CONTAINS: piv, f receiving, masturbation, bondage, squirting, pussy slapping, breeding kink, creampie, & slight exhibitionism. Some links may require you to be signed in on X.
SYLUS
۶ৎ music to his ears
۶ৎ his definition of filled
۶ৎ in the bathroom after the auction
۶ৎ drilling into your pussy
۶ৎ sylus and his breeding kink
ZAYNE
۶ৎ pussy prep
۶ৎ pussy slapping
۶ৎ bondage + fingering till you squirt
۶ৎ quickie in his office before his shift :p
CALEB
۶ৎ eating you out while jorking
۶ৎ on the counter
۶ৎ oh he loves that pussy
۶ৎ he can nut so easily just from the view
۶ৎ can't stop touching you during backshots
RAFAYEL
۶ৎ riding him
۶ৎ his fav way of starting the morning
۶ৎ always so eager to eat pussy
۶ৎ creampies are his favorite
XAVIER
۶ৎ quick fuck before napping
۶ৎ he got jealous after he saw you talking to that bakery guy again
SYNOPSIS★ When your sweet old landlady passes away, her grandson Caleb takes over the property. He’s goofy, charming, a golden retriever of a man—except behind that smile is a freak who can’t get enough of your scent. First it’s lost panties, then unwashed bras, and before you know it your landlord is moaning into your laundry and begging for “payment” straight from the source.
CW★ landlord!caleb, writer!reader, panty theft, gooning, scent kink, lingerie stealing, unwashed clothing kink, masturbation, cum everywhere, oral (fem receiving), leg humping, public indecency vibes, crack mixed with depravity, Caleb being a pervy golden retriever weirdo but hot about it, reader hairy + unshaved mentions, rent = panties arrangement, shameless dirty talk. . . wc : 4.3k
CHERRY’S NOTE★ caleb is a freak from heart. only face card is saving him. also, tysm for 4k+ followers—take this as a celebration gift.
You hadn’t exactly planned on being broke.
That was the funny thing about pursuing your dreams—it sounded noble until you were eating instant ramen for the fourth night in a row and rationing your laundry detergent because it was either that or running out of coffee. You’d quit your steady nine-to-five to finally give writing a real chance, which meant no more safety net, no steady paycheck, just you and a Word doc full of half-finished drafts.
And rent. Always rent.
The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but in the middle of Linkon City, it was a miracle you’d managed to hang onto it this long. The only reason you’d survived was your landlady Josephine, a sweet old woman with a soft spot for starving artists and lonely tenants. She never raised the rent, always slipped you leftovers from whatever she’d cooked that week, and told you, in her gravelly smoker’s voice, that you reminded her of her younger self.
Then she passed away.
Just like that, you went from living in a cozy, rent-stable haven to dreading the letter that slid under your door with news of “new management.”
That was how you met him.
Caleb.
Josephine’s grandson.
The first time you saw him was at the front of the building, clipboard tucked under his arm, chatting up the tenants like he’d been born to do it. Tall, broad-shouldered, messy brown hair that fell into his purple eyes when he laughed—and he laughed a lot, loud and goofy, like a golden retriever in human form. He wasn’t what you expected at all.
When it was your turn, he leaned against your doorframe like he already knew you, grin so easy it almost disarmed you. “You must be… let me guess…” His eyes swept you up and down before he tapped his pen against the clipboard. “The mysterious writer in 3B? My grandma used to say you were always clacking away at night.”
You blinked at him. “That’s me.”
“Hell yeah, nailed it on the first try.” He gave you a wink, then extended his hand like you were old friends. “I’m Caleb. New landlord, same building. Figured I should get to know my tenants, y’know? Keep the family business running.”
You shook his hand, noticing the way he held on just a second too long. His palm was warm, rough, and when he finally let go, he still lingered there in your doorway, rocking on his heels, grinning.
“So,” he said, like he had all the time in the world, “what do you write? Horror? Romance? Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who writes smut and tries to hide it. My grandma would’ve loved that.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “I… write fiction. Different stuff.”
“Cool, cool.” He nodded enthusiastically, messy hair falling into his eyes again. “That’s awesome. Bet you’ve got a ton of stories. You’ll have to tell me sometime.”
It was harmless, you told yourself. Just a goofy young guy, suddenly inheriting more responsibility than he probably knew what to do with. He made a couple of corny jokes about rent—“Don’t worry, I won’t make you pay me in blood, ha ha”—and then scribbled something on his clipboard.
But when he finally left, you couldn’t shake the way he’d looked around your apartment like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to know more than just your name.
It started with one pair.
You figured you’d dropped them somewhere between your bathroom and the laundry room, maybe caught on another piece of clothing or shoved too far into the dryer drum. Things got lost all the time in a shared building like this.
But then it kept happening.
Another pair went missing the next week. Then two more the week after. You counted one morning, standing in front of your dresser with your hands on your hips, and realized you were down nearly half your underwear. The good ones, too—the ones you actually liked wearing.
It didn’t make sense. You weren’t careless. You weren’t that forgetful. And yet every time you shrugged it off, convincing yourself you were imagining things, you’d pull another empty drawer and feel your stomach sink.
What you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that your missing underwear never made it out of the building. They were upstairs. In Caleb’s room.
He’d tried to hold back at first. The very first pair he’d “rescued” from your laundry basket, he’d told himself it was just curiosity, just one time, just a stupid little peek because he couldn’t stop thinking about how good your smell must be. But one time turned into two, and then three, and then now.
Now he was spread out on his bed, the violet of his eyes blown wide with a glassy haze, his thick brows pulled together in desperate focus. Four used tissues were crumpled on the floor beside him, and he was rutting against the fifth pair like an animal in heat.
Your panties—pink cotton, soft and worn—were pressed to his face as he moaned, voice muffled and filthy. His hips bucked into his fist, stroking himself raw, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. Not when your scent was clinging to him, filling his lungs, drowning out every thought except you.
“Fuck—pipsqueak,” he groaned into the fabric, voice breaking on the nickname he gave you. “Smell so fuckin’ good, can’t—shit, can’t stop—”
He buried his face deeper, nose dragging over the gusset until he was practically whining. His body trembled, desperate and frantic, as if the panties themselves were his lifeline. The mattress creaked under his weight, the slick sound of his fist pumping echoing through the room.
Around him, the evidence was everywhere. Pairs of your underwear scattered across his sheets, some balled up, some laid flat, some stained and ruined already. He’d tried to keep them neat once, folded in his drawer like trophies, but the hunger was too much. Now they littered his room like a shrine, and still it wasn’t enough.
Caleb’s chest heaved as he came undone again, hot spurts spilling across his hand, staining his stomach, dripping messily onto your panties. He kept rubbing them against his face even as his orgasm tore through him, shuddering with need.
And then, as soon as his breathing slowed, he reached for another pair.
He couldn’t help it. He needed more. Your scent was addictive, sweet and dizzying, and every time he thought he was finished, the ache clawed back inside him.
Caleb clutched another pair to his nose—lacy, delicate ones this time, the kind that made his throat go dry just imagining them stretched over your hips—and groaned low in his chest. His cock twitched in his fist again, aching, insistent, already hardening back to life.
“Fuck, pipsqueak… what are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to the lace as if he could sink into it. His body curled in on itself, hips grinding into his hand like a dog rutting against anything that smelled of its mate.
His sheets were ruined, his body sore, but none of it mattered. Not when your scent was in his lungs, not when your panties were his only salvation.
And still, he thought about you downstairs, pacing your room, probably frustrated and confused, probably wondering where all your underwear had gone. The thought made his cock throb painfully, precum smearing over his knuckles.
If only you knew.
If only you could see your landlord, your goofy, smiling Caleb, sprawled out in the dark, surrounded by your stolen underwear, jerking off for the fifth time tonight like a total fucking weirdo.
It was getting ridiculous.
First panties. Then bras. Then—what the actual fuck—your apple-printed pajama shorts. Who even wanted those? They had a bleach stain on the thigh.
And yet they were gone. Just like the too-tight crop top you’d kept for “motivation purposes” and even your socks, mismatched and worn down. You stood in front of your laundry basket one night like a detective on the verge of a breakdown.
“The dryer’s not eating them,” you muttered to yourself. You’d checked. Twice.
Which meant the only possible explanation: some pervert was going to town on your clothes.
The idea made your skin crawl. And yet—there was no way to prove it. No cameras in front of the laundry room. Nothing but your own paranoia. So you started paying attention. Standing guard. Lining up to wash your clothes instead of leaving them overnight. Still, things disappeared, and you swore you could hear the X-Files theme every time you folded laundry.
By the time evening rolled around, you were frazzled. Your desk was covered in empty mugs and crumpled notes. You’d been pounding away at your laptop for hours, trying to hammer out a smut scene for your latest fic, but the flow just wasn’t there.
You slammed the space bar, growled into your hands, and nearly headbutted the keyboard.
“Fucking—”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell startled you upright. Muttering, you padded over and yanked the door open.
And there was Caleb. Clipboard in hand. Purple eyes bright, thick eyebrows bouncing with every word as he grinned.
“Monthly check-in!” he chirped, like he wasn’t the reincarnation of your stress.
You sighed, rubbing your temples, and stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah, sure.”
Caleb strolled in with all the grace of a golden retriever let off leash. His gaze wandered over your living room, lingering here and there a little too long. And then you remembered.
Your laptop. Your violently-typed, wide-open smut scene.
“Shit—” you bolted to your desk, practically diving to slam the tab shut.
Behind you, you swore you heard the low rumble of a chuckle.
When you turned back, Caleb was already scribbling something on his clipboard, face scrunched in fake concentration. And then he looked up, lips quirking into that same goofy smile.
“All done,” he said lightly. “See you later, pipsqueak.”
Your eyebrow twitched at the nickname, but you bit your tongue. He wasn’t raising the rent, so you let it slide.
He clicked his pen closed, spun on his heel, and headed for the door.
You were halfway to the kitchen when your eyes drifted to your laundry basket.
And froze.
The black thong you’d left there—the one you swore you’d wash later—was gone. Just. Gone.
With Caleb.
You stared at the basket. Then at the door. Then back at the basket.
“…oh. My. God.”
Your voice was flat, horrified, disbelieving. You blinked once, twice, as realization hit you like a fucking truck.
Your landlord. Your goofy, golden-retriever-smiling, thick-eyebrowed, clipboard-toting landlord.
Stealing your underwear.
Somewhere down the hall, you swore you heard Caleb humming.
Caleb barely made it to his office before he was clawing at his belt.
The second the door shut behind him, he bolted to the chair, yanking your black thong from his pocket like it was the crown jewels. His cock was already straining against his sweats, leaking through the fabric, twitching with every heartbeat.
“Fuck, pipsqueak…” he groaned, voice cracking as he pressed the thong to his face. “Bet you didn’t even shower yet… fuck, smelled you so good today…”
His hips jerked upward as he fisted his cock with desperate, violent strokes, the slick sound filling the room. He moaned openly, shamelessly, like some bitch in heat. The thong dragged against his nose and lips as he inhaled, shuddering like he might break apart from just the scent.
“Her unwashed thong… mmmhh—fuck, smells so good! God—so fucking good!” His words slurred between panting, his eyes glassy, rolling back with every thrust of his hand. His whole body trembled, thighs spread, cum-slick cock shining under the office light.
The desk rattled with the force of him rutting into his fist. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. Not when he was drowning in you, muttering your name like a prayer, a curse, a desperate fucking mantra.
He was gone. Utterly gone.
So gone, in fact, that he didn’t notice the office door swing open.
You stood there, frozen in the doorway, jaw dropping as the scene burned itself into your retinas.
Caleb—your landlord—thick brows furrowed, violet eyes rolled back, cock in his fist, your thong plastered to his face. The obscene sound of wet strokes echoed around the office.
And then—
He came. Hard.
“FUCK—” His back arched clean off the chair, hips snapping up violently as his cock exploded. Cum shot so high it actually spattered against the wall behind his desk, dripping down in obscene streaks. His moans broke into whimpers, thighs trembling, body jerking with the aftershocks as his orgasm tore through him.
Panting, gasping, Caleb finally peeled the thong off his face—only to freeze when his violet eyes locked on you.
Your hand was still on the doorknob. Your mouth was wide open. You swore you wanted to scream, or bolt, or call the cops, but nothing came out. Just stunned silence.
Caleb looked like he’d seen a ghost. His lips parted, his thick brows shooting up, panic flashing across his face.
“P-pipsqueak—” his voice cracked, trembling.
You didn’t move. “….”
“H-hey, p-pipsqueak, I—I…” He scrambled off the chair, tripping over his own pants as he tried to yank them up. His softening dick bounced against his stomach with the motion, making the whole scene even more humiliating.
Your throat worked, and finally, you managed to whisper: “I’ll file a report—”
Caleb practically lunged forward, hands up, eyes wild. “Wait! No—don’t—listen to me!” His words tumbled out, desperate, his voice breaking. “You don’t… you don’t have to pay me rent!”
You blinked. “…what?”
He gulped, then—like the absolute freak he was—pressed your thong back against his mouth, moaning at the scent, shameless even with cum drying on his shirt. His eyes fluttered back, his hips twitching helplessly as his softening cock gave a little jump in his half-zipped pants.
“Pay me in these…”
You stared at him, horrified. “You… want my underwear?”
“Fuck yeah.” His answer was immediate, wrecked, voice thick with hunger.
Silence stretched between you. The only sound was his ragged breathing and the faint drip of cum sliding down the wall.
You thought about screaming. You thought about running. You thought about your dwindling bank account.
Finally, you exhaled, long and slow. “…deal.”
And with that, you shut the door.
It got… normal.
Well, normal in the sense that your landlord would casually sniff the air when you walked into a room, tilting his head like a bloodhound and asking, “Showered yet, pipsqueak?”
You always thought he was a weirdo—which he was, let’s not sugarcoat it—but he was your weirdo, and more importantly, he wasn’t charging you rent. And when your bank account was gasping for air every week, that was enough to keep you tolerating his freak habits.
The first month, Caleb showed up for “check-in,” leaned against your doorframe with that goofy grin, and then just… waltzed right in. You didn’t even fight it. He rooted around until he found your laundry basket, plucked out three pairs of unwashed panties like he was harvesting apples, and left humming to himself.
You sighed, plopped back at your desk, and smashed your keyboard to get another smut scene out. As long as you saved money, having a pervert gooning to your underwear wasn’t the biggest deal in the world. Or maybe it was. You didn’t think too hard about it.
The second month, though…
Caleb showed up again, hair messy, violet eyes wide and twitchy, practically bouncing on his heels. “Pipsqueak, c’mon, I need it fresh outta the source this time. Please. Please.”
You stared at him, deadpan, and then sighed through your nose. Slowly, you hooked your thumbs under your shorts, peeled off the panties you’d been wearing all day, and slapped them into his waiting hand.
He made a sound. A wrecked, desperate, feral sound that you swore belonged in some nature documentary. And then, like a complete horny freak, he stayed in your doorway, panting, jerking himself through his sweats as he buried his nose in the damp fabric.
“F-fuck—fuck, pipsqueak—ohhh god, smells so fucking good—”
You dragged a hand down your face and went back to your desk, deciding to pretend none of that was happening in your peripheral vision.
By the third month, you didn’t even blink when he knocked.
Caleb sauntered in for his “check-in,” twirling a lacy pair of your panties around his finger like a keychain. His grin was pure menace, thick brows raised, violet eyes glinting like he’d just robbed a bank.
“Hey, pipsqueak,” he sing-songed, waving the lace at you before pressing it to his face. He inhaled deep and moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Mmmm—bet you’re not showering to let the scent linger even more, huh? you've anything else for me?” He wiggled his eyebrows like he was proud of the detective work.
The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.
You were drowning in commissions, barely sleeping, barely eating. Showering felt like a luxury. Shaving? Forget it. You were running on caffeine and deadlines.
So instead of arguing, you reached under your oversized shirt, unhooked your bra, and handed it over.
Caleb’s reaction was instant. He whimpered. Loud. Like a kicked puppy who’d just been given a steak dinner. His knees almost buckled as he pressed the bra to his face, rubbing it over his nose and mouth, his whole body shivering like he was seconds from busting in his pants.
You blinked at him, expression flat. “…you’re unbelievable.”
And Caleb, muffled against your bra, moaned, “Unbelievably lucky.”
You smashed your keyboard once again.
Caleb had been practically vibrating ever since he could see your thigh hairs peaking out from those shorts. His eyes were sharp, ridiculously so, noticing every single detail. His clipboard was still abandoned by the door, rent forms forgotten, his goofy grin melted into something desperate—hungry.
“God, pipsqueak…” he rasped, pupils blown wide like he was drunk on you, his hand hovering an inch away from your thighs, twitching like it took every ounce of willpower not to latch on. “You really… fuck, you really don’t shave anymore, huh?”
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re not seriously—Caleb—”
“Dark little curls peekin’ out—mmhh—fuck, I knew it,” he cut you off, his own voice hitching like he’d already palmed himself half-hard just from the thought. He crouched lower, shamelessly eyeing the faint hair on your thighs. “God, bet this pussy’s a goddamn jungle… been thinkin’ about it all week. Nasty, musky—fuck, I wanna bury myself in there so bad.”
The heat rushing up your neck was embarrassing, your own body betraying you. Your oversized shirt felt suffocating, sticking to your skin, and the way his gaze locked onto the damp spot forming on your shorts made you press your thighs tighter together.
“Don’t say shit like that,” you muttered, but it came out weaker than you intended.
Caleb moaned like you’d just sucked him off, head tipping back, hand squeezing the bulge in his pants. “Nnnhhh, pipsqueak… you’re hairy and smelly and I swear to god that’s all I want. Your pussy probably tastes like heaven after days of sittin’ hot in these panties.”
“Two months rent,” you snapped, face hot, ignoring the way your cunt clenched at his words.
His eyes lit up. “Deal—fuck yeah, deal.”
The oversized shirt rode up when he tugged at your shorts, clumsy but frantic, his big hands swallowing the fabric until he yanked it past your knees. And there it was—your puffy folds straining against damp cotton, dark curls spilling out the sides, the faint tang of your arousal hitting his nose.
Caleb whimpered—whimpered—like he’d just been blessed by god himself. “So pretty…” he moaned, fingers trembling as he hooked his thumb under the waistband and peeled the panties off you, his mouth falling open at the sight.
You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your stomach flipped. “What, you never seen a hairy pussy before?”
His jaw went slack, eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon. “Not like this… oh fuck… not yours.” His cock twitched violently in his jeans, precum already wetting the front.
Then he just folded, literally shoved his face forward and pressed his nose against your mound like a starved man. A strangled groan tore out of him. “F-fuck… musky, sticky, hairy—nnnhhh, god, pipsqueak, this is it, this is it—smells so fucking good.” He humped your thigh like a dog, rutting desperately while inhaling lungfuls of your scent, drool dampening the curls above your slit.
You nearly laughed at the absurdity if it didn’t make your head spin. “You’re disgusting,” you muttered, but your legs parted on their own, your body betraying you.
Caleb was too gone to care. He mouthed at the curls, sloppily making out with your pussy lips, leaving trails of spit that matted your hair further. “Mmmhh—fucking love it—your hairy pussy, fuck, jungle time baby!” he moaned, voice muffled as he shoved his tongue between your folds.
Your eyes rolled back at the first hot swipe of his tongue, and you had to grab his stupid fluffy hair just to ground yourself. “F-fuck—Caleb…”
He whimpered against you, humping your leg harder, his voice vibrating through your cunt. “Mmmhh so good, so fucking good… hairy, smelly, fuckin’ perfect… pipsqueak tastes like heaven. Don’t ever shave, don’t ever shower, just—fuck—let me drown here forever.”
His nose buried against your clit, his tongue lapping messy and desperate, sloppy smacks echoing as he kissed and sucked every bit of you he could get. He was noisy, shameless, every groan dripping with depravity.
“Goddammit…” you gasped, toes curling, heat coiling in your belly. Against all logic, all dignity—you were enjoying this. Enjoying how your drop-dead gorgeous landlord was losing his mind over something so stupid. Enjoying how freaky he was, how it turned you on more than anyone else ever had.
Caleb pulled back for just a second, his chin glistening, panting like a bitch in heat. His eyes rolled back as he moaned again, grinding his clothed cock against your leg. “Y-you smell so fucking strong… f-fuck, I’m addicted, I’m—lemme taste more, please please please pretty please—”
You tilted your head, playing at nonchalance despite how wet you were dripping down the couch. “A year’s rent.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Deal—fuck—DEAL!” he cried, before burying his face back in your hairy cunt like a man possessed. His tongue shoved deep inside you, his nose grinding your clit, his muffled moans vibrating until you were gasping, your thighs clamping around his head.
And Caleb? He was in heaven—whimpering, rutting, face smeared in spit and arousal, a depraved freak making out with your hairy pussy like it was oxygen.
Caleb was already whining into your cunt, his tongue sloppy and desperate, when his hips started moving on their own. The grind of his cock against your thigh was shameless, rough, precum soaking through his jeans as he moaned filth into your folds.
“Mmmhh fuck—smell so good—taste even better—” his words muffled against you, his jaw working as if he could suck your scent out and swallow it whole. His big hands slid under your ass, squeezing, digging in, and suddenly he lifted you halfway off the couch like you weighed nothing.
“C-Caleb—what the fuck—” you gasped, legs dangling, cunt spread wide against his face.
He just groaned, shaking his head like a starving man at a feast, his nose grinding your clit while his tongue lapped up everything dripping from you. His hips rutted harder, humping your thigh like an animal, his cock throbbing as wet spots spread across his pants.
If it were any other guy, you’d be disgusted. Mortified. But Caleb—your stupid, gorgeous, pervy landlord—he made it feel filthy and addictive. He made you want it.
Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair as your thighs clamped around his ears. His moans got louder, wetter, his whole body trembling with the effort of eating you out while fucking into your leg.
“F-fuck—Caleb I’m—” Your words cut off as your body convulsed, orgasm ripping through you, spasming hard against his face. His tongue never stopped, lapping up every spurt, groaning so loud the vibrations nearly made you scream.
And Caleb? He came with you, rutting hard into your leg until his hips jerked violently, cum flooding his pants, the wet squelch audible as he whined into your pussy. His back arched, his cock spurting through denim, and he nearly sobbed from how good it felt.
When you finally collapsed back onto the couch, panting, legs twitching, he pulled his mouth away with a wet smack. His face was glistening, hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes glazed and blissed out.
He looked up at you with a stupid, goofy grin, panting like a happy dog that just got a treat. “That was… heaven!”
You stared at him, speechless, your brain fried.
And from that day forward, you didn’t have to pay Caleb rent. In fact—you never paid him at all.
Now, sitting in his living room years later, you watched him chatting with a nervous guy who came to see one of his apartments. Caleb leaned back, laughing, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestured with his hand.
“Yeah, sorry man—no can do,” Caleb chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m married. A married man. The marriest of all.”
You glanced at your own ring, the sparkle even brighter in the sunlight, and rolled your eyes. Married to your perv of a landlord. The absolute freak who ruined you for anyone else.
And god help you—you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
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.
cw: psuedocest, use of gege & meimei, visual link at the end
“c-cay—lleebb..!!” you whined as his bulbous tip was hitting your sweet spot, the burning stretch of your gege’s cock was molding your sweet pussy to the size of his big mean dick >:((
he had caught you rubbing your sweet swollen clit while laying in your frilly bedsheets, legs spread open as your pink panties we’re discarded on the floor next to your bed. he couldn’t help himself, his meimei needed help after all. ever since the day gran adopted the two of you and the days in the lab he swore to be always there for you. help you with anything. and everything.
he couldn’t walk away from your flushed cheeks and watery eyes as you snapped your legs shut ready to scream at him. he had to teach you how to feel good! and only with him. you must have been so embarassed to have been caught doing such a naughty thing. but don’t worry he loves you no matter what. you wished he would forget all about it, already bracing for impact knowing he’s going to tease you.
but now he was helping you.
“such a good girl.. yeah? squeezin me so f’ckin tight..” he was holding you up using his big strong hands wrapped around the back of your knees spreading you open as your back was pressed against his chest while his hips moved upwards into you.
he didn’t want to make too much noise, gran was sleeping downstairs after all. so his steadied his hips carefully to make sure it doesn’t slap against your pretty plump asscheeks. but you on the other hand couldn’t stop whimpering and whining.
“g-ge… mmph..! a-ah..!” continuous whines slipped your throat, the foreign stretch of something so big inside you couldn’t keep you quiet. if only you could see how his face was contorted in concentration behind you, it felt just as good as he imagined it to be. so tight.. so sweet and perfect. everything about you was perfect to him.
