you’re currently sitting on the floor of sylus’s pristine, incredibly expensive closet, wearing one of his giant black button up shirts like it’s a dress. you’re also wearing his heavy leather boots. they’re about five sizes too big.
you take a tentative, wobbly step forward, stomping loudly. STOMP. STOMP. you raise your arms like a huge robot. “fear me,” you announce to the empty room, “i am the leader of onychinus. give me all your gold...and dark secrets!”
“is that right?” you hear a low voice say.
you freeze.
sylus is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed as he watches you. he looks like he’s been standing there for a while. your face burns hot but you refuse to break character. you puff out your chest, “yes, hand over the goods, civilian!”
sylus dosen’t move. he just looks down at your feet, then up to the shirt that swallows your frame. a slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face but his ruby eyes are soft and melted.
“you lack...a certain menace,” his deep voice rumbles, thick with amusement.
“hey, i have tons of menace!” you say, taking a step forward to prove your point, but your foot slips right out of the boot. you lose your balance and yelp, tumbling forward.
before you can fall, heavy, warm weight catches you. sylus has scooped you up by the waist with one hand; he lifts you effortlessly, laughing a low gravelly chuckle that vibrates against you. he dosen’t put you down. instead, he simply carries you over to the plush armchair, sitting down and keeping you right on his lap.
“hey!” you protest, kicking your feet. now one of his giant boots falls off entirely. “put me down, sir. i’m a threat.” you say with a that coy smile.
“mhm, a terrifying one,” sylus murmurs, reaching up with his index finger to boop your nose. “you’re drowning in my clothes, sweetie.”
“it’s comfortable,” you pout, crossing your arms.
sylus smiles. “they look better on you anyway,” he says smoothly. he wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his clean scent enveloping you. he gives you a tight, playful squeeze that makes you gasp-laugh.
“sylus stop, it tickles!” you say, laughing, unable to stop.
“no,” he whispers against your skin, smirk widening as you squirm. “you invaded my closet. this is the penalty.”
