, but still pressed on the matter. “Wh-What the fuck was that back there!? Caleb!”
“I should ask you the same thing.” He hissed out as he opened the passenger door, gripping your full hips to hoist you up into the passenger seat before shoving the door shut. Everything was getting way too heavy to be able to play anything off as harmless like you always have your entire lives prior. His large frame enters and sits in the driver’s seat and you finally get a good look at him as he shuts the door. You notice how his own chest rises and falls heavier than normal, his pupils are blown out as he looks at you- the inside of his truck feels so much smaller now.
“Tell me,” he’s almost panting, leaning over the center console to invade your bubble. You don’t realize how badly you wanted him back in your space until he was there- “why were you so upset after that piece of shit left? And why were you so nervous when your little friends pressed about me? About us?” His voice left no room to dodge the questions, and you began to panic.
How the fuck are you supposed to tell him how sexually frustrated you are? Or that you wanted nothing more than to relieve yourself on his heavy cock- the one you always catch glimpses of through his grey sweats during every movie night. Or that you wanted to ride his handsome face until your hips gave out?
You swallow when he leans in even closer, lips only a mere inch apart from yours. Your throat was so dry despite your mouth pooling with drool at the warmth emitting off of him. He’s so close- you’re so close to kissing him-
“I-I dunno,” your lip quivers, and his hands move- one bracing his weight against the center console and the other resting on top of your knee. Goosebumps shoot all across your skin at the action and you squeeze your thighs when his eyes drop down just slightly to your lips.
“Don’t lie- I won’t be mad, Pips. I just need to know what’s on your mind. Need to know if you’re thinkin’ what i’m thinkin’.” His hand on your knee spreads open, fingers dancing ever so lightly on your sensitive skin and you inhale sharply at the feeling.
That’s it- you can’t keep this act up any longer.
“I was m-mad because I-I thought he was gonna fuck me b-before he turned out to be a piece of sh-shit. I-I jus haven’t been f-fucked in so long, n’ I just w-wanna cum so bad, Gege~ I d-didn’t want my friends to flirt with you e-either. Want you just for myself, I’m sorry!!! I-I can’t help it!”
His heart jumped in his throat as tears sprung out of your eyes, making his cock stir to life as he processed your words. You turned your face from him in embarrassment, bringing your hands to furiously swipe at your tears before the hand on your knee reached up to grab at your wrists.
“Pipsqueak,” his voice is like warm butter in your ears and you look at him through your tears, heart racing when his thumb brushes over your pulse point to soothe you while he smiles at you. “Why didn’t you just tell your Gege sooner? You know i’ll always take care of you, no matter what.” Your froze in shock as the weight of where the situation was quickly headed hit you, but you can’t find it in you to fight it when he’s finally leaning in and you’re meeting him halfway in a heated kiss.
Lips urgently pressing against his, you’re both in heaven at the first taste of each other. His hand cups your jaw as he kisses you deeper- tongue teasing your bottom lip as he savors the softness of your lips and the sound of your needy whines muffling against him.
He pulls away when he feels your hips shifting restlessly in your seat, keeping his lips a breath away from yours as his fingertips slip down your jaw to dance across the skin of your throat. “Do you want gege to make you cum? Hm? Are you gonna be a good girl for me, baby?”
If your panties weren’t already soaked, they sure the fuck were now. You’re nodding without hesitation, straining your neck to reach for his lips once more before he retreats a little more just to see your cute pout. He glances at his spacious backseat before motioning with his head towards you.
“Go on then. Get that ass up and climb back there and i’ll take care of you.”
Oh? So he wanted to get straight to it? Not even wait until you’re home.
You bit your lip before eagerly hopping up on your knees to do as he said, only when you started to crawl across the center console-, you yelped when his hand came cracking down on the fat of your ass. “You really went out in a little number like this, huh? My meimei’s a naughty girl,”
Jesus fuck, his words are doing wayyy too much to you.
Unfortunately, it was only the beginning.
You were in heaven, you must have actually died on the dance floor and you’re currently in the arms of angels as Caleb has you folded in half in a mating press in the backseat of his truck. You’re both completely stripped minus his dog tag necklace that’s bouncing off his toned pecs with every thrust. You feel the truck shake as his humongous cock stuffs you completely full.
The second he’d gotten you in the backseat he wasted no time diving between your thick thighs and devouring that pretty pussy he’d been dreaming of his entire life until you came all over his face twice. Tasting you from the source was so much better than any of the dirty panties he’d snagged over the years from your laundry basket. He doesn’t know how the fuck he ever survived before without the taste of you saturating his tongue.
Your voice, oh god it was music to his burning hot ears as you moaned like such a fucking slut while he rutted his muscular hips into you.
The air in the truck had grown so hot and thick you were growing completely insane, but you couldn’t get enough of it. You bucked your hips to fuck up against him with every thrust, craving him deeper and deeper now that the seal had been broken. Your glossy eyes flutter up to meet Caleb’s unapologetic stare, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth when the sounds of your slippery pussy sucking up his swollen cock fill the confined space of his backseat.
“Had no idea y’re pussy would be so wet. You’re a nasty girl. Been thinkin’ bout this? Hm?” His voice was rough in your ear and you whimpered, soaking his cock even more when his words went straight to your cunt. “Y-Yes! Yesyesyess!” You’re crying out honestly, you can’t hide it at all anymore. He chuckled breathlessly, leaning down to press another sloppy kiss to your swollen lips as his hips started to grind against yours. He could die just like this and be perfectly content- buried in your warm, tight walls while sucking on your tongue as you both kissed each other like it’s the first and last time altogether.
No way he’d ever let you stray away from him now, you’ll never need anybody else now that he knows what your pussy feels and tastes like.
“Gonna keep you like this forever, y’know,” Caleb was going insane, feeling the pit in his stomach tighten unbearably so, your eyes rolled back- god, he’s such a fucking talker. You loved every bit of it. You nodded, crying out when one of his hands reached between your sweaty bodies to play with your throbbing clit. “Mnh! Fuck! Caleb!” You gasp out when your orgasm grows dangerously close.
The man above you shakes his head with a dark glint in his violet eyes, “nu-uh, baby. You know what my name is,” he reaches his mouth down to close around your nipple, tongue lathering the hardened bud with his warm saliva. Tears blur your vision and you grip his beefy forearm bracing his weight right next to you, nails scraping against his skin, he groans at the delectable sting.
“F-Fuuuuuckk, Gege! C-Can’t!” You’re all but screaming when you feel him scrambling your guts while grinding the thick pad of his thumb into your clit.
He’s flicking his tongue across your nipple and the stimulation is becoming overwhelming, bringing a foreign pressure somewhere low in your tummy. Your brows pinch in worry, moving to grab at his soft brown locks as a means to ground yourself. “G’na cu-uuumm, ha-ahh, feels s’weird, ngh~”
His ears perk up at that- weird? Oh he knows exactly what’s happening here.
“Yeah? You wanna cum on your Gege’s cock? Hah, you’re so nasty, Meimei. What’ll gram say if she finds out? If she hears the way i’m gonna fuck you all over that god damn house when we get home,” His words flutter in your chest and your eyes roll back in relief at the promise of this not being a one time thing. You wail when he shifts his wrist to press his palm down against your lower abdomen, thumb still working fast swipes across your pulsing clit.
The increased pressure has you flailing around underneath him, your orgasm is coming fast, but suddenly you’re feeling the urge to pee and it’s beyond overwhelming.
“C’mon, pipsqueak,” he’s cooing in your ear, the truck is shaking harder as he starts mercilessly pounding your pussy, “squirt all over me, baby. I need it, I need it s’fucking bad.” His words drown out as your release hits you, making your head slam back against the backseat cushion as you spray his abdomen with your clear juices.
He’s definitely in heaven now, whimpering out at the sight that’s been burnt into his memory for forever. You look so perfect like this, absolutely fucked out of your mind as you cum so hard he almost grows concerned for you as he fucks you through it. His own orgasm is coming up fast, and he decides he needs you even closer.
Your breath is stolen from you when you’re hoisted up and into his lap, his massive arms locking around the curve of your waist and he’s pounding up into you like a man possessed. You’ve had no time to recover from your highs, yet your hips are still bucking to meet his thrusts as your teary face buries itself in the crook of his neck.
“Fuck, baby, you did so good. Always such a good girl f’me,” he’s praising you and bringing a hand down to grip the plump fat of your ass. His mind travels back to the video he watched earlier of you-, glancing over your shoulder to watch the same way your ass was bouncing but now on the length of his fat cock was even fucking better that that silly video. Maybe one day he’ll get you to let him record you bounce like this again on his cock for when he’s away.
Your lips attach to his neck and you’re feverishly kissing and sucking on his skin, drunkenly babbling the sweetest words he thinks he’s ever heard.
“Mmh, wan’ you to cum in me, Caleb. Give your Meimei every fuckin’ drop, please~”
He’s seeing white.
All you feel is his grip on your ass tightening before his cock starts knocking against your cervix like it owed him money. “Promise me, fuuuuck- promise you won’t fuck anyone else, baby. L-Let Gege take care of you always, please-“
You’re nodding your head with a cry, biting down on the damp skin of his shoulder. “Only ever wan’ your cock, I promise!!”
Not another second passed before his tip was spurting hot, white cum all over your tightening walls. His hand shot up to your nape to tug your face back to his in a feral kiss, shoving his tongue in your mouth to muffle his own desperate cries as he kept pumping you full with his seed. You’d never felt more full in your life, but god- this was such an addictive feeling.
Your softer hands reach up to cup his face and you kiss him back just as hard, moaning into his mouth. You feel the way he finally slows down and the two of you come down slowly, holding each other in a tight embrace as heavy breaths fill the steamy air of his truck.
You’re both on cloud nine after that, still connected even after a while of just sitting there petting each other. Your head is resting on its side on Caleb’s chest, listening to his slowing heartbeat and you smile to yourself. You’ll talk out all the logistics of whatever the fuck just happened later- all you know now is that you’ve never been so thankful for a girl’s night out in your life.
“You okay, pip? Ready to go home? Need to get you cleaned up,” his lips are brushing your temple warmly and your cheeks are warm again. “M’okay, Caleb. I’m ready.” You hum lazily, feeling an overwhelming exhaustion beginning to hit you and you start to look around for your dress to shimmy it back on.
Your eyes narrow down at the joggers he’d been wearing that were pooled in the floorboard- a familiar bundle of pink lace just barely poking out of the pocket.
Suddenly, you’re not tired anymore, and your head is snapping at the nervous looking man in front of you.
“You mother fucker,” you’re seething, snatching up the panties from his pocket and shoving the cold, hard evidence of his crimes in his face. “IT WAS YOU ALL ALONG, WASN’T IT!? YOU THIEF! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY FUCKING PANTIES YOU OWE ME!?”
He can only shrink into himself with a nervous smile, reaching for your wrists and pulling them downwards to disarm you. “I- uh- I don’t think I can talk myself out of this one, can I?” He’s sheepishly grinning at your adorably angry expression with only one thought repeating in his mind as he’s watching you huff and puff dramatically above him as if he didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of you.
Synopsis: After Zayne takes you back to the dorms, you realize there's more to him than meets the eye. In the heat of the moment, he keeps revealing parts of himself you never expected from him, yet even as he brings you to the brink of pleasure, you're still craving to know just how many sides of Zayne Li you have yet to uncover...
Content warnings: College AU, Med-Student Zayne with a side flavor of Metalhead, he has tattoos & piercings in this one (+his sexy mullet), Lots of flirting, Heavy sexual tension, Dirty talk & Sweet talk, Brat tamer Zayne, Kissing in the back of the car, Undressing, Leaving marks & hickeys, Dom/sub dynamics (kinda), Both are drunk/tipsy, Doggy position, Clit stimulation, Fingering, Praise kink, Crying from pleasure, Begging kink, Cunnilingus;), Multiple orgasms (cw will be updated with each ch)
Word count: 9.9k
Author’s note: don't kill me guys🤭
The corridor brick is no longer holding you up and the cold spring air slaps you across the face the second you step out of the underground stairwell, which does absolutely nothing for the situation between your thighs.
The Uber pulls up outside the pub fast, some blue Toyota with a cracked phone holder on the dash, and Zayne opens the back door for you with one hand on the small of your back like you might tip sideways into the gutter if he doesn’t. You probably might.
You slide in first. He follows. The driver glances in the rearview, mumbles something polite in confirmation of the address Zayne had punched in on his phone two minutes ago, and pulls into the slow traffic crawling past the strip of pubs.
The car smells like vanilla air freshener and somebody else’s perfume. There is a tiny pine tree dangling from the mirror, spinning lazy with every turn. You watch it for a second because it gives your eyes somewhere to land that isn’t Zayne, and then immediately stop, because watching a spinning object while drunk is its own kind of disaster.
You close your eyes instead. Lean your head against the cold of the window. The glass kisses your temple, a small mercy, and the streetlights flick orange and white through your eyelids in a slow, hypnotic pulse.
You rub your thighs together. Slow. Once. Then again, because it doesn’t help at all, in fact it makes the ache between them sharper, more specific, very loudly Zayne-shaped. The print of his mouth under your jaw still feels wet to you, even though you know it’s dried by now. You can feel his fingers on the back of your thigh as a phantom, a pressure that isn’t there anymore but won’t quit.
If I kiss you properly right now, you’re not making it home alone.
You replay it. You replay it in his exact, unhurried voice, the small pause before so, the soft scrape of teeth that had absolutely no business being attached to a sentence about being specific. You replay the way his thumb had stroked the back of your thigh while Caleb was still standing two feet away calling you his. You replay the heat of his palm at your jaw.
You think, with the foggy, many-drinks-deep clarity of someone who has stopped negotiating with herself, about what you’d let him do if he came up to your dorm. You think about your bed, the cheap springs of it, the laundry pile you would have to kick off the chair before he saw it. You think about the lamp by the window that gives the whole room a warm, bad-decision-coloured light. You think about your dress, how easy it is to push up.
You think about how he’d take his time. You don’t even know him well enough to know that for sure, but you are absolutely certain. Zayne would take his fucking time. Zayne would make you ask for things. Zayne, who told you to finish your cigarette like he was assigning you homework, would have you say what you wanted out loud and then would smile that mild not-quite-smile while you tried to.
Your thighs press together harder.
You’d assumed, before tonight, that Zayne wasn’t the type. You’d had him pinned, mentally, as the kind of guy who walked girls to their door and didn’t come in. Studious. A little distant. The boy who shows up to seminar with one cup of coffee and clean handwriting. Not the type to peel a girl off a brick wall and tell her he’s not letting her go home alone if he kisses her properly.
A lot of things about tonight have surprised you. The cigarette. The shotgunning. The hand on your throat. The mouth at your jaw. The way he texts Caleb without looking at his phone. The way he says we’re good like it’s a sentence he’s used before.
So maybe. Maybe he caves. Maybe he is just as wound up as you are, just better at hiding it under that mild expression that doesn’t commit to anything. You’d felt him against your hip in the corridor, you are not stupid, you know what that was. He’s a man. You are very aware, in the specific drunk way where you are aware of nothing else, that you are hot tonight. You know how the dress sits on your curves. You felt his hazel eyes drag over you in the corridor like he was reading something he wasn’t supposed to be reading in public. He was teasing you. He was playing with you. Which means he wants to. Which means a little push, a little flirt, the right hand in the right place, and—
The car takes a corner too fast and your shoulder slides into his.
You open your eyes.
Zayne is looking at his phone, screen tilted away from you, thumb moving slow over something. The streetlight catches the underside of his jaw and the sharp line down to his throat, the soft mess of dark hair sitting against the collar of his shirt, and you are deciding things before your brain has cleared them with the rest of you.
You stay leaned into his shoulder. Let your hand fall, casual, onto his thigh, palm flat on the denim, fingers spread. You feel the muscle under your hand shift very slightly. He doesn’t look up from his phone.
“You’re being awfully quiet, Zayne.” Your voice has gone smoke-low again, the one you’d used on him in the corridor, and you tilt your face up so your mouth is near the underside of his jaw without quite touching it. “Already bored of me?”
His phone screen goes dark. He pockets it slowly.
“Mm.” The hum is more vibration than sound, and his hand finds your knee in the dimness of the car, palm warm, fingers curling around the inside of it. “"Did I look bored, in the corridor?”
You feel the shape of his amusement in it, the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth that you can’t see from this angle but absolutely know is there.
“You looked something.” You drag your hand a slow inch up his thigh. “Couldn’t tell what.”
“Take a guess.”
His hand has started moving on your knee. A small press of his thumb into the soft inner part of it, a slow squeeze, the kind of touch that is technically a massage and is in absolutely no way a massage. You feel it ladder all the way up the inside of your leg as if he’d run his fingers there himself, and your breath goes a little uneven against his neck.
You shift. Tuck yourself closer into his side, knees angling toward him on the seat, and finally, finally, let your mouth land where it has been wanting to land since back in the corridor, soft and open against the side of his throat. Just a press. Then a kiss. Then your tongue, a small drag, a tasting.
His hand on your knee tightens a fraction.
You take that as encouragement. You suck a small kiss into the soft part of his neck where the line of his jaw becomes throat, where his pulse moves under your lips, and you feel him breathe out long and quiet through his nose.
“You’re going to get us kicked out of this guy’s car,” he murmurs, low enough that the driver, who has the radio on a pop station turned up just enough to be polite, isn’t going to hear a word of it.
“He can’t see anything,” you breathe against his skin, lips dragging as you talk. “If you’re gonna be quiet.”
“You should be quiet.”
But his hand has moved, not off you, up. From your knee to middle of your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress back a couple of careless inches with the heel of his palm, fingers curling into the soft inside of you and giving a slow, deliberate squeeze that has you bite, accidentally, into the side of his throat. You feel him laugh. It’s not even a sound, just a small shake under your mouth, and the heat of it goes straight between your legs.
You kiss the bite. Apologetic. Then less apologetic, mouthing wetter at the place where you’d nipped, and that is when you see it.
You don’t even feel the corner the car takes. You feel the warm dim of the cab, the radio mumbling some pop chorus through the front speakers, the heat of Zayne’s thigh under your palm, and the wet, almost-bruised place under his jaw where your mouth has been working for the last two streetlights.
You can’t stop kissing him. That’s the embarrassing part. Your lips have gone autopilot at the side of his throat, soft and open and a little messy, the kind of kissing that’s all tongue and no rhythm because you’re drunk and the only plan your body has is more. You suck a kiss under his ear, panting through your nose against his skin, and feel him swallow under your mouth.
Your thighs are pressed tight together on the seat. They have been since the car pulled away from the pub. You shift slowly, like you’re just settling in against him, and let one cross over the other, the inside seam of your thighs dragging against itself. The small, useless friction makes you bite down again accidentally on the soft skin where his pulse is. You feel him laugh, just a shake under your lips, no sound.
It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. You are aware, in a hot, embarrassed, completely uncaring way, that your panties are soaked through. You can feel the wetness of yourself when you move, sticky and warm against the cotton, and every tiny shift of your hips on the seat just reminds you of it.
His hand is still on your thigh. Just resting now, heavy and scorching hot. The hem of your dress pushed up an idle inch by his wrist where he hasn’t bothered to fix it. Every now and then his thumb does a slow stroke against the inside of your leg, small enough that you could almost convince yourself he doesn’t know what he’s doing, except Zayne knows exactly what he’s doing.
You kiss along the line of his jaw, lower, dragging your tongue down to the side of his neck where his collar sits loose, and that’s when the next streetlight slides across the car at the right angle and you see it.
A line. Thin. Black. Where the soft mess of his hair lies against the back of his neck, just above his collar, a single curving ink stroke peeking out from under the dark strands.
You go still. Your mouth, half-open against his throat, goes still too.
You move your nose, nudging up into the softness of his hair, and the line keeps going. It curves up under his hairline, you can see another sweep of it sitting darker than skin, and when you tilt your head a fraction and catch the place where his collar has moved at his shoulder, there’s more. The edge of something bigger, something with shape, going down under the cotton toward his collarbone.
Your brain, which has been operating on roughly one functional braincell since flirting in that corridor, just stops.
Tonight you found out Zayne smokes. Tonight you found out Zayne drinks. Tonight you found out Zayne wears black jeans that fit him like that and band shirts you don’t recognise the logos of and that he leans against brick walls with a beer bottle dangling loose between his fingers like he’s done it a thousand times. Tonight you found out his mouth knows exactly where to land under your jaw on the first try.
And now this.
Zayne has a tattoo.
The Zayne you know shows up to seminar in a clean collared shirt with one coffee and good handwriting. The Zayne you know hands papers back without looking at the people he’s handing them to. The Zayne you know is the boy other girls work up the courage to ask if he wants to study together under a pretense so thin it embarrasses everyone in the room. That Zayne does not have ink curling up the back of his neck under his hair. That Zayne does not have something bigger and darker hiding under the cotton at his shoulder.
You have always been weak for this. You know this about yourself. The first boy you ever slept with had a sleeve, the second one had a piece across his ribs you used to trace with your finger when you couldn’t sleep, you have a type and the type is exactly this, and the absolute injustice of finding it on Zayne Li in the back of an Uber at half past midnight has you actually losing your mind.
You don’t decide to keep kissing him. You just keep kissing him. Wet and a little frantic now, panting open-mouthed against his throat, mouthing at the line of ink where it disappears into his hair like you can taste it through the skin. Your hand on his thigh slides up another inch, fingers spreading, and you cross your legs the other way, hard, just to feel something against yourself.
A small, ruined sound escapes against his neck.
His thumb on the inside of your thigh stops moving.
“You—” Your voice is wrecked, breath against his skin. You pull back enough to look up at him, lashes heavy, mouth flushed and wet from his throat. “Zayne, is that a tattoo?”
He glances down at you. The streetlight catches the side of his face. His mouth does that small upturn at one corner, the mild not-quite-smile, except his eyes are darker than they were five minutes ago and he sounds very amused at the reaction plainly on your face.
“You sound very surprised. Didn’t expect it, did you?”
“N-no, not really.” You laugh, but it comes out breathy, your forehead dropping back against the side of his neck because you can’t quite hold his eyes right now. “Can you blame me?” You drag your lips along the ink line you can reach. “Since when do you have tattoos?”
“As I said back at the pub,” his voice is low, lazy with it, the kind of unbothered that you are starting to suspect is a deliberate choice on his part, “there’s many things you don’t know about me.”
His hand on your thigh squeezes once, so slow, and you feel it everywhere.
You smile against his throat. You can feel the shape of your own smile pressing into his skin, slow and stupid and a little (a lot) drunk, and your hand on his thigh slides higher, palm flat over the warm denim, fingers spreading toward the inside of him. You don’t quite get there. You stop deliberately. You let your pinky just barely brush the seam at his inseam and you feel the muscle in his thigh tighten under your palm.
“Fine, Zayne. Keep your little secrets.” You tilt your face up so your mouth is near his ear, breath catching against the soft skin behind it. “But…” You wait. You let it sit. You feel him waiting too, the way his chest doesn’t quite move under your other hand. “I do know one thing for sure.”
“And which is that?” His voice has gone quieter, breathier. You feel that more than you hear it.
You drag your nose along the side of his jaw very slowly. You take your time with it, the way he’s been taking his time with you all night, learning straight from the source.
“I know…” Your hand slides up his thigh another half-inch, the tip of your finger now firmly along the inseam, “that you’re gonna come up to my dorm room tonight.” You tilt your face up to look at him through your lashes. “Aren’t you?”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Hold there. Come back up.
“Is that so?” The corner of his mouth pulls higher. He is amused. He is also, you notice, breathing slightly different now. “What made you come up with that conclusion?”
“For starters…” You lean back into him, mouth at the line of his throat again, eyes half-lidded, “the way your eyes roamed over my body tonight.”
You shift deliberately on the seat. Just a small drag of your hip against his. You feel the firm shape of his bluge through his jeans where your hip has just pressed, and a hot, smug little thrill shoots straight up your spine because you are right, you are so right, no matter what mild expression he wants to wear on his face.
You drop your voice.
“…No matter how in control you think you are, Zayne…” You drag your palm slow up the inside of his thigh, almost there, almost where he is, and stop. “Even you can’t hide the tent in your pants.”
He doesn’t answer. His jaw works once under your mouth.
“Don’t you wanna fuck me?” You breathe it into the soft skin just under his ear. Your thighs are pressed so tight together you can feel your own pulse between them. “I know I do.”
The car is quiet for a second. Just the radio. Just the tick of the indicator. Just the small wet sound of your mouth as you kiss the side of his throat once more, slow, and wait.
Then his hand leaves your thigh.
It comes up to your jaw, fingers light, thumb under your chin, and he tilts your face up off his neck with the same easy confidence he’d used to put you against the wall in the corridor. Your breath catches. His eyes are very dark now, blown soft at the centre, his mouth a little flushed where your hair has been brushing it. He is, absolutely, holding something back. You can see the tiny tell of it in the way his throat moves when he swallows.
But the corner of his mouth goes up, mild, amused, in complete control of his own face if not, you suspect, the rest of him.
“Behave.”
The word lands somewhere very low in your stomach.
“Make me,” you breathe up at him, before any sober part of your brain can stop you.
His thumb strokes once over your chin. Very slow.“I am.”
You don’t have an answer to that. Your brain is offline. The radio mumbles a chorus you don’t know, the spinning pine tree on the rearview spins, and Zayne keeps your face tilted up to his for another moment, looking at you like he is memorizing every single thing your face is doing right now and putting it somewhere he can use later. Then he eases your head back down, gentle, against his shoulder. His hand returns to your thigh and rests there, heavy. He doesn’t move it again.
You can feel his pulse in his neck against your forehead. It is not as steady as he is pretending it is.
You close your eyes. The ache between your legs is, if anything, considerably worse, because you are now sitting in the back of a car with the smell of vanilla air freshener in your nose and the hot, drunk certainty curling through you that there is a whole inked map of him living under that shirt collar that you didn’t know about an hour ago, and you are going to find out how far down it goes tonight. You have decided this, you have decided this for both of you.
The car turns onto the long road that runs up to the dorms.
You smile small into the side of his neck where he can’t see it.
Yeah. He’s going to cave.
—
The door slams behind you with a thud that probably wakes whoever is in 14B and you don’t care, your back is to the room and your front is on Zayne and you’ve got both fistfuls of his shirt in your hands as you reverse him into the wood. His shoulders hit. His head tilts back a fraction with the impact, dark hair shifting against the door, hazel eyes catching the warm yellow of your desk lamp where it’s still on from before you left, and the corner of his mouth pulls into that small smile he keeps doing like none of this is making a dent in him.
You are going to fix that.
You go for his throat first because your mouth has been on his throat for thirty minutes already and your lips know where they want to be. You bite down softly at the side of his neck, just under his jaw, and then harder when he doesn’t tell you not to, sucking at the skin until you feel the small heat of a bruise blooming under your lips. You move down. Another. Lower, where his collar sits open, where the line of ink curves up out of nowhere and you still can’t quite believe is real. You leave a mark there too. Wet, big, your tongue dragging slow over the skin after.
His breathing has gone ragged. You can hear it now, soft and uneven against the top of your head, and a low groan slips out of him when your teeth catch the soft place under his ear. Quiet. Almost reluctant. Like he didn’t quite mean to give you that one.
You smile against his skin.
His hand is in your hair. You hadn’t noticed when he’d moved it there but it’s there now, fingers spread wide at the back of your head, palm cupping your skull, holding you against him without pushing, heavy and warm against it. His other hand is at your waist, thumb pressing into the dip above your hip through your dress, and every time you nip a new mark into his throat his fingers tighten a fraction and pull, and your body arches into his on instinct, your chest pressing flush against the warmth of his.
He is amused at how desperately you’re climbing him like a tree. You can feel that in the easy way his hand is sitting in your hair, the lazy span of it, the patience. He is letting you do this. He is letting you, the way he’s been letting you do all of it since the pub, and the part of you that’s still functioning under all the alcohol is filing that away, very carefully, for later.
For now you pull back.
Just a little. Just enough to look up at him through your lashes, mouth flushed and a little wet, and you can see the marks you’ve left on him already, the soft pink at the side of his throat, the wet shine where you’d dragged your tongue, the hair you’ve messed up at the back of his neck. He looks, for the first time tonight, slightly undone. The mild expression is still doing its thing on his mouth but his eyes are doing something else entirely, dark and heavy-lidded and watching you.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt where it sits low at his hips. You reach and tug slowly. Push it up an inch, then another, baring a thin strip of his stomach, and you bite your lip looking up at him.
“I’m curious,” your voice has gone smoke-low again, all sugar in it, “how far down does your little tattoo go, hm?”
The smirk pulls slow at one side of his mouth.
His hand leaves your hair. Comes down to your wrist. He doesn’t stop you. He does the opposite. His fingers close warm around your wrist and he pushes your hand up under his shirt, dragging your palm along the warm skin of his stomach as your knuckles take the fabric with them. And what you see, what comes into the soft yellow lamp light as the cotton rides up his ribs, has your whole body forget how to function for a second.
There is so much more.
The line you’d seen at the back of his neck is the smallest piece of it. He has work across his ribs, dark and detailed, and a piece running up the side of his stomach, and a bigger sweep that disappears around to his back where you can’t see, and your hand flat on his stomach is sitting on inked skin where you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm.
And then your eyes catch the small glint of metal at his navel.
A barbell. Silver, simple, sitting through his belly button, catching the lamp light when his stomach moves with his breath.
Your pupils blow wide. You feel them do it. Your lashes flutter once, twice, and a small, very pathetic sound escapes the back of your throat that you absolutely cannot take back.
“Since I have more,” his voice is low, threaded with that dark amusement that you are now actively in trouble over, “which one are you referring to?”
You laugh. It comes out breathy and a little wrecked. You lean into his body, your hand still flat on his stomach under his shirt, and you push the cotton up further, baring more of him to the lamp light. The piercing catches again. So does another sweep of ink at his side. You drag your eyes up slowly over all of it, before you find his face again.
“You’re full of surprises, Zayne.” Your fingers spread on his stomach, pressing into inked skin. You tilt your head, lashes heavy, and let your mouth pull into a small wicked smile. “Tattoos… piercings, too.” You pause. You let it land before licking your lips. “Quite a rebel, aren’t you?” Your voice drops deliberately to a seductive tone. “Doc-tor?”
His breath stutters, only once. Just enough that you feel it under your hand. The smirk deepens at the corner of his mouth. Besides amused and curious, he’s also, you note with a quiet thrill, a little caught.
You pull him off the door.
Not hard., and he lets you. You step back, both hands moving to the collar of his black jacket, and you push it down off his shoulders with a slow slide. He shrugs out of it with a smirk, doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second, and the jacket lands somewhere on the floor of your room next to your laundry pile that you have very thoroughly stopped caring about.
Your hands go straight back to his shirt. Both of them this time. Fingers curling under the hem at his hips, pushing it up, and your eyes flick up to his with all the sweetness you can fake.
“Won’t you take this off too?”
His head tilts a fraction. The hazel of his eyes has gone almost entirely dark now in the lamplight, his hair falling soft against his cheekbone where he’s looking down at you, and the corner of his mouth pulls up further.
“You’re very curious, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
The pet name lands somewhere low and hot, straight in your navel.
“Can you blame me…” you tilt your face up, drag your lower lip slow between your teeth, “for wanting to… discover just how much you keep hidden under all these clothes?”
You let your hands slide down his stomach incredibly slow, palms dragging over his warm skin, until your fingers find the leather of his belt. You hook two fingers in. You tug gently, sultry eyes locked on his face the whole time.
His hand catches your wrist before you get any further.
It isn’t gentle this time. It closes warm and firm around your wrist, and his other hand comes up, fast and unhurried at the same time, fingers spreading at the base of your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He just holds, palm warm against your pulse, thumb under your jaw, and uses it to bring your face up closer to his.
Your breath stops right in your lungs. A small, soft moan slips out of you before you can stop it, and your eyes go wide on his.
“I’ll show you another night, darling.” His voice has gone quieter, lower, the cocky thread in it pulled tight. He is so close his breath is on your mouth. The smirk is full now, the mild expression long gone, which has you throbbing between your legs. “But right now, I think you need something else to satiate your curiosity with.”
You can feel your own pulse under his thumb, beating violently. Your face is hot. Your thighs are pressed tight together on instinct and the wetness between them is, at this point, a whole separate situation. He looks down at you with that smirk, hazel eyes raking slow over your flushed face and your parted mouth and the way you are quite obviously begging him with every part of yourself, and you can see him enjoy it. He is enjoying you. He is enjoying every second of this.
He’t got you so desperate for a touch and a taste, and eats it all up.
His hand tightens just a fraction at your throat. Your breath catches in your throat, suddenly hard to swallow, if only for the way he looks at you and nothing to do with his slender fingers firmly pressed around it.
And then his hands move again.
They drop from your throat and your wrist all at once, and he reaches down, palms going to the backs of your thighs under the hem of your dress, and lifts. You scramble for him on instinct, arms flying around his neck, legs hooking around his waist, a small surprised sound jumping out of your mouth as the room tilts. His hands settle on your ass, fingers spreading hot under your dress where it has ridden all the way up, and he squeezes a bit hard, watching your eyes go wide and another soft sound reach his ears.
He carries you four steps to your bed.
You don’t even fully register the walk. You register the warmth of him through his shirt, the feeling of his stomach against the bare strip of your thigh where your dress has bunched up, the soft mess of his hair against your temple where it sticks to your sweaty skin. And then your back hits the duvet, mattress dipping under you, and before you’ve found his eyes again his hand is at your hip and he’s turning you easily, like he’s done this many times before.
You go on instinct. You scramble onto your knees, palms flat on the duvet, and he places one warm broad hand at the small of your back and presses down. Gentle but absolute.
You go where he wants you to go.
Your cheek meets the duvet. Your back arches without him asking. Your ass tilts up and you feel the lamp light warm on the backs of your thighs where your dress is shoved up. You got approximately one second to register that you are bent over your own bed with Zayne Li standing behind you before his hands are on your dress.
“I want to make discoveries of my own.”
His voice behind you is rougher now, the quiet amusement gone darker, and you feel his fingers gather the hem of your dress at the backs of your thighs and push up slowly, agonisingly slow, the fabric dragging warm along your skin until it bunches at your waist. You arch for him without meaning to. A small whimper leaves you into the duvet while the cold of the room hits the wetness between your thighs through your panties, feeling yourself clench around nothing.
“Starting with… this.”
His hand comes back. You feel him low between your thighs from behind, and then two fingers drag featherlight, right over the wet patch of cotton at the centre of your panties. You feel them part the soaked fabric against you and then go away again, barely a touch.
A broken sound leaves you into the duvet.
“Your panties are soaked through.” He chuckles lowly, a rough sound that has you arching in need for more. You feel it travel down your spine like liquid fire. His fingers drag again in the same slow pattern, tracing the wet shape of your arousal through the cotton, light enough that it gives you absolutely nothing except sexual frustration of not getting any kind of friction you desperately crave.
“Was it the tattoos, darling?”
Another slow, teasing drag. Your hips push back on instinct, chasing it as his free hand settles warm and heavy on the small of your back, holding you exactly where he’s put you.
“Or were you this wet…” his voice has gone wicked, smirking against the back of your shoulder where you can almost feel him leaning down, “where we shared that cigarette, too?”
“You know the answer to that,” you pant into the duvet, the words half muffled against the fabric, your eyes rolling back as his middle finger dips and presses through the wet patch of cotton, parting your folds through it. The fabric drags into you, soaking deeper, clinging in a way that's almost uncomfortable, and you twitch on his hand without meaning to.
He chuckles softly behind you. He felt that. “I guess I do.”
His hand leaves you for a second and you nearly whine at the loss, but it's only to push your hair to one side, gathering the loose strands off the back of your neck and laying them over your shoulder. Then his mouth is on you. Slow, languid kisses down the back of your neck, the same patient mouth that had worked you to pieces against the brick wall, and a low moan leaves you into the duvet because it's so much, and so little, all at once.
His other hand is still on you, palm warm and broad over the curve of your ass, kneading slowly, fingers spreading and pressing into the softness of your flesh with the kind of unhurried focus that says he is in absolutely no rush. Then it drifts slowly down. Back to the cotton between your thighs, where you are an actual mess.
You feel hazy. The alcohol is sitting heavy behind your eyes, the lamplight is warm at the edges of your vision, and your clit is throbbing so hard you can feel it in your teeth. You squeeze your eyes shut. Your hips, completely without your permission, start to rock back against his fingers, chasing whatever scrap of friction the wet cotton will give you, and you feel his mouth go still against your neck for a second before he laughs lowly.
“Please…” It comes out small, a whimper into the duvet.
"Please?" The smirk is in his voice. He lets it sit. Then his mouth is at your ear, breath warm, and his voice has dropped into something darker, more amused. “Darling, do you always beg so nicely? So easily, for just anyone to give this pussy a little bit of attention?”
His fingers trace the seam of your panties where it cuts into the crease of your thigh, not pulling them aside, not yet. He hooks two fingers into the wet centre of the fabric, lifts it just slightly off your skin, and lets it snap back against your soaked cunt with a small wet sound that has the whole bottom drop out of your stomach.
The words you were trying to say dissolve into a broken moan into the sheets.
“Not anyone—ohh fu—” You drag in a shaking breath, your fingers fisting tight into the duvet. “You know I-I want you.”
“Do I?”
His teeth find the juncture of your neck and shoulder and bite down, soft but with intent, and your eyes roll back so hard it makes the alcohol slosh sideways. Heat ladders straight down your spine and pools right where his fingers are massaging slow, deliberate circles into the drenched cotton, and you feel yourself drip a little further down the inside of your thigh.
“Is it me you actually want,” he murmurs against your skin, taunting, soft, “or just someone to get you off?”
“Y-You,” you manage, and your voice is wrecked, “otherwise I wouldn't have let you come up to the room.”
“So what is it you want, hm?”
You feel him straighten behind you, the warmth of him lifting off your back, and then a sudden cold strip of leather settles against the bare skin of your ass where his belt rests low at his hips. You tremble, a small full-body shiver, the cold metal of his buckle skating against your skin, and his free hand slides slow up the back of your thigh to your hip, anchoring you there.
“You look like such a sweet girl on campus, do you know that?” His voice has gone low, a little philosophical, like he's genuinely considering you. His thumb strokes your hip. His other fingers slow their circles on the cotton. You whimper.
“The beautiful type who deserves flower bouquets, love letters.” He drags his palm up the line of your spine over your dress. “Nice dates over dinner or coffee. A loving partner to gaze at her like she hangs the moon.”
He presses the small of your back down with the heel of his palm at the same time, easing your spine into a deeper arch, and you go where he wants you to go. You whimper into the duvet at how good even that small adjustment feels, your ass tilting higher for him, and just as your spine settles into the curve he wants, his fingers finally pull the soaked cotton of your panties to the side.
The cold air of the room hits the wet of you directly and you whine into the sheets.
You hear him in your head still, flower bouquets, love letters, dinner or coffee, a loving partner. In any other version of your life that would have made you flush. You'd have argued back. You'd have told him you can be both, that the dress and the lipstick are not mutually exclusive with any of that. Some other night, in some other version of you, you'd have wanted him to think of you that way.
Tonight all of those imagined scenarios slide off you. Tonight you do not want flowers. You want to be pressed into this mattress and fucked into the springs of it, and you do not want any of it to be sweet.
“P-Please,” you push out into the duvet, voice catching, “I need more… it's not enough.”
You can feel mascara smearing into your sheets where your face is pressed. You don't care. Your eyes feel glassy, your cheek is hot against the duvet, and you reach back blindly, fingers finding his wrist behind you, trying to push his hand where you need it most, trying to drag those two teasing fingers up onto your clit.
He tuts. A quiet, dark sound that has your pussy clench, needy. “Mm-mm.”
His hand doesn't move where you want it to. He simply lets you pull at his wrist for a second, indulgent, and then his fingers slide up, away from where you need them, leaving you again. His other hand drags slow up your spine, finds the small zipper at the back of your dress, and starts easing it down. You hear the soft tick of each tooth giving way, and your back arches further on instinct, your skin going hot at the slow drag of cold metal down between your shoulder blades.
“But right now…” His voice has gone quieter, rougher, the smirk threaded right through it. “Do you want to know what kind of girl I see?”
His hands settle on your ass and spread. You feel the cold air hit you everywhere. You feel his fingers slide down between your cheeks from behind, two of them, pushing slow through your folds, dragging through the wet of you in a single unhurried stroke until they reach your throbbing clit, and his fingertips begin to circle, lazy and exact.
You choke on it.
“Yes, nghhh, ohh fu—! Fuck!”
Your hips jerk. Your fists tighten in the sheets. Your toes curl into the duvet so hard your foot cramps for a second.
“A girl desperate for some cock,” he says, and his voice has gone darker, the words landing right against the back of your shoulder where his mouth has dropped to kiss you again.“Who'll take everything I have to offer as long as she gets to cum.”
He kisses your shoulder. Your neck. The soft place behind your ear. His fingertips dip lower and trace featherlight around the clenching rim of your hole, just enough to make you actually sob into the duvet, before they slide back up to your clit and resume their slow, steady circles.
“Do you agree?”
You drip. You can feel it, hot and obscene, sliding down the inside of your thigh, and your whole body has started to tremble around his hand. You press your face hard into the mattress to keep yourself quiet, biting at the duvet, because the noises trying to come out of you are not noises you've heard yourself make before.
“I a-agree!” It tears out of you, muffled into the sheets. “Nghh, I'm g-gonna… please don't stop, I'm s-so close, haahhh…”
Your thighs have started to shake. You can feel them. You can also barely feel them, because your entire body has narrowed down to the small wet sound of his two fingers circling your clit and the throb of yourself around nothing. Your eyes roll back. Your fists tighten. You are barely holding yourself up on your knees now, your hips chasing his hand in small desperate rolls, and somewhere in the haze you have a small useless thought about how good he is at this, how it has been maybe two minutes, maybe less, and you are already on the edge of falling apart for him.
His chuckle behind you is dark. You barely register it.
“I liked how nicely you begged.”
That tone. The approval in it, low and pleased, sends a hot pulse straight through you and you clench around absolutely nothing, your thighs streaked wet with how much you keep dripping with every patient circle of his fingers. His fingers slide so slow and merciless, up and down through your folds in a long lazy stroke, gathering more of you, and then return to your clit with the wet of yourself smeared over them.
“So beg again.” His voice has gone quieter, right at your ear. “If you want to cum, you'll beg me first.”
You don't even hesitate. You don't have it in you to. Your whole brain has narrowed to one single bright white point and that point is cum, cum, cum, and you will say anything, agree to anything, do anything to keep his hand exactly where it is.
“Zayne, please!” It pours out of you sweet, broken, your voice a sob into the sheets. “Oh please, I—I'll let you fuck me—fuck! D-Don't stop, begging you, I n-need this so b-badly… ah-ahhh—”
“Cum, beautiful girl.” His voice is raspy, right against your ear, low and curious and a little smirking, like he's actually interested in what you look like falling apart on his fingers. “Show me how you do it.”
It hits you like the floor going out from under you. You start trembling so hard your knees nearly slip on the duvet. Your vision goes white at the edges. Your mouth falls open soundless against the sheets. And as you tip, as the heat in you gathers and breaks, you feel his two fingers slip slow, deep, inside you, parting you open and sliding in to the knuckle in one smooth push, and you clench around them so hard you see stars.
Your thighs shake so violently you barely hold yourself up. Your forehead presses into the duvet. The orgasm rolls through you in long, breaking waves, and you feel yourself flutter and squeeze around his fingers, soaking his hand, soaking the inside of your thighs, soaking the bed under you.
You make a sound into the mattress that is so broken and embarrasing.
Behind you, Zayne hums quietly, undoubtedly so pleased. His fingers stay where they are, deep still, while your body works itself out around them. You feel him lean down slowly to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades that has absolutely no business being as tender as it is.
The aftershocks keep skittering through you in little waves that make your thighs twitch and your breath stutter. You slump to your side, cheek to the duvet, the room a warm blur in the thin lamplight. Your makeup has given up on you. Your dress is half unzipped and bunched at your waist. Your panties are still yanked to the side. You feel ridiculous and perfect at the same time.
You reach for him.
Your hand finds Zayne’s forearm first, then the cotton of his shirt, then the warm, inked skin under it where you’d shoved your palm earlier. He’s wiping his fingers with his mouth. He chuckles when you grab, a rough little sound low in his throat, and groans softly when you use every inch of leverage you have left to drag him down, twist, and get him on his back.
He goes because he lets you.
You swing a leg over and sink onto his hips. The thick press of him through his jeans lines up under you in a way that makes your breath leave you all at once.
You moan. You can’t help it.
“Fuck me.” You look down at him through your lashes, eyelids heavy, brows folding together with how much you mean it. Your fingers find the straps of your dress and drag them down your shoulders slowly, letting the neckline slide and the whole thing pool at your waist. The black bra you put on without thinking hours ago looks intentional in this light and this position. The lace pattern hits the line between modest and mean. Your nipples are pushing against it, a tell you can’t hide.
His hands are already on your ass. Both of them. Broad palms, long fingers, grabbing slow, spreading, adjusting you like he’s settling a guitar on his thigh. He smirks up at you with that maddening calm you can’t stand, but his ears have gone pink and his hazel eyes are not calm at all. They drop to your chest. Linger. Drag back to your mouth.
He brings you down to him.
His mouth finds your breast through the lace, sucking soft around a nipple until the fabric darkens, and then he noses the cup aside to get skin. You arch. Your fingers slide into his dark hair and hold. He kisses along your collarbone, open-mouthed, a hot, wet path that breaks your words into little whines you don’t control.
“Zayne—hmph… ahhh, please, let’s f-fuck.” Your hips roll over his bulge without your brain’s permission. The thick line of him rubs right under your clit and your eyes go briefly nowhere at all.
His grip tightens on you. He settles you there, grinding you down and then holding you there on his obvious bulge like he’s pinning a wayward thought in place. His fingers flex into your ass in a way you are going to be wearing tomorrow.
You love this. The unspoken roughness he gives you. The way his hands tell your body where to be and your body just goes. You love how you don’t have to explain any of it. He reads you and you read him and it matches up in a way that is going to ruin you for other people.
His mouth finds your neck again, right over the marks he already gave you, and he drags his teeth there with intent before he says it against your skin.
“I’ll only fuck you sober. Which currently, you are not.” His tone is raspy. Final.
You freeze. Then you try to move your hips anyway, because rules are interesting suggestions at best when you are sitting on this much heat. He doesn’t let you. He holds you still with those hands that feel like they could palm your whole body, and it kicks a frustrated little noise out of you that would be embarrassing if you were anyone else.
You don’t care about positions. You don’t care about condoms. You don’t care about anything except the fact that he is hard under you and you can feel it against the bare line where your panties are still shoved to the side. Curiosity flares stupid-hot, because he feels big, and you want to know exactly how big, and you want to know with your whole body.
You keep grinding anyway, small disobedient rolls that catch your clit on the seam of his jeans, and each catch punches a hiss out of you.
“That’s so not fair, mmm… hah…” Your head tips back to give him your throat. He takes it, marking you up like he’s signing his autograph on your skin. “You’re hard, and I know you want it too.”
He chuckles into your skin. It scrapes all the way down your spine and settles right where he’s keeping you from what you want.
“Ah, but I never said I don’t want to.” He pulls back enough to see your face, one hand sliding up warmly to cradle your jaw. He tilts your head down until your eyes are locked to his. He wants you to see him say it. “In fact…” The smirk is a full thing now, wicked and pleased. “…I want nothing more than to give you a taste of what you’re being so desperate begging for.”
He parts your lips with his thumb. You close around it immediately, tongue wet, a soft, helpless suck that wipes the smirk right off your own face. His eyes flick lower to your mouth, darkening.
“But.” The word lands soft and cruel. “I am a gentleman. And sex implies I need to have you sober for you to follow my instructions like I need you to.”
You try to move your hips again on instinct and he answers by lifting his palm off your ass an inch and dropping it back in a light, sharp smack that is ninety percent warning and ten percent reward. Your eyes fly wide and then roll, your mouth falling open on a ragged little sound you do not recognise as yours.
“Nghh… hah, fuck, l-let me at least suck you o-off…” You chase him with your hands, sliding them down his chest through his shirt, over the warm plane of his stomach, down to his belt, tugging on the leather. You aim for your most devastating eyes. They probably look insane. You commit anyway.
His laugh is low and pleased at your little performance.
“How about you let me have a taste instead?” The cocky tilt of his mouth says he already knows your answer. “I’ll get off by eating you out, if you’ll allow me.”
You don’t get a chance to formulate the words yes, obviously yes because the world flips. The mattress springs give a protesting squeak and your back hits the bed, dress bunched at your waist, one bra cup already crooked. Zayne is over you in the next breath, hair falling soft around his face, hazel eyes steady and calm and devouring.
“Spread your legs.” His voice leaves no room for interpretation. “Good girl.” Two fingers pull one bra cup down, your nipple slipping free into the warm air, and his mouth drops to kiss it once. Soft, like a reward. “Even while drunk, your body is very sincere about what it wants.”
He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, the dip of your navel. You grab a fistful of his hair and he hums into your skin in approval, the vibration a quiet threat that you can cash in on later. Heat is burning off you in waves and the closed window turns your little room into a fever. You would crack it if you could get your hands to stop shaking on his hair.
He groans into your hip. It’s not loud. It’s honest. He spreads your knees wider with his hands, gentle but absolute, and places a kiss on the inside of your thigh that lands like a promise.
“Now,” he says, glancing up at you from between your legs with eyes that have gone forest-dark, “I know you’ll be a good girl and keep them spread for me, hm?” His tongue wets his lower lip and your entire body tightens. “If it gets too much, just tug at my hair.” The calm in his hazel pools is not a contradiction to the hunger. It frames it. “But if you misbehave and close your legs, I’ll stop before you get a chance to cum again. Understood?”
You nod so fast you probably look unwell. He smiles like you’ve just got an answer right in class.
His fingers spread your slick folds and you watch the exact second he takes in the mess you are. Something in his face—mild, appreciative, deeply satisfied—clicks deeper. He kisses your inner thigh again, and again, and then his mouth finally closes over your swollen clit.
Stars immediately burst behind your eyelids. Your back bows off the bed, hands flying to his hair, a sound ripping out of you that is very erotic in itself. The heat of his tongue and the wet pressure of his mouth shortcircuits whatever flimsy self-control you’d built up.
And then there’s the metal.
Cold, sudden, a bright slick bead of pressure that drags over your clit like a spark and has your eyes flying open in shock before they roll straight back into your skull.
A tongue piercing. In Zayne’s mouth. On you.
He smirks into you. You feel it against your skin. He starts to lap, slow and deliberate, circling, teasing, learning you in long patient passes, and every time that small barbell slides over your clit in the arc of his tongue you make a noise you have never made before in your entire life. He moves from your clit to your entrance and back again, and when he dips his tongue into you, you choke on a moan that probably wakes 14B for the second time tonight.
“O-ohhh, shit… Fuck, fuck! Z-Zayne, nghhh, oh—”
He doesn’t slow. He slurps shamelessly, mouth wet and open on you, tongue working in patient, ruinous patterns. You fight your own legs, keeping them open on command even as every muscle you have tries to close them. His hands keep your thighs parted, thumbs stroking reassurance into the inner lines while his mouth takes you apart.
“G-God… Zayne, s-so good… shit, ‘m going to… so close…” Your voice is broken glass and honey. Your chest rises and falls too fast. Your head tips back and you stare at the ceiling like it did something to you personally.
He pushes his tongue inside you, slow, fucking you with it, and the metal drags on the way in and the way out like a wicked little punctuation. Your mind spins. Your whole body sings like an overstimulated nerve. One hand leaves his hair to cup your breast, pinching at the nipple he freed earlier, and he watches you do it, looks right up your body and into your eyes while he works you, and groans into your cunt at the sight.
You try to get away from it. Not because you want to. Because you physically cannot take it and your body is trying to save whatever is left of you. He doesn’t let you. His hands are stronger than your panic. He holds you right there and devours you like he said he would.
“Hah… nghhh, t-too much! C-Can’t take i-it… Z-Zayne—” Your voice tips high. “Cumming!”
You break.
You soak his mouth. Your ears ring so hard you almost miss your own keening. He groans rough into you and seals his mouth tighter, sucking at your clit as you spasm, pushing you through it, through the part where it would flicker and die if he were kinder. He is not kind. Not here. Not now. He keeps you there until it rolls all the way through, until you’re shaking apart under his mouth.
“Like that, beautiful. Easy.” He breathes it against your slick cunt, the words a warm promise and command all at once. His nose nudges your clit and you twitch. “Breathe for me.”
He kisses your inner thigh again, a soft little benediction, and eases your legs off his shoulders one at a time. Then he crawls up your body and hovers over you in the lamplight, hair falling around his face.
You are a wreck. Flushed. Glassy-eyed. Your breath saws in and out. You smile at him anyway, a stupid, post-apocalyptic little grin, and giggle. It hits him in the chest. He smiles back without meaning to.
You hook a hand behind his neck and bring his face closer. You look at his mouth like it holds state secrets.
Your voice is shredded. It makes something satisfied flicker through his eyes.
“Who would’ve guessed…” You drag your thumb over his lower lip and feel the shape of the barbell moving under his tongue when he shifts. “…that the Zayne Li would have a tongue piercing, of all things, and no one would know?”
He scoffs, amused, eyes half on your mouth, half on the way your hand won’t stop touching him.
You sigh, thumbing the corner of his smile like you can make it stay.
“God, it felt amazing. You knew it would, didn’t you?” You poke at him lazily, flirting even as your pupils are still trying to remember how to be normal. “That’s why you refused to kiss me? Just so you could see the look on my face when you got your mouth between my legs?”
You pout, performative, like you’re mad. He huffs a laugh, the smirk kicking back up.
“The surprise on your face when you felt it was a sight to see, for sure.” His thumb traces a lazy line under your eye where mascara has smeared. “And besides, you came so hard just because of it, so why complain, hm?”
You scoff like you aren’t completely wrecked and then—your phone goes off.
The shrill vibration cuts through the warm bubble like a slap. Your eyes go wide. Zayne’s brow lifts. You twist, fumbling for the device where it’s facedown on your nightstand, and flip it over with a smear of your own mascara across the screen you’ll hate yourself for later.
It’s Tara. Multiple texts stacked in frantic drunk-girl staccato. Spelling optional. Punctuation creative. You catch the words dorm lobby and where r u and Simone lost her shoe and we r coming up now plzz open.
You make a face up at Zayne that says every cursed thing the universe has ever done to you in one expression.
The corner of his mouth curls. Not unsympathetic. A little triumphant.
He kisses your cheek, the same innocent press he’d weaponised in the corridor, and you feel the ghost of his smirk against your skin.
“Looks like your fan club is inbound.”
(credits for the Art go to Raoni - @/raonnni on X)
.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!
❥ pairing: writer/journalist!sylus qin x writer/journalist!reader
❥ summary: “She needed a plus one. She put his name last and told herself it was practical. He answered yes to her request. What neither of them expected was what a single weekend at the countryside would do to three years of carefully maintained distance — and every feeling they’d been calling by the wrong name.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 49,3k (I’m insane & not normal about sylus <3)
❥ warnings/tags: alternate universe, writer/journalist!au, enemies/rivals to lovers. one sided enemies to lovers. fake dating!au kinda?, fools/idiots to lovers. forced proximity. one bed trope, mild hurt/comfort, misunderstandings, banter, sylus the rage baiter. longing/yearning, jealousy (both of them), sylus is soft for reader, reader is shorter than sylus. inexperienced/virgin!reader. loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, slight daddy kink… I’m sorry <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten, sweetie, sweetheart, etc.).
⟶ a/n: finally taking another shot at writing enemies to lovers. it's pretty tame ngl and more rivals to lovers but yeah. I genuinely enjoyed writing this hihi 🥺 either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 inspired by the song no drug like me by carly rae jepsen <3
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
There are few things you hate most in this world.
Wasps and hornets. Certain shades of orange — specifically, aggressively, fluorescent orange. Injustice. The texture of velvet against your fingertips. Overcooked pasta. People who don’t use turn signals. The sound of styrofoam.
But nothing, nothing takes the cake more than two very specific things.
Weddings.
And Sylus Qin.
You didn’t always hate weddings. That was important to clarify, at least to yourself, in the privacy of your own head where no one could call you bitter. There was a time when you thought they were lovely — the flowers, the vows, the particular kind of joy that seemed to exist only in the space between I do and the first dance. You had cried at your cousin’s wedding when you were eleven. Happy tears. Genuine ones.
Then you got older, and weddings became something else entirely.
They became the place where distant relatives asked why you weren’t next with a smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes. They became seating charts that put you next to someone’s recently divorced uncle who wanted to talk about cryptocurrency. They became the slow, creeping awareness that you were always attending, never — and you were fine with this, mostly, on regular Tuesdays — participating.
And then there was the plus one problem.
Weddings required plus ones the way sentences required punctuation. Without one, you were grammatically incorrect. A fragment. Something to be corrected with a sympathetic tilt of the head and a “oh, you came alone?” that landed like a paper cut every single time.
So no, you didn’t hate weddings in theory. You hated what they did to you in practice.
Which brought you, with the kind of narrative inevitability you’d recognize in any manuscript you were reading, to the current situation.
Six months ago, you’d received a voice note from Luna — your best friend since you were both seven years old and equally terrible at cartwheels in her parents’ backyard — that had started with screaming. Good screaming. The kind that made you pull your phone away from your ear before she’d even gotten to words.
We set the date! June twenty-seventh! You’re coming and you’re bringing someone fabulous and I won’t hear otherwise!
June twenty-seventh. A Saturday. Plenty of time.
That was what you’d told yourself in March.
And in April.
And, with slightly less conviction, in May.
It was now June third. The wedding was twenty-four days away. And you had, in your defense, accomplished one very important thing — you’d found the most beautiful pink floral dress you’d ever seen, fitted perfectly, paired with heels that made you feel like a person who had their life together. The dress was hanging on your wardrobe door right now, doing its job beautifully.
The plus one situation, however, remained. Unresolved. Aggressively, mockingly unresolved.
And don’t even get you started on Sylus Qin.
On paper, he was your colleague. A fellow writer at the same publication, which was the most flattering possible framing and the one you used exclusively in professional settings. In reality he was your opponent. Your adversary. The single most infuriating person you had encountered in three years of sharing an industry, an office building, and — on one particularly cursed occasion — a table at the National Press Awards.
He was annoying. He was ruthless in the quiet, unbothered way that was somehow worse than obvious ruthlessness. He never missed a chance to take a story from right underneath your nose, or to mention, with that maddening almost-smile, that your editor had loved his latest piece. He was an asshole. He was, by every available account, a heartbreaker — the kind of person people fell for despite knowing better, sometimes because they knew better, and that said something deeply unflattering about human nature that you preferred not to examine too closely.
He was everything you disliked wrapped in one disgustingly handsome face.
And the suit situation. God, the suit situation. The man wore fitted suits to an office where half the staff worked in hoodies, and he did it without apparent irony or self-consciousness, and they fit him in ways that should have been subject to some kind of professional regulation. You had complained about this to your friend Leah once and she had looked at you for a long moment before saying, very gently, that sounds like a you problem. Which it wasn’t. It was a him problem. He was the one choosing to show up like that.
Anyway.
You were staring at a list.
It lived in your nicest notebook — a soft green one you’d bought with the intention of using for story ideas, which said something about how seriously you’d taken the plus one problem at the time of writing. Fourteen names. Fourteen perfectly reasonable, theoretically available people you had catalogued in January with the confidence of someone who had options.
The confidence had not survived contact with reality.
You sat at your kitchen table in the early morning light of June third, coffee going cold beside the notebook, and looked at the damage.
Rafayel — crossed out. Pottery class girlfriend. Genuinely happy. Devastating.
Xavier — crossed out. Vancouver. Good for her.
Caleb — crossed out. The gala incident. Unspoken. Permanent.
The list continued in this vein for ten more names, each one a small closed door, until you reached the bottom.
One name. Uncrossed.
You had written it yourself, in your own handwriting, which meant you had at some point considered it a viable option. You didn’t remember the specific moment. You must have been tired. Or perhaps you’d been approaching the list with a completionist’s mindset, a cover all bases philosophy, a this is hypothetical anyway energy that had allowed you to write it without fully processing what you were writing.
Sylus Qin.
You stared at it.
It stared back.
Outside, the June morning was doing something deeply unfair with the light — golden and warm and full of the kind of romantic possibility that felt personally targeted given your circumstances.
You turned the notebook face-down.
You picked up your coffee.
You turned the notebook back over.
Fourteen names. Thirteen crossed out. Twenty-four days until Luna’s wedding and you’d promised her someone fabulous.
You picked up your phone before the reasonable part of your brain could lodge a formal objection.
It rang twice.
“Well… kitten,” said Sylus Qin, and even in eight letters his voice managed to be infuriating — low and unhurried, threaded through with amusement, like he’d already identified the punchline. “This is unexpected.”
“Don’t make it weird,” you said immediately.
A pause. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say good morning.”
You pressed your lips together. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sweetie.” The smile in it was audible. Insufferable. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You had prepared for this. Mentally rehearsed a version that was breezy and casual, maybe even magnanimous — I thought of you, actually, figured it could be fun — a version where you held all the power and he was the one caught off guard for once.
That version did not survive the first syllable.
“I need a plus one,” you said. “To a wedding. June twenty-seventh. And before you say anything — I want you to know that you are not my first choice.”
Silence.
Then, very carefully: “I see.”
“Or my second. Or my fifth or my eighth.”You were aware, distantly, that this was not going well. “You are my last choice. You are the name at the bottom of a list that has been significantly reduced through circumstances largely outside my control, and I am calling you because the wedding is in twenty-four days and I told Luna I would have a plus one and I am a person who keeps her word.” A breath. “So. I need a plus one.”
A longer silence this time.
You braced yourself. Something arch and knowing was coming. Something you could hang up on cleanly.
“What’s the dress code?” said Sylus.
You blinked. “...What?”
“The wedding. Dress code.”
“Garden formal,” you said slowly. “Why?”
“Because if it’s black tie I’ll need to check if the suit’s been cleaned.” A beat. “Garden formal is fine. When should I pick you up?”
You stood very still.
“You’re — you’re saying yes?”
“You called me,” he said, with the patience of a man who had nowhere better to be and knew it was annoying you. “I assumed that was the hope.”
“I — yes, but I also called you last,” you said, as though this might change something. “On a list. Of fourteen people.”
“I’m aware of what last means.”
“This is purely logistical,” you said, pivoting, because if he wasn’t going to have the decency to make this difficult you were going to establish parameters immediately. “I want that on record.”
“Noted.”
“You’re doing me a favor and that’s all this is.”
“Of course.”
“And this has nothing to do with our — our professional situation—”
“The ongoing rivalry?”
“I was going to say dynamic, but fine, yes, the rivalry, this has absolutely nothing to do with that, we are simply two people who are—”
“Going to a wedding together,” Sylus supplied. “In the countryside.”
“For a weekend.”
“Mm.” Not quite agreement. Not quite anything. “Text me the details.”
He hung up.
You set the phone down next to the notebook. Next to the list of fourteen names, thirteen of which were crossed out, the last of which had answered on the second ring and asked about the dress code before you’d finished explaining why he was a last resort.
The pink floral dress hung on your wardrobe door in the next room. Beautiful. Perfect. Ready.
You were so entirely, catastrophically unprepared for the next twenty-four days.
You drank your cold coffee anyway. You were going to need to build a tolerance for deeply unpleasant things.
sometimes when I'm bored, I go through the list of recent bad faith Wikipedia edits that have since been reverted. a lot of them are politically contentious/offensive topics that attract crazies and trolls in general, but sometimes there are completely innocent inoffensive articles that people attack for no reason. some guy yesterday vandalized the article on the chemical element francium
Francium IS a stupid element. It has a half life of 22 minutes and barely exists at all, only naturally occurring as a product of the extremely rare alpha decay series ²³⁵U ➝ ²³¹Th ➝ ²³¹Pa (𝜷 decay) ➝ ²²⁷Ac ➝ ²²³Fr (1.38% chance). There’s less than a gram of it on earth at any given moment. It has no uses to anybody and it isn’t even the most reactive group 1A element due to relativistic effects fucking up its electron binding energies. Stupid substance.
If you somehow asked a genie to get you a gram of Francium in a sealed vial so you could do an experiment with it, the genie would just give it to you because the enormous amount of radioactivity it produces would instantly vaporize the sample and cook you alive. Absolute dogshit isotope and its synthetic siblings are just the same but worse
I think this does a bit of a disservice to Marguerite Perey!
The awesome (albeit French) physicist who discovered Francium. She was a student of Marie Curie and did a lot to advance the study of radioactive materials. She is one of the most sadly (in my opinion) overlooked women in scientific history.
Seeing my addition to this post going around again and this comment has prompted me to clarify something:
Marguerite Perey is one of the greatest radiochemists to ever live, and Francium is such a bullshit element that only an absolute master could identify and analyze it.
The short-lived intermediate actinide chain isotopes are mostly bullshit elements for a lot of the same reasons Francium is. Five of them (Radium, Radon, Astatine, Actinium, and Protactinium) are so scarce in nature and so ferociously radioactive that all of their names literally mean “unstable or radioactive element” because at the time of their discovery that was the only thing known about them. Isolating and identifying these bullshit elements demanded a total technical mastery of the cutting edge chemical and radiological analysis techniques in their time, as well as performing a tremendous amount of brutal physical labor. Preparing these extreme trace elements for study required processing thousands of pounds of raw uranium and thorium ores, often exposing the researchers and their assistants to high doses of radiation, just to obtain the extremely radioactive milligram-scale quantities of the intermediate isotopes they wished to study.
To even have the skills to identify Francium, Perey had to first spend years mastering the separation of transactinide decay products from raw mixed ore at the Radium Institute with her mentor and another true master in the field, Marie Skłodowska-Curie. Her work in Curie’s lab focused on the isolation and analysis of another previously discovered bullshit decay product, the obviously-named Actinium. Actinium occurs in high-grade natural uranium ores at a rate of 0.2 mg Ac/1000 kg ore, a concentration of 0.0000002%wt, so isolating enough of it to study required the painstaking and precise process of dissolving and refining thousands of tons of increasingly radioactive metals in powerful and dangerous solvents.
Upon isolation of a sample of Actinium (specifically Actinium mixed into a Lanthanum carrier) , Perey and the Curies would frantically study the element as its already intense radioactivity multiplied while even shorter-lived isotopes of Thorium, Radium, Radon, Polonium, and others grew in to the sample, obscuring its characteristics and endangering the researchers.
The decay of Actinium should have only initially produced beta radiation from its decay into Thorium-227, which in turn undergoes alpha decay into Radium-223. The days-long lifetime of Thorium-227 means that after a fairly short period of time, the Actinium sample will develop a significant amount of alpha radiation on its own. But Perey was skilled enough and fast enough to isolate and measure her samples before this process could happen, and what she found was an unexplained early spike in alpha radiation from some other very scarce very active alpha source, something that must have been decaying directly from the Actinium in minuscule quantities.
After analyzing several samples to make sure these results were reliable, Perey was confident she had discovered the elusive element 87, and asked Jean Perrin (her supervisor at the lab) to submit her findings for publication. At the time, she was a lab assistant and unable to publish papers, and did not get a degree until 1946, seven years later. She named the new element Francium, after her home country and the nation that sponsored her research.
While Perey was investigating the properties of Actinium, her mentor Marie Curie developed serious anemia and had to withdraw from lab work. She died of aplastic anemia in 1934, after years of continuous exposure to extreme radiation that destroyed her bone marrow and left her body unable to produce new blood cells. Perey discovered Francium five years later.
The dangers of working with highly radioactive elements were not well understood in the early era of radiochemistry, but the experiences of the early radiochemists left a huge impact on those that followed, and Perey championed studies of the effects of radiation and devised new protection methods for researchers throughout her long career. Though she was nominated five times for the Nobel Prize, she never won it, and her contributions and talent have been largely forgotten outside of the nuclear chemistry community.
The level of skill and care required to discover an element that is so immensely bullshit as Francium is staggering, and the numbers involved are unimaginable. The labs Perey and the Curies worked in were left unused for decades until their destruction in 1981, due to the intense radioactivity from sub-microgram quantities of these highly active elements contaminating the room. It’s likely that Perey never observed more than a nanogram of Francium during her lifetime studying it, and no quantity large enough to observe its bulk quantities has ever been assembled.
I will talk shit about the element because it’s a nightmare atom, but I will not tolerate any kind of slander of Marguerite Perey, one of the best to ever do it.
summary: as a simple mechanic running a small shop in the N109 Zone, you don't expect much out of life. you're alone and you like it that way. too bad Sylus disagrees and works with the twins to show that you have people, even in the most unexpected of places.
tags: non!mc reader, f!reader, annoying big brother Sylus, some violence, general siblingisms.
notes: everyone looks at Sylus as sees a hot bad boy with a heart of gold. I see the most annoying big brother in the world who deserves an unimpressed little sister to pick fights with.
word count: 9.3k (goddamn...)
"What are you really here for?"
Sylus looks up from where he's been picking up random items on the workbench, twirling tools around his finger with his evol. You stare him down, unamused, as his very presence keeps the rest of the N109 zone away. It was so much easier to deal with him when he would send you the random message every once in a while, or have one of the twins pop by to annoy you with his latest request. At least then you could keep your usual customers.
"I would have thought you already knew," he replies, a teasing drawl pulling the vowels long as he speaks. "Isn't that what you're best at?"
You scowl. "Information doesn't come easy, and I don't give it away for free."
"Not even for me?"
"Especially not for you."
"What would you like then? You know money isn't an issue for me."
"Maybe some peace and quiet?" you snap, yanking the wrench from his hand. "I do have an actual job to do here." And it's the only one you've got, the official one, that keeps a roof over your head and food on your table.
You got lucky when you ran away to the N109 zone all those years ago, a scared kid desperate for a place to hide. Cerin had taken you in when he found you hiding behind the shop, then discovered your skill with engines and had you learning under him in no time. It's because of him that you're still alive, that you managed to reach adulthood at all, and you wanted to pay him back. That's what had you going out late at night, visiting bars and casinos and fighting rings to scrounge up information on all the ongoings that might affect the two of you.
Not that any information in the world would have kept him safe from being gunned down in the streets during a inheritance war with a big crime family.
Cerin wasn't a target at all, just an unlucky soul in the wrong place at the wrong time. You had to drag his still cooling corpse back to the autoshop and lock the place down until the gunshots went quiet.
And if you hunted down the identities of the people fighting on the street that day and quietly got them killed, well, that's no one's business but your own.
Point is, the autoshop is yours now and you don't want to see it shut down. Cerin would have wanted it up and running for as long as possible, a legacy in repairing vehicles that could be passed down for generations. He knew it was a pipe dream, but he told you once that far fetched dreams are necessary to push people into big changes. Even if you can't make that pipe dream come true, you can get as close as you can.
Sylus has never cared for this, evident in the way he keeps touching your things.
Yes, he's the undisputed crime lord of the N109 zone. He's also annoying as hell and you wish you could kick him out without risking the shop entirely.
"I'd appreciate it if you stopped making it so obvious whenever you come by," you say, turning your attention back to the car your need to fix. The client drove it into the fucking ocean like an idiot and now it's your job to fix it. You can, obviously, but there's no helping the guy who decided that move was a good one and went with it. You'd think people wanting to be criminal masterminds would put some effort in using their brains, but apparently not!
"What, embarrassed to be seen with me?" Sylus says, following after you to lean against the car.
You roll your eyes. "Like it'd be for such a simple reason. Listen, you're making me a target. A bunch of people hate you and the more they see you coming here, the more likely they'll try to do something to my shop to get at you. Also you keep scaring away my customers, which is rude."
There's a long silence. You turn your focus entirely on the car and pop open the hood, wincing at wreck of an engine. How did they even manage this…?
"Dumbasses," you mutter under your breath, looking over everything to figure out the best place to start.
Sylus chuckles, leaning over you to take a peek at the engine as well. You don't think as you send an elbow back, catching him in the gut. He doesn't even react to it, which pisses you off more. But he does give you some space, so you decide not to escalate.
"Are you sure it's not your attitude that drives away customers?"
"They can deal with it. Not like they're any better than me. Why are you still here? If you want to discuss other business, then you'll have to wait until I close up shop for the day."
"Alright, I can tell when I'm not wanted," he says, stepping away. "I'll be in contact soon."
You don't hear him walk away, but when you look over your shoulder, the garage is empty and there's no sign of Sylus at all. You sigh, shake your head, then get back to work.
Few people come in that day. A few stalled engines, a popped tire, a brake replacement after a botched assassination attempt fucked up all the wiring. Normal things. The slow day allows you to make more progress on your bigger jobs: a complete upgrade for everything on an older model, making a car accessible after the client's kid lost a leg, and your own personal project of creating a new motorcycle completely from scratch.
There's been some tension on the streets around your shop. You know you're at the heart of it; Sylus is well known and well hated. Any association with him comes with a big risk.
But you can't deny his uses. You can't deny his protection, as small as it might be for such a forgettable person like you.
Overhead, a crow caws.
The sun has set, and you take that as your cue to close up. The garage doors slide down and lock with a simple push of a button. You flip the sign on the door to CLOSED and locked everything up, then hit the lights and go upstairs. So work-life balance doesn't really exist when you live above the shop, but it's convenient, and who really has any balance in the N109 zone?
You lock the door to the stairs behind you and flick on the lights, kicking off your shoes.
Luke is already in the kitchen, perched on the counter like a gremlin and you don't waste a second in throwing your work gloves at him.
"Off," you say with the tone of a particularly disgruntled cat owner. "You know the rules."
"Butts don't go where food goes," Luke recites dutifully, hopping down to the floor. "What've you got for me today?"
"My foot on your ass, how about that?" You push him aside to open the fridge, wondering what to have for dinner.
It's almost routine now to have one of the twins stop by for dinner. You once asked Sylus if he even bothers to feed them, with how they always come begging food from you. He just started wiring grocery money to your account every week.
So your fridge has been more full that it's ever been in your life, even while Cerin was alive, and you've learned to cook a few more dishes in order to keep the twins from getting too experimental while you're not keeping an eye on them.
You have the ingredients for the curry mac and cheese that Kieran sent you the recipe for, so you figure you might as well try your hand at it. Pasta never disappoints, after all.
Luke takes a seat at the dining table, laying against the table as you cook, entertaining himself on his phone.
Despite committing to the crow motif, you can't help but think of the twins as cats. Like the cat distribution system, they stumbled into you life and house and then refused to leave. That's what cats do, right? You saved them once, years ago, just by chance and with the right information, and now they've decided that you're friend shaped.
It's not like you mind. It's a welcome change from the constant, heavy silence after you buried Cerin. You just wonder when it'll end.
Surely they'll get bored of you eventually. They're the direct underlings of the most dangerous man in the N109 zone. There's no reason for them to stick around.
As soon as you finish cooking, turning the heat off the stove, Luke is there, bowl at the ready. You roll your eyes fondly, but obligingly fill it up. He holds out your bowl as well, because he can use manners sometimes, and carries both to the dining table, where spoons are already laid out. You didn't even hear him get them out the drawer.
He snaps a picture of his bowl, no doubt to send it to Kieran. A number of messages come in a minute later, making his phone buzz nonstop until he silences it.
Luke takes off his mask and begins eating like he's been starved. You follow in suit at a normal human pace with no risk of choking. The recipe is easy and delicious. Whoever thought of combining curry roux with mac and cheese is a genius and needs to be awarded. Maybe earn the Noble Peace Prize. You're not sure what that prize is for, exactly, but this recipe is both Noble and encourage Peace, it's so good. It should count.
You're drawn out of your nonsensical thoughts when Luke taps his spoon against his empty bowl three times. It's always a signal for when he needs to talk business and this time is no different.
"Any news on the weapons deal Kalmit had his eyes on?"
You lean back in your chair, considering Luke. "Not on Kalmit specifically, but on some weapons deal, yeah. How much is Onychinus offering for it?"
"Your own modified weapons, done by the boss man himself."
"Don't need them."
Luke frowns, then shrugs. "How about any info on protocore deals?"
That one you have a lot of new information about. Not all of it verified, but still worth a pretty penny. Having a foot in the door for multiple fields helps give you a broader net to cast when gathering information. Engineering folks like yourself hear plenty about powering vehicles and weapons with protocores. Maintenance shares all sorts of secrets on repairing damage from underground protocore labs, experimenting with new ways to use them.
"Sure, I got that. What are you willing to pay?"
"Absolutely anything if it has to do with EVER. Boss man himself said so."
It's not the first time he's offered you anything. That's a big word to throw around for information deals, especially when he doesn't know what you might give him. For the most part, you treat it as a joke, as Sylus poking fun at you from his position of power in the N109 zone. He never pushes when you refuse his anything and instead make him name something more tangible as payment, but this time feels different.
Most things are, when EVER is involved.
You know more about them than you should. You also know that this knowledge is dangerous and can't be shared carelessly.
If EVER hears about how much you know about them, they will take you out. They're not shy about using unsavory means to keep themselves safe. Sure, they have to put up an act in Linkon City so all the straight-laced, proper folks don't look at them twice, but the N109 Zone gives them more freedom to move and act as they please.
Guards working under EVER are always happy to resort to violence. Scientists and researchers never see other people as people, but as resources and experiments. The infighting between them, struggling to secure funding for their individual projects, makes them all the more cutthroat when it comes to deals in the N109 Zone.
Everything you know about them can cripple them if it gets to the right people. Not the Hunters Association, you've know that EVER has infiltrated them from the beginning, but plenty of groups in the N109 Zone have a reason to want EVER gone, even if it's just to get rid of some big competition.
Sylus, to your knowledge, tends to keep away from EVER. He doesn't need them to get what he wants and they know better than to provoke him. You know an associate of EVER got a hold of Luke and Kieran at one point in their lives, so they have a personal hatred for them.
You know a lot of people have vanished after dealing with EVER.
Anything is a big offer.
The tides are always shifting in the N109 Zone. Power comes and goes like the wind. It takes a lot to stay above others and very few manage it for long. There's been a change over the past few months, whispers on the streets, and it leaves you feeling uneasy. You, with all your information, are powerless. You're not associated with any group, purposefully neutral, purposefully alone. Sure, you hide your identity as an informant, go through a few hoops to make sure people wanting info from you never meet you, but you know you can't hide forever.
You certainly couldn't hide from Sylus.
You stand and leave Luke at the dining table. Hidden in the wall of your bedroom is your data laptop, used just for storing the information your gather. It helps to organize things, to see where the strings connect so you can put the pieces of the bigger picture together.
Here's what you know: EVER has been making bolder moves, snatching up protocores like there's no tomorrow. They've raided multiple underground labs, taking their protocores and torching their research. People have been disappearing, most notably the losers of underground fighting rings, evol users who weren't strong enough to win against the long time champions. Hunters are going after EVER scientists and a few of those chases have run through the outer edges of the N109 Zone.
Here's what all that says: there's something big they're hiding and it's making them desperate.
Desperate always means dangerous.
You've been on your own for a long time and you're happy that way. Well, maybe not happy, but safe. You keep your distance from everyone and keep your head down and this is how you survive.
Even so, you've gotten attached. Just a little. Sylus is annoying but you'd be a little sad if he stopped showing up. Dinner would be too quiet without one of the twins keeping you company. They've whittled down your defenses and you hate them for it.
You grab a spare flashdrive and transfer over copies of everything you've gathered on EVER's recent movements and your own speculations as to what they're up to.
Luke is still waiting, tapping his fingers against the table. He perks up when you walk in and raises a hand to effortlessly catch the flashdrive you toss at him.
"Three favors," you tell him, "No questions asked. Anything I need help for, if I ask him for help, he gives it."
"I'll let him know," Luke says, pocketing the flashdrive. He flashes you a smile, then puts his crow mask back on. "I'll catch you later, Wrench!"
Ah, you had thought they had given up on that stupid nickname.
Sure, you may have tried to concuss Luke with a wrench the first time he popped into your house without warning, but that doesn't mean you want to be known for that forever. Even if he justifies it by saying that you throw a wrench in people's plans, so it still fits.
He's gone before you can throw anything else at him and insist on him dropping the nickname. You sigh and resign yourself to being buried as Wrench, since apparently it's so much better than your name.
And when you're setting your alarm on your phone, getting ready to sleep, Sylus texts, You could have asked for more favors. The info is good. Thanks Wrench.
You send him back a dozen middle finger emojis and try to let go of the annoyance so you can actually sleep.
…
"Hi!" Kieran greets cheerfully. "We're here to kidnap you!"
You sigh deeply, then put your tools down. "Give me a second to lock up."
He gives you a thumbs up, then drops from the rafters of the garage, where he was hanging upside down. Outside, you can see Luke waiting outside a black car, a model just a few years old if you're remembering correctly. It must be one of Sylus's, since few people would be able to keep a car like that intact in the N109 Zone.
You're lucky there are no clients waiting for you today.
Well, it's probably luck. You wouldn't put it past the twins to subtly redirect anyone who was heading to your shop just to make sure their kidnapping went smoothly.
Everything is closed up and locked in no time and you shove your work gloves into one of the pockets of your overalls. Everything you own is already oil stained and messy, so a little more isn't going to hurt anyone.
Kieran opens the back door for you and waves you in. He slides in after you and Luke sits in the driver's seat, smoothly starting the engine that purrs to life then goes silent.
What you wouldn't give to take this car apart and see everything it has to offer. An engine sounding like that has to be an absolute beauty.
"Do I get to know what this is about?" you ask, putting on your seatbelt as Luke guides the car out onto the street and slams down on the gas. For your own peace of mind, you keep your gaze away from the windows; you have no interest in knowing how many times you'll casually brush by death with Luke driving the way he does.
"Boss man needs a favor," Kieran says.
"And he couldn't have just called?"
"Nah, it needs to be done in person. It's a small big thing for him!"
You stare at him. "I don't know what that means."
"It's a small thing, but to him it's big. He doesn't want to mess this up, and we don't want him to mess up either!"
"And do I get to know what this favor is…?"
"Fashion."
"Fashion," you repeat. That answer doesn't help you at all.
Kieran is smirking behind that mask, you can just tell, and it's annoying. You're not going to get a straight answer out of him and certainly no more details, so you shrug and resign yourself to finding out once you're delivered to Sylus. For this fashion favor, apparently.
You're not too sure where they're taking you, to be honest. They always come to you, not the other way around. It's smarter to avoid walking into any building owned by Onychinus, but since you've already got their attention, it's a bit too late to regret the way things are shaking out. At best, you just keep your eyes down so you don't know the actual location of whichever base you're being driven to. The best way to keep information from getting out is to not have it.
Still, you keep track of how many turns the car has made and the general length of the drive. It's always better to have some idea of how to get away if things go south.
Around twenty five minutes is your count when the car comes to a stop. Judging by how dark it's gotten, you're inside a building. Probably a garage.
"Let's get going," Luke says, cutting the engine.
Grateful to have survived the ride, you hurry out of the car. A quick glance around reveals a few other fancy cars and a motorcycle, no doubt all Sylus's, and your fingers twitch with the need to dig deep into them. Maybe you'll use a smaller favor to get a look at his vehicles and play around with them. He'd probably be willing to humor you and let you modify a lesser loved car to your heart's content.
"Come on, come on!" Kieran sings, hooking an arm around yours. Luke gets your other arm and the two walk you inside where bare concrete suddenly transform into dark wood and lush rugs lining the hallway.
You get the sinking feeling that this isn't just a base, but Sylus's primary residence.
I don't know anything, you tell yourself, Not a damn thing. I was never here. After I leave, I'll forget everything. Nothing happened here.
The twins take you around the building, past dark rooms; a lounge, a bar, a gym, even what looks like a mini theater because of course someone as rich as Sylus would have one. The office on the upper floor is more of what you expected from Sylus's tastes: dark and dramatic, cold and brutalist, more concrete and large windows, low lights and various decorations that speak to his wealth.
The man himself sits against his desk, staring out the window with his windows crossed.
"Delivery for you, boss man!" Kieran announces, pushing you forward.
You don't stumble only because you're used to this and cross the length of the office to stand before Sylus.
"So," you start, "What's this about a 'fashion favor' that you needed me for?"
Sylus looks at you, eyes narrowed in thought. "I simply needed the opinion of a woman."
"Need I remind you that this," you gesture to your oil stained overalls and old t-shirt, "is my fashion sense. I don't think I'll be much help."
"On the contrary, it's because you dress like you've never known luxury in your life that you're insight will be helpful." He reaches behind himself and grabs a piece of paper. "There is someone I need a dress made for. A Hunter. She'll appreciate it more if it's both functional and attractive. Look over this design and tell me what needs to be changed."
He holds it out to you and you take it slowly, eyeing it like it might bite you.
Sylus is clearly concussed if he thinks this is something you have any knowledge about. The rare times you've infiltrated high end events for information, you went in as staff, hiding in plain sight as a nameless employee. The people who would wear ballgowns and evening suits never acknowledged your existence, which made information gathering all the easier. What you observed from those events is that the women are always better dressed than the men, and nothing anyone wore looked easy to move in.
And if Sylus is taking a Hunter in, paired with his previous request for information on EVER…
Movement is a must. A tight dress that shows off a woman's figure is a death sentence if anything goes wrong and people have to evacuate. Or fight.
You finally look down at the paper and take in the designs Sylus has put together.
There are two options: a tight evening gown, backless and with a low bustline. There's a slit to one side, going up to the thigh, so it's not as restricting as it could be. The fabric on the other side of the slit drags on the ground, a dramatic look and a tripping hazard.
The other design is more toga-like, an off shoulder piece with lots of draped fabric and folds on the outside covering the shorter inner lining of the dress. It doesn't drag on the ground, which is a plus.
Neither have any pockets.
You scowl at Sylus. "You're giving a Hunter a dress, and you're not including pockets? What's wrong with you?"
He blinks. "Anything she needs to hold, I can carry for her."
"No. You need pockets added to these things. And I'm talking deep pockets. She needs to be able to fit a gun and a small bottle of tequila in those pockets at the very least."
"That's hardly necessary—"
You shove the paper into his face. "Shush. No. Shut up. You asked for my thoughts, here they are: Pockets. Also the first one is a tripping hazard. Give her the second dress with deep pockets. She'll love it."
He pulls the paper out of your hand and sets it down. "Pockets," he repeats dubiously.
You nod. "Trust me. The pockets will be a hit. Just do it. What's the point in kidnapping me for advice if you're not going to take it?"
Sylus sighs as if you're being unreasonable and you hold back the urge to kick him. This is why men can't be trusted with clothes. They're just given pockets so they can't appreciate how good they have it. If they had to deal with all the fake pockets or the ones that are only two inches deep on women's clothing, they'd understand why it's such a big deal.
"Oh!" you add, "Make sure the bust has some good padding. She'll have to go braless if the back is low cut and if she needs to run, you need to make sure her tits don't go all over."
"What a remarkably crude way to say that."
"Hey, do you have tits? No? Then you don't get to speak on this. You want your little miss Hunter to be happy and capable of kicking ass, you take my advice. End of story."
He rolls his eyes, but obligingly writes down your advice on the paper.
"Is that all you called me in for?" you ask.
The amusement leaves his eyes and his expression flattens. He holds out the paper and Luke snatches it out of his hand, and then the twins quickly vacate the room, leaving you alone with him.
"I don't like the look on your face," you tell him.
"Tough. EVER officials will be attending an auction in two weeks. I'll be there with the Hunter to see what they're selling off. I need you there as well to gather information from the other guests."
"You think they'll have an aether core up for auction," you realize, mouth moving before your mind can catch up.
The red glow in his eyes tells you that you hit the nail on the head. You really, really shouldn't have said that out loud.
"As always, I'm amazed by how much knowledge you keep close to your chest," Sylus says lightly. He's dangerous right now, dangerous in a way he hasn't been for a while now. Not to you, at least.
You scowl, biting back your instinctive fear. "I'm not going to be attending as a guest," you tell him, "I'll pull a few strings and take a position as one of the staff. I hope you realize how much this is going to cost you."
"Another favor?"
"A big one. Keep this up and you won't be able to say 'no' to me ever again."
The glow leaves Sylus's eyes and he's back to being the annoying crime lord you've gotten used to. The quick switch between his moods, from predator to something almost human, leaves you unnerved. You've made it a point of pride to be unphased by most things in the N109 Zone. You have to be; there's all sorts of terrible things happening at any given moment and you have to be able to stomach witnessing it all and walking away in order to sell information. You hate that there are still moments when Sylus is able to make feel almost afraid, tense and ready to run, feeling all too small.
At the same time, it always comes with the knowledge that for some reason, you have his favor. And from what you've learned of him, Sylus is not one to toss away those who have his favor so carelessly.
Maybe it's boredom. Maybe it's something else that you don't have the strength to name. Maybe he's a little too much like you for you to leave when this happens.
"You know," he starts, voice dropping into the usual teasing drawl he uses to piss you off, "You could always ask for a dress as well. With deep pockets and padding."
"I prefer knives!" you snap, spinning on your heel and walking out of his office. "And I'm raiding your kitchen while I'm here!"
You leave him chuckling to himself in his office and make your way through his residence. It's odd to be allowed to wander. Usually you have to sneak into places like these, masquerading as someone else or avoiding sight entirely. Just walking, unhindered, in plain sight, makes your skin crawl.
Luckily, the twins don't leave you alone too long. They catch you outside an armory and happily lead you to the kitchen where you make very good use of the fancy spices and good salmon Sylus has.
And if he had any plans to use those, then it sucks to be him.
…
A friend of a friend from man running a cleaning services, who you helped a few years back when his father's wheelchair was broken and no one was willing to fix it but you, hooks you up with a job for the auction.
It's nothing big, just filling an empty spot as a server. You've done a few jobs like these before, helping with set up for events and running supplies in the background, making sure trays were always filled with wine glasses and finger foods. There's a lot that goes into being a server for fancy events and working with the rest of the team is crucial.
High stress situations like the upcoming auction are a surefire way to create bonds. Nothing brings a group of people together like customer service.
You craft your identity for the job and get it as neatly prepared as possible. A little sister hoping to do a few odd jobs here and there to support her older sister, who took her in after she ran from neglectful parents. Timid, unused to the N109 Zone, unassuming. Weak and uninformed. Easy to manipulate and far too eager to work hard. The perfect person to be given the less desirable jobs and forced to run around the venue for hours on end, which is exactly what you want.
Sylus stops by only once before the auction, though the twins continue invading your home for dinner. He doesn't stay for long and doesn't ask for any information. He just hands you a little pin to add to your clothes.
"Just in case," he said. "Click the button twice and it'll send an alert. If I can't get to you, then Luke or Kieran will."
"I don't need this," you replied, ready to shove it back into his hand.
"Just in case," Sylus stressed, and the tension around his eyes made you hesitate, then ultimately accept it.
Better to have the strongest crime lord in the N109 Zone on your side than not, you figured. It's a trump card you'll do your best to keep hidden, but there's comfort in knowing you have someone to turn to when things go south.
So here you are now: changing into the uniform handed to you by the supervisor of the staff. The pin goes on the inside cuff of your uniform sleeve, easy to click when needed but out of the way enough that it won't be hit on accident.
The rest of the staff are still getting assembled, stashing their bags in a spare storage closet the venue decided to let them use. Caterers are already coming in to set up and furniture is being moved in teams, rolling in round tables and hauling in stacks of chairs, followed by piles and piles of tablecloths. There are a few hours left to go before the auction actually starts, and even that will begin with mingling and networking for the first hour before they get to the main event.
Sylus and Miss Hunter must be preparing for the auction right now. You have no idea what the twins are up to. Probably setting up chaos and getaway vehicles.
You've already seen a few crates marked with EVER's logo be carted in. Security is tight, the place swarming with hired guns to make sure nothing is stolen before the auction and the feeling of their eyes sliding over you makes you feel sick.
As long as you keep your cool, they have no reason to look twice at you. You keep your head down and make sure your uniform is as neat as it can be and your temporarily dyed hair is tied back. Depending on how things shake out, you may have to cut your hair short just to keep anyone from finding you. If they're looking for someone with longer, darker hair, they won't bother with someone with short hair.
"Hey, there you are!" You're shaken out of your thoughts as someone throws their arm around your shoulders. You blink up at the woman, older than you by a few decades and with the build of a heavy weight champion. "First time doing this kind of work, huh? Terry asked me to keep an eye out for ya."
It takes you a moment to place the name: Terry, the friend of a friend of your acquaintance, who got you this gig.
"Yeah," you give her a small, timid smile, "Um, who are you? I didn't know anyone was expecting me."
"You can call me Bes. I'm gonna be the one showing you the ropes. Since it's your first time working 'round these parts, we'll keep it simple." Bes guides you through the crowd of other servers, who are already getting to work like a well oiled machine. "For most of the night, you'll be keeping the plates and cutlery in stock. That means making sure clean ones are out for people to use, and hauling back used ones to be washed. Extra food is in the kitchen and you might need to bring some more out when the table starts getting empty, and we'll try to keep you from walking drinks around to the guests."
You glance around, acting nervous while taking the opportunity to get a look at who is working with you. The tasks you're given are easy enough and it gives you plenty of opportunities to walk the venue and eavesdrop. Taking on additional tasks from other people will help them view you favorably as well, and thus more likely to talk when you speak to them.
Bes pats your shoulder, then sends you off with a tray of clean plates. You follow a few other servers into the venue and look around helplessly until one of them points you to the table where the food is being set up. You hurry over and get to work.
Set up is busy and there is always something more to do. It's almost a relief when the event starts and the servers change from preparing to actually going out and serving people. Guest being to file in, all dressed to the nines, and you quickly duck out of the hall to hide. Bes gives you a thumbs up when she sees you, then lifts a giant cooler onto her shoulder to carry to the bar.
You quietly ask a server heading out for a quick smoke break where the restrooms are. He points you down a different hall and gives a few curt directions, then is gone. No one stops you when you leave, so you drop the pathetic act for a moment to breathe and think.
Guards everywhere. The event is just starting. It's not safe to wander around the merchandise for the auction until much later, but you can start getting a layout of the place now. It'll be easy enough to pretend you got lost looking for the restroom. There are no helpful signs in the back since staff clearly don't need them. Fuck an emergency exit, anyways, they'll all figure it out.
The very back halls don't see much use. Half the lights aren't even on, which makes everything feel ten times more eerie. You duck through a few more doors and corridors, carefully mapping your path in your memory, and start looking at vents and places to hide. Just in case.
Most of the rooms back here are unused storage rooms. There are a few for extra generators, and one that has definitely been used to smuggle drugs in the past, but that's none of your business.
Everything is about what you expected. There's not much to explore back here, but it's enough to give you some ideas. Definitely some larger vents you can squeeze into, and the ceiling is made of drop tiles, which means you can move freely from above once you get up there. Another exit is tucked away back there as well, though it's connected to an alarm so you can't open it without causing problems.
What you're not expecting is a familiar crow mask popping up from around a corner.
"Fuck you!" you swing reflexively, trying to choke your heart back down into your chest.
Luke cackles, and Kieran leans out from behind him to give you a little wave.
"What are you doing here?" you hiss at them, pulling them into the unlocked room next to them.
"Boss man wanted us to keep an eye on you," Kieran says. "Since he's with the Boss Lady, we're your guards."
"I don't need guards. You're going to blow my identity. Tell Sylus to mind his own business and let me do my job."
They exchange a glance. How they can tell anything when they both wear masks is a mystery, but you're willing to chalk it up to twin telepathy.
"It's a trap," Luke says suddenly. "For Boss Man and Boss Lady. EVER's after them and they're using this to draw them out."
Ah. The missing pieces of this puzzle suddenly slot into place. You wouldn't be surprised it most of the invited guests have tied to EVER or other groups around the N109 Zone that want to see Sylus dead.
"And they still chose to come here?"
Luke shrugs. "Said they had to see this through."
You let out a slow breath, then nod. "Alright. They'll probably keep up the act until the auction. We can start preparing for that." You point to Luke. "Get up into the ceiling and find the best vantage points to shoot from. I'm assuming you have a gun on you?" He holds out his gun and nods. You turn to Kieran. "Keep an eye on the guards and figure out where they're all placed and how they're moving. Once the auction starts, we'll take them out and cause some chaos."
"And what about you?" Kieran asks.
"I'll keep to my current role. I'll slip in and out and gather information. Once it's time to get going, I'll slip away. Don't worry about me."
The twins consider your plan, then nod. "You got it, Wrench!"
"Now is not the time for that nickname." You turn to leave and get a few steps into the hallway before you pause and turn back to them. "Why did Sylus send you after me? I don't need the help. He knows this. What's this really about?"
They cock their heads to the side, as if they really are crows. "He's not gonna leave one of his own out to dry."
"I'm not one of his people."
"He calls you his sister. Which means you're our sister too! Good luck getting rid of us now," they chorus together, then slip past you and disappear around the corner.
You stare, befuddled. Surely that's just a joke. You're no one's sister. You have no family. You have no connections and that's why you're good at what you do.
But you think back to the dinners. Sylus constantly coming to visit. Asking for advice. The pin, safe on the inner cuff of your shirt sleeve, just in case you need him.
You think of how you understand how dangerous he is but still feel safe enough to pick fights with him.
You think of being allowed to wander his home without supervision. Of having a place with him, the twins, when you've never really belonged anywhere before. At least, not since Cerin died.
It's nonsense. It's a joke, clearly, just the usual teasing by the twins that doesn't mean anything. You know yourself and you know that getting attached to anyone is a bad idea, much less people so dangerous.
Sister.
You've never been anyone's sister before. You think you might want to.
Focus, you tell yourself sternly. Now is not the time to freak out about this. EVER is here and that means anything can happen, and all of it will be bad.
You return to the main halls and silently rejoin the rest of the servers, quickly picking up a pack of napkins to take out to the serving table. No one bats an eye at your sudden reappearance, too focused on their own tasks, and you move with the crowd, slipping around the edges of the venue. Conversation fades in and out around you as you listen for anything interesting, picking out one voice to focus on as you walk, waiting for anything worthwhile to crop up.
A few times, you catch a glimpse of white hair and quickly skirt around the area, avoiding Sylus.
Bes must have put in a good word for you. As the hours slip by, more and more servers are talking you, instructing you on how to do other tasks and roping you into helping them. It's extra work, yes, but you're glad for it; staff love to gossip and this is no exception. You learn more about various guests from whispered conversation between the servers than you do eavesdropping in the venue.
It's thanks to this that you can point out EVER higher ups, not scientists but members of the executive board and big name donors that keep the labs funded. There are also a few notorious bounty hunters mixed in with the crowd and members of one of the more powerful crime syndicates.
You also learn far more about their personal relationships than you wanted. There's a shocking number of people cheating on each other, and even some who hire people to accompany them as their date to events like this. As the newest, and most innocent, of the servers, you're warned away from certain people and carefully kept out of reach of the more handsy guests.
The announcement of the auction comes as a shock, the presenter's voice ringing through the air. Guests immediately begin to move to the next room, finding their seats. Other servers go by and hand out cards with numbers on them, preparing everyone for the bidding.
You're called away from the auction room to deal with a tablecloth with wine spilled on it. All you need to do is find someplace quiet to fold it up, pat as much of the wine out as possible, and then stuff it into a plastic bag to be sent to the dry cleaners. Rather than head for one of the unused back rooms, you go to where most of the auction items are being stored.
Bundling the tablecloth up high to obscure most of your vision, you stumble into the room.
"Hey, you can't be here," a rough voice barks out. You look up, feigning your surprise, as two guards stare you down.
"Sorry!" you squeak, "I didn't think anyone would be here. I just needed someplace I could fold this up."
One of the guards sighs and drops his hand from his waist, where his hand was hovering over a gun. "There's a room up here you can use. Follow me, I'll get the door for you."
"Thanks!" You hurry after him, carefully keeping your eyes from roving over the crates in the room. A flicker of movement from the ceiling draws your attention and you watch as a tile is pulled aside and Kieran pops his head out.
It's go time, apparently.
"I'm really sorry about the this," you say, "It's my first time working a job like this."
"I thought you looked a little young," the guard says.
"Haha, yeah. That obvious huh? Say, what's the guard gig like? Is it just standing in one place the whole time?"
The guard shrugs. "Sometimes. Definitely less hectic than being a server though, I can tell you that much."
"I figured. I wasn't expecting to do so much work. And now this too!" You shake the tablecloth in your arms lightly.
"I definitely don't envy you—"
The guard goes down without a sound. You look back and Kieran is there, lowering the guard's body to the floor. Not dead, just unconscious, like the other guard father back in the room. Relived that worked out so well, you drop the tablecloth and pull the screwdriver you always carry out from where's been tucked in your waistband.
"Wanna snoop?" you ask.
Kieran makes a beeline for a box and pats it excitedly.
Since the auction is just starting, no one will be grabbing these items for a while. The first round's items are already prepped and ready in the auction room, which means these are all yours to play with. Together, you and Kieran pop open crates and boxes, rooting around everything you find. His pockets are quickly filled with various protocores and your tuck away a few of the weapons to pass on to Sylus. He's going to want to take them apart for study and you're hoping handing them over will be a good enough reason for him to let you play with his cars.
You get maybe fifteen minutes before the first gun shot goes off.
You and Kieran freeze, look at the door, then take off in a sprint. Everything goes off the rail in under a minute; more gunshots, screams, angry yells, and the sound of glass breaking. It all comes from the auction room and you can see servers getting out of dodge, well practiced in evacuating. No doubt they've worked other events that ended poorly.
Taking care to keep out of their sight, you follow Kieran down other hallways, watching him take out guards and secure an escape route.
There aren't too many to deal with, thankfully. It seems most of the guards are in the auction room, where they have to face Sylus and Miss Hunter. With Luke there to provide extra support, you're hopeful that things will wrap up quickly so you can all make your escape. Being so near a fight has you twitchy; there's a reason you like to stay out of the way and just gather information. You're not built for these sorts of things and you're all too aware of how that makes you the weak link among them.
"Alright," Kieran says, "Let's get the car ready."
He turns back and the two of you leave the main halls behind to go the back service areas, running for the locked exit. He's quick to pick the lock and throw the door open and you barrel after him into the night.
And then you crash into his back as he stands, tense and frozen.
You look up and bite back a swear.
So, apparently, you are not the only person who planned to leave from here once things went south. A lot of other people had that same idea and they're all staring at you now.
"Well," one of the guys in front of you says, "Isn't this a surprise. Members of Onychinus delivering themselves right to us. What a stroke of luck."
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. It's hard to hear anything past it, adrenaline hitting running through your body and making you shake, breath coming in short. Kieran shifts his stance lightly, then jumps forward. Everything turns into a fight that you can't keep track of, frantically dodging back and staying in the fringes, unable to leave him here alone but unable to help either.
"And where do you think you're going?" a voice drawls in your ear, making you jump. An arm wraps around your throat and you the tip of a gun get pressed against your head. "Stop fighting or I'll make you watch as I blow her brains out," the man holding you hostage shouts.
The fight dies down in an instant. Kieran goes statue still and you stare at him with wide eyes. I'm sorry, you try to say through the furrow in your brow. You tighten your grip on your screwdriver, feeling the handle dig deep against your palm.
This is risky. This is probably going to kill you, but you've been prepared to die since you buried Cerin. No one lives safely in the N109 Zone. Everyone knows that tomorrow is not guaranteed, no matter what you do. You've been prepared to die for a long, long time.
Just not like this.
Not with Kieran's life on the line.
You don't want to be the reason Luke has to go home alone.
"Let her go," Kieran demands, voice tight.
The man holding you tuts. "Nuh uh uh, I ain't letting her go that easy. Nah, you want her to walk away, then you better be a good boy and let us take you in. EVER is very interested in having folks from Onychinus in their hands."
You take a few deep breaths, trying to slow down your breathing. Calm down, you tell yourself. I've got one shot. I can't waste it.
Slowly, Kieran's hands rise into the air, palms out. Surrendering.
The men that aren't passed out or dead on the ground begin to close in. The hold around your throat loosens just a little bit.
You knock your head back as hard as you can, slamming your skull against the man's nose, and drop to the ground as second later. The gun goes off, the shot loud enough to ring through your ears and shake your bones. Gritting your teeth, you hold your screwdriver steady and drive it back with all your strength, forcing the metal into the meat of his thigh.
He yells, and you throw your body weight at his legs, sending him toppling to the ground.
Through the ringing in your ears, you think you hear a familiar voice.
Dazed, you look up and see Sylus, eyes glowing red and his evol swirling around him. The red mist circles the necks of all the men around you, including the one you're on top of, and there's a viciousness to his movements as he walks forward. Miss Hunter trails after him, gun in her hands, eyes constantly moving around the area, watching Sylus's back.
You can't hear anything they say, though you can see their mouths move.
Relief sweeps through you so suddenly you feel lightheaded.
If Sylus is here, then you're safe. You're going to be alright. And more importantly, Kieran is going to be alright.
When you look to him, just to make sure he's fine, Luke is already there, right by his side.
Abruptly, all the men choking in the grip of Sylus's evol drop. They don't move again.
He kneels in front of you, eyes still hard, but his hands are gentle as he helps you to your feet. He plucks the screwdriver out of the man's thigh and returns it to you with a small smirk, and if you were able to hear, you're sure he would have said something stupid.
You don't really remembering getting to the getaway car, but you blink and you're in the backseat with the twins. Sylus drives casually, as if he didn't just completely destroy a trap set out for him, and Miss Hunter is in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio.
"Back with us?" Luke asks, nudging you with his shoulder.
There's still some ringing in your ears, but you can hear now. "Yeah. You good?"
He nods, as does Kieran when you look at him. He taps your hand and you find that you're still gripping your bloody screwdriver like a lifeline. It takes a little too long for you to relax your grip and drop it into your lap.
From the front, Miss Hunter turns to face you. "Hi," she greets calmly, a soft smile on her face. "It's nice to finally meet you! I've heard so much about you from Sylus and the twins, though I do wish we met under better circumstances."
…What the hell have they been saying about you? You glare at Sylus and he very pointedly says nothing, eyes fixed on the road.
"Nice to meet you too, I guess." You take another look at her and grin. "How's the dress?"
Miss Hunter lights up. "It has pockets!"
"I fucking told you," you tell Sylus, allowing smugness to coat your voice. In the rearview mirror, you catch him rolling his eyes.
"Oh, did you insist on the pockets? I should have known a man would never think to add them to a dress."
"He didn't think deep pockets were necessary. Can you believe him?"
"I owe you my life for convincing him to add them on," Miss Hunter says. "I've got a gun, a knife, a taser, and my phone in these things. It's crazy!"
Under her bright personality and how easy conversation flows, the last of the tension from the night melts away. The twins chime in from time to time, as does Sylus, but it's been ages since you got to talk to a woman who Gets It and she's clearly done with all of Sylus's bullshit, because the two of you just keep at it. Even when you return to Sylus's residence and follow everyone in, wondering when someone will ask you to leave.
No one does. Sylus just points you to a door and Luke whispers that he's set up a room for you ages ago.
Miss Hunter leans in from your other side and adds on how excited she is to have another woman with her, especially since you have teasing rights as Sylus's sister.
And Sylus himself doesn't refute any of what they're saying. Just shrugs nonchalantly as acts as if it's no big deal, even as he carefully gauges your reaction.
You go over it all in your mind again, pulling together what you know: dinner with the twins. Constant visits where he annoys you. Asking for your help in things both big and small. Welcomed into his space without question. A room set up for you weeks before you ever stepped foot into his home. Spoken about like you're part of this little unit of his.
The most important piece of it all: you feel safe with him. When he arrived and put an end to the fight, you knew you were safe. Even with all your knowledge of how dangerous he is, your experience in keeping your distance from people like him because it's always been a risk, you know he'll never hurt you.
You know he's lived a lonely life. There was a time before he found the twins. He's patient with them, has given them so many allowances no one else would bother with. It's the same way you've made a space for them in your home.
You don't have much experience with things like home or family, but no one here does. You wouldn't mind figuring it all out with them.
"Do I get a key to this place, too?" you ask, half joking and half hopeful. If it's not all in your mind, if he really means it…
"I thought you'd never ask." He pulls out a spare keycard and presses it into your hand. Like it's that easy.
And maybe it is.
Maybe, with the right people, family was always supposed to feel like this.
❥ pairing: wolf hybrid!sylus qin x cat/kitten hybrid!fem!reader
❥ summary: For years, you’d learned to live with loving someone you could never have. You convinced yourself that friendship was enough, that watching from the sidelines didn’t hurt as much as it did. You treasured every smile, every fleeting touch, even as they slowly broke your heart. You told yourself you weren’t enough—would never be enough—for someone like him. Or so you believed. Then one day, everything changed.
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ wordcount: 31k+ (lol I am not normal about sylus)
❥ warnings/tags: hybrid!au, best friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining, miscommunication kinda in terms of assumed unrequited love, longing/yearning, jealous!reader, kinda shy!reader, reader is described as shorter than sylus, emotional!reader, very small / short scene where reader got a bit harassed (not by sylus, sylus comes and steps in and protects reader. It’s a very small and short scene but if it makes you uncomfortable pls skip), synced ruts/heats. mating. inexperienced/virgin!reader, loss of virginity, unrealistic first time, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, ok… just in overall bye, sylus is soft for reader, sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, major size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, oral fixation. some daddy kink and the use of alfa. huge breeding kink aaaaa sorry. I wrote this while ovulating. they’re both FREAKS. scent kink? knotting. sylus is worshipping his sweet girl ok! doggy style / prone bone 😈 and missionary position. lots of pet names (mostly kitty/kitten, little kitten). lowkey pillow princess vibes. this is high key sweet and soft and then turns filthy (and then turns soft again). reader has hair, no further description though. this is not beta read sorry!
EDIT: also I know cats are not seen as prey animals because they are predators themselves but compared to a wolf I felt like that was a big contrast. like cat and dog dynamic. at the end of the day, the state of “predator-prey” is fluctuant and depends on a lot of stuff, as even the biggest predators can become prey. hense why I wrote what I wrote.
❥ a/n: I’ve always always wanted to write a hybrid au and never came around to do it. I wrote something hybrid related YEARS ago but it was sitting in my wips collecting dust. It had the same plot but it was written totally differently and it was not good. so now that I’ve improved my writing over the years I felt like giving this story a shot again but this time with my muse and my everything : sylus. I am so happy and excited to finally release this fic to the world and I hope you enjoy reading this fanfic as much as I loved writing it <3 happy reading! 🩷
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
Being roommates with your best friend had its perks. You were together almost all the time, sharing both the big and small moments of life in ways that felt natural, inevitable even. You’d lend each other a hand with mundane tasks, or offer guidance when one of you was feeling lost or stuck. Your tall best friend effortlessly reached the top shelves you could only dream of touching—a constant reminder of how much bigger wolf hybrids were compared to cat hybrids like you—and you both spent countless nights dissolved in laughter during movie marathons, shoulders pressed together on the couch, your tail occasionally draping over his leg in those comfortable moments when you forgot to be self-conscious. Sharing responsibilities became something more than just practical—splitting chores like cooking and laundry felt easy and natural, domestic in a way that made your heart ache with how right it felt. There was a profound comfort in knowing your best friend was always dependable, always there, ready to support you whenever you needed it. And whenever you were desperate for warmth, for contact, for reassurance, Sylus was probably already reaching for you, attuned to your needs in that uncanny way wolf hybrids had with those they cared about, ready to envelop you in his arms—that embrace that felt like home and made your ears fold back in contentment.
But living with him also had its disadvantages.
Especially considering that Sylus Qin, your best friend and the man you were hopelessly in love with, was quite the menace.
Sylus had always possessed this striking, almost unfair handsomeness that effortlessly made people swoon wherever he went. It genuinely wasn’t fair how beautiful he was—all sharp features and lazy confidence, those ruby eyes that seemed to see right through you, silver-white hair that caught the light, and that damnable smirk that made your stomach flip every single time. His wolf ears, pale and perfectly shaped, were expressive in ways that made him even more attractive, and his tail—god, his tail—had a way of swaying that drew eyes wherever he went. He had always been lucky when it came to finding partners—or rather, when it came to finding people to warm his bed. Wolf hybrids were already considered among the most desirable hybrid types, powerful and protective, and Sylus wielded that advantage with devastating effectiveness. He’d often bring those one-night stands back to your shared apartment—other wolves, foxes, the occasional panther, all gorgeous predator hybrids who matched his energy—and you’d lie awake in your room, pillow pressed over your ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds with your sensitive feline hearing. It never worked. You’d hear everything—the sounds that reminded you that someone else was touching him, that someone else got to know what his skin felt like, what sounds he made when—
You’d learned to pretend it didn’t bother you. Learned to keep your ears upright and your tail still the next morning when some stranger emerged from his bedroom, disheveled and satisfied, often sporting marks on their neck that made your claws itch to extend.
Sylus had never been the type to stick with one person, always preferring casual flings over long-term relationships. Or so you’d told yourself, because believing he was incapable of commitment hurt less than wondering if he simply didn’t want commitment with you. Maybe it was a wolf thing—they were known for being either fiercely monogamous or completely untethered. Sylus seemed to have chosen the latter.
You, on the other hand, had always craved something real, something lasting. Cat hybrids were naturally selective, notoriously picky about who they let into their space and their hearts, and you were no exception. You dreamed of finding your true love—someone to share adventures with, to laugh with until your sides hurt, someone to dive into deep, meaningful conversations with at three in the morning. You loved the idea of being with someone who let you be your complete, unfiltered self, where you could spend hours talking about everything and nothing—discussing your favorite TV shows one minute, then passionately criticizing capitalism and dissecting the broken state of the world the next. You were a romantic at heart, longing for affection in all its forms: sweet kisses and being held close, but also the chance to be the one doing the holding, to make someone feel cherished and safe and loved, just as much as you wanted to feel those things in return. You wanted what cat hybrids were meant to have—that one person they chose completely, that bond that was supposed to be unshakeable.
Unfortunately, you had never had the chance to experience anything like that.
It wasn’t as though opportunities hadn’t presented themselves. You’ve had chances to explore connections, potential relationships with people who’d expressed interest—a few cat hybrids, a sweet rabbit hybrid from your literature class, even a fox hybrid who’d been persistent in their pursuit. But you’d never been able to make yourself care enough to try, never felt that spark of genuine interest in creating something meaningful with a stranger. Your instincts, usually so good at telling you who was safe and who wasn’t, remained stubbornly silent with everyone except—
How could you even consider anyone else when you’d already given your heart away years ago?
But the devastating truth was that Sylus had stopped being just your best friend years ago—if he’d ever been just that at all. You had been in love with him for god knows how long, and that love had wrapped itself around your heart so completely that no one else even stood a chance. Your cat hybrid instincts had chosen him, decided he was yours, even though he’d never chosen you back. It went against everything that made sense—prey didn’t fall for predator, cat hybrids didn’t bond with wolf hybrids, you were supposed to be naturally wary of him. But your heart and your instincts had conspired against logic.
You still remembered the day you both became friends, though you had never quite understood why he’d chosen you, given how different you were from each other. You were blunt, sometimes too honest for your own good, while Sylus, though perfectly capable of being direct, tended to move through the world with more calculated grace, choosing his words carefully like the strategic predator he was. He was passionate, tender in ways that made your chest ache, and devastatingly intelligent. Sylus was, most of the time, a confident and mysterious man who seemed to know exactly who he was and what he wanted. You, on the other hand, weren’t necessarily insecure, but you wouldn’t exactly call yourself confident either—you existed somewhere in the uncertain middle, always questioning, always wondering. Typical cat hybrid behavior, some would say, but it felt more personal than that. You were deeply in tune with your emotions, feeling everything perhaps too intensely, but translating those feelings into words felt like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. Your tail and ears gave you away constantly, betraying every feeling you tried to hide. Sylus, though, had always been straightforward with his emotions, expressing himself with an ease you both envied and admired, his wolf hybrid directness something you’d always found both intimidating and attractive. You were an overthinker, your mind always spinning with spiraling thoughts and worst-case scenarios, and he would often step in to quiet the chaos, grounding you with that steady, reassuring presence of his whenever your thoughts threatened to consume you. He had a way of placing his hand on your head, right between your ears, that never failed to calm you down—a gesture that should have felt patronizing but instead felt safe.
You could say that opposites attract, though that phrase felt too simple for what you two had. Wolf and cat. It should have never worked.
Over time, your friendship deepened into something profound, something that felt necessary for survival. So when he asked one day if you’d like to move in with him—into one of his new penthouses, spacious and modern and so very him—you’d barely hesitated. He’d told you he craved a bit more peace in his life and genuinely enjoyed your company, said it so casually like he wasn’t offering you everything you’d ever wanted. It seemed like a good idea, you’d thought. A practical one, even. Your parents had warned you that living with a wolf hybrid might trigger your prey instincts, might make you anxious, but you’d dismissed their concerns.
What a beautiful mistake that had been.
You couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment you fell in love with your roommate, and that uncertainty haunted you. All you knew was that one day, you were suddenly drowning in an emotion so intense, so consuming, it was unlike anything you’d ever felt before. It hit you all at once—or at least, that’s when you finally stopped being able to deny it. Before Sylus, you’d never really had a serious crush, never experienced feelings this powerful, this devastating, for anyone. Cat hybrids were supposed to know, supposed to feel that instinctive pull toward their person, but you’d never felt it with anyone. You often told yourself it must have started shortly after you moved in with him, that living in such close quarters had simply made you confused, made you mistake intimacy for something more. But deep down, in that honest part of yourself you tried so hard to ignore, you knew that wasn’t the truth. This feeling had been quietly growing from the very first moment you met him, taking root in your heart like something inevitable, slowly building until it became impossible to ignore, impossible to uproot. Your instincts had chosen him that day in the library, and cat hybrids didn’t un-choose. That was the curse of it.
It was funny, you thought during those late nights when sleep wouldn’t come and you could hear his steady breathing from his room with your too-sharp hearing, how life had a way of bringing you things—and people—you never realized you needed. People like Sylus, who became so essential to your existence that you couldn’t help but wonder how you had ever lived without them. People like Sylus Qin, who had become both your salvation and your undoing, your safe haven and your deepest ache—the person who could soothe your soul and set it ablaze in the same breath, while remaining everything you needed and everything you couldn’t have.
The wolf who’d become your home, even when your instincts whispered that wolves and cats were never meant to mix like this.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you as you absently groomed your tail—a self-soothing habit you’d never quite broken, especially when your thoughts were spinning out of control.
It had been three days since the last one-night stand. Three days of relative peace, though you hated that you were counting.
Your fingers worked through the fur of your tail methodically, smoothing down the same spot over and over. It was a distinctly feline habit, one that most cat hybrids developed as a comfort mechanism. The repetitive motion usually helped quiet your racing thoughts, but tonight it wasn’t working. Nothing worked when it came to Sylus.
The soft pad of footsteps made your ears swivel backward before you could stop them—wolf hybrids moved with an almost predatory silence that had unnerved you once, long ago. Now it was just painfully familiar.
“You’re going to wear a bald spot into your tail if you keep that up,” Sylus’s voice came from behind the couch, warm with amusement.
You startled slightly, your hands stilling as heat crept up your neck. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about you, always had. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though your flattened ears probably betrayed the lie.
The couch dipped as he settled beside you—not too close, never too close, but near enough that his scent washed over you. Pine and something darker, earthier, distinctly wolf. It had terrified you once. Now it felt like home, and that was so much worse.
[Flashback - Seven Years Ago]
The university library had been packed with students cramming for midterms, but you’d managed to find a corner table tucked away near the back. As a cat hybrid, you’d always preferred small, enclosed spaces—they felt safer, more secure. Especially in a school where predator hybrids made up a significant portion of the student body.
You’d been so focused on your literary theory textbook, trying to make sense of post-structuralism for your midterm, that you hadn’t noticed the group approaching until a shadow fell across your table.
“This seat taken, kitten?”
Your ears had flattened instinctively against your head as you looked up at the lion hybrid looming over you, his two friends—a tiger and another lion—flanking him with matching smirks. Predator hybrids. Of course.
“I—I’m studying,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. Your tail had curled tight around your leg beneath the table, a defensive posture you couldn’t control.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” the tiger hybrid purred, leaning against your table. “We just want to get to know you better. You’re in our sociology class, right? Cute little thing sitting in the back, always so quiet.”
Your heart had hammered against your ribs. You’d dealt with this kind of attention before—more vulnerable hybrids often did, especially from the more “desirable” predator types who thought their status meant they could do whatever they wanted. Your instincts screamed at you to run, but you were cornered, trapped between the table and the wall.
“She said she’s studying.”
The voice had come from behind the group, deep and carrying an edge that made your fur stand on end. The three predator hybrids had turned, and you’d finally seen him—a wolf hybrid with striking silver-white hair and the most intense ruby-red eyes you’d ever seen. His pale skin almost seemed to glow under the library’s fluorescent lights, making him look almost otherworldly. He was tall, broader than the others, and there was something in his posture that screamed danger in a way that made even the lion hybrids take a step back.
Wolf hybrids were rare, especially in universities. They were known for being territorial, protective, and powerful. Most ended up in military or security positions, not sitting in sociology lectures.
“We were just talking to her, wolf,” the lion had said, though his cocky tone had wavered slightly. “No need to get territorial.”
“Funny,” Sylus had replied, his ruby eyes fixed on them with an intensity that was unmistakably predatory. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re making her uncomfortable. And I don’t tolerate that.”
The tension had been thick enough to cut. Your ears had been flat against your head, your whole body tense as you’d watched the standoff. The wolf hybrid’s scent had filled the air—assertive, dominant, unmistakably alpha. It should have terrified you more than the others had.
Instead, some instinct you didn’t understand told you that you were safe.
The lion hybrid had glanced at you, then back at Sylus, and something in his expression had shifted. “Whatever, man. She’s not worth the trouble anyway.” He’d jerked his head at his friends, and they’d left, though not without shooting dark looks over their shoulders.
You’d sat frozen, staring at this stranger who’d just defended you without even knowing your name. Your heart was still racing, but for an entirely different reason now.
Sylus had turned to you then, and his expression had softened in a way that seemed almost impossible given the dominance he’d just displayed. Those ruby eyes, which had been so sharp and threatening moments before, now looked at you with something gentler. “You okay?”
You’d nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. Up close, he was even more striking—all sharp features and powerful presence, his silver hair catching the light as his wolf ears, pale and alert atop his head, focused entirely on you. You’d noticed his tail hanging relaxed behind him despite the confrontation that had just occurred.
“I’m Sylus,” he’d said, pulling out the chair across from you. “Mind if I sit? I promise I’m better company than those three.”
You should have been terrified. Every instinct should have been screaming at you to run from the predator sitting across from you. But instead, you’d found yourself nodding, your ears slowly lifting from their flattened position.
“I’m…” you started, your voice shaky. You’d given him your name, and when he’d smiled—really smiled, not that predatory smirk the others had worn—something in your chest had felt warm for the first time since the encounter started.
“Pretty name for a pretty kitten,” he’d said, and then, as if sensing your nervousness, he’d gestured to your textbook. “Literary theory? That looks like torture.” He’d tilted his head, a small smirk playing on his lips. “I’m in engineering, but we had to take that intro to humanities course last semester. Nearly killed me.”
You’d managed a small, surprised laugh despite your still-racing heart. “It’s… a lot,” you’d admitted quietly.
“Tell you what,” he’d said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence that should have intimidated you but somehow didn’t. “I’ve got some time before my next class. You look like you could use the company, and I make a pretty decent study partner. Even if I don’t know the first thing about post-structuralism or whatever that is.”
And just like that, Sylus Qin had entered your life—unexpected, protective, and impossibly kind. What had started as a chance encounter in a crowded library would become the most important friendship you’d ever have. He’d stayed with you that entire afternoon, helping you study despite knowing nothing about literary theory, making you laugh when moments before you’d been on the verge of tears.
[Present Day]
“You’re thinking too loud,” Sylus said, pulling you from the memory. His hand reached out slowly—always slowly with you, like you were something fragile that might bolt—and gently tugged your tail from your grip. “Seriously, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
Your breath caught as his fingers carefully smoothed down the fur you’d been obsessively grooming, his touch gentle in a way that contradicted everything his hybrid type was supposed to be. Wolf hybrids weren’t known for gentleness. They were dominant, possessive and territorial.
But Sylus had always been gentle with you.
“Sorry,” you murmured, very aware of how close he was, how his scent surrounded you. “Just… thinking.”
“About?” His hand lingered perhaps a moment too long on your tail before he pulled away, and you tried not to mourn the loss of contact.
About you, you thought. Always about you.
“Nothing important,” you lied, tucking your tail closer to your body and away from temptation—both his and yours. Your ears swiveled toward him on their own accord, betraying your attention even as you tried to appear casual.
Sylus hummed, a low sound in his chest that you felt more than heard. Wolf hybrids did that—made sounds that resonated, that were meant to soothe pack members. You’d learned over the years to recognize when he did it, usually when he sensed you were anxious or upset.
He was doing it now, probably without even realizing it.
“You know,” he said after a moment, leaning back against the couch, “sometimes I think about that day in the library. When we first met.”
Your heart stuttered. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes were distant, reminiscent. “You looked so scared. These tiny flattened ears, tail wrapped so tight around your leg. Those assholes cornering you like you were just some toy for them to play with.” His jaw clenched, and you saw his ears tilt back slightly—a sign of irritation. “I wanted to rip them apart.”
You’d never heard him admit that before. “You didn’t, though.”
“No,” he agreed, his eyes finding yours. “Because you were already terrified enough without me going full wolf on them. And because…” He paused, something flickering across his expression. “Because the last thing I wanted was for you to be afraid of me too.”
Your chest tightened. “I was never afraid of you.”
That was a lie. You had been, at first. He was a wolf hybrid, a predator, and you were a cat hybrid. Every instinct had told you to run.
But you hadn’t. And somewhere between that first day in the library and now, your fear had transformed into something so much more dangerous.
Sylus’s expression softened, a small smile playing at his lips. “You were absolutely terrified, kitten. Don’t even try to deny it.” He reached over and gently flicked one of your ears—a familiar, teasing gesture. “These things give you away every time.”
You wanted to argue, to protest, but he was right. Your ears had always betrayed you, constantly swiveling and flattening and perking up with every emotion you tried to hide. It was a cat hybrid thing, being so expressive without meaning to be.
“You still notice everything,” you muttered, feeling heat creep into your cheeks.
“Only when it comes to you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it.
Your heart nearly stopped. You turned to look at him fully, searching his face for meaning, but he was already standing, stretching in a way that made his shirt ride up slightly. Your eyes caught on his tail swaying behind him before you forced yourself to look away.
“I’m thinking of ordering takeout,” he said, his tone casual again, as if he hadn’t just said something that made your entire world tilt. “Thai sounds good?”
You managed a nod, not trusting your voice.
As he walked toward the kitchen to grab his phone, you caught yourself watching him—the confident way he moved, the silver-white of his hair catching the light, so different from your own cautious, light-footed steps. Wolf hybrid and cat hybrid. Predator and prey.
Seven years ago, he’d saved you from predators who’d wanted to harass you.
Now, you were living with a predator who didn’t even realize he’d already caught you.
Your tail curled around your waist protectively as you forced yourself to look away, back at your phone, at anything other than Sylus Qin and the impossible situation your heart had created.
Some prey, you thought bitterly, were foolish enough to walk straight into the wolf’s den.
You just wished you knew if he’d ever want to keep you there.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
A few months into your roommate arrangement, you still couldn’t get used to Sylus constantly bringing one-night stands to your shared apartment. It was pure torment—made worse by your heightened feline senses that picked up on everything you desperately wished you could ignore.
As you ate cereal at the kitchen island, your ears flicked toward the sound of Sylus’s bedroom door opening. One of his many conquests—a sleek panther hybrid—quietly slipped out, and you focused intently on your bowl, willing your tail not to lash in irritation. You couldn’t help but watch from the corner of your eye as Sylus walked them to the door, their face adorned with that satisfied, sly smile as they batted their eyelashes at him. Your ears flattened slightly against your head as you watched their fingers play with the collar of his shirt, lingering there while he made no move to pull away, that damn smirk on his face. A knot of anger twisted in your belly. You’d never felt such intense rage before—it made your claws itch to extend, a very catlike aggressive response. He leaned into their touch as they gave him a casual goodbye kiss, and you had to grip your spoon tighter to keep your composure.
You hated experiencing feelings like these. It was a gross emotion, a heavy sensation that felt thick and tar-like, clinging to your chest and making you ache with its oppressive weight. Your tail curled tight around the base of the stool, another tell you couldn’t control.
Anxiety? Sure, you were often more anxious than most hybrids, but that wasn’t the feeling you had at this moment. Maybe it was jealousy? You disliked how that emotion fit so easily on your tongue, leaving a bitter taste.
Each time you witnessed these scenes unfold—the touching, the lingering looks, the casual intimacy—jealousy and frustration would crash over you in waves. It was worse when your sensitive hearing picked up on things you wished you could unhear. Your ears would fold back automatically, and you’d bury your head under your pillow, but it never quite blocked out the sounds from his room. Those nights, you’d catch his scent mixed with someone else’s the next morning, and it made your stomach turn. Wolf hybrids were naturally territorial, their scent marking everything, and knowing he was sharing that with others felt like claws raking across your heart.
As Sylus reentered the apartment and closed the door behind him, you couldn’t stop the bitter words from escaping, your ears still slightly flattened. “So, what number are we up to now?”
He paused, his red eyes finding yours, and you watched his wolf ears swivel toward you with interest before he chuckled and shook his head with that insufferable smirk. “Not sure. Lost count.” He shrugged with casual ease, grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the kitchen island, and took a bite.
“What was their name?” you asked, staring daggers at your bowl of cereal, your tail now twitching with barely suppressed agitation.
Another shrug, his tail swaying lazily behind him—relaxed, unbothered, so completely unaffected. “I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care,” he replied nonchalantly before walking away.
You couldn’t understand how he could be so cavalier about it all. Your ears tracked his movement even as you kept your eyes down, hating how attuned you were to his every move.
But it wasn’t just jealousy poisoning your system—it was the longing, the desperate ache for any kind of affection or love from Sylus that went beyond friendship. You were grateful to be his best friend, truly, and you knew it was foolish to hope for more, to wish he’d look at you the way he looked at… well, anyone else he brought home. But you couldn’t help yourself. Deep down, you feared you’d always feel this lonely, this isolated in your feelings. As a cat hybrid, you were already naturally more selective about who you let close, but with Sylus, it was different. You could never fall for anyone but him—your instincts had decided that long ago, whether you wanted them to or not. He was everything you craved and needed in life, and that awareness was its own special torture.
You felt foolish, your ears burning with constant embarrassment even when you were alone. More than anything, you felt hurt, knowing you were the only one to blame. It were your own feelings, your own stupid heart that had caused all this pain.
The thought of him eventually falling in love with someone else—really falling, not just these meaningless nights—made your stomach drop like a stone. You could picture it too easily: some gorgeous wolf hybrid, or maybe an elegant fox, someone who matched his predator energy, someone who made sense by his side. Not a skittish cat hybrid who still sometimes had the urge to run when he moved too quickly. But you forced yourself to push that devastation down, to lock it away with all the other feelings you couldn’t afford to examine. It didn’t matter what you wanted. Sylus was free to date whoever he wanted, to love whoever he wanted. He was your best friend, and that’s all he’d ever be.
One day, you’d have to make peace with the fact that Sylus would always be just your best friend, nothing more.
You just desperately hoped that one day, your tail would stop drooping at the thought, that your ears would stop flattening in distress. That one day, loving him wouldn’t make you feel like you were going against every prey instinct you had—because loving a wolf had never been safe, and your heart had done it anyway.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You were cuddled up on the couch, staring blankly at your phone screen without really seeing it. Your ears kept swiveling toward the hallway, tracking Sylus’s movements in his room even though you were trying—and failing—to focus on anything else. The soft music playing from your phone did little to calm your frayed nerves.
Your tail was wrapped tight around your waist, a self-protective posture you couldn’t seem to break out of. It had been like this all day—coiled and tense, betraying the anxiety that had been eating at you since this morning. You’d barely been able to focus on your writing assignment, had given up on reading after rereading the same page five times without absorbing a single word.
The soft pad of footsteps made your ears swivel backward before you could stop them—wolf hybrids moved with an almost predatory silence that had unnerved you once, long ago. Now it was just painfully familiar, and worse, it made your heart race for entirely different reasons.
“You’re wound tighter than a spring,” Sylus’s voice came from behind the couch, warm with amusement and something softer you didn’t dare name. “I can practically feel the anxiety radiating off you from here.”
You startled slightly, your tail constricting even tighter around your waist as heat crept up your neck. Of course he’d noticed. He noticed everything about you, always had. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though your flattened ears and the visible tension in your shoulders probably betrayed the lie. They always did.
The couch dipped as he settled beside you—close, closer than usual, near enough that his scent washed over you in a wave that made your breath catch. Pine and something darker, earthier, distinctly wolf and distinctly Sylus. It had terrified you once. Now it felt like home, and that was so much worse. That was dangerous.
You kept your eyes on your phone, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from where his thigh was almost touching yours, where his arm rested along the back of the couch. Not quite touching you, never quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that if you shifted even slightly, you’d be pressed against his side.
You wanted to. God, you wanted to so badly it physically hurt.
“You’ve been like this all day,” he observed, his voice dropping to that low, gentle tone he used when it was just the two of you. When he thought you needed comfort. “What’s going on in that head of yours, kitten?”
The petname made your ears twitch traitorously, flicking up for just a moment before flattening again, and you saw his eyes track the movement. Of course he noticed. He always noticed.
Everything, you wanted to say. You. Always you. The way you smell like safety and heartbreak. The way I can’t stop wanting things I’ll never have.
Instead, you managed a small shrug, still refusing to look at him because you knew—you knew—that if you met those ruby eyes right now, he’d see everything. Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Just tired, I guess.”
“Liar.” But there was no heat in it, just a tenderness that made your chest constrict. “Look at you. Your tail’s been wrapped around yourself like armor since this morning, and your ears haven’t been up once. That’s not tired. That’s stressed.”
“I’m not—” you started, but your voice came out shaky, unconvincing even to your own ears.
“Hey.” His hand lifted—slowly, always so slowly with you, like you were something precious that might bolt—and his fingers brushed against one of your flattened ears with devastating gentleness. “Talk to me. Please?”
Your breath stuttered. You should pull away. You should make some excuse and retreat to your room where it was safe, where you couldn’t do something stupid like lean into his touch like the touch-starved cat hybrid you were.
But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.
His fingers traced the edge of your ear with a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine, gently coaxing it upward, and you watched his eyes darken as your ear instinctively responded to his touch, slowly lifting from its flattened position. Betrayed by your own body, as always.
“There,” he murmured, that rumbling quality entering his voice—the one that wolf hybrids used to soothe, to comfort. “That’s better. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
You can’t help with this, you thought desperately. You’re the problem. You’re the reason I’m anxious and aching and so desperately in love I can barely breathe.
But what came out was: “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He cut you off gently, and his hand moved from your ear to cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across your cheek, and you wondered if he could feel how hot your skin had become, could hear how your heart was racing. With his wolf hearing, he probably could. “I always want to. You know that, right?”
Did you? Did you know that? Or was this just what he did—taking care of people, being protective, his wolf instincts making him watch out for those he considered pack? It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
“Sylus…” you breathed, and you heard how it came out—too soft, too wanting, too much.
Something flickered across his expression, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, and you felt your tail tighten even more around your waist, your claws flexing nervously against your phone case.
“You do this thing,” he said quietly, his thumb still tracing idle patterns on your cheek that were making it very hard to think, “where you curl up into yourself when something’s bothering you. Make yourself small. And I hate it.”
“I don’t—” you started to protest, but he shook his head.
“You do. Your tail wraps around you like a shield, your ears go flat, and you won’t look at anyone. Won’t ask for help even when you need it.” His other hand reached down, gently taking your phone from your death grip and setting it aside. Then his fingers found your tail where it was wrapped protectively around your waist. “And this… kitten, you’re going to hurt yourself if you keep coiling this tight.”
His touch on your tail made you gasp softly—tails were sensitive, personal, and the way his fingers carefully worked to loosen the tension there felt intimate in a way that made your heart pound. This wasn’t casual touching. This was—
“Let me help you relax,” he murmured, and there was something in his voice that made your skin feel too warm. “Please? I can’t… I can’t just sit here and watch you tie yourself in knots.”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Because his hand was still on your jaw, tilting your face toward his, and his other hand was gently coaxing your tail to unwind, and he was so close you could count his eyelashes, could see the exact moment his pupils dilated slightly as he looked at you.
The air between you felt charged, heavy with something unspoken. Your ears were slowly perking up now despite your best efforts, focused entirely on him, and you saw his gaze flick to them, a small smile tugging at his lips, then back to your eyes, then—briefly, so briefly—to your lips again.
“Better,” he said softly as your tail finally loosened, though it immediately tried to curl around his wrist instead—another betrayal by your traitorous body. “See? You don’t always have to hold everything in by yourself.”
“You’re staring,” you whispered, because you had to say something, had to break this tension before you did something catastrophic like close the distance between you and press your lips to his.
“So are you.” His thumb traced your cheekbone, and his voice had gone rough around the edges. “Your eyes are doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Your own voice was barely audible, and your fingers had somehow found their way to his shirt, gripping the fabric without your permission.
“That thing where they go all soft and wide and I can’t…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening like he was stopping himself from saying something. His hand tightened around your tail, making you shiver.
“Can’t what?” You shouldn’t push. You should let this go. But you’d been so starved for him, for any hint that maybe he felt even a fraction of what you felt, and you were so tired of pretending. Your claws had extended slightly, pricking through his shirt, and you couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed.
For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked at you, like he was seeing something he’d never allowed himself to see before. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in the hair there, just below your ears, and the touch made you shiver visibly.
“Can’t stop thinking about how much I—” He stopped himself, closing his eyes briefly, his ears flicking back in what looked like frustration—with himself or the situation, you couldn’t tell. When he opened them again, there was something raw there, something vulnerable that you’d never seen before. “You have no idea, do you?”
“No idea about what?” Your heart was going to beat out of your chest, and you knew he could hear it, could probably smell the spike of adrenaline and hope and fear coursing through you. This felt important, monumental, like standing on the edge of something that would either save you or destroy you completely.
His thumb brushed the sensitive spot just behind your ear, making you melt against him unconsciously, and his expression softened into something that looked almost pained. “How hard it is to—”
But then his phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the moment like glass. You both jerked slightly, and his hands fell away from you as he grabbed the phone with what looked like frustration, his tail lashing once behind him—a rare show of his own agitation.
He glanced at the screen, and something shuttered in his expression. “Sorry, I need to—” He stood abruptly, running a hand through his silver hair, his wolf ears flicking back in what you’d learned to recognize as irritation. “Work thing.”
You watched him walk toward his room, your tail immediately coiling back around your waist protectively, your whole body aching with the loss of his warmth. Your ears had flattened again, and you felt the anxiety come rushing back twice as strong, your claws still extended and digging into your palms now that they had nothing else to hold onto.
He paused in the doorway to his room, looking back at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something conflicted, almost tortured. “Get some rest, kitten. And stop…” He gestured vaguely at you, at your defensive posture. “Stop making yourself so small. You don’t have to do that. Not with me. Never with me.”
Then he was gone, door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone on the couch with your racing heart and the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin.
You buried your face in your hands, ears flat against your head, tail so tight around your waist it was almost painful.
“You have no idea, do you?”
What had he meant? What had he been about to say?
And why did it feel like you’d just missed something crucial, something that might have changed everything?
Your claws dug into your scalp slightly as you tried to calm your breathing, tried to slow your racing heart. Part of you wondered if he was grateful for the interruption. If he’d realized how close he’d come to… to what? Saying something he’d regret? Doing something that would ruin your friendship?
You pulled a blanket over yourself, knowing you wouldn’t sleep, knowing you’d spend the rest of the night replaying every second of that interaction, analyzing every word, every look, every touch. Your tail remained coiled tight, your body still thrumming with unspent anxiety and longing.
“You have no idea, do you?”
The worst part was, you didn’t. You had no idea what he’d been about to say, and the not-knowing was its own special kind of torture.
Just another night of loving Sylus Qin and wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was a chance he could love you back.
Your ears perked slightly at the sound of his door opening again, footsteps padding back toward the living room. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to be drowsy, but your treacherous ears swiveled toward him automatically, and you felt your tail tighten even more.
You felt him drape another blanket over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. His hand lingered for just a moment on your head, right between your ears—that gesture that never failed to make you feel safe—and you felt your ears relax slightly under his touch, your tail loosening just a fraction.
“Sleep well, kitten,” he murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. His fingers stroked once, twice between your ears, and you felt some of the anxiety finally start to drain from your body. And then, even softer, like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all: “God, you’re killing me.”
Then his footsteps retreated, his door clicked shut again, and you were left alone with your pounding heart and the devastating realization that maybe—maybe—you weren’t the only one suffering.
But that couldn’t be right.
Could it?
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You’d been avoiding Sylus.
Not obviously—you weren’t that transparent. But ever since that night on the couch, since his hand on your face and those words ‘you have no idea’ and the way he’d looked at you like you were something precious, you’d been… careful. Kept conversations light. Made excuses to stay in your room. Tried desperately not to think about what had almost happened, what he’d almost said.
It was easier than facing the possibility that you’d imagined the whole thing, that you’d read too much into a moment of kindness from your best friend.
So when you’d woken up yesterday with a scratchy throat and a headache, you’d almost been grateful. A legitimate reason to stay in your room, to avoid those knowing ruby eyes that seemed to see right through you.
By this morning, though, “a little under the weather” had evolved into “definitely sick.” Your head pounded, your body ached, and every time you moved, the room spun unpleasantly. Your cat ears felt hot and heavy against your head, and your tail was too tired to do anything but lie limply beside you.
You’d texted Sylus that you weren’t feeling well, asked him not to worry, and then buried yourself under your blankets to sleep it off.
That had been your first mistake.
The sound of your bedroom door opening made your ears twitch weakly.
“Kitten.” Sylus’s voice was soft but firm, and you heard him cross the room to your bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this sick?”
“’M fine,” you mumbled into your pillow, not bothering to open your eyes. “Just need sleep.”
“You’re burning up.” The back of his hand pressed against your forehead, and even through your fever, you registered how cool his skin felt. How good it felt. “Jesus. How long have you been like this?”
“Not that long.” You tried to pull away from his touch, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. “I said I’m fine. Don’t need… hovering.”
“Tough.” The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, and you finally cracked your eyes open to find him looking down at you with concern etched across his features. His wolf ears were alert and focused entirely on you, and there was something in his expression that made your feverish heart skip. “I’m hovering. Deal with it.”
You wanted to argue, but another wave of dizziness hit and you just closed your eyes again with a small whimper.
“That’s what I thought.” His fingers brushed gently against your overheated cheek, and you heard him sigh. “Stay here. I’m getting medicine and water.”
“Can’t really go anywhere,” you muttered, which earned you a soft huff of amusement before his weight lifted from the bed.
You must have dozed off because the next thing you knew, he was back, coaxing you to sit up enough to take medicine and drink water. His arm supported your back, steady and warm, and you were too sick to care about how you leaned into him, how your cheek pressed against his shoulder.
“Good girl,” he murmured when you’d finished the water, and the praise did something funny to your fever-addled brain. “Now rest. I’ll be right here.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” He was already adjusting your pillows, pulling your blankets up higher. “I want to.”
You wanted to ask why. Wanted to ask what that night on the couch had meant, wanted to ask if he’d been about to say what you thought he’d been about to say. But your head was too heavy and your thoughts too fuzzy, so you just let yourself drift, comforted by the sound of him moving around your room, the scent of him nearby.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
The fever dreams were the worst part.
You kept waking up disoriented, not sure what was real and what wasn’t. But every time you surfaced, Sylus was there. Pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Helping you drink water. Murmuring reassurances in that low, soothing voice that made your wolf-sensitive cat instincts relax despite everything.
At some point, you felt his fingers gently combing through your hair, careful not to disturb your sensitive ears, and you made a sound that was probably too close to a purr. You felt rather than saw him smile.
“Sleep, kitten,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
And because you were too sick to maintain your usual walls, too feverish to remember why you’d been avoiding him, you whispered back: “Don’t leave?”
His hand stilled in your hair for just a moment. Then: “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”
You believed him. And with his scent surrounding you, his presence solid and real beside you, you finally fell into a deeper, more restful sleep.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
[Several Hours Later]
You woke to the smell of soup.
Not just any soup—the kind Sylus made from scratch, the recipe he’d learned from his grandmother that he only made for special occasions. Rich and savory and exactly what your body was craving.
Your fever had broken sometime while you slept. You still felt weak and achy, but the worst of it had passed. Carefully, you sat up, your ears perking slightly as you registered that the smell was coming from the kitchen.
He was cooking. For you.
Your tail curled around your waist as you slowly stood, pulling on a hoodie over your sleep shirt because you were still chilled. Your legs felt shaky, but you managed to make it to your bedroom door and down the hallway.
The sight that greeted you in the kitchen made your heart clench painfully in your chest.
Sylus stood at the stove, his back to you, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. He’d changed into a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants, casual and domestic in a way that shouldn’t have been as devastating as it was. His tail swayed slowly behind him as he stirred the pot, and you could see the concentration in the set of his shoulders.
He was cooking for you. Taking care of you. Had probably been worried about you all day.
“You should be in bed, kitten.”
You startled—you hadn’t made a sound, but of course his wolf hearing had picked up on your presence anyway. He turned to look at you over his shoulder, and the gentle reproach in his expression was undermined by the obvious relief in his eyes at seeing you up and moving.
“I smelled food,” you said weakly, leaning against the doorframe because your legs were already protesting. “Wanted to see what you were making.”
“Soup.” He turned fully now, and you saw he was holding a wooden spoon, looking unfairly attractive for someone who’d probably spent the last several hours playing nurse. “And you should be resting, not wandering around the apartment.”
“I’ve been in bed all day.” You took a tentative step into the kitchen. “Needed to move.”
His eyes tracked your unsteady movement, and something flickered across his face. “You’re still weak.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re sick.” But even as he said it, he was setting down the spoon and closing the distance between you. His hands found your waist, steadying you, and the warmth of his touch seeped through your hoodie. “Stubborn kitten. Come on.”
Before you could protest, he was guiding you to one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, his hands firm but gentle. You let him, mostly because your legs were grateful for the excuse to stop supporting your weight.
“Stay,” he ordered, pointing at you with mock sternness that was ruined by the fondness in his eyes. “I’m almost done.”
You watched him move around the kitchen with practiced ease, ladling soup into a bowl, cutting fresh bread, pouring water. The whole scene was so devastatingly domestic that it made your chest ache. This is what it would be like, some traitorous part of your brain whispered. If you were his. If he was yours. This easy intimacy, this care, every day.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Sylus said without turning around, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
Your ears flattened in embarrassment. “Like what?”
“Like I’m doing something extraordinary.” He set the bowl of soup in front of you, along with the bread and water. “It’s just soup, kitten.”
But it wasn’t just soup. It was him spending hours making something from scratch because you were sick. It was him staying by your side all day, taking care of you, worrying about you. It was him looking at you now like you were something precious, something worth taking care of.
“Thank you,” you said softly, and you meant for so much more than just the soup.
Something in his expression softened. “Always.”
He leaned against the counter across from you, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you took your first spoonful. The soup was perfect—of course it was—and you couldn’t stop the small sound of appreciation that escaped you.
His eyes darkened slightly at the sound, and you watched his jaw tighten. “Good?”
“Really good.” You took another spoonful, then paused. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sylus.”
“I wanted to make sure you ate first.” But at your look—you might be sick, but you could still give him the eyebrow raise that meant ‘I’m not buying it’—he sighed. “I’ll eat after.”
“Eat with me,” you said, and it came out smaller than you’d intended. More vulnerable. “Please?”
For a moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then he nodded, moved to get his own bowl, and settled onto the stool beside you.
You ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and you were acutely aware of how close he was. Close enough that your tails could touch if either of you moved slightly. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“You scared me,” he said suddenly, quietly.
You looked up to find him staring at his soup, his jaw tight. “What?”
“When I came in and you were that feverish. Not responding properly. Your scent was all wrong—” He stopped, shook his head. “I know it’s just a cold or flu or whatever. I know you’re fine. But for a second, I…” He trailed off, his hands gripping his spoon too tightly.
Your heart clenched. “Sylus—”
“I don’t like seeing you hurt. Or sick. Or in pain.” He finally looked at you, and the raw honesty in his eyes stole your breath. “I know I don’t have any right to feel that protective of you. I know we’re just friends. But I can’t—” He stopped again, seeming to struggle with the words. “I can’t stand it. The thought of something happening to you.”
“You have every right,” you said before you could think better of it, your fever-weakened filters failing you completely. “You’re my best friend. Of course you’re allowed to worry.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you saw it—the tiny flinch, so quick you almost missed it. His jaw tightened, and something shuttered in his expression. His shoulders tensed, then deliberately relaxed, like he was forcing himself to compose. His ears flicked back for just a second before returning to their neutral position.
He turned back to his soup, his movements careful and controlled. “Right. Your best friend.”
The words were even, toneless, and somehow that made them worse. Made the sudden distance between you feel like a chasm even though he was sitting right there.
You didn’t understand what you’d said wrong. Didn’t understand why the air had suddenly gone cold, why he wouldn’t look at you anymore, why his tail had gone completely still behind him—a sign of a wolf hybrid keeping tight control over their reactions.
“Sylus?” you tried, your voice small.
He was quiet for a long moment, and you watched him take a slow breath. Then another. When he finally looked at you again, something had shifted—not back to how it was before, but to something softer. Resigned, maybe. But gentle.
“Sorry,” he said, and his voice was warmer now, even if there was something sad underneath it. “Just… worried about you. That’s all.”
That wasn't all. You knew it wasn’t. But you were too tired and confused to push, and he was clearly trying to smooth over whatever moment had just happened.
“Finish your soup,” he said, and this time there was a hint of his usual teasing. “Can’t have you getting worse on my watch.”
The tension eased slightly, and you found yourself relaxing despite the confusion still swirling in your fever-fogged brain. You both finished eating in a more comfortable silence, and gradually the warmth between you began to return. Not quite the same as before—there was something bittersweet in the air now—but better than that awful coldness.
“I should get you back to bed,” he said finally, standing and offering his hand with a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You need rest.”
“I’m not that tired—”
“Liar. Your ears are drooping.”
You hadn’t even noticed, but he was right. Your traitorous ears were folded with fatigue, giving you away. “Maybe a little tired.”
“Come on.” Before you could stand yourself, he swept you up into his arms, carrying you like you weighed nothing. You should have been embarrassed, should have insisted you could walk. Instead, you let yourself curl into his chest, your face tucked against his neck, breathing in his scent.
His arms tightened around you almost imperceptibly, and you felt him press his face briefly into your hair, right between your ears. “Stubborn kitten,” he murmured, and there was so much fondness in his voice it made your chest ache. “Always trying to be strong even when you don’t have to be.”
“I can walk,” you protested weakly, but you made no move to leave his arms.
“I know you can.” He carried you down the hall with ease. “Doesn’t mean you should.”
He shouldered open your bedroom door and carried you to your bed, laying you down with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his size and strength. His hands lingered as he tucked the blankets around you, smoothing them down with unnecessary care.
“There,” he said softly, and when you looked up at him, his expression had gone tender again. Unguarded. Like whatever wall he’d put up earlier had crumbled. “Comfortable?”
You nodded, suddenly unable to speak around the lump in your throat. He was being so careful with you, so gentle, and you didn’t understand how he could look at you like that—like you were something precious—while accepting that he’d only ever be your friend.
His hand came up to brush against your cheek, his thumb tracing a feather-light path across your skin. “Your fever’s down,” he observed. “That’s good.”
“Sylus,” you whispered, not even sure what you wanted to say.
“Shh.” His hand moved to your hair, fingers carefully combing through the strands, mindful of your sensitive ears. “Just rest now. You can overthink everything later when you’re feeling better.”
A weak laugh escaped you. “You know me too well.”
“Yeah.” Something flickered in his eyes—fond and sad and resigned all at once. “I do.”
His hand continued its soothing path through your hair, and you felt your eyes growing heavy despite yourself. The fever, the emotional exhaustion, the warmth of his touch—it was all pulling you under.
“Stay?” The word slipped out before you could stop it.
You felt him hesitate, felt the war happening in him. Then the mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his back against your headboard, his hand never leaving your hair.
“Until you fall asleep,” he said quietly. “Then I need to clean up the kitchen.”
His hand found yours under the blankets, fingers intertwining, and that small point of contact felt more intimate than anything you’d ever experienced.
“Sylus?” you mumbled, already feeling sleep pulling at you.
“Yeah, kitten?”
You wanted to ask what had happened earlier. Wanted to ask why he’d looked so hurt, why calling him your best friend had felt like the wrong thing to say. Wanted to understand the resignation in his eyes.
But your thoughts were getting fuzzy, and the words wouldn’t come. So instead you just squeezed his hand weakly and whispered, “Thank you. For everything.”
His hand tightened around yours, and you felt him lean down, his lips pressing gently to your forehead in a kiss that felt like goodbye and forever all at once.
“Always,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ll always take care of you. That’s… that’s what I’m here for.”
There was something in his voice—something that sounded like acceptance of a role he didn’t want but would take anyway. Like he was making peace with being your friend when he wanted to be something more.
But you were too far gone to process it, sleep dragging you down into darkness.
The last thing you registered was his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand, and his quiet voice, so soft you might have imagined it:
“Even if it’s all I ever get to be.”
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You woke to sunlight streaming through your curtains and the realization that you felt significantly better. The fever had broken completely, the ache in your body reduced to a dull soreness, and your head was finally clear.
Clear enough to remember everything from yesterday.
The soup. The conversation in the kitchen. The way he’d tensed when you called him your best friend. The way he’d composed himself and been gentle with you anyway. The forehead kiss. The way he’d held your hand until you fell asleep.
That last thing he’d said—had you dreamed that? Even if it’s all I ever get to be.
Your heart raced as the memories solidified, as you tried to make sense of his reactions. Why had calling him your friend upset him? Unless…
Unless he wanted to be something more.
The thought made your breath catch, made hope flutter dangerously in your chest. But no—that couldn’t be right. He brought people home all the time. He’d never shown any sign of wanting you that way.
Except… except for the way he looked at you sometimes. The way he touched you. The careful way he took care of you. The hurt in his eyes when you called him your friend.
Even if it’s all I ever get to be.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
You stood in the kitchen, phone clutched in your trembling hand, staring at the little red dot on your tracking app like it might disappear if you glared at it hard enough.
Ovulation tomorrow. Heat cycle begins in approximately 24 hours.
Your ears flattened against your head as dread pooled in your stomach. It wasn’t the heat itself that had your tail bristling with anxiety—you’d been through plenty of cycles before, knew how to manage them, stock up on supplies, lock yourself in your room with enough water and snacks to last the three or four days until it passed.
No, what made your hands shake was the shared calendar glowing on the tablet mounted to the kitchen wall.
You’d pulled it up with some vague idea of marking off the dates you’d need to yourself, maybe giving Sylus a heads up that you’d be unavailable for a few days. A courtesy, since you lived together. Nothing unusual about that.
Except when you’d opened the calendar, you’d seen it.
Sylus - Rut Cycle
Starting tomorrow. The exact same day as your heat.
“No,” you whispered to the empty kitchen, your tail puffing up in distress. “No, no, no, this can’t—”
But it was right there in his careful handwriting from when he’d logged it weeks ago. Wolf hybrids were meticulous about tracking their ruts, especially ones like Sylus who prided themselves on control. He would have marked it the moment he felt the pre-rut symptoms starting.
And it aligned perfectly—horrifically—with your heat.
Your claws extended involuntarily, pricking into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. This was fine. This was… manageable. You’d just have to tell him. Simple. You’d walk to his room right now, knock on his door, and calmly explain that you’d both need to make arrangements. Maybe one of you could stay somewhere else for a few days. Maybe you could—
The thought of telling him made your stomach twist into knots.
Because how exactly were you supposed to have that conversation?
“Hey Sylus, funny story, but we’re both going into heat and rut tomorrow, so maybe one of us should leave because I absolutely cannot be around you while my body is screaming for a mate and you smell like everything I’ve ever wanted”?
You pressed your hands to your heated face, ears flat against your skull.
No. Absolutely not. You couldn’t tell him.
You glanced down the hallway toward his closed bedroom door. Light still seeped out from underneath—he was working late again, had mentioned something about a project deadline when you’d seen him briefly at dinner. He’d barely looked up from his laptop, too focused to notice the way your scent had already started changing, that pre-heat sweetness that cat hybrids gave off.
Or maybe he had noticed and was too polite to mention it.
Your tail lashed anxiously behind you as you looked back at the calendar, at those two overlapping markers that felt like a countdown to disaster.
The thing was, heats were already hard enough to deal with on their own. The fever, the desperate ache, the way your body craved touch and comfort and things you absolutely should not be thinking about. You’d spent every heat cycle since moving in with Sylus locked in your room, music turned up high, trying desperately not to think about the fact that he was just down the hall. Trying not to imagine what it would feel like if he—
No. You couldn’t go there.
But this? This was so much worse.
Because Sylus going through his rut at the same time meant the entire apartment would reek of alpha wolf pheromones. Dominant, possessive, claiming pheromones specifically designed to call to omegas and send compatible mates into a frenzy.
And you, going through heat, would be so sensitive to his scent you’d probably lose your mind.
Cat hybrids were already more susceptible to wolf pheromones than other species—something about the predator-prey dynamic made the biological response even stronger. You’d read about it once, in a textbook you’d immediately regretted opening. How prey hybrids in heat could become almost… fixated on nearby predator hybrids in rut. Especially ones they were already close to.
Especially ones they were already in love with.
“This is bad,” you muttered, setting your phone down on the counter with shaking hands. “This is really, really bad.”
You should tell him. You knew you should. This was important, something roommates needed to coordinate. He deserved to know so he could make his own arrangements, maybe stay at a friend’s place or book a hotel room for a few days.
Your fingers hovered over your phone, pulling up your messages with him.
We need to talk about something important
You typed it out, stared at it, then deleted it.
Hey, so about tomorrow…
Delete.
I just checked the calendar and I think we have a problem
Delete.
“God, why is this so hard?” you whispered, your tail wrapping around your waist in that self-protective gesture you’d been doing all day.
Because you knew why. Because telling him meant acknowledging it. Meant sitting across from him and discussing heats and ruts and biological needs while pretending you weren’t desperately in love with him. Meant watching his expression shutter with professionalism while he matter-of-factly discussed sleeping arrangements, like the thought of you in heat didn’t affect him at all.
And you weren’t sure you could handle that. Couldn’t handle seeing confirmation that while your body would be screaming for him specifically, he’d just be dealing with a rut—a biological inconvenience that any willing partner could help with. It wouldn’t mean anything to him.
Your ears swiveled toward his room at the sound of his chair scraping, footsteps moving around. Working, like he’d said. Oblivious to the crisis you were currently having in the kitchen.
Maybe… maybe you didn’t need to tell him.
The thought crept in treacherously, and you immediately felt guilty for even considering it. But—
But you’d handled heats before on your own. You had supplies, you knew the drill. You’d just lock yourself in your room, ride it out like always. Sure, it would be worse with him in rut down the hall, his scent probably seeping under your door and driving you absolutely insane, but you could handle it.
You were strong. You had self-control.
And telling him would just make everything awkward. Would create this ‘thing’ between you that you’d have to navigate afterward. He’d probably insist on leaving, on being a gentleman about it, and then you’d feel guilty for driving him out of his own home. Or worse, he’d stay and treat you with kid gloves for weeks afterward, carefully avoiding you like you were something fragile.
No. Better to just… not say anything.
You’d deal with your heat quietly, behind your locked bedroom door. He’d deal with his rut the way he always did—probably by calling one of his regular hookups, inviting them over to help him through it. The thought made your claws extend painfully, jealousy and hurt lancing through your chest, but that was fine. You were used to that pain.
At least this way, he’d never know. Never know that you’d spent three or four days in heat just down the hall, your body aching for him specifically while he was with someone else.
God, this was going to be torture.
Your phone buzzed with a text, and you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Sylus: You still up?
Your heart hammered as you stared at the message. He never texted when he was working unless—
Sylus: Thought I heard you in the kitchen. Everything okay?
Of course. Wolf hearing. He’d probably heard you muttering to yourself, heard the distress in your voice even through his closed door.
Your fingers trembled as you typed back:
You: Yeah, all good! Just getting some water. Don’t let me distract you from work ☺️
The emoji felt forced, but you needed him to think everything was normal.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then it appeared again.
Sylus: Your scent just spiked with anxiety. What’s wrong?
You closed your eyes, cursing his too-perceptive wolf senses. Of course he could smell your emotional state from his room. Of course.
You: Nothing! Just remembered I have a deadline coming up for a writing assignment at work. Already stressing about it lol
You: Go back to work! I’m heading to bed soon anyway
Please believe it. Please just let it go.
Sylus: Okay. But if you need anything, I’m here. You know that.
Your chest constricted painfully.
You: I know. Thank you 💕
You stared at the heart emoji you’d added without thinking, then quickly locked your phone before you could spiral into analyzing whether that was too much.
Moving quickly, you erased your name from the calendar for the next four days, leaving the space blank. If Sylus looked—which he probably wouldn’t, too buried in work—he wouldn’t see anything unusual. Wouldn’t know.
Then you grabbed your phone and retreated to your room, closing the door firmly behind you and leaning against it.
Tomorrow. Heat started tomorrow.
And Sylus would be in rut.
In the same apartment.
Your tail lashed anxiously as you looked around your room, mentally cataloging what you’d need. Water bottles—you’d need to stock up. Snacks that didn’t require leaving your room. Maybe some ice packs for the fever. Definitely your noise-canceling headphones for when he inevitably brought someone home to help him through his rut, because you absolutely could not handle hearing that while you were in heat.
Your phone buzzed with another message:
Sylus: Get some sleep, kitten. And stop overthinking whatever’s got you stressed. It’ll be okay.
If only he knew.
You typed back a quick good night, then flopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling as your mind raced.
Twenty-four hours. That’s all you had to prepare.
Twenty-four hours until you’d be locked in your room, burning with heat, while the man you loved was down the hall going through his rut.
You buried your face in your pillow, letting out a muffled sound of frustration.
This was going to be the longest four days of your life.
Your phone lit up one more time with a final text from Sylus:
Sylus: Sweet dreams.
You stared at those two words until they blurred, your heart aching.
“Yeah,” you whispered to your empty room, your tail curling protectively around yourself. “Sweet dreams.”
Like you’d be getting any sleep tonight.
Not when tomorrow would turn your apartment into your own personal hell, and Sylus would go through his rut without ever knowing what it was doing to you.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
The next day, you left the apartment before dawn, slipping out while Sylus was still asleep. You couldn’t risk running into him, couldn’t trust yourself to act normal when you could already feel the first warning signs of your heat beginning to stir beneath your skin—a restless energy, a sensitivity that made your clothes feel too rough, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature.
You spent the early morning hours methodically gathering everything you’d need for the next few days. The essentials came first: your favorite comfort foods, drinks, and enough water to stock a small convenience store. You didn’t leave anything out, moving through your mental checklist with single-minded focus because focusing on the task kept you from thinking about what was coming, about who was waiting at home.
Your last stop was the one that made heat crawl up your neck despite the early hour. The sex shop on the corner of Fifth and Main was blessedly empty, and you kept your ears tucked low as you quickly selected another vibrator—a backup for when your other toys inevitably needed to recharge. The knowing look the clerk gave you made your tail bristle with embarrassment, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact as you paid. You weren’t ashamed. You shouldn’t be ashamed.
Yes, you were a virgin cat hybrid, but that didn’t mean you were clueless about your own body, about what you enjoyed or needed. Just because you were inexperienced with partners didn’t mean you couldn’t indulge in your own sexuality, couldn’t take care of yourself during your heats. You’d learned years ago what worked, what helped ease the ache even if it never fully satisfied the way your instincts insisted a mate would.
A mate like—
No. You couldn’t think about that.
By the time you’d finished your errands, the sun had fully risen and you could feel your heat beginning in earnest. It started subtly—a slight fever warming your skin, a heightened awareness of every scent and sound around you, a restless ache low in your belly that you knew would only get worse. Your body was preparing, responding to the hormonal surge that came with ovulation, and you needed to get home. Needed to lock yourself away before it became obvious, before your scent grew too sweet and telling.
Home. You had to go home.
Home to Sylus.
The thought sent a spike of longing through you so intense it nearly stole your breath, and you had to grip your shopping bags tighter to ground yourself. This was exactly why you needed to get back, needed to barricade yourself in your room before your heat-addled brain did something catastrophic like seek him out.
But with each step closer to the apartment, anxiety bubbled up inside you, rising like a tide you couldn’t hold back. Your ears kept swiveling anxiously, your tail couldn’t stay still, and your hands trembled slightly as you climbed the stairs to your floor. What if he was there? What if he could already smell the change in you, the pre-heat sweetness that was undoubtedly growing stronger by the minute? What if he looked at you with pity, or worse—with clinical concern, like you were a problem to be managed?
Your key fumbled against the lock twice before you finally managed to open the door.
The apartment was silent.
Empty.
You stood in the doorway, bags clutched in your hands, ears perked and straining for any sound of movement. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic from the street below.
Relief flooded through you first—thank god, you wouldn’t have to face him, wouldn’t have to pretend everything was normal while your body burned and your instincts screamed.
But then the relief curdled into something heavier, something that settled in your chest like a stone.
What if he’d left? What if he’d packed a bag and gone somewhere else to ride out his rut—a hotel, maybe, or a friend’s place? What if he’d called one of his regular partners, arranged to spend the next few days with them somewhere far away from you?
The thought made your claws extend involuntarily, jealousy and hurt lancing through you even though you had no right to either emotion. This was what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? For him to be gone, to not have to deal with him being in rut just down the hall?
Except now the apartment felt too empty, too quiet, and the thought of him wrapped around someone else, helping them through their heat while he worked through his rut, made you feel physically ill.
Your tail drooped as you carried your bags to your room, ears flat against your head. This was fine. This was better, actually. Easier.
It didn’t feel easier.
You kept your door open as you methodically unpacked everything, needing to finish before your heat progressed further. Comfort foods went on your nightstand within easy reach. Water bottles lined up on your desk. The new vibrator, still in its package, got tucked into your bedside drawer along with your other supplies—the ones you’d collected over the years, the ones that helped but never quite enough.
Your mini fridge, a recent purchase you’d justified as necessary for late-night writing sessions, was now packed with drinks and anything perishable. You’d thought of everything. You were prepared.
You were fine.
The heat was building steadily now, making your skin feel too tight, too sensitive. Your clothes were becoming unbearable—every seam and tag felt like it was scraping against your skin. You stripped down to just a thin pink tank top and sleep shorts, the least amount of fabric you could get away with, and finally collapsed onto your bed.
The sheets were cool against your feverish skin, and you pressed your face into your pillow with a shuddering breath. You could do this. You’d done it before. Just a few days and it would be over.
That’s when you heard it—the sound of the front door opening.
Your entire body went rigid, ears shooting up and swiveling toward the sound. Footsteps in the entryway, familiar and achingly known. Your bedroom door was still open—you’d been about to get up and lock it when—
His scent hit you like a physical blow.
Pine and earth and something darker, muskier, unmistakably wolf and unmistakably Sylus—but stronger now. Heavier. Richer. The scent seemed to fill the entire apartment, seeping into your room and wrapping around you like a living thing.
Rut. He was in rut.
And he was here.
Your heat-primed body responded instantly, devastatingly. The ache low in your belly intensified into something almost painful, your skin flushing hotter, and you felt your body start producing that telltale slickness that came with arousal. A soft, needy sound escaped your throat before you could stop it—somewhere between a whimper and a purr—and you immediately bit down on your pillow to muffle any further sounds.
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to be here.
You forced yourself to move despite how much your body protested, stumbling to your door on shaky legs. Your hands trembled as you reached for the handle, trying to be quiet, trying not to draw his attention to the fact that you were home.
But it was too late.
“Kitten?” His voice drifted down the hallway, rougher than usual, with that gravelly quality that rut brought to wolf hybrids. “That you?”
You froze, hand on your door handle, every muscle in your body locked up with tension. He could probably already smell you—your heat scent mixing with his rut pheromones in the air between you. There was no hiding it now.
“Y-yeah,” you managed, hating how breathless you sounded. “Just… just got back.”
Silence. Then footsteps, coming closer, and your heart launched into your throat.
“You okay? You sound—” He stopped, and you could pinpoint the exact moment he scented you properly, when the reality of the situation clicked into place. “…Fuck.”
The single word, rough and low and edged with something that might have been hunger, sent a shiver down your spine straight to your core.
You should close the door. Lock it. Put a barrier between you and the wolf hybrid in rut whose scent was making you dizzy with want.
Instead, you stood frozen, fingers gripping the door frame, as his footsteps brought him closer to your room.
This was bad.
This was so, so bad.
And some traitorous part of you—the part ruled by heat and instinct and years of suppressed longing—thought it might be exactly what you’d been waiting for.
You should close the door. Lock it. Put a barrier between you and the wolf hybrid in rut whose scent was making you dizzy with want.
Instead, you stood frozen, fingers gripping the door frame, as his footsteps brought him closer to your room.
And then he was there.
Sylus appeared in your doorway, and the sight of him nearly brought you to your knees.
His silver hair was disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it, his ruby eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them—pupils blown wide with heat. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and you could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his muscles were coiled tight like he was physically restraining himself. His wolf ears were pinned back, and his tail was rigid behind him—signs of a predator barely holding onto control.
He looked wrecked. Devastating. Dangerous.
And he was staring at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“You’re in heat,” he said, his voice even rougher than before, gravelly in a way that did absolutely nothing to help your situation. It wasn’t a question.
You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice, your fingers digging into the doorframe hard enough that your claws left small marks in the wood.
His eyes tracked the movement, then traveled over you—taking in your flushed skin, your thin clothing, the way you were trembling slightly. His nostrils flared, scenting you, and a low sound rumbled from his chest that went straight through you.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was something raw in his voice, almost hurt. “I would have—I could have made arrangements, I—” He stopped, his jaw clenching. “Fuck, kitten, I wouldn’t have come back here if I’d known. This is—”
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought you’d left. Thought you’d go somewhere else for your rut.”
Something flashed across his expression—surprise, maybe, or confusion. “Why would I leave?”
*Because that’s what you always do,* you thought. *Because you’d rather be anywhere else than deal with this kind of intimacy with me.*
But you couldn’t say that. Couldn’t reveal how much you’d thought about it, how much the idea of him with someone else during his rut had shredded you.
“Sylus,” you breathed, and even you could hear the desperation creeping into your voice. “You need to go. Please. This is—it’s too much, I can’t—”
“I know.” He took a step back, and you saw how much it cost him, saw the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go to my room, I’ll stay there, I won’t—” His eyes squeezed shut briefly. “You won’t even know I’m here. I promise.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You would know. Would feel him down the hall, would smell him, would lie in your bed aching and burning and knowing he was so close, knowing he was going through his rut alone just like you were suffering through your heat alone.
“You should leave,” you said, even though the words felt like they were being torn from your chest. “The apartment. You should go somewhere else. A hotel or—or call someone who could—” You couldn’t finish that sentence, couldn’t voice the image of him with someone else even though it was killing you.
His eyes snapped open, and there was something fierce in them now, something possessive that made your breath catch. “No.”
“Sylus—”
“I’m not leaving you alone during your heat,” he said, his voice dropping into something that was almost a growl. “And I’m sure as hell not calling anyone else. I don’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “Just… stay in your room. I’ll stay in mine. We can do this.”
Could you? Could you really survive the next few days knowing he was so close, knowing all you had to do was walk down the hall and—
No. You couldn’t think like that.
“Okay,” you whispered, your tail wrapping tight around your waist. “Okay.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he took another step back, putting more distance between you, and you hated how much you wanted to close that distance, wanted to—
“Lock your door,” he said roughly. “Please. Because if you don’t, if I smell you like this all night, I won’t—” His voice cracked slightly. “I won’t be able to stay away. And you deserve better than—than me losing control because of biology.”
Your heart clenched. Even now, even in rut, he was trying to protect you. Trying to be good, to be respectful, to give you the choice.
If only he knew that you’d choose him. Would always choose him. That there was no one else you wanted, rut or no rut, heat or no heat.
But you just nodded, watched him retreat down the hallway to his room, heard his door close with a finality that echoed through the apartment.
And then you were alone.
You closed your door. Locked it like he’d asked. Then collapsed against it, sliding down to sit on the floor as your whole body trembled.
This was going to be impossible.
✩₊˚ .⋆☾⋆ ⁺₊✧
[Later that night]
You’d tried everything.
The vibrator helped for maybe ten minutes before the ache came roaring back twice as strong. The cold shower had been a mistake—your skin was too sensitive, every drop of water feeling like too much. You’d attempted to sleep but gave up after an hour of tossing and turning, your sheets soaked with sweat and twisted around your legs.
Nothing worked. Nothing helped.
Because your body knew what it wanted, and it wasn’t any of your usual coping mechanisms.
It wanted him.
Sylus. Just down the hall. Going through his rut while you burned through your heat, and the cruel irony of it was almost too much to bear.
You could smell him even through your locked door—his scent had permeated the entire apartment, rich and heavy and making your head spin. Could hear him too, your sensitive cat hearing picking up every sound from his room. The creak of his bed. His footsteps pacing. Once, a low groan that had sent heat flooding through you so intensely you’d nearly blacked out.
He was suffering too. You knew he was. And knowing that you were both suffering separately, alone, when you could be—
No. You couldn’t think like that.
But your heat-fogged brain wouldn’t let it go. Kept circling back to the same thoughts: *He’s right there. He needs help. You need help. This is biology. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You could help each other and then pretend it never happened and—*
Except it would mean something. To you, it would mean everything. And when it was over, when the heat and rut faded and reality came crashing back, you’d have to live with the fact that you’d had him once and would never have him again.
That might actually destroy you.
A sound from his room made your ears perk up—something between a growl and a groan, frustrated and pained. Then footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
You froze, every muscle in your body going tense as you heard his door open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Coming closer.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you heard him stop outside your door. There was a long moment of silence, and you could picture him standing there, fist raised to knock, fighting with himself.
“Kitten.” His voice was wrecked, strained. “Are you… are you okay?”
The concern in his voice, even now, even when he was clearly barely holding it together, made your chest constrict painfully.
“I’m fine,” you lied, your voice coming out shakier than you’d intended.
“Liar.” A soft thump against your door—his forehead, maybe, or his fist. “I can hear you. Smell you. You’re not fine.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hands over your face. “Neither are you.”
A rough laugh, completely devoid of humor. “No. I’m really not.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You were both on opposite sides of the same door, suffering, wanting, unable to cross that final barrier.
“I should have left,” he said finally, quietly. “Should have gone to a hotel like you said. This is… fuck, this is torture.”
“Why didn’t you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. “Why did you stay?”
Another long silence. Then: “Because I couldn’t. Couldn’t stand the thought of you here alone, in heat, vulnerable. What if something happened? What if you needed something and I wasn’t here?” His voice dropped even lower. “And I… I couldn’t go to anyone else. Not when—”
He stopped abruptly, like he’d caught himself about to say too much.
“Not when what?” Your hand was on the door handle now, trembling.
“Nothing. Forget it. I should—I should go back to my room.”
But he didn’t move. You could feel him there, could sense his presence on the other side of the door like a physical thing.
Your heat-addled brain was screaming at you to open the door. Your heart was screaming something else entirely—something that sounded dangerously like tell him tell him tell him.
“Sylus.” Your voice cracked on his name. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll go—”
“No.” Your hand turned the lock before you could second-guess yourself. “That’s not what I mean.”
The door swung open, and suddenly there he was, so close you could see the war happening behind his eyes. His rut pheromones washed over you in full force now, unfiltered by the door, and it took every ounce of self-control not to simply throw yourself at him.
He looked as wrecked as you felt—hair a mess, skin flushed, eyes wild and desperate. His chest was bare, just sleep pants slung low on his hips, and you could see how tense every muscle was, how hard he was fighting his instincts.
“Kitten,” he breathed, and it sounded like a warning and a plea all at once. “Don’t. Please. If you… if you’re too close, I won’t be able to—”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words tumbled out in a rush, propelled by heat and desperation and years of keeping them locked inside. And once they started, you couldn’t stop them.
“I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the library. Since that first day when you saved me and smiled at me and made me feel safe for the first time in my life.” Your voice was shaking, tears already gathering in your eyes because this was it, you were ruining everything, but you couldn’t stop. “And I know—I know you don’t feel the same way. I know I’m not—I’m not what you want. Not experienced enough, not confident enough, just… not enough.”
The tears spilled over, tracking hot down your cheeks, and you saw his expression crack, saw something like anguish flash across his face.
“Every time you brought someone home, it killed me,” you continued, your voice breaking. “Every time I heard you with someone else, I wanted to die because it wasn’t me. It was never me. And I tried—I tried so hard not to feel this way, tried to be happy just being your friend, but I can’t anymore. I can’t keep pretending that this doesn’t hurt, that watching you with other people doesn’t destroy me.”
You were full-on crying now, your shoulders shaking with sobs, your ears flat against your head. “And I know this is the worst possible time to tell you this. I know it’s just the heat talking and you probably think I’m pathetic and I’ve ruined everything, but I couldn’t—I can’t keep lying. Not when you’re right here and I want you so badly it physically hurts and I know I can’t have you because I’m not—I’m not—”
“Stop.”
His hands were on your face suddenly, cupping your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. And what you saw there stole your breath—not pity, not discomfort, but something raw and desperate and achingly tender.
“Stop saying you’re not enough,” he said, his voice fierce despite how gentle his touch was. “Stop saying I don’t want you. You have no idea—” His thumb brushed away your tears, and his own eyes looked suspiciously bright. “God, kitten, you have no idea how wrong you are.”
Your breath hitched, your heart stuttering in your chest. “What?”
“Those people I brought home? I was trying to forget you.” His voice cracked slightly, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Trying to convince myself that if I just found the right person, if I just tried hard enough, these feelings would go away. That I could stop wanting my best friend, stop dreaming about someone who deserved so much better than me.”
“Sylus—” you whispered, but he shook his head.
“You think you’re not experienced enough? Not confident enough? Kitten, you’re everything.” His hands trembled slightly against your face. “You’re brilliant and kind and so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. And every time you smiled at someone else, every time I thought about you finding someone who could give you the relationship you deserved, someone who wasn’t fucked up and broken and—” He stopped, taking a shuddering breath. “I’ve been in love with you since that day in the library too. Maybe before. And I thought—I thought I was protecting you by staying away. Thought you’d be better off with someone who wasn’t a wolf hybrid with too much baggage and a rut that made him dangerous.”
“You’re not dangerous,” you said fiercely, your own hands coming up to grip his wrists. “Not to me. Never to me.”
“I wanted to be good enough for you,” he continued, like he needed to get all of it out. “Wanted to be the kind of person who deserved someone like you. But I’m not. I’m selfish and possessive and the thought of anyone else touching you makes me want to—” He cut himself off, his jaw clenching. “And now you’re here, in heat, telling me you love me, and I can barely think straight because all I want is to—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hands tightened on your face.
“Then do it,” you whispered. “Please. I don’t want to spend another second pretending. I don’t want perfection or whatever impossible standard you’ve set for yourself. I just want you. Just this. Just us.”
For one breathless moment, he just stared at you, his eyes searching yours like he was looking for any sign of doubt, any hint that you didn’t mean it. His thumbs continued their gentle path across your cheeks, wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.
“You’re crying,” he said softly, and there was so much tenderness in his voice it made your chest ache. Even now, even when you could see how much he wanted this, wanted you, he was being careful. Being gentle. “Kitten, you’re shaking.”
“Because I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking on the words. “I’m scared this is a dream. I’m scared I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone and this will have never happened and I’ll have to go back to pretending and I can’t—” A sob cut off your words, and you pressed your palms against his bare chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath your touch. “I can’t go back to before. Not now. Not after finally telling you.”
Something in his expression crumbled, and he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other wrapped around your waist. “This isn’t a dream,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours again. “I’m here. I’m real. And I’m not going anywhere. Not anymore.”
“Promise?” It came out so small, so vulnerable, and you hated how desperate you sounded but you needed to hear it.
“I promise.” He tilted your face up, making sure you could see the truth in his eyes. “I’ve been an idiot. Been running from this, from you, because I was terrified. Terrified of not being good enough, of ruining our friendship, of you realizing you deserved better and leaving. But I’m done running.” His voice dropped to something fierce, possessive. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And I’ve been yours since that day in the library when you looked up at me with those wide, scared eyes and I knew—I knew I’d do anything to keep you safe.”
Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks, but these felt different. Felt like relief, like release, like seven years of aching finally being soothed.
“I’m yours,” you whispered back, and saying it out loud felt like shedding a weight you’d been carrying forever. “I’ve always been yours.”
His pupils dilated at your words, and you felt the low rumble start in his chest again—that wolf sound that meant contentment, possessiveness, mine. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours,” you repeated, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck. “Only yours. I don’t want anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”
“Fuck,” he breathed, and you could see him visibly fighting for control, his whole body trembling with the effort. “You can’t—you can’t say things like that to me right now. Not when I’m in rut and you’re in heat and I’m barely holding on as it is.”
“Then don’t hold on,” you said, and you watched his eyes darken impossibly further. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not anymore. I want all of you, Sylus. Everything you’ve been keeping from me.”
“Kitten.” It came out strained, almost pained. “If we do this—if we cross this line—there’s no going back. You understand that? I won’t be able to pretend anymore. Won’t be able to watch you walk around this apartment and not touch you, not kiss you, not—” He cut himself off with a harsh breath. “Wolf hybrids, when we bond, when we claim someone as ours, it’s… it’s permanent. Especially during our ruts. The instinct to mark you, to make sure everyone knows you’re mine—”
“Good,” you interrupted, and his eyes snapped to yours in surprise. “I want that. Want everyone to know. Want you to stop bringing other people home because you’ll have me. Want to stop pretending we’re just friends when we both know it’s always been more than that.”
He made a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, and you felt it reverberate through your entire body where you were pressed against him. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do.” You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes fully, needing him to see how serious you were. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. I’m asking for you. All of you. Your rut, your instincts, your possessiveness—I want all of it. Because I love you. Not in spite of what you are, but because of it.”
Something shifted in his expression then—the last wall crumbling, the final thread of his control snapping. You saw the exact moment he stopped fighting himself, stopped fighting this, and surrendered to what you both wanted.
“Tell me one more time,” he demanded, his voice gone rough and commanding in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “Tell me you love me. That you want this. That you’re choosing me.”
“I love you,” you said, pouring every ounce of feeling into the words. “I want this. I want you. I’m choosing you, Sylus. Today, tomorrow, always. I’m yours, and I want you to be mine.”
“Always have been,” he said, and there was something that looked almost like wonder in his eyes. “God, kitten, I’ve been yours since the beginning. You just didn’t know it.”
Then something in him broke.
He surged forward, closing the distance between you, and kissed you like he was dying and you were oxygen, like he’d been drowning for seven years and you were his first breath of air.
It wasn’t gentle. Wasn’t careful or tentative or any of the things a first kiss probably should be. It was desperate and hungry and raw—years of suppressed longing, years of wanting and denying and pretending finally breaking free all at once. His lips crashed against yours with bruising intensity, claiming you, devouring you, and you gasped into his mouth at the sheer force of it, at the way it felt like everything you’d ever wanted and more.
Your hands flew up to tangle in his silver hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you pulled him closer, closer, never close enough. You felt his wolf ears flatten slightly under your touch—sensitive and responsive—and the small reaction made heat pool low in your belly.
He groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through your entire body and straight to your core, and his hands slid from your tear-stained face to your waist, gripping you with a possessiveness that made you whimper. Then he was pulling you flush against him, eliminating every inch of space between your bodies, and the full-body contact made your knees weak.
His bare chest pressed against your thin tank top—you could feel every defined plane of muscle, every rapid beat of his heart, the overwhelming heat of him seeping through the fabric and into your skin. His scent enveloped you completely, that pine and earth and pure wolf musk intensified by his rut, and it was so much stronger now, so overwhelming that all you could breathe was him, all you could feel was him.
Your heat-primed body responded instantly, desperately. Slickness pooled between your thighs, your skin flushed hotter, and a needy sound escaped your throat—somewhere between a whimper and a purr—that made him growl in response.
“Fuck,” he gasped, breaking the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw with open-mouthed kisses that made you shudder. His tongue traced the line of your jaw before his teeth scraped gently against your skin—not quite biting, but the promise of it—and you moaned. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”
He moved lower, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, and when his lips closed over it, sucking gently, your claws extended involuntarily, pricking through his hair to his scalp. The small sting only seemed to encourage him, another growl rumbling from his chest.
“Same,” you managed breathlessly, tilting your head back to give him better access, your body arching into his of its own accord. Your tail wrapped around his leg possessively, and you felt his own tail brush against your hip. “God, Sylus, I’ve wanted you for so long—”
His mouth moved to your throat, lips and teeth and tongue tracing patterns that made you tremble, and you could feel him breathing you in, scenting you. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice gone rough and gravelly with rut. “Always smell good, but now—fuck, kitten, you’re in heat and you smell like mine and I can’t—”
He kissed you again, swallowing whatever you were about to say, and this time it was somehow even more intense. Slower, deeper, but no less desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth and you met him eagerly, tasting him—something dark and rich and addictive—learning the shape of him, the texture, the way he kissed like he was trying to consume you whole.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, seven years of yearning finally finding an outlet, and when your tongue slid against his, when you sucked gently on his bottom lip, the sound he made was absolutely sinful.
Your back hit the doorframe suddenly and he pressed against you, caging you in with his larger body, and the feeling of being surrounded by him—his scent, his warmth, his overwhelming presence—made you dizzy with want. Made your heat-addled brain short-circuit with how right it felt to be trapped between him and the wall, how safe and claimed and desired you felt.
His hands roamed your sides with a reverence that contradicted the hunger in his kiss, sliding under the hem of your tank top to finally, finally touch bare skin. His palms were rough and warm, and everywhere he touched felt like it was on fire, nerve endings lighting up in his wake. He traced the curve of your waist, your ribs, his thumbs brushing just below your breasts—teasing, testing—and you arched into his touch with a whimper.
“So soft,” he murmured against your lips, his hands continuing their exploration, mapping your body like he was memorizing every curve, every dip. “So fucking perfect. Been dreaming about touching you like this. About what you’d feel like.”
His words made you bold. Your own hands left his hair to explore, sliding down his neck, over his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and flex under your touch. Down his chest, your fingers tracing the defined lines of his abs, feeling them tense as you touched him. His skin was fever-hot, and you could feel his heart pounding beneath your palms.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathed against your lips, even as his hands continued their exploration, even as he ground his hips against yours and you felt exactly how much he wanted you. The hard length of him pressed against your stomach made you gasp, made more slickness flood between your thighs. “Tell me this is just the heat, just the rut, and I’ll—I’ll go back to my room, I’ll—”
“Don’t you dare,” you said fiercely, fisting your hands in his hair and pulling him back down to you, crushing your lips against his with all the desperation you felt. “Don’t you dare stop. This isn’t just heat. This isn’t just biology. This is me choosing you. Choosing this.” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, to make sure he understood. “I love you, Sylus. Heat or no heat, rut or no rut, I love you. I’ve loved you for seven years and I’ll love you for seven more and an eternity more after that.”
His eyes blazed with something that looked almost like reverence, like worship, and his hands came up to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I love you too,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “So fucking much. For so long.” His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, catching a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “You’re everything, kitten. Everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I thought I’d never deserve.”
“You deserve this,” you whispered fiercely. “You deserve to be loved. You deserve me just as much as I deserve you.”
Something in his expression cracked, and when he kissed you again, there was a tenderness beneath the hunger that made your heart feel like it might burst. He kissed you like you were precious, like you were his, like he was trying to pour seven years of love into this one moment.
You kissed him back with everything you had, your hands sliding up to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair there, one hand reaching up to gently scratch behind his wolf ear. He shuddered against you, a whine escaping his throat, and you felt a surge of feminine power at the reaction.
“Sensitive,” you murmured against his lips, and did it again, your fingers gently stroking his ear.
“Fuck—” His hips jerked against yours involuntarily, and his grip on you tightened. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Good,” you breathed, and then you were kissing again, lost in each other, in the taste and feel and scent of finally, finally having what you’d both wanted for so long.
His hands slid down your back, over your hips, and then he was gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, gasping at the new position, at the way his cock pressed against you even more intimately. Your covered pussy, already aching and soaked, pressing against him. Your tail wrapped around his waist too, clinging to him, and his own tail curved around to brush against your leg.
“Bedroom,” he growled against your mouth. “Need—fuck, kitten, I need you so bad. I can’t hold back anymore.”
“Yes,” you gasped, and then he was carrying you, his lips never leaving yours, stumbling slightly as he navigated down the hallway, too consumed with kissing you to pay proper attention to where he was going.
He shouldered open his bedroom door—not yours, his—and the significance wasn’t lost on you. His space. His scent everywhere. His den.
He laid you on his bed with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes, following you down, covering your body with his. The weight of him, the heat, the feeling of being surrounded and covered and claimed made you moan, your back arching up into him.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you—sprawled on his bed, your hair a mess, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest heaving with rapid breaths. His eyes tracked over every inch of you like he was memorizing the sight. “So fucking beautiful. And mine. Finally mine.”
“Yours,” you agreed breathlessly, reaching up to pull him back down to you. “Always yours. Just like you’re mine.”
“Always have been,” he said, and then he was kissing you again, and you were kissing him back, and nothing else mattered except this—
Finally, finally having what you’d both been denying yourselves for years.
Finally coming home.
He kissed you with a heat that stole every breath from your lungs, his lips devouring yours with desperate need, raw passion, and something deeper—a promise of exactly what was to come, of how thoroughly he was about to claim you, mark you, make you his in every way that mattered.
The soft whine that escaped your throat—high and breathy and so distinctly cat-like—only spurred Sylus on further, feeding a fire in him that had been burning for seven years. That sound was addictive, intoxicating, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard fall from your lips, and it made every wolf instinct in him roar with possessive satisfaction. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, desperate and needy, pulling him closer like you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. Your hips shifted instinctively against his, seeking friction, seeking relief from the heat burning through you, and the moment your body pressed firmly into his groin—where you could feel exactly how hard and massive he was, how much he wanted you—a low, rough groan rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating against your lips and making you shudder.
He pulled back slightly, lips parted and swollen, his pupils blown so wide his red eyes looked almost black. He looked like he was about to say something important—but you immediately chased his mouth, a needy mewl escaping you, your cat hybrid instincts refusing to let him go, refusing to lose that connection for even a second. His breath hitched sharply at your eagerness, at your complete inability to let him leave, and with a soft curse muttered against your skin, he brought his large hands up to cradle your face tenderly, his thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks.
He tried once, maybe twice, to pull away again—clearly intent on speaking, on saying whatever thought had crossed his lust-fogged mind—but every single time he attempted it, he melted right back into you helplessly, like his lips weren’t meant to be anywhere else but claiming yours. Like the rut coursing through him wouldn’t allow him to stop touching you, tasting you, consuming you.
Eventually, he tore himself away with several lingering, reluctant kisses, finally managing to draw a full breath. His lips were thoroughly swollen, slick and glistening with your shared saliva, and his gaze—dark, glazed over completely with rut-driven desire—held yours like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. You stared back at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly in perfect sync with his, both of you breathless and utterly consumed by each other. Your pupils were dilated too, your heat making you hypersensitive to every touch, every scent, every minute shift of his body against yours.
As your lips parted for another shaky inhale, you tasted nothing but him—the intoxicating pine and musk scent of him invading your senses, the overwhelming feel of his body covering yours, the scorching heat radiating between you. And then, just as you began to steady yourself slightly, his tongue slid across your bottom lip, teasing, tasting, demanding entry with a dominance that made your toes curl. Your breath caught sharply in your throat before escaping in a needy, completely uninhibited mewl as his tongue slid against yours—hot, slick, utterly possessive. The kiss deepened until it felt like he was tasting your very soul, claiming every part of you, and you surrendered to it completely.
You had absolutely no doubt—he was the best kisser you’d ever known, the best you’d ever have. Every single kiss from him was sensual, passionate, and absolutely drenched in love and longing and raw, primal need. He didn’t just kiss you—he devoured you, worshipped you, made you feel like you were the center of his entire universe. Like you were the only thing that mattered in this moment, in this life.
“Fuck, I need you so bad, kitten,” he groaned roughly against your mouth, his voice gone gravelly and deep with rut, the sound so raw and desperate it sent a violent shudder tearing through your entire body. The sensation pulsed hot and insistent between your thighs, and you knew—without any question—that your panties were completely ruined. You were soaked, throbbing, absolutely undone by him. The slickness from your heat was making a mess, and you could tell by the way his nostrils flared that he could smell it, that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“M-more… please, please,” you whimpered pathetically, clinging to him like you’d physically fall apart without his touch to hold you together. Your claws pricked into his shoulders, and your tail wrapped tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.
His nose traced along your jaw, down to your throat, and you felt him inhale deeply against your skin, breathing you in like you were oxygen and he’d been suffocating. “Fuck, your scent,” he growled, the words vibrating against your throat as he wrapped himself around you completely, his larger body pressing you into the mattress. “Smells so fucking good. So sweet. So ready.”
You shuddered violently as his teeth grazed your neck—not quite biting yet, but the promise of it made liquid heat pool in your core. His wolf instincts were showing now, the rut making him more aggressive, more possessive, and every prey instinct in you should have been screaming danger. Instead, you tilted your head back, baring your throat to him in complete submission, in complete trust.
“Can smell you,” he continued, his voice rough and strained like he was barely holding onto control. “Can smell how wet you are for me. How ready your body is. Your heat—” He groaned, pressing the hard, thick length between his hips against you, grinding into your core through too many layers of clothing. “You’re ready for breeding. Ready for me to claim you. Ready for my pups.”
You moaned and whimpered at his words, your body arched up into his, as more slickness flooded between your thighs because yes, yes, that’s exactly what your heat-drunk mind wanted.
“I can smell it,” he continued, his hips grinding against yours in a rhythm that had you gasping, that had you trying to spread your legs wider even with your little sleeping shorts still on. “It’s so strong. So fucking intoxicating. And believe me when I say it’s all I can think about whenever you’re close like this—have been thinking about it for years. The rut just makes it a billion times more pronounced, makes it harder to hold back, makes every instinct in me scream to mount you, to breed you, to fill you up until you’re dripping with me.”
“Sylus,” you whimpered, and you weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Everything. Anything. More.
His teeth scraped against your throat again, harder this time, and you felt your cat hybrid instincts war between the urge to submit and the urge to bite back, to mark him just as thoroughly as he was about to mark you.
“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his own blazing with barely controlled hunger. “Tell me you want me to claim you. Make you mine. Because once I start, kitten, I’m not going to be able to stop. The rut—” His voice broke slightly. “I’m going to want to bite you. Mark you. Knot you. Breed you. And I need to know that’s what you want too, that this isn’t just the heat talking.”
“It’s not just the heat,” you said fiercely, your hands coming up to frame his face, making him look at you, making him see the truth in your eyes. “I want all of it. Want you to claim me, mark me, make everyone know I’m yours. Want your bite on my throat. Want you to knot me. Want—” Your voice dropped to something almost shy despite the explicit nature of what you were saying. “Want you to breed me. Fill me up. Give me everything.”
The sound he made was inhuman—a growl and a groan and something desperate all mixed together. “Fuck, you can’t say things like that to me. Not when I’m already barely holding on.”
“Then don’t hold on,” you whispered, reaching up to scratch gently behind his wolf ear, knowing exactly how sensitive they were, knowing it would drive him crazy. “I don’t want you to hold back. Not anymore. I want all of you, Sylus. The wolf, the rut, the claiming—all of it. Because I love all of you, my dear Alfa."
At your words, his control finally snapped.
Moments later his mouth claimed yours again, and this time there was no hesitation, no holding back. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, more consuming, each pass of your lips stoking the fire between you until it felt like you might combust. His hands moved down your body once more while yours slid to the back of his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his silver hair, careful of his sensitive wolf ears. When you gave a soft, experimental tug, he moaned into your mouth—a deep, rumbling sound that you felt in your chest—and his hips jerked against yours involuntarily.
One of his hands trailed slowly up your stomach, callused fingertips dragging against your overheated skin, while the other held firmly at your hip, gripping possessively, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. His touch made you weak, made heat pool between your thighs in waves, slickness soaking through your already-ruined panties as you kissed and touched each other with unrestrained hunger. Your tail thrashed against the bed, completely out of your control, betraying just how affected you were.
His fingers brushed delicately along the sides of your ribs, moving up and down in slow, reverent sweeps, his fingertips tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing your body, as if he’d been dreaming of this moment for years and wanted to savor every second.
“You’re so soft,” he whispered against your lips, his voice gone rough with want. “So fucking soft. Been wanting to touch you like this for so long.”
A moment later, his hands slipped away from your ribs only to settle at the hem of your tiny, flimsy tank top. His fingers played with the fabric, his knuckles brushing against the underside of your breasts and making you gasp.
“Can I undress you, little kitten?” His ruby eyes searched yours, dark with desire but still careful, still making sure you wanted this as much as he did.
You bit your lip and nodded frantically, unable to find your voice in that moment, too overwhelmed by need and heat and the feeling of his hands on you. Your ears were perked forward, focused entirely on him, and your pupils were so dilated your eyes looked almost black.
His smile deepened—predatory and loving all at once—as his hands slipped beneath your top for just a second, his palms hot against your skin, before he hooked his fingers into the fabric and slowly drew it upward. You raised your arms to help him remove it, whimpering slightly as the air brushed your newly exposed skin, your nipples pebbling instantly in the cool air and under his heated gaze.
Heat bloomed across your body under the way his eyes roamed over you, drinking in every detail like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The way Sylus looked at you—eyes filled with nothing but love, awe, adoration, and raw, desperate hunger—made you feel so alive, so wanted, so utterly his.
You didn’t know what to do with your hands. They trembled helplessly at your sides, your claws extending and retracting nervously, and your core trembled just as much while he tossed the discarded clothing aside carelessly. His eyes never left you as he lowered his mouth to your collarbone, and his lips moved there with such affection, such reverence, that it sent a sweet shiver down your spine all the way to the tip of your tail.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, letting his mouth wander over every inch of newly exposed flesh, pressing kisses like prayers. “So divine… ethereal. Perfect. Mine.”
Your bare chests pressed together, skin against skin, and the contact made you both groan. Every point of contact sets you ablaze—his fever-hot skin against yours, the solid muscle of his chest, the way you could feel his heart racing just as fast as yours. You stared up at him with wide, overwhelmed eyes as he continued kissing his way across your body, your ears twitching with every soft sound he made.
His large hands slid to the curve of your waist where it met your hips, gripping you firmly, his fingers spanning almost the entire width of your waist. He scattered damp kisses and gentle nips—careful not to break skin yet, but the promise was there—over your shoulders and down the path to your breasts. You whimpered softly when he traced the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast, breathing in your scent deeply, savoring the moment before his lips followed the same path.
“Smell so good here too,” he murmured against your skin. “Everywhere. Every inch of you smells like heaven. Like mine.”
He leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to the side of your breast before lifting his gaze to yours, his ruby eyes molten with desire. “Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. His forearms rested on either side of your body, caging you in gently, his larger frame completely covering yours. When you nodded, he brought one hand up to stroke your cheek, his thumb warm and tender against your flushed skin, careful of your sensitive whiskers. “Kitten… if we’re gonna go any further, I need you to talk to me. I need verbal communication. Think you can do that?”
You stared at him for a moment, breath catching, completely overwhelmed by the tenderness in his eyes despite the rut clearly driving him mad with need. Then you nodded again before catching yourself. He raised a brow and gave you that knowing look that sent warmth spreading through your chest.
“Sorry,” you whispered, your voice coming out breathier than intended. “Y-yes, Sy. Yes… I think I can do that.”
“Good girl,” he praised softly, and the words sent a spike of pleasure straight to your core. A gentle smile curved his lips even as his eyes blazed. “Good kitty.”
The purr that escaped your throat was completely involuntary, your cat hybrid instincts responding to the praise before you could stop them. His eyes darkened impossibly further at the sound, and you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.
“And if you want me to stop—” His mouth pressed back to your heated skin, trailing barely-there kisses down the valley between your breasts, his wolf ears tilted forward to catch every sound you made. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers twisted in the sheets, claws puncturing the fabric. “—you tell me right away. Okay?” he muttered, his voice raw and strained with want.
“Y-yes, Sylus… I understand,” you whimpered, another involuntary purr vibrating in your chest.
“Good.”
He breathed in through his nose, inhaling your scent deeply, and you shivered when he exhaled warm breath directly over your nipple. “Fuck, angel… you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Can’t believe I get to have you like this. Can’t believe you’re finally mine.”
Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple, teeth skimming lightly over the sensitive peak as he sucked and licked with slow, hungry passion. His tongue was hot and wet, circling and flicking in ways that made your back arch off the bed.
“Sy…” you mewled, the sound high and needy and so distinctly feline. Your hips lifted helplessly as your cunt sought any kind of friction, your tail thrashing against the sheets.
Sylus looked up at you, his mouth still wrapped around your nipple, and his eyes were absolutely wicked. Heat crawled up your skin under his gaze. He could see everything on your face—want, need, desperation—and he welcomed it, reveled in it. His lips returned to their work, long, slow, lavish licks from the flat of his tongue over your pebbled nipple while his other hand rose to squeeze your other breast, kneading gently, rolling your nipple between his fingers.
The dual sensation made you cry out, your hands flying to his hair, threading through the silver strands. When your fingers accidentally brushed his wolf ear, he groaned around your nipple, his hips grinding down against you involuntarily.
Impatient, trembling, desperate for more, you guided the hand on your breast downward—down your stomach, down to the heat between your thighs where you needed him most. His breath hitched sharply, his mouth releasing your nipple with a wet pop as he stared at you.
“Please,” you whimpered. “Need you to touch me. Need—”
Your words cut off in a loud, helpless moan as his fingers slipped beneath the band of your little sleeping shorts and down to where you needed him most. His mouth fell open with a loud, helpless groan right against your breast when his fingers met your soaked folds.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his fingers sliding through your slickness, exploring, teasing. “Fuck, kitten, you’re drenched. So wet for me. Is this all from your heat or—”
“You,” you gasped out as his fingers traced your pussy softly, learning every fold, every sensitive spot. “It’s you. Always you.”
He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt his cock throb against your thigh, hard and hot even through his underwear. His fingers continued their exploration, one finger circling your entrance teasingly before sliding up to circle your clit with maddening lightness.
He worshipped you there for a moment—just his fingers teasing, learning every response, cataloging what made you gasp and what made you moan—before he suddenly pulled back. Completely away from you.
You whimpered at the loss, your hands reaching for him desperately, a distressed mewl escaping your throat that made his ears flatten apologetically. But he was already sitting up, watching through half-lidded eyes as he took his time removing the rest of his clothes. Every movement felt agonizingly slow—the flex of his muscles, the reveal of more pale skin, the thick trail of hair leading down from his navel.
When he finally pushed his underwear down, his cock sprang free, thick, massive, hard and flushed dark with need. Your eyes widened at the size of him, at the sheer girth and length, at the prominent veins running along his shaft, at the bead of precum already leaking from the tip. You felt another gush of slickness between your thighs, your body preparing itself instinctively, but your mind was suddenly racing with doubt.
He was big. Bigger than you’d imagined, and you were a virgin. How was that supposed to fit inside you? Your eyes traced down his length to where you could see the thick bulge at the base—his knot, still not fully swollen but already intimidating. The thought of taking all of that, of being stretched around him, knotted by him…
Panic fluttered in your chest even as arousal pooled hot and heavy in your belly. Your heat-addled brain was at war with itself—half of it screaming ‘want, need him, need to be filled, bred, knotted’ while the other half whispered anxiously ‘too big, won’t fit, it’s going to hurt—‘
You shut your eyes briefly, the conflicting emotions making you whine and mewl like the kitten you were. The sounds were desperate, needy—desperate to feel him again, desperate for his heat on your skin, desperate to be filled despite your fears. But underneath it all was that thread of nervousness, of uncertainty about whether your body could actually take what it was begging for.
When he was finally naked, you felt the bed dip as he moved back over you. He leaned down, his lips immediately finding your neck, licking and sucking softly, careful of where he’d eventually place his mating bite. His hands cupped your sensitive breasts and massaged them with tender, reverent fingers, his palms rough against your soft skin. Heat flooded your body as Sylus kissed down your shoulders, then your chest, his mouth leaving warm, fluttering trails that made your tail curl.
Your trembling hands slid into his silver hair, threading through the strands, gently scratching at the base of his ears in the way that made him shudder. He continued to kiss and taste every inch of exposed skin, his tongue occasionally flicking out to taste, to scent-mark, to claim.
Sylus’s lips moved slowly down your body, worshipping you with unhurried kisses, while his hands traced the lines of your shaking form—mapping every curve, every soft place, every breath you took beneath him. Lower and lower he went, until he was settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider.
He leaned forward, breathing in the heat of your core as he ran his nose slowly along the patch of dampness clinging to your shorts. You tugged at his hair when he inhaled your scent deeply, his eyes rolling back slightly, a rumbling groan emanating from his chest.
“Fuck, kitten,” he hummed, looking up at you with an intense, hungry gaze that was pure predator. His wolf instincts were fully on display now, and every instinct in you should have been screaming. Instead, you spread your legs wider in invitation. His hands left your skin to curl into the waistband of your tiny shorts. “You smell so good… so fucking ready. I can’t wait to taste you. Been dreaming about having my mouth on your pretty pussy for years.”
A shuddering breath slipped past your lips as you lifted your hips instinctively, silently begging him to take them off. He slid the fabric down your legs torturously slowly, and you watched his eyes track the string of slickness that connected your pussy to the soaked fabric before it broke.
“No panties,” he observed, his voice gone even rougher. “Were you expecting this, kitten? Or do you just walk around the apartment with nothing under these tiny shorts, driving me fucking insane?”
“I—I was too hot,” you stammered, your face heating up. “The heat, I couldn’t—”
“Shh, I know.” He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, soothing. “I’m not complaining. Fuck, I’m not complaining.”
Once he pushed your thighs open wider for him, you whimpered as the cool air kissed your wet slit, as you were completely exposed to his ravenous gaze. Sylus stilled for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight of you—your glistening center clenching around nothing as he watched your pussy pulse with need and so swollen, your slickness coating your inner thighs.
“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Perfect. All mine.”
He licked his lips slowly, deliberately, before leaning down and placing lingering kisses along your inner thighs. His tongue dragged warm, teasing strokes over your soft skin, sucking gently, leaving marks, worshipping. His mouth was so close to where you needed him most, but each kiss felt like sweet torture, keeping him just out of reach.
“Please,” you whimpered, your tail lashing in frustration. “Sylus, please—”
“So pretty when you beg,” he murmured as he guided your legs up and over his shoulders, settling you perfectly beneath him, his hot breath ghosting over your aching core. “Again.”
“Please,” you repeated, more desperate this time. “Please touch me, taste me, anything—”
You were about to beg more—about to plead for him—when his lips left your thigh… only for him to nuzzle directly against your pussy a moment later. The contact made you cry out, your back arching off the bed. He smeared your slick across his lips with a groan of satisfaction, savoring your taste as he opened you with his tongue, dragging it flat from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating lick.
“Fuck,” he groaned against you, the vibration making you whimper. “Taste even better than you smell. Could eat this sweet little pussy for hours. Might have to, just to prepare you for my cock.”
You gasped, your body arching as his wet tongue finally met your throbbing heat again, this time circling your clit with purpose. He licked and sucked with the dedication of a man starving, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered in the world.
He pulled back again briefly, only long enough for his fingers to slide in and spread your outer lips for him, exposing your swollen clit and clenching entrance fully to his gaze. Sylus smirked as he eased a single finger inside you, watching your body react—the way your hips twitched, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around the intrusion, how greedily your wet hole swallowed his digit. You moaned into the pillow beside you, trying to muffle the desperate sounds, your ears flat against your head with overwhelming sensation.
Those little whines—soft, needy, helpless, so feline—only drove Sylus to chase more of those heavenly noises from your lips. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking the swollen bud between his lips while his finger worked inside you.
“Fuck… such a tight little pussy,” he moaned against you as your cunt clenched repeatedly around his finger. “So fucking tight. Virgin tight.” The word made you clench harder, and he groaned. “I’m going to have to prepare your tiny pussy for my cock, kitten. Have to stretch you out nice and slow so you can take me. So you can take my knot. So I can breed you all night long.”
Your whines grew louder at the mention of his knot and the thought of him breeding you, your heat-driven instincts screaming yes, need that, want to be knotted, bred, filled. The pleasure washed over you in waves as his finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.
His fingers were so much bigger than yours—just one of his was more overwhelming, more delicious, reaching deeper than anything you’d ever done to yourself. And when he added a second finger, stretching you carefully while his tongue worked your clit, you thought you might die from how good it felt.
“That’s it,” he praised, his voice muffled against you. “Get used to being stretched. You’re doing so good for me. Such a good little kitty.”
The praise combined with the physical sensation made you purr loudly, your body going pliant and eager for him, desperate to please, desperate to be good for your alfa, your mate.
Your mate.
The realization should have overwhelmed you. Instead, it felt like coming home.
Your breath hitched as your body responded to him, your core fluttering and clenching around his fingers like it recognized him on instinct alone. A soft whimper slipped past your lips, tail curling against the sheets as your ears twitched, betraying just how sensitive you were to every careful movement he made. Sylus’s fingers moved slowly inside you, unhurried, reverent—like he was memorizing the way your body opened for him.
Without thinking, your hips began to sway into his touch, chasing the closeness, the intimacy of it. A low sound rumbled from his chest, warm and deep, his gaze softening even as it burned with want. He watched you like you were something precious—your trembling thighs, the way your hands fisted the sheets, the small, helpless movements of your tail when pleasure crept higher.
You panted softly as he added another finger, his touch patient, coaxing. He gave your body time, easing you open with gentle insistence until the stretch stopped being overwhelming and turned into something lush and intoxicating. Your whimpers grew quieter, needier, each one melting into the next as his fingers curled inside you with deliberate care.
When he kissed you, it wasn’t rushed. His lips lingered, tender and consuming all at once, as if he was afraid of leaving even for a second. Your claws threaded into his hair, tugging him closer, your body responding to him as naturally as breathing. His thumb brushed your clit, and the kiss deepened—slow, intimate, devastating.
You gasped when his tongue slipped into your mouth, kissing you with desperate devotion. “That feels good, doesn’t it, baby girl? You like it when I touch you like this?” Sylus groaned—right as his thumb found your clit. You bucked into him, nodding frantically.
“Use your words, kitten,” he teased darkly.
“Yes—please, Sy, please… feels so good,” you whimpered, voice breaking. “Please...”
He kissed his way down your body again, making you whine and beg in soft, breathless sounds—even as his fingers kept thrusting inside you.
Sylus inhaled your scent as soon as he settled between your thighs, but he didn’t keep you waiting. He wet his lips, then dipped his head to drag his tongue in a slow stripe from your dripping folds to your clit.
“Fuck, Sylus!” you shrieked, hips lifting off the mattress.
Senseless, needy noises poured from your throat. Your hips stuttered against him, and he simply sighed—like there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to eat you out right here, right now.
He savored you, his mouth moving with unhurried devotion, his fingers still inside you, grounding you even as pleasure began to blur the edges of everything else. His free hand rested on your hip—not to hold you down, but to keep you close, to remind you he was right there.
Your name spilled from his mouth like a promise, and his from yours like a prayer. Tears stung your eyes as the feeling built, overwhelming in the sweetest way. His tongue moved with quiet confidence, his fingers curling just right, drawing soft, needy sounds from deep in your chest.
“It’s okay,” he murmured when your body tensed, sensing it instantly. “I’ve got you. Breathe kitten.”
You buried your face into the pillow, nodding weakly, trusting him completely.
When he returned to you, slower this time, more intentional, the pleasure bloomed again—gentler but deeper. You sighed at the same moment he did—yours high and breathy, his deep and dreamy. He lapped at you with clear intention, fucking you with slow, careful strokes of his fingers this time, keeping you just where you needed to be. Your hands found his hair, holding him there as if you might float apart otherwise.
“Oh—my god,” you whimpered, trembling hands gripping his silver hair with one hand while the other clamped over your mouth to silence yourself. “F-Fuck… Sy, f-fuck…”
He moaned into your pussy, lips sealing around your clit. You jerked at the sensation. “Fucking hell— you taste so good. You feel so good. You’re everything,” he groaned against you.
“Fuck, baby—oh my fucking god,” you cried out. He sucked lazily on your clit while curling his fingers inside you, then sucked harder as he circled your little bud with his tongue. His fingers moved faster, deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. You moaned his name between breathless mewls, now gripping his hair with both hands. “Feels so good Alfa…”
Your whole body trembled violently, heat spreading everywhere, your hips grinding helplessly into his face and hand.
“A-Ah! I’m coming—please, please—”
“Cum for me, kitten,” he murmured before sucking your clit again.
Your body snapped tight as your orgasm tore through you. Your mind exploded into blinding stars, pleasure crashing through your nerves so sharply you cried out his name. You trembled uncontrollably as you came against his mouth, your soul unwinding in his hands.
“You’re doing so well for me, kitty,” he whispered proudly as his fingers slowed, sliding out to softly rub your swollen slit while he kept licking your clit—guiding you gently through every last wave.
You were a sputtering, helpless mess, trembling as he pushed you right to the edge of overstimulation. As your senses returned in shaky pieces, you felt his fingers slip away from your heat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. You felt like a fevered storm, soaked from the waist down, dripping onto the sheets, whimpering helplessly.
You needed him. Badly. Your pussy pulsed insistently—begging to be filled again. Begging for his cock.
You rolled onto your stomach with a breathless, needy mewl, burying your face into his pillow as it still held his scent. Your tail curled tight against the sheets, flicking weakly as your body trembled with lingering sensation. Your ears twitched at every sound behind you. You kept your eyes closed when you felt his hands on you again—large, warm, unmistakably steady as he lifted your hips and spread your legs wider, guiding you with quiet certainty.
A soft, startled sound slipped from you when Sylus leaned in and pressed his face between your thighs. He inhaled deeply as he spread your cheeks apart—slow, deliberate—his wolf committing your scent to memory. The reaction was immediate. Your body shuddered, slick gathering between your folds as your arousal bloomed again, stronger this time, your scent thickening and turning sweet. The low sound he made in response vibrated through the mattress, deep and instinctive, and the bed shifted beneath the force of it.
Then his mouth was on you.
Messy, hungry, unrestrained—his tongue dragged over every inch of sensitive skin between your thighs, saliva warm and unashamed. His hands locked firmly on your hips, holding you tilted just right, keeping you open and offered. His focus narrowed completely to your heat, to the way wetness welled and spilled freely now, mixing with his saliva and trailing down to soak the sheets beneath you. Your clit throbbed desperately, aching as each flick of his tongue passed just beside it, teasing your frayed nerves.
The vibrations of his quiet growls traveled straight through you, doubling every sensation. When his tongue finally circled your clit, a loud, broken cry tore from your throat, ears flattening as your back arched off the bed. He licked a slow, possessive stripe up through your folds, teasingly dipping his tongue into your needy entrance—just enough to make you gasp—before gliding back up. His tongue spread you open with wet warmth as his lips closed around your clit, sucking with reverent hunger.
You nearly sobbed at the feeling. Your whole body trembled, overwhelmed and desperate, instincts screaming. You needed more—needed him. Without thinking, you tried to grind yourself against his mouth, chasing friction like a needy little thing, but his arms slid around your thighs. His biceps caged your hips in place, holding you still with effortless strength.
Not cruel. Not rushed. Controlled.
“Taste so good, kitten… could eat this pussy all day,” he growled against you.
The man you loved more than anything was between your legs, tongue gliding slowly up and down your soaked slit, savoring you like prey he had no intention of letting go of. Every soft mewl, every helpless sound you made only urged him on. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking gently but deliberately, lips warm and persistent as though he wanted you to feel every second of it.
When he leaned in deeper and slipped his tongue into your entrance, your breath caught sharply. He curled it upward, brushing your inner walls with careful precision. Your fingers bunched the sheets in a tight, trembling grip, claws threatening to tear through the fabric—and he felt it. He repeated the motion, slower, firmer, intent sharpening.
You were undone beneath him. A needy, whimpering mess, hips betraying you as they strained uselessly against his hold. Soft, breathless cries spilled from your lips as he licked upward again, pressing his tongue against that sensitive spot inside you. Your vision blurred. Your hips bucked hard against his mouth, thighs clamping around his head as another orgasm crept frighteningly close.
Greed and desperation overtook you. Your hips pushed against his face to force his tongue deeper into your aching cunt.
“Sylus…” you moaned, voice breaking, raw and needy. You were so close—aching, trembling.
You moved your hips against him helplessly, fucking yourself on his tongue as he pressed firmly into that sensitive spot inside you. His thumb circled your clit in slow, perfect circles that made stars dance behind your eyes.
“Be a good girl and come for me,” he murmured, voice low and commanding, devotion wrapped tight around the words—before plunging his tongue back inside you.
That was all it took.
Your body gave in with a shattered cry, pleasure ripping through you as your vision went white and your ears rang. Your movements turned sloppy and uncoordinated as you came against his mouth, hips stuttering through the final waves. He stayed with you through it all, tongue soothing, lapping gently until the overstimulation made you twitch and whine. Only then did he ease back.
“You did so well, princess… so good to me. So beautiful. And you taste so good. So sweet,” he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick with praise.
You whimpered softly at his praise, still oversensitive and aching, your body trembling in small aftershocks from the force of your climax. Your tail twitched weakly against the sheets, ears flicking as if every sound and touch reached you twice as strongly now. Before you could fully gather yourself, Sylus shifted above you, moving up your back with slow intention. He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your spine, each one warm and grounding, then across your shoulders, and finally to the curve of your neck.
Your breath hitched with every kiss. Your whimpers and broken little moans never quite stopped as he spoiled you—touching you like you were precious, worshipping you with a devotion that made your chest ache. His presence was steady and sure, his body a solid warmth over yours, anchoring you as much as he aroused you.
“I love you so much, sweet girl,” Sylus murmured, voice low and sincere as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His nose brushed your skin, breathing you in like instinct demanded. “So responsive to me.”
The room felt heavy with anticipation, the air thick with scent—your arousal sweet and unmistakable, his deeper and warmer beneath it. You lay beneath him, every inch of you flushed and sensitive, nerves still singing from where he had touched you. His words settled deep inside you, soft and reverent, and you melted into the mattress, your usual hesitations crumbling under the weight of his affection.
“I love you too,” you breathed back, the confession barely louder than a whisper, as though saying it out loud might undo you.
His lips returned to your neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing along your skin in a slow, unhurried line. Each press lingered, deliberate, almost possessive without being rough. He moved from your neck to your shoulders, then along your jaw, his breath warm against your ear. You whimpered again, your body arching instinctively, hips pressing back against him without conscious thought. It felt natural—necessary—your feline instincts urging you closer, seeking friction, seeking him.
His skin was slick and hot against yours, his body radiating heat so intense it chased away the chill entirely. When you turned your head slightly to look at him, you caught the scent of yourself on his breath and lips, your arousal clinging to him. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded as they met yours, pupils blown wide. Moments later, you felt the warm drip of his own arousal spill into the small dip of your back, making you shiver.
Sylus lined himself up slowly, carefully, and glided his cock through the slick cleft of your ass. Your breath caught as his tip dragged along your slit, spreading wetness everywhere. Your body trembled as precum leaked freely from him, smearing over your clit and folds, the sensation making your inner walls clench and flutter in response.
You squirmed helplessly beneath him, your body a writhing mess of need, tail curling tight as anticipation coiled low in your belly. Every slow roll of his hips made your breath hitch, made your muscles tense like you were bracing for something inevitable.
“Let’s move you around,” he murmured softly, hands sliding to your hips as he tried to guide you onto your back.
A needy mewl slipped from you before you could stop it, your body resisting the movement instinctively.
“Kitten?” he prompted gently, pausing.
You swallowed, voice trembling as the words spilled out. “Sy… I want you to take me from behind. Please. I need you to fuck me like this. I want my first time to be like this—with you. Please.”
A low growl rumbled from his chest, restrained but unmistakably wolfish. “That’s your heat talking,” he murmured, though his hands tightened slightly on your hips.
“Please,” you whimpered again, desperation bleeding through every word. “I can’t do this anymore. I need you. I need you so bad.” Your hips ground back against him, slick heat coating his length, the friction driving you nearly frantic. The tip of his cock brushed your entrance, teasing, while your clit throbbed with every small movement. Your mind felt hazy, overwhelmed by want.
“I don’t think your tiny virgin pussy can handle my cock,” he said quietly, voice husky, teasing—but there was hesitation there too. His grip tightened, steadying rather than forcing. “Especially not like this.”
You felt him breathing harder behind you, his control slipping inch by inch. His body was tense, like he was holding himself back with everything he had. You could feel the conflict in him—the way he wanted you, the way he was fighting to make this right.
“I can handle it,” you insisted, voice shaking but sincere. “Let me be your good kitten.”
Sylus stilled. His hand guided himself to your entrance, fingers firm and grounding as he rubbed the tip of his cock over your swollen clit. Your mind spiraled, the sensation overwhelming. Your breath broke into a soft cry, your back arching off the bed as sensation flooded you.
“Fuck, Sy, please,” you pleaded, your voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore. I jus’ need you so bad. My pussy needs you. It needs to be filled with your cock and cum. Please, Daddy. Let me be your good kitten. Fill this little hole up, breed this pussy. My Alfa, please—”
Your words were a catalyst, sending Sylus over the edge. A deep growl tore from him as his hands gripped your hips, tilting them and spreading your legs wider. His rough, wide hands caressed your ass, his touch both gentle and commanding. He circled his tip around your entrance, the motion slow and deliberate, pulling desperate whines from your lips. You squirmed, your hips wiggling, trying to push back against him, but his hold was firm, his dominance undeniable.
“You’re so warm. Taste and smell so nice and ripe.” he murmured, breath ragged. “So ready for my cubs, kitten.”
You whimpered beneath him as his hips ground forward, his voice darker than you’d ever heard it, rough with instinct. The head of his cock brushed lower, grazing your entrance before he drew back slightly, watching the way your tight, little virgin pussy clenched, desperate and begging to be filled. His teeth clicked softly near your ear, sending goosebumps racing over your skin and making your hips jerk beneath his.
This time, when his tip pressed against your soaked centre, he hissed sharply. The instant his dewy tip pressed against your entrance, you mewled, your body tensing with anticipation. The fat head of his cock was a promise, a prelude to the fullness you craved. Your stomach seized, the wait torturous, your clit throbbing in time with your racing heart.
“Gonna take care of you, breed you so good.” He murmured, circling his hips again, the tip winding around your entrance, dipping between your folds. You lifted your hips instinctively to meet him, back arching under his chest as your body begged for what was coming.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he whispered, voice thick with longing. “Mine.”
“P-please, Daddy—” you croaked, the word tearing out of you in a thin, broken whisper. Your ears flattened instinctively as Sylus's heavy breathing filled the space behind you, each husky exhale brushing your skin and making your tail curl tight. His presence was overwhelming—solid and powerful, all wolfish heat and restrained hunger. His flushed cockhead pressed more firmly at your entrance, making it ache, while your clit pulsed painfully beneath him.
You trembled beneath his weight, every inch of you too sensitive, too aware. His body covered yours completely, warm and grounding, his heat wrapping around you like a protective cage. You writhed softly, helplessly, yearning to be filled—yearning to feel him inside you so deeply that thought dissolved into nothing but sensation.
You trembled beneath him, every inch of you alive with need. Your tail curled tight against the sheets and then loosened again, betraying how restless you were. He covered you completely, his heat bleeding into you, chasing every last trace of cold from your skin until there was nothing left but warmth and want. You writhed softly, helplessly, yearning for him to fill you—yearning to be so full of him that the world blurred into white and there was only Sylus.
His nose brushed along the side of your neck for a brief second, an instinctive nuzzle that made your breath catch. Like he had to breathe you in, like he had to ground himself before he moved.
“Ah… such a pretty, tiny pussy,” he heaved, voice thick with desire and something darker beneath it—something wolfish and barely leashed. “Can’t wait to breed this tight little pussy all night long.”
The words went straight through you, a hot shiver tearing down your spine. You whimpered, and your body clenched around nothing, begging.
A broken gasp burst from your lips when he finally slipped the tip of his cock inside. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t careless. It was slow and heavy, the kind of pressure that demanded your entire body’s attention. You felt him shift behind you, sitting up just enough to look down, his eyes locked on the place where your body tried to accommodate him.
“Ohhh—” the sound that left you wasn’t even fully a moan, more like something pulled from deep in your chest. Relief and ache tangled together as you relished the feeling of him, the pressure turning into bliss as the head of his length spread you open. It felt like he was parting you slowly, shaping you with patience, like he refused to hurt you even while his need raged.
Your walls stretched in a slow, aching attempt to wrap around him, but it was clear from the start it wouldn’t be easy. He was overwhelming—thick and wide even at the tip, the stretch made sharper by how desperate and worked-up you already were. A harsh hiss slipped through his teeth when he had to pull back slightly, easing you open with controlled restraint, cock throbbing inside your center in time with the fluttering convulsions of your walls.
A shaky whine spilled from you as he pushed forward again, the stretch searing through you. His veins dragged along your walls in a way that felt intimate and claiming, like he was molding you to him, pressing himself into every place your body could offer. Your claws flexed against the sheets, leaving faint marks in the fabric as you tried to steady yourself.
He went deeper. And deeper.
A long, fragile sound broke from your throat as you shuddered, overwhelmed by how much of him there was. He was so big. So impossibly thick. You felt split open around him in the most helpless way, your body trembling as it struggled and then clung, like your instincts didn’t know whether to fight or surrender.
“Sy, I can’t—” you mewled, voice cracking into a needy, feline sound that made his breath hitch. “S-so big… t-too b-big…”
He didn’t answer immediately.
His hands slid down to your ass, spreading you open carefully—just to see you, to understand exactly how your body was taking him. His gaze was intense, pupils blown wide, the wolf in him watching the way your dripping cunt fought to accept him. His jaw flexed, a quiet tremor of restraint rolling through him as if he was holding back everything he wanted to do.
“Poor kitty,” he sighed, voice rough with a mix of amusement and aching tenderness. “So tiny…” His thumb brushed your hip, a gentle stroke that softened the words. “My pretty kitten can barely take me.”
Slowly—carefully—he pushed just a little further, inch by inch, his pace controlled like he’d rather break himself than break you. His breath ghosted over your cheek as he leaned down, voice lowering into something intimate.
“You can take it,” he murmured. “You’re doing so, so good for me.” Another slow push. “Such a good little kitten.”
And then he kissed your cheek—soft and sweet, a tender mark of love right in the middle of all that heat.
“It’s so big,” you mewled again, hips stuttering helplessly beneath him. Your tail flicked once in frantic need, your ears flattening as your body tried to adjust around his size. “Ah… Daddy…”
His grip tightened slightly—not harsh, but firm enough to hold you steady, to keep you from slipping away from the pressure you were begging for. The wolf in him rumbled low, but the man you loved stayed careful, coaxing your body instead of forcing it.
“You can do it, kitty,” Sylus insisted, voice a low growl right by your ear, warm breath washing over your skin. “You’ll take daddy’s cock… like the good little kitten you are.”
The stretch burned, sharp and intense… but it was intoxicating, too. Your eyes fluttered shut, lips parting on helpless sounds as he worked himself deeper, your pussy fluttering around him in a desperate attempt to adjust. Your whimpers turned breathless and pathetic, sweet and needy, the kind of sounds that felt too honest to stop.
He paused again, just long enough for your walls to soften around him, just long enough for your body to stop resisting and start learning him.
“Such a good girl,” he breathed.
Your body clenched hard at the praise, slick gathering faster as if your cunt had decided to reward him for being gentle.
You took a deep, shaky breath—and when he pressed forward again, it was different. He slid inside far enough for the swelling near the base of his cock to begin spreading you wider, and your exhale shattered into a cry when you felt your core strain around his knot. Your thighs shook violently, claws scraping at the sheets as your body tried to process the fullness.
Sylus’ breathing came faster and hotter, panting against your back. You felt drops of sweat fall from his chin as he hovered over you, shaking with restraint. His hands stayed on your hips—steady, grounding—while the tip of his cock nudged deep, brushing that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision blur.
“Alfa,” you mewled, voice trembling, small and desperate. “T-too big…”
A broken sound tore from him, animalistic and raw, like the wolf was slipping through the cracks of his control. He shuddered over you, hips trembling as he fought himself, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind.
He held himself there—still, strained—breathing hard, like he was forcing patience into his bones.
Then his voice softened, roughened by devotion. “Look at me,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Your throat tightened painfully at the tenderness in it. It didn’t make the need smaller. It made it worse—because it reminded you this wasn’t just lust. This was Sylus. Your Sylus.
And then his restraint snapped, not into cruelty, but into aching surrender.
He thrust forward harder, hips snapping with a force that drove him all the way in. Filling you to the brim.
You cried out, body arching off the bed as the fullness stole your breath. Your toes curled, eyes squeezing shut, and your pussy convulsed around him like it couldn’t decide whether to clamp down or melt. You felt his precum mix with your slick, hot and deep, and tears spilled freely down your cheeks—overwhelmed by the stretch, the relief, the trust, the love tangled into it all.
For a moment, you were suspended in pure sensation—shaking, full, completely his.
You felt stretched perfectly around him, filled so deeply your entire body buzzed. And as your walls slowly softened, adjusting around his thickness, the overwhelming fullness began to bloom into something sweeter. Deeper.
You clenched around him without meaning to.
Sylus groaned low, the sound vibrating through your spine. His face tightened with restraint as he leaned over you, his hands sliding down your waist and then kneading your ass cheeks, touch possessive but gentle.
“Fuck,” he hissed, voice strained. “So fucking tight…” He dragged a shaky breath in. “You look so beautiful like this—taking me all the way… my good kitten.”
“Please… I need you,” you whimpered, voice breaking as your pussy pulsed around him, needy and greedy, refusing to let him go. Your tail curled tighter, trembling with every beat of your heart. “Please Sy…”
He pulled out slowly—so slowly it felt cruel. The empty ache hit you instantly, making you whine, your hips chasing him without permission. “Such a needy pussy,” Sylus groaned, and then he thrust back in again, hips snapping forward hard enough to make your whole body slump into the mattress.
The first thrusts were deliberate—strong enough to make your breasts bounce, deep enough to knock breath from your lungs. Each snap of his hips drew something new out of you: a breathless mewl, a whine, a broken plea you couldn’t hold back. Your ears flattened and your tail flicked in frantic rhythm, your body reacting like instinct had stolen every last ounce of pride. The sounds filled the room quickly—soft, frantic, embarrassingly sweet.
Sylus groaned, the wolf in him practically purring at the way you responded. But his hands stayed careful on you, holding you steady, guiding the pace so it didn’t steal too much from you too fast.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and thick with approval as he pressed his mouth to the back of your shoulder, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. “Sing for me, kitten…”
And with every thrust that followed, you did—your body trembling, heart open, love and heat crashing together until there was nothing left in you but him.
“Ah—ah, fuck, daddy… oh my god—” you hiccuped, your voice breaking into breathless little sounds as Sylus moved his hips slowly but firmly behind you. Each thrust sent hot, lightning-sharp jolts through your body, pleasure blooming and spreading until it made your limbs feel weightless. Your pussy pulsed greedily around him, still struggling to adjust to his girth, but the stretch became more bearable with every careful push—turning from sharp overwhelm into something lush, intoxicating, almost addictive as your body began to surrender.
You didn’t just take him—you learned him. Like your instincts were wrapping around his, yielding not out of weakness, but because it was him. Because it was love. Because your body trusted him even when it trembled.
His pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with growing urgency, rough enough to make the bedframe rock beneath you. The slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, obscene and steady. Each deep thrust dragged a helpless sound from your throat as he drove into you again and again, filling you so thoroughly it stole your breath every single time. His palm slid down to your ass, spreading you open as he pushed in fully, claiming every inch with a possessive kind of care that made your chest tighten.
You cried out when your body clenched around him, instinctively welcoming him deeper, the pressure making your eyes squeeze shut as if you could feel him everywhere.
Your tail flicked erratically behind you, betraying how close you were to losing yourself. Your ears twitched at every low sound he made—every ragged breath, every restrained growl that vibrated through his chest and into your spine. He held you firmly in place, his cock stretching you open until it left you dizzy and breathless, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you back onto him with slow, deliberate thrusts—still controlled, still watching you, feeling you, reading every shiver as if your body spoke a language only he understood.
Even now, even like this, Sylus took his time in the moments that mattered, pausing just enough for you to breathe, to soften, to take him fully, his restraint trembling at the edge of snapping.
“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead pressing briefly to your back. “My good girl. My kitten.”
The praise hit you like a kiss to the soul. Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and tight, and you whimpered helplessly.
His voice softened just enough to make it ache. “All for me.”
He kept you pinned with one broad hand at your lower back, forcing your hips up while pressing your chest firmly into the mattress, holding you exactly where he wanted you. There was no escape from him—only sensation. You were a mess beneath his weight, tears sliding down your cheeks, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth, broken little mewls spilling freely as his rhythm became more demanding, more relentless… but never careless.
His breathing came faster and faster, hot pants washing over your back. Drops of sweat slid from his chin, landing warm against your skin. You could feel yourself burning just as hot, your entire body glowing with it—especially when his tip nudged deep, brushing that sensitive bundle of nerves inside you that made your vision blur.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured, voice thick, almost wrecked, as he rolled his hips deeper into you—slow for one thrust, almost reverent… and then firm again.
“Y—yes,” you gasped, barely holding yourself together. “‘S too much—Sy—feels s’good,” you mewled, voice breaking as your hands clawed the sheets, nails catching and scraping. Your back arched instinctively, pushing you closer, begging without restraint. Your tail curled tight and then flicked again, like your body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to hide or be claimed harder.
He chuckled softly—low, intimate—before leaning down until his breath brushed your ear and his nose grazed your neck in something instinctive and wolfish, a brief nuzzle that made you shiver all over.
“Good,” he whispered. “Let it consume you, kitten.”
His pace quickened. Thrusts grew rougher, deeper—driven by something hungry and unyielding that made the wolf in him bleed through the cracks. The wet sounds of your body filled the room, obscene and overwhelming, every slick drag and blunt press pushing you closer to the edge. His grip tightened, grounding you, keeping you right where he wanted you, refusing to let you drift anywhere but into him.
“Sy—Sylus…” you mewled breathlessly, voice dissolving into something small and desperate. “Feels so good…”
His thrusts turned relentless—punishing in the best way, stealing your breath, pulling your sounds from your throat until they became high, helpless cries. Your body trembled, completely at his mercy, every nerve alight. Your pussy fluttered around him like it couldn’t stop reacting, clenching greedily every time he bottomed out.
“That’s it,” he murmured, and this time his voice was almost gentle, thick with approval and want, like he was trying to soothe you even as he ruined you. “Come for daddy.”
The coil then snapped violently. You came undone around him with a sob, your mewls breaking into a raw, desperate wail as pleasure tore through you. Your whole body convulsed, thighs shaking, walls clenching hard around his cock. Sylus cursed low—guttural, wrecked—slamming deep once, twice, before he held you there, buried fully inside you as he spilled hot, his grip ironclad on your hips.
For a moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing. Your body trembled beneath his, overstimulated and shaking apart, your tail going taut and then twitching weakly as you tried to recover.
His thumb traced slow, grounding lines up your spine—firm and reassuring, a gentle reminder that you were safe. That he had you.
“That’s my good girl,” Sylus murmured against your shoulder, voice possessive and warm. “My kitten sounded so beautiful when she came for me.”
Then, Sylus shifted back just enough to draw his knot from your entrance a fraction. The movement made you whine, your walls clenching instinctively as if to keep him there. You felt a warm, generous mouthful of saliva slip from his lips and coat your slick, swollen entrance—his breath shuddering as he watched it, as if the sight alone tightened his control into something thin and trembling. His next push slipped his thickness back into you with sinful ease, and when his hips finally pressed flush against yours, he collapsed over you again with a groan. One elbow sank into the pillow beside your head while the other held your hips tilted just right, keeping you offered as he emptied himself deep—so deep it felt like it kissed the very center of you.
“So tight,” he rasped, voice shaking. “So good… mine.”
“Daddy—ah!” you cried, breathing matching his as his knot throbbed inside your walls. The stretch bordered on uncomfortable, but your body still pulsed with pleasure, your clit throbbing between your thighs like a desperate plea for relief. Your nipples pressed hard against the bed beneath you, sensitivity spiking with every shallow breath.
It took him a minute—he stayed buried, panting, trembling, fighting to stay gentle even as his instincts urged him to claim you harder. But soon Sylus shifted again, cock and knot pushing and pulling inside you with slow insistence, and your breath caught sharply when the heavy grind pressed into your g-spot like mortar and pestle, crushing pleasure into you until you felt faint.
“F-fuck…” you choked, voice barely there.
You hadn’t even realized his knot had receded enough for him to move properly again until he drew back and pushed right back into you with a slick sound loud enough to make heat crawl up your cheeks. Your ears flicked in embarrassed sensitivity, tail twitching weakly as if the sound alone made you feel exposed.
His hand came up to cradle your head, fingers threading gently through your hair—soothing you, grounding you—while his cock pulsed deep inside you, still hard, still claiming. He pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and warm, as if he couldn’t help himself.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved again, hips snapping forward, driving into you with renewed force.
Soon the only sounds filling the room were the slap of his hips each time they met your ass, the wet squelch of him sinking deep, and the occasional broken crack of your mewls—soft, choked, sweet. Sylus’ growls threaded between them, low and vibrating, a wolf’s satisfaction wrapped in human restraint.
You whimpered helplessly, mind fogged, body trembling… but it wasn’t enough. Not when it was him. Not when you wanted to be claimed over and over again until the ache turned into something permanent, something that lived under your skin.
Every thrust, every sharp slap of his hips against your ass, sent sensation ricocheting through you. Your thighs shook, your body tightening around him as another coil started to form—unbidden and overwhelming. Your heat pooled low and heavy in your belly, thick and demanding, your clit throbbing with every drag of his cock against that aching place inside you.
You could barely breathe. Barely think.
Your entire world narrowed down to the weight of him pressed tight to your back, his hand in your hair, his warmth surrounding you like a shield. Even his scent—wild and comforting—wrapped around your senses until there was nothing left of you that wasn’t tuned to him.
And when his fingers slipped down to your clit again, rubbing rough, careless circles, the pleasure hit sharp and blinding. Your moans broke apart into desperate, choked sounds, your body trembling uncontrollably as another orgasm surged up without warning.
When it hit, it tore through you completely. Your body convulsed, a fresh wave spilling out as you cried out, overwhelmed, tears sliding down your cheeks. Your pussy clamped and fluttered, milking him greedily as if it couldn’t stop.
“Fuck,” Sylus groaned, his rhythm faltering as he felt you fall apart again beneath him—his breath breaking, his control slipping into a low, shaking sound that rumbled like a growl against the back of your neck.
And still, even as he wrecked you, his hand tightened gently in your hair—steadying, soothing—because no matter how wild the wolf became, he never stopped holding you like you were his heart.
You could barely think. Your whole body trembled beneath him, thighs quivering uncontrollably, head spinning from the dizzying mix of overstimulation and pleasure— from the way he had filled you so completely it felt like your body didn’t know what to do with the fullness. Your sounds came out wrecked and broken, reduced to breathless cries that cracked in your throat. Tears kept sliding down your cheeks, warm and helpless, as if your body couldn’t hold anything back anymore—not sensation, not emotion.
And then Sylus slid out of you completely. The sudden emptiness made you whimper instantly, your walls clenching around nothing, your tail giving a weak, frantic twitch against the sheets. Your legs trembled, trying to close on instinct, but there was nothing there to hold onto anymore—nothing except the aching need he had carved into you.
It didn’t last long. Sylus’ hands gripped your hips and he manhandled you gently, shifting you with that careful strength of his—wolfish power wrapped in devotion—as he flipped you onto your back. Your ears flicked, oversensitive to the sound of the sheets rustling, to the heavy way he breathed above you, to the low growl that lingered in his chest like he couldn’t bear the distance.
“I need to see you,” he groaned breathlessly, eyes dark and hungry as they locked onto yours. “Need to kiss you.”
His arms circled around your back and he claimed your mouth in a heated kiss that stole what little air you had left. It wasn’t just lust—it felt like he was trying to touch your soul, trying to say everything he didn’t have the courage to confess with words. His mouth moved against yours like he couldn’t get enough, like kissing you was the only thing that made him feel grounded. And just as fast as he had left you, he entered you again.
You gasped sharply into his mouth as he pushed back into your tight, soaked heat, the stretch blooming into something deep and dizzying. Your claws curled reflexively against his shoulders, holding onto him like you were afraid you’d float apart otherwise. He sank all the way inside with a slow, steady push, and the sound you made was halfway between a sob and a moan, your body instantly pulsing around him in greedy, helpless recognition.
Sylus shuddered, a low rumble vibrating through his chest as if the wolf in him had settled the moment he was back where he belonged.
Once he was fully inside again, he rolled his hips forward in one slow, deep stroke. You cried out, back arching off the bed as the motion dragged through you inch by inch, intimate and consuming. His thrusts stayed careful—controlled—slow enough that you felt every ridge and vein, every deep press that made your vision blur.
He didn’t pull out far. Only enough to rock inside you, gentle and achingly deep, as if he wanted the closeness more than anything. Like he didn’t want to be separated from you even for a second.
He kissed your lips again—then your cheek, your jaw, his nose brushing your skin in little, instinctive nuzzles that made your stomach twist. His breath was warm and damp, his scent thick around you—wolf, desire, and something softer beneath it that felt like home.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “So warm… so tight… so good for me.”
Your ears flicked and your tail curled weakly as the praise sank into you, settling somewhere deep in your chest. You whimpered, eyes glossy as you stared up at him, your heart pounding too hard to feel real.
And he kept moving—slow, deep, worshipful—like he was savoring every second of being inside you. The angle was perfect. So deep, so consuming, that Sylus gradually picked up his pace, leaving you a breathless, whimpering mess beneath him. His strokes lengthened, hips rolling forward in long, languid thrusts that made the bed creak softly. The room filled with the wet, desperate sound of slick skin meeting slick skin again and again, every noise making your cheeks burn and your body clench tighter.
Every time he sank into you, his pelvic bone dragged against your throbbing clit, and you cried out his name in pure, helpless ecstasy—louder than you meant to, more needy than you could stop. “Sylus—!”
“You’re taking me so well, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice warm and adoring as he leaned down, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed your skin, his breath shuddering like he couldn’t stop himself from breathing you in. “Doing so… so good for me.”
Soft grunts fell from him whenever he hit that specific deep spot inside you, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as pleasure tore through him. You whimpered when his mouth returned to yours, capturing your lips in a heated, dizzying kiss that made your head spin harder.
One of his hands slipped down between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease. He rubbed two slow, deliberate circles over your sensitive nub—testing, coaxing.
You jerked against him with a sharp gasp. Sylus’ eyes darkened even more, his breath hitching as he watched you react.
When he slid into a hidden pressure point deep in your core—paired with the relentless way his fingers circled your clit—you clenched around him like a vise. Your eyes rolled back as pleasure surged violently through you, overwhelming and new, almost frightening in how fast it built. Your whimpers climbed higher, turning into breathless, broken cries as he picked up his pace, fucking you deeper, the sound of his breathing growing ragged.
“I love you, kitten,” Sylus moaned, lips curling into a soft, tender smile as he watched your face contort—so overwhelmed, so beautifully undone just for him. The words sounded like truth, like devotion spilling out without permission. Filth and praise slipped from his mouth like honey, messy and reverent all at once. “This pussy was made for me.”
You shuddered, eyes stinging again, heart clenching painfully at how sweet and possessive it felt coming from him.
His mouth covered yours again, swallowing every little noise you made, smothering your trembling breaths. Your body trembled under him, tail flicking weakly as the tightness in your belly returned, coiling and pulling tighter with every thrust, every touch, every kiss he gave you.
Your whimpers and gasps grew louder as ecstasy flooded your senses. Sylus’ hands couldn’t get enough of you—sliding over your hips, your waist, your back—touching you like he wanted to memorize you, like he was terrified this wasn’t real. His palms lingered, his thumbs stroking soothing lines that contradicted the hungry way his hips drove into you.
You whimpered at the speed of his thrusts, feeling another orgasm build rapidly. Your legs locked around his hips, clinging to him, pulling him closer. Sylus felt it too—the way you squeezed around him with every stroke—so he drove harder into your heat, shifting his hips with careful precision, searching for the exact spot he knew would shatter you.
Your arms trembled as they wrapped around him, nails digging into his back. It earned a deep, helpless groan from him—half pleasure, half restraint snapping. The coil in your belly tightened, tingling down your legs, trembling on the edge of breaking.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice strained as though the words physically hurt him. He cursed softly when you tightened around him on purpose, your body greedily clenching as if to keep him trapped inside you forever.
“Please…” you moaned, mind hazy with want, eyes glossy as you looked up at him. Your ears flicked forward, your body practically pleading without even moving.
“You want to cum, sweetheart?” he asked, voice thick, tender, wrecked.
You nodded frantically, biting your lip as your body trembled beneath him. You bucked up instinctively, chasing him, nails sinking into his skin. His hand moved back to your clit, pressure firm and perfect, while his other hand found yours. He intertwined your fingers, squeezing once—an anchor—before pinning them gently to the bed like he didn’t want you to get lost in it.
He rubbed your clit with slow insistence, just enough to drag the pleasure higher and higher until you couldn’t breathe properly.
“Cum for me, kitten,” Sylus demanded softly, voice warm against your cheek, more devotion than command.
And when he nudged that one perfect spot inside you—paired with his deep voice and the way his eyes never left your face—you exploded. You shattered, coming undone so violently it ripped a cry of his name from your throat. Blood rushed in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own sobbing breaths. Sylus crashed his lips onto yours, swallowing every broken noise as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear them, as if he wanted them all for himself.
Your head fell back, back arching sharply, your tail going rigid for a second as your body twisted under the force of release. Pleasure rolled through you in heavy waves, leaving you trembling and helpless.
Sylus groaned into your ear as your walls spasmed around him, clenching desperately, begging—needing him to stay, to fill you, to never let you go.
“Fuck…” he moaned, pushing himself up as he thrust harder, deeper, the head of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly. His voice cracked with need. “I need to fill you up again, kitten.”
You were dazed, trembling, but you still nodded vigorously, whining as overstimulation mixed with want. Your pussy squeezed around him in greedy pulses, like it was answering him. “Please…”
His hips stuttered, thrusts turning sloppy as the pleasure overtook him, his control finally slipping through his fingers. Then—with a raw, broken moan—he spilled inside you again.
As he came, his mouth moved to the junction between your neck and shoulder. His canines sank into your skin in a marking bite, instinctive and claiming. His teeth stayed embedded for a moment, and somehow you barely felt pain—only a hot rush of oversensitivity and the dizzying intimacy of being chosen. Being kept.
A soft, shocked sound left you—half moan, half whine—as he held you through it, encouraging your hips to grind against him even as his knot kept you plugged, sealing him inside while he emptied against your cervix again.
You mewled at the sensation, warmth flooding your core and spreading thickly through your walls as he stayed buried deep. Your ears fluttered with every sound he made, and when your hearing finally cleared—when the blood rushing through your ears calmed—you could hear him.
Soft, happy growls. Content, satisfied noises that vibrated against your skin while his tongue soothed the indents of his teeth. His canines still nipped you now and then, more like affectionate little reminders than anything else, and you found yourself smiling through the haze, relaxing completely against him.
Sylus licked the sweat from your skin, nuzzling you happily, his nose brushing your cheek and temple like a wolf who couldn’t stop checking that you were still there—still his.
Everything stayed blurred and soft when you came back to yourself fully. Your body ached, but in the sweetest way—completely relaxed, thoroughly ruined, glowing with an exhaustion that felt like bliss. Your tail lay limp against the sheets now, finally still, and your ears only twitched faintly when Sylus shifted above you.
Once you’d both caught your breath, Sylus leaned his forehead against yours, eyes softening into blissful awe. He kissed you tenderly—slow and careful, like he was savoring the simple fact that he could.
“That was…” he breathed, smiling down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real—your hair tousled, skin flushed, lips swollen from his kisses. His thumb brushed gently under your eye, wiping away the last trace of tears.
“So good,” you rasped, voice hoarse and hazy with pleasure. “Perfect.” You cleared your throat softly, smiling up at him even as you still trembled.
Your skin was sweaty and sticky, but he didn’t care. He looked at you like you were beautiful in a way that hurt. You felt his knot soften slightly, his cock still half-hard inside you, and he pulled you closer, hands roaming lovingly over every inch of skin he could reach. He was still dazed too—still caught on how breathtaking you looked when you came apart for him… because of him.
Overwhelmed with affection, you cupped his cheeks in both hands, thumbs stroking softly over his flushed skin, and pulled him down into another kiss. This one was slow, tender, deep—full of emotion. Full of everything the two of you had been too afraid to say.
And that was how the rest of the night went. Tangled limbs, soft kisses, quiet nuzzles, Sylus’ warm hands tracing you like he never wanted to stop. Your purr-like little sighs when he holds you close, his low, satisfied rumbles when you melted into him. Intimate touches that weren’t rushed, weren’t desperate—just yours.
You felt loved. Safe. Claimed in the gentlest way. At home in his embrace.
Ship: Incubus!Sylus x Nun!Reader x Priest!Zayne
Warnings: MDNI, 18+ Content Ahead, AFAB!Reader, No Y/N, 2nd Person, Use of Sister as in the Nun way not the Sibling way
Content Warnings: religious guilt, shame and self hatred, shapeshifting Sylus, dubious consent, slight coercion, oral sex, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, corruption, threesome m-m-f, p-in-v sex, double penetration, double vaginal penetration, loss of virginity, overstimulation, creampies
Word Count: 12.5k
A/N: This is my first Love and Deepspace fanfic! I'm very happy with how it came out and I hope you all enjoy it as well! Thank you so much to my beta readers @swiminthunder and @azure-nevermore. Without them, this fic would be a grammatical mess
Taglist: @salbeitraeume @luvinbloom @stuck-in-deepspace @xlinxsworld @vanaaa @nightlyrayne
Cross Posted to AO3
You admired Father Zayne; felt respect towards him that you had seldom experienced before. He was well spoken and commanding, he took great pride in his work, and he made extraneous efforts to help his community. He wanted everyone to feel at home in the Lord’s flock, and even if his face stayed relatively stoic, you saw him for the caring man he was. Ever since he filled in for Father William after his unfortunate passing, you haven’t been able to focus on anything but him. He is well- spoken, and every service radiates the passion he has for his work. Nuns, priests, and churchgoers alike respect Father Zayne. You’ve even caught a couple of young women whispering about how handsome he is. Of course you playfully told them to keep their admirations to themselves lest someone hear. Though you had very little room to scold them for their proclivities.
While the members of your congregation are focused on the holy word that Father Zayne is preaching, all you can focus on is the man himself. His sharp features, angled nose, soft cupid’s bow, and intense gaze could put any angelic statue to shame. His hands, though often covered by pure white gloves, are deliciously veiny and large. The small bit of skin you are able to glimpse at through his vestments make you flustered in a way you’ve never experienced. You feel disgusted by your behavior; you are in a holy place, under the Lord’s roof, and yet you have such impure thoughts. Lusting over the man who is the town’s holy beacon while you have taken an oath to the Lord. You pray every night to rid yourself of these unclean thoughts, doing everything in your power to rid yourself of this sin. However, these thoughts that plague you come back stronger every day. It is to the point that you wonder if you should avoid Father Zayne unless you absolutely have to. Being in his presence alone feels like temptation that if you were to indulge in would force you down a path of no return.
You snap out of your thoughts as people around you rise for benediction. You scramble to stand and partake in the final blessing of the service, closing your eyes and allowing Father Zayne’s voice to fall over you.
“...The Lord bless and keep you; The Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you…Go in peace, Lord bless you all, and may you all get home safely.” Father Zayne’s voice echoed throughout the chapel as a choir of ‘amens’ rang in the air. You and your sisters gracefully escorted the members of your congregation to the front of the chapel, wishing them blessed good nights and safe travels.
Even as you spoke with the invigorated members of your church, your eyes couldn’t help but wander over to Father Zayne. You kept sneaking glances at the taller man in his vestments. A part of you felt like a broken record thinking about how handsome he was for another night in a row, but it didn’t make it any less true. As the last of the churchgoers left and your sisters began to trickle back into their dorm rooms for the night, you made your way over to Father Zayne.
“That was a wonderful sermon, Father Zayne, I always look forward to the passion you exude during the gospel,” You praise, trying to tone down how excited you are to be speaking to him yet again. His face remains stoic, but you think you saw a small twitch of a smile creeping up on his lips. You may be imagining things, but you like to hold onto the hope that he enjoyed the praise he was given.
“Thank you, Sister. I hope you have a good night, I must head back to my study before I turn in for the night,” Father Zayne spoke, nodding his head softly as he made his exit. You wave him goodbye and watch him turn the corner out of sight. You always wish you could have longer conversations with him, yearning to talk with him for hours on end, but that would be unbecoming of a nun. Your intentions with speaking with him aren’t entirely pure, after all. The thumping in your chest, the way your cheeks heat up when he’s around, and the way your hands get clammy are all signs of your impurity. Once again, you need to relinquish your sins to the Lord before bed.
The bright gleam of the moon shone throughout the church grounds. You held a lantern in hand as you made your way back to your living quarters. The air was cool but nice, especially against your flushed skin. You folded your sweater closer to your chest, following the dimly lit path of the hallway. Despite walking these halls every single day and night, something appeared different tonight. Almost as if something was watching you. You tried to shake it off and convince yourself you’re just being paranoid, but the weight just wouldn’t leave your shoulders. There were moments you swore you heard footsteps creeping up behind you, only for no one to be around. The feeling only intensified in your stomach as the temperature felt as if it had dropped. Your body shivered as you hurried your pace back to your room. Why did it feel as if the path to your dorm was taking even longer than usual?
“Oh sweetie, you look so pitiful,” A voice echoes out. You snap your head around to follow the voice that calls to you, but you’re met with an empty hallway. A chill runs down your spine and you feel your heart thump in your ears. Surely you weren’t hallucinating a voice speaking to you. What if this was the Lord himself speaking to you, just to call you pitiful? You’re not sure which one would be worse at this moment. After a couple of more moments of silence, you make your way back to your room. Slowly opening the door, you’re met with an empty room, and a sense of relief washes over you. You shut the door behind you and set the lantern onto the bedside table as you sit down on your bed. You kick off your shoes, ready to quell the ache that is pulsating in your feet, when you finally notice a figure standing in front of your door.
“W-Who are you?” You gasp, eyes widening as you look at the otherworldly being up and down. The figure easily towered over you, his body large, muscular and imposing. His facial features were sharp and dangerous, and his crimson eyes intimidated you as if they stared directly into your soul. Messy silver hair hung above his eyes, but all you could focus on were the two dark red horns that sprouted out of his skull.
“A-A demon? What are you doing here?” Your voice stuttered, in complete disbelief that a creature of sin was standing before you in your bedroom, let alone inside the church. Your hands shakily scramble to the rosary around your neck, jutting the copper crucifix towards the man in front of you.
“Sweetie, if that was enough to scorn me, do you really think I would’ve made it this far?” He scoffed, almost offended that you thought a little cross could deter him. Still, you didn’t let go of your hold on the cross despite your hands shaking in his presence. The warm and worn edges of your rosary seemed as if it was the only thing grounding you in this moment. A part of you wondered if you were dreaming, because in what world would a demon be residing in your room?
“I asked you what you’re doing here…What do you want?” You swallow hard trying to maintain any semblance of confidence you could muster. You couldn’t show this creature how weak and terrified you were. The man stepped towards you, looking closer at you as if he was examining you head to toe. You jolt slightly at his sudden movement, but determined to keep your resolve.
“You are shaking like a little kitten with her tail between her legs, yet you are still trying to act tough and bare your fangs.” A small smirk crept up on his lips as a small chuckle left his throat. “How cute.” The man’s tail swished behind him lazily, as if he was simply toying with some prey he had found outside.
“Are you not going to answer me?”
“If you must know, I followed a delicious scent in here.” He leaned closer to you until his face was hovering right above yours, his dark eyes possessing a certain hunger to them. “It beckoned me to come closer…to take a bite.” You pulled away and crawled to the middle of your bed. You didn’t understand what he was getting at, or maybe you didn’t want to admit you had an inkling.
“What are you saying?” Your eyes squinted at him as you pulled your knees to your chest. Sylus looked a bit unamused at your inability to understand.
“Must I spell everything out?” He sighed, shaking his head. He raised his hand towards you and you instinctively closed your eyes, afraid of what he might do next. Surprisingly, he flicks your forehead with his middle finger, earning a small yelp from you. “I’m Sylus. I am an Incubus, a demon that feeds on desires. And you, my dear, are swimming in them.”
A part of you sits in disbelief as you piece together his words. “Desires? Me? I think you’re sorely mistaken.” Sylus taps the tip of his beautifully chiselled nose and smirks.
“I think not. My nose never lies.”
“Well, it did this time!” You snap. Your face grows red as you lose your composure, but Sylus seems unaffected by the sudden outburst.
“If my nose suddenly went faulty, I might be in trouble,” He chuckled, crawling onto the bed closer to you. “You got defensive awfully fast…I believe there’s some feelings you have yet to come to terms with, Sister.” The demon gently touched your cheek with his fingers, his long nails trailing down to your throat.
“D-Don’t call me that. Your unholy mouth shall not refer to me by my name, or Sister. In fact, I think you need to leave.” Slapping his hand away, you scoot further back towards the headboard, keeping your rosary jutted out towards him. You weren’t going to relinquish your guard just yet.
This was nothing new to Sylus. Most humans were appalled at his arrival every time unless they were truly debaucherous. He rarely encountered a human that didn’t fight his very presence, but they always caved eventually.
“I’m not leaving until I have gotten my fill. You wouldn’t kick out a starving puppy would you, Kitten?” Your mouth hung agape as he laid onto your bed, lounging like he wasn’t an intruder in your bedchambers.
“It is a good thing that you are not a starving puppy. Besides, you will starve here as well. There’s nothing for you to feed on here, so please go elsewhere.” Despite how confident you try to sound, your voice wavers a bit at the end. Either way, he does not seem to be budging.
“As much as I would love to leave, Kitten, I do not have the strength to. I followed my nose here in order to feed but that took the last of my energy.” Your eyes watched his tail lazily swish behind him before flopping over like a limping flower as he spoke. A part of you knew not to believe such a farce of a story, he looked well put together, not like a demon starving for his next meal. You could not see any traces of dark circles, sunken cheeks, or frail limbs on him. In fact, his muscles were deliciously well defined, his face was strong and handsome, and his eyes were intoxicating and you sensed as if they were already trying to pull you in. As if he could see the wheels in your head turning, he spoke up.
“Usually I can leave undetected, but with an empty stomach, I cannot guarantee I won’t be seen leaving your room. And how do you suppose you would explain an incubus to your fellow nuns?” The thought terrified you and sent ice through your veins. Imagining waking up the next morning and escorting a sex pest out of your room through the halls of a holy sanctuary. Your fellow Sisters would croak, and Father Zayne…He would look at you with such disgust. He would discover the lustful thoughts you have about him, how you wish every day would come true and pray every night to go away. He would see you as unclean and filthy, and he would wonder why someone like you would even have been able to take an oath to begin with. Everything you’ve worked hard for in the past 4 years would all be for naught.
After a couple minutes of silently spiraling, you clear your throat to speak. “I cannot…indulge in the ways you need to be fed…But are there ways to feed you enough to where you can get enough strength to leave?”
“There aren’t.” You were afraid of that answer. To be honest, this was all making your head swim in directions you weren’t prepared for. It all made you feel trapped; if you let him stay then you ran the risk of being caught with a demon in your dorm, cast aside for being unclean and impure. However, if you fed him then wouldn’t you be just as perverse as him? Why must the Lord test you in these ways? Perhaps it truly was a punishment for your behavior as of late.
“I can see your thoughts swirling around, Sister. Perhaps you should sleep on it for the night.” He hummed, poking the spot between your eyebrows.
“I do not wish to sleep unguarded in a room with a sexual deviant.”
“Do not fret. I cannot do anything to you if you do not wish for it. I may be a deviant, but I’m not a monster.” While you could feel a little tension in your body release as he spoke, his words did little to soothe the storm that was swirling inside you. Thoughts of your reputation, plans on what to do if he were discovered, and the occasional thought of how sinfully handsome he looked all amalgamated together into a ferocious cloud in your mind. Frankly, the situation made you exhausted, and as much as you would like to figure out a solution right this second, you need to sleep.
Rubbing your temples, you sighed heavily. “For tonight, you may sleep in here. You must sleep on the floor and do not even ponder the idea of crawling into my bed or else-“
“Or else what, Kitten?”
“You have terrible manners. Did your mother never teach you to not interrupt when someone is speaking?” He shrugged, but motioned for you to continue. You were already exasperated, and the night wasn’t even over. “As I was saying, you must sleep on the floor. During the day, you may stay in here, but if anyone comes into this room, you must hide yourself. I can’t help you leave this place if you are caught. Any questions?”
“May a poor demon have a pillow? The floor is awfully hard, Kitten.” Before he could ask anything else, you tossed a spare pillow towards him.
“Good night. Do not disturb me.” You huff. Sylus did not respond after, only giving you a deep laugh, lying down on the cold floor for the night. He was excited for the game you two were going to play from now on.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
It had been a couple of days since you began harboring an incubus in your room. You were terrified of someone walking into your living quarters in the middle of the day and discovering your awful secret but it seems so far your secret was safe. In your free time, you attempted to do research on him in the library but alas, nothing came up in your search. Scanning through countless books you were unable to even find anything on incubi as well. It seems the Lord really was putting you between a rock and a hard place.
Hiding him in your room was weighing heavy on your conscience, you felt like you were living an even bigger lie than you originally had been dealing with. All you wanted to do was escape this situation unscathed and go back to normalcy but you had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Thankfully, despite his intimidating appearance, you come to realize Sylus was quite nice towards you. On days you would come back to your dorm after being on your feet all day, he would massage your sore feet and ankles. Taking his time to make sure all of the tension in your legs was gone before letting you sleep. He would tell you about what he saw out of the window that day; some days it was birds building a nest in the tree next to your window, others it was the cat that was roaming around the convent. He would make remarks about how plump the little feline is getting due to everyone spoiling him.
You never completely let your guard rest around him, wondering every time he was nice to you if it was just a ploy to defile you. He never pushed, though, which surprised you. You hated to admit it, but Sylus was growing on you a bit, even if you were still wary of him. While scripture had taught you about demons that lead you to temptation, you never expected the one that appeared at your door step would be kind or interested in watching animals outside your bedroom window. It was a very strange feeling, and you weren’t sure what to make of it.
Without realizing it, though, he had gotten you to talk about Father Zayne. It started out as vague mentions here and there of your daily duties, but it quickly evolved into long conversations about your intense admiration for the man. How he was extremely intelligent, a great leader, how his voice made your heart beat out of your chest, and how when he smiled at you you often wondered if you had gone to Heaven somehow. You were embarrassed to say these thoughts out loud; until now, they had been locked deep inside of you. It was freeing in a way to finally get it off your chest, but the heat on your face wouldn’t go away. Sylus said very few words and just let you speak your mind, but a smirk never left his face as you indulged in your feelings.
Long after you went to bed, he watched you carefully, observing the slow rise and fall of your chest. He had finally figured out the source of those desires that you had denied ever having. Even now through “innocent” chatter amongst you two, he could sense the desire you have for this man and how you’ve rebranded it as admiration. He couldn’t help but let out a low laugh, finding you completely and utterly adorable. Perhaps this meal was going to be even more delicious than he had initially planned for.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
It had been a long day of cleaning and organizing with your Sisters, lending your helping hand wherever you could. Thankfully after hours of hard work, you were finally done. As you began to make your way back to your dorm, you were stopped by Sister Simone.
“Ah! Before you head back, do you mind taking these files to Father Zayne? I was heading there but Mother Jenna needs my help.” Despite exhaustion beginning to set in your bones, you agreed. She handed you two large boxes of files, thanking you as she headed in the opposite direction. A part of you was excited to see Father Zayne. You hadn’t crossed his path in a few days, so this was a much welcome addition thrown your way. As you arrived at his office door, you set the boxes down for a moment as you knocked softly on the dark wood.
“Come in.” Zayne’s smooth voice echoed through the door. You opened the door slowly and was immediately met with a sight you weren’t prepared for. Absent were his normal vestments in favor of a white button up, rolled up to his elbows. The shirt fit him well but as he moved, you could see it taut against his chest giving you the faintest hint of how toned he was underneath the fabric. His usual swept back hair was a bit disheveled, and a sheen of sweat and a flush decorated his cheeks. At the tip of his nose sat a pair of wire glasses you never even knew he owned. You already thought he looked very handsome, but this was a completely different aura to him, one that you realized was dangerous to be near. Your heart began to ring in your ears, your hands grew clammy, and all you could do was stare in awe of this man crafted by the Lord himself.
“Is everything alright, Sister?” His voice snapped you out of a trance you didn’t register you were in. You blinked a couple of times, fumbling to get your words out.
“Ah! Y-Yes! Sorry Father, I was asked to drop these file boxes off to you.” You bent down and hoisted the boxes back up. “Where would you like me to put them?”
“Feel free to set them over there, next to that shelf. I will go through them in a moment.” He pointed to a corner of the room, resuming the task of organizing the papers he had in his hand. Placing the box where he said to, you finally took in your surroundings. His office was disheveled as boxes, file folders, papers, and scrolls littered every surface. It seems as if there’s a method to his madness, but you were unsure of what it was. Turning back to Zayne, you could see his brows stuck in a permanent furrow as he intensely read through the papers in his hand.
“Father Zayne…It’s already very late. Are you sure you don’t want to take a break for the night?” The man shook his head and let out a small sigh.
“Unfortunately, if I leave my office in the state that it is in now I will not be able to sleep.”
“Then…may I help you? If you were to do this alone, you will be here until dawn. It will be faster if it is the both of us.” Zayne looked up at you for a moment. He scanned the room around him as if he was pondering on what his next move should be.
“Very well… I appreciate the help, Sister.” With that, the two of you worked in tandem to clean up the storm that had been created in his chambers. While you worked, you both spoke about a variety of topics, such as sermons, events planned during the rest of the year, and the reasons why both of you chose the path of the Lord. You learned that after serving, Zayne had met Father William and that William took him under his wing. He made him realize that life wasn’t just war and bloodshed, but that there could be peace and stability through it all. He spoke of his own admiration for Father William, and the more he spoke you swore, you could see a twinkle in his eye. This was the longest you had ever got to be around Zayne, and you enjoyed your time together. How easy the conversation flowed, how being in each other’s spaces felt…right.
After putting away the final book on Father Zayne’s shelf, the two of you stood back to admire your work.
“I appreciate the help, Sister. It was nice to have some company while I worked.” He looked over at you, and for the first time all night, you’ve got to see his features up close. His mouth twitched up in a small, genuine smile, and his eyes were tired but grateful. You could feel a blush blooming onto your cheeks as you looked away.
“I-It was no trouble at all. I wouldn’t have been able to rest well either, knowing you were working here all night.”
“I will take care of the boxes in the morning. Go get some rest, Sister. And thank you again.” He opened the door for you and walked out behind you. Locking his door, he turned to walk away before stopping. He looked at you once last time and gave a small nod, “Good Night.”
“Good Night, Father Zayne.” And with that, you were now alone. The walk back to your dorm started out at a normal pace, but quickly grew more frantic the closer you got to your room. The heat that had burned your cheeks for the past few hours had crept down to your cunt. Your core throbbed, and your mind was flooded by thoughts of Father Zayne. The sweat glistening on his forehead, his button up stretching against the muscles you had never noticed, the scars that littered his deliciously toned forearms. How would his hands feel if they had traced your chaste body? Would the sweat still glimmer the same on his forehead if he were on top of you? What expressions would he make as the both of you committed the ultimate sin? Your head began to swim, unable to fight between shame and pure unadulterated lust.
Stepping into your dorm room, Sylus quickly sensed the intense arousal oozing out around you. Your pheromones were sickly sweet, desperate to be devoured. “What exciting adventure happened today to get you so worked up, Kitten?” He stepped towards you, and you practically threw yourself into Sylus’ arms. Your body ached and yearned to be touched. Fire coursed through your veins, and an unfamiliar heat lit up in your core. You grasped onto Sylus’ arm, face flushed and breath uneven as you looked into his crimson orbs.
“W-What are you doing to me?” You whispered. He smirked and lifted his hand up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“I’m not doing anything, everything you’re feeling right now…every ache, every fiery sensation…is your body yearning to be touched. You’re yearning to be devoured.” His voice faded into a whisper as he spoke his truth. He had no hand in the overwhelming feelings that were welling up inside of you; he was merely a spectator. “They were here long before I arrived.”
“What do I do about them? I-I’ve never felt this way prior to you...” Your mouth was as dry as cotton as you desperately cling to his arm. A part of you was scared, scared of what you were feeling, scared of what to do about it, and scared of what came after.
“I can help extinguish these flames, but only if you want me to. If you say yes, you’ll be giving up a part of your oath…a part of yourself.” His sultry voice called to you like a siren song as his lips softly caressed your jaw. Without realizing it you let out a small gasp, the small bit of contact making the ache explode in your chest. Your eyes shut as you relished in the small bit of ecstasy. You knew you needed to say no, you needed to stay pure for the Lord, for your faith, for Zayne…but you were running out of reasons to say no to this silver haired seductress. He lied in wait for your consent, you held all the power in this situation…but you never felt more out of control in your whole life.
As you weighed the morality of your options in your head, his lips never left your jaw, painstakingly painting a trail of fire from your ear to your collar bones. Your resolve was quickly melting away, and you were struggling to keep your head on your shoulders. Your eyes fluttered open to see dark hair brush against you, and hazel eyes gazing at you with that familiar hunger.
“Sister…I see how you look at me. How you look away when I meet your gaze. I wish to see more of you, to see expressions that are locked away from others. Please, won’t you grant me this one selfish wish? Won’t you let me help you?” The voice that came out of his mouth was not Sylus’ smooth and seductive tone that you had grown accustomed to, but the soft, professional voice that echoed in the chapel every service. The face that greeted you every morning when you came to do your daily chores. The man you have yearned for every single day now in your bedroom, here to fulfil the one lustful dream that has plagued you.
“Please…” in a way you felt betrayed by your own words. How much longer were you going to keep fighting this feeling, these sinful urges? With your aching words, Zayne immediately got to work, small whimpers left your lips as each article of clothing made its way unceremoniously to the hardwood floor. You covered your eyes with your hands as you laid close to the man of your affections, in nothing but a set of white cotton. Embarrassment crept into your skin, the cool air brushed against your bare skin. He brushed the tips of his fingers along the hem of your bra, tracing the fabric that laid upon your ribs gently.
“May I?” He whispered. You bit your lip softly and nodded. Sliding his hands to your back, he unclasped the back of your bra and slid it off your body. Heat welled up in your face as his piercing gaze focused on your breasts.
“Mmn!” A small whimper slipping its way past your lips as his hands squeezed the plump flesh of your breasts. He fondled them carefully, taking his time in feeling the weight spill into his fingers. He dragged the pad of his thumb along your perky nipples, rubbing small circles on the nub. Each movement of his thumb sent waves of electricity through your body. It was such a simple gesture, yet your body temperature was already heating up.
With a hungry gaze, Zayne leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the soft skin. You didn’t dare look at him, shutting your eyes tightly as you focused on his tongue exploring your tender breasts. His hot breath tickled you as he lapped at your flesh. The sensation of his lips grazed your skin while his tongue claimed you made your head spin.
“Sister…” Zayne’s voice whispered, “Please look at me.” You obediently followed his request and slowly opened your eyes. You moved your hands slowly as Zayne grabbed them gently and pulled them away from your face.
“S-Sylus…This is embarrassing…” You whimpered, averting your gaze a little. You couldn’t handle those strict hazel eyes looking at you, not when you were exposed like this. Not when laid bare with all of your desires on the table.
“I do not appreciate being called another man’s name, Sister.” He said, a small look of irritation tightening his features. “I know you know what my name is, say it.” He ordered. His gaze seared into your skin, his eyes never leaving yours even as you attempted to swallow away the shame that you couldn’t shake off.
“F-Father Zayne…” You uttered.
“Good girl…” He softly smiled, bringing your hands to his lips and kissing your knuckles gently. “Now, please watch me Sister. Do not tear your gaze from me.” You nodded softly as he tucked your hands beside you. He quickly nestled himself in between your breasts, taking the other nipple into his mouth and giving it the much needed attention it yearned for. Your other one was not neglected, however, as his fingers flicked and tugged on the protruding buds.
“A-Ah~! Father!” You whined, moving your palms back to your mouth in attempt to muffle any sinful noises that dared to escape your lips. It was only while watching Father Zayne’s hands explore your chest that you realized just how large his hands were. They easily engulfed your chest, massaging the flesh in his palm. He grazed your nipple with his teeth gently, sliding the erect nub between his tongue and teeth. He soon pulled away reluctantly. He loved the idea of spending all night suckling at your breasts until sunrise came, but he was here to feed after all. He craved the arousal that you’ve been oozing since the day he stepped into the convent. He could be roaming the city having a meal every night, but he preferred to work for his food. The harder he worked, the more delicious the bounty in the end. And what could be more delicious than a sexually repressed nun drowning in desires? Now that he has you beneath him, he was ready to finally taste the sweetness that had been teasing him for days now.
His hands travelled from your ribs, to your stomach, to the hem of your underwear that sat firmly on your hips. He thumbed the band of the underwear, looking up at you with silent instruction. Your hips raised slightly to allow Zayne to slide your underwear off with ease. Adding to the list of discarded clothes, he took in your form; memorizing the way your skin flushed with arousal and embarrassment, the small curves of your body, the small tufts of hair that settled between your thighs, and how every touch made you ache for more.
Zayne leaned down and settled himself between your legs, his breath tickling the inside of your thighs. He trailed his fingers along your soft curls, brushing them gently between his digits and spreading open your folds to inspect your eager hole. Once again you wanted to hide away, to crawl into a hole and perish. Every time you sensed the urge to close yourself away, you looked down at Father Zayne’s yearning gaze. You’ve dreamt about him begging to touch you, to taste you, and now you finally have everything you’ve dreamed about handed to you on a silver platter. Sure, it’s not the real him, but you never expected the real him to show up in your bedchambers anyway. You never expected anything from him, not even the greetings he returns when you speak to him every morning. You keep telling yourself you’re happy with the little he gives you, but in this moment, you realize truly how much you crave from this man. He would never stoop so low as to ruin his holiness for a simple nun, and you wouldn’t want him to anyway. If you’re going to cross into the world of sin and debauchery, you want to leave him unscathed.
You snapped out of your thoughts once you sensed something warm pressing against your folds. Looking down, you see Zayne’s tongue lay flat on your lips, licking long strides up your sensitive slit until he flicks your clit with the very tip of his tongue. Your voice hitched and you immediately slap your hands against your mouth once more.
“It’s a shame…I desperately want to hear your moans, but it would be quite the predicament if we were caught.” Zayne sighed, almost disappointed. Nevertheless, he continued lightly teasing your pussy, his tongue carefully mapping out a trail of desire. You slid one of your hands to his hair, startled by just how soft his dark locks were at your fingertips. If you weren’t in the predicament you were in, you could spend all day just running your fingers through his hair. You imagined his head laying on your chest, moving in tandem with the rise and fall of your chest as you played with his hair. Somehow this was more intimate than anything that was to come.
You watched as he snaked his hands around your thighs, squeezing the soft and silky flesh before wrapping his mouth around your core. He began to lap at your cunt like a man starved, devouring you as if you were his last meal on earth. Your hips threatened to lift off of the bed, but he tightened his grip on you to make sure you couldn’t run away. You whimpered and moan against the palm of your hand, terrified of any sound leaking through your fingers as he mercilessly attacked your pussy. Wrapping his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves, he began to suckle on your clit messily.
“Ngnn~!” Your voice hitched. Keeping your voice lowered was impossible at this rate, but you had to, or else you would alert the sleeping sisters next door. Panting and moaning into your palm, you tried to steady yourself, but it was almost as if Zayne was doing everything in his power to get you to squeal. He was determined to make you utterly lose control and dive head first into passion and lust. You felt his finger prod your tight hole, slowly pushing inside of you. Your tight walls clamped around him, the foreign protrusion sending shock waves through your body. You wriggled in his tight grip, unable to handle this sudden onslaught of pleasure. You never experienced anything like this, anything so intense, so overstimulating, so addicting.
“Let me in Sister…Let me give you the full extent of pleasure possible.” Zayne gasped, his mouth sticky with your juices. Slowly thrusting his finger inside of you, he looked up at you with pleading eyes to let him in. It was so hard though, you never had anything like his thick finger trying to curl inside of you. It was overwhelming to feel your most sensitive spots being rubbed by his calloused fingers.
“I-I…ngnnn~ I can’t Father!” Your voice flutters, choking the words out between moans.
“Yes, you can. You’re already taking me so well. I know she wants me to fill her up more.” Zayne begged, making his middle finger speed up inside of you. He was enthralled by how you pulsated around him, how your juices dripped into his palm, and how your cunt echoed sloppy wet noises in your room. If you two weren’t condemned to be quiet, he would be relishing every moan you could give him like it was a symphony created for him alone.
Eventually, you were loose enough for Zayne to slip in a second finger, stretching your cunt slightly more but it felt like such a big leap. It wasn’t very large, but you already throbbed like you were filled to the brim. You weren’t sure how much more you could take. Pleasure was pooling in your stomach and you wondered if you were going to burst like a balloon. You gripped his hair harder as he continued to drive you closer and closer to orgasm, earning a groan from Zayne. He took this as his sign to try harder, speeding up his fingers, curling them deep inside and lapping at your clit with a desperation he’s never had previously. Your thighs trembled in his grip and your hips began to grind into his mouth, rutting against him. You were close, and he could feel it. How was he able to somehow press every button to nudge you closer to release? You knew he was a sex demon, but it was unnatural for him to know every single thing that made you tick.
“Z-Zayne I-” You whimpered, fisting his hair and holding his face close to your throbbing cunt. “I feel weird~! I- haah~ I-I! Ngnn!” You moan, your eyes rolling back as your back arches off the bed. The room became blurry as you nearly screamed into the palm of your hand. Unknowingly, you achieved your first orgasm and Sylus was there happily lapping up every drop of juice you bestowed upon him. By the time you regained your senses, the familiar silver haired devil was between your legs, lapping at your cum that drenched his fingers.
“You’re intoxicatingly sweet~” He cooed. “I knew I had a delicious meal waiting for me, and you are by far the most delicious,” Sylus hummed, planting chaste kisses to your inner thighs. His own body was energized and powerful, enjoying the delectable meal that had been given to him. Your sickly sweet essence courses through his veins, a delightful feeling after going hungry for some time.
Your body grew heavy with exhaustion as he cleaned you up, grabbing a rag from your drawer to wipe the mess away from your thighs. You were surprised at how gentle he was, rubbing the cloth on your fevered skin as if you were a delicate piece of glass that would break if he pressed too hard. A startling juxtaposition to the intense actions that just concluded moments ago.
“I…I don’t…” You stuttered, trying to wrap your head around what happened. “What…was that?”
A deep laugh reverberated in Sylus’ chest as he finished wiping your body down and pulling the blanket out from under you. “Congratulations, you experienced your first orgasm. This is the pleasure they warn you about, Kitten, the whole reason they want you to live a life of chastity…If you had intense pleasure like this every day, it’s hard to focus on the word of the Lord, is it not?” You nodded sleepily, not completely registering Sylus’ words. He tucked you in and laid next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Sleep now. You did well, Kitten.” He whispered, his soothing deep voice lulling you to sleep.
The next morning you were quick to try and hide the evidence of your wrongdoings, but you noticed that Sylus had already done the work for you. All except a much needed bath. You kept your head low for the day, head in the clouds as you fought between the shame and guilt you felt for breaking your oath to the Lord and the burning passion that seemed to only ignite further due to last night’s activities. You had been taught your whole life to detest any lustful feelings and thoughts, that they were unholy and unclean. And yet, indulging in them sparked a thrill and a sense of freedom that you had never thought possible. Perhaps that was what made you feel so ashamed in the first place, that you enjoyed it and yearned for more. You should feel more regret for your actions, for walking into the dark side, but Lord, you were invigorated.
You had been standing in place for a while without realizing it, your mind wandering with each thought. You were only brought back to reality with a tap on your shoulder. You turned around and was met with the concerned face of Sister Tara.
“Are you alright? You’ve been standing here for quite some time,” She asked, worry plaguing her features. You smiled softly at her and brushed away any concern.
“Yes I’m quite alright. I just had a bit of trouble sleeping last night,” You uttered, resuming your task of sweeping up the leaves from the courtyard.
“Maybe you should go get some rest? I can take over your duties if you’re not feeling well,” Tara said.
“I appreciate the offer, Sister, but I’m quite alright. I fear I would just be sitting on the bed staring at the ceiling if I were to lie down at this hour.” You chuckled, but your words did little to make Tara feel better.
“Alright…” Sister Tara was unconvinced, but did little to press you further, “If you change your mind, come find me and I will take over for you.” She smiled, making her way back inside. You hated lying to her, she’s always been so sweet to you. The both of you joined the convent at around the same time and have been close since then. It always comforted you to have someone close to you in age here. It helped make you feel less alone and you know that she matched your same thoughts and energy. You wonder how she’d react knowing the reason you didn’t sleep well was because you were having sexual exploits with a demon you have holed up in your living quarters. Poor thing might croak at the revelation.
Despite refusing Tara’s offer, your attention span didn’t get much better. You bumped into the other nuns, stumbled over your own two feet, ran into walls and pillars, and even broke a plate during meal time. You were a complete and utter wreck. It had been years since you were scolded by Mother Jenna but yet here you are, being lectured as if you were a newcomer.
“I’m sorry Mother…” you uttered, unable to meet her intense expression.
“Take this plate and reflect on your actions today. You may get up once everyone has finished their meals.” Jenna ordered, handing you the two largest halves of the broken plate. You nodded obediently and made your way to the corner of the refectory, kneeling with plate in hand and began to pray. You prayed for forgiveness for breaking the plate, for allowing temptation to latch itself into your veins, and indulging in them in a place so sacred. How can you ask for forgiveness for a plate when you have something more heinous looming over your head? You weren’t even sure you deserved it.
At that night’s sermon, you could barely look at Father Zayne as he spoke. Every glance you managed to sneak in just reminded you of the filthy actions you committed the night prior. You couldn’t bear to keep having those thoughts in the Lord’s house, to be filled with lust while sitting in the pews next to your sisters was blasphemous. You opted to just keep your face to the Bible in your hands, pretending to follow along with the scripture. Before you knew it, the service was over and your Sisters were already heading towards the doors to help see everyone off for the night. You put on a brave face and wished everyone safe travels and thanked them for their continued attendance.
Father Zayne had noticed your lack of usual spark and enthusiasm. Without realizing it, he had grown accustomed to you finding him after each service to tell him what you enjoyed about each one. He would notice the light in your eyes as you spoke and the eventual redness that would dust your cheeks as he gave you well wishes for a good night. However, tonight you had barely looked at him during service, and even now, you began to make your way back to your living quarters without so much as even acknowledging his presence. For a man in his position, it would have just been better to leave you alone, but something gnawed at him from deep inside his stomach. Before you were able to leave the chapel completely, he called out to you. “Sister!”
You slowly turned around to face him, the familiar redness on your cheeks still present even as you acted uncharacteristically. He caught up to you and examined your features. Thankfully, you still had color to your face, and he didn’t see any dark circles or hollowed out cheeks. The only thing he could notice was some turbulence that sat behind your eyes, as if your mind had been a storm for quite some time.
“My apologies for calling out to you, but I wanted to make sure you were okay. You don’t seem like yourself right now. Is there anything troubling you, Sister?” He spoke, worry furrowing itself between his brows. You hated making him fret over you or your silly chaotic thoughts, but a part of you couldn’t help but relish in the fact that for once he sought you out and not the other way around. It didn’t help the complicated feelings that circled in your chest.
“I’m quite alright, Father.” You smiled softly, not quite meeting his gaze. “My sleep was a bit perturbed last night so I have felt under the weather. I appreciate you asking about me, but I think I will turn in early for the night.” And with that, you quickly turned to head back to your bedroom.
“Good night.” He managed to choke out as you walked away. It had reached you but you couldn’t react, not now. He wasn’t satisfied with the answer, and he knew he shouldn’t press but, something just wasn’t quite right. He watched you turn the corner out of his sight. He began to turn away himself, but then he noticed a shadow following you. At first he wanted to chalk it up to your own, but the way it moved was unnatural. His jaw tightened as he pondered on what to do, but either way he wanted to get to the bottom of it.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
Back in your room, Sylus lounged on your bed as he perked up a bit at your arrival. His normally bored expression grew relaxed as he watched your frame shuffle into the cramped dorm room.
“There you are, Kitten. I was wondering if you were ever going to make your way back here,” He cooed, his tail swishing behind him. It reminded you of a cat in a way, the way their tails move back and forth when they’re stalking their prey.
“It’s Sister…” you grumbled, sitting down on the bed. He scooted closer to you, arm snaking around your waist as he rested his head on your shoulder.
“You look tense…Do you need me to take care of you again?” He planted a chaste kiss to your jaw as his free hand began to roam your torso. You scrunch up your face and nudge his face with your palm.
“You are the reason why I am tense. You’ve ruined everything.” You sigh, continuing your gaze upon the hardwood floor beneath your feet.
“Oh? Do tell,” He hummed, pulling you into his lap. As much as you wanted to yell, to push him off of you and give him a piece of your mind, you don’t have the strength. You were the one who fell into temptation; he was simply just someone who dished it out.
“Before you came here I was living a normal life…I was perfectly content with my life here, with talking with my Sisters…with Father Zayne. Now, I can’t look any of them in the eye. I’m ashamed of what I’ve done, ashamed I’ve let myself be tempted by a demon and let him lounge in my bed as if he’s a pet. I should’ve screamed and fought you when I first saw you…I hate you…” Your voice trails off near the end, not even having the heart to finish your sentence. Sylus remains unfazed by this, nuzzling his face against your cheek.
“Mmm…But you didn’t,” He simply stated. “I think you are coming to terms with the reality that you haven’t been as pure as you thought. That these lustful feelings have been swirling around in you for some time now, and that whether I was here or not, they were going to swallow you up eventually,” Sylus spoke matter of factly, as if he had witnessed this exact scenario a thousand times.
“I feel like I’m being torn apart. I’m plagued by my guilt of betraying the Lord and disgust of letting myself be tainted…but then I’m also wrestling with my thoughts on how good it felt, how free and euphoric my body was all at once. I can’t decide what to do, and it’s troubling me…” You admit, voicing your concerns. It’s strange, confessing your sins to a demon in your bedroom rather than to a priest in a confessional. Your chest was a bit lighter getting this off of your chest but it didn’t solve the situation.
“Who said you have to choose right now? You’re putting so much pressure on yourself to decide, when you can just focus on feeling…” He planted a small kiss on your neck. “I can do all the thinking for you right now.” His whispers were so tempting. His hands slid to the edge of your skirt, sliding his hand ever so slowly up the side of your thigh. You felt like you should fight against this but, remembering the freedom you experienced last night, you didn’t dare. Maybe having a demon do your thinking for you as he fondled your body in every right way wasn’t such a bad idea. Before you could react, the door to your room swung open. You jolted in Sylus’ grip as you realized the unwelcome guest was Father Zayne himself, but, Sylus seemed completely unfazed.
“Father Zayne? What are you doing here?” You gasp, wriggling in Sylus’ grip to make him let you go. However, he seems to only tighten his hold on you, leaving you plastered to him.
“Sister…” The shock in his voice was evident to you. His face scrunched slightly as he examined what was laid out in front of him. He saw the fear and embarrassment in your features, the small tears in your eyes as you attempted to wriggle out of the demon’s grip. As he turned to Sylus, his gaze darkened and anger flooded his senses. “You are not welcome here. Leave at once.”
Sylus continued to remain unaffected by just getting caught. To him, he had no qualms in being caught, he didn’t have years of religious training to keep him on the straight and narrow. He was a creature forged by chaos and lust, determined to create chaos wherever he went. Crosses and scripture written by man had no bearing on him and did not frighten him. If he stood, he would tower over the young priest, and could absolutely crush him in a test of strengths. “Oh no, it seems we’ve been caught. What a shame, I was hoping to have a little bit more fun before someone came and ruined it.”
You continued to struggle in Sylus’ arms, panic settling into your bones as your mind swam. How could you even begin to explain this to the one man you never wanted to find out? That a demon was here because you let him in and had refused to shoo him away this entire time. “F-Father please…I can explain…” Your voice came out more feeble than you were expecting. Terrified of what would happen next, you refused to look up at Zayne. Would he be disgusted? Ashamed? You wouldn’t blame him for reacting that way, heavens know you would if you were in his shoes.
As he watched you struggle in the demon’s arms, he couldn’t help but squeeze his fists and tighten his jaw. After Father William’s passing, he became incredibly lonely, losing the only mentor he had and the only person he had any closeness with. When his duties were passed to him, he of course wanted to do right by the man who brought him up from darkness, but he didn’t expect to find a light in this small church. At first, he was unused to the casual greetings and kindness you showed him, but slowly he began to open up. He noticed the blush that would spread across your face when he was near and how you stuttered more around him. You, however, didn’t notice the soft glances Father Zayne directed towards you. How he would always stop when you called his name, no matter what he was doing. Even if he couldn’t talk long, he would spare the time, no exceptions. Now seeing you enraptured by this incubi made him wonder if he did something wrong. If he didn’t express his gratitude and feelings towards you soon enough that you fell right into the arms of a predator.
“You should be ashamed for attacking an innocent nun, you foul beast. Though I should not expect someone of your standing to have standards.” Zayne spat, his dark expression never leaving Sylus’.
“Innocent? I think our Sister here is a bit less innocent than you may think, Father.” A deep laugh vibrated against your back as Sylus’ free hand roamed up to the hem of your skirt. He gripped the fabric in his fist and ripped it off with ease. Your panties had also been a victim to his brute strength, leaving you bare in front of the man you looked up to. “Kitten, you wound me. Last night you were melting underneath my touch, but tonight, you act as if I am a nuisance. That’s not very nice.” Sylus feigned a wounded tone. Sylus’ large hands held your legs open, exposing your bare cunt to the Zayne. You couldn’t even look up at Zayne, you were humiliated to your core. You tried to use a free hand to cover yourself but it did little to shield your arousal. Zayne’s jaw tightened at the scene before him. He shouldn’t be indulging in this demon’s game, yet here he was, enticed by your hole fluttering around nothing and dripping onto the sheets beneath your bottom. Your feeble attempts to hide it also did not go unnoticed.
Your eyes stayed tightly shut as you attempted to free yourself once more. You couldn’t let Father Zayne be taken down this path of debauchery. If he leaves now, he can pretend he never saw anything, taking plausible deniability. You can leave the convent tonight, run away taking no more casualties and never look back.
“Please Father Zayne…leave…” You whimper, small tears running down your cheeks. Sylus never broke his gaze directed towards Zayne. He watched as the holy man struggled to keep himself composed. His mouth was clenched together tightly, his face and ears were dusted with a pretty pink, and his priestly robes were doing little to hide the growing erection in his pants.
“Father, you are feeling some impure thoughts yourself, are you not?” Sylus hummed, the vibration of his voice tickling your back. He relished in the sweet smell of your and Zayne’s arousal mixing together in the room, working in tandem with one another to create a sickly sweet scent that he was growing obsessed with. Sylus slid one of his hands to your throbbing core, easily sliding his fingers through your slick. You couldn’t hold back a small yelp from slipping past your lips. You wriggled in Sylus’ grip, trying to fight your hips jutting forward as he lazily traced circles around your clit. His fingers barely moved around your plump lips, and already your wetness was echoing in the room for the both of them to hear.
Zayne stood frozen as he watched you become a plaything for Sylus. He focused on Sylus’ fingers swirling around your swollen bud, and your body twitching with every fragment of stimulation. You tried so hard to hold back any moans from escaping your lips, but your body reacted on its own. Every small jerk of your hips, every soft whimper you let out, and the beautiful look on your flushed face fueled his jealousy. He wasn’t angry you were committing an atrocious sin, he was upset because another man was making you feel this way. He should be the one to be making you writhe in ecstasy. “Are you sure you don’t want a taste, Father? I can attest that she’s quite delicious.” He smirked.
Zayne’s resolve finally snapped, hearing about this demon taking a taste for himself felt like the final straw. Moving closer to you he dropped to his knees, shooting a glare to Sylus before inspecting your dripping core. While Sylus’ hands went back to holding you wide open, Zayne’s gloved hands pressed into your inner thighs as he inched his face closer. His hot breath tickled your folds as he examined your glistening pussy up close. Your gaze flew open, you watched as Zayne leaned forward and placed his lips onto your cunt. Did your eyes deceive you? Was this another one of Sylus’ illusions?
“F-Father Zayne what are you-” You squeak, your voice quickly evolving into moans as his tongue dragged along your folds. You threw your body against Sylus’ large chest, gripping his forearm with an iron grip as you watched Zayne carefully. His approach to eating you out was a lot more awkward than Sylus’, but Lord, did it still feel amazing. A part of you kept waiting for you to snap awake and this all be a dream, a terribly horny dream, but it never did. Rather than having some farce imitation please you like the night prior, here was the real man pleasuring you. The real Zayne was between your legs, lapping at your sex with a hunger that you never thought would cross the young priest’s mind.
His thumb snaked up and pressed against your clit as he focused on pushing his tongue into your tight hole. Small groans left his lips every time your hole clenched around his tongue and it only encouraged him to please you more. He was going to be damned if a sex demon could please you better than he could. Your back arched and your hand made its way down to his dark locks, tightening your grip on them as if trying to tether yourself to reality. Sylus focused on nipping and kissing your neck and shoulders, leaving a trail of marks without care. He didn’t intervene just yet but still wanted to make his presence known. The mix of pheromones in the room was intoxicating to him, making his body burn with a hunger he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. He knew by the end of the night, he was going to be well fed for many moons to come.
For a moment, Zayne pulled his mouth away and looked up at you. His fingers lazily traced the outside of your hole, watching it twitch and beg to be filled. “Are you feeling alright, Sister?” You shakily nod, only being able to muster out a few whimpers.
“I think our dear Priest deserves a proper answer, don’t you think?” Sylus cupped your jaw and forced you to look at Zayne. “Go on…”
“I-It feels…s-so good!” You pant. “P-Please…don’t stop.”
“Well, don’t keep the lady waiting.” Sylus asserted. Zayne obediently followed his command and slipped two fingers into your throbbing pussy. You yelped in pleasure as you felt them slip inside. After spending months of looking at Father Zayne’s hands, you knew his fingers were beautifully long and thick, but you never thought you’d get to feel them nestled deep inside you. They were even bigger than you had imagined, hitting every sensitive spot inside of you as if his fingers were made for your pussy. He laid his tongue flat against your clit once more, wrapping his lips around the sensitive nub. He suckled and swirled the tip of his tongue against it while thrusting his fingers slowly. Zayne began to realize how intoxicating this orchestra of noises that bellowed out of you were. They were more melodic than any record or choir he had ever heard. He had only just dipped his toes into temptation and was already jumping head first into the deep end.
As much as Sylus enjoyed watching the two of you play around, he was eager to have his own as well. Letting Zayne hold one of your thighs, he snaked his free hand up to one of your plump breasts. He groped the weight of it in his palm before rubbing the sensitive nub between two of his fingers. Electricity was coursing through your veins with every touch the two men gave you. Zayne’s fingers curled deep inside of you, rubbing against your most sensitive spot, causing your hips to shoot up off of Sylus’ lap. He methodically prodded against your g-spot and you already thought you were going to see heaven. Zayne was bringing you closer to orgasm with each second and Sylus was only adding fuel to the fire.
“Mmm…Don’t run from it, Kitten…Remember how good it felt last night? Why not show that same courtesy to your favorite priest? I’m positive he’s dying to see your blissed-out expression.” Sylus whispered, nuzzling his nose against your earlobe. Your hands latched onto whatever it could to ground you in this moment, opting to have one hand on Sylus’ forearm and your other fisted in Father Zayne’s hair.
“I-I~! Oh God~!” Unable to warn either of them, your body convulsed with pleasure, moans echoing out of you haphazardly. Looking at you, Zayne couldn’t believe his eyes. You were absolutely stunning as your face contorted with pleasure. He had been blessed to witness many beauties in life; breathtaking scenery, magnificent artwork, miracles performed in front of him, but yet they all paled in comparison to the flushed expression on your features. He thought back to all of the small smiles you had given him, the redness sprouting on your cheeks and the tip of your nose when you got embarrassed, the few times your hands bumped earlier while cleaning, and suddenly his greed consumed him. He wanted all of those things, he wanted more. He wanted to be the one who made you cum like this and moan his name, not some demon.
“Good girl…” Zayne whispered, standing up and pressing your lips together. His soft lips passionately danced with yours, your tongues quickly crashing against each other. Despite the sexual deviancy that you had grown accustomed to over the past two days, your heart couldn’t help but thump against your ribcage as you realized that Father Zayne was your first kiss. It was heated, passionate, and loving. Surely it wasn’t as innocent as you had envisioned but, God, did it satisfy you all the same.
He pulled away from your lips with nothing but a string of saliva connecting you two. You panted and collapsed against Sylus’ broad chest. Sylus rubbed between your legs, feeling your body jolt at the sudden stimulation.
“We’re not done yet, Kitten. It’s bad manners to cum without saying thank you.” He gripped your chin and forced you to look up at Zayne, eyes hazy from pleasure.
“T-Thank you…Zayne…” Your voice was soft and pliant, already tired from the intense orgasm.
“Mmm, good girl. Now don’t you think it’s time you return the favor?” Zayne was quick to interject.
“No. She doesn’t have to do more than necessary. She needs to rest.”
“Noble words for a man straining the stitches in his trousers.” You couldn’t help but follow your eyes down Zayne’s torso and notice the painful erection pressing up against his belt, practically begging to be released. You swallowed hard and moved your hand to your slick folds.
“It’s okay Zayne. I want you to feel good too.” You look up at him with sweet doe eyes, your gaze making his heart flip in his chest. He wanted to argue, to whisk you away to his chambers away from Sylus and let you rest but…how could he say no to you begging so nicely?
“I will continue, only if you promise to tell me if it’s too much. I do not wish to hurt you.” He cleared his throat. A small smile graced your lips as you nodded.
“Okay…” Zayne unbuckled his belt and freed himself from his trousers, his thick, throbbing cock springing free. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was in the presence of a sex demon or that you were just that sinfully erotic, but he had never experienced an erection this strong in his life. He quickly positioned himself in between your legs, rubbing the swollen tip against your puffy cunt. He could hardly stifle a groan as he realized just how drenched you were against him. He continued to rock his hips against you, frotting his tip against your already sensitive bud.
“Please Zayne…” You whimpered, pulling him closer to you. “Put it inside, I c-can’t wait any longer!” How could he resist a siren call like that? Without a word, he began to push himself inside. Your moans synchronized with his as his cock stretched your tight hole. Once he got the tip in, he stalled waiting for your body to adjust. Though it felt like a test of patience to not push himself fully inside, he would never forgive himself if he hurt you. When he took a vow of chastity he thought he could live without sex, but now he would be a broken man if he died without knowing what it was like to have your walls clench around him.
As noble as his intentions were, you were too impatient to appreciate it. You began to rock your hips against his, slowly inching his cock deeper inside of you. “Zayne please~! I need your dick as deep as it will go.” You couldn’t stop the filth from leaving your mouth. Your body ached and burned for him, you needed that tip to slap against your cervix until you couldn’t walk straight.
“But I don’t want to h-” Zayne struggled to compose a sentence, too enamored by the heat enveloping his throbbing member.
“You won’t hurt her. She’s ready to take your cock, Father. Don’t leave her waiting…or else I might have to show you how you’re supposed to fuck her.” Sylus prodded at Zayne. He could see the irritation spark on his face and with the jumpstart he needed, he slammed the rest of his cock into you. Your voice cried out as he began to thrust, giving you the unrelenting friction you so desperately needed.
“F-Fuck~! Yes…Nnn-yes~!” Your moans warbled out of your throat, your body finally melting into Sylus’ chest. Sylus’ hands never stopped playing with your breasts, teasing and tugging on the tender nubs. He loved watching your breasts bounce with each thrust, it made his own cock stir in his pants. His thick fingers moved to your cunt, and soon he began to shower your tiny bundle of nerves in attention. As Zayne thrusted inside of you, his fingers circled around your overstimulated clit, giving you a dual sensation you couldn’t fathom. “Oh Gods~! Fuck~!”
“Mmm…That’s it, Kitten. Just focus on our touch.” Sylus muttered, planting kisses against your exposed neck. Zayne’s thrusts grew more erratic as he could feel himself edging closer to climax. Any semblance of composure he walked in with was thrown out the window the second his cock was completely engulfed by you. His hands gripped the bedsheets underneath you until his knuckles turned white, tethering himself to this world as he pounded into you. Without either of you realizing it, Sylus had freed his own massive cock, hissing at the cool air brushing against his warm skin. “Ease up for a moment, Father. I think it’s fair that I get a turn as well. After all, I brought you two together.”
Zayne glared at Sylus, the displeasure etched deep into his face at the thought of sharing you with him. Even if he was correct, Zayne finally wanted to be selfish for once in his life and wanted to keep you all to himself. Sylus realized he wasn’t going to budge and could only chuckle at how much of an open book the priest was.
“Fine, have it your way.” Sylus nudged the tip of his cock against your already stuffed entrance, knocking you out of your fucked out trance.
“W-Wait…There’s no w-way I can fit both of you…” You whined, grabbing onto Sylus’ forearm once again.
“Trust me, Kitten. Just take a deep breath for me.” Before you could protest any further, you could feel the tip of his cock pushing into you. Zayne slowed down for a moment and Sylus took this opportunity to pop it inside. Both you and Zayne hissed from the pressure, feeling it in drastically different but equally delicious ways. The extra sensation of feeling full and the slight burn from the stretch made your legs shake and feeling the tip of Sylus’ cock rub against the bottom of his own had Zayne stifling a moan.
“Y-You…” Zayne uttered, trying to fight back against this intrusion but couldn’t deny how good it felt. He could feel every pulse in your pussy that much better, and the extra stimulation was just a bonus. Once he confirmed there was no pain or discomfort on your face, the tension in his shoulders ease. “Forgive me, Sister. I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself composed.”
“Then d-don’t be…” You whisper, pulling him closer towards you to crash your lips against him. His thrusts resumed after tasting your tongue against his, moving in synchrony with Sylus’ cock. When Zayne thrusted deep inside you, Sylus would wait to push his cock deeper once Zayne pulled back. The constant friction pummelling against your g-spot was a sensation you had never even heard or thought about. It was intoxicating. You moved your hand up from Sylus’ forearm to his hair, gripping it tight in your fist. The action caused him to groan in your ear, his hot breath tickling your neck. Your toes began to curl and your legs began to shake, letting all three of you know just how close you were to reaching your peak.
“I-I’m gonna c-cum~! I can’t hold it!” You cried out, volume control long abandoned.
“Let go for us, Sister.”
“Cum all over our cocks, Sweetie.”
With their encouragement, you finally let go. Your orgasm crashed over you in a deep wave, your body convulsing as your juices squirted onto their cocks. Your cum trickled down Zayne’s stomach and onto Sylus’ thick, muscular thighs. The two men moaned in unison at your pleasure, a shiver running up their spines as you wriggled between them. They both could feel themselves being edged closer and closer to cumming. Zayne buried his face into your shoulder, inhaling your scent as his balls tightened, emptying deep inside of you. Sylus wasn’t far behind, his seed flooding your insides and together your combined orgasms dripping down onto the sheets below.
Pants filled the air as the three of you rode out your blissful highs. Zayne brushed the stray hairs out of your face before planting soft kisses around your cheek and lips. Sylus complimented his movements, rubbing your thighs and stomach softly while nuzzling against your neck once again. The two men slowly pulled out of you, their cum gushing out from between your thighs leaving a bigger mess that one of you would have to clean up later. For now, you were happy enough to just mingle in the company of their warm bodies.
This was the most delicious meal Sylus had to date, and now that he’s had a taste, he’s hesitant he wants to leave it behind for good. Perhaps he could make an agreement with you two to keep his stomach full and your desires satiated.
If you haven't heard, the em dash has been getting a lot of attention lately…
Because it was trained on pirated work—including freely accessible online writing (like fanfic, academic texts)—ChatGPT picked up patterns and quirks native to human writing.
Including (sigh) the em dash.
There are other victims here (RIP tapestry and delve 🫠), but the appropriation of the em dash—a punctuation mark beloved by writers everywhere—feels especially personal.
A kind of low-grade panic is ensuing. Writers who once memed their own em dash overuse—the greatest punctuation mark ever to grace the control-freak’s lexicon, frankly—are suddenly backing away to avoid accusations.
No. More. We have centuries of dash-abusing writers behind us. We will not sit quietly while AI repurposes our beloved stilted aside—or the just-one-more clarification the sentence demands—or the dramatic pause your comma could never—etc.
You don’t write like AI—AI writes like you.
Defend the em dash.
(Feel free to download/share/stick it where it matters!)
8,938 words * ˛ ✦ ･ It was her laugh that did it. Not at him—never at him. She was laughing with a groom in the stables, something about a lame horse, and the sound was so pure it had stopped him mid-stride. He'd stood in the shadows and felt his entire world tilt on its axis. That night, he'd tried to speak to her at dinner. What came out was, "you seem fond of the stables, perhaps you should sleep there." He'd meant it as a jest. She'd taken it as condemnation and stopped eating at the main table shortly after.
WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – gothic, DILF!CALEB — AGE GAP, established relationship — married, mutual pining, miscommunication, mild angst, DUKE!CALEB, making out, nipple play, worship, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, cum-marking, exhibitionism, overstimulation, implications of future anal, spitting.
The fire cracks in the grate, casting monstrous shadows across the mahogany walls, and he tells himself he prefers the solitude. Any other man in his position—Duke of Skyhaven, commander of the most feared private guard in Philos—would revel in having an estate this size to himself.
But he is not any other man, and the silence only amplifies the sound of his own useless worrying, which always circles back to his wife.
She occupies the east wing. He occupies the west. Between them lies a marble corridor that might as well be an ocean. Caleb hasn't seen her take breakfast in the main dining hall for seventeen days. He knows this because Mrs. Josephine, the head housekeeper, mentioned it in passing, and Caleb catalogued the information with the same precision he once used to track enemy artillery positions.
The staff whispers that Her Grace prefers trays in her sitting room. They say she is quiet, polite, unfailingly kind. They say she asks after his health.
Caleb knows they lie to spare his feelings.
The gifts began three months ago, after he overheard her humming a particular melody in the rose garden. He'd been lurking behind the conservatory windows, a habit he's developed because direct proximity to her makes his tongue thicken and his thoughts scatter. The tune was French, something about swallows and spring. By evening, he'd dispatched his man Gideon to acquire the sheet music from London.
When it appeared on her vanity, she left it untouched for two days before having it returned via a trembling maid with a note that read: Unnecessary, but thank you for your consideration, Your Grace.
It sits in his wardrobe now, atop a growing pile of similar failures.
Caleb learns her desires the way a desperate man hunts for water in a desert—by watching, listening, piecing together fragments. He notices the way her fingers trail over the spines of botanical texts in the library. He hears her ask Cook if the kitchens might obtain Turkish delight, just once, as she remembers it from childhood. He sees the ink stains on her left hand and deduces she favours a particular brand of nib that the London shops rarely stock.
Each discovery becomes a mission. Each mission ends in rejection.
Last week, it was the jasmine tea. The week before, a shawl in precisely the shade of blue she wore to the Yuletide ball. Before that, a first printing of that poetry she likes, which he'd spent two months hunting down through three separate dealers.
All returned. All pristine. All breaking something in him he didn't know could break further.
Caleb stands before his dressing mirror and allows his valet to knot his cravat while his mind fixates on the faint scent of her soap that still lingers in the corridor outside her chambers. It's lavender and something else—sage, perhaps. He caught it yesterday when he walked past, deliberately slow, hoping for a glimpse. The door remained shut. He'd pressed his palm flat against the wood like a besotted schoolboy, then fled when footsteps approached.
The dining hall is cavernous at breakfast. His sister, Lady Simone, sometimes joins him, though she's learned not to mention his wife's absence. Today she tries anyway, buttering toast with too much care. "You could simply knock on her door, you know."
"I am not twelve," Caleb snaps, and Simone's mouth tightens into a line that says, 'exactly, you are a grown man behaving like a ghost.'
She changes the subject to the royal council's latest nonsense about railway taxes. Caleb nods, but his eyes keep drifting to the empty chair at the head of the table, where his duchess should sit.
He remembers the day the betrothal contract arrived. He was twenty-nine, already a veteran of campaigns in the northern territories, and she was not yet born. The Xia family owed the crown a debt and the crown required an alliance. His father signed the papers while Caleb was still bleeding from a wound that would have killed a lesser man. He'd raged, then. Smashed furniture, cursed God, swore he'd never touch a child-bride forced upon him. But the girl grew into a woman while he was away at war, and by the time he returned to Skyhaven for good, she was nineteen and he was in his late thirties, and something in him shifted without permission.
It was her laugh that did it. Not at him—never at him.
She was laughing with a groom in the stables, something about a lame horse, and the sound was so pure it had stopped him mid-stride. He'd stood in the shadows and felt his entire world tilt on its axis. That night, he'd tried to speak to her at dinner. What came out was, "you seem fond of the stables, perhaps you should sleep there." He'd meant it as a jest. She'd taken it as condemnation and stopped eating at the main table shortly after.
Another time, he'd seen her sketching in the solarium—delicate watercolours of hawks in flight. He'd stood behind her chair, his shadow falling across her paper, and said, "Your brushwork lacks confidence." He'd wanted to offer to teach her. She'd heard only criticism and never painted in that room again.
Each attempt to bridge the chasm only widens it. Each word that emerges from his mouth is a shard of glass, and he watches her bleed and hates himself and hates her for making him want so desperately.
The staff see it. They watch him prowl the halls after midnight, pausing outside her door. They watch her face at windows, staring out at the moors. They know the marriage remains unconsummated. They've removed the connecting door between their chambers at her request—she'd claimed it was a draught—and Caleb had agreed because the thought of having that temptation so close, of hearing her breathe while he lay alone, made his hands shake.
Today, he finds her in the morning room, curled in the window seat with a book.
She wears grey muslin, something modest and simple, and her hair is pinned haphazardly. The late autumn light catches the curve of her cheek. Caleb hovers in the doorway, his hand gripping the jamb, and wills himself to turn around. Instead, his feet carry him forward.
She hears his boots on the parquet and stiffens. The book snaps shut. Her eyes, those devastating eyes, fix on the windowpane.
"You have no need to keep sending me gifts," she starts, and her voice is so small, so tired. She looks anywhere but at him, and Caleb feels the familiar ache of knowing he makes her uncomfortable. "The estate is under your command, no one will say a word if you stop playing your role. I know—I know that you do not really want this, and that is fine for me. I shall keep to my room and my duties, you do not have to do anything, you will not even see me at all. Y-You can even bring a mistress if you wish, I would not mind—"
"Enough." The word emerges more scathing than intended, steeped in incredulity and a hurt he's been nursing for months. The gifts are piling up in his wardrobe, a museum of his own inadequacy. "This estate is a reflection of our covenant. I will not tarnish it with another. It will do you well to be heedful of the same sentiment."
She shrinks, actually flinches as if she's been struck, and her eyes immediately fill with tears.
Damn her for being so soft, so delicate, so utterly incapable of understanding that his cruelty is just love turned inside-out. "I would never," she whispers, and Caleb knows she speaks true. "I just wanted you to know … it is not my place, but I grant you permission all the same. I shall not blame you if you do."
The sharpness of his gaze softens, imperceptibly. Probably isn't noticed, what with the way tears cloud her vision. He sways closer, his hand lifting—just a fraction, a phantom of a touch he won't allow. Then he sways back. He whispers her name now, quiet enough to be intimate. "That is not and will never be necessary. I am faithful," to you, his mind screams, "to the promise of our families to one another."
For a moment, something in her expression lifts. Hope, fragile and terrible. Then it crashes down again as his words land wrong, as they always do.
She deflates, just a bit, before catching herself and nodding. She shuffles backwards, out of reach, and Caleb watches her retreat with his jaw so tight he feels his teeth might crack.
He wants to tell her that the gifts aren't duty. He wants to say he knows she prefers her tea with honey, not sugar, because he saw her refuse the sugar tongs six times. That the rug matches the exact colour of the ribbon she wore the day she arrived at Skyhaven, twenty years old and trembling. That the book on hawks was returned because he'd written an inscription inside the cover—For my duchess, who sees farther than I—and had been too cowardly to sign it with his name, so she'd likely thought it a printer's error.
But the words calcify in his throat.
She dips into a curtsey that is more of an escape than actualdeference. "Your Grace," she murmurs, the title erecting a wall between them, and flees before he can utter another syllable. Caleb stands in the empty morning room, the scent of her lavender soap lingering like an accusation. He closes his eyes and hears the phantom echo of her voice granting him permission to betray her.
The cruelty of it nearly brings him to his knees.
In his chambers, he unlocks the wardrobe that holds his shame. The sheet music. The shawl. The tea, still fragrant in its tin. The garnet hairpin he thought might suit her complexion. A dozen other tokens, each chosen with a care he cannot articulate.
Caleb sinks into his desk chair, pulls out a sheet of crested stationery, and begins to write. My dearest wife, he starts, then crosses it out. He tries with just her name, but that feels too bold.
So, he settles on with no salutation at all.
The roses you admired in July have bloomed again, though they are past their season. I thought you might like to see them. I am told you have been unwell. If you require anything—
He stops abruptly and crumples the paper, throwing it into the fire. It curls into ash, another unsent confession.
Gideon knocks, enters with tea that Caleb doesn't want. "Her Grace's maid mentioned she admired the new piano in the music room, Your Grace."
"She returned the sheet music," Caleb says flatly.
"She cannot read French notation, sir. She said so to the footman. She feared ruining such a fine edition."
Caleb's hand stills on the teacup. A crack appears in the porcelain. He releases it before it shatters entirely. "She said that?"
"In passing, Your Grace. As one does."
The footman. Of course. The footman is eighteen and handsome and laughs at her jokes. Caleb's knuckles whiten. He will not invent danger to remove her from the staff's company. He will not. He is not that far gone.
He is lying to himself.
That evening, he takes dinner alone again. Simone is in London, and the long table feels like a sarcophagus. He pushes roasted quail around his plate and thinks of her eating soup in her rooms, perhaps reading, perhaps thinking of him with the same misery that consumes him. The thought that she might not think of him at all is worse.
Caleb pours himself brandy he doesn't need and walks the parapets of Skyhaven Estate. The wind is vicious tonight, whipping his coat. From here, he can see her window, a faint square of golden light. He watches it for an hour, two, until it goes dark. Then he returns to his study, pulls out another sheet of paper, and writes without thinking:
I do not hate you. I have never hated you. I hate only myself for wanting you when you were meant for a better man.
Then he locks it in his desk, where it will join the other two hundred and forty-seven letters he has written and never sent. The gifts will keep coming. The silence will stretch. And he will remain, as always, the ghost in his own marriage, haunting a woman who thinks he despises her while he drowns in a love he cannot name.
Mrs. Josephine's mop has left the floor slippery enough to skate on if you’re brave and wearing stockings instead of shoes, which Tara, eight, made leader by the pleasure of being the eldest, definitely is. Right behind her are the twins: little Patrick and Timothy, six, identical except for the way Timothy’s ears stick out like jug handles and Patrick has front teeth still coming in crooked.
All three wear oversized aprons turned into sacks by knotting the strings.
“She said clean, not die o’ boredom,” Tara announces, planting her broom like a flagpole outside the forbidden door. “An’ if we finish quick we can take the letters to ’er Grace, like proper post-men.”
“Post-kids,” Timothy corrects, proud of the word.
Patrick pinches his sleeve. “Shh. If 'is Grace comes back an’ catches us gossipin’, he’ll turn us to statues.”
“He only does that to soldiers,” Tara scoffs, though she lowers her voice to a theatrical whisper. “An’ he ain’t even 'ere. Gone at dawn, horse all smoke—Mrs. Josephine said things are urgent f'the port ships.” She pauses for effect, then pushes the heavy oak with both palms. It swings inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing the study like a cave of dark treasure.
The children creep inside.
Sunlight slants dustily through tall windows, catching on silver inkwells, brass dividers, and the great scarred desk that looks—at least to the eyes of children—big enough to land a massive bird. Books climb the walls like ivy; maps curl on stands; the air tastes of smoke and something metallic, maybe blood, maybe secrets.
Timothy’s nearly jumps in place with excitement.
“Look'it—papers everywhere.” He points to a drift of cream-coloured sheets escaping the half-locked drawer Mrs. Josephine meant them to polish around, not rummage through. “Might be treasure maps.”
“Might be ration lists,” Patrick counters, ever practical.
But Tara, who can read whole pages now thanks to evening lessons with Her Grace, tilts her head. “Letters,” she breathes. “To … ‘My dearest—’ oh.” A blush floods her cheeks hotter than the coals. “It’s love, innit? Like in the fairy-books 'er Grace reads.”
All three bunch closer, mouths forming perfect ‘O’s. The topmost letter lies open, ink still wet in places where a man’s hand pressed too hard. Words sparkle up at them: longing, apology, roses blooming out of season, a promise never to hate.
Timothy traces a line with a grubby finger. “He calls ’er dove. Birds’re s’posed t'be free. That’s romantic.”
“Romantic means kissing,” Patrick informs him, disgusted. “Yuck.”
Tara chews her lip, torn between rules and wonder. “We oughta leave ’em… but ’er Grace oughta know, right? She’s sad of evenings; I seen her starin’ out the window like she’s waitin’ for sumthin'. Maybe she’s been waitin’ for these.”
A breeze rattles the panes, as if the house itself urges haste.
“Bundle,” she commands. The twins obey, scooping every sheet—folded, unfolded, half-scribbled—into their apron-pouches. Paper rustles like startled doves. Ink smudges across Timothy’s thumb; he wipes it on his britches, leaving a black comma.
Drawer shut, dust swiped with sleeve, they back out, pulling the door until the latch clicks soft as secrecy.
Halfway down the servants’ stair, voices float up—Mr. Gideon and Mrs. Josephine ascending for inspection. Panicked, Tara flaps her arms. The three scurry into the linen alcove, pressing against shelves of lavender-scented sheets.
Footsteps pass, and a held breath later, they erupt giggling, muffling mouths with tiny fists.
“Mission,” Tara declares, eyes bright as candle nubs. “We get these to ’er Grace 'fore tea, else the Duke’s temper’ll roast us.”
They tear through hidden passages only children of servants know—behind the faded tapestry of the sea battle, across the lumber room that smells of mothballs, popping out two floors above in the pastel hush of the ducal east wing.
Her Grace's door stands ajar; humming trickles through, thin and wistful. The children exchange nods, creep inside. She sits at her desk, quill suspended, staring at nothing. Her eyes tell tales of recent tears; soft hair tumbles unadorned. She does not immediately notice the small invasion.
Patrick, bravest in small bursts, tiptoes forward and lays the first letter atop the blotter like an offering. “Fer you, milady. Found in the big scary room.”
She blinks, focus sharpening. Three moppets cluster, aprons bulging paper, faces lit with expectancy and a hint of terror. She picks up the sheet, recognises the crested watermark, the slanted hand that could belong to no other.
And her breath snags, caught.
“Oh … oh, children, these are—” Words fail; her red-rimmed eyes fill anew, but it seems different now.
“We cleaned,” Tara volunteers quickly. “Din’t read much, only enough t'know they’re proper important. An’ we brought ’em all, every one, like royal couriers.” She hefts her apron, and a snowstorm of stationery spills across the carpet.
Timothy adds, “An’ we shan’t tell no one, cross my heart, hope t'be eaten by mice.”
Her Grace kneels, gathers them close despite the ink smudges. “You wonderful, impossible little loves.” Her laugh wobbles, coming out almost as a sob. “Yes, royal couriers indeed.”
Patrick peers up, anxious. “D’they say nice things? 'is Grace is thunder most times, but maybe thunder’s got nice lullaby f'you inside?”
She smooths a crumpled edge, glimpses line after line of raw, yearning contrition.
“They say … everything.” She hugs the pile to chest, feels paper hearts drumming against her own. “And you have given me the world before luncheon.”
The children bask in the glow of a deed bigger than mischief, something approaching heroism. She rises, rings the little silver bell on her table. Moments later, a friendly kitchen maid named Jenna appears, eyes widening at the scene.
“Hot milk with honey for my three adventurers,” She orders. “And almond biscuits. They’ve earned a treat for a job well done.”
The roses you admired in July have defied frost and bloomed again—stubborn things, refusing to bow to reason, much like the thud my heart gives whenever your ribbon disappears round a corner. I clipped one at dawn; its scent is sharp, green, almost angry—rather like me before coffee, or after watching you laugh with the footman whose name I refuse to remember. Sometimes I imagine placing the dried bloom on your breakfast tray, but cowardice folds me smaller than the petal, and so it stays, crumbling a little more each day.
I stood in the rain until my cuffs dripped onto the stone, wondering if the droplets racing downward were doves made of water you have sent my way, carrying some microscopic fragment of your breath. If they were, I drank them, selfish as a monster, pretending it counted as closeness, pretending the water on my tongue tasted of lavender instead of metal and regret.
Cook swears you only picked at your plate yesterday; I wanted to march in and scold, but who am I to demand you eat when I subsist entirely on glimpses of you and the echo of my own stupidity? Instead I told her to prepare almond tart—your favourite, though you never admit it, and I lurked behind the screen like a thief, watching you take a single bite, crumbs clinging to your lip like stars. I nearly stepped forward to brush them away, to taste almond and you in the same breath, but the memory of your flinch the last time I spoke too sharply kept my feet in place.
The seamstress had mentioned you have need of new ribbons; I nearly ordered every bolt of silk from the Capital, imagining your smile if the colours arrived like sunrise delivered to your dressing table without excuse. Instead I selected three shades only, then spent an hour arranging them in a box.
This morning I watched you teaching the kitchen boys their letters, and I felt ancient, a ruin jealousy that craves to have your name scrawled every inch of my walls. I traced your initial on the inside of my wrist with a fountain pen, told the valet it was nothing more than a stain; he believed me because I pay him to believe lies that keep my pride stitched upright.
The physician says the ache in my shoulder is ghost-pain, nerves remembering fire that burned years ago; I nodded politely while thinking the real phantom limb is you asleep three corridors away, close enough to haunt, but also too far to hold. He prescribed laudanum; I prescribed myself five minutes outside your door, ear to wood, listening for the hush of your breathing, counting inhalations the way sailors count stars when land has vanished and hope is measured in pinpricks.
Your gloves lay forgotten on the hall table—pearl-buttoned, smaller than my palm—and I pocketed them like evidence, meaning to return them untouched, meaning to remain honourable, meaning so many things honour laughs at. Instead I pressed them to my face inside the tack room, inhaling until my lungs are filled with you.
I drafted an announcement today—The Duke and Duchess of Skyhaven shall host the midsummer ball—then tore it to shreds because the thought of you dancing with anyone else turns music into cannonade and every gentleman’s hand into a target I long to shoot off at the wrist. Instead I wrote we are indisposed, though indisposed is Latin for lovesick wreck who cannot trust himself not to drag his duchess behind a screen and kiss her breathless while orchestras pretend not to notice the percussion of heartbeats off tempo.
Thunder tonight rattles the portraits in their frames; I imagine it is your laugh magnified by heaven, though heaven and I are currently not on speaking terms since it keeps you just beyond the stretch of my arm.
The tailor measured me for court uniform, and when he asked which lining I preferred I answered whatever shade matches Her Grace’s eyes at twilight, and the poor man stared as if I had requested unicorn hide trimmed with starlight.
Found your handkerchief tangled in my riding coat—how it migrated remains mystery, unless cloth yearns the way flesh does, unless linen can miss the palm that stitched the monogram with such tidy, stubborn loops. I tucked it inside my glove before patrol, felt the lace scrape my wrist each time reins shifted, a secret caress no broadsword hilt could match, and by the time we returned the scent of horse had overpowered lily but the imprint of your initials persisted. I almost sent it back unwashed, then almost kept it forever, then almost confessed everything to the stable cat who blinked once and turned away, uninterested in human follies that smell of sweat and
Surrender tastes like your name I dare not speak of, and yet I stand on ramparts shouting it to the empty moor until my throat is raw and the echo returns sounding like dove, like love, like
I rehearsed apology number forty-six: I will try to speak softly, to smoothen every syllable, to offer my hands palms-up as trowels ready to dig trenches for your sorrow to drain into so nothing drowns us. But when I saw you in the greenhouse today I forgot the script, tongue thick as old honey, and what emerged was delivered in the tone of a reprimand to a recruit who forgot polish.
The daisy had died; I kept its skeleton in a book of tactics; I think of it whenever I see you wear white, whenever I forget that some things wilt because they are loved too hard and too
Caleb’s gloves hit the foyer table with a slap of wet leather. The ride from the Farspace headquarters was a hard three hours, wind knifing across the moor, but the chill in his ribs has nothing to do with weather. It is the sudden, sickening vacancy in his study that chills him—an absence he feels the instant he crosses the threshold.
The drawer gapes. Its brass lock hangs askew. Inside, there is nothing.
Nothing at all.
Every letter, every unsent confession, every raw, humiliating line of longing is gone.
Gone.
For a breath, he simply stares, pulse battering the walls of his throat. Then instinct kicks in, and he yanks the drawer completely out, shakes it like a man trying to conjure coin from an empty purse. A single flake of sealing wax drifts to the carpet—blood-red, damning. Who? The staff are loyal; Mrs. Josephine would flay any prying maid. Yet someone has seen. Someone has read. Someone has taken.
He storms into the corridor, cloak still dripping, boots leaving black commas on the runner.
Caleb does not knock at her sitting-room's door, he invades.
The panel crashes back against plaster. She is there, perched on the window-seat with his letters fanned across her lap like petals, soft hair cascading over a rose-silk dressing gown. Candlelight halos her, and the sight halts him mid-stride, heart skipping a beat.
Her eyes lift. They are swollen, but resolute. In her small hands, the paper looks fragile, yet it cuts through him sharper than any sabre. She rises, barefoot, chin high. “You left these for me to find,” she says softly, and there is no accusation in her tone, just a quiet form of certainty that knocks the wind from his lungs.
Caleb’s mouth opens, closes. The defence that usually leaps, fully armed, to his tongue is nowhere. Instead a mortified growl escapes, “those were never meant for your eyes.”
She steps forward, letters rustling. “Then for whose?” Her voice trembles, yet she does not flinch when his huge frame looms. “You write that you hate yourself for wanting me, that you fear I despise you. Caleb, I never—”
“Stop.” He pivots, planting his back to her so she cannot see the tremor in his shoulders.
The study is across the corridor; its dim light beckons him like a place to hide or die.
He retreats, but she follows in the silence left in his wake.
Caleb rounds the desk, palms braced on scarred mahogany as though holding it down before it flies apart. She stands on the opposite side. “Talk to me,” she whispers. “Please.”
Words cram inside his throat—violent, suffocating, so he selects the one that will cut the sharpest. “There is nothing to discuss. Return the papers and forget you ever saw them.” He hears the aristocratic sneer, feels it land like a slap across both their faces, and hates himself all the more for it.
Her lashes flutter, but her gaze steadies. “I will not.” She lays the stack on the blotter, squares them with deliberate care. “These are addressed to me. They belong to me. And you owe me the truth you have hidden inside of them.”
Neither of them move.
He tries condescension. “Duchess, sentiment is beneath you—”
“Do not treat me like a child.” The reprimand snaps from her, quiet but firm. It is, he realises with a jolt, the first time she has ever countermanded him. Something dangerously close to pride flickers beneath his horror.
She circles the desk, and Caleb retreats until the chair blocks him, then drops into it as if chains bind his wrists. She comes close enough that her breath stirs the hair at his temple. “Read one aloud,” she murmurs. “Just one. Let me hear your voice give it life.”
His laugh is made of broken glass. “So you can flay me with confirmation? No.” He shoves to stand; the chair wheels back and topples. The crash startles them both, but she stands her ground. Her tears glitter, yet her tone stays firm. “I read how you pace the corridor outside my door, how you remember every ribbon I wear, how you fear your longing is monstrous. Caleb, it is not monstrous to be loved and want to be loved in return.”
Loved. He reels, knuckles whitening against desk edge. “You cannot love a thing you fear,” he rasps. “And you fear me—my size, my temper, the way I want you.”
“I feared you hated me,” she corrects, stepping between him and the scattered chair. “These letters prove the opposite.”
Silence elongates, thick as wet wool. Then something inside him snaps—a sound almost physical, like mast timber giving way. His eyes, glowing amethyst in storm-shadow, lock on hers.
Abruptly, he moves; his hands seize her waist, to lift and set her atop the desk in one fluid surge. Papers scatter like startled birds. Ink pot trembles. He cages her with arms braced on either side, chest heaving. “The truth?” he growls, voice so low it vibrates through the wood into her spine. “The truth is that I have starved for the taste of you since the day you arrived. The truth is every night I imagine the scent here—” he buries his face against her neck, inhaling roughly “—and it drives me mad.”
She gasps, hands flying to his shoulders, not to push but to anchor. Her thighs, parted by instinct, brush his hips. The contact draws a ragged groan from him.
He lifts his head, eyes feral. “The truth, little duchess, is that if you stay in this room another minute I will take you—here, now, on this desk—papers beneath your back, ink staining your skin, and I will not stop until every vowel of denial is wrung from your throat.” The confession is a snarl, fanged and desperate, yet his hands tremble against the desk as if guilty that he must await his sentencing.
Instead of fear, her breathing syncs with his, quick and shallow.
Delicate fingers curl into the open collar of his shirt, pulling him infinitesimally closer. “Then take me,” she whispers, boldness shaking but unmistakable. “Consummate this marriage with me, Caleb, and leave no space for ghosts.”
He crushes his mouth to hers, their first kiss since the wedding ceremony, and it is neither gentle nor polite. It is siege and surrender, starvation and feast. He tastes salt tears and honeyed breath and the future exploding open between them. Her lips part on a whimper that becomes his name—not his title, God—and the sound lances straight to his groin.
Caleb’s palm spans her throat, thumb tilting her chin so he can feast on her all the more deeply, while the other hand grabs ribboned hair, anchoring her. She answers with nails scoring his nape, heels locking at the small of his back, arching into the hard line of him.
When they break for air, foreheads pressed, the room spins. “Mine,” he mutters, voice shredded. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she breathes, and the word is both benediction and brand.
His mouth crashes back onto hers before the echo of her "yours" can fade, the kiss raw, starved, reverent and ruinous all at once. Sugar and storm, he thinks, tongue sweeping deep to steal the taste of her—honeyed, nervous, impossibly sweet—then breaking only long enough to growl, "You taste like fucking summer, like strawberries split under noon sun—decadent little wife, I could gorge on you for days."
She whimpers into the next kiss, hands fluttering to his shoulders as if she might still contemplate modesty; and he devours that sound, swallowing it whole while palms slide down the porcelain slope of her arms to the neckline of her gown. Silk protests with a hiss—then rends, ribbon ties giving way beneath his impatient tug.
"Look at you," he breathes, "overflowing my hands already."
Fingers hook beneath the lace, yanking it down so that plush flesh bounces free, nipples pebbling instantly in the draughty study.
His cock jerks against her thigh, thick and insistent inside skintight officer's trousers; she feels it and gasps, thighs tightening reflexively around his hips. A tremor of propriety surfaces within her. "T-the door, Caleb; i-it's open—" She glances past his shoulder; through the gap flickers distant lamplight, the possibility of passing footmen.
Caleb nips the frantic pulse beneath her ear, laves the bite with slow, wet apology. "Let it gape," he croons, voice smoked with lust. "Let every last soul hear how the Duchess finally claims her Duke. Let them hear you sing, little dove."
His palms cup both breasts, thumbs flicking the stiff peaks until she arches, keening low. With reverent roughness he kneads the heavy flesh, mapping every freckle, every shiver.
"Perfection," he mutters, lowering his head. Hot breath ghosts over one nipple; she sucks a breath, and his mouth closes, wet and deliberate, tongue swirling slow spirals that tighten to a pointed flick.
A cry bursts from her throat, bitten back too late, echoing off high book-stacks.
He suckles harder, cheeks hollowing, drawing the nub against his teeth with gentle threat while calloused fingers mirror the torture on her neglected side—pinching, rolling, plucking until she writhes atop the ink-stained desk, scattered parchment sticking to perspiring skin.
Mine to taste, mine to mark. The possessive drumbeat thunders so loudly he fears his ribs will crack.
Switching sides, he laps the under-curve first in broad, flat strokes of tongue that sweep upward as if licking frosting from a bowl, before sealing over the peak and pulling with rhythmic insistence. Every draw sends answering clenches through her core; her hips rock, seeking friction against the hard line of his erection. Breathless little "ah-ah-ah" sounds spill into the quiet, louder than any confession.
Caleb releases her breast with a wet pop, smirks at the glistening nipple, reddened and needy. "Delicious," he growls. "Better than port, better than victory parades. I could sip here until sunrise and still beg for more."
He nuzzles between her breasts, inhaling skin warmed by his mouth, nudging the soft weight aside to trail stubble-rough kisses along the curve toward her sternum.
Weighted hands glide down, bunching ruined silk until fingertips meet bare thighs above stockings. He hums approval. "Silk ribbons for garters? My wicked little wife—dressing like temptation itself." A finger slides beneath one bow, plucks it free, and the stocking sags, exposing more satin flesh. He follows the reveal with open-mouthed kisses, tongue darting into tender creases where leg meets hip.
Her head lolls, hair spilling across forgotten ledgers. She bites her lip, but a moan escapes when his thumbs sweep higher, teasing at damp lace between her legs. "C-Caleb, someone will—"
"Let them." His palms brace her knees, spreading until cool air kisses swollen folds through soaked fabric. "Let them envy their lord for finally having his wife." He dips, pressing reverent lips to the inside of first one knee, then the other—each kiss inching upward, worshipping the shivers that dance over her skin. At halfway up her thigh, he pauses, nose brushing gusset, inhaling deeply. The scent—musk, heat, sweet cream—hits him like musket fire, and a guttural sound tears free. "Fuck, you are drenched for me. My prim little duchess, you have soaked straight through your pretty drawers."
Her whimper is all the answer he needs; fingers hook the lace aside, exposing glistening folds that clench under his gaze. Caleb exhales, hot and deliberate, over sensitized flesh; she jerks, knuckles blanched on desk edge. "Hold still," he orders softly, though his own hands tremble.
One broad lick, from the base of slick entrance to her fluttering clit, coats his tongue in her essence. The taste is pure pleasure; he groans, repeats the motion slower, savouring the salt-sweet taste of perfection.
She cries out, voice ricocheting inside his study and to the hall; somewhere beyond the opened doorway, footsteps come to a halt. Caleb lifts his head just long enough to growl towards the corridor, "keep walking," in the same tone he once used to dismiss mutinous officers.
The footsteps obey.
He smirks against her thigh, satisfaction raw and feral.
Returning to indulge, he spears his tongue gently inside her, feeling velvet walls ripple, hear the wet clutch of eager core tightening around the intrusion. His nose nudges her swollen bud; he circles, thrusts, circles again—setting the tempo until her legs lock over his shoulders, heels drumming between his shoulder-blades.
Slick coats his chin, drips to the blotter below. He hums, vibration thrumming through her sensitive nerves. "Good," he praises, voice muffled. "Ride my mouth, sweet girl, take your pleasure like the lady of the house that you are."
Fingers replace tongue—first one, then two—curling upward to stroke that secret spot that makes her sob. His thumb settles over clit, rubbing tight, deliberate circles while his lips fasten around her throbbing entrance, sucking gently so each plunge draws wet, obscene sounds that echo off the book spines.
Release coils fast, and he feels it in the clamp of thighs, the stutter of her breathing. "C-Caleb, I cannot! I-I'm—"
"You can and you will," he snarls, doubling pace, driving deeper, faster, thumb strumming relentlessly. "Finish on my tongue, wife, right here where I sign treaties, let this desk remember you screaming my name."
The command snaps an invisible thread, and her climax slams through her with a crystalline cry fracturing the study air, inner walls convulsing around his thrusting fingers.
Caleb gentles slowly, just until her tremors subside, her breath sobbing out in soft hiccups.
He rises, wiping glossy mouth with back of hand, eyes molten. Slick streaks his knuckles, and her release perfumes the room—a tang of sea storm and honey. Hands hook under her arms, hauling her upright until their foreheads press, her aftershocks vibrating through both bodies.
Fingers fumble for his fall-front, until buttons yield one-handed. Freed cock springs thick and heavy, flushed dark, veins pulsing. Precum beads at the head, smearing across silk still clinging to her belly. "Feel what you do to me, dove," he groans, guiding her tentative hand to wrap him. Heat brands her palm, and she squeezes experimentally, earning a hiss through grit teeth.
"Inside," he demands, voice shredded velvet. "Need to be inside you now, wife—wrapped in this velvet cunt that drips for me alone." He hooks her leg around his hip, aligning the thick head to her entrance, dragging through folds to coat himself in her sweetness, teasing until she whimpers anew.
A hard flex of hips seats him halfway, and they both freeze, sensation ripping breath from lungs. Tight, scorching, perfect.He waits—barely—until she nods, eyes glassy with renewed hunger.
Caleb drives forward, pushing himself flush against her, heavy balls slapping desk edge. A guttural groan tears free, and her answering cry pitches higher, echoing.
He sets a furious rhythm, desk scooting inch by inch across rug, parchment storm fluttering to floor. One palm braces beside her spine; the other cups her breast, flicking a nipple in time with his thrusts, claiming every inch of herskin.
Her hands scrabble his open shirt, nails carving red trails down sweat-slick chest. "C-Caleb, yes—" Words fracture, reshape into keens.
Inner walls flutter, a crest building anew; he feels it, curses, pistons harder, balls drawing tight.
"Cream on me again," he growls against her ear, voice savage reverence. "Let them hear how thoroughly the Duke worships his Duchess—how sweetly you spend around my cock." The filth unravels her, and she convulses, rippling, milking him in silky pulses that tear his control to shreds.
Release barrels up spine, scalding, uncontainable. He yanks free suddenly, fist pumping—once, twice, until ropes of hot seed stripe her belly, her breasts, her ruined silk; some splash against the crumpled love-letters beneath her, ink and cum mingling in obscene testament.
Caleb’s cock slips free with a slick, reluctant pop, still half-hard and glistening with their mixed release.
The sudden emptiness makes her whimper, thighs twitching, but he’s already moving to let strong arms slide beneath her thighs as he lifts her off the ink-streaked desk. Crushed papers cling to her back before fluttering to the rug like wounded birds. The study door still stands ajar, corridor yawning beyond. He growls low, kicks it shut with a boot-heel that rattles hinges loud enough to echo through the west wing.
Let them wonder, he thinks. Let every servant know their mistress has been thoroughly claimed tonight.
He cradles her flush to his chest, loving how small she feels yet how perfectly she fits—head tucked beneath his chin, breasts slippery with his spend squishing against the opened portion of his shirt. Her breath stutters warm over his collarbones, fingers petting idly through damp chest hair.
A few steps carry them to the rug spread before the cold hearth.
Caleb lowers himself to one knee first, then eases her down onto thick wool that smells of cedar and long-dead fires. The weave is luxurious against her skin; he watches gooseflesh prickle along her outer thigh and follows the trail with a palm. They stretch out side by side, mouths meeting in a languid, open kiss—tongues lazy, tasting leftover salt and musk. He hums into her, hand mapping the curve from shoulder to waist to hip, possessive but unhurried now that urgency has been spent once.
“You took me apart, little wife,” he murmurs between soft nips at her lower lip. “Made a beast of your duke. Christ, I’ll relive that every night before sleep until I die.” His voice is smoke and wonder, reverent fingers circling a nipple beaded with cooling seed.
She flusters yet arches into the touch, seeking more. “I liked it,” she confesses, shy even now, voice tiny. “Liked hearing you, because it is all for me.” The admission snaps something hot behind his ribs; he kisses her again, deeper, swallowing her courage like it is made of liquid gold.
When they part, he trails lips to her ear, breath scalding. “Your cunt still fluttering? Still hungry?” He cups her mound gently, feeling residual quivers, the slippery heat his release helped keep slick. “I can taste how greedy she is—want more, don’t you?”
She whimpers, and nods in bashful agreement.
Molten satisfaction unfurls in his chest like warmed brandy. “Good,” he croons, shifting downward. He peppers soft kisses across her throat, over the sternum, descending inch by inch until he’s kneeling between her sprawled legs.
Palms glide up inner thighs nudging them wider. The rug teases sensitive skin, and she shivers, hands clutching strands of his hair already wild from her earlier tugging. He offers a wicked grin, then bends to lap a broad stripe through the mess painting her belly—cleaning his seed while maintaining eye contact, deliberate and filthy.
Satisfied that her stomach has been marked by both seed and saliva, he moves upward—mouth closing over one breast. This time, the suction is gentle, worshipful. His tongue swirls, teeth grazing but never biting.
A low hum vibrates through tender flesh, and she gasps, back bowing.
Perfection, he thinks, switching sides, lavishing equal devotion.
Between licks, Caleb murmurs praise. “Plump little tits fit my mouth like God’s own mold.” Nip. “Nipples begging to be loved every morning.” Suck. “Shall I wake you this way henceforth? Suckle until you drip down my fingers?” Each word melts her further, her thighs flex restlessly against his ribs.
When her chest is glossy with spit and her nipples are stiff, he kisses down the midline—pausing at her navel to swirl his tongue inside, feeling the muscles jump—then settles lower.
Broad shoulders wedge beneath her knees, and heavy palms cup her backside, tilting her for better access. Her folds are swollen, glistening, his seed slipping out in silky beads. He inhales, savours the musk, then presses a delicate kiss directly atop her clit. She jerks, and his strong forearm pins her hips. “Stay,” he orders softly. The second kiss is wetter and firmer; the third becomes the flat of his tongue sweeping upward, gathering their mingled essence, humming approval at the flavour.
Slow, deliberate laps trace every secret ridge—up one side, down the other, circling entrance where soft suckling draws more cum and her own renewed honey. Each stroke is measured, keeping the pressure light until frustrated mewls spill from her throat.
It's only then does he shift focus on her clit, flicking, then sealing his lips around and sucking rhythmically. Two fingers slide inside, curling unerringly against velvet front wall; she clenches instantly, walls rippling around the intrusion.
Her heels drum against his shoulder blades, moans climb octave by octave, sweeter than any violin strumming in the ballrooms of the capital. He drinks each note, storing them inside his memory like medals.
The sensation begins to overwhelm her, and she splays fingers over her own breasts, pinching already stiff nipples, adding spice to his view. The sight spurs him on. He increases the pressure of his fingers, and pumps them even deeper; at the same time, his mouth suctions firmer until her thighs tremble and the internal flutters tell him she’s hovering on the edge of the cliff again.
When she’s gasping his name like a prayer, he growls, vibrations rumbling through sensitive nerves and sends her crashing.
Her spine arches clear off rug, cry breaking on crystal timbre—clit pulsing, walls clenching and releasing in lush waves. He keeps his tongue gentle now, easing her through the crest, lapping tenderly until the shudders subside.
Caleb crawls up her body, slotting their mouths together so she tastes herself and them. Forehead to forehead, he breathes her air, hands cradling damp hair. “Exquisite,” he praises, voice thick.
“My heart outside my chest—saw you shatter, and it has never been prettier.”
Aftershocks quake her limbs that makes her clutch him, nails scratching lazy patterns along his nape. He rocks his hips so the half-rigid cock nudges her sensitive spot, making her gasp into his shoulder, sensitive but already yearning for more.
He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes and smiles—slow, savage, loving. “Now,” he says, voice sweet, “would Her Grace like to be fucked like a whore? Bent over my reading chair perhaps—hair twisted in my fist while I drive every last ripple out of this greedy cunt?” Her breath hitches, yet her thighs spread wider in invitation.
The answer glows in her eyes. He waits, patient for the syllable, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. A shy nod evolves into breathless, “y-yes please, Caleb.”
Caleb’s grin spreads slow and dark as sin, the kind that once terrified cadets and now turns his duchess’s knees to water. “Listen to you, already begging to be ruined.” He drags a knuckle through the slick still glazing her folds, lifts it gleaming between them.
“My filthy little wife, perfect in pearl and cream. Could present you at court just like this. let the peerage faint at the sight of you.”
She shivers, mortification and hunger warring in those eyes. She wants to hide, yet lifts her chin for more. Pride surges through him, and he seals it with a kiss that steals her breath before she can voice another plea.
Hands slide beneath her arms, and in one fluid surge he’s standing, bringing her with him. The rug bunches under his boots as he pivots toward the high-backed leather reading chair stationed near the cold hearth. Its brass studs wink like complicit stars. He deposits her on unsteady feet, then spins her to face the chair. A gentle shove between shoulder blades bends her forward, her palms scrambling to catch the rolled top, knuckles whitening. Her back forms a graceful bow, buttocks lifted, thighs trembling—an hourglass about to be flipped.
Caleb palms a cheek in each hand, kneading, spreading, exposing glistening folds already pulsing from last crest. “Look at this cunt, swollen shut from pleasure and still managing to weep for me.” A fingertip taps her clit; she jolts, moan cracking. “Greedy little jewel.”
He leans in, breath ghosting the base of her spine. “And this.” Heavy hands spread her wider, thumbs brushing the pucker of her rear. It flinches, shy, then slowly relaxes under pressure. He chuckles low, bends closer, and spits—a deliberate splat that lands warm and wet directly on the tight ring.
She squeaks, mortified, tries to clench away, but he holds her open, watching saliva bead and drip.
“Pretty hole winks like it knows its future,” he croons, voice velvet menace. “Soon, little wife. Soon I’ll split this one open too, make you take every imperial inch while you sob my name into these cushions.”
She whimpers, pushes back unconsciously; arousal glistens fresh along her slit.
Perfectly responsive girl—shame and desire braided so tight they feed each other.
He rewards her with a gentle slap to one cheek, just enough sting on the skin and draw a breathless cry.
Satisfaction roars through him. He straightens, frees cock fully from his slacks—still half-slick from earlier, but is now stiff again, veins throbbing an angry purple. The head nudges through soaked folds, painting himself in her honey, teasing her clit until her legs quake.
Fingers tangle into the silk of her hair, winding once, twice, then yanking until her spine bows impossibly deep—neck craned, breasts lifted, torso a taut instrument ready to be plucked.
She gasps at the minor pain, but her cunt floods with hotter syrup, clenching on air. “Arch for me,” Caleb orders, voice sandpaper over steel. “Show me how well a duchess curves when she wants to be treated like a back-alley dove.” She obliges, vertebrae popping as the angle opens her sodden entrance beautifully, labia blooming.
The tip of his cock nests at threshold—stretching. He circles his hips, feeding just the crown, retreating, feeding again, taunting until frustrated tears prick her eyes and she tries to shove backward.
He clicks his tongue, and pulls her hair tighter. “Don’t rush. You’ll take every inch because I decide when, and not because this greedy hole steals.”
To emphasize he slides in halfway, feeling her walls spasm, overstimulated nerves lighting up.
She keens, a high fragile sound. He pauses then, lets her feel pulse of blood through shaft. “Breathe,” he murmurs—a rare kindness. When lungs expand, he drives forward, seating himself to the hilt with wet slap of hips to ass.
A ragged sob tears from her throat, her inner walls flutter madly, trying to adjust.
Caleb leans over her back, still gripping hair, mouth at her ear. “Is it too much, little wife?” A dark laugh rumbles when she nods frantically. “Good. I will train this plush cunt to take me raw on demand—just like I trained my fleet to sail through cannon smoke. And by the time I’m done, you shall cream around my cock mid-sermon.”
He withdraws almost completely, groans at the drag of swollen tissues, then slams back—again, again, and again—setting a brutal tempo. Breasts swing beneath her, nipples grazing tufted leather and sparking fresh sparks of pleasure through her frayed nerves.
Sweat beads along his spine, trickles to waistband.
Her cries rise—sharp, desperate, beautiful—echoing off of the ceiling. He shifts his angle slightly, letting the head strike the hidden bundle of nerves deep inside of her until words devolve into senseless pleas.
One hand releases hair to snake beneath, finding clit slick and engorged. He strums fast, matching thrusts, forcing pleasure to braid with overstimulation, until her thighs quake violently; inner walls clamp, trying to force him out, yet also sucking him even deeper. “Take it,” he snarls. “Take what your husband gives. Milk me like the greedy girl you are.”
Fingers pinch clit gently, and she sobs, orgasm crashing through her so hard that her knees buckle, and it is only his grip that keeps her pinned.
Wave after wave ripples along his shaft—sweet, vicious pulses that wrench his own control.
Caleb rides her through it, hips never faltering, prolonging spill with shallow grinding. When spasms fade to tremors he slows, gentling, yet remains buried.
He loosens the grip on her hair, smoothing wild strands, and peppers kisses between shoulder blades tasting salt. “Good girl,” he praises, voice hoarse wonder. “Took every thick inch while falling apart. You will be sore tomorrow, and it shall be a reminder who owns this perfect cunt when you sit at breakfast with me at the main table.”
A final lingering thrust, then he pulls out with a reluctant sigh.
Cum and honey drizzle down trembling thighs; he catches some on fingers, raises them to her lips. Obediently, her tongue darts to lick them clean—an erotic sacrament that makes cock twitch interested again despite the ache.
He lifts her boneless form, settles into chair himself and arranges her across his lap: her spine to his chest, thighs splayed over his so she feels air kiss her swollen folds.
When her breath evens out, he nudges her chin to let their eyes meet. “Next time,” he says, voice quiet thunder, “I sheath in that tight little ass. Train you slow, oil you open, make you beg for each inch. Until then, you will walk these halls remembering how you took your duke like a whore tonight—and loved every second of it.”
SAINT'S NOTES ! the letters in this are heavily inspired by cardan's letters to jude (ifykyk); that scene changed something the way i viewed love letters—that they don't necessarily have to be declarations of love at all times, that all they have to be is honest. some of them are intentionally cut in the middle of a sentence. this is so sappy and i love it so much; we'll get back to our regularly scheduled filth soon. i actually finished this days ago, but i scrapped more than half of it, wrote something new, scrapped it again, until i decided to stop doing that yesterday.
ao3
𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘯, 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯. 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘴’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘛𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘺𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦.
cw/tw | archfiend sovereign!sylus x witch!f!reader. nsfw. mdni. heavy religious imagery. demonology. blood-bound curses. witchcraft. witchburnings. if demonic summoning or darker religious themes make you uneasy, you may want to skip this one.
a/n | this devil child was born from a dream, from looping kiki rockwell on repeat, and from an unholy number of shower epiphanies (the superior kind). some lines drift into romanian, courtesy of google translate... so if anyone fluent wants to rescue me from linguistic sin, i welcome you with open arms.
i’ve spent the last few days writing without pause. ever since sylus’s third myth arrived, this piece has burned insistently, refusing silence. i doubted it would ever see daylight… until you all insisted it must.
so, read the tags, tread carefully, and most of all: enjoy.
recommended listening.
𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈
𝑺𝒎𝒐𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒔 that night.
Not the soft smoke of hearths and bread ovens, but the raw metaling tang of burning hair, burning flesh, burning witch. It crawled down your throat and clung there, a sour weight that never left, no matter how many winters wedged themselves between then and now.
Torches always came first.
Not the bells. Not the shouting. Torches.
Their light leaked through the shutter slats, stroking across the packed-earth floor in long, trembling fingers. You remember lying on your straw pallet, rushes scratching your cheek, counting each flare against the walls as though numbering the men outside might somehow make their boots fewer.
“Up.” A hand clamped your shoulder. “Up, little crow.”
No time for gentleness. Your mother's grip brusied, fingers biting through you thin shift as she hauled you upright. The cottage lurched around you—shadows flinging themselves against beams, shelves rattling, someone outside bellowing for doors to be opened in the name of God and law and order.
Mara, all elbows and stubborn chin, was already on her feet, half-braided hair swinging as she kicked at the embers to kill the light.
Rian, eldest, stood at the window, a dark cut-out against the orange glow. One hand lifted, fingers twitching as if reading the air. Her knuckles went white.
“They're not drunk this time.” Her voice scraped low. “Torch lines aren't staggering.”
No mob, then.
Militia.
Your mother's jaw tightened, tendons jumping in the hollow of her throat. “They took the law with them.”
A harder thing to fight than pitchforks.
Voices outside swelled. Wood splintered under boots. Someone screamed a prayer. Another voice, smooth, almost pleased, floated through the smoke-thick dark.
“Witches of Philos, step forth, and you will be granted a clean death.”
Mara spat. “They can choke on their own clean.”
Your mother snapped her gaze toward her, sharp as a lash. What passed between them held fear and fury and a blade's glint of pride. Mara's mouth thinned. The spit hissed out.
Under the din—crack, roar, holy words turned to knives—you heard another sound: the thin whimper of the woods around the village, the wind dragging through branches like something being skinned.
They had warned the elders it would come to this. The sermons had grown teeth; the men in the front pews had begun wearing their knives to worship.
A palm cupped your cheek, fingers roughened by mortar and pestle and cord. Your mother's eyes were not soft. They were dry, wild, and painfully clear.
“You listen now,” breath hot against your face. “When the floors open, you run. You do not look back. You do not turn. You do not try to pull anyone with you. You run.”
Your stomach turned to stone. “I can help—”
Her hands slid to your shoulders and shook once, hard enough that your teeth clicked. “You are the help, girl.”
Rian stepped back from the window. “Lower lanes are gone. Smoke from the riverhouses.”
“Coven hall?”
“Gone.”
The word struck harder than anything outside.
Gone meant the chanting circle, the jars in the root cellar, the shelves of bone and books never meant for light. Gone meant anyone who had gathered there at the first alarm.
Mara's breath hitched. “Edda. Lise. Old Myrne.”
Names you would not say again.
The door bucked as shoulders slammed into it. Dust sifted from the rafters. Your mother tore away, skirts whipping her ankles as she smeared symbols into the ash. Doorframe. Lintel. Floorboards. Quick and furious.
“Stall them,” Rian muttered, rolling her shoulders as she grabbed the poker. “Get her out.”
“I'm not—”
The floorboards shivered beneath your feet. Heat licked your soles. Something outside caught, a tatch roof, a wagon piled with kindling. The world howled.
Your mother did not argue; that fight had happened months ago, over herbs and inquisitors moving through the valley. That was when she'd cut your hair short, inked the first sigil beneath your ribs, split the bone ledger into three.
Preparation was its own answer.
Another blow. The bar bowed. A crack zig-zagged through the wood, smoke fingering in.
“Move,” Rian hissed, shoving the hearth aside. Stones groaned and shifted, revealing a trapdoor seam. She hooked the iron ring and hauled.
Cold, damp air exhaled upward.
You hesitated. One heartbeat. Two.
Mara seized your wrist. Not gentle, necessary. “Don't make me push you, little crow.”
Fear stopped being abstract. It smelled of sweat, smoke, piss, old linen. It took shape in the broken bar and the bulging hinges and the priest's rising voice urging men to be brave, to be thorough, to be pious in their slaughter.
Your mother pressed something into your palm. Bone touched your skin. Smooth, thin, carved with cramped symbols biting into your flesh.
“The ledger,” she murmured. “Part of it.”
“But you said—”
“Hide.” Her fingers closed over yours, bone pressed to your pulse. “Remember. Come back when it's time.”
Time for what, you never learned.
The bar snapped. The door flew inward. Smoke and men tumbled in. Faces flashed. Red-eared Tomas, Jorek who once bought salves, the priest in sootless robes with a silver pyre sigil bright on his chest.
“On your knees,” Jorek ordered, voice no longer his own.
Rian did not kneel. The poker streaked across the room, smashing into Toma's mouth. Teeth and blood sprayed. Rian lunged after him, hair wild, curses rising so deep the air shook.
Mara leapt next, knife bright.
Your mother did not look.
She shoved you.
The cellar swallowed you whole.
Cold earth wrapped your legs as you stumbled. Your skull struck stone; breath tore out. Stars burst behind your eyes.
Above, the trapdoor slammed.
Darkness roared. Sounds bled down, furniture overturned, fists striking flesh, Rian's snarl, Mara's choked cry. Your mother's voice rose, old words tasting of iron and riverwater.
A thud. A scream cut short.
Weight crashed onto the trapdoor. Boots. A curse. Another blow.
“Pin her arms.”
You pushed upright, chest scraping dirt. The cellar breathed with you, stone clammy beneath your palms. Everything above had changed. Everything above was ending.
Boards vibrated. Someone knelt. Rough hands wrenched your mother's wrists behind her. Her breathing steadied, the way it had before difficult births. Not fear. Preparation.
Your bones screamed to claw upward. The cellar held you tight.
A grunt. Dragging. A prayer for a god who had never protected you.
Your hands flattened in the soil. Dirt packed under your nails.
A blow landed above. A sharp inhale. No cry.
Wood creaked, her body dragged directly above you.
“Tunnel,” she whispered, the word hissing through the cracks. “Back wall. Crawl fast. Don't stop.”
Tears blurred your eyes. You bit them down until you tasted iron.
More boots. More men. The priest's voice unfurled, velvet-smooth, thick with sanctity and rot.
“Bring the others.”
He walked as though strolling through a market, not a slaughter.
Your mother answered in the old tongue—venom, not plea.
A strike. A tut. Ropes pulled taut.
“Run, little crow.” Torn by breath. “Run.”
Something inside you rose to break, to drag her down with you. But it did not understand the truth Rian and Mara had accepted the moment they seized iron, ash, teeth.
Survival was not mercy.
It was an order.
Bootsteps shuffled. A body dragged. A single whimper—Mara or Rian—carved itself into your spine.
The trapdoor groaned. Weight lifted. Wood split beneath a thrown body. Then the scrape of dragged feet, ropes taut, the muffled procession toward the square.
For a heartbeat, quiet.
Not true quiet. Flames cracked, someone wailed, another door broke, but quiet enough that the cellar felt like a tomb holding its breath.
A soft tap touched the boards. Knuckles, perhaps.
“Răzbună-ne sângele.” Avenge our blood.
Boards shifted as they pulled her away. Her breath vanished into the storm.
You pressed your forehead to the earth. Inhaled soil and rot and the ghost of her herbs.
Then you wriggled into the tunnel. Shoulders scraped. Ribs compressed. Panic clawed, but her voice held you forward. Forward. The world narrowed to dirt and your heartbeat.
Behind you, doors clashed. Yours, then neighbours', then more.
Screams tangled with flame. Someone sang a hymn, voice shaking.
The tunnel sloped. Cold air kissed your face. You burst into the scrub behind the smokehouse, hands sinking into wet leaves. Night struck, knife-cold, wide, indifferent.
You lay there, breath shuddering. Heat licked your legs, distant.
Her last words rang again.
Răzbună-ne sângele.
Your feet moved.
Branches whipped your arms. Roots clawed at your ankles. Torches flickered at the edge of vision as men swarmed. You fled into the trees, lungs tearing, sobs swallowed by the night.
By the time you dared turn, you were halfway up the hill overlooking the village.
It crouched below, roofs knitted tight, smoke pouring upward. Fire hooked from windows. Sparks leapt hungrily.
At the centre, the square burned brightest.
Stakes rose like rotten teeth.
Shapes bound to them.
Your knees hit frost. The air tasted of ptich and roasted flesh. Men gathered, shadows jumping. The priest's words carried on the updraft.
“In His holy name, we purge corruption—”
Your mother's voice rose. “We are not what you fear.”
Rian laughed, ragged, defiant. Mara spat curses that tore the night. Bound, burning, they still cursed. Witches to the last breath.
A stone struck Rian's jaw. Her head snapped. Men cheered.
Your nails dug into the frozen earth until they bled.
Run, instinct hissed. Run before they smell you.
But the rest of you rooted, watching your world burn.
Screams blurred into one long wail. Shapes on stakes stopped moving. The fire burned on.
Dawn bit through smoke. Grey light revealed charred poles, sagging beams, blackened ribs of houses. Bodies. Ash.
No more mothers.
No more sisters.
No more coven.
Only you
That knowledge burned longer than the pyre.
—
Years packed themselves into the space between that night and now.
Hard, lean years. Road dust ground into your boots, into your knees from sleeping on floors, in ditches, beneath hedges. Work that paid in crusts and curses: midwife in one town, hedge-healer in another, cursed woman everywhere. Cold looks. Colder winters. Women with shaved heads and branded wrists tied to carts in market squares.
Witch hunts didn't stop. They simply got better paperwork.
You gathered stories like burrs. Learned the names: inquisitor, commissioner, witch-finder. Learned the shapes of gallows across the provinces. Learned the taste of “for the good of Philos.” Learned to keep your hands steady mixing fever tonic while a girl in the next room screamed under a priest's questions.
Most nights, when slepped dragged you under, the torches returned. You woke with smoke in your mouth, spat grey into a bucket, stared at your hands until morning.
The bone shard never left you. Wrapped in cloth, tucked into your bodice, buried beneath rented pallets—always recovered by dawn. You never traced the symbols. Fear and reverence twined too tightly.
“Răzbună-ne sângele,” your mother had said.
The world did not burn the way nightmares insisted. Some cities glittered with stained glass; children played; merchants haggled. Life moved on, indifferent.
Anger set like a bone badly healed.
So when rumour finally found you. Whispers of a capital fat off witch-burning, a priesthood that had turned purification into profession, nothing in you was surprised.
Only something quiet thought, finally.
—
The hill knew you.
Boots sank into familiar hollows as you climbed toward home. Air colder than memory, breath ghosting white. Frost silvered the long grass. Crows picked at a collapsed scarecrow. No smoke rose now. No torches. No bells. The village lay slumped, roofs fallen, walls buckled.
Time had finished what fire began.
Your pack weighed your shoulders. Ropes, knives, jars. Three bone fragments scavenged across years. The shard your mother had given you rode in the pocket sewn over your heart.
At the ridge, you stopped.
The old square had sunk into itself, ringed by weathered posts. The pyre-ground lay bare, nothing growing but lichen. Around it, houses leaned inward, hollow-mouthed.
Wind rose from the hollow, carrying damp stone and soot that had never washed clean.
Not a ghost.
A scar.
Frost cracked beneath your boots as you descended. No travellers came this way; the new road curved far around.
Good.
Up close, the rot sharpened: a painted charm half-scrubbed from a wall; a doorway bricked up in haste, now collapsed; your old cottage reduced to charred rubble. The heartstone lay split down the centre.
You stepped over the threshold.
Ash and leaf litter muffled your tread. Moss softened broken furniture. A birds nested in a beam's crook. Someone had once gutted a deer here; dried blood clung dark in the cracks.
The trapdoor's place gaped open.
You stared down, breath fogging. No boards. No stone. Only a ragged hole and the dark beneath.
For a moment, phantom scents crowded your nose: pitch, sweat, terror.
“My fault,” you breathed.
The words startled you. They sounded foregin in the ruin. You hadn't spoken that thought in years, though it had lived in you like a stone: if you'd climbed back up, if you'd screamed, it you'd tried...
Foolish. Thirteen-year-old arms could not drag grown men into flames.
Still.
You crouched at the edge, fingers digging into wood softened by rot. Splinters slid beneath your nails. Enough to steady you.
Run, she had ordered. Avenge our blood.
You had obeyed the first.
Time to understand the second.
The ladder had rotted away. You swung down and dropped. Pain shot up your spine. You braced against the low ceiling.
The cellar smelled of damp stone and mice. Light seaped through gaps above. Empty brackets clung to walls. A smashed jar lay in the corner. Soil pressed hard and cold beneath your knees.
The spot where your mother used to kneel looked no different than any other patch of earth.
You knelt anyway.
Your fingers dug into soil disturbed and packed again over years. Deeper, the dirt chilled. Stones resisted. You dug past them—scrape, scoop, toss—breath falling into rhythm.
“Nasty habit,” you muttered. “Digging where you shouldn't.”
Your fingertips struck something smooth. Hard.
Your pulse stumbled.
You brushed soil away.
Bone gleamed up at you. Larger than the shard you carried. A rib, perhaps, carved flat. Sigils crawled across its surface.
Around it lay more: vertebrae, a jaw fragment, a knuckle. All inscribed.
A ledger, but not of numbers.
Hands shaking, you freed them all, laying each piece carefully aside. When you lifted the largest, your thumb found a symbol you knew.
The same spiral carved into the shard over your heart.
Heat pulsed under your skin. Faint, but certain.
“What in the cold hells were you working, Mother?” your whisper rasped.
Only water dripped in reply.
You fitted your shard into the larger bone. It slid into place as if it had never left. Lines completed. Sigils closed. The air changed.
Damp chill drew back. Something older rose, a first breath after drowning. Your tongue prickled with metal.
Not a ledger.
A summons.
You froze.
Revenge had always been a vague thing, shaped like fire and maybe a knife. You had imagined burning the capital, cutting down priests, matching wound for wound.
Your mother had built something else entirely.
Something coiled in these symbols, waiting for the last witch of the coven to return.
Your breath shortened.
Days before her burning, she had knelt here. Carved these lines. Spoken words you were never allowed to learn.
You had run.
The choice had saved your life.
Now you were back—older, meaner, exhausted, hands unclean but steady.
Wind shouldered the ruined village. A shutter banged loose.
“You wanted me to find this.”
Of course she had. Otherwise the shard would never have been pressed into your hand.
You assembled the bones, fitting them piece by piece. With each connection, pressure built. Your ears popped. The cellar brightened at the edges, as if light rose behind your eyes.
The village had burned for the sin of giving its daughters power.
The capital still burned women, now with signatures and receipts.
You sat back on your heel, dirt streaked across your palms. The completed bone ledger lay before you.
“Live,” your mother had ordered. You had.
“Remember.” You never stopped.
“Avenge our blood.”
Your gaze caught a sqeuence of symbols etched deeper than the rest. Not blessing. Not plea. A name, perhaps.
You touched it.
Heat leapt. Outside, crows exploded into flight.
A smile curved your mouth.
“All right,” your murmured to the bonest, to the memory of your mother, to the memory of your sisters, to the memory of your coven, to the hollowed village, to whatever listened beneath the world. “I'm back.”
The ledger pulsed once beneath your hand.
Vengeance finally had a shape.
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆.
On the cellar floor they lay in their ugly geometry, quiet to the eye but loud in the body. A slow, insistent thudding that did not match your pulse. Palm pressed to the ledger, you felt it push back, as if something inside wanted out.
Enough.
You wrapped each piece in cloth that still held the faint ghost of smoke and tucked them into your pack. Canvas scraped your shoulder when you swung the straps on. Dirt clung beneath your nails from the digging; you didn't bother brushing it off.
Up through the wreck of the cottage you climbed, ribs and beams around you like a carcass picked clean. The sky beyond the broken rafters had gone ink-darkm a thin red bruise fading on the horizon. Evening was gone. Night had teeth now.
The path to the square had not forgotten your feet.
Down past the collapsed smithy. Past the well where your younger reflection once warped in the water. Past the charred stump where Mara used to knot her hair and scowl at everything breathing. Frost-brittle grass whispered against your boots, bending away from the dead ground ahead.
The square opened like an old wound.
No gallows. No fresh stakes. Only the blackened bowl of it, with its central patch barren and hard as fired clay. Around the rim, half-rotted posts leaned—some still bearing rusted rings where rope had once bitten.
You halted at the edge.
Cold settled here in a particular way, sliding into joints, into the seams of your clothes. The kind of cold that remembered. Your breath misted pale. The ruined village sagged around you, listening.
Ash still slept in the soil.
When you knelt and pressed your fingers in, dark dust clung to your skin, too fine to be only wood. Years had muted the scent, yet if you leaned close, if you let memory rise, the ghosts returned: scorched fat, singed hair, the cloying reek of meat.
“Din cenușa voastră…” you breathed. From your ash…
The small knife slipped free from your boot. You opened your palm with a short, clean stroke. Warm blood welled, slick in the gloom. A few drops fell and vanished into old soot.
You walked the circle.
Ash dribbled from your fingers as you went, mixing with blood in a gritty, darkening line. Around the heart of the pyre you traced the boundary, thin, stark, invisible to anyone but you and whatever answered. At each cardinal point you pressed your thumb down hard until skin split anew.
“Cerc de sânge, cerc de os, cerc de nume.” Circle of blood, of bone, of names.
By the time you closed the ring, your hand throbbed and the air tasted different.
The pack slid from your shoulders with a dull thump. You knelt in the circle's centre and unwrapped the ledger: broad plate, vertebrae, jaw fragment, knuckles—all the little ghosts of a body your mother had turned into a book.
Piece by piece, they found their place.
The shard your mother had pressed into your thirteen-year-old palm clicked in last. The moment it settled, the world leaned.
Not visibly. No quake. No crack. The shift came in your chest, as if something tugged sideways on your heart.
Above, clouds gathered without sound. The moon, thin and watchful, bled red around her rim. That colour seeped outward, staining the low sky with bruised light.
You laid both hands on the plate and bent close.
“Ascultă-mi sângele.”
Listen to my blood.
The cut on your palm kissed the carved spirals. Heat flared, running up your arms, sliding beneath your ribs to the sigil inked over your heart. THat mark woke sharply, lines prickling as though freshly drawn.
You let the language your mother had buried in you uncoil.
“Din cenușa mamelor mele te chem.
Din fumul surorilor mele te chem.
Din noaptea în care m-au lăsat să privesc,
din sângele meu deschid poarta.
Sylus, suveran al ruinelor, treci prin văl.”
From my mothers’ ash, I call you.
From my sisters’ smoke, I call you.
From the night they left me watching,
from my blood I open the gate.
Sylus, sovereign of ruin, cross the veil.
Words scraped your throat raw. Each line weighed the air heavier. Sparks skittered along the ash ring, hissed and vanished.
You did not stop.
“Ascultă-mi jurământul, ființă din foc căzut,
pe oasele lor îți leg numele,
pe pielea mea îți dau drumul.
Vino pentru noi. Vino pentru ele.
Răzbună-ne sângele.”
Hear my oath, fallen fire—
on their bones I bind your name,
on my skin I give you passage.
Come for us. Come for them.
Avenge our blood.
The second verse left you breathless. The sky above disliked it even more.
Clouds churned, dragged into slow spirals over the square. The moon's red rim thickened, turning wound-like. At its centre, darkness pooled, too deep to be ordinary shadow. As though someone had cut a hole through the sky and let nothingness seep in.
Wind rose. It struck the circle and broke, shearing sidways, howling around the ash ring as though the air itself had grown teeth. Your hair whipped loose. The posts at the square's rim creaked, leaning farther.
The knife waited in your palm like a dare.
The sigil under your ribs burned hot.
You slid the blade under the edge of your shift, flat against your skin, and traced it along the old mark with one confident pull.
Pain lanced inward. Not deep. Just enough.
Blood welled at once. You caught it in your hand, smearing red across your skin, then brought that palm down hard on the ledger.
The bones drank.
This time the taking was immediate. No gentle pull, no slow sinking. Your blood vanished in a blink, sucked clean into the carved grooves. Each sigil flared black for a breath, impossible black, like the space between stars.
Then something cracked.
Not here.
Above.
The red ring around the moon tore open.
A jagged seam split it rim to rim, widening as you watched. From that wound, a narrow beam of bloody light speared downward, aimed unnerringly at the circle in the dead heart of Philos.
The beam did not illuminate.
It displaced.
The ground beneath you shuddered once, as though something massive had stirred far below. Air thinned. Your ears popped.
Then you felt it:
Awareness. Huge. Cold. Close.
Every hair on your body rose. Your heart forgot itself for a beat.
The beam thickened.
It touched the ash line, and the circle held. Fire would have eaten through it. Lightning would have shredded it. But this light bent around the boundary, pouring inward without crossing the mark—guided by rules your mother had etched into bone.
At the centre, something began to form.
At first only suggestions: a vast weight descending, wings catching awkwardly against pressure they disliked, claws tasting the air. The ground trembled beneath its arrival, protesting the scale of what you'd dragged through.
The world tried to make sense of the shape and failed.
It shrank.
Limbs folded, spine compressed, joints shifting unnaturally fast. Mass forced into a smaller shell. Darkness peeled away in strips, revealing white cloth, frills, a long weapon, a spill of hair pale as frost.
By the time the beam narrowed to a thin thread and snapped, leaving afterimages burning behind your eyes, something like a man stood where the bones had been.
He was not a man.
Clothes clung to him in sharp, elegant lines—silver-grey chased with black, patterns flowering like roses grown from thorns. A high collar framed his throat. Layers of frilled cuff feathered his wrists. In one hand he held a staff sliding toward spear, a long, dark shaft wrappwed in throned metal and crowned with a carved rose that seemed to drink the light.
Wings hunched at his back, not feather, not leather, nothing you recognized. Tattered membranes of shadow and substance, their edges glowing faintly red where they had torn against the surface of the world.
White hair fell in careless curls, framing a face built with cruel precision: straight nose, a mouth made for wickedness, high arrogant cheekbones. His eyes opened slowly on you—
Red.
Not bright, not paint-box scarlet. A bruised wine-red lit from within by embers that refused to die.
For a breath, neither of you moved.
Your voice arrived first.
“You’re late.”
One corner of his mouth twitched.
“Time moves differently where they kept me,” his voice roughened by disuse. “For you, little witch, it has been years. For me, it has been... hunger.”
The last word rolled thicker, weighted.
Your fingers tightened around the knife. “I didn't call you for conversation.”
“No.” His gaze drifted down to your chest, where blood had soaked a dark crescent through your linen. “You called me with this.”
His hand lifted.
Not vaguely. Not theatrically.
He crossed the space between you in a blur, frills brushing your front, palm hovering a breath from your sternum.
Heat poured off him, dry as kiln-breath, prickling your already raw skin.
“You opened your heart,” he observed, thumb tracing the air above the ink and the fresh line. “Most mortals whisper from safe places. They ask for coin, for lovers, for harvests. But you—” His voice dipped. “You carved the fate yourself.”
“She taught me how.”
“You mother?”
“She burned for me.” Your jaw locked.
His eyes darkened.
“I thought I smelled Philos burn,” he murmured. “Ash like this clings to eternity. The prayers of your killers were... loud.”
Anger sharpened your fear.
“They're still burning girls in the capital,” you said, thin and hard. “Still turning our names into numbers. Still calling slaugther cleansing.”
“And you want them unmade.”
“I want them to know.” The words came low and steady. “I want every priest, every commissioner, every man who pushed a woman to the stake and called it duty to understand, while it happens, why their world is ending.”
His hand hovered a hair's breadth from touching your skin. His mouth curved, not quite a smile.
“Justice,” he mused. “Mortals always say justice when they mean revenge dressed for worship.”
“Call it what you like.” Your breath caught. “I want them to choke on their own smoke. I want their holy fires cold. I want their records ash, their fath a carcass even crows won't touch.” A beat. “Can you do that?”
“Can I?” A brow arched. “Little witch, I brought down cities before your kingdom had a name. I can eat their god if you wish.”
You didn't flinch.
“So be it.”
“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “I have been held a long time. I could destory them alone, yes. Yet you did not call me to watch from the hill.”
“No.”
“You intend to walk into their mouths and open them from within,” he said, a hum of something like approval beneath it. “With me at your shoulder.”
“Not at my shoulder.”
A flicker. Sharp. “No?”
“Beside,” you corrected, pulse hammering under his hovering palm. “I’m not calling a hound. I’m calling a sovereign. You want a door into the world again. I want a weapon and a witness. We trade.”
His hand touched you.
Warm, calloused fingers pressed over the cut.
Pain flared, deeper this time, as though his touch pierced the sigil beneath your ribs. The mark woke fully—every curve and cross burning.
“You offer much,” he murmured. “This door is no small thing. Once I step through, nothing fits back the same. Not in you. Not in the sky.”
“You’re not the first thing to ruin me.”
“I might be the first you invited.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You were my mother’s idea first.”
A low, dark laugh rolled out of him.
“She had excellent taste.”
His thumb pressed lightly on the edge of your wound. You hissed. His eyes sharpened at the sound.
“One last chance,” he said softly. “You could still scrape together a quiet life. Find a village ignorant of your name. Marry a man whose hands only strike tables. Deliver babies. Brew tonics. Let other daughters burn.”
Your stomach twisted.
“You’re wasting time.”
“Am I?”
“You saw what they did here.” Your chin tipped toward the dead square. “Do you think I can sit at anyone’s hearth and pretend I don’t know what the smoke means?”
Silence stretched.
His hand slid upward, fingers tracing your collarbone, curling loosely around your neck. Your pulse jumped under his thumb. He noticed.
“You’re afraid of me.”
“Yes.”
“Not enough to step back.”
“Not enough to stay small.”
A slow breath filled his chest.
“Good.”
The word struck something feral in you, a place that had grown teeth in the ashes of your life.
His hand dropped back to the wound.
“You opened the gate,” he said. “Now I seal it.”
You expected teeth.
Instead—lips.
His mouth descended slowly, deliberately, closing over the wound with obscene care. Heat exploded where he touched, a heat that belonged entirely to what he was.
The first pull of blood ripped a sound from you, half-gasp, half-moan. His free hand slid to the small of your back, anchoring you, drawing you flush against cold frills and the hard certainty beneath.
He drank.
Not frantic. Not starving.
Measured.
Relentless.
Each pull traced the pathways of your veins, tugging smoke and grief with it. Memories surged whether you willed them or not: your mother whispering through the floorboards; Mara laughing around fire; Rian’s jaw breaking under stone; the girls burned in other towns; the priest who signed their warrants without looking at their faces.
All of it flowed.
Your fingers clutched his coat. Your knees loosened. The square blurred at the edges.
He took, and in the taking something left you—a heavy, choking knot of helplessness that rage had never fully pierced.
A softer sound escaped you.
His mouth eased. His tongue swept once over the wound. Flesh knitted under the heat. The ache remained, dulled.
When he lifted his head, your vision lagged a beat.
His eyes burned brighter. Red threaded through the whites like fractures. A smear of your blood marked his mouth; he licked it away with a slow swipe.
“Done,” he said, low, satisfied.
Your breath trembled.
“What did you take?” Your voice rasped.
“A road,” he answered. “A mark to follow. I can find you anywhere now.” His fingertip tapped the freshly healed skin. “And a promise. You fed me on oath as much as blood.”
“And what do I get?”
He didn’t look away.
“Me—unleashed—upon the men who burned your world while singing mercy.”
The circle seemed to lean closer, listening.
“You’ll leave when it’s done,” you said. “When the last pyre in Philos goes cold. That’s the bargain.”
“Chain breaks when your vengeance ends,” he agreed. “You walk free—if the world left has room for you.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
A feral smile cut his mouth.
“Then you come with me. Other skies need ruining.”
You didn’t answer at once. The cut over your heart beat in a new rhythm, your pulse and something heavier beneath it.
He stepped back a fraction. Cold air slid between you, but the tether did not loosen; it hummed tight between your hearts.
“Listen, witch.” His tone shifted, formal. “On your blood and their bones and this ruined ground, I swear: the priests of Philos will watch their altars fall. Their fires will gutter in their own lungs. Their records will crumble to cinder in their hands. I will not touch an innocent while I walk beside you—unless your hand rises first.” A beat. “When they are gone, I walk.”
Exactly the shape you needed. Still, your mouth went dry.
“I accept.”
Wind pressed against the ash line. The circle held.
He lifted his staff. Embers crawled along its barbed bloom, flaring once, then dimming.
“Then we are bound.”
The words draped over your shoulders like a cloak you had chosen and could never lay down.
His gaze drifted toward the faint smear of light on the horizon, where the capital crouched rich, complacent, devout.
“They’ll be lighting their evening candles now,” he murmured. “Praying not to burn in some imagined hell.”
“Let’s show them a real one.”
That drew a sound from him—low, delighted.
He extended his hand, palm up, an offer, not a command.
No summons. No pull.
Your fingers, still sticky with drying blood, slid into his.
Heat closed around them, not searing, simply sure. The thread between you pulsed once, hard enough to catch your breath.
“My witch,” he murmured, almost gentle, terribly dangerous. “Let’s go set their God on fire.”
You stepped with him over the ash line.
The circle sparked once at your ankles, then fell quiet. Behind you, the bone ledger lay still, its sigils dimmed, but in the back of your mind, something watched, satisfied.
Ahead, Philos waited.
The road gleamed pale in the blood-tinged moonlight, a narrow scar through frost and field. Bells tolled somewhere far off, calling the faithful to prayer.
Each peal landed like a challenge.
You tightened your grip around the hand of the archfiend you’d dragged from the sky.
“Let them ring,” you whispered.
Beside you, wings stretched wide, shadow spilling long over the dead village as Sylus fell into step.
“They’ll be screaming over them soon enough.”
𝑫𝒂𝒘𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝑷𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒐𝒔. Not the Philos in your memory, at least. The one inside your chest stayed fixed on that first grey morning after the pyre, smoke veiling the sun. The real sky above the ruins shifted, though, bleeding from black to bruised blue while you and the thing you'd dragged through it walked away from the village that had failed to kill you.
Frost cracked under your boots. Each step tore a faint print in the hard faint priunt in the hard ground; Sylus left none. Where his heels met the rime, ice sizzled and sank, little melts that steamed before refreezing.
Silence stretched between you at first.
Not comfortable. Not hostile. A waiting kind of quiet, like the square had held when the torches first gathered.
The road south bent around the hill, then straightened. Ahead lay nothing but stripped fields, the shadow of distant woods, and a low spine of hills hiding the capital’s smoke.
Wind worried your coat. The cut over your heart pulsed in a rhythm that wasn’t entirely your own.
“You’re walking,” you muttered after a while, eyes on the ribbon of dirt ahead. “Thought you’d prefer… whatever that was.”
A sideways look caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Burning a hole straight through the sky?” His staff clipped a buried stone; sparks shivered along its wicked head. “Subtlety is not their strength, little witch. We are heading toward a nest of men who dream in laws. They dislike obvious miracles.”
“You’re worried about their comfort.” Dry.
“I’m worried about pace,” he replied, unbothered. “If I walk above their heads with wings open, they will start screaming early. Too much panic too soon makes revenge sloppy.”
Your hands burrowed deeper into your sleeves. “You sound as if you’re planning a dinner party.”
“You invited me,” he reminded, unhurried. “I am simply arranging the courses.”
The blood-link between you thrummed once, a faint pluck like a finger dragged over a harp string. Not enough to stagger. Enough to remind.
Each mile you put between yourself and the dead village tightened it, oddly. The cut had closed already under his mouth, yet the place stung whenever your thoughts drifted too far from him. As if the bond disliked distance without attention.
“You’re pulling,” slipped out.
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Adjusting,” that gravel-soft voice said. “Getting used to your… edges.”
“You’ve tasted my blood, not my mind.”
Scarlet flicked sideways, quick and amused.
“Veins carry more than you think. You poured memories down my throat like wine.”
Heat crept up your neck, half fury, half humiliation. “I didn’t give permission for that.”
“You opened the gate over your heart.” One shoulder rolled beneath intricate cloth. “That is as much invitation as any creature ever gets.”
He wasn’t wrong. That didn’t make you like it more.
A clump of scrub loomed near the roadside, branches crusted white. Beneath it, half-swallowed by dead grass, a small stone marker leaned. Your boot caught; you almost stumbled.
The sigil carved into the rock stopped you short.
Simple thing: circle, bar of a cross, stylised flame. The same symbol the priest’s robes had carried when your family burned. Someone had set it here as a blessing, not a threat.
Your hand went cold around the knife at your belt.
Sylus paused a few paces ahead when the bond jerked. He turned, staff tip sinking into the frost with a soft hiss.
You crouched, breath the only warm thing in the air.
Fingers traced the shallow carving. Calloused pads fit into grooves some pious hand had cut. The stone had been rubbed smooth in places by other touches, other prayers.
“Road shrine,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “To keep travellers safe.”
“From what?” He drifted closer, looming over your shoulder. “Wolves? Bandits? Women who know their herbs?”
“From witches.”
Silence sat heavy for a heartbeat, then another.
The knife came free with a soft scrape. No real thought. Only the memory of rope fused into charred wood, of Mara’s profile haloed in flame, of the way the crowd had cheered when the stone hit Rian’s jaw.
The blade bit into the symbol.
The first cut shaved stone from the top of the flaming tongue. The second split the circle. You carved until the neat lines turned to ruin, a scrubbed, ugly gouge that matched the scar the pyres had opened under your ribs.
Stone grit lodged under your nails. The shrine looked worse now, and somehow truer.
A presence at your back drifted closer. His shadow fell over the rock, over your hands.
“They built this with hope,” he observed, tone unreadable.
“They built my stake with the same.”
“That is not the same.” A pause. “Hope is not always a virtue.”
“Worked out very well for them, didn’t it?” The knife slipped from your grip to the bare earth with a soft thud. “They hoped their fires pleased someone. They hoped no one would ever come back for the ash.”
Your boot nudged the stone.
Not enough to topple it. Enough to crack whatever reverent pose it had once held.
“You’re shaking,” reached your ears a moment before weight closed over your shoulders.
No hands touched you. The sense of being covered came through the bond instead—a phantom warmth laid over your coat, as if wings had wrapped without moving.
“I’m cold.” Your jaw tightened.
“You weren’t before you scraped their god’s face,” his voice came, closer now. “Cold you’d have cursed at the start of the hill.”
Your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. He read too much.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re furious.” Not accusation. Not triumph. Simple fact. “Hold onto it. We will need it.”
The road unspooled ahead, unchanged. The stone stayed behind, wounded and useless, its broken mark one more score scratched into the world’s ledger.
Hours slid past.
Fields gave way to birch scrub, then to a stretch of stunted pines leaning away from the wind as if bracing for a blow. The sky never truly brightened; winter’s low, washed light hovered without commitment.
Hunger started prodding at you around midday. The dull, practical kind at first: stomach chewing itself, head going light.
A different hunger lurked beneath.
Not yours.
The link vibrated when you glanced sideways at him. No visible change touched Sylus’s face. His stride stayed easy, staff swinging in a lazy pattern, wings held tight—no more than a suggestion of shadow at the edge of sight.
The pull you felt inside was not the same as the night at the pyre.
Sharper now. More focused. As if that first sharing had taught him what to reach for.
“How often do you need—” you began, stumbled, swallowed dryness, tried again, “—to feed?”
The staff came down on a chunk of ice. It split cleanly in two.
“I don’t ‘need’ in the way you mean,” he said eventually. “Not like beasts that starve. Power sits in me the way rot sits in old wood. I can stand a very long time and look… solid.”
“But?”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “But I prefer not to be hollow.”
The bond thrummed again, that disturbing echo of a second heartbeat under your own.
“You fed an hour ago,” you pointed out. “On everything I’ve been trying not to think about for ten years.”
“Since the night they burned your coven?” He didn’t soften it. “You’ve been feeding those memories to yourself for a decade. I took only what slopped over.”
The thought of grief as spillage almost made you laugh. Almost.
“It’ll come back,” you muttered. “It always does.”
“Not all in the same shape,” he said, and there it was again, that sense of him looking not at your face but through it, down into layers no one else had seen.
“Is this you comforting me?”
“Observing.” A brief pause. “If I meant to comfort you, little witch, you’d know.”
“Don’t,” slipped out quicker than you intended.
That earned you a longer look. “No?”
“Don’t make it soft.” Your shoulders hunched around the coat. “Don’t make it pretty. They burned my family in daylight. No one made that kinder.”
He nodded once, accepting.
“Very well,” he said, low. “I’ll be honest, not kind. I have tasted your blood. I have walked your pyre through your throat. The next time I take from you, it will not be grief I drink.”
Something in your chest tightened.
“What, then?” The question came out quieter.
His gaze dipped, almost absently, to the thin cloth over your sternum. “Resolve. Rage. Desire.”
A branch snapped under your boot.
“Desire,” you echoed, stuffing both hands deeper into your sleeves.
“For ruin,” he went on, thoughtful. “For justice shaped like ruin. For a world where girls like you don’t have to carve sigils into their own skin to survive.” A beat. “Among other things.”
Heat pooled where embarrassment and something darker tangled.
“Stop rummaging,” you snapped, sharper than intended.
“Can’t help it,” he said, too blunt for apology. “You built the room and left the door open. I’m only standing in the threshold.”
“You don’t have to lean inside.”
“You forget what I am.”
That shut your mouth for a while.
The pines thickened into actual forest as the road dipped. Shadows came earlier here; the smell of damp earth rose from under the frost, carrying a hint of rot. Somewhere off to the left, water ran. A stream forcing itself through half-frozen banks.
By the time you found the clearing, your legs had begun to complain. Light had drained to a thin pewter wash.
A traveller’s mark had been cut into one of the trees, a crude sign indicating good ground to stop. No cottage. No inn. Just a flat space among roots and stones where others had rested years before and trusted the dark.
The thought of four walls pressed against your lungs.
“Here,” you decided, shrugging your pack off. “We rest.”
Sylus studied the trees with an expression that nearly qualified as distaste.
“You humans treat standing wood as shelter,” he mused. “I’ve always thought of it as fuel that hasn’t been introduced to its purpose yet.”
“Don’t set the forest on fire.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
The bond between you disagreed.
Not with words—with a slow tightening, as though someone had looped it through a hook in your ribs and pulled.
You busied yourself with ordinary tasks; small movements steadied your hands better than breathing exercises ever had.
Fire first: a ring of stones, deadfall dragged from the treeline, tinder teased from the dry heart of a rotten stump. Flint on steel. Sparks. The ritual of it steadied you more than bones and blood had done.
Flame flared, tentative at first, then grew as twigs caught.
Only when it burned steady did you look up.
Sylus watched with a strange, intent stillness. Fire painted his clothes in borrowed warmth, lit his hair like an unholy halo. In that light his eyes lost none of their red.
“You don’t help,” you observed.
“I am helping,” he countered. “By not setting the rest of this valley alight while I’m bored.”
“Generous.”
“Prudent.”
Your pack yielded bread gone tough at the edges, cured meat in waxed cloth, a handful of dried plums. You broke the bread with fingers still bearing thin stains of ash in their cracks.
He reached for none of it.
“You don’t eat,” half a question.
“Not like you.” A languid stretch of long fingers. “It all tastes like dust.”
“What does my blood taste like?”
The question dropped between you before you could choke it back.
Silence stretched. The fire popped, tossing sparks.
He considered you over the flames.
“Smoke,” he said at last. “Salt. The first breath after drowning. Iron. Old prayers that never got answers.” Teeth flashed, white and sharp. “And something of your mother’s hands.”
The last line hit like a shove between the shoulders.
Your stomach clenched.
“Don’t,” you rasped.
“You asked.”
Regret tasted sour. So did the bread. You tore a smaller piece, chewed because your body required it.
“What do I taste like to you?” he asked, after a moment.
Suspicion snapped your gaze up. “I haven’t—”
“The bond runs both ways,” he cut in, voice quiet. “You call it hunger. It’s more than that. I can send things down the line as well as drink from it. You’ve been tasting me all afternoon without naming it.”
Your tongue went dry.
You fought the urge to lick your lips. Lost.
“Metal,” you answered, grudging. “Storms. Old incense. Dust in a chapel no one visits anymore.”
A low rumble of satisfaction threaded his chest. The bond pulsed in answer.
“Good,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“You enjoying this?”
“You’re not screaming.” He lifted one shoulder. “It’s a pleasant change.”
The fire sank to coals while you ate. Night piled in around the clearing, thick and muffling. Somewhere in the trees, something small skittered; a fox barked once, distant.
You spread your cloak beside the stones. No tent; you’d spent too many years needing to leave in a hurry to grow fond of canvas.
He stayed where he was, outlined in emberlight.
“You watch?” you asked.
“For what?” His head tilted.
“Men. Wolves. Priests with torches.”
“If priests with torches find us in this little scrap of wood on this little road tonight,” he drawled, “I’ll assume your god has a sense of humour after all.”
“I don’t have a god.”
“You do now.”
The words landed heavier than the tone suggested.
You lay down anyway, back to the warmth, cloak pulled tight. The ground was unforgiving; stones dug into hip and shoulder. Sleep came differently these days—harder, closer to drowning than drifting.
Eventually, exhaustion collected its due.
Darkness rose.
Not the memory of the cellar. Not at first.
A different dark spread inside your skull, heavy and warm. Fire moved in it—not the flaying orange of pyres, but a deeper red, slow and viscous, licking along lines you began to recognise.
The sigil over your heart.
In the dream, you looked down and saw it from above. Your own skin glowed faintly where ink and blood had mixed. Each breath made the lines flex.
Something else moved there.
Not under the skin. Not on it. Behind. Like a shadow cast from the wrong direction.
“Careful,” a voice murmured from everywhere and nowhere. “You’re on my side of the mirror.”
You turned.
Dreams made a mockery of scale; even here, he took up more space than the shape beside your campfire should allow. Wings unfolded lazily behind him, less tattered in this place, more like vast clouds of smoke trailing ash.
“You’re in my head,” you said. “Not the other way around.”
“We share the threshold now.” His bare hands held no staff, no elaborate cuffs, yet nothing about him looked less dangerous. “Sometimes you cross. Sometimes I do.”
“You dragged me.”
“You rolled when you slept.” His mouth twitched. “I was being polite.”
Heat prickled up your spine.
“Is this going to be a habit?” You folded your arms. Bare here—no cloak, no boots—but the soot-dark ground under your feet didn’t feel cold.
“That depends,” he replied mildly. “Are you going to keep closing your eyes, exhausted, while tied to something that has been starving for centuries?”
The dry rebuke cut through the dream-warmth.
“How bad is it?” you asked after a moment. “The hunger.”
His gaze slid over you. Not lecherous. Assessing.
“You’ll make it worse if you wear yourself too thin,” he answered instead. “There’s only so much I can siphon before you hit the floor.”
“I noticed today.”
“That was nothing.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I don’t need to.” The smile faded. “You want honesty? Here it is: what I took in the circle was survival. What I take next will be indulgence. For both of us.”
The air thickened.
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I enjoy most things too much. That’s why they locked me away.” A slow step closed some of the distance—soot stirring under his bare feet. “Listen to me, witch. When I walked here, when I burned cities for kings who learned too late what they’d unleashed, I fed on what they gave me—blood, fear, violence. You stand now between me and the rest of the world. You decide where my teeth land. But that means you must let them close somewhere.”
“On me.”
“On you,” he agreed quietly. “Or on people you don’t want dead yet. I am not a saint. I am not your tame thing. You chose a sovereign. Sovereigns dine badly when kept on scraps.”
The pure, brutal logic of it settled in your gut like stone.
“Then take what you need,” slipped out before you could dress it in bravado. “From me.”
Heat flared up the inside of your ribs. The bond vibrated hard enough to make the dream-shape of you sway.
His eyes darkened.
“Spui asta atât de ușor,” he said, old tongue thick on his tongue. You say that so easily. “Știi ce îmi ceri?”
Do you know what you’re asking me for?
“I’m asking you not to slaughter anyone who doesn’t deserve it,” you answered, chin lifting. “Blood’s blood. If mine keeps other girls from the pyre, you can have it.”
“No martyrdom.” He came closer. Heat rolled off him like a furnace. “Don’t make yourself holy. It doesn’t suit you.”
“Don’t tell me what suits me.”
“I intend to learn,” he murmured, lower now. “Every inch.”
The dream tilted.
His hand rose, fingers brushing the air near your throat, not quite touching. The phantom of his earlier kiss over your heart sharpened, more vivid here than in flesh. Your pulse hammered.
“Wake up,” he whispered.
The ground vanished.
You jolted back into your body with a torn inhale. Fire still glowed in its ring, reduced to coals. Trees stood watch, branches black spears against a sky thinning toward dawn.
Sylus sat where you’d left him.
Only his eyes moved, sliding toward you as your heart rattled. No question on his tongue. No smirk.
“You do that often?” you managed, voice rough.
“Keep watch?” The staff’s butt tapped ash. “When something valuable sleeps next to me, yes.”
“You pulled me under.”
“Only enough to talk where your armour’s thinner.” His head tipped. “You gave permission.”
The worst part was knowing he was right.
“So,” you pushed, gravel in your throat, “what now? You planning to bite me every time we make camp so you don’t tear anyone else in half?”
“Not every time.” A beat. “Often.”
Heat stuttered through your chest. Not entirely dread.
“Fine.”
One pale brow climbed.
“That’s it?”
“You lay out the terms.” Your teeth clicked as you sat up. “You don’t hide what you are. I know the cost. I’m paying it.”
Something like respect flickered in that red gaze.
“Later,” he decided. “You’re still shaking.”
“From the cold.” You yanked your cloak tighter. “We’ve got ground to cover.”
By the time the sun finally wrestled itself over the horizon, you were back on the road.
The hills ahead reared higher, their knuckled ridges hiding the capital’s bulk. Smoke smudged the sky beyond, a pale smear that spoke of too many fires—some cooking, some not.
Your chest thrummed.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Recognition.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Homecoming,” he mused.
“A different kind of pyre,” you said.
“Their towers look very proud from the north,” he told you. “High. Pure. White.” The last word warped toward contempt. “From above, they’re just chimneys.”
“You’ve flown over Philos.”
“I’ve watched its incense coil for a long time.” His staff bit into the dirt. “Never from this close. They were very careful with their wards against my kind. Very proud of them.”
“Your kind can’t cross their walls?”
“Not before tonight.” His gaze dropped briefly to your chest, to the healed cut over your heart. “They never planned for you.”
Wind gusted, carrying the faintest hint of coal smoke and something sweeter from the direction of the city.
The bond tugged.
Your hand found the spot over your sternum. Fingers pressed the place his mouth had been.
“You’ll walk next to me when we go in,” you said—more order than question.
He nodded, slow.
“I go where you point,” he agreed. Then softer, with that dangerous curve at his mouth, “For now.”
The road narrowed as it climbed. Ahead, between the shoulders of the hills, the first white smudge of Philos’s outer walls resolved—a chalk line against dark earth, too clean.
Your breath thinned.
Behind your ribs, the old, familiar terror of torches stirred. The girl in the cellar clawed at the inside of your skin, wanting to run, to hide, to do anything but walk toward men who wore fire like jewellery.
You kept going.
The bond burned hot.
Not only his hunger now. Yours. For ruin. For answers. For the moment their faces changed when they realised the smoke they smelled was their own.
“You can still turn back,” Sylus murmured, very low.
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The word landed like blessing and curse in one.
At the crest of the hill, you stopped.
Philos sprawled below, ringed in pale walls, towers pricking the sky. Smoke rose from chimneys and workshops and—from there, near the centre—a taller stack you knew too well. Not incense.
Pyre.
The rope of smoke twisted upward, sure of itself.
Your hand found his without looking.
Fingers closed around yours, warm and unbreakable.
“Remember,” he breathed, barely louder than the wind, “you opened the gate. You called me. Whatever happens now, little witch, you are not the one being dragged.”
The city gleamed, oblivious.
You bared your teeth at it and started down the hill.
𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒉. It stood there, pale and proud, throwing the early light back like a challenge. The walls of Philos climbed the hillside in clean lines, blocks fitted so tightly no moss had managed to get its fingers in. From a distance, they’d been chalk marks on the horizon; up close, they were teeth.
Torches burned in iron baskets along the parapet despite the day. Not needed for sight. Needed for reminder.
Closer still, the gate resolved: twin arches, heavy doors drawn back, iron grille winched up. A carved relief crouched over it all—a saint, perhaps—with a book in one hand and a flame in the other. The fire had been polished more than the face.
Your shoulders hitched.
The thread under your sternum tugged, a nudge you didn’t yet have language for.
Sylus moved easily at your side, all lazy stride and unbothered gaze, but the bond told on him. Something under that armour watched the walls with a predator’s focus, measuring where they might crack.
“Ugly,” slipped out.
“Trying very hard not to be,” he answered, amused. “That’s the worst kind.”
A wagon creaked past you on the road up, driven by a man with a cap pulled low. Beside him, a woman huddled in a shawl, eyes flicking from the winged saint to the guards and then to you with a quick, assessing glance. Her gaze slid off Sylus like water off glass. Whatever glamour you’d wrapped around him held; no one screamed.
The spell sat slick on your tongue even now.
Cenușă pe aripi, umbră pe ochi, ia-ți chip de muritor.
Ash on your wings, shadow on your eyes, take the shape of a mortal.
You’d hissed the words back in the trees, when the first white glint of Philos showed. A smear of river clay over his throat had fixed it—handful of dirt, a twist of will, tamping down the worst of his edges. Wings folded so tight they hardly existed, the colour in his gaze dulled to something closer to wine than embers.
No glamour in the world could make him ordinary.
The best you could manage was expensive.
You’d seen merchant guards with less ornament in their armour. The staff-spear in his hand drew looks from the men at the gate even from this distance—their eyes snagged on the dark curve of its rose head before they wrenched away, as if realising too late they were staring at something impolite.
“You stand straighter when they look,” he murmured, barely moving his mouth. “Careful, little witch. They’ll think you’re proud.”
“They’ll think I know where I’m going,” you muttered. “That helps.”
“Does it?”
“In cities like this, everything that breathes moves along tracks. Look lost and someone with a badge will want to know why.”
“What will they think you are?”
“Midwife. Hedge-healer. Widow. Harmless.”
He made a low sound that might have been a laugh.
“You. Harmless.”
“Let them believe it.”
The queue at the gate stretched a dozen carts deep. Livestock bleated, men traded jokes, children swung legs from wagon backs, faces reddened by cold and anticipation. Someone hawked apples from a basket. Someone else had set up with a tray of tin icons stamped with the flame-wielding saint; buyers kissed them, touched them to their foreheads, pinned them to coats with reverent fingers.
The line crept forward in fits and starts. No one looked up at the walls with fear. This was home, for them. Sanctuary.
A guard moved along the waiting travellers, gaze flicking from faces to carts to plaques nailed to wagon sides. Leather creaked over chain beneath his tabard. The sigil on his chest matched the one in the saint’s book: stylised fire, lines radiating like rays.
You dug your nails into your palm until you felt skin break.
“Peaceful,” Sylus observed, mild.
“Because they’ve put the violence somewhere they don’t have to see it.”
“Where?”
“In the square. At the pyre courts. In the gaols under the temple.” Your breath came thin. “Not at the gate.”
He studied the guards a moment longer.
“Men who are truly unafraid of the world don’t build walls this tall,” he mused. “They burn their enemies where they stand and sleep under the open sky.”
“Is that how you did it?”
“When I was young.” His mouth tilted. “I’m wiser now. I let them build their pretty cages first. More satisfying to tear down.”
The line shuffled forward. Frost-rimed mud sucked at boots; wheels lurched. You tucked your bleeding hand into your sleeve and let the sting keep your mind from running too far ahead.
Eventually, your turn came.
Two guards bracketed the arch, pikes upright, helmets down. Between them, in a little wooden booth, a man in better cloth and worse conscience sat with a ledger open, quill poised, eyes bright with the special alertness of someone paid to distrust.
He looked up when your shadow fell across his table.
Every inch of him smelled like Philos: starched collar, polished leather, the faint trace of incense clinging to his sleeves. He took you in with a quick, practiced sweep—plain dress, travel cloak, pack, healer’s pouch—then his gaze snagged on the man beside you.
Something tightened around his mouth. Not fear. Irritation. Envy.
“Business?” The word snapped out, pen hovering.
“Work,” you answered, even, practiced. “Hands for hire.”
“Kind?” He flicked the feathered end of the quill toward your pouch. “We’ve apothecaries enough.”
“Your apothecaries work for coin.” Fingers brushed the worn leather at your hip. “I work for whatever’s put in my hand. Bed, crust, good word. Hard work’s all I ask.”
He snorted.
“Spare charity for the convent halls, woman.” His eyes slid to Sylus. “And you?”
Sylus inclined his head with a slow politeness most men here would never manage. The glamour flattened the worst of his edges; the way he took up space could not be disguised.
“I keep things from touching her throat,” he said, voice smooth as oil over gravel.
The clerk’s jaw ticked.
“Plenty of walls in Philos.” He flicked his gaze to the white stone, the clean lines, the polished saint. “Plenty of wards. Women don’t need their own swords if they stay where they ought.”
Your mouth tasted of pennies.
“Walls didn’t stop the plague in your river quarter last winter,” you heard yourself reply before sense could catch it. “Heard you burned half the slums to chase it out.”
A twitch. The pen stuttered.
“Rumours,” he snapped. “Witch gossip.”
That word cut.
No one around you flinched. The people ahead had moved on; the ones behind leaned on cart rails, half watching, half bored.
Only the man at your side felt the way your stomach dropped.
The bond under your sternum jerked, sharp and sudden.
Careful, brushed through your skull more than your ears. You asked me not to tear anyone in half before you choose.
The clerk glanced between you, unsettled by the silence that followed your remark.
Quill scraped the page.
Name, origin, purpose, all scratched down in cramped script. You gave him a village that no longer existed and let the lie pass over your tongue with the ease of long practice. He didn’t care enough to check. As long as the coin trickled and the pyres stayed fed, Philos could afford not to look too hard at the dirt on a healer’s boots.
“Keep your tools in order,” he said as he sanded the ink. “Our constables don’t take kindly to street-corner quacks.”
“I’ve more experience than your constables,” you muttered.
He didn’t hear. Or chose not to.
One last glance into the wagon behind, then a jerk of his chin.
“Welcome to Philos,” he recited, flat.
The words crawled over your skin.
Through the arch, the city exhaled.
Streets spilled out in orderly lines, cobbles worn smooth beneath generations of feet. Houses crowded one another, three storeys high, plastered white or left bare brick, shutters painted cheerful colours. Laundry drooped on ropes between upper windows—bright flags of someone’s small life.
Smells hit in layers.
Bakeries first: yeast, browning crust, sweet spice. Then smoke from a hundred hearths—gentler than the pyre-stink in your memory, but enough to tighten your lungs. Horses. Humanity. A seam of sewer under it all, smothered beneath incense wafting from niches and doorways where saints watched with carved eyes.
No one looked afraid.
Not in the way you understood fear.
Once, a girl your age had learned to hear danger in the way her mother paused over a herb, in the set of Rian’s shoulders. Here, threat wore perfumed robes and kept its hands clean.
Sylus’s fingers brushed the back of your arm. Not directing. Reminding. Of presence. Pact. Of the fact that if you bolted now, there would be no slipping back out through these gates.
“Straight to the pyre courts?” his voice dropped low, the bond doing most of the carrying.
“Too soon.” Your gaze skimmed streets, branching alleys, the press of bodies. “They’ll smell something. We need to settle in the cracks first. Listen. Learn who pulls which rope.”
“You want to map the nest before you light it.”
“You want them to choke one by one, not all at once.”
That drew the barest curve at his mouth.
“Very well. Where does a witch sleep in a city that wants her dead?”
“Where everyone else sleeps,” you said. “Far too close.”
The crowd folded around you, carrying you along its current.
On one corner, a trio of women in threadbare shawls had colonised a step, baskets of herbs and roots at their feet. Their hands moved quick as birds—knotting bundles, counting coins, slapping away a child’s fingers when he reached for a bright poisonous berry to show off to his friends.
One of them caught your eye as you passed.
Saw the pouch. The way your fingers twitched when someone coughed nearby. The half-hidden ink curling over your wrist.
Her gaze didn’t linger. No challenge. No welcome. Just a flicker of recognition before she looked back down.
“Your people live inside the walls too,” Sylus observed once you’d turned into a narrower street.
“We’re everywhere.”
“Then why do they keep burning you?”
“Because they can’t tell which of us know our own power,” you said. “Easier to pretend we all might, and call it necessary.”
“Efficient,” his assessment had teeth. “Brutal.”
“That’s their favourite pairing.”
The stone underfoot lightened as you moved inward: darker near the outer lanes, paling nearer the central ridge where the temple quarter rose. Buildings grew taller, balconies sprouting ironwork like ribs, glass panes catching the weak light.
Somewhere above, bells began to toll.
Not the shrill alarm clanging in your memories. A measured peal, regular as a heartbeat, calling men in good coats to benches and books. Prayer hour. Lesson hour. The day shaped around sound.
Your own heart misstepped, tried to match, failed.
Sylus tracked the sound upward, toward a tower blinking into view down an intersection.
“Pretty,” he murmured. “Like a cage painted gold.”
“Inside that cage is where they keep the ledgers,” you said, mouth dry. “The records. The names. The women they took.”
“You want to see them.”
“I want to know exactly how they wrote my mother down.” Heat clawed your throat. “Whether they called her ‘witch’ or ‘midwife who knew too much’ or ‘filth that needed cleansing.’”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I want to tear up the page the way they tore her.”
The rawness in your own voice surprised you. It silenced him for a few beats.
Long enough for the bells to fall quiet and their echo to settle.
“You’ll have your pages,” he said at last, softer than before. “I’ll bring you their books myself if you wish.”
“You’ll burn them,” you replied, sceptical.
“I may let you choose the manner,” he said. “Fire. Teeth. Ink turned to salt.”
The offer had weight.
Trust wasn’t something you’d meant to give anything with wings. Yet he stood there in borrowed humanity, shoulders easy, eyes steady on you, and something in your bones believed him.
“We need a roof first,” you cut off your own thoughts. “And a place where no one asks questions if a woman comes home with blood on her skirt.”
“A brothel,” he suggested without a blink.
“You know much about city lodging.”
“You learn where the doors are when you’ve spent time pressed against the walls.” His gaze flicked to a side street where lanterns hung even by day, bases painted red. “Men who use women for coin rarely pay attention to who sleeps in the rooms above.”
“You’ll draw eyes.”
“I’ll draw the sort of eyes used to seeing monsters in their own beds.” That lazy smile returned. “They won’t mention one more.”
A pause.
“Unless you object?”
“Won’t be the worst place I’ve slept.”
Decision made, your feet carried you into the narrower lane.
Signs hung crooked from beams, painted with coy silhouettes and flowers wilting in the damp air. Music leaked from one doorway. Laughter too—forced in some throats, genuine in others. Women watched from windowsills, some powdered, some plain, their eyes honed sharper than knives.
You felt more than one stare drag over Sylus, lingering in a way that had nothing to do with recognising danger.
One of them whistled, low.
“You bringing that in?” she called, voice roughened by smoke and years.
“Bringing coin,” you replied, not slowing.
“The first makes the second easier.” Her grin cracked wide. “Come on, then. House likes couples. Less fuss.”
Her gaze flicked to your face with a different calculation. Mouth softened, just a fraction. Some women learned to spot their own at a glance.
Inside, the air shifted.
Warmth hit first, heavy with perfume and sweat and old wine. Light came second, filtered through coloured glass, painting scuffed boards in bruised reds and tired golds. Everything looked slightly overused: curtains, cushions, smiles.
A woman in a dress the colour of spilled currants unhooked herself from a column and flowed toward you.
No simpering. No flinch.
“New in the city,” she said, eyes flicking from your boots to your eyes. “Road on your cloak, not much on your back. If you’ve coin, you get a bed. If you don’t, you get work.”
“Bed and shadows,” you met her gaze. “We keep our own hours. We don’t ask about yours. I sew, I bind, I keep men standing when they’ve drunk too much. I don’t lie on my back for any of them.”
Her attention sharpened at that.
“No tolerance for sharers?” she tested.
“No interest.”
The slightest nod. A flicker of respect.
“We can always use a woman who knows how to keep a man alive when he’s trying to kill himself,” she said. “And him?”
Her gaze slid to Sylus, taking in the too-bright presence.
“Pays my rent,” you answered. “Keeps knives out of my ribs. Doesn’t touch unless I ask.”
An elegant brow climbed.
“Men like that don’t walk this street.”
“He isn’t like your men.”
“That, I can see.”
The madam—because that’s what she had to be—considered a moment, then turned in a swirl of skirt.
“Top floor,” she said over her shoulder. “Last room. Your key costs a week in advance. Your meals cost three nights’ work patching fools. And you don’t bring guards in uniform through my door.”
“Agreed.”
Sylus’s bootsteps followed you up the narrow stair, wood complaining.
“Quick,” he murmured, low enough not to carry. “You know how to buy haven.”
“I know how to read women with no patience left.”
“And she read you.”
“Good. Means she’s not stupid.”
The room you bought with thin coins and thinner promises was little more than four walls and a bed. Someone had swept fresh straw under the mattress. A cracked basin leaned crooked on a stand; a narrow window offered a view of roof tiles and a scrap of colourless sky.
It felt like luxury.
The door thudded shut. The latch clicked. Noise from the house below blurred into a dull hum.
Only then did your knees blur with it.
You sat hard on the bed’s edge, elbows on thighs, head in your hands.
The bond carried his pause—the hesitation at your back, not about the space, but about you in it.
“You did not run,” he said at last, quiet.
“Wanted to.” Your fingers dug into your hair, tugged. “At the gate. When he used that word—” your throat tightened, “—like it was nothing.”
“Witch.”
“Like a dog breed.”
“That is how they think of you.”
“They think of us as kindling.”
“Then they’ve miscounted their fires.” The mattress dipped as his weight settled beside you, not touching. “You still have all your edges.”
“Some of them feel like cracks.”
“Cracks let light in. Or other things, if you invite them.”
“You’re not the first thing to crawl through one of my cracks.”
“I’m the first you carved a door for.”
The truth of it hung between you, heavy.
Your hands slid down to your knees. Palms pressed bone through worn cloth, trying to find solidity.
“We’re inside,” you forced out. “That was the hard part.”
“No.” His gaze turned toward the window, toward the city hum beyond. “This was the first part. Hard starts when you pull their teeth.”
You drew a long breath in. Let it out slower.
“Tomorrow,” you said. “We find the archives. The ledgers. I want to see my mother’s name in their hand before I watch their ink burn.”
A brush of attention touched your chest through the bond, a warm pressure over the old ink and the new scar.
“You’ll have it,” he promised.
The hunger under your breastbone twisted. Not just his. Not anymore.
You lifted your head.
In the narrow light from the window, the borrowed humanity around his bones flickered. The glamour strained at the edges, no longer shored up by your constant focus. For a few heartbeats the shape beside you blurred—wings in the wrong place, shadows too deep where his eyes should be, a curl of smoke where hair hung.
Your pulse jumped.
“Your mask is slipping.”
“You’re tired,” he countered. “Difficult to hold the shape when the mind that knit it is fraying.”
“You going to stand there and let the whole district see what I dragged in?”
“I can hold it for a while.” A pause. “It would be easier if you fed me before nightfall.”
There it was.
Not accusation. Not demand. Fact.
Your fingers tightened on your own knees.
“We’re in a house full of people,” you said. “Men downstairs. Women upstairs. If you take from me and I make a noise—”
“I’m quite skilled at keeping mortals quiet,” he drawled, a thread of wicked humour under the words. “Do you trust me to be gentle?”
The question landed where knives had lived for years.
Trust. In a sovereign ruin. In a creature who had tasted your blood and your worst nights and still looked at you with something like respect instead of pity.
You turned to face him fully.
The glamour flickered again. Behind it, for a breath, his true gaze burned through, crimson bright in the dim.
“You don’t make it easy to say no,” you admitted, low.
“Good,” he said, rough, pleased.
Exhaustion dragged at your muscles. Philos’s stone weighed on your shoulders. The clerk’s casual contempt pressed cold behind your teeth.
Better a mouth you chose on your skin than hands you didn’t.
“Fine,” you breathed. “But do it right. I won’t be your scraps.”
A low, dangerous sound trembled out of him; the bond flared in answer.
“Little witch,” his voice dropped, deep as the cellar under your old house, “you were never going to be.”
He lifted his hand and let his palm hover over your heart, waiting.
Not forcing.
Invitation, this time, ran both ways.
Warmth gathered first. His, not the city’s. A slow radiance spilling from his palm into your bones, loosening the tension braided along your spine. No touch yet—only proximity. Your breath stuttered at the edges, caught between anticipation and fear.
His fingers finally met cloth. Not a grab. A deliberate press over the sigil hidden beneath your sternum. Heat pulsed back—yours, his, the bond flaring like a coal stirred to life.
Let me, drifted through your mind rather than your ears. Don’t brace. I’m not here to break you.
The words didn’t soften so much as sharpen the moment. Your shoulders dropped. Your throat worked once, hard, as if swallowing something too large.
His first movement was small: a slow parting of fabric over your heart. He slid the collar aside with priestlike care, though nothing about him was holy. Breath ghosted over bare skin, warm, unhurried, before his mouth followed, brushing the place where the gate lay invisible under flesh.
Not a bite.
A kiss shaped like a promise.
The bond lit.
Desire—yours, and not only yours—uncoiled around your ribs. It wasn’t the foolish rush of first wanting. It was older, heavier, forged in bone and fire and ten years of scraped survival. It rose without permission, filling your chest, tightening your throat.
He felt the shift.
Of course he did.
His lips curved faintly against your skin. “There you are.”
His mouth opened over the mark.
Heat flooded. The first pull was gentle, coaxing rather than taking, and it stole the breath from your lungs in a thin, shaken sound. Not pain. Something closer to being unbuttoned from the inside.
His hand slid to the back of your neck—not forcing, simply steadying as your pulse hammered beneath his mouth. His tongue traced the faint ridge of the sigil’s scar as if reading it, line by line, into himself.
Want spilled.
Not in metaphor. Down the bond, through blood, into him. The sensation dragged a gasp out of you; your knees wobbled. He caught the shift instantly, arm circling your waist, drawing you closer without breaking the seal at your chest.
“Good,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled, darkened. “Give it. Let me taste what you bury.”
The pull deepened.
Your fingers found his shoulders before you realised you’d moved. Frills met your palms, hot where his body burned beneath. The bond snapped taut—two threads drawn tight, then braided.
Your desire rose again in a fierce, startled rush.
His mouth travelled lower, tracing a slow line over your sternum as if reverencing the ache he woke there. Heat radiated outward, up your throat, down your belly. Your stomach fluttered. Your breath hitched when his lips followed your pulse toward the hollow of your collarbone.
He paused there.
“Still with me?” The words were barely a vibration against your skin.
“—yes.” Thinner than you wanted. Truer than you wished.
“Good.” His breath warmed the delicate space beneath your jaw. “Then I take more.”
The shift from chest to neck felt like crossing a threshold.
His hand tilted your chin with a reverence that undercut the hunger beneath it. You’d braced for violence; this tenderness disarmed more ruthlessly.
His mouth touched the base of your throat.
Heat. Pressure. A soft inhale, drawing your desire out of you like smoke up a chimney.
The bond spasmed.
Your hips tilted forward before you could stop them; he steadied you with a low sound that barely counted as restraint.
“Easy,” he breathed. “It’s only hunger.”
Only hunger, as if hunger had ever been small.
His lips opened at your neck.
The pull deepened, no longer coaxing but claiming—not ownership, alignment. A ritual. A re-binding. Your knees threatened to go; your head tipped back; your pulse thundered into his mouth.
He groaned.
Quiet. Raw.
The sound of a starving sovereign finding something worthy.
His tongue traced the throb beneath your jaw before his teeth grazed it—not breaking skin, just warning what he could do.
Your breath left in a shiver.
“More,” he whispered. Not quite a word. A need.
Desire answered before thought. Heat spiralled down your spine; the bond flared bright enough you were certain your skin must glow.
His hand tightened at your waist.
He drank deeper.
Pleasure rolled through you in a slow, molten wave, born not from what his hands did, but from the way he drew at the core of you, feeding not on flesh but on the place where want lived. Your breath broke into a sound you didn’t recognise—too soft, too open.
He stilled at that.
Raised his head just enough that his lips brushed your ear when he spoke.
“There,” he said, voice rough. “That’s what I wanted.”
“You—took—too much,” you managed, shaking.
“No.” Heat pressed at your neck as he leaned in again. “I took exactly what you gave.”
His mouth touched your pulse once more, reverent now.
A seal. A closing. A promise of future hungers.
The bond eased gradually, like a fist uncurling. Your legs felt hollow; his arm stayed firm around your waist, holding you upright without turning the hold into a trap.
He drew back enough to meet your eyes.
“Still breathing,” he murmured, satisfaction curling through the words. “Good. You wear the ritual well.”
Your heart slammed once, hard.
“This wasn’t a ritual,” you said, breath frayed.
A low hum answered—amusement, hunger, approval threaded together.
“Little witch,” his voice slid over you like smoke, “everything between us is a ritual.”
His thumb brushed your jaw—barely a touch, leaving heat in its wake.
[if you wish to be added to or removed from the taglist, send word my way. i’ve tagged moots who interacted, those who showed interest, and anyone who’s ever asked to be included.]
“You lasted eight seconds on that bull...and I’m wondering if you can last longer.”
“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.
His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”
synopsis: you think conquering a bull looks easy, so rodeo champion sylus decides you need a lesson in riding—in the backseat of his pickup truck
tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, cowboy!sylus x city girl!reader, lust at first sight, riding, teaching, kissing, car sex, size difference, cowgirl position, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, sexual overstimulation, creampie, fluff + smut
wc: 13.2k / ao3
a/n: save a horse, ride a qin che ;)
The rodeo smells like dirt and beer and bad decisions.
You’re wedged between Tara and some guy in an absurdly oversized cowboy hat who keeps whooping like he’s personally invested in watching men get concussed by livestock. The stands are packed, the sun is setting, and you are profoundly, deeply bored.
“Isn’t this AMAZING?” Tara shouts over the announcer’s voice.
“It’s definitely something,” you say, taking another sip of overpriced beer.
“Come on! Live a little!” Tara hits your arm playfully. “You said you wanted adventure, didn’t you?”
What you actually said three days ago was that you needed a weekend away from your suffocating corporate job and your mother’s passive-aggressive texts about your biological clock. Tara—your chaotic, impulsive, rodeo-obsessed friend and coworker—interpreted that as “drive three hours into the middle of nowhere to watch men cosplay as cowboys.”
“I said I wanted a spa weekend. With wine. And no animals.”
“This is way better than a spa!”
“Tara, I’m watching a man get thrown off of a bull into a literal pile of shit.”
“That’s the best part!”
You’re starting to regret every choice you made that led you here, mentally drafting escape strategies: sudden vague illness, a family emergency of unclear nature, alien abduction—
“Next up,” the announcer booms, “give it up for Sylus Qin, folks! Undefeated this season, riding Wild Cherry—”
The crowd absolutely loses their minds. Apparently this guy is famous. Or infamous. It’s hard to tell.
Tara is suddenly sitting up straighter. “Oh my god, it’s him.”
“Him who?”
“SYLUS. The Sylus Qin. He’s only the best bull rider in the circuit right now. Undefeated. Gorgeous. Thighs that could crush your skull and you’d say thank you.” She’s practically vibrating. “This is why we came.”
“We came all the way out here for one specific cowboy?”
“We came for THE cowboy.” She looks at you like you have brain damage. “He has entire fan accounts dedicated to him, y’know. Sychos, we call ourselves. Get it, like psych—”
“Yeah, I got it,” you cut in. “Naming yourselves after men who sit on angry animals for prize money. Very adult behavior.”
“Adult behavior is overrated.” Tara waves you off. “And just you wait, babe. You’ll be calling yourself one by the end of the night.”
You snort. “If that happens, I give you permission to euthanize me.”
“Fine, but I get your closet.” She bumps your hip with hers. “I’d grieve, obviously. But in designer.”
A group of girls in tight denim shorts and matching red bandanas suddenly flock to the rail below you, phones out, glitter letters spelling STAY ON, SYLUS across posterboard. One of them whispers something to the girl beside her that makes her giggle and bite her lip.
“Those are the Sychos, huh?” you say, like you’re confirming a wildlife sighting. “You count yourself among the faithful?”
“Please. Me? I’m not here to worship him.” She tips her chin toward the girls, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “I’m here for his disciples.”
You shoot her a look. To Tara, men sit in the same category as traffic cones—loud and in the way, only tolerable when directing her somewhere else.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably efficient, you mean.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and checks her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. “They convert easily.”
Before you can respond, the PA system crackles in a sharp burst of static that jolts the arena to attention. Everyone shifts at once, boots scraping against metal as the crowd angles to catch a glimpse of the rider. Someone whistles. Dust stirs around the chute like it’s coming alive.
The girls below you erupt first, phones snapping up, posterboards rattling against the rail.
The announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers—a slow country drawl that buzzes through the bleachers, through your ribs, through the stupid can of beer in your hand:
“Competitor twenty-two…Sylus Qin.”
Tara exhales like she’s been waiting hours for this exact moment. “Showtime.”
“—ain’t nobody lasted more than six seconds on this beast all year—”
“That’s what she said,” you mutter into your drink.
Tara doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy screaming with the rest of the crowd as the gate slams open.
The bull explodes into the ring—twisting, bucking, trying to murder its rider with pure muscle and chaos. The man on top is already locked in, one hand high, the other on the rope, body rolling with each violent buck like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he probably has.
You’ll admit—objectively, technically, it’s impressive. In the same way watching someone juggle chainsaws is impressive. Impressive and dangerous and stupid.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t even seem winded. Just rides the beast like it was born to be beneath him.
Six seconds. Seven. Eight.
The buzzer sounds. He dismounts smoothly, landing on his feet while the bull handlers rush in. The girls below you are shrieking like someone won the lottery.
You finish off your beer.
“...That’s it?” you mutter.
“That’s it?” Tara whips her head toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly fly. “He just survived a demon with horns and you’re bored?”
“Looked like…balance,” you say with a shrug. “Core strength. Decent stance.”
Tara opens her mouth, ready to annihilate you, but the crowd erupts again as the rider approaches the bleachers—a frenzy of camera flashes, dads slapping shoulders, girls crying.
You glance up just in time to see him.
Sylus Qin. Helmet off, silver hair tousled, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. A handler says something to him, but he barely responds. His red eyes scan the bleachers, not searching the crowd—hunting through it.
And then they find you.
Not the screaming girls pressed against the rail. Not the sign glittering under the fluorescent floodlights.
You.
His gaze flicks over you once, slow, like he’s taking note of every inch. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, just assesses you in a way that makes your pulse jump.
Tara gasps like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god,” she hisses, shaking your arm. “He’s looking at you!”
“He’s looking in this general direction,” you correct, throat suddenly dry.
“General direction, my ass.” Tara’s voice is wild with victory. “He’s staring at you like you just spit in his drink. And he liked it.”
You’re about to argue when Sylus drags the back of his glove across his mouth—still looking up at you, the stranger with crossed arms and a steady, blank stare. His eyes narrow, heat flicking to life behind them. Interest. Curiosity. Challenge.
You tilt your head, like you’re still trying to figure out what the fuss is about.
The gesture lands like an insult.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, tips his hat directly at you with what can only be described as spite, and saunters out of the arena.
Tara explodes beside you the second he disappears through the gate.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Tara is practically screaming in your ear. “What just happened? Did you see that? He looked at you like—like—”
“Like nothing.”
“Like EVERYTHING.” She grabs your face, turning it toward hers. “Do you understand what just happened? Sylus Qin just acknowledged you. Personally. In front of everyone.”
“He probably does that for lots of people—”
“He doesn’t.” A girl in front of you turns around, and she looks furious. “He literally never does that.”
She’s wearing a crop top with “Qin” bedazzled across the chest and more makeup than seems practical for an outdoor event. Her friends beside her look equally angry.
“Excuse me?” you say.
“You heard me.” She looks you up and down with obvious disdain. “We’ve been coming to his rides for months. Months. And you—you didn’t even cheer! You just sat there like you were bored!”
“I mean...I was?”
Tara makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh.
“This is bullshit.” Bedazzled stands up, and her whole group follows. “Come on. We’re going to the back. Maybe if we’re there when he comes out—”
They file out of the row, shooting you looks that range from annoyed to homicidal.
The moment they’re gone, Tara turns to you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
“You made enemies in under eight seconds. I’m so proud.” She’s bouncing on her heels now. “Did you see their faces? They looked like you personally victimized them.”
“I didn’t do anything—”
“You existed while looking unimpressed. Apparently that’s a crime here.” She glances toward where the group disappeared, then back at you with a gleam in her eye. “God, they’re going to be so upset when they find out he—”
“When they find out he what? Looked at me for two seconds?”
“That man tipped his hat at you like a declaration of war. That’s not nothing.” Tara is still grinning. “Anyway, I need to pee. Come with?”
“Yeah, sure.”
You both head toward the bathrooms, navigating through the crowd. The line is mercifully short.
“I’m calling it now,” Tara says as you wait. “Something’s going to happen.”
“Nothing is going to happen. He probably tips his hat at people all the time.”
“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”
You roll your eyes and head into a stall. When you come out to wash your hands, Tara is leaning against the sink, scrolling her phone.
“You go ahead,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the seats.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m going to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been at a rodeo.”
“You have been at a rodeo,” she confirms, already heading out. “Don’t take too long! Next round starts in ten!”
You’re willing your last few flyaways into place when your phone buzzes in your back pocket.
Unknown Number: Tell me.
Unknown Number: Did I disappoint you, or are you always like that?
Your stomach drops.
You: who is this?
Unknown Number: Take a wild guess, sweetie.
Unknown Number: Here’s a hint: silver hair, red eyes, just gave the performance of the night to the most unimpressed audience member in rodeo history.
Fuck.
You: how did you get my number?
Sylus: Your friend. The enthusiastic one in the seat next to you.
Sylus: I asked one of the staff to track down “the girl in section B who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal.” She was very helpful.
You’re going to murder Tara.
You: that’s borderline stalking
Sylus: It’s resourceful.
Sylus: Also, your friend gave me your number with the promise that I would “show you a good time.” Her words, not mine.
Sylus: Though I’m not opposed to the prospect.
You: you’re insane
Sylus: You’re texting back awfully quickly for someone who thinks I’m insane.
Sylus: So. What’s your damage?
You: excuse me?
Sylus: I just rode 2000 pounds of rage that hospitalized four people this season. People are losing their minds. There are women in this crowd who would commit felonies for my autograph.
Sylus: And you looked like you were waiting for a bus.
Sylus: I need to know what your problem is.
The audacity of this man…
You: maybe i’m just not impressed by men showing off
Sylus: Showing off implies I did it for attention. I did it because it’s my job and I’m good at it.
You: i don’t cheer for men who do their jobs. sets a bad precedent
Sylus: You’re cruel.
Sylus: I like you.
Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes.
You stare at your phone. This cannot be happening.
You: why would i do that?
Sylus: Because you’re curious. Because I’m curious. Because you clearly have opinions about my performance that you’re dying to share.
Sylus: Or are you scared?
You: of what? you?
Sylus: Of admitting I was more impressive than you’re letting on.
You: you’re delusional
Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes. Prove me wrong.
You should block this number. Should go back to Tara. Should absolutely not go to Gate 7.
You: ...i’ll think about it
Sylus: Clock’s ticking, sweetie. Gate 7. Don’t make me come find you.
You pocket your phone and find your seat beside Tara in the stands, heart racing.
“Your cowboy texted me,” you inform her flatly.
“HE DID?!”
You wave your phone in her face as evidence.
“When were you planning on telling me you gave out my phone number to the man who looked ready to challenge me to a duel?!”
“He was asking around for it! What was I supposed to do, say no?” She looks absolutely delighted with herself. “Shit, what did he say? Is he asking you out? Please tell me he’s asking you out.”
“He wants me to meet him at Gate 7.”
Tara screams. Actually screams as she rips your phone out of your hand. Several people turn to look.
“YOU HAVE TO GO.” She’s reading the messages, scrolling rapidly. “He’s obsessed. He’s one hundred percent obsessed with you.”
“He’s not—”
“‘Don’t make me come find you’?” She looks at you with her jaw dropped. “That’s obsessed behavior. When are you going?”
“I’m not going—”
“You ARE going. This is Sylus Qin. Do you understand how many people would kill for this opportunity?” She’s already pointing you to the aisle. “Those girls down there are going to lose their minds. This is the best night of my life.”
“You’re a little too excited about this.”
“Are you kidding? You’re about to go meet the hottest bull rider in the circuit, and his entire fan club is going to implode when they find out. This is peak hurt-comfort material.” She pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. “I’m gonna try to console them afterward. The blonde one is kind of cute when she’s angry.”
“Tara.”
“What? You get the hot cowboy, I get to make the heartbroken rodeo girls feel better. Everybody wins.” She grins. “Especially me.”
You roll your eyes. She physically shoves you toward the exit.
“Now go. Before he changes his mind.” Tara looks down toward the rail where Bedazzled and her friends are still trying to get Sylus’s attention. “I’m going to go offer emotional support. Wish me luck.”
You’re going to strangle her. After you maybe, possibly go to Gate 7.
Just to tell off the cowboy.
Obviously.
—
Gate 7 leads to a restricted area—trailers, practice equipment, and cowboys in various states of undress. You’re about to turn back when you see Sylus.
He’s leaning against a fence, hat tilted back, stripped down to a white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame in ways that should be illegal. There’s dirt on his jeans, and a dark bruise blooming on his pale forearm that he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by.
He’s taller up close. Broader. And those eyes are definitely, unnaturally red.
“You came.” He sounds genuinely pleased.
You nod, keeping a careful distance. “You’re very pushy for a stranger.”
“Sylus.” He pushes off the fence, extending a hand toward you. “Now I’m not a stranger.”
You take his hand, large and calloused and scarred along the knuckles. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary.
“And you are?”
You tell him your name, and he repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels.
“Pretty. Doesn’t match the attitude, though.”
Your eyes narrow immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You looked miserable up there. Bored. Like you were mentally filing your taxes.” He tilts his head, studying you. “City girl?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Sweetie, everything about you screams ‘I don’t belong here.’” His eyes drag over you slowly—your designer boots, your expensive jeans, the way you’re standing like you’re afraid of getting dirty. “Your boots cost more than most people make in a month. You’re holding yourself like someone might brush against you the wrong way. And you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one people get when they’re critiquing something they’ve never done themselves.”
“I don’t need to ride a bull to recognize—”
“Recognize what?” He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Go on. Tell me, princess. What did I do wrong?”
Princess.
He says it like he’s daring you to get offended. You want to hate it. But your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo.
“Second buck,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You held center. But you should’ve leaned into it.”
His eyebrows raise slightly. “Should I?”
“The bull was digging left. You stayed neutral. If you’d shifted your weight—”
“Show me.”
You blink. “What?”
“Show me.” He gestures to the fence rail beside him. “Up. Show me what I should’ve done.”
“I’m not getting on a fence—”
“Ah.” He crosses his arms, stance relaxed like he’s already won. “All that mouth was just for show. My mistake.”
Your jaw tightens. You step forward and grab the top rail.
His hand closes around your wrist before you’ve even set your weight.
“You’ll slip like that.” He adjusts your grip, thumb dragging across your palm. “Fingers here. Wrist locked. Unless you want to fall.”
“I wasn’t going to fall—”
“Show me, then.” He steps back, waiting.
You haul yourself up onto the rail, boots wedging between the crossbars, steadying your weight to keep your balance. You settle there, stable, and you know you’ve done it well because he pauses in that particular way men do when they realize you’re more capable than they assumed.
He moves closer slowly, until he’s standing right there, palm coming to rest lightly on your ankle.
“Your eyes weren’t on the rider,” he says.
“They were on the bull," you tell him. “The rider’s posture only matters relative to momentum. The animal is the variable. You were just—compensating.”
His thumb shifts against your ankle bone, pressure increasing the slightest fraction.
“Compensating for a thousand pounds of rage isn't ‘just’ anything.”
You meet his eyes. “It is when you’re supposed to be good at it.”
He doesn’t smile. He steps between your legs, looking up at you with that unreadable expression.
“Show me,” he says, unhurried. “Show me where you think I should’ve shifted.”
You swallow. “I’m not a professional—”
“That didn’t stop you from having an opinion, did it?” He tilts his head. “You’ve been judging me since I got off that bull. So judge. Show me what I did wrong.”
You lift your hand, pointing to where you’d seen the bull dig in. “Second buck. Right there. If you’d leaned into it instead of holding straight—”
His hand comes to your knee. Not grabbing, just setting the angle. “Like this?”
Your breath catches.
His other hand settles light on your hip—the kind of touch that’s functional, yet makes your skin burn through your jeans.
“Or here,” he asks, voice dropping lower, “if you want to keep your spine neutral?”
The air shifts between you.
“You’re—” You have to clear your throat. “You’re mocking me.”
“I’m learning.” His thumb brushes a slow circle against your knee. “You sat above me for eight seconds looking unimpressed. Now you’re above me again.” His eyes hold yours. “So teach me. What should I have done differently?”
It’s not about the bull anymore. You both know it.
“You should’ve—” Your voice is unsteady. “Weight forward. Hips angled—”
“Show me.” His hands are still on you, patient and sure. “Don’t tell me. Show me where.”
You shift your hips forward slightly to demonstrate and his grip tightens, subtle yet unmistakable.
“Like that?” His words are rougher now. “That’s what you wanted to see?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.” He steps back finally, hands dropping away, and you hate that you immediately miss the contact. “Get down.”
“What—”
“Get off the rail. I’m going to teach you something.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.” He’s already walking toward the practice area. “You know the theory. Now let’s see if you can execute. Come on, city girl. Time to back up all that criticism.”
You should refuse. Should go back to the stands. Instead, you climb down from the fence and follow him.
Because he’s right. You’ve been judging from a distance. And something about the challenge in his voice makes you want to prove him wrong.
Or maybe prove him right.
You’re not sure which would be more satisfying.
—
The mechanical bull sits in the empty practice area like a challenge.
“Absolutely not.”
“You just spent ten minutes telling me what I did wrong.” Sylus is already at the control panel, adjusting settings with casual confidence. “Now you get to prove you understand what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t need to ride it to understand—”
“Talk is easy. Execution’s different.” He doesn’t look up. “You can critique all you want, but until you feel it, you don’t actually know anything.”
The dismissiveness in his tone makes you tense. “Fine. Start it up.”
“Not yet.” Now he looks at you. “Get on first.”
You approach the bull, eyeing it skeptically. It’s wider than it looked from a distance.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“Then stop stalling.”
You grab the rail and try to pull yourself up. Your boots slip on the metal and you barely catch yourself.
“Easy, princess.” He’s beside you instantly, hands on your waist. “Step on the platform. I’ll lift.”
“I can do it myself—”
“I know you can.” His grip is firm. “But this is faster. Up.”
He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you're straddling the barrel, thighs spread wide, hands scrambling for the rope.
“Don’t.” His voice stops you cold. “Hands off.”
“Then how—”
“You were very confident about hip positioning a minute ago.” He walks around you slowly, assessing your form. “So use your hips. Thighs tight. Core engaged. That’s all you need.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.” He stops in front of you. “You’re trying to hold on because you don’t trust your body. But I watched you on that fence. You’ve got the strength. You just don’t know how to use it yet.”
His hand slides up your outer thigh—not suggestive, testing muscle tension. Your body doesn’t seem to know the difference.
“Squeeze.”
You do, and his hand presses back, checking your stance.
“Harder. You’re holding back.” His thumb digs into your quad. “I can feel it. You’re stronger than this. Show me.”
You squeeze harder, and he makes an approving sound.
“There. That’s what I want to feel.” His hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding. “When this starts moving, that tension doesn’t drop. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll see.” He moves behind you, his hands settling on your hips. “Lean forward. Hips first.”
He guides your position—forward, tilted, adjusted until you’re perched in a way that feels both vulnerable and powerful.
“This feel unstable?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good. It should.” His hands don’t leave your hips. “That instability is what you work with, not against. The bull moves, you move. Simple.”
“Nothing about this is simple—”
“It is when you stop overthinking.” His breath is warm against your ear now. “I’m starting it slow. Just feel it. Don’t try to predict or control. Just respond.”
The bull lurches to life.
Your instinct is to grab, to tense, to fight it.
“Breathe.” His voice cuts through your panic. “Hips loose. Let them move.”
You try to focus on your hips, on moving with the gentle rocking.
“Better. But you’re still thinking too much.” The bull bucks slightly harder, and you gasp. “Stop planning your next move. There is no next move. There’s only now.”
“That’s not helpful—”
"No?" He kills the power suddenly. “You want helpful?”
Before you can process, he’s swinging up behind you.
The barrel was already small. With him on it, there’s no space left. His chest is solid against your back, his thighs bracketing yours, his presence overwhelming every sense.
“What are you—”
“Teaching you the difference between knowing and understanding,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this was inevitable. “You can tell me what I should’ve done. Now I’m going to show you why it works.”
His hands settle on your hips again—firmer this time, fingers splayed wide.
“This is your center.” His fingers press into your hip bones. “Everything starts here. When I move, you’ll feel it here first. Pay attention.”
You can’t do anything besides pay attention. Can’t think about anything except the heat of him, the firm weight pressed against you, the way his voice seems to resonate through your entire body.
“Ready?”
You nod because words are impossible.
The bull starts again, and this time it’s completely different. You feel how his body moves—the subtle shift of his hips, the roll of his spine, the way he absorbs each movement and redirects it. His hands guide you through it, showing you without words how to respond.
“Feel that?” His voice is low against your ear. “That’s what you were trying to describe. The lean, the shift, the weight distribution. It’s not about thinking. It's about feeling.”
His hips roll against yours, demonstrating, and your brain short-circuits.
“Breathe.” His hand spreads across your lower stomach, steadying you. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t. Breathe with the movement.”
You try to breathe, but it’s difficult when you’re this aware of every point of contact.
“Now you.” His hands loosen slightly. “Match my rhythm. Show me you understand.”
You focus on his movement, on the way his body guides yours, and you start to match it. Your hips roll with his, following his lead, and suddenly the movement makes sense.
“There she is.” The satisfaction in his voice goes straight to your core. “Knew you could do it. You just needed to stop thinking you knew better than your body.”
The bull bucks harder and you move with it, your hips rolling, your thighs squeezing, and his hands tighten on you.
“Atta girl.” The words come out rougher. “That’s exactly right. Keep it up.”
You do, and you feel the moment something shifts—the moment it clicks, the moment you stop fighting and start responding.
“You feel that, sweetie?” His voice is strained now. “That’s what eight seconds feels like. That’s what I feel when I ride.”
“Sylus—”
“I know.” His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as the bull spins. “You’re feeling it now.”
The intimacy of the statement, combined with the movement, the heat, the way his body fits against yours—it’s overwhelming.
“This is—”
“Intense.” He finishes for you. “That’s the point. That's what you were watching from the stands and didn’t understand. The rush. The focus. The way everything else disappears and it’s just you and the movement and eight seconds of pure instinct.”
The bull bucks hard and you gasp, but his grip keeps you stable.
“I’ve got you, princess. You’re not falling. Just stay with me.”
And you do. You stay with him through every twist and buck, your body learning the rhythm, responding to his guidance, until you're not sure where your movement ends and his begins.
When he finally kills the power, you’re both breathing heavily.
“You got it. Eight seconds,” he announces after glancing at his watch. “Not bad for someone who’d never done it before.”
“You were helping—”
“I was teaching. You were learning.” His hands are still on your waist, and he hasn’t moved away. “Big difference. That was all you at the end.”
You’re painfully aware that you don’t want him to let go.
“So.” His thumbs stroke once across your sides. “Still think a city girl knows better than a cowboy?”
Your mouth is dry. “Maybe we’re even.”
His laugh is low and pleased. “Maybe.” He dismounts finally, fluid and controlled, then reaches up for you. “Come here.”
He lifts you down and your legs immediately betray you, shaking and unstable.
His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall. “Easy. Adrenaline drop. Give it a minute.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re not.” His hand finds your pulse at your neck, pressing lightly. “Heart rate’s still elevated. You’re shaking. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Lunch. Around noon, I think.”
“Hours ago.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “You need food. There’s a diner close by. Best pie in the state.”
“I don’t need you to feed me—”
“Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyway.” He pockets his phone, arm still around your waist. “You just burned through all your energy, and I’m not letting you back out there until I know you’re steady. So. Diner. My treat.”
“This feels like a scheme to keep me around longer.”
“Is it working?” He holds you tighter against him, almost automatically—like his body recognized you before his mind caught up. “Because if it is, I’ve got a whole list of other places I could take you. Hardware store. Feed supply. This town is full of exciting places I could take my time with you.”
Something in the way he says it sends heat down your spine.
“You’re not subtle, you know.”
“Never claimed to be, sweetie.”
Before you can respond, your phone vibrates.
Tara: where ARE u???
Tara: DID SYLUS THE STALLION KIDNAP U???
Tara: if u are in danger pls respond
Tara: if u are having a good time ignore this
You swipe the notifications away.
Sylus watches your thumb move, red eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Emergency?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.” You slide the phone into your pocket. “But if you murder me, my friend knows your name. And your face.”
His laugh echoes across the arena. “Noted.”
You try to step out of his hold, but your legs have other ideas—immediately crumpling under you like two pieces of wet spaghetti.
Before you can hit the dirt, his hand flashes out, hooking a finger through your belt loop and yanking you back against him.
“Careful, city girl. Told you. Adrenaline crash.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just scoops you up with one arm and settles you against his side.
“Sylus, I can walk—”
“Clearly not,” he counters, but he’s grinning as he starts toward the parking lot, carrying you with ease. “Stop squirming. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
You’re acutely aware of several things at once: his arm banded around you, the heat of him, the way his shoulder is right there. And—
Oh god.
The group of girls from earlier. Bedazzled and her friends—minus the blonde. All staring as Sylus walks right past them, carrying you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance their way, completely oblivious. But they notice. Oh, they notice. If the looks they shot you were bullets, you'd already be bleeding out on the dirt.
You bury your face against his shoulder, trying to make yourself smaller.
“Cold, sweetie?” His voice rumbles through his chest.
“No,” you mutter into his shirt. “I’m trying not to get shanked.”
He pauses mid-step. “What?”
“Your fan club. They look like they want to murder me.”
He glances back, finally noticing the group of glaring fans, and laughs like you told him a bad joke.
“Oh, them.” He adjusts his grip on you, hauling you higher. In one smooth motion, he tosses you over his shoulder.
You shriek. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”
He dips you, slow, like he’s genuinely about to release you. “If you insist."
Your legs are dangling, the Sychos are staring, and you’re suddenly very aware of the distance between your boots and the ground.
“No—no, I don’t insist—!” You clutch at his shirt, holding onto him for dear life. “Don’t you dare put me down—”
“Thought so.” He straightens, one arm locking securely against you as he keeps walking. “See? Now they can’t reach you. Problem solved.”
“Sylus!”
“You’re the one who said they looked dangerous. I’m just being practical.” His hand settles firmly on the back of your thigh, patting it gently. “Now stop wiggling before you fall.”
“I’m going to fall because you just—you can’t just throw people over your shoulder—”
“Just did.” He heads straight for a massive black pickup, tall enough you’d need a running start to climb in. He pops the door open with one hand and deposits you in the passenger seat. “And you’re still in one piece. I’d say it all worked out.”
Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, arms locked around his shoulders. He notices immediately.
“You can let go now, sweetie,” he says, amused.
Your brain registers that you’re sitting. That you’re safe. That there’s no reason to still be holding on.
Your hands don’t get the message.
“I—” You look down at where your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “My hands aren't listening.”
“I can see that.” He’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”
“Shut up.” You force your fingers to uncurl, releasing him. You sink into the leather, groaning into your hands. “My dignity is destroyed.”
“Your dignity was already questionable after that bull ride.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief. “Besides, it could've been worse.”
“How could that have possibly been worse?”
“I could’ve set you down and let them watch you try to stand on your own.” He’s smirking now. “Would’ve made my point even clearer.”
Your cheeks burn at the implication. “You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that.” He closes your door and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in with easy grace. “But you’re still here.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment to escape.”
“Good luck with that. Your legs still work about as well as a newborn calf’s.” He starts the engine, eyes flicking to you with amusement. “Give it another ten minutes. Then you can make your dramatic exit.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’m enjoying you. The entertainment is just a bonus.” He shifts into drive. “Seatbelt. Then you're going to tell me what possessed a city girl to spend her hard-earned money watching idiots wrestle with livestock for sport.”
—
The diner is exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, jukebox blasting something twangy, and a waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the dawn of time.
“Sylus, honey!” She’s got a thick drawl and a smile that crinkles her whole face. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be celebratin’ with the boys.”
“Had better plans, Dolores.” He gestures to you.
“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you both with obvious interest. “The usual for you, sugar?”
“Please. And whatever she wants.”
You order coffee and pie because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow strange cowboys to diners and eat pie at ten PM.
“I’ll get that right out.” Dolores pats Sylus on the shoulder as she leaves, but not before giving you a very obvious once-over that feels almost approving.
“So,” Sylus says once the waitress leaves. “Eight seconds.”
“Are we really doing this?”
“We’re absolutely doing this.” He leans back in the booth, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. With my help, admittedly, but still. Eight seconds.”
“And?”
“And I’m wondering if you can last longer.”
The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.
“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.
His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”
Dolores brings pie—massive slices that look homemade. You take a bite and it’s unfairly delicious.
“Okay,” you admit. “This is really good pie.”
“Told you. Dolores doesn’t mess around.” He takes a bite of his own, watching you. “So. What do you do? When you’re not being dragged to rodeos, that is.”
“Marketing. Corporate.” You make a sour face. “It’s as boring as it sounds.”
“Can’t be that boring if it pays for those boots.”
“The boots are the only good thing about it.” You take another bite. “What about you? Is bull riding actually lucrative, or do you just like getting thrown around for fun?”
“I don’t get thrown, sweetie. That’s the whole point,” he corrects you with a grin. “And yeah, it pays well. If you’re good at it.”
“Which you are.”
“Which I am.” There’s no false modesty to it, just fact. “Been doing it since I was seventeen. Worked my way up. Now I’m ranked second in the country.”
“Second?”
“For now. I’ll be first by the end of the season.” He says it with absolute certainty.
“Confident.”
“Realistic. I know what I’m capable of.” His eyes meet yours. “And I know what I want.”
The weight of that statement sits between you.
“And what do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
“Right now? To figure out what it takes to actually impress you.” He leans forward slightly. “Because I don’t think anyone’s managed it in a while.”
You open your mouth to respond when Sylus’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs.
“Give me a minute. I need to take this.” He slides out of the booth. “Stay put.”
You blink up at him, chin tilted just a little. “Yes, sir.”
He stops, eyebrows lifting, then gives a soft, incredulous shake of his head.
“Cute.” He’s walking backward toward the bathroom, phone angled away from his mouth, still looking at you. “But if you’re trying to draw blood, sweetie, you’re going to have to put your jaw into it.”
You’re left alone with your pie, trying very hard to pretend your heartbeat isn’t pounding in places it has no business reaching.
“Can I top off that coffee, sugar?” Dolores appears almost immediately, like she was waiting for him to leave.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She pours slowly, then glances toward the bathroom. “He’s a good one, that Sylus.”
“I just met him like, two hours ago.”
“I know.” She’s smiling. “That’s what makes this excitin'.”
“What do you mean?”
Dolores leans in conspiratorially. “Honey, I’ve been workin’ here for fifteen years. This is the spot all them rodeo fellas flock to after. I’ve seen Sylus in ‘ere dozens of times—always with the boys, always alone. Never once brought a girl here. Not one time.”
Your heart flips. “Maybe he just—”
“Trust me, them buckle bunnies try. Lord, do they try. That boy has more women throwin’ themselves at him than I have napkins in this diner.” She shakes her head. “He’s always polite about it, that sweetheart. But he never takes ‘em up on it. Too focused on riding, he always says.”
“Then why—”
“That’s what I’m wonderin’, honey.” Dolores sets the coffee pot back on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “But whatever you did, you got his attention. Really got it. I can tell.”
You notice his hat sitting on the seat beside you—the black cowboy hat he’d tossed there when he sat down. On impulse, you pick it up and settle it on your head. It’s too big, sliding down slightly, and you have to tilt it back to see properly.
Dolores notices and her eyes go wide. Then she grins. “Oh, honey. Do y’know what that means?”
“What?”
“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” She’s trying not to laugh. “That’s the rule ‘round here.”
Your face heats. “That’s not a real—”
“Realer than them nails on your hand.” She eyes your manicure with a shake of her head, still grinning. “Cowboys don’t play pretend.”
She walks away, leaving you sitting there in his hat, suddenly very aware of what you’ve just done. You consider taking it off. Handing it back when he returns. Playing it safe. But something stubborn and reckless in you keeps it on.
You take a sip of coffee, trying to look casual, when the bathroom door opens.
Sylus walks back toward the booth, phone in his hand, looking slightly annoyed. “Sponsors. Kept going on about—”
He sees you and stops dead in his tracks.
His eyes go dark—pupils blown wide, that red almost glowing in the diner lighting. His jaw tightens, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.
“What do you think you’re doing, city girl?” His voice has dropped at least half an octave.
“Drinking coffee.” You take another sip, holding his gaze, heart hammering. “Why?”
“You know why.” He slides back into the booth, but there’s tension in every line of his body now. “Take it off.”
“Why?” You rest your chin on your hand and blink up at him. “Does it not look good on me?”
He goes quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, almost laughing. “It looks perfect on you. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t see a problem.”
“Of course you don’t, princess.” He leans back, arms spreading across the back of the booth. “You put on a man’s hat and think it’s just a fashion statement.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” He’s studying you now, that intense focus that makes you feel pinned in place. “It’s a claim. One I don’t think you intended to make.”
You adjust the hat on your head, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better.
“That depends on what I’m claiming.”
His gaze traces your mouth, your throat, the line of brim shading your eyes. When his attention finally returns to yours, he drops the word between you like a coin:
“Me.”
You open your mouth, but nothing actually comes out. He smiles like he knew that would happen.
“You publicly claimed a cowboy. Impressively reckless move, by the way.” He leans back, legs stretching under the table like he’s getting comfortable. “So now I have two choices: ignore you, or teach you what you started.”
“And which are you choosing?”
“What do you think?”
Your eyes narrow. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”
“I am. You’ve been pushing me all night. Looking unimpressed, critiquing my ride, now stealing my hat.” His eyes scan your face. “Now you’re sitting there wearing it like you’re innocent."
“Maybe I just like the style.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted to see what I’d do. How I’d react. Whether I’d actually follow through.” He cocks his head. “So. How am I doing? Meeting expectations?”
Your mouth is dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” His voice drops lower. “You’ve been testing me since the moment I met you. Before that, even. Every word, every look.” He leans forward slightly. “This is just you pushing harder. Seeing if I’ll push back.”
“And will you?”
“Absolutely.” He doesn’t waste a breath. “Question is whether you’re ready for it.”
“I can handle it.”
His laugh is quiet. “Can you, sweetie? Because that hat says you want something specific from me. Something I’ve been holding back on all night.” His red eyes are dark now. “And once I stop holding back, I don’t do things halfway.”
The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in your stomach.
“You’re very confident.”
“I know what I'm looking at. Someone who’s been playing it safe. Someone who wants to stop overthinking.” He pauses. “Someone who put on my hat because she wanted me to do something about it.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions.”
“Then take it off.” He gestures to the hat. “Right now. Prove me wrong.”
Your lap with a single shake of your head—no.
His smile is absolutely feral.
“We’re leaving.”
You blink up at him. “Maybe I’m not finished.”
He tosses way too much cash onto the table—enough to pay for the coffee, the pie, Dolores’s retirement, and the entire county fair.
“Yes, you are.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on, city girl. Time to see if you can back up what that hat is promising."
You look at his hand. At the challenge in his eyes. At the way he’s smiling like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.
And you take it.
His palm is warm against yours as he guides you to the door. As you pass the counter, Dolores calls out: “You take good care of her now, y’hear?”
Sylus doesn’t break stride. “Oh, I intend to.”
Outside, the night air hits you, cool and dusty. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you approach his pickup parked at the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door, but before you can climb in, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in. One is pressed beside your head against the metal, the other settling on the open door, his body a wall of heat that’s too close to ignore.
“Last chance,” he says, like a warning. His fingers toy lazily with the hat. “You take this off, I drive you back to your hotel. Wish you good night like a gentleman.” His thumb pauses at the curve of the brim. “And the next time we see each other, we’re back to being strangers.”
It’s a terrible idea. You know it’s a terrible idea. But he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining you in his lap, and you’re looking at him like you want to see how good he is without the bull.
You reach up and adjust the hat, making sure it’s secure.
“I don’t want to be strangers.”
He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands settle on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, taking his time settling you into the passenger seat. He reaches for your seatbelt, pulling it across your body slowly. The click echoes in the quiet of the cab.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I couldn’t forget this—”
Only then does he lean in, forearm braced against the doorframe, his face inches from yours. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with an affection so unexpected you forget how to breathe. For a second, you think he might kiss you.
Instead, he flicks the spot he cleared on your forehead.
“—if I tried.”
—
Sylus doesn’t drive back toward town. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction—away from the arena, away from the lights, into the dark stretch of highway that leads to nothing but open land.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“You’ll see.”
His hand rests on the gear shift, close enough to your thigh that you’re acutely aware of it. The radio plays something slow and country that you don’t recognize, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. Waiting.
You watch the landscape change outside your window, buildings giving way to fields, streetlights disappearing until there’s nothing but darkness.
“This is very serial killer of you,” you say finally.
He glances over, amused. “Having second thoughts?”
“Just making an observation.”
“For the record, if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take you somewhere this obvious.” He’s smiling now, thumb tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Besides, you're still wearing my hat. That implies a certain level of trust.”
Your hand goes to the brim automatically. You’d almost forgotten it was there.
“Or a certain level of stupidity.”
“Maybe both.” He turns off the highway onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing slightly over the uneven ground. “We’re almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“Patience.”
The road winds upward, climbing steadily. Trees give way to open sky, and then suddenly you’re at the top of a hill and he's pulling over, killing the engine. The entire valley spreads out below—a sea of twinkling lights in the distance, small towns and scattered ranches creating constellations on the dark earth. Above, the sky is filled with stars, more than you’ve ever been able to see in the city.
“Oh,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” He’s watching you instead of the view. “I like to come up here after a ride. Bulls fight back, fans scream—up here, no one asks anything of you.”
You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he agrees. But he’s still looking at you, not the landscape.
“Pretty stars,” you say, but there's a challenge in the words. “Shame you haven’t looked at them once.”
“If you want to talk constellations, sweetie, I’ll play along.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward you. “Or you can admit you didn’t climb in my truck because you're fond of astronomy.”
“First of all, I didn’t climb in your truck.” You manage to find your voice. “You picked me up and put me in it.”
“Correct.” His mouth curves slow. “And then you latched onto me like a kitten falling out of a tree and said, and I quote, ‘don’t you dare put me down.’”
Your face heats. “My legs weren’t working—”
“Your legs were working just fine once we got to the truck.” His eyes hold yours. “You just didn’t want me to stop touching you.”
The tension in the truck is suffocating.
“Get in the back,” he says quietly.
Your stomach flips. “What?”
“The backseat.” He says it simply, nodding toward the leather bench seat behind you. “Go on. I’ll give you a head start.”
“A head start for what—”
“For getting comfortable before I join you.” His eyes are dark now, heated. “Unless you’d rather stay up here and stare out the windshield?”
You should probably ask more questions. Should probably think this through. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward the back.
The console is in the way, making you climb over the seat awkwardly. You brace one hand on the seat back, getting one knee up on the console—
“Keep it moving, sweetie.”
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Make me.”
The crack of his palm against your ass is immediate, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then his hand is rubbing the spot gently, soothing.
“Consider it done."
“You just—”
“Helped you along. You asked for it.” He sounds completely unrepentant. “Would’ve been inconsiderate of me not to oblige.”
Your face is burning as you scramble the rest of the way into the backseat. You turn to glare at him through the gap between the seats.
“Comfortable back there?” he asks smugly.
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you like it.”
You settle into the backseat, heart pounding, very aware of how spacious it is. How the tinted windows make it feel private despite being parked on a hilltop. How he’s still in the front seat, just watching you squirm.
“Are you coming back here or not?”
“Depends.” He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard. “Are you going to keep that attitude when I do?”
“Probably.”
“Excellent.” He shifts, and you hear the driver’s door open. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He gets out and you hear his boots on the ground, coming around to the back door. It opens and suddenly he’s there—too big for the space, filling the entire doorway as he climbs in with easy confidence.
The door closes behind him, and suddenly the truck feels very small.
He takes a seat, legs spread, one arm along the back of the headrest, and just looks at you.
“Come here.”
You move toward him and he guides you with hands on your waist until you’re straddling his lap exactly like you straddled the bull earlier. The position is familiar now, but infinitely more intimate. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Still wearing my hat, I see.”
“You told me to keep it on.”
“I did.” His hands slide up your waist, then back down. “Looks good on you. Better than I imagined.”
“You imagined this?”
“From the second you put it on.” His eyes hold yours. “Imagined you exactly like this. In my lap, in my hat, in the back of my truck. Reality’s better, though.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand comes up to adjust the hat again, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better. “Because now I get to see if you can follow through on what you started.”
You swallow. “And what did I start?”
“Everything.” His hand moves to cup your face, turning it toward his. “You sat up in those stands looking at me like eight seconds was nothing. Critiqued my form to my face. Then had the goddamn nerve to put on my hat in front of witnesses.” His other hand presses against your ribs, palm warm and steady through the thin cotton. “And for someone so unimpressed, your heart’s about to beat right through your shirt.”
You glance down at his hand on your ribs, then back up at him, tilting your head with mock innocence. “If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked nicely.”
“Is that right? Then allow me to ask you nicely.” His fingers curve around your jaw, thumb skimming your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you? Can I put my hands on you? Can I make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea?”
The directness of it steals your breath.
“That's a lot of questions.”
“One word answers all of them.” His eyes search yours, glowing a deep red that’s almost otherworldly even in the dark. “So what's it going to be, sweetie? Yes or no?”
You want to make him work for it more. Tease him, push back, see how far you can take this.
Instead, you hear yourself say: “Yes.”
His smile is devastating. “Say it again.”
"Yes."
Then his mouth is on yours, and every thought evaporates.
The kiss isn’t tentative or testing—it’s all-consuming. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in your hair to angle you exactly how he wants you. You make a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate and feel his mouth curve against your lips.
“There it is,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Knew you’d make those pretty sounds.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You kiss him harder, fisting your hands in his shirt, and his laugh vibrates through you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race under his palm.
“You taste even better than I thought you would,” he says against your mouth, kissing you again before you can respond. “Been thinking about this since you looked at me like I was wasting your time in those stands.”
“That was barely three hours ago—”
“Three hours too long.” His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently. “Could’ve done this in the parking lot. In the diner. Hell, I thought about it on the practice bull when you were sitting in my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”
You roll your hips like you did on the bull, teasing, feeling exactly how hard he is through the denim.
He hisses through his teeth.
“That's how we’re doing this, hm?” His hand slides from your throat to your hip, holding you still with effortless strength. “You want to play, princess? Fine. Let’s play.”
His mouth finds your neck and you gasp at the heat of it, at the scrape of teeth followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue. He’s marking you, and you both know it—intentional, claiming, leaving evidence that you were here, that you let him do this.
“Sylus—”
“I know. I can feel you shaking. You want more.” His hand slips under your shirt, settling at your low back. “You’ve been worked up since the bull, haven’t you?”
Heat runs up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I felt how you were shaking. Saw how flushed you got. And I’d bet my prize money that if I touched you right now, I’d find you soaked.”
Heat floods through you at the accusation. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Am I wrong?”
You don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Thought so. You want something? Then ask nicely.” His smile presses against your throat. “You made such a point of it earlier. So ask.”
Your pride wars with your need. “I don’t beg—”
“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to ask.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s heat in his eyes, but something patient, too. “What do you want?”
The way he’s looking at you—like he’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes, like he’ll give you anything you ask for as long as you just ask—makes something in you soften.
“Touch me, Sylus,” you say quietly. “Please.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His hand slides higher up your shirt, fingers tracing your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. “And since you asked so nicely…”
His thumb brushes across your nipple and you gasp, arching into the touch.
“That’s what I wanted to see.” His voice has gone dark, satisfied. “You, letting go. Not thinking so hard about your next smart comment. Just feeling.”
His thumb circles again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.
“Don’t.” His other hand finds your chin, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “I want to hear it. Every sound. Every breath. No one can hear you out here but me. So let me hear what I do to you.”
He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes.
“Perfect.” He sounds wrecked. “Do that again.”
“Sylus, please—”
“Please, what?” His mouth finds your jaw, kissing a path to your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”
“More—I need more—”
“More of this?” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. “Or more of me?”
“Both—” Your hips rock forward on instinct, and this time he doesn’t stop you. Sylus lets you grind against him, his free hand at your hip guiding the movement.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Take what you need.” His breathing has gone rough. “Show me how badly you want this.”
You rock against him again and feel him twitch beneath you, hard and hot even through all the layers of clothing.
“Fuck.” The curse slips out raw and unfiltered. “You feel what you do to me? How hard you make me when you move like that?”
“Yes—”
“Good. Because I’d like to return the favor.” His hand slides from your breast down your stomach, fingers playing at the button of your jeans. “Say yes.”
“Yes—god, yes—”
Your yes barely lands before his mouth is back on yours, hot and wet and relentless as he flicks the button open and slides the zipper down with ease. “Lift up for me.”
You do, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and underwear. They get stuck on your boots, and you both fumble with them, laughing breathlessly until you’re finally naked from the waist down.
“Leave them. Boots and hat stay on,” he decides, eyes dragging over you. “I like the look.”
“Of course you do.”
“City girl spread out like a cowgirl in the back of my truck?” His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. “That’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had until right now.”
He’s still fully clothed, and there’s something obscene about it that makes you squirm—you half-naked in his lap while he’s still in his jeans and t-shirt.
“Don’t get shy on me now.” His thumb brushes your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. “You’ve been pushing me all night. Testing me. And you’ve been so damn good at it, too.”
He glides a single finger through your center and you gasp at the contact, your body curving into his touch involuntarily.
“Christ,” he groans. “All this for me?”
You can’t form words.
“Since the bull?” His fingers trace through your wetness, maddeningly light. “Since I had my hands on your hips? Or before that—since you watched me ride?”
“All of it,” you manage.
“All of it.” He sounds way too satisfied with himself. “So you were impressed. You were just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Your ego—”
“Is about to get a lot bigger.” He finds your clit and circles it slowly. “Because I’m going to make you come for me at least twice before you even think about taking my cock. Understand?”
Your breath catches. “Twice?”
“Minimum.” His hand slides higher, cupping you fully now. “You’ve been wound up all night. I’m not rushing this on account of your impatience.”
“Don’t—ah—” Your protest dies when his finger circles slowly. “Don’t be smug about it—”
“Too late.” He watches your face with wicked eyes as he touches you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down against his hand. “But I like that you’re still trying to tell me what to do. Keep it up. See where it gets you.”
His finger slides inside and you cry out, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.
“That’s it. Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
He works you slowly, adding another finger when you’re ready, his thumb finding your clit with devastating pressure. And all the while he’s murmuring praise against your temple—telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel, how beautiful you look falling apart for him.
“Sylus—I’m gonna—”
“I know. I can feel it.” His fingers move faster. “There. Right there. Come on, princess. Let me see what happens when you finally stop fighting it. Make it count. I've got you.”
The command combined with his fingers and his voice and the heat of him beneath you—it’s all too much. Your orgasm hits with a cry, clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, and only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.
You’re still catching your breath when he brings his fingers to his mouth.
Your eyes go wide. “Sylus—”
“Shh.”
His own eyes close as he tastes you, tongue dragging over the pads of his fingers. When his lashes lift again, he looks wrecked in a way you've never seen.
“That,” he murmurs, lips closing around his knuckle, “is going to be a problem.”
You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare at his mouth.
“A...problem?”
“For me. And now for you,” he says, hand already sliding up your thigh once more. “That’s one. Now let’s get you the second one before I lose my mind.”
You shake your head. “I can’t—I’m too—”
“You can. You will.” His two fingers slip inside with little resistance, fucking you slowly but without mercy. “I need you ready for me. Need to make sure your body can handle what it’s begging for. Understand?”
Your hand flies to his wrist—not to stop him, just to hold on.
He looks down where you're holding him, lips brushing your cheek. "Oh? That bad already?"
Your head falls to his shoulder. “This is torture—”
"Maybe." His thumb presses against your clit again and you jerk. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”
His fingers work you back up, and despite the oversensitivity, despite thinking you couldn’t possibly—
“That's it.” His forehead presses against yours, breath hot against your lips. “Feel that? Let it build. Don't rush. I want all of it.”
You’re climbing again impossibly, every nerve ending screaming, and when his fingers curl just right—
“Fuck—already?” He increases the pressure, and you cry out. “Greedy little thing. Go ahead. Give me another one.”
You do, less intense than the first but somehow deeper, clenching around his fingers while he murmurs approval.
“That’s two.” He slowly withdraws his hand, and your breath hitches at the loss. Before you can process the movement, his fingers are at your lips. “Open.”
You do, and he slides them into your mouth—the same fingers that were just inside you. The taste is foreign and intimate and when you automatically close your lips around them, his breathing goes ragged.
“Look at that.” His eyes are locked on your mouth. “So obedient when it suits you, hm?”
You swirl your tongue around his fingers deliberately, and his hips jerk beneath you. Then you bite down lightly and he laughs.
“There she is.” He pulls his hand away, already working his belt. “Now help me with this before I lose what’s left of my patience.”
Your fingers join his at the buckle. “Didn’t know you had any patience to begin with.”
“I’m a very patient man.” He gets his jeans open just enough to free himself. “Just not when it comes to you.”
There’s a moment where your brain can’t connect the visual to reality.
His cock sits in his palm, thick and heavy, already flushed and glistening with precum that's slowly swelling under his thumb. A single vein runs along the shaft, steady and pulsing with each heartbeat you can feel through your own.
You felt him earlier—broad and unforgiving, even through denim, against the curve of your ass every time your hips rolled back into him on the practice bull. You’d convinced yourself it was just the momentum. Coincidence. Adrenaline.
You look up at him. Then down. Then up again.
“Show-off,” you scoff, but it comes out thinner than intended.
He huffs out a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Sweetie, if you're going to bluff to my face, at least don't drool while you do it."
You try for nonchalant, rolling your eyes and straightening your spine. It does nothing to hide the tremor in your knees.
“You’re shaking. Relax.” Before you can protest, he’s already cupping your jaw, kissing you slowly, deeply, thoroughly, in a way that says slow down, you’re okay, I’m right here. He pulls away only when he’s sure you’re not trembling anymore. “You can handle it.”
He positions you over him, hands on your hips, guiding you onto the blunt head of his cock.
“Slow,” he instructs. “Take your time. Let your body adjust.”
You sink down slowly and the stretch makes you gasp. He’s patient—letting you control the pace, hands steady on your waist.
“That’s it. Breathe. You’re taking me so well.” His voice is strained. “Almost there. Just a little more.”
When you're fully seated, you’re both breathless.
“There,” he says roughly. “That’s one.”
Understanding hits you through the haze.
“You’re counting,” you say.
“I’m counting.” His hands squeeze your hips. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. Let’s see if you can make it to nine on me.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we keep trying until you do.” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “I’ve got all night.”
You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips the way he taught you earlier.
“There you go. Just like that. Find your rhythm.”
You do, and his hands help guide you, help you find the perfect angle.
“That’s two,” he says when you rock down particularly hard.
When you really start to ride him it’s not pretty, not practiced, but instinctive and desperate. The stretch, the fullness—it's almost too much, the way every shift of your hips makes him groan beneath you. His hands slide up your back, threading into your hair when your rhythm stutters.
“Three.”
You’re already nearing the edge of release again—oversensitized and overwhelmed but chasing that feeling anyway.
“Four.”
“Sylus, it’s—too—too much—”
“You can take it. I know you can.” His fingers circle your clit slowly, and you can't help the way you clench around him. His jaw flexes, eyes closing for half a second. “Not yet, sweetie. Give me five more. I know you’ve got it in you.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. You’re tougher than you think.” You slam down hard, chasing that feeling, and his control visibly cracks. “Five—fuck—”
Your thighs are burning, your breath coming in gasps, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. You sink onto him once more, inch by inch.
“Six.”
“Sylus—”
“I know. I can feel it. The way you’re clenching around me.” His other hand tightens in your hair. “But you don’t get to come until we hit nine. Think you can hold it?”
It’s torture. Exquisite torture.
You ride him in one long stride, hips lifting until just the tip holds you, then sinking back down until he fills you to the base.
“Christ—Seven—”
Your thighs are shaking now, barely holding on, and he knows it.
“That's it. Take it.” The words are hot against your throat. Everything else fades. “Eight.”
“I can’t hold it—”
“Yes you can. Give me one more." His hands tighten around your hips, holding you steady. "One more, and it's all yours.”
You slam down hard, and he groans your name into your mouth.
“Nine.”
You shatter, clenching around him, and suddenly he’s moving—flipping you both so you’re on your back across the seat, legs spread, boots planted on either side of him as he looms over you.
“My turn.” He pulls almost all the way out, your walls still fluttering around him as you chase the end of your third orgasm. "Unless you want me to stop?"
“Sylus—please—I need—”
He pushes back in, driving deep into you in one motion. You wait for the rhythm, the thrust, the relief. He doesn't give it to you.
“I know what you need.” Your hips twitch once, and his fingers tighten around them in gentle warning. “But I need to hear you say it.”
You clutch at his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle. "Sylus—move—"
"Move how?" He stays infuriatingly still. "Faster? Harder? You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetie."
"Harder—I need you to—god, just fuck me, Sylus, please—"
"Finally."
It sounds like relief, like hunger, like he's been holding himself back as much as he's made you wait.
Then he moves—hard and fast and exactly what you asked for—and your back arches off the seat. His hands shift to your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open at an angle that hits deeper, more intense in all the places you’re already trembling from before.
"Is this what you needed? This what you've been trying to say?"
"Yes—ah—yes—"
One hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you nearly sob.
“Wanted this since I saw you—” His hips snap forward harder. “That bored look on your pretty face—wanted to fuck it right off you—”
He’s not counting anymore. Not teasing. Just taking what he needs, and something about the raw desperation in it makes you clench around him.
“Jesus—” he groans, head dropping forward. “—do that again.”
You do, and he’s on you, mouth on your shoulder, teeth catching skin—not to mark you this time, but to survive you. His hand leaves your thigh to brace against the window behind you, giving him more leverage. The truck rocks with the force of his thrusts and you don’t care, can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.
“Too much—”
“Not enough. One more,” he says, and it’s not a request. “Give me one more and I’ll give you everything.”
You’re wound up impossibly again, every inch of you too sensitive, his fingers and his cock and his voice still pushing you higher, higher, higher—
“That’s it. You feel that?” His thrusts get harder, more erratic, fingers circling your aching clit as he pounds into you. “You've got me. Fuck—I'm right there with you, okay? Right there—stay with me. Take me with you. Now.”
You clench around him helplessly, so tight that Sylus feels every pulse, every aftershock, every sensation of your orgasm wrapped around his cock. He follows immediately after, burying himself deep with a sound that’s almost pained, spilling the heat of his release inside you, holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear. His hand grips the leather seat like he might rip it out of the truck, and you feel the way his whole body goes taut before collapsing against yours.
For a moment he stays frozen like that, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince. His hands are immediately around you, pulling you up and gathering you against his chest as he shifts to sit back against the seat.
You end up curled in his lap, dazed and spent, his arms wrapped around you like he's not quite ready to let go yet.
His mouth finds your temple in a single, unhurried kiss. Another follows just under your jaw, then another on your shoulder. He doesn't speak, just holds you while your breathing slowly evens out.
“Holy shit," you finally manage.
“Yeah.” His laugh is breathless against your neck. “Holy shit.”
He shifts you carefully in his lap, pulling you tighter against his chest so you're tucked under his chin, legs draped over his thighs. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle completely melted, nerve endings still firing in aftershocks. His hands are gentle now—one rubbing slow circles on your back, the other reaching for tissues from the center console. He takes care of you with surprising tenderness, his touch soft where moments ago it was demanding.
“You with me, city girl?” He speaks quietly into your hair, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “How are you feeling?”
You lift your head to look at him. “Like I just got thrown off a bull. Except better.”
“Mission accomplished.” His smile is relieved, then turns knowing. “You’re going to feel this tomorrow. Fair warning.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to prepare you.” He glances down at you, hand tracing patterns against your hip. “Every time you sit down in those bleachers tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what happened in this truck.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll be in the bleachers.”
“You will be. Front row, sweetie.” His voice is confident but not cocky. “So I can see the moment you stop pretending I don’t impress you.”
You could play it cool. Noncomittal. Hedge your bets. But the way he’s looking at you—hopeful and honest and maybe a little uncertain underneath all that confidence—makes you want to be honest with him, too.
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He goes still for half a second, just long enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes. He looks at you for a long moment like he's trying to memorize something, then clears his throat.
“That's good. Really good,” he says it low, fighting a smile and losing. One hand squeezes your hip while the other reaches for your jeans. “Here. Lift up. Let's get you dressed before I say something that makes you reconsider.”
You do, and he helps you shimmy them back on. They get stuck on your boots—again—and you’re both laughing together like a shared secret by the time you finally get them past your ankles.
“These damn boots,” you mutter.
“Careful." His tone is almost protective. "Those boots are innocent. They stayed on like they were supposed to. That's what matters.” He helps work your jeans over them carefully. "In fact, they're the only thing that behaved." His eyes land on something near his feet as he's tucking his shirt back in. He picks up his hat, holding it between two fingers. "This one apparently couldn't handle the ride."
“When did that happen?”
“No idea. I was distracted.” He settles it back on your head like it belongs there, adjusting the brim. “There. That’s better. That’s the look I wanted.”
“What look?”
“City girl in a cowboy hat looking like she just got thoroughly ruined by a bull rider.” His smile is pure satisfaction. “It’s a good look on you.”
“Your ego is showing again.”
“Can you blame me?” He cups your face, eyes warm as he leans in to kiss you, softer now, but no less intense. “Now. Where are you staying? I should get you back before your friend calls the cavalry.”
While he’s focused on finding the location on his phone, you glance around the fogged interior. The windows are completely opaque—condensation covering every surface, hiding the world outside. On impulse, you reach back and trace your name in the moisture on the back window.
You’re halfway through when you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.
“Hold on.” He sets his phone in the cupholder and twists around, reaching back to add his name right next to yours in the condensation, then draws a heart connecting them.
“There.” He settles back into his seat, looking pleased. “Now we match.”
Your heart does something complicated behind your ribs. Before you can respond, your phone erupts with buzzing from somewhere in the passenger seat.
Tara: GIRL WHERE ARE U
Tara: are u ALIVE
Tara: send proof of life IMMEDIATELY!!!
“Your friend thinks I've got you hogtied behind the barn,” Sylus says, reading the texts over your shoulder. “Funny. I haven't even gotten my rope out.”
"Yet?" The word slips out before you can stop it.
His laugh rumbles through his chest as he pulls you back against him, like the sound is something you're meant to feel, not hear. “You're unbelievable. Now give me the phone.”
“Why—”
“Proof of life. Come here.”
He pulls you against him with one arm, holding your phone up with the other. You’re both completely disheveled—his silver hair a mess, your face flushed, his hat crooked on your head—both grinning like idiots.
He takes the photo and hands your phone back.
“There. Send that. Should ease her concerns.”
You send it.
The response is instantaneous.
Tara: OH MY GOD
Tara: OH MY GOD
Tara: U LOOK SO HAPPY
Tara: IS THAT HIS TRUCK???
Tara: THATS MY GIRLLLLL
Then another message pops through. A photo.
It’s Tara—equally disheveled, equally pleased—with her arm around a blonde girl. The blonde girl, the one who'd been glaring daggers at you earlier. Both of them look extremely satisfied with themselves.
You stare at your phone. “Oh my god.”
Sylus leans over to look, and his laugh is genuine.
“Looks like you and your friend both got your money's worth out of the rodeo.” He starts the engine, hand immediately returning to rest on your thigh. “You ready, sweetie?”
“For what?”
“The twenty-minute drive where I try very hard not to think about pulling over and seeing if you can make it to ten.”
“Ten?” You blink at him. “That’s…ambitious.”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Tomorrow, then.” He says it with such certainty, like it's already decided. Like there's no question you'll both end up here again.
He shifts into drive, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your leg. The radio plays quiet jazz. The world outside is dark except for passing streetlights and the occasional glow of distant houses. You settle back into your seat, watching the open road unfold ahead of you.
Then you catch it in the side mirror—the back window of his truck, still fogged from the heat you created together. And there, illuminated by the moonlight, you can just make out the shapes: your name and his, connected by that careful heart he drew.
Your heart stumbles in that way that always means trouble.
His hand squeezes your thigh once, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.
You look over at him—at his profile in the dim light, at the small smile playing at his lips, at the way he glances over at you like he can't help himself—and cover his hand with yours.
"Tomorrow."
Just A Raindrop In An Endless Ocean @imperfectrebelliousraven - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
