Work Text:
“Snowy Owl likes obedient men. And you’re...” You squint at him, your skeptical gaze raking down his form. “Well…”
Yeah, obedient is the last word you would use to describe the one and only leader of Onichynus.
Even with the cat ears twitching on his head, Sylus remains ever the picture of careless confidence. An arm draped over the backrest of the couch, the other resting on his knee, every inch of him exudes an ease born of certainty from never having had to ask for something twice. Not exactly the demeanor of an eager-to-please butler at his master’s service…
As if he hears your thoughts, his carmine gaze shifts to you, slow and unimpressed. You perk up at him, each blink deliberate and expectant.
Something in Sylus seems to give as he sweeps over your face; it loosens the tense slopes of his shoulders, his gaze lowering with a tenderness dangerously close to surrender. Two quick nods to himself as if summoning resolve, he gets up with a defeated sigh. His cat ears rapidly flick to and fro, almost as if in protest.
“Do I meet your expectations,” his voice gentle as velvet, richer than the honeyed tea on your tongue as he sinks down to one knee, “my lady?”
Hah.
Being docile really doesn’t suit Sylus.
Even as he kneels before you, his proffered hand gloved in satin white, his measured smile holds shadows, a glint of darkness lurking behind those blood ruby eyes. Unbidden, your throat goes dry. Gaze dropping as you swallow hard, your fingers twiddling with the feather wand in your grasp.
It’s been a few weeks since that damn kiss.
That kiss. That damned fucking kiss. It’s enough to make you want to die of mortification every time it crosses your mind. As evidenced by all the groaning and dull thunks of your skull against your desk— even Nero has drifted over to ask, very cautiously, whether you’re alright.
But the most mind-boggling aspect of it all?
How things have been so damn normal. Well, as normal as things could be between a Hunter and the Onichynus crime lord. Sylus still calls you at the same cadence. Still makes trips to Linkon for his ‘fruit vendor business’, with side quests to annoy you. Even catching glimpses of Mephisto to and from your way home has become a more common happenstance than not.
So how come you're the only one who can’t look him in the eye without flushing? Who stumbles back every time he leans in? And why, god why, when he concedes to respect your wishes, does disappointment twist sharp in your gut, your body fighting the urge to lean forward while your mind reels back? The implications alone are enough to give you hives.
“Cat got your tongue?” You start, catching him lift a dark silver brow in askance. And then he adds with a hint of snark, almost as an afterthought: “My lady?”
“Hah...” You inhale deep through your nose, steeling your resolve. Right, the mission. It would be a shame to waste such a perfect moment— to practice his role as obedient pet butler, yes, but also tease him while you’re at it— especially with how clearly he hates playing along. A light tap of the whisk of feathers gently against his cheek and then you drag the wispy plumes slowly under his chin.
“Meeting my expectations? I’ve yet to see. You cost me quite a pretty penny, y’know?” You lean slightly forward, your voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
Sylus huffs, his tail swishing in a playful arc.
“I’ve only been a butler for a few days,” he says slowly as he captures your hand, forcing your feathery assault to come to a halt. “If the service isn’t up to your standard,” —his gaze steady on yours darkens from glittering garnet to cherry sangria wine— “I’m afraid there’s no refund.”
Your eyes narrow even as his drawl sends a pulse of heat through your frame.
“You look like a fast learner,” you say with a shrug, your other hand coming up to trace your fingers along his jaw. “Impress me.”
He tenses at your touch, a brief lilt of silver brows before his shoulders settle, his head cocked to the right as he studies you. The moment stretches out long enough for you to get nearly uneasy before he finally chuckles, the low rumble rippling down your spine.
”My lady,” he savors the syllables, tongue curling around the endearment like he’s swiping a drop of honey clinging to his lips. You twitch; his ever perceptive gaze catches it, crinkling at the corners as the faint traces of amusement blossoms into an open smirk. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Ugh, for an ‘obedient’ butler, he sure is cheeky.
“…Maybe,” you concede absentmindedly, mind racing for a way to make him squirm. “But I shouldn’t be the only one enjoying myself, right?”
Your fingers latch on to the first thing that catches your gaze— his ever twitching ear, the warm appendage velvet soft to the touch. Sylus freezes, his tail comically snapping ramrod straight before he jerks out of your hold.
Heh.
Jackpot.
“You seem well acquainted with a cat’s weak spots,” he grumbles, settling on the floor, retreating out of your reach. His words sound more like a warning than an observation.
But you’ve never been known to heed warnings.
“Oh, come on,” you coo, reaching forward to trace a fingertip down the shell of his ear. “Don’t be embarrassed. You and your ears are very cute.”
“Cute, huh...” Sylus echoes unconvincingly, frowning when you capture the soft ears between your fingers again.
But as you continue to gently rub his feline ears, his furrowed brow fades. Even as his head tilts forward and then back, as if wavering on whether or not to lean closer, it’s not long before his eyes flutter closed with a soft grunt, giving in to your ministrations. In fact, you swear you hear something— a humming undercurrent, a steady vibration— a purr, you realize with glee, his head leaning more heavily into your hand with every stroke. Delighted, you stroke them again, firmer this time, taking care to graze your nails at the base of his ears. He rewards you with a sigh, slow and content, his breath ghosting along the inner edge of your arm like rising steam.
“See?” you gloat. “Not so bad now, is it?”
It’s a few moments until he responds with a languid nuzzle into your hand.
“Hm...” His hum ignites a fine vibrating tingle racing through your limbs, warm static in your veins. “More.”
His husky plea— because that is what it is, isn’t it? The closest you’ve ever heard the crime lord, who wants for nothing, come to ask for anything, and it catches you off guard, a jolt that liquifies, warmth pooling low and sliding down your spine. Your heartbeat echoes like a drum in your ears as you tense, pressing your thighs together; the silk of his hair soft against your palm as his head presses more insistently into your hand. His nose twitches, and then he shudders when he inhales deep; his eyes slit open, a narrow sliver of glowing ruby.
Hungry.
Staring into the abyss, the abyss staring ravenously back.
A touch breaks you out of your reverie.
“You shouldn’t touch me so casually.” Sylus is holding your hand by the wrist, clearly taking care to keep them away from his ears, but ever so gently, you can barely feel his grip.
“Why?” Maybe you’re poking the beast. Maybe, a little voice whispers, you should stop. But you feel strangely separate from yourself— your mouth already moving, your thoughts trailing behind. “You bite?”
“I do.” His words are so solemn that it gives you pause. “A monster like me, once I sink my teeth into you...” The faint glow in his right eye throbs. “I don’t let go.”
Another warning. He's practically baring his fangs in slow motion— stop, danger, do not go. And if you were smart, tempered by the memory of his grip around your throat, of his impervious gaze cast down over his cold sneer— you would back down. But recklessness is all you are tonight, emboldened by his restraint, possessed by the wild urge to test his limits, to see what it would take for the beast to stop pretending he was tame.
“Good thing,” you breathe, holding his gaze without flinching, “I’m not scared of monsters.”
“…No.” His lips twitch into a small smirk, his thumb strokes once over your inner wrist. “You never were.”
Huh?
That hint of melancholy haunting his voice. A glimmer of apology and promise in his blood red gaze. It throws you off kilter, even more than any threat or provocation he’s ever leveled at you. Enough for you to retreat, jerking your hand from his grip.
“But Snowy Owl might be,” you remark more curtly than you intend. “So keep those fangs to yourself, yeah?”
A small crease appears between his brows, lips pulling back to reveal the faintest hints of a scowl before his expression smooths. His firm grasp on your thigh is the only warning you get before you’re abruptly hauled off the couch. You let out an undignified squeak as you land astride his lap, the fabric of your dress scrunching up your legs. Sylus pays no mind to your weak protest, his fingers skimming your jaw, tipping your chin up to meet his gaze.
“Are you really doing this,” he asks, eyes roaming your face as if searching for an answer, “so that another woman can have me?”
He’s so close. Too close. White buzzing panic, the staccato of your heartbeat in your throat, the heat of his body encompassing yours—
“It’s…” You swallow, wetting your lips. “It’s for the mission?”
Sylus scoffs. “I don’t ever recall agreeing to this little plan of yours.” His arms coil around your waist, seating you more firmly in his lap. “Do you really not care if I become someone else’s cat?”
His hand is drifting up your thigh, nudging past the hem of your dress, the other tracing up your spine. Your leg jerks, an involuntary reflex, ribs squeezing around your lungs as his scent rolls in, thick as smoke, searing into the back of your throat.
“You clearly don’t care.”
Your hand flies to your mouth, but it’s too late; his brows are practically up to his hairline.
“I don’t care?” Sylus repeats, rolling the words around as if they’re foreign on his tongue. “Sweetie,” he sighs— long suffering, indulgent, as if you’re the one testing his patience; the tone alone makes your hand ball into a fist on his chest. “Are we playing this game again? Did we not already have a demonstration of my... intent?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flick down to your lips. “Do we need a reminder?”
“But I kissed you. Last time.” It bursts out of you more like an indignant hiss than a full sentence, your face on fire. “I-I’m just saying. Not really your demonstration, per se...”
“Ah, I see.” But you don’t think he sees at all, because his fingers curl under your chin. “My mistake.” His eye burns— bloody as the moon in eclipse. “Then this time, will you allow me,” —his warm breath caresses your lips— “to demonstrate properly?”
He watches you with devastating patience, as if content to wait a millennia for your thoughts to settle, for you to choose— until you nod. Only then, do his eyes wane, glittering with warm satisfaction as he leans in, like a beast finally lowering its head to feast. But it’s just the faintest press of his lips to yours, a touch as ephemeral as a dragon’s breath. Once and then again— like he’s teasing you, a cat flicking its tail to see if you’ll chase.
So you do.
Fingers curling into the smooth wool of his vest, thighs cinching tighter around his waist. Incense and smoky amber in your lungs, the lush velvet of sweet cherry wine on your tongue. You push forward and his body curves around yours, like wings folding in, a purr of pleasure vibrating from his chest. Under your hands, he burns— liquid gold, orange-honey embers— knuckles brushing satin, fingers grazing higher, until they comb through white locks.
His breath stutters— once, twice— each inhale deeper than the last. You kiss him harder, tongue tracing the seam of his lower lip, and the sound he makes— a low shaky rasp through clenched teeth, shoots an answering pulse to your core.
His hand flexes on your hip, possessive, digging in the fabric of your dress as he drags you flush against him. His other hand slides up, spanning half your jaw, palm hot against your cheek; his thumb tracing a slow arc beneath your eye, a caress that whispers like a vow as he tilts your head back, guiding you into a deeper, claiming kiss.
Sylus kisses you like he’s starved for it. Like a fiend damned to the dark and you’re the sunlight, awestruck as warm gold dapples his face. With the ragged relief of having finally found you, after tearing apart galaxies, overturning planets, your name the only thing he kept gripped between his teeth. With the creeping tendrils of obsession, like he would hoard you away, hide you in the hollow of his chest, safe from all who’d dare touch you, if he could.
He kisses you the way he looks at you: with a quiet desperation, with hope and regret and resentment and hunger— like he’s standing at the edge of a burning abyss, all ash and longing and ruinous want. Smoke and mirrors, hairline fractures, you can’t tell what to think, what to feel when he kisses you like this, where danger ends and devotion begins.
When you break for air, you find yourself on top of him, palms spread over his heaving chest. His face is flushed crimson, eyes half lidded as he slowly blinks up at you, pupils blown wide. Swollen lips parted, panting against your skin as he noses along your jaw, teeth grazing your earlobe in a soft, helpless bite.
“Kitten…”
You huff at his choice of endearment— bold words from the one with cat ears— only for the breath to melt into a soft moan when he mouths at the sensitive point behind your jaw. His answering growl is dazed, unfocused, hands tightening on your hips as he draws you down, grinding the solid heat of him against the apex of your thighs.
“Tell me to stop.”
God, you're not sure you want him to. The rasp of his voice sends a shiver skittering down your spine, pleasure fizzing through your veins like champagne catching sparks. Your body moves first, pressing down, seeking more— a breathless noise caught in your throat when you feel the hard press of his arousal under your thigh.
“S-Sylus…” Hot, open mouthed kisses down your throat, hands molding your pliant curves. “Ah, wait—”
A sweep of vertigo and then you’re on your back, laying on plush carpet as his weight brackets yours, his arms caging you in.
“Wait?” This time he chuckles, soft and sinister. “That’s not what I told you to say.”
He slants his mouth over yours hard enough to bruise, devouring your gasp. Threading his fingers through yours, pinning your joined hands to the floor as he rocks against you. You arch into him with a fractured, trembling sound, nails carving crescent moons into the burgundy fabric of his sleeve.
“Say it, little dove,” he rasps, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark as an eclipse. “Tell me exactly what you want.”