orphicmeliora - Tumblr blog

orphicmeliora · 12 days ago

Text

wolf in sheep's clothing

word count: 2k

synopsis: in which xavier acts innocent despite his not-so-innocent touches.

contains: xavier x mc!reader (early established relationship), he kinda gaslights you (but with no bad intentions really), freaky xavier (not smut tho), suggestive themes, mentions of violence and death, and cussing.

a/n: i had to write for my second favorite lads man at some point. i read somewhere that the official chinese description for xavier is "wolf in sheep's clothing," (don't quote me on that; i could be wrong) and i wholeheartedly believe he is. do NOT copy or translate my work. xavier does NOT endorse plagiarism.

you're convinced your boyfriend is a wolf in sheep's clothing. sure, his pure cerulean eyes and tender voice might convince you otherwise (they did at first). but, with the way xavier's been touching you, you're sure of it. your boyfriend is a wolf in sheep's clothing, and you have the evidence to prove it. countless pieces of evidence, actually. but let's look at the most memorable ones, shall we?

evidence #1

"welcome home, starlight," xavier greets you with open arms and crinkled eyes. your heart can't help but swell at the sight. nothing compares to seeing your boyfriend in a cozy white sweater after opening the door following an exhaustive day of battling wanderers. you swear you were this close to losing it after dealing with lemonette's stupid limes for what seemed like hours. yet, xavier, in all his ash-gray-haired, blue-eyed, soft-spoken glory, takes your pains away with just one simple gesture of welcoming you home.

"hi, xavier." you fall into him, basking in the warmth of his tight embrace. you could honestly die a happy hunter from this. "i missed you."

xavier chuckles, pulling away so he can look at you properly. "i missed you too," he caresses your face. "i missed you so much." he crashes his lips into yours, ardently seeking your taste, your scent, your everything.

you're taken aback by xavier's sudden fervor. but, you return the favor by opening your mouth, eagerly granting his tongue entrance. it's not the first time your beloved boyfriend has initiated such a passionate kiss. after all, you two love each other very much, to the point you're willing to die for each other. a kiss like this is natural to come by; you're blissfully used to it. what you're not used to is what xavier does next.

he weaves his fingers into your hair and tugs.

"ah!" you pull away, panting with wide eyes. what the heck was that? he's never done that before. why did he do that? it felt so good.

xavier blinks at you innocently before asking, "you okay?"

"uh yeah," you stutter, trying to process what just happened. "i'm okay. are you okay?" seriously, is xavier, your puppy-like boyfriend, okay? why did he pull your hair? by no means did it hurt. it was a single, firm tug, yet it did so much, as evidenced by your shortage of breaths and clenching of thighs.

xavier smiles brightly and nods. you close your eyes, expecting him to resume the kiss, totally not hoping to feel his slender fingers pull on your hair. instead, this motherfucker he pecks your cheek and walks away, yawning. "i'm sleepy," he has the audacity to rub his eyes. "let's go to sleep, yeah?"

your jaw drops. did he seriously just suggest you go to sleep?! staring at your boyfriend, you expect an answer for his confusing behavior. xavier blinks innocently, again. "you sure you're okay, starlight?"

you frown, growing even more confused. he's not dumb. you know he's not dumb. heck, he's the association's best hunter. there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing to you. you sigh and shake your head, concluding that perhaps xavier was just caught up in the heat of the moment and was genuinely tired. after all, he battles wanderers too, even more than you. "yeah, i'm okay, xavier." you walk past him and towards your shared bedroom, trying to relieve your mind of certain thoughts. "let's sleep."

unfortunately, you don't catch the amusement in xavier's eyes when you bid him goodnight and turn off the lights.

evidence #2

"how's the food?" xavier asks, whispering into your ear.

beaming at him, you nod excitedly. "it's great. nothing like hotpot with friends on a cold night, right?"

indeed, little to nothing compared to spending time with xavier and your fellow hunters at your comfort restaurant. you and xavier were shoulder to shoulder, sitting across from tara and nero. everything was perfect. the food tasted amazing, your friends were enjoying themselves, and most importantly, xavier was right next to you, with a hand on your thigh, of course.

you don't mind in the slightest. it's assuring, actually. the warmth his touch provides adds more to this delightful atmosphere. content from both the food and the mood, you can't help but rest your head on your boyfriend's shoulder. "thanks for being here, xavier." you murmur.

xavier smiles softly, resting his cheek on your crown. "of course, starlight."

you giggle, nuzzling into him. you love it when he calls you that. "starlight." though, you can't help but feel it should be you calling him that instead. like an actual starlight, xavier shines brightly wherever he goes. from hunting hundreds of wanderers to protecting hundreds of civilians, xavier illuminates the world and you can't help but be blinded at times. not that you mind. you would gladly be blinded by him a million times over if it meant being in his presence.

"okay, that's enough, you lovebirds," tara teases.

you roll your eyes playfully, lifting your head from xavier's shoulder. as much as you would like to stay there forever, you understand the occasional nagging that comes with public displays of affection. hoping to sit up properly, you go to cross your legs. with a click of his tongue, xavier grips your thigh, hard.

yelping, you jolt in your seat. immediately, you cover your mouth, embarrassed over the borderline wanton noise you just made. you stare at xavier, mortified. what the fuck was that?

"are you okay?" tara says your name in concern. she tries to reach over the table, but xavier stops her by handing you some napkins with his free hand and adding another squeeze to your thigh. it's taking everything in you not to squeal.

"she's okay," xavier answers, smiling innocently. "she just spilled some broth, right?" he turns to you, expecting you to follow along.

"yeah," you answer shakily. "sorry, just got a little clumsy, i guess." after pretending to wipe yourself with the napkins xavier gave you, you down a glass of water, hoping to relieve the heat in your face and also in between your legs. you're not sure what is happening anymore. he's never gripped your leg before, let alone touched you so roughly. it felt so fucking good.

for the rest of the night, xavier continued to squeeze your thigh, leaving you a flustered mess. it was torture having to sit through the gathering without making any noise. every so often, when tara or nero wasn't looking, you looked at your boyfriend desperately, begging him to stop (not really) or at least provide an answer for why he was doing this. instead, he would just inch his hand higher and flash that damned innocent smile. by the time the waiter came back with the paid tab, xavier's hand was threatening access to your hip joint. you're not sure how he made his arm look like it wasn't doing anything.

after bidding tara and nero goodbye, you immediately drag xavier outside. "what was that?" you ask impatiently. the freezing air was doing absolutely nothing to cool your heated face, and you're not sure if that pissed you off more or xavier's calm expression.

xavier tilts his head to the right, feigning confusion. "what was what?"

you're want to scream so badly right now. "that!" you snap as you motion to your leg.

xavier tilts his head to the left, gathering his lips into a pout. "i just wanted to massage your leg since it seemed sore from training."

what the fuck? dumbfoundedly, you stare at xavier. there's no way those squeezes could be called a massage. but looking at his pouty face, you can't bring yourself to argue. well shit, now you just feel like a pervert.

you sigh, taking xavier's hand and heading towards the car. "thanks for the massage, xavier."

you miss the smirk growing on his face. "anything for you, starlight."

evidence #3 (happening right now, send help)

"whatcha making?" xavier cutely asks as he wraps his arms around your waist.

you were at the kitchen counter of your shared apartment, rolling some dough with your flour-covered palms. "i wanted to try making some pizza," you answer, entirely focused on the task in front of you. "i saw a tutorial on tiktok. seemed simple enough."

xavier hums, burying his face in the crook of your neck. you giggle, feeling him inhale deeply. it's the quiet and domestic moments like these that make you imagine another life where you and xavier aren't hunters. just people free from the constant dangers of hunting wanderers and protecting civilians. you sigh, reaching across the counter for the tomato sauce. at the end of the day, you and xavier are evolvers. having an innate ability means protecting those who can't protect themselves, even if it means risking your lives. but, both you and xavier can agree the look of relief on people's faces when reuniting with their loved ones is worth the risk.

the tomato sauce is within reach until you jump back into place. why? oh, because xavier's right hand is inching towards the waistband of your panties. "xavier!" you turn around immediately, facing him with widened eyes and flushed cheeks. "what are you doing?!"

you've had enough. the last couple of weeks have been a literal hell with how much your boyfriend's been teasing you, filling your head with dirty thoughts, and acting as if he doesn't know what he's doing. it's as if he's purposely avoiding following through with his actions, not giving you what you fucking want even though he's the one that's been initiating things. not to mention, his hand is still in your pants.

xavier rests his left hand on the counter, pinning you in place. your breath hitches, feeling him rest his forehead on yours. "i'm sorry," he sulks. "i just wanted to touch your belly button."

"stop lying," you say immediately. "last time i checked, my belly button is NOT at my fucking panties." you don't care if you sound harsh. you want xavier to answer for his crimes—crimes being leaving you hanging and making you question your sanity.

xavier chuckles. this motherfucker he dares to chuckle while you look at him with furrowed brows and twisted lips. "it's not funny," you scold. "you've been weird the last few weeks-"

your breath hitches as xavier dips the tips of his fingers past your waistband. holy fucking shit. what is this man doing?! "x-xavier?!"

he doesn't answer. instead, he presses short yet sensual kisses all over your face, slowly trailing down to your neck. you try to stop yourself from whimpering.

"you know," xavier mumbles. "i've been waiting for you to say something." he continues to mouth at your neck, causing you to squirm.

"s-say what?" you ask trembling. fuck, you think you just felt his tongue peak out.

"oh, i don't know," he switches to the other side of your neck. "something like 'xavier please' or 'xavier more'" and with that, he returns both of his hands to your waist, lifts you up effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, and dives straight into your lips.

"xavier! mmph!" there was flour on the counter, meaning there was flour on your pants now. "you're making mmph! a mess!"

"that's not what i want to hear, starlight," xavier shakes his head as he pulls away from you. "it's like you want me to stop."

his fingers rub slow circles into your thighs, causing you to writhe uncontrollably. so this is why he's been acting so fucking teasing the last few weeks. he wanted to do things with you—take your relationship to the next level. but you had to be the one to say it. why? you're not sure. maybe it stroked his ego or something. you don't care anymore. you're pent up from xavier's antics, and all you want right now is for him to follow through. if saying "please" and "more" is what it takes, so be it.

you grab xavier's shirt collar, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him to you. his eyes widen at your sudden rough actions. but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes, teetering on the edge between curiosity and arousal. though nothing could prepare xavier for what you do next.

"xavier," you whisper into his ear, stroking his nape with your index finger. "can you please give me more?"

xavier inhales sharply, his grip tightening around your thighs.

"i thought you'd never ask, starlight."

#xavier x reader #love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #fic recs

1K notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 13 days ago

Text

More to Love: With Sylus

Summary: Sylus wants to spoil you rotten and takes you shopping. But things don't go as planned in the fitting room as your insecurities take over. pairing: Chubby! reader x Sylus Note: Sylus and reader are in an implied relationship. This is based on this request. Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, slightly suggestive towards the end, angst (hurt-comfort).

The boutique’s soft lighting bathed the room in warm, golden hues, casting a glow on the endless racks of designer clothes that stretched before you. Sylus had dragged you out here, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you into the posh little shop without a word of protest allowed.

“Indulge me, kitten,” he’d said with that signature smirk of his, his silver hair catching the sunset through the boutique’s large windows. “Pick something you like. No limits.”

As if limits had ever existed when Sylus was involved. He was a man of excess, of extravagance, and he was determined to spoil you rotten—even if you argued you didn’t need it. But you relented, knowing there was no saying no to him when he had his mind set. As you browsed through the aisles, your fingers brushed over silken fabrics and embroidered hems, eyes catching on the occasional outfit you usually would pick for yourself, only not in a store like this. Maybe he just liked to see you in pretty things. Maybe he liked watching you fumble over making decisions. But no matter the reason, you couldn’t help but feel a slight warmth bloom in your chest as you picked up a few pieces that caught your eye. His attention was there, but only just.

And then you saw it.

A little black dress, understated yet elegant, with faint red accents that shimmered subtly in the light. It screamed Sylus in every way: sharp, refined, and impossible to ignore. Your chest tightened with a flicker of excitement as you imagined yourself in it, standing next to him in his usual immaculate attire. He’d look at you the way he always did, with that blend of teasing confidence and a softness he reserved only for you. You could picture how well you'd complement each other, the two of you so flawless together that you felt almost… untouchable.

Grabbing it from the rack, you added it to the pile of clothes you’d picked for yourself and headed to the dressing rooms. The velvet curtain whispered shut behind you, enclosing you in a quiet little space with a single mirror framed in warm lights. The changing room felt cold and sterile as you slipped into the dress, carefully pulling it over your body. It should have fit perfectly—after all, you’d picked it out. It was your choice. But as you zipped it up, a knot tightened in your stomach.

The fabric clung to your body in ways it shouldn't have, and not in a flattering manner. It sat all wrong on your bosom, the seams straining against the curves of your chest, barely able to close. You tugged at the zipper, trying to pull it up the side, but it caught painfully against your side, tugging uncomfortably at the soft roll near your bra strap.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection unfamiliar. The dress, which had seemed so perfect on the rack, now felt like a cruel joke. The skirt, meant to be a silhouette, flared out over your thighs in a way that felt mocking. It hung awkwardly around your thighs in a way that made your legs look thicker, not more elegant. Your belly, which you’d always been conscious of, seemed to bulge in ways that felt out of place, unnatural against the black silk. The faint shimmer of the red accents only seemed to draw attention to the areas you least wanted highlighted.

What is wrong with me?

The voice inside your head was loud now, relentless.

I don’t belong in this dress.

Your fingers clenched the fabric at your sides as a wave of self-consciousness washed over you. The dress wasn’t the problem—it was you.

The mirror seemed to mock you, reflecting back every feature you’d learned to hate over the years. Your belly, round and soft, pushed against the fabric. Your thighs looked larger than ever, the material refusing to lie smooth. Your arms, left bare by the sleeveless design, felt exposed and unwelcome in the polished setting of this boutique.

As you stared, echoes of the past began to surface, unbidden and cruel. Your face twisted into a frown as you turned from side to side. The more you looked at yourself, the more you hated it. The reflection staring back at you seemed foreign, as though it was someone else’s body you’d somehow ended up in.

"You’ve got such a pretty face; you’d be stunning if you lost a little weight,” your mother’s voice chimed in your head, the way it had so many times over the years. Well-meaning, she’d always called it. But the words had planted themselves deep in your heart.

"Are you sure you want seconds?” a friend’s teasing voice from a high school cafeteria, laughing as though it was just a joke. It hadn’t been funny then, and it wasn’t funny now.

"I’m just saying, you’d feel so much better if you exercised more," someone had told you once, their tone dripping with condescension disguised as care.

Your friends in high school, laughing when you couldn’t fit into the trendy outfits they wore, saying, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ve got such a cute face!”

The offhand comment from a coworker last year: “Have you tried keto? I heard it’s great for people like you.”

Your father, well-meaning but always critical, pinching your belly and saying, “You’d be so much prettier if you lost all this fat.”

The memories compounded until your chest tightened with a mix of anger and shame.

God, I look disgusting in this.

And now, in this too-small dressing room with this too-tight dress, those voices joined your own as you whispered to yourself.

"I look ridiculous. Why did I even think I could pull this off? Sylus wouldn’t want to be seen with someone like this. Someone like me."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced them back. Crying here would be too much, too embarrassing. You turned away from the mirror, pulling at the dress, wanting nothing more than to get it off. Your breathing hitched as the panic rose, your nails biting into your palms to keep yourself steady. But the tears were already threatening to fall.

The curtain separating you from the world felt as thin as paper and just as fragile. The muffled murmur of boutique shoppers and the faint hum of music didn’t penetrate the storm of thoughts swirling in your head. The dress felt tighter by the second, suffocating, and your own reflection stared back with an almost accusatory glare.

Why did you even think you could look good in this? You were out of place, weren’t you? Not just in the dress, but here—here in this boutique, in Sylus’s world, in his life. The idea of walking out of the changing room, of standing in front of him and seeing that ever-present smirk falter for even a second, was unbearable.

Your fingers fumbled at the zipper, trying to undo it, but your hands were shaking too much to find the tab. The fabric bunched awkwardly around your side, pinching and pulling in a way that only made you hate it more. Hate yourself more. A sharp inhale turned into a shaky exhale as your vision blurred with unshed tears.

He’s going to see right through you. He’ll realize you’re not the kind of person who belongs at his side.

The voices in your head grew louder, and you didn’t even hear his approach until his voice broke through the storm, smooth and teasing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Kitten,” Sylus drawled, his tone dripping with amusement, “don’t tell me you’ve gotten lost in there. Or are you planning to make me wait all day?”

Your breath caught. “I’m fine. I just… need another minute,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked ever so slightly. You winced, praying he hadn’t noticed.

But he had. Of course, he had.

“Hmm,” came his thoughtful hum, followed by the sound of his boots against the boutique’s plush carpet. Closer. Too close. “You don’t sound fine, sweetie. Should I come in and—”

“No!” The word came out sharper than you intended, panic rising in your chest. “Just—stay out there. I’ll be out in a second.”

There was a pause. Long enough for you to realize he wasn’t moving away. His teasing edge was gone when he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sweetie. What’s wrong?”

“I said I’m fine!” you snapped, your voice a pitch higher than you intended. You winced at your own tone. The last thing you wanted was for him to push further.

But Sylus was nothing if not persistent. “Sweetie, you’re never fine when you say you are,” he said, the teasing edge returning, but softer now, as though he was testing the waters. “I’m coming in.”

“No, don’t—” Your protest was cut short as the velvet curtain slid to the side.

The curtain shifted slightly, and you turned away from it, clutching the fabric of the dress like a shield. Sylus stepped into the small dressing room, his broad frame somehow making the space feel even smaller. His usual air of control and confidence filled the room, his sharp crimson eyes immediately locking onto yours. But his smirk faltered as he took you in—your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, and the ill-fitting dress that clung awkwardly to your frame.

“Sweetie…” His voice was low, laced with genuine concern as he stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Look at me,” he said, his tone soft but commanding.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“And why not?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “You’re my kitten, aren’t you?"

You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please..I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Like what?” he asked, stepping closer, his hands reaching out but not quite touching you yet. “What are you talking about?”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like you’re trying to fix something that’s broken. I’m not—I’m not—” The words caught in your throat, but they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged. “I’m not good enough for this. For you. For any of it.”

His frustration was evident in the way his jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his tone was calm. “Where is this coming from?”

You gestured helplessly at your reflection. “Look at me! This dress—it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t look right. I don’t look right, Sylus. I thought I could—” Your voice broke. “I thought I could make myself… better. For you. But I just… don’t fit.”

The air grew heavy with your words, and for a moment, Sylus didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his hands firm but gentle as they gripped your wrists, lowering them from where they clutched the dress. His touch was grounding, solid.

“Stop,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Stop tearing yourself apart like this.”

You blinked up at him, tears slipping free despite your efforts. “But it’s true. I don’t fit in your world. I don’t even fit in this stupid dress.”

His hand slid down your arm, his fingers curling around yours to still their trembling. “Stop,” he repeated, his voice firm but not unkind.

“No, I need to say it,” you continued, the dam breaking as tears spilled down your cheeks. “You’re this—this untouchable, powerful, perfect man, and I’m just—” You gestured helplessly at yourself, the words catching in your throat. “I’m not good enough for you, Sylus. I’ll never be good enough.”

He was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he studied you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something far more serious. “That’s enough of that.”

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.

“You think I care about any of that?” he said, his eyes boring into yours “Sweetie,” he murmured, his tone laced with exasperation and something deeper—something tender. “You don’t need to fit into anything to be enough for me.”

His fingers brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You think I give a damn about some dress? About whatever bullshit standard you think you’re failing to meet?” His crimson eyes burned with intensity as he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You don’t need to impress me. You already have me wrapped around your finger.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking in even as you tried to resist them. “But I—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “No more of that. Do you know what I see when I look at you?” His hands slid to your shoulders, his grip firm but warm. “I see the person who challenges me, who stands toe-to-toe with me even when she’s scared. The person who’s made my cold, miserable world worth living in.” His lips quirked into a faint smile. “And, if you must know, I happen to think you’re absolutely stunning. Always.”

“But I—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“No buts,” he said firmly. “You don’t need to dress up to impress me. I’m already smitten, in every way possible.”

His words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Slowly, the tightness in your chest began to ease, the storm in your mind quieting as his presence anchored you. He reached for the zipper, his movements careful and deliberate as he began to undo the dress.

“Let’s get you out of this,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We’ll find something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. And if we don’t, then to hell with the clothes.” Sylus’s hands lingered at the zipper, his eyes meeting yours with a teasing glint as the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Though, between you and me, kitten…” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, “I think you’d look better without anything on at all.” His fingers brushed deliberately against your skin as he slid the zipper down further, his touch light but intentional, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

Your cheeks burned, the heat rushing to your face at his boldness. “Sylus…” you began, but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear as he spoke again, his tone a mixture of playful and reverent. “But let me make one thing very clear, sweetie. Clothes or no clothes, none of that matters to me. You’re already perfect to me—just as you are. Nothing you wear or don’t wear is going to change that.”

His hands rested firmly on your hips now, steadying you as the trembling in your legs began to subside. “And by the time I’m done worshiping you, adoring you, loving you over and over again,” he continued, his voice husky, filled with an almost dangerous promise, “you’ll see yourself the way I see you. The way I’ve always seen you. Stunning, irresistible, absolutely mine.”

You shivered, not from the chill of the room, but from the weight of his words and the warmth in his touch. He tilted your chin up with one finger, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You’ll see it, sweetie. I’ll make sure of it. Because in my eyes, you’re more than enough—you’re everything.”

The air between you was thick with unspoken emotion, the tension melting into something softer, something unyieldingly honest. His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he pulled back, his hands never leaving your sides. “I’ll remind you every single day, sweetie. Over and over again, until there’s no room in your mind for anything but how much I adore you. Do you understand?”

You nodded, tears prickling at your eyes again—but this time, they weren’t born of pain or self-doubt. They were tears of relief, of something lighter and more hopeful.

“I’ll believe it,” you whispered, your voice trembling but earnest. “I’ll try.”

Sylus’s smirk softened into a smile, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped down your cheek. “That’s all I ask. But just so you know…” His voice turned playful again, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’m not above a little convincing, sweetie. And believe me, I’m very persuasive.”

“So,” he said, his smirk returning, though softer now, “what do you say we ditch this boutique? I’m thinking we’ve got better things to do than fuss over dresses that don’t deserve you anyway.” His thumb stroked gently over your hip, his touch grounding and sure.

The storm within you calmed as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if shielding you from the weight of your insecurities. For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed that maybe—just maybe, you could accept yourself just the way you are, just the way he did.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #fic recs

519 notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 17 days ago

Text

heavy is the crown

As princess, you are bound by duty to marry the notorious and elusive Onichynus general, in exchange for his protection of your kingdom from an impending war. On the night of your wedding, tradition demands that you undergo the consummation rites, sealing the fate of your marriage—and your future.

this is a RE-UPLOAD as the original post doesn’t show up in the tags!

tags: sylus x reader, NSFW, MDNI, royalty!au, general-of-powerful-nation!sylus x princess-of-kingdom-in-trouble!reader, first time sex (mc is a virgin), unprotected sex, afab!reader, fem!reader, slight voyeurism & somno & cockwarming at the end, lowkey breeding kink, gender-based stereotypes against women due to the time period, writing this has been a fever dream, word count: 2.7k~ worldbuilding and 5.5k~ smut lmfao

ao3 version

You dared to dream once upon a time.

You dreamt of crossing oceans beyond your shores, sailing aboard majestic galleons you’d only seen in textbooks. In the quiet solitude of your bedchambers, you imagined laughing with the townsfolk of distant cities, dancing in cobblestone streets to the melodies of traveling minstrels, and finding love in a modest man who'd want nothing more than to offer you freshly picked blooms every morning.

In the sanctuary of sleep, your dreams would lull you with visions of a simple life. A stone-walled kitchen warmed by the glow of a crackling hearth, a garden vibrant with blossoms and fresh produce, and a cozy reading nook nestled in an arched window. A loyal companion would sometimes join you—a slothful cat, a melodious songbird, a high-spirited pup, or a darling mare to carry you through grassy plains and wildflower fields.

"Do you take this man to be your wedded husband, to share in life's trials and joys, to love and honor, till death do you part?"

But such dreams have no place in the heart of a woman whose shoulders bear her kingdom's fate.

And so, as you take in the muted glow of the setting sun through delicate ivory lace, you finally put those girlhood fantasies to rest.

“I do.”

—

Being the youngest and only princess came with its fair share of trials and triumphs.

Unlike the elder princes, whose lives revolved around grueling expectations and fierce competition for the throne, your position spared you such burdens. Born to a queen who had long believed her childbearing years were behind her, you were nothing short of a miracle, arriving over a decade after your last sibling. This had earned you the undivided affection of the entire castle, leaving you thoroughly indulged and doted upon.

However, growing up without siblings near your age, you often grappled with bouts of loneliness. While you had fostered polite acquaintances among the daughters of many nobles, you found their company wearisome. The endless succession of balls and garden parties always seemed to revolve around the same gossip: politics, fashion, whispers about some baron’s sixteen-year-old daughter betrothed to a forty-year-old viscount, and, of course, the inevitable question: had anyone received a marriage proposal yet?

You naturally had many—to your dismay.

The idea of marriage filled you with profound dread. As a girl tagging along in your mother’s tea parties, you had often overheard the confessions and lamentations of the noblewomen. Stories of infidelity, neglect, and abuse spilled from their lips—duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses; women who stood at the very summit of high society. To you, marriage seemed less a sacred bond and more a cruel sentence—one far grimmer than the gallows.

At least the gallows granted the mercy of a quick death.

But as a princess, you were bound to uphold the ideal image of a young lady. One who radiated beauty, yet with grace and poise. Intelligent, but subservient to your intended husband’s authority. And, most important of all, fertile—to bear him strong sons who would carry on his legacy.

It sickened you. You would rather succumb to the plague than endure such a miserable life. But given your title, you could only try to delay the inevitable.

And so, life continued as it was—a never-ending cycle of social gatherings, fending off suitors, reading through your library, mastering languages, and nurturing a growing collection of hobbies. It was a life of privilege and routine—one that, despite its predictability, offered you a quiet sense of fulfillment.

Alas, nothing holds constant in the world, and change arrived in the form of a looming war from enemies across the sea.

Though small in size, your kingdom of Noir was a veritable treasure trove. With its abundant mountains and rivers, the island was never in short supply of precious metals, gems, and rare minerals. It was renowned for producing the finest artisans, who crafted the most exquisite jewelry, armor, and weapons. While modest in territory, it more than compensated with a thriving and prosperous economy.

The ultimate conquest for any conqueror.

Through the town streets worn smooth by centuries of footfalls, the bustling plazas lined with charming merchant stalls, the outskirt villages tucked among lush woodlands, and even the weathered stone walls of the towering castle, whispers had always flowed like an unrelenting tide—the most persistent being rumors of the neighboring kingdoms readying to seize Noir at any moment. But your father never addressed such hearsays, and life within the island always seemed as jovial and peaceful as it always did.

Until one night, as you sat engrossed in some book about Noir folklore, a series of sharp knocks on your chamber doors shattered the stillness, echoing sharply through the room.

It was your father, the king. Dropped to his knees, grasping your untainted hands in his rough, weathered ones, head bowed down at your mercy.

“Forgive me, my daughter,” he said in grief. “For the sake of the people��please, forgive me.”

For months, naval scouts had reported sightings of warships at the docks of two neighboring kingdoms, suspected of plotting to raid Noir and usurp the throne. Only a few weeks ago, those suspicions were confirmed when spies returned with dire news. The enemy militaries, vast and far stronger than your own, were preparing for a siege. Noir's true power had always been in the arts and commerce, not in its military might. Should your shores be attacked by an enemy nation—let alone two—the island would fall.

So on the very day the confirmation arrived, your father and the high court conspired to seek assistance from a nation on the mainland: Onichynus.

Conversations about the state were always hushed, spoken in whispers and laden with caution. It was rumored to be an immensely powerful dominion, even surpassing that of the hostile forces looming beyond your shores. Drunk sailors boasted of its staggering wealth, built on the spoils of their wars and ceaseless conquest. With an unmatched army of hardened warriors and mercenaries, it stood as a force to be reckoned with, its presence both feared and revered across the seas.

At its pinnacle stood their elusive general, a shadow whose name and true face remained unknown. Tales from sailors, traveling merchants, and tavern songs painted him as a ruthless figure, demon-like, who laid waste to rotten cities and beheaded corrupt kings. Some claimed he was a hero, purging the realm of wicked men in power, while others saw him as the embodiment of evil, leaving destruction and death in his wake.

Negotiations with Onichynus were a success. In return for their protection during the impending siege, Noir pledged to deliver three ships laden with its most prized metals, minerals, and gems—every year for the next century.

But to ensure Noir upheld its end of the bargain, their beloved princess would be bound in marriage to the general.

You could only keep your gaze steady, chin held high, as the king knelt before you, weeping, begging for your forgiveness.

You had your time to relish the pleasures of living as a princess. Now, it was time to fulfill your duties as one.

—

The night before the long-anticipated siege had arrived. After weeks of frantic planning and tense negotiations between Noir’s high court and the Onichynus war council, warriors and mercenaries had taken their positions across the island. Some blended seamlessly with the civilians, while the majority remained hidden in plain sight, their numbers concentrated along the docks.

In the king’s throne room, select members from both factions gathered for final preparations. Clad in his battle regalia, your father seemed a shadow of his former self—skin ashened, eyes hollow with exhaustion—yet his voice remained firm as he issued his commands to all present.

The Noir court members could hardly conceal their unease under the watchful eyes of the Onichynus war council. Towering and broad-shouldered, they seemed almost otherworldly. Their dark, burnished steel armor bore engravings of monstrous creatures, and many donned cloaks of crimson or black, their edges deliberately singed to resemble fire's touch. Helmets, adorned with jagged horns, cast grotesque shadows, while those who forwent them revealed faces with jagged streaks of war paint, as if to mimic claw marks.

Then, the heavy doors groaned open, spilling thick tendrils of black-red mist into the chamber. A hush fell as all eyes turned toward the towering figure that emerged from the haze.

The general.

For all the whispered tales of his demonic appearance—horns as tall as claymores, wings that spanned the heavens, and a tail that stretched like a river—you were stunned to find a face not of a monster, but of an angel.

Against the backdrop of his dark cloak, his striking silver hair stood out in sharp contrast. His features were sculpted with precision—high, defined cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose, all framed by an expression that revealed little, save for full lips drawn into a tight line. The people of Noir gawked openly, stunned to finally see the man from the tales in the flesh. His gait was languid yet exuded confidence as he strode toward the throne where you sat beside your father.

His gaze found yours, and you stilled.

The deep scarlet of his eyes was piercing. You almost felt naked under it. Instantly, you straightened in your seat, fingers twitching to smooth the fabric of your dress.

“Expect the warships to be visible in six hours,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. The low timbre of it sent a chill racing up your spine.

“General, are you certain our forces are enough to handle their fleet?” your mother asked, voice quivering as she addressed him from your father’s other side.

The general's lips curved faintly, a low, rumbling chuckle escaping him.

“Rest easy, Your Majesty. By dawn, their remains will have joined their forefathers’ ghosts beneath the sea."

—

You had come to realize that Onichynus truly deserved the fear and respect it commanded. Just before daybreak, the gut-wrenching blare of Noir’s watchtower horns finally shattered the unnerving stillness of the island.

The enemies had fallen.

You had been locked away in one of the castle’s tower chambers, away from harm’s reach. As the kingdom’s key to securing this alliance, it was critical that no harm befell the general's betrothed.

After the second wave of victory horns, your door creaked open, revealing your maidservant—frantic, breathless from the long climb up the spiral staircase.

“Your Highness,” she gasped, voice trembling. “We’ve won.”

You could see the restraint in the way her nails dug into her apron, her blown pupils amidst her ragged breaths. She was restraining herself, her elation held in check, out of deference to you.

After all, Noir’s freedom had come at the cost of yours.

With a wistful smile, you turned toward the window, watching the flickering torchlights snake through the streets below. The chorus of jubilant cries and chants carried through the valleys, their voices rising to the heavens and echoing back from the mountain’s deepest crevices.

“It seems we have,” you murmured, voice barely audible over the chorus of celebration below.

You heard her hesitant shuffle behind you. "Several of the servants have been briefed already. They shall be ready tomorrow morning to begin preparations for the wedding."

You spun toward her, pulse pounding in your ears. "So soon?"

She lowered her gaze, unable to meet your eyes. "Onichynus wanted to complete the rites as quickly as possible, so they could sail for the mainland the following day."

You let out a slow exhale. "I see."

Your maidservant hesitated, her eyes flicking toward you, before she spoke again.

"If it offers you any comfort, ma'am," she said softly, head bowed, "you saved all of us."

You swallowed hard, forcing back the sting of tears threatening to spill.

—

Like your mother, grandmother, and all the royal women before you, you had always envisioned your wedding as a day of grandeur. You pictured riding through the town streets in the royal carriage, flanked by guards, waving to the cheering crowds. You imagined wearing a bespoke gown that sparkled in the light, a train so long it would sweep behind you like a royal procession.

You imagined trumpets announcing your arrival, their triumphant notes echoing through a hall packed with dignitaries and nobility from across the realm. And at the altar, a man of honor and equal standing would wait for you, his gaze warm with affection as you joined in a union built on love, not duty.

But now—the sun has nearly set, painting the grand temple in muted amber light. Inside, the space feels hollow, adorned only by a few hurriedly arranged flowers, their disarray a testament to the servants' exhaustion from cleaning up the siege’s destruction. Your gown, though lovely, is no custom-made masterpiece—just a window display piece hastily altered by the royal dressmaker. The pews stand mostly empty, save for your crestfallen family, a handful of somber faces from the Noir high court, and the ever-stoic Onichynus war council.

Your husband-to-be, still clad in his dark battle regalia, stands steadfast at your side, his expression an impenetrable mask as the archbishop intones the ceremonial rites. You had imagined him to be someone hard to look at—perhaps as old as a grandfather, his years as a general etched into every line of his face, and his figure weighed down by indulgent vices. Yet, to your quiet relief, he is nothing of the sort. Even if he proves unsavory as a husband or father to your future children, at least he’s pleasing to look at.

“By the will of fate, you are now bound in union,” the High Priest finally says, raising his palms toward you both. “May your allegiance to one another be as steadfast as the duties you carry, and may this union bring the future of your realms to prosperity.”

—

You wince as an elderly maidservant struggles to loosen a particularly stubborn knot in your hair, the pull jerking your head painfully. She pauses, her hand gently patting the spot in apology.

Your gaze stays fixed on the cold, flatstone floor, and you hardly notice the other maidservants bustling around you. One smooths out the faint creases in your satin nightdress, while another tugs at the neckline, pulling it lower to expose more of your cleavage and collarbone. Beneath the thin fabric, your undergarments have been removed, leaving you vulnerable to the biting chill of the room. You’ve been scrubbed clean, coated in the silkiest lotions, each scent more intoxicating than the last—all for your first night with your new husband.

“Are you nervous, Your Highness?” the elderly maidservant asks, her hands gentle as she brushes through your hair.

You pause, the question settling in your chest as you ponder how to answer.

“I can’t say I’m confident,” you say, twisting your fingers together. “I’ve never been with a man before.”

In the mirror, you catch the discreet glances exchanged behind you, their pity and concern barely hidden. You force yourself to look away, but the weight of their silent judgment lingers.

“The Onichynus general… he seemed like such a massive man,” a younger maidservant whispers, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I do hope he treats Her Highness with kindness.”

Another maidservant scoffs, her tone sharp with bitterness. “All men are beasts, driven only by their lust for control—and for anything with a pair of breasts.”

There’s a collective hiss of disapproval from the others, but the harsh words still echo in your mind. You fight to keep your face composed, though your heart aches with fear.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” the elderly maidservant says, her voice light. “The men from that state may be known for their ruthlessness, but with your likeness, the general will surely find himself a changed man.”

You can only hope the same.

Soon after, you begin your walk to the matrimonial room. The maidservants fall in step around you, their presence a quiet shield. The lively chatter from your earlier preparations has faded, replaced by a tense, almost somber silence. Despite the considerable distance between rooms, the walk feels too short, each step too swift. Before you can fully gather your bearings, you now find yourself alone, sitting on the bed, the weight of the night settling in around you.

You shouldn’t feel this nervous. Women across the realm are bound to face this, especially those of royal blood. Consummation on the wedding night is an expectation, a duty. No matter how much you’ve dreaded or tried to avoid it, you’ve always known it was inevitable. All that’s left now is to steel yourself, strive to please your husband, and to embrace your role as a future mother—for Noir’s sake.

The doors swing open, and you flinch. The general steps inside, his damp hair clinging to his face, a clear sign of a recent bath. His attire for the evening is simple: loose trousers and a tunic that, despite its modesty, does little to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the strong lines of his chest. Your gaze betrays you, lingering longer than it should, tracing the way the fabric shifts with his movements. His towering height seems to diminish even the vast expanse of the room, making the high ceilings feel incredibly small.

His ember-like eyes catch yours and you suddenly feel too exposed.

“Good evening, princess.”

“General,” you greet, wincing at how weak it sounds as it leaves your lips.

His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders beneath the delicate straps of your ivory nightdress, the soft swell of your breasts pressing gently against the neckline. The fabric cinches at your waist before flaring out around your hips, emphasized by the way you sit at the edge of the mattress. Your posture is rigid, hands clasped in your lap—a result of all the etiquette drilled into you from childhood.

He notices the tension in your form and lets out a sigh, turning toward the couch at the far end of the room.

You blink.

“Where are you going?” you blurt out, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Your Highness,” he drawls, settling into the couch with a lazy grace. “We don’t have to do this. You look like a kitten with her hackles raised. We could ruffle the bedding, spill some oil on the sheets, and pretend we had a night worthy of the chamberlain’s inspection.”

A flash of panic rises within you. You stand, words tumbling out in a rush. “Nonsense! Marriage is not recognized before the temple unless consummated on the night of the ceremony.”

He tilts his head, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Such peculiar customs you have here on Noir.”

You had imagined a thousand ways this night could go, a thousand versions of the man you’d just married. Not one of them prepared you for this.

You flush, frustration building in your chest. “General, I would appreciate it if you respect the customs of Noir. We are a proud people, and we honor the traditions passed down to us by our forefathers.”

He rolls his eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate pace, he stands and makes his way toward you. For every step he takes, you fight the instinct to hunch your shoulders, to shrink away. Next thing you know, he’s standing before you, his imposing size forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain your gaze.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, gently cupping your face. The heat of his touch burns through your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You finally avert your eyes. “I’ve never been with a man before,” you manage to say with as much indifference as you can muster, nails digging into your palms.

“Really? Not even a stolen kiss in your youth?”

You clench your teeth. “There are far more pressing matters to focus on than indulging in childish flirtations.”

He laughs, a rich, deep sound that resonates through the air, stirring an unexpected warmth low in your belly.

“Alright,” he concedes, his finger tracing a slow path along your cheek. Without warning, he grips your jaw, the touch both commanding and tender, pulling your gaze back to meet his. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. None of those absurd rules from your royal handbook.”

You pull back slightly, brows knitting in confusion. “The act is the same, is it not?”

“Do you agree, Your Highness?” he presses, lips grazing your ear ever so slightly. The warmth of his breath against your skin is unfamiliar, and the rush of heat that sweeps up your neck sends electrifying pulses deep within your core.

“Yes,” you grit out.

After studying your expression one last time, he lowers himself slightly, then grips the back of your thighs and lifts you with ease. You gasp, scrambling to find your balance. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, fingers digging into the firm, broad muscles of his shoulders. With a smooth shift, he adjusts your position, the inside of your thighs pressing against his hips, before carrying you to the vanity desk at the center of the room.

You struggle to speak, words caught in your throat as the sensation of being so high up in the air makes you dizzy. He finally sets you down on the desk, his large palms slowly dragging down your legs, gently pushing your knees apart.

“G—General,” you stammer, eyes wide as he pulls his tunic over his head, revealing a tanned expanse of skin and the hard, defined muscles beneath. “The bed is over there—why are we here?”

A flicker of a smile plays at his lips as he tosses the fabric carelessly to the floor. “Trust me, princess. Now close your eyes.”

You want to argue, remind him that asking you to trust the most notorious figure in the realm—whom you’ve barely known for a day—is no small request. But the gravity in his scarlet gaze quiets any protest. With a reluctant breath, you close your eyes.

There’s no movement at first. Then, his calloused palms find your knees, the rough calluses a stark against the smooth stretch of your skin. Heat blossoms under his touch, searing its way upward as his hands glide along the curve of your hips, the taper of your waist. You fail to suppress the shudder coursing through you when his touch pauses just below the swell of your breasts, lingering for a heartbeat before sliding to your sides, his broad palms more than spanning the width of your back.

Then, you feel the faint brush of his breath against your mouth, a fleeting warmth before his lips capture yours in a tender kiss. The hot, wet sensation has your back arching instinctively, your hardened nipples pressing through the thin fabric of your nightgown against his hard chest. A deep, throbbing ache pulses at your core, and you clamp your thighs together in a futile effort to suppress the damp heat pooling between them.

The overwhelming rush of sensations draws a whimper from your lips, your trembling hands clutching at his shoulders for stability. His response is immediate—a low, guttural groan before he deepens the kiss, his mouth returning to yours with even more fervor.

You’ve read about kissing in your sparse collection of romance novels, tried to envision the mechanics behind the act. But the mental images always fell short, awkward and unappealing, leaving you unconvinced of its charm. You’d dismissed it as unnecessary, even pointless—especially when it came to something as pragmatic and straightforward as sex.

But now the general is sneaking in the hot, wet glide of his tongue between your lips and you panic, not sure what it is he’s doing and what you’re supposed to do. He must sense your uncertainty, because his large hand moves to steady your jaw and nape, holding you in place. When he feels the accidental brush of your tongue, he wastes no time and sucks at it, the lewd sound echoing in your ears, forcing soft, strangled sounds from your throat.

You no longer feel the seeping chill from outside the castle walls, body now feeling like it’s on fire, the wetness dripping from your entrance sliding down your inner thighs. You feel like you’re drunk and about to pass out, so you push his chest back with a gentle palm.

“General,” you say, heaving through swollen lips. “What… what are we doing? The bed…”

He takes a moment to steady his breath, eyes squeezed shut, palms pressing firmly at your waist. Then, a low, rough chuckle rumbles from his chest.

“You’re infuriatingly naive,” he mutters, his sweat-damp forehead resting against your shoulder. “You must be the only woman of all arranged marriages eager to crawl into bed with a man she barely knows.”

You flush, indignant at the implication behind his words. “What are you trying to say?” you demand, mouth unconsciously forming into a pout.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing gently over your lower lip. “What I’m saying, princess, is let me take care of you. I don’t know what your upbringing has taught you, but there’s more to this than just... getting it over with.”

You’re not used to being told what to do and deviating from the rules, so you force out a sharp “fine”—an unintended display of bratty defiance, considering the man before you. But he only laughs, and to your dismay, the sound makes him even more handsome than he already is.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, lifting you by your bottom this time, pressing you flush against his chest. His hands on your backside—so close to where you’re throbbing and wet—has you flinching forward. You suddenly feel the brush of something firm against the sensitive nub above your slit, and you jerk again in surprise.

He chuckles, before gently lowering you onto the soft expanse of the mattress. His lips find your collarbone first, then trail down to your nipples, where he suckles through the fabric. A soft whimper escapes you, your fingers curling into the sheets. You can feel his smile against your skin as his tongue sweeps over one of your sensitive buds, before continuing its journey down toward your abdomen.

But then he hovers his face above your groin that’s barely concealed by the bunched-up hem of your nightgown. Alarm jolts through you, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, torso rising instinctively. You attempt to close your legs, but his hands hold them firmly apart.

“General—”

“Sylus,” he interrupts, lips brushing along the inside of your knee. “We’re married now, sweetheart. Use my name.”

A twisted sense of pride coils within you, knowing you hold both the name and face of the most infamous man in the realm.

You hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat before continuing. “Sylus,” you echo, the name oddly satisfying on your lips. “Not that I’m… doubting your expertise, but is all of this really necessary?”

He exhales heavily, saying nothing at first. Then, he takes your hand—its size utterly lost in his grip—and guides it down your body. His movements are deliberate, stopping only when your palm meets the undeniable hardness of his cock, straining against his trousers.

You struggle to contain the jumbled stutters tumbling from your lips. “What are you—”

“I’m a big man,” he states matter-of-factly, his gaze unwavering. “And this is your first time. As you are now—you won’t be able to handle me.”

You don’t fully understand what he means, but the statement silences you nonetheless.

He chuckles, letting go of your hand, and you immediately pull it back to your chest. “May I?” he asks, his voice low as he hovers below you once again.

You flash a glare, before nodding reluctantly.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back, his gaze shifting downward to the space between your legs. Slowly, he lifts the hem of your dress, inch by inch, until the cool air brushes against your exposed skin. You watch, eyes heavy, fighting the tremors rushing through you, as his hand moves along the inside of your thigh. When his fingers brush against your folds, a sharp exhale escapes you, and your head falls back onto the mattress.

“You’re so sensitive, princess,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his words.

“Shut up and get on with it,” you snap, covering your eyes with your forearm.

You hear a quiet laugh escape him before two fingers press against the sensitive nub above your folds, sending a shock of pleasure through your body. Your back arches instinctively as he slides his fingers up and down against your entrance. The motion, slick and sinful, leaves you gasping, and you struggle to keep your legs open, body trembling from the unfamiliar pleasure.

Sylus’ eyes darken, flicking between the way his fingers tease your slick folds and the way your breasts strain against your dress. His breathing grows heavier as he reaches up, pulling the neckline down to expose your chest. A soft whine escapes you when his hand cups one swell, firm yet gentle, while the other continues its relentless ministrations below.

“I’m pressing one in, alright?” he murmurs.

You barely register the words before he pushes a thick finger past your folds.

“Wait—it feels—ngh—it’s strange,” you stammer, voice hitching on a whine.

He stills immediately, digit only halfway in. “Does it hurt?”

“I… kind of? I don’t know…”

You’re panting. The pressure is peculiar, and quite unpleasant. Your body tenses at the newness of it, the unfamiliar stretch bordering on discomfort.

He remains patient, finger unmoving. Then, you feel his thumb press on your nub, drawing gentle circles against the sensitive lower hood of it. The obscene sound of slickness fills the space and you’re mortified, toes curling at the wave of arousal soaking his hand.

“This better?” he whispers, drinking in every detail—your heaving chest, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the tremor in your thighs, and the glistening mess pooling between them.

You can’t respond, overwhelmed by the spiraling pleasure.

A chuckle rumbles from him, low and pleased, as he presses the rest of his finger inside. This time, it slides in smoothly, and the high-pitched moan that escapes you is muffled by your trembling palm. Now knuckle-deep, he gently strokes upward, pressing on a rough spot that makes you jerk in his hold.

“I’m going to try something, alright?” he says softly, breath brushing against your knee as he plants a tender kiss.

“Okay,” you croak, struggling to process the pulsing sensations building deep inside you.

The circles on your nub stop, and you almost whimper at the loss. But before you can voice your complaints, something warm, wet, and utterly foreign replaces his thumb. Your head snaps back, a raw, choked cry tearing from your lips.

“General—hah—Sylus… What are you—?”

He doesn’t answer. Dazed, you prop yourself up and the sight before you is almost too much: the most powerful man in the realm, kneeling between your legs, his mouth worshiping you with unrelenting fervor. His tongue laps at your folds, drags it languidly up to your engorged nub before closing his lips around it, sucking in a way that sends sharp, electric pulses straight through your core.

Panicked by the unbearable pressure building inside, you try to push his head away. “Stop—it’s strange, I feel like I’m going to—”

Before you can finish, he slides another finger inside, stretching you further. His fingers curl, stroking that spongy spot with unrelenting precision. His mouth works in tandem, alternating between suckling and lapping at your overstimulated nub.

Tears blur your vision as the intensity peaks. You scream into your palms, hips bucking against his mouth and hand as you feel yourself tip over the high he brought you to.

Sylus watches, entranced, as your legs open wider, cries muffled as your body convulses under his ministrations. Even as you shatter under him, he doesn’t let up, prolonging your fall at his mercy. And when you’re finally sent over the edge, your release flooding his eager mouth, he drinks in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, and utterly spent.

He presses his cheek against your inner thigh, feeling the delicate tremors rippling through your body as you struggle to steady your breathing. His eyes trail over your folds, soft and swollen, slightly parted as your essence continues to glisten and drip. Unable to hold back, he dips his head and presses a slow, deliberate kiss, groaning as your intoxicating taste lingers on his lips.

Your cry pierces the air, hands flying to his hair as you tug with desperation. “W—Wait…! I can’t… it’s too much… please…”

He only chuckles, low and teasing, before placing a final kiss on the sensitive nub above your folds. Then, he moves upward, settling his weight against you. His chin rests between your breasts, arms locking yours in place as his eyes meet yours, heat and satisfaction dancing in his gaze.

As clarity slowly returns, the enormity of what just happened hits you. He—the Onichynus general, a man who strikes fear in nations across the realm—had just laved at your most intimate area with his tongue. Such an act is nowhere to be found in the guides you’ve read on sex, not even as a distant suggestion. And yet, you enjoyed it. Far more than you care to admit.

An embarrassed huff escapes you as heat blooms across your face. You throw your hands up to cover it, unwilling to meet the insufferable smugness you can practically feel radiating from him below.

Suddenly, you feel the neckline of your dress being tugged down again, catching beneath your breasts. Then, you feel the flat of his tongue gently press on a nipple, circling it with the tip before pulling it into his mouth to suckle. His hand slides up to your other bud, palm brushing over it in slow, deliberate motions. Breasts are meant to nourish, to sustain future generations—mere vessels for the creation of life. Yet the hairs at the back of your neck raise on end as you feel the return of the persistent pulsing deep within you. You bite your lip, stifling the sounds threatening to escape, back arching as you desperately chase the sensation of his mouth on you.

“We can stop now if you wish, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your skin.

Fighting the heaviness taking over your body, you grab his jaw, forcing him to meet the fire in your gaze. “Do you have a problem with consummating with me, general?”

He responds with a particularly sharp suck at your nipple.

“Ngh—! Sylus! I meant Sylus!” you cry out, correcting yourself with a gasp.

He smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before moving to the soft curve of your breast. His mouth alternates between harsh sucking and teasing bites, leaving a trail of bruised blooms in his wake.

“While intercourse may be a mere formality to you Noir people, in Onichynus, it’s an act of passion and love,” he says, voice low as he shifts to giving attention to your other bud. “I wish to ensure that Her Highness, my wife, has a memorable first experience. So, if you feel spent for the night, we can always stop. At any time.”

His words settle deep inside you and you feel warmth spread in your chest. Perhaps Onichynus is more than the tales of its ruthless reputation, after all. Hesitantly, you caress his cheek, heart aching at the way he closes his eyes and nuzzles into your palm. He almost seems like a clingy pet feline.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I want to finish the rites,” you say softly. Then, you flush, struggling to find the right words. “And, um, I didn’t expect things to be this… good. I don’t mind experiencing more, if it’s alright with you.”

It takes a moment for your words to register, and when they do, Sylus smirks—a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends heat coursing through your body. He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue brushes your bottom lip, and this time, you grant him easy access. You mimic what he did to you earlier, tentatively wrapping your lips around his tongue and sucking gently.

Immediately, a low, visceral groan escapes him as his hips press forward, grinding his restrained arousal against your soaked folds. The rough fabric of his trousers drags against your sensitive nub, sending jolts of pleasure rippling through you. You whine into his mouth, arms winding around his neck as you pull him impossibly closer.

Sylus seems barely in control now, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he adjusts his movements, angling his hips so that the ridge where his shaft meets the head rubs directly against your overstimulated nub.

Without warning, he breaks the kiss, leaving you on the verge of a whine as a string of spit bridges the space between you. He steps back, tugging his trousers down in one swift motion. Your gaze drops instinctively, and your breath catches at the sight of him.

Broad shoulders taper into a lean waist, and every inch of his sculpted body radiates strength. But it’s the thick, throbbing length between his legs that holds your attention. He notices the starstruck look on your gaze and he chuckles, walking closer to you until you're face level with it. Taking your hand, he gently wraps it around his girth. The sheer thickness overwhelms your grip, and your breath catches at the realization.

“Feel free to take a look,” he rasps.

You’ve never seen a cock before, but instinctively, you know this one is massive. The shaft is thick, with prominent veins that seem to throb faintly, and the soft, rounded shapes below it look heavy and full. The bulbous, mushroom-shaped tip is flushed, beads of some kind of white, translucent fluid glistening at the slit. For some reason, you feel the urge to lean in and taste it.

Sylus takes your hand, shaping it into a loose 'O.' “This is you,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to glide along his length, spreading the slick fluid. “And this…” He pushes through the circle you’ve made, the thick head sliding in and out. “…is how it’ll feel when I’m inside you.”

Slowly, he begins to move, sliding his shaft through your grip. The sensation is intoxicating, and you’re mesmerized by the sight of him—his cock pumping in and out of your hand, each stroke leaving it sticky with his arousal. You don’t even realize your lips are parting until you lean forward, your tongue darting out to flick against the leaking tip.

Sylus lets out a guttural moan, one hand tangling in your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. His taste—salty and slightly bitter—is heady, and the heat of him against your tongue heightens your arousal. He bucks into your mouth, and though you gag slightly, you fight to take more of him, desperate for the connection.

You feel too empty.

“Princess—fuck—this is torture,” he groans, his deep voice rough with restraint.

You can only moan in response, lips stretched around his cock as he begins thrusting into your mouth. His large hands steady your head, guiding your movements. You peek up at him through fluttering lashes, and you feel your folds quiver at the sinful sight of the Onichynus general panting, eyes shut, sweat-covered muscles taut as he pistons in and out of you.

You are Noir’s beloved princess—revered and envied for your beauty, grace, and intellect—yet now you’re barely coherent, delirious over the addictive taste of your husband as he fucks your mouth over and over.

One particularly deep thrust hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears springing to your eyes. Sylus curses under his breath and withdraws immediately.

“Princess, I’m sorry,” he pants, taking in the sight of you—tears streaking your cheeks, saliva glistening on your lips, thighs pressed together in a futile attempt to relieve your ache.

“It’s okay,” you croak, voice hoarse and small.

Sylus pauses, taking a moment to steady himself and pull back from the frenzy consuming him, before climbing onto the bed, positioning himself against the headboard. His hands grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly to straddle his lap. Movements frantic and barely restrained, he aligns your slick folds against the length of his shaft. His lips find yours again, urgent and demanding, while his hands grip your hips, guiding you to rock against him. The friction against your sensitive nub draws a cry from you, and he groans into your mouth.

“Let me have you, princess,” he practically begs against your lips between heavy breaths.

You barely have time to process his words before he lifts you slightly, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. Then, you feel an immediate, sharp stretch as he breaches your folds, pushing deeper until the full girth of him fills you to the hilt.

A strangled cry escapes you and you collapse against his chest, burying your face in his neck with stilted sobs. Sylus remains still, large hands massaging your rear soothingly, coaxing your body to adjust.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing against your temple. “Just breathe. Let me in.”

“It hurts,” you gasp. He shifts slightly, and a sharp sensation makes you wince, like he’s hitting a spot that feels too far, too much. “T—Too big…”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, breath hot and uneven against your ear. His hands move carefully, gently parting the delicate skin of your folds in an attempt to ease the stretch and make it more bearable.

Keeping his hips as still as possible, he reaches for the hem of your now sweat-soaked nightgown, lifting it with as much gentleness as he can muster. His eyes trace the path of the fabric as it reveals the slick mess of fluids dripping from where you're joined, the soft curve of your belly, the delicate bounce of your breasts freed from constraint, and finally, your tear-streaked face—beautiful, vulnerable, and utterly his. Guilt flickers through him as he feels himself twitch and grow even harder inside you, despite your pained whimpers.

After tossing the fabric aside, his lips find your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to the spots that make your walls flutter around him, drawing soft, helpless sounds from your lips.

“Once you’re settled in our home on the mainland, you’ll have everything you could ever desire,” he murmurs, hands gliding up to rub gentle circles over your hardened nipples.

“You’ll have servants at your beck and call, and you’ll be free to do whatever you please. No one will dare defy you—no one will even think to.”

The vivid imagery of his words wraps around your mind like a spell, pulling you deeper into him. The sharp discomfort of being stretched begins to ebb, replaced by a dull ache that shifts to faint blooms of pleasure.

“And when you finally swell with my child,” he breathes, tone thick with promise, “I’ll find endless delight in claiming you over and over, until the first light of dawn touches us.”

You flush at the picture of him taking you like this, with your belly round and full with his heir.

He chuckles low against your ear, the sound dark and rich. “Oh? You like that idea, don’t you?”

You huff, landing a light smack on his chest. “Do not tease me,” you protest, voice carrying a hint of authority despite your half-lidded gaze. The sight of you perched on his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, while you fix him with a stern, regal expression befitting a princess is enough to have his hips bucking up to you.

With a strained groan, he crashes his lips against your neck, his cock throbbing almost painfully within your tight walls. “I need you, princess,” he rasps against your skin, barely holding back the urge to thrust up into you.

The pressure of the stretch still lingers, but the sharp pain has melted into pulses of pleasure. You place your hips back, grinding your sensitive nub against his groin, desperate for more. “Please do something,” you plead, hips moving in frantic, clumsy circles, chasing a bliss you don’t know you’re craving.

Sylus doesn’t hesitate. He lowers you back onto the mattress while still buried deep inside you. Propping himself up on his elbows, his gaze locks onto yours as he slowly draws his hips back, leaving only the tip nestled at your entrance. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he sinks back in to the hilt, filling you completely in one long, unrelenting stroke.

You cry out, this time in response to the delicious friction of his cock dragging against your walls. Driven wild by your reaction, he pulls back again, then thrusts deeply into you with another slow, deliberate plunge. A hiss escapes him as the head of his cock presses against your deepest depths.

“You’re doing so good,” he groans, lips brushing over the bruises left by his earlier kisses on your neck. “You’ve been such a darling for me, haven’t you?”

To his twisted delight, you remain incomprehensible, helpless sounds pouring from your kiss-bitten lips as you scramble to steady yourself by gripping his shoulders, nails digging painfully into his skin. He’s almost feral at the way your flesh ripples from the impact of each thrust. The princess of Noir, coveted by men all over the realm, now lies beneath him, sweat-slicked, legs spread, and taking his cock so wonderfully. But beyond that, he sees the most perfect queen—one whose unparalleled intellect and sharp wit can stand beside him in his pursuit for power.

Suddenly, he pulls out, and you whine, tears staining your cheeks at the dizzying emptiness. He merely shushes you soothingly before gently turning you over onto your stomach. Before you can garble out a question on what he’s doing, he plunges into you once more, hitting a spot against your front that has you curling your toes and screaming into the sheets.

“I—It feels s—strange again—!” you manage between broken whimpers, each word punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his movements against your sore walls.

“Wanna feel good again, princess?” he murmurs against your ear.

Your answering sob is all the reply you can muster.

Suddenly, you’re hoisted up on your knees, his strong arm wrapping around your waist as his other hand grips your jaw, holding your face up. His thrusts quicken, erratic and desperate, and you gasp as his tongue traces the outer shell of your ear. Then, his hand slides lower, fingers finding the swollen nub above your abused folds. The sudden burst of pleasure at the rubbing motion has you crying out, body tightening as a familiar heat coils low in your belly.

You begin to thrash in his hold at the overwhelming sensations. “Sy—I think—I think I’m—”

“Let it happen, princess, I got you.”

With those words, your hands tangle in his sweat-damp hair as a violent shudder wracks your body, exhausted sobs escaping your lips. His relentless pace doesn’t falter, eyes locked on the harsh bounce of your breasts as he pounds into you from behind, chasing his release. The tight grip of your walls and the slick heat enveloping his cock finally push him over the edge, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic before burying himself deep with a final, forceful motion, spilling his seed inside you.

Sylus takes a moment to catch his breath, pressing soft, chaste kisses along your shoulders.

“You alright, princess?”

You don’t respond.

Confused, he gently tilts your head back, only to find your peaceful, sleeping face, soft snores escaping your lips. He huffs a small laugh. How adorable.

Carefully, he shifts against the headboard, settling you onto him with his half-hard cock still nestled inside, twitching faintly. Draping your legs over his knees, he starts massaging your inner thighs, soothing the soreness he knows must be there.

A series of sharp knocks echoes through the room.

“This is the chamberlain. I must confirm that the consummation rites have been fulfilled for your marriage to be deemed legitimate by the Grand Temple.”

Sylus scowls, eyes scanning over your sleeping form. “Can’t this wait in the morning?”

“This is necessary to eliminate any possibility of deceit in performing the rites.”

“Damn uptights,” he mutters. Then, a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “Well, come in then.”

The door swings open, revealing the old chamberlain in his faded temple robes, his attention fixed on his ledger. He mumbles the schedule for the following day as he approaches the bed. When he finally looks up, expecting to see the usual ruffled, soaked sheets, he freezes, almost stumbling backward in shock.

You—the cherished Noir princess, known for your beauty and headstrong grace—lie exhausted, nestled against the imposing form of the feared Onichynus general behind you. His scarlet eyes glint as he sucks a mark onto the side of your neck, and beneath you, his impressive girth disappears into your swollen, intimate folds, generous amounts of your combined essences coating his base.

“This is evidence enough, no?” Sylus taunts, sneaking in a shallow thrust up to you, drawing a soft, breathless whine from your throat.

The chamberlain stammers, his words fumbling as he backs toward the door.

“Y—Yes, the rites are confirmed. Good night,” he rushes out in a single breath before slamming the door behind him.

Chuckling, Sylus pulls his sleeping wife closer, placing a tender kiss on your temple. You’ll need the rest for the long journey ahead, and for whatever adjustments await you back on the mainland.

But, in the end, none of that matters.

He’s just grateful to have found his beloved kitten again.

check out my other works!

#sylus x reader #love and deepspace #fic recs

3K notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 23 days ago

Text

I am sorry I am still shock

But I am in awe too

ZAYNE IS SUCH A GENTLEMAN

The way even as him "loses control" he is protecting her from discomfort.

Topping her over but making sure the edge of table doesn't hurt her in impact

Throwing the books away so SHE can sit comfortably

Because to him that is more important than any books

Pushing her against the wall but putting his hand first for her head to hit on

Also shoving glass away if you consider how that would be uncomfortable for both parties

it’s the way Zayne is always prioritising MCs comfort to ensure she doesn’t get hurt or feel any discomfort.

It was never him acting out of character . He is still the gentleman he would be in any other given moments omfg zayne

ZAYNE THE MAN YOU ARE .

#love and deepspace

6K notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 26 days ago

Text

// Knight Shift

This is my submission for @nanamiscocksleeve Christmas Secret Santa Fic Exchange! I was tasked with writing for the wonderful @reilemon ! "Please don't squirm...you're making it very hard for me to be a gentleman..."

// summary: you get a little too drunk and make a fool of yourself at the bar, requiring Zayne to haul you out of there.

// content warnings: 18+ (mdni), fluff, second-hand embarrassment, pet names, early-mid relationship, THE IMPLICATION, toothache cuteness, husband as HECK

// a/n: when I saw this prompt go on the list I was so hopeful I'd get it and I'm so glad I did! I hope I did your idea justice <3 Happy Holidays

likes, reblogs, comments are always appreciated!

1:04 AM Zayne's phone screen beamed a soft blue glow back at him as he sat in his car in the darkened hospital carpark, brow furrowed as he skimmed through his notifications at the end of his shift.

A veritable forensic timeline of your night, his nimble finger scrolled through Moment post after Moment post documenting your Christmas party, smiling and shaking his head as he watched each captured tease of your night progressing. The Moment posts were very innocent at the beginning of the night and they made him smile to himself, you looking cute and bright-eyed in your new dress, twirling in your bedroom mirror to show him what you planned to wear. He felt a blush creep into his cheeks as he watched you, beaming happily and giggling with your colleagues at the bar.

Gradually however, the blush and the smile were replaced by a tight, protective, possessive feeling in his chest and a pit in his stomach as your drinks began to flow freely. The little brightly colored umbrellas from your cocktails were now starting to get stacked up in your messy updo like a crown of flowers, each video adding to your pile of paper adornments as the footage got blurrier and more concerning to him. Zayne had never been much of a drinker himself and you had pinched his cheeks as you rolled your eyes at him, insisting you could handle it when he asked you to be careful and pace yourself tonight, but the most recent Moment posts told a different story to your dismissals.

An hour ago, blurry new male faces appearing beside you and your friend that he didn't recognize as being colleagues of yours and they definitely weren't as drunk as you; twenty minutes ago a shaky POV of you cheer-screaming at the top of your lungs as your friend downed a double shot of something as they spurred her on. Thirty seconds ago a jumbled black screen mess of your phone clattering to the floor as you howled with laughter and someone tried to help you up, shoving another drink into your hand.

"This has gone on long enough; she's too drunk to be among strangers", Zayne thought to himself with a scowl as he started the car and began to navigate his way towards the location you'd tagged in your Moment posts. He dialed your number as he drove and after what felt like half a lifetime, you picked up the phone.

"ZAAAAAAAAAAAYNIE! ZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYNIE!" you slurred at him excitedly as your glassy and unfocused eyes finally came into view on the facetime call. You were so much drunker than he expected you to be, so much so that he was half-questioning if something had been slipped into your drinks. "Zaynie I've been having SO. MUSH. FUN. with my new frenzzz here...what uhh...what were your namsh again?" you asked with a giggle as one of the unrecognized men muttered in the background and swiped at your phone when you turned it towards him.

Zayne forced a slight smile for you and spoke in a slow, even tone that hid his true feelings about the situation "I just finished my shift, I thought you might like me to come pick you up and we can finish the night with some dessert, hmmm?". With how happy you'd been to answer his call, he expected an enthusiastic yes, so when you pouted and whined that you were still having fun with your new friends, you weren't ready to leave yet, Zayne couldn't hide his icy scowl. "I'll be there in five minutes, Y/N, I'll carry you out of the bar if I have to." Zayne stated in a firm, no-nonsense tone.

Whether you hung up accidentally or deliberately didn't matter to Zayne, what mattered was you were alone and very drunk with strangers. His knuckles gripped the leather steering wheel tightly and he sped up a little, pushing the boundaries of how comfortable he felt speeding at this late hour. All he cared about was getting to you and getting you home safely.

Leaving his car a block away from the bar, Zayne jogged up to the doors, only to be stopped by the two large men guarding the entrance with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Too late for new entries, Sir" one of them said with a note of apology to his tone as he blocked Zayne from going further. Standing up on his tiptoes to peek over their shoulders, Zayne shook his head and began to make his case to them. "Sorry gents, I'm trying to collect someone. You might've seen her? Blue and white dress, about this tall, very drunk?". With timing so perfect only the cosmos could've coordinated it, you let out a loud squeal of laughter that carried through the open doorway, followed by a crash of what sounded like breaking glass. "Speak of the devil...May I?" Zayne winced in apology as the two bouncers looked at each other then back to him with a nod and stepped aside.

"Better you get her out quietly than we have to turf her out, Sir."

Nodding back with an apologetic tight smile, Zayne pat the shoulder of the bouncer in thanks as he passed, making a beeline for where your noise came from. When you had slipped and fallen off the barstool, your heel had snapped off your left shoe and you were drunkenly wobbling, trying and failing to understand why you had no balance.

Placing a hand gently on your shoulder so that you knew he was there, Zayne made his presence known. "Looks like I got here right on time, Y/n" he raised his voice above the cacophony of noise around you in the bar. On seeing your eyes light up in recognition, he dropped to one knee in front of you, beckoning for you to stick your foot out to him. Rewarding you with a slight smile as you complied, Zayne slid his hand delicately around your heel and began to unbuckle the strap on your shoe, slipping it off your foot. Repeating the process with your other foot, your bare feet now flat to the floor, you looked even smaller compared to his tall broad frame as he hooked his index finger into the straps of your shoes to hold onto them as he stood up, picking paper umbrellas out of your hair and letting them fall to the floor.

"Lets get you home," Zayne said to you softly, eyes scanning between the floor and your short dress, frowning at the broken glass you would risk navigating to the exit. "Hold these for me please," he instructed you, handing your heels back to you, before slipping his suit jacket off and wrapping it around your hips so that it draped down over the back of your legs to protect your modesty. You blinked at him in confusion before letting out a little squeal of surprise as he wrapped his strong arm around your thigh and picked you up over his shoulder, holding you tightly and securely in his arms. "Don't worry Y/n, I've got you, I won't drop you" he said confidently as he headed back past the bouncers at the front door.

"Zaaaaaaynie," you giggled tipsily. "You're carrying me like a princess, am I your princess?" You teased him as you clung to his neck tightly, your heels and your purse tapping into his strong shoulder blades rhythmically as he walked you back to his car. He paused mid-stride and pulled his head back to look you in the eyes, noting they weren't as glassy as they had been, but you were still far from sober. "My knight in shining armor," you giggled and buried your head in his shoulder. Zayne answered you with a low rumbling hum, your words stirring something in him that makes the tips of his ears flush red. He hoped you were still too drunk to notice and you seemed to be.

He delicately cradled your head to avoid you hitting it as he bundled you into his car passenger seat and he paused, stunned for a second when you suddenly reached up and stroked his hair gently, like you were petting a cat. "So soft..." you murmured sleepily. Zayne cleared his throat and pulled his head away hoping you wouldn't notice the flush deepening. "Feel free to sleep in the car on the way home, I'll wake you when we get there," he whispered to you as he leaned across you to lock in your seatbelt, but by the time he looked up to your face you were already out like a light, your breathing steady and peaceful, cuddling your shoes and your purse to your chest.

Zayne smiled down at you gently, brushing his thumb against your cheek tenderly and closed the car door as quietly as he could, trying not to disturb your slumber. Zayne drove carefully the whole way to your apartment, taking care not to accelerate or brake too suddenly and risk jarring you out of your sleep.

He needn't have worried, because you didn't stir when he opened the passenger side door or when he reached across you to unbuckle your seatbelt. "Princess Y/n," he whispered to you, a playful tone sneaking into his voice. "Wakey wakey your knight is trying to carry you in." Zayne smiled at you as your half-lidded eyes fluttered open sleepily and you struggled to focus. He chuckled and shook his head with an exasperated sigh as you held your hands out to him expectantly, but he still bundled you into his arms to carry you bridal-style up into your apartment complex without a word of complaint.

Zayne shifted you in his arms, putting you down for a second so that he could punch in your front door code. Missing the warmth of his strong arms and the steady beating of his heart lulling you, you snuggled in tightly against his chest, slipping your arms around his hips and pressing yourself flat up against him.

"Please don't squirm...you're making it very hard for me to be a gentleman..." Zayne blushed, reaching to stroke your hair. "Are you steady enough to stand on your own now?" He asked gently. You nodded up at him with a smile, before blushing with an embarrassed giggle as you almost tripped on your own feet trying to walk to your couch. "Wait there, I'll be back in a moment," Zayne instructed you as he shut the door behind you both and made his way to your bedroom and bathroom, moving through your apartment confidently like his own.

From your bedroom he collected a set of pyjama shorts and a shirt of his you had promised to wash but had instead kept to sleep in; he never asked you about it after the fact, liking the idea of it being wrapped around you at night when he couldn't be much more than it gathering dust in his closet. Detouring to your bathroom, he took your toothbrush, loading it up with toothpaste for you, your retainer, your pack of makeup remover wipes and a jar of eye mask patches.

"Your dress, while beautiful, smells like a brewery I'm afraid," Zayne chuckled, sitting down beside you on the couch with the pile of supplies he'd collected for you. He held his hands out to you and made a "come hither" motion with his fingers, encouraging you to scoot closer to him until your knees touched. "Give me your face, Princess Y/n," he said gently, holding your chin delicately with his right hand as he pulled makeup wipes out of the pack with his left and began to carefully wipe the grime of the night from your face.

You sat barefaced in front of him, eyes closed and sighing contentedly at his delicate attentions, your skin tingling from the makeup wipes. "Nope, I'm just resting my eyes," you murmured with a smile when he gently tapped the tip of your nose asking if you had fallen asleep on him. You stiffened for a second as the cool shock of aloe hit your undereye and you opened your eyes lazily to see Zayne placing the little masks carefully and brushing them smooth with his thumbs. Zayne took hold of your chin again, pressing your mouth open with his thumb and index finger, before holding out the toothbrush and popping it into your mouth.

As you brushed your teeth sleepily, enjoying the calm domesticity between you both, Zayne picked up the clothes and put them in your lap with your retainer on top. "Go rinse and change into those while I throw away these wipes and put your phone on charge," he instructed you, brushing your hair back away behind your ears before taking the rubbish into your kitchen to dispose of. You made your way to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. Slipping the clean shirt on over your head, you noticed it smelled like him again and you knew you'd worn it to bed often enough that it had lost his smell...you half-wondered if he hadn't rubbed it on himself a little to transfer some fresh cologne to it for you and the thought made you flush with giddy happiness.

Looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror as you spat and rinsed your toothpaste, you couldn't help but grin to yourself, feeling so spoiled by him. After you disposed of the eye masks and fitted your retainer, you stepped out of the bathroom to find Zayne was nowhere to be found. Wandering through the apartment, you softly called out for him and felt a wave of relief wash over you as you heard him respond from your bedroom. Wandering in, the sight that welcomed you made your heart beat faster; true to his word, Zayne had plugged your phone in on your bedside to charge and was now fluffing your pillows and quilt for you. "There you are," he said with a teasing tone. "I was starting to think you might've passed out on your Knight again."

Zayne held his hand out to you and helped guide you into the bed, bundling you in under the covers, tucking you in. You grabbed his hand, catching his eyes as you felt his breath catch at your unexpected touch. "Stay with me? Please?" you asked and he nodded, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "As my Princess wishes," he responded, swallowing thickly. "Let me just get out of my suit and I'll stay the night with you". You watched Zayne's movements around the room with half-lidded eyes as he slipped his tie and belt off and draped his suit slacks over the back of your arm chair. His nimble fingers worked to undo his cufflinks and free himself from his button up shirt, which promptly followed his slacks onto the chair, the clink of his silver snowflake cufflinks hitting your jewelry dish on your chest of drawers ringing through the silence.

"That gaze of yours is going to bore a hole in me if you keep it up, Your Highness," Zayne teased, a tone of a smirk to his accusation and you blushed, pulling the quilt up over your head. You felt the quilt pulled back from you and internally pouted that Zayne had already slipped on some pjyama bottoms you had bought and left for him to use at your place. He slid himself into the bed beside you and pulled your back up tight against his broad warm chest, wrapping his arms around you in a firm hug and planting one last kiss on your hair.

"Thank you for everything tonight Zaynie," you whispered. "Sometimes I feel like I don't des-"

"Shhh...." Zayne cut you off, his arms squeezing you tighter as he pressed his chin down on the top of your head. "I'm exactly where I want to be," he hummed to you. "If you really want to thank me for being your knight in shining armor, in the morning you can help me make us blueberry pancakes. For now though," Zayne punctuated his final thought by inhaling a deep breath of your hair. "Sleep, my Princess."

#zayne x reader #love and deepspace #fic recs

326 notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 29 days ago

Note

can u do a bf gojo eating u out roughly out of nowhere and even after begging and crying for him to stop he doesn’t 😛😛

a/n; I GOT YOU, i hope this reached your expectations because i know it certainly didn't for me lol, i'm still working on how to write a fem!reader receiving cunnilingus so bare with me. not proofread!!

you were already gasping, hips twitching as gojo worked his tongue against you in a way that made your brain cloudy. he started soft, slow enough to make your chest ache with how carefully he was taking you apart. he was taking his time to ruin you. his lips brushed over your clit like he was tasting something delicate, and every gentle swipe of his tongue had your toes curling. he was dragging his tongue out - then pushing it back in.

his hands rested firmly on your thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles into your skin as you shifted under him. you tried to squirm away, just a little for more friction, just so he can go faster- but his grip held you steady. "mm, where’re you goooinng?" he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh, nipping at the skin to make you whine, before returning back to your clit. "stay still for me, yeah sweetheart? i've got you, don't you worry."

but.. yeah no, now he's the one getting impatient.

everything about him was deliberate. his tongue traced slow, teasing circles around your clit, never quite giving you enough to push you over the edge but more than enough to make your breath hitch. he was in control, and he knew it. every now and then, he’d glance up at you, his pretty, lightening blue eyes that were half lidded and just was glittering with lust. this was a game to him and he was winning, unsurprisingly..

until he shifted that is, because without warning - his grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. his mouth that was just gentle, became fast, lips latching onto your clit as his tongue flicked over the sensitive bud with a rough, feverish lick. you jolted, your back arched instantly, a sharp cry slipping out as your hands flew to his hair.

"s-satoru, wait!" you suddenly choked out, your hand flying to his hair in an effort to pull him away but instead, instinctively, your thighs wrapped around his head, locking him in place. it wasn’t intentional, but the pressure only seemed to spur him on, his tongue working meaner, harsher, as if he wasn’t already driving you insane. he let out a low, muffled chuckle, one of his hands sliding down to grip your hips as he pressed his face even closer, nose brushing against your bud.

until his free hand grabbed your wrist, pinning it to your side effortlessly to look up at you.

"wait?" he murmured, his voice thick and dripping with a mocking, mean tone. his lips were slick, chin glistening with your wetness from how thoroughly he’d been working you over. "hmm.. nope! i don’t think i will."

before you could protest, he dove right back in, sucking your clit with a bruising force while his fingers slid between your wet folds. two fingers plunged into you without hesitation, curling perfectly to hit that spot. you thrashed under him, the overstimulation felt too much for you, tears spilling down your cheeks as you begged and begged.

"b-baby, please! it’s too much- i c-can’t!" your voice cracked, broken and desperate, but he didn’t let up. if anything, your pleas seemed to fuel him, a low, short laugh rumbling against your core as he pressed his tongue in harder, drawing another strangled cry from your lips.

"too much?" he said, pulling back just long enough to taunt you, his voice almost a low growl. "nothing's too much, silly!"

your legs trembled uncontrollably, your body writhing as he bullied your cunt. his fingers moved faster, thrusting into you while his tongue circled your clit in quick, rough strokes. your sobs and moans were basically all he heard, your hands clawing at the sheets as you felt yourself on the verge of cumming.

"pleaase, i.." you couldn’t finish, your body jerking as the pleasure ripped through you in waves, but even then, he didn’t stop. he continued to lap your pussy, his hands kept your hip and wrist pinned down as his mouth stayed latched to you, dragging you through a mean orgasm until you were shaking and crying, completely wrecked.

and WHEW. what a mess.. you were sobbing and shaking as your orgasm came through you, your whole body trembling and spent.

only until then when you were finally able to push him off did he finally pull away, lips and chin shining as he grinned up at you. that bitch ass grin. "see? told you you could take it," he teased, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, rubbing the inside of your thigh gently.. back to square one.. again.

"you’re doing soo good for me though.. just one more, yeah? maybe two."

#gojo x reader #fic recs

424 notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 1 month ago

Text

Princess Skin 💈

husband!Baekhyun x reader

Synopsis: that your husband is a starved man when the matter is you, nothing new; sometimes, though, you need to remind him that you have a princess skin and it's sensitive & he needs to shave. it's okay to dely his morning banquet, you try to tell him; it actually is, he conforms, you're there to help.

Genre: playfull banter, slice of life, quite ⚠⚠ explicit smut ⚠⚠ (oral sex–fem!receiving) | ~2,5k words

A low, hoarse sigh escapes Baekhyun’s lips, resonating from deep within his chest, filling the quiet intimacy of the bathroom. The sound lingers, blending into the golden warmth of the wall lights as you gently tilt his head to the side.

He obeys without hesitation, his eyes fluttering shut, his hands resting firmly on your thighs. His grip is steady, grounding, hungry, fingers curling slightly over the hem of your oversized T-shirt—the one he used to wear but now lives permanently on your side of the wardrobe and makes a familiar sense of pride burn on his chest.

With careful precision, you trace the line of his jaw with the razor, your movement slow and deliberate as the white layer disappears to give way to his beautiful skin tone. His skin is warm beneath your touch, and the faint scratch of stubble yields easily to the blade in a dry sound.

You focus, the rhythm of the task drawing you in so you don't cut him. Or at least, you try. Maybe, you do focus—on the closeness of his body, his breath soft against your wrist, the way the tips of his fingers play with your skin, that threatens to distract you.

You take the blade to the basin full of water on your left, leaving the foam and the so short dark hairs floating in it. You can feel his eyes on you, following each movement with his gaze as your breasts gently sway beneath the fabric. The height difference is not significant, even with you sitting on the counter, but your gaze is slightly above his as you side eye him, arched eyebrow.

Those dark brown chocolate eyes melt slowly as a smirk grows on his lips, the fire beneath them burning slow, low and that oh so well pretended good behavior of his.

It had all started that morning, not long before this moment, when you were stirred awake by the faint, bristling sensation of his stubble against your neck. The warmth of him pressed against your back was the first thing you registered—the solid weight of his chest rising and falling in the slightly accelerated rhythm you've learned to know too well its meaning. Half-asleep, you instinctively raised a hand to his face, your fingers brushing over the rough texture of his unshaven jaw hidden in the tangle of your hair.

A warm kiss pressed against your neck, right where the steady pulse of blood thrummed beneath your skin. His lips lingered, soft yet deliberate, coaxing your breath to hitch as the warmth of his mouth sent a gentle shiver cascading down your spine.

The sheets rustled as he shifted beside you before the soft moan leave your lips fully, the faint weight of them pulling away leaving you more exposed to the cool morning air.

You stirred, your body half-claimed by sleep, yet acutely aware of him. His hand slid along your thigh, the touch slow and unhurried, a silent request you couldn’t deny. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he repositioned himself between your thighs, his movements purposeful but tender. Fingers brushed against the fabric of your shirt, the hem riding higher with every inch he claimed until his right hand cupped your breast, squeezing it with the whole palm.

Your back arched against the touch as you looked for a more comfortable position, already feeling a pleasant tingling in your stomach, your breathing quickening in anticipation, too drowned to him, to his touch, to all the things you knew he was caplable of doing and still surprised you every single time.

Your mind, intoxicated by expectation and not fully awakened sleep, took a while to register the muffled words coming from under the sheets. Before you could think to ask, the pressure from your panties on your hip bone as he pulled them to the side made you open your close your eyes again.

The tips of his fingers moved ever so slightly over your already wet clit, a gasp getting stuck in your throat. You could already imagine it—his face focused, his eyes wide and bright as he licked his soft pink lips, preparing to devour a feast. And oh my- you loved seeing him so hopelessly starved of you first thing in the morning.

You fought the instinct to close your legs when his index and middle finger slid between yours wet folds, caught by his teasing. Although, the soft satisfied sound that left your lips quickly turned into one of frustration, his fingers no longer touching you, the stubborn elastic of your panties covering your clit again.

The soft light from the room illuminated his face as you lifted the sheets, peeking at him. A wave of heat burned your cheeks as you caught him with both fingers on his mouth, lingering just against the tip of his tongue as he looked up at you.

Any complaint has left your being. You left him be, laying back down, his image stuck in the back of your mind.

But then you felt it—the rough scrape of his stubble, this time against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contrast was exquisite, a deliberate tease that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Baby…" you murmured, blindly grabbing his hair as a shiver runned down your spine on a not-so-satisfying feeling.

He didn't seem to listen, his touch unrelenting yet gentle, his hands steady as they coaxed your legs further apart as his lips met your warmth, sucking it gently. A soft, low hum came from him, a sound that vibrated against your skin, reverberating through you.

You held back a melodic ah as the kisses and hickeys spread your leaking wetness, his teeth too teasing you, parted only enough to let the warm breaths of air chill you a little more.

You knew he had lost the patience to wait when both hands grabbed you, one by your thigh and the other by the curve of your butt, holding your panties with the thumb right before his tongue sinfuly make its way from your entrance up to the clit.

The sensation hand you shivering, the brown strands intertwined tightly in your fingers. But then, a burning sensation took over.

"Baek..." a slight frown wrinkle your forehead as you spoke. "You're scratching me."

He paused for a moment, just long enough to let the anticipation build, his warm breath fanning over your exposed skin.

"You’re really making me stop to go shave?" he murmured from beneath the sheets, the rough edge of his stubble grazing your inner thigh again as be leaned on the elbows.

You tilted your head back against the pillow, your voice barely steady as you tried to pull your leg away.

"You already know my opinion on that."

You could feel him smirking against your skin, pressing another lingering kiss just above your knee.

"If I even grow a beard someday, will you keep me away from you sweet pussy for at least three weeks ‘til the beard no longer sting?" he teased, his hands sliding further up your leg, his touch igniting sparks which were all concentrated between your legs.

You tried to form a witty reply, the warmth of his breath and the deliberate hoarse words against your bare skin making it impossible to think clearly for a few seconds.

"Most likely." you managed to say, the mental image of a Baekhyun with a beard being difficult to conceive.

Baekhyun let go of your thighs, the warm sigh—more like a laugh—that left his mouth got you weak, and for a moment you almost pulled him back to you.

Reappearing from under the sheets scratching his chin, he looked at you. His lips found their way to yours, his whole body weighing you down against the mattress.

You could feel your taste on him, the growing hardness in his pyjama's pants pressing against you.

"Wanna help me?" he whispered, his voice low, thick with that sweet, convincing manipulation he wielded so well. His gaze moved down from your eyes to your lips, down to your neck—his thumb running through your clavicles. "Can't have my breakfast getting cold while waiting for me…"

And that is how you ended up here—perched on the counter, your legs parted to frame him as he stands between them. His gaze follows your every movement, dark and unwavering, as you dip the razor into the basin and wipe it clean on the towel.

The room is quiet save for the faint sound of water droplets and the soft scrape of metal as you carefully slid the blade down the line of his throat. His pulse steady, though the faint rise and fall of his chest betrays a quiet anticipation.

His adam’s apple shifts, slow and deliberate, as he swallows under your careful touch.

You pause for a moment, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin you’d left in the razor’s wake. His eyes flick up to meet yours, holding you there with a look that is equal parts trust and something deeper—something raw, burning hot and leaving you nervous.

The corner of his mouth tug upward in a slow, lazy smile.

"You like this, don’t you?" he teases, his voice soft, playful.

"You seem to be enjoying it more than me." you murmur, and his hands tighten ever so slightly on your thighs, moving further.

You roll your eyes, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrays your pretended annoyance. Carefully, you tilt his chin higher, exposing more of his neck, your fingers brushing against the sharp edge of his jaw. The moment is intoxicating, the intimacy—his surrender, your sense control, the quiet tension crackling between you like static electricity.

You can feel the tiny, slippery puddle forming in the marble under you, your panties—left somewhere you'll probably only find out after you get back from work— no longer being a protective barrier.

"You know…." he says, his voice low and gravelly. "...we could make of this a routine; I let my beard grow a little more than usual, you get all upset and bossy because I scratch your princess skin, and you get to see my face up this close while I-" he slides his thumb over your wetness, making you pull the blade away. A smirk grows on his face. "-til her royal highness authorize the presence of my mouth between her legs again. Huh? What do you say? Good deal?"

You sigh, spreading your legs slightly more. You try to disguise it, wiping the razor clean again, but the gaze is mischief enough for you to know you got caught.

It's not like he's in a place to speak: you could literally see the entire outline of his dick against the pants, his shoulders tense in an anticipation that you know too well. He's as needy as you, but his patience begins to inhibit itself—something you grow used to for good and for bad since he returned from the military.

"Stay still. I’m not done yet." Your eyes flicked back up to his, locking onto the dark intensity there.

A single line of shaving cream remained, stretching from his chin to the base of his neck, and you couldn’t help but let your lips curl into a faint, teasing smile.

"My only intention is not to get all scratched up." you add, your voice light with a hint of mischief.

His smirk was slow, deliberate, and maddeningly confident. His falsely shy fingers slide into your folds with a mix of restraint and indulgence that, he knows, leaves you aching for more. Looking into your eyes, he slowly curls them up against your sensitive walls.

"I think we both know you don’t mind a little scratch." he says, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

You shift on the counter, your buttock slipping on the cold marble due to that messy puddle you forgot about. Baekhyun grabs your hip with the free hand, steadying you in place.

"Eager, baby?" he teases.

You narrow your eyes at him, looking down at his left hand under your shirt. With a silently warning—to which he responds with a firmer grip the stillness of his fingers and hiding the lower lip, stretching the chin skin—you take the razor’s next glide, slow and steady along the smooth curve of his chin.

"Keep talking and I might ‘accidentally’ nick you." you warn him, though the way your thumb lightly brushes him betrays the care you are taking, trying not to squeeze his fingers, sinking them deeper.

His Adam’s apple bobbed again as he swallowed, the movement deliberate.

"I’m not worried." he replies as the blade leaves his skin as you make him tilt the head back again to light, checking your work. His tone a mix of trust and something more playful. "You’d never risk ruining your masterpiece."

You snort softly, dipping the razor back into the water and wiping it clean on the towel.

"Such confidence in me." you mutter, shaking your head, trying to deny the warmth curling low in your stomach at the way his gaze hadn’t left you for a second. Only the grip of his on you is keeping you from moving by now.

He leans in slightly, just enough for the edge of his stubble to graze your wrist as you adjust his chin again.

"Confidence, or just faith in you?" his voice a low rumble seems to vibrate through the small space between you. He digs his fingers into you, his thumb finding the pressure point just above your clit and moving in small circles. "You’re my beloved wife, aren’t you? So committed to keeping me in line... or at least keeping me smooth."

You pause, the razor held just above his skin, your breath catching as you close your eyes. For a moment, neither of you move, the air between you thick and warm.

"Baek..." His nickname falls from your lips in a barely audible whisper, the sound trembling in the quiet space. Your eyes flicker upward, struggling to meet his intense gaze as you steel yourself. "Lemme finish this and I’m all yours."

Baekhyun smirks, the curve of his lips both wicked and knowing. He shifts slightly, the smallest movement sending his thumb grazing over your clit—just enough to steal your breath and make you falter. Then, just as quickly, he pulls away, leaving a warmth that lingers long after his touch is gone.

"Go ahead." he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement.

And then, with deliberate care, you resume your work, the corner of your lips lifting ever so slightly.

"Not an easy job, to keep you smooth." you put down the blade, holding up the towel to clean his skin of any remaining cream and opening the moisturizing cream bottle. You apply a gentle layer of it on his skin, proud of your job, but it's quickly forgotten. "And it's probably over now…"

He grins.

"Of course it is." he leans against you again, his lips moving against yours as your hips are grabbed against his with a fast movement, taking you away from the counter. Your legs instinctively intertwine around his hips, you hands finding home on the back of his neck and hair.

The sensation is maddening, his lips finding their way downward, planting feather-light kisses along the curve of your neck, each one slow and deliberate, leaving a trail of warmth and want in their wake.

"Let me have my sweet treat now." he murmurs before making his way to the bed, sinking you into the pillows and crumpled sheets.

His body towers over yours, his broad shoulders pressing on your thighs open. His lips meet your stomach in a slow pace, his tongue pressing against your skin before sinking into your pussy again.

You glance down, your breath hitching as your eyes meet his—hungry, desperate, and unwavering. His starved gaze locks onto yours, the raw intensity in his expression sending a wave of heat coursing through your body.

The sounds of his tongue and lips working against you fill the room, unrestrained and unapologetic, echoing through the space with an intimacy that makes you see stars for a moment.

A moan escapes your lips, drawn out by the relentless rhythm of his movements. The sound seems to affect him too, and he answers with a low groan of his own, muffled against you as his hips press into the mattress beneath him. The sheets rustle under his weight, his movements restless, insatiable.

Your hand finds its way to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as his name falls from your lips in a breathless cry. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter; if anything, your touch spurs him further, his focus entirely on you, on this, on the unspoken connection binding you together, and on the way he seems go never get enough of you.

His hands roam over your skin, your thighs, your hips, your waist. His touch is almost frantic, fingers digging in as though he’s anchoring himself, or perhaps losing control altogether.

You catch the faint glimmer of tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, his pupils blown wide with lust, his face flushed and utterly consumed by the moment. And oh... you're thankful you're also a pillow princess.

#baekhyun x reader #fic recs

121 notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 1 month ago

Text

It’s like a full-blown addiction, but instead of drugs or booze, it’s this fictional guy who’s got her wrapped around his finger. She knows it’s fucked up—knows she’s out here daydreaming about someone who’s not even real—but who cares? This guy? He’s everything. He’s charming in the worst ways, flawed in every possible sense, but there’s just something about him that has her hooked. He doesn’t even know she exists, but she’s ready to fight anyone who says a word against him. Seriously, she’ll defend his honor like it’s a fucking life-or-death mission.

He’s a goddamn trainwreck, but he’s her trainwreck. She’ll put up with all his baggage, his emotional scars, his dark sides, because somehow, that brokenness makes him feel more real to her than any real guy could. He’s messed up, but she’ll fix him in her head every single time. Maybe it’s that thrill of knowing he’s dangerous and untouchable that makes him even more irresistible. He might break her heart in a hundred ways, but it’s the kind of heartbreak that makes her feel alive, even if it hurts like hell.

And it’s never gonna happen, right? She knows that. He’s not gonna waltz into her life and sweep her off her feet. But it doesn’t matter. Because she gets to have him on her terms—no messy reality, no awkward first dates, no risking her heart for real. He’s always there when she needs him, in that perfect little bubble of fantasy she’s built for herself. And maybe she’s a little crazy for it, but at least with him, she’s never disappointed. Every time she replays his scenes, reads the fanfics, imagines their future together—it's like a high she can never quite shake. She knows it's all just a mindfuck, but she’s never felt more alive.

12K notes · View notes

orphicmeliora · 1 month ago

Text

inebriated | sylus

— summary: you comment on how good he’s gotten at these domestic things, and his mouth twitches with a smile. for you, he would give up this menacing life he leads if it meant waking to your smile each day, dancing and kissing in the kitchen over pancakes and overdone eggs. — cw: written with femme reader in mind, alcohol & drug use, mild language, tooth-rotting fluff, domestic bliss, sylus is down bad & probably ooc — notes: head empty, just vibes. i needed some domestic, self-indulgent fluff, and this is the result. thank you so much for reading. — now playing: waiting in vain - jordan ward

Sylus, but in the midst of a meeting. And it's all tense, everyone shifty-eyed and tight-lipped, trying to figure out the best way to expand Onychinus’ reach. But then, a particular ringtone breaks through the seemingly impenetrable silence that’s befallen the dimly-lit, smoke-laden room.

The gentleman beside Sylus stifles a laugh into his fist under the pretense of clearing his throat. Sylus gives him a look that bodes disaster as he fishes his phone from his pocket. Fearing for his life, the man glances away, straightening his tie.

With his cell poised in the air like a loaded gun, Sylus dares anyone else to comment on his choice of ringtone with a ticked brow and a swift survey around the room. Everyone pointedly looks elsewhere, hoping to leave with their lives intact.

Seeing as no one’s ballsy enough to contest him, the crime lord brings the phone to his ear, answering with a curt “Speak.”

“Mister Skye?”

The voice breaking through the static is most certainly not yours. And that notion has Sylus sitting up at breakneck speed, assuming the worst. That tense air from before returns, slung over everyone’s shoulders like sandbags.

An anxious chuckle erupts from the other side of the phone. “Sorry. It’s Tara. I probably should've led with that. Didn't mean to freak you out.”

The rigid set of his shoulders eases up the slightest bit. At least you’re with a friend. Still, why is she calling him from your phone?

“Sorry to bug you. But could you come get her? I think she’s had a little too much to drink. She keeps antagonizing the biggest guys here. Says she’ll sick her bad-ass mafia boyfriend on them or something.”

Sylus’ lips quirk. He pinches the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a migraine creeping in whilst a sigh pushes through his nostrils. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or annoyed.

“They’re about to kick us out of the bar. Please come.”

He can taste the exasperation in Tara’s voice, the poor girl. On cue, you chime in from the background, wailing about needing your ‘Big Daddy Caw-Cawk.’

Someone in the briefing room snorts but quickly hides it when Sylus levels a glare at them.

Relieved, Sylus straightens, rolling the tension from his shoulders. “Where are you?”

It’s laughable how quickly Tara answers, ready to pass you off like a baton. “Husk. Downtown on Main Street. I can drop a pin—”

“No need,” he interjects, well-versed in your points of interest. What? He’s just being the model boyfriend. Definitely not stalking you. “I’ll be there in ten.”

She laughs, the sound of it relieved. “Thank you, Mr. Skye. Seriously, you don’t understand—what the hell are you doing?! Get off the table!”

Before the line cuts, furniture crashes and glass shatters.

Sylus clears his throat, adjusting his collar. Straightens the cuffs of his sleeves before abruptly standing, the jarring screech of his chair across the tiled floor making everyone in the room wince.

He doesn’t bother with formalities, shoving his hands in his pockets, that customary bored look descending onto his face. The twins materialize at his sides without a hitch as he makes his way to the door, the atmosphere charged with unanswered questions and anxious looks.

“Mister Sylus!” one of the men calls to his retreating back. But he’s silenced by his seatmate with a hand on his shoulder and a head shake.

“No sense in getting between that man and his girl. Last guy who did…well, you can probably guess the rest.”

With this new information hovering in the air, the gentlemen around the table exchange grumbles and stiff looks, deciding to carry on as if their leader never left.

—

Sylus has impeccable timing.

He’s tugging his motorcycle helmet off when you emerge from the bar’s double doors, arm linked with Tara’s, the straps of your heels dangling off your finger.

“Fuck you,” you spit back at the bouncer who so graciously escorted you out. He counters you with his middle finger, muttering something about you being a bitch.

Sylus’ jaw tenses. His skin prickles with the threat of his Evol. But he tamps down his irritation when Tara spots him. And she’s damn near sprinting, dragging you alongside her.

“Mister Skye!” Tara beams, a nervous chuckle in her throat. He acknowledges her with a nod and a rehearsed half-smile, his gaze sliding to you.

You stand beside Tara with crossed arms, bottom lip jutting out with a pout as you pointedly look elsewhere. You’re adorable when you know you’re in trouble, the ambient string lights strung overhead highlighting the pretty contours of your face. Glancing between you and Sylus, Tara slips behind you, practically shoving you into his arms. You stumble with a slew of curses into the hard planes of his chest.

“She’s all yours,” says Tara, a little too ecstatic for his liking.

Gently wrapping his fingers around your arm, Sylus guides you over the curb towards his bike. Nods at Tara over his broad shoulder, and she grins, frantically waving goodbye. He stifles a chuckle when her shoulders slump, relief washing over her features. You must’ve been quite the handful throughout the night.

Wordlessly, he pulls you to a stop before his motorcycle. Turns away to fetch your helmet, expectantly holding it out for you to take. You continue this huffy game of yours, instead glaring at something behind him. Before he can speak, your eyes alight with childlike glee, and you dash past him across the street in a blur of glitter and perfume.

With his mouth slightly ajar, Sylus watches you cross the street to a brightly colored cart. The cart's awning features a telltale hotdog logo, and he sighs, shaking his head before following after you. You’re shoving a hotdog into your mouth when he reaches you, your eyes gleaming whilst an appreciative hum eases from your throat.

“Sweetie,” he tries, something akin to affection swelling in his chest. “You’re not wearing shoes.”

You ignore him in favor of savoring your meal. Clearly inebriated if the heavy flutter of your lashes is anything to go by. Try as he might to suppress it, a smile rounds his lips, and while you eat, he takes this time to appraise you.

Errant curls cling to your comically full cheeks. Your makeup is flattering, your lashes wispy, and your lips painted a dangerous shade of rouge. One strap of your dress falls off your shoulder, and the tight cling of your attire leaves little to the imagination. Full thighs peer from beneath a devastating hemline, legs stretching for days. His study ends at your feet, bare and probably sore from wearing heels all night.

Sylus reaches out to pat your head, eyes slit with affection. Internally, he gushes when you turn innocent eyes on him, the brooding figure you once were tucked far beneath your skin. He surmises that Tara couldn't tame you because you were hangry. You always are after a night of drinking. He steps behind you to fix your straps, fingers softly gliding over your shoulders.

He angles himself to ear level, murmuring, “Let’s get you home,” before ushering you towards his bike with a wide, reassuring palm at your back.

You’re more agreeable this time around, nodding and toddling in front, scarfing down the remains of your hotdog.

—

You cut a sleek outline amid the bustling streets of Linkon, streetlights glazing over the dark lenses of your visors.

Your arms loosely wound about his stomach, you’re a warm pressure at Sylus’ back. And you’re giggling something cute, uttering incoherencies that make his lips quirk beneath his helmet. Whatever you drank has you feeling good, your grasp on him slackening even more as you lose yourself to the music blaring in your helmet’s speakers.

Sylus’ hand covers yours, wordlessly encouraging you to hold fast to him. Linkon’s streets might have the speed limits that the N109 Zone lacks, but he’s still driving fast enough to lose you if he isn’t attentive.

“Sylus!” you call amid the wind sweeping your bodies.

“Sweetie?”

The mischievous giggle that follows makes something cold drop into his belly.

“I had an edible!” And you sound so proud, like a child showing their macaroni art to their parents.

An indignant sound is pinched from Sylus’ throat. His eyes widen the slightest. He makes a note to give Tara an earful when he next sees her, squeezing your hands over his navel whilst he cuts a turn.

—

Your laughter ricochets off the stilled halls of your apartment complex.

He’s got you cradled in his arms, bridal style, not at all fazed by your jostling about. With a flicker of his Evol, your front door clicks open, and he dips inside, kicking the door shut once you’re nestled in your entryway's cold, dark embrace. He entertains your nonsensical talk with an occasional hum as he toes off his red bottoms, carrying you deeper into your home.

“Shh,” you suddenly hush, shifty-eyed and stiffening in his hold.

Sylus quirks a brow, slowing to a stop.

Your lidded gaze slides to him, and with a pretty, drunken smile, you say, “My boyfriend’ll be here any minute, Mister. If you’re trying to get freaky, we better do it before he comes.”

Rolling his eyes, Sylus continues through your apartment, effortlessly hauling you to your bathroom.

The room floods with fluorescent light, and you wince against its brilliance, tucking your face into his chest with a hiss. He chuckles something low, depositing you onto your countertop. Your arms fall listlessly from around his neck at your sides, where you try vainly to prop yourself up. It seems gravity has other plans, a blissful, blurring wave of vertigo crashing into you. You reel forward with an intoxicated laugh, but Sylus is quick, steadying you with hands wrapped around your arms.

He studies you beneath the light. Bites back a grin at your adorable swaying, soundlessly assuring you won’t go barrelling off the counter again if he steps away. He props you against the mirror before getting to work. Snatches a towel from your rack, dampening it beneath the warm spray of your sink’s faucet.

Delicately, Sylus blots at your forehead, soaking up the sweat and grime you’ve accumulated throughout the night. He ducks down briefly to fetch some wipes from your cabinet and steps between your legs, cleaning off your makeup with rehearsed precision.

It’s not the first time he’s done this, and he finds solace in the monotony of it all. He feels honored, being this close to you. Tilting your head back with cautious fingers encasing your jaw. He strips you down to the marrow, literally and figuratively wiping off the facade you outwardly present to the world.

You comment on how good he’s gotten at these domestic things, and his mouth twitches with a smile. For you, he would give up this menacing life he leads. Would arrange the stars in the sky if it meant waking to your smile each day, dancing and kissing in the kitchen over pancakes and overdone eggs.

For now, he settles for this. And when he’s thoroughly swiped the remnants of your makeup from your face, he steps back to appraise his work. He prefers you like this, he thinks as he taps his temple. Bare-faced and unguarded, smiling without a care in the world.

Taking up your hands, he tugs you to your feet. Moves like he’s working with porcelain, slipping the straps of your dress off your shoulders. He blisters your shoulders with kisses in his fingers’ wake as he slips your dress down until it pools into a serpentine pile at your feet.

He divests you of your bra and panties, promising to behave despite how bewitchingly your skin glows and how easily it glides beneath his roving palms. He escorts you into the shower once he finishes, where its warm spray works as a soothing balm over your strained muscles.

When you’re clean and lavender-scented, he swaths you in a towel he’d procured from the towel warmer he bought you and guides you into your bedroom, chuckling when you stop occasionally to tempt him into a kiss.

Helping you into a comfortable set of pajamas, he eases you into your bed, the cozy linen drawing a pleased sigh from the dredges of your chest. Your eyes dance with sleep, and he’s about to leave you before your fingers weakly wrapped around his wrist stop him.

The look you give him makes his chest squeeze, and had he been anyone but Sylus, he’d be fawning and cooing over how adorable you are.

“Stay,” you beseech, your voice husky with exhaustion.

He hesitates for a moment. Murders you with anticipation, though he very well intends to stay. With a smile curving his lips, Sylus peels off his shirt, clad only in his trousers, as he slips beneath the comforter behind you. You settle against him, winding his arms around your middle. And you notch your hips up against him as if you’ve always fit there like a puzzle piece.

You wiggle your bottom mischievously, but he stills you, reasoning that he’ll never take advantage of you while you’re inebriated. With a haughty pout, you give up on your efforts to seduce him.

You’re content with him holding you like this, stroking over the skin of your wrist with his thumb as you surrender your consciousness to the pretty girls of sleep, ushered to them by his even breaths at the shell of your ear.

#sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #fic recs

2K notes · View notes