april
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
- 1,289
- Points
- 83
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Sylus
At first glance, you're certain its Merrit. The same lean frame, pale skin, tousled black hair; a face bearing the beauty of winter nights, of silver blades, of cathedrals built to make mortals feel small. You can't look away, even when you should. Relief and yearning surge through you like wildfire, and before a thought can catch you, you're running, throwing yourself into him. Your arms circle his neck, your lips crash into his. The kiss is fierce, hungry, a desperate claiming, until something about him stills you.
He stiffens at first, surprised, but then...god's, he melts. His lips part against yours and he drinks you in as though he's been starving too. For a fleeting moment, it feels the same; like Merrit. Like Jacob. That irresistible pull you cannot deny. But then you pull back to breathe, you notice it.
His eyes.
Not midnight blue like Merrits. Not warm. But storm-grey. Cold silver light in the dark. Unblinking. Unyielding.
"You're the foretold one." His voice is calm, low, threaded with quiet finality. As though he already knows the end of the story.
Your breath hitches. He's so close, every line of his face carved from shadow, eerily beautiful, achingly familiar.
"We've been waiting for you, little one," he continues. A faint smile tugs at the edge of his lips; not kind, not warm, but sharp, like a blade playing at mercy.
"I thought you were Merrit...you're..."
"Identical?" he interrupts, his tone like stone cracking. He tilts his head, eyes roaming you with dangerous stillness. "Yes. Thats our only similarity." The corners of his mouth lift higher, colder. "Except I'm not as nice."
His hand suddenly grips your chin, tilting your face up so you cannot look away. His thumb brushes against your lips, almost reverantly, before pressing with quiet force.
"I'm the brother you never want to cross," he murmurs, a whisper that thrums with threat. "And you've already broken a rule...touching without permission."
The air between you feels heavy, oppressive, like standing at the edge of a precipice. You try to form words, to explain, but his lips claim yours again. The kiss is not relief or passion; it is possession. He moves slowly, deliberately, coaxing heat from you at his pace, not yours.
His hands suddenly shift. They wander with a chilling precision, not aimless, not playful. His fingers slip under your arms. The shock of the touch sends you jerking, squeals bursting unbidden into his mouth. He breaks the kiss, watching you writhe, storm-grey eyes fixed on every twitch.
"You're deadly ticklish under your arms." The words fall like a doctor's diagnosis. He tries again, light and measured. The laughter spills from you, frantic, helpless, and he studies it as if its an ancient language only he can decipher.
His hands slide lower, pressing into your ribs. His touch is slow, methodical, exploring each notch and hollow. One finger prods, once, twice, into the sensitive spaces, and your body convulses. Your laughter spills louder, pleading already, but he doesn't soften.
He counts them. One rib, then the next. Each poke is methodical, exact, his head cocked as if listening for the exact pitch of your laughter. His face betrays no lust, no mirth, only focus.
"Theres the symphony," he says at last, satisfied, as though youve proven something inevitable.
Without warning, he pushes you back. Not cruelly; no anger in the motion. Just utter disregard, as though placing a specimen where it belongs. You hit the floor with a soft thud, your breath catching as his shadow looms above you.
He kneels, and his hands decend again, this time to your hips. The moment his fingers press into the sensitive lines there, your body siezes. You're paralyzed, laughter bursting sharp and desperate from your chest. He doesn't pin you, he doesn't have to. You're helpless already, frozen under the devastating accuracy of his touch.
"Your hips," he murmurs as you thrash beneath him. "Paralyze you completely."
His words are factual, stripped of comfort, like hes recording a truth in stone.
He continues. Probing. Testing. Commenting quietly on each discovery, as though your body is a map and your laughter the key. Each note, each scream, each breathless plea only fuels his dissection.
And through it all, his eyes never leave your face; cold, calculating, but faintly, faintly amused. Eyes bore into you, unblinking. One hand traces down your trembling side with unnerving calm as his lips curl again at your helplessness.
"Let this be a reminder," he says softly, as if instructing a child. "Never touch me without permission ever again. My punishments aren't ruthless." His fingers pause just above your ribs, hovering. His voice drops into something colder, almost reverant. "...they are precise. And thats far worse."
His hands strike. Ten fingers spider across your ribcage, deliberate and merciless. He doesn't just tickle, he dissects. Each rib is mapped, pressed, squeezed, and poked with surgical precision.
"One," he murmurs as his thimb digs into the notch beneath your breastbone. You squeal, thrashing, but he holds you in place with nothing more than the weight of his stare. "Two...three..." each number is punctuated by a firm prod into the next rib, his fingers burrowing in between bones, dragging sharp, unbearable giggles from you.
Your laughter breaks into ragged gasps, your body arching and bucking beneath him as he works each rib methodically, pressing, kneading, dragging nails in slow cruel lines across your sensitive cage.
"There," he whispers as he finds the spot that makes you shriek, that pitches your laughter higher. "That's the note I wanted."
Without warning, his hands slide even lower, flattening against your belly. His fingers splay wide, then curling, scrabbling against the soft skin. The sensation is unbearable like claws and feathers all at once.
You shriek with laughter, twisting helplessly as he circles your navel, his fingers drilling into the tender flesh just beneath it. He alternates, slow swirls that make you whimper and bite your lip, followed by sudden bursts of inhuman speed that force wild, helpless screams.
"Your stomach," he observes coldly over your laughter, "is a weakness you cannot guard. Every twitch, every squeal tells me exactly how to break you."
He presses his face close, lips brushing your ear as his fingers dig deeper into your belly. "And I will break you."
Before you can catch your breath, his hands decend to your thighs. Long fingers sink into the soft inner flesh, kneading mercilessly, dragging helpless, gutteral laughter from your throat. You kick and writhe, but hes faster; supernaturally fast, darting from your thighs down to the backs of your knees.
The moment his nails trace that tender spot, you scream. Your body convulses, twisting violently, but there's no escape. His fingers dance with unholy precision, clawing behind your knees, skittering up your thighs, alternating between relentless speed and pinpoint accuracy.
"Beg," he orders calmly, his voice cutting through your screams. "Let me hear it properly."
You choked on your laughter, gasping out pleas, but his hands never falter. If anything, your begging sharpens his focus.
His silver eyes glint with knowing as he siezes your wrists and pins them above your head. His fingers hover just over your vulnerable hollows, letting the anticipation drown you before he strikes.
The first touch is light, deliberate, a teasing brush that makes your whole body jolt. Then he digs in, fingers curling and pressing with ruthless precision into the tender underarms.
Your reaction is instant and violent; scream-laughter tearing out of you as your body bucks and arches beneath him, utterly undone. His grip on your wrists is iron, holding you wide open as he explores every inch of your most vulnerable spots.
"You're deadly here," he reiterates from earlier, almost gently, as if cataloging the truth of you. His fingers scurry faster, nails scratching in rapid circles, then slower, deeper presses that send shockwaves through your entire body.
He leans close, watching the tears spring to your eyes, your mouth stretched open in helpless, hysterical laughter. "My brothers may play with you..." His words drip like poison honey. "...but I study you."
His hands never relent, burrowing into the hollows of your arms with inhuman speed until you're screaming, begging, body writhing like prey under the predators grip.
But just as the dam is about to burst, he stops.
The silence is deafening.
Your left gasping, chest heaving, your limbs limp against the floor. Your skin still burns from every place his hands touched, phantom sensations crawling over you.
He rises slowly, every movement controlled, as if your suffering had been nothing but a test he'd now completed. Standing above you, Sylus is a shadow carved from stone; towering, unreadable, utterly cold.
"You may call me Sylus," he says at last. His tone is not introduction, but decree. He speaks as though granting you a title, a privilege you have not earned but must obey.
His eyes narrow, flashing like steel. "Say it." The command cracks like a whip, sharp and merciless.
Your lips tremble. Breathe still shallow, voice weak and ragged, you whisper, "...Sylus."
Something flickers at the corners of his mouth, not warmth, not pride. Possession.
"You belong to me now, love."
The words fall heavy, not spoken with desire, but with the cruel inevitability of a sentence passed down. You know he means it, every syllable binding you tighter than chains.
And then, without a glance, without hesitation, he turns. As though you were nothing. As though your laughter, your begging, your body were simply another fact noted in his study.
The weight of his absence is worse than the torment, because he leaves you there, trembling and breathless, glassy-eyed on the ground, wondering if you are his possession or his experiment.
When Sylus shimmers back into his realm, the mask shatters; he doubles over, gripping the edge of his obsidian table as a low, ragged groan tears from his chest. His body is aflame, arousal coursing so violently he can barely stand; the curse of the gods, awakened the moment he touched you. He had hidden it flawlessly in yoyr presence, every cold word and calculated touch a shield, but now the torment is undeniable. He had sought you out not from desire but from curiosity, to test the myth whispered in shadows, that the foretold one would be his undoing. And now he knows; you are his doom, for it is written that he will love you, and in loving you, he will suffer endlessly, desire gnawing at him like fire he can never quench.
Sylus
At first glance, you're certain its Merrit. The same lean frame, pale skin, tousled black hair; a face bearing the beauty of winter nights, of silver blades, of cathedrals built to make mortals feel small. You can't look away, even when you should. Relief and yearning surge through you like wildfire, and before a thought can catch you, you're running, throwing yourself into him. Your arms circle his neck, your lips crash into his. The kiss is fierce, hungry, a desperate claiming, until something about him stills you.
He stiffens at first, surprised, but then...god's, he melts. His lips part against yours and he drinks you in as though he's been starving too. For a fleeting moment, it feels the same; like Merrit. Like Jacob. That irresistible pull you cannot deny. But then you pull back to breathe, you notice it.
His eyes.
Not midnight blue like Merrits. Not warm. But storm-grey. Cold silver light in the dark. Unblinking. Unyielding.
"You're the foretold one." His voice is calm, low, threaded with quiet finality. As though he already knows the end of the story.
Your breath hitches. He's so close, every line of his face carved from shadow, eerily beautiful, achingly familiar.
"We've been waiting for you, little one," he continues. A faint smile tugs at the edge of his lips; not kind, not warm, but sharp, like a blade playing at mercy.
"I thought you were Merrit...you're..."
"Identical?" he interrupts, his tone like stone cracking. He tilts his head, eyes roaming you with dangerous stillness. "Yes. Thats our only similarity." The corners of his mouth lift higher, colder. "Except I'm not as nice."
His hand suddenly grips your chin, tilting your face up so you cannot look away. His thumb brushes against your lips, almost reverantly, before pressing with quiet force.
"I'm the brother you never want to cross," he murmurs, a whisper that thrums with threat. "And you've already broken a rule...touching without permission."
The air between you feels heavy, oppressive, like standing at the edge of a precipice. You try to form words, to explain, but his lips claim yours again. The kiss is not relief or passion; it is possession. He moves slowly, deliberately, coaxing heat from you at his pace, not yours.
His hands suddenly shift. They wander with a chilling precision, not aimless, not playful. His fingers slip under your arms. The shock of the touch sends you jerking, squeals bursting unbidden into his mouth. He breaks the kiss, watching you writhe, storm-grey eyes fixed on every twitch.
"You're deadly ticklish under your arms." The words fall like a doctor's diagnosis. He tries again, light and measured. The laughter spills from you, frantic, helpless, and he studies it as if its an ancient language only he can decipher.
His hands slide lower, pressing into your ribs. His touch is slow, methodical, exploring each notch and hollow. One finger prods, once, twice, into the sensitive spaces, and your body convulses. Your laughter spills louder, pleading already, but he doesn't soften.
He counts them. One rib, then the next. Each poke is methodical, exact, his head cocked as if listening for the exact pitch of your laughter. His face betrays no lust, no mirth, only focus.
"Theres the symphony," he says at last, satisfied, as though youve proven something inevitable.
Without warning, he pushes you back. Not cruelly; no anger in the motion. Just utter disregard, as though placing a specimen where it belongs. You hit the floor with a soft thud, your breath catching as his shadow looms above you.
He kneels, and his hands decend again, this time to your hips. The moment his fingers press into the sensitive lines there, your body siezes. You're paralyzed, laughter bursting sharp and desperate from your chest. He doesn't pin you, he doesn't have to. You're helpless already, frozen under the devastating accuracy of his touch.
"Your hips," he murmurs as you thrash beneath him. "Paralyze you completely."
His words are factual, stripped of comfort, like hes recording a truth in stone.
He continues. Probing. Testing. Commenting quietly on each discovery, as though your body is a map and your laughter the key. Each note, each scream, each breathless plea only fuels his dissection.
And through it all, his eyes never leave your face; cold, calculating, but faintly, faintly amused. Eyes bore into you, unblinking. One hand traces down your trembling side with unnerving calm as his lips curl again at your helplessness.
"Let this be a reminder," he says softly, as if instructing a child. "Never touch me without permission ever again. My punishments aren't ruthless." His fingers pause just above your ribs, hovering. His voice drops into something colder, almost reverant. "...they are precise. And thats far worse."
His hands strike. Ten fingers spider across your ribcage, deliberate and merciless. He doesn't just tickle, he dissects. Each rib is mapped, pressed, squeezed, and poked with surgical precision.
"One," he murmurs as his thimb digs into the notch beneath your breastbone. You squeal, thrashing, but he holds you in place with nothing more than the weight of his stare. "Two...three..." each number is punctuated by a firm prod into the next rib, his fingers burrowing in between bones, dragging sharp, unbearable giggles from you.
Your laughter breaks into ragged gasps, your body arching and bucking beneath him as he works each rib methodically, pressing, kneading, dragging nails in slow cruel lines across your sensitive cage.
"There," he whispers as he finds the spot that makes you shriek, that pitches your laughter higher. "That's the note I wanted."
Without warning, his hands slide even lower, flattening against your belly. His fingers splay wide, then curling, scrabbling against the soft skin. The sensation is unbearable like claws and feathers all at once.
You shriek with laughter, twisting helplessly as he circles your navel, his fingers drilling into the tender flesh just beneath it. He alternates, slow swirls that make you whimper and bite your lip, followed by sudden bursts of inhuman speed that force wild, helpless screams.
"Your stomach," he observes coldly over your laughter, "is a weakness you cannot guard. Every twitch, every squeal tells me exactly how to break you."
He presses his face close, lips brushing your ear as his fingers dig deeper into your belly. "And I will break you."
Before you can catch your breath, his hands decend to your thighs. Long fingers sink into the soft inner flesh, kneading mercilessly, dragging helpless, gutteral laughter from your throat. You kick and writhe, but hes faster; supernaturally fast, darting from your thighs down to the backs of your knees.
The moment his nails trace that tender spot, you scream. Your body convulses, twisting violently, but there's no escape. His fingers dance with unholy precision, clawing behind your knees, skittering up your thighs, alternating between relentless speed and pinpoint accuracy.
"Beg," he orders calmly, his voice cutting through your screams. "Let me hear it properly."
You choked on your laughter, gasping out pleas, but his hands never falter. If anything, your begging sharpens his focus.
His silver eyes glint with knowing as he siezes your wrists and pins them above your head. His fingers hover just over your vulnerable hollows, letting the anticipation drown you before he strikes.
The first touch is light, deliberate, a teasing brush that makes your whole body jolt. Then he digs in, fingers curling and pressing with ruthless precision into the tender underarms.
Your reaction is instant and violent; scream-laughter tearing out of you as your body bucks and arches beneath him, utterly undone. His grip on your wrists is iron, holding you wide open as he explores every inch of your most vulnerable spots.
"You're deadly here," he reiterates from earlier, almost gently, as if cataloging the truth of you. His fingers scurry faster, nails scratching in rapid circles, then slower, deeper presses that send shockwaves through your entire body.
He leans close, watching the tears spring to your eyes, your mouth stretched open in helpless, hysterical laughter. "My brothers may play with you..." His words drip like poison honey. "...but I study you."
His hands never relent, burrowing into the hollows of your arms with inhuman speed until you're screaming, begging, body writhing like prey under the predators grip.
But just as the dam is about to burst, he stops.
The silence is deafening.
Your left gasping, chest heaving, your limbs limp against the floor. Your skin still burns from every place his hands touched, phantom sensations crawling over you.
He rises slowly, every movement controlled, as if your suffering had been nothing but a test he'd now completed. Standing above you, Sylus is a shadow carved from stone; towering, unreadable, utterly cold.
"You may call me Sylus," he says at last. His tone is not introduction, but decree. He speaks as though granting you a title, a privilege you have not earned but must obey.
His eyes narrow, flashing like steel. "Say it." The command cracks like a whip, sharp and merciless.
Your lips tremble. Breathe still shallow, voice weak and ragged, you whisper, "...Sylus."
Something flickers at the corners of his mouth, not warmth, not pride. Possession.
"You belong to me now, love."
The words fall heavy, not spoken with desire, but with the cruel inevitability of a sentence passed down. You know he means it, every syllable binding you tighter than chains.
And then, without a glance, without hesitation, he turns. As though you were nothing. As though your laughter, your begging, your body were simply another fact noted in his study.
The weight of his absence is worse than the torment, because he leaves you there, trembling and breathless, glassy-eyed on the ground, wondering if you are his possession or his experiment.
When Sylus shimmers back into his realm, the mask shatters; he doubles over, gripping the edge of his obsidian table as a low, ragged groan tears from his chest. His body is aflame, arousal coursing so violently he can barely stand; the curse of the gods, awakened the moment he touched you. He had hidden it flawlessly in yoyr presence, every cold word and calculated touch a shield, but now the torment is undeniable. He had sought you out not from desire but from curiosity, to test the myth whispered in shadows, that the foretold one would be his undoing. And now he knows; you are his doom, for it is written that he will love you, and in loving you, he will suffer endlessly, desire gnawing at him like fire he can never quench.
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