Love and Deepspace Stuff

As you absentmindedly braided her hair that night, you wondered if it was your bad luck or good grace that he'd been killed in a riot in jail. When the penitentiary had phoned for you to come and identify his body, you'd been scared.

Scared that it wouldn't be him and the bastard would've cheated death itself.

You decided there was no need for your daughter to ever know what kind of person her father was. But as she grew older and the neighbors' kids started talking, it was clearly affecting her more than you'd realized.

"Hey, Bun" You softly turned her to face you "Do you miss Daddy?"

Her eyes widened like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar before she hid her hands behind her back, shoulders drooping "No.."

"It's okay if you do" You reassured her. You couldn't blame her for feeling left out when she watched all the little kids get picked up by both their parents. It was obvious she'd wonder why she didn't have that.

You weighed your options. If you played it right, you could satisfy her and also keep her in the dark at the same time.

"Would you like to write him a letter?"

Tears sprang to your eyes when you saw how instantly she bloomed in joy, nodding vigorously and trying to escape your hold so she could do it immediately. You stopped her, promised you'd help her write it the next day if she went to bed at once.

Three days after she posted her letter, you brought one home with a flourish, telling her that her father had written back after all!

If the little lie you told was the reason your daughter had the dopiest smile on her face, you'd never feel guilty for it ever again. Especially not as you tucked her into bed that night, her little fist still clutching the letter like it was her lifeline.

It was only a few days later that you felt your heartbeat nearly triple when she rushed into the house, clutching a blood red envelope "Mommy! Mommy look!" You'd been folding laundry when she barreled into your legs "Daddy wrote letter again!"

You didn't mean to, but you snatched the letter from between her hands so fast, it startled her. Lower lip wobbling, you saw the tears well up in her eyes and immediately decided to do damage control.

"Daddy said I should only give you this letter if you freshen up for dinner quickly!"

When your daughter turned and sprinted for the bathroom, you couldn't believe it had worked. Abandoning the laundry, you tore the envelope open and started reading.

You stared in disbelief. Sure, you had really posted the letter to the penitentiary when your daughter had insisted to take it all the way to the post office herself. You'd come up with a random serial number on the spot and figured they'd just toss the letter when they realized there was no one with that number on the roster.

My dearest Princess,

Daddy very much misses you as well. I'm always thinking of my precious daughter.

P.S You are very good at drawing! I'm proud of you.

Love,

Daddy

Not only had someone received her letter...they'd also written back? In character?

The obvious conclusion is that it's an accident. An obvious mix-up. But your daughter is so ecstatic, you can't possibly break her heart like this.

So, you let her write a letter back. Again going to the post office and posting it.

When the third letter comes back from the prison, you decide to take matters in your own hands. Writing a little letter of your own and enclosing it with your daughter's drawings.

I really appreciate you humoring my daughter, but this was just a way to cope since her father is dead. There is no need to keep up with the farce.

I don't mind it. I quite enjoy her little sketches of the three of us. Tell her that Daddy's hair is lighter in color (:

I will not be telling her anything of the sort.

So cutthroat. You wound me, darling.

Despite yourself, you found your lips lifting at his words, but you caught yourself in record time, shoving the little note in your jeans as you quickly skimmed over his letter to your daughter before you deemed it okay to hand it to her.

She squealed with delight, clutching her new bunny by the ear as she thundered down to her room to read her letter in "secret". You watched her go till she was out of sight, still staring after her and wondering if it really was a bad idea to exchange harmless letters. If some bored criminal wanted to play house with your daughter over some letters, was there really any real danger to it?

You'd always check the letter she'd write, illegible as it was, to see if she didn't accidentally reveal any information about herself. And after she'd go to sleep, you'd only change one little thing.

Erasing her name at the bottom, you used your non-dominant hand to sign a pet name. Not once had you let your daughter's letters carry her real name over to a criminal. For the sake of her mental health, you'd allowed the letters, but this was non-negotiable to you.

Like clockwork, every Tuesday his letter arrives, you skim the contents before re-sealing it and handing it over to your daughter when she comes home from pre-school. Subsequently, you post her letter every Wednesday evening, using an address that was four blocks away from yours, belonging to the sweetest old lady who lived by herself and had dementia. You felt horrible taking advantage of the fact that she never checked her mail so you could always just conveniently swipe out the letters from her mailbox, but you brought her enough baked goods to make up for it. The letters you sent were just addressed to the penitentiary; with the serial number of an inmate you'd never know the owner of.

He signed his letters Skye but after having lived a life in hiding with a criminal, you'd learned not to trust the lot. If your daughter's deteriorating mental state hadn't been in question, the first letter would've never gone out.

One Tuesday evening, your daughter pulls at your pants to grab your attention and gives you a tiny note that she says is from Daddy. Your senses immediately go on high alert, wondering how you could've missed it, worrying he's said something inexcusable and you would have to stop this little pen pal relationship.

Am I not allowed to know what my daughter looks like?

You feel a vein throbbing in your forehead, smiling at your daughter as she stares at you with her big doe-like eyes before you distract her with a snack.

If he wants to know what your daughter looked like, he would do something crazy like wanting to meet her if he ever got out. And if that wasn't bad, he'd probably kidnap her or do something inane, maybe he was already plotting it. Feeling your heart drop to your chest, you decide it really was the end.

That week, you don't send your daughter's letter. It remains in an unmarked envelope, hidden on the top shelf of your closet in a big box at the very back. The Wednesday of the week after, you wake up in cold sweat wondering if he sent a letter anyway. The morning of, you drop by the old lady's mailbox and quickly look through her mail just in case and sigh in relief when there's nothing in it.

The next week, you can't help the dread as you're swiping through the mailbox again, realizing how stupid you'd been. Not only had you probably endangered your daughter, but also the sweet old lady who always babysat for you whenever you had to pull extra shifts at work.

You can't keep the guilt off your face when you run into her at the grocery store that weekend, paying for her share as well when you realize she didn't remember to bring her wallet with her, heart pinching in agony at having taken advantage of her situation. Your daughter is skipping in front as you carry all the grocery bags, dropping the old lady off at her place with her stuff. She insists you stay for tea and you're about to decline but she's already bribed your daughter with cake and it's too late to retreat.

The sun is setting in streaks of orange and blue when you finally wave goodbye to her, adjusting the beanie on your daughter's head before she runs off again. You cross the mailbox, your stomach dropping as you backtrack and decide to doubly check.

Your hands are sweaty, forehead perspiring as you pluck out the blood red envelope, gulping as the dread overwhelms you, like hands wrapping around your throat and squeezing squeezing squeezing to see how long you'd last.

You quickly shove the letter inside your purse before your daughter can catch sight of it. There was no way she was going to read it- if at all- without you proofreading it first.

The entire walk home, you cannot keep your eyes off her. Heart palpitating like any minute you expect someone to pick her off the street and run away where you could never find her again.

Your mind is on the contents of the letter throughout preparing dinner, watching your daughter's favorite show, her bath time, reading her a story to bed and finally, like all the other nights for the past week reassuring her that her Daddy does love her even if he's not written back in a while.

By the time you're finally alone, you're about ready to rip off your hair from its roots as you hastily open the envelope and pluck the letter out.

You skim the letter, it is inconspicuous, nothing suggesting that he never received another letter, keeping the conversation going like always. Asked her about school, her best friend Kara (who was a plushie, but he'd never know) and what kind of cake she liked. Totally innocent. Picking up where they'd previously left off.

You checked for another note, and sure enough there was one. Hands trembling, you opened the twofold and started reading.

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

You'd have appreciated the sarcasm if your knees weren't fighting the urge to buckle and give in from the dread.

I suppose I have scared you with my little request. Thus, the lack of letters from your end for the past couple weeks. I apologize for the same, I only realized the implications of my request afterwards. I meant no harm and would understand if you would like to stop completely.

You trusted the man as far as you could throw him. Considering you knew nothing about him; you decided even that was unreliable.

But once in a while, with your permission of course, if the little bunny draws any more pictures, I'd be very much interested in seeing them.

You huffed out a laugh at his audacity, feeling your chest deflate. Years spent trusting your instinct to protect your daughter had wound you so tight that feeling even a single knot loosen was enough to knock the breath out of your lungs.

In sickness and in health,

Daddy

As you posted your daughter's letter that Wednesday, you couldn't help but laugh at your inside joke, wondering how he'd take it. If his previous demeanor was anything to go by, you were guessing it'd be in stride.

"Mail!"

Complete silence filled the yard, all the inmates stopping where they were, at odds with how they'd usually be clawing over each other to get their mail first.

Because no one touched their letters till he had taken his.

The crowd parted like the red sea, hordes of men in orange clearing a path till the mailman who, for all the brave face he put on, was trembling in his pants as well. He could feel the bead of sweat on his back, lining his forehead as he watched him approach, praying to all the Gods up in Heaven that someone- anyone had written this man a letter.

When he'd realized there was no letter for him, yet again, no one had been allowed to take theirs. Not because he forbade them, but because they were scared of what he'd do.

He'd not raised his voice, barely bothered looking intimidating and yet no one stood in his vicinity as he carded through the envelopes, not finding one for himself before asking in a saccharine tone "Are you sure you didn't misplace any?"

The first week, the mailman had been cocky, confident. He'd tched as he snatched the mail back, wondering why no one else was stepping forward "Don't blame me just 'cuz there ain't a letter for you in here ya bloke"

But when no one else stepped forward to take their mail, all that confidence had wavered as he looked around at downcast eyes, no one willing to risk upsetting him any more than he already was.

For the past two weeks, inmates had been avoiding him like the plague. He wasn't amiable on any day but if he didn't receive his letters on Friday, it was a long weekend for all of them.

Especially the ones who challenged him in the ring on Saturday nights.

The second week, it was a similar outcome. The mailman didn't understand what exactly was going on but the nervous, fidgety energy of the inmates was making him nervous as he watched him go through the envelopes and come up empty.

This time he'd just raised an eyebrow, making the mailman sweat "I didn't misplace any!" The desperation and fear ringing clear in his voice.

He'd smiled, crimson eyes glimmering in the sunlight "No one's blaming you" He'd turned around but the wind still carried over the last word "Yet"

The mailman had found himself rechecking for any lost envelopes thrice. He didn't know what would become of him if he returned another week without a letter.

Everyone waited with bated breath as he flipped through the stack of mail the mailman had just handed over and a collective sigh of relief escaped when he plucked out a measly white envelope, lips lifting in a sinister smirk as he handed the rest of the stack back, uncaring of the crowd descending on the poor mailman now that they had the green signal.

He returned to his cell, littered with drawings lining the walls surrounding a single bed, desk and chair. His fingers were twitching with excitement as he tore open the envelope and three things fell out.

He picked up the one on the top first. His daughter had written back to him finally, describing in great detail that she had won a finger-painting competition in school, that Kara came second, her favorite cake was "stroubery". A wry smile lifted his lips at the little sketch of the cake next to the text with cherries lining the top.

Like always, she'd signed it

He admired your resolute, truly. Your daughter's writing was so dark that it would leave indents behind the paper and yet, you'd erase her name so cleanly every time that despite multiple attempts at shading over the lines of the pencil indents, he was yet to figure out her name.

Luv u forehver

Princess Bunny

Picking up the second letter, he couldn't help the smirk spreading over his lips when he saw what you'd addressed it.

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

God, he wanted to see you mouth off to him in person so bad.

I've attached a picture of her.

He was so surprised that he immediately dropped your letter to look at the polaroid you'd sent him. One he stared at for all of two seconds before throwing his head back and barking with laughter, unable to help himself as his shoulders shook with mirth.

Resting his forehead on the letter, he could faintly smell the perfume lingering on it and wondered what you looked like. He'd spent almost every day since your first letter wondering who you could possibly be. Sure, he had no reason to lie here and actually complete his sentence, he could get out whenever he wanted but he looked forward to his daughter's letters. There was no fun in finding out who you were through Luke and Keiran when he was sure he could get you to come to him. And you would. Slowly but surely.

Beautiful, isn't she?

She looks forward to your letters so I suppose you can keep sending them.

In happiness and in sorrow,

Mommy

As he pinned up the latest letter next to the others, he also pinned the polaroid next to it, unable to escape the huff of laughter escaping him when he gazed at the ultrasound.

Sylus would make you his. There was simply no other option.

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

She is, indeed the most beautiful little princess I've ever seen. She takes after her mother, I'm sure. For research purposes, would you be willing to provide evidence I can submit?

To have and to hold,

Daddy

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Do you want my ultrasound too?

For better or for worse,

Mommy

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

I don't mind. Although, I'll admit I usually save the ultrasounds for a third date.

For richer or for poorer,

Daddy

Dearest Daddy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Unfortunately for you, I don't have those ultrasounds or a third date for you.

To love and to cherish,

Mommy

Dearest Mommy of the Prettiest Princess in the World,

Why don't we start at a first one then? I would like to know the color of your eyes.

Till' death do us part,

Daddy

A/N: This has been marinating in my drafts for two months now. Time to unlock multiple chapter fics<3

Sylus's bedroom is dim, the thick velvet blackout curtains holding back the sleepless N109 zone night, the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed further layers of protection for his sensitive eyes. When he wakes, sweaty but refreshed from a good night's sleep—so rare more than a year ago, but these days, the norm instead of the exception—slow consciousness brings him the awareness of an unfamiliar weight pressing down onto him. It doesn't even occur to him, anymore, to move in order to throw open either set of curtains. It doesn't occur to him to listen to the needs of his body and go to the toilet, or check his phone or tablet.

But this morning, the reason for his utter stillness is something he had almost given up hope in ever happening.

Why would he ever consider moving, when finally, finally, after over a year of patience, restraint, and questioning his own sanity, he finally has everything he's waited for in his arms.

He isn't lying, when he says that he expected no less than the magnificently beautiful creature now glaring, defiant eyes bright, from where she is draped over his body in his bed. Her skin is delicious along his own—soft, silk, glorious. Her chest presses against his own, and he must pointedly ignore its curves, the softness between her legs where his thigh is wedged.

Luckily, Sylus Qin is a master of restraint. He is not surprised by his body's reaction to his kitten's human form. Her personality in her feline form is intriguing enough to have had his full attention for over a year now. And though her feline form is adorable, sleek and wild, her human form is simply a masterwork of perfect proportions, a sculpture in lively motion. As if she was designed to his exact specifications by a master artisan, without his ever knowing that he had such preferences before seeing her in the flesh.

He lets himself look his fill in the silence that follows his genuine declaration that seeing her other form was worth the wait. Lustrous hair, with two black, furred-feline ears shifting agitatedly from those beautiful locks, the little tufts of fur at each tip as tantalizing to him as a feather toy to a cat. It's as if she's straining to hear every single sound in the building while she contemplates the meaning of what he just said. Her eyes, luminous even in the dark like the little predator she is, are narrowed and calculating as they observe his face. He must once again restrain his excitement, the excitement of being seen in a way that he is rarely, if ever seen, and never before by her in particular. Her human eyes are shrewd in an entirely different manner than her cat eyes as they gleam, watching him in the dark. She flares the nostrils of her perfect nose as if desperate to read a scent that she can no longer detect. It must be jarring for her to experience the limitation of human senses after being in her animal form for so long. It will likely take her awhile to adjust. Of course, her human mind makes up for the loss of the acute senses required for animal survival, but Sylus knows from experience that the longer one remains in one's animal form, the more time it often takes to re-adapt to the gifts and restrictions of the human body. Her mouth, her soft lips are slightly parted as her breathing grows more shallow, further testing his restraint.

But he is no animal, after all. She finally feels safe enough to shift, and he's not going to ruin it with his own base instincts in response to her proximity, her beauty, the affection he already feels for her after a year spent watching and waiting for her to reveal herself to him.

Her indignant glare following his request to call him Sylus since she has been a little voyeur in his home for the past year fades, her lovely brows furrowing, lips tightening.

He doesn't have to be an animal to sense the dawning comprehension, and with it, the fear now surging through her.

"What do you mean, worth the wait?" she whispers, vocal cords rasping with lack of use. He wonders how long exactly it has actually been since she shifted. "Did you… Did you know?"

Sylus Qin, if nothing else, is a very thorough man. It's a point of pride. His enemies may call it arrogance. But is it really arrogance, if it's true? And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that mattered.

Admittedly, he didn't know. Not for sure. But he's a thorough man, and when he went into business with his kitten's former captor, he had gathered a file with sufficient detail on that cockroach to know that he was likely illegally keeping two cat hybrid evolvers prisoner. The illegality was hardly surprising, considering the nature of both his and Sylus's business. The cruelty of this particular flavor of illegality, however, was distasteful. Unfortunately, the cretin's skill, sufficient to draw Sylus's attention for a business relationship in the first place, meant he was skilled enough to evade Sylus's curiosity-driven efforts to concretely confirm the truth of the rumors.

Ultimately, it was simply a stroke of luck that the fool decided to try to extort Sylus first, giving him all the excuse he needed to torpedo the business relationship that he had only ever considered temporary to begin with, as he worked his way back through the idiot's contacts in order to cut the useless middle man loose. When the simpleton finally invited Sylus into his own territory, and Sylus saw the cat, crouched tense and miserable in her 'owner's' lap, he was both infuriated and pleased. He wouldn't have to go hunting for her after obliterating the pathetic, human-shaped excrement subjugating her to such cruelty. The final meeting with the imbecile was a stroke of efficiency. He could wind down the useless business relationship and satisfy his curiosity—he hadn't met many other hybrids aside from the twins. Freeing her was just another way to rub salt into the wound before dealing her captor the final blow.

That was all it was. Curiosity. A little spite, driven by a personal distaste for seeing gorgeous, unique, wild things handled and caged by men undeserving of their lethal beauty.

He had no expectations, when he removed her collar. It was the collar, really, that convinced him that she was indeed the rumored, priceless hybrid in this shambling moron's clutches. Why would an ordinary housecat require a shock collar with an evol-suppressing protocore embedded in its unwieldy clasp?

He had no expectations, when she sat staring at him with those uncannily intelligent golden eyes instead of running as far and as fast as her little legs could take her, now that she was free.

He had no expectations as he propped open the base's basement exit door with an open can of tuna, nor when he casually left one of his own custom-made Berluti biker boots to prop open the emergency exit leading directly into his penthouse in the base.

He had no expectations as he plucked a raw steak from the fridge, originally destined to be cooked by his personal chef, and began grilling it himself.

His heart didn't knock against his ribs in the same way she didn't knock on his door when a little shadow slipped into the kitchen, nor did a deep satisfaction soak warmly into his chest like fine wine as the little shadow crept under the chaise lounge at the end of the living area and fell right asleep without further ado.

It was just curiosity, after all.

But then the first night passed. And the second. And though he did his best to convey that he knew, that he knew and that she was finally safe, his little kitten remained a kitten. His reputation took hit after hit as he told himself that it was for her sake, and not his own, that he refused to be parted from her if at all possible as he conducted his business within his empire. She ignored his provocations, never giving any truly convincing indication that his little kitten was in fact a human being.

But just as he truly despaired, wondering if the rumors about him and his grip on his own sanity were correct, he passed the heavy wooden doors of his home gallery and noticed that they were slightly ajar, just wide enough for a kitten to slip through. He paused, moving silent as a raptor, glancing through the doors.

His art gallery is not extravagantly large, but it does have a vaulted ceiling with murals in a Renaissance style depicting mythological beasts in flight across a night sky. The midnight marble floors depict the points of golden compasses in repeating patterns, gleaming under the spotlights highlighting his most favored paintings in his possession. Benches with crimson velvet cushions dot the expansive space, waiting for him to sit in quiet contemplation before whatever art he's in the mood to admire at any given moment. As with his weapons, and his jewelry, antiques and cars, he loves collecting fine art. Art, a manifestation of human creativity, a reminder that not all humanity is worthless on nights when he wonders why he doesn't simply pull down the sky, raze everything to the ground, and move on from this wretched planet. Art, a reason to pause the apocalypse.

That night, he spotted her sitting with unnatural stillness in front of one of the particularly dramatic painting in his collection. Still silent, he melted along the wall in the shadows behind her to observe her unnoticed, just a little black form sitting precisely on the northern point of one compass-star, gazing up with her wide golden eyes, tail flicking, flicking, flicking across the stone. She admired the behemoth of a painting, depicting a battlefield in which a tyrant is being beheaded with a guillotine by the successful revolting forces. A woman, hair wild, cloak billowing in the wind of an oncoming storm, pulls the cord with a ferocious grin on her face.

It was one of his favorite paintings too.

Then, one evening, he quietly watched her very deliberately knock a heavy art history coffee table book onto the floor and then bat at the pages with studied determination to turn each one, and then would stare at the page for several minutes before moving to the next one.

And sometimes, she'd make the most heart-wrenching, excruciating sound in her little throat, a sort of high keening mewl—and in those moments, he would recall the intel in his files indicating that the walking amoeba he had eradicated was supposed to have had two cat hybrids.

He told himself it was out of curiosity when he ordered the twins to look into that particular matter.

But the nights passed, and then the months, until it was over a year later, and she still showed no interest—or capacity—in shifting.

Until tonight.

Sylus is a thorough man. He had his suspicions. And the opinions of others have never bothered him, anyway. Not in any way that matters.

But as his laughter fades, and that terrified, hollow panic creeps over his kitten's face as she asks him, "Did you know?" he finally understands for the first time what it means to care about someone else's thoughts in a way that matters.

As she begins to shake again, he's slammed with the understanding of what it feels like to be willing to do anything—anything and everything—to keep that fear from ever dimming those bright eyes again.

Mr Qin's—

no, Sylus's, bedroom is dim, but even in your human form, you can see him clearly in the dark. His eyes, steady and focused, glint like a nocturnal predator's in the shadows. The only sounds are the shift of Mephisto's wings on his perch beyond the curtained bed, the fading of Sylus's laughter, and the agony of your racing heart.

It was worth the wait.

What does that mean?

Your mind sharpens, awakening after too many years in a simple animal state. The pools of your feelings, the puddles of your comprehension, deepen, deepen, opening below down into the yawning depths, underwater caves, tunneling into a bottomless void.

All at once, you must see the truth that your kitten heart dismissed, driven by the illusion of safety, his gentle hands, his easy acceptance of your presence at his side, in his life, in his bed.

He knew? All this time? He knew and he said nothing?

It was worth the wait.

Is that why he left his base wide open the night he killed your owner? Because let's face it, that man owned you. He crushed you and Caleb under his boots by twisting the bond you shared, keeping you each in line with threats to the other. Caleb would absorb anything on your behalf. But you? You didn't conform to the rules, even when you knew the risk. You kept fighting instead of resigning yourself to the reality that you were just a caged animal, fit only to fulfill the whims of a bad man.

It was worth the wait.

And what did you do?

The first taste of freedom, and you followed another bad man home.

He knew. He knew, and he said nothing.

Why didn't he say anything?

Is that why he spoiled you, petted you, carried you everywhere with him? Not because of friendly affection, genuine care, but to keep you always under his supervision, lying in wait for you to shift?

It was worth the wait.

Self hatred you haven't felt in years—not really, with your muted cat's emotions, your instincts overriding complex emotions contrary to survival—for why would a wild cat have need of the feeling of guilt? Of self-recrimination? A cat acts according to its nature, unapologetically.

But you, your faulty, human self—you should be groveling before the universe for your existence every day you still draw breath.

And if not the universe—then at least to Caleb.

You went from one villain's lap to another, without even a question. What an insult to your brother's sacrifice.

You hate yourself, and you're terrified of the cost of your accidental shift.

You should have seen it coming. But you wanted to believe that such simple bliss could last forever.

You needed to rest, so, so badly, after the long years, scared and lonely and enraged in your owner's cruel cage.

But all that's over now.

You have to hear him say it.

He knew.

And then you have to figure out what he wants.

What's the price you'll pay this time?

"Did you know?" you grind out, throat still so raw with disuse. More of an accusation than a question. You should be cautious. Roll over, show your belly. Or, now that you're naked against him in human form, rub your chest lasciviously against his, roll your hips a little, hope that he'll feel generous if he thinks you'll do your utmost to please him.

But you've never known how to play it safe.

As he just stares at you, those maddening, glowing eyes narrowing a little in thought, you lose your patience.

"Did you fucking know? This entire time? Without saying a word?"

Heat, under your skin. Nausea, in your belly. Animal sensations in your human body. Your lips are trembling as your nervous system can't decide whether you want to scream in rage or cry in despair.

"Such accusations from a little intruder who waltzed in and made herself at home," he marvels, unruffled by your meltdown right on top of him. He continues cupping your cheeks, stroking his thumbs along your skin. You hate yourself for not wanting to jerk away from his gentle touch. But he's touched you so tenderly for over a year now—how can you be blamed for having grown dependent on its soothing reassurance? "I didn't know know for sure." He shrugs, big, bare shoulders lifting a fraction. Shoulders you've spent the last year curling around like a scarf. "But I hoped."

Now you do pull away.

He hoped?

What was he hoping for?

What does he want from you? How will he hurt you now that he knows what you are?

You pull away, away from his hands caressing you, the silk sheets slithering down your back, pooling around your waist. Straddling him, bare before him, you steady yourself by placing your hands on his massive chest. It's not much, but it's better than sliding along the length of him, skin to skin, slightly slick with sweat. You can always just shift back. You can shift back, claw him, and flee. If all else fails, you'll use your evol. Something you haven't risked in… a long time, even before the collar.

"What do you want?" You tense, preparing for violence. For last resorts.

"To piss."

You tilt your head, utterly confused.

"I see your ears twitching, so I know you heard me, Kitten. Care to stop crushing me under your massive weight?"

Indignant, you slide off his lap, plopping onto the bed next to him. "A rhino couldn't crush you, let alone me whether in human or cat form."

"Is that so? Tell that to my bladder. It took you so long to wake up I thought I'd be forced into watersports without the proper preliminaries, as is polite." Rolling to the side, he gracefully rises to his feet, throwing open the dark, gauzy curtains around his bed and heading to the bathroom. The blackout curtains pull themselves back at the touch of his fingertips against the wall next to the bathroom door before he disappears.

You stare after him, alone in your puddle of sheets, absolutely confused. "I'm not into watersports!" is all you can think to yell after him.

"No? Just voyeurism then?" His voice, drifting from the bathroom, is filled with mirth.

"If you didn't want company while you were—"

"Who said anything about not wanting company while I'm pissing, or anything else for that matter? The door's wide open. According to your rules, that's an engraved invitation, so what are you waiting for?"

Hesitating, you sit very still, not understanding what game he's playing.

The resounding sound of a big man peeing ricochets out of the bathroom, followed by the flushing of the toilet. Water begins to run.

You don't know what game he is playing, but you're determined to find out.

Curiosity and the cat and all that blah blah blah, with all that entails for you and the unwise decisions you've made your whole life.

After all, what's the worst that can happen?

Caleb's already dead.

You follow him.

It's strange—your bare, delicate, human feet against the cool marble floor. Your height, your slightly dulled senses, your human body in space. You'll adjust quickly, but it's still strange, after so long. Silently, you pad across the room and march into the bathroom like you own it. He basically handed you an engraved invitation, after all.

Steam billows from the walk-in shower and then scent of some fancy, citrus, bergamot shower gel wafts through the air, pungent even to your human nose.

Planting your ass on one of the fancy benches he has scattered about the unnecessarily large bathroom, you stare at his massive ass partially visible through the steam. It's so round. It's so big. You should have bitten it while you were a cat. You want to bite it now.

Your tail puffs at the thought.

Sylus 's off-tune humming envelopes you like the steam, and it takes you a second to realize it's What's new, Pussycat?

How did you never realize how obnoxious he is while you were a cat?

You wait, but he says nothing. He's using the same tactics on you that he does during negotiations. Some spiteful part of you wants to wait him out, force him to speak first, to lose. But fuck it, you're no businessman and you've never had much patience to begin with. "What do you really want?"

"How long has it been since you've taken a shower?" Ignoring your question, he lathers his hair, a dark pewter now that it's wet.

"What, do I smell?" you demand, scoffing. Impossible. You keep your fur very clean, and always have, thank you very much.

"Yes."

Bristling, you pull your bare feet up on the bench, wrapping your arms around your knees, your tail wrapping around your ankles. "I do not—"

"You smell incredible. But let me rephrase: how long has it been since you were in human form, and thus had a shower?"

With every question and response, with every unexpected reaction to your questions, your fear, your demands, Sylus Qin sends you reeling faster and further, the disorientation of your unexpected shift and his unpredictable responses making you question your sanity. You're confused, deflated, disarmed.

You should be cautious. You should persist in divining his true intentions, give nothing away, get out of here as quickly as possible.

But where will you go?

Caleb is dead. Your owner is dead. You have no education, no job, no source of income.

And now that he knows you're not actually a cat, there's no way he'll let you stay and live out the rest of your days peacefully as his pet like you had dreamed of doing for the past year.

You're so scared, and lost. You've been so scared and lost for so, so long.

You tell yourself that all you can do is give him what he wants, and see what he'll do once he gets it. You refuse to consider the possibility that he had tamed you, long ago.

"What year is it?"

Pausing with his hands in his hair, he turns his head, his profile severe and achingly beautiful. He tells you the year.

When you don't immediately answer, he thrusts his head under the water, rinses the shampoo out of his darkened hair, and then turns to fully face you.

He really is just like a sculpture, except unlike the statue of David, his dick is huge. You stare at it, at the soft silver hair surrounding it and arrowing up to his navel, instead of meeting his eyes. Your mouth waters.

"How long have you been living shifted as a cat, Kitten?"

"Ten years."

Your lips are shaking again, eyes hot, throat thick.

Ten years.

Almost a third of your entire life.

As the fall of the shower's water shushes any other sounds and the quiet stretches, you lift your eyes to Sylus's. His right eye flares hot. "I should have taken my time with him."

Once again, you're left confused. "What?"

He looks away, throat bobbing as he swallows, before glancing back at you, eyes now their customary soft ruby glow. "Time for a shower then. Care to join me?"

He's asked this so many times over the past year. You always thought it was a private joke, a silly man doting on his pet and asking her questions he already knew the answer to, an answer she could never actually give.

"You knew, but you said nothing."

As he runs his long middle finger thoughtfully over his lower lip, you can't help but watch its trajectory across the wet softness of his mouth. "No. I suspected, and you're lying to us both if you didn't notice the very loud hints that I've spent the last year trailing behind me like bait."

"You bait a trap. So what now?" You clear your own throat now. "Now that I've finally walked into your trap."

The water pounds over his shoulders, streams over his broad chest, the slick fur around his nipples. He looks both stronger and more vulnerable, naked and wet like this. Glorious. It hurts you to look at him, knowing that he's looking at the real you now, naked and vulnerable in turn, and not your disarming, soft little cat form.

He stands, hands easy at his sides, as if to drive home the point that he's unarmed. At least physically. The heart beating in his chest may be his most powerful weapon, though. At least against yours. "What do you think I want?"

You look away, unable to bear how much you care about him, even as a human, when you know nothing about him. Not really. Just how he takes his coffee, his preferred wine, his soft-hard hands, his favorite records, the scent of his sweat right after he's done boxing, his tuneless humming, his ruthless efficiency in killing and signing contracts.

You know him in all the ways that don't matter.

"To use me."

He laughs, low and intrigued. "Are you useful?"

You glance back at him. Maybe he doesn't know how you're useful. You refused to perform for your owner, after all. And he put the evol suppressor collar on and left it, after he resigned himself to never earning your trust. Maybe Sylus is so easy-going because he has no idea what you're really capable of.

"Not at all."

He smirks, eyes flashing red only for an instant, only an imagined beast circling the firelight. "Then what use have I for a useless cat, other than to spoil her rotten?"

You watch him, a beast yourself. "None at all, I suppose," you agree, carefully. "What now, then?"

"Come join me."

You tilt your head again, confused.

"Join you?"

He lifts his hand, bicep bulging, water dripping, and beckons you with a flick of his fingers.

"Join me in the shower, since you've spent the last year refusing my offers, and we can talk about what's next."

Through the hot steam, Sylus watches every single emotion flit across his kitten's face with increasing fascination. Having been so long in cat form, it's no wonder that you have lost the art of schooling your expressions, shielding your emotions from anyone with eyes to see. He wants to teach you again, or for the first time, if you never learned, because he wants to be the only one who gets to see the unveiled beauty of your confusion, indignation, sorrow, cunning and now, outrage.

Black tufted, velvety cat ears swivel, flatten against your lovely hair. Bright eyes narrowed, fists clenched, the appealing, bared curves of your body tense—fight or flight, you clearly haven't decided yet. Sylus forces his eyes to keep moving, not lingering on your pretty nipples, the dip of your belly button, the shadow between your legs. Instead, he admires your tail, long and fluffy, puffed wide as it whips behind you in agitation.

You're so mad at him, and it's the cutest thing he's ever seen. He wants to eat you.

He's very, very pleased with himself. The fear is nowhere to be seen, and you haven't run yet. His tactics, since the beginning up till now by acting like nothing was extraordinary about your shifting to your hauntingly beautiful human form, continue to pay off. You walked into his life of your own accord, and the only way he'll accept your continued presence by his side is if you continue to choose to stay with him, as a human and not just as his pet.

He thought it was just curiosity at first.

Simple intrigue. A puzzle to be solved, a riddle to unravel. A novelty to turn in his hands for his amusement until she slipped away again, on silent paws into the neon night.

But now, seeing the truth of you?

If nothing else, Sylus is an honest man. More honest than most, in fact.

And he's honest with himself as he admits that perhaps, it's never just been curiosity.

Maybe, fate already had plans for him the moment his eyes met your golden gaze, and for once, such plans weren't cruel.

He wants to eat you. He wants to keep you.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

But he's never been one to sit back and let fate decide the course of his life. He'll take its machinations into his own hands now that the gears are in motion, tinkering with an engineer's agility to ensure that it runs exactly how he wants.

"I'm not doing anything until you give me a serious answer! What now?" you demand, and Sylus can perfectly picture the bristle of your raised hackles if you were still in your cat form.

Sighing, he turns, twists the handle of the faucet, and the water stops abruptly, the silence a relief after its steady pounding. It was worth the attempt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth. He pads to the towel rack, chooses the smallest one that can still wrap around his waist, and proceeds to dry himself with it. "Whatever you want."

He can't help the twitch of his lips as your tail continues to whip wildly in agitation.

Agitation, but not fear. As long as you're confused, or indignant, or mad at him, you're not scared. That's enough for him, for now.

"What do you mean, whatever I want?" Ducking your head, resting your chin on your knees, your voice is heavy with suspicion and doubt.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? What's not clear about that, Kitten?" He wraps the towel around his waist so that his muscular thigh will be revealed with each step.

He likes it when you stare at his body and the tips of your human ears turn pink, and the saliva pools in your mouth so much so that you have to swallow. He feels the same way, looking at the curve of your hips, your rounded shoulder, your parted lips. All the places he wants to bite, and they're not even typically understood to be erogenous zones.

"You'd let me leave, just like that?"

He turns abruptly, disliking the smallness of your voice.

Striding over to where you sit curled over your knees on a little vanity stool, he takes another gamble. He gives in to the desire to run his fingers through your lustrous hair, rubbing gently at the base of your kitten's ear. "Let you leave? Who was the intruder who barged her way into my home in the first place? You've always been free to go. Why would that change just because you're not just a cat?" As you don't pull away, he pushes his luck, "Then what, do you think I'm broke, and can't keep a human in the same state of luxury that I can keep a kitten?"

His heart hitches, starts again, as you lean into, instead of away from his touch.

Snorting, you mutter. "You should be guillotined, your wealth is so obscene. The least you can do is re-distribute it to me." Glaring up at him, your defiant gaze is a gunshot straight to his heart. "Even if I wasn't invited, I'm not leaving. You can't make me leave."

Over a year in the waiting. One short morning fraught with possible missteps, possibly undoing it all. Sylus Qin will never tire of the taste of triumph. Of successful schemes. Of plays with giant payoffs.

"Okay." He gazes down at you, satisfaction surging through his tense muscles, relaxing as you meet his gaze with renewed confidence.

The shower drips, but the steam is slowly dissipating. You're crystal clear in his hungry gaze.

You don't shy away from whatever you see on his face. "Okay. So what now? Like, right now?"

"What do you want?" he shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

"I have a choice?"

He scoffs. "Again, when have you not had a choice?"

"Fine, I get it."

"Do you?" he mocks, laughing.

Over the giant bathtub, your bright eyes track the city beyond the windows as it glitters, beckons as the condensation from the shower fades.

"I guess I need some clothes."

Eyes flicking to the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass against the bench, the idea of you hiding yourself from him is… displeasing. "No one said that."

You laugh. "I said that."

It's the first time he's heard you laugh.

The reality, once again, exceeds his wildest expectations.

"As you wish, sweetheart."

Oops i lied about finishing it in this part. I'm going to try to finish it in the next part. and no, i will not be addressing sylus's hypercapitalist war profiteering in any signficant way, because i've written other fics that address that. but yes, i am posting this after wine time on a friday afternoon, so please excuse the typos, I edited it more than once but i only see glaring mistakes after sharing stories publicly. if you have thoughts to share, i love to see them in comments and tags! if you leave tags, i will assume you don't want a response so if you want one, just @ me and i will come out of your walls thanking you for every thought you shared.

I hope this tag list is better than the last. tumblr is a confusing labyrinth of dysfunction:

papa? he’s spent all week memorizing the names of the organizations affiliates. not one is called papa. had he missed something? so soon shall this be the end of his career?

he swallows. ponders—this can either be an enemy with technology to change their voice, or… no, how could a child know this number?

“hello? can talk to papa?”

“who is this?” he demands, harsh.

it is lost on the voice. he dictates his own learned script slowly. “my name… is… keewo.”

keewo… neither was that on the list. had he missed a page? was it the phonetic alphabet? code?

his palms begin to sweat. phone calls should never last more than a minute unless necessary. and the time ticks dangerously closer to forty seconds.

and his supervisor seems to he counting with him, because across the room, polishing a newly shipped in protocore weapon, his eyes meet ones behind a crow’s mask.

“you are not in our system.”

“what tissem?” the voice breathes, mouth too close to whatever receiver he was using. “can talk to papa pease?”

“are you a child?” forty seconds… the masked man rises from his seat.

“no. i boy.”

“how old are you?” forty-three. he’s placing the weapon down.

“i two. oh-most, twee.” the boy says happily. “can talk papa now, pease?”

forty-nine. his eye twitches. “who is papa?”

“my papa!”

fifty. shit. the supervisor is a few steps— “what’s his name?”

“uhh… uh…” fifty-three.

fifty-four.

fifty-five.

“papa name is… uh—“

“you dialed wrong.” fifty seven.

“no! i pwactice.” he harrumphs on the other end. fifty eight. “my papa name sy-woos!”

fifty-nine.

sylus.

his blood runs cold.

at sixty, like clockwork the phone is snatched from his hand. but the masked man who’d given him strict instructions that day has frozen in his own place a few paces away.

behind him stands a ghost never meant to be witnessed by mortal eyes. this shadow clad in darkness that only allow his red irises’ glow to pierce through. he lowers his head—respect, fear— he cannot say. but his heart beats like hooves in of a stampede.

“kyros.” says sylus. mister sylus— he would be instructed to call him were it not deemed unnecessary because he never comes in. “papa is working, angel.”

he barely hears the commotion on the other end. doesn’t even register the way the ominous entity of a man’s voice softens to an unbelievable timbre just above him.

“i know, i miss you too.” he says. footsteps fade along with the voice as he retreats with the wireless into the private office reserved for him alone.

he’s done for, surely. how could he have dismissed the boss’s son? how could he have known? no matter; he should have. and now—

“hey.” the masked supervisor squeezes his shoulder and he jumps like a cat.

the man— he isnt sure which twin this is but there were two of them earlier— snickers. “scared?”

he swallows.

“don’t worry about it.” he points to the dock missing its handheld, towards the light glowing orange. “forgot to mention, if it’s this color, always redirect to the main phone.”

he swallows. the boss doesn’t like to be bothered with trivial things, is what he knows. right?

but his supervisor adds. “he doesn’t like missing calls from very important people.”

he has no time to process before sylus returns and the handheld clicks in place in the dock before him.

crimson eyes examine him and he feels like his skin is peeled apart and soul exposed for a moment before sylus slowly turns away.

“carry on.” is the command.

and so, he does. he can do that.

“mama, eated?” he asks, glad to know now that you are awake. “mama, i get—i get nana? for you?”

“i’m okay, my angel.” you grumble, hiccuping back the cries that are triggered from his clueless compassion. “i’m not hungry.”

“mama sick?” lucian’s voice tilts into something somber and sad. now he tries to grip the duvet and climb the mattress to you. your heart beats like thunder.

“no, lucian—“

he makes his way up the slope, practiced and proficient, and crawls all the way over to you.

biting your lip enough to draw blood, you hide your face in the pillow, only allowing one eye to sight him. “lucian, listen to mama. go to papa.”

“no,” he plants himself firmly on the pillow beside your head and pats your clammy forehead. “mama sicky, need medicine.”

you catch his small fingers in your hand and hold it on his lap. “not sick, honey. i’m okay.”

he’s quiet for a while. the thought too profound to know why, he doesn’t seem to believe you. so he guesses again. “mama, bad day?”

your sinuses burn. softly, you ask. “what?”

“bad days no good.” he says. his voice of sympathy sounding all too familiar. he slides himself under the covers and squeezes himself in the space between your chest and the pillows. “bad days make woosi cry. is mama cry?”

there are weights on the corners of your lips, and smoke behind your eyes. the moonlight, once again, strikes his features so elegantly you’d think heaven sent a real angel for such a feeble soul. fresh air to your fumes. a gentle whisper to your silent tantrum.

the next sharp inhale you cannot hide, and in its trembling exhale lucian’s question is answered.

“i’m sorry, mama’s just…” you can’t explain. a bad day is true, but somehow it is not enough to encompass it all. and in his humble persistence, it feels like he deserves to know nothing short of that.

his hand, smelling of blueberries and milk, comes up to caress your hair. and his cheek falls onto the pillow before your one peeking eye. “s’okay, mama.”

“mama’s just very tired.” you whisper, turning your face to him. “and being tired makes me sad.”

“sad okay.” he says, wise beyond his years. you don’t have the time to wonder how. “sad now-mal like happy. sad is—is opposite!

“sad im…im-pow-tant too.”

he sounds so proud of himself for remembering. your fingers curl around his again and you kiss his palm. “yes, you’re right.” you take a breath. “mama is sorry for crying.”

“papa say no sorry for cryin.” lucian whispers to you like a secret. “papa say cryin is good, and cryin okay. helping— helping, uh, sad go out body.”

you smile. “he said that?”

“a-huh,” he snuggles closer. “and huggies help too.”

finally, like a bloom in spring, you uncurl yourself from your ball and wind your arms around the little body that has come to save you. “okay. let’s test that.”

his bell-like giggles are almost enough to flip your mood entirely when he is tickled by your closeness. never mind the ache in your ribs or the twinge in your neck; this pain is outmatched by the weight of your loving boy in your arms.

“yay,” he murmurs quietly when your sobs turn to small giggles. “i helping.”

you sigh, deep and freeing. “you are, my angel. i needed this, thank you.”

he shuts his eyes, and takes in a breath. “and woosi needy mama.”

And, as his hunter knew from experience, Sylus enjoyed a good fight with you.

He'd always had an inherent need to battle, to best his enemies, to cut his opponents down quickly and fatally. Cultivated in him from a young age, that instinct always seemed to lurk, an oppressive shadow that trailed behind him.

But it transformed into something different when he faced you. The twinkle of your laughs when he tripped you up, the brilliance of your triumphant smiles when you pinned him down. They cut through the killing urge, the darkness of fighting for survival, like a shining light. Leaving behind nothing but freedom, trust, and the adrenaline of a good fight.

It was exhilarating. Had felt this way since the night he'd found you and brought you to Phil. Since you'd flashed him the same cut throat expression he'd grown up seeing. And he wasn't above playing dirty to make that feeling last longer.

"Blood? I'm not seeing any blood." He flashed the back of his now-unmarred hand, raising his brows innocently. "Or does the Association teach hunters to surrender to scratches? A good fight doesn't end until your opponent bleeds, sweetie."

Beautiful anger flashed in your eyes as his taunt landed, and you charged at him again in retaliation. A rush of excitement zipped through his gut as he met you head-on, his brute strength colliding with yours, straining both of your arms. The tip of your knife had paused right below his cheekbone.

"Careful, Sylus," you mocked quietly, and the smile on your face was bitter enough for him to want a taste. "Looks like one of my little 'scratches' almost got you in the face. Again."

His grin became wicked in turn, teeth bared as he leaned in closer. "Sweetie, if you’re aiming for my face, you'll have to get past my arms first."

You twisted your wrist and lunged seconds before he felt a sting of pain on his collarbone. You both paused and stared at the rivulet of red disappearing into the black fabric of his Lycra tank. Yours was shocked, his impressed.

The fight in your eyes was quickly overtaken by remorse. “Let’s—“

"I'm fine," He cut you off before your blood-thirst disappeared completely, before your care for him outweighed your own need to fight. He wasn't done yet. Swiping a pointer finger through the blood to reveal the healed skin beneath, he smeared it playfully onto your bared collarbone, in the same spot you'd cut him. "See?"

The twitch of your mouth was promising, but the way you took a breath to say something, no doubt sweet enough to lure him into spending the rest of the day wrapped up in your attention, was counterintuitive to his own carnality at the moment. So he took a…. calculated risk.

Your words were cut off once again, this time from the sharp thunk of a knife embedding into the wall an inch from your thigh. Your head whipped toward it to find the fabric of your basketball shorts was pinned neatly against the drywall by one of his throwing knives.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, cheek twitching in challenge. A second blade twirled lazily between his fingers. “I thought we were just warming up.”

"My shorts," you growled out, ripped the knife out of the wall and fabric before you threw it down and lunged for him again. A small chuckle befitting a spoiled prince who'd just gotten his way escaped him as he ducked under your swing and caught you by the base of your ponytail, catching the weight of your backward momentum with his forearm.

Luring you close to him wasn't without cost though, the move had caused your blade to dance across his jaw and this time, successfully kiss his cheek.

His tongue flicked out to taste the small droplet as it reached the corner of his lips, enjoying the sight of that familiar, battle-hungry gaze darkening your pupils. “Now that is blood,” he murmured, smirking as he gently released you.

"Looks like I got past those arms of yours." Your arms came up to mockingly flex your biceps at him before you pointed at his face. "But you know I can do better than that."

A heady swirl of adrenaline and attraction widened the smirk on his face as he realized coaxing you into battling him was fun. "Not enough for you, hm? Alright then."

In one fluid motion, he took it a step further, flicking his second knife with immaculate precision toward the crook of your neck, landing exactly the way he wanted it into the wall behind you, severing a few small strands of your ponytail.

“Are you serious?” You snarled, fury rising as you watched the strands float to the ground.

“Spill my blood at your feet, kitten." The words rolled out as a purr, but only he realized just how close to a plea they were as he stepped back just enough to bait you in.

If his need to fight was the fire that fueled his power, his need for you was the relentless strike of a smith’s hammer, forging his molten body into the sharpest and strongest version of himself, to be wielded in your honour.

Everything about you, from slice of your razor sharp body through the air to the surge of the same inferno in your eyes he saw in himself, molded him into the weapon that belonged to you.

This time when you came for him, you were everywhere, your knife darting for the gaps in his defense. With weapon-free hands he did his best to move fluidly, dodging, twisting, countering every motion in an effort to evade your increasingly powerful strikes. Your arms shook with exertion, and the glisten of sweat coated both of you.

You feinted high, then low, circling him like a hunter and its prey. As he tried to twist away, you dragged your blade diagonally across his side, scoring a shallow gash that made him hiss and stagger slightly. Seizing the opening, you aimed a kick for his thighs.

The sudden strike caught him off guard and he stumbled, one leg buckling under your calculated sweep. With a fluid motion, you forced his balance to break completely. By the time he looked up, his back was pinned against a punching bag and your knife was pressed against the hollow of his throat, cold and certain.

You touched your free hand to his bleeding side, ripping an involuntary hiss and an elated, borderline manic chuckle from him as your fingers rubbed blood from the gash you'd just carved.

“How long before it reaches my feet, you think?”

He hissed again, though, maybe it was more of a throaty groan as his hand came up to grasp your wrist at his neck, trying to steady himself while a rush of lust licked a path of fire straight to the core of him.

“It's already there," he panted, not even knowing himself in which way he meant the words. The satisfaction of the fight had blended with his admiration for you. Always giving as good as you got, always meeting him head-on. The only opponent he'd ever wanted this close to him.

Before you could respond, his eyes flicked to your neck. A small, coin-sized drop of blood gleamed on your skin, most likely left from a nick when he’d sliced your hair earlier. His expression darkened. His blood could spill all over you, if he so desired. But yours? Spilling yours would never be on the table.

Without hesitation, he leaned in, brushing his lips against your skin and tasting the sweat-flavoured droplet of blood your body had released. The warmth of you, the scent of your sweat, your rapid pulse beneath his mouth hit him all at once, zapping a path of electricity from his gut to his groin.

Pulling back just enough to be nose-to-nose, to see your reaction, he caught the widening of your eyes at the faint gloss of red on his lips. Your breaths were shorter now, more ragged as your hand, still slick with his blood from the cut at his side, rose instinctively, pressing against the wet spot he'd left on your neck.

Seeing his blood on your palm mix with the saliva he'd left made that lightning within him spark into flame and Sylus was helpless as he leaned his face toward it, inhaling the mingled scent of your sweat, the sweetness of your combined blood.

With a low, guttural growl, he tilted his head and captured your lips in a kiss that was raw, claiming, and urgent. The nails of your bloodied hand sank into his neck, and your other guided his jaw. He felt the wet suction of your mouth on his lower lip and you pressed your body deeper into his.

His grasp was much less steady. Hands trailing from cradling the base of your neck to the base of your spine to the planes of your cheeks. He was frantic with the need to mark you everywhere, to stamp every bloodied part of him into your skin until it seeped in and mingled with the blood in your veins.

The taste of iron, the heat of your skin, the pulse of your blood, all of it combined to feed the feral desire within him.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes had hooded and his grin had been wiped away by your lips. "I'm always at your feet."

“alright sweetheart, what do you have for me?” the smirk on his face never falters as leans forward, chin resting in the palm of his hand as he follows your every movement.

“this is a sweet, yummy red wine that gets the job done,” you smile proudly, pouring the liquid with half the grace your lover did. you scoot the cup over to him, an excited smile on your lips as he takes the cup from the table.

sylus smells it, looks at the liquid skeptically before looking back at you. “sweetie-”

“you trust me don’t you?”

“completely” he replies without hesitation, you motion for him to take a sip.

sylus glances at the bottle, a label he’d never seen in his life. he takes a deep breath before finally tilting the cup back and letting the wine hit his lips. he’s quiet for a second, letting the taste linger in his mouth before he takes another tentative sip.

“it’s good isn’t it?” you have a sly smirk on your face, taking the cup from his hands and taking a sip of your own, “wanna know the best part?”

sylus is prepared for you to tell him the bottle is reasonably priced, $500 maybe? he watches as you set the cup down, fingers dancing on the collar of his shirt as he stares at you, humming for you to continue.

“it’s only $12!” you shriek in excitement, practically glowing as you reveal the price to your wealthy lover.

sylus feels his blood go cold, the smirk on his face falls immediately and he can’t stop his jaw from dropping open. “sorry, you mean twelve hundred, right kitten?” he stares at the bottle again, watching as you take another couple sips from the cup and refill it.

“sylus, my love, you really think I’m gonna get wine that’s worth my rent?” you laugh, turning to look at him and freezing when you see his face. “wait, how much- how much is yours worth?”

sylus doesn’t move as he replies to you, “eleven hundred.” you go quiet, nodding as you stare at the bottle.

“right, like dollars? like one thousand one hundred?” he nods softly, his lips slightly curling upwards at your disbelief. “it’s not even that much better than mine!”

sylus lets out a rumble of laughter at your words, placing a kiss to your already flushed cheeks as you blubber over the price of his wine. “have another sip and tell me if it isn’t better than yours,” he insists, watching as you try and hide the disappointment on your face.

“don’t worry, kitten, i have many more bottles you can drink from,” you roll your eyes at him.

you catch sylus staring at your cup throughout the night, watching as you pour the final drops of your cheap wine. “do you want some more?” you ask, head cocked to the side as sylus’ cheeks flush deeper when he turns away.

“admit it, you like my cheap wine,” you tease, kissing up his neck as you giggle. sylus can’t help what sounds like a purr rumbling in his chest as he lets his hands wander your bare thighs.

“and if i do?” his lips catch yours, you taste fruity, sweet. exactly like $12 grocery store wine.

“I’d say you have excellent taste,” you smile against his lips.

two weeks later you catch a familiar figure in the wine section of your grocery store, brows furrowed as he hunches over the red wine selection.

“can I help you with anything?” you ask, smirking when sylus turns to you with a small smile.

“what do you happen to know about red wine?” he muses, ignoring the way his ears and cheeks flush after being caught.

“i know that this bottle, will win over the fiercest dragon, even when up against a stupidly expensive bold red,” you take the bottle from the shelf and place it into sylus’ much larger hands.

“could it be that maybe it’s a certain kitten that’s won me over?” he asks, gaze unwavering as he smirks at you.

you feel your cheeks growing hot, rolling your eyes at your lover as you brush past him. “nope, definitely the wine,” you nod, smiling when you hear his footsteps close behind you.

“this is only for me to keep at the base for you, not because I wanted it.” sylus can’t help the fond smile on his lips when you look at him with a a grin, nodding your head.

“oh i know, big bad leader of onychinus would never be caught dead drinking cheap wine,” your teasing lilt makes sylus grab you by your waist, pulling you into him. your eyes go wide, shrieking his name as you try and get away. his grip only tightens, letting you go only after you place a kiss to his lips.

“you’re ridiculous,” you grumble, grabbing the ingredients you needed before heading to the check out line. “join me for dinner?” you smile up at the silver haired man.

“I’d want nothing more,” he smiles, already handing the cashier his card before you can pull out your wallet.