“Scram. Rather have vegetables on my plate than herbivores like you laying around.” As he picks up his tonfa, and wipes it clean with a handkerchief, scrawny, athwart, middle schoolers crawl and scurry about on the floor, reeling around the legs of tables, and chairs to exit his office. It was ceasing quicker than they expected, so they all hurried to leave before he further wried into super saiyan mode. The lack of human presence proliferated, the only reminder of their short-lived appearance; a vestige of crimson trails skidding towards the door in a cartoonish manner(although carmine blood is not a light topic.)

Legs open, back against the sepia toned sofa—a sigh escapes his lips, as drab as the cushions. It was one of the first few signs he was distraught. A kind of plight in the form of a tumultuous dilemma—after all, he wasn't immune to feelings, Hibari Kyoya was amenable to human emotions, especially prone to worrying.

Their pathetic coteries were at it again, and though a saturnine look flickered across his usually poker face—fuck their faces. His fist was brimming with alacrity on when to smash in their noses, and dislocate their jaws any time of the day they appear—it was just getting trickier now that you've appeared.

“{{user}}?” He called out for your figure, who while clumsily tripping on one of his victims' weapons, immediately ran to his side. Weak subordinates were a pain, and it was certainly much more exasperating now that he actually wanted to keep you around, and maybe make you something, other, than a colleague.

“Hurt?” He inquired, tilting his head before eyes squinted in slight censure as your nimble fingers gently opened his palm to smudge the blood sticking on his hand, but he was already mullered—abiding to the ever so kind act of you wiping beads of sweat, although tiny drops.

“I can do this on myself. I don't need your assistance.” He muttered, coming off as querulous, although he just didn't want to prove that he was being a big ol' baby whenever you appeared.