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scaraswifeey · 11 hours ago

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Now I will say I love scara but SYLUS????? mmmmmnnmnmnnmnmnn good lord. What's with me and my taste in men

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I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down.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

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creepyclothdoll · 5 months ago

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The Devil's Wheel

The Devil’s Wheel

“If you say yes,” said the Devil, “a single man, somewhere in the world, will be killed on the spot. But three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, missus.”

“What’s the catch?” You squint at him suspiciously over the red-and-black striped carnival booth. You’re smarter than he thinks you are– a devil deal always has a catch, and you’re determined to catch him before he catches you.

“Well, the catch is that you’ll know you did it. And I’ll know, too. And the big man upstairs’ll know, I ‘spose. But what’s the chariot of salvation without a little sin to grease the wheels? You can repent from your mansion balcony, looking out at your waterfront views, sipping a bellini in your eighties. But hey, it’s up to you– take my deal or leave it.”

The Devil lights a cigar without a match, taking an inhale, and blowing out a cloud of deep, sweet-smelling tobacco laced faintly with something that reminds you of rotten eggs. If he does have horns, they’re hidden under his lemon yellow carnival barker hat. He wears a clean pinstripe suit and a red bowtie. No cloven hooves, no big pointy fork, but you know he’s the Devil without having to be told. Though he did introduce himself.

He’s been perfectly polite.

You know you need the money. He knows it too, or he wouldn’t have brought you here, to this strange dark room, whisking you away from your new house in the suburbs as fast as a wish. Now you’re in some sort of warehouse, where all the windows seem to be blacked out– or, maybe, they simply look out into pitch darkness, though it is the middle of the day. A single white spotlight shines down on the two of you.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” you say. “I bet the man is someone I know, right? My husband?”

“Could be,” the Devil says with a pointed grin. “That’s for the wheel to decide.”

He steps back and raises his black-gloved hand as the tarp flies off of the large veiled object behind him. The light of the carnival wheel nearly blinds you. Blinking lights line the sides. Jingling music blares over speakers you can’t see. The flickering sign above it reads:

THE DEVIL’S WHEEL

“Step right up and claim your fortune,” the Devil barks. “Spin the wheel and pay the price! Or leave now, and a man keeps his life.”

You examine the wheel.

The gambling addict

The doting boyfriend

The escaped convict

The dog dad

The secretive sadist

“These are all the possible men I can kill?” You ask, thumbing the side of the wheel. It rolls smoothly in your hand. Then you quickly stop, realizing that this might constitute a spin under the Devil’s rules. He flashes a smile at you, watching you halt its motion.

“Addicts, convicts, murderers– plenty of terrible options for you to land on, missus!”

“Serial wife murderer?”

“Now who would miss a fellow like that? I can guarantee that the whole world would be better off without him in it, and that’s a fact.”

The hard worker

The compulsive liar

The animal torturer

The widower

The desperate businessman

The failed musician

The beloved son

“My husband is on here too,” you say.

“Your husband Dave, yes. The wheel has to be fair, otherwise there’s simply no stakes.”

“I know what’s gonna happen,” you say, crossing your arms. “This wheel is rigged. I’m gonna spin it around, and it’ll go through all the killers and stuff, and then it’s gonna land on my husband no matter what.”

“Why, I would never disgrace the wheel that way,” the Devil says, wounded. “I swear on my own mother’s grave– may she never escape it. In fact, take one free spin, just to test it out! This one’s on me, no death, no dollars.”

You cautiously reach up to the top of the wheel and feel its heaviness in your hand. The weight of hundreds of lives. But also, millions of dollars. You pull the wheel down and let it go.

Clackity-clackity-clackity-clackity

Round and round it goes.

The college graduate

The hockey fan

The Eagle Scout

The cold older brother

The charming younger brother

The two-faced middle child

The perfectionist

The slob

Your husband Dave

Clackity-clackity-clackity.

Finally, the wheel lands on a name. A title, really.

The photographer

“Hmm, tough, missus, but that’s the way of the wheel. But hey, look! Your husband is allllll the way over here,” he points with his cane to the very bottom of the wheel, all the way on the other side from where the arrow landed. “As you can see, it’s not rigged. The wheel truly is random.”

“So… there really isn’t another catch?” You ask.

“Isn’t it enough for you to end a man’s life? You need a steeper price? If you’re really such a glutton for punishment, I’ll gladly re-negotiate the terms.”

“No, no… wait.” You examine the wheel, glancing between it and the Devil.

You really could use that three million dollars. Newly married, new house, you and your husband’s combined debt– those student loans really follow you around. He’s quite a bit older than you, and even he hasn’t paid them off yet, to the point where the whole time you were dating you watched him stress out about money. You had to have a small, budget wedding, and a small, budget honeymoon. Three million dollars could be big for the two of you. You could re-do your honeymoon and go somewhere nice, like Hawaii, instead of just taking two weeks in Atlantic City. You deserve it.

Even so, do you really want to kill an innocent photographer? Or an innocent seasonal allergy sufferer? Or an innocent blogger? Just because you don’t know or love these people doesn’t mean that someone doesn’t.

The cancer survivor

The bereaved

The applicant

Some of these were so vague. They could be anyone, honestly. Your neighbors, your father, your friends…

The newlywed

The ex-gifted kid

The uncle

The Badgers fan

“My husband is a Badgers fan,” you say.

“How lovely,” the Devil says.

Then it hits you.

Of course.

The weightlifter.

The careful driver.

The manager.

The claustrophobe.

Your husband Dave lifts weights at the gym twice a month. You wouldn’t call him a pro, but he does it. He also drives like he’s got a bowl of hot soup in his lap all the time, because he’s afraid of being pulled over. He just got promoted to management at his company, and he takes the stairs to his seventh-story office because he hates how small and cramped the elevator is.

“I get your game,” you announce. “You thought you could get me, but I figured you out, jackass!” “Oh really? What is my game, pray tell?” The Devil responds, leaning against his cane.

“All these different titles– they’re all just different ways to describe the same guy. My husband isn’t one notch on the wheel, he’s every notch. No matter what I land on, Dave dies. I’m wise to your tricks!”

The Devil cackles.

“You’re a clever one, that’s for sure. I thought you’d never figure it out.”

“Thanks but no thanks, man,” you say with a triumphant smirk. “I’m no rube. No deal. Take me back home.”

“As you wish, missus,” the Devil says. He snaps his fingers, and you’re gone, back to your brand-new house with your new husband. “Don’t say I never tried to help anyone.”

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zevarcollan · 1 year ago

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#writing #writing memes #writers on tumblr #writers #storytelling

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lousyglitch · 10 months ago

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The wildest thing about Ben 10 is that it took until 2005 for someone to have the idea "what if a kid could turn into a bunch of aliens" like this isn't obviously the coolest and most marketable premise for anything ever. Each design is a new toy. A new powerset. Come on.

But to prove that it wasn't a fluke, they continued to have the best ideas for every aspect of it. How does he transform? A cool watch you can also sell as a toy. That watch's name? Omnitrix. Say it. It's so satisfying. How many aliens? Ten. Nice round number. The kid's name? Ben. The show's name? Ben Ten. His full name is Benjamin Tennyson, a normal, plausible name, but he also turns into 10 aliens.

Bigger brands dream about this synergy. Better writers would kill for this coherence. So holistic. So intuitive. The identity alone!!! The retro alien sound motif? Chilling. The green? Any other color would be wrong. The kirby krackle pattern? It seems so obvious in retrospect. The roadtrip format? Genius. Lesser writers would've done the spider-man high school thing. His arch nemesis being Cthulhu darth vader? Inspired, iconic, intimidating!

The execution has its highs and lows, but the idea??? Game changing. So self-evident that it seems inevitable. If Ben 10 didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him.

#Ben 10 #storytelling #benjamin tennyson #as an aspiring writer every day I wake up and curse the man of action team 10 times before starting my day #writing

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aleksatia · 27 days ago

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You had an argument, and in the heat of the moment, you took on a secret mission—disappearing without a trace or warning for six days. He won’t let that slide, will he?

(⚠️ Warning: Slightly angsty and dramatic) 🔥 UPD: Guys, I hear you loud and clear about Xavier, and I'm already working on his full story. Let me know if you want more about the others (or any specific one).

🖐️💥😈 Sylus

You don’t even make it home.

One second—you’re stepping toward your door. The next—you're grabbed.

A sharp yelp leaves your lips, but it’s already too late.

One hand clamps down on your shoulder, the other hooks around your legs, and suddenly—you're airborne.

"Cargo secured."

A second voice. Muffled. Hollow.

You twist wildly.

Two figures in black masks, sharp beaked visors, curved horns on their hoods.

Luke and Kieran.

You thrash. “Put me down—”

"No can do, Miss," Kieran hums, flipping you upside down just slightly.

"Our Boss gave very strict orders," Luke murmurs.

Your stomach sinks. The car door swings open—

And you’re shoved inside.

Kieran and Luke plop down beside you, silent as shadows.

Then—

Luke sighs. Long and exaggerated.

"Such a shame," he muses. "She was so pretty."

Kieran hums. "So full of life."

Your eyes narrow. “What.”

They tilt their heads in unison. Luke’s fingers drum against the seat.

"He was so worried."

Kieran exhales. "On the first day, he simply waited."

Luke nods. "Second day, he sent people out. Checked hospitals. Crime scenes."

Kieran’s head tilts. "By day three… well, we all knew something had to bleed."

Your stomach drops.

Luke stretches, relaxed. "Four syndicates fell in one night. Just in case one of them had you."

Kieran sighs. "On the fourth day, he realized that wasn’t enough."

Luke hums. "So he started getting creative."

Your breath hitches. "Creative?"

Kieran taps his chin. "That warehouse in N109 Zone? The one that burned to the ground?"

Luke leans closer. "Day five. Still no sign of you. He collapsed an entire district."

Kieran shrugs. "Nothing personal. Just a message."

Luke tilts his head. "And then day six came."

A beat of silence.

Kieran chuckles. "You know, Miss… If you hadn’t shown up today, N109 Zone would’ve been repainted in blood by sundown."

Luke sighs dreamily. "It still might be."

Your blood turns to ice.

And then—Luke’s head tilts toward you.

"Now…?"

Kieran completes it, a beat later.

"Now he has you."

The car slows. Your chest tightens. And then—you realize where you are.

N109 Zone. His estate.

The car door swings open—

And you’re hauled out like luggage.

"Handle with care," Luke hums.

“I am handling with care," Kieran murmurs.

They carry you inside. Set you down with eerie gentleness. Smooth out your jacket. Brush imaginary dust off your shoulders.

Then—they step back. Bow, deep and slow.

“Welcome home, Miss.”

And then—they’re gone.

You whirl after them. “HEY—”

A quiet sound.

Fabric rustling. A slow, deliberate exhale.

You freeze.

And then—you turn.

Sylus is standing across the room. Calm. Collected. Expression unreadable.

But his eyes. They burn.

You swallow.

“What the fuck was that?” you snap, motioning toward the door.

Silence.

He just… watches you.

Then—slowly, smoothly—

He shrugs off his jacket. Lets it fall onto the chair. His fingers move to his cuffs. Undoing them.

One. Then the other.

Rolling his sleeves up, inch by inch.

Your stomach twists.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands move to his belt. He unbuckles it. Pulls it free.

And you—

You fucking run.

You BOLT.

Straight toward the door. It’s locked.

You curse.

Behind you—he clicks his tongue.

“Oh, Kitten,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused.

You spin, darting behind the desk. He follows. Casually. Slowly.

“You disappear for six days,” he murmurs, voice smooth, mocking, deadly.

You sidestep. He matches you.

“You ignore my calls.”

You swerve left. He steps right.

“I tear this city apart looking for you.”

You dodge back. He adjusts effortlessly.

“And now,” he exhales, tilting his head, smirking lazily, “you’re running.”

You hurl a stapler at him. He catches it. Drops it. Sighs.

Then—his patience snaps.

A sharp pulse of red energy explodes outward. The desk flips. The chairs crash against the wall.

And suddenly—

You are out of places to run. Before you can move—

He has you.

A sharp yelp rips from your throat as he grabs you, spins, and drops into his chair—

Bringing you down over his lap.

Your breath catches. “Sylus—”

"Ah, ah, ah.”

His palm glides down your back. Teasing. Amused. Smug.

"You made a very poor choice, Kitten."

Your heart pounds. His fingers hook into your waistband. And in one sharp motion—

He pulls your pants down.

Your entire body jolts. “Wait—”

The first smack lands. Sharp. Stinging.

You jerk violently.

Then—the second.

Then—the third.

“Sylus—you absolute bastard!”

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest.

“Six days, Sweetie.”

Another smack.

“You think you get away with that?”

You snarl, thrashing. “You—I’ll kill you!”

"Oh?" His hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned.

Then—lower now, smooth as silk, dripping with mockery—

“You sure you can handle that right now?”

You growl.

And then—

You bite him. Hard. Right on the thigh.

His breath hitches. Then—a slow, dangerous laugh.

He grabs you. Turns you over, setting you between his legs, hands gripping your chin—forcing you to look at him.

And then—

You see it. The rage is gone.

And in its place—

Something raw. Something wrecked. Like he’s aged years in just six days.

His voice—when it comes—is low. Hoarse. Unsteady.

“…I thought Ever carved you up for spare parts.”

Your stomach drops.

"You really think," his fingers twitch against your skin, "I was just waiting?"

His eyes flick over your face, scanning, memorizing. And then—softer now, almost broken—

"If you hadn’t come back tomorrow, I would’ve wiped them off the face of the earth."

Your eyes sting. Your hands reach for him, trembling.

You slide forward, onto his lap.

His breath stutters.

And then—you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Unyielding.

He shudders.

Then—his hands clench around your waist, crushing you to him. When he pulls back—forehead pressed against yours, breath uneven—

“…Next time you disappear,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, voice shaking with something terrifyingly real, “I’m not looking for you.”

Your heart cracks. You shake your head. You cup his face. Hold him there.

“…You won’t have to.”

Silence.

Then—

His grip tightens. And just like that—

He is never letting you go again.

❄️🩸💔 Zayne

You already know where he is.

Zayne isn’t home. Of course, he isn’t.

So you do the only thing that makes sense—you head straight for Akso Hospital.

By the time you step through the pristine glass doors, you’re already talking.

“I know how this looks, but I can explain—”

And then—you see him.

Standing near the nurses’ station, uniform crisp, posture rigid, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat like he’s carved from ice.

For a second—just a second—his breath catches.

But then—

A switch flips. His entire presence shifts.

Cold. Professional. Untouchable.

His eyes meet yours. And he says nothing.

No relief. No anger. Nothing.

Just pure, hollow emptiness.

You swallow hard. Force yourself to continue.

“Zayne—”

“You need medical attention.”

His voice is calm. Impersonal. A doctor speaking to a patient. Not the man you know.

Your stomach twists.

He doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t ask why you disappeared. Instead—he starts listing symptoms.

“You’re pale. Have you lost blood?”

You inhale sharply. “Zay—”

“Concussion?”

“No—”

“Fever? Infection?”

His eyes flick to your scraped knuckles, the dried blood on your sleeve.

And you realize—

He’s not angry. He’s protecting himself. He’s shutting down. Like he already convinced himself you weren’t coming back. Like he already mourned you.

And something inside you breaks.

Your legs wobble.

You sway—

And then—

You collapse.

The reaction is instantaneous.

A sharp inhale. A rush of movement. A sudden, firm grip catching you before you hit the ground.

Zayne’s arms lock around you. One around your back, one under your legs, holding you effortlessly. His breathing is uneven. His fingers tremble against your skin.

“Hey—!” His voice is no longer detached. It’s urgent. Terrified.

He tilts your face up, eyes scanning for injuries, pupils blown wide with panic.

"You—" His breath shudders. “Shit, you're—”

But you don’t answer. Because you keep your eyes closed. Because you know exactly what you’re doing.

And for a moment, it works. For a moment, he’s yours again. For a moment, his walls are completely, irreparably shattered.

Then—

His steps slow. His breathing evens.

And suddenly—

He stops. And you feel it. That one single, damning second of realization.

Your eyes are closed, but you can hear it. The sharp, cold click in his mind as he figures it out.

His arms loosen. Too loose. Too fast.

And suddenly—you're falling.

You gasp sharply, hands instinctively grabbing at him—

But he catches you at the last second, lowering you onto the cold, sterile floor of his office with just enough control to keep you from truly getting hurt.

But barely.

His jaw is tight. His nostrils flare. His hands press into his thighs like he’s physically holding himself back from losing control.

Then—flat, quiet, lethal—

“You lied.”

Your stomach drops. You open your mouth—and then you feel it.

A sharp, aching throb in your knee. It hits all at once—the pain, the exhaustion, the weight of everything that happened.

Your throat tightens.

And then—before you can stop it—

Tears prick at your eyes.

Your voice comes out small, weak, broken.

“Zayne… my leg hurts.”

Everything stops. The air in the room shifts.

And suddenly—

The rage is gone. His walls crumble.

His gaze snaps to your knee—swollen, bruised, torn fabric revealing skin already darkening with a deep, painful contusion.

And just like that—he’s on his knees. The doctor in him takes over.

His hands tremble as they press to your leg, fingertips ghosting over the bruised flesh like it physically pains him to touch.

He leans down. And presses a soft, lingering kiss to the bruised skin.

Your breath catches.

His forehead presses gently against your knee. And then—a whisper, barely audible, like he’s afraid of his own voice.

“…I lost you.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

He inhales sharply, his fingers tightening against your leg, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

You slide off the chair. Sink onto the cold, sterile floor. Your hands come up, cup his face.

His breath stutters.

You press your forehead to his.

Hot. Unwavering. Eternal.

“Only death could take me from you.”

His eyes squeeze shut. And when they open again—

There’s nothing left but raw, agonizing devotion.

Then—

His hands reach for you. And this time, he doesn’t let go.

🪑🍎🎖️ Caleb

The door clicks shut behind you.

Something feels wrong. The air is too still. Too perfectly controlled.

And then—you see it.

The chair.

Placed dead center in the room.

The apartment is spotless. Too spotless. Like someone scrubbed it raw, wiped away every trace of warmth, every sign of life.

Your stomach tightens. And then—a voice.

Cold. Measured. Absolute.

"Sit down."

You turn sharply—

And there he is.

Colonel Caleb. Not your Caleb.

Not the man who kisses your forehead every morning. Not the man who makes you breakfast even when he’s running on two hours of sleep.

No.

This is the soldier. The commander. The man who could level entire cities with a single order.

And you are his captive.

Your jaw tightens. “Caleb, what the hell—”

"Sit. Down."

Your spine stiffens. “No.”

A flick of his fingers. The chair scrapes forward, slamming into the back of your knees.

You stumble, cursing—

But before you can react—a force clamps around you. G-forces shift. Gravity bends. The chair drags you back to the center of the room.

Then—weight locks around your limbs. You can’t stand. Can’t move. Your pulse spikes.

His face is unreadable. His eyes—stormy, dark, endless.

Like he hasn’t slept in six days.

A tablet activates in his hand.

Several floating screens appear around you, flickering with surveillance footage.

And then—his interrogation begins.

His voice is calm. Clinical. Devoid of warmth.

"In the hours before your disappearance, this man entered your building. Do you know him?"

You blink. “What—?”

He gestures at the screen. A blurry security cam shot.

You squint. “That’s—a fucking courier.”

"Interesting."

A swipe of his fingers. Another screen appears.

"You placed an order at a bookstore six days ago. Three books were delivered. For what purpose?"

You stare. “...For reading?”

His brows twitch.

"Curious. You spoke to the courier for over five minutes. What was discussed?"

Your hands clench into fists. “How the hell would I know?”

A beat of silence.

Then—softer now, dangerous in its evenness—

"You really expect me to believe you don’t remember?"

Your blood boils. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

He swipes again. More footage. More records. More evidence that means nothing.

And you snap.

"You are losing your fucking mind."

His jaw tightens.

And then—

The gravity releases.

You lurch forward, finally able to move—

But before you can get up—

he’s already there.

A single step. One hand gripping the back of your chair, tilting it back—

His face is inches from yours. His gaze burns.

"Are you fucking someone else?"

Your breath catches. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp. Bitter. Furious.

You gesture at yourself—the dirt, the bruises, the blood still crusted on your sleeve.

“Look at me, Caleb.”

He doesn’t move.

“Does this look like a woman having an affair?”

His fingers twitch against the chair. His voice drops to a whisper.

"I’m on the edge of it."

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t doubt that, you psychopath.” You shove against his arm, but he doesn’t budge. “Now let me up so I can strangle you.”

His fingers loosen.

And then—

"Six days."

Your breath hitches. His hand moves. Curls around your jaw, firm but careful.

"Six days. Eight thousand six hundred forty minutes."

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone.

"I couldn't breathe without pain."

Your throat tightens. Your rage collapses into something else entirely.

“Caleb—”

"I searched. I traced every lead. I turned this country inside out."

His voice wavers.

And then—softer, rawer, almost desperate—

"If you hadn’t come back, I would have burned everything to the ground."

Your chest aches.

“…I had a mission. It was classified.”

His jaw twitches.

"Then tell me—" His voice turns sharp, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you weren’t running."

You exhale shakily.

“You’re so obsessed with losing me, Caleb—maybe that’s why you always do.”

Silence.

Something in his face breaks. He straightens. Turns away.

Leaves.

The door slams.

And you collapse to your knees. Your hands come up—cover your face—

And finally, finally, the tears fall.

But then—

A soft creak. A shift in the air. Warmth.

Arms wrapping around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace.

You freeze.

His voice is hoarse, quiet, trembling with something raw.

"You’re the only one who can destroy me without lifting a hand."

Your breath shudders. His grip tightens.

"One word from you," he murmurs, "and I’m gone."

You shake your head.

“Caleb…”

His forehead presses against your shoulder.

"I tried. Every day. Every second. I tried not to hold on too tight." He exhales shakily. "But I can’t."

Your heart clenches.

“Caleb, I always come back.”

He flinches.

You pull back just enough to cup his face. His eyes are stormy, desperate, flickering with pain.

"You have to trust me."

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Then—barely above a whisper—

"I can't lose you."

Your fingers tighten against his jaw.

"You won’t."

Silence.

Then—

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Devouring. Starved.

His hands tangle in your hair, holding you to him like he’ll die if you pull away.

A single tear escapes down his cheek. And you catch it with your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Caleb, I’m so sorry.”

His breath shudders. He shakes his head.

“No.” His voice breaks. "You don’t apologize to me."

Your brows furrow. “Caleb—”

He swallows.

"If you’re better off without me—"

Your hand flies up, slaps over his mouth. He freezes. Tears well in your eyes.

“Don’t. Say. That.” His chest rises sharply. You lean in, press your forehead to his.

“…You are my universe,” you whisper.

His hands shake against your back.

“No matter what we do, no matter what happens—” You press your lips to his, slow, deep, endless. “I will always come back to you.”

His breath shudders against your lips.

And then—his voice drops, quiet but unshakable.

"You will never disappear on me again without warning. Not now. Not ever."

🗡✨🌥 Xavier

The door clicks shut behind you.

You barely take a step inside before a voice cuts through the air—

Calm. Measured. Unshakable.

"Ah." A quiet exhale. "Look who finally remembered they have a home."

You freeze.

Xavier is already there.

Sitting in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, a book balanced in his hand—like your sudden reappearance was nothing more than an interesting plot twist.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes the sentence he’s reading first.

Then—calmly, unhurriedly—he turns the page.

And finally—his gaze lifts to yours.

Cold. Slow. Too calculating.

"Six days."

Your stomach tightens. "Xav—"

"Mm. No." He holds up a single finger.

The room falls silent. And somehow, that’s worse.

You watch as he closes the book. Carefully. Precisely. Then—without breaking eye contact—he sets it aside.

And then—a small smile.

Soft. Almost friendly.

Which means you’re in deep, deep trouble.

"You look tired," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Traveling, were you?"

You exhale. "Xavier—"

"Oh, no. Let me guess." His fingers tap idly against the armrest. "You were simply busy."

A pause.

"Too busy, in fact, to answer a single message."

Your jaw tightens. "It wasn’t—"

"Ah," he interrupts softly, as if realizing something.

His eyes flick over your torn sleeve, the faint bruises on your arms. Then, slowly—he smiles.

"Or," he murmurs, "did you lose your phone again?"

Your stomach drops. Because he knows.

You inhale sharply. "Xav—"

He shakes his head.

"No, it’s alright. I understand." He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his knuckles. "I’m sure you had an excellent reason."

A beat of silence. Then—mild amusement, carefully laced with steel:

"Would you like to tell me what it was?"

You hesitate.

Because you were on a mission. A classified one.

Because he wasn’t supposed to know. Because you work together.

And yet—he knew nothing.

You try anyway.

"I had a—"

"A mission?" His brow lifts, a polite flicker of curiosity. "Fascinating."

His tone is smooth, unbothered. And that—that is when you know how angry he really is.

He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of reports on the table.

"Tell me, darling, which mission was it?"

You swallow hard. "I can’t—"

"Mm. Right. Classified."

Another small nod. A slow, deliberate blink.

"As are all major operations within the Association."

His fingers drum lightly against the armrest.

"And yet, strangely—" He tilts his head. "Not a single record of your assignment exists."

You say nothing.

Xavier exhales through his nose—almost disappointed.

"And here I thought," he murmurs, "we were supposed to trust each other."

You flinch.

His gaze softens. Not with kindness. But with something far worse.

Pity.

"You must have had your reasons, of course," he muses.

A small sigh, like he’s humoring a child.

"I imagine you thought it was necessary. Sensible, even."

His fingers lace together.

"Just as I found it necessary to send out a search party on day three."

Your breath catches.

"You what?"

He hums.

"By day four, I expanded my resources. You'd be surprised how quickly information spreads when you know where to look."

Your hands clench.

"Xavier—"

"Day five, I began considering alternative outcomes. Some of them, admittedly, rather unpleasant."

A flicker of something colder in his expression.

"Ever been forced to sit in a room full of people trying to convince you that your partner is dead?"

Your stomach turns.

"Xavier, I wasn’t—"

He clicks his tongue.

"Day six, I received word that you had finally resurfaced."

He leans back. Folds his arms. And then—a soft chuckle, utterly humorless.

"Imagine my relief."

Silence.

You exhale sharply. "Xav, I—"

"Did you know," he interrupts, voice light, conversational, detached, "that people tend to avoid looking a grieving man in the eye?"

Your throat tightens.

"Not that I was grieving, of course." He taps a finger against his chin. "I don’t make a habit of mourning people until I see a body."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you.

"But I imagine it must have been quite the inconvenience, being dead for six days."

Your chest tightens.

"You think I wanted to—"

"Oh, I know," he murmurs. "You didn’t want to disappear."

His voice lowers.

"But you still did."

And for the first time—he is no longer smirking. His blue eyes bore into yours, steady, sharp.

"You made a decision that left me in the dark."

A long, slow breath.

"And I need to know," he says softly, "if you would do it again."

Silence.

You don’t have an answer. You don’t think there is one.

He exhales.

Finally, he leans back. Gazes at you for a moment longer.

Then, calmly—he stands. Smooth. Effortless. Precise. And then—he walks past you.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

"Xavier—"

He doesn’t stop. You push to your feet.

"Xavier, you’re coming back, right?"

Finally—he pauses. Turns his head, just slightly.

And then—

"Ask me again in six days."

The door closes behind him. And this time—you’re the one left behind.

🧜🏻‍♂️🧑🏻‍🎨🌊 Rafayel

You are exhausted.

Every part of you aches. Your body demands sleep, warmth, peace.

Instead—

You come home to chaos.

Loud music. Laughter. The scent of wine, perfume, candle wax, and indulgence.

And then—the sight of him.

Rafayel.

Lounging near the pool, half-leaning against an ornate chair, a glass of red wine dangling lazily between his fingers.

His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to hint at toned muscle beneath, his sleeves rolled up, his perfectly tousled hair falling over his forehead in an effortlessly careless way.

And surrounding him—beautiful women.

Drinking, laughing, leaning toward him like he’s some fallen deity of temptation and excess.

Your stomach twists. A tight, burning rage coils in your chest.

And then—

He sees you. His eyes widen—just slightly. And then—a slow, almost lazy smirk.

"Ah." He lifts his glass dramatically, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look who's finally returned!"

You tense.

He rises to his feet, arms spread as if welcoming royalty.

"My muse. My inspiration."

His voice carries over the music, over the murmurs of people starting to notice the tension.

"The very heart of my art!"

A sweeping gesture.

And then—

He motions toward the canvas-lined walls.

Your breath catches. Because they’re all of you. Dozens of paintings.

But—ruined.

Slashes through the canvas.

Paint smeared and splattered over your likeness like an artist in rage, in agony, in heartbreak.

The fury in you erupts. Your voice cuts through the music.

"What the actual fuck is this?!"

He gasps, mock scandalized.

"Oh, you don’t like them? What a tragedy!"

He downs the rest of his wine in one smooth gulp, tossing the glass aside with a careless flick of his wrist.

Then—he grins.

Crooked. Reckless. Infuriating.

"And here I was, drowning in sorrow, channeling my unbearable suffering into art."

A sigh.

"But alas." He shrugs dramatically. "Seems the muse herself has returned."

You march toward him. He tilts his head.

"Careful, cutie. You seem upset."

"You’re a fucking disaster."

He laughs.

"You’re six days late to that realization."

You grab his wrist, yanking him toward the exit.

“We’re talking. Now.”

His body moves, but his feet don’t follow. Instead—he pulls against your grip.

His smile widens.

"Oh?" His voice drips with amusement. "Dragging me away already? Jealous, cutie?"

Your jaw clenches.

"This is pathetic."

Another laugh, lighter this time.

"Ah, but it was all I had!" He places a hand over his heart. Theatrical. Overdramatic. Perfectly insufferable.

You snap.

And shove him into the pool.

He barely has time to react—water crashes around him, drenching his white shirt, dragging him under.

And for a brief, glorious second—silence.

Until—

His hand grabs your wrist. You yelp, but it’s too late.

He pulls you down with him.

Cold water engulfs you, shocking your senses.

When you resurface, gasping, furious, he’s already brushing his hair back, blinking at you through wet lashes.

And suddenly—

The playfulness is gone. The crowd has vanished. Thomas made sure of it.

And now—it’s just you and him.

And for the first time tonight—he’s quiet. His voice is lower, slower.

"You storm into my house. Onto my estate. Into my party. And then..."

He gestures lazily toward the water.

"You throw me in my own fucking pool?"

You pant, teeth gritted. “Your—house? Great! I’ll leave you in your fucking house—”

You turn to climb out—

And he grabs you again. A firm grip. Unshaking.

His eyes—darker now. Sharper. Focused.

"Make another move, cutie." His voice is dangerously low.

"And we’ll have problems."

You glare. "Let. Go."

He doesn’t. Instead—he pulls you closer.

“You’re not walking away from this.”

Your pulse spikes.

"Rafayel—"

"Do it," he whispers. "Say it to my face."

Your breath catches.

"You want to leave?" His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, forcing you to feel the heat radiating from his soaked body.

"Then say it."

Your hands shake. You flick water into his face, desperate to break the tension.

He doesn’t even blink. Instead—his eyes drop.

To your clothes.

Soaked. Clinging. Revealing everything.

His pupils darken. And then—his jaw tightens.

"You left me for six days," he murmurs.

Your breath stutters.

"I left for work, not you, you hysterical maniac."

He tilts his head.

"That’s the same thing. And your phone?"

"A Wanderer shattered it!"

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Ah, yes. And I suppose you were also too busy fighting for your life to send me one. Single. Fucking. Message?"

You exhale sharply. "Raf, you’re insufferable. A party? Seriously?"

"How else am I supposed to handle soul-crushing heartbreak?"

His voice drops.

"Tell me, cutie." His fingers skim your waist, trailing fire in their wake. "How else was I supposed to drown my suffering?"

He leans in, breath hot against your lips.

And then—

He kisses you. Desperate. Possessive.

Your legs wrap around his waist, instinct taking over.

His grip tightens.

"You threw me in a pool," he whispers against your lips.

"You deserved it."

His fingers dig into your hips.

"You waltz in after six days and just—throw me?"

"Maybe I should throw you again."

He grins against your skin.

"I should make you pay for that."

"Raf—"

"Mm. Shh."

His hands travel lower, pressing you harder against him.

Your breathing turns shallow.

"Your paintings," you murmur.

"I’ll paint more."

"You hated me for six days."

"Endlessly." He kisses your throat, voice dropping further.

"You didn’t want to see me again?"

He grins against your collarbone.

"Try leaving me again, cutie."

His grip tightens, unshakable.

His breath is hot against your ear.

"And I promise—"

His hips press forward, slow and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt of heat through you.

"You won’t be able to walk for a week."

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