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simporado · 3 days ago

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Can you write a short somno fic for Sylus but he’s already been doing it for awhile? And he feels so damn guilty about it but genuinely can’t stop because it’s like an addiction to him now? :)

In Somno

Word Count: 3.6k

Tags: sylus x fem!reader, somno, nonconsensual somnophilia, noncon, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, facials

Summary: Sylus just can't help himself when it comes to your sleeping body <33

Over and over he'd tell himself how wrong this was. How terrible he was for using you like this. All he could think about when he picked you up now was how long it would be before he got to cum on your pretty face again. How could he even think such thoughts? All that guilt would quickly subside as soon as you started yawning though.

Yes, even a simple yawn from you was enough to get him rock hard now.

AN: Sorry anon, I know you said "short" but I got really excited and got carried away. So lets just say this is my version of a short fic LOL. Also thank you thank you thank youuuu for requesting this, I've been itching to write another somno fic hehehe. Btw the title means “In slumber” in Latin!!! :33

He hadn't intended for things to escalate to this point.

Normally, Sylus was a master of self-control, able to reign in his desires with ease. But on that particular day, something had been stirred within him, something that he couldn't quite explain. It had started when he saw you lying in his bed, fast asleep and naked, after a long and exhausting mission. You'd taken a shower and had passed right out. Your fatigue had been palpable, and he had gone to cover you with a blanket, his hand accidentally brushing against the side of your breast.

Sylus froze, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn't meant for this to happen, hadn't meant to touch you like...that. His hand lingered for a moment, a mere whisper of contact, before he moved it away as if it burned. He stared at you, sleeping peacefully, unaware of the turmoil his innocent touch had ignited within him. He had always prided himself on his ability to control himself. Yet here he was, his heart pounding, his body betraying him.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It was just a touch, he told himself. A harmless, accidental touch. But his body refused to listen, his mind refusing to let go of the softness of your skin, the warmth that had radiated from you. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to touch you again, to trace the curve of your breast, to feel more of your warmth.

He knew he should leave, let you rest, should respect your sleep. But he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to tear his eyes away from you. He had seen you naked before, had seen you sleep countless times. But this was different. This time, he felt something stirring within his groin as he watched your naked chest rise with each breath. Your beautiful, peaceful face was messing with his senses. He tried to dismiss it, to attribute it to the fatigue of the long day, the heat of the room, anything but the truth.

The truth was, you two hadn't had much time for each other lately, and even less for anything intimate. The lack of physical connection had left him pent up, achingly so. He couldn't remember the last time you'd both had a moment to yourselves, a moment to explore each other's desires and needs.

As he sat there, looking at you, he couldn't help but feel a surge of longing. He shut his eyes briefly, trying to calm himself down, but it was no use. Better to quell the urge to touch you now, and then forget about this, he figured. He reached back over, his hand gently touching the soft roundness of your breast, giving it a light squeeze. The touch sent a spark of electricity through his body, and he felt his cock harden in his pants.

Shit. He had definitely just made it worse.

You stirred, letting out a soft whine, and he felt his heart skip a beat. The sound of your voice was like music to his ears, a sweet melody that only added to his arousal. He quickly withdrew his hand, however, as you began to shift and turn your body away from him in your sleep.

Your butt was now completely visible to him. His heart dropped into his stomach. You had always been the only one to undo his calm, to make him feel this way. He ran his fingers through his hair, now having an internal battle within himself. It felt wrong...undeniably wrong...and yet…

One thing had led to another, and he found himself carefully pushing his fingers inside your wet folds. The sensation was almost too much to bear, and he was breathless as your cunt sucked in his fingers bit by bit. The feeling of your inner walls clamping down on his fingers sent his mind into a frenzy, and he couldn't help but think about how much he wanted to be inside you.

How wet you'd be.

How tight you'd be.

His cock was rock hard and throbbing in his boxers, pressing against the back of your leg. He pressed himself against your butt lightly, trying to relieve some of the ache that had been building up inside him.

It wasn't enough.

You began to squirm, your body shifting slightly in your sleep, and he froze. He didn't remove his fingers, but ceased his motions...as if pausing could erase what he’d just done. He watched you closely, heart pounding, waiting to see if your eyes would open. If they did, he told himself, he’d just say you two had dozed off like that. Just a sleepy accident.

The lie formed easily in his mind, but the weight of it hit hard. He had never lied to you before...and now, standing on the edge of it, he felt something bitter twist in his gut. Shame crept up his spine, hot and sharp, settling in his face until his skin burned. But he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. He smothered the guilt with silence, burying it under the oldest excuse in the book: what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you.

As you pressed your backside against him, unknowingly in your sleep, he felt a surge of desire wash over him, replacing all guilt and shame with a primal, aching need. The pain in his groin became almost unbearable, and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything else except satisfying his craving for you.

Within the next few minutes he had rid himself of his underwear, lifted your leg and slowly began to sink his aching, throbbing cock inside you, only a little bit at first. The sensation was almost too much to bear, and he felt himself plunging into you over and over, his hips moving in a slow, rhythmic motion. His hand gripped the roundness of your ass, holding you in place as he thrust into you, his fingers digging slightly into your skin.

"Ah...fuck. Kitten, Im sorry..."

He bit his lip, trying to suppress a groan as he sunk himself deeper, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. The room filled with the sound of your bodies meeting, the creaking of the bed, and his ragged breaths. He could feel every inch of you, tight and warm around him. He wanted to savor this moment, to imprint it on his memory forever. He reached around, finding your clit with his fingers, rubbing in time with his thrusts. You moaned softly, still deeply asleep, arching your back to meet him.

"Mghn...S-sylus..."

He froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He was worried that you had woken up, that you would discover him inside you, and that everything would be ruined. He lay there, holding his breath, as he frantically thought of excuses, of ways to explain what was happening.

But as the seconds passed in silence, and you didn’t move, he began to ease—just slightly. He glanced over, searching your face for any sign that you were awake, that you knew. But your eyes stayed shut, your expression calm, untouched. Still lost in sleep.

You looked so docile, so innocent and soft with your mouth agape, small snores escaping your lips. He hates that he feels a rush of arousal looking at you in such a vulnerable state, peacefully sleeping in his bed.

He wondered if you were thinking you were having a dream, if your subconscious was responding to his presence inside you. The thought sent a thrill through him, and his cock twitched in your inner walls. Maybe you wanted him too? Even in your dreams?

As he began to thrust again, this time with a bit more force, he could feel the pressure building up inside him. The ache in his groin was becoming almost unbearable, and he knew he was on the verge of cumming. He groaned, the sound choked out of him as he struggled to maintain control.

But as he looked down at you, still asleep and unaware of what was happening, he knew he had to pull out. As much as he didn't want to, he couldn't risk finishing inside you. Surely you'd put two and two together when you woke up and he'd be caught.

With a strangled groan, he forced himself to pull out, his cock throbbing with the effort. He gripped the sides of your hip, holding himself up as he shot a hefty, sticky load of his cum all over your inner thighs. The sensation was intense, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him as he finally released the pent-up tension.

As he looked down at the mess he had made, he felt a pang of guilt and anxiety. What would you think if you woke up and found out what had happened? Would you be angry, would you be scared? He didn't know, and the uncertainty was eating away at him.

So he simply cleaned you up as best as he could, and when you awoke the next morning you were none the wiser. You did question the ache between your legs, but fortunately for him you simply chalked it up to pushing yourself too hard during the mission. Besides, your entire body hurt already. What was one more area?

He swore that would be the last time.

Except it wasn't.

You didn’t always spend the night, but when you did, it was usually because you were too tired to head home after a long day. Sylus would swing by and bring you back to Onychinus’s base without complaint. You’d shower, get comfortable, and eat whatever dinner he’d ordered the chef to make you—just like always.

Then the two of you would settle in. Maybe you’d watch a movie, maybe listen to one of his new records. It was an easy routine. Comfortable. Soothing.

Eventually, you’d get too tired to keep your eyes open, and drift off beside him on the couch.

Then he’d carry you to the bedroom—slow, careful, as if you might break in his arms. On the surface, it was about comfort. He wanted you to sleep well. To feel safe.

But underneath that was something more selfish. He wanted to test the limits. To see how close he could get, how much movement he could do before you would stir, how long his hands could linger on your skin.

Most nights, you didn’t even move. You stayed limp and warm in his arms, face tucked against his neck, breath slow and even. It should have calmed him.

Instead, it made things worse.

Guilt curled in his chest like smoke. You trusted him. Implicitly. You let yourself go completely in his care. And he hated how that trust made something coil low in his groin, thick with heat and desire to strip you down and plunge himself in your wet walls.

And that's exactly what he did. Night after night, he'd start carefully moving your underwear to the side, swiftly inserting the head of his hardened cock inside you, and fucking you until a creamy white ring of your juices formed around the base of his shaft. Touching your breasts, butt, and pussy in ways you'd never let him before. And just as he felt himself about to release, he'd quickly pull out, covering your soft skin in his cum. Sometimes it was your thighs, sometimes your back. He'd even gotten bold enough to do your face at one point.

To compensate for the guilt that gnawed at him every time he let himself fall into his dark cravings, Sylus had started buying you more gifts.

At first, it was subtle—a snack you liked, a book you’d mentioned in passing. But it escalated quickly. If you so much as glanced at something in a store window while the two of you were out, or paused a moment too long while scrolling on your phone, it would show up in your hands within days. Sometimes hours.

You noticed, of course. It was hard not to.

“Another one?” you’d ask, brow arched in amused suspicion as you unwrapped a new plushie, or a piece of jewelry that matched your favorite dress, or a gadget you’d casually mentioned needing just once.

When you asked him why he was suddenly giving you so much, he’d just shrug—casual, like it meant nothing.

“You've always been spoiled, why question it now?” he’d chuckle.

As if that explained everything.

And maybe it did. At least, enough to keep you from pressing further.

Because to him, each gift was a way to say I’m sorry I touched you too long, I’m sorry I wanted more than I should, I’m sorry I’m not being honest. I love you so much.

It was his way of trying to be good for you.

Even as the craving got harder to ignore.

Yes, even a simple yawn from you was enough to get him rock hard now.

He found himself unable to stop. Would you really blame him if you found out? You must clearly want it too...the way your body greedily sucked in his cock, squeezing around it like a warm, wet vice. It was as if your body was begging him not to pull out, to keep going, to keep giving you more. Every time he thrust into you, your muscles would contract, holding him in place, and then release, allowing him to slide back out, only to repeat the process again. It was a sensual, intoxicating rhythm, one that threatened to consume him whole.

And the soft little whines you made when he was stretching you out or when he pumped into you a little harder than he meant to drove him absolutely crazy...

He'd promptly cease his movements, gently shushing your little noises while he waited for you to calm.

"Im sorry, baby. I didn't mean it, stay asleep for me," he would coo, his voice a soft, gentle whisper, as he gazed down at your sleeping face. He would pause for a moment, his chest heaving with desire, as he struggled to control his own needs. But then, with a quiet sigh, he would resume his movements, his hips slowly rocking back and forth, his cock sliding in and out of you with a smooth, gentle rhythm.

As he moved, he would continue to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, his words a soothing balm to your sleeping form. "Just need to see you covered in my cum one more time..." His voice was a gentle hum, a vibration that seemed to resonate deep within your body, as he continued to pump into you.

He did this for several weeks, reassuring you whenever you began to grow concerned at the continued ache between your legs. Of course, you'd trust him. Relax after. He'd feel terrible but he'd tell himself it was for your own good. You just felt too good. Too soft, so warm.

Tonight was no different. You both were watching a new movie in his home theater this time, when you promptly yawned. Immediately he felt his breath get shallow, and his pants get tighter.

“Tired, kitten?” Sylus asked, his voice lower than usual—rough around the edges, like he was holding something back. He reached for the remote and shut off the screen, the soft click echoing in the quiet space between you.

You nodded through a sleepy stretch, arms lifting lazily above your head before collapsing into your lap.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes already heavy. “We never finish these movies. I just…I don’t know. I’m always so tired now.”

There was a faint furrow in your brow as you said it—genuine regret, like falling asleep beside him was some kind of failure.

He leaned in without hesitation and kissed your forehead, slow and deliberate. His lips lingered there a moment longer than they needed to, soaking in the warmth of your skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for being sleepy,” he said softly, slipping one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “You’re welcome to come back and finish it any time.”

You didn’t respond.

He was rock hard now.

As he rose to his feet with you cradled in his arms, your body melted into him completely. Your head dropped to rest against his collarbone, lips parted in the beginnings of sleep. He felt the small puff of your breath against his neck—warm, steady.

Halfway down the hallway, he glanced down at you.

Out cold.

He smiled. There was something in your face when you slept—unguarded and soft. Your lashes fluttered faintly, cheek pressed against the curve of his chest like you belonged there.

“They must be working you to the bone,” he muttered to no one, voice barely audible.

Unfortunate for you.

But for him…

You felt incredibly wet and tighter tonight. He'd boldly set you on your back this time, not wanting to miss a single facial expression or noise. Even if it meant being more gentle than usual. He watched greedily as your breasts bounced up and down with his movements. He leaned down, hands on either side of your head, trying with strained effort to quiet his groans.

"How am I ever going to stop doing this to you? You feel so good," he hissed through his teeth, his voice a low, tortured whisper, as he struggled to keep his gentle rhythm. His cock was buried deep inside you, and with each thrust, he felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge. The sensation of his tip grazing your cervix was almost unbearable, threatening to overwhelm him.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched in a fierce effort to hold back, but it was no use. The feeling of being inside you, of being surrounded by your warm, wet flesh, was too intense, too addictive. He couldn't get enough of it, couldn't get enough of you. And as he looked down at your sleeping face, he knew that he was doomed, trapped in a cycle of desire and pleasure that he couldn't escape.

His hips moved faster, his thrusts becoming more urgent, as he chased the sensation, as he sought to prolong the pleasure. And with each stroke, he felt himself getting closer, closer to the point of no return, closer to the moment when he would finally succumb to his desires and let go. "Hah...gonna cum...," he growled, his voice a low, animalistic snarl as he felt his orgasm building.

"Mmmm..."

As you began to squirm under him, your eyes peering open just a bit, but still not enough to be considered awake, he felt a surge of panic mixed with excitement. Were you waking up? He should stop, he knew he should, but he couldn't. He was too close, too caught up in the moment, too desperate to cum inside you.

He leaned in closer, his large body encasing yours, his warm breath whispering against your ear. "Shh...I'm almost there baby...don't wake up..." He pleaded, his voice a low, husky whisper, as he tried to calm you down, to keep you from waking up and discovering what was happening.

But you whine, sleepily grabbing onto his arms, your hands wrapping around his biceps like a vice. You clearly aren't aware enough to even realize what's happening, and he takes advantage of that, using it to his benefit. He continues to thrust into you, his hips moving faster, his cock pounding into your wet flesh with a relentless rhythm.

As he looks down at your face, he can see the faintest glimmer of awareness in your eyes, but it's not enough to stop him. He's too far gone, and he knows that he's going to cum inside you, no matter what. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Fuck..."

As he pushes as far as he can go, his hips stuttered, jerking forward with a mind of their own, as his cock pulsed, throbbing with the intense force of his release. As he came, he felt his cock unleash a torrent of cum, wave after wave of it flooding into your body, filling you to the brim. A wave of relief crashed over him, drowning out the relentless hunger that had been gnawing at him all night.

As he looked down at you, Sylus noticed you were starting to squirm again, your body shifting slightly under the covers. You were clearly on the verge of waking up. Your brows twitched, your breathing changed, and your fingers gave a small, unconscious twitch.

Thinking quickly, he moved to wrap himself around you, encasing your body in his arms in a way that was both protective and possessive. His chest pressed against your back, one arm curling securely around your waist, hand resting just beneath your ribs.

You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering open for a brief moment—glazed, unfocused—before slowly slipping shut again. He felt your body melt against his, the subtle tension in your shoulders and spine easing as sleep reclaimed you. Your breathing evened out. You relaxed fully in his grasp.

Relieved, Sylus allowed himself a quiet breath of his own, feeling the tension in his body begin to dissipate as he gazed down at you. He looked down to see the remnants of his cum slipping down the trails of your thighs, a warm, sticky liquid that glistened in the dim light.

He would definitely have some explaining to do when you woke up...guess it was time to buy that cart full of items you'd been begging for...

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simporado · 3 days ago

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no because I need Jinu to be a house husband and running like five different Huntrix fan accounts while the girls are being superstars

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simporado · 3 days ago

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I just can't stop thinking how Kpop Demon Hunters would've been amazing as a 2 season mini series with 13 episodes each..

Like just imagine Gwi-ma and the Saja Boys plotting some type of shit every episode, and the girls always save the day...

Meanwhile, every episode is full of banter between Huntrix and Saja Boys every time they clash during awards, variety shows, interviews, etc...like just imagine Zoey and Mystery Saja being asked to host MAMA together, or Mira being called up on stage along with Romance Saja & Abby to announce a winner of an award..and Rumi and Jinu doing one of those dance collabs special performance..ALL THE WHILE THEY'RE LITERAL ENEMIES &, SECRETLY FIND IT INFURIATING BUT BOTH SIDE ALSO CAN'T HELP BUT ENJOY E/O COMPANY.

Also Jinu always flirting with Rumi amidst their fights in every episode 😏 + Zoey and Mystery Saja having cutest interactions every time, and everyone else has to remind them they're supposed to hate eo 🥹

The other Saja Boys becoming more tame and humane with the more time they spend in the human realm, and they begin questioning their actions, and it slowly begins gnawing them from the inside..

Like walk with me!! The potential is crazy good! 😩🤌

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simporado · 3 days ago

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(source)

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simporado · 6 days ago

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“Have you been eating pineapple?”

The question was sudden and so jarring that you blinked open your eyes, startled. Sylus peaked up at you from between your plush thighs; his mouth and chin sticky with arousal, vermillion eyes almost swallowed by the pupils, but there’s amusement alight in them.

Your fingers, which had been running freely through his soft silver locks, froze. They remained tangled at the roots, tugging enough that he’d notice, but he didn’t seem to mind the slight discomfort.

“Wh-what makes you ask that?” You ask, perplexed but on alert.

Sylus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he dipped back to where he was making out with your dripping cunt. His tongue laved a path from your pulsing little hole to your swollen nub, deft fingers spreading you apart for his feasting.

He murmured softly as his lips latched onto your clit and drew the bundle of nerves as far into his mouth as was humanly possible. It was like a firecracker was sent off in your brain with the pleasure that spiked through you at the action. Your spine bowed off the sheets and only a firm hand spread across your stomach brought you back to the mattress.

“Sy—fuck—answer m-me!”

With a far too smug smile, he lifted himself back up until his chin was resting on the soft yield of your lower abdomen. Idly, he swiped long fingers through the wet evidence of your arousal that saturated his cheeks and licked them into his mouth, tongue curling lewdly around the digits.

“Isn’t it obvious, sweetie?” Sylus purred. “I can taste the difference.”

Your cheeks warmed until they were hot enough to cook eggs. He couldn’t be serious… but he was. Your thighs struggled to clamp shut—an impossible task with the hulking man firmly wedged between them—and you wailed in dismay.

“Why are you struggling, kitten? I like it… you’ve always tasted sweet, but now there’s a sharp bite to it, just like when you decide to mouth off like a naughty little minx.”

He gnashed his teeth playfully, eyebrows wriggling and only then could you see the humour in it. Laughter bubbled in your chest until it spilled up and out. Sylus grinned wolfishly and repositioned himself for another course.

“We’ll be here a while,” he crooned, “I do have to get my five a day, after all…”

an: a silly little thought that popped into my head 🤦‍♀️ also, just to say, there is no evidence that pineapple changes your taste down there but it’s a fun little myth to write about.

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simporado · 6 days ago

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third tempo

tags: yearning, handjob, unprotected piv sex, sylus gets shot (he's fine), physical hurt/comfort, alcohol mention

The bows trill low; the waltz begins.

Tonight is balmy, early summer, and the darkening sky still has violet curled around its edges. There are no clouds tonight; instead the air is filled with snatches of music drifting out of an open window. Above, stars gaze down at this world with their cold, impenetrable silence.

Sylus would know. He's spent a lot of time up there with them. But although he traversed them extensively, plundering the worlds surrounding them left and right, they never told him what he really wanted to know. What he was really looking for. They just blinked at him, silent. Those stars became his ever-present company as he travelled in his stolen space ships, one even lonelier than the company filling the ballroom below him.

Sylus surveys the scene under the chandeliers and thinks of that distant past.

If he squints his eyes just so the golden lacquer coating the pillars rising to support the upper balcony look like a mountain of coins; the people twirling around in ornate dresses and glittering suits become the gems, ever-shifting in the flickering candlelight. Plush armchairs, sofas, paintings in gilded frames. The eye jumps from one treasure to the other, and that's not counting the jewelry adorning necks, fingers, and wrists.

Your presence completes the scene, and there Sylus doesn't want his vision to blur anymore. He intends to drink his fill of you whenever he is able.

And you look especially beautiful tonight, here under the gleam of the chandeliers. The open-back dress you're wearing accentuates your figure perfectly, as he knew it would. Whenever you move your muscles shift, throwing soft shadows on the planes of your back, and Sylus isn't the only one who looks at you tonight.

It's the price he must pay in order for you to accept his gifts. If it's for a job, a mission, a deal, you'll wear the dresses he sends you, the heels he wishes he could put on for you, gems around your neck that he'd like to see you keep on while wearing nothing else. On any other occasion you refuse his presents.

You have plenty of excuses; you don't want to be indebted to him any more than you are, you can't accept such extravaganza from anyone, you dislike wasting money on pretty things that serve no real purpose. As if you deserve anything but beautiful things to surround yourself with. As if Sylus ever expects anything in return for his gifts save for the pleasure of giving them to you.

But that's not the real reason. Sylus has been watching you very carefully, trying to untangle this new beloved version of you. He can feel you skirting around the truth. If you don't want to tell him, that's fine. He'll find out one way or another eventually.

For now, it means that he's resigned himself to sharing the vision of your naked back with the undeserving public.

The song ends. The dancers scatter to the sidelines, helping themselves to expensive champagne and finger-food. You mingle with the crowd, slowly making your way to the stairs and then, finally, you look up at him and catch his eye.

Sylus tilts his head, one eyebrow raised. You give him a nod, then move up until you reach the upper floor. Sylus is already there, waiting, one hand outstretched for you to take.

“I don't think anyone saw me,” you tell him, fingers curling in his. “I left it where you told me.”

“Good,” says Sylus. He checks his watch; old, vintage, a hobby project gifted by the twins. Five to midnight. Kieran and Luke are positioned outside, ready to quietly follow the tracker's signal as soon as it starts moving. A little treasure hunt—and Sylus does so love treasure. Especially so when it comes with the added bonus of ridding the world of another miserable sack of shit.

He reaches for a glass and presents it to you; you accept it with a half-smile. “What now? Are we leaving?”

“Would you like to?”

You take a sip of your champagne. “I'm not tired, if that's what you're asking. Either way is fine.”

“Then would you like to dance?”

“In these heels?” You laugh a little, but when Sylus coaxes you with him to where the upper balcony leads to an outside one, removed from the immediate vicinity of the degenerates below dressed up in their pretty suits, you don't resist.

You let him take your hand and place it on his shoulder—then flinch when his other hand touches the bare skin of your back.

A step forward, a step back. There is an invisible line. He knows it's there. He wants to cross it. Some days he thinks you'll let him, and then, suddenly, you pull away. He never knows just what spooks you, what causes you to flinch, to hesitate, to hover, warily. Ill at ease.

Sylus works very hard to keep from frowning. His hand hovers just over your back, close but not touching. He looks at you. Waiting.

You reward his patience. You swallow, and your shoulders untense. You lean back a little, pressing into his hand lightly, and Sylus exhales. His thumb strokes carefully, gently, over your spine, and then he starts swaying.

One, two, three; front, side, back. The balcony doors are wide open, letting through enough of the music to keep an easy pace. You were the one who introduced this pastime to him, so long ago. Now it's Sylus who takes the lead; when he lifts his arm you go with him, stepping, then spinning, and back again. Front, side, back.

These rare, precious instances of happiness, of wholeness, of the past repeating the present repeating the past, are ones where Sylus feels—in so long—content. No matter the skittish look you gave him last week. No matter the invitations you sometimes accept, sometimes refuse. No matter that you avert your eyes when he holds your gaze for a little too long. You're smiling, now, and the world is good. When you stumble—these heels , Sylus—you do so into his chest, and Sylus holds you against him longer than necessary.

“Steady now, kitten,” he teases. “Have you forgotten how to land on all fours?”

You huff, squeezing down on his shoulder. “I think you can be a little more generous given how you've handicapped me tonight.”

Sylus' brow creases. “Are the shoes not to your liking? You said they felt comfortable when you put them on.”

“That's because they're made for looking pretty, not for sneaking around backdoors of secret crime syndicates.” When you see the face he's making you smile a little. “Don't worry. They're not hurting me.”

Sylus nods, but internally the brand name of your heels has already been crossed out on the list and replaced by another, one that will be subjected to even greater scrutiny when browsing online reviews.

“Sylus.”

“Hm?”

“Come on,” you tug at his hand when he starts slowing down. “Why are you stopping? Aren't you always the one telling me I can take it?”

He does, it's true. His adoration for you couples with unshakeable belief that you can do anything. Accomplish anything. Whatever you desire, he believes you will find a way to get it. You're so strong, and so smart, and so beautiful. There's no reason for him to ever doubt your abilities.

But that doesn't mean he will ever allow you to hurt. Even by something as innocuous as the glittering heels on your feet.

He looks at his watch again. The twins have sent him the OK; they're on the move.

“Let's call it a night, sweetie.”

Your anticipatory smile falters, and you look away, letting go of his hand. A step back, again. Sylus lets you, mourning the loss of your closeness like he does every time you pull away. Had you really wanted to dance more? If so, you deserve to have a much nicer scene next time. Without the guise of a mission he'll dance with you as long as you desire, in comfortable shoes you pick out yourself.

You don't protest when he offers his arm to escort you outside. Perhaps you really are more fatigued than you let on; perhaps you're relieved tonight is over. Perhaps you'll let him take your heels off for you when he takes you back to the base, his fingers wrapping around your ankle, thumb pressing into your sole—

Sylus quickly tamps down the thoughts that immediately follow this last one.

He walks slowly, measuring his steps to yours down the stairs, through the doorway, over the crunch of the gravel path, all the way to his car.

Here, in the cool night air, away from the busy murmur of the party, he breathes. The music follows you outside, curling around your feet as though reluctant to see you go. When he gets home he knows just the vinyl he'll play. Something soft and melodic, so that if you want to sway with him again you can. On bare feet, on slippers, on top of his shoes...

He allows himself to get distracted in these plans. Tonight, by all measures, was a success. You wore the dress he bought for you, you smiled at him, and you danced with him. The tracker chip is secured. Soon enough the host of tonight's extravaganza will cease to be, and Sylus will get to see you and your fellow Hunters clean up the blood he leaves in his wake. A win-win-win all around.

Really—up until someone tries to assassinate him Sylus is having a great night.

He senses their presence, of course. But there's lots of people here, and you and him aren't the only ones outside. Also, he's busy. You're allowing him to stroke his hand along your back, to open the car door for you, to lean down and inhale the scent of your shampoo.

Besides—who would hurt him? Who can hurt him, apart from you? His pain is a privilege that belongs to you alone.

And so when a shadow passes behind his back he thinks nothing of it. He thinks nothing of it until your eyes widen and you shove him aside, violently, and he has to catch his balance on the car roof, turning around just in time to see you kick a man in the stomach. Hard.

Not hard enough: the man stumbles but doesn't lose his footing and, wheezing, lunges for you again. There's a glint of something sharp, cold and biting and not allowed anywhere near you, and Sylus’ Evol reaches out to stop it—but finds his assistance is not necessary. You wrest the knife-hand away and grab the man by the collar, forcing his face down while your knee comes up with a crunch and a cry of pain.

The man's hand instinctively flies to his face, but you don't let him recover. You have a blade of your own, tucked away against your leg in the holster Sylus had made for you, and you rip it over his throat.

The man gurgles, arms flailing, then slumps to the ground. Your hairdo has come loose, and you throw it over your shoulder with a flick of your head, catching your breath. There's blood smeared on your hands.

Sylus watches, mesmerized. Turned on.

He remembers to close his mouth.

“Ruined my dress. Asshole,” you bite at the soon-to-be corpse at your feet. Then you look up with wide eyes, like you're remembering Sylus is there, too. “Are you okay?”

“What sharp claws you have,” he murmurs, adoring. “I'm fine.”

You relax at his assurance and reach for the knife the assailant dropped. “Don't touch that,” Sylus says sharply, and grabs your wrist. He takes it with his Evol instead; through it, he can feel the poison coating the blade. It's a step up from bullets and the occasional grenade, but it appears his opponents continue to be horribly misinformed.

Good.

Sylus examines your hands carefully for cuts, but aside from drying blood he finds none. He thumbs over your calluses, then places a kiss on your knuckles.

“Let's get you cleaned up at home,” he says. When you stay quiet, looking at your hand in his, he gently squeezes your fingers. “Kitten?” You jerk and blink up at him, eyes coming back from somewhere far away. Now worried, Sylus frowns and asks, “Did you get cut? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you shake your head. “No, just thinking. Sorry. Let's go.”

Sylus looks at you for a beat longer and then releases you. He drives slowly on the way home; you're quiet, head turned away from him to look out the window into the dark. He can't see your expression.

He lets you have your silence until you get back to the base. The first thing he does is click a medical bracelet on your wrist and start a full body scan. The poison knife is put away securely to be tested later; Sylus would love to know what new concoction they've come up with to try and kill him this time.

But right now there are more pressing matters at hand. You sit down on the sofa with that same glum look on your face, and Sylus won't have any more of it.

“Tell me what's wrong.”

“Are you angry that I killed him?” you ask, eyes downcast.

Sylus blinks. It baffles him to think why you would come to such a conclusion. “Have I ever truly been angry at you?” he counters.

You shrug a little. “Just... you know. If he was still alive you could've asked him who sent him. Maybe he had valuable info.”

Sylus sinks down next to you, offering a blanket you can drape over your shoulders. He checks the bracelet; loading at 60 percent, no anomalies so far. “People like him know as little as possible to get the job done precisely to avoid situations like that. Besides,” he says, “I already have an idea who sent him.”

You nod, but you don't look entirely convinced. Or rather, you still look sad, and just like when you flinch from him there is this feeling of something-else. Sylus thinks of his hand, waiting at your back for you to press into. Of that split second where he's afraid you might leave him there, pulling away from him entirely. Disappearing. Again.

“What are you thinking?” he murmurs, half a question, half not. It’s something he wonders often. The few times you've resonated he can feel your trepidation, the tensing up of someone who's readying themselves for the incoming hurt.

He thought it was because of how he reacted to first seeing you again. His hands around your throat, the barrel of your gun against his heart. He scared you. He hurt you. He regrets it, deeply.

He has since given you space, time, holding out his hand, patiently, waiting and waiting and waiting until you're brave enough, curious enough, comfortable enough to sniff his fingers. Hoping that one day you'll climb into his lap of your own accord. To let him stroke you and pet you and kiss you like he's wanted to for so long. (So long.)

But even though you've let him come closer and closer the tension remains. You keep it tucked tightly against yourself, behind thick walls he doesn't try to pierce through. He won't force you again. But he feels enough, sees enough, to sense your conflict. To go or not to go? To say yes? No? Maybe so?

“I'm angry,” you say finally, and this makes Sylus look up from where he's absentmindedly taken your hand in his lap. “That this kind of thing happens. That this is your life. But then I—”

You fall silent, and Sylus squeezes your hand encouragingly. “Then you?”

“I don't know,” you mumble, faltering. You duck your head to avoid his eyes.

“Are you angry on my behalf, kitten?” Sylus says, and he smiles slightly. “I’m honoured. I was very impressed with how you slit my assailant's throat.”

You nod along with his words, but you're clearly not convinced. “Sorry, um. For being so violent.” Sylus blinks, and then he laughs—hearty and low. You're finally looking up at him, part relieved and part offended at his amusement. “It's not funny,” you protest.

Sylus wants to kiss you so badly his body hurts with it. “Sweetie,” he says, thoroughly enjoying the flush rising on your cheeks, “Why are you apologising? I'm finally starting to rub off on you.”

It's only fair. You've shaped his entire heart. His soul. He wants to—needs to—leave a mark in return. He tucks your hair behind your ear, eyes lingering on a particular spot on your neck.

“You sound way too happy about that,” you mutter.

“Do you dislike it?”

He would understand, if you said yes. This you is so different, changed by time and pain and circumstance. You don't enjoy killing. You criticise his work, heavily, even when you come back to him again and again. But your occupation isn't all sunshine and rainbows either. He knows this. He knows you've killed before, that tonight wasn't your first.

He wishes it had been. He wishes he could have witnessed that first death and held you in his arms after. Whether you were sad or angry or proud, whatever you wanted, whatever you needed. He hopes that you didn't suffer by yourself when he wasn't there. That you never had to suffer anything while he was still looking for you.

“No,” you say carefully. “But I don't like feeling like that.”

“Tell me.”

“Like...” You've clasped your hands on your lap. The bracelet beeps at 100 percent; no injuries, no poison detected. Sylus can breathe again. After this, a shower. The blood smears on your skin are bothering him. “Being so angry, I guess. He tried to kill you, and I wanted him dead. I wanted to kill him.”

Sylus’ heart swells with something like hope. “It won't be the last time,” he says gently. “After all, you're keeping company with a bad man like me.”

He watches you cautiously. He's leaving the door wide open for you. You can come and go as you please. He'll do anything in his power to keep you returning, but ultimately, you'll have to step through the door on your own feet. One, two, three.

“But you're not,” you say simply.

“You're full of surprises tonight,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Okay, well. I did think that you were bad at one point. Which, by the way, that was kind of on you.” You give him a pointed look and Sylus smiles, even though you might as well have driven a knife in him. He knows. It hurts to remember what he did. He'll take this pain along with everything else you're willing to give him. “But I haven't thought that way for a long time. I thought you knew that.”

“I didn't dare presume.”

“You can dare to presume a little.”

“Don't you think that's a little dangerous?” he asks, voice low. “I'd rather you tell me, instead.”

You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders. “I thought you could read minds. What do you need me to tell you anything for?”

You mean his eye? “I can only see so much,” he says. “Desire. Lies. Definitely not every passing thought.” And he would never use it on you again, anyhow.

Your eyes flick to his, down to his mouth, then up again. You wrinkle your nose, frowning, and turn away with pursed lips. “Maybe you should see an optometrist,” you mutter. Then, at normal volume, “Is it okay if I wash up here? The blood is starting to feel icky.”

“Of course,” Sylus says immediately. “You know where to find clothes.”

You unclasp your heels and leave him there, sitting on his sofa. Listening to the shower water run.

You decline his offer to stay the night. You have yet to say yes, but he keeps trying. He tells himself they're little reminders for you, just so you know that the offer still stands. That it always stands. Yes—reminders. Not his own desperation surging up his throat and spilling out over your feet.

The dance continues.

Sometimes a step forward, sometimes a step back. You disappear for a while after that night, and so Sylus has to content himself with watching you through Mephisto with steepled fingers pressed to his lips. He watches you work, eat, come home, and then the curtains are drawn shut. The line, materialised.

Sylus waits with hand outstretched. And every now and then, he holds out a treat.

He sends you flowers, balm for your aching feet, and an invitation to attend an orchestra performing Tchaikovsky. It's old music, fancy and obscure, a private performance for rich music snobs like Sylus except they don't have a private booth reserved year-round with the best seats in the house, and he does.

“Will there be any dancing?”

“No dancing,” Sylus tells you through the phone. “But if you want, we can dance after. They'll play a song I think you'll like—I have it on vinyl. The Waltz of Flowers.”

“Are we the flowers dancing to the music? When did your roots grow legs?”

“Just a few days ago,” Sylus says. “Since you've been so busy recently I had no choice but to grow legs so I could come see you.”

You laugh, and Sylus closes his eyes so he can better imagine the way your lips part when you do. “It sounds like you went through a lot of effort. You're making it difficult for me to say no.”

“So you'll come?” Sylus asks eagerly.

“Hmm. Should I?” you ask, but you're teasing him. You're not hiding the smile in your voice, and Sylus feels his heart lighten.

“Yes. You should. Or I'll have to do something more drastic. Perhaps I'll grow wings next.”

A beat, and then: “Alright. I'll come. I'll feel lonely if you fly away by yourself.”

Your tone has shifted a little, just enough for Sylus to pick it up over the poor reception ever-present in the N109 zone but not quite enough to place it. Surely you don't really believe he'd have any interest in flying if it meant parting from you? “Good. I'll pick you up so you can get dressed here. I ordered a dress for you. And new shoes—I had them custom fitted for your size this time.”

This time there's a longer silence. Sylus resists the urge to tap into Mephisto's channel so he can see your face. “You don't have to do that every time,” you say finally. “I have dresses of my own, you know.”

“You should wear whatever you like,” Sylus agrees. “I just want you to have options.”

“And if I show up in a suit? What'll you do then?”

“Then I'll make sure we match.”

“Mr. Qin, you really have an answer to every question,” you say with resigned amusement. “Okay. I'll be waiting for you.”

“So will I,” Sylus mumbles once the line goes dead.

When the day of the concert rolls around Sylus picks you up at the agreed time and, once you're back at the base, shows you the things he's prepared for you tonight: a dark dress that glitters like the river reflecting the night sky, with shoes and accessories to match. He's pleased to see your lips part in quiet delight once you set eyes on it.

“Do I want to know how much this cost?” you ask, then shake your head before Sylus can answer. “Actually, no, I don't want to know. I'd be too scared to wear it if you told me.”

Sylus tuts. “A few numbers are enough to scare you? Where's that famous Hunter courage I've heard so much about?”

You carefully remove the dress from the hanger, running your fingers over the silky fabric. “Strange rich men with their strange rich hobbies have no business judging people working normal nine-to-fives.”

Sylus arches a brow. “Strange rich—?”

But you're already stalking to the bathroom, and the door clicks shut behind you before he can finish his mock-offense. He takes the time to put on his own clothes; a simple suit with dark accents matching yours. The river and the stars. Reflected in your eyes they lose their indifferent coldness; as long as Sylus knows you're at the other end of them he can bear even their silence. When it comes to you he thinks he can bear anything.

“Um. Sylus?” You poke your head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly flushed. “Can you... Sorry. I can't get the zipper all the way up.”

...Alright, so maybe there are some things that are a little harder to bear than others.

Sylus ignores the discomfort in his too-tight pants and steps forward, gesturing for you to come closer. You do, gingerly holding the front pressed against your chest so the fabric doesn't slip. It's a sleeveless design that shows off your shoulders and arms; when you turn around Sylus sees the zipper is stuck just at your lower back.

His fingertips brush over your skin briefly, and you fail to suppress a shiver. His eyes dilate at the expanse of smooth skin before him. The soft valleys and ridges of your spine are begging him to leave behind marks. His teeth ache with want.

The zzzip is very loud in the quiet room.

“Thanks,” you say, a little breathlessly, and turn around. “Okay... Shoes. Where—?”

Sylus procures them silently, and you slip into them. “How do they feel?”

You take a few steps, testing your balance. “I think they can handle a Sylus mission or two.”

“Only two?” Sylus says, one corner of his lips curling up. “You're hard to please, kitten.”

He holds out his arm for you to take, and you squeeze down briefly. “You're so eager to find fault with the other,” you complain. “You should reflect on what this says about your lifestyle instead.”

There's something wrong with her.

Do you think about those words still? He hopes not. He fears yes. Sylus continues walking and holds open the door for you to step through. “I don't see the problem. You always keep up with me, after all.”

“That would be because it's do or die with you,” you say, ducking your head to get in his car. Sylus fastens your seatbelt for you, then gets in on the other side. He doesn't turn his keys yet, however.

“I don't die easily. And I won't let you, either. So doesn't that mean, as long as it's us—” Sylus reaches his arm out across the console, brushing his knuckles gently over your cheek, “we'll always make it through?”

A deep flush spreads from where he touched all the way down to your neck, and you quickly turn away from him under the guise of readjusting your seatbelt. “...You should start driving or we'll be late.”

Sylus pulls away with a hum, pleased, and drives you to the concert hall. The ride there is smooth, and soon Sylus is opening the car door for you again and helping you step out. The evening sky is starting to dim; faintly between the purples and blues Sylus can spot stars starting to peek out. Normally, on days where he doesn't see you, this is around where he wakes.

Just a little to your right is the concert hall, its evening lights washing the building in warm golden hues.

“Ready?” he asks, smiling.

When you open your mouth to answer him a gunshot rings out across the parking lot.

Sylus grunts in surprise and pain, abdomen tensing against the foreign object trying to pierce through flesh, and he pulls you away from the direction of the shooter, low to the ground, while the tendrils of his Evol shoot out to find whoever just fucking shot him.

Maybe he should reflect on his lifestyle. Or rather, maybe he should reflect on his tunnel vision whenever you're involved. He's never thought of himself as reckless; he's daring, yes, takes risks, loves the thrill, loves to play the stakes, but every move is thought through. Calculated. He plans—

—but you have a way of surprising him. One, two, three, and the cards reshuffle.

He's always had shit luck.

“Sylus," you say, voice high, "you're bleeding.” You rip off your gloves, pressing them firmly against where a bloodstain is very rapidly forming against his nice blouse.

“I'll be fine,” Sylus says, though he can feel the sweat collecting at his nape. It hurts. It always does. His body is already reacting, mending the torn muscles, urging the blood to clot and sending through new blood cells to stimulate the repair process. It pushes against the bullet lodged in his side, making the pain flare up and out like a flame licking over flesh. He grits his teeth.

Crack! A dent sizzles in his car door, way too close to your heads for comfort. You need to move. “Come,” Sylus says urgently. He half-crouches, half-runs with you to the other side of the car, shielding your body with his bigger one. Another bullet zips past him, grazing his cheek. Good aim. Shame they're using their skills for the last time today.

His Evol has found the shit responsible for ruining his very nice evening with you and quietly snaps their neck. He's not in the mood for theatrics today. He'll page the twins to pick up the body and find out who it was this time that wanted him dead so badly later.

And more importantly, how they knew where he'd be. Where he'd be with you, no less. The last thing he needs is for you to become their next target, because that would mean they've found the one way to actually hurt him.

“Get in,” Sylus urges you. He's panting; his body is working overtime, heart thundering to support the extra flow of oxygen to his wound. He needs to get the bullet out.

You climb in, knees knocking painfully against the console as you shift over to the shotgun seat to make room for him, and Sylus quickly follows. The car tires screech against the asphalt when he makes a fast turn, forcing the car into high gear to speed away. Where there's one, there's more, and he doesn't want to take any chances with you here.

“Sylus, oh my god,” you say, aghast. “At least let me drive!”

Sylus’ Evol pushes you back against the seat so it can click the belt in place, and then Sylus steps on the gas for real. “You can drive,” he says. “Once we're somewhere safe.” His voice is strained; it feels like his body's regeneration is both pushing the bullet out and pulling it back in, trying to recreate life around the metal in a way that is starting to hurt really fucking bad.

“You just got shot. Are you trying to bleed out behind the wheel? ”

“No, which is why I'll be needing a nurse in a moment. First aid kit in the glove compartment.”

You click it open and take the kit out after putting aside sunglasses, mints, two glocks, and several ammo casings. “I'm not a nurse, Sylus.”

“But you've got plenty of experience, haven't you?”

“Thanks to you, yeah,” you mutter.

Sylus presses the comm interface while he drives, eyes darting over the road to see if there's any other fools that want to die tonight. Luke picks up after one ring.

“Boss?”

“Ran into trouble. On the way out now, but I need eyes on this place.” Sylus sends the twins his coordinates and changes lanes; if there's still someone following you he wants to shake them before changing course and heading to one of his safehouses nearby.

“Got it. We'll be there.”

The line goes dead. “Pull over,” you say firmly. “ Now. I swear to God, if you pass out while driving and crash the car with us in it—”

“As you wish.” It should be fine—Sylus doesn't see or sense anyone following. He retracts his Evol with no small amount of relief and slows the car, pulling into one of the abandoned warehouses at the side of the road. The N109 Zone is riddled with these. They're wonderfully useful for all sorts of things; Sylus himself is partial to using them as smuggling sites, torture grounds, and, just like right now, temporary hiding places.

He exhales when the engine goes dead. The brief adrenaline rush ebbs away, leaving more pain in its wake, and it's now that he's starting to realise that the bullet in his body isn't a standard one. This one comes in the fun grappling hook edition, where once it finds purchase in the body it lodges itself in there with mean little pegs that dig into the flesh. No wonder his regeneration can't get it out. You're going to have to cut him open again, and something tells him you're not going to be any happier about it than you already are.

You're unbuckling your belt the second the car stops, leaning over and pulling on the pin that reclines Sylus’ seat with a jerk so it can serve as makeshift operating table. He grunts, eyes squeezing shut briefly.

“Sorry, sorry,” you say hastily. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to hurt. Hold still, okay?Gonna touch you now.”

Sylus turns his head and watches you cut through the blood-soaked fabric with scissors, ripping it open further when you can see the entry wound. “The bullet has hooks,” he says hoarsely. “You'll have to cut it out.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Wonderful.”

“I trust you.”

“Please tell me you have more than just painkillers in here.”

Sylus smiles a little, though it comes through more as a grimace. “I'm afraid you'll have to improvise.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter. You soak wipes in disinfectant and try to clean the bloodied area as gently as possible, but Sylus still hisses at the sting. “It's going to hurt a lot worse than this,” you warn, and he nods.

“I know. It's okay.”

“It's not fucking okay,” you snap, and Sylus closes his mouth. Then you deflate, sighing. “Just—here, bite on this. Tell me if I need to stop.” You tug his belt free and offer it to him. Sylus bites down on the leather. It tastes bitter.

The bullet isn't deep, but the knife cutting through his flesh is agony. Your brow is furrowed in concentration, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Sylus tries not to think of a time where he was the one holding the knife, clutching at his skull as broken pieces of himself grew back despite his best efforts.

“Almost there.”

Sylus breathes hard, nostrils flaring when you start to tug at the bullet. He can take it. This is nothing. He thinks of the pain on your face when his hand closed around your neck, and this is nothing. He remembers the years spent in a vast, endless river of stars, alone, and this is nothing. He's had worse. Everything, until you showed up, was worse.

The relief when the bullet is finally tugged free is so intense his eyes sting. There's blood absolutely everywhere, soaking your hands, his pants, the seat, the console. Courtesy of his body working overtime to supply the constant loss. His head feels dizzy. His jaw aches; you have to dislodge the belt by cradling his cheek, tugging the leather free with your hands. It comes out with deep, sharp teeth indents coated with saliva.

You hand him a bottle of water and painkillers, and Sylus drinks it down greedily. He's parched.

“Thank you,” he says once he's swallowed the last drop in the bottle. His body is exhausted, and he focuses his remaining energy on patching up the re-opened wound. The offending bullet is tossed carelessly to the side, and you bandage him with careful fingers. When you're done you slump back against your seat.

“Kitten?” he asks when you stay like that, silent, eyes closed.

Your eyes open slowly. There's blood smeared on your cheek. His. This time it doesn't bother him so much. “Don't make me do this again.”

Sylus looks at you, your beautiful, tired face framed by messy hair. The flutter of your lashes, the downward slant of your mouth. His beloved is upset. “Do you hate it that much?”

“No. Just don't get hurt.” You press your hands against your face. “I don't want to see get hurt.”

Your voice is tight, and Sylus’ heart squeezes. “I'll be as good as new in a few days,” he promises.

You lower your hands just enough that he can see your eyes. They're tinged red. “Does that make it hurt less?”

He deliberates his answer, but eventually, as always, settles on the truth: “No.”

You close your eyes again, hiding them behind your hands. When you remove them it's to wipe at your cheeks, and Sylus belatedly realises through the haze of painkillers and blood loss that you're crying.

“Sweetheart?” he asks, alarmed.

"I'm fine,” you say thickly. “I'm going to call Kieran to pick us up.”

Sylus watches you dial the twins silently. Your voice is quiet and tense, though no longer as frantic as when you were trying to press down on his side to keep him from bleeding out. Neither of you says anything while you wait, though Sylus doesn't take his eyes off you.

This is the first time you've shown him your tears. He wants to understand them. Stress? Shock? But you're used to this. You've been trained to be used to this—and this is hardly the first time you've played nurse for him. Anger he can understand; it's an emotion as familiar to him as breathing. And you are angry, he thinks—there's also just that elusive something-else. A smile that falters. A step back. Eyes tinged red, averted.

Sylus keeps mulling over it until Kieran arrives. He's feeling much better, if more fatigued, and he could probably make it home himself by now. You refuse. You tell him that if he dies after your hard work you'll resent him for the rest of eternity. Also you prefer riding in a car that isn't splattered with his blood.

Kieran serenely twirls his car keys around his finger, leaning against the hood while his boss and his boss’ beloved argue.

It doesn't take long for Sylus to give in. Not because your threat scares him; you'll already haunt him for the rest of eternity whether he dies or not. He just feels sorry for the night you've had so far, and guilty for the tears you shed over him. As Kieran helps him into the back he resolves to plan things more carefully next time. He'll take you somewhere remote for your next outings, places his adversaries don't know to look for. You told him not to make you do this again. He'll do what he can to make your wish come true.

To his surprise you climb in the back with him, holding out an arm for him to lean into. “Lie down,” you say. You sound tired. “You should rest.”

Sylus wordlessly complies. You don't protest when he puts his weight on you a little more heavily than he normally would, and you don't say anything when he takes your hand and laces your fingers together. If you'd asked, he'd have told you it helps with the pain.

The quiet hum of the car is peaceful. Kieran asks you if you need anything and you shake your head, and after that no one speaks until you return to the base.

Sylus realises barely two hours have passed since you left. It feels like much longer. His body is heavy, but he declines Kieran's offer to support him as he walks. You'll feel better seeing him on his feet by himself.

“You wanna go home after this? I can take you,” Kieran says. You glance at Sylus.

“Thanks, but I've got a patient to look after.”

“Okie-doke. Let me know if you change your mind. Luke's on his way back, by the way,” Kieran adds, jerking his chin at Sylus. “Got the guy. Didn't find anyone else there, but we'll keep looking.”

Sylus nods. “Page me with updates.”

Kieran salutes, then turns around on his heel and marches off, humming to himself as he does. Just another day on the job.

“You should lie down,” you tell Sylus once the two of you have watched Kieran disappear through the door. “You lost a lot of blood... Don't you have IVs here somewhere? I'll—”

Sylus stops you by taking your hand. “Stay with me,” he says.

You consider his demand. “I will if you lie down.”

Easily done. Sylus walks to his bedroom, your hand still in his, and carefully lies down on the bed. When he tries to pull you down with him you swiftly slip out of his grasp and instead start to unbutton his blouse. “You're getting blood on everything, you know.”

“Doesn't matter. I'll just replace it later.”

“Wasteful,” you tsk. Your eyes have gone dark again, quiet and thoughtful as your fingers slip the last button through its hole. You lightly fan your fingers over his naked skin. “It's so easy for you to discard things.”

Your mouth sets, suddenly bitter, and your touch disappears. Sylus watches you closely. Are you coming closer, or are you backing away? You're off-tempo, moving along to a rhythm he can't follow. “I just know how to distinguish between what's important and what isn't.”

Your gaze flits up to his for a moment, and then away again. What little he can glimpse is unknown to him. “Do you need help getting clean? Or do you want something to drink?”

“I want you to tell me why you cried earlier,” he says.

“You're a very demanding patient.”

“Well?”

You sigh. “The average person doesn't enjoy being shot at and then having to cut through someone's abdomen to fish out bullets in a car. Seriously, and you ask me to work for you. I'd quit after a day.”

"Does that mean you're still considering my offer?” Sylus asks, lips curling up.

You shake your head. “Didn't you hear what I just said?”

What Sylus hears is the bluster of a kitten caught in a corner, and none of it is an answer to his original question. He considers what you've told him so far. You don't want to see him get hurt. You wanted to kill the person that tried this stunt on him previously. You did kill him, in fact, and you're angry.

“Sylus.” He blinks out of his thoughts when you call his name, and he looks at you. You’re wary again. He wishes he knew why. “Did you know this would happen?”

He didn't expect this question; his brows rise, then furrow. “I didn't. I suspected there was a leak somewhere,” he says, “and tonight confirmed that. The good thing is that we can now trace who it is, and after that they'll be no more.” He takes the hand you pulled away, and you let him. “But I didn't know it would happen tonight.”

He does his best to sound sincere because he is, and he doesn't want you to think that he'd go through the trouble of involving you just for tonight to end the way it did. You're silent for a while, studying the hand holding your own. “You must have really rotten luck, then.”

He smiles. “You think so? Then what should we do? Will you share your good luck with me?”

“You can have all of it if it means people stop trying to kill you.”

Sylus’ breath stops for a moment. Your eyes are downcast, still on his hand cradling yours. Both are smeared with red. A blood pact.

As long as he's alive, this is one of the few things he can't promise you. There will always be people hunting him, and he takes this in stride. This is just his life. The bullet-proof windows, the base that is really more like a fortress, with locks and cameras and double walls and secret exits. The gun on his nightstand. Do you hate it?

“I'll start to think you care about me when you say things like that,” he says softly.

“I told you,” you say. Your voice is trembling a little. A step forward. “You can dare to presume a little.”

Sylus laughs—then winces, because ouch; the pain in his abdomen flares. He doesn't let it deter him. “Only a little? What else will you let me do?”

You open your mouth, then close it. You shake your head, already turning your body away from him, getting ready stand up, to leave. “We should talk about this some other time. Right now, you need—”

No, no. No. His hand waiting at your back. Your fingers digging into his flesh. You can't leave him now. Sylus tightens his grip on you. “Right now I need you. Tell me what you were going to say.”

“There's—I don't know,” you protest. But you don't tug free from him. “Sylus...”

“How else will I know?” he asks. “Tell me. Please.”

Tell me I can touch you. Tell me I can kiss you. Tell me I can take your shoes off for you, take your clothes off for you, tell me I can love you with my heart and my hands and my body.

“I already gave you all of my luck,” you chide. “And you still want more? You really are a greedy man.” You push the hair that’s fallen over his brow away with gentle fingers, and your voice softens. “Why are you asking me things you already know?”

He doesn't know. Or rather, he dreams. He hopes. He wants; a delirious, despairing desire. He's afraid. Terribly so. If he's too forceful, if it's too soon, too heavy, too much, you'll leave again. You won't pick up his calls, won't answer his texts. You'll disappear again, wink out like the stars glimmering on your bloodied dress.

You spare him from answering you by lifting his hand and pressing it against your cheek. It's the first time you've invited his touch, and Sylus burns with it. He dares to thumb over your lower lip, and you part them for him.

“Come here,” he says, low and beckoning and desperate, and then he waits. He waits then for your eyes to search his, waits for you to hesitate, to weigh your own stakes, and he waits for your lashes to flutter as you lean down, guided by his hand, and press your lips against his.

You're so very soft.

A groan rises in Sylus’ throat. You kiss him so, so gently. Your hand mirrors his, on his cheek, stroking so carefully over his jaw. Like he's precious. Like he's something to be cherished. You pull away much too soon and Sylus chases you, lifting himself from his lying-down position. You deny him by placing a hand on his chest. “Your wound—”

“Is fine,” he supplies, and tries again. You push down a little harder.

“No,” you say firmly, though the effect is greatly diminished by the flush on your cheeks. “Rest first. Please?”

Ah. The trump card.

Sylus sinks back into the mattress with an unhappy frown. “For how long?” How much longer must he wait? He has you here, now, and his side is mending up nicely now that the bullet is out. He could fuck you like this, if you'd let him.

The corner of your mouth ticks up. “Until you're all better.”

“My love,” he complains. “Must you torture me like this?” He expects a laugh; a teasing remark. You'll tell him that he likes it. That he deserves it. That it's your job to torture him, because who else will take him down a peg. That you're the only one who can do this. That you're the only one.

Why does he keep being surprised when you don't act the way he thinks you will?

You don't smile, and you don't tease. You lean down to press your forehead against his, eyes closed; your breath is warm against his lips.

“I was scared for you,” you say quietly. “And angry. I'm still angry. And that kind of scares me, too.”

He thinks he understands. “There's nothing to be afraid of,” Sylus says gently. “We're here together.”

You draw back far enough to look into his eyes. He looks back into yours. Then, finally—a smile.

“Okay.”

Sylus relaxes. “Kiss me again,” he says. He tucks your hair behind your ear, stroking gently over your head, your ear, the back of your neck. This is torture, too. Having you hover so close, noses brushing, breaths mingling. The sweetest kind. When he reads the hesitation on your face he adds: “I won't move.” Then once more: “Please.”

You oblige. You kiss him with your soft lips and your sweet breath and a shiver when you sigh into his mouth. Sylus does as he promised and stays still, although his hand presses gently against the back of your skull to keep you from pulling away just yet.

When he bites at your lip you make a little noise that has his cock twitching and he presses you into him a little harder, coaxing your mouth open with his, giving you his tongue and inviting yours in return. You whine, a high, needy sound he files away carefully, and he digs his fingers harder into your hair.

“Sylus—” you try to say against his mouth. He swallows the words and pulls you into another kiss. He's breathing hard; so are you. You've fisted your hands in his ripped-apart blouse, fabric bunching between your fingers.

“Wait, wait,” you say, and this time he reluctantly lets you go. “We should—slow down.”

“Do you want to?” he asks. He enjoys the way your eyes drift down his neck as he speaks, his Adam's apple bobbing around the words.

You push yourself upright from where you'd been leaning over him. “It's not about wanting. It's about not hurting you.”

“I'm feeling great,” he says with no small amount of cheek, because he is feeling great. This night is working out wonderfully for him. No matter the blood, or the bullet, or the ruined date. Who cares about a concert when he can hear you making sounds straight out of his dreams? “I'm sure I'd feel even better if you kept going.”

You laugh and poke his cheek. “Why are you making me be the responsible one here? Is this what blood loss does to people?”

“No,” he sighs. “This is just what you do to me.”

You shake your head, smiling. “We should get cleaned up first. And change clothes. And sheets, probably. Also, you need an IV, like, yesterday. I'm worried your wound will get infected.”

“Then at least stay until I recover fully.”

You give him a look. “You know I have work, Sylus.”

“Not tomorrow you don't. And may I just say that Onychinus offers excellent work hours? Very flexible. Working remotely is an option, too—”

Exasperated, you clap a hand over his mouth, but you can't stop the smile from tugging at your lips. “Okay, okay. Enough. I'll stay.”

Satisfied, Sylus licks your palm and laughs when you yelp and snatch it away.

You clean each other up.

It's foreign and a little odd, to be cared for like this. To have you peel off his socks while he lies on his bed, skin damp from the rag you used to clean the blood away. You help him into clean, comfortable clothes, and then do the same for yourself. Sylus watches with dark eyes as you turn your back to him, unzipping your dress and letting it pool at your feet. He traces the curve of your ass, your thighs, and thinks of his big hand splaying out over your flesh. Squeezing. Holding. All his.

It takes a little more coaxing for you to sleep next to him, but Sylus is quickly finding out that he's not the only one with weaknesses. You falter when he says my love. Your mouth softens when he says I need you beside me. You stroke your fingers through his hair when he asks you to touch him, and you curl up like a kitten at his good side when he dims the lights.

“I'm not hurting you, am I?” your voice says in the dark.

“Quite the opposite.”

It's quiet for a while, then. Sylus lets himself drift comfortably, anchored to you where his fingers lace through yours. Your warmth presses against him like a perfect puzzle piece.

He is content like this. Watching your breath even out, chest rising and falling slowly. You've put on one his shirts, much too big for you, and it slips over one of your shoulders. He ignores the way his cock stirs at the sight. There'll be many more nights like this, many more opportunities to have you here every which way in his bed wearing things he's carefully collected in a locked dresser.

He slips in and out of dreams, of memories, of wants and needs. In between that line of waking and sleeping he'll feel for you, squeezing your hand, assuring himself you're still there, and then his body's fatigue pulls him under again.

When he wakes for real he's dismayed to find the bed empty.

Sylus pushes himself upright. His side throbs, but it's muted. He knew you'd do a good job. He stretches to test his range of motion and flexes his fingers, Evol dancing forth with a crackle. His reserves aren't back up to full yet, but what has been restored is buzzing, new and alive and impatient to move. To be used.

He's just about to swing his legs over the side of the bed when the door opens, and you step through holding a glass of water and a bowl of something that smells warm and sweet.

“Good morning,” he says.

You still in surprise, lips parting, and then you're hurrying over to him. The bowl and glass are placed on his nightstand, and you push against his shoulders. “You shouldn't be up yet,” you frown. “Lie down. Rest some more.”

Sylus goes with your touch, but not without pulling you onto his lap. You flail, hands and knees pressing into the mattress so you don't put your weight on him.

“Sylus—”

“Is that for me?” he asks, glancing at the dishware.

You settle for placing your palms on his shoulders, looking down at him from your seat. “Maybe. Only obedient patients who listen and rest when they're told get my special recovery oatmeal.”

Sylus laughs. It doesn't hurt much anymore; just a dull throb. He drags his hands up your bare legs and squeezes at your hips. “Really? Then tell me. Have I been a good boy?”

You flush. “Let me check your injury first.”

Sylus gestures with his hand. “Be my guest,” he says, amused. He already knows what you'll find, and then you'll tell him what he wants to hear. One way or another. You shuffle back on your knees and peel away the bandages, chewing at your lip. Your gaze darts up when Sylus brushes a thumb over it. “Don't bite,” he says. “That's mine.”

You sputter, half-heartedly smacking his hand away. “That's—well—stop that. Let me focus.”

The blush has spread from your cheeks to your ears, but otherwise you make a valiant attempt at appearing unruffled as you inspect the entry wound. You keep your teeth from your lip.

“...Your body really is remarkable,” you say. You gaze at Sylus’ skin, looking fresh and new and pink. On his side sits a puckered scar that on any other person would have taken several weeks to form; tomorrow, there will be no trace left that it was ever there. “Does it hurt?”

“Barely.”

Your shoulders relax, and you give Sylus a real smile. He drinks it in greedily. “Good. I'm glad.”

“So?” Sylus asks. “Am I your good boy?”

You laugh a little, hands fanning out over his chest. It feels so incredibly good to have you touch him. “Yeah,” you say, amused. “You're a good boy, Sylus.”

Sylus’ hips buck up instinctively; he can't help it. A groan is trapped behind his teeth. “Then give me my reward,” he demands.

You look down at him, cheeks flushed, smile fading into surprise and arousal. “The oatmeal? Let me—”

“Forget the food,” Sylus says impatiently. “I want you. Kiss me. Touch me.”

For a moment you look like you want to argue with him, but then you lean down with a shaky exhale and press your lips to his. He bites down on them like he said he would, and you make a needy sound that immediately has him doing it again. You taste so sweet, lips sliding over his own, letting him palm your skull to kiss you deeper. You're still hovering over him, so his hands move to your hips, lifting you over his clothed cock and pressing down.

You gasp into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “I don't know if—I don't want your wound to reopen.”

“Is that the only reason?”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “You're overestimating my self-restraint.” You lean down and kiss the corner of his mouth. “If I didn't have to be so worried about you I'd let you do whatever you want. But I am worried. So...”

Whatever he wants. Sylus is going to make good on that promise to the fullest extent possible. Your concern is endearing, but it seems like you're the one who's overestimating his self-restraint if you keep saying things like that. If he can take whatever he wants he'll take it all. Everything.

“Doesn't hurt,” Sylus says, voice rough. He bucks his hips up again and groans when your nails dig into his chest. “I'll tell you. Trust me?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, and finally you stop resisting when he coaxes you down again. “I do.”

Sylus hums into the kiss. It's a pure sound, a relief, a want, an invitation. This is what he needed. This is what he's been needing for lifetimes.

He palms your thighs, digs his fingers in your flesh when you rock against him, and drinks from you. You shudder against him, making wanton little sounds in the back of your throat that encourage him to press harder, kiss deeper. The shlick of spit against spit is loud and wet in his ears; the good kind of drowning. His cock aches, the friction of your clothed cunt against his sweatpants sending little zaps of pleasure through his body. You said whatever he wanted. He wants more.

He slips his hands under your—his—shirt and groans when he realises you're wearing nothing under it. Your skin is hot to the touch, soft and toned. His strong Hunter. He runs his hand over your naked back, and you don't flinch from him. He presses his fingers against your spine, swipes down, and you arch against him when he grips the fat on your hips.

You break the kiss, saliva clinging to your lips, and press your forehead against his shoulder. His name, moaned softly in his ear. You rock against each other while your wet little mouth slides over his neck. He hisses in pleasure when he feels teeth against his pulse. “Yes,” he rasps. He threads his fingers through your hair, pulling you against him. “Again. Harder.”

You bite down and Sylus shudders on a gasp turned moan. His other hand roughly palms your ass. He's leaking, rock-hard and aching, and he breathes your name when you nip his ear.

“Still okay?” you ask breathlessly. You push yourself up, resting your weight on your forearms.

He laughs. His pupils have dilated fully, and his teeth feel sharper than normal. Your scent, your arousal, is thick in his nose. “More than okay.” He dips both hands back under your shirt. “Can I take this off?”

You lift your arms in silent assent, and Sylus sighs when your skin is bared before him. Yes. Finally. Everything. He tugs at your shorts. “This too.”

You have to sit back for that one, swinging your legs over his for a moment to shimmy it off. You hesitate when it's just your panties left, eyes flicking to his, and then, cheeks burning, you slide those off too. You hold his gaze while you do, and Sylus swallows.

“Yes,” he says.

Yes. Everything.

His Evol neatly catches your underwear when you drop it, tucking it away somewhere you can't see. You crawl back over him fully naked, a little shyly now, like he isn't about to bust with just the sight of you on hands and knees over him. He moans when he feels you settle back into his lap. You're wet enough he can feel it through the dark spot on his sweats, and his cock twitches again when he wonders how much of that is yours and how much is his.

He kisses you again, palming your breasts, and he marvels at their softness, how perfectly they fit into his hands. You mirror him, hands traveling over his chest, down his stomach, fingers playing with the faint white hair trailing down his pelvis as they go. You pause when you reach his waistband. “I want to touch you, too,” you murmur. “Can I?”

Sylus lifts his hips, and you help him slide down the clothes you put on him just hours ago. You sit there on your knees in front of him, gazing down with dark eyes. Your hand reaches out tentatively, feather-light, and you stroke over his leg.

“Acceptable?” he asks, lips curling up.

You smile, too, face soft and open, and a weight swings loose in Sylus’ chest. You could ask him for anything right now. His money, his men, his bike, his card. The world. His eye. You could take a knife and cut out his heart and hold it in your hands, and it would only be right.

“Do you really need me to tell you? You know what you look like.”

“I want to know. Tell me what you see, when you look at me.”

You lean down and kiss his abdomen, carefully, just a little to the side of his entry wound scar. “I see someone who is strong and proud and beautiful,” you say against his skin. “On the outside, too. Every part of you is.”

Sylus brushes the hair out your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Come,” he says softly. “Come here.”

You go, settling yourself across his lap as you were before. The silken heat of you right on top of his most sensitive parts is divine. He watches you open your mouth, spit in your hand, and wrap it around his cock, and that's about where the hindbrain takes over the wheels and he stops thinking about anything else.

Your hand is warm, callused, wet. You work him slowly, squeezing down gently while you swallow down his ragged breaths with wet kisses until he has to clamp down on your wrist to stop from coming.

“I want to feel you,” he rasps. “Can I? Inside?”

You whine against his mouth. “I want to. I want to, just—don't wanna hurt you. Don't want you to hurt.”

“I know,” Sylus says roughly. “I know. My sweet girl. You're not hurting me. Really. I promised you.”

“Okay,” you say, finally, a whisper against his cheek. “Okay, Sylus. I want you.”

That's all he needs. Sylus reaches down and works his fingers in you, curling and stretching and languishing in that wet heat, burning with the anticipation of feeling it elsewhere. Of being inside you, of sharing himself with you as deeply as possible. To become one being with you again, two halves of the whole, for a little while.

You tremble above him, fingers digging into his hair, rocking your hips against his touch. “Good,” he encourages. “Good girl. Perfect for me. Shall I make you come like this? Just like this, on my fingers? I can feel how tight you're getting. Just a little more. Good, yes, just like that...”

Your body gives out on you with a choked moan. You collapse on top of him, pulsing around his fingers, and Sylus works you through it until you go limp and swat at his arm for him to stop. He puts his arms around and squeezes tight enough for his side to hurt.

“More?” he noses against your hair.

He can feel your laugh more than he hears it. “Impatient,” you tease, and Sylus snorts. Can you really blame him? He's waited so, so long, and he's been so good all this time. He thinks he's allowed to be a little impatient.

You push yourself up with still-trembling arms and reach behind you, line his cock up with your sex, and then you sink down slowly. Sylus’ fingers squeeze your thighs hard enough to bruise. He grits his teeth. It's like sinking into a hot bath, wet and warm and welcoming, except this bath squeezes down on him like a tight little vice and pulses against his cock when he shifts. He wants to roll you over and mount you, fucking you into the bed until you forget everything but his name, but you told him he's a good boy. He'll stay like he is now, indulging your worries and your concerns. He'll make you come on his cock as many times as you let him to make up for it.

“Doing okay, sweetie?” he manages, brushing over your cheek. You're panting, eyes gone a little glassy, and his hips buck without thinking. You whimper when he does, eyes squeezing shut.

“'M okay. You're just— ah. You're huge, holy shit, give me a minute—”

Sylus would laugh, but it's all he can do to keep from fucking up into you. Instead he circles his thumb over your clit to encourage you to take him deeper until you finally sit down on him fully. His head nudges against your deepest spot, and every time you so much as breathe it sends pleasure up his spine like lightning.

You start moving, slowly at first, then faster, aided by his hands and his hips. He kisses you messily, hungrily, biting down on your neck, your shoulder, right over that little spot that's always been his alone to have. He claims what is new and reclaims what was lost. Everything that's his will always be his. He'll never let you go after this. He's never losing anything ever again.

He keeps touching you, stroking your sides, your breasts, your hips; your clit, too, until you begin to shake and your movements start to falter. “Sylus,” you moan against him, sweaty forehead pressed against sweaty forehead. “I need—please, little more? Feels so good, you feel so good—”

Sylus wraps his arms around you and presses you flush against him, drawing up his knees. He moves his hips again to fuck you for real, now, the slap of flesh against flesh loud and wet. He grows rougher as his pleasure builds, teeth sinking into your skin, eyes wild, a low rumble in his chest. His side throbs as an afterthought, but it's washed away by the feeling of your body curling around him, clenching, straining, that soft heat burning through his restraint until he's coming with a desperate whine high in his throat. He rolls his hips without thought, reduced to the animal want of release. He buries it deep inside you until eventually his breath evens and you slump into the sheets, together.

Sated.

Sylus breathes. He turns his head and presses kisses where he can reach: your hair, your temple, your nose when you lift your head to look at him. You kiss him, too, gently on his lips, then his cheek, down to his neck where he asked you to bite him. His marks match your own, a trail of teeth down your neck, your shoulder, and your chest.

“My love,” he murmurs.

“Was that okay?” you ask him. “How does your side feel?”

“Perfect. Let's do it again.”

You laugh and quickly slip away from him before he can try to roll you over. And let your oatmeal get cold? Absolutely not, you tease him.

He eats; you clean up. He coaxes you back into bed; you agree, as long as he holds you and you get to pick what you watch.

You never have made him an offer he can refuse.

The bows trill low; the flowers dance.

Sylus gently releases the tonearm. The flutes pick up with a slight crackle through his record player; then they're carried away by the violins. He hums along with first notes, off-key, then turns around to hold his hand out for you.

“I like it. Is this what you were taking me to hear at the concert?” You put your wine glass down on the table and drift over to him, placing your hand in his. You're barefoot, wearing his shirt again, and it keeps sliding off the shoulder no matter how many times you readjust it. You've refused offers of other (appropriately sized) sleepwear.

Sylus draws you closer, placing one hand on your lower back and dipping his head down for a kiss. It's impossible to stop doing it now that he can. “Correct. Though you are by far the loveliest flower partaking in this particular waltz.”

You laugh, resting your head against his shoulder while you sway together. One, two, three, slowly and off-beat.

“I couldn't let you be the only one who grew legs out of roots. I have to keep up with you somehow.”

Sylus hums. “I'd never go without you, beloved. We dance together or not at all.”

You curl your hand over his heart. “...It's going to take some time for me to get used to you calling me that.”

“That's alright,” Sylus murmurs. “I've got time.” As much of it as you like. Everything you can't accept yet will be here waiting for you until you do.

He, too, can wait. As long as you let him hold you like this in the meantime he thinks he can bear a little more patience. And then, when you're ready, he'll tell you how much he adores you. How much he needs you. He thinks you already know, but he also knows his kitten is skittish.

That's alright, too. He's happy to keep holding out his hand and let you come to him. He'll show you over and over that you don't need to flinch from him. That for all the violence and anger that soak his hands red he will still cradle you in them gently.

You stay there, swaying together in the dim evening light, long after the waltz has ended.

220 notes · View notes

simporado · 6 days ago

Text

It takes you a while to accept Sylus’ praise.

He notices this, of course, because each time he offers it you get this little crinkle in your nose.

As if you are wary of seeing it as real praise. He doesn’t take offense, no of course he doesn’t. He’s had time to come to terms with the current situation he has been presented with when it comes to you.

You don’t remember him. Not your past lives nor the childhood you two spent together. As hard of a pill as it was to swallow, Sylus tries to look at it positively.

As odd as it sounds. He’s been given a third chance at winning your heart all over again.

It may have started off rocky, he had let his emotions get the better of him during that initial meeting. Then continued to stew on it during the days he held you “captive” in the N109 Zone.

Of course you wouldn’t be all that accepting of his praise. Granted, the hostility had stemmed from both sides. Looking at it with a clearer head, Sylus recalled how stand offish he came off to you. Especially since you had known him as nothing other than the leader of Onychinus.

He equated it to getting mad at a feral kitten for scratching him when he attempted to pet it. So, he worked on reigning things back. Swallowing his own upset in order to truly regain the trust he craved so dearly.

“You did very well, kitten.”

And there it was again. The hesitance in your eyes, the slight scrunch of your nose, and the wary “…thanks.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, he made the bed so he’d just have to sleep in it. “I mean it.”

There was the smallest of tremors in his tone, one he prayed you’d miss. “Are you alright?” He should have known better. Of course you’d pick up on it.

“Yes, sorry. Something got caught in my throat.” But you weren’t satisfied with that sort of response.

“Did I do something wrong?” And Sylus swore he could fall to his knees then and there. Your eyes, the eyes he had loved through countless lifetimes, seemed to see right through him despite everything.

“No, nothing at all, kitten. It’s…” but he trailed off, it was so unlike him that you stepped a little closer. “But it’s something.” You murmur, a hand on his forearm.

“You don’t trust me yet.” Sylus starts, he’s always been straight forward. There is no reason to stop now. “I understand our relationship can be a bit touch and go. We didn’t really make great impressions on each other in the very beginning but…” he looks away, inhaling deeply.

“My praises for you are genuine. The way I’ve come to care for you is also genuine.” Truth is, he never stopped. “I can see that hesitance in your face whenever I praise you.” And you feel like your chest is frozen, full of air you can’t seem to exhale. You had hurt his feelings.

“Sylus, I’m so sorry.” And his mouth immediately opens to hush you but you keep talking. “I have been guarded, and I know you can’t blame me for that. But the least I could do is give you some grace. You’ve been nothing but kind to me after we got over our differences. Your reputation proceeds you, just as I’m sure mine has proceeded me.”

You swallow, tightening your grip on his arm. “Thank you, Sylus. For the praise. For your faith in me. For continuing to help me despite my difficulties.” And if he could have kissed you stupid right then and there? He would have.

“Thank you, kitten.”

934 notes · View notes

simporado · 6 days ago

Text

Crow family Pt. Timeout

Luke and Kieran in their timeout corner

MC, walking past them: Don't move from there, you both are in timeouts.

Sylus: She put you both in timeout? Wait. I'm gonna talk to her. Nobody puts my boys in timeout.

Later

Sylus, standing with the twins: How much time did she give you?

Luke: 20 minutes.

Kieran: 10 minutes.

Sylus: I got an hour!

616 notes · View notes

simporado · 10 days ago

Text

Katsuki Bakugo doesn't do dates.

Not the scripted kind. Not the candlelit, violin-playing, champagne-glass-clinking sort of nonsense you see in films Mina makes you all watch during sleepovers. He scoffs at the idea of roses and reservations, says it's "pretentious bullshit" with a scowl that could make thunder tuck tail and run.

But you see the truth behind his fangs — that nervous energy he hides behind explosions and eye-rolls, the way his hand lingers on yours half a second longer than it should, the almost-painful softness in the way he says your name when no one’s around to hear.

So when he asks you out — or, well, grumbles it out between gulps of water after sparring — it’s clumsy and awkward and laced with too much heat. You find it romantic honestly.

“Y’wanna... go out or somethin’? Like a date. With me. Don’t make it weird.”

And now here you are, in the golden cusp of a late afternoon, standing in the middle of a quiet, open field just outside the city, wildflowers tangled around your ankles, the sky cottoned with soft clouds, and Katsuki Bakugo — real, raw, and gloriously unsure of himself — beside you.

He didn’t bring flowers. He brought you to them.

No restaurant. No crowd. Just this — sun-warmed grass, cicadas humming low, and the hush of wind as it passes over the backs of your knuckles. He’s carrying a paper bag full of hand-packed food: grilled teriyaki rice balls, cold soba, a tiny container of strawberries he swore weren’t for you but placed right in your lap anyway.

“You don’t gotta say anything,” he mutters when you sit on the picnic blanket, cheeks pinker than dusk. “Just eat.”

But you do speak. You thank him. You laugh when he mutters that the blanket’s too small. You tease him about the fact he made heart-shaped tamagoyaki “by accident.” And he fights his smile the whole time, gaze flickering from your lips to the skyline like you might disappear if he looks at you too long.

Somewhere between bites and shy glances, you fall into a rhythm. He starts talking — not about hero rankings or strategy drills, but about things that make his voice drop to a quieter key: the way the stars looked on his first solo patrol, the dream he had once where his hands didn’t explode but bloomed into fireflies, the fear of loving someone so much that it makes him weak.

You tell him it doesn't. And for a while, he believes you.

By the time the sun begins to dip, and the world turns syrup-soft and violet, he’s lying back on the blanket, arms folded under his head, a ghost of a grin on his lips. You’re beside him, watching the sky fade into stars. You don’t say much — and you don’t need to.

Because in this quiet space, where wildflowers grow and the sky turns soft as breath, Katsuki Bakugo is not the grenade boy or the top hero-in-training or the storm that others fear.

He’s just a boy. With his heart in his chest, laid bare.

And maybe — just maybe — it’s starting to bloom.

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simporado · 10 days ago

Text

sylus doesn’t posture like most alphas do. he doesn’t need to. there’s something in the way he watches you from the corner of a room—silent, calculating, hungry—that reminds everyone he’s top of the chain without him saying a word.

he doesn’t like people getting close to you when you’re in heat. he tries to act rational. logical. but you feel it, that flicker of tension in his scent, how he holds your wrist a little too tight, his pupils dilated like he’s trying not to lose it.

“you smell like you need me,” he murmurs once, voice a low rasp in your ear. “don’t you?”

ultra possessive in private. in public, he’s your quiet protector. in private, he’s pulling you into his lap, scent-marking your throat with slow, open-mouthed kisses. whispering how sweet you smell, how good you are when you let him take care of you.

surprisingly gentle. even in rut. his instincts scream at him to claim, to leave marks, to breed you full and watch your belly swell, but he holds back. every time. “you’re mine,” he says, “but only when you want to be.”

likes to scent you before bed. sometimes it’s soft, nuzzling your neck with sleepy kisses. other times? it’s messy, intense. rutting against you, growling as he rubs his slicked-up scent glands all over your chest and inner thighs.

he calls it safety. you call it obsession.

he doesn’t purr, but his chest rumbles when he’s close. like distant thunder. especially when he knots you.

“you make me lose control,” he admits, teeth grazing your mating gland. “i don’t know what i’d do if someone took you from me.”

that’s not a threat. that’s a warning.

his first rut with you

he knew it was coming. the signs were there. his scent sharpening, his muscles aching with tension, his thoughts growing foggy with need, but he didn’t expect it to hit this hard. not with you here. not with you smelling so sweet.

“go,” he warned you. “leave now.”

you didn’t. of course you didn’t. you just blinked up at him, scent shy and soft and so heartbreakingly omega, “i want to help you.”

that’s what broke him.

the moment you touched him, it was over. sylus snapped.

his mouth found your scent gland before he even realized what he was doing. open-mouthed, hot, almost frantic. like he could breathe you in and calm the storm in his blood.

“omega,” he growled ruined. “mine. you’re mine.”

he was so careful at first. trembling hands, soft apologies, like he was scared he’d hurt you. but then you whined and it triggered something primal.

his restraint shattered.

the bed creaked. your thighs were pinned wide. he was everywhere—mouth, hands, scent—leaving you gasping and soaked with slick and sweat and desperate for more.

“you smell like heaven,” he said, knot already swelling. “don’t move. i need to—fuck, i need to breed you.”

it wasn’t rough. it was consuming.

he knotted you with a low groan, burying his face in your neck, and whispered the kind of promises only an alpha in rut could make,

“i’ll keep you full for days.”

“gonna take care of you forever.”

“no one else will ever touch you again.”

and then he kissed your forehead like he hadn’t just ruined you with instinct and obsession.

“you’re too good to me,” he murmured. “even now.”

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simporado · 12 days ago

Text

Under Your Skin

Masterlist | AO3

Tags: 18+, Nsfw, Smut, Oneshot, Female!Reader, Timeskip!Bakugou, Pro Hero!Reader, Explicit Sexual Content Frenemies to Lovers, Sharing Physical Sensations, Phone Sex, Masturbation, PiV sex, Jealousy, 5.8k

When you and Dynamight get hit by a quirk that forces you to share all your physical sensations, you learn a bit too much about the bastard… and yourself.

There’s a throbbing in your head, and your arm, and your neck. And when you finally start to regain consciousness, you feel there’s an even worse throbbing resting on your legs. Something weighted, pressing you down, only when you open your eyes do you finally realise—

It’s Dynamight, Bakugou, Katsuki— whatever. Splayed out so you're trapped underneath the lug of him. He starts to wake, and you see that as enough reason for him to be off, so you kick out and try to stand.

“Oi.” He groans, gripping onto your ankle before you can kick him again. “Stop that.”

“Get off me.” You don’t listen and try to whack him anyway. It’s the wrong response, he just grips harder.

“Fuckin— alright!” Bakugou scowls, his head clearly still pounding as he tries to move.

You pull away from him, shifting against the rubble and attempt to take in your surroundings.

“Are you guys okay?!” A sudden brightness interrupts your vision, Red Riot, standing over the two of you, practically shouting.

“Yes!” Both you and Bakugou hiss back, ears ringing at the sudden volume.

“Took quite the fall there.” Kirishima reaches out to help you stand. Already sensing Bakugou ready to jump, he quickly adds “Don’t worry! We caught the villain. Everything’s fine, just gotta get you two checked up.”

Bakugou stands on his own, refusing Kirishima’s hand, which the redhead just shrugs at. Instead, you thank Kirishima and let him assist you to the paramedics.

Though the extra stability helps, your legs still ache and you watch Bakugou try mask a similar struggle. His teeth clench with each hobble and you feel a little bad, reaching out to him in pity… but you miscalculate your own balance and find yourself falling to the ground, scraping your knee against the concrete, hard. And that’s when something odd happens.

Bakugou hisses out in pain too.

He actually clutches his left knee, where yours bleeds. Really the pain isn’t anything new, nothing compared to what you’ve taken before, but for Bakugou to react to it.

The two of you lock eyes, for far too many seconds, not saying a word.

Then quickly and without warning— you both begin to hit and punch at your own bodies, looking for something . Kirishima watches, baffled, clearly having no clue at what the two of you are doing.

“Close your fucking eyes” Bakugou orders and you listen, scrunching up. “Kirishima hit me.”

Kirishima doesn’t even get the opportunity to challenge as Bakugou demands him again to comply. Before you even hear the noise Bakugou lets out, you feel a hard fist thump into you.

“I can feel it.” Your eyes snap open and you gasp, raising your left arm. “Holy shit. I can feel it.”

Bakugou stares back at you, eyes equally as wide as yours.

You both shout simultaneously—

“FUCK!”

After patching you up, the health team run a few more tests, mostly just tapping away at random parts of your bodies and taking notes on your reactions. All it really does is confirm that yes, you and Bakugou Katsuki are sharing an entire nervous system. Down to each breath you take.

And because of that, you’re both given (forced in Bakugou’s case) two weeks off, trusted to deal with the quirk’s effects sensibly, like adults— heroes, should.

It's quite strange, feeling parts of yourself move in ways they aren’t, but it isn’t the absolute worst. The smaller things, like the action of walking, are easy to ignore. It’s mainly the random pops of his quirk that gets to you, but even then it’s just a little twitch.

The first time he showers, however, you let out a shriek. It’s completely cold and although you know there’s nothing on you, you feel drenched to the bone.

You call him instantly and he laughs into your ear.

“Fuck am I meant to do?” He snorts. ��Not shower?”

“You could’ve at least texted!” You huff, shoving your key into the lock. “I was still on the way home, the whole street heard me scream.”

That’s what really gets him going, laughing so loud he drowns out the sound of his shower still hammering down in the background. His laugh is so rambunctious you don’t realise he’s walking back in, until you feel the waves of icy cold water crashing over you, again.

“Katsuki!!!”

You’re lucky enough that Bakugou is meticulous, obsessive even, with a routine that never seems to waver. You’re quick to follow it, countering his insane 5am showers with your own warm and comfortable ones.

He did text you once about it though, telling you to “Turn the fucking heat down,” and spamming some jabber about you being a “Damn demon” from the “Depths of hell.”

You also find he’s absolutely restless. When he isn’t pattering about cooking— you assume from the heat, or paperwork— you can tell by the familiarly repetitive motions, he’s exercising. All the damn time. It’s a little condescending actually. While you spend your break how it should be spent, being a lazy fuck, he’s up and doing too many crunches to count. And what’s worse is that you can more than feel the lunges and squats, it actually tires you out. Even though you know you won’t reap any of the benefits, you have to lay down and catch your breath.

The first time you texted him a stern “I’m going to sleep. Don’t do anything to wake me up.” But by the third day it seems he’d figured out your routine and was surprisingly respecting it.

Maybe you give him too much credit.

Too hot. Everything is too hot. You’re not even awake enough to realise it’s your own skin that burns harshly, blood pumping wildly through your veins. Instead you go to kick off your blanket and attempt to roll out of bed.

And that’s when you feel it.

It’s fucking bizarre . Although there’s nothing there you can feel exactly where a dick should be. You can feel how his hand slides up and down. You can feel the knot in his stomach. Everything is too real.

You pray to yourself he’ll remember that his body isn’t just his right now! That you can feel each stroke of his thick fingers moving up and down. But he doesn’t stop, in anything he gets a little faster.

Then comes the second sensation. The feeling is unmistakable. It’s a warm, wet, human mouth. Around you— or the phantom appendage— sucking gently and that’s when you know you have to stop it.

It's pretty hard to walk, when you’re practically being sucked off, but you manage to grab your phone and dial his number furiously.

It rings once, then twice, and by the third time you know he’s ignoring you because the mouth stops and he smacks his own thigh, in turn yours .

The mouth resumes, and you’ve had enough. Grabbing your keys, trying your best not to keel over, you’re set on getting to his apartment, which for the first time you’re glad is actually nearby.

The drive is torturous. Really, you know you shouldn’t be driving at all, not as you have to grip the steering wheel tight, in fear if you let go you’d spasm wildly. Whoever Bakugou had on their knees, was doing a really good fucking job. The bastard was seeing heaven while you were trying your very best not to land yourself in hell, because of the sin of mass murdering late night pedestrians you only just swerve by.

Even the sporadic pinches to your thigh don’t deter him, instead he returns them with his own. All you can do is curse and hope the ceiling caves in. Or maybe the floor under him opens up— better yet if his dick were to entirely explode.

You’re utterly winded when you do finally reach his flat, knees nearly having buckled on the stairs up. When you get to his front door, you slam down hard.

“Katsuki, open the fucking door.” You knock without restraint, not caring for the neighbors. “I swear to god if you don’t-“

The door opens just as you're about to thrash it again, almost having you topple in. You catch yourself, of course, but Bakugou snorts at the sight.

“You couldn’t wait a fucking week?!” You shout before he can speak.

You look at him, shirtless, skin flushed and dewy. His sweats hang low, just barely fumbled on, revealing the sharp muscles under his skin, and a little trail of light brown hair that you have to force your eyes to stop following.

If you weren’t so mad you’d probably enjoy the sight. That somehow ticks you off even more.

“You seriously came all this way?”

“You weren’t picking up your calls!” You huff. “And it’s not like you forgot about the quirk.” You gesture wildly to your thigh, probably purple from all the pinching. “You prick!”

“And what do you want me to do.” Bakugou gives you a look of annoyance, as if he was the one inconvenienced. “Stop everything because of you?”

“Yes?!”

Bakugou then takes a step forward, suddenly looking taller. He towers over your form, with an intimidation you’re not often on the other side of.

“Tough shit princess.” You feel the words against you. “Just ‘cause you’re not getting any, doesn’t mean I’m not.”

You have to hold your tongue, clench your fists, and tense your arms, just so you don’t push him. Even without the quirk you were sure he could probably sense the anger building inside you.

But then a thought hits you.

Without saying a word, you slip your phone out your pocket and dial a number. Bakugou watches, confused but slightly curious.

The phone only rings once before the call is picked up. Your face lightens animatedly, losing its scowl and turning into something dramatically sweet.

“Izu…” You practically coo. “Are you free tonight?”

Bakugou’s face immediately drops at the name.

“Mhmm…” You hum. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

You’re sure Bakugou can hear the man on the other end fluster but agree to what you’ve not-so subtly proposed. You give him a smug look before continuing.

“That’s good to know…” You give Bakugou a smile, just to be dramatic. “I could wear that dress you really-“

You’re cut off as Bakugou grabs your wrist, pressing end call and glaring at you.

“You wouldn’t.” He growls.

“Oh but I would.” You smile back, making sure to bare your teeth.

The two of you come to a standstill, waiting for the other to break the silence. It’s actually Bakugou who speaks first, finally yielding.

“Fucking fine!” Exasperated, he huffs. “Fuck, I’ll send her home.”

The smug look on your face comes to a quick halt as a realisation dawns upon you.

“I don’t know her do I?” You grab him and ask with genuine dread. “Katsuki, tell me I don’t know her.”

He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, enjoying the sight of you panicked.

“Katsuki!!”

“You don’t.” He waves you off. “Just a hookup.”

That surprises you. “Didn’t know you do hookups.”

“Didn’t know you were fucking Deku.” He spits it out like a slur. You’re not quite sure why though, you could’ve sworn they’d gotten over their childhood beef.

“I’m not.” You shrug. “But I could.”

Bakugou runs a hand through his hair, defeated and ready to kick the girl out. It’s a bit awkward now that you think of it. Neither him nor whoever was in his room right now had… gotten their release.

Not enthusiastic about watching him break a poor girl's heart, you turn to leave, it’s at the exact same time Bakugou goes to return, and brushes his— still very much sensitive— dick against the door.

“Shit.” You gasp as your legs jelly. It’s like a punch to the gut, sending shockwaves through your stomach.

Bakugou catches you by the arm before you can fall, then sighs.“Come inside. You can’t drive home like that.”

You follow him in, not making a fight, as if you could with the way your legs had weakened. You’ve been to his apartment before, many times, but mostly with others. So you’re not sure why there’s a sudden tension that doesn’t feel like frustration anymore. You just hope Bakugou can’t feel the way your tummy continues to flutter.

Bakugou returns, and there’s a twitch of something green in your chest when you see the women beside him. You don’t mean to stare, she’s decent at least, but you can’t help it. You try not to acknowledge that one of your first thoughts is to compare her to yourself, and feel disappointed at the lack of similarity.

You stop mentally analysing her when she shies away from your gaze. She looks guilty. And although, yes the situation is mortifying, you’re not sure why she looks so terribly remorseful. If anything it’s you that should be apologetic— and Bakugou most certainly.

She squeaks out a quick “Sorry” alongside a “I didn’t know” as she gathers up her stuff. Then she glares straight at Bakugou and flicks him off. That’s when it registers.

“Oh god no, not his girlfriend!” You correct quickly. “Definitely not the girlfriend.”

You don’t notice how Bakugou’s resting frown deepens.

The woman looks perplexed, but decides not to question it. You hear Bakugou give his own apology as he takes her to the door, attesting to the fact he wasn’t cheating. Still you feel a little bad watching her leave.

“Make sure to call her back and explain okay?” You’re a moralist, what can you say.

“Shut up.” Bakugou groans, making his way to his open kitchen. “Catch.” He throws you a bottle of water, still cold from the fridge. “Drink and rest a bit.”

You eye him cautiously. Why is he showing courtesy now.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Bakugou huffs, then turns his head away. There’s an expression you just about catch, that seems kind of… does he feel bad?

And for some reason that just makes you feel sheepish. Enough so that you have to turn away and focus on your water instead.

“Thought you were asleep at first.” There’s foreign sounding guilt in his voice. “And the quirk should’ve worn down by now.”

“Well it hasn’t.” You scoff, pointing a finger directly at him. “Don’t pull any shit like that again.”

Bakugou keeps to his word. He doesn’t fuck— or half fuck anyone else. Instead, his workouts become harsher, his routine now erratic. You can’t keep countering his cold morning showers, when he’s taking three a day and going straight back to the cardio as soon as he’s out. But you don’t dare ask him to cool it, you were the reason for all his pent up energy after all.

When your knuckles start to ache due to his new found interest in boxing, he at least has the decency to text you a blunt sorry.

“Don’t you have any other hobbies you can waste your time with.” With your phone lodged between your head and shoulder, you scold him. “I started cooking— ah !” You hiss as some oil spits at you.

“You’re lucky I’m used to explosions.” Bakugou snorts, amused. “You’re clearly doing a shit job, turn the fucking heat down.”

“Fuck off.” You turn the heat down. “My food’s gonna be perfect!”

“Hah, doubt it.”

“You can taste it yourself!” You say with a pop, licking some sauce that had gotten on your finger. “Already so good! You’ll see.”

You feel him suck in a breath but stay silent on the line.

“Why’d you call if you were gonna ignore me.”

“M’not.” His words come out a little mumbled. “Just, gonna go take a shower.”

“Oh!” You shove a lid onto your pan. “Let me get in too!”

He kisses his teeth at that. You don’t question why he’s annoyed.

The water hums comfortably over you. It’s nice and warm— not too warm, rather not risk another spam of texts— and it’s exactly what you needed after a day of dealing with Bakugou’s intense workouts.

You can vaguely feel his own cold shower under yours, but for the most part, the heat does well to cancel it out. You’re used to ignoring when Bakugou cleans his thighs. Even if you can feel his thick fingers like they’re actually on you. The same way the hot water counters his cold, you clean alongside him, to pretend all you can feel is your own hands. Brushing your fingers through your hair, you go through the rest of your routine. Making sure to thoroughly scrub at all your curves.

He’s out before you are, telling by the way your water suddenly feels much warmer. Your phone flashes from the counter, Bakugou texting you to hurry the hell up, and you take that as cue to finish.

You’re slow with your moisturising, slathering it on and massaging it into your skin. Bakugou pinches you through himself. You wonder why but ignore it and just get dressed.

He doesn’t text you again, instead feeling uncharacteristically still. Perhaps he’d gone to sleep? You snap him a picture of your dish anyways, if he won’t taste it he can get a good look at least. You’re about to dig in when a familiar sensation builds between your legs.

He’s— he’s fucking touching himself again—

Immediately, you go to text him, but his contact pops up first.

Bakugou [work]: It’s okay.

Bakugou [work]: It’s just me.

Bakugou [work]: Let me have this

You’re not even sure how to respond, but you do end up abandoning your meal and take seat on your sofa.

Me: it’s so weird

Me: I can feel everything

He spits on his hand, the wetness gross. Yet you can’t seem to hate it.

Bakugou [work]: you think I can’t feel you?

Bakugou [work]: soaping yourself up? Touching your fucking tits?

You’re lucky he can’t see you. You’d be embarrassed out of your mind. Maybe because it was nothing unusual to you, you had forgotten it would feel different to a man.

His text bubble appears once, then disappears and appears again. Finally he continues.

Bakugou [work]: just go to sleep if it bothers you so much

His hands still stroke himself but a little languidly, as if to give you option to ignore it. You don’t.

Me: how am I supposed to sleep if you’re doing that!

His hands still, you can just imagine his laugh.

Bakugou [work]: think of it like a massage

He starts up again.

Bakugou [work]: I can tell you like it

Your body betrays you and he knows.

Me: you’re an asshole

Just as you send the message you feel his hands thumb his tip and the sharp feeling of pleasure that comes with it. It’s embarrassing that your first thought is so that’s how he likes it.

Bakugou does it once more before returning back to stroke his shaft. The pace he sets is dangerously addictive. It works him up and in turn you. You’re almost keeling when you send your next text.

Me: Fuck it

He types again but you pay no mind, shoving your free hand down your trousers and brushing over your clit. You rub gently for a second but with your slick having gathered and spread, you realise it’s not enough.

A text flashes on screen as you press finger into yourself. You feel Katsuki tense.

Bakugou [work]: easy pr incess

You don’t go easy. Instead you rub at your clit faster, one finger still dipping into you. Katsuki pinches his thigh, which you ignore and continue.

Then your screen flashes a different image. A picture of Dynamight, ripped straight from your company’s website, his contact photo.

“Fuck-“ You sigh, picking up the call. “What is it.”

“You complain and then start touching yourself?” Bakugou accuses, not letting up his own pumps.

The faint slick noises in the background of his words, makes your stomach do flips. The sudden image of his cock wet and dripping now at the forefront of your mind. You don’t realise how your own moments get faster, but Bakugou does.

“Oi.” He pants. “Slow the fuck down.”

“Are you about to come?” You let out a breathy laugh. “So fast?”

The reply you get is a harsh pinch to your nipple, one that makes you arch a little. It feels good.

“Shit, you liked that?” Bakugou says, in a voice that practically speaks his smirk. He pinches again and this time you really moan.

“Stop it.” you whine, pushing your fingers in again, rutting against your hand.

“Why?” Bakugou does it again and again, making you push into your hand, deeper. “You— fuck— you really like it.”

“Katsuki.”

You feel a sharp tug of pleasure, from him.

“Oh…” you giggle. “And do you like it when I call your n-name?”

“Shut—“ he hisses, thumbing his tip, “—the fuck up.”

“Are you sure you want that?” You tease, touching yourself the way you know your body, and his, will enjoy. “Ka-tsu-ki.”

He only responds with a deep groan, something that edges a whine. You didn’t think you could get more turned on.

“Like you’re not getting wet when I talk to you, princess .”

Now that has your tummy twisting, stomach sinking with growing lust. Your body clenches around your fingers without permission, and you can’t even attempt to hold the moan.

“Shit,that made you fuckin’ squeeze .” He huffs, hands getting faster. “Ke-keep doing that.” He says as you work your fingers well. “Fuck . Feels so fucking good sweetheart.”

You comply, fully knowing you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. Each stroke of his, paired with your indulgence, just brings you closer and closer to—

“Kats’— I’m gonna—“

“Fuck, me too [Name], me too .” His breaths are erratic and so are the wet sounds of his cock.

It doesn’t take long for the two of you to come. Especially with how pent up he, and evidently you had been. It’s sort of magic, how you can feel the exact moment where the coil in him snaps, and how it dominoes onto you, forcing you to come with him.

So blissed out, it takes a while for everything to catch up with you. The same goes for Bakugou.

“We shoul…”

“Do you want to…”

You both start at the same time, and stop, embarrassed by what you want to suggest.

There’s silence that feels like it burns, you’re not used to the heat like he is. You need it gone.

“Can I come over tomorrow?”

As you drive the nerves start to rise. Perhaps it’s knowing you’re going over for sex . It isn’t like the random visits you’ve made before that end in you staying a little longer, this is specific.

You’re going over to have sex with Bakugou Katsuki.

Standing in front of his apartment you nearly turn back, his door somehow intimidatingly tall, too hard to knock.

You don’t get to run however, not when Bakugou opens it immediately.

He stands there, freshly showered, in only a tank and shorts. He looks fucking good.

“You just gonna stand there?”

“Shut up” You push past him and take off your coat. He watches, entertained by your familiarity and the polite way you take off your shoes and line them up neatly.

“Youre being weird” Bakugou observes. “Its just me”

It ticks you off a little how casual he’s being. As if it means nothing, that the night before meant nothing, that what you’re about to do means nothing.

“Oi, what is it?” Bakugou is quick to sense your apprehension.

“How are you being so normal about this,” you hiss. “do you even want to…” It’s hard to admit you’re nervous. “Do it…”

Bakugou looks at you, baffled. Which you return with a scowl. It’s like he can see the wheels turning in your head because before you can even open your mouth to speak, he's kissing you.

His mouth is warm against yours, surprisingly soft for all the venom that leaves it. It’s also surprisingly sweet, he kisses you like it would hurt to pull away.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he groans with the breath he takes. “All fucking day, Angel”

His hands roam and squeeze and when you place yours on him he almost whines. Mouthing at your neck, his fingers trail downwards, to cup you through your skirt.

“You think I don’t want this?”

There’s a second where he stills, asking for your silent go ahead, and when you push into his hands he takes that glady. His fingers rub over your underwear, easily finding your clit and pressing firmly. He feels it in him, how sensitive you are, and he has to take a breath to calm down.

Slowly you feel him pull away, and he has to gently shush you before continuing.

“Why are you teasing me.” You don’t mean to pout.

“M’not.” He hums, lowering down your body with kisses over your clothes. “Just let me taste you.”

He’s on his knees before you can dispute, pushing his way under your skirt and ripping straight through your underwear. Bakugou just nips at your thigh when you give him a reprimanding tug.

You’re swollen and wet, pulsing in front of his eyes. Slick clings to your folds and he stares at the way your pussy almost glimmers for him.

And when you look down, he’s his own sight to behold.

Dynamight, on his knees, flushed with kiss swollen lips. His hair is messy, sticking to his forehead, a debauched reminder of the moisture that clings to him. His eyes are blown out, only a small ring of red circling his glittering pupils. You can see all of desire in him. You think you could stare at him forever.

But Bakugou has never been a patient man, and he doesn’t let you any longer. He attaches his mouth over you without warning.

There isn’t the soft beginnings of timid kisses and shy licks, he is indulgent. Voracious in the way he eats you out. It’s selfish. He seeks his own pleasure through you.

“You like this more than me.”

He winks an eye open and then rolls it.

“If I knew this shit felt so good I’d do it more.” He murmurs before diving straight back in.

Knowing exactly how and where it feels good, Bakugou had been given the ultimate cheat sheet to a woman’s body. The first cheat sheet he was ever intent on using.

“Kats…” You still hold reservations, not wanting to admit you’re getting close. “If you keep…”

He moans into you. “I know.”

He speeds up, disregarding any of your pleas to slow down. You realise he wants you to come. All over his face, all over him . He doesn’t hesitate in making it clear that he’ll have you coming undone right here, right now.

You can feel it in your own hair, how tightly you pull on his. It's masochistic how that makes the coil in you wind even worse. Katsuki takes that as encouragement to continue.

It hits you quickly, and it’s embarrassing how you gush all over him. Without shame, Bakugou smiles into your still spasming pussy.

“Fuck.” Finally steadying his breaths, Bakugou groans. Still on his knees, you’re afraid to look down at the mess you’ve made.

“Did you…” you ask, feeling a little selfish.

“No.” He shakes his head, scrambling up to stand. “But I gotta be inside of you, now.”

Not another word can be said before he hoists you up onto his shoulder. You can’t even fathom the sudden change in height as he barrages through his flat and throws you, albeit gently, onto his bed. You nearly kick him at the audacity until you catch the darkening reds of his eyes.

Oh he’s going to ruin you.

Bakugou pulls off his shirt, body overrun with heat, and is on top of you almost instantly. His kiss this time is heavy and hot and everything but gentle. There’s something disgustingly erotic about being able to taste yourself on his tongue. It makes you crave him.

“In. Kats, in .” You can't even speak full sentences, only one thing on your mind. “In!”

“Yeah, okay— fuck okay” he huffs, pulling his dick out and palming it. Like the rest of his body, his cock stands with a pink flush. You’d call it pretty to tease if you weren't salivating at the sight. Instead you grab at him, to help line him up.

He holds it there for a moment. Just outside your pulsing entrance. You reach out to rub his arm, hoping to ease his hesitance.

It’s utterly confusing.

Feeling him enter you, from both your perspective and his. In fact it’s a little frightening. Neither of you can hide how much it fucks with your heads.Your eyes squeeze shut and you can feel his hands fist the sheet beside you. There's a wetness along your eyelashes, a stutter in his breath. It’s all too much.

A warm hand upon your forehead brings you back to reality. Katsuki pushes your hair out the way, and brings his lips down to kiss you. If you weren’t already in tears, you’d probably start crying all over again. It’s too sweet of a gesture. A kiss to the forehead. Something hidden begins to warm in your chest.

“Don’t…” You gasp. “Don’t fuck me like it means something.”

His expression shifts into something pitiful.

“You’re an idiot.” He says through kisses. “If you can’t see it, you’re an idiot.”

“What.” You whine.

“You think I don’t care for you?” Kissing a tear away, he explains. “You think I’d do this shit for anyone?”

“[Name]” He kisses off the pout that forms on your lips. “I fucking like you.”

Its like everything stops. Then everything bursts. Fuck . He likes you. The same way you’ve been pretending you don’t this whole time.

“Shit.” Katsuki recoils at the silence. “I shouldn’t—”

This time it's you who cuts him off from spiralling, kissing him and pushing your hips closer. He reaches deeper and though it’s so so much, you wouldn’t trade the feeling for the world.

The two of you are quick to find a rhythm, intrinsically linked and sickeningly pleasurable. It should be overwhelming, but his hand in yours keeps you grounded. His presence protects you.

When he hits a particular spot inside you, you jolt in surprise. And Katsuki whines. Actually whines. His voice at a foreign pitch. He doesn’t let you anticipate his next thrust, for he pushes back instantly, hitting that spot over and over again.

It’s a sticky mess of needy sobs and heavy breaths, bodies pressed together with heavy desire. He doesn’t have to wonder how good you feel, he knows . So when something bubbles up inside of you, he’s quick to chase it.

“Gonna…” You can hardly get the words out, not that you need to.

He responds by letting his fingers trail down and over your clit. His circles are impatient, taking, and you’d laugh at how spoilt he was, if you weren’t enjoying it so badly yourself.

It’s when he brings his lips down to yours one last time, does everything finally topple over.

It absolutely shatters you.

One orgasm alone is enough, but having two? Of both male and female? It’s devastating. It whites out your vision, blocks out any sound— all you can feel is the rapture that comes from the two of you.

It takes a good few minutes for either of you to calm down and unattach yourselves. But even then you cling to him, wanting him as close as possible. He gives in despite his own fatigue, holding you while his fingers run up and down your arm to soothe. You don’t even realise the quirk has faded, your bodies in sync with or without.

“Could get addicted…” Katsuki breaks the silence first, a small chuckle in his words. “Women are fucking lucky.”

You’re finally starting to notice the way you can no longer feel your own body through his and look at him with sympathy. You give him a pitiful pat— the wonders of the female body, he would never forget it.

You sit in his embrace a little longer, ignoring him shuffle about when your phone starts to ring. The screen lights up to his contact, but before you can question why, he speaks.

“I’m still ‘Bakugou [work]?’”

It takes a moment for you to understand what he’s talking about and when you do, you laugh.

“And a picture from the site?” He frowns, pinching your cheek. “Seriously?”

“Bet you don’t even have one for me.”

“Yes I fucking do.” Katsuki shoves his phone in your face.

And true to his word, he does in fact have a photo for you. It’s one you’re surprised he even has. It isn’t snagged off a news article, or even one of those fansites that for some reason existed— it’s a picture of the two of you, a candid Kirishima was probably responsible for.

“Why’d you pick that.” You snort, zooming into the photo. “You can barely see me.”

Katsuki shoves his chin down to your shoulder before snatching back his phone. “You looked cute.” He mumbles. “Tha’s all.”

There’s a conversation to be had, even if you’re hesitant. You put on a brave face and ask.

“You really like me, don’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“Fine I won’t tell you how I really like you.”

Katsuki nudges you with his cheek, and when you peek over at him, there’s a resting pink under his skin.

He can be so cute sometimes. You wonder if anyone else has seen him like this.

Then you remember.

“What about that girl?!” You don’t mean to sound accusatory, but you’re sure the unprompted pout that comes with your words says enough.

“You’re jealous?” Katsuki teases, you feel the smile against your skin. Then it turns into a little frown. “What about you and…” He can’t even say it.

“We haven’t done anything!” You correct him immediately. “We’ve only made out.”

“Oh shut up, don’t tell me.” He grumbles, grabbing your chin to guide your mouth to his. “You’re mine now.” He’s asking, begging even, you can tell. “Okay?””

You smile and swerve his next kiss, shaking your head. “Maybe take me on a date first.”

“I was going to—” He looks a bit scandalised, you didn’t realise he could be so traditional. “Fuck off I was.”

“So what made you wait.” You shouldn’t push, but it’s fun to watch his fluster. “The sex?”

“Could feel you doing everything.” Katsuki rolls his eyes, realising your game. “Like you were under my fuckin’ skin.”

“And that turned you on?”

He reaches out to cup your breasts. “Of course that shit turned me on. ‘Was like my own hand.” He squeezes. “Cant blame a man.”

You realise only now is he finally touching you on his own. Without your sensations overriding his. You let him have his fascination. You don’t stop his hands from exploring.

Instead you sink into his curiosity, a little interested yourself to see how far it’ll go.

Haiii I hope the concept isn’t confusing, tried to make it make sense 🤾🏽

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