My Contribution To The Panty Fiend Caleb HC

“Daddy sing!”

Youe three year old daughter squeals, standing on her tippy toes as she grabs the end of the couch as a support to stand up. Bouncing on her feet as she approaches her daddy. Requesting him to sing and you awkwardly cough, suppressing the laugh threatening to spill from your lips.

Knowing your daughter who takes after her father. It wasn't any good and you're here to witness that moment. “You want daddy to sing?” You asked your toddler. Your daughter enthusiastically nods as you take her hand to assist her in standing, there's a wobble on her steps but manages to balance on her own before letting her go to walk towards her daddy.

Her soft, fluffy white hair moves in sync with her actions. Her red eyes gleaming with mischief, although innocent and she still have not quite grasp what her actions is, it was obvious that she takes after her father.

“Daddy sing!” Your daughter demanded again and who is Sylus to deny what his daughter wanted.

It is known that Sylus, your husband have many talents but singing isn't one of them. His singing voice can be described as unique but to his daughter, his spoiled little princess finds it beautiful or rather entertaining.

Sylus picks up his daughter and placed her on his lap. The same blood ruby colored eyes stares at his own. Sylus gaze softens at his little princess and then he began to sing.

It didn't take long before his daughter bursts in fits of laughter. Her infectious cute giggles filling the room. “You're making fun of your daddy's voice, princess.”

“Nuh uh.” You daughter shakes her head in denial but her body vibrates with laughter. “Sing again, daddy!” Sylus obediently complies with her daughter's request.

As he sang, he glances at the mother of his children. You were laughing too while you rock the baby to sleep cradled in your arms. At least, he was entertaining both of his princesses. The little one in your arms is yet to join the moment. For now it is enjoying the luxury of sleep.

It is said that his singing voice is enough to make babies cry but to his daughter, it made her laugh. Similar to her mother who literally cried during your pregnancy with your daughter if he doesn't sing. He guesses his daughter must have gotten used to it as he sang in your round, pregnant belly.

Well, you love it. Sylus sings lullabies to you when you can't fall asleep and before you knew it, you wanted to hear him sing to you every night and your daughter wanted it too.

Sylus, the fearsome leader of the N109 Zone and runs the underground world is a father and husband who sings lullabies whenever her daughter wanted. It's hard to imagine he does that but you'll never find out. You'll be carrying it to the grave.

Size difference >>>

— Borrowed time, part 4

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“Use me.”

word count = 8.5k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

also, i finally got to write the scene i wanted to 😭—took me over 10k words to get here but ugh finallyyyy

part 1 | masterlist

Peace has never felt more profound. Wrapped in the quiet hush of evening, the cool hum of the air conditioner, and the soft duvet cocooning your body, the weight of the world loosens its grip. The storm of thoughts, the heaviness pressing against your ribs—it all quiets, dissolving into the stillness.

Only when left alone, surrendered to the depths of sleep, do you finally feel light. Free. At ease.

But of course, peace was never meant to last. Not when you agreed to this trip.

Three knocks at the door. A soft beep of the lock.

“Yn? Are you still sleeping?”

MC’s voice pulls you from the haze of slumber, gentle but insistent. The mattress dips slightly as she steps closer.

You groan, turning away from the sound, but she only huffs.

“It’s already seven. You haven’t eaten anything all day.” Concern laces her words as she reaches out, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. A soft smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not burning up anymore.”

Blinking against the lingering blur of sleep, you rub your eyes, squinting up at her.

“Mhmm,” you mumble, barely coherent.

The tension in her shoulders eases at your response, the worry fading as a familiar brightness returns to her face.

“Here—eat.” She sets a bowl in your hands, warmth seeping through the ceramic. Steam rises, carrying the scent of something unmistakably familiar.

Dark green seaweed sways in golden broth, delicate strands floating between pieces of soft tofu.

Your brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Caleb made it.” She grins. “He was adamant about you finishing every last drop, so you better eat up.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

You know this dish.

It’s the same soup you once made for him when he was too sick to get out of bed, voice hoarse, fever clouding his mind. The same one he had groggily murmured was the best thing he had ever tasted.

The warmth of the memory seeps in before you can stop it.

Back then, his voice had been hoarse, barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.

“Caleb, you should eat.”

“Mmnh… not hungry…” He mumbled, shifting away from the dish in your hands, cheek pressed against the pillow.

You huffed, exasperated but unwilling to let him get away with it. “I promise it’ll make you feel better. Seaweed soups are the best for colds. Trust me.”

It took a few more tries to convince him. A few more weak protests before you had enough.

“Bzz, the airplane’s coming!” You guided the spoon toward his lips, making an exaggerated motion.

A smile flickered across his face, slow and lazy, before it stretched into something wider. “Pfft—Stop acting like I’m five!”

His laughter was bright, warm. It tugged at your heart in ways you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re acting like one, so I must treat you as one,” you countered, puffing your cheeks. “Now open up!”

His shoulders shook from suppressed giggles, but he relented, raising a mock defensive hand. “Okay, okay! Pfft—”

His laughter was cut off by a fit of coughs, his body curling in on itself slightly. Your expression immediately shifted, a deeper frown settling between your brows.

“Stop playing around. This is my secret recipe. It’ll stop you from starting another pandemic,” you scolded, pushing the spoon toward him again.

He groaned, but finally obeyed, letting the warmth of the soup settle in his mouth.

His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.

“You weren’t joking,” he muttered, almost in awe. “This is really good.”

Fatigue seemed to lift slightly from his face, a softness settling in its place.

“See?” You huffed, victorious.

But then—his gaze softened in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thank you, shortcake,” he murmured, reaching up with sluggish movements to ruffle your hair. His touch was light, absentminded. Familiar.

Your heart had tugged—just slightly.

Now, staring at the same soup, the warmth of the past curling in your chest like a ghost of something you no longer recognize, you swallow down whatever unspoken feeling rises in your throat.

“Well?” MC grins, nudging you. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

You hesitate, just for a moment, then lift the spoon to your lips.

It tastes the same.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t.

You take another spoonful, swallowing the warmth down along with the lump in your throat.

MC, oblivious to the thoughts stirring in your head, plops down beside you, stretching her limbs dramatically.

“God, today was exhausting,” she groans, tilting her head back. “I swear, if I have to redo that crying scene one more time, I might actually start sobbing for real.”

You hum absentmindedly, stirring the soup with your spoon.

“And Caleb—ugh, don’t get me started on him. He seemed really out of it today.” she continues, rolling onto her side to face you. “Like, he kept missing his queues, kept dazing in the middle of the shoot. Kept asking me if you ate, made me go shop for the soup’s ingredients with him, double-check the soup, even told me it was your favorite like I didn’t already know that.”

Your hand stills over the bowl.

MC doesn’t notice.

She sighs dramatically, propping her head up with one hand. “He even snapped at me earlier. Like, Caleb snapped at me. Can you believe that?”

You glance at her, arching a brow. “What did he say?”

She huffs. “I was teasing him, you know? Asking if he’s finally realizing he’s in love with you or whatever. And he just looked at me—like, seriously looked at me—and said, ‘She’s sick, Michaela.’ Like, what?”

Something sharp presses against your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it.

MC groans again, stretching her arms before flopping back onto the bed. “I get it, though,” she sighs, rolling onto her side to face you. Then, without warning, she grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I was worried sick about you too, Yn.” Her voice softens, the teasing gone. “Don’t go fainting like that again, okay? You gotta tell me if you’re too tired. I need you to be okay.”

You stare at her, her fingers warm against yours, grounding you in a way nothing else has. The weight in your chest—the anger, the ache that’s been gnawing at you since this trip began—fades, just a little.

Because this is MC.

Bright, infuriating, golden MC, who always means it when she says she cares.

And you love her for it.

You love her.

You always have.

So despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the way the world has been tilting under your feet—you smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, squeezing her hand back. “I know.”

Her lips curl into a grin, her eyes gleaming like the sun itself. And just like that, just for a second, the world feels a little lighter.

“Anyways, enough about that. You need to catch up on all the drama you missed today. And—”

She launches into a rant, animated as ever, filling the room with stories of the ‘earth-shattering’ events you somehow survived without.

Somewhere between her exaggerated retellings and her scandalized gasps, you find yourself laughing.

And just like that, the fatigue melts away.

You only realize you’ve finished the soup when MC casually plucks the empty bowl from your hands, setting it on the table without missing a beat.

She keeps talking, her words tumbling out in a steady, animated stream—until they don’t.

You notice it immediately.

The slight stutter. The way her voice falters mid-sentence. The way her fingers suddenly fidget with the loose threads of the blanket. The way a soft, barely-there pink dusts her cheeks.

Your brows furrow slightly. “MC?”

She clears her throat, forcing a casual laugh. “Sorry, I just—uh—” she waves a hand, trying to dismiss whatever just flustered her, but you catch it. You always catch it.

The way her lips press together. The way her eyes flicker away, focusing anywhere but you.

Suspicion creeps in. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“MC.”

She groans dramatically, covering her face with her hands before peeking through her fingers, her voice dropping ever so slightly.

“It’s just—I was practicing lines with Sylus today, and—”

She hesitates, the words caught somewhere between reluctance and amusement.

Your brows lift.

Sylus?

Of course, you know he’s popular. You’ve seen the way girls linger around him, how they find excuses to talk to him. But MC?

Your lips part slightly, but before you can say anything, something else creeps in—unbidden.

The warmth of his body on the tip of your fingers.

The sharp scent of rain clinging to his skin.

The steady grip of his hand, pulling you away from the storm.

The way he leaned against the wall, damp silver strands falling over his eyes, a towel draped over his shoulders, sharp and unbothered.

The quiet turn of a page, his presence steady, grounding, when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow.

The memories pass in a flash, leaving behind something you don’t quite understand.

MC doesn’t notice your silence. She groans again, shaking her head.

“Ugh, never mind. It’s not a big deal,” she mutters, but there’s a warmth on her face she can’t quite hide.

Your lips twitch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp dramatically, eyes widening as you lean in closer. “Are you blushing?”

MC swats at you with a pillow, groaning into her hands. “I said never mind!”

That only makes your grin widen.

“No, no, this is important information,” you tease, nudging her shoulder. “MC, do you have a crush on Sylus?”

She groans even louder, flopping onto the bed in defeat.

“Shut up, Yn. My character has a crush on his character. I’m just way too immersed in the acting!”

You laugh, the sound light, genuine.

•

The next few days go by like a blur.

You wake up to MC’s blaring alarm.

You get ready.

You practice your part.

You film.

You watch MC film.

You watch her cheeks flush a little more in scenes she shares with Sylus.

You watch their characters develop.

You eat.

You listen to her rants.

You enjoy the sunset, alone.

You sleep.

Like clockwork, everything plays out like it did yesterday.

And just like everything else, he is on replay, too.

His voice weaves itself into your routine, persistent and unrelenting. A teasing remark over breakfast. A lazy greeting when he passes by. A nudge here, a comment there. Always casual. Always acting as if nothing happened.

“Still mad, shortcake?”

“Damn, I didn’t know you had this much endurance. Impressive.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t respond.

“Was today tiring?”

You don’t acknowledge him.

“Are you hungry?”

You don’t even look at him.

“Someone’s making a full-time career out of dodging me.”

It’s almost comical, how hard he’s trying to act like things are fine. Like you didn’t stand there, glaring at him with every ounce of anger you could muster just a few nights ago. Like you weren’t left in the rain, stranded in a memory of him choosing her, again.

But that’s Caleb. Always brushing things off, playing it cool, making it seem like nothing ever really matters.

And maybe if you weren’t still seething, it would’ve worked.

And to an extent, maybe it has.

Because the desperation in his eyes seems to seep out a little more with every interaction.

And when he leans a little too close one afternoon, when his fingers brush against your wrist as he tries to catch your attention, your heart still skips. But the scene of that night haunts you. The line cutting, her laughter, his tender eyes looking at her. So you snatch your hand away, sharp and final.

The laughter in his eyes dims, if only for a second.

“Damn. Harsh.” His playful tone faltering a little.

You don’t answer.

And after each of these interactions, your eyes always somehow find its way to the man lingering on the side. And more often than not, you meet his gaze. His ruby eyes pierces through you with a smug smirk plastered on his face.

Oh how much you hate that smug face of his.

It’s a look that says he’s watching. That he’s amused.

Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Like he already knows how this game ends.

You tear your gaze away, but it’s too late. That smirk is already burned into your mind, curling at the edges of your thoughts, creeping under your skin.

Sylus never says much. He lingers—always just far enough to be uninvolved, yet close enough to witness everything.

Though every single time, he holds your gaze just long enough to let you know that he sees you.

And maybe that should feel comforting.

Maybe it should make you feel like you’re finally being seen.

But with him—with the way his eyes glint like he’s one step ahead, like he’s entertained by something you don’t even understand yet—

it doesn’t feel like comfort.

It feels like a warning.

•

“Hey! Can someone grab more drinks?”

“On it!” you shout.

Being done with all of your scenes, you try to help out around the set where you can. You walk away from the beach and to the parking lot where the tents and coolers are set under the trees’ shades. The bickers and chatters fade into the heat as you approach the swaying canopy. The air is heavier here—thicker, still carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen but now mixed with the plasticky cool of stored ice.

You crouch by one of the coolers, popping the lid open, letting a gust of chilled air wash over your arms.

The silence here is different.

Less alive, less buzzing.

You should be relieved.

But instead, all you can hear is the echo of their voices.

“She’s pretty good at acting,” someone says.

“She does her job well,” another agrees.

“We should’ve given her another role. She could’ve pulled off a character with more significance.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. She acts well, but she doesn’t shine. Not like her.”

You exhale, pressing your lips together.

Something inside you tenses.

The other laughs in response. “Of course, I wasn’t comparing her to Machela. Their auras are very different. One’s the main character, the other’s a decent supporting. You can’t compare them.”

Your brows knit together.

You keep your hands still, your breath steady. You don’t react, don’t turn, don’t acknowledge the way the words settle against your skin like grains of sand—light and fleeting, but impossible to shake off

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

They’re just opinions, just talk.

You don’t care. You’ve never cared.

You know your role. You know your place.

And yet—your gaze betrays you.

Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flicker to the beach, to her.

MC stands effortlessly at the center of it all, bathed in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by the main characters, the ones who make the scene come alive.

Even among them, she stands out.

She doesn’t try to shine, she doesn’t try to call for attention—she just does.

And then there’s you, just there.

Blending so well into the background that no one even notices you listening.

You swallow, pushing away the uncomfortable weight creeping up your throat.

A breeze stirs the trees, making the tents flutter. You reach into the ice, grabbing a handful of cans, the cold biting against your fingertips.

You exhale, force your shoulders to relax, and do what you always do.

You shake it off. You move.

You quickly grab as many drinks as you can hold and hurry back to the set.

“Who wants water?” Your voice bright, easy.

You step back onto the sand, the heat pressing down on your skin, the voices of the crew and cast swelling around you once more. The coolness of the shade lingers faintly on your fingertips, already fading as you carry the drinks back.

But the words silently follow your trails.

“Oh my god, you’re a life saver!”

MC’s voice snaps you out of it as she practically lunges for one of the cans in your hands, tearing it open like she’s been stranded on this beach for days. She presses it to her cheek, sighing dramatically.

“I’m dying,” she groans, tipping her head back for a long gulp. “Why did I agree to film on a beach? Who thought this was a good idea?”

Before you can answer, another shadow falls over you.

A shift in the air. A presence that arrives so smoothly, so effortlessly, that you don’t even notice until he’s already there.

Sylus.

He reaches out and plucks a drink from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the condensation-slick surface.

Then—he opens it.

The sound is sharp against the hazy heat, a crisp hiss that barely lingers before he tips the can back.

And you watch.

The way his throat moves as he drinks, slow and deep, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The way a bead of sweat drips from his temple, trailing down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the dip of his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt.

For a second, the world feels too slow.

When he lowers the can, he’s already looking at you.

“What?” he says, voice smooth, amused, a smirk tugging lazily at his lips. “Not for me?”

Your face immediately scrunches up.

Not a word leaves your mouth, but the reaction is enough.

Sylus chuckles, taking another sip like he’s entertained by something only he understands.

Then, just as effortlessly as he arrived, he turns and walks off, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of cool metal and salt air.

Silence settles between you and MC.

It takes you a second to notice it—the fact that she hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word.

You glance at her. The red dusting her face. The way she presses her lips together, eyes darting everywhere but where Sylus just stood.

Something tugs at your chest.

A feeling—small, unclear, curling at the edges of your ribs like an itch you can’t quite scratch.

You don’t exactly understand it, nor do you want to.

So you push it down, bury it deep, shove it away before it can take shape.

“Oh,” you hum, forcing a smirk on your lips.

MC immediately stiffens. “No.”

“Ohhh.”

“No, no, no!” She flails her hands in front of her face like she can physically push the accusation away.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You totally are.”

She lets out a strangled noise, shaking her head so fast her hair whips around her shoulders. “I—I’m not crushing!” she wails, throwing her hands up. “I’m just—ugh, it’s the next scene, okay?!”

You pause.

The next scene.

The kiss scene.

With Sylus.

You blink, then grin. “That’s what you’re nervous about?”

MC groans, dragging a hand down her face. “He’s so annoying,” she grumbles. “How am I supposed to do this with someone who just—oozes arrogance?” She gulps down the drink in her hands, turning away.

“Try not to melt, yeah? Would be real awkward if the crew had to scrape you off the floor after this.” A playful voice interrupts your conversation.

Caleb.

He strides toward the two of you, effortless as always, plucking a can from your hands and popping it open with a crisp hiss. His smirk is there—light, teasing, the same one he always wears when he’s messing around.

But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

His gaze flicks to the spot where Sylus had just been.

Something in his jaw tightens.

Others might have missed it, but you know him too well. You’re well too accustomed to watching him, seeing all his micro movements when he interacts with MC.

His fingers curl just a little too tightly around the can, knuckles faintly stiff.

Still, he plays it off.

“So,” he drawls, turning back to MC, forcing that smirk back into place. “How long are you gonna make us suffer through this? You practicing, or are we just skipping to the part where you swoon?”

MC snaps to attention, the red still fresh on her face. “I don’t—shut up.”

Caleb clicks his tongue, mockingly thoughtful. “Huh. So defensive. Makes you wonder.”

“You wonder too much,” she fires back, narrowing her eyes.

“Nah,” he grins, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I just have an eye for lost causes.”

And then, before she can dodge, he presses the cold can against her cheek.

MC yelps, jerking away. “Caleb—what the hell!”

“Thought you were overheating,” he muses, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the big scene.”

MC glares, rubbing at her cheek like he’s personally offended her. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Still a better option than him.”

MC groans. “Are you seriously insulting Sylus right now?”

“I’m just saying,” Caleb shrugs, casual. “The guy looks like he bites.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re gonna let him lick your face in front of all of us.”

“It’s a kiss, you idiot—”

“Same difference.”

Before MC can strangle him, the director’s voice cuts through the chatter.

“Alright, places, everyone! Let’s run the scene.”

MC freezes.

The teasing dies.

Caleb hums. “Uh-oh. That’s your cue.”

She exhales sharply, smoothing down her clothes like that’ll somehow fix her nerves.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says lightly, taking another sip. “It’s just a scene, right?”

MC glares at him, muttering something under her breath before stomping toward the set.

His eyes follow her form, watching her go.

Caleb’s smirk lingers, but it’s hollow now—more muscle memory than anything else.

Then, without a word, he crushes the empty can in his fist.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, staring at the crumpled metal in his hand, feeling the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

The sharp crunch of aluminum still lingers in the air when you finally take a step back, about to turn away—

But before you can, his hand grabs your wrist.

Firm. Unrelenting.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” he mutters, low, rough, before pulling you with him.

You barely have time to react before you’re being led away from the crowd, past the chatter, past the cameras and the blinding sun.

He doesn’t stop until you’re tucked into the shadows of a secluded corner, hidden behind a wall where no one can see.

Only then does he let go.

Only then does he turn to you, dark eyes burning with something too raw, too intense.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks.

The words hit the air, heavier than they should be.

You blink. “What—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice is frustrated, breath uneven. “I know I messed up. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

He stops himself, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding something together.

Then, before you can move—

His hands press against the wall, caging you in.

Not touching you. But close.

Too close.

His scent fills your senses—something warm, sharp, unmistakably him.

“You can’t convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being, wouldn’t you agree?” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less desperate. “I’ll eventually find a way to make things right. As long as…” he pauses. His breaths are shuddering.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re by my side,” he whispers.

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting—

And then, softer, rougher—

“Please.”

A breath.

“I need you now more than ever.”

The words sink into your skin, settle into your chest, and God—

It hurts.

Because you know.

You know this isn’t about you.

Not really.

Not in the way you want it to be.

He’s frustrated. He’s angry. Not at you—but at something else, at someone else, at the way things are slipping through his fingers.

And here you are.

Pulled into the scene like always.

Here to fill in the gaps.

Here to be the character he needs in this moment.

Your throat tightens.

Your fingers curl into fists.

You don’t shove him away.

You don’t give in, either.

You just look at him.

At the tension in his jaw. At the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

“Action!”

The director’s voice rings out.

Like a snapped thread, Caleb pulls away.

Your attention shifts

And you see it.

The perfect scene unfolding before you.

The setting sun drenches the world in gold, soft and warm, casting a glow over the sand, the ocean, the two figures at the center of it all.

MC and Sylus.

MC in the center, like always.

Sylus’s hands rest on her waist, firm but careful. His fingers trace along the curve of her back, pulling her closer, into him, into his world. His head tilts, his smirk faint, unreadable—like he’s in control of every beat of this moment.

MC leans in.

Slow, hesitant, shy.

Like a girl falling into the gravity of a man she can’t escape.

The light catches the soft parting of her lips, the uncertainty, the delicate trust in her expression.

Sylus’s fingers tighten, and he closes the distance.

Their lips brush—light at first—before she melts into him, hands lifting to his chest.

It’s effortless.

Beautiful.

The kind of moment people will remember.

The picture-perfect romance.

A story falling into place.

Your stomach twists.

It’s not the kiss itself that gets to you. It’s the way the scene feels like fate, the way it’s framed, the way the world seems to bend itself around her like she was always meant to be at the center.

Like everything happens for her.

And, as if to prove your point—you gaze shifts.

And you see Caleb.

He’s watching the scene.

Watching her.

His breaths are coming even more uneven than before.

Not obvious, not noticeable to most.

But, caged between his arms, you see it.

The way his chest rises just a little too fast, the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, the way his jaw locks so tightly you swear he might break something.

And your chest burns more than ever.

You hate it. You hate everything about this.

You hate how, no matter what happens—this world, this story, this entire thing, bends itself around her.

That all of you—you, Caleb, and even Sylus— are just pieces in the grand design of her narrative.

That no matter where you stand, no matter what you do—

MC is the one the light falls on.

She is the one everything happens for.

She is the one whose all her wishes come true.

You hate it. You hate how you’re just here.

Always here.

Always playing a role in someone else’s story.

And you hate it most that your eyes are turning green looking at her.

That the jealousy creeping up your throat, curling tight in your chest, isn’t just about the scene or the way Sylus or Caleb seem to orbit around her.

It’s about the way the world chooses her, time and time again.

And the fact that you’re bitter about it—

That you feel this way at all—

God, you hate it.

“You don’t need me, Caleb.” your voice much weaker than you want it to be.

You push him out, and quickly turn away, walking off, leaving the beach, the golden sunset, the picture-perfect scene.

And if Caleb calls after you—you don’t hear it.

You don’t want to.

•

The night air presses against your skin, cool but not enough. Not enough to wash away the tension in your chest, not enough to erase the way your own voice had echoed back at you—

The long walk you took should’ve made you feel lighter.

You should feel relieved.

But you don’t.

Instead, the weight follows you, pressing against your ribs with every step, every breath, every slow drag of the tide pulling at the shore. The muffled sounds of the set fade behind you, swallowed by the darkness of the beach.

Only when you get closer to the resort do you start hearing the music.

It starts as a distant thrum, pulsing faintly through the heavy night air. A low bassline reverberating from somewhere ahead, blending with the sound of crashing waves. It takes a second to register, for your feet to slow, for the familiar heat of it to sink in.

The afterparty.

It’s inside the main house, a sprawling beachfront villa that serves as the cast and crew’s retreat after long filming days. The windows glow golden and inviting, the silhouette of moving bodies visible through the sheer curtains.

You hover near the doorway.

Inside, the world is warmer, hazier, looser.

The weight of the evening still sits heavy on your shoulders, but no one else seems to notice. No one else cares.

People are sprawled across couches, tucked into booths, pressed against walls, drinks in hand, faces flushed from alcohol and laughter. The lighting is low, a mixture of dim lamps and fairy lights strung along the ceiling, flickering against the glass like trapped fireflies. The scent of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the lingering trace of bonfire smoke fills the air.

MC is somewhere in the center of it all.

You see her immediately.

Perched on the arm of a couch, grinning, draped in warmth and attention, her head tilting back in laughter as someone hands her another drink. She looks effortless, as if the day never happened, as if the weight of the scene she filmed with Sylus didn’t still cling to her like it does to you.

She glows.

Like she always does.

And for the first time, you don’t want to be anywhere near her.

Not tonight.

You turn away, slipping past the clusters of people, past the thrumming energy, and find a quiet corner.

A small table sits against the wall, lined with bottles, a stack of plastic cups haphazardly placed beside them.

You grab one.

Then a bottle.

The first drink goes down too fast. The second burns, but you barely react. The third is easier, a slow warmth spreading through your limbs, seeping into your fingers, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts.

You lean back against the wall, fingers wrapped loosely around the cup, and watch as the night moves on without you.

MC is spinning, giggling, spilling half her drink as she sways to the music. Someone reaches for her waist, catching her just before she loses her balance. Caleb.

He’s there, as always.

Steadying her, teasing her, watching her.

You tip your cup back, draining the rest of your drink.

The music swells, the bass thrumming against your skin. The alcohol curls deeper into your system, warm and heady, numbing the part of you that still feels too present, too aware.

You don’t want to be aware.

You just want to sit here in this corner, where no one is watching, where no one is expecting anything from you.

And for a while, you do.

Drink after drink, until the night feels softer at the edges, until the sound of laughter no longer feels like it belongs to a world you can’t touch.

But then, a loud clap pierces through the room and the music lowers.

The music lowers.

“Alright, listen up! It’s time to bring some romance to life!”

The energy shifts.

People perk up, some groaning, some cheering, all of them gravitating toward the center of the room.

You barely react, swirling the last bit of alcohol in your cup.

But then, you hear it.

“Seven minutes in heaven, baby! Who’s in?”

Your fingers tighten around your drink.

MC perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless excitement that only comes with being several drinks in.

Caleb groans, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning.

Meanwhile, you simply sigh as your gaze falls back to the cup in your hand.

Because of course it’s this.

Of course this night, like everything else, will find a way to make her the center of it.

“We’re going to spice things up a little bit,” someone announces over the music, their voice dripping with amusement. A cup filled with rolled-up pieces of paper rattles in their hands as they shake it for emphasis.

“Instead of randomly drawing two names, only one name will be called.”

A pause. Anticipation thickens the air, curious murmurs rippling through the crowd.

The person smirks. “Once that name is called, you’ll be given ten seconds to either volunteer yourself or—” they tilt the cup teasingly, “your friend to be their partner.”

A wave of excitement rolls through the room. Some people cheer, some groan, some exchange knowing glances. A few shove their friends forward, already laughing at the thought of throwing them into the game.

The first name is drawn.

Someone calls it out, and there’s a brief, charged pause before someone steps forward, dramatically throwing their hands up. The crowd erupts as they disappear behind the door, laughter and wolf whistles chasing after them.

Then another name.

And another.

Each round follows the same pattern—a pause, then cheering, then the shuffle of two people slipping into the closet.

Some stumble back out minutes later, flushed and breathless, met with hollers and teasing. Others laugh it off, shaking their heads, grinning like they’ve just escaped something ridiculous.

The alcohol, the music, the flickering lights—everything feels looser, bolder, dipping further into recklessness with each passing round.

People egg each other on, nudging shoulders, calling out names before they’re even drawn, spurring the night forward like a challenge.

And then—

Another name is pulled.

The voice rings loud over the noise.

And your heart stops.

“Yn!”

Heads turn. Conversations pause. A slow wave of curiosity and anticipation ripples through the crowd as people glance around, searching for you.

“There she is!”

A pair of hands grab your wrist before you can even think about running.

Laughter spills around you as you’re dragged through the throng of people, the heat of bodies pressing in from all sides. Your pulse spikes, the alcohol in your system making everything feel sluggish yet sharp all at once—like you’re wading through a dream you can’t control.

They stop right in front of the closet.

Someone swings an arm over your shoulders, grinning.

“Sooo,” they drawl, their voice dripping with mischief, “who’d like to partner up with her?”

A beat of silence follows.

A moment—thick, expectant.

And then—

The crowd parts.

The shift is subtle at first, a presence cutting through the sea of bodies, slow, unhurried, inevitable.

Then you see him.

He steps forward with the kind of effortless confidence that demands attention—shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his fitted black slacks, the faintest smirk curling at his lips.

The room reacts before you do.

A low hum of interest, a few knowing whistles, someone muttering “Oh, shit.”

And God, does he know what he’s doing.

His stride is measured, each step slow and deliberate, the kind that makes you feel like he’s taking his time just to make a statement. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows along his jawline, highlighting the sculpted edges of his face—the messily tousled silver hair, the piercing crimson eyes that lock onto yours like a brand.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t waver.

Just watches you as he approaches, like he’s already decided—like this was never even up for discussion.

Then, finally—

He stops right in front of you.

Too close.

The warmth of him seeps into the space between you, a contrast to the cool scent of his cologne—something crisp, dark, dangerous in a way that makes your stomach twist.

He tilts his head, the movement slow, teasing.

“What?” his voice is smooth, low enough that only you can hear. “Not for me?”

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut—because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

The room erupts around you, people whooping, clapping, some downright losing their minds over the fact that Sylus fucking Qin just stepped forward for this game.

You swallow.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your pulse spikes, heat curling at the edges of your skin—not just from the alcohol, not just from the intensity of his gaze, but from the sheer presence of him.

Your eyes flicker around the room, anxious of all the cheering going on. Though, it lands on her. On MC.

Your breath catches.

She is staring. Not laughing. Not cheering like the others.

And for the first time tonight, she looks shocked.

Like this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Like this wasn’t part of the story she had in her head.

Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your spine.

However, you were quickly pulled out of your daze when someone claps you on the back, pushing you forward.

The crowd cheers louder and the closet door swings open.

Darkness yawns before you.

Sylus steps forward first, his hand brushing against your lower back as he guides you inside. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done this before. Like he’s leading you somewhere only he understands.

The door clicks shut.

And the world is swallowed whole.

The music, the voices, the party—it all fades, muffled by the thick wooden walls, leaving only this.

Only him.

Your breath comes uneven, your pulse a heavy drumbeat in your ears, because suddenly, the space around you feels too small. The darkness presses in from all sides, thick and stifling, and the only thing clouding your senses—

Is him.

Sylus leans back against the door, his presence unshakable, his scent thick in the air.

Woody. Dark. A hint of spice laced with something richer, smokier.

Cigar musk and worn leather. Something dangerously smooth, something that lingers.

You can’t see him, but you feel him.

Feel the warmth of his body just inches away. Feel the gravity of him, the way he takes up space without even trying.

The realization of your positions slams into you, sharp and sudden, sending heat curling through your stomach.

You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go—the closet is too small, too tight, too suffocatingly intimate.

A chuckle. Low, amused, sinful.

“Already nervous?” His voice is pure velvet, thick with the kind of arrogance that makes your stomach tighten.

You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced.

The air between you is loaded, heavy, charged with something you don’t know how to name.

And then—

A shift.

A quiet creak of leather. A faint rustle of fabric.

He moves.

Closer.

You don’t even hear him step forward, don’t see him in the thick darkness—but you feel it. The way the space tightens. The way his heat licks at your skin, close enough to touch.

Close enough that if you just reached out—

A warm breath skims along your jaw.

You freeze.

Not touching. Not yet. But so close it doesn’t even matter.

Your own breath hitches, and that’s when you feel it—

His smirk.

You can’t see it. But you can feel it.

The way the air shifts between you, the way the silence stretches, the way his head tilts just slightly, like he’s waiting.

Like he’s playing with his food.

The muscles in your stomach tighten.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower, more intimate, like a secret meant only for you. “Not used to being this close to me?”

Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms.

And God, you hate him for this.

For the way he gets under your skin without even trying.

For the way he makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous, something uncontrollable, something that might swallow you whole if you let it.

The air between you is charged, electric, the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too hot, too tight.

A low chuckle erupts from his chest, its vibrations reaching yours. He leans down towards your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“Use me.”

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline.

Your breath catches.

A smirk curves against the dark. He knows.

Of course he knows.

“Use me to make him jealous.”

Your stomach tightens, heat spreading through your limbs like liquid fire.

You swallow. “That’s—”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice dips lower, a soft, taunting hum, stepping closer, just enough that you catch the faintest trace of clean linen and something sharp beneath it.

You hate that your pulse spikes.

You hate that he’s right.

You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how effortlessly he peels you open without even touching you.

You part your lips to deny it, but—

“Or,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, voice edged with something wicked, something dangerous, something that makes your knees feel weak—

“If you’d rather make it more interesting…”

A pause. A shift. A fraction of movement, barely there—

But you feel it.

The brush of his breath against your skin, the slow, unbearable closeness.

“…Use me to make her jealous.”

Your breath stutters.

He sees it.

He feels it.

And the slow, lazy smirk that tugs at his lips—it’s lethal.

Like he’s already won.

Like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing.

Like he’s daring you to say yes.

Your fingers curl into fists. Heat rolls beneath your skin, something dangerous, something reckless.

You should tell him to fuck off.

You should shove him away.

You should—

But you don’t.

Because in this moment, in this dark, stifling space—

You don’t know what you want more.

To prove him wrong.

Or to let him be right.

Perhaps it’s the pain you’ve been swallowing for months, the way it’s settled deep in your ribs, pressing against your lungs like a bruise that refuses to fade.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, heavy in your bloodstream, loosening your grip on restraint, making you weak to the things you never let yourself touch.

Or maybe—maybe—it’s the way your stomach twists at the memory of her face.

MC’s wide, stunned eyes. The sharp sting of betrayal flashing across her features.

And as much as you hate it, as much as that look should send you crumbling—

Some twisted part of you puffs.

Some part of you, buried beneath layers of resentment, self-doubt, and the endless role of being cast in the background, thrives on it.

Because for once—for once—she is not the one standing in the center of the world.

For once, you have something she doesn’t.

And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’ll hate yourself for this later.

But right now—right now—

The weight of Sylus’s heat against you, the scent of smoke and clean linen and something sharp curling into your senses, pressing into the empty spaces inside you—

It’s stopping you from thinking straight.

And when his lips part, when his breath brushes over your skin, when the last thread of tension pulls taut between you—

You stop thinking altogether.

Because before you can second-guess yourself—

You grab him.

Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, yanking him down, crashing into him like you’ve lost control of gravity itself.

Heat.

Pressure.

It is all you can feel.

His lips crash against yours, and everything ignites.

Your lips slowly move, and his follow suit. You can feel the smirk on his lips.

That damned smirk.

But your mind is wiped clean as soon as he tilts his head, the kiss turning hungrier. The tension builds, unraveling into something desperate, something heavy, something neither of you have the willpower to stop anymore.

Sylus lets out a low, dark chuckle against your mouth, but you swallow it whole.

He recovers quickly—of course he does—because the moment you give in, he’s already taking.

His hands slam against the wall behind you, pinning you between him and nothing else, his body pressing in, heat bleeding through his clothes and onto your skin.

The kiss is rough, deliberate, his lips moving against yours with slow precision, dragging, teasing, tasting.

Like he’s memorizing you.

Like he’s proving a point.

Your breath shudders when he bites, just enough to sting, just enough to make your knees buckle.

You hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Hate that he’s making you melt so easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, gripping him tight, using it as leverage when you press your body flush against his.

A sharp inhale from him.

A brief pause.

His fingers dive into your hair, twisting, tugging, tilting your head back as his mouth slants over yours, harder this time.

Deeper.

His other hand slides down, skimming over your ribs, tracing heat into your skin through your clothes before settling at your waist.

Firm. Possessive.

You don’t even realize you’ve been backing up until your back hits the closet wall and he presses in, caging you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him.

Your head spins.

The alcohol, the heat, the weight of him—it’s too much. But not enough.

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest when you tug at his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp.

And then, his lips break away from yours—just barely, just enough to breathe against your mouth, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his swollen lips.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he murmurs, voice thick, husky, laced with something dangerous.

You exhale, your own lips tingling, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“Shut up.”

His teeth flash in the dimness, his breath hot against your lips.

Your grip tightens on his shirt, but it does nothing to steady you.

Sylus moves slowly—deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment, like he has all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

His hands dip beneath your shirt, fingers curling against your waist, his touch cool against the heat of your skin.

You shudder, a sharp inhale betraying you as his fingers start to move—slow, teasing strokes, tracing along the sensitive dip of your spine, mapping you out like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.

His mouth hovers just over yours, his breath fanning against your lips, his smirk felt more than seen in the heavy darkness.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice a low hum of amusement, his fingers pressing just slightly harder into your waist.

You bite your lip, hating the way your body responds to him, the way his touch burns through the fabric of your self-control.

“I’m not shaking.”

Sylus laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, his grip flexing slightly—his thumbs skimming just beneath the curve of your ribs, fingertips lingering dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be.

“Sure,” he muses, tilting his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then—he shifts.

A slow, taunting drag of his mouth, skimming along the curve of your jaw, down to the edge of your throat.

You swallow hard, your pulse thundering beneath his lips.

“You still thinking about them?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark, coaxing, his fingers spreading wider, pressing into the dip of your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

The sharp heat of his body bleeds through your clothes, overwhelming, intoxicating, making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

His mouth brushes against your neck—just barely, just enough—and a low, approving hum vibrates from his chest when he feels your breath catch.

“Good,” he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction.

His hands trail higher, warmer, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, his touch searing against your bare skin.

His fingers splay over the curve of your spine, pressing in just enough to make you arch, just enough to remind you that he has full control of this moment.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips grazing against your throat, voice thick with amusement, “when I said to use me…”

His hands continue their slow ascent, fingertips tracing along the delicate line of your ribs, slipping under the thin strap of your bra, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to places that would mean no turning back.

“I was talking about simply making it seem like we did something.”

He pauses.

A teasing smirk curls against your skin.

“Didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”

Your breath stutters.

A sharp mix of heat and indignation surges through you, twisting deep in your stomach, because he’s playing with you.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he loves every second of it.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tighter, a silent warning, a desperate attempt to keep yourself together.

He just chuckles—low, dark, sinful.

“Getting shy now?” His voice is all arrogance, his hands still skimming, still testing, still pushing you to the edge of losing control completely.

You hate him.

God, you hate him.

But you hate yourself more for the way your body leans into him, for the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze your pulse, for the way his heat drowns you whole.

And the worst part?

He knows.

He always knows.

His lips ghost over your skin, the smirk never leaving.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice velvet-smooth, “if I slipped my hands a little lower, would you stop me?”

Your stomach flips.

Your grip tightens.

But you don’t answer.

And that silence is exactly what he needs.

Sylus hums, a low, knowing sound, his fingers tightening against your spine, dragging heat along your skin as they trail downward again—slow, teasing, excruciating.

And then, his lips move, lower—tracing just barely along the column of your throat, hovering, not quite touching, not quite giving in.

“No protest?” His voice is mocking, rich with amusement and something darker, something heavier.

His fingers skim along the waistband of your jeans, just a whisper of pressure, enough to send a jolt through your system, enough to make your nails bite into his shirt, into his skin beneath it.

Your pulse hammers, every muscle in your body coiled so tightly you swear you might snap.

His breath brushes against your ear, soft, deliberate, taunting.

“Still not stopping me?”

You should.

You should.

But your body betrays you, tilting into his touch, into his heat, into the danger of him.

Sylus hums, a deep, satisfied sound, his fingers hooking onto the waistband of your jeans—

A knock shatters the daze you were in.

Loud. Sharp.

The closet door rattles slightly.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” someone calls, muffled through the wood.

Everything freezes.

Your breath catches.

Sylus doesn’t move, not immediately.

For a long, tense second, his fingers linger—just barely pressing into your skin, his body still flush against yours, his lips hovering just over your jaw.

Though slowly, deliberately, devastatingly—he pulls back.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

Just enough to make you ache from the loss.

Sylus stretches, rolling his shoulders lazily before throwing you a look that’s pure, wicked satisfaction. He runs his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s still tasting you there.

The door finally swings open, and light floods in.

His voice is low, smooth as silk, but dripping with mocking amusement, he whispers before he steps out of the closet—

“Shame. I was just getting started.”

What if reader accidentally got pregnant with Harvick? Of course she was on time with taking the birth control, but this one time seems like it didnt work. And maybe he sniffs it out before she even starts to have the symptoms

Let's say this happens a few years after the pregnant reader fic.

When your period is a few days late, you don't think much of it. After all, you're busy taking care of your squirrelly three-year-old who grows more and more like his stepfather each day. Harvick is the best dad you could have hoped for and treats your child like his very own, taking him out to explore nature, reading him bedtime stories and playing with him to give you time to yourself.

One morning when they are at the store buying groceries, you fix yourself a sandwich and have to run to the bathroom to throw up because of the scent of fried eggs. The possibility that you're pregnant occurs to you then. Oh god. Did you forget to take your birth control? It's safe to say your day is ruined after that. You're going to have to tell Harvick sooner than later, but you decide to wait a little, just to make sure it's not a fluke.

You're definitely pregnant, and it hits you fast. You find yourself wondering if Harvick already knows. Is he acting more cuddly and touching your belly often? Is he being more gentle than usual when you make love because he knows?

One night you're out on a date (with your son staying with your mother for the night) when you drop your fork on the floor and it makes you burst into hormone-induced tears. Harvick takes you back to the car and you blurt out the truth. He starts to laugh, something he does when he's nervous, and you quickly go from tears to annoyed confusion. He soothes you with a gentle kiss.

"I've known for a few weeks, my love, but I didn't know how to tell you. It was driving me crazy."

"You knew before me? But it's so early, I just found out myself," you reply, and then you remember that he's a shifter. He can probably smell the change in your scent.

"I didn't want to scare you," he says softly, his gaze dropping to your belly.

"What do we do?" You ask, because even though he's never voiced it, you know he's unsure of you carrying his cub.

"Whatever you want, my love." He cups your cheek.

"Do you want this baby?"

"More than anything in the world," he says, reaching out to place his warm palm against your belly.

It's too early to feel anything yet, but his eyes glow with warmth. You're out of your seat before you know it, clambering into his lap. Uncomfortable car sex be damned, you need him now.

As it turns out, carrying a shifter baby is like a normal pregnancy on steriods. Harvick has always been the one with a lot of stamina in bed, but you're the one seeking him out multiple times a day now, sneaking in little fuck sessions whenever you can manage. Harvick spends the rest of his free time redecorating the nursery for the little one on the way, and you watch movies and cuddle as a family and talk to your baby bump as it swells.

Harvick is vigilant about seeing the doctor frequently to make sure everything is going well and a few months in, you find out you're having a girl.

@idle-monsters

Your face is buried in the sheets, mouth open and drooling, while Caleb destroys you from behind like he’s got something to prove. His grip on your hips is savage, nails digging into your skin with every ruthless thrust that makes your ass jiggle and your legs go numb. He’s not speaking—he’s growling, low and guttural, the sound of a man obsessed, drunk off the way your cunt clenches around him.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, sweat dripping down his neck as he slams into you again, rough and deep enough to punch the air out of your lungs. “You hear that? That wet, messy sound? That’s you.” He yanks you back by the hair, arching your back until your spine aches. “So fucking loud, you little whore. Bet you’d cum just from being filled like this.”

You're drooling on yourself, brain mush, throat raw from moaning his name so many times it barely sounds human anymore. Caleb shoves two fingers into your mouth anyway, forcing your jaw open wider. “Suck,” he commands, eyes dark with something feral. “Gag on them if you can’t shut the fuck up.”

You choke, spit coating his fingers and running down your chin, and he laughs—low and mean, loving every second. “Look at you. Ruined. Fucking dripping. You were made for this—made to take my cock.”

Then he spits on your hole just to watch it mix with the slick already smeared across your thighs, and slams into you again, making your whole body jolt.

“Gonna breed you,” he mutters, drunk on the feel of you. “Pump you so full, you won’t know if you’re crying or cumming. Keep you stuffed for hours—days—fuck, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper, and Caleb’s already pounding into you again, faster now—ruthless, punishing. His hips slap against your ass in a wet, obscene rhythm, and every time he hits that spot, your body convulses around him like it’s trying to milk him dry.

“Cumming again?” he sneers, not slowing down even when you tremble under him. “Yeah, take it. Cum for me. Make a mess.”

When he finally releases inside you, it’s with a deep, vicious grunt—burying himself to the hilt and holding you there, shaking, while thick warmth floods your insides. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t soften.

He just keeps moving.

“Did I say I was done?”

Double ace – Goshiki x reader wc 946 – f!reader, brother!Ushijima

“Have you seen my sister?” Ushijima’s voice boomed from right beside him. Goshiki screeched and jumped in fright, looking completely dumbfounded at the question.

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her?”

Goshiki gulped, glancing at Tendo, who was watching the interaction with curiosity. “She seems very nice. She’s good at… math?”

“You are right. She is quite capable.”

Goshiki let out an awkward chuckle and attempted to escape when Ushijima kept talking.

“And her looks. Would you say she’s your type?”

His jaw dropped. Goshiki could feel his legs were slightly shaky, wondering if this might be a trick question. “My… type?”

He thanked whoever was watching over him for Washijo ending their chatter there, yelling for them to get back to their training.

What has gotten into Ushijima?

Tendo was quite interested in this development. He kept glancing at his best friend as they left the locker rooms and headed back to their dorms for the night.

“How’s your sister doing, Toshi?” he asked, watching as Ushijima was brought back from whatever thoughts were plaguing him.

“She is doing very well. I’m certain the girl’s team will go to nationals with that new setter,” he informed the redhead. Tendo was happy to hear his friend’s sister was growing into a capable ace as well, but that wasn’t exactly what he meant.

“That’s good. I was wondering more along the lines of her love life.”

Ushijima’s eyebrows furrowed, and he stopped walking, reaching out so Tendo would stop too. “You must keep this between us, but I need your help in a serious matter.”

Tendo’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward as if shortening the distance that the secret would have to travel. “Oh?”

“Y/n has a crush on Goshiki.”

Tendo gasped as if that wasn’t his top theory already. “Young love! I’m invested.”

And so the two third years spent the rest of the evening plotting their strategy.

How did Wakatoshi find out about your huge crush on Goshiki Tsutomu, you might ask?

It was entirely his fault. You couldn’t have known he would be walking past your room at the exact moment you were on the phone with a friend, telling her about how good Goshiki looked in their latest game.

Your brother had stopped walking, glitching as if trying to decide to acknowledge it or forget he heard it. But you’re an amazing sister, and he wanted to help you win over his teammate.

Operation y/n x Tsutomu was afoot.

After recruiting Tendo to the operation, one could find the redhead and his best friend looking around the corner where you’re talking to Goshiki by the vending machine. Of course they orchestrated this, asking Goshiki to get them something at the same time they saw you walking over there, only to be awarded with the two of you trying not to make eye contact while your cheeks flushed red even though you barely talked.

They might need to reach for stronger measures.

Goshiki was wary around Ushijima lately, shoulders hunched the second he walked into the gym in case he would be chased with questions about you again. He forgot he should be wary of the other one, too.

“Tsutsu,” Tendo cooed, ruffling his hair from its perfect styling. “How do you feel about a bet for today’s practice?”

“A bet?”

“If you get more points than Toshi in the first practice game, you have to ask out his sister.”

The first-year tripped over his feet, saved only by Tendo’s quick reflexes. “A-ask her out?”

“You two should totally date; your kids would be double aces.” Goshiki squeaked in horror.

“Kids?!”

“Sorry, I got ahead of myself. But we’re on, right?”

And Goshiki shook his hand on it without even thinking too much because at least he would never win-

He was dumbfounded as Tendo stood completely still on the other side of the net, making no attempt at blocking Goshiki’s spike for the two-on-two. Additionally, Ushijima didn’t even try to receive it, simply pretending to look at the clock instead.

“First point! Good job, Tsutsu.”

He won. Tendo and Ushijima droned out all of Washijo’s yelling for them to cut it out and forced Goshiki into a win. Now he had to… ask you out?!

His hands were shaking as he rounded the corner, finding you talking to a friend by the lockers.

“Y/n,” he greeted, clearing his throat after his voice cracked. “I wanted to ask you something.”

In true teenage boy style, he glanced at your friend as if hinting for her to leave. You told her you’d talk at lunch and grabbed Goshiki’s arm, pulling him down the hall to find some privacy.

“Okay, what’s up?”

Now that he had you so close, he noticed how pretty your eyes were. How kind your smile was, like he wouldn’t have to exert himself to deserve your kindness. Ushijima knew about your crush. However, he didn’t know Goshiki had liked you for longer than that but never found the guts to talk to you before Operation y/n x Tsutomu.

“I would love to have lunch together. Sometime. Maybe this week even.” His hands were behind his back, and he did his best to put on a brave face.

“That sounds great! Is tomorrow too soon? I don’t usually do much for lunch.”

“Tomorrow! Yes!” Goshiki wasn’t sure how a conversation like this should end, but he was so happy that he just squeezed you into an awkward hug, loving the way your giggle felt against his chest.

Ushijima and Tendo shared a fist bump from their hiding spot (standing ominously behind objects that definitely weren’t hiding them).

masterlist

requested by @dira333 for my event, anything for you <3

Your relationship with Sukuna was on its last legs. You tried to make things work, but he was as difficult as it could get, and mean. After a particularly terrible fight, the two of you made up, and you began to hope again. Later that night, his friends called, inviting him to the club. You told him you weren’t comfortable with it. He agreed to stay, even tucking you into bed.

But once you fell asleep, he snuck out.

Things went downhill from there.

Sukuna and his friends drank heavily, and soon he was caught up in the chaos—laughing, dancing, and losing control. While you slept, his friends began posting videos online: Sukuna receiving a lap dance, drunk and kissing another girl, clearly high and out of his mind.

When you woke up, you reached over to find his side of the bed cold and empty. You thought he had left early for work. But then your phone started blowing up with messages from friends and strangers alike. Your heart pounded as you unlocked it and opened Instagram, only to see the posts.

One after another, each post felt like a knife to your chest—Sukuna smiling lazily, his hands on another woman, his lips brushing hers. You could see the flashing lights, hear the blaring music, and feel the sting of betrayal in every picture and clip. Your fingers trembled, and your vision blurred with tears as you watched in disbelief.

The room felt like it was spinning. You tried to steady yourself, but the weight of it all was crushing. How could he do this to you, especially after you had been so open, so vulnerable about your feelings? After he had promised to stay?

You had told him, in the heat of making up, that this was his last chance. You were clear: if he messed up again, you were packing your things and going back to the States. He had looked you in the eyes and promised. And yet, he still went and did this.

Meanwhile, Sukuna was still sleeping, his head pounding and the room spinning. He didn’t remember a damned thing the night before. He remembered sneaking out, thinking he’d make it back before sunrise, slip back into bed, and act like nothing happened. You were just being too dramatic, he thought. You’d told him how you didn’t like his friends, that they hated you and were trying to break the two of you up. He’d laughed it off as paranoia. Crazy talk.

He vaguely remembered drinking a shot—just one—and after that, things got hazy. He didn’t believe for a second that his friends would spike his drink.

No, they’d never do that… right?

But now, as he blinked his eyes open, he realized something was very wrong. Next to him was a woman he didn’t recognize, definitely not you. The sunlight was streaming through the window, and panic shot through his body like a jolt of electricity. His heart raced as he sat up, the events of the night before still a foggy blur.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered under his breath, his mind starting to piece together the fragments. You two had just made up—how could he have been so reckless?

Sukuna fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking. The screen lit up, showing the time: 12:46. His heart sank even further. He really had messed up this time. The battery was about to die, a thin red line warning him he had little time left. He glanced around, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar room.

What confused him most was that he was still in his clothes from the night before. A small relief—at least he hadn’t slept with the woman next to him. But that didn’t matter much, did it? He was still in bed with another woman, a stranger, and that alone was enough to shatter whatever trust you had left in him.

His head throbbed with a dull, pounding pain, a mix of alcohol and regret. He desperately needed water, but his feet felt glued to the floor. As he forced himself to sit up, the room seemed to spin around him. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the fog of the hangover, but his mind remained a jumbled mess.

He checked his phone again, scrolling through the flood of messages, but your name wasn’t among them. No missed calls, no texts, no messages. Just silence.

It took you two hours to get yourself to function properly. When something traumatic happened, you had this tendency to just shut down. No crying, no shouting—just silence. You couldn’t even talk right now. You sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall, your mind numb. The pain was so immense that it felt like nothing at all, a hollow void where your heart should be.

Slowly, you got up, moving like you were underwater, every step heavy and disjointed. You made your way to the bedroom closet and grabbed a suitcase, your hands moving on autopilot. You began packing everything you owned in this place, methodically folding clothes, stacking books, gathering small, personal items that had once made this space feel like home. Now, every object felt like a weight dragging you down.

You didn’t remember much from those moments, only flashes of despair and confusion. Your mind was clouded, a fog of grief settling over you. All you knew was that you wanted to disappear, to somehow escape the unbearable ache in your chest.

How could this happen? Why? The questions repeated in your mind, over and over, like a broken record. Were you not enough? Was he cheating this whole time?

Your thoughts spiraled into a dark place, each one more suffocating than the last. The silence of the room pressed in around you, amplifying every doubt, every fear. You felt lost in a sea of uncertainty, desperately searching for something to hold onto, but finding nothing but emptiness.

You paused for a moment, standing still in the middle of the room, clutching a shirt to your chest. You wanted to scream, to cry, to do anything, but no sound came out. All that filled you was a deep, aching void that left you feeling more alone than ever before.

Just as you finished packing, the door opened, but you didn't flinch. Your fingers continued scrolling through your phone, searching for flight tickets. You didn’t care where it would take you—anywhere but here.

Sukuna stepped inside, his expression a mix of confusion and panic. You didn’t look up. Your face remained calm, almost eerily so, as if you were in a trance. You kept scrolling, your focus entirely on the screen, like it was the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice tight with panic. But you said nothing.

Your face was expressionless, your eyes fixed on your phone. He moved closer, desperate now. “Please,” he continued, “can’t we just… talk?”

Finally, you paused, letting out a slow, controlled breath. But you didn’t look at him. Your silence was deafening, more unnerving than any yelling or screaming could have been.

He swallowed hard, sensing the change, feeling the weight of your silence pressing down on him. “I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he tried again. "I don’t even remember what happened. I think I was drugged or something..." His voice grew softer, almost pleading now.

You continued to tap the screen, the sound of your fingers the only noise in the room. You found a flight and pressed "book," moving methodically, as if this was just another task on a list. Your calmness was unnerving, like the quiet before a storm.

“Y/N… please,” Sukuna whispered, taking another step forward, but your detachment made him falter.

You finally glanced up at him, your expression unreadable, your voice steady and calm. “I'm leaving,” you said quietly, as if stating a simple fact.

He blinked, stunned by the flatness of your tone. There was no anger, no emotion—just a cold, stark finality. “But… we can work this out,” he stammered, “right?”

You looked back at your phone, as if he were no longer even there. You were done listening, done hoping, done believing. His words were just noise now, meaningless in the face of everything he had broken.

Sukuna was a big man, another reason you had fallen in love with him. Being with him had made you feel so safe, so happy. But when you reached for your suitcase, he finally broke.

He snatched it out of your hand. "No, no, you're not leaving me," he insisted, his voice frantic. "Look, please just listen. I know I lied to you and snuck out, but I swear I would never cheat on you."

You stood still, watching him, his large frame towering over you, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. But your heart felt like ice. You could see the panic in his eyes, hear the tremor in his voice, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

His hands gripped the suitcase so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Please," he begged again, "just… don’t go."

For a moment, you almost felt something—a flicker of the love you used to feel. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “Let go,” your voice is calm and steady.

“No, look, I would do anything,” he blurted out, his voice rising with desperation. “Okay, I see now why you don’t like my friends. I’ll cut them out. I won’t ever talk to another girl again. Just… anything. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Please.”

He was a mess, still hungover, his head pounding, his hands trembling. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to keep it together, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looked so close to breaking down completely.

Why did he make this mistake? Why did he let himself slip up so badly? You had given him a chance, and he had blown it in mere hours. The realization seemed to dawn on him, his face twisting with guilt and regret. His shoulders sagged, and his voice broke. "I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered, his tone raw with fear.

But it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever he was offering now felt hollow, too little, too late. Your heart felt heavy, but your mind was made up.

"Let go," you repeated, firmer this time, your eyes locking onto his.

Sukuna's hand fell away from the suitcase as if it weighed a ton, his breath hitching. He wanted to fight, to argue, but the defeat in your eyes left him lost. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, his voice almost inaudible, choking on his own words.

But all you did was nod, a small, almost imperceptible nod, and turn toward the door.

He stood there, his whole world crumbling, as you walked away.

Sukuna having no clue on how to propose so you just randomly wake up one day with an engagement ring on your finger.

And you're just so confused and panicking and when Sukuna wakes up next to you and grumbles "You're being too loud, wife-to-be." you are even more thrown off.

"T-This isn't how you're supposed to do it!"

"And if I did it any other way, you would have still said yes."

"Well... yes. But that's not that point—!"

You can never win against this guy.

Rotten Apples

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

part two , part three , part four , part five , part six , part seven , part eight , part nine , part ten

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you've always hated her. you live your life free from her and caleb. a stranger helps save you from a date gone wrong.

word count: 5.1k words

warnings: extreme loathing, kinda funny, kinda sad, a good mix of everything! mentions of death. not proofread!

author's note: hi! this is my first lads fic! it's lowkey a mess and is all over the place, but that's okay! i hope you all enjoy! <33 please feel free to comment! i love any & all feedback! <33

edit: part 2 will be coming soon! thank you for all the love on this! i love & appreciate every single one of you!

You never thought yourself to be a hateful person, but whenever you saw Caleb with her, your heart boiled. His smile was always the brightest with her. He always handed her the first water bottle after a run around the neighborhood. His eyes were always on her and not you during study hall. They shared giggles with one another and you were the last to know the joke as you filled out blank homework pages. Whenever she walked into a room, he jumped to her side and aided her with whatever it is she needed.

And she always needed something.

Your friendship with Caleb and the girl you deemed a she-devil blossomed from a young age, having been next-door neighbors with Josephine. You are older than her yet still a few months younger than Caleb, which meant that the two of you had to look out for her.

She was naive in many ways. She always trusts people too easily and is quick to help, not knowing that the world is cruel and is out to hurt her. It’s something you and Caleb bonded over; taking care of her was something you had in common with him alongside planes, absolutely loving apple pie, and always wanting to be the last one tagged during recess.

However, those childhood days have long passed and you’ve settled into a draining routine where you played a background character in someone else’s life.

When you and Caleb reached freshman year of high school, you were sure that he was going to ask you to be his date to the homecoming dance. Instead, you were surprised with the revelation that he was going to stay home and have a movie night with her since she wasn’t in high school yet.

Despite his compliments about your dress, he snuck back inside his house when you asked him if he needed a ride to the dance. She was waving him back inside in the background and he couldn’t have been happier to watch My Little Pony or whatever bullshit she had lined up.

You basked in his frequent compliments when he met you outside your home, when she wasn’t around. Caleb always knew what to say when you had a saddened frown on your face.

“Did James turn you down? I thought he liked you! You’re a catch!” Caleb’s warm words reached your ears and made the butterflies in your stomach flutter. At least he knew then that you were worthwhile. If only he wasn’t so blind to what you had to offer to him.

At least you had a year of high school alone with him. You two even shared a few classes together and had planned study nights to prepare for final exams! Huddled at the desk in his room, you could smell the sweet apple scent of his shampoo and were able to hear through raspiness of his chuckle right next to your ear.

It was fun until she came inside his room, claiming that she wanted to help you two study. That plan lasted for about ten minutes before she whined and complained that she wanted to watch her and Caleb’s favorite show. That night ended up with her snuggled into his side while he stroked her hair. You held the chip bowl, not by choice, and watched as your crush on the boy next door began to deteriorate.

When she finally joined your and Caleb’s high school, you bit your tongue and held back the deplorable comments that shuffled through your mind about his so called beloved. You even held back comments to your new friends about his relationship with her. You knew that if you ever said anything bad about her, he’d come to her defense and shun you for what you’ve said.

It never mattered how you felt. It didn’t matter if you were having a bad day or had just embarrassed yourself in front of your entire gym class when Becky threw a ball right at your face. His attention will forever be owned by her. You’ll never get to know how it feels to always be under his cautious gaze nor will you ever be a recipient of his charming smile.

Truth is, you used to be friends with them. The perpetual third wheel to all of their escapades and adventures. You used to be close to them but as time moved on, they grew closer together and you, well, just didn’t fit into their equation anymore. The funny thing is that they have no clue of their wrongdoing towards you nor did they realize that you had left their group entirely after months of sitting in your room, filled with nothing but discontent as you scrolled through their posted selfies together.

You thought you set yourself free from them. It’s better to watch from afar instead of up close, no? It spares you more heartbreak and it, very selfishly, keeps you away from her.

You can stay away from her smiles. Her laughter. The way her dark hair falls into the perfect messy bun while yours just looks plain erratic. Not to mention the way her hands always lingered on him while you watched, helpless from the other side of the lunch table.

And you can finally break free from that stupid nickname he has for her.

“Hey!” You hear a friend’s voice from over your shoulder. You turn and smile at them, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Are you ready for the game against the Rams tonight? I heard you’re starting!”

Before you can reply, you hear a thud behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you notice that Caleb leans against the metal lockers. His arms are crossed over his chest and he wears that stupidly charming  grin on his face.

“You have a game tonight? Why didn’t you tell us?” He asks. Her smile falters.

Us. That damned word.

“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, placing your leftover books inside the locker. “You two are usually busy anyways doing…whatever…so it wouldn’t have mattered if you knew or not.”

Okay, maybe there is some venom in your tone and malice in the way you throw your books into your locker. To be fair, you’re so fed up with them ghosting you and never showing up to your games that you can’t help but let some of your anger out.

“Woah!” Caleb pushes off the locker and holds his hands in the air. You roll your eyes and slam the locker shut, walking away. He quickly follows and matches your hellish pace. “What’s wrong? You’ve been so distant lately. Me and—”

“Don’t,” you bark. The two of you pause in the middle of the hallway, your eyes locked on his in a heated glare. “How long do you think it’s been since I’ve hung out with you two?”

A look of confusion flashes across his face. You have to stop yourself from looking at the way his face scrunches up, the way his tongue pokes about between his lips while he thinks.

“Hm…like a month?” Caleb’s words are genuine, you know that, but it shatters your heart to know that he doesn’t even realize it’s almost been a year since you two hung out, let alone were in a room together.

“A month?!” You scoff and look away. A laugh filled with disdain and shock escapes your lips. Your hands drop to your side, tightly balled into fists, as anger washes throughout your body. “Caleb, be real with me right now. Do you truly think it’s been a month?”

You want to give him a chance to redeem himself, for him to own up to the mistake he’s made. Everyone deserves a second chance, right?

“I do, yes…” he wearily says. Your nostrils flare, cheeks heating with irritation.

“Hey guys!” Her cheerful tone scratches the inside of your brain. You sharply inhale and close your eyes just to open them to the side of her attaching herself to his side. “Are you okay? You look angry,” she remarks and gently places her hand on your shoulder. You immediately slap it away. The tips of your fingers tingle from the smack.

“Hey! What was that for?” Caleb steps in front of her, pushing the teen girl behind him.

You cross your arms over your chest, eyes narrowing up at Caleb, who guards her from you.

“Just fuck off and leave me alone!” You snap, pushing past them, your shoulder bumping into Caleb’s bicep. 

“Wait!” Caleb’s voice rings in your ears. A flash of hope makes your heart flutter.

Is he going to chase after you? Will he finally ditch her and see how you’re feeling for a change? Will the old Caleb come back, the one that actually cared about you and your feelings?

Your feet hesitate, pace drastically slowly, still in earshot of the other two’s conversation. You can hear his footsteps coming after you, going from slow to quick, but they suddenly stop.

“She isn’t worth it, Caleb,” her voice shoots any semblance of hope you felt, ripping your heart into shreds. “She’s so mean…she doesn’t deserve your care.”

The hallway in front of you turns glossy. You use the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that brew in your eyes. Your once reluctant pace hastens and you disappear down the hallway, becoming just another face in the crowd.

The year passed and you graduated with a new group of friends; friends that welcomed and invited you with open arms. Your camera roll was no longer sad, filled with empty selfies with her and Caleb not paying attention in the background, shifting to group photos and friends completing the other side of your hand heart. It filled your heart with the joy and happiness that your previous friendships lacked.

And most importantly of all: you were completely over Caleb and didn’t have to spend any more time around her. It’s a relief for you, really, and you’re able to go to the college of your dreams and pursue the career you wanted. 

The saddened memories no longer pained you. They no longer dug into your skin. Instead, you planted them into the soil of your mind, using the special fertilizer (the special ingredient being resent), and grew from them.

So what if they wronged you? You were now free and didn’t owe either of them a damn thing! That is, until Caleb died.

The news nearly broke you. Your mother informed you of the news when you came home for a visit. You were on a much needed break from work and were looking for a chance to relax. Your time of relaxation was quickly turned inside out.

You became a shell of yourself, the last memory of Caleb haunting your mind as you holed up in bed, covers covering the entirety of your body with a small hole for clean and cool breathing air. Your cheeks became perpetually stained with tears, becoming sticky in your sleep before the cycle started all over again.

The day of his funeral was unnecessarily rough. Your mother had to drag you out of bed and help you into the shower, the hot water turning cold from the amount of time you stood there. Once you stepped out, body trembling from the cold air, you stared at the black dress that was laid out across your bed.

It was simple. It stopped mid-thigh and the sleeves ran long down your arms. You paired it nicely with tights from high school, a pair that Caleb complimented you on, and a pair of simple booties.

She was the center of attention, of course, there was no doubt about that. The ache in your chest left you feeling conflicted. She sat alone, head hung low, as people walked by, chuckling as if they weren’t at a funeral reception.

You almost felt bad for her and the way her mascara streaked down her cheeks. She clung to a piece of metal in her hand, occasionally bringing it up to her lips to kiss it.

The distance between the two of you felt like a game of cat and mouse. She took one step forward, you took one back. She entered the hallway you found recluse in, you made sure that there was room in the closet for you to hide in.

You thought that you were able to slip out unnoticed until she called out your name.

“Hi…” your voice falls off. Her fists are balled at her sides, knuckles white.

“What are you doing here?” Her words are sharp, effortlessly slicing into you. “I thought you hated him.”

“I could never hate him…” the words barely come out, just above a meek whisper. She doesn’t say anything else. All she does is stare at you with her heartbroken expression, eyes strained and red from the sobs she let out earlier.

A part of your heart broke for her. The other part remained emotionless, knowing how she tormented you in your younger years by dangling Caleb in front of your face. It tormented you to know that you could still hold a sliver of resentment in your heart for something that happened so long ago. You quietly left, leaving her alone in the hallway, disappearing behind a familiar turn.

A year passes. The hatred you held in your heart has dissipated. You’ve watered the flowers you planted in your mind and the petals read off messages of forgiveness and second chances, even though you made sure to never run into her ever again.

Some people can forgive and forget, but you’ll be sure to forgive and keep a distance.

Skyhaven isn’t too bad of a home. Sure, there’s barely any trace of organic life throughout the city, except for the token tree the mayor decided to add about two months ago, but it’s a nice place to live. You’ve made yourself comfortable. The nightlife is great and the rain is even better. You even made some friends at your job and have gone out on a date or two with a guy who is very attentive.

But none of them are Caleb.

You stare at yourself in the cafe mirror, shaking your head. You fix your disheveled hair, wondering how you managed to spend the last ten minutes digging up the past when you’re on a date with a very cute guy. You bite your lip and tweak the last details of your outfit, flattening out a wrinkle in your skirt.

Pushing the bathroom door open, you glide down the hallway, smiling at the other customers who pass by. You can finally go back to…what’s his name again?

Jared? Clyde? Marc, who always emphasizes that there’s a ‘C’ at the end of his name instead of a ‘K’?

You clap your hands together when the name comes back to you. He jumps in his seat, his eyes closing in on you when you sit down. His smile is a little too goofy, missing out on any kind of charm that he can capitalize on, and you can’t help but watch out of the lower half of your vision as he itches his crotch.

“Thanks for waiting for me, George,” a warm smile spreads across your lips. He matches it and leans forward, pushing a colorful mug in your direction. You watch it closely before drawing it closer to you. You don’t take a sip, though, instead letting the whipped cream on top of the coffee melt. You sigh.

You don’t even liked whipped cream on your coffee. You know who would have remembered that?

“It was no problem at all!” George proudly proclaims. His chair scraps across the wooden floor. He inches closer and closer towards you in an attempt to close the distance but you scoot away from him, keeping a pleased smile on your face.

“So, what were you saying you do for a job?” Your question goes straight to his head. Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you refrain from interrupting him about his long ramble about how he works as a “video game consultant” at a local game store.

The conversation is so painful to sit through. You glance between his beady gaze and the clock on the wall behind him. The ticking hands somehow move slower when he dives into his day to day routine. Maybe the whipped cream isn’t as bad as you previously thought.

An hour goes by and you have barely been able to get a word in. Mugs form into a half-circle in front of you. Your leg bounces up and down, hands jittery. Even your blinking is rapid as you solely stare at the clock.

“That’s enough about me. Tell me about yourself,” George grabs his glass. He ordered a cream soda at the beginning of the date but the cream separated from the colorful soda water, forming into chunky clouds.

“You know what,” you breathe out in a laugh, signaling over your shoulder to the door, “it’s getting late. I have an early start tomorrow so I should get going.” You stand from the chair and snatch your tiny purse from the seat beside you.

The cafe is practically empty now and the sun has set hours ago. You rush towards the exit, the route to the door feeling like it never ends as Greg — oh shit, George! — chases after you. 

The Skyhaven night is nice and crisp. The rain isn’t as hard tonight, just a mere sprinkle, and you rush out into the open, taking a deep breath. The chilled air fills your burning lungs and you’re able to breathe again, that is, until George grabs your hand. You gasp and snatch it back from him.

The raindrops lightly kiss your face but George’s sickening smile makes you want to hurl. He creeps towards you, the moon shining just bright enough for you to see the darkness form in his eyes.

“I have to get home, George!” You nervously chuckle, turning away. You rush towards the nearest bus stop, knowing that there will be other people there to take refuge with. George doesn’t let up though and his movements become more primal and animalistic as the seconds tick by.

“Come on, sweetheart,” George beckons from behind. You can hear his ragged breath from behind you grow close. You brace your body for impact…but nothing comes. Instead, you hear a struggle from behind. You swirl on your heels and stare at the scene behind you.

A tall man pushes George away from you. The moonlight reflects off of the shine of his coat, the top of his hat deflecting the light raindrops. You stagger backward, heart racing inside your chest, as George crumbles to the ground, a blur of red, grey, and blue pushing down on the man.

“She said she’s going home,” the voice growls. It itches the back of your mind, calling to you like a faint memory. “Leave. Or I’ll crush you right here and now.”

The voice beckons to you from the back of your mind, putting it at ease. The voice calls out your name followed by a throaty chuckle. It asks you how you’re doing, if you need help with that week’s math homework. You can also hear his voice apologize to you for forgetting about your plans to go to the movies with your group of friends, making some excuse that she got locked in the attic and needed rescuing.

The moonlight turns dark, the floating rock covered by a cloud, as the figure slowly approaches you. The once soft droplets of rain evolve into hardened projectiles, the wind picking up from all around you. With the weather matching your quickly escalating mood, you march through the rain, the phantom chasing after you.

“Hey! You’re getting soaked!” His voice calls from behind. You pay no attention to it.

The voice sounds exactly like a dead man! A person who is resting in peace six feet under and couldn’t possibly be here in Skyhaven.

You reach the bus stop and hide under the small covering, the rain pounding against the top, rolling off the sides. You hold your arms to yourself and your teeth clatter on the inside of your mouth. You have to tell yourself to not look at the man beside you.

Stranger danger, after all.

“Why are you ignoring me?” The man asks. It’s just the two of you at the bus stop. The stop’s light flickers, adding to the already ominous feeling that forms deep inside your chest. You hug your arms to your body, providing the only warmth in this cold night. “Oh, I get it. You’re mad at me.”

“I don’t even know who you are!” You retort rather quickly, finally looking up at the man.

You gasp and stumble backward. He quickly reaches for you, his large, warm hands gripping your waist, stabilizing you.

He looks down at you with an irresistible and charming smile. His purple eyes seem to glow under the dim lighting. He wears a black and orange rain jacket, black baseball cap sitting on his head. He cocks his head to the side, gaze drifting to memorize your face.

Nausea sweeps over your body. You tear your gaze off of the phantom before you. The cold air pricks the inside of your lungs, rapidly moving in and out of your system.

This can’t be real, right? He cannot possibly be standing in front of you, alive and well, with that damn smile on his face. A single tear rolls down your cheek, your lips parted. Your breath flows out of your mouth in gentle plumes of steam.

“Caleb?” Your voice falters. He chuckles, smoothing down your frizzy hair.

“The one and only! C’mon, you can say it: you missed me!”

You reach out, grabbing his arms, squeezing him. His brows furrow, eyes training themselves on your hands as you poke and prod various parts of his body. You grab his cheeks, pulling on them before squishing his face. He gently takes your hands into his, moving your hands away from his face.

“You done yet?”

“You’re alive!”

“I am well aware of that, yes.” His laugh fills your ears and your heart swells.

Even after all these years of forgetting Caleb, you still end up swooning for him the moment he saves you from Landon.

Or was it David? Eh. It doesn’t really matter.

“How…what…” you stammer, unable to form a cohesive and coherent sentence. Caleb sighs and takes your hand. He flattens your palm against his chest.

How heartbeat is slow and steady…it’s there. You gasp, bottom lip trembling, legs slowly becoming jelly.

Tears freely flow down your face as the realization of his existence sets in.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

He’s breathing.

His last memory of you isn’t you ending your friendship and avoiding him for the rest of your senior year of high school.

You collapse to your knees, hand digging into your chest. A sharp pain slices into your chest as your fingernails dig into your skin in an attempt to grab your heart and to scream at it to calm down. The pounds from your heart makes your ears ring, drowning out the endless pitter patter of rain. Even your lungs feel as if they are on fire, unable to suck in and inhale the oxygen that you need to survive.

Your eyes open and Caleb’s face is right in front of yours. You can hear him speak but cannot make out a single word that he says. He gently helps you back to your feet.

“Take it easy,” his words seep through the sound of your heartbeat, “breathe.”

His hand slides to the back of your neck, warming your body, and his thumb gently grazes the side of your neck. You inhale through your nose, holding it for a few seconds before slowly exhaling until all of the air is out of your lungs.

“Does she know?” the question pops out of your mouth before you can stop it.

How could you even ask that at a time like this? You should be seeing if he’s okay! If he’s in any sort of trouble that you can help get him out of.

Did he fake his death? Has he been alive this whole time? When was he going to come see you?

Caleb sharply inhales through gritted teeth, pulling away from your face. You watch him closely, bottom lip trembling.

You know. You know the answer.

Of course she knew before you! She is his beloved, the one person he will spend the rest of his life with. It’s laughable to even think that you stood a chance against her.

“Actually,” you interrupt him, covering his mouth, “don’t answer that. I really don’t want to know.” Even though every fiber of your being screamed blood murder at you to figure it out.

Is he dating her? Has he ditched her for good? HAs Caleb finally come to the realization that she isn’t some angel that came down from the heavens.

His purple eyes blink at you, perplexed by your actions. Caleb speaks into your hand but his voice is a mere muffle. You sigh and look out at the pouring rain.

You need to get home.

You need to get home and get away from him.

You need to relieve yourself of any memory, item, or scent that can remind you of him because, well, he clearly isn’t yours to have.

If you stay any longer, you’re going to end up crying in the rain, unloading all of your emotions onto him. And Caleb, who has risen from dead, doesn’t deserve to hear any of it. He’s innocent in all of this and no matter how angry and resentful you can feel towards him, you’ll never be able to hold it against him.

“Get home safe, Caleb,” you breathe the words out, slowly releasing your hand from his mouth.

You push away from him and bare the thundering rain on your own, hugging your jacket to your body. You sprint across the street, desperately needing to get away from him.

Caleb watches you with wide eyes, captivated by the woman you’ve become.

You’ve lost all the baby fat in your cheeks. Your hair is longer and is styled to perfection.

You’re bolder. Funnier, even, whether it’s intentional or not. Caleb laughed at your jokes in the cafe, particularly the ones that George didn’t find funny.

Whatever. He’s an idiot.

He heard your laugh from inside the cafe and got drunk off of it. He found himself smiling wider than he has before in the past year.

You took his mind off of his stressful job, which he just came back from, and relaxed his body. He didn’t think about how ling he stayed in that damned tunnel nor did he think about his connections with Ever.

Your laugh turned off the fight or flight switch that perpetually stayed on inside his head. It did pain him, though, to know that you were out with other guys. This George fellow is not your match. He’s a Sul-indulgent prick who only talks about himself.

And what the fuck is a video game consultant anyways?

His job is nothing compared to being a Colonel in the Farspace Fleet. You’ll surely be impressed with that.

You did always say you loved a man in a uniform.

His purple eyes flicker with excitement. He steps out into the rain and follows in your exact footsteps. Once he’s across the street, he turns around and stares at the cafe you two once sat in.

She walks out with her friends, umbrellas covering their heads. They smile and laugh with one another, teasing as thunder booms in the background. He chuckles at their umbrellas but his smile quickly fades when he realizes that you didn’t have one.

Silly girl. Now he has to check in on you and make for sure that you don’t catch a cold.

His gaze drifts to her but the spark he once felt isn’t there anymore. She’s…boring now. Caleb tilts his head back and laughs.

How could he have been so blind?

His focus has been on her all along but you…you are something else.

Captivating. Intoxicating. Enchanting. Hilarious. Fascinating.

Your fruity perfume formed a tent in his pants. Have you always smelled like apples and cinnamon? You encapsulate an autumn evening. Suddenly, he loves it when the leaves change colors and fall from the trees. He’ll never let you fall ever again.

Caleb doesn’t know how he let you slip through his fingers so many times. You live in Skyhaven, too, right under his nose. He should have found you sooner.

He should have gone with you to the homecoming dance. He regrets not watching you during the countless games you’ve invited him to. He should have closed the door in her face when she petered you two when you needed to study for the math exam. It was never your best subject. Lucky, he excelled in it.

And he should have fucking gone after you when you told him to fuck off all those years ago.

But now?

Now Caleb’s going to take back the time he missed out on. Surely, you’d feel the same way when he comes back? After all, he does know where you live now.

Six floors up. The fourth room from the left. You have a stained glass butterfly hanging in your window. He’ll see it up close soon enough.

He stands outside your apartment building with a bright smile on his face, staring up at your bedroom. He can see you move throughout the living room, your shadow painted against the far wall. His eyes follow as you slip into your bedroom. You look out the window.

What are you looking at? I’m here. Show me anything. Give me the signal I need to come and save you.

You turn on a lamp. The light points up to the butterfly, illuminating the blue and orange colors from the glass.

You’re so thoughtful.

How did you know those are his favorite colors?

Caleb chuckles to himself, shaking his head. His feet carry him to the entrance of your apartment building, just barely sneaking in as a couple leaves. He thanks them and sneaks to an elevator, stepping inside as he presses the button to your floor.

Thank you for the signal, he thinks to himself, I’ll be there soon.

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x-02 x mc x colonel

(uncensored ver. on boosty)

repost because the first post was banned by tumblr