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Before the fight, Talon kisses him.
Sett had been wrapping his wrists, making sure the cloth was tight, but not too tight. He’d been making small talk and biting off the strips with his teeth, watching Talon’s gaze flick to his fangs each time. Talon had been kind enough to keep Sett company, and Sett was having to chew the inside of his cheek to keep from telling him how pretty he was being. They were in one of the prep rooms, where anyone could walk by and overhear, and Sett always prefers to have Talon all to himself. After he’d finished with the wrist wraps, Talon had pulled him down by the edge of his coat, and it was all Sett could do to keep his balance.
Talon’s not big on kisses, so Sett hadn’t been expecting it. More and more lately he’s started liking Talon to a dizzying degree. The realization had first found him a week ago, late at night when he’d been lying in bed. Sett had been thinking about it—how much he liked him—and his head had been spinning. It’s the kind of thing Ma always talked about: Love.
For a long while, somewhere between twenty and thirty-one summers, Sett had been silently sure that love was never coming for him. Not that he didn’t want it badly or was incapable of it, or afraid—okay maybe he was a little afraid—but the world has always fed Sett a disappointing truth.
Love wasn’t meant for someone like him.
The proof was in the staring, the name calling, the sneers and the whispers they think he can’t hear, or worse, the ones they know he can. Even when Sett became the Boss, the truth had only changed shape. Before his (well-earned) promotion, Sett had figured that once he got enough respect, the adoration would come with it—someone willing to love him. But it hadn’t happened like that either. All his life, Sett’s only ever been a show. Being the Boss didn’t change a thing. People like to watch, they like to see him parade around for them, they like to toss him coins like scraps for a dog who’s just finished an elaborate trick. From the bottom to the top it’s all the same. That truth was the worst one, because there was no avoiding it.
Sett had a string of loose connections in the years that followed, facilitated by gawkers and people who only wanted to touch his ears or pull his tail or spend a night with him just to say they’d done it, and there was no love growing there, so it ached like a bad bruise. Then Sett put away his stupid dream. He just didn’t care enough. Ma was plenty. He ignored the noise and shrugged off the judging and built himself a castle out of broken jaws. Once the coin was sorted out, life lapsed into a surprisingly quiet peace. And in that quiet, Talon came to roost. And ironically he couldn’t love Sett either.
But it was enough, Sett had thought, the bedroom ceiling spinning above his head. Somehow, somehow it was enough. And when Talon kisses him at the pit he feels his whole world tip forward, and Sett has to lock his knees to keep from buckling. The crowd is beginning to roar outside in anticipation, and Sett can imagine that’s what it sounds like in his own head.
“You can’t lose,” Talon murmurs against his lips. He always talks like Sett’s the only one that’s supposed to hear him, or maybe like Sett’s the only one that listens.
“I ain’t ever,” Sett says. He chases Talon’s mouth when he leans back, wanting just one more quick kiss, sharing the same breath before Talon relents. His lips are scabbed and he tastes like smoke, and he pushes Sett away with a firm hand on his chest.
“Are you gonna watch me?” Sett asks, looming over him so Talon has to tilt his head. “You’ve gotta watch me.” He feels halfway sick, he needs Talon so bad. If it wasn’t the middle of summer Sett would think his rut was starting.
Talon hops off the box he’d been sitting on, and he doesn’t say anything so Sett grabs him by the arm and traps him against the wall, until Talon’s actually forced to look at him.
“C’mon, Tal,” Sett mutters, needier than he’d like. He doesn't even care about the fight. If he didn’t have to go on in a minute, he would already be halfway to a knot, or he’d at least have his teeth on Talon’s neck.
Talon glances at Sett’s hand on his arm. “I wasn’t going to leave,” he says, sullenly.
“Shut up about leavin’,” Sett orders. “Just watch my fight and wait for me.” He sheds his coat, dumping it in Talon’s arms. “And take that upstairs, would you?”
Talon doesn’t answer. He buries his face in the purple fur crowning Sett’s coat, and Sett feels another pang of longing threaten to sweep him off his feet.
***
The fight goes the same as always, by the way. Sett’s seen so many by now, the crowd surrounds you like a monsoon, and for a while when he’d been starting out, Sett had to stuff cotton in his ears before he got used to the racket. Nowadays he sets his breathing to it, the stamp of feet resonating in his chest. His fights are always the busiest, since he’s never lost. People come from far and wide to see if today’s the day his streak will break. So they also pay out the most. Today, Sett doesn’t give a shit about it. He only cares about Talon, far up on his private balcony, his face blurry but unmistakable as he leans over the railing. He’s too far away.
Sett feels dizzy again.
His opponent is also a seasoned fighter, though not one Sett’s really heard of. Vizun hails from Piltover. He’s got short brown hair and massive quads and all his teeth are gold-plated. That’s a little too gaudy, even for Sett. Big guy. Big grin. Sett pictures Talon’s wrecked little smile, hidden behind scarred fingers. When he glances up at the balcony again, he still can’t make out Talon’s face. He refocuses on Vizun in time to see him mouthing the word, Mutt, real slow so Sett can’t miss it.
So you get used to the noise, you get used to almost dying, but the adrenaline rush is new every time. That’s what gets you addicted to violence. It’s why Sett sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, fangs aching. It’s irreplaceable. His heart pounds and his ears are locked upright and alert, and it doesn’t matter if he gets nicked by fingernails or some scum knife. Doesn’t matter if he takes a sucker punch to the ribs, he barely even feels it. They trade blows back and forth, and all the while Sett feels Talon’s stare on him like sweat. He wonders—in the space between a thrown punch and one raised arm—if Vizun is also thinking about someone else. When you’ve fought enough it becomes a dance of fists and breathing and blown out pupils. Sett’s swing hits like a mountain. He pictures Talon earlier that morning, tapping one of his blades thoughtfully against his bottom lip. Sett would love to crawl into his head, if he could. He’d love one honest look at how Talon sees the world, and maybe how he sees Sett too. It’s a scary idea. Sett ducks. He really can't stop thinking about it, knowing Talon better, keeping Talon longer. One day soon he’ll go again, and Sett will feel like the world’s biggest sucker.
Vizun advances. He’s worn out, gasping with his tongue out like a dog. Sett’s white pants are covered in pit dust.
“You can go ahead and give up now.” Sett advises him. “I've won too much to be beaten.”
“You think you're safe ‘cause you're at the top?” Vizun asks. His whole body glistens with sweat. “You're just a dog ruling dogs!”
“Aw, see,” Sett shrugs, feigns hurt. “That ain’t very nice. And here I was goin’ easy on you.” He’s heard it all before. The fangs, the ears. The beast, the half-breed. The bastard. The freak. The least they could do is be more creative. Talon had also called him a dog once. It’d been when they first started fucking around and were fighting just as much. Sett didn’t get how someone could be so cold and insensitive. Talon wouldn’t give a single inch, but he’d take everything Sett had with no remorse. He just didn’t know how to care about other people. Sett hadn’t understood it until he’d spent some time mapping Talon’s scars and deciphering the reason Talon avoided his kinder touches. It was proof that Talon had been hurt a hundred different times, a hundred different ways, until he knew nothing else except pain and rejection and how to avoid it—until he’d been forced out of this world and into one of his own, where he was alone.
In some ways, looking at Talon is like looking into a mirror.
He’s slow to dodge, lost in his own head—that’s Sett’s bad. Vizun’s fist collides heavily with his shoulder. Sett feels something pop out of place. He grunts through his teeth and swings, trying to catch him, but his punch doesn't connect. Vizun pivots on his heel. He grabs Sett’s arm and if it hurts Sett wouldn't even know. They lurch into each other, for a moment braced like bulls, limb against limb. That always livens up the crowd, they’re both experienced enough to know what sells.
Vizun’s eyes travel down the length of Sett’s arm. His eyebrows furrow, and Sett knows what he’s noticed. Those two claws on his right hand that Sett keeps clipped short. (Those two fingers he’s dedicated unapologetically to Talon.)
“She here right now, watching you lose?” asks Vizun, low enough that the crowd can’t hear.
“You don’t know when to shut up,” Sett warns. His mood has suddenly spiked into a vile, golden temper.
“Point her out,” Vizun says, goading. “I’ll comfort her once you’ve—”
Basically, Sett beats the hell out of him. More specifically, Sett doesn’t really remember what happened. He just got really, really mad. One second they’re locked and struggling, and the next second Vizun’s been flipped onto his back and gotten his teeth knocked in. His mouth’s a pit of blood now, and he gasps a couple times, choking on his own blood or maybe a couple molars. Sett watches him struggle, his chest heaving. The crowd comes back into focus, then the sunlight, then the dizziness. Sett shakes his head and lifts an arm—the other’s no good, and looks up to the high balcony.
Talon’s gone missing.
Sett twists to find Yelra leaning against the inside wall of the pit, hidden in the shade. It’s Yelra who manages the clean up and the organizing, who might be second-in-command if Sett needed one of those. Sett jerks his thumb at Vizun, which is pit lingo for “Throw him out.” Yelra whistles for security.
Ordinarily, Sett might bask in the afterglow, to milk whatever admiration is sent his way, but he doesn’t need it anymore. And anyway, he’s half-hard. Sett tries not to draw attention to it. He stomps his feet to knock some of the dust off and makes a beeline for the exit. Yelra meets him there.
“Y’broke his face, Boss,” he says, following Sett as they head to the stairs. The pit can be a mess when all the people are coming and going. Especially around the bar. Sett’ll beat the rush.
“He deserved it,” Sett answers. His bad arm is starting to hurt a lot, pain radiating down from the shoulder. He’s definitely dislocated it, but he doesn’t care enough to do anything about it yet. Adrenaline is still howling through him, and where did Talon go? Sett adjusts his pants. Any time Talon’s out of sight, Sett can’t help but think that he’s fled back to Noxus. It’d been a battle to get him to stop leaving Sett’s bed in the middle of the night, or even to at least tell Sett when he was planning on going. And it’s still unreliable. Sett hasn’t yet recovered. Sometimes when he wakes up alone, his bed feels like it's rocking, and he imagines whatever boat Talon’s boarded taking him far away.
“It was a crazy throw,” Yelra continues, but he’s not Talon, so Sett doesn’t care.
Yelra asks, “Do you want me to call the medic?”
He’s talking about Sett’s arm.
“Other guy’ll need her more,” Sett grunts. The stairs up to the high balcony and his private office seems unbearably long. He takes the steps three at a time. Yelra has to fight to keep up.
“Boss—”
“Gimme a break,” Sett snaps. They’ve made it to the top of the landing. Talon’s not here. He must be inside, Sett thinks. He glances at Yelra. “Go check on Vizun.”
Yelra offers a quick salute before he turns around. “Sure thing, Boss.”
It’s always a little too dim in Sett’s office. Sett leans against the door once he’s closed it behind him, the wood is thick and heavy, and the relative quiet is jarring, but at least Talon is there. If he wasn’t, Sett’s not sure what he would’ve done.
He’s sitting on the edge of the desk, just waiting for Sett, most likely, watching Sett starve and probably enjoying it. They lock eyes. The door behind Sett keeps him upright. He needs Talon so bad that he might be going crazy. Maybe he’s taken a little too much sun. Sett wants to say something, but instead he pants and pulls on his belt. Things have gotten pretty tight around the crotch. Talon’s surely noticed already, since he’s got a wicked eye for detail. Sett’s cock is one big detail.
“What happened to your shoulder,” Talon asks, his voice scarily flat.
“Nothin’ happened,” Sett says, pushing himself off the door. “S’ just dislocated. I beat his ass is what happened.”
Talon snorts.
“You saw, right?” Sett stumbles towards him. Talon meets him halfway, circling around him to brace his bad arm. The pain is somehow duller when Talon’s touching him, one of his cool hands on Sett’s shoulder. Sett cranes his neck down to try and score a kiss, but it was a slim chance anyway, and Talon suddenly jerks his arm. An audible pop rattles Sett good, but he’s heard it plenty. Once you dislocate your shoulder for the first time, it’ll keep happening. His arm tingles and he flexes his fingers.
“You weren’t paying attention,” Talon says.
“I was busy thinkin’ ‘bout you,” Sett says. He’s got Talon’s wrist in his hand a moment later—doesn’t even remember reaching out to snatch it. Talon’s eyes go wide as two gold pieces, surprised at how fast he’d moved. Sett drags his hand down to the bulge in his pants, so Talon can see for himself that he’s telling the truth. He means to say something sweet, but he can't quite work it out. Instead he cinches his arm around Talon’s waist and leans down and scores that kiss that Talon owes him. He owes him a thousand more for leaving him, and since Talon ain't like kissing much then he can pay them back slowly, over weeks or months or better years—where he ain't coming and going and only belongs to Sett and Sett alone. As it stands, Talon only lets the kiss last for a few seconds before he squeezes Sett’s bulge between his fingers.
“Sett—” he murmurs against his mouth, leaning away. But Sett scores one more, and this time Talon’s other hand curls into a loose fist on Sett's chest. He lets Sett kiss him for a while longer, allowing him to rock slowly against Talon’s palm with no complaints. Maybe he knows Sett needs this. Finally Talon breaks away with one of his quiet gasps (they always tickle Sett’s ears) and Sett knows not to push his luck too far, even though he could probably kiss Talon forever.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Sett mumbles. The edges of his words slur together. He feels so alive that it’s gone back the other way. The great wave of adrenaline crashes into him. He draws Talon as close as Sett’s allowed, their bodies pressed tightly together, and Talon reaches up behind him to fiddle with the fluffed backs of Sett’s ears, flicking off what might be dirt. He says nothing, which is more merciful than telling Sett the truth: Eventually he’ll be leaving, and Sett will be left alone with Talon’s shirt wrapped around his pillow, and eventually his scent will go too. Sett doesn’t wanna think about that right now. He rocks against Talon’s hand again, feeling the crush of his fingers, and then he figures it’s not enough.
Talon likes the manhandling, even if he loathes to admit it. When they first started sleeping together he’d put up a fight and kick and bite and dig up Sett’s back with his chewed up fingernails. He’s a Noxian through and through, so it kinda makes sense he wouldn’t want to go down easy. And Sett’s not gonna lie and say he didn’t like it. Nowadays—most days—Talon’s more secure. He doesn't make a stink about being bent over, and Sett will boss him around just to see his face go scarlet. So this time, when Sett hustles him over to his desk, he doesn’t resist, though he does stumble. They trip on each other, and Talon falls over the desk, catching himself with his hands and righting an unlit candlestick before it tips over. He flips Sett a glare, but he’s spread his legs for him either way.
“Sorry,” Sett says. He pulls Talon’s pants down by the back of his belt. At least it’s not his usual uniform, which is a pain to get off even if Sett loves the anticipation. He’s getting pissed off remembering it, all those straps and buckles. These come down easy in comparison, and Sett is greeted by Talon’s pale ass and the backs of his thighs and the wet crease of his body between them.
Sett clears his throat. It sounds a lot like a whine. He reaches between Talon’s legs with his two clipped fingers, remembering Vizun’s stare. “I’ll comfort her once you’re—”
“Sett,” Talon speaks up, twisting to look back at him. Sett hadn’t realized he’d been growling.
“Sorry,” Sett says again. He sinks his fingers into Talon’s cunt, and Talon lets out a low sigh, moves his foot a little so Sett hears the solid click of his boot against the wood floor. It’s so easy to touch him here, his body miraculously soft and obliging.
“Fuck—” Sett feels like he’s melting. He twists his fingers impatiently, looking for some excuse to say that Talon’s already ready for him. Talon clenches around him when he curls them, and Sett thinks that’s enough. It’s gotta be enough.
“I’ll give you—I’ll give you—” Sett might as well be in rut at this point. He swears under his breath, teeth chattering when he breathes in. “Did you see me throw that fucker, Tal?” He scrabbles to undo his belt, the clasp has suddenly gotten so difficult. He growls again, frustrated. “Tal—”
“I saw it,” Talon says, firmly.
“He was such a—bastard,” Sett continues, ripping his pants down just enough to free his cock. He strokes it once to make sure it’s good and hard and throbbing. “Talkin’ ‘bout you.”
Talon turns his head again, but only halfway, so Sett can see his cheek and the corner of his mouth, the rest of his face mostly hidden by his bangs, braced over the desk as he is.
“I mean—he don’t even know you.” Sett withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his nose. Maybe he groans about it a little. He has to knot Talon right now because his blood is boiling. That’s how his rut feels too, though ten times worse. When he’s in rut Sett sorta feels like every insult flung at him might actually be true. He ends up feeling like an animal.
As he hurries to feed the tip of his dick into Talon’s hungry cunt, Talon flinches, but other than that it’s a warm, wet welcome. Sett goes faster than he means to, but slower than he’d like. He crams his cock inside, until his ears are folded and a moan’s bubbling up and he’s watching Talon curl and uncurl his hands on the desk. Sett leans over him to kiss the back of his neck. He should wait—normally he’d wait, but Sett’s hips are already lurching, grinding against Talon’s ass.
“I need this—” Sett stammers. “C’mon—” as if he’s not already balls deep inside him. This is helping. Sticking his dick inside Talon is helping. He’s already devolved into short, choppy thrusts that’s more humping than anything else.
“Sett,” Talon hisses, reaching behind him to slap clumsily at Sett’s bare side. “Do it normal.”
“I’m tryin’,” Sett says, oddly defensive. He pushes himself up off of Talon, trying to correct the mangled rhythm he’s got going. “You’re too pretty.”
Again, Talon twists to look at him, his face flushed and all cute. He almost looks like he wants to argue with him. Maybe if they weren’t mid-fuck—though that hasn’t stopped them before.
“C’mon don’t look at me like that,” Sett snaps, “jus’ ‘cause I’m the only one that’ll be sweet on you.” He wraps his hand over the back of Talon’s neck and exerts a little pressure until Talon relents, caves, bows his head against the desk. “I mean it,” Sett continues, his voice tight. “I’m—fuck—” His brain’s running interference. He uses his grip on Talon’s neck as leverage to really fuck him like really fuck him the way he wants to. His mouth hangs open while he pants, feeling the nearly unbearable wet slip of his cock in and out and in again. Talon is arching into his thrusts, noise seething out of him—but quietly—quiet enough for Sett to be privy to it. Can’t say the same for himself.
“Fuck—” Sett groans again through grit teeth. He’s going faster now, the slaps of skin against skin just like a pit fight, and in a weird way Sett feels as if he might damn cry. “I need this—” He keeps repeating some combination of Knotting and Fuck and I need this and I’m sorry. “Need it—need to knot you—” The desire is oppressive. It becomes the only thing he can think about, and surely the only thing that’ll quell the post-fight plunge, where Sett will shake and wring out his hands until he feels like a person again. Fucking Talon is the shortcut. He’s the only one Sett wants. He’s snapping his hips into him so hard the desk is quaking, and when the candlestick tips again, Talon doesn't even try to catch it.
A lot of familiar tension is swirling around in Sett’s stomach, corkscrewing tighter and tighter. He focuses on the ending, topping off each thrust with a rough grind of his hips, until Talon lets out a little sob, immediately muffled by his hand. Sett would try and pry his hand away, desperate for his noise since it fills that great big hole inside his chest, but first—the knot—Sett tips his head up, hauling Talon backwards onto his cock as he feels it swell, and suddenly the tightness of Talon’s body is overpowering.
Sett’s ears are ringing, but he can’t tell if it’s due to the knotting or if it’s because of how loudly he’d moaned. He leans over Talon, bracing an arm on the desk while his head spins and Talon squeezes him some more, comforts him some more, even though he doesn't love him.
Who even cares, Sett thinks, blindly. All the different ways Talon doesn’t love him have started to add up, anyway: how he keeps coming back; how he’ll let Sett touch him even though no one else gets to, the kisses too; even flicking the dirt off his ears. Even carrying his coat upstairs, where it lays draped on the chair next to them. Maybe it’s not exactly how Sett dreamt it, but Sett’s got enough love for both of them, so it’s enough.
Sett realizes he might be leaning a bit too hard against Talon. He takes his hand off Talon’s neck and tries to adjust his stance to allow him some room to breathe, even though they’re tied together. Talon whimpers, face still hidden by the angle, impressively weak-sounding. Sett rubs his hips to make sure the wooden lip of the desk hadn’t pinched his bare skin. While he’s there he slides his hand further and pays some attention to Talon’s clit. Talon tosses his head back, tongue caught between his teeth. He gets deliriously tight around Sett again, and Sett feels pretty violent about it. He kinda wishes he’d given Vizun more of a beating.
They’re both panting now, heavy hot breaths filling the quiet, and Sett feels much better than he did. After a while Talon reaches behind himself to fumble with Sett’s cock, still knot-deep in his pussy.
“Too much—” he admits, voice tight.
“M’ sorry,” Sett murmurs, trying to adjust himself again. He should’ve gotten him more warmed up first. He’s lucky Talon can take him at all.
Talon wipes his face with the flats of his hands. He finally stretches his arm out to right the candlestick again. “It aches,” he complains, sullenly, like he’s mad at himself for admitting it. And he probably is, because Talon hates to mention any pain or trouble. He’ll keep everything locked up tight, afraid to show any weakness in case Sett hates him for it. (But Sett could never hate him for it, so little things have started to slip out. Small admissions. A headache, a hunger, a bed that’s too cold until Sett collects him in his arms.)
“It’s my fault,” Sett reassures him.
“Boss!”
Talon freezes. That’s Yelra’s banging on the door. Sett tries to see if his knot wants to slip out yet, but Talon lets out a hoarse yelp when he tries. Then Yelra abruptly bursts into the office and Sett’s got no choice but to own it, because he's always got a reputation to uphold.
“Shit—oh—” Yelra slaps his hands over his eyes and turns around. “Boss—sorry—”
“This’d better be important,” Sett says. He smooths his hand along Talon’s back, to comfort him. Talon’s turned away as far as he's allowed, his shoulders hunched in obvious discomfort.
“It's Vizun,” Yelra starts, still covering his eyes. He’s embarrassed but Sett knows he’s going to tell the whole damn crew because if there's one thing Yelra can't do it’s keep his mouth shut.
“What about him?”
“He’s awake and causin’ a buzz.”
Sett frowns. “So throw him out.”
“He won’t go,” Yelra says. “Not unless you make him.”
Sett sighs. “I shoulda just killed him. That's what I get for bein’ nice.” He suddenly rolls his hips, and Talon is caught off guard so he lets out an exposed, aching groan. “I’ll be right there,” Sett says. “Gimme a minute, would you, Yel?”
“‘C-course.” Yelra’s low voice has shifted up an octave. “M’ sorry Boss.”
“Yeah,” Sett says dryly. “Get out already.”
The moment the door closes, Talon reaches back to try and extract some pain. He claws at Sett’s legs and bare stomach, trying to dig his fingernails in with no success. He’s bitten them too short this time around.
“Don't—do that,” he hisses.
“I’m sorry,” Sett says, grabbing his hand and giving it a squeeze. “He was gonna talk about us anyway so I had to give him something to say.”
“No,” Talon repeats. He tries to yank his hand free. Sett lets him in favor of finally pulling his cock out. It slides out of Talon, limp and victorious. Sett drops to his knees and kisses the curve of Talon’s ass, still apologetic. He prefers to be in Talon’s good graces. He runs one finger up the back of his cunt, admiring how slick he is. It’s getting on the inside of his thighs.
“C’mon, turn around,” Sett croons. He sucks on his wet finger. “Lemme make it up to you.”
Talon scoffs, but he does unfold from the desk and turns to lean against it instead. His face is blotchy and there’s blood on his lips. He looks down at Sett with no small measure of betrayal.
“I’m sorry,” Sett repeats, shuffling closer. He presses his mouth repentantly against Talon’s thigh.
“You’d do it again.” Talon’s voice is scathing.
“Ah—” Sett rolls a few responses around in his mouth like a loose toothpick. Talon won’t like any of them, so he grins up at Talon sheepishly. Yeah. Maybe he would.
Talon’s glare sharpens. He reaches down and squeezes Sett’s ears tight between his fingers. Sett will bear it. He leans in to clean Talon up.
His cunt is a mess of slick arousal and cum and if Sett had any say he’d want it to be like that all the time. But he has to grovel, so he puts his mouth to work and more importantly—his tongue. Sett’s real good at using it, better nowadays, since he’s had lots of practice. Talon grumbles above him, still squeezing his ears tight so the sound is muffled. He always has that vague sweetness to him, so faint you almost have to look for it. While Sett’s face-deep in Talon’s cunt he imagines what Yelra might say. The Boss is busy celebrating, he might warn. (True.) Or, He seems pretty good at what he does. (Also true.) And then when the rest of the crew presses him he’ll cave, as he often does, and he’ll talk about that pretty little sound Talon made, maybe with an appropriate hint of reverence. Talon’s always been an outsider. He hangs around the pit like a shadow, an omen of generous cuts for the crew, since he keeps Sett in such a good mood, but they don't know him, and maybe they’re afraid of him, and maybe they should be afraid of him. Sett still likes the notion of keeping Talon all to himself, bitter ends and blunt fingernails and all, but he does love the idea of people being jealous. He likes to imagine people seeing what Talon looks like and hearing what he sounds like and not being able to have him. Then after he sheds the cheering crowd, Sett loves the exclusivity, and he loves how sometimes Talon traces the same scar on his back while he thinks Sett is sleeping. And he loves Talon so much it feels like a punch in the face.
Sett’s midway through curling his tongue, thinking about it, tasting his own cum staining Talon’s insides. And his tail is definitely wagging, and Talon says something but he isn’t really listening, busy sniffing out his clit, until Talon finally pushes his head away.
“You’re gross,” he mutters.
Sett sits back on his knees. He wipes some wet off his chin. Talon’s let go of one ear in favor of gripping the edge of the desk. Sett tilts his head until he lets the other one go too. They look at each other.
“If you don’t like it I won’t do it no more,” Sett says.
Talon doesn’t answer, but he averts his eyes and pushes out his bottom lip. He does like it. He just doesn’t want to give Sett the satisfaction of hearing it. That’s okay. Sett stands and gets his hands on Talon’s waist and just holds him a second, even though he’d better be going downstairs to whatever commotion Vizun’s causing. In the silence, Talon’s hand travels shyly up Sett’s chest, following his collarbone to his neck, so soft you could almost forget he kills people. The quiet is fleeting. Sett reaches down to pull his pants up. They desperately need to be washed. His belt buckle sounds precarious.
“I’ll be right back,” Sett promises. “Wait for me.” He’s thinking ahead, round two with Vizun and then round two with Talon, unless he’s too sore.
Talon doesn’t speak, but his hand darts out to fix the fur on one of Sett’s ears, which is pretty much like saying something. But even if it isn’t—it’s enough.