#trying to beat the game for the first time

[spookysanta]

Lessons in Chivalry. (MBJ)

Summary: Michael has to train you to let him spoil you. No doors, no checks, no 50/50.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: romantic hand pops

the first of many ideas on my list!! been working on this all last week - it's been so fun to read everyone's feedback on the upcoming fics i have planned. thank y'all for your support! don't forget to send me asks if you have a request or fic idea.

He’s the gentle kind of sweet that made you roll your eyes, even though your stomach flipped like it was your first date all over again. The first time he did that thing, you didn’t think much of it. You reached for the handle of the restaurant door, and his hand appeared out of nowhere, gently smacking yours away like it had personally offended him. “Hey,” he murmured, one brow raised, lips twitching with amusement. “What I tell you about doors?”

You blinked, surprised, your hand suspended midair. “That I’m capable of opening them?”

Michael let out a soft laugh, stepped around you, and pulled the door open wide. “You are. But that’s not the point.”

“The point is…?”

He leaned down as you passed through, his breath warm against your skin, carrying the faint scent of mint and cedar from the cologne you loved. The heat of his chest hovered just inches from your back, and the rasp of his voice climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled, breath catching before you could stop it, the intimacy of the moment stealing your thoughts for a beat. “That if I’m with you, you don’t lift a finger. Not for doors. Not for checks. Not for anything.”

You scoffed. “Chivalry is alive and dramatic, I see.”

“Damn right,” he said proudly. “Get used to it.”

But you didn’t. Not immediately.

Because about a week later, at a boutique checkout counter, your card was already halfway to the reader before you realized he was watching you like you’d just betrayed everything he stood for. He didn’t even speak, just slid his hand over yours, plucked the card from your fingers like it was something fragile, and handed his own over with infuriating calm.

When the receipt printed, he passed your card back like a teacher returning a test. “You trying to get in trouble?” he asked, voice low and playful, head tilted like he already knew the answer. His fingers lingered on yours just a second longer, eyes scanning your face like he was daring you to try it again. “Because you know what happens when you don’t listen.”

“You weren’t even—”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes met yours, soft but firm. “Don’t reach first. Ever.”

It became a little game after that. You’d try to sneak your hand past his, get there first, test the boundaries. And every time, he’d catch you. He was very committed to the bit.

By the time you were walking into a hotel downtown, he caught your wrist mid-air before your fingers could even graze the glass of the hotel’s front door. “What did I say?”

“Michael, I was just—”

He stepped in close, mock-serious now. “What did I say?”

You tried not to smile and failed. “That I don’t open doors or pay for anything when you’re around.”

“And am I around?”

You pouted a little, but nodded.

“Then relax.” He kissed your temple. “Be the beautiful, spoiled woman I insist you are.”

“I’m gonna forget how to function.”

“Nah,” he said as he pushed the door open. “You’re just gonna remember what it feels like to be treated how you deserve.”

So you did. For two days. Maybe three. Then, as always, your instincts kicked in. A door handle. A brunch bill. A quick swipe of your card before you thought he could stop you.

But of course, he always beat you to it.

Before, it was gentle. A soft tap. A warm palm curling around your wrist. A low, “Nah, I got it, babe,” as he handled the moment with ease. He kissed your cheek after, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t actively retraining the way you understood care.

Then came the test. It was a Saturday morning. You were downtown, still wrapped in his hoodie, half-awake but smiling as you reached for the boutique door. He was a few steps behind. Before you could touch the handle, his hand landed on yours. Not hard, just firm. A definitive pop! that made you whip around. “Michael.”

His eyes widened with fake innocence. “What?”

“You popped me.”

“You reached for the door.”

“I thought I had rights.”

“You do,” he replied, stepping ahead of you, holding the door open with a slight bow. “You’ve got the right to be cherished, pampered, and treated like royalty when I’m around.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Inside, you browsed, danced a little when your song came on. And when it came time to pay, you reached for your card … just to see what he’d do.

He was across the store, deep in conversation with the stylist. But he saw you move. His head turned fast. Five quick steps, and he was there, hand slipping around yours, gently guiding it down. “Don’t.” His voice was calm. Certain.

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, then kissed them. “If I’m here, you don’t do anything. Got that yet?”

And the thing is, it wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about doors. It was about what it meant. The quiet, steady promise stitched into every small act.

That same night, it happened again at the hotel. You were laughing, caught in the rhythm of his jokes, when your hand reached for the gold handle of the revolving door. He caught your wrist. “Aye.”

You turned, surprised. “What?”

“What did I say?”

Your breath caught, immediately knowing the answer to the question but choosing to remain silent like a scolded toddler.

“Am I around?” He asked after a brief moment.

“Clearly.”

“Then act like it.” He opened the door, his hand resting at the small of your back as you stepped inside. And once you were through, he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve to move through this world like somebody’s got you. Like you can finally exhale. Let me be that.”

You noticed everything after that.

The way he carried your work bags without asking. Checked you into hotels and trips without needing a word. Watched you like you were wild and delicate all at once; worthy of care, not control. Reverence, not rescue.

“No doors. No checks. No questions,” he murmured, kissing your temple as the elevator doors closed. “You’re mine. Let me act like it.”

It didn’t stop at dates. Or hotels. Or dinners where you weren’t allowed to even glance at the check. When Michael said, You don’t lift a finger when I’m with you, he meant it. Especially when you traveled.

From the second the trip began, you weren’t your own responsibility anymore. You were his. Not in a controlling way, but in that careful, deliberate, I got you so completely it’s second nature kind of way.

The trip, for him, started at home, when he told you to sit down and sip your coffee while he brought your suitcase downstairs. You offered to help once, halfheartedly, because you already knew the look he’d give you, and sure enough, he paused mid-stairwell with a sharp eyebrow and a smirk. “You tryna get popped again?”

You held up your palms in surrender, laughing. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“I don’t need help. I need you to relax. Matter fact,” he set the bags down, crossed to you, and kissed your forehead. “that’s your only job for the next four days.”

At the curb, it continued. He opened the Uber door before you could reach for it, helped you in with a hand on your lower back, then rounded the car to load both of your suitcases into the trunk by himself. You tried again, leaning out to ask if he needed anything, but he didn’t even look up. “Get comfortable,” he said. “Turn your heated seat on. I’m almost done.”

By the time you got to the airport, you’d already been relieved of your travel documents. He held your passport, boarding pass, and ID in his back pocket, patting it every so often just to reassure you.

“I can carry something, you know,” you teased.

He looked at you like you’d cursed in public. “You do not carry,” he said, hoisting your carry-on with one hand and taking yours with the other. “You glide.”

At TSA, he had it down to a science. He pulled the bins before you even spotted the stack, laid out your coat, shoes, and electronics with quiet efficiency. As you stepped up, he tilted his head and held out his hand. “Bracelet, too, baby. You know they gon’ make you take it off.”

You slid it into his palm, biting a smile and rolling your eyes, and watched him place it gently into your bin like it was fine china. When it was time to walk through the scanner, he waited on the other side, arms open for you to walk into as soon as you cleared it.

“Easy,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just like that.”

At the gate, he had your favorite snacks ready, somehow remembered from a trip the two of you took three months ago. He’d already scanned the seating chart to make sure you had the window like you liked, and when boarding started, he carried your bag and his, scanned both passes, and guided you down the jet bridge with that steady hand on the small of your back.

You barely touched a thing. And when you tried to joke about it, a little overwhelmed by how seamless he made it all feel, he just shrugged and looked at you like the answer was obvious.

“You do so much, baby. Every day. For everybody.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping just for you. “So if I can give you a couple hours where you don’t gotta think, where you don’t gotta lift, or plan, or worry about a single thing. Just let me take care of it. Let me show you what it feels like to be taken care of right.”

The rest was gradual. There were little shifts, little gestures that you didn’t think much of until one day you realized: you hadn’t driven yourself anywhere in weeks.

It started with him grabbing the keys before you did. At first, it was just casual: “Nah, I got it, come on.” But it became a pattern. 

Before you could blink, Michael was always behind the wheel, adjusting the seats, curating a playlist you didn’t even know he’d noticed you loved. Making sure the A/C hits your legs just right. He’d swing open the passenger door with a smooth, practiced grace and tap the roof before helping you in like you were stepping into a chauffeured town car instead of your own vehicle.

“You good?” he’d ask, one hand still lingering on your thigh before he circled around to drive.

You’d nod, half-melted, every time.

Because who would want to drive when the man next to you makes you feel like royalty on a cross-country tour just to go to brunch?

And it didn’t stop there.

You’d be in the middle of your day when a casual text would come through: Taking your car to get detailed. Left the Range for you in case you NEED it. I’ll be back in an hour.

Or, Oil change done. Full tank. Tires checked. You’re welcome. :)

And the most you could do was send back a heart emoji or a voice note calling him annoying, because any attempt at gratitude would get deflected with an “Aight, relax. That’s what I’m here for.”

But the gas station? Oh, the gas station is where the line got drawn in thick, permanent ink.

Because one afternoon, he pulled into the Shell station after a long day, parked, and hopped out while you unbuckled your seatbelt.

Just as your fingers wrapped around the door handle, you heard it.

“Don’t.”

You froze. “What?”

Michael whipped around the pump with a look so disbelieving, you’d think you just tried to fight him. “You thought you were about to get outta this car and pump gas. With me right here.”

“I was just trying to help—”

“No, see,” he said, pointing, “this is why I have to retrain you. Every time you do something like this, it’s like you forget I exist.”

“It’s gas, Michael.”

“It’s my job,” he corrected. “Sit there and be cute. Matter fact…” He leaned into the window. “Try it again, and I’ll block your card from working at gas stations. Don’t play with me.”

You laughed. He didn’t. Not until he got back in, slid a hand over your thigh, and kissed your cheek. “Now change the playlist. I’m feeling something old school.”

Not when he took your car before you could even notice it needed to be touched. Not when he reached for your keys with a look that said don’t make me embarrass both of us. And definitely not when he stopped you from pulling open the car door with that same firm, gentle hand on yours and a single question, low and amused: “You tryna get popped, baby?”

No. No you were not.

You were the passenger princess. And he made sure you wore that crown daily.

And it was always funny… until it wasn’t. You’d mentioned it casually the first time, over cocktails with your girls, legs tucked up on the patio seat as the sun started dipping behind the skyline. “I swear he’s training me, y’all,” you muttered, laughing into your glass.

Tati nearly snorted her mojito. “Training you to do what, exactly? Sit pretty and let him open doors?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“Oh, come on,” Kris groaned. “Ain’t no man out here walking around with a syllabus and a PowerPoint for how to love you.”

Nas grinned, skeptical. “So what? You don’t open your own doors now?”

“I can’t,” you said, deadpan. “I tried at the hotel last week and he smacked my hand like I touched something hot.”

Lex was already cracking up. “Oh my God.”

“He takes my keys. Pumps my gas. Carries all the bags. I haven’t paid for anything myself in months.”

They thought it was cute. A little fantasy. A joke with real rich-boy flavor. Until they realized you were serious. And what got them to make the connection: your phone lit up with his name and the ringtone he picked out himself.

You answered with a soft, “Hey baby,” already knowing what was coming.

“You still at the rooftop spot on Grace?” Michael asked, voice smooth as ever.

“Mmhmm.”

“You on the side with the valet entrance or the front?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Front.”

“Aight. Be there in five. Don’t move.”

“Kay.” You hung up and turned back to find four pairs of suspicious eyes locked on you like they’d just witnessed a twist ending in a thriller.

“He’s picking you up?” Kris asked slowly.

“He just calls like that?” Nas added, mouth open.

You nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “We share our locations. I don’t even try to beat him to the pickup spot anymore. It’s a waste of energy.”

Lex pointed at your drink. “You’re not paying for that either, are you?”

You just slid the heavy black card across the table like a mic drop. The one with your name under his. The one that buzzed your phones every time you used it because he insisted on keeping the notifications on. Just in case.

“You’re joking,” Tati breathed, lifting it with reverence like it might dissolve if she stared too long. “He let you on his account?”

“Didn’t ask,” you said with a laugh. “He just handed it to me one morning and said, ‘Use this. Stop touching your own money. I mean it.’”

“Okay, but like… why?” Nas blinked.

“Because it’s easier,” you admitted, sighing dramatically. “Do you know how exhausting it is to hear a whole damn lecture because I paid for a $12 salad with my own debit card?”

Kris gasped, already laughing. “No he doesn’t—”

“Oh, he absolutely does,” you cut in. “I was just going to lunch with my coworkers last week. I thought it didn’t count. He called me mid-chew to ask why he didn’t get a notification.”

Tati was wheezing now. “He knows when you use your own money?”

“He doesn’t track my spending but I swear it’s like he can feel it,” you said, dead serious. “I have receipts. He acts like I’ve personally disrespected him and his ancestors.”

Lex wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Okay, I'll take it back. This man has a training regimen. You’re not being dramatic.”

“I told you,” you grinned, sliding the card back into your purse. “I’m not allowed to lift a finger. If I try? It’s a whole thing. A ride-home lecture thing.”

Sure enough, five minutes later, a blacked-out SUV pulled to the curb, and there he was: leaned against the hood, phone in one hand, other hand already lifting in a beckoning wave like let’s go, baby.

He opened the door before you even said goodbye, hand outstretched for yours.

And as you walked away, you heard Kris whisper behind you, “…Nah, he really is training her.”

You waited until the car doors were shut and the engine hummed beneath you, the soft R&B playing low in the background. His hand had already found your thigh, like it always did, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles just above your knee as he pulled away from the curb.

You watched him for a minute. How relaxed he was. The way his jaw shifted when he checked the mirrors. The tiny crease between his brows as he merged into traffic with one hand.

Then you turned to him, lips curled into a smirk. “You know the girls think it’s hilarious that you’re ‘training me.’”

Michael didn’t even look over at first. He just let out a quiet, knowing sound, deep in his chest. “Do they now?”

“They’re like, ‘Is he building a custom housewife? Teaching you not to open doors or touch money?’” You laughed softly, head falling back against the seat. “I think Kris said you must have printed out a whole syllabus.”

That made him chuckle. Finally, he glanced your way, a smug little tilt at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t need a syllabus. You were already perfect. Just needed a little… refinement.”

You gave him a look, lips parted like you couldn’t believe him. “Refinement?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with learning how to be treated right. You’re too used to doing everything yourself. I’m just reminding you that you don’t have to.”

“I know that,” you muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

He gave your thigh a squeeze. “Do you, though? Or do you still feel guilty when you don’t split a bill or carry your own shit?”

You were quiet for a beat. “…A little.”

“Exactly.” He shook his head with a tsk. “You've been holding it down so long you think that’s normal. But not with me. Not ever with me. If I’m here, I’m handling it. All of it.”

You glanced over at him again, your chest pulling tight in that stupid, swoony way he had mastered. “Still,” you said, biting back a grin, “the girls think it’s giving 1950s husband with a modern credit limit.”

Michael laughed out loud at that. Deep, warm, proud. “Good,” he said. “Tell Jamal and them I said they should take notes. I got mine trained and spoiled.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks burning. “I am not trained—”

“Really?” he said, buzzing into the front gate of your home, pulling slowly into the driveway. “Whose card did you use at lunch?”

You groaned.

“Exactly.” He cut the engine and looked over at you fully now, expression softening. “You don’t have to prove nothin’ to me. Not your independence. Not your strength. I already know who you are.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. “So let me show you who I am. Again. And again. Until you stop fighting it.”

“…So you’re just gonna keep lecturing me every time I use my own money?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, dead serious. “I will nag you to death, baby. You will pray for peace and find none.”

You laughed, fully exasperated and fully, hopelessly in love. “Ugh. Fine.” 

“Good girl,” he whispered, slipping out to open your door. He circled around the car with that confident stride, opened it smoothly, and held out his hand like he always did: palm up, fingers slightly curled. You took it, stepping out as his other hand slid to your waist, steadying you. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a second, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in just enough to make your breath catch. “You know I got you, right?” he murmured.

You nodded, heart thudding, and he closed the door behind you, hand never straying far from the small of your back as you walked inside together.

Because yeah… he was training you.

But you had to admit: you kinda liked it.

-

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[himewonu]

HEART LAKE ౨ৎ hong joshua

౨ৎ you never thought joshua was the type to play video games—until you caught him playing your favourite game at 2 in the morning.

starring bf! joshua x gn! reader genre fluff, humour, established relationship contains guns (literally a video game), they play fortnite together word count 0.6k

from rhin, the title is from fortnite (chapter 2 i think idk i need to google it). anyways i hope you'll like this ame thanks for the req! i fear i can only write abt fortnite if someone asks to write abt a video game... so i hope u aren't tired of my fn obsession guys!!!

when joshua first met you, you mentioned you were fond of video games. he thought you played simple, cozy games like the sims or animal crossing, but you never corrected him.

he wasn’t wrong, though. you do play those games, but recently he found out you’re more into shooter games. it was a bit shocking to find out you like violent games, but he was not one to judge.

the problem is, joshua never plays video games as much as you play. he’s only ever played classic arcade games like tetris and pac man, but he’s never even heard what a fortnite is or what overwatch is even about.

you love joshua regardless of whether he plays games or not. sometimes when he’s at your place, you two would be close together in front of your tv, playing mario kart, hands tangled with each other’s against the controllers.

one of those game date nights happened to be a fortnite run. again, joshua has never heard of a game named after fourteen days. the first round he played with you, he was lost at first but slowly adapted to it. after the second round, he realized that he enjoys this game.

the only problem with this game is that he is absolutely trash at it. no matter what he does in the game, someone will still find a way to eliminate him. even in 1v1s with you, you manage to beat his ass every time before he can even see your avatar in the game.

joshua really likes this game, and he really likes playing it with you, but sometimes it can get insufferable when you win all the time. so every time he sleeps over, he stays with you in bed until you fall asleep. he’ll wait for a few minutes, then he’ll leave you to log onto your computer.

every night, he practices on fortnite until two in the morning. whether it’s aiming or building, he’ll make sure to master everything you do to him in the game. he’s been doing this routine for literally a fortnight—two weeks and three days to be exact.

you were never aware of this until you woke up one night because the blanket was pushed to you. you realised your boyfriend wasn’t next to you, so you waited for a few minutes, assuming he went to the bathroom. you didn’t sleep for thirty minutes, hoping joshua would come back and cuddle with you, but he never entered the room.

you began to hear faint keyboard typing, fast ones. it was coming from the living room, where your computer is. you got up and wondered, could it be joshua? there was no way; he doesn’t play games like that. as you leave your room, you notice the living room has a bright spot on the wall.

“baby?” you call out, walking closer. you stop in your tracks as you see joshua sitting in front of your computer, one hand on the keyboard and the other one tipping his (your) headphones down. he stares at you like a deer caught in headlights.

you glance at the screen; a big ‘VICTORY ROYALE’ pops up. “no way! did you actually get a victory royale?” you freak out as you come close to joshua, looking closer at the monitor.

“yeah,” he sheepishly replies, “i’ve been trying to get this for a while.”

“why?”

“well, you keep winning every time we 1v1, so i thought if i practice every day, i’ll beat you in a match.”

you stifle a laugh and lean on him. “shua you’re so cute, you know that? we can play tomorrow, but let’s go back to bed now.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” he presses a kiss on your forehead and turns off your computer.

svt masterlist .ᐟ

[vainvenus]

mind games | ln4 | pt.7

Pairings: Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You're back at home but it barely feels like yours at this point.

Includings: Dark!Lando Norris and i mean really dark in this chapter, unstable mood swings, emotional manipulation, nonverbal for most of this chapter, spiraling behavior, possessive/obsessive behavior, toxic dynamics, descriptions/attempts of drowning, petnames.

An: Hey....how yall doing...

I hate this chapter and will be disappearing for another two months!!

@eclipsedcherry @slutforvoldy @alliseeisversainz @taylorrtgs @lorena-mv33

The drive back home was just as silent as the one to the old karting track, except this time you hadn't said a word. Your voice felt lodged in your throat, tangled like it was caught between wires.

A mess of emotions churned inside you: frustrated, confused, distressed. And to top it all off, your clothes are dirty, and your lips still felt swollen from the less-than-gentle kiss Lando had left you with.

Once he pulled up to your house, you realized you didn’t have your keys but before you could dwell on it, Lando pulled out his copy from his keychain, unlocked the door and opened it for you, letting you in first. As if he were inviting you in and it wasn't your home.

You heard the door shut followed by a click as Lando locked it. You glanced around, looking over at the kitchen table before the couch in the living room. You slowly walked towards your bedroom, Lando's footsteps following just a few beats behind like a shadow that was out of touch.

Could you feel like an intruder in your own home? Because that’s exactly what this was. Your space didn’t feel like yours anymore. It felt borrowed, temporary. And now Lando was here, reclaiming it like it had always belonged to him.

You collapsed onto your bed, curling up in an almost fetal position and burying your face into the pillows. You felt Lando sit down near your feet as the bed dipped a little bit and he rubbed his hand along your leg.

"I'll run you a bath instead, yeah? I think that's what my sweet girl needs. A nice hot bubble bath." He offered.

You didn't answer. You didn't nod. You didn't even look up.

Just a small subtle shake of your head.

Something shifted. The soft demeanor he had since he had snapped at you back at the track, his hand pulling back slightly as if he were scared to make any sudden movements. He stared at you for a short while, brows furrowed.

"No?" He asked, like the word was foreign to him. His voice was barely above a whisper but it had a certain edge to it now. "You don't want a bath? You're all dirty, baby."

You wanted to ask him who's fault that was but all you did was bite down on your tongue, burying yourself further into the pillows and your bed wishing that it would somehow swallow you whole so you wouldn't have to deal with him.

You just wanted to be alone. You wanted to be away from him most of all. Being next to him felt like you couldn't breathe normally. He made you feel like you were holding onto your next breath because you didn't know when you would get the chance to inhale again.

Lando didn't take silence well. He especially didn't take it well coming from you.

He watched you for a moment longer, his eyes scanning your posture and the bits of your face that he could see just scanning your expression. Like he was trying to read your mind or trying to pull some sort of reaction out of you.

He slowly got up, rising to his feet and walking over to the direction your head was turned.

"Talk to me."

The quiet of the room had shifted, tense and uncomfortable like the air itself was holding its own breath and Lando shot you a pointed look when you still didn't respond or even budge. His fists clenched at his side.

"Talk to me." He repeated, his voice much more strained.

Still nothing.

"You've just got to make things so difficult, huh?" He hissed, his lips curling into a sneer. You barely had any time to react as his hand closed around your wrist in a tight hold.

"You’re still not gonna say anything?" He muttered, more to himself than to you. His jaw flexed. "Fine."

He let go suddenly, your arm falling limp to your side. He turned without a word and stormed into the bathroom. You heard the rush of water a second later, followed by bags and bottles rustling.

When he came back, he was breathing hard, like even that simple act had taken everything in him not to explode.

"You’re dirty." He said flatly, voice sharp with something that wasn't quite anger but close.

His eyes scanned you like he was trying not to see what he'd done. Dirt smudged your clothes, your knees, your cheek. The faint trace of blood on your palms had dried.

His fault.

He looked away for a second too long.

"You need to wash up." He nodded toward the bathroom. "The tub’s ready."

Still, you didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

That’s when his patience cracked.

“You think I enjoy this?” He hissed. “You think I like being the bad guy here?"

You blinked slowly. He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t read you at the moment.

He stood suddenly, eyes narrowing. “You’re not leaving. You’re not running. You're not even crying or screaming. So what’s the point in acting like a brat right now?"

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Lando moved again.

You didn’t hear his footsteps, but you felt the moment he was behind you. His hand hovered near your shoulder, hesitating only a second before it wrapped around your upper arm, tight.

"Get. Up." He muttered. There was no kindness left in his voice. Just firmness and irritation.

You didn’t resist, but you didn’t help him either. He hauled you to your feet with ease, guiding you forward. Not forcefully, but with a grip that told you he would use force if you made him.

The hallway was silent, save for the soft rush of water still running into the tub. The warmth fogged the mirror slightly, steam curling in the air like the tension between you.

Lando pushed the door open and stepped in behind you, not letting go of your arm.

"Clothes off." He said, his tone clipped.

You didn’t move.

His grip tightened, not painful, but enough to make your skin prickle.

“I’m not going to say it again.”

There was no lust in his voice, no playfulness. Just control. Just the constant state of obsession from someone who had already decided you belonged to him, whether you liked it or not.

And when you still hesitated, he let out a sharp breath, spun you gently and grabbed the hem of your shirt. He pulled it up and over your head before tossing it into the dirty clothes hamper.

Not rough. Not tender. Just…mechanical.

“You’ll feel better soon." He murmured as he helped you undress. It didn't feel as sexual as it should have been, it was domestic. Almost. “You’ll stop looking at me like that. You'll love me and everything will be fine."

The way he spoke made your stomach turn, as if this had already been decided like he was planning out your future right in front of you and you didn't have a singular say in it.

You stepped into the tub, letting the heat crawl up your skin, settle onto the bruises, the dirt, the scrapes, the blood he let dry. A small breath you didn't even realize you were holding leaving your lips as you leaned your head back and shut your eyes.

You knew he hadn't left. His presence was suffocating even though there was a good amount of distance between the two of you since he was leaning against the sink which was a few inches away from the tub.

The silence stretched for a while, it wasn't uncomfortable but it also didn't feel safe. Like both of you were walking on thin ice, trying to see who would break it first.

It was lando who did.

"I'm sorry."

He said it so softly, so quietly that if it weren't for the complete silence of your home you wouldn't have caught it. He wasn't crying, but something in his voice cracked like he was going to.

“You probably think I’m fucking insane for doing all this over a Junior karting event.” The bitter laugh that followed was hollow. No humor in it. Like he hated how it sounded.

“I get how that sounds and looks, okay? I do. But you just stuck. As much as I wanted to forget about it and move on I just couldn't."

His gaze dropped to the water. His voice cracked.

“You’re like an itch I can’t scratch right. A noise in the back of my skull. I thought about you constantly. I fucking dreamt in your voice.”

You swallowed hard.

His eyes flicked back up to you. And for once, he looked... lost. Not angry. Not obsessed. Just wrecked.

“I love you.”

Three words. Three words that felt like a brick being thrown into a glass window. Fast, destructive and completely unwanted.

“I love you and I need you." He mumbled desperately. "I needed you then, and I need you now."

He sat forward, closer to the tub. His hand hovered over the edge, fingers flexing like he wanted to touch you but was afraid you'd recoil. "I don't regret anything I've done to get here but I am sorry." He paused. “For the stealing, the breaking in, making you think you were losing your mind, the whole Max thing."

You didn’t respond.

He stood slowly and reached for the washcloth again, dipping it into the water before pouring your body wash onto it. His movements were careful, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I’m not asking you to love me now." He murmured. “I just want you to stop fighting it. Let me take care of you. Let me do this right, I swear I can be good. I can be...normal.”

He knelt beside you, slowly trailing the cloth over your shoulder.

It was quiet again. The kind of quiet that pressed down on your chest and made the air feel heavier.

He washed your arms next, then your back. Gentle. Too gentle for the man who had shoved you to the ground and kissed you so hard your lips still felt sore.

He moved like he was making up for it now. Like if he could be soft enough, you'd forget the hardness that came before.

He set the cloth down and his eyes found yours again.

“We're not leaving this bathroom until you say something, Y/n."

It wasn't a threat. It was a statement. Like a mom scolding a troublesome child. You knew he would keep you in the bathroom until the bubbles disappeared and the water was cold.

Still, you didn’t answer him. You didn't know what to say or if there was a specific response he wanted.

The only sound was the quiet slosh of water as it rippled around your body. He sat crouched beside the tub, knuckles white around the edge, eyes drilling into you like they could dig your silence out from where you were hiding it.

Lando’s jaw clenched once. Then again. “Y/n.”

Your name cut through the air like a knife. You still didn’t flinch. He dragged a hand down his face, breathing in sharp.

He sat up to slowly get on his knees.

“Okay.” His voice was calm now. Too calm. “Okay, if that’s how you wanna do this…”

You barely had time to register the shift before his hands were on you. Fast, hot, unforgiving. One shoved your shoulder. The other grabbed your jaw. And then.

The world tipped backwards.

Water closed over your head with a violent rush. The warmth of it turned suffocating in an instant. It invaded your nose, your mouth, your ears, stole your breath before you had time to scream. Your arms shot up, flailing, clawing at nothing.

But he held you down.

One arm across your chest. His knee dug against the bathtub. You tried to rise, to buck against him, but his grip was unshakable. Like holding you under was the most natural thing in the world.

Seconds blurred. Your lungs convulsed, begging. Every part of your body screamed for air. You thrashed harder until Lando yanked you up by your shoulders, water splashing over the side of the tub as you coughed and sputtered, trembling in his grasp.

He didn’t even blink. Didn’t look scared. Just… expectant.

“Say something,” He ordered, voice low and clipped, like he wasn’t kneeling beside the girl he just nearly drowned. “Anything.”

You coughed again, chest heaving, throat raw. Still, you stayed silent. You couldn’t tell if it was defiance or terror that glued your voice inside your chest.

That made it worse.

His hand moved again. Slower this time, as if he regretted it already, but had to do it. Like silence was a sickness and he was going to drown it out of you.

You gripped onto the fabric of his shirt, scratching and trying to hold yourself up as his hand cupped the back of your neck.

But he didn’t stop.

You went under again.

This time it was slower, steadier. Like a ritual.

Like he believed if he just did this right, the words would come.

You fought him. Less violently now, weaker. The panic was the same, but your body wasn’t keeping up. The ache in your chest spread to your limbs. The water felt colder. Sharper.

When he pulled you up again, you were already sobbing. Loud, wet gasps tearing out of your throat. Your nails dug into his forearms as you clung to him.

“Lando!—” You coughed. "Stop, please! I'll talk!"

He froze.

Then let out a breath of relief.

“There we go." He cooed. His hand cradled the back of your dripping head, holding it to his chest. “That's all I want from you. I feel like I'm not asking for much.”

Your body trembled against him. His grip was too tight. His chest rose and fell in jagged breaths like he was the one coming down from drowning.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” He said quietly. “You know that, right? I’m trying. I’m trying so hard but I need you to work with me, baby.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t, still trying to breathe normally.

He didn’t care.

Lando placed a soft kiss on the top of your head, mumbling into your hair. “When you’re quiet with me like that… it makes me feel like that little boy you ignored. Like I’m nothing to you. And I can’t be nothing. I won’t.”

He pulled back, his fingers resting softly against your jaw, eyes sinking deep into yours. His hazel-green gaze was no longer filled the warmth you knew. The usual light had faded, leaving pupils so wide and dark they seemed to swallow the green.

"So when I ask you to talk to me, you're gonna listen. Right?"

You nodded and his grip tightened a little making you wince.

"Yes." You murmured and a warm smile spread across his lips.

"Good girl." He hummed, voice a tender hush as he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. He pulled away slowly, like it physically pained him to do so.

He stood up, shirt slightly damp from all the splashing you had done as he had set your washcloth into the palm of your hand.

"I'll let you finish washing up, okay? I'm gonna go get you some pajamas to change into."

"Okay." You whispered, your eyes following him as he left the bathroom and you could hear him rummaging through your drawers.

Rummaging through your drawers like he knew exactly where everything was and there was no doubt in your mind that he did. You stayed still for a while. Knees drawn in, the warmth of the water fading against your skin, the washcloth growing cold in your grip.

It was quiet again.

The silence was calm, but beneath it, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being completely on edge.

[writeonwhiskey]

FELIX ONE-SHOT (18+)

a/n but also kinda the summary: idk, i couldn't stop thinking about felix obsessively playing video games and what you could do to make him stop. this is my first felix smut piece, i hope you enjoy it! warnings: oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, fucking while others are listening, some biting. word count: 2k *** this has not been edited***

Get Off the Game

You’re sitting on the living room couch with your usually attentive boyfriend, Felix, next to you. But right now he’s busy playing League of Legends with his mates and they’ve been at it all night. For literal hours at this point.

“No, I’m not gonna 1v1 you,” he says into the mic attached to his headset. “You said you wouldn’t brag if you beat me last time and you still haven’t shut up about it.”

You glance at the time on your kindle. It’s been over an hour since he said he’d be off the game and ready to take you to bed. And there were some very specific things you wanted to do when that happened. How long does he expect you just sit here?

You toss the kindle aside. You’re done waiting. You stand and his eyes immediately shoot up to you.

“You going to bed?” he asks, frowning.

That look is almost enough you reconsider what you’re about to do. You know how much of his time he normally gives to you. How much he showers you with affection, like massaging you any time you ask (sometimes even when you don’t) and baking sweet treats just because he loves you. So, technically, maybe your behavior is his fault for spoiling you so much.

You shake your head as you slowly push down the fabric of the tank top you’re wearing, revealing one tit, then the other.

His eyes widen, darting from you to the TV. “Fuck, babe—wait.”

“I waited long enough,” you reply, pushing the ottoman out of the way so his feet fall to the ground.

“No—not you Minho.” His eyes are still flicking from you to the TV. “Ten more minutes?”

That last one is directed to you. You shake your head again as you move forward onto the couch, straddling him. He’s had 30 minutes more than the hour he originally said. There’s no more time to negotiate.

He leans back into the couch, looking at your tits. His cock stirs beneath you, hips rocking upwards as his jaw clenches. You place your arms around his neck, hands tangling themselves in his hair. You grip the strands firmly and guide his head to your tits.

“Fuck,” he declares in a low breath as he repositions his hands.

His arms are around you, but he’s now holding the damn controller behind you. He latches his mouth onto your nipple, head tilted to the side to see the TV around you. You slowly grind against him as he licks and sucks your nipple, softly moaning. He glances up at you—a warning to be quiet so they won’t hear. You press your lips together before moving him to the other side, and he does the same with that nipple—head now tilted the other way.

You hear the continued clicking of the joysticks and buttons of the controller behind you.

“Yeah I’m still playing—no I was just taking a drink.”

“From a bottle? What are you sucking?”

You’re close enough to the headset to hear Seungmin’s response now.

“You gotta try the baby bottle yogurts,” Felix tells them and you stifle a laugh.

He then takes a moment to kiss between your breasts, abandoning the controller with one hand so he can palm your tits. He alternates between both, squeezing them and pinching the nipples. You arch your back and moan, feeling how wet you’ve become as you keep grinding on him.

“Felix what the hell are you doing? Get on this side!” You hear Changbin yell at him.

He lets go of your tits, returning his hand to the controller.

“Internets lagging, bro,” he lies.

“Baby,” you quietly whine, kissing along his collar bone as your hands continue to tug at his hair . “I want you to fuck me.”

“I will,” he says huskily. “I promise. This is a team game, babe. I need to finish it, or they’ll be on my head about it for a month.”

“I don’t care,” you reply.

You kind of do. You don’t like that they tease him so much about his losing streak. Mainly because you know this is the reason he loses at least 60% of the time when he’s playing from home.

But the other 40% is all him.

“I do, though.” He leans to his right to get a better view of the TV.

You sigh, moving your hips from side to side, sliding back on his thighs until you can reach the floor and kneel in front of him. You push his legs apart.

“Babe,” his deep voice comes out now, a stern warning. “We’re about to win this round, just give me a second.”

Your boyfriend has no concept of time. An hour to him apparently means two. 10 minutes is probably forty, and a second has gotta be somewhere in the 20-minute ballpark.

So, you don’t stop. Your hands move to the waistband of his shorts and boxers. You grip them tightly and start pulling them down.

“Yeah, she wants me off the game,” he says into the mic.

You manage to get them down with little resistance from him. You take them off each of his legs one by one and toss them aside, so his lower half is completely bare. You contemplate removing his shirt, too, but that would be too much of a hassle right now. You have what you need available.

You straighten your back, still on your knees, and grip the base of his cock. You squeeze it and he lets out a soft gasp. You arch an eyebrow. He can’t be surprised by this. He knew it was coming—and he wilt do anything to stop you because he fucking want it too.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, watching as you move your head forward to spit on his cock.

You remove your hand from his cock to bring in front of his mouth, waiting expectantly until he spits into it, too. You smile, lowering your hand back to grip him and move the moisture around the base and the tip.

“Please, baby—don’t.”

You have to stay strong. When this man gets pouty, you default to giving him whatever he wants.

You lean down to take him in your mouth, tongue circling around just the tip at first and he groans. You bob your head up and down, mouth moving with the same rhythm as your hand.

“No, I’m still playing—fuck,” he pauses to groan, “let’s finish this. I know I’m the fucking tank—I got it.”

He glances down at you, frowning, your mouth still gliding on his cock.

“Ten minutes?” He pleads.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He has to know that’s not an accurate time frame, right? It’s already been at least five minutes since the last time he said ten minutes. He’s fucking with you just as much as you’re fucking with him.

“Just play your game,” you say, taking your mouth off his cock. “I don’t need your help right now.”

He sighs, accepting his fate.

You remove your hand from his cock and stand, turning around so your back is to him. You take your tanktop off and push down your shorts, making sure to bend over just a little longer than necessary as you do.

“Fuck me,” he sighs from behind you.

You place your legs on either side of his, looking down as you move your hips back until his cock is positioned right beneath you. You grip the base with one hand again and slowly lower yourself onto it.

“This is why I always lose,” he grumbles, thrusting his hips up once, making you gasp. He moves the controller again so it’s in front of you now, his arms back around you.

“It’s been over an hour,” you say, circling your hips, letting your pussy get acclimated to him. “Maybe you should learn to set a timer.”

“I know how to—shit, shit, fuck—set a timer,” he says, distracted as your start bouncing up and down on his cock, moaning each time your thighs connect.

He leans forward, lacing kisses along your back as you fuck him. You don’t even need to look behind you to know his eyes are still on the game, because you can see he’s still playing on the screen in front of you.

“What else do you know how to do?” you tease.

He takes one hand off the controller to find your pussy. He rubs your clit with the same ferocity he uses on the controller buttons, causing you to bounce faster, harder. You lean against him until his back is pressed against the couch.

“That feels so fucking good baby,” you moan.

“Shhh,” he hushes you, bringing his hand up from your pussy to your mouth.

He slips his fingers inside to keep you quiet. You suck your juices off as you grind your pussy on his cock, forward and backwards, circling.

You don’t truly mind that he plays the game so often and for so long with his friends. But when it cuts into the time that you have to fuck him, you have to take matters into your own hands. So you do. And it’s always worth it.

“No not you guys—y/n is,” he groans, “yelling at me. The kitchen is a mess. I was supposed to—fuck—clean it.”

You smile, leaning forward to place your hands on his knees. You bounce your ass up and down on his cock, not caring how loud the impact is—not caring if they can hear or not.

They’ve had his attention long enough today.

“I see it, I got it,” Felix says into the mic and you glance up at the screen as his character goes to defend them from the attacking party. You slow your pace, moving up and down in slow, teasing strokes. “Fuck baby, I’m sorry, give me a second.”

He’s doing that thing where he’s kind of speaking to you, but not wanting it to sound weird to the others on the game.

“I want you to make me come,” you tell him, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He locks eyes with you as you circle your hips, lips parted. You cup your tits with your own hands, kneading them, rolling your nipples through your fingers.

He starts bucking his hips, freeing one hand from the controller again. He pushes one of your hands out of the way and grabs your tit, groping it, slapping it. You moan.

“That’s what you want?” he grunts.

“Yes, baby. My clit too, please.”

“We need to blow some shit up guys,” he says into the mic.

You feel something against your clit, but it’s definitely not his hand. You glance down, watching as he moves the handle of the controller to your clit. Looking at the screen you watch as his character all but runs in circles while the others start blowing shit up like he advised.

The controller vibrates with each explosion. Your eyes flutter shut at the stimulation, and the thought of all his friends contributing to this moment without even realizing it.  

“Oh fuck, fuck,” you whine, leaning back against him again. You bring your legs up onto the couch to get better leverage and continue bouncing your hips up and down on him. “Don’t stop, please, baby. I’m gonna come.”

“Do it,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice vibrating against your back as he nips at your flesh.

The bombs continue to explode on screen as your orgasm rips through you.

“Mmm fuuuck!”

Felix drops the remote, his hand taking over on your clit as he full on bites into your back, his other hand, squeezing your tits in turn. He’s grunting with each slam of your pussy against his cock.

He forgoes the game while you come, finally giving you his full attention. And you milk it, whining, moaning, grinding until your orgasm subsides. You collapse against him when you finish.  

You grab the remote to hand to him—the hand that was on your tits. You take the other one and lick it clean, hips still gently rocking against him.

“My turn?” he asks when you let go of his other hand.

You stand up and turn to face him, your heart breaking looking into his sweet, puppy dog eyes.

“I’m going to bed,” you declare.

“We’re almost done, I promise—just,” he pauses to cover his mic. “Just suck it again baby, please? My cock is so fucking hard right now, it hurts.”

“No, it’s okay.” You shake your head innocently. “It’s late now, I need to sleep.”

With that, you grab your clothes from the floor, holding them to your chest as you exit the living room.

“Sorry, guys. I’m out.”  You hear him say, and seconds later his footsteps are right behind you. “Don’t make me chase you.”

His shirt goes whizzing past you as he approaches, landing on the floor. You squeal, taking off in a sprint to the bedroom.

This isn’t your first rodeo with Felix. It won’t be your last.

But one thing is for certain.

You know how to get him off that fucking game.

a/n: idk mannn, sounds fun doesn't it? if you're new around these parts, i'm a writer that loves to hear your thoughts 💜 let me know what you think! also, side note: i did try the baby bottle yogurts for shits and giggles and it's a fucking weird experience 😂 [ master list ]

[idkwhylou]

Trouble

Summary : You grew up on military bases, always under the shadow of your admiral father—and always just out of reach of the Navy boys you weren't supposed to want. But Bradley Bradshaw had always been different.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/militarybrat!reader

Warnings : bad knowledge on military settings, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex (nothing graphic more suggestive), flirt, Hangman, no use of y/n, bit of angst ?, happy ending dw

Words : 6K

A/N : It's the first time I write for Bradley, actually this have been hidden in my drafts for too long soooo. Didn't check before posting, sorry for the mistakes

+ your last name is Andrews (not important I just named the admiral father like that so)

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Being a military brat wasn’t exactly a dream, but you’d learn to survive it with style.

Endless relocations, half-finished friendships, birthdays celebrated on video calls while your father was halfway around the world—Admiral Andrews always had bigger battles to fight. You grew up in hangars and on tarmacs, your lullabies was the roar of jet engines and the bark of orders through static-filled radios. Discipline was second nature. And so was pretending things didn’t hurt.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. They were…perks. 

Namely, the men.

They came and went like seasons—loud, fleeting, and always convinced they were unforgettable. Each one walked with the same cocksure strut, flight suits unzipped just enough to suggest ego rather than comfort, and eyes that burned with that reckless, high-altitude gleam. You learned fast—faster than you were probably supposed to—how to recognize the pattern. The polished charm they wore like a second skin.

You didn’t fall for it. Not once.

You watched, studied, catalogued the way they spoke when they thought they were being clever, the way their smiles sharpened when they were about to flirt. You learned how long it took them to show their tells—the subtle shift in tone, the not-so-innocent brush of an arm, the pause that lasted just a beat too long. They weren’t as mysterious as they thought or tried to pretend. They were pretty predictable actually.

But you never chased them. That, was the key.

You let them notice you instead—just enough to spark the thought, just enough to stay in their mind when the hangar got quiet. You were a test they didn’t realize they were failing. 

Every. Single. Time.

But your father had made it crystal clear from the start : “No navy men”. Which was funny, considering that’s all you were ever surrounded by. Anyway, the irony wasn’t lost on you and neither was the challenge. 

He thought keeping you on base and away from the navy bars meant keeping you safe. But the Admiral never realized that some of your favorite games were played right under his nose. You knew the base like the back of your hand—every shadow, every corner, every overlooked bench, every hangar edge where you could linger just out of sight. You didn’t need loud scenes or public displays. You had subtle smiles, quiet glances, late-night conversations shared against metal walls still warm from the day’s sun. 

Flirts came and went; a wink here, a stolen moment there. You kept things light and unattached. You weren’t naïve—you knew better than to fall for boys who wore dog tags. But God, it was so fun watching them fall just a little bit for you. 

Over the years you got really good at it. You learned how pilots saw you, how they move around girls, how they lie without meaning to. You recognized the ones who were all show, the ones who tried too hard, and the rare few who didn’t try at all. You knew how to draw attention without begging for it. 

And at first, they all tried.

When you were younger—barely out of high school but already too clever for your own good—the attention was constant. New recruits, cocky lieutenants, even a few seasoned officers too sure of their charm. They came at you like it was some unspoken initiation: flirt with the Admiral’s daughter, see how close you could get before it blew up in your face.

One did get close. Too close.

You’d spent the night tangled in Navy sheets and heat; a moment of rebellion that tasted too sweet to regret. It wasn’t love—just curiosity with hands and mouths, a quiet hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying until it finally spilled over. He was older, confident in a way that didn’t feel forced, and for one night, you let yourself fall into the thrill of being wanted, seen—not as the Admiral’s daughter, but just as you.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the morning did. You hadn’t even had time to slip your shirt back on when you heard the footsteps—sharp, purposeful, unmistakable. The door creaked open before you could speak, and there he was: your father, Admiral Andrews, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to actually. One look. One breath drawn through his nose. One flick of his eyes to the discarded uniform trousers on the floor. 

That was enough.

The silence that followed was deafening. He didn’t yell, didn’t bark orders. He simply turned and walked away with the kind of fury that came wrapped in control—and that was somehow worse. By the end of the week, the boy was gone. Transferred without explanation to another coast. Scrubbed clean from your world like he’d never been there. And no one said a word about it. 

Not your father. Not the guy. Not anyone. Not even you, because you knew it was best to keep your mouth shut if you didn’t want to end up in the same situation.

But the message was heard loud and clear across base. You were off-limits now. Untouchable. The Admiral’s daughter—marked. 

After that, most of them backed off. The stares were more cautious; they’d smile quickly, maybe toss a joke your way, but nobody dared get too close. Well, not unless they had a death wish—or a transfer request ready to go.

And you ? You adapted. The flirting became harmless, more performative—just enough to keep things fun.

And still, now and then, someone would forget. 

Some new recruit, fresh off a carrier and drunk on his own reflection, would mistake your easy grin for an invitation. Or maybe it was the way you leaned in when you laughed, the way you held eye contact just a breath too long. You knew the signals you sent. You just knew how to pull them back, too.

They’d catch on. Eventually. Maybe it was the way the older pilots watched you a little too closely, not with hunger but with caution. Maybe it was the subtle tension that snapped into place anytime your father’s name left someone’s mouth like it was a warning label: ‘Admiral Andrews’s daughter’.

And then there were the whispers. Low-voiced and half-believed, traded like ghost stories in locker rooms and smoke breaks. The one who got a guy sent away. Some were curious, others called it poison, most didn’t dare. But a few still tried: the ones too bold or too dumb to care, or maybe just the ones who didn’t know.

Which is why you noticed right away when someone didn’t get the memo.

That night at the Hard Deck, the music was low, the air buzzing with the usual mix of sweat and beer. You were nursing a drink more out of habit than thirst, letting the noise wash over you in waves. That’s when he showed up—Jake Seresin, golden boy swagger and all.

He didn’t look at you like someone warned him. He looked at you like a dare.

“Funny,” he said, leaning an elbow on the bar like he had all night to kill. “I come here a lot, and I don’t remember seeing you before. That feels like a personal tragedy.”

You turned to him, unimpressed but not dismissive. “Maybe I’m very good at not being noticed.”

Jake smiled slowly, eyes sweeping over you—not crude, but confident. “Not with a face like that.”

You snorted softly, swirling the rest of your drink. “Do those lines actually work, or are you just here to collect L’s ?”

He laughed, tilting his head. “Just here to see if lightning strikes. What’s your name ?”

You considered it for a beat too long. “Wouldn’t you rather guess ?”

Jake’s grin grew wider. “Trouble. Definitely trouble.”

You leaned in slightly, letting your shoulder brush his just enough to register. “Only for people who don’t know how to handle me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, “I specialize in handling.”

You raised an eyebrow, your expression unreadable but amused. “You sure ? You look more like someone who talks a big game and taps out when it gets interesting.”

His hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”

“I’m just being cautious,” you replied, your voice silk over steel. “I’ve seen a lot of pilots walk in here thinking they’re bulletproof. Turns out, most of them flinch when the safety’s off.”

Jake chuckled, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you are military. I was betting civilian.”

“Does it matter ?” you asked, letting the question linger.

“Only if you outrank me.”

You smirked into your glass. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, the air between you was still—charged with the kind of tension that made everything slow down. Jake looked at you like he wanted to solve you. You looked at him like you’d already read the answer and were just waiting to see if he’d catch up.

From across the room, someone called his name but he didn’t move. Not yet. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink. Worst case, you put me in my place and I go home with a bruised ego. Best case…”

You tilted your head. “Best case ?”

He leaned in, just a little. “You stop pretending you're not having fun.”

You didn’t answer right away, just held his gaze. Then, with a slow, calculated smile, you slid your almost empty glass toward him.

“I’ll take a whiskey,” you said. “Neat. No bullshit.”

Jake’s laugh was soft and genuine as he flagged down Penny. “Now that’s a girl after my own heart.”

He returned quickly with the drinks in hand, sliding yours across the table next to you like a magician revealing a card trick. “One whiskey, neat. No bullshit—just how you like it.”

You took it with a nod, your fingers brushing his for half a second. He was easy to look at—lean, tan, jawline too sharp for his own good. The kind of guy who probably had a mirror above his bed. But he was charming, you had to admit. There was something in the way he grinned at you like he already knew you were trouble and still wanted a bite. Maybe you’d give him one. Just a taste.

“You’re not so bad, Hangman,” you said, sipping your drink.

He perked up. “So you have heard of me.”

“Hard not to. The ego arrives five minutes before you do.”

Jake laughed. “That’s fair.”

You let the conversation drift, leaning back against the wall, letting his stories and confident smirks wash over you. It was easy to play this game. Familiar. Like slipping into old shoes—ones that still fit but didn’t take you anywhere new.

And then, the door swung open.

You didn’t look at first, still listening to Jake—he was mid-sentence about some dogfight in training—but then you felt it. A shift in the air. Your eyes flicked toward the entrance.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw.

He walked in like he didn’t need the room to notice him—and yet it did. He had that kind of quiet gravity, the kind that pulled attention without asking for. He wore one of those old Hawaiian shirts—sun-bleached and fraying a little at the edges, probably one of his dad’s—left unbuttoned, sleeves cuffed like it was second nature. A pair of aviators rested low on the bridge of his nose, catching the bar lights just enough to hide his eyes. In his hand, he still held the keys to his precious bronco, twirling them once around his finger like a nervous tic, though nothing about him looked uncertain. 

Jake was still talking, something about g-force and cocky teammates, but you weren’t hearing it anymore. You and Bradley had known each other for a while now. Enough to share inside jokes and glances that didn’t need words. He made space for you in conversations without trying. He remembered things you hadn’t realized you’d said. He was kind in a way that didn’t need an audience.

The blond said something and you nodded absently, but your eyes followed Bradley as he made his way toward the bar. Rooster hadn’t seen you yet, or maybe he had and was just taking his time. Either way, he walked with the ease of someone who didn’t have to prove anything. While Jake was all angles and spotlight, Bradley was all depth and quiet corners.

Hangman finally paused, catching your shift in attention. He followed your gaze and let out a short laugh, “Is it the porn ‘stache or the ugly shirt ?”

You blinked, snapped back. “What ?”

“Bradshaw,” Jake said, nodding toward him. “Didn’t peg you for the boy scout type.”

You shrugged and let out a soft chuckle, “I don’t have a type.”

Jake tilted his head, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sure you don’t. Rooster ? Really ? You’re goin’ soft on us sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning boredom as you sipped your drink. “Bradley’s just a long-time friend.”

Hangman leaned in a little, elbow brushing the table as his voice dropped low. “Mm-hmm. Funny, because you don’t look at your other friends like that.”

You smirked. “What’s the matter ? You’re jealous ?”

His grin widened into something smug. “Jealous ? Please.” He gestured at himself. “Sweetheart, I’m not worried. ‘Cause let’s be honest—Rooster’s too busy thinking about the right thing to say. Me ?” He leaned in just a bit closer, voice smooth and low. “I actually know how to treat a girl like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Oh yeah ? And what kind of girl is that, exactly ?”

His gaze flicked down briefly—too quickly to be respectful, too slowly to be innocent. “Smart mouth, sharp tongue… but you like a little danger. You want someone who doesn’t ask permission to touch, someone who knows when to talk… and when not to.”

You let out a soft laugh, but there was heat beneath it. “Wow. You rehearsed that one ?”

Jake’s grin turned lazy, cocky. “Sweetheart, that was the improv version.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing, teasing. “If I wanted a man who thought with his ego, I’d pick one with better stamina.”

His eyebrows lifted, that cocky smirk faltering just a second—then came back twice as bold. “You volunteering to test that theory ?”

You were about to say something sharp, something that might’ve made the temperature between you boil over, but a voice cut the moment clean in half. “Seresin.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. But you did.

Bradley stood there, calm as ever, jaw tight, that unreadable gaze flicking between you and Hangman. The keys to his Bronco hung loosely in his hand, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. “Didn’t know we were giving lectures on respect tonight,” he added, his voice level, but unmistakably pointed.

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender, a laugh in his throat. “Easy, Rooster. We were just talkin’.”

“Sure you were,” Bradley said, gaze not leaving Jake’s face.

Hangman didn’t move, his grin just a fraction but his stance still confident, as if daring Bradley to push further. “So, what’s the real deal ? I’m not one to back off, you should know that Bradshaw.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping low but steady, laced with quiet authority. “You remember Admiral Andrews, right ? You’ve got his sweet little girl right in front of you, idiot.” He took a slow step closer, his tone sharpened with warning. “So maybe think twice before you mess around with something you can’t afford to break.”

The blond blinked, the easy cockiness flickered for a moment, surprise crossing his features as Bradley’s words hit harder than he expected. He glanced at you, then back at Bradley, sensing the line he wasn’t meant to cross. You see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but he didn’t back down. You liked that.

“You think a name’s gonna scare me off ? I’m not like you chicken. Plus I don’t see her old man anywhere.” He smirked.

Bradley stepped forward just enough, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of authority. “Maybe not. But I’m the one standing between you and a whole lot of trouble. So why don’t you save us both the headache and walk away ?”

Jake let out a slow sigh, the fight draining out of him as he finally nodded. He looked at you and winked, “When he's done bothering you, you know where to find me sweetheart.”

You weren’t angry—Bradley did this all the time. Always stepping in, always cock-blocking you when you least expected it. It was almost infuriating how often he played the protective big brother role. But you knew it came from somewhere deeper. He wasn’t just interfering for the sake of it; he was looking out for you. You mattered to him, more than most people realized.

Bradley’s eyes softened as he looked at you, a quiet honesty in his voice. “I know it’s annoying. But you’ve got people watching your back—including me.”

You shook your head with a small laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Big brother mode activated. I get it.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow as you both moved toward the bar, where Penny was serving other patrons. “Come on,” he said. You followed him, feeling the familiar pull of comfort in his presence—someone who knew the real you, without pretense or judgment.

Bradley didn’t waste a second. He caught Penny’s eye and commanded, “Six shots of tequila Pen’.” He shot you a knowing look, his smirk softening just a little. He knew exactly how you liked it. 

Before you could even think about pulling out your wallet, he slid his card across the counter. “On me. Don’t even.”

You slid onto the stool next to him, the wood creaking softly beneath your weight. The air between you buzzed with a tension that had settled there years ago—familiar, low-burning. You barely had time to adjust your seat when Bradley, without a word or a glance, reached out and tugged your stool closer to him. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—firm, like muscle memory, like this wasn’t the first time he’d wanted you that close.

You didn’t protest, you didn’t need to and absolutely didn’t want to. 

From across the bar, Penny slid the six shots in front of you with practiced ease. She arched a brow, smirking as her eyes flicked between the two of you. “Bradley,” she said, tone dry but affectionate, “keep an eye on her tonight, will you ? She’s trouble in my bar—and you’re the only one she actually listens to.” 

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, but didn’t deny it. And Bradley just smirked, like he already knew he’d be doing just that. Trouble, after all, had a way of finding the two of you. Or maybe you were just better at finding each other. You took the salt and pour some on your palm, Rooster stretched out his hand to you, so that you could put salt on his too. You, then, reached for the first glass without hesitation, fingers brushing the cool rim just as Bradley’s hand closed around his own. Your eyes met in the half-second, you raised your shot in a toast. 

“To trouble then.” You said, your smile lazy, knowing. 

He chuckled warmly under his breath as the clink of glass between you was soft, but it echoed—more than sound. You tipped yours back easily. The tequila was sharp at first, then smooth as you bite in your quarter of lemon. His gaze lingered a second too long on your mouth, as you lick your lips. 

You leaned your elbow on the bar, chin in hand, feeling your throat burning. “You’ve always got my back, haven’t you ?”

He gave a half-shrug, eyes flicking down to his empty glass. “Someone had to.” That was always the thing about Bradley—he didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. While others circled like moths to flame, trying too hard, talking too loud, he simply stayed. The only one who never looked at you like you were something to win or just a piece of meat.

You studied his profile for a beat—the strong jaw, the crease just forming between his brows. He looked like he always did: calm, grounded, the kind of calm that only made you more aware of your own pulse. His fingers tapped once against the bar, a quiet rhythm. Nervous ? No. Calculated for sure. Like he was trying not to look at you again, trying not to give too much away.

Then, without breaking the silence between you, he reached for the second shot. And slid yours toward you.

No words this time.

Just the soft scrape of glass across wood—and that heat blooming in your chest again, heavier this time. Not from the tequila. From the way his fingers brushed yours, just long enough to feel intentional and deliberate. 

For now.

You tilted your head, voice low and teasing. “What is it with you, Bradshaw ? You always this cautious, or just with me ?”

He gave a soft breath of a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t make it easy.”

That was honest. A little too honest.

You clinked your glass to his again. “Good.”

The second shot burned a little deeper, less sweet and more heat. You didn’t look away this time. You let your eyes linger on him as you set your glass down with a quiet clink, and this time, he was already watching you.

But not in the way others did. There was nothing lazy or possessive in it, just that familiar, weighted gaze. 

“You ever think maybe I’m not trying to make it easy ?” you murmured, lips just shy of a smirk.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly on his feet, as if trying to find steadier ground. “I think,” he said finally, “that you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And I think,” you replied, leaning in just a little, “you’re still trying to pretend it doesn’t get to you.”

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. Instead, he glanced away, jaw tight, hands folded in front of him like he needed somewhere to put the tension. “I can’t risk it,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t for effect. It wasn’t a line. It was a confession.

Your smile softened just a fraction. “Then why are you still sitting here, Brad ?”

That pulled his gaze back to you—harder this time, deeper. Something in it cracked, just slightly. And between you, the third shot sat untouched, waiting, as the tequila warmed your chest. Spread slow through your veins like liquid confidence. But Bradley’s eyes were too serious now.

“I’ve known you too long to fuck this up,” he said quietly, “You’re his daughter. You know what that means.”

And there it was; the sting. The salt no softening it at all and no smirk to hide behind.

Your smile faltered for half a second before you caught it, masked it in something lighter—your defense, always. “Well, good thing you’re not in uniform tonight. It doesn’t count then.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. 

You leaned in, slow and unhurried, “So what’s your excuse now, Lieutenant ?”

But before you could get too close, he shifted. Enough to let the air slip between you again, enough to say nowithout the words. You froze for a beat, the rejection subtle but sharp in the places that mattered. He didn’t meet your eyes right away, his fingers tense against the wooden bar. 

“I don’t have a good reason,” he said at last, voice rougher now. “Only the right one.”

You didn’t flinch, but something in you pulled tight. Slowly, you leaned back, the teasing edge fading from your smile. Your fingers toyed with the rim of your empty glass, tracing a circle like it might give you answers. Right. Of course, it was the right reason. It always was with him. That was the problem.

“I forget sometimes,” you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the bar. 

He looked at you then—really looked—and there it was again, that quiet storm always behind his eyes. “I know what they see when they look at you. I’m not proud of how many I’ve wanted to punch for it.”

You huffed a breath, something like a laugh but thinner. “And here I thought you were the calm one.”

“I’m not calm when it comes to you.”

The confession dropped between you like a weight, and for a moment neither of you moved. The room felt too still. Too exposed. You turned, met his gaze again, your voice soft but steady. “Then don’t be. Just for tonight.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look away either. And that silence said more than either of you were ready for. From behind the bar, Penny raised a brow and took discretely the two empty glasses—cutting through the moment like she knew. Of course she did.

You glanced down at it, then back at Bradley. “Last one,” you murmured. “You gonna let me drink alone ?”

His jaw flexed, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Bradley’s fingers wrapped around the last shot glass as he held your gaze. Then he tipped it back in one smooth motion. You watched his throat work as the tequila slid down, the way his eyes fluttered closed for just a beat—like he needed the burn to make a decision. Like he’d hoped the fire would settle something inside him.

But when he set the glass down, he didn’t say a word. Just pushed the rim gently toward the center of the bar and stood. No glance toward you. No smirk. No half-joke to soften the blow. Just the subtle clench of his jaw and the quiet scrape of wood as he stepped back from his stool.

Your breath caught. “Bradley—”

“I can’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. But it hit harder than if he’d shouted.

Then he turned and walked away. You sat frozen for a second, the heat of the liquor blooming in your chest, spreading too fast. Too deep. Penny didn’t say anything—just watched with that knowing look she always had, as if she’d seen a hundred near-misses like this before. You stared at the empty glass in front of you. Still warm. Still full of everything he didn’t say.

You stared at the empty space where he’d been, pulse thrumming beneath your skin like something trying to break loose. The tequila sat in front of you—untouched, waiting. Like a dare. 

You picked it up without thinking. “Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, then knocked it back. The burn hit harder than the first two. Bit deeper. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was him—but the moment the glass hit the bar again, you were already sliding off the stool.

You pushed past the quiet hum of the Hard Deck, ignoring the knowing look Penny shot your way, ignoring Jake's low whistle behind you. All you could focus on was the sight of Bradley’s broad back, just slipping through the door, his frame half-lit by the hazy dusk spilling across the beach.

“Bradley !” you called, the wind catching your voice as you jogged after him.

He didn’t turn around at first. Not until you caught up, your hand brushing his arm, fingers curling. He stopped like he’d been struck. Then, slowly, he turned. His sweet brown eyes found yours in the dim light of the parking lot, a storm behind his quiet irises. You let your hand drop from his arm, but his warmth lingered on your skin like a brand. 

“Why do you always do that ?” you asked, voice lower now. “Push me away like I’m some damn risk you can’t afford.”

Bradley didn’t answer right away. He looked past you for a second, jaw tight, as if picking his words from a minefield. “Because you ae,” he said finally, “You’re an Admiral’s daughter. You’re trouble I can’t walk away from clean.”

You flinched, not from the words themselves but the truth behind them. “I’m not a fucking kid Brad.”

“I know that,” he said, eyes falling shut for a second, like he was trying to steady something inside him. He pinched his nose, “Trust me, I know.”

“Then stop acting like you don’t want this too !” you snapped. “You’re not wearing your uniform tonight. You’re not my babysitter. You’re just… you. And I’m just me.”

His eyes opened because of the sudden rise of your voice, “You think that makes it easier ?”. You didn’t respond and he sighed looking down, then he stepped forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body again. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I’m not asking,” you said, tapping your head back to meet his gaze. “I’m telling you I’m right here. And I want you.”

Bradley’s hands twitched at his sides, and for a moment it looked like he might pull away again. But instead of retreating, he exhaled slowly, like he was holding himself back. His expression shifted in something sharp flickering in his eyes, frustration simmering just under the surface. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair as his voice edged harder. 

“You don’t get it,” he said tightly. “You think I can just pretend that your dad wouldn’t end my career the second he found out I even looked at you twice ?”

You sighed and then took a shaky breath, your voice defiant. “You think I care what my dad thinks ?” you scoffed, shaking your head. “Plus he likes you Bradley ! He trusts you and-”

He cut you off by letting out a bitter laugh, “Yeah,” he muttered, “because I’m not trying to fuck his daughter.”

The words hit hard—crude, sharp, and a little too honest. 

“This isn’t a game for me.” Your name escaped his lips so softly you almost forgot you were arguing. 

“I never said it was a game,” you said barely over a whisper. “But thanks for assuming I don’t understand.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away, down the road like it might offer an easier answer than what stood in front of him. “This is exactly why I walk away.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Right. Because walking away’s easier than actually admitting you care.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

He turned, keys still dangling in his hand, posture tense like he was ready to bolt.

Your heart squeezed.

You took a step forward, voice gentler now, cracking just a bit. “Bradley—wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. His shoulders stayed tense, his jaw locked as your words settled in the quiet between you.

“Can I just…” you hesitated. “Can I just have one thing ? One second. You don’t have to do anything else. Just let me… just let me have this.”

You stepped in slowly, cautiously, like approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement. Your hand brushed his chest, fingers splaying gently over the fabric of his shirt. His heart was racing and so was yours.

“I don’t want to stay mad at you,” you said softly, searching his face. “I don’t want you to stay mad either.”

And then, without waiting for a yes—just holding your breath—you leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slow, barely there. Lingering just long enough to make your heart break a little when you pulled back. It wasn’t about heat or seduction, it was something quieter; a confession. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d done it. There had been quiet moments over the years—late nights, stolen conversations, the way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t looking—when you let yourself lean in and leave that barely-there kiss on the corner of his mouth. Just enough to remind him you saw him. Wanted him. Hoped he’d want you too.

And every time, Bradley would pull back with a small shake of his head, or a sharp sigh, or that carefully constructed silence that meant he was burying the thought before it could bloom.

But tonight… he didn’t move. He let you do it. He didn’t flinch or step away. He just stood there, breathing you in like it hurt, letting the moment happen. And that—more than anything—made your heart thud painfully in your chest.

You took a step back like you hadn’t just laid every card on the table. “That’s all,” you whispered.

Bradley exhaled, something raw and helpless in the sound. His eyes found yours—dark, unreadable—and then dropped to your lips. “You’re a real brat,” he muttered, almost like a prayer.

And before you could respond, he reached for you—fast, like the dam had finally cracked. One hand curled firmly around your waist, grounding you, while the other slid up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair like he needed to anchor himself. 

Then he pulled you in. 

His lips met yours, like he’d been fighting the pull for too long and finally, finally gave in. There was nothing hesitant about it, no more restraint, no more carefully measured distance. It was deep, consuming, years of tension unraveling in one breathless moment. He kissed you like he was starved for it, like every second he’d held back had only built the hunger. 

Bradley’s lips were deceptively soft, contrasting the sharp angles of his jaw and the rough edge he carried with him everywhere else. They were warm, shaped with a natural fullness that made every half-smile feel like a secret, every smirk a challenge. When he kissed you, they didn’t hesitate. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty—just a grounded, confident pressure that spoke of restraint worn thin.

They tasted faintly of tequila and whatever gum he chewed out of habit, but underneath it was something that was just him ; clean, familiar, and dangerously addictive. And when they moved against yours, slow at first then deeper, there was a quiet intensity in them, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally let it slip.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing unsteady, like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His voice came low, hoarse and rough with everything he’d tried to bury.

“I should’ve known better than to think I’d ever be safe from trouble like you.”

“That’s why you love me.” You chuckled and gave him a quick peck, “And, don’t worry ‘bout my dad, I’ll take care of it.”

“If he sends me at the other end of the universe, you’d better follow me, you brat.” He teased, pinching your side playfully. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll follow you anywhere Bradshaw.” You kissed him again and you felt his body softening under your touch. 

[princessmisery666]

Love You A Little Bit

Summary: Jake Seresin doesn’t say ‘I love you’ easily, but he lives it.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: fluff.

W/C: 808

Pairing: Jake Seresin x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

Notes: inspired by Love You A Little Bit by Tanner Adell.

Beta(s): @deanwinchesterswitch - and as always she saved me from myself. Any mistakes belong to me.

Graphics: divider made by @writercole // title card made by me.

Master Lists: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin // Main

Jake Seresin has a way of making you crazy.

Not the painful kind of crazy, not the stormy uncertainty of guessing where you stand or doubting if his heart is in it. No, Jake drives you the other kind of crazy, the dizzy, giddy, off-balance kind. The kind where one wink from across the tarmac can short-circuit your brain. The kind where he steals your oversized hoodie, wears it around base like a trophy, and somehow makes you smile even as you threaten to punch him because when you ask for it back, he just smirks and claims he lost it.

It’s silly. It’s maddening. It’s warm and loud and bright. It feels like being seventeen again, like falling in love for the first time with someone who makes every day feel fresh and brand new.

“You left this in my truck,” Jake says, sliding up beside you at the Hard Deck, holding up the hoodie like he’s presenting a lost puppy.

“Sure you didn’t steal it again?”

He grins but sounds serious. “I’d never.”

With a scoff, you take it from him and toss it over your shoulder. “You lie with a straight face way too easily.”

“That’s Navy training, sweetheart,” he says. “Also, don’t act like you didn’t leave it on purpose. Felt like you were hugging me all day, and my truck smells like you now.”

Your cheeks warm, but you give him your best deadpan look. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Making your way over to the group, Jake falls in step beside you, smugly proclaiming, “Oh, I’m very lucky,” but the way his fingers brush your hand as you walk is anything but smug.

The truth is, Jake Seresin doesn’t say ‘I love you’ easily, but he lives it. He loves hard and shows it in his own ridiculous, obnoxiously endearing, unexpected way. He leaves notes in your locker with dumb pickup lines - “Are you a no-fly zone? Because I’d risk it anyway.” He buys you coffee after your early flights. On warm Friday nights, parked up at your spot overlooking the water, he taps the beat of whatever country song is playing on the steering wheel, then turns and sings like every lyric is written about you and he means every word.

And yeah, he drives you a little bit insane.

Just like earlier that day, he flew too close during a training exercise just to make you laugh. You were ready to chew him out when he landed, but then he pulled off his helmet, hair all tousled, sporting that damn cocky smile.

“Admit it,” he’d said, voice low and teasing. “That was hot.”

While you didn't deny it, you most definitely did not admit to it.

Setting the hoodie over the back of a chair, Jake bumps his shoulder gently against yours. “Wanna dance?”

You give him a side-eye glance. “Trying to distract me from the fact you challenged me to a game of pool?”

“I’ll let you win for a weekif you dance with me,” He promises, extending his hand.

Brow arched, you challenge him. “Let me win. Since when do...”

Jake prevents you from finishing the retort with a firm and sudden kiss that melts into soft and passionate. His fingertips run down your arm, a soft caress that leaves goosebumps in its wake. He laces your fingers with his and pulls back. “Dance with me.”

The song on the jukebox changes as he leads you onto the middle of the floor, something slow, threaded with a guitar, that matches the sway of the waves outside.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he pulls you close while your arms loop around his neck. The two of you fit together like jigsaw pieces.

His soft lips close to your ear, his warm breath tickles when he murmurs your name.

“Hmm,” you reply, lost in the movement of your bodies pressed together.

“I think I kinda, might, sorta... love you a little bit,” he whispers.

It isn’t picture perfect. A regular Tuesday, dim lights and jukebox static, nothing special. Still, you never know when the moment will become the moment until you’re right in the middle of it.

You smile, making sure he can feel it against his cheek. “Just a little?”

“Well...” Jake leans back to look at you, deep green eyes, warm and steady, filled with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “...a little more than that.”

Heart fluttering, you take a deep breath to keep it from skipping a beat or two and whisper, “I love you,” and press a gentle kiss to his lips. “Kinda, sorta, like just a little bit more than that, too.”

Jake Seresin is a lot of things, reckless, relentless, ridiculously charming, and cocky, but when he loves, he loves with whole damn heart and he's given it to you.

Tags: @alexxavicry / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @justagirlinafandomworld

@leigh70 / @letsbys-library / @shanimallina87 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole

@kmc1989

Tag List Info

Master Lists: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin // Main

[mariishka]

I am cruel (and you’re still here) [1]

Pairing — Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

Summary — You meet the most obnoxious guy ever in some online shooter lobby.

Unfortunately for you, xX6Eyes6Xx is incredibly clingy and won’t leave you alone. He’s obviously not properly socialized, apparently he’s some sort of genius prodigy, who’s stuck at home. With his non-existent charm, he is able to worm himself into your messy life.

As it turns out, he’s not as bad as you thought. He’s especially practical to have around when your house starts to become haunted, by something that you’ve been carrying around for years.

Tags: Idiots to Friends to Lovers; Mention of Parent Loss; Gojo is chronically online; Reader has anger issues; Reader is Gojo‘s first friend

———

Your first slammed down on your wooden desk. Voices boomed through your headset, which just felt like blades in your ears. Right before your eyes laid your player: Completely dead. A grenade hit your head and before you realized it you got shanked from behind.

This fucking guy. You have known him for longer than you’d like to admit. No matter what you do, he ends up on your lobby with the different variations of the same username. It always included something about six and eyes. Whatever the hell that means.

His laugh echoed in your ears, and before you could stop yourself you pulled out the chat.

[Reader]: I hope only bad tings happen to you.

[Reader]: You useless

[Reader]: Unloved

“Awww, are you going to throw a tantrum?” His taunting, puberty riddled voice cooed at you.

[Reader]: GO K1LL Y0URS3LV

BANNED

With quick, choppy movements you ripped your headset off and threw it across the room. Since it was connected to your desktop, it didn’t fly far. Once again you raised your fist, and banged it against the edge of your table. The pain felt freeing.

Angry tears started to gather in your eyes, and sobs wrecked your body. You weren’t sad, this isn’t your first ban and it won’t be your last, you were just so fucking angry. Things get under your skin quickly. No matter the offense, it always immediately hits your many soft spots.

The air was stuffy in your room, the summer heat was merciless and downright oppressive. If only it wasn’t so humid. Pushing away from your desk with your chair, you slammed your knees into the floor and with that you just plugged your whole pc off. Sitting under your desk, you wiped away your tears.

Now, this is why you never participate in voice chats. Besides the fact that you’re a girl, you’d embarrass yourself simply by how high pitched your voice gets.

Covering your mouth with your hands, you screamed into them. Your feet came drumming down on the wooden floor. It’s already enough that you live in some remote village, where you just got wifi a year ago, and your PC has the audacity to piss you off? Your grandparents pay for you to get angry? Yeah, no.

And still you logging daily. What are you? An idiot? Probably, since some 13 year old was able to cyber stalk and bully you and you let it get to you. At this point, you should just delete this stupid game and spend all your time on Sims.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, trying to stop the tears from running down your cheeks by applying pressure. This is getting ridiculous. Well, throwing a tantrum in your room, under your desk, is better than you beating up your classmates. It’s either tantrum or violence.

With a heavy breath, you wiped your face clean and crawled out. The air was horrible in your room. Blessed be the ground floor. Standing up, you brushed your hands over your knees. With more force than you intended, you slammed the fusuma open. It immediately opened to the engawa. Glancing over the shrine grounds, you could see your grandmother sweep the floor. For what, you weren’t too sure.

Her sharp eyes went to you, and you cringed away from the glare she shoot you. Not slamming the doors, and whatever else she keeps trying to drill into your head.

“Do we have ice cream?” You yelled the question out.

She rolled her eyes, but tension left her body. “Not for you!” She yelled back, a slight teasing tone in her voice.

You rolled your eyes at her, waving her off. Shuffling your feet across the floor, you made your way to the kitchen. As you were digging through the freezer, you pulled out some ice cream. While you were at it, you pulled an ice cub to hold in your hand. With ice cream in your mouth, you also started to rub the ice around your eyes. To help with puffiness.

And before you realized it, your grandfather snuck up on you. And with his charm, he roped you into helping him with some projects around the grounds. From holding the flashlight, to giving him his tools, you were kept busy. He finally fixed the bike rack beside the house. It kept falling over to your dismay.

Once the sun started to disappear behind the mountains, you were back in your room. Your knees scrapped across the floor while you crawled back under your desk. Plugging your PC back in, you nearly hit your head. Thank god, you were able to avoid a concussion.

It took a hot minute, or two, or ten for your desktop to load up. Swinging your legs while sitting in your chair, you finally felt calm enough to start another round. Hopefully the boy is in bed by now and you’re un-banned.

A friend request popped up on TeamSpeak. From that fucking 6 eyes guy.

Never in your life have you rejected a request faster. With the way the request immediately flew in again, you started to get annoyed. What the hell does he want from you? To humiliate you more? Is he actually stalking you?

This time you hit the block button.

And it just took him 10 minutes for him to create another account, with a similar username. What a fucking dickhead. You pressed your tongue against your teeth, the sharp pain helping you to keep your head cool.

With a heavy sigh you accepted the friend request. This is what you get for using the same username for every platform.

[Reader]: What the fuck do you want.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: lul ur alwayz so angy

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: how come

[Reader]: Because you’re talking to me.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: rofl

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: anywayz wanna hop on a round :3

[Reader]: No.

[Reader]: Go die in a ditch.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hoi

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ur talking to the strongest sorcerer here :p

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: impressive right???

[Reader]: Strongest sorcerer?

[Reader]: You’re into DnD?

[Reader]: Ew.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: oh forget that

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i was just mezzing around x3

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: come hop onnnnnnnnnn

[Reader]: Fucker I’m still banned.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: orz

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ಥ‿ಥ

[Reader]: What the hell do you want from me. Seriously.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ur the only person i know who’s not a complete noob lol

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: but well ofc u aren’t as good as me

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i’m the best at everything

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: natural genius and all that ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و

Oh, you hate this guy with your whole heart.

Instead of dignifying this with an answer, you simply decided to turn off your PC. It was late anyways. There’s a ton of homework you had to do, too.

After you were done, you crammed out your futon. Damn, you have to make sure to let the futon get warmed up by the sun tomorrow. Even though it’s summer, the night still gets cold.

———

Today had been a good day. You didn’t get into any trouble, and actually got an acceptable grade in a test. The only thing that sucked, is that you had to ride your bike home. The hill you live on is evil. The shrine sitting on top of it didn’t protect the hike you had to take. You weren’t even on your bike, you were pushing the useless peace of metal up. One of the many cons of living in the rural parts was the fact there was no bus. You had a tiny train station, and for whatever reason you actually had schools. Yeah, plural.

Probably because you live in the main-village. You even got a convenience store and the temple. So everyone from around comes here for their errands.

Once you reached the top, you were sure you were going to die of some sort of asthma attack. Straightening up your back, you wheezed out a painful breath. Sweat pooled….Everywhere. Great.

You angry stomped across the shrine grounds, and without care you threw your bike into the grass besides your house. The newly repaired bike rack abandoned. Walking up the few steps, you opened the front door. Changing from your outside shoes to your house shoes, you shuffled across the floor.

“I’m home!” You yelled out, and no answer came back. Damn.

Ah, there’s a note saying your grandparents are at a market. Whatever keeps them out of your hair. Stretching your arms out, you walked to your room. With all your pent up emotions, you chucked your bag towards your desk. The slam was weirdly satisfying. Even though there was a shit ton of schoolwork you have to do, you didn’t bother with it.

Hitting the power up button, you went to open the fusuma. The fresh air flowed in, helping with the stuffiness. Wiping the sweat away from your forehead, you moved to take out fresh clothes. Your school uniform is completely wet. You can’t wait for summer break to finally come.

You went to the bathroom, and got undressed. Sitting in the washing area, you let the water from the shower head run over your body. It was relaxing and cooling. Scrubbing your body clean, while sitting on the stool you let yourself breath. You glanced at the soaking tub, but in your opinion it’s way too hot to soak. Your grandparents on the other hand were apparently from hell, because they can bath in hot water all day everyday.

After you successfully cleaned yourself, you dried off. Getting dressed in your clean clothes, you threw your dirty uniform into your laundry basket. While humming a song, you went back to your room. Sitting down on your chair, you pulled your legs up and rested your chin on your knees.

Unread messages practically glared at you.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: anywayz

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hit me up when ur unbanned

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: us on a team???

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: we’d be unbeatable!!!!

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: think about it!!!!

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)ᵒᵏᵎᵎᵎᵎ

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u ignoring me now

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i’m v persistent

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hey

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hellu

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: bro

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: u can’t escape me!!!!

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i will break through

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: your wolls

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: walls*

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: or is it your bedtime lol

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u 10?

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: or 12?

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: or maybe 40

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u already w one leg in the grave

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: be honest

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: u can tell me everything

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: trust

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ༼ ༎ຶ ෴ ༎ຶ༽

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: 8===D- - -

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: hehehehe

What the hell is the matter with this guy? There were more messages, one more obnoxious than the other.

[Reader]: How old are YOU? 12?

The response was near immediate.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: i’m 14 ⊹⋛⋋( ՞ਊ ՞)⋌⋚⊹

[Reader]: Good for you. Now leave.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: ( •_•)>⌐■-■

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: no

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: are u banned still

[Reader]: No.

[xX6Eyes6Xx]: :OOOO

INCOMING CALL: xX6Eyes6Xx

Shit. Your headset was plugged in and works, but you’d prefer not to talk with this weirdo. Sadly for you, your hands were shaky from anxiety and instead of hitting the red button, you hit the green one. The call successfully connected. Your mouth dropped open in shock. Oh no.

“Hello, hello, hello! I knew I’d be able to beat you down!” His familiar voice was cheery, in an annoying way. Why can’t he be miserable? So he’d leave you to game in peace? Ugh!

You pressed your lips tightly together. Most guys who play are obnoxious, especially when you’re a girl. It’s something you learned quickly.

“Yello~ Can ya hear me??” His finger tapped against his microphone. It was an annoying drumming sound in your ear. “Speak up! We can’t dominate the server without communication!”

A soft, “Shut up.” Slipped past your lips.

A beat of silence and you were going to plug your PC out again and ugh, you’re going to have to deal with this guy thinking he’s better than you just because he’s a stupid boy and-

“She speaks! Yay! What a relief, honestly. I thought I’d have to bring all the entertainment here, which, don’t get me wrong- I loooover hearing myself speak, of course, but I do like an audience which validates me.”

You rolled your eyes, “I think you’ve been validated too much in your life. Has someone ever told you to just zip it?”

“Nope! You’re the first. Feel free to feel special, I’m usually surrounded by annoying yes men.” You could hear typing from his keyboard, “Log in, we have people to head shoot.” The grin was incredibly audible in his voice.

With a sigh you started your game.

———

“This game is so damn stupid! I can’t believe it! And the players? The worst! They should all die!” You seethed out. This has been your third last round. You want to leave on a win.

Your newly found game partner laughed at you, “But you’re doing so well?”

“I hate you the most!” Your feet drummed against the floor impatiently, “…Can you hurry up and heal me?!?” Seeing your character crawling on the ground depressed you.

“Your knight in shining amour is on the way!” He was practically singing.

Finally, Eyes was able to get to you. Your character stood there proudly, and finally you could go and plant the bomb. Hopefully.

It did end up working out for you and Eyes guy, since you ended up being the only ones alive on your team. He has scarily good aim. It was impressive. Seeing the Win plastered across your screen made you sigh out in relief.

“Finaaaaaaaalllyyyyyy…” Your hands rubbed across your forehead.

The guy chuckled, you could hear his chair squeak through your headset. “So…What’s your name?”

You couldn’t help but groan at the incredible intrusive question.

“My name is-“

And with that you hung up on him. You didn’t care for his name. Or anything for that matter. The less he knows about you the better. What if he turns up to your house? Stranger danger? Leaning back, you flexed your fingers.

The landline started ringing. Standing up, you walked to the hallway where the phone was kept. “Hello?”

“Evening, sweetheart.” The warm voice of your grandmother greeted you, “I just wanted to tell you, that we will be home late today. At the market we saw your aunt, and well…We will bring you her soba noodles when we get home.”

“Oh, that’s okay. When will you be home?” You wrapped your finger around the curly phone cord.

“Hmmm, it will be past your bed time. Don’t make me catch you on that glowing box at 3AM again!” Her voice was teasing.

You groaned, “That was one time! Whateverrrr. Don’t stay out too long.”

“We love you. See you later.”

“Love you too.” With that you put the phone back.

Just as you turned around, the phone rang again. Damn, did she forget something?

“What’s up?” You casually picked up the phone. “…Hello?”

There was nothing on the other line. Slowly, you started to hear heavy breathing. Oh, so there was a pervert on the other line. Rolling your eyes, you were about to hang up, but static filled your ear. Frowning, you held the phone away from your ear. Man, this was loud.

A screech suddenly yelled out, the voice distorted and barley human. “STAY AWAY.”

In shock you dropped the phone, and with that it hit the wall. Good thing it was still connected by the cord. Carefully, you moved to pick the phone up. “….What?”

But that was all you got. The hallway felt awfully cold, and your neck and shoulders felt stiff. You quickly glanced around while hanging the phone up, but you couldn’t see anything. Taking a peak into the living room, you saw the butsudan. Everything was the way it supposed to look. The picture of your parents smiled at you. Still, your body was covered in chills.

Trying to shake the feeling off, you went into the kitchen. You were so busy yelling at the Eyes guy, you forgot to eat.

The feeling of being watched never really left you, though.

[itoshislave]

hi babe! i’m so new to your account and we repost sooo many of the same fics and i like your taste xoxo

i was wondering if maybe you could write a fic abt tsukishima (haikyuu). an x reader that’s post high school like summer before college. friends-lovers pls pls pls pls. they go to a party after the last day of school and reader has always been shy and never found the right time to say something to kei but gets a little tipsy and gets some confidence to confess. and like since they’d always been friends he thinks she’s joking but it gets nsfw when he realizes she’s serious. if it’s not too much? 🙏🏼😚

nonnie, I'm so sorry 😭😭😭it's been so long since I've been around here. My God, I'm so embarrassed to answer your ask after all this time, but I hope you like it♡♡♡

⊹₊ ˚‧₊୨𝘋𝘙𝘜𝘕𝘒 𝘖𝘕 𝘠𝘖𝘜, 𝘚𝘖𝘉𝘌𝘙 𝘐𝘕 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌୧₊‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Amidst the golden lights, the overly sweet drinks, and the dangerous smiles, you realize that you’ve spent too long running away from your feelings for him. And Tsukishima—with his bored expression and eyes that see too much—may have been waiting for this moment all along. On a night when everything pulsates—the floor, the bodies, the truths—you finally stop pretending that it’s just a game. And you start to discover what’s really hiding behind it.

cw: explicit sex, unprotected sex (consensual, with emotional context), strong sexual language, use of alcoholic beverages, spanking, dirty talk and light domination, sex in a public place (bathroom at a party), adult characters. English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are a lot of spelling mistakes. Enjoy!🤗

The night was alive in a strange way. The beats of the music passed through the house, vibrating in the floor, in the windows and the ribs. Laughter came from every corner, bodies huddled on couches, in the hallways, even in the backyard lit by strings of yellow lights. And there he was — leaning against the wall, with a glass of soda in his hand, watching everything with that bored look that you knew was just a facade.

Tsukishima had always been there. Ever since freshman year. Too tall, too sarcastic, always with a ready comeback. And you? Always trying to keep up, stumbling over your words, blushing more than you'd like to admit every time he stared for too long.

The conversations came and went. Someone pushed a glass of something too sweet for you, and you accepted it. Then another. A third warmed your chest, and suddenly everything seemed easier to say.

You spent the whole night circling around him. It was always like that. People thought it was cute —“look at them, always together”—but no one knew that there was a weight on your shoulders every time he touched you by chance. That you had words stuck in your throat since first grade.

“What a dangerous combination. Are you lost?” He asked as you approached, his tone drawn out, almost lazy. A small smile curved his mouth. “Or did you just stumble into another conversation with me?” He said, raising an eyebrow, the mischievous smile slowly forming, as if he found you amusing.

You huffed, crossing your arms. He looked at you appraisingly, as if he were measuring the distance between your courage and your shame.

“You sound like I do this all the time.”

He took a sip from his glass and looked over the rim.

“You do.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Heat rose to your face. Again. Of course.

That was the game. He liked to see you stumble. To keep you on the edge between “Get out of my way” and “I won’t bite if you’re so desperate to kiss me.” You thought it was just a tease. Until you realized he only did that to you. That sent butterflies into your stomach.

“You suck,” you muttered, taking the glass from his hand. You took a sip, tasting the sweet, cold drink. “I should stop talking to you.”

“But you won’t.”

"Why?"

He shrugged, approaching with that slowness that made your heart race.

“Because you love it… And I have so much fun watching you try to hide how much you like me.”

You froze. The words stuck in your throat and the silence between you seemed to scream. He didn't look away. He just waited. Enjoying the chaos he caused in you.

But this time, you were different.

Maybe it was the heat. Or the drink. Or the certainty that if you didn't say anything, you would spend the next few years hating yourself.

You took a deep breath.

“What if I don’t want to hide it anymore?”

Tsukishima arched an eyebrow, that smug smile making his stomach churn.

“Oh, sure... You must be so in love with me, right?”

The heat rose again, but you didn't back down.

“What if I am?”

He was silent for a moment. It was not a silence of superiority, but of surprise. His eyes blinked rapidly, his mouth opened and closed, and he looked away, clearly embarrassed.

“Don’t joke about that, idiot.”

“I'm not joking.”

The silence seemed thicker now. Tsukishima looked you up and down, as if searching for some trace of playfulness on your face. He didn't find any.

His smile faded. And something else appeared in his eyes. Something warm. Something dangerous.

“Damn,” he muttered. “You’re serious.”

You just bit your lip and shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

The change in him was subtle, but real. The tension in his jaw. The eyes fixed on hers, suddenly darker.

“Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

“I have. For a long time now.”

He shook his head slowly, chuckling softly. Tsukishima curled his lower lip into an almost predatory smile, as if he was finally starting to really enjoy himself. He leaned his face toward you, so close that the heat of his breath touched your skin. His voice was low, husky, made just for you to hear:

“And now that you confessed... what are you going to do with it?”

Your heart was beating too loudly. Loud enough for him to hear.

You swallowed hard, but tried to maintain your composure.

“I don’t know yet. Are you going to give me options?”

He smirked, satisfied—the kind of smile that made your stomach sink and your knees threaten to buckle.

“Ah, yes…” He said, his voice almost lazy, but filled with restrained malice. “I have many in mind. But I don’t know if you can handle it.”

His gaze moved down over you slowly, as if he were analyzing you, testing you. No rush. The touch of his fingers returned, now lightly brushing your waist, as if he were already teasing you with that alone.

“I can be quite… creative.” He continued, with an air of knowing exactly what effect he was having. “But only if you promise to take whatever I give you.”

You laughed, a little nervous, a little defiant.

“Do you really think I’m the running type?”

He took a step closer, closing the space between you until there was nothing left. His nose was almost touching yours, and his gaze was direct, fixed on your eyes with an intensity that almost hurt.

“No. I think you’re the type to stay… until the end.” he said, his voice low, husky, full of promise.

The silence between you was broken only by the muffled sound of party music in the distance. The rest of the world seemed suspended. Tsukishima looked at you as if he was finally seeing everything—as if every provocative thought he had ever had about you was now free, unbridled, unfettered.

Then he came closer.

The kiss wasn’t immediate. It was a slow brush of mouths, as if testing. As if asking if you were sure you really wanted this. And your answer came when you pulled his shirt with your fingers, wordlessly. His mouth found yours more firmly now, hot, full of intention. It was restrained desire, mixed with that silent provocation of someone who knew the effect it caused.

Tsukishima pressed you lightly against the wall, in a darker corner of the house, away from the hubbub of the party. His hand slowly moved up your back, firm, until it reached the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, controlling the rhythm of the kiss — sometimes slow, sometimes too deep to be just a kiss.

His fingers slid down your waist again, this time under your shirt, touching your skin. Cold and electrifying. He murmured against your mouth, between one kiss and another:

“You're shaking...” He smiled. “What’s wrong? Nervous, are you?”

“Shut up.”

He chuckled softly and let his lips trail down to your neck, slowly, testing your limits, teasing your with every subtle bite, every sigh he drew. His hand moved up your belly, warm and determined, until it reached your breasts over the fabric, squeezing lightly, exploring. He was in no hurry. He wanted to feel your every reaction.

When you moaned softly, he stopped just to look into your eyes, his face so close that you could feel his warm breath mixing with yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

The answer died in your throat when he kissed you again, this time with more hunger, more urgency. Your bodies fit together naturally, as if they had been silently rehearsing this for months.

The muffled laughter of someone in the next room reminded you of where you were — and the involuntary startle that ran through your body didn't go unnoticed by him. Tsukishima raised an eyebrow, his fingers still tangled in the hem of your shirt, his chest pressed against yours.

“Do you remember that the house is full, is that it?”

You looked around, as if you only now realized how wide open everything was. He smiled, with that subtle malice he learned to use to unsettle you.

“Then let’s find a place where you can moan freely,” he whispered against your mouth.

Tsukishima intertwined his fingers with yours and, without waiting for an answer, calmly pulled you down the hallway, walking confidently between the rooms. You passed by a few groups too distracted by the music and their own conversations. No one noticed. He led you to the house's guest bathroom, locking the door behind you as soon as you entered.

The space was small, with dim yellow lighting, the muffled sound of the party vibrating through the walls. As soon as the latch clicked, he turned to you with that hungry look in his eyes—and within seconds, his mouth was back on yours.

This time there was no hesitation.

His hands went straight to the hem of your blouse, lifting it up and taking it off with restrained haste. His lips slid from your mouth to your neck, down to your collarbone, while his fingers unbuttoned your shorts. He backed you up against the sink, his hands firmly on your waist.

“Look at you here, all surrendered,” he murmured, his voice low, warm against your skin. “At a party full of people, and yet so quiet when I touch you.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but all that came out was a moan as his fingers slipped inside your panties. A sure touch—his firm fingers finding the warm wetness of your needy pussy. He smiled against your skin.

“What do we have here… You’re so easy, aren’t you? Or is that because it's me?”

Tsukishima watched you with half-closed eyes, his fingers moving skillfully and rhythmically. One of them slid inside, slowly, and then another. Moving them slowly in scissor movements to get used to your walls. The muffled moans against his shoulder made your body instinctively arch, seeking more. And he took advantage. With his free hand, he pulled one of your legs up, opening more space between you, fitting himself there.

“I knew you would react like this…” he whispered. “So beautiful, all mine.”

You reached for the hem of his shirt and began to pull urgently, and he helped you pull it off, revealing his warm skin, his tense muscles. His hips pressed against yours, his hard cock through his pants rubbing against your pussy—and it was almost enough to make you beg.

He kissed you again, now with his entire body pressed against yours, his fingers still teasing you as he began to undo his own clothes with his other hand. The kiss turned into a bite, the touch turned into a need.

And finally, with his gaze locked on hers, he asked softly, almost in a hoarse whisper:

“Do you still want the options, or can I show you how much I really want you?”

Heat covered your body like a blanket. Your legs trembled in excitement at how close he was. Looking down, you could see his erect cock, thick, hot and heavy, the tip swollen in a fiery shade of pink that left your insides begging to have him inside you as soon as possible.

You don’t know what came over you, but your hand seemed to have a life of its own as you dragged your short nails down the back of his neck, creating a sinful path of welts that met the happy trail of blond pubic hair below his belly button. Boldly dragging your curious index finger lower, until the weeping tip smeared in pre-cum was within your power.

Wrapping your hand around the glans, you used your thumb to catch a thick drop of pre-cum that was slowly dripping from the slit. Moving the foreskin up and down, you watched in almost awe as his cock grew wetter and wetter, making low popping noises as you moved your hand.

“Kei…” It comes out breathlessly, almost like a plea.

“Fuck, don’t do this to me…” You suddenly lifted your face, stopping your movements. Tsukishima had his forehead resting on your shoulder, breathing heavily and starting to thrust his hips against your hand as he began to miss the stimulation.

“Do what?” You ask hesitantly. Did you did something wrong?

He slowly raised his face, his eyes half closed and his cheeks slightly flushed—which was rare, and absolutely beautiful.

“Saying my name like that…” He murmured, as if admitting it cost him something. “Like you’re begging me to fuck you. I don’t… I don’t know what I’ll do to you if you keep going.”

The tension between you grew thick, electric. You could feel the weight of his confession hanging between you, and the way he was looking at you now—as if he didn’t know whether to kiss you or devour you—ignited something hot in the very center of your body.

Without saying anything, you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered very close:

“I want it all. Do whatever you want to me.”

That was all he needed.

Tsukishima ripped his glasses off his face and threw them carelessly onto the sink counter, grabbing your thigh with one hand and lifting your leg again, fitting himself more firmly between them. His other hand ran quickly between the two of you, grabbing his own hard, heavy sex, which rubbed against you, slippery with excitement. He rubbed the tip between your wet lips, his teeth clamped on his lower lip as he watched you with unbearable attention.

“Tell me that you want it,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, broken, urgent.

“I want it, Kei,” you said without hesitation, your eyes locked on his. “I want it so bad…”

He groaned softly, almost as if he had lost an internal battle, and thrust his hips in one movement, entering you slowly, practically whimpering as the tip was crushed by the tight, gummy rings of your pussy. Practically sucking him deeper inside until he reached the bottom.

You gasped loudly, gripping his shoulders, your back pressed against the cold bathroom mirror. He paused for a second in there, completely encased, as if he wanted to memorize the sensation. The heat. The tightness. You.

“Fuck…” he whispered against your neck. “feels s'good inside you baby... Oh fuck”

The rhythm started steady, controlled—but it wouldn’t last long. The thrusts came precisely, each one deeper than the last, making your body slam against the mirror in sync with his. Every time you said his name, every time you moaned loudly, he lost a little more of his composure.

His hands explored your skin as if they wanted to map every inch, and his mouth didn't stop — kisses, bites, heavy breathing. Tsukishima was out of his mind, and you loved seeing him like that. So far from the cold and calculated pose.

“Oh God… fuckk– pussy so good gonna make me cum so quickly” He said in a raspy voice. “Keep squeezing me with that pussy baby – ahh f-fuck fuck fuck keep milking my cock until it explodes inside you” Tsukishima accelerated a littlemore, keeping the thrusts shallower.

“Cum with me baby, please? Cum on my cock so I can cum inside you.” His hand moved down between you, finding your clit and massaging it in firm, rhythmic circles, in time with his thrusts. You cried out at the mastery of his fingers, thrusting your hips against his to feel him in your throat.

“Oh y-yess fuck me back with that pussy,” Tsukishima's strong hands ran shakily to grip your sides firmly, guiding your body like a rag doll to hammer even harder inside you. “Come on pretty baby, let'me see that tiny cunt cum nice and easy f'me…Just like that– oh fuckk yea… you gonna make me cum baby, Ah fuck yesyesyesyes gonna cum… o-oh fuck, gonna cum so fucking hard – ahh Fuck–!”

You felt your climax building fast, like a wave about to break. His thrusts became sloppier, more desperate, his moans mixing with yours. And when the orgasm hit you, taking you apart completely, he came with you, burying himself all the way in and letting out a deep, hoarse moan into your neck, shaking all over.

The bodies remained glued together for silent seconds. Only the sound of the two trying to breathe properly filled the stuffy bathroom.

Tsukishima rested his forehead against hers again, still panting, and smiled—a slow smile, of someone satisfied and completely surrendered.

“Tell me you’ll stay after this.”

You smiled back, your fingers still playing with the back of his neck.

“I don't want to be anywhere else but here, with you.”

He laughed, and you felt the laughter vibrate against your body.

“That’s good to hear… because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

©This content belongs to @itoshislave 2025, do not modify, translate or repost on another platform.

[just1cefor4ll]

Hii! Absolutely loved your work for Danya, better that I could imagine!!! I was thinking about Valya with reader from Portugal delegation (maybe even part of the Napa), since he loves this song. Idk really, hope you like it

—Eu te amo

Valya Leshchynskyi x fem!reader

summary. you hang out with Valya at an after-party where you teach each other your languages

warning. not proof read, might include wrong translations

Tonight was special for a number of reasons. The Eurovision semi-final had just ended a few hours ago and now, in the chaos of the music and overwhelming emotions, everyone was celebrating their qualifications for the grand-final— even you, a member of the Portuguese band Napa who was said to have odds lower then a lightening strike hitting you— but you beat those odds like an easy game of tag, now clinking glasses with the rest of the group who just like you still couldn’t believe it.

“We told you to not look at the odds people give you because things can change.” Your manager told you all as she took a sip of her drink. “Exactly— [Name] was having a full on panic attack right before the performance because some person started breaking down in full detail on why we won’t qualify.”

You scoffed, nudging Guilherme who had just called you out. “Well it’s not my fault he—“ You get cut off by Francis; “Shut up you two. No more looking at odds, especially before the grand-final.” Diogo nodded along, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah we don’t need you collapsing on stage before we even get to the green room.” You huffed in slight annoyance but laughed softly along with them. “Fine, promise I won’t do that anymore.”

The night seemed to be endless in the best way possible and after a while you decided to excuse yourself and go get another drink. You noticed a familiar curly haired brunette— Valentyn who you had been silently crushing on ever since you first saw him. He had this quiet charm to him that made your heart leap any time he was around which made you sound insane, but something about him just made you weak.

He was leaning against the counter of the bar with his brother, waiting for their drinks to be made as they collectively laughed at something you didn’t catch.

“Hey, [Name]! Congratulations on your qualification.” One of their external backing vocalists— Khrystyna had greeted you, hugging you tightly. “Thank you! Congratulations as well, glad we’ll be seeing more of each other.” You smiled, ordering the drink you came there for in the first place. “What about you guys? How are you feeling?” Valya snorted, nudging his brother Danya. “Yeah Daniil how do you feel about tonight?” Danya scoffed, pulling up tik tok with the several memes of his reaction.

“How are people so quick with it?” You ponder, laughing light heartedly at the videos as you handed the phone back. “No idea, but at least we know we don’t have a boring fan base.”

You decided to hang with them for a while, finding a proper place to sit where you all caught up and got to know each other on a more deeper level with no flashing lights of cameras or mics being shoved into your faces.

An hour in, Danya and a few others had decided to rest for the day, saying their goodbyes before they left. It was just you and Valentyn now, but the conversation still flowed easily as you never really ran out of things to talk about— whether it be about your countries, fun experiences or horrible stage fails from previous performances.

Then the topic of your languages rolled around, each of you going back and forth, laughing at how ridiculous some of your phrases sounded when translated literally.

You leaned forward with a small grin, catching Valentyn’s eye. “Okay, I’m going to teach you one of my favorite Portuguese sayings. It’s a bit weird, but it’s fun.” You smile, slowly pronouncing each word for him to better understand. “Quem tem boca vai a Roma.”

Valya blinked, trying to repeat it slowly. “Quem tem boca vai a Roma..?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes! Literally, it means ‘Who has a mouth goes to Rome.’ But what it really means is if you ask enough questions, if you speak up, you can get anywhere.”

He smiles, clearly amused. “That’s so strange! Why Rome though?” You sit up straighter, a hint of excitement in your eyes as you never really taught your language to anyone. “Rome was this huge, important city, right? So the idea is, if you have a voice, you can reach even the biggest places.” You shrug playfully. “I know, very poetic for a phrase that sounds like nonsense at first.”

You folded your arms like a curious child, looking at Valya with a playfully serious face. “Alright, Mr. Ukrainian, what weird sayings do you have for me?” He let out a laugh, pulling up some on his phone. “Oh I’ve got plenty— hear this one out; “‘Не в своїй тарілці’ it literally translates to, ‘not in your own plate’ which means feeling out of place or uncomfortable.” You nod, sipping on the last of your drink. “Yeah we also have an idiom for that. ‘Sentir-se como um peixe fora d’água’ which is literally ‘to feel like a fish out of water.’”

You laughed for a while, giving each other lessons on your culture and more silly sayings before Valya threw his head back in boredom.

“Okay enough with these stupid idioms tell me something real. Something actually meaningful.” Valya says, putting down his cup and looking at you curiously. You try to stutter something out but nothing came to mind once you got put on the spot.

You shrugged your shoulders, looking at him as if he had just yelled at a foreigner for taking pictures in a no-picture zone. “I don’t know. What do you want to know?” You ask, and Valya answered as if he had that phrase prepared all night. “How do you say ‘I love you?’”

Your cheeks burn up a bit, a hint of slight confusion and maybe even jealousy had started to crawl under your skin. Was this for purely educational purposes or a lover you hadn’t caught onto? You sigh, mumbling the phrase out.

“Eu te amo.”

Valya’s eyes lock onto yours, and for a long second, he says nothing. Then, with a small, almost teasing smile, he leans forward and says quietly, “Say it again.” You blink, surprised, but nod, your heart pounding as you repeat it.

“Eu te amo.”

His gaze lingers on your lips, like he’s savoring the sound of the words when they come from you. You can feel the intensity of his stare, and a flutter stirs deep in your chest. He doesn’t let you get comfortable. Instead, he asks, “Again.” You hesitate for just a moment, but the warmth in his eyes gives you courage. “Eu te amo.”

Valya’s smile grows a little wider, though his eyes still hold something deeper — a softness mixed with something like awe. “Я люблю тебе усім серцем.” He breaths out, his eyes slightly hooded from the alcohol in his system. He leaned over the table and cupped your cheek, his lips almost brushing against yours. “You know what that means in ukranian?” You shake your head nervously, his skin hot on your cheek. “I can show you what it means.” He smirks softly, your cheeks already red— not sure if from the alcohol or what was currently happening. You nodded your head slowly, and that was all he needed to close the gap between you.

He pressed his lips to yours—just a quick, feather-light kiss. But then he leaned in again, and again. Each time the kisses grew a little bolder, a little deeper, until you were practically losing your breath.

“We should talk about languages more often if this is what I get to do in return.” He teased, kissing your forehead before you both left the bar together.

“Whatever you say, meu amor.”

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

[sunassweetheart]

“Triple Trouble” The Series

Chapter 1: 1st Year

The Miya twins have always been protective of you your whole life. They were always by your side and taking care of you as their own little sister. So when you entered your first year at Inarizaki High, they only became more protective over you. It was like wherever you went, they were there too. They always seemed to find a way too creep into your life. Not that you minded, you just found it ironic since they always claimed that you were the nosy one.

You would be in your classes, just writing in your notebook when you heard familiar giggles coming from in the hallway outside the classroom. As soon as you looked up, you saw both your brothers laughing and messing around outside. You put your head onto your hand and just looked back down at your work, trying to hide your own giggles.

Atsumu and Osamu had begged you to try out for the girl’s volleyball team in fall but you never did. You decided to pursue other things instead like art and music, things like that. The first time you showed them a painting you made for one of your classes, they laughed because they genuinely believed you were joking that you made it yourself. They insisted on putting it up right in the living room above the TV screen so everyone would be able to see it. Sometimes it’s hard for them to be so sure you’re actually related to them and share the same genes. You wonder the same thing sometimes.

Overall, your first year of high school was a little rough but it was nice having the twins around all the time. They always helped you with your homework, gossiped with you and helped you figure out your personal problems, and spent all the time they could with you outside of school. Osamu forced you to go to every one of their games. You didn’t mind as long as you brought a few friends and could stop by the concessions. Going to their games was also how you met Suna. You saw how easy it was for him to get along with the twins and you admired him a little for it. He started getting used to seeing you at games and would always say hi.

The twins invited you to go with them and Suna to get food after their game. He was a second year student, one year behind the twins, and one year ahead of you. They seemed to all be pretty good friends and that’s what made it so easy to get used to his presence. After a while of hanging out with the three guys, you all got closer even outside of volleyball. You noticed how Suna would always watch out for you in school and wave or give you a small smile in the halls.

-

The school year went by fairly smoothly. By time you got used to the rhythm of high school, you realized how well you were doing. You did well in your academics and had really discovered yourself. The twins started to treat you less like their little baby sister and more like an actual teenager now. They teared up when they saw you dressed up for formal events because they knew you were growing up and weren’t still just a little baby anymore.

You started to become much more independent and that’s when your dynamic with the boys changed. So by Atsumu and Osamu’s graduation, it was a mess of tears and happiness all at the same time. The twins had forced Suna to keep watch over you during the next school year which made you laugh even though you’d soon find out they weren’t joking.

-

Over the summer, you’d spent most of it with the twins and Suna. You all became so much closer then you already were, wanting to make the most of your time together before Atsumu and Osamu’s went to college. You guys did everything together. You all stayed up late to watch movies together, had bonfires with the rest of the team, and swam together while playing chicken fight. The twins would always go together, claiming their twin power would make them win. You would always sit on top of Suna’s shoulders and be partners with him. You’d think it would be easy for the twins to beat you but they would end up arguing and throwing each other into the water instead.

It truly was one of the best summers ever. Luckily for you, the boys were spending their first couple years in a close community college which made it easier for you to get used to the change. It was still weird though, knowing you wouldn’t be able to see them during school or hear those same familiar giggles down the hallway. So you really tried to make the most of summer.

It was late August when everything changed. With the boys getting ready for school, you had to confide in someone for now. It was just a matter of whether the decision of ‘who’ was a good choice for you or not.

A/N: I’m aware this is superrr short but I just wanted to do a small introduction for the first chapter before getting too into it, lol. This is also supposed to be more of a flashback/back round info thing. I hope you guys enjoy this bit and are excited for the next chapters to come! I’ll be posting every Monday!!

tag list: @haechansbbg @smellysluna @nishinoyaismycutie

Haikyuu masterlist: 🎀 main masterlist:

[baldurs-writers-3]

It's Gale Time!!!

Come explore the Wizard of Waterdeep~

For the Attention of by HardingHightown (2282, General) Content Notes: None Pairings: Gale/Mystra, Gale & Mystra

Gale writes two letters to Mystra, one before the game, and one just after defeating the Netherbrain.

Reccer says: An excellent character study of Gale, and a refreshingly nuanced take on his relationship with Mystra.

Learning Curve by AccursedSpatula (149742, Explicit) Content Notes: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Past Abuse (Verbal and Physical) Pairings: Gale/Rolan

Gale invites Rolan to assist with teaching at Blackstaff for a semester.

Reccer says: So incredibly well written with very strong emotional beats

Weave Me The Sunshine by ACrowsRockCollection (110026, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Gale/Jaheira

After joining forces in camp cooking duties, Jaheira and Gale's relationship transforms into something else. As they reckon with the Absolute, the stew pot, and their histories, Jaheira is forced to ask herself if she could find herself caring for a *Wizard*?

Reccer says: The one, the only, friends-to-lovers longfic celebrating our cranky High Harper and the wizard from Waterdeep.

A Heart As Cold As Ice by Defira (207094, Explicit) Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence (canon-typical violence) Pairings: Gale/Tav

The story of a drow warlock, Ryme'dra Ulutar, trying to escape from centuries of being wielded as a weapon, and Gale Dekarios. The fic alternates between Rhyme's past and Gale's present (during the events of the game).

Reccer says: This story features incredible worldbuilding and character development intertwined with a powerful, heartwrenching, entertaining romance. Rhyme is such a nuanced and engaging character, and the author absolutely nails Gale's voice.

Four of Swords by positivejam (3676, Explicit) Content Notes: Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings, Dubious Consent Pairings: Astarion/Gale, Gale/Shadowheart, Gale/Minthara

It’s Shadowheart that helps him dredge the Chionthar. It’s Minthara who pulls the crown from the deepwater muck. And it’s Astarion who places it upon his head. Another gift. No. A reward.

Reccer says: [pats fic] This one lives rent free in my head. Gale corruption arc! Subby, power-hungry Gale trying to rationalize bad choices! Ritual sex! It's really good, I promise.

A beast in the belly by librarypirate (730, Teen) Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence Pairings:

Arcane hunger and intrusive thoughts, pragmatic and almost tempting.

Reccer says: Short and to the point, this depicts Gale's arcane hunger in a much more violent, primally evocative way than I tend to see in other works, and I've thought about it a lot since first reading this one.

Unintentional Surveillance by darkheartedrose (14821, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Gale/The Dark Urge

Gale hadn’t taken the tadpole into consideration when he’d started fantasizing earlier. Should have thought about the possibility that the parasite in his head may interpret his yearning in such a way that could cause it to resonate with Rhune’s.But he hadn’t. So now this was happening.

Reccer says: Quite literally sexting by tadpole, in the funniest (and smuttiest) use of that trope I've seen yet.

Both Sides Now by spacesunderstairs (5158, Explicit) Content Notes: Major Character Death Pairings: Gale/Minthara

Gale finds himself caught between two worlds and two names: the plain Gale Dekarios, or the wizard prodigy, Gale of Waterdeep. When he’s captured by a mysterious drow woman, he sees two futures: humility, or power– and the potential pleasures each path may provide.

Reccer says: A really excellent, compelling character study with plenty of spice and an extremely bittersweet ending.

To Life by vatisvera (2178, Teen) Content Notes: None Pairings: Gale & Jaheira

Wherein Jaheira tries to knock some sense into one of her newer “cubs”.

Reccer says: Beautifully poignant, well-written, made me cry (but in a good way!)

orphan hours by vertigo_cycle (4705, Teen) Content Notes: Gale-typical suicidal ideation Pairings: Gale & Astarion

Gale has a terrible time in the Shadowcursed Lands. Astarion attempts an intervention.

Reccer says: Really atmospheric, angsty, silly, and sweet all at once.

Suffer The Sting by ACrowsRockCollection (2001, Teen) Content Notes: N/A Pairings: Gale/Wyll

Bladesinger Gale spars with Wyll homoerotically.

Reccer says: THE TENSION. Extremely horny for a fic where nothing outright sexual is happening, with a dash of that signature Gale pining.

[phoenixglacier]

Do you actually think that like in the lore our sweet little bard would have voted to destroy a nation? I do see the evidence for that take it lines up. but it just seems so discordant with his character

Hi. Asking me a question just gives me permission to ramble even more. Apologies in advance.

I have no faith in my ability to predict anything canonically whatsoever. If Genshin wanted to give Venti the ability to shapeshift into a cat in the next update I'm sure we could find a goblet or something somewhere in the game that backs it up. So I don't really have a strong opinion on whether this is what the developers intended as canon.

However, in terms of whether I think it's compatible with his character, I don't think it's that much of a stretch. I kind of covered in my rambley little posts about this, but to sum up what I'm about to say here, I think the fact that it's so unlike him is exactly what makes this interesting.

In a way, Venti's the most godlike in how he helps his people. He performs "miracles" that others cannot, talking to dragons, summoning wind currents, and ferrying souls into the afterlife. He is invested in the emotional wellbeing of his people and spends the first part of his story quest trying to understand them. When he asks Flora about her imaginary friend, his voice turns gentle and serious compared to when he's speaking with Traveler. When Dvalin was attacking Mondstadt in the Prologue, Venti was adamant that he would not kill Dvalin. He firmly believed in his ability to resolve the entire situation peacefully, even when his people didn't necessarily agree.

The way he helps his people, allowing them to find their own way, never truly imposing his own opinions on them, and appearing to want to connect to them as humans, makes it feel unthinkable that he would take such active, drastic action. It feels like Venti is both unlikely to take drastic action and unlikely to be cruel. He has a reputation as a kind, gentle, benevolent god. As a character who is kind, loving, and larger than life, we expect Venti stands for all the right things that we personally have decided are right in our morals.

It would make Venti a flawed god to be kind only to his own people, to consider the citizens of Mondstadt to be more worthy of happiness than those outside its bounds, to choose to sacrifice others for the sake of his own. If he's this kind to his own children, one might expect him to be just as kind to others. It would be incongruent with Venti's image as a champion of freedom, opposer of tyranny, gentle wind of spring, if he was able to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others. He is so so emotional when he sees his people struggling. Surely, surely, this applies to all of humanity, as it should?

There are at least three great stories in Mondstadt and Venti's history that involve felling a singular evil for the sake of Mondstadt. The first is Decarabian, the second is the Lawrence clan, and the third is Durin. Though the Church of Favonius often talk about Barbatos' forgiving nature, Venti is quick to villainise these actors in history and pin them as warnings to his people.

I think it would be easy for Venti to have made this terrible, cruel choice and regret it far, far too late. I think we are all faced with unclear choices everyday, with stakes that are merely not the same. I think to those alive in the time of the war, this would have been almost like the trolley problem - People are going to die. Is it our right to choose who that is? Maybe some gods thought that they could beat the Abyss in a fight, maybe some gods thought their nations were far enough away that they would survive, maybe some gods thought with a little more research they would stumble upon a yet-unknown but ideal solution. Maybe Venti was thinking logically when he made this choice, or maybe he was emotional and unusually bitter, or maybe it was both.

But I'd tell you that his sweet, kind nature is exactly why I like the idea that he has such a thing to be responsible for. A character like Venti who would be crushed under the weight of doing something that he realises is so antithetical to the person he wants to be is interesting. Doesn't it inform how we view his insistence that he stay out of his people's lives? His conviction that he is no better a ruler, that the lives of millions of people should never be decided by the cold-hearted or emotional whims of one person? He fears becoming just like Decarabian, the dictator he overthrew. He fears becoming like the aristocracy, who trampled upon others while performing the festivals that he designed, the dances that he made, the clothes that he wore too, the flamboyant culture he was so so proud of, now symbols of oppression. By his friend's side he killed the dragon that was terrorising his people, and then Dvalin awoke following in Durin's footsteps. A god who looks back on his three thousand year history and remembers all his failures first. A god who always thinks twice before he speaks, who never wants to give an order, who longs for the innocence of the wishes of children. A god whose decisions have resulted in terrible, long-lasting consequences. Who knows that even the decision to do nothing is still a choice. There is no such thing as sitting on the sidelines as the god of Mondstadt, and Venti knows that. But that line between being a kind god and a cruel one is so blurry.

Since its introduction, Khaenri'ah has been framed as a tragedy that Teyvat as a whole is responsible for, and the urge to file it under the workings of a big bad evil simply doesn't give it as much narrative weight as it has held for all this time up until now. Allowing the archons to continue taking responsibility for their part in it keeps Khaenri'ah a complex storyline even after the veil of mystery has been removed.

Faced with the simple fact that Khaenri'ah was destroyed, Traveler immediately knows it's wrong. It's wrong because all these human beings lost their lives, and that in itself is sad and cruel. But it's also wrong because the decision was not made in some picture-book sacrifice of themselves for the greater good, rather the gods of other nations whose personal interests lay in protecting their own people first made the decision. Elsewhere in Teyvat, sacrificing oneself for the greater good has been necessary and acceptable again and again. It must be said that the gods had no right to make that choice on behalf of Khaenri'ah, but it's not a leap to see how they may have come to this solution, simply on a larger scale. It is easy for them to be detached, harrowed by the war, aligned by the shared enemy, grieving, fearful, and then make what they coldly believed to be a last resort, a cruel but necessary choice. They see themselves as surgeons doing an amputation, doctors sending the worst to quarantine, oncologists fighting with aggressive chemo. And then the dust settles, and they see that these were people, and that what they did cannot be taken back. That they have blood on their hands, and it haunts them. And they must ask themselves, What other choice did I have? And not as a rhetorical question, but truly, When the Abyss comes again, what other choice do I have?

We want to imagine that we are all good people, and that at the end of the story, good will defeat bad and rewards will be issued to the good, as is our ideal world order. But instead, people do things, with generous intentions, with selfish intentions, with all sorts of consequences that one can barely hope to comprehend. People screw up. People believe too much in their convictions and fail through them. People who want to be good have to work to be competent, informed, empathetic, generous, and forgiving. When a person in a position like Venti fails, the results are catastrophic, but there is no one to lay justice upon him. Only him and his own desperate desire to do better.

Isn't that so interesting?

Of course, headcanon anything you want about Venti. It's not any less canon than my opinions unless Hoyo shows it onscreen. :D

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Peace - Act I : Chapter five

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: None

The score was 1–1, and the varsity team was catching their breath. Jackie shouted adjustments, Coach Martinez scribbled on a whiteboard, and players swigged Gatorade, mud on their socks, and fire in their eyes. But you weren’t in the huddle. You glanced at the time on your watch.

4:03 PM.

Your heart dropped.

Max.

Every Saturday, 4 PM sharp. Just you and your little brother. Your thing. A promise you never broke-no matter what. Because no one else remembered him like you did. And after the mixed media club, after school, after surviving the noise of your aunt’s house, it was the one moment that was just yours.

You slipped around the bleachers, your camera bumping against your hip, and bolted toward the old payphone tucked beside the gym doors. You dug through your jacket pocket for quarters with shaky fingers and fed them in one by one.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” came a small, slightly breathless voice.

You closed your eyes in relief. “Max,” she breathed. “You just get out of baseball?”

“Yeah, we had extra innings,” he said, panting a little. “I hit a double. Coach said my swing’s getting better!”

A grin split across onto your face. “Dude, that’s awesome. You’re gonna be the next Ken Griffey.”

“Grandpa says I’m the next Yogi Berra.”

You chuckled. “You don’t even know who that is.”

“Do too!” Max insisted. “He talks weird.”

You leaned against the brick wall, your smile softening. “I miss you.”

“I miss you more. Did you get my letter?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, picturing the letter in your head. “I hung it up. Right above my bed.”

“I added a drawing of me hitting the ball. So you won’t forget what I look like.”

Your breath hitched. “Max…”

He kept going, unaware of the lump forming in your throat. “I even drew the bat and everything. I tried to make it look like the one Grandpa gave me. And I put a little speech bubble that says ‘The Yankees suck!’”

Hearing the Yankees suck, made you roll your eyes. Your grandfather is the biggest Red Sox fan. So naturally, you were all raised to hate the Yankees. You could picture Max wearing a navy Red Sox shirt right now on the other end.

You laughed, shaky. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Nooo,” Max groaned. “Don’t cry. Crying is for babies.”

“I’m not crying,” you lied. “I’m just proud of you.”

He went quiet for a beat. “I’m proud of you, too.”

You felt tears sting in your eyes. There was really nothing to be proud of. You weren't anything special, or doing anything special. Yet Max was the only one who really cared about you. Really loved you. For no other reason but to love and care about you. Nothing more than just for being you. Even in his innocent words, they stuck onto you like clay.

“You okay?” Max asked.

You hesitated. “Yeah,” you said. “Just… tired. But I’m okay. You?”

“I’m good. Grandma made flan. I ate three.”

“You’re a monster.”

“It's just REALLY good.” Max insisted with a giggle.

You laughed, breath hitching. “It is pretty good, I guess.”

You hear commotion from the other end of the phone. Your heart sinks, already knowing what's coming. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “I gotta go. Grandpa wants me to watch this old game he recorded. Call me next Saturday?”

“You know I will,” you said. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” Max chirped and hung up.

You stayed there a second, your fingers still curled around the receiver, your heart aching in that complicated, permanent way it always did after hearing his voice. Willing yourself to calm down. Trying not to let the tears fall. Your hands palmed your eyes, and you took a deep breath.

“Y/n?”

You turned sharply. Lottie. Her curls slightly frizzed from play, hands on her hips, cheeks flushed from the first half. Sweat darkening the edges of her jersey. She looked… softer than usual. Pretty.

“Coach Scott sent me,” she said. “He saw you storm off and thought you were throwing up.”

You forced a smile. “Nope. Just needed to make a call.”

Lottie nodded slowly. She didn’t press, but her eyes scanned your face, softer than they’d been all week.

“You good?” she asked, voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you said automatically, then paused. “Actually… yeah. I think so.”

Lottie gave her a faint smile. “Then come on. We’ve got a second half to capture.”

You nodded, already jogging alongside her. The camera swung at your hip, the weight familiar. You didn’t say anything else. But Lottie stayed close, and you didn’t mind.

The energy on the field was electric. Cleats tore into the grass, shouts echoed under the lights, and the scoreboard blinked a tense 1–1. The rivalry with the Titans was personal, at least, both teams played like it.

You stood just past the sideline, fingers wrapped tight around your camera, eyes locked on the field. Your conversation with Max still echoed in your chest, but now you were focused. Watching. Framing. Capturing.

And right now, Lottie was everywhere.

She’d come alive in the second half, gliding through defenders with quiet fury, body low, eyes sharp. It was like watching magic. Jackie barked commands up front. Shauna and Tai locked down midfield. Laura Lee and Mari tightened the back. The whole team pulsed with movement.

Then it happened—Lottie intercepted a midfield pass and didn’t hesitate. She tore down the left, a blur of determination, juked one, slipped past another.

“Center! Center!” Jackie shouted.

But Lottie didn’t go to Jackie. She curled the ball around the last defender and sent a perfectly timed cross straight to Natalie on the right wing. Natalie didn’t even trap it, she volleyed it into the net on first touch.

GOAL.

The sideline erupted.

You got it all, Lottie’s wind-up, Natalie’s strike, the net snapping back, Van leaping from goal to scream in celebration. Shutter click. Shutter click. Holy fuck, it was all magic.

2–1, Yellowjackets.

But the game wasn’t over. Minutes later, Lottie, riding the adrenaline, went too hard on defense. A bad angle. A clumsy slide. She clipped the Titans forward from behind. The ref didn’t hesitate.

Whistle. Foul.

You, along with the crowd, groaned. Penalty kick. Lottie stood back, jaw clenched. Jackie swore under her breath. Shauna put her hands on her hips, trying to breathe. Van jogged in place, eyes narrowed at the girl lining up the shot. You could barely breathe. The Titans forward stepped up. Blew out a breath. Ran forward.

BOOM.

A rocket to the left. But Van was already there. A full-body dive. Fingertips. A slap of leather. DENIED. The rebound was cleared by Tai, and the clock ticked down.

Ten. Nine. Eight…

The crowd counted together.

Three. Two. One—Final Whistle.

Yellowjackets win.

Screams. Laughs. Someone tackled Van in joy. Jackie pulled Lottie into a rough hug. Shauna smacked Laure Lee on the back. Even Natalie cracked a grin.

You had the camera to your face the whole time, snapping the exact moment Van’s arms shot in the air, gloves high, triumph written all over her mud-streaked face.

A near-perfect shot.

Coach Martinez and Coach Scott stood near the register, somehow both overwhelmed and beaming. On the way back home, they pulled both Vans into an Ice Cream parlor off the road.

“Order whatever you want,” Coach Martinez said. “You earned it.”

The ice cream parlor was buzzing with post-game energy — laughter bouncing off tiled walls, jerseys sticking to backs, and sneakers squeaking against old tile floors. Coach Martinez had taken over two tables. Coach Scott was arguing with Van about which flavor was the best.

You stood off to the side, eyes scanning the blur of teal jerseys and sugar highs. You weren't sure if you were here as part of the team or just the one who happened to catch them at their best.

“Y/N!”

You turned and just in time to see Lottie approaching, beaming like she hadn’t just nearly gotten carded for nearly cleating someone into the next county. Lottie’s hair was still damp, cheeks flushed with the leftover adrenaline of the win, and in her hand was a double scoop of something pink and neon. “They had bubblegum,” she said, holding it up proudly. “Like the kind I would only get at this weird stand in the mall when I was, like, nine.”

You blinked. “I’ve never had that.”

Lottie paused, blinked, and then shoved the cone toward your face. “Then obviously, now is the time to try it’s goodness.”

You laughed, dodging the melting scoop. “You’re gonna drop it, psycho.”

“I’ll drop it into your hand if you don’t take a bite. Come on,” Lottie leaned in, whispering like it was a secret mission. “It’s basically a rite of passage. You’re one of us now.”

The words hung there, light but full. One of us.

You slowly let yourself smile. And then leaned forward, took a small bite, and winced. “Oh my god, that’s terrible.”

“I know, right?” Lottie was grinning widely now. “That’s why I get it every time. It's so bad that it's literally so good.”

You rolled your eyes, but something loosened in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was the sugar or the soft, persistent way Lottie always seemed to find you. But for the first time in a while, you didn’t feel like you were on the outside of something. You felt… in it.

Fuck maybe you loved soccer now.

[joudama]

I saw a post today that got me thinking. They basically started by pointing out how the Veilguard companions are super entitled brats because even though the world is ending, they prioritize solving their apparently much more important personal issues.

What really hit me is, the writers were trying to use the Mass Effect 2 template with a Mass Effect 3 level threat, without seeming to realize how completely incompatible those two things are.

I’m gonna talk a lot about Mass Effect to critique a Dragon Age game, but that’s what they get for trying to Mass Effect Dragon Age. Oh well.

First off, let me get the Unpopular Opinion out of the way now: Mass Effect 2 was the worst game of the trilogy. There’s not to say it was a bad game. It was an excellent game. Unfortunately, it was not a good second installment of a trilogy. It did none of the middle act work of setting up the pieces for the final act (this is why we get the deus ex machina of the super secret Reaper killing weapon plans plopped on what HAD just been “a small data cache” on Mars - ME2 should have been about it chasing down leads for said weapon) and instead was basically a reboot that set us back to exactly where we should not have been, only now with this super cool secret society that has been secretly engineering galactic politics from behind the scenes and using their Big Evil Tendrils of Power on people and shaping events (gee, why does THAT sound so familiar, Veilguard?) and they were putting us on a mission that realistically had nothing to do with the bigger Reaper threat or set us up to fight them. The main story was about the Collectors and Cerberus, but you’ll notice how No one ever talks about that - other than to express irritation when TIM spies up to force you to go on main story missions instead oof letting you do the missions you actually care about - the companion recruitment and loyalty missions. Having the actual story be those missing works because the main story is actually inconsequential IRT the world. You are a small crew chasing after what most of the galaxy believed to be a myth by sailing into an area no one has ever come back from, And said crew is a leader everyone thinks is dead, two members of a terrorist organization, a tank-bred teenager, a vigilante everyone thinks is dead, a mercenary, a dying assassin, twenty year old kid, a thief, an old mad scientist who retired off to the slums, and a really self-righteous mercenary. In order words: no one the galaxy will seemingly miss on a suicide mission of seemingly no importance. That means instead of focusing on the unimportant story (again, remember, it does NONE of the work of the middle story of a trilogy, which is part of why ME3 had the problems it did!), they could focus on the characters. And it completely made sense to stop everything - because there truly was not a huge rush until the Collector attack triggers to get to the suicide mission - in order to do these single mission asks of people that a terrorist organization is sending on a suicide mission. They are asking Shepard to give them some closure on their lives because they know they very well might die and not be able to do it after the mission. And it makes sense to do it, because you are literally asking them to die. It’s a last request. You do it because there’s no time crunch, because there’s no no threat hanging over you, and even after the Collector Attack is triggered, the only thing under threat is your ship’s crew. It’s a personal threat, not a galactic one.

Which brings is to 3, which is finally getting back to the story started in 1, the Reapers, which are now HERE and a way to beat them has to be plucked out of nowhere because 2 didn’t bother (and yes yes, I know about set up from 1 with the giant rift on iirc Klendagon? I don’t remember how to spell the name - but we should have been looking for that in 2 instead of doing a side quest for Cerberus, but I digress). Anyway, there is now a galaxy ending threat and it is literally destroying worlds. They are taking offer more and more of space, and despite our best edits at are absolutely losing, and we’ve got a very short time to unite the galaxy and get that Hail Mary weapon built, plus stop Cerberus fucking up our efforts, or else all space faring life will be killed off. Every mission (air from DLC) is focused on one of those three goals, because the threat is so large there’s no room for anything else. Even when it seems like the game is setting up you helping a former companion on a side mission -Miranda and her missing sister - Miranda tells you point blank that you’ve got bigger issues than her personal problem, and you only end up doing it because you’re going after Cerberus and discovered she was there.

Now, at long last, it’s time to talk about Veilguard. Veilguard tried to tell small, personal stories, like ME2 did, while the main story was a literal world and life as we know it ending threat, like ME3 had. And those two things are incompatible. You can’t stop to go fight an old personal enemy and plan camping trips while there is a literal world ending threat that is encroaching on everything and you are LOSING - by virtue of the stakes, it needs to be everything you are, in some way, focusing on, as is what happened with ME3. By trying to do a personal story quest in this scenario, creates a giant disconnect where your companions come off as entitled at best and extraordinarily privileged and tone deaf at worst, and like they are completely amateurish. You can’t stop everything to handle personal concerns when you are losing a fight for the survival of literally everyone. Act 2 of Veilguard grinds to a halt because instead of looking for ways to stop the gods, you’re off hither and yon running multi-step errands for your companions. They’re taking you on picnics and telling you to relax and have some tea. Meanwhile, the south is on fire and hundred of thousands of people are dying and the baddies are working on their own deus ex machina as you go chasing after a random mage.

[big-ooof]

non-idol!heeseung x f!reader

note: felt like writing some fluff and decided on doing a prequel to Such A Tease.

You were halfway through your shift at the campus clinic, finishing up paperwork, when Ni-Ki stormed in, breathless and wide-eyed. “Noona,” he said urgently, “please don’t get mad—”

“That sentence always means I should be mad,” you replied without looking up. “Did you eat something weird again?”

“No, not me, Heeseung hyung. He rolled his ankle during a pick-up game. Again.”

You sighed, putting down your pen. “Did you at least get him to sit down this time?”

Ni-Ki nodded sheepishly. “He’s outside. I told him you were working, so he said he refuses to go to the hospital now.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course he did.”

You stepped outside and saw him. Lee Heeseung: basketball golden boy, with his trademark messy hair and a cocky little half-smile despite the clear pain in his eyes. He was sitting on the bench with one arm resting behind him like he wasn’t one bad shift away from limping home.

“Hi,” he said, nodding at you. “Heard you're the best nurse in training on campus.”

You gave him a look. “And you must be the worst patient.”

His smile widened. “Guilty.”

“Can you walk?”

“I mean… I can. Should I? That’s up to your expert opinion.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t get you pain meds any faster.”

He chuckled, and you noticed the way he winced as he tried to stand. You instinctively moved closer to help him. He didn’t resist. You walked him inside, ignoring the part of your brain that noted how warm he felt under your arm or how nice his cologne smelled.

As you helped him onto the bed, he looked up at you. “I’m really sorry for dragging you into this.”

“Mm I don’t think you are,” you said as you examined his ankle, “but you should be.”

He laughed again, this time softer. “I mean it. You didn’t have to help me. I know you’re busy.”

You taped the ice pack down and finally looked up, noticing how his gaze had softened too. “I didn’t have to,” you said quietly, “but I wanted to.”

Something shifted between you then, like the teasing had opened a door you weren’t expecting to find. After a beat of silence, he grinned.

“So… what would I have to do to make this worth your while?”

You arched a brow. “You offering me money?”

Heeseung smirked. “No. Dinner. Or coffee. Or both, if my ankle gets better.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t date patients.”

“Then I’ll heal fast,” he whispered, like it was a promise.

The next day, he dropped off a coffee with your name on it and a sticky note that said: “Technically not your patient anymore. Dinner?” You said no at first. Then yes a week later.

The restaurant was casual, tucked in the corner of a sleepy street near campus, the kind of place you'd walk past a hundred times without noticing. Heeseung picked it for that reason. “It’s low-key,” he said as he opened the door for you. “And they have really good dumplings. Ni-Ki says they cure heartbreak, midterms, and bad hair days.”

You chuckled. “I don’t have any of those.”

“Guess it’s just depends on the person, then.”

You tried not to let him see the smile tugging at your lips, but you knew he noticed. Heeseung always noticed. Dinner was surprisingly… easy. He didn’t try too hard. He didn’t push. He asked about your favorite genre of music and if you always knew you wanted to go into medicine. He let you vent about the professor who still pronounced your name wrong. You found yourself watching the way his eyes lit up when he listened, like he actually cared. It threw you off, in the best way.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said after splitting a plate of mandu.

He leaned forward. “What did you expect?”

You paused. “More flirt. Less heart.”

Heeseung gave a small smile, sincere this time. “I usually flirt because I’m nervous. But with you… I don’t really want to mess it up.” That silenced you more than any pickup line ever could. Afterward, he insisted on walking you home, even though his ankle still had the faintest limp. At your door, he looked at you with something shy and steady behind his eyes. “Thanks for saying yes.”

You smiled. “Thanks for making it feel easy.”

He hesitated, just a second, before leaning in and kissing your cheek. Just the cheek. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, and it didn’t feel like a maybe. It felt like a promise.

It was two months later. You were cramming for finals. Heeseung had brought over takeout and sat cross-legged on your floor, pretending to study but mostly watching you pace with flashcards in your hand.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, like it had been sitting on his chest all week. “Do you think I’m your boyfriend?”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I mean, I think I’m your boyfriend. Everyone acts like I am. I basically live here on weekends, and Ni-Ki says I get whiny when I don’t see you for more than 48 hours.”

You set your flashcards down and stared at him. Heeseung bit his lip. “I’m not saying we have to put a label on it if that stresses you out. I just… want to know where we are.”

You walked over, sat next to him, and rested your chin on his shoulder. “I think you’ve practically been my boyfriend since the day you limped into the clinic and told me I was the best nurse on campus.”

He turned to you, completely still. You met his gaze and added, “you just didn’t make it official yet.”

Heeseung grinned so wide it hurt. “So I can call you my girlfriend now?”

You shrugged, teasing. “I guess… if you’re into that sort of thing.”

He kissed you. Soft, slow, and sure. “I’m very into it,” he whispered. Then, with a glint in his eye, “also, I think I need another ankle check-up next week. Just to be safe.”

You groaned. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Heeseung smiled into your neck. “You say that a lot.”

Bonus: (Such A Tease epilogue?)

Heeseung dozed on the couch, one leg propped up on a pillow, an ice pack slowly melting over his wrapped ankle. You'd showered, changed into an oversized tee and sleep shorts, and now padded around the living room quietly, tidying up the trail of water bottles, snack wrappers, and Ni-Ki’s abandoned hoodie.

You didn’t miss the way his eyes fluttered open when you walked past, or the way he tracked you with lazy affection like a human golden retriever with a sprain.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” you murmured, passing him a fresh ice pack.

Heeseung took it with a quiet groan. “Couldn’t. Your shower smells too good. Now I’m suffering twice.”

You snorted, but your heart fluttered anyway. He shifted slightly, wincing. “You know this reminds me of the first time you took care of me. That tiny clinic room, my pride in the trash, and your hands way too competent for me to keep my cool.”

You sat beside him, legs tucked under you, and gave him a skeptical look. “You mean when you told me you didn’t need a hospital visit and then flirted with me through the pain?”

He smiled, eyes closing again like the memory was a warm blanket. “I thought I was being charming.”

“You were being cocky.”

“And yet…” He cracked one eye open, gaze soft. “You still iced my ankle. Wrapped it. Walked me home.”

You shrugged, pretending to study the edges of the wrap. “You were pathetic. What was I supposed to do, let you limp into traffic?”

He reached out and hooked his fingers around your wrist gently, grounding you. “Babe,” he said softly. “I think I fell for you that day.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. The boy who used to flirt to cover up nerves had become a man who dropped truth like it was easier than breathing.

“You think?” you teased lightly.

He grinned. “Fine. I knew. When you scolded me for not going to the hospital and then offered me your last energy bar from your bag, I was like—yep. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You blinked once. Twice. Heeseung tugged your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles gently. “And I still fall for you every time you boss me around with that nurse voice.”

You snorted, trying not to smile. “You’re such a—”

“Tease?” he finished for you, smug. “Yeah. Learned from the best.”

You laughed, low and fond, and leaned in to kiss his temple. “Try doing some funny business with that ankle and I’ll really make you suffer.”

Heeseung sighed dramatically. “Once I’m back on two feet, I’m gonna be all over you.” You rolled your eyes and settled beside him, letting him drape a lazy arm around your waist. Heeseung closed his eyes again, lips curved.

[theoceanoasis]

Soundwave is sent to Nyon after a few rumours by the locals said there was a predacon lurking in the city somewhere. His task is to hopefully find and convince the predacon to join the Decepticons and return to Kaon as one of Megatron's most powerful warriors. However once Soundwave arrives he quickly discovers that finding the predacon might be a little harder than he thought.

Meanwhile hidden in shadows Hot Rod watches how this handsome blue mech tries to hunt him down. This isn't the first time he's played this game but if he's feeling nice he might let Soundwave catch him.

-💙

"You called for me, Lord Megatron."

"I have a mission for you. There have been rumors coming out of Nyon about a Predacon. I want you to find them and convince them to join us."

"I understand."

He went to Nyon and began asking around. The locals were weary of an outsider and it was hard getting them to open up. He ended up at a bar trying to get a drink. This mission was going to be harder than it looked.

"Is this seat taken?"

He was about to say no when he looked up and found a pretty mech staring back at him. He had a mix of red, orange and yellow paint with a spoiler that fluttered behind him and pretty blue optics.

"No this seat isn't taken."

"Good."

The mech sat down and turned to him.

"I'm Hot Rod by the way."

"Soundwave."

The mech ordered himself a drink and he decided to ask him about the predacon.

Hot Rod usually spent his days hanging out in his cave. He'd come to realize that people feared predacons. Every time he flew close to Nyon the people would scream and run away. It hurt and the only times he visited was when he was in mech form. However he had to be careful. He'd aleady made the mistake once he couldn't do it again. When he was little he'd made a friend. They were his best friend in the whole world and he thought he could tell him his secret. However when he transformed his friend called him a monster and ran away.

The people of Nyon tried hunting him and he had to quickly escape before he was captured. After that he was careful never to get too close to anyone.

The problem was that Predacons were social creatures. They weren't made to be alone and sometimes his coding would demand he socialize.

Right now he felt the familiar itch as he entered the town. He'd learned the best way to get rid of the itch for now was through physical contact. Sinc he couldn't go up and start hugging random people. He'd have to find someone willing to interface with him.

He entered the local bar and sat down in the back. He surveyed the crowd looking for someone to interface. He found his optics drawn to a handsome stranger who was obviously knew to town. He watched him drink alone and found his spark beat pick up, His valve clenched with need and he knew he was the one. Walking over he asked if the seat next to him was open.

Soundwave wanted to ask Hot Rod about the predacon. Since he was a local he was hoping to get more information.

However they didn't do a lot of talking. Hot Rod reached over and began kissing him. He began kissing back just as eagerly. His hands roamed along his body and Hot Rod climed into his lap.

The two made out with Hot Rod grinding against his panels. When he realized other people were watching he found himself getting posessive. He didn't like them watching Hot Rod like this. It was for his optics only.

Not wanting to give them a show any longer he picked him up and took him back to his hotel room. Once the door shut they were on each other. Both of them stumbled towards the bed where he pinned Hot Rod against the mattress. He'd shivered giving him an eager look as his valve panel opened.

After that they spent a night fueled by passion. Which ended up starting again when the two woke up and didn't end until the next morning. Both of them had a lot of steam to let off since they didn't interface often.

The two layed in bed both of their fans spinning as they basked in post interface glow. They were cuddled together and Soundwave finally asked Hot Rod about the predacon.

He felt him tense and he quickly explained his mission. Hot Rod gave him a complicated look and then began talking about the predacon.

It wasn't a lot of information but it was better than nothing. After that he interfaced with him again.

Hot Rod lay awake even though his body was exhausted. He glanced at Soundwave who was asleep next to him. He wasn't the first person who'd sought him out. Usually he would evade them until they eventually gave up. However he found himself interested in the Decepticons proposition. Especially if it meant he could see Soundwave again and have more mind blowing interface.