#old mansion ending

[nostalgicfun]

Bedroom, 2008

[nateezfics]

he looks so vampy in these photos;; i’m so in love

[nenoname]

somehow i never noticed that mabel's fave puppet was supposed to be the bear from hoo-ha owl's (aka the giffiny ep)

its name is the keyword to the ep's cipher too!

[mariocki]

Mansion of the Doomed (Massacre Mansion, 1976)

"You must trust me. I'm going to give you back your eyes, all of you. Soon. As soon as I've succeeded with Nancy, as soon as I... I discover the truth. I will share that truth with you. For the whole world! I believe in humanity, that's - that's what it's all about."

[sweet-honey-bubbles-127]

Got so excited for a dress I ordered that I had draw it out and, uh…

[astrofiish]

Once again rotating Zach Barns shitty experiences post labryinthia (whenever the fuck he decides to leave)

[icewindandboringhorror]

my personal Media Genres tier ranking and also Neopets Species tiers. put together in the same post just due to being adjacently related because they're on the same website lol

links to the specific tier makers: Media Genres --- Neopets

[bluesylveon2]

Idk why but I literally saw Siatrich and Naomi interact once and went: I ship it 🤣

[stinkrascal]

im not updating my game yet, i cant deal with that headache right now 😭

[godstrain]

he knows the others are still trying to figure out what's happened to the moon maiden- physically there, but clearly frightened. as he rationalizes it, he does what he can to fight back against the cold grip of the memories of the past- she should know the others, he thinks. it's odd that she was so frightened. something's off-

houndoom is there, of course he is. the large canine giving the man an affectionate lick to ground him in reality. he finds himself once again grateful for the dog- quietly admitting to himself once again that a therapy animal was a good idea.

he notes that there are candles that are lit- it's easier to see. he contemplates putting his shades back on, but he knows that the lights could vanish at any moment. it's not practical to wear them- even if he becomes an open book without them. but everyone in his new team seems to have their own baggage, and maybe- maybe they won't judge him and things will work out. because when he arrived, they called him a faller. someone already out of place. he thinks it gives him a pass in this regard. they won't question him- hopefully. because he's not ready to really talk about the full truth yet. and maybe he never will be.

when he returns to the others, he takes note. yuri is awake. rika is giving yellow a piggy back. matsuba seems to be slowly recovering from his ordeal. the others are in tact, and he breathes a sigh of relief. ❝ i hope i didn't keep you waiting long- ❞ polite, professional. he locks the pain of the past away again. he'll face it on his own terms, on his own time.

[lord-radish]

Whenever I'm upset about something and I have to like rant about it to myself to come to terms with how it makes me feel, I have a go-to sentence I use to really hone in on it. Like if something is so irritating or nonsensical or generally anger-inducing that I just have to get it out.

Like I have a coworker who's always talking about what would make the laundry better, talking about these multi-million dollar renovations and things that are *never going to happen* and entirely fail to fix the immediate surface-level issues we're experiencing right now, in the moment, that I'm usually trying to fix while he's talking to me. It really does come off as him going "oh you know what would be so much better for efficiency? if cars ran on rainbows and grass clippings and the tears of happy kittens :)" - he means well, but it fixes NOTHING, it's wishful thinking at BEST

And I swear to god, at least once a week - at LEAST

I have to conjure up the mental fortitude to bite my tongue and keep it to myself

but mentally? I'm winding it up like a punch, before I let out the loudest, angriest call of:

"Coworker, what in the everLOVING NAME OF FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!?!?!?!?!??????!!!!??"

[capriciousnarrator]

Favorite Flavor of Apocalypse?

Which books have kicked the world in the shins in a most entertaining fashion?

Starvation Island will be the concluding installment of the End-User Jack series, and I get to explore the cataclysm which has afflicted Jack’s real-world home known as the Tower. It got me thinking about how my favorite post-apocalyptic novels handled their end-of-the-world scenarios, and which ones did it best. In my books, I’ve brought the world to the brink with genetic engineering…

[imaginedisish]

Dare (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey guys. Just wanted to say thank you for all the support I got this morning. All of your comments really warmed my heart. Thank you so, so, so much. I ended up getting this done pretty fast. Went with "Dare" by Gorillaz for the title. Made me feel better to write. I like this one. Hope you do, too. Enjoy!

Summary: Logan finds out you've never been eaten out while playing a game of "Truth or Dare," and he's more than willing to change that.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!! SMUT!!! Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, softdom!Logan, pussydrunk!Logan (he does not let up, he is starving for you), older!Logan, implied aged gap (reader is in her 20s/old enough to teach at the institute), cocky!Logan, he is an absolute service dom in this, friends to lovers, mentions of mental health/self worth, fluff, some hurt to comfort, some angst, afab/fem!reader, cursing, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 4,235 wowza didn't expect that and oh my god this gif

You’re lying on your floor—the door to your room wide open. Everyone is out anyway. It’s Friday night at the mansion—no one will see you like this. Students’ papers are scattered around you. You stare up at the ceiling, feeling choked up. It had been a bad day—a bad week. Maybe even a bad year. You feel like you’re slipping, losing yourself. 

Teaching the older students had become beyond challenging—possibly because you aren’t much older than them in the first place. Most days, it felt like everyone expected greatness from you, given the strength of your powers, which naturally comes with responsibility, and that can be incredibly overwhelming. It had all been—if you were being brutally honest—an absolutely terrible time. 

So, you’re lying on your floor, feeling numb. You stopped grading papers at least an hour ago, and simply decided to stare at the ceiling, your head spinning. You wanted to calm the noise, to take a breather. Luckily, you’re alone—everyone is on a mission or out given that it’s Friday night. 

Or so you thought. 

“What on Earth are you doing?” A familiar voice cuts through the silence like a knife, jarring you, and forcing you to look up. And there he is, in a white t-shirt and denim jeans, arms crossed tightly against his chest, leaning in the doorway. Logan. You want to roll your eyes at how good he looks. You want to slap yourself for thinking it in the first place.

He smirks at you, his brows furrowed playfully. You let your head fall back to the floor. “Grading papers,” you mutter. You can hear his footsteps as he walks into the room, drawing closer to you. 

“Doesn’t look like you’re grading papers to me,” he teases. You can hear the smile in his voice. “Why aren’t you out with Jean or Rogue?” 

He stands next to you, and you look up at him. “Didn’t feel like it,” you mumble, forcing yourself to sit up. You draw your knees into your chest. You decide to turn the question around on him. “Why aren’t you out?”

He sits down next to you, stretching his long legs in front of him, his shoulder bumping against yours as he settles in. He shrugs. “Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on you, right?” He jokes, nudging his elbow into your arm. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. It’s impossible to fight it when he’s next to you. Your eyes meet his, and his smile quickly turns into something else—concern. “You’ve been off lately.”

You swallow harshly. “Did Jean or Rogue say something?” You ask. They’d notice, maybe they told Logan. “Did they ask you to stay with me or something?”

But Logan shakes his head. “No. I could just tell,” he says, worry clear in his voice. “Thought I’d hang back with you. All my idea.” He tilts his head, his jaw working, his brows furrowing again. “Is something going on?” 

You take a deep breath, turning away from him. You’re suddenly overwhelmed by his presence, by his kindness and his care. He stayed home for you. “I’m okay,” you mutter, avoiding the truth. 

“Hey,” Logan whispers, tentatively reaching his hand to your knee, waiting for you to shove him away. His palm is warm against your skin, calming and stabilizing. You turn back to look at him, his brows raised incredulously. “I know that’s not true,” he says. He has always been able to read you like a book. “What’s going on?”

You swallow harshly. “I’ve just been having a tough time lately,” you say, distracted by the way his thumb brushes across your knee. “I…” You trail off, letting your eyes fall closed. “Things are hard.”

“You can talk about it if you want,” he says, his voice deep and steady. “I’m here.” 

You sniffle, struggling to keep yourself in check. “I just…” you pause, looking off to the side. “Everything sucks.” You take another deep breath. “And the students are so hard.” You point to the piles of papers scattered around your floor. “And then there’s me, and all my shit. My powers. The responsibilities we have. I’m young, and I’m still learning. And fuck, Logan, this all just feels so impossible sometimes. It…it…” You trail off, finally running out of words, out of steam.

“It hurts.” He finishes your sentence, taking the words right out of your mouth. You turn back towards him, your eyes instantly meeting his. “It hurts a lot.”

You nod. “Yeah, exactly.” He squeezes your knee comfortingly. “You get it,” you murmur. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he soothes, his hand lifting off your knee, his arm wrapping around your shoulder instead. “I’ve got you.” You let yourself lean into his touch, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “Let’s take your mind off things, yeah?”

You nod against him, not wanting to move away, not wanting to separate from him. He feels so nice, so solid. “What did you have in mind?” You ask, hoping it doesn’t involve getting up.

“Wanna play a game?” He offers, turning his head to look down at you. You smile widely, almost mockingly. “What?” He chides. “You think I don’t know how to have fun?”

You laugh softly. “I just don’t see you as a game guy, Lo,” you confess. He chuckles, and you can feel his laughter reverberating through his chest. “Can you even think of one to play?”

Logan’s still laughing, shaking his head. “What about truth or dare?” He ever so slightly pulls you in closer, his lips pressed against the side of your head. 

You giggle, feeling light for the first time in a long time. “Are we in seventh grade?” You ask teasingly. You felt like a teenager, honestly—being next to Logan always made you feel like a love-sick schoolgirl. But you know you and him could never be. You were younger than Logan—everyone was—but you, being in your 20s, assume that Logan doesn’t see you the way you see him. 

He just shakes his head and laughs, pulling you back to reality. “Truth or dare?” He asks, ignoring your middle school comment and officially starting the game. 

You don’t want to get up, don’t want to move an inch, so you answer: “Truth,” hoping it isn’t anything too crazy. 

Logan thinks for a second, his head resting on yours. “Why’d you pick truth instead of dare?” He finally asks. 

You roll your eyes. “Boring!” You tease. “I only picked it because I don’t feel like moving.” And then you realize…perhaps your answer is more revealing than you previously considered. Your heart thunders in your chest. 

Logan hums. “And why don’t you want to move, exactly?” He’s onto you. 

“You asked your question, you got an answer,” you protest, trying to shut him down. “No follow-up questions.” It’s your turn now. “Truth or dare?” You ask. 

“Truth,” he says. “Because maybe I don’t feel like moving either.”

You smile, and you can feel him looking down at you. You’re too nervous to meet his gaze. You think for a moment, racking your brain for a question. “Did you really stay home for me, and was it all your own idea?” You finally ask. You regret the question almost immediately, fearful of the honest answer. 

“Yes,” he responds without a beat. “Jean said you were staying in, and said she didn’t know why, so I stayed too.” He pauses, and you can hear his steady breathing amidst the silence. “I was worried, princess.” The pet name burns a hole through your heart. “Needed to know that you were okay.”

You can feel tears building behind your sinuses. “Thank you, Lo,” you whisper. “That means a lot.”

He presses the ghost of a kiss to the crown of your head—almost not quite there. But you can feel it, hesitant and tentative. “It’s nothing, no need to thank me.” You finally find the courage to look up at him and find him smiling down at you. His lips part. “Truth or dare?” He asks again. 

You can feel some sort of tension brewing, building, thick and heavy. You try to ignore it, try to brush it off. Your heart hammers in your chest. “Truth,” you pick again. “But get a little more creative this time.”

He pauses, the gears in his head turning. And then finally: “Why’s your heart beating so fast? It’s loud, too.” 

Your eyes widen, suddenly remembering Logan’s heightened senses. He can hear everything. “Uh…” You trail off, not sure how to get out of this. “I-It’s not…”

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. You know that?” His voice is deep and honeyed, smooth. “You gotta answer the question, or I get to ask another.”

“Those are not the rules!” You protest, lifting your head to look at him. He’s got that shit-eating grin on his face, the one that makes your stomach drop. 

He tugs you into his chest again, his lips at the shell of your ear. “Then answer the question,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, sending a chill down your spine. He’s so close. Too close. Your heart is only beating faster, louder now. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. But of course, you know. It’s all because of him. “Just anxious, I guess.” It’s a half-truth—you’re certainly nervous, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him why. 

“No need to be nervous, sweetheart,” Logan coos, his thumb brushing circles into your shoulder. “It’s just me.”

Yes, exactly, you want to say. It’s you. But you don’t. You try to steady your breathing, try to calm down. “My turn,” you force yourself to say. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” he says darkly. “And make it good.” You can hear the cockiness in his voice—a sudden shift in his tone. 

“We should just call this truth or truth,” you say, mulling over a question in your mind. It’s hard to think with him this close—hard to breathe. You want to rile him up, to find out what makes him tick—to make him itch the way he makes you. And then it hits you: the perfect question. “When was the last time you…” You stop yourself, suddenly too nervous to ask. 

“When was the last time I what, darlin’?” He asks, cocking his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. 

You huff. You’ve fallen into your own trap. There’s no backing out now. “When was the last time…” You pause again, biting your lip. You close your eyes. “…somebody got you off?” 

“Been a while,” he says simply. Your eyes flutter open, and Logan is completely relaxed, his eyes trained on you. He isn’t annoyed. He’s unbothered, unprovoked, as if you had asked him what the weather was going to be like tomorrow. “But it depends on how you mean. So, what do you mean?” He finishes. 

You’re slightly frustrated by how easy it was for him to answer. “I don’t know,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulders. “Whatever the last time was.”

“Few years back, not particularly proud of it,” he huffs. “Girl took care of me in a bar. That was it.” 

You nod. “Must’ve been nice,” you whisper, suddenly feeling a bit disheartened. You catch his drift; you know it didn’t mean anything. You likely didn’t know Logan at that time, having only arrived at the Institute two years ago. You know you shouldn’t feel jealous, shouldn’t care that he was ever with someone else, even for a fleeting moment. You’ve had boyfriends. You’ve been with other people. 

“It was fine. Just a blowjob.” He says it nonchalantly. “Didn’t mean a thing.” You look straight ahead, waiting for him to elaborate. But he doesn’t. “Truth or dare?” He finally asks. 

“Truth.” Your fake, plastered-on smile becomes real when his eyes meet yours. It’s just what happens when you look at him. “And make it interesting.”

The corner of his mouth turns up slyly, and you know he has something up his sleeve. “When was the last time somebody did that to you?” He asks. 

You cock your head to the side. “What do you mean?” But you already know exactly what he’s asking. And you desperately do not want to give him the answer.

“Got you off, like that,” he husks. “With their mouth.”

Fuck. “Uh…” You trail off. You can feel heat spreading across your chest and up your neck, your skin prickling. “Never,” you say honestly. 

“What?” Logan’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “Never?”

You’re suddenly embarrassed. Your skin feels tight—so do your shorts and tank top. “Never,” you repeat, looking down at your knees, still pulled in tightly to your chest. Your heart beats rapidly. “Just hasn’t happened yet,” you choke out. “I’ve been with people, but…”

“Hey,” he whispers, suddenly grabbing your chin and angling you up to face him. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, princess.”

You smile shyly, reveling in his touch. “You didn’t,” you insist honestly. “Just a little embarrassed.”

Logan shakes his head, his eyes softening. “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” he assures. “You deserve to be taken care of.” His hand slides across your jaw and cups the back of your neck. “Deserve to feel good.”

Your eyes flutter closed at his touch. “Lo,” you whisper, struggling to keep your composure. Heat pools between your thighs. “Tr-truth or dare.”

His forehead presses to yours. “I think we’re done with the game, pretty girl,” he rasps, the arm around your shoulder slipping down to your waist. “Unless I get to give you a dare this time.”

“What’s the dare?” You ask, your eyes fluttering back open. His lips are so close. Your noses touch softly.

He works his jaw, licking his lips. “Let me eat you out, pretty girl,” he pants, his chest heaving against yours. “Let me take care of you like you should’ve been already.” He hates the idea that you’ve never been touched properly, the idea that those younger guys didn’t know how to treat you right. But he can fix that. He can make you feel good.

“Fuck,” you curse, his breath fanning across your lips. “A-are you sure?” You ask. “I don’t want you to do it just because you feel bad for me or—” “You think that’s what this is about?” He cuts you off, pulling you closer so that your body faces his, your thighs slotting together like puzzle pieces. “You think I want this just because I feel bad for you?”

“Well…” You search his eyes. “Yes,” you say. 

Logan’s face falls, and he shakes his head. “I want you, pretty girl,” he pants, his knee rubbing against your aching core. “Wanted you this whole time.” His palm presses firmly against your back, his other hand gripping your neck tighter. He wants, no, needs you closer. “You ruined me the second I saw you. Haven’t been with anyone since then.”

“Logan,” you whisper, bringing your hands up to his neck. “I want you too. Always have,” you confess.

He smiles, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to yours. “Then let me do this for you,” he rasps, almost begging, like he needs this more than you do. “Need to make you feel good, beautiful.” “Please,” you breathe. “Want you so bad, Lo.”

He curses under his breath, his lips capturing yours, harder this time. This kiss is starving, all-consuming. His tongue swipes across your lower lip, and you open your mouth, inviting him inside. He lowers you down carefully, sure not to break the kiss, guiding your back to the wood floor below. 

His thighs rest on either side of your hips as he hovers over you, bracing himself with his forearm. His free hand trails up your body, exploring your curves, hiking your shirt above your breasts. He smirks against your lips at the realization that you have no bra on. 

“Look at you,” he mumbles, rolling a nipple under his thumb, palming your breast. “Fucking perfect.” His fingertips drag to the other side, massaging you gently, taking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger and pinching softly. “Can smell you, you know,” he grunts. “Know you’re soaking for me, darlin’.”

His hand slides between the valley of your breasts, trailing down your stomach, until his fingertips bump into the waistband of your panties. He hesitates, looking down at you, waiting for you to change your mind, to tell him to stop. “Please,” you beg. “Need you, Lo.”

Logan smirks, his hand slipping under the hem of your shorts and inside your panties. “Love it when you call me that, sweetheart,” he groans. His fingertips flick your clit gently before finding your folds, feeling your arousal. “Barely even touched you,” he tuts. “And she’s already crying for me.”

He prods your entrance, spreading your slick, teasing you. He bites your lips, sucking so hard he might bruise—might draw blood—and you hope he does. You want proof that he was here, proof that he wants you—needs you this badly. You moan as his fingers find your clit again, drawing a few soft circles before pulling away, his hand slipping out of your shorts. 

You grab his biceps needily, impatiently, your nails digging into his skin. “Don’t stop,” you cry out. “Please, Logan.” 

He swallows your moans with another kiss, his lips trailing down to your jaw, then your neck—that sensitive spot just under your ear. “Don’t worry, pretty girl,” he soothes, biting down on your pulse point, licking the hollow of your throat. “Don’t think I could stop if I tried.” He nips at your collarbone, shoving your tank top further up your chest as his lips drag down the valley of your breasts. 

He kisses his way to your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down your legs. His palms spread across your inner thighs, yanking them apart. He settles between them, his face just inches from your heat. He presses a chaste kiss to your clit, still all too clothed, hidden behind your panties. 

“Lo,” you whine. He breathes you in, pressing another kiss to your clit. He digs his fingers into the hem of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs. 

“Wanna take my time with you, sweetheart,” he grunts, finally throwing your panties to the side. He spreads your legs wider, his face settling back between your thighs. You can feel his breath against your cunt, warm and teasing. “Wanna take care of you.” His lips finally find your clit again, and he licks at you. 

His tongue is soft, warm, wet. He laps at you again, harder this time, and you moan his name. “Fuck,” you curse as he licks a long stripe through your folds and back up to your clit, flicking the bud. Your legs twitch, your hips backing away involuntarily at the newfound pleasure. Logan’s hands slide under your ass, yanking you back to his face. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He mumbles teasingly against you, the vibration of his deep, bassy voice rocking your core. “Not letting you go until I’m done with you, darlin’.”

You curse under your breath as he licks another long, slow stripe through your folds before settling on your clit. His tongue draws gentle circles around the bud, and you can’t hold back the loud moan that falls from your lips. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks between laps. “Feels good, pretty girl?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer, looking down at Logan, his face buried against your cunt. His eyes are trained on yours, watching your every move, taking in the way you’re squirming for him. “D-didn’t know it would feel this good, Lo.”

“Gonna try something, okay?” He says, his eyes searching yours. You nod emphatically, bracing yourself. His lips wrap around your clit, his teeth lightly grazing the bud as he pulls it into his mouth. And then he sucks, hard. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, your back arching off the floor.

He releases the bud, and does it again, sucking harder this time. Tears brim at the corners of your eyes, pleasure coursing through your veins. “Logan!” You cry out, your nails digging into the floor below, searching for purchase. “Fuck!” He laps at you soothingly, drawing tighter, faster circles around your clit. 

“You okay?” He coos between laps, his tongue swirling rapidly. 

You swallow, meeting his gaze again. The sight of him between your legs, working your clit, his hair a disheveled mess—it’s overwhelming. “Yeah,” you heave. “More than okay.”

He smirks against you and wraps his lips around your clit again, sucking on the bud like hard candy. His right hand slides out from under your ass, trailing up your inner thigh. Your heart thunders in your chest as his fingertips find your folds, spreading your slick, your walls clenching down around nothing. 

“Know you need ‘em, pretty girl,” Logan croons, two fingers nudging your entrance. “Beg for it.”

But he’s sucking on your clit again, making it impossible to say a word. You whimper, your legs trembling. “P-please,” you stutter, choking on air. “Need…” You trail off, your eyes fluttering closed. You swallow harshly. “Need your fingers, Lo,” you finally manage. 

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, shoving two fingers deep inside you, down to his knuckles. 

“Fuck, thank you,” you whine, moaning his name as his fingers stretch you out. You suddenly feel so full, so warm, so close. He pulls out, only to plunge back in, deeper this time. He’s lapping at you with reckless abandon—a man starved, like you’re the air he needs to breathe. Your walls flutter around him, the liquid heat in your lower belly threatening to burst. 

“Tastes so good,” Logan mumbles against you, his long, thick fingers thrusting in and out. He hits that sweet spot deep inside you with every pump. “Such a sweet little pussy. Tastes better than I imagined.” You’re crumbling underneath him. His words alone might push you over the edge. “Nothing compares to you, you know that?”

Your walls flutter again, his fingers sinking deeper inside you. “You like that?” Logan husks. “Like knowing how much I want you? How much I need you?”

“Yes,” you groan, his fingers fucking into you, faster now. His teeth graze your clit as he pulls the bud back into his mouth and sucks roughly. “N-need you, too. Always.” 

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes, scissoring inside you, dragging along your walls. He laps at you, his tongue stroking your clit. “Not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

You curse under your breath. You can feel yourself melting, your walls contracting and releasing. “Lo,” you call. “I’m so close. Wanna…” You trail off, unable to finish. 

“Can feel you squeezing me, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let it happen,” he coaches, rocking into you. “Wanna taste you, wanna feel you come on my fingers.” He laps at you between sentences. “Come for me. Know you can do it.” And then everything is white-hot and blazing.

It’s earth-shattering—better than anything has ever felt before. The tension snaps, heat boiling under your skin. Everything is blurry, hazy, dizzied as you let go, and let go hard. You cry out Logan’s name, your thighs shaking as waves of pleasure drag you under. Your bones are burning, scorching. Everything is on fire—overwhelming and greedily all-consuming. 

Logan’s pumps slow, and he carefully pulls out of you. He laves at you, his tongue pushing through your folds, milking you dry, savoring every last drop. 

“Logan,” you whisper, your hands reaching down to his head, digging your fingers into his scalp. 

He hums against you, unwavering as his tongue laps at your folds, tasting your release. 

You’re still shaking, still coming down from your high. “Logan,” you call again, and he looks up this time, lifting his face from your cunt. Your release glistens on his chin, and he licks his lips clean of you. His eyes are dark, his palms squeezing your thighs possessively. 

“I’m not done yet, sweetheart,” he says, demand clear in his voice. 

Your heart flutters in your chest as he climbs up your body, hovering over you again. His lips find yours. “You taste that?” He mumbles, kissing you again, harder this time. “You taste how sweet you are?”

“Y-yes,” you answer, his hand sliding down your body, slipping between your legs, finding your overstimulated clit. 

He pinches the bud lightly, your back arching off the ground, your breasts pressing to his all-too-clothed chest. “Need more of you,” he husks, his hand dragging back up your body. He sits up and pulls you into his chest, taking all your weight as he hoists you up and stands. You instinctually wrap your legs around his waist. 

He places you in the center of your bed before striding across the room, closing and locking your bedroom door. “They’ll all be home soon,” Logan says, walking back towards you, spreading your legs and settling between your thighs. “Might have to be quiet for me, darlin’.”

“W-what do you—”

And then his face is buried deep inside your cunt, his tongue lapping desperately at your clit. “I told you,” he rasps. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

tags: @wittyjasontodd @wolverinesslut @galacticglitterglue @silversprings-mp3 @zxaera @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @alastorssimp @alsoprettyinpink @prettyseaveins @ilysmdovie12 @evasmlp @derbygracie @rammakela @honeyfewr @ricefordays-blog1 @manipulatour

[rosiereveries]

Regency!John Price who inherited his brothers duke title, because his brother died without an heir. John was the second oldest son, and he never thought about being the successor to the title, so he chose a military career.

He was a captain who fought wars and won them, not some lord who fancied balls and dressed in fancy clothing. But now he doesn’t have a choice. John comes back home after he has been badly injured in the battle, he was shot in his leg, and he had to use a wheelchair for quite some time.

When he comes home, to the new house and staff who pities him, he doesn’t feel like a man he once was. At the first ball he must attend he can see everyone eyes on him as he stumbles with his cane. He absolutely hates it. So, he makes a plane, he has to quickly marry some girl, make an heir and go live to the countryside where everyone will leave him alone.

You were on the other hand the youngest daughter of noble family. You weren’t rich, but your sisters and brothers married well, so you could keep good family reputation. Now it was your turn to marry, and as you were introduced to the society you quickly came to the realization, that you will probably end as a wife of some old man, who could be your grandfather.

So, when your cousin Johnny mentions, that his loyal friend and mentor John Price is looking for a wife you are interested. He tells you that John is a duke now and that he wants to get married as soon as possible. From Johnnys stories you know that John is a good man, who will hopefully respect you and treat you well.

You don’t get to meet your husband till the day of the wedding. The whole engagement is short and feels very official. He writes you a letter with things that you should know about your new home and your mother and sisters help you prepare for the married life.

When you finally see your future husband standing in the church, you’re quite surprised. He is very handsome, older than you, probably in his late 30s, but you’re sure that if he waited a little, he could find a better wife that you will be. John on the other hand is smitten by you, he also doesn’t understand why you would choose to marry him.

After the ceremony you immediately leave the town. He is very quiet the whole ride to his mansion and even thought you have many questions you stay quiet too. You arrive late in the night, exhausted from the long travel, but the only thing that concerns you is the wedding night. You heard a lot of horrible stories told by maids about their first nights with their husbands. The only thing that John does is that he shows you your room, tells you which butler to call if you have any troubles and he is gone. You’re left in the huge mansion alone and confused.

The breakfast takes place in the dining room. You sit at the table so far from John that you would have to shout to get his attention. He ignores you most of the time. At first you don’t mind it, you finally have some sort of freedom, you explore the land, the house and you find a huge library with many books you want to read.

But after some time, you start to crave his attention. The maids don’t want to be your friends, they think that it is highly inappropriate, you as a couple don’t attend any balls and there is no noble lady in the near distance you could visit and be friends with.

So, you start to write a diary, you write about how you feel and how would you like your husband to actually acknowledge you. Sometimes you also mention that you find him very attractive and the romance novels that you found in the library don’t help your imagination.

One time you forget your diary in the library and John accidentally picks it up. He thinks its some book that he hasn’t read yet. When he realizes that it is your handwriting, he knows that he should put it down, it is not right to invade your privacy. But then he sees his name there and he must know what you write about him.

He reads the whole paragraphs about how your meetings in the dinning room leaves you all flustered and how you crave his attention. He didn’t think that a young girl like you could find him attractive, and he wanted to be a good husband and leave you as much freedom as you could want. He didn’t want to pressure you into any kind of intimate relationship even though he was pressured by the rest of his family to have an heir. John leaves your diary where he found it, without any evidence that he read it.

The next morning, he invites you to eat breakfast with him in the garden. It is far more intimate, and you finally have a conversation with him. He asks you questions about your hobbies, your family and if you like it here.

It finally feels like he is courting you and you leave every encounter with him with rosy cheeks and butterflies in your stomach. He invites you on walks where he holds your hand as you tell him about your day or about the new book you just left. You spend the whole days together learning about each other.  

John tells you stories about the war, the battles he fought. His leg heals up perfectly and now, that he is healthy again, he takes you with him when he goes riding. When you ask him if he likes the hight society he tells you the truth. He tells you how much he despises the formal event and the balls and suddenly it all makes sense to you.

You finally understand why he wanted to marry so quickly and why you live alone in the middle of nowhere. You tell him that you loved the dancing and the beautiful gown you could wear at balls but now you don’t mind the quiet life. Now you have him and that is all that matters.  

One evening he makes a ball just for you. He invites a musician to play, he buys you an expensive gown and you pretend that you are at some formal event. It’s just the two of you dancing, laughing and drinking expensive champaign he bought for the ball. You dance the whole night and after he walks you to your bedroom he kisses you. It is a soft kiss, just your lips barely touching, but it starts a fire in you, and you want more.

When John realizes that you’re not pulling away he deepens the kiss. He knows that you have no experiences, and he wants to show you that he will treat you well. He spends the night with you, showing you in many ways how much he loves you.

And when you finally fall asleep, he thinks how lucky he is to find a wife like you. When you wake up and you see your husband sleeping in your bad you are very grateful that you accidentally left your diary in the library open on the page that mentioned how hot he was. Such a shame you didn’t come up with the plan a little earlier.

Masterlist

[nightingale-prompts]

The Nightingale Family-DC x DP prompt

(Shameless Addams family inspired prompt)

News travels fast in Gotham, especially in affluent circles. A new family has arrived in the city, old money at that. They had taken up residents in the old mansion overlooking the Historic Gotham Graveyard.

The Nightingales had a way of letting their presence be known. They were rarely seen in public. The eldest Jasmine Nightingale however had made waves working at the Gotham Asylum as a psychologist. She was often escorted by her younger brother Dan Nightingale. The public really started talking when Jazz was seen talking with Harley Quinn.

There were two children that lived in the Nightingale manor. They were elusive to say the least as the family didn't attend the parties of Gotham.

It wasn't until Damian Wayne got an invite from his classmate Danielle to visit their manor that someone saw the lives of Nightingales. This invite had been received after Damian carefully befriended the youngest Nightingale to investigate their connections.

That's how the Waynes ended up at a dinner party.

The manor was bleak to say the least and that's saying something in Gotham. The buildingbwas made from black stones and gargoyles perched on the roof. The garden was wilted and full of thrones that crept up the walls.

Bruce felt a sense of Deja vu as he approached the door and rang the bell. Tower bells rang out as the face of Jasmine Nightingale appeared. She was dressed in black dress pants and blazer. Her lips were painted to match. Her red hair had a striking white streak through it which had become a fashion trend since the family's arrival to girls wanting to seem mysterious.

"Good Evening. It is so nice to meet the infamous Waynes." She shook Bruce's hand. Behind her, the sounds of clanking metal was heard. "That is just my younger siblings playing. You don't you boys join while I talk to your father.

Despite only being a fresh-faced 20 year old Jazz carried herself like a confident adult. A certified genius in psychology who graduated early she also handled the inmates at the Asylum well enough that escapes are at an all time low.

"She's got it all" was what Harley said.

Bruce's admiration of the young lady was only matched by his suspicion. The house the Nightingales lived y had once belonged to the Al Ghouls. There was no telling yet if there was a connection.

He took a seat in the living room with Jazz tea already prepared. She poured two cups of black tea. Not black as in the type of tea but the color of the drink. Bruce cautiously sniffed the black liquid, it smelled earthy and acidic. Poison.

"Do you like it? I made it myself. I added the belladonna myself. It has a sweet taste so you don't need sugar. The kids have sweet tooths but we avoid added sugars. They love nightshade." She smiled drinking.

Bruce put the cup down. So they drink poison at a young age. They must be part of The League of Assassins. But why are they here?

"If you don't mind me asking. Why did you move to Gotham? Your parents-" Jazz put a hand up as she finished her cup.

"Mr. Wayne I'm sure you are no stranger to parents leaving before their time nor the concept that not all parents deserve children. Now I can't confirm or deny if that is the case for use but you can understand that it's a private matter." Jazz said sternly.

That wasn't an answer.

Upstairs Danny and Danielle played with Elle's new toys. Swords from Dan's trip to Portugal. He even sharpened them. They were currently tearing through the mansion.

Tim and Damian caught them while Danny had successfully pinned Elle to the ground.

"Dami! Help!" Elle yelled catching Danny off guard as Damian tackled Danny to the ground.

"Alright, alright. You can go next." Danny rolling Damian off him and passing him the sword. "Im taking a break."

Danny loved playing with his little sister but baby games are tiring.

"They let you play with swords," Tim exclaimed. This wasn't something he expected, sure it was normal for Damian but Damian is weird and was raised by assassins. Damian didn't do it for fun, it was training.

Damian and Danielle ran off while fencing.

"You must be one of the Waynes. Elle has been excited to have your brother over." Danny said politely if not a bit dismissive.

"Eh, yeah. Your sister said we should join you." Tim said a bit awkward. " You have another brother right?"

"Oh, yeah. He travels alot but he's relaxing right now. He's probably swimming." Danny shrugged.

Tim had heard of Danny. They went to the same school but Danny was part of a program that allowed him to come to school when he felt like it. The program is for young engineers who want to work for Wayne Industries. He mostly worked on small experimental projects. So far Danny's superconductor tech was revolutionary but impossible to replicate. Danny somehow managed to make a more effective coolant than anything they had created in the lab.

"You have a pool?" Tim knew that the mansion didn't have a pool.

"Of water? No." Danny shrugged but gave no further answer.

"I see, so what do you do?" Tim tried to sound normal like he was talking to his friends and not someone he was trying to probe.

"Anything, everything. I was going to recalibrate my telescope but I have a laser to test." Danny walked off expecting Tim to follow.

Testing was just cut a bunch of things in half. Tim got some great info on making an explosive ice canister and foam bombs. Tim made sure to get his number to hire him to make some gear for him.

The Nightingale kids were absolutely lawless. They destroyed everything in their path.

Elle had dragged Damian to her room to show off her toys. She used to travel with Dan until she started school. She picked up a bunch of items. Cult artifacts, shrunken heads, voodoo dolls, cursed puppets, knives, swords, and the homemade taxidermy Elle made from roadkill. She also had a pet dodo bird named Ernesto who had a bed next to her bed. Ernesto took a liking to Damian and sat on his head. The way he shows his affection

Soon enough Dan came upstairs to check on Elle and Danny.

"You kids, need to get ready for dinner. Sharpen your nails and teeth." He said before going back to the kitchen.

"What does that mean?" Damian asked.

"You don't sharpen your nails. Well good luck at dinner." Elle said bemused.

Dinner was...horrifying. Watching the family chat happily as they ripped apart the moving food as it came to life. Damian was actually excited as he skewered the cheese and broccoli casserole that screamed at him.

"Father, why can't we do this at our home?" He asked.

[reilemon]

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 Possession 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪

♡︎ synopsis: You move into an abandoned mansion looking for a fresh start. Little did you know you're not the only one living there.

♡︎ pairing: demon!Sylus x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: restraints, corruption (if you squint), breathplay

♡︎ word count: 10k

♡︎ a/n: the fourth story for kinktober 2024.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

The night wraps around you like a vice, pressing down on your skin. Every breath feels heavier than the last as the low, eerie hum seeps into your bones. The melody is fractured, broken, sung by something that doesn’t understand human warmth. It’s wrong, so wrong, and the more you hear it, the harder it is to pretend that everything is normal.

You sit up in bed, the silk of your nightgown sticking to your skin, cold sweat beading along your neck and back. You strain your ears to listen, catching every sound the house makes—the creak of floorboards, the low groan of the wind clawing at the windows. But beneath it, that humming persists, growing clearer.

A footstep.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Something is walking—no, pacing—just beyond your bedroom door, almost as though it knows you're listening.

You tell yourself, ‘this is ridiculous’. You’ve lived here almost two weeks, nothing dangerous has happened.

Two weeks living in this forgotten, decaying mansion. At first, the isolation felt like a cure, a place where you could finally breathe after years of soul-sucking work. The realtor had been so eager to sell it. You remember that first visit—dust motes swirling in the dim afternoon light, the scent of mildew hanging in the air. The long-abandoned estate was priced absurdly low for such a massive property. You had asked about its history, about the family that owned it. “Old money,” the realtor said dismissively. “They never even lived here, not really. They’re eager to get rid of it.”

You pressed her—why would they abandon a mansion like this? She’d shrugged, evasive. “Just one of those things, you know? Big house, lots of upkeep. Not practical anymore.” She'd forced a smile, deflecting. “People want something more modern these days.”

At the time, you didn’t care. You wanted solitude, escape, a place to start over after the chaos of your previous life.

In the first week, you brushed off the oddities. The strange cold spots in the halls, the faint scent of smoke that seemed to come from nowhere, the occasional flickering of the old lights. You reasoned ‘the house is just old, settling’. Maybe it was the stress from the move, or just the overwhelming quiet after years of city life.

But then, things became harder to dismiss.

You remember waking up one night to the sound of soft whispers, like voices just beyond your door. You convinced yourself it was a dream, that you were still half-asleep, that your mind was playing tricks on you. But when you opened the door, the hall was filled with an icy draft, despite every window being locked tight. Your skin prickled with the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

With every night, your paranoia has grown. You’ve stopped sleeping through the night. Every creak, every gust of wind outside feels like a threat. The humming has become a nightly occurrence —soft at first, almost melodic, but it twists, becomes distorted. And tonight, the footsteps. They’re louder. Closer.

You sit there for too long, your mind racing. Each beat of your heart pounds in your throat as you try to summon some logic to ground you. ‘There has to be an explanation’. You’re not some helpless woman in a cliché horror movie. You won’t let fear consume you.

But the footsteps stop, right outside the door. And in that moment, the air feels too thick to breathe.

Fuck.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the cold floor shocking against your bare feet, dragging you out of paralysis. The silk robe slides over your shoulders, its fabric a poor defense against the dread crawling up your spine. You move slowly, the wooden floor beneath you creaking with each step toward the door. Your fingers hover over the handle for a moment, hesitation making your hand shake.

‘It’s just a draft’, you tell yourself, though the words feel hollow. ‘Just the old house’.

You open the door. You swallow, flipping the light switch with a trembling hand, lighting the empty hallway. The old bulbs buzz and flicker before casting their weak glow, but the light feels sickly. You take a deep breath, forcing your legs to move, fingers brushing along the wall as though the contact will somehow steady you. With every step, the hum grows fainter, retreating deeper into the house, drawing you further from the safety of your room.

The sitting room’s light flickers as you pass, casting distorted shapes along the walls. The silence between the hums stretches, amplifying the creaks and groans of the house around you.

The dining room is next. You hesitate at the threshold, your breath hitching as the light stutters overhead, threatening to plunge you into darkness again. But it holds, if only just. The hum is still distant, still teasing, but now there's something else—something heavier beneath it. A low, barely audible rasping breath, like the sound of something alive, breathing with you.

Your hand grazes the light switch to the kitchen, fingers trembling. The moment the light flares to life, it dies.

The room plunges into complete darkness. A thick, suffocating blackness that feels like it’s crawling over your skin. Your pulse spikes, cold panic flooding your veins. The hum is gone now—replaced by the unmistakable feeling that something is in there, waiting, watching.

A faint whisper—right next to your ear, soft and malicious—sends a scream clawing up your throat, but you bite it back, too terrified to make a sound.

‘Move. Move, now.’

You stumble backward. The floor seems to shift beneath you as you flee towards the stairs. You crash into the bedroom, your breath ragged, chest heaving. You slam the door shut with a resounding thud, and the thin wood feels too fragile, too weak to keep anything out. You press your back against it, gripping the doorknob with trembling fingers, your raging heartbeat thrumming in your ears. You stand there, frozen, waiting for something else to happen. But nothing does. No footsteps, no whispers, no movement beyond the door. Just stillness.

You exhale, forcing yourself to unclench your hands from the doorknob, willing your body to stop shaking. ‘Get a grip’, you tell yourself, trying to suppress the waves of panic that threaten to consume you. You're not going to lose your mind over this. ‘It's just the stress. That’s all.’ The isolation, the strangeness of living alone in such a vast, decrepit place—it’s been messing with your head. You force your breathing to slow, sucking in deep, calming gulps of air.

Pushing away from the door, you cross the room and sit on the bed, retreating back into the sheets. It’s late—too late to do anything about it now—but in the morning, you’ll change every lock in this mansion. No more creaky doors, no more unlocked windows. You’ll seal every inch of this place if you have to. And you’ll call Tara. She’d laugh at you at first, no doubt. She teased you for choosing to live in such a remote, old house. "You’re gonna end up starring in one of those haunted house stories," she'd said, half-joking. You smile weakly, despite the dread gnawing at your gut. It’s time to take her up on her offer to visit. Tomorrow, you’ll call her.

Lying back on the bed, you try to focus on the plan—changing locks, calling Tara. You’ll handle this like you handle everything. The house creaks softly, as if responding to your newfound resolve. You ignore it, pulling the sheets up over your face, the fabric cool against your skin. ‘Sleep’, you tell yourself. ‘You need sleep’.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The next day arrives sluggishly. You barely slept through the night, but daylight always brings a faint sense of hope. You push yourself out of bed, running through the motions, pretending for a moment that everything is normal.

Tara arrives just after lunch. You open the front door for her, her playful smile greeting you. But it quickly fades when her eyes catch the tension in your shoulders, the dullness of your skin. "You look like hell." You want to make a joke or a clever comeback in return, but the weight of the last two weeks presses too heavily on you. So you just let her in. You’ve told her over the phone this morning already, but now you tell her everything in more detail. You tell her about the footsteps, the humming, the cold spots. How the house doesn’t feel right.

"Okay," Tara says after a moment, her brows furrowing. "I’m not saying I believe in all that, but I’ve read enough ghost stories to know we don’t mess around with this kind of thing. I brought something." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle of sage. "We’ll burn this. Clears out bad energy, or at least it’s supposed to. Couldn’t hurt, right?"

You stare at the bundle for a moment, feeling both ridiculous and relieved. Maybe it’s silly, but she is right, it can’t hurt to try. "Thanks," you mutter, trying to smile.

"And I’ll ask around, see if anyone knows a good priest," Tara adds, her tone light again, though you can hear the genuine concern beneath it. "Someone could come over and bless the place, right? If nothing else, it’ll give you peace of mind."

You nod, though part of you still feels absurd for even considering it. Together, you and Tara walk through the house, lighting the sage. The oppressive weight that has been weighting you down lifts, just slightly. The creaking stops, the cold spots seem to fade, and for the first time in days, you feel like you can breathe.

"See? Not so bad," Tara says, giving you a reassuring smile. "It already feels better in here. Maybe that’s all it needed—some good ol’ sage and positive vibes."

You nod, grateful, feeling a spark of hope. Maybe this is all it took. Maybe that’s the end of it.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

That night, you follow your routine, trying to remain calm. You lock every door, check every window, twice, and make sure nothing is out of place. By the time you slip into bed, you’re exhausted. You lie there in the dark, the cool sheets against your skin, your eyes slowly fluttering closed.

But in the depths of the mansion, something stirs. The energy has changed, shifted. The air hums with a barely-contained agitation, a dark presence swirling in the corners, crawling through the walls. It had been watching you, waiting. And now, with the sage burned and the mention of a priest, it’s no longer content to simply watch.

A sound pulls you back from the edge of sleep. You freeze, straining to listen. At first, it’s faint, like distant laughter. It’s low, dark, amused, seeping through the room as though it’s mocking your very presence here. You sit up abruptly, your pulse spiking. The laugh is gone, but the air feels colder now. The wind outside picks up, slapping against the windows, and then—you hear it. A loud, sharp caw. A crow’s cry, shrill and eerie, slicing through the still night air. You turn your head toward the window, expecting to see its shape perched on the sill, but there’s nothing there, just the empty darkness beyond the glass.

‘It’s just a bird’, you tell yourself. ‘Just a bird’.

But then the footsteps start again.

They’re louder this time. Not like before when you could pretend it was just the old floorboards shifting. No, these are deliberate. Heavy. The distinct sound of boots on wood, moving slowly down the hallway outside your bedroom. Each step echoes through the house, growing louder, closer, until they stop right outside your door. You can feel your pulse in your throat, every instinct screaming at you to stay in bed, to not make a sound. But the silence is oppressive. You can’t just lie here anymore. You push yourself up on shaky legs, feet hitting the cold floor as you move toward the door, your hand hovering over the knob like before. But this time, you don’t need to open it.

The door swings open on its own.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, everything is still. The dark hallway stretches before you, stretching into nothingness. But then, at the far end, you see it—a faint, flickering glow. A dim, blood-red light. It pulses, stronger with each passing second, growing brighter, sharper. Your chest tightens as the glow intensifies. You swallow hard, a cold sweat forming on the back of your neck as the realization hits you that this—whatever it is—isn’t something you can ignore.

“Who… who are you?” you stammer, your voice trembling, barely above a whisper. “What do you want?”

The red glow flickers, focusing on you. You feel it in the air around you. The presence you’ve been denying, the thing that’s been watching, waiting. Now you’ve acknowledged it. It begins to solidify, drawing closer. The figure takes form—broad shoulders, a tall, towering frame. And then, his face. Sharp, defined features, red eyes, and silver hair. His gaze locks onto you, and it feels like he’s peering into the deepest, darkest parts of your soul.

You stumble back, heart racing, unable to comprehend what you’re seeing. This can’t be real. This has to be some nightmare. But he’s there, standing before you, fully formed—real.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, his voice deep.

You stand frozen, every inch of you trembling. This isn’t some ghost story, some figment of your imagination. You take a step back, your legs weak, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of your chest. “W-waiting for what?” you manage to choke out, though your voice barely rises above a whisper.

His smirk widens. “For you to understand,” he says softly, his tone almost condescending. He takes a step closer and the floor creaks under the weight of his boots, the sound amplified in the eerie silence of the mansion. “This place… it’s mine. Always has been.”

You stumble backward again, your mind racing, desperate for some way to rationalize this. But you can’t. The thing standing in front of you isn’t human. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, shaking your head. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

He laughs softly at that, a low, dark chuckle. “I am not the intruder here,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement. “You are.” His eyes narrow, the humor fading, replaced with a cold, hard edge. “This house, this mansion, has been mine for centuries. I’ve seen generations come and go, trying to claim it as their own.”

You’re barely holding on, fear coursing through you. “Who… who are you?” you ask again, though now your voice is almost a plea.

He leans in, his face close enough now that you can smell the faint scent of something burning, something ancient. “I am Sylus. This house… my house… it’s been mine longer than you can imagine. And you—" His gaze sharpens. "You’ve been tampering with things you shouldn’t."

He steps back. "I’ll give you a chance. Pack your things. Leave." His words are like a command, absolute, and it makes your chest tighten.

Something in you snaps.

The fear, the dread that’s been building for days—it all crashes into something else, something raw and angry. You clench your fists. Leave? After everything? You’ve fought too hard to be told to just give up.

"No," you say, your voice trembling, though whether it’s from fear or anger, you’re not sure. His smirk widens, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as if amused by your defiance. "No?" he repeats, the word dripping with condescension, as though your resistance is nothing more than a child’s tantrum to him.

But you’re not done. "It’s not fair," you continue, and you can feel the flood of emotions you’ve been holding back surging forward. "I worked for this. You don’t get to tell me to leave!" Your voice rises, trembling with frustration. You can feel your eyes burning with unshed tears. "I can’t just… pack up and go?! This place was supposed to be my fresh start!"

Sylus’ amusement falters. He was expecting fear. Submission. Not this. Not the raw emotion pouring out of you.

You take a shaky breath, your words tumbling out now unfiltered. "I’ve given up everything! My life was a wreck before I came here. I had no friends, no purpose, nothing.” Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t stop, the anger blending with exhaustion. "This place was supposed to be my dream," you whisper, your voice cracking. "And now you’re telling me to leave? After everything I’ve been through?”

Sylus says nothing for a long moment. He stands there, watching you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating, the mocking air that surrounded him fading as something shifts in his expression. His tail, once flicking in amusement, goes still. He opens his mouth, perhaps to laugh, to mock you again, but no sound comes out. Something about your defiance, your honesty, seems to catch him off guard. He had expected you to cower, to run, to tremble at his mere presence. Instead, you’re standing here, pouring your soul out in front of him.

The room is silent.

 Sylus’ gaze doesn’t leave yours. "You think your struggles give you claim to this place?" His voice is softer now, almost contemplative. "You’re not the first to come here, seeking something better. But none of them stayed for long."

You don’t back down. "I’m not them," You say quietly. "I’m not running."

Sylus watches you for a long moment, his sharp features unreadable. Finally, he speaks, his tone more subdued, more thoughtful. "You have spirit, I’ll give you that." You stand there, still trembling, but something in the air feels different now. Sylus, for all his power, doesn’t seem as dismissive as he did before. He turns around, giving you one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows. "Don’t bring a priest. Don’t burn any more sage. Consider this a warning.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the nights are quiet.

After the tense confrontation with Sylus, after his warning and your emotional outburst, something shifted. You still feel him—his presence lingers in the mansion like a shadow that never quite leaves—but it's no longer oppressive.For several nights now, you’ve slept soundly, undisturbed by the creaks of the floorboards or the strange hum echoing through the halls. And though you sometimes catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows, Sylus doesn’t show himself. It’s as if he’s made a quiet, unspoken truce with you, staying out of your way—for now.

A week passes, and the mansion almost feels… peaceful. Maybe it’s the quiet, maybe it’s the way you’ve started to make the space your own despite his warnings. You’ve begun to settle in, unpacking more boxes, putting things in order, reclaiming the mansion in small ways.

One evening, you decide to tackle the attic. You pull the creaky ladder down and climb, your flashlight casting light across the wooden beams and piles of forgotten items. The air is thick with dust, and the faint smell of mildew hangs in the air. Boxes are piled high, old trunks and forgotten furniture clutter the space, draped in old sheets. You take a deep breath, brushing away cobwebs as you start sorting through the old belongings. It’s mostly junk—old letters, tarnished trinkets, broken ceramic figurines. But then you open a wooden music box and your eyes immediately land on something shiny.

A brooch.

It’s in the shape of a raven, carved from some kind of dark metal, accompanied by a large red gemstone. The moment your fingers brush against it, the air in the attic grows thick. You can feel a chill crawl up your spine as you lift the brooch, turning it over in your hand, examining the beautiful craftsmanship.

That’s when you hear him.

"Put it back."

You whirl around, and there he is—Sylus. His red eye glows brighter than usual, flickering with barely contained agitation. His tall frame looms over you, his tail flicks behind him, tense, snapping in the air like a whip.

You freeze, the brooch still in your hand. "Why?" you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

"That doesn’t belong to you," Sylus growls. He takes a step closer. "Put it back in the box. Now."

Slowly, carefully, you place the brooch back into the wooden music box. The moment you do, you can feel the tension in the room ease. Sylus watches, his eyes never leaving the brooch until it's safely out of sight. His broad shoulders relax, his tail flicking behind him in a slower, more measured rhythm.

"Why does it matter so much?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on the closed music box. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, more guarded, as though he’s choosing his words carefully. "It was made for someone. No one should be touching it."

There’s a story there, buried deep beneath his cold exterior, but he’s not offering it to you.

You swallow, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. Your mind spins with possibilities, but you keep your thoughts to yourself, not wanting to pry further into something clearly painful. Instead, you glance at the music box, not daring to touch it again. Its melody feels strangely familiar. You pause, recognizing the tune—the same haunting melody you’ve heard in the dark, late at night.

"Is this… the song you’ve been humming?" you ask carefully, lifting your gaze to meet his.

His eyes narrow, but there’s no anger there. He doesn’t answer immediately, but after a long silence, he gives a short nod. "It is."

A soft breath escapes you, and you can’t help the small smile. "Well," you say, your tone a little lighter "you’re always off-key." The words slip out before you can stop them, and for a moment, you freeze, wondering if you’ve crossed a line—if teasing a demon was, perhaps, not your smartest move.

Sylus blinks, his expression unreadable at first, but then—he chuckles. The sound is rough, almost rusty, as though it’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to find humor in anything. "I didn’t know I had a critic," he mutters with a trace of amusement.

You let out a shaky breath, relieved, but still stunned by the sound of his laughter. You find yourself staring at Sylus, watching the way his red eyes soften, the way the usual predatory edge to him seems to dull, just for a moment. You don’t know what to say, but you don’t need to. Finally, Sylus breaks the silence, his voice quieter, less guarded than before. "Be careful with what you touch in this house," he says, though there’s no threat behind his words, only a quiet warning. "Not everything here belongs to you."

You nod, understanding more than he’s willing to say. "I didn’t mean to…" you trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, the faintest smile on his lips. "I know." And with that, he turns, his figure dissolving into the shadows of the attic, leaving you alone once more.

But this time, the air doesn’t feel so heavy. The mansion doesn’t feel so hostile.

And Sylus doesn’t feel like a demon lurking in the dark anymore.

For the first time, he feels like someone who’s been through more than you could possibly imagine. Someone who’s carrying the weight of loss and pain for centuries. And somehow, despite everything, you’ve seen a glimpse of something human in him.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The days that followed felt different. The mansion, though still steeped in its eerie silence, seemed to breathe a little easier. Sylus, who had always been a constant, brooding presence in the shadows, began to make himself known in new ways. You would be working around the house—organizing a room, fixing up old furniture, unpacking boxes—and you’d feel him. A brush of air, the faintest warmth at your back.

He never fully revealed himself during the day, not at first. But there were brief moments, when you’d catch a glimpse of him—standing in the doorway, his red eye glowing faintly before he slipped away, or a flash of silver hair in the corner of your vision. And slowly, he started to help.

At first, it was subtle. You’d be struggling to move a piece of furniture, and when you turned around to grab something for leverage, it had already shifted into place, as if someone had pushed it for you. Tools you needed would be mysteriously laid out before you reached for them. And sometimes, when you lost track of time working on a project, you’d find a fire already lit in the fireplace before the chill of the evening would creep in.

One afternoon, you were standing on a chair in the kitchen, trying to reach a high cabinet when you suddenly lost your balance. Before you could even cry out, you felt strong hands on your waist, steadying you, with a firm grip. You turned to find Sylus standing there, his lips curled into that familiar smirk.

"Careful, kitten," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Kitten. The word caught you off guard, and you blinked at him. Something about the way he said it—so casually, yet with a hint of affection—left you speechless. He had called you ‘kitten’ like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t mind the new nickname. Not at all.

The touches became more frequent, intentional. When you passed each other in narrow hallways, his hand would brush against your arm, or his fingers would trail along your back. Every touch would make your heart flutter, your cheeks heat up.

One evening, your muscles ached after hours of working tirelessly around the mansion. You sat by the fire, sipping tea in an attempt to relax. The room was quiet, except for the crackling of the fire, but then you felt it—his presence. Sylus was watching you from the doorway.

“You’ve been pushing yourself,” he said, his voice smooth like velvet. His eyes focused on your hand as it pressed against your shoulder, kneading the sore muscle.

“Maybe a little,” you replied, leaning back into the chair, letting your eyes close for just a second. “But I can handle it.”

Sylus chuckled softly. “You don’t always have to be so stubborn.” He leaned in closer, standing next to you. “Let me help.” His hand rested lightly on your shoulder, his touch warm.

For a moment, you hesitated, but the ache in your muscles urged you to accept. You gave a small nod and turned your back to him. He moved closer, his hands resting fully on your shoulders now. You could feel the strength in them through the thin fabric of your shirt. His fingers dug in gently, working into the tight muscles with a careful yet firm pressure. You let out a small sigh of relief, the tension starting to ease under his touch.

But then his hands moved more slowly, the pads of his fingers tracing over your skin in a way that felt… intimate. The soft kneading of your muscles became something more, his thumbs pressing into the knots in your back with expert precision. You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped your lips, your body instinctively leaning into his touch, craving the release from the pain.

“You like that?” Sylus murmured, his voice low, teasing as his hands moved lower. Your breath hitched as his fingers worked their magic, easing the soreness out of your muscles. It was impossible to ignore the way his hands felt against your body, the way each touch made your skin tingle.

“You’re so tense,” he muttered, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in.

You swallowed hard, your mind spinning. His hands on your body, the heat of his breath against your neck—it all felt overwhelming. Every touch sent a spark of electricity through you, and though the massage had started innocently enough, there was no mistaking the shift in energy between you. As his hands moved lower, brushing dangerously close to your hips, you could feel the warmth pooling in your lower belly.

Flustered, you quickly pulled away, standing up from the chair before things could escalate any further. “Th-thank you for the massage,” you stammered. You could feel your face flushing and you didn’t dare look him in the eye.

Sylus leaned back slightly, his lips pulling into that knowing smirk. “Of course,”

You took a small step back. “I think I’ll just… take a hot bath before bed,” Without waiting for his response, you turned and made your way toward the bedroom. The heat in your cheeks only grew worse as you walked away, your legs feeling like they might give out from the mixture of embarrassment and the lingering effects of his touch. You felt his eyes on you, taking in every movement, the subtle sway of your hips as you retreated to the safety of your room.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The phone call left you feeling strange—half-flattered, half-disconnected. A friend of a friend, someone from your old life, asked you out on a date. You politely declined, giving some excuse about being too busy, about focusing on your new home. But that’s not entirely true. The call was a reminder of the life you left behind, and the strange new one you found here.

You sigh, setting the phone down and reaching for the bottle of wine you opened earlier. Pouring yourself a glass, you settle into the sofa and pick up a book. You sip the wine, letting the tension of the day slip away as you open the book. But it’s not quiet for long.

The air shifts, and before you even look up, you feel that familiar presence. Sylus arrives without a sound, as he always does.

With a smile, you lookup from your book. "Care to join me for a drink?" you ask as you raise your glass to him. Although you aren’t sure if demons even can drink.

He chuckles softly, his boots making the faintest sound as he crosses the room to stand beside you. "I haven’t tasted wine in centuries," he admits.

You tilt your head. "So you don’t eat? Or drink?"

Sylus shrugs, "I haven’t needed to," he says simply, but there is something in his tone—an almost wistful note. "I suppose I could try."

You laugh softly, offering him your glass. "Here, then. Let’s see if you still can."

Sylus hesitates for a moment, but then, with a slight shake of his head, he accepts your offer. He takes a small sip, tasting the wine before swallowing.

"Well?" you ask with a smile. "Can you taste it?"

Sylus’s lips curve into an amused smirk. "I can taste it," he says and takes another sip. He makes a face, mockingly disappointed, and returns the glass to you. "I think you should buy yourself something nicer," he teases. "This is a bit cheap."

You snort, playfully rolling your eyes. "Of course you have an expensive taste."

Sylus chuckles. But then, the relaxed expression changes to a serious one. "Who was on the phone earlier?"

You hesitate for a moment, your fingers tightening around your wineglass. "Just someone from my old life." Sylus raises an eyebrow, and you feel compelled to continue. “Asked me out on a date, but I declined.”

You avoid his gaze, but you can feel Sylus watching you. "Why did you decline?" he asks, his voice low. "You’ve been here for months. You don’t get out much. Why not say yes?"

You swallow, trying to gather your thoughts. The truth is too heavy, too tangled, and you aren’t ready to admit it, not even to yourself.

"You’re one to talk," you say raising an eyebrow and mustering a playful tone. "If anyone’s used to solitude, it’s you. You’ve been alone for centuries—I think I can manage a little bit of solitude for a few months."

“Touché.” he chuckles. His gaze turns towards the flickering flames of the fireplace, “But solitude… it wears on you. You might think it’s peace, but after a while, it starts to feel more like a cage.”

The words sink into you, unsettling. But, before you can respond, a question begins to form at the back of your mind, heavy and uncomfortable. Was he truly alone all this time? Were there others before you, drawn into the same dark intensity of his presence? What if this isn’t new for him—this attraction, this electricity between you? What if you’re just another fleeting distraction in the long centuries of his existence?

You can’t stand that thought. You want to believe that you’re different, that something about you has made him change, drawn him out of the shadows in ways no one else ever has. But the growing feeling of jealousy won’t let go. Because if he’s been like this before—if there had been others—then what does that make you?

You take a deep breath, shoving these feelings aside. You feel foolish for letting your mind even go there. The two of you are just co-existing, just roommates in a weird way.

You glance at the clock on the mantel. “Oh,” you say, your voice a little too bright, “look at the time. The movie I wanted to watch is about to start.” You grab the TV remote, as if turning on the television can stop the thoughts from spiraling out of control.

Sylus doesn’t miss your deflection. He never does. “Another distraction?” he asks. He could sense your agitation, your mind wandering somewhere.

You shoot him a look, but the teasing edge in his voice makes your heart flutter. “Do you want to watch it with me?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “It’s about to start. I know how much you love TV,” you add with a playful glance his way. You know how fascinated he is with television, even though he’ll never admit it.

Sylus arches an eyebrow, and for a moment, you think he might decline. But then he stands and settles beside you on the sofa. He’s close—too close.

“I suppose I can indulge you,” he says. “Though, if this movie’s as boring as the last one you picked, I can’t promise I’ll stay.” His arm rests casually along the back of the sofa, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, even though he’s not touching you.

You smirk, rolling your eyes as you flip through the channels until you find the movie. “I’m sure it’ll hold your attention, Sylus,” you shoot back, though your mind is still racing, the earlier doubts lingering in your mind.

The movie begins, and for the first few moments, everything seems normal. It’s a late-night thriller, with captivating plot and ominous music. You let yourself sink into the sofa, grateful for the distraction, but the comfort doesn’t last long. About halfway through, the movie takes an unexpected turn. The tension between the characters on screen snaps, and suddenly, they’re in a dimly lit bedroom, their bodies pressed together. The soft, breathy moans fill the room, while the scene of naked bodies rolls on the screen.

Your breath hitches, and you fumble for the remote, your fingers shaking slightly as you try to find the button to change the channel. “I didn’t know it would… turn into this,” you mutter, clearly flustered.

Sylus snatches the remote from your hands. “Don’t change the channel.” His eyes are on the screen, amusement plastered over his face. Heat floods your cheeks, your heart racing as the sounds from the screen grow more intimate. You can feel Sylus shifting beside you, his arm still resting along the back of the sofa, his fingers just inches from your shoulder.

You try to focus, try to steer your mind away from the images on the screen. And then the uncomfortable question shows its ugly head again.

Had there been someone else?

You’re not sure what you are to him. You’re not sure if you’re just another passing moment in his long, endless existence.

You can’t think about that. You need to clear your head.

Sylus laughs as a relieved sigh leaves your lips when the steamy scene ends, and you can’t help but laugh a little with him.

You make a mental note to call the man from earlier. You’ll call him in the morning, when Sylus is resting, and try to schedule the date after all. Maybe it’ll help clear your head, help you sort through the tangled mess of emotions that has built up since you moved into this mansion, since Sylus slithered his way into your life.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ ♪ ฅ₍ᓀ‸ᓂマ ੭ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The next day, you had avoided Sylus all morning, deliberately keeping yourself busy with small tasks that didn’t require much thought—dusting the bookshelves, scrubbing the kitchen counters, tending to the plants. But no matter what you did, you still felt him. Normally, you’d catch a glimpse of him here or there, a shadow slipping through the hallway or leaning against the doorway, finding any chance to tease you. But today, you avoided those moments, slipping out of rooms just before he appeared.

You tried to escape the gnawing feeling of guilt as well.

The call you’d made earlier in the morning had gone smoothly. The man had been more than happy to hear from her again. You agreed on the time and even though he was willing to pick you up, you insisted to meet at the restaurant. The conversation was light and sweet. But as soon as you hung up, a part of you regretted it. Even though you shouldn’t have.

After lunch, you retreated into the safety of your bedroom. You took your time getting ready —something you hadn’t done in a long time.The hours dragged on, and you continued to stay in your room, pacing, glancing at your reflection in the mirror - the tight dress is flattering, accentuating your curves. You set aside high heels that made your legs long and irresistible. You still had time to kill, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t want to face Sylus. Not yet. The thoughts of last night still weighed heavily on you—the tension during the movie, the heat of his body next to yours, how you craved his touch.

Then, a knock at the door.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. Sylus never knocks. He never enters your bedroom, to give you some semblance of privacy.

"Are you alright?" You can hear genuine concern in his voice from the other side of the door. "You've been in there for a while."

You hesitate, heart racing. Part of you wants to tell him to go away, to keep the distance you’d been trying so hard to create today. But the sound of his voice makes your chest tighten. You swallow, steeling yourself before you answer.

"Come in." Why did you tell him to come in?

The door creaks open slowly, and as Sylus steps into the room, you can see the brief flash of surprise on his face—the way his red eyes widen as he takes you in. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze sweeping over you, lingering on the curve of your hips, the way fabric of the dress clings to your body.

"Well," he finally says, his voice low. "I thought something was wrong… that you weren’t feeling well. Or that you were avoiding me."

There’s something about the way he says it, the flicker of concern behind his usual teasing, that touches you. You force a smile. "I wasn’t avoiding you," you lie. "I just… took my time to getting ready."

Sylus steps closer, his eyes over you again, savoring every detail. Then, his expression softens. "You look beautiful," he says, the words slipping from his lips with surprising tenderness.

The compliment stuns you. Of all the things you expected from him—teasing, possessiveness, maybe even anger—this was the last. You open your mouth to say something, but no words come out. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you stare back at him, unsure how to react.

He doesn’t let you recover, though. He steps even closer, his gaze holding yours, and he adds, "You always do."

His words are so sincere. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to find your voice, "Thank you," the words are barely audible, your heart still racing from the weight of his gaze.

Then his lips pull into that teasing smirk. "So, you are going on that date after all?"

You feel your stomach twist at his words. “Yes, I’m going on a date.”

Sylus steps closer, his towering form closing in on you with that familiar, quiet intensity. Your heart races as he moves forward, and instinctively, you step back. But he doesn’t stop. With each step he takes, you find yourself moving backward, the space shrinking, guiding you slowly toward the edge of your bed.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” he asks, his voice low and laced with that dangerous amusement.

You swallow, trying to stay composed. “You’re the one who suggested it,” you say, hoping that your words don’t betray the storm of emotions inside.

He smirks, clearly not fooled by your attempt to steer the conversation away. His gaze never leaves yours as he steps even closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, sending a shiver across your skin. “Is that so?” his tone is almost taunting, “If that’s what you want - to go out… to have fun with someone else… then you should.”

His words hang in the air, but the way he says it—the challenge, the possessiveness barely veiled—makes it feel like anything but permission. His fingers trace down from your cheek, slowly grazing your jawline before trailing to your throat, where they rest lightly, just enough to make your pulse race under his touch. But it’s the way his tail moves—sliding up the back of your leg, curling around your thigh—that sends a wave of heat flooding through you. It lingers there, teasing, the smooth, firm pressure making your legs tremble.

 “You can say the word,” he whispers, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes your lips, his eyes never breaking contact with yours. “If you want me to stop, to keep my distance… just say it.”

His tail continues its slow, deliberate trail over your skin. The air feels thick, suffocating, as you stand there, torn between your desire for something normal, and the undeniable pull of the dark, dangerous connection between you and him.

The silence stretches, thick with tension as Sylus waits, his lips so close to yours. His gaze locks onto yours, waiting, daring you to speak. But your throat is dry, your breath caught somewhere between fear and desire, and no words come. You can’t say it. You don’t want him to stop. And Sylus knows it.

"You’re not stopping me," he murmurs. His tail tightens its grip on your thigh, its smooth length curling higher, the teasing pressure sending a wave of arousal through your body.

Your knees buckle, your body trembling under the weight of his presence. You stumble, falling back onto the bed, but before you can even react, Sylus’ hands are there—gripping your waist, guiding you down gently so the landing is soft. The bed creaks as he follows, his hands and knees resting on either side of you, caging you in.

His eyes are dark and hungry as they roam over your body, taking in the way your chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, the way your lips part in anticipation. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing lightly over your bottom lip, teasing, making you crave more.

"You belong to me," Sylus whispers. With that, he finally closes the distance, his lips brushing against yours in a slow kiss. In that moment, everything else falls away—the date, the outside world, the fear of what’s happening between you. All that matters is Sylus.

The kiss deepens, your body melting into the bed as Sylus’ lips press harder against yours, his tongue slipping past your parted lips, swirling with yours leaving you breathless. His teeth graze your bottom lip, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. Your hands are buried in his silver locks, trembling as his kiss grows hungrier, more urgent. But before you can pull him closer, Sylus breaks the kiss. Slowly, he reaches down, his fingers grazing the straps of your dress and bra before tugging them down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He slides one hand up, gripping both of your wrists in a firm, yet careful hold. He lifts your hands, pinning them above your head against the soft sheets.

"Do you trust me?" he asks with softness in his voice.

The question catches you off guard. You swallow hard, your throat tight as you whisper, "Yes."

Sylus’ eyes flicker with a flash of satisfaction, and before you can process what’s happening, the space around your wrists tightens. You glance up and see the dark tendrils of magic winding around your wrists, binding them together. The energy pulses softly, not painful, but firm—like his touch. Your pulse quickens as you realize just how vulnerable you are beneath him, your body completely at his mercy. Sylus takes in the sight beneath him, and you can feel the hardness of him pressing against you.

Without another word, he leans down, his lips capturing one of your nipples, his tongue swirling over the sensitive peak. His mouth is hot, teasing, as he licks and sucks at your breast, his hand squeezing the other, rolling the hardened nipple between his fingers with just enough pressure to make you whimper.

As his mouth works your breast, his tail slides up beneath your dress, the smooth length teasing the inside of your thighs. You shudder at the sensation, your body twitching in anticipation as the tip of his tail finally finds its way to your panties, grazing over the damp fabric.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction as he watches you squirm beneath him. "Look at you," he murmurs, his tail pressing just a little harder against your panties, making you gasp. "So wet already…" The smirk on his lips widens as his tail continues to tease you, the sensation maddening as he presses against your swollen clit through the fabric. Without warning, he pulls the bottom of your dress up over your hips, exposing your lace panties to his hungry gaze. His eyes flicker with a brief flash of jealousy at the sight of the lacy fabric, but then a different look takes over—pride. He is the one who gets to take them off, the one who has you like this.

"Pretty," he says with a teasing edge as his fingers brush over the fabric before gripping the waistband. "But I think I prefer you without these." His tail slides aside, giving way to his hands as he hooks his fingers under the lace and slowly peels your panties down, leaving you bare and exposed to his gaze.

The moment Sylus’ fingers slide between your folds and feel how wet you are, his breath hitches. He can feel the throbbing need building inside him, but he keeps himself steady. He will not lose control. Not yet. A wicked smirk plays on his lips as he teases you, his fingers gliding lightly over your entrance, brushing against your clit just enough to send shocks of pleasure through you. You whine, your hips bucking instinctively against his touch.

"Please," you whisper, your voice breaking with desperation, your wrists still bound above your head as you tug uselessly against the restraints. The heat between your legs is unbearable, and every teasing stroke of his fingers makes it worse.

Sylus leans in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he coos softly. "Tell me what you need," His fingers continuing their torturous, feather-light touches. "I want to hear you say it."

Your body trembles beneath him, and for a moment, you hesitate, the embarrassment battling with the overwhelming need. But the feel of his fingers stroking you, teasing you, is too much, and your voice wavers as you whisper, "I… I need you inside me. Please."

The smirk on his lips widens. "Good girl." He leans back, straightening up, and in one fluid motion, he pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him. His body is incredible—broad, muscular shoulders leading down to a strong, toned chest and perfectly defined abs. You can’t tear your eyes away as Sylus’ hands moved to the waistband of his pants, the motion enhancing the muscles and veins of his arms. His gaze never leaves yours as he slowly pulls down his pants and underwear, just enough to free his cock. Your eyes widen at the sight of it—thick, long, and already leaking with precum. The sheer size of him makes your heart race with a mix of excitement and nervousness, and for a moment, doubt creeps in. ‘How am I going to take that?’ you swallow hard as you look up at him.

Sylus notices the flicker of worry in your eyes, and a smug grin tugs at the corners of his lips. "Don’t worry," his voice is laced with amusement as he wraps his hand around his length, stroking himself slowly. His eyes lock onto yours as he kneels between your legs, his fingers sliding back down between your thighs, teasing your dripping pussy again. "I know you can take it"

Sylus positions himself between your legs, his eyes fixed on you as he lines himself up with your entrance. His cock presses against your slick folds, the thick head nudging inside, eliciting a whimper from your lips. You’re trembling, but the weight of his body and the heat radiating off him keep you anchored.

“Relax, darling,” his voice is soothing as he strokes your thigh. His gaze is soft as he watches your reactions.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes forward, easing himself inside. The stretch makes you gasp. It stings, just a little, but there’s a dizzying pleasure that follows it, a heat that courses through you as he fills you inch by inch. Your breath is shallow, and you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by how full you feel, how intense it is.

“Angel,” Sylus growls softly, his voice thick with desire as he pauses, halfway in, letting your body adjust to the stretch. “Look at me.”

You bite your lip, too lost in the sensation to bring yourself to open your eyes. That’s when you feel his hand slide up to your neck with a firm grip, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice soft but commanding, his thumb brushing against your pulse point. “I want to watch your face as I slide inside you. I want to see how beautiful you look.”

Your eyes flutter open, and the intensity of his gaze nearly steals your breath. His red eyes burn with a mixture of lust and something deeper, something more tender. His fingers tighten slightly around your neck, just enough to keep you grounded, to keep you focused on him. He’s watching you closely as he pushes in deeper, sinking further inside you.

You’re a whimpering mess by the time Sylus finally bottoms out. The stretch makes your head spin, tears prick at the corners of your eyes, spilling over as you gasp beneath him. Sylus notices the tears almost immediately. His gaze softens and his thumb moves from your neck to gently wipe them away, the pads of his fingers tender against your flushed cheeks.

“Shh, darling,” His thumb swipes over your skin, catching a tear before it falls. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, taking me so perfectly.”

His words send a shiver through you, and despite the ache and the fullness, there’s something comforting about his touch, the way he speaks to you. His thumb lingers on your cheek for just a second longer, before he shifts his grip to your waist, pulling you tighter against him. His hips draw back slightly, the head of his cock dragging against your inner walls, sending a shock of pleasure through you.

Sylus groans softly, his voice catching as he feels your slick walls gripping him. He holds himself still for a moment, trying to stay in control, but the truth is, he’s so close to losing it. This is the first time he’s done this since becoming a demon—since being cursed with his immortal body—and the sensation of being inside you, of your tight, wet heat surrounding him, is almost too much. He can’t tell you that, can’t admit that you are the one in control.

He starts to move, his thrusts slow at first, almost careful, but the way your pussy clenches around him makes it impossible for him to hold back. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he thrusts into you, each motion sending ripples of pleasure through your body. “Fuck,” he growls, his voice strained as his hips snap forward again, harder this time. His grip on your waist tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. “You feel so good, so fucking good…”

He’s too close, and before he can stop himself, the pleasure overtakes him. After only a few more short, sharp thrusts, he pulls out suddenly, his cock throbbing as hot spurts of cum splash across the skin of your belly.

You’re stunned for a moment. You did not expect him to finish so quickly.

Sylus’ chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, his eyes glinting with a mixture of satisfaction and frustration. He glances down, where his release glistens on your skin, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something like embarrassment in his eyes. He should’ve expected for you to have such an effect on him.

But even as he catches his breath, his cock is still hard. Without a word, he reaches down, his fingers gripping his length, and he guides himself back to your entrance. Your eyes widen as you realize what he’s doing, the lingering warmth of his release still fresh on your skin as he presses the head of his cock against you again. He watches your reaction closely as he slowly pushes back inside you, the wetness of his release mixing with your own arousal as he fills you once more. “I’m not done with you.”

The stretch feels even more intense the second time, your body still sensitive from his earlier thrusts, and a gasp escapes your lips as he slides inside, burying himself deep again. His hips snap against yours, his cock sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His hands grip your hips tightly, pulling you closer, deeper with every thrust.

Sylus’ tail snakes around your waist, the smooth, firm length of it tightening as it pulls you flush against him, keeping you pinned beneath his body. His hand moves to your throat again, fingers pressing just enough to make you aware of his control. The pressure sends a thrill through you, intensifying every sensation as he picks up the pace. Each thrust drives him deeper, the head of his cock hitting your sweet spot over and over, making your body tremble with pleasure.

You try to turn your head, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, but Sylus doesn’t let you hide. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to command your attention, as he growls softly, "Look at me, darling."

His fingers slide between your thighs, finding your swollen clit with a precision that sends a jolt of electricity through your body. You’re overwhelmed by the sensation of his thick cock filling you completely, the wet heat of your bodies moving together in sync, and the relentless pressure on your clit. It’s too much, all of it—too intense, too good, too consuming. You try to close your eyes, desperate to escape the intensity of his gaze, but Sylus isn’t having it.

“I said, look at me,” His tail winds tighter around your waist, anchoring you in place. His hips snap against yours, faster, harder, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside you, forcing broken moans from your lips. The fingers move faster, rougher on your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Your eyes flutter open, locking onto his. You’re teetering on the brink, every nerve in your body on fire. His thick cock slams into you harder, deeper, his fingers relentless on your clit, and your body surrenders completely.

Sylus watches you—his breath ragged, muscles taut, holding back just enough, waiting for you. His hand stays firm on your throat, keeping you grounded, his fingers pushing you towards your peak. He can feel it in the way your walls flutter around his cock, squeezing tighter, and it drives him wild.

"Come for me," he growls, his voice thick with command.

His words are all it takes. Pleasure slams into you, stealing your breath as your body tightens around him. Every pulse, every clench makes the orgasm crash through you in waves so intense that all you can do is cry out, your legs shaking uncontrollably. Your back arches off the bed, but Sylus is there, his hands and tail keeping you pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy. You're helpless, lost in the dizzying sensation, and he holds you tight, letting you ride out every wave.

“That’s it,” he groans, his restraint slipping as he feels you clench around him, your body milking him with every pulse. His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Just like that, angel. Just like that.”

As you come down from your high, your breath still shaky, you feel the tension of Sylus’ magic keeping your wrists bound above your head. You tug weakly against the restraints, wanting to touch him, to feel his skin beneath your hands, your body aching for the closeness.

“Sylus,” you whisper, your voice soft and hoarse from the intensity of it all, “please… I want to touch you.”

Without hesitation, the dark tendrils of magic around your wrists fade, releasing you. Your arms fall limply to your sides, trembling with exhaustion. But it only takes a moment before you reach up, wrapping your arms around Sylus’ neck, pulling him down into a tight, desperate embrace. The second your hands grip him, your lips find his in a messy, breathless kiss. The taste of him is intoxicating, the heat of his body pressing down on yours offering you comfort.

Sylus groans against your mouth, his hips moving in slow, languid motions, drawing out every ounce of pleasure. His cock fills you completely, each gentle thrust making your body shudder beneath him. His grasp on your hip is almost bruising, his fingers digging into your skin as though holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded. But his other hand is soft, cradling the back of your neck with tender care, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

His lips barely pull away from yours between frantic kisses. "Where... where can I finish?" His voice is strained, and his hips falter for a moment. You can feel the way his body trembles with the effort of holding back. His thrusts begin to quicken, each thrust hitting deeper, the wet sounds of your bodies moving together filling the room.

"Inside," you whisper breathlessly, your voice trembling as your hands tug him closer. "Do whatever you want... I'm yours."

Something in Sylus snaps at your words. His thrusts grow erratic, his body trembling as he reaches his peak, and with one final, deep thrust, he lets go. His release hits him hard, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills, groaning into your neck as the pleasure crashes over him. His grip on you tightens for a moment before his movements slow, his breath heavy and uneven.

As he rides out his high, his lips find yours again, kissing you softly. His hips slow to a gentle, rolling motion, drawing out the last waves of pleasure, but never pulling away. His hand cradles the back of your neck, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin, while his other hand loosens its hold on your hip, stroking your skin as if to apologize for the bruises he left behind.

"Mine," he whispers against your lips. His forehead rests gently against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours in the stillness that follows. You realize there’s no need for words. Wrapped in his arms, with his silent affection surrounding you, you know this is where you belong.