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Every single deal this week fell through. Every. Single. One. It wasn’t even because the deals were unfair or that he was being duped. No. It was worse. His competitors swept the deals right out from under him.
As a result, Sylus was irritable and quicker to snap than usual. Not at you, of course. He was upset, but he didn’t have a death wish. The twins were mostly the outlet for his bad mood, alongside his punching bag.
You find him in his office, the knuckle of his finger brushing against his upper lip as he read a series of documents. You don’t bother knocking before you enter. He doesn’t look up, but you know he notices your presence. He always does, even in a crowded party.
You walk behind his chair and press your hands into his shoulders, digging your thumbs against the tense muscle at the back of his neck. He sighs, lifting his head up from his work to encourage you. You kiss the back of his head.
“The sun is up and you’re still here.” You drag your thumbs along the sides of his spine before moving back up again.
“Is my kitten missing me?” he teases. His voice is rough with exhaustion, low and slightly airy as you massage him. You lean down to bite his neck. He chuckles at your way of scolding him. But, he finally relents.
The papers in his hands land carelessly on his desk, no longer worth his time when you’re here trying to drag him off to bed. Your magic touch abandons him as he stands. The tension seems to return tenfold when he looks down at you, neck strained once again from the simple fact of his being taller than everyone else.
You grab his hand, holding it to your face briefly to press a kiss to his palm, before intertwining your fingers together and dragging him out of his office. Luke and Kieran are nowhere to be seen or heard. Mephisto is off spying for Sylus, gathering intel that could turn his hand back against his competitors. He sighs. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.
You’re already dressed for bed, but Sylus is still in the nice dress clothes from his meeting earlier that night. He lets your hand go so he can change. When he comes back, the soft pajama pants are hanging low on his lips, but you don’t even spare them a glance.
You’re sitting up, back against the headboard. It’s his usual position, or it was until he found someone worth laying down next to. Someone he knew full well could slit his throat, but who chose to protect it anyway. Any intruders who dared to break into the Onychinus base and make an attempt on his life would be praying they were never born without him ever needing to worry.
“You’re in my spot,” he points out, raising his eyebrow.
You pat your lap. “It’s my spot tonight. Lay down.”
“So demanding.” He crawls up the bed until he can rest his head in your lap. It wasn’t a completely foreign position, when the roles were reversed. It’s the first time he’s ever been down here, looking up into your face. Your thighs as his pillow, keeping him from straining his neck any more. It… feels nicer than he expected it to.
Fingers which have taken lives without hesitation, that he’d seen pull apart guns in seconds just to put them back together equally as fast, traced delicately along his cheek. Soft, tender touches that felt along his jaw and brushed down the bridge of his nose. At one point, they close his eyes, with an accompanying huff of annoyance from you.
“Sleep,” you command.
He chuckles. “Of course, sweetie.”
The gentle caresses tempt him to bite your fingers when you brush them over his lips, but he resists, if only to avoid pissing you off. He doesn’t expect the groan that’s pulled from his lips when your other hand drags through his hair. Your nails scratch lightly at his scalp, his hair sliding through your fingers like silk.
It’s so different to when your hands are usually tangled in his hair. Usually, it’s rough, grabbing fistfuls of white locks and pulling hard enough to sting, commanding his head to be where you want him. This is the closest to heaven he’s ever felt.
He exhales and the tension in his body goes with the slightly shaky breath. You drag your nails from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, praising him for letting go so easily in your care. Your other hand glides down his neck and arm until you can lace your fingers together once more.
As his exhaustion takes hold, his trust is implicitly and wholly in your hands, peaceful in the knowledge that he will make it through the night even in such a vulnerable position.
In the morning, he’s on his stomach, arms wrapped around your back and face pressed tightly against your belly. Your hand is still tangled in his hair, limp as you sleep, but sturdy in its willpower to stay there. He’s the first to wake, disoriented and slow to piece together how he ended up here. But then he closes his eyes again, nuzzles like a cat into your welcoming heat, and drifts off.