black-panther hybrid!sylus and stray-cat hybrid!reader
mdni 18+
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ piv sex, heats, nesting, riding
he finds you first. not the twins, not mephisto, not any of the men working under him at onychinus.
and this is something sylus revels in.
a shivering, cagey little thing when he stumbles upon you keeling over spilt brown paper bags, rainwater drenched in the hair falling over your wavering eyes and teeth embedded so deep in your bottom lip he swears even he can taste the blood on you. it's something he hates to see, he thinks, the weak-willed. scum of the earth — those who let themselves get trampled over and are, yet, too frail to do anything but gorge it down helplessly.
hates that you withstand it.
s-sorry, sir, c-could you please let me p-pick that u— before some by-passer squashes a tomato that's rolled out of its open plastic container with a heavy boot, a meek little squeak you let out when the fleshy, seedy phlegm-mush of it splatters onto your worn-out socks. it doesn't render as a stain against the already muddy, dirt-infested polyester, though. no shoes, he notes.
he watches you intently, for a moment, as you kneel and scamper, tossing whatever your hands latch onto into the now-torn and soaked bags, cuts of meat wrapped in twine and muffins and cans of fish. you reach for the tomatoes, a change of mind that comes in the form of a whimper that sounds like a sob stuck in your throat as you withdraw to leave the dirty fruits be in their puddle.
judging by your apparel, it's evident you weren't the one to purchase the groceries huddled close to you.
a thief, he can only assume, from the skittish behavior and frantic turns of your head behind your back.
and yet, surprisingly, a pushover.
the droop of your ears, the appendages pressed flat against the top of your head in sullen gloom. puffed-out cheeks and a pout.
so amusing, he has to suppress a chuckle when he kicks a leg off of his motorcylce and stands to approach you.
he learns of depravity in this moment, in pools of glassy-drunk eyes. a barren drought plaguing his lungs. that sharp pang in his gums, a yearning to sink—
learns of what hitting rock bottom really means. because he's the most feared man in the n109 zone. because he's sylus. god, he's sylus, and it's innocuous, the way you blink up at him like you hadn't hissed out obscenities at him barely two hours ago, hadn't embedded your claws into his wrist until it bled out in whirls of red in the rain, having to grit his teeth to hold himself back. just on the precipice of lunging at you, holding himself back from asphyxiation with his palm around your throat—
g-get away from me, you... p-panther...
just want to help, sweetie. i'm no threat, he'd smiled, low and charming.
i-i don't need any help! a stubborn thing, even after the harm you'd caused him. anyone else would be groveling at his feet by then. but you didn't know him; still don't — don't know who he is; the extent to which he exudes control over the very streets you seek shelter.
now, kitten, that's not true.
the truth is, you piqued his interest. helpless as you were. or, perhaps, it was because of your helplessness.
when's the last time you had a warm bath and some champagne, hm?
he must've piqued yours too — his words if not his presence — because you'd followed him to his motorcycle, antics befitting a stray, without a word after the promise. of warmth. of a taste of the rogue.
he leads you, sputtering away with wet, soggy groceries forgotten. like taking candy from a baby. too easy.
i've never had champagne before, you murmur, quiet as he fastens his helmet onto you.
seen it in movies, though, from shop windows — the fancy bubbles. is it any good?
a drive and a bath and two glasses later, you're swaying. a lightweight by his standards, but if it gets you to see past the ears emerging from his head and his tail that he's got wrapped around your waist, then he doesn't care.
and he doesn't— doesn't know why you make him feel so... protective. a wedge to his gut, lodged between feral and utterly deranged.
this feeling only grows, rises. surely, like a promise, like dough in the oven warming into a fresh, golden loaf ready to be ripped apart.
luke and kieran teach you how to make sandwiches; it's the only thing you'll eat without throwing a fuss. anything jammed between two thick slices of buttered, toasted brioche.
... the only thing aside from imported cheeses and charcuterie boards with aged meats and dried fruits. of course, champagne, as well, to pair. different bottles for different bites.
it's strange to think you'd been resorting to stealing whatever you could to make do before.
but he likes this. likes knowing he's spoiling you rotten in his arms. in his care.
what he doesn't like is when you have trouble sleeping.
he's lost track of the amount of nights you've come to him, whimpering in a cold sweat as you shake him awake. he doesn't understand what you keep going on and on about in that sleep-hazy mumble, but he acknowledges the acrid scent permeating from your wavering, prone form whenever you do.
so he does the logical thing; keeps you in his bed, underneath the bulk of his large, warm body. smothers you to the point of suffocation.
but all you do is cling, hum contentedly in your sleep when his thigh inches over your body, when he uses his tail to drape yours around his torso on either side. when you can't physically see the traces of predator in him, when he's free to let it out.
in this very same bed, you begin nesting as your heat approaches.
the twins bring over lunch to the room one day, surprised to see how you barely lift your face from one of sylus' heavy leather jackets, hips bucking desperately against a heaping pile of his spare clothes that he'd tossed out to be washed.
you aren't wearing much, either — though they don't make an effort to look or linger any longer once they've caught the sight of your nude back, ass and thighs glistening sweat-shiny and the side of your breasts just slightly visible from where they're buried into even more of his garments.
it makes sense. you haven't moved an inch off of the mattress since last week.
of course, he'd known about it — about that simmering desire beneath your skin, hot like bubbling caramel and prickling like an itch too hard to get rid of. you'd been nuzzling against him longer than usual in the mornings, needier with your requests to be held or to be sat in his lap throughout meals. any excuse to be closer.
he thinks, in this moment, it's that. except tenfold when he enters the room late at midnight, biting his gloves off, only to be hit with this cloying scent, sweet and syrupy and heady. traces of you in the air, traces of you through the breeze scuttling in through a half-opened window.
your cries are the first thing he registers, mewling, sharp cries for him, and it sits in the pool of his stomach like a heavy sediment, thick and unfurling. your face, puffy with tears, body chafing already in places he can make out from how much you've tried embedding yourself into his sheets. you were s-supposed to be here ages ago, sylus.
the logical thing, always. that's what he does.
i'm here now, aren't i, kitten?
so he takes you apart in the ways he knows how: bruising your cervix, hands on your waist as he guides your limp body up and down his cock. your hands are shaky, trembling, unknowing and gawky and awkward; he has to entangle them with his own when he brings them to your chest, nipples pebbled and perky, right here, sweetie. tug.
and he finds, throughout all of this, that all it really takes for you to come apart is a few measly thrusts before you're gushing out a mess over his thighs, needy little pulsing clit kissing the patch of hair trailing down to his base whenever you rut your hips too hard against his.
all it really takes is a big cock.
he loses count somewhere after an hour or so of this. his spend dribbles ungraciously out of your cunt; makes the filthiest sounds reverberate in the air when he drops you back down on him every time.
an insatiable, whiny thing that you are, too tired to move yet arching your back and breaking into a fit of no, pleasepleaseplease's when he stops thrusting upwards into you.
yesyesyes, nnghh, when he uses the tip of his tail to toy with your slick-sloppy clit.
it's the crack of dawn when you finally black out, legs cramped and too tired to move, drooling a mess onto his shoulders where your face is buried, coherency a far cry from the state he's reduced you to right now in his arms.
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