summary. You adore Caleb’s freckles. He doesn’t.
note. Yes, me realizing Caleb Xia has freckles.
Caleb runs a hand over his face as he stares at his mirror. His frown deepens the longer he looks at himself. The marks that dot his face are the subject of his gaze. He isn't fond of them. Not really, not after he got multiple hurtful remarks over it as he grew up.
He does his best to not bring attention to it the older he gets. It became a habit to cover his face often, when he laughs, when he smiles, when people tend to stare at him a bit too much.
But you were vocal about how much you liked his freckles.
When you were younger, you raved about them, wishing you had your own. He didn’t see the appeal, but he liked it when you stuck your face close to his and admired the dots.
He loved it when you ran your hands over his face, brows furrowed as you murmured about how cute it was. If that made him flush 50 shades of red, then you didn’t notice.
You’re still obsessed with them, years later.
Even when he doesn’t understand why, staring at the mirror in the early morning or late night, trying to make sense of what made the small dots on his face endearing to you when to him it was just an insecurity. Brows furrowed, lips turned down as he judged his own appearance.
He hears your footsteps before he sees you. The soft, familiar manner of your feet on the floor– something he could recognize anywhere. You were looking for something in the bedroom, with the way you were opening and closing drawers like you were on a mission.
When you open the door to the bathroom, your voice echoing against the tiles, he didn’t move from his place in front of the mirror. “Caleb, have you seen my eyeliner? The new one that I just got this week?”
Your reflection appears behind him, searching around the bathroom, still in his hoodie and when your gaze lands on him, you see the small flicker in his gaze.
You frown. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He mumbled, a bit too quickly than he hoped.
Your eyes narrow immediately.
Caleb looks away first.
The silence stretches for a moment. It's the silence that exists between two people that know each other too well, and in the way you stare at him through the mirror, Caleb knew you always clocked him.
Your arms cross over your chest, and he avoids your gaze, fixing it on anywhere but your reflection. The sink, the faucet– and the eyeliner you were looking for hidden behind the toothbrush cup.
That alone tells you enough about what he was doing in front of the mirror, and you sigh. Quietly. “Caleb.”
“Mhm?”
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Your frown deepens. His gaze moves to you for only a split second, before you catch him looking at his own reflection. It’s a short moment, but you could see the way he looked at the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose. Then it clicks, and your expressions soften. “Oh.”
His jaw tightens, and he avoids your soft gaze again.
The silence that follows is heavier than the last one. It’s not heavy, nor uncomfortable. But vulnerable in a way that Caleb doesn’t let himself be around you too often.
Because he is supposed to be the strong one. The protector.
And to him, it’s stupid that this measly negative thought on his own features is making him this way.
"They're still there." His voice comes out quieter than expected.
You blink. "What?"
"The freckles."
For a second, you simply stare at him. Then you almost laugh.
Not because it's funny. But because of course that's what had him standing in front of the mirror at six in the morning looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "They've been there your entire life, baby."
"I know."
"So why are you surprised?"
"I'm not surprised."
"You seem surprised."
He shoots you a look that makes you smile. He groans, just as you laugh. “There you are.”
“What?” Caleb frowns.
“You’re finally looking at me.”
He pauses, and the soft look in your eyes makes his ears turn pink. Your smile only widens as you step towards him. Your arms wrap around his waist, and you peer through the side to the mirror, humming. Caleb relaxes against you, moving you until you’re standing next to him in the mirror. Your eyes meet his through the mirror, then it drifts downwards to his freckles.
There are more than most people notice. Tiny constellations scattered over warm skin.
Some are darker than others. Some are barely visible unless sunlight hits them just right.
You have every single one memorized. A fact Caleb would never recover from if you told him.
Unfortunately for him, you decide honesty is important in relationships: "I think I know at least twenty-seven of them."
His eyes widen. “What?”
“Twenty-seven.” You tilt your head up at him to look more closely at his face. His eyes are widened slightly, brows furrowed, voice pitched slightly higher in disbelief. “You counted?”
“Maybe.” You shrug.
“You counted.”
“Maybe.”
“You;re insane.”
You grin, and lean up to peck his cheeks. “I know.”
Caleb lets out a mix of a laugh and a huff. His ears are completely red now, the flush spreading to his cheeks as he shuts his eyes at the absurdity of you counting his freckles.
When he opens them again, he catches you staring. Again.
It’s not like you hide it, at this point.
His voice drops into a mutter. “I don’t get it.”
“Hm?” You meet his gaze.
“I don’t get why you like them so much.”
You tilt your head and watch him carefully. You watch the uncertainty hiding beneath his expression, the remnants of old words. Old comments. Old wounds. Things said carelessly by people who probably forgot them the moment they spoke, but they were things that Caleb had quietly carried for years.
You reach up, and your fingers brush against his cheek. Gentle. Careful.
As though touching something precious.
Because to you, he is.
Your thumb glides over the bridge of his nose. Over the freckles resting there.
Caleb's breath catches, and you smile softly.
"Because they're yours."
His eyes flicker.
You continue before he can interrupt. "I don't like them because they're perfect." His gaze remains fixed on yours as you continue, your fingers still on his skin, tracing lines between his freckles. "I like them because when I think of you, I think of them. When I picture your face, I picture your freckles." You laugh quietly, "You know, when I was younger, I used to think they looked like stars."
His expression falters.
And you know you've won the moment he looks away. Because Caleb only looks away when he's overwhelmed.
"I still do."
His throat moves and Caleb looks back at you. Your other hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him a bit closer so you could trace more of the freckles. "They make you look like you."
You cup his face. His hands immediately find your waist, like its instinct to him. And really, it is.
"There isn't a version of Caleb in my head without them."
Your smile softens.
"And honestly? You'd be less cute without them."
"Don't."
"You would."
He grumbles your name.
"You absolutely would."
"Stop."
"I think I'd cry."
"You would not cry."
"I'd mourn."
Caleb drops his forehead against your shoulder with a groan. A genuine one this time, one not out of frustration. Just hopeless, because just by your hands on his face, and your sweet, embarrassing words, he has been completely and utterly defeated by you.
You laugh, wrapping your arms around him, and his arms tighten around you immediately.
The bathroom falls quiet again. But this silence feels different.
Comfortable– Warm.
After a while, you feel him nudge his face against your neck, followed by his muffled voice."Twenty-seven?"
You burst out laughing.
"I knew you were still thinking about that."
"Twenty-seven?"
"Actually, it might be thirty."
Caleb makes a sound that suggests he's reconsidering every life choice that led him here.
You only smile wider and gently move his face up so you could press a kiss against his temple. Then to his cheeks – like you were kissing every single dot on his face.
Until his face is burning red enough to rival the sunrise peeking through the bathroom window.
The funny thing is, Caleb never truly learns to love his freckles.
Not the way you do. Not the way you look at them, like they're something worth admiring.
He can't rival the way you love it.
But over the years, he slowly stops hiding them. Stops treating it like something wrong on his face.
Because whenever he catches himself doing it, he remembers the way you look at him.
Like every freckle is something precious.
Like every single one belongs exactly where it should.
And Caleb stops frowning at the sight of them in the mirror.
Thinking about a girl I grew up with who spun her dog's fur into yarn, then knitted gloves out of the yarn and how all the other kids made fun of her mercilessly for it.
And how she's now used those gloves for over thirty winters and each time she puts them on, she gets to pet her beloved dog's fur even though Ginger is long gone. And how even though her bones have long since been swallowed by the earth, Ginger is still protecting her owner from the cold.
Just an ancient pact, passed down from the earliest dogs that slept beside humans to keep us warm, continuing on for decades after one of their deaths.
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 have said it before on many occasions but it's worth reminding people that Sylus is a WHORE. And I love it.
He gives major fuck you in the bathroom on the first date before dessert arrives energy.
Think about it.
In his vampire myth, this man was ten seconds in from meeting MC and had every single intention to kill her and he STILL made out with her. Zero memory who she is, ready to impale her to death after bleeding her dry and has the audacity to be like “hold on, give me a kiss real quick,” LMAO!
In his dragon myth when MC was sneaking him, and she started acting like she was trying to fuck cause she feels bored did you see the look on his face? He was down!
I'm convinced if it wasn't for her hating his guts on sight in main story, because despite that she does admit he is hot as fuck so I KNOW he would have taken her amnesia having ass to base and slutted her out regardless. All she had to do was say when.
Nobody can tell me otherwise.
Sylus is easy. And I love that about him.
Fake sleeping so he can get handcuffed to his bed wearing nothing but a silk robe.
Just stamp the words “Fuck me whenever” on your forehead Onychinus leader cause we all see you're about that life.
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!
⋆. — headcanons for how the LADS the boys react to a clumsy, flustered mc. (based on this request)
⋆. — content: soft, wholesome, a little embarrassing (for you). tooth-rotting fluff.
⋆. — word count: max 600 each ♡
Rafayel - The Paint on Your Cheek
You’ve been at his studio for an hour and you’ve already knocked something over.
A jar of brushes, this time. They go everywhere—under the table, under the couch, one heroic survivor rolls all the way to Rafayel’s bare foot and stops there like it’s surrendering. He looks down at it. He looks up at you. You’re frozen with both hands clapped over your mouth, eyes huge, already mid-apology.
“Oh no,” he says, deadpan. “My brushes. My livelihood. How will I ever paint again.”
“Rafayel, I’m so sorry, I’ll pick them—”
“Cutie.” He tips his head, and a piece of his hair falls into his eyes in that ridiculous way it always does, because it always makes him look pretty. “Breathe. They’re brushes. They roll. That’s their whole personality, don’t even stress your head, okay?”
He’s been watching you the whole time, which is half the problem.
You always get clumsier when he watches you. He knows this. He absolutely uses it. He’ll lounge on the couch with one knee up and his chin in his hand, just looking, and you’ll lose the ability to operate a doorknob. Today he’s been sketching you in the corner of his page—not the painting he’s supposed to be working on, the commission one, the important one—and you caught him at it earlier and went so red he had to put the pencil down because his own face was getting warm.
He crouches down with you to gather the brushes.
You’re both on the floor now, knees almost touching. He hands you one, and his fingers brush yours, and you flinch like he’s electric.
“Y’know,” he says, conversationally, lining a brush up on the tile, “for someone who’s been kissed by me a frankly impressive number of times, you still go pink like it’s our first date.”
“I— I don’t—”
“You do. It’s my favorite thing.” He grins, eyes crinkling. “Don’t ever stop.”
There’s paint on your cheek and he refuses to tell you.
You only realize it when you catch your reflection in the window—a streak of pink swept right across your cheekbone, from when you’d rubbed your face earlier. You whirl on him. He’s already laughing, that bright, unbothered laugh of his, head thrown back against the couch cushions.
“Rafayel!”
“What? It suits you, cutie. It’s my color. You’re branded now.”
“You let me walk around like this—”
“For at least forty minutes, yes.” He gets up finally, and crosses to you with that lazy, unhurried gait. His thumb comes up to brush at the paint gently, careful in a way his voice never is in moments like this. The teasing slides off his face for half a breath. “There. Almost gone. Mostly.”
He kisses the spot anyway. Light. Quick. Like he’s signing it the way he signs his canvases, which you might as well be, at this point.
“There,” he murmurs, and he’s smiling, but his ears have gone faintly pink and he won’t quite meet your eyes. “Now it’s mine.”
You hide your face in his shirt. He lets you, one hand settled at the back of your head, and pretends, for your sake, that his heart isn’t doing anything embarrassing at all.
Zayne - When You Drop the Mug Again
He hears it before he sees it hit the floor.
The clatter of ceramic against the kitchen tile carries down the hallway, followed by the small, mortified sound you always make when you’ve done something you wish nobody had witnessed. Zayne is in the doorway within seconds, still holding the medical journal he was reading, one finger tucked between the pages to mark his place. He takes in the chipped mug on the floor, the puddle of tea blooming around your slippered feet, and your wide eyes—and his expression doesn’t change at all, except for the faint lift at the corner of his mouth that you’ve learned, over time, is his version of trying not to smile.
“Don’t move,” he says.
He goes for the dustpan, not for you.
It’s a thing he does on purpose. He told you once, late at night with your face pressed into his shoulder, that he doesn’t want fussing over you to feel like a verdict. So he sweeps up the shards in that quiet, methodical way he has—same hands that handle patient charts, same hands that tie his scarf for him in the mirror every morning—and only when the floor is dry and safe does he straighten up and look at you properly.
“Feet,” he says, and crouches.
“Zayne, I’m fine, it didn’t even—”
“Feet,” he repeats, in the same tone he uses on patients who try to lie about whether they’ve been taking their medication.
He checks for tiny cuts even though there are none.
You sit on the edge of the counter because he’s lifted you there, his palm warm at the back of your knee, and you can feel your ears going hot in that traitorous way they do whenever he’s this close and this serious. He turns each of your feet over in his hand like he’s reading them. Nothing. Of course there’s nothing. He knew there’d be nothing.
“Was it hot?” he asks.
“Lukewarm. I let it sit too long again.”
“Mm.” That single syllable contains an entire diagnosis. You forgot it on the counter because you got distracted reading. You always do.
He kisses your knee before he lets you down. It’s quick. Almost businesslike. If you weren’t paying attention you’d miss the way his ears go a shade darker under his hair, the way he turns toward the cabinet for a clean mug a beat too fast.
“I’ll make you another,” he says, with his back to you. “Sit. Don’t help.”
“I can hel—”
“Sit.”
Later, you find the chipped mug glued back together on the windowsill.
He doesn’t mention it. He never does. But that night, when you apologize again into the dark of the bedroom—I’m sorry I’m such a mess, I’m sorry, I—he sighs, pulls you closer by the waist, and murmurs into your hair, “Stop apologizing for being someone I want to take care of.”
And you don’t know what to do with that, so you just hide your face in his chest, and he lets you.
Xavier - The Counter Is Too High Again
He’s half-asleep on the couch when he hears the stool wobble.
Xavier sleeps the way cats sleep—anywhere, instantly, with one ear still on the world. So even though his eyes are closed and his hair is a soft pale mess against the cushion, he’s already sitting up by the time the legs of the kitchen stool screech against the floor. You’re up on your toes, reaching for the jar of honey on the top shelf, the one he keeps meaning to move down and never does because you keep insisting you can get it yourself.
You can’t get it yourself. Both of you know this.
“Wait,” he says, voice still rough from sleep.
You don’t wait. The jar tips. You make a tiny, panicked noise.
He’s across the room before the honey hits the counter.
It’s the speed that always startles you—that quiet, easy way he moves, like distance is a suggestion he chooses not to take seriously. One of his hands closes around the jar mid-fall. The other settles, warm and steady, at your waist, anchoring you on the stool so you don’t pitch forward after it.
“Got it,” he murmurs.
“I almost—”
“I know.”
He says it without any of the I-told-you-so other people would lace into it. Xavier doesn’t scold. He just notes things, the way someone might note the weather, and then he handles them. You look down at him from your slight height advantage on the stool—a rare angle—and his hair is soft and rumpled and his eyes are the color of a sky you’ve been trying to remember.
You go pink. Of course you go pink.
He tilts his head a fraction. There’s a slow, drowsy smile spreading across his face, the kind he only ever wears for you, the kind that makes him look about seventeen years old and very far from anything dangerous.
“What?” you whisper.
“Nothing.” He hands you the honey jar like it’s a small, ceremonious gift. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
“Xavier.”
“That’s my name.”
He doesn’t let you climb down by yourself.
You try. He doesn’t allow it. His hands come up under your arms and he lifts you down off the stool like you weigh nothing—because to him you do—and sets you on your feet so gently your slippers barely make a sound on the tile. His thumb brushes once, absently, over your hip before he lets go.
“You could’ve just woken me up,” he says.
“You were sleeping so well.”
“I’m always sleeping well. You’re more important than sleeping well.”
He says things like that all the time. Quiet, true, unadorned. Like it’s nothing. Like he isn’t slowly dismantling you sentence by sentence. You hide your face in your hands. He laughs softly, low and very fond, and pulls your wrists gently down.
“None of that,” he says. “I want to see you.”
He makes the tea himself after that.
He moves you to the counter—not the stool, he gives the stool a small, suspicious look, like it’s personally offended him—and stands between your knees while the kettle heats. You play with the hem of his sleeve. He lets you.
“Honey?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
“Mm.” He reaches past you without looking, gets the jar, sets it down. Kisses your forehead on the way back. “See. Easy.”
You don’t trust yourself to answer. He doesn’t seem to need you to. He finds you adorable anyway.
Caleb - The Loose Step on the Porch
He warned you about that step three times this week.
The third one from the top. The wood’s gone soft from winter and he keeps meaning to fix it on his next leave, but his next leave is this leave, and he hasn’t gotten to it yet because you keep finding more interesting things for him to do with his afternoons. So when he hears the small, surprised yelp from the porch—followed by the unmistakable thud of someone going down hard—he’s out of the kitchen before the screen door has stopped swinging.
You’re sitting on the floorboards with one hand bracing behind you and the other clutching a paper bag of groceries that, miraculously, you’ve kept upright. An orange has escaped and is rolling, with great purpose, toward the steps.
He stops in the doorway. He takes one look at the scene. His mouth does that thing where it tries very hard not to smile and fails completely.
“Honey,” he says, holding back a laugh..
“Don’t.” you hiss.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.” you huff.
“I was going to ask if you’re okay.” He crouches down in front of you, elbows on his knees, head tipped to one side. His hair falls into his eyes—that soft, sandy brown he never bothers to push back unless you do it for him. “Which step?”
“…the one you told me about.”
“Which one did I tell you about?”
“Caleb.”
He’s laughing now. Quietly. Mostly to himself.
He takes the grocery bag out of your lap and sets it aside with care. Then he takes both your hands and turns them palm-up, checking for scrapes. Methodical, unhurried, all of his focus settled on you. There’s a small graze along the heel of your left hand. He frowns at it like it has personally offended him.
“Stings?”
“A little.”
“Anywhere else?”
“My pride.”
“Well.” His thumb brushes very lightly over the graze. “That one I can’t kiss better. The hand I can do something about.”
He does. Just a press of his mouth, warm and quick, against the inside of your wrist. You feel it everywhere. You always do. He glances up at you through his lashes and catches the color rising in your cheeks, and his smile goes a little crooked, a little pleased with itself.
“There it is,” he murmurs.
“There what is.”
“That face you make every single time. The one where you pretend you’re not embarrassed and you go pink anyway.” He sits down beside you on the porch floor, knees drawn up, shoulder bumping gently against yours.
He retrieves the orange before he retrieves you.
It’s almost at the bottom of the top step by the time he ambles over and scoops it up, tossing it once in the air and catching it without looking. He’s wearing the soft grey t-shirt you stole twice last month, and he looks so much like home in the late afternoon light that you have to look away for a second just to remember how to breathe normally.
He notices that too. He notices everything. It’s a problem.
“You’re doin’ it again, pip.” he says, settling back down beside you with the orange in his hand.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I just walked through the door after six months.” His voice has dropped, lost the teasing lilt. “I’ve been home a week, sweetheart.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” He turns the orange in his palm, smiling. “I just like that you still do it.”
He helps you up like you’re made of something breakable.
His hand is broad and warm at your lower back, and he lifts you mostly with that one point of contact, the other hand finding yours and not letting go even once you’re standing. You shift your weight tentatively. Your ankle’s fine. Your knee’s fine. Everything’s fine. The only thing that’s not fine is the way your face refuses to cool down, because he’s still looking at you with that quiet, careful attention, like checking you over is something he gets to do now, like he gets to be the one who does it.
“Verdict?” he asks.
“I’ll live.”
“Great.” He bends, picks up the grocery bag, tucks it against his hip. The other hand stays in yours. “Cause I’m fixing that step tomorrow. First thing.”
“You said that last week.”
“I mean it this week.”
“You said that last week too.”
“Pips.” He pulls you in by the hand until you’re tucked under his arm, and presses a kiss into your hair, and you can feel him smiling against the top of your head. “Are you tryin’ to start a fight with the man who’s about to make you dinner?”
He does fix the step. Not tomorrow. That evening, after dinner, with the porch light on.
You watch him from the doorway in his soft grey t-shirt, sleeves shoved up, a pencil tucked behind his ear that he doesn’t appear to be using. He whistles while he works. He glances up every minute or so, just to check that you’re still there, and every time he catches you watching him he grins like he’s won something.
You think, watching him, that he’s been home a week and the house already doesn’t know how to be a house without him in it.
You don’t say it out loud for him to hear. When he comes back inside, dusty and pleased with himself, he takes one look at your face and says, very softly, “I know, baby. Me too.”
And that’s the whole conversation.
Sylus - You Spilled Wine on His Shirt
The shirt is black. The wine is red. The math is, frankly, in your favor.
You realize this approximately half a second after the glass tips, which is approximately half a second too late. The stem slipped—your fingers were nervous because he was looking at you the way he looks at you, like you’re the only interesting thing in a room full of people he’s been politely tolerating all evening—and now there’s a dark patch of wine spreading across the front of Sylus’ very expensive, very tailored shirt.
You stop breathing.
He looks down. He looks at you. He raises one brow.
“Sweetie,” he says, in that low, gravel-and-honey voice of his, “you missed.”
He is, somehow, smiling.
It’s the smallest version of his smile—the one that lives mostly in the corner of his mouth and the slight narrowing of his red eyes—but it is, undeniably, a smile. You can feel your whole face going hot.
“I’m so sorry, I’ll— let me—” You grab a napkin. You grab three napkins. You start dabbing at his chest with a bit too much panic, even for your embarrassed state. “It just slipped, I don’t know why, my hand just—”
“Mm.” He doesn’t move from his spot. He lets you fuss. His hand finds your wrist gently, and stills it. “You’re making it worse.”
“I’m sorry—"
“Stop apologizing.”
He says it the way he says most things—like an order dressed up as a suggestion.
You go still. The napkin sits crumpled in your hand. He’s still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing one slow, idle circle against your pulse point, and his eyes are doing that thing where they soften only at the edges, where you’d miss it if you didn’t know him.
“It’s a shirt,” he says.
“It’s an expensive shirt.”
“They’re all expensive shirts, kitten.” His mouth tilts. “That’s the point of having too much money. You get to be casual about ruining things.”
He plucks the wine glass out of your other hand and sets it well out of reach. A precaution. You catch the small, amused tilt of his mouth as he does it, and you go even pinker, if such a thing is physically possible.
“You did that on purpose,” you accuse, weakly.
“I did.” His voice is unrepentant. “You’re quite clumsy with stemware. I’m protecting my furniture.”
“Sylus—”
“And my floors. And my staff. And—” he leans in, voice dropping low, just for you “—my sanity, which you ruin nightly, by the way. In case you were keeping score.”
You make a small, strangled sound. He looks delighted.
He takes the shirt off right there.
Casually. Like it’s nothing. Buttons undone with that easy, practiced flick of his fingers, and then it’s draped over the back of a chair and forgotten, and he’s standing there in a plain black undershirt that does absolutely nothing to help your current condition.
He notices you checking him out. His smile sharpens.
“Eyes up here, sweetie.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh, but you were.”
He hooks one finger under your chin and tips your face up. His expression has gone almost gentle—the version of gentle that only exists in private, the version most of the world will never see and would never believe in if they were told.
“Breathe,” he says quietly. “It’s a shirt. You’re allowed to drop things in your own home.”
Your own home. That’s what undoes you. He always says it like that, like the question of whose home it is was settled a long time ago, and you simply haven’t caught up yet.
Later, he absolutely tells Mephisto the story.
You hear him from the next room, low and amused, and you hear Mephisto’s offended kraa, and you bury your face in a cushion and you think, with a kind of helpless, baffled warmth, that you have never, in all your life, been this loved by anyone half this dangerous.
I thought about requesting a 2nd review for the "mature content warning" ……I mean……there isnt anything REALLY out of the line? But I also wont say it`s not suggestive?? So…fair? I guess?
I would just take this as a compliment and move on.
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
vaporwave
gummygunk
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andulkaphoto
