I Maybe An Alien Or A Ghost Honestly.. But Am Real 🤣🤣🤣

“lads boys with a clingy partner”

hi bunnies sorry for not posting🥹 happy easter to all the ones who celebrate!

content: fluff, mentions of nightmares

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Sylus

the morning air in onychinus is cold, but not cold enough to keep you from crawling onto Sylus’ lap while he’s trying to go through files. he sits on the velvet couch, his black blazer draped over his shoulders, one hand holding a holopad and the other gripping a steaming mug. you’re practically glued to him, arms around his waist, cheek against his chest

he exhales sharply, but it’s not annoyance—it’s more like the sound of someone trying very hard not to indulge you too fast

“i can’t feel my legs,” he mutters, not even looking down “you’ve been clinging to me for the past forty minutes”

“you love it,” you murmur into his shirt, fingers playing with the fabric “i’m your favorite parasite”

he finally looks down, crimson eyes glinting in amusement “if i had a favorite parasite, you’d be it, yes”

his hand moves from the mug to your back, fingers tracing lazy circles against your spine. he doesn’t push you away. of course he doesn’t. Sylus complains, but he never actually means it. you’ve figured that out by now

“you could’ve kicked me off,” you tease

“i could’ve,” he says dryly “but i’m indulging your clinginess. it’s charming. pathetic, but charming”

you pout up at him “mean.”

“accurate.”

but he softens, just a little, when you don’t move. when your breathing evens out against him, and your fingers curl slightly like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go

his voice drops to a murmur “what’s gotten into you?”

“nothing,” you say “just wanna stay close”

he hums “you’ve been like this all week”

you don’t respond right away. instead, you tug his blazer tighter around the both of you and nuzzle in

after a beat, Sylus speaks again, quieter this time

“did you have another nightmare?”

you hesitate, then nod

he sets the holopad aside with a sigh and cups your face, guiding your head up until you meet his gaze

“you need to tell me these things,” he says “i can’t drag them out of you while you cling to me like an octopus”

“i’m not an octopus”

“you’re worse. you’re cute. and you know i can’t say no when you’re like this”

you blink up at him “so you do like it.”

he narrows his eyes “i didn’t say that.”

you smirk “you implied it.”

he kisses you before you can get cocky. just once, light and brief, but enough to silence your teasing

“you can cling to me all you want,” he murmurs, his voice low “just don’t keep things from me”

“i wasn’t trying to hide it,” you say softly “just didn’t wanna make you worry”

he lets out a soft chuckle, barely audible “i worry when you don’t cling to me”

you blink “you do?”

“mmh” he leans back, tugging you closer, settling you against him like you’re meant to be there “you’re always holding onto me like you’re afraid i’ll vanish. if you stop… i’ll know something’s wrong”

you bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest

“besides,” he adds, lips brushing your hair, “i’ve grown fond of being your emotional support villain”

you snort “you’re more like an emotional support dragon”

“same thing”

you shift slightly, enough to peek up at him through your lashes “so you won’t get tired of me being clingy?”

he smirks, brushing your hair back “not unless you start following me into the shower”

“i’ve done that before”

“and i had to bribe you out with chocolate”

you grin, smug “you bought my favorite kind”

he rolls his eyes “you’re impossible.”

but then he presses a long, quiet kiss to your temple, and when you melt into him again, he doesn’t complain. doesn’t even pretend to

because the truth is—Sylus likes it. likes you. every stubborn, clingy, affectionate part

and if holding you close is the price for your peace of mind, he’ll let you stay right there for as long as you need

Zayne

Zayne doesn’t look up right away when you wrap your arms around him from behind. he’s seated at his desk, posture perfect, pen gliding across a patient chart with that same practiced precision. his hair falls slightly over his glasses, and the gentle ticking of his desk clock fills the silence of the office

you rest your cheek between his shoulder blades, eyes closed, arms locked snugly around his torso like you might float away if you let go

“you know this is the third time you’ve interrupted me in the last hour,” he says, not turning around “you’ve brought me tea, asked if i liked the scent of your shampoo, and now… this.”

you hum softly “you didn’t answer about the shampoo”

“lavender,” he mutters “i took note the second you walked in”

a small smile curves your lips. he did notice

Zayne sets the pen down at last and exhales, head tilting slightly toward you “i take it you’re feeling clingy again”

“is that a problem?”

he doesn’t respond right away. instead, he reaches for your hand and gently tugs you around to his side. you let him guide you, limbs loose and obedient as he pulls you onto his lap. one of his arms wraps around your waist, the other settles over your hand where it rests on his chest

“if it were a problem,” he says softly “i wouldn’t be holding you right now”

you sigh contentedly and tuck your face into his neck “i missed you”

“i saw you this morning”

“still missed you”

Zayne’s lips curve into the faintest smile “you’ve been unusually attached lately”

you shift slightly “do you want me to stop?”

he’s quiet for a second, then murmurs

“no. not really.”

you lift your head, surprised “really?”

he sighs again, but this time it’s the fond kind—the tired, helpless kind that only comes out when he’s too in love to argue “i’ve been waking up with your arm draped across my chest every night for the past week. i can’t reach for my alarm without peeling you off me. and somehow, i don’t mind”

you look at him with wide eyes “so you like it?”

“i didn’t say that” he adjusts his glasses with one hand “but if you stopped, i’d probably assume you were hiding something”

you frown slightly “i’m not hiding anything”

“then why the sudden surge in affection?”

you hesitate, then quietly say “you’ve been working more hours lately. i just… i don’t want to feel like i’m losing time with you”

his expression softens instantly

“i’m sorry,” he says “i should’ve noticed sooner”

you shake your head “i get it. your patients need you”

“and so do you.”

Zayne leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. his eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, are soft now. tired, yes—but open in a way only you ever get to see

“tell me when you feel like this,” he says gently “don’t just cling. i can handle honesty better than surprise cuddles in the middle of surgery prep”

you laugh under your breath “you did scold me that time”

“because you nearly knocked over an IV stand”

you nuzzle closer “worth it”

he shakes his head but doesn’t push you away. instead, he shifts the chair slightly, pulling a blanket from the side cabinet and draping it over both of you

“i have three more files to go through,” he says “but if you promise not to fall asleep and drool on my tie again, you can stay right here.”

you blink “again?!”

“you think i keep spare ties in my desk for fashion?”

you grin “you secretly love it.”

“i am a man of science,” Zayne replies, deadpan “i don’t love being drooled on”

but he kisses your cheek anyway. warm. soft. and when you rest your head against his chest again, his arms tighten just a little

he lets you stay for the rest of the evening, finishing his files one by one while you curl in his lap like a content cat. and every so often, he pauses—just to run his fingers through your hair, or to press a kiss to your temple, like he needs the reminder too

Caleb

Caleb’s halfway through refueling his aircraft when he hears rapid footsteps behind him—light, familiar ones that don’t belong to any mechanic on the tarmac. he doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s you

“don’t say anything,” you huff, wrapping your arms tight around his waist from behind “just… stand there”

he chuckles under his breath, lowering the nozzle and tilting his head back slightly “that bad of a day, huh?”

“no,” you mumble against his back “i just missed you”

he grins, lips twitching at the corners as he sets the nozzle down and lets his hands rest over yours “you saw me this morning”

“doesn’t count. you left before i was awake”

“technically, i kissed your forehead before i left,” he says, voice playful “that counts for something”

you hug him tighter “i want a do-over”

Caleb turns slowly in your arms, the scent of jet fuel clinging faintly to his jacket. his eyes, that soft violet hue you’ve always loved, lock on yours with warmth and just a hint of mischief

“you’re clingy today” he says with a knowing smile

“is that a problem?”

he leans in a little, brows raised “have i ever said no to you clinging?”

you look up at him, teasing “you get smug about it”

“because i like it,” he says, pulling you in without hesitation “i like that you want to be close. that you run straight to me when you’re feeling needy”

you bury your face in his jacket “i’m not needy”

“you literally followed me to the plane, mid-shift, and clung to me like a baby koala”

you pout “are you calling me a koala now?”

he laughs and lifts you slightly off the ground in a warm, secure hug, spinning you in a slow circle despite the busy hangar

“a very cute koala,” he murmurs “with a death grip”

you hum contentedly, resting your chin on his shoulder “i just didn’t feel like being alone today”

he immediately softens at that, arms wrapping tighter around you

“you never have to be.”

“but you’re always working”

“so are you,” he says, brushing your hair back gently “and yet, here you are, glued to me in the middle of a military-grade launch pad. not exactly subtle”

“you love it”

“of course i do”

his voice lowers a little, quieter against the sound of nearby aircraft and voices

“i think about you all the time when i’m flying,” he confesses “when i hit turbulence, when the sky goes quiet, when the alarms go off in my headset… you’re the one i think of. and then when i land, i hope you’re here”

you blink, caught off guard by how soft he’s being “you do?”

he nods, gaze never leaving yours “every time”

you smile into his chest “then maybe i should start hiding in your cockpit”

he snorts “you’d get arrested”

“you’d bail me out”

“yeah,” he says without hesitation “i would.”

you stay there for a while, wrapped in him, ignoring the curious glances of nearby engineers. Caleb doesn’t care. he never does. even when his superiors are around, even when he’s supposed to be the strict Colonel on duty—when it comes to you, his arms are always open

“how long until you take off?” you ask, voice small

“forty minutes”

you tug on his jacket sleeve “stay with me ‘til then?”

he doesn’t even hesitate “you got it.”

he guides you over to the edge of the hangar, where the sun hits the floor in golden beams. you sit together, shoulder to shoulder, legs stretched out, your head resting against his. the world keeps moving—pilots shouting, aircraft humming—but in that little moment, everything feels still

Caleb intertwines your fingers with his

“you can be clingy all you want,” he murmurs “i signed up for that the moment i fell in love with you”

you squeeze his hand “what if i’m clingy forever?”

he grins “then i guess you’re stuck with me forever too.”

Rafayel

Rafayel’s house is bathed in warm light, the windows cracked open just enough to let in the city breeze. classical music plays softly from hidden speakers, the scent of white tea and citrus lingering in the air. he’s lounging on his favorite cream-colored couch, wearing a silk robe loosely tied over a half-buttoned shirt, swirling a glass of wine in one hand while reading something on his holo-tablet

and you? you’re practically draped over him like a second robe

“you’re heavy,” he drawls, though there’s absolutely zero heat in his voice “are you attempting to fuse with me?”

you bury your face into his chest “maybe”

he sighs—dramatically, as always—and sets his tablet aside “is this how it’s going to be now? i can’t even sip my wine without being used as a human mattress?”

you peek up at him, pouting “don’t act like you don’t love it”

he raises a perfectly shaped brow, eyes flicking down to where your legs are tangled with his

“i love many things. vintage wines, rare artifacts, silk pillows… and, unfortunately for me, you”

you grin, not the least bit offended “so i can stay here?”

he exhales, then tilts your chin up with one finger “i would sooner burn this apartment to the ground than move you”

you blink “…romantic”

“i try”

you stay quiet for a moment, tracing absent shapes on his chest through his shirt. he watches you for a beat, then softly asks “what’s this about, dove?”

you glance away “i just missed you.”

he hums “you saw me two hours ago.”

“i still missed you.”

his hand finds your hair, long fingers combing through it gently “you’ve been a bit… clingier than usual”

you wince “too much?”

he snorts “please. if i didn’t enjoy it, do you think you’d still be breathing right now?”

you laugh, muffled against him

he brushes a kiss to the top of your head “i’m not complaining, darling. i’m simply curious. your usual clinginess is adorable—this level borders on concerning”

you don’t answer right away, just sink further into his embrace like the answer’s hidden somewhere in his heartbeat

he softens, all teasing gone from his voice “talk to me”

“i had a dream,” you finally say “that you left”

he frowns “left how?”

“just… disappeared. no note, no goodbye. i woke up and you weren’t there, and it felt so real”

Rafayel is silent for a moment. then, he slides his glass onto the side table and pulls you into his lap properly, wrapping his arms around you with rare, unguarded tenderness

“i’m not going anywhere,” he says “you’d have to banish me yourself. even then, i’d find my way back”

“what if you got bored of me?”

he scoffs “impossible. you’re chaos in a pretty package. and you cling to me like ivy. how could i ever get bored?”

“some people don’t like clingy”

“those people have no taste”

you laugh again, and Rafayel leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your forehead. his lips linger there, his breath warm and steady

“do you know how many people want my attention?” he murmurs “and how few actually have it?”

you nod slowly “a lot. and almost none.”

he smiles “exactly. you’re not just the exception. you’re the rule-breaker. you cling, and i let you. you pout, and i cave. you crawl into my lap during my very important wine therapy session, and instead of throwing you off—I hold you tighter”

you blink “…that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said”

“don’t get used to it”

“too late”

he chuckles and lets his head fall back against the couch, arms still snug around you. you curl up there, completely content, as the music shifts to something slower, more intimate

“stay here tonight,” he says softly “cling all you want. hell, cling in your sleep. drool on my robe. claim me like a pillow. i’ll allow it.”

“you’re spoiling me”

“no,” he says, kissing your temple again “i’m keeping you.”

Xavier

Xavier’s apartment is dim and quiet, lit mostly by the flicker of neon lights outside the window. the soft hum of rain hits the glass, steady and calming. he’s stretched out on the couch in an oversized hoodie, one arm draped behind his head, the other flipping lazily through a book he’s already read twice. every few pages, his eyes flick down to the weight pressed against his side

you.

curled up against him like a second blanket, arms wrapped around his torso, cheek smushed into his chest. you haven’t said much, just let out a satisfied sigh every now and then like you’re recharging on physical contact alone

“you’ve been stuck to me all night” he murmurs, voice quiet but amused

“i know,” you mumble “i’m comfy”

he glances down at you “clingy today, huh?”

“a little.”

he closes the book with one hand and sets it aside “you were clingy this morning. and this afternoon. and when i tried to go take a shower”

you lift your head slightly “you still went”

“yeah. with you sitting on the sink counter like some judgmental little gremlin watching my every move”

“someone had to make sure you didn’t slip”

he huffs a laugh, but it’s warm. he reaches over and brushes your hair out of your face with the tips of his fingers, his touch careful—almost hesitant, like he still can’t believe you let him do this. like he still feels lucky every time

“you gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asks softly

you blink “what do you mean?”

“this level of clinginess usually has a reason. not that i mind,” he adds quickly “just… you’re usually a little more subtle”

you hesitate, then bury your face back into his hoodie. it smells like clean laundry and something distinctly him—cold metal, warm skin, and comfort

“i just missed you” you say into the fabric

“you saw me yesterday.”

“i know. i still missed you.”

Xavier is quiet for a moment. you can feel the way his chest rises and falls under your cheek, steady and calm

“okay” he says

you blink “okay?”

“yeah” his arm wraps around you, pulling you a little closer “if you missed me, then this is where you belong.”

you tilt your head up to look at him “you’re really letting me get away with this?”

he smirks “getting away with it implies i’d ever stop you”

“you’ve definitely tried before”

“yeah, and every time you look at me like i just kicked a puppy”

“you hate it when i do that”

“obviously,” he mutters “you weaponize your pretty face”

“you love my face”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft flush on his cheeks “unfortunately.”

you smile and cuddle back into him. the rain continues tapping against the window, and the sound of his heartbeat fills your ears, steady and grounding. he runs his fingers gently up and down your spine, over the fabric of your hoodie, the rhythm almost hypnotic

“you can be clingy whenever you want,” he murmurs “just give me a heads-up if you plan to fuse with my ribcage”

you snort “no promises”

“figured”

you both go quiet again for a while. he shifts a little to reach for the remote, flipping the TV on low—just soft background noise, some slow documentary you’re not really watching. the screen casts a gentle glow over both of you, and his thumb traces little circles on your arm

“you know,” he says after a moment “i used to think i needed a lot of space”

“you still do”

“yeah. but… i don’t mind when it’s you taking it”

your heart stutters “you mean that?”

“i wouldn’t say it if i didn’t” he pauses “you make it easier. being around you doesn’t feel like noise. it feels like… quiet. the kind of quiet i don’t want to end”

you stay silent, overwhelmed for a second. then you shift up just enough to press a kiss to his jaw. his skin is warm, and you feel him freeze, then relax under the touch

“i love you, Xavier”

he doesn’t say it back right away—but you’ve learned not to expect it from him every time. not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he shows it more than he says it. and right now, he’s holding you like the world could fall apart and he wouldn’t notice as long as you were still in his arms

“…i know,” he murmurs eventually “and i love you, too. now stop moving. you’re warm”

you smile, eyes closing “fine. i’ll stay. forever.”

“good,” he whispers “i was hoping you would.”

Ｌｉｋｅ Ｘａｖｉｅｒ

ac. jnkbabys (edited)

LADS men and their green flags

Rafayel

Reassurance

He never lets you wonder if he still loves you, if he still finds you attractive. You don’t even have the chance to finish the horrible thought before he’s complimenting you, telling you how much he adores you. He’s not afraid to bare his heart to you, in fact, he does it quite often with sweet nothings and tiny notes left in your purse. Though he may never be able to express the depth of his love for you, he’s sure as hell going to try.

Xavier

Communication

While he may seem reserved, Xavier has no problem talking through an issue with you. He doesn’t fight - he refuses to. He’s calm, collected. He never wants you to feel unheard, so he listens, even when you feel like you’re talking in circles. You’re not going to bed upset on his watch. He’ll sit with you for as long as you need. He wants you to feel at ease with him, always, even when your thoughts are going a million miles an hour.

Zayne

Support

He doesn’t offer guidance in the way a parent would, but rather, in a way that ensures you’re always feeling your best. Too tired to cook dinner? He’s got it. Don’t feel like washing your hair? Sit down, he’ll handle it. He encourages you to take breaks when you feel like the weight of the world is crushing you. When you feel like your to-do list is simply too long, he shortens it, taking care of as many things as he can so that you can relax. He’d rather die than let you be stressed.

Sylus

Protection

One thing’s for sure, you’ll never feel unsafe around him - physically or emotionally. The strange man that’s been following you? Taken care of. The guy sending lewd texts to your DMs? Vanished. And while your physical safety is of the utmost important to him, your emotional wellbeing doesn’t go uncared for. Pour out your soul to him, he’s listening. And when you can’t, lean on him, cry on his shoulder. He won’t move.

Caleb

Attentive

If you think you can hide anything from him, you’re sorely mistaken. He notices every micro expression, every slight change in your tone, the way your hands fidget when you’re anxious. He knows exactly what to do to bring your smile back. He picks up on the tiny hints you give him when you want something, and he’s eager to provide it. You’ll never lack anything as long as he’s around, he’ll make sure of it.

Flower prompts exchange

For @tillichan

Amaryllis- How would they act if you got sick or injured? How do you take care of them if they get sick or injured?

Xavier is somewhat of an airhead not gonna lie. Unless it concerns his lover aka you. When you get sick he’ll act somewhat like a mother hen but not a very good one. Xavier will insist on giving you some obscure medicine that he swears always helped him get better. That’s when you break it to him that…

“Xavier…baby…you are basically an alien”

Will he listen? Yes. Will he take it into consideration? Not really. Especially if the sickness lasts and isn’t getting better.

“Hey drink this tea I made you. Is there some medicine in it…? Maybe. Come on I even added honey so you can’t feel it!”

Now for food…Give him a star, this man learned how to cook your favorite dishes and even healthy snacks! Did he spend weeks training in his apartment and became the bane of existence of the fire department? Why are you asking questions you don’t want to know the answer.

But yeah, Xavier absolutely refuses to let you, his princess, do anything other than rest and get better when you’re sick. Unless it’s walks to have more fresh air. You even saw him speaking with you cat and dog, a serious expression on his face to explain the situation.

“Okay listen you two. She’s sick. Which means she needs to rest. You can’t demand snacks all the time now, yes I’m speaking to you adorable cat. Your mission is to cuddle with her, keep her warm and warn me if she’s trying to do chores. I’ll take care of the food- Why did you two whine?”

Even your animals fear him handling food. But as you can see, he takes over everything. Preparing tea just the way you like it, making sure you rest, even handling your responsibilities if possible. He is lowkey good at taking care of your garden. Your cat and dog immediately gravitate toward him, sensing his protective presence, and he doesn't mind at all. In fact, he makes sure they stay close, knowing their warmth and company bring you comfort.

At some point, he sits beside you, his presence both grounding and reassuring. If you struggle with the discomfort of being sick, he quietly soothes you, whether through reading aloud, playing soft classical music (he probably figures you’d appreciate that, given your background), or just staying near enough that you know you're not alone. And though he won’t admit it outright, you catch glimpses of how deeply he cares—like the way his brows knit together when you cough or how he lingers a second longer when tucking the blanket around you. Even when you’re sick, Xavier insists on cuddling. His excuse?

“I haven’t gotten sick in years. I doubt you can give it to me”

Famous last words.

Now if you’re feeling unwell due to an injury…it’ll be the same except he’ll have a guilty look in his eyes and will be more protective afterwards if it’s not a house injury of course. Xavier can’t help but think that this could’ve been prevented.

Now now now…a sick Xavier is a very stubborn Xavier. He’s still in denial that he got sick. It’s worse if he got injured, he’ll try to hide it but one of your animals will snitch on him by rubbing against the exact spot. Xavier will stay silent when you scold him for the reckless behavior. But you can see in his eyes that he’s touched by the concern and will let his guard down, letting you take care of him in his vulnerable moments.

By the way, if he gets sick right after you, he’ll tease you about it.

“Ah I seem to have caught the same illness as you how strange. And at such close interval. Perhaps this is the famous in sickness and in health”

Does he insist on taking his weird medicine? Yes. And they work on him because again it’s for his specie. So Xavier stop trying to argue.

It takes some effort to make him rest, but your patience and soft insistence are impossible to refuse. You prepare a warm drink for him, making sure it's not too sweet since you know he prefers subtle flavors. Your touch is gentle when checking for fever, but your concern is unwavering.

While he rests, you bring your cat and dog to sit near him, their calm presence acting as an unspoken comfort. You don’t overwhelm him with chatter, but you keep an eye on him, occasionally teasing him when he tries to downplay how bad he’s feeling. If he so much as tries to work while sick, you’ll give him a knowing look, one that silently says…

“Love. I dare you to accept that mission. I know you’re just looking for an excuse to buy snacks…ah ah! Don’t try to argue about this. Just sits down and sleep”

When he finally gives in and rests, you sit beside him, reading aloud from a book you know he might enjoy. The warmth of your presence, the softness of your voice, it’s more soothing than any medicine. And though he might not say it outright, the way he eventually closes his eyes and allows himself to relax tells you everything.

Xavier gets better rather fast. You’ve never seen a man rush faster to buy snacks in so called secret…But he also gets you a huge bouquet of flowers and your favorite food from the few restaurants that you like.

Begonia- Their reaction to you wearing their clothes

The moment Xavier sees you wearing his clothes, he freezes. His sharp eyes flick over you, taking in the way his jacket or shirt drapes over your smaller frame. There's no immediate reaction, just a pause, like he’s processing something he didn’t expect to affect him this much.

Then, his expression shifts. His eyes widen, mouth agape. Then he furrows his eyebrows. If you’re paying close attention, you might even catch the way his ears tint faintly pink.

“…did you lose your clothes? Not that I mind. I never thought my shirt could become such a cute dress”

Tease him about it. Maybe spin around or casually pull at the oversized sleeves. You’ll notice him trying to keep his composure in check. But ultimately failing.

“Did you pay for the rental? Or are you planning on excusing it with your cute face? You know what. I’ll forgive you if you pay with cuddles and wear my jacket so it smells more like you…”

Cue to him wrapping his arms around you for a long afternoon. He can’t properly explain it but it just makes him so happy when it’s you wearing his clothes. Despite Xavier often lending his clothes with no second thought to others, from now on he’ll refuse to do so unless it’s dire. He sees it as a you two things.

Fun fact, Xavier sometimes purposefully let you forget your jacket so you can wear his. He’s not being sneaky.

At last i did start my fanart of Xavier. ..

Lets goo.....

😛😛😝 but i dont know when i will finish it ...

😅😅

---

LADS men when you are on your period — short drabbles 🍎⭐️

tags: fluff, comfort, there isn’t much to tag

CALEB

You were in the bathroom, brushing your teeth with Caleb when you found out you were on your period.

You kicked him out of the bathroom to fetch some pads. The moment you reopened the bathroom door, Caleb scooped you up in his arms and carried you to the bedroom, bridal-style.

“Caleb,” you whined, leaning and stretching against his solid chest like a cat. “It’s okay, I can still walk. And my project…”

“It can wait, okay honey? I’ll help you with it tomorrow,” he said, touching your hair gently. He set you down onto the bed and began to wrap you up in layers of soft thick bedsheets.

“How are your cramps? The water’s still boiling. And I need to get the chocolates, how am I supposed to do that without letting you out of my sight?” he fretted, fussing over you like a protective mother hen. He was so cute like this, you thought, and you reached out and planted a kiss on his cheek. His face reddened up instantly.

“Caleb, it’s okay. I’m not a fragile vase,” you wriggled your arms out from the bedsheets and wrapped them around Caleb. He shook his head fervently.

“No, this won’t do…” With that, he picked you up once more, this time with one arm, and headed towards the kitchen. With his other arm, he busied around the kitchen, preparing a mug of piping hot cocoa and picking out a box of chocolates from the candy stash.

—

XAVIER

Xavier could sense that you were in pain. You had been limping around the house all day like a zombie, mumbling tiredly and curling up at a corner of the couch whilst clutching your pillow.

Warm, strong arms suddenly wrapped around you. Xavier pulled you onto his lap, his breath heavy and warm, he planted soft kisses on your neck as he lifted the pillow out from your grasp and tossed it aside.

“Why are you hugging your pillow instead of me?” Xavier pouted, giving you that puppy look that you loved. “Baby, you’re all tensed up. You’re on your period, aren’t you?”

You nodded, and he continued snuggling into your neck, his grip on you firm and his touches reassuring.

“Tell me next time right away…”

Gently, he set you onto the couch and climbed on top of you. He started kissing you, starting from your lips and making his way down your neck, chest, and stomach.

“Xavier,” you giggled, as he gripped the sides of your waist and playfully pressed kisses onto your abdomen. “It tickles.” But even as you said it, you could feel the painful pressure in your stomach easing up a little. Xavier’s eyes twinkled.

He curled up with you on the couch after making you wear his hoodie. You two watched a movie together before you eventually fell asleep in his arms, feeling significantly better than you were feeling in the morning.

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10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.

inspired by mine own Greatest Breakdown of the Century that took place last Wednesday

You know what's better than fluff? Dark fluff.

The kind where devotion borders on obsession, where love isn't just tender—it's consuming.

"I'd do anything for you, love," he murmurs, voice smooth, unwavering. "Anything you desire, and it's yours."

And the other doesn't hesitate, voice laced with something raw, something desperate.

"I want her to split me open—dig her fingers into my ribs and pry them apart. To hold my heart in her hands, feel the pulse of it against her palms, my blood staining her skin. I want her to pick my bones clean, crack them open, suck the marrow dry. I want to be ruined by her, consumed until there's nothing left of me but the taste of her name on what's left of my tongue."

Because love, when it’s deep enough, is a hunger—one that begs to be fed.