When it came down to it, he was almost as addicted to her as he was to nicotine.

It was her tiny quirks that did it for him—the little things, like how her whole being seemed to relax when Nill was around, or how having her katana in her hands colored her skin something like confidence, or how she couldn't (and wouldn't) cook an edible meal if his life depended on it. And there was also how she didn't mind the smoke in her face, almost like she enjoyed inhaling it—an aphrodisiac to him that she would never, ever know the true power of.

"She's an enigma," he'd told Haine one day, "a mystery that everybody wants to solve...and I get to be the lucky P.I. to try it." And while the other man hadn't answered, had just flicked the cigarette from his lips, Badou knew he agreed.

He found it hilarious, also, that people would think that even in bed, she was statuesque and hard to please. He'd thought so too, once, but once he'd actually had the experience, he knew that all you had to do was touch her in the right right places and tilt your hips in just the right direction and you'd have her moaning and thrashing like a regular nymph. Another ridiculously sexy trait: responsiveness.

He remembered the aftermath of their first time together; naked and snuggled in a seedy hotel room bed, city air cooling the room through the open window (prime blackmailing opportunity, but he didn't care), a cigarette in his mouth and, occasionally, in hers. Her head was leaned against his chest, delicate fingers toying absently with a bright orange split end, when she'd tilted her head up to look at him with such purely content dark eyes and the gentlest, slightest smile on her face that his heart had damn near stopped before he'd had the urge to snuggle the life out of her.

Even now, he laughed at the memory. He must've been a damn good fuck to make her smile like that.

There really were many similarities between his addiction to her and his addiction to smokes. For one, if he hadn't gotten enough of either and a fix wasn't available to him, he'd go a little off his rocker and would resort to other things (ahem) until he was sated. And, once he had gotten his fill, he was much happier and a world calmer. Holding her was like a sedative, settling his raging brain and turning his scorching blood into cool water, just like smoking a cigarette after twenty minutes without one—except way better, really.

He'd never have though she was the perfect woman for him. Sure, she had the hot body to jack off at the thought of (grade-A tits, endless legs, tiny waist, wide-ish hips, shapely rump, you get the idea), but in his younger days (four months ago), he'd always thought his girl would be loyal and obedient, like a true misogynist would. Naoto, of course, had to be the exact opposite, completely independent and expecting him to be too. She wouldn't do any sort of thing for him to be too. She wouldn't do any sort of thing for him unless she'd get something out if it, as well, and surprisingly, he didn't mind one bit. He could get dominated every once in a while.

Or for the rest of my life, he thinks, ring heavy in his pocket and smile soft on his face.