sakura-kissyy

Latest Posts by sakura-kissyy

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.

The cool type 💜

nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby

summary: the aftermath of what happened in skyhaven with pre-relationship sylus. hurt/comfort, exploring mc’s trauma.

A simultaneous sigh blooms from both of your lungs as the last wanderer crumbles into oblivion. The dust of its essence floated up to the polluted night sky of the N109 zone, painting artificial stars for the pair of victors below. Sylus lifts his gaze to you after he scrapes what’s left of the aftermath from his fingernails. He looks infuriatingly unaffected. You, however…

“You look like shit.” He remarks playfully, his eyes softening as he holds out his hand to help you up. You, like he anticipates, softly slap it away and get up on wobbly legs. “Fuck off.” You retort, still trying to catch your breath, and he simply smiles- striding next to you and subtly offering you his weight to lean on. You tried stubbornly standing on your own, but found yourself surrendering to his quiet help as you walked back to his bike.

“I’m not letting you ride back to Linkon like this.” He huffed, handing you his spare helmet, the one that is practically yours at this point. “Spend the night at the base.” Coming from him, it sounded more of a purring command than a gentle suggestion. “Get some beauty sleep.”

You had felt your muscles tense and your heart clenched as you were rapidly reminded of the last time you stayed over someone else’s place. The sound of doors locking, the pills, the confusion, the breathing man that you still mourned. Before you could refuse, though, a traitorous yawn escaped your throat. You knew he was right, that you were in no shape to travel home, and it’s not like he could exactly traipse into Linkon at the moment to accompany you. Besides, you’ve been fighting alongside him for a while now, and while he has little weaknesses, you’re willing to exploit them if need be. “Alright.” You breathe your surrender as you put the helmet on, bracing yourself for his driving skills.

Luke and Kieran greet you at the door like eager puppies. What happened, boss? Boss lady? Did ya kill something? How many? How bloody? Any guts?

Sylus held out a commanding hand and answered for you, thankfully. “Don’t ambush the poor girl, she’s beat up.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “I’m not beat up-”

“Come.” He holds his arm out for you, and you defeatedly take it, blindly following wherever he deigns to go.

“My head…” You groaned at the harsh overhead kitchen light being flicked on, rubbing your temples. “Does the big bad mob boss happen to have ibuprofen?”

“I’m not headache proof, believe it or not.” He exhaled a small chuckle. “Sit down.” He ushered you to the sofa across from the kitchen table. You obliged, but not because he told you to, of course. You were achey, dirty and exhausted. He held a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other, and you hesitated slightly as you let him give them to you. Turning the pills over in your fingers with a squint of your eyes, you looked for the label etched into the chalky red circles to identify that it was, in fact, ibuprofen.

Sylus noticed. Of course he noticed, he always does. “What?” He tilts his head, confused, but his tone still holds a hint of safe and familiar teasing. “You think I’m slipping you something?”

Swallowing back those nagging memories again along with the medicine, you force a chuckle. “Can never be sure with a lawless scoundrel like you, can I?”

He grinned, one of those rare smiles of his, toothy and reaching for his ruby eyes. “I may be a lawless scoundrel, sweetheart, but I’m not a monster.”

Not a monster, because a monster would do that.

Your best friend in the whole world would do that.

A deep breath left you, ready to be rid of this conversation topic. “Can I take a shower?”

His wide grin melted down to his signature smug smirk once again. “In which wing?”

Sylus’s living situation was fucking ridiculous. Four bathrooms with showers, three of them with tubs. For, what, three people? You shake your head in disbelief as he leads you to a guest room. Just as lavish as the rest of the place, the first thing that stares back at you is the neatly made king sized bed. A leather futon sits across it, right next to an enormous closet. Before you can gawk at any other evidence of luxury in the room, he shuts the door behind you. Your gaze instinctively flies to the knob, the phantom click still ringing in your ears. Your shoulders hunch, posture stilling as you find yourself waiting for it— but the door remains unlocked. If Sylus noticed, he gave you the grace of ignoring it and deciding he teased you enough for now. He opens the closet, unhooking a hanger from inside, draping a plush back bathrobe from it. “This should fit you.” You ran your hands along the fluffy material, unable to stop touching it. “And could I wash my clothes after-“

“I will.” He assures you with an interruption. “Leave them outside the door. I’ll find something laying around for you to change into so you don’t have to wait for them to dry.” You nodded, not expecting this level of consideration from him. It brings an irritating, fond heat to your cheeks. “Right. Thank you.”

“Just being a good host.” He smirks, opening the bathroom door. The bathroom was, of course, also fucking ridiculous. Dark marble walls, spotless black tile floors. A black Japanese bathtub next to the spacious shower stall. Woody, spicy potpourri wafted through the air from a bowl on the sink. He moves to shut the door, and you turn. “Um…” Swallow. “Is it okay to keep the door unlocked?” He frowned in confusion, and you quickly added, “It’s the steam. Too much in an enclosed space, I get a headache and I already have one, so I-“

“Okay.” He simply agrees, leaving you no room to over-explain and lie further. You’re almost taken aback with the ease he’s treating you with, but if you think about it, he’s always just accepted. He may question once or twice, but always nods his head without judgment.

You showered all of the blood and grime off your skin, but the reminder of Skyhaven clung under your fingernails no matter how much you scrubbed. It was something you had been pushing away from the forefront of your mind for weeks, almost a month now.

It’s not what you think it is, you remind yourself as you clench your fist, watching the hot water droplets roll off your knuckles. It’s Caleb. He was trying to protect me…

“No, we’re not doing this right now!” You mumbled aloud to yourself. Think, think, think of something else. You abruptly turned the valve to the wall, the water turning freezing cold. Your breathing seemed to slow down with the ice hitting your veins, and by the time you caught two chills, you stepped out and toweled off. The robe felt nice against your damp skin, the fuzz of it all absorbing the water droplets quickly. Opening the door, you see the clothes Sylus left for you in a neat pile: two items. A black satin button down with an “S” monogrammed into the breast pocket with golden embroidery, and grey basketball shorts. A dry snort found its way out of your nose. What a look.

You swam in them, of course, but in a cozy way. You folded the waistband of the shorts until they would aptly rest on your hips, and you didn’t mind the way the shirt’s sleeves hung past your fingers. The shirt smelled like him. Like his stupidly nice cologne, the familiar scent of spices and leather on the collar.

You let your exhausted body drive you to sleep.

The door is locked.

The eyes you used to seek comfort in refuse to soften.

You blindly take his sleeping pills.

The door is locked.

He pins you down on the sofa, next to a photo of the two of you in a frighteningly similar position, play-fighting and laughing.

He threatens to wrap a collar around your throat.

Your pleas fall on deaf ears.

The man in front of you is breathing, but he is long dead.

The door is locked.

Your heart drops you awake, out of breath and eyes watery.

You are not in your bed.

Where are you?

You push the covers off you before you could even remember, rushing to swing the door open. The force of the mahogany hitting the wall got the attention of your gracious host.

“Sweetie…” A deep voice rumbled up your spine. Sylus.

You’re with Sylus.

The pet name lacked all the familiar playful condescension, more of a brace, a concerned approach to a wild, wounded animal. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer at first, your clouded mind still assessing the situation. Your shoulders relax a fraction as you register your surroundings, Sylus’s base. You spent the night here after a hunt. You’re with Sylus, you want to be here, and the door was unlocked. Your grip on the doorknob loosens. Sylus slowly comes out from behind you and into your field of vision. “Sit.” He ushers you back into the room, sitting on the bed and patting the silk sheets. You slowly obey, perching on the bed with your knees hugged to your chest. A gentle expression paints his face, something you could’ve sworn you’ve never seen before. “I’m going to ask again.” He urges softly, slowly, the brisk command his tone usually carried melted away.

You can lie to anyone in your life. You could have said it was a bug in your blankets. A noise, he thought of an intruder. Even a nightmare about something else. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man in front of you who looks worried for the first time you’ve seen it. You can lie to anyone in your life, except for the man who seems to know your very soul despite only knowing you for a handful of months.

You don’t even try, clenching your fists so tight you’re sure your fingernails would draw blood out of the meat of your palm.

“I can’t tell you…” You murmured, holding back the flood. “Because if I do, it becomes real.”

He frowned, his head tilting to the side slightly. He pushed a soft smile out of the corner of his mouth. “I won’t tell reality if you won’t, sweetheart.”

You exhaled out of your nose shortly, an amused puff of air followed by a sniffle. “No, I’m…it’s serious.”

“I know.” He sat back on his elbows, blanketing the atmosphere with a sense of leisure and ease. That was something you had to admit he was good at. “I’ve noticed.”

You turn to him. “What?”

“You checked the pills I gave you.” He started. “I thought that was a one off, maybe you being extra careful, but then you announced you were gonna shower with the door unlocked-“

You scoffed shakily. “Okay, I didn’t announce-“

“The point is…” He interrupted. “You’ve been…off tonight.”

You don’t know how to answer. You know that at this point, if you open your mouth, the tears will start free falling.

“You don’t have to explain.” Fuck him for always reading your mind. “But you just need to tell me you’re alright. No guest feels unsafe under this roof.”

“It’s not you.” You assure shakily, resting your chin on your knees. “It’s…a long story.”

He nodded, accepting again. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

“Um…” You suck in a breath through your nose. Here we go. The tube of toothpaste is squeezed. Your voice is slow, measured as you continue. “Remember about three weeks ago I went to Skyhaven?”

You began to unload. From the top. He knew of the explosion, the one you wrongfully blamed him for. The reminder of that moment brings a flash of mortified heat to your cheeks, expecting him to bring it up. You pause for it, the tease, the coy ‘Yes, kitten, I’m so bad,’ but it doesn’t come. His eyes just pave a delicate path down your face, waiting for you to continue. You watch them widen slightly when you tell him your childhood best friend survived, and that you found him up there. Your words shake and choke in your throat when you get to the next part, tears pricking the back of your eyes. You squeeze them shut, and feel a feather-light weight on your hand; his covering yours. A soft affirmation, a silent I’ve got you. The action is so tender, it pushes even more tears to your waterline. You purse your trembling lips at the gentleness of it all, the opposite of the force you two exuded over one another when you first met. You shoot him point blank in the chest, and he holds your hand like it’s precious gold.

“Sweetie…” He looks at you as if the sight of your face twisted in tears makes him violently ache. “Don’t cry.”

Which of course, makes you cry more. He closes the distance between you within a second, pulling you into his side. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He whispers gently, rubbing his thumb over your bare shoulder, the collar of his shirt hanging off of you. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

It takes a few minutes to gather the words, because how exactly do you say, I think my best friend held me hostage in his home and slipped me pills but I think it’s not really him based on zero evidence?

His thumb stopped its soothing rhythm. “He what?”

You cringe and stammer. You feel caught, for some irrational reason. “I-I know what it sounds like, but-”

“No.” He shook his head, his tone still soft but firm. “No, you don’t have to protect him.” He has to bite back the snarl in his voice, fight to keep his words gentle. “Not after he does this…” He wipes a tear from your cheek, his fingers lingering on the skin for a moment. “Not after he does this to you.” His voice shakes alongside yours, for different reasons. “You don’t need to tell me anything more, but you don’t protect him, either.”

You look up at him, drawing in a deep breath. It makes you realize that’s exactly what you’ve been doing all this time, refusing to acknowledge it. While he was ruining you, you were protecting his memory. At the same time, though, what you know about the professor and Caleb’s abnormal behavior flipping like a switch makes you doubt it was fully him that did this to you. Even if it wasn’t, it doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you so deeply that you’re crying into the arms of the person you’d least expect. You watch his fists clench. “He didn’t…” A hesitation. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You vehemently shake your head and you could hear a small breath of relief. “It wasn’t like that.” You go to explain again, to defend him, but stop yourself. “It was so scary.” He breathes a deep sigh, tightening his arms around you.

“I know.” He whispers. “I know, sweet girl, but you were brave.”

You scoff tearfully. “No I wasn’t.”

“You’re here.” He pointed out, brushing his hand through your hair. “Not there. I know your prowess firsthand.”

A pathetic half-laugh exits your chest, followed by more sobs. He holds you even tighter as you cling to his grounding familiarity. He does that for as long as you need it, waiting patiently as he assures you you did the right thing, that you’re safe with him, that he could walk into Linkon and take you home right now, bounty be damned; whatever it is you need to hear.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers into your hair. Your head is atop his chest, laying down now. Your eyes are closed, and he can tell you’ve cried yourself to sleep. “Always have. Always will.”

When your breaths turn steady, he moves slightly to get his phone from his pocket. One hand on your back, the other on the keyboard, he types a message to Luke and Kieran.

Farspace Fleet Colonel. Lives in Skyhaven. Name’s caleb. Need any and all information there is to know ASAP.

Another message.

Boss Lady will not let you hurt him, as much as I am dreaming the different ways I could make him hurt right now. Do not go after him. Just watch.

Two pairs of thumbs up from the twins follow the message, not needing any further instruction or explanation. He locks his phone and leans his head against the pillow, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. It’s quiet now, the only sound surrounding him are your soft breaths and Mephisto’s caws into the night as he suddenly takes a trip up north.

beating, not still

— sylus slips into bed with you in the middle of his day to calm the specter that haunts you

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: sy’s chest has been thru the wringer so i wanted to show it some love. accidentally made myself sad writing this. something quick & cute, i’ll edit punctuation & caps in the morning hehe. enjoy! ❀-urs

sylus x reader | angst, fluff, mentions of killing, hurt/comfort, softsyloo

“you like that spot.” sylus murmurs, voice like caving ground and a simmering fire. his large hand comes up to brush your hair out of your face. warm like a furnace. through the curtain, you meet his sleepy gaze.

your lips press against his bare chest, just the tiniest tilt to the right of his sternum. he smells of clean soap, spice and something inherently him— crisp and familiar. the brush of your lips on his skin as you speak makes him shiver, ripples of sensation shooting through his nerves like fire. “good morning.”

“beloved,” he purrs, hauling you up by your shoulders to meet your lips in a tender kiss. “did you sleep well?”

you nod out of instinct. but you were awake in the middle of the night for a reason. he slipped in for a midday nap with you because of something you’d been doing in your sleep.

“are you sure?” he whispers, more sympathetically as he trails his thumb down the line of salt your tears left behind. he kisses your forehead tenderly, “Tell me.”

you turn away, crawling back down to his chest and planting your chin there as a silent protest. “i dont remember.”

he considers you— if you were being stubborn or secretive or brave yet again. but with the way you were trailing your fingers down the middle of his chest, how your ear is so meticulously close to his heart, listening for a thrumming heartbeat that was present and not still— he had a feeling he knew what it was.

“angel.” he implores you, large hand coming to rest on the top of your head. “i’m here.”

your chest tightens. a vacuum pulling every bone inwards until they shatter and crash into the cavity. and you are helplessly trying to ground yourself, match your breathing with the constant badump badump badump of his heart.

“i know.” you squeeze the words out, holding your breath when you do. controlling the amount you let out lest you let loose everything. “i know, sylus.”

“no, look at me.” his finger tilts your chin up from the spot. the spot he cherishes and the spot you despise. the spot you favor. the spot he kept protected until you. the spot where you pointed the gun, and where he pulled the trigger with your finger. the spot you hear his racing heartbeat. the spot you dug your sword into, and killed him the first time. once, a long time ago, relived in a dream.

he sees you. he sees every part of you in the darkness of your bedroom— and still you shine brighter than if all the stars in the sky were to combust. he holds your gaze, because let him keel over and die again and again instead of see you in this pain. “come back to me.”

something inside you stirs— not quite pain, but something deeper, more primal and abstract. your soul, like it was beckoned to heel. to be still as another wraps itself around it. to hold on to its other half that submits itself and never let go.

“i’m a monster.” you finally confess, shattering like glass, all too conscious of staining his palms red. of hurting him. of being foolish enough to take him away from you again.

his lips press into the skin above your brow— his favorite spot. his teeth graze it as he murmurs, “that’s not true.”

“sylus—“ you begin to argue, but he silences you with a kiss. you blink, but don’t let it deter you. “i hurt you.”

“have i ever complained?”

“dont do that.” because how could he not care? how could he look at you with such a loving gaze you do not deserve? how could he forgive you as easily as breathing?

he frowns and then studies your face. “you’re right. you have hurt me.”

and somehow that is worse. of course it is worse. your bottom lip trembles. his thumb comes to rest on the delicate flesh lightly. “my soul hurts with you. when you are in pain, so am I.”

his fingers dance down your spine and hook beneath one thigh. there, he pulls you up to his eye-line. your head rests on his bicep as he presses his forehead against yours. “so listen to me when I say you are the furthest thing from who you are in your nightmares.

“and if you are a monster, then so am I.” he rasps.

his heart races under your palm, his own hand spreading your fingers over his chest. “you’ve never hurt me alone. i’ve always been there to do it with you.”

“If you couldn’t heal—“ you start.

“Then I would have broken all my bones crawling back to you.” he vows.

“If you died—“

“I would have found you in the next life. And the next, and the next.”

“If you felt I hated you.” you hiccup, unable to hold back the tears. the thought of him believing for one second you felt anything but love for him devastated you beyond belief. His eyes fill with warmth as he lowers his tone.

“Then I would have done everything to remind you how much I love you.” He says steadily. “Don’t mourn over who we were, my heart.”

“We are here.” he says, kissing the tip of your nose. floating his lips over the lids of your eyes. “Come back to me and stay.”

ever patient, ever gentle and kind to you. he keeps you in his embrace until you calm, feathering the tip of his nose lightly up and down your cheek as he kisses each of your fingers.

you listen to his heart; to his steady breathing, swaying and cradling you like the push and pull of the tide. you listen to his words, turn them over and around in your head— once, twice, thrice— until they sink deep, deep in your heart. this truth settling like oil in your liquid thoughts.

he watches as you calm. and you melt back down his chest— to the spot where he found you.

“beloved?”

you kiss him there— over the invisible mark of the bullet and the sword and your hatred. what once was his undoing, but has always been his strength. the hand that killed him now holds him tightly, tenderly. lovingly and achingly so.

this is your promise to him— to undo all that was done.

to return. to love. to stay.

his face is almost feverish when you cradle it. his content smirk a charming twitch beneath your thumb as his eyes close at your touch.

your cheek to his chest, iron to a magnet— natural, inevitable. finally, you smile— small, but sincere. enough for him. “i like this spot.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ more sylus thoughts ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

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!

nerdjo!!! 🤓☝️

Go, my unhinged gay boy. Fuck them up.

me and you

merchandise from the ohshc cafe collab in tokyo, ~2023

This is what I imagine when reading nerdjo fanfics

Art credits @nekozuu_ from instagram

gonna tell my kids this was chat noir

thinks their opinions are facts and should be taken as such (delusional): hikaru, tamaki

knows their opinions are opinions but still thinks they’re better than yours (cocky): kyoya, kaoru

will have their own opinions and respect yours as well (civil): haruhi, mori

has their own opinions which are better than yours but will be civil with ulterior motives to take you down later (scheming): honey, kyoya

tamaki said you may be cringe but you're free

I recently got reunited with my Japanese Ouran mangas and flipped to this:

And while my Japanese has gotten rusty, this made me laugh

Tamaki: …Sankyu (Thank you, katakana English)

Kyoya: You’re welcome.

The word for ‘you’re welcome’ in Japanese is what Kyoya used (Douitashimashite) however it is generally discouraged to use in response to ‘thank you’ as it can be perceived as rude. With that, I think Kyoya’s energy around his word choice was probably “you’re welcome you lovable idiot”

And in the English manga this little cultural context piece gets dropped, which is a bummer but maybe it’ll motivate me to get back into my Japanese practice?

blue lock objectively is insane and probably bad. but the thing about blue lock is that once you watch it youre like holy shit this is peak. its a disease.

other powerpoints ive made (including bllk part 2)

Trust….we’re doctors 🧠

Honey Senpai 🍰🎶

any other commoners going through it lately?

OHSHC WILL ALWAYS BE MY COMFORT ANIME, OMG I LOVE THEM SO MUCHHHHHHHH

I love conventionally attractive animated men

Young Anarka

I dunno… Like

Her past intrigued me the most out of all the adult characters, and I can't understand her mix with Jagged. Like, he cheated on her and she got pregnant? They had an open relationship? Or did they only share intimacy? Why did she never tell her kids about their father? And why didn't their father pay child support lmao…

pair the spares

sillies

Haruhi, Haruhi, I just saw the most horrible thing! I was just posting photos of us to Instagram-- but Haruhi, you look so cute in them! Don't be mad at me, I just want everyone to see how cute you are...but I saw this video on Instagram, and Haruhi it was just awful! There was this ginger cat and he had a ginger cat wife-- well it was OBVIOUSLY his wife! They had rings and everything! Haruhi, they were cartoon cats, don't change the subject! But Haruhi, he went working all day at the cat offices-- yes, he has his own business and everything-- and she went to the gym and, Haruhi it was just awful! She had a (dramatic whisper) affair with her gym instructor-- Haruhi, I don't think "why are the cats at the gym" is the focus here! Perhaps cats too care about staying young and beautiful! What matters is this horrible story! And Haruhi, she becomes (covert glance around) with child. YES, KITTENS!!! And then, Haruhi, it was so awful, the cats are in the grocery store and she EXPLODES! Where did I-- Haruhi I saw it on INSTAGRAM, can you focus on my story! And they rush her to the hospital-- no it's not a VET-- and she has a kitten but the kitten isn't ginger, Haruhi, it's not even his kitten! And she EXPLODED! In the commoner cat grocery store! And and Haruhi stop laughing at me, the cat reminded me of Kyoya because he's always working too and Haruhi what if he DOES get married and then his wife has an AFFAIR and then EXPLODES! Wh-- I SAW IT ON INSTAGRAM, HARUHI

I love you kyoya otori. I love you tamaki suoh. I love you haruhi fujioka. I love you tamakyo. I love you Ouran high school host club.

I am chewing on this show like a dog

Nerd Gojo!!!

haruhi said in a world where you can be anything, be kind

Yeah, this happened to my buddy Kyoya Ootori