Admissions 1.4: Emile / Cylus
Welcome (back) to Europa University: Admissions! Quick links if you need 'em:
Content notes (chapter-specific):
- Dubious consent (due to mutual inebriation and poor negotiation) but everyone has fun, aren't they lucky today
- Undernegotiated but mutually enjoyed sexy and kink/kink-adjacent activities, including:
- Biting, bruising, hickeys, marks
- Wrestling with no contest for erotic purposes
- Dirty talk
- Clothed nipple play
- Hypnotic suggestion
- Fingers in mouth
- Mentions/fantasies of:
- Knifeplay and bloodplay (no actual bloodshed)
- Oral sex
- Gender dysphoria (one paragraph, includes anticipation and fantasies of future resolution)
When Emile had imagined going under the ice on Europa, he'd always thought it would be blue.
But the elevator's glow encompassed them in amber as they plummeted, irregularities in the frozen surface blurring into an undulating shimmer of reflected gold. Their bodies rotated together, suspended within the elevator's inertial dampening field. The exquisite heat of Cylus' mouth on his throat, Cylus' hands clutching his back, Cylus' knee pressing between his thighs, left him gasping, head thrown back. He stared up, eyes drawn to the circle of perfect darkness above.
He burned: a star in the void, a spark dropped into an infinite well.
Cylus murmured against his skin; Emile's mind struggled to process the sounds into words. "How do you feel about marks?"
"R-really ghaaahhh—" Having recalled the existence of speech, Emile nearly choked on his assent as Cylie's teeth returned to the side of his neck.
Cylus reclaimed soft flesh, sucking until Emile's gasps lifted into a cry. Releasing with a mean rake of teeth, he regarded the dark imprint he'd created, joining a constellation of shadows in the shifting light of their descent. "Good. I left a couple before I remembered to ask."
He felt his words sink in, Emile's body melting against his.
A dispassionate voice from another life echoed in his ear: never fail to leverage your opponent's weakness.
Cylus reacted with instincts he and Cynthia had spent the last ten years honing. In the absence of gravity, it took no effort to spin Emile around. With his chest flush against Emile’s back, he sought joint locks and submission holds, creating a geometry of limbs where escape became a biomechanical impossibility.
And Emile just let it happen: legs parting as Cylus' snaked between and around his, baring his throat to Cylie's forearm, allowing his elbow and wrist to fold according to Cylie's twisting grasp. Cylie held the power to break his body and steal his breath, and Emile was swooning into it, eyes rolling back in his head, glasses askew on his nose and threatening to drift free.
This boy was a door left not just unlocked but open; a treasure unguarded, a victim-in-waiting. Leaving him free to walk through the world felt... reckless. Cylie pictured one of the hanging glass artpieces he’d admired in the café: one moment of cruelty away from a brilliant, irreversible shattering.
Emile had been restrained before, Xiomara binding him with ropes and cuffs and the power of her commands. But Cylie had just bound Emile with nothing but his own body. The tension in Emile’s limbs and joints hovered on the edge of pain, threatening injury if he were to move.
The predicament thrilled and frightened him in equal measure. Fresh warm heat bloomed between his legs as a desperate sound fled his throat.
Cylie loosened his holds all at once, and Emile's pleading whimper softened into a sigh of relief... and just a little disappointment.
For a moment, they stilled, their bodies a charged hairsbreadth apart. Distantly, Emile noticed his glasses lifting away from his face.
Cylie’s arm, still draped across his neck, shifted. Emile blinked, watching pale, elegant fingers capture his spectacles and settle them back in place.
As he steadied Emile’s glasses—and himself—Cylus watched the tiny movements of Emile’s sea-green hair. He ached to see Emile’s expression, but feared what hungers Emile might read in his own eyes.
Had he followed his impulses too far, too quickly? Why did it feel so... good?
“More?” he whispered, lips millimeters from Emile’s ear.
The immediate answering nod bounced off his cheek and nose.
That motion and Cylie’s answering flinch sent the pair of them tipping backwards into a slow spin. “Oh! Sorry! Are you—” Emile’s apology melted into a moan as Cylus recovered his dignity enough to stroke down the side of Emile’s neck, pressing a fingertip into the last bruise he'd left there.
It had darkened even over the short time since its creation. Leaning close, Cylus drank in the deepening colors of it as their bodies rotated together in weightlessness. He traced a fingernail over its structure, delighting in Emile’s answering shiver as he outlined the stamp of his teeth and the shape of his mouth. Like lacework, those larger patterns were crafted of smaller ones, broken capillaries staining the interior of Emile's skin with blood.
He imagined a single scarlet pearl, freed to fall beside them.
His knives hung heavy in their hidden sheathes.
He’d already acted on one reckless, violent impulse tonight. What would Emile do if he tried to push further?
He forced himself away from bloody desire with a shuddering exhalation against Emile's bruised neck. What was wrong with him tonight?
"How long do you think we'll fall for?" He asked, searching his mind for safer appetites. His hands slid over Emile’s shoulders, savoring the smoothness of the silk shirt as he explored.
Thinking had become... difficult. Cylus' touch made him want to keep... stop... keep not doing think. No thinking.
But Cylus had also asked a question.
Emile rallied his reluctant brain, reaching for the engines of calculation despite ongoing, exquisite distraction. "If, uh... W-well. If we're actually in freefall, a-and assuming we’re going to the ocean’s surface—"
"I want to pinch your nipples," Cylus interrupted, hands drifting over the curves of Emile's breasts. "Keep talking if you like that idea."
"Y-yeah, so, the ice... the ice sheet averages between fifteen to twenty-five kilometers in thickness, annnf!—" Cylus' fingers found the swell of his nipples through his clothes and closed down hard.
"Keep going." Cylie's grip tightened, then twisted. "I want to hear that clever mind shake apart."
Numbers scattered inside Emile's brain, distances and local gravitational constants and rates of acceleration swirling into sparkling senselessness.
To his credit, Emile kept trying. Barely connected words broke into beautiful babble each time Cylie tightened his grip, feeling only thin, slick fabric beneath vest and shirt. He wanted to feel Emile freeze against him as Cylie commanded him to stillness; wanted to cut through those layers of cloth, then tease exposed flesh with a careful point—
Cylie wrenched his mind away from his knives, again, contenting himself with digging fingernails through fabric instead.
Emile's latest attempts at speech—something about the absence of apparent air resistance—faltered into an intoxicating gasp. Enraptured, Cylie pressed deeper until Emile's breathing grew quick and ragged, words finally dissolving into pleading nonsense. Emile's back arched, pressing his chest forward, driving himself harder against Cylus' fingers.
"You want more?" Cylie rasped, an idea coalescing as he bathed Emile's unpierced ear with a swipe of tongue. Emile cried a wordless answer, hips bucking. "I want to fuck something into that pretty mind we've emptied out. Remember our little performance in the park? Did you like that?"
Emile groaned and shuddered, nodding frantic assent, only to gasp disappointment as Cylus' hands released him. "Shh, shh," Cylie soothed even as sensation returned, a light touch across the back of his neck. Silk feathered against his face, and he opened his eyes to find the world framed in soft-lit scarlet.
The scarf, the one Cylie had conjured his illusion with. The one he'd draped over Emile at the end; long, light tails of red that had kept Emile bowed while Cylie banished the bullies Emile had briefly fallen in with.
As the fabric drifted in their weightless fall, Emile realized that they'd fully inverted. His and Cylie's heads now pointed downward, the elevator platform lights an amber halo above them.
He wondered distantly if they should... do something about that? How long did they have here? He’d failed to answer Cylie’s question of timing...
Then Cylie reached one arm across Emile's chest, seizing the scarf and using it to spin Emile around to face him. Gripping the red fabric to either side of Emile's face, Cylie drew it tight against the back of Emile's neck, thumbs cradling his jaw, rubbing soft circles through the silk and driving every other thought from his mind.
Perfect.
Emile was more than just suggestible now, green eyes vague and lips parted. He was malleable, mind loosened by alcohol and arousal and exhilaration, emptied by his attempts to meet Cylie's mathematical demands, ready to be focused and shaped. Setting a suggestive anchor would be so easy. He was controlling so many impulses already that it was simple to convince himself that this one, surely, wouldn't do any harm.
"This trick's different from the one before." Cylie touched his forehead to Emile's, locking eyes one-to-one, only Emile's lenses between them. "This one stays with you, inside your mind. A little gift, for later. All you have to do is take it in. This tension." A tug of the scarf. "This texture." A silk-wrapped stroke. "My tone." A smoldering heat. "And be still. Breathe it. Feel it. Remember it. Remember falling together, while I hold you just like this."
Still. Breathe. Feel. Remember.
Emile drowned in Cylie's eyes and took it all in. Cylus, his beautiful voice low and rhythmic, repeated the words until they lost meaning, becoming shapes like the floating red fabric outlining his world.
Still. Breathe. Feel. Remember.
Silk pressed tight against the back of his neck, brushed soft against his face, underscored by Cylie's voice, by images of Jovian storms and swirling clouds and shifting winds. He felt himself become an eye of peace at the center of it all.
Still. Breathe. Feel. Remember.
A small, thoughtful part of him perceived his future, where even tying on an ascot would take him back to this moment, this perfect place where all he wanted was more of what he had with him, forever.
As Cylie ceased his recitation, drinking in his obvious success, he realized that Emile's mouth was slightly open.
Before thought had a chance to form, he'd slid one hand down the scarf and brought the other to meet it, gathering the ends together in one fist. Careful not to draw it dangerously tight, he lifted his newly freed hand to caress Emile's lips.
They opened for him, tongue greeting his finger with willing warmth. A groan escaped Cylie's throat as Emile sucked him in, the temptation to delve deeper overriding all else.
He slid inward, pressing down on Emile's welcoming tongue. That muscle, too, submitted; and Cylus shuddered as Emile drew him in to the third knuckle without a flicker of hesitation.
Greed flared inside his chest, wracking him with dysphoric longing. He'd wager Emile could accomplish plenty between his legs as he was; but in that moment he ached for a cock that could go past where even his fingers reached. He wanted to feel Emile's throat massage his length; wanted to ride this sweet mouth until he peaked; wanted to drive deep and hold Emile on him with the scarlet scarf while he came. He imagined Emile swallowing around him, taking Cylie's spend into his body—
Rapacious resolve crystallized into starving certainty. Windfall's own University health care would finally afford him the body he'd yearned for, and then he would use it to ruin this boy.
If living well was the best form of revenge, he was on the right path at last.
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