#airplane makes words

[airplanelanding]

r/relationship_advice

u/smashedcucumbers

My (26M) Roommate (28M) kissed me and I don't know what to do now.

So, for context, my roommate (28M) and I (26M) are both straight men. For privacy, I will call him RM, for roommate. Onto the background.

So, RM is an author — or, attempts to be one. He has a lot of potential but squanders it all on writing shitty porn for money. I have read, and still do read, his work. The skill is present, but he doesn't lean into it.

I am very rich. I don't understand what it's like to not have money or worry where my next meal will come from, and after a lot of introspection and discussion with him, I acknowledge this privilege. Monetarily, and familially, I am very lucky. This isn't to brag, or to say I have no struggles of my own (believe me, I do), but purely to add context.

I offered to pay his bills, etc., so he could write what he wanted but he refused most help because he didn't want to be "just some sugar baby" (???) — in the end, he only moved into my apartment and let me cover the rent.

We have been living together for 2.5 years now.

With the background out of the way, I'll get into why I actually made this post, now.

Last night, RM and I were having another argument over his writing. Since moving in, he has let me begun editing & beta reading his work. I have a formal degree in literature and editing, but don't do it for work. Needless to say, I know what I'm doing.

We argue a lot over his writing. Something about last night's fight was different, though. It was more tense than usual. Ever since the power went out last week — during which we had to share my bed for warmth — there has been a strange energy between us, and I guess it all bubbled over during this fight.

I don't even really remember the details. It was about a scene in which the tension between the protag of his novel and his latest love interest snapped and they fell into a passionate night. I expressed how unnatural it felt in context with the rest of the chapter, and how sudden, and that there needed to be more proper build-up. RM disagreed. I then pointed out the kissing itself and how unrealistic it was. We went back and forth like this a bit, egging each other on and arguing.

At one point, he said something along the lines of, "like you could do better," and I snapped back that maybe I could. He laughed and said he'd like to see my try and, without thinking — in the heat of the moment — said fine, go ahead. The silence was...deafening I tried to backpedal immediately when I realized what I said — again we are both straight men. I don't even know why my head went there, let alone why I said it.

After that, it gets fuzzy. All I remember is one second I was stumbling over my words trying to backpedal, the next we were on the couch and I was in his lap. I came back to my senses when he tried to take my shirt off and, as ashamed as I am to admit it, I've been hiding at my older brother's house since.

I don't want to go back home while my head is still such a mess, but I think my brother & his husband are starting to get sick of my intrusion.

Reddit, what do I do? He hasn't tried to contact me all day, or at all since I fled last night. I've never questioned my sexuality before, but now I don't know what to think. I'm straight, but...I didn't hate it?

I'm really at a loss.

⬆ 7.4k | ⇩ 💬 926 🏅 ➥ 5.8k

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🔰 AutoModerator MOD • 7 hrs • Welcome to r/relationshi...

u/streetcat 6hrs

Ever since the power went out last week — during which we had to share my bed for warmth — there has been a strange energy between us

bro...you cannot be serious.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 1.2k ⇩

u/helpful-idiot 6hrs 🎂

Plain and simple, you need to talk to him. This isn't something that will just go away if you hide long enough. This needs real communication.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 3.2k ⇩

u/endoftheline 6 hrs

we are both straight men

Are you sure about that? Genuinely. Has he ever told you he's straight? Brought home girls? Anything concrete?

he hasn't tried to contact me

It's likely he's just as panicked as you are, OP. You seem like close friends and, sexuality aside, this complicates that friendship.

what do I do?

1. Breathe.

2. Thank your brother and BIL for their hospitality.

3. Go home and talk to your friend.

Regardless of the outcome, you both deserve an honest conversation with all your cards on the table. Especially if he's having an identity crisis of his own. Have some faith in your friendship and work through this together.

edit: spelling

••• ⤶ ⬆ 6.7k ⇩

u/smashedcucumbers OP • 5hrs

Thank you.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 346 ⇩

u/smashedcucumbers OP • 4hrs

I'm going to talk to him. I might update properly later. Thank you all for the responses.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 3.9k ⇩

[sergle]

I love the little AU that skinny people live in where they have the same problems as fat people and can relate to the Experience. artists references are only for fat bodies, artists that do draw thin bodies are getting DMs from people going like "omg I'm so happy I discovered your art, it's so rare to find an artist who draws small bodies!!!!! for the first time I see people who look like me ����😭" skinny people going "omggg I finally found a clothing brand that sells nice dresses in XS, I wish they weren't so so overpriced though" skinny people getting home from the doctor's office and collapsing on the couch to tell their roommate that their doc spent the whole appointment quizzing them about their diet and they were told they need to gain 40 pounds. but the doctor didn't want to check out the weird scraping sound they make when they breathe in, just that they should probably gain weight first. skinny celebrities and influencers spending thousands of dollars getting plastic surgery to transfer fat to their stomachs and jawlines. all the main characters in tv shows are fat. when you watch cartoons as a kid, there's one skinny character, and they're really dumb and annoying and get laughed at by the other characters. they're a loser and never get a boyfriend/girlfriend. the same clothes that are stylish when worn by fat people just get you made fun of. desirable romantic leads and manic pixie dream girls twirl their hair and say "yeeah I've just been fat my whole life, I just never lose weight no matter what I eat hehe" and this is an extremely endearing and attractive trait.

[benevolenterrancy]

Dumbass thought but shizun (sy) x Tony the tiger

The Tiger Demon Lord is here to negotiate with Junshang's empress (人❛▽^) ~ ☆✧˖° It's sure to go 𝔾ℝℝℝℝℝ𝔼𝔸�� °˖✧`☆

[diamond-rozie]

scene 5: to win a war, fight the battles

continuation of tim's arch nemesis

Tim had done his research. He was a Bat after all. Mr. Nolan was infamous for handing out the most difficult assignment right after midterm, weighing a heaping 40% of their final grade. Physics class had never been of much interest to Tim, he found it straightforward and elementary compared to the many projects he’s committed himself to as a Bat, and member of the Young Justice League. And it just so happened to be the only classes Tim shared with one Daniel James Fenton for the semester. 

While Tim’s fellow classmates groaned at the announcement Mr. Nolan made, Tim’s knew his fate for the next three weeks was decided. He’d stayed up extra late completing his last case, and had even let his finger break so he could be off patrol without suspicion. Only his pinky of course, but enough for it to count. Despite all of Tim’s meticulous preparation for the assignment, he could only find the requirements with the rest of his class. 

Tim had considered hacking into the system and finding all of Mr.Nolan’s notes for this assignment. The reason he hadn’t done it wasn’t because he couldn’t - the school’s firewalls were a joke - but because that would mean he was admitting that the only way he could beat Daniel James Fenton was to use underhanded tactics. And that was not a defeat Tim would take. 

Tim listened closely as Mr.Nolan explained how this semester’s project would consist of him and an assigned partner creating a model using any of the physics topics they had covered throughout the semester and present it on the due date. They had till the next class to submit a formal proposal of their topic. Simple enough. 

There was just one liability in Tim’s way now: the assigned partner. Normally Tim wouldn’t have been so worried, after all this class was for the advanced students in an already competitive school. But this time was different. This time Tim had a goal. He needed to annihilate Daniel. 

“The partners for this project will be on the screen, I suggest you all get comfortable because you’ll be seeing each other a lot for the remainder of the semester.” As the projector flickered to life it dawned the document that would make or break Tim’s future. 

There were 36 students in their class, a perfect even number. Discluding Tim there were 35 other students. Daniel was simply one- one- of the 35. There was a measly 3% chance they would be paired. 

And yet. 

And yet, there it was. Printed clearly in front of Tim’s eyes. 

Timothy Drake - Daniel Fenton

In a moment of insurgence, Tim raised his hand, “Sir, I would like to change partners.” There wasn’t anyone in particular Tim would rather be paired with, but he could not have his plans mutilated by such a catastrophe. 

Mr. Nolan raised a brow at Tim, “Is there a reason in particular, Mr. Drake?” 

Tim hesitated. He had no qualms with telling Mr.Nolan the reason, but if he were to say it in front of the whole class with Daniel present he would lose the element of surprise. “No, sir.” 

Mr. Nolan leaned back onto the podium, “Is there someone else you would prefer to work with then, Mr. Drake?”

In pure humiliation, “No, sir.” 

“Well I’m glad to see I’ve made a suitable match.” Mr.Nolan concluded with finality, “Any other questions, Mr. Drake?” 

“Are we graded individually or together?” Tim clung to his last tether of hope like a lifeline. 

Unequivocally and mercilessly Mr. Nolan crushed Tim’s very being. “Together.” Tim sunk into his seat. He had become his own worst enemy. Tim ignored the confused look Daniel sent him from the other side of the classroom, saving himself the disgrace. “Any other question?” Mr.Nolan asked the class. 

There was still a way for him to crush Daniel under his steel toed Red Robin boots. Tim would simply overpower Daniel with his superior skills and intellect, and make it unquestionably clear that it was Tim who had gotten them the perfect score. A year - 5 - 10 years from now this would be the memory that woke Daniel up in cold sweat in the middle of the night. 

Psychological warfare. Tim’s specialty.

Once Mr.Nolan gave them the signal to disperse into their groups Tim met Daniel halfway between the two ends of the room where they sat. 

“Uh, Tim, right?” Daniel asked with an awkward wanna-be polite smile. 

“Yes, nice to meet you.” Tim flashed a smile he had perfected at the years of gala’s and business meetings he’d attended. Disarming, and charming. The perfect set up to sweep the enemy from under their feet. “Daniel, I believe.” A casual show of power, usually brushed off as unintentional. It was fully intentional. 

“Danny’s fine.” He corrected with what must have been an attempt at an unassuming smile. Tim knew better, Danny would be ruthless in his attempt to permanently upsurge Tim from beautifully satiating first place. “So any ideas on what we should do our assignment on?”

Danny’s coup would not be successful for Tim had come prepared. “We could reconfigure an airplane for better aerodynamics.” Tim had gone through great lengths to research and develop that about a month ago for the Bat Plane, and if he dumbed it down slightly it should pass for a civilian. 

Danny considered the idea for a moment, with the barest head nod. Victory was in Tim’s grasp now. “We could change the wingspan and nose shape of it and then widen the back fins for a more acute directional accuracy.” He offered easily. Tim blinked, that was supposed to be his line, where he would prove his superiority with the knowledge he’d already acquired. Victory, it turned out, was like a handful of sand that would, despite all efforts, spill through his fingers. “It seems easy enough.” 

“Did you have any ideas?” Tim asked testingly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Not really, but I thought it would be cool to try one of Tesla’s ideas. Nikola Tesla’s, I mean. The one off the top of my head is the thought camera.” Danny rambled with his hands. 

Tim may have admitted that he felt a bit inspired at the idea of mimicking and improving on one of Tesla’s ideas, if it hadn’t been proposed by Danny. “The thought camera?” Tim echoed incredulously, formulating the perfect eyebrow raise to show his distaste. 

Danny seemed undeterred, and was instead studying the rubric Mr.Nolan had left open on the board. “Yeah, I’m not a huge fan of that one either,” He said offhandedly, “I was just spitballing.” 

This would’ve been the perfect opening for Tim to intercede with the perfect idea. As a Bat, Tim of all people should know the importance of always being ready and well informed of any situation that may arise. Yet here he was, unprepared. Resiliently, Tim pulled out his phone and searched up potential suggestions. Danny peaked over to look as well. 

“The wireless energy transmitter seems like a good idea. If we proportionally scale it down we could have a fully functioning model.” Tim declared victoriously to his partner, who couldn't help but be on board with his amazing idea. 

Tim had already won the first battle, and the war would soon be over with Tim’s overwhelming conqueror of the first place position. 

Bouncing off of Tim’s original idea, the team had already procured a rough sketch of their model, and had designated a day to gather their supplies. 

--

Howard watched as his student’s chattering meshed into one indistinguishable sound. Howard through his past researching with other professionals in varying stages of their career, and teaching college students of various majors and life goals had become astute as discerning a person’s potential. He was aware his current students, now only between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, would not appreciate his sentiment on grading them on a scale of what he believed their personal best to be. Leading to his infamous profile through the halls of Gotham Academy.

Over his cumulative professional careers there was perhaps only a handful that Howard predicted to hold greatness. His visions always came to fruition as the sapling students of science and research once under his care, blossomed into leaders in their fields with headlining research papers under their name. And when Howard did find himself in the possessions of those saplings he made sure to nurture their growth as much as he could.

It just so happened this year Howard found himself with two. 

There was one who Howard had heard whispers of in the teacher’s lounge. Tim Drake always sat in class with a bored castover look, ready with the perfect answer when tested as if he were the one with the PhD. Tim completed all his assignments with a stern perfection, always unchallenged with the material no matter how difficult his peers seemed to find it. 

It only was Danny Fenton’s second year attending the Academy, and there were only a few that knew him as a student, but they were not stingy with their praises. In the first week of class Howard had found him unassuming, scribbling what Howard had assumed to be notes like his peers throughout class. He was swiftly corrected when Danny came to him, after class one day, frazzled over something in his book. Howard, always ready to help a student, welcomed him graciously. In the book Howard did not find scribbled notes of inertia and energy, but a diagram- more accurately a blueprint- of an archimedes engine applied for a re-designed drag car. 

Howard watched the first spark of intrigue be kindled between the two with deep satisfaction.

[grapecaseschoices]

Wait Adam x Farah 👁👁 you hooked me...care to elaborate

hehe yesss, come into my web dear fly ... i mean mootie, @pinayelf.

i have actually did a post spreading my f x a agenda little bit ago [here, now with comments from the converted other twc fans]

but i don't mind getting into it a bit more. i think this time i will go through my f x a tags to evidence back my proposition.

so, i imagine that you were lured in by this post:

and what IF! what if?

might it take the form of something like this?:

or how about this?

[both gifs taken from this beautiful gifset by @/cuddlybitch]

what i like about f and a is how different they are. i know that is so obvious -- but i really enjoy not only how technically they SHOULD [and at times] grate on each other, because they're both very 'come as you are' type characters they are open to receiving and working with each other's differences. in fact, they find value in each other's differences.

yes, A [Adam in this case] is stubborn and judgmental and would like F [Farah in this case] to take things seriously -- but Adam wants EVERYONE to take meetings seriously, it isn't targeted at Farah because 'Farah is immature'. The more they know, the better things can be handled, and the better things are handled the SAFER everyone can be. Adam doesn't try to make Farah someone she's not -- and as mentioned in the previous post, Adam believes that Farah coming in as all that she was made the unit become a family.

Farah, on the other hand, is much the same. Sure she teases and pokes at Adam but she has so so much trust in his capabilities. In fact, Adam does for Farah as well. I also like - as I mentioned - how Farah isn't any more afraid to call Adam out then Adam is afraid to tell Farah to chill. I feel Farah has a sensible, no bullshit way of calling things out that works very well for and WITH the pragmatic, 'no nonsense' commanding agent.

However, it isn't all what Farah can do for Adam. Adam is a protector and quite capable of taking care of himself. We also know in the Sanja situation he was glad the choice was in the detective's hands ... because he would have chosen the detective. We know A would challenge anyone who hurt or endangered their loved ones, and would be more than willing to make sure they found out if they dared fuck around. Farah is so desperate to be chosen, but she is also very desperate to keep her loved ones safe. As I said, Adam can handle himself but WHAT IS MORE, he can help Farah feel more confident in her own abilities and what she contributes. He would listen and would never dismiss her, try to placate her. I think that is something Farah needs, not just the sounding board but the certainty that she CAN save and protect what means the most to her.

Plus isn't the Sunshine and the Sunshine Protector the cutest? A bright star and their human shield & sword? Ahem.

Also, an A[dam] that teases is so much fun. The way he can taunt and joke when he's more relaxed is not only endearing, I can just picture how delighted it would make F[arah]! I deserve some F and A banter. I bet it would be the cutest, and I get the feeling that A would be able to keep up with F or shut it down in a way that would keep F guessing [which A would be so smug about lmao].

Adam deserves unfiltered, bright pure happiness [Farah] and Farah deserves a sturdy, ever-firm yet capable of yielding landing* [Adam].

to end with another quote:

[itwoodbeprefect]

i love websites that contain text-based information

[townofcrosshollow]

I know a lot of people would look at me and think I'm a failure rn but there is nothing as depressing as googling people you went to school with and seeing that they tried to launch an ecommerce platform for second hand "luxury" clothing right out of high school, failed, was an unpaid marketing intern for a few months, two year gap, unpaid intern at Amazon for a few months, one year gap, and now works at Amazon sending marketing emails and likes posts on linkedin with hashtags like #keephustling

[airplanelanding]

Shen Yuan hated doctors. When he was a kid, he hated them because they were scary and always wanted to give him shots. Then, he got older, learned a bit more, grew a bit more, and found himself growing more neutral on them. They were a necessary evil.

Then, he fainted for the first time at seventeen, on his way home from exams.

After that, his life became nothing but doctors and tests and new medications. Each appointment made his resentment grow stronger. Every time, it was just a new doctor finding a new way to say he'd be sick for the rest of his life, the only treatment for his condition being lifestyle changes for symptom management and various attempts at medications that had a fifty-fifty chance of working or making him feel worse.

He grew tired as the years passed and his condition steadily grew worse. Symptoms and flare-ups that used to occur a few times a month, turned into a few times a week, turned into nearly every day. Things he used to do with ease turned into distant memories. Sports, dance, martial arts... Even grocery shopping, he found difficult by the time he was 24, the extended period of time on his feet and walking around something he was unable to handle anymore.

The minimization of his pain and suffering and struggling by doctors only made his resentment grow tenfold. "It's not that serious," or "it's not life-threatening," or a plethora of other ways they would minimize his illness, as if he didn't go from the Darling of the Shen's in Higher Society to a rumored recluse who didn't even leave his home to eat. As if he hadn't been forced to.

And sure, that resentment didn't just remain contained to being aimed at the doctors who never took him seriously and told him to just drink more water and exercise better, but Shen Yuan had little else to do anymore. So, he went online, he fell too far, and he became the infamous Peerless Cucumber. So what? Little else brought him joy anymore, gave him reason to live anymore. So what if he was a bitch to some shitty author?

He would forever defend his actions and words against the crime against literature that was Proud Immortal Demon Way.

He knows his logic is flawed. He had anger pent up for so long and he let it out against an un-involved source. In his defense, PIDW really was fucking terrible.

That's not the point here. The point is, Shen Yuan hated doctors. He hated them. And now, living as Shen Qingqiu -- given another chance at life only to fuck it up and get poisoned by Without-a-Cure -- he finds himself trying very, very hard to give Mu Qingfang the grace he never gave his doctors as Shen Yuan, and not fire undeserved vitriol his way despite the way the original owner of his body would have without a second thought.

Even now, as he sits on an overly familiar infirmary bed as Mu Qingfang stares at him with that overly familiar look of exasperation and concern, he reigns in the frustration simmering under his skin.

He bites the inside of his cheek and avoids worrisome eyes.

"Shen-shixiong pushed himself too far, again," Mu Qingfang says lightly, with careful, deliberate intonation.

It takes a painful amount of self-control and restraint not to scream.

He thought he was over this! He thought this was done! He left being sick, being weak, in his past life and still, still it fucking finds him again and haunts him.

Instead of screaming, he huffs through his nose.

Mu Qingfang frowns.

"If Mu-shidi could simply provide this shixiong with his prescription, this one would be most grateful," Shen Qingqiu says, with a tone so sickeningly polite it couldn't even begin to be mistaken for sincere. In his lap, his hands grip his closed fan with whitened knuckles.

"The medicine is not an end-all-be-all for your symptoms, Shixiong," Mu Qingfang sighs. "It can only do so much, you still must take care of yourself alongside it's use..."

Despite his words, he still summons his Head Disciple and passes along the prescription refill order to her, to take off to the greenhouse where it will be formulated and portioned out in the necessary doses.

"You should have come to me sooner if you were out," Mu Qingfang chides.

Shen Qingqiu does not deny this. Still, he argues, more childish than elegant. "Mu-shidi has been busy as of late with the illness spreading in town."

"I didn't know Shixiong was so selfless," Mu Qingfang replies, with the faintest hint of sass in his tone, "to ignore his own declining health in favor of the masses, which this one's disciples are more than capable of taking care of."

Shen Qingqiu purses his lips, but says no more. Mu Qingfang reaches for his wrist, and he wordlessly provides it.

After a moment, a soft sigh falls from the physician's lips.

"How long has it been since Liu-shixiong cleared your meridians?" he asks.

He already knows the answer, he's merely giving Shen Qingqiu a chance at honesty.

Shen Qingqiu does not take it.

"Let me guess, he is too busy, as well?" Mu Qingfang raises a pointed eyebrow. "Perhaps this one should go and find him, ask him if he is truly so busy as to neglect his duties to his Shixiong."

"You've made your point," Shen Qingqiu finally snaps, and his words come out harsher than he means them to. A little bit of that sharp, venomous vitriol spits out, frustration and resentment bubbling over the surface before he quickly tamps it back down and takes a breath. Calmer, he repeats, "you've made your point, Mu-shidi. This one will do better in future."

For what it's worth, Mu Qingfang appears to take no offense from his shixiong's sharp-edged strike.

"I surely do hope you mean that," he says softly. It makes Shen Qingqiu's chest grow heavy with a strange sort of guilt, the gentleness with which Mu Qingfang speaks those words. He can only avert his eyes and let his tense shoulders sag.

It is only then, once his defenses have dropped even minutely, that Mu Qingfang finally sets to work.

Cool qi pours into his meridians, but it is not uncomfortable or invasive like one may think. Instead, with it comes an unusual sense of comfort, relief, and refreshment. Like a drink of cold, crisp water at 3am after a nightmare that startled him awake.

Mu Qingfang's spiritual energy rarely feels like the foreign presence it is in his veins.

Never would Shen Qingqiu admit that out loud, though. Not even Liu Qingge's qi could bring him this level of comfort during their usual cleansing sessions. It is familiar and warm, but utterly different from Mu Qingfang's.

Not to mention, the precision with which Mu Qingfang navigates his spiritual veins, untangling and unblocking each point with little trouble. He struggles here and there, at the more aggravated spots, of course. Still, never once does Shen Qingqiu find himself in a place of discomfort.

It's hard, when Mu Qingfang finally finishes his treatment and retracts his qi and hand, to not slump down from the sheer relief Shen Qingqiu feels. His body is lighter, his breath comes easier -- hell, even his vision feels clearer. Mu Qingfang takes a step back and Shen Qingqiu allows himself the inelegance of stretching out his no longer aching limbs.

Mu Qingfang has seen him in worse states, a little relieved stretching is nothing to blink at. Once he's satisfied, Shen Qingqiu sits up straight on the infirmary bed and looks across the room, away from Mu Qingfang.

"Thanking Mu-shidi for his aid," he murmurs.

Mu Qingfang hums. Just then, his Head Disciple returns with his medication. Mu Qingfang accepts it from her with a few quiet words, before sending her back off to attend to the patients in her wing.

"This should last you longer than the last batch," Mu Qingfang tells him as he passes over the medicinal tea. "So you don't find yourself in another difficult position, should you be off the mountain when you typically begin to run low."

Shen Qingqiu accepts the prescription silently, his brows furrowed.

"Likewise this shidi will begin preparations for Shixiong's next batch early, so it will already be ready for delivery by the time you need it." Mu Qingfang pauses, hesitates. "Unless, Shixiong feels that this shidi is being too over-bearing?"

Ah, does his throat feel a little tight? Shen Qingqiu swallows thickly and exhales, staring at the small box of tea. He shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly.

"That is...acceptable," he mutters.

He does not need to look at Mu Qingfang to know he is smiling.

Shen Yuan hated doctors. Shen Qingqiu still hates doctors.

Mu Qingfang, however...

Yes, he can be infuriating at times, and a little patronizing even if he doesn't mean to be -- but that's just it. He doesn't mean it. He cares.

That's it. That's the difference. He wants to help not because it is his job, but because he cares about Shen Qingqiu. And yes, it was a long time before he was able to, but Shen Qingqiu can admit that now. Just like...just like he can admit the existence of the warmth that spreads over his chest when he sees Mu Qingfang's eyes crinkle with a smile just because Shen Qingqiu has finally let him take care of him.

He hates doctors, but Mu Qingfang is not just a doctor. He never has, and never will be, just a doctor.

Shen Qingqiu thanks him once more and takes his leave from the infirmary room, heart pounding against his ribs in a way he wishes deeply he could still ignore. Too many gentle, tender touches and quiet murmurs of concern have beat the ignorance out of him.

Ah, maybe one day, when he learns how to stop being a coward, he won't be just a shidi, either...

[grossvampire]

For those who chose the mystery box, it has now opened.

Inside the box is a 20 sided die with 20 pictures on it instead of numbers. You may roll twice for your powers, unless you roll a twenty in which case you may roll an additional two times for each 20 rolled. If you the roll the same number twice you can either roll again for something new for yourself or give the power to someone else. Good luck.

The metronome. Instant mastery of 5 instruments of your choice.

The compass. You can always find what you're looking for.

The rainbow. For you, there is a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow.

The spiral. You can teleport, both yourself and anything else you want so long as you are touching it.

The picture frame. You have a camera, every picture you take shows the future instead of the present.

The dove. Everyday you can clear one person of your choice of all their debts.

The hand. Anything you can pick up and carry away you can steal, and no one will notice.

The glow stick. You glow in the dark now.

The sponge. Your home cleans itself.

The mouth. You can always tell when someone is lying.

The fish. You can breathe underwater and withstand the pressure of the depths.

The nose. Every time you sneeze you get $20.

The Bug. You may choose one bug or arthropod to increase in size and it will be your companion and noble steed. It will live as long as you do.

The blood drop. 20mls of your blood works as a panacea - it cures all illnesses, but not mortal wounds.

The dunce cap. You become an expert in 5 topics of your choosing, but only when wearing a dunce cap.

The blob. You can shapeshift, both yourself and others (with their permission).

The moon. You don't need to sleep but you always feel fully rested (you can sleep if you want).

The home. It has everything you need to live comfortably. You do not have to pay for it or to upkeep it.

The X. You can banish people from places or to places and everyone will abide by your choice.

Lucky you. Roll twice more, so you will have a total of three powers. If you roll another twenty, you get an additional 2 rolls.

[buyinbulk]

i have two ways of processing information-- the first is thinking about how it tastes, the second is a game of associations

[daisychain-unchained]

finally going to see Longlegs tomorrow night

my friend and I decided to make a summerween day out of it and pregame with some slashers, crafts, and cocktails. an 80s camp killing spree might just heal me

[nebulations]

[ID: Scum Villain fanart.

Shang Qinghua stands on Shen Qingqiu's doorstep in the rain, offering out a book with shiny eyes and saying, "Please be my beta reader." Shen Qingqiu slams the door, and the perspective switches to show that the "rain" is coming from a hose Shang Qinghua is holding over his own head.

Shen Qingqiu wears green sunglasses and a shirt that says "Straightest Man Alive" plus his usual outfit, shooting finger guns with a smirk. Then we see him sitting on the ground in a dejected pose, green robes taken off to reveal the back of the shirt says "OK, maybe not".

Sha Hualing smirks and straddles Liu Mingyan, tugging at her veil. Liu Mingyan looks neutral and has a hand on Sha Hualing's thigh. Red cursive says "Girl Besties". End ID]

Scum Villain Doodles

Ok, but I do kinda wonder if Airplane Bro could write a good book now that he doesn't have to worry about paying rent

[ianblogs4]

Hear my random thought, imagine that the PIDW fandom actually start noticing the weirdo called Peerless Cucumber and they find his comments absolutely hilarious, like “this dude is crazy but hes damn funny too” and they just start teasing him with things like “what are you, Luo Binghe’s wife to defend him like this?” until someone actually makes a full 20.000 word fanfiction about peerless cucumber dying and reincarnating in PIDW and ending up rizzing up Luo Binghe, convincing him to leave his harem for him and they marry and live happily ever after and everyone finds this EVEN MORE HILARIOUS and more people start writing fanfic about it.

Before PIDW ends, the ship tag is one of the top 5 of the fandom in ao3 and they have tons of fanart and even an animation video on youtube that has hundreds of thousands of views and obviously airplane had seen it, and he found it hilarious too.

So when he finished PIDW he made some specials and he decided to be the funniest man ever and write one where peerless cucumber died and reincarnated in a male demon whom happened to be working close to Luo Binghe, and that was the first and last gay chapter of PIDW.

The fandom EXPLODED when they read this and the ship tag quickly became number 1 on the fandom in ao3, fanfiction.net, wattpad and tumblr.

Sadly, peerless cucumber stopped his activities on social media as soon as the final chapter of PIDW dropped, wonder what happened to that guy...

--------------------

it is currently 3am, no one can judge me for this thanks goodbye

[eelliotss]

— 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.”

[mikeluciraphgabe]

Clark has an issue.

A very very tiny little issue that causes so problem at all- OW.

“Superman, a word?” Batman rumbled from the other side of the table

Clark sighs, following Bruce off to the commons of the Watch Tower and rubs absently at his jaw.

Bruce comes to a sudden stop once they are alone. “What’s the matter with you.”

Ah, Clark never misses the bluntness that comes free with his friend. “Nothing.” Bruce’s bat-ears go back on his head, reminding Clark a lot of a cat going ‘airplane’. “My jaw hurts.”

Humming, Bruce takes a mini x-ray out of his tool-belt. Clark decides not to ask as to why he just has one. Bruce places the x-ray along Clark’s right side of his face, takes a picture, and repeats on the other.

Bruce looks down at the results and hums again. “Your wisdom teeth need to be removed… interesting.”

“What? Whats interesting?”

“I’m guess Kryptonians used to have 40 teeth before they, similarly to humans, lost use for the back 8.”

“I have extra teeth?”

“Clark, you have fangs as canines. Having an extra 4 to the normal extra 4 to humans isn’t a big deal. I can set up a day for you get them removed in the cave. I just have to make some low-leveled krypton anesthesia compared to what we have in the Tower and some kryptonite utensils to actually get them out.”

Bruce pockets his x-ray and pulls out an ice pack. “Put this on. It should help a bit until the surgery.”

Taking the pack, Clark pulls Bruce into a hug. “Thank you.”

Bryce steps away after a moment, face red. “Shut up.”

[anachronismstellar]

:)

Hi hello

GUESS WHO IS BACK FROM JAAAAAAAAAAAAILLL COLLEGEEEEEEEEE

And this is just the thing I needed to scratch my writing itch, hold my energy drink-

(btw, kinda nsfw ish, noncon-ISH Airplane is very much into the danger of it all but he was also kinda kidnapped- nothing that canon SVSSS wouldn't have I'd say lol)

-----------

He didn't wake up right away, too comfortable sandwiched between a heavy blanket and soft sheets. So comfortable in fact that only when he tried to push his hair plastered on his face that he realized that something wasn't quite right. He was supposed to be on a mission for his peak, that he remembered, but the inn he had rented a room barely had a mattress, their linen more sandpaper than fabric against his skin.

He froze, slowly opening one eye to see what was around him. From his angle there was only a nightstand (made of very nice wood by the way) and more pillows than he could count. W-Was he- Was this a wife plot?? It made no sense, Binghe wasn't even born yet!! He had just become head disciple, there was a long way until his protagonist was supposed to be born!! What-

"Is my little mouse awake?" a voice smooth as sweet plum wine followed by the caress of calloused fingers on his exposed ankle made him jump and squeal. The teasing laughter wasn't a surprise. He could understand very well that he had been kidnapped. What made him gasp and lose his words was the fact that- Well!!

Tianlang-jun was in front of him. The father of his protagonist. In the flesh and beauty, a smirk sharp as a knife pulling his lips up while his hair fell down in dark waves all over a sculpted chest, long enough to brush over impeccable abs-

Oh. Oh god.

Why was Tinglang-jun in front of him in a random fancy room naked as the day he was born?? System?!! System have mercy on his nerves!!!

"No need to be so scared," he chuckled again, shamelessly sitting next on the bed with his powerful thick naked thigh right next to Airplane's face as if it was just another week day instead of his assassination attempt on Shang Qinghua.

Because Shang Qinghua was going to die. He was one hundred percent sure of it. Either from how fast his blood rushed to his dick or by Su Xiyan's hand when she found out how hard he was by just looking at her?? Situationship?? like a pervert.

Oh shit, right, keep your eyes up, Qinghua!!!

"W-What- where am I?! Why-"

He could feel tears gathering at the corner of his eyes as claws prickled the side of his face. In a movement softer than Qinghua was expecting, Tianlang-jun forced his neck to bend until their eyes met, tutting as a thumb pressed over Airplane's lips.

"No need to be so scared, little mouse. Where is the heart and courage from when we first met, hn?"

Shang Qinghua could feel his entire face heating up at the memory of him punching the Demon Emperor. Apparently his hair down combined with brand new Head disciple robes made him a little too much alike a certain Huan Hua's palace disciple. Which in turn made Tianlang-jun hug him by his waist as if they were long lost lovers, startling Qinghua enough for him to turn around and punch the Emperor square on the jaw.

In his defense he didn't realize who he had punched at the time!! He thought it was a random pervert!!!

..... And yes, they talked after and Tianlang-jun bought him expensive wine as an apology for being too hand-sy. And yes they might have gone out a few other times, but!!! Tianlang-jun had given him a fake name!!! And Shang Qinghua had never had a handsome man like Tianlang-jun to pay so much attention to him, what if he wanted to chase the thrill of being desired for once?!!

But he had stopped!! As soon as he found out who Tianlang-jun really was he had been loud and clear about not wanting to be the other cultivator, ok?!!?! He wouldn't dare to interfere with the plot like that, he liked living!!!

And he was terrified of Su Xiyan too!! They have met a couple of times already while Qinghua accompanied his Shizun to meetings with Huan Hua palace. She was as scary as she was beautiful and powerful, contrary to what most would think he had enough common sense to know he could never compete with her!!

The sound of the door sliding open made both men turn to look at the direction of it, Tianlang-jun's face lighting up while Shang Qinghua's heart plummeted to the floor, palms getting sweatier by the second.

"Oh, you are awake, good," and lo and behold Su Xiyan herself glided all the way to the bed as Airplane let a nervous laughter bubble off his lips. Yep, he was about to die. Was he supposed to be the sacrifice? Possible, very possible.

At least she was decent, a proper robe covering her porcelain skin, hair tied up showing off the not-so-decent marks on her neck.

Oh. Oh holy shit were they fucking?? Were they just fucking like minutes ago?!!?

Shit, there it went his blood all the way to his dick again, he was so hard it was hard (haha) to think.

"P-Please- this one begs for mercy-"

"Begging so pretty already," she smiled at him like the cat who got the cream, leaning forward over his chest so she could steal a peck from Tianlang-jun's lips, and Airplane couldn't complain ok, it was any writer's wet dream to watch their hot as fuck OC's being cute/sexy with each other in the flesh, but at the moment he had some other concerns-

Like the silk rope tying his writs and feet to the bed that he just noticed now because- again- hot OCs being cute/sexy right on his face!!!

"I waited for you just like you asked, darling," Tianlang-jun whispered against Su Xiyan shoulder, pushing her robe away so he could kiss over a bite mark, licking her skin as he stared with knowing red eyes at Qinghua.

How he hadn't combusted yet was a true miracle, really.

"Hmm... Indeed. And he looks so pretty in Huan Hua's yellow, don't you think, Tianlang-jun?" she tugged at the loose inner robe covering Shang Qinghua's chest, twisting his nipple until he couldn't help but moan, brain going completely blank as it struggled to catch up what the fuck was going on.

He might have hit his head. Or maybe he was dreaming. That would make more sense than whatever insanity was happening right now.

"Nothing against An Ding yellow, A-Hua," she kept talking as she weren't slowly driving him insane, her short nails biting over his sensitive chest, oh so very different from Tianlang-jun's claws dragging the thin skin of his inner thigh. "But your skin tone pairs so much better with Huan Hua's warm gold. Don't you agree, Tianlang-jun?"

Tianlang-jun paused, hand so so close to Airplane's dick that he couldn't help but whine, shivering under the teasing touch, so close and so so far away.

"I agree, but I think he looks even better in red," and Airplane couldn't even beg before a sob tore up his throat when Su Xiyan demanded his attention once more, grasping his hair by the back of his neck so she could claim his mouth with a kiss.

"You think everyone looks good in red, dear," she said after a final bite to Qinghua's lower lip, kissing the flush of one of his cheeks. "But it does sound delightful... Let's see how red he can get, shall we?"

Much, much later, when he was back again at the blissful state of half awake half sleeping, this time sandwiched between a hot demon and a hot cultivator with both of them playing with his hair, he would have courage enough to mumble:

"Yea, okay, you guys have very good arguments, I think we should try this trouple thing."

And he was proud to say that didn't even die!! Even after Su Xiyan kissed him sweetly, and called him a good boy!!

Thanking System-dada for the blessings!!!

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Timeline? Who that is? Here we don't know her, we being horny on main. Take my hand and let's enjoy the nonsense in the name of SQH getting pegged by Su Xiyan doggy style like he deserves

I hope y'all like it :D

Tlj/sqh/sxy au where sqh meets tlj and sxy separately, and both of them like him enough to mention it to each other. Now, they are both trying to seduce him, but he rejects them because they already have a partner. Then tlj and sxy kidnapped sqh and very sexily explained that they were both into him and wanted him in a relationship with both of them