[sweetevoltrap]

- She/They. Queer.

- Might occasionally post things that are NSFW/Dark, no minors please. 18+ I support ruthlessly curating your online experience. 💓

Note:

- Sylus Main tbh, except I can't shut up about Caleb.

- alas, I also love the fish wife

- follows from main @ prismbearer, this is a side blog.

[thechaoticarchivist]

hi kaits! hope ure well <3

made up fic title: blue shoes & other hues :>

Pairing: Sylus X Fiancé(gn)!Reader

Summary: As you and Sylus Skye attend your best friend's wedding, you can't help but discuss what your future one might look like as well. (Sappy and fluffy in all the best ways.)

Word Count: 1,752

A/N: Thank you, Urs, for your patience as my brain worked toward creating a story that matched your fun title from months ago! Thank you for those of you that helped me fly through this today by sending in the asks! As we have an upcoming summer wedding in my family, seeing your ask again something just clicked. I do hope you enjoy!

There was something about summer weddings that always made your heart sing.

The way the large tent was pitched over a hasty fastened wooden floor that amplified everyone steps. How the tent walls were pulled up to allow the warm breeze to sweep through and cool the dancing bodies.

The fairy lights that decorated everything with a slightly orange glow added to the magic that seeped into the atmosphere.

You watched from a chair, taking a moment to catch your breath from dancing, as your childhood best friend and his now bride, surrounded by their selected parties, moved in the middle of the floor in some clearly practiced choreography.

Each time they spun, skirts lifted to reveal the whole wedding party was wearing blue shoes - ones that matched the accent colors that perfectly complemented the gold and sage decorations placed around the lit area.

"You're going to have to explain one thing I don't quite understand," your date said as he returned to your side, passing you a chilled glass of the pink lemonade. "The blue shoes."

With a hum, you took a sip of the drink, thankful for the sweet, cold taste that slid down your throat. Then you leaned closer so that he could hear you over the music. "It's an old wives' tale," you started, "about what a bride needs to have on her wedding day to lead to a successful marriage."

"Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, a sixpence in your shoe. Depending who you asked, it's five separate things, or things that can overlap. They thought it would be fun to have the whole wedding party in on it, so everyone got those baby blue shoes."

His deep chuckle warmed your insides, as he reached behind you to stretch an arm across the back of your chair. "Seems like a silly thing."

You shrugged. "It's fun, and bringing in a bit of luck to the start of something new never hurt anyone. Besides," you said with a nod toward the happy couple. "I know that a couple of those things they got to specifically represent people who are no longer with them. And I think that is the real reason it's continued this long."

He hummed in acknowledgement again, fingers slowly tracing circles on your shoulder.

"Do you…already have things in mind for what you might want?"

Rolling your eyes, you met his crimson ones, bright as poppies and full of light, and said, "You're fishing again."

"Can you blame me?"

"Sy-Skye, we both know that if I told you I wanted a grand wedding, you would pay people to fill the seats to make it rival conventions."

With a scoff, he looked away, but a playful smirk remained on his lips. "You insult me. Just a whisper of the event to the right person, and I would have the totality of the N109 Zone begging for an invitation. I wouldn't need to stoop so low as to pay people…"

Bumping him with your shoulder, you both laughed, knowing the statement to be true.

"Then, tell me sweetie, what is your dream wedding? One such as this on a cool summer night, or something more…traditional?"

"My dream wedding," you started as you reached for his chin and turning it toward you, "is the one in which I marry you. It's that simple."

His blush was immediate - spreading across his nose and cheeks to the tips of his ears. Trying to keep the smirk, but failing as it slipped into a quiet smile, he leaned forward until your foreheads touched. "Well, that is an easy enough request."

You stayed like that for a moment, just enjoying the nearness of your beloved, slipping your left hand into his right, before properly answering his question. "I don't want anything grand - I only want the people that matter. You, me, Luke, Kieran, Mephie -"

"Mephisto?"

"You will not leave our son out of our wedding."

That got a bark of a laugh as the two of you pulled apart, but still close enough your shoulders brushed. "If Caleb can bring Tango to be the ring bearer, then Mephie surely can -"

"Sweetie, Tango is a well trained companion - loyal as they come. If you give Mephisto the rings, he will hide them in his nests. We will never get them back."

You gave his chest a playful slap. "Don't accuse him of things! If we ask him nicely, I know he would be happy to be a part of the wedding."

Sylus let out a chuckle, moving close enough to leave a graze of a kiss on your cheek. "That is a task I will leave to you then."

With a firm nod, you continued. "You cut me off -"

"There's more people to invite?"

"No…not really," you said with a grin, as he fiddled with your fingers, and the ring gleaming from it. "But a wedding is more than people."

"Ah, my apologies. Please, continue."

"As I was saying, it would be small. Just us five, vows, whatever legal thing we have to sign, and then cake."

"Cake?"

"A small one," you said, emphasizing with showing him your thumb and index finger close together. "Celebrations deserve cake."

"Do they?"

"Yes. And then, we pull a magic trick."

"Oh? What would this trick be?"

"We disappear…somewhere. Not here, not Linkon. Somewhere far where we can just be us for a week…or two…however long we want. No Onychinus. No Association. No Ever. Just us."

White fringe shadowed his eyes then, and you could almost swear it was to hide the joy on his face. He lifted your left hand to his lips, kissing the ruby stone set in silver filigree. A quiet promise between you and he, one that most did not recognize for it not falling within the traditional cut and gemstone.

"This wedding is making you sappy. If you're not careful, I'm going to end up proposing to you as soon as we leave."

This time you were the one to laugh - fully, eyes closed and head tilted back.

"My love, you have proposed to me seven times in the last few months. At this point I'm starting to worry you think I'll change my mind."

"No, I promise you, that is not the fear." He gave your ring another kiss, before locking his eyes with yours. "I just very much enjoy hearing you say yes."

Pressure around your eyes warned you of incoming tears. "Now who's being sappy? Ugh - don't make me cry!" You yanked your hand free, pressing the back of your thumbs under your eyes to try and prevent the building storm. "I worked too hard to look this good."

"I apologize, beloved," but it came out light, as if trying to cover a laugh. Finally, when you felt safe enough nothing was going to spill over your lash line, you dropped your hands, tangling them with his one in your lap once more. You let out a small sniff to steady yourself.

"So," you started, watching the dancers because you knew the moment you looked back into those glowing eyes you'd be done for. "Are you going to keep proposing even after we're finally married?"

"No, that would be ridiculous," but then he leaned closer, so the next words danced off the shell of your ear in secret. "But I’ll remarry you every chance I get. Repeat our vows so much that by the time we’re old and our teeth have fallen out, I can hum it against your ear, and you can still hear those words in my voice. That way there will never be any doubt that there is love any purer than mine."

That did it - the final crack in the dam as happy tears slipped down your cheeks. "Oh!" you cried, startled, whacking his stomach and quickly blotting your eyes with the handkerchief he pulled free from his pocket. "Sylus!"

"It's only the truth, my love."

It was then that the music changed from something energetic to something slower, and the DJ invited all the couples to bring that special someone to the dance floor. You recognized it by the just the first three chords - and your heart soared into your throat.

"Tell me you didn't."

"I didn't," your partner said with a smile and a shake of his head. "Honest. It's just…serendipitous."

Eyes narrowed, you watched as he stood, bending slightly in front of you to offer his hand, which you took without question, letting him pull you upwards.

"You don't believe in coincidences."

"No, I don't," he agreed, turning toward you when you stepped into the open area filling with couples of all types and ages, "But I can honestly say that I did not talk to anyone about having this song added to the playlist."

This song being your song. The one that you had danced to at your first auction together. The one you had danced to, again, when you had officially added labels to what you were and properly started dating. The one he would constantly play on the gramophone in his office just to have a reason to hold you close.

"But," he continued, as your hands slid together, and one of his went to your waist, while your other rested near his shoulder, "I will be thankful to whoever did."

Resting your head on his shoulder, the two of you swayed quietly together, lost in the music washing over you. Sylus hummed the lyrics, and you felt the vibrations of his chest in your own.

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you, too, beloved."

Across the floor, stepping behind the main table to switch their shoes into matching converse, the bride and the groom whispered conspiratorially.

"I told you," she hissed at him. "That was the song they were humming the other day when we went book shopping together! I knew it was important."

"Alright, honey - once more, you have proven me wrong. Another win for you," Caleb said with a grin, bending down on one knee to shift his now-wife's skirts and tie her shoes for her.

But his wife's attention was on the other couple, a happy smile drifting across her face. "I just love love."

The brunet finished the second shoe with a double knot, and leaned forward to steal a kiss from the bride. "And I love you. Now - let's get going before anyone notices. I have a jet with our names on it."

©2026 @thechaoticarchivist I do not give permission to repost, modify, translate, or feed my work to AI. Comments and reblogs always welcome. Love and Deepspace Masterlist

[tokamiart]

Just remembered that I did some kitty sketches when the card came out🐦‍⬛🐱

[fatty-thao]

🍎My happiness goes online when you're here 🍏

Caleb 6.13

[littlebommetje]

the intruder

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | ao3

Summary: a continuation of a cat hybrid!mc/reader x sylus story. After Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways, you follow him home without asking for permission. This part is a story about Sylus's POV and his continued invitation to 'join him' now that you've returned to your human form. To be continued in part 5. word count: 5,385.

contains: fluff and banter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was just curiosity, after all.

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

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

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

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

It was one of his favorite paintings too.

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

Mr Qin's—

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

It was worth the wait.

What does that mean?

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

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

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

It was worth the wait.

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

It was worth the wait.

And what did you do?

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

He knew. He knew, and he said nothing.

Why didn't he say anything?

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

It was worth the wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But all that's over now.

You have to hear him say it.

He knew.

And then you have to figure out what he wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now you do pull away.

He hoped?

What was he hoping for?

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

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

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

"To piss."

You tilt your head, utterly confused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caleb's already dead.

You follow him.

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

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

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

Your tail puffs at the thought.

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

But where will you go?

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

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

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

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

"What year is it?"

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

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

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

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

"Ten years."

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

Ten years.

Almost a third of your entire life.

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

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

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

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

"You knew, but you said nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To use me."

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

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

"Not at all."

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

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

"Come join me."

You tilt your head again, confused.

"Join you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thought it was just curiosity at first.

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

But now, seeing the truth of you?

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

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

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

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

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was fate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turns abruptly, disliking the smallness of your voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I have a choice?"

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

"Fine, I get it."

"Do you?" he mocks, laughing.

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

"I guess I need some clothes."

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

You laugh. "I said that."

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

The reality, once again, exceeds his wildest expectations.

"As you wish, sweetheart."

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

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

@midiplier @valiantchaosvalkyrie @harmlesscouch @yokoyokai @theeidare @crimsonmarabou @heavensmyths @spring214 @emily-1259 @sleepinginthenycpubliclibrary @dana-nite @mysterios-hoe @placeofsupercooltopics @pixiu-palindrome @magpie-the-forest-gremlin @mitsukichiis @stxrrielle @lil-cinn

[baobei-bu]

Throne of Eros part 4

[nyanachan]

Gun to head Caleb u will always be famous

[emulynnn]

Full version of the art piece + I drew my mii ✨ Had too much fun with this one

[eclipses0]

caleb kissing us with the necklace in our mouths. he’s so fucking nasty. i’ll never stop thinking about this.

[sylus-beloved-wife]

Sylus recommends movies and books🎬

[littlebommetje]

The intruder | part 1 | part 2 | part 3

Summary: a continuation of a cat hybrid!mc/reader x sylus story. After Sylus kills your owner in a business deal gone sideways, you follow him home without asking for permission. This part is a story about some of the consequences of that decision, and how you unintentionally returned to your human form. To be continued in part 4. 4,268 words.

Content: mass murder, sushi, eyeball licking, fluff and angst, Sylus having the time of his life.

And thus begins your life of fable—the dread dragon, feared by all, rumored to cannibalize his enemies and scorch the territories with flames and salt the fields of anyone who dares oppose him—now always appears in public within his empire with a little black cat on his arm, who lounges in his lap as he negotiates deals in the most exclusive night spots in the N109 zone.

The dread dragon, Mr. Qin, is known to always get what he wants.

But everyone knows black cats bring bad luck.

And so, at first, rivals and begrudging business associates assume he's lost his touch. Maybe gone a little soft, or daft.

So, like sharks circling chum in the water, failing to see the wicked hook in the bloody gloom, they begin to test their luck.

Previously reliable suppliers start 'misplacing' certain parts of shipments. The best parts. Rivals begin to edge in on the dread dragon's turf, causing ruckuses at businesses he is known to own—nightclubs, casinos, and a chain of cat cafes he recently acquired. They intimidate the employees, the nearby residents, offering better 'protection' than what the dragon can offer these days, what with his true colors showing as a frivolous peacock with a weakness for literal pussy.

After all, as quickly as a king can rise, a king can fall, they say.

Mr. Qin takes it all in stride, receiving the increasing reports of insulting chaos encroaching into his domain calmly, only tapping his finger against the kitchen counter as he lounges on a stool, idly watching you eat your weight in perfectly seared wagyu beef on a delicate plate of china.

"You gotta do something, boss-man," one of the magpies, the one with the scar—Kieran, says agitatedly one night. He's almost vibrating with indignation.

"We can take care of it. Just give us the word—we can have charges in every single one of the upstarts' bases within twenty-four hours," the other magpie, Luke, shifts from foot to foot, just as restless as his brother.

They're both clothed, now—all black ensembles, cargo pants with as many belts and buckles and pockets as Mr. Qin seems to have on his 'casual' outfits. Unfortunately, they've have never appeared before you naked since that first night.

"And just one detonator! One click and—" Kieran cries.

"Boom! Like the end of Fight Club!" they crow together, miming entire skyscrapers collapsing one by one, complete with sound effects.

"Only the film version,"Mr. Qin just sniffs disdainfully. "The film was completely unfaithful to the book."

"Not the point, boss! The point is, BOOM!" Luke's eyes are wide, like a little kid who thinks that if he just explains his genius plan to the grown-up slowly and loudly this time, the grown-up will eventually come around to seeing his genius vision.

Leaning forward, Mr. Qin rests both elbows on the counter. "Many bases these fools own are prime real estate. Destroying them would be a waste, when I can simply take over and lease the premises to tenants with a better sense of self-preservation than their current occupants."

The twins' shoulders slump in unison.

"However, I do have some small fish that need frying, so you're welcome to throw grenades into their ponds instead."

Immediately perking up, the magpies are so overjoyed that they'll get to blow anything up in the near future even if it's not as cool as Fight Club that they shift right out of their clothes, winging around the room in a flurry of chittering, dive-bombing Mr. Qin's head, and then zooming out of the kitchen when your back has arched enough to let them know that if they continue, there will be Consequences.

Luke had to lose a few feathers before they both understood that you mean business when it comes to protecting Mr. Qin's glorious hair.

"Did you eat your fill, Kitten?" Mr. Qin asks idly.

You answer with a satisfied purr, slinking over to him and rubbing your cheek and body along his arm and chest leaning over the counter.

Thoughtfully running a hand over your back, he scritches behind your ears. "Good. I hope your appetite is as endless as always, because it's time to kill two birds with one stone, and you're going to help me do it."

More food, and helping Mr. Qin?

A truly fabled life indeed.

Later that night, you find yourself in a familiar setting. To the average patron, it's a small place. So small that the waiting list for a reservation is known to stretch into years, and not just months. Just a few stools along a bar, a few small tables for two along the windows facing a quiet city street. The waiting list is so long because it has always been, essentially, one person operation. The art of sushi has been passed down for generations in the same family, with the parent training their child who then takes over the business and continues the family legacy. All they make is sushi, and they simply make the best sushi in the world. No wonder that the menu prices reflect such exquisite offerings.

However, to those in the know, beyond the tiny dining area, there is a back room. Larger than the dining room out front, but still small as far as rooms that serve its purpose typically are. Back here, there are no chairs.

The room itself, windowless, only narrow enough to contain the long table, still feels light, airy, with its blond wood-paneled walls lined with alcoves containing lovely vases and elegant flower arrangements. The effect is serene, a counterpoint to the blood soaked, high tension decisions that are made within its walls.

At the far end of the room, next to the door leading to the front and the kitchen, a beautifully carved liquor cabinet sits. The respective lackeys accompanying their bosses mix the drinks and serve —warm sake. Whiskey and soju. Bourbon and scotch. Serious drinks for supposedly serious people.

The clientele sit on cushions, shoes off, socked feet whispering across the tatami mat floor when they must move around to obsequiously pour their boss's drinks or discreetly hand them documents for review.

To enter this dining room, weapons must be surrendered at the door to the restaurant's only staff aside from the chef—the sous-chef, in training under her mother, this generation's current chef. This is a neutral location, after all, and all must walk in having surrendered their means of harm to others. That is the sacred rule of this hidden room, inviolate for years stretching back into memory.

Mr. Qin sits at the head of the long, low table. He has said nothing, simply nodding his head as the guests initially filed in and took their seats. He's relaxed as you curl into his lap, cradled between his crossed legs. The picture of indolent insouciance, his serenity sharply contrasts with the acrid stench of nervous fear wafting through the air from most of those seated around the table. All but one person reeks of guilt—not remorse, but the feeling of having done something that, if discovered, will warrant swift, horrifying punishment.

The sous-chef, tall and svelte, enters repeatedly, bringing in each round of sushi, carefully plated, one item at a time, to be savored in its individual glory before the next round is brought.

As the food arrives and empty plates depart, the guests share surface-level pleasantries, innocuous and polite.

All lies. Tigers wearing bow ties.

You don't pay attention to the particularities of meetings like this—they mean nothing to you, provided no one smells of violent hostility towards Mr. Qin. They can hate all they like. They can look all they like. And so long as Mr. Qin smells calm, you don't trouble yourself with his fleeting anger or amusement, with what's actually being said underneath the sheathed words.

As Mr. Qin's silence stretches, the discomfort in the room rises. But he waits, patiently, occasionally sipping some fizzy concoction that reeks of gin, as the people in the room grow increasingly restless. They desperately try to avoid staring as he hand-feeds you a portion of each priceless dish carefully prepared by the internationally-renowned chef, even as indignant disgust thickens their already foul scents.

After more than two hours of his silence, and as the meal is entering its final course, the sous-chef brings one of the highlights of the menu: fugu sashimi. Or, raw pufferfish.

A delicacy, and incredibly dangerous if prepared by inexpert hands due to the neurotoxin naturally occuring within it. You perk up, having heard of fugu before, back before, before, before…. you shake your head, ears flapping.

It's prized as such a delicacy not only because of its taste, but because the thrill of eating something so deadly often evokes a euphoric feeling in the one eating it. Some even report an aphrodisiac quality to their experience of consuming it.

As the sous-chef places the dish before Mr. Qin, you lean over to take a lick, but for once, his large hand slips between your nose and the fish.

"Not tonight, Kitten. I'll share fugu with you another time, under more convivial circumstances."

This gentle denial, given as if you're an actual person, is the final spark that ignites the simmering, resentful ire of the gathered guests.

"How much longer must we endure this grotesque display of poor manners before we get down to business?" One of the guests demands, loud and irritated. Many others grunt or nod in accord, finally brave now that someone else has drawn a target on his own back.

Mr. Qin simply hums, not taking his eyes off you. "Would you say that bringing an emotional support kitten to an establishment that allows them is less polite than say… theft or extortion from your valued business partners?"

The room goes quiet as the clink of chopsticks against plates and everyone's breath ceases.

Finally, the mutinous guest who was brave enough to initially complain clears his throat. "That is a serious allegation, Mr. Qin." He glances around the room, as if gathering support from his counterparts. "Do you have proof?"

"Proof, hmmm," your human, ruby eyes glinting in the low light, muses. "My kitten is all the proof I need."

"Ha, yes. We've all noticed lately how your… behavior, has changed recently. As if you've become more… distracted." The leader of the mutiny, though his confidence is growing with Mr. Qin's seemingly bizarre behavior untempered by shame or concern, remains cautious in choosing his words. The scent of fear, but also derision, intensifies.

"If I were distracted, you would be free to continue your unwise flirtation with my ire without consequence," Mr. Qin slips a thin slice of the fugu into his plush mouth. His subsequent noise of pleasure elicits a purr from your own throat, as you enjoy seeing him happy as much as experiencing your own happiness.

The leader of the mutiny has the audacity to roll his eyes. "You must be confused, if you think anyone at this table would dare cross you." His fear fades as his conviction that Mr. Qin has lost his marbles rises.

"Let's find out, then." Mr. Qin runs one long, elegant finger along the top of your head, down your spine. "Kitten, could you kindly indicate everyone at this table who is currently gambling with their life?"

The noises of disbelief, confusion, and disgust shatter the otherwise quiet room as you, without hesitation, rise to your paws, tail straight up in the air, and hop lightly on the table. Winding your way around and over the plates of each guest, you stop to sniff, growl, and then turn, showing your own asshole to every single asshole in this room who reeks of the scent of smug betrayal and lies.

When you stop before the one person who now smells of fascinated curiosity, the same one who hasn't smelled guilty since the beginning, you flick your tail in satisfaction and briefly nose her palm in respect, and then trot your way back to Mr. Qin's lap. He rewards you by lifting your small body into the air and nuzzling into your furry tummy. "Thank you, sweetheart."

The leader of the mutiny scrambles to his feet rather ungracefully from a cross-legged position, and seethes over the table. "This is absurd, and exactly why we can no longer trust your grip on the N109 zone. This dinner is over!"

He turns to leave, only to stop abruptly as he almost runs into the sous-chef. She stands, relaxed, legs spread a bit, one foot in front of the other. It's almost a boxer's stance, if not for the razor-thin sushi knife held, blade down, in her fist.

A knife-fighting stance.

"The meal is not quite over," she says calmly. "I must ask you to return to your seat."

The mutineer sneers as the rest of the patrons stiffen, reaching for holsters and knife sheathes out of instinct, only to remember that they're empty. "This place's neutral status is sacred. How dare you threaten us within its walls? We'll raze you to the ground if you don't stand down this instant."

The sous-chef remains unruffled. "Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules."

The mutineer spins around, raising a finger to point at Mr. Qin, but stops, a confused look crossing his face. He lifts his fingers, now trembling, to his lips instead. As if they're already tingling as the puffer fish's neurotoxin surges through his veins. "What the fuck have you done?"

Mr. Qin ignores him, turning instead to the only person who hasn't double-crossed him in the room. "Please, continue. It would be a shame to leave this divine dish unsavored."

With wide eyes, she lifts her chopsticks and slips another slice of fugu into her mouth, as the mutineer drops to the tatami, unable to breathe another word. The remaining patrons begin to slump in turn, some straight backwards with quiet thumps, some sprawling forward onto the table, the cacophony of dishes clinking and drinks spilling rising into a crescendo until the only sound remaining is the quiet chewing of the person left alive at the table.

"Thank you for another lovely dinner, Rin-san," Mr. Qin nods to the sous-chef in appreciation. "My regards to your mother." She nods in turn and slips out of the room. Turning back to the final guest, he waves his hand. "Stay, if you'd like. But when you are done, spread the word of what happened here tonight. I'd rather focus on my Kitten, instead of fools, for the near future."

"Of course, Mr. Qin."

And that, was that.

Your days continue—nights, really, drifting along at the dread dragon's side. The unrest in his domain evaporates, so much steam from screaming kettles boiling empty into silence. Now, when business partners or rivals see the black cat on his arm, the only scent in the air is terror.

Everyone knows black cats bring bad luck, after all.

To them. Not to Mr. Qin.

Mr. Qin's house, Mr. Qin's rules, after all.

This makes you purr, eliciting an answering pleased rumble deep in Mr. Qin's chest. You don't question why, simply reveling in the satisfaction of enemies quivering in fear and your human's pleasure in their amenability to his desires.

One night, months later, Sylus lounges in his huge, standalone marble bathtub. It sits before a soaring window as the N109 zone's sky lightens almost imperceptibly, signaling the coming dawn that this rancid part of the world never sees.

You slink along the rounded edges of the tub, enjoying the challenge of not slipping from either side while still remaining as close to Mr. Qin as possible as he soaks in a place you will not follow, mo matter the depth of your devotion to him. He twirls a glass of wine from languid fingertips, steam rising from the warm water, rippling with every little movement of his powerful body.

"You could join me," he offers, offhandedly. He's not looking at you, instead gazing into the wine before taking a sip. In his scent, a deep interest belies his seeming indifference to any response from you. "If you wanted to change into… something more comfortable."

Continuing to glide along the smooth stone, you ignore him. No way you want to get wet. If you need to get clean, which you do not, thank you very much, as you are already pristine and perfect in every way at (least in terms of hygiene, even if not in temperament), that is what your tongue is for, not a death pool ready to drown you and make you look ridiculous with flattened fur if you do manage to escape.

"Shame." His gaze, which you are pointedly ignoring, is so heavy behind you that it slightly raises the fur along your spine. It remains on you for a beat before he sighs and casts it toward the window and the glittering city below. "Perhaps I am losing my mind, after all," he murmurs, but there is no conviction in this assertion in his scent. Whatever is puzzling him, he is sure he knows the truth of it.

More months pass. You don't know how long you've been with him. Only that he has never stopped showing you the kindness, the care, and the companionship that he offered you from that very first night.

Perhaps you should have seen it coming. Perhaps you should have run long before it was even a possibility.

But how could you know to run, if you didn't think it were possible?

One can't return to the past, after all. Time doesn't flow backwards, no matter how much you throw yourself against the bars of the cage.

What's done is done. Caleb is dead. And with Caleb, your old self died too.

You are a cat, with a dragon-like human who needs to be protected, and cherished, and adored, as he does for his cat.

That is all there is. That is all you need.

Mr. Qin reads aloud to you every dawn before bed, as the morning sun spills over everywhere that is not here, signaling his night, and yours as well.

Whatever he happens to be reading, he reads out loud, with his rimless, gold accented reading glasses glinting in the light of the lamp on the nightstand, some kind of stained glass, Tiffany-style thing, designed to look like a crimson flower with wicked points. His words are the lullubies to your dreamless, peaceful nights curled at his side. By the dawning of the night, you often wake, curled up on his chest instead.

One such night, you wake to find that he is already awake too, staring at you with calm, curious eyes. You have the strange sense that he has been awake for awhile, but for some reason has made no effort to move you aside all the while, no effort to get up and start his version of the day. You've trained him well.

It's as if he's waiting to see what you'll do, now that you're awake too.

You roll a little, crouching on your belly like you're on the hunt for a mouse and want to remain as low as possible. The corners of his full lips lift slightly, the interest sharpening in his ember-eyes. Creeping forward, you brush your nose against his.

He doesn't move, just continues to watch you. There is something about his eyes that is so maddening, if you look into them for too long. Especially his right eye, the same one that glowed so bright, almost blinding, when he took you to the mall. You haven't seen it glow like that since, but you have the urge, all at once to—

you surge forward, as if pouncing on a mouse, and lick his right eyeball.

Both his face and scent reveal shock, fading to surprise, and then amused disgust.

"I don't know what I expected," he laments, a low laugh rumbling through his chest and through your body still crouched on him.

He lifts you into his arms and swings out of bed, and thus your day begins.

That night, he reads The Traveling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa as you're falling asleep.

"As we count up the memories from one journey, we head off on another." His rich voice is a soothing bass rhythm as he reads. "Remembering those who went ahead. Remembering those who will follow after. And someday, we will meet all those people again, out beyond the horizon.”

The words melt into you, fusing into the marrow of your brittle bones, seeping into spidering fractures you hadn't realized were there. Somehow, these words are comforting. Deep lilac, shot with sunset orange and pink, fills your half-asleep consciousness. But for once, that strange mewling is nowhere to be heard.

All the while, Mr. Qin's voice cradles you, a steady vessel carrying you safely on an endless river free from memory as you drift into dreamless sleep.

The waking is easy.

The waking has been easy, for months now. Maybe over a year?

You don't know how long you've been with him.

You should have seen it coming.

The waking is easy.

Warmth. Smooth skin, soft silver fur under your cheek. Long legs, entwined with yours. Your body rises and falls with his breath as you're draped over his soft, firm, pillowy steel-muscled chest.

The waking is easy.

You should have seen it coming.

The past can't be undone, nor can a leopard change its spots.

A cat who is not only a cat can't stay a cat forever.

The waking is easy.

Red eyes meet yours, crinkling at the corners with such genuine, unguarded joy that they are briefly rendered unfamiliar to you. You've never seen him smile so fully.

"There you are, sweetheart."

You can only live your head, chin resting against his chest, gazing placidly at him, easy in your waking, not suspecting anything amiss. Yet his handsome face with its severe contours, his long nose and the regal profile—it all seems … smaller. Everything about him seems smaller, somehow.

He's still huge, but he's less… giant, somehow.

He's gorgeous, actually. He's gorgeous not just as a sculpture in a museum, but attractive in a way that is physically painful, not just in your chest from your heart squeezing in the face of such artistic, divine beauty, but painful everywhere. His bulk under the entire length of your body. The soft hair along his legs brushing along your own legs. His heart jack-hammering in his chest underneath yours, matching your own jack-rabbiting beat. His skin against yours, silk and electricity.

His skin against your skin.

Not your fur.

You should have seen it coming.

He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb along your cheek. "I knew you'd be magnificent, if I were right." His voice is soft, steeped in awe. "But I hadn't realized just how truly breathtaking reality would be."

You should be able to smell the truth of his words, not just hear it in his voice.

But your nose, the scents in it—muted, and yet more colorful. He still smells delicious, musk and sleep, warmth and citrus, clean sweat. But all the layers of his feelings—

You can't feel his feelings from the way he smells anymore. He's an opaque polaroid instead of a neon mural, and you can only fumble for the clues of his feelings by the crinkling of his eyes, the timbre of his voice, the slowly tightening lines of his full lips as his smile fades into concern.

His soft silver eyebrows draw together, the furrow between them deepening.

"Kitten," he says, cautious. "I'm still me."

You wonder why he's saying this until his other hand joins his first, both palms now cupping your cheeks.

"And you're still you."

Oh.

You're shaking. Rolling tremors, an earthquake under your skin.

He thumbs along the sensitive skin under your eyes soothingly. "Breathe with me." Taking a deep breath, expanding his big chest where its pressed under yours, he coaxes your breath from your body.

After all this time, under his shelter, in his care, sheltering him, caring for him—what can you do but follow where he leads?

He's still him.

Even if you don't know what you are, anymore.

"Mr. Qin," you croak, helpless. Your cheeks are hot, and wet. Moisture slicks the paths his thumbs take, back and forth. The air is thick with its salt.

The furrow between his brow fades, his lips curving in pleasure again. "Surely we're on a first-name basis by now, Kitten, what with you watching me bathe and piss for over a year, and now waking up naked in my bed. Call me Sylus."

You look down, see the truth in the swell of your chest pressed against his own, feel the truth in the silk sheets along your bare back and ass.

Of course. It's not like you can take your clothes with you when shifting from human to animal, animal to human . Any movies or games that depict such idiocy are just censored nonsense.

But that's unimportant. You frown back up at him, the inexplicable tears fading as indignation rises. "If you didn't want company while you were on the toilet, you should have locked the door, Sylus."

He blinks in shock, eyes widening ever so slightly, but recovers quickly. "It took you long enough, but oh, were you worth the wait," he laughs—hearty, breathless, excited.

You don't need his scent to know that he's delighted.

Thank you for reading! there will be a part four with you learning how to human (or trying) and Sylus courting his kitten. I'm having a great time writing this. I'd love to hear what you think in tags or comments! People asked to be tagged so I'm going to try to do that in the comments.

Also, please note that for dramatic effect, everyone was affected by the pufferfish neurotoxin at the same time. This is not realistic at all, so Rin-san convinced her mother to add a little extra 'seasoning' to the sashimi to ensure the dramatic end that Mr. Qin was aiming for. So don't come at me if you're some kind of marine biologist or pufferfish connoisseur. Or actually do, I love all feedback. Okay bye!

[lunamaedotjpeg]

knock knock

[qintten]

jerk

[sweetevoltrap]

These tumblr ads tho...

[schmellows]

puppy ...

[scorpyuu]

🐱

[ethjayy]

he asked for no pickles