Never Thought Of It This Way But I Love It

Touch, touch, touch

—every time you and sylus touch is out of necessity, until it isn’t just.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: baby’s first drabble! hello! soft, yearning, aching, hand-flexing sylus has been eating away at my brain like a maggot (affectionate). here’s the first of hopefully more of whatever this is ♡ i havent written in a hot MINUTE, so feedback is super appreciated. i hope you enjoy! ❀ -urs

sylus x reader | fluff, longing, dressing wounds, dates, and touches

The hunter’s attempts at sneaking up on him amuse him and make his chest ache at the same time. It was an all-too-familiar sight— her face and her eyes watching him like a hawk’s, her motions like a wild cat’s. A knife in hand isn’t favorable, sure, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s barely looking when he catches your wrist with his sturdy fingers, head gracefully turning to look at you with no trace of urgency. 

“Kitten.” glowing rubies scrutinize your failed attempt at causing harm. Or a good startle. He couldn’t read if that was murder or mischief in your eyes. Either way, he liked it. “Nice try.” 

𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Always so lost when it comes to the base, Mephisto is your only friend. The halls were made to be a labyrinth to anyone who dared trespass. Only Sylus and the twins truly know the way. Sylus spent hours programming the bird to know the ins and outs of the base, so he is your beacon. But he flies quick, and after shaking him like a tambourine that one time, he doesn’t really care if he loses you. 

“Shit.” you mutter, turning in a circle. A comical fork in the hall before you. You just wanted to find the library Sylus has been so proud of. You wonder how you’ll ever get there. You wonder how you’ll ever get out… 

Warmth on your shoulder and a sturdy grip on your arm maneuver you towards the rightmost hallway. Sylus towers over you, unimpressed. “He went that way.” 

Cheeks growing warm, you wanted to punch him— for sneaking up on you in a most idiotic state. But you thank him instead, shaking him off and stalking after the stupid bird. Maybe you’ll give him another shake for good measure. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Amongst all your injuries, the broken nail on your thumb irks you the most. At least the lock is broken, and you’re safe and warm inside the safe house. The uncharacteristically charismatic safe house with leather couches, plush rugs, and a fancy fireplace. It smelled of white ginger incense and cinnamon. If you weren’t so dizzy and cold from the blood loss, you’d be living it up in this gold brick bungalow. 

Slumping against the door, respectfully getting only the wood floors wet and not the carpet, you assess the situation: bruises and scrapes (no big deal), gunshot to your shoulder, bullet still lodged and bleeding slowly (not so bad), and possible concussion (maybe a little concerning), broken thumbnail (big issue). 

You know exactly what you need to do. Where the first-aid kit may be, how to dig the bullet out, and what to bite on when you do it. Simple, easy, quick— as you were trained to do. A few winces and groans, and you’ll be fine. You lose a slow and steady breath. You’ll be fine…

 A few minutes to rest wouldn’t be so bad. Just a few breaths, a moment to rest your eyes, to calm your heartbeat and slow the bleeding. Just a minute. Just a minute. 

The click of the broken lock disengaging wakes you, sends you into a panic. How long have you been out? Instinct makes you reach, point, and cock your gun to the door— where it meets a dragon’s rock-molten glare. He scowls at you, incredulous— maybe at the blood on the polished mahogany floor, seeping between its crevices. Or at the shattered, high-end biotech door lock. Or the fact that you broke in. You have no energy to ask.

“You welcome this house’s owner by pointing a gun to his head?” he asks, but his voice carries no venom, nor does it any humor. He’s kneeling the next time you blink, hands hovering over your left shoulder. There’s something in the scrunch of his brows, the crease beneath his eyes, the short breaths he tries to hide— as if he’d been running, panicking. 

“How…?”

“A safe with a broken lock tends to make itself known, sweetie.” he murmurs, too focused on all the blood. Too much to be coming from you. “Although the treasure usually doesn’t walk right in.” 

He applies pressure. You groan. “What?” 

“Can you stand?” he asks. You try, but at the first sign of strain on your face, he stops you and moves you himself. 

He lays you by the fireplace, leaves the room to retrieve a first aid kit, and then works carefully in the dim light. He doesn’t speak a word, and you wonder if it’s because he’s mad. It is pretty shameless of you to break into his property. And you suppose pointing a gun to his head is even worse. 

He shouldn’t have to do this. He shouldn’t be dirtying his hands with your mistakes, dealing with the consequences of your poor and ill-tempered decisions. Shouldn’t have to be dealing with a bloody floor and a broken lock— and it’s all your fault. Guilt, cold and sickening, bubbles up in the pit of your stomach.

But his hands are gentle and soothing. His presence, the sound of his breathing is lulling you into calm-surfaced waters with a current that runs rapidly, dangerously beneath. You hate that you want to drown. 

“Sylus…” you start as he wipes his hands on his thighs, finished with stitching up your wound. 

He holds out a pill. “Take this.” 

You blink at him. 

“Painkiller.” he nudges your hand open, and you wince as he hits your thumb. The broken nail making its presence known once more. He freezes, wondering if he’d done that. If he’d missed a broken bone. He didn’t check for sprains. He opens his mouth to say something.

But you cut him off, bringing your finger to your lips and sucking. “I broke it when I picked your lock.” 

“Your finger?” he sounds mad.

“My nail.” you clarify, voice quieter now. A response at his own tone.

The cord that pulled his shoulders taut and froze his spine breaks its tension. He exhales. The rest of him follows, and with softness, he whispers. “Let me see.” 

You lift your hand to him carefully, and his strong fingers wrap around the base of your thumb and your palm. He inspects it with such care you’d think it was a protocore worth his time. “Looks bad.” 

“Feels bad.” You confirm, tugging at your hand. But with no real force. Maybe just to see if he would let go. 

He doesn’t. In fact, he looks pained. Maybe he had been looking pained this whole time— when he cleaned your cuts, when he pulled the bullet out of your shoulder and stitched up the gaping hole. Too engrossed in your guilt, you hadn’t noticed that what you thought was anger on his face was something else entirely. Anguish. Worry. The last fraying thread of composure his sanity clings to tonight. His grasp tightens around your hand, and he cleans it with the same tenderness he gave your worse injuries.

Then he pulls your hand up to his lips. His breath ghosts over your skin, heat lacing through your veins, down your arm and pooling in the crevices of your chest. “Call me, next time. When you need help.” 

He gauges your expression. He looks different here. His usual blood-cursed irises now looking like sweet, warm honey in the glow of the firelight. 

“Please.” He insists, voice low and imploring. It snaps you out of your reverie, and you nod. That’s enough for him. 

You spend the rest of the night talking, or at least he tries to keep you talking. You still did have a concussion after all. 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You shouldn’t be surprised, and yet. In the mirror, you scrutinized yourself in the dress he bought you. The shifting hues of black and red at the movement, how the gloves looked like starlight and felt like butter on your arms. How the heavy diamonds adorning your ears and your neck glimmer in the ambient light of his guest room.

There is a knock on the door and at your command, it swings open to reveal an equally stunning leader of Onychinus.

The strap of his watch catches his skin as he pushes the door open. He’s scowling at his wrist when you see him. And as he looks up, he meets your wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. There is a rupturing, caving so grand in your chest at his heated gaze. A smile he cannot help graces his dangerously, beautiful lips. “You look…” 

“My dress,” you say at the same time. Desperate, quick to fill the silence that stuffed the room now that there are two people in it. Now that he— handsome and alluring— is in it. You need to get a grip. “Can—“ you pause when you realize he was speaking too. But he simply gestures for you to go on. “Can you help me?” 

Sylus takes in the ask and nods. Willing the thrumming in his chest to cease and his breathing to steady as he comes up behind you. Closer and closer until you feel the heat of his fingers on your skin. 

“I’m going to—“

“Go ahead.” you feel his knuckle glide up the skin of your back as he zips you up snugly in the dress. So perfectly fit, you tried to find a flaw— but there was none. The glitter didn’t scratch under your arms, the fabric didn’t itch around your waist and it draped just below your ankles. it was soft and flexible enough should you have to move more than needed during tonight’s operation, you could. 

Something stirs in you that Sylus, under the guise of wanting to handle things himself, still took to account specific, necessary modifications for your comfort without you having to say a word. 

“Thanks.” you say, catching the reflection of his eyes again. His own lingers on the zipper for a moment before he pulls his hands away like he’d touched fire. He grunts in reply. Whatever he came in to say was lost to him, and frankly, he had no interest in getting it back.

“Take your time.” he says instead, voice tight. Then, unable to say another word, he turns on his heel and marches out with a rigid spine and stiff shoulders. Unbeknownst to you, his ears had gone as crimson as his irises. Meanwhile, you curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms as you drop to your ankles, willing yourself into a ball to distract from the inferno in your chest. 

Good thing the dress was stretchy.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Sylus?” turning, you wonder how it was possible to lose such a tall, formidable man. 

The crowd is an ocean that pulls you within its current however-much you push against. He asked you, very kindly, actually, to stay by his side— or so you recall. And yet the pastries, the trinkets, the lanterns and the small stall with the adoptable pets have charmed you like the lilt of a flute’s tune. 

The Linkon plaza is never this crowded, if it weren’t for the new year festival. From his cave, you thought you’d lure him out and show him how bright and happy a celebration should be beyond the confines of the base. Sure, the lanterns are up, the gold coins are scattered, the streamers and confetti have littered the floors of the mansion (thanks to the eagerness of the twins), but being out with the people celebrating the arrival of a new year is still, you argued, different. 

“I don’t need anyone else.” He’d said when you coined the idea. With his gentle look, and the hint of a challenge beneath a raised brow. You turn away before he spots the visual evidence of the prickles you feel under the flesh of your cheeks. He still does, anyway. It makes him grin. 

Never truly one to deny you, he agrees on one condition: stay close. And here you are… not. 

“Excuse me— sorry.” You weave through people as gently as you could, straining your neck trying to look over countless heads to find familiar moon-touched hair. A part of you itches in frustration— with his height, he should find you easily. Why wasn’t he looking for you?

The crowd spits you out by a sidewalk where children have gathered nearby to watch a puppet show. He’s impossible to miss in his red coat and bright white hair. There he stood in the back of the short crowd, watching intently as the paper dragon dances with the princess. 

You wander next to him quietly, not wanting to disrupt his intrigue. There was a far-away look in his eyes that made you wonder if he was watching at all. When he flinches ever so slightly as the dragon is slain, you’re sure he is. 

He feels your hand slip into his palm, and his fingers instinctively find their place between the spaces of your own. And something like freshly cooked rice or a hearty soup travels down into your chest at the feeling that this— this was right. You should have been doing this from the moment you arrived; then you wouldn’t have wandered, then you wouldn’t have strayed. You make a mental note: don’t let go. 

He thinks of how well you’ve gotten at sneaking up on him. 

Your grasp tightens. “There you are.” 

“You left me.” he says, his voice a little raspy from underuse. Unlike yours, that has been yelling his name the moment you realized he was gone. 

“No, I didn’t.” you insist, nudging him. “I just lost you for a second.” 

“Felt like ages, sweetie.” he says, looking at you. He means to tease, but his words carry the weight of a lifetime.

“Sylus.” you frown. You don’t like the way his features look haunted by a specter you cannot slay. Your free hand comes to touch his face, fingers brushing just below his eye, easing lightness back beneath his skin. “I found you.” 

And as if by your touch, his soul snaps into place. This one, now. Not any other life before. His brows unfurl and his distance from sea to shore recedes. A tenderness. A gratefulness. A prideful, present sort of affection. “You did.” 

“Wasn’t easy.” you huff, shoulders sinking in frustration. Spreading out the tension as the air between you has gotten too thin. But your hand stays in place, curling around his jaw to stabilize itself. Your thumb has a mind of its own, rubbing the back of his hand. To ground him, you say. For him. For… you, too. “There are too many things, I got a little overwhelmed.” 

He smirks, reaching up to your face and swiping his thumb over the corner of your lip. It comes away stained with blue icing. From the very cupcake that lured you away. He brings it to his lips and tastes it. “Show me.” 

“Hm?” you blink, distracted at the act. The sound of your pulse muffling your ears, drowning out the droning of the crowd. 

“Show me the many things.” he says again, a chuckle sanding his tone. His voice is clear as day, the only true thing you hear in the cheerful chaos of the festival. He shakes your joined hands. “I’ve got you.” 

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

thank you for reading!

𓆰 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬

sylus & (luke & kieran) • accidental baby menace acquisition • reluctant caretaker • comfort no hurt • ao3 link

reblogs and comments are what keeps your writers alive! requests are open

Summary: Trouble has found Sylus in the form of two little boys desperately needing a warm shower and some new clothes. Reluctantly, Sylus lets trouble in.

It's a bit of a logistical struggle to get the two boys back to Sylus's main residence. Sylus will usually disappear into his signature red mist, or gun it on his motorcycle, but neither of those things prove viable options when toting along two young children. So, he does what one may expect of a criminal overlord and hot-wires a car.

Perhaps it isn't the best example to be setting to the incredibly impressionable children who watch him do that, but Sylus isn't a parent, or a babysitter. Hell, this could very well be a valuable skill for their future. He's basically doing them a favor, giving them a nice, early head start into the world of automobile theft.

"So cool…" the seemingly more talkative little boy whispers as Sylus gets the car running, the other twin nodding along. Sylus hums and gives a slight, satisfied smile. The kids aren't half bad, he supposes. Not that he's planning on keeping them around, obviously, but he does hope they do well for themselves once he tells them to scram. Which will be soon.

He opens the doors to the car, ushering the two into the back seat. They scramble in, practically climbing to get their little bodies into the car. It's amusing, the way they move. They're so small, navigating a world where nothing was truly made for them, and doing so admirably.

"Buckle up," Sylus tells them. He's no parent or anything, but stars above, even he's not so heartless as to let these kids jostle around in the back of the car while he drives. He watches in the rear view mirror as they pull the seat belts over their laps, clicking them into place. Satisfied, Sylus tells them to hold on tight, and then steps on the gas.

Judging by the giggles and the shouts and squeals behind him, the boys seem to think Sylus's slightly reckless, much too fast driving is purely delightful. Sharp turns and swerving acceleration only pull laughter from the kids. Sylus is starting to think, somewhat ridiculously, that these two aren't scared of anything at all.

It's not long before Sylus is parking in front of his main residence, the tall, huge manor sprawling before them. Sylus leans over to pick up his suit jacket from the passenger's seat. One of the boys (he's not sure which one, their voices are rather identical) asks, "Is this your castle?"

Sylus scoffs. "It's a manor."

"What's the difference?" Now that bit of bravado comes from the mouthier twin.

"That's not important right now," Sylus replies. "Come on. Out." The boys scramble to follow instructions as he steps smoothly from the car, nearly tumbling out of the car as they open the door and hop out.

Sylus makes a beckoning motion as he walks, not bothering to turn. He doesn't have to, really. The children are rather loud as they run after him, little legs working hard to keep up with his long strides. He can hear them just fine, then feel them as the grab onto him, one taking his hand while the other clutches at the fabric of his pants. Sylus watches his step, just to make sure he doesn't accidentally knock one of them over as he walks.

The door swings open as soon as Sylus touches it, reading his biometric information with technology of his own design. He pauses in the foyer, looking over the two boys. They stare up at him, two pairs of big, dark eyes waiting for his next move.

"You two need showers," he decides. The boys say nothing in response. Inwardly, Sylus cringes. Is he going to have to do this, too? Have these two ever seen soap in their lives? Ugh, he really isn't cut out for this sort of thing. "Do you two know how to wash?" he asks, eyes narrowing as he looks over their greasy hair and their dirty clothes.

"We're big boys," the quieter one asserts. The other chimes in.

"Yeah! We know how to take a bath!"

Sylus hums, doubtful. Still though, he's not exactly jumping at the opportunity to wash two street kids himself, so he figures he'll let them work it out. At this point, even getting some soap on their bodies, no matter how clumsily, will be an improvement for them.

"All right," Sylus sighs. "Let's go." He turns on his heel once more, waving over his shoulder for the twins to follow him. The pitter-patter of little feet follows him, and Sylus makes a mental note to have the floors in this hallway washed (and get the boys new shoes that aren't so filthy).

He leads them upstairs to one of the many suites that the manor contains, complete with a fully stocked bathroom. Taking a knee by the tub, he turns on the water, letting it run for a few moments and get to a pleasant, warm temperature before he lowers the stopper and lets the tub fill.

""I'm going to leave the room while you two wash up," Sylus says as he begins to pull soaps and washcloths from higher shelves, where the boys would never have a hope of reaching them. "This is for washing your body," he says, holding up a bottle of fragrant body wash, "and this is for your hair," he finishes, gesturing to the shampoo on the tub's edge. He pulls two plush towels from drawers, setting them on the countertop where they boys can reach.

"Shout for me when you are both finished."

Without awaiting a response, Sylus walks out of the bathroom, leaving the two to their own devices. The grout is waterproof and of good quality. His bathroom should be fine.

The two boys begin to chatter amongst themselves, a sound that grows fainter and fainter as Sylus walks down the hallway. He makes his way to the kitchen, pouting himself a glass of whiskey without any real second thought. With a heavy sigh, he makes his way int the nearby sitting room, easing onto one of the several couches there. One arm is slung over the back of the sofa, while the other swirls his whiskey for a moment before he takes a long sip.

And now, without any distracting factors and a glass of alcohol in his hand, Sylus can properly wonder what the fuck he's been thinking this entire time.

An entirely too short amount of time later (though maybe Sylus is being dramatic - he'd had time to make his leisurely way through three glasses of whiskey), the boys begin shouting for him.

"Mister!" comes the yell from the bathroom, decidedly too loud of a noise to be coming from such a small person. "Mister, we're done!" Sylus sighs, groaning quietly as he rises. He sets the wide glass down onto the dark coffee table and begins walking, stopping first at the door where he'd ordered a selection of children's clothes to be delivered, then heading back up the stairs to the bathroom he'd left the two in.

He finds the two wrapped in the towels he'd left, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and giggling amongst themselves as they wait for him. Sylus raises an eyebrow.

"Get dried," he says, turning to the counter and placing the bag of clothes there. He begins to unpack it, pulling out two shirts, two pairs of soft pants, socks and underwear, everything the two might need. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the twins start to shuffle around, wiggling like little bugs as they dry themselves off. He tosses the two stacks of clothes down on the rug they stand on for them to put on when they're dry.

As he flips through his phone, notifying his chef that breakfast the next day will be for three rather than just one, the boys pull on their pants. Sylus sighs to himself, shutting off his phone once the message has been sent off and turning to lean back against the counter with his arms folded.

The boys' hair is still dripping wet. Sylus sighs. Fine.

Sylus stands up straight and takes the two long strides needed to cross the bathroom. He sinks down onto one knee, picking up one of the discarded towels and motioning for one of the twins to come closer. The boy steps up, and Sylus drops the towel on his head.

"It's not good to sleep with such wet hair," Sylus mutters as he towels off the boy's head efficiently, making the kid giggle with the rapid back and forth motion. Once the first kid is relatively dry, Sylus motions for the second, repeating the process.

With tousled hair, the boys go back to dressing, arguing briefly over who gets which piece from each set. Sylus watches for a moment with a raised eyebrow before standing back up and taking his place beside the wall again. He flips through his phone, reading messages from potential and existing dealers, going over invitations to auctions he's been sent. He manages to get engrossed enough in his work that it's almost a surprise when one of the boys speaks up

"Help?" a small voice asks. Sylus stands from where he'd leaned against the wall, peering over the top of his phone with a raised eyebrow. The quieter of the two twins has managed to tangle himself in the pajama shirt, one arm sticking up in the air and the other stuck against his shoulder. Sylus lets out a sharp breath through his nose, amused.

"How did you manage this?" he asks as he kneels, pulling the shirt into place with a firm tug. The boy shrugs in lieu of a proper answer, plopping down on the floor beside his brother to pull on a pair of socks.

It's at this moment that Sylus realizes he doesn't know the boys' names. He blinks silently to himself for a moment. Sylus always makes it his business to know everything about the people around him. How is it that he let this slide?

He crouches, lowering himself closer to the boys' level. Two little heads turn towards him, two pairs of dark eyes blinking in unison.

"What are your names?" Sylus asks without preamble. "I neglected to ask earlier." The louder twin gives a toothy grin.

"I'm Luke!" he says.

"Luke," Sylus repeats. The boy nods, tugging at the collar of his shirt to fidget with it. Sylus's brow furrows. "Don't do that," he scolds. "You'll stretch out the fabric." Then, right after the words leave him, he curses himself inwardly. Dammit, he's starting to sound like some tender little mother. He's really got to stop doing this sort of thing, considering the boys will be long gone from his life very soon.

"And you?" he asks instead of dwelling on his thoughts, turning to the quieter boy.

"Kieran," comes the soft reply. Sylus nods.

"Kieran," he says, repeating this name as well, committing it to memory. The boy - who Sylus now knows as Kieran - gives a clumsy nod, the kind that small children put their entire torso into. Sylus finds the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

Eagerly, Luke scoots closer.

"What's your name, Mister?" he asks, looking up at the man with wide, curious eyes. Sylus furrows his brow. Right. They don't know his name either. Sylus frowns with a bit of a realization.

These kids have no clue who he is. They just… went with him. Hell, he basically just kidnapped them and they came right along without a care in the world. Does he give the "stranger danger" lesson now or save it for later?

Stop. No. Sylus isn't these kids' caretaker, for heaven's sake. What the hell is he thinking, teaching them life lessons? No, he'll just introduce himself. Courteous and not completely uncaring (they're kids, after all), but still maintaining his distance.

Yes.

He debates for a brief moment, wondering if he should give them a false name. Should he introduce himself as "Onychinus," the feared and almost mythical crime lord? It would be prudent, considering his established interest in keeping his identity secret.

Sylus sighs. Still, these are children, he supposes. They don't even know who he is, past the fact that he's a stranger both rich and kind (or stupid, maybe) enough to help them out.

"I'm Sylus," he says flatly. Then, after a moment, calling on the little knowledge he has about children this young, "And you two need to go to bed. It's late. Children are supposed to sleep a lot." The boys pout immediately, and Luke even groans out loud.

"We're not tired!" he asserts, and Kieran nods, backing up his brother. "Let's look around! This place is so cool, pleeeeease can we look around, pleeeeease?" Luke bounces as he speaks, full of the untamable energy children always seem to have. Sylus frowns.

"No," he says, remaining steadfast. "It's late. You two are going to bed." The twins make their displeasure known again, though a bit more softly this time. Sylus sighs. Maybe offering them at least some sort of choice will make them a bit more amenable.

"You have a choice," he tells them, "between a room with one or two beds."

"Two!" the boys immediately decide, apparently eager to have their own, separate beds. Sylus nods, turning towards the bathroom door and motioning over his shoulder for them to follow.

He walks down the hallway once again, with the two following him loudly. He makes a mental note to make sure that bathroom is cleaned and that the clothes in the bag are moved to the closet of their temporary room. Once he reaches an appropriate room (both close enough to his own that he can easily keep an eye on them, and far enough that they won't disturb him), he opens the door, swinging it open and holding out a hand.

With quiet exclamations, the boys scramble in, claiming the two beds on opposite sides of the room. They look remarkably small, almost comically so, as they scurry under the covers of the two queen-sized beds, both seemingly very pleased with the blankets and pillows.

Sylus watches them for a moment, debating. Then, in the interest of keeping both the kids and his residence relatively unharmed, he whistles sharply. Luke and Kieran watch in awe as Mephisto comes soaring into the room, landing neatly on Sylus's shoulder.

"If you need anything," Sylus says, "just tell Mephisto." The mechanical bird flaps, taking off from Sylus's shoulder and landing on the nightstand between the two beds. Immediately, Kieran silently reaches out, little hand petting Mephisto's head. The crow turns to look at Sylus, a remarkably displeased look in his red eyes for something that's nothing but metal and lines of code. What have you gotten me into? he seems to ask, as he's gently pet.

Sylus raises his eyebrows, letting his bird know that yes, in fact this is his new duty for the night. Mephisto lets out a dejected caw, prompting a giggle from the boys.

"He talks!" Luke says, grinning. Sylus hums.

"Indeed he does."

With the boys apparently engrossed in Sylus's crow, the man decides that it's time for him to make his exit. They'll be safe, and Mephisto is sturdy, for all that he complains. With all parties distracted, Sylus leaves the room, closing the door smoothly behind him.

Once he's out in the quiet solitude of the hallway, he sighs heavily, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

What the hell has he gotten himself into?

Well, Sylus supposes, he'll figure that out in the morning.

Kyoya: This is Haruhi. Haruhi loves her personal space.

*Tamaki hugging Haruhi tightly*

Kyoya: This is Tamaki. Tamaki also loves Haruhi’s personal space.

haruhi !! <3

yall wouldnt barty be the kind to have a jumpscare alarm at like 7am?? like volume max vibrations 100% and the sound is like some high pitched screaming

merchandise from the ohshc cafe collab in tokyo, ~2023

oh my god ur so right how did i not think of the fact that hikaru would definitely find his horrific gacha music videos one way or another. kaoru would definitely have them hidden in like the depths of the pc though he'd put his creations in a folder within a folder labeled "homework". i think hikaru would find it the funniest thing in the world but also be extremely offended that hes a side character in the majority of the music videos.

kaoru already feels like somethings up when the wedding montage cuts to a black screen and hikaru cackles from behind the camera. but then he hears the first few notes of Complicated by avril lavigne and his heart literally stops beating.

kyoya doesn't know whats happening. he doesn't know why the music is so loud yet so low quality. he doesn't know what those creatures on the screen are. he doesn't know why the one that looks suspiciously like him is labeled "mafia boss". he doesn't want to know.

Hikaru coming in, not wanting to admit to snooping and finding Kaoru's gacha life videos to Avril Lavigne's "Nobody's Home" where the Hikaru-looking avatar bullies and abandons him like ooc 2000s fanfiction: uh....hey, are you doing okay? want to talk about anything?

anyway I still can't stop laughing at this concept. I drew this but refuse to put any more effort into it or download the app to do anything else. this one's set to "The Best Damn Thing" though

I just wanted to say that I admire you so much, lovely! you're such a sweetheart <3333 kisses!!!!!! xoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxoxoxoxoxoxox

love you!!!! your writing is so good i read it and start hissing like im harry potter setting a boa constrictor on my cousin (IN A GOOD "this-hiss-too-cute" WAY) <33333 kiss kiss

Father and son

just finished kakegurui season 1! kaede manyuda and kyoya ootori seem like same the same person in different universes to me.. especially with the way they scheme and think 1 billion steps ahead

what do you guys think?