Kofi Request :)

heartbeat between your teeth

Summary: A pleasant afternoon with your husband is rudely interrupted by a phone call.

or; Disco interrupts your beach day tryst with a very inconvenient call. Neither of you are particularly concerned with the panic of the auction house; you'd much rather indulge in pleasures of the flesh, and talk of your (seventh) spontaneous wedding.

wc: 3.8k~ (SICKENING)

cw: fem!reader (AFAB + she/her pronouns), light mentions of (canon typical) human trafficking and drugs, mentions of violence, spoilers for sabaody arc!, reader is morally grey, some violent imagery, mentions of food, smut, praise, feminine petnames ('good girl', etc), light dacryphilia, light come eating, fingering, p in v, overstim, low-key dumbification(?) reader has a thing for hands

AN: majority of the phonecall dialogue is pulled directly from doffy's cameo in saboady. also shoutout to nyla (@ofoceansandtombsanew) for helping me with doffy's spanish dialogue because my spanish is. less then stellar LMAO you're a real one girl <33 (english TL is in the end notes!)

heart divider is by the lovely @/enchanthings ! mdni banner by @/arminsumi !

The sea is in good spirits today, and so are you.

You watch the gentle lull of the tide against the shore. Doffy picked a good spot: your shared folding chair is tucked neatly beside a little glass table, whose attached umbrella spared you from the worst of the sun. The rest of the family is out of sight and mind; it’s quiet without their antics but you're both grateful for this rare moment of privacy. It would be a long while before another chance presented itself like this, so you pounced on it, ushering those who didn’t want to stay onboard the ship into town (and Doffy putting up a mini Birdcage just to be sure). And so you find yourself sprawled across your husband's lap, legs dangling over the arms of the chair, savoring every sun-soaked second alone like a rare delicacy.  

The island you’ve stopped at is an easygoing one. A nice change of pace from the chaotic highs and lows of the Grand Line’s open waters. It’s something plucked straight from a postcard– lush palm trees dancing with the breeze, streaks of white clouds spilled against the blue of the sky like paint on a canvas. It’s warm, but pleasantly so; enough to soften the tension in your shoulders. A distant seagull cries out in what you decide is delight at the good weather.

Beneath you, Doffy shifts, his big hand stroking fondly at your thigh. He lingers at the border of your sundress but keeps his touch tame. "I hope that smile is my doing," he says, and you feel your grin widen at the pleasant rumble of his voice. 

"Well, it is now," you giggle. "I was just thinking about how happy the birds are today."

He chuckles, dimples peeking out. "The birds?"

"The seagulls, specifically. I hear them singing about how nice the weather is."

"Ah, I see. I wasn’t aware that you spoke seagull.”

“It isn’t too difficult of a language. Most of it is screaming, really. Sometimes for food other times to warn one another of predators–or, like today, sometimes they just scream for joy.”

“I thought they were singing?’

“Screaming is singing in their culture.”

Doffy laughs, a sound like rolling thunder. “However did you become so acquainted with the particulars of seagull culture?”

“Trebol and Diamante,” you deadpan. “They aren’t seagulls but with the way they eat they may as well be.”

He hums. The conversation ebbs away with the tide. You nestle into the comforting silence and the crook of your husband’s shoulder. The buttons on his shirt are half-way undone and you take advantage of his exposed skin; Doffy’s heat is soothing, cozy in the way a fireplace is on a wintry night. You press your cheek to it with a contented sigh. He slides his palm up your leg and lets it settle at your hip. Your fingers decide they want to wander too, so they creep up his stomach to his chest, tracing lazy circles over his heart. Doffy gives you a squeeze in return and kisses the crown of your head.

“We still have some time before we need to report back in,” he murmurs into your hair. “Where would you like to go next?”

“Do we have to go anywhere at all? I’m more than content right here.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm.” You press an open mouthed kiss to his throat. He gives you another squeeze. “I quite like this little island. They have a nice beach,” kiss, “and mangos,” kiss, “that one bookstore looked cute,” kiss, “and did you hear? Their honorary mayor is a cat named Señor Bigotes. Señor Bigotes, Doffy! Is that not the most adorable thing you’ve ever heard?”

Mischief pulls his lips into a smirk. “I can think of a few things actually–” and without warning, his hand shoots up to fondle your breast. A startled sound leaps from your throat, a breathy thing somewhere between a whine and a yelp. “ –that sound being one of them.” 

You smack at his bicep. “Ass!”

Not a shred of remorse is reflected in his sunglasses. “Would you have me any other way?”

You sigh, not without fondness. “I suppose not. But, like I was saying, I’m just fine staying here.”

He nods. “Then it’s here we’ll stay,” he says, and that was that. Once Doffy made up his mind about something there was nothing anyone could do to change it. 

“And since we’re staying…” gently, he tilts your head up by the chin. “Why don’t we get married?”

You just manage to hold back a laugh. Seven times Donquixote Doflamingo has asked you to marry him. All seven times you have said yes. And so you have had seven different weddings, on seven different islands, followed by seven different honeymoons. And yet each time he asks this question, it is with the same tenderness and sincerity as the first. As if he were cracking himself open and inviting you to hold his bloody, beating heart. 

You press your palm flat over the space where it beats. A steady tune drums beneath his skin; your favorite song. 

(Sometimes, you think that if he could, he would pull it from the cage of his ribs and give it to you. Sometimes, you wish you could do the same for him. Give yourself to him in whole.)

“You flatter me, Doffy,” you coo. “Really? You’d do it again?”

His mouth twitches down. “Are you doubting me?”

“No, never.”

“Then what’ll it be?”

You really do laugh this time–he sounds so serious. “Do you honestly have to ask? My answer will always be the same; you should know that by now!”

His grin is as brilliant as a diamond. “Is that a yes?”

Something soft and petaled unfurls between your ribs. You answer with a kiss– a proper one, this time. He tastes like sea salt and the syrupy sweet of mango juice. Groaning, he kisses back heatedly. He cradles your head to pull you in deeper, closer. You allow him to guide you in, shifting to straddle his waist.

You're flushed tight against each other, no room for air; it’s not enough. You want to pry open your chest cavity like an oyster and tuck him safe inside you, your treasure. You want him to eat your heart like a pomegranate so you can lick the red of your life from his chin. You want to meld to him like the fabled soulmates of Plato, four arms, four legs, two souls as one.

You want him to fuck you. 

Thin cotton is the only barrier between your clothed sexes. He twitches under you, already eager to bury himself inside you. Arousal coils tight in your core. You give your hips a languid roll, deepening the kiss. Wandering hands run down your back, dip beneath your dress–

Pere-pere-pere-pere-pere! Pere-pere-pere-pere-pere!

Doffy's head lolls back with a frustrated groan. You bite your cheek, holding back a curse. 

The snail transponder. 

It had sat, mostly ignored, next to his drink on the table. Now it springs to life, stalked eyes wide and alert, it's droning a reminder of other priorities. Reluctantly, you situate yourself in your original positions. Doffy gives the device a withering glare; pleasure will have to wait for business. 

"Someone had better be dead," he grumbles, snatching the receiver.

Before Doffy can even get a word in there's an explosion of noise. A man's voice babbling almost incoherently. You catch the words Sabaody, and pirates, but everything else slips through your fingers with his sniveling. 

“Stop blubbering and tell me the situation,” Doffy cuts in. “State your name and business!”

The man on the other end coughs, a wet rasping noise that reminds you of rusted blades. “Th..this is Disco, reporting from the Auction House in Sabaody Archipelago!” Disco takes a gasping breath. “Mister Doflamingo! We need you here right now! It’s terrible–the biggest disaster we’ve ever seen–!” another gasp, “A celestial dragon has been attacked! All of our merchandise has escaped!”

You blink, surprised. Someone attacked a celestial dragon? On Sabaody, so close to the marine base? What kind of idiot would do something like that? 

You see Doffy’s eyebrows perk and know he’s having similar thoughts. “Who?”

“Straw hat,” Disco wheezes. “Straw hat Luffy and his crew.”

‘Straw hat’? That sounded familiar; one of the rookies, maybe? If you think hard enough you can conjure a shaky image in your mind, a wide grin and the red-ribboned hat that gave him his name. You’ll have to ask Doffy about it later.

And from the looks of it, Doffy does know something; he’s laughing. A full bodied, belly deep laugh. 

“This is no laughing matter!” Disco wheezes. You think, idly, that he might have been stabbed. “This is your shop, you know! Mister Doflamingo,” he pleads, shakily, “Where are you right now?! The shop has lost all credibility, and then there’s Roswald’s family too! They’re definitely going to lash out at us–do something to fix things!”

Doffy is still laughing. “Seriously…Human trafficking is so old fashioned, you idiot.” 

“...Eh?”

“It’s all about smiles now!” Doffy explains plainly, as if speaking to a small child. “Smiles!”

Now that you know this isn’t  actually important you’re impatient for this call to end; the excitement from earlier begins to stir once more. You nip at his collar. Doffy glances at you. Locking gazes, you lick a hot stripe up his throat. He grins wickedly at the want in your eyes. “Soon,” he mouths, patting your thigh.

“Disco,” he coos, “I’m giving the shop to you. So don’t be callin’ me anymore!” Another laugh bubbles out of him as you lave your tongue along his jaw. 

“What?!” Disco shrieks, appalled. “You’re abandoning us during the worst crisis we’ve ever had?!”

You feel him tense at the outburst. You rub soothingly at his chest and continue to pepper kisses onto him but this does not dull the sharpness of his tone. “Quiet, you annoying bastard! While you sit there blaming me for your own misfortune, a “New-Era” draws ever closer, Disco-kun. The navy has given orders forcing me–no, us–into active duty!”

Doffy reaches for his mango juice and takes a languid a sip from his straw, giving the ice a swirl. He downs the rest of it with a satisfied “ah!”

“Knowing this, what do you see on the horizon, Disco-kun?” The empty glass clinks heavily against the table. You’re more than a little distracted by the way the sunlight glimmers on his golden bracelet. “The Whitebeard Pirates versus the Seven Warlords of the Sea!”

Again, Doffy laughs, rich and deep. Disco can only gape in shock. Before he can start gibbering again Doffy ends the call. Go-cha! The snail transponder closes its eyes and droops, a puppet with no strings, lifeless. 

“Now then,” Doffy purrs. “I do believe that I was proposing?”

You run a finger down the path of the gold winding down his arm, tracing the curve of his bicep. “Oh, I think you were doing a little more than that.”

“Really?" he smirks. He pulls off his sunglasses, rosy eyes darkened with lust.  "I can’t seem to recall. Care to remind me?”

“But of course.” You move to straddle him once more. This time there is no teasing, no hesitation. Doffy slips a hand beneath your dress skirt and yanks your panties down. The fabric is left bunched mid-way on your legs. You widen your stance a little more, sucking a mark onto his neck, as he traces circles on the inside of your thigh. 

“Doffy,” you whine, leaning into his touch. “Please…”

He ghosts the pads of his fingers along your vulva. They come away slick. “Please what, my sweet?”

Fire burns your cheeks, your neck, your center. You want it to consume you. “Inside,” you plead. “Put ‘em inside me, please.”

He kisses behind your ear. “Good girl.” 

You whine again, pulsing at his words. “Doffy…”

Teeth press against your bottom lip as he finally slips his middle and ring fingers into you. You grasp at his shirt for purchase; their familiar length curls upwards within you, seeking out the spot that makes you see stars. You arch forward, pushing the heel of his palm against yourself in a way that makes your walls clench. He shifts a touch the left; you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering shut. You feel him smirk. There. 

What began as gentle exploration becomes a merciless charge forwards. Rhythmically, he pumps in and out, in and out, striking his target without mercy.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he says hotly into your ear. “Give it to me. Almost there.”

Nails brand red crescent moons into his shoulders. Every part of you burns. If you lose your grip, you think you'll be engulfed by the flames, turn to ash in his arms. You want it more than anything. “Doffy!”

“Almost,” he pants. “So close, just a little more–!”

With a final thrust, you are undone. Pleasure burns you away to nothing. A mewling noise falls from your lips as you scrabble desperately at his back. Cruel fingers wring you for all you can give, continuing their administrations until you’re teetering on the edge of madness, crying your husband’s name with every movement.

There are tears pricking your eyes when Doffy unzips his pants. You whimper, but not in fear. Pearly rivulets of pre-cum trickle down the head of his blushing cock; he’s big, thick too, and throbbing with desire. 

He swipes some onto his thumb. He need not even ask; your mouth is already open and waiting when he presents it to you. “Good girl,” he praises as you lick him clean. It’s a bit salty, but with a sweet undertone. And all yours. 

He pulls out of your mouth and squishes your cheeks, fingers damp with your saliva, to cant your head back. It takes a moment to realize, your mind clouded under the thick haze of passion, but you let out a breathy laugh when it clicks; he’s admiring the teardrops swimming in your eyes. 

“What a sight you are,” he sighs, reverent. “An angel, caught right in my arms.”

All you can manage is a soft moan in response. You feel as if you are both floating and sinking, caught between the height of ecstasy and the depths of hedonism. You think you might be drooling in more ways than one. Le petit mort, some call it. ‘The little death’. If this is what it feels like to die, you would cross into eternity with a smile. 

Doffy positions himself at your entrance, giving his shaft an idle stroke. 

“Do you think you can handle all of me, my angel?” he asks. “Use your words.”

You ball his shirt in your fists, grounding yourself. “Yes,” you manage, nodding. “I can take it, I want it.”

His lips meet yours in a searing kiss. It is want and ache and a bloody heart. “Good girl.”

Slowly, gently, he begins to ease into you. Big hands hold you steady as you take deep breaths. Deeper, deeper, deeper. You welcome all of him into you, feel your walls flutter around each inch as it sinks in. He hisses, twitching, but keeps hold of his last threads of composure. Finally, he stops. 

A tear falls through your lashes. You’re stretched, full, and it feels divine. You squeeze your eyes shut and take in one last deep breath. 

Doffy kisses the wetness from your cheek. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

As always, he starts slow. A careful drag of his hips that has you digging your nails into him again. Then back in. His jaw is ticking in anticipation, wanting more, more, but he keeps the beast muzzled a few moments longer. When you start to bounce on your own, juices running down your legs, he knows you're ready. 

He grips the plush of your hips tight as he grunts, thrusting forcefully into you. All illusions of restraint are shattered; the beast is free, and it is hungry. He pistons into you with such beautiful brutality that you weep, shuddering as another orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You slump onto his shoulder, eyes rolling back as he continues to fuck you. Your body is limp, pliant and soft like fresh clay, his hold the only thing preserving your shape.

“Such a good girl,” he pants, “taking me so well. You want it, huh? Want me to, ngh, fill you up real good?”

Tears are streaming down your face. “Please,” you slur, squeezing around him. 

He curses. Impossibly, he starts to move faster. That familiar tightness builds in your core and you sob as you cum for a third time, pleasure and pain swirling around your skull in an all encompassing mix.

“Doffy,” you gasp, “Doffy, I love you–!”

A burst of warmth floods inside you. “Ngh–fuck!” he curses, stilling as his own climax overtakes him. He rests his chin atop your head, breathing heavily. “Cariño,” he groans. “Mi cariño. Te quiero, ángel. Te quiero demasiado. Tienes todo mi corazón.”

You hug him tight, drink in the tenderness of his words, the comfort of his scent. You hold all that he is in your arms and it is perfect. “I know, Doffy.” You kiss the teeth marks you left on his throat. “You have mine too. I’m all yours.”

You both stay like that for a little while, each recovering from your respective highs, holding one the other for as long as they need. 

When your mixed juices begin to overflow and dribble out of you Doffy shifts, slowly pulling out of you. You come apart with a squelch so lewd that you can’t help but flush. It’s then that you remember that you are exposed in every sense of the word; the beach is thankfully empty thanks to the Birdcage, but still. The open air has you feeling self-conscious, and you hastily pull your underwear back into place. 

Already, his sunglasses are back in place. “No one saw,” he assures, picking up on your nerves. “I would have killed any voyeur that dared to try.”

“I know,” you say, giving your surroundings a hasty look. “Just need to make sure, I guess. I think I might actually die if anyone but you saw me like that!”

“Well, we can’t have that,” he chides. “We have a wedding to attend, remember?”

The petaled thing in your chest blooms once more. “However could I forget?” you swoon, cozying up to his chest. Tucked safely beneath your ear, his heart carries on its familiar music. "When were we thinking? Tomorrow morning?”

“Mm, we wed in the morning last time. I had an evening ceremony in mind.”

You perk up. It paints a pretty picture, making your vows on the bony white sand, starlight dappling the ocean waves. “Could we have it right here, by the shore?” “I don’t see why not,” he shrugs. Then the mischief returns to his voice. “it’s fitting, seeing that we’ve already consummated the marriage here. Perhaps we should commit fully and wear the same clothes?”

You flush, mortified at the thought. “God, no!”

He nudges you teasingly. “Oh come on. It’s not like anyone would know.”

“I would. I would know. And even worse, you would know! And I know you, Doffy, I know exactly how you would act.”

“And how would I act?”

“Like yourself. So, you know. A bastard.”

He grins. “Would you have me any other way?”

You smile, soft. “No, never.”

“Good,” he chuckles, giving your thigh an affectionate pat. Then, after a pause, “I think I’ll wear my black suit. The one with the white overcoat.” 

You trace the rim of his bracelet. “This too?”

“You really do like that piece, don’t you?”

“It draws attention to your hands,” you say dreamily. “And you know how much I love your hands.”

“That I do,” he smirks. As if to prove this point, he holds the one not stroking your thigh up to you. You take it between both of yours and pepper little kisses along his fingertips and knuckles. 

“If this is the kind of treatment it’ll earn me, I’ll wear this everyday,” he chuckles.

“You should,” you hum, pressing your lips to his wrist. “If you do, I will give you ten million kisses every day for ever and ever.”

“When you put it that way, I’d be a fool not to.”

You laugh deviously, rubbing your cheek against his palm like a cat. “All according to plan. Now you have to wear it to the wedding and for the rest of your life!”

“How evil you are,” he snickers. “It appears I’ve finally started to rub off on you.”

“It was inevitable,” you nod solemnly. “All I need is a pink-feathered coat and a Warlord title.”

“Speaking of; I think you should wear your pink dress for the ceremony. Pearls, too.”

“Off the shoulder or lace sleeves?”

“Lace.” He toys with your dress skirt. “I’d appreciate some lace underneath the dress as well.”

“That can be arranged…” You shift to look up at him. “Serious question; do you think we could get Señor Bigotes to officiate?”

Doffy raises an eyebrow. “Darling. I would pull the moon and all its stars from the sky if you asked me to. I think I can manage to wrangle one cat.”

His earnesty makes your breath stutter. You know if you look at him any longer you’ll get too mushy and start crying again, so you snuggle back up to the crook of his neck. Doffy knows when you’ve had enough so lets you retreat. The crashing of the waves is more than enough to fill the silence. The seagulls chime in occasionally, which makes you chuckle.

“We’re getting married,” you sing, after you’ve settled.

He kisses your head. “We are,” he says, in that honey-suckle sweet voice just for you. “We should also get you cleaned up.”

You groan. “But I’m comfortable.”

“And you will continue to be comfortable,” he assures, hooking his arm under your knees. “I’ll carry you.”

You circle your arms around his neck as the world lurches upward. It used to make you nervous, being so far from the ground, but your husband is as strong as he is tall–if not even moreso. He won’t drop you.

“What are we thinking of for the cake?” he asks as he starts toward the ship. “Last time we did a marble so that one is out.”

“Hmm, red velvet?”

“We had that on our fourth.”

“Chocolate?”

“Did that on our first.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, thoughtful. “Vanilla?”

He hums. “Vanilla…simple, but elegant. Vanilla it is.”

You kiss his chest. “We’re getting married,” kiss, “on the beach,” kiss, “with a cat–an office holding cat!–to officiate,” kiss, “and a vanilla wedding cake.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

The beat of his heart thrums steadily by your ear. “Yes. It sounds perfect.”

additional AN: title is from the poem 'devotion' by ocean vuong--you can read it here on poetry foundation !

TL for the spanish portion: "Darling. My darling. I love you, angel. I love you so much. You have all of my heart."

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay. 

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

 “A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise. 

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell. 

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame. 

Sylus Qin. 

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe. 

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive. 

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk. 

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota. 

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon. 

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked. 

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection. 

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong. 

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase. 

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase. 

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery. 

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder. 

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room. 

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth. 

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact. 

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.” 

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.” 

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?” 

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.” 

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale. 

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place. 

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.” 

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post. 

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice. 

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.” 

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face. 

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.” 

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name. 

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is. 

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over. 

It was time to stare Death in the face. 

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably. 

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair. 

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates. 

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve. 

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen. 

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin! 

Your heart stops. 

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera. 

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet. 

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives. 

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome. 

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.” 

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway. 

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.” 

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…” 

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked. 

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage. 

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise. 

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny. 

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.” 

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down. 

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more. 

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise. 

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country. 

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy. 

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again. 

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.” 

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot. 

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience. 

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge. 

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours. 

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period. 

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door. 

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go. 

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires. 

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history. 

You’d started simple: his social media. 

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck. 

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face. 

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse? 

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history. 

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too. 

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned. 

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate. 

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter. 

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read. 

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer. 

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him. 

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him. 

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him. 

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo. 

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point. 

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done. 

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin. 

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism. 

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :) 

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered. 

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.  

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them. 

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind. 

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words. 

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in. 

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair. 

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do. 

Sylus Qin is here. 

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh. 

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know. 

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you. 

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you. 

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over. 

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show. 

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.” 

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little. 

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan. 

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls. 

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in. 

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided. 

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.” 

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm. 

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore. 

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification. 

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile. 

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.” 

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance. 

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not. 

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week. 

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime. 

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do. 

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain. 

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe. 

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life. 

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights. 

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme. 

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television. 

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair. 

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips. 

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about. 

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit. 

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you. 

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man. 

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips. 

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair. 

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show. 

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography. 

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine. 

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you. 

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all. 

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left. 

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room. 

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late. 

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place. 

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you. 

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear. 

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response. 

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches. 

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs. 

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit. 

 “I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.” 

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon. 

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder. 

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.” 

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely. 

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss. 

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight. 

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.” 

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body. 

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls. 

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing. 

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.” 

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal. 

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment. 

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give. 

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you. 

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan. 

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight. 

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room. 

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning. 

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily. 

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker. 

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off. 

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

Intertidal Zone

♱⋅── rafayel x reader

♱⋅── about: Nightly Rendezvous card, but now we finally understand why rafayel was so desperate when he came back to the hotel room.

♱⋅── word count: 6.7k

♱⋅── warnings: mdni, smut, porn with some plot, the belt scene, slight exhibisionism, sooo much kissing, slight oral fixation, Lemurian mating bond, needy raf

art credit to @/khouxy on instagram

You swear Rafayel is doing this on purpose. 

The first time it happens is right after your flight, the two of you only just managing to check into your hotel and change for dinner.

It's a fancy restaurant overlooking the vast desert, and the outdoor patio offered a clear view to gorgeous sunset. Furious spirals of orange and vermillion cast their light across the sand, making it appear to glow as winds kick up waves of golden dust along the horizon.

It’s beautiful, almost as much so as the man across you, who is still staring longingly into the distance as though committing every color to memory. As if repainting it entirely in his mind. 

Not hues of warmth, but those of the deep sea. Blues and purples and colors so dark they’d only come to life in the night. 

“How’s your drawing?” 

Rafayel sighs at your voice, tossing his pen across the dinner table with a huff before leaning back against the sofa. A stack of crumpled sketches litter your table among half-finished plates of food. He insisted on traveling here to relax, and yet he seems to be doing everything but. 

“If a few lines count as a drawing, then wonderfully.” Sassy as ever.

He sighs again, but this one sounds more pained, and you notice the red tinge highlighting his ears and neck as he leans against your shoulder. 

“You still don’t feel good?” You ask, voice hushed as you place a kiss against his temple, the skin burning beneath your lips. Raising a hand, Rafayel immediately nuzzles into your palm as you pull his chin up towards you, feeling the rising temperature along his cheek and forehead. “We can head back if you’d like. Take a bath, or shower?” 

You hoped the together was implicit by now.

But Rafayel only nods, placing a chaste kiss against your exposed shoulder. “What about the sunset? I saw you admiring it, and squandering a beautiful view is unacceptable for an artist. It’s one of the greatest offenses.”

Rafayel’s breath is minty and dry against your ear, and when you turn to look at him, his face is doused in the fiery hues of the sunset, each one casting deep purple shadows that only make his features all the sharper, half his face veiled in darkness. 

Some days you wish you were an artist as well, if only to capture moments like this—to show Rafayel just how gorgeous he was. 

Perhaps it’s only natural for a god. After all, no mortal could ever need beauty so violently arresting, so worthy of worship. 

You’re leaning in despite yourself. 

Rafayel meets you halfway, one hand on your waist as the other traces your jaw and bottom lip. But as soon as you feel the brush of his lips across yours, he pulls away. 

You open your eyes in confusion. Rafayel’s never denied you before. 

When you look at him in question, he only gives you a tired smile and pulls you to your feet with a chaste kiss on your cheek. “Sorry. I’ll feel better as long as I’m close to you like this.”

The second time it happens is when the hotel reception mixes up your and Rafayel’s rooms, leaving you to deliver some sort of formal invitation to him. 

But the letter is soon forgotten; you can’t be bothered thinking about it, not when Rafayel still looks so absent.

He’s right next to you, knees brushing yours as you sit side by side on the couch, and yet he seems to be miles away, gazing out the window as the dunes shift and rise like waves under the moonlight.  

"I used to really enjoy scenic spots before," Rafayel says, voice barely rising above the hum of the heater. "Catching sights of subtle things that might be easily overlooked used to feel like enough. More satisfying than finishing a painting, even."

A laugh. Dry, humorless. 

His fingers grazed the edge of his glass, tracing the condensation absentmindedly. A droplet trails down his wrist. "But now, sometimes, I forget why I even decided to travel in the first place.” 

You watch him, waiting. He doesn’t meet your gaze.

"I think," Rafayel continues, "somewhere along the way, I stopped just... noticing things. And I started needing them. Like the world wasn’t worth looking at unless I could turn it into something. Capture it, hold it in my hands, and call it mine." He shakes his head, a shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "It’s not a very generous way to live, is it?"

"You don’t need to be generous with everything," you say carefully. "Some things are just... for you to enjoy."

"Enjoy," he repeats, like the word doesn’t quite fit in his mouth. A pout. "It doesn’t feel like enjoyment anymore. It feels more like... hunger.” 

Like he’s always fucking starving.

Rafayel finally turns to look at you, eyes eclipsed in the dark. Nearly dilated black. 

“Sometimes I’m afraid that if I feed it, it’ll only grow worse.”

You turn to face him on the couch, sliding your leg between his thighs before perching yourself on Rafayel’s lap. It’s not lost on you how his heartbeat picks up, chest rising and falling rapidly as each shallow breath hits your lips. Perhaps it’s cruel, but you can’t help but touch him again, fingers tracing his full lips, up his jaw, fluttering against his eyelashes and into his hair.

“You think hunger gets worse when you feed it?" You finally ask, voice quiet, slow, daring to push back. "Doesn't it stop when you're full?"

Rafayel’s mouth quirks, a sharp, fleeting twist of a smile. "Not always. Sometimes it makes you realize just how much more you want. Or how much more you could take."

You frown. “You’re not demanding anything. Not from the world, not from me."

"Maybe not yet. But, if one day, I become someone who only takes… If I were like that, would you leave me?"

The confession hangs for a moment, the truth of it hidden. Something about the way his shoulders tense under your touch— like he's bracing for something, but it hasn’t yet arrived. A phantom pain from centuries ago, and a pain to come for a thousand years more. 

“Silly fishie, I’d never leave you.” 

Rafayel smiles in a way you know all too well, lopsided and teasing and empty.

“Thank you…” he hums, finally pulling you closer as his lips skim alongside the curve of your neck. “for accepting me the way I am.”

His breaths come out in desperate huffs against your skin, and he inhales sharply, freezing, before finally placing a kiss against the crook of your neck. And then another, and another. 

“You’re just anxious,” you whisper, sucking a mark into Rafayel’s neck as he moans so sweetly against your ear. “I can help you relax.”

You wiggle your hips to better balance yourself on his lap and Rafayel looks almost near tears, one hand forcing you still while the other grabs your wrist, trailing kisses from your fingertips back up to your neck.

More. You need more. Rushing, your hands fly up into his hair, about to tug Rafayel to lay down on the couch when a crack echoes behind you. 

The glass lays shattered against the floor. 

Panting, Rafayel stares at the spilled water for a long moment before pulling away. You feel his erection digging into your thigh, the warmth of his fever spiking yet again as his skin burns against yours, yet he still refuses. 

“As you said, I’m anxious…” Still panting, Rafayel picks you up, gently lifting you up as he stands from the couch. “Or, more like restless. In every sense of the word.” 

The need in his eyes almost makes your knees buckle. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he could ever crave, like a bite would both be salvation and leave him hungry forever. 

“But see, now I can’t stand the idea of letting you go again, and you don’t want me to either.” He sets you down just a little farther than necessary, but his hands don’t leave your waist, trembling, waiting. “What should we do?”

“Rafayel…” You want him. You want him so badly it hurts. 

“Fuck.” 

You nearly jump at that. Rafayel curses again, his head falling onto your shoulder as his breath hitches. “I can feel your concern. That and…” another convulsion, his body burning up. “Fuck. You have to leave.”

You don’t even have time to retort before you’re pushed out of his hotel room, and the door slams shut behind you. 

By the third time, you know something is wrong. 

It’s not that you and Rafayel haven’t kissed yet. Hell, you’ve had sex before. The last time was quite literally on the night before you were supposed to leave for this trip. Obviously, Rafayel suggested that you stay at his place for the night—insisting he was closer to the airport and getting an Uber would be quicker this way—and one thing led to another, as is what happens nearly every time Rafayel and you are left alone for too long. 

But now it’s been nearly a week and Rafayel has barely touched you, let alone picked up on your not-so-subtle clues. 

So yes, it's safe to say you’ve become rather pent up. 

You’ve fallen asleep in the off-roader the two of you rented out for the day, bobbing up and down the dunes like waves flecked white not with seafoam but snow. There’s a chill as you drift off, but your dreams are anything but, plagued with memories of Rafayel. 

His hands, deft and talented with a brush, are even more so when teasing your skin, knowing exactly how to trace delicate circles against your thighs before roughly curling into your cunt. His tongue, every smartass comment and teasing grin now silenced as he licks and sucks against your clit. His body, the warmth of it, bearing down on you with every thrust, or perhaps writhing beneath you as you take him again and again and again— 

It’s the cold that wakes you up. 

Your eyes flutter open, first noticing the dim light of the hotel parking lot, and second, the burning desire still aching between your legs. 

“Rafayel?”

A shuffle makes you turn, and you find said man still seated in the driver’s seat, unbuckled as he sits with his head resting on his hand. 

“Yes, cutie?” Rafayel’s tone is teasing, but the way he stares down at you feels like anything but. The hunger is back. 

Sitting up, you clear your throat. “How long have I been asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You seemed like you were having such a nice dream, I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

You inhale sharply. Glaring, you try and see if he’s teasing again or being serious, but Rafayel doesn’t let you read him for long, already leaning over the middle console. 

He places his lips gently on your temple, brushing over the skin, and then moves down to your cheek, his breath warm against your neck. He whispers your name, so softly you almost think it was a trick of your imagination.

Your mind goes blank when he kisses your jaw, a small noise escaping the back of your throat as you feel his hair tickle your skin.

"Raf," you mumble under your breath, but you know he hears it because he exhales sharply against you.

Rafayel trails a series of kisses up your neck, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, cutie." His body temperature is rising again, and the air in the van feels dangerously thin as he sways in your grasp. "I'm trying."

The hunger is back, all-consuming and hot as you genuinely fear you might burn up. A wave of dizziness washes over you, and you finally cup Rafayel's jaw, leading him towards your lips.

Yet again, he stops you halfway.

“Do you want to go back to your room first?”

At first you think he’s suggesting moving there before continuing, but you know better at this point. 

“You’re not coming with me?” 

Rafayel pulls out the invitation from before, waving it between the two of you as if all this was the letter’s fault. “I still have to attend my friend’s salon thing.”

“But you’re still burning up! Forget this, I can’t let you go out to who knows where when you’re still acting strange. Maybe we can see a doctor—”

“Cutie…”

“—No, no. Or maybe I can come with you.”

Rafayel says your name this time. Firmer. Cutting off your rambling as he places his forehead against yours. 

“Do you want me to turn into a sea creature that’s beached on the sand after the ocean recedes? Leaving me to suffocate when I come out of the water?” 

You don’t quite know how to respond to that, feeling his desperation in every word even as you struggle to make sense of it.

Rafayel continues, pulling away from you again. “Don’t you trust me? How about we make a promise?”

“What kind of promise?”

A smile. “I promise… I’ll be okay without you tonight.”

There’s no joke, no hidden meaning, just Rafayel who so violently hopes that this promise will hold true. 

So you relent. “Okay, just take care of yourself.”

Finally, Rafayel opens the car door, letting the desert night winds sweep in with a biting chill as he leans back against the driver’s seat. He lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “You can head back. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rafayel promised he’d be okay without you tonight, but you don’t think the opposite could hold true. 

Not when the dizziness Rafayel caused remained. Not when you still feel the phantom touch of his lips and hands all over your body, burning you up, leaving you cold and empty and aching. 

You’ve been burning for the better part of a week now.  

Something stuck between a laugh and a cry of pure frustration leaves you as you fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “This is pathetic.”

Even the damned sheets smell like Rafayel, pillows deeply laced with his shampoo and the smell of his cologne—amber, yuzu, and something salty like the ocean—surrounding you as though this were his hotel room and not yours.

Desert nights were cold, but even the room's chill could do nothing to quell your desire, arms shaking with it as you quickly stripped yourself of your shirt and bra. The room spins as you stumble around, leaving your clothes on the floor, another delirious whimper seizing you as you sprawl against the silk sheets. 

You need him. 

Fuck, you need him, and you hate him for leaving you while the growing ache between your thighs threatens to swallow you whole.

The sheets are deliciously cool against your flushed skin, and you turn your head to rest your cheek in the cool embrace of the pillow. But it only needs a second to heat from your desire. 

And then the room is all too hot once again. 

Kicking off your pants, your hand snakes down your bare torso, leaving half-hearted squeezes to your breasts and hips, failing to replicate the touch Rafayel already has you addicted to. The memory only makes you more frustrated. 

A hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and fuck, you’re dripping enough to ease your fingers in already. You force yourself to slow down, rubbing slow circles around your entrance, the mere friction enough to have your hips bucking up against nothing. 

Inhaling sharply, you slide a finger into your weeping cunt, a moan pushing from your lungs as you do. Not enough. It’s not enough.

You force yourself to draw each movement out, the curl of your wrist accompanied by your muffled cries and the slick, obscene sounds echoing alongside your ragged breath. Withdrawing your finger nearly to the fingertip, two plunge back in this time, and your back arches off the bed with violent tremors as you imagine it was Rafayel's hand instead.

How he’d tease you in the early mornings to wake you up, how he’d take special care of every sensitive spot on your body, how he’d draw his fingers along your clit just the way that will make you come undone.

And as your fingers find that sensitive bundle of nerves, the way you cry his name into the empty room is no different.

Your head is spinning, falling, your thighs shake, and it's not long before you're gasping out, "Rafayel, please.”

Still not enough. Every rough thrust of your fingers brings you higher and higher, but without the pressure of Rafayel's chest pressed to yours, or his hot breath ghosting across your ear, his voice, his lips, his touch—

Without him.

A sob rips from your throat, your hips bucking uselessly against the air as you fuck yourself harder, deeper. But your fingers are only so long, and your free hand, fisting the sheets, is unable to make up the difference. "No, no please," a whine, and your free hand rushes to circle your clit, the other picking up pace.

You're close, so close, sobbing his name when the dizziness from the car returns tenfold, overtaking your body in waves as your eyes roll back. "Please, ah! Rafayel, m’cumming-"

The world goes silent as pleasure surges through you, muscles convulsing, a choked, garbled sound escaping as you come. Collapsing back against the sheets, you struggle to catch your breath, the stickiness of both the heat and your orgasm coating your thighs. 

There’s another tug, a violent pull against your chest, but the dizziness remains. 

You know you should change the sheets or at least move them aside, but you can’t manage to do either as you rush to shower before Rafayel returns from his friend’s exhibition. 

It’s only when you stumble into the bathroom that you notice it. 

Shit. This is Rafayel’s room. 

You must be trying to kill him.

Surely, this is the gods' cruelest trial—a final test of his resolve—to see if he’d bow once more, forsaking divinity and succumbing to the temptation of you.

Because it’s been barely an hour, and Rafayel has already resigned himself from the party, passing blank smiles and empty compliments as he quietly counts down the minutes until he can return to the hotel, when suddenly he feels it.

The tug of your bond flashes through his body as his dick aches.

Rafayel freezes mid-sentence, the polite smile he'd been wearing slipping from his face. The conversation at the bar around him, something about chiaroscuro in the artist’s latest piece, become muffled static as the chains tighten, digging into his heart. 

It’s unmistakable now. The rhythm, the rising intensity, the waves of pleasure that don’t belong to him but still manage to spark delirious heat up his veins.

Rafayel’s breaths quicken, body temperature rising as his Evol flickers out of his control. He glances around the room, feigning interest in the conversation, the glittering glasses of champagne, the faint hum of the crowd. It doesn’t work. The only thing he can focus on is you.

He should leave. Go outside, breathe in the night air, and let the tether between you both loosen, just to regain control. Just to prove to himself it’s not too late.

But the bond tightens, as invasive as it is intoxicating, demanding Rafayel’s attention like a leash coiled around his neck. It’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s primal, every nerve in his body pulled taut like you’re screaming his name over and over into the depths of his soul. 

It’s not fair.

No god can deny the prayer of a worshipper.

Your pleasure becomes his, and when Rafayel closes his eyes, he swears he can feel your phantom hands on him, dick already heavy and throbbing, leaking through his expensive trousers.

Are you in bed, thighs trembling as you grind against your own palm? Or maybe the shower, steam curling around you as you chase release? Or worse—are you riding something of his? His shirt? His pillow? Is this vengeance a cruel punishment meant to shatter what little resolve he has left? 

Shit. He’s hard.

“Hey man, what’s wrong? You good?” 

The slam of a glass brings him back. Gods, he hates these rich socialites. 

The champagne glass Rafayel was holding is now covered in cracks, blood trickling down his ring finger. He’s unraveling, composure fracturing with every pulse of your pleasure surging in and out as violently as a full moon’s tide. 

Rafayel looks up, smiling. “Stress. And apparently a very needy pet.”

The man laughs at what he assumed was a joke, but Rafayel sees his hesitation, the type animals give when they pick up rustling in the bush. Fear. 

Rafayel’s grin only widens, all teeth. “I should probably go check on her. Wonderful party,” he adds, lifting his glass in a half-hearted toast before setting it down with a sharp clink.

As he steps outside, the desert air does nothing to soothe him. If anything, the dryness makes it worse as the pull becomes sharper, like you’re reaching for him, your need coiling tighter around his chest.

A growl, almost feral, rumbles low in his throat as he staggers down the cobblestone streets. He doesn’t need directions. He doesn’t even need to think. His body moves instinctively, guided by the bond, by you. 

Rafayel swears he can feel you all across his body, your heartbeat picking up as you get closer, the smell of your skin and arousal, the cries of his name that only become more and more desperate as you fail to bring yourself over the edge without him. 

You’re begging for him in a way his bond mistakes for worship, because Rafayel’s body feels like it’s burning. Like blood spilled on his altar, an offering of yourself to your god, your husband.

The thought that you might be doing so unintentionally only drives him further into madness.

But, beneath the frustration, there’s something else. A glimmer of something Rafayel hates to name but knows all too well: relief.

Because as much as he might deny it, Rafayel could never leave you. And now that you’ve reciprocated, now that you’ve begged for him oh so sweetly, he would gladly submit to his bond and become chained to you once again, forever at your mercy, unable to escape the inevitability of his fate.

He doesn’t even knock when he reaches the hotel room door. It swings open under the force of his hand, and the sight of you standing there—wide-eyed, startled, only in a bath towel—hits him like a blow to the chest.

There's a soft click as Rafayel locks the door. A hurried shuffle of shoes as he all but stumbles toward you, closing the distance between you in one hurried, unstoppable motion. A startled gasp as he grabs your face in his hands.

It's the last breath you take.

An arm wraps around your waist, blocked by only a flimsy hotel towel as Rafayel violently spins you around. Your surprise is swallowed by his lips as you’re pinned against the window, the chill of the desert snow, frosted against the glass, a harsh contrast to the burn of his touch. His hand pins yours at the wrist as he stares down at your fingers.

“Rafayel? What are you doing here?” 

The question barely gets out, not before he rushes forward to claim you in a kiss, if it was even that. A desperate, consuming need overtakes him, Rafayel pushing you back so insistently that your head hits the window with a thud, pain immediately distracted as his clothed knee grinds up between your bare thighs. 

Holy fuck, just a towel. Right.

You try to push him back, one hand pressing against his chest as the other flies back to tighten the towel. “Wait–”

Rafayel kisses you again. And again. And again. 

You can feel the cloth slipping.

But Rafayel makes it very hard to care. His hand traces your throat, your heartbeat, then drags you closer by your hips as he thrusts forward in time, still caging you against the window. He’s relentless, every kiss only broken with a ragged breath or gasp as though he’s given up on breathing entirely, content to consume you instead, his tongue sweeping against your lip before it coaxes yours to meet it halfway, licking and sucking into your mouth.

It’s obscene, animalistic, and you swear that there has to be something wrong with you because the dizziness is back, and this time it’s enough to make your knees buckle, the two of you blindly stumbling across the hotel room.

So you bite him. 

“Why–” Breathe. Remember how to breathe. “Why are you here?”

Rafayel almost looks offended, thumbing his bitten lip before licking away the smudge of blood with a lopsided smile. 

Fuck, he’s hard. You feel the heat of his cock jolt against your thigh, pressing into you as he surges forward again, kissing you as his hands squeeze and cup your waist, lifting you up.

"Why?" Rafayel laughs, roughly grinding up against you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. "This is my room, remember? You’re the one who decided to come in here." He growls the last part, licking, biting, sucking at your throat. 

“Or was that intentional?”

The look in his eyes is feral. 

There’s no hesitation left, no half-riddled questions, no sweet praises, no semblance of your devoted lover. Just hunger. He’s rushing, pushing forward even with nowhere to go, almost in revenge. In punishment. Your teeth click together, foreheads bumping, unable to talk because when you try to open your mouth his tongue only slides in deeper. 

The wet sounds echo against your ears alongside your racing heartbeat, only causing you to grind harder, rougher, before Rafayel ungracefully drops you onto the bed. 

Your body bounces on the mattress, but it gives you a moment, and you scramble to cover Rafayel’s lips with your palm before he can begin devouring you again. 

“What I meant was, shouldn’t you still be at that art salon?”

He all but collapses into your touch. Lips parted, he grabs your wrist, tongue darting out as he licks up your middle and ring fingers, moaning against your skin. 

“I tried. I tried going, leaving.” He's panting, breathing in your scent before biting your palm. “But you called me back, you cruel, selfish human. And now I’ll never leave again.”

Your words come out between moans, unable to look away. “I called? I didn’t do—” You’re cut off as Rafayel licks up your skin, sucking lightly at your fingertips as his eyes, half-lidded and blown out stare down into yours. 

Oh.

A hot flush of embarrassment seizes you and Rafayel must sense it because his eyes flutter closed. His hips snap forward, grinding his erection into the side of the bed, and he lets out a low whine.

Gods, the taste of your cum lingers in Rafayel’s mouth. Every dry swallow, every inhale, every damn breath tastes like you, and it makes him want to submit to every horrid urge and simply consume until—

“You don't think I know? Don't think I can’t tell?” Rafayel goes back to kissing your wrist, needing something more, something stronger. His hand ventures to the edge of your towel. ”Can feel everything you do, no matter how far away I go. Gods, I feel it, feel everything, and it drives me insane. Need you so bad, need to hear you, feel you, taste you..."

A shudder runs up Rafayel’s spine at the mere thought, and he can't stop himself anymore, leaning down to suck your fingers into his mouth, tongue curling around the digits, saliva coating your fingertips. He rips the towel from your body.

"Say you need me too," He’s begging, sinking down to your knees. "Say you need me just as badly. I–ah fuck—I can smell how much you want me."

Throwing the towel to the floor, Rafayel runs his hands down your chest, rougher, long fingers cupping and massaging your breasts as his mouth trails wet kisses down your stomach, his tongue dragging against the smooth skin, a clear goal in mind as he settles between your thighs, looking up at you as though you were a thing worthy of worship. His Goddess. 

He’d offer himself to your alter time and time again. So long as he was the only one who got to bleed for you. 

“Yes.” You’re already soaked, the sight of Rafayel panting between your thighs enough to have you babbling, ”Yes, Rafayel. I needed you so, so badly all week. Couldn’t help m’self, please.”

He freezes at that, pouting. “Right, you already came, didn’t you. So mean, cutie. Leaving me out.”

Before you can argue, Rafayel dips his head, dragging his tongue up your cunt before sucking roughly at your clit. 

Your legs thrash above his shoulders. “Ah– wait, not so!” It’s too much too soon. Still sensitive from your prior orgasm, your back arches violently off the mattress, but Rafayel pays it no heed, deaf to your cries as he sloppily makes out with your pussy, drool and slick connecting his lips to you in sticky strands even as he pulls away just far enough to talk. 

“She’s already so sensitive, s’not fair,” he pouts, mouthing against your thigh as he flicks your throbbing bundle of nerves. You jolt, gasping at the sharp jolt of pain. At the same time, Rafayel fucks his tongue into your cunt, just barely dipping in before he moves back to rub nonsensical patterns on your clit. “But this is mine. I don’t want you touching it without permission anymore.”

Fuck, if you had any semblance of a coherent thought you would have argued, maybe even laughed at the sheer audacity of the man.

Instead, all you can manage is a pathetic whine of his name, because the strange swirls and harsh lines he’s licking into your clit aren’t patterns at all but letters, spelling something over and over and over again. 

R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y-E-L-R-A-F-A-Y—

The ring of the hotel phone buzzes from the nightstand. It’s the artist whose party Rafayel left only minutes ago.

“Tch,” Rafayel scoffs in annoyance, whipping his chin as he goes to decline the call.

But this gives you a moment to breathe, and all you can think of is getting revenge. Especially on the bastard you tried to take Rafayel from you tonight. 

“Wait,” you grab his wrist. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it was something important?”

Rafayel turns to you with narrowed eyes, knowing there’s no good intent behind your wicked smile. It turns you on more than you can admit, the sight of his glare, mad at both the call and you interrupting his feast. But Rafayel can't deny you anything and does as he’s told, pressing accept. 

“The guest of this room is unable to answer. Please leave a message.”

Instantly, you have Rafayel on his back. 

His neck looks far too bare, and you climb onto his lap, enjoying the way his pulse kicks up under your palm. Ripping his shirt’s buttons off you begin biting dark spots down the pale expanse of his chest and neck. You’re about to aim right for the glowing mark on his chest when the phone beeps again, playing a voice recording of a clearly very drunk man. 

“Why did you leave, bro? Come back here r’now. One more round of drinks a—” Incoherent laughter and sounds of clinking glasses. 

No. No, Rafayel’s not allowed to leave you, not again. 

You don’t know where the fear comes from, but you force yourself closer on top of him, breasts pressing into his abs as Rafayel shivers beneath you. Leaning down, you kiss the glowing mark atop his heart, admiring the way it flickers and glows when Rafayel bucks into your touch, moaning as you begin to nip and suck in earnest. 

And then you’re flipped onto the mattress once more. 

Rafayel’s heaving, arms trembling to keep himself up. Away. “...Are you sure?”

“If I don’t, then you might actually leave. What will you say if you’re asked why you didn’t go back?”

Rafayel smirks, and you catch a glimpse of fangs as he sits back on his knees. There’s a click, the rough sound of metal on metal as he undoes his belt, unzipping his trousers with one hand as the other cups the inside of your thigh, yanking it over his shoulder as he drags you down the bed. “I’m busy.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

You’re lost, so hopelessly lost in each other that you fail to notice the phone beep once again, the monotone voice of the machine saying, “Please leave a message at the tone,” before flashing twice, still running. 

Again, Rafayel seems to forget the concept of breathing, gasping into your lips as he ruts his hips into yours. “You’re not leaving me, right?” Fuck, he’s leaking all over his stomach, pre-cum splattering across your thighs.

“Never. I’ll never leave you, Rafayel.”

“Then tell me you’re mine. Tell me, please, please—hah—tell me and I’ll do anything, promise cutie, promise.” He’s all but gasping between kisses, cock trapped between his body and yours as he grinds forward, voice a pitch or so higher than it usually would be. “Say it, say you're mine, tell me, I need to hear it again."

He's talking in circles, rambling, the desperation in his voice palpable. Grasping the base of his cock, he sloppily fisting himself once, twice, before thumping against your entrance.

“I’m yours, Rafayel.” You writhe, grinding yourself up against him in hopes that he’s just hurry the fuck up.

“Again.”

“I’m yours, yours Rafayel.”

“Again, ah—again,” he’s nuzzling into your neck, lifting your leg higher and higher, pinning it to your head as he folds you into a matting press. Still, he refuses to press in, cock throbbing against your clit as he hugs you tight, every muscle in your body screaming in protest and pleasure. “Again, please, please.”

“I’m-” You’re either gasping or crying, words flooding out, ”Rafayel’s, I’m Rafayel’s.”

At that, Rafayel’s entire body convulses. He sobs, finally thrusting forward, bullying up into you bit by bit, forcing you to count every inch as the entirety of his weight bares down onto you. 

You can feel the way his muscles shift, the way his arms bulge and contract as he holds himself above you, hips flush against yours. The desert air must be infecting him, because Rafayel is dripping sweat, flushed from his ears to his chest as he begins to pull out and slowly grind himself back in. 

His voice is wrecked, breathless as he tries to kiss you, missing slightly as he sucks against your bottom lip, drooling. "I'm yours too, I'm yours." At the same time, his cock jerks in you, burying deeper with every filthy roll of his hips, throbbing against your sweet spots. 

Then something snaps, Rafayel’s lips sealed back on yours, and the rhythm he sets is brutal.

Rafayel's cock drags over your walls, molding you in ways you never thought possible. Each thrust is hard, deep, and leaves you gasping, eyes rolling back into your head as you arch off the mattress, nowhere to go as his body folds yours damn near in half, weight bearing down on you.

It's all you can do to wrap your arms around him, nails scratching into his back, drawing thin lines of blood across his shoulder blades as you try to stay grounded, keep your mind from being swept away as the dizziness returns.

But the pressure building up in the pit of your stomach makes it hard.

Harder still as Rafayel begins mumbling into your lips, the filth pouring from his mouth making you clench, cunt fluttering around his cock as he pounds into you.

He can see and feel everything like this. Unable to look away from your face only inches away, watching every expression with love-drunk eyes, hugging you closer, fucking you harder.

"Can feel you, can feel you getting tighter. You're close right? Say you're close, please, mhm fuck." he's panting, and if you focus hard enough you can hear the sloppy noises of him sliding in and out, wet and obscene, the harsh slap of his balls against the curve of your ass.

But then Rafayel’s pushing himself lower, your legs dangling uselessly in the air as his chest is pressed so tight against yours you can barely take a breath.

"You're mine, only I can touch you like this, feel this. My wife. Say it, say you're mine, wanna hear it, please. Please, ah, I’ll do anything, say it."

He's barely pulling out anymore, resigning to quick, deep grinds as though he can’t bear to part.

Too uncoordinated to kiss you, Rafayel's head falls to your neck, sobbing into your marked-up skin before messily kissing atop the bruises.

"Yours. Yours. I'm yours, your wife," the words spill from your lips before you can even think, and Rafayel nearly passes out trying to stop himself from cumming then and there. 

It’s like you’re trying to milk him, hugging him closer and ankles wrapped around his neck as he’s lifting your hips right off the bed. But now he needs to see it.

Needs to know the way you'll cry out his name, how your eyes will glaze over and roll back into your head, the way your chest will heave, the sweat that will pool at the valley between your breasts, the way the skin will flush from a soft pink to a burning red as you lose yourself in the feeling. To him.

It's the only thing he's able to concentrate on, the only thing he's able to think of. The feeling of your body beneath him, the sound of his name on your lips. 

And that alone is enough.

Rafayel’s orgasm is sudden, a jolt of pleasure that surges up his spine with enough intensity to have him collapse, pinning your body beneath him. You can feel it, the way his cum splatters against the walls of your womb, painting your insides, filling you up until the excess squirts out around his cock and your intertwined thighs. He can't stop his hips, can't stop the way he grinds his pelvis against yours, trying to get deeper and deeper still. 

"Mine, mine, mine," is all he can say, eyes wide and pupils blown out as he watches the way your body twitches, a mixture of sweat and cum painting your body as you nearly pass out in exhaustion. "Gonna- gonna fill you up, fuck, so pretty, my pretty girl, pretty wife, gonna make sure it sticks, so I’ll never leave. So you’ll never leave me again."

You're cumming.

He can feel the way your cunt spasms, the way your walls lure him back in, the way you tremble and shake as you throw your head back with tears. 

Rafayel can't stop himself from leaning down and biting, teeth sinking into the crook of your neck, his hands grabbing at any bit of flesh he can find. All the while he fucks you through your orgasm, the mess of fluids creating the most obscene noises as they squish and bubble out, pooling out from between your bodies. 

As you’re swaying in and out of reality, you think you see it. A field of red flame lilies, a poison so sweet that when you drink it, you lick your lips and thank the gods. 

God. Just one, the one of the sea and the flaming sun. 

The one who's still kneeling before you. 

The one who you love. 

"Maximum voicemail length reached, recording sent."

♱⋅── a/n: Uber now canonically exists in the lnds universe, thanks. Also, I would have included the absolutely gut-wrenching aftercare included in the card with MC asking Rafayel to sing for her, but honestly I would not change that scene in the slightest and am content to believe that is exactly what happened next.

Oh the things I’d give to hear Raf sing~

beneath the skin | sylus

— summary: “who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. “talk to me,” he coaxes after you hesitate, gently pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “a ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper, as if admitting it aloud is taboo, like you’ll accidentally conjure him back into existence. — cw: reader is not mc, femme reader, assassin reader, jealousy, stream of consciousness, rekindled feelings, self-indulgent af, not proofread, i’m delusional and wanted to write something about someone trying to steal you away from sylus — wc: ~3k — now playing: bad dream - lexie liu

You’re used to the attention; it’s your job to garner it. So, the occasional stare doesn’t perturb you much. Usually. 

But this one—it feels different. Like the uncomfortable pressure of a needle painstakingly driven beneath your nail, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. 

You try to dance it off. Swivel your hips, smile pretty, a bewitching laugh in your throat as you gyrate atop the bar counter at Lux. But even as you turn to face the crowd gathered at your feet, their hands tossed skyward, bodies sweaty beneath the red sweep of lights and heavy mist, it lingers. Strips you down to bone, leaving you raw and exposed. Vulnerable. Confused. 

You pivot to address your admirer. To get a good look at who or what makes your skin crawl. But what greets you robs the air from your lungs, and you err in your steps, nearly stumbling off the counter if not for the dancer beside you, steadying you with her fingers wrapped around your wrist.

You feel like you’ve seen a ghost. An echo from a past you worked your damndest to suppress. The warmth and color drain from your face. You’re ramrod stiff, mouth spilling open, eyes blooming wide. Your heart careens against your ribcage, seemingly stopping before restarting to thrum double time. 

He reminds you of a forest, eyes the color of wood watching you with unwavering intensity, undisturbed by the bodies swaying and brushing up against him. A sturdy oakwood tree untouched by deforestation and time. It’s perverse in a way, how he studies you, how his gaze softens the slightest bit. How he knows you even with the stretch of years keeping you apart like he’s peeling back the layers of your facade like an onion. 

His hair is feathery. Dark like coffee beans, brushing over sloped shoulders. It’s longer than you remember. Longer than the last time you’d seen him before he died. 

Dead. He’s dead. Been dead for years. 

But as if to drive your delusions home, that telltale beauty mark catches in the strobing light, perched atop full, red lips stretched taut—lips you still remember the texture of, the way they moved against yours, pouring unbidden feelings into the chasm of your chest. 

You forget what it means to breathe. Forget how to exist, the cacophony of the nightclub fading into obscurity around you. Muddled, and you’re stock-still, stricken by something untraceable. Grief? Fear? Rage? Maybe a combination. Whatever the feeling, it causes a prickling sensation to fill your head, and your heart plummets to your feet.

“—alright?”

It’s a faint call. A disordered sound, like your ears are trying to readjust after resurfacing from a pool. It breaks you from the spell he cast over you, alongside the firm press of fingers into your wrist, the tug, and you swivel your head to take in the wary look of your co-worker. 

“H-Huh?” you say when your voice returns. Swallow past the barbs in your throat, lick your lips. Blink rapidly, disoriented, as if snatched from a trance.

“I asked if you were alright?” 

Your lips crook with a shadow of a smile. You pat her hand on your wrist, tamping down the anxiety that swells like a tumultuous wave in your chest. 

“Fine,” you murmur to assuage her worries. She doesn’t look convinced but doesn’t press, letting you go after ensuring you won’t fall. 

You look back, expecting to see those eyes drilling into your soul. Expecting that heavy feeling in your stomach, expecting your breath to abandon you once more and the world to spin beneath your feet. But you’re remiss to see he’s gone, swallowed up by the crowd as if he was never there in the first place. 

With all the stress looming over your shoulders —the missions, the changes to your dynamic with your boss, the newest addition to your family—you’re sure you’re imagining things. Your mind’s playing tricks on you, trying to cope with the weight of your job. With the repressed trauma. The unreturned feelings. Seeking an out. A little reprieve. 

How the hell could a dead man come back to life? And why would he be here, of all places, haunting you like a specter with unresolved business? 

You really should stop drinking before you perform. 

—

It’s a typical Saturday night at Lux. 

Nothing seems amiss; no fights to break up, no opposition to snuff out. 

Sylus is safely tucked in his second-floor office, watching bodies sway behind the one-way, ceiling-to-floor window. 

It’s soundless inside—soundproof walls—save for his steady breathing and the typically erratic thud of his heartbeat. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he stands in a casual slouch, gaze uninterested. He almost wishes something would pop off. A breakup in the monotony, a reason to get his hands dirty. An excuse to flex his fingers, to ruffle the expensive pleat of his shirt. 

He catches sight of you in his periphery. The knock of your hips, how you drag your hands down the devastating curvature of your body. A smirk pulls at his lips. If nothing else, he can count on you to keep him entertained. His gorgeous distraction. His glittering, murderous doll poised to strike at the snap of his fingers.

He leans closer to the crisp glass, static prickling his face, and he’s entranced by that sultry smile. How you shine like a constellation, brighter than Lux’s other dancers, capturing the intrigue and envy of all those subjected to your performance. He falls prey to it, too. Then again, he’s always been a victim. Always been under your spell, even without the influence of your Evol. 

He doesn’t know when it started. The steady creep of feelings, the burning need to protect you. But it’s there, a pleasant, heavy pressure in his chest. A feeling he thought himself long dead to. 

He’s about to leave his office to draw you down from the counter, but—

His amusement peters when you turn and stiffen. When your hands fall listlessly at your sides, and even from this vantage point, he makes out your mouth falling open. He’s closer now, his nose nearly pressing into the glass. He squints, trying to glean what’s caught your attention. The muscles in his jaw flex and strain when he catches sight of a figure clad in white adjacent to you, stiff as stone.

Alarm bells sound in his head. He doesn’t like the way this man watches you. How his gaze lingers too long, and he can feel the tense set of your shoulders as if he’s filling your skin. Irritation thins his lips. He conquers the space between the window and the office’s door in three brisk strides, the swell of music from downstairs flooding inside.

He takes the staircase leading to the first floor two-by-two, urgency powering him forward. But by the time he reaches the floor—by the time he wends through the crowd, pushing towards you, searching above the bodies pressing against him for that haunting streak of white—the figure is gone. Vanished like a breath out as if he’d never been there. 

Sylus’ gaze snaps to you. He’s still a ways off; you hadn’t noticed him. He watches the dancer beside you try to calm you down. Watches as you anxiously sweep an errant lock of hair behind your ear—as you peer over your shoulder in search of something. How your expression dampens when you find nothing, and your shoulders slump.

Something’s got you spooked. 

Sylus stands in the midst of the dance floor for a bit longer, studying you as if you’ll disappear, too, if he looks away for too long. 

He doesn’t like this feeling—this unease curdling in his gut. 

Who and what was that? And why does he feel like it’s not the last of it?

—

It was supposed to be a typical exchange—a simple negotiation for a plot of land on the outskirts of the city. 

You weren’t entirely sure what Sylus intended to do with it, but you usually kept your questions to yourself. He’d fill you in on the intricacies of his plan as he saw fit. 

For now, you stand in good form behind him, hands clasped together in front of you. His secret weapon in case things get dicey. His right hand in case you’re needed.  

He sits in a red leather, pin-cushioned armchair, languidly sipping on his bourbon, his hair standing out beneath the lazy drag of the low light. You’d normally admire him from your vantage point—the line of his shoulders, that wispy sweep of hair, the virility he exudes without trying. But tonight, you’re tight-lipped and contemplative. Straight-backed as you wait for his guests, mind slinking back into the happenings of three nights ago.

You finally began to settle. Excused the specter you saw as a trick of the light, as a product of exhaustion and shitty eating. There was no way he could still be alive—the shadow from your past. And even if he were, he wouldn’t have waited so long to resurface. 

Would he?

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, sweetie,” drawls Sylus above the languid croon of the music inhabiting the office. 

He breaks through the noise of your mind, and you blink as if being drawn from a daze.

There’s a teasing fringe to his voice. You don’t have to fully see him to know he’s smirking, that devastating, charming pull to his lips. He turns his head slightly over his shoulder, peering at you. “What’s on your mind?”

You clear your throat, shifting your weight between your feet. He’s caught you drifting off again. He’s good at that, reading your silence, feeling the tension stretching between your shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?” he says after some time in deliberating silence. 

You know he means to press. He wants to, but he doesn’t—a part of him you admire. He never pushes you past what you’re willing to give. Never pries into your past, never drills into your skull, trying to discern what makes you tick. He very well could, the power of his right eye glowing a sinister shade of red when he cracks into the minds of his enemies. But he’s never used his power on you, at least from what you’ve gleaned, and you respect him even more for being ever patient with you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lie through your teeth. Lips quirk, though the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. 

His mouth hovers around words as if he means to protest. He knows you better than you think. But he doesn’t get the chance to pry when the door to his office swings open, drawing your shared attention to it. 

You watch as a stout man strides in behind Kieran, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looks unassuming. You roll your shoulders back, the tension once coiled in your limbs slowly unfurling. You don’t know what you were expecting. What you were hoping for, and you’re about to relax before another figure strolls in behind the gentleman. Unmistakable, tall, shouldered. 

Your breath catches.

The man’s eyes flick to you, briefly drinking you in. You don’t miss the glimmer of softness, the belying of emotions behind a rigid exterior. You watch him sit in the armchair adjacent to Sylus beside the older gent with glasses, and you can’t fucking breathe.

Yunho. 

His name echoes like an old hymnal—a forgotten praise—in your mind. Something tucked away in the furthest hulls of your subconscious, dredging up memories you’d long since compartmentalized.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve fainted. Instead, you tamp down the swell of fear in your chest. The lump of emotion blocking your throat. The heaviness of your tongue. He’s here—he’s real. He’s not dead, presented as flesh and bone before your very eyes, and you weren’t losing your shit that night at Lux when you saw him.

Your body hums with pressure, with static. You feel dizzy as if your legs could give way at any moment. You feel sick. Yet you maintain your poise, your decorum. You avert your eyes to the floor when Yunho’s gaze flits to you every so often as if he’s trying to convey something. Trying to make up for years of leaving you in the dark, for leaving you to fend for yourself, to pick up the jagged shards of your heart alone when you thought he was mere bone and dirt.

The meeting drags on with an unbearable tenseness. You feel like you’re out of your body throughout. You don’t follow what all three men are on about, too busy battling the static brewing between your eyes and your knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of Yunho’s gaze when he thinks no one’s the wiser.

—

He’s grateful when the negotiations conclude, Sylus is. He hates these things—the pleasantries that go into them, the small talk before he can take what he needs.

He shakes the stout man’s hand with a rehearsed pull to his lips, sealing the deal. The land will be signed over to him without incident. Good. He’s been itching to open a new club just for you. Knows you’ve been dying to have something of your own, a place with your name in scrolling Marquee outside.

He reaches over the glass-top coffee table to shake the hand of the younger man who had accompanied the landowner, and it’s like he’s been electrified when their palms meet. It’s a familiar, uncomfortable surge of static pushing up his arm, curling in his chest. 

Sylus stiffens, eyes shooting up. He locks on to irises that remind him of blackened tar pits. Soulless. Yet behind the aloofness lies a heated intensity that would burn through flesh if Sylus were anyone but himself. He’s thrown back to the memory of three nights ago at Lux when he’d caught the same feeling after chasing away whatever spooked you.

Sylus squeezes his hand a little more firmly than necessary, a slight divot forming between his brows. The gentleman’s stare is equally unrelenting, and it’s like he knows something. He doesn’t miss how his gaze flicks over Sylus’ shoulder to briefly take you in before he releases his hand, and both men depart, leaving you and Sylus buried in heavy stillness. 

He’d been doing that quite a bit, that man. Sneaking little glances at you, sometimes lingering while Sylus was deep in conversation. He didn’t like it one bit, the way his gaze felt like it was stripping through your clothes. But he said nothing—you were a far cry from unsightly. It was only natural that other men couldn’t keep their eyes off you, couldn’t contain their intrigue. But this felt…different. 

He rolls the stiffness from his jaw as he stands up straight, hands stuffed in his pockets, still staring at the afterimage of his two guests long after they departed.

The strain in your body was palpable, too. He felt it rolling off you in waves, crashing into his back. Didn’t miss how you shifted your weight between your feet, the rustle of fabric behind him, an occasional tight breath slipping through your lips as unease fell onto your person. 

It’s unlike you to be so out of sorts. So on edge. So he breaks the quiet lull between you by clearing his throat and swiftly turning to face you, a question perched on his tongue. He nears you with measured strides. Paces towards you almost like a predator cornering prey, and the way you glance down to avoid the smolder of his gaze makes something pull in his chest.

“Who was that?” he simply asks, trying to mask the tinge of bitterness in his tone. His expression slackens when you look away, your jaw moving, and you’re squeezing your fingers at your back, so much the tips turn white.

You push out a weighted sigh, your voice shaky and sticky, as if you might cry. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, but you fall silent, unease etching into your features.

He’s close now. So close, your perfume curls around him, the welcomed heat from your smaller frame permeating his skin. He wars with himself for a moment. Turns over his subsequent actions in his mind like an old vinyl before softly pinching your chin between his forefinger and thumb. He tilts your head back until you’re forced to look at him from beneath those ruinous lashes, and the wet gleam of your eyes is enough to make his stomach flip. Make the tendons in his neck pull.

“Talk to me,” he coaxes. Gentle like he’s persuading a lover to reveal the inner mechanisms of their mind to him. He knows you’re not okay. Wants to get to the bottom of your flightiness. Wants to help in any way he can. He’s not used to seeing you so stone-faced and avoidant. 

You relinquish a breath, lips quivering. You search his eyes, and he wants nothing more than to draw you into the circle of his arms. To cover you like a blanket on a winter's day, to absorb you. 

“A ghost,” you say on a shaky whisper. As if saying it is taboo, like it’ll conjure him back into existence. 

Sylus’ brows furrow. He prides himself on not delving into your past life. But, dammit it all, he’s never burned to know about what molded you into the person you are today more.

His gaze falls to your lips as they wobble. He wants to kiss them. Wants to take whatever anguish plagues you into his own body. Wants to kiss away whatever worries you have into oblivion. But he’s not sure how you would feel about that. If you’d push him away and completely shut him off from your heart. He’s made his intentions clear, his feelings for you—at least, he thinks he has. He’s been patient, waiting for you to come around. Waiting for you to want him as much as he yearns for you.

You draw him from the slurry of his thoughts when your fingers suddenly curve around his wrist. Soft, cautious, scorching through layers of flesh. A tired smile rounds your lips. You pull his hand away from your face, glancing down.

“I’m alright. It’s nothing to worry about. I—just need to get a little rest. Clear my head. Don’t worry about me.”

You brush past him without another word, and his fingers are poised at your back when you leave as if to stop you. When the door clicks shut with your departure, his fingers curl inward towards his palm into a loose fist before falling listlessly at his side. 

“A ghost, huh?” he murmurs to no one in particular, the words heavy and acrid on his tongue. He doesn’t notice the smoky threads of his Evol leaking off him, spurred by the ire slowly building in his chest.

Would you forgive him? 🤎

Drew my mains as a small gift to myself cause school's starting again 🙏

~ Sweet Lavender Sunshine ~

This is for @scarlettriot and @silverhairsimp ‘s roommate collab! Make sure to check out the other collab pieces, as they’re all so good so far!

Beta’d by the incredible @kingdumkum

Rating: EXPLICIT - MINORS DNI

Pairing: Shinsou x fem!reader x Kaminari

Word Count: 10.6k

Content + Warnings: reader is a pro hero with an unspecified quirk who gets hit with a stimulation quirk and has to rely on her faithful roommates to get her through it. Use of nicknames (baby, babygirl, princess, sunshine), fingering, oral (m and f receiving), face fucking, light spanking, slight dacryphilia, very light degradation, squirting, threesome, unprotected sex, double penetration, creampie(s)

a/n: Yes, I KNOW i did the whole "overused sex-quirk trope" thing, but I promise this one’s not that cliché, hear me out!!

All characters are assumed to be 18+

Waking up to the smell of bacon and coffee will never get old.

It’s Sunday, which means it’s the beginning of Kaminari’s weekend and the end of your’s and Shinsou’s. House rules dictate that whoever has the day off gets to make breakfast for the other two, you and Shinsou trading responsibilities since your schedules usually line up.

This morning happens to be Denki’s turn, and bacon & scrambled eggs were always his go-to. A smile spreads across your face the instant you recognize the familiar scent and hear the light clanking of dishes accompanied by hushed voices in the kitchen.

The three of you started living together and working for the same agency right after graduation. At first, it just made sense: save money on rent and save the planet by carpooling to work. Plus, being best friends didn’t hurt either. The convenience of it all made the harrowing realization that you were no longer in school, but rather, entering a world full of villains, much less daunting.

But after a while, when you were all recognized as fairly capable pro’s, each making enough money to easily buy your own place, you chose to remain roommates. Convenience no longer a crutch, but rather, a choice. There was still something comforting about coming home to them that made the thought of moving out almost unbearable.

Luckily for you, they felt the same way.

Although you’ve been mistaken as romantic partners many times before, by just about every colleague and friend, the three of you have never crossed that line. The fear of ruining what you already had, which was so incredibly special, kept any…unwanted impulses at bay. Even if they weren’t necessarily unwelcome.

You’re only human, after all, and as a human, it’s perfectly normal to steal a wayward glance when your pro-hero best friends peel away their costumes after a long shift, unconsciously flexing their hard-earned muscles and proving the fruits of their intense labor were not for naught.

So what if they were your roommates? It’s only natural.

Just like it’s only natural how, after a particularly nasty breakup, Shinsou would have you curled into his chest while Denki rubs your calves. With ice cream melting on the table and sappy romances in the background as their low voices told you: he didn’t deserve you, and Want me to beat him up? and Don’t cry, princess, it’ll be okay. There’s someone better waiting for you, you just need to be patient…

It’s only natural when your mind starts to wonder if this might be what you’ve been waiting for. How they might be the ones who are waiting for you; for your commitment, your love, for you to cross that line–

But in the morning, even as you wake up in Shinsou’s arms with Denki passed out between your legs, you chalk it all up to fantasy. A delicious, beautiful, romantic fantasy that can’t exist, because why in the world would you risk your friendship on the odds that one–let alone both–could ever look at you as more than just that; a friend?

Pushing those feelings aside like always, you get ready for your patrol shift and bound into the kitchen with that bright smile on your face they so hopelessly love.

“G’morning, Sunshine!” Kaminari calls over his shoulder at you, half-hazardly wielding a hot frying pan and almost dripping burning oil on himself when he whirls around to greet you.

Shinsou’s at the kitchen counter, sipping on his third cup of coffee and shaking his head in mild amusement, “Careful, would’ya?” He looks your way with a small smile and an even smaller nod, “Morning, Y/N.”

“Mornin’ boys!” you walk past Kaminari, who leans towards you, neck craned for his usual morning kiss on the cheek, which he looks forward to every day. You eye the hot pan in his hand first and raise your brow. He sheepishly sets it down before turning back to you, his cheek even closer than before.

“Mwah!” you kiss him quickly, with a loud smack and a little chuckle as you head to the fridge, pulling out your coffee creamer and moving to sit with Shinsou. He leans over as well, passively sliding his elbow along the counter top until he’s in-range for his own kiss.

“Yes yes, you too ‘Toshi.” You kiss him just as enthusiastically, continuing on with your usual routine and noticing the sweet way he smiles into his coffee mug.

“Denks, did your team learn anything else about that pervy villain this week?” You pull the clean mug Denki had set out for you towards yourself, making your own cup of coffee and adding entirely too much cream and sugar to make it tolerable, “I bet my two weeks vacation they’re gonna give the case to Shin and I when we show up this morning.”

Shinsou scoffs a laugh beside you, tired eyes rolling in annoyance, “Yeah, really. ‘S all anyone’ll talk about on the news. It’s give’n us a bad rep that we haven't caught the guy yet.”

Kaminari shrugs and passes each of you a paper plate of food. You used to give him flack about using paper plates: what happened to saving the planet, huh Denks? But he’d always quip back with, It’s my day off! I’m not doing dishes on my day off. So either you eat off the counter, or accept my paper plate!

“Not much, honestly. Guy’s fuck’n slick. No pun intended…” You and Shinsou both roll your eyes with a pained groan, “That’s your worst one this week, man. Hands down.” You laugh in agreement, the whole thing all the more amusing from the mock offense on the blonde’s face.

“Fine, then. No more jokes for the Negative Nellie’s!” He takes his own plate and sits on the third stool with a huff, pretending to be straightforward and serious. “He got two more people last week. Female, of course. Both of ‘em with the same symptoms as the rest: ‘insatiable sexual arousal characterized by increased body temperature, heightened sensitivity to touch, and an increased sex drive. All of which gradually worsens until the victim no longer has the capacity to sensationalize. Effects do seem to be long-lasting, and may be permanent if early intervention is not achieved.’” He quotes directly from The Commission’s official statement on the matter, brandishing his [plastic] fork in the air as he does so.

You sigh, both in sympathy for the victims, and in exasperation at the thought of picking up where Kaminari’s team left off. Everyone knows that early intervention means having an orgasm, but it was discovered by accident and has only been tried once, when the victim happened to be on her way to meet her husband. However, while it did seem to help, she still has lasting stimulation deficits from the event since the symptoms didn’t fully subside after one session.

You slump forward, arms crossed on top of the counter, and bury your face in them. “Ugh, I don't wannaaa” you moan and complain, turning your face to look up at Shinsou who looks like he’s feeling the same way you are. He’s just much better at keeping it inside. He rubs your back, “I know, me either. But hey, at least we’re on the same route today, yeah?” He gives you a small smile, somewhere between consoling and encouraging, and you smile back. “Yeah I know. It’ll still be a good day.”

You and Shinsou were often given patrol shifts together: your quirks complementary to one another’s and your chemistry undeniable. He’s been your rock since your second year of highschool, given you were both late add-ons to the hero track. He tried to put up a tough facade, always saying he wasn’t there to make friends, but it took very little convincing for you to win him over.

And once you did, you were inseparable. Combat training after dark in front of the dorms, early morning runs, weekend study sessions - no matter where he was, there you were too.

Kaminari came along soon after, easily working his way into the mix with his natural charm and charisma, making it difficult not to befriend him. The two of you were fast friends, but honestly, the real reason he ended up wriggling his way into your lives was thanks to how quickly Shinsou took a liking to him.

It just makes sense that even after all this time, you three would wind up together. You’re so similar, so complementary, that being with them is as natural as breathing. No team works better than you and Shinsou—besides, maybe, you, Shinsou, and Denki combined—and it only adds to why you stuff your feelings away. You have a good thing going: a history that can only be forged through shared hardships, and a love that will last the ages. It doesn’t matter that your brain is now running through a hundred “what if?” scenarios as you and Shinsou prepare for work. Particularly, what’ll happen if you end up confronting the pervy villain? What if you got hit by his quirk? Who would you call for help? Would Shinsou, maybe…?

But as quickly as your thoughts wander that way, you push them back. You can’t afford distractions today, no matter how pleasant they may be.

The commute to your agency always goes by fast when Shinsou drives. His music is relaxing and doesn’t make you think too much, just puts you in a good headspace for work. He’s usually quiet, but by now you know it’s because he’s comfortable with you. It’s not often he’s able to share the same space as someone and not feel pressured to make conversation.

His favorite part of the drive is always letting you sing to the radio while he just hums along. He steals glances your way every so often, smiling to himself at how happy you look. He’s always thought you were beautiful, but knowing he’s the only one who gets to share in these moments with you makes you nothing less than radiant.

He has a tendency to park at the far end of your agency’s parking garage, wanting to drag out those precious last seconds before he has to turn the car off, thus ending your little karaoke session.

“Ready, partner?” You give him an expectant smile as you unbuckle and swing your legs out of his car, feeling much more prepared for the day ahead now that you’re caffeinated and energized from the drive.

“Ready.” He flashes you a quick smile, the two of you walking side by side into the building and heading straight for the locker rooms to change.

“Meet you upstairs?” You ask over your shoulder as you push the door open to the women’s locker room, pausing to see him nod before he disappears through his own door.

As soon as you make an appearance on the main floor, you spot Shinsou: standing in the center with the head of your agency and speaking with the Commissioner. You make your way to them, the look on Shinsou’s face giving you a damn good clue as to what the conversation’s about.

“—which means we’re relying on the two of you to pick up where they left off. This guy’s bad news and I want him off the streets - like yesterday.”

“Yes sir.” Your partner replies without missing a beat, giving off the same air of indifference he always wears in public. “We’ll handle it.”

They nod their approval of his acceptance, sparing you an extra glance as they leave it to Shinsou to explain what you missed.

“So,” you nudge him with your elbow before crossing your arms over your chest, “sounds like I’m keeping my two weeks vacation then, huh?”

He rolls his eyes with a smirk, “You nailed it. They were wait’n for one of us to show up by the time my foot hit the top step. ‘S exactly what you thought: we’re taking over. Apparently there’s been an anonymous tip about a potential location, so we’ve been told to go check it out.”

You sigh, “alrighty then. Might as well get going.”

If you had known what would happen after the two of you left the agency, you would’ve taken your two weeks right then and not felt the slightest bit guilty. Yeah, you and Shinsou make a great team—but even the best of teams can have an off day. Especially when they underestimate who they’re dealing with.

It had all been going so well; the tip was hot - the two of you tracking the villain down with relatively little resistance - and your fighting was immaculate. You and Shinsou were just as in-sync and fluid as always.

But then, in an instant, the villain turned the tables and had you cornered against the back wall of an alley, hands outstretched in your direction. You have a blinding moment of clarity before everything slows to a crawl, when you realize your intel was wrong:

His quirk isn’t activated by touch.

You’re not exactly sure what happens next. Wisps of shimmery mist shoot towards you from his fingertips before you can react. For you, everything’s moving in painfully slow motion. And just as you’re processing the fact that you’re directly in the line of fire, without hope of escape, Shinsou turns the corner to where you are and apprehends the villain with his capture scarf. He has him bound in seconds, and turns to you with a satisfied smirk, a congratulatory, “we really are a great team—“ falling dead when he realizes what’s happening.

The two of you make eye contact, Shinsou’s eyes going wide as he watches the shimmery mist settle over your stomach and sink into your core. “Y/N…” he mutters in quiet disbelief, worry deep-set in his face.

“I know, Shin.” You try to say matter-of-factly, but your voice breaks and you gulp, panic starting to set in as you feel a tiny ball of warmth forming in your tummy. “Let’s just get this asshole to the police and let them take over.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you stop him, pressing your palm to the center of his chest and making him step aside, “Don’t mention this to anyone, please. We’ll handle it when we’re done here.” You seem eerily serious, although he can already see the heat spreading across your cheeks and it makes him grab your wrist, “As soon as we’re done, I’m taking you home.”

You meet his intense gaze and realize that arguing would be futile, so you nod, your wrist slipping from his grasp and moving to start assessing the damage in the street as if nothing had happened.

But something did happen. You got hit, and you both know exactly what that means. Your mind is reeling, that ball in your core starting to nag, but right now your duty comes first.

Almost an hour has passed by the time the two of you have finished interviewing witnesses, checking for civilian injuries, assessing public property damage, and providing statements to the police.

Shinsou watches from afar as you stand before the chief of police: legs crossed and arms wrapped around your stomach, swaying a bit on the spot as you try to slow your breathing and focus on what he’s saying to you rather than that burning ball that’s only growing larger by the minute.

But your partner knows you’re just pretending to understand, mindlessly nodding at every other word while your face and neck continue to flush. He has to step in and find some way to whisk you away and take care of the issue at hand.

He crosses the road, still blocked off on either end, and comes to stand beside you. His hand rests on the small of your back, meaning to be a gesture of comfort but it only makes the burning sensation in your core intensify. Your head snaps up to him, tears welling in your eyes, and he drops his hand quickly. His own face starts to blush as he realizes what he just did, remembering Kaminari’s monologue at breakfast: heightened sensitivity to touch.

He wraps up your conversation for you, the chief of police bidding the two of you sincere thanks as he waves you off. Shinsou takes the lead down the road, neither one of you saying a word to each other as you briskly walk away from the scene of the incident.

As soon as the two of you make it around the corner and out of civilian eye-line, he scoops you up in his arms and races in the direction of headquarters, needing to get you home as soon as possible, no longer caring about your aversion to touch. “Just hang in there, Y/N. We’ll take care of you.”

You instantly know he’s referring to Kaminari, who’s probably vegging out on the couch watching bad sitcoms, completely unaware of what’s about to happen.

“T-Toshi..” you whimper, every step he takes jostling your body and making your latex suit rub painfully against your sensitive clit, “‘s too much.. it hurts!” Tears well in your eyes as you speak, spilling over and down your bright red cheeks, the embarrassment of the whole situation almost too much for you to bear.

“I know princess, ‘s alright. I got ya.” He cradles you closer to him, your face pressing into his chest and hiding away from anyone who could possibly be watching.

It feels like an eternity before he finally reaches his car, cursing himself for parking in the very back like always. He swings open the passenger door, narrowly avoiding dinging the car next to his, and sets you in the seat. He buckles you in and reclines the chair, allowing you to curl into yourself.

As soon as he slides behind the wheel he’s peeling out of the garage and barreling down the road back to your shared home. You’ve never seen him drive so fast. You appreciate the effort, but every time he has to hit his breaks it only makes things worse.

“Toshi—!” You cry out when he suddenly halts for a red light, gripping at your core with labored breaths as that heat starts to spread. “I-I can’t do this!” You gasp out, immediately unzipping your bodysuit and peeling it off your body.

His cool leather seats coupled with the lack of friction against your clit lets you take a deep breath, gaining a moment of relief. But Shinsou can’t tear his eyes away, gawking at the way you're laying in his passenger seat, completely bare and vulnerable.

“Y/N—“ he strains, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until he has to shake his hands out. You look over at him and notice the shock on his face, reality setting in at what you just did and how indecent you’re being in front of your partner and roommate.

“O-oh my god!” You reach for your suit again, wanting to cover back up, but Shinsou’s quick to throw it back on the floor of his car. “No. Stay like that. We need to start treating this anyways…” His eyes darken as he continues to stare at your body, cock twitching in his suit at the way your chest heaves. He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he misses the green light, the cars behind him honking in impatience.

“Shit–” he growls and guns it again, somewhat returning his focus to the road.

One hand leaves the steering wheel to grip your thigh, spreading your legs open with his firm hold, “Will you let me help you, princess?”

You’re too dumbfounded by this whole situation you’ve found yourself in, silently nodding to yourself and forgetting he can’t see you. He squeezes your thigh, prompting you again, “I need to hear ya say it, Y/N. I promise I’ll take care of you..”

You snap out of it, squeaking a small, “y-yes, ‘Toshi, please help…”

He simply nods, eyes glancing your way every few seconds to watch as his fingers near your desperate cunt. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable with anything..” he mutters as his hand cups your heat, fighting off a groan deep within his chest.

He can’t recall how many times he’s dreamt of this moment. Of having you like this, so hot and bothered for him. Nevermind the cause of your current state of arousal - he wants you.

His two middle fingers start to drag through your folds, feeling just how wet you are and collecting slick immediately. “Fuck, Y/N… have you been like this the whole time??” Part of him feels bad that you’ve had to endure for the last hour, and he wishes it was a bigger part of him, because the rest of him, particularly his cock straining against his suit, can’t believe his luck at getting to see you like this.

He only wishes the situation wasn’t so dire.

You can only moan and whimper in response, his touch giving you equal parts relief and pain at how sensitive you already are. He can tell you’re close just from this minor foreplay, and while he wishes he could drag it on forever, he realizes he’s gotta make you cum in order to actually be helpful.

“‘S okay babygirl, just try to relax. I’ll make you feel good,” he slips both fingers inside, voice dropping to a low and breathy groan as he realizes how tight you are and starts to pump in and out of your cunt, “I’ll make you feel better.”

The penetration rips a wanton moan from you, back arching off his leather seat as you rock your hips against his hand, already feeling that cord in your belly close to snapping. “T-Toshi, ‘m close, p-please don’t stop!” You whine, desperate to finally feel some true relief, not even caring about who it’s coming from.

Shinsou can see the house at the end of the street, already pressing the garage door opener so he can pull right in. He barely watches the road, rubbing the palm of his hand against your clit as he fucks you with his fingers, trying to take in the moment as best he can.

As soon as he’s pulled in he throws the car in park and yanks the keys from the ignition, turning in his seat to better face you. “Cum f’me princess, come on, you gotta do it!” He uses his now free hand to rub at your clit, sending you over the edge almost instantly.

He would’ve known you were cumming by the vice grip your pussy held on his fingers, but the pornographic moan and squirt of shimmery fluid onto his seat was a nice touch.

His eyes widen at the color and consistency of your orgasm, realizing it’s similar to that villain’s quirk. It’s as if a lightbulb illuminates in his head, now understanding that to prevent the worst possible outcome you’ll have to excrete all of that fluid until it’s gone.

He fingers you through your climax, hoping to prolong it and work more of the quirk out of you. His eyes roam the rest of your body, wanting to truly pleasure all of you, but eventually they meet your gaze and notice how scared you look right now.

“Y/N..?” His fingers slow and come to a halt, slowly pulling out and making more tears streak down your face, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Shin..” your voice is shaky and not at all as relieved as he hoped it would be, “it-it isn't working! I s-still feel it inside me!”

You weren’t lying. While you felt some of that heat flow out of you when you came, there was definitely still a tight ball of arousal burning inside you.

“Fuck— okay, um..” he thinks for a quick second, “maybe once isn’t enough.” He flies to your side of the car, scooping your naked body up and holding you against his chest once more as he carries you into the house.

“Denks!” He’s calling out for your other roommate the second the door flies open, desperation lining his tone in a way neither you nor the blonde have ever heard before.

Kaminari was on the couch when he heard the door to the garage slam open, making him jump and drop his bowl of popcorn on the ground. “What the—!?“

But as soon as he hears the panic in Shinsou’s voice, he hops off the couch and runs to the pair of you. “What happened!? What—“ his eyes land on your naked body in Shinsou’s arms, his brain short circuiting for a moment as he tries to process this very confusing yet envious situation.

“She got hit.” Shinsou quickly tries to explain, pressing his way past Kaminari and down the hallway to your bedroom, “We got the fucker, but not before he got her.”

Kaminari’s mouth has run dry and he stands rooted to the spot, a flurry of emotions washing over him as he realizes what all of this is about.

“Denks!” Shinsou yells over his shoulder, “get in here! We have to help her.”

The blonde is yanked from his own thoughts, springing to action and quickly joining you and Shinsou in your room.

You’re now laid on your bed, all your extremities curled into you in embarrassment. Tears stream down your face at the overwhelming conflict of emotions wracking your body right now.

It hurts. Your core is burning, you’re sensitive from when Shinsou made you cum, yet you just want more despite the pain.

But you’re also mortified. Laying vulnerable and bare before your two best friends, this moment not at all going the way you had dreamt it would for so many years.

So all you can do is cry, unable to find the words to express all the things you’re feeling.

But your roommates can’t stand to see you like this, Shinsou climbing into bed and slotting himself behind you, while Kaminari kneels next to you at the edge of the mattress, both men looking at you with all the love and care in the world.

The blonde takes your hand while Shinsou shimmies you up his lap until your back is against his chest.

“Hey Sunshine…” Kaminari brings your hand, cold and clammy, up to his lips and tenderly kisses over each of your knuckles, watching with a broken heart as your lip trembles in fear. “Hitoshi caught me up on what’s goin’ on.” He continues to kiss your hand, each press of his warm lips helping you calm down just a little bit, “Will you let us take care of you? Help you feel better?” His words are so kind and genuine, echoing what Shinsou said in the car, and wanting your express permission even though he’s already incredibly hard and trying not to rut his hips against the edge of the bed.

“D-Denks..” you squeak, nodding the back of your head against Shinsou’s chest, “p-please help me.”

He takes a deep breath, nodding probably too enthusiastically as he climbs into bed with the two of you. He sits himself in front of you, hands on your knees, which are still curled into your chest. “You can trust us, Y/N. Let me help…” he slowly pulls your knees apart, splaying your legs open and revealing your pretty cunt to him.

“Fuck–“ he breathes, licking his lips hungrily, and Shinsou’s quick to jump in, “I know dude, but focus.” Kaminari nods, “right..” and gets onto his stomach between your legs.

He kisses your inner thighs first, getting you used to the feeling of him that close to your heat, since this is a first for all of you.

You whimper at his touch, every kiss making your core tighten even more, “Denki please–“ you whine, head falling side to side against Shinsou’s chest, “n-need to cum again.. please!”

“Alright, alright!” Under any other circumstance he’d tease you for being so desperate, make you wait as long as possible before he gave you any sort of relief. But now’s not the time for that..

He takes a steadying breath as he lets his fingers finally touch your warmth, wishing he could savor it more than he’s able to at the moment. His thumbs pull apart your folds, remnants of your shimmery orgasm dripping from your cute little hole as it flutters for attention.

Shinsou already explained how the quirk seems to be leaving your body through your fluids, but the sight is still strange. Despite how badly he wants to taste you, he tries to avoid ingesting your slick just in case it could affect him as well. Instead, his mouth finds your clit and his tongue immediately starts to roll around the sensitive bud, sending much needed waves of pleasure straight to your core.

Your back arches against Shinsou’s chest, arms flying above you to grasp at his hair and neck - anything you can reach to steady yourself. The stimulation makes him grab your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he refrains from doing too much too fast.

He leans down to kiss at your neck, “This okay, princess?” You weakly nod your head with a whimper, not able to say much else when Kaminari’s flooding you with so much pleasure.

Every press of Shinsou’s lips against your skin leaves a lingering tingling sensation, like little bits of the burning in your core are being left just below each area of contact. It makes your breathing shallow, lips parted just enough to allow breathy moans and needy whimpers to slip past. Your fingers curl in his hair, dragging his head even closer to the curve of your neck, not wanting him to stop anytime soon.

“Does that feel good, baby?” He asks so sweetly, lips curled into a smirk against your neck at the effect he’s clearly having on you, “You like it when I kiss you like this?”

Your moans get a little louder at his questions, hips rocking against Denki’s face below you, chasing after your second impending orgasm. “Y-yes, ‘Toshi, s-so good!” Your other hand reaches down to tangle in Denki’s hair as well, tugging on the roots to pull his face even harder against your cunt, wanting to feel every flick of his tongue across your clit. “K-Kami, p-please make me cum! ‘M so fucking close--”

Hearing you beg has the blonde practically creaming his pants right there. He moans against your clit, only sending you spiraling even more as the vibrations rock through your core.

Shinsou can feel your stomach tightening, each contraction beneath his fingers making him grip onto you even more. “Let go, princess. Let Denki see you cum, just like I did.” His kisses trail up your neck to your jaw, and before you know it his fingers are turning your face until his lips hover just above yours.

“Cum.”

He isn’t using his quirk on you—he would never do that without your permission. But just the same, you obey. The command instantly sending you over the edge as you feel yourself let go, just like he instructed you to.

His lips crash onto yours the moment he feels your body start to peel away from his, the force of your orgasm making your legs shake and muscles contract. Your eyes shoot open at the unexpected kiss, but within moments you’re closing them again and melting into it. Your lips fit so perfectly between his, moans of pleasure just barely slipping through the cracks and echoing around your room as Kaminari watches you fall apart.

He has the perfect view from between your legs. Fingers still spreading you wide as he watches your entrance contract with your climax, more of the shimmery liquid pouring out and dousing the comforter below you. “Goddamn you’re so perfect..” he mutters, desperately wishing he could be lapping up everything he makes pour out.

His thumb lightly presses to your clit, rubbing in messy circles as you start to come back down. Finally he looks up at you, watching as you and Shinsou continue to lock lips, catching brief glimpses of your tongues tangling together. He can’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at not being the first of the pair to kiss you, but at the same time he's glad for Shinsou.

“How’re you feeling, sunshine?” He tries to ignore how the sight of you two is making his cock that much harder, “Any better?”

You break away from your lavender friend, lips feeling a little swollen and tingly, and turn your half-lidded gaze down to the blonde. “‘S better.. but I can st-still feel it inside me..” You look between the two of them with the widest doe eyes they’ve ever seen, and suddenly both of them are putty in your hands.

“How much came out this time?” Shinsou asks, trying to treat the situation matter-of-factly rather than letting his emotions run wild.

“A fair amount. Looked just like you said it would.” Kaminari lets you close your legs again for now, but keeps his hand securely on your thigh, rubbing back and forth to try and soothe you as they talk. “Think we should.. uh- keep going until it's like.. normal?” He clears his throat, embarrassed at saying it so crudely, not daring to look at you right now.

Shinsou chews his cheek and nods, pulling you higher up into his lap until you’re practically straddling him, but still facing Kaminari. He tucks stray hairs behind your ear, wiping the sweat that’s clinging to your brow as Denki climbs even higher, sitting on his knees in front of you.

“Wha’d’ya say, Y/N?” Denki leans in and kisses your forehead, thumb caressing your cheek bone, and you can practically feel the tenderness in his touch. “Can ya keep going? We gotta get it all outta ya baby.”

You look into his golden eyes and see the same emotions that swirl behind Shinsou’s, your heart swooning just the same too. You press forward to kiss the blonde, feeling some of your mental fog lift and realizing the significance of what the three of you are doing right now.

Kissing Shinsou (not to mention the orgasms each man has already given you), has already drastically changed the dynamic between the three of you, so when would there ever be a better time to finally show them how you feel?

He wasn’t expecting you to kiss him though, freezing momentarily with a sharp inhale through his nose. But once his own daze clears, he deepens the kiss immediately. Holding your face in his hands, letting out the cutest little moans against your lips as he pours out years of pining into the kiss.

When you pull back, he’s got a dopey smile on his face and he’s breathing almost as heavy as you are. “Damn, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time…“ The two of you smile at each other, Shinsou rolling his eyes, but with his own content smile on his face.

You shift in Shinsou’s lap, feeling his hardened erection pressing against the small of your back. He groans under his breath, trying unsuccessfully to stifle it with a cough. You pull your gaze away from Kaminari‘s and look over your shoulder at your partner, voice quiet and breathy, “‘Toshi, do you wanna fuck me?“ You bat your lashes at him, biting your lower lip and feigning innocence as you stare into his eyes, just as lavender as his hair.

Without hesitation, he groans out, “God yes. I do.“

Kaminari chimes in, feeling left out, “Hey! What about me?“ He grabs your hand and places it over the crotch of his pants, clearly straining from the obvious hard-on beneath your palm.

You yelp in surprise, facing forward again with a giggle and starting to rub your hand over his hardened bulge. “I want both of you… Wanna cum on both your cocks.“ Your cheeks flush bright red at the lewd statement as you try not to avert your eyes in embarrassment. The boys just look at each other, an unspoken agreement passing between them as they both suddenly attach their lips to opposite sides of your neck, two sets of hands now roaming your body.

You can’t tell who’s doing what, senses completely overloaded as they take turns groping your tits and rubbing at your clit. One of them tugs at your nipples, making you squeak and arch your back into the touch, while the other drags his fingers through your soaked folds and coats your clit in your own slick. “F-fuck, yes..!” You mewl, eyes closing as you tip your head back against Shinsou’s shoulder, forcing Kaminari to move his lips down to your chest.

Now that you’ve cum twice, you’re with it enough to actually enjoy being touched by them. While that burning ball is still settled in your stomach, it’s much smaller than before, and comparatively, almost feels nice given your current situation.

The blonde sucks along your collarbones, littering your perfect skin in bites as he makes sure to leave his mark on you. But soon he pulls away, the hands on your tits leaving with him as he slides off the bed to remove his sweats.

“Shin, you want top or bottom?” He calls nonchalantly, now lazily fisting himself and making sure to catch your reaction when your eyes drop to his length.

He’s pretty – there’s really no other way to describe it. His cock looks long and smooth, not too thick so that it’d hurt, with the pinkest tip you’ve ever seen. The way it swells as he fists himself makes you want to wrap your lips around it and listen to all the equally pretty noises he’d make for you.

“Let's let her choose.” Always the gentleman, Shinsou spins you around in his lap so you’re finally facing him. Without hesitation, your arms wrap around his neck as his find purchase on your hips, fingers lightly tapping on the bones as he asks you directly, “whose cock do’ya want first, princess?”

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth in contemplation, thankful they’re letting you rest this long before continuing. “Gotta see your cock first, ‘Toshi. How else can I pick?” You jest, your tongue swiping out to lick your lips in anticipation. You shuffle down his lap until you can see the clear outline of his bulge in his hero suit, a little stain on the front from how worked up he’s secretly been.

Your fingers lightly brush across his crotch, cock twitching at the first sign of contact, making him groan. “Fuck.. take it out then, baby.” He goads right back, trying to maintain what little façade he has left.

Your fingers work to undo his uniform, Shinsou helping you along the way as he removes all his support items and takes off his shirt, everything tossed unceremoniously to the floor.

When you finally get his pants down, he bucks you forwards before you can even get a good look, pulling the fabric the rest of the way off. He sighs in relief as soon as he’s just as bare as you are, letting you sit back and enjoy the view.

Your mouth gapes open just enough to bring a smirk to Shinsou’s lips. “Like it baby?” He asks a little smugly, “‘s all yours. If you want it.” You watch as he languidly fists himself a few times, making it twitch when he lets it plop back against his abs.

“Mhm!” You hum enthusiastically, reaching forward to wrap your own hand around his shaft without even thinking to ask first — you’re just too excited.

Shinsou’s thick in comparison to Kaminari. Multiple veins snaking up from the base and branching off by the time they reach the tip, which is almost as purple as his hair - flushed and leaking with desperation. He feels heavy in your grasp, and you’d be lying if you said your pussy wasn’t already creaming for him.

His hand comes up to cup your neck, strong fingers pulling you in so his lips are right above yours again. His breath is hot and smells of the peppermint he likes to suck while on patrol, hitting your senses and making you feel even warmer than you already are.

He groans from your touch, “your little hand feels so fucking good on my cock, babygirl.” And then his lips are on yours, kissing you as you stroke his length between the two of you, Kaminari jacking off to the sight just a few feet away.

The blonde climbs back onto the bed, laying next to Shinsou and grabbing your free hand to wrap it around his own cock, which he’s already slicked up with his precum. Your palm easily glides up and down his shaft, the smooth, warm surface making you mewl against Shinsou’s lips.

“You like his cock too, baby?” Shinsou purrs, bucking into your hand and making you jostle in his lap. “Why don’t you put that pretty mouth of yours on it, then?”

You nod against his face, nuzzling your nose against his, “Will you help me feel good, ‘Toshi? Fill me with your cock?” He nods with you in return, smiling as he kisses you one more time and coolly replies, “‘Course, Princess” as if he’s doing you a favor and hasn’t been fucking his fist to the idea for years.

You climb off his lap, taking your place between Kaminari’s legs as Shinsou repositions himself behind you. The blonde can’t stay away from you for that long though, reaching down to grab your face and pull you up until his lips are on yours again. “Don’t leave me out, ‘kay? I want you just as bad as he does.”

He sounds as if he’s joking, but after all these years you can tell when he’s faking it. You cup his face just as tenderly, bringing your lips back down to his and letting your eyes close in content as you kiss him like you really mean it. Because, well, you do.

“I could never forget you, Denks.” You coo down at him, making his cheeks blush, “I want you just as badly. Promise.” You kiss his jaw, starting to trail your lips down his neck and to his collar bones, leaving marks similar to the ones he left on you. As you continue to kiss down his torso, your hand reaches beneath you to stroke his cock again, listening to his sweet groans of pleasure as he tries to maintain composure.

Finally your face is level with his cock, just as blushing as his cheeks and plenty slick with his precum. You keep your eyes on him as you press your lips to the base of his shaft, his breath hitching as he starts to brush the hair out of your face. You kiss your way up to the tip, now smiling to yourself at how sensitive he already is.

His hips jerk ever so slightly when your tongue swipes at his slit, finally getting to taste him and salivating even more once you do. You can see his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, gripping the sheets as you continue to tease his length, and it makes you giggle. “Kami,” you say sweetly, “You can touch me.” You grab one of his hands, kissing the palm before bringing it to the top of your head, “Help me take all of you.”

You wrap your lips around his pretty pink tip, cheeks hollowed out as you start to suck, and your tongue swirling around his leaking head. You give him a little encouraging nod and finally feel him start to apply pressure to the back of your head.

He adjusts, running his fingers through your roots until he’s got a firm hold, helping guide you down his cock. He watches with lidded eyes as more and more of him sinks into your mouth, but when he feels himself hit the back of your throat he can’t help it anymore, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he moans, just enjoying the feeling of you sucking him off.

Shinsou’s been behind you, fisting himself to the erotic sight in front of him and groping your ass as it waves in the air. Once you’re in your rhythm with Kaminari, he spreads your ass, landing a harsh slap on one cheek and then the next, making you moan around Denki’s cock and wiggle your ass for more.

His lips curl into a smirk at how much you enjoyed that, doing it a second time and starting to see imprints of his hand left on your ass in bright red outlines. “Fuck you look pretty with my hands on you…” He groans, unable to help himself when he does it just once more, leaving his hands there this time so he can steady your ass and rut his cock between your cheeks.

You can feel the sheer weight of him behind you, making your pussy flutter in anticipation as he rocks his hips back and forth, dragging his shaft along your taint.

“Ready, babygirl? Gonna cum on my cock?” He taunts, lining up with your entrance and dropping a glob of spit onto his shaft, rubbing it in with two fingers. He hears you hum in response, earning a “fucking hell—!” from the blonde as he covers his face with his other hand, trying his hardest not to slam into your throat.

Shinsou takes that as a yes, pressing forward until he feels his swollen tip pop past your tight hole. He tries to stop, to let you accommodate the initial stretch, but it’s as if your cunt won’t let him. Your slick walls beckon him deeper, sucking him in farther than he initially meant to go until he was completely bottomed out and enveloped in your tight heat.

“Goddamn, princess—“ he practically gasps, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he takes in how incredibly perfect you feel, “never knew you’d feel this good!”

He instantly fills you up, your eyes going wide at first and then fluttering closed as he bullies his way completely inside. You’ve never been filled from both ends before, the sinfulness of it all feeding into your burning core and making you want more.

You pull off of Denki’s cock, much to his dismay, to look back over your shoulder at Shinsou. Lavender eyes meet yours, and all he can see is lust.

“Fuck me, ‘Toshi. I need it, please!”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice, pulling out just to ram back inside, filling you up over and over again. The drag of his thick cock along your walls has you moaning like a whore, struggling to get your mouth back on Kaminari.

“S-Sunshine—“ he cards both hands through your hair this time, gripping tightly to your roots as he lines up with your lips, “be a good girl ‘n open wide.”

You do as he says, unable to protest even if you wanted to, and the instant your mouth is open it’s being filled again by his cock.

He doesn’t hold back this time, thrusting up into your throat almost as hard as Shinsou’s fucking you from behind. It burns - the ache in your jaw combined with the repeated force of his tip slipping down the curve of your throat has tears welling in your eyes.

“That’s it— that’s fucking it. Cry for me, pretty girl. Let me see those beautiful tears as you choke on my cock.”

You’ve never heard Kaminari speak like that before, and Shinsou can immediately tell you liked it, your pussy gripping him like a vice. “Fuck man, she loves it!” He pants, eyes even more lidded than usual as his hips repeatedly meet yours, balls slapping against your clit with each thrust.

“Yeah? Always knew she’d make the perfect little whore f’us.” The blonde chuckles, unable to help the filthy words spilling from his mouth. But you love it: this side of him you’ve never seen before and the way they talk about you as if you weren’t currently being fucked raw by both of them.

Kaminari watches, completely in awe, as fat tears stream down your cheeks for him. His mouth suddenly feels dry as you maintain eye contact, and he can feel himself getting close to orgasm.

He holds your head down a few times, unable to breathe with your nose tangled in blonde tufts of hair at the base of his cock, choking and sputtering as you massage his shaft with your collapsing walls. Every time he does you cry even more, and he’s almost positive it makes him fall more in love with you with every passing second.

“Shit–“ he suddenly curses, voice thick with desperation, “‘don’ wanna cum yet–“ he pulls you off his cock, the two of you gasping - him from lack of stimulation and you from lack of air. He lets go of your roots, instead letting you rest your head against his abs to catch your breath as his cock twitches and throbs pathetically in front of your face.

He wants to cum so bad, but he’d never forgive himself if he wasted this opportunity to feel your velvety walls around him first. He gently strokes the hair out of your face, fingers lightly trailing down your cheek and jaw, “You’re my good girl now, ya know it?” He coos down at you, unable to keep his eyes off the look of pleasure deep set in your face.

You weakly turn your head to look up at him with a dopey smile, “Promise, Kami?” And slowly press forward on your knees to be closer to the blonde. He stares at you in disbelief with those bright eyes of his, struggling to contain the wealth of emotion he feels towards you right now. You see him swallow as he cups your face so tenderly, bringing your swollen, drool covered lips to his in a gentle kiss. “Promise.” He whispers for only you to hear, “You’ll always be mine.”

The admittance has your heart suddenly skipping beats, already beating faster than you’ve ever felt before. You’re barely able to nod at this point though, simply kissing him again as Shinsou shifts behind you to adjust to your new position over Kaminari’s body.

He slowed down a bit to allow you to move, but he can feel his balls starting to ache, tightening a little more with every thrust. He groans in frustration, not wanting to cum either - this moment being too precious to waste.

“Princess,” he pulls out incredibly slowly, both of you practically whimpering from the loss, “why don’t you let Kaminari have a go, yeah?” He helps you shuffle up and straddle Denki’s hips, pressing himself into your back and panting against your neck. “Wanna feel you cum on both our cocks,” he drawls in your ear, voice low and gravelly as he slips a hand around your waist and slides it down to your core, fingers rubbing circles on your clit, “Wha’d’ya say?”

It’s all you can do to nod, swallowing the lump in your sore throat as your hips rock back and forth along Kaminari’s shaft due to Shinsou’s ministrations on your clit. “Y-yes!” You start to moan but it’s interrupted by a gasp when he hits your clit just right, “P-please make me cum again!”

You lift your hips to line your dripping hole up with Kaminari’s tip, the blonde’s hands securely on your hips to help guide you onto his cock. You sink down, slowly at first, but when you realize how much deeper he can reach than Shinsou, you quickly sit the rest of the way down.

His cock easily presses into your cervix, making you see stars for a moment. “Oh fuck–!” You exclaim, rolling your hips to feel him brush along your sweet spots again, “K-Kami you’re s-so deep!”

He’s certainly not as thick as Shinsou, and doesn’t have the hefty veins his lavender counterpart does, but he makes up for it in length. Although, he can’t enjoy the compliments as much as he’d like to due to the way his brain is short circuiting for the second time today.

Your cunt feels better than he could’ve ever imagined, “fucking hell, your pussy’s so fucking hot around my cock—!” And the way you’re clenching from Shinsou’s fingers on your clit, sucking him in even deeper, isn’t helping him hold out. “Hitoshi, fucking make her cum, would ya? It’s killin’ me!”

Shinsou just laughs behind you, his free hand snaking up to grip beneath your jaw, turning your head to the side to kiss him again. His kiss is rougher than Kaminari’s was, but it still has butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “‘T-Toshi…” you moan into his mouth, making him grin even more.

“Sound so pretty moaning my name like that, princess. You love me that much?” He says it as a taunt, but when he feels you nod in agreement he suddenly can't keep up the act any longer, whispering lowly in your ear, “good, ‘cause I love you too, Y/N.”

The wave of pleasure that wracks through your body at hearing those words is more than enough to send you over the edge. Back arching against Shinsou’s chest once more, his fingers furiously working your clit as you squirt on Kaminari’s cock.

Shimmery fluid thoroughly coats the blonde’s abs as he curses from the sheer sight, nevermind the intense pressure around his cock as your walls try to milk him. His hold on your hips tightens, fingers digging in enough to leave bruises as he fixes his eyes on your cunt.

Your third orgasm starts out shimmery like the others, but towards the end he swears he sees it run clear. “Good girl!” He praises through ragged breath, “I think that was it baby. How d’ya feel?” His thumbs rub circles into your hip bones, trying to resist the urge to fuck up into you and chase his own orgasm, essentially edging himself for the second time.

You look down at him through lidded eyes, pupils blown into the shape of hearts as you feel the last dredges of the villain’s quirk leave your body. “It- worked-” you breathe between pants, chest heaving beautifully above him, “Thank you…” You look back over your shoulder to kiss Shinsou, lingering only for a moment so you can lean down and kiss Kaminari as well, “Thank you both.” Your voice is soft and you sound tired, but when your lips press to his you feel his cock twitch inside you and realize neither of them have cum yet.

“Boys,” you breathe after taking a steadying breath, “your turn.” You start to roll your hips again, making Denki groan as you reach behind you to find Shinsou’s cock and stroke him as well. They try to protest, wanting to be sensitive to you and how spent you must be, but you’re not having any of it. “Mm-mm,” You shake your head, “isn’t fair if you don’t get to too…”

Denki’s the first to quit his complaining, giving in to himself and bucking his hips to feel the drag of his cock along your heavenly walls, moans spilling half-hazardly from his lips as he curses the way he's overstimulated himself.

You look over at Shinsou, chin resting on your shoulder with his lips parted as he lets out precious little gasps from the feeling of your hand on his throbbing cock, just as desperate for relief as his blonde counterpart. “Toshi,” you kiss his temple, “you can fuck me too…”

His eyes flick open, head turning to look at you critically, as if he’s trying to determine if you’re saying what he thinks you’re saying. “You mean.. at the same time..?” You bite your lip and nod slowly. You know how badly you want to feel both of them at once, but wonder if your body can handle it…

Kaminari catches Shinsou’s question, his eyes going wide as his thrusts stutter, simply staring, “What? Are you for real?” You can hear the excitement and disbelief underlining his tone. He meets Shinsou’s gaze, the two of them immediately sharing a look that suggests they’ve definitely talked about doing this with you before, but never thought it’d actually happen.

You feel Kaminari still beneath you, fingers tapping at your hips and eventually trailing up your waist in anticipation, while Shinsou lines himself up behind you. His broad hand splays between your shoulder blades, pushing you forward until your chest is flush against Denki’s, “Be good f’us and stay still, baby. I’ll be gentle.. Promise.” You feel his hand trail down your spine until he’s cupping your ass again, spreading you open so he can watch as his cock lines up with Kaminari’s.

“Tell me if it’s too much…” He mutters, having a hard time focusing on anything other than the pressure he feels as he s l o w l y sinks in above Denki. Your walls hug the two of them together so tightly, making them both groan from their chests from the immense pressure.

“Holy-”

“Shit-”

They curse together, the drag of Shinsou’s cock along Kaminari’s more incredible than either one ever thought it would be.

Meanwhile, your mind’s gone blank, your legs numb as you try to accommodate his fat cock. You won’t lie - it fucking hurts. But you’d be fooling yourself if you didn’t admit how much you love it. The stretch, the pressure, the sting of being split open… all of it has your mind reeling as wanton moans and cries so liberally spill from your lips.

Kaminari can tell how intense this is for you, cradling your head into the curve of his neck, trying to help you find some sense of comfort as Shinsou continues to bully his way inside.

As soon as he bottom’s out, the three of you let out a collective sigh. “Can I move, princess?” You can feel both their cock’s throbbing within you, making you clench despite trying your hardest to stay relaxed.

“Mhm..” you hum tentatively, breath hot against Kaminari’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. He starts to pant, breathing picking up as you shift, drawing groans from both men.

Shinsou draws back out, just a few inches, before shallowly thrusting into you again. It’s incredibly slick, the slide of his cock almost relieving as he stirs your arousal, making more and more trickle down and coat their balls.

“I-I don’t know how long I can last like this…” Kaminari regretfully admits, looking up at Shinsou, who nods in agreement, “Fuck, me either-! …Y/N,” you feel his nails rake along your lower back, soothing you with gentle touches, “Where do you want us finish?”

They hold their breaths and wait, listening to your little whimpers as you take both their cocks at once, trying to think about your answer. The thought of either of them pulling out now has you shaking your head, “I-Inside,” you pant, both of their eyes going wide, balls tensing just at the thought, “Want it all inside. Please…”

“Always knew you’d be such a good girl f’us.” Shinsou coos, Kaminari wholeheartedly agreeing as he starts to move in opposition to his lavender counterpart.

The drag of both their cocks at once, sliding against one another and stretching your poor, abused hole, has you mewling in pleasure. The sting wearing off just as you feel their hips start to stutter, their breathing just as labored as yours.

Kaminari’s the first to let go, feeling his climax finally reach it’s peak as he tumbles over the edge in a slew of moans and curses, “F-fuck-- oh fuck, Y/N! ‘M gonna fucking cum.. holy shit ‘m gonna cum!” He can’t stop the words from repeating on a loop, sweet moans of your name filling your ears as you feel warmth start to creep into your belly again. But this time it’s from ropes of cum painting your walls, the sensation infinitely better compared to the villain’s quirk.

You’re not the only one feeling newfound warmth. Shinsou practically whines as he feels his cock get enveloped by his best friend’s cum, watching as it even starts to leak past your entrance and coat his base in a white ring. The sight’s too much for him, his orgasm quickly following, although much less vocal than the blonde’s.

He let’s go with a pained groan, falling forward to drape himself over your back, pressing kisses between your shoulder blades as he spills himself inside you. You can feel every ounce of his cum mix with Kaminari’s, letting it send you over the edge one last time.

Your fourth orgasm is weak. The smallest trickle of perfectly normal fluid flowing out of you as you simply cry into the crook of Denki’s neck. Shinsou heaves a deep sigh of relief when he sees for himself that you’re back to normal - safe - regardless of how spent you are now.

He slowly pulls out, not wanting to shock your system by going too fast, fighting back his own groan of protest as his cock slips out and hangs between his legs completely coated in cum.

Kaminari’s next, kissing your temple so sweetly as he lifts you off his own cock, feeling a flood of mess pour from your pussy and onto his pelvis. He doesn’t cast you aside though, instead letting you cuddle right on top of him as he wraps his arms around you protectively. “I love you. You know that, right?” He utters softly, lips never leaving your flushed skin.

“Yeah.. I know.” He can hear the small smile in your voice, but you’re clearly exhausted, “I love you too. ‘Nd ‘Toshi.”

Kaminari smiles at that, looking over your shoulder just in time to see Shinsou return with a handful of towels and warm washrags. The three of you clean up, the boys doing most of the work as they take turns holding you close, not trusting your ability to hold yourself up right now.

Minutes pass in silence, feeling like hours as the clock slowly ticks away. None of you wanting to be the first to speak and risk popping the bubble of intimacy you’ve so loved being encased in. But eventually, you find the courage to break the silence:

"Thank you guys.. for saving me." You're laid between the two of them, legs entangled and arms crossing over each other.

Denki laughs, Shinsou chuckling with him, "Of course. How could we pass up an opportunity like that?" The blonde snickers as you smack his chest, pretending to scold him for being so crass.

"I'm serious!" You cry out, although your stern tone is interrupted by a giggle, giving away your true feelings.

"We know you are," Shinsou chimes in, turning on his side to wrap an arm over your waist, "I think we all needed this though.. so thank you, for trusting us."

Kaminari falls silent, nodding in genuine agreement as he turns towards you as well, pressing a kiss to your cheek, "Yeah, Y/N, thank you."

Pink dusts your cheeks as you look between your two roommates, knowing nothing's ever going to be the same from here on out. But not one part of you regrets that.

"Maybe we should downsize...?" You sheepishly remark, biting back the smile on your lips, "To a one-bedroom?"

They exchange looks, smirking together as they kiss your cheeks at the same time, giving you your answer.

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Pairing: Sylus x MC / fem!reader Rating: PG-13 Tags: who did this to you, hurt, comfort, hurt/comfort, injury, implied violence, brief violence mentions, angst, canon sylus behavior, blood mentions, kissing if you squint Summary: You barely survived a night on your own in the N109 Zone without the watchful gaze of certain Onychinus leader, but at what cost? Word Count: 1.5k

The dull sound of your door closing was like the snap of a final curtain call falling into place and you slumped against it, relieved to be safely in your own apartment. You had survived a night in the N109 Zone on your own, but it had been a near miss. One you wouldn’t be repeating, especially since the intel you wanted had been a bust, anyway. 

You touched your side, your breathing uneven, and you wince. You definitely have a cracked rib. You try to take a deep breath and pain radiates from your chest into your stomach, making you a little nauseous. Okay, maybe two.

You were trying to psych yourself up to move and trudge into your apartment to give yourself much needed medical attention when the reverberating shock of someone's forceful knock bounced you against your door-frame. You consider not answering the insistent caller on the other side, but a muffled, familiar baritone floats through the door.

"Open the door, sweetie."

A sigh left your lips at the demand and you tried to stifle the pathetic, painful whimper that your exasperation cost you. Of all the people on the other side of that door, Sylus was the most unexpected. Or maybe not, considering he boasted that he knew everything that went on in his territory. Maybe that’s why he was here and if it was, he wouldn’t leave until his curiosity was satisfied.

The door cracks open and you stare up at him through the hole you made, reluctant to allow him entrance and to partially block his view of the damage those thugs had caused when they mugged you in the alleyway earlier tonight. However, Sylus’s easy smile is nowhere to be found and the frown lines on his forehead are the deepest you've ever seen them. His large hand wraps around the door-frame so you can’t close it again and he pushes gently against it, but you don’t budge. 

"Who did this to you?" His tone is dangerously low.

You ignore his question, instead poking your head out to look down the deserted hallway of your apartment building. "Why are you here? It's dangerous." It was risky for Sylus to wander around Linkon City normally, even if he claimed many people didn't know what he actually looked like. However, the Hunter’s Association did and your building was crawling with employees at all hours of the day and night.

"You didn't answer your phone, so I got worried."

Oh right, you had forgotten they had taken that too. You sighed again, the pain of having to replace everything beginning to give you a headache. That key charm Zayne had given you for your birthday was perhaps the worst thing to have lost, maybe more than the phone itself.

"Let me in, kitten." Sylus’s voice is gently cajoling and you concede because you're too tired to argue with him tonight. So you open the door and  try to act normal, but your voice is far too lighthearted for how heavy your legs feel as you trudge into the apartment. 

“You know, if you keep frowning like that you’ll get wrinkles and people really will think you’re an old man.” 

He follows you in with a small chuckle, his eyes bouncing around the room as if the perpetrators could be hiding in the shadows. When you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down to tend to your injuries, Sylus was suddenly there, kneeling in front of you. His hands push yours out of the way and he silently takes over the job of nurse, and you think about fighting him as you watch him roll up his shirtsleeves but realize you were just too exhausted to care. 

“What happened?” He asks eventually and you realize you will have to tell him something. Lying won’t work, he’ll find out if he didn’t already know. 

“What often happens when you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time in the N109 Zone, Sylus.” You offer with a single shrug, doing your best to sit still while he cleans the wound on your arm. “You know that better than me.” 

“Were you wearing–” he was referring to the brooch that signified your status as protected. 

“They took that too.” His hands stilled on the bandage he was applying on your forearm. “Did they, now?” he murmured silkily and you saw a muscle in his jaw tick, though his expression was partially obscured by his unruly hair. “After all that trouble I went through, too.” You tried to make a joke to ease the tension which earned you a soft amused twitch of Sylus’s lips. He was too angry to truly smile and you could feel it radiating off of him in waves. Despite that, his hands were painstakingly gentle as he touched what was clearly a blossoming bruise around your wrist. Sylus’s tender touch lingers on your injuries and he checks each one with a thoroughness that feels as if he’s memorizing exactly where you were hurt. 

He orders some of your favorite food, helps you get cleaned up, and tucks you into your bed. He points to the notepad you kept by your bedside table that you sometimes scribble notes on when you took calls. “Make me a list of what they looked like, and then go to bed. I’ll take care of the rest.” Before you could protest, he left the room abruptly. You picked up the notepad and stared at the print of the cute little animals dancing around the top. You’d bought it on a whim after seeing how cute it looked in a stationary shop window near one of your mission sites. It seemed too obscene to write what would virtually be a hit list on such charming paper. 

Instead, you scribble all of the reasons you’re grateful for today. Right at the top was that you had survived all on your own in the N109 Zone and you were able to see the infamous Onychinus leader kneeling at your feet. The list grew as you included the tasty food you ate earlier, and the glimpse of a suspiciously familiar crow you saw on your way into work this morning. The page was halfway filled when the pain medication Sylus had convinced you to take started to kick in and you felt your eyelids drooping. 

Drowsily, you snuggle down underneath your covers and clutch the plushie Sylus and you had won at the arcade last weekend. When you hear the distant muffled click of your door opening, you try to rouse yourself but you felt so warm and your body felt so heavy that you couldn’t manage it. That doesn’t stop you from trying until a large hand gently smoothed back your mussed hair, and the sensation of soft knuckles trace the curve of your cheek. “It’s just me,” the familiar voice murmured and you tried to speak but he shushed you. “Sleep, kitten.” 

You swear you felt the ghost of his lips on yours before he was gone, but maybe it was just part of the hazy dream you had of crows, violence, and enchanting sanguine eyes. 

Sylus returns to the N109 Zone and finds himself staring at the “list,” a bemused smile on his face. He shakes his head and tucks the cutesy page into his pocket. You were far too adorable and it made what he was about to do that much more satisfying, sauntering into the abandoned warehouse where your phone had last pinged; deceptively calm. The screams and stench of death shuddered throughout the N109 Zone tonight, serving as a violent and bloody reminder to all that no one should dare to touch what was his lest they face the consequences. 

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, your fingers fumble for your buzzing phone and land on the familiar outline of the brooch, both in their normal places as if yesterday was just a bad dream. Through your sleepy daze, you realize your other hand is occupied–as is your bed. Turning, you’re surprised to find Sylus is fast asleep next to you, his hand intertwined tightly with yours. There’s deep circles under his eyes, but his normally furrowed brow is smoothed out in sleep. With a sleepy smile, you curl back up to let him rest a little while longer, tucking your joined hands against your chest, cuddling his arm.

You both doze off together, and you’ve never felt so safe.