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syluxs · 4 months ago

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

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down.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

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#love and deepspace #holy fuck #fave #MY HEART #I WANNA CRY #LITERALLY SCREAMING #WANNA THROW UP #rain.recs #AAahhhhh

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syluxs · 4 months ago

Text

playing with fire

pairing: sylus/reader

words: 3948

summary: at a party full of shady business deals, you’re stuck being your father’s stand-in, just trying to get through it and minding your own business... then there’s sylus--the tall, confident, handsome guy you always look for (he’s the only reason you even tolerate these events). you’ve had a crush on him for ages, and despite your best efforts to try to keep things casual, sylus keeps pushing your buttons.

notes: reader is shorter than sylus, wears a dress

"your father couldn’t make it?"

you turned, already knowing who it was before your eyes even landed on him. sylus stood beside you, red eyes sharp as ever, a glass of wine held loosely between his fingers.

he was taller up close, his presence something you could feel-- an undeniable weight in the air.

"he's busy with something else," you replied smoothly, offering the same polite smile you always did at these events. "so i’m here in his place. again."

sylus hummed, tilting his head slightly. "i’ve noticed."

well, okay. you felt a lump form in ur throat for half a second before you covered it with a sip of champagne.

the party buzzed on around you--shady businessmen all over, deep in conversation, deals being spun between clinks of glasses and quiet laughs. but in this moment, it felt distant, like the noise had faded into the background. thanks to sylus.

you felt his gaze on you before you even looked.

cautiously, your eyes flicked up.

and there it was.

sylus was watching you--watching you in a way that sent something sharp through your chest.

not just looking. not just observing.

it was the kind of gaze that was deliberate. like he was studying you, or maybe something more than that.

your pulse stuttered.

"what are you looking at?" you asked, voice steadier than you felt.

sylus didn’t look away. "nothing."

liar.

you exhaled, turning back to your glass as if that would shield you from whatever this was. "don’t look at me like that," you muttered under your breath. "i’d catch feelings."

okay.

it was meant to be a joke, but the second the words left your mouth, you immediately regretted them. why do you never think before speaking?

because sylus just smiled--slow and amused.

he lifted his glass slightly, voice smooth as silk.

"would that be so bad?"

your fingers tightened slightly around your champagne flute. you weren’t sure if it was the drink warming your skin or the way sylus was still looking at you, like he had already figured out the answer before you even had time to think about it.

"depends," you said, trying to keep your voice even. "are you planning on making me?"

his smile deepened just slightly, it almost imperceptible, but you caught it. sylus was always like this--subtle and calculating, he never lets people see too much. but right now, standing this close, you could see something in his expression that most people never get the chance to.

"well, i don’t make people do anything," he murmured. "but i do enjoy watching them come to their own conclusions."

the air between you felt different now. around you, the party carried on, but it may as well have been on a different planet.

sylus took a step closer, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of expensive cologne and something electric beneath. his gaze flicked over your face, his red eyes taking their time, like he was committing every detail to memory.

"you’re so shameless, staring again," you pointed out, pretending to check the drink in your glass.

"and?"

"and you should stop."

"why?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

you exhaled, shaking your head. "because i really will catch feelings." it was meant to be a joke--again--one of those offhand, sarcastic things you say just to play with fire. but of course, sylus, being the flirty bastard he was, who never wants to lose in this game, latched onto it like you’d handed him a gift.

a low chuckle. "then i suppose you have a decision to make."

sylus lifted his glass again, a silent toast, before taking a slow sip. but even as he walked, just slightly away from you, acting as if the conversation was over, you knew it wasn’t.

not even close.

because even as you tried to focus on something--anything else, you could still feel his presence around you.

the warmth of him, the quiet but heavy weight of his attention. he wasn’t looking at you anymore, not directly, but you knew without a doubt that he was still aware of every move you made.

and then, just when you thought you might finally be able to collect yourself, he spoke behind you.

you barely had time to react before his voice was in your space again, smooth, deep, velverty and entirely too close.

"you know, if you’re already thinking about it," he said, "then you’ve probably already made your choice."

your breath hitched.

you turned around, he smiled at you, then sauntered away again, just like that. you think you caught the knowing glint in his crimson eyes. he was so effortlessly composed.

oh, how you thought that he's so full of himself--but then again, sylus is just that. simply confident, never boastful or arrogant. and sure, maybe you had stroked his ego a little, but honestly--he didn’t need it stroked. the man had every reason to be that confident. still, it was meant to be a joke, of course. just something to get under his skin. but with sylus, the flirty, smooth bastard, that kind of thing only ever seemed to make him worse.

you scrunched your nose and narrowed your eyes, forcing down the warmth threatening to creep up your neck.

two can play this game.

"you really love the sound of your own voice, huh?" you mused, tilting your head. "what would you do if i just ignored you completely?"

sylus smirked. "i’d wait. however long it takes. hopefully, not that long."

your mouth parted, caught somewhere between a scoff and a retort that never quite made it out.

every single time you saw him, without fail, it always ended in this--banter, flirting and teasing, a back-and-forth that neither of you ever truly won.

but even with all the "annoyance" he causes you, even with the way he always found a reason to smooth his way out, you couldn’t deny it.

you liked it.

you liked him.

which was exactly why this was dangerous.

"enjoy the rest of your evening," sylus said, like he hadn’t just sent your heart into a full sprint.

then, with a final glance, he stepped away, slipping back into the crowd with that same impossible grace he always carried.

you let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the way your pulse was still racing.

you should ignore him. you should brush this off like you always did after, convince yourself that this was just another round of your usual banter.

but as your eyes flickered back to him--his tall frame standing effortlessly among the crowd, his crimson gaze glancing back at you for just a second--you knew one thing for certain.

you were in so much trouble.

because even now, even with the thrill of your back-and-forth, you felt it-- the dizzying ache of feelings. and it scared you, a little too much.

because sylus wasn’t just some guy you could flirt with and forget. he was powerful, polished, terrifyingly smart. the most dangerous man in the room, always, wherever. but god, he was also handsome, a gentleman, rich, tall, smelled so good, strong in the way that made your knees weak, and, to make things worse, he loved animals. he wasn’t just out of your league--he was playing a completely different sport.

you weren’t even sure what you were doing here. you were just your father’s daughter attending the party in his stead. sure, your family had money and a bit of influence, but we are talking about sylus here.

he was on a different level entirely.

and you?

well, you were just you.

unthinkable didn’t even begin to cover it.

the party carried on around you, but your mind was elsewhere. no matter how much you tried to ignore it, sylus’ words still echoed in your head.

"then you’ve probably already made your choice."

the way he said it, it was driving you insane. like he already knew exactly how you felt, like he was waiting for you to admit it.

well. if he wanted to play this game, you were going to make it interesting.

your eyes flicked across the room, locking onto sylus with ease. he was speaking to a small group of people, nodding along as one of them droned on about something you were sure was very important. but even from a distance, you saw it--the way his posture never fully relaxed, the way his red eyes flickered your way the second he felt your gaze.

hook, line, and sinker.

you made your move, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.

as you passed, you let your fingers lightly wrap around his wrist, without a word, you tugged him lightly, your grip firm enough to pull him away from the small group he was conversing with, but without asking for permission. he stiffened for a split second, caught off guard by your sudden actions. his crimson eyes flickered with surprise, his lips parted as if about to speak. but before he could protest, you were already walking toward one of the private lounge rooms tucked away from the chaos of the event, leading him behind you.

his hesitation lasted only a moment, and then, with a subtle but deliberate shift in his stance, he followed, the smoothness of his movements matching the calm composure he always carried. he didn’t resist, but instead of simply letting you lead him by the wrist, he reached and gently adjusted your grip--sliding your hand from his wrist into his own, hands molding together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your brain short-circuited for half a second. it wasn’t what you expected--not the warmth of his palm, not the deliberate intimacy of the gesture. it was soft. dangerously sweet. holy shittery.

but you shook it off. you were the one dragging him away, not the other way around.

your grip tightened slightly, reaffirming control, and you kept walking like your heart wasn’t suddenly throwing a tantrum in your chest. sylus followed in step, hand in yours, as if it had always been that way.

he may have made that smooth annoying move that made your stomach feel things, but you were still the one pulling the strings.

the moment you stepped into the quiet of the lounge, the door clicking softly behind you, you knew you had caught him off guard in a way that neither of you had expected.

you couldn’t help the slight smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

this was a game, and now, you were the one in control.

it was a risk. a bold one. but you had a feeling sylus wasn’t the type to leave things unfinished.

sure enough, it didn’t take long.

you let go of his hand, the door closed itself, clicked shut behind the two of you, and before you could turn, you felt him--his presence was filling the space again, his warmth pressing at your back like a phantom touch. is this some sort of phenomena eveyone feels? or is it just you?

you were breathing quite heavily, heart pounding so fast it felt like it might give out at any moment. you couldn’t tell if it was from the speed-walking or the nerves about what the heck was happening, or both.

of course, you tried not to show it, back still turned to sylus.

"bold move," sylus murmured. "should i be worried, suspicious, what?"

the corners of your lips lifted. finally a bit composed, you turned to face him and tilted your head up to meet his gaze, and shrugged.

"dunno."

honestly, you don't really know, like, for real. this was all impulsive, a reaction to the moment, and you were just doing and saying whatever came to your mind. there was no plan, no script--just the heat of the moment, pulling you along.

"how much self-control do you have?"

he looked at you, and for the first time tonight, you knew you had the upper hand with the way his eyes changed.

you took a step forward and let your gaze drag over him.

tall, refined, handsome, so impossibly composed-- damn.

sylus might have been a master at hiding his emotions, but he's not completely immune. well, actually, he may be immune. sigh. but still, you wanted to try, just to see. maybe he wasn’t immune to you.

"why aren't you answering?" you mused, "you're always in control. always watching."

sylus didn’t move, but his red eyes followed your every tiny motion, whether it was the way your eyes moved, how high the corners of your mouth were lifted, the way your hands were semi-closed-- "observation is an important skill."

"what exactly are you observing now?"

you took another step closer, your eyes dropping from his face to his body, your hand casually reaching for the lapel of his coat--just to feel the texture of the expensive fabric.

his jaw tightened, ever so slightly.

ooh..... got him.

"careful there." sylus said, voice smooth but quieter. "you’re playing quite the game there."

you couldn't help but smile, tilting your head up again to meet his gaze. "oh, sylus," you said, fingers ghosting over his chest before trailing up--light, teasing, just enough to make his breath hitch. "i am the game."

you were acting all confident, but in your mind, you know full well you’ll regret saying crazy stuff like this later. but still. it just comes out, like your mouth is writing checks your heart absolutely cannot cash.

for a second, neither of you moved. the air between you was thick, the tension was heavy. you felt like beads of sweat were going to form on your forehead any moment, despite the air-conditioned room.

then, deliberately--you grabbed the lapel of his coat again and pulled him down to be at your face level.

closer.

it was an awkward position bcs of the height difference, but who cares. he wasn't complaining, anyway.

your breath fanned against his skin, lips ghosting against his own, and you felt it--the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his gaze flicked between your eyes and your mouth, the way his control almost wavered.

and then--

you pulled away.

not far, just enough to leave a whisper of space, enough to make him feel the loss of warmth.

"hm." you tapped a finger against his chest with a teasing smile on your face. "maybe you’re the one with a decision to make.

his red eyes burned into you, it was impossible to read.

and for the first time all night, sylus was silent.

victory tasted sweet.

you took a step back, smoothing down your dress, dusting it off as if nothing had happened. "good talk," you said breezily, turning toward the door. "see you around, boss man."

you didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching you, still standing there, still processing the very obvious challenge you had just thrown at him.

but one thing was certain--this game was far from over.

the second you left that room, you left the party.

you told yourself it wasn’t because of sylus. you told yourself it wasn’t because your heart was still racing or because the feeling of his breath against your lips was burned into your mind.

but deep down, you knew better.

the moment you stepped into the night air, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

what the hell did you just do?

you had played with fire before, but this was sylus. and you--you--had just leaned in like you were going to kiss him, only to pull away at the last second. and the look in his eyes when you left..... oh, you were so done for.

so when your father got an invitation to another event just three days later, you weren’t exactly thrilled.

"i can’t make it, i have plans with your mother and your grandma." he had told you over breakfast, setting the invitation down beside your plate. "you’ll go in my place, won’t you?"

normally, you wouldn’t mind. these parties were nothing new. but after what had happened with sylus, showing your face again felt like walking straight into a trap.

"do you know if sylus is attending?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

your father shook his head. "no idea. but you told me some time ago that he rarely attends two events in the same week."

you nodded, the memory clicking into place. whether you were tagging along with your dad or showing up on your own, you always found yourself scanning the room for sylus the moment you walked in. you always looked for him first, after all. pathetic little crush of yours.

your father didn’t even question why you asked. he knew you and sylus got along every time you crossed paths, even if it usually involved a fair amount of bantering. still, your father had a quiet suspicion that sylus was fond of you, and he thinks that sylus maybe even sees you a little differently than most. still, he's not quite sure bcs it's sylus.

well, right. right, that made sense. sylus was busy. he had actual business to handle, not just party-hopping.

so you agreed. and you walked into that event thinking you were safe.

you weren’t.

because the moment you stepped into the ballroom, a very familiar presence made itself painfully known.

sylus was there.

and worse--he was looking straight at you.

heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. you immediately turned toward the bar, desperate to get away, to put some distance between you before you completely lost your composure.

but you didn’t even get the chance.

before you could order a drink, before you could breathe, sylus was there, stepping into your space with that same grace.

"you left in a hurry last time," he said, his voice as smooth as ever.

your grip tightened around the glass in your hand. "i was tired."

"oh?" he nodded.

you braced yourself, expecting him to tease you, to call you out, to make some infuriating remark about the way you had clearly run from him.

but instead--

"if you came here just to avoid me, you’re doing a terrible job."

you nearly choked. "i wasn’t--i mean, i didn’t think you’d be here."

you didn't mean to sound a bit pouty, like a little girl, but what the heck. the things this man managed to pull out of you.

sylus raised a brow. "and if you had known?"

you averted your gaze. "i would’ve stayed home."

his lips twitched slightly. "then it’s a good thing you didn’t."

you felt all sorts of movement in your stomach. you needed to say something before you completely lost your ability to function.

"look, about last time," you started, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, "i….. may have went too far. i was just messing around, but i probably shouldn’t have done that. that was unsolicited. so, uh--yeah. sorry."

sylus regarded you for a moment, his red eyes unreadable. then, he exhaled softly.

"no need to apologize."

you blinked. "really? well, okay then."

he stepped just slightly closer--enough to make you feel it, enough to remind you just how much taller he was.

"but if we’re being honest," he said, his voice smoothly invading your personal space, "i’d rather take the initiative."

your breath hitched. "what does that even mean--"

"it means," sylus interrupted smoothly, "that i’d rather be the one asking you out."

huh.

"well, okay?" you stared at him.

he let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose like your obliviousness physically pained him. the gesture was exaggerated, feigned annoyance barely hiding the amusement underneath.

"what? hold on. i mean, not to be slow...... but, you’re--are you actually asking me out right now?"

"yes."

no hesitation. no teasing.

you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again.

"oh."

sylus’s lips quirked. "that’s all you have to say?"

"no. i mean--yes? i mean--” you sucked in a breath, willing your brain to function. "what the heck? are you serious?"

"i wouldn’t say it if i wasn’t."

he was so calm. so composed. meanwhile, you were seconds away from exploding.

"i just--" you ran a hand through your hair. "i didn’t think you actually--"

“like you? that i’d be interested?” sylus asked, watching you with quiet amusement.

your face burned. "i mean..... yeah?"

he exhaled.

"you really don’t pay enough attention, do you?"

your entire body locked up. tensed. you want to be relaxed, but all of your joints seemed like they were frozen, your internal organs feel like they have become solid.

okay, he did attend two events in the same week.....

before you could react, before you could even process what just happened, sylus straightened again.

"so?" he asked, tilting his head. "do i get a yes or a no?

your heart was hammering. this wasn’t how you expected the night to go. but standing here, looking at him, remembering every single time you had ever caught him staring at you--

you let out a slow breath. oh shit, maybe he does like you too.

however, you wanted to say no. just to spite him. to wipe that smug look off his face.

but god, you liked him. way more than you probably should.

well, whatever.

he could break your heart if he wanted to. he could ruin you. kill you, even. whatever happens, happens.

but instead of saying yes, you lifted your chin. "no."

sylus blinked. "no?"

you crossed your arms, heart still racing. "yeah, not like this. i want a proper confession."

for a moment, he just stared at you, and then something shifted in his gaze. slowly, his lips curved into a smile--one of those rare, genuine ones that didn’t come with a smirk or teasing.

"alright," he said, stepping closer. his voice was softer now, a little less sure. "i like you. i’ve liked you for a while. you get under my skin, and you drive me a bit insane, but i’d still rather be around you than anyone else.

you watched him, heart racing faster, trying not to show how much his words got to you.

"that proper enough?" he asked, as if he didn't felt an ounce of embarrassment from saying his feelings out loud. but, he needed to say it. to let you know exactly how much he liked you--because you were a bit of a dolt who didn’t want to read between the lines and needed things straightforwardly given to you.

and of course, sylus would willingly do that.

to your surprise, though, his smile faltered a bit. his ears turned a shade of red you’d never seen before, and a pink hue dusted his cheeks.

so sylus can feel a bit of shyness and embarrassment too.

you couldn't help but smile and giggle at the sight, covering your eyes with your hands to show him how amused you were as you let out a laugh.

"uh... yeah, well," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "there. happy now?"

you couldn’t hold it back anymore. you smiled, a soft, genuine smile. "yes."

sylus’s eyes widened for a split second, his smirk returned--this time a little shy, a little less confident--but it was still there, unmistakable.

"good." he said, his voice steady again, but with a hint of something playful.

and just like that, the game had changed completely.

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