#i miss his longer hair but he looks so lovely

[whosscruffylooking]

Militiae Species Amor Est

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Part II Is Up Now!

This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!

warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.

word count: 6.7k

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The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.

“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”

The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.

Lucius.

He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”

Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.

He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.

That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.

You couldn’t look away.

As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.

He knew you.

Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.

“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.

You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

And you would find him again. No matter what it took.

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The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.

Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.

And he saw her.

At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.

It was her.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.

She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.

The girl he had loved.

Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.

His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.

And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.

Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.

The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.

But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.

She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.

Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Hope.

His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.

And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.

She was here. She had found him.

And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.

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The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.

He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.

He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.

But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.

“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”

Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”

Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.

“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”

Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”

“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”

Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”

Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”

“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”

Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”

Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.

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The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.

Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.

The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.

He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.

He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.

“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.

Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”

“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”

Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”

“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”

Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.

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It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.

Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”

Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”

“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”

Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”

“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“

Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.

Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”

“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars. 

Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.

Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.

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The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.

The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?

It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.

He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.

When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.

Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”

Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”

Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”

Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”

Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.

“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.

“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”

There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”

Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.

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The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.

The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.

It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.

He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.

His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.

“Iris.”

Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.

Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.

“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.

“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”

Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.

“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.

Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.

As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.

This was far from over.

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The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.

Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.

There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.

Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.

“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.

“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”

“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.

Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”

“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.

She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.

Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.

But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.

She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.

She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.

Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.

The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.

He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.

She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.

Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”

Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.

“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”

Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.

He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.

“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”

“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!” 

He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.

The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?

“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”

He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”

The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”

His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”

There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.

"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”

Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.

Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.

But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.

But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”

And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.

[stqrglr1]

Car sex with haechan

Genre: smut, established relationship

18+ minors pls dni !!

Unprotected sex (omg pls wrap it), creampie, mentions of blood

Pls this is so short and shitty pls forgive the hiatus i was dating a marine 🙏 inspired by true events

You’re bouncing on it as he whines so delicately. Its bliss. Every whimper from him makes you only that much hungrier. You cant stop, and wont stop, chasing your own orgasm as you feel floods of his cum fill you up so good. “Mmm baby it hurts but oh my god your pussy is so good.” Grunts and deep growls of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘oh my god’ spewing from his lips as he looks down where your bodies are meeting and pressing together. “i cant stop, im getting close. You can last a little longer right hyuckie? You’re my good boy yeah?” He gasps and hitches his breath at those words. Oh he loves when you call him your good boy.

He grips your hips, digging his nails into the skin. The flesh ripping yet you have no idea if its blood you feel or his sweaty palms on your hips. But hes helping you bounce so theres no complaints. Squirts upon squirts of his drawn out orgasm floods your walls until you see stars finally. You shudder and collapse on his shoulder. He coos and caresses your back “its okay baby you did so good, so good baby.” You both are gasping for air. The windows completely fogged up, the dense heat in the car finally noticeable. You feel all the creamy substance between both your groins. You try to lift yourself off him but you’re far too weak. Haechan takes you effortlessly by the waist and sets you in the seat next to him. You wonder how he has so much power in him to do so considering you drained him for all hes worth trying to finish, he always leaves you amazed. Theres still so much leaking out of you that your body is clenching onto. Its dripping so deliciously down your legs but you only think to yourself all your mixed juices is gonna be on the backseat of his car.

He rubs your sides, “are you okay babe?” He looks down at you with his big doe eyes waiting eagerly to hear about how you feel. Ignoring the mess in his car that hes gonna make you clean up with him later. “So good hyuckie. I feel so good” you lean into the corner of the backseat, spread out and bare, you smile and caress his face. Pushing his hair out of his face. The sweat making it stick to his forehead. Taking multiple attempts before you manage to remove it from its determination to stay on his skin.

“You’re so pretty hyuck.” Giving him a kiss on his cheek and pulling him down to hold him in your arms. Missing being close to him. “You’re my pretty boy.”

He chuckles snuggling into your neck “My dick that good huh?” You giggle a “Fuck you.” He responds with an “I love you too.”

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

hi !! i was thinking about logical by olivia rodrigo when she sings "said i was too young i was too soft, can't take a joke can't get you off" and it got me thinking of rupert campbell black x younger!reader getting into a huge argument about something and he says that to her in the heat of the moment and then maybe they end up having make up sex idk

thank you <33

February Sky.

The highs are so high, but the lows are so low.

rupert campbell black x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. age gap. angst. so much use of the word darling. this might be a tiny bit toxic, but...

word count - 2.3k

authors note - title taken from logical by olivia rodrigo (which fits him so well, by the way). thank you for this request, erica!! it works so beautifully. I tried not to make it too toxic, but I think rupert is a tiny bit toxic, regardless. oops. and yet we love him anyway.

masterlist. inbox.

“What’s the matter?”

You’re curled up in the armchair by the fire, cup of tea warming the palms of your hands as the flames warm your toes. You’re still wearing your ballgown, hair still pretty in its updo and makeup still perfectly done.

“Darling,” you hear come from the kitchen, where he’s no doubt pouring himself a whiskey.

You stay quiet, taking a sip from your mug and sitting in your frustration.

Rupert appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame and taking in the sight of you. The first thing he observes is how cosy you look. The second thing he observes is how annoyed you look.

“Darling,” he repeats, walking over to kneel in front of you. “What’s the matter? Did you not have a good time?”

You’ve gotten very good at picking your battles with Rupert. Sometimes, you let go of whatever’s bothering you to save yourself the aggravation of an argument. Other days, much like today, you just can’t seem to keep a lid on your anger.

“I was having a good time until you made me feel stupid in front of everyone.”

“W-what? What are you talking about?”

You look down at him, his wide eyes staring up at you with genuine confusion painted across them.

“When I told that story about the horses, at the dinner table. I saw that look you gave Bas. It was like you were laughing at me, not with me.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel stupid. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“Do I? You did the same thing a few weeks ago at Lizzie’s. You so easily undermine me when I’m speaking with a look or a laugh. That’s all it takes, and you don’t even realise.”

“Darling, I’m just joking with my friends. I’m not sure why you’re taking this so personally. It’s a non issue that you’re making into an issue.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Well I could argue that it’s not fair that you’re telling me that I make you feel stupid. That’s an accusation that’s not fair.”

He gets up, moving to stand by the fire with his glass in his hand.

“I feel like you’re just dismissing me,” you say quietly, squeezing the mug tighter in your hands.

“Because you’re acting like a child.”

“You’re treating me like a child,” you retort quickly, sitting up straighter in your chair.

“Look, darling. Maybe this is just our gap in life experience rearing its head. You’ve got a lot to learn, and sometimes it shows.”

“You know, our age gap only becomes a problem when you make it a problem. You want a sweet, young girlfriend until she acts her age, and then it’s an issue.”

“Because you can be so mature, and then all of a sudden you’re throwing a tantrum like a child,” he fumes, placing his glass down on the mantelpiece and folding his arms over his chest. “You’re young and you’re soft, I’m not oblivious to that. But sometimes you can’t take a joke - or sometimes you miss the joke completely. It’s not my fault if you twist that into me making you feel stupid.”

You put your mug down onto the side table, willing yourself not to get upset. You stand up so you’re no longer below him, still keeping a distance between the two of you. Breathing in deeply, you exhale shakily in an attempt to keep yourself and your composure together.

“You’re acting like my age is something that came up later, Rupert - and that’s not true at all. You knew how old I was when we met. You knew I was significantly younger than you.”

“Yes, I did. Maybe I just wasn’t aware of how often it would come up as a point when we argued.”

He leans against the fireplace wall, sharp features illuminated by the light of the flames. All that can be heard are the sounds of wood crackling and two sets of lungs heaving for breath.

“You’re making me feel like I’m insane,” you burst suddenly, sick of biting your tongue. “You’re acting as if everything is all my fault. When will you take some responsibility, Rupert? When will you hold your hands up and say ‘do you know what - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done it’, hmm? Why do I always have to apologise?”

“Darling-”

“No, I’m sick of it. One minute, you’re telling me our age gap doesn’t matter because we’re in love and I’m mature and intelligent and everything you need - and the next minute you’re treating me like some sort of virginal lamb that doesn’t know the difference between left and right. Make up your mind, because you’re making me dizzy.”

“If you’re so sick of it, why are we doing this? If you are so sick of it, you know where the door is, darling. I’m not forcing you to stay here.”

That’s all it takes for the tears to start falling, hot and heavy down your cheeks. Your sadness seems to be uncontrollable, stemming from your chest and humming through your veins. You’re surprised you’re not turning blue, a perfect personification of sorrow.

You stand your ground and cry in place, refusing to move to him for comfort. Eventually, he breaks first, unable to watch you sob any longer.

“My darling,” he soothes, striding across the space to wrap his arms around you. “My sweet girl.”

His nicknames only make you cry harder, burying your face in his crisp white dress shirt and undoubtedly getting makeup all over it. He doesn’t care, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other wraps around your waist to pull you closer.

“That was really mean,” you blubber into his chest. “Do you actually want me to leave?”

“No,” he reassures, rocking you in his arms gently. “No, darling. No. God, that’s the last thing I want. Honest.”

“Why did you say it then?”

Your voice is muffled, face still pressed against him. He smells so familiar and masculine and Rupert that it only makes you cry more.

“I… I don’t know,” he confesses, squeezing you tighter. “I shouldn’t have. You know me, I- I say things I don’t mean when I’m angry.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Your fingers are gripping the back of his shirt, holding on for dear life.

“I know, darling. I know.”

You sniffle as you pull back slightly to look up at him, surprised to see his eyes teary and glistening.

“Do you love me, Rupert? Because, because- if you… if you really wanted me to leave… you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“Sweet girl,” he breathes, cradling your face in his hands. “Of course I love you. The fact you even have to ask breaks my heart. I don’t want to you leave - I love having you here. And god forbid, if something bad did happen between us… we both know we wouldn’t stick around and pretend that this is something it’s not.”

Part of you knows that he’s good at this - saying exactly what you want and need to hear. The rest of you is stupidly relieved, letting his words wash over you like a balm on a scrape.

“I didn’t like it when you laughed at me tonight. One, because it made me feel stupid, and two… because I don’t want people to doubt us. You know what they’re all like. They see the tiniest crack and dig their fingers into it until it’s a gaping wound that they can all gossip about.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he murmurs as he sweeps his thumbs back and forth across your cheekbones. “I shouldn’t give them any ammunition. I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t realise it would upset you so much. There was no malicious intent on my part, I swear - it was just a joke between friends. You know Bas adores you.”

“I know,” you half chuckle. “He tells me every single time he sees me.”

“Exactly,” Rupert grins, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “But no one adores you the way I do. I can promise you that.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his middle and resting your head against his chest. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, meaning you can feel his warm skin against your cheek, comforting and familiar.

“Rupert?”

He hums, encouraging you to continue.

“Will you stop bringing up my age when we argue? I don’t ever mention that you’re older than me, but you’re so quick to call me young or inexperienced or a baby.”

“Yes, darling. I’m sorry that it seems like a focal point for us - it’s not, I swear.”

“You kissed me.”

“Hmm?”

“You kissed me, that day in the garden. Not the other way around. You made the move first. I’m not some innocent girl chasing after you because I’m naive and too young to know any better.”

“I know that. I kissed you because I thought you were the most magnificent girl I’d ever met. I still do.”

He tightens his arms around you, gently rocking you like a child again.

“I don’t want to argue anymore,” you mumble, sighing deeply.

“Neither do I, darling. We’re finished with the arguing now. Promise.”

Rupert takes half a step back, to give him a better look at you. You still look beautiful, even if you do have mascara running down your cheeks and lipstick smudged across your face.

“I love you,” he murmurs as he leans in to kiss you.

“I love you too,” you manage to mutter against his lips, kissing him back as hard as you can.

He kisses you carefully, methodically, as if he’s worried he’ll spook you and you’ll take off running. He’s keeping you close, hands gripping your hips to plaster your body to his. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging the dark locks with a little too much force, which he doesn’t seem to mind.

Rupert walks you both towards the fire, lips never parting from yours. His hand finds the back of your dress, pulling down the zip in one smooth movement. It falls to your feet, kicked to the side in disregard. He sits down in the armchair and pulls you with him so you’re straddling his lap, legs on either side of his hips and arms thrown around his neck.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers, fingers tracing patterns up and down your bare back.

You press kisses into his neck and down his chest, the hair there tickling your face as you do it. Your hips have slowly started to move against his, both of you out of breath as the stakes get higher and higher.

He undoes the zip on his trousers, smirking when you whimper at his knuckles brushing your wet core. He pulls them down just enough to free himself, not worried about getting completely undressed.

“I want these off,” he instructs, pulling at the waistband of your underwear. “Now, darling.”

You wiggle them down your legs, kicking them off one foot in the direction of your dress. You’re fully naked in his lap, while he’s still wearing his shirt unbuttoned with his trousers halfway down his thighs. You both look debauched, more scandalous than you could ever imagine. You wish for a moment that you had a mirror, desperate to watch the way you need each other.

You take matters into your own hands and line him up, sinking down slowly so you can savour the stretch. It burns just right, the slight ache a welcome intrusion.

“Shit, darling. That’s it. Good girl.”

Tangling your fingers into the back of his hair, you start to wind your hips up and down - gently at first, and then with more vigour. Rupert lets his head loll back into the chair, exposing that gorgeously tanned neck of his. You nip at it with your teeth, grinning when he groans all low and slow.

He cups your tits, squeezing and pinching as he begins to buck his hips to meet yours. You’re determined to do all the work yourself, but he can read your body language like a book, whether you like it or not. He knows you’re getting tired, but will point blank refuse to admit it.

One of his hands slinks between you to rub firm circles onto your clit, both of you moaning when you clench down around him. He can tell you’re almost there, just needing the tiniest push to throw you over the edge.

“There we go, good girl. My good girl. All mine.”

That’s all you need, back arching and legs shaking as you reach your climax. Yours triggers Rupert’s, the most delicious groan leaving his mouth as he comes. He looks like a Greek God, all chiseled and glistening in the firelight.

Burying your head into the crook of his neck, you breathe him and try to calm your pounding heart. You can feel his heart battering against his chest where it’s pressed against yours, bodies tangled together in the armchair.

The two of you catch your breath for a while, revelling in the warmth of the fire and the company of the other. Eventually, Rupert carries you upstairs, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear and stroking your hair as he does it.

I was wrong, earlier, you think as he tucks you into bed and immediately climbs in next to you, plastering himself to your back. No one could love me like Rupert does.

i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again, even if I sound like a broken record…

reblogs are gold dust to writers!! reblog the fics you read and enjoy, and your favourite writers will keep writing them for you!! it really is that simple!! <3

[carisc4pshaw]

Showers of Love

In which Spencer Reid comes home from work late after being away for 5 days and finds himself joining his girlfriend (female OC) in the shower the next morning.

word count: 1.7k

tags: shower sex, morning sex, smut, little fluff, smut&fluff, domestic fluff, love, oral sex, vaginal sex, PinV sex, home, showers, original character, original female character, bisexual female character, spencer reid/ fem!reader, bisexual spencer reid, spencer reid fluff, spencer reid smut, sub spencer reid, dom spencer reid, choking, rough sex, late night, working late, criminal minds

warning: little nipple play, oral sex (fem receiving), choking, unprotected PinV sex (I think that’s it)

notes: Also posted on Ao3 I hope you enjoy this however, it may not be the best as I haven’t written smut involving men for a couple of years.

—————————————————❤️‍🔥——————————————————

Spencer had gotten home from work after a case had run on longer than any of them would have liked, Sofia was pretty sure she heard him climbing into bed at 3:30 am so she took that as a chance to have a lay-in with him until 11 am the next morning before deciding it really was time to get up.

The blonde went into the bathroom twisting the shower on warm and stripping out of her clothes. She got into the shower and closed the door meaning she didn’t hear the knock coming from the door to the bathroom just a minute later.

The couple had been together a long time but Spencer wanted to be respectful by knocking first however he was sure on this occasion she wouldn’t mind the surprise I mean he had been away for almost 5 days after all.

He opened the door and took in her body, her head was tilted back under the shower head as the water ran down her slightly tanned skin. Spencer knew he wasn’t going to be able to enter the shower undetected so he knocked on the glass, her head quickly turned to him a shocked expression on her face before realising it was him.

“Are you okay?” Sofia asked him.

“Can I join? You look beautiful,” he said, his eyes trailing her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and breasts ending at the end of her ribs.

“Hm yes you can join,” She giggled pushing the glass door open for him.

He got rid of his clothes and entered the shower standing behind her wrapping his arms around her midsection and smelling the clean skin on her shoulder, “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” She said twisting her head round to meet his lips in a very awkward angled kiss.

Spencer began leaving kisses at the side of her neck, sucking lightly leaving what would become faint marks on her skin.

“Mmm baby I’m trying to shower,” Sofia spoke pushing further back against him feeling his cock hardening against her ass.

“Sorry about that… but it has been well 5 days,” He rubbed the back of his neck swallowing nervously.

“It’s fine I like knowing I still turn you on.”

“You’ll always turn me on darling,” Spencer’s hands travelled to her breasts grabbing both of them in his hands, his thumbs rubbing her nipples.

“Oh baby, that feels so nice,” Sofia said under her breath.

“Did you miss having me here?” He asked running his hands from her breasts and down the sides of her waist.

“Mhm, you shouldn’t leave for work all the time.”

“I’ll suggest it to Hotch,” He turned her around so he was now facing her and left kisses on her chest and the top of her cleavage.

“Good plan,” Sofia reached one hand down wrapping it around his cock resulting in him moaning into her chest.

He pulled back and shook his head, “No, this is about you for now, hands off.”

She immediately obeyed him moving her hand before being pushed up against the wall of the shower.

Spencer kissed a trail down her body as he got onto his knees and began kissing her inner thighs.

Sofia reached down sliding her fingers into his damp curls her hand tightening in them when he ran his tongue up her slit.

The blonde let out a few sighs of pleasure as he gripped onto her thighs spreading them further apart.

Spencer angled his head to latch his lips onto her clit, sucking at it gently. He moved one hand from her thigh to grip onto her hip.

Sofia’s hands tightened in his hair as he ran his tongue in circles over her clit before running it down to her entrance and plunging it into her wasting no time to get it as deep as he could twisting it further inside.

The moans, sighs and the look of pleasure on Sofia’s face he was hearing and seeing had made him harder than he was before if it was even possible. He knew it took the blonde a little while to reach her first orgasm and at this point, he didn’t know if he would be able to wait that long.

Sofia’s eyes were closed and her mouth was parted open as strings of moans came out of her mouth that only got louder as he splayed his right hand over her lower stomach so his thumb could reach down to her clit rubbing it in firm fast circles. Maybe this wouldn’t take as long he thought.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” she shouted gripping his hair impossibly tight and pulling it so hard it was hurting but he would not say anything about it.

Sofia sighed heavily, one of her hands leaving his hair and slamming against the tiled wall and her legs threatening to close around his head as she climaxed, her juice spilling out onto his tongue.

Spencer removed his tongue from inside of her but kept his thumb lightly brushing against her clit while she came down from her orgasm.

He stopped his actions with his thumb when he heard her breathing slowing down and placed both his hands on her hips rubbing them comfortingly. He stayed on his knees and looked up at her, “Are you okay darling?”

The younger woman nodded her head ‘yes’ until her breath had returned to talk, “Yeah thank you, so good. God, you’re so good at that Spence.”

Spencer smiled, standing up from the floor and pressing his lips against her, it was a loving kiss made more passionate by her being able to taste herself on him.

He pulled back after a minute and ran a hand down her hair, “You’re gorgeous honey.”

“Do you want my help with this?” She reached down and took the length of his cock in her hand.

Spencer groaned at the touch, “Can you go again?”

“Yeah,” She nods, “Always.”

He kissed her lips once before roughly connecting his lips to her pulse point on her neck.

His hand moved from the side of her face to her collarbone rubbing his hand across it and down between her breasts.

“I don’t need any more teasing baby you’ve warmed me up enough,” she said pulling his head back up from her neck so their lips could join again.

“From the front or back?” Spencer asked.

“If I say back will you pull my hair?” Sofia smirked at him.

“No I don’t want to hurt you,” He pecked her lips.

Sofia rolled her eyes, “You choke me but you won’t pull my hair?”

“It’s different.”

“Fine, we will work on this, front then and choke me.”

“Okay,” Spencer waited for her to adjust her position for it to be easier for him to slip inside of her.

Spencer eased into her slowly, he was large and while they had done this many times he always wanted to be careful not to hurt her.

Adjusting to him didn’t take long due to her previous orgasm and already being used to his size.

“Move,” Sofia ordered with a moan.

Spencer complied pulling out a little and pushing back in earning a louder moan from his girlfriend.

“More please,” she breathed out wrapping her arms around his waist.

Spencer quickened his pace earning moans from him when he thrusted in and out of her.

Sofia's nails scraped down Spencer’s back while her eyes rolled in pleasure, “Oh fuck. Yes!” She said between moans.

He could feel himself getting closer to his climax as her walls tightened around his cock more with each thrust. Spencer moved his hand to her neck squeezing lightly against her pulse point.

“Keep going please,” Sofia begged

“I’m not stopping babe,” Spencer thrust at a different angle hitting a point inside her he hadn’t hit before.

That movement mixed with the choking sent her toppling over the edge for the second for the second time that evening.

He wasn’t far behind after seeing her orgasm washing over her face.

“I need to pull out baby,” he spoke rather softly, loosening the hand from around her neck.

Sofia groaned, “Why? You never usually do?”

“Are you sure you want me to?” Spencer grunts.

“Yeah,” She kissed his lips slowly running one of her hands down her chest.

With one more thrust Spencer finished inside of her, moaning into her mouth as they kissed.

He pulled away from her breathing heavily. His brown eyes met her blue ones just staring at her as he got his breath back.

“You okay honey?” Sofia giggled at his flushed cheeks and scattered breaths.

“Yes, more than okay. I’m going to pull out now.”

The blonde nodded but still let a small whiney moan out as she felt the loss of him from inside of her.

The sweet sound made Spencer’s heart beat a little faster than it already was from the physical activity they had just participated in. He took her face in his hands and smiled at her before placing a peck on her lip, “I love you,” he spoke between the kisses.

“I love you too Spence,” Sofia said stepping further under the water from the shower head.

“Can I wash your hair?” He asked moving closer to her again wrapping his arms around her from behind.

She leaned back into his touch so their bodies were pressed together, “Of course, you know I’ll never say no to that.”

Spencer took the shampoo bottle from the small shelf and squirted some into the palm of his hand. The smell of sex in the shower was quickly drowned out by the thick smell of Sofia’s lavender-scented oil that she’d mixed into her shampoo.

As he rubbed it into her hair he spent a fair amount of time massaging her scalp, “I love the smell of your shampoo.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, It makes me feel calm I miss smelling it when I’m away.”

“You’re so adorable, I’m giving you so many kisses when you’re finished washing my hair.”

“How about you do that after we put pyjamas on and get into bed to watch a movie?”

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” Sofia quickly turned around in his arms and pecked his lips despite the fact his hands were still threaded in her hair.

—————————————————————————————————————

[avatar-anna]

Three days had passed and Harry hadn't left your tiny apartment.

He kept saying he should probably leave, and you insisted there were things you had to do, but neither of you actually made it past the threshold of your door. No one said goodbye, or even bothered to shrug back into clothes. For three days, you ate, drank, and slept with Harry.

"You're making it hard to leave," he murmured, his voice low and content as you placed tiny kisses on his neck, his collarbone, his jaw, anywhere you could reach, really. It was how you used to wake Harry up when you were together, and when morning number four rolled around, you couldn't help yourself but lean across the bed and kiss his soft, sun kissed skin.

At first, you kept up the pretense of being unattached, of sleeping with Harry merely because you knew each other well enough physically. "This doesn't mean we're back together," you'd both whisper, or something to that effect, before blurring the lines of your non relationship once more.

"You're not making it any easier to kick you to the curb," you mumbled, one hand reaching up to caress his stubbly cheek. The fine, short hair that seemed to grow in the last few days.

Harry smelled good, like he usually did with a mix of the soap in your shower. It messed with your head in a way that was dangerous, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

So he didn't leave (again), and you didn't tell him to go(again). You and Harry stayed in bed for most of the day, only bothering to get up when hunger was too apparent to ignore. You managed to whip something up from the meager groceries you had, not having gone to the market recently, and sat with Harry at the little dining table by the kitchen. The balcony would've been a much nicer spot, as it looked out over the neighborhood square you stayed in, but it was too public, too many keen eyes would've spotted Harry immediately.

"Part of me wishes I hadn't seen you at all," Harry confessed later in the day. You were back in bed after a brief stint in the kitchen where you tried to make pancakes, which promptly turned into kissing and licking pancake batter off Harry as he did the same to you on the kitchen counter, pancakes no longer a priority.

You knew he hadn't meant it to hurt you, but the words sent a pang through your chest, so different from the heat and fireworks and butterflies you usually got from him. Everything was so different now. It was hard to face how much had changed, especially now that Harry was in bed beside you. "I know."

"It's easier to pretend when I can't see you," he said softly, his hand never once stopping as it tracked through your hair, nor did your hand stop tracing patterns in his chest.

"Pretend?"

Harry blew out a large sigh before sitting up in your bed, his arms stretching high above his head. There were hickeys littered all over his body, one on his hip revealing itself as the bedsheet fell and settled just below his waist. You found yourself transfixed by your ex's body, the one you still loved so much the idea of him leaving made your heart hurt.

"Do you still love me?" Harry asked out of the blue.

The question shocked you, but only because you thought the last three days would've made it obvious. You certainly didn't have to ask him how he felt. "Yes."

"That makes it easier too. In a selfish way, I guess," he said, not once meeting your eye. "Knowing you're in as much pain as I am."

Unexpected tears welled in your eyes. You never wanted to hurt Harry. He'd been right to say it was easier to imagine him happy and healthy post break up if you didn't see or hear from him. It was easier to move on if you convinced yourselves that you were better off without each other.

"Harry—"

"I miss you, Y/n," he said, his voice trembling slightly. Harry wouldn't meet your eye, which made all of this so much worse. "I know why we broke up, and I've done everything short of sleeping with someone else to try and move on, but I just—Tell me you're struggling as much as I am. Tell me you don't sleep as well as you used to because I'm not there. Or don't. Tell me this has all just been sex to you so I know there's an end to this—this—"

"Misery?" you finished for him. "I wish I could. I don't know if I'll ever be the same again, honestly."

"Then why—"

"Don't ask why. Please. Not when you know the answer."

It wasn't like you and Harry woke up one day and stopped loving each other. Everything about your relationship had been nothing short of perfect from the very beginning.

Until it wasn't.

"No one has to know this time," Harry said. His tone had taken on a desperate edge, almost making you turn away from him so you wouldn't have to face it, do this all over again. "We can—We can keep this a secret. It'll be just us."

It will never be just us, you thought miserably. "People already know, H."

At the look of confusion on his face, you reached for your phone. You showed him the slew of articles that had already been written. Pictures of you and Harry walking through Rome together three days ago, each one picking you apart or depicting you as the villain in Harry's life.

"I know that's why you're still here. You're waiting for the storm to blow over," you said, unable to meet his eye.

"That's not—After everything I just said, you really think that's why I stayed?" he asked. You'd turned away from him, but you felt his hand on your shoulder, the kiss to your temple as he leaned in close.

"I wish I was the kind of person who didn't care what anyone thought, that I could simply exist in this relationship and not let anyone else in, but—but I'm not. I can't."

"You. Are. Enough," Harry murmured, pressing each word into your skin with a kiss. You closed your eyes, tears leaking from the corners as he curled himself around your body. One leg slid between yours, and you selfishly pulled him closer as he continued to murmur in your ear.

You fell asleep in your ex's arms, the weight of his body on yours more comforting than any blanket. When you woke up, Harry was there, but he wasn't wrapped around you anymore. He sat at the edge of your bed, wearing clothes for the first time since he'd set foot in your apartment.

"You're leaving?" you asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

"I'm supposed to go to Florence tomorrow," Harry said, bent over as he tied his shoes. "I've got a dozen messages on my phone asking where I am."

Something in Harry's voice sounded different, distant, just the way he sounded when you initially ran into him. It pulled at something in your heart, something that you'd been keeping at bay since you invited Harry into your apartment—the knowledge that this would eventually end.

"So you're—You were just going to leave? Without saying anything?"

You heard Harry sigh as he rested his head in his hands. "I thought it would be easier. Our last conversation seemed...final."

"I know, but—"

But what? Harry was right. This wasn't going anywhere. You told him you couldn't be in a relationship with him, and he was responding to that. You knew it was coming, but it didn't hurt any less now that the moment had finally come.

"You're right," you said eventually, sitting up in your bed. "We came here separately, of course you have plans. I'm sorry if I kept you."

"You didn't," Harry reassured. "There's nowhere I wanted to be the last few days, but we... we're broken up, and as much as I want to stay, I don't want to keep giving myself false hope."

Your fingers twitched, itching to reach out, to touch him, hold him. But he was right. As much as you loved this relationship limbo, that was all it was. Stringing you and Harry along would only hurt you more.

"I'm sorry," was all you could say. For too many things, none of which you could bring up without crying.

"Me too," Harry said.

Harry's lean figure appeared a couple minutes later, his head bent and shoulders slightly hunched, avoiding the few photographers who had been waiting for him to leave the building. You wanted him to turn around. You wanted to see his face one last time, a final farewell. But perhaps for his sake, he didn't, and you watched as he retreated down the street and turned down the road out of sight.

Leaning across the bed, he kissed your forehead, then stood up. "One day you'll realize how extraordinary you are, and you wont care how people perceive you," he said, his thumb caressing your cheek. "And then you'll go and make someone the luckiest man in the world by giving yourself over to him completely. I'm just devastated it wasn't me."

You watched him go from the sanctuary of your bed, knowing the second he was out of sight you'd break down completely. The door closed with a soft clock, and even though you knew you shouldn't, you hurried over to your bedroom window, waiting anxiously to get one last glimpse of him.

On your last day in Rome, you found a note he'd written.

Harry had hidden it in one of the pockets of his favorite of your sweaters, though you weren't exactly sure when. It wasn't very long, and the note itself was no more than a scrap of paper, one you'd nearly thrown out by accident. But you would've recognized his handwriting anywhere, and fond memories of notes you used to find among your things kept you from throwing away the folded paper and opening it instead.

Perhaps in another life. Unless you change your mind in this one, H.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Meet the Family 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.(petite!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: my gut said go full self-indulgent so I did.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Your phone lights up again. You’ve already waited too long. You can’t avoid this any longer and in that moment, avoiding Lloyd’s family is a bigger priority. You get up, thankful to be away from Lloyd’s wandering touches, and excuse yourself to take the call. You don’t miss the scathing judgment from Gwenyth, but you don’t care either. 

You go out into the hallway and try to keep your voice down. There’s enough chatter that you’re not entirely concerned. You answer and close your eyes. 

“Hi, mom--” 

“Where are you?” She demands. “You said you would be here. I’ve been waiting. Calling. Your sister too. We’re all worried--” 

“Mom, I’m sorry. I missed my flight--” 

“Oh, yes, I couldn’t put that together,” she snaps. 

“I’m sorry, mom. Really. I know—I messed up again. I really wanted to come but that was the only flight--” 

“It’s not that you couldn’t make it, it’s that you couldn’t even let me know! I’ve been in shambles, thinking the worst. I check the flights to make sure there were no crashes, I’ve been looking through news reports.” 

She starts to devolve into breathy sobs. You feel horrible. Your guilt overwhelms your self-pity. Suddenly being stuck with these rich snobs isn’t so bad. Your mother has spent half her Christmas worrying over you, and know her, you wouldn’t be surprised if she actually tore some hair out. 

“I know I should have called. I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to figure something out,” you lie, poorly since the defeat is in your voice.  

Your mother has always been your kryptonite. She’s not cruel like Gwenyth, but her disappointment is devastating and all too easy to earn. She just wants the best for you but you’ve never managed the best. 

“So you can come?” She sniffles. 

“Um, not today, but I’m looking at tomorrow.” Another frail falsehood. “I promise, I’ll let you know--” 

“Sweet pea,” Lloyd’s voice undercuts yours and you cringe. You put your finger up and turn to signal him to hush. 

“Yeah, mom, I’ll try for tomorrow and if I can’t get there--” 

“Mom?” Lloyd echoes with a smirk. 

You shake your head. 

“Who’s that?” Your mom asks. 

You grimace and glare daggers at Lloyd as he comes closer. You outstretch your arm and put your hand just below his chest.  

“Mom, it’s just--” 

Lloyd easily reaches past your resistance and swipes the phone. He puts it on speaker with a tap of his thumb as you lunge at him. He grabs your arm and forces it up. Nearly dangly you from it as you lash with the other. 

“Is this mom?” Lloyd asks brightly. 

“Um, hello? Who is this? Where’s my daughter?” 

“Mom, I’m here. Lloyd, give me the phone back--” 

“Boo, what’s going on?” She asks. 

Lloyd looks at you with a mischievous grin and mouths ‘boo?’ with a tweaked brow. You shake your head again and plead. 

“Mom, it’s nothing--” 

“I think I spoiled the surprise,” he speaks over you. “We’re going to be coming tomorrow.” 

“We?” She ekes out, you hear the worry mounting in her voice. 

“Please don’t be mad at Pixie, she was just being a good girlfriend. We stopped by my family’s house and oh boy, the snow we got up this way,” he tuts in a very convincing monologue. You’re stunned into silence at his act. He sounds like a decent person but you know better. “And you know, everything was so hectic as we tried to dig out that it just got all ahead of us.” 

“I’m sorry, who are you? Boo?” She asks desperately. 

“Mom--” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I should’ve started with that. I’m Lloyd. Her boyfriend.” 

“Boyfriend?” You mother breathes, “boo?” 

“Yeah, mom, er,” you wrench your hand free and smack Lloyd’s arm. “He’s um, going to come with me, so uh--” 

“I’ll be there, both of us, with bows on,” he promises. “Please, allow me to apologise from the bottom of my heart for keeping your daughter from you. You can’t blame her. It was entirely me. I am not a morning person and she can only do so much to keep me in line.” 

You grit your teeth as you squint at him. How does he sound like such a dweeb? Well, looking at him with that mustache, he kinda is one. 

“Oh, well, that’s lovely, very nice,” your mother coos, “I can let everyone else know. Oh, boo, you could’ve told us--” 

“Again, that’s on me,” Lloyd preens, “I thought it would be a nice surprise.” 

“It is, it is,” she assures. “Oh, it will be so nice to meet you. We’ve never met any of Pixie’s men.” 

“Mom,” you groan. 

“We never really thought she had any. She’s always been so focused on work, and before that, it was school--” 

“Mom,” you jab Lloyd’s ribs as he smirks bigger and bigger, then snatch the phone from him. “Promise, we’ll get there but uh... gotta go. Love you.” 

“Love you too, boo. Oh and it was nice meeting you, um--” 

“Lloyd,” he supplies and sticks out his tongue. 

“Bye.” You hit end and put your phone in your pocket.  

Your agitation peaks and you can’t help from shoving Lloyd. It barely affects him which annoys you more. God, he is such a little—big turd. 

“Why would you do that?” 

“What? I just did you a favour.” 

“A favour? You just dragged my family into this bullshit--” 

“Well, hate to break it to you, boo,” he emphasizes the last word as he grabs your hands and pulls them away from his stomach, “but they’re going to have be. We promised mine a white wedding.” 

“You are so--” 

“So...?” He prompts. 

“Urgh.” 

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy. It’s a ticket out of this place. Literally. So you just let me know where I need to book tickets and I’ll pull a few strings--” 

“Strings? You couldn’t pull these earlier?” 

“On Christmas Day? Please, even I can’t do that but the day after Christmas, my guy’s getting into the punch right now, he’ll be just tipsy enough--” 

“You are torturing me,” you accuse. 

“I really can’t deny that,” he snickers as he lets you go. “Now tell me where I’m booking these tickets too and I’ll hop right on that...” he looks you up and down and bites his lip, “as much as I’d like to hop on something else.” 

You huff, “Toronto.” 

He twitches, “Toronto? As in... Canada?” 

You nod and roll your eyes. 

“Wait, Pixie puff, you’re Canadian?” 

You tilt your head and look at him. You shrug, “what does that matter?” 

“Well, I thought you type were supposed to be nice, first of all.” 

“Just make the call,” you sneer and cross your arms. “You’ve already mangled this Christmas, may as well put it out of its misery.” 

“Why don’t you do the same for me, huh? I’m suffering, Pix. Just give it a squeeze” he gets closer. You flutter your lashes then he wiggles his hips. “These pants are killing my circulation. I told you, I don’t wear underroos.” 

“Back up before I lose it,” you warn. 

“I’m close to losing it too, baby face,” he groans. 

“Make. The. Call.” You demand. “And I’ll happily break the news to your dear sweet mother that we need to go get ready to fly out.” 

His expression sobers and he exhales heavily, “Pix,” he utters quietly, “sometimes, you’re scary. Don’t... don’t piss off mom too much. Please.” 

“Book the tickets, honey poo,” you chime in an acidic tone, “and I’ll make sure mommy’s not crying into her champagne.”  

You poke centre of his chest and bounce on your heels before you spin away. Your mother’s disappointment might be like arsenic but Gwenyth’s is the exact antidote you need. 

❄️

“I know a girl in Toronto. A few actually,” Lloyd says over the steering wheel. He’s tasked with driving back to the hotel since you imposed sobriety on him as punishment for the day. “Strange, you’re nothing like them.” 

“I don’t care,” you grumble. 

“Ugh, your wheel is too low,” he mutters as he stops at a red and tries to adjust it. You don’t respond.  

You just want to lay down. Your head is pounding from the lack of sleep and Lloyd managed to book you an early morning flight which will curtail any meaningful sleep. You close your eyes and ignore his fussing. 

Finally, he steps on the gas. “So, Canada, you grew up with those geese, huh? Explains the bite--” 

“What?” 

“I read somewhere they have teeth--” 

“Why the heck are you moaning about geese for?” 

“I hear it now. Couldn’t place it before. I thought Minnesota or somewhere but when you’re angry, you get this twang--” 

“Be quiet,” you let your head drop back again. “I’m getting a migraine.” 

“Aw, baby,” he coos. 

“Lloyd,” you growl. 

“I can make it better. I read somewhere that you can massage it better. Oh, and you know, orgasms--” 

“You read a lot of nonsense for someone who I never see reading,” you drone and prop your elbow against the door to cradle your head. 

“There’s a wealth of information on the internet when you’re not scrolling porn,” he chuckles. You let out a disgusted noise. “Don’t worry, pixie. I’m committed to this. Me and you, we’re going to get our piece of the pie and make off like bandits.

"So you let me play the loyal husband. I’ll get you all spread out and loose, I’ll rub your head and your shoulders, then my hands might wander a little bit more...” he hums. “I’ll touch the peach a bit, I just can’t help myself, but I think you’ll be ready by then.” 

“Don’t you dare touch me,” you snarl. 

“Ah, come on, flying is so stressful and after the day we had, we both need that release--” 

“How many more times do I need to tell you to stop?” 

“And how many times do I need to tell you I won’t? It’s fate now, Pixie.” He clucks and slowly turns. You lift your head and look up at the hotel sign. “Hey, if you like the long game, I can go along with it. Make it hurt so good.” 

“Do you ever think of anything else?” 

“There’s a constant undercurrent that never really leaves my mind,” he shrugs as he parks. “But I’m great at multitasking.” 

You grumble and shake your head. It sends a throbbing pulse through your skull. You undo your seatbelt and drag yourself out of the car. As the door shuts, you wince. Then Lloyd’s and you feel the nausea start to crawl through your guts. The lack of sleep, the stress, the alcohol, it’s a perfect recipe for a deadly migraine. 

You do your best to push through as you make your way up to the room silently. Lloyd is not so quiet. He’s rambling about something; a shirt? You don’t know and you don’t care.  

You take out the room and enter the hotel suite. You drop the key and your purse and shed your coat. You hang it on the hook on the back of the door and tread further in. You don’t stop until you get to the bed. You ease yourself down and bury your face in the pillow. 

“Pixie,” Lloyd’s worry puts you on edge. You raise your hand and wave him off without lifting your head. “You need some Advil?” 

You shoo him again with your fingers. You popped some with your last glass of wine. You probably should’ve opted for water. 

Your alarm is set. You will have to awake before the sky shifts that slightly lighter shade of grey and try again. You know better than to trust Lloyd, but you’re putting some faith in him to get you home. 

You feel the bed dip behind you and Lloyd’s mutters and grumbles creep into your ears. You move the pillow over your head and hug it against your ear. You tune him out as you urge your mind down to the depths. In your bouts, there is no relief, but sleep can at least dull the agony. 

Your brain turns to sludge as the steady pounding evens out to a tempo. You drift into the muddy no man’s land between waking and otherwise. You’re conscious enough to feel the pain, but you're detached enough to bear it. 

Time crumbles around like sand in a glass. Your mind swirls with churning recreations of the day behind you. Most of them fractured and nonsensical. Voices without words, faces without names. 

A shiver washes through you as a tickle flutters down the back of your thighs. The cool sensation flows over your skin. You shudder and cling to that tenuous state of dissociation. A jolt forces you out of the void. 

You roll over and throw your arm out. It bounces off of Lloyd’s shoulder as your eyes slit. You yipe as you find him tugging at your pants. You kick and amplify the siren whining in your head. 

“What are you doing?” You rasp as you flail at him. 

“Relax, pixie stick, I’m just trying to help you relax. You can’t sleep in this,” he peels your pants down your legs and you swat at him again. 

You look down and find your sweater gone, only your bra to conceal your chest. You quickly hide behind folded arms. “What the hell?” 

“Damn, Pix, you never said you had a dump truck he untangles the fabric from your ankles. 

You whimper and push yourself up on your elbows, you bareness secondary to your irritation. “Get way from me.” 

“Just let me rub you down,” he begs as he runs his hands up your calves. “Promise, I’ll be a good boy. I kept my dick strapped down, baby.” 

Your eyes flit down unthinkingly. He’s in only his briefs. The rest of him is exposed; his fur-trimmed chest, his thick but firm stomach, and his muscled legs. You look him in the face and he winks. “Made you look.” 

“Stop, please,” you flick your fingers at him. 

“You got me struggling,” he begs as his hands trail further up and he kneads your thighs. “I’m hurting like prom night and you been grinding on me in a tack ballgown all night--” 

“Ew--” 

“It’ll make you feel better--” 

You catch his fingers as he traces the edges of your underwear. As you curl up, the weight of your head thunks own at the base. Urgh. 

“No--” 

“I’m just going to rub you down like a good boy. That’s it,” pushes against your hands. “You can even keep these on.” He runs his thumbs along the front of your panties. “They look fucking delicious anyway.” 

“Lloyd.” 

“Shhh,” he hushes you and shoves your hands off of his. 

Before you can stop him, he straddles you. He puts his large hands around your skull and you whine. H works his fingers into your scalp as he continues to shush you and presses his thumbs to your temples. The warmth of his tough makes you sigh. You hate that it feels good. 

“Just like this, baby,” he purrs as he keeps you pinned under him. “Just relax.” 

Your eyes roll back as you shatter to pieces. In this state, you have no strength to fight him. Besides, why should you stop him when it feels so amazing? 

[djarinova]

In shades of grey in candlelight / I wanted to leave him, I needed a reason

Spencer Reid x gn!reader content - reader is in an unfulfilling long term relationship, thoughts of cheating, best friend!Reid, friends to lovers, slight angst from reader longing to be loved properly again, cheating is slightly romanticised, confessions, teeny amount of angst words - 3k (how did this even happen omg) reputation event masterlist

♡—How long should you hold on to something after it's proven time and time again to be the source of your pain? And why does missing your best friend hurt so much more than missing your boyfriend?

It had been almost 4 weeks since you'd last spoken to Spencer—a mix of his work, the weekend he spent visiting his mother and the looming sense of… something… that had been hanging over your head like a dark cloud had kept the two of you apart for longer than usual.

Spencer would have been able to identify the issue that had been plaguing you, he's always been good at that—even before he'd joined the BAU.

He had been able to figure out that you'd failed a maths test when you were 12 years old. He had been able to tell when your parents had had a fight when you were 15 years old. He had been able to correctly work out that you'd ordered yourself the wrong flavour of milkshake—over the phone, without seeing your face—when you were 18 years old. And as you got older, your problems getting more and more adult, he had been able to figure out through missed calls and unanswered texts that you'd had your heart broken again. And again. And again.

That's what he would have said was the cause of your behaviour over the past few weeks—you've changed your hair, thrown out a bunch of old clothes, rearranged and then rearranged again almost all the rooms in your flat and you've been out drinking with your friends twice already this week (not that this is a particularly bad thing, or even entirely unlike you, but you mentioned to Spencer once that going to a bar or pub for a drink was only really fun when you were with him, and it had lit a spark deep within him that he refused to acknowledge). But this time you know he'd have gotten it wrong. You haven't broken up with anyone, you're still very much coupled up and there's no sign of your boyfriend wanting to dump you at all.

That's the problem.

You roll your eyes, there's no point in feeling sorry for myself. I'm the only one that can fix it.

You scoff. The faint smell of your neighbours baking wafts over you, and you can hear him and his boyfriend giggling through your shared wall. A lump in your throat begins to form, and the familiar sting behind your eyes returns as you busy your hands with tidying away the washing up (that you had accidentally washed three times now.) The tears that fall feel like they're burning your skin as they run down your cheeks, as though the droplets are going to leave small scalding streaks from your eyes to your chin.

A new wave of bitterness envelopes you and a strangled yell escapes your lips before you have the chance to think. You hear your neighbour's pause, likely raising their eyebrows at each other as if to say what the hell is wrong with next door before quickly returning to being the lovey-dovey super cutesy couple that they are. And they are. Super cutesy. You've seen them around the building before, even one time accidentally ending up in the same café after a building wide fire alarm went off. They invited you to sit with them—your boyfriend was with his mates—as they didn't want you left on your own so late at night. It was nice, awkward, sure, but nice. Conversation was easy, they seemed to bounce off of eachother in ways that you and your boyfriend never have—at least not for many years now. Their laughter was contagious and yet as you said your goodbyes and slunk back to your lonely apartment you couldn't help the twinges of envy that plagued the back of your mind.

He doesn't look at me like that. He is never that enthusiastic about dating me. He would never gush about our first date like that. (And deep down you know he could say the same things about you.)

So, yeah. That wasn't very fun to sit with.

You somehow feel happy knowing that Spencer would incorrectly guess the reason for your ongoing sadness. For some reason the thought of being unknowable to him has you frenzied… A strangled noise escapes your throat—a laugh! Christ. It was a laugh, despite how bitter and angry it sounded.

Maybe frenzied isn't the right word… But god! You don't know! At least he would actually care. At least he would want to try and get to the bottom of your feelings, to try and understand why you've been jumpy and on edge and almost hyperactive in the way you've been non stop moving recently.

Tap tap tap.

The noise makes you jump out of your skin, heart thumping in your chest as your eyes dart to the clock. It blinks back at you.

20:37

You chastise yourself, it's probably next door coming to ask if you could keep your yells of frustration down while they're having a relaxing evening. Embarrassment floods over your face and you can feel the tears threaten to fall again at the thought of being confronted about your outburst. You can imagine the look of pity on their faces—although a hidden part of you hopes that they're coming to invite you over, to welcome you into their warm home, to smell their freshly baked bread and taste the chocolate chip cookies.

Your feet pad heavily against the wooden floor as you walk out of the kitchen towards the front door—tap tap tap. A further set of knocks has you almost tripping over your feet as you rush the final few paces. You swing the door open without a thought, not wanting the neighbours to have to knock again.

You spare no thought to the tear stains that have marked your face…

“I'm so sorry I didn't mean to be—Spencer? Wha–what are you doing here?” You splutter.

“I tried calling, but you didn't answer. Have you been crying?”

“I—well, yes I have but it's fine—I didn't expect to see you, you've been so busy lately.” You take a deep breath, for a brief second—and it was brief—you had been relieved to find that it was only Spencer behind the door, but it didn't take long for the embarrassment to claw its way back up your spine and sink its teeth into your flesh once more.

His eyes bore into you as if he's trying to look inside you. He scans your face, your movements, he watches your hands fidget nervously with the hem of your shirt—before you notice him noticing you and you flatten your palms against your sides in an awkward, unnatural manner.

“May I come in?” He asks, his voice is gentle and it's almost enough to make you fall to the floor in despair.

A hum is all you can manage in response. You quickly side step out of his way, locking the door behind him as he removes his jacket and scarf and hangs then neatly on the third hook from the left—the one that's always left bare, just for him.

You clear your throat. “What are you doing here, Spence?”

He pauses mid stride—he’s already halfway to the kitchen and if you had known he was coming over then there would a cup of coffee on the side waiting for him, in his favourite burgundy mug, the one with a chip on the lip—and tilts his head at you as if to say isn't it obvious.

“I'm here to see you.” He states, incredibly matter of factly, as if the mere question coming from your lips is completely ridiculous. Why else would he be here?

“I—” You start, but Spencer disappears around the corner before you are able to get any more words out. You huff, feeling slightly unnerved by his sudden arrival and subsequent behaviour since setting foot on your doorstep. There is nothing else in the world that can make you as happy as he can. Something which both terrifies you, and excites you a great deal.

You step foot into the kitchen and you are unsurprised to find Spencer already in the process of making himself a coffee. He pauses once more when he catches sight of you and he holds a second mug out towards you in question. You shake your head. You don't think you'd be able to stomach anything until you can get him to speak to you properly.

A thought suddenly occurs to you, and it may be the first time you ever fully allow yourself to truly think it. Because although it's not unusual for Spencer to visit you in the evening, sometimes even coming over as late as 1 or 2 in the morning—he gets back from cases at the most unpredictable times—do people think you're seeing each other? The two of you have been friends for years, it's not weird for a friend to come over at all hours of the day… right?

“Spence, are you alright?” You pause, eyeing his very full cup of caffeine. “Haven't you just got back from a case? I can make up the sofa bed if you want to get some sleep.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Why do I feel so weird about asking him to stay over? We're friends. It's what friends do.

“I have something I need to talk to you about.” He ignores your questions, but you can't bring yourself to be annoyed at him. Not when his knuckles are white from how hard he grips the cup and his eyes flit from your hands to your eyes to your mouth and back to your hands.

Wait—your mouth?!

“I have something I need to talk to you about.” He repeats. He closes the gap between the two of you with only a couple of steps. His steaming coffee is still clutched in his hands, but his fingertips seem restless, as if he knows where he wants them to be, but he just can't—or won't—move them there.

“Okay.” You whisper.

Your mouth feels dry—maybe turning down Spencer’s offer for a coffee was a mistake… He's barely an arms length away from you now, if you were to reach your hand out towards him it would brush up against the navy cardigan he has on. It looks so soft and you can't help but wonder how it would feel around your shoulders. Would it be baggy? Would it fit perfectly? And would Spencer want to come back from a case to find you curled up on the sofa while wearing it?

Your neighbour’s laughter ripples through the air like thunder. It's gone before you have time to register the noise fully, but it's enough to snap you out of your trance and you tear your eyes away from Spencer's torso. It was as though he was waiting for you to make eye contact with him again, because he immediately puts his cup down on the side—more clumsily than usual, you'd be surprised if there wasn't an extra chip on the lip now—and takes the smallest of steps towards you. You are almost toe to toe now.

“I–uh–meant to ask you earlier… about your boyfriend.” He hesitates. “Presumably he's not around…”

There's two ways you could take his question.

Part of you wants to lie, to say that no, he's not around, you dumped him months ago—when your friends first told you that you should—and that you weren't expecting any company tonight. It would be just you and Spencer, no interruptions. Besides, Spencer knows that your boyfriend doesn't live with you, it's been the topic of many a heated discussion, but… could you just pretend you misunderstood? Could you say that no, he's not around, he's probably out with his friends somewhere. Could you admit that he hasn't texted you back in almost 4 days? Could you say he's not around, in fact, he hasn't been around you for 12 days?

But Spencer doesn't give you any time to think through what to say. You gasp when his hand touches your arm and he laces his fingers through yours without so much as a word, as if it was the most natural thing for him to do. As if he had done it a thousand times. The certainty with which he touched you has your heart pounding. What is he thinking? All you can do is blink up at him. His eyes are swimming with questions, but the only one he voices is, “Is this okay?”

Your head moves before you can think and he breathes a deep sigh of relief. You haven't felt as calm as this in months, and yet somehow it feels like you're suffocating. His touch is warm and the dusting of pink on his cheeks has you feeling a rush of anxiety—but the good kind, the kind of anxiety you get when your crush looks at you, the kind that comes hand in hand with a first kiss… And yet you know you need to pull away. Before something more happens.

You force yourself to pull your hand out of Spencer's and the emptiness returns immediately. You stumble away, bumping into the counter as you do so, and you utter a small yelp when your hip hits the corner. Tears sting your eyes and before you know it Spencer has his arms around you. Somehow knowing what you need before you are even able to think it. You choke out a broken apology—for what, you don't even know—and all Spencer can think to do is squeeze you against his chest, whispering soft comforts into your ear.

You stay like that for a while—long enough that the pain at your hip is now only a dull ache. Your throat is dry from all the heavy breathing and you feel a slight throbbing pain in your head, but you do, somehow, feel a little better.

That is until your emotionally fried brain catches up with itself. And then you cringe, hard. Embarrassment floods your veins and you feel your cheeks heat up by an alarming degree—like someone, somehow, is holding the sun directly against your skin. You are acutely aware of how closely Spencer is watching you, but you can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, unsure of whether there's a look of hurt, confusion or pity on his face—unsure of whether it matters—and all you can do is stare through your blurry eyes at what you think is your feet, but what could just as easily be a pair of furry, blue alien slippers.

You scold yourself. You fell apart all because he... held your hand? God. What a mess he must think you are. And—oh! How he probably thinks you are the worst person in the world for even entertaining the possibility of his feelings for you when you aren't even single. If he even thinks that what you did was entertaining the possibility. Or maybe you completely misread the situation and he was only trying to comfort you as a friend... But what if he thinks you have no interest in him? What if he thinks he's ruined your friendship and your relationship? What if you're reading into things far too much and he doesn't like you like that and he thinks you're a bad person for even thinking about kissing him–not that he would know that, he can't read your mind–and you've certainly never thought about kissing him before and especially not right now–he doesn't know how much you long for him to sweep your off your feet—

"I like you Spencer."

You blink. Slowly you bring your head up and meet his gaze. He takes a shallow breath, as if he had been holding it for quite some time.

Christ.

You only meant to think the words, and yet somehow they slipped past your tongue out into the space between the two of you. An accidental confession of something you hadn't even consciously thought until 0.2 seconds ago.

Well I can't take it back now.

He holds your gaze. His vision blurs ever so slightly and he blinks back his unshed tears before they get the chance to overwhelm him. He clears his throat before speaking, but even then his voice is low, quiet, as if trying not to spook an animal.

"You... do?"

You nod, and he takes another obvious sigh of relief, deeper this time.

"I do. I like you a lot actually."

It's as though hearing you voice your feelings for him has broken down the very last wall between the two of you. Your mind flits briefly to thoughts about your boyfriend, before shutting them down so violently that you almost feel sick. You taste metal in your mouth and you realise with a start that you'd bitten down so hard on your lip that you'd drawn blood. You reach for the closest available source to wash the bitter taste away—Spencer's coffee. And he watches as you take a sip, your eyes are closed but somehow he can sense that they are closer to shedding tears than his are. He reaches an arm towards you and gently begins to rub soothing circles on your waist. The touch sends an electric pulse throughout your entire body and you almost drop the mug in shock. It's like all at once you realise just how stupid you were for allowing yourself to be so miserable for all this time. Why have you been putting up with a boyfriend who barely touches you when one touch from Spencer has your insides burning? Why have you been putting up with a boyfriend who doesn't care about your feelings unless they are positively affecting him, when the first thing Spencer asked you tonight was if you had been crying?

For right now all you care about is the way Spencer's eyes glisten when they look at you, how warm his hands are when they touch your face and how the quiet laughter from your neighbours no longer makes you feel as lonely as it did before.

You felt like such a fool. But it seemed like realising this fact was enough to set you free. It seemed like the acknowledgement was enough. You didn't give any thought now to the things you would have to do this coming week—the breaking up, the collection of your things from his place (although at this point there is only a toothbrush and a single pair of joggers that haven't moved from their place on the back of his sofa since you washed them and left them there). Hell, even the possibility of having Spencer there with you hadn't crossed your mind.

[takamor]

whether he intended to or not (because, for someone so direct and transparent, there seems to be parts of him he doesn’t dare try to understand), nanami has become an expert on how to turn you into putty underneath him. from the way he delicately whispers your name in your ear as if you’re his favorite prayer to how gently his fingers trace all of the bumps and curves on your body, he always leaves you a love-drunk mess, a little high on him. his lips leave open mouthed kisses on all of his favorite parts of you—your neck, your chest, your thighs, your lower back, anywhere he can find traces of stardust swimming under your skin. his voice is always husky—never animalistic, but alarmingly human, as if he’s so struck by the fact that you’ve chosen him he’s afraid an octave higher will break this fantasy to painful shards.

long, graceful fingers expertly work you over and over until you’re a babbling mess underneath him, and he can’t help but push you just a little more because there’s something so addictive about how pretty you are when you’re lost in pleasure. how your body twists and heaves under his touch, shuddering at every little brush of skin and every honeyed word falling from the sweetest mouth. how your hands reach out to bring him closer despite him already being inside of you. “such a pretty thing,” he whispers into your hair. “you feel so good, honey, taking my fingers so well. just a little longer, okay? just sit on my face a little longer. i promise you’ll get my cock soon, i just want to taste you more.” and it should be outright sinful how your thighs hug the sides of his head so well, how your pussy drips its arousal on his face and the taste explodes on his tongue when he drags his tongue across your slit. it should be a blessing from the highest of heavens to hear you cry out his name, to feel your body shake around him as you reach your high once again. his head is spinning and his cock is aching, but he just wants to make you feel so good you can’t possibly think about anything else except him.

and once nanami does finally sink his cock inside of you, he’s leaving the gentlest of kisses anywhere his lips can reach—your collarbone, your forehead, your eyelids, your shoulders, anywhere he can get drunk off of you. he can feel the way your walls stretch to accommodate him, how your cunt struggles to suck him and throbs with anticipation, and he loudly groans into the side of your neck. “o-oh fuck, darling, ‘s so tight. you feel so good.” of course, he doesn’t miss how you clamp down onto him and that glazed over look your eyes get whenever his praise reaches your ears. strong, steady hips rock against yours with a tenderness you never thought to associate with a man of nanami’s size, but you’ve quickly learned that your lover is full of surprises. like when he wraps your legs around his slim waist so he can be as close to you as possible. or when he laces his fingers with yours and pins your hand above your head so he has easy access to plant wet kisses all over your chest. or when every kiss is met with praises of, “you’re taking me so well, honey, feels so good. such a pretty pussy stretching so nicely for me. i could stay like this forever.”

and when nanami cums, he insists you do it together. his thrusts are getting sloppier, your cunt is getting tighter, and he knows he needs to just push you over the edge the tiniest bit more. gathering some of your arousal that had splashed onto his thigh, he rubs your puffy clit with a determined digit, his lips kissing and sucking on your shoulder and overwhelming all of your senses. “cum for me, sweetheart, let go on my cock, please. wanna make you feel so, so good.” and he’s so dizzy on all of your moans and pleas, so drunk on the way your hands clutch on to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you grounded, he can’t help but allow himself to cum with you, cock throbbing as he paints your walls white. “there you go, darling, you’re doing so well for me. so, so fucking well. so fucking good for me.”

[goaskangel]

waiting for nanami to come back home! reader x nanami

fifteen minutes had never felt longer. from the early morning and kisses of goodbyes to running errands all day, the last fifteen minutes of what nanami had estimated to be back seemed to linger slowly.

no calls but a few texts reread over and over again kept you stable while pacing mindlessly around in the kitchen. the messages of i miss you, is everything okay? how are you feeling, baby? i’m doing just fine, pretty girl. i got you some things that reminded me of you. and all the praise to selfies you sent of you pampering yourself. the sweet words sent you craving more, and they definitely sent the ache between your thighs, and chest, throbbing. 

but instead of acting upon your arousal, you tried distracting yourself with all the new clothes and makeup you bought. even putting an old romcom on for background noise. 

you set aside a pile for trash and material on the living room floor, right in front of the TV. digging into the plastic and cardboard boxes with your nails and finally piling all the containers into a trash bag. still no sign of him. you checked your phone with two minutes left—like the door was going to open as soon as it was 11:30. 

it was late but the adrenaline of greeting nanami at the door and helping him relax and talk kept you going. not to mention the desire for his hands on your body. 

you sigh and place your phone down, focusing on how the actress and her love interest hold each other in the bathtub. you watch them and yawn before looking down between your legs, you send a hand down to your heat and slowly stimulate your clit under your panties. the friction makes you mewl quietly. you close your eyes and let your jaw slack open, leaning against the couch.

you think about kento watching you touch yourself. how he would be sitting just between your knees, admiring his girl’s cunt. how he would study what actions make you twitch and rock the most. how he would keep talking about how your cute little fingers lightly trace your soppy cunt and how badly he wants to feel you on his cock. the lock on the door rattles and you quickly turn around. you stay on your knees and clench onto the couch’s cushion, “kento?” you get up and try to catch a peek of your man.

“kenny, baby, you’re back?” you finally walk around the couch and see him putting down multiple bags so he could continue with his routine. he didn't seem to have heard you but took instant notice when he looked back up. his sharp features turn soft and he smiles like a little kid. 

“there’s my girl.” he leans in for a hug which you gladly accept. “missed you, honey. i thought about you all day. god, you smell so good.” he lightly says that last part. nanami towers over you, keeping a hand on your back and one on your ass. your skin tingles and burns with every touch he leaves.

“mhhmm.” you pull out a little to look at him before peppering the left side of his face with kisses.

“i thought you went to bed already. it’s late.”

“i was waiting for you, ken.” you leave one last kiss, afraid you might start biting and chewing at his cute face. “here, let me help you.” you step away from his embrace and tug at his tie, loosening it for him before taking it off. you ruffle his coat off and peel it away from his blue button up, undoing some of the tight buttons at his neck. 

admiring his strong physic as you get down on your knees. you sit and untie his shoes, shaking them off and placing them on the shoe rack. you sit up, still on your knees, and look up to him. he smiles and slowly pets you, stroking your face with his fingers. your soft hums sound like purrs and your heavy eyes close. you take this time to your advantage and fall forward, your left cheek pushing up just below his belt.

“hmm…” he groans and tugs at your hair, “get up, sweetie.” you look up and carefully take in his hands to get onto your feet. 

“you’re so warm, baby. why’s that?” 

“been thinking about you.“ you shudder when his strong hands slide up your arms and down your body to your waist. your hands hold his face and you kiss him, hard. the man hums quietly into your mouth as the open mouth kiss gets sloppier. teeth knock and fight as your tongues dance.

eventually pulling away from the ensemble, you try catching your breath while remaining imperfect eye contact. nanami keeps a composed attitude with his chest growing and deflating quickly. he focuses on your eyes and how needy you are, mostly on how you keep eye contact rather than shying away.

“poor baby.” he cups your face and circles your lips with his thumb. slowly pushing the top of his finger between your teeth. you whine and open your mouth, adjusting to his every movement. his own mouth drops a little as he keeps moving his thumb farther down. your hot tongue and roof of your mouth suck on his finger as he carefully thrusts it in and out. 

your mouth vibrates around him as you moan. you push his thumb to the side of your teeth, 

“ken, need it.” you slur out before he shushes you, pressing it back down on your tongue, clearing any speech.

warm, hot saliva spills from under your tongue down your chin, you garble out a please, and he takes his finger out. he palms at the spit down your neck, wiping it off. 

“let me take care of you, angel.” 

[manhattanstrawberry]

𝙎𝙊𝙐𝙋 ━━𝙎. 𝙂𝙚𝙩𝙤

Synopsis: Suguru wakes up on a late Saturday evening and the soup on the stove can’t compare to the warmth he feels when you’re near

Tags: fluff!! intimacy, established relationship, pet names (baby, sweetheart)

Word count: 1k

Authors note: I love you Suguru Geto. Just a short Drabble I did in like 10 minutes because I really wanted to write for him. I hope you enjoy!!

Art credits: 521jie

He thinks he must’ve been a caring, loved king in his past life or possibly he fed every little duck in the city’s pond, small pieces of bread so that they barely went hungry ever again or perhaps a cat that brought nothing but happiness to a kind old woman. He had to have been one of the best people on earth in his past life because it was the only solid reason he could come up with to be blessed with the sight he can't tear his eyes away from right now. 

It’s simple, the sounds of crashing waves of a beach are nowhere to be heard, if you look to your right outside the large windows there's no Eiffel tower and if you were to look down the Trevi fountain is certainly not down below. 

It’s just you, in his shirt, wandering around the kitchen doing whatever it is that you're doing. Your upper thigh graces him every now and then when your body quickly turns, to find something in the kitchen. He’s got to get dressed soon and get his day started, preferably not at 5 pm on a Saturday evening but you had insisted he slept in this weekend— “catch up on his beauty sleep” he remembered you saying two nights before. You two ended up staying in bed for the day but his body must've been chasing rest as he slept through most of the day, the sun already setting. 

You're caught up in making "lunch", hoping to give him a taste of warmth, as you smell the flavors seeping into the air from the darling pumpkin dutch oven pot he bought for you a year ago. It was either the pumpkin or the basic red one and he just had to indulge in your love for decorated items around the apartment. 

He too can smell the flavors of lunch but all of his senses are taken by you. All he can see is you, he can still smell the lotion you apply right after your shower every night from the bed sheets he just unraveled from, he can hear the tap of your feet as you move across the kitchen and the small hums that leave you as you finally find the ingredients you're looking for, he can almost feel the soft skin of your exposed legs and arms that he kisses every night and right now he's craving the sweet taste of your lips he could never forget and always seek for.

He can feel the cool air on his skin, his shirt missing from his chest, decorating yours, perhaps you couldn't feel the chill due to the heat coming from the stove. The harsh sound of the wind along with the snow outside is drowned out by the closed windows, and he can hear the quiet jazz from the speakers hooked up to the television if he listens just hard enough. You concentrate on the pot on the stove, stirring with a wooden spoon and then bringing it up to your lips to have a taste. He watches from the archway, a little jealous of the spoon but he stays still just to indulge in the sight a little longer. 

You’re beautiful, bewitching and he almost feels homesick just standing a few feet away from you.  

He can almost feel himself getting warm just from the sight of you and the way you rub your eyes as the steam rises to your face. 

“Suguru, how long have you been standing there?” you placed the cover over the pot as a small smile settles on your face “Did you rest well?” 

He moves from the wall in slow strides to meet you as you walk over to him, he nods before taking you in his arms. He holds your waist bringing you close as his head falls to your shoulder. You settle your head on to his shoulder as he drapes himself on top of you holding you tighter. Your fingers run against his scalp and down the length of his hair, it’s soft and perfect, a little too much like him. He hums at the feeling of your hands in his hair and straightens up to look at you, a tired smile on his face as he places a kiss on your nose and then to your forehead. You giggle and the sound goes into his ears and straight to his heart.

He can feel the weight of his love for you coursing through his body and he wants nothing more than to take you back to bed and hold you even closer that the concept of space doesn't exist anymore. His hand rests on the back of your head, “What are you cooking sweetheart?” the other hand holding your waist close to him. 

“Soup.” 

He hums, feeling warmer from your arms around his waist and the idea of soup in his stomach. 

“Are you cold,” his hand glides to your cheek, his thumb caressing your warm skin. You lean into his touch moving even closer to him, the fabric of your—his shirt pressed against his bare torso. 

“Not really,” You sigh. “I felt warm over by the stove and then I came over to you, I still feel warm. You must've been cold though, I’m sorry I didnt turn on the heater.” You frowned at him. 

“It’s alright, I feel warm with you right here.” His arm tightened around your waist. 

“Put on a sweater or atleast a shirt, baby.” You tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. You let your hand travel down his neck and to his shoulder rubbing it up and down slowly to provide some heat to his exposed skin. 

“Hm, if I remember correctly, someone took it.” He looked to the side feigning sadness. You lightly slapped his shoulder before going back to your attempt of warming him up. He looked back at your face, his eyes, arms and heart filled with you as he warmly smiled. 

He’s just so endearing and sweet and he’s yours. 

“Get a sweater, okay? The soup should be finished right now.” You begin to pull away, but he takes a step to hold on to you a little longer. Your hand rests on his bicep as his face moves a little closer to yours. 

“I’ll put something on.” He kisses your cheek before moving closer to your lips, “I just can’t stand the idea of having soup before I taste you.” 

Divider creds: @saradika

© manhattanstrawberry please do not plagiarize or repost my work

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 25 (Human!Alastor x Married!Reader)

CW: Angst, blood, manipulation, Alastor being a murder baby AN: I hope my fellow Americans survived their Thanksgiving with minimal family fighting and all those who didn't celebrate around the world had a great Thursday. Prev Masterlist AO3 KoFi

Alastor parked his car at the edge of the park, under the shade of a large tree. It was late and the odds of being seen were minimal. Even so, it was better safe than sorry. The heavy canopy blocked much of the light from the streetlights, few though there were. 

He waited for a few moments, head resting against the back of the seat, eyes looking up and out the windshield. In the distance, the roof of your house peeked up from the treeline, whispering dark promises. For a few moments longer, he sat in the holy silence where late night and early morning danced together. 

The slam of the car door was loud, shattering the fragile silence of the night as he stepped away from the still car. He walked slowly to the small pond as he ran a hand through his hair. Curls spiraled out of the locks, tangled around his fingers as he pulled hairs free with the nervous action. Sweat and time were winning the battle against the effort he had put into pulling the strands straight that morning. 

It was alright. You seemed to like the curls. 

Kneeling at the edge of the pond, he splashed water on his face, scrubbing at the dried blood on his hands and neck blindly. He knew he would miss spots. There wasn’t much he could do about his shirt, but that was alright, too. It would all be alright, soon. 

He just wanted to see you. That was the thought that ran through his mind as he walked casually through the park. That’s all he needed, he told himself as he pushed branches and bushes out of his way. From a distance was fine, he just needed to see that you were alright. 

He could put you down, leave you alone as long as he knew you were alright. He just needed to know you were alright. 

Bark bit into his hands as he lifted his weight from the ground. Climbing the apple tree in the dark while drunk wasn’t as easy as he expected. At times, he nearly fell to the ground. Perhaps he deserved to fall, land on a root wrong, and break his back. 

He would be caught then. You would know what he was, what he really was. The world would know. Perhaps that would only be right, a fitting punishment for the pain you had suffered because of him. 

Eventually, he made it up to that thick horizontal branch he thought of as his. Each breath came out in a huff, labored from the exertion on top of the alcohol. Resting his head against the tree trunk, Alastor ignored the way his hair snagged and was pulled by the rough surface as he took long, slow breaths. 

The house was dark, quiet. Its occupants were asleep, as he should be. He had work tomorrow. Today? Yes, today at this point. There was time still. He could make it home and take a nap. He’d be rough, but he could make it through the night. 

Alastor closed his eyes as he listened to the sounds of the night, resting his eyes as he lounged perched above the rabbit hole stashed with letters he knew you were reading but not responding to. 

His eyes closed with a flutter as he thought of you. Such a sweet soul you were, pulling away from him to protect him. Didn’t you know? It was his job to protect you. That’s what a man does for the woman he loves. 

Love. That was the thought that floated through his rye soaked mind as a light sleep overtook him. 

You poured a mug of coffee for Laurence, setting it on the table where he read the newspaper. It was a rare morning when he didn’t leave early. He was grumpy and the quality of the coffee didn’t help his mood, but you did your best to focus on the way the sun peeked between the clouds and the chirping of the birds. 

“How can you fuck up something as easy as coffee,” he grumbled, and you wished he would have just went to the cafe on his way to the office. 

For a moment, Alastor fluttered across your mind and you wondered if he would think you fucked up the coffee. It was a thought you shot down with a pang of pain. It didn’t matter what Alastor would have thought, Alastor was not your husband.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, turning from the sink and starting to walk back to the table. “I’ll make you another one.” 

You made it halfway across the small kitchen before Laurence picked up the mug and, after a moment of thought, launched the steaming contents at you. Most of the coffee splashed across your front, the apron and dress under helping protect you from the scalding liquid, but pain still cut through nerves where it splashed up onto your neck.

“Laurence!?” you cried out, darting backward and crashing into the sink. 

Your husband spit venomous words at you, lost to the pounding in your ears. He disregarded all the renewed effort you had put into being a good wife for him. 

It wasn’t fair. Tears fell from your eyes as you watched him stand, waiting to see if he would leave or come after you with something far worse than his verbal assault. 

You didn’t know tired eyes watched from the distance. His first real sight of you while he blinked sleep from his mind was that of coffee splashing onto you. While Laurence walked out of the room and you crumpled to the ground in a puddle of coffee, you didn’t know how close Alastor came to climbing from the tree and ending a life in broad daylight.

Instead, as you stood, he watched you grab towels to mop up the liquid. As the car in front of your house roared to life, he slipped down from the tree. His body was stiff, and he was rather thirsty, but that was alright. He was glad to have sobered up, at least mostly sobered up.

He had gotten to see you. That was supposed to be enough. He wanted it to be enough. He needed it to be enough. He had gotten to see you. 

Alastor watched as you disappeared out of the kitchen while he stalked through the back garden. He saw the light in your bedroom illuminate the room still cast in morning shadows. Would you look out the window, Alastor wondered as Laurence’s car drove away? Would you see him? 

You didn’t. He was fairly sure of that as he stepped onto the back porch. The knob failed to turn under his hand, though he hadn’t even been aware of reaching for it. Locked, that was alright.

He was wrong, he had thought he needed to see you but that was alright. He could be wrong, sometimes. He was a humble man. What he actually needed was to hear your voice. 

Alastor smiled as he pulled the pins from his sock. The door was old and the lock simple. He made quick work of opening the door, hardly having to give the task much thought at all. 

It was a good thing you locked the door. There was a serial killer on the run.

Closing the door behind him, he locked it before making his way through the kitchen and into the living room. Laurence had left the front door unlocked, Alastor was dismayed to find. With a flick of his fingers, he locked that door as well.

Laurence was going to get you hurt if he didn’t take better care of you. It was bad enough that he was hurting you himself but to be careless with your safety on top of it? Disgusting. Sloppy. 

The stairs creaked as you walked down them. Alastor moved to the wall, hoping to be out of sight as you turned into the kitchen. You wore a burgundy house dress, and he liked how it looked on you. Much better than the bright sunny yellow you had been wearing before the coffee incident. 

His eyes cut down to the dark bruise above your elbow, on display thanks to the short sleeves of the dress. Surely you’d throw a shawl over your arms if someone knocked on the door to hide it. In the safety of your home, though, you had no need. 

As you stepped into the kitchen, he could see the angry red splotches on your neck, left by the hot coffee. Oh, how he longed to soothe the inflamed skin with soft kisses. 

He followed you, leaning in the doorway as he watched you grab the towels from the ground, sniffling. Were you crying because of the pig’s actions? Didn’t you know it wouldn’t make a difference, shedding tears for him? 

“He’s not worth crying over.” Alastor said, transatlantic accent coloring his words, brightening them with the day. 

You screamed, whipping around with wide eyes to face him. 

“Alastor!” You clutched your hands to your chest, “Mr. Moreau?!” 

Your eyes ran over him, taking in the feral sight. His hair, something wild between curly and straight, was a mess atop his head. Red stained his shirt, smeared his skin and dotted his face. 

“Never that name for you,” he said as he closed the small distance between you.

“What happened to you?” Before you thought it through, you rushed up to him, acting on instinct and impulse, actions doing nothing to reinforce the distance you had insisted on in your last letter. 

Fingers ran over his face, rough stubble scratching the pads before your fingers ghosted down his neck. Your eyes run over bloody sleeves and splotches on his shirt. 

“I went hunting.” He answered honestly, “I’m alright.” 

“Hunting?” you stepped back, coming back to yourself. “It’s early morning yet? And why are you in my house?” 

“I came in the door.” His head cocked to the side. “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Went to Mimzy’s and had some drinks. Then went hunting.” 

“At night?!” You stepped back, and he took a step forward as he laughed, that easy free sound you had dreamed about too often since you wrote your last letter. “While drunk?” 

“Probably not my best judgement call,” Alastor admitted. “But it turned out alright.” 

“Did it, now?” You scolded, heart beating in your chest as Alastor continued to advance on you. “You’re covered in blood.” 

“I wanted to see you,” Alastor said.

“You need to leave.” Your back hit the wall. “My husband will be back for lunch.” 

“I needed to see you.” Alastor’s accent wavered, in and out as he looked at you with those warm brown eyes, pleading with you. “Needed to know what I did wrong.” 

“You didn’t- Alastor.” You closed your eyes and let out a breath. “Mr. Moreau,” He groaned at the sound of his surname on your lips. He never wanted to hear you say it until it was yours, as it should be. You continued talking just the same. “Our relationship was improper. I am a married woman. If we continued, it would have ruined us both.” 

“Not Mr. Moreau.” Alastor pressed, his hands coming to rest on the wall on either side of your shoulders. “Please, don’t. Don’t call me that. Don’t you love me?” 

“I do,” you said before you thought twice, pressing your hand against your lips as if you could somehow stuff the words back in. “Don’t you see? If we’re caught, everything you worked for is gone. I- It would be selfish for me to do that to you.”

“Then we don’t get caught. We hide,” Alastor said, elbows buckling as he fell closer to the wall, cutting the distance between you in half. “Ma cherie, I don’t need you to protect me. We are in love, are we not? The risk is worth anything, everything, for but even a moment in your presence.” 

“Alastor, I-” you noticed Laurence’s briefcase sitting by the table, heart thundering somehow louder in your ears. “Laurence is going to be back anytime now. He forgot his bag. You need to go.” 

Reaching up, you braced your hands on Alastor’s chest and attempted to shove him away. He moved less than an inch. When you couldn’t push him away, you stopped trying to, though you knew it was vital that you kept trying. Your hands lingered on his chest, feeling his heart pounding rapidly against his ribs. The rye he had been drinking still tinged his breath as it washed over you. 

“Don’t you love me?” Alastor’s voice was broken, naked.

“That’s why we can’t keep doing this.” Tears spilled down your cheeks. “I love you too much.” 

Outside the house, a car’s engine sounded in the distance. 

“It’s why we must.” Alastor challenged, noting the sound as your body tensed. “I will keep us safe.” 

“You can’t,” you pleaded, heart shattering in your chest. 

“I have so far.” Alastor pressed as the car drew closer. “If not for him. If not for your marriage vows, would you have picked me?” 

“I can’t go back in time.” 

“I’m not asking you to,” Alastor whispered. “If tomorrow you woke up and Laurence was nothing but a memory? Would you pick me? Want me?” 

The car pulled in front of your house, engine idling. “Alastor, he’s back. You need to go.”

“Not until you answer me,” Alastor whispered. “Would you pick me? Would you want me then? If the Shadow Butcher took Laurence tonight?” 

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Alastor. Damnit, you need to go-” The car door opened and then slammed shut. 

“Then kiss me,” Alastor demanded, face hovering just over yours. No part of him touched you, yet you felt suffocated, wrapped up in him. 

“He’s coming.” You could hear Laurence’s footfalls outside on the walkway. It shouldn’t have been possible, but you swore you could. 

“I’m not leaving until you kiss me.” Alastor whispered, blood splattered face so close to yours. “You want me. You pick me. Then kiss me. Prove it. Show me. Please?” Alastor’s words came in a whispered rush, each statement coming faster and faster, naked words tripping and tumbling over one another. 

The doorknob rattled on the front door. Your eyes were wild as they darted away, trying to turn enough to see through walls. It felt like your executioner was getting ready to catch you. 

“Fuckin hell.” You swore you could hear Laurence outside as he tried the knob again. 

“Kiss me.” Alastor pleaded again. “Kiss me and I’ll go. Pick me. Don’t leave me. Please?” 

The keys rattled in Laurence’s hand, scraping against the lock as he tried the wrong key. You launched yourself forward, closing the small distance harshly. Lips against lips as an arm slid up his chest, wrapping around his neck. 

The coppery taste of blood and the stale taste of old rye flooded your senses as his lips parted in a gasp. His hands found your waist as he held you to him, gripping as they wrapped around you. He lifted you off your feet and walked backward as the lock clicked.

His tongue lapped at your lips before working into your mouth. He moaned into the kiss as his eyes fluttered, wanting to close and be in the moment, but needing to be aware of his surroundings. Large steps backward and to the side took them both almost to the back door as the hinges squeaked at the front of the house. 

“Don’t ignore me again?” Alastor whispered as he set you down, reaching behind him to unlock the back door. “Please?”

“Sugar,” Laurence called from the front door. “Where’s my bag?” 

“Alright,” you sighed, fear flooding you as Alastor opened the door. Laurence was in the living room now, coming closer still to the kitchen and back door. 

Alastor leaned down and placed one last kiss against your lips before stepping out the back door, pulling it shut behind him. As the door latched and you turned, Laurence stepped into the kitchen, calling your name. 

“I’m here,” you answered, putting your back to the door quickly. You didn’t dare look outside as you stepped into the kitchen for fear that you’d see Alastor making his great escape. 

“Where were you?” Laurence asked, as he picked up the forgotten bag. “Why didn’t you answer?” 

“I was just checking the weather,” you lied, “I hope to get sheets washed and hung to dry early.” 

Laurence looked at you for moments that stretched on as you tried to will yourself to relax. “Why are you flushed?” 

“The coffee was hot,” you said. “My skin’s still heated from the spill.” 

Outside the house, back resting against the wall, Alastor sat. His head was just under the window. Through the glass, he could hear everything. Carefully, he twisted and peeked up, watching as Laurence turned his back on the window. That was his chance, and he dared not waste it. 

Long legs swiftly carried him in a direct line from the house to the apple tree. He ran, glancing over his shoulder frequently, fearing he would lock eyes with Laurence. The back of the blond head and then an empty kitchen was all he saw as he rounded behind the tree. 

He waited there, chest heaving in gasping breaths. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he waited to move until he heard the car roar to life again. Sliding down the tree, he turned and dug for the notebook and pen.

He needed to get home, run a bath and sleep, but first, he wanted to add one more note to the stack. He hoped you’d read it, that you were not just telling him what he needed to hear to save yourself. 

Thinking back to the way you kissed him, he didn’t think that was the case. You kissed him as if you needed this as much as he did. Everything would get back on track, Alastor was sure of it as he walked through the narrow forest, humming. 

Yes, things were going to go back to how they had been. He would keep spending time with you and growing this little flame between you. When Alastor got the chance, he would take Laurence back to his home and they would have a nice long talk before Alastor ended his filthy life. 

Oh, how the thought filled him with almost as much joy as your kiss had. 

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Alastor, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

Next?

[whimsicalpolitical]

cuddly mornings

having to get up at 5am but ross keeping you a little longer- fluff

The alarm’s shrill buzz shattered the quiet of the early morning. You groaned into the pillow, barely lifting your arm to fumble for the snooze button, silencing it with a slap. The room fell back into stillness, the soft glow of a streetlamp outside casting a faint blue hue across the walls.

You felt the warmth of Ross before you registered his touch. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His bare skin pressed into yours, and the heat of him was magnetic, cocooning you in comfort.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his voice deep and sleep-rough against the shell of your ear. “Just… don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you mumbled, your voice muffled by the pillow.

“Don’t leave,” he said, his lips brushing the side of your neck, the words barely audible. “Stay here. With me.”

You sighed, twisting slightly to face him. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his hair a mess of dark waves across his forehead. He looked so utterly soft like this, his face relaxed, his beard shadowing his jaw.

“I can’t,” you murmured, though even as you said it, you were tucking yourself closer to him, your head burying against his shoulder.

“You can,” he said, his arms wrapping tighter around you as he shifted to cradle you against him. “It’s still night. Look.”

“It’s not,” you protested, though you didn’t move.

“It is,” he insisted, glancing toward the faint light filtering through the curtains. “It’s dark as anything. Nobody needs you at this hour. Except me.”

“Ross…”

“No, no,” he interrupted, his tone soft but firm. “Darling, I need you here. Can’t do without you, can I?”

His lips found your forehead, pressing a lingering kiss there, and you let out a quiet hum of contentment despite yourself.

“It’s cold out there,” he continued, his voice a low murmur. “Miserable. Wind’s probably howling. Might even be raining.”

“It’s not raining,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching into a smile.

“Could be,” he argued, trailing kisses down to your temple. “And here you are, warm and lovely and mine. You can’t leave me like this.”

“Ross, I have to go to work,” you said, though the words were growing weaker with every passing second.

He let out a soft, exaggerated groan, his head falling back into the pillows. “Work. Always work. What about me, then?”

“You’ll survive,” you teased, but the way his arms tightened around you made it clear he had no intention of letting you go anytime soon. “Besides, don’t you have a meeting with the boys in two hours”

“I suppose so, still, that’d be another hour of having you right here,” he said, his lips brushing the crown of your head.

“Dramatic much?” you said, though your voice was laced with laughter.

“I’m not joking,” he said, leaning back slightly to meet your eyes. “I’ll miss you. More than I can stand.”

Your heart twisted, the warmth of his words spreading through you. He was impossible, truly, but God, he was sweet.

“Ross,” you try again.

“Just stay a bit longer,” he said, his hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You sighed, your resolve crumbling completely as you sank back into him. “Fine. Five minutes.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, pulling you even closer, his lips finding yours in a slow, lazy kiss. His hand slid into your hair, his fingers tangling there as he deepened the kiss, drawing it out until you felt like you might melt into him entirely.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath was warm against your lips. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” you whispered, your heart swelling. “I love you too.”

You sighed, your forehead pressed against Ross’s, the faint blue glow of the room wrapping the two of you in its muted cocoon. His hand drifted down to your thigh, fingers brushing lazily against your skin as he lifted your leg and draped it over his. His touch was gentle, absentminded, as if he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for you

You tangled your fingers into his hair, brushing the messy waves away from his face, and he sighed softly, leaning into your touch like a contented cat.

“Your hands are perfect, you know that?” he murmured, his voice still husky with sleep.

You laughed quietly, your thumb tracing along his temple. “Perfect? Bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?”

“Not even close,” he replied, his eyes fluttering open to look at you. They were dark and warm, still slightly hazy from sleep, and his gaze was so intent it made your chest ache. “The things they do to me…” He trailed off, his lips curving into a lazy smile.

“Ross,” you said, rolling your eyes, though the way he was looking at you made it impossible not to smile back.

“I’m serious,” he said, his hand sliding from your thigh to rest on your hip, his fingers tracing small, idle patterns. “Look at them. Lovely, soft hands.”

He caught one of your hands in his, lifting it to press a kiss to your knuckles.

“And the way they feel when you’re touching me…” He trailed off again, his voice dropping, teasing, but his grin betrayed the playfulness in his words.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.

“And you’re gorgeous,” he countered easily, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. His beard scratched against your skin, and you let out a soft laugh.

“That tickles,” you said, squirming slightly.

“Good,” he said as he trailed more kisses along your jaw, the roughness of his stubble sending shivers down your spine. “Means you’re still paying attention to me.”

“As if I could ignore you,” you said, your hand sliding to the back of his neck to pull him closer.

He hummed in contentment.

You sighed, resting your head on his shoulder, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you—it was all so comforting, so impossibly Ross.

“You smell nice,” you mumbled, your lips brushing his skin.

“Do I? Bit surprising, that. Didn’t think I’d be much to sniff after last night.”

“You always smell nice,” you said, your voice soft and matter-of-fact.

“Even after gigs?” he teased, arching a brow.

You pretended to consider it. “Maybe not then.”

“Oi,” he said, pinching your side lightly, making you squirm. “Rude.”

“You asked,” you said, laughing as you squirmed against him.

“I didn’t expect you to tell the truth,” he said, his tone mock-indignant, though the smile on his face gave him away.

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, your lips lingering against his skin. “Fine. You always smell nice, even after gigs.”

“Now you’re just trying to make it up to me,” he said, but his hand slid back to your thigh, pulling you closer again.

“Maybe.”

He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.

“You’re beautiful like this, you know,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “Half asleep and all.”

“Stop,” you said, your cheeks heating under his gaze.

“I mean it,” he said, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “You’re always beautiful, love, but like this… You’re real. Like I’m the only one who gets to see you like this.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you leaned in and kissed him instead. His lips were warm and soft, and his hand slid into your hair, holding you there as if he never wanted to let go.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed.

“Can’t believe you’re my girl.”

You melt, you jut out your bottom lip and keep in brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.

“Stop,” you say, “you’re gonna make me cry.”

Ross froze for a moment, then shifted so he could see your face, his expression softening. “Oh, love, don’t do that,” he said, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “come here.”

He kissed you then, his lips warm and gentle, brushing over yours with a care that made your heart ache.

You stayed like this, even though it was just minutes it felt like hours, hours of the comfortable quiet between the two of you.

The quiet wrapped around you both like a warm blanket, broken only by the soft rustle of the duvet as you adjusted slightly, your leg still draped over Ross. His hand stayed there, firm and steady on your thigh, anchoring you to him as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You sighed, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Ross shifted a little, tilting his head to press a slow kiss to your templez

“You alright there, love?” he murmured.

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed against his skin, your lips grazing his neck.

“Comfortable, are we?” he teased, his hand sliding up your back in soothing strokes.

“Very,” you mumbled.

“Good,” he said, his tone warm and amused. “Can’t have you starting your day feeling anything less than brilliant, can we?”

You smiled, your hand drifting up to play with his hair, your fingers threading through the messy curls. He closed his eyes at the touch, a quiet sound of contentment rumbling in his chest.

“You’re like a cat,” you joke.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” you said, laughing softly.

He kissed you then, turning his head just enough to capture your lips in a kiss that was soft and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. His hand moved back down to your thigh, squeezing lightly as his lips lingered on yours.

Eventually, though, practicality crept back in.

“I really do need to get up,” you said, your voice quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself.

“Do you?” he asked, not teasing but something more softer in his voice.

“Yeah,” you said, though you made no move to untangle yourself just yet.

He nodded, his grip on your thigh loosening slightly. “Alright,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “I suppose I’ll let you go. But only because you’re important and all.”

“Thanks for the permission,” you laughed.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his lips twitching into a smirk.

You started to pull away, but he caught you, his hand sliding back to your waist.

“One more kiss, though,”

You turned around again. Your hand settled on his beard while your lips softly crashed onto his.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes fluttered open, and he let out a small sigh.

“Right, then,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” you said, sitting up and stretching.

Ross’ hand found your lower back, just rubbing smooth circles over your shirt.

“Perfect,” he smiled, “I’ll sort everything out for breakfast and you do your thing, sounds good?”

Ross already rolled out of bed. He looked like a proper mess but you could not mind any less.

“Thank you,” you offered him a warm grin.

You laughed, watching as he padded toward the kitchen, his hair a messy halo of curls. He turned back to look at you, his smile soft and warm. “Anything for you, love.”

[hearts444karma]

I see that you write nsfw, so if your comfortable with such, can I request doppio dropscythe eating reader out? Maybe they haven’t seen each other for a while and hes feeling needy and wants them bad

#DDDESIRE... ft. doppio dropscythe

( warnings ) : gn!reader. explicit content + fingering + eating out. 18+ minors dni

It had been weeks since you’d last seen him. The days felt like months, every second stretching unbearably as you replayed the last time you were together. His touch, his voice, his gaze— every detail had burned itself into your memory. Tonight, the ache of missing him was too much to bear.

You sought solace in your own hands, letting your thoughts drift to him. The way he whispered your name, the fire in his eyes when he looked at you, the way his hands knew every inch of your body— it all came rushing back, fueling the heat pooling in your core. Your breath quickened as you lost myself in the fantasy, body responding to the phantom touch of the man you craved more than anything.

The quiet creak of the door jolted you back to reality. Your heart stuttered, a mix of embarrassment and hope crashing over. And then you saw him.

He stood there, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes dark and intense as they swept over you. The air crackled with unspoken desire as his lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.

“Pretend I’m not here,” he said, his voice rich with heat, sending a shiver down your spine.

The heat that warmed your cheeks didn’t deter him; if anything, it spurred him on. His gaze burned, not with judgment but with raw hunger. The thought of him watching, his presence amplifying every sensation, made your pulse race.

He crossed the room in a few strides, his confidence making your heart flutter. Dropping to his knees before you, he cupped your face with such tenderness that it made your chest ache. “I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he confessed, his voice rough with emotion. “But seeing you like this? God, I need you.”

With a gentle yet commanding touch, he guided your hands away, replacing them with his own. His mouth descended on you, and the first stroke of his tongue made you gasp, body arching toward him instinctively. Every movement of his lips and tongue was a reminder of how much you both missed this— missed each other.

“You taste like heaven,” he growled against your core, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through you. His words alone were almost enough to undo you.

Your hands found his hair, tangling in the familiar magenta strands, pulling him closer as if you could make him a part of you. His touch was relentless, worshipful, as though he were making up for all the time you’ve been apart.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, the vibration of his voice sending shockwaves through your body. And with that, the dam broke 🤭. Pleasure surged through you, leaving you gasping and crying out his name, the sound raw and filled with the depth of longing.

“Doppio~!”

As the tremors subsided, he held you through the aftershocks, clamping your thighs, his touch grounding you even as the world tilted. His kisses trailed up your body, each one deliberate, each one carrying the weight of his love. When his lips finally met yours, he whispered against them, “I love you.”

Those three words, spoken in the quiet aftermath, filled the room with a tenderness that made your heart ache. He gathered you in his arms, cradling you as if u were the most precious thing in the world. His gaze held a silent vow, a promise that no distance, no time, would ever diminish what you shared.

[estellan0vella]

Hopelessly In Love: Y.J Yang Jeongin x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 15.8K

CW: Jeongin being a flirt, Minsung content, Mentions of sexuality denial, Jeongin being hopeless, Felix, Jisung, Minho and Hyunjin wingmanning from behind the scenes

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The walk to the Alpha Phi house feels longer than it should, partly because you’ve been replaying every possible interaction in your head since Seungmin texted you the address. Your white tote bag swings at your side, the word “ugh” printed in bold brown lettering staring back at you as a perfect encapsulation of how out of place you feel. The thought of stepping into a frat house, this frat house, the infamous Alpha Phi, makes your palms sweat and your stomach twist.

But Seungmin’s your best friend. If he can handle living there, you can survive one visit for the sake of finishing your mechanical engineering project. Right?

The house looms large and imposing, its brick facade and dark shutters practically daring anyone who isn’t part of the frat to approach. It’s obnoxiously clean for a frat house, like it’s overcompensating for whatever chaos goes on inside.

You clutch your tote bag a little tighter, adjust your cropped white blouse, and tug at the waistband of your brown cargo trousers as you climb the front steps. Faint laughter and bass-heavy music filter through the thick wooden door. It feels like a warning.

Your hand hovers for a moment before you muster up the courage to knock.

It swings open almost immediately, and you’re greeted by a boy with sharp features and dark hair falling loosely over his forehead. He leans against the doorframe like he’s been practising the pose for years. His smirk is lazy, confident, the kind that makes you immediately wary.

“Oh, look at that,” he says smoothly, his tone dripping with mock delight. “Fate drops a pretty girl right on my doorstep.”

Your brain stutters. “Uh…”

The smirk widens like he’s amused by your discomfort. “Name’s Jeongin. And you are?”

You fidget with the strap of your tote bag. “I’m here for Seungmin.”

“Seungmin?” He tilts his head, feigning confusion. “Didn’t know he liked shy girls. Cute.”

“I’m just here for a project.”

“Oh, so you’re single?” he shoots back, like it’s the most natural follow-up question in the world. His voice is laced with teasing, but his sharp eyes watch you closely, clearly enjoying the way you’re struggling to form a coherent response.

You blink at him, entirely caught off guard. “What? I- I don’t-”

“Jeongin, leave her the fuck alone!” The voice cuts through the tension, and you glance past Jeongin to see a man with cherry-red hair appearing at the base of the stairs. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that clings to his frame, and his arms are crossed in a way that screams both authority and exasperation. “You’re fucking scaring her, man.”

“I wasn’t scaring her,” Jeongin argues, though he steps aside to let you into the house. His voice drops into a mock whisper as you pass. “I was flirting.”

“Whatever the fuck you call that, stop,” the red-haired guy shoots back sharply before turning his attention to you. His gaze softens slightly. “You’re here for Seungmin?”

“Yeah,” you manage, relieved to have someone else to focus on. “We’re working on a project.”

“Of course you are,” Jeongin chimes in from his spot by the door. “What kind of project?”

“Mechanical engineering,” you mutter, trying not to meet his eyes.

Jeongin lets out a low whistle. “Smart and pretty? Fuck, Seungmin really hit the jackpot with this one.”

“Jeongin,” the red-haired guy groans, his tone bordering on murderous. “Shut the fuck up before you scare her into running away. I’m Minho, by the way.” He offers you a brief, almost apologetic smile. “Ignore him. He’s an absolute fucking idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Jeongin protests, grinning like he knows exactly how irritating he is. “I’m charming.”

“You’re a cunt,” Minho fires back, not missing a beat.

Before you can even process that exchange, a new voice cuts through the chaos. “What the fuck is going on down there?” You look up to see Seungmin standing at the top of the stairs, his orange hair sticking up like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s wearing a hoodie that looks two sizes too big and a scowl that looks permanent. “Jeongin, are you harassing my friend?”

“Harassing?” Jeongin repeats, his tone dripping with mock indignation. “I’m just processing the fact that you have a pretty little friend.”

“She’s nice, unlike you fucking hyenas,” Seungmin snaps as he descends the stairs, his arms crossed tight over his chest. “She doesn’t need you drooling all over her.”

“I’m more thinking about swapping spit than drooling,” Jeongin says casually, winking in your direction.

You freeze, your face heating up like someone just turned a spotlight on you. “I- I should probably…”

“Jeongin, shut the fuck up,” Minho barks, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. He grabs Jeongin by the collar of his shirt and yanks him back. “That’s it. I’m telling Chan.”

Jeongin whines like a child being sent to time-out. “What the fuck? Don’t do me like that!”

“Shut it, Innie,” Minho says flatly, dragging him deeper into the house. “You’re a fucking disaster.”

“I’m not a disaster,” Jeongin protests, his voice fading as they disappear around a corner. “I’m just-”

“Fucking insufferable,” Minho finishes for him.

Seungmin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose like this whole ordeal has already shaved years off his life. “I’m so fucking sorry about them. Let’s just go upstairs and get away from those fucking idiots.”

“Uh, yeah,” you mumble, more than ready to escape the chaos. You glance back toward the direction Minho dragged Jeongin and lower your voice. “Are they always like this?”

Seungmin pauses, hesitating for a beat before sighing. “Yes. Yes, they fucking are. But you get used to it.”

You doubt that. A lot.

As soon as you and Seungmin disappear up the stairs, Jeongin leans back with a theatrical groan, scrubbing a hand down his face. He watches the spot where you vanished, his expression a mix of longing and pure drama, before turning to Minho, who’s still standing nearby with his arms crossed and a look of sheer disbelief.

“That right there,” Jeongin announces, jabbing a thumb toward the stairs. “That’s my future fucking wife.”

Minho doesn’t even try to hide his emotions, raising an eyebrow so high it’s practically halfway up his forehead. “The socially anxious bundle of nerves in the brown cargo pants?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jeongin says without missing a beat. His voice is firm, his expression dead serious. “Did you see her ass in those cargos? Fucking poetry, Minho. Pure poetry. I’m gonna marry her.”

Minho blinks, slowly tilting his head like he can’t believe the words coming out of Jeongin’s mouth. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re absolutely fucking hopeless.”

Jeongin shrugs, entirely unbothered by the insult. “Hopelessly in love.”

Minho rolls his eyes so hard you half expect him to sprain something. “Or just hopelessly fucking horny. Seriously, Innie, you’ve got the emotional depth of a fucking spoon.”

Jeongin smirks, leaning against the wall like the cocky little shit he is. “Hey, at least I know what I want.”

Minho snorts. “Oh yeah? What you want is to scare the poor girl so bad she never comes within a hundred fucking miles of you. Because that’s exactly what you’re doing with your smirking, ‘I’m a fuckboy, love me’ bullshit.”

Jeongin frowns, the smirk faltering just a little. “You think I scared her off?”

“Oh, I fucking know you scared her off,” Minho snaps. “She was practically vibrating with anxiety, and there you are, smirking and talking about swapping spit. Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jeongin groans, running a hand through his hair as he paces a few steps back and forth. “Okay, okay. Fuck. Fine. What the fuck do I do, then? Help me out here, Minho. You’re supposed to be my hyung.”

Minho crosses his arms tighter, clearly enjoying watching Jeongin squirm. “Oh no, fuckface. This one’s all on you. You wanna fix this shit, you better find someone who knows how to act like a fucking human being.”

Jeongin stops pacing, his face lighting up like he’s just had the most brilliant idea in the history of ideas. “Felix.”

Minho raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re gonna drag Felix into this? The fuck’s he gonna do? Bake her a cake that says ‘I’m sorry for being a fucking creep’?”

“No, dumbass,” Jeongin snaps, already heading toward the kitchen. “Felix is the nicest motherfucker in this house. He’s practically oozing ‘soft boy’ vibes. He’s gonna teach me how to be sweet.”

“Sweet?” Minho repeats, his tone laced with disbelief as he follows Jeongin. “You? Sweet? That’s fucking rich. This I’ve gotta see.”

The kitchen smells faintly of spices, and Felix is at the counter, carefully slicing vegetables with the kind of precision that makes him look like a Michelin-star chef despite the fact that he’s wearing a hoodie that swallows his frame. His blonde hair glints under the overhead light, and his tongue pokes out slightly in concentration as he arranges the slices on a cutting board.

“Felix!” Jeongin bursts into the kitchen like a man on a mission, dragging a stool over and plopping down dramatically. “I need your help. It’s a fucking emergency.”

Felix looks up, his knife pausing mid-slice. He blinks at Jeongin, then at Minho, who leans against the doorway with an amused smirk. “What the fuck did you do this time?”

“Nothing!” Jeongin protests, holding his hands up like he’s being wrongfully accused. “I met my future wife.”

Felix stares at him for a long, silent moment before bursting into laughter. “Oh, this is gonna be fucking good. Go on. What’s the problem?”

“She’s perfect,” Jeongin says, his tone reverent. “She’s smart, shy, sweet, and her ass in those cargo pants…” He trails off, gesturing wildly with both hands. “Breathtaking. Like, life-changing.”

Felix snorts, shaking his head as he resumes chopping. “And let me guess, you scared the absolute shit out of her.”

Jeongin groans, slumping forward to bang his head lightly against the counter. “Minho already fucking bullied me for that.”

“Because he’s not wrong,” Felix says, laughing. “What’d you say to her?”

Jeongin lifts his head, avoiding Felix’s gaze. “I might’ve asked if she was single.”

Felix freezes, the knife hovering mid-air. He stares at Jeongin like he’s trying to figure out if he’s serious. “Dude.”

“What?!” Jeongin exclaims, throwing his hands up defensively. “It’s a valid fucking question!”

“Not when you’ve just met her, you fucking idiot!” Felix says, shaking his head in disbelief.

Jeongin groans again, running both hands through his hair. “Fuck. I’m so fucked, aren’t I?”

Felix sighs, finally setting the knife down and leaning on the counter to face Jeongin directly. “Not necessarily. You just need to stop being, well, you.”

Minho barks out a laugh from the doorway. “Good luck with that.”

“Fuck off, Minho,” Jeongin snaps before turning back to Felix. “Okay, fine. What do I do?”

Felix shrugs, his tone calm and thoughtful. “Be genuine. Girls like that don’t fall for flashy, cocky shit. You’ve gotta show her you’re not just some loudmouth frat bro.”

“Genuine,” Jeongin repeats, frowning like he’s trying to solve a fucking physics equation. “How the fuck do I do that?”

“Start by not commenting on her ass again,” Felix says, deadpan.

Jeongin groans. “But it’s such a-”

“Jeongin,” Felix interrupts, throwing a dish towel at him. “For fuck’s sake, focus. Be sweet. Thoughtful. Maybe even a little vulnerable. Show her you’ve got layers or some shit.”

Jeongin catches the towel, muttering under his breath. “Sweet. Thoughtful. Vulnerable. No ass comments. Got it.”

Felix smirks, already turning back to his vegetables. “Good luck, loverboy. You’re gonna need it.”

Jeongin leans lazily against the counter, arms crossed, a self-satisfied smirk stretched across his face as he surveys Felix and Minho. “You two are now my official romance senseis. Help me bag the sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen.”

Felix doesn’t even bother looking up from the stove, where he’s stirring a simmering pot of something that smells obnoxiously good. “Met the girl today and you’re already planning the fucking wedding?”

Jeongin nods, dead serious, like Felix has just complimented his strategic brilliance. “Obviously. Did you see her? Smart, shy, beautiful and those brown cargos?” He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head like he’s in mourning. “Fucking breathtaking.”

Felix finally glances up, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and pity. “Brown cargos, huh? That’s the hill you’re dying on?”

“Dying, getting married, whatever,” Jeongin replies with a dramatic wave of his hand. “Same difference when you’re in love, Felix.”

Minho, perched on a barstool by the counter, nearly chokes on his laugh. “Love? You’re a fucking clown. You’ve known her for what, thirty seconds? And all you did was scare the shit out of her.”

“I didn’t scare her,” Jeongin argues, shooting Minho a glare. “I was—”

“Being a cocky little cunt,” Minho interrupts, his smirk widening. “Which, by the way, she did not look impressed by. You’ve got zero fucking game, Innie.”

Jeongin glares harder, but Felix interrupts by holding out a spoonful of sauce in Minho’s direction. “Here. Taste this. Too spicy? Too bland? It’s for my culinary course.”

Minho leans forward obligingly, taking the spoon into his mouth with the kind of practiced care that makes Jeongin groan in frustration. “What the fuck, guys? My entire love life is on the line, and you’re worried about sauce?”

Minho holds up a finger, ignoring Jeongin entirely as he chews thoughtfully. “Mmm. Pretty good. Needs more garlic, though.”

“More garlic?” Felix echoes, thoughtful, already reaching for the bulb. “Good call.”

“HELLO?” Jeongin’s voice rises to a near shout. “I’m pouring my fucking heart out over here, and you two are acting like fucking Gordon Ramsey and Julia Child!”

Felix chuckles, still focused on his cooking. “Calm your tits, Romeo. You’ll survive another minute.”

Jeongin groans, dragging both hands down his face in frustration. “I can’t believe I’m trusting my future happiness to two fucking culinary nerds.”

Finally, Felix sets the spoon down and turns to Jeongin, wiping his hands on a towel. “Alright, alright. Let’s get serious for a second. First piece of advice? Don't be a cocky shit around her.”

“Yeah,” Minho chimes in, leaning back against the counter. “You looked like you were auditioning for the role of Frat Boy Douchebag #1. That shit’s not gonna fly with someone like her.”

Jeongin narrows his eyes. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Felix says, shooting him a look, “that she’s not the type to fall for your usual bullshit. She’s shy. She’s reserved. You need to ease her in, not bulldoze her with your overconfident dickhead act.”

Jeongin frowns, considering this. “Alright, fine. What the fuck do I do instead?”

Felix leans against the counter, his tone calm but firm. “Be approachable. Genuine. Maybe even a little awkward, it’s endearing if you don’t overdo it.”

“Be awkward?” Jeongin repeats, his face twisting in confusion. “You’re telling me to be awkward on purpose?”

“Yes, dumbass,” Minho says with a smirk. “Girls like her don’t fall for the alpha-male crap. They want someone real. Someone relatable.”

“And don’t fucking comment on her ass again,” Felix adds pointedly. “Compliment her brain, her ideas, her sense of humour, literally anything else.”

Jeongin groans, throwing his head back. “No ass comments? But that’s, like, my signature move.”

“Then retire it,” Minho snaps. “Unless you wanna keep being single.”

Jeongin mutters something under his breath before straightening up, a spark of determination in his eyes. “Alright. What if I take something out of my car engine and ask her to fix it?”

Both Felix and Minho freeze, staring at him like he’s just suggested burning the house down for fun.

“What the actual fuck are you talking about?” Felix asks, his tone dripping with disbelief.

“Think about it,” Jeongin says, his voice picking up momentum like he’s just cracked the Da Vinci Code. “She’s a mechanical engineering major, right? If I pretend my car’s fucked, she’ll feel all smart and capable for fixing it for me. Bonding over machinery and shit. It’s genius.”

Minho groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re a fucking moron.”

Felix sighs, looking genuinely exhausted. “Jeongin, no. Do not fuck with your car. That’s manipulative as shit.”

“It’s charming,” Jeongin counters, grinning like he’s won the argument. “I’m showing interest in her skills.”

“You’re using her skills to fake your way into her pants,” Minho corrects sharply. “There’s a difference, dumbass.”

Felix nods. “If you wanna impress her, ask about her work. Don’t make her do it for you.”

Jeongin waves them off, already halfway out the kitchen. “Nah, you guys don’t get it. This is gonna fucking work. Thanks for the advice, senseis.”

Felix watches him go, shaking his head. “We didn’t fucking agree to this.”

Minho snorts, grabbing another spoonful of sauce. “Should we stop him?”

Felix shrugs, smirking. “Nah. Let the dumbass burn. It’ll be entertaining as fuck.”

“You’re not wrong,” Minho says, grinning. “This is gonna be a fucking trainwreck.”

The Alpha Phi house looms just as fucking intimidating as the first time you stepped up to it. You fidget with the strap of your light blue tote bag, its shade perfectly matching your cargos and your scuffed Converse. The cream blouse you’re wearing feels just a little too cropped for comfort, you tug at the hem nervously, wishing you’d chosen literally anything else to wear. But here you are.

It’s just another fucking study session. With Seungmin. Not the chaos crew downstairs. Just focus on that.

You knock on the door, half hoping it’ll take forever for someone to answer. Instead, it swings open so quickly that you take a startled step back. And there he is, Jeongin. He leans against the doorframe like he owns the fucking place, dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead, lips curved into that smug smirk you remember all too well.

“Hey,” he says, his voice smooth but tinged with something that might actually be nerves. “You’re just the person I was hoping to see.”

You blink, thrown off immediately. “Uh, hi?”

“While I’ve got you here,” Jeongin continues, rubbing the back of his neck, “my car’s been acting like shit. Think you could take a look? You know, since you’re the resident engineering genius.”

“Your car?” you echo, your fingers tightening around your tote bag. “I mean, sure, but I thought Seungmin was-”

“He’s upstairs,” Jeongin interrupts quickly, already stepping outside and gesturing toward the driveway. “This’ll only take a minute, I promise. You’re an engineering major, right? This is totally your thing.”

You hesitate, nerves crawling up your spine, but eventually, you nod. “Okay, I guess.”

Jeongin’s grin widens as he leads the way, his hands stuffed into his pockets. The sleek black car parked in the driveway looks immaculate, which makes you immediately suspicious. He pops the hood with a theatrical flourish, stepping back to give you room.

“Yeah, so it just won’t fucking start,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the engine like it’s some unsolvable mystery. “No idea what the fuck’s wrong.”

You lean over the open hood, the faint smell of motor oil and metal hitting you as you scan the engine. It doesn’t take long for you to notice the glaring issue, and your brows furrow as confusion creeps into your voice. “Uh, your spark plug is gone.”

Jeongin leans in closer, peering over your shoulder like he has any clue what he’s looking at. “What? No way. How the fuck does that even happen?”

You glance at him. “Sometimes car thieves pull a spark plug. That way, the owner can’t drive it, and they can come back later to steal the whole thing.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide. “Are you fucking kidding me? That’s a thing?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, poking around the engine for good measure. “It’s not super common, but yeah, it happens.”

Jeongin steps back, running a hand through his hair like he’s just learned some devastating truth about the world. “Fuck me. That’s so fucked up.”

You nod absently, fiddling with a loose wire. “I mean, I can fix some of these shitty connections you’ve got going on, but without a replacement spark plug, you’re kind of fucked.”

“Shit,” Jeongin mutters. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, glancing at you from under his lashes. “Hey, while we’re here, I just wanna say something.”

You pause, looking up at him. “What?”

“I wanted to apologize,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. There’s no smirk this time, no cocky bravado. “For last week. I was a fucking idiot.”

You blink, completely caught off guard. “Apologize? For what?”

“For being an obnoxious ass,” Jeongin says bluntly. “I made you uncomfortable, and that’s not fucking okay. I get that. I’m really fucking sorry.”

“Oh,” you say softly, the unexpected sincerity in his tone making you shift awkwardly. “It’s… it’s fine.”

“It’s not fucking fine,” he insists, stepping closer. “I was trying to be funny, but I was just a dick. You didn’t deserve that.”

You hesitate, his unexpected earnestness throwing you for a loop. Finally, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “I appreciate the apology.”

Jeongin exhales like he’s been holding his breath, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good. Because I mean it.”

The moment lingers, awkward but oddly genuine, until you turn back to the engine, desperate to shift the focus. “So, uh, like I said, your wiring’s kind of fucked, but I can fix that. You’ll just need to buy a new spark plug. Call an auto shop, tell them your car’s make and model, and they’ll get you sorted.”

Jeongin perks up slightly, his smirk making a cautious return. “If I buy one, would you help me put it in?”

You hesitate, then sigh. “It’s not hard, but sure. I can do that.”

His grin spreads wider, more relaxed now. “Fuck yeah. You’re the best.”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, brushing your hands off on your cargos. “Don’t make it a habit.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jeongin replies smoothly, though the playful glint in his eye suggests otherwise. "Let's go!"

"Now?"

"Yes! Why not?!" Jeongin beams at you and you nod with a resigned shrug.

Jeongin practically skips down the sidewalk beside you, his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, humming some off-key tune like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. He keeps sneaking glances at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth every time you adjust the strap of your light blue tote bag or glance nervously at the road ahead.

You grip your tote bag tighter, the bag of matching blue fabric almost a security blanket at this point. Your cargos and scuffed Converse feel comfortable enough, but the cropped cream blouse keeps riding up every time you shift, and it’s fucking impossible not to fidget.

Jeongin, of course, doesn’t notice your growing anxiety. Or if he does, he sure as fuck doesn’t show it.

“So,” he pipes up, still bouncing along like a golden retriever. “This Dewie guy, what’s his deal? He, like, your personal mechanic or some shit?”

You glance at him briefly, debating how much to say. “Something like that,” you mutter, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ll see.”

Jeongin doesn’t push for more details, instead whistling tunelessly as the auto shop comes into view. The weathered sign above the door creaks in the faint breeze, and the smell of motor oil and grease hits you before you even step inside.

Jeongin slows his pace, squinting up at the building like he’s about to walk onto another planet. “Fuck, this place smells like a mechanic’s fever dream.”

“That’s because it is a mechanic’s fever dream,” you reply softly, shooting him a look. “Don’t insult it.”

His lips twitch in amusement. “Noted.”

The bell above the door jingles as you step inside, the sound instantly grounding you. The shop smells exactly the same as it always does—metal, grease, and faintly of shitty coffee that Dewie insists is “just fine.”

Behind the counter, Dewie is flipping through a massive parts catalogue, his greying hair sticking out in all directions like he’s been too busy to care. His work shirt is streaked with grease and old oil stains, a testament to the hours he spends buried under car hoods.

“Hey, Dewie,” you call out, a small but genuine smile tugging at your lips.

Dewie’s head snaps up at your voice, and his lined face splits into a grin. “Hey, kiddo! What brings you in? Don’t tell me you’re tinkering with another piece of shit.”

You shake your head quickly, already feeling your cheeks flush. “Not me. It’s his car.” You gesture toward Jeongin, who stands just inside the doorway like he doesn’t know where to put himself. “He needs a new spark plug.”

Dewie’s sharp gaze shifts to Jeongin, his arms crossing as he leans on the counter. “What happened? Someone jack it?”

Jeongin stammers, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. That’s what she said, anyway.”

Dewie snorts. “Figures. These fuckers don’t miss a beat these days.” He jerks his chin toward Jeongin. “Make and model?”

“2018 Kia Stinger,” Jeongin replies quickly, trying to sound confident.

Dewie nods once, scrawling something onto a notepad. “Alright, hang tight. I’ll grab one from the back.”

As Dewie disappears through a side door, Jeongin leans down, lowering his voice. “You didn’t mention this guy’s basically your uncle.”

You blink, taken aback. “How’d you figure that?”

Jeongin tilts his head, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. “The way he called you ‘kiddo.’ That’s not just some mechanic shit.”

You hesitate, then shrug, looking down at your sneakers. “He’s not my uncle. But he raised me.”

Jeongin’s smirk fades into something softer, gentler. “Shit. Really?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, shifting awkwardly. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Sounds like a big deal to me,” he replies, his voice unusually sincere. “That’s kinda badass.”

You glance at him, unsure what to say. Before you can come up with a response, Dewie reappears, a spark plug in hand. He slaps it onto the counter with a grin. “Here you go. Should do the trick.”

“Thanks,” Jeongin says, reaching into his pocket. “How much?”

“Twenty bucks,” Dewie replies, his sharp eyes flicking back to you for a moment. “How’s school, kiddo? Still kicking ass?”

You nod. “It’s fine. Just busy.”

“Bullshit,” Dewie says with a knowing chuckle. “You’re probably running circles around all those other nerds.”

You mumble something incoherent, fidgeting with the strap of your tote bag. Jeongin, sensing your discomfort, steps forward and slaps a twenty onto the counter. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

Dewie hands over the spark plug but doesn’t miss the chance to give Jeongin a critical once-over. “You sure you’re worth her time, kid?”

Your head snaps up. “We’re not- he’s not-”

Jeongin grins, cutting you off smoothly. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m working on it.”

Dewie barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Good luck with that. She’s a tough one.”

“Tell me about it,” Jeongin says with a wink, tossing the spark plug lightly in the air and catching it.

You groan, hiding your face behind your hand. “Can we just go?”

“Take care, kiddo!” Dewie calls as Jeongin holds the door open for you. “Don’t let this one get on your nerves too much!”

Jeongin laughs as you step outside, the cool air hitting your flushed face. “So he raised you, huh?”

You nod, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah.”

“That’s fucking cool,” he says, his tone softer than usual. He tosses the spark plug again, catching it effortlessly. “He seems like a good guy.”

“He is,” you reply quietly, clutching your tote bag tighter. “He’s done a lot for me.”

Jeongin bumps your shoulder lightly, his grin softer now. “You’re lucky to have him.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “Yeah,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I am.”

The two of you fall into a companionable silence as you make your way back to the Alpha Phi house, the spark plug bouncing in Jeongin’s hand and a strange warmth blooming in your chest that you can’t quite shake.

Back at the Alpha Phi house, Jeongin practically bounces toward his car, spark plug clutched in one hand like it’s some kind of golden ticket. The afternoon sun glints off the car’s sleek black hood, making it look like it just rolled off a showroom floor. You trail behind him, your light blue tote bag swinging slightly at your side, the strap gripped tightly in your hand as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Jeongin grins as he pops the hood, gesturing grandly like he’s unveiling some masterpiece. “Alright, genius. Work your magic.”

You roll your eyes lightly, setting your tote bag on the ground and stepping closer to inspect the engine. “It’s not magic. It’s just… basic mechanics.”

Jeongin leans against the side of the car, folding his arms as he watches you, his grin widening. “Basic mechanics to you. Black fucking sorcery to me.”

You bite back a small smile, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers. Focusing on the engine, you twist the spark plug into place with practised precision, your fingers navigating the intricate components like it’s second nature. “Alright, this part’s easy. Shouldn’t take long.”

Jeongin tilts his head, watching you with open admiration. “Take all the time you need. It’s nice watching a genius do her thing.”

Your cheeks burn at the compliment, but you keep your eyes firmly on the engine. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Bullshit,” Jeongin says with a snort. “You could tell me this thing runs on unicorn jizz, and I’d believe you.”

A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and you quickly cover your mouth with one hand. “Unicorn jizz? Really?”

“Hey, you’re the expert,” Jeongin says, his grin turning shameless. “I’m just along for the ride.”

Shaking your head, you finish securing the spark plug and step back to inspect the rest of the engine. Your brows knit together when you notice something out of place. “Your fuel line is disconnected.”

Jeongin straightens up, his grin faltering slightly. “Shit. Is that bad?”

“It’s not great,” you mutter, leaning in to get a closer look. “What the hell happened here?”

Jeongin scratches the back of his neck, his sheepish expression already giving him away. “Okay, so, that might’ve been me.”

You turn to him, crossing your arms as your lips press into a thin line. “Might’ve been you?”

“Alright, fine. It was me,” he admits, holding up his hands in surrender. “It wouldn’t start yesterday, and I didn’t know about the whole missing spark plug thing yet, so I may have fiddled with it.”

“You fiddled with it,” you repeat, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging helplessly. “I thought I could figure it out. Turns out I couldn’t.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat before you can stop it, and you shake your head, a small smile breaking through. “You’re an idiot.”

“Guilty,” Jeongin replies, his grin returning, though it’s softer now. “Can you fix it?”

“I can fix it,” you reply, already crouching to rummage through your tote bag. You pull out a small, well-loved tool kit that Dewie insisted you carry everywhere. “Just promise me you won’t touch anything under the hood ever again.”

Jeongin presses a hand to his chest, his tone mock-serious. “Scout’s honor.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that lingers as you reconnect the fuel line with quick, efficient movements. Jeongin watches closely, leaning in just enough to make you nervous, though his expression isn’t teasing this time. There’s something genuine in the way he watches you, like he’s genuinely impressed.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” he says suddenly, his voice soft but firm.

Your hands falter slightly, and you glance up at him, your face already burning. “I- it’s just a fuel line. It’s not-”

“Nope,” he interrupts, holding up a finger. “None of that modest shit. What you’re doing right now? Badass as fuck. Own it.”

You duck your head, letting your hair fall into your face as you mumble, “It’s really not that special.”

Jeongin leans a little closer, his grin softening into something more sincere. “It is to me.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, but you don’t let yourself dwell on it. Instead, you focus on finishing the repair, your hands moving with quiet confidence. Once you’re done, you step back, brushing your hands off on your cargos.

“There,” you say, closing the hood with a solid click. “That should do it. Try starting it now.”

Jeongin doesn’t hesitate, practically sprinting to the driver’s seat. He slides in, turns the key, and grins as the engine roars to life, smooth and steady. “Holy shit, you actually fixed it.”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Did you think I couldn’t?”

“Never doubted you for a second,” Jeongin replies, hopping out of the car with a triumphant laugh. He walks back over to you, his grin wider than ever. “Seriously, how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” you say, bending down to pick up your tote bag. “Just don’t touch your engine again, alright? If something’s wrong, take it to Dewie. Or call me.”

Jeongin perks up at that, his eyebrows raising. “Call you, huh? You offering to be my personal mechanic?”

“Only if you’re desperate,” you mumble, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Don’t make it a habit.”

“Got it,” he says, his tone warm and teasing. “No unnecessary car emergencies. But for real, thank you. You saved my ass.”

You nod quickly, keeping your gaze on the ground. “It’s fine. Really.”

Jeongin watches you for a moment, his usual cocky demeanour replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. “You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “you’re kind of hard to figure out.”

Your brows knit together as you glance up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “You’re all quiet and nervous, but then you do shit like this, and it’s like damn. You’re a total badass.”

You fumble for something to say, but Jeongin doesn’t seem to expect a response. Instead, he grins again and jerks his head toward the house.

“C’mon,” he says. “Seungmin’s probably wondering where the fuck you are.”

You nod, trailing after him, your mind spinning with his words and the warmth in his voice. You try to push it away, but it lingers, making it even harder to ignore the way he makes your heart race.

Jeongin bursts into Minho’s room without so much as a knock, throwing the door open so hard it bounces off the wall. Minho jerks upright from where he’s sprawled on his bed, phone clutched in one hand, his brows furrowing in annoyance.

“What the fuck, Jeongin?” Minho snaps, glaring at him. “I was busy!”

“You were doomscrolling,” Jeongin shoots back, marching straight to the bed and grabbing Minho’s wrist. “That’s not busy.”

“Excuse me,” Minho retorts, trying and failing to wrench his arm free. “It’s called research. Ever heard of it, dipshit?”

“Research later,” Jeongin grunts, dragging him out the door with surprising strength. “This is important.”

Minho stumbles into the hallway, still protesting. “You are so lucky I don’t punch people younger and weaker than me. What the fuck is this about?”

“You’ll see,” Jeongin says cryptically, tugging him toward Felix’s room. He doesn’t even knock before barging in, nearly tripping over Felix’s chair in the process.

Felix is sitting cross-legged on his bed, headphones around his neck and a laptop balanced on his knees. He looks up, startled. “What the fuck is going on?”

Jeongin lets go of Minho and drops dramatically onto the floor, spreading his arms like a martyr. “Emergency.”

Felix blinks, closing his laptop and setting it aside. "An actual emergency, or a Jeongin emergency?”

“Both,” Jeongin replies, his grin sharp as he leans back on his hands. “So, yesterday? I executed The Plan. Spoke to her. Met her uncle slash guardian. All because I jacked up my car on purpose, which, by the way, she doesn’t fucking know about.”

Minho groans, dropping into Felix’s chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ. This is about her? Again?”

Felix raises a brow, intrigued despite himself. “Hold on. Back up. Your dumbass plan actually worked?”

“Fuck yeah, it did,” Jeongin says, his grin turning smug. “She was there, in blue cargos, God, that ass, fixing my car like an angel descended straight from car-heaven.”

“Dickhead,” Minho mutters, glaring at him. “Can you go five fucking seconds without talking about her ass?”

Felix smirks, leaning back against the headboard. “Doubt it. But hey, you talked to her? Like a full conversation?”

“Full fucking conversation,” Jeongin confirms, his chest puffing out. “She didn’t run away. She didn’t tell me to fuck off. Progress, right?”

Felix whistles low, impressed. “Alright, that’s something. What did you talk about?”

“She mostly talked about the car,” Jeongin admits. “But I told her she was amazing. And get this, she told me to call her if I needed help again.”

Minho leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “She actually said that? Or did you hallucinate it in one of your horny delusions?”

“She fucking said it,” Jeongin says, glaring back at him. “I’m not delusional. And now I need to figure out how to make her fall in love with me.”

Felix snorts, covering his face with one hand. “You’ve had one normal interaction and now you’re planning a wedding?”

“Felix,” Jeongin says seriously, sitting up. “This is destiny. Don’t laugh.”

Minho groans, slouching in his chair. “Destiny my ass. You’re obsessed with a girl who probably doesn’t even know how to take a compliment without spontaneously combusting.”

“Exactly!” Jeongin says, pointing at him. “She’s different. She’s shy, soft-spoken, and she’s so fucking smart. I’m not gonna screw this up.”

Felix exhales, his tone shifting to something more patient. “Alright, fine. Let’s workshop this. It's doable.”

Jeongin claps his hands together, grinning. “This is why you’re my favourite.”

“Jesus,” Minho mutters. “You’re lucky Felix has more patience than me.”

Felix sits up straighter, clasping his hands like he’s about to deliver a lecture. “First rule: You cannot go full Jeongin on her.”

Jeongin frowns. “Full Jeongin?”

“Yeah, like your usual loud, cocky bullshit,” Minho chimes in. “She’s not gonna respond to you strutting around like a frat-boy peacock.”

Felix nods. “She’s shy, right? You need to be approachable. Soft. Make her feel comfortable.”

“Comfortable,” Jeongin repeats, his expression serious. “Okay. How?”

“Patience,” Felix says, ticking off his fingers. “Be genuine. Talk to her, but don’t push. Ask about what she’s into. Show her you’re actually interested in her, not just her ass.”

Jeongin sighs dramatically. “Why does everyone keep attacking me over this?”

“Because you talk about her ass constantly,” Minho deadpans. “Compliment her brain, her personality, her work ethic, anything but her fucking cargo pants.”

“I did!” Jeongin protests. “I told her she was amazing while she was fixing my car.”

“Good,” Felix says with a small smile. “Do more of that. Make her feel seen.”

Jeongin fidgets, his confidence faltering slightly. “What if I mess it up? Say the wrong thing?”

“You will,” Minho says flatly, earning a glare from Jeongin. “But if you’re sincere, she’ll forgive you. Probably.”

Felix sighs, shooting Minho a look. “Ignore him. It’s okay to mess up as long as you’re making an effort. She’ll notice.”

Jeongin nods slowly, absorbing the advice. “What about hanging out? Like, casually?”

Felix brightens. “Yes! Somewhere low-pressure. Somewhere she feels comfortable.”

“A study date,” Jeongin says, his eyes lighting up. “That’s fucking genius.”

Felix shakes his head. “Not a date. Not yet. Just hang out. Be chill.”

Jeongin leans back, a determined grin spreading across his face. “Okay. Be patient. Be genuine. Compliment her brain. Hang out somewhere low-pressure. Got it.”

Minho chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “You’re actually taking this seriously, huh?”

“Of course I am,” Jeongin says earnestly. “She’s not like anyone I’ve met before.”

Felix smiles softly. “Then don’t fuck it up, Innie.”

Jeongin grins, his usual cockiness tinged with real hope. “I won’t.”

The college mechanics' garage hums with the faint buzz of overhead fluorescent lights, their sterile glow casting long shadows on the polished concrete floor. The air is thick with the smell of motor oil, grease, and faint traces of burnt rubber. A comforting scent that’s come to feel like home.

You’re crouched over an engine mounted on a heavy metal workbench, black cargos streaked with grime and your cropped black blouse tugging higher every time you reach forward. A red bandana is knotted tightly around your head, though it does little to keep stray hairs from escaping, forcing you to constantly push them back with oil-stained fingers.

The engine looms in front of you, its tangled maze of components taunting you like some sadistic puzzle. Something’s wrong. Something you should be able to figure out, and yet the solution keeps fucking eluding you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, glaring at the carburettor like it personally offended you. “What the fuck is your problem?”

The sharp squeak of sneakers on the concrete pulls your attention for half a second, but you don’t need to look up to know who it is. Jeongin. Of course. His footsteps are unhurried, confident, and that faint whiff of expensive cologne follows him like a calling card.

“Hey,” Jeongin calls out, his voice smooth but softer than usual, like he’s testing the waters. “Seungmin said you’d be here, working yourself to death over something you can’t let go.”

You glance at him briefly before going back to your work, wiping your hands on a rag tucked into your pocket. “Something in this stupid engine doesn’t work,” you mumble, the frustration clear in your tone. “And I can’t figure it out.”

Jeongin steps closer, his sneakers scuffing slightly against the floor. He stops a few feet away, tilting his head as he studies the scene in front of him: you, bent over the workbench, fingers deftly navigating the guts of the engine, black cargos clinging to your legs, streaks of oil smudged on your skin. He has to force himself to look away before his thoughts go to places he’ll regret voicing.

“Okay,” Jeongin says, clearing his throat and stepping closer. “Use me.”

You straighten up, turning to him with a confused look. “What?”

“Use me,” he repeats, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Explain the engine to me, like I’m five. Sometimes talking it out helps people figure shit out, right?”

You blink at him, caught off guard by the unexpected offer. He steps forward, holding out a coffee cup. “Also, I brought you this. Vanilla chai latte. Took a guess, it seemed like your kind of thing.”

Your fingers hesitate before reaching for the cup, the warmth seeping through the cardboard sleeve and into your cold, grease-smeared hands. “Thanks,” you say softly, your voice barely audible over the hum of the garage. The tension in your shoulders eases slightly as you take a sip, the sweet flavour grounding you.

Jeongin grins, leaning his hip against the workbench. “Alright. Walk me through it.”

You sigh, gesturing for him to come closer. “Fine. But you’ll need to actually look at the engine.”

Jeongin steps up beside you, close enough that you catch the faint warmth radiating from him. His cologne mingles with the metallic tang of the garage, creating an oddly intoxicating mix. He leans in as you start pointing to different components, his eyes following the movements of your hands.

“This is the carburettor,” you explain. “It mixes air and fuel for combustion. If it’s clogged or not working right, the engine’s fucked.”

Jeongin nods seriously, though the smirk playing on his lips betrays him. “Air, fuel, kaboom. Got it.”

You huff out a soft laugh despite yourself, glancing at him. “Basically.”

Encouraged by your reaction, Jeongin leans a little closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “And what’s this thing?” he asks, pointing vaguely at a random cluster of wires.

“That’s the distributor,” you say, nudging his hand away so you can show him properly. “It sends voltage to the spark plugs. If something’s wrong here, the engine misfires.”

Jeongin whistles low, his tone equal parts admiration and disbelief. “You weren’t kidding when you said this shit’s complicated.”

You shrug, a small, self-conscious smile tugging at your lips. “It’s not that bad once you know what you’re doing.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeongin teases, tilting his head to get a better look. “Says the fucking genius.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to the engine. “I’m not a genius. It’s just practice.”

“Still impressive,” Jeongin says softly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he forces himself to focus. “Alright, what else?”

As you continue explaining, something starts to click in your mind. You step back slightly, your brows furrowing. “Wait a second-”

“What?” Jeongin asks, watching your face light up with realization.

You lean in, carefully pulling at a small, almost hidden wire near the distributor. “This wire isn’t connected properly. It’s part of the ignition system. Without it, the spark plugs won’t fire right.”

Jeongin frowns, squinting at the tiny wire. “That tiny thing? Seriously? That’s the whole problem?”

“It’s not obvious,” you admit, reaching for a screwdriver from your kit. “That’s probably why I missed it the first ten fucking times.”

Jeongin watches as you secure the wire, his tone filled with awe. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

You pause for half a second, your cheeks flushing, but you quickly shake it off and finish tightening the connection. “It’s just an engine,” you mumble, ducking your head.

“It’s not just an engine,” Jeongin insists, his voice firm but warm. “You just solved a fucking mystery like Sherlock Holmes. That’s badass.”

You glance at him briefly, unsure how to respond, and instead focus on brushing your hands off on a rag. “Alright,” you say, stepping back. “That should do it.”

“You’re sure?” Jeongin asks, his eyebrow raised.

“Test it,” you reply, crossing your arms as you nod toward the ignition system.

Jeongin turns to the panel, flipping the switch. The engine rumbles to life, smooth and steady. His eyes widen, and a grin splits across his face as he lets out an excited laugh. “Holy shit, you actually fixed it!”

You nod, your lips twitching into a small smile. “Told you it wasn’t that hard.”

Jeongin shakes his head, his grin full of admiration. “You’re a fucking genius. I don’t care what you say.”

You shrug, the warmth in your chest spreading despite your best efforts to downplay it. “It’s just practice.”

Jeongin watches as you gather your tools, his grin softening. “Thanks for letting me help, even if all I did was stand here and look pretty.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You weren’t that bad.”

Jeongin straightens up, his dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. “So coffee again? Maybe you can teach me more.”

You glance at him, his tone so sincere it catches you off guard. “Maybe,” you murmur, your cheeks warming as you adjust the strap of your tote bag.

Jeongin grins, his confidence returning full force. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jeongin bursts into the kitchen like a fucking tornado, the door slamming against the wall as his energy ricochets off every surface. Felix is at the stove, carefully arranging what looks like a chaotic cross between a gourmet dish and a culinary science experiment.

Minho sits on a stool nearby, fork poised mid-air as he waits impatiently to dig in. Both of them look up as Jeongin skips in, his grin so wide it practically splits his face in half.

“I fucking did it again!” Jeongin announces, throwing his hands up like he’s just won the lottery.

Felix raises an eyebrow, setting the pan down with a metallic clatter. “Did what again?”

“Worked my charm,” Jeongin says smugly, puffing out his chest like a victorious rooster. “I went to the college workshop, helped her figure out why an engine wasn’t working. You should’ve seen her. She was so fucking focused, explaining all the parts to me like an absolute badass.”

Minho snorts, shoving a forkful of Felix’s food into his mouth. “You know fuck-all about cars.”

“And that’s the beauty of it,” Jeongin says, pointing dramatically at Minho like he’s cracked some great universal truth. “I know jack shit, but I offered moral support. And guess what? It fucking worked.”

Felix sighs, shaking his head as he sets the plate down in front of Minho. “Alright, Romeo, what’s the problem this time?”

Jeongin hops onto the counter, his legs swinging like an overgrown child. “Felix, here’s the thing, I think we’re friends now. Or, like, something close to friends. But!” He leans forward, his voice dropping like he’s about to deliver the plot twist of a lifetime. “I do not want to get friendzoned.”

Felix opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Jisung and Hyunjin stroll into the kitchen. Jisung is mid-rant, his arms waving wildly as Hyunjin trails behind him with an amused smirk plastered on his face.

“…and that’s why vending machines are the fucking devil,” Jisung finishes with a flourish as they step inside.

Hyunjin chuckles. “You’re just mad it ate your dollar.”

“Not the point!” Jisung retorts, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a bite. “What’s going on in here?”

“Innie,” Minho says around a mouthful of food, pointing his fork at Jeongin, “is trying to woo a mechanics girl, but the problem is, she’s shy.”

Jeongin groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Why do you make me sound like a complete fucking moron?”

“Because you are,” Minho deadpans, smirking as he shovels more food into his mouth.

Jeongin waves him off, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Anyway, listen to my great romance that would make Shakespeare weep”

He launches into a play-by-play of his interactions with you, pacing back and forth like he’s narrating some great epic. He describes the spark plug incident in painstaking detail, recounts the engine troubleshooting with theatrical flair, and even mentions the coffee he brought you- “because I’m thoughtful as fuck.”

Hyunjin leans against the counter, arms crossed as he listens with growing amusement. Jisung nods along, occasionally pausing to take another bite of his apple.

“So, basically,” Jeongin concludes, spinning on his heel to face them, “I’m making progress. But I don’t want to get stuck in the friend zone. I need strategies. Plans. Help me.”

Felix smirks, leaning back against the stove. “You’re really in deep, huh?”

“Like Mariana Trench deep,” Jeongin admits, running a hand through his hair, his confidence faltering for a split second. “She’s cool. And smart. And sweet. And she smells like parma violet candy.”

Jisung stops mid-bite, his eyebrows shooting up. “Parma violet? That’s a weirdly specific observation.”

“Not the fucking point!” Jeongin snaps, glaring at him.

Minho finally sets his fork down, resting his chin on his hand as he gives Jeongin his full attention. “Alright, let’s think this through. You’ve already somehow impressed her, don’t ask me how, so what’s next? You need something that keeps you close to her but shows you’re serious. No fuckboy antics.”

Jisung suddenly perks up, his eyes lighting up like a kid with a genius idea. “Oh, I’ve got it!” He tosses his half-eaten apple onto the counter and turns to Jeongin, gesturing wildly. “There’s this old car place on the edge of town. It’s basically a junkyard, but they sell old cars for dirt cheap because they’re considered scrap. What if you take her there, let her pick one out, and the two of you restore it together? Like a team project. Ultimate bonding shit.”

The room falls silent as everyone processes Jisung’s suggestion. Then Jeongin’s face lights up like he’s just been handed the fucking Holy Grail.

“Sungie,” Jeongin says, striding forward and grabbing Jisung by the shoulders, “I could kiss you right now.”

Jisung grins, puckering his lips dramatically. “Go ahead. I’m ready for it.”

Jeongin rolls his eyes but indulges him by pressing a kiss to the palm of his hand, which he then slaps over Jisung’s mouth. “There. That’s all you’re getting.”

Jisung pulls back with an exaggerated pout. “You’re no fun.”

Hyunjin bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “You two are fucking idiots.”

“But the idea’s solid,” Felix says, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s personal, low-pressure, and shows that you’re genuinely interested in her hobbies.”

“And,” Minho adds, his smirk widening, “it keeps you around her without making her feel like you’re trying too hard. Smart move.”

Jeongin grins, practically vibrating with excitement as he pulls out his phone. “This is fucking perfect. I’ll text her right now, see if she’s down.”

Minho points at him, his tone sharp. “Don’t fuck it up, Innie.”

“I won’t,” Jeongin insists, already typing furiously on his phone. “Thanks, guys. You’re the best.”

Jisung smirks, leaning against the counter. “I know.”

Felix rolls his eyes, returning to the stove. “Alright, go plan your little restoration project. Let us know if it works or if it crashes and burns.”

Jeongin looks up briefly, his grin wide and confident. “It’s gonna be amazing. Just watch.”

Hyunjin watches him leave, shaking his head with a chuckle. “He’s gonna make such a fool of himself.”

“Probably,” Minho agrees, stealing another bite of Felix’s food. “But it’ll be entertaining as fuck.”

Jisung laughs, already planning how to take credit for the whole idea if it works. “He’ll owe me for life.”

The familiar bell above the door jingles as Jeongin steps into Dewie’s auto shop, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. The place smells like grease, burnt oil, and metal. The kind of scent that clings to your clothes and hair, the kind of scent that feels oddly welcoming.

Somewhere in the back, the faint clank of a ratchet echoes, blending with the hum of a nearby air compressor. Dewie glances up from the counter, his weathered face splitting into a grin.

“Back again, huh?” Dewie says, setting down the car part he’s been inspecting. His sharp eyes flick toward the garage door behind him. “Kiddo’s in the back, like always. Thought you were just her spark plug guy. What’s the deal, kid?”

Jeongin grins, not missing a beat. “Might’ve upgraded to something more. Thanks, Dewie.”

He makes his way through the cluttered aisles of parts and tools, sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished concrete. When he reaches the back, he pauses for a moment, leaning against the doorframe as he takes in the sight of you.

You’re perched on a stool near a disassembled carburettor, hands streaked with grease as you carefully clean the delicate components. Your cropped white lace camisole looks almost absurdly out of place in the gritty garage, its delicate fabric contrasting sharply with the grime and chaos surrounding you.

Blue mom jeans sit high on your waist, snug but not too tight, cuffed at the ankles over scuffed Converse. A blue bandana ties your hair back, but a few loose strands cling to your cheeks, and Jeongin’s throat tightens at how effortlessly beautiful you look.

“Hey,” he says, trying to keep his voice casual but failing to hide the grin tugging at his lips.

You glance up, startled for half a second before relaxing when you realize it’s him. “Oh. Hi.”

“Busy?” Jeongin asks, nodding toward the carburetor as he takes a few steps closer.

“A little,” you admit, setting the part down and wiping your hands on an already-dirty rag. “Why?”

He pulls a slightly crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, holding it out to you. “Found this place. Kind of a junkyard, but they sell old, beat-to-shit cars for almost nothing. Thought you might want to check it out.”

You take the paper, your brow furrowing as you scan the address and the details of the auction. Your fingers brush his for the briefest moment, and Jeongin’s heartbeat skips. Despite the grease smudges, your hands are soft, delicate in a way that doesn’t quite match the work he’s seen them do.

“What do you say?” he asks, his voice casual, though his eyes flicker with an unmistakable nervous energy.

Before you can answer, Dewie’s voice booms from the front of the shop. “She says yes! Off you go, kiddo! Take the clueless frat boy with you.”

“Dewie!” you exclaim. “I didn’t say anything yet!”

“No arguments,” Dewie calls back, his tone dripping with mischief. “You’ve been buried in this shop all day. Go out. Have some fun.”

Jeongin laughs, the sound warm and unbothered. “See? Even your uncle’s on my side.”

“He’s not my uncle,” you mutter, turning back around and handing the paper back to him. “Fine. But if this place sucks, you’re buying me dinner.”

“Deal,” Jeongin says instantly, his grin widening as he leads the way out. Dewie waves at the two of you, his smirk lingering as he watches Jeongin hold the door open for you like it’s second nature.

Jeongin’s car smells faintly of his cologne, a rich, woodsy scent that somehow manages not to clash with the faint lingering smell of fast food fries. The radio hums softly in the background, some indie rock song playing low enough to barely register.

You sit in the passenger seat, fidgeting with the strap of your bag, occasionally glancing out the window. Jeongin sneaks a look at you every few moments, but he doesn’t say much, letting the quiet settle comfortably between you.

When he pulls into the junkyard’s lot, your eyes widen slightly at the sheer scale of it. Rusted cars stretch out in long, chaotic rows, each one a monument to decades of neglect. The air smells of old rubber, engine oil, and faintly of wet dirt.

Some of the cars look like they’ve been there for years. Classic Mustangs with shattered windshields, a Cadillac with its hood missing, and even an ancient VW van so rusted it’s practically orange.

Jeongin parks the car, cutting the engine. “So?” he asks, stepping out and leaning casually against his door. “What do you think?”

You follow him out slowly, your gaze sweeping across the endless sea of potential. For a moment, he worries it might be overwhelming, but then he catches it. A flicker of excitement in your eyes. Your lips part slightly as you take it all in, and Jeongin can’t stop himself from smiling.

“This is…” you start, your voice soft, almost reverent. “This is fucking amazing.”

“Really?” Jeongin asks, his relief palpable. “I was half-convinced this was a dumb idea.”

You shake your head, your excitement bubbling over as you walk toward one of the cars. A battered blue Chevrolet Impala with peeling paint and a spiderweb of cracks in its windshield. “It’s not dumb at all. This place is incredible.”

He follows you as you weave between the rows of cars, watching the way your fingers lightly brush against the rusted metal. You pause at a faded red pickup truck, tilting your head as you examine its dented frame. Jeongin notices the way your eyes light up with every new discovery, and it makes his chest feel tight.

“See anything you like?” he asks, his tone teasing but genuine.

You glance at him over your shoulder, a small, soft smile tugging at your lips. “They’re all beautiful in their own way.”

Jeongin leans against the nearest car, crossing his arms as he watches you. “Okay, genius. If you could pick one, which would it be?”

You hesitate, scanning the lot again before pointing toward a sleek but battered 1967 Ford Mustang. Its red paint is faded almost to pink, one of its tyres sits flat, and the chrome bumper is hanging on by sheer force of will. But even in its sorry state, there’s something undeniably regal about it.

“That one,” you say with quiet certainty.

Jeongin whistles low, genuinely impressed. “Damn. A Mustang? Bold choice. So, you wanna take it?”

Your head jerks toward him, startled. “What? No. I couldn’t.”

“Why the fuck not?” Jeongin counters, grinning. “It’s here, it’s cheap, and if anyone can bring it back to life, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, glancing back at the car. “It’s a lot of work.”

Jeongin shrugs. “So what? I’ll help.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “You don’t know shit about cars.”

“True,” Jeongin admits, laughing. “But I can hold tools. And I’m excellent at standing around and looking hot.”

A laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, and Jeongin’s grin widens at the sound. “Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes. “But you’re not allowed to slack off.”

“Deal,” Jeongin says, sticking out his hand. You hesitate, then shake it, your grease-smudged fingers warm and soft against his.

He looks at the Mustang, his grin turning almost boyish. “Alright. Let’s make this beauty yours.”

The next month is a whirlwind of grease, sweat, and late nights spent hunched over the Mustang, and every single day, Jeongin shows up at Dewie’s auto shop with his sleeves rolled up and that goddamn grin plastered on his face.

The rhythm becomes natural. Him peppering you with endless questions about parts, tools, and processes while fumbling with wrenches like a clueless idiot and you, patiently showing him how to work through each repair, trying not to laugh at his complete lack of mechanical instincts. Jeongin is hopeless when it comes to precision, but his enthusiasm is undeniable.

By the time the sun sets, you’re both exhausted, covered in streaks of oil and grime, but there’s always a shared sense of accomplishment. And each night, when Jeongin stumbles back to the Alpha Phi house, he bursts into the kitchen or living room, rambling to his friends about every detail like a kid coming back from his first field trip.

The first week, Jeongin barrels into the kitchen, the faint smell of motor oil clinging to his hoodie. Felix is at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells halfway decent, while Minho scrolls through his phone at the counter. From the living room, Jisung and Hyunjin’s voices carry through as they bicker over which shitty rom-com to stream.

“It’s happening!” Jeongin yells, throwing his bag onto a chair. “We’re fucking doing it!”

Minho doesn’t even look up. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Restoring the Mustang!” Jeongin says, grinning like an idiot. “We started on the engine today. You should’ve seen her. She’s so fucking smart. She was explaining all this technical shit, and I was just standing there like, ‘what the fuck?’”

“Not surprised,” Felix mutters, barely glancing away from the stove. “You’re an idiot.”

“Fuck off. Anyway, I held the flashlight like a goddamn pro. Didn’t drop it once. She even smiled at me.”

Jisung wanders into the kitchen. “You’re really out here bragging about holding a flashlight, huh?”

“Shut up,” Jeongin says, chucking a dish towel at him. “It’s progress.”

By the second week, Jeongin is full of even more stories. He bursts into Felix’s room one night, interrupting a casual gaming session. Felix is sprawled on the bed next to Minho, controller in hand, while Hyunjin sits on the floor beside Jisung, the four of them locked in a heated match of Mario Kart.

“Okay, okay, listen!” Jeongin says, plopping down onto the floor next to Hyunjin, his hair a wild mess and a streak of grease smudged across his cheek.

“Pause the game,” Minho mutters dryly, already guessing what’s coming.

“We replaced the carburettor today,” Jeongin says, breathless. “And get this, she let me tighten some bolts. Didn’t even double-check my work. Trust, you guys. That’s trust.”

“Or recklessness,” Minho deadpans, barely looking away from the screen.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jeongin says, though he’s grinning. “She even made me tea while we waited for a part to soak. It was kind of nice.”

Jisung snorts, not looking away from his kart. “Tea. How fucking romantic.”

“You’re just jealous,” Jeongin retorts, leaning back on his hands. “Bet no one’s ever made you tea while you fixed a carburettor.”

Hyunjin smirks, pausing the game and stretching his arms overhead. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re in simp mode.”

“I’m not fucking simping,” Jeongin snaps, his ears tinged red. “I’m just invested.”

“Sure,” Felix says, glancing up long enough to exchange a knowing look with Minho. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

At the end of week three, Jeongin stomps into the living room one evening, his hoodie streaked with grease and his expression sour. Jisung and Hyunjin are sprawled on the couch, while Minho sits nearby, his laptop open on his knees.

“Rough day, Romeo?” Minho asks, not even looking up.

“Fucking timing belt,” Jeongin mutters, throwing himself onto the couch between Jisung and Hyunjin. “We thought we had it, but the replacement part didn’t fit. She was so fucking pissed.”

Jisung perks up, his curiosity piqued. “Pissed at you?”

“No, dumbass. At the part,” Jeongin replies, throwing an arm over his face. “But honestly? It was kind of amazing. She gets all quiet and focused, and you can literally see her brain working overtime. It’s fucking unreal.”

Hyunjin nudges him with his elbow. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jeongin mumbles, though there’s no real heat behind it.

By the final week, the Mustang is nearly complete. You and Jeongin spend an entire day putting the finishing touches on it, working late into the evening. When the engine finally roars to life, the sound is deafening and so is Jeongin’s yell of triumph.

“Holy fuck!” he shouts, jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning. “We fucking did it!”

You grin, brushing your greasy hands off on your jeans. “Told you it’d work.”

Later that night, Jeongin practically kicks open the front door of the Alpha Phi house, his face flushed with excitement. The guys are all gathered in the living room, and they look up in surprise as he barrels in.

“It fucking works!” Jeongin yells, throwing his hands in the air. “The Mustang is alive!”

“No way,” Jisung says, sitting up straight. “You actually pulled it off?”

“We pulled it off,” Jeongin corrects, flopping onto the couch with a satisfied grin. “She did most of the work, obviously, but I was there. I tightened bolts. I replaced hoses. I got covered in grease. It was fucking awesome.”

Felix laughs from the armchair. “So, what now?”

Jeongin pauses, his excitement fading into something softer. “I don’t know. When the car started, she was so happy. Like, I’ve never seen her light up like that. It was kind of perfect.”

“Sounds like you’re ready for the next step,” Hyunjin says, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s the next step?” Jeongin asks, his voice quieter now.

“Ask her out, dumbass,” Minho says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been dancing around it for weeks.”

Jeongin hesitates, his grin faltering slightly. “What if she says no?”

“She won’t,” Felix says firmly. “She wouldn’t have spent all that time with you if she didn’t like you.”

Jisung claps Jeongin on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, lover boy.”

Jeongin exhales, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

The next afternoon, Jeongin stands in front of the small flower shop on the corner of campus, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. The display window is bright and vibrant, blooms of every colour arranged in chaotic harmony. Despite the cheerful exterior, his nerves are wound tight as a fucking drum. He stares at the flowers like they might offer advice, but they’re as silent and smug as always.

“Okay, Jeongin, you can do this,” he mutters to himself, earning a strange look from a passing student. He ignores it, takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open. The bell above the door jingles, its soft chime making his nerves spike further.

The shop is cosy, filled with the earthy scent of fresh flowers, damp soil, and just a hint of something sweet. Behind the counter stands a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. She looks up from trimming stems as Jeongin steps inside.

“Hi there,” she greets, her voice bright and chipper. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Jeongin scratches the back of his neck, his usual cocky demeanour faltering under the weight of this new territory. “Uh, yeah. I need flowers for someone. Like, congratulations flowers but also romance flowers? Does that make any sense?”

The woman’s eyebrow quirks up, her smile tilting into something amused. “That makes perfect sense. Tell me a little about the person.”

“She’s-” Jeongin pauses, his voice softening as your image pops into his mind. “She’s amazing. She’s smart and shy, but when she’s working on something, she just lights up, you know? She’s been busting her ass on this project with me, and I want to celebrate her. But, uh, I also want her to know I like her.”

The woman chuckles, nodding as she steps out from behind the counter. “Sounds like someone special. Let’s see-” She pulls blooms from different buckets, her movements precise. “Pink roses, classic for admiration and love. And daisies for celebration. Thoughtful but not too overbearing. How does that sound?”

Jeongin grins, his confidence returning a little. “Sounds perfect. You’re a lifesaver.”

When Jeongin shows up at Dewie’s auto shop later that day, the bouquet feels fragile in his hands, like it might crumble under the weight of his nerves. He rehearses what he wants to say under his breath as he walks through the door, already sweating through his hoodie.

Dewie is at the counter, sipping what looks like a truly heinous cup of black coffee. He raises an eyebrow as Jeongin strides in, bouquet clutched like a goddamn lifeline.

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Clueless Frat Boy,” Dewie says, smirking. “What’s with the flowers? You gonna apologize for breaking her wrench or something?”

Jeongin glares but doesn’t stop moving toward the back of the shop. “None of your business, old man.”

Dewie laughs, raising his coffee mug in mock salute. “Good luck, Romeo.”

When Jeongin steps into the garage, he finds you next to the Mustang, your focus entirely on sanding down the car’s exterior. You’re in black cargos again, snug and streaked with grime, paired with a fitted white tank top that clings to your frame.

Your trusty blue bandana keeps most of your hair out of your face, but a few strands escape, clinging to your cheeks from the sweat of the day. You don’t notice him at first, too engrossed in the repetitive motion of sanding, and Jeongin takes a moment to steady himself.

“Hey,” he says finally, his voice loud enough to carry over the faint whir of machines in the distance.

You glance up, startled, but your expression softens when you see him. “Oh. Hi.”

Jeongin steps closer, shifting awkwardly. “Busy?”

You set the sandpaper down, wiping your hands on a rag. “Kind of. Why?”

“These,” Jeongin says, holding up the bouquet like it’s a peace offering. “They’re for you. To celebrate the car. And, uh, just because.”

Your eyes widen, your movements faltering as you take the flowers gingerly. Your fingers brush his, and Jeongin swears his heart skips a beat. “They’re beautiful,” you whisper, glancing down at the delicate arrangement. “Thank you.”

Jeongin scratches the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “You deserve it. You worked so fucking hard on this car.”

You look at him, a small smile creeping onto your face. “You helped.”

“Barely,” Jeongin laughs, shaking his head. “I mostly held tools and asked dumb questions. But thanks for pretending I contributed.”

You laugh softly, the sound making Jeongin’s chest swell with pride. Setting the bouquet carefully aside, you nod toward the car. “Ready to paint this thing?”

“Hell yeah,” Jeongin says, rolling up his sleeves like he’s about to walk into battle. “Let’s make this car look as badass as you.”

You quickly grab a can of spray paint, shoving it into his hands. “Just follow my lead,” you mumble, but the faint smile on your lips gives you away.

The next few hours pass in a blur of laughter, paint fumes, and meticulous work. You coach Jeongin through the process, showing him how to hold the can and keep the spray even.

At first, he’s all over the place, but he improves with your patient guidance. By the time the Mustang is coated in a sleek, gleaming red, your arms ache, and the garage smells like a paint factory exploded, but the sight of the car makes it all worth it.

Jeongin steps back, admiring the Mustang with wide eyes. “Holy shit. It looks fucking incredible.”

“It does,” you agree, a note of pride in your voice as you run a hand along the freshly painted hood.

Jeongin glances at you, his pulse quickening. He rubs his palms against his jeans, gathering his courage. “Hey?”

You turn to him, tilting your head slightly. “Yeah?”

“So,” He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets, his confidence wavering. “You’ve spent all this time teaching me about cars and making me look less like a total dumbass. And I kind of want to thank you properly.”

You blink, confusion flickering across your face. “You already brought me flowers.”

“No, I mean,” Jeongin takes a deep breath, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Would you want to go out with me? Like, on a date?”

Your eyes widen, your breath catching for a moment. The garage feels deafeningly quiet, and Jeongin’s nerves spiral with each passing second of silence.

“It’s cool if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly, his voice softer. “I just thought-”

“I’d like that,” you interrupt as you smile shyly. “A date, I mean.”

Jeongin’s face lights up, his grin breaking into full force. “Really?”

You nod, fiddling with the edge of your tank top. “Yeah. I think it’d be nice.”

Jeongin pumps his fist in the air like a kid who just won his first carnival game. “Alright, it’s a date. I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow sounds good,” you say, your voice still quiet but warm.

As the two of you clean up the shop, Jeongin can’t stop grinning, his excitement radiating off him. When he leaves that night, he’s already planning every detail of the perfect first date, determined to make it just as memorable as the month you spent building something extraordinary together.

Jeongin practically kicks the front door open as he bursts into the Alpha Phi house, his energy crashing through the quiet like a fucking tidal wave. His grin stretches so wide it feels like it might tear his face in half, and the squeak of his sneakers on the hardwood floors only adds to the chaos of his arrival. He darts straight into the living room, barely noticing the half-empty beer bottles and the faint smell of stale popcorn.

The scene is the usual mess: Chan, Changbin, and Seungmin are sprawled across the couch with beers in hand, mid-debate over something that sounds suspiciously stupid. Meanwhile, Minho, Jisung, Hyunjin, and Felix are crowded around the coffee table, shouting over the remote as a dumb action movie plays on the TV, paused mid-explosion.

Chan’s the first to look up, raising an eyebrow at Jeongin’s theatrical entrance. “What the fuck’s got you so excited?”

Before Jeongin can say a word, Jisung perks up from where he’s perched on the arm of the couch, grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat. “Oh, you three poor, oblivious bastards. You’ve missed some big fucking moves lately. And by big, I mean colossal.”

Changbin snorts, tilting his beer can. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Jisung gestures dramatically toward Jeongin. “Let the man speak.”

All eyes turn to Jeongin, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. He doesn’t waste a second. “I’m going on a date!”

The room erupts like a bomb went off.

“HOLY SHIT!” Jisung yells, leaping off the couch and pumping his fists in the air like a lunatic. “FINALLY!"

Felix and Hyunjin immediately bolt upright, whooping as they grab Jeongin in a bone-crushing group hug. Minho’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off the arm of the chair he’s perched on, while Chan just shakes his head, bewildered by the chaos unfolding before him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, calm down,” Seungmin mutters, though there’s a flicker of curiosity in his tone. “A date? With who?”

Felix pulls away from the hug just enough to shove Jeongin back toward the middle of the room. “Tell them! Tell them everything!”

Jeongin’s practically glowing as he recounts it, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I brought her flowers, pink roses and daisies, ‘cause that’s apparently a thing, and we painted the Mustang today, and when we were done, I just fucking asked. Like, straight up. And she said yes.”

Minho claps him on the back, smirking. “See? The long game works. I told you.”

“Don’t inflate your own ego,” Jeongin says, laughing. “But yeah, it fucking worked.”

From the couch, Changbin raises a hand, clearly confused. “Wait, hold the fuck up. A date with who?”

“Y/N,” Jisung blurts, his tone smug as fuck. He shoots Jeongin finger guns like this is somehow his victory. “You know, Seungmin’s shy mechanic friend?”

Seungmin bolts upright, his beer almost toppling over. “Y/N?! You’re going on a date with Y/N?!”

Jeongin grins like a proud idiot. “Yup. She even smiled at me when I asked. Like, a real smile.”

Seungmin looks like he’s been hit by a truck. “You mean my Y/N? The one who overthinks everything and literally panics trying to order coffee?”

“Same one,” Jeongin says, still grinning. “And I met Dewie, too. He’s intense, but he’s cool.”

Seungmin groans, running a hand through his hair like he’s about to have an aneurysm. “Dewie? You met Dewie? That man will kneecap you if you so much as make her frown. I’m not exaggerating.”

“Good thing I don’t plan on fucking it up,” Jeongin says, shrugging. “Relax. I’ve got this.”

“Dewie aside,” Minho interjects, smirking, “this is cause for celebration. Do you even know how much fucking effort went into this? We’ve been working like the wheel dudes at the F1.”

“You mean the pit crew?” Seungmin deadpans, his tone flat.

“Yeah, that,” Minho snaps, rolling his eyes. “Point is, we made this happen.”

“You’ve been planning this for months?” Seungmin demands, glaring at Jeongin. “Without telling me?”

Jeongin shrugs, the picture of casual. “You’d have been mad.”

“I’m mad now!” Seungmin shouts, though there’s no real heat in his voice. “That’s my best fucking friend. If you hurt her-”

“I know the drill. Be nice. Don’t fuck it up,” Jeongin interrupts, grinning.

“You’d better,” Seungmin mutters, leaning back into the couch. “God help you if you don’t.”

Changbin leans forward, smirking. “So, what’s the plan for this date, Romeo? First dates set the tone, you know. You fuck this up, and it’s over.”

Jeongin’s grin softens, but his excitement doesn’t waver. “I’ve got ideas. I want to keep it low-pressure, something she’ll be comfortable with.”

Hyunjin whistles low. “Look at you. Planning shit out. I’m impressed.”

Felix claps Jeongin on the shoulder, grinning. “You’re gonna nail it. She wouldn’t have said yes if she didn’t like you.”

“Exactly,” Jisung adds, slapping Jeongin’s back so hard he nearly stumbles. “This is your moment. Don’t fuck it up.”

Jeongin raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I hear you. No pressure or anything.”

The room erupts in laughter and cheers again, and Jeongin feels his chest swell with pride. He knows the guys are rooting for him, and despite their teasing, their confidence in him makes him feel like he can actually pull this off.

As he settles into the chaos of the Alpha Phi living room, the thought of seeing you again tomorrow fills him with a mix of nerves and excitement. This date isn’t just a step forward. It’s the beginning of something he’s been quietly hoping for since the day you first knocked on the frat house door.

The classic car event is alive with the thrum of engines, the chatter of enthusiasts, and the faint scent of fuel lingering in the warm afternoon air. Rows of pristine vintage cars stretch out across the lot like an automotive museum brought to life.

Chrome gleams under the sun, polished to perfection, while proud owners lounge nearby, ready to swap stories or flex their hard work to anyone who stops to look.

Jeongin stands just outside the entrance, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He’s dressed in black jeans and a crisp white button-up, the sleeves rolled to his elbows in a way that makes him look effortlessly put together. But the way he keeps fidgeting with his cuffs gives him away, his nerves are in overdrive. He tugs at the hem of his shirt for what feels like the hundredth time, scanning the crowd until he spots you weaving through the chaos.

When he sees you, it’s like the world slows down for a second.

You’re wearing lavender cargo pants that sit snugly on your hips, paired with a cropped black lace camisole that makes his heart stutter for just a moment. Black Converse complete the look, scuffed enough to suggest they’ve been with you through thick and thin. A lavender hair clip holds most of your hair back, though a few strands fall loose, framing your face in a way that Jeongin can’t stop staring at. Black sunglasses perch on your nose, and you adjust them as you walk, the motion so casual yet so captivating that Jeongin feels his nerves vanish in an instant.

“Wow,” he breathes as you approach, his grin widening naturally. “You look fucking incredible.”

You smile shyly, one hand fiddling with the strap of your bag. “Thanks. You look really good too.”

Jeongin chuckles, his fingers brushing through his hair in an unconscious attempt to play it cool. “Ready for this? It’s loud as hell and probably overwhelming as fuck.”

You glance at the crowd, taking in the swirling chaos of people and cars, and then back at him. “I’ll be fine,” you say softly, your voice a little unsure but determined.

“Good,” Jeongin says, his grin steady as he falls into step beside you. “I’ve got you if it gets too much.”

The two of you start making your way through the lot, the polished cars glinting in the sunlight. Jeongin’s eyes are half on the vehicles and half on you. As you stop in front of a sleek black 1967 Camaro SS, he notices the way your shy demeanour seems to melt away, replaced by something brighter and more confident.

“That’s a 1967 Camaro SS,” you say, your voice calm but laced with excitement. “It’s got a 6.5-litre V8 engine. Iconic in drag racing because it was built for speed.”

Jeongin whistles low, leaning slightly closer to get a better look. “Damn, you really know your shit.”

You laugh softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I grew up around this. Dewie used to drag me to events like this all the time when I was a kid. I guess it just stuck.”

“Lucky Dewie,” Jeongin says, his tone light but genuine. “Wish I had someone teaching me cool shit like this growing up. All I know about cars is, well, what you’ve told me.”

You glance at him, your lips twitching into a small smile. “You’re not a bad student.”

He grins at the compliment. “And you’re a damn good teacher.”

As the crowd grows thicker, the noise and press of bodies start to feel suffocating. Jeongin notices how your steps falter, your shoulders stiffening slightly. Without a word, he holds out his hand, palm open and steady.

You hesitate, glancing at his hand before slipping your own into it. His grip is firm but warm, and the way his fingers curl gently around yours sends a surprising wave of calm through you. He doesn’t comment, just squeezes your hand lightly, his silent reassurance louder than words.

The two of you stop in front of a low-slung beauty with gleaming chrome accents. A 1964 Chevy Impala.

“This one’s a 1964 Chevy Impala,” you say, your voice regaining its steady rhythm. “It’s iconic in lowrider culture. The hydraulics make it bounce, and it became a huge part of the aesthetic.”

Jeongin tilts his head, studying the car with a newfound appreciation. “So it’s not just about looking cool, it’s about the vibe, right?”

“Exactly,” you say, your face lighting up. “It’s like an art form. Every lowrider tells a story.”

Jeongin nods thoughtfully. “That’s fucking cool. See, this is why I brought you. If I’d come here alone, I’d just be walking around saying, ‘That one’s shiny,’ and calling it a day.”

You laugh, a soft sound that makes Jeongin’s chest feel warm. “You’re not that clueless.”

“Eh,” he says, smirking. “You give me too much credit.”

After a while, Jeongin steers you toward a quieter corner of the event, where a beautifully restored 1970 Dodge Charger gleams under the sun. He stops in front of the car, his grin turning mischievous.

“So,” he says casually, “after this, we’re hitting a drive-in.”

Your head snaps toward him, surprise flashing across your face. “A drive-in?”

“Yup,” Jeongin says, leaning against the Charger like he owns the thing. “We’re watching Transformers.”

You gasp softly, your sunglasses slipping down your nose as you stare at him. “You’re kidding. I love those movies.”

“I fucking knew it,” Jeongin says, his grin growing cocky. “Alien robots turning into cars? Totally your thing.”

“Shut up,” you say, laughing as you swat at his arm. “They’re amazing, okay? Don’t judge me.”

Jeongin holds his hands up in mock surrender, though he’s clearly enjoying himself. “No judgment. I’m a genius for guessing right.”

“Smartass,” you mutter, though you’re smiling.

“Alright, since I’m such a genius,” Jeongin says, nodding toward the Impala, “how about you teach me more about this lowrider thing? I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

You roll your eyes but oblige, diving into an explanation of the car’s history and cultural significance. Jeongin listens intently, his hand still clasping yours as he alternates between watching your animated face and the cars you describe.

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, casting the event in shades of orange and gold, Jeongin feels like he’s learned more about cars, and about you, than he ever expected. As you both head toward the exit, your hand still in his, Jeongin can’t help but grin.

Jeongin pulls into the drive-in as the twilight sky gives way to the inky darkness of night. The massive outdoor screen flickers with pre-show ads, casting faint colours across the lot filled with cars. The smell of popcorn and sugary snacks drifts through the air, mingling with the low hum of idling engines and the buzz of voices from moviegoers settling in. Jeongin parks dead centre, a perfect spot, not too close to the screen but far enough from the busier clusters of cars.

He hops out of the car with the enthusiasm of someone who’s been planning this moment for weeks. Swinging open the trunk, he starts pulling out a carefully curated collection of pillows and blankets from the back.

There’s a plaid throw he stole from the frat house couch, a ridiculously soft fuzzy blanket he bought specifically for tonight, and a mismatched pile of pillows he’s swiped from his own bed and, maybe, Seungmin’s without asking.

Jeongin hums to himself as he arranges everything, fussing over the setup like he’s decorating a showroom. Every so often, he glances over his shoulder to check on you. You’re standing by the passenger door, fidgeting with the waistband of your lavender cargo pants. The black cropped lace camisole you’re wearing hugs you just right, but Jeongin can tell you’re overthinking the outfit from the way you keep tugging at the hem.

When he finally catches your gaze, he grins. “Oi, stop stressing and come over here. I went full Pinterest on this setup. Tell me it’s not amazing.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you walk toward him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously prepared,” he shoots back, stepping aside to reveal the setup in the trunk. The space looks like a cosy little nest, the blankets layered with precision and the pillows fluffed to an absurd degree. “I’ve outdone myself, haven’t I?”

You peer into the trunk, your lips twitching into a small smile. “It’s a lot. But it’s cute. I’ll give you that.”

“Cute is the vibe,” Jeongin says, crawling into the trunk with exaggerated care. He pats the spot beside him. “C’mon. This trunk isn’t gonna appreciate itself.”

You climb in, settling cross-legged on the blankets as Jeongin sprawls beside you, legs stretched out. From his hoodie pocket, he pulls out a plastic bag crammed with snacks.

“Alright, check this out. I raided the store like a fucking professional. I’ve got chips, candy, those overpriced mini ice cream tubs, and even gummy sharks. Your wish is my command.”

You blink at the array, clearly impressed. “You didn’t have to go all out, you know.”

Jeongin waves off your concern, tearing into a bag of sour candy. “What’s the point of a drive-in if you don’t go all out? Now, pick your poison. I got, like, three kinds of chocolate and enough sour shit to ruin your tongue for days.”

Smiling shyly, you grab a bar of chocolate from the bag. “Thanks. For all of this.”

Jeongin shrugs, popping a gummy shark into his mouth. “Easy. You're worth it.”

The opening scenes of Transformers begin to roll across the massive screen, and Jeongin leans back on his elbows, his attention half on the movie and half on you.

You sit cross-legged beside him, nibbling on the chocolate bar as you watch the screen, your face lit faintly by the shifting colours of the film and Jeongin can’t stop himself from sneaking glances at you.

At one point, you catch him staring. “What?”

Jeongin grins, his voice soft but teasing. “Nothing. You’re just really pretty.”

Your lips part but instead of deflecting, you lean forward, hesitating only a moment before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

For a second, Jeongin freezes, his brain short-circuiting. But then instinct takes over, and he kisses you back, his hand cupping your jaw gently as if he’s afraid you might disappear.

The kiss is slow at first, tentative, but it deepens naturally. The muffled sounds of the movie and the chatter from nearby cars fade into the background until it’s just the two of you, wrapped in each other.

As his lips move against yours, Jeongin shifts slightly, reaching up to grab the trunk handle. With a soft tug, he pulls it closed, sealing you both in the cocoon of blankets and pillows. The dim light filtering through the tinted windows casts everything in a muted glow, and the sudden privacy thickens the air between you.

Jeongin rolls onto his side, balancing his weight on his elbows so he’s hovering just slightly over you. “What about your alien robots?” he whispers, his lips brushing yours as he grins.

You smile, your voice barely above a murmur. “I’ve seen it before.”

Jeongin laughs, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your chest. “Fair point.”

He kisses you again, his movements slower but more deliberate this time. One of his hands skims down your side, resting lightly at your waist, while the other brushes back a strand of hair that’s come loose from your clip. Your fingers find their way into his hair, tugging lightly, and Jeongin lets out a quiet groan that sends shivers down your spine.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, his forehead pressing briefly to yours as he catches his breath. “You’re fucking amazing.”

Your shy smile returns, but there’s a newfound confidence in the way you pull him back down into another kiss, your hands threading deeper into his hair. The heat between you grows with every passing moment, your breaths mingling as the kisses become more urgent, more consuming.

The movie continues to play in the background, the flickering light of alien robots and explosions casting faint shadows across the trunk. But neither of you pays it any attention. In the small, cosy space you’ve carved out together, nothing else exists. Just the softness of the blankets, the warmth of Jeongin’s touch, and the electricity sparking between you with every kiss.

The muffled explosions and grinding metal of Transformers fill the car as Jeongin’s kisses deepen. His hands rest on your waist, the tips of his fingers brushing just under the hem of your camisole. His touch is firm but unhurried, like he’s savouring every second.

Your hands are tangled in his hair, tugging gently when he leans closer. The world outside the car, the other moviegoers, the faint sounds of laughter and popcorn rustling, is nothing more than a blur.

Then, with an obnoxiously loud clunk, the trunk pops open.

“Well, isn’t this cosy as fuck,” comes Jisung’s unmistakable voice, thick with amusement. “We thought we’d join you. Make sure Innie isn’t fucking this up.”

Jeongin groans audibly against your lips, pulling back just enough to glare over his shoulder. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

But Jisung, clearly having no intention of leaving, hops into the trunk with the agility of a hyperactive squirrel. He sprawls across the carefully arranged blankets and pillows, his shit-eating grin so wide it could light up the entire drive-in.

“Not kidding,” Jisung says cheerfully, adjusting a pillow behind his head. “Someone’s gotta supervise. You have a history of being a horny little shit.”

“Seriously?” Jeongin mutters, exasperated.

To make matters worse, Minho climbs in behind Jisung, moving with the nonchalance of someone who gives exactly zero fucks about personal space. He flops onto the blankets, crossing his arms as he stares at the screen.

“Nice setup,” Minho says, smirking. “Mind if we stay?”

Jeongin turns fully to glare at them, throwing his hands in the air. “Yes, I fucking mind! Get out!”

“Can’t,” Jisung says, shrugging. “It’s a free trunk. Movie law.”

Jeongin groans again, louder this time, and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I hate my life. But instead of wasting more energy on them, he turns back to you, his expression softening as he leans in to kiss you again.

You’re caught between embarrassment and laughter as Jeongin’s lips meet yours once more. His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face slightly to deepen the kiss. For a moment, it feels like the intruders aren’t even there.

“Aw, look at them go,” Jisung says loudly, his voice dripping with fake awe. “It’s like watching a rom-com but with more tongue.”

Jeongin pulls back just long enough to shoot Jisung a deadly glare. “Jisung, I swear to God, if you don’t shut the fuck up-”

Jisung grins, completely unfazed. “What? You’ll make out harder?”

Minho snorts, finally pulling his attention from the screen to deadpan, “Ji, stop being a noisy bitch for five minutes. Optimus Prime is talking.”

Jisung ignores him, sitting up and stretching his arms. “So,” he says, looking at Minho with exaggerated seriousness, “should we make out too? You know, balance the energy in here?”

Minho doesn’t even blink. “Shut the fuck up.”

“C’mon,” Jisung presses, leaning closer. “You know you want to. I see the way you look at me.”

Minho sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world, finally turning to glare at Jisung. “If I kiss you, will you shut the fuck up?”

Jisung’s grin widens. “Probably.”

Without a word, Minho leans in, planting the world’s fastest, most unimpressed kiss on Jisung’s lips before pulling away and returning his attention to the screen. “There. Happy?”

Jisung pouts. “That was barely a kiss. Where’s the passion, Minho? Where’s the fire? The tongue! I need tongue!”

Jeongin, who’s been watching this unfold with equal parts horror and amusement, finally breaks. “Holy shit. I fucking knew it. You two are into each other.”

You stifle a laugh, your hand coming up to cover your mouth. “Honestly,” you say, your voice soft but amused, “I thought they were already together. My gay radar must be slightly off which is mildly embarrassing considering Megan Fox in this movie was my gay awakening”

Jisung gasps dramatically, turning to you with wide eyes. “Another queer! Oh my God!” Without warning, he scrambles across the trunk and into your lap, throwing his arms around you like a particularly clingy cat. “We’re besties now. Sorry, Jeongin. She’s mine.”

Your laughter bubbles over, bright and uncontrollable, as Jisung snuggles against you. “You’re ridiculous,” you manage between giggles.

Jeongin stares at Jisung, his jaw slack. “Are you fucking serious right now? Get off her!”

“No can do,” Jisung replies, popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth like this is all perfectly normal. “I’m keeping her. She’s officially my emotional support gay.”

Jeongin throws his head back, groaning. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Minho, clearly done with the entire situation, mutters, “So do us straights just go fuck ourselves, or what?”

“Minho,” Jisung says sweetly, leaning his head against your shoulder, “you’re heteroflexible. Which means you live in the glorious denial glass closet where your gay thoughts stay nice and cosy.”

Minho deadpans. “I’m two seconds from throwing your ass out of this trunk.”

“Promises, promises,” Jisung replies with a wink.

You’re laughing so hard now that you’re practically crying, and Jeongin just shakes his head, his lips twitching into a grin despite himself.

“This is the weirdest fucking date I’ve ever been on,” he mutters, though there’s no missing the affection in his tone.

“Same,” you reply, resting your head against his shoulder. Jisung remains draped across your lap, happily munching popcorn, while Minho continues to glare at the screen, occasionally pelting Jisung with stray kernels.

Despite the chaos, there’s a warmth in the air that feels like belonging. It’s messy, loud, and a little ridiculous, but it’s perfect in its own fucked-up way.

general taglist: @nightmarenyxx

[herewegobebe]

ONEW | Griffin Insta Update 240511 🧡🐰

[omaano]

Are you still doing the trio prompts? If so, I humbly submit Rex/Obi/Cody for I1, or all of the "assigned baby by fandom" clones (Tup, Wooley and Comet) as K1

I'm still doing the trio prompts, and I'm finally about halfway done with them too! Thank you for the prompts, Anon, I could hardly pick (so in the end I didn't - but I'm posting them separately). I especially loved working on the "assigned baby by fandom" boys, thank you for picking such a lovely thing for them ❤️

Credit where credit is due: I've only ever seen Wooley as shiny-new in the show with no paint of his own, so I ended up using @yukipri's wonderful paint design for him (since I'm pretty sure that if Comet and Tup have their paint then Wooley should definitely has his worn in as well)

Polyamorous/platonic poses for sketching

and the other drawings I’ve made for them