Welcome to the Underworld! Iām Persephone, but you can call me Sephie or Phi for short. I write whenever I can in between the seasons but best remember that I have godly affairs outside of this realm to attend to.
Every soul that wanders here has my protection. No hate and conflict will be tolerated.
Enter the temple.
ruling with: Hades
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I am down to write both SFW & NSFW for the fandoms above. I will not write gore, incest, body horror, pedophilia, noncon, etc. for any situation.
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š§¼, š, š, š« // Semi, TendÅ, Oikawa
Souls on their way:
ā Tainted: Sugawara x teacher!reader (series)
ā One For The Road: Semi x groupie!reader (smut)
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I originally made this list as character notes for future stories ā I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldnāt 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? š¤
š Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad
1 He doesnāt know where you are
Even when it makes sense. Even when youāre safe. Even when heās 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 heās back, no one on the base dares talk to him until youāre in his line of sight again.
2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man
Itās not jealousy, really. Itāsā¦ fury dressed in olive green. Youāre standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Calebās thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isnāt 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 fancyājust a stack of books on top of a chair thatās 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 itās funny. He thinks itās 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 ārelax, I had a plan.ā He hears: āI almost died, and Iād do it again, because Iām cute and unstoppable.ā That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and youāre proud of it? Thatās 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 itās just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesnāt see herāhe 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 wasnāt allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like itās nothingāwhile heās still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.
7 You werenāt his first kissābut worse, he wasnāt 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 Calebāwatching 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 shouldāve been hisāand someone else took it first.
8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally
You call it āspace.ā He calls it āpsychological warfare.ā You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while youāre actively ghosting him across the living room. Heād rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? Thatās the one thing he doesnāt know how to fight.
9 You cryāespecially if itās because of him
And then heās done. Game over. His spine straightens like heās under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly heās the villain. You say āitās not your fault,ā but that doesnāt matter. Heās already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, heāll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.
10 You secretly try to uncover what heās hiding from you
You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think youāre 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 doesnāt know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.
š 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 heās trying so hard not to combust.
You falling asleep on himāespecially mid-conversation
Youāre curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and thatās it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. Heās not moving.
You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes itāwithout asking
That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesnāt even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.
You absentmindedly touching himāfiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair
He pretends he doesnāt 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 āI trust youā or āI feel safe with youā 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 heās 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
Heās used to being the shieldānot 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 āYouāre home now.ā Thatās 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 gruffāsays āthe hell is this, Pips?āābut then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like itās sacred treasure. Because it is.
You calling him ābabyā / āhandsomeā / āsweetheartā when he least expects it
He acts like itās 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.
You ignore his instructions when you're sick
You had a fever of 102Ā°F. He left explicit care instructionsābed 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 ābecause the light felt wrong,ā he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.
You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere ānutritionally viableā
He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, youāre 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
Heās 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 āforget.ā He suspects a psychological experiment.
You casually mention spending time with male friends
You think itās harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about themāand thatās the problem. Zayne doesnāt say anything. Doesnāt 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 itās 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 heās judging. Heās actually trying not to scream.
You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks.
You call it āaffection.ā He calls it āemotional terrorism.ā He flinches like heās been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyesāand youāre giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.
When you diagnose him with internet psychology
Youāve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now youāve 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 āit doesnāt smell that badā or āmaybe it still works.ā His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. Heās not even mad at youāheās mad at entropy. Youāve become its agent.
You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly.
You claim itās ājust background noise.ā But he walks in and hears someone scream āthatās not even your baby, Kyle!ā 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.
Itās not just the color. Itās the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say itās cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.
You bring him lunch at the hospital
He never asks. You just appearāarms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isnāt the third double shift heās 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 itās proof someone still believes heās human.
You quote him back to himself like a philosopher
You remember something he said weeks agoāsome throwaway line about time or structure or entropyāand you drop it casually in conversation, like itās wisdom from an ancient text. He doesnāt know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and heāll never recover from that.
You wear the little seal keychain he made
He didnāt think youād keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it isāalways 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. Justā¦ 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 doesnāt talk about it. But itās 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 ācan you clear out whateverās making it lag?ā and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that youād let him? Thatās 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. Itās laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen othersābut you ask him. Like heās the one who makes things better.
Youāre 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 partedāhis brain stops cooperating. Thereās something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.
You argue with him about complex theoriesāand mean it
You donāt just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasnāt 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 āI love youā in your sleep
Itās not loud. Itās 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 returnānot while you're sleepingāhis fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.
šØ Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You
You told him his painting was āniceā
You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushesāand said āNice.ā 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 ātheyāre just kittens.ā 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 canāt find his favorite brush, and also heās deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.
You didnāt reply to his messages for over an hour
He sent three texts, one meme, and a āthinking of you šā voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with āsry was showering.ā By then, heād already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now youāve 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 āitās just hair.ā It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. Heās still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.
You made fun of his driving
You muttered ātechnically, you were meant to let the tram go firstā He muttered ātechnically, silence is golden.ā His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didnāt want drama, you shouldnāt have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like heās 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 āyou have that interview, remember?ā 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 heās spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulationsāyouāve just activated his inner opera villain.
You got jealous
Which is absurd. Heās the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you ādidnāt like the way that gallery girl looked at himā? Of course she looked. But he didnāt see her. He saw you.
You burned the bacon
You say āitās fine.ā He says itās charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now heāll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was itā¦ the bacon?
šØ Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art
You massage his head
Heās mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hairāand just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like heās been tranquilized. Heāll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.
You claim him in public
Itās an art gala. Heās 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 heās unaffected. Inside, heās 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 matterāyou destroy him. Suddenly heās not the chaos. Heās the compass. And that? Thatās love.
You share every detail of your day over dinner
You talk about everythingāthe lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like heās the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.
Youāre always down for his wildest ideas
Itās 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 āgive me five minutes.ā 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 lensābare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when youāre nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesnāt exist. Thatās 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 youāre the gallery and heās the only one with the key. Itās not fashion. Itās trust. And he adores you for it.
You sing when you donāt know heās home
Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. Youāre off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that momentāyouāre not posing. And heās never loved you more.
You take care of him when heās sick
He has a fever of 99Ā°F and insists heās fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that heās āvery brave.ā You donāt 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
Heās already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the airāand 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.
āØ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavierās Internal Alert System
You break an agreementāeven if it's ājust a small oneā
Itās not about control. Itās about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rulesājust slightlyāhe doesnāt 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 ājust to get a reactionā
You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives youā¦ nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesnāt get angryāhe just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.
You refuse his protectionāon principle
You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He wonāt argue. Heāll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it wonāt kill him if something happens.
You call him coldāespecially when heās 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.
Youāre late
Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upwardānot with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, heās smiling. But itās the tight kind. The kind that says never again.
You skip training
Youāre tired. You had a long day. You say youāll make it up later. He doesnāt 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
Itās not the rejection. Itās the meaning behind it. He reaches outāsmall, careful, calculatedāand you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesnāt try again. He doesnāt ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.
You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark
You think itās cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees itāand freezes. Heās not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version moreāthe legend, the mask, the sharpnessāit unsettles something deep. Something he canāt name.
You secretly believe youāre not good enough for him
You never say it out loud. But he sees itāin your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like itās a glitch. It doesnāt anger him in the usual sense. It justā¦hurts. Because youāre the only one who never had to earn it.
You throw yourself in front of him during a mission
Itās instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didnāt even think. And thatās the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted forāexcept you breaking formation to protect him. You think itās 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? Thatās the one conclusion he refuses to accept.
āØTop 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavierās Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You
When you start reading the same book heās readingYou donāt 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? Heās spiraling. Because thisāthisāis how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.
When you knock on his door like youāre trying to break it downItās 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 youāre 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 slightlyālistening, 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 somehowā¦ itās okay. Youāre not just touching steel. Youāre touching him. And he lets you.
When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didnāt mean to. And he watchesāutterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he willāwithout hesitation.
When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is ānot your vibe.ā But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesnāt say itābut heās proud. Painfully proud.
When you share your dreamsāand say āweāYouāre rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you donāt say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.
When you make matching braceletsYou say itās silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. Thereās 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 pointāand 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 donāt 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 bedāeven when his darker side surfacesThereās a momentāquiet, chargedāwhen the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you donāt pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? Thatās what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.
š¤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval
Your outdated, unreliable weapon
Yes, he gets it. Itās vintage. Itās āstandard issue.ā Itās approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That wonāt matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like heās 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 gumāand pop it
Itās not the gum. Itās the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows itās just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. Heās 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. Youāre forgetting that the very system youāre 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 donāt introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates
You panicked. He gets that. You called him āa friend.ā And now heās deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with āOf course, as your friendā¦ā 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 āmy boyfriend and the love of my life.ā 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 youāre āindependent.ā He says youāre 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, itās almost admirable. Almost.
You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it
He didnāt say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. Heās not judging. Heās just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.
You speak in riddles and expect him to āget itā
You want somethingātime away, a trip, his attentionābut instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, āItās fine. I guess some people just donāt want to escape the city with their girlfriendsā¦ā He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. āWas that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?ā If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.
You suggest another woman would be āperfect for himā
Itās a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice waversājust slightlyāand that ruins it. He doesnāt want her. He doesnāt 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 itās cute. He thinks itās potentially catastrophic.
You donāt believe him when he says heās fine
Yes, heās bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said āitās a scratch,ā and when he says thatāhe means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isnāt on himāitās in you, for thinking heās anything less than unbreakable.
š¤ Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, Heās 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 stolenāuntil 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? Youāre bolderālittle dresses, shoes, jewelry you donāt 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 donāt ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitatesājust onceāwhile youāre directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesnāt 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, heās already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.
When you secretly pet Mephisto
The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? Youāre sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if youāve accepted the birdāyouāve accepted all of him. And thatās lethal. To him.
When you make him a playlist
You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listensāevery time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like itās encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesnāt 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. Itās inconvenient. Itās perfect. His life, now featuring you.
When you eat from his plate
You swore you werenāt hungry. You said āno carbs this week.ā And now? Youāre stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like itās your birthright. He doesnāt 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. Youāre not even aware youāre ramblingābut he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because thereās something magical about your voice when itās unfiltered. You donāt realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.
When you crawl into his lap while heās working
Heās in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenlyāyou. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the worldās 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 doesnāt matter. Youāre a trained hunterāyouāve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways heāll never admit. Heās already on his way before you hang up.
When you scream his name right before you come
Thereās a lot heās proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothingānothingāsatisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like heās the only thing in your world. Which, of courseā¦ he is.
(mdni 18+) How many times a week is it normal for a couple to do it? Well... You and Caleb are definitely above average.
1.2k. small hc about domestic life and boyfriend!caleb with a little bit of spicy hihi
Since you and Caleb started seeing each other officially, it was only natural that you spent more time in Skyhaven and he in Linkon. You both had such dense and strenuous routines that at any free moment you tried to be together and make the most of it. On a particular day during the first month of your relationship, you arrived at the Colonel's apartment and found some step stools placed at strategic spots in the apartment. They were large and discreet, one near the kitchen counter, another by the bathroom sink, another by the bookcase in the study and many others. The answer when you asked Caleb about it was simple: when he became a colonel and got the right to an apartment, the Fleet asked for his height to make the furniture as proportional and functional as possible for him. Now that you were spending more time there, he made sure to have those steps made at the right height for you, so that you could be as comfortable as possible. In fact, you always wondered why the sink seemed so high when you brushed your teeth, and how uncomfortable it was to cut things on the counter when you tried to cook something. Caleb was always so efficient and attentive, and you loved that about him.
A week after steps stools were added to the apartment, you were used to them. One day, while you were at the kitchen sink, peeling some apples for a quick snack, Caleb came in from a night mission.
"Hey! Want an apple?" You smiled when he hugged you from behind, sinking his face into the nape of your neck easily because of the extra height the step stool gave you.
"What a miracle to find you in the kitchen," he kissed your neck and held your hips, gluing you to him. You brought a piece of apple to his mouth over your shoulder and forced him to eat it, to shut him up. "Hmpf" He tried to speak and you turned around, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck.
"How was it today?" You gave him a small kiss on the cheek.
"Boring. I just wanted to come home to you." He rubbed his cheek against yours, sighing. "Buuuut, I had time to think of something"
"Hm?" You hummed with your eyes closed, feeling the warmth of his face against yours.
"I was wondering if... You'd let me put my cock inside you without me having to ask or with any ceremony." He said in a careful voice. "Of course, if you don't want to at the moment, just tell me and I'll completely stop. I totally understand if you find it weird and don't want to do this and I pinky promise we never have to talk about it again and I'll never bring it up ev-ā
"I want it!ā you said and threw your head to one side. His eyes widened in surprise. "Wherever you want. No matter when you want. I trust you." You kissed one of his eyes. "And I love the idea of you fucking me without ceremony and at any time."
"God, you're going to drive me absolutely crazy. Thank you." He squeezed you in a tight hug.
Once the two of you had agreed on this, you initially thought you'd be having sex the way you always did, hard, deep, kinky, full of fluids, scratches and bites, or doing intense quickies several times a day. But no, it was simple and intimate, simply delicious. Caleb just wanted to be with you and inside you all the time.
Little by little, you realized how the stool he had ordered served more than one purpose. Sometimes you'd be doing your makeup for work, standing in front of the bathroom sink, and Caleb would simply approach you, asking about your plans for the day. As the ordinary words and dialog went on between the two of you, he would gently pull up your shirt, pull down your panties and put his cock inside you. It was addictive. The fucking step stool not only gave you the perfect height for the furniture in the house, but also to leave your ass at the right height for Caleb to find himself in you without having to hold you down, sit or lie down. It was usually like this: his cock nestling into you with slow, intimate strokes, while you both carried on chatting about anything, just spending time together.
By then, you made a habit of walking around the house in your (his) large shirt and no panties, knowing that Caleb liked to be with you, inside you, whenever he could. Of course, you still had brutal sex like two animals frequently, but it seemed that Caleb's obsession and need for you - and you for him - was able to bring about the most painfully intimate, simple and tender sex of your lives. It was just so good to trust so deeply in someone and to want someone so badly that no words or timing were needed. At one moment it was a "Can I stay here with you, baby?" and the next you were reading your book, bent over the counter, while Caleb slid his cock up and down between your folds, stroking himself against your clit, praising you and your pretty pussy. He did it not only because he wanted it, but because he could.
Sometimes he wouldn't even come, or even move. If you were watching a movie, he would surely be inside you, both of you cuddled up, relaxing after an exhausting day, cockwarming.
In fact, you liked it so much that when he didn't take the initiative, you went after him. There were times when he was reading reports, sitting on the living room sofa or in the office armchair, and you would silently approach him, fiddling with your cell phone, sit on his thighs, and soon his cock was hard and hot under his pants. Within moments, you were slowly riding his throbbing cock, while he used his thumb to caress your clit, slowly, just like the rise and fall of your hips. If you got tired, you didn't have to get up. You just kept yourself there, hugging Caleb, with his hard cock throbbing inside you, filling you up completely.
One day, talking to Tara and Simone at the pub in Linkon, the topic came up: "How many times a week is it normal for a couple to have sex?", and the girls debated curiously.
"I don't know, three or two times a week? It depends on their schedule." Simone said, sipping her drink.
"Some couples do it every day! Can you imagine? Having sex every day?" Tara said, her eyes widening. " What about you and your boyfriend? How often do you do it?" She asked, curious.
And that made you wonder. There was the mind-blowing sex, the longing sex, the dirty sex, the rough sex, the slow sex, the sex when you were reading, the sex when he was reading, the sex when you were on your cell phones, the sex when talking about anything, the sex on the kitchen counter, the sex on the bathroom sink, the bath time sex, the movie time sex, the bed time sex, the sleep time sex, the wake up time sex, the boredom time sex, the play time sexā¦ And all you could do was blink, trying to calculate how many times a week Caleb and you had sex and it simply wasn't possible to count.
You laughed, sipped your drink and sighed.
"I don't know, I don't count." And it wasn't a lie.
ācāmon, megumi. tell me whatās botherinā ya.ā satoru pouts at megumi, his arm thrown around the boyās shoulders. you watch the scene unfold with a tense smile.
megumi was exhausted from school, training and so much more. the teenagerās patience was wearing thin. especially with satoru almost pressuring him into telling you both whatās weighing on his mind. when all he wants is to be left alone at the moment.
the tone satoruās using to talk to megumi only pisses the high schooler off more and more. itās fatherly. like heās still the little child satoru took in and cared for. it pissed megumi off, along with everything else;
āyouāre not my dad, so stop fucking acting like you are!ā
you freeze. satoru freezes. megumi freezes. time freezes. the silence was deafening. no one was moving. your eyes flicker over to satoruās and your heart shatters in a million pieces.
satoruās hurt. so hurt. itās visible and heās not hiding it ā not hiding it like he usually would behind a wide grin. his blindfold and glasses arenāt there to hide the way his face falls either.
āi know.ā satoru whispers. his voice lost its cheery tone, his eyes have lost their spark. the sorcerer slowly distances himself from megumi. a bitter chuckle leaves his lips. a futile attempt to hide his shaky voice, āi know.ā
all you could do is stand there in shock. megumi doesnāt know what to do after his little outburst either. and satoru. . . well, satoru is the first one out of the room. you hear his breath hitch as he walks past you. you see his eyes twitch. the strongest, in tears.
Mammon's such a fascinating character because canonically:
*good at solving complex mathematical problems in his head in a matter of seconds*
*understands people, their emotions and how they'd react to specific situations and uses that knowledge to manipulate them and get what he wants (whether that's some physical object or a certain reaction from them or just for them to calm down)*
*when there's no other choice at all, he steps up and effectively takes charge*
*a good teacher and seems to have a good balanced mix between being strict, encouraging and helpful*
*whenever Lucifer wants a job done well (no matter what the job is), he relies on Mammon (and has done so since they were angels)*
*scams usually work, he just tends to get caught at the end*
*came up with a code on the spot to tell MC he missed them while also being a comprehensible message on its own, that fit with his 'tsundere' personality*
*constantly found ways to sneak into the human world from the Celestial Realm*
*has fast and spontaneous reactions during high stake situations where you need to move/react fast*
*enjoys playing chess*
*can multitask well*
*actual emotional intelligence*
*one of the first brothers (the second?) to realise there was something wrong with Simeon*
*has a variety of skills that range from making balloon animals to fitting in seamlessly in a corporate environment*
*extremely hardworking when there's a goal he genuinely wants that he's working towards*
*when giving it his all he tends to pick up new skills easily*
*by his younger brothers' own admittance, he can do anything, complete any task and he can do it well as long as he puts effort into it*
But also canonically:
*had no idea what the fuck rent was*
*a shit liar*
*said "what if I accidentally tell MC I'm in love with them" to MC*
*constantly failing all his classes*
*easily falls for traps/curses*
*emotional intelligence fizzles out when it comes to talking about his own problems/admitting anything about himself*
*bet and lost their new house*
*managed to trick himself into believing he'd get a prize if he won a competition that Diavolo explicitly said there was no prize for*
*came up with a plan to win the competition in a matter of seconds, easily and constantly changing it to better fit the situation at hand. a plan that worked extremely well. lost the competition because he couldn't be bothered to check the title of a book*
Mammon's a character who'll break down and teach you PhD level Mathematics without breaking a sweat and then ask you what kind of animal the Pink Panther is in the next sentence.
I love him. I want to study him under a microscope.
What makes this even better is that I'm 100% sure his brothers have managed to gaslight the entire fandom into thinking he's the biggest fucking idiot alive with just the windows screensaver bouncing around in his head and nothing else
Don't get me wrong, he's a dumbass. He probably runs face first into a glass door at least once a week. But also....I mean....c'mon
In conclusion,
If you like Mammon, you're NOT a morosexual. You're a morosexual with a competency kink. Good Day.
On a side note, all of mammon's traits are like this,
*he's greedy but here's a long list of all the times he put his friends and family before money*
*he's a jerk but here's a long list of when he's one of the kindest people and an amazing brother*
*he's possessive but here's a long list of all the times he put mc's consent and/or choices above all else*
you are home. you are the feeling of lasting peacefulness. it resonates in your bones and stabilizes your surroundings. you like routine and the familiarity of things. it brings you satisfaction to have a grounded life. you want to build something you're proud of and share the benefits with your loved ones. you are the glue of your friends and family and essential to the functioning of the group. others admire your responsibility and how they can rely on you for anything. you are amazing.
No pressure tags: @katsupeach @dreamkenn @patchworkpuzzle @arquitecturadelanada @wuhllow @better-in-pencil @lowkeystan @prettyboykatsuki and everyone else who wants to
@evierena thanks for the tag! your result is lovely!!!! ā”
creative touch
you are a gem. you pride yourself on creating and sometimes you feel it defining your personality. sometimes you can be a bit scattered and messy, but it just helps your brain think that way. you have your own aesthetic and you know its incredibly cool. you are most in your element when you are doing what you love. sometimes the process is SO frustrating but the proudness of a finished product is what keeps you going. you often compare yourself to others and are the harshest critic of your own work. you are immensely talented and you are inspire others. keep doing what you are doing, love.
Aaa!! A late happy holidays and happy new year to all my darlings! Going to do all the games and such now and be active again, I hope :(
sensual touch
you are classy, glamourous, and eye-catching. the way you carry yourself leaves others speechless and wanting to know more. you take pride in your appearance and pay extra attention to details. you're probably very in tune with your emotions and body. you know what makes you feel good and you make it known. also, your love language is definitely physical touch. you're a hot bitch, damn.
i was tagged by my loves @7x10mickey @y0itsbri & @gallawitchxx š
š« space mace š«
iām tagging @gardenerian @pink--and--white @heymrspatel @howlinchickhowl @arrowflier @unbridgeabledistances @tectonicduck @sickness-health-all-that-shit @whaticameherefor @ianspettyagain and @fan-gurly-gurl ā no pressure!! ššāØ love yāall so much š„ŗ
all of your baby clothes were someone elseās first and all of your accomplishments were always second best. the shards are scattered on the floor and you want to scream about the mess but you do not want to see your mothers disappointed face. she probably wasnāt aiming at you anyways, since it missed your head entirely. thereās blood dripping from your fingers, but hasnāt it always?
cruel hands held you and shaped you in to what you have become. a razor-shape blade, both wound and knife. they butchered you and called it love. they taught you that only someone who is willing to rip you apart and swallow is someone to call home. maybe that is why you love pomegranates.
Tagging: @miyakiniku @novelnekomata @sunascumdoll @rayhaitani and anyone else who wants to join
Hi, itās been so long since Iāve actually made an effort to write or visit this app so Iāll ease myself into this platform again. Thank you for tagging me, lovebug. What a beautiful, heartwrenching quiz.
a burning heart
you believe yourself to be terribly unlovable, and that is why you push away the people who try, because there must be something awfully wrong with them to love someone like you. love transforms you no matter how long you hold it in your shaking hands. you love the way a wound does. your heart has never stopped bleeding since the first moment it broke.
A quiz about what the meaning of your life could be. 24 questions, 6 results about 350~500 words each. No negative results (e.g., "your life
since my last uquiz was such a hit (over 215k takers and counting!! wow!!!) i made another one! it's 24 questions (plus a comment box), with 6 results that are about 350~500 words each. once again, there are no lyrics or pop culture references, so it should be just as accessible as the last one! please take it and reblog if you liked it enough to share!
There's a certain charisma to you. Maybe it's obvious, or maybe it's subtle and hard to place, but people are drawn to you. It's likely you don't understand why, or maybe even struggle to believe it because you can't fathom what worth they see. Even so, you somehow end up with friends wherever you go and it's likely people develop frequent crushes on you. You may or may not have given up on pursuing them, but you almost certainly possess strong passions and ambitions that are part of what make you so compelling. If you do choose to chase after them, then others probably find your dedication inspiring and yearn for the same sense of direction. But if you've decided to abandon your dreams, you probably feel hopelessly aimless and as if there's no worth to anything you could do. In that case, it's not unlikely you feel as if there's no worth to you. But however unlovable you might feel, people can't help but find things to love about you. Maybe it's your sense of humor, or your contagious laugh, or how one can't help but fall in love with the way you overflow with excitement gushing about the things you like. Someone loves you and in doing so they're able to love this world that much more because you're in it. That's because being able to exist in the same time and place as you, to have the privilege of enjoying your company and witnessing all you have to offer is a precious, wonderful thing. You're a force that inspires love, one of those small, unspoken miracles that all pile up to make this world a place worth living in. You're a highlight in the lives of many, whether or not you know it. The beauty of your existence is that you need not accomplish any great or famous feats to make it meaningful. People can't help but find meaning in being able to know someone like you. You've probably saved someone without even knowing it. You exist to be loved, to make someone else's life more lovable just by being here. By loving you, someone is learning to love this world and the life they have within it. Do not doubt the worth in that. Lives like yours are what people live for.
Most people have regrets. We all have to live with the consequences of decisions we wish we could take back. But what you regret is more than a mistake or short-sighted choice. You regret your very existence. Everything you've ever done is something you wish you could undo. You believe it is impossible to become the kind of person you want to be. You see yourself as a lost cause. You feel chained down by the love you receive, because you are sure you will only hurt anyone foolish enough to see something worth loving in you. You want to rid this world of yourself and feel trapped by all the hands holding you back. "I love you" is the phrase you most dread hearing. You wish that everyone else would hate you as much as you think you deserve. Perhaps you feel it would make ending it all so much easier. It's possible you have only stayed alive this long because you believe the only thing that would cause more misery than your life is your death. Either way, you are certain you live a life beyond salvation. And you are wrong. You have been made to believe your best is not enough, that your efforts have no value because you will always fall short. Perhaps too much was expected of you from the day you were born. I would not be surprised if the impossible was the very first thing you remember being asked to do. You can't stop regretting a failure that was always inevitable. You cannot forgive yourself for existing as the imperfect person you can't help but be. You believe you don't deserve forgiveness. But you do. Your human faults and limitations do not make you worthless. You have as much right to be here as anyone else. Your needs and boundaries are not a burden, and those who would treat them as such are the ones to be faulted. You're here to forgive yourself and the life you live. It will be difficult and it will not happen quickly, but it is a task that needs undertaking. Redeem yourself by slowly, gradually putting an end to your eternal atonement. Atone for the years you've lost to self-loathing by telling yourself that this existence of yours is nothing to repent for. You will not believe it at first. But you must try to treat yourself as you would a treasured friend, as those that love you know you deserve to be treated. Over and over, tell yourself the words that you can't yet bring yourself to believe, and one day you'll notice that they've started to feel as if they might be true, if only now and again. The love that chains you down, that you believe you don't deserve, it doesn't have to torment you. It can be a comfort, too. One day, you will be grateful for the hands holding you back. You deserve to know what it's like to be alive without wishing you weren't. Have faith and dedicate yourself to that.
