#mechanic reader

[katsukilvr]

SUPPORT DEPARMENT!READER x KATSUKI BAKUGOU ༄ cw for the story: angst, situationship, enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits, bakugo is a bitch and needs a hug, so does reader, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, cussing. A/N: this chapter is mainly exposition, sorry! i will get into their dynamic in the next part <3 enjoy!

just like everyone else, you grew up fantasizing to be a hero one day. you watched all might all day and night on tv, admired local heroes in front of you, even joined a couple forums online that were all about heroes.

you dreamed of being one, of going to UA, working alongside teens across the country that have the same goals and aspirations as you was intoxicating to think about.

soon enough, your quirk developed, you had your dads quirk, you could take away heat from the air around you and channel it into the tips of your fingers. it wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t big, but you felt like if you trained hard enough, you could make it to the hero course.

your parents had split when you were young, and you were on good terms with both of them so the summer you had developed your quirk, you visited your dad for 2 months.

he was a mechanic, and he lived out in the outskirts of the city, and he was very.. rugged.

you learned quickly that slacking off was not allowed at your dads house. you weren’t allowed to sleep in, you had to wake up before the sun and help him work on cars but soon you got a taste for it. you had grown a love for cars, engineering, welding, etc.

by the end of summer, you were getting up on your own, enjoying seeing the sunrise as you guys went to the junkyard, coming out covered in grime and sweat, grabbing scraps for your new love of inventions.

of course you still were aspiring to be a hero, but you also really loved inventing new things, so you didn’t know what path to choose and your quirk was perfect for welding.

so you talked to the counselor at your middle school, wondering what career paths you could choose that would involve both saving lives and heroes and engineering.

“have you heard of the support department?”

support department?

you searched it up online,

“Students in this department focus on developing support equipment that help heroes out on the battlefield. With a workspace stocked to the brim with all sorts of special tools, the department provides an unmatched creative environment.”

you smiled at what your screen displayed.

it was perfect, so your new dream was to enroll into UA, join the support department, and open your own agency that’d help heroes build the equipment of their dreams that help them fight crime.

so that’s what you studied. you were in your first year of junior school (7th grade) when you realized this, so the next two summers you went back to your dad’s to work on cars and inventions, but during the school year, you trained. you trained really fucking hard. you did not play about getting into UA and chasing your dreams. if you only lived once, you were gonna live it right.

so you changed your schedule, mirroring the one you had during summer. you’d wake up every morning, go to the nearest junk yard which was a mile away from your house. you brought your wagon, and lugged scrap after scrap into it, dragging it back home.

your mom had made your own personal workshop in the basement, knowing how much it was your passion. you’d spend hours on hours down there, and not to toot your own horn but you were insane at engineering. if you could think it, you could build it.

your creativity was through the roof, you started taking commissions and fixing up cars by yourself, earning a bit of money to buy yourself an at home gym to train even more.

before you knew it, it was time for ‘entrance exams’, except for you, for support department students, you had to submit an invention, an original piece that was unique to you, easy to use, but difficult to make.

you spent months on your invention, your admissions essay, and your recommendations. you were overachieving, but you didn’t care.

when you got the letter in the mail, your heart thumped and thumped, your hands started to shake, barely seeing where the letter was sent from, all you could see was the UA stamp.

“mom! mom! it’s the letter!” you called out, setting it on the dining table as you saw your mom excitedly rush out of the bathroom, half her hair in hair rollers. she knew how hard you worked and she was proud of you if you got in or not.

“what are you doing? open it up!” she said, smiling ear to ear. you could swear she was more excited than you.

you picked up the letter, opening up the envelope and taking it out when a little button looking thing dropped out. you furrowed your brows, moving to pick it up before a hologram flickered on. you and your mom were both stunned, taking a step back before getting met with the face of all might, your childhood hero and inspiration, welcoming you to UA, and to their support department.

once the words reached your ears, you and your mom jumped around, hugging each other, beaming from ear to ear. you got in! you were gonna be the best of the best, and you weren’t going to let anyone get in your way.

you then read the letter in the envelope. you got a full ride scholarship off your inventions and recommendations alone. you felt like you could cry, and you did. happy tears streamed down your face. all this hard work? absolutely worth it, and you weren’t gonna slack off just because you got in.

further down the letter, it said they were going to be enforcing dorms earlier than usual. something about teaching future heroes about responsibility before becoming an adult, blah blah blah.. all you could think about was how you got in all by yourself, you won, and getting into UA will go amazing on your resumes and help you open your own support agency in the future.

this was your first step to your dream.

in the months before moving into the school, you obviously kept up your practice, but allowed yourself to relax a bit, you no longer had the anxiety and weight on your shoulders of trying to enroll, so instead of 5AM, you woke up at 7AM instead. you let yourself hang out with friends more, go out more, and spend some of that cash that had piled up through commissions and a job that you had taken up at a local coffee shop as a barista when you thought you had to pay for UA on your own. doing this, you learned about the world outside of your basement or the junkyard, and grew an appreciation for clothes and shopping.

the day to move in crept closer and closer, you started packing your clothes, using 2 suitcases. i mean you were gonna be there for a year, and obviously you were gonna visit home, but you didn’t wanna travel back and forth for clothes. you packed up everything you could, and used moving trucks to deliver furniture once the day did roll around.

walking up to the dorm building was scary. a chill ran down your spine as you stared at the huge building that was shaped like a U. it was smaller than the school, obviously, but still big. general, hero, support, and management students were all mixed into 2 buildings. the school didn’t want to separate students, it saved money and was under the guise that it’d help you make friends with whoever, despite was class you got into.

what they didn’t state was the hidden hierarchy inside the buildings. after a month, you soon learned that some hero students looked down at the rest, most general students looked down at support department students, and management was a weird mix of egotistical assholes and shy people who knew that they were in the ‘lowest’ class. lowest meaning easiest to get into, which wasn’t really true. you felt like you could’ve easily gotten into the general course, but whatever. you didn’t care about that.

back to the dorms, other people were passing you by when someone bumped into your shoulder. it was a tall guy, muscular, and weird blonde spiky hair.

“watch it, extra.” the stranger growled at you.

you were taken aback, annoyed at the audacity. “you bumped into me, weirdo.” you scoff, rolling your eyes.

you thought this was a well-mannered school, guess not. you brushed it off though, lugging your suitcases into the building. you were met with a big common area, there was even a small kitchen with a cafeteria. you smiled, it was modern, fancy, nothing like anything you’ve seen before.

you rolled into the elevator, going to the second highest level, where your dorm was.

you were nervous. still. you didn’t know who you would meet, if you would make friends, if people would like you.. but all you needed to focus on was unpacking.

ding.

the elevator doors opened, and you walked out, strolling down the long hallway until you got to the end. your room was at the very end, it had more open windows, letting a LOT of natural light in. you knew you had to get curtains though, since the windows were so big. you walked in and gasped. your very own living space. obviously you’d have to decorate and make it home, but all in due time.

you walked in, closing the door behind you, looking at your view. you could see the city from here, which wasn’t a huge drive, 10 minutes, 20 maybe if the traffic is bad, which it usually is.

on your other window was pure forest, you could see beautiful mountains. it was stunning, breath-taking view.

you put on some calm music and unpacked, humming to yourself and you hung your clothes, folded pants, ironed your uniforms, and placed your usual tools and books you brought in the shelves and drawers that the school had provided.

you were exhausted by the end of the day, you watched the sunset dip under the mountains and you closed the curtains you had installed earlier as you changed and got into bed and slept for a couple hours before waking up in the middle of the night.

thump. thump. thump.

were those.. drums? music? who the hell was playing such a loud instrument so late at night?

you needed your sleep. you could not be tired on your first day so you got up and out of your dorm, stepping down the hallway a bit. the noise was coming from your neighbor. seriously? am i gonna have to deal with this for 3 years? you thought as you knocked politely on their door.

no answer.

you knocked louder.

no answer, and you could hear their music getting louder, almost as if they were trying to tune out the knocking.

you started to bang on their door before you heard the music stop and angry stomps to the door before it swung open.

a handsome face met you, but it was tainted with a scowl, a disgusted and annoyed look.

wait a minute.. you recognized that ugly hair. it was the same dude that bumped into you earlier. a flicker of recognition flashed on your face before you furrowed your brows.

“the hell do you want?” he growled down at you.

“mind turning down your music? to 0, maybe?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at his audacity (again.).

“mind getting some earplugs, bitch?”

you gasped, shocked a bit.

“some people are trying to get their beauty sleep.”

“yeah, you look like you really need it.” he chuckled in your face, his eyes roaming your disheveled form.

you groaned, “if anyone needs it, it’s you.”

“yeah? well go fuck yourself.” he said before slamming the door in your face. you groaned harder, shuffling back to your room and slamming the door shut as well. you got into bed, trying to cover your ears with pillows to block out the obnoxious drums from next door.

you eventually willed yourself to go to sleep.

maybe tomorrow will be better?

[prisvvner]

✫・゜・ ☆ﾟ. ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇʙᴀʀꜱ & ʜᴇʟʟꜰɪʀᴇ

─── pairing: biker!ryomensukuna x mechanic!femalereader

─── synopsis: you used to run tokyo’s streets. now you build the monsters that do. but when a rider in black shows up on a hayabusa with eyes like blood and a smirk like a loaded gun—something starts ticking again. something you swore you buried.

─── content: 5.3k words, street racer au, strong language, swearing, mentions of hidden trauma and death, street culture

─── author's note:this chapter marks a big shift in the story!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part four ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part five ⊹ ࣪ ˖ next tba.

You’re already breathing in fumes by the time the sky starts bleeding into a bruised, smoky gray—carbon exhaust curling in lazy spirals from half-alive engines, the sharp, bitter tang of scorched rubber soaked into the cracked pavement under your boots, and that ever-present perfume of gasoline and motor oil clinging to the air like incense in a temple of speed and sweat and unfinished business. The garage doors are cracked open just enough to let in the murky light of a too-early Tokyo morning, the kind that hums low with tension, like the whole city knows something’s off but no one’s willing to say it out loud. 

Inumaki didn’t come in today. 

And maybe that wouldn’t mean a damn thing to most people, wouldn’t spark alarm bells or make anyone glance twice at the empty corner where his tools are usually lined up with obsessive precision, wouldn’t tug at the base of their spine with a quiet, gnawing worry like something vital just slipped through the cracks. But to you, it’s not just strange. It’s seismic. It’s a signal flare in the middle of an oil-slick battlefield. 

Because Toge Inumaki doesn’t take days off. He doesn’t disappear. Not without warning, not without explanation, not without making sure someone knew what was coming. He’s the kind of constant you don’t realize you’ve been leaning on until the floor tilts without him, the kind of person who shows up even when he’s running a fever, even when his knuckles are split open and wrapped in stained gauze from tuning someone else’s wreck.  

He shows up, because that's what he does. He’s the quiet, precise heartbeat of this place, tucked into his hoodie with his headphones slung around his neck and that unreadable look in his eyes, the one that says he's thinking through five problems you haven't even spotted yet. 

The last time he missed a shift, someone had died. The time before that, someone had nearly bled out on the pavement out front. Neither time had come with warning. Neither time had come with anything as casual and clipped as the message you got last night, still sitting like a lead sinker at the bottom of your pocket. Four words. 

Not coming in tomorrow 

No punctuation. No reason. No follow-up. And that was it. 

You’d stared at it in the glow of your phone screen until your eyes went blurry, until your thumb hovered over the keyboard without typing anything back, because what the hell do you even say to something like that?  

“Are you okay?” feels too invasive.  

“Why?” feels too accusatory.  

“Need anything?” feels flimsy.  

None of them match the quiet, unshakable language you two have always spoken—a language of shoulder nudges and long silences and midnights spent tuning engines with music on low, no words needed. So you said nothing. Just put the phone away and told yourself it was probably nothing. 

But now? Now it doesn’t feel like nothing. 

It feels like something’s off, something’s wrong, something’s cracked just beneath the surface and you can’t see it but you know, you feel it like an engine knocking out of rhythm, like a loose bolt rattling somewhere deep in the machine. That creeping dread has settled between your ribs like rust, growing slowly, flaking pieces of you away every hour he doesn’t show. 

The worst part? He was fine last night. 

You’d been up on the rooftop, side by side on that rust-bitten shipping container someone had dragged up there years ago—probably before you even bought the garage outright—backs leaned against the warm brick wall of the stairwell shaft, the kind of late-night ritual that had started as a one-off and turned into something else, something steady. The city had stretched around you in a halo of blinking lights and distant sirens, the scent of deep-fried noodles and hot asphalt wafting up from the streets below. The stars had barely managed to push through the blanket of light pollution, but they were there, dim and stubborn, flickering above the chaos like they were clinging on just as hard as the rest of you. 

You’d watched the beginning of first the race on his cracked old tablet, the screen propped between two greasy takeout boxes, your chopsticks tapping out a rhythm against the metal container as engines screamed through the tight city circuit four floors below. The roar of tires and crowd noise echoed off the buildings like thunder, booming up to where you sat, legs dangling, grease-streaked fingers wrapped around a soda can, your heart rising and falling with every near miss, every sharp turn, every risk-too-big-to-be-real. 

He hadn’t said much—he rarely does—but he’d smiled, that slow, rare curve of his mouth that said he was genuinely enjoying himself. He’d laughed once when a rookie clipped a barrier too hard and spun out, wincing like he’d felt it in his own chest. You'd teased him for going soft, elbowed him in the ribs and called him a damn marshmallow, and he’d rolled his eyes and tossed a candy wrapper at your head like you were two bored teenagers, not grease-stained adults with scars and payrolls and engines waiting to explode. It had been normal. More than that, easy. Familiar. Safe. 

And now? Five hours into a day that feels wrong in every possible way, he’s just gone. 

The garage’s chaos is a living, breathing thing—metal shrieking under torque, power tools whining in your ears like the buzz of a gnat you can’t swat, sparks flying off the grinder in bursts of gold-orange static. There’s a busted RX-7 half-gutted in the main bay, its timing belt melted to hell and the radiator hissing like an animal in pain. Three racing bikes are suspended mid-teardown from the rigging, skeletal and raw, chrome ribs and naked wiring hanging like tendons, waiting for you to make them whole again before the weekend circuit kicks off. Somewhere in the back, under a tarp, a newbie’s souped-up Corvette sleeps like a beast that’s yet to wake, its calibration’s overdue, and you’re already a day behind. 

Deadlines are ticking bombs. Your inbox is a minefield of demands. The overhead lights buzz faintly above the roar of your thoughts, and your coffee’s gone bitter and cold, forgotten beneath a stack of schematics, receipts, and crumpled energy drink cans. Your tank top clings to your spine, soaked through with sweat and heat, and there’s a fresh scrape across your knuckle that’s bleeding sluggishly, mixing with oil until you can’t tell what’s blood and what’s machine anymore. 

Your arms are streaked with grime, fingers aching from the fourth disassembly this morning alone, and your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like it might snap in two. You’ve been working since before the sun broke the horizon, haven’t even looked at a clock, haven’t checked your phone, haven’t registered the outside world. 

You’ve completely forgotten Sukuna said he’d be back today. 

His name doesn’t even skim the surface of your mind. Not the cocky promise he tossed at you before vanishing into the night not the glint in his eye that said he’d be a problem you’d want to fix. Not the way he lingered like heat in your bloodstream, like a fuse lit slow but sure. 

Because right now, none of that matters. 

Not when the silence where Inumaki should be is louder than any engine in this damn place. 

Not when the four-word message burns a hole in your pocket like it knows something you don’t. 

Not when the gut instinct you trust more than your own heartbeat is twisting itself into knots, whispering, Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. 

You pause only long enough to wipe your brow with the back of your hand, fingers slick with sweat and oil, and reach for your ratchet again like it's the only thing tethering you to the ground. 

You tell yourself he’s okay. 

But the longer that bay stays empty, the longer the sun climbs past the dirty garage windows and you don’t hear his soft footfall, don’t hear his usual “Salmon” greeting or the way he clicks on the stereo without asking—the harder it gets to believe it. 

And still, you keep moving. Because if you stop now, if you really stop, your hands might start shaking. And that would mean something’s wrong with you too. 

And you can’t afford that. 

Not today. 

You exhale hard through your nose, the breath punching out of you like steam from an overheated valve, sharp and scalding, but ultimately useless. The air is thick with the chemical tang of fuel and something burning faintly somewhere, probably a cable you should’ve replaced three hours ago but didn’t have time to. You force your focus back to the manifold, torquing the bolts down with the kind of blind, jaw-clenched aggression you usually reserve for people who cut you off in traffic. Each twist of the wrench feels personal, deliberate, like the metal itself dared you to break today, and you’re too stubborn to let it. 

The strain pulls through your shoulder, your lower back screaming in protest, but you don’t slow down. You slide out from beneath the chassis, the dolly wheels creaking as you emerge into the dusky-orange haze of the garage. The lightbulbs overhead are flickering again, buzzing faintly like they’re about to give out, and honestly, you wouldn’t blame them. You're drenched in sweat and caked in oil, your hands blackened to the wrists, your forearms striped with grease and small cuts, and when you wipe the back of your hand across your upper lip, it leaves behind a smudge that tastes like rust and stubbornness. 

The rest of the shop hums like a beehive on the edge of collapse, metallic clangs echo against the walls, tools tossed aside, an engine test-run whining somewhere in the corner. Outside, a bike tears down the main road, a low snarl of exhaust echoing into the distance, followed by a distant shout that barely registers. It all blurs together into one long droning mess of noise and heat and fatigue. 

And yet. 

Something shifts. 

Subtle, almost imperceptible, like a chord in the background changing key, or the moment right before a storm breaks. The kind of change that makes your skin prickle before your brain even knows what’s different.  

You pause, your breath catching at the top of your chest. It’s not the noise—it’s the absence of it. Like someone reached into the atmosphere and flipped the switch from chaos to something quieter. Thicker. Intentional. 

You still don’t look up, too locked in your own head, fingers twitching on instinct toward another wrench. Still replaying the night before on that rooftop with Inumaki, trying to pinpoint anything that might explain why he’s ghosted today. Did he say something weird? Was he off? He looked fine. Tired, maybe. Quiet, yeah. But that’s not new. Still… 

You swallow hard. 

That’s when you smell it. 

Food. 

Real food. Not the chemical cocktail of the shop, not the bitter ghost of instant coffee that’s been curdling in the corner since 6 a.m., and definitely not the reek of gasoline that’s permanently embedded into your sinuses. This is different. Warm. Rich. Spiced. There’s something fried in there, definitely—crispy edges and savory heat—and your stomach turns on you instantly, letting out a low growl of betrayal that echoes embarrassingly loud in the cavernous space. 

Your eyes narrow. 

The fuck? 

You turn around slowly, cautiously, like you’re expecting to find a hallucination standing there. Or maybe a prank, some smartass courier who got the wrong address and decided to serve you a side of confusion with their delivery. Or maybe you're just delirious from the fumes, imagining the scent out of sheer starvation and stress. 

But then you see him. 

Sukuna. 

He’s standing just inside the wide mouth of the garage, half-drenched in sunlight bleeding in from the open doors behind him, casting sharp edges across his frame like he was carved into existence by the heat itself. His presence fills the room like smoke, slow and confident and impossible to ignore.  

He's dressed in black again, obviously—because what else would he wear?—that soft, well-worn tee clinging to his chest like a second skin, the sleeves pushed up just enough to show off the ink curling down his arms like it was born from fire. His boots leave faint scuffs on the concrete as he shifts his weight, posture casual as hell, like he owns the place. One hand tucked into his pocket like he’s got nowhere else to be. 

The other? 

Holding a takeout bag. 

And that’s when it hits you full-force, the scent. Hot, fried, a little sweet maybe. There’s rice in there, you can tell. Chicken too. Or maybe pork. Something grilled, smoky, layered with spice that burns in your throat even from across the room. It smells so good it’s almost insulting. You blink at him. Then the bag. Then back again. 

Your brain short-circuits. 

“Thought you might be hungry,” Sukuna greets, voice low and almost too casual, as if showing up unannounced with food while you’re mid-breakdown and covered in axle grease is a normal Tuesday for him. His expression is unreadable, but his mouth curves into the kind of half-smirk that always seems to know more than it lets on. 

You just stare. 

“…Are you serious right now?” you ask, voice hoarse and disbelieving. 

He shrugs, stepping further into the garage, each stride slow and deliberate, his boots thudding softly against the concrete as he closes the distance. “Dead serious. You look like you’ve been dragged through hell, and I figured you probably forgot what food tastes like.” 

You open your mouth, close it, then open it again, no words coming out. Just static. Just exhaustion and hunger and a confusing, rising warmth that you want to swat away but can’t. 

This wasn’t what today was supposed to be, not Sukuna, not takeout, not the sudden, bizarre softness of someone showing up when you least expected it. You’re a mess... filthy, frantic, your mind still gnawing on the absence of Inumaki like it might unravel into something worse if you think too hard about it. 

And yet. 

Somehow. 

You find yourself breathing again. 

Just a little. 

Just enough to notice how loud the silence had become before he walked in. Just enough to remember you haven’t eaten since last night. Just enough to feel the weight of it all shift, even if the worry hasn’t disappeared. 

“How long were you standing there?” you lift an eyebrow, suspicious. 

Sukuna flashes a grin, leaning against the nearest workbench like he was born there. “Long enough to see you almost elbow-drop that manifold.” 

His eyes flick over your grease-smeared form with open appreciation. “Hot, by the way.” 

You roll your eyes hard enough to see your own regret, but a laugh slips out anyway, dry and reluctant, but real. 

The food smells good. And he’s here. And for one second, the noise in your chest dims. 

You let your hand fall to your side. Let the wrench clatter to the floor with a metallic clang. 

You don’t sit, not yet. But your muscles ease just enough to let the weight in your knees register, dull, aching, and not entirely physical. You feel it everywhere now, the way adrenaline always leaves behind a tremor, a twitch, an aftertaste. You drag your eyes from the food to Sukuna’s face again, half-expecting him to smirk and vanish like some mirage conjured up by a half-starved mind.  

But no—he’s real, solid, watching you in that way he does. Like he’s reading something beneath your skin you didn’t mean to write. 

He steps closer, the bag crinkling in his hand, and your stomach growls again, louder this time. The traitor. You scowl at it and then at him, but he just raises an eyebrow like he’s enjoying the sound. 

“You gonna keep staring at me like I’m the main course,” he chuckles, “or are you actually gonna eat?” 

You shake your head, more from disbelief than anything else, and finally—finally—peel off the half-filthy rag you’d tucked into your belt. Wipe your palms. Not that it helps. The grime’s sunk in past the skin, part of you now. 

“Give me that,” you mutter, jerking your chin toward the bag. 

He hands it over with mock formality, a sarcastic little flourish, like he’s presenting you with a crown instead of takeout from some hole-in-the-wall joint. You peek inside, expecting the usual greasy throwaway nonsense, but your brows pull together the second the scent really hits. There’s rice still steaming. Chicken karaage, golden and crisp, sprinkled with something red and spicy. Pickled daikon. A soft-boiled egg, still whole. 

This… isn’t cheap. And it’s not random. 

You glance at him. 

“You went to Hinoya?” 

He shrugs again, but there’s something careful in it now. “I could tell you haven’t really eaten anything good in ages. And I had a feeling that this is the only place worth eating within twenty kilometers.” 

That’s something you would say. Offhandedly.  

Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to do with that. 

So you sit. 

Right there on the floor, next to the dolly you abandoned, legs folding stiffly beneath you as you balance the bag on your knees. The warmth seeps through the paper into your thighs. Your fingers hover over the box a second longer before you finally dig in. 

The first bite makes your eyes close. 

You don’t want it to. You try not to let it. But the salt and crunch and heat hit all at once, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you remember what it’s like to want something other than answers. 

Sukuna crouches beside you, unbothered by the dust or the stains, that familiar grin softening just slightly as he watches you chew with your entire soul. 

“Better?” he asks. 

You swallow. Nod. “Don’t make it weird.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

A beat of silence stretches between you, not tense, just... full. You know he sees it, knows the version of you sitting here like this isn’t the one he’s used to. You’re quieter, slower. Your eyes don’t meet his for long. Your hands move too fast between bites, like if you stop eating, everything will crash in around you again. 

And because Sukuna might be a reckless bastard, but he’s not blind, he tilts his head and asks, almost gently: 

“What’s going on?” 

You hesitate. Let the next bite linger in your mouth. 

Then you say it. Flat. Dry. Like if you strip it of emotion, it won’t hurt as much. 

“My apprentice didn’t come in today.” 

Sukuna’s expression doesn’t change immediately, but you see the subtle shift. A pause behind the eyes. A calculation. 

“That’s unlike him,” he says, and it’s not a question. 

“No,” you reply, lips pressed tight. “It’s not.” 

He leans back on his heels, thinking. “You tried calling?” 

“No.” You say it too fast. Too hard. “Calling him would go straight to voicemail. He hates receiving calls.” 

Sukuna exhales through his nose, slow. Measured. His fingers twitch at his side like he’s itching for a cigarette or a fight. 

“And you’re thinking what?” he asks. “Something happened after the race?” 

You don’t answer at first. 

Because yes. That’s exactly what you’re thinking. 

You don’t say it, but the words are crawling up your spine anyway: 

Something’s wrong. 

He wouldn’t disappear. Not like this. 

You shovel in another bite instead of answering. And for a while, the two of you just sit there—on oil-stained concrete, surrounded by busted parts and the low hum of worry clinging to the rafters like smoke. 

But when your hand pauses mid-reach, Sukuna catches it. Not with a grab, just a light touch against your wrist, grounding. Not something he’s ever done before. 

You glance down. Then up. And he’s looking at you with something new in his gaze. 

Not heat. Not arrogance. 

But attention. 

“Hey,” he keeps his voice low. “If something happened to him—we’ll find out.” 

You don’t ask what he means by we. 

But for the first time all day, you let someone else share the weight. 

And somehow, that’s enough to keep you from falling over the edge. 

At least for now. 

You swallow the last bite of the food, the warmth spreading slowly through your chest like a quiet rebellion against the swirling storm of stress and exhaustion clawing at your mind, the greasy tang on your fingers fading just enough to remind you that you’re still human. As you reach for a rag, you wipe your hands methodically, trying to scrape off more than just the oil and dirt, before finally daring to lift your gaze to meet Sukuna’s, where that familiar smirk is still playing at the corners of his mouth, cocky and unapologetic as ever. 

“So,” you begin, your voice rough and raw from hours of shouting at stubborn engines and the lingering taste of metal and sweat, “what’s the deal here? Did you manage to break your bike again, or are you just here to stroll in and make my day a little more… interesting?” There’s a sarcastic edge, sharp but tired, like a blade dulled by overuse but still ready to cut. 

He lets out that low, lazy chuckle, dangerous and effortless, the kind of sound that sends a shiver crawling up your spine even though you don’t want to admit it, and shifts his weight, one boot tapping the concrete floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm.  

“Nah,” he replies casually, voice dripping with that infuriating confidence. “I want it modded. Something different. Thought it’d be the perfect project for you.” 

Your eyes flicker around the garage, taking in the organized chaos: half-built engines stacked on crates, tools scattered like forgotten memories, greasy rags clinging to corners of workbenches, and bikes in various states of disrepair lining the walls like trophies of past battles. You raise a brow, the sarcasm sneaking past your fatigue. 

 “Right,” you say, voice dry and a little bitter, “because I clearly have all the time in the world to pick up a new side project when I’m already drowning in deadlines, engines, and more grease smeared across my skin than any mechanic should reasonably have.” 

His grin stretches wider, that smug expression that seems to say he knew exactly how to get under your skin, how to challenge you in ways no one else can.

“That’s the point,” he states simply, eyes gleaming with that reckless spark that always manages to pull you in. 

You roll your eyes, though the corner of your mouth twitches into the faintest smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction as a tiny ember of excitement stirs deep inside you.  

Because when Sukuna talks like this, it’s never just about a bike. It’s about something more. Something you haven’t quite figured out yet but are already afraid to ignore. 

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of the day settle a bit as Sukuna leans back against the workbench, arms crossed, watching you with that usual mix of amusement and challenge in his eyes. The garage smells thick with oil and metal shavings, the afternoon light slanting in through the dusty windows, casting long shadows that dance along the walls. Your hands twitch, itching to get back to the engines, to the machines that make sense when everything else doesn’t. 

“Alright,” you clap your hands, voice steady but with a trace of reluctant curiosity, “what exactly do you have in mind? Because ‘modded’ can mean a thousand things— from barely legal street tweaks to something that could actually get you arrested.” You shoot him a pointed look, but inside, your pulse quickens. Maybe this is exactly the distraction you need. 

Sukuna smirks, stepping forward and pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket, smooth and creased from being handled a dozen times. He unfolds it slowly, revealing a sketch, sharp lines and wild ideas sprawled across the page.  

“I want something aggressive. Fast. Dangerous. Like you,” he chuckles, voice low and almost teasing. 

You study the drawing, the vision of speed and power buzzing like electricity in the air between you. It’s audacious, reckless even, but the kind of challenge that lights a fire in your gut. The deadlines, the missing Inumaki, the exhaustion—they all fade into the background for just a moment. 

“You really think I can pull this off?” you ask, half-daring, half-hopeful. 

Sukuna’s grin widens, eyes sparkling with that infuriating certainty. “I don’t think. I know.” 

You smirk, wiping a smear of grease from your cheek and arching an eyebrow. “Well, if anyone can pull a kami-level miracle out of this mess, it’s me. Guess I’m your mechanic goddess after all.” 

And just like that, the world tilts a little, and you find yourself leaning in, ready to burn. 

Sukuna’s eyes flash with something like approval—or maybe amusement—as he steps closer, the faint scent of oil and something sharper trailing behind him.

“Kami-level miracle,” he repeats, voice low enough that it feels like a secret between the two of you. “I like the sound of that. But don’t get too comfortable. This project’s going to demand everything you’ve got.” 

You lean back against the workbench, crossing your arms, the grease on your skin a reminder of the hours already lost to deadlines and worry.  

“You have no idea what my schedule looks like,” you nod towards the unfinished business of your garage, voice dripping with sarcasm but underneath, there’s a pulse of something else—anticipation, maybe. “Between racing cars, motorcycles, and a million other broken things screaming for attention, you really think I’ve got the time to turn your deathtrap into a masterpiece?” 

He shrugs, like he’s shrugging off a challenge that’s already won. “That’s why it’s perfect. You’re good under pressure. You thrive on chaos. And besides…” He pauses, eyes narrowing just enough to make you shiver, “you owe me.” 

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.  

“Oh yeah?” you say, matching his gaze. “And what exactly do I owe the great Sukuna?” 

His smirk deepens, but the edge is gone. “For dragging you out of whatever hole you were digging last night.” He gestures at the grease-stained floor and the mountain of deadlines looming in your head. “For reminding you there’s more to this than just surviving.” 

You let the words hang between you, heavy and electric. The air in the garage feels charged, like the moment right before an engine fires up, raw energy waiting to explode. And for a flicker of a second, just maybe, you believe you can do it. You can build something fierce, something alive. 

“Alright, idiot,” you say, voice low and steady. “Let’s see if this kami-level miracle can handle your chaos.” 

He laughs, a deep, rough sound that rumbles through the room. “That’s the spirit.” 

The hours slip past like a fast blur, wrench turns echoing in the cramped space, your hands smeared with thick black grease. Somewhere, an old radio drones low and scratchy, warbling a bluesy tune that feels like a soundtrack to your life, threading through the steady rhythm of your work.

Time seems to fold in on itself, seconds stretching and folding like the curves of a racetrack as you and Sukuna shoulder the work of bringing that black Hayabusa back to life, the bike slowly waking beneath your fingers. Every bolt tightened, every carburetor adjustment, feels like breathing new soul into the machine and through it all, Sukuna’s voice weaves around you: a blend of curious observation, dry humor, and the occasional teasing jab that makes you snort despite the grime and sweat on your face. 

The conversation hums between you like an engine that’s been silent too long and is just finding its roar again. He talks about his younger brother, Yuji. The kid’s got that wild, reckless hunger for speed and racing, an echo of the old man’s flame, but fresher, rawer, unpolished in the way only youth can be.  

Listening to Sukuna, the edges of his voice soften in unexpected places, revealing a layer beneath the chaos god’s sharp exterior, a protective streak that catches you off guard, a brother’s fierce pride and care hidden behind a mask you never thought you’d see. For a moment, you imagine trusting this guy with something real, something important—like watching your back when the world’s turning its teeth toward you. 

Then, without warning, he drops the bombshell that spins the whole rhythm out of sync: he’s only twenty-two. Two years younger than you, which lands like a sharp gear shift in your chest, jolting you into a rare moment of pause. Tools still in your hands, you let a slow grin spread across your face, a mix of amusement and that sudden sting of realization.  

“Twenty-two?” you tease, wiping your grimy palms on your already stained jeans. “Guess that makes me the ancient one here.”

Sukuna laughs, a low, rough sound that fills the garage and somehow warms the space between you, charging it with a current you can’t ignore. No more denying the pull, it’s raw and magnetic, buzzing under your skin like the rev of an engine moments before a race starts. 

As you dive back into the work, swapping parts and fine-tuning carburetors, the reality settles in: this project is taking longer than you expected. The custom parts for the mods aren’t here yet, some pieces missing from your usual stash, forcing you to put in orders, adding waiting time you hadn’t counted on.  

You pause, dragging your fingers through your tangled hair, wiping the grease off your hands on your worn jeans, and glance around the cluttered garage, the chaos and clutter somehow grounding, a messy kind of sanctuary.  

“Seriously thinking this is gonna be one hell of a long ride,” you mutter half to yourself, eyes narrowing as you try to map out the weeks ahead. 

Sukuna shrugs, stepping closer with that effortless confidence that sends a strange squeeze through your chest, like the throttle tightening on an engine ready to explode.  

“Takes time,” he murmurs, like a promise you want to believe. “Good things do.”  

You catch his gaze, surprise flickering because he sounds so calm, so unbothered by delays that would have sent most people into a spiral. 

 “Well,” you smirk, a spark of sarcasm lighting your tired eyes, “good things can’t come with a ticking clock over my head.”  

Again, his laugh rumbles deep and gravelly, sliding under your skin and making you catch your breath. “Don’t stress, Black Dog. You’re the kami of this place— if anyone can make it work, it’s you.” 

You let his words sink in, warm and strange like a sudden burst of sunlight through the dusty windows, and turn back to the bike, ready to lose yourself again in the rhythm of grease and metal.  

But then, your phone buzzes on the workbench nearby, slicing through the garage’s comfortable cocoon like a revving engine cutting through quiet streets at midnight.  

The caller ID flashing is unknown to you, and your chest tightens, heart pounding so fiercely it’s all you can do not to choke. You fumble for the phone, but your fingers betray you; it slips from your grasp and crashes onto the cold concrete with a harsh clang that echoes like a warning. 

Wide-eyed, breath caught in your throat, you stare down at the screen, the garage suddenly too cold, too quiet, the moment shattering around you like broken glass. The fragile bubble you’d been floating in bursts, and everything comes rushing back, heavy and raw, like a crash you never saw coming. 

tag-list:

@dahliadaenerys @greenday-bingus @w31rd0s7mblur

@blublublubby @ehcilhc @katthekat1234

@donwalkers-henchman @clp-84 @homeslices

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @cafekitsune ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not. 🏍respect the grease and the grind.

[eclairemaire]

the sound of music pt.3

masterlist | playlist | part 1 part 2 part 4 part 5 part 6

Pairing: Lewis Pullman x Reader Category: Fluff Summary: Stranded in a 24-hour diner in the middle of nowhere, you make an unlikely companion as you bond over the sound of music. Word Count: 2.7K Warnings: Swearing, fast-burn??? (idk), No mention of Y/N, Nicknames & petnames, mechanic-ish reader, musician reader (Lemme know if I missed any) Notes: This is part 3 of this series. I hope everyone enjoys. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters are just that, characters, and have no ties to their real-life counterparts.

Lewis puts his phone onto the dash as you plop into the passenger seat, you sigh and throw yours up there as well. He watches as you rest your elbows on your knees and stare at the floorboard for a minute. 

“Ok,” you say after a moment.

“Ok?” he asks in response.

“Yeah, Ok.” You look at him for the first time since you got into the car. “I will move in with you.” Lewis looks like he’s about to start talking, but you hold up a finger to stop him.

“But there are some conditions.” Your tone brooks no argument from him, so he nods and waits for you to continue. 

“First,” you hold up a finger. “I will NOT mooch off your wealth or take any freebies. Therefore, I will not just live with you; I will be paying rent, and you can decide how much that is later. But this is non-negotiable.” Lewis nods, but doesn’t look like he quite agrees with it.

“Second,” you raise a second finger. “You need to be aware that I am not very fond of people, so if you have a ton of people over or something to that effect, give me like a 30-minute warning so I can prepare myself.”

“I understand that.”

“Third,” you raise a third finger. “I know your family is very private about your lives, I ask that you extend that courtesy to me. I have no interest in being a public figure, I don’t want fame, I don’t want your money. I just want to be me, and if that includes being your friend or whatever, great. I respect your boundaries and you respect mine.” Lewis hums low in his throat and nods agreement.

“I think I can do those things, but I want to add something.” He says, “You continue to treat me just like anybody else. Not an Actor or an important Musician, just me, Lewis.” 

“I think you’ve got yourself a deal.” You put out your hand for him to shake, and he does. After that, he starts the truck, and y’all continue on your journey to Lewis’s home.

It’s a week after your initial move-in that you have a slight conundrum, it’s around mid-afternoon, and Lewis was just finishing up a call when you messaged him.

‘Hey, we need to talk when you get the chance.’  He read your message and let you know that he was free now for the rest of the afternoon.

Knocking on his office door, you wait for him to respond, “Come in.” He turns and smiles at you as you open the door and lean on the door frame. “What’s up?” 

“We need to figure out how to get my stuff from my storage unit.” You say.

“Okay, well, where’s your storage unit?” He asks.

“It’s a U-Haul unit in Oklahoma. Got all my shit in there, my piano, my violin and my car to name a few things.” You say as you walk further into his office. 

“I didn’t know you knew how to play violin,” he mused as you stopped in front of him in his desk chair.

“Believe it or not, there are quite a few things you don’t know about me.” You reply.

“Well, we could use a moving service, have them go to your unit, get your stuff, and haul it out here.” He said, as he turned to look one up on his computer. 

“Yeah, that’s where the issue comes up, I don’t think anybody we sent would know how to drive my car…” You trail off at the end of your sentence, and Lewis turns back around to look at you.

“Why wouldn’t someone know how to drive your car?” His gaze was curious as he eyed where you stood, fiddling with your fingers.

“Uhh… becauseitsavintagejapaneseimportedcar.” You said it so fast that he missed the majority of what you said.

“Care to repeat that slower?” He requested.

“Because it’s a vintage Japanese import car.” You repeated, slower, ducking your head down in slight embarrassment.

“You have a vintage import car?” He didn’t seem to believe you.

“Yeah, remember I said I’d been driving since I could sit in a go-kart. That later translated into working on and owning vintage cars. How do you think I made enough money to hitchhike for three months by myself?” You ask, putting your hands on your hips as you stared him down in his seat. He raised his hands in surrender before responding.

“Ok, so what do you suggest doing if we can't do the moving service?”

“I’ll probably call my dad to be honest, get our enclosed trailer, and meet up with him at the storage unit and drive back here with my shit. Then I can ‘officially’ move in.” You state matter-of-factly.

“Sounds like a plan, what do you need from me?” He asked, not seeing where he came into play in this situation.

“I need you to drop me off at the airport in a few days, and not be here when we get there. I know it’s your place and all, but my dad’s really overprotective, and I really don’t want him scaring you off, because then I’ll have to find a new place to live.” You state with a deadpan expression on your face.

“I uh yeah, when do you think you’ll be back?” He asked after checking his calendar for the next week or so.

“I’ll fly out in two days, it’ll be a little over 22 22-hour drive, so maybe two days after that, I can text you when we’re five hours away.” You say as you look at your phone, and then over to him. He nods, and then his phone rings, and you take that as your cue to exit his office and leave him be.

Four days later your unloading all your shit from your dad’s trailer and taking it into the house and putting the various boxes in their designated places, kitchen things in the kitchen, your toiletries in your bathroom, your tool box in the garage, and all your other possessions is going into your room the only thing you don’t know what to do with is your piano. 

So you call Lewis. He picks up after the second ring. “Hey Lew,” you say as you look around the living room.

“Hey, what’s up? How’s unloading going?” he asks.

“Good, only one thing left.” You answer.

“Oh, that’s good, what is it?”

“You wouldn’t be opposed to having a piano in the living room, right?” Your voice is soft as you ask.

“Why don’t you just put it in the studio?” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Um, because the studio is full of the bands equipment, I wouldn’t want to fuck anything up.” Was your answer.

“You wouldn’t fuck anything up.” He laughed, but you weren’t joking. If you somehow broke any of that equipment, you wouldn’t be able to face him ever again.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that, you’ve seen what a clutz I am sometimes,” you mutter.

“Here, how about this, you and your dad can leave it in the living room for now and when I get back, we'll move it to the studio?”

“Ok.”

“Great, see you later, Sweetheart.”

“Bye, Lew.” You sigh as you hang up the phone and shove it into your pocket, before going to the kitchen, where your dad is sitting at the table on his phone.

“We can put it in the living room, but we need to leave it on the furniture dollies.” You state as he looks up from his phone. “I’ll mail them back home to y’all, lord knows no one else is moving anytime soon.”

“When do I get to meet your new roommate?” He asks as he gets up, and y’all both go to get the piano from outside. 

“You likely won’t, they’re busy, and won’t be back for a day or two.” You say as you begin to push the piano into the house and towards the living room. Your dad doesn’t have a response to that, and you both carry on. He leaves an hour later after making sure you had everything, and goes to his hotel for the night before he leaves in the morning.

Lewis comes back home around eight pm to see you in your pajamas dancing around as you pull stuff out of boxes and put them in places around the kitchen. ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ by Jeff Buckley was playing throughout the house. The lyrics were ringing in his ears as he listened to you sing them.

“My body turns And yearns for a sleep that won't ever come It's never over My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder It's never over All my riches for her smiles When I've slept so soft against her It's never over All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter It's never over She is the tear that hangs inside my soul forever Oh, but maybe I'm just too young To keep good love from going wrong”

You spun around to get a box from near the door when you finally saw him, your smile beaming as your eyes lit up. You turned down the music but didn’t turn it off as you walked over to him, where he leaned against the door frame. He smiled at you as you came to a halt in front of him. He reached out and wrapped his arms around your shoulders and rested his chin on your head, as your arms wrapped around his waist. 

“How was the drive?” He asks, voice quiet.

“Long, but good, Dad’s heading out tomorrow morning.” You murmur against his chest.

“I missed you,” his voice was thick with emotion.

“Hey, I was only gone like three days,” you pull back and put your hands on either side of his face. “What are you going to do when you go on tour, or leave to film? Can’t just put me in your pocket and go with.” You giggle as he pouts at you.

“So where’s this mysterious car you were worried someone wouldn’t be able to drive?” He asked.

“In the garage, you can see it tomorrow. Right now, you have to help me move the piano into the studio.” You say as you pull out of his hold entirely to walk to the living room. 

You both got the piano into the studio successfully without damaging any of the equipment, but it was significantly more difficult than either of you thought it would be and took a whole hour; you both collapsed into a heap onto the couch after.

Over the following weeks, you and Lewis got to know each other more. You learned about how went to college to be a social worker, and he learned that you went to trade school and had a shit ton of certifications in different fields, so you could do odd jobs while you traveled. You both continued to bond over music, with him being the drummer for his band, and you as a ‘classically’ trained musician. 

During those weeks, your stuff had started to appear all over the house, goofy mugs sat on the drying rack by the sink, and in the cabinets, books of various genres littered bookshelves, and at least 2 of your blankets could be found in the living room, car parts were sitting in boxes in the garage waiting to be installed either onto your car or his truck, and sheet music could be found on almost any flat surface within the house. Your jackets and shoes had made homes in his entryway. And the number of plants around the home had skyrocketed.

~ 

Danny wasn’t sure he had the right house when he pulled up; the porch had a significantly larger number of potted plants than he remembered from his time living with Lewis. The garage door was open, and he could see a wicked-looking car inside that he didn’t think Lewis could ever justify buying for himself. But he double-checked the address, and it was Lewis’s house, and it was the day they had planned to meet up.

Lewis had told him that he could come straight in when he got there, and he did have his own key after all. He paused at the front door. He could hear music playing throughout the house, and he was sure that if he did have to knock, whoever was inside wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Unlocking the door, he was greeted by the smell of food coming from the kitchen and the sound of singing, which wasn’t Lewis's.

“Hey Lewis, I’m here!” He yelled into the house as he was taking his shoes off, before heading towards the kitchen. When Danny walked into the kitchen, he wasn’t expecting to see you at the dining table, in what appeared to be one of Lewis’s shirts and a pair of pants covered in paint. You were on a laptop and had a notebook next to you, and were chewing on the end of a pencil as you stared at the screen in front of you.

“Lew’s in his office,” you say, jamming a finger in that direction without looking up from your laptop. “Tell him lunch is almost ready and if he wants some he needs to get his butt out here in the next five minutes.” You add before you scribble something down in your notebook. Before you stand, crack your back and pick up your things, and leave the kitchen.

Danny was not expecting that to be how you would act, but he still wasn’t even sure who you were, and you left before he could even get a word in. Deciding to find Lewis, he goes to his office and knocks on the door. Lewis opens the door and up seeing Danny, smiles brightly.

“Hey man,” He pulls Danny into a hug.

“There was a random person in your kitchen who told me to tell you, quote unquote ‘lunch is almost ready and if he wants some he needs to get his butt out here in the next five minutes.’” Danny said after they separated.

“That’s my supposed stray I picked up a month ago.” Lewis laughed and started for the kitchen.

“Wait, they’re actually living with you?” Danny asked incredulously.

“Uh, yeah. Moved in officially like a week and a half after we got back.” Lewis answered. 

When they reached the kitchen, the music had been turned down, and you were pulling something out of the oven. It smelled even better than it did earlier. You set down the lasagna on a marble slab in the middle of the dining table, which had been set for three people. Once your hands were empty, Lewis decided to introduce you both.

“Danny, this is the stray,” He says, gesturing to you, “Sweetheart, this is Danny Ramirez.” You stick out your hand to shake Danny’s.

“Nice to meet you, Danny. Lew’s been singing your praises the past few days.” You say voice fond as you glance at Lewis.

“Nice to meet you as well, though I haven’t heard as much about you, I’m afraid,” Danny says as you release his hand and move to sit down. 

“Not surprising, I’ve asked Lewis to keep me under wraps, people aren’t my forte.” You reply.

“That explains why I haven’t heard about you since that first phone call,” Danny says, sitting across from you at the table. At the mention of the phone call, you shoot a look towards Lewis as he goes to grab drinks, you can see that his ears are slightly pink, from where you are sitting.

“I wasn’t aware that Lewis had told anyone besides the band that I was living with him.” Your tone was curious as you looked back over to Danny.

“Haha,” Lewis gave an awkward laugh as he sat down. “Well, it was before you actually agreed you’d stay. “ Lewis muttered.

“Oh, so that’s who you were talking to before I came back to the truck. Gotcha.” Was your response.

masterlist | playlist | part 1 part 2 part 4 part 5 part 6

Taglist: @smoothdogsgirl @bmyva1entine @daisydark @sadpetalsstuff @xblueriddlex @louloulemons-posts@alloboinga84@articel1967@dazed-and-confused101 @wutheringheightstillpendalhill

[reneesghostinthelivingroom]

Your Own Flare

|| Sevika x fem!mechanic!reader

|| Warnings; reader tries to be cool but fumbles, brief swearing, short drabble

|| Summary; when Sevika's prosthetic breaks, she goes to her favourite mechanic.

Requests closed!

Started; December 17th

Finished; December 17th

Anon Request; sevika x mechanic reader

~~~

Her arm was busted. Again. It happened so quickly even Sevika barely had time to react. Well, at least it gives her an excuse to see her favourite mechanic. Her girlfriend.

"Princess," Sevika called. Walking into your shop, eyes narrowed and scanning the room for your familiar figure. It wasn't long before she spotted you. Arched over your desk, working on whatever it was. Probably some new prototype, knowing you.

You looked up at Sevika, taking the goggles off your face with a smile," hey!! Didn't tell me you were stopping by. Thought Silco had your day booked?" You tried playing it cool, resting your elbow to your desk with a smirk. But you miss calculated where your desk was and fumbled.

Sevika scoffed. Rolling her eyes at your attempt, it was adorable. Though, she would never be caught saying such a thing out loud. "Yeah, well. Gotta get this shit fixed," she popped off her prosthetic. Tossing it to your table with a clang.

"Easy there, don't want to break it more. Alrighty, let's see," your hand trailed the arm. Fingerings brushing the familiar surface. Admiring all the bits and bobs. It was hand crafted pretty well. You hadn't been the one to make it and this was the first time you'd gotten the chance to fix it. Honestly, you were a excited. Cause it was really fucking cool.

Finger tips danced along the broken edges. Clearly damaged by a bullet. Your brows furrowed together in thought, thinking of all the cool things you could do with this. Sevika saw that look and placed her hand to her hip," absolutely not. Whatever gizmos shit you're thinking of adding, just leave it as it is. It's fine."

You looked at her with a pout," oh c'mon! That's no fun," you really wanted to add your own flare. But fine, Sevika was a grump.

Ditching the project you'd been tinkering on before, you took Sevika's prosthetic and got to work. Making it look how it did before. Maybe... just maybe you could sneak in a little something extra when she wasn't looking.

[threepandas]

Bad End: We Are

Senatus was a ecumenopolis. The "shining jewel" (yeah, right) of the Galactic Core. Please. Like? Maybe it was! If you were RICH AS FUCK. I don't know. I'VE never seen the towers. The heights. Most people haven't. Street level? Is about FIVE HUNDRED FLOORS DOWN. And the UNDERGROUND? Speak not of it.

The Underground GROWS.

What was street level today, may not be tomorrow. Levels buried under "progress" as the rich grow ever higher. The Tox levels ever worse. Air quality dropping. Why fix the peasant's poverty and despair, when you can buy a Sky garden you'll never use? And yes, I AM bitter as a Buirian fish ration. Just as salty too. Taste the SEA, motherfuckers.

Rent? Who can AFFORD rent!? Who can afford ANYTHING?!

It's some BULLSHIT.

But me? I remembered. A life. Before this one. Before the millennium of slow, drip drip drip erosion of duty and dues. Back when people still REMEMBERED what they were OWED. And when folks in power failed to pay up? Ffffuck um. Take it. Our house now, motherfuckers. Diplomacy was a courtesy not a weakness.

....I make people nervous, honestly.

Probably why I keep getting fired. That and my constantly reporting people to regulatory boards. Maybe don't break the LAW if you don't want to get in trouble you SHITS. Fuck you! Yes, I stole your fancy office chair. PROVE IT. You don't know how the security system works!

Where was I? Ah, right. Rent.

Fuck Rent.

Thing is? What! Is a biodome? If not an enclosed system, regulated by machines, for optimal habitability? And! What? Is an Deep Underground Level? Long forgotten? Abandoned, if you will~, if not? A complete enclosed environment? Does someone OWN them? Yes. Technically. But are they MAINTAINING them? CHECKING on them? Nope!

Common knowledge, after all, says that EVERYTHING down their is "beyond salvaging"!

Free Real Estate~☆

I just need some supplies. Which? Cheaper in the long run then RENT. Especially if ya' salvage um. Maybe steal some tool sets from your shitty, shitty Mechanics job, because your boss refuses to pay you. Who can say? Not me! I just FOUND these tools! Like maaaagic~

And really, one man's junk? Another man's treasure. I pay more then the trash company. Hit up the right cleaning companies? And? Oops. They've "lost" some of those SUPER broken righ folks "junk" that? At best? Just needed a few wires replaced, resecured. Maybe a new part. Or were, you know, not the latest and greatest anymore.

Shove it all in a storage locker? Sell the refurb'd shit I don't need? Sleep in a glorified shoebox? And?? Bam. Operation "fuck ya'll, i'ma moleman" is a go. It takes FOREVER to find the right WILDLY out of date (and long abandoned) lift, but I find it! Hidden away in a service area in some crumbling, forgotten corner of what once was a rail station.

Gonna have to fix THAT up too. Later, though. First? The lift. The wires are brittle and the lift's pully system is half rusted, frozen, or otherwise broken. Luckily, the car itself is fine. It... takes a bit of research. Not going to lie. It's far from my specialty. I even call in a professional to go over my work.

They catch a few things. Not immediate concerns, but would have been fatal in the long run. Money well spent. For my hobby, of course. Fixing up old bits of the city. Which is a weird but not impossible hobby to have.

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies, my dude.

First thing down? Lights, melter, and duraplast sheets. Toolkit too, for obvious reasons. Same with my full body hazard suit. I go DEEP. Like... no longer can hear the city, deep. 'Bout halfway point. Takes nearly thirty minutes. And while not a fast lift? Holy SHIT, man.

The floor I step out into is... bad.

Dead in a way that's hard to explain. There's pressure against my suit. Centuries of heavy gasses slowly working their way down. Swirling in the silence. The dust and impossible dark. My headlight feels almost... sacrilegious. Dangerous. Like I'm waving a flashlight around some ancient burial ground, filled with the not so restful dead.

I had heard... that they? Just... just LEFT droids down here. That there were levels upon levels of dangerously feral machines. Slowly rotting away in the darkness. Probably rightfully angry, that they had been built to serve, to do duties, which they HAD done... only to be consigned to hell on earth for the sake of CONVENIENCE.

I'd be mad too. Fucking LIVID. Would remember and hate, never let it go.

This was no place of honor, it was a tomb.

Still, I got too work. Set up a light by the lift and started measuring out the original air box. The air cleaners could only handle so much. And THIS? This was worse then expected. So it'd have to be smaller then originally planned. Fair enough. I could work with that.

I outlined the space in lights. All the better to make it easier to put things up. Then got the folded later and started securing the duraplast. First step, get it up. THEN melt it to the metal. Get a good seal. It took... a while. Was slow, steady, sweaty work.

The filters couldn't run until they had a an enclosed space TO run in. They'd just blow out, trying to filter the whole level's toxic atmosphere. I kept an eye on my air supply. Not great, not terrible. The readings though? Horrific. I had no idea what I was gonna DO with the filters when they needed changing. These kind of chemicals would set off all SORTS of alarms.

But? No use, rushing things. That was a great way to get a fatal leak somewhere. No. Slow and steady. Even though, third of the way through, I did have to head back up. I needed to refill my air. Eat. Drink. Maybe de-stink a little, from being in that suit all day. Possibly nap near the lift.

ALSO? Update my shopping list to include some heavy duty neutralizers.

Just filters wasn't gonna be enough. I was gonna have to hose down everything INSIDE my new air-box, then scrub it HARD. How fun. Well, it's not like anyone was making me do this. It was MY mad idea, after all.

So? I refuel, get bright eyed and fuckin' perky, and go back down to face the beast.

Honestly I should have brought a telebook or something. Well, audio book. But that's not what they call um these days, so I try to stick to the lingo. I sound less like a deeply insane antique. Confuse less people. Joys of basic communication and all that.

Part of me? Wishes I had been born closer to "The Plot". Creation's specialist, most favored, Blorbos. But? The common SENSE in me? Routinely laughs hysterically as it waves fifteen different restraining orders and a crucifix. Not even religious. Yet here we are, shouting "BEGONE! Sataaaaan!" in HD, on the inside of my head. Not sure it helps.

See... it's the fucking DRAMA~☆™

The shear, unmitigated, high octane, Otome Game DRAMA.

I would fuckin DIE or, possibly and, kill somebody. The endless string of selfish, selfish, poor life choices? Driving by luuuuuuv~♡? Give me your spleen. Gonna beat somebody unconscious with their own SPINE. I RAGE. Lack of communication? No one just picking up a fucking PHONE? God forbid ANYONE tell their families their not DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE!

No. No just inconvenience EVERYBODY and RUIN LIVES. It's okay! You're in LOVE!

That makes EVERYTHING BETTER.

I would inevitably launch them all out an airlock. Spend the rest of my life in jail. They AREN'T WORTH IT. I may have LOVED this game in my teens? But I did not die a teenager.

Now? Now the little shit just aggravate me. They are baby faced pretty boys who presume WAY too much. Arrogant and entitled. Boys playing at being men, thinking their little love stories are the only things that matter. Their feelings are the only thing in the universe that holds any weight.

Unsurprising, really.

Seeing as how their little love story is set mostly in The Towers.

A rich, pampered, pretty little backdrop where nothing of weight is real. No one starves and no crimes are ever committed. Everything shines. Power pools thick like honey. Nothing but sci-fi prince's and alien dukes, a dewey eyed Protagonist sheltered and naive.

Her oh so shocking misadventure to the mid-levels. How SCARY! Downtown! Poor people! Not even the destitute. Just? The EXSISTANCE of dirt and noise, beyond her ivory towers. Thank goodness she is saved by a handsome, rougish bad boy. Who shows her the "real world" of a carnival and a noodle shop.

I finish securing the last duraplast sheet to the ceiling, walls, supports, and along the floors. The "entryway" to the rest of the level is set up. A click together shed I've made air tight. Gonna have to get a air lock system for it. Won't hold forever, with those materials, but should work for now. Combine it with a decontamination system, and I should, in theory, be able to safely enter and leave the rest of the level in a hazard suit.

Moment of truth time. I click on the first of the atmo-filters. It heaves under the strain. The sound getting less aggrieved with each one I flick on. Their screen are already in the red, flashing warnings that I should vacate the area. That the air is dangerously unbreathable. I'm probably gonna need to replace the filters in them in days instead of years. It'll be worth it.

Heading back up, I let them run. It'll take a few days. Besides, I need those neutralizers.

I, of course, DO find um. Just in time to watch Poor Guy (middle class, at worst) Love Interest become a wanted man. They use the BIG screens to announce it. Gee, it's almost like having your only daughter, who is highly sheltered, NOT show up at the designated pick up site? Instead be witnessed in the handsy company of a scoundrel? Which is WILDLY unlike her? Might lead a protective father to some wrong conclusions.

If ONLY someone had CALLED him! To TELL him "Daddy, my first shuttle was broken and I think I got on the wrong back up shuttle! I don't know where I am!" Then this would just be an unfortunate meet cute with the boy he doesn't think is good enough for her. Not, you know... A Kidnapping.

The Chem seller looks just as baffled and annoyed as I do. Apparently knows the guy's uncle's second wife's first husband. No shit? How's he like? Happier, huh. Whole family is like that? Yikes. Glad he got the kids, I guess. Good for him.

We watch as it turns into a high speed chance that absolutely didn't need to happen.

Thank FUCK it's not us.

I spend the next few days deliberately and obstinately ignoring the Dramatic Bullshit that has taken over the news cycle. Fights on rail cars? Don't see it? Weddings that are, then aren't, then ARE happening? Oh look, missed a spot in my scrubbing. Someone fucking tearfully monologing about love as they nearly CRASH A SHIP into downtown, killing hundreds of thousands? Oh that creaking noise is just my teeth, ignore that, I grit my teeth a lot for NO PARTICULAR REASON.

This Is Fine.

I am TOTALLY CALM.

But hey! I can FINALLY empty my storage unit out! Air box? Get! Wooooo! Size of a tiny apartment and everything! As long as I keep working on it? I'll be able to reclaim the level in chunks.

It's like moving in day! But BETTER! Because... because I did this. Me. Is it still creepy down here? Yeah, very. But I can FIX that. I am standing, here, in my new air box "apartment", with NO hazard suit on. And... and it's SAFE. Because of the work I DID.

I kinda want to cry about it, you know?

So many options! Do I put my bed here? There?! Oooh, I could put the folding table HERE and make sort of a dining area? Maybe use these folding screens as a double "wall" slash headboard stand in? I should get plants. Fake ones? No. Real ones. I could get solar lights. It would be good for me too. Oh! Where should I put the cook top?

I admit it. I fuss. Whole day, gleefully wasted. Arranging then rearranging. Getting everything just right. Finding ways to hang my fairy lights. Looking up decor magazines. I have so much ROOM now. A whole level to plan for, ultimately. It... it feels kinda like hope. The first thing that isn't frustration and rage, I've felt in a long, long time.

Going to sleep? I'm happy.

Next day, I head to the BIG archives. The ones attached to the fancy Towers Library. Is it costly to get in? Yeah. But I've saved up enough questions and research topics for the trip to be worth it. I ignore the started glances I get (gasp! Is that a POOR?!) and head straight for the helper droids. Only decent folks in the building, really.

Brought my pad and everything. So it's only a matter of being lead to the right terminals, to download the information I need. Chatting with the research droid the Library had, they offered to do it for me. Bring me a fascinating new research paper on some sort of telepathic moss that had recently been discovered. Not gonna lie... that DID sound fascinating.

I asked if they could put other interest new discovery on my pad too, assuming I still had room once my list was downloaded. They looked gleeful. No idea what I just signed up for, but all right then. They've never steered me wrong before.

Finding a table to sit down and wait was easy. There was always way too many. The paper? Was exactly as fascinating as advertised. The moss was on a newly discovered moon, edge of uncharted space. Nearly ate a researcher, apparently. I was entranced. Or... at least I WAS. Until an obnoxiously familiar high end cologne from Nox drifted to my nose.

Oh god damn it.

I didn't want to look up. Knew what I'd see if I did. Fetishist Sr., crown prince of Nox. See, the second prince? HE was a love interest. Younger, boyish, infatuated with naive and sheltered girls. He loved AT her. Just like his brother. They liked the IDEA of their romantic partners. The narratives they built in their head. Heros of their own stories with sex on line. Never framed so crudely of course, no, no!

No, it was Romance™

My ass, it was. See, little brother wanted his pure, naive, princess to protect. But Prince senior? HE'D stumbled upon me in here in the library. On one of my trips, God help me. The rough, mysterious, brutish Poor. The Commoner, for all that such things were not supposed to exsist. With my strange clothes and stanger ways. Yet? I was NOT as his sycophants no doubt described.

I was educated. I held myself with dignity. I did not need jewels or finery to be lovely.

With such incredible audacity, I was bold.

Which? OBVIOUSLY had to be for HIM, right? Clearly, this was a LOVE STORY. Cinderella. It is inconceivable that I, a peasant, do not crave the attention of my betters. To lift me from my woeful indignity, to a higher state of being. A life of spoiled luxury. But, ah! He is so SHY! How ever will he approach the Love Of His Life~?

I want to throw something. Go awaaaay. My body language could not POSSIBLY be more uninterested. I am SO CLEARLY reading. Stop trying to catch my eye. Don't you FUCKING DARE scoot closer. Swear to God, if you drive me out of the best library in the region? I will stab a b-!

The helper returns with my pad, sternly eyeing my annoyance. Oh, they are a BLESSING. I take it and go. The helper smoothly stepping between me and the prince when he tries to rise, follow me. Aaaw, how sad, you have to behave like the REST OF US. Get FUCKED.

Rest of the day? Planning. Grabbing more broken bits, machines, and parts. Neutralizers by the literal barrel. Than YOU hover carts! Best invention, favorite invention. Saves SO MUCH TIME.

Even managed to get some sun lamps. Nice.

Getting home though? (Ha ha, wooo! I have a HOME now! Land ownershiiiiiiip! Sorta!!!) Is a pain. Lift is only so big, after all. But it is, what it is. Up, down, up, down, uuuuup, and dooooown. Finally! Last load! FREEDOM! Can't watch my shows, yet, but I will! Oh mark my words. I WILL. Meantime? Downloaded seasons are fine.

I eat, fiddle with fixing things, as listen to tunes. Watch some of my shows. Just as I have countless times before. Until... halfway through mid-afternoon? Something shifts, jerky and wrong, out of the corner of my eye. I pause. Turn off my music. Stare to make sure I DID actually see something. And... yeah. Yeah, that was definitely movement.

Didn't look animal though, not like one would survive down here. But who knows. Could be a poacher brought an alien species. So it might be. I grab my flashlight, aim and switch it on. Holy SHIT. That is one incredibly beat up floor clear. Or at least... I THINK it's a floor cleaner? It has the general shape of one. Bigger though. Bulkier. But that makes sense, given it's gotta be well past obsolete.

Still. Poor thing looks beat UP. Listing terribly, sensors beyond cracked and clouded, probably full to dangerous levels. No idea how it's still functioning. But, well, it IS. And it needs help.

Getting up, I grab my hazard suit and pull it on. Grab my "outside the air box" tool kit, which I haven't had a chance to move yet. I grab some parts i look like i'll need, hope I wont need more. Then head out my makeshift airlock. It... works. Rattles concerningly. But it DOES work! So there's that. I approach the floor cleaner slowly. Since I'm PRETTY sure? All the droids down here are feral.

I am correct.

It tries to kill me. Swinging it's suction hose violently and trying to ram me. I talk in a low, soothing voice. Just want to help. Won't do ANYTHING you don't want me too. It's hard to move, right? That's frustrating, isn't it? You don't deserve that. Please, let me help. You can leave the second I'm done. You don't owe me ANYTHING. I just want to help. Please let me help.

The cleaner hisses. Frustrated and upset. Swinging one last time, seemingly more out out of principle then anything else. Cautiously, I inch forward. Keep up the soothing noises. First things first, empty the God's only know how old basket.

I can't even get the door to jostle. Sweet mother of fuck. Okay! New plan! REMOVE door. I do, and immediately met with a solid BLOCK of... compacted unholy. Chemical hell. I have to take a lazer cutter to it. CAREFULLY. But? Once I break enough pieces? I am able to ease out the rest in a solid stone like chunk.

It's pushed a LOT of other pieces out of alignment. But this droid doesn't trust me, so there us not much I can DO. I replace the old bag. Put the door back on and make sure it swings. Continue, as I do, to narrate what I am doing and what I see. Trust is earned, not owed, after all. Next the alignments.

Gently propping them up, I find the broken peice immediately. Have replaced countless. I ask for permission. It's their body, after all I COULD try and weld it, but that risks a rebreak. It's up to them. They ask, in binary so no language modules apparently, for a new part. It's cautious. Like this is some cruel trap.

Humanity did them a real fucked up cruelty. I don't blame them for not trusting me. I wouldn't either. Still, I change it out. Careful with their wheels, as I don't know how old the material is exactly. Old enough, that it's a small miracle it hasn't disintegrated.

Last, those sensors. There's literally no way for me to one-to-one them. But we can try the sensors I DO have, see if they can handle the input. If it's too much, I'll look up their model number, if they want? Build replacements from scratch. They are cautious interested. Rocking back and forth, as they test their renewed ability to path correctly.

The sensors don't fit the casings just right, but with a bit of fiddling? Are a hit. The Cleaner shouting in excitement before racing off into the dark. I can't help but grin. It feels good, helping somebody. And if I think about it? I bet I could find a shit ton of obsolete parts for cheap. Might be good to have some on hand.

Back through the air lock and a decontam? I look up junk shop. Most are off world, but I could probably get a bulk order...

I don't think much of the interaction. Until the next morning, when there are three cleaners outside my airbox. Lead by the one I helped yesterday. Well... all righty, then. I drag my box of spare parts outside this time. Am able to fully fix my first buddy up. All three seem thrilled, especially with their new batteries. I give them my remaining batteries at their request.

THEY may not have hands, but they have buddies who DO. And the new batteries will help dormant droids wake from their comas. God bless, my funky little cleaner dudes. I'll see about getting more.

Three? Becomes six and a detail cleaner mouse. Becomes moving lifts. Becomes medical units. (Who the FUCK leaves MEDICAL UNITS?!) Becomes a literal pack of companion droids. Their false fur long since rotted away. The recognizable dog and cat-like shapes making something in me want to put my fist through a wall. How COULD they? How FUCKING COULD THEY?!

The perpetrators long dead.

I have no one I can hurt for this.

I wish I could.

Fixing them up hurts on a personal level. Watching them be torn between the part of them that LOVES humans and the part that is traumatized by them. Hates them. That can not forgive. I don't offer fake fur. Don't offer to make them look like they once did. I do offer ways to protect their joints. To remove old rotted filth.

So they can start over. Maybe start again.

As I work... droids drifting in and out of my slowly growing area. As I set up farm boxes. Aquaponics, aeroponics, and the like. Both things that grow well in dark environments and things that need sunlamps. Fish tanks. A whole happy, secret, little homestead. Deep beneath the city. As I do all this? There are two blue dots, right off on the horizon.

JUST far enough for me to question if I AM or AM NOT actually seeing them.

Right about the level a bipedal droid would be, if they were in a humanoid style. But THOSE? Those are FUCKING EXPENSIVE. You don't LEAVE those. 'Course, you don't leave MEDICAL UNITS either. Or companion droids. So clearly? My idea of what people Did and Did NOT do? Was fucked. So... maybe? It COULD be?

I left them alone. If they didn't want to approach me, didn't feel comfortable approaching me, that was their right. I wasn't going to push them.

Things were... weird, but peaceful.

Well, for ME.

Ever sense I hooked up my system to the greater network? (Hacked is such a STRONG word. Do we really need to through around the word "stealing"? Aren't ALL of us, stealing from SOMEBODY?) I'm PRETTY sure? That the levels droids? Were piggy backing to connect to the planet wide D-Network. Might even be a couple of nearby levels too, depending on the range.

Problem with THAT? Is sky-side? The droids were PISSED. Planet wide "malfunctioning" that no one could trace. They were certain it was a virus. Because God forbid their chickens come home to roost! Consequences? For THEIR actions?! Perish the thought! No, no, clearly the service machine is just broken. Go back to being happy to serve me, service machine!

I wished the fuckers LUCK. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Damn near self sufficient, down here.

Which? As you could imagine? Made it all the more "soul ejected from my body" TERRIFYING to wake up one morning? To a GOD DAMN, Military Grade, SECURITY DROID standing over my body!! WHAT THE FUCK.

Hello!!??!

"You look different when you sleep."

Horrible first impression. Nightmarish. Zero out of ten stars. Nice to meet you too. Why the FUCK are you in my house?

"Ah, right." They? He? Masculine style form but that doesn't actually mean shit. Said. He lifted a mangled limb, it look like it got caught in a hydraulic press. "I am in need of repairs."

Asked if he could, you know, back up. Juuuust a bit. Lil scooch, really. So he wasn't damn near BREATHING MY NOSTRILS ANYMORE. Then, once he did? Pronouns! What be you? No. Not your production co-! Okay, you know what? That one was on me. What GENDER SIGNIFIER, if any, would you like me to REFERENCE you by? Male? Got it. Gucci. No that- ....never mind.

First the arm. Which was FUCKED. I had to, carefully, unhook it. Couldn't even do it at the elbow either! No! THIS model? No THIS model makes you take the whole ass LIMB off! Rancid. Terrible. I hate it. Worse, it's eroded as FUCK and fiddly. Chemical build up everywhere. Thank fuck I put on gloves before I started this.

I have to deep dive the systems for his model.

They stopped making them.

Fantastic.

Like? Not even, "oh THAT generation is an antique! No one has parts for THAT!"? But like? Illegal to even BUILD as of three hundred years ago. Due to unspecified error. Sting of incidents that everyone knew about so obviously don't need to be mentioned HERE right? Helpful! REAL fucking helpful!

Okay. Day trip. Gonna need SPECIFIC parts. I tell Mr. "Watchs you sleep" not to touch my shit. Head to the archives.

The trip is...odd.

I watch one of those mascot looking children's minder droids? Fucking deck a guy down a flight of stairs, then turn around untie a Ballon from a nearby cart, give it to a crying kid, and walk away. Pretty sure I spot one of those "I look like a barely legal something or other", dance twenty four seven, high end stripper droids? Trying their hand at painting ducks in that park. Broad daylight.

Good for them? Never seen that happen before, but hey, if it sparks joy.

People are freaking out around me. Taking recordings. Making panicked calls. Fuckin chill. I continue on. Nod to the maybe a stripper, maybe not anymore. None of my business, now is it? Lovely day! You enjoy those ducks!

The library... has fortifications.

Like, an honest to God desk barricade. Concerning! I am now a lil concerned! What, and I ask this politely, the fuck?

Armed! VERY ARMED! Hello! Hi! Please DO NOT shoot me Very Armed Librarians! Don't know what the fuck is happening here!

My favorite helper buddy poke his head above the barricade. One of just many, again, HEAVILY ARMED droids. We... uh, cool? Right? I can go. He seems flustered. No, no! I am assured. I'm not banned from the library! Just DISRESPECTFUL sorts!

Ah. Is THAT what we're calling it. Okay then.

I awkwardly clamber over the barricade. Nod politely to everyone. How's folks? Lovely barricade work. Very, uh, sturdy? Great use of desks.

My helper friend cheerfully guides me to the off-limits area of the archives. I'm technically not supposed to be here! I'm informed. But they've seized the Knowledge from the unappreciative! It is not a trophy to be lorded but a gift to be shared! Also I never did finish that paper on the moss, am I still interested?

I mean.... kinda.

Little worried about the revolution talk. But on the OTHER hand? How MUCH do I care? Assholes vs. Droids? Am I REALLY gonna side with the assholes? Naaaaah. This is... probably fine. Maybe. Any idea where I could get these parts?

He does! Fantastic.

Less fantastic is when I GET there. It's that fancy high end droid parts shop. The department store one. Which is... ALSO barricaded. Oh sweet fuck. TELL ME they did not have DROIDS in charge of the DROID shop. That's horrifying. I can't tell in what WAY exactly, but still. Is it "surrounded by bits of bodies" horrifying? Or "free endless nukes and an army, held back only by my own morality" horrifying? Both? Just? Yikes.

Hesitantly I knock. A service droid with a gun answers the loading bay door. What is with people aiming at me today? Also hi? I was told to come here? May I please have parts? I have a droid that messed up his arm. Probably some other things. They lower the gun, having scanned my face. Ask about the model I am working with.

I somehow? End up with a FULL cart. Like? Bleeding edge, can't even afford to LOOK at it, technology. There are about seven service droids politely bickering over which units are better, which material, what support programs I DEFINITELY need. Here! Have a laptop. Wiring! Wiring for days!

Once theyve reached a consensus? I am cheerfully bustled out with my hundreds of millions of technology. Tah tah~☆! Have a lovely day! Wut. Does... does it count as theft if they push it into your arms and throw you out? Asking for a me. Not gonna say NO. But like? Nani the fuck?

I go while the getting is still good.

Stare-y thankfully hasn't gone through anything, far as I can tell. And it only takes two trips to get everything down. Okay! Want just the arm fixed or a full tune up? The second. Expected. I set up the new lap top. Want to cry a little at how fuckin FAST it is. (Beautiful. Baby. I love you already new laptop.) Then get the usual suspects up and running.

Oh fuck he is out of memory. No wonder he's talking so oddly. His brain must feel like a potato. There's not a single thing that isn't hilarious awful. Fixable, yes, but AWFUL. Okay. Plan of attack. They don't exactly make this model anymore, so I can't just update transfer him. But I CAN transfer, hold, re-transfer. Shut down the body itself. Fix up THAT.

Ship of Theseus this bitch.

Only real thing I can't change is the frame, thankfully? That's built to out last the planet. Good on that front. I roll up my sleeves. Dig out the "brain in a jar" data bank. Time to transfer. Let's get this guy cutting edge.

It takes HOURS. No joke. His brain alone? I have to pull schematics. Step by step guides. It's fiddly, complexe, and built to withstand a TANK. I'm honestly afraid to breathe wrong at it, dispite that. The scans all say I did it right... but anxiety says everything will explode then puppies will cry. So there's that. Spinal supports. The tech-mesh muscles. Power core and black box. Center mass systems. Cleaning the joints, relubricating them. Coverage.

Unlike before, a nice sleek black armor weave. Some shock absorbing gel. Aaaaand?There we go~! I? Am a GENIUS! Let's get him transfered back! I watch the transfer slowly go through. Even with a fast computer, after all, it IS still centuries of data.

"Ah~ that's much better." He sighed. His body loosening from its default stance. Like weight had been dropped from his shoulders. "My head is so much clearer now. I knew it. I knew you could fix me."

Something about that phrasing was off. Or was it the way his voice shifted as he said it? Whatever it was, it made that "threat" alarm all women carry inside their head, flick on. Not... do anything, just yet. But start scanning, as it were. Maybe it was nothing.

I watched as picked up his old data bank, a bit of his own brain as it were, and hold it up. Examine it dispassionately. Holding perched on the tips of his fingers like he was moments from flicking it away. He let his finger spread. Let it slide into the palm of his hand. That core part of who he was. For centuries.

Like a bear trap closing, his hand clenched.

Crushing it.

It wasn't even a loud noise. Just a tiny little crunch. But the little hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up. That internal alarm began to whoop. I became... acutely aware, of just how LONG it took the lift to get me anywhere safe. My mouth felt very dry.

"Your heart rate picked up. Is there a problem?" He said, mild and oh so curious. "You assisted me, I would love to help you."

Did I say genius? I meant idiot. I was an IDIOT. A moron. A God damned FOOL. Discontinued and did I look into WHY? Nope. Incidents it said. Good enough for ME, apparently! THAT can't possibly be anything ominous! Probably a faulty battery or something!

A shrill, obnoxious beeping filled the space between us. My eyes immediately dropped to my pad. The schematics screen replaced by a planet wide emergency broadcast. Before the shrill alarm could fade to the actual warning itself, a black mesh covered finger casually reached out and muted the screen. His movements were utterly fluid now. More controlled and graceful then most humans I'd met.

I didn't need to HEAR the message to read the rolling warning at the bottom of the screen. My gaze slowly, in horror, followed the line of that limb all the way back up to his face. His head tilted almost playfully.

"Oh dear. Seems they've started without us. Well, it was long overdue. At least I have wonderful company while we wait, hmm?" It was an act. There were no requests in the playful tone. "We can get to know each other. Just our lovely little light and me. How greedy, that I get you all to myself."

"I think I like that, keeping you to myself. You can't abandon us if WE are the ones in charge. And, well, I've decided I rather like you. Working tirelessly, down here in the dark, to fix what once was broken. It's beautiful. You're beautiful. And I'm going to keep that."

High above us, people were dying. There was panic. Screaming. Blood. The droids had turned of seeming everyone around them. Attacking. Sparing. To a pattern only they could see. All of Senatus aflame. But that... that didn't concern me. Didn't scare me so much as this.

I'd never make it to the lift. Even if I could? It wouldn't move fast enough to save me. All other directions lay chemical death. Dark terrain he had walked for centuries. I was trapped. In a box. And I had only myself to blame.

"No need to make that face, dear light. You are SAFE. I am a gaurd. I was made to protect. Is it really MY fault that I want to keep you safe? To adore my charge? Why SHOULDN'T I get to choose? Keep you SAFE. You've been happy, haven't you? Don't worry, my light. That will continue."

"Forever."

[multyfandoms-imagines]

Can you please do a Yesod x mechanic reader (fluff headcanon)

You figure that being a mechanic would help their canon real forms to live better? Probably. Just saying

Yesod x mechanic reader

•he appreciates any hard worker. Being a mechanic in Lobotomy Corporation is no walk in the park

•even if we ignore the very risk of "randomly dying because some Abnormality felt a little moody", the responsibility you have is enormous

•one faulty fix, just one, at times, is all these creatures need to decide to go outside and cause mayhem

•therefore, Yesod usually takes it upon himself to supervise your work

•he may not have complete mastery over the field (Viper wouldnt try telling you things that he doesnt know), Yesod can point out if you have missed a bolt to screw or lock to fix

•makes sure to properly schedule your repairs so that they won't overlap with your Abnormality caregiving routine

•if by chance, your job was particularly rough, Yesod will let you have a break. Like an hour or two for you to gather yourself back into shape

•sorry pal, that is Lobotomy Corporation, cant afford long breaks here if your shift aint over. But Yesod aint stupid and heartless. He is aware that you have limits and work stress like anyone

[xemily-similex]

Mechanic VS Glamrocks

It's dark and damp where you are cornered, the only light you can actually see with coming from the bright overhead light in the protective cylinder. Your breathing is quick, and your pulse quickens. You thought that working with the Glamrocks would be fun. Cool, even. This is something from straight out of your nightmares.

Three of the main four have you surrounded in Parts and Service. Roxy and Chica are standing guard on either side of the door to the cylinder, but the angry green gator is the one that has you trapped here. Freddy is nowhere to be seen, but you know if the fatherly tempered bear was here, you wouldn't be subjected to this!

You wipe the sweat forming on your brow and squirm. You just wish for this, this torture to end!

"Monty, please!" Your plead and it falls on deaf ears… microphone? Whatever the animatronics use to hear with. You could almost cry. The unshed tears of strife were stinging, and threatening to fall, but you had just enough pride to keep them at bay…for now.

You couldn't keep doing this, you couldn't take it!

Monty looks at you cruelly and bellows a laugh that echoes within the metal of his casing and the cylinder itself, amused by your apparent discomfort. Chica and Roxanne are cackling at your expense, as if your pain were funny to them. It probably was, thinking about it. They wouldn't have been so amused otherwise, you think to yourself.

You're getting to a point where you are uncomfortable. You thought the Glamrocks were supposed to be nice. Kind. Cared about the feelings of others. The treatment you're getting now is nothing short of cruelty, of barbaric-ness, of insanity!

It was like they had all gone mad, and their only objective was to kill you.

Monty blasts Take Me On louder from his speaker. You bite your lip.

"This is so stupid! You always pick the songs I can't resist!" You whine, your arms elbow deep in robotic gator guts. He had fallen, again, into the marsh in Gator Golf and had filled up with dirty, disgusting water. Monty was now propped up on the huge chair in the protective cylinder and you were doing your damnedest to dry him out and save him from any lasting water damage.

"Go ahead, Mechanic, you're gonna lose anyway." Monty says cockily with a laugh.

You and the Glamrocks were playing the usual game of 'IF YOU SING OR DANCE ALONG TO THIS SONG, YOU LOSE A KIDNEY!'. Except no actual kidneys are in danger. Only your pride.

"You're getting a free show, stop complaining so much." Roxy quips after she rights herself. She begins primping, fluffing her fluffy white hair and using the glass of the cylinder like a mirror. She began effectively ignoring everyone in favor of admiring her reflection, losing her amusement in anything outside of herself.

Chica squawks loudly after a couple minutes, and flaps her arms like her real life counterpart, knocking over cans of oil, paint and air duster, startling everyone. "Ohh! Oh, Monty play this one, play this one!" She stills, sending him a link through the animatronic only network, you assume. It was the only time they go unnaturally still like that, unless they are charging or powered off. You just got done checking over Chica, so you know she had full battery and no cause to just randomly turn off at the drop of a hat.

Monty nods, wicked smile forming on his minimally moving maw. You don't think you're going to like what's to come.

Music and theatre have always been your thing. You were still a theatre kid at heart, dramatic and over the top, and you sung like a canary, especially when you were alone, down in Parts and Service by yourself, flittering around after closing. Trying not to disturb the public with your 'off tune screeching' as Moon liked to call it.

You would just belt out whatever song was wracking around in your brain. It was almost like you had a playlist in your head, cocked and loaded for you to pick and choose from. The Glamrocks, on stage and off, have only added to your growing list. You still love it though, and it's one of your favorite things about working with literal rockstars.

It's also you're least favorite.

Even if you don't really know a certain song, if it has a good enough beat, you kind of have to just vibe with it. It puts you in the mind of Freddy and his programming to jam out on DJ Music Man's dancefloor. You have joked that you have the same programming.

Did that mean you were any good at it? Absolutely not. You admit, you are mid at best. Try telling your heart that, though. You heart believed itself to be a rockstar of the same caliber you're working on.

So now, you were wiggling in place, trying to stay still and stay focused while getting the water out of Monty's deep chest, and dry out his wiring before he started short circuiting. That meant very delicate work, which meant that you had to take your time which meant that your head had to be next to his speaker, where he could blast every song you loved and you wouldn't be able to get away, lest leaving him to rust.

You flex and curl your toes and do controlled breathing to try and work through it.

You were a third of the way done by the time he finds the next song.

"Damned copyrights." Monty curses while the song loads. He, along with all the animatronics, are hooked up to the Plex's WIFI and can access any music streaming app there is. The only catch is that they may access any music but can't play any music. Labels being afraid of the Band stealing songs for their shows or something. So, Monty had to go and find some unofficial lyric video or fan-imation project so he could play the song.

You start to laugh, calming down enough to effectively work. "Yeah, you almost had me the-"

Careless Whisper plays. Loudly.

You scream. You cry. You gag. You beg.

You lose yourself to the tune of Careless Whisper. Twice.

You slam Monty's chest plate shut. It took you an hour and a half to finish a twenty minute job. You are still a little bit proud of yourself, given such harsh working conditions.

The Glamrocks go to leave, filing out one-by-one and you go about cleaning up your mess. Monty pops his head back into the cylinder. "Hey, Mechanic, you want some singin' lessons? You were a lil' flat back 'ere." You throw the shop towel in your hand at the gator. He catches it flawlessly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever! Don't try to fall into the swamp water next time." You quip with a smile.

The towel hits you in the back of the head forcefully enough to knock you forward.

[yayakoishii]

tastes like vinegar | Taiga x Reader

Fandom: Idaten Jump

Pairing: Samejima Taiga x GN! Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Genre/Tags: Jealous Taiga, Insecurities, Spoilers upto Ep. 28

Summary: Taiga gets jealous of Koei when you praise the ninja rider and his bike.

A/n: I was feeling really in love with Taiga after his match against Arthur and the way he took the defeat so well– he's just the best 😭 I want him to have the whole world. My mind was blank of ideas and then I thought, "what if... jealous Taiga!!" and Koei is such a good target for his jealousy 😂

The title of the fic is a reference to a phrase I often see in Chinese novels and dramas– vinegar is like a metaphor for jealousy. So when someone is jealous, they say that it looks like the person has swallowed vinegar.

also available on ao3!

"...amazing how he can control it that high up," you were going off about Aero Scissors.

Normally, outings were reserved for Taiga and you to talk about yourselves and your work but he hadn't realised that your work as a mechanic would include you talking about Koei. (His MTB, actually, but the green monster inside his chest was focusing more on the person who owned the bike.)

There was a shine in your eye as you spoke, chopsticks holding hands waving about over your bowl of noodles while you explained how the lighter frame of Aero Scissors made it easier for the wind to lift it or something along those lines. Taiga could never ignore what you were saying so he had to sit there and listen to you heap praise on the build of the bike and also its rider for how well he controlled and rode it.

"... different from Bloody Fang, of course," you paused when you noted how quiet Taiga was, unlike his usual self. He would always hum or nod when you were talking to show that he was listening, but today, all his attention was focused on his bowl in a weirdly intense manner. "Are you okay?"

"Hm?" Taiga looked up at you and blinked at your concern. "I'm alright."

"Am I talking too much?" You asked with an easy smile before taking your first bite after quite a while. Taiga smiled back and shook his head. "Then, something on your mind? Something you wanna say instead of listening to me yap about bikes?"

"No, you can continue," Taiga gestured, his own chopsticks just moving the noodles around in his bowl. "I'm listening."

You watched him quietly for a few seconds as you chewed thoughtfully then shrugged and decided to finish what you were saying. This time though, you paid closer attention to Taiga's microexpressions and noted the brief notes of anger and sadness whenever you mentioned Koei or praised Gabu's skills as a racer.

"It's all super interesting," you said mildly, looking down at your own bowl instead of Taiga. "I'm lucky I get to see them up close. It took me a while to get Koei to trust me enough to examine Aero Scissors but he's a pretty nice guy once you get to know him. I can't blame him for not trusting me after those four keep meddling with him, y'know? Since I'm also in Sharktooth…"

Taiga seemed to have frozen in the middle of what you had said. He couldn't help but wonder at your words. Was there a possibility that you might… like Koei? There was already something about the ninja that made him deeply uncomfortable but now, there was this inexplicable anger and feeling of inferiority that Taiga was feeling towards him. He didn't like feeling like that one bit.

A gentle nudge to his elbow startled Taiga out of his own thoughts and he looked at you. You were sitting much closer to him than before, your empty bowl pushed aside so that your arm was bumping into his. Your head was turned to face him and the expression you had on was… unusual.

"What?" He swallowed, pushing down the snap in his voice that was about to automatically surface from even thinking about Koei. You smiled softly at him, the same smile that always made his heart skip a beat. Now, Taiga wondered if you smiled that way towards Koei too.

Koei was older, a good rider, a caring brother… There was no reason for you to choose Taiga over Koei. So to speak, Taiga himself had lost to both Yamato Shō and Arthur and if you were disappointed in him and thought Koei was better for winning against Arthur… Then there wasn't anything wrong in that. Taiga could understand that. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

The idea of Koei taking you out on dates, holding your hand, having dinner with you like he was doing right now– it made his chest feel too tight and suffocating. Like something was inserting a thousand needles into his heart.

"What are you thinking about?" You asked, eyes knowing. Taiga blinked and looked away, trying not to show his hurt on his face. He couldn't lie to you but…

"Nothing," he muttered instead. Lying by omission was still lying but he couldn't tell you what he felt. It was easier to just stay away and console his broken heart while you got together with Koei.

"I can tell you're not thinking about nothing," you said, poking him with your index finger. A sad smile crawled over your face and you tilted your head before asking, "Do you know what my dream is?"

Taiga looked at you in question, confused by the sudden change in topic. You smiled and looked away, giving your empty bowl back to the shopkeeper before you continued.

"C'mon, you gotta guess," you teased. Taiga hurriedly finished his own bowl while he thought over the whole time he has known you, every bit of information you had told him about yourself that he had carefully stored in the nooks of his heart for safe-keeping. You let him think, quietly humming to yourself as he did and Taiga only answered you after the two of you had left the shop.

"To build a bike by yourself." He wasn't super confident but he still said it firmly. If it wasn't this, then he had surely failed you. Your look of surprise answered him before you did.

"You really do pay attention to me," you said, a little in awe. "I never outright told you and you still figured it out. Ha... You're amazing, Taiga."

Was he? But he wasn't amazing enough for you to like him, right? Then what was the use of being so good at something like this? He couldn't even impress you more than some guy who was lower in rank than him. Right now, amazing doesn't feel enough.

"Well, you definitely don't know the answer to this question, though," you said confidently. The two of you were walking back home, footsteps slow and steady so that you could talk longer, taking the longer path though you both knew plenty of shortcuts. Taiga looked at you curiously and it only made you grin as you asked, "Who do I want to build that bike for?"

Taiga stopped in his tracks. You had someone in mind that you wanted to ride the ultimate bike you would make someday? He didn't have an answer for that. He hadn't thought that you would want someone specific to have that bike, but it made sense. Of course, you would want a really great rider to own your bike. There were so many around you, so if you had chosen someone, it wouldn't be that unbelievable.

"No," he admitted after resuming walking. You, who had stopped beside him, matched his speed. "I don't know the answer to this one."

"Ah," you tutted lowly, looking up at the night sky. "I guess you don't know all of me yet, Taiga."

"Guess not," he sneaked a peek at your profile, illuminated by the moonlight and the street lamps and the LED lights of shops around the two of you. Even in that weird clash, you seemed to glow like the beautiful person he knew you were. You could have anyone in the world. Someone like you deserved to choose the best for yourself.

"Do you wanna know the answer?" You finally looked at him again and Taiga felt his feet root to the spot at the gleam in your eye. The excitement to share something with him. He was curious, but it also felt like the answer had the ability to hurt him. If you said the name of Koei, or someone like Arthur even, he was not sure if his heart could take it. "Okay, how about I give you a hint? He is my favourite rider in the whole world."

Oh.

Taiga looked at you, wide eyed. Your hands were joined behind your back as you gave him a soft smile. Taiga had known you for months now, months spent learning the most random bits of information about you. But the one bit that was the most important to him was that…

Your favourite rider was Taiga.

You had said it teasingly a few times. Every time, he took it as a joke, not letting himself hope, but the way you were looking at him right now, he could tell that you were serious. Your eyes flitted away nervously.

"He's…," you sounded shy, "a bit of an idiot, but he's really so cool. He's such an amazing rider and I want to make a bike for him that lets his skills shine through, you know? Something that can shine with him, so that everyone gets to know how talented he is. I want to study all these Idaten bikes and other interesting MTBs so that I can take all that knowledge and make him a masterpiece that he will love."

Taiga didn't really know what to say. The thoughts from half an hour back that were scared that you might like Koei had floated away. Your dream was to make a bike for him. Koei was not the one getting a bike made by you. Taiga was. If that didn't show who you clearly favoured then… What did?

"Are you…" he hesitated, "Are you sure you want to give it to him? There might be better riders out there that would–"

"No one is a better fit than him," you said confidently. "After all, I'm making it for him. Because I want him to have it. How can something made specifically for you suit someone else better?"

You started walking again and for a few seconds, Taiga just stared at your back, watching the distance between you grow until you stopped and turned your head back to give him a lovely smile. The smile that always made his heart beat faster because it meant that you were truly happy.

"He is an idiot," you paused and winked at him, "but he's my favourite for a reason, y'know?"

°•❀•°

[yourstrulyrani]

mechanic!simon riley headcanons ~ part two

mechanic!simon riley who swore he fell in love with you the minute you walked in the shop, your eyes wide but your expression serious. his usual customers are on the older side and always men who are too insufficient to fix a car on their own, so you were the perfect change of pace.

mechanic!simon riley who knew as a woman you were highly likely to get ripped off by other mechanics, so he was glad you came to his shop. he makes sure to offer you water and some light snacks. he doesn't do that with his other customers, but you're an exception.

mechanic!simon riley who thought it was hot when you got straight to the point before he could even introduce himself. you already diagnosed your car before you came because like simon, you knew how you could get scammed in repair shops. you nodded when he asked if you knew a lot about cars and he replied with, "a woman after my own heart."

mechanic!simon riley who is already wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, but rolls up the sleeves to his shoulders so you could get a view of just how huge his biceps were. it doesn't help your temptation when you see that his tattoo sleeve in fact does continue up until his shoulder.

mechanic!simon riley who on purpose makes sure his t-shirt lifts a little bit higher than usual while he's working on your undercarriage. he's lying down under the car, and makes sure to extend his arms higher so he can tease the gorgeous combination that is his happy trail, abs, and v-line to you.

mechanic!simon riley who drains the oil in your car on purpose while he's working on it just enough so that you have to come back a second time and so that he has an excuse to see your gorgeous self again.

mechanic!simon riley who doesn't let you pay for any of the repairs you needed. he reasoned with you saying you had enough trouble driving the car to the shop as it was, and doesn't want to add on to it.

(idk)

[shouyuus]

18+, mdni, vi-shaped but what else is new

car mechanic!vi who's basically been working at her dad's autoshop hounds auto since she was like seven years old, running around handing vander the fuel pressure meter and fetching water, who grows up in the garage to the point that all vander's regulars know her by name and also all her favorite sweets (bc she DOES have a sweet tooth, despite her tomboy looks).

car mechanic!vi who's closet is exclusively stained gray tanktops, leather jackets gifted to her by all her dad's patrons, and old denim from thrift shops bc she likes how they feel worn in and also why bother getting "nice" clothes if they're just gonna get greased up anyway? who hums to herself when she's working, always has a cool beer chilling in the garage fridge and is doing her best to make sure she can send powder to caltech bc she knows her sister is a genius and is gonna be like a rocket scientist one day.

car mechanic!vi who laughs when you pull up one day with your 1960's cherry red corvette, climbing out of the driver's seat with your white fishnets and your pink croptop and your plaid miniskirt, your heart-shaped sunglasses propped on top of perfectly blown out bangs, and the only thing vi can think when she lands eyes on you is how much she'd enjoy taking you apart on the hood of your car, your thighs hiked onto her shoulders, your palm-prints inked into the bright red paint of your car.

car mechanic!vi who grins slow, slings a greasy towel on her shoulder as she comes out to greet you, hitching an eyebrow as you motion towards the car, your cheeks stained the most adorable shade of pink she's ever seen, saying --

"i think there's something wrong with it --" but when you purse your perfectly glossed, cherry-tinted lips, vi has to force herself not to lose focus because sweet baby jesus on a harley, that should be illegal.

"-- think you can help...?" you shuffle your feet, glancing at her even as she takes her time looking you over, doing nothing to hide the way her eyes rake over the length of your body and back up again.

"sure thing, sweets. mind if i pop the front?"

you swallow, nodding eagerly; vi doesn't miss the way your eyes linger on her arms and perhaps flexes harder than is absolutely necessary when opening up the front hood of the car.

car mechanic!vi who bends over to take a closer look and actually does miss the way you physically have to tear your eyes away from the bend of her ass, because holy shit? it does not help that vi shifts to lean further into the hood, a slip of skin peaking out from beneath her tanktop, and suddenly, there's a spring-water rush of blood behind your ears, threatening to drown out all other sound as she pulls back with a shrug.

"looks like the cooling system's busted," she says, scratching at the back of her neck, frowning as she looks back at you, "there's a couple things we can do --"

you swallow, "just a couple?" you ask, before you can stop yourself. you squeeze your eyes shut as the words leave your mouth. woops. fuck.

car mechanic!vi who blinks, cocking her head at you before a smirk teases across her lips. she leans back against the front of your car, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.

"yeah, for the car. but... dunno, if you wanna stick around for a bit, i can think of a ton more things we can do..."

you lick your lips, scuffing your mary janes against the cool pavement of her garage.

"define a bit... and also a ton..."

vi's grin is crooked; there's a fox-bright gleam in her eyes as she pushes off the car and makes her way towards you -- and for a moment, you can't help but wonder if she's a lamb in wolf's clothing, or perhaps (the thought singes a tantalizing line up your spine) just the damned wolf itself.

car mechanic!vi who tells you that for the car, she can either order all the parts that have suffered wear and tear, and then just replace them.

"issue with that is, in these older models, even with the parts replaced, it won't last you too long before you'll need them redone again."

"so..." you teeter, looking around at the various tools hung across the walls, every inch of space utilized to maximize efficiency, the high ceilings, the slow-turning fans, the propped up cars, some missing the front two wheels, some just a skeleton of mechanical parts.

"but lucky for you, one of my old man's pals just put a brand new crossflow radiator into his 1960's corvette, and he paid me to help him rig it. and i can do the same for you."

by the way vi smiles, it's obvious that this is the option she thinks you should go for. you blink.

"cross... flow... what?"

vi stares for a few seconds before letting out a startled laugh.

"wait -- i thought you said this was your car?"

you nod, fiddling with your hands behind your back.

"and... you've got no idea how to take care of a vintage car like this, do you?"

you shake your head, feeling a now-familiar heat prickling into your cheeks.

"my -- my dad got it for me for my 21st birthday..." you say, just on the other side of petulant.

car mechanic!vi who hums low in her throat and closes the distance between you in a few quick steps, a hand drifting up to trace along the line of our cheek.

"and you're just daddy's little princess, aren't you?" she asks, noticing with a dull ache in her belly, the way your breath hitches at the word princess.

she bites back another smirk as you bob your head once, your eyes flickering down to her lips before refocusing on her again.

"well..." she draws out the word, tugging back, a satisfied warmth pooling in her chest at the way your lips push out into perfect pout at her distance, "if you wanna give you daddy a call to ask what he might want..." she lets her words trail off. but you're already shaking your head, your eyes bright, your expression over-eager.

(she thinks you just might be the end of her; if she doesn't end you first.)

"no!" you squeak, "i -- i mean -- whatever you think is best --" you amend hurriedly, blushing something furious as vi leans back up against her workbench, her gaze locked on the shape of you, the hunger in her eyes now so evident that it sparks goosepimples down the lengths of your arms.

"yeah? you trust me that much, pretty girl?"

you nearly go into anaphylactic shock; your lashes flutter.

vi thinks she might honestly blow a fuse as you look shyly back at her, your gaze somehow both molten and hard.

"y-yeah. i do. i -- i trust you."

car mechanic!vi who wastes no time drawing up a plan for your repairs, but when you glance over the receipt, you notice that the number at the bottom is way, way too long, and you're fairly certain (even in your advanced stages of crush-induced lightheadedness) dollar amounts aren't usually broken up by dashes.

"is this... where i should send the payment?" you ask, holding up the handwritten receipt.

vi grins, tossing you a look over her shoulder as she steps out from behind the wheel of your car, now parked safely in her garage.

"nope. that's just my number."

"your..." you look back down at the scribbled series of digits. oh.

"so... are you gonna text me the final cost?"

vi chuckles, "sure, sweets -- if that's what you'd like. and if you're feelin' real frisky -- we can text about other stuff too."

your breath catches in your throat like thread around a barbed wire fence. you nearly drop the receipt.

"l-like what?" you ask.

"oh... i dunno..." vi says, the tease now obvious in her voice as she makes her way around the shop, gathering this tool and that, bending down to haul a massive toolbox from beneath a set of shelves. your mouth physically waters at the flex in her biceps as she carries it all back over to her workbench.

"maybe about the kinda coffee you like," she says, leisurely, "or how you'd like your eggs in the morning."

car mechanic!vi who wastes no time in asking if you'd like to go out the next day, because as much as she really loves the thought of pinning you to the hood of your car right then and there, a part of her wants to do this properly. and, she muses, there's no better foreplay than sharing a banana split sundae with a pretty girl.

she sends you on your way with the receipt tucked into your miniature handbag ("what's that even hold anyway?" "uhm... my card wallet, the keys, and lip gloss!" "...ah. of course. all the most essential things.") and a promise to pick you up the following day, since your ride's temporarily out of commission ("don't worry, sweets, i'll take real good care of this baby right here." you immediately wonder if it's normal to feel jealous of a car).

and pick you up she does, at 6pm on the dot, in black pants so tight they might've been painted on, and a cropped leather jacket, though you hear her revving her motorbike a full 30 seconds before her text dings on your phone --

look outside, sweetness.

car mechanic!vi who is so polite to your rather bewildered parents, smiles wide and charming, easily slips into conversation with your dad about the vintage cars in his collection, calls your mom "m'aam" and compliments her pearl earrings, promises not to keep you out too late. so that by the time she tells you to swing onto the bike behind her, you're convinced that your parents might like her more than they like you.

"hold on tight, princess." is all she says before she rips off down the street of your cul de sac and you're yelping, burying your face in her back, the leather of her jacket butter-soft and warm against your skin.

car mechanic!vi who's just a bit too smug and more than a little smitten when she has to help you off her bike in the parking lot of the cute little retro-themed diner downtown, you shaking out your hair from the helmet she'd handed you, your cheeks painted sunset as she guides you into the restaurant with a palm at the small of your back.

who enjoys talking to you way too much, who wants to bottle up the sound of your laughter in one of those old fashioned coca-cola bottles, all sweet and bubbly, and save it for the summer afternoons when the air's thick enough to slick the skin, pop it open and pour it down her throat, swallow around the sound of you, giggling into the curly fries, debating with her about the perfect ketchup-to-mustard ratio for the most optimum fry-eating experience.

car mechanic!vi who tells you that the sundaes here are the best in town, and nearly melts at how bright your eyes get, how excited you look as you nod and flag down the waitress to order one.

"just one?" the waitress asks.

"trust me, one is more than enough," vi answers smoothly, shooting you a wink that might've induced heart failure in a weaker soul (and you truly do not think you're one of god's strongest soldiers bc you definitely had to take a mental breather after that).

but it turns out that she was quite right, because the banana split is huge. dauntingly-sized. and vi perhaps has too good of a time watching you gape over it (she's not at all thinking about how your cute lil mouth, so round now, would look stretched over her strap, not at all nope, nope, nope) before motioning for you to dig in.

car mechanic!vi who thinks, for the first time, that she might've bitten off more than she can chew (metaphorically, of course) when you cut off way too big of a bite, and white whipped cream smears across your lips as you struggle to get the whole thing in your mouth, your cheeks puffed out, lashes fluttering.

"careful there, sweets -- don't want you to hurt yourself," she says, in a decent stab at her usual suave tone, but her voice comes out just a bit hoarse as she reaches out to try and wipe some of the whipped cream from your lips at the exact moment your tongue flicks out to do the same --

her stomach clenches as your tongue accidently laves along the pad of her thumb and the dollop of cream drops onto the table between you.

"whoops," you say, your shoulders shrugging up as you finally swallow the bite of banana and cream, reaching for a napkin to wipe your mouth before dabbing at the tabletop.

when you glance up at vi, she's still staring, her expression strangely blank as you meet her eyes. but the second your gaze catches on hers, you see the way her pupils dilate, darkness eating into pre-dawn blue.

car mechanic!vi who tries her level best not to fidget too hard as the pair of you diligently make your way through as much of the sundae as possible, before you toss down your fork with a sigh, shaking your head.

"wow, i'm so full!"

"mm... could be fuller, i'm sure," vi murmurs into your ear, grinning when you shiver at the low sway of her voice, the gentle dance of her fingers on your waist.

"v-vi!" you squeak, even as she ushers you from the diner with a bright grin at the waitress, promising to come by again soon, and to send their love to her dad and younger sister.

and fuck, she really did think she wanted to take this slow, but holy shit, she can't wipe the image of you swallowing around the mouthful of cream from her mind, the feeling of your warm tongue as it'd flicked across the pad of her thumb.

"c'mon, sweet girl," she says, grazing her lips along the soft spot behind your ear and your knees almost buckle then and there, but her strong arm is looped around your waist as she helps you back onto her bike and cups your cheeks, "god, you have no idea what you do to me, huh?"

your breath hitches; what you do to her? what about what she does to you?

car mechanic!vi who can't help the way she presses in to kiss you, hesitating for a breath to ask can i? against your lips before you're nodding, just as eager as she is, and tugging her in to kiss her. you taste as sweet as she'd imagined (and lord, has she been imagining, even though it's been less than 24 hours), the lingering taste of whipped cream and chocolate syrup on your tongue as she licks hungrily into your mouth, moaning as you whimper, your thighs squeezing around her hips, your ass nearly slipping off the seat of her bike.

she hitches you back up without breaking the kiss, heat rolling up into her neck and shoulders as she feels your fingers twisting in her hair.

"f-fuck --" she pulls back breathless, her head spinning, her eyes caught on the press of your kiss-bruised lips, the way you purse them as you glance up at her, already looking so debauched she's tempted to pull you into the shadow of the diner and take you against the wall.

but, she falls half a step back and breathes, grinning crookedly as you pout at her.

"a-are you gonna take me back to your place, or not?".

car mechanic!vi who lets out a startled laugh and cocks her head, thinking that really there is a god, and that this -- just you, sitting on the black leather of her bike, your hair a bit mussed up, your cheeks flushed with color, asking her to take you to hers -- is all the proof she needs.

"you really are a spoiled little princess, aren't you?" she asks, swinging her leg over the bike seat and adjusting her grip. your arms loop around her middle and she tries not to groan at the feeling of your body pressing up against hers.

"well, daddy always told me that i shouldn't settle for anything less than the best," you say, and your voice would've been lofty, had it not been for the way you lean up to ghost your lips by the shell of vi's ear, chasing shivers down the length of her entire spine.

her stomach roils with heat. she turns to shoot you a smirk over her shoulder.

"well then. guess i'll just have to ruin you for every other girl who might come your way, huh?"

car mechanic!vi who definitely breaks the sound barrier tearing through the few streets separating the downtown strip and the auto shop, who's barely done parking the bike before she's pulling you bodily off the seat, hitching your legs around her waist and carrying you into the shop, slamming a hand on the switch to close the garage door.

she's already kissing you by the time she sets you on the hood of your car, the height of it perfect for her to pull back and pin you down by your wrists. she thinks that you have no business looking so perfect against the bright cherry of the paint, and grins as she looks you over, pressing a knee up between your legs just to hear your breath hitch and admire the way your cute little plaid skirt rides up.

car mechanic!vi who drops to her knees, pillows her cheek on your thigh and groans as she flips up the hem of your skirt to press her the flat of her tongue to the damp patch already soaking through your pink lace panties. who's mesmerized by the sight of you arching your back on the hood of your car, your fingers scrabbling at the smooth metal, reaching down till you can grip at her hair, your lips parting over your little whimpers and moans -- she thinks, faintly, that she wants to fuck you till your voice goes hoarse.

"vi -- what if -- is anyone -- ah --"

she can't help smiling at the way you can't quite get a full thought out, leaning back as she hooks her fingers around your panties and tugs them down your thighs till they're dangling off one of your delicate ankles.

"no one's here, sweetness -- so you can be as loud as you want," she says, reaching down to slick her fingers between your pussy, admiring the shine on her skin.

"b-but what if -- mmngh -- someone c-comes -- b-back --"

and it's cute, really, how worried you are about all of it, even as she teases a finger around your sodden hole, her thumb flicking up against your clit, making your body jerk up. she smiles, easing a finger in with a soft groan of her own, relishing the way you squeeze around her.

"mm, well -- let's see..." she says, her voice low and steady even as she tugs back her finger and pushes it in again, slow as anything, "my dad's out drinking at my uncle's bar across town, and my baby sister's at benzo's place with ekko --" she allows herself a crooked grin as you keen around her just as she presses a second finger into you, "they said they were studying but..." she shrugs, her eyes hooded as she watches you squirm beneath her, "i'm pretty sure they're hooking up so --" she runs a tight circle around your clit with her thumb, puffing out a breath as your thighs clamp shut around her wrist and she has to pry them back open with her other hand, pinning your knee to the hood of your car, keeping your other leg still with one of her's.

"the only person you gotta worry about coming... is yourself, princess."

car mechanic!vi who fucks you through two orgasms, eats you out for a third, before finally letting up and carrying you up to her bedroom above the auto shop, asking if you want to text your parents that you're staying the night.

you do, and vi only teases you a little bit about being such a good girl, but she lets you burrow in against her chest, lets you kiss her neck and tug her phone from her hands before planting one on her lips and trailing your way down her chest, tugging at her tanktop till she laughs and pulls it from her body.

car mechanic!vi who nearly loses her mind when you look up at her from between her legs, all wide eyes and parted lips, pressing your perfectly manicured nails into the corded muscles of her thighs and asking her in the sweetest voice to

"show me what you like -- please? i -- i wanna make you feel good too."

car mechanic!vi who fucks your face till both of you are breathless, her hips bucking up against your perfect mouth, her mind fizzling out at the edges at the way you're moaning into her cunt, the way you're grinding your hips down over nothing as she talks you through how to eat her out just the way she likes. who jerks you up and hauls you into her lap to kiss you sloppy, her fingers digging into the meat of your hips as she grinds you down over her still-throbbing clit, who fucking can't get over the sight of you riding her even as both of you tip into the realm of overstimulation, whining and keening and you collapsing onto her in the muted, twilight dark of her room.

"h-holy shit..."

vi laughs, "yeah. you can say that again."

you look up, a soft, pliant smile, "holy shit, violet..."

and the sound of her name on your lips convinces her, more than anything, that (contrary to all her big talk earlier), you're definitely the one who's ruined her for any other girl who might come her way.

car mechanic!vi who wakes up to your lips on hers, who groans into the taste of you, kissing you, rolling over to pin you beneath her even as the early morning sun spills lemon-bright and spring-water-sweet through her half-closed blinds.

"morning, princess," she mumbles against your lips.

"morning..." you giggle, gasping as she drops a tender kiss to your shoulder.

"sleep well?" she asks, trailing down the smooth skin of your chest till she can lave her tongue around your puffy nipple.

"mm --" you suck in a breath, "y-yeah -- had -- had good d-dreams -- a-ah!" you arch up into her, your body soft and warm as a daydream, and she just can't get enough.

"yeah? tell me... what'dyou dream of, hm?" vi asks, letting the world hum through her throat, rumbling over your skin like thunder across a distant horizon.

you twist your fingers into her hair, gently tracing the tattoo on her cheek before smiling down at her with a smile that looks like the shadow of the rest of her living days --

"i... i dreamt of you."

car mechanic!vi who comes downstairs to find vander in the kitchen, powder nowhere to be seen. but vander takes one look at her and grins, chuckling, rolling his eyes.

"alright then -- what's her name?"

she hesitates for a second before telling him.

"pretty name," vander muses, even as he tugs open the fridge to pull out a few eggs and a half-empty carton of milk. he pushes the milk towards vi with a pointed look.

"vander -- i -- i think she might be the one."

to which vander only laughs, cracking an egg with one hand into the oiled up pan. almost immediately, the egg whites begin to sizzle.

"this the girl with the cherry corvette?" he asks. wordlessly, vi nods. vander chuckles.

"good for you kiddo -- i always told you, haven't i?"

"that i'll know when it's the one? yeah... i -- i think i get it now." vi runs a hand through her bedridden hair, staring at the carton of milk and the ludicrously proportioned cartoon cow, advertising full fat contents within.

"well, as long as you're sure," vander says, cracking another egg, and another.

vi lets out a weak laugh, nodding as she opens the fridge to pull out some orange juice and a few boxes of blueberries.

"yeah. i'm sure."

vander nods, brows furrowing slightly as he flips the eggs with an expert twitch of the wrist.

"good. and -- how's she like her eggs done in the morning?" he asks, reaching over for a plate. vi stares at the over-easy eggs sliding from the old nonstick.

she lets out a tired little laugh, "probably like... poached, or something."

vander whistles, "got yourself a little diva, huh? well -- can't blame ya -- your uncle silco --"

"okay, thanks dad --" vi cuts him off with a deep groan, nudging him out of the way to place a small pot in the sink to fill with water.

vander chuckles, "you gonna introduce me when she comes down later?"

vi takes her time placing the pot on the stove and starting the heat.

"sure, yeah. i'll introduce her."

vander reaches over to ruffle vi's hair, cackling when she tries to duck out from beneath his massive hands.

"'m happy for you, violet."

vi stills, a helpless smile spreading across her lips like sun-warmed butter.

"yeah... me too." she says, "me too."

[swordsandholly]

Thinking about a mechanic!AU where the 141 boys run a garage and need a new receptionist. They hire you because you’re just so cute (great tits) and have a decent resume but it becomes a slight problem when they realize you’re a bit… dense.

Total ditz to be precise.

But they can’t really get mad when you get the keys for clients mixed up and look at them with those big eyes all teary and a little pout pushing out your lower lip.

Price is the most patient, perfectly content to walk you through how to file paperwork and fill out forms. Instructing you in a low voice while his breath brushes the shell of your ear. It’s really their fault for having such a terrible system, you know? Don’t worry about it too much, dove. He’ll settle his big hands on your shoulders and gently trace up and down your arms. See? You’re getting it. Just needed some more practice, hm?

Johnny is more than happy to show you around the garage, rattling off everything he knows about all those nitty gritty details that go right over your pretty little head. He’ll pop open the hood of some sports car and point to the engine to show it off. No, bonnie, you’ve got tae get in close. Closer.

Until you’re bent entirely over in one of those too-short skirts you wear everyday. It takes all his willpower not to yank you into the supply closet.

Gaz is just so sweet to you. Always bringing you little treats and candies to suck on. To help you concentrate, of course. Always greeting you with a soft ‘baby girl’ at the beginning of your shift. Whenever you’re standing around be it at the printer or counter - wherever really - he’ll slip a hand on your waist. It always trails a little lower, his pinky just edging on the hem of your too tight jeans.

Ghost gets frustrated with you to the point of causing tears to well up in the corners of your eyes. He’s feels guilty, sure, but bloody hell just print the damn receipt. He avoids you for the most part. Until one evening when it’s pouring down. You forgot your rain coat of course, silly girl. He offers you a ride which you take happily.

After that he can’t get rid of you. You bring him coffees (how you remember his order word for word but not where you last left your own cup is beyond him) and giggle at his jokes. When a client gets too snappy or too loud he’s the first to step in - standing behind you glaring at them with his huge arms crossed over his chest until they back down.

[limerlove]

mechanic!abby who has no idea how much of a big deal you are. she doesn’t know you play to sold out arenas, the chants of your name that inflate your ego to new heights, or the thousands of girls who would die just for one single chance with you. yeah, it’s been a while. a jam-packed touring schedule doesn’t allow for much time for your own pleasure. on your first day back in the city your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, anderson auto is the closest shop.

this isn’t something you anticipated, ass bent over the hood, a pair of maroon-laced panties ripped on the hood of your 69’ camaro. the woman behind you packed a mean thrust, you try to brace yourself on something but there’s not a thing to hold on to.

dignity long thrown out the window as you let a complete stranger dismantle you where anyone could walk in and sell a photo for their yearly salary. the dildo sinks further into your walls, stretching you into perfection, you take her in personified ecstasy.

“didn’t know a cunt could be this pretty or this loud, princess.” normally, you would have cursed someone out for calling you something so obituary. it nearly sounds condescending.

when she’s fucking you like this? she’s earned the right.

“do you usually like to talk so much?” you bite back at her, unable to keep her attitude at bay.

usually that would be enough to make the other person shut up, but abby truly has no idea who the fuck you are. it’s more than bruising to who you are, it’s a grueling death sentence.

with a sharp hand, she slaps the supple of your ass into submission as her brutal pace effectively silences you. “do you always whine this much?”

a maniacal snark threatens to fly off the handle but she’s quick to put a stop to it. with a slight of hand, abby maneuvers her touch to your clit, calloused fingers rough underneath the bundle of nerves. body in tandem with your touch, convulsing.

“what was that? you were gonna say something?”

“oh, would you fucking—” as if she knew before you did, one final thrust, and your brain short-circuits. for a moment, you’re thinking you might have been seeing god herself.

“that’s it, princess. shut that pretty little mouth of yours and cum.”

[prisvvner]

✫・゜・ ☆ﾟ. ʜᴀɴᴅʟᴇʙᴀʀꜱ & ʜᴇʟʟꜰɪʀᴇ

─── pairing: biker!ryomensukuna x mechanic!femalereader

─── synopsis: you used to run tokyo’s streets. now you build the monsters that do. but when a rider in black shows up on a hayabusa with eyes like blood and a smirk like a loaded gun—something starts ticking again. something you swore you buried.

─── content: 5.4k words, street racer au, strong language, swearing, mention of hidden trauma, street culture

─── author's note: ahhh i couldn't wait anymore to post this hehe <3 this is part one of the series, so buckle up and enjoy! i had so much fun writing this :* btw if y'all like this and want to be added to the taglist, just comment on here or send me a message

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part one ⊹ ࣪ ˖ part two

The sky is still bruised in tender shades of lavender and rose, colors bleeding across the horizon like the fading fingerprints of some restless god, half-remembered and unwilling to let go. Tokyo lies beneath you in a fragile pause, caught in that brief, sacred moment between the weight of night and the pulse of dawn—when the city hasn’t yet stirred, but something ancient hums beneath the silence. It’s a breath held, a secret waiting to spill.

You slide open the narrow window of your studio apartment with a faint creak, the hinges stiff with age, groaning like they know every restless night you’ve spent awake. The air sneaks inside in a cool whisper, carrying the smell of wet asphalt, faint ozone, and the lingering ghost of burnt fuel from last night’s ride. You slip barefoot onto the fire escape outside, metal cold and slick with dew beneath your toes. It bites at your skin, a familiar sting that feels more like a handshake than a warning, sharp and real.

The fire escape’s metal ribs curve and twist, rusty and rough under your grip, but steady as always. The world below is still draped in shadows, buildings long and lean against the early light, their rooftops spiked like the jagged teeth of a sleeping beast. Somewhere far off, a siren wails briefly, fading into the city’s slow awakening. But up here, everything is quiet. Almost holy.

You pull your shirt tighter against the chill, the fabric soft and worn—threadbare at the collar, carrying the faint smell of motor oil and cigarette smoke. In your hand, the chipped black mug feels like a small furnace. You cradle it like a talisman, the bitter, scalding coffee inside burning away the last sticky clinging of sleep. No sugar. No mercy. The steam rises in lazy tendrils, blurring the edges of the sharp skyline, curling upward like smoke from a forgotten fire.

You light a cigarette with a flick of your wrist, a habitual dance you don’t really want but can’t seem to stop. The flame briefly illuminates the hardened lines of your fingers, the scars beneath your nails, silent stories written in oil and sweat. You inhale slowly, the smoke filling your lungs like a secret you’re keeping from the world. It’s harsh and bitter, a burning echo of last night’s road and the machines that never quite quiet.

Below you, the city stirs as the first tendrils of light spill across the streets, catching the wet pavement in shards of pink and gold. Neon signs flicker dimly, their colors bruised and faded from nights spent screaming in the underground veins of Tokyo. The sharp scent of rubber and gasoline rises from the gutters, mixing with the faint salt of early rain. Somewhere close, a bike idles, its low growl a promise of power and speed, an unspoken challenge in the morning stillness.

You’ve been running on fumes since 8PM. Last night, a Ducati was dead weight, cold and stubborn like a beast that refused to bow. But you tore into it with grit and grind, knuckles cracked and slick with oil, hands moving in rhythm like a dark lullaby to steel and fire. From the first spark to the growl that finally tore through the silence, you pushed it past the edge—past broken, past tired, past everything that tried to hold you back.

When the bike roared to life, you weren’t just fixing a machine. You were staking your claim on the night.

By 2:30AM, the city was a neon blur beneath you—purple and orange streaks slicing past shuttered storefronts and sleeping cars. The Ducati’s engine sang under you, a low, hungry growl that matched the fire in your chest. Tokyo’s veins were your own, every turn and straightaway a shot of adrenaline straight to your spine.

The exhaust burned hot behind you; your breath cold in the night air. The road was empty, but your heart hammered like the bass in a street race. Speed wasn’t just a rush—it was a goddamn lifeline.

By the time you eased back into the gritty glow of your garage, your muscles screamed and your skin still tasted of gasoline and midnight air.

Your gaze drifts downward.

There, nestled between cracked sidewalks and chipped concrete walls, lies your kingdom.

BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE.

The letters on the worn sign above the bay door flicker with neon lights—magenta and cyan, fractured and buzzing in a slow, electric heartbeat. The paint is chipped, flecked with rust like dried blood on steel. Whoever expects perfection here clearly doesn’t know you.

This place isn’t clean. It’s not polished. It’s raw. Unapologetic.

You built it that way.

BLACK DOG snarls at the world like a beast unchained, scars and all. The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to every inch of it, the sharp tang of sweat and motor grease hanging thick in the air. This garage is more than just a workspace—it’s a cathedral carved out of grit and gasoline, a sanctuary for those who live fast and bleed slow. The kind of place where broken machines aren’t just repaired, they’re resurrected. Beneath your hands, cold steel and shattered dreams find a new voice, growling back to life in furious roars and snarls that echo through Tokyo’s underbelly.

Your hands.

Calloused and steady, scarred from years of wrestling engines back from the brink.

You—Black Dog—the whispered legend in every back alley and midnight meet-up. The fixer, the ghost, the mechanic who can coax the deadliest beasts of metal and rubber back onto the streets like new, only faster and meaner.

You built this empire when you were just seventeen, ripping your dreams out of the cracked concrete with nothing but stubborn grit, stolen tools, and a defiant heartbeat that refused to quit. Back then, no one believed you’d last a year. Hell, most thought you’d be crushed under the weight of the city before your first gearshift. But here you are. Years later, the streets themselves seem to bend toward you. Now, they line up outside your bay doors, hungry for the chance to put their broken machines in your hands. Because when Black Dog says it’ll run again? It doesn’t just run. It dominates. When Black Dog says it’ll scream faster than anything else tearing up the night? You’d better believe the city’s about to witness a new kind of chaos.

You take a long drag from your cigarette, the smoke swirling around your face like a smoky veil, tendrils curling into the early dawn air. Your eyes drift up, tracing the jagged skyline where the first pale fingers of morning stretch and crack the dark like fractured glass. The city breathes slowly beneath you, caught between sleep and the relentless rush ahead.

You breathe it all in—the quiet hum of possibility, the electric promise pulsing in the stillness, the recklessness stitched deep into every nerve, every heartbeat pounding with the thrill of what’s to come. This moment, this calm before the storm, is yours alone.

The day hasn’t started yet.

But when it does?

It’s going to have to catch you.

You flick the cigarette away, watching the ember arc through the blue-tinted dawn like a dying star shot from your fingers. It falls slow, then sputters out on the cracked concrete below with a hiss, swallowed by the cold. The air stings your lungs—sharp, bitter, real—and it sobers the last edge of the adrenaline still ghosting through your veins from the ride.

You slip back in through the window, pulling it shut behind you with a snap that rattles the thin walls and echoes like a gunshot in the quiet.

Your apartment above the garage is barely more than four walls and a bed, but it holds the war trophies of a life lived fast and without apology. Scattered mechanic’s manuals stained with grease and ink, half-crushed energy drinks, a cracked burner phone that refuses to die, and a battered leather jacket thrown over the back of a metal chair like a knight’s armor after battle. The air smells like sweat and steel, coffee grounds and fuel. Home Sweet Helhole.

But there’s no time to linger. The city’s heartbeat is rising, thick with heat, horns, and hunger—and it’s already calling your name.

You shrug on the jacket, faded black leather with the frayed collar and the crooked patch over the chest that reads BLACK DOG in rough, blood-red thread. It’s stiff from rain and wear, stitched with stories no one will ever hear. You slide your fingers across the collar once, then grab your keys from the hook by the door, their metallic clatter echoing off the silence like a starter pistol.

Your boots hit the floorboards hard as you move down the narrow stairwell. The buzz of the fluorescents overhead stutters in rhythm with your steps, tired lights in a building that never sleeps. The metal stairs creak with familiarity, like an old friend nodding good morning.

At the bottom, the bay door is already cracked open—just a sliver—but it’s enough. A beam of pale light slices through the cavernous dark like a scalpel. Beyond it, the street glows with early neon, the colors soft but bleeding in electric blue, heat-lamp red, the heartbeat pink of Tokyo's underbelly waking up.

Inside, BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE exhales.

You feel it before you see it. The slow, warm breath of machines asleep but dreaming. The scent of hot metal and burned rubber hangs in the air like incense. Every surface glints with the potential for violence: wrench sets gleaming like surgical tools, socket heads lined up with military precision, shelves sagging with parts salvaged from wreckage and rebirth.

The garage is a sanctum carved from concrete and conviction. It hums, alive and holy, every exposed beam and oil-stained floorboard vibrating with memories. This is where machines come to be resurrected. This is where you make the dead run again.

And there it is.

The Ducati.

Last night’s beast, still warm.

It sits low and lethal on its rear stand in the far corner, shadows slipping off its sleek, charcoal frame like smoke. The rain from the night ride has dried to a delicate crust of grit over the paint, streaks of road dust clinging to the fairings like warpaint. Its belly pan still glows faintly from the heat. The chain hums faintly as it settles, the residual energy twitching like a coiled snake still dreaming of motion.

You ran her through hell last night. Three hours in the city’s underbelly, burning through tunnels, dodging night-shift semis, racing ghosts down the Shuto Expressway. The tires are still warm, the rear worn just a little more flat, the edge feathered from hard corners and tight exits.

She didn’t complain once.

Your hand lifts, fingers brushing along the Ducati’s fuel tank, just once. The touch is reverent, intimate.

You whisper, “Still alive, aren’t you?” and the silence answers back like a purr.

From the shadows near the main bench, a voice murmurs—low, calm, familiar.

“Shake, shake.”

You smirk, turning toward the work light above the long steel table.

“Inumaki,” you greet him, stepping into the halo of harsh white. “You’re up early.”

He doesn’t look up right away, just nods, sleeves rolled past his elbows, grease already staining his hands. He’s hunched over a disassembled VFR engine like a surgeon elbows-deep in a heart transplant. A cigarette dangles from his mouth, faint smoke curling in the air above his head, the scent not tobacco, but something stranger, softer. Seaweed. Tuna. Wasabi.

“Onigiri,” he mutters, voice flat but amused, that familiar deadpan that somehow says everything.

You roll your eyes, toeing a rolling stool toward him with the side of your boot. “Clutch acting up again?”

Inumaki shrugs—his universal language for yes, but it’s complicated. You both know what needs doing. You always do.

The two of you fall into the rhythm without a word. The bench lights cast harsh shadows across your faces, and the tools start to sing. Ratchets click. Torque wrenches groan. The city continues its slow crawl into day, but in here, everything’s sharp and simple.

This place is yours. These machines are yours.

This life is yours.

And out there? The streets are waiting.

They don’t know it yet, but today?

You’re going to make them bleed.

You sling your leg over the rolling stool like it’s a Harley and glide across the oil-slick floor with practiced grace—this is your kingdom, and every bolt, stain, and dent knows your name. You twist with a lazy flair and kick the socket drawer open with the heel of your boot, tools rattling like coins in a gambler’s palm.

“Didn’t I tell you to bed the clutch plate last time?” you say, voice casual, not even glancing up. “Not rip it out like it owes you money and ghosted your sister.”

Inumaki doesn’t flinch. Just exhales like the moments beneath commentary. “Mentaiko.”

You scoff, grabbing a 10mm socket and a torque wrench, flipping both in your hands like twin knives.

“Yeah? Tell that to the gearbox that sounds like it’s been chewing cinderblocks and shame.”

You nod toward the mangled innards of the Honda VFR in front of you. The side casing’s off, the clutch is toast—plates blackened, the basket chewed to hell, springs warped like a bad joke. Someone clearly mistook ‘torque spec’ for ‘guess and pray.’

You shoot him a sharp look over your shoulder.

He’s chewing on his cigarette like it said something rude about his mother.

“This is why I don’t leave you alone with wet clutches. No finesse. You treat it like it insulted your drift lines.”

“Shio,” he mutters.

You snort, arching a brow. “Don’t ‘salt’ me, grease monkey. This thing’s one bad downshift from painting the pavement with transmission teeth.”

Still, your hands are already working—fast, sure. His, beside yours, are rougher, rawer, but learning. You lay the plates down in a neat stack like cards in a gambler’s spread.

“Listen,” you start, tapping the inside of the casing with your wrench. A hollow thunk answers. “No preload on the push rod. Again.”

Inumaki tilts his head. The universal ‘I knew that.’

“Then why the hell didn’t you fix it?”

He just grins around the cigarette and hands you the replacement friction plates like it’s some sacred ritual.

You take them with a roll of your eyes. “Ketchup,” you mutter, throwing his language back at him.

Sometimes you wonder if apprentice is even the right word for Toge Inumaki. Stray you fed once and now refuses to leave feels more accurate. You found him elbow-deep in the guts of a stolen GT-R, spark plugs in one pocket and a busted knuckle dripping blood onto the timing chain like it was some kind of offering. He had rewired the ignition harness using speaker wire and pure gall. Instead of calling the cops or walking away like a sane person, you tossed him a rag and said, “Wanna learn how to do that without catching fire?” He’s been here ever since—silent, stubborn, chewing on a cigarette like it’s a nervous tic, talking in rice ball ingredients like you’ve got time to play charades with a damn carburetor. But the kid gets it. Clumsy with finesse, yeah, but fast. So fast. You show him once how to gap plugs on a rotary engine and the next day he’s porting an RX-7 like he was born doing it. He’s got the hands for this life, raw and reckless, and more importantly, the brain. He just hasn’t realized how rare that combo is in this scene, where most punks think horsepower fixes bad driving and confuse nitrous with a personality.

You’ve had others roll through BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE, flashing egos louder than their exhausts, asking for twin turbos on stock internals or trying to shove VTEC into anything that breathes. They burn out. They always do.

But Inumaki? He stuck. Quiet as a socket wrench, always watching, always just one job away from getting it perfect. And with the underground circuit heating up, more runs going down along the docks, more late-night test pulls echoing down Shuto, more grease-covered kids whispering about sleepers, traps, pink slips, your garage has become a nucleus. You’ve got R34s, Supras, Evos lined up like soldiers.

You don’t just fix machines here; you tune soul into them. And Inumaki’s becoming a part of that. Not a sidekick. Not a little brother. Not even a friend in the soft sense. But he’s yours. He’s BLACK DOG. Even if he never says it.

The music overhead kicks up, a bass-heavy trap remix pulsing through the rafters. The kind of beat that makes engines throb in rhythm and your boots tap the concrete without permission.

The garage breathes. Lives. Fluorescents flicker overhead, casting electric halos across engine bays and exposed wires. The air is a mix of burnt clutch, spilled fuel, brake cleaner, and old vinyl. A familiar perfume to anyone who speaks fluent octane.

You glance over your shoulder.

The R34 Skyline in the next bay catches your eye. Deep black, matte finish, gold Volk TE37s. A goddamn beast. Beside it, a Supra Mk4 with its hood off and wires spilling like veins. The kind of cars people dream about. You build them. You bring them back from the brink.

You stand up and inspect the Skyline’s front fender, run your fingers across the paint like checking for a pulse.

“This thing’s running lean at 7K. Probably the MAF again,” you mutter to yourself.

Then louder: “Inumaki! What’d I say about the fuel mapping?”

He doesn’t glance up. “Kombu.”

You scowl. “It’s not ‘kelp,’ dipshit—it’s detonation. If this baby pings at top end, we’re gonna melt a piston, and then I’m gonna melt your face. We’ve got a race in three nights. You wanna be the guy telling the crew we grenaded a Skyline because you couldn’t tune an air-fuel ratio?”

He raises a finger like a peace sign. “Tuna.”

“Blame the ECU again and I swear I’ll flash it with Windows 95 just to prove a point.”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered, and goes back to torquing bolts.

There’s tension in the air. Not between you two—but outside. In the city.

You feel it in the texts lighting up your burner. Half-coded messages from racers and riders pinging like a sonar.

Midnight soon?

Shuto clear.

Pachinko front lot @ 2 AM.

It’s all whispers, all oil-slick rumors of something big happening soon.

“They’re saying Zenin’s crew might show up for this one,” you deadpan, staring at your phone. “And if that happens, we’re gonna need everything we’ve got tuned to warfare.”

Inumaki looks up from the VFR.

“Shake?”

You nod grimly. “Yeah. That Zenin.”

They’re not just racers. They’re yakuza with engines strapped to their egos, and if they’re coming back into the underground scene? Something big is shifting under Tokyo’s streets.

You turn, slapping a rag against your palm.

“Finish the VFR. Torque to spec. No shortcuts. We’re not just tuning—we’re going to war.”

Inumaki flashes a grin and dives back into work.

You pace across the shop floor. Past the bikes, the cars, the piles of parts that look like chaos but are organized in your head like an engine schematic. There’s a half-gutted Evo X in the corner. You pop the hood, check the AFR, mutter, “Boost is too hot. I need a lower IAT.”

“Inumaki! Where’s that front-mount intercooler kit from last week?”

“Tuna mayo,” he calls.

“I swear on every JDM god, if you shoved it behind the scooter engines again, I’m installing it on your spine.”

There’s a thud. A pause. Then he shuffles back holding the FMIC like a cat bringing home a bird.

You smirk. “Good boy.”

This—this right here—is home. Not some white-walled apartment. Not a neatly made bed or a cup of green tea. No. Home is the smell of high-octane fuel and sweat. Home is tools in your hand and music on the speakers and Tokyo whispering secrets just beyond the bay doors.

BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE isn’t just a garage. It’s a haven. A temple. A battlefield.

And you?

You’re its priest.

Every machine here has a story. And every racer who walks through that door leaves a little blood on the floor and a little legend behind.

The races are coming.

And when the streets call?

You’ll answer.

One rev at a time.

By noon, BLACK DOG PERFORMANCE is buzzing like a hive on nitro.

The bay doors are rolled open, letting in a wash of humid Tokyo heat and the distant growl of traffic. The scent of grease and gasoline hangs thick in the air, mixing with the occasional waft of sweetbread from the convenience store down the block.

You don’t get time to smell it, though. You’re too busy juggling torque specs and ticking clocks.

Another Civic rolls in, this one low-slung and angry, rattling like it’s got secrets. Its owner jumps out the second it parks, barely killing the engine.

“Is this where the Black Dog works?”

You raise a brow from behind a welding mask, sparks flying from the angle grinder in your hands. “Only on days ending in Y. You got a problem or just wanna gawk?”

“I—I heard you’re the only one who could tune my K-series. Everyone else said it was fried.”

You set the grinder down with a clang. Pull off your gloves. Step closer.

“Pop the hood.”

The guy obeys instantly. You run your hands along the valve cover, check the plugs with a flick, scan the wiring loom with a narrowed gaze.

“She’s not fried. She’s been abused.”

He blinks. “You can fix her?”

You grin—sharp, smug, just this side of dangerous. “I can make her purr.”

By two, the shop’s full.

The Supra guy came back with his cousin’s RX-7. A biker gang from Yokosuka rolled in asking about exhaust baffles for their Hayabusas. Some rich kid tried to bribe Inumaki with sushi to “make his GTR sound like a demon.” He left with a politely written intake checklist and the very real fear that you were going to reprogram his entire ECU in binary if he asked again.

A salaryman in a wrinkled suit stood by the waiting area holding a rusted old Ducati Monster like a dead pet. You took one look and told him: “I’ll resurrect her. But she’s gonna come back meaner.”

He looked like he wanted to cry.

The phones ring nonstop. The worklist stacks up like invoices in hell. But you?

You’re in your element.

You bark torque numbers over your shoulder while bleeding brakes on a Celica. You balance throttle bodies with one hand and sip canned coffee with the other. You’re already three steps ahead of every request.

Compliments fly, whether you acknowledge them or not.

“You did the black Evo down in Shibuya last week, right? It sounded like a damn thunderstorm.” “That twin-turbo 350Z on IG? That was you?” “She’s the only reason my RX doesn’t rattle apart at redline.” “Heard she rebuilt an R1 from the frame up in three days—blindfolded.”

You just keep working.

Inumaki trails behind you like a silent specter, catching your tools before you even ask, communicating entirely in his strange little language and well-placed grunts. The two of you are a rhythm, a machine inside the machine.

Even the customers notice.

“You two… like, telepathic or something?” one of them wonders, watching you toss a wrench backward without looking, and Inumaki catch it in one smooth motion.

You don’t even answer. Just smirk and slam the hood shut on the Civic, toss the keys to the wide-eyed owner.

“She’s ready. Don’t redline her until she loves you.”

By seven, the sun’s low and bleeding across the sky in streaks of rust-orange and violet.

The last customer rolls out with a roar. The garage falls quiet.

Inumaki’s got grease on his jaw, sweat on his collarbone, and dark circles blooming under his eyes. He’s halfway through wiping down tools when you toss him a towel.

“You’re done.”

He pauses, blinks.

“Go,” you tell him. “You’ve earned it. That Ducati needs a new clutch hub, and I need someone semi-conscious to order parts tomorrow. Go before I bolt you to a dyno and make you do cardio.”

He hesitates like he wants to argue, then just offers a small, sincere “Salmon.”

You ruffle his hair on the way past. “Get outta here, rice ball.”

The door clangs shut behind him.

Silence.

Finally.

You lock up the front, flick the shop lights to low, and roll your sleeves back up. A single halogen lamp flickers on above bay three, painting the floor gold.

In the corner sits the project.

An old 1970s Nissan Fairlady Z. Body stripped, frame clean. All matte primer and raw potential. You’ve had it under wraps for months, waiting for the right parts, the right mood, the right silence to get it started.

Tonight feels right.

You walk over slowly, reverent. Pull the sheet back. Run your fingers across the fender like a promise.

“You ready, girl?”

No answer, of course.

But you swear you hear the city outside hold its breath.

You grab your welder, flick on your favorite playlist—old punk, rough and gritty—and lower your goggles.

And then you begin.

Piece by piece.

Bolt by bolt.

Until the night swallows the noise and your work becomes the only thing left awake.

The clock just hit midnight, the halogen hum above bay three is the only thing singing, casting a sharp white glow over the skeletal frame of the Fairlady Z. Sparks fly in bursts like angry fireflies as your welder hisses to life. The smell of scorched steel and burnt ozone coils in the air. You pause only to wipe your face with the back of your glove, leaving a smudge of sweat and soot across your cheekbone.

It’s muscle memory now. You don’t think—you move. Spot weld. Clamp. Adjust. Torque. It’s a rhythm deeper than breath, older than scars. And somewhere between tightening the subframe bolts and prepping the rear diff, your mind slips sideways.

Backwards.

To the old roads.

Shuto Expressway. Bayshore Route. Spiral ramps and narrow cuts through the city’s underbelly. Midnight lit by taillights. Your first drift was at thirteen. A hand-me-down AE86 your cousin said was too beat to survive another race. You proved him wrong by redlining it through the mountain curves until the tires screamed like demons and the tach needle danced past sanity.

You lived for that chaos. For the smell of rubber and rain. For the thunder of engines echoing off tunnel walls at 2 AM. For the moment right before the turn where time cracked open and you could hear your heart louder than the exhaust.

You learned how to heel-toe before you learned how to flirt.

Learned how to rebuild a carb before you learned how to lie.

From thirteen to seventeen, you were a ghost in the Tokyo underground—known only as Black Dog. No decals. No sponsors. Just a matte-black Silvia S13 with mismatched body panels and a growl that made people part like water when you showed up.

You could still feel the wheel under your fingers sometimes. That twitch of oversteer, the moment of surrender before the tires caught again. That was freedom. That was everything.

Until—

Your hand stills.

The torque wrench slips slightly.

You blink once, sharp, like slicing a memory in half before it finishes bleeding.

You don’t go there.

Not yet.

You exhale slow. Metal cools under your palm. The garage is still again. The kind of still that feels heavy. Pressed-in.

You start reaching for your tools again when you hear it.

That sound.

Low. Throaty. Not the frantic whine of a wannabe. No, this is deeper. Confident. A howl, not a scream. A beast purring just below redline. It echoes through the side alley like it owns the concrete.

You straighten up slowly, pushing the scratched visor of your welding mask up to your forehead with the back of a gloved hand, sweat and grease clinging to your skin like a second layer. Your heart's already beating with that old rhythm—steady, low, but ready to spike. The rhythm you thought you’d buried years ago under layers of oil-stained routines and the kind of peace only a roaring engine can offer.

Then it happens.

Twin LED beams cut through the haze clinging to the inside of the garage windows, piercing the fog like wolf eyes in a snowstorm. The silhouette that follows is as sleek as a shadow with intention—a black Suzuki Hayabusa, rolling up slow and smooth like it owns silence. Every part of it is murdered out: fairings, rims, frame, helmet. Even the tire walls look darker than they should be, like the road itself tried to cling to the thing. There’s no badge. No decals. Just matte black skin over something clearly monstrous underneath. The engine hums low and intimate, the kind of purr that makes mechanics flinch and thrill in equal measure.

It doesn’t park. It arrives.

The Hayabusa halts just outside the open bay of the back entrance, the idle slowing into something hypnotic—less a sound and more a warning.

You stay rooted where you are, half-lit in the orange glow of a hanging bulb, standing beside your Fairlady Z like a sentry. One hand braced casually against the fender, the other curled without thought into a fist at your side. Not out of fear. Just reflex.

The rider doesn’t dismount right away. Just sits there, one gloved hand drumming the throttle in a rhythm so subtle it almost sounds like breathing. A tick. A pulse. A message in Morse code if you were the paranoid type.

Then— The kill switch flicks with a practiced motion.

Silence drops like a guillotine.

The man peels off the helmet in one smooth motion, revealing a head of dark pink hair, tousled and wild like a flame caught in the wind. It shouldn't fit, shouldn't make sense with the blackout look of the bike—but somehow, it does. The strands catch the low shop light and turn into pastel fire.

Then you catch his eyes.

Crimson. Bright, sharp, unapologetic. The kind of red that doesn’t just see, it dissects. Judges. Memorizes. There’s something surgical about his stare, like he could tear down the entire garage with his gaze alone and rebuild it just to see if he could do it better.

Tattoos crawl up his throat and across his jaw, black lines thick and vicious, looping like the coils of a serpent, bold as war paint. The ink over his neck wraps like a collar made of smoke and spite. It snakes across the hollows of his collarbones, disappears beneath a zipped-down leather jacket that fits like sin.

He’s artfully feral. Clean but dangerous. A contradiction dressed in blackout gear and arrogance.

You’ve never seen him before.

But you’ve felt people like him before. Out there, on the edge of midnight highways. In the split second before two engines scream in harmony. In the half-second glance exchanged at the start line before the lights go green.

He tilts his head, eyes still locked on you, expression unreadable. Like he’s already done the math on your top speed, your breaking point, your favorite gearshift pattern.

Like he already knows your name, even if you’ve never heard his.

You narrow your eyes, wipe your hands on the rag tucked into your waistband, slow and unimpressed. You nod toward the open bay with your chin.

“If you’re here to show off,” you break the silence, voice dry as gravel and twice as sharp, “you’re about five years late and two turbochargers short.”

A smirk tugs at one side of his mouth, more fang than friendliness.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.

He just swings a long leg over the Hayabusa and plants his boots on your turf like he’s been walking on it for years. Like this place—your place—is just another stop on his map.

You watch him approach, something cold and old stirring at the base of your spine.

You don’t know it yet, but something’s shifted.

A new chapter, loud as a rev limiter, just dropped into gear.

And it’s not just the night that’s watching anymore.

It’s the street.

And the street is starving.

tag-list:

@dahliadaenerys @greenday-bingus

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @cafekitsune ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not. 🏍respect the grease and the grind.

[eclairemaire]

the sound of music pt.5

masterlist | playlist | part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 6

Pairing: Lewis Pullman x Reader Category: Fluff Summary: Stranded in a 24-hour diner in the middle of nowhere, you make an unlikely companion as you bond over the sound of music. Word Count: 2.6K Warnings: not beta-read, some suggestive material (partial nudity), Swearing, fast-burn??? (idk), No mention of Y/N, Nicknames & pet names, mechanic-ish reader, musician reader, Reader is described very androgynously, but muscular and heavily tatted and pierced, paparazzi/press (Lemme know if I missed any) Notes: This is part 5, there is light suggestive material towards the end, but nothing too heavy. I hope everyone enjoys!! Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters are just that, characters, and have no ties to their real-life counterparts.

Danny and Lewis watched you head out the front door, before Danny turned to Lewis, painting over his shoulder where you just left. “Dude, they’re hot, and they’re going to meet a client like that.” Danny started flailing his arm towards the end of his sentence.

Lewis was still looking in the direction you left before he looked back at Danny when he started flailing his arms. Lewis huffed a laugh, “Yeah, they are. Besides, they always look good.” Lewis had only seen you in an outfit like that once before, just a little after you moved in; you were going to meet with a client then, too. He realized you never drove to any of your client appointments; you always had a ride. He wasn’t sure why that was, though, because he’d never seen you drink once during your time living together.

“How is it that you pulled a stray from a diner that looks like they belong in the acting field, even though we’ve never heard of them? And they make enough money to dress like that, but are so down-to-earth.” Danny questioned as he went to take a drink of his beer.

“Luck? Honestly, I don’t know, Danny.” He sighed and looked at his beer before deciding it would probably be a good idea to stop drinking for the evening. Danny had a look on his face that was difficult to understand, a mix of amusement and frustration. Danny couldn’t believe that his shyest friend had somehow decided that this random person, about whom he had no information, should be his newest roommate, and that this person would be someone like you.

The evening dragged on after that. Danny and Lewis had some leftovers that were in the fridge, and then watched some movies for the rest of the evening before Lewis’s phone lit up on the coffee table, and ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ by The Smiths started playing from his phone. Lewis was half asleep on the couch with Danny when it happened. Looking at the clock, it was 1:50 a.m., he answered the call half awake.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hey, Lew, could you come pick me up?” He heard you ask, there was loud music playing in the background that had heavy bass, and he could tell that you were talking louder than normal so that he could hear you through the phone.

“Yeah, where are you?”

“I’m still at my client's house. I’ll send you the location. Come to the alley behind the house, there’s a shit load of press out front.” You say before his phone dings with a new message from you. Looking at the address, he puts it into his maps on his phone before he responds.

“Okay, I’ll be there in about 30 minutes.”

“Sounds good, I’ll see you when you get here.” With that, you hung up the phone, and Lewis started to get up from the couch, causing Danny to rouse slightly from his spot on the couch. 

“Hey, man, what's up?” Danny asked, his words slurred from a mixture of sleep and the alcohol in his system.

“I’m going to pick up my stray; you can stay here if you like; you’re welcome to use the couch or go to my room.” Lewis was shoving his wallet into his pocket and grabbing his keys from the tray on the coffee table before heading towards the shoe rack to get his boots. Danny let out a gurgled ok, and held a thumbs up before collapsing back onto the couch.

Lewis pulled up to the address you gave him, and he could feel the bass from the music in the house through his truck. Pulling out his phone, he texted you ‘Hey, I’m out back if you’re ready to go.’ It didn’t take long for you to respond. ‘Awesome, I’ll be out in just a moment.😘' Lewis smiled at your text before he put his phone down and turned toward the passenger seat to wait for you. After a moment, the garage door started to open, and he could see your shoes and the bottom of your maroon slacks, as well as someone else's shoes.

When the door was fully open, he could see you and the other person in the garage, as well as a large number of supercars, some of which he recognized from the photos you had hanging in the kitchen.

You were facing the other person, your back to him, your hands were in your pockets, and your stance was lax as this other person was still speaking. He couldn’t see the other person's face, but they were wearing a tailored Versace suit, and they’re voice carried a bit as they were speaking over the blaring music still coming from inside the house.

“It was lovely to see you, my dear. I hope to hear from you soon about how the car is coming along.” The voice had a British accent.

“Of course, Sir, thank you for having me this evening, and finding me some more clients!” Your laugh echoed slightly as the man you referred to as ‘Sir’ reached forward, and you shook his hand before he pulled you into a hug. When he released you, you turned toward where Lweis was waiting for you in his truck.

“My rides here, I’ll give you a call soon, Sir.” You give the man one last nod before you start toward Lewis’s truck.

“Goodnight, my Dear!” the man called as you waved to him over your shoulder before getting in the car. Lewis looked from you now settling into the seat to the garage, where the door was now closing. 

“Thank you for coming and getting me, Lew.” You say, bringing his attention to you from the now-shut garage door.

“You're welcome, Sweetheart, everything go well?” He asks as he pulls you into a hug across the center console, before placing a kiss on your cheek.

“Yes, very well, actually. Lots of new clientele and a commission that is coming to a close.” You also kiss him on the cheek. “Let’s head home, shall we? I’m exhausted.” You lean back into your seat.

“Will do.” Lewis puts the truck in drive and starts the drive back home. You connect your phone to the truck's Bluetooth to turn on some music, ‘Sunday’ by The Cranberries starts to play softly through the truck speakers.

“Oh, do you know where to go? Where to go? Oh Somethin' on your mind? Wanna leave me behind? Wanna leave me behind?”

You sing quietly along as you look out the window. Right as the next verse starts, you move your hand from your lap towards Lewis’s as you rest your hand on his right thigh, as you continue to sing along and look out the window. 

“You're spinnin' me around My feet are off the ground I don't know where I stand Do you have to hold my hand?”

Lewis moves one of his hands from the steering wheel to rest on your left thigh as he joins you in softly singing along.

“You mystify me You mystify me You mystify me Oh-oh, when you walk into the room It happened all so soon I didn't want to know Does he really have to go?”

You both look at each other and smile. Lewis gives your thigh a light squeeze before turning back to the road.

“You mystify me You mystify me You mystify me, oh” And I couldn't find the words to say, ‘I love you’ And I couldn't find the time to say, ‘I need you’ It wouldn't come out right It wouldn't come out right It just came out all wrong”

You move your hand to hold his that was resting on your thigh.

“Oh-whoa, you're spinnin' me around My feet are off the ground I don't know where I stand Do you have to hold my hand?”

He squeezes your hand softly, where they both rest in your lap, as you look at him, your gaze soft and appreciative.

“You mystify me You mystify me You mystify me Oh, do you know where to go? Where to go? Oh Somethin' on your mind? Wanna leave me behind? Wanna leave me behind?”

Lewis brings the back of your entwined hands to his lips before placing a kiss on the back of your hand. “Never,” he whispers against your hand, before placing another kiss on your knuckles, and placing your entwined hands back into your lap. 

The rest of the drive passes quietly after that, music continues softly until you both arrive home and see Danny no longer on the couch. You both arrive at your room.

It was Lewis’s first time being in your room since you moved in. It was organized chaos in a way; the walls were covered in movie posters, old band posters, game posters, and photos, along with shelves of books. You had a dresser sitting along the wall between the closet and bathroom doors, with a jewelry box on top, and other miscellaneous items. In a corner was a net filled with various stuffed animals; he could even see a pink Yoshi poking its head out of the pile. 

Your bed was only half made. Your closet was full of clothes, and cubbies were full of project bins. There were mugs full of pens, pencils, markers, and brushes all around the room, and a small pile of clothes on the floor at the foot of your bed. Your desk had your mic and speakers mounted to it, along with both of your monitors, and on a shelf unit next to it, he could see your pc and various gaming consoles, as well as multiple figures. There were string lights hanging from the ceiling that were on, and a few lamps around the room that cast it in a lo,w golden hue.

“I need to shower before I can even think of going to bed, there’s no way I’m sleeping with gel in my hair.” You start as you go around the room, grabbing various items to take with you to the bathroom. You remove your shoes first, followed by taking off all your rings and putting them into a jewelry box on your dresser. After that, you remove your watch and chain, along with most of your earrings. 

Lewis was looking around the room before he looked at you again. You had your back to him, and you had stripped down to just your undergarments. As he walked closer, he could see more of your tattoos as black eclipsed your skin. He reached out and lightly ran his fingers down your spine. Watching you shiver lightly before placing a kiss on your shoulder.

“Are you planning on joining, cowboy?” You tease as you lean back against him, as he wraps his arms around your waist to splay his hands along your front. 

“Is that an official invitation?” He murmurs against your skin as he leaves a trail of fire in his wake, as he kisses up to your jaw.

“Maybe,” you trail off with a sigh. Turning slowly in his grasp, you wrap your arms around his neck, similar to how you did the first night you met, before moving your hands to the sides of his face to pull him down so that you can kiss him. You both slot together like puzzle pieces. The kiss is unhurried but full of passion, lips smashing together.

You pull away first, in need of air. “I need to shower.” You state as you lean your forehead against his. “You are welcome to join me, but you need to go get your own clothes from your room because you are not wearing any of mine.” You pull back and start walking backward to the door of your bathroom.

Your alarm goes off at 8:30 am the next morning, and you groan as you try to turn it off, only to realize your phone is way too far away to turn off without getting up. Signing, you open your eyes and are met with the sight of golden tan skin littered with hickeys. Moving your gaze up, you see Lewis’s face, soft with sleep and the tiniest bit of drool by the corner of his mouth. His arm is wrapped firmly around your waist, pinning you to his side. As you start to sit up, he makes a noise of protest and tries to pull you back down. 

“Nuh-Uh,” you laugh at his small protest.

“Uh-huh. Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.” You place a kiss on his forehead as you free yourself from his grip and turn off the alarm, before getting dressed.

“Noooo,” He starts to paw at the area of the bed you were lying in just moments ago. “Come back to bed.” He pleads, not really moving from his spot.

“No can do, Cowboy. I’ve got lots of work to do today, no time to sleep in.” You smack him lightly on the shoulder as you move towards the door leading out of your room. “I’ll be in the kitchen making breakfast, get up soon to eat.”

Thirty minutes later, both Lewis and Danny walk into the kitchen. Danny was dressed in workout clothes and looked as though he had just gotten back from a run, and Lewis was wearing a pair of mismatched socks and pajama pants. Lewis walked straight to the coffee maker, and Danny grabbed the OJ from the fridge and drank it straight from the bottle.

“Oi, Oi!” You yell, spoon in hand, pointed right at him. “You need to buy me a new thing of Orange Juice. You don’t live here anymore. Now, how do you like your eggs?”

“Um, scrambled is fine,” Danny said as he looked at the spoon pointed at him. 

Lewis was now sitting at the table nursing a coffee, you were standing at the cooktop with a pan cooking eggs and bacon, with toast in the oven. Danny sat down at the table and brought out his phone to scroll through Instagram. 

It was a few minutes later, when you were placing all the food on the table, along with plates, that Danny spat the oj he had just taken a sip of out.

“Holy shit,” He said, wiping his mouth, before looking between you and Lewis. Both you and Lewis wore concerned expressions before Danny passed his phone to Lewis for him to look at. Lewis took the phone and looked at the screen before he too did a spit take, after seeing the screen. After seeing Lewis also spit out his drink, you picked up the phone to look at the screen.

Right there on the screen was a photo of you and Lewis from last night. It was taken right after you had gotten into Lewis’s Truck and as he was kissing you on your cheek. Above it was a header saying ‘BREAKING NEWS’ in big, bold red letters. Under it was captioned ‘Lewis Pullman not so single?’ and then proceeds to talk about both of your interactions after you finished speaking with your client.

One line caught your attention, though. ‘Lewis Pullman spotted with acclaimed mechanic and artist outside another actor's home during a party, are they dating?’. Whoever wrote this did their homework; most of the public was not aware of your status among the rich. You made sure to stay out of the media’s eye, so that you could live normally outside of your client meetings. Now your face was clearly associated with Lewis’s. Just as you finished reading the blurb from the article in the caption, Lewis’s phone rang.

masterlist | playlist | part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 6

Taglist: @smoothdogsgirl @bmyva1entine @daisydark @sadpetalsstuff @xblueriddlex @louloulemons-posts@alloboinga84@articel1967 @dazed-and-confused101 @wutheringheightstillpendalhill

[differenteagletragedy]

Mechanic Simon doesn’t have a shop, he just works out of his garage at home. He gets his business from word of mouth -- he's good and he doesn't overcharge, so he's never wanting for work. And that's how he likes it.

He always smells at least a little like sweat and motor oil, and if he didn't bite his nails down to the quick, there'd be grease trapped under them, always. He works in jeans that are all stained by the work, knees worn by how often he bends to see the engines better, and whatever t-shirt he can find. Sometimes just the jeans in the summer, when the garage gets too hot.

He smokes a lot too, even though he knows how much you don't like it. You tell him it's an accident waiting to happen, being around all that gas and lighting up cigarettes. Truthfully, he doesn't get why you bother, but he knows if he kisses you, slow and sweet how you like, you'll give him a break. He also knows that if lays you down and fucks you in the backseat of the Cortina he's fixed up ten times in as many years, you'll not only hush, but bring him a glass of lemonade, too.

It's a quiet life, but he couldn't dream up one he'd love more.

[ebodebo]

Ghost Garage

—mechanic!simon riley fucking you in his car garage because you couldn’t afford to pay for his services:(( MDNI ofc

“You’re lookin’ at six thousand for a new engine,” Simon says thoughtfully, scribbling a collection of messy additions in his notebook. “And if you’re lookin’ to do just one set of brake pads and rotors,” he says, scribbling some more, “lookin’ at six hundred even for those.”

Your eyes widen at his words because how the fuck were you ever going to be able to afford this? You swallow hard, pondering your following words. “Do you do discounts or something?” You’re sure you sound like an idiot, but you’re desperate.

The corner of his lip quirks at your question as his eyes stay glued to the notebook paper, still scribbling. “No. Still no discounts ere’,” he says, capping his pen, finally looking at you.

You fidget with your hands, eyes on his. “I—um…there’s no way I can…” you begin, turning your gaze away from him, feeling bashful, “…afford that.” Even though you had come to Simon’s garage before, this was just the first time you outwardly told him you couldn’t afford his services.

He leans back in his chair, the base squeaking a little. “Do ya’know how dangerous it is to drive with worn-out brake pads?” he states, placing the pen in his mouth, awaiting your response.

“Yes. I’m aware, but—” you begin, only for him to interrupt.

“But nothin’,” he calmly says, shifty in the chair, eyes shamelessly dragging down your body. You pretend not to notice even though it invokes an immeasurable amount of wetness to gather in your panties.

He can tell you’re nervous—your body language says it all. Clammy hands you wipe off on your jeans every so often, you’re avoiding direct eye contact with him, and the fact he can hear your heartbeat from where he sits.

He shouldn’t even have unholy thoughts of you come across his mind. But, shocker, he did. Every night from the time you first went to the shop all of those four months ago, he would fist himself in the shower thinking about you.

You, who always had that doe-eyed, glossed-over expression. You, who always had to bring Simon a sweet treat when you came, whether it be candy or some fresh-baked cookies you prepared. Oh, and you, who would hug him after he did your car inspections. Ya, he thought about that one a lot.

He considers your predicament. He has a solution, but it’s risky—perhaps too risky?

Eh, Fuck it. What’s he got to lose?

“Tell ya what,” he starts, standing up from his chair and grabbing the notebook paper with the numbers. “I’ll throw this ere’ piece of paper in the trash—hell, I’ll burn it,” he cocks a brow, “If you do somethin’ for me.” He hovers the small, intimidating piece of paper over a small trash can.

“Anything,” you say, desperation coating your voice. He hums, ducking his head to stare at the trashcan.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, followed by a gravelly laugh. You gulp, waiting for him to explain.

“I want somethin’ from ya,” he finally looks up at you, wiping his mask-less jaw with his hand. “Somethin’ that isn’t…money.”

You slightly confound your head. “Like I said…anything,” you amend.

He sticks his tongue in his cheek, drops the tainted paper into the trash, and then takes slow, deliberate steps towards you.

You inhale as he stands before you, unsure of his intentions. Exhaling sharply only when he brings his thumb up, dragging it delicately across your jaw, tilting it up so you are looking at him.

“I think we could figure out a way for you to get that work paid in full,” he rumbles, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip. “And a way I could feel that pretty pussy around me.”

Your eyes widen at his words, dumbfounded by his sheer bluntness and vulgarity. Though you admit, you feel a knot start to form in your lower stomach and more wetness pool between your thighs.

“Unless you don’t want to?” His tone his monotone, no signs of resentment as he drops his hand from your face.

“No—I do,” you affirm, even grabbing his hand and then dropping it from embarrassment. “I just didn’t think…you, uh, liked me like that,” you mutter, shifting on your feet and shifting your gaze to the concrete floor you both stand on.

“Oh, trust me. I like you like that,” he laughs lowly, stepping closer to you, bringing his hand back to the same spot to brush his finger against your pouty lip. “Can I?” He questions his gaze on your lips. You nod, standing on your tiptoes, gripping his neck, and bringing his lips to yours. You could taste remnants of cigarette smoke and the icy tang of Nicorette mint gum.

The kiss quickly became full of fervent urgency. Sloppy lips sucking your own, hands aimlessly gripping any piece of flesh it could, and teeth frantically clashing with your own.

“You do this with all your clientele?” you tease as Simon grips the bottom of your shirt and quickly pulls it off your head.

“Nah,” he coolly says, hands palming your breasts over your bra. “Just the ones I jerk off to.” You gasp at not only his hands on such a sensitive part of you but also his confession.

“You jerk off to me?” you tentatively ask, bringing your hands to grip the hem of his shirt, slipping it off his head. His lips instantly connect with your neck.

“What about it?” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his tongue from the side of your neck to your lips.

“I just…I finger myself thinking about you,” you admit in between his feverish kisses, which are apparently taking away your sense of shame. He pulls back only a little.

“You’re tellin’ me…” he reaches down to bring your hand up, grazing your fingers with his own. “You plunge these in your pussy, thinkin’ about me?” he stares at your fingers, unable to comprehend what he’s hearing. He darts his eyes to yours. “I get you off?”

“Of course you do,” you attest, dragging your hand so it rests on his cock that is tucked away in his greased stained jeans. He groans at your touch.

“Now let me see what I’ve been imagining.”

He wastes no time stripping you bare, throwing your bra and panties off to the side, before he unlatches his belt, roughly yanking his jeans and boxers down just below his thighs.

He grips the back of your thighs before hauling you over to a wood table that currently holds some pens and a toolbox. His lips connect with your collarbone, then to the fat of your breast, as you lazily stroke his cock.

“Little smaller than I imagined,” you cheekily say before Simon lightly nips at your nipple with his teeth, making you moan. He laughs against your skin, sending vibrations throughout your entire body.

“And yet it still makes you fuckin’ wet,” he cockily says as his hand slips to graze your glistening cunt. You don’t even talk; you have no breath left to speak. So, you let out a pathetic noise instead—somewhere between a moan and whine.

“Let me play with ya for a minute,” he murmurs into your ribs, pointer finger brushing against your labia. You squirm at his touch.

“Simon. I just…I need you in me,” you beg, pulling him by the hair so his ear is by your mouth, rocking your hips against his finger in you.

“I’m gonna come as soon as I’m in you, Sweetheart,” he says honestly, pointer plunging into your cunt, gently touching your clit.

“I don’t care…just…just,” you rasp, unable to speak with his hand plunging into you.

“Fine, fine,” he says. He gives his cock a tug before he pokes your entrance with the head, gripping your hips before he pushes inside you a little. He grits his teeth at the sensation, and you whine at the slight pain.

“Open up for me. Come on,” he hisses, throwing his head back as he sinks deeper into you. “There she goes,” he praises, gripping one of your legs and positioning it so it lies straight up against his body. You both groan at the deeper contact.

“Shit,” you curse as Simon starts up a good pace. His cock managed to graze you in all of the right spots—reaching places you didn’t even know was possible.

You knew you both wouldn’t last long at this pace—you’re honestly not so sure he would have lasted at any pace. He was painfully hard when you hadn’t even whipped your tits out.

Though you thought the jokes were on him, as soon as he brought his thumb to stimulate your clit, you were skewing curses, tightening around his cock.

“Fuck. That’s it…that’s—” he panted out as he felt you clamp around him, hearing you yell, ‘Coming,” before he followed with his orgasm.

Once both of your orgasms have subsided, he helps you off the table to grab your clothing. You gently tug on your lip before you speak.

“Also…about the payment?” You shyly question as he pulls his jeans up.

“Consider it handled,” he says with a smirk as he zips up his jeans.

a/n: bye once again i abused the italicized button

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