Chapter Text
As if to welcome you home your phone rings the second you step through the door. You fumble with your bags and keys, elbowing the door closed while you tap your screen, and step out of your shoes. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” Sylus’ rich voice says through the speaker. “Are you off work?”
“I am,” you say, and hang up your coat. You flick the light on as you continue from the hallway to your kitchen. “You called right after I got home. Did you just wake up?”
His voice sounds rougher than normal. It’s a little early for him—but then again, his sleep schedule is all over the place. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out he changes it up again. Breakfast at noon, lunch at midnight, hard liquor when the sun is setting. “How was your day?” Sylus asks instead of answering your question.
Long. Tiring. No overtime today—a miracle in and of itself. There’s been a lot of missing people reports lately, more than usual, and the more you look into it the more it puzzles you. It doesn’t help that the reports are vague and made late; by the time someone notices the missing person is, well, missing, it’s already been several days if not weeks. The people taken don’t have much in common except for being relatively young and easy to miss. They usually live alone. It’s had you close the padlock on your door with more care than usual.
You turn on the tap and fill a glass with water. “Is that what you called me to ask?”
“Not necessarily. Can’t I still want to know?”
“Are you calling to remind me about tomorrow? I haven’t forgotten. Or were you afraid I wouldn’t open the door when you rang?” you say.
Questions without answers, back and forth, a game of tug the rope. Like every time you call you wonder who will get tired of this game first. Surely Sylus. He likes winning, you know that much, but he gets bored. The only reason he hasn’t given up yet is because you rarely say yes to his invitations. You expect today’s call to be similar to the one from a few days prior, where he breezily informed you there’s an outfit waiting for you at the base, if you wanted it, and to come early so you can try it on. You politely declined the offer.
“I’m sorry,” Sylus says. You still in surprise, glass just touching your lips. You set the water down again. What for? “It is about tomorrow, but—I have to cancel. Something unexpected came up.”
He sounds genuinely upset, even through the speakers of your shitty work phone. Your personal one finally croaked last week after six years of duty, and you’d have to forego this month’s gas bill to get a new one. You frown as you clutch the phone a little more tightly to your ear. “Why? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” You immediately bite your lip at that last one—a mistake.
As expected Sylus laughs, though without his usual rich fucker mirth. “Are you worried about me, kitten?”
You consider just hanging up, but you really are curious why he’s cancelling at such short notice. It’s never happened before—though maybe your “never” is too small of a research pool. You’re surprised he even kept up the invitations after you accepted for the first time, certain that his interest in you would fade after he conquered your denial. Human psychology—the more you can’t have it, the more you want it.
You would know.
And that would have been the end of it, except the next day a package arrived. An invitation to an art gallery, one he mentioned in passing during the dinner he took you to. You expressed interest at the time, as well as appreciation for a very nice Prosecco, and received an unopened bottle of the very same brand along with his invite. Handwritten, gorgeous and slanted, on thick expensive paper. You’re pretty certain the cream-coloured envelope—scented, of course, and pressed closed with a wax seal that would be beautiful if it weren’t for the gaudy feathers stuck to it—it came in alone could cover a week’s worth of groceries.
“I’m worried about the unlucky person who decided to challenge you.”
Sylus sighs on the other end of the phone. “It’s nothing like that. Tonight was supposed to be a wrap-up of something I’ve been working on for a while, but the twins got sick. I can’t do it without them.”
Despite your best intentions you feel yourself soften the moment Luke and Kieran are mentioned. “Are they okay?”
“They’re fine. They’re strong, so they won’t die.”
Very reassuring, that. “I see.”
“But we can reschedule. Next weekend—what do you think?” Sylus says. The tinny speaker makes him sound almost hopeful.
“I can’t. It’s Tara’s birthday that weekend.”
“Two weeks from now?”
“Association event.”
“You’re difficult to get a hold of, kitten.” He’s smiling now, you’re sure of it. You can picture it, the way his mouth curls, brushing over his voice with a soft edge. “Is there a waiting list that will take my name?”
No, you want to say. There’s no waiting list. You volunteer for birthday planning and Hunter lectures because your apartment is empty and sad, and spending time here, alone, makes you feel even more empty and sad. There’s too much room here for Sylus to occupy your mind. Will he call today? What is he up to? No good, surely. He texts you photos of beautiful things. A large hand stroking a horse’s mane, a gem on a tie, polished shoes on rich soft carpet. It’s boring, his captions say.
“Maybe if you tell me what you’re doing I’ll help you.”
There’s a moment of surprised silence. “How generous of you,” Sylus says, voice low and amused. You feel your cheeks grow hot. “And what were you hoping to receive in return?”
Of course. You exhale, disappointed with yourself. Quid pro quo, equal exchange. There’s no altruism, not here, and no out of the goodness of your heart. He probably wouldn’t believe it if you told him you hadn’t been thinking about something in return when you said that. Maybe that’s why Sylus keeps calling. Because you’re fool. And there’s still some use to be made of you.
“The offer to turn yourself in is still open.”
Sylus laughs again. “Sure. If that’s what you want. I won’t make any promises about how long I’ll stay behind bars, though.”
It was an idle threat, but he sounds so smug that it makes you want to ask for real. Maybe you really should just hang up. His voice in your ear makes you stupid. You’re about to say that you’re leaving, to never mind your offer, that you were joking anyway, when Sylus speaks again. For once, he answers your question.
“We’re chasing a new drug on the market. The distributors are cycling it through hotel chains in the N109 zone, but whenever we try to follow it to the source there’s a dead end. We had a good lead, but I needed the twins to play distraction. The distributors are almost as paranoid as I am,” Sylus adds. There’s an amused lilt to his voice that makes you curious. He doesn’t strike you as paranoid; doesn’t even strike you as careful, really. Who else with this big of a bounty on his head wanders around Linkon without a care in the world? “I was hoping to move the plan to next week, but it’s unsure where they’ll be by then. If you were to come along…” You mentally supply a shrug to his casual pause. “I could still go with the original plan. Except instead of tonight we would strike tomorrow.”
“You’re busting down a drug cartel?” you say. Sylus hears the incredulity in your voice, because he chuckles.
“The N109 might be lawless, but there’s still rules, sweetie. They’re selling drugs on my turf without paying their dues.”
So it’s about money after all. You suppose that’s reason enough for someone like Sylus. Still—something niggles at you. Is it simply because the numbers are that high? Because it’s a matter of pride? Of power? If he were simply bored he wouldn’t be so concerned.
“What kind of drugs? Are they dangerous?”
“It depends on how they’re used,” Sylus answers.
Another cryptic answer. You turn your eyes to the ceiling as though some merciful god there will soothe your exasperation. Fine. Whatever. He can keep his secrets. You’ll find out for yourself. When you speak again it’s with newfound curiosity and determination to stick your nose in his business: “I understand. The big bad leader of Onychinus has to show off his strength.”
“Something like that. So? You’ll come?”
Surely this isn’t really necessary.
Your reflection watches you button up your blouse in the changing room’s mirror with a confused expression. You’ve worn formal-wear before. For work events, usually, your one works-for-everything black dress that you’ve mended a dozen times by now soldiering on bravely. But most of the time you’re wearing things that are comfortable and practical. Not this. You look down at the ruffles down your collar with a sense of vague bewilderment. You can’t move around freely in this. Aren’t you supposed to be a distraction?
You decide to put these questions to the person who pushed you inside the changing room with a mountain of outfits in your arms. The changing curtain opens with a rssshjt and reveals the culprit sitting on a bench with crossed legs.
“Hey,” you say as you step out, “Aren’t we in a rush? Why are we wasting time with me trying on new clothes?”
Sylus stares at you, lips parting slightly as his eyes flick down, then up again. “Dressing for the part is important, kitten. Did you want to walk in there with your Hunter boots?”
“They’re more comfortable than whatever these are.” You point at your heels with an accusing finger. They’re going to chafe so bad. You can already tell. The shoes wink at you menacingly when you shift on your feet, the sides catching the overhead lights with an evil gleam. “Just so you know, I can’t run in those. Or the skirt.”
“You won’t be doing any running,” Sylus promises. He shifts in his seat and takes something out of his bag. “Here. Pick whatever you think matches.”
He opens a flat box that can only be described as a dragon’s treasure hoard. Rows upon rows of neatly pinned jewellery sets glimmer at you, each more expensive-looking than the last. Earrings and bracelets and necklaces and rings, all decorated with delicate filigree and diamonds that leave no discussion as to whether or not they’re real. Most have some kind of red gem attached to them.
“I’m supposed to be your assistant,” you say after you manage to find your voice. “I’m not earning enough to afford any of that.”
“Then why not try working for me for real? You can see for yourself what the salary is like.”
Har har. You give Sylus a dry look and pick out the one pair of earrings that doesn’t look like it costs more than a mansion. They’re simple studs, silver with a tiny stone in the middle. Plain enough for a nobody assistant. You put them on quickly with the help of the changing room’s mirror.
“Ta-da. Done.”
“You haven’t tried on the rest yet,” Sylus says. He points at the pile of clothes. “Go on. We have time.”
You give him a disbelieving look. “You told me this hotel thing would take the weekend, not the whole week.”
“You dislike shopping that much?” Sylus’ mouth curls up again. “Alright. Excuse me—” He leans back, addressing the sales employee that’s wisely stayed a healthy distance away from this madness. “We’ll take all of them. Everything she’s wearing will be to-go as is.”
“Of course, sir,” the employee says quickly, bobbing their head deferentially. “Excellent choice as always.”
“Sylus,” you whisper-hiss as the employee empties out the load of fabric from the changing room, “Are you insane? Tell them we’re not taking everything!”
“I just like to be well-prepared, sweetie. Don’t worry. If there’s anything you don’t like we’ll get rid of it. The rest you can keep—think of it as a gift for helping me out.”
You despair. This is the kind of shop where clothes don’t have price tags. You don’t know if the not knowing makes it better or worse.
“Just so you know, I’m not keeping anything. You can return it or whatever, I don’t care, but I can’t accept something this expensive.” Not even to re-sell it, though the thought is tempting. People would probably think you’re trying to scam them, or worse, that you stole it. You might not be able to run in this skirt, but you have to admit that it’s gorgeous. Soft to the touch, comfortably stretchy, a lovely dark shade of red interrupted by a small slit on your thigh. The blouse is similarly beautiful. The kind of thing you pass by in shop windows and appreciate it for its design—and then move on, because there’s no way you’ll ever wear something like that. Except now you are.
“As you wish,” Sylus simply says, then offers you his arm. You take it somewhat begrudgingly. Your balance is excellent, but the heels. They’re giving you what is hopefully a not-weird sway to your step, and consequently shift most of your weight to your toes. Taking Sylus’ arm is completely justified, you tell yourself.
You try not to think about how warm he feels. Or how your fingers can’t even curl over half of his bicep. You fail immediately.
“Why don’t you run me through tonight’s plans?” Sylus says as he helps you into the car. “Since you’re my assistant now.”
“Arrival in fifteen, shake hands, and get an invite to cocktail party at eight,” you go down the list on your fingers after you buckle yourself in. “Mingle until we’re either invited to a backroom or someone can give us a name. And then we kick their asses.”
Sylus chuckles. He keeps his eyes on the road as he drives, shifting gear with one hand, the other lazily on the steering wheel. It’s effortlessly hot, and it annoys you a great deal. “There might be a few steps in between intelligence gathering and ass-kicking, but you got the gist of it. You are?”
“Your overworked assistant,” you say.
“Overworked?” Sylus asks, amused. “I don’t remember this being part of the script.”
“I’m simply trying to portray my role as realistically as possible.”
Sylus shakes his head, laughing softly as he changes lanes. “My boss of the year mug begs to differ. But sure. You are working on the weekend. And I am?”
“Mr. Qin, sir,” you supply dutifully.
“Very good. We’re almost there. Is your tracker still in place—? Good. Keep it on you at all times. Take your gun, too. But keep it out of sight.”
You stuff your gun in the sensible hand bag between your legs, wedged next to the paperwork Sylus provided that mimics what an actual assistant would be carrying around with them and a thick bundle of Association files. You couldn’t resist the urge to bring your work with you. One particular case hasn’t left you alone since you saw it. Perhaps because you were reminded so much of yourself; one of the missing girls is your age, with the same dark bags under her eyes. A you in another life. You linger over her photo while Sylus drives, going through the same details you’ve read a hundred times.
Lives alone. No pets. No family. No friends, either, or no friends who keep a close eye on her. The report was made by a co-worker.
She has medical debt, just like you. A mild case of Protocore Syndrome; something that requires daily medication to keep under control. You doubt that wherever she is now is able to supply her with what she needs.
You sigh and trade the file for something of Sylus’. Now’s not the time. You need to work on memorising names and faces. You’re not a Hunter right now; you’re Sylus assistant, and you’ve got a job to do.
Then again…
It’s not a bad cover, but you have to wonder at how useful you’ll really be there. Sylus didn’t tell you what the twins were supposed to do—your guess was wreaking havoc, but your role is very much not that. Or maybe it is and you just don’t know it yet. The only reason Sylus keeps you around is for your resonance, after all. Having backup that amplifies his powers tenfold is an attractive bonus, especially for someone like him. Even if he only tolerates you.
Not that it comes easily, the resonating. You’ve done it a handful of times, and every time it’s a struggle. Not because you hate him, though you do resent him for drawing you in so easily. And not because you fear him, though you are afraid of how much he might see. The only thing you allow to slip through is your naive trust that he’ll hold up his end of the deal. He uses you, you use him, and everyone gets to go home at the end of the day to lie in bed and think about how many of his big fingers could fit inside you.
Okay. Maybe that’s just you. But still—the tentative partnership is enough for a superficial, strained tether between the two of you. Brittle and eggshell-thick. Just like your heart.
“We’re here,” Sylus announces, and pulls up in front of a large, beautiful building. White, of course, because it’s owned by rich people, but the columns rising up to support the balconies are beautiful. Little stone birds nest in between the hand-hewn branches, and ivy trails down the pillars gracefully. The fanlights above the balcony doors are inlaid with stained glass. The light filtering through paints the edges of the windows with softly glowing pastels.
There’s no visible parking space at the front—Sylus simply leaves the engine running for an employee to rush over and take the car away. You’re greeted warmly when you step inside, good to see you, Mr. Qin, a pleasure, your suite is ready for you, just this way, we’ll take your luggage for you. Even the elevator is beautiful. Its wooden interior is painted; another gardenscape to fit the theme outside, with white large birds nesting near the water. You want very much to trail over the river with your fingers, but keep your hands to yourself.
The elevator takes you to the very top floor. The hotel owner is waiting for you there, an older balding man who, after giving you a cursory limp handshake, forgets you’re there and pours all of his attention in Sylus.
“—always an honour, Mr. Qin, we’re so pleased Onychinus considers doing business, truly pleased, here’s your suite—please enjoy the complementary gifts as you see fit—everything will be to your liking, I’m sure, it’s short notice, but everything we provide is top quality, I assure you, only the finest for our guests, as you’ll see—”
“Much appreciated,” Sylus interrupts. “My assistant will forward you the documents I mentioned.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the man bobs his head without sparing you so much as a glance. “Please let me know if there’s anything you need. Drinks, food, company—we’ve got some great girls, very pretty, I’m sure any of them would be happy to—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sylus says silkily. “My assistant and I would like to be shown to our rooms now.”
“Ah,” the hotel owner deflates temporarily, but a second later he revives himself. “Of course—you must be tired. Though if you’re at all inclined—? There’ll be a little party later tonight, around eight. Anyone staying here is free to attend at any time, plenty of faces you’ll recognise, Mr. Qin, I’m sure—”
“We’ll be there,” you say. You smile, holding the man’s gaze as he looks at you with irritated bewilderment; you’re supposed to be pretty, not speak. He glances at Sylus, slightly unsure, but all Sylus does is tilt his head. There’s a challenge in his eyes the hotel owner clearly has no wish to engage in, and so he quickly nods again, rubbing his hands.
“Indeed, indeed! How wonderful, Mr. Qin, we’ll be waiting to see you there. Now for your suite…”
The man keeps babbling all the way to your door, at which point you can tell even without your resonance that Sylus is rapidly starting to get annoyed. You would be too if you were him—but you’re not, which means you get to watch everything unfold with barely held-back amusement. Sylus is never outright rude, but his replies keep getting shorter and curter, and you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing when at one point he throws you a desperate look.
Help me, his eyes say, and you take pity.
“Thank you,” you say forcefully, cutting off the stream of conversation pouring from the hotel owner’s mouth, and open the door for Sylus to step through. The hotel owner watches him disappear into the suite with a disheartened look, but ultimately decides you’re unworthy of his attention.
“Wishing you a pleasant stay!” he tries to say over your shoulder. The door closes with something that sounds a lot like relief.
Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You look tired, Mr. Qin,” you say. Sylus gives you a look, and this time you do laugh. It’s so unusual to see him out of his depth. “Not the kind of attention you’re used to?”
“Normally I don’t waste my time on people like him,” Sylus says, and sinks into one of the plush chairs.
People like you.
You watch Sylus pour himself a drink. His hands are large and beautiful. The veins spidering under his skin stand out against his pale flesh; when he moves his fingers, one of the rings he’s wearing tinks against his glass. The smile fades on your lips. You feel very out of place, standing in middle of all this opulence that Sylus moves through with his usual bored grace. Nothing seems to impress him in this room that you marvel at. Silk sheets, embroidered bathrobes, scented candles. The handles of the bathroom inlaid with pearl. You’re scared to touch anything. Your presence alone sullies this beauty.
Carefully, you place your bag on the desk on the far side of the room. It’s made of deep walnut, its surface sanded down to a shine. Your reflection moves over the wood like a dark stain.
How could you ever hope to want a man who has everything he could ever wish for?
“Are you hungry?” Sylus asks from behind you. You shake your head. When you turn around you see he’s made himself comfortable in his chair, laptop open on his legs. He’s wearing his glasses; they balance on the bridge of his nose. He dips his chin and looks over them to address you. “Then get some rest. If everything goes to plan we’ll stay in here until eight.”
You’re not particularly tired, either, but you obediently step out of your heels and sink down on one of the beds. It’s huge and soft, and the mattress bounces slightly under your weight. A shame you won’t actually get to sleep here. You unbutton the top of your blouse and pull your hair free from its updo. If you’re in for a long night you might as well try to get comfortable while you can.
There’s a ticklish feeling on your back, and you look over your shoulder to see Sylus’ eyes burning into you. You stiffen. Are you doing something wrong? You wouldn’t be surprised if there was some kind of rich-people etiquette you’re butchering somehow.
“Are you going to sleep?” he says.
“No, I think I’ll just read or something.” You take out your Association files again and place them on your lap, toying with the staple. As you sort through the papers your eye lands on one of the leaflets displayed on the nightstand. They’re tourist recommendations, but for rich people. Private spas, fine Michelin dining, horseback riding—there’s even mention of an auction scheduled for tomorrow. You, too, could be the proud owner of a gem-encrusted race car.
“Play cards with me, then. If you’re just looking to pass the time.”
“Aren’t you busy?”
Sylus closes his laptop. “Not right now.”
“I don’t have anything to bet,” you say, but you’re already rising from your seat and walking over to him. Sylus moves the side table in front of him and produces a pack of cards from his jacket like some kind of magician. You watch him shuffle them in his long fingers.
“I’ll supply our bets for the both of us, then.” Sylus deals two hands, then places the cards face-down in the centre of the table along with a stack of poker chips.
“Do you always carry those around with you?”
“For luck,” Sylus says. He’s smiling slightly at an inside joke you’re not privy to.
The game begins. You place your cards, back and forth, occasionally taking one from the stack. You play with your colleagues sometimes, when work is slow. No poker chips are involved, but whoever ends up as this week’s winner gets to say where you’ll get drinks together on Fridays. It’s a good-natured, messy kind of play, where everyone is laughing and groaning and chatting; Simone, fiercely competitive; Tara, keeping tally of everyone’s wins; Xavier, who everyone suspects only pretends not to know the rules of the game. How else do you explain a five-week winning streak?
Unlike your colleagues Sylus has an excellent poker face. He surveys his cards quietly before making a decision, and neither complains nor celebrates when he draws from the stack. Despite this, however—
“I think you’re eligible for a refund on that luck,” you say. You place down two cards. One remains in your hand.
Sylus chuckles. “This is just par for the course for me, kitten. Besides…” He plays a card. “If I use up all my bad luck in a card game, isn’t that preferable?”
Is that how it works? You stare at Sylus’ card pile with a doubtful expression. “Aren’t you worried I’ll take advantage?”
“Why would I be worried about that?” he says. He’s smiling again. For some reason it makes your cheeks feel warm; quickly, you look away and pretend to focus on your cards.
This continues for a while.
You play cards. Sylus loses. You offer to go best out of five, seven, ten; you win every time. “You’re not giving me good cards on purpose, right?” you ask during the final round. “I promise I’m not cheating.”
“If you were you’d be very good at it. I’ve yet to catch you, after all.” Sylus places down another card. It’s terrible.
You decide to put him out of his misery and play one, two, three cards: a combo chain that both ends the game and announces you as undisputed winner of the night. There’s no more time for another go. The clock-hand ticks; half past seven. You need to start getting ready.
“Congratulations,” Sylus says. Despite having lost he doesn’t sound upset in the slightest; if anything, he sounds pleased. He leans back in his chair. “What would you like as your prize?”
You look up, startled. “Prize—? I thought we were just playing with chips. I already told you, I don’t have anything to bet.”
“Humour me. Tell me what you want.”
“There’s nothing I want,” you lie. You watch Sylus’ hands as he tucks the cards back into a neat stack. You want those hands. On you, inside of you, caressing your most intimate parts. In your mouth, between your legs. You want him to forget about the party so he can hold you in between those ridiculous silk sheets all night instead. You can almost feel it, his body on yours. The heat of him, his strength.
You close your eyes to anything that comes after that. You shut out the fantasy of his voice in your ear praising you for being good, low and beautiful and sonorous, the moment it turns to something else. Something softer. You know what it means. You don’t want to acknowledge it. As long as you can file away your feelings under simple desire you can pretend at indifference at the thought of your inevitable replacement.
There will come a day where you’re no longer useful to him. It won’t do to dwell on wishing for things that were impossible from the start.
“Hm.” Sylus puts away his cards and his chips, glancing at his watch. “Well, the offer stands. Let me know if you think of something.”
You nod, despite knowing that there can never be anything you ask of him. Keep me close a little longer, part of you wants to say. Discard me now to save me from future suffering, another part thinks. Pretend to be the cruel, violent monster you introduced yourself as to me. Make it clear, beyond any reasonable doubt, that you find me inconsequential; that you’ll never want me the way I want you. Chase me when I run. Let me go quietly. Flip a coin, pick a card, spin the wheel of fortune and pray that Lady Luck will let you escape my pathetic, selfish desire.
The ballroom welcomes you with a gust of warm chatter.
Not much dancing is happening. The music is slow and jazzy, slotting seamlessly into the murmur of people talking, laughing, and drinking. Glasses clink, jewels shine, and heels click over the floor. Yours included. Some of the faces you recognise from the files Sylus gave you prior to this mission; investors, entrepreneurs, CEOs. Big bosses at the top of their shiny pyramids. Newly rich or born into fortune, it doesn’t matter—everyone here built their wealth on morally dubious foundations.
Sylus’ entrance does not go unnoticed, but aside from a few lingering glances no one says anything. His hand is on your lower back, steering you gently through the crowd, and you want to tell him to quit it because that’s not how a boss treats an employee. But there’s too many eyes watching you for you to speak freely, and so you endure.
You understand why they’re looking, of course. Aside from his notoriety Sylus looks magnetic in his dark casual suit. Red on black, as per usual, matching both his eyes and the pin on his lapel. You look at his profile with a tinge of resentment. What’s he so beautiful for, anyway?
“Mr. Qin,” someone says. A woman with dark hair and a deep-cut dress approaches him, smiling. You recognise her from your briefing as Ms. Yang—owner and founder of one of the biggest tech conglomerates in the N109. “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“If you did that would mean I’ve become predictable.”
She laughs, then turns to you. She’s beautiful, and you feel yourself grow warm under her gaze. Underneath her polite smile there’s something sharp and scrutinising that makes you want to squirm. “And who’s this?”
“My assistant,” Sylus says. You bow your head.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Yang.”
“Your assistant? A pretty girl like her?” Ms. Yang tsks, eyes narrowing. “And I bet you’re working her to the bone, too.”
“May I remind you of your own standards?” Sylus says. “The prototype I sent to you the other day was returned unopened.”
Ms. Yang scoffs, but you catch her smile. It mirrors Sylus’. It clicks for you then—these two are more than business partners. They get along with each other. No, they like each other. They look good together, too. A power couple.
The sounds of the party around you grow slightly distant as you try to hold onto your neutral expression. You’ve only ever been involved with Sylus as the crime lord on Linkon’s wanted posters—even when you started working together the image of him walking to you under the sound of a bell, cloaked in red mist, has been hard to shake. You’ve seen him kill. He even made you kill him. And when he’s not killing or maiming he likes to spend his time leisurely; that’s how he makes it seem, anyway, from the things he tells you over text. Took the yacht out for some fishing. On a jet to someplace cold. It’s my first time tasting a wine this sweet.
You feel a little stupid for realising so belatedly that for all its crime and violence Onychinus is also still a business.
“You can take it,” Ms. Yang says dismissively. She turns to you, gently touching your shoulder. “If you get tired of him you can come work for me, sweetheart. Don’t waste your beauty on a stubborn man like him. I’ll treat you well.”
“Oh,” you flush, unsure of what to say. “Um, thank you—”
Sylus pulls you to him by the elbow. His fingers curl around your arm completely. “No can do. She’s irreplaceable, so she’s not allowed to leave.”
“Ugh,” Ms. Yang says. “You’re terrible. Don’t come crying to me when you scare her off.”
Sylus says nothing; he simply smiles, smiles, smiles, handsome and awful and inscrutable, and hands both you and her a drink he plucks from a passing waiter’s tray. The conversation quickly devolves into things you don’t understand. Tech, stocks, names and places and brands that mean nothing to you. You’re soon joined by others, more beautiful and powerful people who shake Sylus’ hand and compliment him on his latest acquisitions.
There are several times where you feel you ought to slip away.
Surely Sylus doesn’t need his assistant to hover over him all night. This isn’t so much a party as it is a networking event for most of the people here, and it would be completely natural if you were to step back and leave him to his own devices. There is a difference in rank, after all. Certain boundaries cannot, must not be crossed—even if you’re his assistant.
And outside of this hotel you’re not even that.
But every time you’re about to take that step Sylus’ hand curls around your elbow again, tugging you closer. His broad palm settles on your back, skin on skin; you hope he doesn’t feel the goosebumps that ripple over your spine. He’s warm, a steadfast weight, one that you can’t escape from when turns his head and looks at you with his deep red eyes.
You don’t know why he does it. By accident? On purpose? You dearly hope your half-baked theory about how he can read minds is incorrect and wish fervently, as you’ve done many times, that you could read his. He should be bored, indifferent, introducing you like the inconsequential afterthought you are both in reality and pretence. But his voice doesn’t make it seem so; he sounds pleased, warm. Happy whenever someone notices you by his side.
A figment of your imagination. Desire twisted so sharply that it slices you cleanly in half like a knife, leaving the core of you exposed to the convincing performance Sylus puts on. He’s a good actor. He’s charming. Ms. Yang touches his arm and he doesn’t flinch from it.
You desperately want to run away.
You’re just about to do it, too—just going to the washroom, and then simply not coming back—when there’s a lull in the conversation, and one of the men in suits invites Sylus to a backroom to see some kind of ‘special merchandise’. You frown and try to catch Sylus’ gaze—does this have to do with what you’re here for? But when he looks at you his gaze gives away nothing.
Sylus hesitates a moment, then leans in closer to tell you in a low voice, “I’ll be right back.”
Great. Perfect. Isn’t that what you wanted? To be free of his hand on you, keeping you anchored to the floor? You watch Sylus walk away, head bent to hear what Ms. Yang is saying. Her shiny red lips move quickly, curved around a slight smile.
Everything is so awesome.
You breathe out slowly and collect yourself. Get it together. Now’s the time to gather intel. Without Sylus by your side you’ll be able to move more freely; no one’s going to look twice at the mousey assistant in her plain dress. You linger near the snack—pardon, canapée—table and eat while you listen in to the conversations around you.
“…stocks are down again. The tech market has been so unpredictable as of late…”
“…another divorce. I mean, I would too, if I were her…”
“…quite the show. Who would have thought the new spring collection would be flower-themed…”
You forget sometimes that rich people are by and large wholly uninteresting. It seems almost impossible that Sylus is one of them; the more you learn about him the more you feel like you don’t know. Questions with answers, again, your curiosity never satisfied.
Like this drug that he’s after. Why is he so concerned with it? From what little he told you it didn’t sound like it was any more dangerous than the usual stuff circling about in the N109 Zone. Or maybe it’s not the drug, but the people behind it? You take another sip of your champagne. It’s good, light and fizzy and slightly sweet. The one upside of having money to spend.
“…the latest on the market,” a quiet man’s voice says somewhere to your left. “I heard that perhaps tonight we’ll get a sample of it?”
At this your ears prick up. You don’t look in his direction, but pretend to circle the food table to get something on the other side of it. You strain to keep track of his conversation, and yes, there’s the reply:
“I should think so,” someone answers him, a younger voice, “but we’ll want some fairies to go along with the dust.”
Laughter. You furrow your brow; what does that mean?
Time to abandon the food. You turn and drink your champagne, tipping your head back so you can freely look at who was just speaking to get a better look. It’s a small group of people, mostly men, all wearing fancy suits and nursing glasses with hard liquor in them. They’re sitting on the velvet sofas situated away from the centre of the ballroom, close to the walls.
Perfect.
“Good evening,” you smile as you approach. “Is it alright if I join you? I was just wanting to rest my feet for a minute.”
“There’s your fairy, Hans.” One of the men winks at who you assume spoke earlier; a wiry man with a smooth face and blond hair that is combed back in a way that can’t be comfortable for his hairline. You laugh along like you’re part of their little inside joke and sink down next to him, ignoring the way none of the men make any effort to stop manspreading.
Hans offers you a fresh glass of alcohol while the others resume their conversation around you. “I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”
“Perhaps I didn’t make enough of an impression.” You take the champagne. “Or maybe you weren’t paying close enough attention.”
His mouth ticks up. “Think I’d remember a pretty face like yours, darling.”
Ugh. “Is that right? I’ll start to think you’re here for pleasure instead of for work.”
Hans smirks, eyes trailing down your figure. “Who said the two don’t mix?” He leans closer, slinging his arm over the back of the sofa in a move he probably thinks is smooth. “There’s going to be an exciting auction tomorrow night, apparently. This party is just the prelude. But what about you? You here with someone?”
“My boss,” you sigh. It takes little effort to summon real exasperation. “He likes to drink, though, so it’s just a matter of when he’s had enough and we can go back to our rooms.”
“That’s a shame,” Hans says. “Don’t you want to have some fun before you go?”
“I love fun.” You smile again, hoping it looks coy and not desperate. If you’re being too obvious Hans doesn’t seem to mind; he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his chin.
“I thought so.” He clicks his fingers at a hotel employee, who nods and vanishes; when they reappear they’re carrying a tray of… what looks like ordinary drinks. Is that his idea of fun? More alcohol? Where’s the 'dust'? Either way you take the opportunity to lose the glass of champagne Hans gave you on the table in front of you. Maybe he’s just trying to get you drunk so he can fuck you. At the end of the day men are all the same, and this particular breed is worse than the usual asshole who won’t take a hint.
“More champagne?” you ask, tilting your head.
“The finest there is, darling. Here you go, drink up. You’ll love it.”
You glance around the rest of your little company; everyone is happily partaking, and Hans is looking at you expectantly. It doesn’t look or smell any different than normal, so you carefully take a small sip.
Nope, same as before. No weird aftertaste, just bubbles on your tongue.
“It’s great,” you say to be polite. “To be honest, it’s my first time here. Usually I’m kept too busy to attend these kind of parties.”
“I’ve always believed pretty things are meant to be shown off, not hidden behind desks,” Hans says. He’s smirking again, eyes flicking briefly to the glass you’re holding. “Why don’t you stick with me tonight? I’ll take good care of you.”
You suppress your disgust and smile, neither agreeing nor denying, which seems to be good enough for Hans. “Tell me about what you do,” you say, which is all the encouragement he needs to start monologuing about his law firm. All you have to do is nod and hum and throw in the occasional what does that mean? because you’re a naive, silly girl who doesn’t know anything about the world. Good thing Hans is here to tell you what’s what.
You keep half an ear out for more mentions of the dust, either from your chatty companion or the group around you, but nothing comes up. At first you feel frustrated, but as time passes and you drink your champagne the worries slowly dissolve like the bubbles in your glass. You’re pleasantly warm, tucked away in this sofa. The velvet feels nice when you brush your fingers over it, back and forth, while Hans talks to you. It’s a little harder to pay attention now; you’re mesmerised by how the fabric under your hand keeps changing colour as you move over it. But you do your best. Hans really isn’t such a bad guy. His hand on your thigh doesn’t even feel as repulsive anymore, though you can’t help the prick of disappointment that they’re not as big as Sylus’.
But you can’t have the main course. Not allowed! Off-limits! Maybe you should just settle for the finger food. The canapées (ha, see, you remembered) are so small you barely taste them. Or maybe it’s just that there’s a sweet taste permeating your mouth. Your tongue feels a little funny. Does Hans’ tongue feel funny too?
Hans chuckles again. He leans close, hand on your neck so he can whisper in your ear. Usually you’d immediately jerk away, but the sensation is so funny. You feel every little hair on your skin move under his breath individually. “I think it does, darling. Want to move somewhere quieter so we can check?”
That doesn’t sound so bad, actually. You’re sweating. No longer pleasantly warm, just hot all over. Aching a little, in your stomach. Did you drink too much? There’s too many people here. You stand, wobbling slightly in your pretty heels, and follow Hans through the ballroom, on your way to the exit. His hand on your lower back feels all wrong, but it’s fine. You love fun. Does he want to dance?
“Sure, darling. We can dance once we’re back in my room,” he says. He sounds amused. You laugh; you want to be amused too. This is such a great party. It was so nice of Sylus to bring you here.
“Sylus?” Hans asks, one brow raised. “Who—”
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” You turn around. It’s Sylus! Oh, but he doesn’t look very happy. Sylus’ eyes slide over to Hans, who is no longer smiling. “I’ll be taking it from here.”
“And who are you to—”
“I’m her boss. Get lost.” Sylus takes your arm and pulls you close, away from Hans. You go easily. This is so much better. These are the hands you’ve been wanting. Hans makes a pained noise; faintly you feel the crackle of Sylus’ Evol brush past you, but you’re too busy with the gem pinned to Sylus’ coat to ask why. It’s so red and pretty. Like his eyes. You love his eyes. Sometimes you have this weird urge to reach out and touch them. Directly, with your fingers, pulling them from their sockets.
Sylus steers you away from the ballroom, still holding your hand. He’s looking down at you with furrowed brows. “Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m so great,” you tell him earnestly. You smile up at him. He really is so pretty.
To your delight Sylus’ mouth curls up, too, though it doesn’t quite reach all the way to his eyes. He opens a door down a hallway and ushers you inside, but it’s not your hotel room. A powder room? There’s no one else here, though. Everyone’s probably at the party. Shouldn’t you go back? You’re going to blow your cover like this. And Hans, you should tell him—
“I turn my back for a few minutes and you’ve replaced me already?” Sylus guides you to sit down on one of the loveseats.
“But it wasn’t a few minutes,” you say, suddenly sullen. “You were gone for so long. I was waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylus says. “I didn’t mean to leave you by yourself.” He strokes a finger over your cheek and you lean into it fully, rubbing your face against his hand like a cat.
“It’s okay,” you say confidently. “I knew you’d find me again. Or did I find you?” Sylus sits down next to you and lean against him. “It’s like, no matter what I do I keep coming back to you. Like a boomerang.”
Sylus laughs softly. “A boomerang? You pack quite the punch for such a little thing.”
You nod. “I’m really strong.”
“And very warm.” Sylus puts his hand over your forehead. “You’re burning up, kitten. Are you feeling sick? Did someone give you something? A pill, or a drink?”
You’re not really feeling sick per se. It’s just that you’re so hot, and your clothes feel so tight, and the ache in your lower stomach hasn’t gone away at all. It’s only gotten worse. You feel empty. When Sylus pulls away his hand you make a noise of protest and grab it again, pressing it against your cheek. “That feels nice,” you sigh. Has his skin always felt this good? “Touch me more,” you demand.
Sylus exhales. He cups your other cheek with his free hand, angling your face up to him. Your eyes almost flutter closed—almost, because you really want to look at him. “Try and remember for me, sweetheart. Did you take something?”
“You think I’m stupid again,” you say. “What if I’m just drunk? Have you never been drunk? I could be a total lightweight.”
Sylus’ thumbs stroke over your temples. “I’ve never thought you were stupid. And I’ve never seen someone’s pupils get this big off alcohol alone.”
You frown a little. Is that true? You slide your hands up Sylus’ torso, burrowing them under his jacket to get closer to his skin. His hands were feeling so nice on your face just a moment ago, but now it’s no longer enough. Like scratching at an itch—temporary relief, but once you stop it flares back up worse.
Sylus shifts, allowing you better access to paw at his chest, and you tug at the collar of his blouse. The fabric is soft, almost silky, and it feels good to rub your fingers over it. “I only had a drink,” you say, slightly defensive. “Because Hans offered. And I didn’t want to say no, because I wanted to do a good job.” Your hands falter, and you look down at them dejectedly. Oh. Is that it? Did you mess up? Is that why Sylus took you away?
Sylus places one hand over yours, encouraging you to keep touching him. “I understand,” he says. “Tell me more about Hans. Who is he?”
The low powder room light catches the rings on his hand in a reddish shine when he moves in his seat. And his fingers, too, they’re so nice. A little too warm for how hot you’re feeling, but somehow you think that if he touched you more it would help. Maybe he could take some of that heat from you, share the burden, so your head would cool down. What was his question again?
“Your rings are so pretty,” you say, peering at his hand.
“You can have them if you like,” Sylus says. You fiddle with them; Sylus lets you take them off, hold them up to the light, and try them on. You frown a little when not even your thumb is big enough to hold the smallest one. Sylus laughs softly, plucking it off. He takes your left hand in his, sliding the ring onto your ring finger instead. “I think it fits better on this one,” he says.
What a liar. You wiggle your fingers; the ring moves with them, spinning around loosely. “They’re all too big for me,” you say unhappily.
“Then I’ll have it resized for you.”
You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. “No. It’s okay. Too much effort.”
Sylus stills for a moment when you lean against him; then his arm wraps around your shoulder, pressing you closer still. You sigh again, but this time happily; he smells so good. You turn your head, pressing your nose against his throat. Faintly you can feel his pulse under the jugular.
“Then consider it a reward for telling me about Hans. Hmm? Who is he, sweetie? Why were you with him?”
If your head felt clearer you’d pay more attention to the way Sylus’ voice tightens, but right now all you can focus on is the promise of wearing him on your skin. That is a pretty good reward. You pull at the tail of your memory, trying to arrange the picture frames in your mind in an order that makes sense. “He has a law firm, but I forget the name—something with a V? He likes fun, and he likes to drink… He said he was here for an auction. He talked a lot, and he kept putting his hand on my leg but it was okay. He gave me a drink, but everyone else was also drinking, so I don’t know. I’m feeling so hot, Sylus. I’m sweating so bad.”
“Poor kitten,” his voice says close to your ear. Despite the heat you shiver. Sweat is beading on your forehead; you’re so uncomfortable, in your pretty dress and pretty shoes. You want to take it off. Your teeth ache, your skull throbs, and everything feels very big. Alive-big. Even the air is oppressive.
The only thing that is nice and good is Sylus, and so that’s what you cling to.
“You found the drug we’re after before I could, though not quite in the way we intended to,” he says. His voice hits your skin in a pleasant way. You can almost feel it, the words sticking to you, brushing over your cheek. “But you can handle it. There’s no dangerous side effects. You just have to ride it out.”
You deflate. So you did mess up. Nothing has ever been harder in your entire life than to pull away from Sylus in this moment, but you manage somehow. “You can go back to the party,” you say miserably. Your tongue is heavy, and it’s hard to make the words sound right. “You have to catch the dust. And Ms. Yang is probably waiting for you. So.”
“Are you jealous?” Sylus sounds pleased. He doesn’t let you scoot away from him; one of his hands has curled around your waist, and he pulls you back against his side. You’re a boomerang. You can’t resist. Sinking into his weight, his big thigh, his strong shoulder that is so perfect for leaning on—how is anyone meant to resist?
But you sniff and say nothing. He’s having fun, and you’re not. Not fair. This dust or whatever sucks. Aren’t you supposed to have a good time when you’re tripping? Of course you’d be the one to only experience the stupid side effects. The ache keeps spreading, growing stronger with every passing minute. You want something in your mouth.
“This blows,” you say unhappily. Sylus has the audacity to laugh, and you whine. “You’re so mean. Stop laughing at me. You’re not—not nice at all, so stop laughing.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylus chuckles. “I’m sorry, sweetie, don’t be angry. Come here, where are you going—? There. Stop trying to run away. I’m not laughing at you. I promise—look at me, come now. You’re just very cute when you’re high.”
“So glad you’re so amused by all this.”
But you don’t resist when Sylus coaxes you back into his arms. The heat in your body is still rising, and it feels good to have something to hold onto—even if it’s not quite enough.
“You can tell me,” Sylus murmurs. “You can be jealous. I’d be happy if you were, actually.”
Faintly you wonder how that makes sense, but even when Sylus is being a bully you want to see him happy. You’ve only caught glimpses of it, his real smile. Never fully, always guarded, a bored smirk rather than a genuine curve of joy. What could make a man like him happy? You’ve wondered, often. Those glimpses always seemed so random. The moment you notice him in the crowd. Watching you play with his bike. Listening in to the twins chattering away at you about their latest crazy stunt.
“I was,” you tell him glumly. “She was so pretty, and you talked with her a lot. And she knows things about you I don’t.”
Sylus exhales, his grip on you tightening briefly. “As far as I’m concerned I belong only to you,” Sylus says, voice low. “And I’ll tell you anything you want to know. You just have to ask me. We can trade, if you like—an answer for an answer.”
That at least does make sense. Nothing is ever for free with Sylus, after all. There’s no giving without taking. You want to say okay, but all that comes out of your mouth is a pained whine. You curl in on yourself. The ache is starting to get unbearable. You’re shivering despite the heat, and your body is moving on its own. The room is spinning—or is it just you? You watch with bleary detachment as your hands try to unbutton Sylus’ blouse. They’re unsuccessful. The buttons are small and annoying; your hands only manage to get one free before they grow desperate and just tug at the fabric instead.
“Sylus,” you whimper. “I can’t get it open.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” Even as he says it Sylus’s fingers deftly take over, unbuttoning his shirt for you. You press your hands against his chest the moment you’re able to; he’s warm, but you’re burning so hot his skin is almost cool to your touch. You look at his face, dazed. There’s a slight flush curled over his cheekbones—high, sharp, pretty. You touch his face, stroke over his brows with your thumb. Whoa. Like a caterpillar.
“What caterpillar?” Sylus frowns. Your fingers move with his brow, furrowing down, making the caterpillar move like a real one.
You can’t answer; you’re busy. You trace over his beautiful nose with one finger, following its downward curve to his lips. Sylus inhales sharply, but makes no move to stop you. You press on his lower lip, opening his mouth. His teeth are sharp, and his tongue is a pretty shade of pink. He allows you to admire him—even allows for you to put your curious fingers inside, stroking over his tongue and his gums. He bites them lightly when you go deeper—a warning. You move on to his neck, press into the dip of his collarbone, between his pecs, down to the trail of soft, light hair that thickens as you go lower—
Sylus catches your wrist in his hand when you start tugging at his belt. “What are you looking for, kitten?” he asks in a low voice.
Something. Anything. You’re breathing hard; the air is hot in your mouth. “It hurts,” you say. Your voice breaks. “It really hurts, Sylus, I don’t like it.” You want to be closer. When you try to straddle him your dress gets in the way, and you make a noise that sounds like crying. “Please,” you croak. “Please, daddy—”
Sylus makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, and then both your dress and hips are lifted in one go. He sets you directly on his cock—you hadn’t even noticed he was hard, too absorbed in touching his bare skin—and you moan. Relief floods your body. Yes, the pit in your stomach says. Yes. That’s it. That’s what you need.
You rock your hips forward, eliciting another moan—both from you and Sylus this time. Sylus’ hands dig into your hips. You’re not the only one who’s breathing hard anymore.
“Do you usually—?” he starts, then cuts himself off with a hiss when you repeat the motion. “What do you want, sweetie? Tell me. I’ll give you anything you ask for.”
You’re too far gone to feel embarrassed anymore. The small cognisant part of you that is aware of the horror of exposing yourself like this is drowned out by the pulse between your legs and the sweat sliding down your spine; you’re empty, and you need filling up. “Make it stop hurting,” you whine. “Please, Sylus, please? I feel so empty, can you—I need to have—” You drag his hand to your mouth, wrapping your lips around his fingers and sucking, then groan, frustrated, when it’s not enough to quell the gnawing ache.
“Alright,” Sylus says roughly. “Alright. I understand.” The pads of his fingers press down on your tongue—he tastes salty, earthy, a tangy sort of musk that has saliva flooding your mouth—then retract so his tongue can take their place. You melt. The horrible tingling feeling under your skin still burns, but Sylus’ mouth takes the edge off; you feel like the carousel you’re on slows, just enough for you to wrap your arms around his shoulders and cling to your ride. Sylus cups the back of your skull, moving your head whichever way he pleases. This is nice, too—you don’t have to think. Just open your mouth and drink him in.
“Was that what you wanted?” he rasps. His breath clings to your skin.
“Yes,” you beg. “Yes, yes, for so long, so please—”
He kisses you again, rougher this time. His free hand guides your hips to keep moving over his clothed dick; soon a damp spot stains both your underwear and his pants. You’re so hungry.
“Need a little more help?” Sylus husks against your mouth. He’s already tugging your underwear to the side before you can nod. His fingers are still wet from your mouth, and you keen when he rubs them over your weeping cunt. “Talk to me, sweetie. How are you feeling? Still hurts?”
You sob when he settles on your clit; it takes a full minute for you to remember how to move your mouth to talk. “Feels hot—achey,” you slur. “Still hurts, but better. Please don’t stop though,” you add quickly, despairing at the thought of him declaring you cured and taking away his fingers.
“Don’t worry,” Sylus murmurs. “I won’t. Just keep talking to me. Keep talking to daddy. How long is so long? Did you want to kiss me before today?”
“Yes,” you whimper. “Don’t remember—long time, so—”
Your reward is one long finger sliding inside you. Sylus put the rings you discarded on again, and you feel the cool silver nudging at the edge of your entrance. Deliriously you wonder if they’ll fit inside, too. You’re so wet you think you could take anything right now.
“Good girl,” Sylus says. He sounds strained. “Good girl, asking for it now. Why didn’t you earlier?”
“Scared,” you manage in between your moans.
“Of me?”
“No—kind of—wanted you, just…” You trail off when a second finger starts to prod at you. You’re wired so tight you think you’re going to burst apart when you come, and you need to come. Sylus taps your cheek, and you will your eyes to focus again.
“Don’t drift off without me, beloved. Just what? Tell me. Tell me everything.”
Everything? But how to start? There’s so much. Layers on layers, fragile kernels behind a hard, leathery shell. Everything is to pick it clean, red pouring forth, each drop a fragment of your guilty longing. Words are hard right now, but—
there are easier ways for you to talk.
The room lights up in warm gold. Resonating has always been so hard with Sylus, but without your usual barriers raised high it barely takes any effort. It feels good, in fact—like a key slotting perfectly in a lock, a puzzle piece, one half pressed against its other. Sylus groans under you—there’s no filter, and he wants it all, greedily touching your whole life that you let slip through unguarded. Your nightmares, your fears, your worries. Things you’d rather forget—getting your period for the first time, forgetting your gym clothes, crying on the bus home from college because of a bad grade. Messing up at work. Awkward one-night stands. Happy memories—celebrating your birthdays, blowing out the candles in one go. Bad ones, too. A funeral. An empty home.
Sylus holds them in his hands, twining everything together in a thread he follows like a red line to the present.
Meeting him. Your fear. Your anger. Your sadness, too, the constant hollow grief weighing heavily on every step you take. Your defiance in spite of it. The will to live. The pain that comes with it.
And there, amidst it all, is his name.
You cry it out when he curls his fingers inside you, fucking you until all you see is that golden shimmering brightness between your eyelids. It flares like a beacon, bursting open like seeds spilling out of overripe fruit. Your body is somewhere in there, a little pit of its own, rushed away by the current of pleasure. Sylus, Sylus, Sylus. His resonance with your own paints your gold red at the edges, bleeding into the core of you, tendrils spreading and gripping with no intent of letting go.
He takes, and he gives—you feel his sharp greed, his delight, his arousal to have you here so vulnerable. He’s happy you’re clinging to him, open and sweet and easy. You sense his determination, a calculated desire that wins out against his own physical needs. The rest of him remains shadowed, a dark stain that you don’t have the clarity of mind to try to touch. The need is still burning through you, even after your orgasm. It’s enough to know that he doesn’t recoil in disgust from your want. No—he soaks in it, your memories, the fantasies, now recoloured in his shade.
Here’s to our mutual use of each other.
The resonance fades. You slump against Sylus, unable to keep holding onto the connection.
You’re given no reprieve; Sylus kisses you again. He’s hungry too, you realise. Whatever he took from your resonance has whetted his appetite. He works open his belt with one hand, unzips his trousers, and frees his cock from the confines of his nice dress pants. It doesn’t cross your mind to ask about protection. All you know is that that has to go inside of you, now, and Sylus seems to have the same idea. It hurts to have his fingers taken out of you, but fortunately the pain is short-lived: he helps you lift your hips, and you sink down onto his cock fully.
“Oh god,” you whimper. The slide is eased by the fire burning inside of you, but Sylus is huge, and you can feel him all the way to your stomach. You put your hand over where you feel him, right above your navel. A slight bump twitches in response.
“He’s not here right now,” Sylus says. His chest is falling and rising rapidly, the flush on his cheeks spreading down to colour his beautiful pale skin. “Why don’t you ask daddy instead? Hm? Isn’t that what you said earlier?” Sylus flexes his hips up into you. He widens his thighs further and forces your own to follow suit—you have to cling to him for balance as he continues to move you over his cock, something he eagerly welcomes. “You wanted this,” he says, breathless and matter-of-fact. “Is it how you imagined? How does my cock feel, sweetie?”
You cry out when he pushes you down onto him and rocks up into you at the same time. You see stars—colours melting together, any semblance of clarity swallowed and gone. The feeling of Sylus’ cock pleasantly numbs you to anything else. Thinking is still hard, but that’s alright; Sylus is here. You grasp onto his voice. “Good,” you moan. “‘S so good, daddy, love your cock—really needed it, thank you—”
A growl rips loose from Sylus’ chest, and you gasp when teeth sink into your neck. The pain is uncomfortable but not unwelcome; you clench around him in response, leaning into his bite. “What else?” he rasps against your throat. He grinds his cock against your deepest spot, and stars bloom against your retinas again. “What else have you thought about?”
Didn’t he already see? Maybe he got lost in the resonance. Or does he want you to tell him? He’s slowing down, and you don’t want him to stop. Anxiously, you dig your nails into his shoulders. “Your fingers,” you manage. “Inside me. After you call me I always—I need to come, your voice, it’s so… I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I feel really guilty, I promise. I know it’s bad. I’m being really bad, you make me all—turned around, and I can’t help it—”
“No,” Sylus snarls, and his grip on you tightens. He squeezes you flush against him, head tucked against his neck, and your vision is obscured. Your breath clings wetly to your own face, open-mouthed and panting. “You’re perfect. You’re perfect—it’s alright. I’ll give you whatever you want. Anytime.” His voice breaks for a moment, wavering. “If I’d known—you just need to ask me. Ask your daddy.”
“I want to come,” you whine. “Dad—can I—will you make me come? Please—”
It seems Sylus is done talking now, because anything that comes after that is swallowed by his mouth on yours. He grips your hips, hard, and fucks you until you’re crying his name again. It's a relief to give yourself over it. Cool water pours over the flaming wound inside of you, and sizzles hot when you reach its climax. Sylus follows immediately after, pumping his cock into you with raspy groans until a wet shock of warmth spills into you as an afterthought to your own fire.
You shiver, pussy clenching around him—trying to swallow it all up and keep it inside where it belongs. The ache is soothed, and despite the exhaustion throbbing between your ears the world around you loses some of its haze.
You try to push yourself upright against Sylus’ shoulders with wobbly arms. He looks a mess—his hair all mussed from where you gripped it, sticking to his temples with sweat. The faint rim of red that remains in his eyes with his pupils blown wide seems to glow in the dimness of the powder room. He leans forward to catch you in another kiss, less hurried this time, but you still feel his teeth against your mouth and tongue. Your stomach twinges in response, but your eyes droop. You feel like you’ve been hit by a truck.
“‘M tired,” you slur. “Daddy…”
“I know, kitten. It’s alright. Dad’s here, you can go to sleep.” Sylus voice is hoarse, but it hasn’t lost any of its soothing authority. His cock is still hard inside you, and though it doesn’t quite sate your hunger it gives it something to hold onto.
It’s so easy to do as he says. You close your eyes and rest against him, breathing him in. His sweat smells good. Your tongue catches some of it, and you sigh, content.