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💫 LADS, MLQC, Ikesen & Ikevam with a sprinkle of Themis 💫 (occasional 18+ content) (She/Her)

[aleksatia]

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I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down.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.

[amazinglyashy]

The way Sylus hugs you-

Sylus | Zayne | Rafayel | Xavier | Caleb

Is exceedingly safe. Your face and body pressed between his muscular chest and toned arms. The way he holds you in strong- protective. Telling you that no matter what, no matter where you may go, he'll always be there to protect you. Fierce to anyone who dares to bring you harm, but oh-so gentle whenever he has the pleasure of touching you. Holding you.

Is practically intoxicating. The scent of his expensive cologne isn't quite enough to mask his natural scent- at least, to your own nose. Maybe it's because of how often you steal his shirts when you come over, no matter how many replacement piles of your own clothing he could provide you. Or maybe it's because of how much you find yourself with your face buried into his pillow, breathing him in much like whenever you found yourself held against his chest.

Is so validating. Looking up at his gaze before he fully embraces you, seeing the way his eyes sparkle with nothing but pure adoration no matter the circumstances that led to his hugging you, like you are absolutely everything. Like you are the entire universe and more to this man.

Is everything you imagined and more. Closing your eyes and breathing him in, as you can just make out the feeling of his lips coming down to rest on the top of your head, knowing he's breathing you in just the same, for the exact same reason. You're his everything, and he would do anything as long as you asked him to. As long as it meant having you here with him. As long as it meant having you for as long as he possibly could.

[luvcaleb]

for all that sylus looks the part of a cold, ruthless mafia boyfriend from a terribly written dark romance novel, he couldn't be any different.

sure, he runs a shady organization, an empire built on crimes that you're probably better off not privy to. he's confident and arrogant and smug and the other twenty synonyms of the same thing. he also happens to have the one redeeming quality the typical shitty mafia boss male leads have: he spoils his pretty princess. there's no shortage of gifts for every occasion, probably too many trinkets he bought because “i thought of you when i saw it,” and he still hides the expenses he pays for every time you visit a fancy hotel (half the time, he owns the whole damn building anyway). he doesn't bother looking at the price tags when you're out shopping, pulls out his card to pay before you can blink, and when he teasingly says “you can pay me back with your body,” he doesn't mean sex, he means he's expecting you'll be the one spooning him tonight.

but as far as “i can fix him” goes, there's not much you can do. sylus already has so much love to give; he smothers you with kisses any chance he gets, showering you with gentle pecks that start from your hair, then to your temples, to your closed eyes, to your cheeks, before finally landing on your mouth, the one kiss that lingers longer than the others. then there's the professions of love, honey-sweet and honest and true, uttered as he holds you close to his chest, fingers running through your hair.

he always makes his presence felt — a hand on your back, his fingers on your waist, an arm wrapped around your shoulders. yet even with no physical contact, you feel his presence by your side. steady. grounding. safe. a reassuring constant that tells you “i'm here, right beside you. always.”

sylus is cheeky sometimes. shameless, even. he demands a kiss on the cheek every time you part ways after a date, nevermind the onlookers staring curiously at this two meter tall man pouting at his lover to get his way. he all but plops you into his lap when he gets bored in a meeting with his trusted subordinates, playing with the tips of your hair as he gives out his orders. when you jokingly tell him to wear matching cute headbands with you at the amusement park, he bends down with no resistance, allowing you to put on the mascot ears on his head.

sylus loves loudly. he makes his love for you known. he is not ashamed to show it to the world in every way possible. most importantly, he reminds you how much he loves you everyday.

it's okay even if you don't truly understand the extent of it, or if you don't know how long his devotion has lasted.

he loved you then, and he'll continue to love you until his soul withers away. (the love will only be gone when he goes, too.)

[sleepy-little-stars]

andy speaks: just sylus and princess treatment or queen whatever works out .. im inlove w him

sylus who leans down when you say something. he brings his head down after a hum. you can feel the warmth of his cheek brushing against the skin in your neck.

sylus whose hand swiftly covers the corner of the table when you bend down to pick up a fork you clumsily dropped. although, most times you wouldn't even get a chance to pick it up. with a flick of his hand, your fork is back on the table. courtesy of the black wispy tendrils that caught it before it hit the ground.

sylus who has a palm over your thigh whenever you guys are at a theater. you dragged him to watch an opera or ballet and he, of course, agreed. his thumb smoothing over the skin of your inner thigh.

sylus who cooks breakfast for the two of you. a small smile graces his oh so handsome face when he sees you shuffle from the bedroom wearing his shirt from the night before. his grin widening the moment your arms encases his waist.

sylus who places a hand on the small of your back. he does this often when he walks you through crowded places or just standing next to you.

sylus who always opens doors for you. the car door? careful, sweetie. he’ll remind while guiding your head so you don’t bump it. in a cafe? don’t even think about touching the door handle. he’ll open it for you, just kiss his cheek when you walk in.

sylus who kneels down to fix the straps of your heels or to lace up the laces of your shoes. it doesn’t matter if someone sees him, the big bad scary leader of onichynus, on his knees fixing someone's shoes. he wouldn’t mind dirtying his pants that must’ve cost thousands just for you.

sylus who grabs your chin with his thumb and index finger, pulling you close to him. he does this when he wants to steal a kiss or when he whispers affirmations of his love.

[queens-hoes]

HELPPPP I DIDN'T THINK IT WAS GONNA SHOW UP IN THE STORY

[pandoras-rabbit]

I should really be doing homework but the rats yearn to speak their truth

When the LADs boys come visit you do they punch your plushies when you leave the room?

Xavier- it’s on sight. His hands are rated E for everyone. Oh and that Lumiere plush you have on your bed? Yeah it’s getting RKO’d and then tossed underneath your bed. When interrogated he pouts and lays on top of you until you give up.

Zayne- absolutely not. If anything he places the snowman plushies closer to your pillow. He looks away when you ask him.

Rafayel- each plushie is getting a punch to the face. Your cat plushies? It’s getting thrice as many. Acts dumb when questioned.

Sylus- he knocks all the plushies that isn’t the Crow or Dino onto the floor. When asked, he blames it on Mephisto.

Caleb- he pushes in all the plushies eyes inward. Acts all innocent when you come back in and claims they were already like that.

[daikonfarmer]

i fell into the deep trenches of lads

i'm one month into the game and the lore- THE LORE.

happy birthday, raf.

and oh, i made a lil more for different mc's

[cosmiic-world]

sylus when he takes you on joyrides in the N109 Zone, he absolutely loves when you dress in bike leathers and he loves when you’re matching him.

sylus who loves how your smaller frame hugs his from behind, the side of your helmet flush against his back as you giggle from the speeds and scenery you’re zooming past.

sylus who loves teasing you at red lights, reaching back and gently squeezing your thighs. “are you enjoying yourself?” he asks, chuckling when he’s met with an ecstatic nod and a thumbs up. he loves to catch you off guard with suddenly taking off, relishing in how you squeal and scramble to hold onto him, laughing as you whine.

sylus who stares at you as you get off the bike, setting your helmet down right beside him. he watches as you rummage through your purse with a small frustrated pout. “what’s wrong sweetie?”

“i don’t have my mirror.” you said, huffing as you held your lipstick in your hand.

sylus who turns and right as he’s about to offer one of the mirrors from his bike, you grab his helmet and turn his head toward you. “hold still for one second.” he thinks he hears but all he can focus on is that vibrant red lipstick in your hand and that look in your eyes.

your eyes turned sharp as you focused intently on the reflection in sylus’s helmet, ignoring his ruby eyes staring at yours. you focused as you applied your lipstick nice and slow, so you wouldn’t mess up. somehow, your bottom lip was smudged a bit and you hadn’t noticed until sylus grabbed your arm as you were turning away from him.

“just a second, kitten.” he said gruffly, pulling you closer to him, his thighs caging you in as he brought up his hand to gently wipe away the smudged lipstick from your lip. “this shade looks magnificent on you.” he said softly, his eyes filled with lust. “put your helmet back on.” he said, handing you your helmet.

“what, why?” you said as you grabbed it, tilting your head confused.

“sweetie, surely that wasn’t just for fixing your lipstick. i have a problem now that only you can fix. we’re going to the parking lot.” he said, slinging his leg back over the motorcycle and turning the engine back on.

you couldn’t help but giggle as you put your helmet back on and sat right behind him. your touch felt like fire blazing against his skin, turning him on even more as your hands teasingly found their way down his pants.

sylus, who loves how scandalous his girlfriend can be.

[ty-bayonet-betteridge]

how am i supposed to go to work when im literally thinking about The Character

[abyssyby]

sylus’s heart, too big for his human body, pounding like a war drum every time you call him yours

“hi, my love.” and he has to take a minute— take a quick breath before responding with a soft ‘hello’ or a nonchalant (or as nonchalant as he can manage) quip about having missed him.

“i’m alright, my dear.” and all thought ceases and his fingers freeze over the wound he was tending to. his anger fizzles away like the rain on the pavement when the sun emerges from the clouds. all strength leaves his limbs as he rests his forehead to your uninjured shoulder, where a small but tender kiss is placed, and revels in the sound of your breathing.

“my heart, please.” and he’s gone. anything you ask for, anything you want is as good as yours if he has anything to do about it. his money, his home, his touch, his time— all yours, yours, yours.

“my sylus.” and he is at rest. the world is quiet, there is only you, your warmth, your voice. when the memory of his name returns to you, and he sees in your eyes that recognition—and love, despite who he was, who he is and who he will ever be in your bonded lifetimes, he gives up his entire being to you.

he is yours, and how he wishes your greed for proclaiming it would grow tenfold, until even the mere thought of him belongs to no one else.

[queens-hoes]

welp finally got my period, time to tell my 3d anime husband

[queens-hoes]

oh, you think I'm using Ilusio to see shirtless towel Sylus in the steamy cards? Hahaha, no.

I have a suit kink. I'm dressing him up even MORE.

[queens-hoes]

Military associations, flight-based evol, ties to teen MC, literal fire, AND similar hair?

I'm onto you, Apple Boy.

[queens-hoes]

okay now they're really doing it on purpose

[ideksams]

happy new year! 🥂 i'm back with twiyor doodles ☺️

[aqvarivsvart]

🐦‍⬛

🐦‍⬛

Do you want it, kitten?

after:

[queens-hoes]

since it took me a million pulls to get Sylus' Night of Secrecy, here's everything in it that made me giggle, gasp, and gush over this fictional man:

MC walking in on him casually trying to make a flower bloom at his desk

The nonchalant way he takes her hand and easily resonates after the whole struggle in the main story

His quiet reaction to MC asking if he enjoys living as a normal person for a few days

Clingy MC

I love clingy MC

Sylus, the most wanted man in Linkon, casually pulling up to the FRONT of the Hunter's Association bc his kitten needs a ride home dammit

The fact he has a crow pendant hanging from his rearview mirror. like. Where did he get that? Did he make it? Where can I find one?

The line about him promising to wash his hands of his dirty work before returning home 🥺

Bc she is his home 🥺

The fact that he and MC went to a late night screening of Home Alone???

And, in an effort to spend more time with him, she asked to watch all the sequels with him???

Them holding hands in his pocket GOD WHEN WILL IT BE ME

MC casually standing by as he probably killed the ppl watching them...we love a girl who supports her man's morally questionable actions

MC beating him at their gun assembly game and, like any sane person would, announcing her victory by pointing the gun at his chin

I just know he was ready to go when she did that

Sylus casually dropping MC's shoes when he carries her to his room. Idk why it was so hot to me but here we are

The Spice.

I have read absolute filth in my day, but experiencing spice in this way blew my goddamn mind, I'm still recovering and it has been a week

THE THIGH GRAB?

THE WAY THEY JUST CAN'T STOP KISSING EACH OTHER??

THE WANT IN SYLUS' VOICE AND EYES BEING SO OBVIOUS???

AHHHHHHHH

Him covering her eyes. I'm not over it.

Kissing down her neck (and her chest)

Kissing her thigh. Lord help me.

MC asking him not to bite her...can you imagine the scandal of her walking into work with a Sylus hickie? Forget shame, I'd be showing that off like a badge of honour

The line about his hands being cold when holding a gun but warm and tender while holding her...dear Lord, I am forever undone

The implication that they either 1) went at it so HARD that Sylus knocked tf out despite being nocturnal or 2) they went at it so LONG that he knocked tf out

Or 3) both (hehe)

That. Fucking. Gasp. And chuckle sound he made when he woke up and found her beside him

God, this VA COOKED, the man had BILLS to pay

Pulling her into a kiss in the car. It's the simple things in life

[queens-hoes]

Military associations, flight-based evol, ties to teen MC, literal fire, AND similar hair?

I'm onto you, Apple Boy.