#grease and grime won’t break your bones

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!)| Ao3 | masterlist

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[raleighepoxyfloorcoatings]

What’s the Cost Per Square Foot for Commercial Epoxy Flooring?

If you're planning a new build or remodeling a commercial space, flooring isn't just another item on the list—it’s a big deal. The wrong choice can eat your budget, slow your schedule, or fail under pressure. So, when you’re researching commercial epoxy flooring cost per square foot, you’re asking the right question.

Let’s break it down in plain language. We’ll cover how much it costs, why the range can vary, what affects durability, and how to tell if epoxy is the right move for your project.

Why This Question Matters

You're not just picking a floor. You're managing a facility, a renovation budget, or a buildout plan. Every dollar counts. Every material has trade-offs.

With commercial epoxy flooring, you’re looking for something that’s:

Durable

Easy to clean

Safe for staff and customers

Budget-friendly per square foot

And the truth? Epoxy can check all those boxes—if you know what you're getting into.

What’s the Actual Cost Per Square Foot?

Let’s start with a real-world range. On average, commercial epoxy flooring costs between $3 to $12 per square foot.

Here’s how that breaks down:

Basic installations: $3–$5/sq. ft. Includes one coat of epoxy, minimal prep, and basic color.

Mid-tier systems: $5–$8/sq. ft. Includes two coats, some grinding, and optional texture or flake.

High-performance finishes: $8–$12+/sq. ft. Heavy-duty prep, anti-slip additives, moisture barriers, multiple coats, or decorative finishes.

That’s why you might see a huge range online. Some contractors quote bare-bones numbers, others build in prep and protection. Make sure you’re comparing apples to apples.

Why the Prices Vary So Much

The square footage cost depends on more than just the coating itself. Here’s what shifts the price up or down:

1. Surface Prep

This is where most of the labor goes. If your concrete is rough, stained, or damaged, it takes more grinding, patching, or cleaning. That adds time and cost. But without proper prep, epoxy won’t stick—or last.

2. Epoxy Type

There’s water-based epoxy (cheaper, less durable) and 100% solids epoxy (more expensive but stronger). You can also upgrade to polyurethane or polyaspartic topcoats for extra resistance.

3. Add-ons

Do you need anti-slip grit? Color flakes? A custom logo in the floor? Those add cost—but they also boost function and branding.

4. Size of the Job

Bigger spaces usually lower the per-square-foot cost due to economies of scale. A 2,000 sq. ft. job might cost less per foot than a 200 sq. ft. one, even with the same finish.

Why Choose Epoxy for Commercial Flooring?

So is epoxy worth the price?

In many cases, yes—and here’s why.

Durability

Epoxy can handle daily foot traffic, carts, forklifts, cleaning chemicals, and more. It's especially useful for office flooring, warehouses, and light industrial spaces.

Maintenance

Once it’s cured, epoxy is seamless and non-porous. That means spills wipe up fast and grime doesn’t stick. You’ll spend less on cleaning and upkeep over time.

Safety

You can add texture to reduce slips, even when wet. And you can customize colors to mark off work zones, exits, or walkways.

Professional Look

Let’s face it—floors matter. A clean, polished epoxy finish gives your space a modern, high-end appearance without the cost of tile or polished concrete.

Industry Examples

Here’s how epoxy plays out in different commercial settings:

Medical Clinics: Sanitary and seamless for easier disinfection.

Auto Shops: Resistant to oil, grease, and tire wear.

Offices: Sleek, easy to clean, and customizable in color.

Warehouses: Strong enough for pallet jacks and forklifts.

Some facility managers even opt for epoxy to meet local safety or hygiene regulations, especially in food prep or health settings.

So, What Should You Budget?

Let’s say you’re redoing a commercial space with 1,200 sq. ft. of exposed concrete. You want moderate slip protection, a durable surface, and basic color.

Here’s a ballpark budget:

Prep/grinding: $1.50/sq. ft.

Mid-grade epoxy (2 coats): $3.00/sq. ft.

Additives/sealer: $1.50/sq. ft.

Estimated Total: $6.00/sq. ft. × 1,200 sq. ft. = $7,200 total

That’s not bad compared to tile, polished concrete, or even vinyl tile, especially considering the longevity.

Next Steps: Don’t Guess—Get a Quote

You can Google prices all day, but no two jobs are the same. Square footage is just the start.

To get a real number:

Have a pro inspect your current floor

Get a detailed quote that includes prep, coating type, and any extras

Compare with other commercial flooring options like LVT, polished concrete, or rubber tile

If you're planning to upgrade or build out an office flooring project, epoxy gives you a solid, stylish, and cost-efficient option.

[elmalo8291]

Perfect. Here’s the launch of your horrific, hilarious, chaos-infused anime concept—blending Swine horror, Taz’s chaos, and the madness of being pulled into another world. It’s called:

“LEVEL 99: OINK APOCALYPSE”

Tagline: He thought he was isekai’d to save the world. He was actually the appetizer.

Anime Concept:

A sarcastic, unlucky but clever human—let’s call him Noah Grime—gets sucked into the corrupted world of Taz: The Awakening during what he thinks is a VR beta test. He wakes up in a land of mutated pigs, blood-soaked trees, and singing undead armadillos. The catch? The Swine think he’s their messiah, but also keep trying to eat him.

He levels up by accident. Literally. Every time he panics or makes a joke, he gains XP. Every death? More XP. Every snide quip about the horror? Chaos hears and rewards him.

Core Cast:

Noah Grime – The reluctant, unlucky human with sarcasm as his power.

Grizzlepork – His Swine “guide,” who wears bones for glasses and speaks in riddles made of bacon slogans.

Taz – A godlike force of chaos. Think if Deadpool, Beetlejuice, and Pennywise had a baby and gave it narrative powers. He appears randomly to “narrate,” sabotage, or gift completely unhelpful magical items.

Sister Oozetta – A former paladin turned slime-lich nun who speaks only in Gregorian chant and attacks with gospel acid.

Deadpool (Alternate Plane Guest Hero) – Appears on Ooze Day, an interdimensional holiday celebrating chaos. He's got a slime symbiote that won’t shut up and works as comic relief to the comic relief.

Ten Seasons of Chaos-Horror-Humor:

Season 1: "The Baconing Begins"

Noah enters the world. Immediately steps on a cursed pig idol and gets branded as “The Porkphecy.”

Climax: Accidentally levels up by getting eaten and surviving in the Swine digestive system.

Season 2: "This Little Piggy Went to Hell"

Explores Hell-Hamlet, a cursed village where every citizen is a haunted pig puppet.

Climax: Befriends a demonic ham hock that wants to become a bard.

Season 3: "The Pigpen Paradox"

Noah gets trapped in a time loop where he keeps reliving the moment the Swine discovered interpretive dance.

Climax: He breaks the loop by inventing heavy metal slam poetry.

Season 4: "Gored and Board"

Board games come to life. Every step becomes a roll of fate. Hungry Hippos? Now literal.

Climax: Taz eats the game and they fall into the “Meta-Mess” world, chased by concepts.

Season 5: "Tusk ’til Dawn"

A vampire pig cult tries to turn Noah into their eternal blood sausage.

Climax: Noah tricks them into sunlight by throwing a rave with UV bacon grease.

Season 6: "Deadpool & The Ooze Day"

Deadpool arrives via interdimensional slime chute. They celebrate Ooze Day, a Swine holiday involving interpretive vomiting, slime wrestling, and gift-giving that always explodes.

Climax: A musical battle against Sister Oozetta’s choir of the damned.

Season 7: "The Swine Who Knew Too Much"

Grizzlepork discovers Taz’s true origin. Madness spreads. Everyone starts hearing the narrator.

Climax: Noah meets himself—a fully mutated, god-tier Swine clone.

Season 8: "Hamageddon"

The moon is made of pork. It’s falling. They go there to stop it, only to find the Swine God Emperor asleep on the dark side.

Climax: They wake it up by feeding it meme energy and bad fanfiction.

Season 9: "Curse of the Curd"

Sentient cheese from the Chaos Dairy Plane invades. Lactose intolerance becomes a weapon.

Climax: Noah fuses with a holy wedge of ghost cheddar to become The Cheese Paladin.

Season 10: "Taz: The Final Grunt"

The lines blur. Chaos consumes the world. Noah must decide: become the new Taz, or let the world burn into bacon bits.

Climax: The world reboots, with Taz giggling behind every rulebook.

Want a character sheet for Noah or Deadpool as Ooze Day Hero? Or maybe an RPG campaign setting based on these seasons?

[mydisenchantedeulogy]

Don’t Poke the Bear || Karl Heisenberg || NSFW

“It’s hot as fuck in here.”

Heisenberg brushes his hair from his neck and curses again.

You hum to acknowledge his outburst. It certainly is hot – the furnace when running heats the room to unbearable temperatures – but you don’t mind; not when Heisenberg is shirtless.

Damn is he attractive. You bite down onto your tender lip, watching him work from across the room.

His muscles protrude beneath his scarred flesh as he flexes, building castings for his latest project – you don’t care.

He has no idea how much he turns you on. The thought of him bending you over the grimy workbench and fucking you senseless in this unbearable heat makes you sigh in pleasure. It’s a shame he’s too busy to play with you though.

“… listening … hey! Earth to the moron.”

You grunt, giving him a heated glare.

“I heard you asshole,” you bark. “No reason to be rude.”

He puckers a brow and hums. “Sorry about that, darling. Pass me the mallet on the shelf over there.”

You trudge across the room, intent on tossing it at him. But several hammers and mallets are lying on the shelf. Each one is different; each used for different tasks. Which one does he need? You frown in annoyance; embarrassed heat creeps across your face.

You are aware that Heisenberg is watching you.

“Don’t say it,” you order.

He laughs. “I need the brass mallet.”

You take it to him, shoving the brass head into his hand.

“Now who’s being fucking rude.”

You ignore him and watch as he continues to work.

Whatever Heisenberg is making doesn’t interest you in the least. It’s boring and though the Soldats are a necessary item in defeating Miranda, you care nothing for it.

It’s his goal to kill her; to be free of her; not yours. But if that is what he wants, it’s no problem to you.

Faint scars from the experimentation mark his skin. You run a slender finger up his spine to the base of his neck, seeing his shoulders tense up; goosebumps rise.

“I’d kill you if it were someone else,” he mentions as he swats away your eager hand.

Turning, his eyes narrow.

“Why’d you come down here?”

You lie. “To lend you a hand. I was bored.”

“I swear to god that’s the dumbest lie you’ve ever made,” he retorts, taking off his heat-resistant gloves.

You snort and roll your eyes. “I brought you the damn mallet, didn’t I?”

“I had to tell you three fucking times,” he barked.

Damn he’s an ass.

“I was bored,” you explain with a sigh. “And thought I’d come down here to watch you work.”

Heisenberg shakes his head and turns the furnace off, sauntering towards the door. You watch him a minute, deciding to follow him.

“Break time?”

He snorts. “For me. You didn’t do a damn thing.”

“I hand––

“For fuck’s sake, I know. You handed me the mallet.”

He’s a bit moody today.

You step into the cart, staring out the side at the machines as they run, carting Soldats from one end of the factory to the next.

The lift ascends.

“There’s so many of them,” you mention.

Heisenberg hums. “It’s not nearly enough.”

“It’s more than the first time you let me down here,” you add, feeling nostalgic.

He agrees. “Dead bodies weren’t doing the trick.”

A shiver runs down your spine. You are aware that live humans were used to creating his army – more and more of the villagers began to go missing; it was obvious – yet thinking about it always turned your stomach.

Changing the subject, you grin. “You know … I rather like seeing you covered in grease and grime.”

“I knew there had to be a reason you asked to help me,” he stated. “Fuck you’re deprived.”

You laugh. “Says the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I’m not the sadistic fuck wanting to jump your bones down there,” he retorted with a grunt.

You fake an expression of hurt. “You’re not? Mercy me! And I would have let you too.”

Heisenberg laughs. “You have a screw loose, fucking with me.”

Perhaps you do.

“The offer stands,” you mention, walking over to him.

He wets his lips, reaching for your hair to yank back your head, forcing you to stare up into his gleaming yellow eyes. It stings a bit, making you gasp, but also it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Last chance. You sure?”

You nod.

Staring into your wide eyes, Heisenberg catches your lips in a rough kiss. You moan. This is a pleasant surprise; he’s not keen on kissing.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, you tell yourself.

Resting your hand on his chest, you open your eager mouth, sighing in bliss once his warm tongue meets yours. The pressure he uses to crush your mouth hurts, but you love it, tussling with him. Your insides clench up in want.

You can’t take this. Kissing is nice, but you want to be wrecked.

Breaking the kiss, you reach for his pants, tugging him closer to you. Heisenberg grins, swollen lips looking good enough to eat, and motions for you to turn around. Doing so, he pushes you against the wall of the lift and reaches down to undo your pants.

You shimmy them down in glee.

Hearing his pants unfasten, you are surprised when he spreads you and thrusts his cock to the base inside of you. The air leaves your lungs from the sudden pain, but once he starts, sucking on your neck as he thrusts deep into your eager hole, you relax a bit, moaning.

His soft grunts sound so delicious in your ear.

“So good,” you moan.

Have you ever felt this full before? You won’t last much longer.

Reaching back, you bury your fingers into his hair, arching your ass to meet his rough thrusts. Closer and closer your end draws near. As you cum, your eyes roll back in ecstasy. Your body slumps back in exhaustion as Heisenberg continues to fuck you.

Suddenly, he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of your shoulder. You cry out; it strings so bad.

Why did he do this? Does he mean to hurt you?

He pulls out of you – your hole feels empty and sore – and covers the cheeks of your ass in warm cum.

“Let go,” you plead.

Heisenberg releases you. The mark on your shoulder throbs as you touch it, resting against the wall of the lift.

“Sorry about that,” he says with a grin.

You glare at him.

“You’re such an ass. You didn’t have to tear my fucking arm off.”

“Your damn arm is fine,” he snaps.

Refastening your pants, despite the cum on your ass, you trudge out of the lift, needing a warm bath.

Heisenberg laughs.

You just had to go and poke the bear.

[plasticnightmaredoll]

I’m still working on the NSFW Alphabet for Enigma/Edward Nashton/Riddler-Before-He-Was-Riddler from “Arkham Origins,” and it’s going to take some time because of my work schedule being the PITA that it is...

However, I do have some snippets of an Arkham Knight!Riddler x female!Reader fic I’ve been working on here and there over the last few weeks. 

Now, these are not beta-read, so there may be some mistakes, and some things might change or be added or rearranged, etc. when I do get around to proof-reading the complete fic, but the basic idea of each snippet won’t change from here on to the finished product. 

The general concept behind this fic is what would it take for AK!Riddler to, well, get his shit together? We all know how he started out as a snack -- or more accurately, a damn MEAL:

then became a...well, a hot mess (still adorable, though):

Possibly having someone in his life who actually appreciates him and shows him some affection could get him to clean himself up? Because we all know this boy is most likely touch-starved and would probably cry if someone was actually sweet to him, and he’d probably do whatever he could to be as presentable as possible to keep them around -- anything to keep them from vanishing from his life and leaving him all alone and unwanted again.

Anyway, here are the three (non-beta’d!) snippets from the fic:

Snippet 1:

Initially, Edward told himself it was for his own good. He was Gotham’s one true genius so why shouldn’t he take better care of himself? Cloning was not possible, nor was there any way to transfer the human consciousness into a machine. All of this meant there was only ONE Edward Nigma, and he deserved to look and feel his absolute best. 

Besides, he thought it was yet another way to one-up anyone who opposed him. Yes, of course he could look just as put together as anyone else -- or better. He was superior in every possible way after all.

It had all started with a comment from Selina as she was leaving to take care of the job Edward had assigned to her.

“You know, Eddie,” she said, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Ladies like men who don’t smell like a car repair shop.”

With that, she was gone and Edward was, at first, not even registering what she had said to him. But it did creep into his thoughts faster than he would have liked, and he analyzed every piece of it. Why would Selina say such a thing? Then again, most people said pointless -- or more accurately, stupid -- things. Normally, he would have disregarded and forgot about it as he went about his work, but it nagged at him like a mathematical equation without a proper solution.

Taking a break from working on some new Riddlerbots, Edward went to the bathroom to locate anything he had on hand to take care of the headache he was currently dealing with. He found a bottle of Aspirin in the medicine cabinet, but when he closed the door, he stared at his reflection for a moment (When was the last time he’d given himself a proper glance in a mirror?)

As Edward took the Aspirin, he remembered Y/N was coming to see him that day -- soon, actually. Perhaps a shower would be a good idea? She would probably appreciate it if he didn’t smell like a car repair shop. And he probably would feel better being clean. Could help him think a little more clearly.

As he showered, Edward told himself this was primarily for his benefit and he wasn’t trying to impress Y/N -- or anyone for that matter. Deep down, though, he knew this was part of something he didn’t quite understand, something dealing with Y/N, something he hadn’t experienced before. That part of him was too afraid at that time to come forth and propose an answer to this dilemma. This was unfamiliar territory, something that wasn’t logical or scientific but emotional and...no, that “strange” part of him needed to stay quiet if he wanted to keep his thoughts together.

This was nothing. Nothing was going on. Everything was normal. And no, Edward didn’t feel relieved when Y/N complimented him on his appearance upon arriving. Taking a shower and putting on nice, clean clothes had nothing to do with gaining her approval. He did it for himself, to give himself a “refresh” before getting back to work. He wasn’t aiming to please or impress anyone, remember? Not even Y/N.

Especially not Y/N.

Or so he thought.

Snippet 2:

Something was different when Edward put someone else before anything of his, namely his work. Had it been anyone else, he’d have tossed a bunch of insults and told them never to bother helping him again. 

However, with Y/N, it was completely different -- and he didn’t even realize it at first.

She was carrying a box of mechanical parts to bring to Edward to aid in constructing new robots, and he had warned her to be careful, to not overload the box or it would be too heavy for her. While carrying the box of gears, wires, and metal bits, she tripped over her own feet and fell forward. The box toppled over onto the floor, spilling the contents everywhere, and she collapsed on her left forearm and knee.

“I told you to be careful!” Edward growled as he rushed over.

“I’m sorry!” Y/N said, pushing herself up and looking at the mess. “I don’t think I broke anything--”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Y/N fully expected Edward to examine the scattered parts to see if they had sustained any damage but he went right by them. Kneeling down beside her, he gently took her left arm and briefly studied the scratched skin. 

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Edward said as he carefully felt her forearm and elbow. “And your knee….”

“I think it’s ok,” Y/N said as she moved to sit. “It hurts, though.”

Edward placard his hands on Y/N’s left knee, feeling around and noting how she winced several times. 

“Not broken,” he said. “But most certainly will be sore and bruised for a while. Here…let’s get you up.”

Edward let Y/N put an arm around him to steady her as he helped her to stand. Of course, her left knee ached far too much for her to walk on her own, so he continued to guide her to the bathroom.

“I’m sorry about the stuff,” Y/N said, looking and sounding as guilty as she felt.

“Don’t worry about it,” Edward said absent-mindedly as he located some clean bandages and antiseptic cream. “Most of it probably won’t even be needed for what I’m doing now, and I can always acquire more. In fact...I have more in storage.”

Edward turned on the faucet and tested the water until it was comfortably warm, then he gingerly took Y/N’s left arm and began cleaning it with soap. It stung a little but she tolerated it, studying his highly focused expression and wondering if this was even happening? He truly wasn’t upset that she dropped the box of bits and pieces? She just couldn’t wrap her head around it, and doubted that anyone would believe her without proof.

Edward dried Y/N’s arm with a clean towel before tossing it in the trash. After applying some antiseptic cream to a strip of bandage, he proceeded to wrap it around her arm, covering the wound. 

“There…” Edward said, admiring his handiwork. “How does that feel?

“Good,” Y/N said.

“Now for your, uh, knee.” Edward swallowed, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “It...doesn’t appear to be bleeding so...I think we can just put, um, ice on it. Unless you think it needs to be looked at?”

“No, I think it’s fine. Ice is fine. Thank you.”

Edward nodded before clearing his throat and reaching out to Y/N.

“Come,” he said. “Let me help you to the couch.”

Snippet 3:

“Ok, who are you and what did you do with Eddie?” asked Selina as she looked Edward over incredulously.

It appeared that Edward finally got his shit together and was taking care of himself. Not only was he free of grime and grease, he was dressed in rather impressive attire: black dress shirt, green gloves, green trousers, and dark brown boots. Even his hair was cut and styled differently as it was shorter with subtle layering, the offset part causing bangs to fall over most of his forehead and just above his brows. 

Another noteworthy change was Edward’s weight. Instead of surviving on snacks and coffee, he must have been eating actual food again as he was no longer skin and bones. Actually, he looked a little bit...toned? Was he back to his old routine of perfectly planned, ultra-healthy, balanced meals coupled with a decent amount of exercise? Selina remembered he used to get up early in the and exercise almost right away most days of the week. It helped him “get focused” before even having coffee, he had said.

“What are you going on about?” Edward asked in an agitated tone. “Nevermind. It’s nonsense anyway.”

“Personality is still the same,” Selina muttered as she followed Edward to a workbench.

Once he was done explaining in excessive, almost condescending detail the particulars of the items she needed to steal for him, she decided to ask some questions.

“So, tell me, Eddie,” Selina began, turning to him. “What inspired you to finally start looking like a professional criminal mastermind as opposed to an overworked grease monkey?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Edward said, before clearing his throat and straightening, a smug smile on his face. “I came to the long overdue conclusion that, as Gotham’s one true genius and Batman’s superior, I should look after myself and be presentable. What’s on the outside should reflect what’s going on inside, so to speak. I mean, what a waste of a brilliant mind such as mine to live in a body akin to a starving, filthy rat scurrying about in the sewers?”

“So you are basically telling me you did this for yourself,” Selina said resisting the urge to roll her eyes at Edward’s narcissistic ramblings. “Are you sure you didn’t do this for any other reason?”

“Like what?” Edward asked, clearly puzzled by such a question.

“Hmm...well, let me ask this: Has Y/N seen your ‘transformed’ self?”

Selina noted how Edward’s blue eyes lit up upon hearing Y/N’s name, and suddenly, his obnoxious personality changed to a much more amiable one.

“She likes it,” Edward said with a bright smile. “Her compliments about my appearance go hand in hand with her compliments about my genius. It’s wonderful having someone around who actually appreciates my existence.”

“I take it that her approval means a lot to you then?”

“Of course! Considering she’s the only person who treats me with respect, I think she deserves the privilege of having me listen to, accept, and sometimes take her advice.”

Selina smirked as she had received the answer to her question.

“Well then, I must be going, Eddie,” she said as she turned to leave. “I’ll get you what you requested in no time.”

“Yes, please do,” Edward said sternly, going back to his arrogant tone. “My request should be of the utmost importance compared to whoever else you’re working with at the moment.”

“Yes, yes, Eddie, of course. Bye!”

[kissjane]

A GOOD NEIGHBOUR IS WORTH MORE THAN A DISTANT FRIEND / (Not so) Short fic

#44 from this prompt list

I’m your new neighbour and I got locked out, help!

Eliott cannot keep in a sigh of relief when he rounds the last corner on the stairs. He hadn’t really been up to going out just yet, not completely recovered from a depressive episode from hell, but his fridge had been totally empty, and he even didn’t find any shampoo, which he bitterly needed after days without a shower, so he had made himself get up. Of course, the store had been fucking swamped, and it had taken way too long, and then when he got back here, the elevator had been closed off for maintenance again, and so he had had no choice to drag himself and his groceries up eleven floors.

But he has the finish line in sight. He can see his front door, only fifty or so steps away, and then he can shower and put on a clean shirt and a fresh pair of boxers and fall back into his bed with some microwaved soup.

His feet shuffle over the floor, his breath shallow, his eyes focused on the door, keys already in hand. Forty steps… thirty steps… twenty…

“Excuse me,” a voice suddenly breaks through his count, but Eliott cannot deal with anybody right now, he needs to get in, fall down, close his eyes for a long time. Ten more steps.

“Uh, sir? I’m so sorry, but –”

A groan escapes Eliott.

The cashier couldn’t have been just slightly faster? The elevator couldn’t have worked properly, for once?

“Look, I am really sorry, but I live in 312, and I –”

Eliott forces himself to look up. The sooner he listens to this guy, the sooner he can tell him to fuck off, and the sooner he can collapse on his bed again.

In front of him stands a man he’s never seen before. He is a bit shorter than Eliott, but he looks to be about his age. His hair is brown and sticks in every possible direction – but Eliott cannot fault him for that, especially not when it looks clean and free of grease. His own matted hair surely looks a lot worse. The guy is barefooted, wearing grey sweatpants and a T-shirt that has faded into something undefined. He is holding a few envelopes in his hand, but Eliott doesn’t really register those, too busy staring at the guy’s feet. Who the fuck walks around without shoes?

“I just went down to get the mail from the lobby, but I guess the door fell closed, and now I can’t get in, so I was just hoping I could borrow your phone to call somebody, I promise I'll be out of your hair after that –”

Oh, god. Eliott really isn’t equipped to deal with people right now.

But his eyes fall again on those naked feet. Who knew how long the guy had been standing out here in the hallway already.

He takes a deep breath, thinking longingly about his bed, his shower, microwaved soup.

He looks up, unsure what to say or do, and the guy is looking at him with – oh.

Blue.

A summer sky. A pristine lake. Faded denim. Soft blankets. Warmth and safety and belonging.

This guy has the biggest, the bluest, the most beautiful eyes Eliott has ever seen, and suddenly he doesn’t feel as bone-tired anymore. Surely he can manage for another five minutes, while this guy calls the landlord or some locksmith or his girlfriend to come pick him up.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak, and he opens the door, while the guy smiles at him and those blue depths suddenly shine like the stars and the moon combined.

“Oh, thank you so much! Here, let me help you with that…”

He grabs one of Eliott’s bags before Eliott can react, and carries it in.

“Shall I help you put these up?”

He doesn’t wait for Eliott’s answer, and efficiently starts unpacking the bread, milk, juice, and microwaveable soup. He puts the shampoo on the table, and looks at Eliott expectantly. Eliott has no clue what he is supposed to say or do. The fog in his head is growing again, and if he doesn’t get into the shower soon, he won’t be able to tonight, and the idea of another night without washing up makes his skin crawl.

“So, uh, can I borrow your phone then?”

Ah. Right. He tries to remember where it is. Oh, right, he put it on the charger before he left the flat. He wants to go get it, but the idea of walking to the bedroom only to have to come back is suddenly way too overwhelming, and he sags against the wall.

Finally, the guy seems to notice something is up.

“Hey, are you – are you okay? You look a bit… off. Is there anything I can do?”

He sounds concerned, and his blue eyes have gone a shade darker as he watches Eliott.

“M fine,” Eliott croaks. “Phone… in the… in the bedroom.”

The guy looks outright worried now.

“Okay, uh, I think you should go lay down anyway. I can leave you to get some rest, I’ll find somebody else to borrow a phone from…”

Eliott feels bad, but it sounds heavenly. He nods once, curtly, trying to ignore the guilty feeling inside, and tries to move his legs, but he stumbles. In a flash, the guy is by his side.

“Let me help you get to bed,” he says, slinging Eliott’s arm over his shoulder, letting him put most of his weight onto him.

“Where is your bedroom? Careful now,” the boy admonishes softly, as they shuffle through the hall.

“Wait,” Eliott mumbles and halts in front of the bathroom. “Need a shower.”

He gets a sceptical look from the guy.

“Are you sure you can handle it? Not gonna lie, you look really like shit.”

Eliott just stands, too tired to nod, or to think about anything.

“Okay,” the guy relents, “but I’d feel a lot better if you let me stay while you shower. I mean –”

Eliott notices a blush creeping up on the guy’s cheeks, but he doesn’t have the mental capacity to figure out what that is about.

“I mean, not in the bathroom, obviously. But maybe I could wait until you’re done and I know you’re safe in your bed before I go? I wouldn’t forgive myself if you slipped and cracked open your head or something.”

It all goes too fast for Eliott to understand, but the siren call of the shower is too alluring to ignore, so he just nods again, and croaks, “Shampoo?”.

He waits while the guy quickly fetches it from the kitchen table, and then almost tumbles inside. He misses the apprehension in his visitor’s eyes, and finally takes off his smelly clothes. He is too exhausted to stand up, so he sits on the floor of the shower stall, and mechanically washes his hair. Turning off the water, he sits, not up to finding a towel and drying himself, until he hears a knock on the door.

“Are you okay in there?”

He mumbles something, and decides he is dry enough to pull on some underwear. Just as he hears another knock, a bit more urgent this time, he is ready. He pulls open the door, and even though it is probably rude as hell, completely ignores the boy, hand poised to knock a third time. The soup will have to wait, he vaguely thinks, as he manages to stay upright until he is within reach of his bed, tumbling down on it, and sinking into a dreamless sleep.

***

Eliott wakes up, disoriented and with a growling feeling in his stomach. He tries to remember what happened – he went to the store, he took a shower, did he eat anything? Another groan from his stomach seems to indicate he didn’t. He sniffs.

Something smells good.

He sniffs again. It’s almost like fresh coffee.

Slowly, carefully, he sits up, and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The exhaustion has worn off somewhat, and he walks to the kitchen, ready to finally munch on some bread, when he stops in his track.

At the counter, with his back towards Eliott, stands a man in an old t-shirt, comfy sweatpants and – Eliott’s Pollock socks?

He coughs, and the guy whips around, a startled look on his face.

Blue eyes.

Suddenly it comes back to Eliott – the neighbour locked out of his flat, wanting to use Eliott’s phone, standing watch outside the bathroom door while he washed off the grime of the past week.

“Oh, you’re awake! I, uh – I didn’t want to come into your bedroom for your phone while you were sleeping, so uh, I hope you don’t mind me hanging out. I made coffee and I can warm up that soup you got…”

“Are those my socks?”

Eliott doesn’t know why this is the only thing on his mind at this very moment. It must be that the blue of the man’s eyes makes him a bit dizzy.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry. I got cold feet… I started a load of laundry and I saw these were hanging on your drying rack, so uh. I’ll wash them and get them back to you, of course. As soon as I can get into my flat.”

Eliott sits down at the table, while the other puts a mug of steaming coffee in front of him.

“If it’s okay, I’ll go grab your phone now, and call a locksmith, yeah?”

“What time is it?”, Eliott murmurs, sipping his coffee. It is way better than when he makes it, and he eyes the mug slightly suspiciously.

“About eleven pm,” the guy says, moving towards the door.

“It’ll cost you an arm and a leg to get a locksmith out at this hour.”

The boy stops in his tracks.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “not a lot of choice, have I?”

“You could stay until tomorrow,” Eliott hears himself say before he can think it trough. Or until the day after, his treacherous mind adds, as he drinks the heavenly brew.

The guy’s eyes open even wider.

“Really?”

“Really,” Eliott says. “I’m not the best company right now, but there should be enough soup for both of us, and uh, we could watch a movie or something.”

A long beat passes, and then the guy steps back into the kitchen, getting out the soup, and firing up the microwave.

“Thanks. I’m Lucas.”

“Eliott. And you’re welcome.”

They grin at each other.

Eliott feels the last drags of his dark mood disappear.

A good neighbour is worth more than a distant friend, he thinks, and if something inside him pipes up to say that neighbours can become friends, or even more than friends, he tries to ignore it. For now.

[knockouthigh]

The Benefits of High Pressure Cleaning

High Pressure Cleaning is one of the most effective ways to clean surfaces quickly and easily. This process uses water to remove dirt, mud, salt, oil and gum from surfaces.

Powered by petrol or electricity, these cleaners pump and pressurize water before spraying it through a hose and nozzle. They can be used to clean almost anything.

Removes Dirt Instantly

The most obvious reason to hire a professional outdoor cleaner with high pressure cleaning equipment is that it removes dirt instantly. A greasy driveway or moss-covered stairs are more than just an eyesore. They can also become a bone-breaking and life-threatening slipping hazard.

Using water under high-pressure, cleaning services can blast away grime, oil, grease, mildew and more from surfaces like dumpster pads, loading docks, commercial buildings and vehicles. These surfaces are often exposed to extreme weather conditions, and they require frequent cleaning to prevent deterioration and damage.

Cleaning jobs that are easy to see are very satisfying – wiping over cupboards or dusting photo frames, for example. But other types of cleaning tasks can be time-consuming and frustrating, such as scouring rust from garden furniture or stubbornly stuck-on materials like paint, mud or mildew. That is why a home high pressure cleaner is so useful. It is easy to use and comes with a range of options, such as adjustable foam lance to prevent wasting detergent and the possibility to select the best washing program for your surface.

Prevents Damage to Outdoor Structures

When dirt gathers on a building for long periods, it can damage it. It can eat through paint and cause leaks. This can be prevented by hiring a professional outdoor cleaning crew with the right tools to perform high pressure washing.

The proper water pressure, temperature and detergents can be used to blast away moss growth, mould, grease, bird droppings and other debris that would otherwise damage your building. Using the correct nozzle to control the spray also prevents damage as it can be targeted at certain areas only.

Melbourne has a different climate, meaning that heavy rains can deposit mud and vegetative debris on your business’ parking lot and walkways. This can ruin your meticulously cleaned exteriors in a matter of hours. However, the proper detergents can be used to help remove these substances with ease. The detergents are also biodegradable, which means that they won’t harm your plants and flowers in the garden or animals that live in the neighborhood.

Prevents Slipping Accidents

Slipping accidents are the most common reason for workplace injuries. Despite suggested safety precautions like non-skid flooring, clear walkways and proper signage, accidents still occur. Spilled chemicals, lubricants and paints are common causes of these accidents.

The high pressure cleaning of these materials is a great way to reduce their occurrences. A clean facility is also safer for employees and visitors.

A good detergent to use with a high-pressure washer should have a pH between 2 and 8, but it’s important to choose one that will work well at the water temperature of your machine. It should also have surfactants to lift soils, blended solvents to break down oil and greases, chelating agents for inorganic soil removal and water conditioning agents.

Lastly, make sure you wear long pants and safety glasses when using the machine. The downward jet of pressurized water can cut your legs if you don’t. Wearing protective gear will also keep you safe from flying debris and stones.

Adds Curb Appeal

Boosting curb appeal is especially beneficial for businesses that want to attract customers. A commercial building that looks grungy and unkempt can put off potential clients and even discourage them from coming into the premises. It’s best to regularly have the exterior of your building pressure washed by professional cleaners in order to keep it looking its very best.

Whether you’re planning to sell your home or just wanting to improve its value, adding curb appeal is always a good idea. It allows you to stand out from other home listings and will draw in more interested buyers when it comes time for viewings. Many of the actions you can take to add curb appeal are made easier and faster with a pressure washer, including shaping up your driveway, removing unattractive mildew from the exterior, and freshening up your paintwork. With just a few simple updates, you can instantly improve your property’s value.

[multifandom-damnation]

Our little rag-tag family

Tim gazed out at the pink and purple sunset of Pandora’s sky, somewhat ruined by the huge billboard of “Handsome” Jack’s face.

Sand spread before him in rolling hills of dusty gold, rocks jutting up like black blemishes in the skin of the earth and overgrown weeds dotted the landscape like scars. When Tim flexed his toes, he could feel the warm grains of sand stuck between them.

Grumbled cursing was emanating from behind him, Nisha’s attempts to restart the engine of their little van obviously unsuccessful.

Happy to silently sit in the sun, Tim decided that any help he might try and give would only result in a more annoyed Nisha and tension for the rest of the trip. He had taken his jacket off and laid it on the sand to sit on, so as to not fill the van with sand.

The sunset cast his shadow behind him, hiding the shape of the body that wasn’t his. He didn’t mind, shadows hid his face anyway.

A sigh came from behind him, and he half-turned to look at the new approaches. “Nisha,” Athena sighed, letting go of Angel’s hand and making her way to lean against the van. “Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“Yes, Athena.” Nisha ground out through grit teeth as she jabbed a wrench into seemingly random places. “I’m sure. I was sure the first 50 times you asked me, and I’ll be sure for the next 50 times.”

Tim didn’t even have to turn around to know Athena’s head was in her hands.

“I’m just asking, Nisha.” She rubbed her temple, and a burst of exhaust erupted from the engine. “No need to get crabby. I’m only trying to help.”

“Well, the only way you could possibly help is if you found the stuff I need to fix this thing.”

“Of course I found it.”

Jingling, metal scraping against metal, and Athena handing something to Nisha, who still had her head stuck inside the bonnet, an impatiently waiting hand outstretched.

“What did you need it for anyway?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” Nisha grunted, tugging a wire out. “But I know I’ll need it eventually. It depends on what needs fixing first.”

“You’re a nightmare.”

Turning away from the sun, Tim spied Angel standing a few feet away, watching the scene unfold. She was twiddling a piece of scrap between her palms and making patterns in the sand with her new boots.

“Angel,” he called softly, patting the space on his jacket next to him. “Come sit with me.”

Tentatively, Angel dragged her feet over to where Tim was sitting and sat a little bit away from him on her knees.

Not wanting to push her, Tim sat quietly and folded his hands in his lap. “Nice night,” he said, watching the sun slowly slink lower behind the horizon, and the moon rise into the cooling night air. Slowly, silently, Angel moved to sit next to him on the jacket cross-legged, placing her head on his shoulder.

Probably so she doesn’t have to see my face Tim thought sadly and threaded his fingers through her hair. His face. I wouldn’t either.

“Where did you go off to?” He asked, rubbing his thumb up and down her arm.

She lifted her arm to point a chubby finger towards a large rock towards the edge of the horizon. It was the size of a small mountain, and Tim could see the wreckage of a ship poking out from behind it. He wondered what had happened to its passengers.

“There were really weird plants.” She near-whispered, lowering her hand and pulling strings out of the hem of her shirt. It was caked in mud and grime. “They were glowing. And moving.”

“Yeah, plants on this planet seem to do that.” Tim agreed.

Loud clanging erupted from behind them, and Angel lifted her head to look back at Nisha, whose hands were drenched in motor oil. She had a screwdriver in her mouth and was shuffling to pick up the wrench that had fallen to the bottom of the hood.

“I told you that would happen.” Was Athena’s aloof reply, crossing her arms and legs as she held items for Nisha.

“Well, what’s your bright idea, oh glorious mother?” Nisha snapped, banging her head on the edge of the bonnet as she angrily looked up to glare at Athena. She scowled at the sheet of metal as if it had personally offended her. With Nisha, it probably had.

“Take a break and get back to it when you’ve calmed down?” Athena suggested.

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“Then why did you ask for it?”

“I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

Angel turned back around and picked up a rock, tossing it from palm to palm before pulling her arm back and pitching it across the sand. Clouds of dust obscured its path as it skipped across the dunes.

On Tim’s right, a pile of stones was gathered, and he put them in front of Angel. “I bet I can throw farther than you.” He boasted with a wink.

Angel grinned, accepting the challenge, and picked up a rock.

A blast exploded from directly behind them, warm wetness splattered over them like pellets. Both Tim and Angel spun around, Tim with his gun, Angel with the rock raised high above her head.

A skag lay dead on the ground, blood seeping into the sand and limbs twitching like a puppet on a string. Nisha had both her arms out, pistol in hands, barrel still smoking. Her eyes were like ice, calculated and solid, as she shifted her gaze from the skag to Tim and back again.

“Really, Timothy?” Athena chided gently. Nisha lowered her gun and holstered it. “I know you’re tired, but maybe be more aware. It almost bit your head off, then where would you be?”

Tim winced “Sorry Athena.” A side-eyed look at a grumbling Nisha. “Sorry, Nisha. I’ll pay more attention.”

“Don’t fret.” Nisha sighed, turned back to her engine work, and began unscrewing a cap with her grease-slicked fingers. “It was a quiet one, and you were talking. You probably couldn’t hear it. But just remember- “

“I owe you the next one?” Tim guessed

“I was going to say ‘get your head out of your ass’, but that works too.”

“It’s a deal.”

Athena handed a torn piece of cloth to Nisha, who took it and used it to wipe her hands then the equipment. Her fingers were stained black and there was oil caked under her nails. Nisha didn’t seem to notice, or maybe just didn’t care.

Settling back down, Tim noted that the sun was almost hidden in darkness, nothing but the faint remains of the warm night that once was. “Hopefully Nisha will get the van going soon,” he remarked to Angel who was staring intently at her lap. “It’s getting dark. Maybe we can make a campfire and roast marshmallows. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“Mhm” was the sound Angel made, too wrapped up in her thinking to form actual words. She looked like she wanted to ask something, but was thinking better of it.

“You know you can ask me anything Angel,” Tim whispered, brushing her fringe out of her face. “I promise I won’t be mad.”

Angel threaded her fingers, knotting them together, nervousness settling into her bones and making her body shake. “Does it- “she began, breathing deeply. “Does it ever hurt? Anymore?”

“Does what hurt?” Tim asked, confused. He was shot a few days ago, the bullet burrowing deep into his arm, but that hadn’t been too bad, and definitely not something worth Angel’s concern at this point.

“The scar.” She whispered, afraid to ask.

“I have lots of scars Angel, none of them really hurt anymore- “

“No. The one on your face.”

Oh. The brand. The aching mark on his face that burns with a haunting pain. The one that has him turning away from mirrors and closing his eyes when he walks past water. The one that stings in the middle of the night like a bandit was dripping molten metal onto his face and down the crevice that used to be flat. The one that reminds him of a heavy weight on his ankles and shoulders, the weight of Jack on his chest, knees digging in, and the searing heat of the brand as it collided with his face.

Yes, of course it hurt.

“No,” he lied, cocking his head to the side and pretending to be thoughtful “I can hardly feel it anymore”

Angel glared at him. “Really?” She didn’t seem convinced.

“Yes really,” he laughed. “It made him really angry when it wasn’t straight and he flipped out when it wasn’t perfect.”

He lost me an eye he wanted to scream, but he didn’t want to say that to Angel about her own father. She probably didn’t even know he has lost an eye, and he wanted it to stay that way.

But Angel snorted at the jab, a deep rumbling snort that gave way to a few giggles, and Tim suddenly didn’t care, because Angel was safe and happy and away from that bastard.

Even if Tim does have his face.

“Tim!” Athena called out, grabbing a bucket with a long funnel and walking towards where Nisha was standing impatiently at the top of a hill. Nisha had her whip out and her hand on her head to stop her hat from flying away in the sudden breeze. She was a stark silhouette, contrasting crisply with the moon behind her.  “We’re just going to get fuel. We won’t be too long. Go sit in the van if you want to wait for us, but don’t stay up until midnight just to prove a point.”

“Sure thing, Athena.” He called over his shoulder, watching them walk away and disappear behind a hill. “Be careful.”

“It’s the creatures that need to be careful!”

He couldn’t argue with that, so he watched her as she trudged along the gritty sand, over the hill.

“I like Athena,” Angel said from beside him, watching them vanish. “She’s like a mum. She’s nice.”

“Really?” Tim asked, receiving a nod in confirmation. “Well, what do you think of Nisha?”

Angel rubbed her eyes as she spoke: “She’s mean sometimes and she scares me, but she’s only like that to protect us, right?”

“You learn fast kid,” he laughed as he stood up and offered his hands out to help her up. She took them and leant down to pick up his jacket, dusting the sand off of it before handing it back. “Now the most important question.”

Angel held his hand as they walked back to the van and hopped in first as he held open the door. “What do you think of me?” he asked as she settled into her seat and he had shut the door behind him.

“I like you too.” She said, looking him in the eyes for the first time that night, but lost her nerve and looked shyly away, blinking. “You’re like a big brother. You’re nothing like him, even though you look like him.”

Tim felt flattered. “Well, I like you too Angel. I’m glad you think I’m nothing like your dad.”

“Nobody’s like him,” Angel whispered sadly, eyes downcast.

“Listen, Angel,” Tim sighed, putting his arms around her and dragging her closer to him so she could lean against his side. “Your dad- “

“Don’t call him my dad.” Angel’s hands were clenched, leaving half-moon indents in her palms. “Just… don’t.”

Tim could respect that. “Jack was a terrible man, but just because he was your father, doesn’t mean that you’re anything like him, OK?”

“He’s the only family that I’ve ever had.”

“That’s not true.” Tim cried spinning towards her with wide eyes. “What am I then, chopped liver? You just said I was like a brother! Last time I checked, a brother was a family member.”

“Yeah but- “

“And Athena was like a mum?”

“Yeah, but that’s different.”

“And you could argue that Nisha is like a grumpy older sister, right?”

“I guess so.”

“See?” Tim asked, waving his hands in the air and jumping in his seat. “We’re all a family! The 4 of us are a new family. Our little rag-tag family made from bits and bobs and cowboy hats.”

Laughter echoed down from the hill and before they knew it, the top of the van was being smacked and the fuel gate was being opened, followed by the tell-tale glugging of fuel being poured.

Athena got into the driver’s seat grinning and looked into the back seat. “Buckle up,” she laughed “Nisha’s in a good mood. It’s going to be a wild ride.”

Tim and Angel hurriedly put on their seat belts as Nisha whooped and dived into the passenger’s seat. She turned to the two with a maniacal grin. “Tell me something kid.” She cackled to Angel. “Do you like adventure?”

Angel’s awed look and frantic nod was all Nisha needed before she turned back to the front, turned up the radio and shouted: “Let’s go then!”

Angel held on to Tim as they drove, and as he wove his fingers in her hair, thinking of all the adventures his new family would share, he couldn’t help but shout above the roar of the newly-fixed engine and the whistling wind: “This is how the van broke last time!”

Hi! So, this is a birthday gift for @goshparticle !! I love you and hope this is good enough. Everyone else, I have never played Borderlands and the only thing I know is through Bec, so if there are some things wrong (I know there will be) I’m sorry. You probably won’t have to put up with m butchering your fandom until next think this year! Thanks, Zin (@zinziinziiin) for editing this piece of shit xx Bye!

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist

You’re entirely too eager to return to ‘Ghost’s Garage.’ Maybe you walk through the front doors of the rundown shop a little early, definitely do.

Your shitty pick-up probably only needs to be topped off, but you did drive 3000 miles, and it’s not like being on top of maintenance would hurt.

So, you brush your arrival off as maintaining the integrity of your pick-up, and not the fact that sweat drenched skin and a Manchester accent hasn’t left the confines of your mind since.

Unfortunately, you’re not greeted by Simon when you arrive, instead, blonde hair is replaced with a brown Mohawk, said English accent replaced by a Scottish one.

“Oi, hello lass!” The man greets, a wide smile on his lips.

“Oh, hi,” You respond, giving him a tight smile in return, “Is Simon not here?”

“Aye, he’s busy wi’ another car right now, but ah can help ye, nae worries,” He explains, with an encouraging nod.

You try your best to hide the disappointment in your tone, but its hard when you did your hair this morning with Simon in mind, when you wore your uncomfortable pencil skirt to work with him in mind, when you showed up after work instead of on your day off because you had been hoping that you could see him just as filthy after a full days of work.

“Ah, okay,” You mumble quietly, “I just need my oil changed is all.”

You can’t help, but mourn the money you’re about to spend on an oil change you don’t really need, when the whole reason you were so adamant to return isn’t plausible. It’s too late to walk out now, how desperate would you look if you left because Simon wouldn’t be the one working on your car?

So, you accept your fate, that it wasn’t in the cards, listen to the new man’s instructions and pull your truck into the service drive.

Guilt eats at your chest because it’s not really the mohawked mans fault; he isn’t even ugly, definitely a sight for sore eyes— desperate eyes that is. He wears less than Simon had, a white tank top that’s a little too tight for him, and worn in jeans with more than one rip in them. Wears it a little braver than Simon had, smug and confident, probably a heartthrob for all the mom’s cars he works on, probably flirts with all of them too with no actual intentions, just to make them feel good.

When you park in the service drive, your wandering eyes find Simon across the garage, bent over the hood of a car. It’s not your truck; you won’t get to talk to him, but you think it’s worth it when he’s bent so low over the sedan that his white shirt rises over his hips as he reaches forward. The sliver revealed is paler than the rest of his bronzed skin, freckles littered across the lighter flesh, draws excess saliva in your cheeks, embarrassingly so, over an inch of skin.

But it makes your mind wander, filthy images of connecting the sun marks with timid fingers and shaking hesitation, find out how far down the brown freckles trail.

You don’t have to imagine for long, not when he realizes you’re standing across the garage, gawking at him with a ravenous hunger in your eyes, and starts to walk over to you. He dabs at the sweat on his hairline, makes his shirt rise even higher, reveals light brown freckles curled over his abdomen and a blonde happy trail disappearing into his coveralls.

It’s almost impossible to force your eyes up, find his gaze when he’s walking around like that. With his fucking happy trail on display between the sweat drenched skin and grimy oil marks. The spitting image of a hard working man, powerful and stout, makes a stinging warmth coil in your limbs, thighs pressing tightly together.

“Hi,” You squeak when he stops in front of you, cheeks burning hot in embarrassment because you can’t decide if getting caught drawing lewd shapes with his freckles outweighs the reward of him approaching you.

“Hi, sweeth’art.”— and you decide right then and there that getting caught was worth it when the deep timbre of his voice washes over your shoulders.

He’s positively filthy, more so than last time.

Wet, greasy.

You can smell it on him just as strongly as you can see it on his skin. Like car oil that sat out for too long, the rubber burnt off tires.

A heavy musk, acrid, pungent odor.

You have half the mind to know you should be disgusted by it, that a dirty mechanic calling you a term of endearment should crawl under your skin and make you uncomfortable, but it does the complete opposite. It’s not like you have much of a fight in that game when you were just greedily memorizing his blonde tufts of hair, picturing how it would curl over his pelvis, matted and damp from his hard work.

Even still, you’re pinpointing all the places fingerprint grease stains would imprint on your skin in his wake. How thick the layers of sweat and grime would taste on your tongue.

“Johnny, I got ‘his one, okay?” He shouts to the other side of the garage.

Johnny wears a devious smirk on his face, but Simon doesn’t let you see it for long, shifting to face you just as quickly as he wore it.

You’re not sure if you took a step forward or if Simon was standing this close to begin with. Maybe he was just truly this massive, but you have to tilt your head back just to look at him. He doesn’t necessarily make it easy either, not when he stares down at you with piercing eyes, makes you feel out of your own skin.

“You jus’ need yer oil again?” He asks.

You nod, licking your lips, “Yes, but I thought you were busy? You don’t have to stop to help.”

“Don’t y’worry,” He reassures, shaking his head, “I’ll do it, told you t’come back ‘n you listened didn’t ya?”

You can’t do anything else but nod because you did listen, practically thought of any excuse to find yourself back in his office, his thick build over your engine over you, as soon as possible.

Simon’s lips twitch at your agreement, “Jus’ sit in my office, yeah? No worries, I’ll take care of you.”

You find yourself back in Simon’s office, a warmth to your skin that you can’t seem to shake, not when you keep thinking of every imaginable way he could take care of you. It only gets worse when you perch yourself on the edge of the seat to get the best view of him working on your pick-up.

Maybe it’s something primal, but seeing his large frame bent over, working on your truck and not someone else’s sedan flares satisfaction in your chest. Especially when you watch his sweat drip from his forehead onto your engine, splattered droplets on your blue hood.

If it was anyone else it would make your stomach twist in disgust, gnawing at the back of your mind until you could wipe the hood clean, but it’s not. You’re not entirely sure why you feel this way, maybe it’s his physique that allows you to brush these things off, but it scratches at something carnal in your conscious.

You don’t get much time to appreciate the divots in his shoulders and neck like you truly wanted, like a specimen of his kind really deserves, when Johnny walks in the room. You fall back into the chair quickly, trying to hide the way you were practically leaning forward desperately to see Simon.

He wears a knowing smile, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about it, “Didnae think ma work would be up tae par?”

You chuckle lightly, shaking your head, “No, Simon insisted.”

“Never heard of tha’ man takin’ on extra work willingly,” He jokes, leaning against the window sill— quiet irritation settling in your stomach as he covers Simon completely from your view.

“Must be that skirt yer wearin’.”

Your eyes widen, face burning, “Jus’ my work clothes.”

You’re not lying, they are your work clothes, just happen to be the more form fitting ones, is all.

“And your work clothes?” You remark, arching your brow at him, gesturing from head to toe, because his outfit is entirely more barren than yours is.

“Workin’ man’s uniform,” He shrugs nonchalantly, but he struts across the thin office and does a twirl for you, propping his hip out as he poses.

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, Simon walks into the office.

“Johnny, I thought I told ya to stop harassin’ our customers.”

“Ah’m doin’ nae such thing. Just tellin’ lass here she might’ve got oil grease on her skirt.”

You furrow your brows at his words, looking down at the front of your skirt with a pout because you really didn’t want to stain the skirt without a purpose, except you don’t see anything.

“Nae, nae,” He shakes his head, gesturing to your back.

You do a spin of sorts, arching your head to find what he’s referring to.

“Johnny.” Simon spits.

His tone has more bite to it than you completely understand, but he grabs your arm, pushing you to face forward again.

“There’s nothin’,” Simon explains.

You’re still confused, brows still pinched together, until you look at Johnny, a proud smile smeared across his face.

“Aw, come on, ye liked it jus’ as much, Si,” Johnny teases, realization dawning on you, throat constricting in embarrassment, but he mumbles an apologize when he meets Simon’s scowl.

“Your pick-ups ready for ya,” Simon says, ignoring Johnny.

You follow him out of the office gratefully, too humiliated to even think for yourself right now.

“Is it too much?” You ask Simon with a frown.

“Huh?”

You tug on the seams of your skirt as an explanation.

“Oh,” He says before pausing, “No, no ‘ts not— you look great.”

“Thank you,” You murmur bashfully, atleast you got a compliment out of the whole ordeal, “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothin’.”

“No!” You protest, “You have to let me pay you back somehow!”

You’re not prepared for the way his expression changes, irises dipping into something dark, and you’re definitely not prepared for his next request.

“Do a twirl just f’me?”

✦.─Masterlist ─.✦

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt . 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist

Contrary to popular belief, you weren’t completely daft when it came to cars. There were a handful of things you could do, as simple as they might be. You knew how to change a flat tire, how to change your oil, the oil filter and air filter. Even knew how to change the bulbs in your headlights— yours had gone out more than once.

Kept up with basic maintenance, topped off all fluids when necessary, rotated your tires, visited a shop when needed.

Though, the piece of shit pick-up you owned seemed to have more problems than one. Sticks on wheels, lemon of a vehicle, engine light flashing more often than not. You were quite exhausted from all the maintenance, worked too hard to keep staining your clothes in grease and ruining your manicured nails.

A pretty thing like yourself shouldn’t be doing such hard work, but you put entirely too much time into the old truck for price gauging and scamming mechanics to stereotype you— a woman, naive.

Simple.

Maybe you had been lucky when you stumbled across ‘Ghost’s Garage’ and the mechanic was anything but, even if his shop was a rundown brick building on its last leg. Old, dinky, mortar deteriorating, cracks and chips in the bricks. It was honestly a miracle it was still standing, but he worked in auto-motives after all, not construction.

Maybe you were a little biased when the mechanic seemed to walk out of a Men’s Health magazine.

Blonde hair, white t-shirt hugging his biceps, coveralls low on his hips, grease stained arms and fingertips, tattoos curled over his ridiculously tanned skin. It was almost cliche the way he approached you, dirty rag pressed to his forehead, wiping the sweat that dripped down his temples before using the same rag to clean the grease off his fingers.

“What can I do for ya?” He asked with shallow breaths, thick accent twined around each word.

You swallowed thickly, “My oil, I just need my oil changed.”

He raised his brow, gesturing to your blue truck in the service drive, “This your C10 right ‘ere?”

You nod, “That’s me.”

“Y’can sit in my office if you want, ‘ts hot out here. Shouldn’t be long.” He explained, pointing to a small room in the corner of the shop.

It was a typical mechanics office, small, a little dirty. Papers scattered across the desk and floor, plain beige walls, spare parts thrown in a corner. One frame on the edge of the desk, a picture of him and three other men, one of which he’s not really smiling in, just a slight lift to the corner of his lips.

You’re quite grateful that he let you sit in his office rather than being stuck in the summer sun; it was hot, scorching. Even the shorts and t-shirt you wore clung uncomfortably to your skin, thighs pressed tacky to the leather chair.

Despite the fact that it’s a bit too stuffy, a bit too cluttered, you don’t entirely mind. Not when it gives you a perfect view of the mechanic bent over the hood of your truck through the rooms only window.

Now you could really look at him, appreciate the absolute hulking mammoth of a man he is. Burly, brawny, sinewy, can’t even begin to think of all the adjectives to describe him.

Sweat drips down his thick neck, over broad shoulders, and around stout biceps, accentuates each dip and curve of his beefy muscles. It soaks his white shirt wet, makes it cling to his back and abdomen, displays every defined contraction of muscles.

Makes your body burn hot.

You feel like an absolute pervert, mouth salivating at the sight of a mechanic changing your oil. Maybe there was truth behind loving a man in a uniform, even if it was dirty, filthy, soiled, and half off.

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

It isn’t long, less than 10 minutes, and meanwhile you appreciate the efficiency, a part of you is a little disappointed at the loss of the show.

“All set for you.” He says once he enters the room.

You jump up, “Ah, thank you so much!”

“Nice ol’ thing, ‘aven’t worked on one of ‘em before,” He compliments, zipping up the rest of his coveralls— ‘Simon’ printed on a pocket patch.

You laugh, real low from your chest, “That’s what you think. Just wait ‘til I come back next week cause the engine light came on.”

Simon chuckles, “No worries, bring it t’me for whatever you need.”

“Depends on how much you’re charging me for today’s services,” You joke, rummaging through your bag for your wallet.

“‘ts on the house,” He responds, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against his desk.

“What? No, I didn’t mean like that,” You stammer, shaking your head, “I’ll pay you.”

Simon just shrugs his shoulders, “Just be back for your next oil change.”

Your smile is wide, “I’ll see you in a couple thousand miles then.”

✦.─Masterlist ─.✦

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem! Reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist

You twirled.

Of course you did.

You took Simon’s hand, held it above your head, and slowly spun around; a low whistle leaving his lips in appreciation.

His grip tightened on your fingers when your back faced him, stopped your movements dead in their tracks. Kept you in place, ass arched for his viewing consumption. It was only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Your heartbeat drowning in your ears, hands clammy against his, inhaling shallow breaths like you had just gotten back from a run.

Except you hadn’t.

You were just showing your ass off to your mechanic. Your dirty mechanic. Filthy mechanic.

And it left your underwear a sticky mess, cotton fabric molded to your aching pussy in anticipation. He could bend you over the hood of your pick up right then and there, hitch the fabric of your pencil skirt over your hip, show off your glistening pussy, and slide right in with no resistance.

You would take it— god, would you take it.

Let Johnny see the whole thing, wouldn’t really care if he did because you would be too distracted with Simon’s dirty hands, filthy cock and balls, pungent sweat staining your body. Ruining your pretty flesh, clean and pristine, freshly washed just for him, shaved just for him.

Give him such a pretty and warm cunt to ruin, taint with his grime.

Except he didn’t, and you weren’t one to beg.

Just let him twirl you around until you faced him again, eyes dilated, pools of his irises settling dark. A better image than you; you were sure.

Left it at that, drove home with an unnecessary oil change and panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Laid in bed with an insistent craving, an unbound fever that ruptured, seeped out of your control, and lead to the front steps of Simon’s dinky shop. Suffocated you to your wits end; a hunger that demanded more. More than two slender fingers attached to your wrist.

So, you sought out more.

The time in between felt endless. You spent the days hoping your shitty pick-up would break down, the engine light would come on, your tire would go flat. Any excuse to see him again, but your lemon of a truck suddenly decided it didn’t have any problems, wasn’t a nuisance in your daily life.

You were so close to sabotaging your own vehicle, slashing a tire yourself, fucking up the engine on purpose. But you weren’t that desperate— yet.

You would have to bite the bullet. Bury it deep in your mouth, crack your molars against the lead, claim it as your own, and show up at the foot of his shop with minuscule problems. But by some miracle, Simon didn’t seem to mind, if anything, he melted the bullet into rubber, made the bite chewable.

Your air con’s not workin’? No worries, sweet’art, just needs some coolant and a new filter. Wouldn’t want ya melting in this heat, would we?

Yeah, you nodded weakly, yeah, we wouldn’t want your core to burn, pulse in agony, trail molten lava against the curve of your back, would we now?

Need me to rotate your tires? Easy ‘nough, and when’s the last time you replaced ‘em? Don’t worry, I’ll get some ordered to the shop, have ya sorted in no time. Can’t be drivin’ round with no traction, ‘t’s dangerous, pretty bird.

Headlight’s gone, is it? Simple fix, won’t take more than a few minutes. Go on, take a seat in my office, yeah? Glad you brought it to me— wanna make sure you’re safe, after all.

Pay him? What are you on about? Don’t even think about it. These are easy fixes— no need to worry, sweet’art. He’s just takin’ care of ya, that’s all.

Maybe it was a bit pathetic, a little out of sorts for your character, but if he wouldn’t accept your money, you would pay him back in other ways. A shirt that was a little too deep, a skirt that was a little too tight, heels that were a little too obnoxious. Never all at once, you had a little more dignity than that.

It was the same routine each time; a weak excuse to park in his service drive, then he would order you to sit in his office. To which you always did, obediently, more than content to watch him from the solitary confines of his office when Johnny wasn’t there. And when he was done, you would try to negotiate a payment, but all he would accept was a twirl.

Maybe it should’ve made you feel like an object. Objectified, paying for a fucking air filter with a sway of your hips, but it doesn’t. You can’t even describe how much you like it, can’t even explain why you do.

You just do.

In an excruciating way, everything you can’t say by words, too much and absolutely not enough at the same time. Painfully embarrassing from the way it leaves you a shaking mess, how it dampens your panties— soaks them through.

The day he places his free hand on your waist when you twirl, using his large palm on your hip to stop your spin instead of tightening his fingers in your grasps your knees almost buckle under you. A quiet gasp leaving your lips in surprise, squeezing his fingers tightly.

You think you might be imagining it, that your hopes had become so grandiose that it conjured the feeling, until it moves.

A rugged hand, scarred and calloused sweeps up in one careful motion. It sends shivers over your spine, jolting straight. But it’s gone as soon as it’s there, facing him once again as if he wasn’t carving the shape of your hip seconds ago.

When you stumble back to your truck, your stomach twists when there isn’t a grease stained imprint of his palm on your shirt, no remnant of his touch.

That becomes the new step in the routine. You should hate it, but you fucking love it. Like it’s a reward for sitting so calmly when your body is waging a war on the inside. A gentle pet against soft flesh to accommodate the few minutes you sat hot and bothered, untouched.

You think about his heavy hand grazing your figure any chance you get, stings and weeps in the absence of his touch, the lack of his dominant eyes.

You try to convince yourself that’s enough, that he would’ve asked you by now if he wanted more than fleeting glances and featherlight touches. That was before your truck broke down one day. You had been hoping, manifesting for your engine light to flick on, but not like this. On the side of a small country road, sun setting behind you, dirt flying around you on a Saturday night.

You should probably call a tow truck instead of Simon, but you don’t. You don’t entirely want an expensive bill to pay. Maybe you’re a little spoiled by his free services at this point, but he answers the phone in seconds, tells you he’s on the way within the same breath.

When his work truck pulls up beside you, and he steps out, you think your lungs collapse in your chest. You’re used to mechanic Simon, uniform soiled in sweat, reeking of a days of work.

Now, a clean Simon? It practically sends you over the edge, stumbling forward, stuttering over your words.

A black leather jacket and a white shirt covers his broad chest, blue jeans framing his long legs. His hair lays flat, damp, like he just got out of the shower; it makes you feel guilty, like you interrupted his private time. Not guilty enough that it stops your panties from soaking through when he gets real close and you can smell his body wash on him, mossy forest, redwoods.

“You okay, bird?” He asks, palm finding your waist in concern.

It’s practically out of a movie scene; it’s almost comical, but you feel like doing anything but laughing. Pressing your thighs together instead, trying to regulate your breaths so you’re not panting in his face like a dog.

You nod aimlessly, staring up at him with wide eyes, hoping that it was the correct response because you hadn’t really comprehended what he asked you. All you can focus on is the shape of his hand on your waist, fucking massive, thick and warm. His clean skin, free of all sticky and dark stains you’ve begun to associate with him, shaving cream wafting off of his smooth jaw.

“Le’s get ya in my truck, yeah?” He continues, voice firm and rich.

He guides you to his truck, opens the passenger door for you, just like you’re sure he would on a date. All cleaned up and a gentleman, a picture from your fantasies. And just like you do at his shop, you watch him hitch your truck to his through the rear view mirror. Admiring the way his wide back stretches the leather material taut.

When he gets in the driver seat you’re all strained voice and nervous laughter. The fabric of his seats smells like the Simon your used to, car oil and musk, but he smells like a shower and his cologne, woody and pine. You barely have the strength to listen to what he’s telling you, explaining that he can’t work on your truck tonight, that he’s busy, so all he can do is drop it off at the shop and drive you home when the combined scent is intoxicating.

You think about inviting him in, drenching your sheets in his clean scent when he walks you to your front door, but you don’t, can’t when he’s busy. He’s apologizing, you know that much, mumbling his sorry’s because he can’t fix the problem that night, but you don’t mind; it’s just another excuse to see him tomorrow, even if you’re shit out of a vehicle.

Can’t find it in yourself to care about anything else when your back is pressed against your door, trapped between the wood and his hulking frame.

“Goin’ to the pub with the lads, would ditch ‘em to help, but Johnny’d never let me hear the end of it.” He explains, tucking his hands into his leather jacket.

You smile with a shake of your head, “No, no it’s okay.”

“Gonna need a ride to work in the mornin’?” He asks.

“Are you offering to take me?” You lilt, tilting your head teasingly.

“Course I am.” He says so matter-of-factly, like it doesn’t make sense for him not to.

“Then, yes,” You agree, leaning forward on your tippy toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Thank you, Simon.”

It’s supposed to be a sweet moment, a tease of your feelings, warm and soft. Everything and more you could pay him with for his services, but he has your jaw cupped in seconds, lunging forward to capture your lips in his, your head knocking against the door from the sheer force. You gasp, fingers hooking into the collar of his shirt, fisting it tightly in your grasps.

It’s harsh, fierce. All clashing teeth and bumping noses, exactly how you pictured a man like him would kiss. Bruising the shape of his lips on your mouth, branding them red and swollen between his teeth.

You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there, destroying your modesty on your porch for all your neighbors to see, but it doesn’t seem long enough. He tastes like toothpaste, minty and sweet, a little like aftershave. You lick the taste fucking clean from his lips, clawing at his chest, panting into his mouth for more, more, more.

Johnny can fucking wait.

But he pulls away anyways, a pathetic protest spilling from your lips as you cling to him; you’re not ready to lose the sensation of his lips yet.

“Easy there, baby.”

God.

It’s a bit embarrassing the way your eyes flutter at the word, the way he has to ease you off your tippy toes, coax you back down. Opening your door for you as you stand there a little dumbfounded after a searing kiss.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, okay?”

He leaves you at that like he didn’t just tilt your world on its axis, lips throbbing in his wake, skin still pulsing where he gripped your face, thick arousal pooling in your panties— your fingers definitely aren’t going to be enough tonight.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones Mlist

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! reader

Please heed tags before each chapter as this story is 18+ & contains NSFW content

7.5K words | 4 chapters | complete

⤷ Two Door Pick up

⤷ Twirling

⤷ Chauffeur

⤷ Debts To Be Paid

⤷ ao3 | main masterlist ╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ ˚

[softaestluv]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

⌞ Chaptered Fics ⌝

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Turning Page, 18+

ongoing

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent. Omegaverse, alpha/omega dynamics, fluff, angst

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Nine Lives, 18+

10K words | 6 chapters

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want, and you answer, fluff, short n’ sweet, smut

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Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones, 18+

7.5K words | 4 chapters

Mechanic! Simon, you have a pick-up, short & basic for the filthy, greasy, grimy mechanic smut, contains smut

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Breaking Bread, 18+

10.1K words | 5 chapters

Sergeant! Reader, Fluff, pining, Short n’ Sweet, Food as a love language, contains smut.

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Guard Dogs, 18+

10.3K words | 5 chapters

Neighbor! au, domestic fluff, housewife type vibe, angst, miscommunications, contains smut.

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Sticky When Wet, 18+

11.7K words | 4 chapters

Three times Ghost swore he hated honey with his tea and one time he admitted he couldn’t live without it. Alpha/Omega dynamics, angst, miscommunications, contains smut.

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Ghoap x Reader

Three’s A Crowd, 18+

11.5K words | 5 chapters

Loud Neighbor! au, teasing, flirting, attempt at humor, Ghoap are cocky dicks, explicit smut content.

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⤷ Drabbles | One-shots | Blurbs ╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ ˚

[softaestluv]

pretend I’m looking at you seductively while I slide this your way… Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five of your other fave writers. Spread the self-love! 🖤✨

Ahh!!! thank you so much!! I love your situationship series! 🕊️🪷🎐🤍

In no particular order:

Sticky When Wet | ao3

Breaking Bread | ao3

Guard Dogs | ao3

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones | ao3

The Lieutenant’s Wife