#Datsun go

[kitts-mechanix]

I love this! The bit about their vehicle modes requiring less processing power is interesting. I can totally see Starscream going for random flights to clear his head (I think I saw a headcanon somewhere that the flying ones have a psychological need to fly).

I was watching the og 80s Transformers show some days ago. And I got the hc that when Starscream has time, he likes to transform into his jet-mode and just fly for hours, just to clear his head when the pain and frustration of his life (how nobody takes him seriously or respects him, Megatron's abuse, etc) gets to be too much. Kind of like a person going for a long walk or drive to relax.

I hc that when in their transportation form, Transformers' thoughts are not quite as complex, another reason they're not as efficient as their robot forms. (I'm *not* saying they lose any of their sentience at all tho, I just imagine they don't have to use as much processing power). This makes it easier for them to have downtime and relax.

And I like to imagine that Starscream loves flying, as it's the only time that he feels free and at peace.

Honestly, I see this as the case for *all* versions of Screamer.

(I am still VERY new to Transformers, and my friend recently introduced me to the franchise and to Starscream; so, if there's anything inaccurate or stupid about what I said, please forgive me)

[gadicampus]

Exploring Value-Packed Excellence: Top 5 SUVs in India Under 6 Lakhs

When it comes to the Indian automobile market, the demand for SUVs is on a constant rise. With their practicality, versatility, and commanding road presence, SUVs have carved a significant niche for themselves. If you're on the lookout for a budget-friendly SUV that doesn't compromise on features, we've curated a list of the top 5 SUVs in India under 6 lakhs that offer exceptional value for your money.

1. Renault Kwid: Renault Kwid has gained immense popularity for its SUV-like design and affordable pricing. With its muscular stance, functional features, and touchscreen infotainment system, the Kwid offers a compelling package. It's ideal for urban commutes and occasional road trips, making it a favorite among budget-conscious SUV enthusiasts.

2. Maruti Suzuki S-Presso: Maruti Suzuki's S-Presso offers a unique blend of compact dimensions and SUV-inspired styling. Its high ground clearance and peppy engine make it suitable for city driving as well as tackling rough roads. The S-Presso's spacious cabin, touchscreen infotainment, and safety features contribute to its value proposition.

3. Datsun redi-GO: The Datsun redi-GO brings a refreshing design to the entry-level SUV segment. With its modern looks, fuel-efficient engine, and decent ground clearance, the redi-GO is a practical choice for urban adventurers. The car's affordability, coupled with features like keyless entry and spacious interiors, make it a noteworthy contender.

4. Tata Tiago NRG: Tata Tiago NRG is a rugged variant of the popular Tiago hatchback, with SUV-inspired elements. It offers higher ground clearance, roof rails, and protective cladding, giving it a sporty crossover appearance. The Tiago NRG is equipped with modern features like touchscreen infotainment, making it an enticing option for those seeking a budget SUV with style.

5. Mahindra KUV100 NXT: Mahindra's KUV100 NXT presents a mini-SUV experience with its distinct design and spacious interiors. With a youthful appeal, the KUV100 NXT boasts impressive headroom, comfortable seating, and an array of safety features. It's a suitable choice for those who prioritize space and utility in a budget SUV.

In your pursuit of the perfect budget SUV, consider factors such as fuel efficiency, features, safety, and maintenance costs. Each of these top 5 SUVs offers a unique combination of attributes, catering to different preferences and requirements.

If you're eager to delve deeper into the specifications, features, and comparisons of these SUVs, gadicampus.com is your ultimate guide. Explore our platform for comprehensive insights, expert advice, and detailed reviews on a wide range of car models, ensuring you're equipped to make an informed decision.Visit https://gadicampus.com/ for more details regarding latest cars and bikes.

[identifying-cars-in-posts]

I GOT A NEW CAR

Everybody meet the new baby that i will never shut up about forever!

This is Clifford the Third, my new 1996 Nissan Pickup!! I probably paid too much for her but given that I live in Massachusetts and she has virtually no rust I’m okay with that lol.

So a brief history of the Nissan Pickup! These trucks were released in the US in 1985 and were sold through 1997, when they were replaced with the Frontier. They were the successor to the beloved Datsun 720, which had been in production since 1979. They are in fact just called the Pickup! They’re colloquially known as the D21 - their chassis code, and the Hardbody, because of the double walled durable construction of the trucks’ bed.

The D21 was available with a couple different engines and drivetrain layouts. Mine is a 4x4 with the KA24 motor (which it shared with the 240SX/Silvia). She’s also a King Cab, meaning she has a slightly elongated wheelbase to allow for two small inwards facing jump seats in the back of the cab. Still a two door though.

AND SHE’S A STICK! She has a 5-speed manual transmission, and it’s the best transmission i’ve ever personally had in a car. She’s my third manual, the other two being a 1999 Toyota Corolla and a 2004 Subaru WRX, both of which were great but the Corolla had a really sloppy gearbox that felt incredibly vague at times, whereas the WRX had a sportier transmission that was pretty unforgiving and stiff. This one is definitive about where each gear is, but also won’t get too jerky or loud if you shift a little early or late.

Nissan Hardbody trucks are known and loved for their durability, versatility, and simplicity. They’re super bare bones but what they do have is built remarkably well and meant to withstand lots of abuse. If they don’t rust and have basic maintenance kept up it’s not uncommon for them to go 300k+ miles with minimal issues. Mine has around 184k miles, high but manageable. She also has a few modifications from the previous owner, namely a straight piped exhaust (no muffler, just one big long aluminum tube), aftermarket bumpers and lights, locking hubs, and a small lift. The guy i bought it from had plans to make it an off-roader but had too many projects and needed to offload one to make space in his driveway.

While many people either take these off-roading or turn them into drift trucks, my plan is to bring her back to mostly stock. I’m in the process of tracking down OEM bumpers and a more typical cat-back (from the catalytic converter back) exhaust system so she’s a little less obnoxiously loud. Since i mostly just need reliable transport more than a toy and she is now my sole car, I want to just make her relatively normal. But I love her a lot and am happy to be able to share!

[luciacaminoz]

for the kiss prompt. trail or shoulder pretty, please, if you haven't gotten one of them yet

Cicatrix (2.2k, nsfw)

March 2021

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

The hacienda crouches like a gutshot animal, bones aching, in northern Nuevo León’s Great Plains.

Cracked adobe walls are bleached silver under the new moon, terracotta roof tiles shattered by cartel gunfire, the courtyard trashed and overgrown. A tiny outbuilding is in the process of caving in on itself, periodically huffs rust-colored stucco dust up into the blue night air. Two fountains dry-choke on bougainvillea and sun-baked snakeskin across the way; meters more from that, Elena finishes securing a tarp over the Camaro and Datsun, lit Marlboro dangling between her lips.

Inside the villa smells of moldering drapes, rat piss, bat shit, the cloying rot of marigolds left too long in a crypt, and Kindred barbecue.

There’d been a cell of SI keeping eyes on the US side of the Laredo borderplex, DAAE heavy all up and down on the Mexican—a dragonsbreath round had kissed the meat high on Julian’s left shoulder, shredding tacky guayabera into ashen lace, holy fire cooking flesh to sinew within seconds.

Vitae crusts the gape now, hours later, like molten obsidian. It’s a cratered mess of blackened tissue, bone shards, winking buckshot. Blood bubbles where blisters have peeled back at the edges, muscle fibers knitting and unknitting grotesquely in real time.

Faith’s a bitch when it’s seared into your spine.

Nadia’s voice crackles over the comm:

“Perimeter’s clear, for now. No drones. SI’s still chasing ghosts in Laredo.”

Julian strains to keep his voice steady.

“And the DAAE fuckers? They had to be waiting for someone with a line-up like that. Ping the Denver hub. Tell them we need satellite thermal of—“

“Already done,” she says. “I’m watching the feed. Elena’s going to rig motion sensors at the entrance too. Then—” A pause; mumbling in the background. “Oh. She said you owe her tacos.”

“Put it—fuck, Sol, gentle! Look, if we get to Monterrey in one piece I’ll buy you and Elena a fucking buffet every night we’re there, Nads—each. Just keep me posted if you see anything. Closing comms.”

Sol’s nails—precise, claw-sharp, but not yet fully distended—pluck another phosphorus fragment free. Smoke mixes with the scent of scorched-copper sweat. She works methodically, scraping holy rot from muscle, tendon, the jagged gap where his scapula should be. Julian’s knuckles bleach. Her left hand’s poised infinite with a pair of surgical tweezers, ready once the bulk of the larger debris is finally dislodged.

“Fuck,” Julian hisses. His face presses rigid against the moth-eaten chaise. He’s sweat-slick and shirtless and sickly, lying flat on his stomach, Sol sitting solid on his back. Her thighs bracket his sides, keeping him mostly still as she leans over the wound, penlight between her teeth, but he trembles like a kitten beneath her.

Looming behind are two portraits of a dead hacendado’s family, faces scratched out, one riddled with bullet holes. This room is mostly bare otherwise, apart from a termite-split side table, scattered shell casings, smashed liquor bottles, and the chaise.

A small effigy of Christ crucified, plucked from the chapel, leans crooked at the far wall, thorn rusted to scabs on his brow, plaster ribs cracked open. Chicken wire cradles a fat black kingsnake in His chest. Some fuck sprayed ¡Viva la Muerte! across the talavera wallpaper.

“One more,” she says. It’s mumbled around the plastic in her mouth. It’s also a lie—there’s at least three that she can see, cruel and glittering.

She pries out a dense shard of silver-coated fletchette engraved with Psalm 91; tosses it onto the floor with a plink. Julian’s fingers dig into the guts of the upholstery, tearing at rancid stuffing, fangs punching through his bottom lip to stay quiet.

His skin sizzles like bacon grease.

She winces.

“…Two more.”

“Oh my god, fuck you, Sol.” He’s half-laughing, half-crying, eyes rimmed red.

His muscles twitch and spasm wherever she touches—shock or hunger, probably both. Part of the shoulder continues to blister and knit, blister and knit, over and over, curse fighting consecration. The skin on his back’s fever-hot, thrumming with the effort of Blood-forced regeneration.

Her claws retract with a snickt. She flexes her fingers, then the tweezers, then removes the penlight.

“You’re lucky they couldn’t aim. A few more inches and this would’ve severed your neck. Shit. Can’t grow back a head—especially not one as big as yours.”

He mimics her voice, pitch-perfect:

“Oh Julian, who’ll fuck me through server racks now—”

She flicks his ear.

Next shard’s lodged deep in the posterior deltoid. Sol worms it loose with the tweezers, trying to ignore how his groans hitch. Her free hand braces his hip, thumb brushing the jut of bone.

“Almost.” She says it softer than she intended.

Another short tug and the shard pops free. Julian sags, panting and babbling.

“Fuck the SI,” he rasps. “Fuck their… fucking mall ninja… holy hand grenade bullshit—fuck, Sol, I’m not even Christian—”

“Shh.” She keeps drawing circles on his hip, soothing him a moment between torture.

The snake uncoils, sinuous, tongue flicking when she drops sanctified shrapnel to the saltillo tiles. Sol watches it, then Julian’s wound.

His back gleams moon-pale under the gore—taut, silk-smooth, untouched by time or sun. The rest of him is all soft, milky skin; lean frame, corded muscle, a slight dusting of babyfat that stayed into his mid-twenties. He’s perfectly unscarred, she knows, except for an old dog bite on his right thigh when he was a ten year old in ‘79.

Sol traces the wound’s ridged edges.

Julian turns his head, cheek pressed to grubby velvet.

“You’re shaking. Want me to hold the tweezers?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Cállate,” she snaps.

Julian grins, all teeth, clumsy fangs.

“Say that again.”

“Cállate la boca.”

He closes his eyes and faux-moans theatrically.

“Now say it dirty.”

She doesn’t. Instead, her mouth finds his cheek, his jaw, the strip of neck just under his ear, her nose brushing piercings—trailing featherlight kisses that make him still.

“Last one,” she murmurs.

The final fragment glints near his spine—jagged, thumb-sized. She braces one hand on his lower back.

"Do your worst."

"Bite down, princeso."

"On wha—”

She rips it out.

Julian's snarl shakes dust from the rafters, the chaise, Sol on top of him. His veins stand ropey—the tendons in his hands could cut fucking glass. Then he chokes a gasp, body falling limp, sweat beading at the corners of his jaw.

The kingsnake tenses where it’s begun curling around Christ's neck.

"Fuck. That one was deep.” His voice shakes.

Sol inspects her handiwork, chest flat against his back—up this close, the wound pulses heat like a second mouth. His insides aren’t actively cooking anymore, at least.

Her tongue flicks a swollen vein on impulse. Julian's hips jerk, a wet sound punching out of him.

Sol hesitates—then gouges into her tongue.

Her own vitae oozes syrupy thick onto the crater and she spreads it along, lapping around bitter, burnt edges.

“Sol—” Julian arches, spine bowing.

It isn’t healing, not really, but it clots the worst of what she’s torn out, sealing capillaries, cleaning tissue, puckering skin—a small stop-gap for Blood and Curse stitching meat and flesh stop-motion later, once Julian has properly fed.

Fuck, it tastes like ash and battery acid. Sol gags twice, but she’s spent a decade controlling the compulsion to purge. She spits a wad of black viscera onto the floor. Charred fibers squirm like maggots.

Again, her tongue drags vitae up the seared canyon of his shoulder, tender. Julian's good arm reaches back until he grips her thigh. His hips are grinding into the chaise, cock trapped against velvet, a low whine building in his chest.

"Solona—"

She continues wordlessly; her lips brush a half-healed tendon, but her hand slips beneath his weight, slides under his waistband, snakes between his legs. She palms him in time with her mouth mapping ruin.

Julian’s head drops forward. The noise he makes is obscene, rattling loose in his throat. She tightens her thighs around him.

The kingsnake watches, unblinking.

At the deepest fissure, Sol sucks—gently—until his own blood runs sleek; just vitae, just him; ozone-sharp, monsoon-rush; charged-manic-overclocked.

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

A whimper escapes him when she grasps tighter, strokes faster. His hips stutter, fucking up into her fist with a broken rhythm.

Sol’s mouth doesn’t leave his wound—she laps like something starved.

The kingsnake coils tighter around Christ’s throat, eyes reflecting the glow of the penlight where it’s rolled to the floor. Its tongue flicks, tasting the air.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck—Solona, please—” Julian’s voice cracks, high and desperate. His fingers dig into her thigh. “I can’t—I can’t fucking think—”

Aila’s gone, but the memory of tearing into her—the Elder’s vitae cold, clumped, thick as tar, bitter as bile; the hint of sumac and soaring—

Sol pulls herself back from drinking—barely.

Her fangs are suddenly uncomfortably large. She feels dazed; hand on autopilot as she unlatches and stares down at his shoulder. It’s still a fucking mess—spiderwebbing black—but the edges are angry, glistening, pink—no longer smoking and sloughing away.

Her thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing vitae-slick down the shaft. She presses her stained lips to the shell of his ear.

“All this big talk about collapsing the Masquerade, and you’re gonna come in your pants like a fucking teenager?”

Julian’s laugh is half-choked.

“Fuck—you’re evil—”

She twists her wrist, nails scraping lightly along his balls, and his hips slam into the chaise hard enough to splinter the frame.

She can feel his orgasm building—the way his cock jumps, the way his thighs tremble, the strangled whines he’s biting into rotten velvet.

The kingsnake—Chisme, Sol has idly named it—drops from the effigy with a soft thud.

“Sol, wait—wait—”

Her teeth close on his earlobe, sharp but not breaking skin. She sucks—hard.

Julian comes undone hot in her hand with a punched-out moan. She pumps him slow through it, thumb caressing his tip.

The hacienda breathes for them—rotted wood creaking, Chisme’s scales rasping over split saltillo.

When she finally releases him his hips jerk once, sensitive. Sol sits back and licks her fingers.

Julian lies boneless under her weight, face buried in the chaise.

She can’t help herself:

“You’re welcome.”

He huffs, stirring dust motes.

“Oh, for the half-dead hand job? Yeah, gracias mamacita.”

Sol actually laughs, bright and real and unguarded, as she shifts off of him.

Julian rolls onto his good side, sitting up with a wince, then drags a hand down his face. He’s grey-limned, pupils blown black and glassy with pain and hunger, but he’s smiling.

“Worst time and place to do it, too. Fucking… Splinter Cell level.”

“Someone needs to keep you humble these nights.” She holds a lukewarm O-neg against his lips. “Drink.”

He does, greedily, throat bobbing, wild eyes never leaving hers as she stands between his thighs. Her pinky brushes a thin trail of blood at his chin; Julian suppresses a shiver.

Once he drains it, she tosses it aside.

Chisme strikes towards the wrinkled plastic—and Sol immediately changes her mind.

“No,” she snaps, bolting to flick the snake’s snout. It recoils, hissing, and she bares her own fangs until it retreats.

Julian’s grinning while he watches her snatch up the empty bag and shove it back into the kit for decidedly later disposal. He chews his lip, fangs still sharp; looks like he’s about to say something… but then he shakes his head, black hair falling over his eyes.

His hair’s a disaster, by the way.

Sol pulls baby wipes, a change of clothes from the duffel—throws them at him. She takes the gauze and begins wrapping his shoulder in the meantime. Lupine country isn’t the place to heal agg.

His skin’s cooler now. She ignores the relief that brings.

“The safehouse is about an hour away—just inside Monterrey,” he says, more to fill the silence. “Small underground server farm we can run ops from for weeks. Cold storage. Even a jacuzzi.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Nope. Rented an apartment in the city for scouting, too.”

She snorts. Ties off the bandage.

“Monterrey’s got a night market. We could hit it after the bunker. Get churros. Sneak into a lucha libre match.”

“We’re not tourists, Julian.”

“We could pretend.”

Sol pauses.

He catches her wrist, thumb circling the scorpion tattoo.

Elena stomps in.

Julian doesn’t let go.

“Hey, we need—” Elena looks at Julian. “Jesus, put a shirt on, Zuckerberg.” Back to Sol. “We need to get moving���two DAAE SUVs headed this way, ETA forty minutes.”

“Shit. Give us five.”

“I’ll prep the cars. Again. Hurry, fuckers.”

Julian laughs a little, stirring Sol’s baby hairs.

She moves away to start gathering whatever she can find back into the kit—gauze, tweezers, penlight, the most intact piece of shrapnel in a ziploc bag. Julian’s already on the comms ordering Nadia to reroute signals. Sol grabs a baby wipe from his pack and scrubs her face.

Once they’re packed and Julian’s dressed, he shrugs on his go-bag, hissing when the strap bites his wound. Sol steps close, adjusting the weight slightly.

“Thanks,” he says softly. He presses their foreheads together. “And thank you. For… earlier. For being here.”

It hangs between them, frail and awkward. Julian never thanks. Not even after all the bullshit in Tucson. Julian asks: what do you want, kid?—transactional; gratitude deployed like a phishing scam.

She doesn’t respond.

She fists his new shirt, pulling him into a hug—too desperate, grasping. He stiffens, then arms circle her waist. He dips slightly, turns his face against her cheek; lips graze her scar, trailing it mouth to ear. Her nose brushes his ruined shoulder.

She kisses him there, once.

That already says too much.

[ previous prompts ]

[seeminglydark]

I did this on ig, and thought it would be fun to do a little round up of the arts I’ve made of their punk and cheerleader years here, too.

1. When he’s trying to convince you to hang out with him instead of going to the game after-party

2. The Datsun! Time to set a plan of escape into motion.

3. Sneaking out with Sully, Georgie and Dee on your 16th birthday.

4. Being chased by a monster and oh by the way I think I’m transgender. He is unfazed.

5. Nap time after defeating said monster

6. Can’t cut your hair cuz your parents are insane but you can wear his hat and oversized hoodie for now

7. Can’t go to Seattle Pride but he brought some of it back for you

8. Took you to Seattle anyway later, and of course it rained.

9. Everything is going to be ok, we still have the sun.

10. Until we don’t. I love you I love you 💔

Carrie and Sully are the highschool version of my characters Caro and John from my webcomic, Mil-Liminal

[estellan0vella]

My Very Own Speed Demon: K.S Kim Seungmin x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 15.5K

CW: Seungmin is bad at feelings, talks of a guy making reader uncomfortable with touching, Mechanic Student Seungmin, Hyunjin is a bit of an ass

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The sun sinks lower, painting Miroh College in golden hues as shadows stretch lazily across the almost-empty parking lot outside the engineering building. The faint hum of machinery fades into the evening air as Seungmin steps out, rolling his shoulders with a slight groan. His black shirt hangs open, the silver chain on his chest catching the light with every movement. He wipes his slightly greasy hands on a rag stuffed into his back pocket, his boots scuffing against the pavement as he heads toward his car.

But something halts him. A few rows down, parked like a relic from a cooler era, is a 1977 Datsun 280Z. The hood’s popped open, and standing in front of it is you.

You’re bent slightly over the engine, your phone in one hand as the other gestures vaguely toward something under the hood. A quiet sigh escapes you as you tilt your head, clearly deep in a YouTube tutorial. The sunlight plays off the chain belt draped around your waist, your layered necklaces, and the flutter of your blue maxi skirt. A loose strand of hair brushes against your face as you mumble softly to yourself, brows furrowed in concentration.

Seungmin slows, lips twitching into a barely restrained smirk. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath. You’re cute. And absolutely lost. Before he realizes it, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he strides toward you.

When he’s close enough to see the way you’re squinting at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, he clears his throat. “You’re looking at the wrong engine model.”

You jolt like you’ve been shocked, nearly dropping your phone as you whirl around. Your wide eyes meet his, and your voice comes out breathy, startled. “Shit, you scared me!”

Seungmin raises his hands in mock surrender, the silver rings on his fingers glinting. His smirk deepens. “Sorry, sorry. I just couldn’t help noticing you looked like you were fucking struggling.”

Your cheeks flush, but you huff out a laugh despite yourself. “Yeah, well. I don’t know jack shit about cars, so I’m improvising.” You gesture toward the duct tape crisscrossing random parts of the engine. “This seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Seungmin leans closer, eyebrows raised as he inspects the tape job. “Jesus Christ. That’s a lot of duct tape.”

“Duct tape works,” you insist, crossing your arms in a half-defensive, half-sheepish posture.

He straightens up, deadpan. “How’s it working for you right now?”

Your lips twitch, trying not to laugh. “Okay, point taken.”

He snorts, rolling up his sleeves as he steps closer to the car. “Mind if I take a look? Because this thing isn’t running without some proper help. And no offence, but I don’t think YouTube’s got you covered.”

You hesitate for a moment, then sigh, stepping aside. “Go ahead. I’d appreciate it. Just, please don’t tell me it’s completely fucked.”

He leans over the engine, peering into the mess of parts. “Probably just your spark plug. Maybe the alternator if you’re really unlucky. But this? This is salvageable.”

You lean against the side of the car, watching him as he works. The way his fingers move over the parts, quick and sure, makes you feel a little less panicked. “The grease on your face tells me you’ve done this before, so I have faith in you"

Seungmin glances at you, smirking. “You should probably raise the bar for what counts as a ‘professional mechanic.’ But yeah, I’ve worked on cars since I was a kid and I'm a mechanics student. You’re in decent hands.”

“Well, considering I almost called Hyunjin to come save me, you’re already a fucking upgrade,” you admit with a small laugh.

He freezes for a split second, looking up at you. “You know Hyunjin?”

“Yeah,” you say, tucking your phone into your bag. “We’re supposed to be working on this art history project together. He’s going to fucking kill me for being late.”

That earns you a quiet laugh as Seungmin wipes his hands on his rag. “You’re meeting him at the Alpha Phi house?”

You blink at him in surprise. “Wait, you’re in Alpha Phi?”

He shrugs, leaning casually against the car. “Yeah. I'm Seungmin. I live there with him and the other idiots.”

A grin tugs at your lips. “I'm Y/N and Hyunjin's mentioned you. Mostly just complains about you being soulless.”

Seungmin snorts. “Sounds about right.” He glances back at the engine, then at you. “Hate to break it to you, but this car isn’t going anywhere until you replace the spark plug. You’re fucked for tonight.”

You groan, pressing a hand to your forehead. “Of course I am. That’s just perfect.”

“Hey,” he says, his tone softening slightly. “I’m heading home anyway. Why don’t you let me give you a ride? It’s either that or you haul your ass across campus alone.”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you weigh your options. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you or anything.”

Seungmin tilts his head, his voice calm but teasing. “What kind of dick would I be if I let a pretty girl with good taste in cars walk all the way to campus alone?”

“The same kind of dick as most of the guys on this campus?”

He bursts out laughing, shaking his head. “Well, they’re all assholes. I’m not.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, and you push off the car. “Alright, fine. Let me grab my bag.”

As you fall into step beside him, he shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing at you sideways. “So, art history, huh? What’s the project?”

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s on Tudor art. Specifically how Anne Boleyn’s image was erased after her execution. Hyunjin’s handling the movement and symbolism stuff.”

Seungmin groans, rolling his eyes. “That tracks. Hyunjin loves overanalyzing the fuck out of everything. Half the time, I think he’s just making shit up to sound smart.”

You laugh softly, your steps matching his as the two of you head into the twilight.

The drive to the Alpha Phi house is unexpectedly comfortable, considering you’re riding with a guy you’ve known for all of ten minutes. Seungmin’s Honda Civic smells faintly of coffee and motor oil, and the faint hum of the engine is almost soothing as it cuts through the winding streets of Miroh College. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curious about this sharp-tongued yet oddly chivalrous stranger. He’s relaxed, one hand gripping the wheel while the other rests on the gear shift, the silver rings on his fingers glinting in the muted streetlights.

Seungmin breaks the silence first, his voice dry but not unkind. “So, why a 280Z?”

You blink, his question catching you off guard. “What do you mean?”

He flicks his gaze toward you briefly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his eyes return to the road. “It’s a cool car, sure. But let’s be honest—it’s a high-maintenance pain in the ass. And judging by your duct tape situation earlier, I wouldn’t peg you as the ‘engine whisperer’ type.”

You laugh softly, your fingers fiddling with the bracelets on your wrist. “Okay, fair enough. I’m not exactly a mechanic. But it was my dad’s car. He restored it when he was in college, and it’s been in the family ever since. It’s sentimental, you know?”

His smirk softens into something more genuine, and he nods. “Yeah. I get that.”

The car falls into a comfortable quiet again, broken only by the soft buzz of the engine and the occasional sound of tires crunching over the asphalt. The two of you fill the gaps in the silence with casual conversation. You complain about campus parking, and he counters with a running list of the best parking spots he’s commandeered over the years. 

He mentions a coffee shop near the library that’s cheap but “doesn’t taste like watered-down pretentious-cunt water,” and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. When you bring up how much you love late-night drives, his face lights up just slightly, and he shares how he used to drive aimlessly to clear his head when shit got overwhelming.

By the time he pulls up in front of the Alpha Phi house, its massive white columns glowing in the night like some over-the-top temple to chaos, you’re almost disappointed that the ride is over.

The house looms ahead, loud even from the outside. Someone’s yelling from the second-floor window, and you catch a glimpse of a guy leaning halfway out, waving his arms. “For fuck’s sake, Chan, shut up and come back in before you fall!” someone shouts from inside.

Seungmin just shakes his head, exhaling sharply as he pulls into the driveway and cuts the engine. “Every day, I wonder why the fuck I still live here,” he mutters under his breath, grabbing his keys.

You step out of the car and sling your bag over your shoulder, smoothing your skirt as he leads the way up the wide, creaky steps. The faint light from the porch lamp glints off the chain around his neck as he digs into his pocket for the keys.

“Hyunjin’s probably upstairs,” he says, unlocking the door with a practiced ease. “You’ll hear him before you see him.”

The door creaks open, and the chaos of the frat house spills out into the night. Inside, the space is somehow both clean and a complete disaster. The floors are clear of clutter, but the mismatched furniture in the living room is piled with discarded hoodies, random solo cups, and what looks suspiciously like a pair of boxers. A giant flat-screen TV blares some football highlight reel, and the faint smell of beer, sweat, and something burnt lingers in the air.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say quietly, taking a tentative step inside. The house feels like it’s pulsing with energy—voices shouting, footsteps pounding, someone laughing like a maniac in the kitchen.

Seungmin shrugs, brushing past you toward the noise. “No problem. Hyunjin’s room is upstairs, last door on the left. Just tell him I didn’t kill you or anything.”

You smile a little at that and nod, heading toward the stairs. The wooden steps creak under your Converse, and the sounds of the house get louder with each step. Behind one door, someone’s blasting music—something heavy and bass-driven. Behind another, you hear what sounds like a heated debate about the “existential meaning” of SpongeBob.

Finally, you reach the last door on the left. You knock softly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you wait.

“Come in!” Hyunjin’s voice booms out almost immediately, loud and theatrical as always.

You push the door open to find Hyunjin sprawled dramatically on his bed, his long limbs draped across the comforter like he’s auditioning for some avant-garde art piece. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, and his golden hair is messy in a way that looks too good to be accidental.

“Took you fucking long enough,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “I was about to start working without you.” His eyes land on you, and then narrow slightly. “Wait—how the fuck did you even get here? Did you walk?”

“No,” you say, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. “Your friend Seungmin gave me a ride. My car decided to fuck me over in the middle of the engineering lot.”

At the mention of Seungmin, Hyunjin groans, flopping back onto his bed like the mere thought of his frat brother is exhausting. “Of course he did. Bet he was an absolute cunt about it too, wasn’t he?”

You laugh softly, setting your bag down on the chair near his desk. “He was actually pretty nice. Surprisingly helpful, considering the duct tape situation.”

Hyunjin snorts, propping himself up on his elbows. “That asshole’s full of surprises. Don’t get used to it, though. He’s usually too busy being a sarcastic dick to help anyone.”

You smile faintly, settling into the chair and pulling out your notes. “He’s not that bad.”

“Trust me,” Hyunjin says, grabbing a notebook from the floor and flipping it open. “You haven’t known him long enough yet. Give it time.”

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, the chaos of the house fading into the background as you dive into your project.

Seungmin steps into the kitchen, popping the tab on a cold beer before leaning against the counter. The sound of the aluminium can hissing open is barely audible over the general buzz of conversation. He takes a long, quiet swig, hoping for just a moment of peace. But when he lowers the can, he immediately notices it. Six pairs of eyes fixed on him like vultures circling a fresh carcass.

Minho, Felix, Jeongin, Changbin, Jisung, and Chan sit scattered around the dining table, their expressions ranging from smirking amusement to outright glee.

“So,” Chan starts, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms like he’s conducting some kind of frat house tribunal. “She was cute.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

“You fucking heard me,” Chan replies, his smirk widening. “The girl. The one who came in your car.”

Minho snickers, lazily spinning a pen between his fingers. “Yeah, I saw her. Very your type. You into hippies now?”

Felix immediately elbows Minho in the ribs, his voice sharp with mock outrage. “Shut the fuck up, Minho. She wasn’t a hippie; she was hot.”

Seungmin groans, tipping his head back and muttering to the ceiling like it might spare him. “Here we fucking go.”

“You don’t just offer a girl a ride unless there’s something there,” Jeongin cuts in, his grin pure mischief as he leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.

Seungmin shoots him a glare. “Her car was busted, and it was getting dark. What was I supposed to do, leave her there to get mugged or some shit?”

Jisung raises a hand like he’s in class, his grin borderline feral. “Counterpoint: You’re totally the guy who lets people fend for themselves because you’re too busy being a soulless bastard”

Changbin chuckles, lifting his can in a mock toast. “Be honest. You didn’t give her a ride because you’re a nice guy. You did it because she’s hot, right?”

Seungmin takes a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his patience thinning with every word. When he sets it down, he exhales sharply. “From an objective standpoint, sure. She’s, objectively speaking, good-looking. I can admit that.”

“‘Objectively,’” Jisung parrots, squinting at him. “Why the fuck do you keep saying it like that?”

Jeongin smirks, leaning forward with his chin resting on his palm. “Because our boy here doesn’t know how to handle the fact that he just lived a fucking meet-cute.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t pop out of his skull. “I don’t know her. I gave her a ride, that’s it. The end. Stop making this a fucking thing.”

“Yet,” Changbin drawls, grinning like he’s cracked the code. “You don’t know her yet. But you could.”

“This isn’t a fucking fanfiction,” Seungmin snaps, slamming his beer down on the counter hard enough to make the others laugh. “Alright? This is real life. She’s not some pixie dream girl who’s gonna change my fucking world or whatever.”

“Relax,” Jisung says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “We’re just saying it’s a possibility. You’ve got the whole oil-smeared, black-on-black, moody mechanic thing going for you. Girls eat that shit up.”

“Exactly,” Jeongin agrees, nodding sagely. “She’s probably already imagining you fixing her car shirtless in slow motion. Hell, I’m imagining it.”

“Fucking gross,” Seungmin deadpans, shaking his head as the table dissolves into laughter.

Chan raises an eyebrow, his voice mockingly serious. “You’re saying there’s no chance, none at all, that she might’ve been a little into you?”

Seungmin stares at him, his tone flat. “Zero. I’m the asshole who told her duct tape isn’t a real fix and then made her leave her car in the lot. Really romantic.”

“That’s your version,” Felix says with a grin. “Her version is probably all, ‘Oh my God, this sexy, grumpy mechanic saved me and then gave me a ride in his cool car.’”

“It’s a Honda Civic,” Seungmin mutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jisung replies. “You’re a walking Wattpad trope right now.”

Seungmin sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re all idiots. I helped her out because it was the right thing to do. That’s it.”

But as their teasing fades into background noise, Seungmin can’t help the way your face lingers in his mind. The way you’d smiled at him, soft and sweet, like you weren���t sure if you were supposed to but couldn’t help it anyway. The way you’d laughed when he’d called you out on your duct tape fix, not defensive, just genuine. And the way you’d looked so at ease in the passenger seat of his car, your hair catching the light from the streetlamps as you told him about your dad’s 280Z.

He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts aside. This is nothing. Just a pretty girl who needed a ride.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself as he finishes his beer and listens to his friends laugh.

The autumn sun bathes the campus in golden light, shadows stretching across the cobblestones as Seungmin strides toward the café. The crunch of fallen leaves under his boots echoes in the crisp air, his every step purposeful but unhurried. His black compression top clings to his frame, the fabric outlining his shoulders and arms. The silver chain against his chest catches the light as he shifts the strap of his bag, his fingers absently toying with the chunky rings that gleam on his hand.

He spots the café ahead, its tables littered with students hunched over laptops, sipping steaming cups of caffeine. His plan is simple. Grab coffee, kill some time, and enjoy the rare peace between classes. But as he rounds the corner, the sight of you freezes him mid-step.

You’re standing near the entrance, your sage green blouse slipping slightly off one shoulder, the delicate strap of your bra peeking out. Layers of necklaces glint against your skin, and your chain belt sways with every tiny shift of your weight. You’re smiling, polite but clearly uneasy, as a Sigma Chi douchebag looms too close. His navy sweatshirt emblazoned with the frat’s oversized logo makes Seungmin’s lip curl immediately.

“You’re such a fucking tease, you know that?” the guy sneers, his voice dripping with mockery.

Your polite smile falters, but you hold your ground, your tone gentle despite the venom aimed at you. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think—”

“Bullshit,” the guy cuts you off sharply, his voice rising. “You were sweet as fuck at the party, all flirty and cute. Now you’re ghosting me like I’m some fucking loser? What the fuck is that about?”

Seungmin’s jaw tightens. The guy’s posture, leaning in with fake bravado, makes his blood simmer. You’re too nice, too soft-spoken, trying to defuse the situation instead of telling this idiot to fuck all the way off. Not on Seungmin’s watch.

“Hey, Y/N!” Seungmin calls out as he strides toward you.

Your head snaps to him, relief flashing across your face. “Oh! Hi, Seungmin!” The brightness in your voice is unmistakable, and you take a step toward him, only for the Sigma Chi asshole to block your way.

The guy sneers, glancing between you and Seungmin. “Kim Seungmin? Really? You’re ditching me for this fucker?”

Seungmin’s boots crunch loudly against the gravel as he closes the distance. His sharp eyes narrow, and his voice drops, calm but laced with menace. “Got something you want to say, Sigma Chi?”

The guy stiffens but holds his ground, though the confidence in his sneer wavers. “Yeah. I’m saying she’s ditching a real man for some emo mechanic wannabe. That about cover it?”

Seungmin tilts his head slightly, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Funny. You sound like a lot of talk for someone who’s about five seconds away from having their teeth kicked in.”

The frat guy falters, glancing around to see if anyone is watching. Seungmin steps closer, his boots scraping loudly against the pavement, and lowers his voice. “Walk away, asshole. While you still have a choice.”

The guy scowls but backs off, muttering something about “fucking losers” under his breath as he storms off. Seungmin watches him go, the tension in his posture easing only once the guy is out of sight.

“Fucking dickhead,” he mutters before turning his attention back to you. “You alright?”

You nod, your fingers fidgeting with the bracelets on your wrist as you take a steadying breath. “Yeah. I didn’t know how to get him to leave without making it worse.”

“You don’t have to,” Seungmin says simply. “Guys like that don’t deserve your time. Next time, just tell him to fuck off.”

You laugh softly, though it’s tinged with a bit of nervousness. “Easier said than done.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says, his voice lighter now, though the edge of protectiveness hasn’t left. He tilts his head toward the café door. “Come on. Let’s get coffee before some other Sigma Chi asshole shows up.”

You fall into step beside him, the warmth of the café greeting you as you step inside. The scent of fresh coffee and pastries wraps around you like a blanket, and the low hum of conversation fills the space.

“Grab a seat,” Seungmin says, gesturing toward the tables. “I’ll order.”

You choose a small table by the window, your nerves finally settling as you watch him at the counter. He exchanges a few quick words with the barista, his tone casual but confident, and a few minutes later, he’s making his way back to you with two drinks in hand.

He sets a cup in front of you before sliding into the seat across from you. “Chai latte,” he says. “Figured that’s more your speed than straight black coffee.”

You blink, pleasantly surprised. “How’d you know I like chai?”

He shrugs, smirking faintly as he takes a sip of his own drink. “Lucky guess. You just seem like the type.”

You chuckle, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. “Well, thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Least I could do,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his silver rings tapping lightly against the ceramic mug. “That guy was a fucking disaster.”

You trace your finger around the rim of your cup, your voice soft. “He wasn’t always like that. We just didn’t click, and I thought he’d understand, but I guess not.”

Seungmin snorts, setting his drink down with a small thunk. “Yeah, because entitled shitheads like him don’t take rejection well. They think they’re God’s gift to the world and lose their shit the second someone disagrees.”

You smile faintly, though there’s a sadness in your eyes. “I just try to see the good in people. Maybe that’s stupid.”

He watches you for a moment, his eyes softening. “It’s not stupid. It’s just risky. Too many people out there are assholes, and being nice doesn’t mean they’ll stop being assholes.”

You nod, taking a sip of your latte and you glance up at him with a small smile. “Well, I’m lucky you were there.”

“Damn right, you were,” he says with a smirk. “Seriously, though. If some other dick tries that shit, call me. I’ll handle it.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “What, glare them into submission?”

“Exactly,” he deadpans, taking another sip of his drink. “It’s a very refined technique.”

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, and the tension from earlier melts away completely. Seungmin surprises you with his dry humour and blunt honesty, and before you know it, the conversation flows easily, dipping into random topics and shared complaints about campus life.

When you finally leave the café, the sun has dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the quad. Seungmin walks beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets as the two of you approach the main campus intersection.

“You heading to class?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Art history in ten.”

He nods. “Workshop for me. Another day of fixing shit that some moron broke.”

You laugh softly. “Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it’s a fucking thrill,” he replies with a faint grin.

At the intersection, you pause, turning to face him. “Thanks again, Seungmin. For everything.”

He nods, his expression softening. “Anytime. Just don’t let assholes like that ruin your day, alright?”

You smile warmly, your voice quiet but sincere. “I’ll try.”

With a small wave, you head off toward your class, and Seungmin watches you go, the sound of your footsteps fading into the autumn breeze.

He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. You’re sweet, soft-spoken, and far too good for this world. And somehow, you’re starting to get under his skin.

The Alpha Phi house looms ahead as you walk up the driveway, your oversized portfolio folder tucked under one arm. The autumn breeze toys with the hem of your blue maxi dress, making it swirl around your ankles as you climb the steps to the front door. Stray strands of hair escape from the clip holding them back, brushing against your face as you adjust the strap of your bag and shift the weight of the folder. Your mind is focused on Tudor art, Anne Boleyn, and the mountain of work you need to finish before tomorrow—definitely not on how chaotic the frat house is probably about to be.

You knock lightly on the door and step back, waiting. The sound of heavy footsteps grows louder before the lock clicks, and the door swings open to reveal Seungmin, barefoot, in grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a white t-shirt clinging to his damp frame. A towel hangs loosely around his neck, his dark hair tousled and still wet from a shower. The sight is so effortlessly casual yet striking that it catches you off guard, and for a second, you forget why you’re even here.

His sharp gaze flicks to the massive portfolio folder you’re holding. “Jesus Christ,” he deadpans, leaning against the doorframe. “That thing’s almost as big as you.”

You huff a soft laugh, shifting the folder to rest it against your hip. “Well, Tudor art’s got a lot of depth. It’s heavy, literally and metaphorically.”

Seungmin’s lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Right. Deep. Heavy. Bet it’s still more entertaining than the shit Hyunjin tries to call art.”

You grin, your voice light as you step past him into the house. “Oh, it’s profound. Intricate. Emotionally moving. You’d love it.”

The house, predictably, is chaotic but lively. There’s the faint sound of a video game coming from one of the rooms down the hall, the kitchen smells faintly of burned something, and a pair of sneakers is inexplicably hanging from the banister. You glance around, searching for any sign of Hyunjin.

Seungmin notices your scanning gaze and rubs the back of his neck. “About that,” he says, his voice edged with mild irritation. “Hyunjin left, like, twenty minutes ago. Went to meet up with that Marissa girl.”

Your shoulders slump slightly as you let out a quiet sigh. “Of course he did. Perfect timing as always.”

Seungmin shrugs, dropping the towel onto the back of the couch and crossing his arms. “If it helps, I can try to help you out. And by help, I mean I’ll sit here, look up shit on my laptop, and let you do all the actual work.”

Your grin softens into something more genuine. “That would actually be amazing. Thanks, Seungmin.”

He jerks his head toward the stairs. “Come on. It’s quieter in my room.”

You follow him up, navigating past a stray hockey stick and what looks like a torn-out couch cushion, until you reach his room. It’s surprisingly neat—especially for a frat house—with a neatly made bed in one corner, a desk covered in mechanical tools and textbooks, and walls lined with posters. Your gaze lands immediately on one—a half-naked woman straddling a motorcycle, her pouty lips and sultry gaze seeming comically out of place compared to the otherwise functional vibe of the room.

“Wow,” you say, unable to suppress a small laugh. “A half-naked girl on a motorcycle? Real classy.”

Seungmin glances at the poster, his smirk returning. “What can I say? It’s vintage. Been with me since I was thirteen. Practically a family heirloom at this point.”

You hum thoughtfully, setting your portfolio down on the bed. “I had Bruno Mars on my wall. Right next to Edward Cullen.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Bruno Mars and Edward Cullen? What a lineup.”

You shrug, your lips quirking. “I was multifaceted.”

“Clearly,” he says, smirking as he leans back on his hands. “But Edward Cullen, though?”

You nod, unzipping your portfolio. “Oh, obviously. A staple for any teenage girl. But for the record, I was team Alice.”

That makes him pause, his brow furrowing slightly. “Team Alice? Not team Jacob or Edward?”

“Too mainstream,” you say with a grin. “Alice deserved better. She’s underrated.”

Seungmin lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I can’t even argue with that.”

You settle cross-legged on the bed, flipping through the pages of your portfolio and spreading your sketches and notes across the comforter. Seungmin leans forward slightly, picking up one of your reference images.

“So,” he says, studying the sketch of a Tudor-era portrait. “What’s the big project?”

“It’s about how Anne Boleyn’s likeness was erased after her execution,” you explain, pointing to a specific note scribbled in the margin. “They painted over her portraits, rewrote history through art. It’s fucked up, but it’s also fascinating. Some of her portraits survived, though. It’s like this tiny act of defiance against a system that tried to erase her completely.”

Seungmin traces his thumb along the edge of the image, his dark eyes thoughtful. “That’s some heavy shit. People really went that far to bury her?”

“Yep,” you reply, smoothing out another page of notes. “Art’s more powerful than people realize. It can tell the truth—or rewrite it. That’s what makes this so interesting. It’s like solving a mystery but through brushstrokes and canvas.”

He watches you for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. The way your eyes light up, your voice gaining a quiet confidence as you explain something you’re clearly passionate about—it’s distracting in a way he didn’t expect. And maybe doesn’t entirely hate.

“Alright,” he says finally, snapping out of it. “Tudor art, huh? I think I’ve got some old books on restoration techniques that might help.”

You blink, surprised. “You do?”

He gets up, heading to his desk and rummaging through a small shelf. “Yeah. Took an elective on historical restoration last year. Figured I’d keep the books in case I needed them. Didn’t think they’d actually be useful, though.”

You watch as he pulls out a few worn textbooks, his movements efficient but with an almost surprising gentleness. He tosses them onto the bed beside you.

“Here,” he says. “See if there’s anything in there you can use.”

You pick up one of the books, flipping through the pages with growing excitement. “Seungmin, this is perfect. Thank you.”

He sits back down, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “No problem. Just don’t let Hyunjin take all the credit for this shit.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “He’s not that bad.”

Seungmin snorts, his smirk turning sharp. “Sure he’s not.”

Seungmin leans back against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him, one foot tapping lazily against the edge of the bed. He watches you sketch in your portfolio, the soft scratch of your pencil filling the otherwise quiet room. The occasional rustle of paper or your quiet hum of concentration is the only sound beyond the faint chaos filtering in from the house downstairs. 

For a moment, he just observes. The way your brow furrows slightly as you work, how the delicate chain around your neck glints every time you shift positions.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his tone dry. “So, how many times has Hyunjin ditched you for shit like this?”

You pause mid-sketch, glancing up at him with a small shrug. “It’s not that bad,” you say. “He lets me use his printer when I need it. Mine broke a while ago, and I haven’t replaced it yet.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his smirk sharp as a blade. “Do you own anything that actually works, or is your whole life just duct tape and crossed fingers?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “A few things work. My blender’s still going strong.”

“Great,” he deadpans, gesturing at the mess of notes and sketches spread across the bed. “And how much of this ‘collaborative’ project is actually Hyunjin’s work?”

You hesitate before flipping to a single page in your portfolio, its sparse, half-assed notes glaringly out of place among your meticulously detailed work. You push it toward him, your lips twitching in a sheepish smile.

Seungmin peers at it, his expression blank for a beat before he lets out a low whistle. “Holy shit,” he mutters, leaning back. “He’s really pulling his weight, huh?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “He’s busy, I guess.”

“Yeah, busy being a useless dick,” Seungmin says bluntly. “Honestly, you should erase his name from the project and turn it in as your own. Fuck him.”

Your eyes widen, and you immediately shake your head, scandalized. “I can’t do that! He could fail!”

“And?” Seungmin’s gaze sharpens, his voice edged with disbelief. “That’s his problem. You’re the one busting your ass here. What’s he even doing, fucking Marissa while you save his degree?”

You groan softly, dropping your pencil and fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “It’s not that simple. I don’t want to screw him over.”

Seungmin sighs, his tone exasperated but not unkind. “Then you need to tell him to step the fuck up. You’re not his babysitter.”

You grimace, avoiding his eyes as you pick at a loose thread on your skirt. “Confrontation makes me feel like I’m going to physically die.”

He snorts, his lips curving into a smirk as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yeah, you seem like the type who’d eat around a deathly allergen just to avoid ‘causing trouble.’”

Your silence is damning. You don’t even look up.

“Oh my fucking god,” Seungmin says, his voice laced with incredulity. “You’ve actually done that, haven’t you?”

You groan softly, covering your face with your hands. “I had my EpiPen! I was being polite!”

He stares at you for a long moment before letting out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You risked death to be fucking polite? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Peeking at him through your fingers, your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “To be fair, the coconut added to the flavour. I wasn’t even mad when my throat started closing up.”

Seungmin’s jaw drops, and he shakes his head, looking genuinely appalled. “What the actual fuck? You’re insane. Like, genuinely fucking insane. Who the hell does that?”

You shrug, biting your lip to hide a laugh. “It was a really good dessert.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath. “You’re gonna be the fucking death of me.” When he looks back at you, there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, though his voice is firm. “You’re unbelievable. Sweet, sure. But fucking unbelievable.”

“I just don’t like making people feel bad,” you say softly, fidgeting with your pencil again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” he counters, his voice dropping into something almost serious. “You shouldn’t have to risk your life or your grade just to keep everyone else happy. That’s not how it works.”

You glance at him, surprised by the sudden edge in his tone. The usual sarcasm in his voice is gone, replaced by something quieter, heavier. It’s unexpected, but it doesn’t feel unwelcome.

“Maybe you’re right,” you murmur, your gaze flicking back to the portfolio spread across the bed. “But it’s hard. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

Seungmin leans back against the headboard, watching you for a long moment. His expression softens just slightly. “Standing up for yourself isn’t causing trouble,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s just making sure people don’t walk all over you. And trust me, people will walk all over you if you let them.”

You nod slowly, taking in his words as you absently trace the edge of your sketchbook. For a moment, the room is quiet again, save for the faint noise of the frat house below.

Seungmin’s voice cuts through the silence, light and teasing once more. “So, about the coconut. Did someone finally figure out you were dying, or did you just sit there and wait for your ‘polite death’?”

You laugh softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “One of my friends noticed and freaked out. She basically tackled me and stabbed the EpiPen into my leg while I was trying to tell her it was fine.”

Seungmin lets out another laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re lucky you’ve got people watching out for you, because clearly, you won’t do it yourself.”

You stick your tongue out at him, earning a sharp smirk in return. “Maybe I’ll start being more assertive. After this project is done.”

“Good,” he says, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms. “Because if you let Hyunjin keep pulling this shit, I’m gonna start calling you Saint Y/N. Patron fucking saint of doormats.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Fine, fine. I’ll try to stand up for myself. No promises, though.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his smirk laced with challenge. “I’ll believe it when I fucking see it.”

And though he’s teasing, there’s something in his voice that feels almost encouraging, like he might actually believe you can do it.

The house hums with faint background noise as Seungmin sits cross-legged on his bed, the fan lazily pushing air through the room. Your portfolio rests open in front of him, the pages fanned out carefully on the comforter. His sharp eyes flick over your sketches, pausing on the intricate lines and shading of Anne Boleyn’s face.

One piece in particular, a half-finished sketch of Anne wearing her iconic "B" necklace, makes him stop. Her expression is soft but haunted, the shadows under her eyes suggesting both weariness and resilience. It’s not just good; it’s fucking captivating.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, running a thumb along the edge of the page. “She's talented as fuck.”

He leans back, letting his head rest against the wall as his thoughts drift. He’s not sure what it is about you that keeps grabbing his attention. Maybe it’s the way your sweetness feels genuine, like it hasn’t been diluted by the world yet. Or maybe it’s the quiet determination you carry, even when people like Hyunjin leave you holding the bag.

The thought of Hyunjin makes his jaw tighten. That asshole.

By the time Hyunjin walks through the door later that night, the house is alive again. Bowls of Minho’s kimchi jjigae are being passed around the living room, the spicy, rich aroma filling the air. Seungmin sits on the floor, his back against the couch, spooning stew into his mouth like it’s his last meal.

The front door opens with a bang, and Hyunjin strides in, looking far too pleased with himself. His hair is slightly mussed, and he hums under his breath as he kicks off his sneakers. Before he can even greet anyone, a slipper flies through the air, smacking him square in the face.

“What the fuck?!” he yells, stumbling back and clutching his nose. His wide, offended eyes dart to Seungmin, who’s glaring at him.

“You,” Seungmin says, setting his bowl down on the coffee table with deliberate care, “are fucking lucky Y/N is too nice for her own damn good.”

The chatter in the room screeches to a halt. Chan, perched on an armchair, raises an eyebrow and gestures vaguely with his spoon. “Alright, what the hell is happening?”

Seungmin doesn’t even glance away from Hyunjin as he explains. “Our dear friend here has left Y/N to carry their entire art history project on her back. She’s done everything, while he’s done jack fucking shit.”

Minho, who’s leaning casually against the wall with a beer in hand, lets out a low whistle. “Classic Hyunjin move. Should’ve seen it coming.”

Hyunjin groans, rubbing the spot on his cheek where the slipper hit him. “She said she didn’t mind! I asked her if she needed help, and she told me it was fine!”

“Of course she did,” Seungmin snaps, his glare intensifying. “Because she doesn’t like confrontation, you absolute dickhead. And you fucking know that.”

“That’s rough, man,” Felix says from the couch, slurping his stew loudly. “Kinda makes you a cunt, doesn’t it?”

Hyunjin groans again, throwing his hands up. “Okay, okay, I get it. I fucked up. What do you want me to do?!”

Seungmin doesn’t even hesitate. “Pay for her car repairs.”

The room goes completely still. Then, one by one, everyone nods in agreement.

“Yeah,” Chan says, pointing his spoon at Hyunjin like a judge passing down a sentence. “That’s fair.”

“Her car’s a fucking 280Z,” Minho adds, taking a swig of his beer. “Repairs aren’t cheap. Pay up, Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin looks around the room in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “You guys are ganging up on me! What the fuck!”

“No, what the fuck is you,” Seungmin snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “You owe her. If it weren’t for her, you’d fail that class. Pay for the fucking car.”

Hyunjin sighs heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. Fucking fine. I’ll pay for her car repairs. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Seungmin says flatly, picking up his bowl of stew again. “And if you flake on this, I’ll throw something heavier than a slipper next time.”

“Like what?” Hyunjin challenges weakly.

“Like the fucking coffee table,” Seungmin replies without missing a beat.

The room bursts into laughter, but Hyunjin mutters under his breath as he grabs a bowl of jjigae for himself. Changbin, seated on the floor with his legs stretched out, nudges Seungmin with his foot. “You really stepped up for her, huh? Study buddy and all.”

Hyunjin squints at Seungmin, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Wait. You? Helping with art? What’s next, you learning to waterpaint?”

Seungmin glares at him, but the heat doesn’t quite reach his voice. “I know how to read, dumbass. It’s not that hard to help someone find sources.”

Jeongin smirks from his spot by the coffee table, resting his chin in his hand. “Nah, it’s not just that. Seungmin’s got a soft spot for her. We all see it.”

Felix leans forward, his grin mischievous. “Yeah, the mean mechanic act breaks real quick when she walks in with her flowy skirts and shy little smile. You’ve got a thing for her, don’t you?”

Seungmin flips him off with zero hesitation, his eyes narrowing. “Eat shit, Felix.”

“I’m just saying,” Felix continues, unbothered. “You’re kinda protective for someone who’s ‘just helping.’”

“I don’t have a fucking thing for anyone,” Seungmin retorts, shoving a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “She needed help, so I helped. End of fucking story.”

“Right,” Jisung says, drawing out the word with an obnoxiously knowing smirk. “Totally believable.”

Seungmin groans, standing up and grabbing his empty bowl. “You’re all fucking insufferable.”

As he stalks out of the room, the sound of their laughter echoes behind him. But as much as he tries to ignore their teasing, the image of you sketching quietly on his bed lingers in his mind.

Maybe they’re not entirely wrong. But he’s not about to admit that. Not yet.

The late afternoon sunlight slants through the wide windows of the Alpha Phi living room, turning the room golden and catching motes of dust as they swirl lazily in the air. The mismatched furniture gives the space a slightly chaotic charm. Minho is sprawled on the couch like a cat, his cherry-red hair catching the sunlight as he lazily flips through a magazine about exotic pets. A faint smirk plays on his lips, suggesting he’s less interested in the articles and more in the idea of tormenting his housemates with his next grand idea.

Chan is perched on the armrest of the couch, his easy grin in place as he scrolls on his phone. His head bobs faintly to the playlist humming from a speaker tucked in the corner.

The peace doesn’t last.

Seungmin walks in, his boots heavy against the floor, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black cargos. His shoulders are tense, his jaw locked tight, and his sharp eyes dart around the room like he’s searching for something or someone to aim his frustration at.

Minho looks up first, instantly zeroing in on Seungmin’s sour expression. He doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. Sunshine himself,” he drawls, tossing the magazine onto the cluttered coffee table. “What’s got your panties in a twist today?”

“Fuck off,” Seungmin snaps, sinking into the armchair across from them with all the grace of a dropped anvil. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and drags a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath.

Chan raises an eyebrow, setting his phone aside. “Uh-oh. You look like you’ve been thinking too hard. What’s going on?”

Minho leans forward, his smirk sharpening like a predator scenting blood. “Yeah, Seungmin. Lay it on us. Who pissed you off now? Or is this your natural state?”

Seungmin glares, his gaze flicking between them like he’s debating whether or not to just leave. But the weight in his chest refuses to budge, and he knows he’s going to explode if he doesn’t say something.

Finally, he exhales sharply, his voice low and tight. “It’s about Y/N.”

Minho and Chan exchange a quick glance, eyebrows shooting up in unison. Minho’s grin stretches wider, and Chan’s expression softens with interest.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Minho says, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Go on, lover boy. We’re listening.”

Seungmin scowls, but the heat in his glare feels more defensive than angry. “I don’t know,” he mutters, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I’ve just been thinking about her. A lot. And it’s fucking annoying.”

“Thinking about her how?” Minho presses, his tone a mix of curiosity and outright glee.

“Fucking... I don’t know! Like that!” Seungmin snaps, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “That’s why I’m asking you two assholes. What the fuck is going on with me?”

Minho’s grin turns predatory. “Oh, you absolute dumbass. You like her.”

Seungmin freezes, his sharp gaze snapping to Minho. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Chan says immediately, clapping his hands together like he’s just cracked the case of the century. “It’s so fucking obvious. How do you not know this?”

Minho cackles, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. “Are you emotionally stunted, or just slow on the uptake?”

“Probably both,” Seungmin mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, this is fucking stupid.”

Chan’s grin turns fond, his voice teasing but not unkind. “Oh, Seungminnie. You’re so cute when you’re like this.”

Seungmin flips him off without hesitation. “Don’t fucking start.”

Minho tilts his head, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re really out here having a whole-ass existential crisis because you caught feelings. It’s almost... endearing.”

“Fuck you, Minho,” Seungmin bites out, though his tone lacks any real venom. “I didn’t ask to be analyzed. I just want to know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about it.”

Minho sits up, rubbing his chin like he’s deep in thought. “Well, for starters, you could try not being such a cold, emotionally constipated robot. That might help.”

Seungmin glares, leaning back in the chair. “So helpful. Thanks.”

Chan chuckles, reaching over to pat Seungmin’s shoulder. “He’s right, though. If you like her, you’ve gotta stop acting like a brooding asshole and actually talk to her. You’re good with words when you want to be.”

“Yeah, but not like that,” Seungmin mutters, crossing his arms. “What the fuck do I even say? ‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about you a lot and it’s annoying as fuck, so maybe we should go out?’”

Minho bursts out laughing, nearly falling off the couch. “That’s... wow. No. Don’t say that.”

Chan shakes his head, biting back his own laughter. “Just be honest, man. You don’t have to make it weird. She’s the type who’d appreciate the truth.”

Seungmin sighs, tipping his head back against the chair. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I just fuck it all up?”

Minho snorts. “Then at least you’ll know instead of sitting here stewing like a fucking idiot. Either way, it’s a win for me. Free entertainment.”

“Go to hell, Minho,” Seungmin mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Chan chuckles, his voice softer now. “You’ll figure it out, Seungmin. Just don’t overthink it. You’re not as bad at this stuff as you think.”

Minho hops off the couch with a shit-eating grin. “And if you fuck it up? Well, we’ll all be here to laugh about it.”

Seungmin sighs heavily, standing and heading for the kitchen. “You’re all fucking insufferable.”

In the kitchen, he grabs a beer from the fridge and twists the cap off, taking a long swig before leaning against the counter. Minho and Chan follow him, their shit-eating grins still firmly in place.

“So,” Minho begins, hopping onto the counter and dangling his legs like a kid on a swing. “What’s the grand plan, Romeo?”

“There is no fucking plan,” Seungmin mutters. “I’ll keep helping her with her project and hope I don’t make things weird.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a plan. That’s avoidance.”

“Thanks for the analysis, Freud,” Seungmin deadpans, taking another swig of his beer.

Minho nudges him with his foot. “You like her. Just admit it to yourself and do something about it. Don’t be a coward.”

Seungmin sighs again, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m not a coward. I just don’t want to fuck up something good, alright?”

Chan claps him on the back. “Then don’t. Keep it simple. Honest. She’ll appreciate that more than anything.”

Minho grins smugly. “And if she doesn’t? Well, at least we’ll have fun watching you crash and burn.”

Seungmin glares at him, but the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Go fuck yourself, Minho.”

Minho smirks. “Already planned for later.”

Seungmin groans, pushing off the counter and heading for the stairs. “You’re fucking unbearable.”

Minho’s laughter and Chan’s chuckling follow him as he heads back to his room, but even with their teasing, Seungmin feels a little lighter. Maybe, just maybe, he can figure this out.

The low whir of Seungmin’s fan hums through the room as you sit cross-legged on his bed, your laptop balanced precariously on your thighs. Stacks of old books are scattered around you, a testament to the marathon research session you’ve been enduring. The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the room. You’re wearing a light summer dress, its fabric brushing against your skin as you adjust your position, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh. Strands of your hair have slipped out of the clip holding it back, framing your face as you squint at your screen.

At his desk, Seungmin leans back in his chair, his black sweatpants and tight tank top clinging to his frame in the warm room. One hand flips through a heavy book on Tudor history, the other absently twirling a pen. His brow furrows in concentration, but every so often, his gaze flicks to you. Curious, amused, unreadable.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “So,” he starts, his voice slicing through the hum of the fan, “have you talked to Hyunjin yet?”

Your fingers pause mid-typing, and you glance up, blinking. “Uh, no. I don’t think I need to. It’s not really a big deal.”

Seungmin’s pen drops to the desk with a loud clink, and he swivels to face you, his expression flat but his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, sure. Not a big deal. He slacks off, you do all the work, and he gets to keep floating through life like a fucking golden retriever on vacation. Totally fine.”

You shake your head, a soft laugh escaping despite yourself. “He didn’t mean to slack off. He’s just... busy.”

“With what? Pouting for his Instagram stories?” Seungmin leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. His sharp eyes glint with mockery. “Come on, Y/N. Don’t let him off the hook so easily. I could shave one of his eyebrows off.”

You laugh again, waving him off. “Seungmin, no. It’s fine, really. I’ll just finish the project, and we’ll move on.”

“Yeah, no.” He stands abruptly, his chair squeaking against the floor. “That’s not happening. Get up.”

You blink at him, confused. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to teach you the art of confrontation,” he says, walking over to you with an air of finality. He holds out a hand, clearly expecting you to take it. “And before you say anything, no, you don’t get a choice.”

You lean back, groaning. “Oh no. I’m bad at that. Absolutely not.”

“Exactly why we’re doing this.” He grabs your hand, his grip firm but not forceful, and pulls you to your feet. 

The movement sends your laptop sliding precariously to the side of the bed, and you hastily catch it before steadying yourself. Your dress brushes against his sweatpants, and for a moment, his hands linger on yours, warm and steady.

“I already hate this,” you mutter, pouting.

“That’s the spirit,” he quips, smirking. He takes a step back, crossing his arms as he looks you up and down. “Alright. Repeat after me. Hyunjin, you’re a selfish asshole, and your hair isn’t even that great.”

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head frantically. “I can’t say that! What if he hears me?”

“Good,” Seungmin says, his smirk widening. “Maybe he’ll learn something.”

You laugh nervously, covering your face with your hands. “This feels so wrong.”

Seungmin sighs dramatically, stepping closer and gently tugging your hands down. “I was prepared for this,” he says, his voice carrying a note of triumph. He walks to his closet, rummaging around until he pulls out a dartboard with a photo of Hyunjin’s grinning face pinned dead centre.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your jaw dropping as you stare at it.

“It’s modular,” Seungmin says nonchalantly, holding it up. “I’ve got all the guys’ faces in here. They piss me off in cycles.”

“This is insane,” you say, barely stifling your laughter as he hangs the dartboard on his door.

“It’s cathartic,” he corrects, tossing a dart into your hand. “Go on. Aim for the pretty boy’s stupid smile.”

You hesitate, holding the dart awkwardly. “I’ve never thrown a dart in my life.”

“Not fucking rocket science,” he says, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Just throw it. Let your rage guide you.”

Rolling your eyes but laughing, you square your shoulders and toss the dart. It bounces off the board and clatters to the floor with an anticlimactic thunk. Your cheeks heat up as you bury your face in your hands.

“Jesus Christ,” Seungmin mutters, pushing off the wall and walking over to you. “Alright, rookie. Relax. You’re trying too hard.”

He steps behind you, his hands gently resting on your arms and you feel your breath catch slightly as he leans in, his voice low and soft.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing your forearms lightly. “Loosen up. You’re not throwing a grenade.”

You nod, trying to ignore how close he is, or the way his cologne lingers, sharp and clean. “Okay. Relax. Got it.”

“Good,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now, aim. And don’t overthink it this time. Just let it go.”

With his guidance, you throw the dart again. It sticks in the board, just outside Hyunjin’s cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you turn to look at Seungmin with a triumphant grin.

“See?” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not so bad.”

You laugh, the tension from earlier dissolving. “Okay, that was kind of fun.”

“Kind of?” He raises an eyebrow, feigning offence. “It’s the best fucking stress relief there is. Try again.”

Grinning, you grab another dart and throw it. It lands even closer to the centre, and you let out a delighted cheer.

“Nice,” Seungmin says, nodding approvingly. “You’re a natural. Hyunjin should be scared.”

As you line up another shot, Seungmin leans back against the wall, arms crossed. There’s a softness in his expression now, a flicker of something he doesn’t let show often. Watching you laugh and let loose feels oddly satisfying.

“Alright,” you say, aiming carefully. “What do I get if I hit his stupid grin?”

“A medal for bravery,” Seungmin deadpans, but his smirk betrays his amusement.

You throw the dart, and it lands just shy of the photo’s centre. Laughing, you turn to him with a mock pout. “I want a rematch.”

“You’re not ready for that kind of pressure,” he says, his tone teasing but warm.

And for the first time all day, the weight of your project and the tension with Hyunjin feel far away. In this room, with Seungmin, all that exists is the laughter, the easy banter, and the flicker of something unspoken in the air between you.

The sun dips low, casting a warm, golden hue over the Alpha Phi house as you neatly pack up your things in Seungmin’s room. The quiet scratch of your pen against paper, the occasional tap of your laptop’s keyboard, and the hum of his fan have created a soothing rhythm all afternoon. Now, as you finish jotting down the last of your citations, you stack your books and papers into an organized pile.

Seungmin leans back in his chair, his legs stretched out and his dark eyes lazily tracking your movements. A pen twirls effortlessly between his fingers, his expression calm but sharp—like he’s quietly taking in more than he lets on.

“Leaving already?” he asks, his tone casual but carrying a note of something you can’t quite place.

You glance up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’ve got to get ready. I have a date tonight.”

The words hit like a brick, and Seungmin freezes for half a second before resuming the pen twirl, though his fingers grip it a little too tightly. His face remains neutral, but his jaw ticks slightly.

“A date?” he says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You nod, slipping your laptop into your bag. “Yeah, Minho introduced me to a guy in his class. Animal behaviour or something? He seems nice.”

His forced smile cracks for a moment, but he patches it quickly. “Nice,” he echoes, leaning forward in his chair. “That’s… great.”

The silence lingers, awkward and heavy. You tilt your head at him, your soft gaze curious. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Fine,” he says quickly, too quickly, sitting up straighter. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You frown slightly, unconvinced, but you let it go, offering him a gentle smile. “Thanks for all your help today, Seungmin. I really appreciate it.”

He nods stiffly, watching you head for the door. His chest feels tight, like someone’s wrapped a steel band around it. When the door clicks shut behind you, he lets out a low, frustrated sigh and tosses the pen onto his desk.

A beat passes before he’s on his feet, striding purposefully down the hall toward Minho’s room.

Minho’s door is ajar, soft music filtering out as Seungmin pushes it open without knocking. Minho is sprawled on his bed, headphones around his neck, scrolling through his phone with his usual smug expression. Minho barely has time to look up before Seungmin grabs a pillow from the bed and swings it at him with alarming force.

“What the fuck?!” Minho yells, his phone flying from his hand as he scrambles to defend himself.

“You!” Seungmin growls, punctuating each word with a swing of the pillow. “Fucking introduced her. To. A. Guy?!”

Minho bursts into laughter, raising his arms to shield himself. “It’s incentive, Seungminnie!” he cackles, gasping between laughs. “You needed a push!”

“I don’t need a fucking push!” Seungmin snaps, hitting him even harder.

Minho tries to sit up, still laughing despite the onslaught. “You’re so fucking obvious- Ow! Stop, you lunatic!”

“Good!” Seungmin barks, his voice sharp as he lands another hit. “Maybe next time you’ll keep your matchmaking bullshit to yourself!”

The commotion attracts Chan, who appears in the doorway with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face. “What’s going on here?”

“I’m smothering Minho,” Seungmin says flatly, not even looking up as he presses the pillow down over Minho’s face.

Chan nods approvingly, stepping into the room. “Good. Carry on. You’re doing the lord’s work.”

Seungmin lets out a humourless laugh, pressing the pillow down harder as Minho’s muffled protests grow louder. “I know, right? Someone’s gotta do it.”

“While you’re at it,” Chan says casually, leaning against the doorframe, “make sure he can’t reproduce. The last thing we need is a mini Minho terrorizing the campus.”

Minho’s muffled yell rises to a panicked pitch as Seungmin shifts his weight, digging a knee into Minho’s crotch. The resulting strangled groan is enough to make Chan burst into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Seungmin,” Chan says, shaking his head. “You’re fucking ruthless.”

“Yeah, well,” Seungmin mutters, his tone clipped. “He fucking deserves it.”

Minho finally manages to yank the pillow away, his face red and his hair a mess as he glares up at Seungmin. “You’re a psycho!”

“And you’re a fucking meddler,” Seungmin snaps, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “What the hell were you thinking, setting her up with some random guy?”

Minho sits up, rubbing his face. “I was helping! You’re clearly into her but too chickenshit to do anything about it!”

“I didn’t fucking ask for your help!” Seungmin snaps, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Chan raises a hand, stepping between them with a smirk. “Alright, let’s all take a deep breath. Minho’s an idiot, but he’s not wrong. You’re jealous, Seungmin. Just admit it.”

Seungmin glares at him, his jaw clenching. “So what if I am? What am I supposed to do about it, huh? March up to her and say, ‘Hey, I think about you way too much, and it’s driving me fucking insane?’”

“Honestly? Yeah,” Chan says, shrugging. “She’s sweet. She won’t bite your head off.”

Minho smirks, leaning back against the headboard. “And if she says no, at least you’ll have closure. Better than sitting here brooding like some tragic fucking Byronic hero.”

“Fuck off,” Seungmin mutters, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

Chan claps him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, man. Just be honest. It’s not as scary as you’re making it out to be.”

Seungmin huffs, glancing between them. He hates that they’re right. The thought of you with someone else already twists his stomach into knots, and the idea of doing nothing feels even worse.

Without another word, he storms out of the room, leaving Chan and Minho grinning behind him.

“Think he’ll do it?” Chan asks, leaning against the wall.

Minho snorts, rubbing his sore ribs. “Oh, he’ll do it. Or he’ll self-destruct. Either way, we win.”

Their laughter follows Seungmin down the hall, but for once, he doesn’t care. He’s got bigger things to worry about and her name is Y/N.

The Alpha Phi living room is a vortex of noise and chaos. The mismatched couches are packed with bodies. Jeongin and Felix are loudly arguing over the outcome of a video game, their hands flailing in exaggerated gestures, while Jisung lies sprawled on the floor, chip crumbs scattered around him like evidence of a crime. The massive TV blares the commentary of a football game, its volume competing with the general din. Minho is perched half-asleep on the armrest of the couch, his cherry-red hair a mess from running his fingers through it repeatedly, while Chan sits cross-legged on the floor, calmly trying to fix the connection on a janky Bluetooth speaker.

Seungmin reclines in the worn recliner, scrolling idly on his phone, tuning out the noise with practised ease. His legs are stretched out, and his dark eyes are fixed on the screen in front of him. It’s an average evening in the house, loud, chaotic, and comfortably predictable.

Until his phone rings.

The name flashing on the screen makes him sit up so abruptly that the chair creaks. He immediately presses the green button, his heart rate kicking up as he brings the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge of alertness in it.

A soft sniffle echoes on the other end of the line, and every muscle in Seungmin’s body goes taut. “Seungmin,” your voice breaks, trembling and fragile, and it’s enough to make his blood run cold. “I—I didn’t know who else to call. He… he was awful. I just- I’m so sorry-”

“Hey,” Seungmin cuts in, his voice firm but gentle. “Stop apologizing. Just breathe, okay? Tell me where you are.”

Your breathing is shaky, but you manage to get the words out. “That sushi place near campus. I’m in the bathroom. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” he says, already slipping his boots on with one hand and gesturing wildly at Minho with the other. “Stay there. Don’t leave the bathroom until Minho and I get there. We’re coming to get you.”

“Okay,” you whisper, barely audible, and the line goes quiet.

Seungmin stands, his movements quick and purposeful. “Minho. Shoes. Now. You’re driving.”

Minho’s lazy posture vanishes as he sits up, alert. “What? Why? What’s going on?”

“Y/N,” Seungmin says sharply, grabbing his jacket. “She’s in trouble.”

The room quiets instantly. Jeongin and Felix stop arguing mid-sentence, their heads snapping toward Seungmin. Jisung sits up from the floor, the chips forgotten. Even Chan abandons the Bluetooth speaker, standing with his arms crossed and his face serious.

“Fuck,” Minho mutters, pulling on his shoes. “What kind of trouble?”

“She’s at the sushi place,” Seungmin says, his tone tight. “And it’s because of the guy you introduced her to.”

Minho’s face falls, guilt flashing across his features. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Shit,” Seungmin snaps, already halfway to the door. “Now move.”

The drive to the restaurant is tense. Seungmin sits in the passenger seat, his foot tapping a relentless rhythm against the floor. He checks his phone every thirty seconds, the tight line of his jaw only softening when he glances at the screen and sees no new messages. Minho keeps his focus on the road, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than usual.

When they pull into the parking lot, Seungmin is out of the car before it even comes to a full stop. His sharp gaze sweeps across the glass front of the restaurant. Through the window, he spots the guy sitting at a table, casually scrolling through his phone as if nothing’s wrong. Seungmin’s blood boils.

Minho sees him too, muttering a low “Fuck” under his breath. “I’ll handle him,” he says, his voice hard. He pushes the car door open and strides toward the entrance, his usually laid-back demeanour replaced with something cold and dangerous.

Seungmin doesn’t wait to see what Minho does next. His focus is on you. He heads straight for the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant, his boots thudding heavily against the tile floor. Stopping just outside the door, he takes a deep breath before knocking softly.

“It’s me,” he says, his voice gentler now. “You can come out.”

There’s a long pause, followed by the faint sound of shuffling. The door creaks open slowly, and you step out. Your eyes are red and puffy, tear tracks glistening on your cheeks. Your arms are wrapped tightly around yourself, your whole frame trembling slightly.

The second you see him, something in you breaks. You step forward and bury your face in his chest, your hands clutching his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Seungmin freezes for a split second, his eyes wide with surprise. Then his arms wrap around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other presses against your back, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

You don’t say anything, but your fingers grip his jacket tighter, and your trembling becomes more pronounced. He holds you like that for what feels like forever, his heart pounding as he tries to stay calm for you.

When you finally pull back slightly, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his dark eyes searching your face. “You’re safe,” he says, his voice firm but soft. “I promise. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Your lips tremble as you nod, but you still can’t bring yourself to speak. Seungmin brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch careful, grounding. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Or do you just want to leave?”

“Leave,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Alright,” he says without hesitation. “Let’s go.”

He keeps a protective arm around you as he guides you out of the restaurant. As you pass through the dining area, his sharp gaze finds Minho, who is standing over the guy’s table, his expression icy and his arms crossed. The guy is slouched in his chair, looking decidedly less cocky than before, and Seungmin feels a flicker of satisfaction at the sight.

Outside, Minho’s car is waiting. Seungmin opens the back door for you, helping you in before sliding in beside you. Minho climbs into the driver’s seat a moment later, his face pale but his expression grim.

“Where to?” Minho asks, his voice quieter than usual.

“Back to the house,” Seungmin says firmly. “She’s staying with us tonight.”

Minho nods, starting the car without another word.

In the backseat, you lean against Seungmin’s shoulder, your body still trembling slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs slow, soothing circles on your back with one hand, his touch steady and reassuring. The warmth of his presence and the quiet strength in his gestures begin to ease the tension in your chest, bit by bit.

The drive back to the Alpha Phi house is suffocatingly quiet. Minho’s hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, his jaw clenched like he’s holding back a thousand words. In the backseat, Seungmin sits close beside you, one hand resting on your knee, steady and firm. It’s not invasive, not demanding. It’s just there, a silent promise of safety.

Your head leans against his shoulder, your breath shaky but starting to even out. He hasn’t said much since getting you out of the restaurant, but his presence is enough. When the car pulls into the driveway, the headlights casting long shadows against the house’s worn exterior, Seungmin nudges you gently.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost soothing.

You sit up, your movements sluggish, and Seungmin is already out of the car, holding the door open for you. He offers you his hand, and you take it without hesitation, your fingers trembling slightly in his firm grasp.

Minho hesitates by the car, glancing between you and Seungmin with guilt written all over his face. “Do you need—”

“No,” Seungmin cuts him off sharply, his glare like a blade. “Just... go inside.”

Minho opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it, nodding stiffly and heading up the steps without another word.

Seungmin keeps his arm around you as he guides you toward the house. The muffled sound of laughter and chatter spills out the windows, but the moment the two of you step through the front door, it dies like a switch has been flipped.

Jeongin, mid-laugh, stops abruptly, his expression shifting to confusion and concern. Felix, perched on the back of the couch, opens his mouth to say something, but Seungmin’s sharp glare silences him instantly.

“Not now,” Seungmin says, his tone flat but carrying an unmistakable edge of authority.

The room goes completely silent, everyone exchanging uneasy glances as Seungmin leads you upstairs. His grip on your shoulder remains steady, a grounding force as you ascend the creaky steps. You barely register the concerned murmurs behind you, too focused on the warmth of his touch and the growing knot in your chest.

When you reach his room, Seungmin pushes the door open and gently guides you inside. The familiar scent of his cologne wraps around you, grounding you further. He closes the door with a soft click, shutting out the world, and turns to face you.

You stand in the middle of the room, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. The dam you’ve been holding back all night finally breaks, and a small sob escapes before you can stop it.

“Hey,” Seungmin says softly, stepping closer. He sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. “Come here.”

You hesitate, fiddling with the hem of your dress. “I—”

“Y/N,” he interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. “Come here.”

You move slowly, sitting beside him. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you into his side, one arm draped securely around your shoulders. His warmth seeps into you, steadying your ragged breathing.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now. “Or we can just sit here. Your call.”

You swallow hard, nodding slightly. “I- I tried to call the date off,” you start, your voice trembling. “I just- he wasn’t what I wanted. And when I told him that, he got-” Your breath hitches, and you shake your head, trying to steady yourself. “He started touching me. Grabbing me. I- I didn’t like it. I told him to stop, but he just laughed, and I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Seungmin’s entire body goes rigid beside you. His arm tightens protectively, and his jaw clenches so hard you can hear his teeth grind. “That piece of shit,” he mutters under his breath, his tone low and venomous.

You glance up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. “Maybe I overreacted,” you say quickly, your voice defensive as though you’re bracing for judgment. “Maybe I just-”

“No,” Seungmin cuts in, his voice sharp. He shifts to face you fully, his hands gripping your shoulders gently but firmly. “Don’t fucking do that, Y/N. Don’t blame yourself. If you were uncomfortable, then you were uncomfortable. That’s it. No one gets to fucking touch you without your consent.”

His words make your chest tighten, but in a different way. A warmth spreads through you, breaking through the lingering fear. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Seungmin’s gaze softens, his hands sliding down to your elbows. He exhales slowly like he’s forcing himself to calm down. “You deserve better than that,” he says quietly. “Better than some asshole who doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”

“He wasn’t you, Seungmin,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The room goes still, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Seungmin’s eyes widen slightly, the sharpness in his expression giving way to something warmer, something softer.

“Good,” he says after a beat, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pulls you into a tight hug, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head. “Because I’d never fucking treat you like that.”

You bury your face in his chest, letting his steady heartbeat and the warmth of his arms melt away the last traces of fear. For the first time all night, you feel like you can breathe again.

After a while, Seungmin pulls back slightly, one hand lingering on your shoulder. “You know,” he says, his tone lighter now, “Minho owes you a massive apology. I say we make him grovel.”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. “It’s not his fault.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “Sure, but letting him squirm a little wouldn’t hurt.”

You laugh again, stronger this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk. Then his expression softens, and he leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “Hey. I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“What?” you ask, tilting your head.

He hesitates for half a second, then his lips curl into a faint smile. “Go out with me. Let me take you on a real date.”

Your breath catches, your heart thudding in your chest. “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low but steady. “I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while. I just didn’t know how.”

A small smile spreads across your face. “I’d like that.”

Seungmin’s shoulders relax, the tension he��s been carrying all night finally easing. “Good,” he says, his smile widening. “Because I’ve been waiting for an excuse to make a move.”

You laugh softly, the sound bright and genuine. “You’re not very subtle, you know.”

He groans, rolling his eyes. “Don’t rub it in.”

“Cool and mysterious,” you tease, leaning a little closer. “Not exactly your vibe.”

Seungmin snorts, but the warmth in his gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah,” you say, your smile softening. “I know.”

The quiet knock on the door is hesitant, a rare sound from someone like Minho. Before either of you can respond, it creaks open, revealing him standing there in sweats and a hoodie that’s slightly too big for him. His cherry-red hair is a mess, like he’s spent the last hour running his hands through it in frustration. His usual cocky smirk is absent, replaced by something far more uncertain—almost guilty.

Seungmin’s eyes narrow, though he doesn’t move from where he’s perched on the bed beside you, his arm loosely draped behind your back. “What do you want?” he asks, his tone clipped.

Minho hesitates in the doorway, his eyes flicking between you and Seungmin. His hands stay buried in his pockets, his shoulders slouched as if he’s bracing for impact. “I’m… fuck, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t fucking know he was going to be like that. I just thought—shit, I thought I was helping.”

You exchange a quick glance with Seungmin, who huffs but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, you stand and cross the room toward Minho, ignoring the way his eyes widen slightly in surprise. Before he can protest or retreat, you wrap your arms around him and pull him into a hug.

Minho stiffens for a moment, caught off guard, but then he melts into the embrace with a sigh, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms come up, circling your waist with a grip that’s firmer than you expect—like he’s the one who needs comforting.

“I know,” you say softly, your voice muffled against the fabric of his hoodie. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

Minho lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Still. I feel like a fucking asshole.”

“You’re not,” you say firmly, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I think you scared him off, anyway.”

Minho smirks faintly, though the guilt still lingers in his eyes. “Good,” he mutters. “But I’m gonna fight him. Just so you know. That prick doesn’t get to pull that shit and walk away.”

“Do what you need to,” you reply softly, resting a hand on his arm.

His smirk falters, and his grip tightens almost imperceptibly. “You’re too fucking nice,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “You know that?”

“Minho,” you wheeze dramatically, giggling weakly as his hold becomes borderline crushing. “Can’t breathe.”

“Shut up,” Minho says, though his tone is lighter now. “I’m processing being wrong, and I’m not taking it well.”

Seungmin snorts loudly from the bed, crossing his arms as he leans back against the headboard. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he says dryly. “Minho, wrong about something? Someone call the press.”

You laugh again, a little stronger this time, and Minho scowls over your shoulder. “You’re fucking enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Seungmin replies without hesitation, his smirk sharp.

Minho pulls back from the hug, ruffling his already messy hair with a groan. “This is a disaster. I try to help, and it just blows up in my face. I should’ve known you were too much of a coward to ask her out on your own.”

“Here we fucking go,” Seungmin mutters, rolling his eyes.

Minho points an accusatory finger at him. “You. This is partly your fault. If you’d just grown a pair and asked her out, I wouldn’t have had to intervene!”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And your intervention led to exactly what? A shitshow?”

Minho throws up his hands. “I’ll admit it! I fucked up, alright? But don’t act like you didn’t need the nudge.”

Seungmin leans forward slightly, his voice razor-sharp. “Next time, keep your fucking nudges to yourself.”

“Boys,” you interject softly, your tone patient but firm. Both of them snap their attention back to you, and you give Minho a small, reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Really. No one’s perfect, Minho.”

Minho looks at you, his expression softening further. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Seriously, though. If you need anything—anything at all—you come to me. I don’t care what it is, okay?”

You nod, your smile warm. “I will. Thanks, Minho.”

He leans down slightly, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. His voice drops to a low, serious tone. “I mean it, Y/N. I’ll fight anyone for you. Literally anyone.”

“I know,” you whisper, your chest tightening at the sincerity in his words. “But I think you’ve done enough for tonight.”

Minho straightens up with a sigh, ruffling your hair playfully. “Fine. But if that prick so much as breathes in your direction again, he’s dead.”

Seungmin chuckles from the bed, shaking his head. “You’ll have to get in line for that, Minho.”

Minho smirks, turning back to him. “Big talk from the guy who’s been dragging his feet all fucking semester. Don’t get all protective now—you’ve got a date to plan.”

Seungmin flips him off without missing a beat, and Minho’s grin widens. You can’t help but laugh, the tension in the room finally dissolving as they slip back into their usual banter.

For the first time all night, everything feels like it might actually be okay.

The hum of the city murmurs faintly in the background as you linger outside your apartment building, your phone clutched loosely in one hand. The early evening air is warm, carrying the faint tang of gasoline and asphalt. The golden glow of the setting sun drenches everything in soft, honeyed light. You catch your reflection in a nearby window and smooth down the strap of your yellow bustier crop top. The fabric hugs you snugly, the bright color contrasting against your black flared pants, which sway lightly in the warm breeze. Your black Converse scuff against the pavement as you shift your weight nervously.

The distant growl of an engine draws your attention, low and throaty, vibrating through the air. You glance up as a sleek black motorbike rounds the corner, Seungmin perched effortlessly on top like he was born there. The machine glints in the fading sunlight, polished but clearly well-loved, with just enough wear to make it look lived-in. Seungmin slows the bike as he approaches, and your breath catches at the sight of him.

He’s dressed head to toe in black, cargo trousers that hang low on his hips, a fitted black t-shirt that clings to his lean frame, a well-worn leather jacket zipped halfway, and scuffed boots that look like they’ve seen more road than carpet. His hair is slightly tousled from the wind, and there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he kills the engine and kicks the stand down.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, stepping closer as the silence rushes in to fill the space the engine left behind. “You didn’t tell me you had a motorbike.”

Seungmin swings his leg off with ease, the motion fluid and confident. His boots hit the pavement with a satisfying thud as he straightens up, shrugging casually. “Not something I go around broadcasting,” he says, his tone dry but tinged with amusement. “But I figured it’d make a decent first date impression.”

“Decent?” you echo, your eyes wide and sparkling. “Seungmin, this is fucking unreal.”

His smirk deepens, and he reaches behind the seat, pulling out a smaller leather jacket. He holds it out to you, his fingers brushing yours briefly as you take it. “Jisung’s,” he explains. “Figured you’d need one. You’re about the same size, and he won’t notice it’s missing for at least a week.”

You shrug the jacket on, the leather slightly oversized but warm and reassuring. “It’s perfect,” you say, zipping it up. “Jisung has surprisingly good taste.”

Seungmin chuckles, then picks up the helmet hanging from the handlebars. He steps closer, his movements deliberate as he gently places it over your head. “Hold still,” he murmurs, his voice dropping a notch. His fingers brush against your jaw as he fastens the strap under your chin, his touch light but lingering. Once the helmet is secure, he pulls back, his dark eyes meeting yours through the visor. “Ready?”

You nod eagerly, your pulse quickening. “Hell yes.”

He grins, climbing back onto the bike and steadying it with ease. He gestures for you to climb on, his smirk playful. “Hop on, daredevil.”

You swing your leg over the seat carefully, your movements slightly hesitant as you settle in behind him. The leather of his jacket is cool against your palms as you wrap your arms around his waist. You feel the firm press of his body beneath your hands, steady and grounding.

“How fast do you want to go?” he asks, glancing back at you over his shoulder, his voice muffled but clear.

You lean closer, your voice daring and breathless. “Fast enough to feel like we’re fucking flying.”

His smirk turns almost wicked, and he nods. “Alright. Hold on tight.”

The bike roars to life beneath you, the deep rumble reverberating through your legs and chest. You tighten your grip on Seungmin’s waist as he pulls onto the street, the bike purring as it eases into motion. The city blurs past, a kaleidoscope of lights and colours, as Seungmin weaves through traffic with effortless precision. The wind rushes against you, tugging at the loose strands of your hair that escape from the helmet.

You laugh, the sound bubbling out of you like champagne, light and effervescent. “This is fucking insane!” you shout, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Seungmin glances at you in the rearview mirror, his grin sharp and full of exhilaration. “You good back there?” he calls.

“Never better!” you reply, tightening your hold on him as he picks up speed.

The city begins to thin, the towering buildings giving way to open stretches of road. The air cools as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in streaks of deep orange and fiery pink. Seungmin leans into the curves of the road, his movements fluid, the bike responding to him like an extension of his body. You cling to him, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Faster?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice teasing but tinged with excitement.

“Y!” you shout back, your voice full of laughter.

He obliges, twisting the throttle and sending the bike surging forward. The wind whips past you, the world blurring into streaks of colour and motion. For a moment, it feels like nothing else exists. Just the bike, the open road, and Seungmin’s steady presence.

Eventually, Seungmin slows the bike, pulling onto a quiet stretch of road lined with tall trees. He kills the engine, the sudden silence almost deafening after the rush of the ride. He flips up his visor, glancing back at you with a smirk.

“Still breathing?” he asks, his tone light and teasing.

You pull off the helmet, shaking out your hair as you catch your breath. “Barely. That was incredible.”

He chuckles, leaning back slightly as he watches you with a mixture of amusement and something softer. “Glad you liked it.”

“Liked it?” you repeat, your grin wide. “Seungmin, that is the best fucking date of my life.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile, and he reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “That was the goal.”

The sky above has deepened into twilight, the first stars beginning to dot the horizon. You tilt your head back, taking in the clear expanse, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Beside you, Seungmin shifts slightly, resting his elbows on the handlebars as he watches you.

“You’re something else,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a note of awe.

You glance at him, your cheeks warming at the sincerity in his gaze. “So are you, Seungmin.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, but I think you’ve got me beat.”

You laugh softly, leaning closer to him, the warmth of his presence chasing away the lingering coolness of the air. “Guess we’ll call it a tie.”

His grin returns, sharp and playful. “Deal. But only because it’s you.”

The air between you feels charged, the adrenaline from the ride mingling with something deeper, more electric. Seungmin's eyes meet yours, and without hesitation, his hands find your waist, his grip firm but grounding as he lifts you gently off the bike and sets you down. The world feels steady beneath your feet, but your heart is anything but.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a sound that sends a shiver coursing through your spine.

Before you can respond, his hand slides to the small of your back, tugging you closer. His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your face toward his. The heat of his body presses into you as he dips you slightly, his lips crashing into yours with an urgency that leaves you breathless. The kiss is searing, unrestrained. Like he’s been holding himself back for far too long and has finally decided to let go. His fingers tighten in your hair, and the hand on your back presses you flush against him, eliminating any space.

Your hands fly to his chest instinctively, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt as you melt into him. The faint scent of leather, wind, and his cologne surrounds you, intoxicating and grounding all at once. His lips are soft yet demanding, each movement carrying the weight of everything he hasn’t said out loud. The cool night air bites at your skin, but it’s drowned out by the fire between you.

When he finally pulls back, his lips linger close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb brushes against your waist absentmindedly, and his eyes, dark and intense, lock onto yours. A grin slowly spreads across his face, equal parts smug and genuinely amused. “You’re gonna have to hang on tighter than that for the ride back to the frat,” he teases, his voice roughened with desire.

You let out a soft laugh, still catching your breath as you clutch his jacket for balance. “I think I can manage,” you say, your voice softer than usual but no less sure. “I’ve got my very own speed demon. How could I say no?”

His grin widens, that slightly cocky, slightly boyish charm making your stomach flip. “Damn right you do,” he mutters, leaning in to steal another kiss, this one quick and playful but no less electrifying.

He steps back reluctantly, letting out a breath as if steadying himself, before turning to grab your helmet from the bike. “Helmet back on, daredevil,” he says, his voice light but still carrying that teasing edge.

You tilt your head as he steps closer, holding the helmet up for you. “Oh, you’re worried about safety?” you tease, but you stand still as he slides the helmet over your head with careful hands.

His fingers brush against your jaw as he adjusts the strap under your chin, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Gotta keep you alive,” he says with a smirk. “Wouldn’t be much of a date if you died halfway through.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by the helmet but no less genuine. “Fair point.”

Once the helmet is secure, he tilts the visor down, his dark eyes crinkling slightly with amusement as he steps back. “More Tudor art when we get back?” he asks, his tone casual but his gaze still holding that spark of mischief.

You pretend to think, tapping your finger against the helmet. “Depends. Are you going to admit that Anne Boleyn was a badass?”

“For you?” he says, his smirk softening into something more sincere. “I’ll admit anything.”

Your laugh echoes in the cool night air as you climb back onto the bike, wrapping your arms around his waist again. This time, your grip is tighter, not just because of the ride but because you don’t want to let go.

Seungmin revs the engine, the deep, throaty growl vibrating through your chest. He glances over his shoulder, his voice carrying over the roar. “Ready?”

“Always,” you say, your voice steady despite the helmet.

He grins, twisting the throttle, and the bike surges forward, cutting through the night like a blade. The city lights blur around you as Seungmin navigates the streets with the same effortless confidence as before, but this time, the ride feels different. It’s not just adrenaline now—it’s something more grounded, more connected. Each twist and turn feels like a shared secret, the warmth of his body steadying you as the wind rushes past.

As the city falls behind you, replaced by quiet streets and patches of open road, the sky above deepens into twilight. The stars begin to peek through the inky blackness, their faint light mirrored in the shimmering horizon ahead. You press yourself closer to Seungmin, the steady rhythm of his breathing grounding you even as the bike picks up speed.

When the lights of the frat house finally come into view, you feel a pang of regret that the ride is almost over. The bike slows as Seungmin pulls smoothly into the driveway, the rumble of the engine fading as he cuts the power. He kicks down the stand and turns to you, his grin still firmly in place.

“Still breathing?” he asks, his voice teasing as he removes his helmet.

You pull off your helmet, your hair tumbling out in a mess of strands. “Barely,” you reply, laughing softly. “But that was fucking worth it.”

He chuckles, watching you with a mixture of amusement and something softer. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” you fire back, your smile widening.

Seungmin shakes his head, clearly trying not to laugh, and steps closer to help you off the bike. His hands find your waist again, steadying you as your feet hit the ground. This time, his touch lingers, his dark eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory.

“Ready to dive back into Tudor art?” he asks, his tone teasing but affectionate.

You roll your eyes, a laugh bubbling out of you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“For you?” he says, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Always.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin, and follow him toward the house. The warm glow of the frat house lights spills out onto the driveway, and as you step inside, you feel the lingering coolness of the night disappear entirely. With Seungmin by your side, everything feels exactly as it should.

[seat-safety-switch]

Starting long-dormant cars is one of those challenges that only the luckiest of us endure. Most human beings on planet Earth operate very new cars, or at least used cars that have been run routinely. Suckers. The best stuff – the purest thrill – is bringing back some turd that's been abandoned for decades.

Why is this? Well, all humans have wanted to beat death as soon as we figured out what it was. If we can't do it for ourselves, at least we can temporarily reverse the flow of entropy. Clawing a car back to life is to tell nature itself to fuck off, because it's time for hot-rodding.

Nature throws so many challenges at you. Rodents. Rust. Insects. Once, I drove a car for a couple years before realizing there was still a fully-intact wasp nest in the glovebox. I thought all that buzzing was just a bad blower motor. That really surprised the cop who pulled me over. Point out the part in the highway code where I can't give several thousand of my tiny stinging friends a lift, fascist.

There's an ego boost, of course. Car bullshit would be nothing without ego. Anyone can chuck a battery into an old Honda, but only the very elite can pull a rusted-out ancient Datsun out of the swamp and put it back on the road, snarling fire and ready to make everyone around go "why doesn't that dude fix up that car?"

So: go out there, find a field with some old piece of junk, and bring it back to life. Then put it on Craigslist, and enjoy your bounty of lowballers who don't know what it takes to wheel a car with four half-frozen, triangle-shaped tires onto a trailer, just so you can smoke out the entire freeway with the rats' nest in the exhaust on the way home. That's the stuff life is made of.

[deanwritings]

The Guest House - Chapter 9

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 3,474

A/N: I can't tell you how much I appreciate everyone's kind words and support these last few weeks. It was a very tough time but I've finally given myself time to rest and recover and starting to feel better again. I'm so happy to be back at this story and hope you all enjoy 🩵🩷

“I WHAT?” You stammer as Dean leans back, out of your space, still grinning. 

After you had told him about your dream car, he had texted Rick, asking him if he would bring the ‘73 Mustang along for you to drive while he worked on Rick’s show cars. He initially was going to leave you at home with his mom, but thought you would enjoy this a lot more.  

Plus, Rick loved showing off and racing his collection–the ones he didn’t plan to put up for auction–so he was more than happy to oblige. 

“Hey, Dean!”

Speak of the gray-haired devel. 

Dean turns to see Rick jogging from the garages, his arm outstretched above him as Dean waves back. 

A few seconds later, Rick steps into the circle you and Dean had created, his hands on his hips as he catches his breath. 

“Y/N,” Dean points towards the newcomer. “This is Rick. Rick, Y/N.” Rick reaches out his hand and you take it, giving it a firm shake as Dean raises an eyebrow. 

“Nice to meet you,” you greet Rick with a smile as you drop his hand. 

“You as well.” Rick returns. “Heard you had an interest in Mustangs.” 

Dean’s eyes dart to you, his smile growing as the color rushes to your cheeks before you sneak a glance at him.

“Really just one Mustang.” You admit, your attention back to Rick. “My dad tried to get me a ‘74 for my first car but my mom shot that down pretty quick.” 

“Ah,” Rick snaps. “That’s too bad. Beautiful machine.” And you nod in agreement. 

“Well,” Rick’s hand lands heavy on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean here has some work to get to for me, but while he works, you and I will play.” Your lips pop open at Rick’s words and you suck in a breath as you quickly turn to Dean, panic in your Y/E/C eyes as your gaze darts across his face. Dean can’t stop the smirk that appears as you look up to him to save you.

“He’s harmless, I promise.” Dean assures you with a wink, his hand coming to rest on your upper arm. The color returns to your cheeks, and Dean’s smirk relaxes, just one corner of his lip raised as his heartbeat slows. 

Fuck. He drops his hand away from you and straightens out as he clears his throat. Touching you while you were looking up at him like that, through your thick lashes, was a bad idea. And he takes a step away.

“Well, I’ll leave you kids to it.” Dean turns, walking backwards to keep his eyes on you and Rick. And you. “Have fun.”

This time, he fully turns, away from you as he hears Rick starting his spiel about Mustangs and how they were first introduced to the public at the World’s Fair in 1964 and since then, it’s been one of the most desired cars of our time. 

Dean smirks. He’s heard this history lesson more times than he would have cared to, but Rick’s a good guy, who pays well. Really well. Just for today's work, he was going to take home $6K, which was definitely over market value for Dean’s work, but Rick liked and trusted Dean, and for a man where $6K was nothing, he was more than happy to pay extra to keep Dean around. 

Dean steps into the garage, welcomed by Rick’s Datsun 240Z, Pontiac Firebird, and of course, Rick’s pride and joy, his 1969 Corvette Stingray. The first two were going up for auction tomorrow, while the Stingray was just here for a general checkup. 

Despite the beautiful cars in front of him, his eyes are drawn a few stalls down, where she’s waiting for him. 

That sense of excitement and pride bubbles up in his chest whenever he lays his eyes on her. But she would have to wait for now. 

Tearing his eyes away, Dean claps his hands together and gives them a rub.

“Let’s get to work.”

Your heart is pounding in the best way possible as Rick crosses the finish line for the seventh time. This is the most alive you’ve felt in a long time. 

He had expertly raced you through the course, taking every curve so smoothly, you barely slipped across the benched, leather seat. When the speedometer first hit 120MPH, your eyes widened and you suddenly realized you were sitting in a steel deathtrap, going at a speed that would surely kill you if you were to crash, with a man you had met only two minutes prior. 

It was insanity. But here you were, loving every moment of it. 

“Whatcha say? Wanna take a ride in the driver’s seat?” Rick turns in his seat once the car slows to a stop. 

You take a deep breath, calming your racing heart.

“God I wish.” You’re practically breathless. “But I never learned how to drive stick.” Rick snaps for the second time today. 

“Well that’s a damn shame.” The older man shakes his head, his unstyled hair following the movement. “I would offer to teach you, but this isn’t quite the type of car you learn on.” He smiles while he pats the dashboard affectionately. 

You swat your hand through the air.

“Oh don’t even worry about it.” You were glad he didn’t offer to teach you. You would have been terrified of learning on such a beautiful car. You would probably find a way to crash it or ruin it. And you didn’t have the funds to fix a classic car at the moment. 

“But thank you for taking me. That was one of the coolest things I’ve ever done.” And it was true. The last time you had done anything this crazy was when you were in college, and did the Sky Coaster with Sydney while on spring break in Myrtle Beach. The two of you squeezed each other’s hands as you laid in the harness as you swung almost 200 feet in the air over the boardwalk. Since then, it’s been calculated and controlled decisions as you focused on growing your career above all else.

Without another word, Rick steps out of the car, and you follow.

“So what brings you up to Bolton?” Rick rests against the hood of the car, looking across at you. “Besides Dean?” He smirks. Something tells you he’s fishing, but unfortunately for him, the pond is empty.

“Well, I’m only here because of Dean, but I live in the city and recently quit my job so I decided to take a little vacation before I jumped back into the rat race. I’m renting out Dean’s guest house.” Rick wrinkles his nose and looks away.

“Dean’s renting? Can’t imagine he’s liking that too much.” Rick snaps his cobalt gaze back to you, holding up a hand. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you smirk. “He wasn’t the most gracious host when we first met,” you chuckle at the memory of Dean storming you with a gun as you had lounged in the hot tub. “But we’re getting there.” Rick just shakes his head, looking like he has a comment on the tip of his tongue, but bites it back.   

“Well, I’m glad Dean brought you along today.” Rick taps the hood of the car before stepping around towards the front, and you follow. “Always nice to meet a new face.” 

“Well, I appreciate it.” You smile up toward Rick as you walk in tandem towards the garages Dean had disappeared to before Rick whisked you away in your dream car. 

“I hope you’ll be joining us at the auction tomorrow?” Rick glances down towards you, and you nod.

“I’ll probably be the most useless person there, but I will be there.” You chuckle, and Rick joins in with you.

“Don’t sell yourself short.” Rick steps in front of you as you approach the door. “Besides, I’d love to introduce you to my wife, Addie. She’ll be so happy to have someone else who knows nothing about cars.” He pulls the door open for you. “She says Dean and I are incorrigible at these things.” He shoots you a wink and you smile and give him your thanks as you step inside. 

The garage is set up similar to a classic mechanics’ shop, several work stalls running down the lengthy hall, each with a car quietly parked within them, but everything in the rectangular space screams modernity. Before each stall is a glass garage door, framed in shining black chrome. Lifts glisten in their near-pristine condition, whether because they’re new or because they’re so well kept. The floors are a polished cement, the wall color made to match.  

It was definitely designed by someone with a lot of money.

You glance over your shoulder at Rick.

“You don’t happen to own this racetrack, do you?” You pose the question, the lightbulb having gone off in your head as you take in the gleaming workspace and the proud man smiling behind you. 

“Bought it about a decade ago.” Rick rests his hands on his jean-clad hips. “Was a lifelong dream of mine. I grew up a few towns over and my dad used to take me here all the time growing up. He was a car guy too.” Rick motions to a couch along the side wall and you take a seat. 

“It had shut down back in 2009 when the original owners couldn’t keep up with the payments anymore after the economy crashed.” Rick settles next to you at a comfortable distance. “I was living in the city at the time and had no idea it was on the market. I was in the area for work and decided to take a detour to visit for old time’s sake and was shocked to find it was shut down. I was getting ready to retire, and Addie had been trying to help me find a retirement project so I wouldn’t drive her crazy,” he chuckles. “This wasn’t what she had in mind, but it gets me out of the house, which is what she wanted, so I tell her she can’t complain.” You laugh softly with him, wondering briefly what Addie looked like. Though if she would be at the auction tomorrow, you would get your answer soon enough. 

“Well it seems to be working for you. If you’re this happy coming here everyday, you’ve clearly done something right.” Rick hums and dips his head.

“You’ve got that right. I used to manage wealth portfolios for almost 30 years. I liked it, liked how important and successful it made me, but I wouldn’t say it ever made me happy.” His smile fades off. “Not like this place.” His eyes leave yours and he looks around the space. 

“And the only way I’m ever leaving here is in a body bag.” He turns back to you, a smirk reappearing. “I already told Addie to bury me here when I die.”

The absurdity of his comment catches you off guard, and you burst out with a laugh, but it doesn’t drown out his words, especially when the ring inside you like a damn war bell. 

Even on the best days, you wouldn’t say your job made you happy. Like Rick, your success was what drove you; being promoted and recognized for your work was your greatest focus, and happiness wasn’t something you ever considered. Your work was interesting to you, and a challenge at times, and that had been enough. 

But maybe it was something to consider with your next job: what would you actually be happy doing?

Before you can think on it further, a frosted glass door pushes open from the back wall, and out steps Dean, wiping his hands on a rag before shoving it into his newly adorned, black coveralls with a LRR emblem on his left chest, with his name scripted underneath. 

“Well look who's back,” his smile widens as he catches sight of us on the couch. “Thought he would have had you out there taking a few spins on the track yourself.” Dean points out one of the garage doors towards the track. 

“Turns out Y/N here can’t drive manual.” Rick gives you a few pats on your shoulder, almost like he was comforting you on the fact that you couldn’t drive an outdated system. 

Dean’s lips tick upward.

“Well color me shocked,” he drawls, not a hint of surprise in his words as he smiles down at you, his green eyes glistening. 

Stupid, handsome prick. 

If Rick wasn’t sitting right next to you, you’d probably would have flipped him off.

“Hilarious,” you deadpan instead, opting for the more civil route. 

“How are the cars looking?” Rick stands, moseying over to the car parked in the closest stall, a shimmering moss green classic beauty with a sloping front hood and concave headlights. 

Dean’s eyes linger on you, something stirring within you as he watches, before he turns away, approaching the same car and stepping on the opposite side of where Rick stands, assessing with crossed arms and a leaning posture.

You hadn’t noticed until Dean looked away, but you had stopped breathing. Your heart palpating in your chest desperately reminding you to take a breath.  

You huff heavily, letting the ache in your chest ease. The sound seems to catch Dean’s attention for just a split second before he continues on with his report, and you’re grateful his gaze didn’t hold you again. 

The two men chat for a minute before Rick walks over to Dean and shakes his hand, giving him a firm pat before breaking away. 

You stand as Rick approaches you, his arm outstretched towards you.

“Great meeting you, Y/N. Looking forward to seeing you again tomorrow.” Rick gives you a genuine smile with a firm handshake. 

“You too,” you fully return. “And I’m looking forward to meeting Addie.” Rick’s smile grows wider at her name.

“She’ll be happy to have a friend tomorrow.” 

It only takes another moment for him to disappear out the front door, leaving you and Dean alone in the garage. 

You look over to Dean, who is watching you with a relaxed smile, waiting for you to make the next move. 

You shove your hands into your back pockets and rock on your heels.

“Sooo,” you start, your teeth catching your lip on the last letter as you try to cut through the silence. “Are you done?”

Dean breathes out a laugh and looks down. 

“Not yet,” he looks back at you, holding your attention. “I just need to check out the Pontiac,” he throws a thumb over his shoulder to a sienna machine with a giant eagle emblem spread across the entirety of the hood. “Which shouldn’t take long, and then give his Stingray a tune up. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

You step away from the couch, heading towards the Pontiac and grimace at the tawdry design sprawled across the otherwise pristine classic car.

“People actually like this?” You point to the logo that looks very similar to Journey’s crest. Dean laughs and steps up next to you. 

“Believe it or not, a similar one went up to auction two years ago and sold for $220,000.” You whip your head towards him, your mouth hanging wide.

“You’re kidding.” You gape, looking back to the very eighties looking car in front of you. Sure, it was in good shape, and obviously people had an interest in this type of stuff, but to spend that much money on a car, a car that was really only fourty or so years old, hardly seemed worth it to you. 

Dean steps away from you, grabbing a tool box from the last station and setting it up next to this car. 

“This one won’t go for that, it’s not as rare, but if it sells tomorrow, which it should, Rick will probably get around $100,000 for it.”

“Jesus.”

Dean just smiles as he sets up his station, pressing a button by the garage door, sending the car slowly into the air, just a couple of feet, before coming to a stop.  

Dean walks back over to the first station, kicking over a some sort of roller, that you assume he uses to get underneath the cars.

As he walks past you, you can’t help but admire the broad shoulders under the fitted coveralls, the way the fabric stretches rather deliciouslily over arms that you were suddenly very interested in. 

“Any chance you know much about tools?” His deep voice rumbles through you as he turns to look at you with curious eyes.

“I know the basics.” You admit, stepping out of his gaze. You may be a renter, but you had your own mini toolbox for some decoration projects or when you needed something simple done and didn’t want to bother your landlord. You were all for independence when the moment called for it. 

“That’ll work.” Dean grins as he squats down onto the roller, his thighs pressing tight against his work pants. Your heart flutters again. 

He pulls a headlamp from his pocket and positions it on top of his forehead before he lays himself flat, one hand grasping onto the front bumper.

His words finally catch up with you.

“Wait,” he starts to push himself under, but quickly catches himself at your words. “What do you mean?” 

He smirks. The smirk that makes your heart beat in a different way. In a way that makes you want to punch him. 

“You’re going to be my assistant.” You laugh dryly. 

“I’m sorry, have you forgotten that I know nothing about cars?” Your hands flair with your words. “I am not touching any of those.” You point to the car in front of you. “I’ll probably break them.” 

“I’m aware of that.” He annoyingly agrees with you, and you glare down at him. “I just need you to hand me some tools while I’m down here. It will make everything move much faster.” 

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh.’ Like I would ever let you work on one of these.” He mumbles, though still loud enough for you to hear before he disappears under the car, a light suddenly illuminating from the undercarriage. 

You walk towards the toolbox, making sure to accidentally kick his exposed work boot on your way. He grumbles something at the contact, but the words are lost with the rest of his body under the car. 

You open up the toolbox, a multi-level contraption, and see some familiar instruments, and others that were completely new to you. 

“Think you can handle getting me a 9/16 wrench?” He yells out to you. Your eyes scan the box, finding the wrenches and reading each handle until you see the size he asked for. You pick it up, but an idea hits you. 

You walk over to the car and lean down, reaching under to give him the tool. 

You smile as you hear him cuss and then the light goes out before he slides himself out from the car, pushing himself upright. This time sans headlight. 

“Everything okay?” You ask with fake concern. 

“Fine,” he responds politely and makes his way to the toolbox with the wire cutters you had handed him. His hand grazes over the container, landing at the wrenches, his brow furrowing when he notices the empty space where the wrench he requested should be. 

“Looking for this?” You hold up the wrench and give it a little wiggle. He turns towards you, his face falling as he notices the tool.

“And you gave me the wire cutters, why?” He huffs, dropping the wrong tool unceremoniously into the box as he walks over to you.

You hold his gaze, even as it makes your throat dry as he towers over you. 

“You didn’t say please.” You see the light flash in his eyes, his lips twitching up as he leans in, so close you involuntarily stand up straighter, his warm breath fanning over you as he refuses to break his stare. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then two. Before he leans to your right, his lips so close, you can practically feel them against your ear.

“Please,” he whispers, sending goosebumps chasing down your skin as your arm drops heavily to your side. 

He pulls back, still smiling as those damned viridescent eyes seem to own you. 

His hand then brushes against yours, and before you can react, he plucks the wrench from your grasp and leans away, that satisfied, smug smirk brightening his face. 

“Thanks,” he fucking winks at you before finally stepping away and dropping back down onto the roller and disappearing underneath the car. 

It’s only then you can breathe again, and with your first breath you mumble, “bastard.”

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[mehiwilldoitlater]

Its me!...part 2 of the Sunstreaker fic?

I think your works are great 2!

Have a great day/night and dont overwork yourself!

"I must say! I'm quite happy to know that you decided to follow us! I never believed that you were the kind of mech that enjoys a good day in the sun; he'll, I never believed that you even like the sun. Which is absurd is in your name, right?! In any case, we've never had such a solo time like this, right? I would love to show you my favorite places, like "

"Blue?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

And so the young Datsun fell into an awkward silence.

How much he hated this situation, and it was just your own fault! 

Why didbyou had to mention that blabbering idiot, especially since you were so eager to get a ride with him!

Well, technically, you asked Sunstreaker first, and he responded that he had no intention to get his interior ruined by any of your fleshy substances. You just shrugged off and went inside Bluestreak. Was he just so easy to leave like that?! Or you just were too patient with him and accepted his request...

Whatever was the main reason, the only thing Sunstreaker was sure was that that day was just wasted, with you two dorks attending to...what was that again?

The small white tents were easily spotted in the green of the park that you were approaching. Smell of candies and fries, laughter, and the eating of some old music from grammophones around...

A second-hand market...great.

"Hey, y/n, "he didn't even try to hide how bored he was." "Explai to me how can you find this stuff interesting."

"Well," you started, "it's just...neat, i guess?" I like old and vintage staff; they have some kind of charm on them."

"Like Ratchet!" You laugh at the Datsun naive comparison of the Medic with some old radios.

Sun streaker observed with a side eye the two of you. Beside how stupid and boring the jokes between you two were, he didn't understand the small bond you shared with his comrade.

He couldn't understand how you did it; keep it up with all of his talking! Not only that, you were kind enough to remind him of the main subject and get him back on track. Your compassion over that bot was commendable, yes, but of everybody, why him?!

He really wanted to accept Hound even with all that earthy loving staff, but that almost like Prowl copy wlaking around was a mystery to him!

" Sun! Are you coming or what?"

And while he was regretting every aspect of this day, he heard your voice calling his half-said name while you and that other idiot were reaching the market.

"It's Sunstreaker! Not sun!" He screamed while reaching both of you!

"It's your name!" Laughed Bluestreak.

"Yeah, I want it all in one phrase."

"Ok, ok, as you wish!"

The place was quite big, and, by the looks on the faces of people, unfatered by Bluestreak turning into a giant robot, it seemed that you two had been usual customers around. A few sellers even greeted him, showing him a few of their newly found vintage products, and he even remembered a few of their names.

Now, that's explained the pile of junk that he had started to pile up in his quarter.

Sunstreaker, on the other hand, felt uneasy around all of these humans. He always claimed to be fleshy-tolerant; he knew that, despite their so many flaws, they could make a few good staffers and there, yet what he felt was different. He felt... out of place. And not only about the market; it was what was between you and Bluestreak. 

He knew that you and the machine were closed; you loved to spend time with the young one, acting more like an older sibling to him, and Sunstreaker Just couldn't grasp half of what you both shared. 

Not like that wasn't his fault somehow...

You did give him so many chances to get closer, and he just dumped them all down without thinking twice, yet you were still friendly and nice to him. He didn't know if you were just stupid or too nice for your own good. 

"Hey Sunstreaker!" Your voice took him back to the real world. "We can go to the arts area if you like! It's not far; I bet you can find something that you like!"

"You don't have to do that if you don't want that."

"Nonsense!" you laughed it off. "We're here together, right? It's a chance to explore that area too!"

"Like in the videogames!"

"YEAH!"

He snickered but tried to hide it immediately. That was a joke that he could understand.

///

He needed to admit it; the area was packed with interesting works and hidden gems. Many of the ones that were working there were artists themselves or re-sellers that somehow ended up there for one motif or another. In many cases, they were artists that no one ever gave them a chance, idiots that could not recognize talent even if smacked with it, or ones that did in fact find some good species and decide to put themselves in the market, less full of pompous conosseures.

He had found himself a few times stopping by, admiring a few of the paintings in some of the small stands, many of them watched by some elderly people that arrowed their eyes once he approached them. Unlike the other vendors, they weren't that used to seeing a giant robot roaming around.

"Find anything of your liking?"

You approached him, watching the same portrait of some geometric forms made with different colors on a black-pitch canvas.

"...I guess..."

"We can ask the price if you want!"

"You couldn't accept it anyway..."

"It can be a future present; who knows!"

He looked at you again, feeling that strange grasp on his spark like the previous day. He tried again to draw you away from him, and you were still there. He cleared his throat, like if there was anything to clear, keep on watching the paintings...even if now it was more like a distraction from his thoughts than something else.

No one was ever able to get him, only his brother. Sideswipe, his Spark Brother, the One with whom he shared not only a life but his Spark itself, was the only mech that he genuinely appreciated. He knew how to get him; he knew that he could speak to him; if no one could, he was the only one.

And then you came in the picture. Sideswipe was good with you, but he was good with everyone. To let him get along with you was natural, and, since his nature, Sideswipe was the main reason why at the beginning you were able to have some time with Sunstreaker, despite his unsoffarable nature.

But then you started to be nice to him, even on your own. You weren't like his brother; you were...softer, brighter.

You were the second person in the universe that didn't turn away even after he treated you poorly.

"You've been awfully quiet," you spoke, checking a small canvas with a few flowers in it. "Something in your mind?"

You were in his mind.

"...nothing serious..."

"...You sure?" You raised your eyebrow, noticing that he had been checking the same paintings for minutes now.

"...well-"

"Y/N! Come here quick!!!"

Bluestreak called back to you, pointing something in the next stand. You suddenly left the canvas, running towards your friends.

Sunstreaker felt...irritated. 

Bluestreak could have every day with them...

Right?

///

You checked the clock again, then started to look around. How hard is it to lose two big chucky robots around?! Well, easily you guessed, since both of them were gone almost an hour ago, but it seemed a little urgent. You didn't actually catch what was happening at the moment; what you knew was that, at some point, you noticed Sunstreaker getting closer to Bluestreak, told him something, and then they both started to walk away. You noticed Bluestreaker making a few gestures to you, like telling you that he was coming back, but that was all.

Now you were there, waiting, hoping that they didn't dump you there.

You started to consider taking the bus to get back home when you noticed certain yellow cars coming closer. Despite noticing that one of the two was back, it seemed strange nonetheless since Blue was the one missing now.

"Hey, it's all okay? You disappeared all of a sudden!"

"Yeah," he said, in a strangely calm and relaxed tone. "There was an issue at the base; they needed him like...pronto."

"Oh gosh! I shouldn't have asked him to accompany if he was that busy today."

"No, no, it was a sudden thing; he said he's sorry that he had to leave like this."

Well, it seemed legit—even if it was quite odd from Blue to just leave you there without a proper farewell to the next days. And, with all the respect of the bot, it was strange that Sunstreaker didn't get the chance to run away from you both, even if it meant more work for him... But, besides the oddity, there was literally no explanation for why Sun should have lied to you. For what purpose then?

You learned that Sun was someone quite difficult to read, even for you, but if he decided to stay, then why question him? 

"Allright, shall we go?"

"Uh?" You looked at him a little buzzed, while he was already pointing to some more stands, specifically one that sold some statues.

"You wanted to see this market; if I leave you alone, I won't hear the end from Bluestreak."

That was...surprising. He, the One that had never accepted one of your invitations, never had hanged around with you or the other, and never partecipated in any of the earthly activities together, had just agreed to stay longer there.

"You know that you don't have tò, right?"

"Yes, you're right."

And with that, he kept on going, while you started to follow him.

///

It was...a nice day! It surprised you..and himself. 

You had a few minutes of embarrassing silence, awkward moments of not taking jokes, and some more miscommunication, but something came out of it.

He finally started to get out of his shell, making some jokes that were both yours, and you learned some more things about him—as him of you.

He seemed more relaxed than ever, satisfied for something even—maybe for the objects that he was able to get that day—that were quite a few, where he even had found the money you'll never know.

You never noticed, maybe because he had done it on such rare occasions, but his laugh was completely opposite from the one that Sideswipe tended to do. While Sideswipe laughed like a thunder, it was strong, warm, and contagious in some sense. Sunstreaker laugh instead was like made of crystals, soft as a whisper and low as a baritone. Sometimes it was hard to perceive it, but it became clear when you managed to notice the small grin on his face when he had just stopped laughing or thinking about something hilarious.

"You need to tell me how you convinced them to take everything at my place!" You exclaimed, sitting while he was riding you back home, some small smooth jazz on his radio.

"I'm persuasive; what can I say?"

You hummed a little, still checking the list that showed how much you, especially him, had bought, while you held your smaller purses in your backpack.

"You know," you broke the silence. "I was that sure that, after Blue had to leave, you would have left me there on my own... I'm happy that you didn't!"

"Oh?" He had an interest in his voice, like waiting for a result. "Why is that?"

"Because you opened up a little with me! I love it—this day, I mean, a lot! We should do it again!"

"Well... technically Ratchet told you to help me to bond... so I guess it's not such a bad idea..I have a few places that I would love to visit."

You accepted the offer right away; almost all of them were art-related, but they seemed reachable even for you. He had explained that, since you really had some sort of kick for art, to help you grow your expertise. It seemed like a genuine motive, so in the end accepting was an immediate reaction.

He dropped you home, not after having a long talk for a few minutes near the sidewalk, just chatting about what you needed to do in the next few days, your future visits, some programs made with other bots, and some usual stuff.

He left only after you had entered your house, showing a gentle side that it was quite unexpected by him.

During the ride back at the base, SunStreaker wasn't nervous about what was going to happen; he was just bothered because the worst-case scenario was a long talk with Prime about his behavior...And maybe a silent treatment from Bluestreak that sounded far too good for his own likely. No, the worst thing in his head wasn't some kind of punishment; it was that the first voice he had heard after turning on his radio was the snickering voice of his twin.

"How did your date go, Sunny?"

"No comments...and it wasn't a date!"

"Ah! And why did you make up an emergency call for Blue then?!"

"He bothered me."

"Ummm, my guesses are that you wanted to stay alone with a certain human, imma, right?"

The long silence, followed by a burst of laughter, was an enough answer.

@prowler-prowlz

[hippiegoth97]

Into the Fire: An Eddie Munson x Reader Story Pt. 41

Collage by me :)

Master List

Part 40

Tag List: @keikoraven @ar-jupiter @alcielo1438 @cairro-xx @stolen-in-moonlight

@micheledawn1975 @janiejenn @rafeyscurtainbangs @melodymunson @spacedoutdaydreamer

@veemoon @sariahs-stuff @feral-pumpkin-energy @comeonatmebruh @munsoneightysixx

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Content Warning 18+ Only, Minors DNI: swearing, drug use, alcohol use, lots of crying (only the happiest of tears), LGBTQ+ themes, light smut/mentions of smut, kissing/groping, fluff

Word Count: 7k

divider by @strangergraphics

Part 41: You Make My Dreams Come True

Sunday, December 31st, 1989

"You all set to go, sweetheart?" Eddie asks as you're on the way out of the apartment to head over to Steve's New Year's Eve party.

"Yep!" You chirp, walking past him into the hall. You're both dressed up all nice, with you in a strapless satin red dress and matching heels, showing off curves and cleavage. And Eddie, sporting a dark crimson button-up, freshly-ironed black slacks and shiny dress shoes. Steve insisted that everyone dress their best, which you have absolutely no objections to. You love making yourself pretty when the mood is right, and Eddie always looks devastatingly handsome when he cleans up.

"Shit." Eddie mutters once you reach the parking lot.

"What's wrong?" You ask, giving him a concerned look.

"Oh, nothing. I promised Steve I'd pick up a couple things before the party." He replies with a sigh, though it is the first time you're hearing of this.

"Well, we can get it on the way." You say, offering a simple solution.

"Nah, we're already running kinda late." Eddie shakes his head. "You go ahead to Steve's, and I'll meet you there. 'Kay?" He suggests instead, which only further confuses you. Since when does he care about punctuality? Something is up. And given the secret little conversation he and your mother had at Christmas, you think you know what he's up to. But you'll play along, let this elaborate plan of his play out. You're sure he's put a lot of work into it, and you'd hate to spoil that.

"If you say so. I'll see you in a bit, love." You say casually, leaning in to give him a quick peck goodbye.

"I won't be long, angel. Don't party too hard without me." He chuckles, glad that he's seemingly pulled off his ruse. Steve didn't ask him to get a damn thing, the guy doesn't like to impose. No, he's got something far more important planned. Something you're both anxiously waiting for, and have been building towards together. He can't think of a better time to pull the trigger, than on the last night of the decade. He's finally going to propose, and said proposal is going to blow you away.

"No promises, baby." You laugh as you go your separate ways. You get into your Datsun, and Eddie hops into his van. The two of you pull out of the lot in your respective vehicles, turning opposite ways down the street. You glance at the back of the van disappearing in your rear view, smiling to yourself. Anticipation for what's to come grows inside you, jittery butterflies flapping around your stomach. He's finally gonna ask me...to be his wife. You squeal in excitement, unable to contain your emotions. You do, however, hold back any happy tears to preserve your painstakingly-applied makeup, since he hasn't actually popped the question just yet.

During your drive, you find yourself daydreaming about how the proposal will go. What soul-baring words he'll say to you, the ring he might present you with, the adoring look in his eyes as he kneels before you. You can't wait to see how it all goes down, wondering if anyone else knows about Eddie's secret plan. Your mind also travels to other places, like your wedding day. Wearing a big, fancy dress, walking down the aisle, vowing to have and hold the one and only Eddie Munson for the rest of your life. It sounds like a wonderful dream, and it's about to be one step closer to becoming reality.

In the midst of your daydreaming, you reach the Harrington house. You pull your car up behind Robin's, putting it in park and quickly heading inside. It's extremely chilly out tonight, far more than it has been in previous years. You'd swear Hawkins magically transported itself to Minnesota or something. "Hey, Y/N. So glad you could finally make it." Steve teases as you're the last one to arrive. He's looking very handsome in a dark blue suit with a matching tie. "Where's Munson?" He asks, confused to find the metalhead missing from your hip.

"Oh, he had to pick something up for the party. He'll be around soon." You answer, finding Steve's puzzled look rather odd. Maybe nobody knows what Eddie's plan is.

"You sure you two aren't on the rocks again?" He questions, wondering what the hell Eddie is up to. He'll beat that little asshole into next week if he's screwing around on you.

"Yes, I'm sure. No need to put up the dukes, Stevie." You giggle at his protective stance. "How's Chrissy?" You ask, changing the subject.

"Oh, she's great. We're great. I never thought I'd be this happy." Steve says adoringly, his head drifting to find the woman in question in the crowded room. She's wearing a light blue dress, holding JJ in her arms and talking to Nancy. She's smiling so big, clearly very happy now that she's found love with Harrington.

"You deserve it. You're a great guy, and you two are a perfect match." You say kindly. "Well, I'm gonna get a drink and socialize." You leave Steve to his dreamy staring, making your way to the kitchen. You find Robin and Vickie making out on the corner, which takes you by surprise. Vickie is sat up on the counter in a pretty lavender dress, with Robin standing between her legs, dressed in fitted black pants and a purple crushed velvet jacket. Robin grips her waist, thumbs rubbing up and down absently on her hips. Vickie cups Robin's face as they kiss, hushed moans leaving their lips. You awkwardly clear your throat after a good few seconds of standing frozen in place from shock.

"Oh, hey, Y/N! You look nice!" Robin chirps, her face turning beet red at being caught in such a compromising position.

"Thanks! So do you two, very sharp." You reply, nodding as if you didn't see the two of them sucking face. You're just glad they're happy and comfortable enough to get lost in each other here. Everyone's been extremely supportive of their relationship, which is a relief. It's no mystery to you that the people of this small town are less than open-minded. You only hope that one day they can be out in public, doing all the things couples do without getting mean looks or slurs hurled at them. Preferably sooner than later.

"Thank you. Vickie picked everything out. She's got way better taste than me." Robin gushes, holding Vickie's hand in hers.

"That's not true, you picked out your jacket! And you have wonderful taste, baby." Vickie corrects with a smile, smoothing down Robin's lapel.

"Whatever you say, lovely." Robin playfully rolls her eyes, giving Vickie a cute little peck. "Need a drink, Y/N?" She asks you, pulling her girlfriend along with her towards the kitchen island that's well-stocked with all manner of booze and mixers.

"Yes, please!" You meet them in the middle, reaching for a red solo cup to pour some Jack and Coke into. You prepare your drink, and bid the lovebirds farewell to go talk to the others while you wait for Eddie to show up. You make the rounds, engaging with everyone as much as you can. It's nice to spend time with everybody, and you're trying your best not to check the clock every five minutes.

"Hey, Y/N. My, you're lookin' like a vision tonight." Wayne says as you approach him.

"Thank you, Wayne. You're very dashing yourself." You giggle at his compliment, taking in his sport jacket and pleated khakis. You don't think you've ever seen him in anything but blue jeans and flannel before.

"That's sweet of ya to say, darlin'." Wayne chuckles, taking a sip of his soda.

"So, how have the home repairs been going?" You ask nonchalantly, and he almost chokes.

"Oh, uh, they're goin' just fine. Ed's a big help." Wayne replies nervously. Eddie swore him to secrecy, to play along if you ever asked about him 'helping fix things' around the trailer. When in reality, his nephew has been working on a very special thing for you tonight.

"That's great! I know he's been feeling bad about not spending as much time with you lately." You flash a sympathetic smile. Wayne thinks you're none the wiser, and you intend to keep it that way. You want to be as genuinely surprised as you can be, even though all the signs have been flashing for a good few days.

"Has he now?" He asks, his face falling at the thought.

"Yeah. He feels guilty, ya know? Because you raised him and everything, and I guess he thinks he owes you for that." You explain, though you don't want to be a downer.

"Oh, he doesn't owe me shit. I took 'im in 'cause he needed me. And I didn't realize it before, but...I needed 'im, too." Wayne says, his eyes watering a bit. "But he's got you now, Y/N. You're so kind, 'n smart, and you take care of 'im. I know he does the same for you. If anyone was gonna take 'im off my hands, I wouldn't want it to be anybody else." He speaks sincerely, smiling wide despite the tears pricking his eyes.

"Thank you, Wayne. That means a lot, coming from you. You raised a scared little boy into a brave, amazing man. Eddie is everything I've ever wanted, and needed. So, thank you, for making him so perfect." You say earnestly, pulling Wayne into a tight hug.

"You're very welcome." He chuckles and embraces you, allowing the tears to fall. He can't think of anyone better suited for Eddie to marry. He could tell from the moment the kid first brought you home, that you were the one who would stick around. After years of struggling to bring Eddie up right, constantly worrying that he was doing everything wrong, he can rest easy now. His nephew has grown up into a fine young man, who's finally ready to build his own life. With you.

As you pull away, you hear the front door swing open, and Eddie waltzes in, his new guitar in hand. "Sorry I'm late! I had a few extra guests to pick up. I thought it was about time we had a Corroded Coffin reunion, and a little catch-up between the founding members of the Hellfire Club!" Eddie announces loudly, and you see three other guys walk into the house behind him.

"Oh, hell yeah!" Dustin shouts, rushing over to give the men suffocating hugs along with Mike, Erica, and Lucas.

"C'mere, sweetheart. Some friends of mine are dying to meet you." Eddie says, extending his free hand out to you once the kiddos disperse. You reach him in no time at all, his arm wrapping around your waist. He gives you a small kiss hello, and turns his head to the men he's brought with him. You instantly recognize them, Jeff, Gareth, and Alex. They don't look much different than they did back in high school, though you didn't really hang out with them. You probably exchanged a friendly greeting in passing while picking Dustin up or dropping him off at their meetings.

"Oh, please. Like we wouldn't recognize Henderson's older sister." Gareth scoffs, putting out his hand to shake yours.

"And I remember you three very well. Dustin wouldn't shut up about you guys, and I'm sure we saw each other around a few times." You reply, shaking all three of their hands. "So, what have you been up to?"

"Well, I've been busy at Indiana State. Working on a degree in music education." Jeff says proudly.

"Wow, that's great!" You reply, genuinely impressed. Eddie's friends kinda seemed like burnouts back in the day.

"Ugh, such a brag, this one." Gareth rolls his eyes. "I'm the co-owner of a record store in Chicago. I run it with my buddy Alex here." He says, patting Alex on the shoulder.

"Shit, that's impressive. Why didn't you tell me your friends were so successful, Eds?" You tease, nudging Eddie in the ribs.

"Oh, don't blame him, Y/N. We haven't really kept in contact very well, any of us. Besides, I think he's still a little heartbroken about me leaving him once the summer was over back in '86." Jeff says casually, making your eyes go wide.

"What?" You ask, unsure you heard the man correctly. From the way he phrased it, it sounds like he and Eddie dated or something. You look at Eddie, finding him staring at the floor. Like he's ashamed. "What's he talking about, love?" You ask again, the air slowly sucking itself out of the room. Things are suddenly very tense between the five of you now, though the party continues on around you.

"It's nothing, really. Forget I said anything." Jeff says, trying to backpedal. He didn't realize you had no idea that he and Eddie used to see each other. And he hopes this little slip up of his hasn't entirely derailed the plan for tonight. He isn't really sure why he said anything at all. He should know better, it isn't his place to make comments like that. Just because he's proudly out, doesn't mean Eddie is.

"Nah, it's alright, Jeff. I should've told her." Eddie replies shakily, swallowing hard. He can't read your expression, besides the obvious confusion. He's worried that you're mad, or that you feel betrayed again. He doesn't want to lose you, especially not now. His eyes meet yours, and he speaks again. "Can we talk for a minute, angel?" He nudges his head towards the bathroom.

"Yeah." You reply simply, unsure what else to say. You're completely taken aback here, and not in the way you'd expected. But you reserve your judgment for after he explains himself. You follow Eddie to the bathroom, and he closes and locks the door behind you.

"Please, sit." Eddie says, needing the space to move about nervously as he explains this all to you. He was hoping he'd never have to, for fear of scaring you away.

"Okay." You reply, sitting on the closed toilet. You cross your legs, setting your hands in your lap. Eddie paces back and forth before you, his body trembling with nerves. He's so afraid, though you aren't really sure why.

"'Kay...so...um..." Eddie starts, trailing off as he doesn't really know how to put this into words. But you sit patiently and wait, no hint of negative emotion on your face. "Jeff and I...we were...together." He says, pausing every so often as it's become rather hard to breathe. He looks at you, his stomach growing queasy as he waits for a response.

"Okay." You nod. "When were you together?" You ask after thinking it over for a moment.

"The summer after we graduated. We started a little bit before that, though. But like he said, he moved away for college in the fall." Eddie answers, feeling a little less terrified as you don't seem to think of this as such a big deal.

"Was it一" You start to ask another question, but he cuts you off.

"What? A 'phase'?" He snips, scoffing and rolling his eyes.

"No! Of course not! I was going to ask if it was serious." You raise your voice slightly, annoyed he would think you'd say anything like that.

"Sorry." He sighs, realizing he's rudely jumping to conclusions. He knows you're not ignorant or anything. Robin's your best friend, for Christ's sake. He's just so...thrown. It's weirder than he expected, seeing the one man he's been with in any intimate capacity again after all this time. Having his past collide with his present, and potential future. It's a mind-fucker, to be sure. "And, no. It was a pretty casual thing. We mostly made out...maybe a little more, sometimes." He says shyly, sparing you the details.

"So, you never...ya know?" You can't help your curiosity, pointing your index fingers together in a gesture that doesn't really make sense.

"Jesus, no!" Eddie splutters, laughing at the silly thing your hands are doing. As if two men press their cockheads together as a form of sex.

"Sorry, just figured I'd ask!" You laugh back, putting your hands in your lap and blushing at how ridiculous you must have looked.

"It's alright, babydoll." He gives you a reassuring smile. "It doesn't...bother you, does it?" He asks, the laughter quickly dissipating. He bites down on his lip, hoping he hasn't ruined everything.

"Not at all, Eds. Why would it?" You answer, shrugging your shoulders.

"I dunno. I guess, we never really talked explicitly about my sexuality before. I wasn't meaning to hide it from you. I didn't really know how to bring it up." Eddie sighs, it all sounds kinda dumb when he says it out loud. This part of himself has never really been relevant in your relationship. But he wants to be completely honest with you, before you fully commit to him.

"That's alright, love." You say softly, standing up to put yourself before him. You cup his cheek, giving him a loving look. "I know now, and it doesn't change anything." You slowly shake your head to emphasize your point, driving home that fact that you would never leave him over being his authentic self.

"Really? You mean it?" He questions, somehow still unsure.

"Yes, really!" You gently smack his chest, making him chuckle. "Look, I was surprised, at first. But, Eddie...I love you. Every part of you. I'm all in, baby. No matter what." You speak emphatically, keeping your gaze locked on his.

"Thank you. I love you so much, sweetheart." Eddie says, barely above a whisper. He presses his lips to yours, a stray tear rolling down his cheek. To know that you fully accept him as he is, even after keeping this rather large detail close to the chest for so long, it means everything. There's no more secrets now, no more skeletons in the closet. He's home free, able to take this next step with you as planned.

"We should get back to the party. I'd hate for everyone to think we're screwing in Harrington's house again." You say with a giggle as you pull away.

"And what a tragedy that would be." Eddie laughs, gently leading you by the hand to leave the bathroom and return to your gathering.

"I didn't just derail a relationship, did I?" Jeff asks guiltily as you both approach him again.

"Nope. If anything, you only made it stronger." You reply cheerfully.

"Oh, okay, good." He sighs in relief. He would've hated to get off on the wrong foot with you, as Eddie hasn't stopped telling him every lovely little detail. He's never seen his former front-man and Dungeon Master so damn happy before. He's glad that you're around to keep the curly-haired nutcase from going off the deep end. "So, should we set up now?" Jeff asks Eddie, gesturing at the band equipment he and the others had left at the door.

"Yeah, sure." Eddie nods, turning to you. "You okay without me for a little while, princess?"

"I'll be fine, I'm in good company." You reply with an affirming nod.

"Cool. This won't take long, love." He gives you another short kiss, before dropping your hand and going with his band mates to bring the gear to the pool deck and set it up.

"What was all that about?" Nancy asks, taking her opportunity to check in on you. She saw things get a little tense with Eddie's friends, and your sudden escape to the bathroom afterwards.

"Oh, nothing major. Just some unresolved things from the past." You say simply, hoping she'll accept that answer. It's not your place to go around telling everybody that Jeff and Eddie used to go out. The only person who should tell them is him. "But they're resolved now."

"If you say so." Nancy says, accepting your answer. Although, she doesn't like being kept in the dark, given she has a bit of an investigative streak.

"So, how's married life treating you?" You ask, quickly changing the subject.

"It's...something." She replies, swirling her drink anxiously in her hand. You flash her an odd look, and she sighs. "I mean, it's great, being Jonathan's wife. We're really very happy. But we're having a hard time getting settled." She explains.

"Why's that?" You take a sip of your drink.

"Well, we're still unpacking all of his stuff. The apartment is a total mess. And Mom and Dad won't quit hounding us to buy a house. They keep giving us realtor's business cards, and telling us about all these homes for sale. It's driving me crazy." Nancy sighs, sounding rather frazzled about the whole thing.

"Shit, I'm sorry." You tut, gently stroking her arm to comfort her.

"It's fine. I understand why, they want grandkids already." Nancy giggles. "But Jonathan and I want a chance to just be together and be young for a while first. You know?"

"I get that. I'm sure they mean well. But don't let them pressure you into anything. This is your life, and your marriage. No one can tell you how to do it in a way that's right for you. Only you and Jonathan can decide that."  You reassure her, knowing all about overbearing parents.

"Thanks, Y/N. I appreciate that." Nancy smiles, taking your advice to heart. She's never been one to let other people tell her what to do, and she certainly isn't going to start now.

"Any time, Nance." You smile back, just as Jonathan comes up to steal her away for a dance. You're left by yourself for now, which you don't mind. You've made your rounds, and you're far too excited about what's to come to focus on another conversation.

"This seat taken?" Eddie asks once he returns from setting up outside, finding you sitting all alone on Steve's sofa.

"Nope, all yours, baby." You pat the spot beside you, beckoning him to your side. He plops down into it, and he grabs hold of your legs to lay them over his lap. His hand rests on your thigh, his thumb stroking you lovingly. "You didn't get too cold out there?" You ask, noticing his fingers feel like ice on your skin.

"Nah, it wasn't that bad. We'll have to go back out there to tune up a bit, though." He says, trying to contain his excitement. In about an hour, he's going to serenade you exactly five minutes before midnight. He's got it all timed out. The band will play the song he's been sneaking off to rehearse, under the guise of 'assisting Wayne'. He still can't believe you bought that, though you could easily be playing dumb to avoid spoiling things. Once the song is over, he'll bare his soul while presenting you with his mother's ring. Then, if he's timed everything right, you'll say yes and share a kiss as the clock strikes midnight. It'll be the most romantic, amazing, perfect proposal ever. You don't deserve anything less.

"Aw, you're gonna leave me all alone for a third time tonight?" You pout, scooting closer to put yourself in his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, laying your head on his shoulder.

"I promise it'll be worth it, babydoll. You'll see." Eddie coos, his other hand going to your back to give you gentle rubs. He'll admit he's missed you all night, having to show up late to pick up the guys, and spending a good amount of time plugging in amps and connecting equipment on the pool deck. But his absence is for good reason.

"Oh, yeah? You gonna make me swoon with that gorgeous voice of yours tonight?" You speak softly, nuzzling your head into his neck. You press a warm kiss to his skin, leaving a mark of lipstick behind.

"I'm hoping to achieve much more than that, sweetheart." He breathes heavily, melting into the couch at the feeling of your lips on him.

"Tryin' to get in my pants, Eds?" You purr in his ear, nibbling the lobe.

"When am I not?" He jokes, chuckling to cover the moan his lungs are dying to let out.

"Very true, love. But I have a feeling you've got something else on your mind..." You trail off, only slightly fishing for the truth. You don’t think he'll bite, but it's still fun to tease.

"I guess you'll have to wait and see." He replies, growing worried that you've figured everything out. She's onto me. I really should know better than to think I can fool her, my sweet little bookworm.

"Whatever you say, baby." You giggle, giving up on the probing questions. You shimmy around on his lap to get comfortable, letting your eyes close once you find the right position.

"Hey, don't fall asleep, Y/N." Eddie quietly warns. "The kids might scribble on your face if you're the first to pass out." He teases, poking your ribs with his finger.

"I'm not sleeping, Eddie. I just wanna be close to you until you go back outside." You whine stubbornly, tightening your arms around him. You have no intention of sleeping, you're far too amped up for that. If anything, your anxiety is shot through the roof as the minutes tick closer to Eddie's proposal. You need him to anchor you, help you stay calm. Because you want this, you want him. Now, and forever.

"That's alright. But don't blame me if you wake up with a dick drawn on your forehead." He lets out a breathy laugh, earning another small groan from you. "Okay, okay. Sorry, I'll be quiet." He whispers, resuming his calm stroking of your back and thigh.

The two of you sit quietly in your little corner, left undisturbed for the most part. Occasionally, someone plops down beside you to check in. But no one crowds around you when they take notice of your self-isolation. Most of them are well aware of your nervous tendencies, and how hard you work to fight through them. They respect that you need these little moments, where you're safe inside your Eddie-sized bubble. Before long, though, it's time for him to finish getting everything ready.

"I gotta get up, love." Eddie says, patting your thigh to signal you to get up. You do so, begrudgingly, immediately missing his warmth as you stand on your own two feet. He gets up after you, pulling you close for a second. "Just a little longer, baby. It's gonna be worth it, I promise." He says sweetly, capturing your lips with his in a tender kiss.

"I know, Eds." You smile once he pulls away, your heart swelling at the adoring look on his face. "See you in a bit." You let him go, watching as he gathers the guys and makes his way to the sliding door to the deck. He gives you a small wave as he steps outside, which you reciprocate. It won't be long now, until everyone gathers outside to see his magical surprise unfold. In the meantime, you float aimlessly around the room, conversing with whoever crosses your path.

When it's finally time, Eddie beckons everybody to come outside. Everyone gets their coats on to stay warm, before filing out the back door. They all gather in a huddle, with you standing front and center. Mom has her camera at the ready, clearly she knows what's coming. You look across from you at Eddie, who's got the Mockingbird you gave him slung over his shoulder, his hands gripping the neck and positioned to strum the strings. Jeff is situated at a keyboard, Alex is on bass, and Gareth is perched behind a set of drums.

"Thank you for joining us, everyone." Eddie speaks into the microphone in front of him. "We've got a very special song to play for you tonight. Now, it's not exactly as metal as what we're used to playing. But I know it's one of Y/N's favorites, so my lovely band mates were gracious enough to learn and rehearse it with me for the past couple weeks." He pauses, locking eyes with you. "This one's for you, sweetheart." He grins, before signaling for the band to begin. Jeff starts playing the opening notes to "Maybe I'm Amazed" by Paul McCartney, his fingers firmly pressing on the keys.

Eddie waits for his moment, and then begins to sing. "Maybe I'm amazed at the way you love me all the time. Maybe I'm afraid of the way I love you." He recites the words sweetly and earnestly into the mic, sounding like an absolute angel. Gareth comes in on the drums, gently tapping the cymbal. "Maybe I'm amazed at the way you pulled me out of time. You hung me on a line. Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you." Jeff sings into his own mic to provide backup vocals as Eddie really leans into the intense emotion of the chorus. "Maybe I'm a man, maybe I'm a lonely man who's in the middle of somethin', that he doesn't really understand. Maybe I'm a man, and maybe you're the only woman who could ever help me. Baby, won't you help me understand?"

Eddie vocalizes softly in the break between verses, his lips forming a cute little 'o'. You're completely mesmerized by him, watching his heart pour out through his mouth in a mad dash to find yours. His fingers start to move on the guitar now, Alex joining in on his bass. This instrumental goes on for a moment, leading up to repeat the chorus. The words come out of Eddie even stronger the second time, displaying his devotion and passion for you for all to see as the four men play together now. They wind down towards the second verse, and Eddie's pretty lips open again.

"Maybe I'm amazed at the way you're with me all the time. Maybe I'm afraid of the way I leave you. Maybe I'm amazed at the way you help me sing my song, right me when I'm wrong. Maybe I'm amazed at the way I really need you." The band lets loose for the end, vocalizing and playing their instruments like it's a sold out show. Eddie's smiling brighter than the stars above, unable to keep his eyes off of you as he plays it out with his old friends. You and the rest of his small audience sway to the music, basking in the love like it's a beacon that’s been shot up into the cloudy night sky. This moment is better than you'd ever imagined it could be, joyful tears pricking your eyes as you watch the man you're helplessly in love with play his heart out for you.

The song draws to a close, earning loud applause and cheers from all of you. Amid the noise, Eddie takes his guitar off his shoulders and sets it down. He approaches you at the front of the crowd, pulling a ring box out of his coat pocket and getting down on one knee before you. Gasps and whoops break out all around you, before the group falls silent to allow Eddie to speak to you. He gazes up at you, opening the box to reveal a gorgeous ring. It's a silver band with a beautiful round ruby set in the middle, framed by two small diamonds. You recognize it immediately, and where it came from.

"Oh, my god." You gasp, meeting his eyes as if to ask if this is indeed the ring he's told you about numerous times before. The ring that belonged to Eddie's mother. The one thing Wayne was able to keep for her son to remember her. He gives you a silent nod, smiling tearfully at your realization.

Eddie sniffles, trying to contain himself so he can get the words out like he practiced. He takes a deep breath, exhaling shakily. "Y/N. Never in my life did I think I'd find someone to do this for. I always thought I'd be alone forever, that no one could possibly love or understand me." He stifles a sob, struggling to keep his shit together. "But you came along and changed all that. You've made me happier than I ever thought I could be. You've been there for me through so much, more than I could possibly handle on my own. And I'd like to think I've been there for you in the same way."

"You have." You say shortly, nodding your head as happy tears run down your cheeks.

He nods back, and keeps going to finish up. "This is a long time coming, sweetheart. I'm ready to spend forever with you, and do everything I can to make you the happiest woman in the world. So, Y/N Henderson, will you marry me?" He asks, thanking whatever higher power may be up there for finally letting him get the damn words out.

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" You squeal excitedly, pulling Eddie up off of his knees and into your arms so you can crash your lips onto his. The crowd breaks out in cheers again, much louder this time. Everyone is so happy for you both, and there's not a single dry eye to be found. You and Eddie continue to kiss passionately, your tears mingling together as you hold one another close. Jeff grabs his own guitar that he brought, slinging it over his shoulder and playing the notes to "Auld Lang Syne", as it is officially the new year. 1990, holy shit. "I love you." You say hastily between messy kisses, smudging your makeup all over Eddie's face.

"I love you too, angel. So, so much." Eddie pants, pulling away for a second to actually put the ring on your finger. "Here, sweetheart." He clumsily takes the ring out of the box, holding the sides of the band so you can slip your finger through. It fits you like a glove, as if it was meant to be.

"It's beautiful, Eddie. I'm honored to wear it." You say giddily, a wave of euphoric bliss washing over you as you admire the jewelry on your finger. You knew this was coming, but to have it actually happen is a dream come true. It all feels so surreal, in the best possible way.

"I'm sure Mom would be proud to see it on you, babydoll." Eddie coos, dying to keep kissing you in a joyous frenzy. He crushes his lips on yours, his hands daring to wander down to your ass.

"Congrats to the happy couple! Let's head inside, it's cold as balls out here!" Jeff says over the mic, effectively dismissing everyone to retreat into the warm house.

"C'mon, baby. Let's get you warmed up." Eddie breaks away, pulling you along to get indoors again. Once you're all in and have removed your coats, everyone gathers to see the pretty ring on your finger.

"Oh, it's just gorgeous, Y/N!" Mom practically swoons, utterly ecstatic to see you get the happiness you deserve. She was so proud when Eddie asked for her blessing, there was no question of whether she wanted you to marry him or not. There's been plenty of bumps in the road, but this rough-around-the-edges young man has been by your side through all of it. His love and support has never wavered, not for a second. For better or worse, Eddie is undoubtedly the right partner for you.

"I know, I'm never taking it off!" You squeal gleefully, letting everyone take their turn to get a closer look.

"It's nice to see a pretty gal wearin' it again. And no one deserves it more than you, darlin'." Wayne says sweetly, wiping his eyes. He never thought the ring would see the light of day again, except the few times he's pulled it out from his dresser drawer for Eddie to look at when he missed his mom to the point of tears.

"Thank you, Wayne. I'll take great care of it." You promise, knowing the responsibility that comes with being given such a sentimental object.

"I know ya will, Y/N." He smiles.

"Alright, alright. Let's give these kids some space." Gareth shoos everyone away, save for the younger adults. "What's say we light up like old times?" He says slyly, pulling a few joints out of his shirt pocket.

"What do you think, angel? Should we kick off the new decade by getting baked?" Eddie asks you, wondering if you're up for it. There's been quite a lot of excitement already tonight, and he'd understand if you wanted to head home and 'celebrate' alone.

"Sounds perfect to me, love." You answer with a grin, hatching an idea to smoke up and sneak off with him to the van afterwards.

"We can smoke in my room, there's no way I'm freezing my ass off outside." Steve offers, ushering the lot of you towards the stairs with an unopened bottle of champagne in hand. You follow his lead, all eleven of you crowding in the somewhat small room. You sit on the floor, tucked between Eddie's thighs as he leans against Steve's closet. The others take spots around you or on the bed. Gareth hands out the joints, to be shared between groups of three. You and Eddie end up the lucky pair who don't have to share with anyone else. This intimate celebration is on your behalf, after all.

Eddie lights up the joint, taking a deep breath in before handing it over to you. While the room quickly fills up with thick, skunky smoke, Steve pops open the champagne. He takes a big swig, after toasting the newly-engaged couple, of course. The bottle gets passed around, with each person expressing their congratulations to you before they drink. And when it finally reaches you two, you give extensive thanks to them for their kind words. The energy in the room is content, and relaxed. The anticipation has passed now, no more jitters to be found. All that's left is casual conversation, and the seductive effects of drugs and alcohol.

It isn't long until you find yourself melting into Eddie, his lips devouring yours as you sit in this oversized circle of friends. The taste of him is intoxicating, the sour flavor of weed balancing with sweet champagne. You can't get enough, even if your position is rather uncomfortable. You know full well that you won't be able to resist ripping his clothes off if you dare to turn around. Everyone is probably grossed out enough seeing you two kissing like your lives depend on it.

"Let's get outta here, angel. I need you." Eddie says breathlessly, his nose nuzzling against yours. His reddened eyes are blown wide with lust, and you can feel his erection poking into your back.

"Don't have to tell me twice, Eds. Van?" You ask, biting your lip as you gaze at him from under your lashes.

"Van." He nods, struggling to hold back his less than sober laugh. His mind races with all the things he plans to do to you. His fiancé. Fuck, that sounds so good when he says it in his head over and over.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jeff asks as you stand up first. Eddie does so after, almost stumbling into the wall.

"Sorry, Jeff. We've got some very important, private business to attend to." Eddie replies goofily, the giggles getting the best of him. If he's not careful, he might just blurt out all the filthy things on the tip of his tongue. "But this has been fun, seeing my old friends again, playing together like old times. And thanks for having us over, Stevie. I can honestly say this has been the best night of my life." He smiles big and wide, his arm slipping around your waist.

"I couldn't have said it better myself, love. G'night, everyone, I'm off to get railed by my fiancé!" You cackle, your voice somewhat slurred. It appears your own loose lips have gotten the best of you. Your naughty words earn you some hoots and hollers from those still in the circle, and you cover your mouth in embarrassment once you realize what you've said. "Shit." You mutter, a harsh blush coloring your cheeks.

"S'okay, sweetheart. They know what we're up to. C'mon." Eddie says softly in your ear to ease your shame, leading you out of Steve's bedroom and down the stairs. You say goodbye to those who have stuck around, though most of the other guests have either left for the night, or passed out on the couch. You pull on your coat, having to help Eddie with his own as he can't quite work his arms properly. You go outside to the van once you're bundled up, with him turning on the engine to let the heater run so you won't get cold. Thankfully he'd filled up the tank after picking up the band, so it should last until you've sobered up in the morning.

"Eddie..." You whine, shucking your jacket from your shoulders once you've climbed in through the back doors.

"What is it, babydoll?" He asks, turning in his seat to look at you.

"I need you...please?" You beg, wanting him to crawl back here and ravage you already. You're suddenly feeling very impatient. You have to have his hands all over your body, his lips kissing every inch of bare skin, his cock pounding into your throbbing pussy. All other thoughts are long gone, leaving only your sexual desires.

"Then me you shall have, princess." He chuckles, practically rolling head over heels to climb into the back so he can reach you. He's hovering above you in seconds, admiring your squirming body that's just begging him to be touched. The only question now is, where does he start?

To be continued...

[sophaeros]

the strokes for rip it up - new zealand, october/november 2003 / no. 295

Scruffy, Sexy, Cool

The Strokes will make you happy again. A new album, lots of photos, and one sexy hangover after another is what they've got. It's all you'll need.

By Scott Kara

Julian Casablancas hasn't managed to make it to the interview.

He's keeping up appearances then. Two years ago this month Casablancas was two hours late to Rip It Up's scheduled interview to talk about the Strokes debut album, Is This It. Back then he was hungover and - in keeping with his scruffy, slept-in-his-clothes-look - was refusing to get out of bed.

Today, the Strokes front man is, yet again, otherwise engaged. We inquire of the Japanese record company person why Julian won't be doing the interview. "He hasn't come down for the interview," is the flustered response.

To be fair, it's not about refusing to get out of bed for anything less than US$10,000 like model Linda Evangelista did after being made famous by Casablancas' dad, John (who set up the Elite Model Agency).

Perhaps Prince Julian - crowned the hottest thing in rock'n'roll two years ago when Is This It was released - is hung over again after enjoying too many Kirin beers during the bands current stint in Japan? Who knows?

It's left to poor old Nikolai Fraiture - "the-shy-silent-bass-player" - to do the interview. Nikolai grimaces at the thought of more press but with all the partying, socialising and cavorting you've done lad, you should be used to talking by now. Fact is, he's not much of a talker. He's shy. It's hard to tell if his quiet demeanour today is annoyance that his band mate has decided to pull a fast one, or just because he plays bass and isn't used to media duties.

“There’s all the chaos around us that we just let happen.” Nikolai Fraiture, The Strokes

The Strokes are in Japan rehearsing and preparing for the double-barrelled Summer Sonic festival in Tokyo and Osaka — their first big shows since January. The festival bill also includes, Radiohead, Blur, AFI, Good Charlotte, Blink 182, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and, New Zealand’s very own festival whores, The Datsuns.

At the time of talking to The Strokes they’ve nearly finished their new album, Room On Fire, and after Japan head back to New York to do “finishing touches”. One vocal track and some mixing remains to be done. It’s due for release this month.

"This album is kind of a continuation of the last one. Just a progression of where we came from and where we're going," explains Nikolai. "It's hard to describe. But the best I can do is, that it's a continuation of the other album along with everything we've been through since then. We haven't settled down, it's still about how we feel," he says calmly.

Is This It is about living, going out, partying, having fun, playing music, loving, losing and, because they were barely in their early-20s when it came out, it's about growing up.

The hype surrounding these scruffy young things back then is well known. The music on Is This It inspired predictable tags like the saviours of rock, and leaders of the garage rock revival. But The Strokes were more about a sexy swagger, and strutting their way through life, crossed with the danger of the Ramones, and the vitality of the New York streets. Is This It makes you fucking happy - perhaps that's why you can put it on now and it still sounds good.

And the Strokes image and looks made them sex symbols, not to mention the epitome of cool.

But Nikolai just wants people to listen to the music. "We don't really have any control over that other kind of stuff," he says. "It'd be nice it people just listened to the music, without any prejudice." He stops, and then reasons with a laugh, "Just listen to the new album without thinking so much about it."

The Strokes — Casablancas, Fraiture, drummer Fabrizio Moretti and guitarists Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr. — first played together in 1998. After doing the rounds of seedy bars — and even rumours of playing Valensi's sister's 21st — they scored a gig at New York's Mercury Lounge.

Nikolai points out that it wasn't all plain sailing in New York being in a band like the Strokes around that time. Put it this way, it wasn't exactly the heyday of the New York band scene of the 70s. "When we started out there was a bizarre atmosphere in New York. No one was really that open to playing with us. It's funny that we're all lumped together now, because nobody wanted to play with us back then. It was hard to find friends who were musicians," he remembers.

"We were just trying to create a good vibe, y'know, like back in the late 70s when many good musicians got together and played together and got along, went out and got drunk and stuff. But it didn't really work that way in New York at that time. We kind of came back to ourselves and did our own thing. We really tried to write the best songs that we could and played our instruments as best we could and give a really good live show.

"We definitely wanted, and want to now, do something not only different — because sometimes different can be kind of weird — but just something that's not pumped on the radio, standardised, made for the record company, and so we can make as much money as we can. I think what we really want to do is work really hard on our songs and what our instruments sound like, and what everything actually sounds like, To us, that's the most important thing.

"It's our main goal to get better as musicians. And for Julian to get better as a songwriter."

So what about all the drunken revelry, the parties and the high profile shoulder rubbing? Nikolai is, by all accounts, the self-professed quiet one of the bunch and he goes all coy when confronted with this. "I don't know how to answer that."

He takes stock. "There is, of course, the direct effect of what's going on that we have no control over," he says in reference to the celebrity status, "but other than that, it's still the same for us, we're still good friends.

"Our only purpose still is to play music together. In that respect nothings changed, but then of course there's all the stuff, all the chaos around us that we just let happen and watch go by.

"We don't really do it [go hard and party] until we're done with what we have to do. It's a bonus for us really. It's the way we looked at it at the beginning and I think a lot of bands get that confused — get the whole lifestyle confused with the partying and getting fucked up all the time.

"For us, we're allowed to if we get our shit done," he laughs.

The majority of the Strokes new album was done after they finished touring in January. "And we started recording in June. We didn't want ourselves to wait too long because for ourselves, we don't really like stopping because you lose touch with what you're doing."

For Is This It the band started out with producer Gil Norton who worked with the Pixies, Talking Heads and Foo Fighters. But the band resorted back to their tried-and-trusted mate Gordon Raphael, who produced their first EP The Modern Age in 2001.

While working on the new album it happened again. They started out with producer Nigel Godrich (from Radiohead fame) but resorted back to Raphael once again.

"For the second album we were hoping to try different things. We did it as well for the first album — with Gil Norton. We were mixed about that and it didn't work. So we went with Gordon for the album. And for the second we wanted to try something else but, and I think Nigel Godrich is a really good producer, but it would have taken too long. So we just went back to Gordon.

"We're not completely done with the new album yet, so when we go back to New York we're going to finish that, then do a few more small tours and then do the long haul. We're thinking about doing the Big Day Out," he hints, full-knowing we're from New Zealand. Lock up your daughters.

Sorry Girls…The Strokes Are In Love

Any talk of The Strokes' love lives cuts straight to the man of the skins, Fabrizio Moretti.

It's for an obvious reason. He got a great catch in Drew Barrymore. Okay, so she's somewhat flighty. But it's for real this time. She married a bartender for 19 days and then married comedian Tom Green — no one can explain that one — for five months. If that rate of increase continues, we figure Drew and Fabrizio have at least three years of marriage, give or take.

The happy couple was rumoured to be engaged in January, after less than a year of courtship. Wedding plans are already racing through the media. The latest on the grapevine disclosed that Drew is planning a traditional wedding at her Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind co-star George Clooney's Italian villa. Another source reported a one million dollar wedding to be held on Drew's Godfather, Steven Spielberg's ranch with a Brazilian-themed reception to pay tribute to Fabrizio's heritage.

The rest of the band's love lives are not nearly as exciting as Fabrizio's. Front man Julian Casablancas remains fiercely loyal to longtime girlfriend Colleen Barry, a New York based painter. Guitarist Nick Valensi is rumored to have split with on-again, off-again girlfriend Amanda De Cadnet. The former Playboy bunny was divorced from John Taylor of Duran Duran fame at 22 and is now a photographer based in Los Angeles.

Albert Hammond Jr and Nikolai Fraiture nicely balance their spoken-for band mates. Both are single, and ready to mingle.

Get This Rockin’ Ringtone Now

The Strokes - When It Started

To download the ringtone, simply send S30494 as a text message to 3083. You will receive our request within a couple of minutes.*

*Text messages cost $3.50 incl GST. Ensure your Nokia phone is compatible to download ringtones. This service is currently only available to Vodafone NZ subscribers. All messages sent will be charged so enter the code carefully.

Customer Support call 0800 486824, Compatible Nokia handsets: 3210, 3310, 3330, 3350, 6110, 6150, 6210, 6250, 7110, 7850, 8210, 8250, 8310, 8850, 9110.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) || Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14b (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14c (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 15a (Dreams) || Chapter 15b (I Sing A Song of Love) || Chapter 15c (You Can Do This If You Try) || Chapter 16 (Let That Feeling Grab You Deep Inside || Chapter 17A: Never Tear Us Apart || Chapter 17B: It’s Tough To Be Somebody, And It’s Hard Not To Fall Apart  || Chapter 17C: I’m Wishing, Lord, That I Was Stoned || Chapter 18: Turn The Page || Chapter 19A: When You’re Alone, Do You Let Go? || Chapter 19B: Heading For A Spin || Chapter 20A: I Don’t Need Nothing When I’m By Your Side || Chapter 20B: I’m Walkin’ Down This Rocky Road || Chapter 20C: You're The Only One Who Gets Through To Me ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 20D: Together We Can Make It A Dream

What you need is what I want So don't be afraid, let it show Don't be afraid, just let it explode We have got the power to build the highest tower Standing with our feet on the ground We've got what it takes, together we can make it Together we can blow the house down…

 -- “Blow The House Down,” Living In A Box (1989) [click here to listen]

North Carolina || February 1989

Dinner was delicious. They all consciously kept the conversation light and fun.

Claire was particularly interested to hear Raymond’s impressions from walking around the property – about twenty acres in all, including woods and a pond. Jamie eagerly discussed the barn, now home to their vehicles (Jamie’s black 1965 Corvette, Jamie’s cherry red Dodge Charger, Jamie’s Harley-Davidson, and Claire’s powder blue Datsun that proved to be the perfect, practical go-to-town car) for the winter.

“I’m thinking of making it a proper home studio,” he said, scraping the remnants of chili from his bowl. “With a sound board and everything. Will give us more space in the house.”

“And it won’t be so loud,” Claire smiled, sipping her ice water, left hand entwined with Jamie’s under the table.

“It’s beneficial to have a little separation,” Raymond reflected. “When I started my private practice, I was given very good advice to rent an office space. There was a higher up-front cost, but patients certainly didn’t want to see me in my living room.”

“Speaking of which…”

Raymond immediately turned to face Claire. Encouraging.

Claire smiled softly, before continuing. “I want to get back to medicine – after we get back from Europe.” She paused. “My license transfer finally came through from Massachusetts a few weeks ago. I don’t want to open a private practice – it wouldn’t be fair to patients, if I’ll be on the road with Jamie, or here at home with children. But there’s a clinic in town where I can start picking up hours. I’ve already talked with them about it.”

“That would be wonderful, Claire.” Raymond’s smile was genuine. “And good to have that day-to-day interaction with patients again. You must not have had that too frequently in your last job.”

She shook her head. “By the end, my only direct interaction with patients was to consult their surgeries, before I would cut into them. I was very far removed from the daily grind. So incredibly different than at the very beginning right out of medical school.” She darted a smile at Jamie. “Though all those hours in the ER did come in handy on tour. I stitched and bandaged up quite a few wounds, splinted a few broken fingers. Jamie doesn’t understand when I say it, but I truly enjoyed doing that.”

“I just don’t get why she’d ever get excited at the sight of blood,” he smiled. “But it makes her happy.” He paused, and turned to look at her straight on. “It would make me happy, Claire, for you to spend more time at the clinic. Even now, in time we have left before it all gets crazy again. I…” He swallowed. “I want you to make something of your own, here in North Carolina. To get back to your roots.”

She beamed at him. He darted in for a quick kiss, feeling no hesitation in front of Raymond.

“Remind me when you’ll be in Los Angeles?”

“Two and a half weeks until we leave.” Jamie helped himself to another ladle of chili. “I’ve got three weeks of rehearsals – the band hasn’t played together since October. While we’re there, we’ll be meeting with the label, and maybe book a day or two in the studio. Probably a show or two, something small.”

“And then a week home here in April,” Claire added, “before flying to England to kick off the tour.”

“120 dates and counting.” Jamie sighed. “We’re booked two, three dates in most cities, though fortunately we’ve got at least a day in between cities to travel. We’re headlining all kinds of festivals. And then in August we have two weeks off – ”

“Three,” Claire chimed in.

“…and Claire and I are torn between coming back home, or going for a European vacation somewhere.”

“We don’t need to decide now,” she said softly. “Plus, if I’m pregnant by then…”

Jamie kissed her temple.

“I’ve been thinking about how we’ll work together on this tour.” Raymond pushed aside his empty bowl and pulled a small spiral notepad from the inside pocket of his blazer. He pushed back the cover, made a quick note with the pen tucked behind his ear, and looked across the table at Jamie and Claire.

“We’re open to whatever you suggest,” Claire said softly. “I hope you know that about us by now.”

“I do. I’ve been going back and forth between whether to do something in a structured way, especially given the logistical challenges and the travel. But I think that in order for both of you to get the support you need from me, we’ll need to aim for as much structure as possible.”

“I agree,” Jamie nodded, wrapping an arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Consistency will be key. Claire and I – this last tour, we tried to stick to the same schedule every day.”

“For show days, anyway,” she added.

Raymond flipped to a new page, pen poised. “And I assume that would be roughly the same, this tour?”

Claire nodded. “Wake up call at 830 or 9 AM. Wake up, love each other, order breakfast to the room, shower. Limo to the venue at 1130. Get to the venue, have lunch, band does soundcheck. That’s done by 2 PM. Then free time at the venue. Sometimes Colum meets with the band. Sometimes the band hangs out together, plays music – that’s where a lot of new songs come from. Sometimes I’ll spend time with Angus’ girlfriends, or reading in Jamie’s dressing room, or just being alone with Jamie and enjoying the quiet. All of us use that time to catch up on phone calls. I try to call Uncle Lamb and my friends Joe and Gail Abernathy a few times a week.”

“And to think that a year ago, she’d never been on the road like this,” Jamie smiled.

Claire blushed prettily. “Dinner usually at 6 or 630. Then the band gets dressed, sometimes does fan meet-and-greets or press interviews. The opening act starts at 8. About 45 minutes of the opener, and then it’s showtime.”

Jamie pushed back his empty bowl. “And after the gig, we do a quick band huddle to talk about the show. Sometimes with Colum and also our road manager. Claire and I are usually in the limo back to the hotel by midnight, if we’re not traveling. If we are, then sometimes we fly after the gig and sometimes it’s first thing in the morning.”

Raymond scribbled on the pad. “It’s good to have so much structure. Did you feel the same way?”

Jamie nodded. “Definitely. Claire?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Especially when we’re in a new place every few days.”

“And when during the day would you have the panic attacks, Jamie?”

Jamie frowned. “After dinner. Sometimes during the free time in the afternoon.”

“One time in the hotel room, after we got back from the show,” Claire added gently. “And a few times in the morning, when we were waiting for the limo. Once, in the limo.”

“Do you see that with your other patients, Raymond?”

Raymond looked up from his notebook. “That panic attacks come at any time, without a particular pattern? Yes. Though especially with the combat vets, something in their environment acts as a trigger. Do you ever feel anxious to perform, Jamie?”

Jamie shook his head. “I fucking love it, Raymond. To play my music, with my band…to hear thousands of people singing the words I wrote, and so into the music and the whole experience we give them…there’s really nothing else like it. It’s a high, for sure. Better than any drug.”

Jamie squeezed Claire’s hand. “And the only feeling that’s better than when I’m on stage, is when I’m loving Claire.”

Raymond set down his pen, and flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “So it’s not triggered by the performance itself. And I assume you don’t get anxious or claustrophobic on buses or airplanes?”

“Nope. I’ve never had a problem with that.”

“And were your days so consistent before? When you were using?”

“Yes and no. The broad strokes of it, yes – though add ‘whiskey’ and ‘coke’ and ‘girls’ to any of the time I had to myself.” He paused, thinking. “After the show most nights, I wouldn’t go back to the hotel right away. I’d celebrate with the roadies and some girls, usually hit up a strip club, not make it back to my hotel until dawn. Obviously I don’t do that anymore.”

“You’re just an old man who likes being tucked up in bed with his lawfully wedded wife,” Claire teased.

“You know it,” Jamie smiled.

Raymond scribbled on a fresh sheet in his notebook. Absently running his hand through his hair. Clearly thinking.

“All right,” he said, after a while. “Before I walk you through my plan – I need to ask you something. Both of you.”

To be continued…

[enigmatist17]

Part 1

It had taken three days before the last bot transformed like the others, startling the only human who had come with the initial greeting party. Lennox watched metal shift and slide into place to form a bot just a bit taller than Ironhide and Ratchet, massive doorwings twitching as they took in sensory information from the wooded area around them. It took a moment before they seemed to register the soldier close by their pedes, the bot kneeling down to regard the human with a faint tilt of their helm.

"Major Lennox, it's nice to meet you." The Cybertronian continued to stare at the human in complete silence, and it took him a second to register that he was most likely scanning the internet to learn their language.

"Lead Autobot Military Tactician Prowl." Prowl's voice was hollow as he finally responded with a British accent, the prominent red chevron situated on his forehead glinting in the sun as the bot looked around. "Status of Bluestreak and Perceptor?"

"They're both fine and with the others, they wouldn't leave without you." He motioned down the small path behind him. "We've been taking shifts guarding you."

"I see." There was a flash in Prowl's optics for just a moment before he leaned down a little further, eyeing William with an intense expression. "Major Lennox, I have a query."

"Feel free to call me Will if you'd like, but ask away." Lennox moved to grab the small stool he'd been sitting on alongside his book, tucking both under his arm as he looked up at Prowl.

"Were you present when my bonded was killed in combat?" Will jerked in surprise at how cold the question was but his face softened with sympathy.

"I was, fought alongside him to protect the Allspark. He fought to the end, for what little it's worth to you, tore half of the asshole's face off before..."

"I understand." Prowl stepped back, looking away from the human and out toward the alien landscape he'd landed in not many solar-cycles ago, clawed servos curling into fists. It was silent for a moment, before the bot let out a noise that Will could only describe as pain, optics going dark as they cycled off. It was barely a minute later when Ratchet and Optimus hurried up toward Prowl, the medic motioning for Lennox to leave as he pulled out a scanner, slipping into Cybertronian as he approached the tactician. The tone was surprisingly tender as he stood in front of Prowl, not even seeming to register when clawed hands latched onto and into the medic, Prowl dissolving into strained chirps and clicking noises Lennox hadn't heard from most of the other bots save the newcomer Bluestreak.

"Come, let us leave Ratchet to his work." Optimus shook his head, offering his hand for Will to climb onto, which the major never got tired of as the massive Cybertronian headed back down the path with a weary look. Bluestreak had apparently found a form that pleased him, his smaller red chevron off-setting the black and grey coloring from his scan of a Datsun 240Z Render, the bot's own large doorwings twitching as they watched Optimus approach.

"I take it our superior officer has returned to his senses?" The shorter red bot looked up from the rock they had been examining, the telescopic optic shifting back to normal as the rock was carefully placed on the ground. By day two on Earth, Perceptor had been practically pestered to pick an alt form, and the major had been highly amused when Ironhide had dragged the scientist away from their inspection of some moss to do so. "I did my best to stabilize him, but a medic I am not."

"You did well, old friend; Ratchet will take it from here." Optimus pat Perceptor's shoulder while carefully placing Lennox down in front of them, shaking his helm with a slight vent.

"He asked about you when he was situated, for what it's worth." The human of the group nodded, the scientist and sniper sharing a look as Ironhide joined them. "You figure out what kind of alt Prowl might like?"

"I believe something along in a similar vein that Bluestreak chose will suffice," Perceptor replied as they knelt down, Lennox rolling his eyes when the bot poked his hair while muttering something to himself in Cybertronian. "There are quite a few alt modes used by the Enforcers on this fascinating planet, which I cannot wait to keep studying."

"So you keep saying. I have to tell you, I know a few eggheads you're going to get along with just fine."

"Egghead?" Lennox snorted as Perceptor tilted their helm in question. "It is a term of endearment?"

"Close enough. I'll radio ahead to let N.E.S.T know we're going to be heading out when Ratchet is done with Prowl." Will walked away to call up the organization, relaxing when Ironhide covered his back without a word. "...I'll call Sarah too, Annabelle might be a great distraction."

"What's an Annabelle?" Bluestreak questioned, having seen an honest to Primus smile cross the weapon specialist's face. "Do we all get one?"

"No, Annabelle is William's protoform, and he does not have any others." Ironhide grumbled. "No, you cannot claim her either." Will snorted from behind the Autobot as he checked in with command first, practically able to hear the tension on the other end of the line as he gave his report on Prowl, followed by explaining he had not come alone. The Autobots who had been pretending they had not been listening in joined the call all at once, voices overlapping each other until Lennox let out a sharp whistle, silencing them all at once.

"I get it; you're all excited, but save that for when we get back." He rolled his eyes, wondering why he sometimes felt more like an adult than literal aliens older than his race. "Just do me a favor and clear our more...off-putting civilians, Prowl needs space to adjust."

"Will do; safe travels and we'll see you soon. Want me to call up Sarah for you?" Epps asked, and Will chuckled softly.

"Both of them, Annabelle will be good for morale. See you soon, and make sure the kids play nice." Epps laughed before hanging up, and Lennox set about packing up his camping gear to be prepared before Ratchet and Prowl finished up.

He and everyone else miss the tiny sliver of metal that falls from one of his bags, distracted by Prowl and Ratchet's arrival. It remains in the grass as Optimus greeted his third-in-command with a bowed helm and short bow, and the tremble in Prowl's doorwings is his only visible response as he bows back. Optimus explains the basics of Earth as Lennox adds on when needed, and Prowl only nods as he stands at attention, optics blankly looking at his allies as the Prime moves to prepare the trailer he'd brought with.

He notices the sliver right before he moves to join the rest of the group, leaning down to gently grasp the piece. It seems to buzz in his hold, and for a moment, Prowl stares at it before gently placing it into his subspace.

It was time to focus on other things, and with a soft click, he joins the others who wait for him.

[pluralsword]

you know we were going to making an Optimus out of Earthrise Elita and post with the line "freedom is the right of all sentient beings including the right to shellform" and are still going to, but wow wasn't really expecting an Optimus toy who effectively has g1 Arcee back stacks while having a mix of Jazz and IDW Arcee proportions to drop as the main studio series Optimus for the new movie- and are just thinking 'wow, 40 years was really something.' gonna see if we can make a truck Arcee at some point or if we're lucky/given enough time, a trailer fills out a light bus alt. all issues with thigh paint scraping from the hips are no longer a problem for us personally

Aren't they adorable... if you had told us two canon forms of a non-trans duo occasional m/f couple would be able to hold their back stacks like this in their toy form before we held Studio Transformers One Optimus in our hands we would have replied '?being able to do this with more than canon lesbians (who themselves desperately need to have more easily available toys)? yeah, I wish.' Dying with joy - living with joy

(also these two in the photo could still be wlw for all we know given the fact there are two gal Optimus Primes so far in canon)

btw can we get a gal and/or genderfluid Jazz in a show or film or game, please and thank you. so close for the former to happen in Cyberverse before she got cut from it

but yeah. revisiting the thing of hey so what if we got Elita and Optimus as lesbians in media we'd love that. I mean now that we think of it Blackarachnia was in the Yellow Order led by Splendid... clearly BW-based Blackarachnia but still... (and also Splendid would never have left Elita behind like that even if it meant crossing Sentinel, at least that's what we think anyways)

some personal trans stuff under the cut

To us, personally, there's something - something deeply joyful about this happenstance of designs overlapping. Especially given how intertwined Arcee and Jazz's stories have been with Optimus over the years, and Arcee's been subject to so much debate out the wazoo about her body- and for there to be an Optimus who has a variety of two Arcee iterations' body traits on top of being very curvy for an Optimus really gave a sense of, I don't know- euphoria? Peace? Feeling accidentally seen? Vindication that the body is doable with a bot mode without much of a fuss? We already knew that from the excellent action figure as in one of the most possible transformers ever ER Arcee, or from Cyberverse Warrior Dead End who's basically a G1-esque Arcee in red with bulky long ankles and a wider chest like IDW1 Arcee, or you know, the fact that speaking of the former, Legacy Elita is an excellent retool choice if you're not going to go for even more accuracy by retooling a Datsun mold to have side of the chest with lights instead form back stacks? But from Optimus of all bots...

We already loved the movie, which has been really good for Elita and there's so much about it we love (the trains. the trains!) but there's a deep happiness we're feeling this fall we haven't felt in a long time. Maybe it's partially the realignment of our life, but it's also - the beauty of transformation and variation we get to share with so many people (and not just in the transformers sense) so poetically comparable to the long journey transformers has had and is still having.

Maybe there's a part of us that's trying to be wiser by trying to get every once of happiness we can out of some lovingly designed (if you follow the toy designers on instagram it's clear they have excitement about what they do) off-shore factory mass produced plastic we got on discount while weighing other things, but that part of us is also playful scifi loving inner child who got to figure out via the adults within us that she's trans and doesn't ever want to let go of what for her is the stuff of life in a larger world of embracing with how much we don't know.

There's also just for those of us for whom Arcee's trans journeys (she's had multiple in canon, and then there's well, having a trans fan read of any other ones before, during, or after if you want or in the case of during and after tracing where the trans iterations impacted others) resonates very strongly there's something deeply relieving about getting to see the bot who is literally the face of transformers (aside from you know, the Autobrand being based on Prowl lmao), actually look more than a bit like her for once.

'Til All Are One, in pluralistic autonomy, journeying manyfold in all the forms and expressions that feel good to oneself

[your-unfriendlyghost]

ur fav old car 3 2 1 go

THANK you for asking this is gonna be so fun (for me. And hopefully you. Idk if everyone else really wants to hear this but that’s their problem now)

It’s a tough question tho, ‘cuz there’s so many I like that it’s hard to say! Here’s a few in no particular order- but again I like a lotta old cars so it’s not gonna be an exhaustive list

(also btw none of the pics here are mine lol- every time I see a classic car I like irl, I always seem to be driving myself so I never can get good pics 😭)

The late 50s T-bird (I’m not crazy about the color of this one but hey it’s still really cool- dig the porthole window in the back)

2. The ‘67 Impala (fun dumb fact about me- I carry a toy impala in my school bag. When I get bored in class I take it out and either try to draw it or roll it at my friends to bug them)

3. Some early ‘70s Datsuns! These are harder for me to classify ‘cuz the models are given numbers, not traditional names, and I don’t always do so good with numbers lol. I think this one’s a ‘72 240C. But w/ these it’s not so much a specific model I like- I just like the vibes of most of the ones that look like this. (I saw one sorta like this one at a motor show once, I wish I had gotten a better picture- but I didn’t so take this one I found online lol)

4. The ‘58 Plymouth Fury- Very “Christine”, I know, but I can’t help it, she’s such a great lookin car holy hell. Plus I liked Plymouth furies before I knew they had anything to do with Stephen King ok (Funnily enough, a week or so before I wound up reading “Christine”, I saw one of these in a Dairy Queen parking lot. Me and my buddy got so hyped about it that I momentarily forgot that my kid brother had just dropped his melting cherry dipped cone directly onto my shorts)

Okay, that’s probably enough for now because tbh I’ve been having so much fun thinking about this that I’m about half an hour late for working out- There’s a lot more old cars that I adore and could ramble on about for hours, but I’d better wrap this up before I get more late/it gets too long lol. Thanks so much for asking!!

(And sorry to all y’all who follow me for art lol- what can I say, I may like to draw but I am still a teenage dude… I’m ✨multifaceted ✨)

[pculrstate]

i actually don’t think i’m gonna finish/post the crack fic so here’s the first bit of it before it got reeeeeeal off the rails lmao

She had a solid sixty extra on her and that was a problem for him. He liked a little heft. He liked a good squeeze at the hip. He liked the idea that at any moment, if she really put her back into it, she could crush the air right from his lungs. There was a spread of calendars laid out across the bar, eight-packed and artificially tanned men in red fire helmets beaming up at him from glossy cardstock, and she was leaning her chin on his shoulder, pointing with a plastic fingernail at the 2006-2007 edition, saying, “Now this one’s a real treat, we got all kinda ethnic fellas inside. What’s your preference? Yellow, red, brown? Not easy gettin’ this one up the chain, tell you the truth. But we had to, see. There was an organization claiming dis-crim-in-ation, threatening a lawsuit if we didn’t—how did Elwood put it? Diversify. Not my preference, but I’m just the sales gal! Ain’t up to me to judge what dampens the drawers, now is it?” She smelled like milk and cherries. She bought him three shots and five beers and a tray of onion rings and he bought out her remaining stock of 2006-2007 hunky firemen calendars. All the colors of the rainbow, he thought, why not. Later on, after some asshole puked all over his shoes, she’d given him a pair of unflattering white sneakers from the trunk of her ’84 Datsun and then they’d gone back to her place, where he’d come thrillingly close to experiencing a full measure of erotic asphyxiation. Later still, as he slept, she’d snuck out of the apartment with most of her belongings jammed into a rolling suitcase and no apparent intention of ever returning.

The kid woke him up with her screaming. He stumbled into the room, half-convinced he was in a lucid dream. Milk and Cherries hadn’t said one word about a kid. The girl was gripping the bars of her crib, face red and wet with furious tears. There was a note pinned to her chest. i can’t do it anymore she’s wrong she’s got the devil in her her name’s hannah please take her i know your a good man and thank you for buying my calendars.

***

The shoes were a size too small, fucking figured. He’d get Sam to clean the chuck from his boots once everything was settled. But at present Sam was sitting in the backseat of the car, holding the kid on one knee and whining about it like a little bitch.

“Would you slow fucking down?” he said. “She’s squirming all over the place. Where are we even going?”

“Put her in the seatbelt.”

“That’s not safe.”

“Well then I guess you’re out of options.”

Sam shook his head; Dean clocked it in the rearview. “You just had to, didn’t you. Couldn’t hold off for one night. Goddamn chubby chaser. We were supposed to be in Bemidji tomorrow, Bobby’s waiting for us.”

“Woah there, Stanford. Not very PC of you. Make me regret telling you things.”

The girl had started up crying again.

“We have no idea how to take care of a baby, Dean. Why didn’t you call the cops?”

Dean pressed harder into the pedal, watched the speedometer creep past ninety. “Yeah, I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just ask me the world’s stupidest fucking question.”

“Anonymous tip? You could’ve been gone way before they showed up. How long have you been doing this?”

The main issue was Dean didn’t know where he was going and he didn’t want to admit that he had no plan. “You read the note.”

Long beat of silence from Sam, more whimpering from the kid. Then Sam said shh shh shh and he said it’s okay, sweetie, you’re okay and the kid said mama, which was the first intelligible thing to come out of her mouth since Dean had lifted her from the crib.

“Oh, shit, Dean,” Sam said, suddenly sounding very afraid. “Dean. What are we gonna do?”

Dean veered over to the shoulder and put the car in park and climbed into the backseat next to Sam and the girl. He put a hand on his brother’s cheek and drew his face up. “Listen to me. We’ll figure it out. When have we ever not figured it out?”

Sam looked at him, unblinking, and then he nodded. “Okay.”

“I said, when have we ever not figured it out?”

“Never. We always have.”

Dean pinched Sam’s cheek. It left a red mark on his skin. “Goddamn right.”

He palmed the girl’s head of dark brown curls, thought he’d never in his life felt a thing so soft.

***

One a.m. when he pulled up to the Roadhouse, on the frayed edge of his last nerve. Blood pulsed at his temple, the nape of his neck. Once Dean had decided that their best course of action was to bring the kid to Ellen, Sam had relaxed a bit, and when Sam relaxed Hannah relaxed too. Before long they were both asleep and had remained so for the rest of the two-hour drive to Nebraska.

“We’re here,” Dean said loudly. Sam didn’t stir. He always slept heavier in the car. Dean reached back and jostled his knee. “Sam.”

The girl, who was sheltered between Sam’s gigantor body and the sticky leather of the backseat, poked her head up. She had crease marks on her forehead and chin and she was a little sweaty.

“Wake that kid up for me, will ya?” Dean said. Hannah giggled. Well, she wasn’t screaming, at least. She whacked Sam’s stomach with her tiny hand. Sam jolted upright, knocked his head against the door handle.

“Fuck,” he said. Hannah giggled again, and at that Sam seemed to come back to himself, seemed to remember where they were and exactly the shit Dean had gotten them into. “Oh. Hi.” He waved at Hannah, then threw a dirty look to Dean.

“You wanna go prep the gang?” Dean asked.

“I thought you called.”

“I did. Still.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I’ll stay here with her. You have a more delicate touch.”

Sam scoffed. “You just don’t wanna get ass-beat by Ellen. Coward.”

“Maybe,” Dean said with a shrug. “I just drove six hours on a barely healed hangover. Toss her up here.”

“Toss her?”

He made grabby hands at Sam. “Whatever. Give her to me.”

Sam sighed, took the girl in his arms and carried her outside of the car and around to the passenger seat. He set her down gently and crouched so they were at eye-level. “I’ll be right back, okay? This man is nice. He’s crazy, but he’s nice. I’ll be right back.” She let out a half-hearted whimper as he walked away.

Dean stared down at the girl. Hannah. “You gotta take a pee?” He thought about how easily she’d gone with him back at the apartment. He’d ripped the note off her pajama shirt, tucked it into his pocket because he figured it’d be evidence or something, somewhere far down the line when their involvement in this situation had been terminated. Then he’d reached down and grabbed the kid, expecting some sort of protest—he was a strange man in her room, after all—but she’d given none. Dean didn’t really wanna think about why that was. The crying hadn’t started until the three of them were in the car heading north on 35. “You use the toilet or what?”

“Mama,” the girl said.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, and turned his attention back to the entrance of the Roadhouse.

Fifteen minutes later Sam leaned out the front door and gestured for them to come inside. Dean thought it’d be good to offer to let the girl walk, stretch her legs a bit, but as soon as he put her down on the gravel she lifted her arms toward him. “Up,” she said.

“It’s like twenty steps,” Dean said.

“Up.”

“If you say so, your highness.” He picked her up and set her on his hip. A dampness seeped into his shirt. “Naturally,” he muttered. He hadn’t thought to grab anything from the girl’s room before leaving the apartment. Not a change of clothes, not a bottle. Did kids this age still use bottles? He recalled some sort of ratty stuffed animal that had been in the crib with her. Maybe she’d like something to hold. He circled back to the car, grabbed one of the calendars he’d stashed in the trunk and handed it to her. She held it in front of her face, wide-eyed. The thing was practically bigger than she was.

“Mama,” she said.

Dean laughed. She must’ve seen them laying around Milk and Cherries’ apartment. “Damn. That’s right.”