Archive of Our Own ^beta

It has to be some sort of crime, the way he looks at you. Like there aren’t a million other eyes, other wanting gazes.

Yet his fingers press devotion in every slip against your skin, each slide of your waist and roll of your hips. Chords strike their echo for all the world’s ears but the beat can’t be felt any purer than in your hearts.

A final time, the crowd erupts in applause and cheers—it’s warm. They loved it, of course.

But the show isn’t over yet.

Your chests rise and fall, a breathless lock in your gazes, charged with the air of a thousand words.

And thus concludes the Polar Night!

Booming through the stadium and jolting the stage, the announcement rips through the crowd with the burst of confetti. But there’s still the encore, just for the two of you. Your biggest and candid performance to date; your love, laid bare for the heavens to lay witness.

The dressing room door clicks shut and any restraint is gone.

There’s no regard for the clutter around you, tumbling between clothing racks and tossing over prop boxes. Cheek pressed against the leather snug around your waist, his pants grow ever desperate. Sylus kisses up your corset, fiddles with the chains—while his other hand wanders lower.

Fingers carding through his hair, smoothing over tinsel and glitter, you yank him back and a hungry, vermillion gaze locks with yours.

“What if I told you it’s not over?” His words stick in your lungs like honey, slither in your chest like a sparkler about to blow. 

Your reply comes in how you straddle him, thighs locking his—you relish in how he swallows at the small rocks of your hips. 

“Well, I’m curious about the grand finale.” A small buck against the tent in his pants.

It’s never over, the sheer passion; the molten drive of your souls shall never cease. Your hand comes to caress his face, trailing down to slide against his jaw—guiding that starving gaze.

It’s a giddy, breathless sort of chuckle that leaves him. One that reeks of the ache of being pent up, being denied for so long. There’s a chilling burn, a ferocious crimson rising in his right eye, glued to you with unwavering desire.

“In moments like these, I like when you can see through me.”

Of course you can. He’s a showman to the universe, all the world his stage. But here, when the only thing his mind screams for is you, his heart’s hanging off his sleeve.

Your hand trails down his shoulder, flicking off some stray confetti.

“Looks like you missed a spot,” you purr. Ever the handsy kit you are, you take this moment to slide your fingers across the sheen of that terribly indecent shirt.

Brows furrowing lightly, you poke at the collar; really, he should wear a bra with all that cleavage—

“Your thoughts scream, sweetie.” It’s velvet in his voice, smooth and addictive. “Why don’t you take care of it for me?”

Faster than the flicker of the spotlight, his mouth is on yours, desperate and razing.

“The polar night doesn’t have to end here,” he huffs out needily against your lips. 

It’s almost pathetic, you think—how enthralled, how captured he is by the heat of your mouth on his. How he kisses like his last breath and practically devours your face, as if trying to extract your very soul. 

Oxygen is a hindrance. You pull back to gasp, and his mussed expression is dizzying. In a tick, half the room is plunged into darkness, the only source of light being a few back lamps. And whatever passion’s ignited between the two of you.

Stuck in the dimness, the shimmer of his shirt and the needy glow in his irises are suffocating. Every gem pressed with such care, for him to shine on stage.

Curiosity tears you from his lap, but your heel catches on something and suddenly, you’re going down.

His amusement is stifling. There’s a fucking sheet on your head and you know, he’s swallowing the urge to laugh at you. The obstruction to your vision is slipped up and over your head, strewn backwards, to trail slowly over your spine—bastard—and thrown to the side.

“You don’t look like you’re hurt, kitten.” Your hand still rests on his chest, pressed to a pec and you can’t resist the urge to squeeze. That monster of a cock has yet to be appeased, still. “It’s more like…”

A lickerish resolve sweeps you, and you shove. His back plants against the floor, need as malleable as ever, and you tug at his tie. That ridiculous fucking tie, directing all the world’s eyes to that chest. No matter. The universe can stare all it wants, but only you get a real taste.

His sigh is, dare you say, shaken. “Taking the lead really is your specialty.” If that doesn’t go straight to your cunt. Hand cradling your jaw, he presses on. “You didn’t want the polar night to end, right?”

He flips your sides in a blink, your back meeting the cool shot of wooden panels. It’s stark, against the heated run of your skin. His fingers lock with yours, a grounding testament—an ode to nirvana—quelling the quiver of your wrist.

“Then…” It’s another gutting stare he gives you. “I hope you remember every part of tonight.” Your hips are guided to slip down, just barely rocking your pussy against him. Tickling, is his grasp on your thigh—coming down to tug at it.

You return to press your open lips to his, tongue breaching whatever reluctance might have lingered, to swallow Sylus whole. You need him, have needed him; from the start, since the toe of your boot first inched over the stage line. 

He seeks to lick into your mouth with something unmitigated. Something running like a current for an age, all hot and buzzing—finally rising to the rim. And it threatens to spill.

Sliding back, all resignation to what lies between your legs, he’s thirsty once more. Now the spotlight’s out, there’s little restraint to be had—thighs apart, and all shame out the window. Fabric lining almost tears, damn near ribboning with the fire that sweeps his intention.

Your panties are a sight to behold.  

“The whole damn show,” he puffs against your sex, “shaking your ass for the world, but this?” he licks a strip up your clothed, sopping cunt for good measure. You ought to shrink back, shudder with embarrassment. Of course, you settle for bucking your hips instead. “All fucking mine.”

“Show me then,” it’s goading twisted in your voice, a signal—a blaring klaxon to flag him to ravishing you. 

And Sylus is all too ready to feast. 

You think he might ravage your cunt with his mouth once more, until you’re bent, with your legs hooked over his shoulders and a devilish glint in his eye. It’s a tensing stretch—but you’re a dancer, for fuck’s sake—so you let him sweep you off your balance.

Belt buckle clinking sharply, leather binding fall to the floor with a thump and the slight click of gemstones. Lace tears and the remaining fabric is strewn somewhere—bare cunt facing your world.

“Sylus, that’s expensive- ah!”

Seeking to trail your neck with a litter of bruises, he cuts you off with bites and haggardly clipped words. 

“Kitten, you think I couldn’t bulldoze this whole stadium if I wanted?” Your gasps spur him on. “Buy out the entire damn enterprise?” He licks at your skin, kisses down your jaw, breathes at your nape. “Throw it all away, just to spend every moment of my life wrapped in that pretty cunt of yours?”

“Sylus, so help me god- If you don’t stick that- mmf!”

Sylus flashes a grin that could reduce the whole galaxy to cinders, and bottoms out so fast you almost detonate. 

“So spoiled.”

You’ve both seen many a lightshow, but never one as bright as the stars in your eyes now. Sylus drinks in your expression—blown wide and heavy with desire—with nothing short of revelry. 

It’s still a stretch, a force against your folds—but you’re so wet, any strain doesn’t stand a chance. Brows almost furrowing with concern, he kisses your calf in question, outstretching your leg.

“Move, asshole.”

He chuckles, moving to roll his hips with a groan—meeting your lips once more, blending the flames of your hearts together. It’s a feeble attempt, to try to hold out—hours of you sliding skin on skin, teetering on the edge of public grinding, has had your insides writhing.

Barely moving, yet still the mere brush of his dick against that bundle of nerves knocks you over the edge—quick and sharp. It’s a wave, how the pleasure washes over you and pulls you taut.

Though, a bite to your thigh drags you out of the midst of drowning in the light. Thumb swiping over your clit—you whine at him—his heady voice twirls your gut.

“I could live like this.” and you clench, a reflex. He chuckles, low and dangerous. “You’d thrive like this,” Another flutter around him. Traitorous. “just stuffed with me, all the fucking time.”

But you bend to his every ministration, glide to his every whim and turn. A broken moan tumbles out of you, some garbled stutter mixed with his name and a curse. And Sylus, ever the feedback vampire, takes it as his signal.

Choreo stretches the bounds of your body all the time, but you feel like a pretzel right now. Sylus picks up the pace with no warning, snapping his hips forward at a brutal pace—pounding into you without mercy.

Teeming at your eyes, tears start to form—swirling with eyeliner, running black down your face. It’ll stain, stick to your skin in the morning, and that only spurs Sylus on. 

Though his rhythm stutters— juts. He’s close, the tremor in his fingers against your thigh an obvious tell.

With the little remaining leg strength you’ve retained, you tighten—impossibly so—whatever bodily lock stands between you two and tug him down.

Nose a mere inch from yours, his gaze runs pyretic. But you smile sweetly, tearful and all.

”Give me everything.” You beckon him.

And Sylus comes undone. He crashes his lips to yours as he cums, spattering inside you—filling you up with all he has to give you. Pouring the very essence of him, all for you. 

All he has is to give, all he does is to give you the world.

And as you break away from his nips at your bottom lip, the polar night can finally end—for the final act has concluded.