Formatting Time! New Fic Incoming!

Imagine getting oral from the monster under your bed.

Walking into your room one night, in your skimpy pjs, ready to hop into bed and go to sleep, when a hand reaches out from underneath and grabs your ankle. You shriek and try to yank away, but it holds tight, making you fall onto your ass. Another hand comes out, taking your other ankle.

It pulls you, your lower half disappearing under the bed, but thankfully, your torso is too big, and you can’t be pulled under any further. No matter, the monster can work with this. You feel your bottoms being ripped away, then your panties. Soon, your bare cunt is on display for whatever is lurking in the darkness.

You want to cry out, but as you part your lips, your legs are spread and a warm, wet tongue presses against your folds. Your breath hitches and your face turns red as the large tongue starts to lap up and down your slit, taking time to swirl around your hardening clit.

You can’t see what’s going on under the bed, but it feels so good, too good. You close your eyes and let it happen. The monster’s tongue pushes inside you, and it’s long and thick. It snakes its way to your g-spot and starts to thrust in and out.

One of your ankles is released and a clawed thumb presses against your clit and starts rubbing in quick circles. Your hips buck, your head is thrown back, and your back arches as your cunt is tongue-fucked and clit is stimulated at the same time.

It doesn’t take long for you to cum hard, shuddering as the monster draws out your orgasm. It lets you go, but you have a feeling that this is only the beginning of a strange relationship.

"tears"

fluff for the sukuna fans bc i've been in a soft sukuna mood

ryomen sukuna x reader

Synopsis: sukuna isn't a stranger to arguments with you, but when he catches you crying after a particularly harsh one, he finds himself scrambling to fix it... in his own way

to sum it up: sukuna is an asshole but he loves you, so he tries his best

WC: 3,296

Warning(s): a lil angst

You knew exactly what you were getting into when you first started a relationship with the infamous king of curses, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less when his tendency to be an asshole hurt your feelings. 

You know Sukuna isn’t a sentimental person who cares much for things like verbal reassurance, or consideration for the way the things he says can impact you, or anyone for that matter, but damn! Sometimes, he’s just too much of a jerk for you to handle, and Sukuna himself has no idea why your fragile human emotions sway you to be so affected by him. He doesn’t even think he’s said anything wrong the times in which you grow angry with him.

Now, Sukuna can handle your anger. Anger is good. Anger means that there is something he can react to, something he can tame or involve into your intimacies when he takes your mind off of silly arguments or subdues your attitude over what he deems to be small inconveniences. Anger is the only human emotion that he has felt himself in his many years of existence, so he knows what to expect. He understands it. He’s not, in the slightest, intimidated by it.

But what Sukuna finds he can not handle is the sound of your sniffles that resound from behind your door after you’ve just slammed it into his face. Sukuna angles his brows, pressing his ear to the door in confusion. Are you… cold? Coming down with a fever? What the hell are you sniffing your nose so much for?

Then he hears the meek gasps that intercept, the vocalization of pain that creeps into your weakened inhalations that accompany your damned sniffling. That’s when he realizes that you’re crying, and his pupils shrink slightly knowing that he has gone a little too far this time. 

Hell, how is he supposed to handle you crying? He can’t fuck your sadness away like he can with your irritation. He can’t mirror your sadness, since he has no clue what the hell it’s supposed to feel like. He can’t empathize with it either, for he has no idea what he could have done to bring tears to your eyes and empathy, well, it’s not in his vocabulary to begin with. It’s pathetic, he thinks, the way you have allowed him to bother you this much…

Yet it kills him to know that he’s the reason behind your tears.

He stands there for some time, unsure of what to do. Should he get Uraume to handle this? No, that may make things worse. You may want to be alone.

He turns to leave, but something stops him. He feels an ache in his chest, pressing his hand to his bicep. What the hell? What is this feeling?

He can still hear you crying, and somehow, it sounds like it’s getting worse, louder, or perhaps that is all in his head. He can no longer tell, but that sound you’re making is the only thing occupying his mind, and it’s ruining him. It’s making his chest tighten, his brow furrow, his lips press together tightly. He should leave, but he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to abandon you like this. 

Never once in his life has Sukuna felt remorse. Not even for all the times he has made you angry in the past when you two have had arguments. He is so quick to blame your reactions to things on your feeble human emotions. He is so quick to evade responsibility, or more so, refrain from guilting himself over the things he is responsible for. He is so quick to dismiss you, but it’s always fine because he has never witnessed you grow sad over his behavior, not until now.

Sukuna turns back to your door slowly. His hand flies to grab the handle to throw the door open, but he hesitates. He’s unsure of what’s happening to him, for he’s never hesitated before in his life. This, you crying, him second guessing himself, it’s all so new and he hates it. He needs to fix this immediately. 

What do you humans like when you are upset? There’s a word that’s slipping his mind, one he always hears you pester him for but turns down repeatedly. He had found the concept so irrelevant that he hadn’t even bothered to recall what it’s called.

He crosses his arms and stares ahead harshly in thought, then it comes to him. An apology! Yes, that’s what it is. But of course, you can’t expect him to verbalize such a thing. You must want something as a gift. A physical representation of his desire not to see you cry. He rushes off to locate Uraume for preparations.

About an hour later, you’re curled up on your bed and facing the wall with a blank stare. Your tears stopped a while ago, and since you hadn’t heard from Sukuna, you assumed he just didn’t care about your feelings. Like always.

“Oi,” a gruff voice through the door startles you. You jump and turn over, curling your brows in confusion at the sound of Sukuna’s voice. For a moment, you don’t believe he is speaking to you, so you wait some time to see if he will speak again. “I know you can hear me in there,” his voice sounds again, and you groan.

“Go away,” you tell him, flipping back over.

Sukuna, on the other side of the wall, clicks his tongue in agitation. “Quit your pouting and come open this door.”

“No. Until you learn how to treat me better, I don’t want to see you.”

Treat you better? Sukuna doesn’t understand this nonsense. You live in his large estate, you’re pampered by servants, showered with gifts and homemade meals, you sleep by his side every night, and he allows you to disrespect him far more often than he should. Not to mention, he has his arms full of presents at this very moment that are preventing him from opening the door himself. How can he possibly treat you any better than he’s already treating you?

He growls lowly and closes his eyes in irritation. “If you open the door, your mood will improve.”

“I don’t want anything other than what I just said.”

Sukuna’s eye twitches. Why are you so damn difficult? “What is your-”

“Go. Away.”

Oh. Alright, then. 

You sit up abruptly when Sukuna’s foot breaks in the door with a loud crash. You stare with wide eyes, the door, now off its hinge, creaking open weakly to reveal the king of curses with his arms full of several bouquets of flowers.

“What the fuck, Sukuna?!” you cry. He only stares frustratedly as he walks into the space univinted.

“This was going to go on for too long if I hadn’t done something,” he says, approaching the side of your bed.

“You can’t just- fuck! What is wrong with you?”

Okay… this is already going poorly. 

This is not the reaction he had desired from you, and perhaps he should have revisited the idea of kicking in the door, but he had been growing impatient. Despite his big talk, he doesn’t like when you speak to him in such a cold way. He doesn’t like being separated from you. He doesn’t like not being able to see your face, and after all the work he has just done to collect these plants for you, he can not tolerate being turned away. 

“Must you be so dramatic?” he tsks. “Do you not see what I have brought to you? Don’t you humans like these things?”

You stare at him incredulously, mouth agape. Sukuna can see the tear stains clear on your face, and his heart clenches again. God, why is that sight so abominable? 

He holds his arms out, presenting the flowers to you as if you could have possibly missed them. “They are yours. Take them and be done with this.”

“Be done with what, Sukuna?” you shake your head, face scrunched.

“With your tantrum- your tears, and the sniffles. Be done with them now. Here.”

You scoff. “Do you even know why you're giving these to me?”

Sukuna raises a brow. “To cease your tantrum. As I just said.”

“I can’t with you sometimes, Sukuna. Honestly.” 

“This is really the thanks that I get for bringing you these damn flowers? I thought you were supposed to like things like this. Why would you make me waste my time?”

“If you think it’s a fucking waste of time to bring me flowers, then there’s your problem right there,” you raise your voice, pointing at him accusingly. Sukuna’s face hardens. He thinks you’re getting angry again, but he can still see the sadness behind your eyes. You look almost… defeated. “And if you knew me at all, you’d know that I never cared about any of that stuff. I never cared about the flashiness or the gifts or whatever the fuck.”

Sukuna lowers his hands, letting the bouquets drop carelessly to the floor. “Now you are accusing me of not knowing you?” he seethes. “I’m not sure when you decided that it was acceptable for you to speak to me this way, but I will not tolerate it. I do nothing but dote on you, you ungrateful brat.”

“Yeah, sure, you dote on me, and then you turn around and berate me and call everything I feel stupid because you don’t care to even try to understand why some of the things you say are not okay!”

Sukuna walks closer to invade your personal space, leaning in to glare angrily at you as you do the same. This is what he knows. This is what he chooses to respond to. Not the curl in your brow, not the tremble of your lips, not the unsteadiness of your voice, but your anger. “Why should I care if all you do is whine,” he grumbles. 

You clamp your mouth shut as a lump forms in your throat. Sukuna watches you unravel before him, and while he tries to keep an unmoved expression, he is internally panicking when he sees your eyes gloss over again and your nose flare. 

Shit. He’s supposed to be making you feel better. How has he gone and made things worse again? Why is he incapable of understanding how to be what you want him to be?

You take in a trembling inhale as your hands clench and unclench at your sides. You don’t want him to see you cry. You don’t want him to call you weak, but you can’t help the tear that breaks past your lashes and dashes down your cheek, a physical display of your heartache. 

Sukuna’s crimson eyes fly to the tear, and his brows smooth out against his intent. 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You’re crying again, and it’s his fault. It’s always been his fault. What is this now that he’s feeling? Regret? Shame? Is that what is clawing at his chest and stripping him of his resolve? Making him wish to replay this entire interaction so that you do not appear before him with tears in your eyes once more? Is this what it is to fall? 

You rub angrily at your eyes and huff, turning away from him and plopping back down on your bed, back facing him. You shut yourself away, close yourself off, and deprive Sukuna of your pretty face for the second time today. “Just leave me alone. You’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t give a fuck about me or anything, for that matter.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen slightly with the deepening of his frown. That ache he has felt in his chest spreads throughout his body, serving as tension in his back, head, and shoulders. You think he doesn’t care for you? What nonsense. You’re the only being on this planet who has made a millennia of existence worth living, and you think he doesn’t care?

Sukuna can not even pin the blame onto you this time around. He can not accuse you of overreacting, nor can he evade such a thing that is so clearly his doing. He has made you feel uncared for, and while his temper may get out of hand, and his inability to fully comprehend the plagues of the human mind gets in the way, and he never tells you that he loves you, making you feel unloved is the last thing he ever meant to do. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, but you do not move. You cling to yourself for comfort because you do not believe he can provide any for you. “Brat-” he starts, but rethinks. He reaches his hand out to you. “(Y/n). Enough of this.”

“I don’t want to see you right now, Sukuna. Can’t you respect at least that for once?” you croak. 

His hand freezes and he lets it fall. Respect. Understanding. That is what you want from him, and he has not been giving it to you. He has not been giving you anything that you request of him emotionally, for that matter. He has been neglecting your mental needs whilst overpowering you with the physical, and it’s drawn you away from him. 

He could force you to get up. He could drag you by your hair to his bedroom. He could make you look him in the eye, make you stay with him, make you stay silent about this from this point on and forever more. Sukuna has the power and the authority to do so…

But the idea is not appealing. Not in the slightest.

Sukuna wants you happy. He wants you to want to be with him willingly, and if he ignores your consent now of all times, it would be like throwing away the life he has built with you. Throwing away your desires, and Sukuna does not long for a world in which you are any more uncomfortable than you already are. 

He takes a step back, looking over the flowers that he has dropped, and accepts the will of the mortal he fell in love with. 

“I will be in my chambers if or whenever you wish to see me,” he says lowly, giving in. He moves to leave but stops himself once more. He never had stopped himself this much before. “...I apologize for making you cry. I will send someone to fix your door immediately.”

Sukuna is well on his way when he hears you shuffling behind him. He turns, admittedly hopeful for your reaction, and finds you peeking in confusion over your shoulder. “...What did you just say?” you whisper.

The king of curses stalls, looking directly into your eyes from across the room. He feels suddenly… weak. Vulnerable. For the first time, he has relented his power for you to take hold of, and it feels strange to say the very least. “Do you wish for me to repeat myself?”

You sit up slowly, turning around. You knuckle at your red nose, watching him suspiciously. “I do. I may have misheard you.”

He studies you for a moment until he realizes that you are being facetious. “You heard me the first time.”

“Maybe I just want you to say it again.”

Sukuna sighs heavily. “I did not intend to make you cry, nor did I intend to make you feel as though I do not care for you. That is a foolish thought, but I understand I do not convey the depth of my feelings for you the way you wish me to convey it.”

You look dumbfounded as you stare at him in silence. Sukuna clicks his tongue, unsure of how you are going to respond. 

“Quit staring at me and say something, woman.”

“I just… never thought…” you trail off, swallowing harshly. “I never thought you would ever say something like that to me.”

“You will only hear me say such things when you are- when I’ve made you unhappy,” he clarifies firmly. Your nose twitches, an involuntary movement that Sukuna catches and finds entirely too adorable. Your eyes are still damp, but your breathing has evened out. 

“That’s the first,” you quip.

“Enough.”

You press your lips together, glancing at the flowers Sukuna brought you. Just then, you notice that they are your favorite. 

You tell yourself you knew what you were getting into when you first started dating the king of curses, but at times you forget that Sukuna is in fact a demon, and a king at that. He does not believe in any better than what he is.

“You hurt my feelings, Sukuna,” you say softly. “Don’t you get what that means? At least for me?”

“No,” he responds honestly. “But I do see now that you have different needs. And I understand that I refuse to watch you cry if there is something I can do about it.”

You try to remain angry with him. You try to keep yourself distanced, but you can not help the way that you are softening, and Sukuna notices. A hint of a smirk curves at the corner of his lips. 

“Is that all I had to say to make this better?”

“Shut the hell up,” you hiss. “It wouldn’t have killed you to apologize for the hundreds of other times we’ve fought, you know.”

“You weren’t crying the other times, woman.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you roll your eyes. 

Sukuna tilts his head, placing a hand on his hip. “You’re not still upset, are you?”

“Yes,” you pout, and he catches on.

“What is it you want now, to be pampered like a spoiled brat?” 

He makes the suggestion as if to offend you, but the two of you both know that he is hardly making a joke. “What I want is for you to fuck off.”

A chuckle rumbles in Sukuna’s throat as he makes his way over to you. You immediately break and screech when he yanks you forward by your ankle and loops you up into his arms before sitting down on your bed and setting you in his lap. 

He looks you dead in the eye and lifts a rough thumb, swiping stubbornly at your tear stains and your damp lashes. “Crybaby,” he mutters, and you swat his hand away.

“Whatever, asshole.” You push at his chest with weak contempt and he looks at you boredly.

“You’re pitiful,” he grumbles, gripping your chin securely and guiding it to him. His blood red eyes seep into yours, gazing intently. “No more tears, do you understand?”

“Then don’t make me sad.”

“I won’t,” he tells you confidently.

A smile twitches on your lips as you look over him, completely unfamiliar with this side of the king of curses. “Can you do one more thing for me, and then I’ll maybe think about forgiving you?” you bite your lip, pressing your finger to his broad shoulder.

Sukuna grunts. “More demands, huh? I suppose you know how to take advantage of a situation. What more do you want?”

You wrap your arms over his neck. “Tell me how much you care about me,” you sing. 

“Did I not just do so?”

“No, I want you to spell it out. Tell me you love me.”

“I highly tolerate you.”

“Tell me you loveeee me.”

“You are the only human being I do not frown upon.”

“Sukuna.”

“Christ, woman, you’re mine. Isn’t that enough?” he grits his teeth and you snort, patting his cheek gently. 

“For now.”

“Such a pest, you know that?” he mumbles, pushing in swiftly to press his lips firmly to yours in a swift peck. “Don’t ever say I don’t care for you again. It is the most false and offensive thing I have ever heard."

Childhood trio Pt. Fake IDs and.. 🐶

Zayne: I’m not mad, I just need to know why you two had a fake ID.

MC: *Incoherent mumbling*

Zayne: Huh?

Caleb: …You need to be 18 to hold the puppies at the pet store.

— 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.”

gross!könig × female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, piss kink, dubcon!

"baby, i miss u so much"

könig's cock was so deep inside you that you could feel it even in your gut. your legs were on his shoulders and he was on top of you, almost crushing you with his weight.

it had only been 3 days since you had seen each other, but for könig it seemed like an eternity. he missed you and your pussy so much that the first thing he did when he saw you was take you to his room and fuck you like an animal.

"you love how my fat cock opens you up, don't you? my little cumslut"

könig sped up his thrusts, leaving you almost breathless every time his cock hit your cervix. he laid down even further on top of you, crushing you and making his thrusts go deeper. soon he brought his mouth to your neck and began to drool desperately.

"kö, slow down please"

your pleas were in vain, all that mattered to könig now was finishing inside you.

you felt that familiar sensation, his warm, thick load filling you to the point that it was starting to leak out even though könig was still inside you. suddenly, you felt a strange sensation. it was hot and liquid, and it was starting to fill your insides.

you looked at könig, who was looking into your eyes with a smirk. the son of a bitch just pissed INSIDE you.

he laugh softly notices your expression, as if he were a child who had just done something mischievous.

"i'm sorry, i just couldn't help myself. don't be mad at me, please?"

dreaming about caleb jerking off

a/n :: inspired by this lovely video :3

his hand is moving impossibly fast under the blanket he has draped over his lower half of his body . his hips have a mind of their own , jumping and thrusting into his hand and then back down into the mattress , the lack of restraint he has over his own body prominent . having no clue where to put his other hand , it'd be placed firmly over his eyes to cover how shameful his movements are . his mind would be plagued with the thought of your mouth on his cock instead of his hand , practically forcing the cum out of his body way faster than he intended . his moans are incredibly loud and accompanied by little whimpers once he cums , not knowing how else to get the pleasure out of his system . "ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck," said all in one breath as he orgasms so fucking hard he becomes lightheaded and sees stars .

ུᩧ JJK TWITTER LINKS P5 !

৻ꪆ instructions. before clicking, you must be logged into your acc and have twitter open in order for these links to function .

TOJI FUSHIGURO. ꒱‎‎

listen to his voiceee. ⋆ cunt devouring. ⋆ massive size kink. ⋆ prone bone. ⋆ straddling his lap. ⋆ anal princess. ⋆ backshots. ⋆ pretty & shy girl blowjob. ⋆ pounding you in missionary.

CHOSO KAMO. ꒱‎

beneath the table. ⋆ cockwarming while he plays games. ⋆ squeaky girlfriend. ⋆ what a distraction. ⋆ pussy eating. ⋆ clit licking. ⋆ rubbing you off. ⋆ plap plap plap ! ⋆ tit worshipper.

NANAMI KENTO. ꒱‎

slow teasing. ⋆ soft choking. ⋆ ass groping. ⋆ kissing in lingerie. ⋆ somnophilia. ⋆ the vids he sends you at work. ⋆ warm & entwined. ⋆ gentle fingering. ⋆ rubbing your pussy for you.

GETO SUGURU. ꒱‎

slutty waist. ⋆ backshots. ⋆ love hate sex with your ex. ⋆ let me show you a trick. ⋆ ass eating. ⋆ hard pounding. ⋆ bathroom floor. ⋆ balancing on the wall. ⋆ rubbing you. ⋆ sideways.

GOJO SATORU. ꒱‎

dumbification. ⋆ backshots in a maid dress. ⋆ 69ing. ⋆ spread your legs & let him do his job. ⋆ taking it so well. ⋆ kinky shit p2. ⋆ tied & edged. ⋆ fucking in the backseat of his car.

SUKUNA RYOMEN. ꒱‎

schoolgirl fit (kunas ver.). ⋆ kidnapped. ⋆ personal use. ⋆ position goes crazy. ⋆ punishment in cuffs. ⋆ folded & munching your cunt. ⋆ rough fucking. ⋆ full nelson.

𝜗𝜚 ; welcome to the bar

who do we serve here ? — anyone who seeks escapism is welcome at bar lupin. would you like your drink strong and bitter, or disgustingly sweet and light?

 what is this place ? — formiito's very own establishment of disillusioned lovers and poets. feel free to look around.

 my name is formiito, the writer behind these fanfics. bar lupin themed blog, though not solely restricted to bungou stray dogs. i take requests for resident evil, bg3 and may yap about other fandoms too.

❝ — to the stray dogs! ❞

i. MASTERLIST   ii. RULES

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

Has anyone ever written about Caleb mid sexy time getting worried that his dogtag will hit you in the face while he's on top so instead of putting it away moving the pendant to his back every few minutes, he'll just use it to tie your wrists together? 😔