It was hard to argue against that, so you dozed off before he even set you down. You came to, again, from the sensation of fingers brushing against your hips.

"What are you doing?" you mumbled as Sylus dragged your underwear down your thighs.

If he was looking for sex, you were far too out of it to participate properly. Not that either of you were opposed to him doing all the work. He had relished the last time he fucked you while you were half-asleep, thanking you for the opportunity and kissing you fully awake once you both came—though the gratitude wasn't truly necessary, in your opinion. An orgasm from Sylus always left you feeling like you were floating on his ridiculously large pool, which was definitely far from a bad way to start the day.

He had asked permission a few nights before that, and after giving it to him, you fell asleep next to a Sylus that was practically purring in excitement.

"Why is your hand on my face?" His amused voice was muffled behind your fingers. You groaned.

"Stop looking smug, I can hear it from here," you griped and pressed down on his face, your fingers meeting the resistance of his elegant nose.

His breath tickled your palm as he gave a small laugh. "How could you possibly hear such a thing?" he wondered, his hand reaching up to encircle your wrist, his index finger stroking the skin. “My kitten has very sensitive ears. I’m impressed.”

"Just stop that—it's ridiculous. Save your smirk for the morning you actually do it."

"We," he insisted. "The morning we do it." He dragged your hand down and kissed it.

“Just changing your clothes, sweetie,” he said now. There was a brief pause before he pulled something up your legs, presumably another set of underwear. The faint pressure of his Evol wrapped around your hips, lifting them for a second. He set you back down, and there was a faint crinkling sound—he must’ve grabbed something?

He’d put a pad on it, you realized, and groaned at the implication. You covered your face with your hands.

“Sorry about the mess,” you said, already dreading the cramps that would come.

“It’s fine. I’m happy to take care of any mess you make,” he replied with that smile in his voice. You opened your eyes a little to witness the sweetness of it, but he had gone to the dresser. He returned with your pajama bottoms. “Can you help me put this on you?”

You shook your head. “I’ll sleep without it.”

“Okay,” he acquiesced, using his Evol to banish it to a nearby couch and climbing into bed beside you. He caressed your thigh, his gentle touch so different from his usual desperate grip on them in bed.

Your resulting shiver was accompanied by the relaxing of your muscles, and he smiled as you melted further onto the sheets, into his fingers, turned your face toward him like a plant towards the sun.

He nuzzled the side of your cheek with his nose. His breath was warm as it ghosted over you. “Tell me when it starts to hurt.”

“Mmm.”

---

It began eighteen hours later, and Sylus found you on the bed on your knees with your ass up in the air and your cheek pressed against his expensive sheets. He stopped in his tracks and presumably stared, because you heard his footsteps stop. You weren’t looking in his direction at all—you were staring out the window without really seeing it and wondering why you were born a woman.

“Sweetie…?”

“Kill me,” you mumbled.

“Never in a million years,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes—so cheesy—but gave him the explanation he wanted. “This position used to work,” you complained. “I already tried putting my legs up against the headboard. It still hurts.”

He made a noise of sympathy and strode over to the bed to caress your cheek, your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetie. Give me a minute,” he promised.

He returned with a pill in his hand and a glass of water. The glass was placed on the bedside table with an audible sound, which freed his other hand and allowed it to brush across your raised lower back placatingly. “Sit up,” he encouraged, an amused breath leaving him when you groaned, dramatic, but you obeyed. You reached for his hand for the pill, but he was quicker. He grasped your chin and said, “Open.”

Your glare at the childish treatment did nothing to deter him, his hand still caging within it the solution to all your problems, so you begrudgingly acquiesced. Now that you were ready to receive it, he produced the pill, which was tiny compared to his hand. You snickered at the combination.

“What’s so funny?” he wondered as he carefully put the pill into your waiting mouth, taking his time. When you closed it, he traced your bottom lip with his thumb. He tutted at its dryness, so you pursed your lips to wet them without accidentally dislodging the pill.

Accepting that he’d made the decision to dote on you—a parent with their sick child—you made no move to take the glass and let him bring it to your lips. As you sipped, he tipped it too far, making a few drops roll down your chin, to your neck.

Sylus made no mistakes.

Before the window of opportunity closed and you chastised him, he let go of the glass and pressed his mouth to your neck, laving his tongue over the trails left by the water, then moving to the side of your neck—an action for which he would have no excuse. His hands, now both free, roamed your waist and hips, squeezing, relishing the give of the flesh there. You spluttered a bit, not having managed to swallow yet, and he chuckled against your skin. Gripping his biceps, you dug your nails into the muscle. He didn’t acknowledge it.

The glass of water should have fallen onto the bed, but there had been no impact. You cast your gaze around and saw it hovering, in the grasp of the black tendrils of Sylus’ Evol, the remaining water still safely inside. There was no spill.

Tilting your head up, you forced the contents of your mouth down your throat. Unfortunately, it only gave him more access to previously dry areas of your neck and chin. He made a delighted sound and set about accomplishing his goal: to finish the job his mischievous hand and glass of water started.

He scraped his—even, perfect—teeth, closely followed by the warmth of his tongue, against the junction of your neck and shoulder. The meeting point of your jaw and ear. The underside of your chin. His breaths came like Morse code—the letter G, C, N—these long drawn-out inhales that exited as a sharp puff of air on your skin.

Was this what being puppy chow felt like, you wondered. Probably not. There was no dog bowl that felt as luxurious as the sheets on Sylus’ bed. No, the experience was more that of a bone marrow chew. But Sylus, obsessively licking the periosteum, still had yet to bite.

“You’re slobbering over me,” you complained, tugging at his hair. “Bad dog.”

“Woof,” he mumbled into your neck without even a hint of remorse, the assault on your neck not ceasing, his hands everywhere. Having had enough of his distance, you gripped his shirt and pulled him down to the bed on top of you. He chuckled. Getting with the program, he gripped one inner thigh, moved your legs apart, and slotted his knee between them.

It was his mouth that you needed between your legs, but his knee would do for now. The cotton twill of his ridiculous expensive pants that he insisted on wearing even in his private quarters barely soothed the ache between your legs. The fabric hardly budged, but your looser pajamas folded and bunched up towards the middle of your thighs. And your pad silently endured the abuse, your clit rubbing against the cotton material of it, but only a little. But it shifted a little with every movement, making it hard to control where the pressure went. You huffed, which he chuckled at. He was such a reprehensible little beast sometimes.

“Come on,” you muttered, annoyed, squirming a little when your attempts at grinding weren’t reciprocated.

“Come on, what?” He was putting on the oblivious act yet again—deliberately being infuriating to get your blood pumping. Your disapproval at this charade always made him smile, like now: his tender gaze beholding your scowl with barely-restrained glee.

“Sylus. You know what I want,” you all but growled at him.

“Let me hear it, beautiful.”

Ignoring the urge to punch his arm, you settled for taking your revenge on him by saying, in that low desperate tone he could never resist, “Sylus. Sylus, I want you—your mouth on me, please.” For good measure, you let your eyes go half-lidded, and left your lips parted, an invitation.

It was effective, as always, and you had to hide the smug grin that threatened to take over your face as his eyes widened—the surprise making his face seem younger somehow, more innocent, despite the subject matter at hand. His eyebrows raising, his lips slacking to part themselves from each other, as if he’d never even heard anything of the sort before, as if he’d never had you like this. But you were just as bad—to you, his reactions never got old.

You could have begged more—and in a more undignified way—but it was fascinating, the way you could make him fold with just the sound of his name on your lips and a preview of what your face would look like once he gave in. So you stared unabashedly as he took action as requested anyway.

He adjusted his position, grabbing your thighs and pulling your body towards him until your pad—and pussy—was snug against the bulge in his pants. Then his hands traveled to your hips, your waist, your ribs—his thumbs lightly kneading at the sides of your breasts.

"Very well," he murmured, almost reverent. "I aim to please, after all."

"More," you complained, gripping his hands until they rested over your breasts. "This is poor service. I'm going to leave a bad review."

"Oh no, we can't have that." He caressed them, gently squeezing your nipples between his gliding fingers, over and over, your sensitivity making the feeling on your buds even sharper, the sensation only serving to increase the wetness gathering in your aching pussy—and it certainly wasn't blood. You were certain some of it was trickling. His breath tickled your ear as he whispered, "But there's only one customer."

"And if—hah—if the customer stops…going…" you gasped as he rolled his hips against yours, determined to remind your poor neglected pussy that his dick was right there, "your business will tank."

"I'm sure there are ways to keep her coming," he said, and you giggled at the pun—oh, you hate him, he just caught you off-guard, it's not that funny. He smiled at the sound, despite his flustered state. You loved him like this: victorious, the beginnings of sweat forming on the sides of his face and neck, the red of his face and ears. Your hard worker.

You laughed again at the punnish thought, and Sylus demanded to know what else made you laugh—attacking you with wet kisses while teasing your nipples so that you kept on producing noises that were half indignant gasps and half moans, which you suspected were his true goal all along. You were convinced this man was trying to learn how to play you like an instrument, hellbent on touching you this way and that until you made the perfect notes so he could form some lewd melody only he would ever hear.

You said—in between gasps—that you weren't really in the mood to explain the dumb joke, so he relented and turned the attention of his mouth to your breast, replacing one hand with his lips—licking and sucking your nipple like he was trying to coax milk from it, as if he was a ravenous rapscallion of a husband stealing from your child. But from time to time, he'd kiss it tenderly or blow on it, replacing the heat of his mouth with cool air that made you squirm desperately, causing you to rub against him, which provided no relief still because your pad was in the way. There was no true escape, however—the weight of his body bore down on yours, keeping you fixed against him, leaving you with limited movement down below, because he was an awful man and loved to tease and wanted to keep you pinned to his bed doing nothing except allow him to ravage you.

Those eyes blazed—like pools of magma under the surface of the Earth—by the time he decided he was done torturing your nipple. He left it as it was, wet and flushed from his ministrations, and inched his way back up to kiss you like the forever-unsatisfied thing he was. One of his hands traveled downward to the inside of your panties, brushing against the garter then the hair on your mound, to find your clit. He circled it with the pad of his finger, rubbed just under it, and you sighed with the relief of now finally, truly being taken care of. You felt your panties being tugged down, and you glanced just in time to see his Evol toss it onto the floor.

"I like how wet it is down here," Sylus said, grinning like a predator and gathering a combination of blood and slick mucus from between your folds, using it to smoothen his circling of your clit. You moaned, closing your eyes, and pushed your hip upwards into his hand, over and over until you both found an enjoyable rhythm. But while he knew exactly how to coax pleasure solely from your clit, your pussy was throbbing too much from the combination of your arousal and your period, and you needed him to soothe its weeping, to put something in. His dick, his finger—anything would do, you just needed to feel something nestled within your walls. Your eyes were already tearing up at the ache.

You sobbed, "Sy, please. It—it hurts."

Instead of doing as you directed, you were devastated by the withdrawal of his hand. No, no, no, what was he doing?

"Where, sweetie? Where does it hurt?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused—ha, like you'd be fooled—and oh my God he was such an asshole, what more did he want, you were already begging…!

You opened your eyes to level him the most evil glare you could muster while already this wrecked, but instead of a smug face, he looked concerned—his brow furrowed and gaze searching your face for any clues, looking like he was ready to perform a pelvic examination right then and there—and you considered the possibility that perhaps he was a little too afraid of breaking you right now. Okay, maybe that was it.

To dispel his silent alarm: "No, not your fault," you groaned, "I mean…please, put something inside, I need to feel you inside me—there's nothing and it hurts."

You saw the moment it clicked and he exhaled a sigh of relief, pressing kisses to your now-sweaty forehead, your messed hair, your eyes which had fallen shut again—shushing you, "It's alright, I got it. I got you, kitten, don't worry, I'll fix it...Don't worry."

You felt him slink down the bed—to hover at your entrance like some ambush predator. "Poor thing," he says, caressing your puffy aroused entrance with his fingers with the reverence you would reserve for sacred imagery. "It is my fault. I've made you so upset, haven't I?"

"Sylus, seriously." You throw an arm over your face due to the secondhand embarrassment of listening to him talk to your pussy like it was his pet.

"Shhh, kitten. Something so beautiful needs to know when it's being appreciated."

Biting down on the urge to ask him if he was still right in the head, you gather air into your lungs to complain about being promised results and not getting it—but then he slid a finger inside, knuckle by knuckle, meeting no resistance. Your pussy accepted him gladly—no wonder, with all the arousal and blood coating your walls, all of it only for him.

He makes a noise of approval at the squelch his finger makes each time he pumps in and out, and adds another finger—this time meeting a little resistance due to the sheer size of his fingers. Your tiny, shy opening always had to be stretched a little to wrap around him, and his usual method was to suck you until your whole body was relaxed enough from orgasm, which he immediately set about doing with his usual fervor.

He set his mouth on your clit, treating it the same way he did your poor nipple, flicking his tongue against it and prodding the depths of the folds of your pussy occasionally. At this point, you couldn't help your hands flying to his hair to tug at his head especially when the sensation he coaxed from you was powerful enough to make you forget everything including who you were, the only thing remaining in your mind the fact that he was savoring the taste of you like he'd never be able to eat your pussy again.

Your legs kicked at the sheets helplessly as he spread your thighs further apart and pumped his fingers in and out, in and out, making sure to hit that spongy spot with each motion. Whenever he was far enough inside, he'd scissor them, making a space for himself to fit. His large fingers were perfect for this. "Aren't you a good girl, getting so wet for me," he praised—you? Your pussy?—in such an adoring tone, lips brushing against your pubic hair. Even the warm air from his mouth felt cold due to the fluids smeared on your pussy: his spit, your blood, your arousal. "I can't wait to feel you around me."

Once he was satisfied you were stretched out on his two fingers enough, he added a third into the mix, using the fingertip to negotiate his way into you—poking gently at the sides of your entrance as if asking, May I come in? This was obviously met with considerably more resistance than the second, so you kept still, willing your own body to relax so he'd succeed, which made it easier for him to lick not just your clit but also around your entrance—using his tongue to soothe you on the outside, his fingers on the inside. He rewarded you for it with kisses to the inside of your thigh from time to time, using his other hand to stimulate your clit by alternating between pinching it gently and stroking it like something precious.

Then you came with a low gasp, your swollen walls pulsing around his fingers, including the third that had worked so hard to earn your pussy's favor.

"Good girl," he said again, with unabashed pride, still working your pussy throughout your orgasm, "let me feel you. Let me know how good you're feeling—yes, just like that. That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Even though your walls continued to clench around him and all you could take were short breaths, you managed to laugh a little at how ridiculous he was being, at the understatement, at the way the movement of his chin tickled your hip as he spoke, making your hips jump and twist slightly around his fingers. You could feel some of the blood drying around your pussy, the mess you'd made together.

At your laughter, he said, half-serious, "It's not meant to be funny. It's necessary to provide positive reinforcement when you want to encourage behavior, sweetie."

"God, I love you," you breathed, giggling with a renewed wave of affection, looking down at him to see his reaction. His chin and mouth were covered in smeared blood, shining with your slick. It couldn't have been comfortable—blood dried so quickly—but he was always such a saint when it came to these things. Saintly or perverted. "I love you."

As much as he tried, he couldn't keep the smile off his face—he ditched trying to look serious and gazed at you, eyes soft and molten and half-closing adorably like a contented cat. "And you know how much I love you."

It was straightforward after that. He straightened up and took off his pants to reveal his dick, already standing at attention, darkly flushed and leaking so much that it looked like he already came.

Wait, he had—his dick was coated in white, and probably the inside of his stupidly expensive pants as well.

"Sy," you murmured, "you already…?"

"Sweetie," he replied, incredulous, "how couldn't I, when you were making all those noises?"

"I just thought… you've been so tired lately, I thought you'd have a little trouble. Not that it would have been a problem…"

He raised an eyebrow. "As long as you're in front of me, I'm not going to have any 'trouble'."

He almost sounded offended. You told him so, and he scoffed, saying that he was "correcting your misconceptions", and you laughed at the absurd pair of his offended demeanor and his debauched, blood-smeared face—wasn't it absolutely criminal, how easily he could make you laugh? The most dangerous man in the N109 Zone making it his mission to draw as many laughs out of you within a single lifetime.

He adjusted your positions, lining himself up with your entrance. You heard the sharp breath he took as he touched his dick, finally, after focusing only on you for so long. You stretched an arm out to invite his other hand into your own, and he took it immediately. His hand was warm but a little slimy from his mission, and when you complained, he vanished the mess without thought.

Only then did you initiate a resonance—the space between your hands swallowed by golden light. His shoulders sagged and his body lurched forward as he felt your bonelessness due to his attention, and you giggled when the remnants of his earlier delight and pride bloomed inside your chest—though feeling the sensation of his ignored arousal was not fun at all. Your own pussy throbbed again in sympathy, but also with the very real dissatisfaction his dick was feeling, as you both shared with one another the recent histories of your bodies, collapsing and blurring temporarily into each other.

Who was who? Did it even matter—were you not already inhabiting the same space anywhere? When he went on that mission in Dover almost a week ago and gazed out over the cliffs—watching them ritually wear away the white limestone coast with near-tenderness—were you not with him, the voice in his head telling him not to get too close to the edge or else he'd fall, or the wonder-filled eyes with which he saw France across the strait forever preventing the sky and the sea from meeting?

He was in you, and you were in him; while resonance let you experience the smell of the coming rain, the quiet roar of the water, and the whipping winds, you were already there with him when he saw it—he carried you wherever he went.

"Sy," you mumbled, dragging your consciousness away from his, even as his soul…made grabby hands—probably the best way to call it—reluctantly letting you part from him. "Come closer."

Of course he knew what you meant. "One second, sweetie," he murmured, taking his dick in hand once again and pumping it several times, then—entering you, the slide smoothened by the sheer amount of arousal.

You both sighed in the relief of being joined together—golden light once more flaring from your clasped hands as you initiated a short resonance. His contentment bled through the connection, and he felt the buzz from your slight excitement. This was one of the few times (though the amount was growing) that he'd entered so easily, without him needing to withdraw and prep you some more to eliminate the pain.

His hand caressed your waist, his mouth set in a small smile from delight at your happiness, at how well you fit together. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, I don't know, it's a little snug," you smilingly poked fun at him. His dick being slightly above average in both girth and length was a source of dismay for you sometimes because of how difficult it was to wrap your hand around it when you were getting him off, but he loved it for the sole reason that it meant spending a long time stretching you out. You were convinced he initiated penetrative sex more often for the primary purpose of eating out your pussy, even though he did that plenty enough at random times.

"How would my dearest and only customer rate it?" he asked, pulling your hand to his lips to kiss. "I'd love an…in-depth review."

"Sylus," you said sternly.

He blinked at you innocently and grasped your waist, with both hands now. "You're imagining things, sweetie." With that, he leaned over you, pulled out halfway, and gave his first shallow thrust.

"It's pretty firm," you said, in between his thrusts—he was settling into a rhythm, "lots of…interesting bas relief patterns. Reminds me of rivers." Referring, of course, to the veins on his dick.

"How—hah—about the sensation?" Despite playing along, his gaze was intent, wondering how you'd answer. You stroked his chest, making a pondering face, as if thinking through your answer.

"I've changed my mind," you whispered, prompting him to lean even closer. "The size—it's just right. I don't think there's anything like it—anything that could satisfy me like it does. Everything else's a bust."

His breath came ragged even at just the tamest bit of your praise within a bit of playacting.

"But I don't think it's reached its maximum potential, you know? I…think it's a little slow, mister salesman," you grinned, and a spark seemed to light in his eyes.

"Sure thing, sweetie," he muttered. "After this, I'm sure you'll have no choice but to give me a glowing review." He kissed you on the cheek, and sped up—his thrusts coming faster and deeper.

You got pushed slightly up the bed and yelped, so he held onto you even more firmly, his fingers digging in slightly, but never enough to hurt—Sylus was always afraid of overusing his strength ever since he accidentally left some mild bruises on your thighs in the shape of his fingertips while fucking you against a wall at a party some months ago. You tried to hide the evidence for days while they were healing by wearing pajamas around the base instead of just your shorts or underwear because he looked so sad and apologetic. You weren't sure if it helped though—he seemed to look that way even if the bruises weren't in his line of sight.

Once he was decided on the exact depth and timing of his thrusts (your Sylus was always so methodical), reasoning that "You're on your period, sweetie, I don't want to go too deep or I'll hurt you", he leaned back down and lavished your face with hungry open-mouthed kisses, the warmth of his mouth even more feverish than usual.

His face above you was now sweaty—he seemed unable to avoid closing his eyes and shuddering whenever you clenched your pussy around the hard length of his dick, or when you said, So good, Sy or even just a desperate Deeper, please. Your own heart practically gave out from fondness when he near-whined at your pussy tightening around him as he entered once again.

To tease him, you stroked the side of his face and asked, "You okay, baby?" knowing full well he had a weakness for getting endearments thrown back at him (which was why you mostly reserved them for special occasions).

"Sweetie," he panted, "you're going to kill me."

But you weren't left untouched either. In your effort to help him by meeting every roll of his hips by squeezing his body between your thighs and planting your feet on the bed for leverage, you'd worked up a sweat yourself.

You could feel him losing control of his thrusts—they became less measured, more uneven—and knew he was close. Wanting to come at the same time he did, you reached for your clit that—despite his efforts to also rub against it—wasn't getting stimulated much, but he caught on quickly, let go of your waist, and batted your hand away to rub your clit himself, leading you to gasp.

It was as if there was no friction left where your bodies met, just wetness and your blood and each other's pleasure. His fingers, practically sliding from said wetness, pinched and squeezed with just enough pressure to complement the feeling of his dick massaging the sore muscles between your legs.

All you could do at that point was wrap your arms around his neck and hold on, all of his movements becoming more frantic and rough as the pressure in your core built and demanded release. Your whole body felt like it was burning up. Your eyes squeezed shut, willing this to last forever, for the both of you to draw out sighs from the other for all eternity. It didn't help that even his unsteady breaths were beautiful, a symphony next to your ear. You knew he was holding back from letting his voice loose completely. One day, you'd make him moan—but for now you let him keep his shyness and his masculine pride.

Masculine pride…is that really what you think, kitten?, your mind's voice said. You smiled. Even inside your head, he had managed to wriggle his way inside. Like a burrowing owl, you thought, and giggled—partially releasing the tension held in your body from impending orgasm.

"Kitten," Sylus whispered. You blinked your eyes open and looked at him, then downwards—he was staring at golden light, emanating from where you joined. You both looked back at each other and smiled, breathless. Through his ears, you could hear the constant squelch of your core below which had escaped your own notice until now, and the hammering of his heart overtaking yours by miles.

The addition of his own pleasure to yours due to the resonance sent you over the edge, your pussy pulsing and coating his length through a few more thrusts until he came—you could feel his dick twitching inside you, and you caressed his sides as he lowered himself to press his face against yours, your sweat and breaths mingling. The resonance had concluded, with only the bedroom lights illuminating him. You kissed his cheek.

You both eventually peeled yourselves off of each other and the bed, which now looked like a small murder scene, and he carried you off to the bathroom to clean up. You took one look at him under the stark overhead light and laughed at how he looked like he'd gone crazy eating strawberry syrup.

Sylus sat you both down in the tub. You didn't part from him even once throughout the whole process—he merely sat down with you already in front of him, cradled between his thighs. You peeked down behind you and giggled at his now-limp but seemingly brutalized dick, which triggered something in him—he grabbed you and began blowing raspberries on your nape, making you shriek with laughter.

"So clingy. Scared I'll disappear?" you joke after the attack subsided, splashing him with the rising water as a retaliatory act.

He shook his head to cast off the water. "Yes, I'm afraid of my customer running off before paying her bill." The bill was cuddle time, obviously.

Once you had washed each other up, he dried himself off quickly, pressing yet another kiss to your cheek and telling you to yell if you needed anything. You opted to stay a little longer in the tub, the water now clear.

When you came out, the sheets were already replaced. You asked about whether you had leaked into the mattress, and Sylus gave you a smug look and reminded you that he changed the covers with leakproof ones whenever you started your period, which…you had actually forgotten about. Your period came earlier than usual this time, though, which was why he was caught off-guard yesterday.

You both climbed into bed, huddling close to one another, inevitable, like magnets. One of his arms wrapped around you, and he stroked your hair as you gazed at each other's face. His was serene, his usually sharp eyes gentle and heavy-lidded, like he was about to drift off.

Unable to help yourself, you pecked him on his wide, proud mouth, which he returned immediately and rapidly threefold: on your own lips and both your cheeks, taking you by surprise and making you splutter.

“Was I good?” he breathed against your cheek, eager, already knowing the answer but still hungry for it. Wanting to bask in the reminder of his own utility to you. He really was a dog, begging for some sign of approval, even excluding all the slobbering to which he was so inclined.

“Wonderful,” you said, and he relaxed at that, shifted his arms so he could wrap himself around you more effectively, like a koala. He was like a furnace. "You're so warm."

"Which is why you shouldn't leave the bed, or else you'll have to face the cold," came his very convincing argument. "And we wouldn't want that."

He needn't have worried—your eyelids were already surrendering to sleep. "Mhmm, yes."

The last thing you registered was a kiss on the top of your head before you went under.

---

On the third day of your period, you still felt uncomfortable—upon waking, you'd taken to laying down in a prone fetal position, wrapping yourself around a throw pillow. Since the start of your period Sylus had become obsessed with providing you with whatever dish you asked for, leading him to spend more time in the kitchen than usual due to his refusal to delegate the task of feeding you to anyone else (including yourself). The twins were left amazed and intrigued, and they jokingly asked about whether he was considering laying off his private chef who was apparently sweating bullets about the future of his employment.

This entire discussion occurred on the other side of the bedroom door, so you had to strain your ears to pick up on his reply, which only came after an uncomfortable silence (you imagined him sending a stern look at the twins): they needed to "stop being silly". You had half a mind to tell him to stop making his chef nervous, but the thought was dispelled when he entered the room, holding a heat pack.

His eyes softened at the sight of you rolling onto your side to face him. He chuckled at your hand reaching out to take the heat pack from him. Instead of giving it to you, he held it up and out of your reach as he sat down on the bed, making you glare at him. "Don't look so affronted, kitten," he said, "I'll rub your belly in a second."

To make good on his promise, he gathered you in his arms so that you were held by him as he leaned against the headboard. Once he saw you were comfortable, he pressed the heat pack to your abdomen, guided by your own hand. As the minutes passed, you melted in his arms, unfurling almost like a flower, as the temperature did its work.

However, certain cramps managed to evade the healing powers of Sylus' equipment—you found yourself wincing, squeezing your eyes shut whenever the pain radiated down to your ass, which was just completely unfair.

“I wish you didn’t have to suffer like this. This…” You opened your eyes to see him appraise your pained expression, and your hand unconsciously pushing down on his arm. “It’s not like you.”

His throwaway line hit harder than it should. Yes, it wasn’t like you—he loved you for the hard-headed, guns-blazing person you were for most of the month, not this hurting, cringing thing that couldn’t get out of bed and had to have her underwear changed by someone else. “Very astute,” you muttered, closing your eyes to try and hide how much the way he saw you affected you. Your grip on his arm relaxed, even as you squirmed and your brow furrowed at another wave of pain that rippled through your lower abdomen. It wasn’t your fault you were born with a uterus, for God’s sake, get a grip. It’s his problem. If he wants to leave you over something like this, he will. He’s not going to grit his teeth and bear it—he won’t keep you guessing.

But instead of berating you for your current weakness—which you didn’t really, truly expect from him, no matter how much self-loathing you were swimming in—he kissed your forehead and smoothed your hair back from your face. “Show me where you need the pressure,” he murmured softly.

You couldn’t resist one jab at him. “What? You’re okay with your ferocious hunter being a wuss after all?” you spat as best as you could, turning your face away from him, not wanting to see the way his face would change at your words—though you suspected you looked like nothing more than a hissing kitten to him.

“Is that the only thing you believe I like about you? Your … ferocity?” he chuckled.

You winced at your own choice of words, and at the undercurrent of disappointment in his voice.

“Kitten, I know it hurts right now, but please talk to me. What exactly are you thinking about?”

Having to say it out loud betrayed how ridiculous your thoughts were. You hated it, hated the way he never took the bait, never sunk down to your level—it was always “let’s discuss” with him. Because despite his intimacy with violence, he was just better than you at this kind of thing. Deescalation, conflict resolution, whatever.

You hated him, and you loved him for it, for soldiering on through your awful moods. You wondered when he would get tired of them, but his patience was always that of a saint’s. Guilt rose in the back of your throat. He had never been as uncharitable as your mind portrayed him sometimes, the way it did now. And he didn’t deserve to be described that way, when he’d shown you nothing but eagerness to see every side of you—despite your rocky start.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“You haven’t done anything to apologize for, sweetie,” he reminded you, and you don’t deserve him, you don’t. You pressed your cheek to his own, turned your head to kiss the lobe of his ear, the junction of his jaw and his neck.

He’d gone absolutely still as you made your silent apology—silent, because you knew he’d fight you like a stubborn mule if he heard you say sorry again—the way that he always did when he was savoring your affection. When you pulled back, he had that signature dazed look on his face, like he couldn’t believe you were right there in front of him.

“I feel like I still have to live up to her,” you started. “The me that you know from…before.”

He tensed, his arms shifted around you, holding you tighter, but he lets you go on.

“From what little information I have, she seemed so self-assured, and I’m just…not like that. And I won’t ask about her, don’t worry.” You raised your hand to his strained face and smoothed your thumb across the edge of his eyebrow.

“Why not?”

“If you could see the look on your face whenever we even come close to bringing it up, Sy,” you breathed, “you wouldn’t dare ask either, if you were me. The look on your face right now—,” at that, he rushed to slacken his features, and you smiled sadly at his attempt, “—I don’t want to be the cause of your pain.”

“And what if I want you to ask me about her?” he said quickly.

“Is it your masochism talking right now?”

“No,” he insisted, grabbing your hand and holding it to his lips so that his breath ghosted across the back of it. “If you'd let me, I would show you all the ways in which you're the same, and the ways in which you're different, and how," he kissed the back of your hand, “I,” kiss, “love,” kiss, “everything,” kiss, “about you.”

"Then tell me something you like."

He takes a moment to think, rubbing circles on your hand all the while.

"You have the same voice," he started, nuzzling your hand with his cheek now. "You say my name the exact same way, whenever you're exasperated or delighted with me." He looked down and smiled at your joined hands, then looked up again at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. "And that glare of yours is the same as the one you gave me whenever you got your period before."

"Did I give you hell?"

"It was most welcome, kitten, believe me. One time, you scolded me for half an hour for moving your book. It was the first time you truly lost your temper with me. After a while, you came back and apologized with your tail between your legs," he said, rubbing his cheek against yours. "You had no idea how much I wanted to eat you at that moment."

"You want to eat me all the time though," you grumbled, "one way or another."

"Yes, you complained about that, too," he said with relish. "But only an insatiable little kitten like you could ever put up with me, don't you think?"

"Someone has to take one for the team," you pretended at being modest. "By which I mean all life in the universe."

"My Hunter is so noble," he agreed, making you swat lightly at him. He got his revenge in turn by kissing your face all over—asking, Is my praise not enough, oh noble Hunter?—until you were sputtering, It's more than enough!

You both quieted down a little after his assault on your face, him squeezing you whenever you winced and hid your face in his neck. Eventually, though, he broke the silence.

"What I need you to understand, sweetie, is that…I don't live in the past. I don't constantly compare versions of you like it's a sport," he chuckled. "Is it really so hard to accept, that I love you for who you are now, and not for who you were?"

You nodded into his neck, slightly ashamed—of your own doubt, your own inadequacy.