ෆ currently obsessed with: love and deepspace ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
𑣲 on my little corner of the internet, you'll find me posting my own fics as well as rebageling recommended fics. sometimes they'll be from tumblr, sometimes they'll be from ao3...
𑣲 i predominantly write reader-insert, 2nd POV, xreader… however you wish to call it. i don’t differentiate between MC and reader, as for me they are one in the same. ex: LI x MC is LI x reader. i WILL, however, tag when it’s not the reader or i use 3rd POV, etc.
thank you for reading and happy to have you! asks are open! 🥰 as a note: links sent through asks won’t be opened.
🛑 minors DO NOT interact. this is an adult's space.
👹 FUCK GEN-AI. do not feed my work into any ai generator. this includes and is not limited to c.ai, janitor.ai, etc. i will bite you.
👵🏾 i’m anti-censorship and a self proclaimed fandom grandma. i follow fandom etiquette in the: “don’t like, don’t read” flavor. enjoy what you like, the way you like 🙂↕️
𑣲 that being said, i like what i like and i write what i like. all my fics will be tagged. you can utilize the masterlist below! each fic will be tagged at the beginning of the post. always mind the tags, please 🙂↕️💖
ಇ. Good Luck
Ღ rating: general audience
Ღ pairing: snowcrowmc
Ღ tags: warm and fuzzy feelings, established relationship, gn!reader
ಇ. Zayne Is Yours
Ღ rating: general audience
Ღ pairing: zayne x reader
Ღ tags: warm and fuzzy feelings, established relationship, gn!reader
ಇ. Focus
Ღ rating: expicit 🔞🍋 || MDNI
Ღ pairing: mof!zayne x reader
Ღ tags: afab!reader, established relationship, evol with benefits, edging
ಇ. Keep Quiet
Ღ rating: expicit 🔞🍋 || MDNI
Ღ pairing: zayne x reader
Ღ tags: afab!reader, established relationship, vaginal fingering, (little) exhibitionism, praise, come eating, watersports if you squint (squirting)
ಇ. A Moment In Time
Ღ rating: general audience
Ღ pairing: zayne x reader
Ღ tags: (little bit?) of angst, hurt/comfort, implication of illness & treatment side effects (hair loss), reader has curly and coily hair, black!reader, gn!reader
ಇ. Coffee Break
Ღ rating: expicit 🔞🍋 || MDNI
Ღ pairing: zayne x reader
Ღ tags: cockwarming, piv, (little bit of) praise (it's zayne, after all), fem!reader (utilization of woman/she/her), hair undetermined texture (loose/long enough to brush shoulders), no mentions of skintone, body stature, etc
ಇ. Mistake
Ღ rating: expicit 🔞🍋 || MDNI
Ღ pairing: sylus x nonMC
Ღ tags: afab!nonMC, alcohol consumption (both parties), dubcon elements (the aether core is acting up), casual sex, reference to beyond cloudfall & crimson spirit, piv sex, yearn-maxing for his soulmate, sylus is looking for relief and he gets it...sorta
explicit 🔞 | sylus/reader | 6.8k
summary: you take sylus on a joyride. he's happy to be your collateral damage.
tags: sylus pov, corruption kink, car sex & car crash kink, sadomasochistic sylusmc, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, enemies with benefits, pain kink, a little bit bonnie and clyde, a little bit cronenberg's crash, recreational drug use, violent sex, canon-typical violence
author's note: this fic can also be read on ao3!
Sylus watches as the salesman leers at you, those wide eyes ogling your chest where it's pressed against the service counter. But Sylus isn't one to judge, not when he leers all the same. It's only natural with someone so beautiful, and you know exactly what you're doing when you cock your hips like that—back bowed, ass begging to be groped as you flaunt yourself with all the seduction of a Venus flytrap. When it comes to you, Sylus is just as much a fly as any other man.
But his role, of the moment, is not to fall in line with the rest of your prey. He waits for your signal, leaning against one of the many luxury cars in the showroom. With a flick of his wrist, he could easily buy up the entire floor if you asked. It's actually possible he already owns this particular establishment, and a quick phone call would confirm as much. But no, you prefer to do this the hard way.
Lucky for you, he's always liked things best when they're difficult.
You push off from the counter, taking the salesman by the arm as you bring him to your target. It's a sports car, of course, with the convertible top put away so you can elegantly hop inside the driver's seat, peering up to the salesmen with your elbows resting on the door. Your lashes flutter, your smile sweet, but Sylus catches your grimace just before you pretend to laugh at what was probably a terrible joke. It's that look, that brief scowl of disgust, that charms Sylus more than any other part of your act. The veil is nice, but the cruelty beneath it is you.
Sylus strums his fingers as you flirt, but slowly your performance wanes. Your eyebrow twitches, your frowns outnumbering your smirks until your irritation becomes severe enough that hiding it seems impossible. It isn't his cue, exactly, but he can't resist meddling when he witnesses you so vexed, leaving him with no choice except to make his way over.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but I have to join you for the test ride," the salesman sighs. He looks only partially apologetic; the pitiful desperation to stay in your orbit for as long as possible practically wafting off of him.
"How many times are you going to make me say please?" Please? Sylus would have approached much sooner if he knew you were saying please.
The salesman bites his lip, then lowers his voice to a half-whisper. "This is the N109 Zone. You understand why I can't let you leave on your own."
Sylus can't help his laugh, and only then do you and the salesman even realize he's walked up. You look to shoot him a cutting glare, then force your face to soften when you turn back to your mark.
"You think I'm going to steal it?" you ask, aghast, hand pressed to your chest in mock-offense.
"Of course not. But—"
"Then let me take her for a quick loop around the block. I'll bring her back safe and sound, I promise." Even as you attempt to pout cutely, there's a curtness to your tone that doesn't go unnoticed.
"I can't do that, Miss. I'm very sorry."
"But there's only two seats, and my benefactor needs to know exactly what he's spending all of his money on. Isn't that right?" This time when you look to Sylus, you smile, throat tight, and that's how he knows his role in your performance has begun.
It's always benefactor, isn't it? Never partner, never lover. At least, Sylus thinks, it's much kinder than anything you've called him privately. Not that any one term could encompass exactly what you are to each other. For every time you've said he's a monster or a despicable excuse for a human being, he's had you writhing underneath him, begging to come with that same breath. It's all the same—you prefer the ambiguity, and he delights in the contradiction.
You can hate him as much as you please, but every time you intrude on his territory, every time you ask him to play a part in your little games, Sylus knows exactly where you really stand.
"You're… together?" The salesman looks between the two of you before taking a step backward, away from the almost intimate distance he was sharing with you.
This is Sylus' favorite part. He can watch you flirt, watch you banter, watch as these men are fed the fantasy that they somehow have a chance with you. And then they see him, and Sylus doesn't have to do anything for them to realize there was never any hope to begin with. He takes a perverse glee in crushing the spirits of lesser men, in knowing that he belongs to you in a way few can only dream.
"Yes," he replies, though he knows the question wasn't directed towards him. Best to get ahead of you denying it. He smirks as he takes his hand out of his pocket and holds it out in greeting. "Sylus."
The salesman turns sickly pale in an instant. "Oh—um. Well, uh, give me one second. I'll, uh, get the keys. Yeah. Okay. Um—yeah. So sorry."
All semblance of nicety evaporates from your demeanor the second the salesman is out of earshot. You turn to Sylus, eyes narrowed, upper lip pulled taut into a sneer. He almost melts. "I told you to wait."
"That's a strange way of saying thank you, kitten," he replies, draping a hand over the car door so he can lean in close. Unlike other men, Sylus has never felt intimidated out of encroaching on your personal space. You used to push him away, then came a time when you'd stand unbudging, and now, though the movement is only slight, you draw in closer. It's unclear whether or not you even realize you're doing it, but Sylus always notices, and always wishes he could pull you in just that little bit more.
"I didn't need your help," you scoff. "Now you've ruined it."
"Ruined? Let's not pretend flaunting me isn't part of your fun." Even though you're chastising him, Sylus knows better. The denial is just as much an element of the foreplay as anything else. His fun, however, lies in teasing it out of you.
"If flaunting is what you want to call keeping you on a leash, then sure."
He smiles gleefully, dipping low so he's face-to-face with that delicious glower. "You say that like it's an insult. I quite enjoy being collared by you."
Your hand curls around his neck. "Then be a good dog and behave."
"Yes, master," he teases, and it takes all of his willpower to hold himself back from kissing you when you scowl like that. Once he starts, he doesn't think he'll be able to stop, and while he's not necessarily against taking you in front of everyone in this showroom, you have much grander plans in store.
A forced cough from behind him has you pushing him away, and Sylus swallows a laugh at the nervous blush that covers the salesman's face.
"I, uh, have the keys. I need to—I'll drive it out front. If that's okay with you," the salesman says. He shifts anxiously from foot to foot, keeping a careful distance now, but he still makes the critical mistake of addressing Sylus instead of you. Sylus raises his brow, nodding his head towards you in an act of mercy, and the salesman startles as he shifts his gaze. "—Miss."
As pleasant a tone as you try to feign, your offence cuts under it anyways. "That'd be lovely."
Sylus offers you a hand as you open the door to step out of the car, and to his surprise, you actually take it. Never one to leave an opportunity on the table, Sylus seizes the chance to wrap his arm around you once you're standing, tugging you into his side with a broad hand at your waist. You don't protest, and he claims the victory.
As the two of you waltz outside to wait on the lamp-lit curb, anticipation becomes the appetizer to the oncoming adrenaline. He pulls you closer, one hand lifting your chin to face him as the other sneaks down to grab your ass now that you're alone. "I like this one. You look good in red."
Your breath hitches, hand wrapping around his wrist to drag it back up to your hip. "It's a nice colour."
"Such a shame, I almost want to keep it."
"You can buy another," you say, and in his mind it's already settled. He'll have one sent to your door next week, where you'll complain about the audacity and force him to take it back, and then he'll have it waiting for you in his garage the next time you grace him with a visit.
Still, he'd rather tease than show his hand so openly. "Hm, only if you'll do the honour of modelling it for me."
"Don't push your luck." You swat his hand away from your face, turning to the street when that red convertible pulls up in front of you.
He laughs as your attention is stolen from him. "What luck?"
"Just around the block, right?" the salesman says as he steps out of the car, keys in trembling hand.
"Just around the block," you repeat with a smile. Gracefully you take the keys, the salesman holding the door open for you as you step inside with an air of importance, tossing your clutch inside the door. Sylus makes for the passenger seat, not missing the jealous glare lobbed his way from the salesman. He returns a smirk, and the man folds just like that, shrinking in on himself.
It's cute that you even bother with the seatbelt, the unconscious habit superseding all intention. Sylus hopes you notice how he doesn't bother, obedient even without you having to remind him. The car you've picked really is beautiful—he runs his fingers along the leather seats with stately coloured stitching woven through the fabric, all of it complimented by the wood panels lining the interior. There's a naturalness to it that contrasts well with the hard lines of the exterior, the cool metal shaped into sharp, aerodynamic angles that help it look as fast as it drives. It's hard to imagine something this inhumanly elegant was made to crumple so easily upon impact.
Sylus watches how reverently you smooth your hands over the steering wheel, and he allows you the intimacy of the moment. You press the ignition, and it comes to life under your touch. The screens and dials awaken, lights aglow in time with the roar of the engine. He catches the stutter of your breath as the car vibrates with the ferocity of all eight cylinders, and his hand falls to your thigh as if commanded.
A manicured hand drifts to the gear shift, fingers curling around the stiff, leather-wrapped joystick, smoothing along the length slowly, sensually. You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? Always such a tease. Intentional or not, his cock twitches in response. You don't take the car out of park just yet—instead, your heeled shoe presses to the pedal, the engine revving under your touch once, twice, filling the empty street with its groan. Your head knocks back against the seat, eyes lidded in anticipation, a grin already beginning to form.
You look to him with a devilish glint in your eyes, the one that always sparks at the first sign of adrenaline. The one he'll raze cities just to indulge.
He nods. You nod.
"Have a good night," you say with a twirl of your fingers, and the salesman's expression falls immediately into a look of dread.
"Wait— you're not— you can't—" He tries to lean in to snatch the keys, but you shift to neutral and the tires screech in place against the pavement, sending him scattering backwards.
"We are," Sylus replies as you laugh, though the engine blares loud, the kick-drum sputter of the exhaust drowning out your voices.
But this is the N109 Zone, after all. So of course, the salesman draws out the gun tucked into his jacket and aims it right for your temple, eyes narrowed into that killer instinct prevalent in all inhabitants of Sylus' city.
There was a time when your own instincts would kick in, where you'd knock it out of your assailants hand in a maneuver so quick as to be over with in the blink of an eye. Now, your eyes stay locked ahead, and you simply wait for the inevitable—the quick flick of Sylus' wrist, the tendrils of red mist that tear the gun out of the salesman's hand and dangle it above his head, the pathetic jump as he reaches up before it's thrown down the street and he's sent scrambling after it.
That simple trust in Sylus' capabilities sends a wave of arousal through him, his hand tightening on your thigh until you gasp.
And that's when you throw the car into drive, tires squealing as the two of you are thrust backward with the sudden acceleration, velocity sending the car flying ahead.
The salesman is left to swallow the fumes of the exhaust, but quickly, the thought of an insect so insignificant leaves Sylus' mind entirely. All he can focus on now, is you. The way you drive, laser focused on the road, a smile lighting up your eyes with every uptick in speed. The beauty of your foot crushing the pedal, your legs cradled by the leather seat, your dress drawn up to your waist to show off the gun strapped to the inside of your thigh.
Under the red moon, flush with depravity, you've never looked so divine.
But for an insatiable being like you, this thrill alone is not enough. Nothing ever is, and once you've sped securely out of reach of the dealership, you downshift the gears, the engine echoing the RPM of your seductive slowing until you pull off into what appears to be an empty alleyway. With a car as nice as this, however, it won't stay empty for long.
Sylus doesn't care. If he can't touch you properly right this second, it'll be a fate worth than death. Let the gunfight ensue.
You turn to him as you put the car back into park, eyes glazed over with adrenaline, and before you can get a word out he's already taking your mouth in his. Finally, he can taste you just as he's craved all night. He wastes no time in turning the kiss dirty, sucking your tongue into his mouth, and your grunt of surprise quickly devolves into a moan. Just like that, you always melt so beautifully.
His hand slides up your thigh until it spans the crease of your hip, and Sylus leans over the console to wrap the other around your waist, eager to touch as much of you as he possibly can. You're still bound underneath the seatbelt, and it serves as a convenient excuse for you to not throw yourself into him despite your writhing. Still, you're sweet for him as his tongue drags along yours, as he kneads at your flesh, as his touch drifts over to where, so conveniently, you're not wearing anything under that pretty dress of yours.
"Is this for me, kitten?" Sylus groans against your lips, his fingers grazing along your folds, already so wet from just your thievery alone. You haven't even gotten to the main event, and yet here you are, wanton like this. Devious little thing.
"Shut up," you say, hips stuttering with his touch. He knows you well enough by now to take that as a yes, and it sends him reeling. The thought of you defying convention for him is seductive beyond compare. Somehow, you always manage to make him even more ravenous than he thought possible.
As quick as you always are to deny it, you want him just as voraciously, don't you? He can sense it—how you need him with that same carnality, the primal draw of your souls bringing you into his territory for all the danger and sex he can grace you with. Who else could satiate your hunger like this? Only he understands your greed, and only he can give you every taboo you could possibly desire.
A hand presses against his chest, and you push him away just enough so you can speak, hushed. "Did you bring it?"
He chuckles as he circles your clit, drawing a delicious gasp from you, and your hand latches onto his bicep. A bead of sweat drips down your neck, and eagerly, he licks at it before he speaks into your skin. "Bring what, exactly?"
"You know what I mean," you scoff. And yes, he does, but it's always so much fun to make you say it.
"You'll have to be more specific, sweetie."
"Just— fucking—" Every time you try to speak, he rubs his fingers, stuttering your thoughts until you finally get sick of him and rear him away by the arm. "Just give it to me."
"Such a needy thing, aren't you?" But he relents before he pushes you past the point of want, releasing his hands to reach inside his jacket to procure that little white packet you're after.
You stare at the plastic bag, eyebrow raised. There's just enough cocaine inside for a single, but very generous, line. "That's it?"
"Usually only the first hit is free, kitten. This is what? Your fifth? And yet here you are, greedy for more without so much as a thank you. Where are your manners?" The truth is, Sylus is more aware of your limits than you are. Though if he dared to speak that aloud, he thinks you'd have his head for it. But he's here to maximize pleasure, and that means maintaining a very specific degree of recklessness. Enough for him to keep your game in check without you realizing it. He'll just have to bare the force of your ire as he so often does.
"You're a prick," you spit.
He smiles. "A prick who spoils you rotten, sweetie."
The only response he receives is an indignant huff as you rummage through your purse for a hand mirror, opening it and pouting at the ruined state of your lipstick. He sees your eyebrow twitch as you restrain yourself from fixing the imperfections, and instead you hold out a hand expectantly. Sylus knows exactly what you're after, reaching into his wallet and pulling out one of his credit cards. It looks good between your fingers, like it's meant to be there. You suit expensive things. Luxury sports cars, luxury credit cards, luxury cocaine. He's already rolling up a large bill as he watches you form your line on top of the mirror, precise as always.
He trades you the card for the bill, and you snort your line as elegantly as anyone ever has, smoothly dragging along the glass, inhaling deep, then throwing your head back with the rush.
Ever so slowly, you turn against the headrest to face him, eyes blown wide, pupils dilated, throat undulating with every breath. The switch flips, and your ire twists to want, your hand drifting to his wrist. "Sylus," you say, dragging out the syllables of his name. "Touch me."
You don't ever have to ask, but he loves to hear you say it anyways. Eagerly, he obliges, taking your tools of trade and tossing them into the console as your legs spread, as he melds back into your space to kiss at your neck. His right hand finds its way under your dress again, and now, with your permission, he teases not before plunging a finger inside. You shudder, moaning breathlessly as he fucks into you, as he drinks up the sweat on your skin, as the engine rumbles through you both.
God, he loves having you like this—unchained from convention, stripped down to the you he always knew lingered underneath the surface. The you no one else gets to see, reserved only for him to unearth in your dalliances into his world. And each time, he brings you deeper and deeper, liberating you from your facade of virtue. It's in his city, under his influence, that you transform into this raw, unfiltered creature of depravity.
"Stealing cars, doing drugs—look at you, kitten. So much for being a law-abiding citizen," he teases between kisses to your throat, pumping his finger in and out as you writhe.
"It's the N109 Zone. There—ah—aren't any laws to abide."
He can't help his laugh, nor his need to press you further. "Is your sense of morality so threadbare as to be determined solely by what is or isn't written into law?"
"Please," you groan. It's supposed to be a rebuttal, but with the way you grind onto his hand, it sounds closer to begging. "Like you're one to—to lecture me about morality."
"Yes, imagine how terrible you must be to get lectured by the leader of Onychinus." He presses another finger inside of you, your hips lifting to allow him the honour, your insides clenching as you're filled.
It takes you a moment to respond, too caught up in sensation to speak. When you finally do get the words out, they come quiet, almost under your breath. "I'm not hurting anyone."
Oh, now that's rich. He bites your neck in preemptive revenge. "Really? No one?"
You gasp, hand flying to the back of his neck, rearing him away like a misbehaving pet. As you glare, your pupils are blown so wide as to look to him with nothing but wells of beautiful, inky black. "Nobody innocent."
"If that's what helps you sleep at night, kitten." At least there's some truth to your thinking.
It's then, that Sylus hears the grumble of an engine grow louder and louder, his ears perking up to the sound that cuts through the alley, far from the cacophony of racing cars down the main streets. You open your mouth to retort his comment, but he cuts you off by throwing himself over your head and bringing you down into the seat. A bullet whizzes by, a near miss right where you were a second before.
Sylus clicks his tongue. "It seems your friends from the dealership were feeling left out."
Pulling up behind the two of you, in a jet-black sedan of their own, is the salesman from before alongside three of his associates. All of them armed, and all of them quite unhappy. It's no surprise they found the two of you so quickly; there's surely a tracker on a car as nice as this.
"Sylus," you huff, tugging on his wrist. His fingers flex inside of you, and you twist in your seat.
"No time to waste, sweetie. I suggest you get into gear and drive." His left hand sneaks between your bodies, retrieving the gun strapped to your thigh.
"But—" You're cut off with his heel grinding against your clit.
"I can multitask." A stream of bullets rattles off the car as more fly overhead.
"Fuck you," you half-mutter, half groan, before finally accepting you have no choice but to do as you're told and accelerate at full throttle.
The car careens ahead, speeding down the endless stretch of neon highways that weave through the N109 Zone as the sedan follows behind. Your assailants hang out of the windows to continuously fire, a careless waste of bullets with their lousy aim. Now with distance on his side, Sylus peeks up from behind the seat to fire back. As his fingers curl around the trigger, his fingers inside of you curl just the same, and you moan in sync with the whip of his gunshot. Luckily, his aim outclasses most even as preoccupied as he is, and he takes one of the men out just before your car swerves wildly.
"Focus, kitten," he teases into your ear.
"Go to hell." You whip the car back into the lane sharp enough to jostle him, but it only works to your disadvantage when he's anchored so deep inside of you, and your hips buck at the friction.
"We're already here, aren't we?" Sylus smiles, then fires once more, and another fly drops.
Even as you fight him still, he can feel your desire pulse tenfold, can see that smile on your face every time he kills in your honour. You love the danger. The thrill. The destruction. It's even better for you, being hunted like this—creating enemies for him to strike down, one by one. Again, a bullet rips through an assailants throat, blood gargling before he's tumbling out of the window and smearing flesh along the highway. You watch in the rear-view mirror, and desire ignites once again.
Can't you see it as he does? That he's only acting as an extension of you? You can hide behind your veneer of innocence all you like, but here you are, delighting in the death he's wrought as if it's your finger on the trigger. Later, when you deny it, when you call him the monster, he'll know better. Because slowly, little by little, with every sin he allows you to indulge, he'll show you exactly the person you truly are in all your wicked glory. You're just the same as him, after all. Kindred spirits.
Sylus' cock throbs at the thought, pressing tight against his slacks, but he denies himself the easy pleasure of rutting against the console. He's not just any unruly mutt—he's your attack hound, and he's been sicced on your enemies. His reward comes later. Your pleasure, on the other hand, he has no such restraint for.
For every shot fired from his gun, he increases the tempo of his fingers fucking into you, faster and faster as he unloads the clip, until you're moaning loud enough that he can hear it clear over the wind whipping past his ears.
Your car swerves as you drift in and out of focus, lost to sensation, until you over-correct too hard and suddenly speed into oncoming traffic. It all happens so quickly—the headlights of both cars flirting briefly, two beasts seducing each other with doom—but right before the bumpers kiss, you skid over just enough to clear the collision. Still, you're so near to each other that the left side mirror rips off when it grinds against the body of the other car, metal rutting against metal with a high-pitched squeal.
It's then, barely escaping certain death, that he feels you come. Your hips stutter, thighs quaking as your cunt clenches tight around his fingers, something close to his name leaving your lips.
Behind, the salesman shares none of your quick reflexes—there's no same drift as he careens directly into the car you only just dodged. All at once sparks fly, gasoline fills the air, and a beautiful explosion erupts as the vehicles collide, melding into one.
Anyone else would stop. This would be the climax of the game, a total victory in sex and death. But you are not anyone. You're a monster, just like him.
You continue to speed ahead, foot glued to the pedal, the speedometer locked to the very limits of the engine as wind whips furiously against your face.
Sylus draws his fingers out of you, slow, bringing his other hand back inside the car and tossing your gun aside. Then he wraps that hand around your neck, his lips to your ear. "Jealous, sweetie?"
Glazed eyes flicker to the rear-view mirror, a cloud of smoke ballooning from the crash behind. "Not for long," you say, still catching your breath.
"What are you waiting for? All this open road, all this speed—it would take one little twist of the wheel to send us soaring, wouldn't it? One split-second maneuver, and we're strung out on the pavement like roadkill. I'm not even wearing a seatbelt, kitten. It'd be so easy." Sylus' right hand glides over your thigh, then up, until slick fingers lay over yours on the steering wheel. "It's in your power. You could kill me just. Like. This. That's what you want, isn't it? To kill me?"
Under his palm, he feels you swallow. He hears you suck in a breath. He senses the heat of your desire as it aligns with his.
Your will meets his corruption, and you spin the wheel of fate.
The car veers sharply to the side, and at this speed, with this velocity, it soars as it clears the raised road high above the ground below. Time seems to slow as the two of you fly, as the car twists in the air following its grand jeté. There's no bracing for impact—all of his focus is centered on you, and Sylus commands his Evol to cradle you from the worst of the damage. He'd never be so selfish as to rob you entirely of that lovely ache you desire, but he doesn't bargain with your life as easily as you do. Red mist surrounds your head and neck, ensuring you're not damaged beyond repair. No such grace is spared for his own well-being, however. That's your wish, after all. With nothing to hold him in place, Sylus is thrown wildly around the car, his body ratcheting against the windshield until he's flung out of it entirely, wind caressing his descent.
Time catches up the second he collides with the ground, and he feels the impact rupture through his entire body as he bounces and rolls. Bones shatter, skin tears, his skull thudding as pain ripples out through all corners of his being. He should be lucky that you had the courtesy to drive just outside of the city where his landing is softened by dirt and grass, but he feels none of its tenderness as a cough of blood claws it's way up his throat, as his broken ribs threaten to pierce the delicate flesh within.
But even as he howls with his suffering, he stops himself from healing his wounds. Not yet. Not until you're satisfied.
He looks to where you've landed a few metres away, still strapped within the car as it's rolled on its right side, wheels spinning with the last vestiges of velocity. The metal of the once-beautiful chassis is crumpled and concave, the mechanical organs of the vehicle spilling out where the fender and hood have been torn off to expose them. Glass scatters from the broken windshield, dusting the grass in flickers of sparkling red reflecting off the moon.
And there you are, arms dangling with gravity. Sylus worries for a moment, heart tight in his chest as you're still, eyes closed, a cut leaking blood over your temple. For a second, he fears he didn't do enough to keep you safe, but then finally, you blink into consciousness.
Your first instinct is to undo your seatbelt, and you collapse into the ground with a quiet groan of shit. There's an attempt to drag yourself up to stand, but your chest rises and falls with the exertion you can't seem to muster, and you roll onto your back instead, the car looming over you like a metallic angel. Then your neck turns to the side, and at last, you lock eyes with him. It takes you a second of staring, evaluating the mutilation you've bestowed upon him, but slowly, sadistic satisfaction pulls your lips into a viscous grin.
"Sylus…" you groan, voice hoarse. A hand stretches out towards him.
He tries his damnedest to drag himself to you but the act is too slow, too pitiful with the urgency you crave, and instead, he summons his Evol to teleport himself to your side. Black feathers drift into the ether, and he soothes a dirt-covered palm against your cheek. "I'm here, kitten."
But tenderness isn't what you're after. He feels that thrum of desire spike now that you see him up close—black, blown-out pupils greedily taking in every little cut and bruise. You roll onto your side, curious hands smoothing over his chest. The touch is delicate at first. Exploratory. Then, you press.
"Fuck." Pain ignites as you squeeze his broken ribs, a searing sting shooting through the whole of him, eyes screwing shut as every breath only forces his lungs to meet the pressure of your touch from the inside.
"It hurts, doesn't it?" you ask, giggling with malicious glee. He feels his cock twitch.
"Like hell."
One hand drags down to the zipper in his slacks, hurried, and you moan with delight as you free his hard length to the night air. Every little pump to his cock sends pleasure rippling through him, intermingling with the pain as you continue to paw at his chest.
"Sylus, I," you begin, leaning into his neck to suck at it, "I really fucking like you like this."
Before him, did you know this side of yourself? This cruel, rotten thing that only his presence seems to surface? He chooses to believe that all of this began with your reunion—your awakening wrought with the gun he put into your hands, with the bullet he commanded you to shoot through his chest. It was him that showed you the violence lingering in your soul, latent within your wicked little heart.
What he can't pinpoint, exactly, is how it bloomed into this. What is it about these crashes that arouses you so? As much as he recognizes the adrenaline, that daredevil's thrill, there are so many better ways to kill him that don't put your own life in jeopardy.
Except, that's precisely it, isn't it? You want to share it with him. The trauma. This is connection without words, woven into the psyche through its violence like a second skin. Every crash brings you closer to him, bound by your mutual suffering. It's not enough just to have him at your mercy. Even with your delight in his agony, a part of you needs to feel it, too.
A leg hooks over his waist, and you bring his cock to rut between your thighs. You're impossibly wet, and his cock glides easily against your entrance. Fingers move to tangle through his hair, the other hand still pressing against his chest even as you entwine yourself so close to him.
"I just— I want—" You grind on his cock, and every pass has your breath stuttering.
"I know, kitten. I know what you need." He wraps his arms around you, drawing you in tighter, closer even as it increases the pressure to his ribs. With every touch, his blood smears all over you, and he rejoices in the perverse delight of marking you with his very essence. Then, his cock catches on your entrance, and at last, he presses inside of you. The incomparable heat of you surrounds him—so exquisitely tight as he stretches you open on his cock—all while your beautiful moans fill his ears, and for a second, he forgets just how much pain he's in.
Of course, you refuse to let him languish in it, sinking teeth into his neck as though he isn't covered in enough bruises. Perhaps you just want to mark him in your own way, too. Then you return to meet his lips, not yet kissing, just grazing each other as you breathe heavy into his mouth. "How bad is it? Tell me."
"My ribs are shattered. At least four of them." he answers, and you grind on his cock, drawing a gasp from the both of you. "Right now, there's a shard of glass lodged into the back of my leg. Every time I move, I can feel it dig in deeper."
"Yeah?" The leg around his waist hooks under his own, drawing it closer, and he hisses as the glass pierces his flesh even more. Exactly your goal, it seems, as you laugh breathlessly. You roll your hips, whimpering with every drag of his cock inside of you, with every bit of pain you bestow upon him.
And with grace, he accepts all of it. He grips your waist, and even if his own mobility is limited by the searing ache in his fractured hips, he can still find the strength to bounce you on the length of him. With every pass, your cunt clenches on his cock, your moans spilling into his open mouth. Over and over he fucks you on him, his hand spreading your ass to get deeper, dragging you to the hilt so he can feel you shudder with just how full you are of him. Each time, the pain blooms until it's indiscernible from the pleasure it's entwined with, all of it twisting into one magnificent sensation.
You're so close—he can feel it every time you tighten around him, with every stuttered moan that escapes your mouth and into his own. Just a little more, and he'll take you to that final high you crave. "With the internal bleeding, if I was anyone else…"
"You could have—" You're cut off by your own thrum of desire, your thoughts quicker than your words, cunt pulsing around him as you're so near the edge you can barely speak.
It's alright. He'll finish the thought for you. "Died. You would have killed me."
"Sylus," you gasp, eyes screwing shut, your orgasm ripping through you as your thighs quake around him. He doesn't stop fucking into you, thrusting you on his cock faster and faster so he can feel every second of your climax. Your entire body shudders, hips rolling, and then you can't hold back any longer—finally kissing him with all the voraciousness he's desperate for.
Just that, the sharp bite of your teeth to his lips, sends him reeling. Your kiss has him forgetting all about his mangled state, and he fucks into you hard as you're bounced on his cock, hips meeting yours again and again. Each time, the pain is excruciating, but he doesn't care. You feel too good for it to matter. His fingers dig into your skin as to bruise you further, enough to cause you to hurt even just a fraction of how you've hurt him. When you sing with the pain, when he feels one with you in the agony of it, that's when he comes inside of you at last. His hips stutter against yours, pressing as deep as he can as he floods your cunt, as his cock twitches into oversensitivity.
You don't stop kissing him. He doesn't doesn't stop kissing you. Better, even, when the blood pouring from your temple finally meets your lips and he can taste that wonderful iron tang.
"God, I—" you mutter between kisses. "I just— I hate you, Sylus."
He knows that you mean those words just as much as you don't. How much you're aware of that, he's less certain. But it doesn't matter. Until his last breath at your hands, he'll always indulge you and every ounce of your malice. "Next time, kitten. Next time."
Only then does he recognize the linkage sparkling faintly between your wrists, and he wants to ask again for you to try and resonate with him, to feel that harmony with your soul he so often craves. He knows better than to ruin the moment with such desperation, however, and leaves it as merely a thought.
Except suddenly, there's a small spark—a barely perceptible flicker of gold. It's over within the blink of an eye, but even so, it's just enough to kickstart his healing without him commanding it himself. Sylus smiles against your lips, and you pretend not to notice.
Soon you'll return to Linkon, to your perfect little hunter life, where you'll continue as though everything that transpired tonight—your larceny, your murder, your reckless endangerment and everything in between—was nothing but a fantasy enabled by the liminal space of his world. You'll embrace that dissonance, law-abiding citizen that you are. And then you'll come back to him. There will be another stolen car to crash, another man to kill, another way to make Sylus hurt for your pleasure. And he'll be there, to bring every fantasy to life as only he can. To raise the stakes of your games. To stand by your side at your best, at your worst, at everything you can and will become.
One day, you'll finally see yourself in the mirror he holds to you. You'll know, just as he does, that you're made of the same wicked soul as him.
But most importantly, you'll know that whoever you are, whoever you choose to be, he'll love every part of you the same. No matter how rotten, how lovely, it'll always be you. It'll always be him. And always, he'll love you.
Sapphic LaDS Week pages have been updated ♡ Use “#sapphic lads week” or “#sapphic lads week 2026” for your submissions!
Prompts - In addition to the daily themes, there are some short descriptions and additional prompts on the prompts page if you need more ideas! These were primarily based on suggestions in the inbox. Thanks for the input!
Rules & Guidlines
The beautiful Butch!Cowboy!Caleb Chibi is from a donation commission drawn by @readyplayermari as a part of the Artists Against ICE campaign. I sent money to Immigrant Defense Project in exchange for this. Thanks Mari!!!!!!
Ღ tags: cockwarming, piv, (little bit of) praise (it's zayne, after all), fem!reader (utilization of woman/she/her), hair undetermined texture (loose/long enough to brush shoulders), no mentions of skintone, body stature, etc :3
Ღ a/n: posted to ao3! hello~ long time, no see! here's another ficlet type substance (and to no one's shock, featuring zayne) that i glued together with my own two hands *holds up stick figure drawings à la "Lingering Lust"*
you provide a coffee break and zayne breaks you off a piece of that co--
please accept my love and continued overjoyed expression that you take the time to read, follow, and reblog my babbles. i am endlessly thankful to you all. ♡(ﾐ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣ ﻌ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣ ﾐ)ﾉ
If you don't have him now, you're pretty sure you're going to explode. Even while you're supposed to be on "vacation", Zayne finds a way to work. It's like it's built into his DNA or something. You allow him grace, the most sought after cardiac surgery within a hundred miles and certainly throughout the country, you're proud of him and know he's dutiful. Who are you to curb his desire to help and heal?
You're just a woman, though. A woman with needs— and right now you need to feel him fill you up, stretch you out with that thick c—
Your hand pauses and you squeeze the kitchen counter. You're making his coffee as he likes it, cream and just the slightest bit too sweet. The thought of feeling him inside of you is enough to make you clench around nothing, aching for it.
Very soon. You're convincing and he's weak to anything you request of him…most of the time. After finishing both of your coffees, you head to his office with matching mugs in hand and a mischievous grin you're trying to curb before you hit the doorway. Sweet, maybe a flutter of your lashes and a cute voice and he'll give in for sure.
When you gently nudge the door to his office open with your hip, you're unsurprised that he's focused heavily on his screen, mug next to him untouched, probably cold. He's shirtless—maybe because you have on his shirt—as he reads through whatever task he set out to this morning. The ache from earlier only intensifies seeing his broad, muscular chest on display. You walk over to his desk, looking into his coffee mug to see it completely black.
"…Did you mess up your coffee this morning?" You place the fresh one you made down and gently move the other.
"I received a call right after the drip finished and didn't have a moment to complete it," Zayne responds and stops typing at the smell of fresh coffee, his eyes breaking from the screen to look up at you. You shuffle your matching cup next to his before turning to him, your touch gentle as you push his glasses back up from sliding down his nose.
"Did you have breakfast?" You move your hand through his disheveled hair, watching his eyes close as you comb it through gently. A smile widens your lips as he leans into your hand, reaching for his coffee mug and bringing it to his face.
"Of course not," he tilts his head up to take a sip and you snort softly, crossing your arms.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," you mock his doctor voice with a cheshire cat's grin as he narrows his eyes at you. It's short lived when he tastes his coffee, eyes closed in contentment.
"Mmm…" he sits back for a moment and you note his relative state of undress, a pair of sweatpants the barrier to your prize. "Did you have breakfast?"
"…We're not talking about me right now," you deflect, reaching for your coffee and taking a sip to avoid speaking. A small smirk lifts the corner of his lips. He thinks he's so clever.
"I've been reviewing patient charts all morning. Why don't we get lunch together in an hour or two?" Zayne's offer is tempting, knowing you can and will reprimand him for working on your rare days off together. He even gives a time frame and an option not linked to staying in the house.
"I'd like that." Of course you do. Time with Zayne is time well spent—which is why this offer is not going to dismiss you, your original goal in mind.
"It's settled then," Zayne sets down his mug and begins sliding his chair close to the desk. Oh, absolutely not. You place your mug down and cross your arms, tapping your foot. It catches his eye and he looks to you. "What's wrong?"
"Where are my thank you kisses?" You lift a brow and he huffs a laugh, turning to face you and reach for your arm, loosening your stance quickly. Necessary? No. Giving you your opening? Yes.
"How could I forget?" His lips brush yours and you decide now is the best time for your plan of attack. You lean into the kiss, deepening his gentle pecks and luring him with gentle nips against his lips. He grunts softly, opening his mouth and you don't wait to slide your tongue against his, the taste of him and the too-sweet-for-you coffee mixing. His hand squeezes your arm as he tries to escape but you whimper softly. "Baby, if you want me to keep the time I promised, I need to finish working."
"I don't think I've been properly thanked yet," you pout, leaning into to peck his lips again. He chuckles, his hands sliding along your waist beneath your too big shirt.
"I'll make it up to you later."
"Or…you can indulge me right now…and later." You beam a smile at him, gently nuzzling his nose and tracing a finger down his chest and abs, reveling in the way his muscles flex under your touch. "I have an easy solution."
"Does it involve your patience?" Zayne knows the answer the moment your fingers trace along the waistband of his sweats. You raise a brow and he considers for a moment before tilting his head. "Name your terms."
"Let me sit on it while you're working," your tone turns sultry as you feel the bulge in his pants twitch beneath your hand. His face is turning the loveliest shade of red, high point of his cheeks and ears brightening by the moment. His glasses are beginning to fog with how quickly his skin heats and you already know you've won.
"You expect me to work in those conditions?" Zayne's eyes are wide behind his glasses as he stares at you in disbelief.
"You're the top cardiac surgeon in all of Linkon. Surely you can keep your composure, no?" You tease, feeling the evidence of his interest at the idea growing beneath your teasing hand. "Consider it a test of your resolve…or letting me have what I've been craving since I woke up."
You watch his eyes rove over your body, hand caressing over the curve of your hips and ass, contemplation lighting his features. He moistens his lips and you reach up to remove his glasses, setting them behind you on his desk. He doesn't protest, allowing you to grab his hand and place it over your panties. He groans softly, feeling how damp the fabric is and looks up, wonder in his hazel eyes as you smile down at him.
The sound of a few pings behind you makes you tilt your head, hair brushing over your bared shoulder and leading his eyes to your skin exposed by his shirt slipping a bit.
"May I? If not, I suppose I can just take care of myself…" you cheer internally when he leans back in the chair.
"No need, baby. Take what you want."
You take in his flushed skin, his hazel eyes dark as he watches you slip your panties off, stepping out of them when you let them drop to the floor. You straddle over his still clothed thighs, not missing how his eyes travel down between you, his hand reaching out to brush your skin and lift your shirt.
You busy yourself with freeing him from the confines of his sweatpants and moan quietly, stroking him slowly as you fixate on his cock. You're clenching around nothing again, eager as he lets out his own quiet groan, lifting his hips to help shimmy his sweats down just enough.
Both his hands settle on your hips and you lift his shirt up, holding the bottom between your teeth so he can watch as you slide the tip of him over your clit, hips jolting as his do, his grip tightening around you. His breathing is labored as you slide him over your wet opening, slick and pulsing as it catches before you slide him over your clit again.
Should you prep more? Probably. Normally, he renders you damn-near incoherent before he even considers giving you his cock, no matter how desperate you are for it. 'Behave, my love. Preparation is important.'
Now? You're much too impatient for that. Every rock of your hips deepens the furrow in his brow, concentrated on you teasing him. He's so beautiful like this, unable to hide his need of you. His tongue comes out to wet his lips again, short breaths drying them as you sink down just slightly, smiling as he bites his lip.
"Baby…" his head tilts back with a groan, one of his hands slides around your hip to grip your ass.
"Watch," your speech is muffled around the shirt but he understands it well enough, his head tilting up and eyes blown with desire.
"Let me he—" Zayne's words are cut short by a choked groan when you properly begin to slide him inside of you. The stretch of him causes your mouth to drop open, shirt falling and gasp escaping you. Zayne lifts your shirt with one hand, groaning as he watches you take him. Your hands come up to his shoulders, slowly lifting and bearing down. You're sure you'll have his fingerprints imprinted on your ass as tightly as he's holding you.
"Take it slow," his voice is low, breathy—the strain underneath fueling your resolve. You kiss him again, holding yourself still and moan into his mouth as he wraps both arms around you. Fully distracted by the kiss, both of you desperately devouring each other's mouths, you give no warning when you slide down until you're seated in his lap.
The gasps that leave both of you makes a shudder go down your spine, your hands tangled in his hair. He holds you tightly against him, groaning against your lips as you mewl in response, walls squeezing around him, every subtle twitch of him making you almost dizzy.
"Reckless…" he breathes against you and you laugh softly. He's not wrong but you can't bring yourself to regret a thing, the insatiable ache of needing him inside you finally answered.
"Full," you quip, smiling against his lips and staying as still as you can while you adjust. It's exactly as you wanted, happy to be stretched around his heavy cock. As you relax it only feels better, a pleased sigh on your lips. Zayne's breathing evens out, gentle kisses pressed along your jaw and down your neck as you both settle comfortably. "Just what I needed."
"You're spoiled," Zayne soothes a hand over your lower back and over your ass again, gentle in his movements. You kiss him softly before hooking your chin over his shoulder, letting your body relax against his and readjusting your legs so they're comfortably bracketing his hips.
"Who's fault is that? Certainly not mine," you sigh, whining when he lifts you slightly only to bring you down onto him, face still buried in your neck as he repeats the motion a few times. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, a whine crooning from you as your walls flex around him. "Don't tease me when you're going to work."
"You lured me in with coffee and an offer I would be negligent to refuse. Who's teasing who here?" With a hint of amusement, he settles you in his lap again, ignores your whimpers and moves closer to the desk. "Behave now, and let me work."
"Meanie." You joined him in his office with the sole focus of getting what you wanted, tease or no tease. You would have done anything, need to sate your appetite stronger than your resolve to let him work in peace. Fortunately for you, Zayne isn't totally resistant to your charms. He's just a man, after all. A man who adores his wife and would never deny her.
He lets out an amused huff and the sound is followed by the staccato tap of the keys as he responds to his messages. You're happy to let the conversation lull, to close your eyes and listen. Your inner horny gremlin is momentarily satisfied, face turned into his neck, taking in his clean scent, peppering soft kisses against the column of his throat—meant to appease you, not stir him.
One of his hands periodically traces your back beneath your shirt, rubbing circles into the small of your spine, sliding over your thigh and soothing over your skin. It's enough to lull you into an easy, comfortable state of just being—together with him in mutual silence, yet enjoyment of each other's presence. If this is as close to being inside his skin as you can get, you'll take it.
He shifts his hips, grunting when you squeeze around him on reflex, your eyes fluttering in pure bliss when he does it again. Knowing he's not totally unaffected by your position ignites the desire for more. You're being as obedient as you can muster, though the thought to misbehave tingles at the back of your mind.
Zayne won't mind much, considering he guides you the slightest bit to grind against him when he grabs his coffee mug or goes back to reading. He is mostly quiet, reading the chart aloud in some instances, particularly after a stuttered breath or when his muscles tense beneath you.
"Have some of your coffee," he sits you up and you look at him with lidded eyes, your body relaxed as you take your coffee mug he offers. He gently brushes your cheek as you drink, flush to his cheeks still evident. "This is truly all you wanted?"
"I mean,"—you smirk, squeezing around his cock and he twitches in response—"I'm open to suggestion."
"Hmm…We'll never make it to lunch," Zayne takes your mug and places it on his desk.
"…Tou…ché," you trip over words when his hand slides between you, knuckle circling your clit in unhurried circles. His other hand undoes the buttons of your shirt until you're exposed to his heated gaze, his eyes trailing down when you grind towards his teasing hand. He leans in and kisses your neck, your collarbone, nipping at the skin as you whimper his name, walls fluttering around his stiff cock.
"I haven't made any progress on reading a single thing, my love,"—his tone is firm with reprimand, lower ranges of his voice making you grind in urgency towards his slow moving hand—"you are distracting. How am I to get anything done with you squeezing me like this?"
"Zayne," you moan his name and he tilts you back until you're pressed against his desk, your breasts closer to his mouth. Lingering kisses pepper down the center of your chest, his tongue slides over your nipple, sucked into his warm mouth and tortured with broad swipes. He's patient as always, slow circles on your sensitive clit and bordering painful nips of your nipple. You reach up to bury your hand in his hair, whimpering as he releases your nipple to switch to the other.
"I suppose I don't have the best composure when it comes to you, hm?" He grabs your ass and shifts you back and forth, groaning against your breast and you tighten your hand, a gasp leaving you. You truly meant to come in here and cockwarm him until he was done working but now you need him to fuck you—or to ride him, whichever works. "You…are the one distraction I can't deny even if I want to."
"Zayne, please…" you lean up and look at him, grinding down into his lap. Your desire for him is just as undeniable, driving your very need to be cradled into his lap as close as you two can get. He slides both hands beneath you at the cleft of your thighs and ass to support your weight.
"It's yours, my love. Take it," he has the slightest smirk on his face and you place your hands on his chest for leverage, lifting up and grinding down with his guidance. A choral groan from both of you, you take an extra moment before beginning a steady bounce against him, lifting your hips and coming down in swift motions that elicit fervent medleys from you, your nails leaving crescent shapes in his skin.
Zayne is big and you love taking every inch of him. He fills you in just the way you like, angles his hips in the right way to leave you a babbling mess when he's on top. You know this is where he likes you, however, bouncing in his lap, moaning his name, thighs trembling around him as you squeeze around his throbbing cock and try not to come too quickly. Your orgasm is threatening you now, another bounce and you're out of rhythm as your body trembles, pleasure humming through your veins and escaping you in lilting moans.
"Zayne!" You call out his name as he groans, guiding you back into the steady cadence of your hips meeting, hazel eyes ravenous, locked onto your face with parted lips and gasping breaths.
"I've got you," he watches you with the same awestruck gaze, his fingers digging into your skin as he guides you down onto his cock with unrelenting pressure against your spot. The sound of your hips meeting, your labored breathing and shared moans fill the space around you and you're entranced by it, giving into the melody of sensual ambience dragging you towards another orgasm. "Again."
"Please," you feel one of his hands leave you, only for him to slide his fingers through the mess you're making to rub firmly over your clit. A sharp gasp leaves you, hips adjusting pace to chase his movements.
"Good girl. Don't hold back," he rolls your clit faster and you whine, your head tossed back in pleasure. Your hips bounce out of stride again and Zayne groans when you come around him. You throb and squeeze around him and he's helpless to falling over the edge with you, hips meeting yours roughly and teeth against your bared shoulder. You moan against his temple, holding him close as he fills you up, spilling back out with each filthy grind into you.
"Fuck…" you whimper and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close with sloppy kisses against your collarbone and neck, still rocking his hips up into you. You slump against him, boneless in his grip and responding in kind to his affection. His lips meld with yours and you return his kiss, slow and indulgent.
Zayne peppers kisses along your face and you're warm and giddy, gently playing with the longer hairs at the base of his skull.
"Working on vacation is a sin anyway," you laugh when he smirks.
wc: 720
gn reader, soft sylus, exhaustion, fluffy comfort!
Your day was exhausting. Too many people, too much noise, too much everything. You left feeling dizzy and strained, not even having the energy to text Sylus that you were coming over. You're sure he'll understand; he shows up to your apartment uninvited quite often, and you never complain. You stop by your place on the way to change into more comfortable clothing, then pull on your helmet and hop on the bike he gifted you.
Luckily, you manage to stay fully awake for the entire duration of your drive to Sylus's manor and park smoothly in his garage beside his favorite bike. You're sure he knows you're here by now; his security system is incredibly robust and likely identified your face on your way into his garage.
You scan your thumb on the reader, and the door unlocks with a happy-sounding chime and a little caw sound effect. You can't help but smile a little, remembering how you asked the twins to help you implement it, and how the two gleefully complied, offering to record his reaction as well.
The way his eyes widened with surprise and then softened with fondness as he chuckled still lives in your mind, the memory brightening your days. Part of you expected him to change it, but he never has. Your little project of adding small, cheery touches to his home has been going surprisingly well.
You rub your eyes as you make your way through his side door, toeing off your shoes in the entranceway and trudging forward. You check each room as you pass by, looking for signs of Sylus's presence. Empty, empty, empty… You eventually reach his study, and there he is.
He's in an ornate armchair, reading, with one of his favorite records playing in the background, filling the air with a gentle melody. You feel an incredible weight lifted from your shoulders just from breaching the threshold, causing your posture to relax and a yawn to escape your throat. It smells like him in here.
Sylus doesn't seem surprised to see you, merely placing his book aside and opening his arms in invitation with a smile. "You should have said something about coming to see me. I would've prepared you a drink."
You hum lowly in response, your brain far too scrambled to prepare anything coherent to say. You just take his invitation, crawling into his lap and nestling your head into his chest, curling into him. The day's tension melts from your frame, and from Sylus's as well. He lets out a soft sigh, pressing tender kisses to your hair and enveloping you in his embrace. He almost seems to be purring.
"Your presence is a lovely surprise, sweetie." He murmurs, pulling you closer, smothering you with affection. His kisses travel down to your neck, and he snuggles into you, the tip of his nose nuzzling into your soft skin, a smile curling his lips. "Long day? Hmm?"
You wrap your arms around his torso and whine. A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest, his hand sliding beneath your shirt to slowly stroke up and down your spine. "Alright, alright, no more teasing."
His chest is so warm beneath your cheek, his arms holding you close and insulating you from the harsh world outside. You're enveloped in a safe little bubble, free to let go without fear of judgment, free to recharge without having to rely on solitude. It's as if the universe is just the two of you, and you've never felt safer.
"Naptime?" he whispers, and you nod, cozy and drowsy, your mind fixating on the rhythm of his heartbeat and the vibration of his voice resonating through his chest. He hums, placing a kiss on your jawline. "Rest. You did well today. You should be proud."
At this, you open your eyes to look up at him, meeting his gaze. "Really?" you ask, something in your expression making him chuckle fondly.
"Yes, kitten, really. You know I don't offer empty praise." Your eyes start to water, causing Sylus's to soften tenderly. He shushes you, tucking your head back into his chest with his free hand and threading his fingers through your hair, soothing your tears.
"I'm proud of you. Never forget that. Rest well for me, sweetheart. I'll stay right here by your side."
Sapphic LaDS Week pages have been updated ♡ Use “#sapphic lads week” or “#sapphic lads week 2026” for your submissions!
Prompts - In addition to the daily themes, there are some short descriptions and additional prompts on the prompts page if you need more ideas! These were primarily based on suggestions in the inbox. Thanks for the input!
Rules & Guidlines
The beautiful Butch!Cowboy!Caleb Chibi is from a donation commission drawn by @readyplayermari as a part of the Artists Against ICE campaign. I sent money to Immigrant Defense Project in exchange for this. Thanks Mari!!!!!!
Everything to do with you places among the most precious of his possessions and memories regardless of triviality.
He knows you. He knows your mannerisms. Your moods. He knows every button to push to make you flush with annoyance or from shy bashfulness, but of all the ways he knows you there’s some things so rare that he wonders if it exists at all.
When he finds you in the base’s gym, form absolutely atrocious, hair wild, and labored panting, all while throwing haphazard punches into the punching bag, that greedy beast inside of him grows ravenous.
You’re mad. No- you’re more than mad. You’re seething. He can feel it permeate the air, bordering on hatred. Oh if only he could capture this moment in a bottle.
You told him once that you never knew what to do with anger. It usually came out as tears of frustration or you’d think your way out of the emotion. To you, being angry was just something you didn’t do. You didn’t like it, finding it uncomfortable when faced with your own perception of yourself.
Sylus would always challenge that if it came up. To him, it was just as natural as everything else and nothing to be ashamed of. Just as he nurtured your greed and desire, he’d go out of his way to stoke whatever embers he could find of that deep rage he knows you have.
To see you now, expelling that strangled emotion with every brief yell and accompanying messy punch, he could see the tears even before the next sob wracked your body.
He was upset because you were, of course. He was already thinking of how to handle whoever put you in this state depending on whatever constraints you may insist on. Someone hurt you deeply for you to be like this, and he wasn’t about to just let that go.
Sylus pushed up from his lean on the doorway to walk into your field of vision. Poor thing. You were shaking like a leaf, so unused to the emotions you were feeling mixed with physical fatigue.
“Is this working for you? Just nod or shake your head.”
You shook your head, teeth gritting while struggling under the weight of your own feelings.
“Would you like me to put you in a squeeze?”
Another wave of fat tears burned your eyes while nodding, rushing into his arms when he spread them. His large body easily encased you, his strength able to put you in a squeezing hug that made your breaths shallow. For your overwhelmed state though, it was a near instant balm to the feeling you were going to crawl out of your own skin. Enraged snarls and gasps melted into whimpers and quiet sobs.
There was nothing to be said in this moment. Sylus was the only remedy to your seething soul, because even your rage was just a mutated form of despair.
When you had stopped shaking and started squirming just a little, Sylus scooped you up to retreat to the safety of his bedroom, sitting down on a soft loveseat with you cradled into his lap. A cool whirl of his evol had your favorite fuzzy kitty-print blanket being dragged over the both of you.
He sat with you just like that, maintaining a firm squeeze and quietness beyond the near silent breaths. You knew he’d stay just like this until you were ready.
“Are you going to abandon me one day, too?” You break the silence, voice rough.
“No.” Sylus said simply, nuzzling the top of your head when you sniffed. “The only way you’re getting rid of me is if you kill me.”
Sylus was being completely serious, but the quiet, breathy laugh you exhaled made the corner of his mouth twitch.
“I just feel stupid…” you mutter into his chest, finger following the seam of his shirt. “For thinking this time it’d be different… that I mattered to them. I didn’t know what made me angrier- them or my own foolishness.”
Sylus was quiet, just slowly exhaling. His thumb rubbed small circles into your thigh.
“People are often disappointing.” Sylus said after another several heartbeats. “Selfish and greedy. But… when you truly value someone…”
There weren’t enough means of expressing in all of existence that could begin to encompass all the ways Sylus valued every aspect of you. It makes the fiend inside him tear at his self control to seek revenge to see you in pain and despair just as much as he greedily covets the mere existence of these moments in his memory.
“Well… were they really that important if hurt you’re this upset?”
You scoff, reaching up to pinch his cheek gently.
“You suck at this form of pep talk.” You tease, heart already feeling lighter by just being with Sylus like this.
“Well normally I just get rid of people who think they can cross me and get away with it.” Sylus turned his face to nip at your wrist until you let his cheek go. “And you’re the only one I give my whole self to.”
“So what would you do if I just disappeared from your life one day?” You felt Sylus tighten his grip on you and for just a moment you wondered if you made him upset too. Instead, he just buried his face into your neck, inhaling your scent and murmured against your skin.
“I’d spend every moment of my life finding my way back to you.”
There was a certain fragility to his words that made your heart summersault. You sat up slightly to drag his face away from your neck while cupping his face in your palms. You stared at one another, something unspoken lingering in the space between.
“Promise?” You asked, thumb brushing the edge of his lips.
“I promise.”
—
Note. I didn’t know where I wanted to take this, but I was just upset and wish I had Sylus to comfort me. Maybe this can comfort you too.
It’s a deep, rumbling sound from the very depths of his stomach, echoing out in a guttural, raw sound. You’ve rarely ever hear such a sound. Sometimes, it’s in battle, when a projectile brushes just an inch too near you for his liking. Or sometimes it’s when he’s not satisfied with a deal he’s striking. You’ve come to associate it with his displeasure, his annoyance-
But recently, you’ve been hearing that familiar rumble a little more often. When you’re seated across him on a rather lavishly decorated sofa, leaning against his chest as you fiddle with whatever new weapon he’s procured for you this time. The rumble echoes through the room again, his eyes closed in content, his rather toned arm snaking around your torso. Pulling you closer towards him, burying his face into the scalp of your head, sniffing your scent like some mangy dog.
He doesn’t say a word, but the vibration from his chest bleeds straight into your spine. Not an… unpleasant sensation, if you do say so yourself. If you lean into his touch, Sylus’ only chuckling softly to himself, the sound flowing from his lips taking on a more… mellow, contented sort of tone to it. Not exactly a growl… but more of a cat’s purr.
Summary: A continuation of the story in which you're a cat!hybrid living in captivity and Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways. You decide to sneakily follow your savior home without asking for permission. It picks up directly after the events of part 1. This part is the story of your first night with Mr. Qin. word count: ~6,100
Content: fluff, fluff, more fluff. Um, cat!mc/reader is very invasive of Sylus's personal boundaries but he doesn't mind. Sylus uses his aether core eye on an unsuspecting mall employee because he's such a bad man. Etc. A sprinkling of angst as Kitty!Caleb haunts the narrative. Will be continued (and maybe will end if i do it right??) in part 3.
As you nestle next to Mr. Qin's formidable ass, the adrenaline that cursed bird sent spiking through your body with his malicious racket begins to fade.
This has always been your problem. The second you're told that you can't do something without a decent explanation as to why, your hackles rise along with the fur along your spine, and every muscle in your body tenses in defiance. Your heart, clenching in fury, renders you incapable of simply accepting the boundaries, the obstacle, the audacity of whoever told you no.
Even if you weren't that interested in whatever it was to begin with, simply being told you couldn't do it made you determined to prove them wrong.
When you were a kitten, this character defect was obnoxious, but the damage was limited to arguments with Caleb over why you shouldn't cross the super busy road to explore that shadier part of town. Over why gorging yourself on too much fish scored through successful dumpster diving was inadvisable. Over why you couldn't just pick a fight with any old bully when they told you that you couldn't hunt on their turf—instead, you had to be strategic about it, topple the bully from his spot at the pinnacle of his little gang, take over, and then run the gang yourself.
But this character flaw is the same thing that got your brother killed.
If you had just listened. If you had just recognized that your captor's threat was no threat, but a promise.
If you could just control yourself—the defiance at your core—and recognize defeat before it crushed you completely, before it cost you everything.
If you could just accept that sometimes, there's no reason at all. That some things, you just can't have, because the universe is cruel, because you were born with an extraordinary gift into a world filled with men who are eager to twist gifts into curses for their own gain. Sometimes, if you're an unlucky black cat, your demand for freedom is met with a simple, implacable No.
No. I will not let you go. No, it's not your body, or your mind, to set free in museums of lofty artistic ambition, to soar from tree to tree in gently swaying branches, to set adrift across the pages of human ingenuity in all the books you long to read—not anymore.
And the only reason for it?
Because I can.
Because I'm holding the key to your collar, to your brother's collar, and to both your lives.
If you could just accept that a cage could still be a home as long as Caleb was locked in there with you.
You thought you had finally learned your lesson, the night that bastard took Caleb from you.
And yet.
You hadn't even planned on getting any closer to Mr. Qin tonight. You hadn't wanted him to know about your presence in his home at all, until you were thoroughly convinced that your initial instincts about him were true—that his base could be a safe harbor while you figure out what you want to do, now that no collar chokes you. Now that your body, your mind, your life are all your own again. Such as they are, without your only family at your side.
You hadn't intended to reveal your presence tonight.
And yet. You are you, and you have failed miserably in trying to change yourself your whole life. The bizarre mechanical monstrosity passing itself off as a real bird doesn't want you anywhere near its owner?
Ha.
You charge forward, first rubbing your butt all of the bird's master's leg. You hope the the robotic raptor has olfactory sensors in that big stupid beak of his so the next time he gets close to Mr. Qin, he smells your butt all over him. The more agitated the winged demon becomes, the brighter your spiteful glee glows. You balance on Mr. Qin's formidable leg, stretched in front of him under the silky sheets, and prance along that meaty calf, over his slightly bent knee, the nice muscular cushion of his big thigh, before slithering down and taking your time, sweet and slow, in finding the perfect position to curl up next to him.
He's warm, the sheets are soft, and this close to him, your vision blurs, the room spins a little. His scent is so concentrated here in his nest where he's been sleeping, his skin bare, his silver fur flowing across his big pectorals and down, down, to the pungent place where his legs meet his torso.
You're drunk on him. It's headier than catnip. Than boxed wine pilfered from art exhibitions open to the public, poured into plastic champagne flutes and carried in your hand as if it's the most expensive vintage in the world as you gaze thoughtfully, critically, at vibrant paintings on the gallery's walls.
But even through the drug-induced haze of his pheromones blanketing you, you're not so far gone that you don't realize what a huge gamble you just took. You are the intruder here. He said so. The bird has every right to defend his owner from an unknown entity who took advantage of his owner's security oversights to waltz right into his territory and make yourself at home.
You curl tighter into yourself, face tucked into the crook of your hind leg, pretending to be calm as your heart races faster as your adrenaline spikes again.
You can't help the flicking of your ears, listening for any change in Mr. Qin's breathing. For any retaliation, punishment, danger in response to your stubborn, invasive provocation of his bird.
The bird that came first, he said.
You hate that bird.
Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. No anger, or indignation. The tired amusement remains steady, the fatigue slowly overtaking the amusement. But there's also something else. Something deep, deceptively calm. Calm in the way riptides smooth the ocean's surface, luring inexperienced swimmers into the dark gaps between the foaming waves. Once you're caught in the rip, there is no escape no matter how hard you swim. Only surrender, and the hope that you'll be released when the tide is good and ready to let you go.
It reminds you a little of Caleb, but it makes your heart race for reasons unknown yet entirely unrelated to adrenaline.
You don't know the word for it. You've never smelled it on anyone before.
Inexplicable. Maybe simply instinct. You don't overthink it.
The important thing is that you weren't wrong: your heart rate slows, tense muscles turning liquid.
He's safe.
The room is quiet—even the bird seems to have settled—and soft rain patters against the windowpanes on the other side of the blackout curtains. A chill draft brings the smell of fresh rain, stirring the curtains draped, half-open, around the bed.
After a few minutes, a featherlight touch along the edge of your ear startles you into flicking it. The touch retreats. You miss the touch already. So you flick your ear again.
Nothing.
You flick both ears.
Nothing.
Okay, maybe Mr. Qin isn't as smart as he initially seemed. You're clearly going to have to train him.
Lifting your head, you're startled again as you meet his eyes, banked crimson embers glowing in the dark of the bedroom. He's looking down at you, the hand that must have just touched your ear resting on the soft-looking fur of his bare abdomen.
You crane your neck and run your cheek along the satin skin of his stomach, next to his hand, next to his belly button. He exhales, a little puff of mint-scented breath. Surprised, pleased. You rub your cheek on his stomach again.
Finally, he gets the memo.
Lifting his hand, bigger than your head, half the size of your body, he gently runs his fingers along the top of your head, along the back of your neck, now light and free of any collar, down along your spine to where your tail begins. The callouses on his fingertips catch pleasantly on your fur, subtly tugging. A soft vibration fills the quiet bedroom.
"You like that," he murmurs, and only then you realized that you're purring.
You haven't purred in years. You didn't even realize you were doing it.
You force yourself to stop. To not give too much away. What if he stops because you like it so much?
He withdraws his hand.
You growl.
"Purr for me again, and I'll keep petting you." His voice, sleepy, filled with that warm riptide again.
It's dangerous.
But he's safe.
The deal he offers sounds reasonable. You let yourself purr. His hand moves again. It's not like your captor's hand at all. With every calloused caress, a sense of cleansing follows. As if he's a mother cat, licking you clean. The way Caleb used to do.
Safe, at last. Heart calm, full of sorrow, of relief, you don't remember falling asleep.
You drift awake slowly, as slowly as you had settled into sleep. Cracking open one eyelid, the memories of the day… the night before pad softly back into your waking mind.
Your captor. Following Mr. Qin to his insecure base. The fight with the mechanical crow that ended in your unequivocal victory.
Both eyes open now, you enjoy the view of the bedroom, curtains to the outside world thrown open, the nocturnal cityscape glittering beyond the gently swaying curtains of the bed. Yawning, tongue sticking out before running its long length along your fangs, you revel in the serenity of this quiet place that smells like Mr. Qin. No cage, no dreaded footsteps, no electric shocks coursing through your sore muscles, rattling your bones, leaving you in a puddle of your own piss, tongue almost bitten through.
A pitiful little mewling sound breaks the silence, irritating you.
As soon as you notice it, it stops.
Shaking your head so hard your ears flap, you hop lightly off the bed and go in search of Mr. Qin. His cold absence in the bed must have been what woke you. You have never liked sleeping alone. Curled up with Caleb and taking a nap was one of your favorite places to be in the world, even inside the cage.
You're going to have to train Mr. Qin better. He needs to learn not to leave you in bed alone.
At least there's no sign of that wretched avian, now.
Padding through the bedroom, you follow his scent. Luckily, he's not far. Paw beans further cushioned by the gaudy rugs thrown over the cold marble, your nose leads you to a half open door. You bat it open the rest of the way with a forepaw, finding Sylus standing, legs wide, back to you, burgundy silk pajama pants slung so low on his ass that the top swell of it is exposed under the dimples of his lower back, along with the cleft between his cheeks.
Oh, he's peeing.
You sit back on your haunches, enjoying the view of his broad shoulders sagging in a relieved sigh, drowned by the deafening steady stream against the toilet bowl. You've never understood how men could piss so loudly. Your ears flick along with your tail as you grow impatient. Did he drink an entire lake last night? It's taking him forever to finish.
He shakes his dick (which unfortunately you can't see), pauses, and then leisurely hikes his pajama pants back up over his magnificent ass before turning and jerking to a halt when he sees you sitting serenely in the doorway.
Finally! You refuse to stand and hop about eagerly like an undignified dog, but your fluffy tail gives away your excitement, flicking, flicking, flicking.
"What a bold little intruder," Mr. Qin lifts an eyebrow, momentary surprise melting into dry amusement. "Is no territory off limits for you?" He flushes the toilet before striding to the expansive bathroom counter, marble like the rest of this palatial penthouse, and washes his hands. His eyes meet yours in the huge mirror. "I suppose not, considering how insouciantly you invaded my home yesterday. Now that you've made use of my bed, did you sleep well?"
He asks as if you can understand him. As if you can answer him.
Unease slithers from your tip of your tail to the tip of your nose.
But no. There's no way he could know. Maybe he's just an extrovert and talks to everyone, including creatures like you. He does keep a mechanical crow that sleeps in his bedroom. He's just weirdo.
You pad over to him and wind yourself around his calves, rubbing your scent all over him. Someone needs to protect him from people or animals that would take advantage of his eccentric benevolence. After several passes across his legs, now people will know that he's yours. You're courteous, marking him with a warning. If they ignore it, the consequences are on them.
"I'll take that as a yes." He's a little pleased, a little smug.
You follow him as he saunters out of the bathroom. You jump from chest of drawers, to bookcase, to his desk, as he heads into a huge walk-in closet, always keeping him in view. He swaps out his pajama pants, the silky material sliding down his massive ass, his long legs, revealing a pair of black boxers with gold thread—he's garish down to his skivvies, how extraordinary—with casual jeans, ripped from the knees and up the thighs with little threads hanging at the tears—and then pulls a soft black sweater embellished with a gold embroidered feather motif over his head.
You stare at him, marveling at how he actually matches his underwear to his sweaters. What a peacock.
Hopping down from the tall chest of drawers you were just nosily sniffing, you land light as the feather stitched into his clothing and swish your way over to him, sniffing his jeans (fresh, citrus-cotton scent) and batting at the threads dangling from the ripped fabric.
"Not that I'd begrudge your amusement at my expense, kitten, but be informed that these are limited edition jeans."
You let him know what you think of these jeans riddled with holes by chewing on one particularly long thread until it slips too far down your throat, causing you to hack a little.
"Now, now, no need to hurt yourself in the process of betraying your woeful taste in fashion." The room tilts as he sweeps you up with one arm, draping you over his forearm and wearing you like a furry vambrace, palm flat so you can rest your chin on it and observe your surrounding as he carries you out of his bedroom and ferries you effortlessly to the kitchen.
The room responds to his presence, low lighting increasing in brightness but still not harsh to your sensitive eyes. Mr. Qin carries you to the gramophone, still wielding you on his forearm he crouches, the fingers of his free hand drifting across carefully displayed record sleeves on the shelves underneath. Humming tunelessly, he plucks one from from the collection and agilely plops it one-handed onto the player.
What's new pussycat? WHOAAAA, WHOAAA, WHOAAAAAAA, Tom Jones wails from the gramophone's sound horn.
Pussycat, pussycat
I've got flowers and lots of hours to spend with you
So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose
Flattening your ears on your head, you turn your head, slow-panning to meet the smirking gaze of Mr. Qin.
Pussycat, Pussycat, I love you, yes I do
You and your pussycat nose
You dig your claws through his pretty sweater's sleeve and launch yourself off of his arm, landing lightly on the back of one of his couches, tail up haughtily.
Not only does he have atrocious taste in fashion, his musical tastes also leave much to be desired.
You're so thrilling and I'm so willing to care for you
So go ahead and make up your big little pussycat eyes
Under Tom Jones' bellowing, Sylus snickers behind you. Ignoring him, you spring from surface to surface until you land with only a slight skid on the smooth marble surface of his kitchen island.
You're hungry.
"Not a Tom Jones fan, huh, Kitten?" Mr. Qin inquires. Again, you refuse to look at him.
You're delicious and if my wishes can all come true
I'll soon be kissing your pussycat lips— WHOAAAA WHOAAAAA
It's only at the crescendo of Jones' wailing like a tomcat that the carefully cut steak immaculately plated on a silver platter ornately etched with dragon motifs enters your field of vision.
Ears flicking forward, tail whipping, you can't conceal your curiosity. Or your hunger.
The steak he was cooking last night…
You turn to look at him again just as he lifts the gramophone arm and replaces Tom Jones with a new record, this time something dramatic with cellos. He doesn't return your gaze, just fiddles with the volume, mouth quirked. His profile, with its long, sloping nose, is magnificent.
"Finally ready to eat, Kitten?"
His delicious smell overpowers you so thoroughly that you hadn't noticed the steak at all when you walked by the kitchen island where he had apparently been preparing it just for you last night, nor when he swept into the kitchen with you this morning.
Your tail swishes, swishes. Circling the platter, you bat at it, and it too slips across the slick counter.
"Don't be coy. Go ahead and eat your fill."
Now that you can smell it, the delicious meat fills your nose, overwhelming everything else.
You can forgive him telling you what to do. His ridiculous taste in music, his preening fashion.
To be fair, you would have forgiven him anything, after he removed your collar. After he exterminated your captor.
But now, after he meticulously sliced this perfectly grilled, tender steak, just for you, you would kill for him.
He's never getting rid of you, now, whether he likes it or not.
You lean down, pierce one expertly, thinly sliced piece with your fangs and do exactly as he tells you.
He doesn't let you rest, that first night with him. Belly full of delicious meat, blinking and sleepy, Mr. Qin shrugs into a leather jacket and cruelly carries you in your now-established spot on his forearm out of his penthouse. The mirrors in the elevator infinitely reflect the soft sheen of his silver hair, his broad shoulders, your little black form tucked against his pillowy chest, repeated over and over and over again, as if revealing parallel universes where in every one you are like this, tucked safe in his arms, sheltered by the easy strength of him. His heartbeat is fast and steady under your cheek.
The car ride wakes you up after he tosses you playfully into the passenger seat of one of the many vintage muscle cars with a deafeningly loud engine and roars out of the underground parking garage. The city flows in neon streaks past the car windows. He huffs in surprise as you hop over his hand casually resting on the gear shift and onto his lap, peeking up over the steering wheel.
"Just this once, kitten. We'll get you a seatbelt while we're out tonight."
You stretch your claws our and dig, just a little, into his stupid ripped jeans—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to let him know that you want to be in his lap, forever.
"Non-negotiable," he responds, as if he heard your protest loud and clear and still insists upon his absurd safety measures.
Hmph. You don't need them. You always land on your feet.
The entrance to the luxury mall sweeps up into the night, brightly lit and inviting against the dark. Mr. Qin strides through its automatically opening doors like a king sweeping into his palace, not deigning to look left or right at store after store of expensive, luxury goods, the delicately tinkling fountains, the art nouveau curl of the iron banisters and stained glass windows mimicking French palatial residences. Even when you were free, you never would have dared enter such an exclusive cathedral dedicated to the worship of wealth, of ruthless consumerism, of the 'haves', since you and Caleb were always the 'have-nots.' Both of you had been working hard to improve your circumstances, studying like hell at the library where the books were free and the heating was always on in winter. You had been so close to the university entrance exams when your captor's thugs ambushed you one night returning to your small, cheap but clean apartment tucked in Linkon City's underbelly. Though it was in a run-down part of town, it was still far enough away from the N109 Zone to feel safe.
Mistake.
Maybe it was complacency. Maybe it was the hope for a better life, so close, dangling before you like a mouse by its tail, mesmerizing by virtue of your future, inexorable domination over it—maybe it was that hope which eclipsed your caution. In your arrogance, your gleeful aspirations in being able to own your own library, possess a lifelong entrance ticket to any museum in the city as a benefactor of the arts after making it big yourself, of sculpting with your own hands and claws pieces that would move others the way you stood before the classical masterpieces from long-dead artisans and marveled at the drape of fabric carved in cold stone, of strong forearms clutching glorious swords raised in revolt against corrupt systems of power—
But no. It was your loud yowling about how you didn't want ramen for dinner again, you wanted to shift and hunt for birds and mice, despite Caleb saying it was too dangerous to do it too often, that you had to protect your cover as emo students cosplaying as cats, furry-adjacent but not so obsessed as to attend cons or actually join the furry community.
Your fault.
Always your fault.
That strange mewling has started again.
Mr. Qin pauses. You look up at him curiously, wondering why he stopped walking, only to meet his intense gaze, the furrow between his brows more pronounced than usual, as if he's worried about something.
Swiftly approaching footsteps resound on the glossy floor and drown out the mewling, drawing your attention from Mr. Qin's beautifully sculpted face.
"Sir, Place Vendôme has a strict no pet policy." The security guard's tone is sharp and firm, but respectful, as if he's not sure who, exactly, he's dealing with yet.
"Not to worry." Mr. Qin's scent doesn't change. As always, he's relaxed, slightly amused even when confronted with petty rules. A certain spicy thread joins his normally delicious aroma—fun. He's having fun. "This is my emotional support kitten. I have a license to carry her wherever I go."
The security guard's eyebrows draw together, bright eyes sweeping Mr. Qin from the tips of his shoes to the top of his shining head, and he softens his voice. He must recognize the stupid, limited edition jeans. "Even so, these are our house rules. We would welcome your patronage if you would be so good as to return without your… cat at a later time."
Mr. Qin laughs, dark and low, the spice in his scent layering, deepening, warming like the rising magma of a re-awakening volcano. "While normally I would tell you to fetch the general manager to resolve this little issue, I'm afraid I have more pressing concerns that require my attention tonight."
The security guard's brows knit tighter before relaxing completely, his soft lips parting, square jaw growing lax. Puzzled, you glance back up at Mr. Qin whose right eye is now glowing as bright as molten steel, so bright as to almost blind you. Slowly, it fades back to its normal, ruby glitter, as his standard delicious scent also returns to normal.
"Yes sir, good, sir. Your emotional support kitten license is current, my apologies for disturbing you. Please enjoy a complimentary Kir Royale at La Folie d'Oiseau bar in the penthouse for your trouble after you've shopped to your satisfaction. I will inform all necessary staff to expect you and your elegant companion and to satisfy any desires you may have during your visit today," the security guard gushes euphorically, slow and sleepy, as if he's having the most wonderful dream and can't think of anything he'd like to do more than tell the entire mall that the cat weirdo in the stupid jeans is to be treated like royalty.
"Of course," Mr. Qin answers, gracious, patient. "But only because I'm in a very good mood tonight."
Without waiting for a response, your human sweeps past the security guard and does end up indulging in the Kir Royale himself, while also offering you the bubbly, sweet drink in a little saucer of your own after he acquires what he came here to acquire. As if it's completely normal to offer your pet cat alcohol at an exclusive bar at the most expensive mall in the world. You lap it eagerly, enjoying the fizzing in your belly, the lulling effect of the alcohol. You don't remember the trip back home.
You blink awake as the elevator doors open silently into the foyer of Mr. Qin's penthouse. His footsteps resound down the long hallway on the slick marble floor, the footsteps of a god entering a temple dedicated to his glory. On his arm, you lazily observe the shopping bags drifting beside you, encased in that swirling red and black, sparking mist. They keep pace as he makes his way to what appears to be the heart of his house: the kitchen, the living area, the view of his domain glittering menacingly far below.
As you're approaching the doorway, your ears flick as they're accosted with the unmistakable cacophony of bird screeches.
The shopping bags precede you, momentarily blocking the view as Sylus sweeps into the living area. Following the ear-splitting noise, your gaze is drawn to the huge chandelier sparkles as it looms from the high ceiling above. Two magpies, black and blue feathers brightly sheened under the refracted light, appear to be teasing Mephisto with a ruby the size of a quail's egg. They flit among the tinkling crystals, sending the entire chandelier swaying with their rapid landings and launches, as Mephisto flaps behind them in focused pursuit.
CAW! CAW! CAW!
CHITTER! CHITTER chitter chitter CHITTER!!
As soon as Mephisto seems to close in on one magpie, it tosses its head, sending the ruby sailing through the air. The other magpie catches it, chittering gleefully, dropping elegantly as a ballistic missile as Mephisto agilely swerves from the previous magpie and gives chase.
Mephisto seems to be having the time of his life as he flaps after the magpie now circling the kitchen island.
Mr. Qin heaves a sigh, as if he's used to such a loud spectacle, even as the chandelier sways dramatically above as the second magpie rejoins the other among its priceless layers of crystal and silver.
The bags settle themselves on the kitchen island's counter and Mr. Qin's evol dissipates. He nudges you gently off his arm next to them. As he begins to rummage through the bags and lift the items he purchased out, one by one, you rub yourself along his arm, letting your tail wind around his wrist.
A wand tipped with elaborate, beautiful peacock feathers. Little crystal balls with jingling bells in them. Several hand-stitched plushie mice filled with catnip. Robotic frogs made of a silicone material that hop across the counter when powered on. Carefully gift-wrapped bags of treats, their openings cinched with with an overabundance of scarlet, curled ribbons.
You sniff disinterestedly at each item, puzzled as to why Mr. Qin went to all the effort to acquire these things when you're perfectly satisfied with napping, being held by him, and clawing at his stupid jeans.
"The tower tree designed to resemble the base will take two days to make and arrive," he raises his voice, ever so slightly, to be heard over the birds above.
You turn your back on all the toys, flicking your tail disdainfully.
"Oh, I see how it is," he snickers. "My little kitten couldn't contain her glee as she rampaged through the pet store, but now that I've fulfilled her desires by purchasing every item she deigned to claw at, she's bored already."
Tail flicking dangerously, you spin around and swipe at Mr. Qin's gold-threaded sweater with a curved claw. Still laughing, he grabs your paw, holding it gently and harmlessly against his abdomen. "Keep that up and I'll get you solid gold kitty claw clippers to render your talons a little less dangerous to my wardrobe."
Oh, hell no. You spin again, tail puffed and back arched, ready to show him just how difficult you'll make it for him to get anywhere near your weapons when the vibration of his rumbling laughter rolls through your body again, softening your indignation and causing you to pause just long enough for his big hands to gently cage you. They feel so good on your body, an intoxicating mix of assured strength and dexterous care for your fragile bones, the small size of you in his powerful grip. Yowling in feigned protest, you let him slide you across the counter without a struggle until you're snuggled up against the sweater you just tried to assault.
Your token protest must have finally gotten the attention of the circling birds, because both magpies abandon their play with Mephisto and divebomb toward you and Mr. Qin.
The threat evokes the reaction that such things always do: instead of cowering against the shelter of Mr. Qin's broad body, you jump, swiping at one of the magpies with a claw-tipped paw.
It playfully swoops out of your reach just before contact, while the other takes advantage of your fall back to the counter, flying behind Mr. Qin and… trying to pluck one of his soft silver locks waving gently over his shirt collar with his wicked beak?!
Although Mr. Qin takes the assault in stride and elegantly ducks, causing the magpie to chitter gleefully and flit away again, you will not stand for this!
As the heinous bird swoops back in again for another go at Mr. Qin's precious hair, you leap onto his shoulder and with a vicious swipe knock the magpie away, triumphantly confirming that not a single silver hair was snatched in its vicious beak.
Slinking around Mr. Qin's shoulders, you drape yourself over the back of his neck to shield him from further insults to his person, growling menacingly as the magpies swoop and dive around you, squawking all the while.
Mephisto adds to the ruckus, cawing loudly, zooming back and forth at the periphery of your battle with the magpies in between dropping the ruby, catching it, and flapping up again with the glittering stone in his beak.
The magpies seem completely unfazed, chittering in amusement as they circle and divebomb, always just out of the reach of your razor swipes. A rumble shakes your body pleasantly—Mr. Qin is laughing.
"That's enough roughhousing for today. You're going to give Kitten here a stroke and we just got her." He waves the birds away. "Go get changed. I want an update within ten minutes."
Shockingly, they swoop back into the air in utter obedience, careening across the room and perching on matching atrocities behind a big black leather couch. You had first thought they were some kind of modern sculpture, but apparently the thrusting sculptures resembling ineffective coatracks are actually perches, similar to the cursed crow's perch in Mr. Qin's bedroom.
"I'm used to it, Kitten," Mr. Qin reassures you, reaching back to stroke tenderly along your back, smoothing the fur raised there. "They know exactly how far they can go before incurring my wrath. No need to protect me from my own men."
You purr under his touch, rubbing your face against his throat.
Tail flicking, you wish you could tell him, Men? What men. This is exactly why you need me around, and why you are not allowed to trim my claws. It's the open emergency exit all over again. Having your fur pulled hurts. I know from experience. Even in jest, they should pay you the respect you deserve. Wild animals like those birds can turn on you in an instant. As such an animal myself, I know this all too well. My captor insulted you and incurred your wrath, but from now on I will be your wrath for anyone who dares insult you.
But you can't tell him. Not in this form. And you can't remember any other form. Not really. When you think too hard about it—
that wretched mewling that has been haunting you since you invaded Mr. Qin's territory rings in your ears.
"Kitten—" the amusement leeches from his voice, and your whole body tenses. Has he found the source of that awful, pitiful sound? Is it another intruder, just like you?
You don't care how pathetic such a stray is, Mr. Qin belongs to you now. It's bad enough that you have to share him with several feathered abominations. There's no room for anyone else!
"Boss, the shipment's waiting for your inspection in the armory," a familiar voice pulls your attention to the couch where the magpies were previously perched.
A tall handsome man, nude, whose wiry muscled body is conveniently blocked from the waist down by said couch, grins at you and Mr. Qin.
"And the vermin are exterminated!" Crows another man, a mirror of the first, except one half of his face, neck, and lithe torso are ravaged by wicked scarring. He too is naked, and the scars that twist his grin somehow make him more, instead of less handsome. Like shattered fine china repaired with molten gold.
The men who killed all the assholes who knew you and Caleb were kept in abysmal conditions as cats, let alone as human beings, are the chaotic magpies.
They're hybrid shifters, just like you. You stare at them with huge eyes.
They don't have collars on of any kind. Their scent is gleeful, relaxed, eager. One of them has a buzzing, electric scent where the other smells more calm, mellow, but their scents mingle, morph—as if the electric energy of the one bolsters the other, and the serenity of the other tempers and soothes the first.
Something inside of you aches, recognizing the synergy of siblings who really care for each other.
You force your thoughts away from the ache, focusing instead on the bolstered certainty that Mr. Qin, despite doing business with men like your captor, is absolutely nothing like him. The easy admiration that his men, bird-human hybrids just like you are a cat-human hybrid, is all the testament you need, if you still had any lingering doubts.
No wonder Mr. Qin didn't concern himself with them taking their little game of trying to ruffle his feathers too far. They aren't just semi-tamed birds. And they genuinely love him.
"What part of 'go change' did you two misunderstand?" Mr. Qin rubs his forehead, as if infinitely tired. But his scent remains… amused. Contented. He's not actually annoyed with them, but there is a thread of something… bitter. Just a little, as he glances between your intense stare and the naked men who are clearly twins.
"What was there to misunderstand?" the unscarred one grins. "We went…"
"To the other side of the living room," continues the other, mirrored grin widening.
"And we changed into our human form!" finished the first.
"You knew perfectly well I meant go to your rooms and change not only form, but into clothes." Mr. Qin says calmly. "Begone, and take Mephisto with you."
Mephisto ruffles his feathers from his perch in indignation, but before you can puff up and threaten him into obedience, your vision is blocked by one of Mr. Qin's gigantic hands just as the twins are about to walk past the censoring couch—and before you can see anything really interesting.
You twist a little, gently nipping at Mr. Qin's fingers, but by the time he removes his hand, it's just the two of you in the room.
Well, being alone with Mr. Qin is even better than mirrored muscular-man butt. And they did take the cursed robot bird with them.
As Mr. Qin scoops you back onto your customary perch on his forearm, the bitter, possessive scent fades.
The rest of the night is spent in his armory, a yawning, warehouse-like space spanning an entire floor below the penthouse. He sets you down amidst the large packing crates with some of the cat toys he had bought for you earlier.
Snubbing them, you amuse yourself while Mr. Qin inspects the crates' contents with a joyful, almost aroused scent, by jumping from crate to crate, jostling the heavy weaponry packed into incredibly fun packing foam that you shred to your heart's content. It's like being at an indoor playground with ball pits and foam pits to jump into, with tubes to wriggle through, jungle gyms to crawl all over—the kind you used to sneak into when you and Caleb were children, always through the back exit, propped open by haggard employees on their smoke break. The thought causes that horrible mewling again, but it quickly fades after Mr. Qin pauses in his examination of a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher with an embedded glowing protocore, dropping it carelessly back into the crate and rushing over to you.
He rocks your tiny body in his arms, your head tucked under his chin. His scent is thick and comforting around you, electric, sparking with rage underneath the soothing familiarity of his calm self-possession.
You have no idea where that awful, mournful, humiliating sound is coming from, but you don't snub the reaction it elicits from your savior. You would never admit it, but you don't dislike it at all. You don't understand why he's doing this for you. But you will forgive him anything, after he saved you. You will kill anyone to protect him, after his consistent care and attention to your needs, you who are just a wretched stray. And you'll let him do anything to you now, simply because you know he'll never want to do anything to you that hurts, after seeing how much his men adore him, and the way he uses those big, calloused hands capable of killing with a snap of his fingers to soothe you when that horrible mewling distresses you so. If it makes him feel better to snuggle you with such fierce tenderness, you'll allow it.
For now.
okay so i had a few people ask to be tagged: @mia-menaceinaction @valiantchaosvalkyrie @harmlesscouch @yokoyokai thank you for your interest!
thank you so much for reading and for all the love and support on the previous part of this story! spoiler alert: kitten!mc/reader is going to unintentionally wake up as human!mc/reader in the next part, after some more kitten hijinks, and I'm also hoping to finish it in the next part with roughly the same amount of words. i'm trying to post smaller chunks instead of marathoning the fic, so here we are. i only proof-read it once, please don't stone me for errors. i'd love to hear your thoughts and ideas on this one too in comments or in tags!
I saw this delightful post about cat!hybrid mc and then the next day i saw this painting called the intruder and my brain made this story. i'm planning on a part 2 (hopefully this week if work cooperates??) but i was too tired today to finish the whole thing.
edit: i'm so tired i forgot the summary.
Summary: You're a cat!hybrid living in captivity and sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways. you decide to sneakily follow your savior home without asking for permission.
sylus x cat!hybrid reader/f!mc (she can shapeshift between full cat and hybrid cat forms). 4,701 words. Content: forced captivity, references to physical abuse, caleb's dead and haunts the narrative (a little, as a treat, i'm sorry caleb) murder (sylus is the murderer, bless him) the description always makes it sound worse than it is, i am trying to write a fluffy fun silly story, sylus is a fake nonchalant, mephisto is a snitch. The next part will be pure fluff and silliness.
The night is chilly, but you don't feel it. Your fur is thick, its downy softness insulating against the early spring night. Not that the seasons are that noticeable in the N109 Zone, where nothing grows, where perpetual gloom reigns. It's no place for a wild animal whose heart longs for the scent of green, growing things, for the safety of thick foliage, cover to hide in from the worst predators in existence: human men.
No, you don't feel a thing, here in this concrete jungle where the safest place you can be is locked behind the bars of your cage.
You don't get locked in your cage nearly enough, as far as you're concerned.
At least in your cage, you go unnoticed and untouched. It's harder to hurt you in there. You can shrink yourself, huddled against the back corner, just out of reach.
It's a small act of rebellion, forcing him to reach for the cattle prod in order to get to you. You take what you can get.
But tonight, you carefully feel nothing at all, inside on a chilly spring night, curled in the lap of the man you hate the most. The room is dim, dark-wood paneled. Heavy leather furniture and sound-proofed walls, the faded reek of cigar hanging heavy in the air and making it hard to breathe through your sensitive nose. A gentleman's club VIP room, not cozy or small, not expansive. Big enough to fit an insecure man good at feigning confidence, his overinflated ego, and enough lackeys to make him feel safe.
Tonight, his hands are deceptively tender as he runs his palm along your back, over and over. As he curls your tail around his finger, pulling gently, just shy of pain. A nervous tick, a self-soothing tell. The only one he gives, with his perfected poker face and preternatural stillness during high-stakes negotiations. Your soft fur, your forced compliance, in his lap every time he must make a deal—as your heart races, his calms.
One of the many reasons he keeps you.
Curled in his lap, you keep your eyes on the man sitting across from you and your owner.
Long legs crossed elegantly, huge body leaning back against the brown leather couch, arms spread wide against the backrest—he's the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. And unlike your owner, he's not faking a thing. You can smell it. His genuine ease in the face of the men looming behind your owner, hands folded at their backs at false parade rest. False, as they keep their firearms tucked into their back waistbands and you know from experience that each one already has the pistol grip already fisted, ready to draw and fire.
The man smells… good. Like an oncoming storm. Exciting, powerful.
He smells like the safety of a burrow to shelter in once the storm hits.
You flare your nostrils delicately, trying to subtly inhale as much of him as you can.
You flick your ears. It's strange—he smells like ease, but his heart gallops as fast as yours. As if it naturally beats faster than a normal person's.
You suppress a shudder as his ruby eyes flick to yours, as if he can read your thoughts, your confusion, your fascination.
He's not a normal person.
His eyes not leaving yours, he lifts a thick, silver eyebrow. "Five mil was not the deal."
His voice, deep and bored, ripples down your spine. Its calm, dark notes eclipse the hand on your back, makes the hand bearable.
Your owner's hand presses a little harder as it sweeps along your spine, even as his voice remains calm. "It can't be helped. The Association has been sniffing around, exponentially increasing our logistics costs. It's a miracle that this shipment arrived on time, as promised. It's already a deal for you, considering the rarity of some of the items."
"I'm not interested in your shipping troubles." The man finally flicks his gaze back to your owner, but instead of being a relief, it feels like a loss. "Your failure to adequately plan for predictable complications is none of my business."
"If I accept anything less than five million, I will go under and you will lose your only reliable shipper through the strait. That is your business. Paying a fair price is part of any good business relationship." Your owner still sounds calm, as self-possessed as ever, but the building frustration wafts off of him in nauseating waves.
"You might be the last person I'd take relationship advice from," the red-eyed man drawls, shifting his gaze to you again before losing all interest in the conversation. He begins to examine his nails.
Your owner's frustration morphs into rage, with a curious thread of terror. You've never seen him so shaken before. It's like the more bored the other man gets, the more upset your owner gets. Clearing his throat, tightening his grip on your back, he struggles to maintain his serene facade. "No need for personal attacks."
The man snorts, the nostrils of his long, magnificent nose flaring in resigned amusement. "I find your reneging on our deal to be a personal attack. Two million, or I walk."
"We're both reasonable men," your owner coaxes. "I know for a fact that five million is a drop in the bucket for you while it is everything to me. It's a small premium to ensure our continued mutually beneficial relationship. We both walk away satisfied." His voice, and his hand on you, hardens. "If you walk, I go under. Do not mistake my patience with your diva behavior up to this point as weakness—I will only tolerate it up to a point."
The man on the white couch, his sterling hair shining like polished silver under the soft lighting of the cigar lounge, goes very still before rolling his head leisurely, gaze drifting from your owner's face to yours. "The irony of being called a diva by a man stroking a cat like a B-movie film villain would be funny if it weren't so boring."
Your owner's hand stops. You tense. You know from experience that things are about to get ugly.
"This is your last chance, Mr. Qin. Look around. No matter how powerful of a man you are, you still chose to walk in here, unarmed and alone, while I have my the best members of my security force at my back. The deal is on: five million, last chance."
You stare at the man… Mr. Qin. He remains still, utterly at ease, a slight, disdainful smile lifting one corner of his full mouth. His scent remains the same—electric. It just… intensifies. The lights flicker, faintly. You don't want him to die. But you've seen this scene so many times before.
They always die.
It has been a long, long time since you tried to defy your owner. Nothing seemed to matter, after he killed your littermate. Your only family. Your last link to humanity. He had threatened to do it, and you called his bluff, thinking that your brother was too valuable, just like you, to simply dispose of.
You paid dearly for that gamble. In fact, it cost you everything. You and Caleb were caught by his lackeys, weakened from malnutrition and the evol-suppressing collars. That night, your owner dragged Caleb out of your cage by the tail and you never saw him again.
But something about the man on the white couch, with his lava-molten eyes, regal nose, and machine-gun heartbeat. You feel concerned about another person for the first time in years. Inexplicably—or maybe as simple as instinct—the idea of him being hurt fills you with the same terror that used to overcome you when your owner would punish Caleb for your defiance.
Mr. Qin grunts, derisive, and your racing heart sinks. "Two million, you throw in the cat as compensation for wasting my time, and then you've got a deal." Waiting a beat, he lets the provocation sink in. Then, mockingly, he echoes, "Last chance."
As always, a sense of desolate helplessness fills you. But for the first time in years, you can't just sit back and do nothing. You know what it will cost you. But maybe you can buy this strange, magnetic man enough time to do… something. Even if it's hopeless, maybe the grief will be bearable this time, because at least you tried to stop it, instead of running headfirst into it.
Keeping your eyes open, you deliberately dig your claws into your owner's thigh, as deep as you can, and then drag them through his flesh.
He screams, not used to being the one receiving pain. Reflexively gripping you by the scruff of your neck, he flings your small body off of his lap.
The lights go out.
Gunfire explodes, so many fireworks deafening and blinding you, forcing you to lay your ears flat on on your head, to blink in pain.
You land on your feet, as you always do, but something dark and sparking, something slithering, electric—something inexorable drags you to the couch at Mr. Qin's feet and keeps you pinned to the ground behind his legs. A swishing, wooshing roar competes with the gunfire, muffling the painful blasts in your delicate eardrums.
Sheltered in the swirling embrace of the inky force keeping you pinned, you feel safer than you have in years.
You lift your head, gazing up between Mr. Qin's long legs, no longer crossed but spread leisurely, as if the occasion no longer requires the decorum of his previous posture.
The gunfire illuminates him, strobelights revealing how calmly he remains seated. As he lifts one hand, palm facing forward. As bullets plink to the ground before they reach him, a curtain of leaded rain. Blinding light, pitch black, blinding light, as he lifts his other hand, snapping his long fingers.
You swing your head just in time to see your owner explode in a fine mist of blood, flesh, and ash.
The lights flicker back on, just in time for you to see the guns in the hands of the men behind him disassemble themselves and float in the air, nothing more now than gun schematics rendered in 3d.
"This is the power of Onychinus," a mischievous, mocking voice rings from over Mr. Qin's right shoulder. You look back and up again. A masked man whom you didn't sense at all drapes himself over the back of the couch.
"Surrender and maybe you'll survive tonight," a matching voice, over Mr. Qin's left shoulder, drawls. The owner of the voice wears an identical mask, its beak wickedly curved as if to personify the dark glee in its owner's proclamation. "Keep resisting…"
"And join your boss," his twin finishes.
Each and every former employee of your owner lifts his hands into the air.
Mr. Qin gazes down at you, still crouched between his legs even though the force that was pinning you, now clearly visible in all of its scarlet and ink glory, slowly dissipates. "No. No mercy," he murmurs thoughtfully.
"Boss?" The man on his right sounds surprised.
Mr. Qin leans down and runs one long, elegant finger along the evol-suppressing shock collar around your neck. "They knew, and they did nothing."
"Yes, boss," the other man says, a grin clear in his voice.
Mr. Qin, with a tenderness that surprises you, calls forth that swirling mist again. As its electric current caresses your fur, causing it to stand on end, the weight of your shock collar fades into nothing.
Your neck is naked for the first time in years.
You can't tear your eyes from him, even though you're free, for the first time in years.
He stares down at you and his eyes glow like the sun through a glass of red wine. "Go on, kitten," he coaxes gently.
Ignoring his gentle order, you sit back on your haunches, waiting to see what he'll do.
"Suit yourself," he shrugs and then rises gracefully to his feet. "Exterminate the vermin, secure the goods, and report back to the base when it's done."
"Yes, boss," the two men chirp in unison.
Mr. Qin hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark tailored suit and saunters out of the room without looking back.
The twins duck, mirrored images as they lean behind the couch and each retrieve a bazooka.
You turn, tail high in the air, and scurry after the man who just left, not waiting to see the mirrored men heft the weapons onto their shoulders, nor hear the explosions and screams of agony that follow.
His scent is so strong. It hangs in the air, long after he's revved his motorcycle and disappeared into the night in a roar of growling engine and motor oil.
You follow it easily, winding your way agilely through the dark city, across its rain-slicked payment, through its neon-soaked streets. You stick to the sides of buildings, to shortcuts through alleyways, your nose guiding you unfailingly through the garbage and perfume, exhaust from vehicles, cigarette and weed smoke, concrete and despair.
It's been years, since you've been free. Your heart beats wildly with the exhilaration of it. With the grief of it.
Your littermate deserved this too.
Finally, you find the scent's destination. A towering skyscraper in the heart of the N109 Zone. Sleek, windows an impenetrable black as they soar into the sky and come to a vicious peak, hardly visible through the fog from where you are on the ground. You follow the delicious smell to an underground garage, slip underneath the boom gate, slink between the fleet of expensive vehicles, a mix of high octane modern sports models and antique muscle cars. You lose count of how many motorcycles there are. Finally, you find an elevator next to an emergency exit leading to the stairwell.
In this form, you can't reach the elevator button. Shockingly, however, the emergency exit door is ajar. Propped open with a… can of tuna?
You stare at it.
It smells really good.
Tuna in olive oil, not water. Nice and fatty.
Why would the leader of a notorious criminal organization have such lax security?
It's almost like…
You twitch your whiskers.
As far as Mr. Qin knows, you're just a normal cat. Your owner guarded the truth of your and Caleb's natures as his most valuable trade secret. He was paranoid about theft. Although you had rendered yourself functionally useless to him by refusing to shift between hybrid and cat form following Caleb's death, he kept you out of twisted spite. A good luck charm to viciously pet, to smugly parade under rivals' noses who had no idea what you really were.
The power of your evol. The strength of your hybrid form and its utility in a fight. Your value to medical science, military science. The exotic, twisted fetishes your true nature could indulge, if rented out at the right price.
No, no one outside of your owner's inner circle knows what you really are. There's no way this can of tuna is for you.
Maybe Mr. Qin just likes cats, and feeds strays. Or has one of his own. He did ask for you as part of the deal. Maybe he was looking to get another pet.
That's it. He's just a cat person.
A cat person who killed the motherfucker who destroyed your life. A cat person whom you instinctively feel safe with, now that you're free, reeling, without your brother and without a cage.
Since you're in your full cat form, you don't overthink it too much. Instinct drives you forward, and you don't question it further.
You pad across the narrow threshold, ensuring that you're inside the stairwell before turning again and shoving your face into the can of tuna. You devour it, not caring that the grease now covers your mouth and nose, drips from your whiskers. You'll clean it in a minute.
But first, you bat the empty tuna can out from between the door and the doorframe into the parking garage. Only after hearing the click and then beep of the electronic lock do you turn and hop your way up the seemingly endless stairwell.
Someone's got to make sure that the security of this place is tight if the owner himself can't be bothered, no matter how strong he seems to be.
Up, up, up you go. When you get tired, you pause for a moment, licking your mouth and whiskers, running your forepaws gently over them for good measure. No need to look sloppy, even if you don't intend for him to find out that you're here anytime soon.
You continue, following his scent trail as it once again grows thicker and thicker. You're dizzy with it.
Finally, you come to the top of the stairwell and can go no further. There is simply a black door, sleek and shiny. You see your reflection in it.
Huge golden eyes. Glossy black fur. Tufts of fur at the tips of your big, swiveling ears. Your body fur is thick and short, but your tail is fluffy, a silky bottle brush sweeping behind you, betraying your excitement.
This door, too, is slightly ajar, this time propped open by a gigantic black leather biker boot. The chains around the heel are shiny. You bat at them and enjoy the satisfying clink of the links.
Ahem. You will not let yourself get distracted. What is wrong with this man??! Anyone could walk in!
You repress the deep wish that your owner had been so lax with security, less paranoid, more secure. Maybe your life would have looked very different. You appreciate that Mr. Qin killed him, but you do slightly resent the fact that he was exploded so thoroughly that there was no body for you to mutilate afterward. You'd piss on his corpse if one had been left behind.
No. Not your owner. He was never your owner.
The fucker who kept you captive for years and tried to break you. He very nearly did, taking Caleb from you.
You step delicately over the big boot, pausing only for a moment to inhale its delicious aroma. Mr. Qin's feet apparently smell as good as the rest of him.
You follow the long, wide, dark corridor. Black marble flooring with gold veining. Ornate wainscotting along the dark gray walls. Your footsteps are silent, but if you were in your human form wearing shoes, your feet would echo. Flicking your ears back and forth, you follow his intensifying scent as faint music joins the trail to where he must be.
Something soft, classical. Violins. The smell of food joins the intoxicating smell of this place's inhabitant. Cooking meat.
Finally, finally—you peek around the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim hallway to the slightly brighter open plan kitchen that spreads out before you, a dining and living area stretching beyond until the soaring floor to ceiling windows spill over the cityscape below. The pleasant scent of burning firewood in a huge open hearth fireplace competes with the smell of Mr. Qin and the steak he's apparently grilling on his fancy ass stove.
He doesn't seem to notice you. He's grilling in the same suit that he negotiated in, without an apron or anything, just the suit jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined, powerful forearms. Like he's begging for stains, just like he's begging for an intruder like you in his house by leaving all the doors wide open. His forearms flex as he lifts the pan. The violins sing into the quiet room, blending with the hiss of the cooking meat, the crackling of the fireplace.
You take advantage of his focus on his task and slink around the edges of the room, sniffing as you go, noting the heavy, antique furniture, the atrocious modern art on the walls, the subtlety of the lighting in sharp-edged sconces along the walls and ornate floorlamps providing light from below. The music is coming from a record playing on an ancient-looking gramaphone. A sharp, metallic scent draws your attention to guns scattered across the hulking, ornately carved dining table, to bullets carelessly spread across the marble-topped coffee table between the sleek, black leather couches and lounge chairs of the sitting area.
There is a chaise lounge next to the windows at the far end of the room, as if the owner often reclines on it and looks down on the city below. You slip silently across the thick, ornate rugs softening the marble floors and slink underneath the chaise lounge. From this angle, you don't think you can be seen, but you have a clear view of most of the room, the fireplace, the man standing behind the kitchen island facing you, his sharp features flickering between light and shadow in the firelight.
You curl up in a little ball and watch him.
He hums along to the music as he cooks, causing your ears to flick back and forth. The vibration in his throat is more pleasant than the humming, but both manage to lull you to sleep.
When you wake up, you're still under the chaise lounge, but the gramophone is quiet, the lights are dimmed to their lowest settings, and Mr. Qin is gone. It must be sometime in the morning, although in the N109 Zone there's not too much of a difference between night and day. But the monotonous gray is paler than at night, and the gaudy, black and golden grandfather clock indicates that it's 11:00 in the morning.
You slip out from underneath the chair, sticking your tail in the air and stretching your spine as far as you can. It feels good to wiggle your toes, to let your claws come out. You then pad out of the room and follow that delicious scent that makes you drunk and lured you here to begin with.
Mr. Qin apparently sleeps with his door wide open, again as if he doesn't have a care in the world. His bedroom is huge, just like he is, just like the rest of his 'base' is, if this is the base to which he was referring when speaking to the masked men. It's lined with bookcases, more heavy leather furniture, sweeping windows now covered by blackout curtains. You stop, sniffing the books. Old paper. Old ink. A little bit of dust. The memory of his scent, from his hands on the pages as he held them. He's read them. The books in here are not for show, like the sterile, color coordinated library of your former captor. Maybe while he's gone you can finagle them off the shelves and do some reading. It's been a long, long time since you were allowed to read.
If you had lost your sense of smell during the gun battle last night, you would still know exactly where Mr. Qin is from the heavy snoring coming from the humongous, four poster, curtained bed at the far end of the room. He sounds like a chainsaw. You pad closer, closer, flattening your ears against the racket, and then jump lightly onto the end of the bed.
He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow. His broad, naked back expands, falls, expands with his relaxed breathing. You sit back on your haunches, flicking your tail thoughtfully.
He's beautiful. Like a sculpture. You would drag your littermate to art museums, back when you were free. Classical exhibitions were your favorite, with sweeping, carved marble sculptures depicting mythological stories. Where stone rippled like fabric under the artist's chisel. Where fingertips pressed into dimpled flesh, belying the cold marble.
This man, even at rest, looks like a god carved in stone.
A benevolent god, a brutal god. A god who, unbidden, saved you after you had stopped trying to save yourself. If you were in human form, you'd touch your throat with your hands, where your collar used to be. Instead, you just marvel at the lightness around your neck. The way your skin can breathe through your fur for the first time in years.
You're glad you're in cat form, and can't cry. If you started, you're not sure you'd ever stop. Over all the things you've lost. All the things that have been taken from you.
Intending to sniff at his feet through the sheets as a treat before slinking back into the dark, you rise to your paws and take a step forward—
when the most atrocious, unnatural-sounding screech splits the silence of Mr. Qin's bedroom.
"Caw! Caw! CAW CAW CAW!"
Sylus is dreaming. A lovely dream involving soft hands, a soft mouth, a sharp tongue, warmth and quiet, smug laughter. No images—just impressions, smears of what felft like memory, the scent of flowers, of wine, of peace dripping with warm blood.
And then he is jerking upright up, gun heavy in hand, Mephisto's alarmed cries splitting his eardrums.
"What? What? I'm wake, what?" he slurs, disoriented in the darkness of his bedroom, in being jerked painfully from a pleasant dream.
"CAW! CAW! CAW!"
Mephisto sits on his perch next to his bed, flapping his wings in indignant agitation, screeching his mechanical head off, ruby eye glowing menacingly in the dim room.
Oh. Kitten.
Sylus turns, sweeping his gaze across his bed, finding the vicious, threatening, feline intruder whom Mephisto is snitching on. Sylus, still holding the grip of the pistol, rubs his eye with his fist. He was so annoyed about the tanked deal, the lack of sleep he's been suffering from recently, the shock collar on—
In all the fuss, he forgot to program Mephisto to register that bastard's 'cat' as a non-threat before he passed out this morning.
The black cat's back is arched, her tail puffed up like a feather duster, and she's meeting each of Mephisto's screeches with a deep, menacing hiss and growl of her own, completely unintimidated by the big bird's aggressive flapping and snapping beak.
Sylus lowers his gun, tucking it back under his pillow, before leaning against the bed's headboard and watching the show in exhausted amusement.
The more Mephisto screeches, the more defiant the cat becomes. She boldly takes steps forward, moving closer to Sylus's feet, until Mephisto has lifted himself from the perch angrily and is about to shoot her with his eye lasers as he flaps in the air.
"Mephisto, stand down," Sylus orders, trying hard to suppress his laugh. Mephisto is sensitive to perceived mockery.
Squawking in protest, Mephisto reluctantly obeys, his eye powering down as he settles back on the perch. His feathers, however, remain puffed so that he looks twice his actual size.
Sylus contemplates the cat. As if to gloat about her triumph, she marches up to Sylus's foot underneath the silk sheets and plants her butt on his ankle, staring at Mephisto the whole time. It can't be comfortable for her, but she refuses to move, almost as if on principle.
"No need to rub it in, kitten," he murmurs, for Mephisto's sake. She looks at him with her bright, golden eyes and blinks once, slowly. "You're the intruder here, technically," he reminds her. She just swishes her tail, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say, And what will you do about it?
He can't help his smile. If he wanted to do anything about it, he wouldn't have left the doors open for her to begin with. Now, he simply intends to sit back and enjoy seeing what she will do. But he has a care for his bird's feelings, too. He was here first this time, after all.
She doesn't disappoint. She flicks those beautiful, amber eyes back to Mephisto and then marches up the line of Sylus's leg, stopping next to where his hip and ass meet the headboard. She turns in a circle, once, twice, three times before giving one last derisive glare at Mephisto and curling up in a tight little ball snuggled next to Sylus's ass.
Not for the first time, he regrets not killing her 'owner' much, much sooner, and much, much more slowly.
Hello I hope you enjoyed it! I want to write a similar length, maybe slightly longer for part two, but i'm so tired of starting stories and getting interrupted and never sharing them for fear of never being able to return and finish so I just decided to post part 1 already! @restinpurples left some really great questions about this fic idea in a reblog of the delightful cat!hybrid post and i'm hoping to answer a few of them in the fic by the time the second part is finished. hopefully. I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts in comments or tags if you feel like sharing!
Starting a little drabble game to get into the habit of writing more and stressing less about engagement! Restricting myself to 250 words per drabble-- got a random word generator (and made a random generator for the LIs) so should get a good mix! :D
You drag a finger down the frosted glass of the claw machine, gazing longingly at the sheep plush trapped on the other side. The whole machine looks like a morbid snow globe. Half the plushies are buried in snow, or impaled on spikes of ice— a warning to the one you want, who smirks at you from a corner the claw couldn’t quite reach.
Stupid little sheep. So cute. So round. So stubborn.
Zayne is arguing with the arcade owner. No, not arguing; he wouldn’t like you calling it that. He’s calmly and collectedly making his case: insisting, yes, he will pay for the damages, and yes, yes, he’s very sorry, of course. Evols play up sometimes. Spontaneously? Yes, that’s right. He’s a doctor, you see, so he knows about these things.
The owner’s having none of it. He’s never seen something like this before, he’s saying. He’s even throwing around words like ‘unprecedented’, and— ooh… ‘uncivilised’.
Zayne? Your Zayne? Uncivilised?
You can tell the doctor is losing his patience. His jaw is tightening up, and the ice on the claw machine is inching higher again. When he comes back over to you, he’s got his game face on. Wanderer-slaying. Patient-saving.
Sheep-herding, you hope. “Got any other ideas?” you ask, palm resting on the chilled glass.
Zayne gives a curt, almost military nod. “Six,” he states evenly.
“Civilised?”
The sheep is still smirking at you, and the corner of Zayne’s lips lift a fraction. “No.”
“a’mama?” lucian murmurs, peeking his head into the dark bedroom. you see the glow of his eyes, moonlight bouncing off his pretty red jewels just right to make them shine.
you don’t respond, in fear of scaring him. he doesn’t need to see his mother this way— sniffling and hiding like a wounded animal. what a terrifying sight for such a little cub.
“mama?” his whispers get a little louder. you shift in your blankets and quiet your sobs. “mama, is me, woosi.”
your lungs can only hold so much air after the trauma its endured. bad days at work don’t only involve irritation and disagreement, but harsh beatings from other worldly beings too. wanderers getting one too many hits in, sluggish responses to too quick offenses lead to more painful clock outs.
today was not a good day. days like this weren’t uncommon, but it still twists your heart knowing you could have done better. could have been stronger or faster or smarter. days like this just always sent you into a spiral of not doing enough. of not being enough.
and lucian did not need to see this.
but lucian says, “mama.” louder now. just by the edge or the bed. “hello?”
“lucian.” you finally respond, voice raspy and raw. “go to papa.”
he frowns and weighs a thought. “don’want papa. want you, mama.”
“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.”
the world shifts. tilts back from its skewed axis into its rightful place. all thanks to a child, so strong to have lifted the weight of it, to remind you that you will always be enough.
Was there a lifetime waiting for us in a world where I was yours?
"Was there a lifetime waiting for us
In a world where I was yours?
Was it the wrong time? What if we tried
Giving in a little more? Oh
I'd spend a lifetime waiting in vain
Just to go back to the way we were before
Was it the wrong time? What if we tried
Giving in a little more
To the warmth we had before?
Is there a lifetime waiting for us?
All this time, I have been yours"
Caleb disappeared for a year, surviving on the hope of finally coming home to confess his love for MC. But he returned to a reality where he was simply too late.
While he was gone, Zayne, who had harbored his own quiet devotion for years, was the one who held MC together through the grief. The unsaid feelings Caleb and MC had protected for so long had vanished into the space of his absence.
Now, as the only family MC has left, it’s Caleb’s hand guiding her down the aisle. He watches her smile at Zayne, his heart breaking in two distinct ways: utterly devastated to have lost her, but fiercely happy to see her safe, loved, and whole again.
