Work Text:
You’re in his house again.
Sylus doesn’t mind. In fact, he’s rather pleased. At the start of it all— and here he feels a pang of regret at how your long-awaited reunion had gone so vastly awry— you’d viewed his territory like poison. To willingly venture back time and time again after that had been a hard-won victory, and now you’re comfortable letting yourself in even with no explicit invitation— petting Mephisto on the head when the mechanical bird sidles up, taking up residence in one of the miscellaneous rooms to work or rest. After all, no harm would befall you here, and it’s soundproofed, shielded from the world outside. He steps past the threshold, looks around the interior, then sets off to find you.
Your ears pick up the sound of the entryway door, hypervigilant, stiffening on instinct. The footfalls that follow are familiar, so you relax again— because Sylus knows by now that you dislike being crept up on. You have seen him descend upon enemies with a shifting fluid rush of red-black energy, and you know he could devour you likewise without so much as a whisper or time to blink. His intentional conspicuousness is something for your benefit alone, and though he’s never voiced the intent, you appreciate it nonetheless. Never in this life or any of his previous ones has anybody desired such from Sylus— he had once been the one to await further prompting from you before revealing his humanity, his vulnerabilities. Before accepting his right to exist shamelessly and visibly in the world. But for your present benefit, he takes the first step. He pulls the curtain back, emerges from the shadows that mark him a fiend, mark him a horror. Proves every seething, terrified rumour about him wrong. It is a fresh experience for the both of you.
He grounds himself for you, makes himself a real, tangible thing. You tolerate nothing less, and though the preference itself is born from habitual wariness, it still stands that he had been wanted in such a comprehension by none in the world but yourself alone, and so his soul in turn thrills with it.
The faint shuffling at the door to your back is the only warning you get before he is padding up to you, blinking his ruby eyes down at where you sit hunched up at the desk, fingers flying across the keys of your laptop. It’s nothing so serious, merely the tails of a mission report for work— the last vestiges of labour before you can relax for the day. Nevertheless, your expression is intensely focused as you pen the final lines into the document, and Sylus is relentless as he leans down, edging into the corners of your vision slowly.
You allow yourself the private amusement of a half-smile at this display before lifting your attention from the glowing screen. “Yes?”
“You look tense,” he says inquisitively. “Can I touch your shoulders?”
“Yes,” you say again, carelessly repetitive, tone pitched downwards in response this time rather than query. He sets his hands on your shoulders and digs his thumbs into the sore muscles running up your neck. Slowly, you melt.
The warm silence is a welcome one. Ridiculous as it seems to find solace in the heart of the N109 Zone, you do. Part of it is the interior of the place itself. The quiet elegance and carefully selected colours never stab at your eyes. The music he plays is always a welcome sound. Never brash or needlessly aggressive, just like him. Since your arrival, you’ve left your mark on his residence in some ways, though— new artists and albums sitting on his record player, bird plushies bright against the dark leather of his couch. A few sets of your clothes in his wardrobe, beauty products scattered across his sink counter.
Most of your solace is still found in him, though.
At last, you finish your work and save the document tab. Sylus dips into your view again like an overly-clingy reptile and you blink at him. “Come to the couch,” he says to you, nearly coaxing. “It’s time for a break.”
You frown at him, but he must catch the tender-curved line of your mouth in response. His hands on your shoulders shift; your eyes dart to them immediately like a laser snapping into brutal focus. Sylus tilts his head, requesting silent permission.
In response, you lean harder into his touch, letting him pull you up from the chair you’d been hunched uncomfortably on. He tugs, you follow. Like slacktide chasing the sand. The both of you collapse onto the sofa, nestling amidst the throw pillows and the plush leather, and you end up sitting atop his thighs. Sylus positions you, careful so you don’t feel trapped or pinned in any way. “Can you lean against me?”
Customarily, you give him a suspicious look. “Hmm.”
He is eyeing the side of your face, the column of your throat. A little hungry. You know by now that it’s nothing to fear, that if you even twitched the wrong way, he would draw back unhesitatingly. In this moment, you feel a little indulgent. There’s a sort of power rush in it; a delightful reminder that you are completely safe within the lines you’ve drawn for yourself. That he respects whatever you put down, easy as breathing. “You want to kiss me here?” you ask, hand lifting to where he’d worked the soreness away earlier.
Sylus smiles, slow and lazy. “Can I?”
“What for?” you ask, trying to needle him. He takes this in stride; while you retain the habit of being testy to this day, prodding and poking at him, he’s happy to concede for your security.
“Consider it an extension of your earlier massage,” he says charmingly.
Your blade-sharp gaze falls softly on him, eased by the playful glint in his own, and so you turn to put your back against his chest. His hands move carefully, hovering just above your hip for you to see and catalogue before he slides it across your body, hugging you to him. He noses against your ear, tentatively at first so you know he’s coming, then opens his mouth to nibble at the lobe. A rich shudder trickles down your spine like honey. You squirm and grab at his arm with one hand, digging your nails in half-spitefully. “Why do you like this so much?” you grumble, unwilling to admit the truth just yet: that you aren’t altogether opposed to the feeling. Perish the thought.
“I like your reactions,” he tells you bluntly. You blink approvingly at the honesty of it; that’s exactly how you like him. “You’re sensitive.”
“I know,” you say a little snappishly, bristling and shifting around when his next breath skates across your neck. His free hand soothes over your whitening knuckles until you relax your hold. He waits for you to relax, to allow him to proceed. Eventually, you settle. “If I did it to you, would you like being on the receiving end?”
Comes the immediate reply, “Yes.”
Oh!
“You are so shameless,” you half-growl at him, but you are relaxing so he has open access to your neck. Must be hypocritical, you muse. Really.
“Mmph,” is all that comes back as he gorges himself on the scent and texture of your skin, lips pressed with reverence to the side of your throat. He squeezes you a little tighter, delirious with contentment when you relax into his hold. “Can I leave a mark?”
“Go ahead and try,” you tell him, a little challenging.
Despite how you see it coming, you jump anyway with a snarl rustling in your throat when he suckles at your skin, and he laughs. Sylus keeps his eyes on you as best as he can between kisses, making sure you’re still enjoying yourself. You dislike making sounds, or reacting beyond hostility, or really— any observable form of vulnerability, especially when it pertains to such tender matters as intimacy. He has to read you deeper, the Aether Core in his eye humming quietly, parsing your desires from beneath your skin. These days, however, it’s easier. Your jagged edges have softened, claws pulled back of your own volition. Your eyes are heavy-lidded, lashes feathering over your eyes as you blink languidly. It’s all worth it in the end, for you.
He decides to play. “Kitty,” Sylus coos. “Aren't you going to mewl for me?”
“What?” You swivel your head to give him an icy look from the corners of your eyes, but the effect of it is veritably thawed by the warmth of his voice, and the fact that your free hand is holding his, having sought him out in such a manner of your own will.
Thus undeterred, he soldiers on. “If it feels nice, you should let me know, right?”
“Right…” You turn away again.
“So that I know what you like.”
“Is it so important?” You huff.
“Very important,” Sylus purrs, the vibration of it a deep drawling thing against your back. He squeezes your hand reassuringly. You hover in the gap of hesitation for a moment, then squeeze back.
“I like this,” you say a little stiffly, unused to the admission. “You can proceed. Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay, kitten,” he croons at you, and mercifully doesn’t wrangle anything more from you. It’s a wonder, you think, that he always knows just how far to push.
Sylus purrs throughout most of it, drowning in bliss, his warmth enveloping you. Your fingers are tangled together. You are drowsy and cosy in the cradle of his arms. His face fits perfectly into the crook of your neck, an astonishing thing. You have half the mind to turn and run the tip of your finger down the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheeks, the cut of his jaw. To marvel at the make of him. But such a softness is unlike you yet. Maybe one day…
It is no surprise that you doze off. Perhaps to a past self, but not in the present.
Sylus notices it when you begin to snore softly, whistling little breaths through your nose. His smile grows tender, undisguisedly fond, the force of it something that would spook an onlooker. He pulls away from your neck, nudging your head so it lolls against the solidity of his shoulder, finding proper support. Then, he allows himself to drift off with you.
— end —