april
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
- 1,286
- Points
- 63
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Sylus
Darkness has taste. Texture. A kind of pressure that lives beneath the skin.
You only realize this when Sylus has you completely.
The moment your wrists are bound, everything slows; sharply. You expect sudden punishment. Instead, he waits.
Waits for your breath to settle. Waits for your thoughts to catch up.
Waits…for the dread to bloom.
He paces around the bed slowly, fingers trailing along the edge, never once touching you. But every few seconds, he stops; stares. His stormy eyes pierce through the dark, catching in the faintest light like moonlit metal. He leans down, lips just inches from yours…and then he moves away again.
Sylus had rescued you from Merritt's latest cruelty. Whisked you away in his care just moments after you screamed his name into the shadows. You weren't thinking clearly. You didn't care. You just needed relief.
“I will stop him.” He had said. “But if I do, you are mine until dawn.”
The moment you choose him, the air shifts; darkens. It's not sudden or explosive. It's quiet. Intentional. Like a door closing softly behind you.
Merrit barely had time to react.
In one blink, Sylus was across the room.
The next, Merrit is gone, shimmered away into darkness with a flick of Sylus's silver-ringed fingers. The shadows swallowed him whole. The desperate laughter he had forced from you dies. The bed is now empty but for you.
And then…click.
You realize your wrists are bound. Velvet soft cords of living shadow slide out of darkness, wrapping you snugly to the bed.
Your breath catches.
Sylus lowered his mouth to your ear, voice as calm as ever.
“I won't be gentle.” He warned. “You're mine…until dawn.”
You begin to squirm from the anticipation alone; nerves already betraying you. You've traded one monster for another; one that even shared the same face. Now you find your torment with Merritt's twin brother.
Laughter bubbles up unbidden when nothing touches you at all. You're too keyed up. Too raw. And he hasn't even started.
“I want you to feel what it means when you choose me,” he says quietly. “You asked for a reprieve, but from me there is only delay.”
He smiles, just barely, but it's devastating. Sylus is beauty forged from restraint and shadow, his pale skin and ink-dark hair casting him like a vision of the moon in eclipse. His silver eyes are emotionless storms, calm only in the way deep water is calm before it pulls you under. He is elegance wrapped in silence, terrifying in stillness and achingly beautiful in the moments he chooses to touch. In the moments he chooses to speak.
“Already trembling,” he murmurs. “You poor little thing.”
Then, without warning, a single finger presses into your rib.
Sharp. Precise. A marking.
You jolt.
A second finger joins. Then five.
He doesn't flutter. He presses.
Deep, merciless circles at your most vulnerable points; beneath your arms, between your ribs, across your waist; testing how fast you break.
And god's, do you.
The laughter spills out of you immediately. Not giggles, but helpless, wild peals. Your body bucks against the restraints. He holds you still with barely a touch.
You beg, but it doesn't matter. He wants the begging. It feeds him.
Your ankles are bound now too. The bed shifts beneath you; shadows alive and coiling beneath your back, adjusting you like a rag doll. You're helpless. Offered.
A pause.
And then Sylus kneels beside you and undertakes the true torment. One hand presses flat against your belly, holding you still, not forcefully, but with chilling authority. You twitch and gasp beneath his touch, your muscles flinching before he's even begun.
Then…the ritual begins.
He lifts his hand just enough to let the tips of his fingers drift over your skin. It starts with small, spiraling motions; concentric circles traced slowly, worshipful. Each one tighter, firmer, more precise. It's as if he's drawing ancient glyphs meant to unlock your laughter from within. The patterns shift; zig zags, runes, all imagined but felt, each motion more maddening than the last.
“Such a soft little canvas," he whispered almost gently. “Shall I paint agony across it?”
You arch and jerk beneath him, giggling helplessly. The lightness of his touch is unbearable; just enough pressure to torment, never enough to satisfy. His fingers flutter across your lower belly in tight, rhythmic taps that make your thighs twitch and your breath stutter.
But then his attention narrows. With chilling patience, he focuses on your navel.
“I've studied every inch of you,” he says too softly, drawing a looping figure eight around your bellybutton. “And here…this is a weak spot, isn't it? Right…here.”
He presses a fingertip into the hollow and wiggles it gently; barely a motion, but it sends a shock through you.
His other hand, he raises elegantly, and with a swish of his wrist, a strange hush falls, like the moment before a spell ignites. Tendrils of smoke curl from his fingers, delicate and light, swirling in slow, hypnotic spirals. They coalesced midair into a slender, gleaming paintbrush; its handle obsidian, the bristles shimmering with an iridescent sheen, as if dipped in starlight.
He caught it between two fingers with infuriating grace as he slid his free hand beneath your back to arch you slightly toward him.
“This,” he says cooly, “was used by the old gods to inscribe longing directly into the skin. Shall I show you how?”
You feel the first stroke across your lower abdomen and your spine arches higher. The brush traces along the curve just above your navel, unhurried, measured, like he's writing a love letter to your torment. The bristles barely graze you, but the insufferable sensation lights every nerve under your skin.
Laughter catches in your throat, replaced by gasps and moans as your stomach tightens and quivers beneath the ghostly touch.
He circles your navel, then dips in.
It's a detonation of raw furor.
The bristles swirl, soft and wicked, exploring the tender dip with slow, maddening finesse. It's almost too much; an overload of teasing stimulation and sensual intimacy. Your hips rise to it instinctively, only to be gently pinned down by his hand, cool and unyielding in your hipbone.
“Still,” he purrs. “Let me finish my art, little one.”
You beg.
You don't even know what you're begging for. The sensations blur together; arousal, desperation, need. Your body caught in the unbearable space between pleasure and torment. Words tumbled out broken, scattered, senseless. You need it to stop. You need more. You don't even know what you need; only that you cannot bear it and you cannot bear for it to end.
He feels it; your hunger under the helplessness, the heat beneath the laughter. His silver eyes flicker, cold as the snow, but there's a cruel shimmer at the edge. Carefully, Sylus draws the brush downward, trailing it from your trembling navel, over your belly…lower. The bristles skim the soft inside of your thigh, whisper-light. You freeze, breath stuttering as your legs try to close. But the shadows hold you open; exposed.
The brush strokes a titillating, spiraling line just at the edge of where you need him most. Not to please you. No. This is punishment shaped like pleasure. And he knows you're breaking for it.
You're crying out now; pleading, laughter and arousal bleeding together into something wild, wordless. He glides between your thighs in lazy, devastating strokes, every pass an unspoken cruelty. He paints you like a sadist with a masterpiece in mind, denying you with every calculated withdrawal. You're begging shamelessly, your voice wrecked with need, but he only deepens the torment. And still, he paints.
Again and again, your breath catching on a sharp inhale with each stroke, breaking into a sobbing whimper as he leaves you desperate for release.
Repositioning himself beside you, Sylus let the shadows bend your legs further, arching your hips higher. Your bottom lifted, bare and trembling. Your thighs parted and stretched, knees hovering just enough for him to slide the brush along the sensitive hollows behind them.
“Sylus…please!” You gasped, already broken, already desperate.
He did not respond, he only dipped the brush higher, tracing the underside of your thighs, then suddenly flicking down again into the backs of your knees. Your scream burst forth like a fountain. You twisted in the air, powerless, every nerve aflame.
You barely had time to catch your breath when he pressed the brush down your calves; first one, then the other, swirling the bristles in tiny, maddening circles. The softness of it, the focused precision, was torturous beyond reason. You sobbed and wailed with laughter, now shaking violently in the bonds, your body blushed violet and glistening.
His voice lowered, dark and as thick as honey.
“Tell me, little one…” he whispered. “Are you blushing because it tickles? Or because your body's soaking from torment?”
You sobbed his name, lost to hysterics. You couldn't answer. Your mind was a storm, heat pulsing between your thighs even as panic rises, even as the brush descends lower and lower. You know exactly where he's going. He knows you know. That's the game. That's the cruelty. He draws it out, letting your mind spiral, letting dread curl deliciously around your arousal.
The paintbrush drops towards your ankles. You're whimpering now. It's your feet. He's going to your feet. And there's no mercy in him. Only silence and that wicked, wicked tool.
It finds your arch. It's delicate…too delicate. A whispering tease that barely counts as a touch, and yet your foot jolts like lightning just kissed the skin.
The second stroke is deliberate. The moment it touched, your whole body seized; a strangled, breathy cry clawing up your throat. He traced the entire sole, lingering with a callousness just to watch your muscles tense. Then the soft pad beneath your toes, each pass agonizingly measured. Your toes clenched, curled, tried to hide, but the shadows reacted, holding them splayed open in the dim light, baring every inch for his ministrations.
His silver eyes flicked up as he turned his attention to your toes.
One. By. One.
He painted each one individually, brushing delicately just above the crease, around the stems, and most devastatingly of all, between them, teasing the delicate nerves with strokes too exact, too exquisite to endure. You shrieked and thrashed and begged, your voice dissolving into laughter that tasted like tears. Every flick of those cursed bristles sent torment pulsing through your spine, sensual and piercing, maddening and darkly divine.
Sylus doesn't speak, but his jaw is tight. His calm is slipping. He kneels now, one hand gripping your ankle while the other guides the cruel instrument in lyrical flourishes across your toes. It's too much; playful and sadistic, artistic and ruinous. It swirls, dips and traces, each movement written to destroy.
A single drop of sweat falls from his temple. His breath grows shallow, a muscle subtly twitching beneath his cheekbone.
The brush dances.
You beg. He ignores it.
But his hand trembles.
He moved to your other foot without a word, without a change in expression; his metallic eyes catching the candlelight like frozen storms. He explored this one more methodically, etching a calligraphy of ticklishness in invisible ink across your skin. His brush knew where to linger, where to barely graze, where to press just enough to make you scream.
Still…beneath the calm, a crack forms.
His breath catches as something shifts deeper into his blood, igniting a throb that pulses in his core.
The curse.
It coils around him, silent and punishing. Every time he touches you, his body burns with want; desire he can never relieve. The gods designed it so. For every shriek you release, every tremble of your foot under his touch, he feels it too. Amplified, twisted into unbearable arousal. He's hard beneath his coat, pulsing, untouched, forbidden.
Still he tickles. Still he paints.
The brush moves faster now; reckless swirls across your soles, slipping between your toes, dancing up your instep. You scream laughter, begging breathlessly, your words shattering into squeals. He exhales hard through his nose, teeth clenched, shadows trembling at the edges of his form. His eyes cast downward, not with mercy, but with suffering.
He doesn't speak. He can't. If he did, he might break.
The curse demands his silence, his restraint, his denial. But you feel the heat rising in the room, the tension vibrating. You know what this costs him.
Sylus freezes. The brush clatters to the floor, forgotten, his hand shaking as he releases it. His breath stutters as though stuck, a sharp intake that fractures his carefully maintained silence. You're still trembling beneath his presence; laughter drenched and breathless when suddenly the shadows that held your limbs slacken and vanish. You collapse back into the velvet, stunned by the release, blinking through the haze of overstimulation.
Sylus rises and stumbles back a step, one hand clenched at his side, the other gripping his shirt just over his ribs. He looks…cracked. Shaken. Because the curse is cruel. He's not meant to feel this. He was sculpted by the gods to be empty, but you ruined that.
He turns. Silent. Defeated. Like he's afraid that one more second near you will tear him in half.
You sit up slowly, watching him through hooded eyes. Your body aches, your skin tingles where his hands had wandered. But your voice is clear, sure, inevitable.
“Until dawn.”
He halts, shoulders heaving. Then, he turns, strides quickly back to the bed like a man possessed. You barely have time to move before he's there, sinking down beside you, holding you like an anchor.
He nods, barely holding together. He'll stay. But it will destroy him.
"Do you love me, Sylus?" The words, barely a whisper as they recklessly leave your lips.
He stares at you, cold eyes unreadable. His voice, when it comes, is low and steady, dangerous in its restraint.
"I do not possess love...in the way you understand it."
His fingers begin to move, delicate and smooth, grazing up your side, just enough to make your breath hitch and your body steele. But his gaze never leaves yours.
"What I feel for you..." he continues, "is beyond mercy, beyond reason, beyond even the rules of the gods laid down to cage creatures like me."
The fingertips of his other hand find the notch of your collarbone and drag down it lightly, making you gasp.
"I was created to torment. To rule. To remain untouched by want. And yet..." he leans in closer, his breath now brushing your lips, "when you run, I hunt. When you suffer, I burn. When you beg, I feel alive."
He presses a slow kiss beneath your ear; tender, sweet, and murmurs, barely audible, "So, yes. If that is love...then gods forgive me. I do."
Then without warning, his fingers curl in to attack. You shriek and giggle, body convulsing against his, and still, he holds you there, eyes locked to yours, mouth curved into something that just might be agony or devotion.
"But dont think love will save you now, little one," he growls, wicked and raw. "Love only makes my devotion that much worse."
His fingers slip beneath your ribs; gentle but relentless. “And dawn isn't here yet.” He warned as your laughter rises again with the night.
Sylus
Darkness has taste. Texture. A kind of pressure that lives beneath the skin.
You only realize this when Sylus has you completely.
The moment your wrists are bound, everything slows; sharply. You expect sudden punishment. Instead, he waits.
Waits for your breath to settle. Waits for your thoughts to catch up.
Waits…for the dread to bloom.
He paces around the bed slowly, fingers trailing along the edge, never once touching you. But every few seconds, he stops; stares. His stormy eyes pierce through the dark, catching in the faintest light like moonlit metal. He leans down, lips just inches from yours…and then he moves away again.
Sylus had rescued you from Merritt's latest cruelty. Whisked you away in his care just moments after you screamed his name into the shadows. You weren't thinking clearly. You didn't care. You just needed relief.
“I will stop him.” He had said. “But if I do, you are mine until dawn.”
The moment you choose him, the air shifts; darkens. It's not sudden or explosive. It's quiet. Intentional. Like a door closing softly behind you.
Merrit barely had time to react.
In one blink, Sylus was across the room.
The next, Merrit is gone, shimmered away into darkness with a flick of Sylus's silver-ringed fingers. The shadows swallowed him whole. The desperate laughter he had forced from you dies. The bed is now empty but for you.
And then…click.
You realize your wrists are bound. Velvet soft cords of living shadow slide out of darkness, wrapping you snugly to the bed.
Your breath catches.
Sylus lowered his mouth to your ear, voice as calm as ever.
“I won't be gentle.” He warned. “You're mine…until dawn.”
You begin to squirm from the anticipation alone; nerves already betraying you. You've traded one monster for another; one that even shared the same face. Now you find your torment with Merritt's twin brother.
Laughter bubbles up unbidden when nothing touches you at all. You're too keyed up. Too raw. And he hasn't even started.
“I want you to feel what it means when you choose me,” he says quietly. “You asked for a reprieve, but from me there is only delay.”
He smiles, just barely, but it's devastating. Sylus is beauty forged from restraint and shadow, his pale skin and ink-dark hair casting him like a vision of the moon in eclipse. His silver eyes are emotionless storms, calm only in the way deep water is calm before it pulls you under. He is elegance wrapped in silence, terrifying in stillness and achingly beautiful in the moments he chooses to touch. In the moments he chooses to speak.
“Already trembling,” he murmurs. “You poor little thing.”
Then, without warning, a single finger presses into your rib.
Sharp. Precise. A marking.
You jolt.
A second finger joins. Then five.
He doesn't flutter. He presses.
Deep, merciless circles at your most vulnerable points; beneath your arms, between your ribs, across your waist; testing how fast you break.
And god's, do you.
The laughter spills out of you immediately. Not giggles, but helpless, wild peals. Your body bucks against the restraints. He holds you still with barely a touch.
You beg, but it doesn't matter. He wants the begging. It feeds him.
Your ankles are bound now too. The bed shifts beneath you; shadows alive and coiling beneath your back, adjusting you like a rag doll. You're helpless. Offered.
A pause.
And then Sylus kneels beside you and undertakes the true torment. One hand presses flat against your belly, holding you still, not forcefully, but with chilling authority. You twitch and gasp beneath his touch, your muscles flinching before he's even begun.
Then…the ritual begins.
He lifts his hand just enough to let the tips of his fingers drift over your skin. It starts with small, spiraling motions; concentric circles traced slowly, worshipful. Each one tighter, firmer, more precise. It's as if he's drawing ancient glyphs meant to unlock your laughter from within. The patterns shift; zig zags, runes, all imagined but felt, each motion more maddening than the last.
“Such a soft little canvas," he whispered almost gently. “Shall I paint agony across it?”
You arch and jerk beneath him, giggling helplessly. The lightness of his touch is unbearable; just enough pressure to torment, never enough to satisfy. His fingers flutter across your lower belly in tight, rhythmic taps that make your thighs twitch and your breath stutter.
But then his attention narrows. With chilling patience, he focuses on your navel.
“I've studied every inch of you,” he says too softly, drawing a looping figure eight around your bellybutton. “And here…this is a weak spot, isn't it? Right…here.”
He presses a fingertip into the hollow and wiggles it gently; barely a motion, but it sends a shock through you.
His other hand, he raises elegantly, and with a swish of his wrist, a strange hush falls, like the moment before a spell ignites. Tendrils of smoke curl from his fingers, delicate and light, swirling in slow, hypnotic spirals. They coalesced midair into a slender, gleaming paintbrush; its handle obsidian, the bristles shimmering with an iridescent sheen, as if dipped in starlight.
He caught it between two fingers with infuriating grace as he slid his free hand beneath your back to arch you slightly toward him.
“This,” he says cooly, “was used by the old gods to inscribe longing directly into the skin. Shall I show you how?”
You feel the first stroke across your lower abdomen and your spine arches higher. The brush traces along the curve just above your navel, unhurried, measured, like he's writing a love letter to your torment. The bristles barely graze you, but the insufferable sensation lights every nerve under your skin.
Laughter catches in your throat, replaced by gasps and moans as your stomach tightens and quivers beneath the ghostly touch.
He circles your navel, then dips in.
It's a detonation of raw furor.
The bristles swirl, soft and wicked, exploring the tender dip with slow, maddening finesse. It's almost too much; an overload of teasing stimulation and sensual intimacy. Your hips rise to it instinctively, only to be gently pinned down by his hand, cool and unyielding in your hipbone.
“Still,” he purrs. “Let me finish my art, little one.”
You beg.
You don't even know what you're begging for. The sensations blur together; arousal, desperation, need. Your body caught in the unbearable space between pleasure and torment. Words tumbled out broken, scattered, senseless. You need it to stop. You need more. You don't even know what you need; only that you cannot bear it and you cannot bear for it to end.
He feels it; your hunger under the helplessness, the heat beneath the laughter. His silver eyes flicker, cold as the snow, but there's a cruel shimmer at the edge. Carefully, Sylus draws the brush downward, trailing it from your trembling navel, over your belly…lower. The bristles skim the soft inside of your thigh, whisper-light. You freeze, breath stuttering as your legs try to close. But the shadows hold you open; exposed.
The brush strokes a titillating, spiraling line just at the edge of where you need him most. Not to please you. No. This is punishment shaped like pleasure. And he knows you're breaking for it.
You're crying out now; pleading, laughter and arousal bleeding together into something wild, wordless. He glides between your thighs in lazy, devastating strokes, every pass an unspoken cruelty. He paints you like a sadist with a masterpiece in mind, denying you with every calculated withdrawal. You're begging shamelessly, your voice wrecked with need, but he only deepens the torment. And still, he paints.
Again and again, your breath catching on a sharp inhale with each stroke, breaking into a sobbing whimper as he leaves you desperate for release.
Repositioning himself beside you, Sylus let the shadows bend your legs further, arching your hips higher. Your bottom lifted, bare and trembling. Your thighs parted and stretched, knees hovering just enough for him to slide the brush along the sensitive hollows behind them.
“Sylus…please!” You gasped, already broken, already desperate.
He did not respond, he only dipped the brush higher, tracing the underside of your thighs, then suddenly flicking down again into the backs of your knees. Your scream burst forth like a fountain. You twisted in the air, powerless, every nerve aflame.
You barely had time to catch your breath when he pressed the brush down your calves; first one, then the other, swirling the bristles in tiny, maddening circles. The softness of it, the focused precision, was torturous beyond reason. You sobbed and wailed with laughter, now shaking violently in the bonds, your body blushed violet and glistening.
His voice lowered, dark and as thick as honey.
“Tell me, little one…” he whispered. “Are you blushing because it tickles? Or because your body's soaking from torment?”
You sobbed his name, lost to hysterics. You couldn't answer. Your mind was a storm, heat pulsing between your thighs even as panic rises, even as the brush descends lower and lower. You know exactly where he's going. He knows you know. That's the game. That's the cruelty. He draws it out, letting your mind spiral, letting dread curl deliciously around your arousal.
The paintbrush drops towards your ankles. You're whimpering now. It's your feet. He's going to your feet. And there's no mercy in him. Only silence and that wicked, wicked tool.
It finds your arch. It's delicate…too delicate. A whispering tease that barely counts as a touch, and yet your foot jolts like lightning just kissed the skin.
The second stroke is deliberate. The moment it touched, your whole body seized; a strangled, breathy cry clawing up your throat. He traced the entire sole, lingering with a callousness just to watch your muscles tense. Then the soft pad beneath your toes, each pass agonizingly measured. Your toes clenched, curled, tried to hide, but the shadows reacted, holding them splayed open in the dim light, baring every inch for his ministrations.
His silver eyes flicked up as he turned his attention to your toes.
One. By. One.
He painted each one individually, brushing delicately just above the crease, around the stems, and most devastatingly of all, between them, teasing the delicate nerves with strokes too exact, too exquisite to endure. You shrieked and thrashed and begged, your voice dissolving into laughter that tasted like tears. Every flick of those cursed bristles sent torment pulsing through your spine, sensual and piercing, maddening and darkly divine.
Sylus doesn't speak, but his jaw is tight. His calm is slipping. He kneels now, one hand gripping your ankle while the other guides the cruel instrument in lyrical flourishes across your toes. It's too much; playful and sadistic, artistic and ruinous. It swirls, dips and traces, each movement written to destroy.
A single drop of sweat falls from his temple. His breath grows shallow, a muscle subtly twitching beneath his cheekbone.
The brush dances.
You beg. He ignores it.
But his hand trembles.
He moved to your other foot without a word, without a change in expression; his metallic eyes catching the candlelight like frozen storms. He explored this one more methodically, etching a calligraphy of ticklishness in invisible ink across your skin. His brush knew where to linger, where to barely graze, where to press just enough to make you scream.
Still…beneath the calm, a crack forms.
His breath catches as something shifts deeper into his blood, igniting a throb that pulses in his core.
The curse.
It coils around him, silent and punishing. Every time he touches you, his body burns with want; desire he can never relieve. The gods designed it so. For every shriek you release, every tremble of your foot under his touch, he feels it too. Amplified, twisted into unbearable arousal. He's hard beneath his coat, pulsing, untouched, forbidden.
Still he tickles. Still he paints.
The brush moves faster now; reckless swirls across your soles, slipping between your toes, dancing up your instep. You scream laughter, begging breathlessly, your words shattering into squeals. He exhales hard through his nose, teeth clenched, shadows trembling at the edges of his form. His eyes cast downward, not with mercy, but with suffering.
He doesn't speak. He can't. If he did, he might break.
The curse demands his silence, his restraint, his denial. But you feel the heat rising in the room, the tension vibrating. You know what this costs him.
Sylus freezes. The brush clatters to the floor, forgotten, his hand shaking as he releases it. His breath stutters as though stuck, a sharp intake that fractures his carefully maintained silence. You're still trembling beneath his presence; laughter drenched and breathless when suddenly the shadows that held your limbs slacken and vanish. You collapse back into the velvet, stunned by the release, blinking through the haze of overstimulation.
Sylus rises and stumbles back a step, one hand clenched at his side, the other gripping his shirt just over his ribs. He looks…cracked. Shaken. Because the curse is cruel. He's not meant to feel this. He was sculpted by the gods to be empty, but you ruined that.
He turns. Silent. Defeated. Like he's afraid that one more second near you will tear him in half.
You sit up slowly, watching him through hooded eyes. Your body aches, your skin tingles where his hands had wandered. But your voice is clear, sure, inevitable.
“Until dawn.”
He halts, shoulders heaving. Then, he turns, strides quickly back to the bed like a man possessed. You barely have time to move before he's there, sinking down beside you, holding you like an anchor.
He nods, barely holding together. He'll stay. But it will destroy him.
"Do you love me, Sylus?" The words, barely a whisper as they recklessly leave your lips.
He stares at you, cold eyes unreadable. His voice, when it comes, is low and steady, dangerous in its restraint.
"I do not possess love...in the way you understand it."
His fingers begin to move, delicate and smooth, grazing up your side, just enough to make your breath hitch and your body steele. But his gaze never leaves yours.
"What I feel for you..." he continues, "is beyond mercy, beyond reason, beyond even the rules of the gods laid down to cage creatures like me."
The fingertips of his other hand find the notch of your collarbone and drag down it lightly, making you gasp.
"I was created to torment. To rule. To remain untouched by want. And yet..." he leans in closer, his breath now brushing your lips, "when you run, I hunt. When you suffer, I burn. When you beg, I feel alive."
He presses a slow kiss beneath your ear; tender, sweet, and murmurs, barely audible, "So, yes. If that is love...then gods forgive me. I do."
Then without warning, his fingers curl in to attack. You shriek and giggle, body convulsing against his, and still, he holds you there, eyes locked to yours, mouth curved into something that just might be agony or devotion.
"But dont think love will save you now, little one," he growls, wicked and raw. "Love only makes my devotion that much worse."
His fingers slip beneath your ribs; gentle but relentless. “And dawn isn't here yet.” He warned as your laughter rises again with the night.
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